#sinners in secret chapters

[i-fondued]

Ghost | Sinners in Secret | Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty Six - The Wedding Night Incident Pairing: Cardinal Copia x Reader/Sister of Sin x Papa “Terzo” Emeritus III Rating: Explicit Warnings: Plot, smut, etc. See AO3 for full list of tags! A/N: ** INSERT 'I WENT THROUGH SOMETHING TRAUMATIC AND VANISHED EXCUSE HERE' LOL! no but for real I'm sorry I fell off the planet, long story short my ten year relationship fell apart, I started my post-semi divorce hoe stage with someone I work with, lost all motivation and inspiration to write, have insane/mindblowingly good sex, see Fall Out Boy and BMTH at Fenway Park and managed to squeeze in time to see my first ritual at which I acted like a feral goblin LOL

As always, this chapter is has been reviewed by my beta, @lurancyvenom whom I love! Thank you for coming to stay with me and coming to the ritual with me, literally has been the best week of my life and I cried the whole way home from the airport LOL <3

Full Chapter List - HERE AO3 Link - HERE

No sooner had I heard the sound of the lock flicking closed behind me did I feel hands tugging my veil off my head, tossing it to the side. Someone’s lips were already pressed against the skin of my neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive flesh, and I could no longer hold in the whimper that bubbled up in my throat. I felt Terzo chuckle against my skin as he stepped close behind me and his lips brushed against my bare shoulder. His hands settled on the curve of my waist and he pulled me back firmly against him. 

Suddenly feeling almost boneless, I couldn’t help my head rolling back against his shoulder, eyes shut, as he pressed featherlight kisses into my skin. I felt as though I was basking in the warm glow of Mediterranean sunshine as the heat pooled in my belly and in my chest. Gods, it seemed an eternity had passed since I’d had them so close to me, and I was drunk off of the sensation of them touching me together, finally at the point we’d all been waiting so long to reach. 

Strong hands cupped my jaw and I locked eyes with Copia’s mismatched gaze, filled with liquid fire. Tenderly, he pressed his lips to mine in a soft kiss filled with many light emotions. 

“...Ti amo…” he mumbled. “Amore… mia moglie… nostra moglie…”

The tone he used made a shudder slip down my spine, a gasp shared between our parted lips.

“Mm… la nostra amata moglie, Cardinale,” Terzo chuckled behind us. “Now she is all ours… nobody else's…”

Again, like twin flames, they pressed featherlight, open mouthed kisses to my skin. My chest, shoulders, cheeks, chin - anything within reach. I was panting and we hadn’t even moved from in front of the doors yet. 

“I love you, both of you...” I whimpered as Terzo rocked his hips, and obvious hard cock, against my ass. “You’re mine…”

Copia growled, deep and possessive, and he tugged me away from the doorway towards our bedroom. I followed along, almost like a marionette, and I took Terzo’s hand as we moved to bring him with me. I couldn’t help the giggle that slipped from my lips, and I blushed at the roguish look in my Papa’s eyes. Once we were in the bedroom, Copia made quick work of tearing the dress off of my body. Literally. I couldn’t help but gasp at the sound of the ripping seams, heat instantly pooling between my legs, and I locked eyes with him as he groaned. 

“Oh Tesoro…” Terzo chuckled behind me, his hand snapping out and cracking me on my bare ass. I jumped, letting out a quiet gasp. “How positively sinful… naked for us?”

I purred under Terzo’s touch as his hands, bare and warm, kneaded the stinging spot as he stepped close enough to grind against me. I felt drunk as I stood there panting, my eyes unfocused as they locked with Copia’s, the heat and lust evident in his hungry gaze. Copia stepped close to us, one hand settling at my waist as the other reached out and tipped my chin up, and he pressed his lips to mine in a kiss so searing it took my breath away. I whimpered as one of my hands reached out and cupped his jaw, my other reached back to grope at the swell of Terzo’s cock. 

The shorter man behind me let out a hiss between gritted teeth, resting his painted face against my shoulder as he rocked rhythmically against me. His hands settled at my hips before one slipped between my legs and ghosted against my core. I moaned into Copia’s kiss, heat flooding my veins, then tore away from him to snake one hand into Terzo’s hair and tug his lips to mine. 

He chuckled into my frenzied kiss, his fingers skilfully plucking the strings of my arousal in a way that only he knew how. 

“I want to taste you, Topolino,” Copia muttered, his hands sliding from my waist to curve around the swell of my breasts. I whimpered, burying my face into Terzo’s neck. “On the bed. Now.”

The sharp growl of the last word sent another shiver down my spine, and lust pooled between my legs. I kicked off my shoes, dress long abandoned on the floor, and slipped into the massive four poster. I watched as they both tugged their tailcoats and vests off, kicking off their own shoes. I couldn’t help the giggled shriek as Copia’s hand wrapped around my ankle and he tugged me to him, settling between my legs and trailing soft kisses down my chest. A soft groan slipped out before I could stop myself as he pressed gentle, teasing kisses against my hips and thighs, his fingers featherlight as he caressed my core. 

“Copia…please…” I whined, hands reaching down to thread into his dark hair. “No more teasing…”

“Ah, ah amore…” he spoke, and I jumped at the feeling of his breath against the apex of my thighs, a shudder running through me. “It is our wedding night, no? There is no rush…”

I felt my hips jump as his fingers slipped just slightly inside me, teasing me as they ran back and forth against my wet slit, but never went beyond barely grazing against my clit. I felt the bed dip and turned to see Terzo, positively feral as he looked down at me. He’d stripped naked already while I was distracted, and my eyes instantly drifted to his cock, my mouth practically watering. Gods I’d missed them, this feeling of being enveloped in love and passion and lust. 

“I need you, too…” I whimpered. While one hand remained curled in Copia’s hair, I couldn’t help as I reached out with the other for Terzo. The third Emeritus son was never one to last long when it came to me, not when I begged, and he smiled lasciviously as he slid next to me. 

“Always, Tesoro…” he purred, settling tightly against me to press soft kisses to my chest, collarbones, and bare breasts. “Anything for you.”

At that moment, Copia began to tease me with the tip of his tongue. I gasped, throwing my head back and arching my spine as his fingers spread me open and his tongue lapped at my core. My cunt clenched tightly as he groaned, his nose buried against me, and I rolled my hips in an attempt to get any friction I possibly could. His fingers suddenly thrusted into me while he sucked on my clit, and I felt my thighs clench against his head. The thread of my orgasm pulled tight, a strangled moan falling from my lips as I rode one husband’s face while the other murmured in my ear words of praise as he ground against my hip.

“Sweet girl, la nostra dolce ragazza…” Terzo murmured in my ear, his hands coming to settle against my throat. “Look at il tua Cardinale, si? Look at the way he devours you… I want you to look at him as he takes you apart.”

A broken gasp ripped its way from my throat as Copia slipped two fingers inside of me and curled to caress the sweet spot deep within me. I looked down and locked my gaze with Copia’s, a positively sinful look in his eyes. I was shaking, panting, and my fingernails dug into his scalp as he timed a flick of his tongue with a curling of his fingers and I saw stars. My orgasm ripped through me with little warning, my hips writhing against his mouth, and a strangled moan filled the room. It clearly had been too long since I’d been able to let them pluck the pleasure from my body. 

Copia pulled away and crawled his way up my boneless body, leaving wet open mouth kisses against my skin. My nerves felt frayed but I could tell by the look in their eyes that neither man was finished with me. I shuddered as Terzo tugged on my chin and forced me to meet his gaze. 

“My turn, Tesoro…” he chuckled darkly, a wolfish smile on his lips. Even after all this time I couldn't help the blush that spread over my cheeks.

Suddenly, with an ungraceful yelp, I felt myself flipped over and onto my front, my face in Copia’s lap while Terzo pushed my knees apart. I looked up at Copia, his eyes filled with so many emotions and heat that I couldn’t help the smile on my lips. He shifted slightly and I could see his cock in all its glory in front of my face, then gasped as the tip of Terzo’s tongue ran up the back of my thigh, followed by a kiss to my slick folds. 

My hand moved without thinking, curling around Copia’s cock tightly and moving in time with Terzo’s gentle, exploratory kisses to my core. I was panting and arching back against him in time with the movements, a whimper slipping from my lips before I could stop it. Copia drank in the sight of us greedily, his eyes hungry as he watched his lovers, his spouses, take pleasure in each others bodies. I felt the Cardinal’s hips begin to rock with the movement of my hand and I locked eyes with him as I finally took his cock, dripping precum, into my mouth with a groan. 

I watched as Copia slowly leaned back against the pillows, his arm behind his head as he held my gaze. I couldn’t help the shiver that ran down my spine. Suddenly there was a crack of skin on skin before the heat bloomed on my ass, and I couldn’t help the hiss that slipped out around Copia’s cock.

“Concentrati, amore…” Terzo chuckled behind me, a dark and mischievous sound. “We would not want to disappoint il Cardinale, sì?”

The feeling of Papa’s bare fingers sliding in and out of me, the pad of his thumb brushing teasingly against my clit with a feather-like pressure, it was almost too much. My eyes were hooded as I locked my gaze on Copia, who for his part was panting and lightly thrusting into my warm mouth as I bobbed up and down slowly. He groaned and his hand slipped to lovingly cup my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek before twining his fingers through the hair at the crown of my head, urging me to pick up the pace. I moaned as I took Copia as deeply as I could, still not the entire length of his cock, and shuddered as Terzo slipped another finger inside of me. Papa curled his fingers and gently pressed against the spot deep inside me that made my legs shake and my arms almost give out. 

“That’s it, amore,” Copia hissed, hips bucking up at a faster pace to match my movements. “Una brava ragazza per me…”

“Ah, ah, Cardinale. We do not want to lose you so soon, hm?” Terzo chuckled, pulling away from my core and the building pressure began to ebb. I whined, but that didn’t stop the shorter man from wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me back against him. “Our lovely bride still has much in store for the evening…”

Copia’s cock popped out of my mouth as Terzo yanked me back and away from the other panting man. The look in Copia’s eyes could only be classified as borderline ghoul-like, feral and fiery. I could practically hear the growl deep in his chest as I was pulled away.

“Terzo…” Copia said, his voice low and menacing. “You better have a good reason for stopping Sorella…”

“Why of course, Cardinale… always.” Terzo chuckled, his hand snaking up and around my throat to hold me in place as he gripped my hip with his other hand.

I felt him under me, his cock hard and straining as I attempted to grind back against him. He chuckled, pulling me against his chest, and whispering against the shell of my ear.

“Papa gets what Papa wants, sì, amore?”

All I could manage in response was a keening, whimper-like sound. I knew it was all for the other man in the bed with us. I was a pawn between these two powerful men, a beautiful prize to be won in their unspoken battle of pleasure. Not that I was complaining. No, I was happy to be the one receiving all the attention from them.

A light squeeze of my throat brought my attention back to the moment as I felt Terzo settle behind me, his other hand gripping tight to my hips as I panted and tried to roll my hips against him. His chuckle was a deep rumble against my bare back as he slowly ran his cock against my dripping cunt, a broken gasp slipping from my parted lips. 

“Pazienza, dolce ragazza, pazienza, sì?” Terzo’s voice deep as he whispered to me; his breath hot on the shell of my ear, my breath ragged. “A little tease for our dear sposa…”

I felt the pleasure rolling deep in my belly and I couldn’t help but look at Copia, heat filling my cheeks as I took in the sight of him. His hair was a mess; between my fingers curling in the strands while he ate my cunt like a starving man, and his own hands running through it to push it back away from his eyes, it looked wild. His paints had been smeared on his lips, some almost certainly between my thighs, and the large panda-like eyes were muddled around the edges from sweat. He looked disheveled and undone, something the very reserved Cardinal never let show. I couldn’t help the small smirk that appeared on my face as he locked eyes with me, knowing full well I was the one responsible for this panting mess of a man.

Suddenly Terzo pushed his hips forward, the tip of his cock popping deliciously into me as he edged forward. I gasped, eyes snapping wide as I arched my back and tried to turn back to look at my Papa. His hand on my throat slid upwards and under my jaw, pinning my head to meet Copia’s gaze. The Cardinal was enraptured, his gaze locked on mine, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

“Look Tesoro, look what you do to il nostro soffocante cardinale…” Terzo purred, his hips slowly ebbing and flowing against my shaking body. “Let us give him a good show, eh?”

I cried out as the tight grip on my hip slipped to my lower stomach as Terzo used my arched back against me and began to thrust into me at a punishing pace, the angle perfect as it allowed him to lave against that sensitive spot deep inside me. I shuddered against him, small pants slipping past my lips, all while I obediently kept my eyes on Copia. Terzo’s lips pressed softly against my neck and shoulder as his tongue and teeth gently grazed against my over-sensitive skin. I watched Copia’s hands clench and unclench, something he only did when struggling with a decision; a thrill running up my spine at the thought of what it could possibly be.

I could feel the embers of heat in my belly begin to grow into a steady flame, my thighs shaking as Terzo held me tightly in place. The noises I was making began to grow in both frequency and volume as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside me. I was fighting to keep my eyes open as my nails dug into the soft sheets below me. 

“Terzo…please…” I begged, my voice almost ragged as I panted.

“Are you close, amore?” Terzo purred, the hand around my throat coming to cup my cheek and turn my gaze to look at his mismatched eyes.

“Y-yes!”

The coil was so tight it was almost painful, my breath was labored, and I knew my lips must have been swollen.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, mismatched eyes flashing for a moment as he kissed me, suddenly, possessively. 

The hand holding my jaw gripped my wrist, wrenching my hand from where I was clawing at the sheets and shoving it between my thighs. His finger guided my own at first until my sex-addled brain caught up and took over the aggressive movements. I was moaning and panting into his mouth, my head falling back against my shoulder as his movements became less and less precise. I knew he was as close as I was, my eyes drooping closed as I felt the last strands of the rope holding my orgasm deep in my belly begin to fray. A smack on my ass made me yelp and my eyes flew open, Terzo’s smug face looking right at me as my body began to shake with the effort of holding my orgasm back.

“Eyes on me, amate,” he growled, and a whimper slipped from my lips. “Vieni per il tua Papa…”

The wave of my second orgasm of the evening ripped through me, a strangled cry bursting out before Terzo’s lips were on mine again. I shuddered in his arms, the pair of us falling forward slightly as he pounded into me before I felt his hips falter for a moment. His cock twitched inside me as he followed me over the precipice, both of us panting in the afterglow together. I slumped, boneless in his arms as I tried to gather my breath.

“Dolce, bella ragazza…” Terzo muttered as he pressed soft kisses to my bare back.

I smiled, slightly delirious and exhausted as I stretched out my burning thighs. I could feel the chuckle rumbling in Terzo’s chest behind me.

“It looks like I won the bet, Cardinale,” Terzo preened, and my eyes slid open, watching the two men as I adjusted my position to settle back against the pillows. “Amore looks… come si dice… cock wasted?”

“Cock drunk.” Copia’s voice was low and gravely, my eyes drifted towards him. 

The expression on his face was dangerous and I couldn’t help the thrill that ran through me. There was only one thing that face meant, and I was quite looking forward to what was in store. 

“She looks pretty okie dokie to me, yes?”  

I couldn’t help the snort that slipped out, my hands coming up to cover my mouth a second too late, and the arched eyebrow on Copia’s face told me all I needed to know. 

“On your feet, Topolino…”

His hand grabbed mine as he slipped from the bed, practically dragging me along after him as I struggled to make my legs work. My body was already deliciously sore as I moved to follow Copia, whose mismatched eyes flicked between my own and Terzo’s slightly shocked face from where he sat. We stopped at the foot of the bed, Copia coming to stand behind me as he pressed a hand between my shoulders to have me bend at the waist. He gently nudged my legs apart, widening my stance as I placed my hand on the ottoman at the footboard. I whimpered slightly as I felt Copia’s hand ghost over my swollen cunt, already beginning to drip at the multiple ideas of what awaited me. 

“You see, Fratello…”

“That is marito now, Cardinale…” Terzo snickered.

“Mi scusi, marito…” I didn’t need to see Copia to know the look on his face was murderous. “La nostra sposa and I have been together longer than you and her; naturally I would say I know her body better than you do, no?”

There was a sharp edge to his sickly sweet tone, and I felt my skin prickle. I couldn’t see him but I could sense him, almost like prey trying to stay still to avoid the eye of their hunter. I knew my breath was coming in quick pants, heart thundering in my chest.

“Per esempio…” A sudden sharp crack of his hand on my ass made me jump, though I had enough sense to keep my gasp as quiet as I could. “I know that she prefers a rougher hand at times, sì Topolino?”

Another crack of skin on skin and I wasn’t so lucky as to keep the cry in this time. I heard Copia chuckle as his hand gently ran over the reddening spot, my instinct taking over as I pushed back against his gentle touch.

“Y-yes Sir.” The words didn’t seem as confident as I said them out loud, tone warbling at the end. I couldn’t help but let my eyes drift to Terzo. 

His breathing, previously calm and collected, was now borderline panting. Even from here I could see the way his pupils were blown wide as he watched Copia and I, his cock already hardening again between his thighs. 

“Una brava ragazza… I had her trained so quickly.” Copia’s voice was coming from behind my right side, my heart thundering as I tried to brace for the next swat of his hand. “She took to this so swiftly, so well…”

I jumped as his fingertips just barely brushed against the column of my spine, like he was trying to feel out each and every vertebrae along the way. His hand stopped just at the base of my neck, lazily drawing a small circle. My skin prickled, goosebumps breaking out all over as I tried to not shake under his soft exploration.

“She reminded me of someone…” He was just in my peripheral vision on my right, I was practically eye level with his cock and I had to resist the urge to drop to my knees and finish what I’d started earlier.

“She reminds me of you, my dear marito.”

The noise Terzo made was so borderline inhuman, I couldn’t stop my head tilting up to look at him. He had scooted forward on the bed, closer to us now and sat back on his haunches. I dared to look over my shoulder at Copia, feeling emboldened by the distraction of Terzo, and the look on the Cardinal’s face made me almost stop this little exchange in favor of an evening more akin to a romance novel.

Copia’s face may have the sharp edge of a dominant taking charge of two submissives, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings. They were soft and full of warmth that was nothing close to the steaming exchange happening in front of me. I knew there had always been an unspoken bond between them, a tension that never felt quite like two close friends. This was as close to a confession of love I had heard from Copia, and my heart clenched at the idea of my husbands not only in love with me but also one another.

Terzo clearly felt the same way as me, if the goofy grin on his face was anything to go by. Papa slipped off the bed, coming around to us. His hand on the small of Copia’s back caught the taller man’s attention. Gently and with more emotion than I thought was possible from the normally dramatic satanic pope, Terzo pressed a soft kiss to Copia’s lips. The Cardinal’s arms came around the smaller man’s waist and he tugged him tighter against him, the kiss growing heated as their lips parted. I couldn’t help as I slowly straightened up, blushing as I watched them. After a moment Terzo pulled back, a small soft smile on his lips as they rested their foreheads against each other. 

“Ti amo anch'io, Francesco,” Terzo chuckled, stepping back slightly and coming to me. 

His eyes were warm as he pulled me into his arms, cupping my cheek with one hand and slowly pressing his lips to mine. There was so much emotion in that simple action I thought I might actually cry, my arms slipping around his neck as I pulled him in. He chuckled into the kiss before stepping away slightly, turning to look back at Copia with a wry look on his face.

“No more of this game, eh Cardinale? Let us show her how we can work together to give her the best night of her life…”

Twin pairs of mismatched eyes turned to me, a blush spreading over my cheeks as they smirked at me. I felt Terzo’s arm wrap around my waist and pull me towards the bed, Copia’s gaze on my nude form as I followed obediently.

I slipped onto the bed, reclining in the middle of the mattress, and watched Terzo as he crawled toward me before settling between my legs. I felt his hand as it slid up my thigh, sending goosebumps over my skin. Terzo leaned forward and pressed soft kisses to my jaw and I couldn’t help as my eyes fluttered shut. 

“Amore… keep your eyes open,” Terzo chuckled as his lips slowly slid down my neck and his teeth nipped the sensitive spot by my ear. “We would not want to miss il Cardinale joining us, sì?”

I felt the bed dip as Copia came to slide himself behind me, and I leaned back against his bare chest, my head now resting on his shoulder and ass nestled against his hardening cock. I arched my back as Terzo’s lips slowly slid down my neck, across my collarbone and between my breasts while Copia’s hands slid from my upper arms, ghosting against the underside of my breasts, and came to settle on my hips. I felt him lean me forward slightly, a gasp bursting from my lips as he slipped his hand between my thighs, teasing my clit as he whispered to Terzo and I.

“Who is going to get the pleasure of your cunt this evening, Stellina?” the Cardinal growled, emphasizing his words with a rough roll of his hips. I moaned, resting my head against Copia’s shoulder while his fingers lazily pressed against my clit. “Mi chiedo chi avrà il piacere di scopare il tuo culetto stretto…”

There was a sort of strangled sound in the air, though truth be told I wasn’t sure whether it had emanated from Terzo or myself. Copia’s cock was now between my legs as he rolled his hips against mine, sliding back and forth against my slick cunt. I shuddered at the feeling as Terzo pulled my head forward to press a searing kiss against my lips. I moaned wantonly, feeling like a wooden marionette with the strings cut as he pulled me into his arms and settled me above him.

“Ride me, amore mia. I want to see your face when you come undone for us…” Papa groaned as I slid down on his rigid cock. A shudder ran down my spine, head thrown back and eyes hooded as I moaned his name.

I gave a few experimental rolls of my hips, before I looked behind me and locked on Copia’s face. His cheeks were flushed, hand roughly pumping his cock while spreading a slick liquid all over his length and fingers. I felt the bed shift as Terzo moved his legs to make room for Copia to settle behind me. I squirmed, rolling my hips against Terzo and I felt Papa’s hands grip my hips to hold me in place. Suddenly something pressed against my ass and I couldn’t help but tense up as Copia spread the lube.

“Stellina, you will need to relax…” The Cardinal purred in my ear, pressing his fingers against the tight muscle. “I will not hurt you… we will take this slow, yes?”

“Y-yes…” I gasped softly, cunt clenching as he gently teased me with his fingertip. “Yes, Copia…”

“Una ragazza così buona e desiderosa…” Copia groaned, finger now sliding in and out of meding in and out of me. 

Terzo groaned below me, his hands gripping my hips tightly to prevent me from rolling against them both. My own little sound of pleasure slipping from my lips, my hands planted firmly on Papa’s chest to keep myself upright as my thighs strained with the effort of keeping myself still. I let out a strangled cry as Copia slipped another finger in, my nails digging into Terzo’s skin despite his hiss of pain. I took a moment to adjust my position into something more comfortable while Copia scissored his fingers slightly as he slipped them in and out slowly, stretching me and making me feel more full than I ever had been before. Again, almost tenderly, Copia waited for me to adjust to the change before moving again. It wasn’t tease me anymore…”

“Copia…” I whined, feeling wanton as I rocked against him. I could feel Terzo straining to hold himself back. “Please don’t tease me anymore…”

“Are you sure, amore?” Copia groaned as I arched back against him again, the curve of my ass pressed against him. 

My only response was to moan into his neck as I buried my face against him. A deep, rumbling chuckle emanated from the Cardinal and I shuddered as he pulled his fingers from my ass before pushing me forward gently. His hand pressed against my lower back, causing me to arch my hips for him.

“Era da tanto che non condividevamo una donna così, sì marito?” Terzo hissed, his hands still gripping my hips almost painfully while I tried to squirm to find any sort of relief from the growing heat in my belly. “Una ragazza così coraggiosa…”

I felt the head of Copia’s cock brush against the tight muscle and I gasped, nails again digging into the bare skin of Terzo’s chest.

“Rilassati tesoro…” Copia mumbled in my ear, the slow push forward inside of me causing him to hiss at the feeling of me tensing up.

I couldn’t help the high pitched, strangled sound that slipped past my lips. My eyes fluttered shut, and Copia paused to give me time to adjust to the feeling of both of them. Copia’s hand on the small of my back slipped around to my lower stomach, pulling me and stretching me to the perfect angle for him to slip in. Terzo below me was shaking and panting, his expression almost pained, and I felt as he just barely shifted his hips. I could feel not only both of them inside me but the moment they brushed against one another through my walls, the heads of their cocks nudging each other. 

There were stars behind my eyes and a pulse deep in my belly as I tried to adjust my position while the two men inside of me began timing their thrusts to accommodate the other. I could feel Terzo shaking like a leaf below me; I knew he wouldn’t last long like this, and I couldn’t help but whimper as Copia pushed forward deeper inside of me. 

“C-cazzo, Stelina…” Copia groaned, resting his head against my shoulder blades as he panted. His thrusts faltered slightly and I knew they both were closer than either would like to admit. “Una brava ragazza per noi…”

A shudder ran through me and I bit my bottom lip to hold back a keening sound as Copia’s hand slipped from my lower belly to brush slightly against my clit. Terzo watched us with rapt attention, his face visibility flushed through his paints. 

“Do you see what you do to our Papa, amore?” Copia purred into my ear, his hips grinding against mine as he pushed me to rest more of my weight on my hands. “Don’t you see how he burns for you?”

I rocked my hips as much as I was able to in my position, Copia’s fingers skillfully plucking at the last strings of my orgasm. Both men groaned at the same time, and I couldn’t help the cock drunk smile from appearing on my face. In that moment I knew that as much as these men liked to think otherwise, I was truly the one in charge of our combined pleasures. I couldn’t help but lean forward, hands moving to tug Terzo up as much as he could, and press a searing kiss to his lips as I felt the sudden snap of my orgasm. He swallowed my desperate cries with a moan of his own; I could hear Copia hiss and swear but my mind felt like it was floating. 

Another few staccato thrusts from Terzo below me, and I felt his cock twitch inside me. His hands gripped my hips so roughly I knew I’d have bruises in the morning. He rolled his hips along with the pulse of my aftershocks, both of us shuddering at the feeling. Behind me there was a growl from Copia who pushed until he was fully hilted inside me, my high pitched keening sound ringing in my ears. The Cardinal tilted my neck and buried his face before biting down hard, not enough to pierce the skin but enough to sting. I arched back against him, shaking in his arms as the three of us slowly came down from our high. I was panting, entirely boneless, and unable to contain the goofy smile on my face as I flopped onto Terzo’s chest. Copia pulled gingerly out of me with a gasp before collapsing next to Terzo and I; an arm lazily slung around us best as possible. 

“Woah…” was all I could manage to say, my consciousness floating high above us still.

“I could not agree more, tesoro,” Terzo chucked, the sound rumbling in his chest as I listened to his heart pounding.

I looked up at him, resting my chin on my hands, and smiled sleepily at him before turning to Copia. He looked like he’d just run a marathon, chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. I reached out to him, cupping his cheek fondly and gracelessly leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. I felt Copia smile into the kiss, his arm slipping from my waist to cup my jaw almost possessively. I pulled away, sitting back slightly to look at them both with a soft warmth in my chest. 

“I love you, both of you.” I smiled, tears welling in my eyes. “I cannot imagine what my life would be like without you two, thank you…”

“Oh Stelina…” Terzo crooned, hand coming up to brush the tears away from my cheeks. “Do not cry amore, you will make this old man cry too…”

“Satana sia buono,” Copia chuckled as he sat up closer to us, practically wagging his eyebrows at me. “The only time I want to see tears in your eyes tonight amore is from pleasure, eh?”

I felt my cheeks flush, a shiver down my spine, and I smiled as he cupped my chin and pulled me towards his lips. Somehow I knew none of us would be getting much sleep tonight.

[filthyjoelslvr]

 The Other Woman

part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Content: Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader (not a threesome sorryyyyy)

Synop: Joel Miller only comes around at night. After the sun sets. After the stars have already flooded the sky. After all of Jackson is already asleep — including his wife.

But you're tired of being his dirty secret. Of being the other woman. You didn't think you'd hurt this much. That is until Tommy. Tommy who wants you openly. Tommy who wants you and only you.

You thought you were healing... until Joel comes along.

Warnings: age gap (unspecified reader of age), cheating (joel has a wife), reader gets heartbroken, mean joel, pinv, oral (f! receive), no ellie, praise kink (tommy), pet names, face riding (kinda), torn between both millers (me too)

Word Count: 9k?

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: this did not turn out the way i originally planned but that's okay because i just let my fingers write whatever they desire. truly i am torn between both miller brothers and don't know who to have y'all end up with so let me knowwwwwww. SPOILER tho you will have sex with Joel next chapter. sorry not sorry.

The coffee's gone cold. It always does when you pour it too early, thinking he might stay longer than he does.

But he never does.

The sun bleeds gold across the warped floorboards, crawling in through the broken slats of the blinds you never fix. It’s quiet in that cruel kind of way — not peace, but pause. Like the world’s holding its breath before it moves without you.

Your place still smells like him. Leather and old sweat. Tobacco and pine soap. Faded traces of campfire smoke clinging to the flannel he left draped over the back of the chair. Like he’ll be back any minute.

But you know better.

He comes on the wind, always at dusk or after — carrying the weight of something he won’t name, eyes heavy with history and hands that shake until they’re on you. And when he touches you, he’s not gentle, not rough either. Just hungry. Like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to want something he’s allowed to take.

You let him. Every time.

Because the thing about being the other woman is that you learn how to live in the in-betweens. In the dark hours and unfinished sentences. In the jacket he forgot to take and the warmth in your bed that isn’t yours to keep.

And on Sundays — you never expect him.

Sundays are for her.

The one who gets his name whispered soft across pillowcases and gets to ask where he’s been without flinching. The one who gets to admire his features in the daylight. You don’t want her to exist anymore. But you know she always will.

Because Joel Miller never comes around on Sundays. Sundays are for her.

And if he ever did — you think maybe you’d ask him to stay.

But he doesn’t. He won’t.

And so you sit in the quiet with your cold coffee and that old flannel, pretending this room is a church and you’re the only sinner left praying for a man already spoken for.

It was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday.

The days blur when you don’t ask for promises.

He came in like he always does — shoulders slouched, boots heavy, voice low. Said your name like it hurt. Like it was the first word he’d spoken all day and it tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.

You didn’t ask him where he’d been.

You never do.

You just moved aside, let him in, closed the door behind him like you were sealing something in. Or keeping something out. You’re still not sure which.

The lights stayed off. That’s how he likes it.

He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t mean to stay long, like this was a mistake halfway made. But then his hands found your hips, and his head found the crook of your neck, and suddenly you were both breathing like you’d been underwater.

It’s never urgent, with Joel.

It’s not tender either.

It’s quiet. Tense. Like a storm held behind his ribs.

You feel it in the way he touches you — slow, searching, like maybe if he just holds you long enough, he’ll forget what he’s running from.

You let him leave fingerprints. Bruises, sometimes. He always kisses them after, though. Mouth soft where his hands weren’t. As if to say I’m sorry, without giving it a voice.

You didn’t say anything when he traced his fingers along your spine. Didn’t move when he stared too long at the ceiling after.

You just watched him — that profile you’ve memorized a hundred different ways — and counted the beats of silence between breaths.

Then he spoke. Just one word.

“Laura.”

You turned your head away. He didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did. And didn’t care.

He left before the sun rose. No kiss. No goodbye. Just the groan of boots on old floorboards, the soft thud of the door closing, and the echo of her name still floating in the stale air you shared.

You buried your face in the pillow he used, pretending it didn’t smell like regret.

You don’t cry anymore.

That part of you dried up months ago — somewhere between the first time he left without looking back, and the fifteenth time you let him in anyway. Grief got old. Tears started to feel theatrical. And anyway, there’s no one left to see them but the walls, and even they’ve stopped listening.

Now it’s just the quiet. The long hours. The weight of being something he uses to feel human, but never stays human for.

You clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcase he used. Light a candle to burn the smell of him off your skin.

And still, it lingers.

That feeling. That film.

Like you’ve been dipped in something thick and invisible. Not blood, not dirt — worse. Something that clings behind the ears, between the thighs, under your tongue. Shame, maybe. Or the slow realization that you’re not a secret because you’re special — you’re a secret because you’re nothing.

Because love is something he gives to her.

And you’re just flesh.

You sit at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, your back to the mirror. You don't like to look anymore. You used to — used to try, anyway. Lip gloss. Liner. A hand in your hair, brushing it just so in case he noticed. In case he saw you.

But now, you don’t even try. What would be the point?

She gets him clean. You get him hollow.

You wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe she’s making eggs. Maybe she’s wrapping her robe around herself while he kisses the top of her head and asks her what she dreamed. Maybe he makes her coffee without being asked.

Maybe he says good morning to her without needing to borrow a body first.

You’ve never heard him say it to you. You’ve never seen him like that in the light. You wonder if he looks different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe just real. You only ever get him in shadow — in pieces, in fragments, in the kind of silence that bruises.

He gives her Sundays. And you?

You get Thursdays, Mondays, Wednesdays — Fridays and Saturdays if you’re lucky.

Maybe. If he’s not too tired.

Never Sundays. Never.

You want to tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s just something you do — like a habit, or a drug, or a sin you haven’t gotten tired of yet. But that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because it’s not just your body that aches when he leaves. It’s all the parts of you that no one’s ever wanted.

The parts you buried hoping he might dig them up.

But he never does.

He doesn’t ask.

It didn’t start with a look. It started with a sound — the scrape of boots on concrete behind you, the rustle of old canvas, the low murmur of someone asking for rifle rounds two stalls down.

Joel Miller.

Everyone in town knew his name. Not because he wanted them to — he kept to himself, like a man who learned long ago that silence is safer than kindness — but because in a place like this, everything echoes. Rumors. History. Grief.

You’d seen him before. Always moving, always grim. Eyes that didn’t linger. Hands that looked like they’d broken more than they held.

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

Just noticed.

He lived near the edge of town, in that crumbling house with the boarded windows and the overgrown porch. You passed it sometimes on supply runs and wondered what the inside looked like. If it smelled like cedar. Or smoke. If he ever lit candles, or just sat in the dark like you imagined he would.

The first time you actually spoke, it was raining. Hard. You were struggling with a crate of dry goods outside the community hall, your hands going numb, your patience gone.

He didn’t offer to help. He just picked up the other side of the crate and said, “Where you want it?”

And that was it.

No small talk. No smile. Just effort. Quiet and necessary.

After that, he started nodding when he saw you. A tilt of the head, sometimes a gruff “Hey.”

Then he started staying longer at the trade stalls when you were there. Asking about things he already knew.

One day, he brought you jerky from his last hunt. Said it was extra. You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t know what to make of it, but you started brushing your hair before heading into town. Started wearing that jacket he once glanced at.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Then one night, he showed up at your door. Said nothing.

Just looked at you like the day had been long, and the world had been unkind, and you were the only soft thing left in it.

You didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.

That first night was clumsy. Not in a bad way — just in that way that two broken people collide. Careful and unsure, like neither of you had done this in a while. He didn’t kiss you. Not really. Just pressed his mouth to your collarbone like he was afraid it would vanish.

He left before dawn. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of sweat and regret on your sheets.

It kept happening.

Not often, not predictably. Just… when he needed.

He never made promises. Never brought flowers or touched your face like you were precious. But he came back. And for a while, that felt like something.

You started marking time by him. How long since he last came. How long until he might again.

You'd hear about him from others — how he helped reinforce the south gate, how he traded for ammo, how he didn’t speak much but always delivered.

He existed in your world like a shadow moving through the same air. A man near enough to haunt you, but never close enough to claim.

And slowly, what began as a flicker — something small and thrilling — dulled into routine.

Now, when you hear the knock at your door, you don’t smile.

You just open it.

Let him in. And let him leave.

He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just a fact.

Like the cold. Like the curfew bell. Like the ache in your chest that never goes away.

You knew about her from the beginning. Before the first touch. Before the first knock.

Before the first night he let his body speak in place of his mouth.

People talk in towns like this. They whisper in market lines and at water pumps, over stitched-up coats and shared cigarettes.

"Joel Miller’s wife’s a good woman," they’d say. "She’s patient, still sets a place for him at dinner even when he’s late."

"She keeps the old world alive — bakes bread, tends a garden, teaches the little ones to read."

And you nodded, pretending you didn’t care.

Pretending your stomach didn’t twist when you heard the word wife.

You should have closed the door when he first came to you. But you didn’t.

Because no one ever taught you how to say no to something that feels like almost-love.

And he never mentioned her. Not once.

Not in words, at least.

But you saw it anyway — in the way he never stayed too long, in how he always kept one boot near the door. In the look in his eyes when he pulled away from you, like the sin had already been committed and there was nothing left but clean-up.

You don’t feel guilty.

Not really.

You’ve tried. God, have you tried.

But guilt implies you didn’t want it. And you did.

You still do.

You wanted the way he looked at you like maybe you were something warm in a world that had gone cold. You wanted his hands on your hips, heavy and sure. You wanted to feel wanted, even if it was only in the dark, even if it was only when he couldn’t carry whatever lived in his chest back home.

And maybe that makes you cruel.

Maybe that makes you hollow.

But it also makes you his, if only for the hour it takes to forget the life he chose before you.

She walks through town in the mornings — strong-legged and soft-eyed, with silver just starting to streak her dark hair. She looks like she’s earned her peace. Like she’s carried something heavy and learned how to set it down without screaming.

She’s his age. Maybe even older.

And you — you’re old enough to remember the world before it ended, but young enough to have gone through the hardships of puberty with infected hidden in every corner.

You hate that you envy her. But you do.

You envy the way people smile at her. The way her name is said with respect. The way Joel lets her hold his arm in public.

You envy that she gets all of him.

His mornings. His coffee breath. The sound of his voice when he isn’t worn thin.

You only get what’s left.

The part that’s too tired to speak. The part that hurts.

And still — you open the door.

Every time.

Even knowing he’ll leave smelling like you and crawl into her bed like nothing’s out of place.

Even knowing you’ll wake up in your empty sheets and try to remember what your name sounds like in someone else’s mouth.

He gave her the world. He gave you his ruin.

And somehow — somehow — you keep calling it love.

He comes late.

Later than usual. Boots caked with dirt, knuckles raw, a cut on his cheek that’s already scabbing. He doesn’t say a word when you open the door. Just walks past you like this is his house, like your body is furniture he knows by memory.

He sits on the edge of your bed. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.

You don’t move to touch him. Not tonight.

You close the door slowly, lean against it like maybe it’ll hold you up. For a moment, neither of you speak — just the sound of the wind outside, and your heart thudding like it knows what’s coming before you do.

You ask quietly, almost gently, “Why do you treat me like this?”

He looks up, eyes narrowing like you’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Like what?”

You step toward him. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. “Like I’m no one. Like I don’t deserve to know anything about you. You come here, and you take what you need, and you leave. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me, half the time.”

His jaw tightens. “I never made you any promises.”

And that hurts. Because it’s true.

You sit down across from him, knees almost touching, voice barely a whisper. “Is she different?”

His face hardens, but you press on.

“Are you nice to her? Do you talk to her? Does she get the real you?”

He looks away.

You keep going, each word slicing your own throat as much as his. “Does she know what you’ve lost? What you’ve done? Does she get to hold you when the guilt comes? Because I don’t even know what you’re guilty of. I just know you crawl into my bed like a ghost trying to forget who he used to be.”

He stands abruptly. Paces. Hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

“Because you won’t let me.”It explodes out of you. “You won’t let me see you. You come here and hide. And I take it. I’ve taken it for years. But I can’t do this anymore if you won’t even give me the truth.”

He turns back to you, angry now. “I never asked you to love me.”

You blink. Swallow the sting. “You didn’t have to. I did it anyway.”

Silence. Thick and final.

He stares at you, breathing hard — a man made of walls, panicking at the thought of tearing one down.

You think maybe he’ll say something. That maybe the dam will break. That maybe he’ll finally tell you who Sarah was, or what it’s like to lose the world twice, or why he looks so tired all the time.

But he doesn’t.

He just grabs his coat and walks toward the door.

Your voice trembles, but it’s steady where it counts.

“If you leave now, don’t come back.”

He hesitates. For half a second. Then he leaves.

Just like that.

No slamming door. No final word. Just the sound of boots fading into the night.

You stand there in the stillness, your whole body humming with what’s just been torn out of it.

You should feel strong. Empowered. But all you feel is empty.

Still, this is the first time in a long time you’ve chosen yourself. Even if it hurts like hell.

Even if the bed feels colder than ever. Even if tomorrow, you’ll still look at the door and wonder if he might come back anyway.

But tonight — You finally said what needed to be said. And that has to count for something.

You cry yourself to sleep most nights now. Not loudly. Not in that wild, breaking kind of way.

No — it’s quiet. The kind of crying that lives in your throat all day and only spills when your head touches the pillow, when the dark closes in and there’s no one left to pretend for.

You face the wall. Bite your knuckles to keep the sound in. Tears soaking the same side of the bed he used to lie on.

You don’t even know why it hurts this much.

You ended it. You told him to go.

But you never expected him to vanish like you meant nothing. Like you never mattered at all.

And now he walks past you like you don’t exist.

You see him sometimes. Out in town. At the gates, helping unload supplies. At the trade stalls, his voice low and rough, asking for nails or ammo or salt.

But he never looks at you. Never nods. Never glances. Never gives you even that old, familiar ache of almost-contact.

And that? That hurts worse than the nights he left your bed cold.

He let you go too easily. As if you were just another wound he’d gotten used to ignoring.

You tell yourself this is for the best. That every night you spend crying into the silence is one step closer to being free of him.

But healing doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like rotting in place.

Then one day, while you're working behind the mess hall, someone calls your name.

You turn, expecting a trader.

But it’s him. Not Joel — his brother.

Tommy.

You freeze. Something cold crawls up your spine. Not fear. Just... shock.

Because for a second, you think Joel sent him. Think maybe this is the moment everything comes crashing back.

