#something something ''there's a fire burning in you. burning black'' something something... about stories with twists

[em1i2a3]

Makes Me Want You

Pairing: The Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Void x Enhanced!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After the incident with Walker, Sentry becomes your unofficial sparring partner during your training sessions. (Sequel to ‘Good Grief’)

Warnings 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Depictions of fighting, Sentry is being a little too overprotective, and Sentry volunteers to be your training dummy (cause he’s got a little crush), Sentry and the reader evidently have a bond, it’s evident (Bob doesn’t make an appearance, this is full Sentry)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Body Worship, Overstimulation, Hair Pulling, Sentry is literally a god who kneels 🤷🏻‍♀️what can I say? Need I say more?, Shower Sex, Fingering, Biting (with intentions to mark and claim), Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk

Author’s Note: I had two different requests for Sentry smut and they were both fairly similar and they were both anon's...And on top of that they fit really well with this story! Fantastic for me, I just combined them! Thank you for reading and I hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count:10,002

Sentry stood in the middle of the training room, unmoving, watching as you wrapped your hands with slow, distracted care. Not a word passed between the two of you, just silent glances from you to him. He didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t so much as adjust the angle of his stance. He just stood there, solid and patient, like a monument forged from fire and waiting for someone who was brave enough to strike it.

His presence was gravity incarnate.

You could feel it coiling tight in the air, bending the atmosphere toward him like everything in the room was caught in a sort of orbit. He wasn’t glowing the way he sometimes did when adrenaline flared or when his power leaked through the cracks of Bob. There was no blinding light, or burning heat. But he radiated something much quieter. Heavier. It was the kind of silent energy that didn’t demand attention–it commanded it…Just like any God commanded their followers to go to war for them.

The fluorescents above him buzzed faintly, and then one flickered–twice–before dimming into a low, stuttering pulse. The light didn’t break entirely. It just hesitated, like even the electricity was aware of who stood beneath it. As if the current in the walls had paused to watch him too.

The air was warm–too warm for a room this size with the ventilation system running. There was a faint smell of ozone lingering beneath the cleaner’s citrus scent. Not sharp, not overwhelming, but present. You tasted it when you inhaled. It sat on the back of your tongue like a storm about to break.

He wore the simplest thing possible–grey sweatpants hanging low and loose on his hips, the drawstring frayed and untied, cuffs brushing the tops of his bare feet. His black t-shirt looked worn, lived-in, the hem slightly uneven and the sleeves clinging too well to the thick lines of his arms. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t tactical. It looked like something pulled from the top of his drawer that morning–and yet on him, it looked almost ceremonial.

Casual clothing on an apocalyptic being. The softness of the fabric clinging to muscle so dense it might as well have been marble. And still, he stood there like a temple waiting to be tested. Not arrogant. Not restless.

Just ready.

The mat beneath him didn’t creak. It didn’t shift. But you could feel the weight of him in your spine–like if he took a step, the sound would echo down into the foundation of the building.

You tightened the last loop of tape around your knuckles, pulse beginning to rise–not from effort, but from proximity. From the way his gaze held you. Not predatory. Not curious. Just fixed–like your movements were the only things keeping the world spinning, and if you stopped wrapping your hands, something ancient and dangerous might uncoil.

You exhaled slowly and finally looked up, catching his golden kissed eyes.

They didn’t waver.

“Is this seriously necessary?” You asked, voice rough with disbelief. “I didn’t get hurt, Sentry. I literally got the wind knocked out of me for a few minutes. You can’t just ban me from training with other people.”

Still, he didn’t move. His weight remained balanced, his stance loose, but every inch of him alert.

“I’m not banning you,” He said evenly. “I’m replacing them.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous breath and rose to your feet, stepping fully onto the mat. “Oh, that’s not the same thing at all,” You muttered sarcastically. “You’re not banning me, you’re just volunteering to be my sole sparring partner for the foreseeable future like that’s not completely–”

“I’m the safest option,” He interrupted, voice soft but unshakable. “You know that.” You scoffed under your breath, stepping farther onto the mat until your toes brushed the edge of the taped centerline.

“I’m sure you’re the safest option,” You said, stretching your shoulder in a lazy roll, “but I don’t normally spar with people in general. The whole Walker and Bucky thing was literally one time. A fluke…You know what that is right?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sentry blinked once. Then–deadpan, voice laced with something dangerously close to sass–he replied, “Yes. I know what a fluke is.”

The corner of your mouth twitched.

Before you could speak again, he added, “But have you ever thought maybe…I want to see what you can do?”

That made you pause.

You took a slow step forward, then another–only closing half the distance between you, but it was enough to feel the tension in the air tighten, the warmth of him like a soft current against your skin.

“You already see what I can do,” You countered, gaze steady on his. “You watch me all the time. With Bob.”

He tilted his head slightly. The movement was subtle. Smooth.

“See, that’s not what I want though…” He murmured. “Maybe I want to feel it.”

You stopped walking.

One foot planted, one slightly lifted mid-step–like something in you had gone still in response. Your brow rose, arms slowly crossing over your chest, muscles shifting beneath the fabric of your tank top.

“Okay,” You said carefully. “I think you’re overestimating my strength. Because I’m pretty sure you won’t feel a single thing if I punch you.” You gestured broadly toward his chest, to the absurdly built wall of him standing there like a modern-day colossus in soft cotton. “If I threw an anvil at you, I don’t think you’d even blink. It’d be like… a gust of wind blew too hard in your direction. A mild inconvenience.”

That made him smirk. Not teasing. Not ego-driven. Just…Amused. Like you’d said something that charmed him in a way he didn’t quite know how to explain.

“Well,” He said, that golden glow flickering over his irises–pulsing like a heartbeat almost, “You haven’t tried doing anything to me, have you?”A slow breath. A beat of quiet. “So you wouldn’t know how I’d react.”

You stared at him for a moment longer than you meant to.

Then you exhaled and crossed your arms tighter. “Okay. Fine…Are you going to fight back at least?”

“No,” He replied quickly, “Of course not.”

“You’re not even going to put up a challenge?” His silence was answer enough, but you pushed anyway, gesturing toward the training dummies lined up along the far wall.

“Now that’s not realistic at all, Sentry. I would actually prefer to punch the dummy. At least it wobbles.”

He shook his head–just once–but the motion was full-bodied, slow and deliberate, like a parent too tired to keep arguing with a child who refused to listen.

“I’d end up accidentally putting you through a wall if I fought back,” he said, the words a little too dry to be dramatic and far too sincere to be a joke. “And no, I’m not exaggerating when I say that.” His golden eyes flicked over your face, unreadable but steady. “Can’t you just go with it? For the love of God?”

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back for a beat, eyes rolling toward the ceiling as if the cracked tiles might have an opinion.

Then you stepped forward again.

And again.

Until you were within reach–close enough that the heat coming off him felt almost physical. Like a pulse. Like the sun was leaking out of him in slow, restrained breaths.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet.

But your chest was rising a little faster now. Your heart thudding louder than it had any business doing. Because up close, the scale of him was…Impossible. Even dressed down in soft cotton and loose sweatpants, he was still carved from something the universe had only built once.

“Fine,” You muttered, the word slipping out like a reluctant surrender. Your fists dropped loosely to your sides. “But if I break my hand on your chest, I’m making you carry me to medbay.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

He just stood there.

Still as stone.

Waiting.

You flexed your fingers once.

Then raised your fists.

You circled him–half a step, then another. Your bare feet were silent against the mat, but every motion sent a ripple through the silence like a blade carving through water. His head turned ever so slightly to follow your movement, but he didn’t tense. Didn’t shift.

He was perfectly relaxed.

You studied him.

His posture. His balance. The faint flicker of gold behind his eyes.

And then–without warning–you struck.

A clean, tight right hook. Not full-force, not your strongest. But fast. Sharp. Enough to feel.

Your fist slammed into his side–just below the ribs, right at the spot where a normal opponent might recoil.

And he didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

It was like hitting the surface of something just this side of indestructible.

The impact reverberated through your knuckles and into your forearm, a shock of resistance that felt almost mechanical. The kind of hit that should’ve yielded some reaction–but instead, it just…Landed.

And stayed there.

Like you’d punched the hull of a goddamn battleship.

You hissed through your teeth, shaking out your fingers slightly as your feet adjusted on the mat.

“Okay,” You muttered under your breath, eyeing him, “That was not a dummy.”

“Do it again,” Sentry said quietly, his voice low and steady like thunder just barely rumbling in the distance.

You looked at him for a moment, lips parted, then exhaled and rolled your shoulders back with a sigh. “You sure? I’m not exactly delivering haymakers here.”

“I’m sure.”

Another step forward. Your muscles adjusted on instinct, your stance falling into its natural rhythm. And then you swung again. And again.

Punch after punch landed against him with the same result: nothing. No shift. No stumble. Not even a ripple of tension in his frame. Just the steady, unflinching wall of him absorbing the strikes like they were wind brushing against a mountain.

But you kept going.

Because something about the way he stood there made you want to see if you could draw any sort of reaction. A grunt. A blink. A goddamn eyebrow raise. Anything.

The rhythm grew sharper. Your jaw set tighter. Sweat began to bead along your spine, down your temple. The sound of your fists hitting his chest echoed sharply across the training room–thud, thud, thud–like muffled war drums. Every strike reverberated back into your arm with bruising density, but you didn’t stop.

You were breathing harder now.

And Sentry was still just… watching you.

Not bored. Not blank. He was studying you–like a scholar with a sacred text. Like every move you made was worthy of reverence. There was a faint gleam of something pleased in his expression, golden irises flicking between the set of your shoulders and the tension in your clenched jaw, like he was cataloging every shift in your form with quiet admiration.

It wasn’t desire. Not lust. Just awe.

And then, finally, you stepped back. Your arms hung loose at your sides, wrists sore and shoulders flushed with exertion. You shook out your hands with a grunt, sucking in a slow breath.

“I have a question for you,” you said, voice uneven from the effort.

Sentry straightened a fraction. Cleared his throat softly, like he hadn’t spoken in a century.

“Go ahead.”

You stepped closer–again. The heat between your bodies was tangible now. You stopped just short of brushing his chest with yours, close enough that you could feel the hum of him buzzing beneath the thin layer of his cotton shirt.

“You and Bob…” you began slowly. “You share thoughts, right? Like… You can talk to him inside his head?”

Sentry nodded once. Calm. “Yes. Of course.”

He didn’t ask where the question was going–but there was a subtle flicker of curiosity behind his gaze. A glint of wariness.

You tilted your head slightly.

“So that means… You know what he thinks of me?”

That made something in his face change.

Not visibly–but internally. Like a shift in gravity.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, but not with anger. Just with the weight of knowing exactly what you meant.

“Yes,” He said finally. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, but it didn’t quite work. A smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth anyway.

“Just wanted confirmation.”

He squinted at you suspiciously, head tilting. “I feel like you’re trying to set me up to say something that should be coming from Bob.”

“I’m not,” You said quickly, voice light. “I swear I’m not. I’m just…Curious. That’s all.”

You held his gaze for a beat, then let it slip for just a second–just long enough to flick down to his neck. He didn’t miss it.

And when your eyes darted back up to his, there was something different there. A spark. A glint of mischief. A subtle shift in the air that sent a new ripple of heat down your spine.

“Do you guys share similar…” You began slowly, teasingly, “Weaknesses?”

Sentry blinked. Cautious. Confused.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, low and incredulous. “That is where we differ. I’m practically indestru–”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because in one smooth movement, your fingers darted out and skated lightly up the side of his neck–just under his jaw, where the skin was most sensitive to both Bob…And him.

And the sound he made–

Was not godly.

It was sharp. Undignified. Somewhere between a yelp and a startled grunt, the kind of noise someone made when they’d been caught off guard in the worst way. His whole body jerked back half a step, and his knees bent as if something in his godlike frame just short-circuited.

“Jesus Christ,” Sentry hissed, glaring at you like you’d committed some sort of war crime.

You burst out laughing. Bent at the waist, arms braced on your thighs as the sound poured from you uncontrollably.

You couldn’t breathe. Could barely talk.

Between wheezes, you managed, “I didn’t expect you to react like that–but holy shit–it’s good to know that gods get ticklish sometimes too.”

He straightened slowly.

“Guess it’s one of the disadvantages,” He muttered, “Of being attached to Bob.”

You wiped your eyes, still grinning, as you leaned your weight back onto one foot.

“Damn,” You said breathlessly, “If the team ever finds out about this…”

“They won’t.”

You just smiled wider.

“Sure, Sentry. Whatever you say.” His eyes narrowed as he straightened fully, his arms slowly dropping from where they’d hovered in a mid-defensive reflex. His jaw clenched once, golden gaze burning hot beneath furrowed brows. There was no real danger in his posture–no spark of fury or divine wrath–but something shifted in his voice, something dry and faintly amused.

“It really seems like you’re trying to push me into fighting you.”

You raised your eyebrows, already taking a half-step backward with that same glint in your eye.

“What? Because I’m probably going to go tell the entire team that Sentry’s ticklish like Bob?” You teased, voice light and sing-songy as you began to edge toward the door. “Because I might casually bring it up at dinner next time Walker starts bragging about his bench press? ‘Oh yeah? Well, Sentry can bench the moon, but he also squeals like a kid if you touch his neck.’”

Sentry stared at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to smile–or maybe grit his teeth.

You pointed a lazy finger at him as you backed up farther, heel tapping the edge of the mat.

“You know I’ll do it. I’ll tell Yelena. I’ll tell Alexei. And he’ll never let you live it down.”

His hands fell loosely to his sides, the veins in his forearms flexing subtly beneath the black sleeves as he took one slow step forward. The overhead lights buzzed again–just once–and then went completely still.

“Alright,” He said calmly, “You asked for it.” You barely had time to register the words before he moved. You blinked.

And then ran.

A breathless laugh tore from your throat as you pivoted hard and booked it toward the exit, bare feet silent across the mat. You knew he’d follow—but you weren’t expecting how fast. You barely made it five steps before the air shifted behind you.

He was there.

You didn’t even hear him move.

Strong arms slipped around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like it was nothing. You shrieked—half indignation, half delighted surprise—and squirmed hard against him.

“Put me down!”

“Nope,” Sentry grunted, voice steady with amusement. “You opened this door.”

You twisted hard, elbow aiming for his ribs—not to hurt, just to annoy. He caught it easily, body flexing behind you as he adjusted his grip, lowering you just enough that your heels skimmed the mat. His chest was warm against your back, too warm, and you could feel the restrained strength in every inch of him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was holding you like something sacred—delicately, even when your body writhed with every ounce of mischief you had left.

“I will scream,” You warned.

“I���m counting on it.”

You gasped-half laugh, half breathless–and hooked your ankle around his shin to try and trip him. He didn’t budge. Instead, his arm shifted, sliding up to wrap around your chest and pull you flush against him. You could feel the thunder of his pulse now–buried deep behind the quiet of him. That cosmic stillness. It made your own heart race faster, like it was trying to match something much older, much heavier.

“God, you’re obnoxious,” You huffed, yanking at his arm.

“You’re the one who threatened to tell Alexei I’m ticklish,” He countered.

“And I will!”

“Then I guess I’m justified.”

You twisted in his hold, managing to face him fully–and he let you. Didn’t resist when you grabbed his shirt in both fists and tugged like it would help.

You were panting now, flushed and laughing, but there was a fire behind it–something not quite amusement. Not anymore.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing softly, shimmering with the classic Sentry gold.

You were so close your noses nearly brushed. Your chest rose and fell in fast, shallow pulls, brushing against his. One of his hands was still resting low on your side, fingers spread wide–grounding you, maybe, or steadying himself.

You swallowed.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Rougher.

“…You don’t have to hold back this much.”

Sentry’s expression shifted. Not smug. Not surprised. Just sharp–with awareness.

“I do,” He said simply. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see what you’re like… when you’re under pressure.”

You tilted your chin up, breath catching. “Why?”

A pause.

And then:

“Because I like how you burn when you’re pushed.” The air between you pulsed like something alive. Charged and hot and thrumming with everything neither of you had said. You didn’t know if it was Bob in that second, or Sentry, or both–but you burned too.

You stared at his mouth. Then his throat. Then back to his eyes.

And he saw it.

He saw all of it.

Something clicked behind his gaze–snapped, maybe–and suddenly his hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and sure and deliberate.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

It hit like a gravitational collapse–like the breathless moment between lightning and thunder, the second before a star goes supernova. His mouth claimed yours like he had waited centuries for this moment and wasn’t going to waste a second of it. There was no soft warm-up, no gentle build. Just the press of lips that had held back too long and a low, almost feral sound from his chest as you kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands curled in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. His body pressed into yours like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of you–like restraint was no longer an option.

Your back hit the nearest wall–not hard, just enough for him to anchor you there with the weight of him, arm braced beside your head. He broke the kiss only long enough to gasp against your mouth, voice shredded and low.

“You have no idea what you do to us.” You barely had time to breathe before he continued, his voice rasped and reverent, breaking on the edges like it hurt to hold the words in.

“When you ask questions that you know the answers to.” The heat in his eyes didn’t flicker. It burned steady. Fixed. Like he was looking at the only thing in existence that had ever managed to make him feel truly alive.

His hand was still cradling the back of your neck–thumb brushing slow arcs along your skin, grounding him as much as it grounded you. His other hand had settled at your waist again, fingers flexing, as though he didn’t trust himself to hold you tighter.

And still he spoke, each word barely more than a breath, like a confession pulled from the center of a god.

“When you look at me like you see me. Not what I am. Not what I can do. Just…Me.”

You swallowed, chest rising fast against his.

He dipped his head slightly, golden eyes flickering over your mouth again.

“When you touch us like we are yours…Even when we haven’t even claimed you as such…Yet.”

And then–

He kissed you again.

But this time, you leaned into it.

Your fingers slid up his chest, over the slope of his shoulder, until they reached the nape of his neck and tangled in the softness of his light brown hair. You pulled—gently, but enough. Enough to make him groan against your mouth, low and wrecked, like your hands on him were something he’d dreamed of and denied himself for too long.

The sound vibrated into your jaw, into your throat, and you kissed him harder in response. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your knees soften and your lungs burn and your body ache.

He shifted then–closer, impossibly closer–his hips brushing yours, his chest a wall of heat against your front. You were pinned between him and the wall now, not trapped, but held. Like he wanted to keep you there forever. Like you were a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud yet, but couldn’t stop whispering beneath his skin.

Your hands fisted tighter in his hair, and he made that sound again, louder this time. His hand slid from your waist up your spine in a slow, aching drag that left you trembling, fingertips pressing between your shoulder blades like he needed to feel every part of you rising to meet him.

You gasped against his mouth, lips swollen and breathless, and he took that as an invitation to devour the sound, to kiss you deeper, and to drink from you.

And the truth was…

You both were starving.

For touch. For closeness. For something that didn’t end in fear or retreat or silence. Something that pulled instead of pushed.

And now, here he was–Sentry, Bob, both of them–finally holding you like you were the only thing in this world that had ever felt real.

And you didn’t want to waste this moment on overthinking.

You didn’t want to question it, to slow it down, to analyze the weight of his hand or the heat of his mouth or the way your body arched so desperately into his—because for once, it all made sense. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t timing. This was inevitable.

The kiss became sloppy fast.

It was still all teeth and tongue and soft, panting sounds that echoed between the cracks of restraint–but now your hands were dragging down the planes of his back, curling in the hem of that soft black shirt like you could pull him closer than physics allowed. He groaned into you again, louder this time–richer, rougher–like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until he had it, and now he didn’t know how to stop.

Your legs shifted on instinct–widening just slightly for balance as you arched into him–and he responded immediately.

Sentry shifted.

The movement was fluid and almost too smooth for something that carried this much desperation, but you didn’t care. You barely even noticed the transition–your world had narrowed to the feel of him, the weight of his mouth, the stretch of your lungs trying to keep up.

You felt the moment his knees hit the mat.

The world tilted, and suddenly you were lower–his arms supporting you as your back hit the padded floor with a quiet, muffled thud.

And then he was over you.

Not crushing. Not smothering. Just there–braced on one arm, hovering above you with his chest heaving and his golden eyes wild, like he hadn’t expected to find himself here either, but now that he was, there was no chance he’d leave.

Your hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing the warmth of his cheeks, and he leaned back down like he couldn’t stay away–not even for a second.

His mouth found yours again. Hot. Messy. Open. His tongue brushed against yours and you whimpered, breath catching as your hips lifted just slightly into the space between his. You weren’t even thinking anymore. Not about the compound. Not about the team. Not about anything except him.

And then–without warning–he pulled back.

Only a few inches. But it was enough for the cold air to kiss your spit-slick lips. Enough to make your brows pinch with protest.

But Sentry was staring at you.

His eyes were wide. Dark with heat. Glowing with something that went beyond hunger.

He looked wrecked.

“Do you know,” He said softly, voice hoarse, “How many times I’ve wanted to do that?”

Your breath hitched.

He shook his head slightly, chest still rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His voice dropped even lower.

“I’ve imagined it in every damn room I’ve been in. The med bay, the kitchen, my room, your room, the living room…Fucking everywhere.” He let out a breathless laugh, pressed his forehead against yours. “I can barely breathe when you’re near me. I try to act normal, I try to just watch, like Bob does, like I’m supposed to–but it’s never enough.” You blinked, heart in your throat.

He leaned down again, brushing your jaw with his mouth.

“I think about your hands when you’re not here,” He murmured. “I think about the way you talk when you’re irritated. The way you look when you’re focused. How your voice sounds when you laugh. I remember every fucking sound you’ve ever made.”

His mouth kissed a line down the side of your throat–hot, reverent, barely restrained. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, body arching into his like gravity was conspiring with him.

He lifted his head again, gaze locked to yours, barely more than a breath away.

“I think about touching you every time I close my eyes,” He whispered, “I think about what it would mean. To be yours.” You stared up at him, chest heaving beneath the weight of everything he’d just said. Everything he’d confessed. There was no filter in him now. No veil. No divine wall of restraint.

Just truth.

Raw and devastating.

And yours.

Your hands slid up the sides of his face, thumbs grazing the delicate dip beneath his cheekbones, palms cupping the sharp angles of his jaw like you were trying to hold the entire sun between your fingers. He leaned into the touch–starved for it–and you surged forward.

You kissed him hard. Biting his bottom lip gently, tugging just enough to make his body jolt above yours, a sharp, shuddered groan escaping from deep in his chest.

Then, breathless, lips still brushing his, you whispered with a crooked smile:

“God, you really know how to make a girl feel wanted, huh?”

That made him laugh.

Low and stunned and wrecked, like the sound had been dragged out of somewhere deep in his ribcage. His forehead dropped to yours for a beat, and he let out a warm, shaky exhale.

Then he kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that tasted like a thank-you and a promise and a claim all at once. One hand slid down your side to hook beneath your thigh, adjusting his body above yours, fitting himself to you with a precision that felt nothing short of divine.

“I could go on forever,” He said, voice low and thunder-warm, “About how much I’ve wanted you.”

His eyes flicked over your face like you were scripture carved into flesh.

“I could tell you how many times I’ve had to hold Bob back from saying your name in his sleep, how he’ll flinch when someone says it in a hallway because his heart just–stops.”

He dipped his head, kissing the corner of your mouth like a prayer.

“I could tell you how he made me promise I’d always be near. Always listening. Just in case you needed something he couldn’t give fast enough.”

Another kiss–your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple.

“He tethered us to you.” His voice dropped into something reverent. Barely audible. Worshipful. “Not out of fear. Not duty. But because his love for you has become instinct.” You didn’t realize you were trembling until his hand was cupping your side, warm and grounding. Sentry felt it—felt the way your body vibrated with something between overload and surrender, the way your breath stuttered beneath his palm. He shifted just enough to look at you properly again, his thumb dragging softly across your ribcage.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not with concern, but awe. Like your reaction was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, though your voice cracked at the edges.

He searched your face for a beat, then dipped his head, pressing a gentle kiss beneath your jaw. Slower now. Calmer. He lingered there, lips barely brushing your skin, just breathing you in like he needed it to steady himself.

But you didn’t want steady.

You wanted more.

And he could feel that too.

“…This floor isn’t exactly comfortable,” you said softly, your hands still buried in his hair, voice tinged with a breathless laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you’re leaking nuclear heat through your t-shirt.”

He huffed, and the sound vibrated against your throat.

“I’m trying not to melt you.”

“Too late,” you murmured.

His mouth curved into a crooked smile against your neck. “Come with me,” he said—quiet, but sure. “Before I forget how to be gentle.”

You didn’t ask where.

You didn’t need to.

He rose slowly, cradling your hips with one arm as he guided you upright with him. His other hand stayed on your lower back, grounding, reverent. You stood together for a beat, close and flushed and breathing each other in–your body barely keeping from leaning back into the mat out of sheer sensory overload.

But he kissed your forehead like a promise, and you followed when he took your hand.

The hallway was quiet.

He led you through it barefoot, fingers laced with yours, his other hand resting low on your spine to steady you whenever your steps faltered. The air felt cooler outside the training room–barely, but enough to raise a chill along your sweat-damp skin.

You didn’t realize where he was leading you until the scent of clean steam and citrus hit your nose.

The locker room.

He pushed the door open gently, the fluorescent lights humming above, diffused by the quiet fog curling in the air. You hadn’t even asked if anyone else was around–but somehow, you knew they weren’t. They wouldn’t be.

Not right now–especially this early in the morning.

Sentry released your hand just long enough to walk over to one of the shower stalls. You heard the soft hiss of water turning on–heard the shift in his breathing when he adjusted the temperature with pinpoint care.

By the time he turned back to you, the steam was rising in slow tendrils around him.

His shirt clung damp to his chest, darkening in the heat. You watched the golden flicker in his eyes catch the haze and hold it there, like light bending for him alone.

You stepped toward him slowly.

“You sure this isn’t just adrenaline talking?” He shook his head–slowly, reverently, steam curling around his jaw like a shroud.

“Please…” His voice was quiet. Unsteady in that way gods rarely allow themselves to be. “I think the admission of what we felt for you was long overdue. It’s not the adrenaline talking.”

He stepped closer. Just one pace, but it made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

It was wet now–sticking to the hard lines of his torso–but he peeled it off in one fluid motion, revealing what you had only ever glimpsed in slivers beneath battle-torn fabric and half-buttoned uniforms. And even then, nothing had quite prepared you for this.

For him.

He looked like something carved out of devotion. Like a figure from myth brought to life in firelight and steam. Dense, sculpted muscle corded through his frame, every inch of him wrapped in strength that seemed impossible yet undeniable. Not exaggerated. Not grotesque. Just…Perfect in that terrifying, celestial way. His skin was flushed from the heat of the locker room, as steam caught along the slopes of his shoulders, trailing down the valley between his abs.

Your gaze traced the scars scattered across him—some faint and faded, some darker, older, deep with memory. Not many. But enough. Enough to know that even gods bled sometimes.

And then there was the light. The quiet flicker of gold beneath his skin, pulsing faintly at his sternum and branching like veins of starlight across his chest. Glowing. Alive. Like divinity itself was trying to escape through him.

He was beautiful in a way that defied logic.

And you stared.

You had always wondered—always imagined. The way his shirts clung when he lifted something, the way muscles shifted in his back when he moved too quickly. You’d dreamed of what was underneath, fantasized in quiet, guilty moments.

But now, there he was. Bared. Unashamed.

And he was looking at you.

Not demanding. Not expecting. Just…waiting.

You swallowed, the heat rising in your cheeks as your fingers found the hem of your own tank top and slowly pulled it upward, peeling it away from your flushed skin. It slipped over your head in one smooth motion—and you stood bare-chested before him, breasts exposed to the low locker room light, skin flushed with effort and anticipation.

Sentry’s breath hitched audibly. You saw his jaw flex. His eyes—already glowing faintly–went molten.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at you like you were some divine vision made flesh. Like you were something sacred he was afraid to reach for in case he ruined it.

Then his eyes dropped.

You saw the moment they landed on your breasts. Saw the subtle twitch in his mouth as he bit the inside of his lower lip–hard. A sharp, restrained motion that made the muscle in his cheek jump. He didn’t speak, but he exhaled roughly through his nose, like he was trying to calm a fire that had just started to roar.

