#female reader

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

A/N: another kofi commission!

Your naga lover was in rut, and you had been avoiding his den for the past few days per his request. He was hesitant to allow you in, since nagas had the tendency to squeeze their lovers tightly during passionate mating, and he really didn’t want to hurt you!

But 4 days in while you delivered food, you heard his whimpers and cries from deeper in the cave. It hurt your heart to know he was suffering all on his own.

You carried the basket full of eggs and meat, your footsteps echoing lightly along the cave walls. You didn’t really like visiting your lover here and much preferred when he came to your home instead, but right now he couldn’t leave his den.

While in rut, nagas were vulnerable to predators and could be killed due to how sensitive and weak they were at the time. It worried you, how could he even think you’d be able to stay away when your precious lover was in possible danger and pain!?

“B-baby, I’m coming!”

The sound of distressed whines and whimpers increased as you made your way further into the cave. A trail of a white, slimy substance led you to your poor, exhausted lover.

“I told you… not to come…”

His two cocks were poked out of his slit, his fist moving up and down the lengths as he panted and moaned. Precum gathered at the tip, his face flushed with embarrassment and need.

“How could I stay away when you’re suffering like this? Please… let me help you.”

You approached slowly, and he made no moves to stop you. Picking up your scent seemed to only worsen his current state. His cock twitched, and he was quick to pull you onto his lap.

“Fuck… you smell so good…”

His hands roamed your body, soft kisses being left along your neck and chest. Never before had he been so needy and affectionate.

Fangs brushed up against your skin with each lick and kiss. Every touch was gentle, he needed your body but he was also desperate for comfort and affection.

“It’s alright… I’m here for you, no more going through this alone…”

You guided his cocks towards your wet cunt, letting him rub his lengths between your fat pussy lips before sinking inside of you.

He had been inside of you many times before, but today it felt… different. His thrusts were quick and each movement of his hips caused him to cry out in bliss. It took very little to make your lover cum, and it was adorable to you.

“My sweetheart…” you murmured, your tongue dancing with his. Just a simple French kiss made him groan into your mouth, his hands gripping the fat of your hips.

“I l-love you…” he blubbered, crying tears of pleasure. Your chubby tummy was slightly bloated with his cum, and he couldn’t help but hold his hand over it as if hoping you’d become pregnant.

“I love you too…”

All through his rut, you were by his side. Every time he started to get needy, you’d sit on his cock and let him use you to get off.

It wasn’t all about sex, though. Sometimes all he wanted was for you to kiss his face and massage his lower half. His snake tail was in the middle of a shed, and your gentle hands helped his sensitive body feel less sore and sensitive.

You laid on a nest of furs, his head buried in your chest. His entire lower half was wrapped around you, using your body to keep himself warm as you sat on his cocks.

“Sorry… you must be tired. I’ve never taken on a mate… this is my first time going through a rut with someone who wanted to help.”

A giggle left your lips, and you played with his hair lazily. “Don’t worry about me, if I was tired I’d be sleeping. This is nice… I get to snuggle with you all I want.”

When his rut ended, your naga lover followed you home. In all honesty, he had gotten embarrassingly used to your presence and couldn’t sleep when he was all alone now.

As you got ready for bed, he soaked himself in your tub, watching you do your nighttime routine. “You humans do so much before you go to bed… can you hurry? I want to hold you…”

After brushing your teeth, you made your bed after being gone for an entire week. With a glance at your phone, you knew you’d be spending the next day or two returning missed call from worried loved ones.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get to bed.”

He cooked around you, his head nuzzling into your neck as you rubbed his back. After such an intense week, you were both ready to sleep without needing to wake up every hour so he could bury his cock inside of you.

The two of you snuggled up together, letting out content sounds in your sleep.

———————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx

[no-144444]

marriage talk -o.piastri

summary: oscar answers random questions for mclaren's instagram, not once did he think it would take him down this road...

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

“Would you rather get married, or get a tattoo?” 

The question had been eating at him for the past few days, pondering his answer in detail. Oscar wasn’t the kind of person to do things on a whim (although he definitely could), and his most trusted confidant was… you. His girlfriend. 

“What do you think about marriage?” he asked over dinner one night. You two hadn’t really thought about it before, only really mentioning the fact that sometime in your lives you’d both like to have children. 

You stared at him for a moment. “You aren’t about to propose in public, right?” you asked, the dread clear on your face. 

He chuckled, taking your hand. “No, shockingly I don’t think you’d like that.”

You nodded, your face one of relief. “Good, that would’ve been terrible,” you quickly took a sip of your drink. “But what about marriage?”

“Do you want that?” he asked, his heart beating out of his chest. 

You shrugged. “I mean… yeah? I like the idea of getting everyone together and dressing up. We’d have to do our vows privately of course.”

He laughed again, squeezing your hand. You were so private, yet you were dating one of twenty current F1 drivers in the world. “Of course.” 

“But… yeah. It sounds nice. Mr. and Mrs. Piastri,” you chuckled and he felt his pants tighten slightly, though he’d never tell you that. “What about you?”

I love the idea. I’ve been thinking about it non-stop since last week. I want to get a ring now. I want to be your husband. I love you so much. I want to see you in a white dress. I want to see you walking down the altar looking as beautiful as you always do. “Yeah,” he nodded. “I’d like that.” 

“Who’s proposing?” you teased. 

“Me, obviously,” he rolled his eyes as you laughed. “Who says I don’t already have a ring?”

Your laughter died down and you just smiled. “Well, I’ll be expecting it now.”

He chuckled and raised your hand to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “I’ll deliver.” 

“If you do it in public I’ll say no,” you reminded him and he nodded.  “I know sweetheart,” he smiled. “I know.”

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[be-xkyy]

Yandere Dilf

Warning: sexual content, age gap (22-38), delusional behavior, non con, r4pe, dubcon, drugs used, breeding kink, somnophilia, lactation kink.

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★

Yandere Dilf who divorced his wife and was given full custody of his infant son after she cheated on him.

Yandere Dilf who loves his son very much a sweet chubby three year old baby who is all giggles and smiles (he's really adorable).

Yandere Dilf who sadly can't take care of his son all day since he has to work so he decides to hire a babysitter.

Yandere Dilf who searches for babysitters online, rejecting one after another for the smallest reasons, he thinks about giving up until he finds your resume.

Yandere Dilf who thinks you're perfect not only are you pretty but according to your resume you know how to cook, clean and everything a good (wife) babysitter should know.

Yandere Dilf who can't help but notice what the last line of your resume says "I have a lot of experience taking care of babies since I have many nephews 😊" Do you have a big family? He does too! What a wonderful coincidence.

Yandere Dilf who has to hide his excitement when he meets you for the first time, he shows you around the house and explains everything you need to know about his child before you bring him over, he feels his chest warm up when you lovingly take the baby in your arms.

Yandere Dilf who feels happy when you quickly adapt to his and his child's routine, you two become close pretty quickly and his child adores you always laughs and gurgles when you hold him and sobs if you don't pay attention to him for too long.

Yandere Dilf who always comes home from work and is greeted with your delicious freshly made home cooked meal, it just solidifies the thought that you have feelings for him too (you're actually just trying to be nice after he tells you his sad story with his ex wife)

Yandere Dilf who one day tries to make a move on you, when you're cooking in the kitchen he hugs you from behind and you immediately tense up he pulls away a little and you look at him with confusion and discomfort which confuses him a lot.

Yandere Dilf who tries to kiss you and you dodge him backing away almost in panic, he apologizes when he realizes his mistake blaming it on the loneliness he feels from his divorce, you mumble an agreement before sneaking off to the baby's room.

Yandere Dilf who is in shock when you tell him the next day that this will be your last day as a babysitter since you will quit due to yesterday's incident, he feels a sharp pain in his chest, how can you do this to him? To his son? The little boy will suffer if you leave. Don't you know that the boy loves you deeply? You are his mother after all.

Yandere Dilf who pretends to accept your decision while apologizing again for yesterday's incident and offers to make you some tea as an apology he doesn't take no for an answer so you end up accepting grudgingly.

Yandere Dilf who while you stay in the living room he goes to the kitchen and prepares the cups of green tea adding a few sleeping pills in your cup which dissolves very well before returning to your side, he contains a smile as he watches you grab the cup of tea taking a long sip.

When you fell asleep on his couch he took you in his arms and carried you to his room but not before making sure that his son was still sleeping in his crib, then he goes back to his room and approaches his bed where you sleep peacefully, he leans over you kissing your face, your cheeks, your nose, your jaw... he leaves warm traces on your skin before he begins to take off your clothes, his skillful fingers undress you and throw the clothes to the floor with indifference, he sighs admiring your body his hands come closer and squeeze your tits pulling the nipples until they harden in his fingers.

"What beautiful tits fuck... they will look even more beautiful when they are full of milk to feed our children... but you will let daddy try a little of your nectar too, right honey?"

He murmurs as if you can hear him, before he leans in and takes a bud into his mouth, sucking and licking the flesh like a hungry man, he almost seems disappointed that nothing comes out of the bud, when he is satisfied with the attention he gave your nipple he pulls away with a “pop” the swollen mound glistening with saliva, he leaves wet kisses down your breast moving lower and lower until he reaches your wet clit.

"You’re so wet… I knew you wanted this too, I knew you wanted me too… your mouth lies but it’s honest…"

His warm breath fans your pussy before he flicks his tongue out to taste your juices letting out a hum at the taste, he sucks on the sensitive nerve his tongue delves into your tight core, he pumps his tongue fucking you gently trying to loosen your walls a little, your juices wet his chin when he pulls away and he wipes them away with the back of his hand.

"I swear our next time will be much better darling, but right now I just want to make love to you"

He takes off his clothes throwing them on the floor next to the pile of your clothes, when he's naked he gets between your thighs placing your legs on his shoulders, pumping his thick shaft before guiding his bulbous head to your pussy rubbing up and down a few times before finally sliding in, he sighs as your rubbery walls clench and pulse around his cock.

"Ugh! This feels so good, I knew you were perfect for me... we belong together, I'll make you so happy..."

He moves rhythmically, his cock going in and out of your pussy with a squelching sound that fills the room, his balls slapping against your plush ass as his fat tip abuses your cervix, he presses himself tighter against you keeping your legs on his shoulders in a mating hold, his free hand pinching one of your bouncing tits.

As the pleasure builds inside of him his movements become harder and faster, his cock hitting your g-spot over and over again trying to reach the sweet pleasure so he can fill your womb with his seed, the thought of getting you pregnant with his baby and you all round and overflowing with the glow of motherhood makes him cum, he stays still nailed deep inside you as ropes of his warm cum fill the depths of your fertile womb, he caresses your legs.

"We still have plenty of time until you wake up honey so don’t worry daddy will make sure that by the time you open your eyes you will be a mommy and give our child a little brother or sister~"

[yoyomomiko]

Hiiii, I love your writing sm! <33

Could you write monster trio hcs with an s/o who is completely oblivious to their flirting?

Obvs u don't have to write this if u don't wanna! :]

pairings: monster trio x female reader

cw: luffy doesn't really flirt (I don't know how luffy would be flirting I'm sorry), not proofread , probably contains grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language!!

— (a/n): okay so like... I kind of got carried away and didn't really stay with the request and I just realized it now that i'm done writing :(( it just doesn't feel right, I mean, they're not really flirting... it's more like, indirect flirting, you know?? i'm veryyy sorry!!! :(( -> m.list

— LUFFY

Luffy doesn't even understand the concept of flirting, he simply doesn't know how to flirt. He just does things that feel right, like holding your hand all the time or hugging you randomly.

He CONSTANTLY invades your personal space, leaning in way too close when he talks, but you just assume he's always like that (which, in a way, is true).

Luffy will offer you food, which is a huge deal, but you just think he's being generous and thank him without reading into it.

He calls you "his favourite person" or "his girl", but you just assume it's meant to be platonically.

He'll grab your hand and swing it while walking, and when you ask why he simply shrugs. "Dunno, feels right!"

If another guy talks to you, Luffy pouts and clings to you, but you just think he's being his usual affectionate self.

If you ever find yourself in danger, Luffy's protective instincts go overdrive. However, he doesn't exactly know how to express it in a way that makes sense.

He gives you his hat when it's sunny, grinning at you joyfully, like it's a big deal. And then you're just like "Aw, thanks!" And you don't understand why he looks so disappointed (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

Luffy likes sitting next to you during meals, pressing his leg against yours. But you just pull away since you think he just needs more room.

He LITERALLY tells you "I like you a lot!" And you're just like "I like you too!" And ruffle his hair.

He tells you that he'll protect you forever, with the most serious expression ever, and you'll just assume he's being a good captain.

Whenever you hug him, he picks you up and spins you around, grinning like an idiot.

He trusts you with his hat. Like, he trusts you. He lets you wear it all the time, because he knows you'll take care of it. Heck, he's the one placing it on your head! You don't really think much of it, though.

Eventually, Luffy gets frustrated and just blurts out "I wanna be your boyfriend!" And waits for you to finally get it.

———☆

Luffy had been looking for you all morning, walking around the ship, asking everyone where you were. When he finally spotted you on the deck, sitting with Usopp, he rushed over excitedly. He felt his chest tighten whenever he saw you talking with anybody else, but he always brushed it off.

"[Y/N]! I need you!" Luffy grinned, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from Usopp's conversation.

"What's wrong?" You asked, chuckling a bit at his sudden enthusiasm.

"I just wanted to talk to you! You always hang out with everyone else, but you never hang out with me!" Luffy pouted, pulling you along toward the bow of the ship. He threw himself down on the ground dramatically, patting the spot next to him. "Come, sit with me!"

You raised an eyebrow, a bit amused as you leaned over him. "Are you really this clingy all the time?" You teased, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Yeah!" Luffy exclaimed with a wide grin, nudging you to sit next to him. As soon as you sat down, he immediately leaned against you, resting his head on your shoulder. "I just like being close to you. You're my favorite person!"

You smiled and ruffled his hair, thinking he was being his usual goofy self. "You're my favourite person too." You replied, smile widening a bit. "You're a great captain."

He grinned, but then he got serious, standing up straight, staring at you. "No, no, I mean... I like you! I really like you!" He repeated, a little louder this time, a faint pink decorating his cheeks.

You blinked at him, not quite processing it. "Aw, that's sweet! I really like you too."

Luffy just whined, burying his face in his hands as he quietly mumbled something under his breath. You just laughed, patting him on the back as he continued whining. "I think you need a nap, Luffy!"

— ZORO

Zoro isn't the best with words, so his flirting is more about physical gestures, like carrying your things and such.

He always makes sure to sit next to you, no matter where you are, but you just assume it's a coincidence.

He trains shirtless around you more than necessary, subtly flexing, but you never seem to notice.

Speaking of training, he helps you train, standing behind you to correct your form, giving you advice.

I already said he's not the best with words, but he has a tendency to compliment you, although not directly. He might praise your abilities in a fight. You don't really think twice about it, but to Zoro, it's his own form of adoration for you.

He always glares at Sanji when he's flirting with you, but you just think they're bickering as usual.

If another man shows interest in you, Zoro's natural reaction is to stare them down with a glare. You'll never notice his intense gaze, because you think that he's just annoyed by something unrelated.

If you ask for help reaching something, he doesn't just simply hand it to you. He lifts you up effortlessly, just as an excuse to feel you in his arms.

If you're tired, he'll literally carry you to the girl's room. You just think he's being a good friend, as if he does it for everyone else (he doesn't).

He loves it when you nap near him during his training, he just likes your presence. You always think it's just because he's comfortable around you.

If you get hurt, he's the first to scold you. "Be more careful." He's the one patching you up, not letting Chopper get near you (unless it's a serious injury).

Zoro's way of showing affection is through silent protection. You'll never notice that he's doing it for you specifically, and he won't say anything to make it obvious.

He also kind of teases you playfully, as a form of affection. He'll make fun of you when you do something silly, but he's never too mean about it.

He gets SUPER protective in battle, always watching your back. He can't bring himself to look at you badly wounded.

Literally EVERYONE notices how protective he is of you, but somehow you never do. Even strangers think so.

Like I've said before, he finds excuses to touch you. For example, gently guiding you through crowds by the small of your back.

He also somehow always catches you when you trip. Right before you hit the ground, he's there, arms wrapped around you and helping you stand back on your feet.

Eventually, he just grabs your face one day and says something like "Damn it, I like you. Get it now?"

———☆

You were standing near the railing, gazing out at the ocean, watching the sunset, completely lost in your thoughts. That was, until you heard heavy footsteps approaching behind you.

"You've been standing there forever. You lost or something?" Zoro's voice came from beside you, his usual gruff voice a little softer.

You glanced at him as a smile tugged at your lips. "Nah, just thinking. The ocean looks really pretty right now."

Zoro leaned against the railing next to you, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't exactly great at this whole flirting thing, but if Sanji could do it, how hard could it be? He decided to go for something subtle. Something cool.

"Yeah, well..." He muttered, his gaze lingering on you a second too long. "It's not the only thing that looks pretty around here."

You turned to him, blinking in confusion. "Oh yeah! The ship looks great in this lighting too." You smiled as you took a look around, completely missing the way Zoro's expression dropped.

He sighed, shaking his head slightly before he tried again. "That's... Not what I meant."

You furrowed your brows in confusion. "Oh, you meant the sunset, huh? Yeah. It's really nice."

Zoro stared at you for a long moment, his lips parting slightly, trying to process how this was going so terribly wrong. He tried again, this time leaning just a little closer, lowering his voice. "I was talking about you, idiot."

You blinked at him, slightly tilting your head to the side. "Me?"

Zoro nodded, waiting, praying for the realization to hit you already.

"Ohhh." You finally broke the silence, and for a moment, his heart skipped a beat.

"That's really sweet, Zoro! You think I look nice too?" You chuckled, as if he had just complimented your outfit instead of attempting to flirt with you.

Zoro groaned, running a hand down his face. "Yeah, sure, that's what I meant..." He mumbled, admitting defeat.

You gave him a friendly pat on the back. "You're getting a lot nicer, you know that? I think hanging around me is softening you up."

He let out a quiet scoff, turning his gaze back to the sea. "Or maybe I'm just like that with you."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

— SANJI

Sanji is the king of exaggerated compliments. Every time he looks at you, it's as if he's seeing the most beautiful person in the world. "My darling, the moon is jealous of your beauty tonight." is a pretty common line from him, but you just think it's his usual behavior.

He constantly tries to impress you with his cooking. He'll make your favourite dish and serve it with grace, and when you compliment the food, he blushes as if you're complimenting him. You thank him every time, but in your mind, it's just good manners.

He will find any excuse to help you with something, even if it's small, like picking up something you dropped. And the moment you thank him for it he's like "Anything for you my lovely lady!" You just smile and move on because he does that with pretty much every woman.

Sanji's always the first one to offer you his jacket when it gets cold. Sometimes, when he gets brave, he wraps it around your shoulders and makes sure to linger closer to you for just a little longer.

