#ink and coating handling

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

The Tides of Chaos

Pairing: Pirate! Choi Seungcheol x Princess! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | Enemies to Lovers | Opposites Attract | Forbidden Romance | Based on the movie 'Sinbad: The Legend of the Seven Seas'

Wordcount: 23.0K

Playlist: 'i always kinda knew you'd be the death of me' - Artemas | 'Swim' - Chase Atlantic | 'Sirens' - Nylo | 'do you really want to hurt me?' - Nessa Barrett | 'Taste' - Ari Abdul

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. and M. receiving) - Fingering - Nipple play - Slight body worship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Soft Dom! Seungcheol - Use of petnames - Praise kink - Slight choking

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

The Chimera cuts through the water like a dagger, her mahogany hull gleaming beneath the fading sun, sails taut with the Eastern wind. Just beyond the curve of the horizon, the city of Syracuse glimmers—a golden crown on the edge of the world, encircled by high cliff walls, bustling piers, and a towering lighthouse whose peak pulses faintly with a strange, ethereal glow.

Seungcheol leans against the railing of the upper deck, arms crossed over his broad chest, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The salt wind tousles his dark hair as his gaze settles on the lighthouse in the distance, its beacon like a slow heartbeat in the night. Behind him, the ship creaks and hums with life—his crew, his brothers, scurrying about with the chaotic energy of those who have lived too long on the edge of the law.

“You’re staring at it like it’s a woman,” Mingyu drawls behind him, arms folded as he climbs the short stairs to the quarterdeck. His long coat flaps behind him, half open over a sweat-stained shirt, hands already working a coin between his fingers. Seungcheol smirks but doesn’t look away. “That light’s worth more than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve clearly never met the wrong kind.” Soonyoung’s voice chimes in as he lifts himself up from below deck with a musket in one hand and a half-peeled orange in the other. “I knew a girl in Cádiz who nearly robbed me blind. Took my boots and my dignity.”

“Didn’t you say she married you first?” Wonwoo murmurs, barely glancing up from the map he’s unrolling on a barrel by the mast. His long fingers smooth the parchment with the reverence of a monk handling scripture. “Details,” Soonyoung mutters, plopping down beside him and tearing into his orange with more aggression than necessary. “Are we really doing this?” Chan’s voice cuts through the banter. He’s perched on a crate, still a little wide-eyed, grease smudges on his cheek from fiddling with the rigging, a wrench still tucked into his belt—the youngest of the crew, but no less capable. Seungcheol finally turns. “Aye,” he says. “We are.”

He strides down the steps, boots heavy on the deck. The crew naturally circles around—the Chimera’s heart pulsing with anticipation. Seungcheol plants himself in front of the map, stabbing a finger at the intricate image drawn in careful ink. “This is what we're after. The Book of Peace. It’s not just treasure. It’s practically holy. It was created before recorded time, by the first kings to seal an accord between the cities. Some believe it holds the very soul of harmony. That book is peace... and peace has a price.”

“That sounds like a curse waiting to happen,” Mingyu says. He glances at Seungcheol with a lazy grin. “How exactly do you steal a symbol of universal peace without pissing off every crowned head on the continent?”

“Easy,” Seungcheol replies without missing a beat. “We do it fast.” The others chuckle, but it’s Soonyoung who leans forward, his eyes glinting with excitement. “You’ve got a plan, then? Tell me it involves explosions. Please tell me it involves explosions.”

“Not this time,” Seungcheol replies. “We can’t afford chaos. We need timing. Precision. Grace.”

“So… not our speciality,” Chan pipes up, “Got it.” The crew laughs, and even Seungcheol lets out a low chuckle. Then he turns, his tone shifting. “The Book of Peace,” he begins, drawing a curved dagger from his belt and using it to trace lines in the map Wonwoo laid out, “is being moved from the Lighthouse of Syracuse to the Castle of Twelve. That’s our window. Security will be split—half guarding the docks, the other protecting the Kings. It’s the only time that the relic won’t be behind divine iron and twenty feet of stone.”

Minghao, who has been silent up in the crow’s nest, swings down with effortless grace and lands beside him. He’s quiet by nature, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, his tunic stitched with foreign symbols no one else can read.“We can’t storm the procession,” Minghao says softly. “They’ll expect trouble from outside the walls.” Seungcheol grins, full of teeth and madness. “Who said anything about storming?”

He flicks open a hidden compartment beneath the map barrel and pulls out a stack of folded garments—rich silks, polished buttons, embroidered vests. “We go in.” A beat of silence. Then—

“You want us to waltz into a Kings’ gala dressed like noblemen?” Mingyu laughs. “Not like noblemen,” Seungcheol says, rolling his eyes. “Like honoured guests. The guest list includes ambassadors from the outlying islands. And thanks to a certain barmaid in Messina who owed me a favour…” He produces a sealed envelope, the red wax glinting in the lantern light. “We’ve got their names.”

“And how, exactly,” Wonwoo says dryly, “are we supposed to impersonate nobility without anyone noticing our lack of... I don’t know… manners, refinement, the general ability to not stab someone over a spilt drink?”

“Speak for yourself,” Soonyoung snorts. “I’m extremely refined.” Chan groans. “You eat soup with a fork.” Seungcheol lifts a hand. “Enough. We’ll split roles. Mingyu and I go in first and distract the royal guards at the reception point. Minghao sneaks around back to unlock the secondary gate. Soonyoung guards the exit with Chan. Wonwoo will track the book’s movement from above using his maps and signal system. The moment they break from the lighthouse…”

He slams his fist on the map. “…we take it.”

“And then—Fiji.” Mingyu stretches his arms above his head and exhales like he’s already there. “White sands, sun for days. And no more jobs.”

“And umbrella drinks,” Soonyoung sighs. “Pineapple ones. With little swords.”

“I just want to sleep on a bed that isn’t swaying,” Chan groans, stretching his back. “Or full of rats.” The crew falls quiet at that. The waves slap against the hull like a ticking clock.

Then, Seungcheol leans in, breaking the silence. “Let’s steal a goddamn relic, then.”

Seungcheol adjusts the collar of his brocade jacket, resisting the urge to pull at the itchy fabric. It’s too fine, too clean, too stiff. He’s used to salt-worn shirts, wind-swept pants, and freedom. This? This feels like a noose in expensive thread. Beside him, Mingyu looks just as uncomfortable in his dark green doublet, but damn if he doesn’t wear it well. His hair’s swept back, a little neater than usual, and a ceremonial sword hangs at his hip—purely decorative, though it makes him look every inch the prince he isn’t. They move through the palace gates seamlessly, their falsified credentials passing without question. The guards don’t look twice—too distracted by the dozens of nobles arriving in droves, chatter echoing through the marble halls like waves against stone.

Inside, it’s another world.

The ballroom is lit with crystalline chandeliers that hang like captured stars. Gold trim glitters along the walls, every edge carved with symbols of the Twelve Cities. Platters overflow with delicacies—pomegranate-glazed roast fowl, lavender cakes, spiced lamb skewers, and enough wine to drown an army. Nobles and royals in gem-coloured fabrics swirl across the floor to the hum of lyres and flutes. Seungcheol walks slower than he should, taking it all in. “You seeing this?” Mingyu mutters beside him, voice low as they stroll past a statue of a god holding scales and a sceptre. “I see it,” Seungcheol replies, voice harder than expected.

It’s obscene.

The kind of wealth he’s never touched. The kind that could feed five villages for a year, but instead sits here, polished and powdered and perfectly indifferent. His jaw tightens. He grew up scraping fish guts from barrels. He knows the taste of hunger and the thirst for water. And now he’s in a palace where gold lines the plates and no one has calluses on their hands. Seungcheol inhales, the scent of roses and patchouli almost choking. “Wealth like this could feed every dockside orphan from here to Argos,” he mutters. “You getting sentimental on me, Captain?” Mingyu asks, his voice teasing but quiet, careful. Seungcheol shakes his head. “Just remembering what it’s like to be hungry.” He forces a smirk, scanning the room.

“Eyes on the guards,” he says. “We don’t have much time.” They move casually, pausing at tables, offering nods to passing nobles, and exchanging a few pleasant lies. Seungcheol counts—twelve guards inside the ballroom. Four more at the main door. Two by the arch leading back to the gallery where the Book will be displayed. Another pair flanking the massive marble stairs.

Twenty. And those are just the visible ones. Mingyu taps the rim of his goblet, a silent signal. He’s seen the same. Seungcheol’s eyes flicker to the high windows, where he knows Wonwoo is perched somewhere above, watching with hawk-like precision, drawing every detail into that steel trap of a mind. Farther behind the palace, Minghao slips along the garden’s edge like a ghost, searching for the latch to the side gate. And Soonyoung? He waits in the alley, blade hidden, eyes alert. Chan watches from the exit path with his nervous heart in his throat. It’s all going smoothly.

Until—

“Seungcheol?”

The voice stops him mid-step. No. It can’t be. He turns. And for the first time in ten years, he comes face-to-face with a ghost from a better time.

Joshua.

His childhood best friend. His brother in all but blood. And the reason he once believed in goodness. Dressed in ceremonial blue and gold, sword at his hip, medallion at his chest—he looks every bit the crown prince Seungcheol knew he would become. Joshua’s face lights up. “Gods, it is you.” Seungcheol stares for a second too long, then quickly pulls on a grin. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Joshua laughs, stepping in and wrapping him in a firm, brief hug. Seungcheol hesitates—just for a moment—before clapping his old friend on the back. “Head of the royal guard now?” Seungcheol asks as they pull apart. “Didn’t think you’d still be chasing rules.”

“Someone has to keep Syracuse from crumbling,” Joshua replies with a chuckle. “And you? Still chasing trouble?”

“Chasing myths,” Seungcheol says with a smirk. “Heard the Book was real. Had to see it with my own eyes.”

Joshua perks up with pride. “You’re in luck. Tonight, it passes through the city before it returns to the vault. And I’ve been entrusted with its protection.”

Seungcheol’s stomach twists. Of all the people. He doesn’t let it show. “I feel safer already.” Mingyu appears at his side, ever punctual, ever perceptive. His eyes flicker from Joshua to Seungcheol in quiet curiosity. “Joshua, this is Mingyu,” Seungcheol says quickly, voice light. “Old friend. One of the few people who still puts up with me.” Joshua laughs. “He must be either brave or stupid.”

“Definitely stupid,” Seungcheol replies with a smirk. Joshua looks like he’s about to make another joke, when suddenly, his eyes light up. “You have to meet someone,” he says, excitement bursting across his features. “She’s here tonight. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.”

You turn at the sound of Joshua’s voice.

You already know you’ll have to be gracious. You’ve done this before—smiled for visiting nobles, curtsied for fussy kings, exchanged pleasantries with fat, red-faced merchants smelling of cloves and greed. The mask is familiar. Comfortable. Tonight you wear it again.

Your gown is seafoam blue, embroidered with silver thread along the bodice and sleeves, fitted perfectly by your handmaidens hours before. Your hair is swept back in elegant waves, fastened with pearls and a diadem from your late mother’s collection. You look every inch the Princess of Mdina—polished, serene, composed.

But your eyes betray you. Because as you turn fully, you see him.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, effortlessly handsome in the most unruly way—he doesn’t look like a nobleman. His coat is fine, yes, tailored and dark, but it fits him like it resents him. His sleeves are too tight around his biceps. His hair, though combed, has clearly fought back. His jaw is cut from something unrelenting, and his eyes—gods, his eyes—dark and assessing, settle on you like you’re a storm he saw coming and ran toward anyway.

Joshua’s voice is warm as he goes to stand beside you. “This is Seungcheol. My childhood best friend.” Your spine straightens just a little more. The pirate, you think, though, of course, he isn’t introduced that way. No one would dare. Not in this room.

Still, you’ve heard the stories. Joshua told you over candlelight, in those rare moments between duties. A boy from the slums of the lower districts. A dreamer, a fighter. Wild. Loyal. Fearless. And foolish. You tilt your chin, expression practised and polite. “So you’re the infamous one.”

He grins slowly, like your words are a flirtation instead of a challenge. “Infamous? I was under the impression Joshua painted me as heroic.”

“He did,” you say. “But heroes don’t usually get chased by guards on rooftops.” He laughs—full-bodied and warm. “That’s when I was young. I’ve grown into a respectable man.” You arch a brow. “Is that what they’re calling it now?” His smile doesn’t waver, but you see the flicker in his eyes.

A spark you recognise because you’ve had it yourself before—on the rare nights you snuck out through the servants’ corridors and climbed the cliffs alone. When you looked at the stars and wondered what the rest of the world tastes like. Intrigue, curiosity, recklessness. He looks like all of those things combined. And you hate him for it.

“Seungcheol,” Joshua says with a grin, “this is—”

“The Princess of Mdina,” Seungcheol finishes for him, his eyes never leaving yours. “you must be the one who stole Joshua’s heart.” You hold his gaze. “It wasn’t a difficult theft. He left the gates open.” Joshua chuckles beside you, his hand resting lightly on your back. Seungcheol’s smile tightens at the corners. “Well, I suppose every treasure finds its keeper eventually.” You raise a brow. “I didn’t realise pirates cared for court gossip.” He chuckles. “I didn’t realise princesses believed everything they were told.”

“You don’t seem as particularly impressive in person as in the stories,” you say. His voice is lower now. “Don’t worry, Princess. I don’t find you all that impressive either.” Joshua barks a laugh between you, oblivious to the tension blooming like storm clouds. He pulls you closer to his side.

“Gods, I forgot how quick you both are with your words,” he says, clearly entertained. “I might regret this already.” You smile at Joshua and let your hand rest lightly on his arm. He leans in and kisses your cheek, and you respond with practised affection.

Seungcheol feels something shift in his chest at the sight of Joshua so at peace. Guilt that tastes like bile on his tongue. He can’t do it. He can’t steal the Book.

He covers the turmoil with a smile and steps back. “It’s good to see you, Joshua. Really.”

“And you, old friend,” Joshua says sincerely. “It’s been too long.”

Suddenly, the horns sound across the ballroom, breaking the moment. “The Book is on the move.”

The room shifts. The mood tightens. Guards begin to take position along the corridors, and the music slows to a ceremonial cadence. Seungcheol turns, walking away without another word. Mingyu hesitates for a beat, watching the expression darken behind his captain’s eyes, then follows.

You watch him go.

The celebration carries on behind them like a fading dream—laughter echoes, glasses clink, music fades into a low hum. Outside the grand ballroom, the city of Syracuse holds its breath. The crowd has shifted, no longer drunk on wine but on wonder.

Seungcheol and Mingyu step into the open air, blending into the velvet-clad nobles and wide-eyed onlookers gathered along the procession route. The night is still, save for the rhythmic march of guards escorting the artefact.

A floating platform glides along the ancient path from the lighthouse to the palace, suspended by hidden mechanisms and lit from within. The Book sits in its centre—radiant and pulsing, casting light like liquid silver across the cobbled streets and alabaster towers.

It is beautiful. Too beautiful.

Seungcheol watches it come closer, not moving. His jaw is set, arms loosely crossed, and his expression unreadable. Mingyu doesn’t take his eyes off him. “You’re quiet,” he says. Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away.

He watches the Book. Watches how people react to it, how they fall into silence, how they reach out as if basking in divinity itself. Then, quietly: “Just thinking.” Mingyu studies him for a moment longer, then nods. “We’re not doing this, are we?” It’s not a question. It’s a truth spoken simply. Seungcheol lets out a long breath, his eyes never leaving the procession.

“No.”

Mingyu doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to. He’s known Seungcheol long enough to read him like a compass—when his needle shifts, you follow the pull. He claps Seungcheol on the back with a dry smile. “I’ll get the others. We’ll be at the Chimera by the time you make peace with whatever existential crisis you’re having.” Seungcheol huffs a laugh despite himself. “Thanks, Gyu.” Mingyu turns, disappearing into the crowd.

Seungcheol walks away, through alleys bathed in soft torchlight. Through winding streets that once knew his bare feet as a boy. The energy of the city presses in around him—gasping citizens pointing at the glow of the Book, songs half-sung from balconies, little children perched on crates to glimpse history. And yet, he feels utterly apart from it all.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe nowhere. Maybe home—if he still had such a thing. The cobblestones glisten faintly under the magic light. Somewhere distant, the platform continues to float, its precious cargo slowly making its way to the palace vault.

That’s when he hears it. A voice, low and smooth, curling like smoke around the silence. “You look troubled, Captain.”

He stops.

A woman stands in the alley ahead of him, just beyond the reach of the lanternlight. Her gown is dark, glinting only faintly, like ink catching fire. Her hair spills down her back, long and black and impossibly still despite the breeze. But it’s her eyes—unblinking and shimmering silver—that set every nerve in Seungcheol on edge.

He immediately straightens. “Who are you?” he asks, cold but calm. The woman takes a slow step forward, lips curling into something that’s almost a smile. “I’m someone who sees more than most.” Seungcheol narrows his gaze. “That’s not a name.”

“Call me Cordia.”

The name rings no bells. Still, there is something about her—it’s as though the shadows themselves lean in to listen when she speaks. She circles him now, like a vulture, and he turns to keep her in his periphery. “It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” she muses, tilting her head toward the distant glow of the Book. “Such a curious little artefact. Sacred, yes. But mostly forgotten. The Kings worship it, lock it in a tower, drag it around like a trophy—but do they use it?”

Seungcheol says nothing.

“Of course they don’t,” she goes on, “because to use it would mean sharing. And power, real power, is never shared freely.”

“What’s your point?”

She stops in front of him and tilts her head. “My point, darling Seungcheol, is that there are men—rare men—who remember what it’s like to have nothing. Who understand what it means to claw their way from the gutter. Men who might look at that Book and think: why not me?” He narrows his eyes. “I don’t know what you think you know.”“Oh, but you do.” Her smile turns razor-sharp. “I know about the Chimera. I know about your map. Your crew. The side gate. The window between guard rotations. I know about your plan.”

His blood turns cold. She steps closer, eyes gleaming. “And I know... you abandoned it.” He stands his ground, steel in his voice now. “Some things aren’t worth the risk.” Cordia’s mouth curls, displeased. “Shame. I thought you were different.”

She starts to walk again, circling. “I thought, perhaps, the tides had sent me a man with a little spine. A little hunger. But no, just another good boy with a guilty conscience and a lost heart.” Seungcheol’s temper flares. “Say what you came to say. Then leave.” She stops behind him. He can feel her breath on his neck.

“I only came to say this, Captain…” Her voice drops. “You may not want the Book anymore. But someone else does. And now? There’s no stopping what’s begun.”

He whirls around—But the alley is empty.

He exhales, shaking his head—And then suddenly, the light vanishes, plunging the city into darkness. An unnatural shadow floods the streets—cloaking the buildings, extinguishing the torches, silencing the celebration with fear. Screams echo faintly in the distance. Metal clatters. Hooves strike stone.

Seungcheol stands frozen, heart hammering.

And then he hears it—boots. Fast, heavy, purposeful. Down the hill they come—torches flaring now, drawn swords gleaming, the Royal Guard flooding through the street.“There! That’s him!” one of them shouts. “The thief—get him!”

“What?” Seungcheol growls, but it’s too late. They’re on him. He runs. He vaults over a barrel and ducks into a corridor—but there are too many. They circle him, corner him against a wall, blades drawn.

He draws his sword, breathing hard, furious and confused. “I didn’t touch it!” They don’t care. Steel clashes. Seungcheol fights hard—but it’s four against one. Then six. Then eight. A strike to the ribs. His sword knocked from his hand. A kick to his knee. He stumbles towards the ground.

As the guards pin his arms behind his back and shackle his hands, Seungcheol spits blood and glares up at the guard in front of him. “What the hell is going on?” he growls.

“You’re under arrest,” the guard snarls. “By order of the King of Syracuse. For the theft of the Book of Peace.”

Inside the war room, panic simmers beneath the opulence. A great round table rests at the centre, its surface carved with the seal of the Twelve Cities. Candles burn low, flickering against the emerald drapery and golden tapestries, their light now feeble, as if even fire itself is uncertain.

The Kings sit in their ornate chairs, a storm of arguments building with each breath.

“It’s unthinkable—how could the Book simply vanish from under our noses?!”

“Was it magic? Sabotage? We had twenty men on the procession!”

“This will break the Accord if word gets out—our cities will riot—”

The voices blur, colliding into each other like waves in a tempest. Joshua stands near the edge of the table, fists clenched behind his back, doing everything in his power not to explode.

You sit beside him, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your face carefully composed. You’ve done this before—watched politics unfold like plays, each man posturing louder than the last. But never like this. Never with someone you knew on trial. And never with someone you have come to care about standing in the crossfire.

Joshua opens his mouth to speak—again—but the King of Syracuse slams his ringed fist against the marble, making everyone go silent. “Don’t defend him, Joshua. Not him. Not that piece of dockside scum you dared to drag into our home.”

Joshua flinches ever so slightly.

The King—his father—is red in the face, spit gathering at the corner of his mouth as he begins to pace around the table like a lion whose pride has been insulted.

“From the moment I laid eyes on that gutter-born child, I knew he’d be trouble. Following you like a stray dog through the streets. Filling your head with rebellion, dragging you into fights, sneaking you out of the palace—scandalising you. I should have banished him from Syracuse then and there. But no. You begged me to spare him.”

Joshua’s jaw tightens, but he stays quiet.

“And now you see what he’s done. Ten years he vanishes, and suddenly he returns not with apology or shame, but with deceit. He hides behind fine clothes and false names. He slips into our palace, mocks our hospitality, and steals the holiest artefact this continent has ever known.”

Across the table, one of the older kings from the Southern Isles clears his throat, trying to interject with a calmer voice. “Perhaps we should focus on recovering the Book—”

“The Book is gone!” the King of Syracuse roars. “And you want to waste time on a scavenger hunt? Our alliance means nothing now that the artefact is lost. That light protected us all—and now the skies are dark, and we are vulnerable. This is war. This is sabotage. And we must punish those who betray our trust.”

You steal a glance at Joshua. He’s barely breathing. The tension in his shoulders has locked him in place. The King slams his hand on the table again. “He is guilty. If that criminal does not return the Book himself, then he will be executed by the terms of the Accord. As will any who shelter him.”

Joshua finally speaks, quiet but firm. “He didn’t take it.”

The King turns on him, sneering. “You’re still deluded. Still loyal to some childhood fantasy. But this isn’t a boyhood story, son. This is treason. And if he doesn’t bring the Book back, he will die for it.”

Joshua takes a step forward. “Then let me speak to him.”

“What?”

“Let me speak to him,” Joshua repeats, louder. “I’ll find out what happened. I’ll get the truth. And if he has it—if there’s any chance he can return it—I’ll make sure he does.”

The chamber is deathly silent. Then the King narrows his eyes, his voice dripping with disdain. “And what if he doesn’t? What if you’re wrong? What if he vanishes again, like he did ten years ago?”

Joshua doesn’t hesitate. He stares his father down, unwavering. “Then you can execute me in his place.” Your breath catches.

The room erupts in chaos—shouts from multiple kings, cries of outrage, murmurs of disbelief. You don’t hear them. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Joshua, the man who always carried duty like a second skin, just signed his life away in defence of someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade. Someone the rest of the realm would see hanged without blinking. You can’t make sense of it.

The King leans back, stunned by his son’s rebellion. The air shifts. You see it in Joshua’s face—he’s made peace with it. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the chamber, pushing open the heavy oak doors and vanishing into the stone corridors beyond.

You rise instantly. “Princess—” one of the older kings starts. But you don’t hear him either. Your legs are already moving, your silk skirts flittering over the stone as you rush out of the room and into the shadows that chase Joshua’s retreat.

He’s halfway down the torchlit hall when you catch up. “Joshua, wait—” He doesn’t stop. You jog to match his stride, reaching out to catch his arm. “Please. Just talk to me.” He stops at the end of the corridor, finally turning.

His face is tired. Not physically. But in the soul-deep way, that only comes from being forced to choose between love and loyalty. “You don’t understand,” he says softly. You stare at him. “Then help me. Help me understand why you’re ready to die for a man who’s been nothing but a ghost in your life for the past ten years.”

His mouth parts slightly. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Because he saved my life once, too. When we were boys. When no one else did.” You blink. “That was a long time ago.”

“And I still owe him for it.” Your lips press together, heart twisting painfully. You want to argue. You want to shout that this is foolish, that he’s risking everything—not just his life, but yours too. If he dies, you are nothing.

Not just by custom. But by contract. No husband. No alliance. No worth. Your father will disown you. You’ll be sent back to Mdina in disgrace. You will be a daughter who failed to become a queen, a woman with no crown and no value. Joshua is not just your fiancé. He is your freedom in a different form.

But you also see it. The conviction. The man he’s become. The same loyalty that made you believe in him in the first place.

The very reason you agreed to marry him at all.

Your voice is quieter now. “Then what happens if you’re wrong?” Joshua looks at you with eyes that seem older than they should be. “Then I die for someone I once called a brother. And I die knowing I didn’t abandon him when the world already had.”

You stand there, frozen, as he turns again and disappears down the corridor, heading for the prison wing buried beneath the palace. You can’t let him go through with it. You can’t let him risk your future, and his. Not without doing something.

So you make a decision.

The walls are damp. Cold seeps through the cracks in the stone, curling into Seungcheol’s skin. The cell is small—just large enough for him to stretch out his legs and feel the edges of his confinement. The air smells of iron, mildew, and rot, like time itself has decayed in here, and no one bothered to notice.

A single candle flickers near the far wall, its stubby wax body melting slowly into the cracked floor. Its light barely touches the edges of the darkness, casting long, restless shadows on the walls. But Seungcheol doesn’t move. He sits slumped against the back wall, legs drawn up and arms resting over his knees, the thick iron shackles around his wrists still biting into the raw skin beneath.

His lip is split. There’s a bruise blossoming along his jaw. His ribs ache when he breathes too deeply. But the pain isn’t what bothers him. What bothers him is the silence. The silence and the impossible question he can’t stop asking himself:

How did it come to this?

He closes his eyes, letting the weight of everything press in. He hadn’t even done it. He hadn’t lifted a finger toward that damn Book, hadn’t stolen it, hadn’t broken a single lock or cast a single shadow in the direction of the artefact. He’d walked away. For once, he’d walked away. And still, the world managed to throw him in a cell for a crime he didn’t commit.

A dry, humourless breath escapes him. He lifts his gaze toward the barred window, narrow and high up the wall, no bigger than a ship’s porthole. Through it, far in the distance, across the quiet water of the harbour—there she is.

The Chimera. Docked and still.

Even from here, he can make out the curve of her hull, the low-slung sails folded neatly, the faintest flicker of a lantern swinging on the quarterdeck. His boys hadn’t abandoned him. If the Chimera still waited, it meant Mingyu, Wonwoo, Minghao, Soonyoung, and Chan were out there. Planning. Watching. Trusting him. And—more importantly—it meant none of them had done it either. That truth is the only thing keeping his chest from caving in.

The sound of distant boots echoes in the hallway, but he ignores it. Another guard, maybe. Another jeer. A muttered insult. They’ve been taunting him all night, calling him “the thief of peace,” laughing about what the gallows will feel like. He doesn’t rise to it.

Then—

The candle sputters violently. Its flame dances, then vanishes, snuffed out by an unnatural gust of wind that seems to creep under the door and swirl around him. The darkness swallows the room whole. His head snaps up. And there—where there was once only shadow—stands her.

Cordia.

The same dark gown. The same honey-slick voice. Her eyes gleam faintly in the black. Seungcheol’s mouth twists. “Of fucking course.” Cordia smirks, unaffected by his bitterness. “You always did have excellent timing, Captain.” He doesn’t move, but the muscles in his shoulders coil like a drawn bow. “It was you.”

“You catch on quick,” she purrs, circling him with leisurely steps. He stares up at her, fury churning under his skin. “You set me up.”

“I encouraged fate.”

“You framed me!” he growls, pushing himself upright despite the shackles and pain. “Why?” Cordia lets out a laugh that is far too amused, far too pleased. “Because this is what I do, Seungcheol.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

She walks along the edges of the cell, trailing her fingertips along the wall like she’s admiring art. Seungcheol watches her every movement, every tilt of her head, trying to find something human behind that smirk. But there’s nothing.

“You play the martyr well,” she says suddenly. “But let’s not pretend you were some innocent lamb. You were going to steal it. You were going to take the Book and sell it to the highest bidder.” Seungcheol falls silent. Because she’s not wrong. Cordia raises a brow. “No rebuttal, Captain?”

“Plans change.” His voice is low.

She laughs again. “No. You changed.” Her tone is mocking now. “Is that what this is? A pirate with a heart? Spare me.”Seungcheol clenches his jaw. “You got what you wanted. Why are you here?” Cordia stops pacing. She steps toward him, close now. Closer than he likes. “Because, darling,” she whispers, “the game has only just begun.” His brow furrows.

“What?”

“You can fix this. You can clear your name. Redeem that soft little soul you’re pretending not to have.” He laughs dryly. “From this hellhole I'm currently in? Yeah, right.” She slips a dagger from somewhere beneath her bodice and holds it lightly, like a lover. Then, in one smooth movement, she presses the tip to her chest and draws a cross over where her heart would be.

“Cross my heart,” she says with mock solemnity. “I’m not lying.”

Seungcheol stares at her, unimpressed. “And you expect me to believe anything that comes out of that mouth of yours?” Cordia tuts. “You’re not very trusting for someone about to die.” He growls. “Then say it. What’s the deal?”

She leans in, her smile curling like smoke. “Ten days. That’s what you have—ten days to retrieve the Book and return it to Syracuse. You’ll travel to the edge of the world. You’ll face challenges along the way—but a sailor of your talents should manage.” He narrows his eyes. “And what’s the catch?” Cordia pauses.

Her tone drops into something colder. Harder. “If you fail—if you don’t return in time, or if you fail to return the Book—Prince Joshua dies in your place.”

The silence in the cell deepens and becomes almost physical. Seungcheol stares at her, stunned. “What?”

“He vouched for you,” she says, almost gleeful. “He stood before the kings. Put his life on the line. Said he’d die if you didn’t come through.” Seungcheol’s chest tightens painfully. “That idiot...” Cordia shrugs. “It’s touching, really. But the clock’s ticking.”

He looks down at his shackles and his bruised wrists. Then back at her. “Why does any of this matter to you?”

“It doesn’t,” she says breezily. “But a deal’s a deal. And now, it’s yours. If you want it.” Footsteps sound not far away. Steady. Familiar. Cordia turns toward the shadows, lips curling into a wicked grin. “Sounds like your prince is coming.”

“Wait—” Seungcheol steps forward.

She laughs one last time. “Make the right choice, Seungcheol.”

And then, just like before, she vanishes—disappearing into the darkness like she was never there.

The Chimera rocks gently in the harbour; her sails still furled but alive with anticipation. The sea, always humming, feels quieter tonight—like it’s waiting.

On deck, boots pound against worn planks as Seungcheol climbs aboard, battered, bruised, and brooding. The moonlight spills over his shoulders, highlighting the blood on his shirt, the dirt on his skin, and the fire still burning behind his eyes.

The moment his feet hit the main deck, his crew swarms him.

“What the hell happened?” Soonyoung is the first to pounce, eyes wide. “We heard the commotion from the alley—then guards running everywhere—then you vanished!”

Minghao leans against the mast, arms folded, but his voice is sharp. “You didn’t follow the plan. We were ready, and then, nothing.”

“Who stole the Book?” Wonwoo asks, stepping down from the rigging. His map still clutched in one hand. “If it wasn’t us, then who beat us to it?”

“How the hell did you get caught?” Chan blurts, not even trying to hide the worry in his voice.

“And more importantly—” Mingyu cuts through them all, arms crossed, jaw tense, “how did you escape?”

Seungcheol raises a hand, his voice calm but with an edge of finality. “Enough.”

Silence falls like a wave. Seungcheol scans each of their faces—their loyalty, their questions, their expectations. He’s not ready to speak. Not on everything. Not yet. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “It’s not our problem.” Murmurs stir again, but his following words silence them entirely.

“Mingyu,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Set sail for Fiji.” Seungcheol begins walking toward his quarters without a glance back. “It’s about time we retired.”

The door to his private quarters creaks open, the warm scent of cedar and sea salt welcoming him back to the only space that still feels like his. He exhales, slow and sharp, his shoulders slumping with the weight of everything he hasn’t said as he closes the door.

Cold steel presses to his throat from behind. His entire body stills.

“Move, and I’ll open your neck from ear to ear.”

He exhales through his nose, more annoyed than surprised. “What is it with women trying to kill me tonight?” he mutters. You shove him back a step, enough for him to turn without disarming you, though the dagger remains raised between you.

He looks you over, unimpressed. “Hello, Princess.”

“You’re going to find the Book of Peace,” you say, voice low and hard, “and you’re going to return it. Now.” He blinks. And then he laughs. A humourless, deep, exhausted laugh that makes you want to punch him. “I’m not doing anything, sweetheart,” he says. “It’s not my problem.”

“Not your—?!” you snap, stepping forward. “Joshua took your place! He stood before the kings, before his father, and gave his life to buy you time!” The change in him is instant. His jaw tightens. His posture straightens. But his anger matches yours.

“I didn’t ask him to do that!”

“But he did, Seungcheol. He did. He stood up for you, and if you walk away now, he’ll die for it.”

You’re shouting. You didn’t mean to. But you can’t help it. The words claw their way out of your chest. “And if the Book is not returned, the Accord falls apart. Chaos will follow. Syracuse will burn. What then? Do you sail off into the sun with your crew and let your city fall to pieces behind you?

He glares up at you. “My city? The same city that threw me to the streets as a child? A city that branded me trash and turned its back the first time I stumbled? I owe Syracuse nothing. I owe the kings nothing. They were ready to string me up the second the lights went out.”

“Then prove them wrong!” you scream.

“Why?!” His voice booms now, rising with his frustration. “So I can play the hero while they spit on my name anyway? You want me to die for honour? For duty? Those words are worth nothing to people like me!”

Your chest is heaving, and your voice cuts sharper now. “Because some of us don’t have the luxury of running away!” His head snaps toward you.

“I grew up hearing stories of men like you—pirates who stood against kings, who fought with honour, who chose courage over cowardice. And now I meet you, and all I see is a man who wants to quit. Who hides behind excuses instead of doing the right thing.”

He scowls. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, I do.” You glare at him, stepping toe-to-toe now, chest burning. “I saw it the moment I met you. That cocky grin? That swagger? It’s all smoke. You’re not a hero. You’re a coward. A selfish man who hides behind charm so no one sees the empty core.”

He says nothing. You spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you look over your shoulder, disgusted.

“I wonder what your crew would think of you if they knew the truth.”

And that—that—snaps something in him.

In a blur, he crosses the room and slams his hand against the wall, blocking your path. You whirl around, dagger raised, but he doesn’t flinch. “You talk about sacrifice like you know it,” he says lowly. “But you’re not doing this for Joshua. You’re doing this to save yourself. Your position. Your title. Because if he dies, you lose everything.”

Your breath hitches.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me. You’re just like me, Princess. Two sides of the same damn coin.”

“No,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Because at least I’m doing something about it.” He steps closer to you, cornering you, his breath hot against your cheek as his eyes lock on yours.

“And if I agree,” he murmurs, “if I bring back the Book and save your darling little fiancé... what do I get in return?”

You don’t break eye contact as you reach slowly into your pouch and withdraw the small bag tied to your hip. You loosen the knot and let the contents fall into his palm.

Red diamonds. Dozens of them.

He stares at them for a long moment. Then his lips curl. A grin spreads across his face—feral, cocky, and very much alive. “Well, Princess,” he murmurs, “you should’ve just said you were hiring a pirate.”

He spins and bursts out of the cabin like a storm unchained. You follow him, stunned, as he bounds up to the deck and shouts over the wind. “Change of plans!” he bellows.

The crew—all half-lounging, half-arguing—whip around in confusion. “We’re going after the Book.”

Soonyoung’s mouth drops open. “Wait, what?” Mingyu steps forward. “Where is it?” Seungcheol grins.“ At world’s end.”

Chaos ensues.

“Are you serious?”

“How the hell do we get there?”

“Why are we listening to you again?”

Soonyoung finally shouts over the din, pointing behind Seungcheol. “Uh—Captain? Who’s the lady?”

Seungcheol turns back, and all eyes follow his gaze as they land on you—still standing a little stiff in the centre of the deck, the dagger now sheathed under your cloak. “This, is our newest passenger.”

Then his eyes glint with something darker. Something amusing and very inconvenient.

“She’ll be joining us on the voyage.”

You’ve only spent two days at sea, but it feels like a different life entirely.

Gone are the corseted dresses and laced bodices, the polished silver combs and pearl-dusted shoes. You wear loose breeches now—weathered, a little too long, rolled at the ankles—and a white shirt you stole from a chest in the hold, sleeves tied up above your elbows. Your hair whips freely in the salt air, unbound for the first time in years.

There’s grime beneath your fingernails. Rope burns on your palms. A sun-kissed glow settling into your skin.

You’ve never felt so alive.

The ship rocks beneath your feet, wild and rhythmic, the sails groaning with each gust. The wind is a constant companion—slapping, roaring, tangling your hair. And while you’re still finding your footing (literally and figuratively), the crew has embraced you far more quickly than you expected.

Soonyoung, the loudest of them, has resorted to clinging to you like an overeager puppy. He insists on calling you ‘My Lady’ in the most dramatic, theatrical tone possible, and makes a great show of saluting you every time you pass him on deck.

Chan, the youngest, practically beams every time you ask him a question about knots or sails. He follows Soonyoung’s lead in treating you like royalty—but with a kind of awe that makes you smile instead of bristle.

Minghao and Wonwoo are more reserved, both of them often keeping to themselves or murmuring quietly in the shadow of the sails. But they nod when you speak, sometimes offering calm corrections or quiet insight. Minghao surprised you yesterday by handing you a fig he’d somehow smuggled on board, simply saying, “You looked homesick.”

But not everyone has been welcoming.

From the wheel, Seungcheol watches you like a storm brewing on the horizon.

Every time you laugh with the crew, his brows pull tighter. Every time you roll up your sleeves to help scrub the deck, he mutters under his breath. Every time Soonyoung teaches you something new and ridiculous—like the hidden flamethrowers rigged beneath the starboard hull—Seungcheol sighs dramatically and mutters something about “idiots with too much enthusiasm.”

You try to ignore him. Most of the time, you succeed. But when you don’t—you argue. Loudly.

So loudly, the entire crew stops what they’re doing to listen. And now, on the second day, you find yourself once again at the centre of their amusement.

“Princess, let me show you how the harpoons work!” Soonyoung had grinned this morning, gripping your wrist before you could protest. “They’re hidden in the front of the ship. Serrated, retractable, brilliant.”

Chan, walking close behind, had added, “We rarely use them unless something with teeth comes after us.”

You had blinked at that. “What kind of something with teeth?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Soonyoung had said brightly. “Come on, my Lady! You’ll love this!”

They seem to delight in your confusion and wonder at every new piece of the ship, and they show you everything. Every trapdoor. Every hidden blade. Every half-working cannon.

Even the ones Seungcheol hasn’t touched in years.

You’re standing on the forecastle of the ship now, leaning over a concealed loading mechanism as Soonyoung animatedly describes the best way to ignite the twin-fire barrels when—

“You’d break your wrist trying to fire it like that.”

You glance down sharply.

Seungcheol stands at the bottom of the steps; one hand braced on the wooden beam, his brow arched like he’s just caught a child lying. Soonyoung snorts and mumbles something about checking on the sails, practically skipping down the stairs to leave you alone.

You roll your eyes. “It’s not like I’m trying to shoot it.”

“You said it was ready,” Seungcheol replies, ascending slowly. “And it’s not. If you load the powder before locking the rotation pin, it misfires and tears the recoil plate clean off.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him. “You must be a joy at parties.” He steps into the space beside you, inspecting the weapon with a critical eye. “You’re the one who wants to play sailor. Don’t complain when someone points out you’re playing it wrong.”

“I wasn’t playing anything,” you say coolly. “I was listening. Which is what you could try doing once in a while.” Seungcheol scoffs, straightening. “Hard to listen when you never stop talking.”

You take a sharp breath, and just like that—you’re off. “You could just say thank you. You know, for me, trying to help.”

“You could stay out of things you don’t understand.”

“I’m learning—”

“Then learn quietly.”

The crew is practically holding their breath. Mingyu’s behind the wheel, keeping the ship’s course steady, smirking like this is the best entertainment he’s had in months. You step closer. “Why don’t you just admit you don’t like that I’m here?”

He scoffs. “What gave you that idea? The way you flirt with my crew every chance you get or the way you pretend to know everything after only two days on the water?”

“I’ve done no such thing—”

“Oh right, and I’m blind.”

You’re about to shoot back—something scathing, probably—when Mingyu raises his voice and interrupts flatly:

“Not to ruin the foreplay, but you might want to look ahead.”

You and Seungcheol whip your heads simultaneously.

A narrow opening in a line of towering cliffs—grey, jagged, and half-submerged in churning waters approaches you. Mist curls along the rocks, and sunken ship masts jut from the waves. The cavern walls are just wide enough for a ship to pass through, maybe.

Wonwoo squints from his perch near the quarterdeck. “Shipwreck’s Grotto.”

“Place gives me the creeps,” Chan mutters. “It should,” Minghao says. “Half the legends say no one makes it out the other side.”

You glance towards Seungcheol.

His jaw is tight. He turns, addressing the crew as he makes his way towards the wheel. You follow behind him silently. “Alright, boys,” he calls, voice clear and hard. “Drop the sails. Ready the rudder. We go in nice and easy.”

You swallow hard, the wind catching your hair. Soonyoung murmurs, “We’re going through that?”

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Only way forward,” he says.

The ship moves slowly under the measured hand of its captain. Her mahogany hull cuts carefully through the water, threading between reef and rock. Above, seagulls cry, but even their calls seem distant, swallowed by the dense fog coiling through the cavernous stone walls. The only real sound is the rhythmic drip of condensation falling from the overhangs, the occasional creak of rope, and the splash of waves against splintered wood.

Minghao’s voice rings out, low but steady. “Reef to port. Five meters. Sharp shelf ahead.”

His silhouette perches from the crow’s nest, legs hooked around the crossbeam, his spyglass flashing with the faintest light as he scans ahead.

Seungcheol stands behind the wheel; his entire body braced with tension. The lines of his jaw are tight, his grip white-knuckled. You stand to his right, your fingers brushing the hilt of your dagger at your hip—more for reassurance than necessity. Mingyu is on his left, arms folded, eyes flicking between the rocks and the horizon.

No one speaks.

The grotto is sacred in its stillness—a graveyard of ships and stories.

You pass the first wreck after fifteen minutes. A small cutter, no name visible, her mast snapped like a twig. The hull is cracked in half, one side suspended on a jagged stone, the other submerged. Torn sails drift like ghostly banners beneath the surface.

“Gods,” Chan whispers from the lower deck, eyes wide.

“There’s more,” Minghao calls again. “A whole fleet—dead ahead.” And indeed, as the Chimera crawls forward, the graveyard reveals itself. A merchant ship, barnacle-crusted and canted sideways. A war galleon, its cannons rusted and useless, ribs broken open like a carcass. A half-burned skiff tangled in the limbs of another, their final collision frozen in time.

You feel it in your bones—this place is wrong.

Seungcheol barks an order—“Trim the foresail, two degrees starboard. Watch the reef under the bow.”—and the men obey. His voice cuts through the fog with precision, and the ship shifts just in time to avoid a jagged outcrop lurking beneath the surface.

You watch him. For all his scowls and grumbling and sharp-edged arrogance, he’s in his element here. As he charts the way through a corridor of destruction, his presence pulses beside you—commanding, tangible, frustrating.

The air grows heavier. The mist thicker.

And then—You hear it. A whisper, tucked beneath the creak of the hull and the lapping of waves.

A melody.

It doesn’t make sense at first. It could be the wind. The groan of old wood. You brush it off. But it comes again.

A few soft notes, drifting upward like bubbles from the deep. It’s not music exactly, but something close—a kind of calling.

You turn slowly, looking out across the water.

Mist clings to the surface in swirling patches. Light plays tricks here—turning shadows into shapes and reflections into illusions. You narrow your eyes. Just beneath the waves, something moves. A shimmer of silver, gone as quickly as it came. You blink.

The music—if it is music—is louder now. It’s still not clear, but it’s beautiful. Ethereal. It pulls at something in you, something distant. You shake it off.

You turn back to the helm—and freeze. Seungcheol is slumped over the wheel. His hands no longer hold the handles, and his posture is slackened. His eyes are far away. Unfocused. Glazed with a sheen of awe, as if he’s staring into a dream, not the rotting shipwrecks ahead.

“Seungcheol?” you ask, your voice low. He doesn’t respond. You step closer. “Captain?” Still nothing. You reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder. It’s rock-solid—tense and unmoving.

Voices. Singing. Soft, lilting harmonies that weave into one another, are beckoning. Your blood runs cold.

You run to the rail, lean over, and that’s when you see them.

Figures in the water. Pale, otherworldly, gliding just beneath the surface. Long hair fanning out behind them like ink in water, eyes glowing faintly beneath the waves.

Sirens.

You don’t think. You act.

The only thing you can hear now is your own breath—ragged, quick, almost desperate. The melodies rise in waves, crashing over the crew in pulses. And they fall, one by one. Not physically, but mentally. Pulled under the spell.

You reach for the wheel, grabbing it with both hands, the polished wood slick beneath your touch. The ship has already veered off-course, inching dangerously close to a spire of rock waiting like a fang to tear through the hull. You spin the wheel hard—your shoulders scream with the force—and the ship groans in protest. The hull misses the stone by a breath, scraping along the jagged edge with a deafening screech.

Your pulse hammers in your ears.

“Get it together,” you mutter to yourself, blinking the sweat from your lashes. The ship pitches under your feet as it glides forward. You grab hold of the spokes for balance as you scan the deck.

The crew is drifting—towards the edges.