Then, with one slow, fluid motion, he pushed his sweatpants and underwear down in a single breath.

And your brain short-circuited.

Because even semi-erect, he was…Big.

Thick. Heavy. Perfectly shaped. You could already tell that when he was fully hard, it would be something else entirely–something that bordered on surreal. And the way he carried it–no posturing, no arrogance, just naked truth–made your thighs clench so hard you nearly gasped. It was instinct. A raw, involuntary reaction that ran straight down your spine and pooled low in your gut.

He caught the movement.

His gaze flicked from your legs back to your face, golden eyes smoldering with understanding. Hunger. But he didn’t pounce. He didn’t move forward or press his advantage.

He just let you look.

And maybe that was what undid you the most.

That even now–even with your nipples tightening under the locker room air, with your mouth parted and breath shallow, with your eyes darting back down to the weight of him hanging between his legs–he waited. Like this wasn’t about lust or claim or need.

It was about offering.

“Tell me what you want,” He said, his voice low. Gravel rough. Unsteady in a way that told you he was holding himself back with every ounce of divine willpower he had.

“Because I’ll give it to you,” He added. “All of it. Anything. Just say the word.”

You stared at him–at the awe in his face, the restraint braided through every muscle in his body–and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

But from knowing.

Knowing that whatever this was, whatever it became, you’d never feel anything like it again.

Your lips parted.

“I want you,” you whispered. “All of it. All of you.”

A beat. Your voice dipped lower, rougher, shy despite the heat rolling off your skin.

“But more than that… I want you to do what you want to me.”

Something cracked in him—visibly. A flicker of gold pulsed brighter across his chest, blooming in a stuttered vein of light over his collarbone like lightning caught beneath his skin.

And he breathed your name.

Once.

Just once.

Like it was a prayer too holy to say more than once without unraveling the world.

You took a small step back and hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts, shimming them down your hips with quiet, fluid ease. They fell to the damp tile around your feet, and you stepped out of them with a soft exhale.

You were bare before him now.

No shields. No distance. No more questions.

Just you–and the way his eyes drank you in like he hadn’t believed you were real until now.

Sentry moved before the silence had a chance to grow heavy.

His hand reached out–strong, open, reverent–and he took yours like he was terrified you might change your mind if he moved too fast. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as he pulled you gently into the shower stall beside him.

And then the water hit.

Hot.

Steam curling instantly around your joined bodies.

And just like that–

His mouth was on yours.

Not rough. Not frenzied.

But urgent.

Like something eternal was unraveling behind his ribs and the only way to stop it was to feel your breath in his lungs. The kiss was full and deep, lips parting around each other with soaked, open-mouthed need as the water poured over both of you. His hands roamed–slowly, reverently–one skimming down the side of your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he pressed you into him, skin to skin, heat to heat.

Your nipples brushed his chest and you whimpered against his mouth. His answering groan was low, ragged.

The kind of sound a man makes when devotion collides with desire.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. Water ran down his face, catching the light stubble along his jaw and the ridges of his collarbone, tracing the light glowing faintly beneath his skin.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Then show me…” You whispered. The water cascaded over your skin in steady, rhythmic sheets, hot enough to sting faintly where tension still lived in your muscles. Steam coiled around both of you, clinging to every surface, wrapping your bodies in something sacred and unseen. And he kissed you like the storm had broken inside him.

There was no hesitation now.

His mouth moved against yours with growing heat–messy, wet, open, and needy. Every time your lips parted, he drank from you like he couldn’t get enough, like the taste of you was something he’d craved since the moment Bob first laid eyes on you. You moaned into him when his hand slid down your waist and cupped the curve of your ass, squeezing with a low, desperate growl against your mouth.

His hips pressed forward—slow, grinding, not to take, not yet, but to feel. To savor. His cock, heavy and flushed, dragged against your stomach as he kissed you deeper, your thighs trembling from the sheer tension rolling through your core.

And then—he broke the kiss.

Just barely.

Only enough to trail his lips along your jaw, then lower–down your neck, where the skin was flushed and damp, where your pulse pounded loud and hot. He kissed there once. Twice. Then again, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and tilt your head back against the tile.

“That sound,” He whispered, his voice rasping low over your throat, “I want to hear it again.”

And he kissed lower.

Your breath caught.

His lips traced the arch of your collarbone, then down to the swell of your breasts–open-mouthed, reverent kisses that dragged over your skin with unbearable heat. When his mouth closed around one nipple, tongue flicking and lips sealing tight, you gasped–body jolting forward, one hand flying to the back of his neck, the other bracing against the wall behind you.

“Sentry–” You whimpered.

He moaned softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest as he suckled just hard enough to make your knees tremble. Then he shifted to the other breast, lavishing the same wet, aching worship there, tongue teasing, lips tugging.

Your body arched against him, chasing every touch.

Every kiss.

And still–he moved lower.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was reading you through his mouth, tasting every inch of what was his now, what he’d been denied for too long. He kissed down the slope of your stomach, tongue dipping to trace the curve of your navel, his hands anchoring you in place as your thighs trembled under the water’s steady heat.

Then he knelt.

Slow. Controlled.

God-like.

The moment his knees hit the tile, it felt like worship. Like he was built to kneel here. For you.

The sight of him looking up from between your legs–hair plastered to his forehead, steam curling around his cheeks, eyes glowing gold beneath thick lashes–made your lungs seize. One of his hands slid behind your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, until your foot braced on the small edge of the bench beside you. He coaxed your leg up over his shoulder, eyes never leaving your face.

“I’ll hold you,” he murmured, voice low and grounded. His palm pressed firm and warm to your hip, the other bracing your opposite thigh against the wall. “I’ve got you.”

And then he leaned in.

You cried out softly the moment his mouth found the inside of your thigh—kissing there first. Not rushing. Just dragging his lips across the tender flesh like he wanted to memorize the texture of your skin.

He nibbled gently, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make your hips twitch.

Then lower.

A breath against your folds.

Then–his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue made your whole body tense, spine pressing against the wall like it was the only thing keeping you upright. His lips parted around you and he groaned—loud and low and so deeply aroused it sounded like it had been pulled from his chest by gravity.

“You taste…” He didn’t finish the thought. Just moaned again and buried his mouth between your legs like he was starving.

You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in the soaked strands as your hips jerked forward.

His tongue moved slow–dragging through your folds with a precision that made your thighs clamp instinctively around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. He just groaned into you, hands tightening their hold to keep you in place, and he began to work you open with steady, fluid movements. Licking. Tasting. Worshiping.

Every pass of his tongue was devastating.

Soft, then firm. A flick, then a slow, sucking kiss. He circled your clit with unbearable care–taking his time, mapping you, learning you. And when he finally sealed his mouth around it and sucked—

You moaned.

Loud.

High-pitched and wrecked, echoing off the tile, lost in the steam.

“F–Fuck–” You gasped, your head hitting the wall behind you.

Sentry grunted at the sound, tongue flicking faster now, more precise. One of his hands left your hip and slid between your thighs, two fingers parting you gently, spreading you open as he devoured you. His mouth moved in time with his hand, tongue teasing, lips sealing, fingers slipping lower–coaxing you closer and closer to the edge with every devastating pass.

You couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The world had narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the slip of his fingers, the weight of your leg trembling over his shoulder as he dragged moan after moan from your throat.

Your hips rolled on instinct.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

And Sentry groaned against you–louder this time–like your pleasure was fueling him. Like your moans were what he needed to keep breathing.

He pulled back just far enough to look up at you, lips soaked, eyes wild.

“Let go for me,” He whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it.”

Then he buried his face in you again–tongue flicking against your clit in quick strokes, fingers curling, hitting just the right spots, and his entirety finding a rhythm so perfect it felt otherworldly.

And you shattered.

Your release hit hard–sharp, hot, trembling. Your cry echoed off the shower walls as your body seized, thighs trembling, hands gripping his hair like you might fall into the heat of him and never crawl back out. He held you through it–mouth never breaking contact, swallowing every moan, every quake of your body, drinking your pleasure like holy water.

Only when the aftershocks made your hips twitch did he finally ease back to look up at you. His mouth lingered just above your inner thigh, lips parted, breath hot against your trembling skin. You could still feel the aftershocks pulsing through your body, each one fainter than the last, but no less devastating. And Sentry–this god of heat and reverence–was still kneeling between your legs, steady as stone, as though worshiping you wasn’t something he wanted to do.

It was something he was made to do.

His fingers were still inside you, thrusting slow and deep, curling just right, coaxing soft, wrecked little gasps from your throat that you couldn’t have swallowed even if you tried.

He kissed your hipbone, tender and warm.

Then he whispered, voice husky and low:

“Give me another.”

Your chest hitched. Your hand was still tangled in his soaked hair, your hips twitching each time his fingers pressed into that unbearable spot. You were so close to the edge already, but his voice—that voice—it broke something in you.

“I want to watch you fall apart again,” He murmured, teeth grazing the hollow where your thigh met your pelvis. “I want to feel you break for me. To taste it. To swallow it down like it was made for me alone.”

You whimpered.

And he didn’t stop.

“I’m not asking for much,” He rasped, lips moving like a hymn across your skin. “Just one more. One more time, and I’ll make it so good for you… you’ll forget there was ever a world outside this.”

Your voice cracked. “Y-Yes…Okay–God, yes–please.”

That was all he needed.

His eyes burned gold–molten and bright–and then he adjusted.

Slow, precise strength carried your other leg up over his other shoulder. He adjusted with you like it was effortless, like your weight was nothing to him–just something sacred he got to carry. The wall steadied your back. He steadied everything else. You were open to him now, bare and flushed, your thighs trembling over his broad shoulders, your hands braced in his hair like you might fall to pieces if you let go.

And then he devoured you.

There was no teasing this time.

No hesitation.

Just need.

He pulled his fingers out of you, and replaced the emptiness with his mouth. His tongue plunged deep in you before dragging up in a slow, sinful flick that made your entire spine arch. You cried out, head falling back with a sharp thud against the tile, but he didn’t stop. He held you there–hands firm under your ass, keeping your hips tilted up, off the ground, pinned to the wall by nothing but his mouth and the carved weight of his divine strength.

He moaned into you, loudly, the sound vibrating straight through your core. Then his tongue found your clit again–slick and swollen and already aching from your last orgasm–and he wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

You screamed.

Your hands flew from the wall back into his hair, yanking hard, grinding forward instinctively, trying to press yourself deeper against his face. And he let you.

No–he welcomed it.

He groaned like it fed him, like your hips grinding into his mouth were the prayer he’d been waiting centuries to receive.

His tongue worked faster now, flicking and circling, relentless, worshipful, and when you moaned his name he made a sound you’d never heard from him before.

Unholy. Wrecked. Like he’d just been blessed.

He slipped his fingers back inside you again–curling, thrusting, fucking into that perfect spot while his tongue ravaged your clit, every motion synced like a symphony of sin and praise.

You were crying, now.

Not in pain.

In pure, trembling pleasure.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your body lifting against the wall, barely tethered to earth by the strength of his grip and the heat of his mouth. His teeth grazed your clit and you shattered with a sob.

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff–hard, hot, unstoppable.

You screamed his name. Your hips jerked, bucked. You held his head to you like it was life or death, grinding against his mouth as your body convulsed through a release so sharp it made your vision white out.

And Sentry?

He groaned into your core like it was his reward. He kept his mouth on you through every twitch, every moan, every desperate grind. His fingers stayed buried, stroking you through the aftershocks until your cries softened into gasping whimpers and your thighs shook uncontrollably around his ears.

And only then–only then–did he slowly pull back.

He let your legs slide gently from his shoulders, your body trembling as your feet found the tile again, barely standing. But you didn’t have time to breathe before you saw him—

Lips slick. Face soaked in you. Gold eyes burning like wildfire as he slowly pulled his fingers out of your body.

And then–

He licked them clean.

One at a time.

Tongue dragging up each finger, slow and deliberate, moaning like you were ambrosia poured straight from the heavens.

“That,” He rasped, licking the last drop from the web between his fingers, “was the most divine fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You stared.

You couldn’t speak.

You could barely stand.

But your body was vibrating with heat and want and disbelief–because no one had ever touched you like that. No one had looked at you like that. Like you were something sacred. Like your pleasure was a commandment.

Sentry rose to his full height, golden eyes flickering with restrained need as he looked down at you–soaked, flushed, trembling, and utterly undone beneath the weight of his devotion.

His breath was ragged. Controlled, but only just.

And then, voice low and rough, he whispered:

“Taste yourself.”

He leaned in–slowly, reverently–and kissed you.

His mouth was slick, drenched with the echoes of your pleasure, and when your lips parted to meet his, you tasted it. The sweetness. The salt. The heat. You moaned softly into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with a low, aching groan that rumbled against your chest like thunder curling behind the clouds.

He deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth with deliberate, hungry care, like he was giving you everything he had—everything you’d poured into him—now returning it in full.

His hand rose to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing gently across your cheek, and the kiss turned hot, messy, intoxicating. You were gasping now, hands pressing against his chest, your body aching with the overwhelming desire to be filled, to be claimed. To be his in every way.

You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, panting against his lips.

Your voice trembled, desperate and sure.

“Sentry, please…Please take me.”

His breath caught.

“Mark me. Claim me. Make it so I’m officially yours. I want to walk around and make sure people know who I belong to.”

The sound he made was something between a groan and a laugh–a stunned, reverent huff that left his chest trembling.

He looked at you like he was seeing a miracle. Like the universe had answered every prayer he didn’t know he’d made.

“ I will carve my name into the marrow of your soul with every stroke, every breath, every cry of mine that fills you.” His hands slid beneath your thighs, and with effortless, godlike strength, he lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms clinging to his shoulders as your back pressed gently against the slick tile behind you. He held you there like you weighed nothing–like you were made to be in his arms, always.

“You want the world to know who you belong to?” He rasped against your throat, voice molten. “Then I’ll make sure they never question it again.”

His cock, thick and heavy, slid against your slick core–hot and pulsing between your thighs. The sensation made your breath hitch, your hips rolling forward on instinct, chasing the contact.

“Sentry–”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “I’ll always have you.”

And then–slow, devastating, divine–he pushed inside you.

You cried out, head falling back with a soft, strangled moan as your body stretched to take him. He was massive, thick and perfect, and the way he filled you made stars burst behind your eyes.

He stilled once he was buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavy. Your nails dug into his back, thighs trembling where they wrapped around his hips. You whimpered, rolling your hips. “Move–please, just–fuck, move–”

And he did.

He pulled out slow, just enough to make you clench, and then drove back in with a low, guttural moan that sent a tremor through your spine. His thrusts were deep. Measured. Devastating. Each one stole the air from your lungs, each one carved his presence deeper into your body like a brand.

The sound of your bodies meeting was wet, sinful–echoing in the steamy air with every hard grind of his hips.

“You’re mine,” He growled into your neck, biting gently where your pulse pounded. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” You gasped, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I’ve always been yours.”

His pace quickened–thrusts growing hungrier, sharper, your back braced against the tile as he fucked into you with divine rhythm, every stroke hitting so deep it made your eyes roll back.

“You take me so fucking well,” He groaned, his voice breaking, “So perfect, so tight-God, you were made for me–”

Your cries filled the room–his name a mantra on your lips, every gasp an offering, every moan a confession.

You felt your climax building again–fast, furious, overwhelming. Your walls clenched tight around him and he let out a broken moan, his thrusts turning erratic. Each one punched a gasp from your lungs as he slammed up into you, the full weight of his strength braced into your hips, your back pressed tight to the slick tile. You clung to him like gravity had forgotten you existed—your fingers buried in his soaked hair, tugging hard with every roll of your hips to meet his.

And he loved it.

“Fuck—yes,” he groaned, his voice breaking against your throat. “Pull harder—don’t stop—God, I need—”

The sound of your slick heat swallowing him over and over again echoed off the steamy walls, and you could’ve sworn—

You heard it.

A soft sizzle in the air.

Not from the water.

From him.

From the radiant heat pouring off his skin–golden veins pulsing beneath his shoulders, sweat and steam beading off his spine, chest glowing like a furnace that had reached the edge of combustion. It rolled off him in waves. The kind of heat that seared. That warned. That branded.

And then–

He bit you.

His mouth opened wide over the curve of your shoulder, and his teeth sank deep into the tender flesh there–not teasing, not playful, but primal. Claiming.

You screamed.

Not from pain.

From devastation.

Your body seized violently against his, a sob torn from your throat as your climax ripped through you, sharp and fast and absolute. The pain and pleasure twisted together, blooming like fire through your blood. Your muscles locked, your walls clenching down so hard on him that he choked on a groan, arms trembling where he held you.

You could feel it.

His teeth.

Breaking skin.

Not deep enough to destroy–but deep enough to mark. Permanently.

To scar…To mark.

”You’re all mine.” He grunted against your skin, voice shredded with need. You were already shaking, still riding the aftermath of your orgasm when he growled into your throat:

“I’m gonna fill you up.”

A savage thrust.

“I want it dripping down your thighs.”

Another.

Harder.

Deeper.

You moaned so loud your voice cracked, hips bucking helplessly as he thrust into you again, again, again–

And then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding hard against your hips, and his forehead dropped to your burning shoulder–right over the mark he’d made–as he let out a long, broken moan.

His body shuddered, muscles locking, cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled into you with everything he had.

It was endless.

Hot. Heavy. Worshipful.

You could feel him–his release pulsing inside you in thick waves, his breath stuttering against your skin, his hands shaking where they clutched your thighs like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart completely.

And he was falling apart.

You felt it in every twitch of his hips. Every tremble in his chest. Every wrecked, holy sound that escaped his throat as he stayed locked inside you, trembling from the force of his own climax.

“You’re…Fuck–You’re everything,” He rasped, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care if I burn for this. I’d burn again. A thousand times. Just to feel you like this.”

You clung to him, panting, overwhelmed, every nerve still humming.

And when his arms finally loosened and he kissed the wound he’d left on your shoulder–soft, gentle, as though to apologize even while owning it–your breath caught all over again.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was immolation.

[zuzu-tries-to-write]

Bonjour!! I just had a thought beauty and the beast inspired story of any length and add your own twist if you can. That's it, thank you, Hagd!!

(With the icon himself ofc💯)

Buh bye!!😁

Hello lovelies omg I’m so sorry for disappearing on you for so long I had tests and finals but uh I’m back! And honestly I love this idea, you didn’t specify exactly so I made it modern tho I feel like it’s sorta cringe hope you like it love!!!!

“The beast can get the beauty.”

Bakugo Katsuki had everything—top combat scores, unmatched power, a seat at the top of Class 1-A. But no one ever called him a prince.

Not with that temper.

Not with that sharp tongue, the way he barked orders, snapped at kindness, or treated compliments like insults. His words were nitroglycerin. He was all teeth, fire, and fury. Everyone respected him—but from a distance. A beast dressed in black.

But you?

You weren’t afraid of him.

Maybe you should’ve been.

⸻

You were beautiful—not just “crush-of-half-the-school” beautiful, but the kind that made people pause. The kind that came with softness, sure, but also wit, steel, and stubbornness. You wore your heart on your sleeve, even when the world told you not to. That’s what made you different to him. That’s why he noticed.

You smiled at him the first time you met. Not a nervous smile. Not a flirty one. Just a genuine, curious, sweet smile.

It pissed him off.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” he muttered when he caught you watching him during lunch.

You just tilted your head. “Like what?”

“Like I’m some kinda… tragic story.”

You smiled again. “I wasn’t. I was just thinking your hair’s cool. Like an explosion midair.”

He blinked. He didn’t know how to handle compliments that weren’t fake. And especially not from you.

“Shut up.”

But you didn’t.

⸻

You had a way of showing up around him. You’d sit next to him during training cooldowns, ask about his gauntlets, offer him water when he was burning through sweat and pride. Sometimes, he’d blow you off. Sometimes, he’d bark something cruel.

You never flinched.

And that made something ache in him.

Because even when he was nasty, even when he snapped and snarled, you stayed.

You weren’t scared of the beast.

You saw the boy beneath the claws.

⸻

One day, after a rough mission, you found him alone on the rooftop. His knuckles were bruised, ash still lingering on his uniform.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer. Just kept staring at the horizon like it might punch back.

“Y’know,” you added gently, “you don’t have to push everyone away to protect them.”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“I know,” you replied. “But maybe… you care what I think.”

That got him to turn.

And for the first time, Bakugo Katsuki looked afraid. Not angry. Not annoyed.

Just afraid.

Because yeah—he did care what you thought. Too much. And he didn’t know when that happened.

“You always show up,” he said, like it was an accusation.

“I do.”

“Even when I’m a bastard.”

You smiled again. “Especially then.”

He stared at you for a long time. His voice was low, rough like gravel. “You make me feel like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

He looked away. “I don’t deserve you.”

You reached out, gently touching the back of his hand. “Maybe I get to decide that.”

And for once—

He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t explode.

Just stared at you like you were something he didn’t know how to hold—but wanted to anyway.

“I’m serious, Katsuki,” you whispered. “You’re more than just how angry you get.”

The way his name fell from your lips—soft, natural—he hated how much he loved it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

For a second, the world held its breath. The wind paused. The sun dipped. All that existed was the electricity between you, the tension buzzing like it could set the whole school on fire.

Then—

Slowly, like he was giving you time to stop him, Bakugo leaned in.

And when his lips brushed yours?

It wasn’t aggressive like you’d expected. Not rushed. Not demanding.

It was careful.

Like you were something fragile and he’d been reckless too long.

Your breath hitched—and you kissed him back. One hand found his shoulder, the other slid gently up the back of his neck, fingers tangling in wild blond hair. He made a low sound in his throat—surprised, maybe even grateful—and deepened the kiss just slightly, still holding back more than he ever had before.

When you finally pulled apart, he was pink-cheeked, eyes wide.

And then he ruined the softness like always.

“Tch. Don’t tell anyone I went soft, dumbass.”

You laughed, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me… Beast.”

He groaned. “I hate you.”

You grinned. “Sure you do.”

And when he pulled you back in for another kiss?

Yeah. You knew the truth:

Even beasts crave beauty.

[hazardace2]

IS there more evidence for the Susie theory I keep calling "Blood Theory"?

(My thoughts were all over the place for this so bear w/ me. I wanted it to be a thorough theory/essay post but it's more like a collection of thoughts sorry)

spoilers for the new chapters under the cut

So first things first, we need to establish where this comes from.

During chapter 2's release some dataminers found this unused animation where she BLEEDS.

this on its own wasn't enough for people to question it, as the two running theories for it being scrapped were that it was

1. the blood on her sprite was a continuity issue; as monsters dust, which is why it ended up unused

2. monsters actually bleed in deltarune since it's in a different universe from undertale.

Both of these are WRONG now that I've finished chapter 4.

The second floor in the library has a new interaction with a book on monster funerals, it is exactly the same as the book from undertale's library on the same subject; this one was not written for a school project though.

Throughout chapter 4 we interact with Gerson in the dark world, and Susie treats him like any other lightner, despite the fact that he's a shopkeeper and magically disappears and reappears around her several times in the chapter.

When Susie finds his hammer covered in his dust in the light world, she realizes he's dead and became a darkner. But take a look at her dialogue for just a second.

How come she refers to monsters in the 3rd person when she could have included herself, and she initially doesn't understand why somebody would keep the dust of a loved one. Why? Ralsei refers to her as "the monster" in the original prophecy, and obviously she isn't a human. She doesn't look like anything other than a monster, and she doesn't have a human soul - that's why she asks Kris at the end of chapter 4.

While she does seem confused about a lot of things surrounding monsters and their culture (commenting on gingerbread monsters after asking toriel what they were for example) but this is probably due to her homelife.

She's lived in multiple towns and if King is supposed to mirror her own father, than he certainly isn't going to care enough to spend time with her and show her gingerbread monster cutters or even get her cool monster costumes, etc. So of course she's going to have trouble relating to other monsters.

The first time Susie is ever shown proper love and care is in the dark world! (yes dw i did not forget about toriel and the bench, but it's not relevant for my next point) Chapter 3 focuses on the importance of Darkners as objects, contrasted with how they feel. This obviously impacts Susie since these worlds and these people are so near and dear to her, and it shouldn't matter whether or not they're "real" they're alive.

In chapter 4 once Gerson finds his study, there's a plaque above his fireplace that describes a mythical axe. On my first playthrough I went out of my way to find this axe for Susie, I had no clue it would unlock the secret boss. I do think that this is important information for Susie and her character arc (which I'll come back to this)

Gerson and Susie get so incredibly close this chapter. It is such an unlikely and yet incredibly sweet friendship.

After defeating Jackenstein in the dark zone, Ralsei tries to heal him multiple times, which doesn't work. Susie, having already been told that she doesn't need to heal from Ralsei, walks away. Gerson is the one who encourages her to heal him. Gerson encourages her to grow and improve her magic from Chapter 2!

Speaking of Susie's magic ability; in my old post I went over her odd magic abilities. In the alternate ending for chapter 1, Susie can learn pacify BY HERSELF to use on the king. In chapter 2 Ralsei teaches Susie to heal. And in chapter 4 Gerson's fight helps her healing incrase dramatically.

Susie's magic use has intrigued me for the longest time, especially since she has all these other oddities; her room in the dark world for one.

Unlike Kris' room, Susie's (I'm assuming that's her room) in the light world does not match the dark world other than her bed being mirrored (which is also true for Kris). She gets a brand new fridge, her window is shaped differently, and she gets a dresser and lamp. Meanwhile her room in the light world is completely empty.

Susie has this carpet with the ACT symbol on it, which relates to not only her magic use, but it almost foreshadows Susie learning how to ACT?????? from the MAGIC MENU????????? in chapter 2.

Susie's room is also littered with all these crowns. Despite Ralsei telling her that she's supposed to wear ribbons, Susie has never been feminine? The only reason I'd assume they'd be there is for that reason. Susie DOES refer to herself as a king on a few occasions in ch 2 though, such as during the trash scene and in tasque interactions.

Going back to the prophecy in ch 4. This looks nothing like Susie.

Especially compared to her drawing from the legend Ralsei tells; The statue based off this illustration is even compared to Susie directly. While the silhouette looks nothing like Susie (even wielding a sword???) the story beats match hers, like finding love and supposedly whatever happens at the end of the prophecy.

What this figure does kind of look like is a princess! And seeing as this whole chapter is focused on stories and prophecies, I think this kind of checks out.

Why and how would she be a princess though? - if this is even really her in those images. She's literally a regular monster not only in deltarune but in undertale too. The only mention of her and her family in UT is that they live in the same city as clam girl - who just so happens to be a goner. Hell she has a couple of other odd connections to Gaster and the overall idea of darkworlds.

In chapter 2 if you enter the diner to talk to Catti about Noelle she'll say "She is the light, but lately she strays too far into the darkness" and then she clarifies she's speaking about Susie. While we know she dislikes Susie and is jealous of Noelle's romantic interest in her, this still really intrigues me just based on wording alone.

There's only a few activities that are available after sealing the fountain in ch 4, and one of them is sitting by the lake with Susie. After a certain period of time passing she'll ask Kris if they can hear anything; which we can't. She says it sounds like somebody is playing music on the other side - something Onionsan mentions in the earlier chapters.

Water imagery is absolutely associated w/ gaster and the dark worlds. From the gonermaker background using an ocean image + the fountains using that same image texture, it's no wonder the lake has dark world associations too.

What was interesting was that another character seemed to have alluded to this song earlier in ch 4. Gerson. Before his battle with Susie begins he tells her "Can you hear it? Can you hear its song, singing from the deep...?" this immediately reminded me of the song of the sea.

Going back to my first point about their close relationship; Gerson tasks Susie with writing a letter to his son, because he knows he's deceased, even though he never says it outright. He's unique in the sense that the dust of a lightner can be mixed with an object for them to come back as darkners. Mind you, when Susie creates a dark world his suits of armor (objects → full darkners) are seperate entities from him.

I dissected how blood is supposed to work in deltarune so I'd assume instead of dusting (he's already made of dust) Gerson probably bleeds in the dark world, despite having the full appearance of a lightner.

Say that upon shattering glass, one of our hereos starts to bleed.

Even though it shouldn't be possible for them to bleed. Let's just say that they can and not elaborate any further.

Let's also say maybe somehow, someway, somebody found a way to have a child who was both a lightner and darkner.