He has a soft spot for you when you're sad, and he'll stop whatever he's doing to comfort you. He'll hold your hand, stroke your hair and whisper sweet nothings. You just assume it's because he's a gentleman, not because he's crushing on you hard.

Sanji can be pretty possessive, especially when another guy is even slightly flirting with you. You'll catch him glaring, and if anyone so much as dares to brush against your arm, he'll throw a fit. That person might get a foot to the face, but who knows!!

Whenever you compliment his cooking or his fighting skills, he gets way more flustered than with anyone else. His eyes will turn into hearts, and he'll literally swoon.

Sanji often stares at you with wide starry eyes but when you catch him, he'll just say something like "Oh, nothing! Just admiring my beautiful angel." You think he's being his usual self or just lost in thought.

He makes a huge deal out of holding the door for you, pulling your chair at dinner and guiding you with his arm. But you think it's just because he's being polite. He tries to take your hand as he walks you around, but you just think he's offering help, never suspecting that he's being a little more than just polite.

After all his dramatic declarations of love, he finally cracks. One evening, while you're standing by the railing, he walks up to you and throws himself down at your feet. "I cannot live without you! You're my everything, and I need you to understand that!"

———☆

Sanji had been watching you all day. When you first arrived and joined the crew, he had already been swooning, but now, after spending this much time with you, he was completely smitten. He had made your favourite dessert just for you, and now he was patiently waiting for you to notice.

You peacefully sat on the deck, reading a book, when Sanji rushed over, holding a plate of freshly made pastries. "Ah, my darling! I've made these just for you!" He smiled, leaning down with a hand on his chest in a dramatic bow. "Only the finest for my beautiful lady."

You looked up from your book, a little surprised. "Oh, Sanji! Thank you so much! You really didn't have to, but I appreciate it!"

Sanji's heart skipped a bit as you reached for one of the pastries, giving him a sweet smile. "Anything for you, my love." He muttered, but his voice came out softer, almost like a whisper. He was looking at you like you were the only person in the world. He pressed a hand to his heart, praying you couldn't hear how loud it was beating.

You giggled, thinking nothing of it as you took a bite from the pastry. "This is so good! I don't think I've said this enough, but you're really talented."

He blinked, and his face turned pink, clearly flustered by the compliment. "I only make the best for you, [Y/N]." He replied, his voice shaking just slightly. He leaned in a little closer, almost as if hoping you'd get the hint. "You deserve nothing less."

You looked up, gazing at him, smiling warmly. "Thank you, Sanji. I appreciate it..."

He sighed dramatically and placed a hand to his forehead. "Oh, my sweet [Y/N], how I adore you..." His voice trailed off as he stared into the distance.

"You okay?" You tilted your head, genuinely concerned. But once again, completely oblivious to how he was really feeling.

He slumped forward onto the table, groaning in agony. "I don't think I can take it anymore..." He mumbled under his breath, barely audible. "Why can't you see how I feel?!"

★yoyomiko ★miko

[potchi-fics]

tw; g!p basketball caitlyn, locker room shenanigans

“fuck, mouth feels so good,” caitlyn’s harsh whispers of your name and curses fill the locker room, her shorts pulled down to the floor, eyes lidded, the hem of her jersey bitten between her teeth, and one hand on top of your head, “all the way down for me, please?”

     you could only bask in her whiney voice, the way her eyebrows furrow in plea, hips thrusting upwards only to stop midway, not wanting to disobey you.

caitlyn’s vacant hand darts out to grip the edge of the bench you two are currently using, letting out a guttural groan when the back of your throat envelops the head of her leaking dick—your nose meets her pelvic bone, shaking your head side to side for a moment to prolong her pleasure.

you gag before going up for air, your hand still pumping her throbbing cock, “can’t cum yet, remember that, kiramman.” you suck her tip in, hollowing your cheeks, and continuing your actions, knowing she can’t handle all that.

“don’t do t-that, or else i’ll cum–” she throws her head back when you suddenly shove her dick down your throat, “baby–baby, i’ll cum.”

      she hastily attempts to pull you from her, the pressure in her groin becoming too much—she’s about cum. 

but you refuse to budge, you bob your head up and down harshly, your hands wrapping up when you reach her head, wanting to push her to the edge. 

you’re glad no one is around to witness the school’s superstar panting, moaning, twisting, and turning in your hold. or how hard she’s biting her shirt, knuckles turning white, her hand on your head pushing you down to take more of her, her feet planted firmly on the ground, and her hips finally lifting off of the bench.

and yet she’s begging you to slow down.

      you finally give in and pull away with a pop, your hand giving her lazy strokes. “which one is it, kiramman?” 

      you relish the moment caitlyn kiramman is heaving like an animal, her legs quivering against your forearms, flinching when a particular stroke sends an electric shot through her body.

“stop–stop, baby, then please let me cum,” her long fingers wrapping around your hand, though not doing anything, her eyes dilated. “you need to let me cum.”

[batboysanonymous]

Soft Like Shadows

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has never been good with words, but he never needed them with you. In the quiet hours of the night, when the world is still and his shadows retreat, he finds comfort in the warmth of your touch—the one place where even the most feared spymaster can be soft.

───────────────────────────────

The stars were sharp tonight, cutting through the inky night sky like diamonds scattered across velvet. The wind, crisp and biting, swept through Velaris, rustling the sheer curtains of the open balcony doors. But inside, wrapped in the thick warmth of blankets and Azriel’s embrace, you couldn’t feel a thing except the steady heat of his body pressed to yours.

The bedroom was cast in soft light from the fireplace, its golden flicker dancing along the dark walls, illuminating the faint glimmer of his blue siphons. They pulsed faintly in the dimness, their glow mirroring the steady beat of his heart—calm, steady, unhurried.

Azriel lay beside you, his broad frame relaxed in a way it rarely was, one wing draped partially over you, as if to shield you even in sleep. You weren’t sure when this had started, this quiet need he had to keep you tucked under his wings, but you never complained. How could you, when it made you feel so undeniably his?

You shifted slightly, reaching up to run your fingers along his forearm, tracing the fine scars that marked his skin. Your touch was featherlight, reverent. Azriel hummed low in his throat, the sound more vibration than voice, as he nuzzled closer.

And then—he bumped his forehead against yours.

It was so soft, so gentle, that for a moment, you thought you imagined it. But then he did it again, a light press, as if requesting something without words.

A smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah, baby?” you murmured, tilting your head just enough to meet his hazel eyes.

Azriel muttered something under his breath, the words too soft to catch.

You huffed a quiet laugh, trailing your fingers up his arm and into the thick waves of his hair. “Use your words, big guy.”

A slow roll of his eyes—dramatic, almost teasing. “Don’t make me say it,” he muttered against your cheek, voice laced with that familiar rasp.

Your grin widened. “C’mon, Shadowsinger. Say it.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose, as if put upon by your antics, but the ghost of a smile still tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your nose before whispering, ��Can you play with my hair, please?”

The softness in his voice, the way he said it like a secret meant only for you, had warmth blooming in your chest.

You tapped your chin in exaggerated thought. “Hmm…”

A shadow slithered up your arm, a teasing nudge. Then, before you could react, Azriel poked your side, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at his lips.

“Y/N.”

“Alright, alright,” you relented, laughing as you shifted slightly so he could fully settle against you.

The moment your fingers found his hair, Azriel sighed—a deep, bone-melting sound, like he had been waiting for this all day. His body relaxed instantly, his weight pressing more firmly against you as his head rested against your chest.

Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, the touch lazy and soothing. His breath hitched for a moment before he melted, a low hum slipping from his lips.

“This is your weakness, isn’t it?” you teased, dragging your fingers through the silky strands, watching the way his lashes fluttered against his sharp cheekbones.

Azriel mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like you’re my weakness, but when you tried to lift his head to look at him properly, he just buried his face further into your neck.

Your heart clenched.

No one ever saw him like this. No one ever got to see the way he melted under gentle hands, the way his entire being sighed in relief when he was held like this, cherished like this. The feared spymaster, the shadowsinger, reduced to a content, sleepy puddle in your arms.

“Can you just read my mind next time?” he murmured against your collarbone.

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I could. But then I’d miss out on watching you beg for it.”

Azriel huffed, but the arms wrapped around your waist tightened, his grip firm and secure, like he never wanted to let go.

You traced slow patterns across his bare back, following the contours of his muscles, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. He was solid beneath your touch, strong and unyielding, but here, in your arms, he was soft.

“I don’t think I ever let myself imagine this,” Azriel said after a long moment, voice quiet, almost unsure.

You frowned, pausing your ministrations. “Imagine what?”

His breath fanned against your throat. “This. You. Us.” His fingers traced lazy circles against your hip. “I didn’t think I’d ever get to have something like this.”

Your heart cracked. “Az…”

His arms tightened around you, as if he could physically stop the sadness from seeping between you. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, curling your fingers into his hair again, tugging just enough to make him lift his head. When his hazel eyes met yours, you cupped his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing lightly over the sharp planes of his cheekbones.

“You deserve this,” you told him, firm and unwavering. “You deserve love, and softness, and a place to rest.” You ran a hand down his cheek, watching the way his expression softened, the way he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. “And you’ll always have that with me.”

Something flickered in his gaze—something raw, something so deep it nearly stole your breath.

Azriel didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he kissed you.

His lips moved against yours in a way that made the world blur around you, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your head, holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever known.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

“I love you,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart swelled, full and aching. You brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, smiling softly. “I love you more.”

Azriel made a soft sound, something close to a scoff, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he shifted, pulling you even closer until you were practically tangled together, his head tucked beneath your chin, his wings curling around you protectively.

His shadows, usually restless and ever-present, were still.

And in that quiet, in the warm cocoon of blankets and whispered affections, you let yourself drift, your fingers still tangled in his hair, his breath steady against your skin.

Because here, in the safety of your arms, Azriel could finally rest.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Azriel: @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains

[fangdokja]

Capitalism By Day, Cock Worship By Night

♡ Book. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Word Count. 1,910

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who is a respected CEO by day and an unhinged hyperanalysis Tumblr user by night. The duality of man.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who is the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company but still makes burner accounts to argue with 13-year-olds on Reddit about your character motivations. Who has an Excel spreadsheet tracking your entire career, from your first role as "background corpse #3" to your latest award-winning performance. Who spends his free time doing deep-dive analyses of your acting techniques but no one, not even his closest subordinates, knows he’s the one writing unhinged 900k-word fanfics about you.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who has carefully curated his public image, who is stoic, charismatic, and feared in the corporate world. But the second he logs in, he’s deep-diving into the lore of you, dissecting every performance, every interview, every offhand comment you’ve ever made with the precision of a man trying to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who writes degenerate, filthy, pornographic fanfiction about you—so detailed, so accurate, that it makes even your most deranged fans question reality. Who has crafted a smut masterpiece so depraved, so accurate, that even you would have to double-check your NDA contracts to make sure he didn't bug your dressing room. It’s so well-written it climbs to the top of AO3 and Tumblr overnight, leaving millions thirsting over a version of you that only he could have written.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who wrote it with the precision of a surgeon and the passion of a man on death row seeing the light. It is filth. Absolute smut with no plot. Unapologetic. A symphony of depravity. And every single word? Perfectly in-character. Because if anyone knows how you would sound moaning, it's him.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who releases the sequel and watches with malicious glee as the internet collectively loses its mind. Who makes it filthier, darker, and even more in-depth—layering psychological tension so thick that even your most hardened fans start questioning their morals. Who thrives on the idea that, somewhere out there, your closest colleagues are reading this and suffering.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who did it because none of these incompetent writers could capture your essence properly. They all wrote you like some generic anime character, not the complex, fascinating enigma you are. He had to do it himself. He had no choice.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who didn't mean for his fanfiction to go viral. He was just frustrated. You kept rejecting interviews, dodging meet-and-greets, refusing to acknowledge his existence beyond a stiff handshake and polite nod. So he did what any normal, well-adjusted person would do: he wrote about you getting railed. And naturally, the internet devoured it.

———

♡ Yandere! Producer who accidentally clicks on the link because some dumbass intern thought it was a business report.

♡ Yandere! Producer who stares at the screen, unblinking, unmoving, as the words "throbbing" and "whimpering" and "pressed against the wall like a starved animal" flash before his eyes. Who is suddenly regretting ever learning how to read.

♡ Yandere! Producer who doesn’t read fanfiction. Because he has a job, unlike these losers. But somehow, this abomination of a fic lands on his desk.

♡ Yandere! Producer who is about to ruin some lives because how dare someone write some filthy, degenerate, absolutely heinous material about his star. His investment. His prodigy. His—

…

♡ Yandere! Producer who is silent. Very silent.

♡ Yandere! Producer who has his phone way too close to his face now.

♡ Yandere! Producer who realizes…

“...Shit. This is actually way too accurate.”

♡ Yandere! Producer who tries to pretend he doesn’t know about it. Who tells himself he won’t read more, that he has more important things to do—but somehow ends up scrolling through it at 3 AM, gripping his tablet with white knuckles. Who gets to the most depraved part and damn near drops his cigarette in shock. Who refuses to look you in the eye for a week because now, every time you speak, all he can hear is the absolutely unhinged dialogue from the fanfic.

♡ Yandere! Producer knows you. Has known you since you were a brat barely able to hold your own scripts. He made you. Every talent you have? Honed by him. Every time you tried to half-ass a scene? Whipped into perfection by him. And yet, somehow—somehow—this unknown fucker has written a version of you so accurate, so filthy, so real, that even he is forced to question whether you’ve been sneaking around behind his back.

♡ Yandere! Producer who stares at the screen with the cold sweat of a man who just found out his daughter is a Camgirl.

His fingers tighten around his phone, veins popping.

“What the fuck is this shit?”

He knows how you move, how you breathe, how you react. But this? The way the author describes the way your body responds, your micro-expressions, the way your breath hitches at certain touches— this is not something just anyone can guess.

For the first time in his life, he feels true, genuine jealousy.

“…The fuck kinda research did this bastard do?”

♡ Yandere! Producer who takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out the longest sigh of his career.

♡ Yandere! Producer who types a single text message to you:

“Explain this shit.”

You: “???????”

———

♡ Yandere! Rival who hates your guts, who would piss on your grave if given the chance.

♡ Yandere! Rival who was barely recovering from the first fic and now has to deal with a second, even more deranged installment. Who reads it out of morbid curiosity and ends up seething because no one should know you this well. Who stares at the screen in disbelief, fingers twitching, contemplating whether to track down the author and demand answers. Who now feels the unsettling urge to confirm for himself whether you are really that way in private—because if not, then WHO THE HELL DID THE AUTHOR BASE THIS ON?

♡ Yandere! Rival who now has his soul leave his body because he just read about you doing things he cannot unread.

♡ Yandere! Rival who is rethinking his entire life because—

“Why the fuck is this hot?”

♡ Yandere! Rival who is now staring at his screen like: 👁️👄👁️

♡ Yandere! Rival who is aggressively scrolling like, “Yeah, this is disgusting. This is so fucking filthy. This is—”

…

scrolls back up to reread a part

…

“Who the fuck wrote this?”

♡ Yandere! Rival who has always known you. That’s the curse of childhood friends turned enemies. He knows when you’re lying, knows what makes you tick. And that’s exactly why when he stumbles upon the sequel—because it’s viral as hell, he’d have to be blind not to see it— his entire body goes cold.

Because this isn’t some vague, generic smut.

This isn’t some horny Tumblr teen’s fantasy.

This is knowledge.

Knowledge that only someone who has touched you— truly, deeply, intimately— could possibly write.

He wants to deny it. Wants to brush it off, mock the poor bastard who wasted their time writing degenerate, nasty, shamelessly detailed filth about you.

But then he reads a line—just one—and his blood runs hot.

Because the way the author describes the exact way your voice breaks—

That’s real.

No one else knows that but him.

♡ Yandere! Rival who now thinks you have a secret boyfriend. Or worse—

You’re in love with someone else.

———

♡ Yandere! Hater who gets links to the fics by some rando trying to piss him off.

♡ Yandere! Hater who is already typing out a snarky message in his head like, “Lmao bet this is another shitty self-insert where—”

…

♡ Yandere! Hater who stops breathing.

♡ Yandere! Hater who has read the first three paragraphs and realizes this isn’t some generic garbage.

This is cinema.

♡ Yandere! Hater who has to pause multiple times because what the fuck is this? Because why is it turning him on?

♡ Yandere! Hater who initially refuses to read the sequel but breaks down after getting multiple DMs from people asking for his "thoughts." Who clicks on the link and proceeds to spiral into a full-blown identity crisis. Who gets irrationally angry because, AGAIN, WHY IS IT SO GOOD? Who starts analyzing the prose structure like it’s a fucking literature thesis, trying to convince himself that he’s critiquing it academically and not... enjoying it.

♡ Yandere! Hater who prides himself on being your biggest critic.

It’s fun for him. Picking apart your performances, your interviews, every public appearance you make—mocking your choices, your expressions, your fanbase. But the sequel? The fucking sequel?

It’s pissing him off.

Because who the hell wrote this?

The first one was bad enough—too well-written, too detailed, too real—but this? This is worse. This is so intimate, so obscenely visceral, that he finds himself clenching his jaw, gripping his phone tighter than necessary.

“Bullshit,” he mutters under his breath.

There’s no way someone else knows you this well.

There’s no fucking way someone has been close enough to you, touched you enough, kissed you enough, fucked you enough to be able to describe you like this.

And that thought alone—the idea that someone else might have you—

He grits his teeth. His eye twitches.

For the first time, he can’t critique.

For the first time, he’s just angry.

♡ Yandere! Hater who then proceeds to read all 20,000 words in one sitting, face getting progressively darker with each passing paragraph. Who realizes, with great horror, that he’s actually getting jealous.

♡ Yandere! Hater who slams his laptop shut, stands up, and immediately walks out of his apartment because this is not okay. Who needs to go touch grass. Who is now wondering if he should start writing his own version—

No.

No.

This cannot be happening.

♡ Yandere! Hater who eventually messages you:

“You got a ghostwriter or some shit? Because whoever wrote this knows you in ways that shouldn’t be possible.”

You: “Excuse me????”

———

Whereas, ♡ Yandere! Fanboy is watching.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who sits in his private office, sipping imported tea, refreshed and satisfied, knowing that his work has shaken the world.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who checks the AO3 stats. Sequel already at 100k hits. Comments pouring in. Tumblr discourse ignited.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who smirks as he reads their reactions because he expected all of this.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who already has the third installment in the drafts.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who is only getting started.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @mocalocha

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

[heartfullofleeches]

Fem Knight Yan + Masculine Fem Knight Reader

-

It's quiet.

Too quiet.

"Ohohoho!~"

Figures-

Clomping heels sing in their march toward your position, prideful steps reverberating through the narrow corridor. For a flicker instant, the pristine polish of that blasted woman's eyesore of a helmet blinds you as sunlight pouring through the window bounces off the pointed curves. The air ripples as she twirls her spear in hand - leveling its sharpened blade with your shielded neck as she towers boastfully before you.