You spot Soonyoung first, eyes glazed, a hand outstretched as if reaching for something just out of view. You grab the nearest length of coiled rope and sprint toward him. “Not today,” you hiss, looping the rope around his waist and yanking it tight, tying it off to the mainmast. He doesn’t fight you. He doesn’t even see you. He just keeps humming to himself, leaning with the sway of the song like a child in a lullaby.

You do the same with Chan, catching him just as one foot lifts onto the railing. He stares into the water with such adoration it makes your stomach turn. A siren surfaces a few meters off the starboard side, her mouth half-open in song, her eyes eerily void of life. You tie him off. Tight. Firm. You shout his name to wake him—nothing.

Wonwoo is slumped near a barrel, his book forgotten, his fingers twitching faintly to the rhythm of the melody. Mingyu is halfway to the prow, his hands limp at his sides. You tug him back by the loops of his pants, and he stumbles with a surprised grunt—but doesn’t react.

You secure them all to the mast, fashioning a web of knots in the chaos, your fingers bleeding against the rope. There’s no time to feel it.

The ship shudders again, scraping another submerged frame. You turn back and race to the helm. You spin the wheel again, the wood grating beneath your grip. The bow turns slowly, but it turns—avoiding a splintered mast impaled on a reef.

And then—A shadow moves beside you.

Seungcheol.

He’s walking down the stairs of the quarterdeck towards the side railing, his steps slow but sure, his eyes empty.

“Seungcheol!” you shout, but he doesn’t hear you. He moves like a man being called home. You leap down the steps two at a time and reach him just as his hands touch the rail, and he starts to hoist himself up. You grab his collar and yank him backwards.

He stumbles, surprised, blinking. But the trance still lingers. He stares at you like you’re not quite real.

“Snap out of it,” you grit out, pushing him against the wall of the cabin. You turn to head back to the helm—there’s no time to waste—

But his hand shoots out and pulls you back. Before you can react, his lips crash on yours.

You gasp, the surprise of it ripping the breath from your lungs. His mouth is fierce, desperate, all wild edges and instinct. His hands are at your waist, his mouth claiming yours. And despite yourself—despite everything—you melt into it. Your fingers curl into his shirt. You lean in. And gods help you, you kiss him back.

It’s fire. Heat. Tongue. Teeth. Unspoken fury. Unspoken want.

But suddenly, you remember where you are and who you’re kissing. You rip away. Your fist flies on its own accord, and it lands square on his jaw.

Seungcheol drops like a stone, knocked out cold.

Your breath is ragged as you stare down at him, trembling. What in the gods’ names—

But there’s no time.

The bow misses another reef by inches—but the hull clips it. The ship lurches, wood cracking. You run to steady her, but she’s wounded.

Suddenly, a scream rings out. You spin, eyes flying to the crow’s nest.

Minghao. You see the rope slacken. Then his body falls. “No—!”

You race to the rail as he crashes into the water with a splash. For a second, he’s still—then he’s flailing. Awake. But a siren is already approaching, gliding fast, her eyes locked on her prey.

You remember Soonyoung’s harpoon.

You dash to the foredeck, fingers flying over the latches of the weapon. You aim, inhale—fire. The harpoon slices through the mist, striking the water just as the siren reaches Minghao. He sees it and grabs the rope.

You throw your whole body weight onto the crank, activating the recoil system. The rope whines under pressure. Inch by inch, you pull him back toward the ship. The siren lashes out, claws raking through the water, just missing his leg. With a final pull, Minghao crashes onto the deck, gasping, eyes wide with fear and clarity.

You collapse beside him, your heart beating so loud it drowns out everything else. For a moment, you just lie there, winded, soaked, and shaking.

Then, your eyes find the wheel again. “Shit.” You stagger to your feet, dragging Minghao with you. “Can you stand?” He nods, coughing. “Yeah. Yeah, I can steer.”

Together, you limp to the helm. He takes the wheel while you shout directions, dodging the last gauntlet of stone and wreckage. The Chimera slams through the remnants of an old galleon’s hull with a crack, the wood splintering against the bow.

You burst out of the grotto’s mouth, the water opening up wide again, blue and endless. The ship is damaged. Her hull is scraped, and her sails are torn. But she floats. You lean over the rail, sucking in air as your lungs finally relax.

And somewhere on the floor, Seungcheol groans and stirs awake.

The men awaken slowly. One by one, groggy and confused, they blink into the sunlight.

“Ugh… what happened?” Chan mumbles as he wrestles with the rope tying him to the mast. Soonyoung blinks up at the sail, completely unfazed by the fact that he’s trussed like a holiday ham. “Was it rum? Did we hit the good casks again?”

“Wait,” Wonwoo mutters, tugging free. “Why are we tied up?”

Minghao leans weakly against the wheel, drenched and pale, but he’s breathing, and that’s all you care about.

The crew untangles themselves in a chorus of grunts and confusion, stumbling across the deck. Mingyu, dazed, rubs the back of his neck and looks around. “Where’s Seungcheol?”

The man in question is sitting up against the wall near the stairs, touching his jaw gingerly. His brows are furrowed, clearly trying to make sense of whatever fragments the sirens' spell didn’t erase.

Soonyoung squints at him. “He’s not tied up. Was it him who saved us?”

“Would make sense,” Chan adds, already beaming. “He’s the captain, after all.”

Then, a voice cuts through the rising chatter, calm but loud, carrying the weight of quiet authority. “It wasn’t him.” Everyone turns.

Minghao clears his throat and pushes off the wheel. “It was the Princess.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting him to speak up—as far as you knew, he is pretty reserved, comfortable in the shadows, not speaking unless spoken to.

Soonyoung gawks at you. “Princess—you. You saved us?” You nod slowly, not quite ready for the way they all light up at that piece of information.

“You tied us up?” Chan exclaims, both horrified and awed. “That’s—wow. Amazing.”

“She shot a harpoon at a siren,” Minghao confirms. “Pulled me out of the water. Just in time.”

“Damn,” Soonyoung whistles, clutching his heart. “I think I’m in love.” You let out a breathless laugh, brushing a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “Please, it was just—”

“—heroic,” Chan cuts in.

“Brilliant,” Wonwoo nods.

They swarm you in a chorus of praise, clapping you on the back, asking questions all at once. You smile, flustered but proud.

Until, of course, the storm cloud re-enters.

“My hand-carved railing,” Seungcheol’s voice suddenly booms from the starboard side. “Gone. Shattered.”

“What the—” You mumble.

“And the hull,” Seungcheol barrels on, stalking the deck with his arms thrown up. “My beautiful mahogany hull—scraped! Do you know how long it took me to sand that by hand? Chan, did you see the gouge?!”

“Oh boy,” Wonwoo mutters, exchanging a look with Mingyu. Mingyu folds his arms and smirks. “Ten silvers says she doesn’t let him finish his next sentence.”

“You’re on,” Wonwoo says.

You step forward, arms crossed, not hearing the murmurs of the crew. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Seungcheol spins to face you. “What?”

“You’re seriously yelling about cosmetic damage when you’d all be fish food if I hadn’t stepped in?”

“I’m yelling because my ship looks like it got chewed up and spit out by a Kraken!”

“And yet—” you gesture dramatically, “she’s still floating. You’re welcome.”

“I never asked you to save me,” he growls, jaw tense.

“No, you were too busy trying to kiss a siren to ask me for anything! Oh, but it wasn’t a siren, was it?” That shuts him up for half a second. His eyes narrow, and the muscle in his jaw jumps. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“That much was obvious,” you snap.

“You’re lucky I don’t throw you off this ship myself—”

“For what? Daring to be useful?” you shoot back, stepping into his space. “God forbid the delicate balance of testosterone on this ship gets upset by a woman actually doing something right!”

“You crashed through a royal galleon!”

“I saved your life!”

You’re nose to nose now, practically vibrating with rage. His eyes are molten, dark and burning with the same fire that sparked the first time you met. You hate how handsome he is when he’s angry. You hate that he kissed you, and you felt something.

“Honestly,” you snap, “you are the most boorish and pigheaded man I have ever met!” His eyes flash.

“Princess,” he mocks, “I’ve seen the high-born boys your type hangs around with. I’m the only man you’ve ever met.”

You let out a shriek of frustration and stomp your foot. “Ugh!”

You spin on your heel and march toward the cabin door, slamming it shut behind you so hard the wood rattles in its hinges.

The silence on deck is deafening. Seungcheol turns back to face his crew, fists still clenched from his outburst. Six pairs of eyes are locked on him with unimpressed expressions ranging from judgmental to deeply disappointed. He blinks. “What?”

Soonyoung crosses his arms. “You could say thank you, Captain.” “Yeah,” Chan adds. “She saved us all. You could at least act like you have manners.” Minghao sighs. “Unbelievable.”

Seungcheol mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “goddamn woman,” and stalks toward your cabin.

He knocks once. You fling the door open. “What?” He scowls. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Fine. I won’t.”

You slam the door again.

Back on deck, Seungcheol breathes out once through his nose. “Well?” he asks, throwing his arms up. Minghao shrugs. “Could’ve used a bit more sincerity.”

Seungcheol glares at them all. “Whatever. Mingyu, find the nearest island. We need to fix the damn ship.”

As Mingyu steps toward the wheel, Soonyoung sidles up to Chan. “I ship them.”

“Same,” Chan nods.

“They’re gonna kill each other first,” Wonwoo adds.

“Wanna bet?”

“Always.”

You’ve never seen a ship come back to life so fast.

After a quick stop at a small, uncharted island to gather wood, sealant, and rigging parts, it only took two days for the Chimera to look almost as good as new. The hull still bears scratches, and the sails have a few new tears, but morale is oddly high. Everyone is doing their part—scrubbing, sawing, hammering, knotting, sealing. And you? You’re elbow-deep in tar, laughing with Soonyoung as you try to patch a crack in the starboard railing.

“You’re not bad with your hands, Princess,” he teases, handing you a brush. You raise an eyebrow, dipping it into the thick black tar. “And you’re not as annoying when your mouth is shut.” He barks a laugh, utterly delighted. “Ooh, she’s spicy today.”

Across the deck, Chan lets out a long whistle. “Careful, hyung, she already survived sirens. You might not be so lucky.”

You grin at them both, trying your best to ignore the weight you feel behind your back. That brooding, glowering, impossible weight in the shape of one Choi Seungcheol.

Ever since the grotto, since that kiss—and the furious argument that followed—he’s barely spoken to you. Avoids you like the plague. Unless he’s making some smart-ass remark, of course.

But that’s fine. You’ve got better things to focus on.

Wonwoo actually asked for your opinion yesterday on a course route—“You’ve got a sharp eye, might as well use it,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Minghao taught you how to tie a bowline knot. Chan insisted on bringing you extra water rations as you scrubbed the deck. And Soonyoung, gods help him, has taken to calling you Captain Princess.

You pretend it’s annoying. It’s not.

Which makes Seungcheol’s reactions all the more confusing. He’s been sniping at the crew left and right like a wounded bear.

“Soonyoung, if you’ve got time to flirt, you’ve got time to check the damn ropes.”

“Wonwoo, she’s not your first mate, she doesn’t need your damn charts.”

It’s exhausting. And worse, none of them even take him seriously anymore. They just roll their eyes and laugh him off.

What you don’t know is that while you’re still patching up the railing with Soonyoung, Mingyu sneaks up on Seungcheol, his voice low and teasing. “You’re jealous,”

Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m irritated. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.”

“They’re not focused. We’re sailing into unknown waters. This isn’t a game.”

Mingyu turns toward him, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You’ve had your crew flirting in taverns and stealing ladies’ hearts for years, and now you’re mad because Chan called her pretty?” Seungcheol glares. “She’s not part of the crew.”

“She’s the reason any of us are still alive.”

That shuts him up. Mingyu’s voice softens. “Whatever this is… deal with it. Before it consumes you.”

But Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He watches the horizon.

You, meanwhile, are cleaning your hands off with a rag when something shifts in the air.

Where the sky was painted in warm gold and soft blue, it now bleeds grey. Fast. Clouds roll in. The wind picks up so sharply you nearly lose your footing.

“Hey—” Chan shouts from across the deck. “Is anyone seeing that?” Thunder cracks overhead. The water darkens. You squint at the sky. “That wasn’t there five minutes ago.” Soonyoung’s smile falters. “Feels... wrong.”

Minghao climbs down from the crow’s nest, eyes narrowed. “There was no storm indicated this far south. This isn’t natural.”

You see Seungcheol’s figure, already moving into action, barking orders in that deep, commanding voice. “Tighten the ropes—drop half the sails. Minghao, check the compass. Chan, prepare the storm rigging.”

Everyone’s rushing now, hands on sails, feet racing across the deck. You grab a rope and instinctively help Soonyoung fasten it. “Is this another challenge?” you ask, breathless.

He nods grimly. “It has to be. Storms don’t rise like that unless something calls them.”

The sky rips apart.

Thunder explodes above your head, and the Chimera lurches violently beneath your feet as the first true wave of the storm crashes into her hull. You stumble, catching yourself on a rope, heart racing in your chest as the wind screams around you.

“Hold the sails! Batten down everything that moves!” Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the chaos, barely audible over the howl of the wind. “Brace yourselves!”

You look to the others—Minghao already scaling up the mast, Chan clinging to the rigging, Soonyoung barking orders and running lines. Everyone’s in action, fluid and fierce. You mimic their movements, tying knots, steadying loose items, and gripping any anchor point you can find. But panic prickles at the edges of your throat.

This storm isn’t natural. You feel it in your bones.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You whip around to see Mingyu, rain slicking his hair flat against his forehead, concern etched into every line of his face. “You should go below deck—ride it out in your cabin. This isn’t just a squall, Princess.”

“If they can handle it, so can I,” you shout back, voice trembling slightly despite your resolve. Mingyu hesitates, eyes flicking toward Seungcheol. His jaw tightens. “Alright. Just stay sharp.” You nod once and return to the chaos.

Rain begins in earnest now, slicing sideways through the wind, soaking every inch of you in seconds. You’re drenched, shivering, boots slipping across the deck, hair sticking to your face.

Still, you stay.

Seungcheol is still at the wheel, knuckles white around the handles, shirt plastered to his chest, jaw locked tight. His gaze flickers to you, once, twice—his expression unreadable in the flicker of lightning. But it lingers.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

“Maelstrom!” Soonyoung shouts as the sea splits open.

Your eyes follow the direction of his trembling hand.

A great swirling vortex opens just ahead— deep and wide, churning with impossible violence. The water doesn’t move naturally—it spins with an eerie cadence, as though summoned by something ancient, something furious.

“Hard to starboard!” Seungcheol yells. He spins the wheel violently, trying to angle the ship away from the pull of the current.

It’s not enough. The ship begins to drag sideways, inch by inch, into the spiral. “Throw everything we don’t need overboard! We’re too heavy!”

Mingyu leaps toward the mainsail. You rush to help the others who have moved below deck—boxes, crates, barrels, anything not bolted down is passed along and hurled into the sea with panicked shouts and splashes that vanish into the stormy swirl.

The ship jolts again, water flooding over the railing. You sprint across the deck, nearly slipping, carrying what you can and tossing it over the edge.

And then it happens. One of the crates—a heavy box of scrap metal—catches on your foot. The rope slithers around your ankle and then tightens with sudden force as the crate slides across the deck, pulled over the railing by the ship’s tilt. Before you can cry out, it yanks you off your feet, face slamming into the soaked wood, pain blooming across your cheekbone.

You scream as your body is dragged backwards, feet first, the deck rushing by beneath you until your arms latch—barely—onto the railing. Your body already half overboard, legs dangling above the abyss.

“Arghhh!”

Seungcheol’s voice pierces the roar of the storm. “PRINCESS!”

And then he’s moving.

You see him abandon the wheel, Mingyu diving in to take his place without hesitation. Seungcheol barrels across the deck, boots skidding, eyes locked on yours with something that looks far too much like fear.

“I can’t hold on!” you cry, your voice breaking. The railing is slippery. Your strength is fading. “Don’t you dare let go,” he growls, dropping to his knees beside you. He grabs your arm and tries to pull—but the rope tugs you again, your hand slipping. “You’ll go over too!” Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “Like hell, I will.”

Then—without hesitation—he grabs his dagger, clenches it between his teeth, and climbs over the side of the ship.

Rain is slamming into his back, the waves crashing over him, but he reaches you. “I’ve got you,” he shouts, pulling the dagger free. Your voice breaks. “I’m scared.” Seungcheol’s movements falter for half a second. Then he growls, “I know. But I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Seungcheol cuts the rope, over and over, until it finally snaps free. The sudden release sends your body plummeting as your fingers lose their grip.

But you don’t fall into the sea. Seungcheol reaches out and clutches you to him, one arm locking around your waist, the other gripping the ladder in front of him. You wrap your arms around his neck instinctively, sobbing now.

“It’s okay, darling,” he mutters roughly, mouth by your ear. “You’re safe.” You pull back, just slightly, your eyes meeting his in the torrential downpour. “Thank you,” you whisper. His gaze softens. And for the briefest heartbeat, he whispers back, “Anytime.”

He hoists you both upward, muscle and willpower carrying you until you crash onto the deck once more. The two of you collapse in a heap of limbs, gasping, drenched, rain battering down.

But you’re alive.

You stare at him for a long moment, his face so close to yours, the adrenaline still pumping in your veins. His hair is soaked, brow creased—but he’s looking at you with something akin to relief.

Then Mingyu’s voice pierces the haze. “Cheol! We need you!”

You both snap out of it.

The storm dissapears as quickly as it came.

The roar of wind and water settles into a hushed murmur. Rain trickles to a stop. The sky peels open, dusky purple bleeds into soft orange and navy at the edges.

You stand on legs that barely feel like they belong to you. Shaky. Damp. Numb. The wood beneath your boots creaks and shifts with the gentle sway of the ship, no longer at war with the sea. No more maelstrom. No more screaming.

Around you, the crew slowly reorients themselves. Soonyoung rests his hands on his knees, panting. Wonwoo slouches against the railing. Chan leans back and exhales one long, broken breath. Minghao is seated on the deck, soaked through, running a hand through his wet hair. His eyes meet yours briefly. He gives you the faintest nod.

You’ve never seen men so strong, so wild, suddenly look so... human.

On the quarterdeck, Seungcheol is holding the wheel like it might still rip from his hands. Mingyu claps a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?” Seungcheol nods once, sharp. “We’re out.”

“You did good,” Mingyu says, and then—because he’s Mingyu—he adds, “Told you she wasn’t just a pretty face.” Seungcheol gives him a sidelong glare, his jaw working before he huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m just saying—if this is you pretending not to care about her, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”

Seungcheol grunts, but doesn’t argue. He turns his gaze back to the deck. At you. And you feel it like a tether tugging at your chest. You meet his gaze. He doesn’t look away. Everything else blurs: the crew, the remnants of the storm, the creaking ship.

It’s just you and him.

You, standing with seawater still dripping from your hair, your shirt sticking to your skin, your lip sore from where you bit it in panic. Him, forearms tense and shoulders set, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, eyes unreadable, but softened—a storm in his own right.

Mingyu steps in, subtle as always. “I’ll take over. Go.” Seungcheol raises a brow. “Go where?” Mingyu just smirks, hands already moving to the handles. “Go.” There’s a beat of resistance. But then Seungcheol pushes away, descending the stairs.

He stops just in front of you. Close enough that the heat of his body, still radiating from adrenaline and effort, warms your chilled skin.

You lift your hand. It’s steady, palm open, and fingers stretched toward him.

He stares at it for a moment, brows knitting together, as if it’s a puzzle he doesn’t quite know how to solve. You raise your eyebrows, the barest edge of a smirk playing on your lips. You wiggle your fingers slightly, urging. He blinks once before chuckling low in his throat.

Then, he takes it.

His hand is warm. Calloused. Larger than yours, his grasp firm but soft. His palm envelops yours, and for a moment, your breath catches—not from fear, not from shock, but something else entirely.

“Hello,” you say with mock formality. “I’m the princess who doesn’t know how to stay below deck, apparently.” That draws a real laugh from him. His smile is a little too pleased. His fingers tighten just slightly. “Seungcheol,” he replies, the word dipping low in his chest. “Captain of the Chimera. Horrible temper. Worse manners.”

“Yes, I noticed.” His mouth twitches. Your fingers linger in his. Just a bit too long. You look up at him, and you see none of the biting, brooding edge he usually shows. Just Seungcheol. Just the man who saved you from the sea like you weighed nothing. You cough lightly, clearing your throat as you gently extract your hand. Your face is hot. “I should clean up.”

“Right,” he says, still smiling. You nod and turn.

The men are suspiciously quiet as you pass—Chan nods his head softly, Soonyoung smiles brightly, and Wonwoo mutters something half-intelligible about “stormproof royalty.”

You flash a quick smile their way, half-formed, half-distracted. But your mind is still reeling. Your boots squelch as you approach your cabin. Your hand wraps around the brass handle, ready to go inside, but something—something instinctive—makes you glance back.

There he is.

Still standing in the middle of the deck, watching you like you’ve unravelled something inside him. Like he can’t stop looking, even if he tried. You inhale deeply and slip inside, the door shutting softly behind you.

And your heart—traitorous, fluttering thing—won’t stop pounding.

You can’t sleep.

Not from the cold, not from the rocking of the ship, not even from the aches that linger in your body after the storm. It’s something deeper. Something woven into your chest and bones and memory. The kind of thing that no amount of time beneath a blanket can soothe. So you dress quietly, wrap a shawl around your shoulders, and slip out of your cabin.

The deck is slick from the rain, shining faintly under the glow of the stars—more brilliant than you’ve ever seen them. Clear and cold and endless. You make your way toward the foredeck, your bare feet almost silent against the planks as the soft snores of the crew travel upwards from below. The wind is cooler out here, brushing through your hair and tugging at your shawl. You let it.

You close your eyes and… breathe.

The sea tonight is nothing like the one that tried to kill you earlier. Tonight, it’s still. Endless. The sky meets the horizon in a velvet embrace, and for a moment, you forget the chaos. The Book. The weight on your shoulders.

You don’t hear him until he speaks. “Can’t sleep?” You jolt, spinning toward the voice. But your tension eases the second you recognise him.

Seungcheol.

He stands a few feet behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, his hair slightly mussed from sleep—or the attempt of it. His voice is low, quiet enough to let the silence breathe between his words. You nod faintly, offering a ghost of a smile. “You either?” He steps closer, just enough to stand beside you as he leans on the railing, mirroring your stance. “Not tonight.”

His voice carries a kind of tiredness that extends beyond physical exhaustion. You recognise it. You feel it, too.

For a while, neither of you speak. You don’t know why you say it. Maybe because he saved your life. Maybe because you saw something behind his eyes when he held you. Maybe it’s just the hour—the strange truth of midnight, when secrets don’t feel so heavy.

“I fell in love with the sea when I was eight.”

He glances at you, curious. You keep your eyes on the endless abyss. “The palace walls in Mdina were too high to see the water. But there was one tower, this crumbling old thing the guards had stopped patrolling. I figured out how to climb it. There was a ledge on the roof. And from there… I could narrowly see the sea.”

You smile faintly, remembering. “I used to watch the ships. They looked like tiny ants, just dots. But I made up stories about them. I used to pretend I was on one of them. That I wasn’t a girl in a dress being groomed for court. I was a sailor. A pirate. A hero.”

He nods, slowly. “For me, it was the docks.” You look at him again. His voice is softer than usual. “I grew up in the lower district of Syracuse. Slums, really. My mother cleaned houses. My father died young. I used to scoop up fish guts at the port to make ends meet. Smelled like rot every damn day.”

He chuckles, a little bitter.

“But the sailors… they were different. They had stories. Gold teeth. Worn hands. Laughs like thunder. I used to watch them and think, ‘Maybe I could be like that.’ Maybe I didn’t have to stay where I was.” He smiles, but it’s a sad thing. “I wanted that life. Not the guts and coins—the freedom. The idea that you could leave. That you could choose who you wanted to be.”

Your heart twists.

“Then I met Joshua.” His voice drops further. “He was different. He didn’t treat me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his boot. He taught me how to read. I taught him how to climb walls and steal apples.”

That makes you laugh, even though your throat is tight.

“But the king hated me. Always did. Thought I was corrupting his perfect son. I guess in his eyes, I did.”

You want to say something. But you don’t. You let him speak.

“One day, we did something stupid. There was this abandoned building near the market—a half-finished palace, supposed to be part of some expansion. We climbed it. Dared each other to go higher. Joshua fell. Part of the roof caved in.”

His hands flex on the railing. “I pulled him out. But someone had to answer for it. The building collapsed. They blamed me.” He exhales slowly. “The King would’ve ruined me. Maybe worse. So I left before he could.”

You step closer. His eyes flick to you, but he doesn’t move. You can see the weight in them—the shadow of old scars he’s never let anyone see. You reach out and gently take his hand in yours. He tenses, just for a second. But then his shoulders ease. You lift your other hand to his face, fingers brushing lightly along his jaw, turning him to face you. He lets you.

“After the book was stolen,” you say quietly, “The King said horrible things about you. I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought—maybe you deserved it.” His brow twitches, but you go on. “But he’s wrong.” Your voice is firmer now.

“You’re not what he says. You’re good, Seungcheol. You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, yes—but you didn’t hesitate to save Joshua all those years ago. And you didn’t hesitate to save me.” He huffs a small laugh. “Even when you were annoyed with me.” You smile softly. “Even then.”

There’s silence again, but it’s warm now. Comforting. Seungcheol’s eyes flutter closed for a second, his face leaning slightly into your touch. When he opens them again, they’re locked onto yours. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Princess.” His voice is low, hoarse. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

Before you can speak, he closes the space between you. His hands wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You don’t resist. You don’t want to.

And then his lips are on yours.

It's nothing like before—nothing like that trance-induced kiss during the siren’s song. This one is real. All-consuming. It feels like every second of tension, every argument, every half-glance, and silent heartbeat between you two has built up to this moment.

You clutch him, fingers tangling in his hair as his hands slide around your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. You gasp into his mouth just as his hands slip lower—down your sides, over your hips, and finally, they settle on your bare ass. His breath hitches at the feel of your skin, his fingers tightening reflexively as he realizes what you’re wearing.

Or rather—what you’re not. No pants. No underwear. His groan reverberates through his chest, and it sparks heat through your core. You nip at his bottom lip, suck on it lightly, and feel the slight tremble in his breath.

But then, he pulls away. Not completely—his forehead still brushes against yours, his hands are still on your skin, his breath fanning across your lips. But something has shifted. You feel the hesitation before he speaks, the uncertainty tucked behind his usual bravado.

“I want you, Princess.” His whispers hoarsly, his thumbs rubbing small circles over your tailbone. “God, I want you. But—”

You blink up at him. “But what?” you whisper, your voice breathless from the kiss.

He sighs. “I’m not—” He swallows. “You’re promised to someone else. I’m—” He trails off. “I’m not what you were supposed to have. I don’t want to be the thing you regret. The man who ruins your perfect little royal life.” His words are quiet, but you can feel the weight in them—the insecurity.

You lift your hand and press your fingers to his lips, silencing him. His eyes flicker up to yours, uncertain, soft, searching. “That marriage,” you say, “was arranged five years ago. I never had a say in it. It was politics. An alliance. A duty.” Your eyes don't leave his. “I care for Joshua, I do. I don’t want him to die. But I don’t…” Your voice lowers. “I don’t long for him.”

He stares at you, unmoving, his hands gripping your hips like you might slip away. You lean in closer. “But I do, with you. I want you.” You kiss him again, and that’s what finally breaks him.

He growls softly against your mouth before gripping your thighs, and lifting you effortlessly. You gasp, giggling at the sudden motion as he carries you toward his cabin. The door swings open with a bang as his shoulder knocks it open, then slams it closed behind him with his foot. Inside, the space is dim and warm, filled with the scent of salt and leather, and something uniquely him.

He kisses you like he’s been starving, pressing against you, devouring every sigh and gasp you release. He spins you both before lowering himself onto his bed, you straddling his lap.

The room is cluttered with maps, artefacts, weapons—chaotic but oddly personal. You don’t care. It feels like him.

Your shirt is the only thing concealing your naked flesh. He unbuttons it—one, two, three—leaving kisses along every patch of newly exposed skin. His mouth lingers at your collarbone, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your neck. And then your shirt is open.

You shiver as the cool air hits your skin, but the feeling disappears the second his mouth wraps around your nipple. Your head tips back, a soft moan escaping your throat as your fingers tangle in his hair again. He groans as you arch into him, and his hands begin their slow, reverent path—skimming your thighs, your hips, your waist. One hand cups your breast, the other trails lower.

He finds your pussy and hisses through his teeth. “You’re soaked.”

You grind against him in response, your heat pressing against the hard length of his cock, straining through the fabric of his pants. “Seungcheol,” you whimper, shifting your hips. “Please…” He looks up at you, chest heaving, lips red and swollen from kissing. “You’re sure?” he whispers, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.” His mouth claims yours again, rougher this time. Needier.

And finally—finally—his fingers press against your clit. You moan into his mouth. Two of his fingers slide inside your wet heat, slow but deep. The stretch to your walls steals your breath, your body clenching around him instinctively.

“Fuck, Princess,” he groans against your neck, “you feel—” He cuts himself off with a growl as he thrusts his fingers again, and again. His mouth returns to your abandoned nipple, suckling, licking, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you’re writhing in his lap.

Your hips grind in rhythm with his hand. One of yours is still in his hair, but you slip the other past the waistband of his pants. Your fingers find him there—hot, hard, throbbing in your palm, his tip leaking precum.

“Shit—” He moans into your skin when you wrap your hand around his cock, matching your movements to the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The sensations overwhelm you—his mouth on your breast, his fingers working inside you, your own hand wrapped around the length of him, the quiet, desperate sounds he makes just for you. You don’t last long. Your body begins to quake, your hips stuttering.

“I’m—Seungcheol—” you gasp. His other hand grips your thigh as he presses his thumb firmly to your clit, rubbing short, hard circles over it. “That’s it,” he breathes. “Let go for me.”

And you do. You come with a sharp cry, the world shattering around you. Your grip on his member fluttering slightly.

Your body clenches around his fingers as you tremble, shaking in his lap while he continues to move his fingers inside you slowly, helping you ride it out. His mouth finds its way to your shoulder, murmuring something you can’t quite hear over the blood roaring in your ears.

Seungcheol’s fingers slip out of you slowly, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room—a slick, wet squelch that makes your body shudder. He brings his hand up without hesitation, the pads of his fingers glistening with your juices, and then—he sucks them into his mouth.

You watch, breath caught in your throat as his eyes flutter shut, a low groan vibrating in his chest. His cheeks hollow slightly as he licks them clean, dragging his tongue between his fingers.

“Delicious,” he mutters hoarsely.

You stifle a moan, biting your lower lip. Heat burns at the base of your spine. Gods, this man.

Your hand is still wrapped around his length—thick and throbbing in your palm, his tip slick with precum. He twitches in your palm, the veins on his shaft pulsing.

Slowly, you give his cock a firm stroke from base to tip. Then another. You pause at his tip, run your thumb along the slit, gather the moisture there, and spread it down his shaft. He groans again, his hips twitching slightly, breath hitching.

“Shit—” he hisses.

Your strokes become firmer and more deliberate. Your other hand drifts up his stomach, exploring every inch of his skin—feeling the way his abs clench and how his skin jumps beneath your touch.

His mouth leaves a trail of fire along your skin—down your collarbone, along the swell of your chest, up your neck. When he pulls back, you can see the flush painting his skin, the way his jaw trembles with restraint.

“You’re going to make me come,” he pants, looking at you like he’s never seen anything more devastatingly perfect. “Fuck, baby, you are—unreal.” You don’t stop. You just smirk. “That’s the idea.”

You grip his cock tighter, twisting your wrist slightly at the end of each stroke, dragging your palm over his head with calculated pressure. His hips start to buck, chasing the sensation. His breath is ragged. His forehead falls to your shoulder.

Suddenly, his hands shoot out, grabbing you by the hips. You yelp, breathless with laughter, as he flips you both over, laying you flat on the mattress under him. His hair is mussed, his chest heaving, and his cock—straining against his pants—is nestled between your thighs, pressing hotly against your entrance.

He chuckles breathlessly as he looks down at you. “You’re evil.”

“You love it.”

Your shirt is tossed somewhere over your head. You reach for him, fingers slipping under his waistband, shoving his pants down with a little too much urgency. He chuckles again, sitting up briefly to kick them off the rest of the way.

“Impatient?”

“Desperate.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. His cock slides along your folds, slick and hot, and it makes both of you stutter, gasping against each other’s mouths, as his tip catches on your clit.

He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, just enough to line himself up at your entrance. His eyes search yours, asking the question again—but not with words. And you answer him with a nod, small but certain.

Then—he pushes in.

The rhythm he sets isn’t gentle. It’s deliberate. Powerful. Deep, rolling thrusts that send jolts of sensation ricocheting through your spine. You gasp, your head falling back against the mattress as he fills you, again and again, harder each time. His breath is warm against your neck, his body tight above yours, every muscle in him working to give you pleasure.

“God, baby,” he growls against your ear, voice raw. “So tight—so fucking good.”

You whimper beneath him, your nails digging into the hard planes of his back as you cling to him, every thrust making you feel like you’re unravelling.

“Cheol—”

“That’s it,” he hisses, kissing your jaw. “Say my name. Say it again.”

“Cheol—fuck, yes—”

His hips slam into yours again, harder this time, and a loud moan escapes you. He swallows it with another kiss—it’s messy, perfect.

He adjusts his angle, one hand slides upward—first across your ribs, then higher, until his palm wraps gently around your throat. He squeezes gently. His fingers press against your vein, his thumb brushing your jaw, your pulse beating steady beneath his palm. The gesture is tender and possessive all at once.

“Too much?” he asks.

You shake your head slowly, biting your lip. “No,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His other hand slides down your body until he’s between your thighs again. His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that counter the pace of his thrusts. You shudder beneath him, crying out his name again, and he groans in return.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fuck, baby, you’re driving me crazy.”

His fingers circle in rhythm with his thrusts, the pressure building unbearably fast. It’s too much, too good—the heat of his body flush against yours, his breath on your skin, his cock sliding in and out of you with aching precision.

“You’re so good,” he groans, his voice cracking as he starts to lose control. “You take me so well. Look at you, wrapped around me like you were made for this.”

You can’t help it—you cry out, a desperate sound from deep in your chest. He’s hitting every place inside you that drives you wild, and his fingers are moving faster now, chasing the climax that’s rising too quickly.

Suddenly, his other hand grabs your leg, lifts it, and hooks it over his shoulder. He thrusts again, and the new angle makes you see stars. His cock is even deeper, stretching out your walls.

You swear aloud, a high, choked moan, as your hands fly to his biceps, clutching him like a lifeline. He fucks into you hard, deep, relentless, hitting that spot inside you with every powerful stroke.

“Right there, huh?” he pants, eyes locked to your face, drinking in every expression like it’s salvation. “You gonna come again for me, baby?” You nod frantically, incoherent with pleasure. He’s everywhere—his mouth on your neck, his hand on your clit, his body pounding into yours like he’s trying to fuse you together.

“Please—Cheol—”

Your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure. He doesn’t stop. “Come for me. Let me feel you, Princess.” And you do. It crashes into you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed, thighs trembling, mouth parting in a silent scream. Your vision blurs, the breath ripped from your lungs as your climax pulses through you, wave after devastating wave. Seungcheol groans low in his throat as your walls clamp down on him like a vice.

“Shit—fuck—” He stutters inside you, his rhythm faltering as the tight squeeze of your pussy sends him hurtling after you. His hand clenches your thigh tighter. One last thrust—and he comes with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside you, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the quiet tremble of your bodies still clinging to the aftershocks. He lowers your leg from his shoulder gently, his palm stroking down the back of your thigh. Your hands find his face. You run your fingertips along his jaw, tracing the line of it, soft and slow. He turns his face to kiss your palm, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your digits.

Then they open again—and you look at each other. You both chuckle at the same time.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead.

“Hey,” he replies, and kisses you again.

You don’t know how long you’ve been talking. Hours maybe. The sun has long since gone up, and you’ve laughed more in the last stretch of time than you have in years.

“Wait, wait—” you say, still laughing, grabbing the wrist that’s been stroking your side so his fingers stop distracting you. “You’re telling me you got your entire crew banned from a tavern... for winning too much?”

Seungcheol smirks, scratching the back of his head as if caught red-handed. “It wasn’t my fault they didn’t notice Minghao was using marked cards. I just happened to collect the winnings.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You say that now, but you’d have taken your cut too.”

You scoff, pushing at his shoulder, though your smile doesn’t waver. He catches your hand easily, presses a kiss to the inside of your palm, and doesn’t let go. The touch makes your breath catch.

“Alright then, your turn.” He leans back again, watching you with that unreadable glint in his eye. “We’ve covered your rebellious rooftop climbs and your hatred of court shoes. What else don’t you like?” You hum, pretending to think. “Hmm. Peaches. Overrated. Sweet and slimy. They remind me of Duke Alberon’s awful moustache.”

Seungcheol bursts out laughing, his whole body shaking beside you. “I am never going to eat a peach again without seeing that man’s ratty little face, thank you for that.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud, smug at his reaction. His hand slides from your stomach to your thigh, lazily stroking the skin again, and you don’t stop him. “I like this,” you murmur after a moment, your voice quieter now. “Talking. With you.” His expression softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. That is, until the door slams open.

“Hey, Cap—” Soonyoung’s voice booms into the room before his body does, stomping in without knocking. “The mist’s rolled in heavy, and Mingyu adjusted course, Wonwoo says if we keep east by southeast, we’ll—”

Soonyoung blinks once. Then again. His eyes dart from you— naked and lazily sprawled across the bed—to Seungcheol, shirtless, clearly dishevelled, and unmistakably not alone.

“I—” His jaw opens, but no sound comes out. You raise an amused eyebrow and tuck the blanket a little higher over your body. Seungcheol, on the other hand, is not nearly so composed.

“Get out!” he barks, grabbing a nearby pillow and hurling it with precision at Soonyoung’s head. The poor man yelps as it smacks into his face.

“I didn’t see anything!” Soonyoung squeaks, hands flailing as he turns around hastily. “I swear! Nothing at all—except her legs, and maybe a bit of—okay, I’m going!”

“Soonyoung!” Seungcheol snaps, now using his hand to shield your chest like his body alone could restore your modesty.

“I’m going! I’m going!” Soonyoung yells back, already halfway through the door. “But Mingyu said he needs you at the helm like now. There’s fog and a current and—and I’ll just go!”

The door slams shut behind him. For a moment, the room is still. Then your laughter bubbles up. You can’t hold it back even if you try. “That was—” you start between breaths, “the most mortified I’ve ever seen anyone in my life.” Seungcheol groans and slumps back against the headboard, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s gonna tell everyone, isn’t he?”

“Oh, without question,” you say, nudging his side. “The betting pool has probably reopened already.”

“Betting pool?”

“Please. They were definitely wagering when we’d fall into bed.”

Seungcheol drops his head against your stomach, groaning dramatically. “This crew is going to be unbearable.”

“Hmm.” You run your fingers through his hair slowly, scratching lightly at his scalp. “You’re just mad they were right.” You feel the warmth of his smile pressed against your belly, even as he pretends to sulk. “I can’t believe Soonyoung saw your boobs,” he mumbles. You grin. “And I’m pretty sure I traumatised him.”

Seungcheol exhales a quiet laugh through his nose and shakes his head as he sits up. The warmth of his body leaves your side, but you don’t mind—not when you get the view that’s in front of you. You watch him stretch lazily, muscles flexing as he reaches up before grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. Then he steps into his pants, tying the drawstring with practised ease. His back muscles ripple with every movement, and you don’t hide the way your eyes roam freely across the expanse of his torso.

He catches your gaze and smirks, glancing at you from over his shoulder.

“You staring, Princess?” he taunts, the smugness practically dripping from his voice. You smirk, stretching languidly on the bed. “Obviously. Wouldn’t want to waste the view.” That earns you a laugh. He finishes fastening the last button of his shirt and turns back to you, raking his gaze down the curve of your body, still on full display under the lazy fall of the blanket.

Then, without warning, he strides over to your side of the bed. His hand comes down with a swift, playful smack against your bare ass cheek.

“Up,” he says, voice low and commanding but tinged with amusement. “If I have to go face Mingyu and the crew after last night, you’re not getting out of it either.”

You yelp more out of surprise than pain, narrowing your eyes at him as you sit up. “I was perfectly content right here, actually.” He grins, stepping back as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “Well, now you can be content getting dressed. And preferably before Soonyoung bursts in again.”

You scoff but move to your feet anyway as he tosses you some undergarments from the floor without even trying to hide the smirk on his face. You catch them midair. “Thanks, Captain.”

He steps closer again, slower this time. One hand catches your chin, thumb brushing along your jawline as his eyes flicker over your face. “Try not to look too smug out there,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Or they’ll start placing bets on when I’ll marry you.”

You raise an eyebrow, heart skipping—but you smirk instead of answering. “Then maybe you should kiss me goodbye properly.” Seungcheol stares for a beat—then grins like a devil before pulling you into him, crashing his mouth to yours.

“Get dressed, Princess,” he rasps, eyes lingering. “Before I change my mind.” And with that, he walks to the door, grabbing his coat. He’s halfway through opening it when he glances back.

“Five minutes. Or I’m coming back for you.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The mist swallows everything.

You don’t even see it at first—just a soft shift in the air as you step out of Seungcheol’s cabin. You’d expected teasing whistles or knowing grins, maybe a few sly comments from Mingyu or Chan. Instead, silence meets you. A quiet so thick it pulls the breath from your lungs. The Chimera is cloaked in a pale grey fog, dense and unmoving, the deck slick with dew and the sails limp in the breathless air.

Your eyes move quickly, scanning the ship. No one is looking at you—not because they’re being polite, but because every man is on edge. Focused. Alert. Like something’s about to happen.

Above you, Minghao stands in the crow’s nest, his thin frame just barely visible through the thick veil of mist. He’s rotating slowly, scanning with a spyglass in one hand and a compass in the other. Every few minutes, he mutters something, too quiet to carry. Soonyoung and Chan move carefully near the weapons stash, inventorying each item with tight mouths and nervous hands. Their usual playfulness has been swallowed whole by the fog.

You walk further along the deck, your boots quiet on the wood, until you spot them—Seungcheol and Wonwoo near the main mast, crouched low over a spread of maps and books. Wonwoo is muttering frantically, his fingers darting between pages, eyes wild with thought. Seungcheol is tense. His broad shoulders are hunched, eyes narrowed, and jaw tight.

You move beside him quietly, and when your hand grazes his bicep, he startles before looking up. The hard line of his shoulders eases at the sight of you. His hand comes to rest on your waist, the weight of it grounding. He squeezes softly. You do the same in return. “Morning,” you say gently. “Afternoon,” Wonwoo corrects immediately, eyes not leaving the yellowed page he’s turned to.

You smile faintly and lean in to study the map, tilting your head as you glance from it to the thick book in his other hand. The letters are unfamiliar—twisting, ancient shapes carved in what looks more like inked bone than any written language.

Wonwoo’s voice picks up. “It doesn’t make sense—nothing does—but it’s all here, I know it is. I’ve read the entire Codex of the Four Winds twice now, and all the references to Tartarus, to the ferryway—Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius—it’s all pointing here. But I can’t decode the meaning of it. It’s like, like the pieces are there, but the puzzle’s missing half its edges—”

“Breathe, Wonwoo,” Seungcheol says quietly, trying not to snap. Wonwoo exhales sharply through his nose, flipping another page. “Do you know what the poets of Andelos called it? The place beyond the fog? The Cradle of the Dead. And every single account, no matter how fantastical, mentions a waterfall. But not a normal one. A falling of stars. Water going up and down, as if the sky and sea mirror each other.” Your brow furrows. “As above, so below.” Wonwoo snaps his head toward you, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

You kneel beside them now, brushing your fingers lightly over a different page. “There was a book in Mdina. An old one. Verses of the Vanished. I read it when I was nine and had nightmares for weeks. It mentioned a veil of silence, a place past the final sea where time collapses, and stars sink beneath the water.” Wonwoo is nodding quickly. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. But how do we find it?”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “you don’t. Maybe it finds you.” The mist swirls closer around the ship, like it heard you. Mingyu leaves the helm and strides toward you, his boots thudding heavily. “It’s getting worse,” he says. “Visibility’s almost zero. The current’s off too—subtle, but it’s pulling.”

“We’re near it,” Wonwoo mutters. “I know it.”

Mingyu looks down at the pages, then over at you and Seungcheol. “He’s been at this since dawn.” Seungcheol reaches out and flips a corner of the map. “Wonwoo, you said something about the water falling up. What if it’s not a place we sail into, but something that pulls us in?”

“Like a gate?” you ask. “Or a crossing,” Mingyu adds. Wonwoo slams his book shut. “It could be anything. That’s the problem.”

Silence falls again.

You glance up toward the crow’s nest. Minghao hasn’t moved, but now he’s gripping the rail tighter. You hear his voice float down, quiet and unsure. “Captain?” Seungcheol looks up. “What is it?”

Minghao slowly turns his spyglass. “I… don’t know.”

Wonwoo’s breath catches. “It’s beginning.”

The sound hits first.

A low, guttural rumble that shakes the air. It begins deep below deck, in the bones of the ship, before rolling up through the planks and ropes and sails. You freeze, eyes narrowing toward the horizon—or what should be the horizon—but the mist is too thick, the light too dim.

Then, as if guided by some unseen hand, the mist begins to pull away. It unfurls slowly at first, like curtains parting on a stage, but it quickly gives way to something utterly impossible.

There, ahead of you, rises a waterfall. Not falling. Rising.

A great column of water, impossibly wide, impossibly tall, rushes skyward, curling into the clouds above. Spray bursts from the base of it in violent gusts, catching the late afternoon light in prismatic flashes. You blink. “What the—” The words are half-formed before they’re lost in the roar of the ocean.

Seungcheol moves instantly.