But no. Tommy doesn’t look angry. Or suspicious. He looks... relaxed.

“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod, throat dry. “You didn’t.”

He steps closer, gestures toward the crates you’re moving. “You always this tough, or just showin’ off?”

You almost laugh. Almost. Your voice comes out hoarse. “You offering to help or just standing there with compliments?”

And he smiles — not like Joel. Not guarded. Not hiding something behind his teeth.

It’s easy, unpracticed, genuine.

“I could be talked into both,” he says. And something in you lifts.

It’s small. Fleeting. But real.

For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. For one strange, stupid, golden second, you forget.

You forget how Joel looked when he left. Forget the way he never fought for you. Forget the sound of your own muffled crying into an empty pillow.

Tommy asks how you’re doing. He talks about the weather. The crops. A dumb story about some guy falling in the river trying to catch a chicken.

And you laugh. You actually laugh.

And when he looks at you — really looks — it feels like he’s seeing a whole person, not just a warm body in the dark.

He flirts a little, too.

Not hard. Not heavy. Just enough to remind you that you are still wanted. Still worth looking at.

And when he leaves — when he tips his hat and says he’ll see you around — you stand a little straighter. Breathe a little deeper.

You remember Joel again, of course. That night. That argument. The way he left without even asking if you’d meant it.

But for a single, flickering moment... You weren’t thinking of him.

And it’s the first moment in a long time that didn’t hurt.

Tommy keeps showing up. Not in the way Joel did — heavy-footed and silent, like a storm pushing through your door — but light. Curious.

Warm.

He comes by the stalls, where he was never one to linger before. Sometimes with a bundle of old books to trade, sometimes with nothing but a lopsided grin.

Most days, he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s there for supplies.

“You again,” you tease, brushing your hands on your thighs, trying not to look like you were waiting.

And he’ll just shrug. “What can I say? I like the company.”

At first, you keep your guard up. Not out of suspicion, just… self-preservation. You’re still stitched together with thin thread, and Joel tore through you like a blade.

But Tommy never asks for anything. He talks. He listens.

Sometimes he flirts — softly, the way sunlight warms your neck through a windowpane. It’s never the kind of heat that burns.

He compliments your laugh. Says you’re funny. Smart. That your eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to think.

And you blush. Actually blush. You forgot you could.

It’s been weeks since the last time you cried into your pillow. Now, you fall asleep thinking of Tommy — the things he said, the way he smiled like he wanted you to see it.

The way his hand brushed yours when you passed him a tin of tea.

You think about him more than you think about Joel. Not entirely.

There are still scars. Still moments when you catch sight of that same worn flannel in the crowd and your lungs seize.

But the ache has dulled. Like a wound that finally started healing the right way — not clean, not pretty, but real.

And then, one late afternoon as you’re closing up shop, Tommy leans against the frame of the stall, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice low, “I know a spot. Just outside the north ridge. We cleared it a few months back — safe, quiet. Stars are real clear out there.”

You blink. Heart thudding somewhere deep in your ribs.

He keeps going. “Thought maybe we could make a fire. Got a stash of chocolate, too. Even found marshmallows that ain’t gone stale yet.” A small grin. “Could roast a few, talk some more. Maybe... count constellations, if you’re into that kinda thing.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. Not because you’re shocked he likes you. But because no one’s ever asked you for something gentle before.

A date.

Not a favor. Not a secret. Not a body to bury pain in.

A real, sweet, silly date. With s’mores and stars and firelight on skin.

Your voice is soft when you answer, but it doesn’t tremble. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And in that moment — with his eyes crinkling in that way Joel’s never did, with your heart fluttering like it used to before it knew better — you almost forget what it felt like to be someone’s ghost.

Because for the first time in too long… you feel wanted in the light.

You take your time getting ready.

Not because you're trying to be perfect — but because, for once, you actually want to be seen.

Your tiny denim shorts hug your hips just right, cinched with an old brown belt you found in a forgotten drawer last spring. They're worn, soft, fraying a little at the edges, but they feel like you.

You button up a maroon and white plaid shirt — short sleeves, tight at the waist. It fits snug across your ribs, flattering but not loud. Something about the colors makes your skin glow in the low light.

And then the necklace.

A tarnished gold chain with a little amber stone at the center — simple, but lovely.

Your mother gave it to you before she died. Before Jackson. Before Joel.

You don’t wear it often. It’s too easy to forget who you were before she died. But tonight, it feels right.

You glance in the mirror once before stepping away. Your cheeks are flushed from anticipation, your lips soft and parted like they’re waiting for something sweet.

You feel... pretty. Not just presentable. Pretty.

You hadn’t expected that to feel so strange.

And then — a knock at the door.

Not heavy. Not impatient. Just soft. Measured. Hopeful.

For the first time in forever, a knock at night doesn’t make your stomach drop.

You smile before you even open the door.

Tommy stands there, a little breathless, a little awkward — and handsome as hell.

He’s dressed up. For you.

Clean button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. Jeans without a single stain or rip. Boots polished like it actually mattered what you thought when you looked at him.

And in his hand — a bundle of wildflowers. Pink and yellow, petals already wilting a little from the heat of his palm. Still, they’re beautiful. Vibrant and crooked and real.

Your breath catches.

“For me?” you ask, voice light, teasing.

He scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Spent way too long lookin’ for ’em, honestly. Think I held up patrol more than once. Heard a lotta sighing behind me.”

Your smile falters — just a flicker — at the word patrol. Because you know who he rides with.

You picture Joel somewhere behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark, unknowingly watching Tommy pick wildflowers for you.

And your heart stutters. But you shove it down.

Not tonight.

You reach for the flowers, let your fingers graze his as you take them. They smell faintly of grass and sunshine and effort.

They smell like someone tried.

“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.

He’s looking at you like you’re something out of a dream. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.

“You look...” He swallows. Laughs under his breath. “Hell, I don’t even got the right word. You look dangerous, maybe.”

You arch a brow. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah. Like someone I might fall for if I’m not careful.”

Your stomach flips — not in fear. In fluttering. And you haven’t felt that in a long, long time.

He offers his arm, old-fashioned. “Ready?”

And you nod, tucking the flowers close to your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And just like that, you leave the door behind. Leave the bed where you cried yourself to sleep. Leave the ghost who never knocked again.

Tonight is for you. And for the man who actually came when he said he would.

The forest hums low with night.

You walk side by side, not touching yet, but close enough that your arm brushes his every now and then. The air smells like pine and dry leaves, the dusk settling slow and golden around the tree trunks. The path winds quietly, moonlight creeping between branches like silver veins.

When you reach the clearing, your breath catches.

It's simple — a little fire pit circled with stones, a folded blanket resting nearby, and a tin box of supplies tucked neatly beside it — but it feels like something meant. Not thrown together, not rushed.

Chosen. Prepared.

Tommy sets the blanket down first, spreading it carefully over the soft grass. Then, without a word, he gestures for you to sit.

You do. And he moves around you with practiced ease, stacking logs, striking a match, coaxing a slow, crackling flame to life.

The fire’s warmth kisses your skin in waves. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against your arm, and just watch him.

He notices. Smirks a little. “You keep starin’. I got somethin’ on my face?”

You grin. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this good at this.”

“At makin’ fires?”

“At... this.” You gesture vaguely. “Being nice. Making people feel safe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens the tin and pulls out a bag of marshmallows, a broken bar of chocolate, and some skewers made of smooth, whittled sticks.

“I had a lot of years to practice,” he says finally, voice soft.

You nod. Don’t press. Not yet.

Over sticky, melting s’mores, you talk about small things. Silly things. Like his worst jobs back in the old world.

He tells you he once got kicked by a horse trying to impress a girl. You nearly choke on your marshmallow.

“Did it work?” you ask between laughs.

He grins. “She married my best friend a year later.”

You lean back, satisfied and full, the sugar warm in your blood. The stars have come out, pinpricks in the ink of the sky, sharp and endless.

Tommy glances at you, eyes lit with something boyish. “Got one more thing for you.”

You turn, brows raised, as he reaches into the bag beside him and pulls out—

A bottle.

Dark. Dusty. Long-necked, with a cracked label that’s mostly peeled away.

He sets it in front of you like it’s treasure. “I know, I know — real fancy, right?”

Your eyes widen. “Is that... wine?”

He nods proudly. “Found it on a run, buried behind a collapsed liquor store. Figured it was fate.”

You run your fingers over the dusty glass. “You were saving it?”

He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Didn’t know what for. Just felt like... I shouldn’t open it ‘til the moment was right.”

He pulls out two mismatched but real wine glasses — one chipped, one cloudy — and you laugh, breathless.

“You came prepared.”

He pours carefully. Red-gold liquid, thick and rich, filling the glasses with a quiet glug.

You stare at yours, then admit, “I’ve never had wine before.”

Tommy raises a brow, smiling gently. “Well, that just makes this better.”

You hold the glass, heart thudding. His eyes are on you — not greedy, not expectant. Just... warm.

You take a sip. It’s bitter. Complex. Sour, sweet, strange.

But it’s good.

You close your eyes, swallow slowly. “That’s... that’s really nice.”

He tips his glass toward you. “Told ya. Wine’s better when it’s old. Kinda like me.”

You giggle. You giggle, and you don’t even feel stupid about it.

And then — without even noticing when it started — you’re both lying back on the blanket, shoulders pressed, gazes tangled in the stars.

He points upward, totally confident. “That one there’s Orion. Or, uh… maybe it’s a frying pan.”

You snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Course I do,” he says, deadpan. “Look at it. Big ol’ dipper-lookin’ guy with a sword.”

You elbow him lightly, and he grabs your hand playfully, holding it between both of his. And suddenly your fingers are laced together, and the stars don’t seem half as interesting anymore.

The wine makes your skin buzz. Not dizzy. Not dull.

Just soft. Open.

You shift closer, your head finding his shoulder. His arm curves around you without hesitation, pulling you in. You tuck your legs beneath you, curl into him like you’ve always known the shape of him.

Neither of you say anything for a long while.

The fire pops quietly nearby. The stars blink, distant and watching.

And you? You don’t care about constellations anymore.

Because here — in this sliver of night, on a blanket in the woods with wine in your blood and kindness wrapped around you — you feel like maybe you’re allowed to be happy.

Like maybe you’re not ruined after all. Like maybe you’ve found something worth holding on to.

The stars have faded from your focus.

All you can feel now is him — warm against your side, arm curved around your shoulder, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. The wine has made everything glow softly at the edges. You feel buzzed in your fingertips, in your knees, in the flush climbing your neck.

You haven't spoken in a while.

Just quiet breaths. Little shared glances. His thumb brushing over your shoulder in slow, absent arcs, like he’s tracing the thought of you into memory.

And then you feel it shift.

The stillness between you grows thicker — charged and certain — and when you turn your head to look at him, he's already watching you.

His expression is soft. Not hungry. Not fast. Just… hopeful.

His hand lifts to your cheek — callused, rough, gentle — and he leans in slowly, giving you every second to pull away.

You don’t.

Your eyes close just as his lips meet yours.

The kiss is light at first. Testing. Tender. Like a secret being told mouth to mouth.

Your breath catches. Your heart stammers wildly.

His lips part slightly — warm and careful — and he kisses you again, deeper now.

Not demanding. Just there. Real. Present in a way you didn’t think anyone could be anymore.

You feel your cheeks bloom with heat. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve been touched before.

You’ve been kissed in the dark like a secret, like a sin.

But this — this — makes you blush. Makes you feel like something delicate in good hands.

Your fingers find his shirt, holding lightly at the edge. His hand slips to your waist, grounding you

He kisses you again, and again — unhurried, sweet — until the rhythm feels like something you were meant to know.

And then—

He deepens it.

Just a little. Just enough for his tongue to brush yours.

And your stomach flips. Not in the good way.

Because suddenly, uninvited and cruel, he is there.

Not Tommy. But Joel.

Joel — with his rough, bitter mouth. Joel, who never kissed you soft. Joel, who made you feel wanted and worthless in the same breath. Joel, who touched you like a man burying a memory, not holding a person.

And now here you are — tongue tangled with his brother, and something sour rises in your throat.

You pull back gently, your hand moving to Tommy’s chest.

He looks at you immediately, worry flickering behind his eyes.

You force a smile. Light. Airy. You hope it doesn’t shake.

“Hey,” you whisper, trying to soften the moment, “slow down, cowboy. I’m still new to wine and stars and, you know... you.”

He laughs under his breath — not hurt, not defensive. Just sweet.

“Yeah. Of course,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry. Got a little carried away. You're just...” He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re kind of impossible not to kiss.”

You look down, smiling for real now, even if there's still a tremble in it.

He pulls you back into his arms without hesitation, without pressure, like he doesn’t need anything else from you tonight except your closeness.

And so you lay there again, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your back.

And maybe the magic of the moment is cracked now. But it’s not broken.

Later, when the fire’s embers are nothing but soft orange breath, he stands and offers you a hand. Packs everything up without asking you to lift a finger. Tucks the wine glasses back into his bag like something delicate.

He walks you home in the moonlight.

You don’t speak much, and you’re afraid — quietly, deeply — that maybe you ruined something. That the kiss that faltered might leave behind too much silence.

But when you reach your door, he turns to face you.

And just before he leaves, he kisses your forehead.

“Sleep good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

And he walks away. Not lingering. Not asking to stay.

Just… leaving you with the feeling that someone actually cared enough to be gentle.

You stand in the doorway, watching him disappear down the path.

And for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like hope.

It’s your day off.

The sun’s warm on your skin, not hot, just gentle — like it’s blessing you for once.

A quiet breeze hums through the trees around the Jackson square. Someone’s hammering in the distance. Chickens cluck lazily across the yard near the fence. Children’s laughter spills from the schoolhouse down the road.

You sit on a bench just outside the mess hall, a book in your lap — one Tommy lent you, something about a girl lost in the woods. Your legs are crossed loosely, your thumb tucked between the pages.

You’re not really reading, though.

Every so often, your gaze lifts toward the path, expecting him. Tommy. He’s supposed to stop by later.

You don’t know if you’ll kiss again, or just talk, or just sit close and laugh about nothing. But whatever it is, you want it. You want him.

And for the first time in what feels like years, you’re not waiting to be needed. You’re waiting to be chosen.

So when a shadow falls over your page, your heart skips.

You smile before you even look up. “Hey—”

But it’s not Tommy. Your smile falls.

It’s Joel.

He’s towering over you, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and narrowed. His jaw’s clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.

“Joel,” you murmur, instinctively closing your book. “I—”

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice is low, sharp, not yelling — but it slices all the same.

You blink. “What?”

He stares down at you like he’s holding back a thousand things and losing grip on all of them. “You care to explain why my brother spent half our patrol this morning blushin’ like a goddamn schoolboy? Talkin’ about your little date. Your outfit. How pretty you looked under the stars.”

Your cheeks go hot instantly — part pride, part confusion, part fear.

Tommy talked about you like that? Like you were precious?

But Joel’s not looking at you like you're precious. He looks furious.

He looks hurt.

“I didn’t know he was talking about it,” you say, your voice quiet. “I didn’t tell him to.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to pull the air from your lungs.

“I know what this is,” he says, voice thick. “You’re usin’ him to get back at me.”

You freeze.

“What?”

His gaze burns through you. “You think I don’t see it? You’re tryna make me jealous. Parade around town lettin’ him hold your hand, kiss your face, pretend like I didn’t mean anything to you.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gonna let you drag him into your mess.”

Your breath stumbles. “My mess?”

His face twists. “You think he knows what you let me do to you? You think he knows you let me in your bed, night after night, cryin’ and clingin’ to me like I was the only thing keepin’ you from breakin’?”

Your whole body goes still.

He’s too close. Too loud. Too angry to care about who might hear.

Your voice shakes now, but not from fear. From something deeper — betrayal, maybe. Heartbreak.

“I’m not using Tommy,” you whisper. “I care about him. He makes me feel safe. And wanted. And happy. Things you never let me feel.”

Joel’s chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His arms are still crossed tight, but his eyes betray him — flickering, pained, like he can’t believe you’re not just laying down and belonging to him anymore.

“Do you know how fuckin’ jealous that makes me?” he growls suddenly, voice raw. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to do? Watch me fall apart over this?”

You blink hard, throat tightening.

And in the silence that follows, a single thought hits you like a stone dropped in still water:

He feels it. Joel Miller is jealous.

He feels something.

But it’s too late. Too twisted.

Your voice steadies. “You don’t get to feel jealous, Joel. Not after what you did. Not after how you treated me.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.

“I think…” you say slowly, your voice trembling with something that tastes like both terror and freedom, “I think I could actually love Tommy. And I think he could love me too. We could have a life. A real one. Not a secret. Not some... dirty, bleeding shadow in the dark.”

You see it hit him.

Right in the gut.

Joel stares at you for a long, long time. His face is red, jaw clenched, arms like steel across his chest.

And then — without a word — he turns.

And walks away.

No apology. No threat. No parting shot.

Just leaves you sitting there with your book unopened in your lap, and your breath caught between heartbreak and release.

You don’t know what that silence means. But for the first time, you don’t chase it.

You try not to think about Joel. You try.

But his voice keeps echoing in your head, even hours later — low, bitter, possessive. That damn question clinging to the walls of your mind like smoke you can’t scrub out.

Do you know how fuckin' jealous that makes me?

You don’t know what it means. You don’t know how it made you feel. All you know is it shouldn’t matter — not anymore.

Not when Tommy’s the one coming to meet you.

You’re back on the same bench, pretending to read again. The sun’s slid down the sky, casting long gold shadows across the street. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too loud for comfort.

You hear his boots before you see him.

Then, warm as always, his voice: “You alright?”

You look up. Tommy’s there — handsome in a plain tee and clean jeans, a flannel tied around his waist, eyes squinting slightly against the sun. His expression is soft, but worried.

You freeze.

It hits you all at once — how different this feels.

How he doesn’t demand answers, just asks because he cares.

And for a moment, you want to tell him. Want to say: Joel showed up. Joel said things. Joel looked like he might break in two and I don’t know why it still hurts.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

Joel doesn’t get to take this from you.

So you force it all down, deep into that box where you’ve stuffed the ache, the guilt, the heat of his eyes.

You smile. Not the biggest smile. But real enough.

“I’m fine,” you say gently. And before he can ask more, you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

That does it.

He relaxes instantly, grinning as he kisses you back. “Okay then,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”

He takes your hand and leads you down the lane, fingers laced through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a little while, you let yourself forget the shadow that passed over your day.

Tommy’s house surprises you.

It’s nicer than you imagined. Country style, tucked just off the main path, with big windows and a porch strung with old Christmas lights that still work somehow. Inside, it smells like cedar and soap, warm and lived-in. There’s a leather couch with a throw blanket, a bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and dusty mugs, and a framed photo of him and Joel by the door — a reminder of another life.

The kitchen is small but tidy, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes sits proudly on the counter.

“Spaghetti night,” he announces like it’s a sacred ritual. “Told you I was cookin’.”

You grin, shrugging off your shoes. “And I told you I’m helping.”

Tommy mock-groans but doesn’t argue. “Alright, alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I take my sauce real serious.”

He shows you how to cut and peel the tomatoes, how to sauté garlic in olive oil, how to add salt “with love, not fear.” You’re clumsy with the measurements, splash sauce across the counter, drop a spoon in the sink with a loud clang.

He doesn’t get annoyed.

He just watches you with amusement, shaking his head fondly. “You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he says, chuckling.

“And yet,” you shoot back, “you invited me.”

When the sauce is finally simmering in the pot, you wipe your hands on a towel, only to feel something wet smear across your cheek.

“What the—?”

You turn. Tommy stands beside you, licking sauce off his thumb with a devilish grin.

“Punishment,” he says. “For makin’ a mess of my counter.”

You gasp, scandalized. “Oh, it’s on.”

Before he can move, you grab a glob of sauce with your fingers and slap it onto his cheek.

He freezes. Then breaks into a grin.

The next few moments are chaos. Sauce flung. Laughter echoing. You chase each other in lazy circles around the tiny kitchen until you collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky.

And then—

His hands find your waist. Yours find his collar.

And you kiss.

It’s playful at first — wine-sweet and garlic-touched — but it deepens quickly, hunger turning slow and sweet. He pulls back only to gently wipe the mess from your face with a soft cloth, fingers lingering along your jawline.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs. “We could have nights like this every damn week.”

You look at him. At the sauce on his shirt, the light in his eyes, the way his voice dips when he says we.

Dinner is simple — pasta, bread, and the rest of that dusty old wine he saved. But he lights two stubby candles between you, their soft flames dancing as the sky darkens through the window.

And when you go to sit across from him, you change your mind. You slide into the seat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

“Hi,” you say with a little smile.

He kisses your cheek in reply.

You play footsie under the table like kids. You compliment the meal.

“Tommy, this is actually amazing.”

He beams. “Told you. Serious about my sauce.”

You talk about small things — who you saw around town, someone’s busted gate, a child’s chalk drawing of a horse that looked more like a rabbit.

Then he asks: “How was your day?”

And you freeze.

Your smile falters for just a second too long.

He notices — you feel him notice — the way his hand slows as it traces your leg under the table, the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read between the words you haven’t said yet.

You lift your glass of wine, buy time with a sip. Force your voice to stay light.

“It was good,” you lie. “Quiet. Peaceful. Spent most of it with my book.”

He watches you for a beat. Then smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.

You don’t know if he believes you. You’re not sure if it matters.

You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder.

And somewhere in your chest, the ghost of another man gnaws quietly at your ribs.

But tonight, you are warm. You are safe. And you are not alone.

Before you know it, the night has gone quiet.

Just the soft murmur of the radio playing in the background — some old love song, dreamy and distant — and the faint hum of wind against the window glass. You’re curled up on Tommy’s couch now, head resting in his lap, your body curled sideways like a cat soaking up warmth. His fingers glide gently through your hair, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing each strand.

You’ve never been touched like this. Not like you’re fragile, or precious — but like you’re known.

Your eyes flutter closed. His palm rests on your temple now, warm and grounding.

You think, I could get used to this.

And just as the thought settles sweetly in your chest, Tommy breaks the silence:

“So… are you gonna tell me what really happened today?”

Your eyes open slowly. Your breath stills.

“I already did,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft, lazy.

But his fingers pause. You feel his gaze on you.

“No, you didn’t,” he says gently. “You said it was a quiet day. Peaceful. But you weren’t peaceful when I showed up. You looked… shaken. Scared, even. And you’ve been smiling all night, but not really. Not the way you did before.”

You shift, sit up a little. Your pulse picks up.

“Tommy—”

“Look,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I know we haven’t known each other long. Not like that. But I’m not just doin’ this for fun. I’m into you. Really into you. And I’m not the kinda guy who can build something real if it starts off with secrets.”

He leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours now — earnest and unflinching.

“I want someone honest. I want you. And maybe that’s stupid, but…” He huffs a soft laugh. “…you make me nervous as hell. I go to sleep thinkin’ about you, and I wake up with your face in my head. I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes. But I know one thing — if I’m gonna fall for you, I gotta know you’re not hidin’ somethin’ that’s gonna break me.”

Your heart drops.

Because God, you want to tell him.

You want to cry right here in his arms and tell him everything — how you let his brother crawl into your bed for over a year, how you loved him, how he broke you, and how today, he showed up and lit a fuse in your heart you thought had burned out.

But you can’t.

If you tell him, you lose this. Lose him.

And you’re not sure who you’d be with both Millers carved out of your chest.

So instead, you look down. Swallow the ache.

“…Some guy said something to me this morning,” you say softly. “Not someone you know. Just some asshole. Said I was easy. That I didn’t belong here. It just… threw me off, I guess.”

It’s not even a good lie. But it’s enough.

Tommy’s face hardens instantly. His arms go around you, pulling you up into his lap like you’re weightless. One hand cups the back of your head, the other gently strokes your cheek.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, firm and slow, like he needs you to believe it. “And I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. You’re strong. You’re kind. You belong exactly where you are. With me.”

Your throat tightens.

He studies your face for a moment, then adds, quieter now, “I’ll find him if you want me to. I swear.”

You laugh softly — more guilt than amusement. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed to shake it off. I didn’t want it to ruin tonight.”

Tommy’s brows relax. His expression softens like candlewax.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispers. “You being here? You… lettin’ me hold you like this?”

His hand touches your chin, tips it up gently.

“I think I’m fallin’ for you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not careful this time. Not shy.

It’s deep, and romantic, and hungry in a way that makes your chest ache. His hands grip your waist, your back, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe this could work.

That maybe you can love him clean. That maybe one day, the lie will fade, and all that will remain is this. The way his mouth tastes like wine. The way he makes you feel safe. The way he chose you.

And maybe, just maybe — that can be enough.

Tommy’s kiss deepens, his mouth parts and his tongue slips between your lips. This time you’re not scared. This time you take it, entangling your tongue with his.

His hands wander, tentative at first — down the curve of your back, brushing along your waist, slowly tracing the line of your thigh. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, or maybe like he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask for it. Every touch feels like a question, and every answer is in the way you lean closer.

So you decide to make the first real move. Your fingers drift down the planes of his chest, slow and deliberate, until they find the hem of his worn black shirt. For a second, you hesitate — then slip your hands beneath the fabric.

His skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath your palms, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold ever existed. Your fingers explore the shape of him — the lean muscle, the faint scars, the way a trail of coarse hair starts just below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You feel him shiver. Not pull away — just breathe, sharp and shallow, like he’s been waiting for you to touch him like this, but didn’t think you ever would. His hands still for a moment, caught somewhere between restraint and want, before resting on your hips — not guiding, just grounding. Letting you lead.

It’s quiet, except for the soft rustle of clothing and the heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that silence, you realize: he’s letting you in. Not just into his space — but into something deeper, something softer. Something real.

You pull away from the kiss, breath mingling in the small space between you. In one slow motion, you tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing skin kissed by sun and time — warm, golden, and solid beneath the soft glow of the low light.

He’s strong, that much is obvious — a man shaped by years of labor and living — but there’s a gentleness in the way he carries it. No fresh bruises. No jagged edges. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, his body unguarded in your presence.

Joel was always different. Built like a wall, all grit and sharpness — the kind of body that told a story just in scars. There was never a moment with him that didn’t feel like it might end in ache. But Tommy…

Tommy feels like safety. Like home.

There’s something soft about him, even in his strength — in the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his eyes search your face for permission, for want. Not taking, just waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something to be used. You feel wanted. Cared for.

Tommy’s hands slip beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch blooming across your skin like a slow-burning fire. His fingers move with purpose, but not haste — exploring the soft terrain of your waist, the gentle curve of your ribs, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he isn’t careful.

He touches you like he’s trying to understand you — not just your body, but the quiet ache beneath your skin, the places where longing lives.

His hands roam higher, slow and steady, until they hover just beneath where you want him most. There’s a hesitation there — delicate, almost reverent — as if he’s waiting for a signal, a breath, a whisper of permission.

And that pause says everything: that he wants you, but won’t take more than you’re willing to give. That he sees you, not just your body, but your need — the kind that’s laced with history, with heartbreak, with the hope that maybe this time, it won’t end in ruin.

“For fucks sake, Tommy, just touch me.” A slow, heavy breath escapes you, desire coursing like wildfire beneath your skin.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just nervous.” He admits. Embarrassment fading across his face.

“That’s cute.” You say as you grab his wrists, pushing his hands beneath your bra.

His fingers finally graze across your hard nipple. His mouth parts slightly as he feels every tender inch of your breast. Feels how badly you're aching for him. He quickly pulls your shirt to your shoulders, dragging your bra with it. Your breasts bounce freely in front of him. His gaze lingers before his touch follows, admiring every curve.

He eases your shirt off now, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. There’s no urgency in the way his fingers move, only patience. Intention. When the fabric slips from your shoulders and over your head, he sees you — all of you. Or at least, the part of you you usually try to hide.

Scars trail across your skin like ghosted memories, remnants of a life you survived — one lived shoulder to shoulder with danger, where the infected were never more than a heartbeat away and safety was something you only dreamed about.

They’ve always made you feel exposed. Marked. Like the past would never quite let go. But Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

His eyes move over you slowly, tracing each line like they tell a story worth knowing — not something ugly, but something earned. You brace for judgment, for pity, but what you see in his expression is softer. Something closer to awe.

And in that silence, that gentle stillness, you begin to believe that maybe you're not something to be hidden after all.

You move freely in front of him — unguarded, unhidden, unashamed. There’s no need to tuck your insecurities away, no fear of being too much or not enough. In his gaze, you are seen, fully and without judgment. Every soft curve, every silent scar, every secret wish — they all exist in the open, and he looks at them like they’re sacred.

You’ve never been like this with anyone. Not even Joel. With him, there were always shadows — things you kept quiet, parts of yourself folded away, unsure if they were welcome. But with Tommy, there’s space. Space to breathe. To want. To be.

And so you let yourself unfold — slowly, delicately, like something once bruised that’s finally learning how to bloom again.

“So pretty.” Tommy whispers amongst his admiration. He makes you blush in a way you never thought you could, for reasons you never thought you’d experience.

He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your tender nipples scrape against the dark coiled hairs lining along his chest. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, his mouth moving with quiet worship. He kisses you like he’s savoring it — like he’s learning it — his lips molding gently to yours, warm and sure. When his tongue slips forward, it’s soft, exploratory, tracing the edge of your teeth with the lightest touch, like a question he’s too careful to speak aloud.

Then he plants soft kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck — meeting the soft skin below your ear, sucking enough to leave faded marks. Marks no one would notice but you. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.

“Tommy..” You breath, rocking your hips into his, feeling the growing curve beneath his jeans. His breath hitches — hands grasping your hips tighter.

“Fuck. Already makin’ me lose myself.” He groans, pulling his lips from the growing red marks he’s left.

“I need you.” You plead, his hands pulling you roughly into him — closing the space between his jeans and your shorts. The denim rubbing against your clit — that’s rubbing against his budlge — almost becomes too much to handle. You can feel the dampness between your legs. You can see the way his jeans darken with every movement.

His head dips to your chest, taking your hard nub between his lips — sucking harshly, flicking and circling his tongue around your nipple. Your grab your free breast with your hand, squeezing and palming yourself, causing electric shocks to travel down your spine.

Your back arches into his mouth, his touch. Chasing every movement. He shares his attention with your other breast now, removing your hand, letting him take care of you.

You’ve never been this way with Joel. Never sat in his lap, thrusting into his clothed cock, chasing his mouth with your arching back. Joels never shown you this kind of attention, made sure the pleasure was all about you. With Joel, it was always how he wanted it.

Tommy’s hands slid around the small of your back, holding you with a gentle strength as he eased you down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Without thinking, your legs curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, slow kiss. The world seemed to hush around you as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling softly, a sweet and intimate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.

One hand pressed gently to the cushion beside your head, his weight resting on his elbow as he leaned in, anchoring himself in the intimate space where your breaths tangled and the world fell away. The other reached hesitantly between your legs, looking you in the eyes — asking for permission. Your begging pants were all he needed to hear before he rubbed slow circles on the ache hidden beneath your shorts.

“More…” You ask in a whispered hush. Wrapping your arms around his neck.

He whispered softly, his breath warm against your skin, “I want to take you to bed… to do this right, with you.” Carefully, he lifted you from the couch, his touch gentle, his eyes full of quiet devotion as he held you close.

Tommy’s arms wrapped securely around you as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway, your body fitting naturally against his. Every step was steady and sure. The world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breaths.

When he reached his bedroom door, it creaked softly as he pushed it open—an intimate sound that felt like the start of something sacred. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows that danced across the walls.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed, his hands never losing their gentle hold. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, he just stayed there—watching you, his eyes full of something tender and protective. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you both, and all that mattered was this soft, suspended moment between you.

He left a trail of gentle kisses down your body — stopping at the silver button clasping your shorts. He pulls them down — underwear including, his patience worn. Met with the sight of your glistening, begging pussy.

He drags his thumb between your folds, capturing your slick, and rubbing gently at your throbbing clit. Before you know it, his head dips between your legs — lips planting kisses on the inner soft skin of your thighs.

“You're dripping.” He groans. The eye contact with him becomes too much, to fierce. It sends a pulsing fire right to your lower stomach.

His tongue licks a long stripe, swirling and sucking right where you need him. Your moans fill the air and you can feel yourself become wetter and wetter. You’d be embarrassed with how loud you were being if it weren’t with Tommy. But Tommy eats up every bit of it.

Your legs curl tightly around his shoulders, drawing him deeper, while Tommy’s hands explore the soft, heated flesh of your thighs with slow, deliberate pressure — anchoring himself in the intoxicating pull of your body pressed close.

He digs his tongue inside of you, the sight of his face fully buried, nose pressed tightly on your clit, has your legs shaking. Once he enters two fingers, thrusting deeply and curling into the spongey part of you, you’re sent over the edge.

Your hands tangle fiercely in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to steady the rush of your trembling body. He thrusts his fingers into you faster, harder, as you try to chase his touch — griding against his face.

“Oh- oh god, Tommy.” You moan, the heat curled deep in you threatening to spill over.

His muffled moan vibrates against you in response. Enough to send shivers down your spines. Enough to finish you. Before you know it, you’re spilling your hot liquids on his fingers. On his tongue that’s still licking circles around your ache.

Tommy lifts himself from between your thighs, showing his fingers covered in your slick. He slowly brings the two to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight nasty, perverted, but turning you on once again.

“Tastes so good.” He claims, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “Ready for me, babygirl?”

You nod your head desperately. “Yes..”

His hands move deliberately down, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, unveiling more of the dark, tangled hair that lay beneath. He pulls them down, past his thighs, his boxers following quickly behind.

You weren’t expecting how big he is. His length slapping against his belly button, tip already dripping with wet precum. Your legs spread instinctively wider, inviting him in. He gives you a knowing smirk as he leans down, hovering over you and balancing himself on one hand as he guides himself to your entrance with the other.

He moves into you gently, as if savoring every second of closeness. You’re already so open to him, your bodies drawn together by something deeper than desire. His hands come to rest tenderly around you head, thumbs brushing your temples like a silent promise. A deep, almost trembling groan slips from his lips, and his eyes flutter closed — not just from pleasure, but from the overwhelming truth of how much he feels for you. It’s not rushed. It’s not just passion. It’s raw and quiet, spoken in the way he holds you.

His touch is slow, like he’s discovering something sacred. When he moves inside you, it’s not with haste but with intention — like very inch is a silent confession. You’re already so ready for him, your bodies fitting together with an ease that feels fated, walls accepting him deeper inside of you.

Tommy’s breath shutters as he presses his forehead to yours, hands gently cupping the sides of your face like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His voice is low and warm, roughened by need. Thrusts a steady rhythms — the sound of skin slapping skin filling the air.

“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He whispers, bottoming out — a feeling that almost has you screaming. “Feel like I’ve been waitin’ my whole damn life for this.”

He moves slowly, savoring the way your body tightens around him every time he pulls out. Quiet sounds escape your lips — sounds he drinks in like they’re meant only for him. His hands slide back through your hair, then trail down your breasts, your sides, worshiping the lines of your body with a quiet awe, till his hands grasp your ass, spreading you wider.

“So damn beautiful,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”

And he’s right. You don’t. You haven’t in a long time. Not since whatever you had with Joel started. But your Tommy’s now.

His lips find yours again — slow, deep, and lingering — then trail to your jaw, your neck, pressing soft kisses between each whimpered word. His voice stays low, intimate, like a secret he’s trying to keep.

“Been dreamin’ of this… of you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel like I ain’t carryin’ the weight of this while damn town on my shoulders.”

You feel Tommy in every part of you. The way his fingers lace with yours above your head, grounding you. The he pauses to look at you, chest rising and falling with every breath like he’s afraid he’ll miss something.

“You’re safe, darlin’,” he murmurs. “With me. Always.”

His rhythm deepens slowly, never rushed — every movement purposeful, guided by the overwhelming need to make this mean something. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace builds.

"Fuck- takin' me like such a goodgirl." He whispers.

And when the tension finally builds too high to hold back, your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer — legs shaking. Tommy’s thrusts falter as he collapses into you, hot strands of him shooting deep inside of you. His pace slows as he releases every last drop, beads of sweat lining his forehead and chest.

Afterward, he stays wrapped around you, his hand resting in the strands of your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, and finally your lips — slow and lingering.

And when you wake the next morning, The light is soft when you stir — that gentle, early morning glow slipping through the curtains like a secret. Your body is warm, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after something real… something that meant more than just a night.

At first, you're not fully awake — just aware of warmth beside you, the steady rise and fall of someone's chest, the brush of a hand loosely resting at your waist. And then your eyes flutter open.

He’s still here.

Tommy.

His face is so close, peaceful in sleep. One arm is slung around your waist, holding you gently but securely, like even in his dreams, he wants to keep you near. His breath is slow, even, ruffling your hair every so often as he exhales. You can feel the warmth of his naked skin where it touches yours, where your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets.

Your chest tightens.

You’re used to waking up alone. Used to the hollow stillness after Joel would slip out sometime before dawn — not cruel, not cold, just… distant. Detached. He never stayed. Never really let himself.

So now, lying here with Tommy still wrapped around you, the weight of his presence is almost too much. Too tender. Too safe. Like your heart doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Your instinct is to freeze, not out of fear, but disbelief. You wait for him to move, to get up, to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts closer in his sleep, nuzzles his face against your shoulder with a soft hum, and tightens his arm just slightly around your waist.

A tiny sound catches in your throat. It’s not quite a sob, but it’s something close — quiet and raw and full of all the things you’ve never let yourself hope for. You press your forehead into the pillow, breathing slow, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.

Tommy stirs then, as if your silence reached him even in sleep. His eyes blink open, still heavy with rest, and they find yours almost immediately.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rasped with sleep. “You okay?”

You nod before you even think about it, eyes wet, lips parting to speak — but no words come.

He sees it, though. He always does.

His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through your hair as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t gotta look so surprised.”

It had been a quiet kind of day — the good kind.

Tommy was busy with town duties, something about a supply run meeting and wall repairs, so you'd kept to yourself. The house was calm, filled with the soft rustle of pages as you read by the window, curled under a blanket. The book had long since been forgotten, though — set aside on your lap while your thoughts drifted to Tommy.

It was late now — a little before midnight — and the fire had burned low in the hearth. Outside, Jackson had settled into that peaceful silence it only ever got on cold, still nights.

Then came the knock.

Three soft taps. Hesitant. Almost... unsure.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Your heart gave a strange little lurch — hopeful, for just a second, that maybe Tommy had found his way to your doorstep anyway. That maybe he couldn't sleep either, missing you the way you missed him.

But when you opened the door, your breath caught.

It wasn’t Tommy.

It was Joel.

And not the hardened, guarded version you’d grown used to. He looked different. Raw. Torn. Eyes shadowed. Like he hadn’t meant to come here, but his feet brought him anyway.

And then it hit you — the weight of the moment.

It was Sunday.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other wrapped tightly around yourself, as if your body instinctively knew this moment would hurt.

“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, rough. Like gravel underfoot.

You stared at him for a beat too long. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours. There was something behind them — not just guilt, not just longing. Something more desperate. Something that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated, then stepped back wordlessly, letting the door swing open just enough for him to step inside.

Joel walked in slowly, glancing around your little living room like it had changed since he last saw it — and maybe it had. Maybe it felt different now, because you were different.

You didn’t offer him tea. Didn’t make excuses for the silence. You just crossed your arms and waited.

He stood by the edge of the fireplace, not looking at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“No,” you said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”

His jaw clenched. “Tommy told me. ‘bout you and him… how he fucked you.”

Your heart thudded.

“So what?” you asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked — not from weakness, but from everything he’d never let you have.

Joel finally looked at you. And you hated that your heart still flipped at the way his eyes softened, even now.

“You happy?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I—I never meant to hurt you.”

You let out a short, bitter breath. “You didn’t have to mean it. You just did.”

He flinched like the words hit harder than you’d intended.

“You never stayed,” you whispered. “You never looked at me the way he does. And now you show up? On a Sunday?”

Silence.

“I left her,” Joel said suddenly. The words dropped like a stone in still water.

You stared. Shocked. “What?”

“Couple nights ago. I couldn’t—” he ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I kept tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t real, what we had,” he continued. “That I didn’t feel nothin’. But it was a lie. And then the way Tommy said he…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You stepped back slightly, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. “You only came because you saw someone else loving me. Not because you were ready. Not because I mattered before.”

Joel looked down, silent again.

And then you spoke the truth you’d been holding in your chest for too long.

“I needed someone who didn’t just want me when they were lonely. I needed someone who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient.”

Joel looked up. Eyes full of something broken.

“You were never an inconvenience." He mutters. You swear you hear his voice crack. "I always wanted you."

"Stop, Joel. That's not fucking fair." Your eyes burn as you beg them to hold back your tears. "I'm with Tommy now."

"I bet you thought about me while he was deep inside you, huh?"

"Joel stop."

He's close now, leaning in centimeters from your face. "Did he do it right?"

"Joel, please." You beg. But yet you don't find yourself leaning away from him, from the way his hands slip under your sweater — grazing your bare hips.

He stutters for a moment. Eyes searching your face for any sort of excuse to stop himself. But he leans in, lips grazing softly against yours, mouth parting to say: "Stop me."

You don't. You collide your lips into his, tasting the familiarity. Hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, pulling him in closer. Like you've done this a million times before.

Well... you have.

But, it's only when his hand slips beneath you leggings, traveling down to the front of your underwear, that you push him away. That you push him off of you.

"We can't do this anymore. Seriously. I really am with Tommy." You inform, wiping away his drool from your lips. You feel filthy.

"You want me. Admit it." He fights back. The fear and anguish now returning to his face. The hurt as well.