"Y/n! What a surprise is to see you here!" Throwing her braid hair behind one shoulder, an expression of euphoria snakes across her face as she sighs blissfully. "The gods have smiled upon me this morning!"

"General." Unbothered by the obvious ploy to keep you in place, you push her spear aside." "I believe you are well aware of my schedule- What with your relentless attempts at proposing a duel."

"Ah, my queen bathed in thorns- Surely you could've ending that sentence at the proposal? After all, I only ask you to fight me so that you may see that i alone am the one who will tame your warrior's heart?"

"...I'll pass."

"Aghhh!" Stomping her feet against the stone floor, your general collapses to her knees - arms outstretched to you in yearning!

"Face me, My Bride! Battle me and allow me to strike you down so fiercely that the shame on your bloodline results in you resigning from your post, and becoming mine entirely! Allow the defeat to course through your veins in such a way that you'll be one with me in every life time!""

"There are more important things to fight over. Does the protection and safety of our people mean nothing to you?"

"This kingdom is nothing to me without you! I'd burn it to the ground myself if you parted ways from my side. Beneath your boyish charm I know there is a maiden dying to be freed. And someday I will give you that freedom, My Love."

"I'd rather die at the hands of a thief."

The gasp of horror your general expelles leaves your ears ringing for the remainder of the day.

[florencebirdsong]

Can I request jealous Agatha x fem reader? Reader and reader’s friend aren’t doing nothing even remotely romantic, Agatha is just over analyzing everything they do together and driving themselves crazy over it

Thank you so much for this request!!! I really hope you enjoy the way I wrote it <3

Staying In

Agatha Harkness x Reader

summary: when you insist on going out with a friend who is clearly into you, Agatha takes matters into her own hands

tags: red flags with hints of mutual obsession, Mistress Agatha, sub Reader, jealous Agatha, magic bondage, light impact play, overstimulation, fingering

authors note: suspend your disbelief for not having a crush on Darcy. I’ve had to as well 😔

she/her pronouns used to refer to r

ao3 | masterlist

You’ve decided that Agatha is being silly. Mainly because her being insecure feels impossible. You aren’t into Darcy. You have never been into Darcy. It’s never even crossed your mind. Something Agatha is well aware of and yet she insists that something is there. At least on Darcy’s end. Which you highly doubt since she would have said something during the decade you’ve known her.

“It doesn’t matter,” you finally snap at her. “Despite what you may believe Agatha, I am my own person. I’m going to go to a nice restaurant with my nice friend and have a nice, platonic night with her.”

Agatha’s face goes blank in a way that makes you nervous. It turning into a slow smirk has you shifting on your feet. Agatha is rarely wrong. It’s a fact that you usually enjoy. Right now it’s too hard to think of your best friend seeing things differently to accept it. Plus, the fact that you have zero interest in Darcy and Agatha has made her claim very clear should defuse things. And yet.

“It’s not what you think, Agatha,” you insist.

“Of course, dear,” she says with that same deadly look and you swallow harshly.

You have to look away otherwise that traitorous warmth inside you is going to take over your rational brain. It’s not fair that she still has such a strong effect on you when you’re frustrated with her.

“I think I’ll retire to my lab for the night,” she says, already turning. You enjoy your nice night.”

You fight the urge to follow her and instead watch her go quietly. That had been a little too easy, especially with your earlier claim. You’re both well aware of how deeply Agatha owns you.

You only debate with yourself for a moment before moving to get ready. Your and Darcy’s schedules haven’t lined up enough for a proper meal for weeks. You’re both busy enough it’s likely to take even longer for them to line up again. You can survive one night of Agatha’s wrath.

—————-

Every other item you try to use disappears. It starts out subtle. Some things not being where you thought you left them, others being in odd but not impossible spots. It escalates until your perfume disappears right out of your hand.

“Agatha!” you finally shout in frustration.

Of course, you don’t get an answer. She’s three floors away. Not that it stops her from watching you but she so does love plausible deniability.

You’re about to rummage through her own drawers (more to make a mess than anything) when her personal perfume bottle appears in a little puff of purple smoke right in front of you. You huff a laugh. Of course.

You don’t try and refuse it. Or deny how much you want it. Every bit of Agatha entices you. Her scent is no different. Even if the perfume doesn’t quite contain every hint of her, it’s enough of a reward for her to use it against you often.

It’s hard to concentrate with her scent surrounding you but it’s something you have to contend with every time you’re around her. You have enough practice to still complete your goal, just not without thinking about her every time you take a breath.

Since Agatha has yet to bind you to the bed, you believe you’re consequence free, at least until you return home. Then you reach the door. The handle turns but the door doesn’t open. You try to flick the lock but it doesn’t move. Frowning, you try to tug it free but it’s too small to get a good grip. It jiggles a little but remains stuck. It’s weird and annoying but nothing Agatha can’t fix. Later. It’s not the best idea to go down to her lair while you still want to leave.

A thought crosses your mind but you don’t genuinely believe it until the back door does the same thing. She really has locked you in. You prefer it when she throws you into bed and traps you there. Huffing, you wonder if it would be too crazy to go out the window. It feels too crazy, and a bit silly. You aren’t a teenager anymore and this is technically also your house.

Instead of creeping out of a window, you creep down the stairs to her basement. While the house may equally be yours, Agatha’s lair is entirely her own. It’s a dangerous place for anyone that isn’t Agatha.

She’s standing at one of her benches, going between a book and some vaguely-witchy item in her hand. You risk a few steps inside.

“You locked the door.”

“Did I?” Agatha asks neutrally, not bothering to look up from what she is working on.

“I could be wrong,” you shrug casually. “If I am then you’ll have no problem forcing it open.”

“I’m very busy, dear.”

“It’s very convenient for both doors to be stuck on the night you don’t want me to go out.”

Agatha finally turns around. “Careful,” she says in a low voice.

You swallow hard. It’s not a smart idea to push her but you’re annoyed enough to do it anyway.

“I guess I’ll just go out the window,” you jut your chin out.

Her eyes darken but she doesn’t move. You know she’s waiting to see if you actually try or if you’re bluffing. It pisses you off enough to turn around. You get two steps before your arms are jerked behind your back and purple lifts you off the ground.

“Agatha!” you yell more in surprise than anything else.

“I did say to be careful.” She tilts her wrist and you fly towards her. “Look at you, all dressed up for her.”

“I’m not,” you snap.

What you’re wearing is nicer than usual but it’s hardly your dressiest outfit. You’re going to a higher end restaurant than the usual casual lunches you do with Darcy.

Agatha flicks her wrist and you whimper at the pain that lashes across your thigh. Sharp enough it’s like you aren’t wearing clothes at all.

“Agatha,” you half-whine, not wanting to admit just how turned on you are.

She flicks her wrist again and you squirm in the air.

“Tell me to stop,” she says as she slowly circles you. “Tell me to stop, and mean it, and I’ll send you on your pretty little way.”

You hate when she does this. You can never refuse her attention. It’s all you think about.

Pain lances again when you don’t answer quickly enough. You debate purposely staying quiet longer to feel it again but you doubt this will be the last of your punishment for tonight.

“Stop,” your voice wavers.

Agatha strikes you again and you can feel yourself begin to drip down your thigh.

“Try again.”

“I want you to stop,” your voice comes out a little firmer this time and Agatha raises an eyebrow.

“I almost believe you,” she says, which you highly doubt. “Unfortunately, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“I- I want to go to dinner,” you try instead because you both know you don’t truly want Agatha to stop.

“Maybe. But you want me to fuck you more.”

You swallow harshly. There’s no denying that. “You won’t though,” you say quietly.

“Aw, is that what has my pet all upset? She thinks I won’t fuck her silly since she’s been so naughty?”

“Think?” you ask hopefully and Agatha smirks.

“Why, of course. I want my girl to stay, don’t I? Denying her isn’t going to that.”

It sounds like a trap. It feels like a trap. Agatha’s face is telling you that it is a trap and yet, that heat within you rises. With the way your games usually go, she’s probably going to fuck you. There’ll be some sort of catch, especially after you’ve denied her so much. But just the idea of her touching you when you were so certain she wouldn’t has you giving in.

“I -” you lick your dry lips. “I do want you to fuck me more.”

“Well, now you’re just stating facts,” Agatha flicks her wrist and your clothes disappear. “I suppose it’s better than lying.”

Anticipation surges through you as her eyes run over you. They snag on the red welts caused by her earlier lashes before they stray to the wetness soaking your thighs.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she coos and steps closer. “No wonder you’ve been acting out You’re too desperate to think properly.”

You don’t even contemplate protesting with her hands on you. When she looks up at you for a response you nod eagerly. Her amusement doesn’t settle the voice saying there’s a catch somewhere but her touch soothes any growing anxieties.

“I can certainly help with that,” she says and trails her fingers over the red marks as she makes her way towards your soaked core.

Her fingers lightly run through your soaked lips and you shiver. Agatha has been so annoyed about Darcy that she hasn’t touched you like this in days. You hadn’t realised how much the lack was affecting you.

“There we go,” she murmurs as she runs her fingers over your clit, making you gasp. She circles there for a moment before moving down and smoothly entering you with two fingers. “Empty that pretty little head of yours.”

Nodding, you try to spread your legs further apart but Agatha’s magic keeps you still. You wish she would let you down. Let you touch her. But it’s a miracle she’s touching you at all so you don’t risk asking.

Agatha’s pace remains slow until you’re whining with need. She’s so mean, only giving your clit a quick swipe every now and then until you’re begging incoherently.

“Are you going to behave for me now?” she finally asks with a raised eyebrow. Long past words, you nod desperately. Anything, you’d do anything for her. “Good girl,” she says gutturally and you fly over the edge.

She speeds up for the first time and you writhe in pleasure as the orgasm flows over you, the slow build to it having heightened the intensity. She doesn’t slow, even as you come back down.

“Mistress?” you gasp in confusion when she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t worry. I’m just making sure no silly thoughts linger in my pet’s head.”

You don’t protest or plead. You don’t want her hands to leave yet. It’s been too long without them. A second orgasm won’t hurt. Especially when she pays so much more attention to your clit.

As she makes firm circles around your clit, you wish once again that you could touch her. You want to feel her warmth against you and use your teeth to encourage her to fuck you faster and pull her hair when she doesn’t. Instead, you’re stuck whining in the air as she has her way with you.

Her fingers curl and hit that special spot inside of you. Your head drops forward as you moan. She does it again as she makes firmer circles around your clit and you’re coming before you even realise how close you are.

Finally, finally she lets you touch her. Her magic lowers you down and wraps your arms around her. You cling tight and whimper when her fingers curl again.

“One more,” she murmurs soothingly.

You meant to speak but what comes out is a low whine that’s quickly taken over by a moan.

This one is slow and soft. You’re sensitive enough that Agatha’s slow pace builds you up easily. You whine into her shoulder as the overwhelming feeling of coming a third time floods you.

You tend and shudder in her grasp before going entirely limp.

“There we go. You know where you belong, don’t you?” she asks.

She cradles you like you’re something precious. You nod weakly, holding onto her. There was never a question of who you belong to but you don’t mind reminding Agatha. Or, well, Agatha reminding herself.

“You mistress,” you manage to say.

“Good girl,” she says and kisses the side of your head.

You shiver again.

“So mean,” you mutter light heartedly.

Agatha gives you an amused look.

“Three was getting off lightly and you know it.”

You snort at the pun.

“Can we go lay down?” you ask after a moment. “I’ve missed you.”

The dizzying sensation of teleporting envelopes you a second later.

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | masterlist

root

tw: alcohol/drinking, puke/vomit

Your period is late. 

She is a fickle bitch—always coming and going whenever she pleases, often arriving without warning and then popping back in for one last hurrah just when you thought she’d left. For once, she is quiet. You know she is here somewhere, lurking where you don’t want her to. 

The nail on your thumb taps against your phone screen as you count days and weeks on your calendar. One. Two. Four. Twenty-six. Twenty-eight. Today makes twenty-nine. A synodic month; perhaps your body wishes to align with the phases of the moon rather than your own biological clock. Lunar—your sweet Luna. The push and pull. The wax and wane. An ethereal force is here to guide your body until it is pliant—respectful. 

Though, you are exhausted with the supernatural; the otherworldly. With things infinitely stronger than you. With things that diminish you into some infinitesimal creature. 

Your Ghost. 

Vibration from your phone erases all memory of your Ghost from your psyche as a message pops up on screen, obscuring the calendar you’ve been staring at for the better part of half an hour. 

Jane: Here! Ready to head out? 

Thick cut chips from your friends’ favorite pub coats your fingertips in grease. It shines, gossamer beneath the flickering sconces that hang above your head like bombs waiting to fracture on the floor. You’re perched at a round table, elbows resting as you lick yourself clean. They chirp like birds as they lament about their long weeks at work, a sentiment you nod along with as you choke the neck of your beer. Its head sizzles, foam thick and heavy upon the amber liquid. 

Everyone else is already on their second, but you’re still struggling with your first. It tastes stale. Washes over your tongue like flat soda and sawdust. Every ridge along the roof of your mouth shrivels at the flavor. Noisome. Rancid. 

How’s your dream visitor doing? 

They ask their questions in jest with curling lips and pearly teeth. Their words poke like a needle—14 gauge straight through the skin, ripping through epidermis and cartilage. You’d bleed dry, but you slap a bandaid over the wound with a smile. 

“Dunno. Must be off on vacation.” 

It’s a lie. Ghost doesn’t take vacations. 

Not from you. 

He still visits you regularly when you’re in limbo—that purgatory that weighs on your chest and eyelids as you yearn for the freedom that lies on the other side of your paralysis. The most recent time you ran into him, you were on your stomach. Neck craning to the side, you couldn’t see him, but you could feel him. Warmth on your back, hands on your hips, holding your rump into the air to piston into you. You think if you dusted your skin, you’d find his fingerprints lingering on you like a brand. 

You carry him with you, though you often question both your sanity and the validity of his tangibility. 

Your friends quickly drop the subject—bored with your strange dreams and tired eyes—and you are grateful for it. Drowning your discomfort with the hoppy taste of beer, you force the churning in your stomach into submission as you nod along with their stories. Work. Their husbands. A fling. Good sex. Bad sex. 

Something twists. Gnarly fingernails find purchase in your torso and it writhes. Deep. Kicks its feet in your solar plexus. The oxygen it saps from your lungs leaves you dizzy. World spinning. Body too light, table unsteady. 

You excuse yourself to the washroom where the air is cooler and not as thick, but the shock leaves your muscles twitching. The faucet turns on with a squeak. You look at yourself in the mirror, at the face you hardly seem to recognize anymore. Three stalls stand behind you—looming like gallows. As soon as you dip your hands in the water to wash your face, your stomach lurches. 

All the contents of your evening—beer, salty chips, and grease—spills into the bin. The alcohol tasted bad going down, but it’s ten times worse coming back up. Bile, rot; the apotheosis of shame and madness. As soon as you think you’re finished, the scent of it overwhelms your nose, hitting it with bilous acidity, and your stomach contracts again, leaving you to dry heave. 

A tender hand rests on your back between your shoulder blades, pressing into your spine, and your head snaps to the side as you cough. A stranger. Mussed hair, bright blue eyes—her cheeks are florid, though you can’t tell if it’s from her intoxication or her makeup. 

“You alright, sweets? Let me grab you a water.” 

Your friend takes you home afterwards. She doesn’t bother to wait around to watch you enter your apartment before speeding off to rejoin everyone at the pub. Heat plagues you with severe hot flashes that leave you sweating through your clothes. You strip, baring your feverish skin to your apartment before wandering off to the bathroom where you sleep on the floor. Algid tile embraces you. It’s the warmest hug you think you’ve ever received. 

Chalking it up to your impending menstrual cycle, you start wearing pads when Monday rolls around. You’re conscious of it. Too aware. The bulky item presses against your sex as you uncomfortably sit at your desk. Each time a wave of discharge expels, you rush to the bathroom, eager to find blood and endometrium. 

There is nothing. 

You are pusillanimous in the drug store. Head bowed, shoulders curled—the family planning section feels like a cage. One with cameras that show your face and the lack of a ring on your finger as you grab a pregnancy test kit from the shelf. A laughing stock. Something to pity. Something to smirch. You are plenty old enough—no longer some teen girl about to break terrible news to her parents—but you are not ready. 

Incapable. Too dim witted. You are not ready for a child. 

But you can’t have a child—you can’t be pregnant. You remind yourself as much as you make it back inside your apartment. When was the last time you even had sex? Well over a year ago. No, more than that. Your celibacy has outlasted any gestation period. 

You are not pregnant—you tell yourself this as you flee into the bathroom, locking the door behind you as if there is someone who might interrupt you if you don’t. Still wary of the eyes you swear lingered on you at the pharmacy. Cardboard tears as you break into the package, yanking out the stick as if you hold the elixir to your cure—to whatever sickness ails you. Something to quell this madness. 

You are not pregnant—you repeat this as you yank your pants down and sit on the toilet, legs spread awkwardly far. Anxiety blocks your bladder, makes it difficult for you to do your business, but you remind yourself that there is no reason to fret. This is for peace of mind only.

You cap the stick as soon as you’re finished and place it on the counter for it to sit as you clean yourself up. Button clasped, hands washed; you rub at your face as your heart slithers through your esophagus. Each pulse threatens to crack your ribs, so you breathe deeply, you expand your chest to give it more room so that silly muscle might show you mercy. 

After all, you are not pregnant. 

Though, the two lines staring up at you beg to differ.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

anything you want i did see a video where he was saying you hurt my darling to Rockwood and my did things to my heart

By Right of Blood | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

RAHHHH THIS WAS FUN. I LOVE PROTECTIVE SEB. I HOPE YOU ENJOY. I admit, I got carried away and this ended up longer than I anticipated which is why it took me a hot minute to get to this but I hope it was worth it!

Fair warning: this fic is realllllly just a lot of angry, protective seb + fighting/action; very little fluff/romance/etc until the very end

A very special thank you to @newdreamlove95 for reading this over and helping me revise before posting! <3

Words: ~13,000

Tags: Violence, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Canon Divergence, Post Hogwarts, Auror Seb, Auror MC, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance, Confessions

The ruin was ancient—far older than the maps suggested.

You exhaled, the sound swallowed by the dense, humid air of the underground chamber. The magic here was thick, pressing against your skin like something alive. It whispered at the edges of your mind, hinting at an enchantment cast long ago.

Your wand's light flickered against the damp stone as you stepped forward, careful, methodical. Runes lined the archways, warnings etched in a dialect you barely recognized. You traced your fingers over them, murmuring a translation under your breath.

Do not enter. Do not disturb what has been sealed.

A warning, not unlike many you had seen before.

You had been breaking curses for years, navigating the remnants of forgotten civilizations, dismantling traps left behind by those who feared their own creations. It was dirty, dangerous work—but it suited you, kept you sharp, fulfilled your unquenchable need for adventure.

This ruin was no different.