“Raise the sails!” he shouts, already sprinting toward the helm. “To your stations! Man the lines! Chan—get those sails ready for shift, now!” Mingyu’s already right behind him, racing to the helm. “We’ll be in it within minutes if we stay this course!” The crew explodes into motion. Minghao descends swiftly from the crow’s nest. Soonyoung and Chan tear across the deck. Even Wonwoo doesn’t look up from the open book on his lap, only flips another page with frantic energy.

You remain frozen—just for a heartbeat.

Until Seungcheol turns toward you. “Princess”, he points, eyes blazing. “To the port lines. Watch the tension; call if we’re drifting!” He’s giving you a task. For the first time since you’ve boarded the Chimera, he’s treating you not as cargo, not as a complication, not even as a lover—but as crew.

You nod firmly. “Aye, Captain.”

You run, the wind lashing your hair around your face. Your feet are sure beneath you, heart pounding, and you grab the rope with firm hands, joining Soonyoung and Chan without hesitation. You glance once over your shoulder—Seungcheol is watching. And when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. Pride. You see it in his eyes.

“Steady!” he shouts. “We’re almost at the pull!”

The wind screams louder. The sound of the waterfall is deafening. The closer you get, the more the air warps and howls. Hair and clothes whip around every which way. Sails strain under pressure. The Chimera groans beneath you like it’s fighting not to be torn apart.

“It’s not just a waterfall!” he yells over the sound. “It’s a threshold! A crossing point—between realms! As above, so below—it’s—” “Wonwoo!” Seungcheol cuts in sharply. “What happens when we go through?”

“I don’t know!” Wonwoo shouts back, desperation in his voice. “No one ever has!” You don’t hear the end of that sentence because that’s when it begins.

A tendril of smoke.

No—not smoke. Something darker. Slick and slow, it creeps across the surface of the sea, winding around the hull of the Chimera. More follow—dozens. Hundreds. They rise like grasping hands, curling toward the deck.

“Captain…” Chan breathes, stepping back from one of the ropes, eyes wide. Minghao calls out from above. “Smoke! From the water!”

“Cordia,” Seungcheol breathes, barely a whisper.

“Seungcheol?” you call out, your voice trembling now.

His head snaps up. For the first time in this madness, his expression fractures. “Get to me!” he yells.

You don’t hesitate. You run—but before you can reach him— The mist turns black. The tendrils strike.

And the world goes dark.

You wake to the taste of ash in your mouth.

Your body feels heavy—every bone weighed down, every muscle groaning in protest as consciousness claws its way to the surface. The air is cold and wet, and the first thing you feel is a strange texture under your hands: gritty, soft, but wrong. You open your eyes.

Black sand.

You blink against the dim light. A haze clings to the air, the world around you coated in an eerie hue between shadow and flame. Ancient ruins loom ahead, crumbling columns and broken statues half-sunken into the sand. A river pulses in the distance—thick, dark, and slow, like black ink. The air hums with something foul and powerful.

You turn your head. Seungcheol is lying beside you. He groans softly as he sits up, running a hand through his hair before his eyes snap to you. “You okay?” His voice is hoarse. “I think so,” you murmur, looking around again. “Where are we?”

But you already know. You feel it in your bones.

“Tartarus,” he says, confirming it.

You sit up with a wince. The black sand clings to your skin. Seungcheol instinctively pulls you closer, shielding your body with his as you both rise to your feet. The river’s distant pulse echoes like a heartbeat. And then the smoke returns. It billows from the earth, curling and creeping toward you until the very air feels thick with it. From it, she comes.

Cordia.

She glides forward, her form half-shadow, half-woman. She circles the ruins before settling on a broken, throne-like seat made of obsidian stone. Her long fingers drum against the armrest as she regards you both with a smile too wide, too cold.

“Congratulations,” she purrs. “You made it.”

Her voice is sickly sweet. “No one ever has before. Well… not alive, anyway.”

Seungcheol squares his shoulders. “Give me the book,” he demands. “I fulfilled my end of the deal.”

Cordia blinks at him once. And then laughs. It is a terrible sound, echoing off every ruin, slithering into your skin. “Oh, darling,” she coos. “What makes you think I have it?”

Seungcheol’s expression tightens. “You stole it. You framed me. So you could have me executed.” Cordia interrupts with a smirk. “You?” Her voice turns mocking as she slinks closer. “It was never about you.”

Realization dawns on his face—horror blooming in his eyes.

“Joshua.”

Cordia grins. “Now you’re catching up.”

She circles you both like a vulture. “The golden prince. The next king of Syracuse. So noble. So predictable. I knew he’d take your place, just as I knew you’d run. And then—chaos. Twelve cities. No heir. No peace. No order. Glorious, isn’t it?”

She trails her fingers over a broken statue, sharp nails dragging against the stone. “He couldn’t help himself, could he? Defending you without hesitation. And you—” she turns to Seungcheol, “—you couldn’t help but betray him.”

Seungcheol’s voice is sharp. “I didn’t betray Joshua. I came for the book.” Cordia chuckles, walking toward you. You feel her presence behind your back.

“Oh, but you did betray him,” she hums. “You stole his fiancée.”

With a sharp motion, she pushes you forward, making you stumble into Seungcheol’s arms. Cordia tilts her head.

“Look at her, Seungcheol. Joshua isn’t even in his grave yet, and you’ve already claimed her.” Her voice is gleeful. “Or did ‘that’s my girl’ not mean anything to you?”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. You can feel the tension radiating from him. Cordia steps closer, her voice now a whisper. “Face it, pirate. Your heart is as black as mine.”

“No,” you finally speak up. You face her. “You’re wrong. You don’t know what’s in his heart.” Cordia’s eyes flash. She chuckles once. And then her smile fades. “Oh, but I do,” she says, her voice cold as stone. “And most importantly… so does he.”

Seungcheol’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “You’re wrong.” Cordia rolls her eyes. “Fine. Want to bet?”

And then it appears—the book. Suspended in midair, cradled by smoke. Glowing faintly with ancient magic.

“Two choices, Seungcheol.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “One: Take the book. Return it to Syracuse. Save the heir. Save the alliance. Watch her marry Joshua, as promised. You restore your honour and lose the girl.”

You freeze.

“Or,” she continues, “Two: Refuse the book. Let Joshua die. Watch Syracuse fall. And sail away to paradise with the love of your life.”

Your eyes lock with Seungcheol’s. The look you give him is a plea and a promise all at once—don’t leave me. He stares at you for what feels like an eternity, agony etched into every line of his face. The war behind his eyes. The sorrow. The weight.

He loves you. But his heart is cracked open for the first time.

Then he turns to Cordia. And speaks. “...Let her marry Joshua.”

Cordia’s eyes narrow. Her smile fades. “Liar,” she hisses. “You could never let go of a treasure once it was yours.”

The book disappears.

“No—!” you cry, stepping forward, but Cordia is already fading, her face twisted in triumph.

Seungcheol grabs your hand just as the smoke rushes in again, tendrils wrapping around your legs, your waist, and your arms.

Cordia’s voice echoes as the world goes black again: “You’ll see… we always are what we choose.”

You gasp as your feet hit solid ground, stumbling forward as the world stops spinning. Black sand is replaced by cobblestone, and pulsing smoke is traded for stagnant city air thick with tension. You blink up—recognising the narrow curve of the harbour road, the looming cliffs, and the ancient colonnades of Syracuse’s port.

Seungcheol lands beside you with a grunt, steadying himself with one hand on the uneven stone. His eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings, the shadows, the distant sound of a crowd gathering near the square.

You both realise what day it is as you hear the bell—Joshua’s execution day.

“Oh gods,” you whisper.

You grab Seungcheol’s wrist and pull him into the narrow alley between two warehouses, pressing his back against the wall. The city might be grieving, but the guards will still be out—especially today. “You can’t be seen,” you whisper urgently. “We don’t have the book. If they find you now—”

“I know,” Seungcheol murmurs. His voice is calm. Too calm.

“I’ll talk to them,” you push. “I’ll go to the kings myself. I’ll tell them everything. That it was Cordia, that we got to Tartarus—”

“They won’t believe you,” he cuts in, voice cracking.

“They will. They have to.” You step closer, chest heaving. “They won’t kill Joshua if I tell them what we saw. If I tell them—if I make them understand.”

He looks down at you. And you feel it. A shift in the air between you.

“No,” you breathe.

“I can’t let you take the fall for this.”

“And I won’t let you—” your voice breaks. “No. No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare, Seungcheol—”

His hands come up, gently framing your face, thumbs stroking beneath your eyes as he places his forehead against yours. “You have to leave the city,” you whisper quickly, desperately. “We’ll go. Wherever you want. Right now. Just—just, please. Let’s run. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

He smiles softly, and that’s what undoes you. That smile. Tender. Wistful. “I can’t do that either,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You shake your head. “No. No, please. You’re not doing this.” Tears burn behind your eyes. But he’s already pulling away. And you know. You know.

Seungcheol has made up his mind. He’s going to take Joshua’s place.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, fists grabbing the front of his shirt. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I have to,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“No, you don’t.” Your hands fist in his shirt. “I love you. I love you, and if you walk out of this alley, I will never be whole again.”

His breath shudders. And then he whispers: “But could you love a man who would run away?”

You want to scream yes. You want to say I don’t care, that love should be enough, that you’d throw Syracuse to the gods if it meant keeping him safe.

But you know what he means. He couldn’t live with himself if he ran. He’s never been the kind of man who takes the easy road. He never could.

The tears spill over your cheeks. “Don’t do this,” you plead, broken. “Don’t leave me. I belong with you.”

His face crumples, his own tears finally falling. And then he lets go. He takes a step back. Another.

You try to grab him, but he’s already out of reach. Already walking out into the gloom-filled street, into the path of soldiers making their way toward the square.

And then—he stops. He turns back to you, tears streaking his face, mouth curved in the saddest smile you’ve ever seen.

“For the first time in my life,” he chuckles emptily, “I wish I was someone else.”

Your breath catches.

“I wish I was someone worthy of you.”

The sharp clatter of boots echoes down the cobblestones.

“Hey—!”

Three guards spot him immediately. Recognise him.

Seungcheol lifts his hands slowly, not resisting as they rush him. You scream his name, but it’s drowned out by the sound of steel and shouting.

They seize him and drag him away.

Your legs give out from under you, the grief slamming into you like a wave. But just before your knees hit the cobblestones—Strong arms wrap around you.

Mingyu.

His chest presses against your back, one arm around your middle, holding you upright, the other around your shoulder, shielding your trembling frame. You feel him shush you gently, but it’s broken, because he is crying too. Silent tears streak down his face as he watches his captain—his brother—being dragged away like a criminal.

You sob, your hands clutching his arms, unable to speak. Unable to breathe. Mingyu’s voice is thick. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you, Princess.”

But nothing can stop the image from burning into your mind. Seungcheol, dragged into the fog of a city that forgot him. Head held high. Heartbroken.

The square is deathly still when they drag him in.

You see the moment he steps onto the square—his hands bound in chains, his jaw locked in that stubborn defiance you’ve come to know too well. He walks with that same confident gait, even though there’s no wind in his sails anymore. Even though he’s walking toward death.

Mingyu’s arm presses around your shoulders more tightly. Chan and Soonyoung hold their ground beside you, and even Minghao and Wonwoo have joined now, the five of them forming a silent, protective wall around you. But your focus is only on one man.

The crowd ripples with whispers as he passes—the pirate returns. The traitor dares to show his face. Where’s the Book? Did he come to beg for mercy?

But Seungcheol isn’t begging.

His eyes are fixed ahead, never faltering. Not even when he spots the platform of the Twelve Kings—gilded thrones stacked in a crescent high above the square. Not even when his gaze lands on Joshua.

He stands shackled near the edge of the platform, clothes rumpled, his shoulders hunched from the weight of days in captivity. You can see the flicker in his eyes when he spots Seungcheol. First confusion, then rising hope—But then his gaze drops to Seungcheol’s hands. No book in sight. Joshua’s expression crumbles.

But Seungcheol doesn’t stop. He’s led to the centre of the platform below the Kings, behind the ornate shadow of the execution block. The chains at his wrists clink as they force him to stand alone, surrounded by guards.

Then, the King of Syracuse rises.

He stands before his throne, draped in deep blue ceremonial robes, his silver crown catching the light of the pale, cloud-choked sky. His face is stern—no, cold. Cruel. And his voice cuts through the silence like steel.

“Choi Seungcheol,” he begins, voice echoing across the square, “you are brought before the Crowned Council of the Twelve Cities, accused of treason most foul. The theft of the sacred Book of Peace and the attempted destruction of our alliance.”

The King steps closer, looking down at him like one might a rat scurrying in the gutter. “You were given a pardon once, pirate—a chance to walk among kings. You spit on it. And now, you crawl back here in chains like a dog seeking a master’s mercy.”

Still, Seungcheol says nothing.

The King sneers. “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

He looks up then. Seungcheol’s voice is quiet, but it carries. Measured. Steady.

“I take full responsibility for the course I’ve chosen,” he says. “I accept whatever sentence the Council deems fit.”

Gasps spread through the crowd, but the King only laughs—a cold, humourless sound.

“And what course was that, pirate?” he snaps. “My son claims you didn’t steal the Book, yet it vanished the moment you returned to the city. And now you return without it. Do you expect us to believe in your honour?”

“I expect nothing,” Seungcheol says simply. “I don’t ask for forgiveness. Only that you let the innocent walk free.” His eyes flick to Joshua, just once.

“He wasn’t part of this. Let him go.”

Across the square, Joshua’s eyes widen.

He steps forward slightly—chained though he is—and looks down at Seungcheol with something like dawning realisation.

He came back for me.

The King narrows his eyes.

“How noble of you,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You who fled in the dead of night like a coward. Who let your blood brother be imprisoned while you wandered free. You think claiming responsibility now will wash you clean?”

The King sneers. “There is no redemption for you, Seungcheol. You’ve already chosen your fate.”

Then he lifts a hand. “Release the prince.”

A pair of guards move to Joshua’s side. The chains fall from his wrists with a dull clatter, and for a moment, Joshua just stands there, stunned.

Then he sees you.

He sees the clothes you wear—still half-pirate, half-Seungcheol’s. He sees the tears on your cheeks. The way your entire soul seems pinned to the man at the block.

He smiles sadly.

The guards seize Seungcheol again, forcing him to kneel.

Your breath hitches violently as they press his chest against the worn wood of the chopping block.

The executioner steps forward, masked and silent, a massive blade in his gloved hands.

The King raises his voice for the final time.

“Seungcheol, former captain of The Chimera, for the crimes of treason, betrayal, and sacrilege against the Twelve Cities, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Seungcheol closes his eyes as the executioner lifts the blade.

The blade is coming down.

Chan grips your shoulder. Mingyu holds your waist tighter. You bury your face into Soonyoung’s chest, unable to look.

But then— a sound like thunder.

You open your eyes just in time to see it — the blade, fractured mid-air, split into a thousand pieces. The metal clatters uselessly across the stone. The executioner stumbles back, horrified.

Suddenly, the smoke comes. It spills over the steps, hissing as it touches the ground. Shadows twist in unnatural shapes. She steps from it.

Cordia.

Seungcheol stumbles to his feet, eyes locked on her as the guards around him recoil in instinctive terror.

“Cordia,” he breathes. Her lips curl into a smile, sharp as a blade.

“Well, well,” she purrs, circling him. “So it worked. A last-second rescue. Just in time for the drama. Quite the scene, wouldn’t you say?”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. “Why are you here?”

“Why?” she echoes, spinning lightly until she perches on the wooden base of the executioner’s platform. Her fingers steeple together. “Because, unfortunately for me, you held up your end of the bargain.”

He stiffens.

“You came,” she continues, teeth gleaming. “You fulfilled your impossible task. And now, by the rules of the oath I made to you in that wretched cell, I have to keep my word.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flicker downward—to the faint, glowing cross on her chest. The mark. The promise.

His mouth parts slightly. Realisation dawning. “You can’t let them kill me.”

Cordia scowls, her lips thinning into a vicious sneer. “No, pirate, I can’t.”

The silence is deafening.

Cordia stands, flinging her arms open as black smoke bursts from the ground around her, swirling once, twice — and then condensing.

The Book of Peace.

Floating in the air like it was never lost.

Gasps echo through the square. Even the Kings are on their feet now.

Cordia glares at Seungcheol.

Seungcheol lifts his chin, watching her.

“Do you have any idea how close I came?” she spits. “One more day. One more lie. One more little betrayal, and the cities would’ve crumbled like dominoes. Syracuse would’ve fallen. Joshua would be dead. And you? You’d be just another pirate with blood on his hands and no compass to guide him.”

Her eyes flick to you in the crowd, narrowing.

“But no,” she says, quieter now. “You had to change. For her.”

Seungcheol takes a step forward slowly.

“And now you’re here,” he replies, eyes never leaving hers. “Because a promise is a promise.”

Cordia’s head tilts. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re no hero. You still betrayed your friend. You stole his future. You might not have stolen the Book, but you took her.”

Her hand sweeps toward the crowd, towards you.

Seungcheol’s gaze snaps to where you stand.

You don’t need to speak. Everything you need to say is in your eyes.

Cordia snarls. “You’re no different than me, Captain. Just another liar clutching at something that doesn’t belong to him.”

Seungcheol turns back to her, a small, tired smile curving his lips.

“You know,” he says softly, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever beaten someone like you.”

Cordia freezes.

“I survived your challenges. I entered Tartarus. I gave up the girl. I faced the blade. And here I stand,” he murmurs. “Looks like I outplayed you.”

Her eyes flash. But she knows. The mark glows brighter now, a divine seal binding her to her word. With a snarl of fury, the smoke whips around her again, and the Book floats forward.

Seungcheol’s arm reaches out, his fingers wrapping around it just before it drops. Cordia’s eyes are pure fire. “Enjoy your little victory, pirate. I’ll get my chaos somewhere else.”

And in one last swirl of smoke — she’s gone.

The silence that follows is absolute.

Then Seungcheol turns. Joshua, still nearby, approaches slowly.

Seungcheol looks at the Book in his hands, then at him.

“It’s yours,” he says, extending it.

Joshua takes it carefully, his expression unreadable.

There’s a long moment where he just stares at it, running a thumb over its carved edge. Then he glances back at Seungcheol.

“You got your treasure back,” Seungcheol says, trying for a smirk, but it lands crooked. Joshua looks past him—to you, before turning his gaze back to him.

“Looks like you found some, too,” Joshua replies quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He looks down, overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For believing in me.”

Joshua only nods. “It’s the least I could do.”

Seungcheol glances at the artefact. “Use it well,” he murmurs. “When you become king someday… make it worth something.”

Joshua’s grip tightens. Then, with a breath, he steps forward and opens the Book.

The light explodes. Blinding, radiant, pure.

It pours over the city like a tide, driving out the shadow, painting stone and sky in colours so vibrant it feels like the first day of creation. The clouds scatter. The sun returns. Flowers bloom in cracks along the walls.

And all you can do is stare as the world comes back to life.

And the man who saved it stands at the centre of it all.

The Chimera sways gently in the harbour of Syracuse, her sails rolled tight and her hull gleaming with a fresh coat of tar. Dockhands and palace servants had swarmed the ship earlier that morning, unloading barrels of salted meat, crates of fruit and wine, bundles of new linens, and enough gold to make a dragon blush.

The King of Syracuse, for all his pride and disdain, had come through in the end—Joshua made sure of it. A debt repaid in coin, jewels, and an official pardon carved into parchment and sealed in royal wax.

Seungcheol walks across the deck with sure, measured steps, hands tucked behind his back as he surveys his men and his ship. He’s never seen her look better. The wood gleams, the ropes are neatly coiled, and his crew is laughing. Alive.

Mingyu leans lazily against the helm, tossing a peeled orange slice into Chan’s open mouth. Soonyoung is checking the tension in the sails with exaggerated flair, and Wonwoo—unsurprisingly—is sitting cross-legged near the gunwale, rereading a book they all swore he’d already memorized.

“Oi, Chan!” Seungcheol calls, pointing to the uneven crates. “If you stack that any higher, you’re going overboard with them.”

“Relax, hyung!” Chan chirps. “I tied them.”

“Like you tied the dinghy last time, and it floated off?”

Laughter echoes. Soonyoung snickers while Mingyu shakes his head, lounging smugly.

Just as Seungcheol opens his mouth to continue scolding, something thunks heavily onto his head.

He flinches, already turning with a scowl. “Minghao! I thought I told you—”

“Wasn’t me, Captain,” Minghao replies from near the foremast, barely glancing up from his map as he smiles. “Try higher.”

Seungcheol squints and cranes his head back.

Up in the crow’s nest, a familiar silhouette grins down at him, hair tousled by the wind, one arm looped around the mast. Your shirt’s tucked in lopsided, and your boots have seen better days, but you’ve never looked better.

“Thought you might need someone competent keeping lookout,” You call.

Seungcheol’s face breaks into a full smile, sunlight warming every line. “That so?”

Before he can say anything else, you swing effortlessly down the ropes. You land squarely in front of him with a thud and a slight bounce, and before he can even steady himself, you jump up in his arms.

He catches you easily, hands firm around your waist. “You always make an entrance,” he murmurs.

You smirk, hooking your arms around his neck. “You always look like you need one.”

He laughs, leaning in close. “You think you’re ready to join my crew, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you tease, pressing closer. “What are the dangers of sailing with the infamous Captain Choi?”

“Oh, let’s see,” Seungcheol hums, trailing his hands up your back. “Terrible food. Terrifying storms. Occasional gods of chaos. And a captain who gets distracted by pretty girls in crow’s nests.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“Unforgiving waters.”

“I’m a strong swimmer.”

“Unruly crew.”

“I’ll whip them into shape.”

Seungcheol grins, pulling you flush against him. “You’re hired.” Your eyes sparkle. “That easy?” He leans in, voice low. “I’ve seen what you can do.”

Your lips meet before another word can be said—slow, smiling, deep. The kiss is full of promise and freedom and all the things you haven’t had a name for yet, not until he almost died. Around you, the crew lets out a round of whooping cheers.

Chan whoops the loudest. “About damn time!”

Soonyoung claps his hands. “So, when’s the wedding?”

Mingyu shouts down from the helm, cutting through the noise, “Alright, Captain! Where to now?”

Seungcheol looks down at you, arms still around your waist.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “I thought we were going to Fiji?”

Seungcheol raises a brow. “Fiji’s nice...”

“But?”

He smirks. “What about another adventure instead?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“I say lead the way, Captain.”

A/N: Another idea I've had in my head for a very long time. Took a bit longer to write but I'm really proud of it. Thank you to those who joined in the poll and chose Seungcheol as the MMC. Hope you enjoy! 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[birdofwildness]

୨୧✧˚Secret smokes

୨୧✧˚Tom Riddle

summary:: reader's father invites professor Riddle over. He doesn't know his Well behaved daughter is dating her professor.

warnings:: professor x student, age gap, filthy af smut lmao, 18+

The classroom breathed in shadows. Dust motes wandered lazily through the golden afternoon light, as if time itself hesitated to pass through these walls — reluctant to disturb the stillness that had settled over desks ink-stained and solemn.

Y/N sat motionless, eyes fixed on the half-filled parchment before her, though their mind drifted far from words and wandwork. There was a weight in the air — not from the lesson, but from him. From the way he moved between rows like a thought that wouldn’t let go, silent and precise, all darkness and deliberation.

Tom Riddle did not speak often, but when he did, the room listened as though the walls themselves leaned closer.

“Time,” he said at last, his voice smooth and quiet, like the first drop of ink on clean parchment. “Essays. Leave them here.”

The scrape of chairs followed — the familiar shuffling of escape. A soft murmur of relief. But not for Y/N.

As she rose to leave, hand brushing the cool wood of the desk, his voice reached her again. Lower this time. Private.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he said, his tone carved from curiosity and something harder. “Remain.”

The door sighed shut behind the last departing student. Silence, again — but a different kind now. Closer. More intimate.

Y/N turned, slowly, like someone called back by name in a dream.

He stood with the elegance of a blade resting on its edge, one hand resting lightly on the desk, the other folded beneath it — posture relaxed, yet coiled.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She didn’t answer immediately. The word avoiding was too deliberate. Too sharp.

She leaned back against the door after closing it behind her, her fingers still resting on the brass handle, as if measuring the weight of the silence before her.

“I’ve been breathing,” she said at last. “That’s not the same.”

Tom’s gaze flickered to her face, then back to the shadows between them. He didn’t move. He never did when he held the advantage.

“And yet,” he said quietly, “you look like someone who’s been holding her breath for days.”

She crossed the room slowly, not in surrender, not in defiance, but in something more dangerous: knowing. The kind of knowing that only exists between two people who’ve spent nights unraveling each other in silence and in heat, and who’ve learned to fear what follows the morning.

“You want something,” she said, stopping just beyond reach. “You always do.”

Tom didn’t deny it. Instead, with the slow, precise motion of someone revealing a move long prepared, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a single envelope.

The parchment was heavy, elegant. Ministry seal. Her father’s signature in unmistakable, impatient strokes.

He held it out to her as if it were nothing more than a passing curiosity.

She took it without a word, fingers brushing his — brief contact, deliberate tension. Her eyes scanned the contents, each line tightening something inside her chest.

Dinner. A formal invitation. Her father, all formality and veiled curiosity, inviting Tom Riddle to their home like he was just another promising young man and not the living embodiment of all the unspoken things she could never admit out loud.

“‘I would be honoured to receive you this Thursday at seven. I believe we have much to discuss,’” she read aloud, voice flat.

Riddle watched her — not smug, not triumphant. Just quiet. As if waiting for her to catch up to something he already knew.

She turned the letter in her hands, once, twice, then looked up. “Why?”

A single word, precise, level. But beneath it, a hundred unspoken questions.

Tom tilted his head slightly. “Why what?”

“Why did he invite you?” she asked, sharper now. “My father doesn’t do polite gestures.”

“No,” Tom agreed. “But Horace Slughorn does.”

The name landed between them like a dropped stone.

Her fingers tightened on the parchment. “Slughorn.”

“Who else?” Tom’s voice was smooth, unhurried. “He collects people. And when he can’t keep them, he introduces them to others who might.”

Her father.

The realization clicked into place like a lock turning, and Tom saw it—saw the moment she understood.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, only watched him — carefully, quietly. Then a corner of her mouth curved upward. Not a full smile. Just the beginning of one.

“You’re nervous.”

Tom blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re doing that thing with your thumb again.”

He looked down without meaning to — his thumb pressed just slightly against the side of his index finger, a motion so small it was almost nothing. But not to her.

She grinned, all wicked amusement now. “You want to impress him.”

“I want access,” he corrected.

“Which means,” she said, tilting her head, “you want to impress him.”

He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

She touched his collar, adjusting it like she had every right to. “Don’t talk too much. He hates people who sound like they’re proving something.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I am proving something.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “That’s why you have to act like you’re not.”

A pause. Her voice softened, but only a little: “And don’t smile unless you mean it. He’ll know.”

He looked down at her, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Are you trying to help me or sabotage me?”

She leaned in, lips just near his ear.

“Who says I can’t do both?”

Tom let his gaze linger on her face a moment longer, then said, “And what’s he like? Your father.”

She let out a dry breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re asking me now?”

He said nothing — just waited.

She stepped back, arms loosely crossed, as if needing distance from her own answer.

“What do you think?” she said. “He’s exactly what you’d expect from a blood supremacist Slytherin who clawed his way up the Ministry like it was his birthright.”

“Charming,” Tom murmured.

“Oh, he is,” she said, sarcasm curling at the edge of her voice. “In that cold, immaculate, politically untouchable sort of way. He speaks in veiled threats and thinks compassion is a weakness you beat out of children by age twelve.”

Tom tilted his head slightly. “So you’re saying we’ll get along.”

She met his gaze. “I’m saying he’ll recognize you. Even if he doesn’t know what you are, he’ll know that you are.”

He smiled, slow and sharp. “I’ll take that as encouragement.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her — softened, despite herself.

“You would,” she muttered, stepping closer. “You always do.”

Tom didn’t move away. His smile faded into something quieter, something less practiced.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. She reached up — a small, almost absent motion — and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Her hand lingered just long enough to mean something.

Then she leaned in and kissed him — not hungry, not dramatic. Just warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that wasn’t asking for anything, only marking the space between them as theirs.

When she pulled back, she said, “Don’t be charming tonight. Be dangerous.”

He looked at her, the ghost of a smirk returning. “Darling, I never stopped.”

...

The dining room was exactly what Tom had expected. Dark wood. Crystal decanters. A silence so carefully maintained, it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.

Her father sat at the head of the table, back straight as a blade. Not a single hair out of place. Not a single expression wasted. He looked at Tom as one might examine an antique wand—valuable, but potentially volatile.

Y/N sat to the side, in quiet observation, glass untouched. She wore nothing expressive, and yet she seemed to burn brighter than the candles.

“Tom,” her father began, voice low and steady, “Slughorn speaks of you often. I must admit, I was curious.”

Tom inclined his head with just the right degree of humility. “That’s generous of him. Professor Slughorn has always had an eye for talent.”

Her father gave the barest nod, the kind that said: And I’ll decide for myself if he was right.

They spoke of inconsequential things first — the rise and fall of this or that department, a new magical regulation Tom pretended to be concerned with. But every word was a test. Every smile a blade.

“You seem quite... forward-thinking for one so young,” her father said, sipping his wine.

“I don’t see much use in looking backward,” Tom replied. “History only teaches what happens when people lack vision.”

Her father smiled — faint, almost approving. “Indeed.”

Y/N said nothing. But she watched Tom closely, like someone watching a storm from behind glass.

At one point, Tom caught her eye. Just for a second.

She raised her brow, subtle, amused.

You're enjoying this, it said.

And maybe he was.

Her father set down his glass with the precision of someone who disliked unnecessary movement.

“And how is she in your class, Mr. Riddle?” he asked, voice casual in the way a dagger might be considered a decorative accessory. “I assume she participates.”

Tom didn’t even glance at her. “She’s exceptional,” he said, smooth and immediate. “Sharp. Focused. Rarely distracted by the trivial.”

Y/N gave him a sideways look, one brow lifted just slightly. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But your father might be.”

Her father didn’t react — not outwardly. He turned his gaze to her instead. “I expect excellence, you know that.”

Y/N leaned forward just enough to meet his eyes. “And yet you never ask me how I’m doing. Just whether I’m performing.”

The room stilled. A pause, long and deliberate.

Tom spoke then, softly: “She’s not just performing, sir. She’s outpacing most of the class.”

Another silence — deeper now. Not awkward. Just heavy.

Her father nodded, but it wasn’t praise. It was acknowledgment. “Good.”

Y/N picked up her wine, sipped it slowly, and said, “You don’t have to worry. He trains us well.”

Riddle’s mouth twitched — a flicker of amusement. Her father didn’t catch it. Or chose not to.

The conversation had drifted back to policy — some dull bureaucratic reshuffling that neither of them had any real interest in.

Y/N didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Instead, her hand moved — slow, deliberate — beneath the linen of the tablecloth, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of Tom’s trousers. Just resting, at first. Casual. Almost dismissible.

Tom stiffened the slightest degree — a flicker, nothing more. His jaw tightened as he turned his wineglass slowly between his fingers, saying something polite about international Floo network regulations.

Her hand moved upward. Barely an inch.

He glanced at her, just once, from the corner of his eye — a look that said, Now? Really?

She didn’t look back at him. Didn’t even smile.

Another inch.

He inhaled through his nose, a breath so soft it wouldn’t register to anyone else — except maybe her father, who had spent a lifetime reading the smallest changes in men’s composure.

But Tom didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop talking. He just gave her a look — one raised brow, mouth set in that tight, don’t test me line.

And still, she moved higher.

He placed his hand — calmly, purposefully — over hers, halting her progress. Squeezed once. A warning. A promise.

She finally looked at him then, eyes bright with something between mischief and triumph.

Dinner ended not with dessert, but with dismissal. Her father folded his napkin with military precision, then stood.

“Riddle,” he said, voice crisp, “join me for a cigarette.”

It wasn’t a question.

Then, to Y/N, sharp and final: “Bed. Now.”

She opened her mouth — not to protest, but to say something, anything — but Tom caught her gaze, gave the barest shake of his head. Not here.

She lingered a second too long, then rose. Her footsteps were quiet as she left, but her presence clung to the room like perfume.

The terrace was cold and dark, lit only by two hovering orbs of enchanted light. Her father took out a silver case, offered it silently. Tom accepted, wordless.

The first inhale came with silence. The second with smoke. The third, finally, with words.

Her father spoke without looking at him. “You have plans.”

Tom exhaled slowly. “Of course.”

“Big ones, I assume.”

“I don’t bother with the small kind.”

That earned him a small grunt of approval. Or recognition. Hard to say.

“What field?” the man asked, flicking ash into the dark. “Ministry? Academia? Power like yours doesn’t stay long in classrooms.”

Tom’s gaze lingered on the horizon. “Classrooms are useful. People don’t watch you closely when they think you’re just a teacher.”

“And when they start watching?”

Tom smiled faintly. “Then I’ll already be somewhere else.”

A beat.

“You don’t want a post. You want position.”

Tom turned to him now, face calm. “I want reach. I want leverage. I want freedom.”

“Freedom?” the man repeated. “Strange word, coming from someone who follows so many rules so precisely.”

Tom met his eyes. “Rules are tools. You don’t smash a door if you can unlock it.”

A long silence followed. Not uncomfortable — just heavy with understanding.

The old man tapped the end of his cigarette against the iron railing, eyes never leaving the night.

“And legacy?” he asked. “Do you care for that sort of thing?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He watched the glow at the end of his cigarette dim, then reignite.

“Legacy is inevitable,” he said. “If you're worth remembering.”

“But some prefer to shape what they leave behind.”

Tom glanced at him. “You mean heirs.”

The man didn’t deny it. “You’ve built the mind. Built the name. Eventually, you’ll need the line.”

“So,” her father said, eyes on the darkness beyond the terrace rail, “is there a girl already?”

Tom didn’t look at him. “Pardon?”

“You’re young,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Sharp. Ambitious. Someone in your position—well. People will want to attach themselves.”

“I imagine they will,” Tom said calmly.

“And have you let anyone?”

A long pause followed — not of hesitation, but of deliberation. Then:

“No.”

Her father studied him, a sliver of smoke curling between his fingers. “Strange. A man with your... charisma.”

Tom allowed himself a smile. “Charm and attachment are rarely the same thing.”

“Do you plan to marry?”

“Eventually. If it’s useful.”

...

She climbed the stairs slower than usual. Not because she was tired — far from it. Her pulse was annoyingly loud in her ears, and her skin prickled with a kind of static that refused to settle.

He’s staying.

That thought had been repeating itself like a spell ever since her father had mentioned the guest room. Just one word — guest — but said with such clipped finality, as though it meant nothing.

But it did.

Because the guest room was next to hers. Just a few quiet steps away, separated by nothing but old plaster walls and a hallway that creaked in two places.

She opened her door and closed it behind her gently, then leaned back against it for a moment, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Her room was the same as always — books half-stacked on the desk, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the windowsill, bed not quite made. But it felt different. Like it was holding its breath, too.

She moved with too much purpose, adjusting nothing and everything — smoothing the coverlet, brushing invisible dust from her vanity, catching her own reflection and looking away too fast.

She sat on the edge of the bed, then stood. Sat again.

He’ll come up soon.

Of course he would. Tom didn’t leave things half-finished. Especially not her.

She crossed the room in measured steps, fingers grazing over the wardrobe’s handles before pulling it open.

The cool air inside touched her skin as she reached for the nightgown she hadn’t worn in months — silk, pale, almost translucent where the light hit it just right. It was too delicate for sleep, and too deliberate for coincidence. But tonight wasn’t about sleep. Not really.

She held it up for a moment, watching how it swayed slightly in her hands. Then slipped it on.

The fabric slid over her shoulders like a whisper. She shivered — not from the cold, but from the knowing. The weight of intention.

She let her hair down next, the pins clinking softly into her palm one by one. The mirror caught her eyes, then her mouth — a tilt of something there, amusement or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.

She dabbed a little perfume on her wrists. Not her usual one — something sharper, older. The kind that lingered.

Then she turned down the lamp. Not out — never out — but low enough that the shadows could settle, stretch. Wrap the room in something softer.

She sat again, this time near the window, one leg folded under her, the other bare foot grazing the floor.

And waited.

Not idly. Not passively.

She waited the way a flame does — steady, quiet, and entirely ready to burn.

The hallway creaked once. Then silence again — too perfect to be natural.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

Then: the softest brush of knuckles against wood. No knock. Just a touch.

Her door opened a fraction, slowly, deliberately — not waiting for permission.

Tom stepped inside like the shadows were holding the door for him.

His jacket was gone. The sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, exposing the lines of his forearms — precise, composed, and somehow more intimate than anything else about him. His eyes swept over her, pausing at the curve of her knee, the drape of the silk.

He didn’t speak. Just closed the door behind him.

“I thought you’d take longer,” she said, voice low, barely carrying.

“I didn’t want to,” he replied.

He moved closer, not hurried, but with certainty. His presence filled the room long before he reached her.

“I see you got ready for bed,” he said, glancing down at the nightgown, a smile ghosting over his mouth.

“Didn’t plan to sleep.” Her gaze didn’t leave his. “Did you?”

He stopped just before her — close enough for the air to shift, for the quiet to catch fire between them.

“No,” he said. “I came to ruin that plan.”

She stood slowly, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her legs. He didn’t step back. He never did.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. No words. Just breath and space and the heavy, aching pull between them.

Then her hand came up — fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, barely touching. She wasn’t pulling him closer.

She didn’t need to.

He leaned in. Not hungrily, not urgently — but with that terrifying precision of his, as if he'd calculated the exact degree of heat in the air between them.

And kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t brutal either. It was measured — the way one tests the strength of a lock before breaking it. His lips pressed to hers, slow, sure, and utterly in control. But there was tension beneath it — like something barely held back.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He deepened the kiss then — just a little. Enough to taste the edge of what he wanted. Enough to tell her he could take more. Would. When he chose to.

When they broke apart, his mouth lingered close, breath warm against her cheek.

“I’ve had to pretend all night,” he murmured, voice low and sharp. “Don’t make me pretend in here.”

"You don't have to." She pushed herself up onto tip toes, giving him a light kiss. She needed him.

He was hungry, lust overwhelming him. He kissed her back,intense. His hand found her hip, keeping her close. He pushed her back slowly against the bed, both of them falling into a heap. She watched him kick his loafers off and strip off his shirt before he climbed above her.

Tom slid her gown down, his eyes flicking over her. As he pulled it up he let out a small exhale astounded by her body.

His mouth lowered, a trail of small kisses forming along her breasts. His jaw rubbed against her nipple, causing her to let out a small gasp.

"You gonna let daddy down there know your professor is fucking you?" He murmured against her skin.

"Fuck you,Tom"

"You already did." He smiled in a wicked way.

then he dipped his head lower, kissing lightly over her chest and stomach, down to her hip.

She pushed his head down between her thighs, opening her legs up to him. He wanted to make her beg.

He let his tongue reach out, slowly gliding through her folds and she pushed her hips up, desperate for more. He worked slowly, wanting to taste her, like the first time. He found her clit, pressing himself against it momentarily as she gasped.

"Please, Tommy"

"You okay sweetheart,I heard you gasp" Came a noise from outside.

Fuck,fuck, fuck. She though.

"Answer him,doll" his voice vibrated.

"Everything's fine,thanks dad" She muttered. Then an answer came the last time. "Okay,good night."

She settled back into his touch as his hand found her hip, pushing her back against the bed. His other hand came up to her pussy, his middle finger slowly pushed into her entrance. She let out a small moan."Don't say anything about what just happened with my dad"

His finger found a rhythm, as he added another, filling her up. Tom lowered his mouth back to her clit. A small suck of it lifted her hips up from the bed. "Do I look like I want to talk about your damn father?"

His fingers curled into her, as he sucked on her clit again. His tongue came back to lick against her folds. He enjoyed her whines.

As he sucked against her clit for the final time, her orgasm washed over her.

She sank back into the bed. He kissed her lightly.

[lucydixon]

Sweet on you

GIF by @jst2guyz

Summary: You and Erik are friends who seem, to everyone around you, including the Campbell family, to have a deeper relationship than either of you is willing to admit. When you express wanting your nipples pierced one afternoon, Erik jumps at the chance to offer his services.

Warning: NSFW, Needles, Piercing, Hand Stuff, Unprotected P in V

You and Erik had been somewhere between friends and maybe more since high school. You didn’t kiss and weren’t sleeping together, not in that way at least. You’d spent plenty of nights sharing his bed, and you'd woken up in his arms too many times to count after a late night at the Campbell family home.

From the outside, the two of you looked like a couple. You teased one another relentlessly, exchanging flirty banter and hanging off of eachother constantly.

Even his family wasn’t sure where you stood.

Neither of you had ever had a serious relationship that had lasted all that far beyond the introduction to the other. Every partner either of you had ever had was unsettled by how close to eachother you were, and they always wound up asking you to choose. 

You’d never not chosen each other. 

There was tension, sure.

More times than either of you could count, you’d gotten a little bit too close, and found yourselves inches away from locking lips, or allowed your casual touching to venture beyond the line of friendship, your fingertips would brush over his stomach when he was walking around the house shirtless, his running over your exposed collarbones or the curve of your waist whenever he had access to either. 

But, anytime things got a little too real, the two of you laughed it off. 

“How bad did it hurt when you got your nipples pierced?” You asked Erik absently, chewing on the end of your pencil while you sketched in the margins of your notebook, legs draped over his lap while he played videogames on a Sunday afternoon. 

“Not as bad as it hurt to pierce my dick.” He scoffed without tearing his eyes away from the TV. 

“Think I could take it?” You asked, genuinely waiting to know what he thought. 

Nobody knew you better than he did.

“Probably,” He shrugged “There’s no way it’ll hurt worse than getting your ribs inked did. Why? You want me to pinch them so you can find out?” 

A lazy smirk crept across his face and you kicked him lightly. 

“No, I don’t want you to pinch them.” You rolled your eyes “Asshole.” 

“I just don’t know if I wanna deal with the healing time.” 

“That’s the worst part.” He bobbed his head thoughtfully. “I think you could handle it though, you’re tough.” 

“I think I’m gonna do it.” You muttered, nodding decisively to yourself after a moment. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tommorow?” He raised a brow, looking away from his game finally. 

“Before I chicken out.” You shrugged, “Is Janey working tomorrow?” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoah!” He exclaimed, tossing the controller aside to look at you like you’d lost your mind “You’ve got an expert piercer right here and you want Janey to do it?” 

“If you wanted to see my tits, you could’ve just asked.” You told him, biting back a smirk when his cheeks noticeably warmed.  

“C’mon, sweets” he groaned, trying to play it off “I could really use the scratch. You let me do it and that’s fifty bucks in my pocket.” 

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. He’d been calling you that for ages. Neither of you were sure when it had started or where it had come from, but you never asked him to stop so he never did. 

“Yeah, okay.” You conceded, holding your hands up in surrender. “Fine.” 

“Alright, sweets,” Erik started getting set up the following evening after he'd finished with all of his clients for the day, and waved you over to the piercing chair “strip.” 

“You could at least buy me dinner first” You gave him a light shove, shrugging off your coat while he chuckled under his breath. 

You pulled your shirt over your head and draped it over the back of the chair, then made yourself comfortable. You’d purposefully not worn a bra so that you didn’t have anything rubbing up against your fresh piercings. 

When Erik turned to face you, he wasn’t sure why your bare chest had caught him so off guard. 

He’d seen them in tanktops and sports bras, but to see your tits in all their glory without a stitch of fabric covering them was something else entirely. 

His eyes raked over the soft swell of your breasts and the little, pink buds adorning them. 

They were perfect and looked like they’d fit beautifully in the palm of his hands. 

He’d be lying if he said that he’d never thought about it. 

Erik felt his breath hitch in his throat, but covered it up with a cough, trying not to look like he was ogling you despite that very much being the case. 

The fact that you were just sitting there comfortably, making no attempt to hide them from him, even for a moment, made his dick twitch in his pants. 

He rolled his stool closer to the piercing chair so that it would hide the bulge slowly growing from your view, determined not to ruin this. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he offered to do it. 

Maybe he did just want to see your tits. 

“Do you want them vetical or horizontal?” He asked you, swallowing hard. 

“That’s a thing?” You asked, looking amused “People get verical nipple piercings?” 

“Some people.” Erik shrugged “I take that as a no on the vertical?” 

“Correct” 

“Okay, I’m gonna mark them out with a pen” He muttered, grabbing one off of his station before hesitating. “I’m gonna have to like, touch you.” 

“Oh, really?” You smirked softly “Here I was thinking you could pierce my nipples without touching me at all.” 

“Alright.” He rolled his eyes “Laugh it up sweets, I’m about to cop a feel, so you’d better savour it.” 

“Oh, I will.” You scoffed, but still, you shuddered when he reached out and touched you gently. 

The side of his hand rested on your breast, fingers carefully pinching the little pink bud while he placed a dot on either side, ducking down to make sure it was even. 

He was close enough that you could feel his breath fanning over your chest and you couldn’t deny the way it made you feel. 

He moved onto the other side, just as diligent and shockingly professional about the whole thing while you watched, breathing shakily. 

Your cocky, teasing stare was was long gone, replaced by a soft look and lightly parted lips. 

You wondered if he could feel your heart racing in your chest. 

Erik was far too busy fighting the urge to engulf your nipples with his mouth to notice anything. 

He was trying so, so hard to pretend that you were just any other customer. As if it would keep the nerves settling in his chest from getting any worse. 

He wasn’t sure that the two of you had ever been in such an intimate position. 

It shouldn’t have felt intimate. Not when he was just doing his job. 

But it was you. 

Even though he was talking you thorough the whole process, you still jolted when he came near you with the clamp. 

“Easy, sweets.” He warned, looking up at you teasingly as he clicked the clamps “don’t get all squirmy on me now. You’re gonna fuck it up.” 