Let's also look at how interesting it is, that they share the same attack. Those who are created from both the light, and the dark :)

[sweetromanova]

Emergency Contact🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Paramedic!Reader

Summary: A Black Widow and a paramedic walk into a crisis… sparks fly and every date ends in explosions, sirens, or stitches.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, blood and medical content, body horror/injuries, hospitals, near death experiences.

A/N: i said i was uploading only once per day but then i accidentally deleted a whole story and decided i want to put everything out there before i do it again:(

Of course today had to be the day you told the team you’d be fine riding solo. Short-staffed or not, you were more than capable of handling the small-scale emergencies that flared up around upstate New York on a near-daily basis. Until, of course, it wasn’t a small emergency but something that looked a lot like a war crime.

The call comes in, location just ten minutes out, backup en route. You slam your foot down on the gas. By the time you arrive, your adrenaline is already racing through your veins.

The devastation hits immediately. No warning, no time to process. Smoke hangs heavy, sirens scream from a distance and wounded voices cry out, all blending into a blur as you scan the area, trying to decide who needs you most.

That’s when you see him. Some unhinged wannabe waving a makeshift weapon, ranting about Captain America and world domination, flanked by a small army of fanatics armed with explosives, guns, and blades.

You breathe deep, slide out of the ambulance and immediately start shouting into your radio, directing incoming medics to where they’ll be most needed. You begin triage, weaving through crushed vehicles and debris, the smell of burning rubber thick in the air, your body running on instinct and urgency.

You drop to your knees beside a fallen officer, checking vitals, calling in for immediate medevac. The sirens are louder now, help is coming but for the moment, it’s just you, your training and the will to keep people breathing.

Then she arrives.

A flicker of black tactical gear cuts through the smoke like a shadow. Her presence is deliberate, almost haunting. Blood streaks down one temple, someone else’s, not hers and her eyes are scanning the chaos like she’s already piecing it all together.

“Who’s in charge here?” Her voice cuts through the noise, low, rough, and commanding. She eyes the wounded and then you, crouched over your kit bag

You look up, meeting her gaze. “I am. Unless you’re about to tell me otherwise.”

Something flickers across her face. Amusement? Respect? Maybe both. “There’s a structural weakness under the café.”She says. “You’ve got five minutes before it collapses.”

Your stomach knots. “Then you’d better help me move people.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

No questions. No attitude.

She lifts a wounded civilian with effortless ease, movements smooth and surgical. You admire watch her for a moment too long, almost forgetting the bleeding officer in your arms.

For a moment, everything feels suspended as the structure above you, creaks threateningly but you don’t stop. Not even when she assures you she can manage the last ones, you continue in sharp focus.

You don’t get her name that day. She’s already vanished into the smoke and shouting by the time backup arrives, a simple nod of respect in your direction before she disappears.

Later, someone tells you her name.

Natasha Romanoff.

And somehow, it stays with you, burned into the back of your mind.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You see her again three weeks later.

A warehouse raid has gone sideways. The kind of barely-contained disaster the Avengers occasionally ‘assist’ the NYPD with. The air is thick with smoke and metal, fire curling through the rafters, the scent of scorched debris clawing at your throat as you work fast, kneeling beside a young woman who clearly made a bad jump.

She’s semi-conscious, breath shallow, eyes fluttering. A deep gash stretches across her side, blood soaking into the concrete. Her femur’s bent wrong. She’s losing too much and way too fast. “How’s it looking, Doc?”

“Like you took on a scrapyard with no backup and lost.”

“Ha.” Her voice is dry, weak. “I like you. And that means something. I don’t like anyone. Except my dog.”

“You have a dog?” You keep pressure on her side while your hands work to assess the rest. Distraction is key, your training runs through your brain. “Name?”

“Fanny.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about her.”

You almost smile, almost but there’s too much blood running down your forearms to relax.

Then all of a sudden, she’s there.

Natasha drops into a crouch beside her sister like she stepped out of the smoke itself. Blood streaks her arm, soot across her face. She doesn’t speak at first, just scans her quickly with that same quiet intensity she carried the first time you met.

“She’ll be okay.” You assure, firm and even as you press into the wound, slowing the tide. The reassurance is more for Natasha than Yelena now.

Her eyes move from her sister to you. “She’s not like the others.” Natasha murmurs. Her voice is lower, protective in a way that feels primal.

You nod. “I know.” You’ve already heard the name shouted over comms but you test it out as her eyelids flutter. “It’s Yelena, right?”

Yelena stirs, just enough to find her sister’s eyes. A faint smile forms on her lips, like she’s finally safe.

“She didn’t ask for this,” Natasha speaks again. There’s something tight in her voice, like she’s barely holding back everything else she could say.

“You didn’t either.” Your voice is quiet but you don’t push further.

You refocus. “Okay, Natasha. We need to get her to the ambulance now. Her bleeding isn’t slowing enough. I need her stable, fast.”

She snaps to attention. “What do you need?”

“Wrap this just above the wound, tight enough to slow the bleeding but not enough to cut off circulation. Then pack it. Gauze is in the kit.” You barely finish the sentence before she’s already moving.

She’s efficient, clinical even. No hesitation as she does exactly what you ask of her.

You lay a sterile dressing over the wound, tape it down, then grab an oxygen mask, fitting it over Yelena’s face as she starts to fade. The air here is thick with smoke and heat. You can see her struggling.

“You can stay with her.” You say, voice firm as you begin to lift. “We’re moving now.”

With Natasha’s help, you ease Yelena onto a board, carefully immobilizing her leg. Natasha’s hands stay near, protective even in small movements. She watches every second like she’s analysing it, counting every breath Yelena takes.

Through the haze, you spot the ambulance. Two medics run toward you and you sag in relief. “What have we got?”

“Deep lateral wound, likely punctured muscle, possible fractured femur. She’s anemic, already hypotensive, you should start fluids now. She’ll need a transfusion.” You pause just long enough to lock eyes with one of them. “Saint Vincent’s. Trauma unit is waiting.”

“Copy. Team’s ready.” The medic’s already unpacking IV lines, sterile wrap and more blood stop. He looks to you. “You coming?”

You shake your head. “You’ve got it.” You’re needed here. Too many others are still waiting.

“I-”

“She should go.” You cut in, turning to Natasha. She looks pale, not from injury but something deeper. “Go with her. I’ll let your team know where you are.”

She doesn’t argue. Just nods once, something unreadable flickering across her face before she climbs into the back.

You pause at the door. “Take care of her.” You tell the medic, firmer than you mean to.

Then you close the doors, step back into the smoke and watch the ambulance vanish into the city.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You don’t expect to see the inside of Avengers Tower ever. But when a diplomat takes a hit to the lung during an attempted assassination, the call is clear. Nearest trauma facility, top-level clearance. Apparently, that means here.

Maybe it’s because he’s a diplomat. Or maybe it’s why he was targeted. Either way, no time for questions. You stabilize him in the back of your rig and hold on as your shift partner speeds through restricted streets straight to the back entrance of the most secure building in Manhattan.

You’re barely through the doors before a doctor, Dr Cho someone had muttered behind you, has already started setting up what looks like some sort of robotic surgical unit that makes even your most advanced trauma gear look medieval.

“You did great.” A male nurse comments, clapping your shoulder with a rehearsed kind of cheer. “But we’ve got it from here.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s not wrong. What are you going to do against a robot chamber that literally regenerates tissue?

You linger for a moment longer but then start walking out. Your blue uniform sticks out like a bruise against the suits and agents bustling through the halls. You keep your head down as you reach the elevator, trying not to look like you’re scoping out the place.

Just as the elevator doors open into the foyer, you nearly jump out of your skin.

“She said you might still be here.”

Natasha. Again.

She’s leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed. No blood. No grime. Her hair’s brushed back, face clean. Somehow she looks even more dangerous like this, like contained chaos in civilian clothes.

“She?” You manage.

“Yelena.” She shrugs. “She’s getting her stitches out and saw you in the Medbay.”

You swallow. “She’s alright?”

Natasha nods. “Thanks to you.”

You shrug it off. “Just doing my job.”

“You always say that?” She asks, stepping a little closer.

“Only when it’s true.”

There’s a beat of silence where her eyes don’t leave yours.

“You always this calm?” She asks, quieter now.

“Only when it matters.” She smiles at that, looking at you in appreciation.

Just before she disappears again, you hear her say it, so quiet that you’re not sure you were meant to catch it at all.

“Thank you.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You’re pinned in the back of a collapsed transport, exactly one month later.

A botched extraction in lower Manhattan, disaster pressing in from every side. Your unit was called in for emergency evac, and instinct took over the second you saw hesitation in the others, new recruits maybe, or just frozen in the moment. They hesitated at the entrance, eyes wide, unsure.

You didn’t.

You moved. And fate, with its usual poor timing, answered by letting the floor drop out from under you.

A thunderous crash.

Then darkness.

Now you’re buried beneath what used to be the second story, trapped with four civilians and one injured, bleeding Avenger.

Your eyes sweep down your own body first, a small checklist in your head.

No major blood, no visible organs. But your shoulder screams, a sharp, white-hot pain that pulses deep. Dislocated. You know the feeling and you unfortunately know what comes next.

You grit your teeth, breathing slowly through the dizziness. Nausea churns in your gut as you spot jagged metal sticking out just beneath your collarbone. You don’t have the luxury of panic. You brace yourself against a bent support beam, grip your injured arm, and with one sharp breath.

Crack.

The pain hits like lightning. You swallow the noise that wants to tear out of you and let the heat wash over.

You stand, shaky but you make it on to two feet. Your training kicks back in as you scan the others, analysing who needs help first. One broken leg, a few concussions, a dislocated wrist, deep lacerations. Nothing major.

“Okay.” You rasp. “If you’re bleeding, stop it. Anything deep, press on it. Hard.” They nod.

They trust you. Your uniform, your voice, it’s all they have right now.

And then your eyes find her.

The redhead in the catsuit. Romanoff. A shard of some kind of shiny metal is lodged in her thigh, blood pooling fast. Her breathing is shallow, her hands clenched in pain. Her face is tight with effort but she hasn’t made a sound.

You kneel beside her and press your hands into the wound, firm and steady. “Hey. You with me?”

She grits her teeth. “You again.” She mutters, voice low and strained. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

“We really do.”

“Did I just watch you reset your shoulder?”

“Would you believe me if I blamed it on blood loss?”

“No. But your lying’s as bad as your ability to take a compliment.”

You work quickly, ripping fabric from your shirt to start wrapping the wound. Her blood is hot against your skin. “You’re bleeding too fast, Romanoff. I need to-“

She grabs your wrist before you can finish. Her grip is strong, but there’s desperation beneath it. “Don’t leave me. Her voice is barely more than a whisper but it cuts right through you.

She doesn’t crack. But it’s enough to feel the weight in her voice, the fear trembling beneath her words.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You promise, steady. “But you need to stay awake. Talk to me. Keep fighting.”

And she does.

She murmurs stories. Some about Yelena, some about one time in Budapest, broken memories laced with fire, explosions and some man called Clint. You keep pressure on the wound, keep your breathing even, it’s all you have to offer her right now.

Above you, the rescue effort begins. Fire crews calling orders. Ropes and stretchers lowered. Paramedics waiting.

The others go up first. One by one, lifted to safety.

But you stay with her. They could have been rescuing for hours or a mere ten minutes, you have no idea. You just concentrate on keeping her breathing.

By the time they reach you, the wreckage above has cleared enough for daylight to pour in. You’re the last two pulled out.

Once you’ve reached the top, assured colleagues that you’re ok even with a small piece of jagged metal protruding from your collarbone. You move through crowds of firefighters, cops, medics, even other Avengers. But Natasha’s gone.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It’s much later when you find her again.

You’d dodged every attempt to haul you back to the hospital and instead made your way to the Tower, bluffing your way past security with a vague ‘request’ buried deep in post incident chaos. They bought it. Mostly. Maybe they were just tired of you dripping blood and gravel all over their polished floor.

Now you’re walking the corridors, through high-tech labs, sterile med bays, past dazed agents and equipment that looks more like it belongs to an alien than the medical unit, searching. Until you spot him again.

That same smug nurse.

“You make a habit of showing up here now?” He calls out, eyebrow cocked.

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” You reply, keeping your voice polite but clipped.

He eyes your limp posture. “You look like you belong on the other end of the IV.”

“Yep. Definitely does look that way.”

“So what are you doing here instead of, I don’t know, your own hospital?”

“I’m looking for Natasha Romanoff.”

That stops him short. He tilts his head like he’s just solved a puzzle he didn’t like the answer to. “Agent Romanoff doesn’t do autographs, selfies, or fan mail. So if you’re about to pull out a sharpie and a headshot-“

“I’m not a fan.”

“Oh. Right. So a journalist pretending to be a paramedic? What’s next, you gonna explain what an IV stands for?” His laugh borders on mocking and it takes everything in you not to deck him with your non-dislocated arm. Not that you’d make it far in your condition.

“I know her-“

“And I know Beyoncé-“

You blink slowly. “Seriously?”

“Oh, of course. We braid each other’s hair at SHIELD sleepovers. Totally normal.”

You don’t even bother hiding the eye roll. “Look, I just want-“

“Hey! Look who it is!” A familiar voice cuts in before you can finish. “Want me to return the favor? I’m fantastic at sutures.”

Yelena appears, a ball of chaos in combat boots, looking a hell of a lot better than last time. No blood, no bandages, just a mischievous grin and a dangerously sharp sense of timing.

She pauses, eyeing your shoulder. “Oh. That metal looks nasty. I could help yank it—”

“Yelena.” You breathe out, half in relief, half in desperation. “I’m looking for Natasha.”

“Ah. Yes. She’s fine,” Yelena replies with a casual wave. “Still annoying but that’s a permanent condition. Leg’s healing great, though. She’s going to hate two weeks of downtime but Helen says-“

“Yelena!” You interrupt, sharper this time. “Can I see her?”

Before she can answer, the nurse chimes in smugly from the side. “Ma’am, it’s family or Level 8+ clearance only—”

You snap. “Oh my god. Can I see her or not? Do you hear yourself right now?” You bite out, heat rising to your face. “I have a piece of metal in my collarbone, I’m pretty sure I’ve half smoked my lungs and I—”

The hallway tilts.

Your voice fades under the ringing in your ears. Everything sounds underwater. Yelena’s voice is faint, concerned. “Are you okay?” But you can’t answer. A hand reaches toward you as your knees start to give.

And your last coherent thought before everything fades to black?

Please, for the love of God, don’t let that smug son of a- be the one who catches me.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The first thing you feel is the dull ache in your shoulder as the fog starts to lift, your body sinking into a bed that’s much softer than the standard-issue ones at your hospital. You can still feel the weight of your uniform against your skin, meaning you haven’t been out long.

With a soft whimper, you blink against the blur until your vision steadies.

“Welcome back.”

That voice, husky and unmistakable. You turn your head to the left and there she is. Natasha, seated beside you. Her posture is relaxed but her eyes are focused, steady. She’s been waiting.

“Took you long enough.” She says with a smirk, reaching out to gently brush the hair from your face.

Your body protests as you shift slightly. Every muscle aches, your shoulder throbs and the lingering nausea clings to your ribs.

“Heard you made quite the scene out there.”

“Yelena?” You rasp, your voice dry.

“Isn’t it always?” she replies, reaching for a water bottle on the floor beside her. You take her in fully now, no catsuit, no weapons. Just soft cashmere, an IV in her arm, a thick bandage wrapped around her thigh and tiny sterile strips scattered across her skin like fragile battle medals.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, offering you her water bottle and helping you take a sip.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re an idiot.” She glares but it’s teasing. “Didn’t they teach you in med school that to save lives, you kinda need to keep your own intact?”

You smile, faint but real. “Yeah. I know. I just had to make sure you were okay.”

She exhales slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re not just a medic.”

“No. But that’s the part of me that saves people.”

She’s quiet for a beat. Then, softly. “You saved me.”

You nod once. “Then it was worth it.”

She studies you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, almost wary.

“You ever get tired of running into danger for people you barely know?”

You smirk. “Only when they don’t look at me like that after.”

She lets out a laugh, soft and real.

Maybe you’ll see her again.

You think you will.

This time, you want to.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Just a few days later, you’re back on shift, restocking IV kits in the supply hallway when the nurse at the front desk chokes on her gum.

“Uh… you have a visitor?” She says, eyes bugging wide.

You turn and immediately smile.

Natasha Romanoff, in a leather jacket, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, looking like she stepped off a magazine cover and didn’t bother to care. Cool, effortless, infuriatingly composed.

“Didn’t think I’d find you this easily.” She says, striding further down the corridor, away from curious eyes.

You raise a brow. “Government databases help.”

“Also, Yelena.”

You can’t help but smile. “Recovery not treating you well?”

“Yelena seems to think I need constant supervision during downtime so I escaped.”

You gesture toward the kits. “So what is this, a check-up or a patch job?”

“No.” She laughs. “Well, unless nerves count.”

You straighten just slightly, heartbeat skipping.

“I came to ask if you’d like to go on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes. With me.”

“With you?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Are you sure you recovered from that concussion?”

You smirk. “I have one condition.”

“Let’s hear it.” She folds her arms, ready for a fight and a joke in equal measure.

“No blood. No explosions. No hospitals. Just a date. Quiet. Normal.”

You both know ‘normal’ isn’t your thing or hers. But something in her expression softens, a flicker of hope you weren’t expecting.

“I’m in.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Dinner is almost perfect.

You’re laughing over a bottle of red wine, the conversation easy and warm. Natasha is different tonight, she’s still guarded but the sharp edges of her are dulled by comfort. The tension in her shoulders has eased, her fingers occasionally brushing yours in casual, loaded glances.

Then— CRACK.

The ceiling groans.

Dust and plaster rain like ash. The chandelier shatters. Everything tilts.

��Get under the table!” You shout instinctively, already moving.

Natasha pushes a waiter out of the way as a massive beam crashes to the ground, sending a cloud of debris billowing across the room. Her voice cuts through the chaos, clear, commanding, calm. She moves like instinct, directing people like a battlefield general.

You drop beside a woman pinned by a fallen chair. Her eyes are wide, her shirt soaked in blood. Next to her, a man clutches his head, blood trickling through his fingers. You press cloth to the woman’s side, murmuring reassurances as you work.

Twenty minutes later, sirens scream and responders flood the building. Lights flash, people cry out and boots scrape across broken glass.

You and Natasha stand amidst the dust and blood and noise, lungs heaving.

Your eyes meet. Hers are tired but relieved.

Yours are just the same.

“Next time…” She mutters, a smirk tugging at her lips. “We pick a place without a ceiling.”

You smile back, knowing full well this won’t be the last time disaster finds you both.

But right now, you’re still standing. And you’re standing together.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

A week later, you try again.

This time it’s just a walk through the park. Sunshine. Kids on scooters. The kind of quiet that feels borrowed from nature. Natasha’s hand brushes yours, that small contact grounding you more than it should.

Then, inevitably, a scream.

Two dogs. Tangled leashes. Teeth snapping. A teenager tries to separate them and gets bit, deep, blood already pouring down his arm.

You’re already moving.

You drop beside him, hands already assessing, voice steady as you work. He’s shaking, pale, breathing fast. Natasha crouches behind him, hands gently on his shoulders, voice low and even.

“You’re okay. Just stay with us. Focus on my voice.”

You press a cloth to the wound, slow the bleeding. A nearby mom offers baby wipes and you clean the worst of it as quickly as possible. Once the boy’s stabilized, you explain what to do, what shot he’ll need, where to go next.

When he walks away with his parents, safe, you and Natasha are left in the silence again. Both catching your breath.

She exhales, long and tired. “So… the park’s cursed too.”

You glance at her. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Her smile is crooked, worn-in. “Let’s try something safer. My place. S.H.I.E.L.D. housing. Reinforced. Bomb-proof.”

You arch a brow. “No dogs.”

“Well… there’s Fanny. But she’s mostly fluff. The ducks are more dangerous.”

You laugh quietly, something loosening in your chest.

Maybe the curse isn’t unbreakable after all.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

This is peace.

Or something like it.

She impresses you with her drinks, craft cocktails mixed with far too much confidence while you curl up on her couch, finally still, finally together and finally not covered in ash or blood. Music plays low in the background. Jazz, if you had to guess. Her arm rests casually along the back of the couch, fingers just brushing your shoulder. Close, but not quite touching.

You’re about to speak, something stupid and romantic, probably, when an alarm shrieks.

She bolts upright.

Then you hear it. Metal skittering. A scream.

“Wasn’t me!” Tony’s voice echoes faintly down the hall.

Natasha’s already up. You follow blindly, instinct more than intent. She throws open the door just in time to see Sam sprint past, swatting at what looks like a swarm of tiny wheeled drones, each armed with actual zappers.

Bucky’s not far behind, one boot missing, muttering Russian curses as he goes.

“WHAT is happening?” Natasha demands, stepping protectively in front of you.

“New bot prototypes!” Tony yells from somewhere unseen. “A little twitchy. Might be targeting high sarcasm density. Not totally sure yet. Working on it!”

One of the drones zaps Sam’s calf. He yelps. You lunge forward instinctively, drag him inside and drop him onto the couch. You’re already assessing the burn before Bucky stumbles in, wrist twisted and pride even more mangled.

“Don’t look at me.” Bucky grumbles. “They ignored me completely. Rude.”

You patch Sam’s leg. Ice Bucky’s wrist. Natasha glares at the remains of her ruined date night.

Once the lights flicker back to normal, you start to round them up. “Ok, I think it’s safe.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky peeks around the door like a spooked cat.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“But what if—”

“If you two don’t leave my apartment right now,” Natasha cuts in sweetly. “Bots will be the least of your worries.”

They shuffle out but of course, Sam can’t resist as he throws a wink over his shoulder.

“I’m sure we’ll survive, especially if your girlfriend can patch us up—”

You don’t even see what happens but there’s a thud, a startled yelp and Natasha reappears with a smile and zero explanation. The door shuts with finality.

“No blood, huh?” You tease, dropping back into the cushions.

She shrugs. “I lied.”

“No wounds?”

“Also a lie.”

“No bruises?”

She smirks. “I could give you those.”

You choke on air, stuttering for a comeback. She leans forward instead and kisses you right there on the couch, surrounded by the faint scent of scorched wires and bruised egos.

You breathe her in, pulling her closer until her body is against yours.

And for once, nothing explodes.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It’s been exactly nine days since that night.

This time, you try again but no restaurants, no parks, no Stark tech, no chaos.

Just takeout. Her apartment. A movie with zero timers, explosions, or spy-related trauma.

She opens the door in sweatpants, hair tousled, smile promising.

“This is going to be cursed, isn’t it?” You ask, half-joking, stepping inside.

She shrugs. “Not if we sacrifice Clint.”

You raise the bag of dumplings like an offering to the gods of peace. “Then let’s eat before karma finds us.”

You curl up on the couch, her shoulder warm under your cheek. The movie is some cheesy ’90s comedy she chose purely because no one gets blown up. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm.

“I think this might actually work.” You whisper.

“Don’t say it.” She mumbles into your hair. “You’ll jinx it.”

Your phone buzzes.

You both freeze.

You glance down then sigh. “Spam call.”

Natasha exhales like she just survived combat. “Block it.”

You do. And for a moment, there’s quiet again. Real quiet.

Then—BOOM.

The ceiling rattles. A hiss. Then water sprays from a burst sprinkler head.

“What now?” You groan.

Sam bursts in, slightly smoking. “Don’t go near Tony’s lab! Toasters. Everywhere.”

Behind him, Bucky limps in. “One bit me.”

“A toaster bit you?” Natasha blinks.

He nods, vaguely. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

As if on autopilot, you’re reaching for your med kit. Natasha hands you gauze without a word.

Sam smirks. “Date night, huh? Hope we weren’t… interrupting.”

Natasha scowls. “You’re always interrupting. Doesn’t matter what I’m doing. I could be alone and you’re still interrupting.”

You both exchange a glance, tired, amused. Eventually, the two hobble out. Natasha exhales dramatically.

You flop onto the couch. “Okay. Plan E?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Which one’s that?”

“Lock the door. Hide our phones. Eat dessert in the dark and pretend we’re normal.”

She shuts the lights off. “C’mere.”

You do.

“Friday.” She mutters, pulling you close, “if anyone asks, I’m not in. No access or permission to this room.”

“Yes, Ms. Rushman.”

She smirks at the question on your lips. “Long story?”

“Very.”

You curl into her side as the room finally quiets.

“I think this might be our superpower.” You whisper.

“What?”

“Finding peace in the middle of complete ridiculousness.”

She laughs into your hair. “Then we’re unstoppable.”

And for fifteen whole minutes, nothing explodes.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

A week later, you’re back at the Tower after a blur of back-to-back night shifts, overwhelmed by unhinged chaos and even more unhinged New Yorkers.

But tonight?

Tonight is for Natasha.

And you count every second.

It starts out perfectly.

Finally alone. No alarms. No robots. No half-burnt Avengers limping into your field of vision.

Just Natasha, pressed against you, warm and focused and very intent on making up for every date the universe has ruined. Her mouth is on your neck, fingers tugging at your shirt, breath catching when your hands slip under the hem of hers.

She’s beneath you on the couch, your knees on either side of her hips and if gravity didn’t exist, you’re pretty sure she’d have you pinned to the ceiling by now.

“You sure we’re alone this time?” You ask, breathless.

She grins, wicked and certain. “Locked the door. Bribed Stark with scotch. Threatened Barton. Steve, Sam, and Bucky are on a mission. We’re good.”

You moan into her mouth, fingers in her hair, forgetting your name, your job, and maybe how lungs work.

It’s not romantic. It’s hungry.

You’ve wanted this through every triage call, every disaster, every almost.

She’s pulling you closer, your hands under her shirt, and you’re just about to remember what the word bliss means when—

“Natália!”

The voice is cheerful. Loud. Russian.

You both freeze.

“Do not move.” Natasha whispers, forehead pressed to yours.

Too late.

The door creaks open.

Yelena strolls in like a casual wrecking ball, holding two iced coffees and a bag that smells suspiciously like fried dumplings.

“I brought snacks.” She says brightly, completely ignoring the fact that her sister is actively trying to ravish someone on the couch.

You cover your face with your hands in quiet, complete devastation. Natasha’s arm is still firmly around your waist, refusing to let you escape.

“Yelena…” Natasha says in a voice so calm it’s terrifying. “I locked the door.”

Yelena shrugs. “I picked it. I smelled dumplings.”

Natasha narrows her eyes. “I will ruin your entire week.”

“You say that.” Yelena replies, plopping into a chair. “But you never do. You’re soft now. Love has made you boring.”

You groan and melt into Natasha’s shoulder. She mutters something in Russian that might be a curse or a prayer for strength.

“I will be gone soon.” Yelena promises, kicking her feet up. “I just came for food and air conditioning. It is disgusting outside.”

She pulls out a dumpling and takes a huge bite. “Also? You should really clean more. This couch smells like desperation.”

Your cheeks burn. You subtly slide off Natasha’s lap, pressing your thighs together, still burning from the tension Yelena just bulldozed through.

Oblivious, Yelena keeps eating, offering live commentary on the reality show now playing.

Every brush of Natasha’s thumb against your thigh feels like it could short-circuit your brain. Your body is on fire, trapped between desire and disaster.

“I miss trauma calls.” You mumble. “Bullet wounds. Explosions. Poles through legs.”

Natasha’s lips twitch. “You’re really hoping for an emergency right now?”

“I would rather dig shrapnel out of Tony’s ego than be this close to you and not allowed to do anything about it!”

Yelena hums. “That’s very romantic. You should put that on a pillow.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Thirty minutes later, she finally leaves. Probably to arm wrestle a bear or go cause havoc with Fanny. She waves like she didn’t just emotionally blue-ball you both into a second life.

You and Natasha stand in the kitchen, staring at the closed door.

Silence.

“Well…” She exhales.

You pin her to the counter. “No. More. Interruptions.”

She kisses you like she agrees.

Hands tugging at your shirt. Lips urgent. Breathless. You’re finally, finally getting somewhere—

BZZZZZ.

Your phone. Emergency alert.

You both freeze.

Foreheads pressed together.