The patterns in the stone, the way the air hummed—there was something familiar about it.

Ancient magic.

You stepped toward the center of the chamber, fingers brushing the edges of an inscription half-buried beneath the dust of centuries.

Then, you heard a sound.

Faint, but unmistakable. Not a ghost. Not an animal. Not the whisper of long-dead magic. It was the slow, deliberate scuff of boots against stone.

Someone was here.

You whirled around, wand gripped tightly, heart immediately hammering against your ribs, adrenaline spiking.

"Identify yourself."

The laugh that followed was slow, low at first but rising, curling around you like smoke.

You recognized it immediately. It was a sound that haunted your nightmares, woven into memories you had long tried to bury. The echo of it sent something sharp and cold twisting in your gut.

From the darkness, a figure stepped into the dim glow of your wandlight.

“Hello, love.”

Your grip on your wand tightened.

“I have to say,” the man mused, tilting his head as though appraising you, “I was beginning to think I’d never get the chance to see you again. You’ve been quite the slippery little thing, haven’t you?”

Your blood ran cold, but you kept your stance firm, refusing to let him see the way his presence set every nerve in your body alight with warning.

“You should be dead,” you said evenly.

“Should be,” he echoed, almost lazily. “But I’ve always been a difficult man to kill.”

His eyes flickered over you, and something dark and satisfied curled at the edges of his expression.

“And you—still sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” His gaze drifted to the ruins around you. “I wonder… is it curiosity that brought you here? Or instinct?”

Your pulse roared in your ears, but you held steady.

“You’re a fool if you think you’ll walk away from this,” you said, voice low, dangerous. “The Ministry has been hunting you for years. You won’t leave these ruins alive.”

Another laugh.

“Oh, I rather think I will,” he replied, tipping his head in amusement. “And you, my dear, will be coming with me, in due time of course.”

The words had barely left his mouth before you moved.

Your wand cut through the air, the incantation forming on your lips—but the curse never left your tongue, because he was faster:

"Crucio."

Pain exploded through you, tremendous and searing. Your knees buckled. Your wand slipped from your fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone as your body hit the ground. Every muscle seized, your spine arching against the agony as if to escape the pain.

The world blurred, your vision tunneling as your screams echoed off the cavern walls.

It felt endless.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body trembling, nerves raw and burning in the aftermath. The cold stone beneath you did nothing to ground you, nothing to dull the lingering agony that curled through every inch of you like a live wire.

Boots scraped against stone.

Through the haze, you saw a second figure step beside you. You tried to move. To reach for your wand. To fight. But before you could, a boot connected with your face and pain erupted again—sharp and immediate, snapping your head to the side.

A burst of light—too bright, too fast—as your skull cracked against the stone.

The last thing you heard before everything plunged into darkness was a voice, smooth and satisfied.

"Sleep tight, love."

Victor Rookwood was a ghost story.

A name spoken in hushed tones, a shadow that stretched long over the years, fading in and out of whispered rumors like a specter that refused to be laid to rest. He had haunted the edges of Ministry investigations, slipping through the cracks, a vanishing act so seamless that some believed he had died in hiding. Others swore he had fled the country, abandoning his tattered empire to rot. There were even those who claimed he had gone mad—driven into the depths of some forsaken ruin, a king without a throne, wasting away in solitude.

But Sebastian Sallow knew better.

Rookwood was too proud, too vain, too damn angry to let himself rot in obscurity. He had spent a lifetime clawing his way into power—he would not fade quietly into the dark.

Sebastian told you once, in passing, that the Ministry still had a standing order to find him. That somewhere, someone was always searching. But he never told you that he was the one leading the hunt. That it was his team tracking every cold lead, every whispered sighting, every scrap of intelligence that might finally drag the bastard into the light. He never told you that he had spent every fucking year since leaving Hogwarts with a singular purpose: to make sure the ghosts that haunted you never had the chance to crawl out of the dark.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter how much you tried to leave it behind, there was one person tied to Rookwood’s downfall more than anyone else:

You.

It was why Sebastian had never questioned your decision to become a cursebreaker instead of an Auror, even when others did. Even when they called it a waste of talent. He knew why. Knew what the rebellion had taken from you—what ancient magic had cost you.

And it was why he hadn’t wanted you going alone.

Southern Scotland. Uncharted ruins. A job you couldn’t pass up.

“I don’t like it,” he had told you before you left, arms crossed, jaw tight with unease.

“You don’t like anything that involves me going anywhere alone,” you had pointed out, amused, packing your satchel with methodical efficiency.

Sebastian’s scowl had deepened. “And for good reason.”

He wasn’t wrong. Cursebreaking was dangerous by nature.

And what you didn't know was that to Sebastian, this wasn’t just another expedition. He had waded through enough bodies in his time as an Auror to recognize a pattern when he saw one, and of one thing he was certain: Rookwood’s activities had increased lately.

Small things, at first—whispers in Knockturn Alley, Ministry research going missing. Then the disappearances started. Then the unsolved cases, scattered across the country, all tied together by the same faint, rotten thread. His team of Aurors was finding bodies again, burned and mutilated in ways that were too familiar. The signs were all there—Rookwood was growing bolder, the noose of his ambition tightening.

And now you were gone.

A simple owl was all Sebastian had asked for. A brief message—I’m fine. Don’t worry. Still working. It was the bare minimum, a compromise between his paranoia and your stubborn insistence that you could take care of yourself.

But the hours stretched long, the silence thickening into something unbearable.

No owl. No sign of you. And Sebastian knew. Fuck, he knew.

Victor Rookwood had you.

He'd gone through every logical excuse—maybe you’d finished late, maybe found something interesting in the ruins and got sidetracked. You had taken worse risks before, pushed the limits of your own survival in ways that made him grit his teeth and call you reckless. But you were also experienced. Brilliant. And you knew the weight of promises made to the people who worried about you.

You wouldn’t forget to owl him.

Sebastian shot up from his chair so violently that it scraped across the floor, nearly toppling over. Across the room, a few of his fellow Aurors glanced up from their desks, but no one said anything. They had learned by now that when Sebastian moved with that particular kind of urgency, it was better to stay out of his way.

He stormed through the office, his mind already sharpening, already forming the next steps: he needed resources. He needed names. He needed your fucking location.

Sebastian tore through the corridors of the Ministry, moving fast enough to nearly knock over a passing file clerk. Papers went flying, a startled protest rose behind him, but he barely muttered an apology before pressing forward, his pulse a sharp, insistent drumbeat in his ears.

The Department of Cursebreaking was quieter than his own, filled with scholars and field researchers instead of hardened Aurors. Less war, more history. It had always suited Ominis.

Sebastian stepped into his friend's office without knocking.

Ominis was already standing, his chair pushed back, his posture rigid.

Sebastian exhaled sharply through his nose. “She’s missing.”

“I know. I tried contacting her this morning,” Ominis replied, his voice tight, each syllable measured, controlled. “No response. And there were traces of magical interference, which means whatever happened to her—” He cut himself off, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His breath came a little too sharply through his nose. “It wasn’t an accident.”

Sebastian already knew that.

"Not shit," he snapped, voice raw, hoarse. His hands curled into fists at his sides, shaking with barely restrained fury. "Rookwood has her."

Ominis exhaled sharply through his nose, unreadable behind the usual mask of quiet control—but Sebastian knew him too well. He saw the tension in the way he stood, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his jaw clenched just a fraction tighter. Ominis was worried.

Good. He should be.

Still, when he spoke, his voice was measured, deliberate. "Sebastian—"

"Don’t tell me to calm down," Sebastian cut in, already knowing what was coming. "Don’t—don’t say that I should sit tight and be rational and fucking wait while Rookwood—" His breath hitched, and he turned away sharply, hands raking through his hair. "Fuck."

Ominis’ shoulders stiffened, but his voice remained level. "I'm worried too," he said, quieter this time, as if the weight of the words might reach Sebastian through the haze of his anger. "But we can’t do anything rash. You don’t know what you’re walking into, and—"

"Rookwood has her, Ominis." Sebastian turned back to him, his gaze wild and desperate. "You know what that means."

Ominis did know. Knew it all too well. Knew what Rookwood was capable of. Knew what he had done to people before. Knew what he would do now, given the chance.

And worst of all—knew exactly what you meant to Sebastian.

He had always known.

Had seen it written in every unspoken word, every sharp breath, every stupid reckless thing Sebastian had done for you since they were teenagers. It was in the way he watched you when you weren’t looking, the way he always reached for his wand at the first sign of trouble, the way his whole world seemed to orient around you without him even realizing it.

And now you were gone.

"Sebastian—"

"We don't have time to wait!" Sebastian interrupted, his voice raw, shaking. "We don't even know how long she's been missing. She could’ve been taken yesterday, she could be—" His throat tightened, something painful lodging there. "We don’t know, Ominis. And you’re asking me to fucking wait?!"

Ominis exhaled through his nose, struggling for calm. "Your team is in the field," he pointed out, even, steady. "They need to be here. You need them."

Sebastian shook his head, laughing bitterly. "I need to go. Now. Before it's too late."

"You’re talking about storming into a situation blind. Without backup. Without a plan. Do you hear yourself?" Ominis’ voice sharpened. "Do you even care if you survive this?"

Sebastian stilled.

And that—that—was what made Ominis go still, too.

Because Sebastian didn’t answer. His breathing was too fast, his fists still clenched at his sides, and in his silence, Ominis knew.

Sebastian wasn’t thinking about himself at all.

Sebastian had never been good at restraint, had never known how to stop when it came to the people he loved. He had already proven, again and again, that there was nothing—nothing—he wouldn’t do if someone he loved was in danger. And you—

You were everything.

"Sebastian, please," Ominis tried again, softer this time, stepping closer. "You going in alone is exactly what Rookwood would want."

Sebastian let out a sharp, bitter exhale. "Rookwood wants her, Ominis," he spat, voice hoarse. "And I’ll be damned if I let him have her."

Ominis hesitated. Because the truth was, Sebastian was right. They didn’t have time.

But Ominis also knew, with every shred of certainty in his body, that if Sebastian went now—alone, reckless, half-mad with fury—he might never come back.

But the Auror was already moving.

"Owl my team," he said, reaching for the door and ignoring Ominis's protests. "But I'm not waiting for them."

He stormed into the hallway, his mind a razor-sharp edge of focus. He didn’t know where you were, but he knew where to start.

The ruins. That was where Rookwood had found you. But Sebastian had never seen the ruins himself, had never been there. He couldn't apparate to a place he didn’t know.

Which meant he needed someone who did: your apprentice, Elias Vane.

Sebastian found him in the far corner of the Cursebreaking Department, hunched over a desk littered with notes, open grimoires, and a cup of tea, long forgotten.

Vane was young—barely out of Hogwarts—but sharp. Talented. You had spoken well of him before, praised his instinct, his skill. Reckless, yes, but capable. A good cursebreaker.

And right now, Sebastian needed him.

He didn’t slow as he approached, didn’t stop. His hands slammed against the desk with enough force to rattle the inkpot and send a loose parchment fluttering to the floor.

Vane jolted, eyes snapping up in alarm. “Shit—”

“You’re coming with me,” Sebastian said, voice cold, clipped. His pulse roared in his ears. No time. No patience. “Now.”

Vane blinked, still disoriented. “What—?”

“The ruins,” Sebastian snapped. “The ones she went to. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”

Vane’s expression flickered with confusion, then something like wariness. “Y-yeah, once, during the initial survey, but—”

“Then you’re taking me there.”

Vane frowned, still catching up. “Wait—why? Where’s—”

“She’s missing,” Sebastian cut in, his voice like flint. “No owl. No sign of her.” He straightened, shoving back from the desk. “We need to leave. Now.”

Vane paled. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over the inkpot in the process, but didn’t even glance at it. “She—she’s missing? But—” His voice dropped to something unsure, something unsteady. “She’s good at this, Sallow. If something happened—”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. His breath came sharp through his nose.

“She didn’t just get lost,” he said, voice dangerously low. “She was taken.”

Vane hesitated, but whatever he saw in Sebastian’s expression had him snapping his mouth shut and nodding. “Alright. But if she’s just holed up in some side chamber taking notes, she’s going to kill us both for interrupting her.”

Sebastian didn’t respond.

He prayed to every god he didn’t believe in that was the case, but the dread clawing at his chest told him otherwise.

He stepped closer, gripping Vane’s arm.

“Hold tight,” Vane murmured before twisting his wand.

The world cracked apart, then Sebastian’s boots hit the stone with a sharp thud.

The ruins loomed before him, vast and desolate, and he felt it. Something was wrong.

Sebastian had been in enough places touched by dark magic to recognize the suffocating stillness that hung in the air. It was the kind of silence that only followed violence. The kind that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

He turned in a slow circle, scanning the surroundings while Vane exhaled beside him, eyes sweeping over the ruins. “She's supposed to be here,” he murmured. “She would have left something behind. Campfire. Equipment. A bloody note.”

Sebastian was already moving toward the mouth of the cave, his boots crunching over loose gravel as he walked. His pulse pounded, his grip tightening on his wand.

Then he saw it.

Boot prints. Many boot prints.

His stomach twisted as he crouched, fingers brushing over the disturbed earth.

Vane stepped up behind him. “What is it?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. A sick feeling clawed up his throat. The confirmation of what he already knew. You'd been ambushed. The evidence was right in front of him.

Victor Rookwood had been here.

Sebastian turned to Vane, voice tight with barely restrained fury. “Tell me everything she was researching.”

Vane swallowed. “Uh, ancient warding magic. Something about sealed vaults. She was trying to cross-reference Keeper records with—”

Ancient warding magic. The same damn thing Rookwood had been stealing from Ministry archives for months.

“Fuck.” Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, his pulse roaring.

He knew what Rookwood wanted, and it wasn’t just revenge. It was your magic—the same power you had buried, the same magic Victor had lost in the rebellion. The bastard had played a long game. He had waited, plotted, and then, the moment you had gotten too close—

He had taken you.

Sebastian turned to Vane, who was still pale, eyes darting to the boot prints in the dirt. The young cursebreaker swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under his unwavering stare.

“You’re going back to the Ministry,” Sebastian ordered.

Vane blinked. “What? No, I—”

“Go back,” Sebastian repeated, stepping closer, his grip tightening around his wand. “Go to Ominis. Tell him everything we saw here. He’ll know what to do.”

“But—”

Sebastian didn’t have time for hesitation. “You’ll just get in my way.”

Vane recoiled slightly, offense flashing across his face, but Sebastian didn’t let up.

"This isn’t some damn expedition," his voice was low, razor-sharp. "Do you honestly believe that when it comes down to it, you can make the call? That you can put someone in the ground before they do the same to you?" He stepped closer, eyes burning with intensity. "Because that’s what this is. It’s not research. It’s war. And I don’t have time to babysit you."

Vane opened his mouth, but no words came out. He swallowed hard, something in his face crumbling as the weight of reality settled in.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, forcing himself to pull back. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter.

“You want to help? Find Ominis.”

Vane hesitated for only a second longer before nodding, his face grim. “What are you going to do?”

Sebastian barely hesitated. “I’m going after her.”

Vane’s frown deepened. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Sebastian cut him off, his voice low, lethal. “And I will.”

Something in his expression must have made it clear that there was no point arguing, because Vane exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re mad.”

Sebastian didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he turned his back on the younger man and stalked toward the deeper ruins, the weight of his purpose pressing like a blade against his ribs.

Behind him, he heard Vane mutter a curse before taking out his wand. “If you get yourself killed, I’m not explaining it to Gaunt.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

With a sharp crack, Vane disapparated, leaving Sebastian alone.

The silence pressed in immediately, thick and smothering as he moved deeper. He took a slow breath, centering himself. He had to think. Had to move quickly.

Rookwood had taken you, that much was clear. But where?

His eyes swept over the ruined chamber, cataloging every detail with a hunter’s precision. The boot prints led toward the collapsed corridor ahead, vanishing deeper into the tunnel. There were too many to count—at least half a dozen men. Maybe more.

Sebastian followed them without hesitation, his movements sure.

The ruins stretched ahead, the air thick with humidity and the musty scent of mildew. Ancient carvings lined the stone, half-obscured by moss and time. The dampness clung to his skin, the scent of earth and decay filling his lungs.

Then, as he stepped into a large cavern, he stopped abruptly, his breath catching.

Blood.

It wasn’t a lot—just a smear, a faint streak against the stone floor—but it was enough.

He dropped to a knee. There were boot prints everywhere, some overlapping, some leading deeper into the ruins. And the blood... he ran a finger through the smear. Still tacky. It was fresh. Recent.

Yours?

His gut roared at the thought, a sickening, lurching thing as he forced himself to breathe.

Every instinct screamed at him to run, to tear through these tunnels and hunt them down—but he couldn’t afford recklessness. Not yet, anyway.

Instead, he straightened, rolling his shoulders back, steadying the fire burning in his chest. His wand was firm in his grip, his fingers still slick with the tacky smear of blood. He wiped them against his coat absently, his mind already working through the possibilities.

There were too many boot prints to count, but the path was clear. They hadn’t been subtle—there was no need. No one else was supposed to be here. No one was supposed to find you.

And yet, here he was.

Sebastian followed the trail. The air grew colder the deeper he went, the damp walls pressing inward like silent sentinels. The corridor narrowed, the carved runes along the stone becoming more intricate.

He stiffened at the echo of a sound ahead.

Low voices, faint but distinct. Men speaking in hushed tones as they walked, their words carried along the tunnel by the damp echo of stone.

Sebastian pressed himself against the wall, listening.

“—still unconscious. Probably won’t wake for a while.”

A rush of relief nearly buckled his knees. Unconscious. That meant you were still alive.

Another voice scoffed, rough and unimpressed. “You kicked her too hard. The boss wanted her awake.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand turned to iron.

They had hit you.

A red haze crawled up the edges of his vision, something sharp and vicious curling in his gut, coiling around his ribs like a beast that had been waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in.

Sebastian had never been afraid of the dark.

And he had never been afraid to become it.

He inhaled, long and slow, pushing the fire in his chest into something controlled, something sharp, then he moved. Silent. Swift. A shadow among the ruins.

The two men were just ahead, walking side by side, their pace easy, relaxed—unaware. Their figures flickered in the dim torchlight, heavy boots scuffing against the stone floor, their cloaks shifting with the movement.

Sebastian didn’t hesitate.

A flick of his wand, and the first man barely had time to choke before he collapsed, soundlessly paralyzed, his body hitting the ground in a dead weight.

Sebastian was already moving onto the next one.

The second man turned, mouth opening to shout, but Sebastian was faster. His wand slashed through the air.

"Diffindo."

The spell tore through the air. The man barely had time to gasp before a deep, jagged gash split across his chest, blooming red.

Sebastian stepped forward, pressing his boot against the man’s throat as he writhed, choking on his own blood. The dying wizard’s fingers scrabbled weakly against the stone, his panicked eyes meeting Sebastian’s.

Sebastian knelt over him, his wand pressed hard beneath his chin.

“Where is she?”