"Get the fuck out, Joel." You yell, pushing him harshly towards you door, the tears finally escaping.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. Maybe he finally understood.

And when you opened the door again, he walked out without another word — not angry, not cold.

Just hollow.

You closed the door behind him, leaned your back against the wood, and let yourself breathe. Slow. Deep.

And when your eyes drifted to the small clock on the mantel… it had just passed midnight.

It wasn’t Sunday anymore.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Choose One (Chapter 1) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore and Elias "Stack" Moore (characters in the Michael B. Jordan movie "Sinners"). Lena Blackwell (OC).

Warning(s): Adult language, Angst, Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Lena Blackwell works in an illegal after-hours Black & Tan club in Bronzeville where she seduces twin brothers Smoke and Stack. Each brother has qualities she likes and she embarks on an illicit affair with both. All is well until one of the twins starts catching feelings.

Word Count: 3.8K

Masterlist HERE.

"See-line woman (see-line)

Dressed in red (see-line)

Make a man (see-line)

Lose his head (see-line)"

Nina Simone – "See-Line Woman"

She fucked them both.

Smoke and Stack.

Seducing the twin brothers was easy, but confusing at the start.

She met Stack first. The gold in his teeth gleamed in the light of the Sunset Café, one of the most popular Black and Tan clubs in the Bronzeville section of Chicago. Lena Blackwell worked behind the bar instead of the floor, where jam packed circular tables faced an at capacity dance floor moving to the sounds of the latest jazz band snazzed up in tuxedos.

Although the Sunset Café advertised itself as a supper club and a popular music venue, people along the stroll knew it was a higher class speakeasy. Unlike other clandestine establishments with secret code words whispered to get in and concealed entrances to deceive law enforcement and politicians, the Sunset owners paid off low-salaried policeman to look away. Their mob ties kept money in the right pockets to warn of raids and shakedowns from other gangsters. People wanted liquor and any other spirits they could get their hands on in a city that was supposed to be as dry as the Sahara.

Stack slithered over to the far end of the long polished mahogany table with a toothpick wedged between his gums. For over twenty minutes, he rapped to her while she tried to keep the prohibited drinks flowing.

"You should come work for me," he said, sizing her up with blatant lust in his bold brown eyes.

"I'm not a whore for you to put on the stroll, mister. Order another drink or leave me be."

He gave her a crooked grin with his sexy lips, then admired her perfectly coiffed hairdo styled with pin curls and slathered in Sweet Honey Brown pomade. Lena cut him to the quick.

"I know a pimp when I see one," she snapped, mixing drinks for one of the female servers.

"I ain't mean it like that baby. This is a legit business proposition. I'ma go back home and open a juke. I need a talented drink mixer such as yoself."

His delta accent was raspy and thick like overcooked grits. He was one of them sorry souls who migrated from the dirty south. She wondered if his feelings got hurt when he discovered the north was no different than the low down redneck peckerwoods he ran away from.

"Mmm hmm," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I'm serious. Think about it. Lemme have some cold water," he said.

Lena reached down into a false shelf and poured Stack some high grade illegal moonshine. She slid the glass to him and he guzzled it down.

"Stack!"

Lena tilted her head to see the caller.

Well, damn.

The head of the Bronzeville syndicate gestured toward Stack. Ernie Miller, the Black godfather of the south side, was wide in the gut and built low to the ground like a bulldog. A dangerous cat, who carried a switchblade known to cut throats on a whim.

Stack slid a fat wad of cash out of his pocket and laid a crisp twenty on the counter.

"Keep the change for your tip," he said, winking at her.

The change from his tab would cover her rent for two months.

He stuffed the rest of his money in his pocket where a shiny set of brass knuckles dangled, and left the bar to join Ernie. For the first time, Lena took notice of Stack's finely tailored brown suit and the sharp creases in his pants. He had syndicate connections. A gangster. And a good tipper. She watched him enter a secret door in the back and never saw him again that night.

Two days later, as she started work at the bar, she spotted Stack nursing a drink at the far end, listening to an older barfly chat away to him. He drained the last of what was in his glass and Lena offered him some cold water.

Stack looked at her in confusion and shook his head in the negative.

She worked her shift, expecting Stack to hit on her at the bar again, like most men did.

He didn't.

"Cat got your tongue tonight, mister?" she teased, wiping down a spill near his arm from another patron.

He stared at her and then turned away to watch chorus girls tear up the Black Bottom dance in short dresses. Maybe she'd been too curt for him last time, and he took the hint. Ironically, that made her take a sudden interest.

He was tall, fine-looking, and a sharp dresser. She wondered if he smelled as good as he looked. Her eyes stayed on him until he wandered off to take an empty seat next to Ernie in a far left corner with some other broad-shouldered men.

"What was he drinking?" she asked another bartender.

Max, a reed-thin high yella man with a nasally voice, glanced at her.

"A South Side and the last glass was some Smoke."

"Eww, he likes that Smoke shit? That could kill him," she said, crinkling her nose.

"Them ex soldiers like that cloudy fuel alcohol."

"How you know he's an ex soldier?"

Max held out his hand and wiggled it.

"His hands. They shake a little bit. Lotta them war boys came back messed up."

Lena couldn't imagine the jovial man she met the other night acting shell-shocked. She reached under the bar and grabbed some gin. Adding some lime, sugar, and a bit of mint, she made a fresh glass of South Side.

"I'll be right back," she said.

Her heels click-clacked on the floor and she passed several raucous tables enjoying the floor show. Ernie had stepped away to talk to some people two tables over. She placed the South Side in front of the ex soldier.

"Thought you might enjoy this better than that rot gut you were drinking earlier," she said.

He glanced down at the drink and a slow smile raised the corners of his lips. No gold on his teeth. She studied his features, his hair, and the large build of his body. This had to be the same man.

"What they call you around here?" she asked.

"Smoke."

"Not Stack?"

He showed more teeth and some dimples.

"No. Just Smoke."

He had a twinkle in his eye and he chuckled softly.

"Where you from?" she asked.

"Mississippi."

"You really opening a juke down there?"

He squinted at her, but before he could answer, Ernie returned.

"Let's go," Ernie said, grabbing his coat.

The soldier stood and brushed against her. She looked up into his eyes and shivered. He reached down for the drink she prepared for him and sipped it down in front of her.

"Thank you," he said, handing the glass back to her.

She clasped it with both hands, feeling woozy by the scent of his cologne. He grabbed his suit coat, and she glimpsed the gun in a holster strapped to him.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice soft like cotton.

Lena stepped aside and touched her forehead. The man had her breaking out in a sweat.

Two more men caught up to them near the bar and that's when she gasped, seeing double. The man who called himself Smoke greeted his twin brother Stack. Lena returned to her post and Stack peeled back his lips, showing her gold in his mouth. She ended up grinning, and he leaned an elbow on the bar.

"You look even more beautiful when you smile," Stack said.

Staring at them both, she could tell they were physically identical, but the personalities, their auras…so opposite.

One thing was for sure, seeing them together…she was smitten.

And she wanted them both.

Stack usually showed up at the Sunset around nine.

Lena figured out his routine quickly because out of the two twins, Stack liked to party and be around the nightlife the most. He stood out in a crowd of men and the ladies loved him.

The Sunset Café started advertising to lure more women into the place for capitalistic gain. Originally the owners created it as a gentlemen's club, but in order to stay lucrative during prohibition, they had to open up the market to new customers, and women loved to drink.

To hide the odorous stench of bootleg hard liquor that could turn female customers away, new cocktails were created adding syrups and various fruit juices to sweeten the bitter taste. The club manager ordered all bartenders to add more cherries, orange slices, and canned chucks of pineapples in the drinks to appeal to the good-time girls who sought excitement. Especially the white ones.

White women loved the Sunset.

White men loved it too, and the forbidden allure of rubbing shoulders with negroes brought out their lascivious side. Everyone in Chicago knew that colored folks couldn't have their own entertainment spaces without white folks sniffing for some action in the mix. As much as they pretended to hate negro people, they sure couldn't stay away from them. Colored patrons and performers tickled their libidinous fantasies. The best music, the best food, and the best dancing happened on the south side where negroes were crowded together. They didn't call it Bronzeville for nothing.

Lena eyed the entrance. Stack was due to swagger through any minute.

The supper hour kept the bar less hectic as folks ate garnished devilled eggs, green beans, steaks, fried catfish, buttermilk-dipped fried chicken, with the added sides of creamy macaroni and cheese with generous slices of honey cornbread.

Max flipped through his tattered, olive-colored copy of the H.P. Dreambook. A man wearing a turban in front of a crystal ball illustrated the cover. He pestered busboys, servers, and Lena about their dreams so he could search them up in his book and find the corresponding numerical interpretation to play the numbers. Another bartender named Frank polished glasses and worked the other end of the counter.

"C'mon Lena, your turn, what you dream last night?" Max asked.

"I don't really have dreams."

"Everybody dreams. Bernice, what about you?"

Bernice scratched an itch on her prominent nose and thought about her answer while she waited for Lena to pour whiskey into three tumbler glasses.

"The night before, I dreamed about going to Paris and seeing Josephine Baker," Bernice said.

She spun around and shook her hips.

"Y'all think she really dances over there naked wearing bananas?" Bernice asked.

"Lemme see, travel… bananas…dancing…" Max murmured.

He circled numbers in his book with a stubby pencil. Lena placed the drinks on Bernice's tray and tapped her foot waiting for Max. Two other female servers went to Frank to fill their orders.

"Okay…two…twenty-nine…seventeen," Max said.

He reached into his tip pocket and pulled out a coin, handing it to Bernice.

"Give that to Melvin and tell him to combinate my numbers," he said.

"You give your own money to the numbers man," Bernice said.

She flounced away from the bar, and Max sucked his teeth.

Stack strolled in and took off his hat and coat, leaving it with the coat check girl. He surveyed the room and two gleeful white women sauntered over to him.

"Them ofays sure do love them some Big Stack," Max said.

Bernice returned with another drink order. She glanced at Stack, too.

"Can you blame them? Look at him…just a big stiff drink I'd love to pour down my throat."

"Man can't even get into the club without women flocking to him," Max said.

"Those two wait to see him every week. They reserve the table closest to the door to catch him," Bernice added. "I ain't never seen him with anything darker than a paper bag, though."

"That's cuz you and those ladies are at the top of the hierarchy."

"What are you bumping your gums about now, Max?" Bernice sighed.

"Niggas out here go for color first, hair texture second, and shape last. Listen to me…don't roll your eyes…white girls and you lightskins…that would be you Bernice with your mixed ass…are at the top. If a woman ain't that, they'll take a brownskin, like Lena, if they have good hair. But if they can't have number one or two, a woman has to at least have a good shape. See, Bernice here, she only got one and two—"

"I got a cute shape, too! I'm all three!" Bernice protested.

"Not with those knock knees and small tits…anyway, like I was saying…you gotta have what's on that list or you won't get no attention in this club. That's why Lena is behind the bar and not on the floor with you all night getting the fat tips. Facts is facts, and that man over there likes to have all three."

They watched Stack as he charmed the women blocking him from the rest of the club.

"Hmmph. Men are stupid," Bernice huffed. "Miss Two-out-of-three, can I get three shots of rum?"

"Coming right up, Miss Three-out-of-three," Lena said.

Bernice cackled, then took the drinks away.

"I never noticed she had knock knees," Lena whispered to Max.

Stack sauntered over with the women and their loud chatter livened up the counter.

"Hey Max," Stack said.

"Good to see you this evening, Mr. Moore," Max said, taking on his polished bartender voice.

He dropped his dream book under the counter.

"What can I fix for you tonight, sir?"

Max waited for the order. Lena headed over to another patron who wanted hooch.

"Ladies, what would you like to drink?" Stack asked.

The first woman, a shapely red head with narrow features asked for a Sidecar, and the second woman, a wide-eyed brunette, requested a Malört.

"You like that bitter stuff?" Stack asked.

Lena clocked the brunette's curling edges from perspiration, and the slight roundness of her nose. To a regular white person, she could pass as Italian or even a Jewish Russian. However, the hair, the extra curve in her ass, and the nervous fluttery eyes told the truth to Lena. The woman glanced at her; a mutual understanding passed between them that she would be treated as a white woman. Who was she to judge what people had to do to survive a depression?

If Stack knew, he didn't let on. Max gave them their drinks and Stack turned his steady focus on Lena.

"You look real nice tonight, Lena."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," she said.

"When you wear all those curls, it makes your pretty eyes look mysterious—"

"Stack," the redhead interjected.

Her tone came out sharply, saying his name.

"I'm talking, baby, give me a minute," he said.

The bass in his voice caused her lips to bunch up. Her brunette friend sipped the Malört and looked away.

"I didn't come down here to watch you talk to a bartender," the redhead whined.

"Bitch, I don't care what you came here to do."

Max stepped in to de-escalate.

"Mr. Moore, what would you like to have?"

Lena left them to serve other people, and Stack dismissed the two women. He conferred with Max and the floor show began, capturing his attention. Stack loved watching the dancers. He probably ran through most of them based on his reputation. Irritation stretched across his face and Lena served him the moonshine he loved.

"Those girls don't know how to act when you talk to other women," she said.

"I'm tired of them dingy broads anyway. They both have dry coochie and bad attitudes. White bitches love slumming with dark dick, but act all bent outta shape if a colored woman gets a tiny bit of attention."

"You do know one of them is colored, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

He grinned and looked deep into Lena's eyes. She gave him a sly smirk and his eyes drank her in.

"You want some more?" she asked, enunciating each word.

Stack watched her succulent red lips and his gaze dipped to the top of her white blouse, eyeballing the outline of her breasts.

"You undressing me with those eyes, Mr. Moore?"

Dimples.

"I think you're undressing me," he said.

"I been did that," she teased, and sashayed away to serve a counter rush of older men with their mistresses.

She knew he kept his eyes on her ass the way she intended by swinging her hips extra hard.

He loved watching her.

For weeks she acted coquettish and purred his last name any time she served him. Ernie treated him and Smoke as his most trusted muscle men. If he needed an enemy whacked, he sent the Smoke Stack twins with the chopper to deliver a Chicago overcoat first class. Stack strutted around the club with a dominance that aroused her. Most tough guys annoyed her, their performative masculinity a tremendous joke to her.

Not Stack.

He oozed overt power, and she wanted a taste of that in her bed.

"Be careful, Lena, being a gangster's woman ain't the life you want," Max warned on a different night.

He caught her ogling Stack. Lena loved the way his thighs stretched the material of his pants, and she licked her lips at the heavy bulge in the crotch. What she would give to sit on all that hefty weight. She flirted with the gangster using long unblinking stares on him, and lightly touched his hand whenever she served glasses of rum, gin, or the moonshine he liked to call dog soup. Eventually, he would just beeline to the bar to greet her the moment he walked into the club. He only had eyes for her.

Women were easy for Stack to catch because they threw themselves at him. She lured him in night by night, forcing him to chase her, keeping him expectant, and on his toes. The man hadn't chased a woman for a long time and it showed.

Her calculated seduction worked.

He started bringing her things. Diamond earrings. Real ones. Fancy gold hair clips and chocolate candy in heart boxes. He asked around and found out her favorite snack was the roasted peanuts sold a block away on the street from an old German man. He left her small warm bags at the bar before her shift started on Fridays to last her all weekend. She showed up to work one night and Max could barely contain himself. He handed her a large box with a knee-length fur coat inside.

He asked her out a few times, but she played demure, citing the rules of employees not fraternizing with employers.

"Aw Lena. I don't own this place…I work for the man who does. He pays your checks, not me."

"The other girls will be mad if they see me with you."

"Fuck 'em."

"I'll think about it."

He floated for a week after she said that. Like most men, he wanted a slut to fuck in private, but a good girl to woo in public.

A month later, Lena had a rough night with some rowdy patrons. Lower-level men of Ernie's syndicate. Stack had been out of town on business, and she missed interacting with him. His flirty nature kept her work nights fun, and they flew by fast. Without him, they dragged on for hours.

After Lena helped clean the bar area and counted money at closing, the numbers man slid over to Max and handed him a fifteen dollar win.

"Holy shit!" Max shouted.

He turned to Lena, his eyes shiny with joy.

"I'm taking you to Al's Diner for steak and eggs!"

Lena grabbed her coat and purse and walked out of the club with Max. Bernice joined them. They caught a cab to Al's Diner in a seedier area, but the food was delicious. Lena ate her fill and listened to Max make plans to buy his girlfriend new dresses, and a new tailored suit with nice dress shoes to replace the clodhoppers he wore outside of work. Bernice planned a rent party and Lena promised to spread the word and address to their shared apartment building. Max offered to pay for all the food at her party so she could sell dinner plates and keep all the proceeds.

After Max splurged on chocolate malts, she shared another cab ride with Bernice to her second-floor walk-up.

Another week passed, and Stack didn't come to the Sunset. Lena worried that the Italian mafia under Al Capone's orders gunned him down in the windy city or Bugs Moran and the Irish mob caught him slipping and threw him in Lake Michigan. Smoke huddled with Ernie and the other men in their crew, talking animatedly. She made her way around the bar counter. Tensions around the city had been thick among the immigrant groups, but colored folks kept on striving for better. Tempted to ask the other twin about his brother, she felt two muscular arms lift her up when she headed to the secret storage room to retrieve more spirits.

"Stack!"

Her heart triple-thumped in her chest like a train roaring down an uneven track. She turned and threw her arms around his neck instinctively.

"You missed me," he whispered in her ear.

The vibration of his voice along the delicate skin on her neck thrilled her. The breathiness in the shell of her ear heated the blood in her veins.

She kissed him.

Smashed her plump wanton lips across his fuller ones and slipped her tongue past the seam, tasting the strong whiskey on his breath. Their heads slanted for the proper angle to slide warm tongues together. His deep kisses sent love pulses straight down to her toes. Stack tongued her breathless hidden behind an alcove. He cradled her face before pulling away first.

"Damn. I ain't been kissed like that before," he drawled out in his delta accent.

She held his longing gaze in the yellow light of the hanging lamp that dangled above them. As tough as he was, his face looked so gentle and pure up close. Like a big ole puppy that just wanted to play fetch with her heart.

"Go out with me tonight," he asked.

She tickled the facial hair on his chin, then ran a slender finger down the part in his hair.

"How 'bout you go out with me?"

He grinned.

"Where?"

"It won't be nowhere high class like you're used to, but you'll have a good time. Promise."

He lunged for her mouth again, wrapping his beefy arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet.

"Oh, no wonder it's taking you so long to bring those bottles out," her co-worker Frank said.

Lena jerked away from Stack and grabbed the bottles she came for. She rushed past Frank, beaming all the way back to the bar.

Chapter 2 HERE.

A.N.:

Thanks for your patience! It's easier to do little chapters to buy me time to finish it. But y'all read so darn fast though!

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[outoftheseine]

-AZRIEL “THE SHADOWSINGER” FIC RECS-

i am so obsessed with him it is not even funny | note: please be aware of the authors’ warnings before reading. fics include canon tw’s like: violence, death, grief. some fics have 18+ content so minors please DNI.

main masterlist

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

the trials of aphrodite • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @milswrites (unrequited love, so much pining)

unrequited love | part two • azriel x reader

↳ by @lyssasdrafts (angst)

a field of dandelions • azriel x witch!reader

↳ by @prythianpages (made my heart warm, some angst, smut)

bloodied bonds | sinner’s sacrifice • azriel x rhysand’s sister!reader

↳ by @ellievickstar (hanahaki au, angst)

if it all fell • azriel x reader

↳ by @pellucid-constellations (angst, comfort, i feel for azriel :()

the silent one | 2 | 3 | 4 | azriel x fem!oc

↳ by @feyreswaterybowels (found family, slowburn, angst, fluff, comfort, mute!oc, tw: past sa)

lonesome | part 2 • azriel x reader

↳ by @assassinsblade (angst)

ocean eyes • azriel x reader

↳ by @redheadspark (very fluffy, angsty at times, smut, dad!azriel)

crush • azriel x reader

↳ by @writingcroissant (so so fluffy, smut)

i laugh like me again… she laughs like you | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 • azriel x reader

↳ by @azrielbrainrot (very angsty, grief, violence, torture)

was any of it true? | full throttle | alt. ending • badboy!azriel x goodgirl!reader

↳ by @flickering-chandelier (modern au, angst, happy ending, smut)

pushed to the edge • azriel x seer!reader

↳ by @stormhearty (oh boy hurt me so good)

baker!reader x azriel

↳ by @imaginesmai (so fluffyyy)

and so, the stars aligned | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 • azriel x archeron!reader

↳ by @offthepages

finding home • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @parkerslatte

sweet like sugar • azriel x reader

↳ by @writingsbychlo (fluff, angst, smut)

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

tiny shadows • azriel x reader

↳ by @xmalfoyweasleyx (fluff)

his shadows know • azriel x reader

↳ by @daycourtofficial (fluff)

he feels safe with you • azriel x reader

↳ by @florencemtrash (warm, fuzzy fluff)

the quiet between • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @thewulf (mean!az, angst, fluff)

you drew stars around my scars • azriel x reader

↳ by @flickering-chandelier (fluff, slight angst)

arcane • azriel x death god!reader

↳ by @serpentandlily (fluff, tw: alludes to sa)

butterfly kisses • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @itsswritten (fluff, suggestive)

threads of hazel • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @itsswritten (oh beautiful angst)

laborious activities • azriel x reader

↳ by @writingcroissant (fluff and labour things)

marriage-life • azriel x reader

↳ by @delulustateofmind (sooo fluffy)

baby blanket • azriel x reader

↳ by @sapphicmsmarvel (fluff)

implode • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @daydreaming-nerd (really angsty)

blinded • azriel x reader

↳ by @lady-of-tearshed (oh so angsty, unrequited love)

scartlet-tipped secrets; peonies, for you • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @angelshadowsinger (hanahaki au, unrequited love, angst)

totally annoying and not funny at all • azriel x reader

↳ by @sillymercury (fluff, little angst, literally idiots in love)

never yours • azriel x reader (lucien x reader)

↳ by @really-fanny-longbottom (angst, stupid azriel tbh, fluff)

let me keep you company • azriel x reader

↳ by @utterlyazriel (so so fluffy)

you found me • azriel x reader

↳ by @pit-and-the-pen (angst, blood, comfort)

pretty little shadowsinger • azriel x reader

↳ by @illyrianbitch (fluff)

happy ending • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @milswrites (fluff and a little angst)

pancake • azriel x reader

↳ by @acotarxreader (fluff, comfort, tw: panic attack)

domestic bliss • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @bat-boys (very fluffy, slightly suggestive)

and yesterday you were here with me • azriel x reader

↳ by @dawneternal (angst, comfort, tw: miscarriage)

(what if?) all i need is you • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @empiresofstorm (whipped azriel, comfort, fluff)

baby mine • azriel x reader

↳ by @thisblogisaboutabook (angst, comfort, fluff, tws: sa and trauma)

calypso • azriel x reader

↳ by @solbaby7 (fav kind of female rage, mentions of blood)

the girl who cheated death • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @utterlyotterlyx (fluff)

the tormented & the unforgiven • azriel x reader

↳ by @lucysstoryworld (very angsty, graphic torture)

tattoos older than you • azriel x archeron!reader

↳ by @surielstea (age-gap, suggestive)

“you were flirting with me?” • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @thehighladywrites (suggestive, fluff, humour)

[coffee-and-geto]

CAN YOU HEAR HER NAME? — part two.

“You know we shouldn’t have met, right?” “I’ve never had any luck, troublemaker. No matter who I meet, I destroy everything I touch.”

❦ pairing: professor!toji x f!reader

❦ summary: you are a student of criminal studies at a prestigious university with one goal in mind: get your father out of prison one day. but how will you react when your new professor in the subject, as attractive as he is odious, comes to replace your old teacher who has deserted the post? especially when that new teacher is keeping a secret that will jeopardize your plans. one thing’s for sure, your life will never be the same again...

❦ warnings: +18 only, dead dove: do not eat!!, smut, nsfw, violence with graphic description, vulgar language, mention of bullying/suicide/weapons/drugs/gambling, mature and dark content, toxic parental relationships, murders, yakuzas, panic attacks, heavy angst, fluff, manipulation, childhood trauma, death, grief, betrayal, hurt with/without comfort, student/teacher relationship (fictional, not real!!), depiction of the life of a hitman/appearance of yakuzas, enemies to lovers, but not a real slow burn, dark academia vibe, art by @/521jie.

❦ wc: 10,000

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

series masterlist | ao3

“Unfortunately for you, a sinner cannot afford to protect the wings of an angel. He might dirty them. Or worse, burn them in trying to help.”

His words blur within the drowning sea of memories that twist through your mind.

“Tell me something… You really like to put yourself in danger wherever you go, don’t you, troublemaker?”

His rough fingers tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, his emerald irises lingering on your figure a little too long in the lecture hall before he looks away, his arms wrapping around your waist to protect you from the vase, his lips crashing against yours just before devouring them…

All these memories swirl like a maelstrom in which you are submerged, your arms desperately trying to escape in order to flee the forbidden moments you shared. But every time you turn your head, one face keeps coming back to you.

“Can you hear me?”

From jet-black hair with strands as sharp as stalactites, almond eyes that find your gaze before piercing through to your soul and—

“Hello, Moon, this is Earth?”

Your head jerks up. “Huh?”

Shoko raises an eyebrow mischievously. “Were you listening to me?”

You blink, still a little shaken from your friend’s grounding. It feels like you’ve been pulled out of a drowning situation you thought you wouldn’t escape. The light from the library almost blinds you, and for a second, an unpleasant buzzing persists in your ear, making you grimace slightly.

“Yes, yes… You were talking about…” Your eyes fall on her medical textbook on the table, and you glance back up at her. “Your… presentation on anatomy?” you attempt with little conviction, still frowning.

Seeing your sorry face, Shoko shakes her head as you mutter a soft ’sorry’. “What were you thinking about?” And in your silence, she adds, “Or rather, who were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you mumble to avoid the conversation drifting into too dangerous waters.

It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten that you’re in the university library. Small groups of students linger in the aisles, quietly gossiping about the latest news, others immersed in their work, or those simply here to enjoy the calm of the massive room to sleep for an hour or two.

As for you and Shoko, you’ve settled into your favorite corner at the back of the library, where a four-person table is monopolized by the two of you, and a stained-glass window provides the perfect angle on the courtyard.

“I was talking about the upcoming sales. But from the looks of it, it seems like you don’t care about that either.”

You run a hand over your face to refresh your distracted mind. It’s not the first time lately that you’ve been called out for your absent-mindedness. But it’s not like you can do anything about it.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m a bit tired lately,” you reply with a small, weak smile. “And the sales? Would you like to go together?”

“Yep,” she confirms, chewing on the blue cap of her pen before glancing at her laptop screen. “It’ll be a while for both of us, but it’d be even better if we bought a new dress or two, right? You know, for the parties.”

The idea pops into your mind, and just the thought of a relaxing trip to the mall with your friend tempts you. It’s almost as if you want to forget about the sales and swipe your credit card through every clothing store as if changing your wardrobe would erase your memory.

“Why not,” you reply, a warm bubble swelling in your chest. “It’s been a while since we did a shopping spree.”

“Perfect then.” She closes her textbook, closing yours at the same time. “Tell me,” she leans toward you so only you can hear her, but you already see her mischievous smile pulling at the corner of her pink lips, “Was it your professor again, hmm? Are you becoming like all those other girls?”

In immediate reaction, your heart skips a beat, and despite your traitorous flushed cheeks, your thick civil code acts as a weapon as you hit her arm. “Shoko!” you protest, stung.

She pulls back slightly, stifling her laughter with a hand over her mouth as the old, unpleasant librarian walks past your tables with a glare as sharp as her long nails.

Once she’s passed, Shoko leans toward you again to add, still teasing, “Come on, admit it, you’re finally drooling over him because of his irresistible charm.” She emphasizes the last word by looking up at the sky like a fangirl.

You gasp. “Absolutely not, and keep this up, and I swear I’ll make you eat my civil code,” you threaten, despite the constant warmth in your face.

“Your tomato face speaks for you anyway.”

“No, but Shoko!” you protest again.

“Shhhhhh!!��� The librarian hisses sharply in your direction, her angry expression ending the conversation.

~~~~

“As for the rest of the year, your Master’s programs will need to be accompanied by alternating internships,” Professor Higuruma announces from his desk at the bottom of the lecture hall stage.

His eyelids, heavy with an evident lack of sleep, make him look on the verge of dozing off, yet all attention is on him. From his black suit to his perfectly ironed white shirt, and his sharp aquiline nose, Professor Higuruma never fails to draw eyes to himself, no matter what he says. Especially with his reputation as an outstanding lawyer at a prestigious firm.

“And so, my colleagues and I are offering to take part in this process to make things easier for some of you.”

You sit up slightly in your chair, ears more attuned than ever, making sure you don’t miss a single word.

He continues, “This means that spots with us will be limited and will only be reserved for those who prove themselves worthy of working alongside us. The rest will have to manage on their own to find internships.” He waves his hand dismissively as if brushing away the thought before lowering his gaze back to his files.

Working with Higuruma?

That’s practically a dream come true at this point.

As the bell signals the end of class, you hurriedly pack up your things, eager to join your friends in the cafeteria. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, too distracted to notice as you accidentally bump into someone while queuing up.

A broad back, wide shoulders, and an athletic yet lean build.

The person turns around, revealing a head of near-white hair and a pair of cerulean eyes, half-hidden behind round sunglasses.

“Ah, we were looking for you,” Satoru announces, stepping beside you with his tray.

“Where are they?” you can’t help but ask as you start filling your own tray with food.

Satoru grins. “Already eating. Probably talking about what we’re gonna do with Suguru,” he chuckles. And when you give him a skeptical look, he shakes his head, prolonging the suspense.

After both finish picking out your food, your friend walks alongside you toward a four-seater table already occupied by your brunette friend and Suguru, who has tied his hair into a half-bun, leaving the rest of his long, raven-black strands draping over his shoulders.

Upon reaching them, Shoko only lifts her eyes from her phone to acknowledge your arrival before immediately lowering her gaze back to her Instagram feed. “What’s new?” she asks the group without much interest, making Satoru roll his eyes.

“Kids and their phones…” he mutters as he sits down.

Suguru and you exchange an amused glance as Shoko slowly raises her head from her screen before practically shoving her phone in Satoru’s face. “Says the one who posts sixteen stories in one night?”

Just as he’s about to defend himself, Suguru steps on his foot to shut him up. “Anyway.”

“What’s got you two so excited?” you ask, taking a bite of your fish.

“Well, well, well,” the albino hums as he digs into his salad appetizer. “Suguru and I have decided to rejoin the university rugby team this year,” he announces, flashing his signature mischievous grin, mouth still full.

“To get crushed by Kyoto again?” you snicker. "Yeah, and I’m switching to medicine with Shoko."

Shoko and Suguru join in on your laughter while Satoru glares at you, holding an open yogurt cup threateningly, ready to fling it at your face.

Once the laughter finally dies down, he reaches into his bag, pulling out a brand-new rugby ball. Holding it up like a trophy, he twirls it between his long, agile fingers before tossing it to Suguru, who catches it effortlessly mid-air.

“We’re gonna beat Kyoto this year, and I even bought my own lucky ball,” Satoru insists.

“More like a cursed ball,” you mutter to Shoko, chortling a bit. Then, you turn to look at Satoru and Suguru again. “And what about that brute from last year? Aoi, wasn’t it? How do you plan to beat someone who practically smashed your faces in?”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

The two boys exchange a knowing look before directing their gazes a few tables away. You turn around, confused.

Satoru adds, “Zenin is signing up too.”

Your eyes land on Maki Zenin, a student with dark green hair tied in a high ponytail, sitting with her friends Yuta, Panda, and Toge several tables away, entirely unaware of your group’s attention.

Turning back to the boys, you frown. “Her? She’s strong?”

“Strong?” Suguru scoffs as if your question is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Wait till you see her at practice, and then we’ll see if you can find a better word.” He pauses when he notices your confusion.

How does he even know her when she wasn’t on the team last year?

“She goes to the gym, does wrestling, and Taekwondo,” he clarifies.

You let out an impressed whistle.

Shoko raises her eyebrows, equally surprised. “Have they announced the training sessions yet?”

“Coming soon, yeah.”

Satoru pauses. A smirk starts tugging at the corner of his lips as he raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me our lovely ladies will come to watch us train? Aww, I’m flattered.”

You exchange a glance with Shoko again. “More like filming you picking your nose during practice, but yeah, why not,” you reply with a mischievous half-smile, but Satoru doesn’t lose his.

Instead, he snatches the rugby ball from Suguru’s lap and starts playing with it — balancing it on his head with impressive control, rolling it across his shoulders and arms — prompting yet another whistle from you, though this time, there’s a hint of teasing in your tone.

“If you’re trying to get people’s attention, congratulations, you got it. Now stop,” Shoko grumbles, returning to her phone, annoyed by the number of eyes now on your table because of him.

It’s true; a good number of students are now staring.

Satoru is a popular quantum physics student who thrives on attention, loves showing off his strength, and — well, he’s Satoru Gojo, you know.

A tall, striking albino charismatic enough to convince the entire university to throw a party? That’s him. Flirting with literally anyone — women, men, and even objects (yeah, you heard me)? He’s practically a professional at it. Though you’ve never failed to notice the shift in his gaze whenever he looks at his own best friend.

Suguru, on the other hand, is humble but equally as cunning as Satoru. He can attract attention too, but he remains far more composed. They seem like complete opposites, yet their bond is brotherly, inseparable. And when you catch, out of the corner of your eye, the way Suguru is glaring at a group of giggling girls ogling Satoru from afar, a thought crosses your mind — an idea of—

“It’d be a shame if the whole school found out you barely drink alcohol just ’cause you can’t handle it, hmm?” Suguru mutters out of the corner of his mouth, stabbing a piece of carrot with his fork as if skewering it. His tone is dry, irritated. “Or maybe that you currently have a hemorrhoid in your right ass cheek that’s keeping you from hitting the gym?”

Immediately, Satoru’s rugby ball loses its balance on his head and falls straight onto his plate — landing right in his mashed potatoes with a sickening splat.

~~~~

From your seat in the middle of the lecture hall, the relentless rain from earlier that afternoon continues to batter against the enormous windows, giving a vague idea of how late it’s already getting for a typical student day. The deepening blue of the sky soon blends into the darkness of the swaying tree branches, shaken by the wind, which seems just as unwilling to leave.

The cold weather is reflected just as much inside the room, dragging down the general morale of the students — and, unfortunately, that of the one person everyone, without exception, wished it wouldn’t affect.

The dreaded Professor Fushiguro.

His tall, imposing frame moves sharply and swiftly between the rows, handing back graded dissertations, their pages streaked with red ink as if it had bled all over them.

It’s no surprise that yours — despite the B- circled on the first page — is riddled with red scribbles, as sharp and cutting as the personality of your criminology professor.

Determined to improve, you have always made it a habit to seek out your professors to better understand your mistakes and avoid repeating them.

A habit that has become particularly delicate since the last time you saw Professor Fushiguro under… circumstances better left buried in the grave, wouldn’t you say?

The hostile gaze he casts over every student is reason enough to abandon the idea of approaching him here and instead wait to speak with him in his office. Like before. Before he—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Even through the heavy oak door separating you from the professor’s office, you hear the irritated sigh before a nearly growled “Come in” reaches your ears.

You push open the door with a certain apprehension, your muscles tense.

The office hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here.

Bookshelves line the walls, filling nearly every available space, though you highly doubt Professor Fushiguro is an avid reader. The walls are painted in muted autumnal tones, the same Persian rug covers the floor, and the same dark hues dominate every piece of furniture — from the massive mahogany desk where he sits, to the polished hardwood floor, the black window frames, and the brown leather chair.

As you carefully close the door behind you, the fear that he might kick you out immediately grips you. The air is so thick with tension that neither of you dares to speak — just two figures frozen in place, eyes slightly widened by the sheer weight of the moment.

Fear.

Which kind?

That’s the real question.

Act normal, just like always, you keep repeating the thought in your head, teeth clenched as you finally settle into the chair across from your professor.

Today, he wears the same kind of outfit as usual, but you notice, with some curiosity, that there’s always a slight variation. Sometimes his tie is a shade darker, or the color carries a cooler undertone.

Shoving those irrelevant observations aside, you clear your throat, your throat drier than ever.

“I’d like to go over the points I might have missed in my paper that led to a—“

“A B-, yes,” he murmurs, one elbow resting on the desk, his eyes never leaving his laptop screen. His fingers absentmindedly toy with his lower lip — a nervous habit? Or stress?

Encouraged by his response, you pull out the pages of your dissertation and slide them toward him.

“Exactly. I read through your comments—“

“And is that never enough for you?” He rolls his eyes, and that single second of dismissal is enough to cool your resolve. He types a few more words on his keyboard before adding:

“Do you really think I don’t put enough effort into marking your work? Do you really need to come all the way here just to clarify what’s already perfectly clear and—“

“It’s too concise,” you cut him off, pushing your paper closer to him, hoping he’ll finally detach himself from that damn laptop and pay real attention to you. Even though, deep down, you already understand why he’s acting this way.

Your heartbeat quickens slightly as you lean in just a fraction more toward the desk, toward him, and insist, “Professor.”

The second your whisper falls between you, Professor Fushiguro nearly snaps his neck turning to look at you.

His emerald eyes are unreadable, yet filled with a chaotic mixture of emotions. His irritated expression softens, as do his furrowed brows — mirroring yours.

For a split second, his gaze flickers downward — to your slightly parted lips, waiting for his response — before snapping back up to meet your eyes.

He thinks you didn’t notice.

Hands trembling ever so slightly, you pull them back from the edge of the desk, resting them on your lap over your black stockings. You inch back just a little, re-establishing a safer distance.

Fushiguro follows suit, adjusting himself in his chair before finally picking up your paper, skimming through the pages, eyes flickering over his own barely legible notes scrawled in sharp red ink.

During those seemingly endless seconds, you find yourself watching him more closely. His dark, smooth hair — slightly unkempt, yet effortlessly striking. The shadow of his jawline, even more prominent from your angle. The muscle in his jaw that keeps flexing and relaxing as his eyes dart between the lines.

When he finally looks up, he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

“Can you even read?” he deadpans.

“I just need you to explain my mistakes as you correct them. If you need to go over the lesson again, I’m willing to stay as long as—“

“You’re not supposed to stay in my office for who knows how long just to go over mistakes that are already clearly explained in my feedback," he shoots back, narrowing his eyes. “You do realize people have eyes, don’t you? There are tutoring centers with students who’d be more than happy to—“

“I don’t need that,” you interrupt, snatching your paper from his rough, calloused hands—hands big enough to entirely cover yours, making it disappear beneath his palm. "What kind of professor are you?" you mutter under your breath, irritation creeping into your tone. "If this is about last time—"

“Leave.”

The single word freezes you in place.

You inhale deeply, forcing yourself to stay calm. “What happened last time isn’t—“

The professor abruptly rises to his feet, and the sheer weight of his presence instantly silences you.

“I said get out.” The words escape his lips faster, louder, and harsher than he probably intended.

Eyes wide, you don’t even dare to exhale, the stray lock of hair in front of your face remaining undisturbed by your breath.

Then, finally, you give up — even if this moment didn’t last as long as you had planned.

“You’re just a coward,” you spit before standing up just as abruptly as his voice had risen, grabbing your things and turning your back on him to storm out of the room.

As the door slams shut with a dull thud, Toji slowly sinks back into his chair, his body feeling heavier than it has in days. A sigh escapes his lips as he leans back against the seat, pressing his cold hands over his burning face.

~~~~

“…and this one…” You hand him your certified copies, each marked with a bold A+ or sometimes an A-, encircled neatly. Your small, hopeful smile is stiff with tension. “This was recent. I spent hours at the library studying.”

Your palm, clammy with a feverish warmth, brushes against the glass surface of the table — so cold it feels almost glacial. Your fingers, trembling in micro-shakes, nudge the papers forward just a little more, silently urging your father to take them.

His bloodshot eyes drop onto the copies, but he doesn’t bother reading the carefully written remarks from your professors. He doesn’t even pick up the sheets to grant them a semblance of interest.

“Not bad,” he finally says, one hand gripping his unshaven chin, scratching at the irritated skin as if lost in thought. “See what happens when you actually try?” he adds after an exhale that sounds almost relieved. The tension in his shoulders loosens slightly.

Your own muscles relax instantly in your chair. You retrieve your papers, though the persistent sting in your chest lingers — after all the effort you put in, the fleeting relief of not being in conflict with him lasts barely a second.

It’s a shame, really, to give your all only to receive the bare minimum in return.

“Sorry I couldn’t do better before,” you murmur, lowering your gaze to the table. Your father lets out a dry chuckle — not mocking, but lighter than it could have been.

“It’s good that you recognize your faults and are trying to make up for them by improving,” he says, arms crossing over his chest, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

As you pack up your things, a thought suddenly resurfaces, prompting you to lift your head. “My criminal justice professor is offering an internship for the top students,” you tell him with a slight smile. “I’m thinking of applying and working a little harder to be among the first selected. Mr. Higuruma is the best, you know.”

Then, in a last attempt to make a better impression, your eyes gleaming with hope, you add, “He’s one of the best lawyers in Japan.”

The words seem to strike a chord.

In a sharp, almost instinctive movement, your father jerks his head up, suddenly giving you the full attention he’s never granted before.

“Good.” He clears his throat, his voice slightly rough. “Excellent, even. Make connections.”

You nod, swinging your bag over your shoulder before leaving the visiting room of the penitentiary center.

By the time you get home, the once-dimming sky has given way to a nighttime landscape, where only the distant hooting of owls replaces the birdsong from earlier. A handful of stars glimmer in the deep blue sky — a beautiful sight, one you hadn’t taken the time to notice in a while.

In the shower, the droplets crash heavily against your skin. The water is hot, yet somehow, it feels as if it’s carrying the weight of your exhausted body.

Once in your pajamas, you feel no urge to stay up longer than necessary to study. With your hair still damp, you curl up in bed, strands sprawled over the pillow. As you close your eyes, you secretly hope that sleep will offer more comfort than certain people ever could.

People who have failed you. Irrevocably.