“Don’t look.” She whispers, fingers tracing your spine.

You check anyway.

“Someone’s car exploded outside a daycare.” You groan.

She groans louder, burying her face in your shoulder. “We are cursed.”

You nod. “Absolutely doomed.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You’re officially packed and ready to go.

Suitcase zipped. Snacks acquired. Road trip planned. No robots, no alarms, no chaos in sight.

Just you and Natasha. Finally. A vacation.

She’s already by the elevator when the intercom crackles. “Romanoff. Common room. Now.”

She groans. “No. Not today.” She’s muttering to herself. “Maybe it’s not about us. Maybe, for once, it’s someone else.”

It’s not.

She walks in and sees the stretcher. And then you, on said stretcher.

Your head’s bleeding. Her sweatshirt is stained. Your leg is bent wrong.

Steve looks guilty. “Slipped in the elevator. Oil spill. Unmarked.”

“Whose oil?”

“Rocket’s.”

She exhales, furious and tired then storms to your side. “You had one job.”

“Hi babe!” You grin, weakly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re concussed.”

“Just a little.” You blink. “I think I fought a raccoon.”

“She’s out of it.” The medic notes. “We’re taking her for a scan.”

“I’ve had worse.” You shrug.

“Not the point.”

“I was trying to get to you. Fast.” Her face softens.

She brushes your hair back. “So much for vacation.”

“I can still go.” You try to sit up, unsuccessfully.

She presses you down. “No because if you throw up in my Corvette, I will kill you.”

You pout. “Staycation?”

She sighs. “First stop: Medbay.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Later, Natasha sits on the edge of your hospital bed, hoodie still stained, a clipboard in hand.

“She’s not an agent.” The nurse says, after quizzing Natasha for any medical information on you. “So we need an emergency contact for the file.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “Me.”

“Full name?”

“Natasha Romanoff.”

“Relationship?”

She glances down at you, half-asleep, still mumbling about talking raccoons but somehow it’s change to squirrels. Her fingers curl around yours.

She smiles.

“Whatever gets me in the room first.”

The nurse nods with a smirk and writes it down, checking over your vitals on last time.

Emergency Contact: Natasha Romanoff.

She watches your chest rise and fall, brushes her thumb over your wrist. “I’m okay.” You murmur, half-conscious.

She nods. “I know. I’m your emergency contact now. It’s literally my job.”

You grin. “Took you long enough.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Later, you’re curled up on her couch again. This time with an arm in a sling, head stitched, leg in a cast.

“Feels like vacation.” You mumble, still kind of delirious.

She eyes you. “That concussion talking?”

“Nope. This is perfect.” You’re not even watching the show you begged to put on. Something about rich housewives arguing at a country club. You just melt into her, breathing in the quiet.

“Are we actually cursed?” You ask.

“If we are…” She kisses your temple, “I’m glad we’re cursed together.”

“That’s cute. You’re cute.” You sigh.

“Cute? I have never been called cute.”

“You are just so cute, I could eat you up.” You mumble into her chest. “Speaking of eating you-“

“Babe, you need to rest.“ She laughs. “I’m pretty sure you couldn’t even stand up right now.”

“Don’t need my legs to-“

“Sleep! Now!” She orders with a laugh, setting a timer on a phone then she knows what time to wake you up for a quick concussion check. She used to ignore Dr Cho’s orders about that but not with you, never with you.

Just when your breathing goes even, your body heavy against hers, you twitch and murmur. “So about that talking raccoon…”

[sleepy-fiction]

FIRES OF SHAO LAO.

lin lie x f!reader x shao lao 🐉🔥 NSFW

syn: once a month on the full moon, shao lao possesses your club member, lin lie. on a uni camping trip, you get chased through the forests and pinned down by lin; whose fuelled with the fires of shao lao. his only desire? to fill you with the seed of god's and men's

tgs: bdsm, powerplay, hunter/prey, cunnilingus (fem reciving), breeding kink, oviposition, laying an egg, dubcon(?), brat/brat tamer dynamics, possesion, lin physically over powers reader, p n v, freaky and cringe

an: after days of trying to figure out a new, unique lin lie fic w a fresh story (that was different from the others), I finally found it. the Adam warlock fic is becoming my longest one yet, it's a enemies to lovers slow burn and it's taking some time to cook up!! so I thought in the mean time I'd drop another lin fic for the covettes (if ur waiting for the Adam fic ur gonna have to wait longer!!) yes this is inspired by the nessa barrett pornstar edit of lin on tiktok BARELY PROOF READ

5.6K WORDS (ESTI)

Your university's Mythology club put together a fun camping trip. There were 16 of you in total in the club, split between 9 girls and 7 boys. You knew that one of the members, Lin Lie, had a crush on you. It was obvious from the longing gazes he threw your way when he thought you weren't looking, or how the cute brunette would come up to talk to you after club meetings, running hands through his soft black hair, staring at you with those sweet brown eyes.

He was so handsome, you'd admit. He was large and muscular, though he tried to hide it under various dark sweaters. His hands were about as big as your head. His presence was strong, secure, and safe. You always let out a relaxed sigh whenever he was around. Uni is borderline hectic. All these kids start off their lives as fresh "adults" lacking the maturity of middle schoolers. Or at least, that's how you'd describe the men.

Lin Lie was a breath of fresh air. He was responsible, protective, and incredibly aware of his surroundings and social standing. He was the guy you'd flock to find at a frat party, and even if you didn't talk to him at it, you always made sure you were in his line of sight. You had no time for childish men, or any sort of relationship at all. You had a Bachelors to earn.

But still, you let the handsome Chinese man in your class talk you up. He was flirty and confident at times, unearthing a side of him you didn't know out side of the quiet, responsible one. There was something wild flickering behind his eyes. And you let him entertain you with it. It got to the point where you started getting giddy whenever he was around, already knowing what he was preparing to say, and how he would lean in close to say it.

So when this trip came around, you and many women of the club almost said no to going. That was the case, until Lin Lie decided to come along. That's when all 16 members decided to pitch in, instead of the original 6 that were planning to go. Being the woods with a bunch of nerdy uni boys sounded ass. Being in the woods with uni boys and the strong, masculine Lin Lie? Hell, that scale balanced over quick.

Lin Lie was popular.

Not that he'd agree. He was one of the popular loners, mysterious and incredibly fine, living a quiet and busy lifestyle. You similarly fit the description, but that's only because you were in so many clubs.

You remember the drive there, your club leader, Peter Parker, Lin's closet friend, had rented a bus for everyone to take everyone to the camping grounds. Oddly, as you got on the bus, you were hoping for Lin to sit next to you, but he didn't. In fact, he didn't even look at you. Unlike him, he sat all the way in the far back, his navy colored hood resting high down on his forehead. He looked pale, and he almost immediately fell asleep at the back.

You hummed. You leaned forward to the seats next to you, tapping your clubmate on the head. The blonde turned around, his honey golden eyes flickering with annoyance. You spoke, "Hey... What's up with Lin today? Doesn't he seem... kind of sad?"

"I dunno. Peter said something about him being ill..." He murmured.

"Aw damn. If he was sick, he should've stayed at the dorms... Poor guy," you whispered.

Another clubmate chimed, shaking his head, "Hell no. Lin can't stay home cause then the girls wouldn't wanna go."

The blonde classmate chuckled, "Yeah! I swear if the girls bailed I'd strange, em."

As if he could.

You couldn't careless about their convo after that, softly glazing back at his groggy form, how his arm twitched in his sleep. Your eyes softened, sadness dwelling in your body as you stared at soft eyebags under his eyes. Still you couldn't crack a tender smile. "Responsible as ever, Lin... You always sacrifice yourself for others," your heart grows warm.

Maybe if he keeps it up, you might fall for him. You chuckle sadistically to yourself, turning back around and plugging in headphones. Preparing yourself for the rest of the trip.

The view of the countryside from the windows were gorgeous, as you followed from the busy city to endless rolling hills to dense greenery with the charmastic, singing crickets. When the bus stopped at the campsite. You found yourself engulfed in fallen autumn leaves, orange and green leaves singing in the lulling wind, as the middle of autumn was quickly approaching. The sun was low in the sky, as the club quickly set up camp for the night.

After dinner, poorly made steak and salad by the guys (food you noticed Lin did not eat), Peter gathered us all up by the fireplace. He grinned with an ecstatic expression, "Myth-busters!" The shoddy name Peter made for the club, "As you all know, for the past weeks, we have been going over Greek Mythology. Now, today we are here because this is the perfect season to view Ursa Major! Ursa Major heavily conmected to the Greek myth, associated with the story of Callisto, a nymph transformed into a bear by the great and powerful Zeus," He called on.

The club cheered and dummed excitedly, and you too couldn't help but be swayed by his words. The sun was beginning to set. Peter pointed to the mountain behind us, "That mountain leads to a cliff clearing where we can see the beautiful constellation in full. We're gonna hike there."

The club was a mixed group of cheers and boos, but Peter paid no mind. "Here's the deal. We're going to split into pairs. We're gonna need a pair system to make sure all of us are heading up! It's gonna get dark out here, so there's no way in hell I'd let any of you get injured," he huffed. "So everyone, let's pack up our gear and get into groups," he cheered.

You stood along with the buzzing crowd, already giggling as you exchanged looks with a few clubmates. You already knew you wanted Lin. You nonchalantly rushed on over to him, your hands behind your back as you cleared your throat. "Hey, Lin. Why don't we be buddies," you asked.

He flinched at the sound of your voice, never turning around to face you. He stood there silently for a second, his shoulders tense, his hand grabbing onto his wrist. He cleared his throat, his voice gravelly and cold, "No. Someone's gotta watch the setup... Peter chose me."

"A-Ah," even you couldn't bear the sudden ice he was throwing your way. You almost dreaded the words, as you knew he didn't want to talk anymore, "You okay... Lin?"

He winces, "Just a cold."

"Ah... Hah. Well... Get well soon?" Your confusion is imminent as you rejoin the group.

Everyone had already split into groups, save Peter, who was the hike guide. And with the odd number now that Lin's out, you were all alone. Peter noticed the mellow aura about you, as his eyes nervously flickered from Lin to you. He had this knowing look on his face. He gulped with a nervous laugh, patting your shoulder, "He gets moody when he's really sick! Ah, the g-guy... You know, always want to protect people... Even when he's in pain, he thinks not showing it is uhm... N-Not uh," Peter was oddly nervous.

Well. Peter was always a little socially awkward.

But this? You narrowed eyes on him.

He knew something and was trying to hide it. Peter awkwardly squeaked under your glare, dropping a hand from your shoulder and clapping instead. "Well! Y-You can um... Be the backline watch! Make sure nobody strays from the path, and keep an eye out on... The-uh," he turns away from you, gathering the club with a clap, "Alright, everyone, let's go!" He didn't even stay long, as your glare got too suspicious. Too tense.

Something was up. Still, you followed up the trail, beginning your way up the mountains, the campsite slowly beginning to disappear behind trees, the sun almost set behind the horizons.

Something really wasn't right.

Your gut burned.

Instincts screamed at you to stay with Lin. He's never sick, and when he is, he's never so... Brooding, so dog tired, so growlish and cold. No way. You at least need to glance to see if he's okay. You cave in, giving the campsite and Lin one last glance as it begins to disappear behind trees up the path.

That's when you saw an odd beam of green light. It was bright and quick, the odd color was a neon teal, the kind present on digital ads, not in the wild. It shot like a beadon high into air before it was swallows quickly up by foliage. A strong urge of wind flew up from the direction. What the fuck was that? You stop dead in your tracks.

You blink.

The forest was normal, the chittering of cicadas and the singing of crickets. Nothing was out of place.

You're not crazy are you?

You blink again.

No you definitely saw something!

You begin to sneak down the path, catching the smallest glimpse of the campsite, with Lin no where to be found. It was weird as you tried to duck around to see if the trees gave way to more glimpses of him on the campsite, but it didn't.

A hand clamps on your shoulder, you gasp, as you hear Peter speak, "(y/n)."

You whip around. The whole club's stopped and staring at you. You gulp in embarrassment.

Peter's eyes become serious, as if warning you with them, "(Y/n) let's stay on the path. Lin will be fine. We don't need to go back to the campsite." His grip on your shoulder is so foreboding. Foreboding also, was the aura that surrounded you in this moment.

You didn't understand it. But you shut up quickly.

This was. A little scary.

"Trust me, Lin's gonna be okay. I'm his best friend, you know," Peter tries to get all cheery as he holds your hand and brings you back up the mountain with the rest. "You know what, guys, let's make smores when we get up there!" He says to the group as he slips back up to the top, and the line starts moving.

You stare blankly down at the ground, your grip on your electric lamp tight.

"Hey, (y/n)... You okay?" You hear MJ ask, her brown eyes melting with concern.

You shake your head, "Must worried about Lin... I hope he'll be okay by himself."

She smiles at you, tucking her wild brown curls behind her ear, "Yeah... Lin's strong. Don't worry."

Don't worry was what you told yourself when you made it to the cliff clearing. Don't worry, was what you told yourself when you helped set up the fire. Don't worry is what you told yourself as you mingled with the group. Don't worry is what you told yourself when Peter put out the fire so we could all see the constellation.

It was beautiful but.

You looked back at the pitch black, foreboding forest behind you.

That mysterious light.

You blink.

You've gotta check it out.

You glanced back at the club. Everyone was relaxed, drinking hot cocoa and enjoying their stores. All pre-occupied with drinking in the moment. Best of all, Peter was snugging up with MJ at the front of it all, lost in the sauce. If there was one thing you learned about Peter, was than when he was with MJ, he saw nothing else.

Neither did he, or anyone else who cared, as a few frats saw you sneak off, catch you dip away back down the trail.

This was so damn stupid of you. But you always trusted your institution. Something was wrong with Lin.

You can't help but think of the worst as you rush down the path. It's about a ten minute walk back to the campsite, but you're booking it like a mad woman, your heart about to erupt in your chest. You can cut the time in half if you go fast enough.

So many horrible anxieties rush your mind as you follow down the path, jumping over stones and missing entire flights of the steps entirely. But you're moving at a rapid, steady pace, a treat from the sports clubs you've joined to make your uni-life more memorable. You can't help but think, with a racing heart and panting lips, about Lin collapsing somewhere - somehow, unable to call for help.

And that green light. What the fuck was that green light?

RROOOOOUGHH

An earspliting growl ruptured your eardrums. It's sound was chasmic and ferocious, animalistic-- yet deathly uncanny. It stopped your heart dead in your chest, slowed time, caught you off guard as your head turned to where the sound came from, your foot in the air as you were caught in the middle of a jump.

The roar was animalistic. But it didn't sound like an animal.

It sounded like...

Just as your eyes turned, in this slowed moment, you saw a flicker of flowing green, unnatural as it warped behind a shady, black figure. It was human, glowing, setting two black eyes on you from the dark.

You screamed, missing your landing, your ankle rolling in distress as it collided unnaturally with the ground. Unnatural, as you slipped down the paths stairs, unnatural as you rolled down the steps and cried. Unnatural, as a firehouse gusto of wind overcame you, unnatural, as you felt terrifying arms encapsule your body. Unnatural, as with a hearty crunch of leavs and sticks, you found yourself pinned to the ground before the giant bone fire your club lit back at the campsite.

Unnatural as you peeked your eyes open to find... Lin Lie?

Lin stared down at you with dark, unreadable eyes, his lips downturn, both of your hands captured above your head with a single palm. You were breatheless. There was this teal aura whipping and flickering in the air around him. You watched it leak out of his skin like sweat and take flight like whimsical plasma. How his face was still cast in a dark, heavy shadow despite the glow of the fireplace. How his hoodie was torn poorly off his body, ripped in devilish places as the fabric stringed about like a useless accessory.

His body was glistening with sweat, and you could finally see how broad and muscular he was. He was cosmic, built like a Greek god, chiseled finely in some holy defile of purity, as you clenched in your panties immediately. His scent was strong as it floated with his aura, the smell of these odd, almost pheromone like scents dripping off his body. It made you squint and shudder off a breath.

But you couldn't look away from those broad shoulders, that barn-like chest, how his arms carried all the force and the raw powerful to put you out of your pitiful misery.

Aderaline was losing in you body, as you could suddenly feel how fucking badly your ankle burned. "A-Ahh," you whimpered out, breathless and afraid.

All of Lin Lie's body helped him push out of a deathly, terrorizing grunt, it spilled out of the bowels of hell, trilling with an animalistic flare.

You whimpered even more, unaware of how your eyes began to water. You squirmed helplessly, flinching to not upset up, as you mustered up all of your courage to cry, "Luh... L-Lin... What's gotten into you," you wailed.

He growled over uou again, sinking his head closer. You squeaked and flinched away, shutting your eyes deathly tight. Your breath was sucked out of your body as you felt him suck in a strong gust of air. It blew cold against your neck, a direct contract to the deep huff that he released on your neck, it was hot enough to burn your skin. It sent tingles of fire down your body where it met you, as when you looked down at it, surges of green plasma flowed down the waves of your body.

"Unngh haa--" it drew out your voice, the surge of energy forcing a vulnerable whimper out into the air. He breathed deep and doggishly against you like this, each time making your knees rattle, your thighs lock themselves tight.

Your head tilts back at the bonfire, your body drowning in the passionate plasma. It made your neurons fire, your pussy to throb, combined eith the raw smell of him, your mind was becoming hazy. "L-Lin! Get off muh-- me," you gasped out, feeling ever the more light headed.

Lin opened his mouth, but a fire of passionate mandarin slew out his lips. "Zhū shén fā, wǒ wúfǎ tíng xiàlái... Zhū shén fāshì, wǒ kěwàng nǐ."

by the gods, I cannot stop. by the gods, I long for you.

He boomed it in your ears, his voice deep and chasmic, it withered and hissed, echoed twice within itself, present with a glorious entity. Something straight out of a cheesey c-drama, yet it flickered devilishly before your eyes. He boomed with authority in thus moment Whatever it is that he said, your sanity was taken with it. You gasped erotically, sickeningly.

He boomed.

As if he were a god.

You lost it, tears flying out of your eyes, drowning in an array of endless desire, letting those sweet plasmas to caress your skin, letting yourself give way to that holy voice, letting your body limp like the helpless ragdoll you were. You were set aflame everywhere, the fear of his strength made you impossibly wet. This was something you didn't even know about yourself.

Lin's powerful hands rolled you onto your side by your hips. You slumped over, sliding your knee up, hiking your ass up in the process. You tried to pick your body up, with your hands, but you felt him sink onto his forearm behind you, his other hand cupping your chin.

You sniffled and whimpered in his warm palm, as it slipped up to hold your face, his large thumb wiping your under eyes.

His body was so close to yours. His face and lips so dear to your skin. You could feel his heat, feel it as he tilted his head, voice deep in your ears. He hushes, "Nǐ chàndǒu ba, wǒ de tùzǐ……wǒ xià dào nǐle ma? Wǒ xiǎng hé nǐ zuò'ài……wǒ xiǎng zài nǐ de zǐgōng lǐ bō xià yī kē shén de zhǒngzǐ..."

You're trembling, my rabbit... Did I scare you? I want to make love to you... I want to plant a god's seed in your womb.

You shake, slobbering out, "I-I... I want to... Please... I want to see Lin... What-- What have you done to Lin-- please... Lin.. Let me see your face." Your run down of mythology helped you deduce some god had possessed Lin. But you couldn't exactly figure out which one. Chinese Mythology was what got you to join this club. Lin himself hosted it, and it was filled with wonder.

But your brain was foggy with needy trembles and whims of sex and fear. You could feel Lin's broad chest against your side. The god turns your head to face him, and from the shadows of his face, you see Lin's hooded eyes glimmer with untapped zeal.

"For I am Lin,"

"Yīnwèi wǒ shì Lín,"

"And Shao Lao, who has saved this body,"

"For I have reborn him, and given him life. Therefore, once a full moon, Shao Lao owns it."

"This vessel hungers for you. My Lin.. I, Lin Lie, hunger to drop seed in you. The seed of gods and men,"

His voice echoes, two voices pouring out at once. One was the roar of a dragon, hissing in mighty mandarin, the other was Lin's, booming with prowess and power. Every word, it doubled like so.

Your hips buckled, your eyes heavy.

"S-Shao Lao," your memory flickered from Lin's passionate teachings, "The Dragon god slain by K'un-L'un, walking the earth without a heart-- resurrected by Yu-Ti, t-trialed to die again and again at the hands of t-the Iron Fists? That they may gain p-power through your deaths?" You spit out, trembling under the dragon's stare. It cackles delightfully at your words, well pleased as it leans down to rub it's nose against your neck.

Despite it being Lin, insides it's body, you can feel it's cosmic shift, noting that in this second, it was fully Shao Lao. You moan out, and it takes a deep sniff in the crook of your neck. He can smell how horny you are. Your panties are wet with slick, drenched to uselessly stick to your pussy like a wet bathing suit. Shao Lao is pleased by the scent, releasing deep, strained breaths.

"Yes, little one."

"B-But... What does a such a god want with me? Come now, S-Shao Lao... Breed me tomorrow, or the next day, where I will be ready to take care of you," you manage out, sweaty in his embrace.

The Dragon cackles, slipping a hand up your tank top, hot fingers trailing up your stomach and pushing up your bra, cupping your breast. Your nipple is hard already. He simply pulls and teases it.

"Wise, hare. The full moon will not arrive tomorrow or the next night. Neither would it any night but tonight. You cannot trick me. This vessel cries for your womb. And I, I am delighted by your wisdom and beauty. You have sealed your fate, you have interested me more. Behold, your your trickery has planted you in deep water,"

He growls out. Hearing Lin and the mandarin dragon echo such words in unison had your eyes rolling back, mouth agape. The dragon played with your nipples, squeezing them between rough fingers, dragging a hot, fiery tongue up your neck. You shudder and mewl out, your eyes already dancing between the clouds.

The dragon hums, a pleased trill escaping Lin's plump, sweet lips.

"Amuse me, rabbit. Why do you resist when your body aches with need? What do you gain except frustration?"

You giggle, gulping, "I waste a god's time and gain his fury..."

You hear a fiery rattle burn through the dragon's throat.

"Then shall I meet you with a heavy hand."

The Dragon scoops you up into Lin's gorgeous biceps, the crackling shadows around his face just hazy enough for you to see the face eating grin the dragon bares. You shudder, as it carries you into his den, or more commonly known as Lin's tent. He pitched his closest to the bus and farthest from everyone else, the rest of the tents in his circle were MJ's and Peter's.

The Dragon carries you into the teal tent, where you see shredded rope and mountains of bottled water stacked on the side. His tent was in utter disarray, but the Dragon pays it no mind as he drops you down on the plush sleeping bag. He undresses, and your eyes behold the gorgeous stature of Lin's bare body. He's wonderfully built, stockier than a barn, a giant powerhouse of pure muscle with a small waist. His cock is glorious, eight inches with a fat tip, his thickness stocky and grand. Your mouth watered.

Shao Lao kicks some of discarded rope, laughing,

"This vessel believed it could restrain me, prevent me from hunting you... Indeed, it is true that I would have not taken you. But you came down the mountain for him, did you not? It was you who sold this fate..."

You gasp in disbelief, but it doesn't fester as the dragon pulls your shirt from over your head, watching your breasts as unlatches your bra. Your pretty titties fly out, and you watch as a pink tongue emerges from the hazy black fog.

"You do, wish to be devoured, little human?"

You look away, "Is Lin okay?"

"This vessel only wishes for your safety."

"Ah... Then... Breed me, Shao Lao."

Behind the smoke, you can see the dragon's eyes widen. But something about it was so uncharacteristic for the proud serpent. Was it? Lin? You blink in surprise. Just as you notice the change, it disappears.

Shao Lao undresses you briskly, picking you up when he needs to, and you help him by kicking off your panties and pants when he drags them down. The dragon bares a deep, pleased sigh at the sight of you, admiring the way your body ebbs and flows, the softness of your skin, adoring your shape. He parts your legs with rough hands, you brace yourself as Shao Lao, in Lin's heavenly body, dives into your neck.

The Dragon nips and suckles your neck, using Lin's whole tongue to do so. Adverse to the way a human would do it. It's such a small detail you notice that makes your mind hazy, a reminder that a true god is trying to fuck you. He cups the other side of your neck tightly, forcing you into his sharp love bites and vigorous slurps.

He does so hungrily, diving out with unsatisfied huff.

"This is not enough,"

He hisses with all of his belly.

He drags all of his tongue down your collarbone and to your breasts, slurping one of your nipples up. It suckles and twirls it's blazing hot tongue around it, letting go with a pop as it swells around the underside, sucking you in fill his mouth, all while his freehand squeezes and teases your other.

You shiver and whimper, feeling his teeth against your skin. His jaw restricts, threatening to bite you. You know that if he did, you'd be disfigured. "Mm-aah," your pussy throbs.

He grunts worser, releasing you. His grunt is filled with pure agitation, his shadowy eyes darkened in a crazied haze.

"This human body restricts me... This is not enough."

It puff and heaves with anger, and with a strong vigor, the dragon slides his tongue down the valleys of your breast, down your ribcage, down your belly, over your womb, through your hair. And as he grabs your thighs, pulling them up in ease with thick hands, the dragon eats up your cunny in one full lick.

You whine as he uses all of Lin's tongue to part open your labia. The hot, fat muscle is fully flat against your hymen before it slides up and trills against your clit. You buck up into it with a cry, "S-Shao Lao!"

The Dragon hisses gleefully like a snake. It vibrates its tongue with ease against you, trilling up with a vigor as if it were merely rolling an 'r'. You jerk with all of you, as you reach and grab chunks of Lin's short raven locks. For a moment, sweet eyes gaze lovingly at you, but you fail to see it before it's overriden.

The Dragon licks up your clit with all of its tongue, the flatliness bigger than your clit as it strokes you once then twice, before he pulls a little away to speak.

"Tender, sweet, and juicy..."

Shao Lao burries his nose into your pussy, taking a deep sniff. The green energy sends tingles against your body. The dragon leans up, rolling out his tongue with a soft gag, there, from the midst of the smoke, you can see something round and orange glow, slipping out from the back of his throat. It slides down his tongue, revealing itself to be a little glowing orb, as it's guided right into your hole. The dragon leans forward, digging into your cunt as it forces it deep into your walls.

It sets you aflame, you grow impossibly more wet, drowning our from the magic of whatever it was that was placed within you. Your cervix sucks it up into your womb. And in awe, you can see it glow beneath your skin.

The Dragon laughs,

"I can perform much greater trembles than this in my original, blessed body. You truly are one graced human. You do not know the merit you are being bestowed, if you did, you would be worshiping me now... Paying hom--"

You pull Lin's hair, shoving your cunny back in the dragon's face, watching it disappear beneath the shadows. It narrows dangerous eyes on you. You only return with a grin.

The Dragon reaches, grabbing your wrist with a crushing pressure. You wince, pitifully letting go. As Shao Lao sits up, broad chest flexed forward with prestige. His darkened eyes glimmer with ferocity. Eyes that read, "you should not have done that".

Shao Lao drops your wrists, using Lin's mighty and quick hands to grab both of your ankles. He stands up with them, and with a scated cry, your body jerks forward, your legs held up in the air. He pulls higher, higher until your neck is the only thing keeping you on the ground. "Aah! Shao Lao! I'm so--" you can't even get a chance to speak, as Shao wraps his bulging biceps around your hips, dropping you in the candlestick pose, except your knees rest your legs on his shoulders, your hands shaking, helplessly grabbing chunks of raven locks.

With a deep, burling growl, Shao Lao buries himself into your cunny, trilling against your clit at an unforgiving pace, rippling his tongue against you in a fluttering frenzy, your throbbing clit swelling under the abuse. You cry out, saliva spat out in the intensity, as the way he's forced you down, you can't do much but claw at the dragon's biceps, or tug at his hair.

"S-suh-- Ahh! Shao L-lao! Ooh," you cry, your legs shooting up with an electric spark before slopping back down. Your toes arch, your breathing is constricted, overstimulated tears prick your eyes.

He'll only stop his devious defilement to suck and slurp up your clit in intervals between flickering his speedy tongue against it. The abuse complimented by Lin's fat juicy lips as the insides of them run over your clit inbetween slurps. He'll pull back to run a flat tongue side to side vigorously on your clit, only to slurp it up, suck on it, and smooth right back into flickering.

