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velarisdusk · 2 months ago

Text

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about.

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you.

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin.

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort.

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You.

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor.

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away.

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs.

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her.

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night.

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream.

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd.

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night.

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised.

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine.

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect.

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed.

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant.

You think you catch the ghost of a smile.

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen.

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads.

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you.

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that.

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way.

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face.

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered.

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot.

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it.

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be.

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music.

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you.

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating.

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all.

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure.

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to.

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit.

And just like that, you fall into step with him.

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way.

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth.

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy.

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth.

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry.

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass.

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur.

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin.

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go.

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice.

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it.

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before.

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are.

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap.

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended.

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once.

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months.

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not.

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again.

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin.

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are.

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends.

Still not in love.

Definitely not.

Probably.

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours.

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move.

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting��years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going.

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now.

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it—because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger.

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.”

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress.

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms.

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache.

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips.

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last.

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide.

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket.

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

#acotar #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #drunk on you

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moonlitstoriess · 3 months ago

Text

You Were Mine First- Lucien x fem!reader (2/2)

Summary: For one hundred years, Y/N carried the weight of a bond Lucien never felt. Then, one day, it was gone—severed, rewritten, given to another. She thought she could endure it. Thought she could live unseen, unnoticed. Until the day Lucien walked into her shop… and fate forced them face to face.

See masterlist

Previous part

Warnings: mention of injury, angst, miscommunication (gets resolved towards the end), fluffy end

Lucien shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair. This wasn’t his problem. This wasn’t supposed to bother him this much.

But she’d left. Y/N had left.

And wasn’t that telling? How many times had he seen someone disappear overnight? How many times had someone been forced to run because of rumors—because of accusations? But this wasn’t some nameless, faceless person.

This was her.

The female who, for some reason, always had that ridiculous book of herbal remedies tucked under the counter when he came in, despite her pretending she never read it. The female who always kept her guard up around him.

The female who might’ve been a Hybern loyalist.

Lucien clenched his jaw.

That’s what the rumors said. That’s what the whispers had claimed for weeks now, hadn’t they? That she was hiding something, that she wasn’t who she said she was.

And maybe they were right.

Maybe he’d been a fool, walking into her shop every damn week, trading snide remarks, and thinking—what? That she was just some ordinary shopkeeper? That she wasn’t tangled up in something deeper?

So that means she really was what the rumors said? She really did support Hybern?

The thought made his stomach twist.

But then another voice in his head scoffed.

Everyone hides something, idiot.

Lucien exhaled sharply. He needed to get out of here.

But he didn’t move.

Because something was still nagging at him. A little thread, dangling just out of reach.

And then—click.

Arlena.

Her grandmother.

What if she hadn’t left?

Lucien’s heart gave a hard, single beat against his ribs.

Because he knew where Y/N’s house was. He had walked her back once, when he’d come across her on the streets, arms full of heavy bags, stubbornly refusing to ask for help even as she nearly dropped one. He had taken them from her without asking, ignoring her scowl and muttered complaints the entire way.

His feet were already moving.

Then he was walking faster. Then faster. Then nearly running.

And he had no idea what he was expecting to find when he got there.

The sun in Summer Court was relentless, a golden fire drenching the city of Adriata in warmth and light. The breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus, and the streets bustled with life—merchants calling out, waves crashing in the distance, silk-draped fae laughing as they walked past.

And yet, for Y/N, the brightness of this place had yet to reach the parts of her that had long since dimmed.

She had chosen Summer for a reason. Not just for the distance, not just to disappear. The land had been an old inheritance, a quiet place left behind by her mother’s bloodline—a side of the family she had never known well, yet had always carried within her. It was a small, unassuming property near the edge of the city, with enough space for a home and a shop. The perfect place to start over.

She had savings from her years running her shop in Velaris, a decent enough sum to buy the storefront she now stood before. The first few weeks had been exhausting—negotiating prices, hiring help for renovations, deciding what this shop would even sell.

It was nothing like her old store in Velaris. No trinkets, no delicate crafts.

Instead, her hands now worked with nature itself. Herbs, teas, salves, elixirs. People came to her shop not for decoration, but for healing, for energy, for sleep, for clarity. A new purpose, one that let her bury herself in the motions of work, in the careful grind of mortar against pestle, in the measurements and mixtures that demanded precision, leaving no space for intrusive thoughts.

But some nights, even potions could not drown out her mind.

Lucien knows.

Oh, Cauldron. He knows.

And yet… he still chose Elain.

How many times had she woken up, heart pounding, that thought looping like a curse in her head? How many times had she tried to make sense of it, only for every answer to twist the knife deeper?

She had spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, going over every word, every sentence, every interaction. Had it meant nothing? Had he truly been so disgusted by the truth that he couldn’t even face her before she left?

Her fingers tightened around the wooden door handle of her shop, her reflection caught in the glass.

She had tried to forget.

Tried to move forward.

But how does one move on when their mate has broken the bond and chosen another?

The sun was bright, the sky was endless, the waters shimmered like liquid gold. But in the end, even the Summer Court could not burn away the shadows curling in her heart.

"It’s crazy how life changes."

Lucien nodded slowly, his gaze focused on his hands—not seeing, not really listening. His mind churned with thoughts so tangled, he wasn’t even sure what Jurian was talking about.

A few weeks ago, he had run to Y/N’s home, desperate for answers, for something, for her grandmother. But Arlena was gone, too. The house was empty, untouched, a ghost of the life that had once been there.

Either way, Lucien had been left standing in the street, feeling something he hadn’t in years.

Lost.

After that, he gave up. He went back home, forced himself to push it all aside, to bury it in the corners of his mind where things he didn’t want to deal with went to rot.

It was easier than trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. Easier than chasing ghosts. He spent the following days with Elain during his stay, listening to her soft, soothing words, getting to know her, trying to connect with her like he had hoped to for the past year.

They spent the following days together, talking, laughing, sharing time in a way they never had before. And Lucien had tried, truly tried, to tell himself that this was it—that this was what he wanted, what he needed.

But now, weeks later, he realized it wasn’t the fairy-tale connection he had imagined.

He didn’t feel as happy as he thought he would.

Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he was just an ungrateful brat who couldn’t appreciate the beautiful, kind mate who had been right in front of him this whole time. Elain was everything he was supposed to want.

But maybe it was because he kept thinking about a certain shopkeeper who made Elain open up to him through her gifts in the first place.

Because somewhere deep down, his mind wandered back to Y/N.

But he couldn’t help it.

His mind kept replaying their conversations, the way she had spoken to him, her sharp words cutting through him like a blade—yet there was something there, something he couldn’t explain. A pull. A sense of ease when he was around her.

Why?

Why had she made him feel that way?

He had been around Elain, and it had always been careful, calculated. Everything had felt like a slow, hesitant dance. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for her, because he did, but...

With Y/N, it had been different.

It had been natural.

Her sarcasm, her cold demeanor—none of that had scared him off. It had intrigued him. She hadn’t expected anything from him. There had been no pressure, no attempt to make him fit into some mold of what he was supposed to be.

With her, he had felt like he could breathe.

So why did he keep thinking about her? Why did she keep creeping into his thoughts when he had a mate who, in many ways, was exactly what he needed?

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe that’s what it all boiled down to—fairness.

Maybe it wasn’t fair to Elain that his mind kept wandering back to Y/N, but there was something in the way they had connected. It had been real. It had felt like more than what he had with Elain, more than the gentle smiles and words he’d shared with her.

The more he thought about it, the more it became clear.

He wasn’t sure if it was because of how easy it had been to be around Y/N, or because of how guarded she was, but there had been something magnetic between them.

And that scared him. Scared him more than he cared to admit.

He shouldn’t even be thinking like this.

Lucien’s chest tightened as the thoughts swirled in his mind, making him feel like he was suffocating. Why had he thought there was something there between them? Why had he thought there was a connection?

The questions piled up. One after another, relentless, endless. He couldn’t find a way to quiet them.

His thoughts flickered back to Elain, and for a moment, guilt washed over him.

Why couldn’t he focus on her? Why couldn’t he just be satisfied with what he had?

But then, like a fresh wave, his thoughts returned to Y/N again.

Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she still in Velaris? Had she found somewhere else to go, somewhere safer? Was she still running from whatever had haunted her?

And, most importantly, why the hell did he keep thinking about her?

There was no answer, not really.

But one thing was clear—he couldn’t shake her.

No matter how many times he tried to bury it, no matter how many days he spent with Elain or how many nights he lost in conversation with her, his mind kept returning to Y/N. The girl with the cold exterior, the one who hadn’t wanted him in her life, but had made him feel like he belonged.

His chest tightened at the thought. He didn’t know what any of this meant, or what he was supposed to do with the feelings that twisted inside of him every time he thought of her.

But for the first time, he couldn’t deny the truth anymore.

Y/N had gotten under his skin, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Lucien snapped out of his thoughts with a sharp flick to the head, the sudden jolt making him hiss and instinctively touch the spot where Jurian had struck him. "The hell was that for?" he growled, wincing at the mild sting.

Jurian raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair with a look that practically screamed, Are you kidding me? "You've been staring at your hands for the past five minutes," he remarked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I figured I'd help bring you back to the land of the living."

Lucien gave an exaggerated sigh, slumping back further into his seat. He rubbed the sore spot on his head. "I can't hide it anymore," he admitted, his voice tinged with a mix of frustration and resignation. "I need help, J."

"One," Jurian began, his tone suddenly shifting to an almost exasperated, deadpan delivery. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that? It’s enough to make me lose my patience with you." He paused for a beat, clearly making fun of Lucien's sense of familiarity. "And two," he continued, leaning forward slightly with a smirk, "please, do tell. What has been gnawing at that pretty little head of yours? I’m dying to hear it."

Lucien inhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping absently on the armrest. "You remember how you told me two months ago to visit Y/N’s shop?" he asked, his voice quieter now, careful not to give too much away.

Jurian nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I remember. Thought it might work out for you, seeing as you were so... desperate for your little flower princess." His voice was thick with mockery, but Lucien wasn’t in the mood for it.

Lucien clenched his jaw for a moment, steeling himself. "Well, yeah. Her," he finally said, voice low and almost embarrassed. He could feel the weight of the words on his tongue. "I’ve been visiting her shop. And, at first, it was just to buy some gifts for Elain. You know, to finally get things to move forward with her. Things started... well, things started to feel like they were finally falling into place."

Jurian snorted, clearly waiting for the real meat of the story. "But?"

"But," Lucien continued, trying to steady his nerves, "it wasn’t just that. There was... her." He sighed, rubbing his face as if the words hurt to say. "It’s like there was this connection. Not with Elain—don’t get me wrong, I care about Elain—but with Y/N, it was different. I don’t know why, but it was easier to be around her. It was like... like I didn’t have to try so hard. And yes, she was cold, distant, but it was like she saw through me in a way no one else did. And now—now all these rumors are flying around."

Jurian's gaze turned calculating, but his voice was still light when he spoke. "Oh yes, Lord Theon’s ex-fiancée? I heard Lord Theon was in the middle of some important meeting when he got wind of the rumors. Apparently, he fainted right there in front of everyone."

Lucien’s eyes darkened as he leaned forward. "Yeah, that’s the one," he muttered, shaking his head. "But this... these rumors, J. I don’t know what to believe anymore. They’re talking about Y/N like she’s some sort of... monster. A traitor, even. I can’t... I won’t believe it until I see solid proof. Not from the mouths of gossips who can’t even get their stories straight." He leaned back, clenching his fists. "Her shop’s gone. She’s gone. I don’t know where she is, and it’s been driving me crazy. I’ve tried everything—asking around, checking everywhere... nothing. She’s just... gone."

Jurian watched him carefully, his expression turning more serious now. "And yet here you are, still obsessing over her," he noted, a flicker of amusement in his voice but something else, too. Something deeper. "Interesting."

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his lap. "I don’t even know why I’m overthinking this," he admitted. "She’s no one to me. I barely know her. I haven’t even spoken to her for weeks, and yet here I am, losing sleep over her. I don’t know what I’d even say if I saw her again. But..." He trailed off, the weight of his unspoken words hanging between them.

Jurian let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head with an almost disdainful grin. "Oh, for the love of the Mother, Lucien," he muttered. "Always the same with you. Always caught up in your feelings for someone you think you can’t have." He crossed his arms and leaned forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "I’m starting to think you like torturing yourself."

Lucien froze, his gaze snapping up to meet Jurian’s. "What are you getting at?"

Jurian’s smirk faltered, and for a moment, his eyes turned dead serious. "Be ready by sunrise," he said, his voice clipped. "We’re going to find her."

Lucien’s heart skipped a beat. "What?!" he demanded, leaning forward in shock. "Are you serious? How do you know—"

Jurian stood abruptly, cutting him off. "For the Mother’s sake, Lucien. Just follow the damn orders."

Lucien’s chest tightened, the urgency in Jurian’s voice making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "What orders? What are you talking about?"

"Don’t worry about it," Jurian snapped, his tone cold and commanding. "You’ll know soon enough. Just be ready."

Lucien stared at him for a moment, disbelief warring with his need to find answers. Find Y/N. But Jurian was already moving toward the door. Lucien stood up, unable to contain the wave of confusion and doubt that hit him. "J, wait—"

But Jurian’s voice was already fading as he disappeared into the hallway. "Sunrise, Vanserra. Sunrise."

And with that, the conversation was over.

Y/N was just closing up her shop, the scent of dried herbs and fresh lavender lingering in the air as the evening sun dipped low in the Summer Court. The street outside buzzed with the usual market hustle, but tonight felt different. There was a strange undercurrent she couldn’t shake. She brushed it off at first—perhaps it was just her nerves. But she was wrong.

As she placed the last jar of salve on the counter, a loud crash came from outside, followed by frantic shouts.

Y/N’s heart skipped. Without a second thought, she grabbed a small satchel, filled it with several healing vials, and tossed her cloak over her shoulders. Something told her she wouldn’t be returning here tonight.

The noise grew louder as she made her way toward the door. Her shop, a little haven of nature’s remedies, had been her peace, her sanctuary. But the world outside wasn’t so kind anymore. The scent of burning wood hit her as soon as she stepped outside. The cobblestones felt hot beneath her feet as she jogged toward the chaos.

When she turned the corner, she froze. A group of men, cloaked in dark robes, were holding down a merchant while another was ripping through his cart. They weren’t from around here—Y/N would have recognized them if they had been. Their movements were swift, practiced.

One of them saw her. The sharp, calculating look in his eyes made her blood run cold. He gestured to his comrades, and within moments, they were heading her way.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her fingers slid into the pouch at her waist, pulling out a small glass vial. The green liquid inside was her creation—a soothing balm for the mind, meant for clarity and focus, but it could also disorient anyone who wasn’t prepared for its effects. She uncorked it, letting a quick drop fall into the air between her and the oncoming attackers. The scent of mint, rosemary, and sage swirled around them, and within seconds, they stopped in their tracks, blinking in confusion.

She didn't wait for them to recover. She darted forward, using her agility to slip between them, knocking another vial out of her pouch. This one was for healing—applied in the right spot, it could make someone feel like they were reborn. She splashed it across the face of the closest attacker, watching as the flush of pain in his face faded, replaced by stunned relief. He staggered back, disoriented.

But there wasn’t time to waste.

“Who sent you?” she demanded, her voice cold, her heart racing.

The leader, now regaining his focus, scowled. “Does it matter?”

“Answer me,” Y/N pressed, her voice a low, dangerous hum. She kept one hand on another vial—this one a far more potent concoction meant to knock someone unconscious for hours. The threat in her tone was clear.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment. His eyes flickered to his men, who were recovering more quickly than she’d hoped. Then he finally spoke.

“We're just a few of many... but you're a lot more trouble than we anticipated, shopkeeper.” He gave a harsh laugh. “You'll be seeing more of us soon.”

Y/N didn’t wait to hear more. She turned, bolting through the alleyways of the Summer Court, her mind already calculating her next move. She couldn’t let them get away. She couldn’t let herself be dragged back into whatever mess this was—especially not after everything she had done to get away from it.

Her thoughts churned, a storm in her mind. Who were they? What do they want from me? But no matter what, she knew she couldn’t let them win. Not again. Not when she had worked so damn hard to build this new life, to carve out a little peace for herself.

The Summer Court was still bright and warm, the air still heavy with the scent of flowers, but Y/N could feel the storm building. Whatever game these people were playing, she wasn’t going to lose.

Lucien stood in the doorway of their shared quarters, staring at the crumpled parchment in his hands. He had been pacing for the past hour, the weight of his decision hanging over him. He had to leave, had to find her—find Y/N—but that didn’t mean he could just vanish without saying something to Elain.

His thoughts tangled, the words not coming easily. The last thing he wanted was to lie, but he also couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Not until he had answers. Until he knew what the hell was really going on.

With a quiet sigh, he unrolled the parchment and began to write:

Elain,

I need to go with Jurian on a mission for a few days. Don’t worry, it’s nothing dangerous. I’ll be back soon, but I wanted to let you know. I’m leaving at sunrise and won’t be reachable for a while.

I’ll see you soon.

Lucien.

He set the quill down and stared at the letter, the words swimming in front of him. He wanted to say more, to apologize for his absence, to explain the chaos building inside him. But it wasn’t the time. He had a job to do, and for once, he wasn’t going to let his heart dictate his next move.

He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with a wax stamp before using his magic to send it to her, hoping she would see it before he left. Then, with a deep breath, he turned on his heel, heading for the door.

The gnawing sense of urgency in his stomach had grown into a fierce hunger. The rumors about Y/N didn’t add up, and that only made it worse. Was she really the monster they were painting her to be? Or was it something more? Something deeper?

He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find—proof that she wasn’t the traitor, or maybe the confirmation that she was. The truth would hurt either way, but at least it would settle the chaos inside his mind.

The letter to Elain had been easy enough to write—too easy, almost. He couldn’t let her get involved in this. Not when the stakes were too high, not when he had no idea what was going to happen. He hated himself for keeping her in the dark, but there was no other choice.

His heart twisted in his chest, but he shoved the feeling aside as he pulled the door open to leave. He had no time for guilt. No time for second-guessing. He had a mission to complete.

Lucien walked down the hall with his footsteps steady but heavy, as if the weight of his own thoughts were trying to drag him back to his quarters. He caught sight of Jurian, leaning casually against the stone wall, arms crossed and looking annoyingly unbothered.

Jurian’s eyes flicked up when he heard Lucien approach, a smirk spreading across his face. "You ready to go, or are you going to stand there brooding all morning?"

Lucien’s lip curled, annoyance mixing with the raw energy that thrummed through his veins. "I’ve been up all night, and I’m still not sure if this is a good idea," he snapped, his voice clipped.

"Good idea? It’s a terrible idea," Jurian said, sounding almost cheerful. "But I figured you'd want to at least try to solve the mystery of the disappearing witch. Plus, you’ve been staring at your hands for a week now like they might hold the answers."

Lucien’s eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching at the mention of the damn hands. "Don’t start," he muttered, rubbing his face in frustration.

Jurian grinned wider, clearly enjoying the way he was getting under Lucien’s skin. "Oh, I’m just getting started, don’t worry." He pushed off the wall, stretching lazily.

"I’ve been searching everywhere. I’ve asked every damn person who might know, and it’s like she disappeared off the face of the Earth." His voice was tight with frustration, hands balling into fists at his sides. "I should’ve known better. Trusting the rumors, getting wrapped up in this... mess."

"You’re really going to blame yourself for this?" Jurian raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for self-flagellation, but this is just... sad, Lucien."

Lucien shot him a glare. "Not the time for jokes, Jurian."

The smile on Jurian’s face faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "No, I guess not. You’re right," he said, his voice low. "We don’t know what’s going on with her. But we’re going to find out." His tone shifted again, becoming more serious. "It’s not like you have any other option at this point. You want this. You need this. And if it means going after someone you barely know, someone with half the city convinced she’s a monster, then you’ll do it, because you’ve already made up your mind."

Lucien’s chest tightened, the weight of Jurian’s words landing harder than expected. "I’m doing it because I need answers," he said, his voice steadier now. "Because this... it’s more than just rumors. It’s about what’s real. And if I have to track her down to find out the truth, then that’s what I’ll do." He paused, taking a slow breath. "But it’s not just about finding her. It’s about knowing who she really is. What she’s done, or... hasn’t done."

Jurian studied him for a long moment, eyes calculating. "We’ll find her. We’ll figure it out," he said with a nod, sounding more serious than before. "But if this goes south, Lucien... I want you to know, it’s not on me."

Lucien gave a dry laugh. "Of course it’s not on you. It never is." He clapped his hand to Jurian’s shoulder, trying to steady his nerves. "Let’s just get this over with. I can’t do this alone."

Jurian’s smirk returned, but there was something more behind it now—an edge. "Good. You’re finally admitting it."

Lucien shot him a look. "Don’t push it."

"Fine, fine," Jurian said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Let’s go find your best friend. But I’m warning you, if she turns out to be as bad as they say, I’m not sticking around for the emotional crisis that follows."

Lucien gritted his teeth, trying not to let the sarcasm get under his skin. "Just don’t slow me down, J. We have a long day ahead of us."

Jurian chuckled darkly, the sound echoing in the hallway. "After you, my brooding friend."

Lucien shot him one last look before heading toward the door, his heart pounding with every step. The mission was simple: Find Y/N. But the questions, the doubts, they lingered, gnawing at him, growing louder with every passing second.

And as he stepped out into the morning light, the only thing he was certain of was that nothing about this search would be simple.

It has to be Elain who sent those maniacs here.

Who else would it be? It makes sense. She had to be the one. All the signs point to her—quiet, calculating, the type to hold grudges until they fester. And why wouldn’t Elain go to such lengths? After everything that happened, it had to be her. She’d wanted to get rid of Y/N for so long, hadn’t she? She'd never let go of what happened. Of what Y/N took from her.

It’s so obvious, and yet... why would Elain care now?

She’s moved on, hasn’t she? Lucien’s at her side, everything she’s ever wanted right there in Velaris. The life she dreamed of. She has him, she has peace. She doesn’t need to keep trying to ruin everything Y/N has built, not now.

No. She was overthinking. This is just paranoia talking. What reason could she have for coming after me now? She reached her goal. She got her happy little ending, with the sunlight and the soft life, the happiness that should've been hers in the first place, that Y/N "took" away from her. That should be enough for her, shouldn’t it?

Y/N must be exaggerating.

But then, that little voice in the back of her mind—the one that’s been whispering to her for days—speaks louder, sharper, like the snap of a blade being drawn. Elain wouldn’t stop there. She never did. It’s not enough for her. It was never enough. She always had to be the one on top. And why should Y/N think she’s changed? Why should she think that her perfect, pristine world in Velaris is so flawless that she doesn’t feel the need to drag Y/N into the dirt one more time?

Elain sent them. Elain sent them.

Fury rises in her blood, hotter than anything she’s ever felt. It’s like a fire, wild and uncontrollable, consuming everything in its path. The bloodthirsty rage that’s been bubbling just under the surface for so long bursts free, flooding her mind with sharp, ugly images.

Let Elain think she’s won. Let her think she’s found peace in Velaris with her perfect life and her perfect love. She doesn’t know what Y/N’s been through, what she’s become. Elain has no idea what she’s turned into.

The moment Y/N steps closer to her house, the feeling intensifies. That familiar weight, that oppressive sense of ownership she has over everything here. It’s home. And the thought of someone daring to cross that boundary, to threaten what’s hers... It fills her with a need to destroy, to make them feel the pain she’s endured.

This ends now.

Y/N steps through the gate, the weight of her anger settling over her like a storm cloud, ready to break and wash away everything in its path. Her fists curl at her sides, knuckles white.

The world is a blur around her, but her focus is clear, sharp—so sharp it hurts. Elain thought she could do this, that she could manipulate and twist things from behind the scenes, that she could silence her.

Well, Elain’s about to learn that Y/N’s not something to be erased. She’s survived everything Elain could never understand.

Y/N feels the pulse of power in her veins, a power she’s learned to control, to shape with precision.

But at the same time, her mind is full of questions she can’t seem to shake, voices she can’t quiet.

Why would Elain care now? She has everything she wanted. She has Lucien. She has Velaris. She has... peace.

But the bloodthirsty part of Y/N screams, telling her the answer. Elain hasn’t changed. She’s still the same. She never stopped hating Y/N. She never stopped wanting her to pay for what she did.

And if Elain’s the one who brought this chaos to Y/N’s doorstep, if she’s the one who is responsible for all of this...

Y/N will make sure she regrets it.

The days stretched on, each one dragging heavier than the last. Lucien had expected a difficult journey, but what grated on him most wasn’t the exhaustion, the unrelenting pace, or even the unease curling in his gut. It was Jurian.

The bastard was too comfortable.

Even after days of walking through untamed wilderness, Jurian showed no signs of strain. He was always two steps ahead, moving with purpose, like a man who knew exactly where he was going. That, more than anything, was what made Lucien’s nerves prickle.

Because he didn’t.

Lucien had asked—several times—but every demand was met with the same infuriating response.

"You’ll see when we get there."

Or—

"Patience, Fox Boy."

Or, the worst of them all—

"You ask too many questions."

Lucien had never wanted to punch someone as much as he did right now.

The sun was dipping behind the treetops when Lucien tried again, this time without the usual exasperation in his voice.

"You owe me an explanation, Jurian."

Jurian didn’t even pause. "I owe you a lot of things, but an explanation isn’t one of them."

Lucien exhaled sharply, quickening his pace until they were walking side by side. "You’re leading me somewhere, but you refuse to say where. You’re dragging me across this entire damn territory on nothing but vague assurances and half-truths. And I’m supposed to just—what? Trust you?"

Jurian finally looked at him, eyes glinting with amusement. "That is how journeys usually work."

Lucien scowled. "Not when the guide is a lying bastard."

Jurian’s smirk widened. "Then maybe you should’ve stayed home."

Lucien’s temper flared, but he bit it back. He needed to stay sharp. Fighting Jurian wouldn’t get him answers—at least, not yet.

He settled for a different approach.

"What’s so damn important that you dragged me away in the middle of the night for this?" His voice was quieter now, more measured. "What aren’t you telling me?"

Jurian didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch between them, long enough that Lucien thought he wouldn’t answer at all. Then, with a casual shrug, he said—

"It’s about Elain."

Lucien’s stomach dropped.

His steps faltered for half a second before he forced himself to keep walking. "What about her?"

Jurian didn’t so much as glance at him. "Isn’t that what you’ve been wondering all this time?"

Lucien’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Don’t play games with me, Jurian."

Jurian let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "Then stop making it so easy."

Lucien swore under his breath. "What did you find out?"

"Not here," Jurian said easily, as if they were discussing the weather and not something that had haunted Lucien. "We need to keep moving."

Lucien let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Of course. Keep moving. Keep following you blindly, like a fool."

Jurian only smiled. "See? You do learn."

Lucien clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

He didn’t push further—not yet—but he felt it. That creeping, gnawing sense of dread curling around his ribs. Something was wrong.

And Jurian knew.

They traveled in silence for the next few hours, the tension between them thick enough to cut. The further they walked, the more Lucien noticed the shift in the land.

At first, it was subtle—just a feeling. The way the trees seemed to lean inward, their branches gnarled and twisted. The way the air grew still, heavier, like it had absorbed something dark long ago and never fully let go.

But by the time they reached the outskirts of the abandoned village, there was no ignoring it.

Lucien knew this place.

Not this village specifically, but places like it.

War-ravaged. Hollow. Ghosts of the past lingering in every shattered doorway and burned-out home.

The scent hit him first. Not fresh rot, but something old, lingering beneath the earth. The kind of decay that never fully faded, no matter how much time passed.

He stopped walking.

Jurian did too, his expression unreadable.

"What is this place?" Lucien asked, his voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly would disturb whatever still lurked here.

Jurian scanned the ruins ahead. "One of the many casualties of the war."

Lucien didn’t need him to elaborate. He could see it—feel it.

The remnants of homes, long abandoned. Blackened, crumbling walls. A dried-up well in the center of the village square, its stones cracked from heat. Rusted weapons littered the ground, half-buried beneath dirt and dead leaves.

War.

"Hybern," he muttered under his breath, his throat tightening.

Jurian, for once, didn’t offer some sarcastic remark. "One of many villages that got caught in the crossfire," he said, voice quieter than usual. "People forget that it wasn’t just soldiers who died."

Lucien’s jaw tightened. "We’re going through it?"

Jurian nodded. "It’s the fastest way. Unless you want to add another three days to the trip?"

Lucien shook his head, already stepping forward. "Let’s get it over with."

He could hear it.

The echoes of screams. The clash of steel. The silence that followed when the battle ended and there was no one left to save.

Lucien didn’t argue.

They moved carefully, stepping over broken beams, past shattered doorways and collapsed roofs. The air was thick, suffocating. A graveyard without the graves. The silence here was wrong. No birds. No insects. Just the whisper of the wind through empty streets.

Lucien tried not to think about the people who had once lived here.

Tried not to wonder if they’d been innocent. If they’d fought. If they’d even had the chance.

Jurian, for once, didn’t make any snide remarks. He was watching. Not just the village, but the shadows between the ruins.

That’s when Lucien felt it.

A shift in the air.

A ripple through the silence, like something watching.

He stopped.

Jurian did, too.

"You feel that?" Lucien asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jurian nodded once, hand moving toward his sword. "We’re not alone."

Lucien’s magic flared, crackling beneath his skin.

And then—

A shadow moved.

A flicker of something darting between the ruined houses. Too fast. Too smooth.

Lucien’s blood turned to ice.

"We need to go," Jurian said lowly, his voice calm, but firm.

Lucien didn’t argue.

They turned—

But the wraiths were already closing in.

The first wraith struck fast—a blur of darkness lunging from the shadows.

Lucien barely had time to react before his instincts took over. He dodged, twisting out of the way just as clawed fingers swiped at his throat. The air where he had stood shimmered, the wraith’s claws leaving behind a faint, sickly glow.

Poison?

"Shit," Jurian swore, unsheathing his sword in a single, fluid motion. "Run or fight?"

Lucien barely had time to answer. Another wraith rushed him, its form shifting between mist and flesh, solidifying only at the last second. He ducked, spinning on his heel as his dagger flashed in the dim light—slicing clean through the creature’s chest.

No blood.

No scream.

Just a horrible, hissing noise as the wraith reformed, its body pulling itself back together as if the wound had never been there.

Lucien’s pulse spiked.

"Fight," he gritted out. "And hurry."

There were more of them now.

Emerging from the ruins, peeling themselves from the shadows. Dozens.

Their eyes glowed—a color that wasn’t quite gold, not quite silver. Not alive. Not dead.

Jurian let out a short, humorless laugh. "Great."

And then they were on them.

Lucien fought like hell.

He moved with precision, dodging the wraiths' attacks as his blade flashed, slicing through their forms—only for them to reform again and again.

They were fast. Not solid for long enough to land a killing blow.

One lunged at his back—he twisted, barely avoiding its claws as another wraith swept toward his side.

Too many.

Then—

A blast of steel.

Jurian’s sword cleaved through the nearest wraith, cutting it clean in half. The creature dissipated, its shadowy form writhing before it melted into the ruins.

Lucien’s breath hitched.

Jurian grinned. "Gotta love blessed steel."

Lucien swore under his breath. "Could’ve told me that earlier."

"Where’s the fun in that?"

Lucien didn’t have time to respond before another wraith attacked.

Jurian’s blade swung—another kill—but the creatures weren’t stopping.

Lucien cursed. His magic flared, the heat of his power surging through his veins. He reached for it—grasped at it—fire burning at his fingertips.

The wraiths shrank back.

Lucien exhaled sharply. Fire. That’s what they feared.

Without hesitating, he unleashed it.

Flames erupted from his hands, roaring through the air, setting the ruins ablaze.

The wraiths shrieked.

They fled.

Dissolving into shadows, vanishing into the ruins.

And then—

Silence.

Lucien stood there, chest heaving, flames still flickering at his fingertips. The smell of burning lingered in the air.

Jurian let out a slow whistle. "Could’ve started with that."

Lucien shot him a glare. "I thought we were running."

Jurian smirked. "You wanted to fight."

Lucien rolled his eyes, shoving his dagger back into its sheath. "Next time, maybe warn me about the blessed steel before I nearly get my throat ripped out."

Jurian chuckled. "Noted."

Lucien glanced back at the ruins. The wraiths were gone, but that creeping unease still clung to the air.

He exhaled sharply. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

Jurian nodded. "Agreed."

And without another word, they moved on.

They didn’t stop until the sky bled red and gold, the last remnants of sunlight sinking below the horizon.

Lucien’s limbs ached, the wraith attack still burning in his muscles. They had covered miles since then, moving swiftly through the crumbling remains of another forgotten village. It had been abandoned long before the war with Hybern, yet the weight of destruction still lingered in the air.

Burned homes. Collapsed rooftops. Statues worn down by time and war.

A ghost town, untouched for years.

Lucien pulled his cloak tighter around him, his breath misting in the cold air. "Where the hell are we?"

Jurian didn’t glance back. "A place people don’t walk into unless they have a damn good reason."

Lucien scowled. "And what’s our reason?"

Jurian was quiet.

Too quiet.

Lucien’s irritation spiked. "Jurian."

Nothing.

"Jurian, I swear to the gods—"

Jurian sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "We needed a way through. This was the fastest route."

Bullshit.

Lucien stopped walking. "You keep saying we need to hurry, but you haven’t told me why."

Jurian paused, his back still turned. "Because if I told you, you’d think too much."

Lucien clenched his jaw. "And I’m not already thinking too much?"

Jurian finally turned. "Would you rather go back to Velaris? Back to the lie you’ve been living?"

Lucien’s blood ran cold.

His fingers twitched toward his dagger. "What the hell does that mean?"

Jurian didn’t answer. He just sighed, shaking his head. "We’re stopping here for the night. Keep your questions to yourself until morning."

Lucien barely resisted the urge to punch him.

But he let it go. For now.

The fire crackled between them, casting long shadows against the ruined walls.

Lucien sat with his back against the cold stone, arms crossed, eyes locked on Jurian. He still hadn’t gotten a straight answer.

And he was done waiting.

"You knew about the wraiths, didn’t you?"

Jurian didn’t look up from sharpening his sword. "Figured we could handle it."

Lucien let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And the ruins? The fact that no one comes through here? That wasn’t a warning sign?"

Jurian finally met his gaze. "Do you trust me?"

Lucien’s stomach twisted.

Because he didn’t know.

He wanted to. Jurian had been the one person who hadn’t treated him like an afterthought, the one person who wasn’t waiting for him to fall in line with someone else’s plans.

But this—this secrecy,

Lucien leaned forward. "Tell me why we’re really here."

Jurian exhaled. "Because this place still holds remnants of the Cauldron’s power. And I need you to see something for yourself."

Lucien frowned. "The Cauldron was destroyed."

Jurian’s gaze was unreadable. "Was it?"

A chill ran down Lucien’s spine.

He had seen it shatter during the war. Seen the pieces scatter into nothing.

Hadn’t he?

Lucien’s fists clenched. "What aren’t you telling me?"

Jurian looked at him for a long moment, then simply said, "You’ll find out when we get there."

Lucien gritted his teeth. "That’s not good enough."

Jurian smirked. "It’s going to have to be."

Lucien swore under his breath.

He had a feeling that, whatever waited for him at the end of this road, it was going to change everything.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The wind howled through the skeletal trees, rattling the bare branches like bones clacking together.

They had left the abandoned village behind at dawn, but the land only grew more hostile. The deeper they traveled, the colder it became. The quieter.

Too quiet.

Lucien had spent enough time in Prythian’s wild places to know when nature had gone still for a reason. And this place—the stretch of land leading to the Cauldron’s ruins—was wrong.

He glanced at Jurian, who was unnervingly calm. Like he expected this.

"How much farther?" Lucien asked, voice low.

Jurian didn’t answer immediately. He surveyed the forest ahead, gaze sharp, before murmuring, "A few more days. If we’re lucky."

Lucien scowled. "If we’re lucky?"

Jurian only kept walking.

Lucien followed, but the unease creeping up his spine didn’t leave him.

They set up camp in a clearing that night.

Lucien’s muscles ached. His exhaustion was bone-deep, but sleep wouldn’t come.

Because he could hear it.

Faint at first, like a whisper beneath the wind.

Something was out there.

Jurian was still awake, sitting by the fire, sharpening his blade. He didn’t react to the sound, didn’t even glance up.

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "You hear that?"

Jurian hummed. "Yep."

Lucien’s fingers twitched toward his dagger. "And you’re just—what? Ignoring it?"

Jurian finally looked at him, utterly unbothered. "No point worrying about something until it shows its teeth."

Lucien let out a sharp breath. "You’re insane."

Jurian grinned. "Probably."

Lucien rolled his eyes, but his grip tightened on his blade.

Because the whispering didn’t stop.

And whatever was out there... it was watching them.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

One second, the fire crackled peacefully. The next, shadows exploded from the trees.

Lucien barely had time to react before something slammed into him, sending him skidding across the dirt.

His head spun. He caught a glimpse of glowing eyes, of blackened flesh, before Jurian’s sword sliced through the air.

A shriek—a sound that shouldn’t exist—ripped through the night.