~~~~

In the small classroom where students start to pour in as the bell rings, Toji grabs a piece of white chalk and writes the lesson’s objective on the board:

“Acquire specific knowledge about certain criminal behaviors.”

The murmurs gradually fade, stifled by the sharp snap of the door closing as Toji shuts it behind the last student to enter. Silence settles in immediately — tense, expectant.

Toji has always had a way of commanding respect. His deep, powerful voice carries the same weight as his silence. He never has to demand authority — it imposes itself.

With a slow, sweeping glance, he scans the room, instinctively taking in every face… until his eyes land on an empty seat.

Yours.

A slight furrow creases his brow. It’s not like you to be late. A quiet inhale, a blink to push aside the unnecessary thought. It’s not his problem. It never has been.

Straightening up, he wastes no time switching on the projector and getting straight to the point.

“Today, we’ll be studying the behavior of past criminals to deepen your understanding of criminal psychology. This course is essential for those pursuing careers in law, law enforcement, profiling, or any profession related to behavioral analysis.”

A pause. Then, in a steadier, more deliberate tone, he continues:

“I’ve chosen our subject of study: Jeffrey Dahmer.”

A faint shiver seems to ripple through the room. Some students straighten up; others exchange intrigued glances. A flicker of amusement brushes against Toji. He gets why some teachers enjoy their job — when students are this captivated, everything becomes more interesting.

He crosses his arms, his expression unreadable, though a faint gleam of interest sparks in his eyes.

“Crime isn’t just blood and headlines. It’s a method. A pattern. An instinct.”

A faint creak draws his attention to the door, which hesitantly cracks open. A familiar strand of hair peeks through the gap.

For a moment, Toji refuses to believe it. But his instincts never fail him.

You.

Your figure follows, more hesitant than usual, moving through the small room under a few curious glances. As you pass him, you mumble a vague, barely audible, “Sorry,” eyes avoiding him.

Toji watches you in silence, his expression impassive. He should call you out for being late. But he doesn’t have the energy — not when he sees your unsteady steps and the unnatural pallor on your face.

Instead, he simply looks away and resumes in a neutral tone:

“As I was saying…”

Feigning indifference, he fixes his gaze somewhere in the room, avoiding yours. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

Nothing happened between you.

That’s what he’s been telling himself since last time. What he has to keep telling himself.

Yet, as he continues his lecture, he can’t help but notice — from the corner of his eye — your trembling hand gripping your pen, your shoulders slightly tense as you take notes with forced concentration, as if trying to ignore your own discomfort. Or at least, that’s what he assumes. Your dark circles look deeper.

His eyes linger a fraction of a second too long. A student catches his gaze and quickly buries themselves in their notes, uneasy. Toji’s jaw tightens imperceptibly before he leans down to display the next slide.

An image appears on the screen: Jeffrey Dahmer’s impassive face during one of his many trials in the ‘90s.

“Jeffrey Dahmer.”

His voice resonates—low, steady.

“Serial killer, necrophile, cannibal. A man who could’ve gone unnoticed but ended up exposing himself.”

A tense silence fills the air. Some students swallow discreetly.

“His method?” Toji lets the pause hang. “Targeting vulnerable victims. Isolated prey. Gaining their trust… before trapping them.”

And this time, he feels your gaze — uneasy, restless, yet futile.

A strange flush rises to your cheeks, but given your almost swaying stance and the way your eyes flicker unstably toward him, an unsettling premonition prickles at the back of his mind.

But with a slight tilt of his head, he dismisses the distracting thought — once again.

Thirty minutes pass. Toji carries on with his lesson uninterrupted. He concludes Dahmer’s biography, letting a heavy silence settle, each student absorbing his words, their attention suspended on the chilling details he unveils. Some avert their eyes, lost in thought, while others remain fixated on the screen.

He continues, diving into the psychology behind criminal behavior, ignoring both the students’ discomfort and their unwavering focus.

A brief nod. Then, his voice takes on a peculiar coldness.

“All of this falls under criminal psychology. The behaviors, the actions… the warning signs.”

He pauses, sweeping his gaze across the room — until, for a split second, he catches what he thinks is your blurred, lost expression, almost pleading for his attention.

Against his better judgment, Toji stares a second too long. Or maybe not long enough.

It only takes him turning his back — to you and the entire class — for the sharp scrape of a chair to jolt his ears, making him freeze.

Footsteps. Unsteady, faltering, uneven — light yet heavy and clumsy at the same time.

Or at least, that’s what he thinks he’s hearing.

He turns back to confirm his suspicion — and is met with the dreadful sight of you, staggering, gripping tables for support as if the ground itself is tilting beneath your feet.

Chapped lips part slightly in his direction, your face deathly pale with a sickly green tinge. Your eyes are beyond pleading — vacant, unfocused.

Toji stands momentarily frozen, just as the entire class holds its breath when you murmur, barely holding onto the wall:

“Need to… infirmary…”

Your brows furrow as if battling through pain. And judging by your shaky stance, it’s as if the floor is slipping away beneath you.

Regaining composure in an instant, Toji takes a slow, hesitant step forward — then rushes to catch you just as your legs give out entirely.

In a firm, controlled grip, a distant part of his mind registers that every student is watching. Watching him. Watching the person he’s supposed to hate the most.

His strong arms brace your back, holding you upright as professionally as possible. But the moment your unfocused eyes flutter toward him, he crosses the line he’s been so desperate to maintain.

His voice drops to a whisper, low enough for only you to hear:

“Don’t do this to me…”

The near-inaudible strain in his own voice catches him off guard. But in your now unconscious state, you don’t hear it.

And Toji doubts it even matters anymore.

Exhaling at last — almost in exasperation — he slides an arm beneath your knees and hoists you up effortlessly. He barely tilts his head toward the class, masking any trace of emotion beneath a composed facade.

“A student has passed out. I’m taking her to the infirmary. Class is dismissed.”

~~~~

Your body refuses to respond. Everything seems to come from a distant place — sounds, muffled, swallowed by what feels like the depths of the ocean. Only your hearing seems to resurface, because even as you try to move your limbs slightly, none of them obey. Every part of you is numb.

“...Fuck... couldn’t wait... end... faint...?”

Your eyes flutter open gradually, your blurred vision adjusting slightly but not quite enough. A gentle, rhythmic sway of your hair tells you that you’re on a swing. Or a hammock?

A dark, familiar shirt, infused with a perfume of Yves Saint Laurent — Myself, the one you smell every time he’s around — fills your senses. Massive arms — maybe twice the size of yours — enclose you, holding you relentlessly against a warm chest.

The swaying is pleasant, like a lull. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this light.

A sinister creak nearly makes you wince. A door.

“...student... fainted...” The sound reaches you a little more clearly this time. Deep, low, and composed. A man’s voice.

Another, sharper, feminine, hurried. “...other students... no time... sugar... water... the cabinet...”

Bit by bit, the words exchanged become more than just vague sounds. You begin to process them — and that’s what matters. Especially when you realize you’re in the arms of the last person you’d ever want to be.

You’re carefully laid down onto a mattress, a bed, or maybe a thin foam pad. Just enough to keep it from being too uncomfortable.

Shadows hover over you, growing sharper. One broader, the other slimmer. A woman.

Her cold hand brushes your cheek, then your forehead, before she directs a question at the bulkier figure.

“Did she eat anything?”

Before he can answer — because he doesn’t have an answer — you force your stiff neck to shake your head, though the movement is weak. Still, she seems to understand. She shrugs on some kind of jacket, one you can’t quite make out — not because your vision is still unfocused, but because of the dim, almost eerie lighting in the room.

One of them opens a window, letting in just enough fresh air to brush against your exposed skin, reviving you slightly. The slimmer shadow — the nurse, now that you’re beginning to regain awareness — steps away, leaving you alone with a professor who looks just as lost as you feel.

A soft click of the door. And then, silence.

Pins and needles tingle at the tips of your fingers and toes — a sign that your sense of touch is returning. You swallow. Your head still aches, a throbbing pain pressing at your temples, as if your blood is rushing too fast in one place.

Your lashes flutter as the world around you sharpens, your surroundings becoming clearer. You’re definitely in the infirmary. Pushing yourself up slightly on your arms, you take in the dingy little room, right as the grumbling of a certain professor fills the space.

“Is she fucking serious? What the hell am I supposed to do…?”

Toji’s broad frame rummages through the cabinets above a tiny, chipped sink, the paint peeling in layers that must be over thirty years old. The space is cramped — just a small stainless-steel basin and a counter, half-buried under a mess of paperwork. Coffee and tea mugs, used and abandoned, are stacked haphazardly around the sink, untouched for what looks like days.

“I’m fine…” you mumble, more to yourself than to him. He doesn’t acknowledge it.

It’s already a miracle when Professor Fushiguro finally pulls a glass from one of the cabinets, along with a small box of sugar packets. He gives the glass a quick glance — just enough to make sure nothing is crawling in it — before filling it with tap water.

You focus on the sound of the running water, grounding yourself so you don’t collapse again when you attempt to sit up properly. The effort is pointless when Toji rips open a sugar packet and lets it dissolve into the glass, stirring lazily through the liquid with a spoon he probably found just clean enough.

He holds out the glass to you, his movements measured, keeping a deliberate distance — though that’s nearly impossible in such a cramped, cluttered space.

But you don’t react. Your eyes stay locked on the swirling sugar in the water, watching the undissolved granules dance in a slow, hypnotic spiral.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He grabs your hand, ignoring the way your eyes scream at him — intrusionintrusionintrusionintrusion — letting his jet-black hair fall carelessly over his face as he forces you to take the glass.

Your fingers barely manage to wrap around it. The glass trembles under your weak grip, your strength failing before you can even lift it.

Toji notices the moment the water spills over the rim, dripping onto your shoes, your feet dangling over the side of the infirmary bed.

“Fuck’s sake...” he mutters under his breath, jaw tightening as he snatches the glass back.

This time, he brings it to your lips himself, and though your body tenses at the gesture, you part your lips reluctantly, allowing the cool water to soothe your parched throat.

Your eyes remain fixed on the wall behind him, choosing to glare at the cracks in the peeling paint rather than acknowledge the smug, knowing smirk that threatens to curl at the edges of his lips.

Your silence, your refusal to react, contrasts with the flicker of amusement in Toji’s sharp green eyes. Different from the last time he’d been this close to you.

As soon as the glass is empty, you exhale, clearing your throat, your voice oddly hoarse.

“You should’ve just let me come here on my own.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, the sound surprisingly soft to your ears. Maybe one of the rare times you’ve heard him do anything other than grumble.

Straightening up, he carelessly places the glass in the sink.

“You might’ve forgotten that you passed out in my arms in front of the whole class, huh? Or am I wrong?”

You furrow your brows. “I just felt a little dizzy.”

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms while scrutinizing your face more attentively, his usual dark aura intensified by the lack of light in the room. Another cold draft runs down your spine, making the thin line of sweat trickling along it feel even more chilling.

“And a heatstroke,” you add in a muttered grumble, groggy and displeased, casting an evasive glance toward the empty cabinet in the corner of the infirmary.

“I can leave, by the way. I feel better.”

You push against your hands to stand up, only to almost collapse again as a sudden wave of vertigo assaults your skull.

“You’re staying here.”

Having a different plan from yours, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and forces you back down onto the infirmary cot. 

With a sigh that implies you are nothing but a nuisance, Fushiguro ignores your incessant murmuring, opens the cabinets again, and seems to find what he was looking for as his brows relax, accompanied by a quiet “Ah.”

You roll your eyes as he approaches once more, this time with a cloth he has just dampened, bringing it toward your face to press against your undoubtedly flushed skin.

Lifting a weak hand, you push his hand.

“I can do it myself, it’s fine…”

“Do you ever shut up?” he retorts in an exasperated whisper.

So exasperated, in fact, that you don’t even answer back. He pushes your hand down onto your lap and leans in slightly, pressing the cool cloth against your forehead, your cheeks, your chin — where the fabric lingers a second too long.

Destabilized, you hold your breath. Your eyes meet the moment he flickers up from your lips to lock onto yours.

“You’re really funny,” he comments in a low voice, a hint of mocking amusement laced in his tone.

“Do I look funny?” you snap back in contrast, sharp, cutting, despite the pleasant sensation of the cold cloth against your fevered skin.

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to get mad again if I say yes?”

A sigh escapes your chapped lips, which you refrain from wetting, fearing he might misinterpret the gesture as something misplaced and inappropriate, even though that is far from your intention.

Every single one of his movements has a way of irritating you.

“The nurse said you probably had a hypoglycemic episode. Didn’t eat this morning?” he asks with indifference, folding the cloth in half to press a colder side against your skin.

“I wasn’t hungry,” you murmur, barely audible.

He hums, his gaze as neutral as if you had just told him it was raining outside.

“Cover up and eat like the perfect girl you want people to think you are, then.” He steps away to rinse the cloth and wring it out again. On his way back, he drags the nurse’s stool closer, sits down, and resumes his task.

For a fleeting moment, you consider closing your eyes, but fearing he might make a remark, you resist the heaviness of your eyelids, longing for sleep that you stubbornly deny them.

Instead, you fix your gaze on him, scrutinizing him as if it were the first time — not the countless times too many.

There’s a faint, graying scar at the corner of his lips. Left side. The question of how he got it suddenly burns at the tip of your tongue.

“Where’s that from?” And when he furrows his brows, you make a chin wave. He instantly understands what you are referring to.

“Mind your own business.”

“You are daring.”

“As much as you, troublemaker,” he murmurs in a low, gravelly voice, his wrist momentarily freezing as the cloth lingers against your jawline.

The nickname rings out like an old cassette tape someone is trying to rewind.

A past memory someone tried to distort, to bury, to erase forever.

But no matter how deep it’s pushed away, it always resurfaces.

And you two—

You haunt each other.

Never allowing the other to forget a single look, a single touch, a single moment.

Every night, your last thoughts slip into sleep, only for sleep to act not as a relief, but as a mediator. Not to resolve your conflicts, but to bring you back together. To let your souls collide again, even when your bodies refuse to.

Forgetting is impossible.

Even if you force it.

Even if you walk away.

Even if you break, even if you hate, even if you love.

So why not give in?

Lean in. Let your breaths mix, coaxing each other closer like an unspoken spell, a pull, an inevitability — until your fates are sealed by the few inches still left between you.

Eyes locked, unable to meet in any way other than the one dictated by a kiss. A mere press, fleeting in weight, dissolving into the heat of the moment. Never truly feeling the agony of not merging, of always being stuck orbiting each other—

The torture of blinking, because closing your eyes feels like falling into darkness.

Because the second you open them, they might be gone.

Because the moment before might have been nothing more than a dream.

A distant memory, only replayed in the most desperate moments, when you feel at your lowest.

One blink, and the moment will vanish.

One blink, and—

One blink—

One—

With all the effort it would take to lift an anchor barehanded from a ship lost at sea, Toji slowly draws back.

For a brief moment, his eyelids had threatened to close.

But he won’t make that mistake again.

You were never supposed to meet. Let alone end up like this.

So he chooses to close his eyes only when, in the quietest rustle of fabric, you slip out of the infirmary — leaving behind a stolen breath, without ever having touched him.

~~~~

The next few days passed as slowly as they did quickly. A good week in bed, a treatment with medication and a good night’s sleep, always accompanied by a complete diet, your doctor had said with an insistent look at the three words.

The days are as frequently rainy as usual. The nights are just as cold. The landscape is greener, though, you mentally note, temple pressed to your bedroom window.

An exhausted sigh escapes you.

The last events at the university were, unfortunately, those spent in the infirmary with Professor Fushiguro. The torrid radiation of his body next to yours, his gaze plunged into yours, as if lost in the whirlwind of shared memories with vestiges that will never fade.

Every look, every moment gets worse and worse. Crosses the barriers of the forbidden. A ban that turns into irresistible audacity. Impossible to fight.

It’s bad. It’s wrong. And you know it.

That’s why you’ve decided to forget what happened — or at least try to — and take the day off from going back to university on Friday while you’re still on your feet. The weekend has begun, so you might as well catch up on what you’ve been missing.

It’s a better thing to do than let yourself be tormented by persistent thoughts — far too persistent to simply ignore - of your criminological theory professor.

So it’s sitting at your desk, nose plunged in front of your laptop, that your phone rings, vibrating in the corner of the cold wooden surface alongside manuals and printed documents.

First of all, it’s a masked number calling you. And you take the initiative not to answer. No. That’s not advisable, so you ignore the call until it ends.

Returning your attention, still slightly disturbed by this unexpected call, the lessons come back to you. They’re certain, safe. Rational.

Half an hour later, this time it’s a complete number that appears on your phone screen — a number for a real person like you. Just like anyone else. So you decide to take the trouble to answer it, your hand tightening slightly around your screen as you press the button to accept the call.

“Hello?” you say.

There is no answer.

A deathly silence completely paralyzes you as you try as best you can to open your now dry mouth a second time.

“Hello?” you repeat.

But only the chilling silence of the line persisted.

Then, without warning, the call was hung up.

With your heart pumping too fast and too hard in your ribcage, you put your phone back down with not your hand trembling, and your whole body shivering and your muscles frail.

It’s not your habit to panic over a call that could just have been a mistake or a scam — you never know.

But since you started school, nothing has been the same.

You’ve reached a point where every strange or abnormal moment in your life alerts you to a life-threatening danger. Adrenalin pumping more often than it should, or attention sharper than a student cheating on an exam. Every rustle, every sound, every breath is perceived by you.

And it doesn’t matter if people call you paranoid.

Your curtains are drawn. Your front door is double-locked. It’s dead silent in your apartment, and the sun has already set.

Yet the pressure has never been so intense.

Catching the breath you’ve been unconsciously holding, you wipe your sweaty palms on your thighs.

Fuck.

And to break down the growing pressure on you, your phone has to vibrate on your table.

A new message.

As you lean your face close to the notification that appears, your heart drops into the pit of your stomach.

XXX-XXX-XXX : Open the door

So someone is there, behind your door, just waiting for you to open it and slit your throat or worse.

Your mouth dehydrated, your swallowing not going and your dead heart losing your brain as you try to figure out what to do.

Call the police?

What if they hear you?

What if he breaks in?

Fuck!

Your legs drag you into the kitchen, every limb shaking in ways you can’t control.

Not now, though.

Your fingers wrap around the thickest, largest knife you have and you pull it out of its compartment. No choice.

Breathlessly, with your back pressed against the flat of the door and your face half-turned towards the peephole, your right eye focuses on the tall, lanky, fully hooded figure — making recognition impossible.

Your sweaty hands grip the handle of your makeshift knife tighter, fearing it will slip from your fingers. Your pupils dilate, your lips part, then...

The shadow lowers its hood and a pair of emerald eyes stare at your door, looking nonchalant and annoyed at the same time.

You unlock the door immediately, and as the door opens on Professor Fushiguro, you threaten to drop the knife at your feet (a very bad idea).

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

He ignores your flabbergasted expression to walk past you, while you stand at the foot of the door, still in shock. Meanwhile, Fushiguro unashamedly allows himself to slump heavily on the sofa like an unemployed dad, then lets out a sigh.

“Don’t you have something to drink?” he asks, wringing his neck to eye you up sarcastically. “I mean, it’s not polite to ignore your guests.”

And you want to stab him in the heart with his words. How dare he?

“I’ve got nothing. And what the hell are you doing here already?” you retort tartly, slamming the door to your apartment in the process.

“Checking if you weren’t dead. I was worried about you.” An odious smirk tugs the corner of his lips and he rests his arm on the armrest of the sofa, watching your murderous scowl. “What? Aren’t you happy?”

“It’s you who needs to fuck off, actually. You have nothing to do in my house and you don’t have to send me such dubious messages as to open yourself up with a gun,” you retort, still in the same tone, swinging your knife at the nearest surface — a small piece of furniture supporting a lamp. You rest a hand on your hip, eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you didn’t want anything more to do with me?”

He rises with the utmost laziness and rolls his eyes. “You have a way of drawing people into your troubles, haven’t you noticed?” he replies as he opens your fridge in search of a drink. When he finds his fill, his face lights up slightly with a satisfied expression. “Not bad.”

He picks up a can of beer, which he always opens with slow, nonchalant movements, ogling you with that snide scowl that makes you want to smash his head against your fridge.

It could be a good idea.

A pause sets in, uncomfortable and stifling. Of course you want to get your teacher out of your house — what if someone has seen him?

You need to break this silence as thick as molasses, so you look up at him, noting the significant distance between the two of you before saying:

“Explain yourself,” you both say at the same time.

You frown and, incredulous, you follow up still at the same time as him without being able to control it, “No, you.”

Then you lean against the nearest wall, an annoyed pout on your lips. “You’re the one with something to tell me.”

The remark pricks Fushiguro’s spine and he purses his lips. He seems caught in an inner dilemma before sighing and leaning against the wall opposite yours — the distance between you still as significant as ever. One of his arms is raised to support his freshly stolen beer can.

“Listen,” he begins in a low voice, ”what you saw at the bar you can forget. Neither you nor I were supposed to meet there, were we?” He sustains the heavy eye contact until you give in and nod. “Good.” He takes another sip. “I was on a mission, you were on yours despite my warnings.”

“Because I don’t have to listen to you.”

“And you don’t have to put yourself in danger,” he retorts in a tone that couldn’t be more serious, his eyes on you. “This witness business with the police must stay between us. Or do you want to die? Are you that suicidal?”

“Who told you I was in danger and would die? I may have looked suspicious, but that wouldn’t justify anything—”

“You were in danger several times during that evening,” Fushiguro cuts you off curtly, brushing aside your sentence with a wave of his hand. “My target was armed, another had a knife. Don’t you realize what could have happened to you?”

“No,” you simply reply with a crumpled, shameless expression — pure defiance, out of pride at not having to admit that he’s right and has shown more maturity and humanity than you.

“Are you always this stubborn?” he growls, rolling his eyes.

“We could very well be talking about you,” you retort in the same tone, folding your arms across your chest.

“What do you mean?”

“Since when did you stop being a block of ice?” you murmur. “Now you care about me?”

“Since you started messing up everywhere you go. A real bag of jinxes.”

You gasp at his words. “I could say the same for you who stick to me like a faithful dog!”

“You gave me a theatrical performance in the middle of class,” he retorts, outraged.

And seeing him so revolted makes the shadow of an amused smile pass over your lips. For the first time. But this is no time for laughter.

Despite your cat-and-dog retorts.

“Because I got sick! And what’s more, you refused to help me with my lessons.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t need it, goddamnit. You’re one of the best in your class, and you still don’t know it? Or do you want to hide your snoopy nose behind a mask of hypocritical humility?”

His words hang in the air between you two. Your dumbfounded expression almost makes him chuckle.

Almost.

He finally snorts helplessly and rests his gaze on your kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in the room without trying to fill it.

Then you decide to do it.

“So can we pretend it never happened?” you mutter with less sourness.

You see his Adam’s apple twitch as he swallows. “Yeah,” he retorts before craning his neck toward you. “I have no intention of apologizing, troublemaker. But I would like to say in my defense that I was only protecting us. That must remain clear. It didn’t mean anything.”

And the way she avoids saying the word “kiss” makes your breathing slightly heavier around you.

You nod without breaking the silence in your turn. Night has fallen from your window and a bluish aspect of this early evening hour comforts you a little.

You’re not alone right now. And even though he’s the person you despise most in the world, this simple moment, this decision to come to you even to knock on your hinges, makes your heart weak.

Because even if that kiss didn’t mean anything, it marked a change between the two of you. In your relationship — conflicted, at best, but forever intertwined nonetheless. Even if that kiss will never mean anything to her, it will to you.

“How did you get sick?” Fushiguro asks in a low voice — conducive to an unsought but natural intimacy — as he takes yet another sip of his beer.

“Slept with my hair still wet,” you respond as you avert your gaze on the kitchen’s counter too. “And I haven’t eaten very well for a while.” You blow out a small exhalation. “It must have built up.” After a moment’s pause, you add, “But I’m better now,” as if answering an unspoken question.

The soft, intimate atmosphere warms a cold block somewhere-you don’t know where, or even him, on the spot. Opening up seems more likely now, despite the fact that there’s still this unknown that links you with Professor Fushiguro.

Him in his zip-up sweatshirt and an old pair of jogging pants straight from the thrift shop or the back of the wardrobe. And that’s when you notice how tall he is. Much taller than most teachers or students.

But it’s not just this factor that plays into it, or even his muscles drawn like those of a Greek statue.

No, it’s more an aura, an energy he exudes.

Perhaps it’s due to the environment he frequents, but you won’t know the answer to that today.

Finishing his can of beer in one gulp, Toji walks over to the nearest basket and drops the empty metal with a rustling sound. Your eyes devour him with every move he makes; the way he passes a slow glance over the details of your home, like a stray cat looking for something.

His expression is more peaceful, you notice, a little pensive pout on his lips and his eyebrows slightly furrowed in your torpor. He seems so harmless at this moment. His features are calm, open — a stark contrast to anything you’ve experienced recently.

It’s like a small step in the shadows, slowly but surely leading you towards the light.

Your eyes then follow his every step, leaving the open kitchen and passing between the living room sofa and the few small furniture holding lamps and other personal objects to which he pays little attention. Just one of his glances, however, manages to catch your attention.

Having approached the area of the wall you’re leaning against, Professor Fushiguro catches his gaze on the picture frames hanging on the wall. He halts his steps and stops at one photo in particular — one that makes your heart beat much faster than the reason for this proximity between the two of them.

The photo is one of many, you would have explained, but that would have been a lie.

In the shot, you appear in the middle, much younger than you are today. Two adults wrap their arms around your shoulders, staring straight ahead at Fushiguro and yourself, grinning from ear to ear — especially yours.

A woman stands to your right. The same smile to match, and the same expression and warmth that form your features.

The man on your right has the same smile, albeit with a different feel. He looks as much like you as he is different. His irises emanate a determination, a will of his own that can be recognized in your gaze.

The three figures are bundled up in winter coats with garish red scarves. The moment frozen. Impossible to erase.

“Is this your family?” Toji articulates in a low voice. He gives you a quick glance before returning his attention to the shot, eyebrows arched a hair’s breadth in concentration.

You nod, without adding to what you might have done to find out exactly where they are. You don’t feel like talking anymore. You might as well talk about every possible subject, but not this one.

So you turn your head away and whisper instead, praying that he’ll take his eyes off the pictures, “Professor...”

He turns to you, the distance between you two now reduced to a meter or so.

“Now... do you think we can really make peace?” you whisper so low that he has to read your lips to reply with the same even timbre.

“I... suppose so, yes.” He shoves his hands into his jogging suit pockets, meeting your gaze with a gleam that throws you off balance for a second.

Could this be vulnerability?

You shake the idea from your head and close your eyes for a moment. It couldn’t be. Not from the coldest person you’ve met in weeks.

So you simply nod, savoring this exchange of simple, sweet words spoken with all the simplicity in the world.

“How did you get my phone number, anyway?” you ask as he moves ahead of you towards the door.

He stops, his hand around the handle, but doesn’t turn it immediately.

He half turns his head to face you. “Higuruma has passed on to me some of the candidates’ files for the work-study offer so that I can make recommendations on the best files and those to avoid.” He pauses briefly. “I took the opportunity to get your number, as you’ve been pretending to be dead and I was afraid someone would come after me,” he adds with a tiny, sarcastic smile.

You feel the red creep up your cheeks before mumbling a soft ‘okay’.

You walk him out of your apartment and stop at the door. Your eyes remain fixed on his back as he walks down the hall towards the elevator.

A twinge tingles in the stupid organ that serves as your heart.

“Professor?”

He stops without turning around.

You hesitate for a second before blurting out, “You know we shouldn’t have met, right?”

He deliberately turns around, his emerald irises plunging into yours as if into the deepest abyss as his words — though spoken in a low voice — echo as loudly and far down the corridor as they do in your mind.

They mark something inside you that he’s letting you glimpse.

A crack in your teacher, so impervious to communication or anything to do with you.

He purses his lips, slightly hesitant, before declaring gruffly:

“I’ve never had any luck, troublemaker. No matter who I meet, I destroy everything I touch.”

~~~~

In the night, owls hoot in turn. The deep blue sky inks the sky, the wind’s breath caresses the branches and leaves of the trees as if to lull them to sleep. A few timid stars sparkle in the sky.

Tonight, you’re wrapped up in your warm blankets, looking for sleep that has deserted you for long hours. It's impossible to sleep in such brooding silence.

Your phone, resting on your bedside table, turns on and displays a new message notification after vibrating one time. 

The heart swelled with a bubble of hope, you immediately grab your phone to read the contents and the recipient. Despite the apparent disappointment on your face, a smile blooms on your lips in the darkness of the room. It’s not the one you were hoping to read, but that doesn't make the message any less valuable.

Satoru: awake?

You: what’s up?

One minute later, he replies:

Satoru: ready to watch us play? (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

You chuckle softly, an even bigger smile stretching your cheeks without you having any control over it. Then you answer:

You: more than ready

❦ a/n: lmaooooo 😂​😭​ okay okay, i’m very sorry guys for this. it’ll be soon almost a year since i haven’t updated this series but hey, we’re here now, aren’t we? 🥹 ahem, anyway funfact: i wanted to give to toji a perfume signature, so i went to sephora today and asked a salewoman (she was so sweet <3) to help me and here came my choice of Myself by YSL. the scent is extra toji, i swear! i couldn’t choose anything so if you’re curious, check at their stores! :)

i hope you guys enjoyed this part 2 and i’ll try my best to write the part 3 asap (i even started it)! (i tagged some ppl who commented on the last part and where enjoying it so i won’t feel too bad but i won’t do it for the following parts haha.)

if you want to be added in the tag list, just tell me on the series masterlist and i’ll tag you for sure!! (PUT YOUR AGE IN BIO) thank you all for reading this story <3 it means really the world to me :)

likes and reblogs are very appreciated!

❦ tags: @sutaagaaru @skunabby @mionedray @ssetsuka @zara-zara11 @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @anathemaspeaks @hawt-dilf-sycker11 @lymsfm

@drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wawuwe

@bearwithmoo @mutsu422

@sanemistar @monokaix

[queenofmorningstar]

See You in Hell

Lucifer x Overlord! f! Reader

Summary: A Satanist believer in life, you'd hoped to meet Lucifer who'd fight for the sinners...but what happens when he's not what you expected?

CW: Eventual Smut, Slowburn kinda??. Modern Satanism beliefs (no cannibalism of children type of shit sorry😔), Religious Themes & Imagery. Canon–Typical Violence, Reader has shitty life when alive, Human! reader death, Angst/no Comfort (in this part). Reader manipulates for her own benefit (she’s an overlord, smh)

Word Count: 2.5K

Part 1| Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5| Part 6| Part 7| Part 8

CHAPTER ONE

It had rained the night before, and the sidewalks still shimmered with thin puddles that reflected the colourless sky. You walked with your hands in pockets, head bowed.

Another rejection email this morning. Another unpaid bill. Another voicemail from your mother, heavy with disappointment even in its silence. You hadn’t answered. What was the point? The world had grown dull around the edges—everything grey, everything pointless. You were only out for a walk because you couldn't stand the inside of your apartment anymore. 

That’s when you saw it.

A crooked, weather-worn table stood at the end of a cracked driveway, soaked cardboard signs taped to its legs: FREE STUFF in uneven marker. The yard sale was clearly long abandoned. Most of what remained was garbage…a chipped coffee mug, broken costume jewellery, yellowed paperback novels with curling covers. But something tugged at you as you trudged ahead.

Wedged beneath a stack of waterlogged magazines was a book. It sat right in the centre, dry despite the damp area, like the rain had avoided it on purpose. Black as soot, no title on the spine or author. Just an inverted pentagram etched into the front in faded gold. 

You opened the cover. The pages were handwritten in fluid, elegant, crimson ink, almost... alive. You looked around. No one was watching. No one would miss it.

It started small.

You read the first chapter that night, sitting on your bed with the book propped in your lap. The words didn’t ask you to repent.

They didn’t tell you were broken. They didn’t demand blind obedience, or sacrifice, or guilt. Instead, they looked you dead in the eye and said: You are not evil for wanting. It taught you to believe in yourself, and all the flaws that made you human. To worship yourself first.

By the end of the week, you’d underlined passages, scribbled thoughts in the margins, whispered some of the manifestation rituals and lines.   

And slowly, so subtly you didn’t notice at first, things began to change.

You started saying no . To your mother’s guilt-laced messages. To your boss’s passive-aggressive overtime requests. To the voice in your head that told you were worthless if you weren't constantly bleeding for others.

Your laughter came back—sharp, unapologetic. Dared to look happy without apologizing for it.

Death was a whisper. But when you opened your eyes again…

The sky was red, like an endless sunset bled out. Neon lights flickered with glitchy menace, towering buildings leaned at impossible angles, and demonic figures strolled by as casually as humans in a shopping mall. Somewhere distant, a scream turned into laughter. Gunfire sounded like music.

Hell. You had made it . No chains dragged you down or demons who wanted to throw you in flames. For the first time, you were home.

You didn’t become an Overlord through brute strength alone. That was never your style.

You watched first. Studied the other overlords around you. How they schemed, how they fought, how they fell.You played the long game. Befriended sinners, made them feel safe. Gained their trust, learned their secrets. You brokered deals between rival factions, only to sabotage both and seize the aftermath for yourself. 

You didn’t need to shout to be feared. You let others speak for you. Let paranoia do your work. By the time you claimed your territory, you hadn’t just proven yourself ruthless. You’d proven yourself untouchable .

_______________________

Your assistant, an imp in a pressed black suit, rattled off tasks at a speed that made your temples throb. "—and the blood-trade deal with the Sloth Ring still needs your seal. Oh! And the emissary from Sector 7 is furious that you flayed his envoy last week—"

"He interrupted me, " you said dryly.

"—still, they’re demanding reparations." She continued onwards, scrolling through her tablet.“And your new tax policies have incited a small rebellion in the Lower Slums. Very passionate. Pitchforks. Fire. The works.”

“How quaint,” you murmured. “Tell them I’m touched, and send a response.”

“A… response?”

“Impale him. Let’s see him respawn after that.”

The imp shrugged and typed rapidly. You leaned your cheek against your knuckles, expression unreadable. This was the part of ruling you loathed—dealing with the stupidity of lesser sinners.

Before your assistant could launch into another rant about soul quotas, your door slammed open with a thunderous crack. A sinner stumbled in, panting, eyes wild. Your assistant beside you snarled, wings flaring. “How dare you barge in unannounced!”

You recognized the sinner, one of the spies you had in every district.

“Speak,” you commanded, your voice low but impossible to disobey.

“We found him, ma’am. Lucifer Morningstar,” she said. “He’s chosen to remain at the Hotel for the time being. To assist his daughter. Which complicates things.”

Your mind fixated on it instantly. Your pulse spiked, but you kept your face neutral. Lucifer. The Morning Star. The First Rebel. The one whose name you had whispered in every prayer when the world above had turned its back on you. When you were alone. You had whispered his name not in reverence, but in solidarity. You both were seen as social outcasts, always kept at the side-lines. You wanted to know…did he feel the same rage as you? Was their grief identical?

You had never seen him, not once since you arrived. So you had wanted—selfishly and hopelessly—to meet him. You had almost given up, and you had come to theorize that maybe Hell was a living entity and it was protecting its king. 

Was he still a dreamer? Still infuriatingly brilliant, and beautiful in the way only fallen things could be?

Now you had a way in. A reason to be in his orbit. You smiled, and felt alive more than ever. "Clear my schedule; I have a visit to make."

_______________________

The Hazbin Hotel exterior was a tall, elaborate amalgamation of arched windows and turrets. It was the princess herself who opened the door. “Hi there!” Charlie chirped, turning with a wide, happy grin. “Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! Are you here for… redemption?” she offered, hopeful.

That word always came with a foul taste. You arched a brow, amused. “Redemption? No, darling. I didn’t come here to seek salvation. I don’t beg for anything from heaven. Hell is my home.”

Charlie blinked. “Oh! Sorry—I just thought, since our guests—”

You waved dismissively. “I’m here as a patron.”

Charlie’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “A... patron?”

“Yes, yes. Your hotel is….utterly fascinating.” You walked ahead. “You’ve made quite the splash, and well, I love where the action is. And I wouldn’t mind killing exorcist filth myself.”

Charlie regained her composure as best she could, straightening her jacket and stepping ahead with you. “Well, I—um—thank you! I mean, wow! If you don’t mind me asking–”

“Charlie,” Vaggie said sharply, her voice low but insistent. “Can I talk to you? Now.”

Charlie looked over, startled. “Can it wait a second?”

“No,” Vaggie said, her gaze flicking towards you. “It really can’t.”

Charlie gave you an apologetic glance. “Excuse me—just a moment.”

You only gave a graceful nod. Charlie followed Vaggie a few feet away toward the stairs. Not out of earshot, but just far enough to pretend it was private.

“What is it?” Charlie whispered.

“That’s her ,” Vaggie said, her voice tight. “You know who that is, right?”

Charlie blinked. “I mean… no?”

“That’s the Overlord who took over that chaotic district without a single army and made it her own, a feat no one has ever achieved. She’s manipulative, calculated, and terrifyingly efficient. No one knows how she got to where she is so fast. Some say she made a deal with something worse. Others say she is that something.”

“But she wants to be a patron,” she whispered. “Isn’t that good? ”

“No, Charlie,” Vaggie cut in. “It means she wants something. She doesn’t set foot anywhere unless there’s leverage to gain.”

Charlie chewed her lip, clearly torn. “She hasn’t done anything wrong…”

“Yet,” Vaggie snapped. “You want my advice? Send her away. Nicely. Now. Before she decides to get interested. Because once she’s interested, she stays. ”

Charlie looked back again. Your eyes met Charlie’s across the room and you smiled, not cruelly, just knowingly. But still, she said, “No. We don’t turn people away, Vaggie. If she wants to be here, we let her. That’s the point.”

Charlie turned and walked back towards you, heart pounding. She wasn’t naïve but still… she believed. When Charlie finally returned, still smiling, if a little stiff around the edges.

“Would it be too forward to ask for a tour?” you asked. 

Charlie perked up immediately. “Oh! Sure! That’d be wonderful. I’d love to show you what we’re building here.”

You offered a gracious nod. “Lead the way, then.”

“Well, well!” came a voice as the shadows manifested. “Isn’t this a surprise!”

Charlie froze mid-step. A familiar radio-static chuckle fizzled through the air as Alastor stepped into view, smile stretched wide. You turned with the same calm grace, expression unreadable, save for the faintest curve of interest on your lips. “Ah, the famous Radio Demon. I was wondering where you’d crawl out after seven years.”

Alastor’s grin twitched, just slightly. 

Charlie laughed nervously. “You two know each other?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Alastor said smoothly. “We’ve danced around each other a time or two. Power attracts power, after all. Though some of us do prefer to announce ourselves.”

You gave a soft, amused smile. “And some of us don’t need to.”

Charlie looked between them, increasingly unsure if this was a joke or something far more dangerous.

“I must say,” Alastor continued, tone still light, “it’s charming that you’ve taken an interest in our humble little rehabilitation effort. Not quite your usual flavor, though. Redemption always struck me as far too... tender for your palate.”

“I have varied tastes,” you replied. “And a fondness for lost causes.” Your smile was saccharine sweet. “Anyhow, Charlie needs more people to have her back after the last extermination attempt. And after your display of ‘battle’ with Adam, let's just say…that wouldn’t be me.”

Charlie felt the air grow a little colder. Not freezing but sharp, like the moment before a storm breaks. She quickly stepped between them, smiling tightly. “Okay! So, I see you two are… acquainted. That’s great. Really great. But, uh, we were just about to start the tour, so—”

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting,” Alastor said, bowing low with a mock flourish. “Please. Show our mysterious benefactor around.”

His smile sharpened as he straightened. He vanished into the hall, a trail of static humming in his wake. You turned to Charlie, expression once again composed. “I’m beginning to like this place already.”

_______________________

The muffled sound of their conversation faded as they moved deeper into the hotel. Back in the lobby, silence lingered for a beat longer than it should have. “Okay, what the hell just happened?” Angel Dust muttered, eyes still fixed on the empty hallway. “Did I just watch two Overlords flirt or declare war?”

Niffty popped her head up from behind a nearby couch she had been scrubbing furiously just moments earlier. “I don’t think that was flirting,” she said, blinking. “The pretty lady looked ready to slit Alastor’s throat.”

Husk, who had been quietly nursing something strong in a stained glass, glanced up with a grunt. “She’s trouble. Big kind.”

Angel leaned forward, expression sharpening. “So what’s the play? She’s classy, scary, the whole femme fatale thing. But what’s she doing here? Nobody drops here for charity.”

“She said she was a patron,” Niffty raised her hand as if answering a teacher.

“Right,” Angel said, eyes narrowing. “Because Overlords are always just feeling generous. I give it three days before something explodes.”

“Three?” Husk scoffed. “You’re generous.”

“I try.”

*

Charlie was still speaking. You nodded absently, gaze roving past half-cleaned windows and dusty corners. Then Charlie’s face lit up, brighter than you'd seen. “Dad!”

The word rang out like a bell. Your heartbeat spiked. Finally.

Lucifer.

Your mind spiralled inward like a lock turning with a perfect key. This was why you’d come. You had imagined this more times than you could count. But what you got was—

“Mmnhhgh…”

Lucifer shuffled out of a side hallway, yawning like he was just roused from a hangover. His hair was tousled in wild blond tufts, sticking up in odd angles like he’d fought a pillow and lost. He wore a duck-print loose shirt with matching pyjama pants. In one hand was a coffee mug that read, Duck Daddy .

He blinked blearily at Charlie. “Did someone say breakfast?” he mumbled.

Lucifer raised the mug to his lips and took a long, grating sip.

You stood still, frozen with a poise born of sheer will. Internally, something in you reeled. Your anticipation twisted like a knife. This was him ?

Charlie gestured between them eagerly. “Dad, this is _________,  And she wants to help the hotel!”

This... this was it?

He hadn’t even looked at you properly. You’d heard rumours, of course. That it was Lucifer who allowed the extermination of sinners, but you’d chosen to find an excuse for it, that maybe he was pressured or something more was at play. But now that you’d seen him, you knew it in your bones that he didn’t care. 

And you hated him for it. 

You’d imagined yourself by his side. Your divine purpose. But he was just a man. It wasn’t that you had expected perfection , no. But this disinterest, this casual disregard, made you feel as though staring at a faded replica.

“Forgive me,” you said quietly. “Would you mind if I stepped out? I just need a moment. Alone.”

Charlie blinked. “Oh—of course! Um, do you want someone to—?”

“No. Thank you.” You tried not to run away.

*

“Did I say something?” Lucifer asked, scratching his head. 

Charlie frowned. “No… it wasn’t that. She looked… upset. Disappointed.”

Lucifer’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t even introduced himself properly. Just… waddled in like a fool.

He let out a long breath through his nose and rubbed a hand over his face. Here he was again. Upsetting Charlie’s first patron. Making a bad impression. Failing, once more, to be the Lucifer Morningstar that anyone expected.

He had promised himself that he would help Charlie now that he was staying with her. But it was easier said than done. He couldn’t find the motivation to wake up from the bed, or create anything new and though he wanted to help his daughter, the idea of redeeming sinners was still absurd to him… 

You had looked at him . Seen him and left. He let out a slow, humourless breath. Why did it sting? He hadn’t even said anything. His mind spiralled inward, dark and familiar. The voice was always waiting there. They always leave, eventually. 

He hadn’t even wanted to come down this morning. But Charlie had asked. Come down, Dad. Say hello. Try.

He was always trying, wasn’t he? Trying to believe in her dream. Trying to support her. Trying to pretend he still had the spark she thought was buried.

But in truth? He believed in his daughter, of course. But these sinners ? He had fought and pleaded for them. For their right to choose. To create. To love freely whoever they chose.

And they spat in that freedom. They killed and lied and committed unspeakable acts. Turned free will into rot. He was stuck in a cage of his own making, watching them ruin everything all over again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes: Both Lucifer and Reader are going to work through their shit, trust me.

I’ve researched satanism to the best of my ability, and if you want to read more on it, read here.

Inspired by this post by dear @atlantis-just-drowned

On my ao3 as well ☺️

Do leave likes and comments, cuz it fuels my soul to write more and cuz I've praise kink like everyone else

Do let me know if you wanna be tagged!!

Also thank you for 200 followers!! It makes me overjoyed!

Next>>>

[brownsugarcoffy]

Soul & Sanguine

Summary

1976. Chicago.

Jackie Dubois, a confident and ambitious woman from a small town in North Carolina, has come to the city with big dreams of making a name for herself. But her reality is far from the glamorous Hollywood life she imagined. She’s stuck working as a waitress at The Pharaoh’s Den, an exclusive nightclub with an electric vibe and a dark undercurrent. The club’s owner, Elias "Stacks" Moore, is every bit the enigma—smooth-talking, dangerous, and impossible to ignore. On the outside, he’s just another businessman, but behind the scenes? He’s a vampire who rules a world of blood, power, and temptation.

As Jackie gets drawn deeper into the tantalizing and dangerous world of the club, she starts to realize there’s far more at play than she ever imagined. Stacks sees something in her—something he’s willing to help her cultivate, but at a cost. He offers her a deal: the chance to rise to the stardom she’s always dreamed of, but accepting it means stepping into a world of darkness, immortality, and secrets she isn’t prepared for.

Characters: Jackie Dubois(OC) x Stacks" Elias" Moore (Vampire/ 70's gangster)

Warning: Blood, Vulgar Language, Violence, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (2) , PART (3)

A/N: Although Smoke got hold on me. Lol I been thinking about how Stacks gave pimp and rolling stone energy in Sinners. This gave me the idea to write something with a Blaxploitation vibe to it.

‐----‐‐‐---------‐--------------------------------------------------------

The Pharaoh’s Den was alive. Funk music hummed in the air, a pulsating rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the city. The heavy scent of cigar smoke mixed with the sharp tang of whiskey and perfume, filling the club with a sense of both luxury and danger. Jackie Dubois moved effortlessly through the crowd, and her tray of drinks balanced with practiced ease. The night was just beginning, and every step she took brought her closer to her dream: Hollywood. But first, she had to make the money, the connections—get noticed.

She wasn’t new to this life. She’d worked in enough dives and clubs to know how to survive in a world that wasn’t always kind to women like her. But there was something about The Pharaoh’s Den that felt different. It wasn’t just the thick, electric vibe in the air or the sharp glances that followed her every move—it was the way the place seemed to pulse with an unspoken power, as if the club itself had a secret it wasn’t sharing with her. And tonight, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was getting closer to discovering it.

Back in the dressing room, Marietta was getting ready for her set, applying bold red lipstick and adjusting her shimmering costume. Her cousin was the star of the club’s go-go dancers, her body a perfect blend of seduction and power. Marietta had been dancing here for months, her movements fluid and hypnotic, commanding the crowd’s attention with every beat of the music. She was the one who had gotten J. the job at The Pharaoh’s Den, promising her that the hustle would pay off.

“This is where the real connections are, J. You gotta stick with it,” she’d said, her eyes always sparkling with ambition.

Jackie watched her cousin for a moment, the way she moved with effortless grace, the confidence she exuded as she prepared for her stage time. Marietta had the kind of magnetic presence that made heads turn, but Jackie. wasn’t sure if that was the path she wanted. She didn’t want to dance for men’s pleasure—she was here for something more. But tonight, it seemed like something else was in the air. The energy was thick with tension, and Jackie wasn’t the only one feeling it.

The sound of the music grew louder as Marietta slipped into her stage outfit—tight, sequined, and glittering under the dim lights. She shot Jackie. a wink in the mirror before grabbing a feathered fan and turning to leave the dressing room.

“Make sure you don’t let those pigs walk all over you tonight,” Marietta teased with a grin, her voice full of knowing humor.

Jackie laughed and nodded. “I got this. You just go out there and do your thing.”

But even as Marietta walked out of the room, J. couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight might be different.

Jackie moved out to the floor, taking orders from the tables in her usual manner—graceful, efficient, a perfect blend of warmth and distance. She had no time for distractions, especially from the men who seemed to think they could treat her like an object. Her mind was on her goal—money for the Hollywood dream. She wasn’t here to entertain anyone. But tonight, as the evening rolled on, the tension only grew.

As she passed a table near the back, she felt the eyes of the men on her before she even saw them. They were rough, hard-edged, the kind of men who didn’t have to say much to make their presence known. And she could tell right away that these men were trouble.

One of them, a burly man with a scruffy beard and gold chains hanging from his neck, leaned forward and called out to her with a thick drawl.

“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice low but dripping with something she didn’t like. “How ‘bout another drink?”

She kept walking, eyes straight ahead. She was used to men like him—loud, overbearing, trying to take control with their money and their bravado. She wasn’t interested.

“Can I take your order, sir?” she said, her voice smooth but firm, her tone making it clear that she wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

But the man wasn’t done. He smiled like he knew something she didn’t. “Come on, girl. You ain’t got anywhere else to be. Bring me another whiskey, and maybe we’ll talk.”

Jackie didn’t stop, didn’t falter. She just kept walking, grabbing the whiskey from the bar and heading back in the direction of the table. But as she neared, the man’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist with a force that made her freeze.

“Now hold on a second, baby,” he slurred. “I said, come here. Don’t ignore me.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, a rush of anger and adrenaline flooding her veins. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away immediately, but something inside her snapped. She didn’t work in places like this to be grabbed, to be made to feel small.

Her eyes locked onto his, cold and steady. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice cutting through the air with an edge that was impossible to ignore.

Before the man could respond, a voice, low and commanding, rang out from across the table. It was calm, controlled—nothing like the drunk banter that filled the club.

“That’s enough.”

She turned her head instinctively, searching for the source of the voice. A man sat at the center of the table, his presence like a shadow in the dim light. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, and his black hair was slicked back with practiced ease. His expression was unreadable, his eyes—sharp, calculating—locked onto hers.

The man who had grabbed her wrist quickly pulled his hand back, muttering an apology. But the newcomer didn’t even look at him. His gaze never left Jackie's.

“You’re new here,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet but carrying a tone that demanded attention. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement.

She felt a chill run down her spine. She stood her ground, the whiskey still in her hand. “That’s right,” she answered, her tone sharp. “I’m just here to do my job.”

The man leaned back in his chair, still studying her with that cool, detached look. “Maybe you should learn the rules of The Pharaoh’s Den before you go around talking back,” he said, his voice cold and dismissive.

“Here, we serve the customers. No one talks back to my crew.”

Her pulse quickened. “I’m not here to be anyone’s servant,” she retorted, her voice rising slightly. “I’ll serve drinks, but I’m not anyone’s toy.”

For the first time, a flicker of something crossed the man’s face—an unreadable expression, like he was sizing her up, weighing her defiance. But his lips stayed curled in that faint, almost amused smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’ll learn fast enough,” he said, his voice turning to ice. “Now, get back to work. This is my club, and you’re just a part of it. Understand?”

Jackie's chest tightened, but she didn’t back down. She was used to being talked down to, but this felt different. The way he spoke, the way his presence seemed to suck the air out of the room—it unsettled her.

She opened her mouth to retort, to tell him just who she thought he was, but before she could speak, the man waved his hand dismissively, turning his attention back to the conversation with his crew. As if she were nothing.

She didn’t move right away. For a moment, she just stood there, trying to process what had just happened. This man—who the hell was he? Why did everyone listen to him like that?

Still seething, Jackie turned on her heel, walking away, but her mind was a whirl of frustration. She’d just been dismissed by a stranger who clearly had some kind of control over this place—and worse, he had made it clear that he expected everyone here to follow his rules. She wasn’t used to being told what to do, especially by someone who didn’t even have the decency to introduce himself.

As she reached the bar, she could feel his eyes on her, heavy and lingering. She didn’t look back, but she could feel it, that strange, magnetic pull. She didn’t know who he was, but she was certain of one thing: This man had just made his mark on her night.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had just crossed paths with the devil who ran The Pharaoh’s Den, the man who controlled not just the club but a world of power, secrets, and blood that no one outside the shadows would ever understand.

And Elias? He wasn’t done with her just yet.....

TAGLIST:

[kyunghwannie]

❝ Canvas Confidential ❞

Son Chaeyoung x M!Reader

➤ Tags: Paint Play/Body Art Kink (using paint as foreplay — on skin), Hair Pulling, Against the Wall Sex (Contain's throat hold), Face-Sitting, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk (Minimal), Creampie, Marking, Overstimulation, Anal Sex, Spit Play, Orgasm Denial, Rough Grinding, Soft-Dom!Chaeyoung (not full dom/sub, but she’s the one driving the fire tonight), Nipple Play, Sex on the Canvas.

➤ Setting: A secret underground art exhibit in Seoul — invite-only, showcasing anonymous artists who express “hidden desires” through experimental art. ➤ Note: Hehe, This is just a 2 am random thought i had while fantasizing Chaengie. So have it. It's nothing too major special? (Spoiler: And if anyone tease me about the name "Teddy Noir", iam gonna cry)

You (Y/N) are a renowned but anonymous visual artist known for raw, sensual portraits—faces never shown, but the emotions always screaming through paint. Your pieces are featured under the name "Teddy Noir" (a nod to your soft-yet-dark duality).

You receive a mysterious handwritten invitation for a private session in one of the exhibit’s "collaboration booths" — where two artists (anonymous, face-hidden) must co-create a piece over 3 hours, communicating only through art and body language, no speaking allowed.

You walk in… and across from you, the other artist? She’s wearing a paint-stained apron, low cap, and a smirk: Chaeyoung. You don’t recognize each other at first — just two anonymous creatives. But her brushstrokes are fiery, teasing, and intimate. Her energy flirts with yours through every color she lays on the canvas.

---

The elevator rattled as it descended deep beneath Seoul’s glitzy streets — past the subway lines, past the forgotten storage levels. No floor numbers, just the hum of old machinery and red neon leaking through the cracks of the steel doors.

You clutched the black envelope tighter in your hand — matte paper, wax-sealed with a single initial: C.

Inside it, just five words in scratchy gold ink: “Create. Feel. Reveal. No Names.”

You’d heard whispers of this place. The Veritas Gallery. An invite-only exhibit hidden in the veins of the city, where artists abandoned rules, reputations, and reason. The elevator dinged. The doors creaked open into dim light and velvet black walls. An attendant in a fox mask handed you a thin earpiece and whispered, “Booth Seven. No speech. Just soul.”

You walked past the main floor — already surrounded by surreal sculptures, cryptic murals, and shadowy figures sipping champagne like sinners in a cathedral. Booth Seven waited behind a curtain. Inside: low lights, a canvas six feet tall, brushes, paints, chalk, charcoal. One chair. One mirror.

And across from it — already standing there, sleeves rolled, cap low, smirking with her eyes only — was her.

A petite woman with ink-stained fingers, a nose ring, and an aura like wildfire. She didn’t say a word. She dipped her fingers into crimson paint, dragged them slowly across the canvas, and glanced at you with challenge and mischief.

You felt it instantly: this wasn’t going to be about art. It was going to be about exposure.

Chapter 1: Crimson Strokes

There was no music. No voices. Just the faint crackle of a vintage filament bulb overhead and the sound of wet paint being spread across canvas.

Chaeyoung hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to.

Her brush moved like it had a heartbeat, every stroke deliberate — curved, bold, unpredictable. She wasn’t painting a picture. She was teasing a presence into existence.

You leaned against the side table, eyes following her hands instead of her face. There was something reckless about the way she smeared the crimson paint with her palm, like she didn’t care about the rules of composition — only the feeling.

She glanced at you once, smirking under her cap.

You smirked back and picked up a charcoal stick.

The two of you painted in silence. Separate at first.

You sketched an outline — shoulders, a spine, not quite male, not quite female. She layered thick smears of color, none of them staying inside your lines. Her red bled into your black. You countered with strokes of gray. She answered with gold.

It was less collaboration, more collision.

She tilted her head as she worked, her lips slightly parted. The kind of face someone makes when they’re either in deep concentration… or deliberately putting on a show.

Your eyes wandered to the ink on her wrist. Tiny tattoos — waves, a flower, maybe a word too smudged to read. Her apron was speckled with past work, but underneath, her shirt clung to her in the heat. The neckline hung low.

She caught you staring.

She raised a brow, then dipped her brush into a darker red — wine, almost blood — and flicked it toward your side of the canvas. Tiny splatters kissed your hand.

You laughed silently. She smiled, but didn’t break rhythm.

At some point, the two of you found the same tempo. Your charcoal circled around her colors. Her brush glided between your lines. You weren’t just painting anymore. You were dancing. Communicating.

Teasing.

One hour in, she stepped back, breathing a little heavier. The piece was half-done — a chaotic portrait of motion, of skin without faces, of passion without clarity.

You put your charcoal down and looked at her.

She didn’t look away.

Her cap shadowed most of her face, but you could see the edge of her lip rise — almost like a challenge.

Then, breaking every rule, you spoke.

“Is it you that’s painting me…” you said, voice low, “or am I the one painting you?”

A pause.

Chaeyoung stepped closer, dipped two fingers into gold, and smeared them across your wrist.

Then she whispered — voice soft but electric:

“What if we’re both unfinished?”

You stared at her fingers on your wrist — gold smudged against your skin like a claim.

There was something about her that haunted you now. The way she moved, the confidence in her silence, the way she treated art like a secret being exhaled. It wasn’t just talent. It was recognition.

You knew that hand. That posture. That energy.

Your mind raced through memories like torn pages — interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, live stages — and then it hit you.

The tattoos.

The flower. The script on her forearm.

You hadn’t seen them in person before, but millions had. Broadcasted, admired, printed on photo cards. You’d studied them before for an old commission project — one JYP never ended up releasing.

Your eyes lifted, slowly, past her wrist, past the apron. You took in her jawline, the soft piercings, the slight dimple that only appeared when she was trying not to smile.

No cap could hide her now.

“...You’re Chaeyoung,” you said quietly.

She froze, but only for a second. Then her smile curved fully this time — no longer teasing, but knowing.

“And here I thought the anonymity was mutual,” she said, not denying a thing.

You took a step back, not out of discomfort, but awe. “Why would you even come here? You don’t need this gallery.”

“I didn’t come for the gallery.” Her voice was soft. “I came for the artist.”

That made your heart stutter.

She walked past the canvas, slowly, until you stood shoulder to shoulder. She smelled faintly of turpentine and lavender — rawness and warmth in one breath.

“I’ve been watching your pieces since last winter,” she admitted, fingers trailing along the edge of the canvas. “Teddy Noir, right? Your art... feels like confession. Every brushstroke says something you’d never dare speak out loud.”

You swallowed. She wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t made a single piece under that name without bleeding into it.

“I needed to know if it was real,” she added, looking up at you. “If the person behind all that chaos... could look me in the eye.”

And then she did. Fully.

No cap. No shadow.

Just Son Chaeyoung, one of the most iconic idols in the world, standing in an underground booth, baring her artistic soul to yours.

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

So instead, you picked up your charcoal and slowly extended it to her — not as an offering, but as a continuation.

She took it.

And without another word, you both returned to the canvas.

But the air had changed.

This was no longer two strangers painting in the dark.

This was Chaeyoung.

And somehow… she already saw you more clearly than anyone ever had.

You had never heard silence so loud.

The booth was still — just the soft clicks of brushes being set down, the low hum of warm gallery lights, and your heartbeat in your throat.

Chaeyoung hadn’t touched the canvas again.

Instead, she leaned against the far wall now, arms crossed, still in her apron, gaze pinned on you like you were the final piece she hadn’t figured out yet.

“You didn’t ask me why I wanted to paint with you,” she said.

You turned, meeting her eyes. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to speak.”

She tilted her head with a sly grin. “That rule broke the second you called me by name.”

You smiled, but there was something behind her tone — a raw edge. A kind of truth she was dancing around but hadn’t voiced yet.

So you asked.

“…Why did you want to paint with me?”

She exhaled, her smirk slipping into something more vulnerable.

“Because,” she said, stepping forward slowly, “every time I see one of your pieces, I feel like I’m being looked at. Not as an idol. Not as Chaeyoung-from-TWICE. But as… me. The real me. The messy, impulsive, selfish, restless me.”

You didn’t move. You just listened.

She kept coming closer, voice softer now.

“And I wanted to know if you could still paint like that… if the person was right in front of you. If your hands would tremble. If your lines would blur.”

She stopped just inches away.

“Because mine did.”

You didn’t even notice you’d been holding your breath until you finally exhaled — shaky, unsteady.

Chaeyoung reached up, fingers brushing a smear of charcoal off your cheek. She didn’t look away. Her hand lingered, then fell slowly to your chest.

“Does it scare you?” she asked. “Being seen like this?”

Your voice dropped. “Only when I want to be touched, too.”

There was no kiss yet. No rush.

Just the electric distance between two people who had already stripped each other bare through art… and now stood fully clothed, yet completely exposed.

You glanced toward the canvas.

The painting was chaotic. Sensual. Raw. A mirror of every word you hadn’t said and every emotion she couldn’t perform on stage.

Her fingers slid from your chest to your wrist again, gently tracing that same gold-stained line she’d made before.

“…We can leave it unfinished,” she whispered, almost breathless. “Or we can make it the one piece we never show anyone.”

You met her gaze. The decision was already made.

You reached behind her and flipped the “Occupied” sign on the booth door.

Then you turned off the lights — leaving only the soft glow of the canvas behind you.

The lights were off.

But neither of you moved.

Only the canvas glowed behind you — a beacon of truth, passion, and secrets neither of you had intended to reveal.

You felt Chaeyoung’s fingers tighten slightly around your wrist.

“You know,” she said, “I saw it before I ever met you. That piece in the gallery last year. The one of the girl sitting alone in the empty green room. Her eyes were tired. Her posture was strong. But she looked like she wanted someone to wait for her.”

You blinked. You knew the one. “Unvoiced No. 7.”

It wasn’t meant to be anyone specific. But the moment she spoke, you realized it was her.

Your version of her. Or at least, the version you imagined — tired from the idol life, brave but craving something quiet, something real.

“I stared at it for ten minutes,” she admitted. “No plaque, no name. Just that feeling. I thought—whoever painted this knows what it feels like to be seen but not known.”

She let out a shaky breath.

“And then I realized... it looked like me.”

Your heart twisted. That piece had been born from fragments — fan cams, behind-the-scenes clips, rare candid smiles. You hadn’t painted Chaeyoung, the idol. You’d painted the girl behind her. The one who seemed like she carried words in her eyes that never made it to her lips.

“There was another one,” she continued, stepping closer, “a soft one. A girl on a rooftop, looking up — not posing. Just… hoping. That one looked like Dahyun.”

You swallowed. Unvoiced No. 4.

You’d created those portraits as a silent admirer — not a hardcore fan, but someone who listened between the noise. The expressions weren’t copied. They were imagined. Interpretations of what TWICE members might dream of when the cameras were off.

Your voice finally returned. “I never expected anyone from TWICE to see those.”

“I didn’t just see them,” she said, stepping closer again. “I felt them. You painted the lives we can’t post. The feelings we can’t express. And you did it without ever touching us.”

She looked up at you.

“So now I need to know, Y/N… if you can paint me like that… what happens when you actually have me?”

The room turned silent again — but not empty.

Your hand lifted, brushing a stray paint smear from her cheek.

“I wasn’t trying to expose you,” you said, voice low. “I was trying to protect you. Even if you never knew.”

Her lips parted, her breath catching at the rawness in your voice.

“Then don’t protect me now,” she whispered. “Not here. Not when I want to be known.”

The moment snapped.

Your fingers cupped her jaw, guiding her in. And when her lips met yours, it wasn’t desperate. It was reverent. Like an answer to the questions your art had been asking for years.

Your bodies leaned into each other like brush to canvas — soft at first, tentative, but hungry for more.

The kiss deepened slowly.

And as the paint-stained apron fell to the floor…

…the real portrait finally began.

The moment her lips met yours, the world outside the dimly lit studio ceased to exist. The only light came from the glow of the half-finished canvas behind you—a chaotic blend of your colors, your strokes, your hunger—casting long shadows that danced across Chaeyoung’s face as she pulled back just enough to smirk at you.

"Mmh… so this is what you taste like," she murmured, her thumb dragging across your bottom lip, smearing a streak of crimson paint she’d stolen from the palette. "Kinda sweet. Kinda… needy."

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering as her fingers trailed down your throat, leaving a cool, wet trail of paint in their wake.

"Chaeyoung—"

"Ah, ah." She pressed a finger to your lips, her eyes darkening. "You broke the rules first, artist. Now you play by mine."

Her free hand dipped into the palette beside you, fingers swirling in the deep indigo before she dragged them down your chest, slow and deliberate, marking you like her own personal canvas. The paint was cool against your skin, but the way her nails grazed your abs sent heat pooling low in your gut.

"Fuck…" you hissed, arching into her touch.

Chaeyoung’s laugh was a low, breathy thing as she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. "You paint me like some fragile thing, Y/N. But look at you—shaking just 'cause I touch you." Her teeth nipped at your earlobe, and you groaned, your cock already straining against your jeans.

She noticed. Of course she did.

"Oh? This is what you wanna hide?" Her palm pressed flat against your bulge, rubbing slowly, her smirk widening as you choked on a gasp. "Mmm… big."

Your hips jerked involuntarily, but she pulled back, tutting. "Uh-uh. No rushing."

She reached for a clean brush, dipping it into a pot of gold paint before dragging the bristles along your collarbone. The sensation was maddening—soft, ticklish, teasing—and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper.

"Hahh… Chaeyoung, please—"

"Please what?" She flicked the brush lower, tracing the outline of your abs. "You wanna fuck me? Right here? Against the canvas you just finished?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Or do you wanna be good and let me ruin you first?"

Your breath came in ragged bursts as she dropped to her knees, her fingers hooking into your belt loops. The look she gave you was pure sin—lips parted, eyes half-lidded, paint smudged across her cheek like war paint.

"I know you’re scared," she murmured, undoing your belt with agonizing slowness. "Scared I’ll regret this. Scared you will." Her fingers popped the button of your jeans. "But tell me, Y/N…"

She yanked your pants down just enough to free your cock, her breath hot against the tip.

"Does this feel like regret?"

Her tongue swiped a slow, wet stripe up your length, and you saw stars.

Chaeyoung’s tongue was sin incarnate.

The moment her lips wrapped around the head of your cock, a ragged groan tore from your throat, your fingers instinctively tangling in her hair. She hummed around you, the vibration shooting straight to your spine as she sank deeper, her painted fingers digging into your thighs.

"F-fuck—Chaeyoung—"

She pulled off with a filthy pop, her smirk smeared with spit and gold paint. "Mmm… sensitive," she teased, her breath hot against your leaking tip. "You pull when you like something, huh?"

Before you could answer, her fingers tightened around the base of your shaft, her other hand fisting in her own hair—guiding your grip harder.

"Do it," she breathed, her eyes locked onto yours. "Pull."

You obeyed.

A sharp tug—her scalp yielding under your fingers—and Chaeyoung moaned around your cock, her lips stretching wide as she took you down her throat in one slick, sloppy slide.

"Hhhngh—!"

The sound she made was obscene, half-choked, half-delighted, her nose pressing into your pelvis as she hollowed her cheeks. Spit dripped down your length, pooling where her fingers stroked in tight, twisting motions, matching the filthy rhythm of her mouth.

"S-shit—fuck—" Your hips jerked, but she pinned you down with a firm hand, her nails biting into your skin as she controlled the pace.

Slurp. Schlick. Gag.

Every sound was louder than the last, every bob of her head more desperate than before. Her free hand wandered up, gripping your wrist—forcing your hold on her hair tighter, harder, until her whimpers vibrated against your cock.

"Mmmf—! Ngh~!"

She loved it.

The way her throat fluttered around you, the way her lashes fluttered with tears—not from discomfort, but from the sheer high of being used. Her lips were swollen, her breathing ragged, but she didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

"Chaeyoung—ahh—gonna—"

She yanked back at the last second, a string of spit connecting her lips to your throbbing tip.

"Not yet," she panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her smirk dripping with mischief. "We’re not done."

And then she dove back in, faster this time, her nails scraping down your thighs as she took you to the hilt—

Chaeyoung’s mouth was a masterpiece of sin.

The moment she swallowed you back down, her throat convulsed around your cock in a slick, greedy rhythm, her lips stretched obscenely wide. Spit pooled at the corners of her mouth, dripping in thick strands down your shaft, her tongue flattening against your veins as she sucked hard enough to make your vision blur.

"Hhah—fuck—Chaeyoung—!"

Your fingers tightened in her hair, not yanking—just holding, guiding—but she whined around you, her hips grinding down into nothing as her own arousal soaked through her panties. The scent of her—sweet, musky, desperate—mixed with the metallic tang of paint and the salt of her sweat.

Schlllck. Gllrk. Hhhnngh~!

Every sound was filthier than the last. Every bob of her head sent spit splattering against your thighs, her nose buried in your pelvis as she forced herself deeper, her throat fluttering in ragged spasms.

"Mmmf—! Ngh~!"

She pulled back just enough to gasp, her lips swollen, her chin glistening. "T-taste so good," she slurred, her tongue lapping at your tip, catching the bitter-salt of your pre-cum. "Wanna—hah—wanna swallow all of you—"

Then she dove again, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked like a woman starved, her fingers digging into your hips to keep you right there, at the brink of her throat.

You could feel her dripping—her thighs trembling, her panties clinging to her soaked folds—but she didn’t touch herself. No, she was too lost in the act, too obsessed with the way your cock stretched her lips, the way your groans filled the air.

"C-close—" you warned, your voice ragged.

Chaeyoung’s eyes lit up.

She pulled off just enough to let your tip rest on her tongue, her breath coming in hot, wet pants. "Do it," she begged, her voice wrecked. "Fill me—"

And you did.

With a choked groan, your hips jerked—once, twice—before you pulsed into her mouth, thick ropes of cum painting her tongue, her throat working desperately to swallow every drop.

"Mmmh~!" Her moan was delighted, her lips sealing tight as she milked you through it, her tongue swirling to catch every last drop of your release.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were sticky with it, her breath sweet with the taste of you.

"Delicious," she whispered, licking her lips clean.

And then, with a smirk, she leaned in to kiss you—sharing the proof of your pleasure.

The moment your lips met hers, Chaeyoung moaned into your mouth—a low, throaty sound that sent heat pooling straight to your cock. She tasted like salt, spit, and you, her tongue sliding against yours in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss as she ground her hips down against your thigh.

"Fuck—still hard for me?" she panted, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip before pulling back to smirk. Her fingers trailed down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your abs before she dug in, leaving angry red marks in their wake. "Guess I didn’t quite ruin you yet."

You groaned, your hands sliding under her crop top to palm the soft swell of her tits, your thumbs brushing over her nipples—hard and pebbled under the thin fabric of her bralette.

"Ngh—!" Her back arched, pressing her chest into your touch. "Y-yeah, there—"

You smirked, pinching one nipple between your fingers, rolling it just hard enough to make her gasp. "Like that, princess?"

"Fuck you," she hissed, but her hips stuttered against you, her thighs squeezing around yours as she rutted down, seeking friction. "Think you’re so clever—ahh!—w-with your fucking hands—"

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You love my hands."

She shivered, her breath hitching as you dragged your mouth down her neck, sucking dark bruises into her skin. "Hah—yes—" Her fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so she could crash her lips against yours again, biting at your tongue. "Mmmf—mark me harder, coward."

You growled, flipping her onto her back, your knee slotting between her thighs as you loomed over her. "Brat," you muttered before sinking your teeth into the curve of her shoulder.

"Ah! Fuck—!" Her back arched off the bed, her nails raking down your spine as you laved your tongue over the bite, soothing the sting before moving lower, trailing kisses down her chest.

You tugged her crop top up, exposing her bralette—damp with sweat and the faintest hint of her arousal—before dragging the fabric down with your teeth, freeing her tits.

"Finally," she gasped, her chest heaving as you latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while your fingers pinched and twisted the other.

"Hhah—! Ngh~!" Her thighs clenched around your hips, her hips rolling desperately against your thigh as she chased her own pleasure. "Y-you—shit—you gonna tease me all night or—ahh—or actually fuck me?"

You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her. "Who said I was done teasing?"

Her eyes darkened, her hand fisting in your hair as she yanked you back down. "Bastard." And then she kissed you—hard—her teeth clashing against yours as she ground her soaked panties against your thigh, her moans swallowed by your mouth.

Your thumbs brushed over Chaeyoung’s nipples again, this time slower—softer—watching the way her breath hitched, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven bursts.

"Ngh—! S-stop staring," she muttered, her cheeks flushing pink as she tried to squirm away, but your hands held her firm, your fingers tracing the delicate curves of her small, pert breasts.

"Why?" you murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of her left tit, your lips lingering just below her nipple. "You’re beautiful."

"Tch—bullshit," she huffed, but her voice wavered when your tongue flicked over her stiffened peak, her back arching off the bed. "Hah—! Y-you’re just—ahh—just saying that 'cause they’re cute or whatever—"

You pulled back slightly, meeting her gaze. "Who said anything about cute?"