The man’s mouth opened, but only a wet, gurgling sound escaped.

Sebastian lifted his foot just slightly, allowing the man just enough space to take a breath. “Where. Is. She?” he repeated.

The man clawed weakly at his boot, his breath rattling in his chest.

Sebastian sighed, almost disappointed. He lifted his wand, tilting his head slightly. Then, without a flicker of hesitation—

"Petrificus Totalus."

The man’s body went rigid in an instant, his limbs locking at unnatural angles as the spell took hold. His eyes, wide and frantic, remained the only thing still able to move.

Sebastian watched, impassive, as blood continued to seep from the wound at the man’s side, pooling beneath him, soaking into the cracks of the ancient stone.

Helpless. Still.

The man would bleed out, unable to move, unable to take any action to save himself. And Sebastian didn’t care.

He moved deeper into the cave, following the footsteps. All the while, his sense of dread only grew, thrumming in the walls, in the air, in his bones, suffocating, unnatural, and reeking of something vile.

Then Sebastian heard it.

Laughter.

Low, amused voices, men speaking in tones that dripped with cruel delight. The sound sent ice through Sebastian’s veins. He pressed forward, inching closer to the chamber ahead. The tunnel widened into an open space, wandlight flickering against damp stone.

He counted five—no, six men, their postures relaxed, cocky. Unbothered.

Then he saw you.

Chained to a crumbling stone pillar, arms bound above your head, wrists rubbed raw and bloody against thick iron cuffs. Your head hung forward, temple bleeding, dark streaks cutting across the bruised, pallid skin of your face. Your breathing was slow, shallow. Unconscious.

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached.

One of the men—tall, broad-shouldered, his cloak hanging open over grimy leathers—stepped closer to where you hung limp against the pillar, head tilted at a sickeningly casual angle. His wand was holstered, his hands free, because why would he need his wand for this?

His fingers found your jaw, tilting your head up so he could get a better look.

"Such a pretty little thing, eh?"

For a moment, Sebastian couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

His entire body was coiled so tightly with rage that he thought he might shatter from it, might detonate with the sheer force of it.

Another man scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Wouldn’t give the likes of us a second look, though,” he muttered. “Fucking arrogant bitch."

The first man’s fingers drifted lower, tracing the delicate curve of your throat, brushing past your collarbone, slow and deliberate.

"Doesn’t matter, does it?" Another man chuckled. "She ain't gonna fight back. And the boss ain’t ready for her yet."

A smirk.

"So, boys—who wants a turn first?"

Sebastian moved.

No thought. No hesitation. Only rage.

The first man—the one touching you—never stood a chance.

A bolt of magic ripped through his chest, so fast, so brutal, that he didn’t even have time to scream. The impact shattered his ribs, the sickening crunch of bone echoing through the chamber as his body crumpled, folding in on itself before it hit the ground.

The second man turned, his mouth opening in shock, powerless as Sebastian twisted his wand and sent a curse flying.

It struck the man mid-turn, his body arching backward, spine bending at a grotesque, impossible angle. He let out a choked, gurgling wheeze before collapsing in a twitching, broken heap.

Then the chamber erupted.

Shouts. The sharp scrape of boots against stone. Panicked movement.

Sebastian was still moving, weaving between them like death incarnate.

A man raised his wand, but Sebastian didn’t let him speak.

"Confringo."

A scream tore through the cavern, raw and agonized as fire consumed him. He collapsed against the stone, his fingers clawing at his skin like he could rip the pain out of himself.

Sebastian turned, already raising his wand for the next.

Another man lunged, his own wand slashing through the air, but Sebastian deflected him effortlessly, stepping into his guard before driving his knee hard into his gut. The man doubled over with a strangled grunt, but Sebastian wasn’t done—he slammed the hilt of his wand against the side of his skull, sending him sprawling.

A sharp movement to his left—

Sebastian pivoted, casting Expulso with enough force to send the next man flying into the cavern wall.

The impact was sickening. A wet, meaty sound, bones crunching on impact. Blood smeared against the stone as the man slumped, unmoving.

The chamber fell into silence.

Heavy. Dripping.

Sebastian was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts. His wand was still raised, fingers tight around the handle. The taste of iron burned at the back of his throat, the air thick with the stench of sweat and blood and fire.

And yet it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

His gaze snapped to the last man, who was trembling now, wand unsteady in his grip, eyes darting toward the exit, toward the ruins of his comrades, and then to Sebastian.

Sebastian took a slow, measured step forward.

The man sucked in a breath, his grip tightening on his wand, and then he moved.

Not toward Sebastian. Not to fight.

To you.

Sebastian’s blood ran cold. He saw it—the way the man lunged, wand flicking upward at just the right angle—

Apparition.

Sebastian didn’t think. He lunged, too.

His fingers snatched at the bastard’s cloak, curling tight in the fabric just as the magic took hold.

The world twisted. Everything spun, a brutal, suffocating force yanking him forward, ripping him from solid ground and into the crushing void of nonexistence.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the world righted itself.

Sebastian’s boots slammed onto solid ground. Cold air hit his face. The scent of damp earth, of moss and rain, filled his lungs.

They were outside.

Deep in the woods, far from the ruins. The sky overhead was dark, moonlight barely slipping through the heavy canopy of trees.

The man who had taken you staggered forward, thrown off balance by the rough landing. Sebastian wasted no time. His wand was already raised, his fury razor-sharp.

"Bombarda!"

The spell struck the man mid-turn, ripping him off his feet and sending him crashing into the nearest tree. His body crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Then silence.

Sebastian stood in the stillness, his breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls, his wand still raised, his fingers locked in a death grip around the handle. His heart was a drumbeat in his ears, fast and erratic, each pulse laced with fury, with need.

The bastard was dead. Good.

He turned.

His stomach plummeted.

You were in a heap on the ground, crumpled atop a bed of damp, decaying leaves. Your body was limp, your arms still bound, your deathly skin pale beneath the bruises and blood smeared across your face. The rise and fall of your chest was slow—too slow.

Sebastian’s fury shattered, replaced instantly by fear.

“Fuck, no, no, no—”

He dropped to his knees beside you.

“Come on, love,” he muttered, his voice shaking despite himself. “You’re alright. You have to be alright.”

He swore, frustration thick in his throat, turning his attention to the shackles. He had to get these off you.

His wand cut through the air again—Finite Incantatem. No reaction. Alohomora. Not even a flicker.

Sebastian’s jaw locked. Fuck magic, then.

He tossed his wand aside and lunged for the shackles, fingers digging into the rusted iron, trying to pry them off with brute strength alone.

The moment his skin touched the metal, a biting cold leached into him, unnatural and parasitic.

Sebastian gasped, his muscles seizing, his breath hitching as a sickly, creeping energy seeped into his fingertips, curling through his veins like poison. It crawled up his arms, pulling, draining—a deep, gnawing hunger that seemed to suck the very life from his bones.

Cursed. It was cursed.

Sebastian ripped his hands away, staggering backward, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. His fingers tingled where they had touched the shackles, as if something had tried to stay inside him, tried to take root.

“Fuck,” he swore again, running a trembling hand through his hair, trying to clear the dizzy haze the metal had left behind.

Then—

A twig snapped.

Sebastian froze.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled. “Isn’t this touching?”

Sebastian turned slowly, wand raised, heart pounding in his chest like war drums.

Victor Rookwood stood at the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow, his coat hanging open over the fine but worn layers beneath.

“You certainly do make things interesting, Mr. Sallow.” His tone was almost amused, but his eyes burned with something colder. “I do wonder, though—was it bravery or foolishness that brought you here? Love certainly makes people do strange things.”

Sebastian didn’t answer.

He stood, wand still raised. His heart was a hammer in his chest, the weight of it crushing against his ribs, but his grip remained steady, his fingers curled tight around his wand.

Rookwood was watching him like a cat might watch a cornered mouse. His posture was relaxed, his stance loose, his wand held low like it was barely worth lifting. A show of control. A show of patience.

Sebastian had seen men like him before.

Men who spoke in honeyed words while they bled people dry. Men who lied with a smile, who thrived on games, on power, on knowing they were one step ahead.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to think.

He hasn’t killed her. That was the first fact that mattered. If Rookwood wanted you dead, you would already be gone. Instead, you were here, bound and unconscious, but alive.

Which meant Rookwood needed you. And if he needed you—then he wasn’t as in control as he wanted Sebastian to think.

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, as if he could see the thoughts forming in real-time. “Not even a word?” He tsked softly, shaking his head. “I must say, Sallow, I expected more given your reputation."

Sebastian didn't falter. “Let her go.”

Rookwood let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Ah. Straight to business.” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped in the dirt, before returning to Sebastian. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. “Then I'll kill you where you stand.”

Rookwood actually laughed at that. A slow, smug sound, low and indulgent. “Oh, you could.” He gestured vaguely, as if the idea was nothing more than a passing thought. “But let’s be realistic, shall we? You and I both know it’s not that simple. The curse on those shackles won’t lift without me.”

Sebastian stiffened. Shit.

"So tell me, Sallow," Rookwood’s voice was unhurried, easy, as if they were discussing the weather over tea. "What’s the play here?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as breathe the wrong way.

It was obvious now.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was a game. A dangerous, calculated game, and if Sebastian wanted to win, if he wanted to get you out of here alive, then he had to play it right.

Rookwood watched him, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Do you even know what those shackles are doing to her?” His tone was conversational. “I imagine you’ve already felt it yourself. That creeping little rot in your bones.” He tsked, shaking his head. “Must be excruciating, hm?”

Sebastian barely stopped himself from looking at you. Because that was what Rookwood wanted, wasn’t it? To make him look. To make him see how helpless you were, to force him to feel that panic tighten around his throat like a noose.

But the problem was Rookwood wasn’t lying. You were dying. Slowly, yes, but it was happening. So what the fuck was the right move here?

Every instinct in Sebastian's body screamed to attack, to kill him where he stood, but if the curse needed to be lifted manually, then Sebastian might as well carve your fucking tombstone himself.

His fingers twitched. He forced himself to breathe.

“Fine,” he bit out. “What do you want?”

Rookwood’s smirk deepened, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Now you’re speaking my language.” He took a slow step forward, watching Sebastian like a cat toying with a mouse. “It’s simple, really. You’ve been such a thorn in my side. Constantly investigating me, tracking me down, sending your little Auror friends after me." His expression darkened, the amusement fading into something more calculating. "So, here’s my offer: you leave. You walk away. You stop chasing me, stop meddling in my affairs, and, most importantly—” His gaze flicked toward you, still slumped and dying in the dirt. “—you forget you ever saw me. And when I'm finished with her, you'll get her back alive."

The words slithered through the cold night air, wrapping around Sebastian like a chokehold. His stomach twisted, nausea curling tight beneath his ribs, but his face remained unreadable.

“I think,” Sebastian said slowly, voice even, steady, “that you have me confused with someone who bargains.”

Rookwood’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something else beneath it now. A flicker of something colder.

“Oh?” he mused, tilting his head, as if truly considering. “Then I suppose I'll just need to persuade you."

A curse slammed into Sebastian’s chest before he could react.

Pain exploded through his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs in a sharp, violent burst. The force of the spell sent him flying, his body crashing against the damp earth, his wand slipping from his grip and skidding across the forest floor.

For a moment, his vision swam—dark spots blooming at the edges, the world tilting on its axis. Cold night air bit at his skin, but his chest burned, ribs screaming with each ragged inhale.

Rookwood was on him in an instant.

A boot slammed down against Sebastian’s wrist, grinding it into the dirt, keeping him pinned, helpless, his wand just out of reach.

“I should’ve known better than to waste time talking,” Rookwood muttered, his voice low, almost disappointed. "Men like you—"

Sebastian moved. Fast.

Before Rookwood could finish his sentence, Sebastian wrenched his body to the side, twisting hard despite the searing pain in his ribs. He gritted his teeth, ignored the screaming protest of his muscles, and lunged—

His hand snatched at Rookwood’s ankle, yanking with every ounce of strength he had. The older man staggered, his balance thrown, his weight shifting just enough—

Sebastian ripped himself free, shoving himself up from the ground in a single fluid motion. His shoulder slammed into Rookwood’s torso, driving him backward, but the older man recovered fast.

Rookwood’s wand snapped up. Sebastian ducked. A jet of red light seared past his ear, narrowly missing him, splintering the bark of a nearby tree.

Sebastian didn’t let him cast again.

He surged forward, slamming into him, sending them both sprawling into the dirt in a brutal scramble.

A sharp crack echoed through the clearing as Sebastian's his fist connected with Rookwood’s face. Blood smeared across his knuckles, and Sebastian pressed forward, his other hand grappling for Victor’s wand, fingers brushing against the handle.

Then pain erupted through his side.

Sebastian gasped, his body jerking as something hot and burning sliced through his ribs.

Rookwood had a knife. A dirty, wicked-looking thing that he'd hidden beneath his coat.

Sebastian’s chest rose and fell in sharp, heaving breaths, his ribs screaming, his side burning where the knife had carved through him. His wand was still somewhere in the dirt, just out of reach. He shoved Rookwood back and forced himself upright, muscles trembling from the effort.

Rookwood now stood a few feet away, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

And he was grinning.

“That’s quite the right hook you’ve got there,” he mused, flexing his jaw. “And here I was beginning to think the Ministry had gone soft.”

Sebastian said nothing. His breath came slow and deliberate, fingers twitching for his wand—

Rookwood smirked.

“Eight years,” he mused, pacing leisurely in front of him. "It took you eight years to finally come face to face with me. Your entire career’s work—tracking me, investigating me, sending your little Auror friends after me.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And yet, despite all that effort, here we are. And I must say—” He tutted, tilting his head. “It’s a bit of a shame, isn’t it? That you're just so bloody weak."

Sebastian clenched his jaw so tight it ached.

Rookwood continued, his voice smooth, almost pitying. “The Ministry is so slow, isn’t it? Always a step behind. Always cleaning up messes instead of preventing them.” His smile widened. “It took you eight years to catch up to me. And now you’re here. Wandless. Bleeding. Powerless.”

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists.

“You talk too much,” he rasped, his voice raw.

Rookwood chuckled. "Personally, I think I'm being quite charitable, Sebastian. Your life is about to end, surely you want to know what it is I've been working towards all this time, hm?"

Sebastian swallowed against the sharp taste of blood at the back of his throat.

“Ancient magic is such a fascinating thing, don’t you think?” Rookwood mused. "Older than the Ministry. Older than the Hogwarts founders. Power that predates our understanding of what magic even is.”

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was listening. Because that was the thing about men like Rookwood, they always wanted an audience, and right now, every second he spent talking was another second Sebastian had to think.

Rookwood exhaled, long and thoughtful, tilting his head. “You know, the real shame of it is that she never even stopped to consider what that power could do if properly harnessed." His gaze flicked toward you, still unmoving in the dirt. “She feels it. Wields it. And yet was still too much of a coward to reach for its full potential."

Sebastian forced himself to breathe, slow and steady. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Rookwood tutted, shaking his head. “Come now, you already know.” He gestured broadly, as if to the very world around them. “The Repository. Sealed. Hidden away. Even though ancient magic is my goddamn birthright.” He clicked his tongue. “The Ministry likes to pretend she warded it off for good. How naive."

Sebastian inconspicuously scanned the forest floor for his wand, finally locating the green and black handle laying a couple meters to his right.

“The problem, of course,” Rookwood went on, “is that the only one who can open it is her."

His gaze flicked toward you again.

“Because she’s special. I imagine you’ve known that for a long time." Rookwood's smirk deepened.

“So what?” Sebastian spat. “You think she’s just going to help you?”

Rookwood chuckled. “Oh, Sebastian.”

Sebastian hated how easily he said his name.

“She doesn’t need to help me," Rookwood continued. "She simply needs to be there.”

A cold dread curled at the base of Sebastian’s spine. “What the fuck are you saying?”

Rookwood hummed. “I’m saying that she is the key. Quite literally. You see, I don’t need her consent. I don’t need her to willingly give me anything." He tilted his head. "I just need her alive long enough to get me in."

Sebastian’s vision went red. His mind screamed for him to move. To lunge. To tear Rookwood apart.

Eight years ago, before Auror training, before he had learned restraint, he would have. He would have thrown himself at Rookwood with all the reckless fury he had in him, would have clawed and ripped and killed him with his bare hands if he had to.

And it would have gotten him killed.

But now—

Now, something cold settled into his chest. Not quieting his rage. Not taming it, but focusing it.

Sebastian couldn’t afford to be reckless, not while he was wandless and bleeding and Rookwood held a winning hand. He just needed to break Rookwood’s composure. Needed to goad him into making a mistake.

Then he’d gut him.

Sebastian exhaled slowly through his nose. His gaze flicked toward his wand, half-buried in damp earth.

"Must be exhausting," Sebastian said, forcing a breath past the sharp pain in his ribs. "Still clinging to old failures, knowing you were bested by a fifteen-year-old all those years ago."

Rookwood’s jaw tensed. Sebastian smirked.

"You’re desperate," Sebastian continued breathlessly. "That’s why you need her. Ancient magic is beyond you, and you know it. You’re just a desperate, pathetic bastard trying to steal power he doesn’t understand."

That did it.

Rookwood’s eyes darkened with something dangerous.

Sebastian had seconds. Maybe less.

Rookwood lunged, knife in hand—but this time, Sebastian was ready. His heel dug into the dirt, and he dove sideways, landing with a heavy thud.

His fingers wrapped around his wand, and before Rookwood could even think, Sebastian flicked his wand, "Depulso!"

The force of the spell slammed into Rookwood’s chest, sending him staggering back. He barely had time to recover before Sebastian staggered to his feet.

"Expelliarmus!"

Rookwood’s blade flew from his grasp, falling to the ground, and for the first time, Rookwood looked genuinely surprised.

But Sebastian wasn’t finished.

"Bombarda!"

The force of the blast sent Rookwood hurtling backward, his body slamming into a tree. Leaves floated down around him, and he collapsed to the ground, coughing violently.

Sebastian stalked toward him, wand steady, fury burning white-hot through his veins.

"Like I said, you talk too much," he growled.

Rookwood lifted his head, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his smirk weak but still present. "And you… are entirely too predictable."

Before Sebastian could react, Rookwood’s fingers barely twitched with wandless magic—and you flew across the clearing. The air whooshed past, and in an instant, you were wrenched from where you lay and pulled into Rookwood’s grasp like a ragdoll.

No.

No, no, no.

Sebastian's fingers flexed around his wand, and the rest of him—his body, his mind, his fury—all locked into place, caged by the sight of you limp in Rookwood’s arms, unconscious, barely breathing.

Rookwood smirked, his hand curling around your throat—not tightly, not choking, but firm enough to send a clear message.

Sebastian's mind raced, working through every possible scenario, every hex, every fucking spell that could fix this—

But there was nothing. Not while Rookwood held you like a human fucking shield.

Sebastian’s grip on his wand tightened. "You're going to let her go."