You yank intensely on Lin's hair, weak tears streaming down your face as your thrust into an intense orgasm. You legs jerk and fly up into the air, kicking at nothing before shooting straight up and flexing, flexing as you curse out into the sky. They never meet back down, as after your orgasm, Shao Lao is still on you just as intensely, not allowing you a break for your high. Your moans turn into frantic, pant-filled wails, slobbering sobs dribbling down your forehead and into your hair.

You rut into his tongue over and over again, trying to squirm but your hips are locked in place by meaty biceps. You're forced to look at the shadowed over pink-tipped nose Lin was always equipped with, buried into your vulva. You're bullied into another orgasm, cumming with all of your body again, he doesn't rest while you ride out your high.

You plead, while you cum hard, barreling out like a frantic shout, "G-Grace-cious-- Shao Lao pleas-suhh! Please forgive m-me! P-Please-- M-Mighty-- gaw--"

You can't continue as you groan out, finally feeling that fat tongue stop, laying flat against you. You sigh out, feeling your neck ache, and your senses return, your legs sag forward to your head.

"Mmuh! Sh-Shao Lao... I beg... aah... Please... forgive me-- I'm so... so aah... sorry... I'm sorry, S-Shao," you slur out, already fucked out of your mind.

By the grace of god, he releases your hips, slowly guiding you back onto the floor. You can feel your spine cry out with glee, your eyes rolling back with relief. Shao kneels between your legs still, biceps meaty and glowing, his arms folded forbidden, glaring down at you with serious eyes. Ever the reminiscent of Lin's face scolding and disappointed stare, shaming you of your very existence.

The god is still not settled.

You meekly reach and touch his elbow with the tip of your fingers.

"My god... My Shao Lao, please don't let this offend you... Remember your selfishless desire to bless me with the seed of a god's... Show me your true self, your kindness... Please take me another way to subside your rage... S-Show me... Show me who you are," you whisper-mewl, a whorish expression of need overtaking your face.

Shao grins.

He slams his large palms on either side of your head, your flinch, the ground shakes beneath you. Your body is sent aflame in shivers, excitement dribbling throughout your body. Your hands greedily trace down Lin's gorgeous body, feeling his gorgeous chest, it's bouncy and built. You moan out under Shao's stare. He's not moving again.

You whimper, "God hurry up Shao."

He laughs, finally taking in your sweet lips, slurping up your tongue, burning with passionate friction. He leans upright as you melt into the kiss, slapping down your titties, your nipples arching into them. He sits you up with ease, grabbing your ass, kissing your neck as he commands, "Turn around, bunny."

Your eyebrows quirked, too fucked out of your mind as you obeyed, slipping back to turn around, your ass popped back for him to enjoy. You sprawl out almost immediately, doing the cat yoga stretch, arms out infront of you, palms against the floor, ass up and perked.

You can hear Lin hum deliciously, his voice ebbing with lust.

Something's off.

You ask, "My dragon, does this pose please you?"

"It does, my bunny," speaks, rubbing your ass with both hands.

You grin, "Does it please your vessel as well?"

He pauses, then speaks again, "It pleases Lin greatly."

Lin Lie.

That was you wasn't it?

Did Shao switch so he could have this?

You stay quiet with your knowledge, a purr of excitement building up. The knowlege intensifies the feeling of Lin's fat tip kissing your entrance. You moan in anticipation, rocking against it, as he grabs full control of your hips. He waists no time to plunge in, his hard, fat cock slips right in from how wet you are. It doesn't even hurt either, as you bottom out eight inches of burly, stocky thickness in milliseconds.

You wail, toes and fingers curling up. He pulls back even a little a slips right out of you, releasing a charmastic laugh. Lin... It really was you wasn't it. He slips in, your walls expanding in fullness, the feeling enlarging and all compassing. Your hymen muscles burn and enjoy the stretch, both loving and hating it, blending into a delicious mixture as he slowly thrusts in and out.

The plunge is deep into your walls, stimulating the farthetes depths of you with a fat thickness. It's a sultry sensation, as your jaw slacks, as a marvelous gasp whines out of you.

"Mmh, you like that? Shao Lao's fiery cock," he hisses out.

You giggle, "Yes, m-mighty Shao Lao."

He starts to fuck into you now, speeding up with a haste precision. You moan, but it's interrupted as Lin slaps a heavy hand against your ass. The stung is sharp, burns with a hiss before it's washed away with the tides of pleasure. "I'll show you, Shao Lao's fury," he moans out.

With one hand he grips your hip in a vice, the other comes crashing down on your red cheek as he fucks hard and deep into you. His hard, hot rod slices you open, as you stretch and flex about him. He can feel your pulse when he digs in deep, how your pussy squeezes vice around him. "Aah-- Fuck, r-rabbit," he's trying so hard to keep up the facade. But you already know if Shao Lao was here, he'd slam into you relentlessly, not caring if your knees gave out; without moaning once, as he fucked you into the ground.

That's not to say Lin isn't doing you justice right now. You can barely handle this speed, as you whine and cry, as he penetrates your poor pussy, fucking into it with barely any care, slipping around and enjoying the clap of your pretty ass. He cracks a punishing blow against your already red and bruised cheek, enjoying the way you welp.

"Aah-- Mm- Come take this God's cock," he grabs you with both hips and slams you back into him. You jerk onto your palms with a breathy mewl, as he begins to pump you on his dick like a fleshlight.

"Fuck-fuck-- Lin!" You cry out, your orgasm surprising you. What sent you prematurely was how his tip slammed your cervix, the sensation painfully delicious, it sent you into a frenzy.

He didn't give in, as he dropped his head back, using his pumping biceps to pull you all the way off, just to carelessly slam you back down. "Gimme' your damn hands," Lin hisses, ans obediently you give him one at a time. He grabs your wrists, pulling you back, forcing all your weight to be dependent on him.

You jerked about like a ragdoll, overstimulation riddled in your body. Despite this being Lin, you could still feel his energetic plasma flicker around. He was supercharged and boundless.

Lin started to precisely bump his tip down against your g-spot on his way to your cervix, fucking up into you to meet in the middle, loving the way your walls spasmed from the aftermath of your orgasm. Your moans were useless screams by now, the sensation of your speedy abuse complimented the pusles from your swollen, defeated clit.

You whine, "'M cummin' M-- Cumming!!"

"S-shi-- (Y/nn)," he whines.

With one satisfying slam, Lin shoots hot rods of cum into your womb right as you splatter, coating the orange orb in your body with your cum, as it sucks up Lin's. You feel the orb vibrate in your womb and it glides down to your cervix, feeling it push back against Lin's cock.

You gasp, "L-Lin! Pull out!"

He obediently listens, laying you down and slipping right off. With a heavy grunt, your push the growing orb out your body, as it expands in your vagina, before slipping out the size of a large duck egg. You frantically look back, eyes wide in shock.

Right between your legs is a duck egg sized, orange orb.

Your eyes flicker up at Lin, his eyes are darkened and hazed over.

"S-Shao Lao," you cry out in fear.

He crashes as strong hand against your ass. You yelp, but he smooths it over with the carress of his palm.

"Why are you surprised, my hare? Have I not fulfilled my blessing?"

"I'm-- I'm on birth control! That's the only reason I said yes, I can't raise a baby," you huff.

"Not a human child. You will hatch another god. She will know her purpose the moment she hatches, and will take flight to it... We dragon's do not dwell on sentimentality the way humans do... Our affection for our birth is shown in our magic and prowess... Not hanging around as useless, crying, flesh... Your daughter will bless you, much like Lin as the Iron Fist."

Your eyes widening in shock, unable to process which sentence was crazier than the last.

"What the fuck are you talking about!"

"You are immortal now, (Y/n) (L/n). Your have bore the seed of the next generationg of gods."

"What!"

You heard the voices warp, as Lin speaks, "(Y/n) I didn't know this would happen."

"What... The fuck... " you whisper, blinking, "so do I sit on it until then- o-or?" A humiliated flush covers your cheeks as your turn back slowly, carefully sitting down on your sore, stretched out ass.

"I will guide her in the realm of the gods. She cannot stay here on Earth. But she will return to grant you one blessing, before she starts her eternal journey at home... Where she belongs. We dragon's are not meant to be bound to humans... But I am. For the--"

You gasp, "Wait!"

"Yes, my hare?"

You point at Lin's body, "He's The Immortal Iron Fist?"

"Yes. He is my vessel."

Your slaw lacks.

"Your friends will be arriving soon. I must take my leave, my hare. I will breed you again, for I must spread my seed--"

"What!"

"Until then, I implore you to enjoy my vessel..."

The smoke and plasma mix together spining above Lin's head, and out of it comes a glorious dragon. Heat surges the room, as the flying serpent is made of pure fire, it swallows the egg up in an instant, turning back from wince it came and descending into the cloud of smoke into Lin's body.

You watch Lin surge and gasp, no longer drowned in a shadow haze. His skin flushed and bright, his lips bright red and bruised, the taste of pussy still lingering on his taste buds. You watch his shaggy, sweaty hair lean down over his raven locks, his sweet eyes wide with shock.

No one says a word.

You slowly drop your head down onto the sleeping bag.

"What the fuck just happened?"

There's a this guilty look on his face as he sits next to your feet. "I'm sorry about that I-- Trust me, (Y/n), I did everything in my power to stop that. Shit, once Shao Lao learned I like you... In that way... He sort of... Listen I'll tell him off, me or him, we won't ever see you again. This will not happen again I will assure you."

You pause, quietly staring at the top of the tent. "Nah," is all you whisper.

He perks up, "What?"

"Don't go away... I sort of... I like you Lin... I tried to deny it, but I do. I was so worried about you, you know... I'm sorry for... My part in this... If I said no then we wouldn't be here," you sigh.

He gasps, "Oh god, no, I should be apologizing.. No matter what I'm the one who should've--"

"I'm not mad, Lin," you flush.

"I yet you're saying that now but--"

You wince, "For fucks sake, Lin! I'm saying--" you stop, watching as he leans forward, eyes plagued with worry. You pause and correct your tone, "I'm saying I liked it... I liked it. I mean its kind of an honor to be fucked by Shao Lao... I wanted it, and I don't really care about the damn dragon god baby- if its anything like its father it'll fuck off and be conceited-- I just... I want my bachelors, and... I don't mind... Seeing you, m-more after this."

Lin stares at you with bewilderment.

You squeak ans hide underneath your palms, "God this is too surreal."

He gulps, "W-Welcome to the superhero squad?" He tries to be funny.

"Fuck you," you're mad, but, a grin splits your face open, man your pussy feels good. You were stunning in the after glow. You'd do it again, with Shao Lao. And as you glance up at Lin, who flashes an amazed smile at you. You'd do it again with Lin too

He lays down next to you, folding his arms on his chest. "You're pretty kinky, (Y/n). You always seemed so regal," he whispers it. His face bright red.

"I can't believe you're Iron Fist," you mumble. You look over at him, he joins you. "You think my dragon'll grant me with riches," you blink.

"Mm," he looks up in thought, "Maybe. They usually gift items. Like my family's heritage is a sword. Maybe... Maybe you'll get a lucky necklace that makes extra money grativate in your life." He blinks at you.

"Mm... Maybe that's shallow thing to ask," you sigh

"Nothin' wrong with money. I like money," Lin speaks. "Besides, you can ask for something else after the second dragon you make," he giggles, leaning up and wrapping arms around you.

"Yeah I could-- Hey! S-Second," you whisper, laying hands on his broad shoulders.

He chuckles heartily, caressing your face with his thumb. "You okay? How's your body?"

"It's fine actually, it doesn't hurt surprisingly? Maybe the egg's got something to do with it," you whisper.

He sighs, "Good. I'm glad you're safe." You relax with Lin, as he drops his forehead down against yours, releasing a relieved sigh. You revel in the soft tranquility, its a great contrast to the endless brutality of Shao Lao.

God what the is your life going to be like now with these two. Or well one, who knows if Shao'll be back next full moon. He's got a baby to take care of. Lin helps you onto your side and spoons you, wrapping a warm hand around you, cupping a titty while he's there. He buries himself into your shoulder, running his nose along your edges. You flush.

You squeak out, "Why's this more embarrassing than the..." Although you can't finish your sentence, he chuckles, but he doesn't flee from giving you affection.

"Actually--"

"(Y/n)! (Y/n)," You hear Peter shriek from distance.

The two of you shout, "Oh fuck!"

You scramble to get dressed, but you're too weak to stand. He ushers you into the sleeping bag once his pants are back on, and he tries to wipe away the cum stains with his shredded hoodie. When the flurry of voices searching for you get closer.

Lin frantically unzips the tent,sticking his arm out as he waves bashfully to everyone. He's mer with a flashlight the the face. "She's fine! She's here! She-- uh... Ran back to," he doesn't have to finish it. Everyone can get the vibe from here.

Afterall Lin's disheveled, sweaty, and shirtless. It's MJ who laughs first, mostly in a mixture of pure horror and relief. Then the rest of the club follows short, but Peter's quick to dismiss everyone.

"Alright! Shows over go off to bed guys," he cries. MJ slicks off into Peter's tent, and Peter's takes the time to frantically rush over to Lin. His eyes are bulged out, terror in his voice, "Dude? Does she know? Is she okay? Did Shao do anything?"

Lin shushes him, glancing back you with a reassuring smile before whispering, "She knows I'm IronFist, and it's a crazy story that I'll tell you later - But Pete' she's immortal now too."

He shrieks, "What!"

[devdozes]

♥ Love you Love you Love you Love you

AND 100 FOLLOWERS THANK YUO SO MUCCH AAAA FLAMEREAVER PHAINON AAAA!! Phainon header art is mine!! Flamereaver phainon fanart below at the end of the post

The first time you met Phainon, he was leaning against the marketplace wall, bathed in the amber glow of Amphoreus' setting sun. His fluffy white hair ruffled in the breeze, and his blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he greeted you with a grin, the picture of an ordinary young man with a penchant for teasing.

But you were never one to trust easily. Especially not when his swordsmanship—so graceful, so precise—felt oddly reminiscent of a ghost story whispered through the alleys at night. But in the end you fell for him, you fell into an inescapable rabbit hole for him.

The Flamereaver.

A nameless swordmaster who carved a path of ruin, driven by a thirst for the Titans’ Coreflame. A shadow in the black tide, their identity unknown.

You brushed the thoughts away at first. Phainon was charming, sometimes irritatingly so. He paid attention to the smallest details, catching things even you overlooked. His laughter was easy, his movements controlled, but there was something about him—something lurking beneath the surface. A momentary flicker in his gaze when he spoke of fire, of war, of lost things.

And then the Grove of Epiphany burned.

You stood at the edge of the ruin, the scent of ash thick in the air, staring at the lone figure amidst the wreckage. His back was to you, but you knew that stance. That impossible, immaculate swordplay.

A gust of wind carried the embers, and he turned.

Phainon’s blue eyes met yours, and for the first time, they were cold.

Madness and obsession entwined within them like an inferno restrained by sheer will. His sword—slick with molten red—gleamed under the fractured moonlight.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice still as light as before, but tinged with something… older. “I suppose you’ve figured it out now.”

Your heart pounded. “You’re the Flamereaver.”

Phainon sighed, running a hand through his ashen locks, expression almost sheepish. “I preferred when you just thought I was a little too perceptive.”

“Why?” The word came out raw, barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head, considering. “Because I must. Because the Coreflame calls.”

His sword rose, an invitation, a warning.

“Will you stand in my way?”

You didn’t know how to answer.

Because the Phainon you knew—the one who smiled, who made a game of guessing your thoughts, who felt so achingly human—was standing before you, wreathed in the flames of a legend that should never have been real.

And yet, he was still Phainon.

Still the man who watched the stars with you.

Still the man who now waited for your answer, his gaze unreadable, his grip on his sword loose—but ready.

The flames crackled around you both, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat.

And his quiet, unwavering breath.

Then, he spoke again, his voice softer, almost pleading beneath the weight of something neither of you could control. "I didn’t choose this. The Coreflames… they are my burden. I must take them all, or—" He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes for a moment before opening them again, burning with desperate resolve. "Or everything will be undone."

His fingers tightened around his sword, knuckles pale. "It’s madness, I know. But I have no choice. Every Coreflame I claim brings me closer to an end I cannot escape." A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, but there was no mirth in it. "So tell me, will you hate me for it? Will you turn away now, knowing what I am?"

His gaze softened—achingly so. Even with those cold, inhuman eyes, he looked at you as if you were something precious. Something he wished he could hold onto, even as the fire consumed him.

"If you stay…" Phainon exhaled, his grip trembling for the first time. "You will see what I truly am. And I fear—" He hesitated, his voice dropping into something barely above a whisper. "I fear that I will not have the strength to let you go."

The fire roared behind him, licking at the ruins of a past he could never return to.

And yet, in this moment, with his sword lowered and his heart laid bare, Phainon stood before you—not as the Flamereaver, not as a legend, but as a man on the edge of despair, clinging to the last remnants of something real.

You.

And then, as if realizing his own weakness, Phainon took a step back, forcing steel into his voice. "You should leave." The words were clipped, calculated—like the swing of a blade meant to sever something before it could grow too deep. "Go before I change my mind."

But his eyes betrayed him.

Even as he turned away, as he tried to retreat into the cold, his gaze lingered, filled with something twisted and aching. A love so consuming it bordered on obsession. A longing so desperate it threatened to unravel him.

Phainon had always been good at deception. But not with you.

Not when his very soul was screaming for you to stay, even as his lips told you to run.

And in that moment, you understood.

Phainon did not fear the Coreflames. He did not fear battle or ruin or even his own demise.

He feared losing you.

And the worst part? He already had.

Your breath hitched as you took a hesitant step forward. The embers danced around his silhouette, painting him in a light both divine and damning.

"Phainon…" You whispered his name, but he did not turn. His grip on his sword tightened instead, knuckles bloodless.

Another step.

The blade was at your throat before you could react, its edge gleaming with the reflected flames of everything he'd destroyed.

"Don’t."

The word was hoarse, raw, barely above a breath, but it carried the weight of something lethal. Phainon's expression was composed, carved from cold steel—but his eyes.

His eyes betrayed him.

They held the torment of a man drowning, even as his hands pushed you away.

"You don’t know what you're doing," he continued, voice sharper than the blade itself. "I warned you. You should have listened."

But you did know. You knew exactly what you were doing.

And you knew what he was doing, too.

You could see it in the way his fingers trembled, the way his chest rose and fell with breathes too uneven for someone as disciplined as him. You could feel it in the space between you—so close yet impossibly far.

"Then tell me to leave," you said, voice steady despite the sting of metal against your skin. "Tell me you don’t care. Tell me you wouldn’t regret it if I walked away right now."

A flicker.

Just for a second, his lips parted—silent, breathless, as if the words had caught in his throat before they could escape.

Then, his jaw clenched.

He pressed the blade a fraction closer, the bite of it sharp but not enough to draw blood. It was a warning. One that you knew, deep down, he would never follow through with.

"Go," he forced out. "While you still can."

And yet, despite his words, his gaze remained locked onto you, burning with something far more dangerous than fire.

Something desperate.

Something that screamed that if you took another step, if you reached for him—he would break.

And he would take you down with him.

But maybe… maybe you were already falling.

"One more step," he murmured, his voice flat, almost bored, "and I’ll carve you open like the rest."

A lie.

You knew it was.

You could see it in the tension coiling through his muscles, in the way his grip on his weapon was almost too tight, as if it were the only thing tethering him to this wretched act of self-denial.

But his eyes—

Those blue, frostbitten eyes were void of the warmth that once greeted you at dusk. They didn’t waver, didn’t soften. They remained locked onto you with the lethal calculation of a man who had convinced himself of his own monstrosity.

And still, you moved closer.

Another step.

Another drop of blood slipping from his blade.

Something inside him snapped.

With a sharp inhale, Phainon moved faster than breath, his weapon slashing outward—stopping just short of your throat. Close enough for you to feel the whisper of its edge, for the heat of freshly spilled blood to radiate between you.

You didn’t flinch.

He noticed.

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a snarl. "You don’t get it, do you?" His voice was quiet, laced with something dark. "I am not playing with you."

His weapon remained poised, steady, the weight of it absolute.

And yet, in the flickering light, you saw it—the minuscule tremor in his fingers, the unspoken war behind his stare.

He wanted you to fear him.

He wanted you to run.

But even now, with his face splattered in blood and his hands heavy with ruin—he could not bring himself to push you away.

"Why aren’t you afraid?"

You didn’t answer. Because you knew fear had never been the problem.

He let out a sharp breath, his control slipping. "Damn you," he whispered, his grip tightening. "You should be running. You should hate me."

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He took another step forward, backing you into the ruins. Not to corner you—no, it wasn’t that. He just wanted to be closer. To see you clearer.

To feel your warmth in the cold abyss he had thrown himself into.

His free hand, the one not gripping his sword, twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To brush the soot from your skin, to trace the shape of you with reverence, to make sure you were still real. That you hadn’t left him behind like the rest.

Phainon inhaled sharply through his nose, his expression twisting. He was losing this battle.

"You don’t understand," he growled, his voice raw now, slipping past the walls he had built. "I would burn this world for you. I would tear the Coreflames from the Titans themselves if it meant keeping you safe."

His blade lowered an inch. His control cracked another fracture.

"But you… you are the one thing I cannot have." His voice was hoarse, his breathing uneven. "Because I would ruin you. I would drag you into my flames, and I would never let you go."

You could see it now, the full weight of his obsession. The way it clawed at his ribs, at his very being. He could not afford to love you, and yet he did—so completely, so utterly, that it hurt.

And still, despite it all, you took another step. Closing the space between you.

Phainon shuddered. His sword fell from your throat. He let it drop, let it clang uselessly to the ground between you. His hands, empty now, hovered—hesitant, desperate, aching.

His breath was unsteady, his entire body wound too tight, as if one more second of restraint would shatter him entirely.

"You should run," he whispered one last time.

But his hands had already found your face. His sharp golden claws went over your skin, the cold metallic claws made you shiver, touch featherlight, as if he was afraid he would break you.

Or maybe… as if he was afraid you would break him.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm, shaky. His heart thundered against his ribs, wild, unrestrained.

"I should let you go," he murmured, but his grip only tightened. But Then— Phainon trembled.

For all his power, for all the flames that had swallowed cities at his command, he was fragile beneath your touch.

His breaths came shallow, uneven. His body was wound tight, every muscle locked in a battle he had already lost. And when your fingers—warm, steady, unbearably gentle—cupped his face, he broke.

A sharp, wounded inhale. A shudder.

Then, the first whimper left his lips.

It was soft, barely there, but it shattered something inside him. He tried to hold it in, to swallow the weakness, but it was too late. His knees buckled slightly, his weight pressing into you, seeking something—anything—solid to hold onto. His forehead still rested against yours, but now he was trembling, his breath hitching as the first tear slipped down his cheek.

"I…" His voice cracked. His hands, rough with callouses and stained with blood, clutched at you like you were his last tether to sanity. "I can’t—"

Another whimper, this one quieter, almost strangled.

Phainon, the Flamereaver, the man who had stood alone against armies, who had burned everything in his path, was crying.

Not for the world he had lost.

Not for the lives he had taken.

But for you.

Because he knew he could never have you the way he wanted—not without dragging you into his fire, not without dooming you to the same madness that consumed him.

And yet, he couldn’t let go.

His fingers dug into your waist, clinging as if you might disappear. His body shook against yours, and when you ran your thumb over the tear-stained skin of his cheek, another broken sound escaped him—something between a sob and a sigh of surrender.

"You shouldn’t be here," he whispered, but it was an empty protest. One he didn’t believe himself.

Because when you held him, when your fingers combed through his bloodstained hair, he leaned into you like a man starved.

Like you were the only thing that had ever been real in his world of fire and ruin.

"I love you," he choked out, the words raw, torn straight from the depths of his soul. A confession and a curse all at once. "I love you so much it’s killing me."

His grip tightened, desperate.

"And if you don’t leave now…" He exhaled shakily, pressing his damp face into your shoulder, his body curling inward, caging you against him. "I’ll never let you go." . . . . . You had always loved Phainon. Not just the man who teased you beneath the golden glow of Amphoreus’ sun, not just the warrior with an unreadable gaze and a blade that moved like lightning, but all of him—the bloodstained, broken, and burning parts too.

Your heart ached, raw and desperate. He had tried to push you away, to scare you with the sharp edge of his blade, but he had underestimated you.

You were just as lost in him as he was in you.

With trembling hands, you cupped his face, your thumbs gliding over his cheekbones, wiping away the smears of blood that marred his skin. The red smeared under your touch, streaking his pale skin with warmth that did not belong to him.

His breath stuttered, his lips parting slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

He never could, not from you.

Your thumbs brushed down, grazing the corner of his mouth, lingering there. His lips were slightly chapped, parted as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came. Instead, his breath hitched—a shuddering, fragile thing—and you could see the war raging inside him.

The desperation. The love so overwhelming it made him weak.

Phainon’s hands twitched against your waist, torn between pulling you closer and keeping you away. But you made the choice for him.

You surged forward, claiming his lips in a kiss that burned.

It was not gentle. It was not soft. It was everything you had both held back for too long.

Phainon inhaled sharply against your mouth, a strangled gasp lost between your lips as his hands finally—finally—snapped up to grasp you, no longer holding back. One hand tangled into your hair, the other clutching your waist so tightly it almost hurt, pressing you against him as if you might disappear if he let go.

You deepened the kiss, tilting your head, and he whimpered against your mouth. The sound made your stomach twist, heat pooling in your chest as your fingers slid into his silver-white locks, pulling slightly. He groaned, the sound low and needy, and then he kissed you back with a fervor that nearly stole your breath away.

Phainon kissed like a man who had never known softness, like he was trying to carve the memory of you into his soul. His lips moved against yours feverishly, desperately, like he was terrified this moment would be ripped away from him.

His tongue flicked against your bottom lip, hesitant, seeking, and you granted him entry without hesitation. The kiss deepened, turned messier, hotter. He swallowed your gasp as his arms caged you in, his body pressing you closer, like he was trying to mold you into him, to make you his in every way possible.

Your hands slid down, over the hard lines of his shoulders, his chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. His heart pounded beneath your palm, beating wildly, erratically, and you realized—he was scared.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of what he might do to keep you. Of how far he was willing to go.

Phainon broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath warm and uneven. His hands trembled where they gripped you, his body taut with restraint, as if he was fighting himself even now. "Please.. Stay.. By you, I am forever incomplete."

THIS WAS RUSHED IM SORYRYR IM USING MY MOBILE DATA

[novaursa]

The Golden Oath

- Summary: The lion falls in love with the daughter of the Mad King, which starts a domino effect that eventually collapses the realm onto itself.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: So, here is the first chapter. Let me know what you think and if you want to be tagged in future chapters.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: closer

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

The Red Keep was not what it once had been in Tywin Lannister’s youth. In his early years, he had walked these halls with the knowledge that the seat of kings was an extension of his will, where lords whispered his name in awe and deference. Yet now, as he strode through the familiar corridors, the air itself felt different—stifling, thick with the scent of incense and perfumed oils meant to mask the creeping decay of a court in decline. The torches burned high, but the shadows stretched long, and for all the banners of black and red draped across the stone walls, there was something sinister lurking beneath the surface, something just beyond his grasp.

Jaime could feel it, too. His father’s stride was unyielding, his presence commanding, but there was a tension in his shoulders that had not been there when they had last left King’s Landing. Tywin had never been a man given to weakness, yet even he could not conceal the way his gaze sharpened with every turn, watching, waiting. Aerys II sat the throne still, and though he remained clothed in all the splendor of his office, there were whispers of his growing instability. They were only rumors, but rumors had a way of rotting the foundations of power.

Still, they had come at his command. Aerys had summoned them, and so here they were, Jaime and Cersei walking side by side through the grand hall that led to the throne room, the towering doors of oak and iron looming before them. It had been years since their last visit, and though Jaime had been but a boy when they had left court, his memories of this place had not faded. He remembered the way the light caught on the polished marble floors, the way the banners rippled in the drafts that crept through the halls. And he remembered the Targaryens.