“I’m not getting squirmy.” You defended, huffing softly “just do it.” 

“I’m trying!” He chuckled, slowly fastening the clamp so he could grab a clean needle. “Don’t look while the needle’s going through it.” 

“Yeah, okay.” You grumbled, looking up at the ceiling. 

“Do you want me to count?” Erik asked, lining the tip of the needle up with the marks he’d made. “Or just do it?” 

“Just do it-” Your sentence ended in a gasp when you felt the needle pierce the bundle of nerves 

“Fuck Erik!” You whimpered, fighting the urge to look “That fucking hurt!” 

“Of course it did, it’s a needle.” He rolled his eyes “Want me to kiss it better?” 

“Shut up.” You huffed, able to hear the smirk in his voice. 

He put the bar through it and started on the other one right away. 

You made the same gasping sound when the needle went in, but this time, you didn’t complain. 

“There.” He undid the clamp and sat back, admiring his work, acutely aware hat he probably wasn’t going to ever get to stare at your tits so blatantly ever again. So, he was taking full advantage. “Done.” 

You looked down and inspected the little metal bars through your nipples before beaming at him. 

“What do you think?” You asked, looking back down at them “Cute, right?” 

“Very.” Erik scoffed, biting back a remark about just how good they looked. 

He tossed his gloves into the bin under the table, and you immediately reached for your bag before even putting your top back on. 

“Nah, you don’t have to pay.” Erik waved you off and you faltered, staring at him. 

“I thought you needed the money?” You frowned, brows pulling together slightly. 

“I said it’s fine.” He insisted, very clearly avoiding eye contact.

“You fucker!” You gasped, “You did just want to see my tits!” 

He made a huffing sound and you knew that you were right. 

“Erik Campbell, you sly dog.” You teased, reaching out to grab his chin and force him to look at you “I told you yesterday. You could’ve just asked.” 

“Stop,” he groaned, trying the pull away. 

“No, way!” You exclaimed, tightening your grip and looking far too amused. “tell me the truth. Was this all some ploy to cop a feel?” 

You didn’t seem weirded out, which was throwing him off a bit. 

Did you want this as much as he did?

His breathing shifted, a little ragged as he considered the possibility. 

“What if it was?” His voice didn’t waver, his gaze suddenly sharp instead of embarrassed, darting down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. 

Now it was your cheeks heating up. 

You swallowed hard. 

“Then I’d tell you again,” you breathed, leaning forward slightly in your seat, “You don’t need a ploy, Campbell. Don’t need tricks or excuses. You could’ve just asked.” 

“And what?” He scoffed softly, resting his hand over your knee, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “You’d have flashed me?” 

“I’d have let you do a whole lot more than look.” 

“Yeah?” he couldn’t help the gleam of disbelief in his eyes, hiding behind the blatant hunger. 

“Mhmm.” You hummed, releasing his chin to let your hand trail down his neck and rest on his shoulder. 

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?” He muttered, breathing deeply as you kept getting closer and closer “You’ve been teasing me for years, sweets.”

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t tease me too, Campbell.” You nuzzled his cheek with your nose once you got close enough.

“I’m not the one walking around in short little skirts.” Erik’s fingers inched up your leg “You think I don’t notice when you rub up against me in the morning? The way you squirm whenever you’re sitting in my lap? That little smirk when you act like you can’t feel me getting hard?” 

“What about you, huh?” you all but purred, “I’m not the one who only sleeps in their underwear. Don’t think I can’t feel you rubbing right back in the mornings, Erik. You’re just as bad as I am. The way you hold my waist when we’re at concerts or on the train? That’s a little more than friendly, don’t you think?” 

“We’ve always been a little more than friendly, sweets.” he hummed, raking his nails over the skin just below the hem of your skirt “You know that as well as I do.” 

“What’s a little more then?” 

You yelped when Erik pulled you off the table and into his lap suddenly, grabbing onto his hair. 

You could feel his bulge pressed up against your scantily clad clit, arching your body into him slightly as a whimper slipped past your lips. 

“Watch the piercings.” he pulled back slightly to growl at you, hands resting on your ass, over your skirt. “That’s some of my best work right there.” 

“You watch them.” you huffed, tilting his head back with the grip you had on his hair. 

Your bottom lip was jutting out in a soft pout and he’d never wanted to kiss you so badly in his life. 

So he did. 

Your lips collided roughly, slotting together and immediately moving at a near frantic pace. 

Years of tension bubbled up to the surface and you were really struggling not to press your upper body flush against his. His hands kneaded the plump flesh of your backside roughly and you moaned into his mouth. You could feel your panties soaking right through and were sure that you were so wet that you’d soak through his jeans if he didn’t take them off very soon. 

Your hips rocked into his and he couldn’t help but groan. 

You swallowed the sound happily, hands trailing down his shoulders to tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours while you continued to grind yourself up against him, getting yourself more and more worked up.

Erik happily shrugged off his t-shirt, tossing it across the room before grabbing the bottom of your thighs and standing. 

You whined when he set you down, but the sound turned into a gasp when he spun you around and pulled you back into his lap. 

Your back pressed up against his bare chest as he hooked your legs over his knees and spread you wide open. 

You could feel the cool air against your soaked panties and let your head fall back on his shoulder, giving him great access to the side of your throat. 

His mouth was on you, hot and wet, sloppily pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck while you squirmed in his lap, making little needy, breathless sounds. 

“You know how long I’ve been wanting to touch you like this, sweets?” he muttered into your throat, hands running up and down the insides of your thighs, coming so close, yet still too far from your aching core. 

“How long?” you panted, about ready to let your own hand fall between your legs to get some relief. 

“Since the day I met you.” he growled, finally caressing the drenched fabric acting as the sole barrier to your burning heat. “God, you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you?” 

“Maybe I’ve been waiting for you to touch me like this for just as long.” You whined “please, Erik.” 

Your pleading almost had his cumming in his pants but he squeezed his eyes shut and goaned loudly into the back of your shoulder. 

Just as you were opening your mouth to start really begging, he suddenly pulled your panties to the side and ran his finger along your slit.

You jolted, hips bucking into his hand involuntarily as you hissed.

“This what you want, sweets?” he breathed, struggling to keep his composure. There was a slight vulnerability in his tone.

He needed you to say it. 

Needed you to tell him that this was okay and that it wouldn’t ruin things because he just couldn’t lose you and if stopping then and there was it took to make sure he didn’t, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. 

“Yes,” You gasped, breathy and desperate, “Oh god, please. Yes, Erik, yes! I want this.” 

That was all he needed. 

The sound that tore its way out of your throat when his finger sunk into your drenched hole was other worldly and send a shudder up his spine. 

Your entire body melted into his, and he was sure that if he wasn’t already sitting down, his knees would have buckled. 

“Promise me I’m gonna see you tomorrow.” It was a demand, really, but he needed to hear it. 

“I promise.” You panted, crying out when he worked a second finger into you “Fuck- of course you will. You’ll see me tomorrow and every day after that.” 

“Think you can get rid of me, Campbell?” You rocked your hips into his hand, moaning lowly 

“you’re stuck with me, baby” you were practically fucking yourself on his fingers, only vaguely aware of the words coming out of your mouth in between desperate whines and mewls. “Always have been, always will be” 

A shaky breath fell from his lips and for a moment, he was glad that you couldn’t see him. 

“You’re mine, sweets.” he muttered into your ear, his breath fanned over the sensitive skin and you shuddered. Your movements slowed and your breath caught in your throat “Aren’t you?” 

“Course I am, Erik.” you breathed, leaning further into him, “now, are we gonna keep talking, or are you gonna take your pants off?” 

A soft growl left his throat and in an instant, you were being tossed back onto the chair while he stood abruptly, fumbling with his belt buckle. 

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his clear eagerness, but the laughter died in your throat when he finally got his pants down around his knees and pulled you to the edge of the chair, prying your legs open roughly so he could line himself up with your cunt. 

“Last chance to turn back,” He breathed, running the head of his cock through your folds. 

You could feel the cool metal of his piercing nudging your clit and throught you might come undone then and there. 

You forced yourself to look up at him instead of letting your eyes roll back inside your head. 

“Fuck that.” You panted, desperate to feel him inside of you. 

After one last deep, shaky breath, Erik teased your entrance with the head of his cock, easing it into you painfully slowly in long, but shallow thrusts. 

That piercing of his dragging along your walls was damn near eupphoric. 

He’d only made it to the halfway point, exercising an impressive amount of restraint despite the urge to slam into you, before you started gasping and groaning, already teetering over the edge. 

“You already gonna cum for me, sweets?” He cooed teasingly, albiet shakily “God, you’re so fucking hot. You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” 

All you could do was nod, screwing your eyes shut in complete bliss. 

“Fuck, that feels so fucking good.” He groaned, letting his head fall back while he quickened his shallow thrusts, timing them in between your little desperate pants. “So goddamn tight.” 

You were so wet hat lewd squelching sounds filled the air, background music to the symphony of sounds pouring out of your mouths. 

As soon as he felt your walls fluttering around him, Erik sunk into you until he bottommed out. 

You gasped, but didn’t have time to adjust before he was pounding your poor cunt, fucking you hard and fast through your orgasm. 

“Holy shit,” He panted, slamming himself home over and over while you convulsed around him, your cunt squeezing him so tightly that he couldn’t have stoped his own release even if he’d wanted to. 

You could feel the hot ropes of cum painting your insides and clenched around him, milking his balls of all you could while he sloppily thrust into you, slowing to a stop.

For the third time, he picked you up and sat himself on the piercing table, keeping himself buried deep inside your still pulsating cunt while you both caught your breath, still be careful with the fresh piercings. 

“Does this mean you’re gonna clean these piercings for me every day till they heal?” You sighed contently after awhile, brushing your fingers over his chest. 

“Gonna have to hang out with me extra if I’m gonna do it twice a day, every day.” he breathed, smiling softly, and blinking at you tiredly “You sure you can commit to that?” 

“I’m pretty sure I can live with that.” 

“Then yeah.”

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[custom-fic-studio]

Trafalgar D. Water Law x female reader

Still Here

The room is too quiet.

The only sounds are the soft scrape of metal instruments against a tray, the gentle drip of antiseptic, and the faint hum of tension radiating off Law’s body like heat off a storm.

You’re seated on the edge of the med bay cot, legs dangling limply, shirt already peeled away to expose the bruises blooming across your ribs. There’s a gash across your thigh that refuses to stop weeping.

He hasn’t spoken since he started patching you up.

Not once.

His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed beneath dark lashes, and every movement is sharp. Controlled. The kind of restraint that only comes from someone trying not to feel something too big.

You flinch when he presses gauze to your side — not from the pain, but from the heat of his palm. You’re hyper-aware of him. Of everything.

He’s never looked at you like this before.

Like he’s terrified.

Like he’s furious.

“You’re mad,” you murmur softly, watching him work.

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

“You are.”

He ties the bandage a little too tight. “You took on a ship of Marine officers by yourself.”

“I had to—”

“You didn’t.” His tone is calm, but beneath it, his voice trembles with something sharp. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know,” you say, breathing through the sting, “but you were protecting the crew. Someone had to draw their attention.”

He finally meets your eyes.

And it almost breaks you.

There’s so much in them. Fear. Rage. Relief. All tangled in a storm behind that golden stare.

“I could’ve lost you.”

You smile through the ache in your chest. “I’d do anything for my captain and my crew.”

His shoulders slump — a sharp exhale escaping him like he’s been holding his breath since the fight.

“You idiot,” he mutters, setting the last of the supplies aside with a clatter. “Don’t say shit like that.”

You reach for his hand, fingers brushing his gloved knuckles.

He flinches — just slightly.

But doesn’t pull away.

“I mean it,” you say gently.

He pulls his gloves off slowly, tosses them onto the tray, and takes your hand in his.

You expect him to scold you again.

He doesn’t.

He leans forward — slow, measured — and kisses you.

It’s not careful.

It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

His mouth crashes into yours with heat and hunger that steals the air from your lungs. His fingers slide up to cradle the back of your head, careful to avoid your bandaged wound, while his other hand fists the edge of the cot beside your thigh.

You make a small, wounded noise — somewhere between surprise and desire — and his grip tightens.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters against your lips, voice wrecked. “If you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” you whisper, breath shaky. “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts you — one arm under your knees, the other behind your back — and lays you down fully on the cot, lips never leaving yours. His coat hits the floor. His shirt is gone a moment later.

And then it’s just him.

Warm skin. Broad shoulders. Scars and ink and desperation.

He kisses you again — slower now, but deeper. Possessive. One hand cups your cheek while the other skims down your waist, fingertips ghosting over every bruise, every scrape.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he growls softly. “Bleeding. Broken. Because of me.”

You arch up slightly, gasping when his mouth dips to your collarbone, sucking gently where skin is still unmarked. “It wasn’t because of you. I made that choice.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just kisses you again — lower this time. Across your sternum. Down your ribs. His hand slips between your thighs, spreading them carefully, reverently, before trailing up the inside with torturously slow precision.

“Law—” you breathe, voice trembling.

He shushes you softly, fingers brushing against your center — finding you wet, swollen, already aching for him.

“You’re sure?” he asks again, voice low, raw.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

The way he groans at that word — please — it’s almost animal.

He sinks to his knees at the foot of the cot, dark eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, he just stays there — hands gripping your hips gently, breathing ragged, gaze drinking in every inch of you like he’s still convincing himself you’re alive, that you’re here.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee — featherlight, reverent.

He pulls you forward with careful hands, guiding your thighs over his shoulders with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. The feeling of his skin on yours, his fingers pressing into the softness of your hips, is enough to set every nerve in your body alight.

His breath ghosts over your inner thighs, warm and shaky — and when his mouth finally touches you, you jerk in surprise, a soft cry leaving your lips before you can stop it.

It starts slow.

His tongue moves in languid, exploratory strokes, savoring you. Not rushing. Not greedy — yet.

You clutch the sheets, gasping as he begins to map you out with growing focus, coaxing your body open with nothing but his mouth and an unrelenting devotion that leaves you trembling.

Your hips roll forward on instinct, chasing the rhythm he builds with each passing second, and he groans at the way you react to him — the way you open for him, the way your moans grow needier with every breath.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when your voice breaks. Not even when your legs start to shake.

His hands hold you firm — possessive, grounding — and when your hand slides into his hair, tugging hard, he only grips you tighter and devours you deeper, like your pleasure is the only thing that matters.

By the time he pulls back, his lips are wet, his chest is rising fast, and his face — flushed and wrecked — looks like he just walked out of a battlefield and into heaven.

He presses a final kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, before standing over you again — eyes blazing, jaw tight, hunger barely held in check.

And when he sees you looking up at him — lips parted, eyes glassy, still gasping for air — something in him snaps completely.

And this time, he doesn’t ask for permission.

He just gives you everything.

His belt hits the floor.

You reach for him, eyes glassy, lips parted — body aching, nerves still sparking from the way he worshipped you only moments before.

“Please,” you whisper again, voice trembling with need. “I need you.”

That breaks him.

There’s no teasing smirk. No clever remark. Just the sound of his breath catching, and the way his gaze darkens as he sheds the last of his restraint.

He doesn’t tease.

He doesn’t stall.

He just gives in.

With one long, deep stroke, he thrusts into you — and the both of you cry out at the contact. The stretch is overwhelming, your body already so sensitive, but the fullness of him, the slow grind of his hips against yours — it feels right. Like everything inside you was waiting for this, for him.

He groans — low and guttural — as he sinks all the way in, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he exhales through clenched teeth. “Fuck…”

You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your legs trembling as they hook around his waist, anchoring him close. There’s no space left between you — just the heat of skin, the stick of sweat, the way your hearts pound against each other like drums in sync.

He starts slow — deep and heavy, each thrust measured and full, dragging against every sensitive place inside you until you can’t help but moan into the curve of his neck.

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

“Don’t do that again,” he growls — each word marked by a hard, perfect thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

You gasp his name, voice cracking. “L-Law…”

Your nails dig into his back, clawing at him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t hold on. “I-I won’t,” you choke out, tears welling in your eyes from the intensity — from everything. “I promise. I swear—”

His thrusts grow more frantic, hips snapping harder, deeper, breath ragged.

“I need you here,” he pants, mouth brushing your ear. “Alive. With me. Don’t make me watch you almost die again.”

His voice breaks on the last word — and your heart shatters.

You hold him tighter, lips brushing his jaw, and he takes you even deeper, the angle brutal in its precision — hitting something inside you that leaves your whole body arching off the cot.

You come undone with a cry, back bowing, voice shattered as you scream his name — and Law follows, a curse torn from his throat as his hips lose rhythm, stuttering, buried deep as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds almost like relief.

But he doesn’t move. Not yet.

His hands are trembling as they cup your face, his forehead resting against yours, breath hot and uneven as he tries to slow the storm still raging inside him.

Your fingers thread through his damp hair, and you close your eyes, both of you still locked together, chest to chest, heart to heart.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence.

Then, softly — barely audible — you whisper, “I’m still here.”

And he holds you even tighter.

[logaenhowlett]

I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - L.H.

Summary: The small things are never just small things. For Logan, they're the constellations charting the story of him and you.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff (your heart may not be able to handle this), Established relationship, Domestic AF

A/N: I'll jump at any chance to write for Origins!Logan (he's my man fr). Here's another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was ELATION. Title creds to Shelby Lynne.

MASTERLIST

“Honey, I’m home.”

“In the backyard!”

Keys follow a graceful arc as Logan tosses them into the tray by the door. And as always, they land with a soft clink, a quiet exhalation of metal on ceramic signalling the end of his workday.

The tray itself - a chipped, sun-faded thing you'd unearthed at an antique market one afternoon - bears the loving imprint of time. He remembers the way your eyes lit up immediately, declaring it "perfect" before playfully haggling with the vendor, your laughter ringing through the crowded stalls like a cascade of wind chimes.

Boots thud against the floor. As he toes them off, the memory of your gentle chiding surfaces; "Baby..." drawn out in an affectionate warning as you gestured to the offending muddy tracks.

Logan glances down, half-expecting the telltale streaks of dirt. Instead, the polished wood gleams back, pristine and devoid of smudges. And he knows, with a sweet certainty, that you'll be pleased.

His jacket sways the already-leaning coat rack, adding to the precarious balance of hats, scarves and dog leads you insisted on buying for the neighbour's German Shepherds. Those evenings - leash in hand as the dogs bound ahead, your face alight with a smile rivalling the setting sun - nestle warmly in the depths of his heart.

Couch cushions, dented from countless hours of cuddling and late-night reading, yield lightly beneath his touch as he ventures through the living room. On the coffee table, lit candles cast shadows across faint, nearly invisible rings of condensation, ghosts of beer bottles past.

The fireplace crackles merrily, chasing away the frosty air he'd braved last night to gather the wood piled neatly beside it. "Do you have to?" you'd murmured as he reluctantly unwound himself from your embrace. "I'll be quick, darlin'", the promise sealed with a kiss upon your nose.

Framed photographs adorn the mantlepiece above. One catches Logan's eye in particular: your first Christmas together. The ridiculously ugly sweater you'd crocheted with painstaking - and slightly misguided - enthusiasm encases him. He's tucked into your neck, seeking refuge from both the camera's flash and the itchy wool, but a small, happy smile betrays his discomfort.

Warm apple pie, its sweetness a siren's call, beckons him into the kitchen. A traitorous urge tempts him with visions of a generous sliver. But then he remembers your hand, light yet firm, swatting his greedy fingers away. "Dessert's after dinner, Lo," followed by his usual retort: "As long as you're on the menu, baby."

With a chuckle, he retrieves a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge, briefly studying the disarray on its shiny surface. Sticky notes, some containing important reminders such as "Bring eggs please!" and "I love you" scrawled alongside silly doodles, compose a riot of colour and ink.

Just beyond the kitchen's threshold, a laundry basket rests patiently under the hallway light. Messy sheets from the morning spill over the rim, tangling with several orphaned socks and those boxers - the unbelievably soft ones you'd gifted him - that Logan swears he can't live without.

Familiar notes sound from the record player. Whistling along, he heads towards the bathroom, the basket bumping gently against his hip. And soon, the rhythmic whir of the washing machine falls in with the melody.

The chipped bathtub stands as evidence of an incident both clumsy and intimate from last week. Steam billowed in a thick cloud as warm water lapped at your shoulders. And in the heat of the moment, Logan's claws scraped a jagged scar across the smooth porcelain. The sudden snikt had been a jarring interruption, but the shared fit of giggles quickly dissolved any tension.

All these thoughts of you urge him straight towards the backyard. And happiness hits him square in the chest, because there you are - kneeling amidst flowerbeds, hands working the rich soil as you nurture your plants.

And then, the pieces fall into place.

Nights whiled away on the porch steps, dreaming about your lives together. The letter, a clerical error addressing you as Mr and Mrs Howlett, which you'd jokingly hung on the wall, echoing a quiet promise. Musings of tiny footprints padding across the floor of what's currently the spare bedroom.

This is it. This is his future.

Without warning, his arm curves beneath you, sweeping you off the ground. "Logan!" you exclaim, clutching his shoulders.

“Marry me. What do you say, sweetheart?"

[celuere]

hopefully we don‘t have no babies.

pt.2 of kiss it, bit it, can i fit it?

pairing: arlecchino x fem!reader

context: she is navigating you with slow and gentle steps (at first) through new found territory (aka sesbian lex)

cw: modern au, experienced dilf!arle, implied age gap (reader is in mid/late twenties), she yaps you an ear off about her spiders, pet names, praising, arle teaches you how to properly finger yourself ngh, mirrors, voyeurism, strap-on, rough sex, dumbification, arle is called peruere

word count: 3.8k

art credits: saditstic beauty: side story a

birthday special for you guys now WHERE are my presents. also thank you to angel and @angelic--kitty who more or less inspired me for this continuation ngh. i have to be honest, i outdid myself with this one. have with over 3k words of sesbian lex.

„are you certain you don‘t want to feed her? she is quite tame for her species.“

you watched the eight-legged creature crawl over her tatted skin in sheer horror.

how did she come up with the name „bambi“ for this monster of a spider?

„i-i‘m pretty certain. i‘d rather just… watch you feed her from a safe distance…!“, taking a step back from the woman and her…. pet. well, one of her various pets. 

you almost died of heart failure the moment you stepped foot into the entomologist‘s basement. terrariums lined up against the walls, everywhere. there had to be at least twenty of the damned creatures here. and today happened to be feeding day so you got to watch your date hand-feed them one by one. and of course, she didn’t leave out any introductions nor did she spare you the details of the individual species.

„this beauty is called a cyriopagopus lividus or rather a cobalt blue tarantula. they‘re known for their extraordinary blue coat and got often mixed up with the omothymus violaceopes even though they differentiate quite a lot from each other in my opinion. from size, color up to their natural habitat and attitude, they could not be more different. this one is actually a bit lively for her species-“ as if the damned thing seemed to understand her word for word, it took off from her palm and rushed up her arm where it abruptly stopped right on her shoulder, „my, the name freminet gave you really does suit you, speedy…“

yet your heart was threatening to beat out of your chest, not because of the sudden scare. rather because she just seemed so… different to you… how skilled she was handling the spiders to her barely lacking knowledge about each and every species she collected over the years. she seemed like a totally different person in that moment. and quite frankly- nothing turned you on more than watching those inked hands putting the haired monster back into its enclosure.

„how come you are so fond of them…?“

you almost regretted your question immediately at the way she mustered you all of a sudden. hesitant. as if she was weighing her options for the unknown. 

„i… i‘m sorry if that was too personal… you don‘t have to tell me if you don‘t feel comfortable with sharing that information with me…!“, you stammered as you tried lifting up the blanket of unease covering your heart. yet, peruere merely shook her head before guiding you out of her basement, a hand resting on your lower back when you walked up the stairs.

„i am not uncomfortable… not with you. it‘s just… it is not exactly the happiest story. it wouldn‘t be in my best interest to ruin tonight’s mood.“, she flashed you one of her rare smiles, but something sad clung to the way her eyes stared into yours.

you‘ve only been seeing each other for a good two months now, none of you dared to breach the topic of your past yet, her children had still to make your acquaintance, too. however, peruere showed great effort. daily phone calls, occasional dinner dates, randomly picking you up from your workplace whenever her schedule allowed it. she was truly, truly interested in you. and that fact caused your stomach to hit one cartwheel after the other.

who expected the 38-year old woman to still be so full of love? love she wants to share with you. 

„fine… another time then.“, you mirrored her soft expression, not wanting to pressure her any further about this topic. 

peruere could feel something in her ribcage tighten at the sight of you. goodness, you brought out a side in her that she didn‘t even know still existed in the first place. you made her feel young again. and she loved you for it.

she hadn‘t loved in a long time. 

„it is way past midnight already… do you still want to stay the night or do you want me to drive you back home?“, a tattooed hand came up to gently tuck a few lost hair strands back behind your ear.

with her children staying at certain ginger uncle‘s house tonight, the night belonged to you. and only you.

„well… what would you prefer? please, be honest… i wouldn‘t mind either options.“, instinctively you leaned into her warm palm, letting her thumb caress your soft skin as if it were the last time.

she looked like the moon on a lonely night yet her touch equaled the feeling of being kissed by the sun itself. warm. trusted. gentle. 

„i‘d love for you to stay the night…“, and so you did.

when you walked into her bedroom for the first time after going through your evening routine in her bathroom beforehand, you didn’t know what to expect. however, you weren‘t surprised, nor disappointed. 

the theme of the room was kept in a gentle dim light, a king-sized bed with simple white-black bedding was resting in the middle of the room. other than that the only things you could spot was a closet, a mirror and two nightstands. if compared to her kids rooms you‘d realize her own little abode is significantly smaller, probably because she doesn’t see a good point in taking up a lot of space which she only frequents for precisely one thing: sleeping. and something else.

otherwise it looked spotless. not a single corn of dust in sight. the sheets were laying neatly folded on top of the mattress and you could make out the soft scent of a room freshener clinging to the air.

„i apologize if my bedroom seems to not meet your expectations… i like to keep things simple.“, with her back turned to you, peruere opened her closet to fish some new sleepwear out for herself. 

but you were too focused. too focused on the fact that she was standing half-naked before you. her back muscles evidence of a strict diet and years of exercise. and you could spot three names imprinted underneath her right shoulder.

Lyney & Lynette 02.02

Freminet 09.24.

something in your chest tightened at the sight of her kid‘s names tattooed onto her skin. she really loved those rascals with her entire being even if they weren’t hers by blood, they will always be a part of her.

„do you have sleepwear to change into?“

„oh, yes i do, but thank you…“, you watch her put on a plain black shirt and a pair of red-black checked pants and now you are convinced. she looks handsome in literally anything.

the older woman didn’t expect a lot when she turned around but who would’ve thought seeing her sweet date in a tight tanktop and some shorts would blow her fucking mind. you weren’t even wearing anything sexual, yet her thoughts ran rampage inside her head while she tried to make an effort to avoid looking at anything else other than your face.

„so… ready for bed?“

„mhm… gosh, look at that pretty pussy…“

it took the two of you not even five minutes until the first layers of clothes came off.

which happened to be your shorts and panties. you were laying underneath her with spread legs and your own fingers working up and down your cunt, you wanted to give her a show.

but the longer you tried pleasuring yourself, the bigger the frown on peruere‘s face got.

the woman had precisely one question on her mind: did someone ever teach you how to properly finger yourself? you might as well be trying your luck at a lottery ticket the way your fingers… fumbled your folds. you weren‘t even wet enough when you tried to insert your index- and middle-finger.

„stop right there.“

„but-“

„stop. you will only end up hurting yourself.“, crimson eyes watched you remove your hand from your cunt as you tried masking the utter humiliation she just exposed you to.

„don‘t look away.“, with her hand grabbing your chin, she moved your head back to face her directly, „did someone ever teach you how to properly pleasure yourself?“

„h-huh? what do you mean?“

„all the men you have been with before, did they ever bother to finger you correctly or at least show you how to do it yourself?“, your ribcage is suddenly too small for your lungs at the vulgar words she‘s using.

„i… no… n-not that i remember… why are you asking?“

she looked at you for a few seconds before sighing and scooting back, tugging you up by your hand, „how am i supposed to sleep knowing such a pretty girl can‘t even get off all by herself… come here.“, she patted the space between her legs.

just what did she want to do?

when obliged to her request it almost immediately clicked when you were met with the reflection in front of you.

you were sat before a mirror. in her lap. butt-naked.

„y-you want to show me…“

„dear me, so smart… that is exactly what i want to do.“, peruere grabbed you by the plush of your right thigh before pulling your leg over her own and spreading you open in the process.

„so, here‘s how things will operate from here.“, she wasted no time and used her two fingers to spread your cunt open, „i will first give you a little… demonstration… and then it is your turn. how does that sound, hm?“

„th-that sounds humiliating, if i am being honest…“

„it isn‘t. at all. i am not offering this to make fun of you. please don‘t get me wrong, doll. i just want you to know how to take care of yourself the next time we‘re on a phone call.“, she let her lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, your pussy now significantly more slick and your clit aching.

oh, that phone call. just thinking about it caused you to slightly whimper.

„i… o-okay fine… show me…“

„first of all you need to look. not at your face or mine, i need you to observe your pussy when i‘m demonstrating. understood?“, her voice had something stern in it. something that shouldn‘t be allowed to be so incredibly hot.

„understood…“

„good girl. now, first of all, you want to take your middle- and ring finger, that way it is easier for you to get as deep as possible when you are using them on yourself. got it so far?“, she waited for your nod before continuing.

„the main reason why i stopped you earlier was because you were way, way too dry. you need to be slick enough to easily wet your fingers in order for them to slide in with little to no problems. sex or masturbation is never supposed to hurt. if it does you are doing something wrong.“, her expression changed into something softer the more nervous you became by watching her fingertips circle over your sensitive clit, „shhhhh… just follow my fingers, look at how wet you are getting by just a few rubs to your clit…“, using those same fingers to spread you open by your folds. the whimper found its way over your lips all on itself.

„a-ah… th-this is embarrassing, peruere…“, you mumbled before turning your head away once again. 

but the entomologist wasn‘t having it.

„if you can send me whole videos of you bouncing your pussy on a vibrator, you can also watch me fingering you in a mirror.“, she whispered almost dangerously low into your ear, her tone laced with something sinister that caused your body to grow hot… and your cunt to painfully clench around nothing.

„let me propose an offer.“, just then, her fingertips slowly sneaked their way into your slit, „if you sit through this lesson without any more complaining and manage to properly get off on your own fingers… there‘s a little reward waiting for you… alright?“, her voice came out silky, reduced to a soft pur as she hummed, pleased to find your eyes fixed back onto the wet mess between your legs.

„a-alright…“, your breathing became heavier the deeper her fingers pushed in until she was knuckles-deep inside your warmth.

„good girl. feel that?“, slowly she began to feel up your walls that were gripping onto her so tightly. peruere only chuckled, „missed me, hm?“

„hah… hngh… o-of course i did…“, you said, as you pressed yourself more into her chest. she felt so warm. so comfortable. the faint note of her usual cologne still clung to her but it lit up a flame of desire inside of you that you only ever experienced with her.

„adorable… we have several options now. you could start to move your hand back and forth…“, she demonstrated by pumping her fingers slowly in and out of you, drawing a moan from you in the process, „or curl up your fingers and search for your g-spot. it usually sits two to three inches behind your vaginal opening, right…“, electricity suddenly shoots down your spine as her two fingertips delicately press and rub into your spot, „…here.“

„o-oh archons-! h-how-?!“, you clenched the fabric of her pants in your hand as she continued to massage the sensitive spot inside of you with ease.

„after knowledge comes experience, darling. you could also combine both methods and just…“, she had you squirming around in her lap by the first pump of her fingers, curling them up each time she slid them back into your hole, „…fingerfuck yourself however you please. you can vary the pace, the motions, just whatever feels better to you.“

something, something with motions… speed… how did she expect you to pay attention with her fingers showing you what heaven truly looked like?

you were so focused on these experienced fingers working their way inside your pussy that you didn‘t even process her next words.

„and now it is your turn, sweetheart.“, the whine you let out when she retreated almost brought the older woman to her knees. 

you were just too cute in her lap. cute and unfucked. too unfucked for her liking.

„m-my turn…?“

„how am i supposed to know that my little lesson bore any fruits without a test? come on. make good use of those fingers now and pleasure yourself.“, her voice was dripping with professionalism, as if she were talking to a student.

despite the humiliation being still very much present, you obliged to her demand without as much as a simple nod. moving your fingers down, carefully sliding them through your wetness, „a-and what about my r-reward…?“

crimson eyes were fixated on the way you circled your clit in the reflection of the mirror before she leaned back, supporting herself on the mattress with her arms, „so impatient… i will only properly reward you once you manage to get off. on your own. after all, i don‘t reward slackers.“

archons, she was strict.

but did her tone only add further to the heat resting between your thighs?

fuck, it did.

and you needed that strap-on badly.

so you watched her expression falter for the slightest moment when you shoved your fingers back inside your warmth and they went in so easily. you gasped at how smoothly they went inside you, how welcoming you were compared to a few minutes ago, that you leaned your head back onto her shoulder when you started to search for your spot.

easier said than done.

„i… i-i can‘t i find it, peruere…“

„you can, angel. it should sit right above your fingertips now. come on, we don‘t give up so easily here. think about your reward…“

she didn‘t tell you that she will still pound your cute pussy senseless, even if you fail. 

she just won��t be as gentle with you.

„i-i don‘t have as much experience a-as you do…“, your voice trembled with your growing frustration when you missed it yet again. 

„darling, i‘m a whole decade older than you. i assure you we are getting-“, peruere watched your legs jolt as a moan rung through the bedroom, „…there. my, was that so hard now?“, a knowing smirk played around her lips as she watched you fall apart in her lap. all on your own.

this was different. so much different from someone else doing the work, it was even slightly better than that. you knew what motion felt the best already, the pace you wanted to set and quite honestly- you regretted not looking into your own pleasure like this way sooner. but having a 38 year old overworked woman lead you to the right path… oh, what a wonderful world you were living in.

your orgasm felt like warm hug embracing you, washing gently over you but leaving you nonetheless breathless, aching for more.

„my, look at that… aren‘t you just the sweetest little thing…?“, she didn‘t wait for a reply when she moved over to her nightstand and fished out… her very own strap-on.

„h-huh…?“

„what? don‘t tell me you changed your mind about the reward, doll…“, and truth was that she just couldn‘t wait any longer to fuck you into the mattress. with how needy your eyes were still looking at her, the way you rubbed your slightly trembling thighs together, your fingers already pulled out but the hand was still resting between them.

like a little lamb waiting for its sacrifice.

and she needed you. bad. she wanted to make up for the years you wasted with the wrong partners, showing you what you‘ve been missing out on your entire life.

her.

„n-no no! i-i didn‘t change my mind at all-!“, you crawled towards her side of the bed where she was currently standing when she started buckling up her fake dick.

the sight of you kneeling before her on the bed, tits pressed together in that skimpy top of yours forced her to wet her lips. 

you will be the end of her.

„lay back. legs spread. mhm, just like that.“, she had to suppress a groan when you exposed your soaked pussy to her eyes once again. the way she could make out your nervous breathing by how fast your chest rose and fell back down. you were excited.

„good girl. now show off that pretty cunt to me.“, her throat visibly moved when you spread your folds open for her once more. one moment she was standing, the next she dropped to her knees, hungry lips roaming over your warmth, a tongue greedily lapping up your juices as muffled groans filled the tense bedroom air.

it was almost a reflex when your hand found home between her hair strands, pushing her further into you when you couldn’t stop the sounds of pure ecstasy any longer.

yet, peruere didn‘t devote her mouth to your pussy much longer, already leaving a hot trail of messy kisses up to your tummy, tattooed hands working the fabric of your top over your tits, giving them both a treatment consisting of biting your nipple and making sure to cover those beautiful girls in lovebites beyond recognition.

„o-oh god- fuuuuck… p-please…!“, you whined, whimpered, whatever. hands tracing the outlines of her trained biceps when she fucking finally towered over you, lips swollen from treating your body like a temple, crimson eyes dark with nothing else other than carnal desire.

„you want me? you want my cock inside that tight pussy of yours, hm?“, she purred as she grabbed your right leg and placing it over her shoulder when you felt her rubbing the shaft through your slickness.

the way you shook your head up and down like a total maniac was all she needed. 

„then you shall have me.“

often peruere didn‘t look like she was approaching the 40 years mark.

but those hips made sure to remind you of it yet again. slamming so perfectly into you, her cock settling each and every time against your cervix when she bottoms out, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

she swore she could feel you gripping onto the silicone, how you sucked her in as if you were about to starve and despite not even being penetrated sexually herself- she was groaning from the deepest pits of her throat. not caring about your juices staining the sheets underneath you or her sleeping pants.

„p-peruere…!! p-peru-!!“, you mewled in the sweetest tone as you grabbed into the sheets until your knuckles turned white, tears forming in the corner of your eyes from how deep she was penetrating you from the inside.

„all those before me, did they ever fuck you as good as me? did they ever have you screaming over their cock like this, hm?“, the both of you overheard the sound of the bed creaking underneath her almost animalistic pace if it weren‘t for your skin slapping together. you could almost mistake it for a round of applause.

however, your answer was clear.

„n-no-! th-they didn‘t- Hngh!!“, your spine melted into a beautiful arch when she angled her hips to go after that one certain spot, stars already dangling around your vision from how well she was fucking you.

not even your climax stopped her. it only further motivated her to press your legs up until your knees were almost touching your ears so she could rut as deeply as possibly into you.

she hated how she couldn‘t get pregnant more than anything else right now. nobody ever made her feel this wanted as you in that moment. how you begged for her, pleading for salvation in form of her cock and what not. you wanted her fuck you into this mattress for eternity, to turn you into her own personal doll to play with.

„mine… mine, all mine…“, giving into the urge to kiss you stupid almost made her cum herself. the moans that were swallowed by her own lips, your arms snaking around her neck to keep her pressed against your body as she held your face in her hands as if you were but a precious diamond she needed to be careful with. a strong contradict to how she was plowing into you and how strongly the room smelled of sex.

and if your place was underneath her with seven inches filling you up, then so be it.

your world almost shattered after yet another exhilarating high when she pulled out, not even the slightest hint of her being out of breath yet.

„don‘t look at me like that, sweetheart. i‘m not even remotely done with you yet.“, her biceps strained as she picked you up as if you were nothing but lightweight to her before flipping you over on your stomach, „hips up.“, a hand patted the fat of your hips and you obliged more than happily.

a pillow was placed underneath you and you also dragged another one over to rest your head on. you knew she was about to rock your whole world.

„comfortable?“

„m-mhm…“

„then hold on tight.“

[theonottsbxtch]

VELVET & VICE | LN4

an: i can’t really remember how this idea came to me but i was listening to this song and the scenario popped in and consider this a late international women’s day fic bc let’s put respect on the real brains

wc: 5.7k

1940’s London

THE RAIN HAMMERED AGAINST THE CARRIAGE ROOF as it rattled through the darkened streets of London. The city reeked of coal smoke and damp earth, the fog curling around gas lamps like ghostly fingers. Inside, she sat rigid, fingers clenched in the folds of her lace gloves, the weight of her family’s ambition pressing against her ribs like a corset pulled too tight.

She was to be married tonight. Bound by ink and blood to a man she had never met, save for whispers of his name spoken in caution. Lando Norris. A name that carried weight in the underbelly of the city, a name that made men straighten their backs and women lower their gazes. A name that would now belong to her.

The carriage jerked to a stop in front of a grand townhouse, its brick facade imposing even beneath the gloom. A man in a flat cap opened the door, rain slicking his coat, and gestured for her to step out. She hesitated—just a beat—before she lifted her chin and climbed down, the dampness clinging to her skin like an omen.

Inside, the house smelled of whisky and tobacco, the air thick with the scent of men who made their own rules. And then she saw him.

Lando leaned against the mantle, his shirt sleeves rolled up, braces hanging loose over his shoulders. He looked exactly as she’d imagined—sharp-jawed, dark-eyes, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, eyes scanning her with the kind of disinterest that set her teeth on edge.

"So you're the poor thing they’ve shackled to me," he murmured, exhaling smoke.

She peeled off her gloves one finger at a time, ignoring the way his eyes flicked to the movement. "I’d say the feeling is mutual."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was gone just as quickly. He pushed off the mantle, stepping close enough that she caught the scent of tobacco and leather. "Let’s get one thing straight," he said, voice low. "You don’t make trouble for me, and I won’t make trouble for you. We do what’s required, and that’s it."

She met his gaze, defiant. "Oh, don’t worry. I have no intention of playing the doting wife."

Something flickered in his eyes then—something dark, something amused. He acted like her sharp tongue was a nuisance, but there was a tension in his jaw, a twitch in his fingers, that told her otherwise.

He liked it.

Lando let the silence hang between them for a moment, eyes narrowing as he took another slow drag of his cigarette. Then, exhaling a stream of smoke, he turned away, his voice clipped and businesslike.

"You’ll have your own room," he said, moving towards the drinks cabinet. "End of the hall, second door on the left. We do what’s necessary in public, but behind closed doors, you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours." He poured himself a glass of whisky, the clink of crystal against the bottle cutting through the thick air. "You don’t ask questions, you don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you, and we’ll get through this just fine."

She folded her arms, unmoved. "Perfect. I’d hate to be under your feet."

A scoff left his lips, low and amused. He knocked back the whisky in one go, setting the glass down with a decisive thud. Then, without looking at her, he called over his shoulder. "Oscar will take your bags up."

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She could feel the weight of his words, the unspoken expectation that she’d simply nod, accept the help, fall into line like some obedient little wife.

Instead, she turned sharply on her heel, her voice crisp. "As I said—no doting wife from me."

She strode past him, ignoring the way his head tilted ever so slightly at her tone. Bending down, she grasped the handles of her two trunks—heavy with silk, lace, and a life she hadn’t chosen—and lifted them without hesitation.

Lando said nothing, but she felt his gaze on her as she walked off, her heels clicking against the polished wooden floor with each deliberate step. He was watching her. Measuring her.

And if she wasn’t mistaken, he liked what he saw.

The first week passed in a tense, unspoken battle of wills.

She settled into the house without asking permission, without waiting for instructions. She came and went as she pleased, taking the car when she wanted it, slipping through London’s streets with a confidence that said she owed nothing to anyone—not even the man whose name she now carried. She had no interest in playing the obedient little wife, and Lando, for all his grumbling, hadn’t tried to force her into it.

Not that they didn’t clash.

She was sharp-tongued, quick-witted, never missing a chance to throw his own words back at him. When he told her not to meddle, she raised a brow and asked if she should sit in a corner and do embroidery instead. When he came home late, smelling of whisky and cigarette smoke, she’d glance up from her book and say, "Busy night intimidating the weak?" with just enough amusement to make his jaw tick.

And yet, for all his irritation, she noticed the way his eyes followed her. The way his fingers twitched at his side when she smirked at him. The way he seemed to come home earlier than he used to, as if drawn back to the house by something he wouldn’t name.

But she never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

So when he strode into her room unannounced that evening, it wasn’t entirely surprising. What was surprising was the way he stopped dead in his tracks.

She stood by the vanity in nothing but her undergarments—lace-trimmed, elegant, expensive, the kind of thing a woman wore when she had no intention of being overlooked. She didn’t flinch, didn’t rush to cover herself. Instead, she met his gaze in the mirror, her expression utterly unimpressed.

Lando, for once, had nothing to say. His mouth opened slightly before he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"Christ—sorry." He turned on his heel, as if debating whether to leave altogether.

She barely spared him a glance as she reached for a brush, running it through her hair with slow, measured strokes. "What is it you need?"

There was a beat of silence, thick and charged. Then, slowly, he turned back, his expression unreadable.

Maybe he’d expected her to blush, to stammer, to pull a dressing gown around herself in embarrassment. Instead, she was calm. Unbothered. It was him who looked thrown off.

And that, more than anything, made her smirk.

Lando hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping further into the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Instead of leaving, as any decent man would, he crossed to the bed and sank onto the edge of it, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes never left her.

She continued brushing her hair as if he wasn’t there, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be standing half-dressed while her husband sat on her bed, watching her with a gaze that was just a little too heavy, a little too slow.

She had no shame, no hesitation. It was infuriatingly attractive.

Lando dragged a hand over his jaw and exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. "We’re going out tomorrow."

She arched a brow in the mirror. "Are we?"

He smirked at the disinterest in her tone. "Another firm’s hosting a gathering. Their boss’ wife will be there, and I need you to keep conversation going."

At that, she finally turned to face him, one hand still idly twisting a strand of hair around her fingers. "You need me to be charming," she summarised.

"Something like that," he said, watching her closely.

He shifted slightly, fingers tapping idly against his knee. "There are rules, though. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t ask questions—"

"Don’t drink too much. Don’t get pulled into business talk. Don’t act too interested in the men, or too cold to their wives. Always let you lead the conversation," she listed off, her voice laced with boredom. "I know."

Lando frowned. "How—?"

She gave him a knowing look, standing and walking towards the wardrobe as if this entire exchange was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "You’re not raised as Verstappen daughter without knowing those rules," she said simply.

For a moment, Lando just watched her, his head tilting slightly. He knew her father had been one of the most calculated men in London, he’d met her older brother, but hearing the ease with which she recited those expectations made something settle in his chest.

She hadn’t just been married into this world. She’d been built for it.

And, for reasons he didn’t quite understand yet, he liked that far more than he should have.

The restaurant was the kind of place where the rich and the dangerous rubbed shoulders, where chandeliers dripped light onto crisp linen tablecloths, and where business was conducted in murmured voices behind half-filled glasses of whisky. Lando led her inside with a firm hand at the small of her back—not out of affection, but as a quiet warning to behave. She didn’t need it.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and quiet tension, laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes of the men who chuckled. Their host for the evening, George Russell, sat at the head of the table, his wife draped in silk beside him, her rings catching the light as she spoke with animated flourishes.