Lucien rolled to his feet, his blade drawn.

The creatures were wrong. Their shapes flickered, shifting unnaturally. They had too many limbs, too many eyes, their bodies twisting in ways that made Lucien’s stomach churn.

And they were fast.

He barely dodged the next attack, his instincts screaming. He slashed, his blade cutting through one of the creatures, but it didn’t bleed. It only shrieked, retreating into the darkness before another took its place.

"What the hell are these things?" Lucien growled.

Jurian’s expression was grim. "Remnants."

Lucien swore. "Remnants of what?"

"The Cauldron’s destruction left things behind," Jurian said, slicing through another. "Things that shouldn’t exist."

Lucien didn’t have time to process that.

Because one of the creatures lunged—

And this time, he wasn’t fast enough.

Pain exploded in his shoulder as claws raked through flesh. He staggered, his vision blurring.

Jurian swore. Then suddenly—

A flare of golden light.

Lucien barely registered it—barely registered the way the creatures shrieked and fled—before the world tilted and his knees hit the ground.

His vision swam.

The last thing he heard was Jurian muttering, "Well, that complicates things."

Then—darkness.

When Lucien woke, he wasn’t in the forest anymore.

The air was damp, thick with ancient power.

He groaned, forcing himself upright. His shoulder ached, but it had been bandaged.

Footsteps.

He turned his head just as Jurian entered. “Good. You’re awake.”

Lucien frowned. “Where are we?”

Jurian crouched by the fire, tossing him a waterskin. “We made it.”

Lucien’s stomach dropped.

He looked around, really taking in his surroundings. The cavernous walls. The stone pillars, cracked and covered in old runes. The lingering hum of magic, faint but unmistakable.

He knew this place.

Or at least, he thought he did.

Lucien’s mouth was dry when he said, “This is where the Cauldron was, isn’t it?”

Jurian’s expression was unreadable. “It still is.”

Lucien’s heart skipped a beat.

He shot to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder. “That’s not possible. The Cauldron was destroyed.”

Jurian tilted his head. “Was it?”

Lucien’s breath hitched.

He felt it before he understood it—the low, thrumming pull of magic older than the world itself.

He stepped forward, the pulse growing stronger, rattling in his bones, in his very soul. His breath turned shallow, his heart hammering.

Something was wrong.

Something was breaking open.

And then—

The world snapped apart.

Pain ripped through him, tearing through flesh and bone, through his mind, his soul.

A vision struck—

Not a memory. A truth.

A vision of a golden afternoon.

A female stood before him—Y/N.

His heart lurched at the sight of her, at the sheer familiarity of her. His mate.

Not Elain.

Her.

Lucien saw it now—the moment it had happened. The moment the Cauldron had chosen her for him.

It had been gentle. A bond of warmth, of understanding. A bond that had existed before it had even been acknowledged, woven into the fabric of who they were.

Y/N’s eyes had widened, and Lucien had felt it too—that pull.

That undeniable, world-shattering pull of a true mate.

But then—

Then the vision twisted.

The Cauldron trembled.

It had been fractured, unstable from its own rebirth. It faltered.

Lucien watched in horror as its power surged, its mistake unraveling before him.

It was not meant to break bonds.

But it had.

The vision shifted—

To the King of Hybern.

To Elain.

To the final battle, the moment the Cauldron ripped him apart and rewrote fate itself.

Y/N's bond with him had been severed.

Destroyed.

And in its place—

The Cauldron had forced him onto another.

Elain.

A lie.

A mistake.

The Cauldron had realized too late what it had done, the wrongness of it, but its power had already been spent.

Lucien's soul had been torn in two, bound to a woman who was never meant to be his-while his true mate had been left behind. Forgotten.

She had believed he had rejected her.

Had abandoned her.

Had chosen another.

And he—

He had been living in a cage of fate's broken design.

Lucien gasped, the vision collapsing around him.

And as the truth settled into his bones, something within him shifted—

Something long dormant-long lost-

Snapped back into place.

His bond-his real bond-roared to life.

It hit him like a storm, like a fire that had never gone out, only buried beneath the ashes of deception.

And Y/N-

He could feel her.

Her breath.

Her heartbeat.

Her presence, far, far away-but there.

Alive.

Real.

His mate.

His true mate.

Lucien stumbled back, his chest heaving, his vision still spinning as the power of the Cauldron recoiled, leaving him standing in the aftermath.

His knees buckled, and he clawed for stability, gasping for air, for something to hold onto.

The world slowly pieced itself back together.

And when it did—

Lucien turned.

His gaze locked onto Jurian.

“You…” His voice shook, raw, disbelieving. “You knew this whole time.”

Jurian’s expression was entirely unrepentant. “Yep.”

Lucien’s hands curled into fists, his breath coming too fast, too sharp. “You knew this entire fucking time?”

Jurian grinned, leaning against a nearby pillar. “What can I say? Watching you torture yourself over the wrong female was the most entertainment I’ve had in centuries.”

Lucien growled, taking a step forward. “You—” His mind was racing, piecing it all together. “That’s why you suggested I go to her shop.”

Not a question.

A statement.

Jurian’s smirk widened. “Also guilty.”

Lucien’s stomach turned. “You planned this.”

Jurian tilted his head, smug as ever. “Maybe I just got tired of seeing you so blind and Y/N so stubbornly quiet about this whole charade. Decided to take things into my own hands.”

Lucien bristled, rage crackling through him. “And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?”

Jurian exhaled. “You forget—I was with the King of Hybern for a very long time. I know everything about the Cauldron. How it works. How it fucks people over.” His eyes gleamed. “And I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I’d told you outright.”

Lucien’s blood boiled.

His fists clenched.

And before he could stop himself—

He lunged.

He grabbed Jurian by the collar, slamming him into the nearest stone pillar.

“For a year,” Lucien snarled, his grip tightening, “a fucking year, you watched me tear myself apart for a female who wasn’t even mine—while you let my real mate believe I abandoned her?”

His teeth bared, his voice shaking with rage, betrayal, agony. “What in the Mother’s name is wrong with you?”

Jurian didn’t so much as flinch.

Didn’t even look surprised.

He just sighed. “Being a hero never really suited me.”

Lucien’s fury burned hotter.

Jurian clapped him on the shoulder—the audacity—and drawled, “Now, why don’t you let go of me so we can go get your true mate back?”

Lucien froze.

His grip loosened.

His chest heaved.

“You…” His voice wavered. “You know where she is?”

Jurian rolled his eyes. “Umm, yes? I know everything, you moron.”

Lucien’s stomach dropped.

Jurian smirked. “She’s in the Summer Court. Opened up a new little shop, actually. Real cute setup. You’d love it.”

Lucien didn’t wait to hear the rest.

He was already moving—pushing past Jurian, heart racing, mind spinning, body desperate to get to her.

To fix this.

To see her.

“I messed up,” he breathed, cursing himself, cursing everything.

Jurian followed lazily, shaking his head. “Yeah, no shit.”

Lucien's claws pressed into his palms.

Midway, Jurian reached for his shoulder in some semblance of camaraderie.

Lucien shoved him off. Growled. "We will talk about this. You have a lot to explain."

Jurian sighed, exasperated. "See, this is exactly why I was debating whether to tell you in the first place."

Lucien shot him a warning look, but he didn't stop.

Couldn't.

His mate was out there.

And he was done waiting.

The Summer Court had been kind to Y/N. More than she had ever expected.

The warm breeze brushed through her hair as she walked through the quiet, lamp-lit streets, the scent of salt and citrus filling the air. The Summer Court was nothing like Velaris—there was no suffocating weight of what had been stolen from her here. No reminders of what she had lost.

Her fingers curled around the small bag she carried, the last of the day’s earnings from the shop tucked safely inside.

She had built something here. A quiet life. A peaceful one.

The distant hum of the ocean waves was a familiar comfort as she hummed softly to herself, her steps light against the cobbled path. This life—it wasn’t the one she had imagined, not the one she had once dreamed of when she thought she had a mate. But it was hers.

Maybe she was never meant to have a mate.

And that was fine.

It had taken a long time—too long—but she was finally learning to accept it.

That didn’t mean she had forgotten. That didn’t mean she had forgiven.

One day, she would have her revenge. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even a year from now. But one day, when they least expected it, she would make sure Elain Archeron paid for what she had done.

But for now, patience. Peace.

She exhaled softly, shaking off the thoughts as she reached her home. The small cottage was modest, but it was hers, a place untouched by the ghosts of the past. With a hum, she dug out her key and slid it into the lock, twisting it open—

And froze.

Her humming died on her lips. Her breath caught in her throat.

Jurian was leaning against her kitchen table, a plate of freshly baked pastries in hand, biting into one like he had every right to be here.

And Lucien—Lucien was standing near the window, looking as if his entire world had just been ripped apart.

Jurian was the first to speak, still chewing, still as smug as ever.

“Oh, Y/N, dearest. Sorry for not telling you about our arrival beforehand. Things just… got a little messy.” He gestured vaguely, swallowing another bite of her food. “But you really should be more logical with where you keep your keys. I mean, under a flowerpot? Really?” He sighed, as if truly disappointed in her lack of caution. “Anyway, I believe you need no introduction to this guy.” He jerked his head toward Lucien. “He desperately needs to talk to you. Also—” He licked his fingers. “Delicious pastries, as always. Your cooking skills never cease to amaze me.”

Silence.

Y/N stared. Lucien stared.

And then, at the exact same time—

“You know him?!”

Jurian only grinned.

Lucien’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide. “You know her?!”

Jurian, the absolute bastard, only took a sip from his glass before placing it down and answering with complete nonchalance. “Oh, yes. Lucien, see, Y/N and I have been friends for over a year now. Since the moment I knew about the whole Cauldron drama, I made sure to visit her shop and get to know her. And we’re now the closest of friends, aren’t we, Y/N?” His smirk was absolutely infuriating. “As for Lucien, well, that’s a long story, really, but let’s just say—”

Jurian never got to finish his sentence.

Because the moment the words closest of friends left his mouth, Y/N snatched the nearest thing within reach—her wooden fruit bowl—and hurled it straight at his head.

Jurian dodged, but not fast enough. The bowl smacked his shoulder, and a few apples tumbled onto the floor.

“Friends?!” Y/N seethed. “Friends?!” She turned her glare on him, fists clenched. “You barge into my home, with someone you know I can’t be around, eat my food, and now—now you admit to being my friend because of some—some Cauldron what?! And you were friends with him this whole time too?!” She pointed an accusing finger at Lucien, her voice rising with every word. “I cannot believe you, Jurian. I really can’t. Friends aren’t like this!”

Lucien took a hesitant step forward. “Y/N—”

“Shut up!” she and Jurian snapped at the same time.

Lucien’s mouth shut instantly, his jaw tightening.

Y/N took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. She jabbed a finger toward the hallway. “Go into the other room. Now.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. He turned and left without another word.

Jurian sighed dramatically, rubbing his temple. “You know, I really don’t get enough credit for all the effort I put into making people’s lives better.”

Y/N shot him a look that could have burned him alive. “What. The fuck. Did you do.”

Jurian raised his hands in mock innocence. “I fixed things.”

“You fixed things?” she echoed, voice dangerously low.

Jurian smirked. “Alright, fine. I didn’t. The Cauldron did. I just… helped speed things along.”

Her nails dug into her palms. “You better start talking. Now.”

Jurian only sighed, shaking his head. “You never did have any patience.”

Y/N reached for another throwable object.

Jurian immediately lifted his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! Calm down, will you?” He glanced toward the hallway. “Just—just listen to him. Really listen. And then, then, you can kill me later. Deal?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I make no promises.”

Jurian grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Y/N huffed, turning on her heel before she could strangle him, pacing toward the hallway. Behind her, she heard Jurian call out, “Lucien! You’re up!”

Her hands clenched. Her heart pounded.

And as she turned to face Lucien once more, she steeled herself for whatever was about to come next.

The moment Y/N stepped back into the room, she regretted it.

Lucien stood near the window, but his usual sharpness, his composed demeanor, was gone. His broad shoulders slumped forward, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. And then—her gaze finally took in the bandages wrapped around his shoulder blade, the stark white fabric stained with hints of red.

She hesitated. Swallowed hard. “What the hell happened?”

Lucien stiffened, like he hadn’t expected her to speak first. “It’s nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, she moved further inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Silence wrapped around them, thick and suffocating. It was unbearable—too many things left unsaid, too much anger simmering beneath her skin.

And then Lucien let out a long breath, sinking into one of the chairs, pressing his hands into his face, fingers dragging through his unkempt hair. He looked—defeated. Like the weight of the world had finally broken him.

Y/N crossed her arms. “What is going on?” she demanded. “Why are you two in my house? What the hell is happening?”

Lucien inhaled sharply, like he was bracing himself. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

The words hit her like a whip.

She blinked. “What?”

His head lifted, and those amber eyes-so raw, so open in a way she had never seen before— locked onto hers. "I am so sorry for not knowing sooner."

She frowned, her heart beating just a little faster, even as confusion twisted through her. "Lucien, speak properly."

He exhaled. And then, barely above a whisper, he said it.

"You're my true mate."

Everything in her froze.

Her lungs forgot how to breathe, her body forgot how to move. It was like the world tilted beneath her feet, and she barely managed to remain standing.

The words repeated in her head over and over again, and yet she couldn't process them.

Couldn't believe them.

And then-a cold, bitter laugh escaped her lips.

Lucien's brows furrowed. "Y/N-"

"So she was right." Her voice dripped with ice.

Lucien looked at her as though she had lost her mind. "Who-"

"Elain," she spat. "She really did tell you, didn't she? That you were my true mate?"

Lucien's eyes widened, shaking his head. "No-"

But she cut him off, her voice rising. "No what?

No, you didn't believe her? No, you weren't disgusted by me like everyone else? Because that's exactly what she said. She told me that you knew. That you knew about the rumors. That you knew I was your mate and that you didn't care because you were repulsed by the idea of being tied to someone like me."

Lucien went still. A deadly, terrifying stillness.

"What did you just say?"

Y/N let out another cold laugh, but it didn't feel like laughter at all. "Don't act so shocked."

His voice darkened. "When did she come to your shop?"

She scoffed. "Two days before I left."

Lucien's entire body tensed. "She threatened you?" His voice was eerily calm, too calm, but there was an underlying rage in his tone that sent chills down her spine.

"She told me to leave," Y/N snapped. "Told me I didn't belong. That you were hers and that I needed to disappear. And guess what, Lucien?

Even here, I still can't escape her. Even here, she has eyes watching me. People attacked me because of her. Because of you."

Lucien shot to his feet so quickly the chair nearly toppled over. "What?"

YIN smirked cruelly. "Even here, I get no peace.

Even here, I am hunted because of the female you chose.”

Lucien's breathing was ragged now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, his golden eye burning with fury.

Then, in a raw, unsteady voice, he whispered, "I swear, I had no idea."

Y/N just stared at him.

"If I had known," Lucien continued, voice cracking, "I would have—fuck." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly. "I never felt the bond before. The Cauldron chose Elain. And I thought-" His throat bobbed. "I thought that was it."

Y/N's lips parted, a sliver of something other than anger creeping into her. "You-" She hesitated. "You didn't reject the bond?"

Lucien looked at her like she had gone insane.

"Reject it?" His laugh was humorless. "I never even knew it existed."

She blinked, trying to process his words.

"For a year," he went on, shaking his head, "I tried to make someone who isn't mine love me back. And this whole time—" He exhaled roughly. "It wasn't even her."

Y/N's stomach twisted. "What do you mean?"

Lucien's gaze softened, an aching kind of sadness filling his features. "It was the Cauldron that bound me to Elain." His voice was barely a whisper now. "I had no idea you were my true mate."

Y/N couldn't speak. Couldn't think.

Lucien took a step closer, as if drawn to her. "If I had known..." He trailed off, his throat working, his voice breaking. "If I had known, I would have-"

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't need to.

Because in that moment, Y/N finally understood.

For so long, she had carried this pain alone. Had believed herself abandoned, discarded by the one who was supposed to be hers. But Lucien... he hadn't known. He never knew.

And now?

Now, he did.

And it changed everything.

he tension in the room lingered even after their argument had settled into an uneasy silence. Y/N sat stiffly, arms crossed, glaring at Lucien, who still looked shaken. Jurian, leaning back against the worn-out chair, exhaled heavily before breaking the silence.

“I knew,” he said simply, voice quiet but certain. “From the moment Hybern found the Cauldron.”

Lucien’s head snapped up, his amber eyes narrowing. Y/N’s stomach twisted. “What?” she demanded.

Jurian nodded. “The moment I saw what the King was doing with the Cauldron—saw the way it was twisting fate—I knew something was wrong. I saw the bonds forming, the way the Cauldron was interfering with them. That’s when I knew.”

Y/N frowned, still processing. Lucien’s jaw tightened. “You knew about me and Y/N?”

“Yes,” Jurian admitted. “And I knew when the Cauldron forced the bond between you and Elain that it wasn’t real.”

Lucien sat back, looking dazed. Y/N gritted her teeth. “And yet you didn’t tell him.”

Jurian turned to her, gaze sharp. “Would he have believed me?”

Silence.

Jurian sighed. “That’s why I started searching for you, Y/N. I knew you were out there, and I knew you’d have the truth he needed to hear. I couldn’t just go to him with claims—I needed him to see for himself.”

Y/N clenched her fists. “For a hundred years, I felt the bond. I carried that knowledge alone, knowing my mate didn’t even know I existed. And then one day, the bond just… snapped.” Her throat tightened. “I thought you had broken it, Lucien. That you had known about me and rejected me.”

Lucien flinched. “I didn’t knowingly break it. I—I had no idea.”

“Right,” she scoffed, but there was exhaustion in her voice now.

Lucien dragged a hand through his hair. “I thought Elain was my mate. I never even considered the possibility of another. I never felt the bond before, not until the Cauldron forced one on me.” He looked at her then, eyes desperate. “I would never have ignored you if I had known.”

Silence stretched between them again, filled only by the weight of the truth settling over them.

But then Lucien suddenly stiffened, his mind catching on something. “Wait,” he muttered, looking at her sharply. “You said Elain hasn’t left you alone. That she has spies watching you—even here.”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Yes. A few days ago, I had a run-in with some of them. They said things—things only Elain could have known. It was clearly a message from her.”

Jurian sat up straighter. “How did they look?”

Y/N frowned. “I don’t know. They wore dark cloaks. Concealed their faces.”

Jurian swore under his breath. “That’s not Elain.”

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Right. And I should believe you?”

Jurian leaned forward, voice low and serious. “Trust me.” The weight of his tone made both of them pause, their gazes locking onto him. “Those weren’t Elain’s spies. They were something worse. Sages of the Cauldron.”

Y/N froze. “What?”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. “Sages?”

Jurian nodded. “They’re a faction that still worships the Cauldron. They protect what’s left of its power, and they sense when something unnatural happens. If they’ve been watching you, it’s because they felt something shift.” His eyes darkened. “Like a broken bond that wasn’t supposed to break.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

Lucien straightened, eyes burning with new intensity. “Then they’re a threat.”

Jurian shrugged. “More than that. They might try to interfere if they think the bond is being restored.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “So… what now?”

Lucien turned to her, his face unreadable. “I can still feel the bond. You can’t.”

She nodded.

His jaw tightened. “How do I restore it?”

Jurian exhaled through his nose. “You have to sever the Cauldron’s bond first. You have to break your tie to Elain completely.”

Silence fell again as both Y/N and Lucien absorbed that truth.

Lucien looked away, expression unreadable. Y/N sat rigidly, mind reeling.

So that was the answer. The reason she couldn’t feel it anymore. The Cauldron’s interference had severed her side of the bond. And the only way to fix it—

She let out a shaky breath.

Lucien was staring at the floor, his expression unreadable. But when he finally spoke, his voice was certain. “You’re right.”

Jurian stood suddenly, clapping his hands. “Then get up, both of you.”

Y/N and Lucien blinked at him.

Jurian smirked. “We’re going to Velaris.”

“No way in hell am I going back to that place ever again.”

YN’s voice rang through the room, sharp and unwavering.

Jurian sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Come on, YN—”

“Are you crazy?” she snapped, pacing furiously. “Do you even know what happened there? The rumors they spread about me? The lies? Elain practically controls everything over there. Her sister is the High Lady, her other sister is a Valkyrie. Do you think they’ll ever believe me? That they’ll ever like me?” She let out a bitter laugh. “They think I’m a traitor. That I betrayed them. That I was loyal to Hybern. And you—” she whirled on him, her anger burning through the room. “What is wrong with you, thinking I should just waltz back in there like none of that ever happened?”

Jurian’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. “YN, I know what I’m doing—”

“Oh, do you?” she cut him off. “Because it seems like you’re just throwing me to the wolves.”

Jurian’s nostrils flared, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think I’d put you in danger? That I’d lead you somewhere you’d be torn apart without reason?” His voice was low, controlled, but there was frustration brimming beneath it. “I didn’t spend a whole year watching all this unfold just to push you into a losing battle.”

YN opened her mouth to snap back, but before she could, a voice—low, steady—cut through the tension.

“Enough.”

She froze, turning to see Lucien step forward. Jurian took a step back as Lucien came closer, his gaze fixed entirely on her. His golden eye flickered, his russet one locked onto hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

Then—so, so gently—he reached out, his fingers barely grazing her cheek. A featherlight touch, as if he feared she would flinch away, as if she were something delicate, breakable.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice raw with something she couldn’t quite name. “I want to feel our bond again. I want to be mated with you. I want you to feel the same. I want us to have what we were always meant to.” He swallowed, his fingers lingering against her skin. “Do you want that with me?”

YN’s chest ached. She had spent a century convincing herself that this bond, this mate, was nothing but a cruel joke played by the Cauldron. That Lucien had known and broken it on purpose. That he had chosen Elain over her.

But here he was—standing in front of her, asking her if she wanted this. If she wanted him.

Her thoughts swirled, chaotic and tangled. The years of resentment, the pain of watching him from afar, of knowing and then suddenly not knowing—the bond ripped from her as if it had never existed.

And yet…

“Yes,” she whispered.

Lucien exhaled, his fingers twitching against her cheek, but she wasn’t finished.

“But,” she continued, her voice steadier now, “it’s not something that can be fixed overnight. It will take time. There’s too much history, too much—”

“I know,” Lucien murmured, his eyes searching hers. “But we can work through it. We will work through it. If we both give it a chance.” His thumb brushed along her jaw, just once, before he pulled back slightly. “I already know my answer, YN. I just needed to know yours.”

She met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest, and with a slow exhale, she gave him what he was asking for.

“Yes,” she said again, firmer this time.

Lucien’s lips parted, something flickering in his expression—something warm, something relieved.

“Then we need to face them,” he said softly. “We need to prove to them that we’re in the right. That you were never the villain they made you out to be.”

YN’s throat tightened. “But—”

“There are no buts,” Lucien interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “If we want them to see the truth, then we can’t keep hiding. We can’t keep letting Elain’s version of events shape the world’s perception of you.” His russet eye darkened. “And if anyone knows more about these bonds—about what the Cauldron did—it’s Rhysand. You may not trust him, but he’s the only one who might have real answers.”

YN hesitated, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

From the corner of the room, Jurian was watching them with a smirk, arms crossed as if he had known this exact moment would happen.

She scowled at him, then let out a long breath before shifting her gaze back to Lucien.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if anything goes wrong—if anything—” she jabbed a finger at Lucien’s chest, “you’re winnowing us out of there immediately.”

Lucien’s lips twitched. “You have my word, ma’am.”

Jurian clapped his hands together. “Perfect. Now, let’s go break some illusions.”

The moment Lucien winnowed them into the townhouse, Y/N barely had time to catch her breath before the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine hit her. The flickering glow of candles on the dining table illuminated the shocked faces of Feyre, Rhysand, and Elain—mid-dinner, forks frozen halfway to their mouths.

The silence lasted all of two heartbeats.

Then—

“What the hell?” Rhysand was on his feet in an instant, shadows curling around him as his violet eyes locked onto Y/N with a feral snarl.

Feyre shot up as well, stepping protectively in front of Elain. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her gaze cutting to Lucien, to Jurian, and then back to Y/N.

Elain’s expression had brightened the second she saw Lucien, her brown eyes lighting up in relief, in happiness—Lu, you’re back— but then she saw Y/N.

The warmth drained from her face like a candle snuffed out. Her lips parted in surprise before curling into something sharp, something cold. “What is she doing here?”

Y/N clenched her fists.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Rhysand bit out, his power rippling through the room, the air thick with warning. His voice dipped into a growl. “Traitor's have no place in this city.”

Feyre’s hands clenched at her sides. “You betrayed us. You sided with Hybern—”

“I did not side with Hybern!” Y/N snapped, the words flying out before she could stop them.

“You expect us to believe that?” Elain’s voice was quiet, but full of venom. She lifted her chin. “After everything you did? The lies you told, the way you—”

“Don’t you dare,” Lucien cut in, his voice low, furious.

Elain blinked at him in shock. “Lucien, you—”

“I what?” Lucien stepped in front of Y/N, shielding her as he glared at Elain. “You think I’d just stand by and let you rewrite history?”

Elain’s face twisted, her usual soft demeanor fracturing into something hard. “You’re really choosing her over me?”

“Choosing truth over lies,” Lucien corrected, his russet eye burning with anger.

Y/N’s breath hitched. The sheer force of his protectiveness—his rage—made her head spin.

Elain flinched, but quickly masked it. “I don’t know what she’s told you—”

“Enough,” Jurian interrupted, stepping forward with a sigh, arms crossed. “Gods, you fae love the sound of your own voices.”

Rhysand snapped his gaze toward him, his power crackling in the air. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Jurian drawled. “Would you all just shut up for a moment?”

A tense silence settled over the room.

Rhysand’s expression darkened dangerously. “You think you can waltz into my home and speak like that—”

“Yes, actually,” Jurian cut in, entirely unfazed. “Since you all are so convinced of your own version of events, I thought it might be nice if, for once, someone told the truth in this godsdamned city.”

Feyre scoffed. “And you expect us to believe you?”

Jurian only smirked. “Oh, you will. Because this time, I have proof.”

Feyre hesitated. Rhysand’s brows furrowed slightly, as if considering whether it was worth listening at all. But Elain—Elain was already shaking her head, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, voice trembling just enough to sound believable. “I never spread rumors about her. I never—”

“Cut the act, Elain,” Lucien snapped.

Elain flinched again, real hurt flashing across her face, but Lucien was unrelenting. “You knew exactly what you were doing,” he said, voice steady. “You wanted me to believe she was a traitor. You wanted all of them to believe it. And you succeeded, didn’t you?”

Elain’s lip trembled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Are you sure?” Jurian said, tilting his head. “Because I have some very interesting letters in my possession. Letters sent from a certain Archeron sister to certain key figures in Velaris.” He pulled a stack of parchment from his coat and held them up lazily. “Want to guess what they say?”

Feyre’s expression wavered, her gaze flickering to Elain. “What… letters?”

Elain paled. “I don’t know what those are.”

“Don’t you?” Jurian’s smirk widened. “Shall I read them aloud? Or do you want to admit it now, before I air all your dirty secrets in front of your precious family?”

Silence.

Elain’s hands clenched at her sides. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

Then—Feyre turned to her, something cold creeping into her stare. “Elain…?”

Elain swallowed. “I—”

“You actually did this?” Feyre’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the air like a blade.

Elain’s composure finally cracked. “I—” She let out a breath, her hands shaking. “I had to! You don’t understand—”

“You had to?” Lucien’s voice was like ice. “You ruined her for what? So you could paint yourself as the innocent one?”

“I—” Elain’s voice hitched, and then, as if on instinct, she turned to Feyre. “Feyre, you believe me, don’t you?” Her eyes welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. “You know I would never—”

Feyre took a slow step back. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Silence pressed down on them all. Y/N barely felt like she could breathe, her chest tightening.

Then—

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze like steel as he finally spoke.

“Into my office. Now.”

His voice was an order, absolute and final, his eyes cutting to Lucien, Jurian, and Y/N.

Lucien straightened, his face unreadable. Jurian gave a mocking little bow, a smirk still playing on his lips.

As for Y/N—she couldn’t stop herself from glancing back at Elain, who had slumped into a chair, face buried in her hands. Feyre stood over her, expression torn.

But before Y/N could process any of it, Lucien’s warm hand pressed against her back, guiding her forward.

They had won the first battle.

But the war had only just begun.

Rhysand leaned against his massive oak desk, arms crossed, violet eyes sharp with scrutiny as they landed on Y/N.

“Y/N.” The single syllable carried the weight of a century’s worth of accusations.

Y/N sighed. The room felt suffocating, and for a brief moment, she considered staying silent. But then—Lucien shifted slightly in front of her, his stance subtly protective, as if to remind Rhysand that no amount of power or authority would allow him to intimidate her now.

That small action settled something inside her.

So she met Rhys’s gaze head-on and spoke.

Rhysand’s Office – Truth Unraveled

Rhysand leaned against his massive oak desk, arms crossed, violet eyes sharp with scrutiny as they landed on YN.

“Y/N.” The single syllable carried the weight of a century’s worth of accusations.

That small action settled something inside her.

So she met Rhys’s gaze head-on and spoke.

“I knew about my mating bond with Lucien for a hundred years,” she said evenly. “I felt it snap into place the first moment I saw him. I felt it every day after that, the pull, the warmth, the… inevitability of it.” She inhaled sharply. “And then, one year ago, it broke.”

Rhysand didn’t react immediately, but his eyes darkened, assessing.

“I felt it break,” Y/N continued, her voice gaining strength. “One moment, it was there—the next, it was gone. At first, I thought it was something Lucien did. That he had chosen to reject it. The pain of that, of thinking he had knowingly severed what was between us…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “It nearly destroyed me.”

Lucien shifted closer, as if the memory of her pain was enough to stir his own anger all over again. “I never broke our bond,” he said, his voice tight, restrained. “I never would have.”

Rhysand studied him. “Then how do you explain—”

“I explain it like this.” Jurian cut in, dropping a thick stack of aged papers onto Rhys’s desk with a smug grin. “The Cauldron did a shit job with the whole mating business.”

Rhys arched a brow, unimpressed. “You’re expecting me to believe the Cauldron—one of the most powerful forces in existence—messed up?”

“I’m expecting you to read before you make an ass of yourself,” Jurian shot back. “But then again, making an ass of yourself seems to be your specialty.”

Rhys’s jaw ticked, but he ignored him—for now. He flicked a hand, and the papers lifted into the air, pages flipping on their own. His eyes scanned the documents, and for the first time since they arrived, a flicker of uncertainty passed over his face.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never questioned it,” Jurian went on. “Lucien is mated to Elain—a female who can barely stand to be in the same room as him? And you? Your mating bond appeared at the exact moment Feyre needed you most?” He gestured lazily to Y/N and Lucien. “But these two? They felt the bond for a century, only for it to be ripped away the second Elain entered the picture?”

Rhysand said nothing, but the way his brows furrowed slightly told Y/N that he was at least considering the possibility.

“The Cauldron doesn’t make mistakes,” Rhys finally murmured, but there was doubt in his tone now.

Jurian snorted. “The Cauldron also created Hybern, Koschei, and—oh, I don’t know—every cursed thing to ever walk this world. I wouldn’t exactly call it flawless.”

Rhys exhaled slowly, setting the papers down. “This is… a long argument.”

“No shit,” Jurian quipped.

Rhys shot him a dry look before turning back to Y/N. “And you?” His voice was quieter now. “You believe all of this?”

Y/N lifted her chin. “I believe that what I felt was real. That what Lucien and I still feel is real.” She hesitated. “And I believe that Elain—your Elain—ruined my life. She threatened me in my own shop. Pretended to be a friend, only to turn out to be a foe."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Rhysand took his time processing. Then, slowly, he straightened, stepping toward them—

Only for Lucien to subtly shift again, his body angled just enough to block any further approach.

Rhys paused. A flicker of something—maybe amusement, maybe understanding—crossed his face before he exhaled sharply. “Look,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “I apologize, Y/N.”

Her breath caught.

“But Elain is my family, too,” he continued, his voice measured. “And when I was faced with choosing between believing her—the soft, kind sister—and you, the one who had already been painted as a traitor, what choice did I have?” His gaze was piercing, like he was daring her to challenge him. “Rumour or not, as a High Lord, I take the safety of my people seriously. When I was told you were a traitor—”

“Oh, please,” Jurian groaned, rolling his eyes. “Spare us the ‘noble High Lord’ speech. You believed her because it was easy to believe her. And because you’re an arrogant prick.”

Rhys’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smirk. “No wonder after all these years, I still hate you, you insufferable sea urchin.”

Jurian placed a hand over his heart. “And yet, you still haven’t drowned me. Must be love.”

Y/N almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, she turned back to Rhysand, who was watching her again. “If you wish to say anything to Elain,” he said carefully, “you can. But I give you my word, we will deal with her.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then, she shook her head. “No.” Her voice was quiet. “Just tell her… that I pity her. And that I hope, someday, she finds peace.”

Lucien stiffened beside her, and even Rhys’s expression faltered for a moment.

Finally, the High Lord nodded. “Very well.” He crossed his arms again. “Now, let’s discuss what happens next.”

Y/N’s spine locked.

“You will be compensated,” Rhys continued. “And you are welcome in Velaris again. If you and Lucien wish to restore your bond—”

Lucien didn’t move.

Rhys sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. Compensation, freedom, all of that—done. But I assume you’ll need time to adjust?”

Y/N studied him. Then, slowly, she said, “I’ll decide on that myself.”

Rhysand smirked. “Fair enough.”

Lucien still didn’t relax, but Y/N found herself… lighter. Not at peace, not entirely. But lighter.

And for now, that was enough.

A year later, Y/N never thought this would be the life she was living now.

For a hundred years, she had carried the ache of an unfulfilled bond, the pain of watching her mate exist in another court, seemingly unknowing of her. And for one year, she had lived with the grief of thinking that bond had been shattered forever.

But now?

Now, she woke up each morning with the weight of Lucien’s arm wrapped around her waist, his breath warm against her skin, his presence as solid and certain as the rising sun. Now, the world was bright—vivid—colors she had forgotten seemed to have seeped back into her life, as if the bond’s return had repainted everything she saw.

It hadn’t been an easy road. Rhysand had helped them restore the bond—not out of guilt (though there was plenty of that) but because, deep down, he knew he had made a mistake. They had traveled across courts, met with creatures even Amren would hesitate to cross. The process had been slow, painstaking, but with every step, with every new piece they uncovered, something between her and Lucien clicked back into place.

And then—one day—it simply snapped back.

The moment it did, she had felt it, as if the universe had taken a deep breath and exhaled in relief. And when she looked into Lucien’s eyes—his real, warm, knowing eyes—she saw everything she had ever wanted staring right back at her.

At first, they took things slow.

Lucien came with her to the Summer Court, choosing to leave behind the baggage of his past and start anew beside her. They rebuilt their lives, not as broken pieces forced back together, but as two fae learning each other all over again—this time, without the weight of uncertainty, without the ghosts of what-if's haunting them.

Jurian, of course, refused to let them be too happy without his interference. He bought a home nearby just to be annoying, dropping in at the worst possible times.

Y/N had taken the compensation Rhysand offered—not as a favor, but as what was owed—and built something of her own. She had a place now, a home she had made with Lucien, a life that felt like it was hers again.

Their bond grew stronger with every passing day, deepening with shared experiences, whispered conversations under the stars, stolen kisses in the sunlit waters of Summer.

And when they finally gave in—fully, completely—when they stopped holding back…

The mating frenzy was ruthless.

YN chuckled just thinking about those months—months where they couldn’t be apart for longer than a minute, where just being in separate rooms felt wrong. Months where Jurian had been kicked out of their home more times than she could count, storming off with a string of curses because for the love of the gods, could you two just keep your hands off each other for one damn second?

(No, they could not.)

Lucien had proven to be as romantic as he was insatiable.

He left notes for her everywhere, tucked between bookshelves, slipped beneath her pillow, hidden in the folds of her clothes. Some were sweet—I love you more than words can say. Others were mischievous—I’d rather be tangled up with you in bed than doing whatever the hell I’m doing right now.

He woke her with kisses, pressed flowers into her palms for no reason other than to see her smile, whispered mine against her skin like it was a prayer.

He danced with her in the moonlight, slow and unhurried, even when there was no music. He traced the lines of her hands, the curve of her cheek, as if memorizing every inch of her, as if he still couldn’t believe she was real.

And when she woke up from old nightmares, from memories of pain and betrayal, he was always there—his hands steady, his voice soothing, his love unwavering.

As for Elain…

She got what she deserved.

Rhysand and Feyre had not taken kindly to the deception, to the lies that had unraveled their court’s foundation. It hadn’t been a harsh punishment—not exile, not death. But Elain had been stripped of the privileges she had grown accustomed to, forced to reckon with the consequences of her actions.

Even Nesta, cold and sharp as she was, had sent Y/N an apology. A simple letter. No excuses, no justifications—just acknowledgment of the wrongs done to her.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Because YN was here. Living.

A warm hand curled around her wrist, pulling her from her thoughts.

Lucien’s molten gaze met hers, a soft smirk playing on his lips. “You’re thinking too much again.”

She huffed a laugh. “And you’re distracting me again.”