Her brows furrowed, her lips parting in a silent oh as your fingers gently squeezed her tits, your thumbs rolling her nipples in slow, deliberate circles.

"F-fuck—" Her breath stuttered, her hips twitching against nothing. "D-don’t—don’t tease—"

"I’m not," you said simply, your voice low and warm as you ducked your head again, this time taking her right nipple between your lips, sucking gently before flicking your tongue over the peak.

"Hhah~!" Her hands flew to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she pulled, but there was no force behind it—just a shaky, desperate grip. "Y-you—nngh—you like them, don’t you?"

You hummed against her skin, your teeth grazing her nipple just enough to make her jolt. "Yeah," you admitted, your breath hot against her damp skin. "I love them."

"L-liar," she whined, but her thighs squeezed together, her hips rolling in tiny, aborted motions. "They’re—ahh—they’re small—"

"Perfect," you corrected, your hands sliding up to cup her tits, your thumbs brushing over her nipples again—softer this time, almost reverent. "Just like you."

She whimpered, her pride crumbling under your touch, under your words, her body melting as you lavished attention on her chest, your mouth and hands working in tandem to worship every inch of her.

"Hhah… more…" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers tightening in your hair.

And you obeyed.

The air in the private studio was thick with the scent of oil paint and sweat as Chaeyoung arched beneath you, her back pressing into the scattered sketch papers on the floor. Your teeth grazed her left nipple one last time before pulling back, admiring the way her chest heaved—her small, perfect tits glistening with spit, her skin flushed pink under the dim track lighting.

"F-fuck—" she gasped, her fingers clawing at your shoulders as you dragged your hands down her sides, hooking into the waistband of her skirt. "Y-you—ahh—you better not rip this, it’s designer—"

You chuckled, sliding the fabric down her hips in one slow motion, letting it pool around her thighs before tossing it aside. "Too late."

"Asshole," she hissed, but the insult lost its bite when your palm pressed between her legs, feeling the soaked heat of her panties through the thin lace.

"Hhah~!" Her hips jerked into your touch, her thighs trembling as you rubbed slow, firm circles over her clothed cunt. "Ngh—stop teasing—"

"Make me," you murmured, nipping at her collarbone as your fingers slipped under the waistband of her panties, finally—finally—feeling the slick warmth of her bare skin.

Chaeyoung whined, her nails digging into your back as you stroked her folds, your thumb brushing over her clit in lazy, maddening circles. "Y-you—fuck—you know I can’t—ahh!—can’t think when you—hnngh—"

Her words dissolved into a moan as you pushed two fingers inside her, your palm grinding against her clit with every thrust. The wet squelch of her arousal filled the studio, mixing with the sound of her ragged breaths and the rustle of paper beneath her.

"S-so fucking mean," she panted, her legs wrapping around your waist as she rolled her hips, fucking herself on your fingers. "Gonna—hah—gonna make me come like this? On the floor?"

You smirked, curling your fingers just so, relishing the way her walls clenched around you. "Yeah," you breathed against her lips. "Gonna make you drip all over these sketches."

Her head fell back with a thud, her back arching as pleasure coiled tight in her gut—

Chaeyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as she glared down at you—her pupils blown wide, her lips swollen from biting them. "Lucky fan," she hissed, her voice dripping with something between amusement and frustration. "You really think this is just luck? That I let just anyone finger me in a fucking art studio?"

Your fingers were still buried inside her, curling lazily as her walls fluttered around you. "Seems like it," you mused, your thumb pressing firm circles against her clit just to watch her thighs jerk. "Since you’re the one who sought me out."

"Tch—!" Her grip tightened, her nails scraping your scalp. "I hate you," she breathed, but the way her hips rolled against your hand betrayed her. "Hah—fuck—I hate how you—nngh—how you talk—"

You smirked, slowing your fingers to a torturous pace. "Then shut me up."

For a second, she just stared at you—chest heaving, lips parted—before her expression shifted into something dangerous.

"Fine."

In one fluid motion, she shoved you back onto the plush studio carpet, her knees straddling your shoulders before you could react. Her panties—soaked through—were peeled off and tossed somewhere near the half-finished canvas, her glistening cunt now hovering inches from your face.

"Eat," she ordered, her voice trembling only slightly. "And don’t stop until I say so."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Your tongue dragged up her slit in one long, filthy stroke, savoring the tangy-sweet taste of her arousal. Chaeyoung jolted, her thighs clamping around your head as a broken moan tore from her throat.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—!"

You hummed against her, your lips sealing around her clit as you sucked, your fingers finding her entrance again to push back inside.

"Ngh—! D-deeper—" she gasped, her hips grinding down against your mouth, her juices smearing across your chin. "Y-you—ahh—you knew—knew I’d do this, didn’t you? Knew I’d—hah—break for you—"

You pulled back just enough to speak, your breath hot against her dripping folds. "No," you murmured. "But I hoped."

Her laugh was breathless, shaky, as her fingers fisted in your hair again. "Bastard," she whined—before slamming your face back into her cunt.

The studio air was thick with the scent of her—musky, sweet, addicting—as Chaeyoung ground her dripping cunt against your tongue, her thighs trembling on either side of your head. Your nose pressed into her curls, your lips sealed tight around her clit as you sucked, slow and filthy, relishing the way her breath hitched above you.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—" Her fingers yanked at your hair, her hips stuttering as your tongue flicked over her swollen bud. "Y-you—nngh—you eat pussy like you paint—" she gasped, her voice cracking. "Like you’re starving for it—"

You hummed against her, the vibration wrenching a broken moan from her throat as your fingers curled inside her, scissoring just enough to make her walls clench.

"Ahh~!" Her back arched, her head falling back as a breathless giggle slipped out. "S-shit—hah—we’re supposed to be anonymous—" Her hips rolled harder, her slick smearing across your chin. "A-and quiet—nngh—but look at us—"

You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, your lips glistening with her arousal. "You’re the one laughing," you pointed out, your breath hot against her soaked folds.

"Tch—you—!" She shoved your face back into her cunt, her thighs squeezing around your ears as your tongue delved deeper, lapping at her entrance before swirling around her clit again. "Hhah~! M-more—"

The squelch of her juices, the ragged hitch of her breath, the occasional giggle she couldn’t suppress—it was better than any art you’d ever made.

And then—

"I’m—ahh—close—" Her voice was a wreck, her nails biting into your scalp as her thighs shook. "G-gonna—fuck—gonna come—"

You doubled down, sucking her clit hard as your fingers pumped, relentless—

"HHAHH~!"

Her orgasm hit like a storm—her back bowing, her cunt pulsing around your fingers as she drenched your mouth, her juices spilling over your lips in hot, sticky waves.

"Ngh~! F-fuck—fuck—" She collapsed forward, her hands braced on the carpet as she rode out the aftershocks against your tongue, her thighs quivering.

When she finally pulled away, her face was flushed, her lips parted in a dazed smile.

"...So much for anonymous," she breathed.

Chaeyoung was still catching her breath, her thighs sticky with sweat and you, when she suddenly snorted—a tiny, undignified sound that made her clap a hand over her mouth.

You blinked up at her from the carpet, your chin glistening. "What?"

She pointed at the half-finished canvas nearby—the one you’d been collaborating on before things got… distracted. "Look," she giggled, her voice still wrecked. "We splattered."

Sure enough, a few stray drops of her had landed on the edge of the painting, mixing with the gold and crimson strokes.

"Abstract expressionism," you deadpanned.

"Ew," she cackled, swatting your shoulder before flopping onto her back beside you. "That’s nasty." A pause. Then, with a smirk: "...We should sign it."

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face—which, mistake, because now you just smeared her taste across your cheek. "Chaeyoung."

"What?" She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand while the other traced idle circles on your chest. "It’s authentic." Her grin turned filthy. "Like your tongue."

You huffed, but she was already leaning in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that tasted like her and victory.

"Mmh~... Round two?" she whispered.

Chaeyoung’s thighs quivered as she straddled your hips, her damp heat hovering just above your cock—taunting you.

"Look at you," she breathed, her fingers trailing down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your abs. "All hard and desperate for me." Her smirk was devilish as she ground her soaked cunt against your length, her slick smearing across your shaft. "Think you can handle me, Teddy Noir?"

You groaned, your hands gripping her hips—so small in your grasp—as she lifted herself slightly, lining you up with her entrance.

"F-fuck—Chaeyoung—"

"Uh-uh," she tutted, her voice dripping with mischief. "No begging."

And then she sank down—slow, agonizing—her tight walls clenching around you like a vice.

"Hhah~!" Her head fell back, her back arching as she took you inch by inch, her petite body stretching to accommodate your girth. "S-shit—fuck—you’re big—"

You hissed, your fingers digging into her hips as she bottomed out, her ass pressing flush against your thighs.

"Tight," you gritted out, your voice rough with restraint.

She giggled, breathless, her hands braced on your chest as she rolled her hips—testing, teasing. "Mmmh~... Told you I don’t do this with just anyone," she purred, her walls fluttering around you.

Then she moved.

"Ngh~! Ahh—!" Her hips rose and fell in a leisurely rhythm, her cunt squeezing you with every bounce. "F-feels good? Filling me up like this—hah—like I’m made for you—"

You growled, thrusting up to meet her, driving deeper—

"HHAHH~!" Her nails dug into your skin, her thighs shaking as she chased her pleasure. "Y-yes—fuck—just like that—"

Her pace turned frantic, her petite body slamming down onto you, her gasps and moans echoing off the studio walls.

Chaeyoung’s thighs burned as she bounced on your cock, her small frame struggling to keep up with the brutal pace she’d set. But she refused to slow down—not when every snap of her hips sent fire shooting up her spine, not when the slap of skin on skin filled the studio, not when your hands on her waist anchored her, keeping her right where she wanted to be.

"Hhah~! F-fuck—" Her breath came in ragged gasps, her nails digging into your chest as she chased the pleasure coiling tight in her gut. "Y-you feel that? H-how deep you are—ahh—like you’re everywhere—"

You groaned, your grip tightening as she slammed down again, her tight cunt milking you with every movement.

"Chaeyoung—"

"No," she panted, her voice strained with effort. "N-not—hah—not yet."

Her rhythm stuttered, her legs shaking as she forced herself to keep going, her walls fluttering around you in a silent plea.

"M-more—" she whimpered, her hips rolling instead of bouncing now, grinding slow and deep to savor every inch. "W-wanna feel you—ahh—forever—"

You hissed, your fingers bruising her hips as you thrust up to meet her, driving into her with a force that had her screeching.

"HHAHH~!" Her back arched, her tits bouncing as she clung to you, her cunt clenching tight around you. "Y-yes—yes—just like that—" Her pace turned frantic again, her body desperate for more, for everything.

Chaeyoung’s thighs were shaking, her breath coming in ragged, broken gasps as she forced herself to slow down—just as the tension in her gut coiled too tight, just as her cunt clenched around you in desperate little pulses.

"Ngh~! F-fuck—" Her nails scratched down your chest, her hips stuttering as she fought the urge to chase her release. "Y-you—hah—you’re mean—"

You smirked, your hands tightening on her waist to still her movements completely. "You asked for this," you reminded her, your voice rough with restraint.

"I hate you," she whined, but the way her walls fluttered around you betrayed her.

You chuckled, your thumbs brushing over her hip bones as you guided her into a slow, agonizing grind.

"Ahh~!" Her head fell back, her back arching as she tried to resist the pleasure building inside her. "T-too much—"

"No," you murmured, your fingers digging into her skin as you pulled her down harder. "Not yet."

She sobbed, her thighs trembling as she rode you with shallow, desperate bounces, her cunt dripping onto your thighs.

"P-please—"

You ignored her, your grip unyielding as you denied her what she craved most.

The moment your hands gripped Chaeyoung’s waist and spun her toward the nearest wall, her breath hitched—half in surprise, half in anticipation. The studio’s concrete was cool against her bare back, a sharp contrast to the heat of your body pressing into hers. Her legs instinctively wrapped around your hips, her arms looping over your shoulders for balance as you aligned yourself with her dripping entrance.

"No more teasing," she panted, her voice already wrecked, her nails digging into the fabric of your shirt. "Just—fuck me already."

You didn’t need to be told twice.

With one smooth thrust, you buried yourself inside her to the hilt, the tight, wet heat of her making your vision blur for a second. Chaeyoung’s head thudded back against the wall, her mouth falling open in a silent cry before her voice finally caught up.

"Ah—! Fuck, fuck—" Her thighs trembled where they locked around you, her body struggling to adjust to the sudden stretch. "You—you feel huge like this—"

You didn’t give her time to recover. One hand braced against the wall beside her head, the other gripping her hip as you pulled out almost completely before slamming back in. The sound of skin against skin, the slick noise of her arousal, the way her breath stuttered every time you bottomed out—it was maddening.

Chaeyoung’s fingers scrambled for purchase, her nails scraping against your shoulders as she tried to hold on. "Harder—" she gasped, her voice breaking. "I can—ah!—take it—"

You obliged, your thrusts turning rougher, deeper, each one driving a punched-out moan from her lips. The angle had her seeing stars, every snap of your hips hitting that sweet spot inside her with terrifying precision.

"You—ahh—you planned this," she accused between gasps, her legs tightening around you. "Knew I’d—fuck—knew I’d let you do anything—"

You didn’t deny it.

Her back arched off the wall as you pistoned into her, her moans growing louder, more desperate. The studio was too quiet, too empty—every sound they made echoed, from the wet slap of skin to the way Chaeyoung’s breath hitched every time you thrust just right.

"Close—" she whimpered, her fingers tangling in your hair. "I’m so—ahh—so close—"

You didn’t slow down.

Chaeyoung’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as she panted against your lips. "You’re being too nice," she murmured, her voice already wrecked from the relentless pace of your thrusts. "I can take more."

You slowed just enough to brush your nose against hers, your breath mingling. "I know you can," you said softly. "But I like seeing you like this—falling apart because I’m taking my time with you."

She huffed, but the way her cunt clenched around you betrayed how much she loved it. "Cheesy," she muttered, before tilting her head and spitting directly into your open mouth.

You choked—not in disgust, but in surprise—and she giggled, her hips grinding down to keep you buried deep inside her. "What? You said you liked me messy."

"I do," you admitted, swallowing before capturing her lips in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, sharing the taste of her spit between you. "But you’re gonna pay for that."

Her breath hitched as you shifted your grip, one hand sliding under her thigh to hike her leg higher against your hip, the other cupping her jaw to keep her close. The new angle made her whine, her walls fluttering as you pressed even deeper.

"F-fuck—" she gasped, her nails digging into your shoulders. "That’s—ahh—that’s not fair—"

You nipped at her bottom lip, your thrusts turning slower but harder, each one dragging a broken sound from her throat. "You started it," you reminded her, your voice rough but still gentle, still hers.

You nipped at her bottom lip, your thrusts turning slower but harder, each one dragging a broken sound from her throat. "You started it," you reminded her, your voice rough but still gentle, still hers.

She groaned, her head thudding back against the wall. "I hate you," she whined, but the way she rolled her hips to meet yours said otherwise.

"No, you don’t," you murmured, leaning in to lick a stripe up her neck, savoring the salt of her sweat.

"Ngh—prove it," she challenged, her fingers tightening in your hair as she spat into her own palm before smearing it over your lips.

You laughed, low and warm, before kissing her again—deep, messy, perfect.

"Gladly."

The studio walls were cool against Chaeyoung’s back, a stark contrast to the heat of your body pressed against hers. Her legs were locked around your waist, her fingers gripping your shoulders as you moved inside her with slow, deliberate thrusts. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lips parted as she watched you through half-lidded eyes.

"You’re holding back," she murmured, her voice already wrecked. "I can tell."

You slowed your hips, brushing your nose against hers. "Am I?"

She huffed, her nails digging into your skin. "Don’t play dumb. You’re being too careful with me."

You smirked, your hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your thumb brushing over her bottom lip. "You want me to stop being careful?"

"Yes," she breathed, her eyes darkening. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Your grip shifted, your fingers wrapping gently around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding her who was in control. Her pulse jumped under your touch, her breath hitching as you pressed deeper, your thrusts turning sharper, harder.

"Like this?" you asked, your voice low.

She moaned, her head tipping back against the wall. "Y-yes—fuck—just like that—"

Her words dissolved into a whimper as you angled your hips just right, hitting that spot inside her that made her toes curl.

"You feel so good," she gasped, her fingers tangling in your hair. "So deep—"

You hummed, your hand still resting lightly on her throat, your other arm tightening around her waist to keep her pinned against the wall. "Tell me what you want."

She shuddered, her hips rolling to meet yours. "Harder," she pleaded. "I want—ahh—I want to feel it tomorrow—"

You obliged, your thrusts turning punishing, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the quiet studio.

"F-fuck—yes—" Her voice was breaking, her body trembling as she clung to you. "Don’t stop—please—"

You didn’t.

The air between you was thick with sweat and shared breath, Chaeyoung’s back pressed flush against the studio wall as you drove into her with relentless precision. Every thrust dragged a new sound from her lips—broken moans, gasped pleas, the occasional breathless laugh when your rhythm stuttered just right.

Her thighs trembled where they locked around your waist, her calves digging into the small of your back as she tried to pull you deeper. "F-fuck—right there—" Her voice cracked as you angled your hips, the head of your cock grinding against that sweet spot inside her with every snap forward.

You could feel her unraveling—the way her walls fluttered around you, growing tighter with each passing second. Her nails raked down your shoulders, leaving angry red trails in their wake as she clung to you, her body arching off the wall to meet you thrust for thrust.

"Look at me," you murmured, your hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, your thumb brushing over her spit-slick bottom lip.

Her eyes fluttered open, dark and hazy with pleasure, her pupils blown wide. "Mmn—harder—" she begged, her hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles. "Wanna—ahh—wanna feel you everywhere—"

You obliged, your grip tightening on her hip as you pistoned into her, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out her whimpers. The angle was brutal—each movement dragging her clit against your pelvis, the friction wringing choked sobs from her throat. "C-close—" she gasped, her fingers tangling in your hair. "So fucking close—"

Chaeyoung’s body was a live wire under your hands, every muscle pulled taut as she teetered on the edge. Her thighs trembled violently where they locked around your waist, her nails biting into your shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks.

"I—ahh—I’m gonna—" Her voice shattered into a gasp as the first wave hit her, her cunt clamping down on your cock like a vice. A choked scream tore from her throat as she squirted, hot liquid gushing between your bodies, soaking your stomach and thighs.

You groaned, your thrusts stuttering for just a second at the sheer intensity of it—but Chaeyoung’s hands flew to your wrists, her grip iron-tight.

"Don’t you dare stop," she panted, her voice raw, her eyes wild. "I’m not—fuck—I’m not done—"

You didn’t argue.

Your hands slid under her thighs, hiking her higher against the wall as you pounded into her, the wet slap of skin echoing off the studio walls. Her oversensitive walls fluttered around you, her body jerking with every thrust as she whined, her head thrashing back against the concrete.

"T-too much—ahh—too much—" she sobbed, her hips rolling helplessly to meet yours even as her body rebelled, her thighs shaking, her toes curling.

"You said not to stop," you reminded her, your voice rough but gentle, your fingers brushing the damp hair from her forehead.

She whimpered, her nails digging into your biceps as another wave of pleasure ripped through her, her cunt pulsing around you as she squirted again, her back arching off the wall.

"F-fuck—fuck—" Her voice was gone, her lips parted in a silent scream as her body convulsed, her legs locking around you like she was afraid you’d pull away.

Chaeyoung’s body was a trembling mess against the studio wall, her thighs slick with sweat and arousal as you drove into her with relentless precision. Every thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through her oversensitive nerves, her cunt fluttering around your cock in desperate, rhythmic clenches.

"F-fuck—ahh—you’re still going—" Her voice was hoarse, her nails digging into your shoulders as she clung to you, her legs locked around your waist like a vice.

You groaned, your grip tightening on her hips as you pounded into her, the wet slap of skin echoing off the concrete. "You told me not to stop," you reminded her, your voice rough with exertion.

She whined, her back arching off the wall as you hit that spot again, her walls squeezing around you like she was trying to milk you dry. "I—hah—I know—" Her breath hitched, her hips rolling to meet yours. "J-just—fuck—fill me already—"

You hissed, your thrusts growing erratic, your control slipping as the pressure in your gut coiled too tight.

"C-close—" you gritted out, your fingers bruising her hips.

Chaeyoung’s eyes darkened, her lips parting in a dazed smirk. "Do it," she breathed, her voice wrecked. "Cum inside me—"

And you did.

With a choked groan, you pulsed into her, your cock twitching as you emptied yourself deep inside her, your release spilling into her dripping cunt.

Chaeyoung moaned, her body convulsing around you as she milked you through it, her walls fluttering in time with your spasms.

"F-fuck—" she panted, her head lolling back against the wall. "Y-you—ahh—you ruined me—"

You chuckled, your hands gentling on her hips as you kissed her, slow and deep.

"You asked for it."

The studio was quiet now, save for the sound of your shared breathing and the occasional drip of sweat onto the carpet. You leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out, while Chaeyoung—ever the restless artist—refused to stay still.

She straddled your lap with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, her bare ass pressing against your thighs. And god, what an ass it was. Narrow, but not bony. Soft where it needed to be, with just enough curve to make your fingers itch to grab, to knead, to leave marks. Milky skin, smooth as fresh canvas, barely hiding the faint pink flush from where she’d been grinding against you earlier. The kind of ass that made you want to sink your teeth into it—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to hear her yelp. The kind that looked like it belonged in one of those glossy manhwas, all exaggerated bounce and bratty defiance. Spankable. Biteable. A fucking masterpiece.

You smirked, your hands settling on her waist. "Comfy?"

She huffed, wiggling just to feel you twitch under her. "You’re warm," she muttered, as if that explained everything.

Then she reached over, her fingers digging into the small pouch she’d tossed aside earlier. When she pulled back, she was holding a tiny, cute pink bottle—the kind with a little strawberry on the label.

You raised an eyebrow. "…Is that edible lube?"

Chaeyoung grinned, shaking the bottle teasingly. The liquid inside sloshed, thick and glossy. "Maybe."

"You planned this," you accused, but your hands were already sliding down to grip her hips.

She giggled, leaning in until her lips brushed your ear. "And you," she whispered, "are gonna fuck me on the canvas."

The studio lights cast long shadows across the scattered sketches and half-finished paintings as Chaeyoung crawled onto the large canvas in the center of the room. Her movements were deliberate—hips swaying, back arching, fingers pressing into the stretched fabric like she was testing its give.

"Comfortable?" you asked, leaning back against the studio couch, your fingers laced behind your head.

She glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. "Mmh~... Not yet."

Then she wiggled—just enough to make the muscles in her thighs flex, just enough to make the curve of her ass jiggle under the dim track lighting. Milky skin, still flushed pink from earlier, still marked faintly where your fingers had dug in too hard.

"You’re staring," she sing-songed, her voice dripping with faux innocence.

You smirked. "Hard not to."

She huffed, but the way her breath hitched when you didn’t immediately move gave her away. "Thought you were tired," she teased, rocking back onto her knees just enough to show off.

"I am," you admitted, stretching your legs out. "Doesn’t mean I can’t look."

Chaeyoung giggled, low and throaty, before shifting her weight onto one arm, the other reaching back to spread herself for you. "What if I want more than looking?"

The invitation was obscene—the pink, clenched furl of her rim, still glistening faintly from earlier orgasm dripping lower, the way her thighs trembled just from the anticipation.

You groaned, palming yourself through your pants. "Fuck, Chaeyoung—"

She grinned, wiggling again. "Exactly."

The studio smelled faintly of oil paint and strawberries—the latter courtesy of the pink bottle Chaeyoung had uncapped with a pop. She knelt on the canvas, her back arched, her weight balanced on her forearms as she peered over her shoulder at you.

"You gonna stare all day," she teased, "or are you gonna taste?"

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

[Ass Worship: A Study in Patience]

Your hands settled on the swell of her cheeks, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh to part her. Her skin was warm under your palms, the muscles beneath twitching as you leaned in, your breath ghosting over her exposed rim.

Chaeyoung shivered, her fingers curling into the canvas. "F-fuck—"

You licked—a slow, flat stripe from her perineum up to the tight pucker of her asshole. She jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as your tongue circled the rim, teasing, tasting. The strawberry lube was sweet, almost syrupy, but beneath it was the salt of her skin, the musk of her.

"Hhah~!" Her hips jerked back, seeking more, but you held her still, your grip firm. "Ngh—mean—"

You chuckled, your breath hot against her. "Relax," you murmured, before dipping your tongue inside, just enough to make her squeak.

The lube was cool against your fingers as you coated them, the viscous liquid dripping onto her rim before you spread it with your thumb, working the tight muscle in slow circles.

Chaeyoung whined, her forehead pressing into the canvas. "S’cold—"

"It’ll warm up," you promised, your other hand rubbing soothing circles into her lower back.

Your index finger pressed in—just the tip—and her body clenched, her breath hitching.

"Breathe," you reminded her, your voice low.

She exhaled, her muscles easing as you sank deeper, the lube making the glide smooth, effortless.

[Fingering: The Art of Relaxation]

You crooked your finger, searching, and Chaeyoung jolted, a broken moan spilling from her lips.

"Ahh~! W-what was—hah—that—?"

You grinned, your thumb brushing over her rim as you pumped your finger slowly. "Just prepping you," you said, as if you hadn’t just found the spot that made her see stars.

Her laugh was breathless, wrecked. "L-liar—"

You added a second finger, stretching her with careful precision, your other hand kneading the tension from her thighs.

Chaeyoung melted, her body yielding to yours, her moans filling the studio.

The studio was quiet except for Chaeyoung’s shaky breaths and the slick sound of your fingers working her open. She was sprawled across the canvas, her cheek pressed against the fabric, her back arched in a perfect curve. Her fingers clutched at the edges, knuckles white, as you took your time—too much time, if her whines were anything to go by.

"You’re still not done?" she grumbled, her voice muffled against the canvas.

You chuckled, your thumb circling her rim, already stretched around two fingers but still clenching every time you moved. "Rushing ruins the art, Chaeyoung," you murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the small of her back.

She shivered, her hips twitching. "I’m not a painting," she huffed, but the way her breath hitched when you crooked your fingers betrayed her.

"No," you agreed, your free hand smoothing up her spine. "You’re better."

She groaned, half exasperated, half desperate, her thighs trembling where they bracketed your hips. "If you don’t fuck me soon—"

You scissored your fingers, slow, and her threat dissolved into a gasp, her back bowing off the canvas.

"Ahh~!" Her nails scratched at the fabric, her voice breaking. "F-fuck—please—"

You hummed, your lips brushing her shoulder blade. "Please what?"

She whined, her hips rocking back against your hand. "You know what—"

You did. But you loved hearing her say it.

The strawberry lube was slick between your fingers as you stroked it over your cock, the sweet scent mixing with the musk of sweat and sex already thick in the studio air. Chaeyoung watched over her shoulder, her dark eyes tracking every movement—her breath hitching when your thumb smeared a thick droplet over the head.

"Ready?" you murmured, your other hand smoothing up the dip of her waist, feeling the way her ribs expanded with each shaky inhale.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pushed her hips back, her ass jutting out in blatant invitation, the pink furl of her rim already glistening from your earlier prep. The motion was whorish, desperate—and so utterly Chaeyoung that you had to bite back a groan.

"Fuck," you muttered, your grip tightening on her hip. "You’re made for this."

She huffed, but the way her thighs trembled betrayed her. "J-just do it already—"

You didn’t need to be told twice.

The head of your cock pressed against her entrance, and for a second, neither of you breathed—then you pushed, slow, and her body yielded, her rim stretching around you with a filthy, slick sound.

Chaeyoung choked, her fingers clawing at the canvas beneath her. "Hhah~! S-shit—"

You froze, your thumbs rubbing circles into her hips. "Okay?"

She nodded, frantic, her back arching. "Y-yeah—fuck—just… big—"

You chuckled, leaning over her to brush your lips against her shoulder blade. "You’ve done this before," you mused, your voice low.

She whined, her walls fluttering around you as you sank deeper. "T-toys," she admitted, her voice wrecked. "N-not—ahh—not this big—"

You groaned, your hips rolling forward to seat yourself fully inside her, your pelvis pressed flush against her ass.

"Lucky me," you murmured.

The moment you bottomed out inside her, Chaeyoung arched—her back bowing, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the canvas beneath her. A broken, punched-out sound tore from her throat as her body struggled to adjust, her rim fluttering around the thick stretch of your cock.

"F-fuck—fuck—" Her voice was raw, her thighs quivering where they bracketed your hips. "S’too much—"

You groaned, your hands tightening on her waist as you pulled back—slow, torturous—just to watch her rim cling to you, the tight ring of muscle resisting before finally releasing with a slick pop.

Chaeyoung whimpered, her forehead pressing into the canvas. "Ahh~! D-don’t stop—"

You didn’t.

Your next thrust was harder, deeper, your hips snapping forward to bury yourself in her again, the slap of skin echoing off the studio walls.

"Look at you," you gritted out, your voice rough with restraint. "Taking me so fucking well—"

She moaned, her ass jiggling with every pound of your hips, her rim stretching wider each time you pulled back, the pink flesh gaping for a second before you slammed home again.

"Hhah~! M-more—" Her voice was wrecked, her nails scratching at the fabric beneath her. "Wanna—ahh—wanna feel it tomorrow—" You obliged, your thrusts turning brutal, precise, each one dragging a fresh sob from her throat. The studio air was thick with the scent of strawberries and sweat, the only sounds being the wet slide of skin and Chaeyoung’s breathless whimpers. You moved inside her with a slow, reverent rhythm—each thrust a deliberate act of worship, each withdrawal a tease that left her trembling.

Her body was a symphony of reactions—every inch of her singing under your touch. The way her back arched, her spine curving like a bowstring pulled taut. The flutter of her lashes when you brushed your lips against her shoulder, the hitch in her breath when your fingers traced the dip of her waist. She was alive beneath you, around you, her warmth seeping into your skin like sunlight through stained glass.

And her ass—god, her ass. The way her rim clung to you, tight and desperate, as if afraid you’d leave. The way it stretched around your girth, pink and glistening with lube, each thrust coaxing a fresh, broken sound from her lips. The faint tremors in her thighs, the way her toes curled against the canvas—every detail a testament to the pleasure coursing through her.

You didn’t need to dominate. You didn’t need to dirty talk. The way she melted for you, the way her body begged without words—it was enough. More than enough.

You leaned over her, your chest pressing against her back as you rolled your hips, deep, slow, savoring the way her walls fluttered around you.

"Good?" you murmured, your lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She nodded, her voice a wrecked whisper. "Y-yes—ahh—please—"

You smiled, your hands sliding up to intertwine with hers, pinning them gently against the canvas as you started to love her, cherish her in the sweetest way possible.

The studio smelled of drying acrylics and sweat, the overhead lights casting long shadows across Chaeyoung’s arched back as she braced herself on the half-painted canvas. Her ice-blonde hair—streaked with that rebellious black stripe you loved—was damp at the roots, clinging to her neck as she trembled beneath you.

You paused, your cock buried to the hilt inside her, just to feel the way her body pulsed around you—the involuntary clench of her rim, the hitch in her breath when you flexed your hips just so.

"Look at you," you murmured, your fingers threading through her hair, gently fisting the strands—not to pull, not yet, just to hold. To anchor her.

She whined, her ass pushing back against you, demanding. "D-don’t stop—"

You smiled, your thumb brushing the nape of her neck before you moved again.

Your thrusts were deep, measured, each one dragging a fresh moan from her throat. The canvas beneath her creaked, the wet slap of skin mingling with the squelch of lube and the drip of her arousal onto the half-finished painting below.

Chaeyoung’s fingers clawed at the fabric, her gasps turning shrill as you angled your hips, the head of your cock grinding against that spot inside her that made her see stars.

"HHAHH~!" Her back arched, her hair tugging in your grip as she fought the pleasure, fought the inevitable. "I—I’m close—"

You tightened your hold on her hair, just enough to make her jolt, her walls fluttering around you like a heartbeat.

"Let go," you breathed, your voice rough with want.

And she did.

Chaeyoung shattered with a scream, her body convulsing around you as her orgasm ripped through her—violent, unrelenting. Her release gushed onto the canvas beneath her, mixing with the still-wet paint in swirls of color, distorting the art into something new, something obscene.

You groaned, your hips stuttering as her clenching ass milked you mercilessly, your own release building, building—

"Inside," she begged, her voice broken, her body limp beneath you. "P-please—"

You obliged, pounding into her once, twice more before burying yourself to the hilt, your cum filling her in thick, pulsing waves.

Chaeyoung whimpered, her rim fluttering around your spent cock as you collapsed over her, your forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.

The studio was silent save for your ragged breaths and the drip of paint—and other things—onto the floor.

You kissed the sweat-damp curve of her spine, your fingers uncurling from her hair to soothe the reddened skin of her scalp.

"Okay?" you murmured.

Chaeyoung huffed, her voice wrecked but smug. "I painted better than you today."

You laughed, your arms wrapping around her waist as you rolled onto your back, pulling her with you.

The canvas beneath you was ruined.

It was perfect.

The studio was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of fabric as you settled back against the carpet, your legs stretched out in front of you. The adrenaline of the last hour had faded, leaving behind a pleasant exhaustion—the kind that made your limbs heavy and your thoughts slow.

Chaeyoung, however, had other plans.

You barely had time to catch your breath before she was crawling toward you, her movements deliberately slow, her hips swaying with every shift of her knees. Her ice-blonde hair—still mussed from your earlier grip—fell in messy waves around her shoulders, the black streak a stark contrast against her flushed skin.

"Comfy?" she asked, her voice laced with faux innocence as she settled herself between your legs, her hands resting on your thighs.

You raised an eyebrow. "I was."

She pouted, her lower lip jutting out in that exaggerated way she knew you couldn’t resist. "You’re supposed to say yes and then cuddle me."

You snorted, but your hands were already moving, one tangling in her hair, the other sliding around her waist to pull her closer. "Since when do you follow scripts?"

She giggled, her nose brushing against yours before she ducked her head, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. "Since now," she murmured, her breath warm against your skin.

Her fingers traced idle patterns on your chest, her touch light, teasing. "You really like my ass, huh?"

You groaned, tipping your head back against the wall. "We’re really doing this now?"

She grinned, her teeth nipping at your collarbone. "Yep."

"You’re impossible," you muttered, but your grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against you.

She hummed, her lips curving into a smug little smile as she wiggled in your lap, just to feel you twitch beneath her. "But you love me."

You sighed, your fingers tangling in her hair again—gentle this time, just to hold her still. "Yeah," you admitted, your voice soft. "I do."

She beamed, her nose scrunching in that way that made your chest ache, before burying her face in your neck with a contented sigh.

The studio was wrecked.

The two of you were perfect.

Chapter 2: The Space Between Colors Doesn't Mean It's Empty

Chaeyoung’s breath tickled against your neck, slow and steady now—like her body had finally caught up to her heart.

Your fingers stroked lazy circles along the small of her back, the quiet rhythm grounding you both.

She didn’t speak for a while.

And then…

“You didn’t even ask.”

You blinked. “Ask what?”

“Why I really came here tonight.”

You pulled back slightly to look at her. Her cheeks were still flushed, but now there was something more in her eyes. Nervousness. Hope.

“Wasn’t it the… artist crush thing?” you said carefully. “The portraits?”

She bit her lip, shaking her head slowly. “That was part of it. But not all.”

You stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“Do you know how many people paint us?” she asked, her tone suddenly heavy. “How many draw our faces? Sketch our bodies? Try to guess our thoughts like we’re characters in some fantasy?”

You nodded faintly. You weren’t blind to fan culture. You had even wrestled with guilt about painting them at all.

Chaeyoung sat up, straddling your thighs now, her hands bracing on your shoulders. “But you didn’t do that.” Her voice had a slight tremble. “You painted needs. Longing. Emotions no one asks about. You gave me—us—a space to just… exist, without filters. Without expectations.”

She touched your chest lightly, just over your heart.

“That’s why I came here.” Her eyes locked with yours. “Not to sleep with an artist. But to feel like a person.”

You exhaled slowly. She wasn’t here for lust. She was here because your brushstrokes had seen something in her—something she hadn’t realized she was desperate for someone to acknowledge.

“Then why now?” you asked gently. “Why tonight?”

Her lips twitched.

“Because I wanted to see if you’d still look at me the same after touching me.” A beat passed. “You do.”

That silence afterward wasn’t empty. It was full of quiet understanding.

You reached up and tucked her messy hair behind her ear. “You’ve always been more than what people expect you to be.”

She gave a tiny smile at that.

And then—

“Also…” Her voice lowered into that playful whisper again. “Your sketchbook is criminal. You made my thighs look like art.”

You laughed, fully now, arms pulling her back into your chest.

“They are art.”

“Then paint me again,” she murmured, brushing her lips against your jaw. “With your hands this time.”

Your heart pounded.

The soft hum of the air conditioner faded into the background again as the moment thickened between you.

The studio wasn’t just wrecked.

It was alive.

A gallery of stolen moments, messy passion, and truth laid bare in oil, graphite, and touch.

And right now, your favorite subject was climbing back into your lap, ready to blur every boundary between inspiration and intimacy.

The warmth between you had settled into something quieter now—less fire, more ember. The kind that stayed long after the room emptied.

Chaeyoung stirred first, lifting her head from your chest as her phone buzzed across the floor.

She sighed.

"It’s Mina." Her voice was soft, threaded with reluctance. "Schedule moved up. They want me at the shoot in an hour."

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. She leaned into your palm.

"Duty calls," you murmured.

She didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, blinking at nothing, like the walls around her weren’t real.

Then she reached for your phone.

You raised an eyebrow, watching her lift it, tilt it toward your face. The lock clicked open.

"Hey—"

"Shh."

Her fingers danced across the screen—calm, certain. She typed, saved, and handed it back with a wry smile.

“Now you can find me without guessing.”

Her thumb tapped your bottom lip once, tender.

Then she whispered—half to you, half to the unfinished painting behind you:

"Muse or mistake… you’re already inside the frame now."

You blinked, confused, but before you could ask what that meant, she was already rising—pulling her shirt over her head in one smooth motion, sliding her jeans back on.

She moved like poetry. Quick strokes. Confident. Free.

At the door, she paused.

“Don’t erase anything. Especially the smudges.”

And just like that, she was gone.

The studio fell silent again.

Only the hum of the air and the soft vibration of your heart remained.

You looked down at your phone. One new contact.

Son Chaeyoung – only if you mean it

No emojis. No hearts.

But somehow, it felt more intimate than anything.

You stared at the name, the number… and below it, a photo file.

One of your portraits.

The one with her silhouette in the middle of a burning garden, face turned toward the sun.

You never shared that painting with anyone.

And yet, she’d titled it:

“Where I’ll wait.”

END…?

[titaniasfairy]

i just pray that you’re alright

did yall miss me? 🤭 ik it’s been a long long time (a lil over a year) since i’ve written, but i recently saw sinners (3 times, seeing it again tomorrow) in theaters and couldn’t get enough of jack o’connell’s performance in it. so here’s a little something and if yall want more please lmk!!! - bear 🐻

pairing: remmick/reader

cw: female reader, reader’s appearance is not described, i tried to make this as inclusive as possible, this is fairly sfw (for now)

you waited every damn night for him. for the first few weeks you’d sit on your wooden porch, staring out into dark blue skies over the cotton fields surrounding your home until they faded into a light morning haze and eventually bled into a screaming orange. when you’d see the sun you knew to go, turning back in defeat.

whether it was hot, cold, windy, or pouring you’d sit on the step, leaning against a post. some days you stared for so long you’d see him, looking exactly how he did that night. his shadow would linger in the distance,but once you blinked, he was gone.

you even prayed for god to bring him back around. you’d kneel over your bed, bible open to whatever chapter and whatever verse and pleaded to the lord to bring him back to you until your knees were bruised and your face was red and damp from the tears.

your mama knew, too. she’d watch you sleep during the day and mope around until the sun finally hid. “i’m startin’ to think you’re nocturnal, girl.” she’d say to you. at night she’d hear your mumbling prayers through the walls, your trembling voice filled with a sickening melancholy. fortunately for you, your symptoms appeared as those of a moody teenager, not a lovesick girl waiting for a hellish monster.

the summer before had been the best days of what was left of your girlhood. you met him on a sunday after evening service, when the sun had freshly set and the moon was beginning to creep into the sky. mama had already gone home while you helped reset the sanctuary for bible study the next week.

he was sitting on a stump when you first saw him, with a cigarette sticking out of his mouth and arms crossed. he had nearly scared you out of your shoes.

“evenin’ darlin’, hope i didn’t frighten you.”

his shoulders were broad and he appeared to be well-built, with his blue dress shirt open with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. you were ashamed to admit it then, but you couldn’t help but find him handsome.

“well you certainly did”

he had a sly grin on his face and an almost boyish look to him. he appeared to be disheveled, but in a handsome way.

“wasn’t my intention to”

his suspenders were sat loosely on his shoulders while he tapped the ash out of the cig, his eyes not leaving your’s. you looked him up and down, but nothing about him reminded you of anyone you had ever seen. that night he was unfamiliar to you, but soon enough you would have him memorized.

“i don’t think i’ve seen you before.”

he chuckled and brought the cigarette back to his mouth, inhaling the tobacco and all the toxins that came with it. with a slow exhale he revealed

“i don’t come around often, sugar.”

you cocked your head and looked at him funny, like he was being mysterious on purpose.

“what’s your name, then?”

“remmick”

you’d never heard a name like that before. you wondered where it came from and who gave it to him.

“and what might you be doing outside the church, remmick?”

“can’t a man listen to the good word on the lord’s day?”

your sundays since were spent thinking about remmick, you itched for service to finish so you could slip out the back door and see him on that stump. after hours of talking and sharing secrets, he’d walk you home and disappear into the woods bordering your backyard.

some days he’d talk while you listened, others you would complain about the farm and all that mama had you doing. whatever you would speak about, you always had his undivided attention no matter the circumstances. you found solace in those blue eyes of his, no one had ever made you feel so seen.

eventually he began appearing on your back porch on weeknights, saying he couldn’t wait all week to see you again.

one night was especially hard. you’d gotten the letter from the army that one of your brothers wouldn’t be coming home. that night, no words were exchanged between you and remmick. you took refuge in his arms and ached in the silence. you hadn’t even told him about the letter, but somehow he knew.

it wasn’t long until your lips found his. remmick’s intimacy wasn’t a hastily performed jig, it was a carefully constructed waltz between the two of you. despite his rugged appearance, remmick was nothing if not a gentleman. his calloused hands were as gentle as ever, treating your body as if it were made out of glass. he whispered sweet nothings into your ear while sending you to what felt like heaven, making the sinful feel downright holy.

but eventually the day came after night. you had left church only to find the stump empty, with no trace of your lover. you called his name but to no avail, eventually walking home alone for the first time in months. the week passed without any sign of remmick anywhere, no note, no message, no sign.

his absence felt like a slow and painful death, gradually sucking the life out of you with each passing sunrise. he told you to wait for him if he ever disappeared, that one night he’d come back to you when you were ready.

“you’re too young, haven’t lived enough yet.”

those blue eyes stayed with you when you closed your own. and for just a second when you woke, you would forget all about them. but the moment you opened your eyes you’d remember. how could you ever forget? his southern drawl had engraved itself into the deepest parts of your brain and inserted itself into your dreams. his voice would echo through your mind, bouncing off the walls of your skull. he feasted on what little sleep you could get, haunting you throughout each living moment.

his words were what replayed most often at night, on a loop while you tossed and turned on the mattress. you weren’t young, you had lived plenty, you thought. you’d lived through daddy dying of the influenza, your brothers being sent off to germany, and your farm’s drought, what did he know about how much you’ve lived?

you were too naive to understand that he knew everything there was to know about you.

ten years had passed and, by god, had you lived. mama got too sick to tend to the farm, her bones too weak and brittle to even carry a pale of water for the hens, leaving you to the land while she faded away in a home down the road.

you’d eventually gotten over your sorrows and married a fine gentleman with kind eyes and money in his pocket. while he kept you satisfied and satiated, he would never be who you really wanted. that was until you woke up in an empty bed in a joyless home with an empty wallet. he didn’t even have the decency to leave you with a child. rumor spread that he had found a pretty young thing in louisiana to chase after, leaving you to deal with the dirty looks and faux sympathy given by the church-goers and the bar flies.

when you’d close your eyes at night you’d see those blue ones. so blue they were almost inhuman. he felt inhuman, but you assumed it to be your brain’s unrealistic memory of him. or perhaps it was his perfection that made him seem so alien to you. his beauty was maddening,

you’d make your money by selling what little you could from the farm to whatever grocer would take it. milk, crops, flowers, whatever you could squeeze out of the land you’d use.

your nights were spent by cooking what you couldn’t sell, usually ending up with some kind of subpar vegetable stew in the pot. you ate at your dinner table set for one, across from an empty seat filled by the ghost of what once was.