He had not seen Rhaegar since the prince had been a young man barely out of boyhood, and now the crown prince stood as a vision of Valyrian majesty, his silver hair glinting in the dim light, his indigo gaze steady and unreadable. He was every inch the figure of a legend, and yet it was not Rhaegar who made Jaime pause mid-step, a strange tightness winding in his chest.

It was you.

You stood beside your brother in a gown of deep violet, the color rich against the porcelain glow of your skin. The candlelight flickered over the curve of your cheek, casting shifting patterns along the soft slope of your jaw, the delicate bridge of your nose. Your pale lashes swept downward, the color so light that they nearly disappeared against your skin, but your eyes—those were unmistakable. Indigo, like Rhaegar’s, yet softer, deeper, like the sky at the cusp of twilight, full of something that was neither innocence nor mischief, but a quiet, knowing sort of serenity.

Jaime had not seen you since you had been a girl of six, a slip of a thing with wide, wondering eyes and a voice that carried like a songbird’s call through the halls of the Red Keep. He had almost forgotten you in the years that passed, the memory of you tucked away among all the others that had faded into the background of his childhood. Yet now, standing in the presence of the royal family once more, he found himself staring, his pulse beating just a little too quickly.

You were beautiful.

Not in the way that Cersei was beautiful, all golden fire and biting, smoldering edges, but in a way that was unreal, almost dreamlike. There was something about you that made him feel as if he were gazing upon a vision, a creature not meant for the world of men, but for the old stories whispered in the dark, of dragon princesses and ethereal queens who could steal the breath from a man’s lips with nothing more than a glance.

And it was just a glance.

Your gaze flickered over him only briefly before moving past, as though you had not even noticed his presence at all. Jaime felt his stomach twist, something uncomfortably close to disappointment gnawing at his ribs, but he forced it down. He was not a boy any longer, not some lovesick fool to be undone by the sight of a girl, even if that girl was—

"Lord Tywin."

The king's voice cut through the silence like the edge of a blade, drawing all eyes toward the Iron Throne. Aerys sat slouched upon the blackened steel, his long fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. His hair was the same shade of silver as Rhaegar’s, but where the prince’s bore the luster of molten light, the king’s was thin, brittle, hanging in wisps about his face. His violet eyes burned too brightly, wide and restless, darting between Tywin and the twins at his side with a sharpness that set Jaime on edge.

"You have returned," Aerys mused, his lips curling slightly, though there was no humor in it. "It has been far too long since I have seen your children." His gaze flickered to Cersei, lingering, then shifted to Jaime. "And my, how they have grown. How fine a pair they make, do they not, Rhaella?"

Queen Rhaella sat rigid beside him, her expression unreadable, but she nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

Aerys hummed, leaning forward. "You must forgive me, Lord Tywin. It has been too long since I last laid eyes upon them. They are nearly as fair as my own brood." His lips curled again, and for the briefest moment, Jaime thought he saw something dark in his gaze. "Your daughter, Tywin—she is the very image of her mother. A pity Joanna is not here to see her."

Cersei’s jaw tensed, but she did not speak. Tywin inclined his head. "Your Grace is too kind."

"And your son," Aerys went on, his gaze turning to Jaime now, the weight of it pressing against him like something tangible. "Jaime Lannister." He let the name roll over his tongue as if savoring the taste. "You wish to be accepted into Kingsguard one day, are you not?"

Jaime swallowed, straightening. "If it pleases Your Grace."

The king laughed. It was a sharp, grating sound, like steel scraping over stone. "Oh, it would please me greatly," he said, his eyes glinting. "A Lannister in white—how it would wound you, would it not, Tywin? To see your son sworn to me, his sword mine alone?"

Tywin did not flinch. "If that is what Your Grace desires."

Aerys smiled, but there was no warmth in it. He leaned back against the throne, his fingers drumming once more. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I think I would like that very much."

Jaime felt Cersei stiffen beside him, her fingers curling at her sides. He did not dare glance at her, nor at his father, though he could feel the weight of Tywin’s fury like a storm gathering in the distance. Instead, he let his gaze wander once more—past the throne, past the lords and courtiers watching the exchange with veiled interest—until it found you again.

You had not moved from Rhaegar’s side, your hands folded neatly before you, your posture poised, serene. You were not watching him, nor his father, nor even the king. Your gaze was cast downward, your expression unreadable. But as the torches flickered and the shadows shifted, Jaime could not help but think that for the briefest moment, you had been watching him, too.

The great hall of the Red Keep was alive with the murmurs of courtiers and the flickering of torchlight, yet none of it seemed to touch Tywin Lannister. He moved through the gathered nobility with the assurance of a man who commanded the world with a glance, his golden cloak trailing behind him like the banners of House Lannister itself. Jaime and Cersei followed closely, their expressions schooled into careful neutrality, though Jaime could feel the lingering weight of Aerys’s words pressing against his thoughts. The king’s laughter, cutting and cruel, still echoed in his mind, but it was not the promise of the Kingsguard that unsettled him—it was the way Aerys had looked at his father, at Cersei, at him. There had been something dangerous in his gaze, something that made Jaime’s stomach twist in a way he did not like.

They did not go far—only to a quiet alcove tucked away from the main chamber, where the marble walls dampened the sound of the court’s endless hum. Tywin turned on his heel, his stern green eyes sweeping over his children, his expression unreadable save for the ever-present weight of expectation. A silence settled between them, thick with something unspoken, before he finally spoke.

"You have seen them now," he said, his voice low but firm. "Rhaegar and his sister."

Jaime swallowed. He had seen them. He had seen her.

Cersei tilted her chin upward, her golden hair catching in the dim light. "Rhaegar is handsome," she said, the words carefully measured, as though already crafting how she would speak of him to others. "More than that, he carries himself like a true prince should. He will be king one day."

Tywin gave a short nod. "And he will need a queen." His gaze lingered on her, sharp with meaning. "You are to conduct yourself accordingly."

"I will," Cersei promised, her voice smooth, her eyes gleaming. There was something hungry in her expression—Jaime had seen it before, though never quite like this. It was not just ambition; it was desire. Cersei had always spoken of queenship as though it was her birthright, but there was something new in the way she spoke of Rhaegar, something that made Jaime uneasy.

Tywin turned his gaze to him then, and Jaime straightened under his scrutiny. "And you," his father continued, voice steady as stone, "will do the same with his sister."

Jaime felt something in his chest tighten. His sister. He had barely even spoken to you, had only caught fleeting glances, and yet his mind had already conjured a thousand versions of you in those few moments—the way the candlelight glowed against your pale skin, the way your indigo eyes seemed to hold entire worlds within them, the way your very presence had made the air around him feel heavier, richer.

"You mean to wed us to them," Jaime said, though it was not truly a question.

Tywin's lips pressed together. "That has been my intent since you were children."

Jaime exhaled slowly. It had not been a secret, of course. He had known, even as a boy, that his father had always wanted a Targaryen match. But knowing something and standing face to face with the reality of it were two different things entirely. It was one thing to imagine a political union, to think of a Targaryen princess as a distant concept, a title without a face. But you were no concept. You were real, standing in that great hall beside Rhaegar, as unattainable as a dream and yet suddenly within his reach.

"And the king?" Cersei asked, her voice carefully neutral. "Will he agree?"

Tywin’s expression did not shift, but there was something colder in his gaze now, something calculating. "Aerys is a fool," he said bluntly. "And a fool’s whims can be unpredictable. I will speak with him in time, but it would serve us well if you both make yourselves… indispensable to his children."

Jaime understood the meaning behind his words instantly. He did not simply want them to be agreeable matches—he wanted them to be wanted. If Rhaegar and you favored them, if the royal children themselves expressed desire for the matches, Aerys would have little reason to refuse. Aerys had always been possessive over his family, jealous of their affections, but he was also vain. If Rhaegar wished for Cersei, if you wished for him—Jaime’s stomach tightened at the thought—then even the king’s paranoia might not be enough to stand in the way.

Cersei smiled then, the expression small but satisfied. "That will not be difficult."

Tywin’s gaze flickered toward her, measuring her confidence, but he did not contradict her. He turned back to Jaime. "You will conduct yourself as a man of your station. You will speak when it is necessary and hold your tongue when it is not. You will not grovel, nor will you posture. You will be clever. You will be interesting."

Jaime let out a slow breath. "And if I fail to be those things?"

His father’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You will not."

Jaime met his gaze for a moment longer before looking away. He was fourteen, still a boy in many ways, but never had he felt the weight of expectation so acutely. The thought of winning a girl’s favor was not foreign to him—he had seen how the ladies at Casterly Rock and Lannisport whispered and giggled when he passed. But you were not some noble girl, nor a lady of his father’s court. You were a Targaryen. You were her. And suddenly, the idea of winning you felt not like a challenge, but an impossibility.

Still, Tywin Lannister did not believe in impossibilities.

Jaime swallowed whatever doubts lingered in his throat and nodded.

Cersei exhaled through her nose, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips. "And what of Aerys? Will he let Rhaegar have a wife that is not of his choosing?"

Tywin’s expression did not change, but Jaime thought he saw a flicker of something dark in his father’s gaze. "The king’s favor is not what it once was. His mind rots with each passing year." He straightened. "It is Rhaegar who will rule, and when he does, he will need loyal hands around him. If he favors you, Cersei, then that is what matters. And if his sister favors Jaime—"

Jaime’s pulse quickened.

"—then all the better."

A silence stretched between them. The hall beyond the alcove was still alive with murmurs and laughter, the ever-present hum of politics and ambition that never truly faded in King’s Landing. But in that quiet space, Jaime felt the weight of his father’s will settle over him like a mantle.

You had barely even seen him, had barely even looked at him. And yet, before the night was through, before he even truly knew you, he had been given a task he was not certain he could fulfill.

He had to make you want him.

And the thought alone sent something cold and unfamiliar through his veins.

The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the golden light of morning, the first warmth of the sun spilling through the carved archways and casting dappled shadows across the stone paths. The scent of myrtle and orange blossoms hung in the air, sweet and thick, mingling with the salt of the distant sea. Jaime had always thought King’s Landing smelled of too many things at once—sweat, smoke, rot—but here, in this secluded part of the castle, the stench of the city did not reach. Here, the air was still. Quiet.

It was not difficult to find them.

He and Cersei moved through the garden paths with practiced ease, the rustle of their fine silks barely disturbing the morning peace. The sounds of the court had not yet spilled into the open spaces, leaving only the soft trill of birds and the murmur of voices beyond the flowering hedges. And then, as they rounded a curve in the path, the voices became clearer.

You were with Rhaegar.

The prince stood beneath the shade of a slender lemon tree, his silver hair catching the early light, his posture at ease in a way Jaime had rarely seen in men of his station. He was dressed in dark violet, the fine weave of his tunic unmistakable even from a distance, and though his face was unreadable, his voice—soft, thoughtful—held something close. Something warm.

You stood beside him, only inches away.

Jaime felt it first—the quick, sharp pulse at his throat, the sudden tension in his shoulders—as he watched the way Rhaegar touched you.

It was nothing improper, nothing that would scandalize the court, and yet it was… intimate. A brief brush of his fingers against your sleeve as he spoke, a slight tilt of his head in your direction, as if drawn to you as naturally as the tide is drawn to shore. And you—

You were looking up at him, your indigo eyes catching the morning light like polished gems, and you were smiling. A small, secret thing, the kind of smile that seemed meant for him alone.

Jaime had never seen her smile before.

For a fleeting moment, something inside him tightened, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest. Was this how it was always to be? He had barely spoken to you, and already Rhaegar stood at your side, silver in the morning light, his presence enough to make you soften. To make you laugh.

He almost hated him for it.

Cersei, ever attuned to the smallest shifts in a room, must have noticed as well. Her pace slowed beside him, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the scene before them. Then, as if shaking off whatever thoughts lingered in her mind, she lifted her chin and strode forward.

"Your Grace," she said smoothly, her voice carrying through the garden with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent her entire life perfecting her presence. "Princess."

The moment shattered.

Rhaegar turned first, his gaze settling on them, the warmth that had lingered in his face cooling into something more composed. His hand fell back to his side, slipping away from the fabric of your sleeve as though the touch had never been there at all. You followed his motion, turning to face them fully, and Jaime had only a moment to truly look at you—to see you.

You were dressed in the softest shades of lilac, the color subtle against the pale glow of your skin. The embroidery along your sleeves shimmered faintly, Valyrian patterns woven into the silk with a hand so delicate it was nearly invisible unless one looked closely. Your hair, silver as starlight, had been loosely pinned, allowing strands to slip free in the breeze.

Jaime had spent years imagining what you would look like grown—if you would still have the wide, wondering eyes of the girl he had once known, if you would still hold that same unearthly presence that seemed to belong more to a dream than to the waking world.

You were nothing like he remembered.

And yet, somehow, you were exactly as he had imagined.

"Lady Cersei. Lord Jaime," Rhaegar greeted them with a nod, his voice polite but absent of the warmth it had held only moments ago. "It has been some time."

"Too long," Cersei agreed, stepping forward with the ease of a woman born to this kind of encounter. "We were children when we last saw each other, but I am pleased to see time has only been kind to you, Your Grace."

A flicker of amusement passed through Rhaegar’s eyes, brief but present. "Time is not always so kind. But I thank you for the sentiment."

Jaime barely heard them.

His attention was fixed on you.

You had not spoken, not yet, but your gaze had settled on him now, studying him in a way that was both careful and unhurried. There was no immediate recognition in your expression, but neither was there indifference. Curiosity, perhaps. Or something softer.

"You do not remember us, do you?" Cersei’s voice was lighter now, teasing. "Or at least not well."

Your lips parted slightly, as if tasting the words before speaking them. "I remember you," you said at last, your voice quiet but smooth, like the lilt of a song yet to be sung. Then, after a small pause, your gaze flickered to Jaime. "And you as well."

Jaime felt his breath catch, though he did not let it show.

Cersei let out a soft laugh. "I hope your memories are fond ones."

Your head tilted slightly, as if considering the question, and then—a smile.

"They are," you said simply.

Jaime did not know what he had expected. He had imagined your voice a thousand times, had thought of what it might sound like when spoken to him. He had thought he was prepared.

He had not been.

A movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention, and he turned slightly to see Ser Barristan Selmy standing a short distance away, his face unreadable as he observed the exchange. A quiet, constant presence, watching.

Protecting.

Jaime knew, then, that this moment—this conversation, this fleeting breath of time—was not truly his. It belonged to Rhaegar, to you, to the threads of fate already weaving their pattern around them. He was an intruder in something far greater than himself, a pawn in a game he had not yet learned to play.

And yet—you had remembered him.

A small, insignificant thing. But Jaime was not sure why it suddenly meant so much.

The small council had been dismissed, the great doors of the chamber closing behind the last of the departing lords, leaving only Tywin Lannister and King Aerys II within. The room was bathed in the dim glow of the torches along the walls, their flames flickering against the polished wood of the long table, casting shifting specters that stretched toward the gilded seat where Aerys lounged.

Tywin stood before him, every inch the composed and calculating Hand of the King, his expression schooled into perfect neutrality. The scent of parchment and ink still lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of the oils and perfumes that had been used to mask the sickly-sweet scent of rot that seemed to cling to the Red Keep more and more with each passing year.

Aerys had not yet spoken.

The king sat reclined in his chair, his long fingers drumming idly against the carved armrests, his violet eyes half-lidded in something that might have been boredom or amusement—or something darker. His silver hair, once immaculate, had begun to thin, the strands hanging limp against the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. He had not always looked like this.

Tywin knew that well enough.

But the years had changed him. The whispers had changed him. The paranoia had settled into his bones like a sickness, creeping into his thoughts, turning his once-sharp mind into something that wavered between brilliance and madness.

And yet, this was still Aerys. Still the man he had served since youth. Still the king of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tywin had waited patiently, knowing better than to rush him. And at last, after a long silence, Aerys spoke.

"You linger, my old friend," he murmured, his lips curling slightly as his gaze flickered to Tywin. "What is it that you wish from me? I doubt you remained behind simply to enjoy my company."

Tywin did not smile. "I wished to discuss the future of your royal children, Your Grace."

Aerys let out a soft hm, his fingers stilling against the chair. "Ah, yes," he mused. "The lion always has something to offer."

Tywin inclined his head. "It is no secret that Rhaegar will need a queen," he said, his voice measured, careful. "And your daughter, a husband of suitable station."

Aerys exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if not for the sharpness beneath it. "Come now, Tywin," he drawled, his violet gaze gleaming. "Do you truly think me so simple? I expected this." His fingers twitched slightly. "You seek to offer Cersei to Rhaegar, just as you did before."

Tywin gave nothing away, neither at the reminder of Aerys’s earlier refusal nor at the amusement that danced behind the king’s words. "It would be a union of benefit to the realm," he stated, his voice calm. "Cersei is beautiful, well-bred, and clever. She would be a queen worthy of him."

Aerys’s smile was sharp. "You mean she would be a queen worthy of you."

Tywin held his gaze steadily. "I mean she would be a queen who would bring strength to the realm—and to House Targaryen."

Aerys chuckled then, leaning forward slightly. "And what of the girl?" His head tilted just so, the light catching in his irises, making them gleam like polished amethysts. "What of my daughter? You would see her married off to your cub?"

Tywin did not allow himself to hesitate. "Jaime is young, but he is my heir," he said evenly. "He will one day rule Casterly Rock, and there is no greater seat for your daughter than the Westerlands."

Aerys made a small noise in his throat, something between interest and disdain. "So eager you are, Tywin. But tell me—does Jaime himself share your ambitions?"

Tywin did not react outwardly, but something in Aerys’s tone made the air between them grow heavier, the words laced with something unspoken.

"He is young," Tywin said, his voice cool. "He dreams of knighthood, of glory, as boys do. But he will learn that true power does not lie in tourneys or oaths. His duty is to his house, to his legacy. And in time, he will see that his place is not as some wandering knight, but as the Lord of the Rock."

Aerys was quiet for a long moment.

Too quiet.

And Tywin knew this silence.

It was the silence that came before Aerys’s moods shifted—the silence that had begun appearing more and more over the last year, the precursor to his unpredictability, his paranoia.

When he finally spoke, Aerys’s voice was softer, but there was something sinister beneath it, something almost dangerous.

"You overstep, Tywin."

Tywin remained still. "I seek only what is best for the realm, Your Grace."

Aerys let out a breath—a slow, measured breath. And then he laughed. It was not a true laugh, not one of mirth, but something hollow, something edged. He shook his head slightly, as if amused by some private joke.

"The lion reaches, always reaching," he mused, the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You would love that, wouldn’t you? To see your golden children bound to mine. To see them rise, to see them elevated." His voice lowered, his fingers curling against the chair’s armrest. "To make your daughter queen. To make your son the husband of a Targaryen princess."

Tywin did not move, but he could feel the weight of Aerys’s gaze pressing against him.

"You have always been a proud man, Tywin," Aerys murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Proud enough to think you are owed such things. But do not forget—you serve me."

A pause.

"And I am not yet so old that I have forgotten what happens to men who reach too far."

The words hung between them like a blade, the meaning clear.

Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his expression did not waver. He had seen Aerys’s temper before, had endured his outbursts, his jests laced with venom, his sudden shifts from affection to suspicion. He knew how to navigate him.

He would not push—not now.

Instead, he inclined his head. "I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace."

Aerys studied him for a long moment, his fingers still curled, his eyes still bright with something unreadable.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the tension in his posture eased. His lips curved upward, though the smile did not reach his eyes.

"Yes," he murmured. "You do."

And with that, the audience was over.

Tywin turned and strode from the chamber, his steps measured, his expression impassive.

But beneath it all, something had shifted.

And he knew—he had seen it in Aerys’s eyes.

The king had already decided something.

And Tywin would be damned if he did not uncover what.

The scent of myrtle and citrus lingered in the air as Jaime and Cersei moved away from the Targaryen royals, their departure marked only by the soft rustling of silks and the fading sound of Cersei’s carefully measured farewell. It had been a successful meeting—at least in her eyes.

As they stepped further down the stone path, passing through the arching trellises heavy with climbing roses, Cersei released a slow breath, a small, pleased smile tugging at her lips.

"That went well," she murmured, her voice rich with satisfaction.

Jaime barely heard her.

His mind was still there, lingering in the gardens, where the dappled light had painted shifting patterns across the silk of your gown, where your indigo eyes had met his and held. He had thought about what you might look like for years, about what kind of woman you had become, but no amount of imagining had prepared him for the reality of you.

You were beautiful in the way that the dawn was beautiful—something soft, untouched, and entirely out of reach.

His chest felt tight.

Cersei turned to him, her green eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "Rhaegar is everything I thought he would be," she continued, a touch of hunger in her voice. "He is—" she exhaled, her lips curling, "—perfect."

Jaime forced himself to listen, his jaw tightening.

"He was polite," he said simply.

Cersei let out a soft laugh. "Polite? Jaime, he was more than that." She stopped, turning fully to face him, golden hair catching in the morning light. "You saw how he looked at me. He noticed me."

Jaime hesitated.

Had he?

Rhaegar had been courteous. That was his nature. His words had been pleasant, his gaze steady, his posture measured. He had not been cold, but neither had he been anything more. Jaime had watched him closely, searching for some sign of interest, some flicker of intrigue in the prince’s indigo gaze—but he had found nothing that could not be dismissed as simple courtly manners.

And yet—Cersei believed it.

"He was polite," Jaime repeated.

Cersei’s expression darkened slightly, but she let out a breath and shook her head. "You have no sense for these things," she muttered, turning away and beginning to walk again, her skirts swaying with each step. "I have spent my life preparing for this moment, Jaime. He will see me. He will come to want me."

Jaime did not reply.

Because his thoughts were not on Rhaegar.

His thoughts were on you.

As they walked further from the gardens, he could not stop himself from glancing back, just once, to the spot where you and Rhaegar had stood beneath the shade of the lemon tree.

You were still there.

Jaime’s steps faltered.

Rhaegar had turned back to you, his attention fully yours once more, and it was different now—warmer. More natural. The kind of ease that had not been present when he spoke to Cersei.

Jaime watched as the prince murmured something, his voice low, the words meant only for you. He saw the way your lips parted in response, the way your eyes flickered with something soft, something genuine. You did not laugh the way the ladies of court did when they wished to charm a man, did not tilt your head coyly or lower your lashes in feigned modesty. You simply smiled.

And Rhaegar smiled back.

Something hot and unfamiliar curled in Jaime’s stomach.

It was an ugly feeling, one he did not know how to name.

He did not know what he had expected—he was not foolish enough to think he could step into your life after all these years and suddenly become the focus of your gaze, the recipient of your affections. You had known Rhaegar your entire life. He was your brother, your closest confidant. It was only natural that you would smile for him, that you would look at him with something gentle in your eyes.

And yet—why did it unsettle him so?

Cersei was still speaking beside him, but her words had become nothing more than a distant hum, drowned out by the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

He had never felt this before.

Never.

The women at court whispered about him, admired him for his looks, for his name. They smiled too easily, touched his arm too often. But it had never mattered. He had never looked at them the way he had looked at you in that moment, standing beneath the lemon tree, bathed in morning light.

You had only spoken a handful of words to him.

And yet, he felt as if something inside him had shifted.

Something he could not push away.

Something he was not sure he wanted to push away.

The Lannisters were gone, their presence nothing more than a lingering whisper in the air, yet the garden still felt touched by them—by their ambitions, their careful words, the weight of what they had left unspoken. The gentle rustling of leaves and the faint trickle of the fountain filled the silence they left behind, the scent of citrus still clinging to the breeze.

Rhaegar did not move at first. He stood beside you, watching the path where Jaime and Cersei had disappeared, his expression contemplative, though his eyes held no surprise. There had been nothing unexpected in what had just transpired. It had been, as he might say, well placed.

You exhaled softly, tilting your head to look up at him. "That was… predictable."

His lips curled slightly, though there was little amusement in it. "It was well-placed conversation," he murmured, his voice calm, always calm.

"You mean it was orchestrated," you countered, your indigo gaze searching his, the meaning of your words lingering in the air. "We both knew what they wanted before a single word was spoken."

He let out a breath, slow and measured. "Yes," he admitted. "We did."

You lowered your gaze, fingers brushing lightly over the smooth bark of the lemon tree beside you. "Cersei was no surprise," you murmured, thoughtful. "Her eyes have been set on you since she was old enough to understand what a queen is."

Rhaegar hummed, though he did not confirm or deny the statement. He had always known. The weight of expectation pressed against his shoulders like a crown he had not yet worn, and Cersei Lannister had long envisioned herself at his side, her golden hair intertwined with the legacy of House Targaryen.

But that was not what lingered most in your thoughts.

"It is Jaime that surprises me," you said, your voice quieter now. "I thought he had ambitions for the Kingsguard."

Rhaegar turned to you fully then, his gaze softening, though there was something knowing in his expression. "He is still young," he reminded you. "And his father’s ambitions have never been a secret." He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "Besides…"

You glanced up at him as he trailed off. "Besides?"

Rhaegar was silent for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"I saw the way he looked at you," he said simply.

Your brows lifted slightly, but you did not immediately respond.

He continued, his voice light but knowing. "Jaime Lannister may still dream of glory and knighthood, but there is something else there now. He has spent his youth training with steel and chasing the glories of men, but today, for the first time, he looked at something he was not prepared for."

You blinked, your fingers stilling against the bark of the tree. "And what was that?"

Rhaegar’s gaze did not waver. "You."

There was no teasing in his voice, no jest. It was merely truth, spoken as plainly as the sky was blue.

You exhaled slowly, your gaze dropping for a brief moment before returning to his. "And if that is so?"

He smiled again, but this time there was something fond in it, something affectionate.

"Then I wonder if he even realizes it yet," he murmured.

A soft breath of laughter escaped you, and Rhaegar reached out then, his fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve, a familiar gesture, one you had known all your life. His touch was always gentle, never demanding, always warm.

"He is not like the others," he continued, his voice quieter now. "His father has sharpened him into something harder, something that should be unfeeling. But even steel has its weaknesses."

You tilted your head. "And you think I am one?"

Rhaegar’s lips curled slightly, though there was nothing mocking in it. "I think you are something unexpected. And men like Jaime Lannister are rarely prepared for things they do not expect."

The air between you was calm, steady, untouched by the weight of expectation that had followed the Lannisters into this space. With Rhaegar, there was never pretense. He had been your brother, your closest companion, your shield against the world since you were small, and even now—when duty loomed ever closer, when the future threatened to shape you both into something neither of you had chosen—he was still this.

Soft.

Steady.

Yours.

"You think too much," you murmured, tilting your chin slightly in mock accusation.

Rhaegar let out a soft chuckle, his long fingers lingering against the fabric of your sleeve for just a moment longer before falling away. "And you think too little," he countered, though there was no reprimand in it, only fondness.

You sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. "Perhaps we balance each other."

He did not deny it.

Instead, he reached up, gently tucking a stray silver strand behind your ear, his fingers brushing the warmth of your skin for only a heartbeat. The gesture was absent of hesitation, absent of thought, as natural as breathing.

And though Ser Barristan stood a short distance away, ever watchful, ever loyal, he said nothing.

Because this was not new.

This was Rhaegar.

This was you.

And the world—its expectations, its demands, its whispers of Lannisters and alliances and duty—could wait.

For now.