His fingers traced slow circles against her skin. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as he pulled her against him, his arms caging her in, his warmth seeping into her.

And as he kissed her, slow and deep, she thought—

This.

This is what it was always meant to be.

“You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.”

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lola-writes · 6 months ago

Text

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ I. Adonis ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Deliciae Imperii -> Delights of the Empire

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter II. | Series Masterlist

Word Count: 2,9k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person, use of y/n, blood, detailed descriptions of violence, terms of endearment (anaticula, Adonis), slavery, Roman history, vomiting, angst, swearing. See series masterlist for full themes & warnings!

Song: Fight for Survival – Klergy

a/n: The original plan was for this to be a oneshot, but in the end it seemed impossible. I've got a lot planned for this story. Hope you stay tuned! 🥰

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Poem by @fairytalesques

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I am a rose unfurling, winter’s bloom. Poison dripping down my throat and out of my bladed fingers. I spin stars into black holes, drive monsters to extinction in the dead heat of summer. You ever stop to think what life could have been if the poison had been potent? A lifeline in the carnage. A blessing or a curse? The flower is now festering like a disease but with Adonis I’ll be safe, he keeps the antidote.

The metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, hung heavy in the humid air, a shroud of death as thick as smoke. It was a symphony of war, conducted by the piercing shrieks of the wounded and the barked commands of the officers. A cacophony that blurred my senses as I moved with deadly precision through a haze of silver and red.

I fought with the savage efficiency of a wild animal, yet my kills were clean and quiet, each motion honed by years of training under Hanno's tutelage. My vision tunneled to a singular, deadly focus – the annhilation of the Roman usurpers by any means necessary. In this moment, I was a force of nature, an instrument of retribution. I would purge the land of their corrupted touch if I were to die trying.

The enemy pressed on, a relentless tide. For every ten I felled, another twenty rose to take their place. Yet somehow, the more I fought, the stronger I became, as though the adrenaline that infiltrated my every tissue contained a potent elixir that invigorated my muscles and dulled their exertion.

Clashing blades rang in the air. Our two armies mingled near indistinguishably; clanging, crunshing and screaming. It would be difficult to tell friend from foe, if it weren’t for the Romans distinctive galeas, the red fur frilling atop the silver helms like beckoning targets.

Just then, the crowd parted like clouds from the sun, unveiling a figure descending the battlement steps, a silhouette of lethal grace. Donning a sable breast plate emblazoned by Sol, sprawling across his chest with a douzen golden rays, he moved with the effortless grace of a dancer, his blade a blur of silver death, his countenance molded into a rigid canvas of authority. A retinue of red fringed galeas encircled him, their bodies his shields, their presence a testament to his rank.

My gaze fixed him through the crowd as the next wave of men in their peculiar-looking helmets came charging at me. I ducked, slicing open the patellas of the first two, making them buckle in the sand. The third I dodged, sidestepping before plunging my blade into his brachial plexus. The fourth I parried, our blades screeching in unison, before I kicked under his flared skirt. There wasn’t much fight left in him after that.

Jubartha’s words echoed in my mind as I tracked the approaching entourage, “Take out the leader of your enemy, and it matters not how much blood stains your sword.”

He moved fluidly like a windless sea. His spatha whipped around him, trailing shadows in the dust-ridden air, splattering the sand with blood. His expression was a paradox. As though he would not rest until Rome had pocketed another conquest, while simultaneously longing for a different fate entirely.

Crimson trailed around him like crushed punica granatum. None breached the shield of bodies surrounding him, and those who tried did not emerge alive, like prey entering a lion’s den.

I caught a glimpse of Hanno and Jubartha atop the parapet, fending off the ruthless wave from the assaulting sea. The walls had been breached, our numbers were dwindling. A sense of desperation seized me, a reckless courage driving me forward.

There was but one choice at my disposal.

I sprinted up the steps of the opposite parapet, scaling the heights with desperate urgency. Ducking behind a wooden pole, I dashed across the platform until I reached its bosom. I leaned out over its edifice, where down below, a second protective roof had been built. I started the climb downward, the splintering wood tearing at my hands like an angry cat. I landed on the roof with a thud and crouched towards the edge. Our men were still charging through the opening of the parapet, but before I knew it, they began to slow, getting knocked back by the shield wall of fearsome Roman guards. I rose to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream. My hand found the hilt of my sword and clasped it into place. For what I was about to do, risking becoming unarmed was to invite my doom.

The chaotic shadowy flare of guards flanking the steady shadow of an unyielding assassin grew in the sand below. I filled my lungs, washing out the biting fear of death creeping around the edges.

A warrior’s oath echoed in my mind: I am Numidia.

I dipped, toes to the edge. A head of dark and silver emerged below.

What could go wrong?

I leapt.

The fall felt decelerated, as if in a dream, and all surrounding noise faded underwater. My feet met his back, and a heavy grunt of startlement escaped him as he fell forward. His body broke my fall, and I rolled with the force of the impact, swiftly regaining my footing as I turned to face him. Dazed for but a second, his face dusted with sand, he grappled for his sword. But before he managed to get a proper grasp of the hilt, I pressed my boot atop his knuckles. He groaned in frustration behind gritted teeth. The next second, my one hand had clasped the knife from my boot, while the other had gathered a fistful of his hair and snatched him backward.

In the third second, my blade was poised at his throat, ready to claim his life when, for reasons unexplained, the edge paused in his skin.

In the fourth second, I had met his eyes, and an unfamilliar current passed down my spine. They were big, and brown, and full of contradictions, staring up at me with equal surprise, malice, and admiration. But no fear. His chest was heaving. His hair was a full, tangled mess of black and silver beneath my fingers, textured from the unsettled sand. The strands of silver had leaked into his beard which covered his dark, dirt-and blood-spattered complexion. His nose was sharp, angled like the limb of a bow, and his lips were slightly parted from gnashed teeth. The wound I had inflicted seemed to defy the vision of him I had before me, bleeding red but ichor.

In the fifth second his resistance faltered, his head growing heavy against me. But before I could savour my victory, a sharp blow clattered my teeth, and suddenly my body was not my own. My vision blurred, my ears buzzed, and my fingers loosened the grip of the knife, no matter how hard I fought against it.

In the sixth second, I was laying in the sand, grasping for consciousness. I thought I could hear Hanno screaming in the distance, but it was just beneath the surface. Gathering the last ounces of strength I had left I reached for the blade laying inches away. The contours of Adonis hovered over me, as one of the guards kicked my weapon out of reach. My other hand dragged itself to my waist, half-limb, seeking to undo the clasp to my sword.

“Tsk tsk tsk...” Adonis clicked his tongue. I winced as his boot came down on my hand, pressing down. “You have some fight in you, anaticula,” his voice, laced with what I would percieve as… concern, circulated around my head like a distant echo. “Grab her.” The words consumed me, nuzzling my cognisance like a warm blanket, and as I lifted off the ground, I faded into oblivion.

Vae victis. Woe to the vanquished.

The declaration travelled with me between the realms of my unconsciousness, followed by the distant wails of bereaved mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters.

I awoke to the comforting crackle of the fire we used to cook our supper. The air was thick with the scent of fresh fish, and the vague neigh of my stallion drifted in from outside. I sighed, nuzzling my face into the pillow, and was captivated by the unfamiliar softness of it. Something was different. The ground beneath me seemed to shift and sway, and as I opened my eyes, the pillow under my cheek was foreign to me – vibrant with patterns winding around the fabric like climbing vines.

Reality slowly dawned. I was not home. And the crackle of the fire and the neighing from my stallion was in fact the creaking and squeaking of ship timbers.

I groaned as a sharp pain lanced through my skull. Everything came back to me. The Roman invasion. The battle. The blow to the head. Adonis …

My breath stilled when I met his gaze across the room. Clad in the same sable armor and a royal scarlet cape, he was seated at the head of a table bedecked in plates of fish, cheese, fruit and caraffes of wine. He held my stare with a distant look of interest, rolling a purple grape between his fingers before plopping it into his mouth, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

The throbbing pain pulsed in my temple in tune with my heart as I sat up on the setee. Sludge stuck to my thoughts and it felt as though my center of gravity was off the way the room kept rocking.

“Easy,” came his voice, a low rumble. His chewing ceased, his movements stilled, as if ready to rise in haste.

The ship’s rhythmic rocking intensified, the sound of waves lapping against the hull growing louder. A cold sweat broke out on my brow. My breathing surged and grew ragged, trying to subdue the rolling sense of nausea consuming me.

But it was futile.

With a violent shudder, I retched, the contents of my stomach emptying onto the wooden planks.

I stared blankly at my mess, a strange blend of satisfaction and shame washing over me. Relishing at the thought of having defiled the ship of the Roman usurpers, I was humbled by doing so in front of the man who I failed to kill. My guts were ready to spill again at the very thought.

His chair creaked against the floor as he rose. I only saw his legs as he approached, dropping to his haunches in front of me – in my vomit, and I recoiled, equally to his sudden advance as to the indignity of it. He moved with intent, the scarlet cape pooled around him, and I could not help but feel intimidated. It was like he didn’t know what he was standing in. Or rather, didn’t care. Furthermore, based off his attire alone, he was too high in station to be on his knees for a commoner like me. Even less, kneeling in a commoner’s bodily fluid.

He was so cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something alive played in his dark brown eyes. Something that could snap at any second. His complexion was still riddled with dried dirt and blood from the battle, and the cut in his neck had leaked down his throat like spilt ink.

I knew not if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of the blow to my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re a truly terrible commander.” I dried the dribble off my chin with the back of my hand.

A furrow etched between his brows and genuine concern flickered in his eyes, like he was contemplating whether it might be true. “I conquered your city,” he parried.

“I nearly killed you,” I retorted.

A hint of malice clouded his features. “Nearly.” His tone of voice gathered timber; that the word came off as a threat.

He stared at me. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as spiced wine.

Finally, his eyes drifted downward to the pool of vomit at his feet. “I’ll have someone clean this up,” he said, before leaning forward and putting his arms around me.

Adrenaline shot through me like a violent storm, and I pushed him away instinctively. His face was a mask of indifference, and he reached for me again, and this time he didn’t let go, no matter how hard I fought him. He carried me up off the settee as I kicked, squealed, grunted and clawed. My mind raced with the thoughts of what he might do to me. His breast plate was ice cold against my skin, but I was too frantic to notice. I came to my senses once he dropped me down in a chair next to the table. He glared at me, clearly unimpressed by my defiance, before grabbing a plate off the table, methodically filling it with a chaotic assortment.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking off a twig of grapes as a final touch before serving it to me, rounding the table to seat himself.

I simply gaped at him, too bewildered to respond. My chest heaved from exertion, my tense body clutching onto the wood of the chair, trembling slightly from the waning adrenaline spike.

“You need not fear me, anaticula,” he soothed. His voice was a strange blend of velvet and steel, a combination I believed to be uniquely his; calming and unsettling me in equal measure. And despite the ingrained hatred I harbored towards his people, an inexplicable, vexing trust for him began to bloom within me.

“I am General Marcus Acacius,” he boomed, as though I would have trouble hearing him from across the table. Where he came from, I’d wager men stood to attention at the mere mention of him, but I remained indifferent. Belittling him was all the power I had.

His name grew heavy in the air, silence stretching. I’d expected him to explain my fate next. That I would be sold as a slave for men to plunder as they wished, or perhaps executed for having his life at my disposal. Perhaps he’d do it himself.

“What do I call you?” he asked finally.

“Whyever does that matter?” I snapped.

“Is it so strange to wish to know the name of the woman who nearly killed me?” His voice dipped at the very mention of it.

“I’ll be dead soon enough,” I said with feigned indifference. Acacius stiffened, watching me carefully. “Or if you do not kill me, I’d kill myself before I ever become a slave.” I watched him relax slightly and continue his meal.

“That’s not going to happen,” he muttered inbetween chews.

My gut flared with anticipation, “Which part?” I demanded.

He looked up at me. “What’s your name?” he asked, deliberately ignoring my question.

“Y/N,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

He repeated my name, the sound rolling off his tongue like honey while he fixed me with his eyes dark like amber. I grew strangely warm and restless, and a sudden urge to flee seized me, a wild beast gnawing at my nerves.

“Where is my brother?” I blurted out, rather raggedly, a note of desperation creeping in, but as I did, I recalled I had not seen Hanno since the start of the battle. Was he even alive?

“Your brother?” he asked, like the notion I’d have a family was aberrant to him, a fleeting spark of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He swallowed sharply, picking at the salted fish on his plate. “With the other prisoners,” he muttered.

“So,” I began, molding myself out of the rigid posture I had assumed, and leaned forward. “Why am I here?” I asked, casting a disapproving look around his opulent cabin.

He stopped and fixed me with a gaze ice-cold. “For safe keeping,” he said sternly. “You nearly killed me today, Y/N. I wouldn’t want to find out what else you’re capable of.”

Vague images flickered before my eyes – chaos, then darkness. “You talk as if it’s some big feat,” I scoffed.

His eyes, twin pools of lethal venom, bored into me. “I assure you,” he hissed, resting his bracers against the edge of the table, a hint of admonition lingering in his voice, “It is.”

My face heated at the thought of having impressed him, but the word ‘nearly’ was a nettlesome creature.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue.

Acacius cocked his brows in recognition and poured wine. “Why didn’t you?” he asked, raising the cup to his lips.

The question caught me off guard, and a bitter taste filled my mouth. I recalled myself hesitating. I had the blade at his throat. I could have ended the battle there and then, declared Numidia victorious against the power of Rome. But I couldn’t do it.

“I-,” I don’t know, I thought.

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence, and a sentry entered the room, bowing slightly. “General Acacius,” he spoke, his voice laced with duty and reverence. “Rome awaits.”

Chapter II. | Series Masterlist | Chapter III

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yorsgirl · 1 year ago

Text

Perhaps, in another realm

Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: An elixir of life – you, destined solely for his consumption. Yet, in his pursuit, he forgot, he sipped away your essence, your breath of life.

Tropes: Dark romance, Historical fiction, Angst, fluff.

Warnings: implied nsfw, implied forced intimacy, forced marriage, baby-trapping, knife play, yandere themes, isolation, trauma, one-sided love implied, non-explicit violence, mild stockholm syndrome(to empathize with one's captor), misogyny, minor character death, healthily unhealthy relationship, Sukuna being a red-green flag, Sukuna has eyes for no one except his wife.

General Warnings: Heian Era, strict Japanese setting, usage of Japanese terms(glossary provided), True form!Sukuna, husband!Sukuna, wife!reader, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

Word Count: 3.7k

Glossary || Pictures

Ryomen Sukuna beholds secrets which he musn't.

Each dawn's awakening, he notes the sun's radiant dance on your irises. Marking the gentle arc of your lips, a telltale sign of mirth's embrace. By the garden's edge, he watches as the winds tousle and play with your hair curls.

With each flicker of your essence, he can't help but feel a pang of frustration at his own inability to guard his heart against the allure of your presence. Each time your unpredictability unfolds before him, he curses his own vulnerability for the arising tenderness within him.

It vexes him deeply.

Gnawing at the recesses of his, once assumed, dormant heart. Yet, now brought to life by unknown sensations – fuzzy and irksome.

An elixir of life – you. Meant to be solely consumed by him.

Your intricate curls destined to be twirled in his fingers alone. Singularly, he'd stand as the privileged observer, captivated by your brilliant elegance. Your figure draped in the resplendent folds of an opulent kimono, delicately bestowed upon you by his hands.

Thus, he embarked on the sole course he could comprehend – take you.

Splitting you away from the familiarity of a family, hearth and hamlet; for in his eyes, your fragile essence demands his safeguarding against this wicked, cruel realm.

Persuading you, that a life enfolded in his embrace had no reason for trepidation. Your purity, too immaculate to endure the harshness of existence.

Yet, persuasion faltered; your resolute heart held no inclination to remain in his grasp. Mounting a relentless siege, to break free from him and his distorted path.

"You crave peril as I assume, so be it," He conceded. "But know this: I'll be the sole peril haunting your very being."

Pressed beneath the weight of his body upon the bed, your resistance proves to be futile against his strength. Leaving you ensnared in a struggle where defiance falters in presence of his immense power.

"Isn't this what you desired? Didn't you yearn for peril?" He questions, his forefinger trailed across the delicate curve of your neck, assessing the rhythmic beat of your pulse point.

"Fear not, I shall burn the world down to literal ashes until none poses a threat to you, save for me, of course."

For danger, befalling upon you while his eyes held the witness and hands were the forebearer of pain – he'd allow. After all, he embodied peril, haunting humanity for centuries.

"My dearest," He began, twirling a blade before your defiant gaze. "I've wielded this to afflict your kin but fear not, it shall yield pure ecstacy for you."

Said so, he thrusted the timber end of the blade within your slick, delicate folds. Your screams shunned out over his malevolent laughter, fingers twisted the cotton sheets as he glided the blade in-and-out of you.

Blood dripped down his wounded hand, staining the white to red, yet his countenance held no response to pain. Gaze fixated upon your shuddering form, underneath him.

He was no stranger to the acts committed in bed. Knowledgeable of all ministrations and threads he needed to ensnared in order to make it pleasurable. Yet, you found no pleasure in this undoing.

The act of intimacy, which you envisioned to be filled with love while your lover would pepper kisses on your skin much akin to the gentle touch of spring's warmth.

That dream left shattered like shards of glass when your chastity was cruelly left to ruins under his harsh caress.

The night stretched on, your anguish unending as he remained vigilant, subjecting you to his torment.

When it ceased, he gingerly held your fragility while tears streamed down your eyes. He cradled your head in his palm, enfolding your trembling form against his chest as he murmured endearments into your parched ears.

You feebly hit on his chest, for you were seeking comfort from your captor – a sickening act.

He brought you pain and despair, yet here he was, bringing you solace in his arms. A sickening man, indeed, he was.

And with him, you were to stay.

You kneeled before the shrine deity.

Decked in a white shiromuku with traces of pink pattern embellishing the fabric, haori lowered just above your lips – grateful to the one who dressed you. Moisture laden lashes would've been a sight for sore eyes.

Beside you, your husband knelt. A black montsukini hakama draped around your self-proclaimed fiance and soon to be husband. Perhaps, you'd have seized the moment to admire him in such a lavish attire if he didn't commit the acts he did.

Abduction and coercion reigned heavy on your mind, the priest's chanting muffled over your loud thoughts. Your fear of the impending, palpable.

Later, you stood by his side, bedecked in jewels, unknown to you. Countless villagers and curses bowed before you but you were a foreigner to such deference.

It was his decree. For he was the King of curses and you – his consort, his queen.

Sukuna witnessed you gazing at the pond situated in his garden.

You gazed upon the lotus blooming at the heart of the pond, longingly. Reaching out for it, the trailing end of your garment splashed in the water – a futile attempt, too distant to grasp.

He stifled a snort on the brink of his lips as he descended into the garden, tethering on the stoned pads placed in between soil – approaching you.

"You desire that flower, wife?"

You rose swiftly, clutching the dampened hem of your attire. Refusing to meet his gaze, you brushed off the fabric, clearing away the soil.

"Apologies," You murmured. "I was just curious."

"That doesn't answer my question." He stated, an arch of his eyebrow at your frame. "Do you yearn for it?"

Standing before him, a hush lingered in the air, mere seconds passing. Fingers fidgeting, you nibbled on your inner cheek.

"Perhaps," you admitted, finally locking eyes with his feet once he takes a step forward. Bracing for the inevitable, you tightly shut your eyes.

You shouldn't have considered it. Entertaining the thought of plucking it behind his back, hoping he wouldn't notice, all the while unaware of his presence. You should have realized. Defiance in the past had met harsh retribution. This would be no exception.

"I beg–"

"Enough," He interjected.

You gritted your teeth, fists clenched tightly. This was worse. A single mistake, and you're sealed to a worse fate.

Yet, the vision never bore life.

He took your right hand, delicately clasping it within his own. Slowly, he pried open each finger, tenderly placing something within. Curiosity overrides your apprehension, and you cautiously open your eyes – finding the lotus nestled in your palm.

Your lips parted in astonishment as you gaze up at him, wonderstruck.

"Apologies should not leave your lips for trying to claim what is rightfully yours." He asserted, a ghost of an arc perched upon his lips.

"You desire something, you speak up," He waited, letting the words sink down. "Its upon me, how I'll bring it to fruition."

"You are to accompany master to dinner tonight," Uraume conveyed, head and eyes lowered in a humble bow.

The fusuma slid shut, signaling their departure, leaving you to your solitude once again.

Lately, companionship has been ceased from your existence. Confined to your chambers by Sukuna's decree that none other than he should share a moment with you. Save for his devoted servant and few maids he deemed worthy, who prepared you for the day.

Upon your bed, you rested, gazing into a void. Softly humming a melody, reminiscent of a distant song, echoing from the depths of your memory; harkening down the familial embrace in your ancestral village.

The day commenced to dusk, the sky donning a cloak of darkness – welcoming the night's silhouette.

Attended by chosen handmaidens, you were draped in a lavish kimono of crimson and ivory. Crushed red cherry paste graced your lips, a stroke of kohl ran along your lashlines.

You beheld your reflection, lovely; yet the joy eluded you. Unable to savor your captivating visage amidst your plight.

You were escorted to the dining hall by Uraume. As the doors parted, your captor, your husband, awaited you; seated on the head of the table. You took your place across him, evading his malevolent stare, your attention fixed solely on the delicacies presented by the servants.

"Afraid to meet my gaze, wife?" He inquired, his smirk palpable in his tone.

Still, you didn't meet his gaze, eyes fixed on your folded hands resting neatly on your lap. "I fear, I am not deserving to meet your eyes, your highness."

His sight danced upon your figure, measuring you as though you were his quarry. A chuckle escaped him as he poured the sake in his ochoko, indulging in a sip.

"Amusing, how you speak so when you are moons away from birthing my offspring, wife."

Your frame grew rigid, lips drawn tight whilst you glanced at your burgeoning womb.

Restraints couldn't bond you to him forever, he comprehended that moons past. Thus, he had to resort to unruly stratagems. Seeding you with his progeny – rendering you incapable of fleeing him.

If only, you acquiesced and remained by his side, as he craved, he wouldn't have acted thus. But your resolve left him with no alternative.

Not a matter to ponder his head upon, he would've planted his seed in you eventually. A kinship with you, his aspiration.

"I wouldn't leave you famished in such a state, wife. Begin eating." He declared, slicing a strip of meat with his chopsticks.

Eating, as if it were possible in such a condition. The satisfaction of a hearty meal has long deserted you. You didn't suspect the flavors of dishes perched before you. Furthermore, you lacked appetite.

You partook in meals solely to survive.

With adjoined palms, you offered a silent prayer to the almighty reigning above you. And so, you began.

Blood bathed the tatami mats of your chambers.

A severed head of a, newly appointed, handmaiden, laid near your feet. Her corpse, probably resulted into hundreds– no thousands of strips, indistinguishable.

Your stance remained rigid and motionless. Terror evident on your countenance, fragile fingertips shaking with shock and apprehension.

"Ah wife," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. He approached you, stepping over the puddle of blood and sliced flesh.

"You weren't supposed to witness that– come," He gingerly caressed your skin, ushering you out of his chambers with a hand on your back.

"Uraume," He summoned his loyal servant, as on cue, they knelt before their master. "Have the maids tidy this mess."

With the subtle nod, Uraume pivoted around, carrying out their master's command alike a proclamation from thee almighty.

Snapping a life wasn't on his schedule today. He wished to spent it with you, hence summoning you back to your chambers.

Perhaps, a foolish handmaiden, attracted by his visage, made the decision to lure him with her appeal. Lowering her uniform to display her curve of of breast, singing praises of his brilliance to him.

Taken him to be resembling any ordinary man, giving into his desires by just any woman's revealed skin. Alas! He had no interest in any woman other than his wife.

An act of like that, only receives the treatment he'd bestow upon any mortal other than you.

Death.

"I must say, you look lovely, my queen." Twirling a strand of your hair, he pushed it behind your ear.

Upon the engawa of your husband's abode, you knelt, sight fixated on the swarm of fireflies illuminating the garden.

Sukuna held his stance beside you, lower two hands bearing his weight behind, the third perched upon his arched knee. He set the kiseru down with the fourth, his thumb and forefinger lifted your chin; coaxing your towards him.

"Intriguing, you are," He remarked, eyebrow arched.

"Such defiance you displayed upon our initial union, and now, you show indifference. Continuously subjecting me to such blank stares and compliance." A hint of exasperation lingered his tone.

"Isn't that what you wished for?" You retorted, a moment later.

Drawing you near, his lips brushed against yours, "Perhaps, I did do." He murmured, breath caressing your cheeks, prompting a flutter of your eyelids.

"But now, I yearn for something greater."

With that, he seized your lips in a fervent, fiery kiss. Only parting, a hair's breath away, to allow you to catch your breath.

He pivoted you gently, drawing you into his embrace. Two arms encircled your waist, one caressing your swollen belly. Third, Brushing aside your hair, you heard the tinkling of ornaments. Moments later, a chain adorned your neck, a crimson gemstone nestled between your collarbones.

"Ruby?"

"Rubies are ill-suited during pregnancy, its diamond" He corrected, whispering beside your ear, securing the clasp of the chain. "Unlike most, this one's tint sets it apart than rest."

"For what?" You questioned, assessing the gem like it were poison. Grasping it between your middle finger and thumb, the lantern lights reflected on its surface. Though small, you knew it amounted to more than your ancestral wealth.

"Do I need a reason to spoil my wife with jewels?"

A moment passed in silence, your gazed him through your peripheral vision, the next. "Perhaps not, its beautiul."

"Turn around," He commanded, you complied instinctively. Turning your body to face him.

His gaze met yours at first, second they drifted to the chain bedecked on your neck and on third, he glanced at both, at once.

The jewel's radiance evoked with you being it's wearer.

A grin cracked upon his lips, gingerly holding your cheek in his calloused hands in which you begrudgingly leaned in. With a mouth, summoned on his palm, he placed a chaste kiss on your skin.

"Just how Intriguing you are, wife."

Love for your son eluded you.

A splitting image of his father with the identical hair and carmine tinted eyes. You pondered if he'd grow up to be just like your husband.

At days, you couldn't muster the courage to cast your eyes upon him. His mere presence: a testament to your plight, evidence that you were no longer the woman you once were and evidence to your compliance to Sukuna's desires.

Even then, you never shied away from your duties as a mother.

Perhaps, some love existed, for he wielded your flesh and blood too.

You were rendered from ever escaping. Though half-heartedly, you didn't wish to leave your child with Sukuna even though you despised both of their existence.

In this era, nurturing a child as a sole woman was beyond grasp. For all held the thought, as a woman your sole duty was to remain by your husband's side and bear his offspring.

You couldn't return to your home either. Your father, though loved you, would never let you set foot in his abode ever again.

Reasons: You were abducted by a man, your chastity stripped off of you. You were no longer pure in any sense.

He wouldn't tarnish his family name and reputation for just a daughter.

Moreover, your matrimony with the wicked, king of curses had reached rivers far; binding you to his side forever.

Peril loomed at every turn, dangling your life by a single thread. Easily snapped by even the weakest of men. Sukuna's adversaries would leave no stone unturned to reach him, venturing as far to lay down the life of his innocent wife. Someone absolved of his transgressions.

Reluctantly, you accepted that remaining by his side was the wisest decision.

You cradled your son in your embrace, rocking him back and forth as you hummed a lullaby to put him to sleep.

Once his snores serenaded the room, you tenderly placed him upon his cot, adjacent to your own resting place. Gentle pats graced his chest, once you noted him stirring in the embrace of slumber.

"Come to bed," Your husband's voice echoed in your ears. Compliance swiped in your being, a swift rotation of your heels after you had checked your son to be far from awakening. You parted the curtains and perched upon the bed – lying beside your husband.

His arms encircled around your waist, drawing you to his chest, he inhaled your scent.

Your body tensed when his lips brushed against your nape. You dreaded the inevitable.

Six moons had passed, since he last embraced you intimately. The last two, post your son's arrival, were a blur of exhaustion. From tending to your physical strain and catering to your son's ceaseless crave of attention.

Tonight, all you longed for was to surrender yourself to slumber, wrapped in embrace of gentle linens. Alas, it seemed that wish would remain unfulfilled.

You were keenly aware of his intentions tonight – for he was but a man. Thus, you braced yourself.

You waited in anticipation, for him to act on his desires. Yet, it did not come to pass.

You cracked your eyelids open, stealing a glance at him. His carmine eyes met yours in a resolute stare, holding it with unwavering poise.

"Retire to sleep," he finally remarked, tenderly brushing aside the tendrils from your weary visage.

A year prior, during the early nights of your newly forged union, you would have taken a moment to contemplate his actions, perhaps even staying awake the entire night to discern his intentions.

Now, whether out of trust or simply exhaustion from the demands of motherhood – you found yourself slipping into a dreamless slumber without further ado.

The haunting nightmare of humanity, he was; yet, you found solace in falling asleep in his embrace.

His son has taken just after you.

Verily, his offspring could be likened unto a veritable likeness of himself in countenance, yet in comportment and carriage, he bespoke tales of you.

Awaking to the crack of dawn, shedding tears should companionship elude him. Taking solace in the embrace of the verdant garden, to which you oft escorted him. Even directing reproachful glances towards him, his father, whilst cradled lovingly in his paternal arms.

Beneath your eyes lay heavy shadows, hollows etched upon your cheeks, and a perpetual frown graced your lips, save for moments spent conversing with your offspring.

Sukuna escorted his sobbing kin from their chambers, affording you the much-needed respite that has eluded you of late; his offspring casted a disdainful gaze upon him.

"What? Speak up if you wish to," He queried, a playful lilt adorning his speech.

He tenderly traced his son's tender cheek with his claw, wary of leaving any mark upon his cherubic visage. His son seized his finger in both tiny hands, elevating it as though clutching a covert weapon – scrutinizing the nail and the ridges with keen interest.

His little one beamed, a gesture akin to the gentle breeze of summer, bestowed upon him by the heavens above. A giggle swift past his lips – a laughter, he assumed angel's melody wouldn't sound better.

His smile was yours – Sukuna realized. Perhaps, he hadn't completely taken after him in physical features.

Rocking his form back and forth on his arms, a tender smile danced upon his lips.

"Lower the tone, child. Your mother rests inside."

Sukuna couldn't help but contemplate alternative scenarios.

He sipped his sake, his gaze fixed upon your figure, leaning against the amado – your eyes lingering on the cherry blossom trees outside, in the garden.

The fragrance of spring permeated the air, imbuing a soothing atmosphere, starkly contrasting with the terror he instilled upon the village beyond the river.

At moments such as these, he can't help but ponder on the possibility of attaining a kinship with you, without resorting to unruly methods.

His thoughts rewind to the clash conversation he shared with you, mere moments past.

In your gaze, defiance ablazed, aimed straight at him.

"What's your intent? To end my life? Proceed, now. Who held you back? Proceed. Perhaps, I'd choose that fate over spending another day with you."

"Make no mistake," You pressed on. "My sentiment for you isn't love, don't deceive yourself. What festers within me is pure, unadulterated hate."

How could he let slip from memory? A curse he was, brutal and unyielding. Unwelcomed, marked with shame – The disgraceful one. How could he fail to recall? Love's realm, forever beyond the reach of his reach.

He seized you, by means unorthodox yet deemed vital. Yet, he finds himself lost in contemplation.

What if he had treaded a different path?

Would a love aglow your heart if he had courted you in a proper manner? Would you accept him in your life – a husband, a companion, a lover? Would you had willingly become his?

For your presence brought his heart back to life; in doing so, the life and light was lost from your eyes.

Scorned by the desire to claim you as his, the thought of your own desires, feelings was pushed to the desolate corners of his mind.

In another realm, he assumes– in another realm, he might have treated you properly from the very beginning.

In another realm, you wouldn't have to have a lingering threat struck on your mind. You wouldn't fear him.

In a realm beyond, you'd stand beside him by choice, not coercion. A realm where he'd navigate every step flawlessly. A realm where, instead of vowing to set the world ablaze for you, he'd pledge to journey with you until the world's end.

Perhaps, in another realm, you'd fall in love with him like he did for you in this.

A/N: uhm uhm uhm, just typed down an idea which I had for days + I used a new format of literal english (idk how it turned out, I am so sorry if it's cringe 😭) + I fucking don't know how to end stories so bear with me.

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apocalypse-shuffle · 8 months ago

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AGATHA HARKNESS (mcu | agatha all along)

—

“A Witch’s Bargain” (Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader) and (mentioned Rio Vidal x Fem!Reader)

| Once you find out a witch as infamous and powerful as Agatha is seeking you out you decide to go to her before she can pull one over on you; an attempt was made.

| SFW, obeah, flirting, hints at immortality, reader has something going on with both Agatha and Rio, -caribbean!reader & witch!reader

| pic source: Agatha All Along (2024)

| Note, the Reader-Insert is speaking with an accent but I didn’t write the particulars of it down bcs that would’ve been a lot to parse through even for me. Also, happy less-than-forty days till Halloween!

| 2k+ words

“Oh my,” you drawl, leant back against a large tree near Westview’s local psychic shop and nearly lost in its shadow, “this is…underwhelming.”

A whopping three people — only two witches, one of which was currently powerless — pause in front of you on the sidewalk, your words ringing even truer at the way the boy amongst them jumps at your abrupt entrance.

Lips pursed, you look him up and down with little favor. If this was to be the makings of Agatha Harkness’s “great coven” the pickings truly must’ve been slim.

The very witch you came to see turns to you, her hair falling into her face with the movement like she’s in some big brand shampoo commercial. Without another word, you watch on with an opposing stillness, your heart remaining steady.

Interesting.

For a woman you’d all thought dead Agatha looked well. Hair not clumpy, skin not worn or leathery. Even the way she held herself still bellied her comfort in mysticism, even dressed like a modern day woman as she was.

“Mm,” she hums shortly, turning in place with a few unhurried steps until she can cast narrowed eyes onto her apparent newest tag-along. Matching her stare head on you lean into the sun’s light a little more, your own thick curls brushing across a few low hanging branches where your hair is wrapped in cloth atop your head. “I don’t recall asking for an Obeah Woman,” she announces, tone bitingly light.

A scoff falls past your lips.

“And I didn’t expect the whispers for a coven would lead me to you, like this,” you twitch, letting your smile spread your plush lips thin, “broken and without your gifts.”

“I wouldn’t test me, New Girl,” she parries, and you hold your palms up in surrender.

Though your expression doesn’t sober.

The smile that rises to match your own in response to that is lopsided and sharp. Years worth of condescension she’d grown too used to falling back on without caution due to the magic coursing through her coming to the surface.

Agatha Harkness’s name in whispers had sent you into a fit at first — a witch of her caliber and age with your name on her mind never meant good — but looking at her now you could only tilt your head.

On the other hand, the boy with her seems eager to shake apart with laughter that grinds upon your nerves. Luckily, one look from the Salem veteran keeps him quiet.

Mostly.

In seconds she too is cackling, however — the boy’s muffled laughter acting as background noise — and you don’t bother stopping your sneer then.

“Oh, I see. You think you're hot shit,” she draws out, voice dropping an octave. “Don’t you operate a failing apothecary out of your apartment?”

Lips flattening, you step from the shadow, your face fixed without obvious malice to the best of your ability.

“It’s a side hustle,” you sniff. “And still better than being sentenced to 100 lashes and persecuted by the Danish; if I ever see the inside of a Christianshavn prison again I’ll frig up more than a few rum distilleries.”

“Of course. Now you just get persecuted by American Authority instead,” she says, the cut of her mouth sly.

With a flourish you wave her off. “Wretched as your worry is, it’s unneeded. Poison is no different than an elixir when you make it backwards.”

“Okay,” she simpers, shrugging herself, voice light and eyes never straying from your form as you glide closer over the concrete.

Powerless or not, something beneficial could surely come of making the occasional acquaintance of such a renowned woman.

Movement in your peripherals catches your attention though, and you stop moving to turn your head to find who you can only assume is the cause of your blight today.

Your sneer situates itself right back over your lips.

“Lilia,” you announce, the woman stops in her tracks and cuts you a brazen look out of the corner of her eyes. You take caution to only let your molars grind together for a second, releasing the tension in increments as your gaze narrows on her and you stand taller. “I should cut you down where you stand.”

The psychic huffs, shawl sliding a bit down the slope of her shoulder.

Slowly pulling the covering back into place she tuts at you, “Or…you could not. I mean, let’s face it, you would’ve been drawn here regardless of if I gave Agatha your name.”

“Unlikely,” you snap, words ground out like you’d rather spit on her than keep to something so civil as using mere words to express yourself.

And you would if you weren’t in such mixed company. Lilia was only meek when she was playing some angle after all.

You didn’t like anyone else making your moves for you, forcing you to speed up your timeline. Your own plans be damned.

“Witches, witches!” Agatha cuts in, holding her hands out to keep you and the psychic apart despite the way she’s only looking your way. “Let’s not tear each other apart just yet, hm?”

She eyes you from head to toe, taking her time to pan down as she takes in your flowing clothing and lightly clacking beads, before giving you a wicked look. “We wouldn’t want to mar anything too pristine before things really get interesting, now would we?”