this night began just like the others, lonely and exhausted. you’d spent the day walking to and from different markets around town trying to sell your cow’s milk. you had only earned a few dollars and sore feet by the end of the day, and the heat hadn’t made it any better.

despite the windows being cracked and the front door ajar, it was still sweltering in the house. you came in with a laundry basket on your hip, freshly dry from the day’s morning. the cicadas screamed and the crickets chirped while the sun had made its way down, the heat refusing to leave with it. you used an old church fan to try and fight off the sweat dripping down your neck, but the delta humidity had won the battle. the air was sticky and damn near wet on your skin, making your night slip stick your back and thighs with adhesive of slick sweat.

you had just finished folding the last sheet when a sudden breeze forced itself throughout the house, forcing the shutters outside open and the front door, smacking itself against the wall adjacent to it. the wind whistled through the kitchen and onto the porch, sounding almost familiar. the noise awoke something in you, causing you to jump from your seat in shock. the gust of wind was over not even a second later, leaving the house in complete silence.

you could no longer hear the crickets chirp, the leaves rustling, or the owls howling. the cicadas had even silenced themselves. your breath had ceased as well, the air still and stagnant in your home.

slowly, you rose from your seat and inched yourself towards the door to shut it and lock it for the night. but as your hand reached for the knob, you heard it. heard him.

“miss me, darlin’?”

[robin-evry]

What do you think dan heng or imbibitor lunae/yuu

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐆!𝐘𝐔𝐔

A cold and reserved young man who is reticent about his past. To avoid his kin, he decided to travel with the Astral Express. Dan Heng's true form from his Vidyadhara lineage carries the residual power left behind by his past incarnation, the Imbibitor Lunae. Upon accepting the majestic horns atop his crown, he must accept all the merits and faults attributed to that sinner.

During their appearance at twst for the first chapter, Dan heng!yuu hide their lineage as well not revealing their true lineage to anyone.

They try not to stand out a lot, only staying at the back and observing the situation but not attending to the problem and will intervene in case it gets out of hand.

But during chapter 2, they use their imbibitor lunae form to defeat overblot Leona, after the fight was over before anyone can react to Dan heng!yuu has already left the area. But many students have already witnessed their true form so there's no point in hiding it.

Dan heng!yuu continue to not show up to school for a few days until Crowley asks them to return back to school, they decide to avoid the first years due to being scared of their judgement.

They will still continue to wear their human form even though their identity was revealed to the public, they become the popular topic of gossip but grim is there to protect them from it.

Most of the time, dan heng! Yuu will be in the library reading and managing the books Crowley gave them an official job as the librarian of the school.

After their secret was revealed many students started to treat them like royalty which is something Dan heng!yuu isn't very fond of it because they wish to be treated the same. Even Crowley started less annoying because of this.

Lilia originally had a hinge about dang heng!yuu being more than what they appear but turns out it was true and was happy to finally find another dragon for malleus to play with. So when Dan heng!yuu was in the library Lilia approached them inviting them to a tea party that was hosting malleus and Dan heng! Yuu to meet.

At first ace and deuce started to ask questions about them because they were upset about them hiding their lineage but soon let it go and they accepted Dan heng!yuu.

Dan heng!yuu sometimes meditate in the forest behind the ramshackle and was spotted by rook who was hunting, and for the next hour rook admired Dan heng!yuu imbibitor lunae form. And they soon became one of rooks muses.

Another thing is that Dan heng!yuu sometimes visit the ignihyde dorm for peace and quiet since sometime NRC can be quite hand full.

Sebek admired or hated Dan heng!yuu, he admired them being a part of a noble prestigious dragon blood line but saw them hiding their true lineage as a sign of being ashamed as well as someone that is threatening malleus position.

Malleus on the other hand was happy that another dragon had a drop of NRC, he and Dan heng!yuu would discuss a lot of topics together. As well as him being interested in Dan heng!yuu lineage.

Sometimes, Lilia would invite Dan heng!yuu on a spar or training day and will ask them to spar with sebek or silver as well asking them to teach them some pole arm tricks.

They often take long walks at night, enjoying the serenity of the moonlight and the stars. Sometimes, Malleus or Silver joins them for these reflective moments.

Dan heng Yuu carry a personal journal where they sketch or write down their thoughts, though they guard it fiercely. This journal contained notes as well for school and work as a personal diary for Dan heng!Yuu to write everyday.

Their voice is soothing, and many students find themselves unintentionally relaxing when Dan heng Yuu speaks, even during stressful situations.

Leona originally saw them as a small fry but after chapter two and their secret was revealed, Leona held a disdain over Dan heng!yuu due to them being the one that defeats them and they remind him of malleus.

Dan heng!Yuu is very talented of cloudhymn magic, they have the ability to control and create water at a large scale being able to control the entire ocean. This magic as well is a noble dragon and they have become one of Azul targets.

Azul after the reveal has been trying to rope them to a contract but Dan heng!yuu is very much sharp and is not easily fooled by his schemes and is able to see through it. As well being one of jade and floyd entertainment sources wanting to get a reaction from them.

[goryhorroor]

horror of 2025

here's the list (hoping i get every movie but mostly will be kinda focusing on the ones i'm either excited for or is super popular)

the wolfman - leigh whannell's take on the classic

final destination: bloodlines - tormented by recurring violent nightmares, stefanie returns home to break the cycle

black phone 2: sequel

sax xi: eleventh installment in the saw franchise

28 years later - it's been three decades since the rage virus escaped a laboratory and some groups have been able to live amongst the infected but when they leave the safety of their island they'll discover dark secrets

m3gan 2.0 - sequel

companion - after being invited to a weeekend trip at her new beau's lakeside estate, iris uncovers a terrible secret

they follow: sequel to it follows

frankenstein: guillermo's del toro's take on the original

the strangers: chapter 2 - sequel

the strangers: chapter 3 - end of a trilogy

scary movie: return to the horror spoof series

sinners - trying to leave their troubled lives behind, twin brothers return to their hometown to start again, only to discover that an even greater evil is waiting to welcome them back

untitled jordan peele film - plot tba

poohniverse: monsters assemble - a team of evil childhood cartoon characters i didn't know we needed but i guess we're getting one

vicious - a young woman must spent the night fighting for her existence as she slips down a disturbing rabbit hole contained inside a mysterious gift from a late-night visitor

blade - i mean i hope so but i'm not sure if we're actually getting it this year

the bride - in the 1930s, a lonely frankenstein travels to chicago to seek the aid of dr. euphronius in creating a companion for himself. they murder a young woman and the bride is born

scary stories to tell in the dark 2 - sequel

thanksgiving 2 - sequel

the auditors - nikki, grappling with post-job loss financial strain, inadvertently ignores the fine print of their MDPOPE purchase, and their descent into horror begins with the arrival of the auditors who subject them to torture

grind - a group of college students host a midnight grindhouse film festival. they discover a cursed arthouse horror movie called the creeping chaos. in screening the movie, they unleash absolute mayhem

you take can now - plot tba

scream 7 - plot tba

kraken - marine biologist johanne is doing research on a fish farm in vangshe, a rural community located by the fjord. when she encounters strange occurances along with two brutal deaths, she discovers that a mythical creature rests

the woman in the yard - a mysterious woman who repeatedly appears in a family's front yard, often giving chilling warnings, and leaving residents to question her identity, motive, and potential danger

i know what you did last summer - reboot of classic

fear street: prom queen - prom season at shadyside high is underway, but when an outsider is unexpectedly nominated to the court, and other girls start disappearing, the class of '88 is in for a hell of a prom night

until dawn - live action of the video game

let the evil go west - a railroad worker stumbles upon a fortune teller in distubring circumstances and horrifying visions drive him towards madness

the monkey - when twin brothers hal and bill discover their father's old monkey toy in the attic, a series of gruesome deaths start occurring around them

hell house llc: lineage - fifth installment

screamboat: a late night boat ride turns into a desperate fight for survival in new york city when a mouse becomes a monstrous reality (what the fuck)

body farm - the forester johann only wants to warn his ex-wife sophie of a forensic research facility, but when he gets to the site, fast-growing slime has infested the corpses of the dead and brings them to life

i know exactly how you die - when his slasher-fiction novel manifests in real life, rian burman has to finish his story without getting his protagonist killed

le fanu's carmilla - retelling of the book

devil's work - when a couple, traveling on their vacation, meet a desperate girl seeking for her missing sister, they encounter terror and up as hostages to a twisted family and their son

the seductress from hell - hollywood actress undergoes a horrific transformation after being pushed to the edge by her husband

hyde - modern take on the classic novella by robert louis stevenson

crawlers - in the year 2030, a zombie pandemic decimates the united states population. american surviors rush to mexico where a plateau is believed to be zombie free

the children of the woods - in january 1999, a group of five disappeared after they went into the woods of york, south carolina for a camping trip, their story is being told 25 years later (inspired by blair witch project)

the dreadful - in the backdrop of the war of roses, anne and her mother-in-law morwen who live in solidary, run into a man from their past

presence - a family moves into a suburban house and become convinced they're not alone

victorian psycho - winifred notty arrives at a remote gothic manor, and as she assimilates into life, staff members begin to disappear

heart eyes - when the heart eyes killer strikes seattle, a pair of co workers pulling overtime are mistaken for a couple by the couple-hunting killer. now they must spend their valetine's day running for their lives

peter pan's neverland nightmare - after her brother michael is abducted by "the boy who won't grow up," peter pan, wendy darling goes on a rescue mission

[imkinddassus]

This au take place after the events of poppy playtime chapter 3, by some magical unknown reason, the smiling critters are now reincarnated in a cartoon form (except Catnap who is a doll), three prophets are tasks on keeping balance in their so called paradise.

MEET THE CAST!

The prophets:

Prophets can't dream and have nightmares, their emotions heavily impact on their powers, uniting with one another will cause strange effects to their world, they remembered their past life and can relive the moment when someone trigger a specific word. Keeps past secrets from others.

The others smiling critters:

Have nightmares of their past but assuming that they are vivid nightmares. They have no memories of the past neither was the hour of joy. It's like they are reborn.

Chapter cuts:

Camping (complete)

Moonlight Falls (complete)

Trusting (complete)

Hallucinations (complete)

Devil's Hours

One Small Step

Extras

Brief summary

Everyone's feelings for each other

Broken bonds

Catnap's punishment

CatNap idk

Prophet's powers (thing)

Something about catnap's design

Useless doll

The Devil Himself

Craftycorn and catnap thing

Tea party

Curiosity kills the cat

C̷̪̒̽̿ų̴͈̦̪̝̿̊̑̕͘͝͝r̷̡͈̟̤̮̄̆̄̿́i̸̩̹̍͌̒͝ͅo̵̡̜͉̠̙̗͈͍͆s̷̨̡̪̦̙͉̞̉̅̔i̵̧͉̙̼͋̋̏̒̑̊̍t̶̛̠̥͉͒́̀y̵͉͇͎͖̳̺͖̍̈͌̏̇̈͌͗̐

Aurora borealis

Selfless

Sinner

Anger issues

It's my fault

Regret

Past..

Friendship ahh

Before the accident

The fallen

Titles..

Some other time..

🌙🖌️

Rules on asking in this blog:

(on hiatus!!)

Do not ask anything overly sensitive, out of topic and inappropriate ask.

Be respectful and a decent human being.

Ask is now available for dogday, crafty, picky and hoppy!

My main blog:

@yanari-arts

But don't go there cuz I only reblog stuff there

HA!Catnap's blog:

@nappycat1188

Another blog for coolcat:

@galactic-sisters

Luna Brothers blog!

@lunabrothersblogs

DM ME IF YOU WANNA JOIN MY DISCORD SERVER SO I CAN GIVE U THE LINK!!!!

(if you want more content and lore.. sorry.. ya gotta have to search it urself! That's what makes it fun!)

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

✨Dress Up, Part 5: The Gift (Come Fly With Me)✨

Boo! Surprise chapter! This idea was sparked by some conversations I had with the bestie @citrusbatsandhoneybees along with some great ideas from @rosen-und-mondlicht, I hope you enjoy this one <3

P.S.: There is a little time skip between this chapter and the last!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Lucifer x f!sinner reader

Summary: Lucifer wants to give you the best birthday present he could think of, something that you and him can finally share together...

Warnings: 18+, smut, light wing play, oral (m & f receiving), p in v, clone shenanigans, pegging, biting, multiple orgasms, little bit of angst

"Happy Birthday, angel."

Lucifer's soft words caused you to stir awake. You peaked one eye open and saw your darling husband smiling down at you as he hovered above you, twirling your hair with his finger. You moaned and covered your head with the heavy sheets. You kept telling yourself that you would stop falling asleep without any clothes on since you always woke up freezing in the morning. But you and Lucifer went at it for so long the night before that you both ended up passing out almost immediately! But such is the price you pay when you marry the most beautiful creature in existence!

"Noooo," you whined playfully, "too early. Too cold."

Lucifer chuckled while he uncovered your head and gave you a gentle kiss on the cheek. "It's never too early to start celebrating!"

Lucifer was absolutely terrible at keeping secrets, especially when it came to you. You could tell from his chipper tone that he had something extraordinary planned for your special day, even though you told him there's nothing he could give you; you already had him, that was more than enough. Lucifer pressed himself against you, spooning you and draping an arm and a leg over your frigid body. "Plus, I can always warm you up, you know," he teased.

"Oh, what a generous offer," you rolled your eyes at him and laughed. "But maybe you're right, we should probably head to the hotel. I'm sure Charlie spent a lot of time with some sort of surprise party or..."

"Actually, love," Lucifer cut you off, "I was hoping we could have breakfast first."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, we can! But I'm not all that hungry right now, I hardly ever eat in the morning."

"Oh, I know," Lucifer's hand traveled down the length of your arm to your elbow, finally letting it fall to your hip. "I, on the other hand, am starving," he whispered sensually into your ear.

Goosebumps littered your skin as you realized what your insatiable lover was insinuating. "Was last night not enough for you, Luci?"

"I promise you that for as long as I exist, I could never have enough of you," he responded softly, his thumb rubbing loose circles on your skin.

Your cheeks were practically burning now. Even after all this time, the incarnation of temptation itself never failed to make you swoon. It felt as though you found yourself crushing on the devil all over again as if you weren't already his beloved wife.

Lucifer's hands remined on the curve of your hips, his golden eyes almost pleading for a response. You knew he would never do anything unless you gave him permission; just one of his amazing qualities. You took a hold of his hand and guided towards your core, leaving  no doubt in his mind. You smiled and nodded, watching his face practically light up. His fingers wasted no time finding that sensitive bundle of nerves between your folds, starting with small rhythmic circles. A sharp gasp fell from your lips as your body fell prey to his ministrations once again. He knew your body like it was his own, all that mattered to him was your pleasure. It wasn't long before you felt two of his blackened digits slip slowly inside you. Effortlessly, Lucifer pumped them in and out of you; he couldn't help but chuckle at your reaction to just being fingered. To him, it was the most adorable thing; he wanted nothing more to bring you pleasure. Especially on a day as special as this. After a minute or two, he withdrew his fingers from you and wrapped his forked tongue around them, licking up every drop of your delicious slick. It drove him wild.

"I adore the way you taste, love," he cooed as you mourned the loss of his fingers, a tiny whimper escaping your throat. "Aww hon, don't guilt trip me like that! Come on, why don't you have a seat?"

Before you could respond, Lucifer swiftly moved your body on top of his, your legs now spread around his eager face. He beamed up at you before trailing kisses up the length of your thighs. Your breath hitched as his lips found your needy clit.

"Gaa-aaahh...Luci..." you managed to choke out as the devil began to lose himself in your taste. Words were useless now, there was no stopping him once he started. Not that you ever wanted him to. Your gripped his soft golden hair with one hand as your other reached for the headboard to steady yourself from his relentless motions. Your mind was beginning to fog again, it was difficult to even form any coherent words. Even in your daze, you managed to turn around and noticed Lucifer's lower half still concealed by the comforter. It didn't seem fair to you that you were getting all of the special treatment while your poor husband was left neglected. Without warning, you removed your hand from the headboard and threw off the sheets to reveal Lucifer's very noticeable erection. A small gasp left Lucifer's lips, but that did nothing to deter him from his actions.

"O-On second th-thought..." you mumbled out, "m-maybe I am a little hungry..."

You raised your hips from Lucifer's face to try and turn around, wanting to give him the same feeling he was giving you. But before you could even move and inch, the man beneath you forced you back down onto his desperate mouth. You yelped in protest, trying and failing to break out of the angelic grip he had on your hips.

"Mm-mmm" he mumbled into your skin, shaking his head.

"L-Lucifer!" you chastised him. "What are you doing? Don't you want-"

"No," he answered softly. "I-I mean, yes! But not right now...stay here..."

You raised your eyebrow. Lucifer was never one to turn down the feeling of your lips on his cock. And he knew how much you loved to bring him to the brink with your tongue alone. "I-I thought I was the birthday girl. I don't think y-you can say no to me, legally speaking."

Lucifer chuckled as he peppered small kisses on your slick folds. "I promise I will give you whatever you want today, no questions asked. Just...later. For now, your pleasure is the only thing I care about." You were about to say something back before he peered up at you with pleading eyes. "Please...Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine!" You sighed but conceded. Lucifer was nothing if not selfless; given that it was your birthday, you shouldn't have expected anything less.

"O-Oh alright," you pouted, "but I'm going t-to hold you to that promise!"

"I would expect nothing less from you, my queen," Lucifer grinned. "Now, where was I?"

Lucifer's ravenous nature took over once more, reveling in your taste. You found your hips bucking against him almost involuntarily. Unraveling you was his favorite pastime, one of which he would never tire. His lips worked furiously against your swollen nub; your breathy moans only egged him on. With little warning, you came hard against his eager mouth, gripping his hair as your walls contracted repeatedly. Your husband relished the taste of your orgasm, humming gleefully and licking you clean.

"Good girl," he praised, pressing soft kisses to your thighs as you tried to catch your breath. He gingerly took a hold of your hips and placed you back down onto the mattress, peppering kisses along your cheek and jaw. "Now if you'll excuse me, my queen, I need to take a VERY cold shower." You dared not look at what you could only imagine was a throbbing erection between his legs. You wouldn't be able to resist helping him out otherwise. Lucifer rose from the bed and started to make his way to the bathroom, but not before you caught his wrist.

"Can I at least join you?" you asked, batting your eyes. Lucifer gave you an amused look and raised an eyebrow. "I really don't want to spend my birthday covered in sweat, Luci! I promise I'll behave! You have my word." You signed an X symbol over your heart before raising your hand to signal your honest intentions. Your lover chuckled lightly, giving you a chaste kiss on your lips.

"You're right," he responded, trailing his hand down against your cheek. "I can't say no to you. Just give me a minute or two, alright? I really DO need a cold shower!"

You nodded in agreement and waited patiently as Lucifer fought to get his body under control again. Just as you promised, your shower was uneventful, taking turns washing each other's hair and bodies. Small intimate moments like these were some of your favorites. Being naked together in a non-sexual way proved just how much trust and love the two of you had for one another. And it could only grow stronger. When Lucifer was washing your back, however, you started to hear him humming to himself, tracing the lowest space between your shoulder blades with his free hand.

"That tickles, you know," you chimed in, breaking Lucifer out of his trance.

"O-Oh! Sorry, love, I didn't mean to do that. Got a little distracted." He sighed, not in disappointment, no. More like...he was daydreaming.

"Oh yes, my back is mesmerizing, isn't it?" you teased.

Lucifer laughed with you. "I'm glad you finally admitted it! It's about time someone else appreciated the perfect form of the prettiest woman in the realm!" Your face felt hot once again. You would never understand how Lucifer could manage to fluster you even after being together for a while now. "Actually, I was thinking about your gift this year."

You hummed. Lucifer always managed to outdo himself for every one of your birthdays, even though you always had to remind him not to go overboard. A brand-new wardrobe full of the most expensive clothes, the countless number of shimmering necklaces and earrings, the song he wrote and performed just for you; you couldn't help but think it was way more than you ever deserved.

"You know you never need to get me anything, right?" You turned your head to the side and smiled softly at him. "Not that I don't adore what you give me, but I have everything I could possibly need and more."

"Darling, you deserve more than everything," he responded as he continued to trace shapes along the skin of your back. "but this year, I think it's important that I tell you what I want to give you."

You paused, tilting your head in confusion. This was bizarre. The man was the worst at keeping secrets, but somehow he always managed to surprise you with his extravagant gifts for your birthday; he would never say a peep!

"It's okay Lucifer, you don't have to tell me! I know you like to keep me guessing and I don't mind-"

"No, this is different," he said cutting you off. "B-But it's not bad! Am I making it seem bad? God, this is the worst start to a pitch for birthday gift ever, huh?"

You could only laugh. The poor thing tended to stress himself out over the littlest things. You turned around and embraced him as the hot water from the shower rained down on your bodies.

"You're silly," you chuckled. "Of course, I know it's not going to be bad; it's from you!" You watched as a faint gold color dusted his cheeks. It was the cutest thing; if you could fluster him all the time, you would. "Let's finish up here and you can tell me all about it, okay?"

The angel smiled and nodded, pushing some fallen strands of damp hair behind your ear. You turned off the shower and tried to make your way to your closet before his charcoal hand took a hold of your wrist.

"This is going to sound a just a little suspicious, but don't get dressed just yet." You raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Oh, don't give me that look! I promise there's a very good reason! Here!" With a quick snap of his fingers, you found your body and hair were now perfectly dry with your favorite robe appearing around your body. "There you go! To prove there are no underlying intentions, I've shielded myself from your temptations!"

You rolled your eyes as he snapped himself a robe. "Do you know how easily I can remove this?" you asked playfully as you teased the tied-up straps of your garment. "And yours?"

"Hooonnnnneeeeyyyy," Lucifer whined. "I literally just got myself to calm down, please don't make me take a cold shower again!"

You giggled, agreeing to let him have his way. For now. The two of you walked back over to the bed and sat down on the edge. "So, tell me, Luci, what's this gift you're so worked up about?"

Lucifer smiled softly and took a hold over your hands, rubbing his thumbs over your supple skin. "Well, it uhh...it involves my magic. Which is why I think it's important that I tell you beforehand. Because what I want to do, what I want to give you, is permanent. It can't be undone. So, if you're not one hundred percent on board with this, then your gift will be whatever else you desire!" He fell silent and held your face in his hand.

You don't know why, but you started to feel your heart beating a little faster, you could almost hear the blood pounding in your ears. You weren't scared, no. Maybe excited? But that didn't seem to be right either. The few seconds of silence was killing you. You had to know what he was planning. "What is it, Lucifer?" you asked, not being able to wait any longer.

He let out a deep breath before answering. "My love, would you like to fly with me?"

You furrowed your brows at his unexpected response. "Well, I mean, sure! We go flying all the time! I like seeing the rings from above, and you holding me so close is always a nice bonus. Is there something special about this trip?"

Lucifer only shook his head. "That's not exactly what I'm asking, sweetie. I mean, would you like to go flying with me? With your own set of wings?"

Oh...

Oh!

"H-How?" you stammered. "I didn't even know that was possible..."

"Well, luckily for you, your husband is a seraphim!" Lucifer announced proudly. "Only the highest-ranking angels can use magic this powerful! That is...if that's what you want. I-I can always come up with something else if you don't want them! I'm just now realizing that I did not plan ahead...if you give me a minute I can-"

"Lucifer, slow down!" you held is hands tight. "You didn't even give me a chance to answer, goofball!"

He smiled sheepishly, taking a few deep breaths. "Right, right, I'm sorry. You know me, chronic overthinker! So...is that a yes, then?"

You nod. "Yes, it is. I would love to have wings, Luci, to be able to fly with you."

Lucifer shot off the bed with excitement, taking you by the wrists and twirling you in a circle, a fit of giggles erupting from the both of you. When you finally stopped, he gazed into your eyes longingly before pressing a single kiss on your cheek. "You're absolutely sure, right? Because after I'm done, they'll be a part of you forever."

You smiled and returned a kiss to his cheek. "I'm sure. They'll be a part of me just like you are. Forever."

You could almost see the tears welling up in Lucifer's eyes as you spoke. He leaned in close to you, his breath hot on your ear. "For all time. Here, come with me." He walked you over to the center of the room, and with a snap of his fingers, created a large wall of mirrors that encircled the two of you. "Just to make this less scary, I want  you to be able to see what I'm doing. Think of this as like...getting a tattoo!"

You let out a small shaky breath. "Will it hurt?"

"Somewhat," Lucifer replied, "but not too much. Embedding angelic magic is a bit of a tricky process. I won't be able to stop once I've started, so I want to check with you one last time...do you want this?"

"I do," you answered unwaveringly. "Besides, you know I can handle my fair share of pain," you winked at him.

Lucifer quickly pressed his face into your back while he gripped your shoulders, trying and failing to hide his blushing face. "Why do you have to say things like that?! I will not fall for your devious tricks, temptress! You can't distract me!"

You couldn't contain your laughter as your husband desperately attempted to get control of his thoughts. "The day's still young, hon."

Lucifer rolled his eyes as he lifted your robe off of your shoulders. You helped him by letting the garment fall to the small of your back. You stared at the mirror and watched as the angel began to glow, a faint light encompassing his body. It was a rare sight for you, it felt impossible to look away.

"Deep breaths for me, love," he said. You did as he asked. "Good. Keep as still as you can for me. This will only take a minute."

His darkened finger pressed into your skin and began to move slowly. His touch was hot. Very hot. But not to the point of being unbearable. You winced as you felt your skin being burned by his magic. It was difficult to tell what he was doing in the different reflections around you, so you decided to focus on your breathing, deciding distracting yourself from the pain was the best option.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

"Your doing so well," Lucifer cooed, "I'm halfway done." His finger shifted over to the other side of your back and began the same process. You smiled weakly even though it felt like you were being branded by a hot iron. Lucifer could tell you were in pain; your silence was his indication. He knew you were focusing all of your power into keeping as motionless as possible and doing your best not to scream.

Without moving your body, your brough your hand up your mouth, biting down on the base of your index finger. He had warned you; he had told you it may hurt, but this was not the level of pain you were expecting. And just before a cry of agony threatened to escape your throat, it stopped. The pain was gone. A single tear rolled down your cheek that was immediately wiped away by Lucifer who had rushed in front of you to embrace you.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he begged, "I know that was a lot. But it's over now!"

You let out a heavy sigh, your body relaxing after being constricted for what felt like hours. You wrapped your arms around Lucifer, stroking his golden hair. "It's okay, Luci. I'm okay," you reassured him. "Just a little more than I was expecting..."

Lucifer began to press small kisses to the top of your exposed breasts. "Sometimes I forget that you're not invincible," he admitted. "Guess I lied to you when I said it wouldn't hurt that much, please forgive me."

You smiled and placed a quick peck to the top of his head. "You have nothing to apologize for, sweetie. I agreed to it. But like you said, it's over now, no need to wallow in the past."

Lucifer smiled in relief before leaning in to kiss your soft lips. You held him there for a bit, placing your hand behind his head as your tongues became entangled. Lucifer pulled away from you, much to your dismay, and chuckled. "So impatient," he breathed against your lips.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," you replied.

Lucifer hummed softly, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Do you want to see what I've done?" You nodded, finally taking a peak in the mirror, expecting to see that your back had been burnt to a crisp. But it wasn't, it looked perfectly normal. Except, of course, for the two new crimson markings that now adorned your skin. From what you could tell, they looked like two large gashes, as if someone had carved your skin with a knife. A hot, burning knife laced with poison. Thankfully, you no longer felt any of the excruciating pain that you had felt moments before.

"You know," you finally spoke up, "for the amount of pain I was in, you would think they would have been bigger!"

"Hey now!" Lucifer shot back playfully, "I already feel bad enough for having to hurt you like I did!"

"You know I'm teasing, Luci," you cooed. "I do have a question, though. Why don't you have the same markings on your back?"

"Ahh, good question!" the angel exclaimed as he helped readjust your robe. "I was created as an angel; my wings are inherently a part of me. I do have markings, but I can hide them!"

"Oh," you sighed. "Am I allowed to see them?"

Lucifer smirked. "Is this just a ploy of your so you can see me naked? You've been rather ravenous today, you know."

Your hands flew to his waist, bringing him flush against you. "When you have the prettiest angel in existence as your husband, how could I not be?" Once again, his cheeks turned a pale-yellow color at your compliment, burying his face in your chest and letting out a small squeak of embarrassment. You stroked his hair, doing your best to console him. "But no, I am actually curious! I've never gotten to see them. I'll be on my best behavior!"

Lucifer flashed a toothy grin at you before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips once again. "Oh, alright. I believe you. And who am I to say no to my queen?" He stood up straight and turned his back to you, undoing his robe and letting it droop off of his shoulders, letting it fall to his waist. His pale white skin changed before your eyes. While once there was nothing, now displayed identical markings to yours. The only different was that he had six slits, three on each side.

You reached out your hand before pausing. "Are they sensitive?" you asked.

Lucifer cocked his head to the side. "They're...more tender than anything. The wings themselves are sensitive, but you knew that already," he winked. He was right, you were very much aware of how Lucifer reacted when you stroked his wings in the past. You adored the sounds he made when you ran your fingers through his feathers and-NO! You promised to behave. You shook those less than pure thoughts from your head and pressed to fingers into one of Lucifer's markings. Strangely, they felt a bit warmer than the rest of his body, but it was a nice sensation, nonetheless.

"Beautiful..." was the only word you could utter upon seeing these markings on your husband’s body.

Lucifer chucked and fixed his robe. "You flatter me too much, darling." With another snap of his fingers, all of the mirrors surrounding you had vanished. "I could say the same thing about you! And I will! Because you are so so SO beautiful!" Without warning, he scooped you up bridal style and began peppering kisses all over your smiling face. He carried you over to your closet before setting you back down. "So, are you ready for your first flying lesson?"

"Right...f-flying..." It completely escaped you that you would actually be using you wings to fly. It's not like you were afraid of heights; Lucifer and you have flown together countless times. the only difference being that you were always cradled in his arms. What you feared was the falling.

Lucifer sensed the trepidation in your wavering voice and softly squeezed your hand. "I won't let anything happen to you; I promise. I'll be with you every step of the way. Wait, no...flap of the way? You know what I mean!" You smiled and let out a deep breath. He kissed you on the cheek before leaving to let you change. "Don't worry about your outfit too much, love, your wings won't tear anything up! Magic is neat like that, huh? I'll meet you out on the balcony!"

As soon as you were alone, you picked out the most practical outfit in your wardrobe. Dresses and skirts weren't going to cut it this time, you didn't need to give all of the Pride ring a free show. You picked out one of your favorite shirts and a pair jeans before heading out to meet Lucifer. And just as he said, he was standing right over the balcony that was connected to your bedroom, now fully dressed in his signature white and red outfit. You stood beside him and gripped the metal rail; the only thing between you and a nasty fall to the hard ground. The hot wind of Hell blew through your hair, whipping it back and forth, blurring your vision a bit. This was real, this was about to happen. You were about to fly.

Lucifer placed his hand on top of yours and smiled. "I'll go first, okay?" You nodded wordlessly, watching the angel climb the rail, now towering above you. "Watch and learn!" he exclaimed as he leaped down with a load cheer.

Show off, you thought to yourself.

It was only a second before Lucifer appeared in front of you once again, his large red wings spread wide as he hovered in the air. "Okay, you don't have to do exactly that," he joked, "but once you learn, you'll be able to do that and more with ease! Now, let's see those new wings of yours! All you have to do think of them and POOF! There they are!"

"Alright..." you nearly whispered. You closed your eyes, imagining yourself with a set of wings. An image flashed in your mind; you saw their shape, their size, their color...they were beautiful. Your eyes flashed open, as small gasp escaping your throat as your new wings fluttered behind you for the first time. Dazzling golden feathers glistened, your eyes drawn to their sparkle. Your eyes followed the white base of your wings from your shoulder all the way down to where they hung above the floor. You were awestruck. You could have sworn the feathers were made of real gold, but when you touched them, they were as soft as chinchilla fur. Arguably, they were even softer than Lucifer’s, which you didn't think would be possible! It was a weird sensation; the feeling of running your fingers through them. You didn't expect them to feel like they were apart of you, but they were. And you loved them. You couldn't hold back your smile, the utter joy you felt in that moment.

"Oh, golly..." Lucifer said softly, unable to pull his eyes away from the sight of you. "Sweetheart, they're...wow, you look absolutely gorgeous. I didn't think you could be any more beautiful then you already are. I stand corrected! Uhh, no, hold on...float corrected! I really have to think before I speak."

You chuckled as he hoisted you up onto the balcony railing without warning, a squeak escaping your throat in the process. His grip on you never wavered, holding you firm so you couldn't lose your balance. Against your better judgement, you looked down from your high altitude. You regretted it immediately. You shot your head back up, Lucifer looking longingly into your eyes, a soft smile spread across his lips.

"I'll keep you safe, my love," he insisted. "Can you try moving your wings for me. Slowly now..."

You nodded and did as he said, allowing yourself to feel and embrace your new body. Your wings moved back and forth lethargically. For some reason, they felt more powerful than they appeared. Your wings could carry Satan himself if they wanted to! Your worry started to lessen more and more as you grew to understand how much force they could really generate. You began to move them faster, creating stronger gusts of wind with each pass. After another moment you felt your that your feet were no longer touching any surface. Lucifer beamed, his hands loosening as you floated higher and higher. Until at last you were left to your own devices.

You were flying.

"I-I...I did it!" you exclaimed!

Lucifer flew up to you and gripped your hands tightly. "I knew you could!" Lucifer waved his hand over the Pride Ring as if he were presenting it to you. "The sky is yours, my angel, give them a go! I promise I'll stay close by just in case."

Your heart pounded in your ears; fear being replaced with exhilaration. Up here, your felt like you could do anything. With a powerful push from your wings, you were off, speeding past Lucifer and heading straight towards Pentagram City. You knew Lucifer could fly fast, but he was always more careful when he had you in his arms. You reminded yourself to scold him once you got back because this feeling was beyond imagination. You couldn't contain your laughter as your sped through the vermillion red sky. You could see everything from up here! From the Hazbin Hotel on top of the hill to the V Tower in the Entertainment District. It was magical, you would have stayed in the air there forever if you could.

Lucifer snuck up on you, soaring just above you and hanging upside down, his face parallel your yours. "You're a natural, sweetie! You caught on quick!"

You kissed his upside-down lips in response, watching a goofy smile spread across his face. "This is just...this is amazing, Lucifer! I really don't know how to thank you."

"You don't need to," he replied, "your happiness is thanks enough. Now the question is...do you want to do a little sightseeing? Orrrrr...we could have some fun!"

You tilted your head. "Fun?"

"How about a race!," he suggested. "I saw the way you moved; it was hard to keep track of you! Who knows, you may even beat moi!"

You rolled your eyes. "I highly doubt that, hon, but let's give it a shot!"

"Yay! Great! Okay uhhh..." Lucifer scanned the surrounding area. "First one to the Embassy wins!"

"Ok, you're on!" you challenged. You lined up side by side, your eyes locked on your goal. "Ready...set..."

"GO!" Lucifer yelled as he took off towards the building, leaving you floating there.

"Hey, no fair!" You called out, your voice falling on deaf ears. With all your might, you thrusted yourself forward, your wings propelling you forward at a pace you didn't think possible. You smirked as you began to catch up to your cheating husband with little effort. You ducked underneath him, pulling yourself from his line of vision if he were to look back. And wouldn't you know it, he did!"

"Sorry, love, you gotta be...wait, where'd you go?" Lucifer slowed, giving you the opportunity to soar right past him. "Woah!" you heard him shout, laughing as you came closer and closer to winning the rigged race. Within a few seconds, you managed to land successfully on top of the golden building. You turned around ready to taunt him, but he was nowhere to be found.

"Lucifer?" you called.

"There you are! What took you so long?" Lucifer turned the corner hidden by the roof, strolling up to you with a shit eating grin on his face.

Oh, that little...

"You're such a cheater!" you accused playfully. "Since when were portals allowed?"

He gasped and looked offended. "Me? A cheater? You wound me with such accusations, sweetheart! And besides, it's not like we set up any rules beforehand that didn't allow a few detours."

You huffed in annoyance. "Guess I should know you really aren't one for rules."

"Never," he confirmed, placing a kiss on your cheek.

"I want a rematch!" you demanded. You looked up to where the glowing light of Heaven shown in the sky, your lips forming into a grin. "Let's see who can fly the highest!” You spread your wings out as far as they could stretch and gave Lucifer a quick wink. “Go!"

"Wait, honey, don't-" but it was too late. You took to the air in a flash, racing to the top as fast as you could manage, leaving Lucifer in the dust.

"What's the matter, Luci, afraid you'll lose this time?" you shouted down to him. He called back to you, but it became hard to hear him the greater the distance you created. Did he say "slow down?" No. You weren't going to let him trick you again. You were going to win whatever it took! You were going to-

S̸̹̰͙̥̃T̵̨̾͋̈́̀̓̈́̃̑̎̓̕͜Ȯ̴̞̫͉̳̙̝͐̂́͒̀̃͆̽͝P̴̛͚͉̤̳͖̪̝̾̂͘!̷̡͖͎̠̮̥̜̟̦̦̫͛̌̃͌̍̌̋

You froze. And it seemed as though all of Hell below did as well. It go quiet, too quiet for the likes of the Pride Ring.

The King had spoken.

You hovered there in the air, letting Lucifer catch up to you. His demonic features were out on full display, his eyes a deep crimson red. It took you a moment to realize that you were trembling. Lucifer had never lashed out in anger for anything, not once. Hell, he never even raised his voice at you.

What had you done?

Tears started to form in your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheek. That was until Lucifer embraced you as he had finally caught up to you. You flinched when you felt his arms around you; something you had never done before. Were you...afraid of him. All of these thoughts became quiet when you heard him quietly sob into your shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he bawled, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I-I didn't...I mean, I'd never...God, I'm so sorry." You felt his tail wrap tightly around your leg while his claws were threatening to pierce your skin with how tightly he held onto you. "Please tell me you're alright..."

"It...It's alright, Lucifer." you voice was barely above a whisper. "And so am I." You pulled away from his embrace, watching as large tears fell down his distressed face. You've never seen him like this before, even during his darkest days when he would refuse to get out of bed. You freed one of your arms trying to wipe the tears away. "Lucifer, what's wrong? I didn't mean to upset you like this, I'm so sorry, I-"

"Love, you did nothing wrong," he answered, finally letting you go and reverting back to his normal form. "This was all my fault. My mistake. You have nothing to apologize for."

"I don't understand."

Lucifer sighed, doing his best to regain his composure. "There's something I didn't tell you. I was so blinded by joy that I'd forgotten to warn you. And it almost cost me everything." He grabbed your hands, running his thumbs over your delicate skin. You looked at him puzzled, not truly understanding what he was implying. "After what happened in Eden, Heaven wanted to be certain that I could never return. I did everything I could, I pleaded with them. But they didn't listen to me. When they cast me out...when I fell, I tried to fly back. I was desperate, and I wasn't thinking clearly. I thought I could somehow reason with them. But..." Lucifer fell silent, his expression falling with every passing second.

Your heart hurt. Lucifer hardly ever brought up his fall, or Heaven for that matter. You knew it was painful for him to talk about. What almost happened that had caused this sudden change? "What did they do to you?" you asked quietly.

Lucifer flew back from you a few feet, looking up towards the realm he once called home. "Stay right there," he said to you before flying up higher. Something happened after only a moment. A long and glowing golden chain caught Lucifer around his ankle, tethering him to Hells surface far below. He couldn't move anymore; he was made completely immobile. That was until he floated down back towards you. The chain had completely vanished. And it became clear to you. Why he had screamed, why he held you the way he did, the deep regret and remorse he was feeling...was for your protection.

"They chained you here?" you asked, your voice laced with rage and disgust.

"Yes," he spoke dejectedly. "They made sure my magic could never breach beyond this realm. My realm...And you...you're body flows with my magic now. I-If you would have gone even a little bit higher, with t-the speed you were flying...I-I..." he trailed off. He didn't have to finish his sentence to understand what he wanted to say.

You hesitated wanting to push the subject further, but you couldn't hold back the fury you felt in your soul. "What happened when you tried to go back?"

Lucifer took a deep breath before continuing. "I didn't know that chain would appear. So, when I flew up, it caught me after a certain threshold...I became damaged. “My leg was..." he paused, not wanting to continue his thought. You were glad that he didn't. "And my healing abilities could only do so much to fix it. Angels can only be damaged by other angels or their magic. Have you ever wondered why I carry around a cane with me?"

If you were honest, you never did. All you thought was that it was just an accessory of his, something that made him stand out. Never once did you think it was an aid for him. For as long as you were with him, he never indicated that he was ever in any sort of physical pain.

"I haven't had to properly use it for a long time now," he explained. "I'm practically back to the way I was before that all happened. But I keep it with me as a reminder..."

"Lucifer..." You didn't know what to say. What could you say? You were sad for him, angry for him. What Heaven had done to him was beyond forgiveness.

"But you...you weren't created as an angel," he continued. "If the same thing that happened to me were to happen to you, I'd never be able to forgive myself. And now...now your truly trapped hear because of me."

You couldn't help but squeeze his hands in defiance. "No," you said firmly. "Lucifer, please don't say that! You are the best thing that could have ever happened to me." With newfound determination, your wings carried the two of you higher until those golden chains stopped you from moving any farther. "I've never felt more free than I do right now. You may think I'm trapped here now, and even if that may be the case, I'm trapped here with you, not because of you. You are my freedom." You held his face in your hands and kissed him tenderly. "And you are my Heaven. Now tell me...what's better than being stuck with the person you love and adore the most for the rest of time?"

Lucifer laughed lightly, bringing the two of you farther and farther down. "I don't know how you manage to always make the worst situations more beautiful, but you do. But I love that about you, always able to see things on the bright side..." He returned your kiss from earlier with his own, this one more passionate and desperate, feeling as though he could have lost you. You smiled into his kiss, loving the familiar ways that he showed affection. He was hungry as if he was trying to devour you. The adrenaline was kicked into high gear and you wanted nothing more than to match it. Your hands and well as his began to roam over each other’s bodies as you still hung in the air, completely filtering out the blood curdling screams and fiery explosions below.

"Do you want to take this somewhere else, hon?" you teased breathlessly.

"I most definitely do," Lucifer smirked, "flying lessons are over for today." Your husband snapped a portal open and dragged you inside it with a laugh. The two of you landed on your king-sized mattress as your tongues continued to fight for dominance over the other. "No one out there should get to see you like this. For my eyes only..."

You positioned yourself on his lap, grinding softly on his bulge that began to grow more and more with each passing second until he was moaning in your mouth. "Luci, remember that promise you made earlier? The one where you said I could have anything I want?" Lucifer gulped and smiled sheepishly. "I think that time has come."

“I always keep my promises,” he whispered against your lips before diving back into again, his hands making their way under your shirt and up your body. “But I only ask one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“Keep your wings out for me,” the man asked sweetly.

You nodded in agreement, running your fingers through his hair. “I never had breakfast you know. Think I should have something to eat, Luci?”

With a knowing smile, Lucifer snapped your clothes away as well as his own, too impatient for his own good. You crawled out of his lap, eyeing up his now very erect member. Licking your lips, you shifted onto your hands and knees and crawled in between his legs. You began to press small pecks to his leaking tip; his breath hitched and he became putty in your hands. With a small giggle, you fully wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, savoring the delicious musky flavor. His soft moans off the walls in your room as he gently gripped your hair. You loved the way his body trembled when you had him like this; legs spread, his cock invading your mouth, unable to speak coherently. Pure bliss.

“Aaa-aahhh, baby, f-fuck…” Lucifer stammered. “Y-You always make me feel s-so good. B-But I shouldn’t be the only one feeling l-like this.”

You felt his hand graze the base of your wings. You moaned around his cock at the sudden jolt of pleasure. No wonder he asked you to keep your wings out…he wanted to make you feel what he’s felt every time you do it to him.

And fuck, did it feel amazing.