Rookwood smirked, tilting his head. "And what, pray tell, will you do if I don’t?"

Sebastian gritted his teeth. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his expression blank, to push back the fear clawing at his throat. He couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t give Rookwood anything.

"I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Rookwood laughed a full-bodied laugh, low and indulgent, like this was entertainment to him.

“You are delightful,” he mused. "Truly."

Sebastian’s pulse was a steady, furious drumbeat in his ears. He needed a plan. Needed to separate you from him.

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you, keeping you firmly between himself and Sebastian. "Tell me—are you willing to gamble with her life?" He hummed, considering. “Because I will snap her neck if you make a single wrong move."

Sebastian felt sick. His muscles were coiled tight, his every instinct screaming to act, to fight, to rip Rookwood apart piece by piece—

He forced himself to exhale slowly through his nose. He's bluffing.

"You won't do it," he said, voice low, razor-sharp.

Rookwood lifted a brow. "And what makes you so sure of that?"

"Because you need her alive. You said it yourself."

Rookwood hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "That’s true. I do need her."

Sebastian could feel the shift, the subtle tug-of-war, the way Rookwood was toying with him.

"But you—" he tightened his grip around throat. "—you need her more."

Sebastian’s wand was steady, unwavering, but inside—inside, something cracked.

The bastard would kill you.

Because the game had changed.

This was no longer about Rookwood getting you to the Repository.

No.

This was about Rookwood staying alive.

Sebastian hadn’t realized it at first, hadn’t put the pieces together because of the rage clouding his vision. But now, with Rookwood wandless, his weapon gone, his body pressed against the bark of a tree with you limp in his grasp—

Now, Sebastian saw it.

Rookwood wasn’t in control anymore. He was stalling. Because of course he was. He was self-important, arrogant, an entitled little bastard who thought the world owed him its power. Your death would be an inconvenience to him, yes—a massive fucking setback to his ambitions—but between your death and his?

There was no question which life he valued more.

Sebastian swallowed against the raw fury pressing against his throat.

“You’re scared,” he said.

Rookwood’s smirk twitched, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Sebastian took a slow step forward.

“You should be.”

Rookwood adjusted his grip on you slightly, shifting his stance. “Bold of you to say, given the circumstances.”

Sebastian tilted his head just slightly, eyes locked onto his. “Is it?”

Rookwood’s fingers flexed against your throat, as if he thought the subtle pressure might rattle Sebastian. Might make him desperate.

But Sebastian didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he let his gaze flick—just for a second—toward Rookwood’s empty hands. Just a cornered rat, grasping for anything to keep himself from getting eaten alive.

“Do you know what I think, Rookwood?”

The bastard said nothing. Sebastian smiled. Just a little. Just enough to make it mocking.

“I think you know you’re already dead.”

He could see the moment Rookwood understood. The moment his arrogance cracked, the moment he finally saw the board for what it was, and realized he was out of moves.

Sebastian lunged forward, his hands fisting into the fabric of Rookwoods coat in a white-knuckled grip as he dragged him forward and apparated.

The world lurched.

Magic pulled tight around Sebastian’s ribs, wrapping around him like a vice as the weight of Apparition crashed over them both. He pulled Rookwood with him, his grip unbreakable. 

And then they landed. 

The world snapped back into focus. The bright light, the desks, the walls lined with maps and case files. The scent of ink, parchment, and freshly brewed tea clashed violently with the blood and dirt smeared across his skin.

The Auror Department had been buzzing before—anxious, tense conversation rippling through the air as Sebastian’s team and Ominis scrambled to form a plan to go after him.

But now? The second they appeared—Sebastian, you, and Rookwood—

Silence.

Total. Utter. Fucking. Silence.

And then—

Chaos. Pandemonium.

A crash of chairs and desks as Aurors surged forward, wands raised.

"GET HIM RESTRAINED!"

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

"IS THAT—? THAT'S ROOKWOOD!"

Sebastian staggered, his grip ripping away from Rookwood as Aurors descended on the bastard like a pack of wolves, yanking his arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees as enchanted restraints snapped tight around his wrists.

Sebastian's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling in sharp, furious bursts, his fingers shaking from the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins.

Then Rookwood laughed. A slow, breathy chuckle, low and condescending, even now, even fucking now, after everything.

Sebastian's wand clattered to the ground as his rage overcame him, his fist connecting with Rookwood’s face before anyone could react.

The impact was brutal. A sickening crack as knuckles met bone, as Rookwood’s head snapped to the side. Blood splattered against the Auror Department’s pristine floors.

Another hit. Another.

Sebastian didn’t stop. Didn’t think. Just swung.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"You filthy fucking bastard!" Sebastian roared. His voice was hoarse, frantic, furious. His hands ached, knuckles split and raw from the force of his own rage.

Rookwood spat blood, still grinning, his lips split, his nose crooked from the sheer force of Sebastian’s attack.

"Struck a nerve, did I?" he rasped, voice wheezing from the damage.

A snarl ripped from Sebastian’s throat as he drove his fists into Rookwood’s face, over and over. Blood splattered across his knuckles, staining his skin, but it wasn’t enough. The world had narrowed into a singular, blistering point of rage—a fire that burned so hot it consumed everything else.

Because Rookwood took you. He hurt you. He was going to kill you.

And Sebastian couldn’t fucking stand it.

The room around him was filled with shouts and barked orders and hands gripping at his coat, but none of it registered.

All he could see was Rookwood. Bloodied. Laughing.

Even as multiple sets of hands dragged him backward, it didn’t matter. Sebastian fought against them with everything he had, his body twisting, muscles coiled tight with rage, his knuckles dripping with blood—his own, Rookwood’s, he didn’t fucking care.

"Get off me!" he snarled, wrenching free for just a second—just enough to grab the bastard by the collar and slam his head back against the floor, hard enough to hear the crack of impact.

Rookwood let out a wet, choking sound, blood bubbling between his teeth, but that smirk—that fucking smirk was still there.

“Sebastian, enough!” Ominis yelled—but even he didn’t sound convinced it would work.

Sebastian twisted, his hand snapping toward his wand on the floor, fingers closing around the handle, the weight of it grounding him, feeding into the burning need.

"Crucio."

Rookwood screamed.

A raw, inhuman sound, his back arching violently, his limbs spasming against the enchanted restraints, his body writhing in agony as the curse took hold.

Sebastian watched. Breathing heavy. Eyes dark. Hands steady. And fuck, it was satisfying.

No one moved. No one dared move.

Aurors, seasoned war-hardened witches and wizards, stood still, stunned into silence, their wands raised but motionless.

Ominis—Ominis—was silent.

Sebastian didn’t care. Didn’t feel a damn thing beyond the pure, burning relief of watching Rookwood suffer. Of watching him break. Of making sure the last thing this filthy fucking bastard felt before he died was pain.

When he finally dropped the curse, the silence was suffocating.

The only sound left was Rookwood’s ragged, shaking breath, the way his body twitched, the way he tried and failed to push himself upright.

Sebastian crouched low, gripping Rookwood’s collar in his fists, jerking him just slightly forward—enough to make sure he was listening.

And then, voice low, voice calm, voice filled with everything he meant—

"You were dead the second you laid a fucking finger on her."

Rookwood’s eyes barely flickered. His mouth opened, but whatever smug retort had been forming died the second he saw the way Sebastian lifted his wand.

A breath. A heartbeat. Then—

"Avada Kedavra."

A flash of green light.

Rookwood’s body jerked and then stilled. Lifeless. Dead.

The room remained silent. No one moved. No one spoke.

Sebastian didn’t feel an ounce of fucking regret.

And then—

"Sebastian."

Ominis’ voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Sebastian turned, slow, sluggish, like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the sheer finality of what had just happened.

His gaze landed on you.

Still on the floor. Still unconscious. Still dying.

"Fuck—" He dropped to his knees beside you so fast the impact jarred through his bones, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care—his hands were already reaching, shaking, desperate as they curled around your wrists, your shoulders, cupping your face, tilting your head back slightly, searching for any sign—anything—that you were still with him.

"Come on, love," he muttered, barely aware of his own voice, the way it cracked, the way his breath came too fast, too sharp. His thumb brushed against your cheek, tracing the bruises, the cold sweat on your skin. "You’re alright. You’re gonna be alright."

No reaction. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"Ominis—" his voice cracked, breath hitching, and then he was looking up, wild-eyed, desperate. "Ominis."

Ominis was still standing in place, his wand gripped tight in his hands, the only sign that he was even processing what had just happened.

Sebastian didn’t have time for that.

"The shackles," he rushed, words tumbling out too fast, too frantic. "They’re cursed. They’re killing her—I tried to take them off, and I—" He swallowed, shaking his head. "Do something!"

Ominis hesitated.

Sebastian saw it. Saw the way his lips parted, saw the way his fingers twitched, the uncertainty bleeding into his normally measured expression.

Sebastian lost it.

"You’re a fucking Cursebreaker, Ominis!" he roared, his voice cracking with something raw and ragged. "So do something!"

Ominis' mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression grim, but finally—finally—he moved.

He dropped beside Sebastian, already drawing his wand, already tracing over the metal shackles with precise, practiced movements. His lips moved in near-silent incantations, magic thrumming low and steady through the air, golden light weaving intricate, delicate patterns against the iron.

Meanwhile, Sebastian snapped his head up, wild, furious, helpless.

"Someone get the fucking Healers!" he barked, his voice a whip crack in the stunned silence. "NOW!"

Aurors scrambled. People rushed, bodies moving too slow, too fucking slow, and Sebastian turned back to you, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, your jaw, pleading.

"Come on, love," he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered over your body. "Come back to me."

Ominis was still working, his wand tracing over the metal in sharp, methodical movements, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

"I need time," Ominis muttered, his voice tight. "It’s layered magic—whoever did this knew what they were doing."

"We don’t have time!" Sebastian snapped. "She doesn’t have time!"

And he didn’t mean to—he didn’t mean to lash out at Ominis, but fuck, he was drowning in this, the weight of everything crushing him, suffocating him. Because he had been here before. Kneeling over someone he loved, begging the universe to give him one more chance.

Anne, after she was cursed—her body wracked with pain, her screams tearing through his skull, his useless hands gripping hers as she trembled beneath his touch.

His parents—dead before he even got to try to save them.

And now you.

The realization hit him, slamming into his ribs like a blade—sharp, vicious, undeniable.

You were everything. Had always been everything.

Ten years.

Ten fucking years of standing beside you, watching you grow into the force you were now. Ten years of chasing the same battles, fighting the same wars, of laughing together, bleeding together, of existing in a world where, no matter what happened, no matter who came after you, he had always been there. You had always been there.

And not once—not once—had he ever fucking said it. Not once had he looked at you and admitted what had been rotting inside of him since the day he met you.

That he loved you. Had always loved you.

And now, when you were slipping away from him—when your body was cold beneath his hands, when your lips were parted but there was no sound, no whisper of recognition, no sign that you even knew he was there—

Sebastian realized he might never get the fucking chance.

His jaw locked. His breath hitched.

"Ominis," he said again, voice raw, pleading, his entire body vibrating with the weight of everything he never said. "Please—"

"I'm working as fast as I can," Ominis snapped, but even he sounded frayed at the edges, his voice tighter than usual, his magic straining against the curse.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, fingers clenching around your wrist, grounding himself in the weak, faint pulse beneath your skin.

Still there. Still beating.

But for how long?

"She's dying," Sebastian whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "She’s dying, and I can’t—I can’t fucking—" His voice broke, sharp and raw, and fuck—he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore.

Ominis’ jaw tightened, his wand moving faster, the golden light flaring brighter against the rusted iron of the shackles.

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Because Ominis could feel it too.

The same dread. The same fear.

Sebastian swallowed, his throat aching, his lungs burning with every sharp inhale. He wanted to scream. Wanted to fight something, wanted to rip the world apart until it gave you back to him.

But he couldn’t.

All he could do was sit there, gripping your hand too tight, his fingers threading through yours as if holding you hard enough would tether you here, force you to stay.

"Please," he murmured, barely a whisper, forehead pressed against your temple, pleading into your skin. "I need you."

More than he had ever needed anything.

Ominis swore under his breath, shifting as the shackles clicked, magic flaring violently before it shattered, sending a wave of heat pulsing outward, knocking dust from the ceiling.

The spell broke.

Sebastian jerked forward, pulling you into him as life snapped back into your body. Your limbs twitched. Your breath hitched. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingertips.

"Thank fuck—" Sebastian’s grip tightened, his body curling around you, anchoring you against him like he could force your soul to stay inside your fucking body.

"Sebastian," Ominis muttered, voice thick, tired. "She still needs—"

Finally, the Healers rushed in.

Sebastian barely registered them. His arms were still locked around you, his body curled over yours, keeping you anchored against him like some desperate, helpless thing.

"Sir," a sharp voice cut through the air, firm but cautious. "We need to assess her condition."

Sebastian didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge them. One of the Healers reached for his shoulder, intending to physically pry him off—

"Don’t bother." Ominis's voice was sharp. A clear warning.

The Healers hesitated.

"He’s not going to let go," Ominis said, voice resigned. "So don’t waste time arguing. Just work around him."

Sebastian heard that. Felt it. But his grip didn’t loosen. Not even as hands moved over your body, casting diagnostic spells, pressing against your ribs, checking for internal damage. Not even as a warm glow filled the air, as magic hummed through you, as one of the Healers sighed in relief and muttered something about stabilization.

Another set of hands pressed against him this time—his ribs, his chest, fuck—he barely managed to bite back a hiss when something sharp burned at his side.

Right. He’d been stabbed.

Healers were already diagnosing him, murmuring between themselves, muttering about blood loss and fractured ribs.

Sebastian barely processed it. His eyes were on you. Only on you. The rise and fall of your chest.

"You’re gonna be fine," he whispered against your temple, barely audible, his voice still raw, still thick with something unbearable. "You’re okay."

The Healers worked. The Aurors still lingered. The world around him was moving, spinning, shifting—

"Sebastian."

Sebastian finally looked up.

Ominis was standing now, his wand gripped in one hand, his face carved from stone, but Sebastian knew him too well.

There was tension there. A weight behind his expression that was dangerous.

"I’m going to fix this," Ominis said simply.

Sebastian frowned, his mind still sluggish, too caught up in you, in keeping you here, to fully process what he meant.

Then it hit him.

Crucio.Avada Kedavra.

Sebastian had cast two Unforgivables in the middle of the fucking Auror Department.

Ominis sighed, running a hand down his face before muttering, "Merlin, you make my life impossible."

Sebastian managed a short, breathless laugh.

"Don’t move," Ominis said. "Stay with her."

Sebastian didn’t plan on going anywhere.

Ominis exhaled through his nose, turning on his heel, and then he was gone, already making his way across the room, already stepping into whatever bureaucratic fucking mess Sebastian had left behind, already handling it.

One of the Healers, still somewhat exasperated by the fact that Sebastian refused to let go of you, sighed. "Sir, can you stand?"

Sebastian barely glanced up. His fingers were still curled around yours, tightly, like if he so much as loosened his grip, you’d disappear.

"Yes."

The Healers exchanged looks, clearly unconvinced. One of them muttered something under her breath, but aloud, she only said:

"Then follow us. She’s stable, but both of you need to be under observation. And we’ll need to speak with her when she wakes."

Sebastian forced himself to his feet, his body screaming in protest, his ribs aching, his knuckles raw, his vision swimming for just a second before he locked his knees and shoved through the pain so he could carry you down the hall.

He hardly remembered the walk to the Hospital Wing.

All he knew was that the moment you were in a bed, he was there. Hovering. Watching. And when they tried leading him to another bed across the room, he tugged his own bed directly next to yours.

The Healers sighed. One pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering, "For the love of Merlin—"

But they let him.

They moved around him, murmuring amongst themselves as they worked—closing the gash along his ribs with precise, practiced wand movements, mending the bruised muscle beneath his skin, forcing him to drink something vile that numbed the throbbing pain in his knuckles. Someone cast a spell to soothe the soreness weighing down his body. Someone else checked his vitals.

It all blurred together.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the room settled into silence.

The Healers left.

The heavy weight of magic in the air dissipated, leaving behind only the dim glow of the lanterns and the quiet hum of distant voices from the hall.

Sebastian lay still. Exhausted. Sore.

His body felt like it had been dragged through hell. Every inch of him ached, the phantom pain of adrenaline still lingering in his bones, his knuckles still raw despite the Healers' best efforts. But his mind—

His mind wouldn’t stop.

He stared at the ceiling, watching the patterns in the stone swirl and shift under the flickering light, but all he could see was you.

The moment he realized you were gone. The blood smeared across the ruins. The way your body looked lifeless under the weight of those cursed shackles. The fucking fear. How close he had come to losing you.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into the sheets, his nails digging into the fabric as his chest tightened with something raw, something suffocating.

He was never going to let this happen again. Never. He would never go another day without telling you the truth: that he loved you. That he had always loved you. That you were the only thing in this godforsaken world that mattered.

His head turned, gaze drifting to you. Still asleep. Still too pale.

But alive.

The breath that left his lungs was shaky, uneven. A ghost of a thing. Then—

A movement. A stir.

Sebastian’s eyes snapped to your hand, watching as your fingers twitched against the blankets.

He shot up immediately, the sudden movement making his ribs scream in protest, but he ignored it, pushing himself onto his elbows, heart slamming against his ribs as he watched you.

Your eyelashes fluttered. Your head shifted slightly against the pillow. And then your eyes opened.

Sebastian froze.

For a moment, his brain refused to process what was happening. He had spent the last eternity—hours but what felt like years—trapped in a suffocating haze of fear, pain, and fury. But then your eyes opened.

His chest caved in.

"Fuck—" The word barely left his lips, broken and shaky, a raw, wrecked thing. He hadn’t even realized he was gripping the sheets, white-knuckled, his entire body locked so tightly with tension that now—now that you were looking at him, alive, breathing—he thought he might actually fall apart.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump clawing up his throat. He had to keep his voice steady. He had to.

"Hey, sweetheart," he rasped, and fuck—he wasn’t doing a good job of it, wasn’t doing a good job of anything, because his breath shook the second the words left him, and suddenly it was taking every bit of strength in his body to keep himself together.

Your brow furrowed, your eyes dazed, unfocused, barely tracking his face as you blinked sluggishly.

"Sebastian?" Your voice was hoarse, raw from disuse, but it was you. It was your voice, alive, and he nearly lost himself right then and there.

"Yeah, love," he breathed, nodding quickly, reaching for your hand as if trying to ground himself, as if trying to make sure you stayed here, tethered, with him. "I’m here."

You exhaled a slow, uneven breath, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room, blinking as you tried to place yourself. "Where—" A pause. A slow inhale. "What happened?"

Sebastian opened his mouth, then shut it, his throat tightening.

Where the fuck did he start? How did he say it? That you had been taken, that you had been chained up and cursed and dying in his arms, that he had nearly lost you—

That he had murdered a man because of it.