[pjackk]

Yep another miesrable "F my life" moment just hapened to me i basicaly walked 10 miles up the mountain to get to behind to the gas station to see my plug to buy me my with my favorite delta 8 pipe rocks and grab another 6er of tall boy steelies and i forgot i had my lit pre roll from brunch at the Country Grocerys buffet and i tripped on a congom on they away out and fell directly into a puddle of oil which normaly is fine when i fall and hurt myself ebcause nobody gives a fuck about me but the pants got stained wich is not unusual for me either but this time with motor guel or some shit but my pre roll was smoldering still and it set my ptants on fire so i dive in to the muddy ditch to put wet mut on my body to estinguish the fire and it and it shook the fuck up out of my steelos and the bursted all over me and it put out the fire but now i dont have any booze at all and my delta 7 "Fuck n chill" rocks burned tf up and i dont got nothgin left and my pants were all fucked up so i had to go home thru the woods wihtout them and it was so dark out and my peice of shit phone died even thouhg it was at 27% and i couldnt see shit and i was lost for along time so i decide to go to sleep in the woods to find my way back in day time + the animals sounds were high key scary as fuck so i cover myself in leafs and dirt and sticks and mud and other shit to hide from them and i woke up in the adfternoon still tired as fuck cuz i dont sleep good without some shit to put me asleep like my medicidne prescribed from Dr Maltlikker if U catch my drift lol or Dr thc Gummy lol if u get what im saying and these stupid little cunts with 22 rifles were plinking at me and tlaking about how they wanted to shoot my big ugly rusty head right in the head or to shoot a hole in my nippels so i got up and trioed to get them to stop i begged but htey just kept lauhging at me and shooting at me and it realy hurt my feelings so i pick one up and threw it into the sky then they all ran away screaming which is a classic "Dont fuck with honest joe,because he might try to hurt you or kill you if u piss him of moment" but the miracle of the story if that i went to walk 20 feet to findm y way out and i found my busted as shit old as fuck camry with a litle gas left ive been looking for it for a few days cuz i did a lil cruising when i was blackout and did lots of crazy shit i didnt remember at all but it was all on my story and 100 ppl were snaping and whatsapping me telling me to kill myself when i checked my huwawai thats how u know u had a crazy fcking night when u get that shit!!😂😂 but it had a litle gas left and it wasnt super busted so i was able do get back on I81 and soem stupid fcking crazy ass north carolina motha fuckas are driving insanly as fuck as usual and they keep almost hiting me while im just trying to read my fukcking phone to get rid of all these stupid messages and shit i still dont know how to use the app and its hard to type shit with my hands but eventualy i got back to my fuck buddys houe im crashing there even though he hates me now but i have nowehre left since ive been down on my luck and im realy not able to pay the bills no more with my online black jack/DarkRp trial moderator gigs and basicaly he owes me cuaz i got him 1 pack of menthols back when he was 19 and Sleepy Joe Brnadon banned them since "Freedom to do real shit" was aparently removed from the costitution when he was elected😂 but anywas now im sitting here bored as fuck with nothign at all do do cuz i got nothing to get fucked up wthi and i spent the rest of my meony on shit thats burned and blasted im realy worried i wont be able to sleep tongith since i cant get fucked up and thats when the demons starts to flow in my head i might do something realy bad to myself like pluck out my screws or some shit if u care abotu my which u probably dont my cashuapp is $pjack9 im desprate for another bottle to numb my p[ain away

Pic of my ride when i found it thankuly it still had gas😋

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Wrought in Honey and Flame

Amelia’s backstory. A Hoodoo Apprentice prequel.

Summary: Amelia Broussard’s backstory unfolds in a slow-burning tale of grief, magic, forbidden love, and the dangerous sweetness of longing.

Warnings: Light smut, Angst, Flashback

“Sweeten a man’s thoughts with sugar and fire, and he’ll follow you straight into the water.”

— Old conjure saying, St. Landry Parish

“I didn’t mean to burn him. I only wanted to be loved. But some of us are made from things that don’t cool easy.”

— Amelia Broussard

Long before Amelia Broussard ever opened her eyes to the world, she was already a secret the bayou couldn’t keep.

In Louisiana, folks say the feu follet are trickster lights that drift just above the water at night—flickering blue-white orbs that draw travelers off the path. Some say they’re the souls of unbaptized children. Others swear they’re witches in exile, restless and cruel.

But the oldest tellings—the ones whispered over boiling pots and told in French-Creole by candlelight—say the feu follet are fae folk, born of swamp mist and starlight, wild as river currents and bound by rules older than blood.

They don’t marry. They don’t bear children.

And they sure as hell don’t fall in love with humans.

But Lysara did.

Lysara was not of the Bright Court—not silver-haired and crowned in jewels like the fae in books. She was wilder than that. A bayou-born daughter of dusk and marshlight. The kind of beauty whispered about in nighttime stories, where men vanish following flickers between the trees.

She stood at just under average height, but nothing about her ever seemed small. Her presence filled a space the way mist fills a field—slow, sudden, impossible to hold.

Her skin was a radiant bronze-brown, with undertones of gold that caught the light like wet stone. It shimmered faintly when she moved, not like glitter, but like heat rising off summer roads. People often stared and couldn’t say why—only that she glowed.

Her hair was thick and long, black as swampwater at night, but when it caught the moonlight, it revealed strands of deep green and indigo, like oil slick on river glass. She wore it loose and wild, tangled with moss threads or little clover flowers when she returned from the trees. It curled like smoke around her shoulders and sometimes moved even when the air was still.

Her eyes were the color of dark amber honey, flecked with motes of green and gold. When she looked at you, it felt like sunlight filtering through cypress trees—soft, warm, but full of secrets. The kind of eyes that saw through you, and into you, all at once.

Her lips were full, always slightly parted, as if she were holding back laughter or a sigh. Her smile was rare but devastating—not from cruelty, but from the way it felt like light breaking over the bayou after days of rain.

She walked barefoot, even in places she shouldn’t, and she never made a sound. Her footsteps were silence. Her presence was thunder.

She smelled of wild things—crushed mint, fresh rain, and the faint sweetness of night jasmine. If you got close enough, you’d catch a trace of something deeper: like damp earth, warm sugar, and candle smoke. That scent lingered long after she left a room, clinging to clothes and memory.

Her voice was low and melodic, with a lilt like wind in the reeds. When she spoke, it was as if the trees leaned in to listen. There was music in her tone—not song, exactly, but rhythm. Gentle. Lulling. Dangerous in its softness. She never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. You heard her whether she whispered or wept.

Lysara was a full-blooded fae of the feu follet kind— born of light, moon-soaked waters, and marsh spirits.

Her court was wild and ancient, dwelling in the bayous of southern Louisiana, hidden in veils of mist and magnolia bloom. The feu follet fae are luminous, emotionally potent beings who walk the line between seduction and sorrow.

Lysara was known for her beauty and her curiosity about humans, which made her suspect in her court. She often slipped into the mortal world to dance at the edges of hoodoo rituals and funerals, unseen by most —but not all.

August Broussard was a mortal man—a preacher’s son and jazz pianist in Louisiana. Handsome, thoughtful, and disillusioned with the rigid expectations of his family.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and a long, lean frame shaped by years of hard work under Southern sun. There was something statuesque about him, like he’d been carved from river stone and polished by time, a man who carried the weight of expectation but bore it with quiet ease.

His skin was deep umber, rich and dark as fertile soil, with undertones of copper that came alive when the light touched him. It gave his features a kind of glow that wasn’t magical, but still arresting—the glow of a man fully alive in his body.

He had high cheekbones and a strong jawline softened just slightly by a neatly kept beard. His nose was straight and broad, his mouth full but rarely smiling— though when it did, it changed his whole face. His teeth were ivory and even with a touch of gold, a flash of brightness that felt earned, not effortless.

His eyes were dark brown, almost black, with a steadiness to them—the kind of eyes that could silence a room without raising a voice. When he looked at you, it felt like a quiet challenge: Tell the truth. Say what you mean. But those who knew him well swore his eyes held a softness too, something protective, especially when he looked at Lysara.

His voice was low, resonant—a preacher’s voice, but without the fire. He spoke with patience, depth, and a quiet conviction that made people lean in. Whether reading scripture, reciting poetry, or simply asking how your mama was doing, there was music in the way he talked. Earthbound music. Southern gospel. Muddy water hymns.

He often walked alone at night, especially after gigs, humming lullabies his mother used to sing. One night in the bayou, he saw a flicker of light—and followed it. That’s where he found Lysara. She didn’t flee. She laughed. And she kissed him before he could ask her name.

It began as a secret—stolen hours under cypress trees, in the crook of Spanish moss.

Fae magic does not know time the way mortals do. A season to a fae can feel like a lifetime to a human—and for August, those nights were eternal. Lysara fell in love despite knowing she shouldn’t. Fae are not meant to bear children with mortals—it breaks laws older than any written. Her court warned her: “If you carry his blood, you’ll lose your light. Or worse—your child will bear both hungers.”

But she was already pregnant.

August called her his ‘sugar-light.’ She called him her jeune fou, her foolish boy. They met under moss and moon, traded kisses for poems, made love in wildflower patches only the fae remembered.

For a season, it was bliss.

The bayou sang with it. Her glow softened around him. His music changed; became richer, aching.

But when her people discovered she’d conceived a child, the swamp itself recoiled.

“A feu follet does not give life,” they told her, “If you keep the child, you will fade. If you stay in this world, you will tear it apart.”

August asked her to stay. To live with him. Raise their child. Lysara wanted to, more than anything. But her magic began to change. The child inside her dimmed her glow, made her ache in ways she didn’t understand. Her kin grew fearful of her. She was no longer safe in the fae realm and not safe in the human one either. On the eve of Amelia’s birth, she returned to the Broussard family home in the dead of night. She was weak. Fading.

She didn’t want to let go. August begged her not to.

“Stay. We can raise her. I’ll love her. I’ll love you. Just be mine.”

But she wasn’t made for staying. She was made of in-between. The longer she held the child inside her, the more her glow dimmed, her skin thinned. Her kin turned their backs. Her magic faltered.

August’s mother, Mère Vivienne Broussard, was a powerful rootworker and midwife. She had seen Lysara once before, dancing at a crossroads when she was a child. She knew what she was. Knew what her son had done.

She helped deliver the baby.

“She shines too bright,” Vivienne whispered, “She’s not meant for here.”

Lysara, dying, begged her, “Raise her. Hide her light. Teach her love but not hunger.”

Vivienne agreed. But she made her own vow: Amelia would know the truth one day. And no man — no magic — would claim her before she knew who she was.

Lysara kissed Amelia’s forehead once before she vanished in the mist before dawn. Vivienne wrapped baby Amelia in blue silk with silver threads, fabric woven with old fae symbols to protect and veil. She laid her gently on her own doorstep, as if someone had left the child by accident.

She called the neighbors and said only, “A baby’s been left at my door. Looks like kin to me. I’ll take her in.”

After Lysara’s disappearance, August spirals quietly and grieving, still holding onto his baby girl from afar. He’s changed. He stops playing music in public. Whispers swirl around town about him. August becomes an object of suspicion—a Black man seen consorting with someone people claimed was ‘not right.’ One night, a white woman accuses August of ‘looking at her wrong’ in the street. No crime. No trial. A mob forms. He’s taken from his home. He is lynched at the edge of the swamp, near the same waters where he first met Lysara. His mother, Mère Vivienne, buries him quietly, lighting candles for both her son and the daughter of magic he left behind.

a few days after August Broussard’s death. Vivienne sits in her candlelit living room in New Orleans. Rain taps on the roof. Outside, the town pretends not to know what happened. Inside, she’s building a shield between Amelia and the world.

The baby wouldn’t sleep unless she held her. Her beautiful granddaughter.

Vivienne rocked gently in an old creaking chair that belonged to her late husband, her arms full of too much light and too much sorrow. The child swaddled in blue silk shimmered faintly, even in sleep, her breath like moth wings, her skin warm like sunlit water.

Vivienne had seen many things in her years. Rootwork and spirits, dreams that came true. She’d pulled babies out of women screaming, buried others too small to cry.

But this child?

She was something else entirely.

Born of a man whose love got him killed. Born of a woman who vanished like fog. A child glowing with fae fire and carried by blood that made her a target before she could even walk.

Vivienne whispered a prayer under her breath—not one from the Bible, but older. A calling to her people. To the old spirits. To the ancestors who walked barefoot through fire.

“Watch over her. Don’t let her shine blind. Don’t let her light get twisted...”

She lit seven candles and placed a small jar of honey on the windowsill.

She’d done what she could for August. Washed his blood off the porch, cut a lock of his hair, buried it deep beneath the cypress tree he used to sit under when he played the blues alone. But she hadn’t saved him.

She couldn’t save Lysara either. That poor glowing thing who looked at her like a girl begging to come inside from a storm.

But this baby?

This baby girl she could raise. Quietly. Carefully. Between hymns and hoodoo. Between sugar water and salt lines.

“You gon’ grow up strong,” she whispered to the infant, “But quiet. Hidden. I ain’t letting the world eat ya’ like it did ya’ daddy.”

Amelia stirred, eyes fluttering—and for the first time, they glowed.

Just for a moment.

Vivienne didn’t flinch. She only pulled her closer.

“Ain’t no light that bright that can’t be taught when to dim.”

She blew out six of the candles. Left one burning.

Always one.

And as time passed, the girl glowed…

It’s a warm Louisiana evening, thunder rumbling in the distance. Mère Vivienne is brushing her hair on the porch. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the wind told secrets.

Seven year old Amelia sat between her grandmother’s knees, her little feet bare, a book clutched in her lap. Mère Vivienne’s fingers moved through her hair slow and steady, the same way she stirred a pot or mixed herbs for a customer—with intention, with knowing.

“Keep still now,” she murmured.

But Amelia fidgeted. Her skin prickled. She was too warm. Not from the weather, from inside. She opened her mouth to speak and light leaked from it. Just a flicker—like candlelight dancing on a wall. But Vivienne saw it.

Her hands paused.

“Did you feel that?” Amelia whispered.

Vivienne didn’t answer right away. She placed a cool hand over the child’s heart.

It beat fast. Glowing faintly beneath the skin.

“I didn’t mean to,” Amelia said, trembling. Misty–eyed.

“I know, baby. You never do.”

Vivienne stood and went inside. She came back with a glass jar filled with bay leaves, ashes, and a drop of molasses. She anointed Amelia’s temples with the thick mixture, muttering words that weren’t English.

“What’s that for?” Ameila asked.

Her grandmother exhaled, “To keep ya’ light low. Ya’ too little to carry what ya’ carry. Too many people see brightness and want to break it.”

Amelia didn’t understand. But she nodded.

She fell asleep in Vivienne’s lap, glowing faintly, the storm finally breaking overhead.

Then there was a time when she was nine years old, it was a late summer evening in Louisiana. Amelia was playing in the yard behind her grandmother Vivienne’s shotgun house. Crickets hummed. The smell of warm bread and woodsmoke lingered in the balmy air.

Amelia was supposed to be skipping rope. But the rope had other ideas.

Every time she got to seven, the air shimmered.

The first time, she thought it was just heat.

The second time, she saw fireflies hovering in daylight, circling her, matching her breath.

The third time, the rope sparked in her hands.

It wasn’t flame. Not exactly. More like light—gold-white, flickering across her fingers like something alive.

She dropped the rope and backed away.

The fireflies followed.

She ran inside, heart pounding, hands trembling.

Vivienne didn’t flinch when she saw her.

“It’s coming sooner than I thought,” she muttered, already lighting a candle, “Your mama had the same shimmer in her blood.”

Her teenage years were torture living in secret.

Vivienne taught Amelia how to dim her light with baths of blue hyssop, chamomile, and graveyard dirt. She taught her to speak softly to mirrors, to never cry in public, and to carry iron when walking alone at night.

But it didn’t always work.

Her glow leaked out when she was overwhelmed, when she blushed, when she bled, when she loved anything too much.

At fourteen, a boy tried to kiss her under the magnolia tree.

When he touched her cheek, he gasped—said she felt ‘like warm lightning’ he never looked her in the eye again.

And then 1922 came, a little before Amelia’s eighteenth birthday.

Tragedy struck.

The house smelled of mint and old pages.

Vivienne lay beneath a quilt stitched with protective sigils, her breathing thin as thread. She reached for Amelia’s hand.

“You were born from something wild, baby. Something bright. You got both the ache and the hunger in you.”

“What am I?” Amelia questioned between sobs.

“You ain’t a curse, no matter what anyone says. But you got to learn to walk careful…”

Vivienne placed a velvet pouch in Amelia’s palm.

Inside: a small, obsidian pendant strung on red thread, and a folded note wrapped in oil paper.

“This’ll help keep ya’ light tucked in. When ya’ feel like you’re gonna glow, hold it. Think of me.”

Amelia cried.

Her grandmother cupped her cheek, smiling weakly.

“Don’t be afraid of what you are. But don’t trust the wrong hands to love it, either.”

Vivienne died that night. Quiet. The candle at her bedside snuffed itself.

After the funeral came a new scenery. Amelia packed up and moved to New Orleans with Celine, her aunt, in a tall, polished house along Esplanade Avenue, in a neighborhood lined with magnolia trees, wrought iron gates, and quiet money.

The people there were Black and powerful—bankers, doctors, teachers, wives in pearls and linen gloves.

They didn’t speak of hoodoo or ghosts.

They spoke of Jesus, of dignity, of not being like the old folk from the backwoods.

Celine was marrying Nathaniel, a doctor with a voice like scripture and skin like mahogany. He didn’t smile easily. He didn’t touch often. But he looked at Amelia— really looked.

Celine Broussard was raised in a world where appearances were survival—especially for light-skinned Creole women navigating both privilege and constraint within the Black elite. Her family, especially her mother Vivienne, carried power behind closed doors through conjure and healing, but in public, they cultivated a gentle image of piety and refinement.

Marrying Nathaniel—a well-respected, dark-skinned Black doctor and preacher—elevated her. It allowed her to reinforce her position in society as ‘The First Lady’ of the church, admired for her beauty, her grace, and the impression of virtue. It gave her legitimacy not just socially, but spiritually.

She loved the idea of being admired.

Celine warned Amelia:

“No glowing. No humming. No stories about spirits. You keep that side of you locked tight. You hear me?”

Amelia nodded.

But the light inside her wasn’t meant to stay hidden forever.

Celine first noticed it in the plants.

Her lilies, so carefully tended in the front window, leaned toward Amelia when she passed. The camellias bloomed early. Her lavender wouldn’t dry right—it stayed wet, fragrant, pulsing like it was still alive.

Then it was the animals.

The neighbor’s cat refused to cross the porch unless Amelia was gone. Dogs barked through fences. And birds lingered too long outside her window.

Then it was the light.

Flickering candle flames. Mirror surfaces humming with faint gold. Once, Celine swore she saw a second reflection of Amelia in the glass—glowing, smiling faintly—even when the girl looked solemn.

She began to pray harder. Burn frankincense. Salt the thresholds. She said nothing.

But she watched.

Sunday Morning at Mount Calvary Baptist Church

1925:

The church smelled of sweat, starch, and sweet oil— the holy trifecta.

Crisp white gloves, pressed suits, and polished shoes filled the sanctuary like a river of devotion. Ceiling fans turned slow and deliberate overhead, clacking in rhythm with the rustling of paper fans printed with funeral home ads. The choir had just finished a number that shook dust from the rafters—all low moans and high wails, voices lifted to Heaven and somewhere deeper. Somewhere closer.

The sanctuary was a long rectangle, wood-paneled and warm, with windows painted in pale stained glass that let in the sunlight like softened fire. The pulpit stood elevated at the front, wrapped in white lace and gold-trimmed velvet, and behind it towered Dr. Nathaniel DuPont, pastor, healer, and pillar of the congregation.

He preached like thunder rolled through his chest.

Not loud. Not wild. But with a stillness that commanded. When Nathaniel spoke, the room leaned forward. Every syllable landed like a nail in wood—deliberate, strong, crafted to last.

“There is a light,” he said, holding the air in his palm, “and it is not ours to hold or to dim. It is the Lord’s. And He places it in each of us as He sees fit. But beware, beloved, for not every light comes from God. There are other lights. Strange ones.”

There were nods. Calls of mmm and tell it. The kind of agreement that passed down through bone and blood.

From the first pew, Celine Broussard, fiancé of Nathaniel DuPont, sat tall and polished like she was carved from marble. Wide-brimmed cream hat. Gloves that matched. A delicate veil shadowed her painted mouth. She never said amen aloud, but her posture exuded satisfaction—a woman not just engaged to the preacher, but master of the house of God itself. People whispered about how refined she was, how her women’s ministry raised more money than the men’s ever could. They said God had blessed her hands.

And maybe he had. Or maybe someone else had.

Celine’s rootwork was never visible, never spoken of. But it was there. It was in the oils she dabbed behind her ears before service. In the bathwater she poured down the drain before hosting luncheons. In the church donations that always seemed to circle back to her. She kept her altar locked in a back closet and wrapped her working jars in lace handkerchiefs, but the spirits knew her by name.

Beside her sat Amelia Broussard, a shadow in silk.

She was too quiet, too still. Fresh-faced from grief, still mourning the death of her grandmother—the woman who had raised her, taught her things in secret and in moonlight. Here, under Celine’s roof, she had no footing. No roots.

Her dress was simple. Her hands folded. She barely blinked as Nathaniel spoke. She didn’t say amen. She didn’t move. But she felt everything.

And the eyes—the eyes of the congregation felt her back.

They looked at her like something uncertain. She was family, yes. But not of them. There was something soft about her, something other. A strange shine behind her gaze, like dusk just before the lightning bugs appeared. Her presence unsettled. Women whispered behind fans. Men looked twice and then looked away, shame burning at the edges of their thoughts.

Amelia didn’t know the words to their hymns. She didn’t know the names of the women in the second row. But she knew the weight of judgment.

She felt it press into her shoulders like hands from behind.

And yet, when Nathaniel glanced down from the pulpit, just once, and their eyes met, something passed between them. Not recognition. Not yet.

Just an ache. The kind grief carves into those who pretend they’ve moved on.

He looked away quickly, back to the Bible.

“Let your light so shine before men,” he said, voice deep, solemn, “that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in Heaven.”

Amelia lowered her gaze.

Because her light did shine.

But it had never belonged to Heaven.

Four Years a Flame in Hiding

New Orleans, 1922–1926

Amelia Broussard, aged 18 to 22

She bloomed slow, like something half afraid of sunlight.

The house was beautiful but cold. Celine kept it pristine, full of lace curtains and polished wood, and every mirror wiped spotless. Amelia learned to walk through it like a ghost—quiet, careful, unseen. She kept her grief hidden beneath silk and prayer.

At eighteen, she was still all colt-legs and caution. By twenty, she had grown into her curves like honey settling into glass—smooth, deep, sweet. Her hair thickened into a wild halo of curls. Her eyes, wide and dark, held a flicker of gold that never went out, though she tried to dim it.

Because Celine watched her.

And so did Nathaniel.

She made friends—eventually.

Girls from church, mostly. They called her pretty but strange. They liked to braid her hair and tell her which boys liked her. They whispered during service and passed notes folded in fans.

Sometimes she snuck out with them, just after supper, when the heat of the day clung to the bricks like molasses. They’d meet boys on corner stoops, near the ice cream parlor or behind the neighborhood school. Boys who smelled like pomade and cologne. Boys with hands that moved too fast but words that melted like butter.

Amelia let them kiss her.

She’d lean back against peeling wood and part her lips just enough. Let them touch her cheek, her collarbone. But she never let them past her dress buttons. Never let their breath tangle too long in her throat.

Because she couldn’t trust what might slip out of her— that golden shimmer that burned brighter when she was flustered, the flicker that made boys fall too fast, too deep.

One boy swore he saw light in her mouth when she sighed.

Another tried to follow her home after one kiss and carved her initials into a tree.

She stopped seeing him after that.

By day, she was Celine’s niece. Respectable. Quiet. Presentable.

She wore pastels to service. Said ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir.’ Read scripture aloud at the dining table. Nathaniel barely looked at her when they ate, but she felt the crackle of tension—low and persistent, like heat behind the walls.

He was kind. Reserved. But sometimes his gaze slipped.

Celine never mentioned it. But she noticed everything.

By night, Amelia became someone else.

She would lock her bedroom door, turn down the lamp, and draw the curtains tight. Then she’d pull out her grandmother’s leather-bound journal from beneath a loose floorboard. A book soft with age, full of folded prayers, dirt smudges, and wax seals.

She practiced quietly.

Footwork first—where to step to find or lose a thing. Crossroads blessings. Ways to turn someone’s tongue or sweeten a neighbor’s opinion.

She whispered Psalms into jars and slipped cinnamon under her tongue. Pricked her finger just once, to learn what power tasted like. Learned to blow smoke just so. To anoint. To hide.

All of it in secret.

Because even though Celine worked root too—Amelia felt the difference. Celine’s work was all command and iron, her jars full of hair and heat and pressure. Celine’s magic controlled.

Amelia’s didn’t want to control. It wanted to call.

To beckon. To illuminate. To stir.

Which made it far more dangerous.

Suppressing her light was the hardest thing.

At first, she used cotton gloves to hide her fingertips when they glowed. Sat in cold baths to calm the fire in her blood. She prayed hard and often. Chewed bitter roots to keep her magic still. Bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper every time she smiled.

By twenty-one, she had learned to keep it in—most days.

But it was like trying to hold back tidewater with her bare hands. Especially when she was alone. Especially when Nathaniel passed too close. Especially when her own loneliness pushed against the corners of her ribs, aching to be seen.

She became a woman quietly, secretly, dangerously.

Not the kind who bloomed in public.

The kind who kindled in private—learning her curves in candlelight, whispering her grandmother’s name when the light started to rise. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what she was becoming. She felt it every time a boy looked at her too long, or a married man tipped his hat, or Celine’s gaze cut sharp like a blade across her back.

She was becoming something Celine feared.

Something even Nathaniel, for all his righteousness, would not be able to resist.

The Ride Home

Early Summer, New Orleans, 1929:

The heat didn’t let up, not even after sundown.

Church had run long. Nathaniel’s sermon had been on temptation, but his voice had softened by the end— less fire and brimstone, more like a man preaching to himself. The congregation lingered in the fellowship hall, sipping sweet tea and fanning themselves. Celine was still inside, smiling tightly at Sister Marguerite’s gossip, already halfway into next week’s planning.

Amelia slipped out onto the front steps, arms folded around her waist. The cicadas had begun their night chorus, humming like something ancient and relentless. Her hair clung to her neck in damp curls. She longed for air, for stillness. For somewhere she could be herself again.

A shadow fell across her shoulder.

“Would you like a ride home?”

She turned.

Nathaniel stood a step below her, his hat in his hands, shirt collar slightly unbuttoned, sweat darkening the edges of his vest. The look in his eyes was practiced— neutral, authoritative. But his voice had a catch in it, low and unreadable.

“I can walk,” she said, though her feet ached in her Sunday shoes.

“It’s late. Celine won’t be leavin’ no time soon either. Got work to do back here. I can take you to the house, Amelia.”

She hesitated, searching his face for motive.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t crowd her. Just waited.

And she said, “Alright.”

The car was quiet.

A clean old Ford, smelling of cedar and something sharper—maybe bay rum or holy oil. The windows were cracked, letting in the warm wind as they rolled past the dark oak-lined streets. They didn’t speak at first.

That was, until he broke the silence.

“You’ve grown,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, “Not just older. Wiser.”

Amelia glanced at him, then quickly away. “That what you tell all the girls?”

He laughed, surprised. “You’re not a girl.”

The words hung between them.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of her own body—the curve of her thigh against the leather, the pulse in her wrist, the way her bosom sat full and rose and fell with her shaky breath.

“…You used to call me that when I first came to live with Celine.” Amelia recalled.

“Well,” he said, “you aren’t that anymore.”

Silence.

The house came into view—tall, pale, still glowing with electric light. Celine’s fortress. Amelia felt her ribs tighten just looking at it.

He pulled to the curb.

“Thank you,” she murmured, hand on the door handle.

But before she could open it, his fingers touched her wrist.

Just lightly.

Just long enough.

The heat from his skin went through her like flame. Her light—that cursed, beautiful thing—sparked under her skin, flickering behind her eyes.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I know what it’s like to live in someone’s shadow,” he said quietly. “To feel like you gotta shrink just to survive.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Then he let go.

She slipped out of the car without another glance, heart pounding like a drum in her throat. She didn’t look back until she was halfway up the walk—and even then, only once.

He was still sitting there, hands on the wheel, unmoving.

Watching.

Then came the sweetening of the flame.

Nothing transpired for some time, but then by late fall, 1929—Amelia is twenty-six.

It began with the brush of his hand again.

This time, he didn’t pretend it was accidental.

It was a Wednesday. Bible study had ended. Rain tapped soft against the chapel roof. Nathaniel offered her a ride again, and she took it again—this time without hesitation.

He didn’t speak when they reached the house.

Didn’t let go when his fingers grazed hers in the doorway. His touch lingered—thumb grazing her palm, a pause full of something unspoken.

Then he leaned in.