But you didn’t want to be distracted, so you decided to pick up the pace. Your tongue began swirling around his tip at a rapid pace, forcing yourself to take him deeper and deeper until he was nearly hitting the back of your throat. Lucifer cried out as you mercilessly worked on his length.

Just then you heard the snap of his figures again, followed by a lustful sigh.

“You’re leaking s-so much hon,” he murmured. He was right, of course. But how could he know? He couldn’t see…wait.

You lifted your head up, causing Lucifer to whine at the loss of your mouth. Turning around, you could see a mirror had been placed behind you on the bed, giving your lover a perfect view of your aching pussy.

“Enjoying the show?” you mocked, stroking his cock languidly in the process.

“Very m-much…” he teased weakly. “And I could definitely go for another bite. So, if you want to…”

“No way,” you cut him off, “I’m not moving until I have my fill.” You leaned in and pressed your lips to his ear. “Unless, of course, you just can’t help yourself.” It was an open invitation, a challenge. And he knew that all too well. Being the king of Pride, he never turned down one of those.

You went back to work, deep throating his cock just like before. But you only got to bob your head a few more times before you felt a separate pair of hands grip your waist. You smiled, realizing you got exactly what you were hoping for.

Your lover had duplicated himself.

Wordlessly, Lucifer’s doppelgänger pressed his mouth into your cunt without warning, causing you to nearly scream. The clone’s tongue dug deeper and deeper inside you with every pass, while your Lucifer refused to let up on your wings. It was too much and not enough at the same time. You knew you weren't going to last much longer at this rate with both of them making it their mission to push you over the edge. Luckily, as soon as you felt Lucifer begin to twitch in your mouth, you knew he was a goner. But once the clone behind you began to use his figures to circle the sensitive bud between your legs, it was over for you.

You choked out a scream as you came hard on the other Lucifer's tongue who happily lapped up your juices. And as if on cue, Lucifer bucked into your mouth with a broken cry, gripping your wings as his hot seed slipping down your eager throat. Maybe the taste of you was enough to drive him to the brink. You swallowed all of him happily, making sure to get every last drop before releasing his still erect cock.

"Was that good, Luci?"

"Y-Yes," he whimpered, leaning in and closing the gap between the two of you. "It's always more than good with you. darling. I think the other me made a mess, though." True to form, you noticed a puddle of cum on the bedsheets behind you from the clone who had vanished. Smiling, you used a figure to scoop up some of the sticky substance only to lick it clean. Lucifer's hands flew to his face in embarrassment. "How many times are you gonna fluster me like this today?!"

"Well, at least once more," you replied seductively. "I do have one more request." You slipped off the bed and made your way over to one of the drawers in your nightstand. You pulled out your favorite strap and a small bottle of lube and presented them to Lucifer. "Let's take a ride, shall we?"

"Y-Yes! Oh, fuck yes, please!" Lucifer's excitement was adorable, especially when you watched him take his position on all fours, bearing his supple ass to you.

"Good boy," you praised as you smeared some lube onto your fingers. You prodded at his tight entrance before pushing in your slick fingers little by little until you were as far inside of him as you could reach. The angel whined into the bed sheets as you spread your fingers inside of him, opening him up and preparing him for what came next. Once you felt he was fully prepared, you slipped on the strap and sat back down at the head of the bed. You squeezed some more lube onto your hand and ran in up and down the plastic shaft with Lucifer practically drooling at the site. With a curled finger, you summoned him over. But before he could line himself up, you stopped him.

"Nuh uh, wrong way, Luci," you corrected him. "You had your fun with the mirror; I'd like to have a turn now." Lucifer whimpered a bit but complied, shifting his body so that he was now faced away from you. You then took a hold of his hips and guided him down ever so slowly onto the strap. Pleasured whines from Lucifer continued until he bottomed out on you. You stared into the mirror, leaving small kisses on Lucifer's back. "Aww, look at you, baby! You look so cute sitting on my cock like that. Are you ready to move?"

"P-Please..." he begged.

"Go ahead, Luci, I'll help you." With that, Lucifer began to shift himself on your strap, sliding up and down slowly at first but picking up speed not long after. Your hands remained on his hips as you helped him stay fully sheathed as he rocked his hips. Lucifer moaned with every movement, his cock slapping against his stomach with every thrust. Lucifer shut his eyes as he lost himself. But that wasn't going to fly for you. "No, no, honey, open your eyes. I want you to look in the mirror. Watch yourself ride my cock." He did as you asked, looking directly at his reflection with the most fucked out face you've ever seen on this man.

"I-I...oh ffffuck...too much. S-sweetie, please...please, I-I'm gonna cum...please, s-so close...please say I c-can cum." His pleading was music to your ears, you've never heard a sweeter sound. Your lips continued to mark his back, his shoulders, and his neck, nipping softly at his arctic white skin. One of your hands flew from his hip to his pulsing cock, stroking him in tandem with his thrusts.

"Go ahead, Luci, cum for me. I want to watch you cum for me."

Not even a moment later, Lucifer let himself release more of his hot cum into your hand with a broken scream, his hands digging into your thighs for support. You pumped him lazily, letting him ride out his orgasm as his movement on your strap slowed and eventually stopped. His body fell back against your own, his breathing heavy and labored. He turned his just enough to be able to kiss you softly, soft "thank you's" falling from his lips.

"You did so well," you cooed. "You make the most adorable faces when you cum, you know that? Are you ready to clean up now?" You helped him of your strap, laying him down gently on top of you as you laid down flat on the bed.

"N-No," you mumbled. "Not yet. Not done." You were shocked at first, but surprisingly, you could still feel how hard Lucifer's cock still was pressed against your stomach. Before you could respond, Lucifer clawed the strap off of you and tossed it to the side. He slipped between your legs, lining himself up with your soaking entrance. "May I?"

You nodded. "Yes, please." Lucifer smiled and pushed the head of his cock into you. A sling of curses left your mouth as your husband sank into you inch by inch until he was enveloped fully by you. He wrapped his arms under you, bringing you as close to him as possible as he kissed you in a fit of passion.

"Allow me to make love to you properly, like you deserve," he breathed against your skin. "Allow me to apologize again." His hips began to grind against you, his impressive length hitting every single sensitive spot you had.

"A-Apologize?" you questioned hazily. "For what?"

"For earlier," his voiced was barely a whisper. "That v-voice I used. I-I could tell it frightened you. It broke my h-heart when I saw your face." His thrusts were more erratic now, his concentration wavering. "The last thing I want i-is for you to be afraid of me. And I'm s-so sorry I that used that on you."

Your hands found his face and held it gently. "L-Lucifer, it's okay, r-really! I-I...oh fuck...don't stop...oh...my...God..."

"A-Are you sure?" he asked pleadingly.

"Y-Yes, of course I am! I understand why y-you had to. You were protecting m-me, just like you said you would. W-Why would I be mad at you for keeping your promise?"

Lucifer smiled wide, pressing his forehead against yours as his thrusts became unrelenting, your cunt contracting around his cock. "I-I don't deserve you. H-How did I end up so l-lucky...ssshhhhiiiittt..." You felt his tail coil around your thigh, constricting it in a way that let you know he was on the verge of losing himself in the feeling of you.

"I love you, Lucifer," you said emphatically. You were close, so close. The coil in your abdomen was on the verge of snapping once again as Lucifer refused to slow his rut into you, burying himself deep within you with every thrust of his hips.

"I love you too, darling. F-Forever. Mine forever."

With your declarations of love, you came together with loud and unapologetic moans. Your walls fluttering around him as he painted your gummy walls white with his cum. As the last of his seed spilled into you, Lucifer collapsed on top of you. You remained sweaty and breathless messes for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness you shared in that moment.

Your fingers ran through Lucifer's hair as he hummed in approval. "Thank you again for the wings, Lucifer. I really do love them. I can't wait to go flying with you again."

Lucifer stared at you and stuck out his tongue out playfully. "Well, why don't we take another shower and fly over to the Hotel? Charlie may or may not have planned a surprise party for you. But I am sworn to secrecy!"

You giggled and kissed the angel's forehead. "Come on, then. Let's not keep her waiting!"

****

Happy one year anniversary of Lucifer's first official appearance on Hazbin! <3<3<3

@ask-theradio-demon @sonicwind-01 @thonethatflies620 @luc1fersducky @a-okay-rj

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[ifyoucandaniel]

exactly one person asked and i’ve been DYING to make this, so here are all of my favorite long batman fanfics in general and for new readers @twisted-tales-told :)

cards on the table by @wesslan ! 69k, completed. this is one of my all time favorite fanfictions, it’s so funny and tim is a mastermind genius and a little liar <3 he basically pretends to be a fortune teller and gives scarily good predictions and advice by stalking the upper class and eventually gets involved with the batfam and has to maintain his lies while dealing with his issues :) 10/10, very found family, good angst, so much lying

Dark Matter by @mysterycyclone , 221k, ongoing. this is a batman fanfic rec, of course my bbg dark matter is going to be here <3 this is a MCUxDCU crossover where after infinity war (spoilers for that if you haven’t seen it!) peter parker gets sent to the DCU dimension with part of the soul stone and basically is haunted by the ghosts of the avengers while trying to survive in gotham and get back to his dimension. this is so well written i’ve read it at least three times, it’s still ongoing but trust me it is SO GOOD. i can’t properly describe it, but if you like spider-man and you are interested in batman, you’ll love.

Red is the Color of Sinners by @bluelotuswrites , series, 120k, ongoing, M. i want you to look me in my eyes when i tell you this is my favorite series on ao3. it is set after under the red hood and daredevil 3 where jason and matt meet in a church after jason loses his ability to speak following the events of UTRH. they keep running into each other both as matt and daredevil and eventually jason begins helping matt out with injuries and tech. it’s not finished yet, but there is something so compelling about their dynamic in this series as well as jason’s overall character and how he is portrayed. i’m a sucker for mute jason after UTRH and this series does so well giving him a fresh start and a place away from gotham to heal and build relationships. i cannot recommend enough.

buy back the secrets by @vinelark , 71k, ongoing, T. THIS!!! oh my god, so this is a timkon fic where kon still doesn’t know tim’s civilian identity, but whenever he’s in trouble tim calls for superboy which leads to them meeting without kon knowing. shenanigans ensure when kon starts spending more time with tim! it’s still ongoing but the author is currently working on the next part and it is so so worth the wait. chapter 4 ends on a cliffhanger though so be warned :))

Sales People Know (listening is the most important part) by Mayhem10, 77k, completed, T. this has the coolest urban magical realism ever. tim basically runs this magic shop that shows up places and people who need something find it in his shop :) it’s kinda a slow burn found family fic with magic themes and a smidge of angst!

Retrograde Motion by Lysical, 112k, completed, T. this is best de-aged kid fic ever. jason gets turned into a 7 year old and basically the outlaws, artemis and biz, join forces with the batfam to take care of him. but trust me when i say this is worth your time, it might sound tropey but in the best way possible!! and jason’s relationship with artemis is sooo important to me in this!

Hand in Unloveable Hand (a chokehold) by britishparty, 54k, completed, M. this is one of the best psychological torture/grooming fics i’ve ever read. pretty much what if while our taking photos of batman and robin, little tim gets kidnapped and black mask gets his hands on him and decides he’s the perfect size for a protege. years of psychological abuse and insane mind games ensue. also tim is a Badass™️

If He Had Come by bronwe_iris, 45k, completed, T. so i’m a little freak and i love the angst of arkham knight jason, but more specifically the aus where bruce saves jason before he becomes the arkham knight! this is an au where bruce finds jason and saves him from the joker after 9 months of torture and brings him home. focuses on his healing mentally and physically and rebuilding his relationship with his family

Banshee in a Well by liverobinreaction (bugbee), 43k, completed, T. veeeery good angst. basically what if tim couldn’t die? 43k of tim drake whump where he just dies a bajillion times and eventually his family notices <3

The Birds: Hatching a Family by Oceanera12, 81k, completed, T. this is like “what if the batkids weren’t adopted by bruce, but instead they were all foster siblings who can’t seem to stay out of gotham at night and batman happens to find them and decides obviously he can’t leave these kids to their own business, he has to stick his nose in it” and there’s some angst and heaps of found family

The Hellblazer’s Apprentice by @bluelotuswrites, 29k, ongoing, M. what can i say, im a simple woman, i love to see jason with literally any older male mentor :) basically in UTRH what if he took up an apprenticeship under constantine to learn magic to piss off batman! so good, i really love constantine so seeing him and jason interact in a long fic is so good. also ALL BLADES JASON TODD SAVE ME… ALL BLADES JASON TODD-

something in the static by bonerot19, 101k, ongoing series with three main completed works, T. this is a jason centric series where jason still lives in crime alley with his mom and dad and never stole the batmobile tires. it follows his life in crime alley with an addict mom and an abusive dad and one night when his dad is whaling on him nightwing finds him and the bats just can’t seem to leave him alone after that. steph is his neighbor and best friend also and their relationship is so good. this is a “what if jason took a different way home to the wayne’s” fic series and i love it so much <3

catch the asteroids that come your way by ThePackWantsTheD, 54k, completed, T. i don’t read a lot of ships in the batman fandom i’m sorry, but this kyle/jason one is sooo lovely. basically the two of them growing up together and falling in love and then dealing with the aftermath of A Death in the Family and finding each other again :) really sweet and nice!

hope you find something you like! i realized the majority of these are tim or jason centric, and i love them all dearly, but if anyone has any recs for long fics focusing on any of the other batkids lmk! and any other recs in general, i am a fiend for new fics

[jyoongim]

A Deal With God

Themes: fem!reader, Morningstar!reader, Angst, mention of character death, secrets, religious themeAlastor being Alastor, fluff, slight smut, deal-making,  soul possession, Lilith a shitty mother/wife/sister, established relationship, difficult family dynamic, there’s a trope in here I just don’t know what to call it?

Chapter 1

chapter 2

You had ordered Niffty that some rooms needed to be spruced up and took the liberty to tidy up the lobby yourself.

You hummed to the sound of the song playing on the radio as you neatly stacked whatever plans Charlie was coming up with in the night.

Charlie.

Your heart ached for the Princess.

After Lilith left, the Princess had founded a hotel to help redeem the souls of the damned.

You were unsure of her plan, but you could never deny her.

damn those puppy eyes.

So here you were, seven years later, helping your niece with her wild endeavor.

But you weren’t alone; 

“Aaahh just the doll I wanted to see!” A radio-like voice chirped.

Alastor.

You smiled in greeting to the lanky demon.

Alastor, the famed and fearsome Radio Demon.

You were a bit skeptical when he showed up at your door, but when he offered to help Charlie you took him in.

Who were you to say no to help? You needed the extra hands.

”Hello Al, did you need something?” The tall demon smiled down at you as he shook his head.

”Nooo just thought I would check in. How’s Charlie’s new plan along?” You laughed “ooh their a coming thats for sure” nodding towards the board she had made the other night.

An idea popped into your head “Why don’t you make a commercial Al ” He went to make a comment, but you interrupted him “A proper commercial. The sinners need to know the benefits of the hotel and that there is hope”

you waltz up to him, a soft smile on your as you batted your eyes at him ”pretty please?” You wrapped your arms around him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He hummed, seeming to mull over the thought, chuckling

”fine fine”

You grinned “Thank you”

He whistled as he walked out the room, you smiled after him, getting back to your task.

Your phone ringed and you answered without seeing who called. “Hello?”

A nervous laugh responded “Heeeyyy bitch”

Lucifer.

You rolled your eyes “Hello to you too Luci ”

He groaned at the nickname.

”Ugghh so hows things been….” He wanted something.

“Whaaaaat? N-Nothing what makes you think I want something?” 

he couldn’t see your face, but you were making a pointed face.

”Okay okay its just- hows-hows Charlie?” He asked.

You frowned “Charlie is fine, through it wouldn’t hurt if you came by and saw your daughter Luci”

You hadn’t forgave him for setting Charlie up to chat with Heaven months ago when he should have been the one to settle things between them.

Charlie might have a optimistic view of the world, but she lacked experience. You should have been the one to be at that meeting.

But nevertheless.

”I-I don’t know about that…” he trailed off. But you were quick to fix that avoidant nature of his.

”Come to the hotel. Come see what your daughter is trying to do. No one would take this seriously if the King doesn’t approve himself. If not that, just come see your daughter Luci, she needs more than just me around” you felt bad for guilting him but this had to be done.

Charlie was growing into an excellent leader, you were sure she would make a great queen one day.

”so you’ll be here tomorrow? Great see you then. And don’t forget…I can see you so don’t make me drag your ass here tata”

———————————————————————————————

Charlie had gathered everyone to the lobby to come up with ways to recruit sinners to the hotel.

 Charlie was nothing if a perfectionist and always took on more than she could chew.

”Hey babe maybe its time to use some of that royal privilege” Vaggie suggested, she gave a quick look in your direction, making Charlie shake her head feverishly

”no no no my auntie has already done so much! I can’t ask her to do anything else”

You smiled, but chimed in to support Vaggie “She’s right Charlie.” Your niece gawked at you.

You approached her, slipping a arm around her shoulder in comfort “Now I know it’s been rough and weird between you and your father buuuuuuut I took the liberty in inviting him here” she groaned “what? Noooooooo” you shushed her whining

“Now now you’ll get to show him that what you’ve been doing is good for the kingdom. That your heart’s in the right place. He’ll help I promise”

Charlie rested her head on your shoulder, groaning in defeat

”w-when will he be here?”

”Oh in a hour”

”WHAT?!”

———————————————————————————————-

“OH Charlie its so good to see you!” Lucifer exclaimed pulling his daughter into a tight hug.

You smiled, giggling as Charlie choked out a response to her father. You pulled him away from her, giving him a hug

”Nice to see you too Luci” the King blushed and looked around.

”sooooo this is what you two have been up to? It sure got some….character ” he said nervously.

“Well we had some help” you gestured to Alastor. Lucifer eyes narrowed slightly “uuuhhh hhhuuuhh suuurre and who might you be?” Alastor eye twitched before quickly shaking his hand “Alastor! Pleasure to meet you sir… I must say you are…much unimpressive than what I imagined” he mused, causing the man to deadpan.

You cleared your throat “Alastor here has been a tremendous help with the hotel. I don’t know what we would have done without him” you praised.

Lucifer growled as Alastor wrapped an arm around your waist pulling you into his side.

Alastor sneered at the monarch “Aaah yes what creative ladies I have here. I am HAPPY to fulfill any wish they desire” he grinned down at you, giving you a slight squeeze.

”hmmmm sister dear why don’t you show me around” he whacked Alastor’s hand with his cane and pulled your arm away from him with a tight smile.

Charlie and Alastor followed the two of you as you gave a quick briefing of the hotel, letting Charlie take over and show her dad around.

You sighed happily, it was nice to see Charlie interact with her dad. You hoped that he would see the big picture and offer her some guidance and support.

You leaned your head against Alastor’s shoulder, turning to return to the lobby

”Let’s leave those two to catch up shall we?”

He huffed but followed you anyway.

———————————————————————————-

“Well it is a very good plan b-but I don’t know Charlie” Lucifer sighed. Charlie’s face dropped. “Daaad this is the only way to prove to Heaven that sinners deserve a second chance”

Lucifer looked away from his daughter “Charlie you don’t understand-” she huffed,frustrated “what don’t I understand?  That my own father don’t believe in me? If Auntie can why can’t you?” She was holding back tears.

You were on the fence at first too, but you were willing to help her out. You supported her crazy ideas and even encouraged that she gave it her all. 

Yes it might have been far fetched,  but you believed that Charlie could do what Lucifer could not.

”Heaven wont listen to you Charlie! They didn’t listen to me. What makes you think you can change their minds?” 

You knew it was a tough question.

Charlie didn’t know the hardship of how Heaven operated.

How much Lucifer had spent centuries trying to convince them that humanity was capable of doing amazing things.

Hell, if sinners had mortal souls why couldn’t they change after death?

But you knew. Heaven was convinced that the rules were black and white. Hell was made to punish the most severe sinners.

of course this is flawed for several reasons

Hell was a punishment to all who fell.

Lucifer knew this.

But why couldn’t things change?

Charlie turned to you, a look of frustration and sadness on her face. You intervened. “Luci just one meeting. One meeting with Heaven so Charlie can at least try. I know you can’t see that things could change, but think about the possibility. Why should a sinner be damned if there’s a second chance? Heaven shouldn’t be able to decide what a person’s soul is capable of”

Lucifer sighed.

You always had a way of making him see possibilities in things.

If you believed in Charlie, then that must have meant…

”what are the odds in this succeeding” he asked you

You blinked. 

You knew what he was asking.

Your sight of everything was always nearly right.

”Theres a few bumps to sort out, but it’ll be fine” you said.

he grimaced.

”Ill even go to Heaven with her” you offered.

Charlie was going to need all the backup she needed up there.

Angels could be a piece of work.

Lucifer sighed, before turning to his daughter “Fine. One meeting-” Charlie launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his small frame and she jumped around

”thank you thank you thank you!”

He smiled, returning her hug.

Charlie ran off to find Vaggie and tell her while you watched Lucifer.

”It wont stop anything” he said as you ushered him into the office.

You hummed, pouring a cup of tea as you looked out the window into the city on the horizon.

”You don’t know that” you whispered.

Silence filled the air between the two of you.

”H-have you…you know” he started to say nervously

You turned to him, seeing him fiddle with his wedding ring.

Your stomach curled.

”what” you growled out unintentionally 

he swallowed “Have you seen Lilith?”

You stilled. Your wrist burned in warning

promise me

”I can’t tell you that” you said curtly.

Lucifer glared at you “you’ve been saying that for years!”

”and you always get the same response” you said back

He stood up and angrily approached you.

”Have you no shame? I know you. You can’t lie to me!” He was starting to raise his voice

”Luci calm dow-” 

“NO! You can see everything! Everything and everyone! so tell me sister have you seen my wife…have you seen Lilith?!”

he was grabbing your arms, shaking.

You hated the look of despair on his face, hoping that you would at least tell him something.

But your wrist burned at his question, and your anger of being put in such a predicament got the better of you.

You hissed at him “No.” you held his glare, before he sighed letting you go. He ran a hand through his hair, backing away from you “Im sorry i-i didn’t mean that”

You clicked your tongue at him sighing

”Oh Luci…” you cupped his cheek, you couldn’t tell him where she was, no Lilith made sure of that,but you could show what you’ve seen.

Lucifer’s eyes widened as flashes of his wife appeared in his mind. He didn’t know where she was,but she seemed…happy.

”I know you worry about Charlie but I will never let anything happen to her. Heaven can act all high and mighty, but surely someone up there will see reason” you said to him, breaking him out of his trance.

He shook his head slightly, giving you a soft smile, nodding.

“Sooooo you and that bellhop…” he wiggled his eyebrows at you teasingly. You tensed, looking away embarrassed. He laughed “Oh? Shy? Not you” you glared at him, folding your arms across your chest in defense “w-what? Theres nothing wrong with me trying to pursue someone” you grumbled. Lucifer smiled. It was cute at how flush you were. 

You were always the serious one.

Never really doing things for yourself.

You always held duty and responsibility above all things.

So seeing you blush over some tacky, old times fuck  guy was refreshing.

So he teased “Oooh no the Queen can do anything or anyone she likes”

You growled at him, making him laugh harder as he gave you a hug and bid you goodbye as he teleported, leaving you with your thoughts.

“Well that was interesting” you whipped around to see Alastor walking from the shadows.

You laughed nervously, “Alastor! I didn’t hear you come in…how muuuch of that did you hear?”

He smiled down at you, tilting his head “ooooh nothing I wont repeat my dear” he tapped your nose.

He rested a hand on your lower back to escort you to your room like a proper gentleman.

He kissed you goodnight before venturing off to his radio tower. He had to organize some of his thoughts.

Alastor knew you were powerful he admits only that! but he hadn’t expected you to be the Queen of Hell itself.

Yes you were the Princess’s aunt but he just chalked it up to you just having power by blood alone.

The Queen of Hell….hmph. 

Pride swelled in his chest at the thought as well as a wicked smile graced his lips His darling was one of the most powerful in all of Hell that gave him a power trip and a lingering thought

How the fuck were you the Queen? 

Just how powerful were you?

And one last thought before he turned on his broadcast

How could he use that power you wielded?

@dasimp777 @projectdreamwalker @fairyv-ice @stygianoir @k1y0yo @thewinchestah @imgonnadielaughing-blog @purplecatsandhearts @blinderthanabats-blog @saphiresai @th3-st4r-gur1 @evedenn @queenariesofnarnia @yoitsnetto @alastor-simp @alastorsaries @alastwhore666 @alastorsdear @peachedtv

@tpks @siiv3r @markster666 @okay-babe @strawberrypimp666 @coleisyn @simphornies @lunaramune @alastorsdarling @prosciuttosblog @ioniiaa @fizzled-phoenix @horrorartsworld @polytheatrix @dennsfz @yourdoorisunlocked @stawberrypimpsimp @alishii @alleystore @preciousbabypeter @yunimimii @peachedtvs @karolinda007-blog @chewbrry @aviradasa

comment below so i can see if I’m missing anyone who wants to be tagged…ALSO each chapter is linked to the last and next…

[artsninspo]

Penname: Delta Wise -IV- [Sinners]

⇠ previous part

「 ✦ mbj's charcter archive✦ 」

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

summary: This chapter picks up where the last left off, there are a few easter-eggs for the next few chapters, some tea is spilled and our main characters try to find their footing as they try figure out how to proceed.

word-count: 4.4K

FOUR

Knotty

Sleeping among strange energies is something I’ve never been able to do and yet it’s something I’ve managed in the most tense of circumstances. Facing your fears can do that to you I guess, draining your batteries down to the bone and leaving no room for anything else. I wake up to Eli nudging me. His brown eyes are serious as is the set of his jaw. It takes a moment for the tension within me to subside as I register that I'm in my car and I’m safe. There’s a blanket fashioned into a pillow holding my head that I don't remember putting there as I sit up.

“It’s me,” he says slowly, like I could mistake him for his brother. But what is unmistakable is that unlike me the night's revelations have rejuvenated him. I hear waves crashing on the sand and sit upright. He drove all the way to the beach house by himself. I reach in the glovebox and press the garage door opener; it opens and Eli reverses the car. Once the garage door closes the sensor lights turn on and we’re safe from the darkness of night. I can't believe I fell asleep. I can see Eli has a million and one questions but there’s one that takes precedence. He needs to know I'm okay.

“I’m okay” I tell him and he nods, taking his eyes off me and unbuckling his seatbelt. I turn to find Carmen snoring softly in the backseat. 

“Carmen” I reach tapping her and she wakes up slowly looking like a showgirl still in her performance outfit.. 

“Where are we?” she yawns.

“My summer house - on the water” I tell her and she nods while sitting up. I exit first and Eli helps Carmen out the car. I put the code in the door and enter the home through the garage.

“It looks just like granny’s place,” Carmen says looking around.

“Ma said a shrine was unproductive so when I got my advance I hired a decorator and had them stage the place with Granny’s things - just more modern and beachy” I explain plopping on the couch.

“I need to get out of this, are there clothes here?” Carmen asks and I nod.

“I have some things, Eli, what size are you?” I ask turning to him.

“XL” Carmen says.

“XL” He affirms.

“You know your stuff” I tell her.

“Stack wears an XL. I just want to say it now so it’s on the table. Stack and I have fooled around before. He never bit me ever and I think I may be why he’s after you Knotty. Two months ago I invited him in - I know I fucked up and I was sleuthing Delta Wise and the book was on my coffee table, he asked about it. I told him it was good, he said he never heard of it and I let him take my copy.” Carmen says and I swallow hard, glaring at her.

“You invited him in?”

“Yes” she says, looking terrified.

“I hope you have nothing with your parents address and your devices are locked. If not, no shower, you have to make sure everything is okay.” I tell her.

“Knotty, he never bit me. Aside from being a hoe he was decent when I would go to the club to dance for some extra money. Stack is … was cool, with the exception of ole’ girl he doesn't play around with them folks coming around and causing trouble. I’ve never seen him in a bad mood until yesterday. Never seen him touch a woman that didn't want to be touched by him until yesterday.” Carmen says. I want to judge her but until recently I too had my fair share of secrets.

“Carmen we’re no longer dealing with the same Stack, if there’s a chance he can turn Smoke then he’ll do whatever to succeed at that goal” I explain and find Eli looking at the legend I sent him on the caride here. My naming chart - the one I used that has the real names of the real people from Granny’s stories and the names that made it into the book.

“I'll call my parents and hope they listen” she says and I head upstairs and find all three of us something to wear. I’m thankful for my oversized era when I find a graphic tee and cotton pj pants that should fit Eli. He looks up at my return as I hand him the clothes, towels, soap and a toothbrush.

“She’s something” he says motioning upstairs to Carmen and I smile.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Fine” he nods without missing a beat. “I don't remember any of this shit though. If I didn't see him and feel it I wouldn't believe it” Eli says matter of factly. “It also explains why you haven't been yourself”

“You don’t know the adult me” I tell Eli.

“People don’t change.” He says pointing to his phone with the book names. 

“Apothecary check, author check, Atlantis?” He says to lighten the mood and it makes me smile.

“I’m done - I have plenty more than I can handle” I confess.

“So what am I and what do we do?” he says. Unlike my mother he trusts me.

“I can't be sure, I have everything from oral traditions as you know ‘witches’ have been persecuted historically. Granny said twins were a force of nature - womb to the tomb. You’ve been reincarnated because Stack hasn’t found rest, your soul got restless. I can't be sure but I suspect Annies Mojo bag for you has something to do with it.” I explain and he's back looking at his phone finding Annie's book character name. 

“Smokes wife” he says, still dissociating from reality.

“Your wife” I correct and he swallows. “Hold your shirt up” I tell him and he does. I point to his birthmark on his lower abdomen. “They say birthmarks, moles and beauty marks are totems of our past lives and spiritual gifts. Same place Sammie said Smoke's fatal shot was. Same place you have a birthmark” I explain and he looks at the area before letting the shirt fall. His brows bunch as he tries to make sense and process what I’m telling him. “How did it feel seeing Stack?” I ask and he shakes his head.

“It felt..” Eli pauses in reflection. “Like … Like I was locked in - like I could take anything. Like I was grounded, like nothing was missing” he says. “Then I saw a man's skin bubbling under the sunlight and I remembered he was about to hurt y’all” Eli says.

“You don't have to worry about me and Stack. If he bites me I go peacefully and don’t wake up and at the very least he’ll be very sick. My soul will in tact” I tell Eli, making a mental note to start brewing a tea.

“I don't think that’s the relief you think it is Knotty” Eli says in a tone that's scolding. 

“I’m already sensitive to the seasons before daylight savings. I wouldn’t last an eternity of nights” I speak frankly. “OG Smoke didn’t want that for himself either” I explain only to startle at the sound of running. Carmen emerges holding out her phone in PJ’s. Stacks name is across the caller ID. I freeze and she does too until Eli takes the phone answering the call and placing the phone on speaker on the coffee table.

“Carmen, I need to talk to Delta” Stacks voice says.

“Speaking” I say as my heart races.

“Who did you have with you?” he asks and I frown looking at Carmen and Eli as I sit forward.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play with me - I swear fo’ God I got all the time in the world to make you wish you were dead” he snaps. “I know there was a man but he isn’t showing up on surveillance” Stack says and I look at Eli. I take my phone and snap a photo of him. He’s there clear as day.

“I’m not sure what you're asking me” I swallow. 

“It was Smoke, Stack, I saw him.” I hear Mary say in the background.

“Was it my brother?” Stack asks, his voice cracking ever so slightly. 

“No” I lie.

“Then who was it? Sammie have a son I don’t know about? It was a Moore man” Stack says.

“It was Smoke” Mary repeats. “I don’t know why you couldn't see him, you were starin’ right at him” she continues in the background.

“What do you want with me?” I ask.

“Your stories to remember, I was gonna help you with another bestseller but since I think you’re lying to me. I’m on your ass” he says and the line goes dead.

_____

Pearl (Knotty’s Mom)

When I get the call from Knotty I’m at wits end. It was endearing in childhood but now it’s worrying. She's beautiful and smart and rather live in the past with superstitions than the present. I had patience for Ma because after years of therapy myself and the therapist decided it was easier for Mom to believe that her mother was taken supernaturally than the equally horrifying reality. It was the deep south in the 1930’s. It was more likely the klan wiped out the entire juke joint that night and that man that came telling tales of vampires was just a boy who’d also been traumatized. The mind is a fascinating place that will do all it can to survive. I don’t blame Mama. She was only five when she heard the story for the first time and her little mind held onto it. Then she spent much of her life searching for answers. So much so that it ruined her marriage to my father and now it has Knotty spinning out of control. It happens every year around this time when Ma’s death anniversary comes around and then the dreaded October 15th. 

“How is Knotty affording this boat?” Jason asks.

“I don’t know - maybe Ma left her a trust we don’t know about”

“She was fifteen and your mom didn’t have much - she was always giving everything away” Jason says looking around the nice bedroom. “I just hope I don’t have to pay for it,” he comments.

“Knotty hasn't asked for money in years” I remind him.

“Doesn’t mean I dont send her a bi-weekly allowance. She’s never been good with money” He says and I nod.

“I’m worried about her”

“I warned you and your mother not to indulge her. Eventually she’d have to grow up and now she’s grown and single, reclusive and taking up with the least respectable of her family members” He sighs.

“So I’m to blame?”

“That’s not what I’m saying babe. We’re not gonna be alive forever and what’s Knotty gonna do when we’re gone huh? She’s not equipped to deal with real life” he says.

“I don’t want to argue about Knotty, we can once she’s doing well”

“And if this episode lasts longer then we try things my way”

“Jason, I don’t know if you realized but we’re not a part of her world anymore. She does things for us. She never invites or includes us to whatever she has going on. Unless your way means reaching in - we’re not trying it. God gave us one and I won’t be excommunicated by her” I snap defending our girl. Jason’s jaw clenches out of frustration.

“I’m gonna go talk to the guys,” he says leaving the room. I call Knotty and it goes to voicemail, so I text her that everyones on the boat is safe and ten minutes later the message is hearted. I know why we’re on a boat even if everyone else doesn’t. Lore says vampires can't cross bodies of water. This boat has been checked for coffins and dirt before we boarded I’m sure of it. It lets me know in spite of our differences Knotty still loves us and so I won't quit on her.

Signing deeply my hand hovers over the contact of someone I’ve only called twice in the over three decades I've known her. Letting out a frustrated sigh I look out onto the water from the small window and call Merin.

_______

Eli ‘Smoke’ Moore

Only thing that’s clear to me is Hoodoo has left me with more questions than answers. I make breakfast for the girls needing to do something with my hands to stop the snaking. Knotty’s out on the beach porch watching the waves and taking calls when Carmen emerges from outside.

“How is she?” I ask Carmen.

“Knotty’s tougher than she looks and granny was tougher. No disrespect to your wife but a mother’s love is different to anything you could feel for a partner. Trust nothing unfortunate is happening to her. Granny probably has every angel suited up for her.” Carmen says and there’s no jealousy in her.

“Not you?” 

“Me too clearly if Stack didn't take a chunk out of my throat. But she loved me because I was her granddaughter, not because I was her favorite. Anyone with eyes could see what she and Knotty had was special.” Carmen explains. “You’re lucky Knotty’s picky ass likes you. She’s very precious about her space and energy. She doesn’t let half of our family touch her for greetings. No handshakes or hugs without wearing special jewelry. You might be reincarnated but just know you’re lucky to be this close to Knotty” she warns. I don’t let onto it, but I like her how down she is for Knotty.

“You and Stack?” I ask.

“Are done, it takes freaky to a new level” she says. “I wonder though? Are identical twins identical in every way” she asks, pointing at my pants. I hear a chuckle.

“Don’t mind her Eli, all she thinks about is sex” Knotty smiles coming in and closing the door behind her. “Get it out of your system Merin will be here in 45 minutes and I convinced the family to charter a boat. Everyone we love will be safe and on the water sailing before sunset” Knotty smiles.

“Shit all that this morning?” Carmen asks.

“Oh no,  there was more. Surprise, surprise my store was vandalised last night. Glass, herbs, water and oil everywhere. Everything on the shop floor is no longer salvageable.” Knotty says, putting her phone down in exasperation. 

“Fuck Knotty, I’m sorry whats the damage?” 

“I don't know yet but I know if I were to head home to the precinct or to the store Stack would be on me so I found a lawyer.” she smiles, shaking her head.

“What’s funny?” Carmen asks.

“I mean it’s so Stack Moore I should have seen it coming. Makes me trust Sammie’s words all the more” Knotty shrugs. “That’s good for us, but we need to be careful. He’ll go for our loved one’s like he went for Annie” she says, pointing between us. Carmen nods and the silence is heavy. Instead of fanning the flames of their worry I try to diffuse the situation.

“I’m finished with breakfast” I tell them and Carmen comes into the kitchen first.

“You must like thick women or is that all for you?” She asks, making Knotty laugh. 

I’m complimented for my culinary skills and the girls clean up, letting me make a few calls to situate my own affairs before I return to the living room to study what seems to be my history some more. Merin or Mama Meringue comes through around lunchtime with groceries and guidance. She’s one of those Erykah Badu types you can see and feel she’s different when she enters the room, her voice is something too. She handed Knotty a laptop and she’s been outside ever since with headphones on. “She’ll be fine” Merin says and when I look over Merin’s watching me as she chops up greens.

“Carmen said the same thing” I sigh standing and putting the hardcopy of club juke down.

“Carmen’s right,” Merin smiles.

“Any theories as to why she’s in the middle of all this then?” I ask and Merin smiles, putting her attention back on the feast she’s making.

“A few” she nods and I swallow waiting for her to open up. “You don’t need to worry about Knotty you need to decide on you”

“Kill my brother, become a vampire, die and be reborn” I list my options.

“You killed your father, killing your brother would taint your soul beyond reproach. It couldn’t be done at your hands.” she says.

“Y’all keep talking to me about shit I don't remember” I snap and she walks over to the cabinets and plucks an incense stick from a tin. She lights it and the smell gives me a deja-vu just for a split second of a woman holding a child.

“There’s a way to save Stack and Smoke” Knotty says coming in. I look at Merin who seems like she knew that already. “We need to research the planetary alignment of the night of October 15th 1931 and wait for a day with similar conditions. Mary has to be willing to die. Blood of a lover must be spilled because Mary’s who turned Stack should end their connection and eliminate the love spell.”

“How do we convince her to do that?” Merin asks.

“She already has a lifetime of him,” Knotty shrugs. “If Stack misses Smoke like he says it's an option - a chance at mortality and then Smoke only has to finish this life” Knotty says, placing her laptop on the counter to show pictures of writing in an old book.

“That wouldn't be enough. I’m sure Stack has accumulated enemies. He would be a liability” Merin says and Knotty sighs. “I’ll keep searching,” she says, heading back outside.

“Why don’t you tell her you already have the answers?” I ask Merin and she pauses. “Only time someone is as calm as you are in a crisis they’re a double agent or sure about what's gonna go down. I know you love Knotty so why not tell her you know what to do?” I ask Merin.

“I guess Sammie never noticed how perceptive you are,” she says, avoiding an answer. “Her mind never stops and if she was free Knotty would inhibit progress” Merin says. “Like searching for pearls in gator filled waters as a means to help,” Merin says, washing her hands. I look outside and nod in understanding.

“We had no idea who you were Eli, none but we should have known Knotty only liked old souls at that age” she smiles and I nod heading outside. Knotty’s texting and I light a cigarette giving her some space.

“You lasted a long time in there. Merin usually makes people uncomfortable in under ten minutes. You were there with her for two hours” she says.

“Were you timing me?” I ask

“Maybe” Knotty smiles. “She likes you,” she says, turning to Merin inside the house.

“How do you know that?”

“She’s cooking for us. Merin has her tells before anything important a lot of priestesses practice their preparation art. Attention to detail, intention focus” Knotty lists.

“So you practice?”

“No, Granny and Merin said it’s not for me. I know things but I leave it to them” she shrugs. “Wanna walk the beach? I’m gonna go cross eyed if I keep reading old journals” she says and I nod. She takes her shoes off knotting her skirt to shorten it and skips down the steps. It’s the Knotty I knew. “Can’t imagine loving a man enough to condemn my soul for a love spell and still get cheated on” she says talking about Mary and Stack. “Can you?” she asks.

“I don't believe in love spells and Merin says my soul is corrupted already” I tell Knotty who stops smiling. She takes a deep breath looking up at me.

“If that was totally true Stack would have seen you” she says wistfully.

“So why can he see you?” I ask her knowing her soul is nowhere near mine.

“Why are men so hard to convince of the truth?” she asks.

“Here we go” I mutter but she doesnt start, she stops looking out at the water.

“If I never went searching for clams we wouldn't be here. Only reason I was searching for clams in Mississippi in the first place is because Granny wanted to find information about who? Her mama Pearline. Who died outside of your juke joint in the morning of October 16th 1931. I don’t know how you can not believe in that” she says and I find myself smiling at her faith. 

“Knotty one, Eli nil” I mutter and she chuckles. Still looking out at the water.

“What are you thinking about now?” I ask.

“Atlantis” she winks. “And pearls” She says before taking off into the crashing waves while fully clothed. She turns to face me smiling just as a wave hits her. She goes under holding a hand up and then flailing. Fucking hell Knotty. I think kicking off my shoes and going in for her. When I get to her she laughs splashing me. A wave hits us and it’s so light I know she was acting. I hit the water splashing her back and she laughs some more floating on her back in the cold water.

“You're crazy” I inform her getting out.

“Don't be mad Eli, I was just keeping your soul light.” she laughs coming in after me. It’s like she hasn't aged a day. It’s the Knotty I expected. She adjusts her clothes, ringing out her hair and I shake my head at her.

“Soul light by giving me a heart attack?” I ask and she mocks me.

“I really should have known you’re a grandpa” she says.

“Should've known you were up to no good when you didnt keep your shoes on” I say, picking up mine. She winks at me accepting her charges. 

“Just like you ran in for me, I’m gonna do all I can for you and Merin’s on board and she has contacts so we’ll be okay. Be positive - negativity feeds on fear. That’s why Stack nearly got me. If I’d just have faced him-”

“Vampires are liars, I read as much” I interrupt her from taking blame. “If the book is true it’s my fault for not killing him” I ad.

“You couldn’t do it without both of you going together” Knotty says and when we get back to the house Merin’s at the back door with Carmen.

“I won't even ask, I just hope you have a dryer for your locs” Carmen says as Knotty wrings out her clothes on the back deck.

“Go shower before you catch a cold,” Merin scolds.

“Okay, I gave the water an offering we’re gonna be alright” Knotty smiles before sloping a trail of water upstairs. Merin gets a mop shaking her head.

“I’ll bring you a towel, go take a shower in the bathroom on this floor” she tells me and it's my turn to make a mess. I don't remember the last time someone just mopped up a mess without scolding or a tirade or making me clean up after myself. Being carefree is a strange feeling, maybe that’s what made me like Knotty in the first place as kids. The adults around her never had harsh tones, punishment for wrongdoings were measured and not hot blooded and overly passionate. Her people fed all the kids in the area just because instead of going on and on about the extra mouths to feed. I was treated like one of them just like I am now. Once I wash off Merin has a plate waiting for me.

______

Knotty

It’s nearly midnight when I find Eli smoking in the garage. He’s been at it for at least an hour and I know it’s Merin’s doing. Granny always called her a kitchen witch. He kills the smoke when he sees me, always the protector.

“Are you still upset about the beach?” I ask and he raises a brow.

“What do you think?” He asks and I hold up a perfectly wrapped blunt.

“Peace offering?” I ask and he looks at the door suspiciously like Merin will come out and scold me in my own house.

“You smoke?” he asks.

“Everyone thinks I’m such an angel and … I am” I tell him, lighting mine. He holds out a hand as I inhale and I light his before inhaling. He takes a drag, impressed by the cannabis’ quality and I smile. “I hope you don't change too much when Merin’s done her work to save you and Stack.”

“You think I will?” Eli asks.

“Well Sammie said you were a hardass that no one played with. I can require a lot of patience - if you have none. I guess it's goodbye in a few weeks” I shrug considering the reality for the first time. I take another drag and so does Eli. “What if you only remember everything that happened before that night in the thirties and I’m a stranger and you have to adjust to technology and the new world?” I propose thinking out loud.

“Even weed can't slow you down” he mutters and I chuckle sitting on the steps that lead back inside the house. “Fine, I’ll shut up” I concede smoking in silence.  Eli does the same, getting his down to a roach in no time. I let him finish mine and he thanks me with a nod, taking a drag as he goes back to his spot standing away from me. I wonder what he’s thinking but I give him the reprieve of not asking.

“I don't think I’ll forget Knotty James,” he says, breaking the silence. “I mean we met in Mississippi because her Granny was trying to find out information on her ma Pearline who died outside my juke at sunrise, and Knotty was searching for pearls in the river” he says back to me using my same logic. I know he hates it but I can't help myself and I give him a hug. He hugs back, chuckling at me.

“Don’t change,” he says, holding me tight.

____

Author's Note: Thank you all for getting to the credits of this chapter! Hope you enjoyed this new update and the personalities of the characters as they prepare for whats to come.

What did we think of this chapter?

Raise your hand in the comments if you kind've foresaw the Carmen and Stack connection? if it shocked you let me know?

Don't we love Knotty's Mom and dad ? 😜

Are we surprised Stack trashed the apocethary?

Do we think Eli will forget Knotty if all goes as planned?

Do we think Mary will be down for the plan? Or is she gonna go against the grain? Does she need more time with her man?

Sound off in the comments. Don't forget to reblog, comment, tag and leave a like.

Side note: I am not a practitioner and respect closed practices, so I do not dabble or google. Most of the ideas in the chapter come from things i've seen, heard etc. With the exception of some herbal medicine which I may google. So if something is wrong or offensive to anyone who does practice please know that was not my intent. My intent is to respect that that I am an outsider.

______

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