Knocking your gaze to Lilia for a second you clock how she initially meets your glower, but keep your gaze steady regardless, just up until she finally twitches in discomfort. Only then do you ease up, tossing a grimace of a smile her way, before watching Agatha closely once more as the psychic wanders off somewhere out of sight with a few muttered curses you pay no mind to.

Meanwhile, Agatha’s expression has changed, having lost its begrudging appraisal and turned furrowed.

You raise your brows, “Harkness?”

She squints, obscuring fine cut hazel.

“I know you, don’t I?”

“Ah,” you grin without teeth, shoulders shaking, “so you can’t tell your porridge from your oats either I see.”

She rolls her eyes.

“The ‘wise sage’ act is very annoying, I have to tell you. It’s really ruining an otherwise beautiful package and I think you should work on that.”

“Should I?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Oh, alright,” you examine your bare nails, twisting your wrist this way and that to get a ‘better’ view of your cuticles, “you’ll have to put the request in with my secretary first, though, I fear.”

Agatha’s pet’s head pops up from over her shoulder, his face screwed up, “You have a secretary? …No offense.”

Sighing, you drop your hand back to your side and make a point of rolling your eyes hard enough to nearly make yourself dizzy.

“No. I don’t,” you tell him finally, though you don’t look away from the actual witch in front of you even as you do.

Immediately after you raise your brow at Agatha, however, “As for you, you know full well that I’m better than any sage, and that passing me up would be a waste when you need a potion maker. Regardless, no we haven’t met, but your backside is just as unpleasant as people describe.”

“Hm,” she hums in agreement, moving to toss her round brunette curls around to her back with a wink in your direction, “unpleasantly beautiful, you might say.”

“Worthless more like it,” you correct.

Agatha stops putting on her little show so quickly you might as well have just lashed her across the face.

Briefly, her eye spasms, “Watch it.”

“I might,” you say, “so long as you prove me wrong. Now, if we could get back on track.”

“Huh,” she scoffs, glaring at you now. “Fine. How bout’ this, unless you can make an elixir to make me invincible from every witch closing in on me, then scram. I’m dealing with enough ameatures as is.”

Head thrown back for a second, you laugh, letting your fervor echo throughout Lilia’s forever vacant parking lot.

“Oh, make no mistake, Harkness, I can do that...” you say eventually, voice easy in a way that gives the other woman pause. You jerk a brow up, briefly mirroring the way her interest seems to physically jump up to stare at you, “…for a price.”

Gaze finally brightening she moves to knock her male companion on the shoulder, gesturing your way afterwards before plastering a much “nicer” smile on her face.

“Teen’s got the money. Give the woman whatever she wants, come on.”

“Oh no, I don’t want money,” you cut in with a flick of your hand at the grabble she’s making for the boy’s wallet.

Agatha pauses in the middle of silently arguing with Teen, glancing your way from her slightly bent position.

“—You don’t?”

“I might not call myself a witch, but that in no way means I’m confused as to what you witch them does do.” You get closer to her, and how she straightens to meet your advance makes you preen. “I want a favor. A binding one.”

“As if,” the boy cuts in with. “A witch of her caliber doesn’t do binding spells, they’ll only hinder her.”

Oh my—

“You well fucking rude,” you say distastefully, giving him a harsh look. Irritatingly, his forward ass only lays his hand over his heart with a gasp.

For her part all Agatha does is laugh, knocking you lightly on the shoulder as if you’ve told a particularly funny joke, and taking you right out of your stare down. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Dear. Cause you sure are delusional.”

She snorts.

You suck your teeth.

This back and forth routine was getting far more tiresome than you’d anticipated.

“The only lucky one here is you,” you deadpan.

She opens her mouth to respond, that same dismissal in the curve of her mouth, but then pauses. Expression twitching, she leans even closer to you to inhale.

Frowning, you pull your upper half away from her.

“What—?”

“—I should’ve known,” Agatha exclaims lowly, pointing her finger at you. “You reek of her plague, that's why you seemed so familiar. What have you been dabbling in, I wonder, to smell so thoroughly of Rio? Joining her plot against me?”

You shake your head, looking away from her. You’d only hung around Vidal for the same reasons you were hanging around Agatha: to gain connections and, better still, favors you could cash in on if you ever found yourself in a bind due to your own ventures.

You hadn’t been lying earlier when you’d said you’d start making drastic moves if you saw the inside of a cell again, you didn’t care where it was. You’d burn it all down until they had to put you down before you’d waste away imprisoned ever again.

“Absolutely not. Whatever cuhruckle that went down between you two is yours alone. All I’m worrying about is my deal.”

To the displeasure of your heightening pulse, however, Agatha doesn’t just look passingly interested or even admiring any longer. She looks like she’s been given a puzzle, and like she likes it.

“Too late,” she chirps, fluttering her lashes, “Rio is far too picky about the company she keeps alive for your involvement to be left unexplored.”

Hand coming up, she runs her nails along your jaw. You stave off a flinch from the ticklish sensation her touch elicits. “You’ve taken on too potent a poison, Darling, situating yourself in the middle of our fight,” Agatha finishes, clicking her tongue, before walking her digits back up the umber expanse of your skin to press the pads of them into the hinge of your jaw.

You swallow roughly, hope she can’t hear it.

Agatha smiles, pressing in until she can force you to meet her eyes again. They’re roving, almost manic when paired with her smile.

“Yes,” she breathes, eyes alight. “Maybe I do need an Obeah Woman after all. We’ll be going to the Witch’s Road, won’t you come with?”

No. It’s on the tip of your tongue. The feel of Rio’s blackened energy still a hot, sizzling brand across your lips.

One deal had been made already, yes, but were you sure about pursuing this one as well with the inevitability of getting caught in the middle of a centuries old rivalry so probable?

Unfortunately, your, “Fine,” slips past your lips before you can stop yourself, and rather than deal with the indignity of walking your agreement back you stay quiet.

Watching for her move. Reasoning with yourself that there were still benefits here despite this new hiccup, if only you played your cards right.

She doesn’t make you wait long.

A shiver rises over you as her presence does the same, her steps carrying her till there’s hardly a whisper between your bodies. Even without her magic, being this close to Agatha Harkness allowed her to snake herself across your soul same as Rio Vidal had when you’d also unintentionally peaked her curiosity a while back.

“Wonderful,” she coos, the pad of her thumb gliding up your cheekbone as her hazel bores deep into your brown, “let’s see about that deal then.”

Dammit to hell; this had better be worth whatever Agatha and Rio’s combined interest would do to you.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

Fun fact, actually, I wrote this when I’d only watched episode two up until Agatha and Teen left Lilia’s place, and so didn’t know that Jen (gorgeous as she is) would be who they went to for poisons (or that that was in any way a requirement in the first place) so that was a fun little coincidence. Otherwise, the setting of this oneshot I just pulled out of my ass fr.

Also, character motivations are a bit funky but I can’t pinpoint the exact reason and really want to post this tonight so we’ll all have to deal.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

—

Caribbean word of the day (i.e.,the glossary): “Frig” - an alternative way to say ‘fuck’. so ‘frig up’ = ‘fuck up’.

“Cuhruckle” - a fight or (intense) disagreement; drama.

*remember, though, that dialects are regional so the words in this glossary aren’t used by every caribbean*

EDITED: 9/26/24 & 10/26/24 (after s1ep7 I’m even more in love w/ Rio now)

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luvvyouforever · 1 year ago

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my girlfriend (wife) is a witch - sdv harvey x reader

-> in which our beloved small town doctor falls in love with the new resident who just so happens to own a black cat, offer tarot readings in her farmhouse, and loves nothing more than a full moon.

-> not an accurate depiction of witches, just something fun, short, and sweet, harvey's a cutie patootie!

"so, this card seems to be say that your business is gonna take off, which is strange considering your only available pool of patients is about thirty people who all already have yearly appointments booked."

harvey let out a deep chuckle, one that came from the pit of his stomach and traveled up through his chest. to the left of him was a stack of tarot card decks, with crystals stacked on top of those. to his right was an steadily flowing stick of incense that surrounded the backyard patio in a soft haze of lavender.

"maybe the citizens of zuzu will start making their way out here just to see lil' ole me," he said. his fingers toyed with the edge of one of the cards displayed on the table.

you shrugged your shoulders and began to shuffle your deck again, searching for another card. "you never know! the cards once said that lewis and marnie were secretly together and look what happened there! you can't doubt 'em."

harvey chuckled again then, remembering the moment you had bursted into the farmhouse, screaming about finding lewis's purple shorts in marnie's bedroom, all but confirming your suspicions that had been growing for seasons.

he was never much of a believer in anything but the real, practical world. as a doctor, he never allowed himself to indulge in the supernatural or superstitious. going under a ladder is bad luck? not for dr. harvey. however, the moment he fell in love with you, he let himself get absorbed into the world of daily tarot pulls, of drying flowers, of black cats, of full moons, of everything you loved.

snap! snap! "hellooo, earth to harv, please!" your voice snapped him out of his reverie and he noticed two new cards on the table.

"what do those say, dear?" he asked sweetly.

"well, this one says you should give in to spontaneity sometime today and this one is telling me that we should consider forgiving someone's faults," you said, admiring the foil art of the card.

"hmm...maybe i can spontaneously forgive george for verbally accosting me when i recommended that he lower his sodium intake," harvey suggested with a fake thoughtful fist on his chin.

"i think he'd be more open to drinking the elixirs and syrups i make in the basement before eating a salad, hon," you said with a laugh.

after the last pull, you slowly collected every card into a neat pile and tucked them back into their original packaging. harvey admired your handiwork as you placed your crystals back into a wooden box gifted to you by robin. with a smile, you looked up at your husband, only to find him staring at you with love-filled eyes.

you asked, "what are you looking at, huh?"

harvey shrugged his shoulders but made no move to turn his gaze away. "can i not look at my sweet, hard-working wife?"

with a playful roll to your eyes, you stood from the chair and planted a kiss on harvey's head. "speaking of hardworking, i have some strawberries that need harvesting! would you like to come help, my sweet, caring husband?"

harvey gladly stood and followed you through the backyard, into the house full of plants and charms hanging from the ceiling and walls, and out to the porch. at his heels was your black cat, meowing relentlessly for attention. on the porch, he slid on his gardening gloves and sun hat (sun protection is very important, he'd always say, and he always forced you into a straw hat at least).

perhaps his form of spontaneous forgiveness was forgiving himself for not admitting to his feelings earlier, for stressing so hard about finding someone to love, for not knowing sooner that this was always where he was meant to be, tarot cards and black cats and all.

#milh (man i love harvey)#fanfic #fluff #harvey #harvey stardew valley #stardew valley #stardew valley fanfic #harvey x reader #harvey one shot #harvey imagine #stardew valley x reader #harvey sdv

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portraitofalinkonfyre · 5 months ago

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Deal With The Devil

Chapter 2: Hunter

Pairing: Fae!Hyrule x Reader

Warning(s): Eventual smut and some yandere themes

Notes: This was supposed to be posted next week but I got impatient lol

Main Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

"Fae troubles, eh?"

Your customer, a tall, heavy-set woman who looked like she could snap your back over her knee without breaking a sweat, asked as you plucked the last health elixir from the recesses of your stall, the glass cool against your fingers.

Your gaze flicked to meet hers, and you huffed, giving the nearby stalls, where you knew the worst of the gossip resided, a tired look. "I wouldn't believe everything I hear in the market, ma'am," you said, handing her the potion. Her skin was cold when it brushed against yours.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Raela, scoffed, tossing several shiny rupees onto the table. They glimmered against the tough wood, and you lamented why you even bothered correcting people anymore. "So I've heard," she let out a low grumble that didn't reach her eyes, which looked more like the sharp edge of a sword than anything. "But the women in the tavern are..."

"Convincing?" you finished with a dull look.

Raela's smile was all teeth. "Right."

You were just about to duck behind the stall when she cleared her throat. "I don't suppose you'd be able to point me to the blacksmith?"

With a sigh, you did just that, tastefully ignoring the heavy steel chains hanging from her pack.

In Hyrule, when it rains, it pours.

You had long since returned home when brewing clouds blotted out the sun and gusts of wind kicked up, carrying a particularly biting chill through the air. The mug was warm against your palms, filled to the brim with fresh-brewed tea, as you gazed out of the window, absentmindedly watching droplets patter against the frosted glass.

There was a terrible crack of thunder, louder than you'd ever heard, and the cottage shook, creaking softly as it was rattled to the very foundations. You jolted in surprise when a burst of lightning illuminated the darkened sky, nearly spilling your tea in your haste to sit on the couch, a thick, scratchy blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders. Storms were okay, but you were never able to shake the uneasiness that their arrival heralded.

It was going to be a long night, you were sure.

Until you heard it.

A screech, unlike any animal you'd heard, broke through the air like a cannon, so piercing that you feared your ears would begin bleeding from the sound alone. You shot up from the couch, hissing when a bit of tea splashed onto your fingers. Nearly stiff with shock, you all but threw the cup down and bolted for the backyard, where the noise had come from. Another scream had you flinging the door open, uncaring of the storm raging just outside.

It was dark out, but you still managed to make out the shape of something at the edge of the forest. Something Hylian. A bolt of lightning illuminated the area once more, and you gasped at the sight of a man standing–well, he looked more like he was leaning–at the tree line, one hand clutched over his clothed stomach, the fabric glimmering a shade of crimson. Your heart dropped, then lept into your throat as you called. "Hey!"

The man's head snapped up. You couldn't make out his features through the pouring rain, but you didn't need to. Steeling yourself, you dashed outside, slowing to a stop when a low growl rumbled louder than the storm, throwing your hands up. "Hey– it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you!" you called over the thunder, but it fell on deaf ears.

Another snarl ripped through the air. The man lurched forward, falling on his knees in the mud. You stepped closer, ignoring the way your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your body, chilled with freezing rain. It was then that you noticed the shine of his eyes; a pure, honey-colored gold that shone firebright against the whites of his eyes. Though horrifically injured, he was on his knees in an instant, expression pulled tight with rage and... was that fear?

"Let me help," you coaxed over the cacophony, voice wavering in a way that made you cringe. The man hissed in what you could only assume was pain, clutching his stomach tighter, and you didn't miss the way crimson blood dripped down his hand in a steady, worrying stream. His lips were pulled back, revealing a set of too-sharp canines. "You're bleeding–"

"Leave!" the man bellowed, though it didn't do much in terms of dissuading your approach when he fell flat on his face the next second, body going limp in the shiny mud.

You stared, frozen, at his unconscious body for a bit longer than necessary, making sure he was well and passed out before you tried anything. Once the initial shock had passed, you were at his side in an instant, maneuvering him onto his back to get a better look at the gash in his stomach, which spanned nearly from his hip to where you assumed his bottom-most rib would be. "Shit," you hissed, using the last vestiges of strength in your body to haul his limp form into your arms. He was lighter than expected, making the dash back into the safety of your house thankfully easier.

Once inside, you kicked the door shut and b-lined for the kitchen, carefully laying him down on the dining table. The first thing you noticed about him was his hair–deep brown, with enough curl that not even the pouring rain had managed to force it flat. His face was flecked with dirt, but it didn't look that out of place when you considered the galaxy of freckles already marking his cheeks and nose.

With your arms free, you went to retrieve the first-aid kit, setting it down by his head after recovering a pair of scissors. There was no way you'd be able to maneuver his tunic off in time, so cutting it would have to be the only option. Raising the scissors, you positioned them at the edge of the forest-green fabric, slicing a long, straight line up to his chest, yanking the garment open as quickly as you could, revealing the true scope of the wound.

Your lips parted in a silent gasp.

The gash was nasty; far too long for comfort, with thick, ragged edges that welled crimson blood, spilling down his rain-soaked sides to stain the table beneath. Some even pooled in his navel, dripping downwards to dye the light dusting of hair a striking–

You grabbed a handful of gauze and pressed it to the wound, ignoring the way his flesh jumped beneath your flesh. A quick glance revealed that the man was still passed out, and you considered it a small mercy, especially since there was no way in Hylia you weren't going to have to stitch him up.

You reached into the kit and pulled out a needle, thread, and some salve.

It was going to be a long night.

Hyrule awoke naked.

Not fully, of course, courtesy of the thin sheet covering his body, but the point still stood. The fae sat up with a soft hiss, the sheet falling to reveal his chest and abdomen, wrapped in thick white bandages. There was an ache in his stomach, but it was dull and he felt far too numb to do anything but study his surroundings, one hand resting protectively over the patched wound.

His gaze roamed the room, taking in the eggshell-colored walls, mismatched end tables, and thick, multicolored rug that covered the oak floor. A painting of a river sat on the wall, and the couch he laid on was a soft shade of plum. It appeared to be a living room, though all his years living in the forest made it a bit hard to distinguish.

A sudden, shrill whistle broke through his reverie.

Hyrule froze; hackles raised, ears pinned tightly against damp curls. His bleary mind recognized it as the sound a teakettle made when it was finished boiling, but he was far more preoccupied with the soft shuffle of feet padding closer. His mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario–one where he would be bound and sold to the highest bidder–and he was on his feet before he could blink, the sheet falling to the floor with a soft thud.

A foot crossed the threshold. "Hey, you're aw– oh my Hylia!"

You. It was you.

Until you yelped, covering your face with one hand while the other held a steaming mug. Hyrule couldn't begin to understand why you looked so embarrassed until he glanced down and... oh. OH.

With a gasp, he practically dove down to grab the sheet, ignoring the painful throb in his abdomen at the action. He deftly wrapped the fabric around his waist, careful to avoid the wound. A steady flush consumed his cheeks, and he struggled to remember the last time he had felt so exposed.

You peeked through your fingers, relaxing slightly.

"I'm so sorry," were the first words out of your mouth. "You were bleeding and I wanted to make sure you didn't have any more injuries–" you cut yourself off with a cough, cheeks losing a bit of their redness. "Do you... want tea?"

Tea? Hyrule's gaze flicked to the mug in your hands, just now registering the sweet smell emanating from it. He hesitated. On one hand, there was no way of telling what was in it–until it was too late, that is–but on the other, this was you. You, who fed and played with his sisters with a grin bright enough to rival the sun. You, who had found him in the rain and patched him up without a second thought. You, who looked at him with a concern that had his heart shuddering in his chest.

Slowly, he nodded, not trusting his words. Your lips curved in a soft smile and you gestured for him to sit on the couch, which he did with little complaint. The fabric was soft and the cushions were warm, though the heat emanating from the mug you handed him dwarfed all.

"Do you remember your name?" you asked softly, making no move to approach him, standing in the middle of the room with your arms folded at your stomach.

His brows furrowed. He took a sip of the tea. It was sweet, with the barest taste of honey. "Yes."

"May I know it?"

"Hyrule," he said instantly, the moniker slipping easily off his tongue. Even though he knew you meant no harm, it would take more than a mug of tea to get the name 'Link' from his lips.

"Hyrule," you repeated, testing it out. If you were at all confused by the fact that he shared the same name as the land itself, you made no comment. "I like it."

You... liked it? He was half-tempted to ask you to repeat that. the last time he had shared his name with someone, they spat it like a curse, like it was the moniker of the devil. Maybe it was. Maybe you didn't care.

He stared at the swirling liquid in the cup, trying and failing to ignore the blooming warmth in his chest. This was not how things were supposed to go. "Thank you."

You shifted your weight, and he tried not to track the swayed movement of your hips. "Are you hungry?" you asked after a beat, expression curious.

His mouth opened and closed. Yes, he was starving, but he doubted even someone as kind as you would go out of their way to make food, especially for him, seeing as he couldn't even begin to stomach Hylian food on the best of days. "No."

You chewed your lip, eyes flicking down to his bandaged stomach. Hyrule had the distinct feeling that you didn't believe him. "You should eat," your tone was soft, non-confrontational. "Your wound is–... it'll help you heal."

"I can't," the words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. Hyrule clutched the mug close, internally cursing the slip. He had no idea if you knew whether he was fae or not, and even if you did, there was no telling if you would turn him in or--

Your voice tore through the silence, arms folding over your chest. "Can't or won't?"

Hyrule hesitated. He had already admitted it, but it didn't keep the lump in his throat at bay.

"Can't," he all but whispered, unable to meet your eyes.

Silence.

The fae chanced a glance in your direction. You didn't look angry or disappointed, just... contemplative?

"Okay," you spoke slowly, having come to a decision. "But...! If you could, what would you want? Um, hypothetically?"

Hyrule felt the distinct urge to deadpan, though he refrained, taking a large gulp of tea. He kept his gaze trained on you, wondering if it would be enough to get you to let it go. Did he want you to let it go?

You watched him for a few seconds, then sighed, running a hand through your hair. It was then that he noticed the dark, purpling bags beneath your eyes, like you had stayed up all night...

Oh. He suddenly felt a bit bad for being so uncooperative, but you were already gone, leaving him alone in the room. He didn't try calling out, because he had no idea what to say, but the twitching of his hand against the mug said more than a thousand words could.

With a sigh that rivaled yours, he leaned back against the couch, keeping one eye cracked in case you returned.

You didn't, and the silence remained deafening.

Poor Rulie, so distrustful :((((((

#linked universe x reader #lu x reader #lu hyrule x reader #fae hyrule #Deal with the Devil #link x reader smut #link x reader #yandere link x reader

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mondaymelon · 1 year ago

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— 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ! ₊˚ෆ | albedo, xiao, childe x gn!reader

— cw: reader thinks theyre in a one sided love, accidental confessions + d r u g s, ig? do love potions count as that. these potions dont create fake feelings, they just amplify the affections he already has for you !! fluffy :)

[ The very man you've been longing for has finally fallen in love with you !? Ah, no... Instead, does it have to do with this mysterious pink elixir they've drunk? ]

"Oh? This shade..."

ALBEDO's eyes glitter with the glass' reflections, holding the test tube up against the light. The pink fluid within sloshes inside its confinements, shimmering in the sun's rays. "Strange." With his free hand, he whips out his pencil and pad, busy writing down notes in small handwriting, evenly spaced and well lined. "This formula should've been for a health recovery potion, which is red... How come the color is so light?"

"'Bedo, I'm here." Your voice rang into the previously quiet laboratory as you fling the door open, the invading wind carrying flakes of snow along with it. The blonde's eyes narrows at the sight of the inconvenience, dipping his head in silent greeting as he walks over and closes the door behind you. "What are you doing holed up here today too?"

"More work matters." He's about to close his mouth, already moved on from the brief conversation, but instead perks up, eyes rounding the slightest. "Ah, do you think you could offer some assistance?"

"Assistance?" You trail after him, eyeing the various ongoing experiments on the other tables, up until your eyes land on the practically glowing liquid that emanates a honey-like smell. "What, do you want me to drink that?"

Albedo immediately shakes his head. "No, there's no need to endanger your safety like that. I'll do the honors of consuming it, but I'd appreciate it if you could take some observations and write them down. Is that alright with you?"

A part of you was almost surprised at the relationship "progression", if one could even call it that. You had had your eye on Albedo ever since you had managed to get yourself lost in these mountains, only to stumble upon his lab at your wits end, helplessly shivering and lashes decorated with frost. He had nursed you back to health, and then provided directions back to Mondstadt... Since then, you had made it a habit to frequently visit the quiet male, whether providing just some company or bringing a snack or two, you just wanted a way to show your thanks! Somehow, somewhere along the line, you had developed feelings for him, feelings that you were rather sure he'd never be able to reciprocate.

"That... That seems doable enough?" You blink, hesitantly grabbing the pen that lay on the desk. "Just... ah- you should worry for your own health too, y'know?"

Albedo glances at you, taking the tub in his hands. "I'll be fine." And down it goes. Silence, at first, then his legs sway beneath him. You let out a noise of surprise, instantly moving to offer support, but the male manages to steady himself on the table, instead holding his hand out to keep you away. "Aha... oh, so it was that kind of concoction..."

Sensing the exasperation in his tone only alights more concern. "Is it dangerous? H-Hey, let's lie you down somewhere, and then we can-"

Your worries are effectively silenced as his... lips fall upon yours, jewel-like irises that shone with almost unnoticeable hearts, both his hands cupping your face in a touch so delicate you could've sworn it was never there, and the warmth from his pale, burning skin..

And just like that, you heard the usually level-headed and composed alchemist cursed under his breath for the first time. "No, it wasn't supposed to be like this-"

A shy flush left kisses on his features. He had always waited for the right time for his moves, albeit unnatural ones. It was far easy acting with equations and predicted outcomes, but you... you were something so natural, you made him thoughtless so effortlessly. It took him every effort to allow his usual expression to remain on his face, to not voice his feelings. Not now, he'd chide to himself. I'm not ready.

"...A-Albedo, what..." Stupid as you may be, it'd be impossible not to realize it, especially with the way his usually cool skin flamed with heat. "...A fucking love potion?" You touched a finger to your lips, still stunned.

"I'm sorry." He's ashamed, for being unable to control himself under the potion's influence. "The antidote, it's on the table." Dutifully, you hand it to him, your fingers brushing against his in the process.

"Ah-"

"I like you."

It hurts, to hear him say those words that you've been wishing to hear for far longer than you care to admit. "...What? 'Bedo, c'mon, drink the antidote, and then we can hold a proper conversation. You're not in your right mind right now."

"I've already drunken it." Was the moment now? The empty glass falls from his hand and onto the table, rolling to a still. "I like you."

"...What? No, is the cure not working or something, what is-" It couldn't be, but his turquoise-eyed gaze was clear.

"Must I state it once more? I love you." ₊˚ෆ

"Just what is it you have you brought me?"

XIAO's brows furrow with discontentment... or rather, disinterest. You were a peculiar mortal, it was an easy enough fact to gather from his encounters with you. And while he didn't find himself particularly delighted when you appeared, calling it annoyed would be a bit of a stretch. It's a flicker of a thousand emotions at once across the mask of his expression, all but one of them displayed for your viewing - indifference.

His golden, cat-like pupils stare down the small vial you've procured and gifted him, narrowing with suspicion in your growing silence. He prompts once more, "This is?"

"Hmm, think of it as a gift?" You chuckle sheepishly, recalling the rather shady conversation you had days prior, in a small store hidden away in the very edge of the city market.

"Dearest customer, perhaps you'd like this product? It's very popular amongst the young city goers these days, and I have a feeling you've been looking for something similar."

...A scam? "Sorry, I'm not interested-"

"It works. You're in love with someone, right?"

"How did you-"

"There's this distant look in your eyes. I see it all the time. Now, if you'll just purchase this..."

And just like that, you had been probably swindled into buying a likely useless product off of his hands. At the very least, you could use it to hold a brief conversation with the aloof adeptus who often decided to not turn up at all. "It's... a thank you gift for protecting Liyue all these years...?" In the corner of your vision that greatly encompasses a wonderful view of your shoes, you spot the unwavering features of Xiao's face give the slightest waver.

"There's no need to thank me." He says it all apathetically, yet accepts the gift. "You still have yet to answer my question, however. Of what nature is this object?"

"Ah... well, you see, I don't exactly know either? You could call it a local specialty, of sorts..." You weren't exactly lying, were you? You didn't know what it was, although by it's heart-shaped container and pinkish color you could likely wager a guess or two... but it was better to remain ignorant. At least that way, you wouldn't be to blame if anything unfortunate occurred.

Oh, but was such a term the correct word to describe such a happening? Had it all gone "wrong" the moment you bought the suspicious thing, or was it when you handed it to him, watching him drain the container of its fluid? Either way, something found its way inside your heart the moment the adeptus set the glass down with enough force to hear the sound of its surface fracturing into thousands of spiderwebbed lines.

"The glass... Xiao, are you alright?" You stepped forward worryingly upon seeing the adeptus clutch his forehead with his hand, eyes fluttered shut. Don't tell me... holy shit, was it the real deal? I'm so fucked.

"You..." His voice was deep, husky, almost with a raspy note as his eyes opened to reveal his sharp amber eyes. "What did you just give me? What are you doing to... me?" He grew silent as his slight stumbling paused, a hand gripping the balcony railing for tentative support.

When you met his gaze again, his eyes shone. Gold, no longer, but rosy pink, adorned with bright pupils cut in the shape of hearts. His breaths left small clouds of white that escaped his mouth with every quickened exhale against the cold air, yet despite the chill, his cheeks and ears were dusted with an almost feverish red.

You shake your head, wanting to step closer but growing afraid. Fuck, just how were you supposed to explain yourself? After pursuing your pathetic, so-called "advances" towards the man in hopes of one day achieving a level of intimacy, in longing of hearing those three, beautiful words part from his open lips... Ah, but you've screwed it all up now, haven't you? You might as well have fed him poison. "N-No, I didn't think it would actually-"

"I love you."

It's quiet.

Or perhaps its thunderous. That is, the sound of your heart in your ears, pounding without any heed of the absolute mess of emotions coursing through your veins at the moment. This wasn't right. He didn't love you, not in the way you loved him. An illusion, this was, a painful ploy that would do nothing to sway his heart.

"...No, no." You shake your head, taking a step back, too ashamed to meet his eye. "Xiao, you don't. It's... I'm sorry.""

"No, I do love you."

What? His eyes, his astonishingly gilded eyes, they've rid themselves of their hearts, yet the words still remain in his mouth.

You blink your eyes once, and then once more. "This…?"

"Adepti are naturally immune to such a thing. To fall for such petty tricks would be foolish to the highest degree. Despite this..." Xiao sidled closer, a hand covering the lower half of his face. "Does that mean... you wanted me to love you?"

Would he leave you if he knew?If such a thing could be possible. Unbeknownst to you, the male held some sentiments of the same regard, but how to address them lay far beyond his area of expertise. "And if I did, Xiao? What then?"

"I'm not well versed in the ways of mortals, but surely, I'd do this."

...His lips were soft. ₊˚ෆ

"Ahaha, so it's a gift for me?"

CHILDE grinned with delight, seizing the bottle from your hands into his. "Pink," was his only comment as his eyes swept over the vial. "Is this... valberry juice, or something?"

"Not quite~" You smiled mischievously, aware that no matter how many questions he asked, you'd be partaking in none of them. "Besides, it's more fun if it's a surprise, no?"

"Mmm, but the cute shape of it is making me pretty curious..." Childe's voice trailed off as he ran a single gloved finger across its glass expanse, clearly enjoying himself. "Well, I suppose there's nothing else to do but 'find out', yeah?"

Hmm, would it be a pleasant discovery? You toyed with the idea and he drunk the substance. The sleazy-looking merchant that had sold you such a product had claimed to be a "magician" of some sorts. A bold claim, since you had traveled to the waters of Fontaine in occasions prior and witnessed a true magician in the act - although that was irrelevant. Either way, you had let your curiosity get the better of you, and impulsively bought it just to own the thing. It didn't require a large chunk of your wallet, nor was it completely useless... that is, as long as it was potent. If it wasn't, then you could laugh it off, saying it was something you concocted for the fun of it and he was your test subject, but on the offchance it did...

A guilty expression flitted across your face. You had held feelings for the harbinger since he had been stationed at the harbor, at first only courageous enough to gaze at him from afar, admiring the way his lips curved upwards in a smile and the way the sun's rays reflected across his deep eyes that resembled troubled waters. Somehow, one lucky incident had led to another, and now the two of you were considered friends, yet you longed for something more...

Perhaps this "potion" would help you settle things. It was time you escaped from your daydreams and delusions, time to put your heart to rest. The two of you were friends, and you should be content with just that-

"Damn, this shit is strong." Childe let out a low whistle, and you almost felt inclined to applaud him. "Sweet, too. Not bad."

"...Ha?" You shook yourself out of your stupor. Fuck, who gave him the right to look so pretty doing menial things? "So... You like it?"

"You could say that, but I think I like you more~"

"I'm... sorry?" May the archons remind you to report that man to the Millelith later for witchcraft! "Are you drunk?"

"You're a sly thing, aren't you?" Since when had he gotten so close? "Acting all oblivious now that I've caught you in your act, did you really think I wouldn't notice?" He held the now empty, heart-shaped bottle between his pointer finger and thumb, chuckling. "These things are notorious among the underworld, you know, although I certainly didn't expect this dearest friend of mine to bring such a thing to me... what a riot!"

"Ah..." All the words that you could've said in the moment seemed to fly out of your head, and now you only gaped at him, mouth ajar. "Uhm..."

"You're lucky I've been trained to be immune from 'poisons', if you could call it that. That way, I can say that it wasn't a lie."

"...A lie?"

"I like you."

"Wait, but I- I just did that to you, and you're-"

"What, that? It's funny, if anything... besides, it just shows that you want me as much as I want you, no?" ₊˚ෆ

(a/n) sigh i got burnt out near the end so childe's part is about 300 words short im sorry ginger lovers... </3 happy new year eve (timezones are so weird lmao) !! ill be posting a fic tomorrow for that too most likely sooooo watch out for that ig? it would be ever so cool if you followed me . p le a. se. im like 10 away from a big silly number and id actually give you eternal kisses if you do

໒꒱ || ᴛᴀɢ��ɪꜱᴛ (open! send an ask or a comment ♡) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader, @fiannee, @aether-darling

reblogs appreciated !!

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lovingwanda · 1 year ago

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Elixir Of The Sun - Fanfic Banners ⋮ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ.

image count: 1,000+ (ongoing)

character focus: bayan (female lead), scenery, side characters.

content: nsfw, partial nudity, nudity, pregnancy, kissing, self harm, blood, violence, body horror, food, knives, etc.

writer's note: like or reblog if using and be sure to credit me. I make these during my own spare time and decided to share them publicly for free. Be sure to tag me in any fics of yours too if you use my banners!

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hwadam-stories · 1 year ago

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₊ ˚ ⊹ #HWADAMSTORIES 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ .ᐟ

a writing blog for anything and everything related to the elixir of the sun manhwa, originally written by Soldam and illustrated by Song Yi, a historical romance story about fate, destiny and an eternal love. 3/7/24.

sign the petition to get this manwha animated!

🌺 INTRODUCTION

first and foremost, this blog is a sideblog to my roleplay blogs IMPERIALSIYO and JEUNGHWA you'll receive a follow back from those blogs upon following this one.

my name is moe (she / her) twenty-four. black and cherokee-indian, thank you for coming by and checking out my blog. I highly encouraged coming into my inbox and interacting with me (messages, requests, etc) because I genuinely love that stuff with my whole heart.

due to the nature of my blog and the manhwa itself, minors and ageless blogs are prohibited from interacting with me and will receive an immediate block. this blog and it's contents caters only to an adult audience. Please refer to this post to know more

🌺 REQUESTS / GUIDELINES

I do not consent to my work being translated, plagiarized or reposted anywhere else.

Sharing is caring! Likes do nothing for my fics other than serving a bookmark for you, so please consider reblogging my fics to share with others so more people can read and enjoy them!

While my inbox is open to requests (both anonymously and non) I do reserve the right to decline any submissions that either breaks my rules or makes me uncomfortable.

That being said, I love crossover content of any kind and absolutely encourage more than just reader x character fics! I'm in many fandoms like Wandavision, Castlevania, Inuyasha, Disney, Jujutsu Kaisen, American Dad, Archer, Hazbin Hotel etc.

POINTS OF VIEW: male, female, deaf, blind, black (African-American), etc.

WHAT I WON'T WRITE: non-con, pedophilia, beastiality, gross / weird kinks, illegal age gaps, etc.

WHAT I WILL WRITE: fluff, smut, familial dynamics, romance, violence, blood, death, alternate universes, alternate scenes, legal age gaps, Headcanons, oneshots, yandere, etc.

🌺 CHARACTER LIST (see images here)

[ganak village]: Rangbi, Jahan, Saran, Yul

[hwadam kingdom]: Emperor Dhan, Bayan, Chief Secretary Juhyul, Chief General Ga-Yerang, Suyeon

[concubines]: Sama Hyeon, Han Bia, Ye Tae Im, Karan

characters from other fandoms

🌺 ABOUT THE MANHWA (read it here)

Bayan is an outcast amongst the Siyo, a people who have healing powers. Considered worthless because she doesn’t have the ability to heal others, Bayan is sent to the court of Dhan, the Great Sun Emperor, who is cursed with unrelenting bloodlust and slaughters his concubines mercilessly. It seems that Bayan’s fate is sealed the moment she reaches the emperor’s palace and Dhan is fated to suffer from madness forever... But together, Bayan and Dhan just might be able to change each other’s destiny.

Elixir Of The Sun is a historical romance about our main characters Dhan and Bayan overcoming fate and finding love in one another through trials and tribulations. The Manwha is adapted from the light novel "Lord Of The Sun" written by Soldam and does contain dark, sensitive and explicitly adult scenes where as the manhwa is careful to tone it down for a mature audience.

🌺 TRIGGER WARNINGS!

Should you choose to read Elixir Of The Sun, please keep in mind that:

- sexual violence is part of its story in terms of information (no scene is ever depicted but there is a close call regarding the main character in chapters 9 & 10)

- depictions of self inflicted injuries (the main character has healing blood and has to stab herself multiple times throughout the story)

- a failed un-aliving attempt in chapters 41 & 42. The main character was sleepwalking.

- In Chapters 110 - 115 there is a extreme depiction of excessive blood and violence but no gore is present.

Thankfully, the story doesn't force its plot to have these things as the main point, it merely uses these plot devices to reinforce and focus on the romance and subtle fantasy plot surrounding the bond of Bayan and Dhan.