"You—" His voice cracked. He sucked in a sharp breath, exhaling through his nose, forcing himself to steady. "You scared the shit out of me, that’s what happened."

Your brow furrowed again, still groggy, still trying to process. Then, after a long pause, you sighed, your voice scratchy.

"You look like shit."

A wet, breathless laugh punched out of him before he could stop it, something caught between relief and absolute fucking devastation.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Sebastian moved, shifting onto his knees, ignoring the way his ribs screamed in protest, the way his body ached from the fight, from the blood loss, from every single fucking injury he had ignored.

It didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered except you.

Sebastian climbed over the narrow gap between the beds and into yours.

"Seb—"

You barely had time to react before he was pulling you into him, wrapping his arms around you, pressing himself against you.

His body curled over yours, his fingers clutching too tight, his face burying into the crook of your neck.

"You scared me," he whispered against your skin, voice wrecked, trembling. "You scared me so fucking bad."

You shifted slightly beside him, your body still sluggish, still weak from everything, but your hand moved, sliding up to rest against the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, your touch so fucking gentle it made his chest ache.

"I’m here, Sebastian," you murmured.

His breath hitched. Then he broke.

A sharp, ragged inhale. A violent, shuddering exhale. His fingers fisted into your clothes, gripping so tightly it felt like he was holding on for dear life.

And then the first tear slipped free.

It hit the bare skin of your shoulder, vanishing into the fabric of your hospital gown, but another followed. And another. His face twisted, his breath coming uneven, shaky—his entire body trembling with the force of what he had been holding back for hours.

His chest ached, physically ached, with the sheer weight of it all. With the terror. With the helplessness. With the image of you—chained, barely breathing, slipping away from him—burned into the back of his skull like a nightmare that would never fade.

A choked, wrecked sound clawed its way up his throat, something between a sob and a breathless gasp, and fuck—he couldn’t stop it.

His shoulders shook as more tears spilled over, hot and unchecked, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he cried.

He hadn’t cried in years.

Not when he had stood over Solomon’s lifeless body. Not when he had nearly lost himself to grief, to rage, to everything wrong inside him. But this—

His breath stuttered again, a broken, gasping thing, his tears falling freely now, soaking into your skin as he held you so tightly it should have hurt, but you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t tell him to stop. You just let him.

"I love you," he whispered, voice cracked, wrecked, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. "I love you so fucking much. I’m sorry I never said it sooner."

His entire body shuddered with the weight of it. With the relief. With the fear. With the unbearable, suffocating truth of how close he had come to never being able to say it at all.

He felt your fingers twitch against his back, hesitant but there, like you weren’t sure what to do with him like this—because this was something no one had ever seen.

Sebastian breaking. Sebastian weeping. Sebastian, who had spent years hiding behind sharp grins and reckless bravado, now unraveling, falling apart in your arms.

And he didn’t care, because fuck hiding. You had almost died, and he had almost never gotten the chance to tell you.

So he did. Again.

"I love you."

He had never meant anything more in his entire fucking life.

Sebastian felt your fingers tighten against his back, your grip weak but still there, still trying. It was barely anything, just the faintest pressure against his spine, but it sent something wrecked and aching curling through his chest, something raw and unbearable.

You were holding him.

And after a beat, after a long, quiet moment, you pulled back ever so slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

There were tears in your eyes. Not from pain, not from fear—but something else. Something that made his pulse trip over itself, something raw, something knowing.

Your lips parted, voice hoarse, cracked, still heavy with exhaustion.

"I remember now," you murmured, blinking slowly, your expression distant for a moment as if piecing it together in real-time. "It was Rookwood."

Sebastian exhaled sharply, something tight in his chest releasing at your words—relief, fury, heartbreak, he wasn’t even sure what the fuck it was. He just knew he never wanted to hear that fucking name again.

His hand came up, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch almost desperate in its gentleness,

"He’s dead."

You blinked at him, your breath hitching just slightly as his words settled over you. Then something shifted in your expression. Not relief, not satisfaction, but a quiet, unshaken certainty.

Because of course he was.

Your lips curled—just barely, wobbly and weak and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache.

"You came after me," you murmured, like it was something you’d just now realized, something that settled over you like a slow-burning warmth.

Sebastian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly, his lips pressing together for a moment before he said, "Of course I did." His voice was still hoarse, still raw from everything, but there was something steady beneath it. Something true. "I’d follow you anywhere."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you just looked at him. Really looked at him.

"I love you too."

Sebastian swore the entire fucking world stopped. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse stuttering violently in his chest, his entire body locking up because—

You loved him too.

His eyes burned, his throat tightened, his fingers shook where they were still clutching onto you.

And then—he was kissing you.

Soft, desperate, aching.

His hands cupped your face like you were something holy, something irreplaceable, his lips pressing against yours like he was trying to carve himself into your very fucking soul.

It was a kiss that held everything—the fear, the relief, the love neither of you had spoken aloud until now. It was unsteady, a little broken, but it was real.

When he finally pulled back, it was only because you both needed air, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath still uneven. His thumb brushed against your cheek, so painfully gentle it made something deep inside you ache.

“You’re still shaking,” you whispered.

Sebastian let out a soft, breathless laugh, one that barely even sounded like him. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice raw. “I think I’m gonna be shaking for a while.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. It was just the sound of your breathing, the distant murmur of voices outside the infirmary walls, the rhythmic, steadying beat of your heart against his. The world had been so loud—so chaotic, so terrifying—but here, in this fragile, stolen moment, there was only silence. Only you and him.

Then, softly, you said, “I’m okay.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t sure he believed you, like he wasn’t sure he ever would, but his fingers tightened against your back, and after a moment, he just nodded.

“Yeah. But I’m still never letting you out of my sight again.”

A weak laugh tumbled from your lips, breathless and exhausted, but real. “I figured.”

Sebastian huffed, but there was something warm beneath the sound, something a little less raw now, a little less wrecked. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple, letting it rest there, like a silent promise.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he muttered against your skin.

Your fingers curled in his shirt again, holding him close, feeling the steady, unshaken certainty in his words.

“Good.”

[imedited]

Everyone in the campus knew that you two hated each other, always competing over everything, so everyone already knew very well that you two would never get along with each other, like ever, the chance of that happening is rarer than winning the lottery.

They were right about that, of course, you two did hate each other, but one thing that they don’t know is about the sinful secret that you two keep for yourselves.

In the privacy of the student council office, that only you two can freely access, a heavy atmosphere in the room seems almost suffocating. You were working on some papers when he suddenly said something. “Don’t you think that these papers that you just approved are not really up to standards?”

You shot up a glare at him, annoyed by his complaint…again, “I know what I’m doing, and the papers are good enough, considering they’re just a new organization.”

“Oh really? Because to me, it looks like you’re just going easy on them ‘cause of that one guy in that little, pesky organization.” He said, his tone playful and teasing, but there was something different about it.

You raised an eyebrow at him as you decided to rile him up a bit. “So what? Jealous?” You said as you gave him a smug grin to get more reaction out of him, “He’s an…interesting guy, and he’s really cute, so you know, maybe I’ll ask him to be my friend.”

You could see how his jaw tightened and his fists clenching as the papers that he was holding were getting crumpled a bit. You were about to say something more, just to get a bit more reaction, when he finally stood up from his chair and walked over to you, his tall frame looming over you as he held on both armrests on either of your sides, locking you in place.

“You want to say that again?” He said in a low whisper as he stared down at you intensely, one of his hand coming up to rest shamelessly on your thigh, squeezing it possessively as he smirk at you, his tone a mock hurt as he spoke, “And here I thought we have something special, we do though, don't we?”

“Perhaps, I’ve been the soft getting soft, letting you run your mouth easily and talk to other men outside of your duties when I’ve clearly made it clear that you’re mine.” he whispered as his fingers climbed up higher, his hand teasing your inner thigh as he spread them apart a bit, revealing a healed scar on her inner thigh. On her skin, his initials were carved, his smirk grew wider as he saw it clearly etched on your skin, a clear reminder of his possession over you.

“What a naughty girl you’ve become,hm? Or maybe you’re just trying to get my attention, that’s why you’ve been whoring yourself around, right? You want me to remind you again who you belong to, right?” He took a step back, unbuckling his belt while keeping his gaze on you, his eyes filled with lust and desire, holding all the dirty things that he’d do to you. He took his belt off and secured your wrists with it, tightening it around both of your wrists as he walked off to take something from his bag. And when he came back, he presented an array of sex toys on the table in front of her.

“Take your pick, sweetheart.” He said playfully with a dark smirk as he leaned in close to her ear to whisper. “Whatever you pick first though, I’m going to take my time with you, we’re going to use every single one of them, and when you’re all spent and dripping wet from your own cum, I’ll be using my cock to wake you up again, and trust me, I won’t be letting you go until I’m fully satisfied, and you know how my appetite is, especially for you.”

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

a/n: Ngl, this one sounds really cringe for me :')) but I'm pushing through, cause I'm ovulating rn and that's the best way for me to get this horny side out of me XD enjoy tho

[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Yandere platonic Batfam x

Child Girl scout reader!

Notes: reader is a child in this.

Warnings ⚠️: mentions of kidnap and reader is low class. Not proofread. Please do not judge my girl scout logic I am not a girl scout and have never been one!

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

The manor was as dull as ever lately. The big fancy walls of the place only felt colder as time went on.

Dick had broken up with Kori for the umpteenth time that month and was living at the manor ,or more like mopping at the manor..

On rare occasions Cass would stop by. And if they were very lucky jason would stop by and say hi every now and then.

Bruce was as cold as ever not being able to catch the joker and being behind in alot of meetings.

Duke was frustrated with his over all high-school experiences.

And Cass was pretty sure she was going through a mid life crisis despite her still being young.

Pretty soon Tim would graduate high-school and Bruce new he'd be off to living his own life.

Now damian was still pretty young but he didn't really count for a kid. Atleast not in Bruce's eyes. Damian lacked that child imagination. That childish spark. And bruce will admit he is partially to blame....

But on a particular lucky day they had met you!

Or more like Alfred had met you first. And that began the overly possessive vigilanty family to fall absolutely in love with your cute self!

You were about seven never having been blessed with a high class life but your mama sure did try and give you her best!

You oh! so desperately wanted to be a girl scout!

And who was mother to break your heart and tell you she didn't have the money?

So she worked extra shifts at the hospital. Her being a nurse meant that most of her time she was at the hospital working.

But that never stopped her from dropping you off in some of the richest and hopefully safest neighborhoods in gotham so you could sell your cookies for the girl scouts.

She hated leaving you alone but she just couldn't resist your cute puppy dog eyes as you promised you'd be safe....and she really didn't have time to argue or should she'd be late to work, agian!

So with a kiss on the cheek from you and a smile she left. Leaving you on the richest street in gotham.

Sure being low class in gotham was hard but you never saw it that way. You always tried to be kind.

Because in your mother's words, 'in a world where you can be anything, be kind.'

So kind you were. Even to the stuck up little girl scouts who didn't like you because you were poor.

But you didn't pay them any mind! You loved being a girl scout! The other girls were probably just jealous you sold more cookies then them!

Atleast that's what your mama told you.

You smile and skip your way down the street pulling your wagon full of boxes of cookies behind you.

Walking up to each house with a smile on your face most bought some because how could they deny such a cute thing with chubby cheeks?

Sure they'd probably never eat the cookies from a low class kid but they couldn't find it in their cold, spoiled, hearts to say no to you! (They saw it as charity.)

Finally with your last boxes of cookies you pull your wagon with you as you walk up the long drive way and surprisingly the gate was open!

Stepping up to the big door you knock exactly three times.

Alfred being as confused as ever stops cleaning and checks the cameras only to not spot anyone on the footage.

Hesitatently he begins cleaning playing it off as his ears playing tricks on him. But he hears the knock agian. So he doesn't even bother with the camera.

Opening the front door his harsh gaze immediately softens at the sight of you!

Ofc the cameras wouldn't see you! You were to small to be seen on the ring camera!

Your just so cute with your little sash and badges! And your smiles so bright something that the old butler hasn't seen in a while...a genuine smile.

You have that child like wonder that's still in your eyes and by your little dirty shoes the butler knows you traveled a long way to get here.

"Hello sir. I'm here to offer you some of the best cookies in gotham. Girl scout cookies!" You say with one of the biggest smiles and happiest eyes!

"It's five dollars for a box or two boxes for nine! I only have chocolate chip and blueberry left." You say giving your speech like you've done a million other of times.

But this time it would change your life completely.....

To your complete surprise he hands you a hundred dollar bill and you hesitatently take it giving him your last two boxes.

"I don't have change sir....." You say trying to give him back the money to which he just shakes his head.

"Keep it...as a tip." He says his voice holding no pity like the others.

"Really?" You say your eyes shinning with excitement.

And by seeing your happiness Alfred knows you deserve it. So he nods and you take the old spy by surprise by hugging him.

"Thank you so much!" You say as you pull away jumping on the balls of your feet.

"I'll be back every Saturday to give you a box of cookies until I repay you!" You say skipping off with your wagon in tow.

Alfred looks at you with puzzled look did you not know what recieving a tip meant?

Well he wasn't going to stop you from coming back. Especially as you shoot him your absolutely adorable smile as you walk down the driveway and wave goodbye shouting a cute and kind.

"Have a blessed day!" As you leave.

Have a blessed day....Alfred definitely hasn't heard that in a long time..especially in gotham.

You were definitely diffrent...

But you had kept your word coming back every Saturday at 1pm sharp never missing a Saturday!

And each time Alfred would give you a hundred dollar bill saying it was your tip. And you'd give him a hug and tell him you'll be back every Saturday until you repay him!

Alfred doesn't exactly know what about you made him become so attached to you. Maybe it was your hugs? Or your sweet smile?

Either way he didn't mind because he'd wait by the door at 1pm sharp every Saturday waiting to see you walk down the driveway with your little red wagon and big toothy smile.

Eventually he did learn your name and how old you were and you learned quite a bit about him too.

Until one day the he had gotten so caught up in cleaning the manor he didn't even realize that he was about to miss his favorite part of the week!

There was a knock on the door exactly three times just like there always was on Saturday at 1pm for the past few months.

But this time it wasn't the sweet butler you had come accustomed too. No, now it was a big fancy looking man with blue eyes.

"Hello?" He says his voice much softer then it would look like he'd sound like.

Your puzzled eyes search his looking for your dear friend.

"Hi?" You say as tilt your head still searching for your favorite costumer.

Bruce's eyes take you in... your far to young to be out here alone. Where are your parents? He wants to ask but more importantly who are you looking for?

"I usually come by here at this time....do you know where Mr. pennyworth is?" You say your eyes still searching around for the older man.

Bruce looks at you confused how did you know Alfred? Bruce eyes scan you seeing if your a threat but by the way you nervous fiddle around with it your sash as he continues to look at you he deems that your just a harmless child.

"He's inside...do you want to come see him?" He says his voice now much softer and his eyes aren't as cold as they once were. But you take a step back.

You might have been a kid but you aren't that stupid.

"My mama says I can't go in strangers houses.." You say as you look at him clearly looking for a place to hide.

Bruce nods as he sees your nervous deamor.

"Well I suppose I could bring him out to you." Bruce says and your eyes light up with excitement at the thought of seeing your dear friend agian.

And oh.... how bruce envies the old butler by how just the mention of him makes you smile.

Why was Alfred so important to you?

Bruce goes back in but Alfred is already on his way to the door finally remembering his favorite part of the week.

Bruce watches the interaction closely as you smile when Alfred gives you the money. And how sweetly you hug Alfred.

Bruce had initially thought you only came for the good money Alfred was giving you but the way you smiled was kind...and very adorable.

The whole interaction was definitely wholesome and bruce couldn't help but want to be apart of it...he so desperately wished someone would hug him as happily you hug Alfred...

Bruce being the jealous man he is started to be the one opening the door every Saturday at 1pm enjoying your happy smiles and childish jokes you would tell him as you waited for Alfred to come to the door.

And just like Alfred Bruce always made sure he'd never be busy on Saturday at 1pm because rain or sunshine you'd be at their door.

Eventually it was raining very hard and your mother not checking the weather app before you left had left you alone in the rain with no way to contact your mother.

You do your usual houses ending up at the manor at 1pm and despite the hash rain you still had that cute toothy smile on your face that they loved seeing.

"Hi Mr, Wayne!" You happily say...always so happy.

Bruce smiles you always call him Mr. Wayne even when he tells you not to. You must have very good manners or are just very forget he thinks to himself.

"Hello sweetheart." He says. He's called you sweetheart since the second time he had met you.

Now bruce wasn't that into nicknames but for you the nickname really matched. You were just too sweet.

After you do your usual talking with Alfred and bruce you turn to walk back in the rain.

"You can't possibly walk back in that rain, sweetheart." Bruce says his voice edged with worry and concern.

But you dismiss his concern with a shrug and a smile.

"I've walked in worse.. plus my mama is gonna pick me up soon!" You say happily giving them their two boxes of cookies and walking a way.

But they don't smile back this time when you yell. "Have a blessed day!" Like you always do.

No, their eyes circle around everything about you. About the rain. How harshly it's hitting your skin. How wet your hair is getting. How heavy your little red wagon must be for you as it continues filling up with water.

They watch as you slowly disappear down the long driveway their hearts still longing to help.

But altimately they decide that they can't do anything. Your not their kid. They can't offer you a ride because they know you'd never accept.

They don't even know the name of your mother let alone her number. How were they supposed to verify if your mother was really going to pick you up?

Or were you just going to walk home in the rain?

You'd surely get sick... and after after about five more minutes the two men come to the conclusion that.....fuck the rules you were definitely not going to be walking alone in the rain.

So with Alfred handing bruce the keys bruce quickly took off in his black Mercedes.

You continue walking down the street trying not to feel scared as the lightning strikes agian. And when a black and very nice car pulls up beside you you walk faster.

You knew how much your mother worried...the last thing she needed was for you to get kidnapped!

But the car kept up with your pace and the window rolled down and as much as you tried not to you couldn't help but turn your head to see who was driving the car.

You immediately stop walking as you see the driver.

"Hi Mr. Wayne!" You say smiling and bruce can't even register a real smile as he takes in how your soaking wet from head to toe. And he just knows that those old shoes are probably hurting your feet.

"Hey sweetheart......how about I give you a ride?" He says his voice pleading as he pulls the car to a complete stop.

You look at him and tilt your head and bruce has to stop himself from just getting out the car and picking you up and putting you in himself.

Your adorable confused motions give away your response. So bruce speaks up agian.

"Just one ride to your house." He says still pleading but in his mind you don't really have a choice you are going to let him give you a ride.

"You won't kidnap me right?" You question and instead of bruce feeling offend or angry at that he smiles and shakes his head. You were trying to be safe. But that wasn't exactly a good question to ask.

Atleast not to the richest man in gotham who didn't have to necessarily kidnap you to keep you.

Reaching over and open the passengers seat for you Bruce shows you a award winning smile; a smile that not even the paparazzi has caught him with in years.