Lando had a job tonight. She knew that. This wasn’t just about keeping up appearances—it was about information. Alliances. Power. And while he was watching the men, reading their movements, she turned her attention to something far more useful.

The wives.

They always knew more than they should. They noticed things their husbands assumed they wouldn’t, and if you listened carefully enough, you could hear the real story behind all the posturing.

So she leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity, mouth curled in that perfect balance of friendly and conspiratorial. "I adore that bracelet," she murmured to one of them, tilting her head. "Is it new?"

The woman, delighted to be noticed, grinned. "Oh, George bought it last week, the dear. He felt guilty, I think—off on business in the middle of the night, you know how it is."

She hummed, sipping her wine. Business in the middle of the night. Interesting.

Another woman sighed, swirling her glass. "At least yours buys you presents. Alex’s been preoccupied with that warehouse of his—honestly, I think he’s more in love with those bloody shipments than me."

Shipments. Warehouse. Noted.

She let the conversation drift, guiding it where she wanted, letting them talk themselves into giving her everything. And by the time dessert arrived, she had more useful information than Lando would get from an hour of sharp-eyed stares and stiff conversation.

"Enjoying yourself?" he murmured beside her, his hand grazing her thigh beneath the table as he leaned in. From the outside, it looked like an intimate gesture. She knew better. He was asking if she’d behaved.

She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze with a slow, knowing smile. "Oh, very much so."

He had no idea.

She continued as the courses passed, her laughter light, her eyes wide with interest, each question perfectly placed. She never pushed too hard—just enough to make the other wives feel important, to let them believe they were the ones leading the conversation. A few coy smiles, a well-timed sigh of exasperation about the trials of marriage, and they practically handed her everything.

Lando, meanwhile, was locked in conversation with George and the other men, his voice low, sharp. He was fishing for something—information, leverage, an answer to whatever question had brought him here tonight. He didn’t notice how easily she was doing the same.

By the time coffee was served, she had the pieces she needed. A warehouse by the docks. A shipment coming in late, unregistered. A man slipping away in the night when he shouldn’t be. The men sat back in their chairs, cigars glowing in the dim light, convinced they held all the power in the room.

She smirked against the rim of her glass.

Dinner wrapped up in a slow, drawn-out affair of handshakes and parting pleasantries. Lando’s hand found her back again as he led her outside, his grip firm, possessive. The evening air was sharp against her skin after the warmth of the restaurant, and the street was quiet save for the low murmur of departing guests.

The carriage was waiting. Lando opened the door, helping her in before settling beside her. The door clicked shut, the city slipping past in shadows as they pulled away.

For a few moments, there was only silence. He stretched out his legs, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the evening. Then he turned to her, studying her in the dim light.

"You behaved yourself, then," he murmured.

She hummed, tracing a lazy circle on the leather seat. "Oh, I don’t know about that."

He raised a brow. "Should I be worried?"

She leaned back, watching him. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, she began listing what she had learned.

George’s late-night disappearances. The unregistered shipment. The dockside warehouse. The men who had not been where they were supposed to be.

She spoke with ease, watching as Lando’s expression shifted.

By the time she finished, he was silent. He tilted his head slightly, his fingers tapping once against his knee before he exhaled, slow and deliberate.

"You got all that," he said, "from gossip."

She smirked. "Oh, Lando. You should know by now—wives hear everything."

Lando stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the faint glow of the passing street lamps flickering across his face. Then, without a word, he rapped twice against the carriage wall.

The driver changed course.

She arched a brow. "Not going home?"

"We are," he said, his voice thoughtful, as if he were still piecing something together. "But we’re going to my study first, separate entrance. I need to put this all together."

She smirked. "Ah. So now I’m useful."

Lando didn’t rise to the bait, but she caught the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "Just come inside, will you?"

When they arrived, he led her straight through the house, his pace brisk, mind clearly working through everything she had told him. The study was dimly lit, the scent of leather and old paper heavy in the air. He went straight to his desk, rolling up his sleeves as he sank into the chair, reaching for a notepad and pouring himself a drink in the same fluid movement.

She, however, had no interest in taking the chair across from him. Instead, she strolled to the desk, hands trailing idly along the polished wood, before hoisting herself up onto the edge of it.

Lando glanced up, his gaze dragging over the length of her legs as they crossed neatly at the ankles. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before reaching for his pen. "Go on, then," he muttered. "Tell me again."

She did. Slowly, carefully, repeating each scrap of information she’d gathered, watching as he jotted notes, muttering under his breath as he began to piece the puzzle together. He was sharp, quick, catching things she hadn’t even realised were connected.

It was almost impressive. Almost.

And then, just as he leaned back, his fingers running through his hair as the final piece clicked into place, his gaze lifted to hers.

"You’re amazing, you know," he murmured.

For a brief second, there was no teasing, no sharp remarks, no battle of wills. Just that raw, unfiltered admiration in his voice, his eyes dark and searching as they held hers.

She tilted her head slightly, lips curving in a slow, knowing smile. "I do know," she murmured. "But it’s nice to hear."

His chuckle was low, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment longer than necessary.

He had underestimated her.

And now, he never would again.

Two nights later, she was in her room, the fire casting a warm glow against the walls, the silk of her slip whispering against her skin as she moved. The house was quiet, the night settling in thick and heavy. She had just slipped onto the edge of the bed when the door flew open with a sharp bang.

She didn’t flinch.

Lando strode in like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he did—but this time, there was no hesitation, no muttered apology. He had the same sharp, intense energy as before, but now there was something else, something simmering beneath the surface.

"We did it," he said, breathless, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair slightly out of place like he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes burned as they met hers. "We caught the bloody shipment."

She raised a brow, unimpressed by his theatrics despite the way her pulse quickened. "Good for you."

"You," he corrected, stepping closer, "helped us get it. We’ve been trying for four months, and tonight, we finally had them."

There was pride in his voice, raw and unfiltered. But there was something else, too—something deeper. The way he was looking at her, as if only now realising just how dangerous she truly was.

She tilted her head, considering him. "I did tell you wives hear everything," she murmured.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t last. The air between them was shifting, thickening, the triumph of the night bleeding into something hotter, something heavier. He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, and she was still perched on the bed, watching him with that same knowing glint in her eye.

And then he moved.

One second, he was standing a few feet away. The next, he was in front of her, his hands gripping her face, his mouth crashing against hers like he was starving for it. There was nothing soft about it—nothing tentative. It was heat and frustration, admiration and possession, all tangled into one.

She responded without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. The silk of her slip was nothing between them, just a whisper of fabric as his hands slid down, gripping her waist, anchoring her to him like he had no intention of letting go.

The fire crackled in the background, but the only warmth she felt was him—his mouth, his hands, the weight of his body pressing against hers like he had been holding himself back for far too long.

And from the way he kissed her, deep and desperate, she knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t holding back anymore.

The kiss deepened, ferocious, as if the world outside her room had ceased to exist. Lando’s hands moved with a possessiveness that made her pulse race. He slid them down her back, pressing her closer to him until she could feel the heat of his body searing through the thin silk of her slip.

His lips left hers briefly, only to trail down her jaw, his breath hot against her skin. She tilted her head, giving him more access, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back to her mouth. She could taste the whisky on his lips, the bitterness of it mixing with the sweetness of the moment, a dangerous combination.

He was a man who took what he wanted, and right now, he wanted her.

With a low growl, he broke the kiss, eyes dark and wild with desire, before he lifted her off her feet. She gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried her, almost recklessly, to the vanity. The cold wood of the table hit the back of her legs, but she hardly noticed as he set her down, pushing her back against it.

The tension in the air was palpable, thick with anticipation. His hands were everywhere now—gripping her hips, sliding up to her waist, fingers brushing the curve of her breasts, teasing the delicate straps of her slip. She arched into his touch, heart hammering in her chest, the heat between them making everything else fade into insignificance.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice low, almost a whisper, but it felt like a command.

He responded instantly, his lips finding her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he sucked gently, marking her, staking his claim. Her hands moved down, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, to rid herself of the barriers between them. He groaned against her skin, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

“You wanted this,” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough, full of raw need. "Admit it."

She didn’t respond with words. She didn’t need to. Her hands slid up to his chest, pushing his shirt off his shoulders, and she kissed him again, fiercely, determinedly. Her body pressed against his, feeling every inch of him as if they could somehow merge together.

Lando pulled back, his eyes scanning her face with that same intensity, as if trying to read her, trying to figure out what game she was playing. “You’re mine now,” he growled, hands tugging at the silk slip, pulling the bands off her shoulders.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t shy away. Instead, she met his gaze, a spark of something dangerous and defiant in her eyes. "If I’m yours," she purred, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "then you’d better take me properly, Lando."

The air between them crackled with tension. And then, without another word, he kissed her again, more urgently this time, his hands finding her skin, drawing her closer to him, until she could feel the weight of him pressing against her.

This was no longer about games or control. This was a raw, unfiltered need that neither of them could deny. And they were both too far gone to stop.

The air between them was thick, electric. The heat of their earlier desperation hadn’t faded—it had only settled into something deeper, something hotter. Lando was still pressed against her, his fingers gripping her thighs where she sat atop the vanity, her silk slip bunched around her hips. His breath was uneven, his lips red from kissing her senseless, but now, something shifted.

Without a word, he dropped to his knees before her.

She sucked in a breath, caught between intrigue and anticipation as she looked down at him. His hands smoothed over her thighs, slow and reverent, his touch softer now, but no less possessive. The sight of him like this—on his knees for her—sent a wicked thrill down her spine.

He tilted his head back to meet her gaze, his dark eyes burning with something close to worship. "I’ve been a fool," he murmured, voice thick with want. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he spread her legs just enough to make her breath hitch. "For not seeing you for what you are."

Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "And what am I, Lando?"

His hands slid higher, fingertips tracing the hem of her slip. He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over her bare skin. "My equal," he said roughly. "More than that." His lips brushed the inside of her thigh, teasing, tasting. "The one woman who could bring me to my knees."

She exhaled, a quiet, shuddering thing, her grip tightening in his hair as his mouth travelled higher. He was usually all dominance, all control, but here he was—kneeling for her, worshipping her with his hands, his lips, his voice.

She let him linger, let him kiss and touch and revel in her, let him show her that he understood now. That she wasn’t just a wife for show, not just a piece to be moved on the board.

And then, when she was satisfied, when his grip was almost desperate on her skin, when his breathing was uneven with the sheer need of her, she tugged at his hair, forcing him to look up at her.

“Stand up,” she commanded softly.

His chest rose and fell hard, but he obeyed, rising to his full height, towering over her again. His hands found her waist, his thumbs brushing against the silk clinging to her body. She could see the restraint in his posture, the way he was holding back, waiting for her next move.

She reached for him, tracing her nails lightly over the bare skin of his chest. “From now on," she murmured, pressing her lips just below his jaw, feeling the way his pulse pounded beneath her mouth, "you’ll show me the same respect."

Lando’s hands clenched at her hips, his body taut with the effort it took not to crush her against him. His mouth hovered just over hers, breath heavy, his voice low and ragged when he finally answered.

“Yes, love,” he rasped. “I will.”

And then he kissed her again, deep and consuming, pulling her against him so hard that she gasped against his lips. And when he lifted her from the vanity, carrying her towards the bed once more, she knew—there was no turning back from this.

His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his fingers pressing into her hips as if anchoring himself there. He wasn’t in a rush—no, Lando was savouring this, savouring her.

She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him, chest rising and falling heavily. He looked up at her through thick lashes, his dark eyes burning with something raw, something dangerous.

"You like this, don’t you?" she murmured, her voice low, taunting. "Being here. Like this."

Lando exhaled a slow breath against her skin, his grip tightening. "You’ve no idea," he muttered, voice rough, strained.

And then he pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate. His stubble scraped against her skin, his mouth hot, teasing. She shivered, fingers twitching against the sheets. He was taking his time, deliberately drawing it out, and the anticipation was maddening.

"Lando," she breathed, not quite a plea, but close.

That did something to him. His hands slid further up, spreading her more beneath him, and then he leaned in fully, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss where she needed him most.

She gasped, her head falling back against the pillows. He hummed in satisfaction, his grip keeping her in place as he set to work, slow, languid strokes of his tongue that had her body arching towards him.

She barely registered the way her fingers tangled into his hair, holding him there, guiding him. But Lando? He groaned at the feeling, at the way she responded so perfectly to him.

She wasn’t used to this—to a man like him showing this kind of devotion. But he was thorough, almost as if he had something to prove.

As if he wanted to ruin her.

And God, she was happy to let him try.

His name left her lips again, breathy and uneven, her fingers tightening in his hair as he worked her over with slow, unrelenting precision. Lando groaned against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her, making her thighs tremble against his broad shoulders.

He was savouring this, taking his time, deliberately keeping her on the edge but never quite letting her tip over. Each flick of his tongue, each teasing stroke, was measured, controlled—because he wanted her desperate for it, wanted to hear her break beneath him.

She let out a frustrated whimper, her hips shifting, seeking more. "Stop—" she gasped, "—teasing."

He chuckled, the sound low and wicked against her skin, but he didn’t stop. If anything, he slowed, his hands pressing firmer against her hips, keeping her exactly where he wanted. "And here I thought you liked control," he mused, his voice thick with amusement.

Her head fell back, a soft curse leaving her lips. "You’re insufferable."

He smirked against her, his grip tightening. "And yet you’re falling apart for me."

She had a sharp retort on her tongue, something cutting, something defiant—but then he finally gave in.

A deep, languid stroke of his tongue, firmer now, deliberate. Her back arched off the bed, a strangled sound escaping her lips. His hands smoothed over her thighs, keeping her open for him, and then he truly set to work—thorough and utterly merciless.

The tension that had been winding so tightly inside her snapped without warning, pleasure crashing through her like fire, her entire body trembling beneath him. He groaned at the way she came undone for him, his grip never loosening, as if he wanted to feel every moment of it.

She barely registered the way he pressed one last, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before pulling himself up over her, his hands bracing on either side of her head.

Her chest heaved as she blinked up at him, still dazed, still recovering. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with something feral.

"You," she murmured, voice thick, "are far too good at that."

Lando smirked, dipping his head to kiss her, slow and indulgent, letting her taste herself on his tongue. "And I’m nowhere near finished with you yet, love."

The shift between them had been subtle at first. A brush of fingers when passing, a lingering glance across a crowded room. But now, a few days later, it was undeniable. They moved as one—seamless, untouchable. Where Lando had once been guarded, careful, now his hands were always on her. A hand on the small of her back as he led her through a room, fingers tracing absentminded circles on her wrist as they sat together, a possessive arm slung around her shoulders when they held court among their people.

She had settled into her role with a quiet, effortless power. No longer just his wife, no longer simply the woman who had been given to him to tie two families together—she was his equal. And everyone knew it.

Tonight, the house was alive with warmth, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the grand dining room as they entertained their closest allies. She sat beside Lando at the head of the table, her posture easy, confident, her silk gown pooling elegantly over her crossed legs.

Lando, ever the king of the room, leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tracing along the inside of her wrist where her hand rested on the table. He wasn’t even looking at her, too busy listening to one of his men recount some business in the East End, but the touch was absent-minded, second nature now.

She smirked slightly, turning her hand to entwine her fingers with his, giving a squeeze. His thumb stroked over her knuckles, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips before he lifted her hand to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

The room fell into a hushed sort of awe at the display. Their leader, cold and ruthless, was openly devoted to his wife in a way none of them had ever seen before. And she? She simply accepted it, like it was her due.

When dinner was over and the guests had drifted into the parlour for cigars and whisky, Lando caught her by the waist, pulling her into a quiet corner before she could follow.

"You realise what you’ve done, don’t you?" he murmured, voice rich with amusement.

She arched a brow, tilting her head. "And what’s that, darling?"

He smirked, fingers brushing down her spine. "Made me soft."

She laughed, low and sultry, trailing a finger down the front of his waistcoat. "Oh no, my love," she murmured, standing on tiptoe to brush a slow, lingering kiss against his jaw. "I’ve made you unstoppable."

Lando exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening at her waist before he turned and kissed her, slow and deep, uncaring of who might see. Because she was right.

They weren’t just husband and wife anymore.

They were a force.

Lando had always prided himself on being the smartest man in the room. He had built his empire on instinct, on knowing where to strike and when to hold back. But now? Now he had something even sharper in his arsenal—her.

He now saw her skill for what it was. What he had once dismissed as idle gossip, frivolous chatter over tea and brandy, was in fact the deadliest weapon at his disposal. While the other men scrambled to find their rats and their loopholes, tearing through their operations in search of betrayal, they never once stopped to consider that the real danger was sitting beside them at their own dinner tables.

Because the truth was simple. It wasn’t their men who were loose-lipped—it was their wives. Women ignored, underestimated, left to sip their champagne and idly entertain themselves. They spoke of everything—the shipments their husbands fretted over, the officers they paid off, the backdoor deals and sudden disappearances. They let secrets slip between sips of wine, between boasts of fine jewellery and whispered complaints of infidelity.

And she? She had been listening.

Now, Lando had a new advantage, one his rivals didn’t even realise existed. Every other day, he was intercepting shipments before they even made it onto the docks. Smugglers were caught, safe houses compromised, backroom deals unravelled before they had even begun. The panic was spreading—men were at each other’s throats, convinced they had a traitor in their ranks. And all the while, she sat by Lando’s side, lips painted red, eyes sharp, watching their empire grow stronger by the day.

Lando leaned back in his chair, fingers running lazily along the curve of his glass, watching her across the room. She was laughing, a sultry, knowing sound, as she toyed with the pearl necklace around her throat, listening with that careful attentiveness that he now recognised for what it truly was. She was drawing out secrets as easily as she drew breath.

She felt his gaze before she saw it, glancing over at him with a smirk, tilting her head ever so slightly. See something you like? her expression seemed to tease.

He smirked in return, lifting his glass in a silent toast to her.

His wife wasn’t a problem.

She was his genius.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @spiderbeam

[lovecoatedwords]

“Promised Vows, Pt. 3”

featuring: poly marauders x reader (arranged marriage au) angsty but also fluff (later on)

Series master list

previous chapter

next chapter

The morning is cold, silver-gray light leaking through the estate windows as you’re summoned to the foyer.

James doesn’t look up from the papers in his hand as he explains the change in plans. “Remus is tied up with the delegates from the northern house, and I’ll be handling the venue security this afternoon.”

You nod, unsure what that means for you.

Then Sirius walks in, tugging on his gloves, coat already half-buttoned. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second—cold, unreadable—before flicking away.

“You’ll be going into the city,” James says. “You need something appropriate for the political summit. Sirius will take you.”

The silence that follows is loud. Sirius exhales through his nose like he’s already regretting this.

“Try not to take all day,” he mutters, brushing past you without pausing. “I’m not your maid.”

You say nothing. Just follow.

He doesn’t slow his pace as you trail behind him down the drive. Doesn’t open the car door. Doesn’t speak during the ride into the city.

You sit quietly in the passenger seat, watching the trees blur into gray as the estate vanishes behind you. It’s the first time you’ve left since the wedding.

He doesn’t ask you what you like. Doesn’t offer opinions when you pass storefronts. He parks the car and walks ahead, and you have to catch up—his long strides forcing you to hurry, just to keep him in sight.

And still, you feel invisible.

Inside the boutique, the world is rich with color and fabric and warmth. None of it touches you. You drift through it, unsure of where to start, unsure if you’re allowed to want anything.

Sirius leans against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on his phone. When the shopkeeper greets you, you barely get the words out.

“A dress,” you say quietly. “For a political gathering.”

The woman nods, warm and professional. She leads you through options. You glance back at Sirius once—he doesn’t look up. You stop trying after that.

Eventually, you find something. Simple. Elegant. Not too bold. You step out of the dressing room quietly, fingers twisting in the fabric.

Still, he doesn’t look.

“Will this work?” you ask, almost whispering.

He lifts his head, barely. Gives you one glance. Shrugs.

“It’s fine.”

Outside the shop, the city has grown busier.

Sirius says nothing as he steps onto the sidewalk, turning down the boulevard without checking to see if you’re following. His coat billows slightly in the wind, the only part of him that waits.

You hurry to catch up, dress box tucked carefully under one arm.

The street is a living thing—horses clatter past, voices rise and fall in sharp laughter, and somewhere a street performer plays something haunting on a bowed instrument. Everything moves too fast. Too bright. Too loud.

You try not to fall behind again.

But then—something catches your eye.

A bookshop window. Small. Tucked between two taller buildings like a secret. The glass is fogged slightly with the chill, but the display is careful: first editions, weathered spines, a journal with gold foiling that glints just enough to feel like memory.

There’s a copy of a poetry collection you recognize. Your mother had it. Wrote in the margins with delicate ink. You’d forgotten that.

You stop. Just for a second.

Your fingers twitch toward the window. A quiet ache unfurls in your chest—not longing exactly, but recognition. A life that once felt soft.

You don’t mean to linger.

It’s just that no one’s ever told you what’s allowed to matter.

When you finally turn back toward the street—

He’s gone.

No black coat. No lean figure in the crowd. No hint of where he turned.

Your breath catches.

You take two steps forward, heart starting to thud.

Still nothing.

You scan the sidewalk. Try to follow the direction he’d been walking. But there’s too many people. Too many streets. Too many ways to disappear.

You don’t call his name.

You just start walking.

One turn becomes another.

The stone underfoot changes texture. The noise sharpens. The city smells different here—less perfume, more smoke.

And that’s when it hits you.

You’re lost.

Really lost.

And Sirius Black has no idea where you are

Your feet move faster now. Left. Then right. Another street. Another wrong turn.

The sky’s begun to dim—not dark, not yet, but the light has thinned, stretched into a color that doesn’t feel safe.

You pass a bakery. A florist shuttering for the day. The scent of warm sugar and crushed petals lingers in the air, but none of it feels familiar. None of it feels like anything you can hold on to.

You press forward anyway.

Try to remember the storefront. The cobbled corner. The bookshop.

But it’s all blurred now, smudged at the edges like something seen through tears you haven’t cried yet.

Panic starts quietly.Just a shallow breath. . The way your fingers tighten on the box in your arms like it could anchor you.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You’ll find the shop again. You’ll find him.

But the street curves the wrong way, and now there’s music drifting from somewhere behind you, and the people around you are laughing too loud, too close. A man brushes your shoulder. Doesn’t look back.

Your steps falter.Your throat tightens

You veer down a narrow side path without thinking—something quieter, something smaller—stone walls pressing in on either side as the sounds of the street dull behind you.

It’s not an alley, not really. More of a courtyard—walled in on three sides, a rusted gate hanging open at the fourth. There’s an old fountain in the center, long dry. Ivy crawls across brick in fading green.

You stop beside the fountain.

Set the box down.

Breathe.

The silence here is different. Not peaceful. Just empty.

You sit on the edge of the stone, hands braced at your sides, chest heaving. The cold finds your fingertips first, then seeps in deeper. You don’t cry. You don’t call for help. But your legs have started to shake, and you feel like the whole world has narrowed to this one courtyard where no one knows your name.

You don’t say it out loud, but you know what it is.

It’s abandonment.

In a different shape. A different street. A different silence.

Still the same ache.

And just as the first real fear starts to settle behind your ribs—

You hear footsteps.

Boots.Deliberate.Close

You freeze.

The footsteps don’t rush. They stroll. Measured. Casual.

That’s what makes them worse.

You rise slowly, the stone of the fountain cold against your palms as you steady yourself. The box lies forgotten at your feet.

A figure appears at the far end of the courtyard. Then another. Then a third.

They don’t speak.

Not at first.

The one in front steps forward, boots crunching softly over old gravel. His coat is dark, but not official. Not uniform. This isn’t someone from the city guard. Not even a delegate. His face is familiar, though. Not because you know him—but because you’ve seen that shape before. The sharp angles of your father’s enemies.

One of the old families.

Their sons.

Their knives.

“Didn’t think we’d see one of you walking alone,” the lead man says, voice smooth as oil and just as slick. “They must be getting careless.”

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move.

The second one circles wide, to the right. The third lingers near the rusted gate. They’re triangulating—positioning like they’ve done this before.

“Wasn’t she the one from the East House?” the one on the right murmurs, as if you’re not standing right there. “The quiet one. The one they married off.”

A laugh. Bitter. Dry.

“I’d heard she was pretty,” the leader says, cocking his head as if to inspect you. “Can’t say I don’t see the appeal.”

You still haven’t spoken.

Your silence is a thin armor. You’re afraid your voice will shake if you try to use it.

The third man moves now—toward the gate, toward the exit. He’s locking it.

Not with keys. Just his body. Just his presence.

“She’s shivering,” one of them says softly, voice almost kind. “Isn’t that something?”

The air turns colder—not from the wind, but from the realization sinking into your bones.

This isn’t chance.

They saw you.

They followed.

And they waited.

“We could send a message,” the leader murmurs, turning toward you fully now. “Something small. A cut. A mark. Just enough to remind them what happens when blood like yours marries into houses like theirs.”

He takes another step.

You take one back—and hit the lip of the fountain.

There’s nowhere to go.

The courtyard presses in on all sides.

Your hand curls around the edge of the stone, gripping hard.

The second one is closer now. His eyes flick to your dress, the box, the exposed wrist where the old bandage peeks from your sleeve.

“Still healing?” he asks softly, mockingly. “That’s sweet.”

You hate how they say nothing loudly. How their presence swallows sound. How the city feels miles away.

You tell yourself to run.

But your body doesn’t listen.

Because somewhere inside, you know: even if you screamed, no one would come.

They take one more step.

And then—one of them reaches out.

Fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. That’s when the quiet breaks.

You barely have time to process the movement before a loud, sharp voice cuts through the courtyard.

"Touch her, and you’ll lose your hands."

The words slice through the thick air like a blade. Your breath catches. The men freeze. Their heads snap toward the source.

Sirius is standing at the far side of the courtyard, framed by the flickering lamplight. His presence fills the space with a sharp, cold edge, like the air just dropped twenty degrees. The way he stands—legs slightly apart, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the trio with a dangerous calm—sends a chill through your spine.

His voice doesn’t waver.

“I said, don’t touch her,” he repeats, each word deliberate, menacing.

The leader laughs, but it’s hollow. Forced. A little too loud. “And what, you’ll stop us? You’re outnumbered.”

Sirius doesn’t blink. His eyes lock on the man who had moved toward you, who had just brushed your sleeve. “Last warning. Take another step, and I will make sure you regret it.”

The courtyard feels smaller, the distance between Sirius and the men closing with every heartbeat. The tension is unbearable, thick enough to suffocate you. The men shift, calculating, but Sirius is already in motion. His movements are fluid, controlled—no hesitation.

He steps forward, and suddenly, the man nearest to you stumbles back, eyes wide with surprise. A flick of Sirius’s wrist, a soft sound of leather meeting flesh, and the man falls against the fountain, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.

The second man, now fully alert, lunges toward Sirius. But Sirius is faster—too fast. He catches the man’s wrist in a firm grip, twists it behind his back with a practiced motion. The man grunts, knees buckling.

The leader watches, calculating, before he pulls a knife from his coat. The blade gleams in the dim light as he flicks it toward Sirius, his face twisted in amusement.

“You think you’re some sort of knight?” the leader taunts, his voice dripping with scorn. “You’ll get us all riled up, and then what? We’ll see how your family reacts to blood spilled on their streets.”

Sirius steps aside as the knife sails past him, narrowly missing his side. His expression remains unreadable, a predator toying with its prey. “You should’ve stayed hidden in your rat hole,” he says, voice cold as ice. “I gave you a chance to walk away.”

But the leader lunges again, faster this time, his knife aimed straight for Sirius’s abdomen.

This time, Sirius is ready. He catches the wrist mid-air, twisting violently, and the man drops the knife with a sharp cry. Before he can regain his balance, Sirius shoves him hard—forcing him to stumble backward, crashing into the side of the fountain with a sickening thud.

The last man, the one who had been near the gate, hesitates for a moment longer, glancing at his fallen companions. The air is thick with tension. He looks between Sirius and you, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

For a split second, you think he might back down. But instead, he sneers and turns to run, darting for the exit.

But Sirius is already in motion. His hand shoots out, catching the man by the collar and yanking him back, pulling him into the hard stone wall of the courtyard with a brutal thud.

“Not so fast,” Sirius growls, his voice low and lethal.

The man’s breath hitches as he scrambles to get free, but Sirius holds him firm, his grip like iron.

“You don’t get to run,” Sirius says, his voice a harsh whisper. “You don’t get to hurt her, and you don’t get to leave without a reminder of who you messed with.”

The man’s eyes widen in fear. He’s trembling now, realizing too late how far he’s gone.

Sirius draws in a breath, and with a sharp twist of his hand, the man drops to his knees, defeated. His body slumps against the wall, gasping for air.

Sirius steps back, his gaze never leaving the group, as if daring them to try again. “Leave. Now.”

The leader, dazed and furious, stumbles to his feet, one last defiant glare thrown in your direction before they finally retreat—limping, bruised, humiliated. They move quickly, slipping back into the shadows, away from Sirius’s unforgiving gaze.

You remain frozen, your chest heaving, the reality of what just happened sinking in. The silence that follows is deafening, as though the world has held its breath.

Sirius doesn’t move toward you immediately. Instead, he watches the men vanish into the distance, ensuring they’re gone for good.

And then, finally, he turns toward you.

“You alright?” His voice is softer now, but there’s a lingering coldness to it, a sharp edge that only comes from moments like this.

You nod, but it feels inadequate, small. You don’t trust your voice to answer him. You’re still too shaken.

He steps forward, his eyes scanning you with quiet intensity. Then, without another word, he holds out his hand, as if offering some kind of anchor in the chaos.

It’s a silent gesture, but the meaning is clear. There’s no judgment, no scolding.

You take his hand, the warmth of his touch grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. The tremors in your body don’t stop immediately, but they’re less frantic, less desperate now. His fingers curl around yours, firm but gentle, as if offering a quiet reassurance.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Sirius’s eyes scan over you, sharp and careful, but there’s something softer in them now. He’s not the same man who’d stood cold and distant just moments before, the one who had barely acknowledged your presence back at the boutique. No, this man is different—protective, aware, raw with something unspoken that you can’t quite put a name to.

He leans in just slightly, close enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. “You’re safe now.”

The words settle over you, a blanket of safety that feels almost unreal. You nod, too afraid to speak, but the relief that washes over you is almost too much to bear.

He doesn't rush you. He doesn’t pull you into some forced comfort. Instead, he stands there, his hand still holding yours, waiting for you to find your balance again. You can feel his presence like a wall between you and the remnants of fear that still threaten to close in on you.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he says finally, his voice rough but not unkind. His gaze flicks toward the gate, then back to you, as though waiting for any sign that you’re ready to move.

You don’t respond right away. For the first time, you let yourself lean into him—just a little. You lean into his steadiness, his unspoken promise that, for now, you don’t have to face this alone.

Your steps are slow at first, hesitant, but with each one you feel the pressure on your chest lift just a bit more. The weight of the evening still clings to you like a second skin, but with Sirius beside you, it feels easier to breathe.

He guides you through the courtyard, his hand still holding yours, and as you pass through the rusted gate, you glance back one last time. The shadows are deep, the courtyard empty once more, but the fear that had held you captive there is already starting to fade. Not completely—but enough that you can see the world again, see the streetlights flickering in the distance, hear the muffled sounds of the city.

Sirius doesn’t let go of your hand, not as you walk down the narrow street, not as you finally reach the car. There’s no hurry in his movements, no sense of urgency. He simply walks beside you, his pace steady, like the night hadn’t just been filled with danger. Like nothing had just nearly shattered the fragile quiet you’d been clinging to.

When you get into the car, he’s silent for a long moment, staring out the window, lost in his thoughts. You want to speak, to thank him, but the words are caught somewhere deep inside you, tangled with the mess of everything that just happened.

Instead, you sit there, letting the stillness between you speak for itself.

You feel the weight of everything—your silence, his distance, the way your chest still tightens every time you think about the courtyard. The gate. The voices. The way they looked at you like you were prey.

And SSirius who hadn’t spoken a word since leading you from the alley. Sirius who had grabbed your hand like he wasn’t even thinking about it. Like he just had to know you were there.

You steal a glance at him now.

He’s tense. One hand on the wheel, the other braced near the gearshift. His jaw tight. His eyes forward. But there’s a tremor in the way he exhales. Barely noticeable. Controlled. Except not.

You shift in your seat. Not enough to break the silence. Just enough to breathe.

The gates of the estate come into view.

And still, he says nothing.

The car rolls to a stop beneath the wide arch of the main drive. The cold stone of the manor looms tall against the dying sky, windows glowing with faint, expensive warmth. A place that never quite feels like yours.

Sirius cuts the engine.

The silence stretches.

You don’t move to get out. Neither does he.

Then, finally—

“I didn’t mean to leave you.”

It’s quiet. Rough. Like it scrapes something raw on its way out.

You turn to him slowly.

He still isn’t looking at you. His eyes are fixed on the dash. His hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. “I turned around, and you weren’t there. I thought you were right behind me.”

Your breath catches.

You’re not sure what you expected. Anger, maybe. A cold dismissal. Another shrug.

But not this.

“I’m not used to—” he stops. Clenches his jaw again. “I don’t usually… have to worry if someone’s keeping up.”

The words aren’t exactly kind.

But they’re closer than anything he’s given you before.

You hesitate. Then: “I wasn’t trying to disappear.”

“I know.”

The admission is softer. Realer.

Then a beat. And something darker: “Those men. They weren’t random. They knew what they were doing.”

You nod. You’re not ready to talk about it. But you need him to know you understand.

Sirius finally looks at you.

His eyes are dark in the dim light. Too sharp. Too haunted. “You can’t wander like that. Not here. Not in this city. Not with who you are.”

You swallow.

It’s not a scolding. Not exactly.

It’s fear, pressed flat into words.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you murmur. “I stopped for a second. The bookshop reminded me of something. And then…”

You trail off. He doesn’t need the rest.

His gaze holds yours. Longer than it ever has before.

And for once, it feels like he sees you. Not just the alliance. Not just the marriage.

You.

“You should’ve called for me,” he says, voice tight.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Silence.

And then: “I always come.”

Your breath stutters.

The door opens. Sirius steps out first. Crosses around to your side. Opens the passenger door—too quickly, like the habit isn’t natural yet.

You blink up at him.

“I can carry it,” you whisper, nodding to the box.

“I know.” He doesn’t move to take it. “I’ll walk you in.”

You rise slowly. The cold bites at your skin again, the shock of air after the insulated warmth of the car. You fall into step beside him.

The drive is silent, but different now. Not heavy. Just quiet.

He doesn’t rush ahead this time. Doesn’t leave you to catch up.

When you reach the steps of the manor, he pauses.

You turn to face him.

There’s something like hesitation in his eyes. Like he’s trying to say something and doesn’t know how.

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he says finally. “That’s on me.”

You want to say thank you.

You want to say it wasn’t.

But all that comes out is: “I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.”

Sirius flinches—just a little.

Then, softer than you expect: “I noticed.”

The light from the doorway spills over his face, cutting sharp shadows across his cheekbones. He looks like a statue carved from something too proud to break. And yet—

His voice is barely a breath when he says it:

“I notice more than you think.”

And then he’s turning away, back down the steps, coat billowing behind him in the cold.

You don’t follow.

You just stand there, dress box in your arms, watching him vanish into the night.But this time, you’re not invisible.This time, he looked.

a/n: I hope this was worth the wait!! Tho next time I will post more quickly (had lots of writer block) ! <3

Tags:

@0yo @doyouseethewords @yvessentials @daydreamandforget @zellington @kinghalchalamet @literishdegree99 @helloxgoodbi @eli0eli0eli0 @dearsarahriley @maraudersgirlie @screamingsilence3 @arielthee-potterhead @spencers1nonlygf @magicwithaknife @notmonstersapocalipse @amo-a-los-postres @therealbr1gh7ey3s @electronicexpertshark @cloudyzip @mattheoriddlewifesblog @keiththepaddledonk @msmarklee1213 @hawaii2320 @broccoleni @treefairy-28 @sillysugarplum @https-star0 @boo8008 @ricearoni84 @happycatanxie @marrass @pansyitcanton @hellothere7 @poetry-beauty-love-writez @kamarimartell @nerdalert16 @cosmic-rainestorm @fionaapplelover2010 @vermithoraxis @bellatrix-lestrange5 @delusional-4-fake-people

if you wanna be tagged, send in an ask or comment! If you have ideas for next or any feedback, my inbox is open :)

Btw: this is an ongoing request game I have going on rn! Feel free to check it out.

[fallenprophets]

◦⭐︎・love lost

Ekko x reader

Summary: once a Firelight and Ekko's partner, you are now a mercenary, dragging yourself through jobs to make enough money to pay for food. After one too many drinks, you take a job you can't handle, and get hurt. It's no shocker who comes to your rescue.

Set at undefined time, no use of Y/N, gender neutral reader

Warnings: gore (not too bad but be mindful), swearing, mentions of death/welcoming death. 3.2 K words (oops), not proofread as always

A/N: icl guys this is one of the longer fics I've written, and definitely the angstiest one. Again, for my best friend, @sahxrii (go check out her recs, they're SO good) who I do everything for, lets be honest.

You have always prided yourself for knowing your limits; stopping when you need to stop, being reasonable about your own abilities. This has kept you out of quite a lot of trouble- avoiding fights you could not have won, not provoking people who were clearly able to whoop your ass. 

This, however, is very different, and not a common occurrence. 

First of all, you might be a little drunk- you’ve just had to numb the sting of your day with a drink, just a small one, in a tiny grimy bar run by a tall man with bright orange skin. Second of all, you’re running on two hours of sleep and painkillers (the painkillers are slowly wearing off, to make matters worse). 

And lastly, you’re in a really bad fucking mood. 

So, when your handler slides you a note with a name and address written in ugly red letters, you think fuck it, and take the job. You should’ve known this was stupid- you should’ve done what the sober, not exhausted version of yourself would have done. But instead, you accept with a bleary nod, because, to be frank, all you want at that moment is to break something. 

So you take the note, drain your drink, and leave the bar, shrugging on your worn coat. Adrenaline is already starting to buzz beneath your skin, your knuckles tingling softly in anticipation. You had never been this excited about violence when you were younger- in fact, people might have described you as gentle, even. But now, with all the things you have witnessed, all the people you’ve lost, hitting people brought a kind of release you could find nowhere else. 

Besides, there’s no one who remembers you as that gentle person left, anyway, so who are you disappointing? Yourself? You chuckle drily into the cold air, thick with gas. 

You stop in front of the building, your hands tucked into your pockets. It is big, red, and ugly (like the ink the name had been written in, you thought), bright colourful light shining from the broken windows. A Zaunite haunt, typical for a wannabe drug lord- the kind of man you were often hired to beat up or kill. You kick into the dirt at your feet, take a deep breath. You have hardly sobered up on the walk here, so your vision is still somewhat blurry, everything swimming around you like you’re underwater. 

Broken memories of swimming in an underground lake with him flitter through your mind, and you dismiss them, muttering a curse between your teeth. You roll your shoulders and make your way inside, striding in like you own the goddamn place. 

“You can’t be here,” a goon dressed all in black calls from the top of badly painted stairs. You look at him, an ugly grin splitting your face. 

“Kick me out, then,” you say, your heart already beginning to beat a little faster. 

Before you know, goons are coming at you from the sides, cracking their knuckles. The twat at the top of the stairs sneers down at you, his teeth oily and black. 

“You don’t wanna do this,” a woman on your left growls. She’s twice as big as you, her arms covered in bright red, winding tattoos. 

“I think I do,” you answer, raising your hands, which are already curled into fists. 

She lunges first, and you catch her with a right hook in the jaw. She hardly falters, but you drive your knee into her stomach. Now, she stumbles, and you leap up, narrowly avoiding an attack from another goon. You grab goon number one- the woman- and smash your forehead into her face. Her nose explodes, red and white flying all over you as she falls backwards. You spin and grab the nearest object- a stool- and bring it smack into the second goon’s middle. He collapses, and you walk over to him, drop the stool on his head. He stops moving. 

You turn to the giant of a woman, who is standing and looking at you with pure, unadulterated hatred. Her face is broken into bits, blood and spit dribbling down her chin. “Come on, then,” you say, cracking your already sore knuckles. 

She throws herself at you, twice as angry as before. You dodge, but she catches you in the shoulder. Excruciating pain shoots through you, and you realise too late that she has wicked little claw-like contraptions on her fingers. She comes at you again, slashing wildly. You jump out of the way, once again catching a claw in the face. It slices open your left cheek; pain explodes all through the area, but you grin. A challenge- you’ve always liked that. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a child’s voice screams at you to stop, to leave, to give up. The goon from the top of the stairs is gone. You falter when you notice this- he must be warning his boss, who is your target. You double your efforts, lunging at the woman. You manage to punch her in the stomach, but your second hit, aimed at her throat, is knocked out of the way as she drives her claws into your wrist. You scream, not really in pain but in sheer shock at the sharp metal slivers protruding from your skin. 

“Should’ve left,” she sneers into your face. You spit into the bloody mess that was her nose and wrench your arm back, kicking her, hard, in the sternum. She stumbled backwards and you pull your weapon- a machete, sheathed against your back- out, spinning it around. She assesses you for a moment, with what you realise now are robotic eyes. 

Oh. 

Oh, fuck. 

You are not fighting a person, you’re fighting a robot. Or something that’s half half- the blood spilling from her face gives you the idea that she might be made of flesh and bones, but those eyes- you’ve seen them before. She’s assessing your fight patterns, and she’s going to win. 

You duck out of the way of another attack, but she manages to graze your neck with her claws. You slash wildly with your machete, to no avail- she avoids each blow easily, and the ones that do hit, she ignores happily. 

Finally, one of your attacks hits- you aim the blow upwards, and the machete carves straight through her face. Blood, huge quantities of the stuff, gushes all over you, bone shattering under the power of your blow. You yank the machete out, momentarily stunned as she stumbles to her knees, eyes fizzing out. 

“Fuck,” you pant, stumbling backwards, “fuck you.” 

Your victory is short lived. More goons are coming down the stairs, armed to the teeth. You raise your weapon, ready to fight them all if it kills you, when you feel something strange. Your shirt has been sliced open- cold hair breezes around your stomach. You look down, and are somewhat horrified to find blood; your own blood. 

All at once, you feel nausea hit. You stumble to your knees, gasping for air. She got you- you feel the pain shooting through now. She managed to sink her dirty claws into your stomach as if you were made of mist and gas. 

Everything flickers in front of you as the last few days finally hit. You’re in so much pain, it’s almost incredible- had you been an author, you would have liked to write about this one day. It’s like your insides have been ripped out (they kind of have, you suppose) and set on fire, stomped on, pissed on- you almost laugh at the thought as your head hits the ground. 

You can’t remember when you fell. 

Your vision goes dark, flickering in and out. You see the goons approach you, pick you up unceremoniously. You are outside your body, floating somewhere beyond, watching through your eyes as they drag you outside. It is raining- you wish you could feel the raindrops on your face, one last time. 

You laughed, holding out a hand. It had been a while since you had experienced rain- in the Firelights hideout, you are protected by the huge leaves of the tree; and the Firelights hideout has everything (and everyone) you could wish for, so why would you ever go outside? 

But, after hearing you sigh softly and murmur something about the only thing you miss about your old home being the rain, Ekko made it his mission to bring it back. As soon as it rained again, he took you by the arm, promising a wonderful surprise. He offered to blindfold you, but you kindly refused when you saw that he intended to take you up the tree. You had climbed together, him guiding you gently upwards; and as you’d ascended, you had heard a beautiful, soft patter; a sound that made your heart beat speed up and your throat close. Finally, you had reached the top, and he had lifted the leaves to reveal a little area above the canopy, partly shielded from the rain with a makeshift structure made of leaves and cloth. 

Now, you sat in this structure, your side flush against his, a hand held out to the pouring rain.  

“Do you like it?” He asked softly, looking at you. 

“Do I like it?” You cried, almost incredulous. “Yes, Ekko, I love it!” You turned to him, grinning so widely it almost hurt. “Thank you,” you added after a moment. “Thank you so much, Ekko.” He smiled too, and you took his face in your hands and kissed him, and Gods knew you’d never been happier. 

You’re lying in an alleyway. It’s like you can physically feel the blood leaking from you, your life draining from the gash in your stomach and the holes in your arm. The goons have left, convinced you are dead- why didn’t they check your pulse, stupid bastards? 

It has stopped raining, but you’re soaked to the bone, lying there in the dark. Someone has stolen your jacket and your machete. 

You groaned as you lifted the jacket up to the light. A bright fabric, the colour of the sunset, now stained with dark greenish grey goo. You should have known that wearing your favourite jacket down into the mines was a stupid idea, but you’d done it anyway. 

“Stupid,” you mumbled to yourself, dropping the jacket into a heap on the floor. You wondered briefly if it was salvageable, but deep down knew it wasn’t. You’d have to find a new one, which would be nowhere near as nice. 

Someone knocked on your door, and a soft voice spoke your name. 

“Come in,” you called, still staring sadly at your jacket. 

Ekko stepped inside, his presence like warm sunlight. Despite the grief caused by the ruined jacket, you smile, turning to him instantly relaxing as he wrapped his arms around your waist. 

“I hear your jacket got ruined,” he said softly. 

“Yeah,” you muttered in response. “Upsetting.” He laughed. “I have something for you.” You pulled away, moving your hands to his biceps and looking at him. “What, Ekko?” You already knew what he was going to show you, but it warmed your heart all the same. 

“It’s not exactly the same colour,” he said apologetically, “but-“ 

You put a hand over his mouth, beaming. “I don’t care,” you said. 

He smiled back at you, releasing you to pull something out of his bag. It was neatly folded, but he held it out to you. You shook it out, and found a jacket, almost identical to the one that you had just ruined; it was a slightly lighter shade of orange, and the pattern on the back was a tree instead of the flowers you’d had on your last one. 

“You’re insane,” you said, in awe. You put the jacket on- it was a little too big, but who gave a shit? It was your jacket, gifted to you by your boy. 