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imperialsiyo · 2 years ago

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# 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐈𝐘𝐎. ᴄʀᴏᴡɴᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴍᴏᴇ.

⊹ a character study in : soulmates, defying fate, dark and troubled past, the chosen one, the outsider protag, etc.

an independent and selective writing blog for BAYAN from the manhwa, ELIXIR OF THE SUN. sideblog: hwadam-stories -- canon divergent / oc friendly.

INTRODUCTION.

Welcome to my blog, my name is Moe (she/her) and I'm twenty-four years old (Black and Cherokee Indian). Minors and personals will be blocked.

my current icon border was made by rphbydior

my sideblogs: found here

This blog highly encourages multi-shipping and welcomes pre-established and platonic relationships.

This blog may become an "canon character x reader" since I'm the only EOTS roleplayer here on Tumblr. I'll definitely write most of the main cast and will make a proper list in the future.

This blog contains dark and triggering themes revolving around sexual violence (mentioned for canon only), death, murder, politics, misogyny, starvation, child abuse, harassment, fire, miscarriages, pregnancy, child birth, kidnapping, cannibalism, poverty, etc. Please do not follow this blog if these themes are a trigger for you as they will be a talking piece on this blog.

"ELIXIR OF THE SUN" is a Korean manwha written by Solddam. The Manwha is a light novel adaptation with a total of seven books that can be purchased on ridibooks.com (you'll have to translate them on your own) and I've already bought them for fifteen dollars.

LAWS OF THE PALACE.

Common and respectful roleplay etiquette.

Reblog memes from the source, please and thanks. Also please ask before turning a meme into a thread.

Regarding fanfiction requests, I have a right to refuse any that I don't like / are on my blacklist (pedophilia, beastiality, incest, non-con, etc) I don't mind writing darker and mature themes but I also appreciate the lighthearted stuff just as much. Smut is a 50/50 for me, depending on my mood.

CANON DIVERGENCY.

coming soon...

EXTRA NOTES & CLOSING THOUGHTS...

coming soon ...

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inkedtae · 7 months ago

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elixir of the damned ⇾ bgc. [M]

⎡sun bright, sun light burns the flesh of those that bite. moon’s gleam, night’s scream as shadows linger in lonely blight. but in the dark where spirits wail, a witch will rise— her power prevails⎦

⌁ pairing; vampire!chan x witch!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; vampire au, s2l, some angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 19.5k

⌁ summary; leech, nightcrawler, monster— chris is a vampire aching for sunlight. when he swims to a witch’s hidden island, badly burned, she offers him a secret remedy to survive daylight; he must drink her blood during her cycle, unleashing her true power and binding them for life.

⌁ warnings; graphic depictions and consumption of blood, graphic depictions of severe wounds, dom!chan, sub!reader, masturbation (f.), voyeurism, degradation, slight humiliation, rough sex, period sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, rough oral (f. receiving), body worship, spanking, teasing, slight edging, cum eating, blood play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 prefer ao3? keep reading here

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a special thanks to dee ( @awrkives ) for making this sexy banner for me, and to my ride or die beta reader, jen ( @anobodyslove ) for consistently supporting me and reading over all the nonsense i write. i am nothing without you.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 please enjoy this final Chantober fic!

On the brink of winter, Elderwood is a haze of greys. Roads are bleak black. Sidewalks are cracked and chipped. Streetlights illuminate no more than five inches in diameter, dim and distant. Seemingly void of life, the little town exhales a puff of condensation as it inches towards November. In a matter of days, the saturated warmth of autumn reds will wither, the cold air frosting over every morning, until all pigment completely fades.

It’s depressing to watch the world around him drain of colour as he wanders the streets. Still, Chris is grateful for the consistency. One thing he can always count on is the changing seasons. He may not be getting older, but the world is.

The wind whips against his muscular frame. It should make him shiver, but he can barely feel the chill, only aware of the wind because of its force. The only time he ever felt the cold was midnight on a particularly wet February two years ago. It was pouring down on him as he walked back to Jisung’s house from the shore. The wind was knocking down street signs. The earth was drenched and cold. Chris felt the chills on his skin, the faint prickle of goosebumps. He inhaled and pretended his lungs worked, filling up with oxygen. Pulling his shirt off, he exhaled and pretended a cloud of air was breathed out. The chills running down his spine made it easy to pretend he was alive.

Now, Chris pretends he can feel the breeze blowing through his muscle tee, still exhilarated by the memory.

There are only two moments when he forgets he’s a vampire. One is when he can feel the cold, and the other is when he’s feeding. The taste of bitter iron and copper staining his tongue makes him feel real . With every gulp, Chris can feel the consumed blood run through his veins, drenching his heart and organs. There is the lightest hue of pink in his skin once he’s done. It lasts for a few hours before it fades and he grows hungry again. As much as it annoys him, Chris looks forward to every meal.

In a matter of days, he will be closing in on eight years as a vampire.

Leech, nightcrawler, monster— Chris cannot block out the voices that chime in every time he thinks about that word. They loop in slow circles around his mind on a daily basis and taunt him between his insecurities and mistakes.

He’s not sure how it happened. He stopped sleeping. It was hard to keep things down. He didn’t like to eat much before swim practise anyways. Even a bite of food would sit like a rock in his stomach. He’d have to excuse himself five minutes into his laps to empty his stomach in the nearest trash can.

“Knocked up?” one of his teammates teased from the pool.

Chris wiped his chin with the back of his wrist. He glared at the diver, eyes wet and red, before clearing his throat, swallowing thickly, and diving back in himself.

Hand on his stomach now, Chris yearns for that disgusting feeling that burned his chest and scratched at his throat. He hates throwing up, but it seems so humane now to get sick, to feel sick.

Once he attempted to starve himself in hopes of emulating something similar to an illness. All it did was make him irritable, almost rabid. He thought it would at least be similar to sleep deprivation but it instead sharpened his supernatural senses for blood.

More than anything though, Chris misses the sun. Every morning, he senses its warmth against the boarded windows of Jisung’s basement. For a handful of minutes, he can bypass his inherent fear of the sun to imagine beams of light cascading over him. He imagines the heat kissing his flesh, returning his admiration, and basks in the feign brightness.

Sand invades his shoes.

Chris opens his eyes to find the sea before him. The waves crash against the shore, inches away from his toes. He inhales sharply. Salt and seaweed plague his tongue. He swallows breathfuls of the scent anyway, chasing nostalgia.

He took his first steps here, had his first kiss by the rocks at thirteen, learned to swim, to build extravagant sandcastles and raced along the shoreline with Jisung and Changbin. How many summers had he guarded the lives of beachgoers? How many bonfire bashes had he patrolled?

Chris gazes out at the horizon. His enhanced vampiric senses have sharpened his sight, refining the mesmerising image of the serene scenery. Even the far island of Crow’s Nest looks clearer. It has been bogged down by heavy fog for as long as he can remember. Sometimes the island seems so hazy, Chris is only reminded of its presence by the crows circling around it. He smiles to himself as he recalls the countless times he, Changbin and Jisung dared each other to swim towards it, each one boasting about how they would be the one to swim the closest only to rush back to shore.

Fuck— it all feels like a life time ago.

The ocean laps closer to Chris’s feet. He surveys his surroundings. Fog settles over the quiet town. Silence replies to his inquisitive stare. He turns back to the sea and considers the horizon. It must be nearing four or five in the morning, dawn slowly approaching. The sky is mostly cloudy too.

He wonders if— No.

His vampiric instincts shudder at the thought. Chris fights through it, resisting the urge to turn around and hurry back to Jisung’s basement.

I have time , he mentally hisses.

The sun won’t be up for another hour or so, and given how considerably cloudy it is, he might have an extra fifteen minutes to collect his clothes and rush back into the safe darkness of the basement. His enhanced speed would get him there within ten minutes anyway.

Chris tugs at the hem of his shirt while kicking off his shoes. He feels the wind push around his muscular torso. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, swallowing the scent of the salty sea, and resists the urge to gag. Determined not to let the suppressed reaction discourage him, he unzips his jeans and pulls them down along with his briefs. For a second, he braces himself, expecting a chill upon his full nudity.

Then the reality of his being sets in.

He huffs an annoyed groan and marches into the water. He’s so frustrated he doesn’t feel it at first. However, as he continues to wade further into the ocean, the water now lapping just above his waist, Chris shivers .

Cold— ice cold. The sea welcomes him home.

Chris chuckles, relief blossoming in his chest. He caresses the surface of the water as another chuckle tumbles out of his full lips. If he was still human, tears would prick his eyes from the sheer relief of finally feeling something. Embracing the biting chill, he dives in.

Under deep blue darkness, the world muffles around him. He points his hands in front of him, the same way he was training eight years ago, and propels further into the ocean. Seaweed dances beneath his feet, the current moves around him. Being undead gives him an advantage as he can remain submerged for longer now.

Twirling, swirling, he swims and swims— faster than he could before his shift. The rush of the waves propel him further into the water, caressing his toned body. Chris suppresses a smile as he watches fish dart and algae float around him.

When he finally surfaces, he lets out a heavy breath on instinct, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his hair back and wipes his nose, heaving anyway because in this still moment, Chris is teetering on the edge of humanity for the very first time in eight years.

Looking back to the shore, he finds that he may have gotten carried away. The mainland is almost a figment of his imagination with the amount of distance he has created.

And Crow’s Nest is completely visible.

Chris looks between the shore and the island, then lets out a full bellied laugh, one he hasn’t been able to muster in years. Changbin and Jisung are never going to believe him when he tells them he got this close to Crow’s Nest .

Not only is it far, but most believe the island is haunted. Townies for years have claimed to witness figures lurking between the trees and flickering lights throughout the night. Someone once swore they saw a figure flying over the island on a broomstick amongst the crows. Throughout the years, many sceptics have tried to travel to the island, only to be deterred by the current and pushed back to shore. Changbin once told him that one person did make it onto the island but was never heard from again.

Chris was not completely convinced by the tall-tales of Crow’s Nest, but he still constantly felt unsettled by its presence.

However, surveying the island now, he cannot remember why he was so scared. Sure, the myths were strange, but they were myths in the end.

Vampires were once a myth , a little voice murmurs.

Stifling the sinister voice, Chris looks to the sky and finds it’s still a swirl of charcoal grey and slated blue. His smile returns before another chuckle bubbles from his eased chest. Floating upon the surface, he lays back, allowing the current to guide him for a moment. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the fading sensation of the cold upon his pale skin.

While Chris knows he has more time to revel in this rare human moment, he cannot help the anxiety festering in the base of his stomach. What if he never feels this way again? What if he has to wait another eight years to feel something, anything again? And yes, this has been a cathartic experience by himself, but some of his favourite human memories are shared with his loud, chaotic friends. He can imagine Changbin complaining about how deep the water is and Jisung making jokily suggestive comments about how naked they all are. He would never be able to convince them to go skinny dipping in the middle of October at dawn. Changbin is too much of a whiny baby to handle the cold and Jisung sleeps as deep as the dead— Chris would know being undead himself.

So, while he may feel a fraction of his humanity again, he cannot forget that he is still alone.

A sense of deep danger surges through him, silver eyes snapping open. Amber light spills across the once frosty charcoal-blue sky.

The sun is rising.

His vampiric instincts rage in his chest, as if scolding him for being so reckless.

Chris internally curses at himself. He’s about to swim back to shore when he notices rays of light shining against the sand, inching towards his clothes.

Fuck .

How long had he been floating? When did time start to move this quickly? The last eight years have felt like eternity, but it’s as though the last two hours flew by within twenty minutes.

Chris lets out a shaky sigh and considers his options. He can try to make it back to shore and sprint home, grabbing his clothes later (if the current doesn’t swallow them). He can try to dive deep enough in the water to evade the sun, but risk drowning over and over for the next twelve hours. Or…

A murder of crows circle the island to his right.

Crow’s Nest.

“ Shit ,” he mutters under his breath.

Chris dives. He uses all his strength to fight against the current. The closer he’s gets to the island, the harsher the ocean becomes. The waves are not forceful, simply persistent with their suggestion to turn back. It’s as if the sea is warning him against reaching the island.

He fights through it still, pushing himself to swim faster.

Though he does not have a pulse, Chris is heaving by the time he can walk onto the shore. He runs a hand through his hair and spits the excess seawater out of his mouth. Leaning on his knees, he takes a moment, for the first time in eight years, to catch his breath.

Vision blurring, hands shaking, Chris mutters a string of vulgar curses. The swim has depleted his energy. Thirst— No, hunger gnaws at his chest, his gut, his very being, tearing through his innate instincts to find shade. His senses instead sharpen for a hunt. The scent of crow, frail and small, immediately overwhelms him. He can nearly taste the thick blood that pumps under their onyx feathers.

“ Ah!” Chris hisses, jolting forwards as the light nips at his ankles.

The sun .

Using the last bit of his strength, Chris dashes towards the trees. However, as he’s about to cross into the safety of the shade, the sun strikes, scorching his skin.

Chris screams, collapsing to his knees. His back stings with a relentless hiss. Scurrying forward, he manages to make it into the shade with only a few more minimal, yet painful welts on his thighs and calves. He chokes back more groans as his pale skin bubbles and burns from the intense heat.

He shifts further into what he thinks is the shade, trembling and whimpering, when the breeze kicks in and rattles the already loose leaves from the trees. Chris looks up, watching a gap form and give way for another attack from the sun.

Bright rays blaze his face. Another fraught scream tears through his throat and he tries to shield his eyes with his arm. Only one eye could be saved, the other feels as though it is melting into his skull.

Pain, pain— aching pain. Chris screams, his voice cracking as he channels that last of his strength and throws himself against the tree stump with unnatural speed.

Hiccuped moans tumble from his wounded, cracked lips. He heaves, voice nothing more than a wheezing shattered mess. His flesh deteriorates, once eternal body now crumbling under the bright light. The rotting smell of his dead body simmers around him, brewing nausea deep in his gut.The sand bites into his burnt skin, like salt on a fresh wound. Whimpering, he grits his teeth and attempts to bear the pain.

It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. It’s not tha—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, the pain overtaking his mind. He tries to repeat the phase again but can barely get past the first syllable.

Chris knows he can’t stay here. The sun will move, the light will shift, the fucking wind will betray him. He is not guaranteed safety if more leaves fall and the light seeps through again. Yet, he cannot move. Without blood to sustain his movements or renew his vampiric healing abilities, he might just die anyway.

So, Chris simply stares at the clutter of copper and gold leaves around him and suppresses whimpers. Is this the sickness he was previously craving to feel? Is this the humanistic pain he so badly yearned for? Chris cannot help but curse at himself over and over as his vision slowly blurs.

Is this really how it ends , he wonders. Wet from the sea, hot from the sun, eight years of demonic hell inch to this painful end.

Coughing up bile, he spits it over his shoulder and exhales deeply. Well, at least, he was able to experience a final moment of humanity, even if it was alone. And when he sees Changbin and Jisung again, he’ll tell them all about how he swam to Crow’s Nest and wasn’t immediately devoured by the monsters that they believe lurk within.

And if nothing else , he thinks as the darkness slowly closes in on him, I had one last moment in the sun.

“What have you done to yourself?”

A soft flowery voice caresses him. Chris mentally leans into the feminine allure of the voice, allowing himself to be wrapped in her gentle tone.

Then, the voice suddenly solidifies shattering the warm cocoon Chris found himself giving into, as she repeats, tone firmer now, “Are you insane?”

Chris tilts his head, choking on more bile as a surge of pain ripples through him. A curvy figure dressed in a thin, white sundress rushes towards him. He can barely make out her face, his sight almost completely gone, but her scent— fresh rain, lavender and sage— overwhelms him. For a second, he sees himself strolling through a field of wildflowers after a rainstorm, following the full figured beauty into the warmth of the light.

“Wow, you’re really naked,” she suddenly mumbles under her breath.

Voice raspy, Chris asks, “Are… you an angel?”

Soft hands cup his face; delicate, sweet, and gentle. Chris tries to regain some semblance of his sight, eager to take in her ethereal features but the pain hinders his focus.

And then, all at once, darkness claims him.

Dawn is still. While the sun peeks through clusters of clouds, the sky shifts from pale blue to rose-gold. The wind, once flowing through the small cottage through the open windows, disappears. Even the crows, who often guard your little hideaway, fall silent.

You freeze mid-chop and turn towards the backdoor. A murder of crows still lingers around your backyard, but they seem rigid, as if they are not sure how to react.

Furrowing your brows, you set down your knife and abandon your half-chopped eggplant. You wipe your hands on your apron, making your way to the door.

A loud buzzing rings through your ears, stopping you mid-stride. You furrow your brows, senses finally flaring.

Abandoning the back door, you move towards the front instead. The moment you pull it open, you feel it— the shift in the air, swirling with panic, fear and… pain ?

A loud scream suddenly echoes through the morning fog, taut and sharp.

Chills run down your spine.

You’ve found many injured animals while hiding in Crow’s Nest within the last decade. You’ve repaired broken bones, mended mangled wings and even helped beached sea creatures find their way back into the ocean. However, nothing you have encountered has ever sounded so huge.

Shaking off your nerves, you step out and shut the door behind you. The wind picks up, colder than before. It ruffles through your white sundress, forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself. Another frail scream echoes, this time starling the crows back into motion. Hawthorne, your clingiest crow, lands on your front porch with a concerned tilt of his head, as if coming to check on you. Your face deadpans as more crows settle on the rickety, oak wood and peer up at you.

“You literally saw me from the garden,” you sigh. Stepping around them, you ask, “Do you know where that sound came from?”

Poe squawks before fluttering into flight, and a few other crows follow after him as well. You trail behind them, pulling your wand out from between your breasts. You assume that whatever washed up on your island must be harmless enough for your wards not to alert you upon its arrival. Still, you keep your twelve-inch mahogany wand, the polished ebony wood twisted and glittering like silver stars, steady before you.

Rotten vanilla and burnt, parched oak intoxicate your next breath. The scent envelopes you in despair, as you draw closer to the source. Heaving, whimpering, coughing, the broken sounds of pain become clearer with every step.

And then you see him— extremely pale and teetering consciousness. His face, which might have once been a handsome blend of soft masculinity, is grey and blistering. Arm, shoulder, ribs; the left side of his body is peeling skin, almost as if dusting and rotting all at once. The edges of the wounds are lined with black. It’s as though he’d been charred under open flames.

“What have you done to yourself?” you whisper under your breath.

You draw nearer, trying to make sense of this… being? You’re not quite sure what he is. He most definitely cannot be a human. He should be bleeding and the welts would be blistering, eager to reverse the damage.

His eyes squint open and you almost miss it. The right one is a rich chocolate, purely humanistic and warming. The left, however, is a blinding silver. Swimming with thirst and desperation, even exhausted, that gleaming grey eye conveys more threats than promises.

Vampire .

Dawn, light, burns, it all starts to make sense.

“Are you insane?”

He chokes on bile, resting his head back against the tree trunk.

As he tries to find his voice, you take a moment to scan his frame, looking for more wounds. It’s then that you notice just how naked he is. Guilt and shame fester in your chest at the realisation that, despite the wounds, he does not look so bad, perhaps even… attractive.

Your attention lingers below his waist. The sight heats your face. “Wow, you’re really naked,” you whisper more to yourself than him.

“Are…” he starts, summoning your attention back to his mismatched eyes, “you an angel?”

The question startles you. After a few blinks, you swallow thickly and clear your throat.

Wraith, nightshader, monster— you’ve been called many names throughout your life as a blood-witch. Your previous coven conjured most of the insults, but the mundane town of Elderwood has never been a friend to the supernatural either, despite its mythical origins. Ridiculed for your magic, banished by family and supposed friends, you didn’t think you’d ever meet another paranormal being, let alone be confused for an angel.

Cupping his face, you decide that he’s delirious. Scorched by the sun, thirsty for blood (if his nearly translucent skin is any indication), he probably took one look at your white dress and assumed he was dying.

You gasp as he suddenly falls limp in your hands. You’re about to check his pulse when you remember he’s a vampire. Muttering curses, you stand up.

“Create some shade,” you order the crows. As they cluster overhead, you add, “We need it dark enough to move him.”

More crows fly in to help, clouding over the wounded vampire to shield him from the rising sun.

Deep breath in and out, you centre yourself. Your lungs carry his festering scent, the faint notes of sweet vanilla and sturdy, dry oak soothing your erratic heart.

You open your eyes with a heavy, steady exhale. Holding out your wand, you dig your heels into the ground. Magic flickers from your fingertips and warps into the wand, waiting for your direction. Only, you’re not sure if you’re making the right choice.

Healing animals, saving helpless lives is much of what you do on this little island, besides tending to your magical garden, brewing potions and crafting talismans. You’ve always felt grounded when you’re able to help someone, anyone . The only other time you feel as accomplished and useful is when you update your journal. Keeping a detailed grimoire of new spells, potions, thoughts, and observations has been your only other source of stabilising your sanity amidst such a solitary life.

But, a vampire is not some other helpless animal. You don’t know a lot about the blood-demons, only that they have been damned upon their own moment of desperation. He clearly made naive deals without much consideration of the consequences. And the fact that he wandered out in daylight does not help his case.

He could be recently turned or just simply stupid and desperate. Either way, you wonder if this is a good idea. Moving him would mean inviting him into your home. Is that really the wisest decision? It would mean that he would have access to the little cottage without your permission, even if you reinforce your wards. Your invitation would be enough to welcome him in every time.

Still, you know you cannot heal him out here. The sun will shift and only shine brighter throughout the day. The crows can only fly for so long as well. And while your magic is malleable, it is not infinite. It will not be able to sustain a shield weaved of your powers without an anchor like the hearth of your cottage to truly ground and replenish your strength. The only way to save him would be to bring him into your sanctuary.

Or, a little voice mutters, you can just let him die.

You recognise that internal voice as your mother’s. It carries the same sharpness and disdain for your intuitive decisions. You’re not surprised it has reared its ugly head in a moment of uncertainty and distress. It often has a habit of kicking you while you’re down, or coaxing the worst out of you.

Shoving the vile voice back to the farthest corner of your mind, you wave your wand. The handsome vampire levitates under the allure of your magic.

“We move as one,” you order. “And, be careful.”

The crows mutter amongst themselves, but follow your commands. Together, you slowly move further into the forest.

Once you step foot onto the porch, the cottage anticipates your needs. The windows and curtains shut and candles flicker to life along with the hearth. You push open both front doors to accommodate his broad frame. Guiding him into your living room, you wonder if he was an athlete or swimmer prior to turning. His lean yet muscular figure indicates one or both hobbies.

Shame rises in your chest again. You have no idea what has gotten into you. When did you become so perverted and disgusting? How could you check out a wounded man so casually like that, like he’s not unconscious and on the brink of death?

Swallowing your shame away, you lay him down on your soft, velvet green sofa. He sinks into the comfortable cushions, still and frail. Draping a handknitted, midnight black blanket over him, you notice his skin becoming grey. And even the parts that have not been touched by the sun begin to peel.

You mutter a curse and rush to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, you look between jars of carefully crafted salves and mud masks. Aloe, honey, shea butter, coconut– what the fuck would heal the undead flesh of a vampire? If he was conscious, you’d give him a jar of blood from your preserves and hope that with enough consumption, he’d eventually heal himself.

The cottage attempts to help you. It pushes open drawers of loose ingredients. Even a few stray crows, who managed to sneak in before the house could shut the door behind you, fly from book to book, trying to inspire you to just look up the information you need. You wave off the house and ignore the crows. You need something quick and complete. You don’t have time to brew something or search through old pages.

Shifting its approaches, the cottage offers salves you’ve already made and saved from different cabinets around the kitchen. It hovers the jars before you, continuously suggesting a variety of creams as you wave them off.

You’re about to wave off the next suggestion when the name catches your eye: Sunveil Balm . Golden yarrow and rosemary oil, lunar lilac extract, white ash bark powder, dewdrop resin, the essence of morning fog and the rare but potent dust of golden pearls, you remember crafting the balm for a bat with scorched wings. It stayed out in the sun for much too long one blistering summer and received several burns. A few generous swipes of the salve repaired the damage within ten minutes.

You snatch the gold-shimmering cream, darting back to the living room. With a wave of your hand, the jar twists open. You dip into the pot and scoop out a good amount before gently tilting his face and slathering the soft, creamy balm over his left cheekbone and temple.

Mismatched eyes of brown and grey snap open. A loud scream tears through his throat as the wound hisses under the golden salve. He instinctively brings a hand up to his face to wipe it off, only for the salve to burn his fingers.

“Shit,” you murmur before shouting, “Get me blood, now!”

The cottage complies, hovering various jars of animal blood in front of you. It’s the human blood that catches your eye, though. You know that if you want him to recover quickly, you have to supply him with your best stocks. Human blood, however, is rare for you. Without a coven of well-connected witches, harvesting human blood from your remote little island has proved to be a difficult and daunting task. You only have about five large jars left.

He trembles into the sofa, choking on his own bile.

You sigh, realising you’ve made it this far. You have already invited him into your home and made the decision to save him. If that weren’t enough, you’ve just deepened his pain with fresh burns.

With another wave of your hand, you twist the jar of human blood open, then snatch it from the air. “Shh, shh,” you calmly whisper, snaking your arm under his head to support the lift of his neck. He tries to swallow thickly, but chokes on the smell of fresh, cold blood. You bring the lip of the jar closer to his mouth and administer small, careful sips.

You watch as his eyes roll back from the taste. Arousal pools between your thighs. You curse yourself three times over for the way your body reacts. It’s been ten years of using your wand as a vibrator or making do with your fingers. You tell yourself that it’s simply pathetic desperation, a chronic need for human interaction that triggers this sort of reaction to him. Shame and regret still tighten in your chest, encouraging the continuation of your internal insults and curses.

A croaky groan echoes within the jar, pulling you out of your thoughts. The vampire sits himself up and takes the jar from you. He starts to down the blood in large gulps. His chest heaves, throat bobs and rogue trails of blood leak from the corner of his lips.

You stand and turn away from him, much too aroused by the animalistic sight. Trying to ground yourself, you take shaky breaths in and out, and focus on the length of your breaths, the sound of the exhale. You don’t realise he’s done until you hear him clear his throat.

Turning back to face him, you find his skin has solidified back to its normal pale, white colour. The black soot around his wounds remains along with a few remaining welts, however life (or lack thereof) has returned to his undead body.

“More?” He quietly asks, voice deep and husky.

You nod and hold a hand towards the kitchen. Another large jar of human blood shoots into your grasp. The vampire blinks as you wave the lid open, and lower the glass down to him. He trades you the empty one, letting his attention drift up and down your frame.

Your shoulders roll back, chest puffing forward under his curious gaze.

You are pathetic , you think to yourself.

Embarrassed by your actions, you leave him in the living room with his meal and return to the kitchen. Hawthorne and Poe perch on the counter by your recipe books. They cast disapproving stares in the dim candlelight as you enter.

You roll your eyes and whisper, “He was dying.” When they continue to silently judge, you add, “I happen to recall a time when two little birdies got into a fight for the fourth time and begged me to help them even when they promised not to let it happen again. So, maybe we shouldn’t be so judgemental.”

Both crows tilt their heads downwards in shame.

“Who are you talking to?”

You squeal, jolting as you turn to face the vampire. He stands in the archway of your kitchen, blanket wrapped around his waist. He clutches the soft fabric with one hand by his hip and the empty jar with the other. You resist the urge to look at his fully healed chest, knowing it will only further arouse you, and fixate your attention on his face.

While the blood has completely reversed the damage of the sun on his skin, his eyes still remain discoloured. You draw closer to examine it, getting within a hand’s reach before remembering that you two are still strangers, he’s still naked and there’s still steaks of blood staining his chin.

He raises a brow at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Does he think I’m into him , you wonder as panic fills your chest. You clear your throat and take a step back.

“Your eye,” you start, pointing to your left one, “It’s still silver.”

He reaches up to touch it. Understanding shifts his features from arrogance to self-caution.

“Do you need more blood?” you ask, wondering if perhaps more consumption would help.

He shakes his head. “I’m full,” he replies. Stepping into the kitchen, he holds the empty jar out for you.

You take it and place it on the counter by the other one he finished. You turn back to face him, regrettably letting your gaze flicker down his defined chest again. It’s buff and broad, the perfect addition to his strong shoulders. His waist is slim, toned and narrows down to delicate hips that you are sure have some unforgiving moments. Internally cursing yourself for your lack of self-control, you note that, at least this time, you’re lusting after him while he’s conscious and not in active pain.

He suddenly clears his throat, beckoning your attention back to his face. A shy smile settles on his lip and he raises a brow.

Great , you sarcastically think, now he’s going to think I only helped him because I think he’s hot .

“I’m Chris,” he introduces, holding out his hand. “And I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

You bite your lip. Maybe he was tired before or you were just too preoccupied by the gravity of the situation to catch it the first few times he spoke, but he has a thick, lazy accent that comforts your reclusive soul in ways it probably shouldn’t.

You offer your name, accepting his hand. The chill from his skin is all encompassing and it takes everything in you not to shiver. After a couple of good shakes, you release his hand to reach back and grab a clean tea towel. You hand it to him and gesture to your chin. “You’ve got a bit of blood,” you carefully inform.

Chris scrubs his face harshly. You thought the knotting brows and darkening eyes were an indication of embarrassment upon the mention of the little mess he made of himself. However, from the way he drags the tea towel over his newly healed skin, you wonder if he is upset, perhaps hateful.

“Thanks,” he mutters again, catching your lingering gaze.

You take the tea towel back when he’s done and toss it to Poe. The little crow catches the stained cloth and flies it over to the dirty pile. A little amused smile plays on your lips as you watch Chris look between you and the crow. He parts his lips to ask something, but he cannot find his words.

“Let’s have a seat,” you softly suggest, nodding towards the archway. “You must be exhausted.”

Chris nods, letting out a heavy breath. He steps to the side to let you weave around him and lead the way back to the living room. His steps are so light and gentle as he follows. You probably wouldn’t have heard them if you weren’t paying such close attention, sneaking a look behind you.

His gaze focuses around your hips, or rather the sway of them. You catch him biting his lip before turning to face the front again. Letting out a shaky sigh, you try not to let the little gesture go straight to your head. You’ve received quite a few stares when you lived with your coven once upon a time ago. Most would either linger around your breasts or rear. Sometimes it was due to the sheer size of your voluptuous body and very rarely was it done in admiration when it came to staring at your arms or stomach or thighs. Your backside, however, always received that same carefully longing attention.

So, he doesn’t like you , you tell yourself. He just likes what he sees .

You take a seat on the black leather armchair by the fireplace, sinking into the comfortable cushions, and nod to the emerald couch he previously laid on.

Chris sits across from you. Shifting in his seat, he adjusts the blanket to properly cover his hips and crotch. Your eyes meet and, for a brief second, you swear you catch the lightest, faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks.

Shifting uncomfortably in your own seat, you offer an apologetic smile and say, “I don’t think I have any clothes for you.”

He returns the gentle gesture with a small grin of his own and shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can try to get the ones I left on the beach later tonight.”

You raise your brows at the new information. Leaning over one of the arms on your chair, you attempt to peek into the kitchen. “Hawthorne?” You shout.

Chris looks back at the archway only for Hawthrone to dart out. He flies over head, startling Chirs as he ducks his head to avoid the fast bird.

“Go to the mainland and see if you can find some clothes on the shore for me,” you order once he lands on the arm of your chair. “And take Tenny and Poe with you.”

Hawthorne squawks. He takes flight again, heading to the front door when you tsk at him. He returns to your side, waiting for instructions.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask then nod to the back of the cottage, “We have a sun sensitive visitor. Take the back door.”

He caws again and zooms right over Chris’s head. There is a ruffle of feathers, followed by more cawing before the slam of an open and shut window sounds.

Chris swallows thickly, sitting back into the couch. “So you talk to birds,” he says as a way to break the silence.

“Yup,” you nod.

He nods along with you, rubbing the back of his neck.

Your attention falls on his cleanly shaved armpits, the flex of his bicep. You cross your legs and press your thighs tightly together at the thought of being caught in a headlock, or cuddling under his arm and inhaling his thick, sickly sweet scent.

“Um,” he starts, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blink at him upon meeting his gaze. There is a knowing look in his mismatched eyes, and the faintest flicker between your own and your tense thighs. But he does not comment on your suddenly rigid posture. Gesturing to his face instead, he asks, “What was the–”

“Sunburn cream,” you answer, cutting him off. “It’s called Sunveil Balm. I guess it doesn’t work on vampires.”

He tentatively nods. “And what are you?” He registers the bluntness of his question the moment it leaves his full lips, and panic floods his eyes. Quickly, he adds, “No offence. It’s just– the magic–” he cuts himself off, pointing to your hands.

A little smile plays on your lips with a slip of a chuckle. “I’m not offended,” you reassure, shaking your head. “I’m a witch. A blood-witch.”

“What makes a blood-witch different from a witch?”

“What makes a vampire different from a demon?”

Your voice is light and teasing but your playfulness falters at the sight of his concerned features.

“I-I’m a demon?” he asks, confusion creasing between his brows. He looks so lost, you’d think he’d never seen one before. It’s as if he didn’t conjure darkness to trade his soul away.

Perplexed yourself, you nod. “Well, yes. How did you not– No,” you shake your head with a few blinks, then look back at him, starting again, “How long have you been a vampire?”

“About eight years.”

“Eight?”

He confirms with a nod.

What the fuck?

Now, demons are tricky and conniving. They always make a deal that falls more in their favour than their summoner’s, but they have some decorum, especially towards each other. Upon their summoner’s shift into a vampire, the demon must have visited and informed him of his new, undead state. You recall reading about countless accounts of demons shadowing their newest additions and teaching them how to hunt, run and hide in the shadows. It’s common practice.

But more than that, you wonder how a vampire of eight years would miscalculate the rise of the sun and self-inflict such terrible wounds. Given the fact that he used his last bits of strength to find shade, you have to assume it wasn’t done on purpose. But, you also have a hard time believing that he’s naive enough to not know when the sun will rise during this time of year, especially after eight years of being undead. From the few books you’ve read on vampires during your studies as an apprentice, you know that they have a biological clock, an inherent instinct to not only avoid the sun, but fear it.

Chris, pretty eyes round and youthful face uncertain, looks like he woke up one day, never went to sleep again, and was never told why.

“Am I missing something?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” you reply. “This doesn’t make sense. How did you turn? And why were you out this late, anyway?”

He bites on the inside of his cheeks and averts his gaze. “It’s complicated.”

Furrowing your brows, you’re not sure which question that was supposed to answer. You decide to take it one step at a time, asking, “Did you want to get burned?”

“No,” he immediately replies, meeting your gaze.

Had it not been for the firm eye contact, you might have doubted him.

“So, what is it then?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “Complicated.”

You raise a brow, lingering your attention on his head. Recalling your thoughts about his physic earlier, you wonder if he really is a swimmer. If he perhaps ventured too far out into the sea and exhausted himself in the process. However, noting the way he nervously averts his gaze, you decide to redirect the conversation to something that’s hopefully less complicated.

“You don’t need to tell me why you summoned the demon,” you start, knowing the reason must have been dire for him to turn to the darkness for help. “I just don’t understand how you didn’t know that you, technically, are one.”

His face scrunches in concentrated confusion. He thumbs his nose and tilts his head at your words, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s been cursed or simply a pretty face.

“I didn’t summon a demon. I just…” he trails off, averting his gaze as he searches for the best way to word his transition, “ became a vampire.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s what happened.”

“Explain the process,” you order, sitting back in your seat. “How did you know you were a vampire if no one told you?”

There is a twinge of challenge in his narrowing eyes. He flits his gaze up and down your relaxed frame and tongues his cheek. He then leans his elbows on his knees, broad shoulders now on full, flexed display under the warm glow of flickering candle lights.

You swallow thickly and force yourself to maintain eye contact.

“Do you always use that tone?” He suddenly asks, voice low and deep.

Barely above a whisper, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He smirks as newfound understanding glimmers in his silver eye. “That’s better,” he says before sitting back into his seat.

You’re not sure what’s more lethal, the way he leans forward, every curve of his muscles contrasted perfectly in the shadows of the dim lights, or the way he leans back, legs spread and chest open. Both are equally as inviting, enticing you to shed your inhibitions and completely lose yourself against him.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he starts, shattering your focus on his sprawl body. “I was feeling sick for weeks. I could barely keep up with my training, and–”

“Training?”

“I was a swimmer.”

Knew it – Your eyes flicker to his shoulders for a split second.

“I was the fastest on the team. I even had a scholarship,” he says. A faint smile hovers over his plush lips at the memory. “I stopped drinking. I stopped eating. And on the day of the championship, I was terrified to leave my dorm. I nailed wood and bedsheets over my window and hid under the bed. My friends found me at one point, much later in the night, and I…” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “I attacked them.”

You remain still, expression neutral. He watches you closely, as if waiting for a gasp or blink of acknowledgement.

“I just remember being really, really thirsty. I chased them through the courtyard until they talked me out of ripping them apart. And–” he cuts himself off with a little laugh.

You raise your brown trying to fight off your own smile at the sweet, deep rumble emitting from his buff chest.