"Of course not sweetheart....come on get in."

And plus it's not considered kidnapping when you legally adopt someone right?

Thanks for reading!

Likes Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

[pigeonmama]

Oh am I in love or am I in love????

Did We F**K Last Night? Series (COMPLETE)

Pairing: Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x F! Reader

Warnings: 18 + Only (Language and SMUT, you have been warned)

My Masterlist 

Join my Taglist Here :) 

Moodboard (below) made by @the-purity-pen​. Holy sh*t how can I describe LeeAnn without using the words talented and incredible. Follow her for incredible writing and moodboards! 

Moodboard (below) made by @ghostwiththemostbitch​. I’m speechless by the talent of this woman. Follow her, she writes fantastic stories! 

Last Night at the Party (Part 1)

The Morning After (Part 2)

The Wedding (Part 3)

The Speech (Part 4)

New Beginnings (Part 5) 

Taglist: @oldstuffnewstuff @yespolkadotkitty @heythere-mel @justanotherblonde23 @artsymaddie @anetteaneta @lunarthoughts @aellynera @lucifer- @houseofthirst @phoenixhalliwell @chicken-ona-stick @agirllovespancakes @amberembers @jedi-mando @ghostwiththemostbitch @the-purity-pen @idreamofboobear @aerolanya @rebelliouscat @merg007 @dindjarindiaries @santiagogarcia @mariesackler @demoncrypt1066 @goalkeepernerd @meshlamando @dindisneydjarin @spacelatinoss @josepedropascal​ @paintballkid711​ @bisexual-space-slut​ @marvelprincess1994​ @itspdameronthings​ @spider-starry​ @itspdameronthings​ 

[batboysanonymous]

More Than This

Cassian x Reader

Summary: Y/N had always been Cassian’s best friend, the one who laughed at his jokes and stole his clothes without asking. But when stolen glances linger too long and casual touches leave fire in their wake, the unspoken tension between them becomes impossible to ignore. Neither of them dares to believe it could be more—until fate proves otherwise.

───────────────────────────────

The first time Cassian realized something had shifted, he was draping his jacket over Y/N’s shoulders.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done it—she had an uncanny ability to leave her cloak behind whenever they went out together, and Cassian had long since fallen into the habit of keeping an extra layer just for her.

But this time… this time felt different.

The thick, worn leather settled over her frame, far too big for her, practically swallowing her whole. Cassian had barely pulled his hands away when she let out a soft, content sigh, her fingers curling into the lapels.

And then she looked up at him.

Not just looked.

Glanced at him through her lashes, her lips curving into the kind of smile that made his stomach flip, the kind that felt too easy, too familiar.

Something tightened in his chest.

A feeling he couldn’t name, didn’t want to name.

His hands lingered a second too long—just barely brushing her shoulders—before he forced himself to step back, clearing his throat.

“You need to start remembering your own jacket, sweetheart.”

Y/N grinned, tugging the collar up around her face. The tip of her nose was still pink from the cold, and fuck, she was cute.

“Why would I, when I can steal yours?”

Cassian exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but there was no real bite to it.

“Because one day, you’ll push your luck, and I won’t give it up.”

She snorted. “You would literally freeze before letting me get cold.”

Cassian sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. “I’m too nice.”

Y/N beamed, looking far too pleased with herself, and then—

She curled into his jacket, her arms wrapping around herself like she belonged there. Like it was hers.

Like she’d been wearing it her whole life.

And something inside him—something vital—gave out.

Cassian swallowed hard, a slow, creeping realization settling over him.

He didn’t mind.

Not even a little.

Actually, he liked it.

Liked seeing her wrapped up in his things.

Liked knowing that when she smelled the leather, she was smelling him.

Liked that it was his jacket she reached for—not anyone else’s.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

Shit.

His friends had teased him for years—for the way he always lingered a little too close, for the way he gravitated toward her in a room, for the way he’d drop anything the second she called his name.

He’d denied it, every single time.

Because it was just Y/N.

His best friend.

Right?

But standing there, watching her disappear into the warmth of his jacket, looking so effortlessly his—

Cassian realized, with sudden, irrevocable clarity—

They had never just been friends.

And maybe, just maybe—

He didn’t want to be.

───────────────────────────────

Somewhere along the way, their hangouts had started to feel more like dates.

Cassian didn’t know when it happened. Maybe it was the nights spent lingering just a little too long outside her door, the way their conversations stretched until dawn, the way he always wanted to be near her.

Like now—sitting across from each other in a quiet little café, the candlelight flickering between them, bathing her in soft golden hues.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracing the delicate way Y/N stirred honey into her tea, slow and unhurried.

She always did this—added the perfect amount, stirred just so, then took a sip like it was a ritual. He’d seen her do it a hundred times before, but tonight… tonight, it felt different.

Maybe because he was watching too closely.

Maybe because he couldn’t stop.

“You’re staring.”

Cassian blinked.

“Am I?”

Y/N arched a brow, the candlelight making her eyes shine.

“Yes.”

She was so fucking pretty.

Cassian grinned, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He wanted to be closer, needed to be.

“Maybe I just like looking at you.”

It wasn’t supposed to sound that genuine. That raw. But the truth slipped out before he could catch it.

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes. But—

She didn’t look away.

Didn’t brush it off like she normally would.

Didn’t deny it.

“Please.” She stirred her tea again, but her fingers weren’t as steady. “You like looking at everyone.”

Cassian smirked, because yeah—he was a flirt. A shameless one. But—

“Not like I look at you.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Before he could think.

And just like that—

Her fingers stilled against her cup.

Silence stretched between them, thick and weighted.

Something unsaid—but not unnoticed.

Cassian felt it in his chest, in the air between them, in the way Y/N’s throat bobbed as she slowly, carefully, took a sip of her tea.

Something had changed.

He shouldn’t have said that.

He should’ve laughed it off, made a joke, turned it into something light and meaningless.

But it wasn’t meaningless.

And that was the problem.

Because sitting here, across from her in the dim light of their definitely-not-a-date dinner, watching the way she tried so hard to pretend his words didn’t affect her…

Cassian knew.

He felt it in his bones.

That maybe—just maybe—his friends were right.

That maybe, he wasn’t just her friend.

That maybe, he didn’t want to be.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his mind revolting against the thought.

He couldn’t be in love with her.

He would have noticed.

Right?

But then Y/N cleared her throat and muttered, “You’re impossible.”

Cassian tried to smirk.

Tried to pretend like his heart wasn’t threatening to crack his ribs.

But he knew.

Something had changed.

───────────────────────────────

Sharing a bed wasn’t new.

After long nights spent drinking or training, it was easier to crash together than be alone. They never questioned it—never overthought it. Just two friends who happened to end up in the same bed more often than not.

That was all.

But waking up tangled in each other?

That was new.

Cassian’s first thought upon waking was that he’d never been this warm in his life. The heat was all-consuming, wrapping around him like a second skin, and he almost groaned at how good it felt.

His second thought—the one that sent a sharp jolt through his system—was that the warmth came from her.

From Y/N.

From the woman curled against his chest, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, her breath fanning across his skin in soft, even exhales.

His arms were locked around her waist. Their legs were tangled. Their bodies were pressed together in a way that was decidedly not friendly.

Cassian barely dared to breathe.

His mind rebelled.

This isn’t anything. It’s just how you woke up. You’ve always been tactile with her. This doesn’t mean—

Y/N shifted, pressing closer, her fingers flexing slightly against his bare chest.

Cassian’s heart nearly stopped.

A slow, sleepy sigh left her lips. Then—soft as a whisper—she nuzzled into him.

His entire body went rigid.

Fuck. Fuck.

This wasn’t just friendly.

Friendly was sleeping side by side. Friendly was a casual arm slung over a shoulder, a teasing shove, an occasional hug.

This?

This was something else.

Cassian squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to be rational.

Except rational didn’t exist when Y/N was tucked into his arms, when her scent was filling every inhale, when the first thing he had felt upon waking was her warmth, her touch, her fucking everything.

Shit.

Then—

“Cass?”

Her voice was soft, thick with sleep, and it sent an unholy shiver down his spine.

Cassian swallowed hard. “…Yeah?”

Y/N blinked up at him, her lashes still heavy.

A pause.

“…Are we cuddling?”

Cassian’s throat locked.

Lie. Say something sarcastic. Make a joke. Don’t let her realize—

“…I think so.”

The words came out unbidden, his voice hoarse.

A beat of silence.

Y/N groaned and buried her face in his chest.

Cassian stopped breathing.

Because she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shove him off.

Didn’t recoil.

She stayed.

Cassian’s mind raced, his heart hammering so hard it was a miracle she couldn’t hear it.

This means nothing. It’s fine. You’re fine.

Except his body was betraying him—his arms refusing to let go, his fingers twitching with the urge to trace over the delicate curve of her spine, his head tilting slightly as if it belonged there, right against hers.

This is normal. This is—

He was in so much fucking trouble.

Because if he moved—if he so much as breathed wrong—he might do something reckless.

Like tell her he loved her.

Like admit that maybe he had been lying to himself this entire time.

Like pull her even closer and never let go.

But he didn’t move.

Because neither did she.

───────────────────────────────

Their friends had had enough.

It started with a sigh. Not just any sigh—Mor’s sigh.

It was long, dramatic, and laced with the kind of exasperation that came from watching two people be so willfully blind that it physically hurt her. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and swirling the wine in her glass before pointing an accusatory finger at Cassian and Y/N, who were seated—as always—side by side.

“You two are so in love it’s disgusting.”

Y/N, mid-sip of her own drink, choked, coughing into her sleeve. Cassian reached out instinctively, rubbing her back, his touch warm and soothing.

“We are not,” Y/N finally gasped, thumping her chest.

Azriel, who had been watching the interaction with the kind of quiet amusement only he could pull off, arched a brow. “You’re wearing his jacket right now.”

Y/N blinked. Then, as if just realizing, looked down at herself. Cassian’s well-worn leathers were draped over her shoulders, the scent of pine, cedar, and him embedded in the fabric. The sleeves practically swallowed her hands.

“…So?” she muttered, shrugging deeper into it like that would somehow make her point more convincing.

Nesta rolled her eyes, sipping her own wine. “So, everyone knows you’re together except you two.”

Cassian let out an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back against his chair. “For the love of the Mother, we’re not together.”

Rhys leaned forward, a slow, amused smirk curling his lips. His violet eyes gleamed with trouble. “Funny, because if I asked Y/N on a date right now, you’d rip my throat out.”

Cassian’s body went still.

The flicker of irritation was there—subtle, but there. His jaw tensed, his easy-going demeanor slipping just enough for anyone paying attention to see the territorial glint in his hazel eyes.

“Try it,” Cassian said, voice low. “See what happens.”

Y/N glared at Rhysand, unimpressed. “You’re mated, you ass.”

Rhys grinned, unfazed. “That’s beside the point.”

Mor groaned loudly, slamming her glass onto the table. “It’s actually exactly the point! Cass, you’re literally ready to fight Rhys over a hypothetical date! If that’s not proof that you’re in love with her, I don’t know what is.”

Cassian scoffed. “That doesn’t mean anything. He’s just being an ass for sport.”

Rhys spread his hands innocently. “I do enjoy a bit of chaos.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “And just because Cassian doesn’t want me dating you doesn’t mean he’s in love with me.”

A collective groan swept across the table.

Nesta pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mother above, I cannot handle this level of stupidity.”

“It’s truly painful,” Amren murmured, still reading but clearly listening.

Mor pointed at Y/N this time. “Okay, fine. Then explain this. Why do you always wear his clothes? Why does he always bring you an extra meal when we go out? Why does he always find a way to be touching you? And why, for the love of all things holy, do you both look at each other like you personally strung the stars in the sky?”

Y/N sputtered. “I—That’s just how we are! We’ve always been like this!”

Cassian nodded in agreement, throwing an arm over Y/N’s chair in an instinctive, familiar motion. “Exactly! This is just us. We’re comfortable around each other.”

Rhys snorted. “Yeah, too comfortable. So comfortable it’s actually uncomfortable for the rest of us.”

Azriel smirked. “You do realize, don’t you, that half the people in Velaris already think you’re together?”

Y/N’s mouth dropped open. “What?!”

Cassian frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

Mor laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, please. Do you know how many people have asked me how long you two have been dating? You should hear the rumors.”

Y/N turned to Cassian, utterly baffled. “Did you know about this?”

Cassian shrugged. “I mean... yeah? But I just correct them.”

Y/N blinked. “And how exactly do you ‘correct’ them?”

Cassian smirked. “By telling them you’re still single.”

Mor gasped, scandalized. “You ass! You say it like you’re keeping your options open! No wonder no one else has ever tried asking Y/N out!”

Cassian had the audacity to look pleased with himself. “Well, it’s true. She’s single.”

Rhys’ brows lifted. “And you don’t like that, do you?”

Cassian went completely still.

Y/N, who had been flustered beyond belief, also hesitated, turning to look at Cassian more closely.

A muscle feathered in his jaw.

Nesta was smirking. Amren smirked. Rhys, Mor, and Az were grinning wildly.

Y/N’s heart started to hammer.

“…Cass?” she asked quietly.

His hazel eyes darted to hers. They were unreadable—guarded.

Then he gave an easy, lazy grin. “What? I just think anyone who wants to date you should be able to beat me in a fight first.”

Y/N gaped at him. “That’s the most ridiculous—”

“That’s the most Cassian thing I’ve ever heard,” Azriel muttered under his breath.

Nesta groaned, slamming her palm on the table. “That’s it. I’m done. I’m done.”

Rhys just grinned, stretching out comfortably in his chair. “You two are exhausting. Just thought you should know.”

Silence settled between them.

Y/N turned to Cassian. Cassian turned to Y/N.

Neither of them spoke.

For the first time, they didn’t have an argument.

For the first time, doubt—or something suspiciously close to realization—crept into their eyes.

Their friends had had enough.

And, maybe, it was time they finally figured out why.

───────────────────────────────

Cassian hated seeing Y/N with other males.

It was irrational. Utterly fucking irrational.

He had no claim on her. Had no right to feel this way. But that didn’t stop the ugly, clawing jealousy from curling in his chest whenever some charming bastard thought they had a chance with her.

Like now.

The air inside Rita’s was thick with the scent of sweat and perfume, the bass thrumming through the floorboards. Laughter rang across the room, glasses clinked, and—

Cassian’s grip on his drink tightened.

Some Illyrian asshole was standing too close to Y/N.

He didn’t even know his name. Didn’t care to. All he knew was that the male had spent the last fifteen minutes trailing after her like a lost, love-struck puppy, smiling a little too wide, talking a little too much, and now—

Now, the fucker was leaning in.

Cassian could hear the conversation even over the music.

The male’s voice was smooth, laced with something smug, like he truly believed she’d be honored to entertain him.

Cassian’s jaw locked.

Y/N, to her credit, didn’t encourage him. She was polite—offering that diplomatic smile of hers—but she wasn’t leaning back in. Wasn’t laughing. If anything, she looked vaguely bored.

Didn’t matter. Cassian still wanted to punch him in the fucking throat.

It’s not your business.

That’s what he told himself. He had no right to feel this possessive, no reason to care so much. They were just friends.

Even if he thought about her at night. Even if he felt better when she was around. Even if she was the first person he sought in any room, the first one he wanted to tell things to. Even if—

No. No, it wasn’t like that.

You’re not in love with her. You’re just—

The male reached for her hand.

Something inside Cassian snapped.

His drink was abandoned before he even registered moving. His wings flared slightly as he crossed the room in a single breath, shoving his way between them.

His voice was low, lethal. “She’s taken.”

The male blinked, startled. His gaze flickered between Cassian and Y/N, confusion evident.

“By who?”

Cassian bared his teeth in something almost resembling a grin. “By me.”

Silence.

The words had come so easily. Like they were truth.

The male stiffened, eyes narrowing slightly. “I didn’t realize—”

“You do now.”

Cassian’s tone left no room for argument.

The Illyrian took a step back, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “No offense meant, Commander.”

Cassian didn’t blink, didn’t move until the male was gone—until he had slunk off to some other corner of the club, wisely deciding that Y/N was off limits.

Then, and only then, did Cassian turn to face her.

Y/N was watching him with something unreadable in her gaze.

Not annoyance. Not frustration.

Something… else.

And then—

A slow, knowing smile curled her lips.

Cassian’s heart stumbled.

Y/N stepped closer, deliberately closing the distance between them. Her fingers trailed over the edge of his armor, slow and teasing. Testing.

“Guess that’s true.”

Cassian swallowed hard. His pulse was thunderous.

It wasn’t the first time she had touched him—not by a long shot. But this? This was different.

His world shifted on its axis, the air between them turning thick and charged.

And then—

The pull.

An invisible thread wove through the air, wrapping around his ribs, his heart, her heart—

Cassian sucked in a sharp breath.

It was like the entire club had vanished. Like the music, the laughter, the people didn’t exist.

Just her. Just them.

Y/N’s fingers curled into his tunic. Her breath hitched.

“…Do you feel that?”

His hands found her waist, gripping tight. He couldn’t let go. Didn’t want to.

His voice was hoarse. “The bond.”

Y/N exhaled shakily. “We’re mates.”

Cassian’s world tilted.

His mind reeled, a thousand thoughts colliding all at once—

No. No fucking way. This isn’t—

Except it was.

It had always been.

He thought of Mor’s exasperated sighs, of Nesta’s unimpressed glares. Of Rhys’s teasing smirk, the way Azriel only ever raised a brow when he protested that they were just friends.

“You two are so in love it’s disgusting.”

“So everyone knows you’re together except you.”

Cassian had scoffed. Had brushed them off, had rolled his eyes.

But they had been right.

Every second of his existence had been leading to this moment. To her.

To the realization that he was irrevocably, obsessively, helplessly in love.

And he had been blind to it.

His throat was tight, his chest burning with something too big, too much—

“Y/N—”

But she was already moving, already rising on her toes, already pressing her lips against his.

Cassian broke.

A growl rumbled low in his chest as he crashed into the kiss, gripping her as if she might disappear if he let go. His hand tangled in her hair, the other fisting the fabric of her dress at her lower back, yanking her closer.

Y/N melted into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her lips parted on a soft gasp, and Cassian swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until he felt dizzy.

It was raw. Desperate.

It tasted like every moment they had spent in denial. Every time he had swallowed down his feelings. Every second he had convinced himself that she wasn’t his to have.

But she was.

She always had been.

The bond thrummed, golden and right.

Y/N pulled back just slightly, breathless, dazed. Her forehead rested against his, her fingers still gripping his tunic like she needed something to hold onto.

Cassian cupped her face, his thumb stroking along her cheek.

And for the first time, he let himself admit it.

“I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Y/N’s eyes softened. Her lips parted.

“…Good.”

Cassian blinked.

Then, she grinned.

“Because I’ve loved you for just as long.”

And Cassian—Cassian—

He kissed her again.

Because, maybe, just maybe, he had been waiting his whole life.

And he wasn’t waiting another damn second.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