You blink back into consciousness, and almost screamed. The pain coursing through you is like nothing you’d ever imagined; like being electrocuted and burned and drowned all at the same time. Despite the gaping hole in you, you want to curl up, to shield yourself from the wet and cold and pain. 

“Please,” you whimper into the ground, “please, no.” 

It’s not that you don’t want to die. In fact, you welcome death- you see it as a release more than anything else, from the bullshit life you lead. But dying here, like this- 

You start to cry, and you gag and retch as tears spill mercilessly. 

You are about to give in- you have given in- when a bright light seems to fill your vision. It is green and orange and yellow and pink and warm and fills everything around you. For a moment you think you’ve died, and this is some kind deity welcoming you into the next life, whispering I forgive you don’t worry as it carries you away. But no, the truth is much harsher than that. 

A face hovers into your field of vision, and warm hands tug your shirt upwards. You want to protest, but your throat is dry from all the retching and sobbing you’ve been doing. A cloth presses down into the wound in your stomach and you howl, eyes rolling back in your head as the pain grabs you by the throat and fucking throttles you. 

“Stop,” you manage to whimper. “Why- why are you doing this?” Your voice is hoarse, you’re crying again as you try to shut out the pain. 

You hear shouting- words like help and home and quick- and black out again. 

When you come to, you are no longer lying wet and dying in an alleyway miles from home (where even is home anymore? It’s just you, and that orange jacket, which you don’t even have anymore). 

Your surroundings slowly swim into focus (swimming, your brain sings, swimming in an underwater cave, hands on your waist, kisses all over). You are lying down, mercifully dry and warm. Pain pumps through you in waves, mostly coming from your wrist and your stomach. You wonder, again, if this is some afterlife- if so, it is far less cruel than your parents described. 

But then, you turn your head, and pain sears through you. 

But that is not what makes you cry. 

He lifts his head instantly as he hears your quiet sobs, and he’s at your side, a hand carefully gripping yours (he’s avoiding the bloody bandage wrapped around your wrist, you realise), the other gently brushing soft fingers over your bruised face. “It’s okay,” he says, even though you think he doesn’t mean it. It’s not okay- you ran away, got yourself beat up, almost killed, and he’s had to rescue you. Of course it’s not okay.

“Ekko,” you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats, stroking your hair away from his face. Instinctively, you curl away, wanting to hide your injury from him. He shakes his head, his eyes brimming with tears (or maybe you’re delusional, because who would cry over you?) 

“I-“ Your words are lost in a pathetic sob, and you turn your face away from him. 

“Don’t,” he says. A pause. “How are you feeling?” 

You croak out what should’ve been fuck but instead comes out as a bad imitation . You would’ve laughed, in any other situation. 

“What happened?” His voice is so soft, so kind, it makes you want to rip your eyeballs out and stuff them into your ears. 

You shake your head. You don’t want him to know what you’ve been up to since you left the Firelights. 

He lets go of your hand, and for a moment you think he’s leaving you. It wouldn’t surprise you, to be honest. But no, he doesn’t leave you. Instead, he leans over, inspects the bandages wrapped around your midsection. Your mind instantly flashes to him prodding it, digging his fingers into your wound and calling you names. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says finally, still glaring at your bandaged stomach. 

“Excuse me?” That is the first full statement you manage to force past your shredded throat. 

“You’re an idiot,” he repeats with just as much gusto. “I mean, how could you just go and do this?” He gestures at your injuries. 

“I didn’t-“ 

“What, think? Yeah, I can tell.” His face is partly obscured, so you can’t tell what face he’s making. 

“I-“ 

“You’re so stupid. I mean, did you really think you could survive taking on all of the goons in that building?” He snorts to himself. “At least tell me the pay was worth it.” 

You’re somewhat incredulous. All the time you’ve known Ekko, he’s never been this outright mean to you. 

“What-“ you sputter, unable to find the words. 

“Did you not think for a moment that you might get killed?” He puts extra emphasis on the word killed, and it’s like a punch in the gut. When he turns his gaze onto you, you think you’d prefer to have the goons rip you apart than see him look at you like this ever again. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage to say through a fresh tightening in your throat. Your eyes sting and you’re about to turn away when you see his expression. 

He’s smiling. 

“What?” You almost choke out. “What is it?” 

His smile is the softest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s the sunlight, shining through the leaves of the tree; it’s the rain gently pattering on the roof of your childhood home. It’s the smell of old books and wood. 

It’s so painfully home. 

Your eyes sting, and you turn your face away from him, swallowing the bile rising in your throat. He still smiles at you like that, after everything you’ve done. 

He takes your hand again, his other beginning to gently trace patterns on the bandage on your stomach. It’s such a soft, kind gesture. He used to do that, you remember with a pang, when you two would lie in bed together: draw little patterns on your back with his fingers, when he thought you were asleep. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and for the first time, you wholeheartedly believe him. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because those are the only words your throat will allow out. “I am.” 

“I know,” he murmurs. He hesitates, then leans forwards, kissing your forehead gently. “Just…” he trails off, his gaze now focused back on your bruised face. “Don’t do that again.” 

You promise him. Not with words, but with the feeling in your chest, the loosening of your lungs and throat as you watch him watch you. You promise him with the way your knuckles have stopped aching for more skin to break, with the way your eyes water again. 

You promise him with all that you have, because that is the least you can do for him. 

“I love you,” you mumble, almost sheepishly. 

“I love you too,” he answers; there is no hesitation, no layered but only if… behind the words. He says it back with the same confidence he gives orders, the words more of a declaration than softly spoken pretty things. 

“I’m sorry,” you add, after a few moments of just watching him breathe. 

“I love you,” is his answer. 

You shut your eyes, and he squeezes your hand. 

[ceruark]

mia kaiser—a pampered, regal cat—is about as famous and demanding as the father that spoils her rotten.

the maine coon-tabby mix is posted to kaiser's public instagram more frequently than the man himself or any of his teammates, her fluffy orange coat appearing pristine in every single photo she appears in. kaiser's fans fawn over just as much as they do him (if not more), absolutely taken with her and showering her in nicknames such as "sweetheart" and "lovely" when she shows up on their feed, butting her head against kaiser's thigh or caught in the middle of licking a hand with a familiar crown inked on the back of it.

the veterinary clinic located near bastard münchen's stadium has a much different opinion of her than the public, though. if mia has an upcoming appointment, they're scheduling three vets to just her—two to handle the fussy, dramatic kitty, and one to deal with her equally ostentatious owner.

you transferred to the munich branch of the vet clinic chain from cologne about three months ago for a change in scenery and a fresh start in a new, larger city. you've already proven your worth during your time there, though, receiving nothing but positive reviews from clients you've seen, and have even started being requested by name when they call to schedule an appointment for their beloved pets.

so when michael kaiser strides into the clinic one morning, unannounced and unplanned for, the other vets on duty are eager to throw you at him and let you have at it.

"consider it the final module of your training," your boss tells you with a sharp grin—as if you haven't been fully onboarded for nearly two months now.

you've heard the horror stories from your coworkers, but they don't really compare to the real thing. thankfully, you've got two of them in the room with you (as is standard for treating mia), but your coworkers' attempts at calming kaiser down do little, and it's only working mia up even more. unfortunately for you, the man is snappier than usual, agitated with worry over mia's sudden illness.

(not that he'll ever admit it.)

mia lashes out at you again as you try to approach her with the ophthalmoscope, batting at your arm and letting out a low, vicious hiss that's all teeth.

humming, you slip the scope into your pocket and kneel down so your face is level with hers. ever so slowly, you move your hand toward her. a low yowling sounds from the back of her throat as if to warn you away, but you keep advancing inch by inch, until your hand is right in front of her nose.

cautiously, she sniffs at your palm, still grumbling. after a moment of allowing her to familiarize herself with you, you give a gentle pet to her head. when she doesn't lash out, you carefully continue to stroke your fingers through her fur until she eases up and lays down on the counter.

"there you go," you coo at her softly. you take the scope back out and handing it off to your coworker, who watches, absolutely bewildered, as mia begins purring and snuggling into your touch. "you're just scared, aren't you? poor girl. you're actually very sweet, hm?"

you continue petting her with one hand and use the other to hold her head in place as your coworker observes her eyes with the scope. once he nods at you, you release her head, but don't stop carding your hands through her fur.

"the good news is that there aren't any ulcers, tumors, or severe injuries in either of her eyes," your coworker says.

you hum, looking away from mia and to her owner. you feel a bit taken aback when you catch him watching you sharply, but force yourself to relax, as to not work the cat up again.

“we’ll have to run some blood tests and take the pressure in her eyes to determine the exact cause of the conjunctivitis, but at the very least, it’s nothing too serious,” you explain. "it'll take a few days to get the results back, but in the meantime, we can give her some medication to help with the symptoms."

to everyone's surprise, you manage to wrap up the impromptu check-up without a major outburst from either of the kaisers. the blonde seems a bit ruffled by the fact that he actually has to fight mia to get her away from you, but there's nothing greater than the scathing, "already trying to replace me, are you?" that's directed more toward the cat rather than you.

your boss is already scheming to assign you to mia's appointments for as long as possible, but kaiser takes care of that for him when he specifically requests you to treat his precious daughter from now on.

as of late, your fingers end up littered with the scratches and nips that mia makes when she's being playful with you. you can't bring yourself to mind when she always looks up at you with wide, endearing eyes after, making up for it by licking the small wounds clean.

perhaps it's an indicator of what's to come—the behavior she's inherited from her owner, who is also rapidly developing a keen interest in the only other person who has managed to touch mia's heart.

[reidsism]

➳ LOCH NESS — S.R

to nav 𓇙 to s.r mlist 𓇙 to records!reader mlist

spencer reid x archivist!fem!reader

your first non-sanctioned trip to the bau is met with the upwards brows of derek morgan, and maybe dr reid gets a bit too defensive

wc: 1.4k

warnings: none!!!!! maybe like.. allusions to sex? but it’s vague and jokes idk 😭 takes place the day after frigid

a/n: another one written in my notes app lovingly at 3am. so it’s lowk shit and i kinda hate it but i love these two too much to stop sorry :(

You’re halfway through talking yourself out of this when the elevator doors open and your eyes are graced with the buzzing hallway of floor six.

You gulp, hugging the two cups close to your chest, a thick, heavy brown overcoat—his—draped over your forearm. The lights are brighter up here, it smells faintly like citrus cleaner and someone’s too-strong cologne and nothing at all like what you’re used to.

Paper and dust and faded ink.

It’s loud too, far louder than you’re used to, the sounds of phones ringing and pens scribbling and people chattering that it feels like this is a whole other world. Like there’s no way this is the same building as the room you work in.

But you take a heavy breath and stick your leg out quickly as the doors begin to close before you can even make it off the elevator.

You feel horrendously out of place in this area full of suits and slacks and general business attire.

Your FBI badge hangs off your cardigan and you wonder, for a moment, with all of these people milling around you, if you even deserve to wear it.

You haven’t been anywhere above the main floor in six years, bar once.

Three weeks ago. Agent Hotchner of this very unit had requested your assistance on a case. But that was different—you were called up here, and he had met you at the elevator to lead you to the conference room himself.

Now? Now you’re here alone, nobody meeting you at the elevator because this is a non-bureau sanctioned visit to the BAU.

And it’s making you really fucking nervous.

But you grip at the handle of the heavy glass door with your pinky, pulling it open with your foot with a soft grunt to enter the bullpen.

It’s not that people stop and stare, really, but… but it’s awkward. Like, really awkward.

You imagine, from what you know about Dr. Reid, his desk is the one covered in stacks of books with a messenger bag propped against the side of it, but he’s not there.

Who does spot you, however, is Agent Morgan.

And you swallow roughly. Because he is openly staring at you with his brows raised so far up his forehead that you’d worry they’d get lost in his hair, if he had any.

He’s staring at you like someone just walked in dragging the fucking Loch Ness monster and simply said “Hey, I found her.”

You blink at him.

It’s a small miracle that Dr. Reid is approaching his desk again, sitting down and immediately scribbling something onto his file.

You don’t hesitate—not with Agent Morgan looking at you like that—and make a beeline for his desk.

Spencer blinks up at you, like even he’s shocked you’re up here. (He is. He doesn’t think Hotch called you up here again).

You don’t give him a chance to speak before you’re setting a cup down on his desk and drop his coat over his lap.

“You forgot your coat,” you mumble quietly. “And, uh, I got coffee. As a thanks for last night. I stopped by that place on Eighth you mentioned a while ago.”

His lips curl into a little smile, but you grab the lid off his cup before he can grab it, checking the contents before swapping it out for the one in your other hand. “Mixed them up,” you offer lamely, an embarrassed grimace on your face.

Spencer just huffs a soft laugh, taking a sip. Sweetness melts on his tongue and his eyes go slightly wide as he looks up at you. “You know how I take my coffee?”

You shrug. “You dumped four sugars into yours that one time,” you take a sip of your cup. “I just figured that’s your usual.” You remembered it, actually. He said he had a sweet tooth and you’d stored the information away for later use.

This is that later use.

He’s barely able to mumble out a thank you before you’re nodding and darting back out the glass door towards the elevator, slamming your palm on the down button.

You step inside and keep your head down as the doors close, sending you back eight floors down.

Morgan stares at him. “Oh hell no,” he says, dropping his folder onto his desk. “Did she just say ‘thanks for last night’ and walk in here with your coat?”

Spencer blinks, spluttering. “Wha- no! N-no, it’s not like that!”

“Oh, I see how it is, kid,” he cackles, leaning in. “You two kept warm, huh? Played a little basement survival?” His grin reaches ear to ear.

“I- Morgan, it wasn’t like that!” Spencer huffs, face redder than Garcia’s glasses of the day. “She didn’t have a ride home! I drove her. She was freezing, I didn’t- Nothing happened!”

Garcia chooses then to walk into the bullpen from her office, a wide grin on her red lips. “Did I just hear basement survival?” she stops beside Morgan’s desk. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“You’re blushing, Spence,” JJ laughs, hardly looking up from the file on her desk.

Spencer falters. “I- I always blush,” he mutters, ducking his head to hide the obvious redness that’s flushed up his neck and cheeks and ears. “I have sensitive skin!”

Morgan leans back in his chair with a smug chuckle. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh? Records cryptid and the genius golden boy. Who’d have thought?”

Spencer just sighs, picking up the cup again and taking a long swig. “She just brought me coffee, okay? That’s not some secret code for anything.”

Garcia smiles coyly. “Oh sweetie,” she says, tone dripping with honey. “For you? That’s basically a marriage proposal.”

“It is not! JJ brings me coffee!” Spencer groans, gesturing to her with his hand.

JJ raises a brow. “I don’t leave a cave and come up from a basement for like, the third time this year just to do that though.” She still hasn’t looked up from her desk, once.

And Spencer just blinks. Okay, maybe it was a bit of a big deal, you coming up here. He knows you rarely leave B3 other than just coming and leaving work, but still. It’s not like it’s some deep, important, big thing, you were just… being nice.

Right?

He lifts the cup to his lips again with a quiet, heavy sigh, just to furrow his brows.

Scribbled in tiny font on the side of the red cup, is your handwriting.

i hope you weren’t too cold driving home. thank you for being kind.

And, oh. Just underneath is the shyest, sweetest little doodle of a snow cloud . Because of course.

He blinks, then just stares at it with a goofy little half-smile, picturing you writing it on the way over, and now he’s cradling this paper coffee cup like it’s made of solid gold, when Morgan approaches over his shoulder and snatches it out of his hand.

“OH MY GOD,” he howls, dramatically clutching at his chest with his free hand. “A HANDWRITTEN NOTE? Reid, you got a love letter from the basement dweller!”

“Morgan, give it back!” Spencer stands, lunging to flail and grab his coffee back, a deep furrow in his brow.

Penelope gasps, running over from her spot beside Morgan’s desk. “A love letter?! Oh, let me see!” she laughs.

“It’s not a love letter,” Spencer huffs. “It’s just a- a thank you, that’s all!”

“It is absolutely a love letter, kid,” Morgan cackles, holding the cup up above his head as Spencer reaches for it again. “Spencer Reid and goblin from the Archives. Sounds like a Netflix original,” he laughs again.

Spencer’s not laughing.

In fact, he’s pretty frustrated, honestly. Not only at Morgan stealing his coffee, but at the names he’s used for you.

Names that came from office gossip. Names you don’t like, but deal with anyway.

Records cryptid. Basement dweller. Goblin from the Archives.

It’s not nice, not kind, not what you deserve.

And he knows Morgan means nothing malicious by it, he knows that. Derek is kind. But he doesn’t know you, either. Nobody really does, that’s the problem.

“She’s not ‘the goblin from the archives’, or a ‘basement dweller’, or a ‘cryptid’, Morgan. She has a name,” Spencer huffs, crossing his arms. “Give me my coffee back. Please.”

And that shuts them up.

Because he’s not laughing, he hasn’t been laughing since Morgan grabbed his cup in the first place. It’s not funny anymore.

Derek nods, setting the cup back down on the desk before raising his hands with a soft sorry, kid before heading back to his own desk. Garcia offers a tiny smile of apology before backing into her office again.

Spencer sighs. He doesn’t mean to snap, really. He doesn’t like doing that. But you deserve to have people know your name.

And if he’s the one who has to remind people of that for you, because he knows you won’t do it yourself? Then yeah, he will.

[kefiteria]

A Knight Must Protect... In His Master's Name!!

Epilogue: Returning Sebek's Coat!

Sebek x Reader

tags: fluff, sharing umbrella during the rain ☔🌧️, coat from sebek, ROMANTIC SEBEK BECAUSE WE NEED MORE SEBEK

The first raindrop was a quiet thief, stealing warmth from your cheek.

The second, more brazen, landed upon your open notebook, blurring the careful script into ghostly ink-stained tendrils.

The third? The executioner, heralding the sky’s sudden, merciless deluge.

The wind exhaled a long, shuddering sigh. The rain poured, in thick silver ribbons, upon stone and grass and skin. You exhaled, mimicking the heavens, pressing your bag against your chest. No reprieve.

And yet—

“Hah! Is that all?”

The voice struck through the downpour with all the force of a battle cry.

Sebek Zigvolt stood beside you, unbowed, unshaken, as if carved from the very storm itself. His uniform clung to him, soaked through, a second skin of heavy fabric and purpose. The rainwater traced its way along his jaw, his throat, pooling in his collar.

He folded his arms across his chest, the very image of indomitable resolve. “Such paltry rainfall! A knight does not tremble before the elements!”

You turned to him, slow yet deliberate, your gaze traveling the length of his utterly drenched form.

“Sebek?” you said, voice edged with disbelief. “You’re soaked.”

He scoffed, chin lifting in imperious defiance. “And yet, I remain standing! Do you think the young master would cower before a mere storm?”

You tilted your head confused with his antics. “Malleus isn’t even here.”

A sharp inhale. The sound of scandalized dignity crumbling into affronted despair.

“His greatness transcends distance!” Sebek barked. “Were he to witness this sorry spectacle—” his gesture encompassed the rain, your utterly unprotected state, perhaps even the tragic futility of mortal existence itself “—he would surely shake his head in disappointment!”

“… Because I forgot an umbrella?”

“Yes!”

Silence.

“Well…“ you exhaled. Somewhere, deep within the recesses of your bag, your fingers found salvation: a small, foldable umbrella, its handle cool beneath your touch. With the click of a latch, the canopy unfurled—fragile, human-made, unassuming.

Sebek did not move.

He regarded the umbrella with an expression of profound hesitation, as if its mere existence posed some unspeakable moral dilemma.

“Are you seriously going to just stand there?” You raised an eyebrow with an amused face.

“A knight—” he intoned, voice rich with conviction, “does not falter before the elements.”

“Orrrr” you countered, unimpressed, “a knight could just get under the umbrella and not be miserable.”

A pause. The warring factions of his soul engaged in vicious battle. His mouth parted, a protest forming—but before he could voice it, you stepped forward.

Closer.

Close enough that the damp chill of his presence became something tangible, something warm. Close enough that his breath, sharp and shallow, hitched at the proximity. The umbrella shifted, adjusting, sheltering him in its arc.

Sebek went utterly, devastatingly still.

“… W-what are you doing?” he rasped.

“Keeping us dry?” you murmured, voice edged with quiet amusement. “Perhaps would you rather catch a cold to prove a point?”

Something in him coiled tight, a drawn bowstring, a tension bordering on unbearable. He stared, as if at some unfathomable equation, as if the answer to his torment lay somewhere in the shadowed space between you.

Then—abrupt, decisive—he tore off his coat.

The weight of it settled over your shoulders, heavy with rain, thick with the scent of leather and steel and the electric bite of magic.

“… Huh?” you blinked, fingers curling into the lapels.

Sebek turned away sharply, ears betraying him with the barest flush of pink. “It would be inappropriate for a lady to be drenched in such conditions!”

“… I’m not that—”

“You are a human! And humans are fragile!” His voice lifted, as if the mere suggestion of your resilience were an unthinkable crime. “If the young master were to witness such disgrace—no, I cannot permit it!”

The coat was too large, swallowing you whole, draped like a shield about your form. It was warm, impossibly so, carrying the ghost of his body heat.

Sebek, meanwhile, stood beside you, conspicuously quiet with almost reckless determination, he plucked the umbrella from your grasp.

You arched a brow. “Taking over, huh?”

“A knight does not let their charge bear the burden alone.”

At first, he held it with military precision. But as you walked, something curious—something imperceptibly telling—began to happen.

The umbrella shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

Tilting. Just so.

You believed it an accident so to speak. The wind, perhaps. But no—the pattern remained, unwavering. The coverage leaned toward you, shielding you entirely—while his shoulder, his back, bore the brunt of the storm.

“…Sebek.” You turned your gaze upward, studying him. He did not seem to realize.

“Hm?”

“You’re getting wet.”

A fractional pause. “What? No, I am holding the umbrella in the optimal position!”

“Your entire shoulder is out in the rain.” You pointed.

Sebek blinked, at last looking at himself.

Oh.

A strangled sound, half cough, half choked-back denial. “That is—irrelevant! So long as you remain dry, my duty is fulfilled!”

A slow, knowing smile curled at your lips.

“Sebek.” you murmured, voice soft, dangerous, “are you sure this is about duty and not just because you want to keep me close?”

Sebek inhaled sharply.

His fingers twitched. A hesitation, poised between restraint and instinct. Tentative, barely there, as if the mere notion of touch might undo him—

His arm slid around your waist.

It was stiff, at first. A mere breath of contact. But you did not pull away.

And so, slowly, his grip firmed.

For practicality, of course. Yes. Practicality. Because closer was better—closer meant the umbrella’s coverage was more effective—closer meant he could shield you from the rain—closer meant—

Your breath, warm against his rain-chilled skin.

Sebek swallowed, his face a riot of color.

You tilted your head. “Better?”

Sebek stiffened. “I—I—”

A flicker of something in your gaze. Amusement? Understanding? Fondness?

His breath hitched.

“… I must escort you home,” he blurted, voice cracking, “IN THE NAME OF THE YOUNG MASTER!”

By the time you reached Ramshackle, the rain had quieted to a whisper.

As you stepped inside, shrugging off his coat, only to turn and—

Sebek stormed past you.

Not walked. Stormed.

Straight to the fireplace, where he immediately crouched, stacking logs with all the unchained restrained violence of a man at war with his own heart.

“…Sebek?”

“A knight!” he barked, ears red, “does not leave their charge in the cold!”

You tilted your head, there's so much confusion for today. “I wasn’t even that cold.”

“That is IRRELEVANT!”

The fire roared to life. Sebek glared at it, as if daring the flames to soothe whatever turmoil lay beneath his armor.

So with abrupt, frantic—he bolted upright.

“I—I MUST GO!” he blurted. “TRAINING! YES! TRAINING.”

“Wait, your coa—!”

Too late.

Sebek had already vanished into the night.

You stood there, his coat still in your hands.

A slow, creeping grin.

“… He’s going to come back for this later,” you mused, fingers curling into the fabric, “and die of embarrassment, isn’t he?”

You could hardly wait.

a/u🍨: epilogue is up now!!!! Thank you for reading 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

[yo-ri-su-ki]

Hello, how are you? This is my first time here and I would like to know how to make a request if it is okay and if you feel comfortable.

I'm wondering how Vergil would react to Reader, who is half human and half angel, coming to him and asking for help combing her wings, since they are heavy and she keeps them inside her body as a tattoo on her back. But she uses them in battle to help with agility and combat. However, she can't keep them in a hurry for too long because the feathers get tangled and often get knotted. She keeps them hidden because she has suffered from people who have tried to pull or even rip off her wings. She opens and combs them and is liberating, but there are places she can't reach and everyone in the DMC building left. However, not everyone...

Thank you and have a good weekend 😊☺️

Unfurling Feathers

Vergil Sparda x Female!Reader

An: URGHHH THIS IS AN AMAZING IDEAAA I SHOULD'VE THOUGHT OF THISSSSS

The hum of the city outside the Devil May Cry building faded into a dull murmur, muted by the thick walls and the lingering weight of a long day. The clang of weapons being cleaned had gone silent. Nero had left hours ago with a grin and a joke about getting drunk before Kyrie dragged him home. Lady and Trish had followed, bickering about who had the highest demon body count this week.

You were alone.

Or so you thought.

Steam curled in wisps around you, the hot water from the shower doing little to ease the tight ache in your back. Your fingers trembled slightly as they hovered above the base of your neck, where the inked tattoo stretched across your shoulder blades in the shape of folded wings. The dark design shimmered faintly, alive with hidden magic, pulsing with the desire to unfurl.

You drew a steady breath and whispered the command.

The tattoo rippled—then burst outward in a sudden, silent motion. Feathers, long and glowing with subtle gold, blossomed from your back like petals from a sealed bud. The weight of them hit you like a second spine. Always heavier than you remembered, always aching with the effort of staying hidden inside flesh and ink.

You exhaled shakily.

Stretching them felt like stretching parts of yourself that weren’t meant to be seen. Not here. Not anymore.

You stepped into the lounge slowly, towel tucked tight around your body, your wings half-draped behind you. Each movement stirred a fresh tangle in the feathers. Your hands worked at the knots carefully, trying to untangle the ones you could see—brushing, tugging, whispering soft apologies when one snapped under your fingers.

You couldn’t reach the worst parts. The ones near the top. The base. The inner curve.

Frustration burned behind your eyes.

You used your wings in battle for speed, evasion, sudden aerial bursts that gave you the edge in combat—and every time, they ended up matted. Twisted. You never had time to properly tend to them. You couldn’t. People stared. People touched. Some even tried to rip them out.

You clenched your fists at the memory. The feeling of claws, chains, greedy hands—

Footsteps.

Your heart stopped.

Vergil stepped into the doorway, Yamato glinting faintly at his hip, his long coat dusted from whatever training he had just finished. His silver hair was loose at the tips, slightly mussed in a way that should’ve been impossible for someone so controlled. His sharp blue eyes landed on you—and the wings.

You froze.

Neither of you spoke.

His gaze didn’t travel down your body, didn’t flinch at your half-state of dress. He only stared at your wings.

You opened your mouth, hesitated. “I… I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

He blinked slowly. “The others left. I remained behind to meditate.”

Of course he did.

You swallowed hard. “I… I know this is strange, but—”

“You are in pain,” he said plainly.

You stiffened.

“It’s not… nothing I can’t handle,” you lied, brushing at another knotted feather that made you wince.

“You cannot reach the base.” He took a step closer, voice quieter now. “May I?”

You looked at him, stunned. Of all people, you had never imagined asking Vergil for help with something so… personal. Your wings were a part of your soul. You had only ever let one person touch them before—and they had betrayed you.

But Vergil didn’t move any closer. He waited, eyes unreadable.

You nodded.

He gestured for you to sit on the couch, and you did, folding your wings forward slightly to allow him access to the tangle of feathers near your shoulders.

His touch was… unexpected.

Gentle. Deliberate. Not clinical, but precise. As if he understood instinctively what not to do. He combed through with fingers like blades dulled to velvet, smoothing through the feathers, loosening knots with slow, practiced care.

“I have read that angelic feathers are sensitive to both pain and memory,” he murmured. “They store remnants of emotion. Is that true?”

You nodded slowly, voice soft. “Yes. Some call it a curse.”

“A burden, perhaps.” His fingers paused on a particularly thick knot. “But not a curse.”

He worked in silence for a while, untangling each section with unwavering patience.

“…You’ve done this before,” you said finally.

“I’ve trained with beings who had wings,” he replied. “Long ago. I learned how they function. What they carry.”

His hand brushed the base of your wing, and you flinched. Not from pain—but something deeper. An echo of fear.

He stilled.

“I won’t harm you.”

You looked over your shoulder. He wasn’t even looking at your body. Just the feathers. As if they were something sacred.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… don’t let anyone see them, usually.”

“Why?”

“Because when they do, they try to take them.”

Vergil was silent.

Then, very softly: “Fools. They see only beauty. Not the strength it takes to carry them.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He resumed combing, slower now. With reverence.

Minutes passed. You felt your heart beating too fast, your wings lighter than they’d been in months. Your eyes prickled.

When he finally stopped, your feathers were smooth. Gleaming. You hadn’t realized how much pain you’d been in until it was gone.

“Thank you,” you said. “I didn’t expect… I didn’t think you’d help.”

He stepped back. “You did not ask anyone else.”

You blinked.

“I was the one you trusted.” His eyes met yours. “Do not doubt the wisdom in that.”

You turned fully now, your wings folding behind you with a grace that surprised even you.

Vergil’s gaze lingered.

Not on your body.

On your wings.

Then—so softly you barely heard it—he said, “They are… beautiful.”

And he left the room before you could ask if he meant just the feathers.

Or all of you.

You didn’t see him for three days.

Not that you were keeping track. Not that it bothered you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But every time you walked past the lounge, you remembered his hands—how they’d moved through your feathers like he wasn’t afraid of touching something sacred. Like he understood that pain could be quiet, that softness could be armored.

You still felt the ghost of his touch when you stretched your wings, still found your breath catching when you thought of the way he’d said beautiful.

You should’ve said something. You should’ve asked what he meant.

But Vergil was Vergil. Elusive. Sharp-edged. As unreadable as a locked gate to an old library filled with ancient regrets. You didn’t pry. You didn’t beg. But something had shifted. And you weren’t sure if he felt it too.

---

The fourth night, you found him on the roof.

Moonlight silvered his coat, and the wind tugged gently at his hair as he stood there with his eyes closed, arms crossed, Yamato glowing faintly at his side.

You stepped forward quietly.

“You always train in the dark?” you asked.

He didn’t turn around.

“It is quiet up here.”

You took a breath, stepping beside him. “Thank you again. For helping me the other day. I never got to say that properly.”

He opened his eyes. “You already did.”

“Yes, but…” You hesitated. “Not like this. Not face-to-face. I don’t… usually let people see me like that. Not just the wings. The rest of it.”

His eyes flickered over to you.

“And what is the rest of it?”

You looked at the stars. “Vulnerability. Trust. Needing help.”

His silence stretched, but it wasn’t cold.

“…You are not weak for needing someone,” he said finally. “Strength and solitude are not the same.”

That surprised you.

“I thought you believed the opposite.”

Vergil turned to face you fully now. “Once, perhaps. But solitude becomes a cage when you build it high enough.”

You couldn’t stop the soft sound that left your throat. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition.

You let your wings bloom again, this time slow, deliberate. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His gaze remained steady as they unfurled beside you, stretching wide into the night air. The wind caught in them, and for a moment, you felt weightless.

You saw his fingers twitch faintly—like he wanted to reach again. Like he remembered.

“…Would you like to touch them again?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

His expression didn’t change, but you saw the faintest trace of tension leave his shoulders.

“If you’ll allow it.”

You stepped closer.

He reached out.

And this time, he touched them not with caution—but with something like familiarity. His fingers brushed gently through the outer feathers, curling slightly where they caught in the breeze. You shivered, but not from the cold.

“They’re warmer tonight,” he said softly.

“So is the moonlight,” you replied.

His hand lingered, then rested just at the joint where wing met shoulder. It was a place no one had ever touched before—at least, not without pain. But here, now… it felt like trust made flesh.

“Have you ever flown?” he asked.

“Not in a long time.”

He stepped behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his body along your spine. “Then let me watch when you do.”

You turned your head slightly. “You want to see me fly?”

“I want to see you unbound.”

Your breath caught.

Vergil’s hand left your wing then—but his fingers brushed against your own, a silent echo of what might come later.

---

Some time later…

You find a letter left in your room, sealed with his calligraphy—neat, sharp strokes of ink:

“I find myself dwelling not on your power… but on the peace I felt, combing your wings in silence. I do not understand it. But I want to. If you are willing.”

You reread it three times.

Then you smiled.

You were falling.

And he was beginning to reach.

The next morning, the rain had passed, and the sky cracked open into soft gold.

You stood on the same rooftop where Vergil had trained nights before, your wings extended, your bare feet curled against the cool stone. The city below moved on in its usual noisy chaos—unaware of the weight pressing on your shoulders. The ache in your back had faded, soothed by his touch, by his words.

You hadn’t flown in years.

Not since the last time you were hunted.

But Vergil's words echoed in your chest, deeper than marrow:

“Then let me watch when you do. I want to see you unbound.”

And for the first time, you wanted to be seen.

---

He didn’t speak when he joined you. No footsteps. Just a familiar shift in the air, a presence at your back that brought calm instead of fear.

You turned slightly. “You came.”

“I said I would.” His eyes roamed the curve of your wings—not with hunger or awe, but with a kind of reverence, quiet and grounded.

You looked out toward the sky, jaw tight. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know.”

“What if I fall?”

He stepped closer.

“Then I will catch you.”

The words were simple.

But they settled inside you like truth.

You stepped to the edge. The wind brushed your face, curling in your hair, dancing between feathers that now gleamed from careful untangling.

You exhaled.

Then you leapt.

For one terrifying heartbeat, you dropped.

Then—your wings caught.

Not as smooth as they used to be, not yet—but strong. They beat once. Twice.

Then the air lifted you.

The world tilted away as you rose into the sky.

Wind rushed past you like laughter. The sun hit your face and filled your chest with something like joy—and something dangerously close to freedom. You circled once, then twice, higher now, your wings responding like second nature. You laughed—a sound you hadn’t made in too long.

Below, Vergil watched.

He stood still, head tilted up, the faintest trace of something like awe softening the hard line of his mouth.

You swooped low, flying over him in a gentle arc. Your shadow passed over his face—and for just a second, your eyes met his.

And he smiled.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold.

It was quiet. Almost reverent.

You landed gently moments later, stumbling slightly—but he was there instantly, steadying you with one hand at your back, the other bracing your arm.

“You flew,” he said softly.

“I did.”

You looked up at him, breathing hard.

“I didn’t think I could anymore. Not really.”

He studied you with something unreadable in his eyes—then leaned in.

And kissed your forehead.

It was brief. Chaste. But deliberate.

You felt your breath catch.

“I am glad I was here to witness it,” he said. “Even angels deserve to remember their sky.”

Made by @yo-ri-su-ki, do not copy or translate my work! Reposts and likes appreciated!! Also if you like this post and want to see more like this, consider following!!

An: TYSMM IM SORRY I COULDN'T MAKE IT SOONER, AS I SAID I'M VERY SICK!! THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING LOVE YOU MWAAAH

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

You Found Me Here

Where Harry is a librarian who leaves notes poetry books.

Word count: 9k

Warnings: None. Just soft Harry at his finest.

London was soaked to the bone.

Rain spilled from a low, unbroken sky, coating the pavement in a shimmering blur. Cars hissed past, umbrellas tilted like tired eyes. She slipped into the library just after half-past four, damp from the walk, her fingers chilled, her shoulders damp where her coat had failed. The door creaked shut behind her with a low, familiar groan, and the noise of the outside world vanished.

Inside, the air was warm and still. Soft light hummed from brass sconces, catching in the floating dust. The scent of old pages, polished wood, and something faintly herbal—lavender, maybe—hung in the air. The building was old, but well loved. It wrapped around her like a blanket.

She took a breath. Then another.

Behind the front desk sat the librarian. Harry.

He looked up as she entered, as he always did, his eyes catching hers with that same, steady softness. He didn’t speak at first—he rarely did unless she approached—but he smiled, a slow curl of his lips that felt like the kind of thing you had to earn.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, voice quiet, almost reluctant to break the hush of the room.

He wore a thick navy sweater, pushed up at the sleeves, revealing a hint of tattoos that curled just below the hem—inky swallows, barely visible but enough to catch her attention. She’d noticed them before, and every time she wondered just how many there were, how far they went. They didn’t quite fit the softness of him, and yet… they did. Like poetry scribbled in the margins of a quiet life.

He had that kind of presence. Gentle. Self-contained. But there were hints—like the rings on his fingers, the slightly unruly curls that fell across his forehead, the scrawl of ink on his skin—that suggested there was more beneath the surface. A contradiction wrapped in warm jumpers and slow glances.

She smiled back, murmured a hello, and walked past him toward the back corner of the library—the part where the poetry and classics lived, tucked under a tall arched window fogged with condensation. This corner had become her habit. Her haven.

She settled into it the way one might slip into a favorite coat. The shelves were tall and close together, lined with soft-spined volumes that smelled like time. She ran her fingertips along the titles, tracing names she loved—Plath, Dickinson, Whitman. Her fingers paused on Leaves of Grass. Familiar. Comfortable. She pulled it from the shelf, already thinking about the rhythm of its lines.

As she opened the book, something slipped out and floated to the floor.

She frowned, crouching to pick it up. A folded piece of paper. Not a library slip or a note scribbled in haste—but something more deliberate. Neat. A little worn at the edges, as if it had been handled more than once before being left here.

She opened it.

The handwriting was slightly slanted, steady, a little unsure. Ink faded just enough to suggest it had been written a while ago—but not too long.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

She stared at it for a long moment, heart knocking once, hard, like it had heard something before her brain had.

There was no name. No initials. Just a phone number and a quiet, aching sort of invitation.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the front desk. Harry was bent over a return log, one hand in his hair, brow furrowed slightly in concentration. The light caught on the silver band around his finger, glinting briefly.

He didn’t look up.

She turned the note over in her hand, thumb tracing the fold. She didn’t know who had written it. But it had been left here—tucked between lines of Whitman, waiting for someone. Maybe her.

She slipped the note into her coat pocket, heart still oddly light and unsteady.

Outside, the rain kept falling, blurring the world beyond the window into nothing at all.

She sat with the book open, but she hadn’t turned the page in ten minutes. The words blurred, familiar verses gone shapeless under the weight of the note folded in her pocket.

It had to be a student, she told herself. Probably someone young and overly poetic, tucked into a reading nook upstairs with earbuds in and a tote bag full of battered paperbacks. Or maybe just a lonely stranger who wandered in from the rain and left a part of themselves between pages for someone—anyone—to find.

That’s all it was. A passing thought from someone she’d never meet. Someone hoping for a little connection in a quiet place.

Still, her mind played with the idea. Spinning tiny stories behind the handwriting—who they were, what they were thinking, if they meant it or if it was a dare between friends. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe someone was watching to see who would actually respond.

Her phone was in her bag. She could text. The number was right there.

If this means something to you too… text me.

The words looped over and over in her head, tugging gently at the corners of her thoughts. There was something vulnerable in them—something unpolished and true.

She reached into her pocket, pulled the note out, and read it again.

No name. No initials. No clue.

A small part of her wanted to reply. Not even to flirt or chase a story—but just to say yes. I understand. I come here to breathe, too. To disappear for a while. To feel something that isn’t loud.

But she didn’t know who would be on the other side. She didn’t know if she wanted to.

And really, it wasn’t her kind of thing. She wasn’t impulsive. She didn’t chase questions like this. She liked facts. Answers. Tangible things.

She folded the note carefully, the crease already soft from handling. Then she slipped it into the inside pocket of her coat and pressed her hand over it for a moment, like that would anchor it.

Maybe she wouldn’t text. Probably not.

But she’d hold onto it.

Because even if it wasn’t meant for her, something about it still felt like it fit.

Like a sentence she hadn’t written, but somehow remembered.

She didn’t text.

Not that day. Not the next. And after a while, the note just became another quiet thing tucked into her coat pocket, folded and forgotten like a grocery list or a half-finished thought.

Life pressed forward in the usual, slightly heavy way.

Work. Grey mornings. Crumpled receipts. The mundane rhythm of existing in a city that never really stopped to ask how you were doing.

She still came to the library, but not as often. Sometimes she brought her laptop and stayed in the nonfiction section just to change the view. Other times she breezed in and out, barely making eye contact with anyone. The note became something she didn’t think about anymore—just a scrap of paper, misplaced in memory.

Harry was still there.

Always tucked behind the desk or moving between aisles, shelving books with quiet efficiency. They rarely spoke. Just the occasional “afternoon” or a soft nod if their eyes met. He didn’t seem to expect more. He never pushed. It made her oddly grateful.

The seasons were shifting in the subtle way London always handled change—no dramatic turns, just a slow fade. The rain hadn’t stopped, but now the wind carried a different edge, cooler, sharper. People moved faster. Scarves reappeared. The evenings darkened early.

One Tuesday, she reached into the inside pocket of her coat looking for a receipt—and her fingers brushed the edge of the paper.

The note.

She pulled it out slowly, as if it might crumble.

It was still folded neatly, but the creases had softened. The ink looked slightly blurred in places, where the paper had rubbed against the lining of her coat. She stared at the words for a long time, as if seeing them for the first time all over again.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

Her lips pressed into a faint line.

She didn’t know why, but reading it now made her chest feel a little tighter. Not in a bad way. Just… aware. Like something had settled there, waiting. Quietly. Patiently.

She thought about how long it had been since she read something that made her feel anything. Since she let herself pause long enough to notice the weight of silence or the way the city sounded when you weren’t filling the gaps with noise.

And for a moment, she wanted to answer the note. To reach out. Not for romance. Not for mystery.

She didn’t grab her phone.

Not yet.

But she didn’t put the note away, either.

She slid it into her wallet, folding it once more so it fit beside her library card and a receipt from a café she hadn’t visited in months.

And this time, she didn’t forget it.

It was later than usual when she stepped into the library.

The sky outside was already slipping into navy, the rain quieter now, more of a mist than a storm. She’d been delayed—meetings that ran long, a bus that never showed. She almost didn’t come at all, but the thought of going straight home to silence made her stomach twist.

Inside, the library was nearly empty.

Most evenings at this hour, the building felt hollowed out, hushed in a different way—like the quiet had settled deeper into the bones of the place. Only a handful of students lingered at scattered tables, their laptop screens glowing pale in the warm lamplight.

She unwrapped her scarf slowly, fingers stiff with cold, and turned toward the front desk without thinking.

Harry was there. But not in his usual posture—not bent over returns or half-buried in the catalog system. He was leaning back slightly in his chair, a book in his lap, one hand absentmindedly curled at his chin. His eyes moved steadily across the page, completely absorbed.

It wasn’t the stillness that made her pause.

It was the book.

She recognized the cover instantly. Soft navy blue, with a gold-foiled title that had faded over time. To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Her copy at home was marked with ink and underlines and folded corners—half journal, half comfort object.

Something warm stirred in her chest.

Without really meaning to, she walked closer.

“You’re reading that one,” she said, her voice low, almost shy. “That book kind of wrecked me in the best way.”

Harry looked up, a little surprised to see her so close. His expression shifted slowly, from caught-off-guard to soft understanding.

“Yeah?” he asked. His voice was quiet, but not hesitant—just easy. “I just started it.”

She nodded, stepping a little closer to glance down at the open page. “It was the first book that made me feel like someone had opened up my brain and turned it into sentences. It’s kind of… everything, in a quiet way.”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t his usual polite, customer-service smile—it was small and real and slightly crooked. “That’s a good way to describe it.”

She tilted her head, fingers wrapped loosely around the strap of her bag. “It’s funny. I’ve read it three times and I still don’t think I understand it.”

“That’s probably why it’s good,” he said, and there was a faint glimmer of amusement in his voice. “Things that don’t give everything away at once.”

She looked at him a beat too long, surprised by how easily he said it. And maybe a little caught off guard by how that sentence lingered in the air between them.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” she murmured, smiling lightly as she stepped back. “Enjoy the existential spiral.”

He let out a soft laugh—barely more than a breath—but it was warm, and it followed her as she walked toward her usual corner of the library.

As she settled into her seat, something inside her felt shifted. Not dramatically, not loud. Just… nudged. Like the quiet had moved in a new direction.

She reached for her book but didn’t open it right away.

Instead, her fingers brushed her wallet.

The note was still there.

And for the first time in weeks, the idea of texting that number didn’t feel like a question mark.

It felt like a thread, waiting to be pulled.

She didn’t mean to pull the note out again.

It had become something of a habit lately—half-thoughtless, like a nervous tic. She’d run her thumb over the crease in her wallet, feel the worn edge of the paper, and glance at it like it might say something different the next time she read it.

It never did.

Sometimes I come here just to breathe.

If you understand that, maybe you’ll understand this.

If this means something to you too… text me.

[+44…]

But somehow, after what she’d said to Harry—after the strange comfort of finding him immersed in a book that shaped her, a book she loved like it had once saved her—it didn’t feel so abstract anymore. The note. The invitation. The possibility.

She looked around.

The library was quieter than usual. Dimmer. Outside, the rain had blurred the windows into watercolor. Inside, everything felt suspended. Safe.

She pulled her phone from her coat pocket. Opened a new message.

Typed slowly:

I found your note. And I understood. I still do.

The cursor blinked at her, patient. Waiting.

She hesitated. Let her thumb hover for just one second longer than she should have. The air around her felt charged—not dramatic, just… expectant. Like the moment before a match is struck.

She hit send.

The screen shifted. The message disappeared into the space between her and someone she didn’t know.

No reply came.

She didn’t expect one right away, not really. Still, she stared at her phone for a little longer than she meant to. Waiting for a buzz. For the dots. For something.

But the screen stayed still. Quiet. Blank.

Eventually, she turned it over, face down on the table beside her, and reached for her book.

She read the same paragraph three times before realizing she hadn’t taken in a word.