“Sorry, I just remembered one of my friends’ screams– Changbin. He’s a complete wimp and was squealing the whole time. You’d like him. Everyone likes him,” he explains. When you return his sweet smile, he continues, “Anyway, they talked me out of killing them, helped me hunt a rabbit, which took too fucking long for three grown men, and then made fun of me while I drank it’s blood.”

“They sound like idiots,” you joke, fighting your own laughter at the image he crafted for you.

“They are,” he nods, voice thick with nostalgia. Then, he clears his throat and adds, “Anyway, there weren’t any demons or witches or anyone else. Just us and the internet.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “While that sounds like a terrible disaster,” you tease, much to his amusement, “that’s not really how vampires are made.”

“I wasn’t bitten either.”

“That’s misinformation,” you dismiss. “No one gets bitten to turn. Anyone who has been bitten by a vampire and survived merely experiences more drastic symptoms of rabies then dies. They are bats after all.”

Judging by the constantly confused expression on his face, you deduce he has not discovered he can turn into a bat yet. You hold off on that nugget of information for now, returning to your explanation, “Vampires are the result of humans making deals with some sort of demon. While possessions are common, demons do not want your body. They are always after your soul. Whatever remains is the demonic shift from humanity to deviance. You may still have your body, but your connection to the supernatural is your only thread to the living.”

Chris nods, sitting up in his seat. You regret to find that it doesn’t make you want to straddle him any less than before.

“I can understand that, I just don’t know what that has to do with me. I swear I had no reason to summon anyone from any realm or world or wherever the fuck these things come from.” His voice wavers with sincerity, eyes distressed with confusion. He takes a second to breathe in deeply, trying to ground himself, only to clench his jaw, never exhaling. “I just want my life back,” he mutters.

Me too , you think as you gnaw on your bottom lip.

While your mother discouraged you from being yourself, and so-called friends betrayed you, there was a life back between the Mountains of Cleo that was waiting for you to reach your full potential. Working alongside the greatest witches of the century, charting stars and researching the full scope of potential power within the moon, you were on track to finally securing a position within the Arcane Court , and earning the respect of your family for once.

You wish to return to that moment before everything had shattered around you. Work was stolen, lies were told and reputations were ruined. You never thought you'd be forced to defend yourself against people you loved, people you considered your found family. However, you did expect your biological family to believe the worst about you.

Looking back at Chris, you notice he seems lost in his own thoughts too, gazing at the polished hardwood floors aimlessly. His explanation seems genuine and you really do believe him. He seemed to have the world at his fingertips, on the cusp of achieving all his dreams, before his life ended.

He suddenly meets your gaze. The angle of his head blends his brown eye into the darkness, the silver one gleaming brightly in contrast. You know you should be scared, and you try to find a reason to feel that way, looking for even the faintest hint of danger. Instead, honesty greets you. If you hadn’t known he was a vampire, you would have assumed he was human from that look alone.

“I want to help you figure out what happened,” you announce.

Chris blinks at you. “What?”

“Vampires are made by demons,” you repeat. “If you are a vampire, then you were made. And if you didn’t bind yourself into a contract, someone else must have done so on your behalf. You could be in danger, could even be hexed. I want to help you find out what’s going on.”

His throat bobs, brows knit and he licks his lips before asking, “Why would you help me again?”

“I’m curious,” you shrug. And when his stare does not waver, you add, “And this is the longest I have spoken to someone other than a bird in the last ten years, so I might as well make the most of it before sundown.”

At that, Chris smiles. You notice he has a way of making it look so easy, that gentle, boyish smile. It’s full of intrigue and amusement and even admiration as his mismatched eyes twinkle with delicate notions of mischief.

“I’m going to look into making another salve for some of your scars,”you say, standing from your seat. “The crows will be back with your clothes soon. You can go up to the bathroom and shower in the meantime, if you’d like I mean.”

Chris stands with you, glancing at the stairs. “Thanks,” he murmurs as if he doesn’t trust his voice.

You ignore the heavy emotion laced in his tone, to save him the embarrassment, and continue, “It’s the third door on the right. The house will lead you.”

As if on cue, you hear the soft echo of shutting doors and the whispering squeak of a single door opening.

Chris’s ears twitch at the sound. He swallows thickly and gives you another nod of gratitude before heading up the stairs. You watch his back flex as he rolls his shoulders back. Now that you are going to help him, you really need to stop practically panting after him. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable in a tiny house he can’t leave for the next twelve hours.

Letting out a heavy breath, you make your way to the kitchen and wave all your relevant books on burns, salves and blood-beings towards you. But the distant spray of the shower rattles your focus, plaguing you with images of his naked body caught between water and steam. Shaking your head, you force him out of your thoughts.

You have work to do– a purpose to finally follow. And you won’t be deterred.

Despite the brightness of your flowy white dress, which cinches at your waist and beautifully accentuates your curves, your little cottage is a sanctuary of moody shades and warm textures. Chris surveys the polished dark wood floors, adorned with a large, red rug that captivates his attention, on his way towards the stairs. A piece of onyx fur casually drapes over the exotic rug, adding an extra layer of softness beneath his cold feet. Leafy green plants cascade from the ceiling and trail their long vines over the edges of the shelves. They bring a subtle sense of life to the space, even in such dim lighting. The deep violet walls bring out the vivid colours of the flowers—magenta, indigo, and plum. He assumes, based on your determined personality, that each bundle of petals serves some sort of purpose. Between flickering candles, well-worn books, and vials of mysterious substances, you've crafted a harmonious blend of oak table sets and plush, comfortable seating, creating an inviting atmosphere that feels entirely your own– warm and beautiful.

As Chris enters your bathroom, he finds that it is no different. Only, instead of a cosy ambiance of lived-in comfort, you’ve created a refreshing forest oasis. Dark green tiles line the walls, casting the room in deep, earthy hues. The floor is a mosaic of midnight green and jade patterns that seem to shift with the light, an intricate dance of natural tones underfoot. From above, more plants with long, draping vines hang over the obsidian sink, suspended in delicate macrame nets that sway gently with each movement in the room. Chris’s throat dries at the swan faucet poised elegantly above the sink, its neck curved in a graceful arc. In the corner, the shower nestles like a hidden grotto, glossy tiles and rainfall shower head turning it into a misty forest retreat, with aged brass fixtures catching the light. And finally, his gaze drifts to the grand, black bear claw tub—a magnificent centrepiece that seems plucked from a woodland dream.

He swallows thickly, inhaling the subtle scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Upon his exhale, the shower head turns on. He peers around the bathroom again, wondering if the house is watching him. When only the steady spray of the shower echoes against the dimly candlelit walls, Chris rolls his shoulders back and takes a step further into the room.

The door clicks shut on its own.

Chris shakes off his uneasiness and drops the blanket from his waist. He’s not sure why, but his hands shake as he steps under the shower. A part of him hopes to feel stark cold, just as the ocean was a couple of hours ago. But the water is…water– Chris cannot feel much of a temperature, even with litres of human blood spreading through his body. Still, the strong pressure beating down his head, shoulders and back ease the tension in his once wounded muscles.

Suddenly, the water stings with the faintest hint of coolness. It gets colder and colder, nearly replicating the frostiness of the morning sea, before Chris realises that the house is adjusting the temperature for him.

“This is good,” he mutters, tipping his head back.

The house slightly warms the water, silently asking if he’s sure.

“I like it cold,” Chris reassures. A ghost of a smile hovers over his full lips. He wonders if you put the house up to this or if it is simply trying to make him feel welcome. Either way, he’s grateful for the consideration.

Consideration . Chris ponders over the word, mulling over every syllable, every decision you’ve made while he was unconscious. You’re a witch with angelic intentions, that much seems to be clear. But he still cannot help wondering what it was that made you consider saving him? He’s just a stranger, afterall. No, he’s a demon . And yet, you brought him into your home, created salves and offered him jars of blood.

Why do you have stores of human blood, anyway? Is it part of your practice as a blood-witch? Do you conjure spells that include elements of blood? Or do you merely harvest litres of it like a collector of sorts?

Questions lap round and round his mind as he reaches for your honey-infused shampoo. It smells faintly of your wild, flowery scent. Chris cannot help his smirk at subtle notions of rainfall and sage amidst that lavender. With a playful smile and inquisitive, bold eyes, you are the epitome of life and purity– and you smell like it too.

He leans into the faint scent as he lathers his seasalt drenched hair with the silky, sweet soap. After rinsing the suds out, he grabs the matching conditioner and finds it is heavily imprinted with your scent. Perhaps you use it more often, or in larger quantities than the shampoo, but Chris is not all that curious why. He continues to lean into it, moaning softly as he combs it through his slightly curled strands.

You’re incredibly enchanting, and Chris wonders if you’re aware of that. From the sway of your hips to the glint of intrigue in your alluring gaze, you are a vision of beauty. You radiate confidence, even when you’re perplexed and unsure. You stand in your own light, take control of a room and demand answers. Had Chris met you in college, between frat parties or music classes, he is certain he would have pursued you. Bossy, bratty, brazen, you command attention within a few words and a firm tone. And when he tested your limits, correcting your ordering tone with him in the living room, and you yielded to his tug of power, he swears his cock twitched.

Maybe eight years of solitude has made him desperate, or the near-death experience has renewed his connection to the living, but Chris cannot deny that he wants you. He scrubs his body now and imagines your hands over his chest, along the width of his shoulders and trailing down his arms. He imagines your face inches from his and your warm breath fanning over his lips. He imagines your naked body, smirking when he recalls the way your gaze lingered over his in the kitchen.

Do you like him too? Is that the real reason why you’re helping him?

A series of gentle taps rap at the door.

Chris snaps his attention to the black wood. He focuses his enhanced hearing, hoping to pick up your heartbeat in the hall. Instead, a pair of rapid pumps and fluttering wings greet him. He assumes it’s the crows with his clothes and quickly rinses away the soap.

The water shuts off as he steps back out into the bathroom. A soft, grey towel hovers in front of him.

Chris smiles at the ceiling. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his waist. As he makes his way to the door, another smaller towel gently lands on his head. Chris chuckles and ruffles the soft cotton through his clean hair.

The door opens for him as he approaches it.

I can get used to this .

His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, wet and littered with sand. Looking up at the house, Chris asks, “Um, can you do me a quick favour?”

The candles momentarily shine brighter in reply.

Chris bites his lip. He glances back at the shower, realising that the house has already done so much for him. He might be pushing his luck with another request. But then the lights shine again, as if reassuring him that it’s okay to ask for more.

Throat bobbing, Chris asks, “Could you help me clean my clothes?”

A wicker basket emerges from a door down the hall. It hops over to Chris from side to side, in a manner he can only describe as gleeful. Once in front of him, it shakes as though it is asking him to drop his clothes into the hamper. Chris tentatively bends down and tosses the sandy clothes in. The basket returns to its spot, disappearing behind its door, cheerful and almost giddy.

Chris smiles to himself. The house must have your personality, or perhaps just aspects of it– playful, helpful, thoughtful. You bleed into every crevice of the warm cottage and Chris, for the first time since turning, is delighted.

A quiet chirp from the crows pulls his attention back to them. They caw a couple more times before flying over to the edge of the stairs.

Chris wonders if they are asking him to follow them, looking between them and the cold bathroom behind him.

They caw again, hopping in place.

He glances down at his towel and raises a brow. “I’m not really–” he starts, only for the crows to cut him off.

One of them, Poe perhaps, lets out a long, almost exasperated squawk that leaves no room for refusal.

With a roll of his eyes, Chris follows after the birds. “Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Stop nagging me.”

The crows fly down the stairs and into the kitchen. Chris takes his time, following the scent of wild lavender and sage. He barely makes it to the archway when he sees your dress flowing around you with every step around the kitchen.

You’ve pulled your hair up, neck on full display. Moving around the dark kitchen, you trade your attention between a hovering book and your breakfast on the stove, all while sneaking sips from your steaming cup of tea. Chris detects notes of chai, cinnamon and anise stars amongst hearty eggs, and fresh tomatoes and chives.

It takes you a minute, but you soon notice his tall figure entering the small space. Your eyes don’t remain on his for too long before trailing down his chest and lingering around his waist. He’s starting to realise that you seem to have a habit of that and it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he finds himself puffing out his chest and tightening the tension around his stomach under your watchful gaze.

“They haven’t returned with your clothes?”

Fuck, that voice– light, airy and sweet. Chris averts his gaze and bites on the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan.

Clearing his throat, he replies,“No, they did. They’re just dirty. The house is cleaning them for me.”

You flash him a knowing smile and Chris swears his breath would hitch if he would breathe. “Yeah, it likes feeling useful,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your tea. You then nod at one of the indigo stools before your gleaming marble-topped island in the centre of the kitchen.

Chris takes a seat, ensuring his towel stays put as he adjusts it around his spreading legs. As you turn back to your black iron stove, Chris takes a moment to really take in the kitchen.

With deep crimson walls that cradle the space in a comforting embrace, the space excludes warmth. The soft candlelights that hover above cast playful shadows on the deep charcoal countertops, almost mirroring the crackle and pop of the hearth in the living room. Hanging between the candles are clusters of copper pots and pans, adding notions of rustic charm. Chris then realises that this might be the first room in the cottage without plants dangling from the ceiling or over surfaces. Instead, the shelves are lined with jars of spices and herbs and… body parts. He catches pickled eyeballs, dusty toes, fingers–some with matted fur–, and about three cases of teeth.

“They were donated,” you clarify.

Chris blinks his attention back to you, finding a guilty smile playing on your lips.

“Well,” you start again, “ Most of it was donated.”

He teasingly raises his brows at you, suppressing his own smile. “I suppose that makes it okay then,” he jokes, subtly testing your boundaries again.

There is a flicker of surprised intrigue in your gaze. “It seemed okay when it was saving your life,” you shoot back with the same level of teasing wit.

Chris cannot help the excitement in his chest. Do you know how exhilarating you are? Is that why you keep staring at him with those enchantingly mischievous eyes?

He bites his lip, conceding to your wit. “Learn anything new,” he asks, nodding to the levitating book.

You plate your breakfast with a sigh. The stove shuts off on its own as you round the island and take a seat next to him. Chris stiffen, adjusting his towel around his crotch. The once floating book rests on the countertop between the both of you.

“See for yourself,” you reply before eating.

Chris notes the title: Origins of Vampires, Bloodsuckers, and Incubi , then scans the first few paragraphs. Besides accounts for the first sighting of vampires and the fact that they are apparently extremely lustful beings, it does not inform Chris of anything he does not already know from you. A deal needs to be made with the devil, his soul must have had to be traded as payment, and his body begins to reject all things human.

Furrowing his brows and sucking in his cheeks with a little hiss, Chris shifts forward in his seat to get a better look at the book. There is an extremely long passage about consistent erections, and the next page is filled with a list of the best hideouts to escape the sun during the day. Chris is more concerned with the inconsistency of the author than the fact that he has yet to get an erection since he turned years ago.

“Nothing new,” you finally reply after a few bites of your food. “Nothing useful either.”

“May I?” Chris asks, reaching for the edge of the page.

He flips the page when you nod. The list of hideouts takes up the next three pages and Chris resists the urge to roll his eyes. Information about vampiric cycles, peak slumber and feasting times, and tips on how to hunt fill the remaining pages on vampires before moving onto bloodsuckers and incubi. Again, the information is not anything Chris is not already aware of from the sheer experience of being undead for nearly a decade. He knows that around noon, his body tends to shut down and he seeks the darkest, coldest part of the basement to lay still and close his eyes. He’s not exactly asleep but he’s also not exactly awake either. The stuff about peak feasting times does not really apply to him. Just like when he was human, Chris is always hungry and ready to consume something.

With a heavy sigh, he shuts the book. “That was a waste of time,” he mumbles as you finish your breakfast.

You wave your empty plate and cup off to the sink, then shrug at him. “Well, we now know this book is useless,” you say, voice light with hope. “We can cross it off our list.”

Chris raises a brow. “How many more books are on this list of yours?”

Your gaze is shifty and Chris starts to get nervous. He murmurs your name carefully, merely trying to get you to be honest, but then he notices the way you tremble at the sound of his low, deep voice. He can’t help the smirk tugging on his lips.

“Cold?” he teases before he can stop himself.

Your eyes meet his with careful conviction. You lick your lips, as if debating how sharp your response should be. Attention flitting down to his chest momentarily, you finally reply, “Not at all.”

With that, you wave off the useless book and summon two more. One is for salves and creams, the other is an encyclopaedia of vampiric traits and rituals. It sounds just as useless as the last one but if it’s on your list, Chris is willing to indulge.

“You can get started on this,” you push the encyclopaedia towards him, “while I look into treating those scars.”

“I don’t mind the scars,” he shrugs. “They kinda make me feel human.”

When you meet his eyes this time, your gaze is not filled with caution or calculated intrigue, instead they round with empathy. The sincere reaction triggers another pressing question Chris cannot seem to shake.

“Why are you here?”

Your face folds in confusion. “What?”

“You’re here on this haunted island all alone. Why? Don’t you have a coven or something?”

You pause for longer than usual and Chris worries if he used the wrong term, or perhaps merely asked a more personal question than you’re willing to answer.

But then you clear your throat and adjust your posture in your seat. Staring down at the counter, you let out a heavy sigh and say, “I did and now I don’t.” Again, you take a beat lick your lips. “I wasn’t wanted there, so I needed to go.”

Chris scoffs. He doesn’t register the bluntness of his gestures until you glare at him.

“Have something to add?” you question, that usually sweet voice of yours now sharpened.

It really shouldn’t but the sharpness makes his body buzz with excitement. Chris is fascinated by your darker edges. They contrast so beautifully against your usual lightness, enchanting him with supple seduction.

“I think that’s bullshit,” he replies.

“I think the fact that you just so happened to lose track of time is bullshit,” you remark. “But I have the common courtesy to keep my rude opinions to myself.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” Chris can’t help but tease. “But I was referring to the fact that you would ever be unwanted. If you weren’t such a little…” Chris trails off just to watch your nostrils flare and smirks, “ witch , you would have known that.”

A flicker of regret flashes in your gaze, but it doesn’t take long to harden again with a clench of your jaw.

“Maybe you should’ve added that sooner.”

“Maybe you should’ve given me the chance to.”

“How is any of this my fault?” you ask, voice still irritated but a chuckle manages to slip past your sweet lips.

Chris smiles at the girly sound, suddenly feeling… warm?

“I never said it was,” he answers. He keeps his voice tempered and gentle, watching as you bite your lip again.

There is a shift in the air. Chris catches the sudden thickness of your scent, the newfound depth it carries and you shift in your seat again. Furrowing his brows, he leans forward to hold your gaze and asks, “You okay?”

You nod, yet shoot up from your seat. You push that book towards him again and point to the living room. “The house made you a little nook by the fire. Try reading as much as you can. The sooner we find out about you, the sooner you can return home.” Your voice sounds as sweet as it normally does, but carries a certain weight to it. Chris has trouble placing it as you continue, “If you get thirsty or need anything else, just ask the house. It’s happiest when it can provide.”

Inhaling sharply, Chris collects the book and stands. He holds his towel in place with his other hand, the same way he did with the blanket not too long ago, and starts to make his way to the living room. When he gets to the archway, he pauses to glance over his shoulder.

You’re still watching him, captivated by the broadness of his back.

“I think the house takes after you,” he says, turning to face you. “You seem content providing as well. So, I really can’t imagine anyone not wanting you around.”

You shift your weight and clench your jaw. With a thick swallow, you shake your head. “You don’t know me,” you mutter, face contorting with shame.

“And you don’t know me,” he shrugs. “But here we are, a vampire and a blood-witch. Is that a common pair amongst the supernatural?”

You shake your head.

Chris smiles. “And yet you saved me. And you continue to help me. And I might not know you the way the house or crows do,” he chuckles, watching a smile play on your lips, “but I know that I can comfortably go into the next room and not have to worry about you suddenly opening the window and burning me alive. And I think that’s a good sign when you’re getting to know someone, yeah?”

With a roll of your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. Chris does his best to ignore the way they press together and jut out. “Your bar is way too low for strangers, Christopher.”

He tongues his cheek. “ Chris ,” he corrects.

A mischievous smile spreads across your soft features and Chris wonders if he may have given you some ammunition to tease him later.

“Happy reading, Chris ,” you say.

The way you emphasise his name almost makes him shiver.

“Happy conjuring, little witch.”

A renewed sense of pride blooms in his still chest at the way you shyly avert your gaze upon hearing your new nickname. Chris thinks it has a nice ring to it, and you look absolutely adorable when you’re flustered. He allows himself one last once over of your curves, then pulls himself towards the living room.

True to your words, the house has provided a long, wide chaise of midnight blue velvet. It sits before the fireplace with a soft amber blanket draped over the back. Chris settles into the plush cushions, sinking into comfort and props his feet up. He throws the blanket over his waist to replace his towel and asks the house to dim the fire.

Flipping open the book, Chris starts to learn more about himself, pushing every tempting thought of you out of his mind.

Two weeks go by in a blur and you find that you are no less infatuated by Chris than when you first met him.

He has such an easy way about him, smiling effortlessly. His eyes are still mismatched as if the sun had burned the vampiric silver of his left iris into his retina. No amount of blood has reversed the damage. However, you don’t mind. In fact, you find yourself feeling relieved when his eyes remain the same pair of brown and grey every time he takes a sip of animal blood. You like the twinkle of mischief that seems to glow so brightly amongst the two colours. Its allure is deliciously dangerous with promises of subtle destruction. You especially enjoy how they squint when he laughs or smiles with his white teeth, still gleaming with joy and lightness.

You’ve gotten used to his presence, and you think that maybe he has gotten used to yours too. Just two nights ago, he finally told you why he was out so late the night you met. You instantly empathised with him, knowing all too well how powerful the yearning for connection can be. It’s the reason you promised to help again, desperate for a semblance of real, tangible interactions too.

“And your parents?” you asked, after he told you all about how he hides out in his friends’ basements. “Do they know?”

His jaw set. “They think I died,” he sighs. “Well, they think I’m missing, but it’s been eight years and they bought a headstone so…”

Regret tightened in your chest. “I’m so–”

“My little brother took my old room,” he continued, cutting you off . “I snuck in one night, just to… see, I guess? He still has some of my stuff there, all dusty and untouched. He’s so big now, almost as tall as me,” he chuckled, a small smile settling on his lips. “He plays baseball though. I don’t think I’ve seen any of them go near a swimming pool in years. ”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You wanted to just swallow your previous words, the regret of mentioning his parents wrapping tighter around your heart.

“My mum saw me once,” he said, finally meeting your gaze. A muted sadness greets you, but his little smile remains on those pink-stained lips. “She was bringing groceries in one night and caught me staring behind some tree. She dropped the bag and called out to my dad. I ran before either of them could see me again,” he paused to swallow.“ I still can’t get the sound of her sobs out of my head.”

You blink the memory away, pulling your dusky plum coloured comforter up to your chin. A part of you wishes you had asked him why he never went back to his parents or let them believe he’d gone missing. Clearly, the thought of them moving on without him still weighs heavy on his heart. But you couldn’t find your word at the time, blinking back tears as he hung his head and spoke so quietly. Besides, you are sure, based on his caring, selfless personality, he likely thought he was doing them a favour by shielding them from his new reality. He was practically brimming with self hatred when you met.

And you realised, in that vulnerable moment, it was never about feeling the sun or the cold or even the sensation of swimming again. It has always been about being human . Chris craves his humanity more than he values his life. You both know that he was well aware of when the sun would rise, that he fought through his inherent fear of it for the chance to feel near-human again. He even keeps his remaining sun-scars and winks his mismatched eyes because they are consequences of feeling that pain. And as you read more and more about vampires together, the hindrance of potentially accessing his full abilities does not surprise you. To his core, Chris is human, so he is constantly rejecting his vampiric turn.

That realisation shifted your focus last night. You moved from books about vampires to those about demons. Flipping through pages and pages of information, you found multiple passages about soul-trading. You discovered that some demons demand pure souls in addition to the ones they have already swindled from their summors. This detail, likely lost in the fine-print of most deals, implements a vampiric gene into the summors’ genetics. The variant remains dormant, passing through the bloodline until it finally finds a pure soul to claim.

Chris still can’t believe that one of his ancestors would stoop so low, but you find that reaction in itself is just another testament of his purity.

Smiling to yourself at the thought of him, you stare at your star-speckled ceiling. You enchanted it to reflect the night sky on your first night at Crow’s Nest . Actually, you had enchanted the ceiling of the living room, having slept down there until you were able to slowly build your little cottage and refine your new sanctuary. You were terrified of being found and snatched back for sentencing by the Arcane Court. You’re well aware that blood-witches don’t simply break blood bonds and live to tell the tale. You remember using whatever magic you had at the time to unshackle yourself from the bounds of your coven, hop on your broom with your life magically crammed into a knapsack, and escape into the same dark night.

And as you lie here now, sinking into your silky sheets, you find that staring at a shimmering night sky can still ease your nerves all the same. You try to identify constellations and search for the moon between the clouds. You curse under your breath when you finally catch a glimpse of its glow– waxing gibbous .

Tomorrow is the full moon.

You let out a shaky breath, attempting to get lost in the stars again, but it’s no use. All you can think about is that damned elixir.

“I found something,” you muttered to Chris.

He laid in his little nook by the dimmed fire, one hand clutching a book and the other folded behind his head. Peering over at you, a little smirk tugs on his lips. “A new blood recipe?” he asked, knowing you have been testing out some new blends of spices in his blood.

You shake your head and reply, “A solution . ”

You feel your skin grow hot from the memory of having to explain to him what this solution entails.

At its core, it is simply a recipe for vampiric vitality. And after hearing about his parents and how they have tried to move on from losing him, how he had tried to move on, you remember feeling hopeful. Maybe this could be the key to reclaim his life, to possibly see them again without shame.

However, the summary still gives you pause. It reads:

“The Elixir of the Damned is a rare, potent potion crafted to primarily shield vampires, and other sun-sensitive creatures, from the deadly effects of daylight. By harnessing the mystical properties of a blood-witch's full-moon blood, the elixir enables these creatures to walk under the sun without harm, preserving their strength and powers. Beyond sunlight protection, the elixir grants a surge of energy, reduces the need for frequent feeding, shortens sleep cycles, and reverses their natural nocturnal schedule.

The thick, midnight violet elixir is a luminescent liquid concoction of moonlight essence, ground sage, sunroot and the dust of two diamonds: obsidian and sunstone. The mixture must be thoroughly stirred and refrigerated for a minimum of twelve hours before use. Upon a full-moon, the elixir must be mixed with the menstrual blood of a blood-witch and consumed immediately. For best results, pour and harvest the menstrual blood directly from the source.”

You have the stupid thing memorised, having read it countless times, before finally telling Chris. Though he can’t breathe, you’re certain his breath hitched at the explanation. You remember parting your lips to further explain when he suddenly agreed.

“It’s only weird if we make it weird,” he argued. “I’m willing to keep it strictly professional if you are.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding. “Yeah,” you found yourself replying. “I can do the same.”

And yet you lay here, naked and squirming at the thought of his mouth between your legs because he insisted, and you quote, “If we’re gonna do it, we might as well do it right.”

Do me right , you wanted to reply. Just bend me over the couch and do me right now .

Instead, you continuously agree and nod and pretend that your arousal isn’t sticking between your thighs as your clit throbs for attention.

You cup your crotch now, unable to take it anymore. He’s fucking hot– so fucking hot . You have been trying not to stare but he wears these tight tank tops that showcase his muscular arms all the fucking time. You mentally curse his stupid friends for sending such revealing clothes through the crows. He sent them a letter with Poe a day after you agreed to help them and you wonder if he specifically requested these pieces or if this is his usual style.

Either way, you cannot stop staring. Every ridge and crevices of his buff chest and toned stomach is outlined, completely captivating your attention. You are constantly trying to maintain eye contact, but even that feels too much sometimes. He is always teasing and joking with you, gazing at you with such consuming warmth, you cannot help but feel hot .

A little gasp escapes you as you spread your legs and drench your fingers with your arousal. Sticky, wet, you need him. Maybe it’s been too long without a good fuck, or you are simply obsessed, but it really doesn’t matter. You need a release right now or you might not make it through the night.

You start slow, rubbing circles over your needy clit. It doesn’t take long for you to overheat, however. So you pause your movements to shove your blanket off. Now fully naked and exposed to your cold room, you return your hand between your legs.

A wet squelching sounds as you rub and rub your fingers round and round. You test out rhythms, squirming under your desperate touch–slow–fast–slow–fast, and bite back a whimper.

What would Chris do, you cannot help wondering.

Administering featherlight touches, you know he’d play with you to start. He’d keep his pressure light and quick, wanting to watch you chase after his hand after every fleeting touch. Then, you push down harshly on your clit and bite into your lip harder to hold back a moan. You just know he’d be rough too, forcefully pressing down until he hears you whine his name.

“Chris,” you let yourself whisper. “Right there, baby.”

A quiet moan slips out with your words and you’re not completely mad about it. It was silent enough and you’re certain he’s too busy sipping on the warmed seven herb spiced blood you left out for him to pay much attention to you right now.

As much as you enjoy imagining him playing with you, you cannot stand the anticipation anymore. Your needy hole clenches repeatedly, aching to be filled. You shakily gasp and decide to fully give into your desire. Grabbing your wand, you place the handle against your clit and will it to vibrate. You use your other hand to finger yourself, shoving three ambitious digits in.

“ Oh!”

You bite your lip, panic sprouting in your chest at the sudden spike in volume. Glancing at the door, you’re relieved to find it still shut. You lay back against your pillow and pick up your pace. He’d be unforgiving. He’d be rough and reckless.

Your body trembles at the thought.

“Chris,” you whisper into the room. “Please don’t stop fucking me like that.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you imagine him leering over you, smirking and groaning. You imagine his strong frame ramming into you, his relentless grip keeping you in place. Would he want you to hold his gaze? Or would he bury his face in the crook of your neck to kiss and nibble on?

The pleasure only increases. You tense up. The vibrations rumbling from the hilt of your mahogany wand intensifies. Your fingers eagerly move in and out, tight walls closing in on them.

“ You’re gonna make me cum,” you mutter, breathless and whiny.

Cum for me , baby , a whisper of a voice orders. Be a good little witch and cum all over my fingers .

The sound is so deep and husky, but also murmurous and hazy. If you had time to focus on it, you wouldn’t have automatically assumed it was internal and perhaps investigated. But the constant pleasure is all too consuming. Working you closer and closer to your release, you cannot register the source of any sound besides that of your fast fingers and vibrating wand.

That pretty pussy looks so delicious .

Your orgasm catches you off guard, suddenly rippling through you. You squeal lifting your head from your pillow to almost hunch inwards and cum.

“Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris,” you whisper between whimpers and you rapidly draw every last surge of arousal out. “Oh my god ,” you heave, tossing your wand aside. The stimulation is nearly agonising when paired with your still moving fingers.

After a few more thrusts, you lay back into your bed, heaving. Your hand slides out and up towards your clit. A single brush of contact makes your body tremble. You retract your hand all together, swallowing a moan. Your legs come together, eyes droop from exhaustion and fatigue.

You have no idea how you’re going to remain “professional” tomorrow. The sheer thought of him down there coaxed one of your most powerful orgasms. How will you be able to keep your moans at bay, or your body from rolling into his mouth?

Click.

You snap your attention to your door. It’s shut. Holding your breath, you try to listen for footsteps. When that proves useless, you squint at the gap between the door and floor for movements of shadow. Still, silent, the hallway is empty.

With a shake of your head, you rest back into your pillow and wave yourself clean. You then tug your comforter back over your spent body and shut your eyes. You just need to get through tomorrow. Once the elixir and ritual is complete, he can return home and you won’t have to see him until your next cycle.

Chris stands in your room, arms crossed over his chest. It looks warmer under candlelights than it did last night beneath glimmering stars. Unlike the darkness of the bathroom, or warmth of the living room and kitchen, your room is a collection of cool tones, invoking quiet serenity. The walls are a hazy blue, trimmed with crown moulding around the baseboards and ceiling. One wall of the room is lined with shelves upon shelves of books, plants and a plethora of magical objects, like stones, crystal balls, and the occasional skull. A chestnut vanity, large wardrobe and oval mirror sit on his left side by an open window. Sheer violet curtains dance with the gentle wind.

Underfoot, a thick, handknitted rug of pewter, amethyst and onyx yarn stretches over polished, dark walnut floors. Chris curls his toes into it, attempting to ground himself, as his eyes follow you towards your four-poster bed. It must be a queen– rather fitting for you– since it takes up a substantial amount of space in the centre of the room. The gauzy mauve curtains surrounding your bed part as you approach it. Your matching greyish-plum comforter pulls back, as if welcoming you to silky starlight silver sheets. You wave it back into place then turn to him.

“It’s almost time,” you say.

The slight tremor in your voice draws Chris back to the events he witnessed last night. You keep talking now, gesturing to your bed with one hand, while clutching onto the small vial of a deep, inky violet elixir in the other. He sees your pretty mouth moving, but does not register your words. All he hears are your delicate, fragile moans.

Chris didn’t mean to linger or leer last night. He doesn’t usually go to the second floor when you go to bed, not wanting to disturb you. But he had just come back from collecting some ingredients for the elixir around the island, heard you calling his name and got curious. Once he realised what you were doing, he just couldn’t tear himself away. He remembers the way you squirmed and begged. He remembers the way you worked your fingers in and out of your perfect, needy pussy. He remembers how you held your wand, the one laying on your nightstand right now, and wonders how often you use it for that purpose. How often do you use it thinking about him ?

“Did you hear me?” you ask.

Chris’s eyes widen. “What?”

You tilt your head and give him a serious look. “Chris, do you still want to do this?”

“Of course.”

“Listen, if you’re having second thoug–”

Chris quickly cuts you off with an urgent shake of his head. “No, no, I want this,” he quickly reassures. The eagerness of his statement dawns on him the moment the words leave his lips. Chris immediately tries to save himself from further embarrassment, adding, “I want to feel normal again.”

You nod, inhaling deeply.

Chris’s attention flickers down to your full chest, watching it rise under your silky black robe then fall as you exhale. He meant to meet your gaze again, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking in your frame. From the curves of your waist to the roundness of your stomach and thickness of your thighs, you are a vision of temptation.

Your fingers trace the ribbon of your robe, drawing his focus back to your face. You bite on your lips, nervous eyes peering at him cautiously.

“Are you okay with this?” Chris asks. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”

You swallow thickly. “I want you to feel normal too,” you replied, lips slighting relaxing into a soft smile. “It’s not about changing my mind. I just…” you trail off with a sigh.

Chris remains silent, giving you the space to collect your thoughts.

Rolling your shoulders back, you hold his gaze and confess,“I just haven’t been naked in front of someone else in a really long time.”

One of the things Chris has come to find so admirable about you is how unapologetically honest you are about yourself. You do not mince words or circle difficult topics. You stand your ground and say what you mean, uttering every syllable like you are reciting a declaration of love, sincere and unwavering. He catches the way you fist your hands to keep them from trembling and he finds that defiance all the more endearing.

He tries to bite back a smile at how strong and cute you’re being. Fuck, he’s wholeheartly ready to devour you and show you just how wonderful you are.

Without another word, he tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He can’t help smirking when you gasp at his bare chest. He’s caught you staring enough time to know you like what you see. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulls them down with his briefs and steps out of them, fully naked in front of you.

“Now, you’re not alone,” he smiles.

Eyes widen, mouth slightly agape, you slowly drag your gaze down his frame. You shift your weight and he catches the way your legs press tightly together. The image of them spread and glistening with your arousal flashes between blinks.

You take another deep breath then untie the knot of your robe. The delicate silk slips off your shoulders, revealing the epitome of supple seduction and plump perfection.

Chris, already salivating, swallows. Your gaze trails back down to his crotch and he’s certain you are seeing exactly how he truly feels. His cock hardened last night the moment he saw you all needy and whiny. He tried to jerk himself off, hoping to soften again but failed– even after cumming three times.

“Does it bother you?” He gently asks, not moving to hide his erection yet.

You shake your head.

“I can put something back on if it does,” he tries again, wanting to be sure you know he is not ashamed of his desire. You’re incredibly hot and you must know it too with the way you constantly tease him with low-cut, form-fitting dresses. It’s partially why he asked Jisung to send him tank-tops and sweatpants when crafting a letter for Poe to send.

“It’s fine, Chris,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches at the memory of your whiny voice saying his name.

A little smile plays on your lips as you toss him half a shrug and add, “It was bound to happen at some point tonight. Might as well get over the awkwardness now.”

Chris glares, but the smirk on his face does not hint towards conviction. “Oh, yeah? Get this kinda reaction often, little witch?”

You bite your lip then teasingly quirk a brow. “Why,” you shoot back. “Jealous?”

He tongues his cheek. “I just wanna know how many members are part of your little fan club.”

You turn towards the bed, displaying your round rear, and reply, “There’s room for one more.”

Chirs suppresses a groan. He tightens his jaw and follows after you. As you lie back into your propped, plush pillows, Chris meets your eyes. All notions of uncertainty have been replaced by carefree mischief. He sits on his knees in front of your legs and offers a small smile.

“I already recited the spell,” you say, holding out the vial. “All you have to do now is pour it over me and… harvest the blood.”

Chris takes the tiny glass bottle, nodding. “If you ever need me to stop–” he starts, only for you to cut him off with the spread of your legs.

A richer, more musky aroma of your usual rainwater, sage and wild lavender scent instantly overwhelms his senses. Laced with your menstrual blood, it evokes the earthiness of damp soil and the sweetness of blooming flowers.

His jaw goes slack, eyes darkening. He can feel his fangs poke out and involuntarily takes a long, slow breath. His lungs do not work, heart still and cold, but he swears he feels them filling from the sheer smell of you.

Your soft voice cuts through his primal desires, as you whisper,“I trust you.”

With that, Chris uncorks the vial. His free hand settles on your thigh. He smiles to himself at the softness, having only imagined the feeling of it for the last two weeks. He knew you’d feel so delicate, rubbing his hand up and down your warm skin.

He looks back at you and meets your confident gaze with a little nod, confirming that he’s ready too. Then, he brings the tiny glass bottle to your blood-glistening lips and pours the elixir. It looks a lot like violet-coloured lube and feels that way too as he uses his thumb to rub it around your pussy.

Your hips stiffen, core clenches at the sudden sensation and Chris darts his attention up to your face again, concerned. However, tentative notions of pleasure greet him. Your brows furrows, and eyes flicker with shy delight. You bite your lip, and that’s when Chris catches the rapid pounding of your heart.

As he continues to rub the elixir over your clit then drag it down to circle your needy hole, Chris wonders if this is what you imagined him doing to you last night.

“I think it’s good now,” you say, voice wavering. “We don’t have all night, you know?”

Chris smirks at your little joke. You have a tendency to be rather bossy and he’s been trying to subtly reign in your sassiness with challenging looks and sharper words every now and again. But then you go and test his patience with shit like this– speaking to him like he works for you. It excites and enrages him all at once.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be taking that tone with me, little witch,” he warns, applying pressure with his thumb against your clit.

Your breath hitches before you clamp a hand to your mouth.

Chris stifles his laughter. You’re a good girl down to your core. You just need the right person to remind you of that sometimes.

Now that you are behaving, Chris lowers himself towards your delicious pussy. You smell divine, leaking of blood and drenched in the glow of the elixir. He cannot hold back any longer upon another strong whiff. Tongue flat, he drags it between your lips with a deep, full-chested groan. He repeats the slow action again and again, lowering himself further against the bed until he’s lying down on his stomach.

He pulls back to loop his arms under your thighs. Pulling the top part of your pussy up, he dives back in. You taste like the ocean breeze on a sweltering summer day, purely refreshing. His tongue circles around your lips and clit, gathering all the leaked blood, which adds a metalicy sweetness to your arousal. A part of him wishes he was able to taste you without the juicy influence of the elixir, wondering how the flavour of your blood would change.

Chris tongues the entrance of your hole, hoping to ease you into the–what did you call it?– harvest?

However, upon the first real sip of your menstrual blood, something profoundly primal snaps in the depths of his chest. Unbound by his inhibitions, he growls against your core and shoves his long, wet tongue deep into you.

A tiny whimper cuts through the loud sound of his slurps, but Chris pays it no mind. He laps and laps tongue-fulls of your blood, swallowing with eager delight. His fingers press into your soft skin, still Chris does not worry about bruising you. Instead, he shakes his head and lets out a series of pleased groans.

Your hips roll into his mouth and he welcomes the gesture with another slurp of your blood. He can feel the magical substance rush through his body, warming his once cold skin. Every swallow fills another organ and Chris is addicted to that rush of awakening nerves.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, shoving his face further into your sex. Legs wrapping around his head, Chris is only just realising that you’ve been whining and moaning this entire time. He focuses his enhanced hearing on your fragile voice, humming approving groans.

“Give it to me just like that,” you whimper. “Please, please , Chris.”

Again with those little demands , Chris thinks. At least you remembered to say please this time.

A mixture of your arousal and blood pools at your entrance, drawing Chris back to his task. His vampiric senses igniting all over again, he does not attempt to hold back. In and out, he shoves his tongue between your tightening walls, gathering as much blood as he can.

But, it’s not enough. His tongue is only collecting sips. Chris needs gulps .

He adjusts his grip on your hips, now pressing you firmly into the mattress and latches his lips over your entrance. With a deep breath, Chris begins to suck. He suctions his mouth and siphones your blood out. He swallows mouthfuls of elixir tainted blood and arousal, mismatched eyes rolling back at the satisfaction of such unholy hunger.

The more he draws, the darker you taste. Chris cannot describe it well, but he thinks it’s the taste of magic, fizzing on his tongue like sparkling water.

“ Oh, fuck ,” you cry, voice breaking as you cum.

A hint of lightness settles on his tongue upon sucking out your orgasm as well. Chris moans in delight, gulping down two more mouthfuls before finally pulling away with a wet pop .

Your legs are hyper-extended, trembling over his shoulders.

Chris glances up at you, curious to see if you’ll own the fact that you just came on his face or if you’ll get all shy and bashful. Your pleased features are laced with exhaustion as you pant. Tired eyes meeting his lustful ones, you quirk a brow. Chris licks his lips, taking the gesture as a silent question of if he is satisfied.

Physically, Chris is full. He is not sure he can down even the tiniest of sips. Sexually, however, he is just getting started.

“You alright?” he asks, sitting himself up on his knees again.

You nod, but Chris shakes his head. You know better than to respond like that , he thinks.

“Talk to me, baby.”

The term of endearment was not intentional, but Chris also does not hate the way it sounds. It slipped out last night too as he talked you through your orgasm. He can tell from the way your lips part and eyes slightly widen that you’re waiting for him to correct himself, but he refuses to. Instead, he holds your eyes without a notion of panic or regret.

“I’m okay,” you finally mutter between heavy breaths. “I…” you hesitate, attention flickering down to his crotch momentarily. “I need more.”

Chris smirks. “What do you say?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Your lips quiver, desperation seeping into your gaze. “Please fuck me, Chris. No– don’t look at me like that. I know you want this too.”

Chris was trying to hide his smug smile, but upon your demand, he lets it take over his features. You’re a fucking brat, and he has extended the last of his generous patience. Before he can think twice, Chris smacks your sensitive pussy.

“When,” he smacks it again, “are you,” smack , “going to fucking” smack , “learn?”

Your hips jolt up with every hit, moans trembling as they tumble from your beautiful lips. Your face is a crumpled mess of pleasure and pain, desperate eyes boring into his.

Cupping you with one hand and harshly rubbing, Chris places his other by your head and hovers over your shaking body. “Listen to me, little witch,” he whispers, nudging his bloody nose against yours. “If you talk to me like that again, like I’m your little pet , I will fuck you even after the sun comes up, do you understand?”

You nod eagerly.

Chris tightens his grip on your crotch, baring his teeth with an annoyed growl. “Use your fucking words,” he orders. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply, voice quiet and meek.

The little whimpers you subsequently let out don’t do much to ease the throb of his cock. In fact, they only intensify it. You sound like wounded prey and he’s tired of fighting against his instincts. He’s been stifling the beast inside for the last eight years, filling himself with self-loathing instead. He’s done hating the power, fully embracing his new supernatural form.

Releasing his hold on your crotch, Chris immediately aligns and shoves himself between your walls. A loud hiss escapes his blood-dripping lips, fangs on full display, at the tight pressure around him. Fuck, if he hadn’t seen you skillfully fingering yourself last night, he would have believed you were a virgin.

You moan with him, clutching on his shoulders. “Oh, god ,” you groan, enchanting eyes fluttering shut. “ Fuck, fuck– Chris, you’re h-huge. What the actual fuck?”

Chris’s previously irritated resolve wavers upon your squealing voice. He pauses his shallow thrusts to give you time to adjust.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat as your nails dig into his warming flesh. “I-I know you need this too.”

Shifting down to his forearms, Chris buries his face in the crook of your neck, and fondly inhales your scent. “Don’t be sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I waited two weeks for this. Another minute won’t make a difference.”

You let out a breathless giggle, wrapping your arms around his head. A delighted hum sounds from your lips and Chris feels the vibrations of it against his face. He smiles to himself before licking and kissing your delicate skin.

Your heart is beating so fast. He can feel the thumping pounds against his tongue and can’t help but chuckle. Your skin suddenly grows hot and he realises he has embarrassed you. Yet, instead of pushing him off, you clench tighter around him.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whine.

Chris smirks at your tone and wording, glad to see you’re finally following his orders. Still, he decides to test it again, wondering if it’s just a fluke.

“I’m not laughing at you, little witch,” he lies.

Instead of calling him out, you remain silent.

Chris pulls back to gauge your features. Though pouting, you refrain from glaring at him too hard. Filled with pride, Chris kisses your cheek, down to your jaw then up to your chin again.

“Good girl,” he mutters once his lips are hovering over your mouth.

Your gaze flits between his eyes and blood-stained lips. Chris makes the conscious choice not to kiss you, unsure if the taste of your menstrual blood will be as delicious to you as it is to him. For a second, he thinks you might kiss him anyway, panting beneath him even when he remains motionless inside you.

But then you simply arch your back, pushing your full breasts against him, and mutter, “I’m ready now.”

Chris dips his head back down to your neck. He kisses and sucks on your hot skin, gently thrusting into you. He takes his time, with his hips and lips, dragging the process out only to forcefully shove it back in.

You’re already trembling, sweet voice hiccuping moans. Chris scratches his fangs over your collarbone just to hear you whimper his name.

“Please, Chris,” you cry.

He kisses the slightly wounded area and quietly chuckles to himself. “Do you need something, little witch?” he teasingly asks.

“F-faster, please?” you quickly ask. “I’m not telling. I’m asking– begging! Please, please , Chris!”

His cock twitches. He groans at the sound of your desperate, whiny voice, physically incapable of torturing you any longer. With supernatural speed, Chris’s hips snap into action. He thrusts harshly, fisting the sheets beneath you. The bed creaks and slams against the walls over and over again, overtaking the slapping sound of his hips meeting yours.

Your body shakes and jiggles under him, and he is obsessed with how amazing your skin feels rubbing against his. Your nails scratch at his back, before finally sinking into his shoulders. You brace yourself against him, the sounds of your broken, sobbing moans encouraging him to continue.

"You have no idea what your voice does to me,” Chris groans, lips smothered under your jaw. “I could listen to you all fucking night.”

Your legs wrap around his waist. Chris groans even louder, addicted to the way you’re clinging onto him.

“Only you can make me sound like this,” you whimper then warn a thrust later, “I’m gonna cum!”

Chris lets out a low, satisfied growl, relentless with his speed and power. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers in a deep, breathless voice, “ Cum for me, sweet girl. ”

He can feel the erratic beat of your heart against his chest. Your pussy tightly clenches around him, gripping harshly onto his cock. As you cum, squealing his name like a practised spell, he chokes on his own moans. His hips push deep inside you, tensing as he finally unloads himself. Ropes and ropes of his cum fill you up as he growls in response to your meek moans.

Chris thrusts a few more times, wanting to ensure you’ve exhausted your orgasm. Then, in two swift motions, he lifts, pulls himself out, and rolls off you. He lands on the bed with a little bounce and content sigh. He expects to see the night sky on the ceiling, like it was last night, but instead finds the sea. And there, between the lapping waves, Chris catches your reflection.

Raising a brow, he tongues his cheek and looks at you. “Enjoy the show,” he teases.

You roll your eyes, heat crawling up your neck to spread across your cheeks. “I did, actually,” you definitely reply as a last ditch effort to save a semblance of your self-respect. “You have a great butt, by the way.”

Chris laughs. He throws his head back and lets out a full-chested roar of a laugh. He can’t remember that last time he did that without you around. The last two weeks have made him feel more human than he probably ever had in his life. You’re absolutely remarkable and he’s lucky to have met you, even if it means he had to lose his soul.

Lifting his arm, Chris nods at you, silently ordering you to lean into him. You shift closer and hug his waist without another word, much to his surprise.

“You’re so pretty when you're doing as you're told,” Chris praises.

“I’m pretty always,” you retort.

Chris rolls his eyes. “Just take the compliment,” he chuckles.

“You’re not fucking me,” you practically whine. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re impossible,” Chris mutters under his breath. But he still holds you close, tracing soothing circles around your shoulder.

You both bask in the silence while he gives you a second to catch your breath. Once he hears your heart beat normally again, Chris asks, “Does it work right away?”

You hum with uncertainty, waving your hand to summon the book. It flies towards you then hovers over your faces. After flipping through the pages, it lands on the recipe for the elixir.

Chris tilts his eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this the right book?” he asks, as he skims through the paragraphs.

You flip the page, mumbling, “Yeah.”

There are only a few books in your personal library that Chris cannot read, having been written in an ancient language he has tried and failed to understand. However, as he stares longer at the page, Chris finds that he can read every word.

You gasp, sitting up. The book moves with you, hoving in front of you instead of on top of you now. Not that it even matters, since you grab the book from mid-air and pull it into your lap.

Chris sits up beside you. He brushes your hair off your shoulder and asks, “What’s wrong? Did we do it wrong?”

You bring a hand to your mouth as if you cannot believe what you’re reading. “We fucked up,” you whisper.

A smirk plays on his lips. “Does that mean we get to do this again?”

Setting the book down, you rub your face and choke back a chuckle. “No, I mean,” you start, turning to face him. “We really fucked up.”

Chris’s smile falters. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, gently running his hand up and down your bicep. “It’s alright, little witch. Take a breath,” he whispers, making sure to keep his voice light. “What happened?”

Your eyes shut, brows knotting, and lean into him. “There is a disclaimer at the end of every spell, recipe, ritual– Whatever it is, there is always a disclaimer that outlines the side effects or possible consequences to alterations.”

Chris nods, urging you to continue.

“The magic we were using is called sex magic. It usually uses the sexual energy created between the participating parties to harness power. In our case, we were only meant to use it to make you sun-proof, for lack of a better word.”

“I can think of three better words,” Chris can’t help but tease.

You fight off a smile, glaring at him. “Keep them to yourself,” you demand.

Chris pauses, wanting to tell you to behave but he can’t move his lips. His voice has diminished too, like his body is physically incapable of ordering you around.

Guilt flashes in your eyes. “When we had sex, with the elixir and spell tangled in the initial act of harvesting my blood, the purpose of the ritual shifted,” you continue, shoulders tensing. “It may have bound you to me.”

“What?” Chris asks, trying and failing not to sound annoyed. “What does that mean?”

“Witches often have familiars and demons are often serving creatures. They get summoned and must fulfil the summoner's request to be released. The spell has been documented to intertwine the two when more than the required act was performed,” you explain.

What about the crows , Chris wants to ask. He thought they held the role of a familiar.

You shake your head. “They’re more like co-inhibitors. It is their island afterall.”

Chris retracts his arm from you, setting his jaw. He knows he did not say that out loud so how the–

Shit, did I just read his mind?

Your voice is clear in his head. Blinking, Chris swallows thickly. “Is that normal?”

You hesitate. “I’ll look into it.”

“How could you have missed this?”

“I was a little busy trying to find all the ingredients,” you argue.

Chris deadpans. “ I found the ingredients,” he corrects.

You bite your lip, face crumbling with remorse. “I’m sorry, I–” you cut yourself off with a sigh then start again. “Honestly, I was too busy thinking about you eating me out. It’s why I made you go out and get those ingredients last night. I wanted the house to myself to just let out some of my–”

“Temptations?”

“ Frustrations ,” you correct with a playful glare. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

Chris sighs. He rubs his face and slumps back against your pillows.

This may not have been what he wanted, however while he wants to be upset, he cannot find it in him to be disappointed. You’re a great friend, a better lover and he’d be insane to reject you. The only real downside about this newfound connection is his inability to put you in your place. You tend to get a bit too cocky and mouth off when he lets one too many sassy comments slide.

“I don’t want this going to your head, little witch,” he warns, meeting your gaze again.

You try to hide that mischievous smile and not being able to correct it is already driving him crazy.

“No promises,” you tease. Leaning over him, you stroke his chest and add, “But you have permission to keep me in check whenever you please.”

Chris tongues his cheek. “You had to have known that I would hate the way you said that.”

Your little smile is enough confirmation.

Chris shoves you back into the bed with a gentle push of your shoulder. “You clearly haven’t had enough,” he murmurs, stationing himself between your legs again.

“But the elix–”

“To hell with the fucking elixir,” he growls. “I’ll be damned if I don’t fuck your mouth clean.”

The way you shiver at the sound of his voice arouses him all over again. Shifting off the bed, Chris stands at the edge and gestures for you to adjust yourself so your head is hanging off the mattress.

And with a simple tug of your chin, he’s determined to stay true to his words.

You eagerly oblige him.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

#chantober 2024 #bang chan smut #chan smut #stray kids smut #bang chan fanfic #bang chan x reader #chan fanfic #chan x reader #stray kids x reader

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kingofbodyrolls · 3 months ago

Text

Friendcation (m) | myg | chapter 1

*this is a re-upload since I deleted my old account 🫣

As exhaustion and stress threaten to consume you and your friends at work, Yoongi comes to the rescue with an enticing proposal: a collective vacation—a friendcation. Amid the backdrop of breathtaking landscapes and shared adventures, your feelings for him only deepens more. Yet, his lingering gaze holds secrets you can’t ignore, leaving you to wonder if it conceals something deeper—an unspoken connection that may forever alter your friendship.

→ Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female) → AUs: camping!au, roadtrip!au, non idol!au, mechanic!yoongi → Genre(s): humor/comedy, slight angst, smut and fluff → Trope(s): friends to lovers → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.)→ Word count: 11.9k → warnings + triggers: bad crack/humor, longing and unrequited(?) feelings, accident involving a bra, exposure of breasts (through a shirt), ’friendzone’, talk about past sexual encounters, vulgar language, a very lame game of ‘never have I ever’. → Author’s note: this story takes place in South Korea — and I’ve never been there or to any of the places mentioned in this obviously. If something related to the locations, travel times and such, doesn’t make sense, that’s why. It’s fiction so I hope I can get away with that 🤭 → Read on AO3? [link]

navi: [s.masterlist] | [m.masterlist] | next →

The air hummed with anticipation as the clock struck five on a balmy Friday evening, signaling the end of another grueling workweek. The city was alive with the promise of the weekend, and you could practically taste the freedom in the air.

Your heart quickened with excitement as you left the office behind, knowing that the world was now your oyster. With the sun casting a warm, golden glow over the bustling streets, you rendezvoused with your closest friends, as you always did when the weekend beckoned. Laughter and camaraderie were your constant companions, and tonight was no exception.

As the night unfolded, you found yourselves in a new bar that had recently emerged as the hidden gem of the city’s nightlife. It exuded an inviting aura, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. With plush leather booths that cradled you in comfort and a softly lit ambiance that created an air of mystery, this place was different, and you could sense it.

Seated in a spacious booth with enough room for all eight of you, you felt the buzz of excitement ripple through your group.

You take charge, ordering a round of beers for everyone, a familiar role you’ve come to embrace as the only woman in the group. The bartender nods with a knowing smile, having seen this ritual play out countless times before.

With practiced ease, you slide the cold bottles onto a tray and carry them over to the waiting table, the anticipation of the first sip palpable in the air.

As you distribute the drinks, your friends don’t hesitate to lend a hand, their camaraderie a testament to the strong bond that holds your group together.

Each bottle clinks against the table, a chorus of celebration for the weekend ahead. The men around you, usually boisterous and full of banter, fall into a brief, contemplative silence, their eyes fixed on the frothy brews before them.

For a fleeting moment, the world outside fades away, and you all savor the taste of the golden elixir. It’s not just about the beer; it’s about the shared moments, the stories, and the unspoken understanding that binds you all together. The dim glow of the bar’s ambient lighting casts a warm, comforting veil over your group, cocooning you in a world where time seems to stand still.

As you shared stories and caught up on each other’s lives, the bonds of friendship grew even stronger.

Seokjin, with a twinkle in his eye, leaned in and shared exciting news—he and his girlfriend were taking a leap of faith and moving in together. His face radiated happiness, and you couldn’t help but share in his joy, toasting to the beginning of this new chapter in his life.

Namjoon, nursing his beer, let out a weary sigh as he recounted the daily grind of his office job. The weariness etched into his features spoke volumes about his longing for change and adventure, and you empathized with his desire for something more.

Jungkook, the youngest of your group, excitedly shares his latest venture, a brand-new modeling gig that demands he showcase his sculpted physique. With each word, he vividly describes the sensation of being in front of the camera, the sensation of the studio lights warming his skin, and the countless hours he’s dedicated to chiseling his abs in the gym, transforming his body into a work of art.

Hoseok, the sunbeam of the group, exuded infectious enthusiasm as he described his teaching job, imparting the joy of dance to a classroom full of eager, smiling children. His laughter filled the air, warming the hearts of everyone at the table. You couldn’t help but admire his passion and the positive impact he had on those young minds.

Amidst the lively chatter, Taehyung leaned forward, his eyes lighting up as he shared his new passion for photography. He excitedly talked about the growing number of followers on his Instagram, each click of the shutter capturing a piece of his soul. The way he described his creative journey made it clear that this was more than a hobby—it was his escape, his sanctuary.

Jimin, on the other hand, slouched slightly in his seat, his eyes betraying the weight of his graphic design job. His once-bright spirit seemed overshadowed by the relentless stress that gnawed at him daily. He opened up about the overwhelming workload, the tight deadlines, and how the constant pressure was taking a toll on his well-being. You couldn’t help but empathize, for you too were trapped in a similar cycle.

You glanced at your own reflection in the condensation-covered beer bottle, a sigh escaping your lips. The walls of the corporate marketing world were closing in on you, suffocating your creativity, and overwhelming you with stress. Burnout was creeping closer, and you knew you needed a well-deserved break to reclaim your sanity.

Amidst the collective sighs and groans about the perils of office life, there was Yoongi, the mechanic. He leaned back, his expression content, almost defiant. While the rest of you complained, he cherished every moment in his garage, grease-stained hands and all. The smell of engine oil and the clank of metal were his symphony, and his love for his work shone through. The contrast between his satisfaction and your collective frustration was stark, a reminder that there were different paths to happiness.

The dimly lit bar provided a sanctuary for your candid conversation with Jimin. He sighed, his gaze fixed on the swirling patterns of condensation on his beer. The weight of your stressful lives hung heavy in the air, a shared burden you both desperately needed to unload.

“We should really consider taking some time off,” Jimin mused, his voice tinged with a hint of longing as he brought the cold bottle to his lips, his eyes locking with yours. The sincerity in his gaze made it clear that this was more than just casual chatter.

You nodded, a mix of agreement and resignation. “I’d love to, but you know how my boss is. Getting time off is like pulling teeth,” you admitted, deflated by the reality of your job’s demands.

Jimin’s lips curved into a sympathetic smile, his empathy palpable. “I know what you mean,” he said, taking a final swig of his beer, his shoulders slumping. “What would we even do on a break, though?”

With a sigh, you emptied the remnants of your beer, contemplating the questions. “Maybe just Netflix all day?” you suggested with a wistful laugh, the idea of relaxation feeling like a distant dream.

However, before the conversation could lose itself in the realm of impracticality, Yoongi interjected, his words cutting through the haze of doubt. “Or we could all go on a vacation together,” he proposed, his voice surprisingly confident.

The suggestion hung in the air, momentarily shocking you and Jimin into silence. The surrounding chatter among the other men faded, their curious glances turning in your direction. Gasps escaped your lips in unison, and the hushed anticipation in the room was palpable as everyone eagerly awaited your response.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your eyes widening in surprise as Yoongi’s unexpected proposal hung in the air.

Yoongi shrugged nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he reached for another beer from the middle of the table. “We could take a trip in Holly,” he explained casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Holly, his self-renovated VW camper van, had seen its fair share of adventures, and tonight, it seemed destined for another one.

The idea seemed to catch like wildfire, sparking enthusiasm around the table. Jimin leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with wonder.

“A camping trip?” he asked, already lost in thought, his excitement palpable.

Jungkook’s face lit up with a wide, boyish grin. “That sounds so fun, hyung!” he exclaimed, unable to contain his eagerness.

Seokjin, normally the voice of reason in your friend group, chimed in with a hint of excitement. “I’d have to check with my girlfriend, but it does sound like a blast,” he admitted, his willingness to consider the idea evident.

Namjoon, the thoughtful thinker, let out a hopeful sigh, “That actually sounds like just what I need,” he said, the weight of his office job still heavy on his mind.

The excitement and anticipation in the room were infectious, as if the mere mention of the camping trip had breathed new life into all of you.

The realization dawned that Yoongi’s beloved camper van, Holly, couldn’t accommodate all of you at once. It was a cozy van, filled with memories of countless journeys, but its space was limited. He had made the dining and back seats in Holly removable and customizable, so the seats could be turned into a bed big enough to fit two people. Then there was the overhead space big enough to fit one (or two every comfortable) person(s). Yoongi’s solution therefore, delivered with a sly smile, was to take turns with your vacations, ensuring that the bond of friendship remained unbroken.

“Let’s divide ourselves into groups of five,” he suggested, as you all huddled together, discussing the logistics. The prospect of close quarters and shared adventures only seemed to add to the excitement. You’d been friends for so many years that the idea of sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder with each other brought a sense of comfort rather than discomfort.

“The sleeping arrangement might be a tad tight,” Yoongi acknowledged, “but we’ve faced far worse challenges together.” His words were met with nods of agreement, a testament to the unbreakable bond you all shared.

Jimin, always the planner of the group, chimed in, “We can even set up a tent outside for those who prefer it, under the starry night sky.” The thought of sleeping beneath the open heavens, surrounded by the tranquil sounds of nature, sparked a sense of adventure in all of you.

As the discussion continued, you could feel the anticipation building. The prospect of taking turns with your vacations only made the idea more exciting.

You imagined the laughter, the late-night talks around a campfire, and the shared experiences that lay ahead. The decision to divide yourselves into smaller groups only added to the sense of adventure, ensuring that each trip would be a unique and intimate experience. The camaraderie among your friends was unshakable, and the thought of spending quality time together, exploring new places, filled you with a sense of anticipation that was truly electrifying.

Each of you had to face the inevitable reality of asking for time off from your demanding jobs, but the mere thought of the adventure awaiting you was worth every ounce of effort. There was an unspoken agreement among you all, a silent pledge to make it work.

Jimin couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear as he contemplated the escape from his stressful work life. His eyes sparkled with dreams of the places you’d explore and the memories you’d create.

Jungkook, probably the most adventurous of the group, was practically bouncing in his seat, already mentally packing his bags for the journey. His enthusiasm was infectious, reigniting the fervor in everyone else.

Seokjin approached the situation with a sense of practicality, contemplating the delicate task of convincing his girlfriend to join in on the adventure. Yet, his hopeful tone hinted at his desire to make it work, as he imagined the joy of shared experiences.

Namjoon had already begun to envision the break as a chance to rejuvenate his weary spirit. His sigh of relief was almost palpable, the idea of escaping the office grind a beacon of hope.

And then there was Yoongi with a heart full of wanderlust. His eyes gleamed with determination, a silent promise that he would do whatever it took to ensure that Holly, his trusted van, would carry them on this journey of a lifetime.

As Yoongi excused himself to go to the toilet, a charged atmosphere settled around the table. Like moths drawn to a flame, the guys leaned in, their voices hushed, concern etched on their faces. They knew, as well as you did, about the feelings you harbored for Yoongi, feelings you’d kept locked away for so long.

Jungkook couldn’t help but voice his worry. “Are you sure you’re okay with being cramped together in his camper van for so long?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his tone but genuine concern underlying his words. His eyes bore into yours, searching for any signs of hesitation.

You sighed, your gaze drifting toward the empty seat where Yoongi had been moments ago. “I’ll be fine,” you replied, your voice carrying a mixture of determination and trepidation. Deep down, you were already apprehensive, knowing that the close confines of the van could only fuel the feelings you’d tried so hard to suppress.

Memories of past vacations with your friends haunted you. Those trips had been both a blessing and a curse, bringing you closer to Yoongi, yet painfully highlighting the unspoken love you carried for him. It seemed that everyone except Yoongi was aware of your hidden affection.

When you first met Yoongi a decade ago, the memory remains etched in your mind like a vivid painting. Jimin had introduced you two, and from that very moment, you were inexplicably drawn to him. His soulful, dark brown eyes held a certain depth that seemed to see right through you, and his laid-back, carefree attitude enveloped you in a comforting embrace.

Over the years, you watched as he dated other people, trying to suppress your own growing feelings. You, too, went through your share of relationships, attempting to bury your emotions beneath layers of fleeting connections.

Yet, no matter how hard you tried, your heart continued to beat with an unrelenting ache for him. Your friendship with Yoongi deepened, and the more you got to know him, the more precious he became. He was a man of few words, but his actions spoke volumes. Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t bring yourself to confess your feelings, fearing it might jeopardize the beautiful bond you shared.

As time passed, you began to doubt whether he felt the same way about you. It seemed like the universe conspired to keep you apart, never aligning the stars in your favor. But your heart still held onto that glimmer of hope, a tiny flame of longing that refused to be extinguished.

You mustered the courage to approach your boss and request time off from work, your heart pounding with anticipation.

To your astonishment, your boss, who had been closely monitoring your dedication and the extra hours you’d poured into your job, responded with a broad smile.

‘Take as much time off as you need,’ he said warmly, his approval a beacon of recognition for your hard work. It felt like a dream, a reward for your dedication that you never thought possible.

Unlike the rest of you, Yoongi held the unique advantage of being his own boss, running his own successful business. The mere mention of vacation didn’t send shivers down his spine as it did for some of your friends who faced the daunting task of navigating office politics and requesting time off. Instead, Yoongi could simply close down his shop without the constraints of corporate bureaucracy, making the prospect of this vacation all the more tantalizing and carefree.

Deep in conversation in another bar, you and Yoongi contemplated the duration of your upcoming journey. As the words flowed between you, you couldn’t help but yearn for an extended break, a chance to escape the relentless grind of everyday life.

With a thoughtful look, you suggested, “What if we make it three months?”

The idea of such an extended vacation felt like a lifeline, offering not just relaxation but also the opportunity to truly disconnect from the stresses of the world. It was a bold proposition, a leap into the unknown, and the very thought of it filled you with a sense of exhilaration and anticipation.

Discussions had swirled among the group about the length of the upcoming vacation, and the other guys had mentioned that they could manage to get three to four weeks off work.

You and Yoongi exchanged a knowing look, understanding that your own schedules were more flexible.In a quiet moment, you leaned in toward Yoongi, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of excitement and anticipation.

“Maybe we could spend a couple of weeks on our own,” you suggested, the idea of sharing that intimate time with him making your heart race. It was a decision that felt like a secret shared between the two of you, a chance to deepen your connection amidst the adventures that awaited.

You hope your heart can take it.

Jimin, Jungkook, and Taehyung eagerly synced their hectic schedules, determined to kick off the adventure with you and Yoongi on the very first stretch of the trip. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and the prospect of shared moments and laughter with your best friends at the start of the journey filled you with excitement.

As the days ticked by, anticipation grew like a wildfire. You could practically taste the adventure that awaited.

As the final week of work drew to a close, you couldn’t contain your excitement for the impending camping trip with your best friends.

Your evenings were a whirlwind of activity, filled with carefully selecting and packing canned foods and your favorite snacks, to bundling up your comfy duvet, selecting just the right clothes for the journey, and securing your trusty bike, and the flutter of anticipation that danced in your chest with each passing day.

It was a week of meticulous preparations and eager anticipation, a countdown to the adventure that awaited.

For the first leg of your journey, you and your friends had collectively chosen Busan as your destination, having found a perfect Park Auto Campground.

The decision to travel to Busan held a special significance, as it was a place close to Jimin and Jungkook’s hearts—where they had grown up, shared memories, and formed deep connections.

As you envisioned the adventure that lay ahead, you couldn’t help but feel the excitement building. Busan, with its pristine beaches, bustling markets, and the familiar laughter of friends, promised a week of nostalgia, bonding, and unforgettable experiences. It was more than just a location; it was a place filled with stories and cherished memories, and you couldn’t wait to explore it with Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook, reliving their past and creating new memories together.

The long-awaited day of your adventure had finally arrived, and the excitement in the air was palpable.

With everything meticulously packed, you and Yoongi set off to pick up Taehyung, Jimin, and Jungkook, who were waiting eagerly, their laughter and chatter a prelude to the journey ahead.

The interior of the van was a testament to Yoongi’s craftsmanship, the extra seats he had skillfully fashioned providing a comfortable and cozy space for your friends.

Taehyung, Jimin, and Jungkook settled in, their faces radiating anticipation as they found their spots amidst the camping gear and provisions. As you and Yoongi took your places in the front seats, a sense of togetherness washed over you. The engine roared to life, and the open road beckoned, promising a cascade of adventures and memories waiting to be made.

Together, you embarked on the journey to Busan, the road stretching out before you like an uncharted path of adventure. The drive was a symphony of laughter and camaraderie, the hours from Seoul to Busan passing in the blink of an eye amidst shared tales and uproarious laughter.

As you journeyed down the familiar highway, memories of your enduring friendship came flooding back, like cherished chapters from a well-worn book. Stories of your youth, of misadventures and inside jokes, wove a tapestry of nostalgia, each anecdote igniting fresh bursts of laughter and heartfelt smiles.

The highway seemed like a time machine, propelling you into the past while carrying you toward the future. The miles melted away, but the bonds of friendship grew stronger, each passing mile a testament to the enduring connection you all shared.

After a journey filled with laughter and anticipation, you reached your destination: a Park Auto Campground next to the Nakdonggang River. The site greeted you with open arms, its serene beauty stretching out before your eager eyes as if welcoming old friends.

As you scoured the area from the van, Yoongi expertly maneuvered Holly to find the perfect parking spot. The soft hum of the engine came to a halt, and the atmosphere was filled with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of a nearby river. With Holly now parked in its serene haven, a collective sigh of contentment escaped your lips.

The camping site held the promise of adventure and tranquility, a canvas upon which you would paint memories to last a lifetime.

The rhythmic clatter of camping gear being unpacked and the rustling of fabric filled the serene surroundings. With a sense of unity, you and Yoongi expertly set up the camper van, unfurling the marquee with practiced precision.

Nearby, Jungkook and Taehyung worked in tandem, constructing their cozy tent under the sheltering canopy of trees. The spirit of teamwork and shared adventure was palpable, as each of you played a vital role in creating your temporary home. Yoongi and Jimin would convert the seats into a makeshift bed, ensuring their comfort for the night. Meanwhile, you would sleep in the top bunk overhead in Holly, a cozy vantage point that promised a night under the stars.

With everything set up and the campsite now a cozy haven, you and your friends gathered together, sitting in a circle amidst the rustic charm of your surroundings. The sun bathed you all in a warm, golden glow as you indulged in light snacks, the tantalizing aroma mingling with the sounds of shared laughter and conversations.

The relentless heat outside compelled you to make a bold wardrobe choice.

You opted for a bikini, the cool fabric hugging your skin like a second, refreshing layer. Over it, you threw on an oversized, crisp white shirt that billowed gently in the warm breeze, and paired it with comfy shorts. The combination was a blend of comfort and casual chic, perfect for the scorching day ahead.

While the guys collectively opted for a moment of relaxation, sinking into their seats to unwind, you felt a different kind of energy coursing through you. The allure of the campsite beckoned, and you couldn’t resist the call of adventure.

As you ventured along the Riverside, the world seemed to slow down, and the beauty of nature unfolded before you.

The River stretched out before you, its cool, glistening waters an irresistible contrast to the relentless, sweltering heat of the day.

You were well aware that the River wasn’t intended for swimming, yet the allure of the refreshing waters beckoned irresistibly. As beads of sweat formed on your brow, you couldn’t help but contemplate the idea of a quick dip.

The prospect of the water caressing your skin, offering a brief respite from the scorching sun, seemed like a tantalizing temptation. A moment of hesitation hung in the air, your internal debate reflecting the eternal struggle between caution and the sheer joy of spontaneity.

Would it really hurt to take a short plunge?

With a sense of urgency, you hastily shed your shirt and shorts, driven by the need to escape the uncomfortable embrace of your clinging clothing. The scorching sun had left you longing for a moment of relief, and the thought of your clothes sticking uncomfortably to your body after your dip was unbearable.

As you wade into the River, the shock of its icy embrace sends shivers down your spine, an invigorating jolt that instantly cools your overheated body.

The water’s chill becomes a welcome refuge from the relentless heat. As you ventured further into the refreshing waters, the sun’s warm caress on your skin, you reveled in the cool embrace of the River. The serenity of the moment was interrupted by an unexpected surge, a hidden current that wrapped around you with a sudden, forceful grip.

In an instant, the playful tug of the stream unraveled the delicate string of your bikini bra, causing it to slip from your body and disappear downstream.

Panic surged through you, and you reached out desperately, fingers grasping at the elusive fabric, but it slipped through your trembling hands like a fleeting dream.

With your heart pounding and cheeks flushed, you instinctively covered your exposed breasts with one hand, the other waving frantically as you called out for Jimin, your voice a mix of surprise and embarrassment.

Desperation welled up inside you as you stood in the River, your voice carrying your distress with a pleading intensity.

“Jimin!” you called out, the sound of his name echoing across the water.

Each syllable was laced with a raw sense of urgency, as if your very survival depended on him hearing and responding to your plea.

Thankfully, Jimin’s sharp ears didn’t fail him. As he sat leisurely, engrossed in the pages of a book, the distant sound of your frantic yell cut through the tranquility of the campsite like a thunderclap.