The next day, she checked her phone more than she wanted to admit.

Not obsessively. Not quite. But in the quiet moments—waiting for the kettle to boil, standing on the bus, walking past the window display at the bookshop she always meant to go into—her fingers would drift to her pocket, her screen would light up, and there would be nothing.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it had been a moment. A single, impulsive choice. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But it did. A little.

Because somewhere in the stillness between that book and that conversation and the folded piece of paper she kept reading like a poem, something had landed softly in her chest. Not a crush. Not even hope, exactly. Just a flicker of connection. And the ache of not knowing if it was real.

The silence stretched into a week.

She came back to the library, but it felt different now—like a page had turned somewhere she couldn’t quite find.

Sometimes, she caught herself watching Harry when he didn’t know. Not in a longing sort of way. Just… studying. Noticing. The way he leaned on one elbow when reading. How he tapped the side of his thumb against his mug when he was thinking. How he smiled when shelving the children’s books, like something about it softened him even more.

He didn’t look like someone waiting for a message.

He didn’t look like someone who’d left a note at all.

And that made it easier, somehow. To convince herself that the number had belonged to someone else—a passing stranger, a romantic idealist, a daydreamer with good handwriting and a moment of bravery.

Still, every time she sat in that same chair under the window, she half-waited for something. A flicker of something new. A word. A sound. A shift.

But nothing came.

Just the rain. The quiet. The rustle of pages being turned by people who weren’t thinking of her at all.

And somewhere between the silence and the stillness, she began to let it go.

Not all at once.

Just enough to breathe again.

It was nearly midnight when her phone buzzed.

She was already in bed, cocooned in a mess of blankets, the room lit only by the soft amber glow of a lamp she always forgot to turn off. Rain tapped gently against the window. The city beyond it had quieted, or maybe she’d just finally stopped listening.

She’d just turned a page in the book resting against her knees when the screen lit up.

Unknown number.

Her breath caught.

She blinked at it for a moment, unsure if she’d imagined it—if maybe it was one of those random marketing texts that slipped through late at night.

But it wasn’t.

Unknown Number: I never thought anyone would actually find it.

Or understand it.

Thank you for texting.

She stared at the words.

Not dramatic. Not flirtatious. Just honest. Simple. Like the note itself.

Her heart thudded softly under the weight of them.

Whoever it was—this person behind the words—they’d waited. Or hesitated. Or both. Maybe they were scared. Maybe they hadn’t known what to say. But they’d replied.

Finally.

She pulled the blankets up a little tighter and reread the message, then typed slowly:

I almost didn’t.

But I kept it. I don’t really know why.

I guess it made me feel a little less alone.

A few seconds passed.

Unknown Number: That’s why I left it.

Her chest tightened. Not in a painful way—more like a release. Like some small thread had finally gone slack after being pulled taut for too long.

She smiled to herself, barely, the corners of her lips curling as she set her book aside and leaned into the light of her phone.

The room felt warmer.

The night a little quieter.

She didn’t need to know who they were—not yet.

Just that someone out there had felt what she’d felt.

And that they’d seen her enough to answer.

Unknown Number:

I’ve hidden notes in other books, but that book felt… right.

Glad it found the right person.

Her:

It was kind of surreal, honestly.

Felt like it was waiting for me.

Or like I’d been waiting for it.

Unknown Number:

That’s exactly how I hoped it would feel.

Like something quiet tapping on your shoulder.

Her:

Why poetry?

Why not just say what you were feeling?

Unknown Number:

Because poetry says it better than I can.

And it’s easier to be honest when no one’s looking back at you.

She stared at that one a while. The glow of her screen lit her face, casting faint shadows on the ceiling. The room felt impossibly still.

Her:

I know what you mean.

There’s something safe about silence.

But also kind of lonely, isn’t it?

Unknown Number:

Yeah.

Exactly that.

She thought about stopping there. Letting the moment rest where it was. But her fingers moved before she could stop them.

Her:

You’re not alone tonight.

There was a longer pause this time. A full minute. Then:

Unknown Number:

Neither are you.

She set the phone on her chest and let her eyes close, a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

She still didn’t know who he was.

But somehow, it didn’t matter—not yet.

The next few days folded into something soft and steady.

Their texts never came in flurries. No rapid-fire conversation, no pressure to reply. Just quiet messages sent mid-morning, or just before bed, or while she stirred sugar into her tea at the same café where she always forgot the barista’s name.

They talked about books, mostly. What they were reading. Which lines stuck. What made them pause. He—whoever he was—seemed to understand the way words hit differently when you were tired, or hopeful, or in between.

He quoted Woolf one night and said he’d cried reading it the first time, then followed it with:

I think I’m supposed to be embarrassed by that, but I’m not.

She’d texted back:

Good. You shouldn’t be. The world needs more men who cry over sentences.

He replied:

That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever texted me.

She found herself smiling at her phone more often than she meant to.

And when she wasn’t smiling, she was thinking—wondering. Not in a desperate way. Just curious.

What kind of person leaves a note like that and waits a month for an answer?

She imagined someone older than her, maybe. Someone who worked odd hours and stayed up too late. Someone who kept old poetry books on the floor beside their bed and didn’t mind a little mess. Someone soft-spoken and thoughtful and maybe a little lonely.

Sometimes, without meaning to, she pictured Harry.

Not because she thought it was him—he was probably too composed, too gentle, too real for something like this—but because he fit the feeling. The energy. Like the person on the other end of the screen carried the same softness in their shoulders that he did when shelving books. The same quiet consideration when he asked a regular how their week had been.

She told herself it was just a face to put to the voice. Just a way to soften the mystery.

She was sitting in her usual spot at the library on Thursday afternoon when her phone lit up again.

What do you see right now?

She glanced around, unsure if it was a trick question.

Then she smiled.

Golden light through foggy windows. A crooked stack of books someone left behind. A man a few tables away whispering to himself as he reads.

Unknown Number: You paint good pictures.

She hesitated, then typed:

What do you see right now?

She expected a reply like “the inside of a bus” or “my office wall”. But instead:

You.

Or at least I imagine you. Sitting somewhere quiet, near a window. Head tilted slightly when you read.

Her breath caught a little at that.

Her:

That’s exactly where I am.

Unknown Number:

That’s what I hoped.

She glanced up then. Toward the front desk, toward the shelves, toward the faint rustle of someone turning a page nearby.

Whoever he was, she liked not knowing. It made everything feel dreamlike. Like a story you got to walk through without ever turning the last page.

The texts continued like a secret thread woven through her days.

They never talked about names. Never asked what the other looked like. There was something sacred about the not-knowing. Something safe.

But the tone had shifted lately.

More personal.

More vulnerable.

More present.

One night, he asked,

Do you ever feel like you’re just moving through the world without touching anything?

And she replied:

All the time. But then something small happens. A look. A line in a book. A message. And it pulls me back in.

He said:

You pull me back in.

She stared at that one a long time. Let it sit in her chest like a pebble warming in the sun.

At the library, the distance between her and Harry felt suddenly… thinner. Like the invisible line between stranger and something else had shifted, even though nothing had changed.

She still greeted him with a quiet “hi.”

He still offered a soft smile and a slightly tilted head.

But she noticed more now.

The way he watched people when they weren’t looking. The way he paused with his hand resting on a book like he was listening to it. The little scribbles she sometimes caught in the margins of his notepad—half-formed phrases, lyrics maybe. Or poetry.

And she kept imagining him as him.

The voice on the other end of the texts. The one who made her laugh under her breath. The one who confessed fears she didn’t know how to name. The one who read slowly and felt things deeply.

It wasn’t fair. She knew that. It could’ve been anyone. A stranger in a completely different part of the city. Someone she’d never even met.

But still. She saw Harry, and the thought came uninvited: what if it’s you?

The unraveling began with a message.

She was at the library, sitting under the tall window again, when it came through.

I wonder what would happen if I walked into that library.

If I passed your table.

Would you feel it was me?

Her fingers hovered above her screen.

Her:

Maybe.

I think I would.

Unknown Number:

What would you do?

She didn’t answer right away. She looked up instead.

Across the room, Harry was shelving books. Slow, deliberate. Back turned to her.

She watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders moved beneath his sweater, the way his fingers traced the edge of a spine before sliding it into place. Something caught in her throat.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Would you want it to be me?

Her breath caught.

She read it once.

Twice.

Then, slowly, she looked back at Harry.

And for the first time, she let herself really wonder.

Because suddenly, the idea didn’t feel dreamy or distant or abstract.

It felt close.

Tangible.

Like maybe the person she’d been texting wasn’t far away at all.

She didn’t answer his last message.

Not right away.

Her phone sat in her palm, screen glowing softly in the dim light of the library, those words blinking back at her:

Would you want it to be me?

It wasn’t even a confession. Not yet. Just a nudge. A gentle pulling at the thread they’d both been carefully wrapping around themselves for days now.

She looked up.

Harry was still shelving in the far corner. Focused, quiet, unaware.

But her brain had already started moving without her permission. Turning over old moments. Replaying things that hadn’t seemed like anything at the time.

She’d always assumed the person behind the messages was a stranger. Maybe someone who wandered in off the street. A student. A writer. Someone passing through, looking for meaning or connection or whatever people looked for when they left little pieces of themselves in library books.

But Harry…

Harry was here every day. Surrounded by books. By pages that held all the softness and sadness and searching she’d been reading in those messages.

He shelved Leaves of Grass.

He could have left the note. Easily. Casually. Like a thought slipped into the world without needing to see where it landed.

She remembered the way he looked when he was reading—completely lost in it. Like the rest of the world dropped away when he turned a page. Like he felt the words, not just read them.

She remembered his pencil tucked behind his ear. The handwritten scrawls in his notepad. The way he listened when she spoke about books like he was saving the words for later.

And that night—when he’d been reading To the Lighthouse, the same way she once had, like it was revealing something about her she hadn’t known how to name—he’d looked up at her, and it had felt like he knew.

She’d pushed the thought away then.

But now?

Now it settled in her chest like it belonged there.

What if it was him?

What if she’d been sitting in front of the person this entire time?

What if all those words—the quiet honesty, the poetry, the gentle ache—had come from the man behind the desk with ink on his wrists and eyes that always met hers like they meant it?

It wasn’t a certainty.

Not yet.

But it was more than an idea now.

It was a possibility.

And that possibility was suddenly too loud to ignore.

She stood up without really thinking.

Her heart beat louder than her footsteps, but the rest of her stayed calm. Focused. Her hand tightened slightly around her phone, like it was anchoring her to something solid.

Harry had just finished shelving a small stack, turning slowly toward the desk with that same quiet ease he always moved with. Like nothing in the world was urgent. Like time bent around him.

She stepped into his path gently—careful not to startle, but intentional.

“Hey,” she said softly.

He looked up, surprised, but his smile came quickly, natural.

“Hey.” His voice had that same warmth it always did. Soft. Unassuming.

For a second, she almost chickened out.

Almost smiled, asked him about the book he was holding, and walked back to her corner to keep pretending.

But something in her wouldn’t let her.

She held his gaze and lifted her phone slightly in her hand—not enough to show the screen, just enough to acknowledge what it represented.

“I got a text the other night,” she said, her voice steady but low. “From a number I didn’t know.”

His expression didn’t change.

Not immediately.

But his eyes flicked—barely—down to the phone. Then back to her.

She continued.

“It was a reply to a note. The one I found in Leaves of Grass.”

Now he froze. Not in a dramatic way. Just… stillness. Like something inside him had stopped mid-breath.

“I didn’t text back right away,” she said. “And I didn’t expect a reply when I finally did. But I got one.”

She stepped just slightly closer.

“And the more we talked, the more I started imagining who it might be. Not on purpose. Just…” She hesitated, then smiled, just a little. “The words reminded me of someone.”

Harry swallowed, slow. He didn’t speak. But his fingers flexed around the edge of the book in his hand.

“I’m not asking you to say anything,” she said. “I just want to ask you one thing.”

He nodded once, eyes still on hers, gaze unreadable—but not closed off. Never that.

She raised her phone again, unlocked it, and turned the screen toward him.

The last message was still there.

Would you want it to be me?

His eyes dropped to the screen. Just for a second.

Then he let out a breath—quiet and careful—and when he looked back at her, it was different.

Open. Real.

“Yes,” he said.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just honest.

Yes.

Her stomach flipped. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.

She let out a small, shaky laugh, almost in disbelief. “It’s you.”

He nodded once. “It’s me.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

The world didn’t shift. The library didn’t gasp. The rain didn’t stop.

But something between them… settled.

Like two halves of a sentence finally meeting in the middle.

She was still holding her phone when he spoke again.

“I put the note there on purpose,” he said, voice low. “In Leaves of Grass. Because I knew you always go to that shelf.”

Her heart flipped again—different this time. Not from surprise, but from understanding. Everything shifted into place.

“You hoped I’d find it,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She studied him for a moment. The quiet behind his eyes. The weight of the admission.

“Why not just talk to me?” she asked. “All this time?”

He exhaled—slow, careful—and looked down at his hands, then back up again. When he met her gaze, he didn’t look away.

“Because this place matters to you,” he said. “You come in here and go straight to the same corner, like it’s the only place in the world where everything feels okay. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

His voice was even, but she could hear the truth in it. The care behind it. That it wasn’t shyness. It wasn’t fear of rejection.

It was respect.

“I thought if I said something,” he continued, “if I made it weird or pushed anything on you… you might stop coming. And I didn’t want to be the reason this place stopped being safe for you.”

She didn’t realize how much that would hit her.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and something quiet inside her broke open in the best way.

“I didn’t know you noticed,” she said.

He smiled, faint and crooked. “I notice a lot more than you think.”

She felt her throat tighten—grateful, stunned, and completely unsure what to do with all the feeling sitting suddenly between them.

And he must have seen it, because he stepped back slightly, giving her space.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “If this is too much. If you want to go back to how it was, or not talk at all—”

“I don’t,” she said.

He blinked.

“I don’t want to go back,” she repeated, quieter now. “I want to know you. For real.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, slow and sincere.

“You kind of already do.”

They stood there a little longer—both of them held in the small, fragile space between something ending and something beginning.

And for once, neither of them rushed to fill the silence.

It was enough to just stand in it.

Together.

They didn’t say goodbye when she left the library that night. Not formally.

Harry just walked her to the door, hand brushing lightly against the edge of the frame as he held it open. The rain had eased to a light drizzle, streetlamps glowing like small moons in the mist.

She looked at him one last time before stepping out. He smiled—small, knowing. She smiled back.

That was it.

No plans.

No pressure.

But something had changed. And neither of them needed to say it out loud to feel it.

The next afternoon, he texted.

You free tomorrow evening?

She replied:

Yeah. I think I am.

He sent:

There’s a coffee shop not far from here. Quiet. Big windows. You might like it.

She sent back:

You had me at “big windows.”

They met just after six.

He was already there when she arrived—curled up at a corner table with a book open and two mugs on the table, steam curling lazily into the air. The café was quiet, with warm lighting and mismatched chairs. Music played low, the kind you don’t notice until someone stops talking.

He stood when he saw her, smiled in that soft, earnest way he had, and pushed one of the mugs toward her as she sat.

“Earl Grey,” he said. “Took a wild guess.”

She laughed. “You’re good.”

“I shelve a lot of books. You learn things.”

They didn’t talk about the note at first. Or the texts. Or even the library. It was like they both understood that everything important had already been said in silence and margins and moonlight. Now was for the other things.

She learned he liked rainy days more than sunny ones. That he used to write songs before he realized he liked reading them more. That he kept a stack of journals at home and only let himself read old ones when he was feeling brave.

He learned she always carried two books in her bag because she didn’t trust herself to pick one mood for the day. That she once tried to write poetry and hated every line. That the library had saved her, once. Not in a dramatic way. Just enough to matter.

They stayed until close.

Neither of them wanted to leave first.

When they stepped outside, the rain had stopped completely, the air clean and cold and full of that stillness that only exists in the hour when the world forgets to be loud.

They stood near the curb, neither one saying goodbye.

He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Can I walk you home?”

She nodded.

And he did.

No hands held. No promises made.

Just two people walking side by side under the soft orange glow of streetlights, a silence between them that no longer needed to be filled.

She still went to the library.

Even now, even after coffee shops and late-night walks and text messages that lingered long after the screen went dark—she still found her way to her usual spot under the arched window, coat damp from the rain, fingers chilled, heart a little steadier than before.

Harry was always there.

But things were different now.

There was an ease between them, threaded into their silences. A familiarity that didn’t need naming. They didn’t hover around each other, didn’t cling to conversation or force time together—but they noticed. They chose each other, over and over again, in small, deliberate ways.

The first time she found a book sitting on her table, it had no note. No explanation. Just a slim volume of poetry with a ribbon tucked into one page. A quiet suggestion.

She smiled, opened it, and read the poem he’d marked. It hit her like a quiet wave.

A few days later, she left a book behind on the returns cart—slipped between thicker volumes, nearly invisible. A copy of The Secret History, worn and annotated, with a sticky note on page 42 that simply read:

“I thought this line might stay with you. It stayed with me.”

She didn’t sign it.

But the next morning, when she came in, he caught her eye across the desk, and there was a softness in his expression that said I found it.

That became their rhythm.

A kind of silent conversation.

Some days it was a novel she’d mentioned in passing. Other days, it was something obscure—something she’d never pick for herself—but when she opened it, she’d find underlined passages or faint pencil marks in the margins. Sometimes she left her own—an asterisk, a question mark, the occasional folded corner.

They were learning each other through the books they passed back and forth. Through themes. Through characters they debated in whispers over tea. Through dog-eared pages and ink-smudged notes.

She started coming earlier, just to sit near the poetry shelves and pretend she wasn’t waiting to see what he might recommend next. And sometimes he’d wander over, lean against the end of a row, and ask, “Have you read this one?” like it wasn’t the highlight of her entire afternoon.

Once, he placed a novel in front of her, paused, and said, “This one made me think of you.”

She opened it to find a single sentence circled in pencil:

“She carried quiet like armor, and kindness like a blade.”

She didn’t say anything in response.

She just looked up at him, and he looked back, and neither of them had to explain the weight of that moment.

The more they read, the more they understood each other—without pushing, without rushing. It was all there, between the lines.

And every now and then, she’d catch him watching her with that look.

Like he couldn’t believe he’d left that note.

Like he couldn’t believe she’d answered.

One rainy evening, she arrived to find a cup of tea already waiting for her.

It sat on the corner of her usual table, still warm, steam curling lazily into the air. No note, no grand gesture. Just Earl Grey, just how she liked it.

She glanced toward the front desk. Harry didn’t look up, but she saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

She shook her head, smiling to herself as she slid into the chair.

Later, when she returned the empty mug to the cart behind the desk, she whispered, “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he said, without looking up from his computer. “But I’m charming, too, right?”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t answer. But she was smiling when she walked away.

They started talking more in between the books.

Not always with words.

Sometimes, he’d rest a hand briefly on the back of her chair as he passed by. Sometimes, she’d place a book down beside him at the desk with a sticky note that just said: “Read this one slowly.”

He started writing small lines of poetry on scraps of paper and slipping them inside the pages of the books he handed her. Sometimes they were his. Sometimes borrowed. She never asked. She just read them quietly and tucked them into her coat pocket.

She began to respond.

Once, she left him a copy of Letters to a Young Poet with a small folded square of paper inside.

It read:

“You said words were safer on paper. But you can say them to me now, if you ever want to.”

He didn’t say anything that day.

But two mornings later, she arrived to find a volume of Mary Oliver’s poems resting on her table, open to a marked page:

“Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say ‘Look!’ and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.”

Underneath, in pencil, he’d written:

Look.

I’m here.

She sat down slowly, the book open in front of her, heart too full to move.

There was still no kiss. No confessions. No declarations of anything.

But every time she left the library, it felt like something important had happened. Something wordless and slow and true.

And every time she came back, it felt like returning—not just to the space, but to him.

To them.

Whatever they were becoming.

It started with a sentence dropped so casually she almost missed it.

“You ever cook with someone?” he asked one afternoon, eyes flicking up from the book she’d just returned.

She paused. “Cook?”

He nodded, leaning slightly over the desk. “Like, really cook. Not just throw a frozen pizza in the oven or boil pasta. I mean… stand in the kitchen for too long and make something slowly. Talk between chopping. Burn the garlic a little.”

Her lips quirked. “Very specific scenario.”

“I have a recipe I want to try,” he said. “And it’s a two-person dish. Apparently. According to the internet.”

She raised a brow. “Are you inviting me over to help you cook, or is this an elaborate metaphor for something else?”

He smiled—soft, a little crooked. “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

She didn’t say yes right away. But later, when he handed her a folded piece of paper with the recipe written in neat, slightly rushed handwriting, she tucked it into her book without a word.

His flat was warm and a little chaotic in a lived-in way—books stacked under the windowsill, a record playing faintly in the background, mismatched mugs on the kitchen counter. It looked exactly how she’d imagined it and nothing like she expected at the same time.

She stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching him fumble with a garlic press.

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she said, amused.

“None whatsoever,” he replied, grinning. “But I make a very sincere effort, which should count for something.”

She reached for the knife instead. “Move over. I’ll show you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped aside and handed her a towel, fingers brushing against hers for a second too long. She didn’t pull away.

They cooked like that for an hour. Side by side. The kind of domestic closeness that would feel far too intimate if it weren’t laced with laughter and the smell of rosemary and lemon. He moved around her easily. She passed him ingredients without asking. Their shoulders bumped more than once, but no one apologized.

He read instructions aloud like they were poetry, and she corrected him without hesitation.

They talked about small things—childhood food disasters, favorite late-night snacks, the time he tried to make soup and ended up with something that “tasted like sadness.”

And then, somewhere between letting the sauce simmer and plating the food, something shifted.

He reached behind her for a dish towel, but she turned at the same time, and they nearly collided.

They froze—close. Close enough to see the freckle just under his left eye. Close enough that she could hear the small hitch in his breath. Close enough to feel it—that charged, suspended thing that had been stretching between them for weeks.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

“I like this,” she said quietly, eyes not leaving his. “This… not-the-library version of you.”

His voice was low, almost hoarse when he answered. “I think it’s still me. Just a little less… edited.”

She nodded, heart thudding. “I like the unedited version.”

A beat passed.

Then two.

And still, they didn’t move.

Until he spoke again.

“You know I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now, right?”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “I guessed.”

He tilted his head just slightly. “Do you want me to?”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.

She just nodded.

And that was enough.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting. Like he already knew what it would feel like, and he’d just been waiting for permission. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hesitant. It was quiet, and full, and there.

All the unspoken things between them, finally said.

They didn’t rush away from it.

The kiss.

It ended slowly, naturally, like the final note of a song hanging in the air before dissolving.

She leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. He still had one hand resting lightly at her waist, the other curled against the counter behind her like he needed something to hold onto.

He looked a little dazed. Not in shock—just full. Like he hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed that closeness until it happened.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low.

He laughed under his breath, soft and warm. “Yeah. Just…” He shook his head slightly, lips curling up. “You’re really cute, you know that?”

She blinked, caught off guard—not because of the compliment, but because of how sincere it was. He said it like it had been on the tip of his tongue for a while. Like it wasn’t just about how she looked in that moment, but how she’d been showing up in his life—quiet, consistent, entirely herself.

“Cute?” she repeated, amused.

He gave her a look. “Very cute.”

She smiled, a little flustered. “That’s… surprisingly straightforward for you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging, “I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’d say if this ever happened.”

Her chest tightened—softly, pleasantly. “This? Like… us standing in your kitchen, post-risotto, post-kiss?”

He nodded. “Exactly this. You, here, looking at me like that. Me, trying really hard not to say something too intense and ruin it.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” she said, honest, steady.

He exhaled, relieved. “Good.”

There was a pause.

Then: “I really enjoy you. Being around you. Talking to you. Sitting quietly near you. Reading the same book six feet apart and pretending we’re not aware of each other.”

She laughed, looking down for a second. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I never was,” he said, smiling. “You just needed time to catch on.”

She looked up at him again, heart full in a way that didn’t feel heavy at all. “I’m glad I did.”

He leaned in just enough to nudge his forehead lightly against hers. “Me too.”

The risotto sat forgotten on the stove, plates untouched on the counter.

Neither of them moved to fix it.

Some things could wait.

Eventually, they remembered the food.

They ate standing in the kitchen, barefoot and casual, sharing one plate between them. He offered the last bite. She took it without hesitation. No more pretense. No more edges between them.

Afterward, while he rinsed the dishes, she wandered.

Not far—just into the living room, where his bookshelves lined the wall in a slightly uneven row. Not curated for show. Just lived-in. Dog-eared. Annotated. Real.

She ran her fingers lightly across the spines, stopping now and then to tilt her head and smile.

“Of course you have three different editions of The Bell Jar,” she called out, teasing.

He dried his hands and leaned against the doorway, watching her. “They’re all slightly different.”

“Right,” she said, mock-serious. “Important nuance.”

He smiled, didn’t interrupt.

She kept scanning.

“Murakami. Wolfe. Some obscure poetry collections. A Little Life—you really went through that willingly?”

“I cried three separate times,” he admitted. “Once in public.”

She turned, grinning. “Okay, that earns you points.”

Then she pulled a book free, thumb brushing over the worn cover. The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“This one,” she said, softer now. “This was the first book that made me realize writing could be beautiful and brutal.”

“I remember you mentioned that once,” he said.

“You remember a lot.”

He shrugged, casual, but there was something warm behind it. “I was listening.”

She turned back to the shelf, pulled another. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

“This one wrecked me.”

“I figured. I found it shelved wrong one day and assumed it was you who left it there.”

She smiled without turning around, sliding the book gently back into place.

She could feel him behind her now. Not close enough to touch. Just… near.

Comfortably near.

“I like that you read like this,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Like it’s not just about escaping, but about collecting pieces of yourself in other people’s words.”

“I think that’s what I saw in you,” he said. “Right away.”

She turned, slowly, book still in hand.

He was standing a few steps behind her, eyes soft, arms crossed loosely like he was grounding himself.

“You’d sit in that corner of the library,” he went on, “with your entire body tilted toward a book like you were trying to fall into it. I couldn’t stop watching.”

They stood like that for a moment—between stories, between books, between whatever came next.

Then she reached back toward the shelf, pulled out another.

He looked at it, amused. “You’re curating my taste now?”

“No,” she said, handing it to him, “I’m organizing your shelf by emotional trauma level. This one’s top tier.”

He laughed, taking the book from her, brushing her fingers in the process. But this time, the touch didn’t linger. It stayed.

He held the book in one hand, and with the other, he reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

No words. Just a look.

That unspoken kind of look—the kind that says this is safe now. The kind that says you’re allowed to be here.

And she was.

After that night, nothing was technically different.

They still texted in the early mornings and late at night. Still passed each other books and notes in the library. Still sat in the quiet corners, reading, sometimes alone, sometimes side by side.

But everything had changed.

Now, when she walked in, Harry smiled like he’d been waiting to. Like he’d always wanted to.

Now, when she handed him a book, their fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary.

Now, he’d sometimes slide a note into the pages that didn’t say anything poetic at all—just things like “You’re on my mind” or “I like when you sit close”—and it made her smile in a way she couldn’t help.

He didn’t try to claim her time. He didn’t hover or demand space in her world.

He just offered.

Gently.

And she kept choosing to show up.

One afternoon, she walked into the library and found a book already waiting at her usual table.

A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet. Her favorite edition. His.

Inside, a note:

“No one’s ever made me want to be understood this way. I think that matters.”

She folded the note carefully and tucked it into her bag like a secret.

When she looked up, he was behind the desk, head bowed slightly, pretending not to watch her.

But she knew he was.

She stood, walked over, leaned her arms against the counter.

“Do you want to get out of here when your shift ends?” she asked, voice quiet.

He looked up, surprised at first, but then his face softened, like he’d been hoping she’d ask.

“Always,” he said.

The days kept rolling in, and so did they.

Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just a steady unfolding.

Sunday mornings spent sharing pastries on a bench just outside the library, passing back and forth a book of poems neither of them had read.

Wednesday evenings full of casual texts that read like confessions in disguise.

Nights at his flat, reading on opposite ends of the couch with their feet tangled somewhere in the middle. No music. No noise. Just the quiet rhythm of pages turning and two people learning each other sentence by sentence.

Sometimes she’d glance up and find him already looking at her.

He never looked away.

The library was still her place.

Still sacred.

Still quiet.

But now, when she sat under the tall window, it felt less like a place she came to disappear, and more like a place she came to be seen.

Because now, when she looked up from the pages, there was someone there.

Someone who noticed.

Someone who always had.

deeper.

It was a Thursday when she found the last note.

Not tucked inside a book or slipped across the counter.

This one waited for her at her usual table, folded carefully, resting on top of a hardcover she hadn’t seen before—some obscure poetry collection she’d never heard of, which meant it was probably perfect.

She sat down slowly, thumb grazing the edge of the paper before she opened it.

It wasn’t long.

Not poetic.

Not cryptic.

Just Harry’s handwriting, steady and familiar now.

You don’t feel like a maybe anymore.

You feel like home.

She stared at it for a moment, letting the words settle in her chest.

The light through the window hit the table just right. Dust floated in the air. Everything felt still.

She turned the card over and wrote two words on the back.

Me too.

Then she stood, walked to the front desk, and handed it to him—face down, no explanation.

He looked at her, really looked.

Then tucked the note into his pocket, came around the desk, and took her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They walked back toward her table together. No big moment. No kiss. Just their hands joined between them, like a sentence finally finished.

The book still sat there, waiting.

She opened it to the first page.

He sat across from her.

And they read.

Together.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

a/n: second to last one :)

summary: natasha romanoff x married!reader; nat and you used to be in love. now, years later, you're married to a wealthy man and have a daughter with him. will running into natasha change everything?

warnings: guns/gunshots

word count: 8.5k

…part 4, part 5, part 6

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— SECRETS IN INK —

The automatic doors of the grocery store slide open with a hiss, letting in a gust of cold wind that makes Nina squeal with delight. She jumps out into the snow, which crunches under the soles of her little boots.

"Mommy, look!", she says, puffing out dramatic clouds of steam. You manage a smile, though your mind is miles away. The note in your pocket, which you keep touching with your fingertips to make sure you didn't lose it, feels like a weight dragging you down.

When did she put it there?, you wonder, absently grabbing Nina's hand to make sure she doesn't run off. You approach your car, your free hand holding the handle of the shopping cart. Did she sneak into the house? Or was it the day she left? But when? How?

Too many questions, too few answers. Your brain is a mess, your thoughts louder than your daughter's endless chatter.

Back at home, the warmth of the house greets you as Nina stomps her feet against the entry rug, sending chunks of slush flying. She lets out a quiet "oops" and apologizes, but her wide smile doesn't waver.

"It's okay", you murmur, setting the grocery bags down next to the door. You bend down to help Nina out of her coat, but — again — your mind is elsewhere. You're wondering why Natasha didn't just call. Why she left a cryptic note, telling you to come after her when you don't even know where you're supposed to be going.

There's her apartment, of course. Or the Avengers' Compound. Both would be reasonable, obvious choices, but you doubt them for several reasons. Natasha has never been easy to pin down, for one. Part of you also wonders whether she's testing your resolve — is this a riddle? A game? It feels like something she'd do just to see how far you'd go.

At the same time, an even larger part of you protests at the mere idea that she'd do something like this now, when things are so serious. This is not something she'd use as an opportunity to mess with you, is it?

You rub your temple and turn around, starting to put the groceries away. Nina skips away into the living room, her feet pattering against the hardwood floors. Your hands work on autopilot as you put cans and cartons away, your thoughts circling through the same questions.

Finally, you reach for the note again. Your finger brushes over the paper mindlessly as you stare at the words and the hourglass symbol underneath. The boldness of it is so her — a quiet defiance, a challenge. You almost smile at the thought, but then reality comes crashing down on you again.

Sighing, you turn around and lean against the kitchen island. Nina comes back into the kitchen, proudly holding her notebook.

"Want to see?", she asks, already holding out the notebook for you. You smile and let her put it in your hands, but your smile fades as soon as you see the picture. Three figures — one smaller, two slightly bigger. Red hair and a black jacket. Your breath catches slightly and you silently curse as you realize how serious this has gotten.

"Wow. That's beautiful, baby. Who's this?", you ask, pointing to the figure with the red hair, even though you already know.

"That's Natasha! I like her. I think she likes you", she says innocently, clearly not grasping the complexity of what you and Natasha have. She likes you, alright.

"She's very...nice", you say quietly, running your finger over the page. The three of you almost look like a family.

Nina nods, climbing onto a barstool and swinging her feet back and forth. She pats the surface of the kitchen island with her hands. "I'm thirsty, mommy."

"You are?" You put the notebook aside and turn around, grabbing a plastic cup for the girl. "What do you want? Water, milk? We also got lemonade."

"Lemonade!"

"Got it, honey." You pour some of the lemonade into the cup, then you hand it to her.

She takes a few sips, then sets it down. Her hand bumps it just hard enough to send the cup tipping over, and the yellow liquid spills in a swift arc across the kitchen island. Your eyes widen and your hand quickly reaches out to grab the cup, but it's too late — the lemonade has soaked through the note you left there so carelessly.

"Nina!", you exclaim, grabbing a dishcloth to mop it up. Your daughter seems to shrink, looking genuinely upset.

"I'm sorry, mommy", she mumbles, giving you a sheepish look.

"It's okay", you mutter, dabbing at the counter. You grab the damp note, your heart already feeling heavy — this feels like the last thing connecting you to Natasha, for some reason —, but then you freeze. Faint, delicate writing has started to appear on the back of the page.

Of course. Natasha used invisible ink.

Nina frowns, leaning in to see. She can't quite believe her eyes. It's like the magic she sees in her favorite cartoons, where characters wave their hands and make secrets appear out of nowhere. "What's that?"

"I don't know", you say unsurely, looking at the words that have appeared on the back of the page.

Safehouse. Catskill Mountains.

Underneath it, some coordinates that you won't need. You know what safehouse she's talking about — you went there after the attack on New York together.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you stare at the message. It's more than just a cryptic invitation — Natasha left you a way to find her.

"What does it say?", Nina probes, craning her head to look at the front of the note. She spots the hourglass symbol. "What's that?"

"It's nothing, sweetheart. Just something silly", you reassure her, gently patting the note with a towel and putting it aside. Your daughter tilts her head but doesn't push, instead sliding off the barstool and zooming back into the living room. Your eyes flicker back to the note, more specifically the words on the back.

Natasha was deliberate, careful, knowing you'd want this enough to figure it out. In the end, a simple accident caused you to reveal the additional information on the back.

The question is: do you want it? Do you have the courage to risk everything for it?

Your eyes drift back to the drawing Nina left in the kitchen, to the three of you standing there like you belong together.

. . .

You spend the day trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, for both your sake and Nina's. You have time, after all — you doubt Natasha is going to vanish if you don't show up right away. Besides, Ethan won't be home for another few days, so you can choose whether you want to leave now or wait a bit.

It's hard, though. Deep down, you've made your decision. There's no need to question anything, really. But something is holding you back, and it frustrates you immensely. Because if you go, there's no coming back. You're sure of it.

Nina doesn't notice your inner turmoil, which you're grateful for. You spend the afternoon distracting yourself by entertaining her — picture books, cartoons, making puzzles.

By the time dinner rolls around, you feel more frayed than you'd like to admit. It's not the exhaustion of the day itself — it's knowing this might be the last 'normal' day you can give Nina for a long time.

You watch your daughter happily munch on her mac and cheese, blissfully unaware of the underlying tension in the room and the problems that you might encounter soon. She's chattering about her day animatedly, gesturing dramatically with her free hand and laughing at her own silly impressions. Every now and then, she pauses to take a bite before continuing with her rambling. You cling to every word, savoring the sound of her carefree laughter.

"Mommy?", she suddenly says, putting her favorite green fork aside. "Does Natasha like adventures?"

You force a small smile. "I think she loves them", you say softly.

"I love them, too", she says, proud to have something in common with Natasha. "And you? Do you like adventures?"

"Hmmm..." You smile, reaching out to boop her nose. "I like them when you're with me."

Nina beams. "I like that, too!"

"Yeah?" You laugh quietly and nod, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Good. Maybe one day we'll go on a big adventure. Just you and me."

"Yes! We can see ponies and rivers and a circus and-" A yawn cuts her off — the fourth one in the past half hour. It's still early, but the girl is getting tired.

You wait until she finishes dinner, then you get up and start gathering the plates and silverware. You put everything aside, then you scoop her into your arms.

"Alright, sweetheart, let's get you to bed."

Nina scrunches her nose. "Do I have to?", she whines. You smile at her protesting — still not fond of bedtime, it seems.

"Even adventurers need their rest", you tease, tickling her side and making her giggle.

As you tuck her in, her eyes grow heavy. You sit on the edge of her bed, gently brushing wayward strands of hair from her face. "How do you feel about going on a real adventure?", you ask after hesitating for a moment.

Her eyes flutter open slightly. "Like...with Nat?", she mumbles.

"Maybe", you say softly. "Or just you and me, for now. Sounds good?"

"Can I bring Bearie?", she asks, clutching her stuffed bear tighter.

"Of course." You nod and kiss her forehead, then you get up. "Good night, sweetheart."

. . .

— TIME TO GO —

Later you sit on the couch, staring at the crumpled note you've pulled from her pocket. You trace the faint outline of Natasha's hourglass symbol with your thumb, willing yourself to stop overthinking. Natasha has left you a way out, a chance to escape. All you have to do is take it.

But something holds you in place, a nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that maybe you're wrong. That maybe running will only make things worse.

The sound of the front door opening interrupts your thoughts, and you freeze. Ethan's voice calls out from the hallway. "Y/N?"

Your stomach churns. He wasn't supposed to be back before Friday.

Quickly, you shove the note into the pocket of your sweatpants before forcing yourself to stand up. You smooth down your hair as you enter the foyer. "You're back early", you say, trying to keep your voice light.

"Plans changed", he says briefly, his expression unreadable as he looks at you. His tone makes you uneasy, but you don't press further.

"Dinner's in the fridge if you're hungry", you say, leaning against the wall and avoiding his gaze. He puts his coat aside and starts making his way up the stairs.

"Not yet", he says. "I have a call to make."

He disappears into his office upstairs, the door shutting quietly behind him. You exhale and relax, even if only a little, then you tiptoe up the stairs and toward his study.

Through the door, you can faintly hear his voice.

"...promised results, not delays... No, you handle it. I don't want them anywhere near here."

Your heart drops. Them?

"Yes, the wife and the kid are here. They don't know anything... No, don't you dare. They're not involved in this."

Every word increases the nausea you're slowly starting to feel. You take a step back from the door without really meaning to.

"... If it comes to that, clean up your mess without involving me."

You may have doubted your intentions before, but now, you don't. This isn't overreacting — this is survival. This is keeping your daughter and yourself safe from whatever mess Ethan has dragged you into.

You don't think twice before rushing through the house. You grab a duffel bag and throw everything inside that you can find — few changes of clothes for Nina and you, snacks, a couple of documents you don't want to leave behind. You make your way to the bathroom, quietly praying that Ethan won't break his habit of staying in his office until after midnight, and toss in a few hygiene products like toothbrushes and shampoo.

A blanket. A towel. A gun you've been storing in your safe for years.

Yes, a gun. There's just something about being in a relationship with Natasha Romanoff and working at SHIELD that will make you consider buying one.

You distinctly remember her scolding you about living alone without a weapon when she started staying at your place more regularly. A woman. Alone. Without a gun. Seriously, Y/N?

Those words stuck, and you're grateful for it.

Once you're done, you tuck the duffel bag into the corner behind Nina's bed, then you go and lay down.

. . .

You've gone over the plan a dozen times in your head, running through every possible scenario. It's simple, really: wait for Ethan to fall asleep, slip out with Nina, and disappear into the night. But simple plans don't always go smoothly, and that thought keeps gnawing at you

You hear his footsteps approach the bedroom at around 1am. The door creaks open, his shirt hits the floor as he drops it, then the mattress dips next to you as he climbs into bed. The room is quiet, save for the faint rustle of bedsheets and the rhythm of his slow, steady breathing.

You wait, listening to each breath until it evens out. Minutes stretch into what feel like hours before you're finally sure he's asleep, then you carefully and quietly slip out of bed. You don't fully close the door, but you leave only a narrow gap to make sure he won't hear you.

When you reach Nina's bedroom, you hesitate. She's curled up underneath the blankets with her stuffed bear clutched to her chest, her mouth slightly agape. For a brief second, your resolve wavers — and then you remember staying isn't an option. Not anymore.

You crouch down next to her bed and gently run your hand over her head. "Nina", you whisper, your voice soft but urgent. "Sweetheart, wake up. We're going on an adventure, remember?"

Your quiet words rouse her from her sleep. She rubs her eyes, clearly sleepy and confused. Your heart aches at the sight.

"Now?", she mumbles, sitting up blindly and reaching for her Bearie.

"Yes, now. We have to be very quiet, okay?"

She nods, letting you put on her shoes and coat without protesting. You grab her hat and scarf — it's snowed again and the temperatures are icy —, then you scoop her up. You don't bother changing her out of her pajamas. You don't have the time.

With Nina in one hand and the duffel bag in the other, you swiftly move down the stairs. You listen for any signs of Ethan stirring, but the house remains quiet apart from his muffled snoring.

When you reach the front door, you hesitate. It feels like crossing a threshold you can't come back from, and the weight of it presses heavily on your chest. But then Nina looks up at you, sleepy and trusting, and that's all the encouragement you need.

You open the door and step into the cool night air, closing it softly behind you.

"Where are we going?", she whispers, her hand clutching yours tightly. You unlock the car and buckle her into her booster seat.

"To someone who can help us", you say, brushing your thumb over her rosy cheek. "It'll be fun, okay?"

"Okay", she agrees, her eyes drooping shut again already. You slide into the driver's seat and buckle up, then you finally pull out of the driveway. The lights in your bedroom remain dark as you drive down the street.

. . .

The road stretches endlessly before you, cloaked in darkness and lit only by the headlights of your car. Nina has fallen back asleep, her hands clutching her stuffie and her head lolling to the side. The steady hum of the engine is the only sound, but your nerves are on edge.

You glance in the rear view mirror, scanning the empty road behind you. You've been driving for about an hour now, and things have been going somewhat smoothly. Still, the tension in your chest hasn't lessened. Every shadow seems to stretch too far, every turn feels too sharp. You've made it this far, but the weight of your decision hasn't fully sunk in until now.

Then, the car sputters. Your heart jumps.

"No, no, no", you mutter, your grip on the steering wheel tightening. The car lurches and the engine coughs, then everything goes silent. The headlights flicker out and you're in the middle of the road in near-total darkness.

"Mommy?", Nina says after stirring awake, her voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay, sweetheart", you say quickly, forcing a calmness you're not feeling. You twist the key in the ignition, but the car won't start.

God, why did I insist on keeping this old thing?

Because Natasha sat in it. That's why.

You curse quietly as you glance in the rear view mirror again. From behind, a faint light appears on the horizon — headlights. The vehicles approaches slowly, its beams growing brighter as it draws closer.

Is this it?

Immediately, your mind jumps to worst-case scenarios. Ethan's associates. The people he's been dealing with. Whoever he was on the phone with. They've found you.

Your hand flies to the key in the ignition again, turning it desperately. "Come on, please", you whisper, your fingers trembling. The car groans, catching for a few seconds before dying again. The car behind you is only a few hundred feet away from you now, approaching like a stalker chasing its prey.

"What's wrong?", Nina asks, sitting up.

You glance back at your daughter, panic filling you at the sight. You can't let anything happen to her — not now, not ever.

Summoning every ounce of focus, you grip the key again. You turn it, the engine sputters, and then roars to life. A shaky breath escapes you and, without wasting a second, you slam your foot on the gas. The car gains speed quickly, headlights cutting through the darkness once more. Behind you, the strange vehicle's lights recede, disappearing in the distance.

You glance at Nina once more, who's curled up in her booster seat again. Her eyes are heavy with sleep, but she keeps watching you.

"Are we okay now, mommy?", she asks drowsily.

You manage a small, shaky smile. "Yes, baby. We're okay. Go back to sleep, alright?"

The girl nods, her head tilting to one side as she closes her eyes.

You keep checking the rear view mirror every few seconds, unable to shake the feeling that someone is following you. You're practically waiting for the headlights to reappear again, but it doesn't happen. The road stays dark and empty.

You bite your lip, Natasha's words from days ago echoing in your mind: "Trust me."

Can you?

You have no choice now.

. . .

At three in the morning, with snow falling thickly over the narrow, twisting road, the drive through the Catskill Mountains feels more like a scene from a horror movie than a journey to safety. Towering trees loom on either side, their bare branches clawing at the darkness. The headlights barely cut through the swirling snow, and you curse under your breath at Natasha's choice of a safehouse in the middle of nowhere.

It's not something you're not used to — you've been to creepy, deserted places before. Hell, you've been to places that were way worse than this, since you know that you're actually approaching somewhere safe. But you're alone, with a little child and a car that literally broke down a mere hour ago, and you're terrified.

The fact that the safehouse is enveloped by darkness doesn't help. It's tucked deep into the snow, silent and almost ominous, with a narrow road leading up to it. No tracks mar the freshly fallen snow.

You cautiously park the car at the edge of the clearing, the unsettling silence greeting you. Not a trace of light spills from the windows of the house, and Natasha is nowhere in sight.

It looks too quiet. Too abandoned. Too empty.

You scan your surroundings again, but the snow-laden pines give nothing away. You even start to doubt whether she's actually here, which is something that fills you with guilt. No, Natasha would never do that to you.

"Mommy?", Nina mumbles, looking out the window. She immediately thinks the house is scary. It looks like a place a witch would live in. "Where are we?"

"You'll see, NeeNee." You unbuckle and then — hesitantly — reach for your gun. You tuck it into the waistband of your sweatpants before getting you both out of the car. Snow crunches underfoot as you make your way to the cabin, your one arm holding Nina and your free hand resting on the gun.

You approach the dark cabin, its frame both a promise and a threat. You hold Nina tighter as you make your way up the few steps that lead to the porch, then you pause. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting the forest to shift under your gaze or someone to jump out with a knife, but nothing happens.

The cabin door is slightly weathered, its surface a mix of peeling paint and exposed wood. You lift your fist and it hovers above the door for a second or two. Then, a faint creaking sound coming from inside makes you flinch, and you instinctively reach for your gun.

"Mommy, listen", Nina whispers, her voice small but curious.

"Shh, baby", you murmur, your lips brushing the top of her head. You let go of the gun to grab and twist the doorknob, the door creaking open with a reluctant groan.

Inside, faint traces of moonlight spilling in through the windows illuminate the outlines of sparse furniture. The air carries a scent of pine and dust, mixed with the smell of extinguished candles.

"Natasha?", you call hesitantly, glancing around the room to check if some masked killer will suddenly appear with an axe.

Nothing, of course. This isn't a horror movie. But it feels like one — the cabin doesn't answer, its darkness swallowing your words, and you're standing there helplessly. You tighten your grip on Nina as you step inside cautiously, closing the door behind you.

For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own quiet breathing, mixed with the rustle of Nina's coat as she shifts in your arms. Then, a muffled voice breaks the stillness.

"Took you long enough."

A breath, half-relieved and half-irritated, escapes you as Natasha emerges from the small hallway. You shift Nina on your hip, your eyes narrowed. "You idiot!", you hiss, your voice trembling with relief. "What were you thinking? Why is it so dark? I thought we'd get jumped by some psycho-"

"Y/N", Natasha cuts you off, firmly but gently. She approaches you, her hands outstretched slightly with her palms up — a silent reassurance. Nina smiles widely at the sight, her eyes squinted so she can see the familiar woman better. "You're safe here. Both of you."

You huff, feeling your daughter's hand grip your hoodie. She's unbothered by your nerves. "You could've turned on the lights", you mutter, your voice cracking slightly.

"Didn't want to risk drawing attention", Natasha says, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she approaches you. "You're here now. That's what matters."

"Yeah, we're here now", you snap halfheartedly, your shoulders sagging. You gently put Nina down when she starts squirming. "Which is a miracle, may I add. Could've warned me about the whole invisible ink thing, superspy."

"Didn't think I'd need to hold your hand through that one", she teases, stepping around you to reach the door. She locks it with one swift, practiced movement. "Figured you'd put the pieces together. Which you did."

"Yeah, well. Try not scaring the hell out of me the next time."

"Noted." She turns around, her gaze lingering on you before dropping to Nina, who's blinking sleepily. The excitement from earlier has faded away, and the girl is tired again. "Hey, Tiny."

"Hi", Nina says, giving a small wave. Natasha's expression melts into something warmer, almost tender.

"You did good", she says, crouching down in front of the girl, "sticking with your mom like that. Brave girl."

Your daughter smiles, perking up at the praise. "Mommy said we're going on an adventure", she mumbles. Natasha glances at you, something like amusement shimmering in her eyes.

"An adventure, huh?"

"What was I supposed to say?", you retort. "'Hey, we're fleeing for our lives. By the way, your dad might be the reason'?"

At the sound of your slight bitterness, Natasha's smirk fades. She nods, her face more serious as she crouches down and holds out her hand like a secret pact. "Well, you made it. Adventures don't scare you, right?"

Nina giggles, shaking her head as she grabs Natasha's hand. "No. But mommy was scared."

You raise your eyebrows at her. "I didn't raise you to be a traitor", you scold her playfully.

Natasha smiles, straightening up. "Smart kid", she says. "Takes after you."

"She's the one who discovered the invisible ink", you say, looking at Nina. Her smile is wide, despite the exhaustion that's evident in her eyes. "You're lucky we found the message."

"Nobody else saw it?", Natasha probes, leading you to a small dining nook. "Ethan, for example?"

"No, he didn't." You sit down, pulling Nina into your lap in the process. "We're safe here, right? I mean, what if he-"

"You're safe here", she reassures you again, her hands resting on the surface of the table. "I would've have brought you here if that wasn't the case."

You nod, keeping your daughter close. Silence lingers, heavy and unspoken, broken only by the quiet howling of the wind outside. Nina nestles into you, her eyes drooping as she lets out a tiny yawn. You run a soothing hand through her soft locks, though your own mind is far from at ease.

Natasha glances at you, her face softening at the sight. "There's a double bed in the bedroom", she offers. "I'll crash on the couch."

You look up, exhaustion and vulnerability etched into your features. You don't say anything for a moment, then you shake your head. "No."

She blinks, surprised. "...No?"

"No." You shake your head again. After everything that's happened, you're not going to sleep by yourself. "We're all sleeping in the same bed", you say, straightening up and balancing Nina in your arms. "I just- I need to know you're here. I need to feel that."

The protests die on the tip of her tongue as she looks at you. The bravado from earlier has slipped away, replaced by something raw and fearful. And she wouldn't argue with that.

"Okay", she says softly, nodding. Relief flickers across your face. You don't thank Natasha out loud, but the way you squeeze your arm as you walk past her says enough.

The bedroom is bare and utilitarian, with a simple wooden frame supporting the double bed, but the thick blankets look comfortable and warm, which is all that matters. You tuck Nina in first before slipping in beside her. Natasha hesitates as she sits on the edge of the bed, then she takes off her boots.

"This is a bad idea", she mumbles halfheartedly, curling up on the other side of Nina. The mattress dips slightly underneath her weight.

"Maybe", you reply, already settling into the warmth of the forest green comforters. There's a nightlight that Natasha plugged in near the door, which is dipping the room into a gentle, golden light. "It's the only one I've got for now, though."

Nina nods off quickly, her little breaths quiet and rhythmic as she nestles against you. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling, the faint scent of pine and aged wood wrapping around you like a memory.

"We've been here before", you whisper, not wanting to disturb Nina's slumber.

"After New York", Natasha whispers back, her head turning towards you. She smiles faintly.

"You dragged me here after that mess. I think we slept for twenty hours straight."

"You snored", she teases softly, making you huff a laugh. You shoot her a crooked smile.

"You were out so cold you wouldn't have noticed if the building collapsed." You pause, your expression somewhere between weary and wistful as you absentmindedly stroke Nina's hair. "It felt safe. Like nothing could touch us here."

"It still is", she says quietly, looking at you. Her hand shifts under the covers, brushing lightly against yours. Not a grand gesture, just enough to remind you that you aren't alone. "I promise."

. . .

Morning light seeps through the narrow gaps in the blinds, casting thin beams of sunlight across the room. The cabin is quiet, save for the soft sounds of breathing — slow and quiet.

You wake up first, the warmth of the bed making it difficult to separate yourself from the cocoon of sleep. But, as you stir, you realize something: you're tangled in a mess of limbs — yours, Natasha's, and Nina's.

Nina is nestled between the two of you, her body half draped across Natasha, the other half across you. Her face is pressed into Natasha's side, her cheek pink from sleep. Natasha has one arm wrapped across the child loosely, the other is tucked underneath your shoulders and holding you close.

You smile softly, the quiet intimacy of the moment grounding you. Your life may have fallen apart, shattered into pieces, but this? This feels like a fragile kind of peace.

You watch for a moment, your heart full and warm, then you shift slightly. You're careful, trying not to wake either of them up, but Nina stirs in her sleep. Her little hand fists the fabric of Natasha's shirt as she mumbles something unintelligible.

Eventually, thanks to Nina's movements, Natasha wakes up as well. The look on her face is warm, content, as if the chaos of last night never happened.

"Morning", she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep.

Your lips curve into a small smile. You look at Nina, who's still blissfully unaware of the world around her. "I think we've made a human knot here."

"It's cozy", Natasha says, her hand gently adjusting your daughter's position without waking her.

"I'm glad we're here", you say, shifting a little to press a kiss to Nina's temple. You hesitate, then tilt your head up and kiss Natasha's cheek as well. "For saving us", you tease, though your heart feels heavy. "Can't just exclude you."

"Very thoughtful", she whispers, considering to pull you into an actual kiss this time. But Nina finally rouses from sleep and she sits up, rubbing her cheeks. She scrunches up her face, eyes squeezing shut to block out the sunlight seeping in through the windows. Natasha smiles, pulling the girl into a light hug, and Nina hums happily as she nuzzles into her side and falls back asleep.

You simply look at them, realizing the same thing once more — this is where you're supposed to be. For the first time in forever, you feel like you can finally rest.

. . .

— THE FALLOUT BEGINS —

The moment Ethan opens his eyes, he knows something is off.

His hand blindly reaches out for you, but his fingertips are met with the cold material of the bedsheets. Seems like you're up already — which isn't unusual, as you sometimes manage to wake up before him —, but today, there is no telltale hum of activity coming from downstairs.

Instead, the house is eerily quiet. No faint sound of Nina's giggles, no murmur of cartoons playing on the tv, no waft of coffee coming in through the slightly ajar door. He sits up, running his hand through his hair nervously, then he finally plucks up the courage to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and get up.

His movements are slow, unhurried, as if his body hasn't caught up to his mind yet. He pads to the door and pauses, listening for any signs of life — nothing.

Growing more worried by the second, he makes his way down the stairs. He glances into the living room — empty. The kitchen is spotless, a mug resting in the sink. He frowns, confusion cutting through the mess in his head. You hate leaving before cleaning up.

Then, he notices something else. The drawer where you keeps the keys to your Range Rover is ajar. The keys? Gone.

Ethan looks around the room frantically as if he expects to see them somewhere. Instead, his gaze lands on an envelope sticking out of the fruit bowl. He takes a few tentative steps toward it, then he reaches for it. He pulls out a letter, the text inside typed and printed. His eyes scan its contents, once, twice, then the truth sinks in.

It's the letter you received not too long ago, the one that confirmed your suspicions about Ethan. You had no idea who sent it, obviously — but Ethan knows immediately.

Isabelle.

She sent you this letter, causing you to pack your stuff and leave. With Nina. And now his family is gone, gone without so much as a goodbye.

Fuming, he pulls out his phone and dials Isabelle's number. He starts to pace around the room, his fingertips rubbing at his hairline as he waits for her to pick up. When she does, he comes to an abrupt stop.

"How could you?", he barks without waiting for her to say much besides 'hello', his hand landing flat on the surface of the kitchen island. "Are you dumb? You ratted me out to my wife? Isabelle, I am going to KILL you-"

"Relax, Tiger", she says, clearly amused by his little outburst. She pops a maraschino cherry into her mouth, chewing idly. "You're interrupting my beach day."

"Beach day? You think I give a fuck about that? Isabelle, my family is gone! Because of you!", he yells, breaking out into a cold sweat. "They're gone! She took my kid, you moron!"

"Please. Aren't you the one who's been having an affair for months now? With me, may I add. I really doubt your kid is your top priority."

"That doesn't matter! This- this isn't just about us!" Ethan slams his hand down on the marble surface again, his chest feeling tight. All his secrets, the ones he's managed to keep locked away for so long, are now teetering on the edge of exposure. "You're fucking stupid, that's what you are! Did all that cocaine fry your fucking brain?"

"My god, Ethie-kins. No need to swear so much." Isabelle laughs, emptying her cocktail with one quick sip. "You're always so stressed. You should be relieved, now that you've gotten rid of those two. I mean, you always go on and on and on about how tedious it is, don't you? Now it's finally just the two of us."

"That's not the point! What if she informs the authorities? What if she reports me? I have worked so hard for this!"

Isabelle tuts, a sound that nearly sends him through the roof. He's seconds away from ripping the entire place apart.

"That's what you're worried about? My, my, you're naive. Your little wifey is far too busy taking care of that brat you created. If I were you, I'd worry about her girlfriend", she says nonchalantly, making him freeze.

He stays silent for a moment — girlfriend? what in the world? —, and then it clicks. Mommy's friend. The redhead that left his office building. That's why Nina knew her.

He grabs the neckline of his shirt, which suddenly seems way too tight, and tugs on it.

"What?", he croaks.

"You didn't know? Wow, men really are oblivious. You think you're the only one who can have an affair, boo?" She laughs and keeps talking, but her next words barely register in his mind. "At least we've got them both in the same spot now. Makes things easier."

Ethan shakes his head, his hand stretching out before he balls it into a tight fist again. "You're lying. Y/N is not...she..."

"What? Not gay? Because she married you? Frankly, I thought you'd be smarter. Not much smarter, no, but seriously?" Isabelle slides off the barstool gracefully, her bare feet dipping into the sand in front of her. "You know, you're really ruining my vacation. I'm supposed to get a massage in ten minutes."

"Shut up!", he yells, sweeping the fruit bowl off the kitchen island. It shatters on the floor, shards everywhere, apples rolling around. "I don't give a fuck about your vacation! Isabelle, who is she?"

"Oh, nobody important. Barely worth mentioning." She smiles to herself, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. "Ever heard of Natasha Romanoff?"

. . .

The entire kitchen smells sweet and milky. Natasha's sitting in the dining nook, sipping on a steaming cup of something, and there's a pot of rice pudding boiling on the stove. It's warm in the cabin, despite the fact that it snowed all night.

The sound of small feet padding across the floor breaks the calm. Natasha looks up to see Nina, hair tousled and still sleepy from sleep, appear in the doorway. The girl smiles when she sees her, her entire face lighting up.

"Morning", Natasha greets warmly.

Nina's smile only widens. She scrambles into Natasha's lap without a second thought, nestling herself into the safety of her arms.

You appear seconds later, your messy hair and tired eyes still making you look like you've just woken up. You offer Natasha a small smile as you catch her eye, then you step in front of the stove. You nudge the pot of rice pudding to check its consistency, then stir the frozen wild blueberries she's heating up separately. Your voice, when it comes, is low.

"I was thinking we stay here for a while. No rush."

"Sounds good", she says, her hand lightly resting on Nina's back. "I think you could both use the time to breathe."

You nod, scooping some rice pudding into a bowl and topping it off with hot blueberries. You put the bowl in front of Nina and hand her a spoon, watching her scoop some pudding up and blow on it.

"She loves it here", you murmur as your daughter carefully tries a tiny amount of rice pudding. "Which is quite the compliment. She usually needs more time to adjust to new places. I think we can both make peace with it."

Natasha hums, not pushing for more than that. There is no need. For now, you have time.

Nina looks at Natasha, her mouth stained with blueberries. Natasha smiles, using her thumb to wipe the fruit juice off her face. "I like rice soup", Nina declares happily.

"That's rice pudding", Natasha reveals.

"Oh." The girl pauses, then lifts her spoon to offer Natasha a bite. "Do you like rice pudding?"

"I do", she says, smiling, and runs her hand over the little girl's head. "But I should let you finish that before I try some. Or maybe your mom will get me a bowl as well?"

Without hesitating, you scoop rice pudding into a second bowl. Blueberries on top, then you put the bowl in front of Natasha.

"Thank you, mommy", Natasha teases, making you roll your eyes. You gently swat at the back of her head and she laughs, a fond glint in her eyes. You smile and shake your head, momentarily forgetting about everything else.

The soft clink of spoons against bowls fills the living space as you settle into your makeshift breakfast routine. But as the quiet stretches on, something nags at the back of your mind. You've been avoiding it for hours at this point, so you quietly get up and walk over to your bag on the counter.

You grab your phone, press the power button and watch the familiar lock screen greet you. Then, a bunch of messages start popping up.

Ethan: Where are you? — 7.25am

Ethan: This isn't funny, Y/N. Come home. We need to talk. — 7.26am

Ethan: I've called in some favors. You know what that means. — 7.28am

With shaky hands, you put your phone aside. But your eyes stay glued to the screen.

Ethan has resources, you knew that already. You know it's only be a matter of time before he starts looking for you — he won't let you slip away that easily.

"What's wrong?", Natasha's voice cuts through the silence.

You glance at her, then shake your head. "Just Ethan."

"Everything okay?"

You nod, slipping your phone back into your bag. "I'll have to deal with it eventually", you say quietly, as to not disturb your daughter. She's happily eating the last spoonfuls of your rice pudding, scraping out the bowl as best as she can.

Natasha frowns, her fingers gently combing through Nina's hair. At least your daughter is oblivious to the storm brewing just outside your little sanctuary.

. . .

It doesn't take long for Ethan to start freaking out. The texts he sent you are just the beginning. A subtle warning, a desperate attempt to get you back home now.

He googles Natasha's name, asks a few of his 'friends' about her, does his own research. The more he finds out, the worse his nausea gets.

He's been trying to convince himself that he's not the bad guy here all day. What did he do, after all? Attend a few shady auctions? Buy some artworks? Oh no, the horrors.

Deep down, however, he's aware of just how much he's done.

He's been funding human trafficking rings. He's been putting lives at risk. He's the one who's been too complacent, too blinded by his own ambitions, and now his family is gone. Natasha has found them — and now he's up against something far worse than a petty affair.

Natasha Romanoff. Not just a threat, but the threat. He keeps scrolling through the information on her, nervously licking his lips in the process. Her reputation, her history. The things she's done, the lives she's ended. The connections she has. And now, they have his name.

Ethan grabs his keyboard and slams it against the wall, individual keys falling out and clacking quietly as they fall on the floor. He scrubs a hand down his face and gets up, nervously pacing through his office.

Without thinking twice, he picks up the phone and calls the one person who'll get you and his daughter back home.

"Ethan?", he says, his voice deep and rich with depth.

"Hey, Vance", he says curtly, running his fingers through his short hair and tugging on it. "There's an issue. I need you to help me out."

"Calling in favors, I see. What did you do this time?"

"I didn't 'do' anything", he immediately snaps, then forces himself to calm down. If anyone can find the two of you, it's Vance Harrington. He can't get on his bad side. "Look, I need you to find out where my wife is. She left. Took my kid with her."

"Sounds like they're running from you, man. You screwed up?"

Ethan grits his teeth. "I don't need your commentary. Just find out where they are. Make sure they come back home before things escalate."

Vance laughs, a sound that's smooth like butter. "Fine, fine. I can track 'em. But you know the drill — it'll cost you."

"I don't care about the cost! Just get it done."

"Alright, I'll need a few hours", Vance replies. "But I'll find them. When I do, I'll let you know. Don't go anywhere, Ethan. You wouldn't want this getting out of hand."

The call ends, and Ethan sinks back into his chair. A moment later, his phone buzzes.

Vance: It's a small world. You'll want to make sure she knows where she stands. Don't make me remind you. — 10.52pm

It's a cryptic message that makes Ethan feel uneasy, but he pushes the uncomfortable feeling down. He has no choice — he needs you back. He can't let his family slip through his fingers, not after he worked so hard to build everything you have.

Little does he know that a simple, two-minute phone call would start a ripple effect.

. . .

A faint scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs fills the air. Nina is perched on the counter, her little hands clumsy but determined as she follows Natasha's instructions. Together, they carefully cut potatoes and carrots into cubes.

"It's my birthday soon", Nina informs Natasha, briefly looking up from the cutting board. The woman smiles. "I'm going to be four."

"Yeah?" Natasha hums, scooping the potato cubes into a bowl. She adds some olive oil and then hands the potatoes to you so you can season them. "What do you want for your birthday, Tiny?"

"A puppy", your daughter says, beaming. She glances at you to make sure you don't argue — you've said no to pets more times than she can count —, then she keeps talking. "A little one. Can I get a puppy, Natasha? Please?"

You exchange a quick glance with her, raising your eyebrows teasingly. Try getting out of this one, is what your eyes say. But she just smiles, shrugging.

"You know what, Tiny?", Natasha says, scooping Nina into her arms. "How about we first finish making lunch. Puppies can wait."

"Okay", she says, then leans in and whispers into her ear: "Please, Natasha. I really want a puppy."

"I heard that", you say, amused, as your gaze shifts to the window.

Snow is falling in a dense flurry, swirling and thick as they add more layers to the blur of white that's covering the ground. A snowman is waiting next to the porch, its pebble-smile crooked. It'd be a peaceful, idyllic scene, if it weren't for the black SUV disrupting it.

A large vehicle with tinted windows and a man sitting behind the wheel. He doesn't move or get out — he simply sits and stares.

You freeze and stop stirring the soup in front of you. Your heart starts racing, a cold wave of anxiety washing over you. Slowly, you reach out for Natasha. She glances at you, then follows your stunned gaze out the window. Her hand moves toward the weapon she has hidden in one of the drawers instinctively.

The man doesn't move for what feels like an eternity, his eyes fixed on the cabin with unnerving precision. Then he starts the engine of the SUV, the sound cutting through the air like a knife, and slowly pulls away from the cabin.

You watch him disappear. The silence afterwards feels oppressive.

"Mommy?", Nina says insecurely, tugging at your hand. Her head is tilted to the side, her eyes filled with genuine concern. "What happened?"

You look at her, forcing a small smile. "It's nothing", you say, trying to sound reassuring. Natasha bites the insides of her cheeks, still staring out of the window.

The black SUV was just a warning, but it's concerning nonetheless. Ethan clearly doesn't like that you left, and now he'll know where you are.

. . .

You thought one car showing up unannounced would be bad, but neither of you had an idea.

A few days pass in between. Snow melts and then falls again, the temperatures turn icy, the atmosphere slowly shifts to a less tense one. The cabin is silent save for the occasional wind gust against the windows and the soft crackle of the wood stove. The storm outside has grown harsher over the past few hours, with snow piling high around the cabin and isolating you further.

The three of you are calmer than you should be given the events of the past days. You're having dinner together — a sparse meal consisting of canned stew and Ritz crackers, since Natasha hasn't had a chance to go to the only nearby grocery store yet.

You look up from your plate, breaking the silence that's settled over you. "Natasha", you say, putting your spoon aside. "Have you heard anything else from SHIELD? Any updates?"

"No", she says, her posture tensing up. "Nothing yet."

It's clear that she, just like you, has been expecting something — anything — to happen. The quiet you're experiencing now is a prelude to the storm she's waiting for. She can't shake the feeling that the people she's been investigating, the ones she's been digging into so thoroughly, are aware of her presence now.

The silence stretches on, until a faint sound disrupts it. A car engine, too close, too precise, purrs in the distance.

You and Natasha exchange a look. She exhales before rising quietly, subtly slipping her Glock into her pocket before making her way to the window. Nina looks up briefly, her face scrunching up.

"Where is Natasha going?"

"Shh", you say, putting your hand on hers.

Natasha stands in front of the window. Again, a black car is pulling into the clearing by the cabin, but it's a different one this time. Her chest tightens.

It's them. The ones she's been investigating, the ones who've been tracking her.

"Is that...?"

"Yes", she murmurs, her voice low but filled with urgency. "They've found us."

The vehicle has stopped a few yards away from the cabin, its engine dying with a soft hum. No one gets out immediately, the world seeming to hold its breath. Then, the door opens, and a tall man with broad shoulders and graying hair exits. Another one follows, bald and tattooed all over, his expression grim.

They both stand in front of the cabin as they survey it from a distance, taking it all in. You're vulnerable here, and the stakes have never been higher.

"Stay here", Natasha orders, quickly moving to the front door. You frown and shake your head, instinctively pulling Nina into your lap.

"What? No! You don't know who that is, what if-"

"Y/N", she interrupts you, slipping into her coat. "This isn't just a random threat anymore. This is targeted. Now stay here and keep the kid safe."

Outside, the men start heading to the cabin. Natasha glances at you one last time before she opens the door. You want to argue, to follow her, but you can't. It'd be too risky. Instead you watch as the door falls shut behind her with a groan and a click, leaving you and Nina alone.

Natasha approaches them, keeping her distance but not showing fear. They stop in their tracks.

"You", one of them sneers, the other one reaching for his gun. "You think you can just walk away? We don't just let people disappear after they dig into our business."

"I suggest you leave", she says, her voice low. "Otherwise, I could make this way worse for you."

A standoff. A moment of tension thick enough to cut.

The men exchange a look, communicating silently. One of them pulls out a gun, causing Natasha to point her own Glock at him.

Then, without warning, the other man moves, drawing his gun way too quickly for her to react.

A gunshot rings through the air.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlets @upsidedowndanvers @s1ut4nat

[hameesstuff]

"Trigger Discipline"

Title: "Trigger Discipline"

Word count: ~6.2k

Themes: Exes to lovers, Mafia, Violence, Soft Smut, Angst, Fluff, Almost death scene.

Preview: He’s dragged blood-soaked bodies through alleyways and whispered orders that ended lives. But nothing ever rattled Johnny like the new folder on his desk—one that read your name. You who once kissed his bloody knuckles and told him he was more than what the world made him. Now he’s ordered to erase you. The only woman he's ever loved.

But love doesn’t follow orders. Not even in the mafia.

___________________________________________

A Clean Shot

Johnny had a ritual when it came to bodies.

Late at night, when the streets fell silent and the city stopped pretending it was clean, he’d roll up his sleeves, light a cigarette, and handle the mess himself. It wasn’t about trust—though he had little of it—it was about control. About making sure every job ended with a period, not a question mark.

Tonight was no different. A warehouse. Concrete floors. One bullet to the head, another to the chest for good measure. He crouched beside the corpse in a black suit that didn’t wrinkle, pulled off his gloves, and stared into the glassy eyes of the dead man like he might confess something in his final silence.

He didn’t.

“You sure you wanna keep doing cleanup?” Doyoung’s voice echoed as he stepped into the dim light, arms crossed. “You’re the boss now. The man who orders the trigger, not pulls it.”

Johnny stood slowly, flicking blood off his gloves before tucking them into his coat pocket. “Sometimes I don’t trust the hands holding the gun.”

Doyoung raised an eyebrow. “That paranoia gonna kill you before anyone else does.”

A small smirk curled on Johnny’s lips. “Let it try.”

Two hours later, back at his office—top floor of a building people assumed was abandoned—he sat with a glass of whiskey and a stack of target folders. He wasn’t reading them. Not yet. He just liked the weight. The gravity of lives outlined in ink and photos.

Until one slipped free and landed face up.

Your face.

The glass in his hand didn’t fall, but his grip tightened. His throat clenched so hard he couldn’t breathe, like the past had reached out and wrapped its soft, familiar fingers around his neck.

You looked the same. Maybe prettier. Hair up in a lazy clip, a small crinkle at the edge of your smile as you knelt beside a child, their hands buried in paint. The caption on the photo:

Name: [REDACTED]. Status: Civilian. Occupation: Kindergarten Teacher. Priority: Immediate Termination.

Johnny didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared.

You hadn’t spoken in three years. He left you for a life he thought you’d never survive beside. You loved flowers and fairy lights and poetry about the moon. He left blood on his doormat every Thursday.

He should burn the file. Call it a mistake. Tell Doyoung he’d handle it and then vanish you to some new life in a different country, maybe.

But something in his chest—something he hadn’t felt since your bare arms wrapped around his torso in a summer rain—began to twist.

He leaned back, whispering like a curse:

“…Fuck.”

Paper Hearts, Loaded Guns

The street outside the school was quiet, dappled in soft morning light filtered through thinning spring leaves. Johnny stood across from the playground, silent, unmoving, the hood of his black coat casting a shadow over his eyes.

And there you were.

Bent over in a room full of color and chaos, gently tying the shoelaces of a boy who was crying too hard to speak. You whispered something—he couldn't hear it, but he didn’t need to. The child nodded, wiped his tears, and hugged you around the waist.

Johnny didn’t blink.

You hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered.

Still pretty in the kind of way the world didn’t deserve. Still moved like the weight of the world was something you carried for others. Your hair was up in that loose twist you always did when you were focused. There were chalk marks on your skirt. Crayon smudges on your wrist. And somehow, it made you glow.

His fingers curled inside his coat pocket where the pistol rested, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth rising in his chest.

He’d forgotten how much he missed you.

He remembered the first time he kissed you.

He’d had blood on his hands that night too. You were barefoot on the kitchen floor in his apartment, laughing softly as you stirred noodles in a pot, humming something off-key.

“I’m dirty,” he had said, stepping in cautiously, fists clenched at his sides.

“I know,” you replied, and turned to look at him. “But I still want you to hold me.”

So he had.

And he hadn’t let go until the sun came up and his heart remembered it could still beat for something other than survival.

Now, watching you crouch by a chalkboard where your students had scrawled crooked letters, he felt the ghost of your fingers brush his again. The memory of your mouth against his jaw. The whispered I love yous in the kind of silence that made a man forget he was born into violence.

You were peace.

And you were on his list.

His phone buzzed in his coat.

Doyoung:

You’re dragging your feet. You said you’d handle it. HQ is breathing down my neck. We confirmed it—she’s the witness’ tie. Clean shot. No questions.

Johnny looked up at the classroom window. You were laughing now, hair falling out of its clip. A little girl placed a sticker on your cheek, and you didn’t remove it. Just smiled like joy was the most natural thing in the world.

That night, he didn’t drink.

He just sat at his desk, file open, staring at your name. Again. And again.

You were a teacher. A civilian. A bright spot in a world of darkness he’d willingly sunk into.

His thumb brushed your photograph.

The burn behind his eyes came fast.

He closed the file and whispered into the silence, “I’m not killing her.”

Even if it killed him.

The Man Behind the Bullet

Rain came hard that night—thick sheets against the glass, soft thunder rumbling like a distant war Johnny had already lost. The city was quiet in a way that made him restless. His office lights were dimmed low, his black shirt still clinging to him from the walk in. He hadn’t bothered drying off. He needed the cold.

The file sat open on the desk. Again.

Your photo stared back at him—head tilted, half-smile tucked into the corner of your lips like you were keeping a secret only he could ever understand.

Maybe you were.

Maybe that’s why it still hurt.

He hadn’t spoken your name aloud in years. Not since the night he left, standing in the doorway with his bag and his demons and that look on your face—the one that shattered him.

You never asked him to stay.

And he’d hated you for it.

But only for a day.

Then he hated himself.

Two years earlier

You’d been curled against his chest in bed, legs tangled together, rain tapping soft on the window.

“I can hear your heart when I lay here,” you’d murmured, fingertips grazing the tattoo over his ribs.

“It’s fast.”

“That’s just you,” he replied, kissing your temple. “You scare me.”

You smiled softly. “Why?”

“Because when I look at you, I start thinking about things I shouldn’t want.”

“Like what?”

“Like soggy pancakes with our lttle kids. Sunday mornings that aren’t covered in blood.”

You had gone quiet then. But not cold. You just whispered, “You deserve those things too, Johnny. Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

Now, in this office built on silence and fear, all he could hear was your voice—faint and warm and far too close.

He poured a drink. Didn’t sip it.

There was a knock at the door.

Doyoung stepped in, slicked with rain, holding a USB drive. “Final proof,” he said grimly. “Your girl was seen talking to the witness last week. Same bookstore. He was killed two days later.”

Johnny stiffened. “She’s a teacher. That shop’s on her route home.”

“She hugged him.”

Johnny looked up, slow and sharp.

Doyoung raised his hands. “I’m just saying. Boss, it doesn’t matter how she got tied to this. HQ wants it done. If it wasn’t you, they’d send Taeyong. And he won’t hesitate.”

The room grew still. Heavy.

Then Johnny said, voice low and hard, “If Taeyong touches her, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth.”

Silence.

Doyoung exhaled and leaned on the wall. “You never even told us why you left her.”

Johnny turned away. “Because I loved her.”

Outside, the rain had stopped.

And across the city, you were closing your classroom for the night, unaware of the storm circling your name. You packed up the glitter glue, hummed to the silence, then paused.

There it was again.

The ache in your chest.

Like someone you once knew was standing just outside the door.

Ghosts in the Doorway

It started with a knock.

You weren’t expecting anyone. It was nearly 9 p.m., and your apartment was tucked on the second floor of a quiet building that smelled like old books and warm bread. You were still in your soft house sweater—oversized, worn at the cuffs—curled on the couch with a mug of tea cooling in your hands.

The knock came again. Quiet. Firm.

You frowned, setting the cup down, the strange unease curling at the base of your neck. When you opened the door, the breath left your lungs.

Johnny Suh stood there.

Dripping rain onto your doormat.

Black coat. Black eyes. Hands stuffed in his pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still. You hadn’t seen him in three years, but God, he still looked the same—older around the eyes maybe, more carved at the edges—but still heartbreakingly him.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For one long second, it was like the world had forgotten how to spin.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said first, voice low. Hoarse. Like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. “I swear.”

You didn’t move.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

He exhaled, the weight of the universe in his shoulders. “But I needed to see you before they do.”

“Who?” you asked, even though part of you already knew.

He hesitated.

Then: “People who kill for less reason than I have.”

The silence between you turned thick. Heavy.

You stepped back without a word, and he followed you in.

Your apartment was small, warm. Familiar in ways that made his chest ache. You still kept candles on the windowsill. A bookshelf half-falling apart. A cat he didn’t recognize blinked up at him from the kitchen counter like it already hated him.

He stood in the middle of the living room, dripping on your rug, hands twitching.

You watched him carefully. “You said before they do.”

Johnny nodded once.

And then—for the first time—you saw it. The pain in his eyes. The guilt in the line of his jaw. The tight way he held himself, like he didn’t know if he was here to beg or bleed.

“They sent you,” you said softly.

Not a question.

He didn’t lie.

“Yes.”

The floor fell out from under you. But you didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there—arms crossed over your stomach like you were holding yourself together—staring at the man who once made you believe the world could be kind.

You let out a breath like it broke something inside you.

“Was I really ever just a job, Johnny?”

“No,” he said instantly. Stepped forward. “You were the only real thing I ever had.”

He didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But he looked at you like a man memorizing every line of a poem he would never get to read again.

And then, finally: “I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t care what they say. I’ll burn the whole organization to the ground before I let them touch you.”

You blinked.

“Why?” you whispered.

He looked wrecked when he said it.

“Because I still love you.”

Before the Fire Started

Three Years Ago.

The night before he left.

The city was asleep, but your apartment lights were low and golden. You stood in the kitchen wearing one of his old black shirts, too big on your frame, the sleeves rolled up as you swayed barefoot on cold tiles.

Johnny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you stir soup in a chipped pot.

“You look domestic,” he teased softly.

You smirked without turning. “Don’t ruin it.”

He stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like he knew this moment was borrowed time.

“I like it,” he murmured, now behind you. His arms wrapped gently around your waist. “You. Here. With me. Like this.”

You stilled in his hold.

Then slowly leaned back against his chest, letting the silence settle.

“You’re tense,” you whispered.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Everything in my world breaks. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

You turned then, both hands pressed to his chest.

“I won't, Johnny. Not when it’s you.”

He bent his head, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t get to keep this life,” he said, barely audible. “The people I work for—they don’t let you have peace. Or light. Or love.”

You tilted your face up, eyes stinging.

“I don’t care.”

He smiled. Soft. Devastated.

“You should.”

That night, he made love to you like a man saying goodbye with every touch.

He memorized your breath, the way you whispered his name, the way your fingers gripped his shoulder when you came apart around him—like he was the only place in the world you felt safe.

He kissed your throat afterward, whispering, “I’ll never love again. Even if I live to be a hundred. There’s only you.”

You kissed his mouth to quiet the ache.

Now.

You stared at him in your living room, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The hurt hadn’t dulled with time—it was just quieter now. Sharper in how it pierced.

He was still standing there, soaked and sleepless, looking at you like you were the only clean thing he had left in the world.

“I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he whispered.

You didn’t respond.

You just stepped closer—heart beating too loud—and reached up.

Your fingers brushed the scar under his jaw. One he didn’t have before.

He didn’t flinch.

“You still smell like smoke,” you murmured.

Johnny’s throat bobbed. “I never stopped burning.”

Between the Trigger and the Touch

You didn’t speak for a while.

Not after tracing that scar. Not after his breath hitched at your touch like he’d forgotten how to be held gently.

The room was quiet but charged. You turned away slowly, walking to the window, arms folding tight over your chest. The city lights blinked below, rain still glittering on the glass.

He didn’t move.

“I waited,” you said finally, voice like a scraped match. “For weeks. I thought maybe you’d knock again. Maybe you just needed space. But you didn’t even leave a note, Johnny.”

He exhaled sharply, pain twisting through his features. “I couldn’t. If I stayed—if I wrote, called, anything—they’d know you mattered. You’d be dead by now.”

You turned to him. “And now?”

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “If I die protecting you, then I die doing the one good thing I’ve ever done right.”

Your breath caught.

Johnny stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, stopping a few inches from you. His voice dropped.

“I dream about you.”

You swallowed.

He kept going. “About what I left. About what I ruined. You cooking barefoot. Laughing. The way you used to fall asleep on my chest mid movie.”

Your lips twitched.

He saw it.

A faint, broken smile pulled at his mouth too.

And then: “Do you still listen to that stupid playlist? The one you made me for night drives?”

You blinked hard. “You remember that?”

“I remember all of it.”

Silence.

And then he said, quieter, “Do you want me to go?”

You could lie. You could say yes. You could ask him to disappear again so your heart didn’t have to remember how to ache.

But instead—

You reached for his hand.

Fingers lacing slowly. Trembling.

“No,” you said.

And he looked at you like he was about to fall to his knees.

When the Light Broke

You whispered, “Kiss me.”

And for a moment, nothing in the world existed except his lips brushing yours.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’d waited his entire life for that single contact.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was an apology, a confession, a resurrection.

Your fingers trembled as they curled in his jacket. His hand cradled your jaw like you might disappear again if he held too hard. Your bodies hadn’t touched in years, but they remembered. His mouth moved like he was desperate to memorize you again.

You broke apart only to breathe. You were just about to say his name when—

The window behind you shattered into a thousand pieces. A blink. A sound like thunder swallowed in glass.

And then—

A burning punch to your side.

You gasped.

The air was gone. Your legs buckled.

Johnny caught you mid-fall, and suddenly the world was sideways. His arms tightened around your body, but your vision was already going soft at the edges.

“No.” His voice was jagged. “No no no no no—”

Your blood soaked through his hands instantly. Hot. Fast. Too fast.

He dragged you behind the couch in one fluid motion, his back shielding yours as more glass sprayed across the room—fragments glinting in the air like falling stars. But no more shots came. One bullet. One message.

You coughed. Choked on your own breath.

“Johnny…” you managed, voice like smoke.

He ripped his jacket off and pressed it to your side, hand shaking so violently he almost missed. “Stay awake. Don’t you dare fucking close your eyes—don’t you dare—”

Tears flooded your vision. Not from pain. From the sound of him. You’d never heard him sound like that.

Like he was dying too.

“Help’s coming,” he said. It wasn’t a promise. It was a prayer.

Your lips parted, blood trickling into your mouth.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wild, voice breaking. “I just got you back. I just got you back. Don’t leave me like this—not you—”

Your body was going cold.

But his hands never stopped holding you like they could pull your soul back in.

The Aftermath

The cold sting of antiseptic filled the air as Johnny rushed through the hospital doors, adrenaline still running through his veins, mixing with the heavy weight of panic.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be hurt.

He wasn’t supposed to be holding your bleeding body in his arms, fighting for your life in the back of his car. It wasn’t supposed to be real.

But it was.

He shouted for help as soon as the doors opened, his hands shaking so badly he could barely feel the blood on them anymore. Your blood. The warmth of it on his skin still burned like fire.

“Emergency!” he barked, voice cracking with desperation.

They moved fast, voices echoing in the chaos, and in the blur of rushing hands, he finally let go. Reluctantly. He stepped back, watching helplessly as the doctors and nurses surrounded you—working fast, speaking in quick, sharp commands. He was useless in this moment, and it tore him apart.

“She’s losing too much blood!” one of the nurses shouted.

Johnny barely registered their words as he stood, frozen in the doorway. His chest was tight, his throat clogged. His body was still shaking from the shock, but it wasn’t from fear anymore. It was from the guilt. The ache of knowing he might’ve just lost the one person who ever meant anything.

One of the doctors looked at him, eyes hard, and gave him a single, firm command.

“You need to leave. Now.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t fight. He turned, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders as he stepped into the sterile hallway, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts that couldn’t be caught.

The hours dragged by.

Johnny didn’t leave the hospital. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just waited.

And waited.

By the time the sun cracked the sky and the sterile lights in the hospital halls flickered to life, his eyes were sunken. He’d spent all night pacing, trying to stay awake, to stay present. But a deep, gnawing dread crawled under his skin—the fear that you might not make it.

The sound of a door opening caught his attention. A nurse appeared, her face tired but calm.

“She’s stable.” she said, her voice soft. “She’s going to be okay.”

Johnny exhaled. It was like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath all this time. His heart beat again, and for the first time, the weight seemed a little less suffocating.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“Can I see her?” he asked, voice raw.

The nurse nodded.

When Johnny walked into your room, the sight of you—pale, bruised, breathing steadily beneath the sterile white sheets—nearly broke him all over again.

You were alive. You were breathing. And that was enough.

He stood by your bedside for a long time, just watching you. His eyes tracing every inch of your face, memorizing every detail in case he never got the chance again.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, it wasn’t shock or pain that crossed your face. It was relief.

“Johnny…” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

He took your hand, fingers trembling as he gently kissed the back of it. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“Don’t leave.” You whispered, barely audible. The faintest of smiles curled your lips.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he whispered back.

And for that moment, it was enough. But not for long.

Hours later, you fell into a deep, healing sleep.

Johnny’s gaze lingered on your face one last time. He knew he should stay. He knew he shouldn’t go.

But there was something he had to do.

He quietly slipped out of the room, leaving a single kiss on your forehead, and as he walked down the empty hallway, the weight of the decision crushed him.

You’d live. You’d heal. But he couldn’t let this go.

Not yet.

The morning after, Johnny was already gone.

Blood Bath.

He didn’t wear gloves.

He wanted the blood on his hands.

Johnny didn’t knock when he entered the second-floor room of the warehouse. The metal door slammed open, a blinding flash of moonlight cutting across the shadows. Inside, the man who’d given the kill order—Leon Vargas—was seated at a round table, surrounded by half-empty glasses and two bodyguards.

Johnny didn’t hesitate.

Two bullets. Two guards dropped before they even reached their guns.

Vargas shot up from his chair, stumbling backward as Johnny strode in like death itself. Dressed in black, eyes cold, jaw tight—he looked like vengeance incarnate. His gun remained steady, a seamless extension of his fury.

“You shouldn't have touched her.”

“Johnny, wait—”

Johnny’s fist slammed into Vargas’ jaw, sending the man reeling against the wall. He followed him, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him down onto the table, glass shattering beneath the weight.

“Was it a message? Huh?” Johnny hissed, gun pressed to Vargas’ mouth. “That kindergarten teacher? My ex? That was the line you wanted to cross?”

“I didn't know—”

Another punch. This one split his lip.

“You did. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Vargas coughed blood, a shaky laugh escaping. “You went soft. Thought you needed reminding.”

Johnny froze for a moment. That laugh. That arrogance.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn’t kind.

He reached for a knife from his belt—cold steel glinting in the low light—and drove it into Vargas’ thigh.

Scream.

Vargas writhed beneath him, blood pouring down the chair leg.

“I haven’t gone soft,” Johnny whispered into his ear, voice calm and cold. “I’ve gotten worse. Because of her.”

He twisted the blade slowly, like he was savoring it.

“I love her. You made me bleed for her. Now you’ll drown in yours.”

He pulled the knife free, slick and dripping, then stepped back and emptied his entire magazine into Vargas’ chest.

The final shot went into his head. Point blank.

Johnny stared at the body, chest heaving, blood on his hands, his face, his soul. But his eyes were calm now. His monster fed.

He dropped the empty magazine, reloaded, and turned without looking back.

His hands were stained red.

And now, finally, so was his soul.

Epilogue: “The Quietest Thing”

The city was far behind them now.

Up in the hills, where the clouds rolled slow and the nights came soft, a quiet house sat tucked behind rows of apricot trees. It smelled like jasmine in spring and woodsmoke in winter. And tonight, it smelled like home.

Johnny stood barefoot in the hallway, shoulder against the frame of her bedroom door.

Inside, your daughter was curled up under a pink blanket, knees tucked to her chest, a stuffed rabbit clutched tight in her arms. Her hair fanned out across the pillow like ink in water—thick and dark, just like his.

You stood at her bedside, humming something faint as you tucked the blanket higher. The glow from the nightlight kissed your cheek, and Johnny felt it again—that quiet, shattering ache of love so deep it felt like forgiveness.

“She’s growing fast,” he whispered.

You turned to him, smiling gently. “She’s already smarter than both of us.”

“She’s got your heart,” he murmured.

“She’s got your fight.”

You walked over, sliding your hand into his. He kissed the back of it, eyes drifting back to the tiny body sleeping peacefully in the bed.

“She asked me today if you were a superhero,” you whispered. “Said you have hands like a soldier but eyes like a prince.”

Johnny swallowed. “What did you tell her?”

“I said no,” you said softly. “You’re not a superhero.”

His heart thudded. You leaned in.

“You’re her father,” you whispered. “That’s better.”

Outside, the wind danced through the trees.

In the living room, Doyoung was passed out on the couch, glasses askew, a coloring book open on his chest—one your daughter had abandoned halfway through. Crayons littered the floor. Classical piano music still hummed faintly from the kitchen speaker.

The home was chaotic in the way only happy homes are.

Johnny reached for you as you stepped into the living room, pulling you gently onto his lap as he sank into the armchair near the fireplace. You melted into him like you always did—like the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

“I thought the blood would follow me forever,” he murmured into your shoulder. “Even when I left, I thought… one day, she’d see it in me.”

“She won’t,” you whispered. “Because it’s not there anymore.”

He held you tighter.

“You gave her a different name than the one you lived under,” you said. “You gave her peace. You gave her a life.”

He looked up at you slowly, eyes glassy, voice raw. “You gave me a soul.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead to his. “And she gave us a forever.”

That night, as the fire crackled low and the world quieted, Johnny slipped into his daughter’s room one last time.

He kissed her forehead, brushed a curl from her cheek, and whispered the words he never thought he’d live long enough to say:

“I love you, little one.”

She stirred faintly in her sleep, a soft hum escaping her.

And in that moment, Johnny realized:

He’d never be a monster again.

Because the only thing he killed now—was the past.

The End.

___________________________________________