His head snapped up, eyes widening in alarm as he quickly scanned the surroundings. The book slipped from his grasp, forgotten, as his instincts kicked into high gear. He’d heard your distress call, and without a moment’s hesitation, he was on his feet, ready to sprint towards the source of your urgency.

Jimin strolled briskly toward the Riverside, his curiosity piqued by your urgent call.

As his eyes landed on your shivering form, it didn’t take him long to grasp the comical situation you’d found yourself in—a situation he’d shared with you once before.

With a knowing grin, he couldn’t suppress a chuckle, the sound bubbling up from deep within him. His laughter, filled with camaraderie rather than mockery, drew the attention of your friends, who turned their heads to see what had captured Jimin’s amusement.

There you stood, half-exposed, a mix of embarrassment and amusement dancing across your face as Jimin’s laughter rang out.

Expletives rang in your mind as you realized the collective gaze of your friends and even nearby campers had zeroed in on your predicament.

The disapproving glares from unfamiliar faces added another layer of discomfort to your already embarrassing situation.

Great, just great!

You couldn’t help but hiss at your friends, their raucous laughter ringing in your ears like a chorus of mockery. It was as if the universe had conspired to turn this innocent mishap into a spectacle, and you were at the center of it all.

The heat of embarrassment flushed your cheeks, but your determination to salvage your dignity burned even hotter.

Jimin couldn’t contain his laughter as he turned to Yoongi, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Hyung, can you be our hero and help her?” he asked, a playful grin tugging at his lips.

Yoongi let out an exaggerated groan, his reluctance comically evident. Yet, he couldn’t resist the camaraderie of the moment and rose from his seat with a theatrical sigh.

With determined strides, Yoongi made his way over to you in the River, his expression a mix of feigned annoyance and genuine concern. His willingness to help spoke volumes about the unwavering bonds of friendship that bound your group together, even in the most amusing of circumstances.

Jimin couldn’t contain his amusement as he descended from the Riverside, his giggles echoing through the campsite like a contagious melody. His laughter was an infectious blend of mirth and camaraderie, a testament to the enduring bonds of your friendship that could turn even the most embarrassing situations into moments of shared joy.

As Yoongi approached, his gaze landed on you standing in the River, hands firmly over your chest. His voice, tinged with a hint of weariness from his earlier relaxation, held genuine concern as he inquired, “What happened?”

You sighed, your voice tinged with both relief and lingering embarrassment.

“... My bra fell off,” you admitted, your gaze sweeping the river’s surface in search of the missing garment. As you scanned the water, your heart skipped a beat with both trepidation and a glimmer of hope.

Luck was on your side, as you finally spotted your bra, ensnared in the river’s embrace, just a short distance from Yoongi. You couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude and amusement as you pointed in his direction, your tone playful yet appreciative.

“It’s over there,” you called out.

He hummed thoughtfully, taking cautious steps closer to the elusive piece of clothing. As his fingers extended, a gentle breeze teased at the fabric, causing it to flutter away like a playful phantom.

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, a vivid blush warming your skin.

Yet, despite the mortification, a sense of relief washed over you as your oversized shirt remained firmly on the grass in the Riverside, preserving your modesty.

A grateful smile tugged at your lips as you acknowledged Yoongi’s well-intentioned attempt. “Thanks for trying, Yoon,” you murmured, your voice laced with appreciation and a touch of amusement.

“So, are you coming out or what?” Yoongi called out, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and playful impatience as he waited for you. With a laugh in your voice, you responded with a confident ‘yes,’ your words echoing across the tranquil waters.

You moved through the water with deliberate grace, a sense of vulnerability washing over you as you became mindful of your exposed form. Your arms instinctively crossed over your breasts, each ripple in the water causing a flutter of anxiety.

With slow and deliberate movements, you located your discarded shirt and shorts amidst the rocky shoreline. As you wanted to dress, you called out to Yoongi, your voice soft but firm, “Turn around, don’t look.”

You could feel the warmth of a blush rising in your cheeks, and the weight of his gaze on your skin only added to the intensity of the moment.

He obeyed your request without hesitation, the soft shuffle of his feet marking his compliance as he turned away, facing his back to you. The rustling of leaves in the nearby trees and the distant murmur of the River filled the silence, creating a cocoon of privacy around the two of you.

The air seemed charged with anticipation, and you could feel the weight of the unspoken connection between you both in that intimate moment.

You reached for your shirt, the damp fabric clinging to your skin and offering a brief challenge as you pulled it over your glistening body. Each movement was a tactile reminder of the refreshing dip you’d taken, your skin alive with the sensations of the River’s cool embrace.

Next, your fingers fumbled for your shorts, a playful dance with the wet fabric that seemed to take a lifetime. As you finally completed your quick change, a surge of excitement bubbled up inside you, making your voice tremble with anticipation.

With a smile that you couldn’t suppress, you called out to Yoongi, “You can turn around now.”

The air seemed charged with a newfound energy, and the world felt alive with the promise of adventure and connection.

“Nice tits.”

Yoongi’s mischievous comment hung in the air, punctuated by a chuckle that echoed with playful admiration.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, turning them beet red as you instinctively glanced down your body, realizing with a sinking feeling that your white shirt had become transparent when it clung to your soaking body.

Panic surged through you.

In a hurry, you covered your breasts with your hands, the wet fabric clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Your heart raced, and your body felt hot, a combination of embarrassment and an unexpected wave of arousal coursing through you.

Why the fuck is he still looking?

You thought with a mixture of irritation and intrigue. His gaze bore into you with a lazy smirk, and your skin prickled with a blend of vulnerability and desire.

“Stop looking,” you hissed, your voice trembling with a mixture of need and frustration. The tension between you was palpable, an unspoken connection simmering beneath the surface as the world around you faded into the background.

In an angry, trembling tone, you hissed at him, “And don’t you dare say a fucking word!”

Your hands remained firmly pressed against your breasts, your skin still tingling from the electric encounter.

With a mix of indignation and vulnerability, you turned on your heel and hurriedly retreated, the path back to the van stretching out before you, each step echoing the tumultuous feelings churning inside.

You retraced your steps in stifling silence, the tension between you and Yoongi lingering in the air like an unspoken secret. Each footfall felt heavy, the weight of your thoughts bearing down on you, and the campsite that had once been a sanctuary of laughter and camaraderie now seemed like a maze of conflicting emotions.

Uncomfortable and flustered, your mind raced with a tempest of questions. He had complimented you, and it sent your thoughts spiraling into a whirlwind of uncertainty.

Had he looked before? Were there hidden desires beneath his playful remark?

The stories your mind conjured were like a tumultuous storm, each thought a lightning bolt of doubt. You had to remind yourself, sternly, that Yoongi was a friend, nothing more. But the realization didn’t dispel the tension that had woven itself between you, leaving you with a sense of unease that clung to your every step.

As you finally reached Holly, a cacophony of laughter greeted you.

Jimin’s infectious laughter rang out like a joyful melody, echoing through the campsite. With an amused glint in his eye, he couldn’t contain his mirth as he pointed at your drenched figure, a teasing grin splitting his face.

Beside him, Jungkook and Taehyung had their faces buried in their phones, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. The campsite had transformed into a stage of amusement, the camaraderie and playful banter among friends radiating with warmth.

Through gritted teeth, you hissed at Jimin, your frustration palpable in your tone.

“Don’t you dare fucking laugh!”

The words carried the weight of your embarrassment and irritation, the intensity of the moment etched on your face as you shot him a withering glare. With a frustrated sigh, you attempted to regain your composure, even as your cheeks burned with lingering embarrassment.

Yoongi eased himself into a vacant chair, its worn surface embracing him with a sigh as he leaned back.

“Why? It’s not even the first time!”

Jimin’s laughter erupted like an uncontrollable storm, his entire body shaking with mirth. The intensity of his amusement grated on your nerves, and you could feel a simmering fury building within you. The sound of his laughter seemed to echo endlessly, reverberating through the campsite and setting your teeth on edge.

It was as if he was oblivious to the storm of emotions swirling within you, and his amusement only added fuel to the fire of your frustration.

Jungkook and Taehyung both lifted their heads from their phones, their curiosity piqued. “What do you mean, ‘not even the first time’?” Jungkook inquired, his eyes gleaming with interest.

Hushing your voice, you groaned loudly, the frustration evident in your tone.

“Don’t tell them!”

The words spilled from your lips with an urgency that bordered on desperation, and you shot Jimin a pleading look, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t let the secret slip. The air was thick with anticipation as the weight of your unshared secret hung in the balance.

He continued to laugh, his amusement contagious, and then leaned in closer to Jungkook and Taehyung, his voice lowering with a conspiratorial tone.

“She lost her bra once when we were at a waterpark,” he giggled, the memory vivid and alive in his mind. As he recounted the tale, his eyes sparkled with mischief, and the campsite seemed to hold its collective breath, caught between the urge to burst into laughter and the anticipation of the full story.

Fuck.

Why did he have to tell them?

The question reverberated within you like an unyielding echo. Although he hadn’t shared the whole story, a sense of exasperation washed over you, your frustration simmering beneath the surface.

The campsite felt like a stage, and your emotions played out in silent turmoil as you grappled with the mix of embarrassment and annoyance. The memory had been a skeleton in your closet, and its unveiling, even in part, left you grappling with the desire to laugh it off and the lingering traces of annoyance that clung to you like a shadow.

“It happened when we were on a waterslide, and it just flew off!”

Jimin continued to chuckle, his laughter resonating with your clear discomfort. The memory seemed to amuse him endlessly, and each guffaw only deepened your irritation.

With an exasperated sigh, you dramatically plopped down on a chair next to Yoongi, your grumpiness palpable in the way you crossed your arms and shot Jimin a pointed glare.

The campsite was filled with the lingering echoes of laughter, but your mood remained as stormy as the clouds gathering on the horizon.

Jungkook and Taehyung exchanged knowing glances and erupted into contagious giggles, their eyes brimming with amusement. Their laughter seemed to dance in the air, and as they stole glances at you, their expressions shifted to ones of pity.

“And you did absolutely nothing to help, some friend you are,” you retorted, your words dripping with spite and frustration. The sharpness of your tone cut through the lingering laughter, drawing a hushed silence over the campsite.

The tension between you and Jimin hung in the air like a charged current, a stark reminder of the complexities that defined your friendship.

You made a brisk dash to retrieve fresh, clean clothes, the anticipation of changing into something dry and comfortable fueling your steps.

The restrooms beckoned, promising a refuge from the lingering awkwardness. As you entered the private haven of the restroom, a wave of relief washed over you, and you couldn’t wait to shed the wet attire that clung to your skin.

As you returned, the flickering glow of a campfire had transformed the campsite into a warm and inviting haven. The crackling flames danced in the night, casting playful shadows that danced across your faces.

The aroma of a delicious meal sizzling over the open flames filled the air, tantalizing your senses.

Amidst the camaraderie of your friends, you joined in the culinary adventure, the flavors of the meal mingling with laughter and lively conversation.

The clinking of beer bottles punctuated the night, each sip a toast to the simple joys of friendship and the adventure that lay ahead.

Amid the warm glow of the campfire and the laughter of your friends, you couldn’t help but notice Yoongi’s gaze.

His eyes, like twin embers in the firelight, lingered on your face a fraction longer than usual. It was a subtle shift that sent a ripple of uncertainty through you, leaving you to ponder its meaning in the midst of the lively gathering.

Questions swirled in your mind like sparks in the night.

Was it a moment of connection or something more?

The ambiguity hung in the air, adding an undercurrent of intrigue to the already memorable night.

That night, as the campfire’s last embers flickered out, you found yourself tossing and turning in your duvet, unable to find the solace of sleep. Thoughts of Yoongi swirled through your mind like a restless tempest, his lingering gaze haunting your thoughts.

Beneath the canopy of stars, you were consumed by a whirlwind of emotions.

Excitement for the adventure clashed with the uncertainty of unspoken feelings, and you couldn’t help but wonder if this trip would be the crucible that tested your friendship’s boundaries. In the silent darkness, the future lay uncertain, and the weight of anticipation kept you awake, pondering the enigma that was Yoongi.

The morning sun bathed the campsite in a gentle glow, promising a new day of adventure.

With your river escapade now behind you, you decided to venture into the nearby city with Jimin. The city’s vibrant energy and bustling streets held the promise of a new, exciting experience.

As you entered a quaint boutique, the colorful array of bikinis dazzled your senses. Jimin, with his impeccable taste, became your trusted fashion advisor. Together, you sifted through the options, his playful commentary and infectious laughter adding a layer of camaraderie to the shopping spree.

Jimin’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he picked out a bikini top that he insisted would not only look fantastic on you but also capture the attention of a certain dark haired man named Yoongi.

Jimin’s playful commentary continued as he held up the chosen bikini top, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“This one really accentuates your curves and hugs your... assets,” he said, punctuating his statement with a sly wink. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his cheekiness, a mix of exasperation and amusement in your response.

But deep down, his suggestion had struck a chord.

There was a spark of confidence that came with his endorsement, and in the end, you found yourself reaching for the very bikini top he’d recommended. With a grin and a playful nudge, you couldn’t deny the infectious excitement that Jimin had injected into your shopping excursion.

Later in the day, as the sun began its descent, casting a warm, golden hue over the campsite, you and your friends decided to embark on a leisurely fishing expedition by the Riverside. The gentle breeze played with your hair, carrying with it the soothing scent of nature, as you cast your lines into the water.

The atmosphere was serene, punctuated by the occasional plunk of a line hitting the water and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

The Riverside flowed lazily beside you, a shimmering ribbon of tranquility that mirrored the camaraderie among your group. Light conversation flowed effortlessly between you all, the laughter and shared stories weaving a tapestry of connection that only deepened with each passing moment.

The following days sped by like a whirlwind of adventure and discovery.

You and your friends immersed yourselves in the breathtaking beauty of the local nature, each step a new exploration, each vista a captivating masterpiece of nature’s design.

As you ventured deeper into the wilderness, the serenity of the landscape wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. Majestic mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks kissing the sky. Pristine lakes sparkled like gems under the sun’s tender caress, and the lush forests whispered secrets as you wandered through their verdant embrace.

Tourist attractions revealed the rich tapestry of the region’s culture and history, each site a new chapter in your journey.

During your stay, one day brought the special opportunity to visit Jungkook’s family.

The anticipation of the visit filled the air as you arrived at his childhood home. The comforting aroma of home-cooked meals wafted from the kitchen, welcoming you with open arms. Around a welcoming dinner table, you all shared delightful conversations with Jungkook’s parents and his older brother. Their smiles were as warm as their hospitality, and the stories they shared about Jungkook’s mischievous childhood added a layer of endearment to your friend.

As plates were passed, laughter echoed through the cozy living room, and the bonds of friendship extended to embrace the family who had nurtured Jungkook. It was a moment of shared intimacy, where the past and present converged in a harmonious celebration of friendship and home.

On another beautiful day of your trip, the anticipation of visiting Jimin’s family filled the air with excitement.

You were welcomed into their home with open arms, the comforting scent of a home-cooked dinner beckoning you inside. Seated around a dining table adorned with love and care, you shared heartfelt conversations with Jimin’s parents and his younger brother.

Their warmth and genuine interest in your stories made you feel like an extended member of their family. The dinner was a sumptuous feast of flavors, a culinary journey through Jimin’s heritage. As the evening unfolded, laughter and shared memories wove a tapestry of connection, bridging the gap between your friends and Jimin’s beloved family.

It was a moment of shared intimacy, where the bonds of friendship extended to embrace the people who had shaped Jimin’s life.

Excitement bubbled within you as you made the collective decision to journey onward to the next campsite, nestled near the picturesque Songdo Bay Station and its inviting beach.

The prospect of a fresh landscape and new adventures beckoned like a siren’s call, promising breathtaking vistas and unforgettable moments waiting to be discovered.

As you began setting up Holly once more at the new campsite, an amusing discussion arose. Jimin, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, announced his intention to sleep in the tent this time. “You snore like a freight train,” he teased, a playful grin dancing on his lips.

Yoongi, ever the easygoing one, didn’t seem to mind, and Taehyung chimed in with his usual enthusiasm.

“I’ll gladly switch with Jimin then,” he declared, a wide smile brightening his face.

With excitement bubbling in your hearts, you made your way to the enchanting Songdo Bay Station, eager to experience the cable cars that awaited you.

As you all huddled into the cable car together, anticipation filled the air. The ascent was a slow and steady journey, carrying you higher and higher above the city and the glistening expanse of the ocean. The view that unfolded before your eyes was nothing short of mesmerizing. The cityscape sprawled beneath you, a tapestry of lights and life, while the vast ocean stretched out to the horizon, its waters shimmering in the golden embrace of the setting sun.

Silence settled over your group, a shared reverence for the breathtaking panorama that surrounded you. The beauty of the moment transcended words, leaving you all in awe of the world’s majesty.

It was a memory etched into your hearts, a reminder of the profound magic that could be found in the simplest of journeys.

Once you’d savored every moment of the mesmerizing view from the cable cars, hunger tugged at your stomachs like a friendly reminder of the day’s adventures. Following a recommendation from a friendly local, you ventured to a cozy, hidden gem of a restaurant nearby.

The restaurant exuded an inviting charm, its wooden beams and rustic decor welcoming you like an old friend. The air was filled with the tantalizing aroma of local flavors and the hum of lively conversations.

As you settled into your seats, the menu promised a tantalizing array of dishes, each one a tantalizing adventure waiting to be explored.

Lunch was a symphony of flavors, a fusion of local delicacies that danced on your taste buds. The laughter and discussions of your group mingled with the ambient sounds of the restaurant, creating a harmonious atmosphere of shared joy. With satisfied appetites and hearts warmed by the culinary delights, you bid farewell to the small local restaurant, the memory of the meal and its unique ambiance etched in your collective memory.

It was yet another chapter in your journey, one filled with the flavors and colors of the region you had come to love.

As you made your way back to the campsite, the sun casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape, the anticipation for tonight’s dinner filled the air with excitement.

You decided to make a quick stop for grocery shopping, the aisles of the local market brimming with fresh ingredients and culinary possibilities. The aisles were a treasure trove of flavors, their shelves stocked with vibrant fruits, crisp vegetables, and the tantalizing aromas of spices and herbs. Your group moved through the market, selecting ingredients that promised to transform into a delicious campfire feast.

Back at the campsite, you all sank into comfortable positions, surrounded by the gentle embrace of nature.

The crackling campfire cast a warm, flickering glow that painted playful shadows on your faces. The tranquil symphony of chirping crickets and rustling leaves provided the soundtrack to your evening.

Yoongi, your group’s resident cook and culinary magician, took center stage. With an air of calm expertise, he orchestrated the preparation of tonight’s dinner. The aroma of sizzling ingredients filled the air, tantalizing your senses and stirring a chorus of eager stomachs.

As you watched Yoongi work his culinary magic, a sense of contentment washed over you all. The shared anticipation for the meal, the warmth of the campfire, and the soothing sounds of nature merged into a harmonious tableau of camaraderie and relaxation.

It was a moment of serenity and connection, a testament to the simple joys of friendship and the pleasures of a well-cooked meal in the great outdoors.

As you savored every bite of Yoongi’s mouthwatering Korean cooking, a tranquil hush settled over your group. The flavors danced on your taste buds, each dish a symphony of tastes and textures that spoke of culinary mastery. Around the campfire, the shared appreciation for the meal transcended words. The satisfying sounds of utensils against plates and the contented sighs of your friends filled the air.

After a satisfying dinner that left everyone in high spirits, you fetched some beers to keep the camaraderie alive. The campfire’s glow seemed to flicker with the promise of a lively evening ahead.

As you settled back into your camping chairs, conversation flowed naturally, anecdotes and laughter intermingling in the night air. The soothing rhythm of your friends’ voices was like a comforting melody, echoing in the quiet wilderness. In a lighthearted moment, Taehyung suggested a game of ’Never Have I Ever’.

Groans of playful protest erupted from most of the group, each member voicing their reluctance except for Jungkook. His eyes sparkled with excitement at the mention of the game, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

In the end, you reluctantly gave in to the idea of playing, and it was mostly due to Taehyung’s persistent enthusiasm. He had a knack for getting his way, especially when it came to sparking moments of laughter and adventure within the group.

Taehyung, with a sly twinkle in his eye, kicked off the game, looking around at your group with a mischievous grin.

“Never have I ever… kissed a man,” he declared, his choice of statement drawing an intrigued chorus of ‘oohs’ and laughter.

Jimin couldn’t help but tease, “Gosh, that’s so tame,” earning a playful eyeroll from Taehyung. However, as the game’s first round unfolded, both you and Jimin raised your beers to your lips, a shared acknowledgment of your past adventures.

It was now Jungkook’s turn, and he took a moment to contemplate his statement, a mischievous glint in his eyes. You let out an exaggerated sigh, feeling like you weren’t quite tipsy enough for this game’s antics.

“Never have I ever seen ___’s tits,” Jungkook declared, his statement dripping with a cheeky grin. There was a collective chuckle from the group, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, fully aware of how this round would go.

As expected, Jimin, Yoongi, and you raised your beers in acknowledgment. Jungkook’s laughter filled the air, and you couldn’t resist a playful retort.

“It’s not funny!” you quipped, shooting a mock glare in his direction.

Thankfully, it was now Yoongi’s turn, and you couldn’t help but anticipate that his statement would be just as amusing and lighthearted as the others. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he posed, “Never have I ever had sex while at work,” looking around the circle expectantly.

As his statement hung in the air, there was a moment of suspense before the inevitable. Jimin, with a sly grin, took a casual sip of his beer, and to your surprise, both Taehyung and Jungkook joined in with a shared laugh and a sip of their beer.

Your surprised sigh was met with laughter from the group, and you couldn’t help but shake your head in playful disbelief.

Now, it was Jimin’s turn, and you couldn’t help but brace yourself for his cheeky statement. “Never have I ever had sexual fantasies about a close friend,” he declared, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. His playful wink was directed at you, and you responded with an eye roll that was just as playful.

Jimin’s statement hung in the air, thick with tension and teasing, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to be your wingman in your quest for Yoongi’s affection or simply trying to rile you up for his own amusement.

Everyone in the circle, except Jimin, raised their beers to their lips and took a sip, leaving you utterly flabbergasted.

The implications of this revelation left your mind swirling with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

What did it mean?

You couldn’t help but steal a glance at Yoongi, hoping to find some clue in his enigmatic gaze. However, as your eyes met his, you realized that they were as inscrutable as ever. His poker face didn’t give away any secrets, leaving you to wonder whether this was merely a playful game or if there was something more beneath the surface.

It was a moment of both intrigue and hesitation, and you couldn’t help but feel a subtle shift in the dynamics of the group, as unspoken emotions lingered in the air.

Jungkook suddenly perked up, his voice laced with intrigue.

“Jimin hyung, you’re not being honest right now!”

His statement hung in the air, a spark of curiosity lighting up the group’s expressions as you all turned your gaze between Jimin and Jungkook.

The unexpected twist in the game had injected a new layer of intrigue into the evening. The group’s collective curiosity swirled like a secret shared among friends, and you couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath Jimin’s playfully confident exterior.

You observed Jimin’s eyes roll and heard an exasperated sigh escape his lips. With a sly yet playful glint in his eyes, Jungkook continued, “Remember when you told me about that dream you had, the one about ___?” His tone was teasing but carried a hint of mischief.

As Jungkook’s words hung in the air, a ripple of knowing glances and shared amusement spread through the group. The expressions on everyone’s faces ranged from mild surprise to knowing smirks, each reacting in their unique way to the revelation.

“What? You had a sexual dream about me?”

The words burst from your lips in a gasp of surprise, and without thinking, you playfully slapped Jimin’s shoulder, your eyes wide with mock shock.

Jimin’s laughter rang out, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. The entire group joined in, the campfire’s glow dancing in their eyes as they shared in the unexpected revelation.

“It was just an innocent dream,” he tried to brush it off, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he masked it with a low chuckle.

The group’s playful teasing continued, a delightful blend of laughter and camaraderie. Jimin’s attempt to downplay the dream only fueled the banter, making the moment even more lighthearted and memorable.

Then Jungkook chimed in, his voice carrying an air of mischief.

“It wasn’t innocent at all! He told me that he wanted to f–”

Your eyes widened in both surprise and mortification, hanging on the edge of your seat as you awaited the rest of the sentence.

But before Jungkook could spill the rest, Jimin hastily interjected, bringing an abrupt halt to the revelation.

“It was nothing, okay?”

Jimin’s voice carried a note of urgency as he sought to downplay the situation. “It happened in the beginning of our friendship. Soon after, I realized it was just misdirected...uh, you know, sexual frustration. We’re besties, I’m not into you like that, I would never,” His words tumbled out in a rushed, rambling attempt to reassure you.

With a pleading look in your eyes, you turned to Jimin and spoke softly, “It’s okay, Jimin. I might have had a sexual fantasy about you too in the early days.”

The confession slipped out, fueled perhaps by the influence of the beer, leaving you feeling both vulnerable and surprisingly liberated. The group’s reactions were a mix of surprise and amusement, and the campfire’s crackling flames seemed to flicker in response to the newfound tension in the air.

“I know I’m irresistible,” Jimin playfully swooned in response to your secret, earning himself a playful jab in the ribs from you.

Jungkook and Taehyung chuckled, the atmosphere light with shared laughter. However, you couldn’t help but notice that Yoongi’s demeanor had shifted.

His usually expressive eyes had gone dark, and a subtle tension hung in the air around him. It was as if your confession had cast a shadow over his mood, leaving you to wonder about the thoughts swirling in his mind.

As the game continued, you found yourself growing tired of its increasingly revealing nature. With a sigh of exasperation, you announced, “I’m going to bed. You can keep playing if you want.”

Your words carried a hint of weariness as you pushed yourself up from the campfire and headed toward Holly.

The night air was cool against your skin as you retreated inside, leaving the laughter and confessions behind. In the dimly lit interior of the van, you could finally take a moment to reflect on the events of the evening.

Drifting off into slumber, the laughter of your friends provided a comforting lullaby, wrapping you in a cocoon of cherished moments and the warmth of camaraderie.

As the morning sun filtered through the van’s windows, its gentle warmth kissed your face, coaxing you awake from a restful night’s sleep. With a contented sigh, you descended from your sleeping space and stepped outside, greeted by the sight of your friends gathered around.

“Good morning,” you greeted them with a pleasant stretch, the feeling of relaxation coursing through your body. Their collective response of ‘good morning’ warmed your heart, but you couldn’t help but notice the faint blush that tinged both Yoongi and Taehyung’s cheeks.

“What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t help but notice the startled exchange of glances between Yoongi and Taehyung.

Their hesitation hung in the air, sparking your curiosity. Just as Taehyung was about to speak up, Yoongi cut him off with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.

“You just snore a lot,” he replied, his tone casual but his gaze stern as he shot Taehyung a pointed look.

The atmosphere shifted subtly, leaving you with the feeling that there was more to their exchange than met the eye.

After enjoying a hearty breakfast together, the group prepared to head down to the beach for a day of relaxation, swimming, and—hopefully, avoiding any repeat incidents involving your bra.

As you all changed into your swimwear, you slipped into the new bikini top that Jimin had recommended. The fabric hugged your curves just right, making you feel both confident and comfortable. You couldn’t help but appreciate how his suggestion had turned out so perfectly.

Amidst laughter and chatter, you made your way down to the beach, burdened with towels, parasols, and an absurd amount of sunblock that could rival a sunscreen store.

You scouted out the perfect spot on the beach, carefully arranging your belongings and setting up sunshades to shield yourselves from the relentless sun. The sound of crashing waves and the scent of salt in the air instantly put you in a relaxed, vacation state of mind.

As you all took turns applying sunblock to one another, Jimin’s suggestion added a touch of intimacy to the moment. He proposed that Yoongi assist you by applying sunblock to your hard-to-reach back.

With a soft smile, Yoongi moved closer, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns as he massaged the sunblock into your skin.

The sensation of his touch sent pleasant shivers and tingles racing down your spine, a subtle yet electrifying connection between friends. His fingers, roughened by years of mechanical work, offered a striking contrast to the tenderness of his touch. Each calloused ridge on his fingertips seemed to carry a story of hard labor and dedication.

It was a subtle reminder of the many facets that made up Yoongi’s character—strong and rugged, yet capable of such gentleness. As his hands worked diligently to apply the sunblock, you found yourself lost in thought, reflecting on the layers of complexity within your friend.

The intimacy of this simple act revealed a deeper connection, an unspoken understanding that transcended words and gestures. It was in these moments that you realized just how much you cherished the bond you shared with Yoongi and your group of friends.

You couldn’t help but bite your lip, a soft moan of unexpected pleasure threatening to escape.

When he finally finished, you managed to find your voice, your words laced with a subtle undercurrent of emotion as you offered a heartfelt thank you.

You settled onto a plush beach towel beneath the cool embrace of a beach umbrella, book in hand. With your stomach against the soft towel and the rhythmic sound of the waves as your soundtrack, you lost yourself in the pages of your chosen book.

As the words on the pages blurred together, a restlessness stirred within you. The call of the ocean grew irresistible. You closed your book and looked over at your friends, a glimmer of excitement in your eyes.

“Anyone up for a refreshing swim?” Your question hung in the air, a tempting invitation to embrace the cool embrace of the sea.

Your friends exchanged glances, their laughter and shared history evident in their silent communication. None of them provided a direct answer to your invitation, and as you turned to walk away, a teasing voice broke the silence.

“I’ll join you,” Yoongi’s casual response was laced with a mischievous undertone.

"Who knows, it might come in handy if you happen to ‘lose’ something again." His words prompted suppressed chuckles from the rest of the group, and you felt a heat rising in your cheeks.

As you and Yoongi ventured deeper into the ocean, the cool embrace of the water enveloped your bodies, creating an immediate sense of exhilaration. The waves danced around you, and the salty breeze carried laughter and shared moments.

With every stroke, the water seemed to wash away the cares of the world, leaving only the thrill of the present moment. Your laughter echoed over the waves as you swam together, the sun glistening off the surface, and for that brief moment, it was just the two of you, lost in the joy of the sea.

You eagerly snatch a ball, its surface cool and slightly gritty against your fingertips, and dive into the inviting embrace of the ocean’s azure expanse. With each leap and twist, the saltwater splashes around you, the ball becoming an extension of your playful dance with the waves.

As you spring up from the water, your breasts jiggle, a consequence of the light support of your bra. A subtle shift in Yoongi’s gaze doesn’t go unnoticed, and you realize his attention has momentarily fixated on your chest.

A subtle blush crept up your cheeks, betraying your surprise and self-awareness, as you sensed his gaze lingering on you with a mix of curiosity and appreciation.

“Hey lovebirds, we are heading back to the campsite, do you wanna come with us?”

Amused by Jimin’s interruption, you turned your attention from Yoongi’s lingering gaze to your friend on the shoreline. His teasing tone and the ‘lovebirds’ comment sent an additional wave of heat rushing to your cheeks, but you welcomed the distraction.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you shouted back, “Sure thing, Jimin! Just give us a minute to dry off.”

Jimin’s laughter carried over the water as you and Yoongi shared a brief, knowing glance before swimming back to join your friends, leaving the unspoken tension behind in the sea.

As you all gathered around the campfire to enjoy dinner, the conversation meandered through various topics, including cherished childhood memories. While engaging in the banter and laughter, your mind couldn’t help but circle back to Yoongi’s lingering gaze earlier in the day.

Was there a hidden depth to his stare? Did he harbor feelings for you as well?

These questions swirled in your thoughts, a tantalizing mystery you were both drawn to and hesitant to unravel. Inwardly, you cautioned against reading too much into it, aware of the fragile balance within your close-knit group of friends.

The fear of altering the dynamics that had bound you all together kept your emotions in check, though your heart couldn’t help but hope for something more.

Over the next few days, you immersed yourselves in the vibrant heartbeat of Busan’s city life.

Each moment was a sensory symphony, from the bustling streets to the enticing aromas that wafted from food stalls and restaurants. You ventured into the colorful markets, where every stall seemed to hold hidden treasures waiting to be discovered.

The city’s culinary delights tantalized your taste buds, from sizzling street food to lavish feasts at quaint eateries tucked away in narrow alleyways. With each bite, you savored not just the flavors but the shared laughter and stories around the table.

Busan, with its unique blend of modernity and tradition, cast a spell on you all. The city’s enchanting sights, the harmonious rhythm of life, and the genuine warmth of its people made these days unforgettable.

Another day of your adventure led you to the mesmerizing Jeoryeong Coastal Walk, a place where the natural world intertwined with the human spirit.

As you embarked on the winding path that hugged the rugged coastline, you were greeted by the panoramic expanse of the sea, its waves crashing rhythmically against the rocks.

The salty breeze kissed your cheeks, carrying with it the invigorating scent of the ocean. Seagulls soared overhead, their cries blending seamlessly with the soothing sound of the waves.

Your footsteps resonated on the wooden boardwalk, a symphony of nature and human exploration. The scenery unfolded in breathtaking beauty, each bend revealing a new masterpiece of cliffs, coves, and pristine beaches.

The connection to the earth and sea was palpable, reminding you of the immense wonder that existed beyond the confines of daily life.

As you ventured along the Coastal Walk, the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the cliffs accompanied your every step. The path stretched out before you, winding its way along the rugged shoreline.

In the distance, your friends, Jimin, Jungkook, and Taehyung, walked ahead, their laughter carried back to you in the salty breeze.

Walking alongside you was Yoongi, the man whose gaze had lingered on you during your coastal walk.

The camaraderie of your friends was evident as they chatted and shared stories, but the proximity of Yoongi added an extra layer of complexity to your emotions. You stole glances at him, his profile etched against the backdrop of the sea.

The sunlight played on his features, casting a warm glow that seemed to accentuate his allure. There was a shared silence between the two of you, a conversation unspoken yet deeply understood. In that moment, with the beauty of nature surrounding you and the bonds of friendship strengthening, you couldn’t help but wonder about the uncharted territories of the heart.

The tranquil beauty of the coastal walk enveloped you both as you walked in tandem, the distant waves creating a soothing backdrop.

“How do you like the trip so far?” Yoongi’s question cut through the stillness, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the sea.

You paused for a moment, taking in the salty breeze and the way the sun danced on the water’s surface. A faint smile played on your lips as you pondered his question, realizing that the journey held a deeper meaning than just the sights and experiences.

“It’s been incredible,” you replied, your voice soft but filled with genuine appreciation.

“I mean, the places we’ve seen, the memories we’re creating... It’s more than I could have ever imagined.”

As you spoke, you couldn’t help but glance sideways at Yoongi, catching the warmth in his eyes. In that fleeting moment, you felt a connection that transcended mere friendship. It was a shared understanding, a sense that this journey had the potential to change everything.

Yoongi’s gaze met yours, and a subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of sentiment. “It’s been pretty special.”

“It’s been nice seeing the city,” you began, your voice carrying a sense of nostalgia for the urban adventures you’d shared, “but I really look forward to the more rural camping, like in a forest by a tranquil lake or something. To experience the ultimate relaxation, you know?”

As the words left your lips, you couldn’t contain the excitement in your eyes. The mental image of a secluded forest, the scent of pine trees, and the gentle lapping of water against the shore made your heart race with anticipation.

Yoongi turned to you, his gaze meeting yours. “I can already picture it,” he admitted, his voice laced with a sense of shared anticipation.

“Just the sounds of nature, the crackling of a campfire, and the peace that comes with it. It sounds perfect.”

“Hmm, yeah,” you replied, nodding in agreement as you shared Yoongi’s appreciation for nature’s serenity over the bustling city.

“I also prefer nature over the city. I think next week we’ll head to Hadong. There’s this stunning river surrounded by lush forests and pristine beaches. I’ve heard it’s incredibly beautiful,” Yoongi said, his voice filled with excitement and anticipation.

Yoongi’s comforting smile widened as he looked at you.

“That sounds like the perfect destination,” you remarked, his eyes lighting up with a hint of adventure. “A serene river, the tranquility of the forest, and the endless beaches—what more could we ask for?” His words conveyed the shared excitement and a growing connection between the two of you, making the upcoming journey feel even more promising.

As you walked alongside Yoongi, his profile illuminated by the soft glow of the setting sun, you found your thoughts drifting to uncharted territories.

Have his lips always looked so soft and inviting?

You couldn’t help but wonder, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

The gentle sway of the conversation and the captivating scenery seemed to fade into the background as your mind fixated on this newfound awareness.

“And you’re fine with just the two of us camping together in a few weeks?”

As the two of you continued walking, Yoongi’s question hung in the air, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart race at the thought of the upcoming weeks. His casual inquiry concealed a world of unspoken emotions.

With a subtle smile playing on your lips, you met his gaze, locking eyes for a brief moment before answering, “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” you reply, but your voice carries a hint of hesitation that lingers in the air.

The uncertainty in your tone reflects the unspoken feelings you’ve been harboring. You wish you could say more, reveal the truth, but the fear of changing the dynamics of your friendship holds you back.

Yoongi offers a gentle smile, his eyes holding a warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

“We’re best friends,” you continued, your words tinged with a hint of longing that you couldn’t quite conceal. “I love spending time with you.”

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