Not to kiss her. Just to look. To be close enough that she could feel the breath between them. Her light stirred beneath her skin, drawn to him like a tide to moonlight.

“You feel it too,” she whispered.

“I’ve been fighting it longer than I can stand.”

And then she was back inside the house, alone, trembling, lit from within like a paper lantern about to catch fire.

That night, she made the jar.

Not for him exactly. Not at first.

She lit a white candle and a blue one. Wrote her full name and his, folded the paper in honey, and pressed it into a small jar with rose petals, brown sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon. She added his handwriting—a scrap from a discarded sermon draft. A sliver of his sermon robe’s thread. A whisper from her mouth.

“Sweeten his thoughts of me. Pull him close, let it build.”

It was half rootwork, half instinct.

Part of her—the fae part—understood how sweetness could snare. How longing could bind. How fire could feed. When the wax melted down, she felt it inside her. Like something opening.

The first time happened days later.

Celine was away—called out to tend to a friend dealing with her own mother’s sudden illness. Nathaniel stayed behind to tend the church. Amelia wandered into the sanctuary just before dusk, barefoot and silent, drawn by something low and humming in the air.

She found him in the pulpit. Alone.

Reading scripture by lantern light.

He looked up when she entered—and didn’t look away.

Neither spoke.

She stepped forward like sleepwalking. He came down from the altar like he had waited a thousand years. And when their bodies touched, it wasn’t desperate—it was inevitable. As if the universe had always planned for this.

He kissed her first. Gentle, reverent.

Then again. Harder. With tongue and grunts.

He lifted her onto the front pew, parted her thighs with trembling hands. Her dress hiked up over her hips. She felt like silk and smoke, warm and wet, breathless beneath him. She let herself open—not just her body, but the light inside her, that golden, forbidden thing.

He got on his knees and spread her flower that bloomed with arousal and inexperience. Nathaniel removed his glasses so they wouldn’t fog his vision. He took one look at Amelia, at the way she glowed like the sun. He delve in for a taste of her and Amelia moaned so angelic.

“You taste so good…this virgin pussy is so good, baby…”

She wanted Nathaniel to be her first. She needed him to break her down.

And he responded to it. Moaned into it. Sank into her like a man starving.

Nathaniel fucked Amelia in that church like he ain’t have pussy in a long time. The sound of their sex echoed within the sanctuary beneath the large cross nailed to the wall. Instead of preaching the word, Nathaniel preached lustrous.

“Pussy so tight…been wanting this pussy for so long…you take me deep, baby…look how you take me…”

He lifted so Amelia could watch. Dress hiked up. The ache had settled into a tingle she was addicted to. The wetness and the heavy girth of him. He had grown man dick and it fucked her with talent and attentiveness. Something the younger men couldn’t give her. Nathaniel hooked her legs over his arms and plowed into her, claiming her pussy as his, thick sweat trickling down and over her.

Amelia gasped with each stroke. Eyes glowing and brows pinched together.

“Yes, Nathaniel! Take me! Take your pussy!”

He groaned.

Nathaniel picked her up and fucked her standing. She glowed in his arms. Powerful. All consuming.

“You tugging on the root of my dick, baby…what kinda pussy you got?” Nathaniel spoke between moans.

“I–I feel like I’m gonna climax!”

Amelia felt Nathaniel hold her legs open further and he dipped her, drilling into her while she clung to his neck. He fucked her so hard her breasts popped out of her silk dress and bounced.

“NATHANIEL!”

Her head lulled back and her eyes crossed. Like she was capturing the holy essence. Nathaniel didn’t stop feeding her broken in pussy with seven inches of fat dick. He felt her grip him up tighter, tugging on his dick like a boa constrictor to its prey.

“You gonna make me cum, Amelia…”

Nathaniel sat her down and dug in her with all he could, sweet moans tickling his ears. He pressed his lips into hers, swallowing her cries of pleasure. Nathaniel felt himself ready to bust.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

Nathaniel pulled out, jerking his hot semen all over Amelia’s pubic hair. He fought to catch his breath.

After, Amelia lay stretched out across the empty pews, chest rising slow.

Nathaniel sat nearby, his head in his hands. Regret already thick in the air.

But Amelia didn’t feel shame.

She felt powerful.

Not over him—though she knew now she had that, too.

But over herself. Her own body. Her own hunger.

Her light hummed low under her skin, fed by touch, by heat, by the release of holding back for so long. Her magic had fed. And it wanted more.

She turned her head toward him, lips still swollen, curls wild across her shoulders.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

“You shouldn’t,” he muttered, eyes dark. “We crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

“But you wanted to.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because the truth was in the way he looked at her now —not like a child or a niece or even a woman from the pews.

He looked at her like she was dangerous.

And she was.

The jar never left her room.

She hid it beneath her bed, in a velvet pouch wrapped with silk thread. The honey inside grew darker over time, thicker—like time itself had settled into it. Like all the sweat and sighs and secrets between them had soaked into the sugar.

She’d light the same candle when she wanted to stir him. And it worked.

He would show up.

Late at night, with excuses and shadows. Under the guise of checking the lock on the side gate. Or coming to leave a Bible in the parlor. Sometimes he’d only linger near her door. Other nights, he’d slip in.

And each time, she gave in.

Not because she was powerless—but because she wanted him. Loved him. Needed him to need her.

He was her first.

The first man to see her, want her, touch her.

And every time he returned, it reminded her: she could keep him.

But she couldn’t keep all of him.

Even as he loved her, he married Celine.

The wedding was a church affair—lace and pearls and lilies. The First Lady of the church, finally crowned. Celine glowed with pride, not love. She wore success like perfume, thick and heavy. Her smile was sharp, her hands cold as crystal.

Amelia stood on the church steps, watching the white doves release, the crowd clapping, her heart folding into itself like paper in flame.

Nathaniel looked at her only once that day.

A glance.

It was all she needed.

Still, it continued.

Behind closed doors. In hotel rooms. Once even in the church office, late on a stormy night when he said he couldn’t help it.

He told her he loved her. Told her he wished he’d met her first. Told her she made him feel young, like God hadn’t given up on him yet.

And she believed it.

But belief doesn’t hold a woman through the night.

Eventually, she began to see other men.

Not because she didn’t love Nathaniel—but because she needed to feel wanted in the open. Not stolen. Not hidden. Not touched only in shadows.

She let young men take her dancing. Let them kiss her neck, slow and soft, on streetcars and porch swings. Let their hands touch her waist in public.

She never slept with any of them.

But Nathaniel saw.

And it worked.

His jealousy flared like a match—sudden, violent, consuming.

“You think I don’t see the way he looks at you?”

“Let him look. At least he’s not ashamed.” Amelia argued back.

Nathaniel never said he was ashamed of her.

But he never said he wasn’t, either.

Amelia kept the jar anyway.

Even when she thought about smashing it. Even when she hated herself for lighting that candle again.

She kept it because it was hers. Because it had worked. Because it was proof that she could take something, shape it, and make it stay. Even when the world told her she was unnatural. Even when Celine gave her that tight, knowing smile across dinner plates and prayed longer every time Amelia passed the salt.

The jar was control.

A spell for sweetness. For longing. For power disguised as love.

But it was still love.

And with every stolen night, Amelia changed.

Her light burned lower, but deeper. No longer wild. No longer flickering.

It smoldered.

Nathaniel never understood how much of her he was feeding. How each kiss—each desperate return—wasn’t weakening her. It was growing her.

She stopped asking him to choose.

Because she knew he never could.

Celine had always been watchful.

She never raised her voice, never accused. But she could peel flesh with a look. And lately, she looked at Amelia too long. When they sat together in the parlor, the silence between them grew heavy. Sticky.

She asked strange questions.

“You still lighting candles in your room at night?”

“You walk with so much light, girl—don’t let it blind you.”

“I remember how your grandmother glowed before she burned out.”

Celine started keeping track of her husband’s hours. Staring longer at his collars. Laying out shirts with starch so sharp it scratched his neck—as if she wanted the marks left behind.

She began sprinkling powders at thresholds, whispering at night behind her closet door. Her altar grew fuller—oils, bones, a cracked jar of molasses.

And when Nathaniel came home one night too quiet, smelling faintly of gardenia and guilt.

The walls of the parlor hummed with silence, too still for midday. Outside, cicadas droned in the heat, their song like static under the thick tension in the house.

Celine sat perched in her velvet chair, her back rigid, hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles paled. Nathaniel was just inside the door, hat still in hand, the sweat of the street clinging to his collar.

“…I ran into Sister Deveraux at the market this morning,” Celine said coolly, eyes fixed on the embroidered cushion beside her. “She said she saw you stepping out of the Hotel Maison. With a girl.”

Nathaniel blinked. He remained still, like prey trying not to spook the huntress. “She must’ve been mistaken.”

Celine finally lifted her gaze. “Don’t insult me.”

He sighed and set his hat on the small table near the door. “Celine—”

“You’ve been slipping!” she cut in, rising from the chair. “Sneaking in late. Avoiding me. You barely touch me anymore. You think I wouldn’t notice?!”

“I’ve been working more. You know the clinic’s short-staffed.” Nathaniel argued in his defense.

“The Lord may forgive liars, Nathaniel, but I am not so generous.” Celine replied spitefully.

That stopped him. He stepped forward, tone low. “You want the truth?”

“I deserve the truth.”

His face faltered, but only for a moment.

“You’ve built this life to be a monument. A museum. No room in it for love. Only appearances. Respectability. You stopped seeing me years ago, Celine.”

Celine’s lips parted, then flattened. “So you find yourself in the arms of some little whore instead?”

The word struck him. His jaw clenched, hands balling at his sides.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done,” he said, voice trembling, not with fear—but guilt, “You think you can shame me into righteousness, but you don’t know the half of it.”

A silence stretched between them like a drawn blade.

Celine’s voice dropped to a hush. “Who is she?”

Nathaniel’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Celine stepped forward, searching his eyes.

“It’s someone close, isn’t it? Someone I know.”

Still, he said nothing.

Her voice broke. “Is it her?”

His silence was answer enough.

Celine staggered back like she’d been slapped.

“My niece?” Her voice cracked. “That girl I took in? That child?!”

“She’s not a child.”

“You raised her with me!”

“NO! You raised her. You used her to fill a silence you refused to face. She was never yours to control.”

“And you think she was yours to take?!” Celine’s hand flew to her chest. “You disgust me.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” Nathaniel said, stepping back toward the door, pain etched deep into the lines of his face.

“No,” she said coldly, “You just wanted to ruin the last good thing you had.”

He stood there for a breath longer, then reached for his hat.

“I’ll come for the rest of my things tomorrow.”

He left without another word. The door clicked shut like the final nail in a coffin.

“I hope she’s worth your soul.”

A day later, Amelia sat cross-legged on the wide windowsill of her small room, overlooking the alley behind the jazz club below. A trumpet floated up, muffled and mournful, while cigarette smoke curled like lazy ghosts around her. Her suitcases sat half-unpacked beside the bed.

She hadn’t meant to stay long. Just long enough to figure out her next move. It had been two days since she’d fled Celine’s house. The walls there had started to close in, thick with tension, judgment, and the shadow of everything she and Nathaniel had done.

She thought she might weep again, but her tears had dried out like the swamp after a long drought.

A knock rattled the door.

Her heart jumped, but when she opened it, no one was there—only a slip of paper tucked under the door.It was Nathaniel’s handwriting.

Room 302. If you’ll still have me.

She looked down the hall, but it was empty.The club downstairs burst into applause, the crowd roaring under the rise of the saxophone. Amelia pressed the paper to her chest, eyes fluttering shut. She didn’t know whether to run or to open the door wider. But in her bones, she already knew what she’d do. The hotel room was Nathaniel’s final goodbye. A discreet room above a jazz club, late one afternoon.

The hallway smelled of sweat, cigarette smoke, and the ghost of old perfume. Room 302 waited at the end, its number brass-plated and tarnished by years of fingertips.

Amelia opened the door slowly.

Nathaniel stood inside, hat in hand, kinky hair damp from the walk in the rain. The soft light from the bedside lamp gilded the edge of his profile, catching the deep lines of guilt etched around his mouth.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“You came,” she said, voice hushed.

“I shouldn’t have,” he answered.

“But you did.”

He shut the door behind him and crossed the room in three slow steps. She stood in a simple cotton slip, her curls loose around her shoulders, face bare but glowing with something that wasn’t of this world.

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said.

She didn’t.

So he did.

His hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped her cheek. “I thought I could stay away,” he whispered, “I told myself it had to end.”

“I know.”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss of a man who planned to stay. It was the kiss of a man starving, who knew the meal was his last. His mouth claimed hers with longing and guilt braided tightly together. Her hands slid beneath his coat, pushing it off his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor.

His fingers moved with reverence, pulling the strap of her slip down her shoulder, tracing the path with his mouth. She moaned softly as he trailed kisses down her collarbone, her breath hitching when he knelt and pushed the fabric down past her hips.

Amelia guided him to the bed.

He worshipped her slowly at first—his mouth moving over her belly, her thighs, between her legs— murmuring prayers in the shape of her name. She arched under him, her body lighting from within like swampfire. The glow behind her eyes pulsed, faint but unmistakable.

When he entered her, it was deep and unhurried, as if he wanted to memorize every sound she made. Her hands pressed into his back, her mouth at his ear. Usually, he couldn’t last inside of her, but this time, he fought the urge to release prematurely. He wanted it last.

“I love you,” she said.

He froze for a second—just a second—and then moved faster, as if to chase the truth back into the dark.

They came together wrapped in sweat and shame and something too sacred to name.

After, he lay beside her in silence, one hand resting on her bare thigh, the other pressed over his eyes. Amelia turned her head to look at him.

“I know you’ll go back to her,” she said.

He didn’t deny it.

“She’s calling you already,” Amelia murmured. “I can feel it.”

He sat up, hands trembling. “I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

“But you already have,” she said, softly.

A wind picked up outside the window, rattling the loose panes. The jazz had long since faded into quiet. Something was stirring beneath the surface of the night.

The sheets were still warm when Nathaniel rose from the bed. The sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across Amelia’s bare skin. She lay on her side, watching him button his shirt with practiced guilt. His collar trembled in his fingers.

“I can feel it, you know,” she said softly, “When you start pulling away, even before you speak.”

Nathaniel paused, knuckles tightening around his cufflink.

“It ain’t about you.” Nathaniel spoke.

“That’s a lie.”

He turned, his jaw hard, lips thinned like a closed door.

“Celine’s been looking at me different. Watching. I come home smelling like… like gardenia and something older. Something that ain’t her.”

“You said she didn’t believe in magic,” Amelia murmured.

“She don’t. But she believe in sin,” He walked over and crouched beside the bed, the weight of his body making the mattress shift, “This can’t go on.”

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled in the sheet.

“Don’t say that. Don’t make this something ugly. You came to me. You followed me here.”

“I was weak.”

“You were human.”

He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing the high arc of her cheeks.

“You’re not, “His voice cracked, “I don’t know what you are, baby, but I can’t be part of it no more.”

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with light. That faint, otherworldly glimmer just under the surface of her brown irises, like a candle’s reflection in a puddle. He kissed her once, too quickly. Then stood and gathered his coat like it was a shield.

She didn’t try to stop him.As the door closed, Amelia sat up in the quiet, the ache settling between her ribs. Outside, a jazz trumpet wailed in a slow, lonely note.

New Orleans, 1932 – Late Night

The parlor smelled of ashes and rosewater.

Celine sat on the floor before the cold hearth, her silk house robe open at the throat, curls unpinned and wild like a storm had passed through her. Candles circled her—red for passion, white for peace, black for truth. She held Nathaniel’s undershirt in one hand, still damp at the collar with the sweat he’d worn out of their home.

Her mother had taught her not to meddle too much with the heart. “A man’s will is like a snake,” she once said. “If you force it into a jar, it’ll still try to bite.”

But Celine didn’t care. Not tonight.

She ground cassia bark with her teeth, letting the heat burn her tongue, and spit it into the bowl. Next came his hair, plucked from the comb in their bathroom. Then a sliver of her fingernail. Her blood, drawn fresh from the palm. Last, a pinch of dirt from the church steps where they married.

She chanted low:

“Come back on bent knee, with guilt in your chest.

Forget her taste, remember mine.

Dream of the wedding bed,

And wake with my name in your mouth.”

The candle flames jumped.

The room trembled—or maybe it was just her heart, fluttering like a sparrow with a broken wing.

She bound the shirt around the bowl with red thread, tied it thirteen times, and buried it in the hearth ashes, whispering, “Let shame drag you home.”

Meanwhile, Amelia feels the shift

Across the city, in a room above a jazz club, Amelia startled awake.

Her breath came fast, heart pounding. The air had turned heavy, like the moment before thunder cracked. She felt it — the pulling. Not from Nathaniel. From something around him.

A spell.

She sat up in bed, pressing her hand to her chest. She could still feel the echo of Nathaniel’s touch, the softness in his voice when he said he didn’t want to leave her again. But something in him was bending now. Like a tree forced against its natural lean.

“Celine,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm the glowing heat rising in her blood—that strange, ancient light that wanted to push back, to unravel whatever had been done.

But she didn’t fight it.

She let him go.

And Nathaniel returns home.

The front gate creaked open as the sun began to rise. Celine had fallen asleep in the parlor, slumped against the velvet arm of the couch. She woke to the sound of keys turning in the door.

Nathaniel stepped in, his coat wrinkled, face drawn, eyes red. He looked like he hadn’t slept—or had dreamed too much.

She rose, wordless.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said.

“You did,” she said, voice soft.

He came to her slowly, like a man walking into a confessional.

“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just—”

“I do.” She stepped closer. “It’s her. She bewitched you.”

He blinked.

“No woman takes another woman’s man without some sort of working. I see the shine on her. Something ain’t clean.”

Nathaniel didn’t argue. He simply sagged into her arms, overwhelmed by guilt, by something pulling him back—home, whatever home meant now.

Celine held him tightly, but her eyes stared into the dark, calculating.

Amelia prepared to leave.

Later that afternoon, the sky hung low and gray. Rain threatened. Amelia stood at the edge of her hotel room, her suitcases packed. Her hands lingered on the window ledge one last time.

The jazz club’s music below was faint, just a memory now.

She hadn’t heard from Nathaniel since dawn. That meant he went back. She felt the severing of it, like someone cutting a thread tied to her soul.

She didn’t blame him. Not entirely.

Celine had deep magic, thick with old pain and old pride. It was the kind of rootwork that clung. But it wasn’t truth. What she and Nathaniel had—that had been something real. Even if it wasn’t meant to last.

She touched the necklace her grandmother had left her —a simple glass bead on a thread of fae silk. It shimmered faintly in her hand.

“I’m going home,” she whispered, and meant it this time.

To St. Landry Parish. To the cypress trees and waterbirds. To the memory of her grandmother. To the swamp that still knew her name.

She turned her back on New Orleans, on the secrets that had bloomed there like poison lilies. And walked out into the rain.

Return to St. Landry Parish

Two Days Later:

The road curved through cane fields and low hills thick with cypress and willow. The train dropped her at a depot that hadn’t changed in twenty years. A single mule cart waited near the platform, and the driver recognized her at once.

“You Vivienne’s girl?”

She nodded. “Amelia.”

He tipped his hat. “Thought you looked like her.”

The ride to the old house was slow and swaying, the path muddied from summer rain. Spanish moss clung to the trees like secrets. Birds called from deep in the swamp, and the air buzzed with that thick, honey-slow stillness she remembered from childhood.

The house stood just where she left it—weathered but proud. White paint peeling from the shutters. Porch swing hanging crooked. Ivy claiming the back chimney.

But it was home.

Amelia stepped up the porch steps slowly, her boots echoing against the wood. She unlocked the door with the same iron key her grandmother had given her at eighteen. When it opened, the smell of old cedar, dried herbs, and dust washed over her like a baptism.

Inside, time had barely moved.

The dried bundles of rosemary and mugwort still hung from the rafters. Her grandmother’s rocker faced the hearth, a folded shawl still draped across it. On the mantle, a cluster of faded photographs, candles burned down to stubs.

She walked through the kitchen, trailing her fingers across the table where her grandmother used to crush herbs in a stone mortar. She touched the cupboard that once held charms and tinctures. A smile flickered across her face, then softened into something lonelier.

She didn’t cry.

She simply breathed.

And then—something stirred.

A creak in the floorboards beneath her grandmother’s bedroom. A memory whispered against her skin. She followed the pull to the far room, the one where Vivienne used to sleep.

Amelia opened the armoire. Beneath folded linens, she found a small chest bound in worn red leather. She lifted it gently, set it on the bed, and opened the clasp.

Inside:

•A bundle of fae silk, soft as spider thread and shimmering faintly in the light.

•A worn journal, its pages edged in gold leaf, written in a looping hand.

•A silver pendant shaped like a flame. When she touched it, her fingertips glowed faintly in response.

She opened the journal.

On the first page, there was writing in her grandmother’s script. Amelia settled down to read it.

To my dearest Amelia. If you are reading this, then you have begun to glow too brightly to hide it anymore. You are not just of this world. You are born of the feu follet—child of the marsh flame, the shimmer between dusk and dark. Your mother was fae. Your father, human. What you carry is both blessing and burden.

Amelia sat down slowly, heart thudding, the words ringing like bells in her ears.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.

I kept your truth from you to keep you safe. But you’ve always known, haven’t you? The way animals follow you. The way you light the dark. The way love burns too quickly in your hands. It is not madness. It is power.

She closed the journal gently, pressing it to her chest. The pendant still pulsed softly in her palm, warm now, alive.

And for the first time in weeks, she wept.

Not for Nathaniel. Not even for the girl she used to be.

She wept for the truth.

For the strangeness inside her finally having a name. For the ache of being other, and the strange peace of finally seeing herself—all of herself—clearly.

She stood, walked to the mirror in her grandmother’s old room, and looked at her reflection.

The soft glow behind her eyes was no trick of the light.

She didn’t need to hide anymore.

The house had settled around her like an old cloak. Floorboards creaked in familiar places. Wind sang through the trees outside. But inside Amelia, something new had begun to stir.

She sat cross-legged on her grandmother’s bed, the red-leather journal resting on her thighs. The pendant still lay against her chest, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat not her own.

She opened the journal again.

The ink was faded, but the writing flowed in her grandmother’s firm, looping script. The pages smelled faintly of rose oil, cinnamon, and smoke.

Your mother’s name was Lysara. She came from the swamps north of Belle Forêt, where the will-o’-the-wisps still gather under moonlight. She was not fully of the Bright Court — not one of their silken elite. No, she was bayou-born. Wildblood. Faeling. And she fell in love with your father, August, a preacher’s son who liked to fish the river bends at dusk. He saw her light one night, followed her flame, and never turned back…

Amelia’s breath hitched. She turned the page.

…Their love was forbidden. Not just by the fae, but by the people. The old women whispered your mother was a spirit. A temptress. They weren’t wrong. She loved fiercely, too much. And when you were born, glowing and quiet and beautiful, she wrapped you in silk spun from her own hair and left you on my doorstep. She kissed your brow and vanished before the sun rose…

Amelia swallowed hard, tears blurring the words. She turned to the next entry.

…I raised you in secret, masking your shine with salves and shadow work. You were always drawn to fire, to love, to water. You didn’t cry like other babies. You hummed. And when you grew, you made animals follow you like you were made of honey…

She reached the last entry.

…You are feu follet, child. A flame spirit. You carry the light of both bloodlines—human and fae—and your glow will always draw hearts, stir longing, cause unrest. You must learn to use it wisely. Love, when it flows through you, can be sweet…or ruinous…

Amelia closed the book, heart thudding. She pressed her lips to the cover as if to kiss the memory of Vivienne, her grandmother, her protector.

Everything made sense now. Why Nathaniel had been drawn in like a man pulled toward flame. Why animals tilted their heads when they saw her. Why her touch stirred heat and hunger, even when she didn’t mean it to.

She had always been half-light.

Now she knew why.

That evening, as the last light bled through the trees, Amelia lit the hearth.

Not out of need—but memory.

She moved barefoot across the floor, gathering the things her grandmother once taught her to use: sweetgum bark, cypress twigs, a pinch of cinnamon. She added dried rose petals to the flame for remembrance, and a drop of her own blood on the coal for truth.

She stirred the fire with an iron poker, then sat before it in silence.

No prayers. No chants. Just her presence. Her breath. The crackle of flame.

The air around her shifted.

It was subtle at first—a warmth blooming in her chest, the scent of honey and night-blooming jasmine curling around her shoulders. A faint shimmer began to thread through the smoke, like silver light dancing between the sparks.

Then she heard it.

A whisper—not with her ears, but inside her blood.

Welcome home, child of fire.

She didn’t flinch.

She let it wash over her.

Outside, fireflies gathered by the window. Inside, her skin shimmered faintly, her heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of the land.

She pressed her hands into the wooden floor, grounding herself. She felt her grandmother’s energy in the bones of the house. Felt the memory of old rituals humming beneath the boards. Felt the swamp lean in, curious, as if the land itself had been waiting for her return.

Amelia closed her eyes.

And for the first time since fleeing New Orleans…since discovering what she truly was—

She felt still.

Whole.

The girl, the lover, the root worker, the flame.

No longer hiding. No longer afraid.

St. Landry Parish – Three Days Later:

It came mid-morning, in a plain envelope, the handwriting unmistakably his—careful, upright, the tail of his s still curling like it did when he wrote scripture notes. She’d received letters from him before.

Amelia stood at the porch with the letter in her hands. Her stomach clenched.

She didn’t open it right away.

She laid it on the kitchen table beside a mason jar of fresh moon water and a sprig of black sage, then stared at it for a long time. The house was still. The birds outside quieted.

Eventually, she unfolded the paper.

Amelia,

I can’t find peace. I see you when I close my eyes. I wake up next to her and feel like a man buried in the wrong grave. I know I hurt you. I know I ran. But I can’t pretend anymore. Please. Just one more time. Let me see you. I’ll come to you if I have to…

Nathaniel.

She folded the letter, hands shaking. Not with longing.

With rage.

He had chosen. And now he wanted to un-choose? Now he wanted to come back, after all he’d torn up in her?

She didn’t burn the letter. She didn’t cry over it.

She just left it there, and walked into the swamp to gather Spanish moss, barefoot and bright with silence.

Dusk – Two Days Later:

The sun sank like a slow coin into the horizon, painting the bayou in deep gold and violet. Cypress knees poked from the water like crooked fingers. Bullfrogs called low in the distance. A heron shifted in the reeds.

Amelia stood waist-deep in the marsh grass near the edge of her grandmother’s trail, skirts hiked in her hands, the water cool against her calves.

That’s when she heard it.

Twigs cracking. A breath she didn’t recognize. A presence.

She turned slowly.

Nathaniel emerged through the moss and brush, soaked in sweat, chest heaving. He looked older somehow. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Amelia,” he said, voice cracking.

She went still.

He took a step forward, but her eyes flashed with something not human. The dusk light caught the shimmer in her irises. Her hair moved like it was alive with static.

“I told you not to come.” Ameila spoke with venom.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, stepping closer. “You wouldn’t write back. I—I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t pray. It’s like you’re inside me now.”

“You don’t get to say that!” she said, voice trembling. “You left me! You chose HER!”

“She put something on me, Amelia! I know it now. I can feel it wearing off. You’re the one I want—”

“No,” she said sharply, stepping back. “You’re just chasing what you broke. You want to fix it, not keep it.”

His eyes darkened. “You think this is easy for me? You think I haven’t been tearing myself apart trying to—”

She raised her hand and he stopped mid-sentence.

“You played with my heart,” she said, voice low and heavy. “You laid in my bed and told me you loved me. Then you left. And now you come into my land like it still belongs to you?”

The air shifted.

Fireflies blinked around her in erratic patterns.

Nathaniel took a step back. “Amelia…”

But it was too late.

The hurt inside her flared—too bright, too wild. It sparked like flint in her blood.

A glow began to rise off her skin, her hair lifting on a breeze that wasn’t there. Her body shimmered like the swamp lights—unearthly, tragic, burning from the inside out.

“I told you not to come,” she whispered again.

Nathaniel stumbled, suddenly disoriented. He looked around like the trees were closing in. The path was gone. The water deepened.

“Amelia?”

The swamp responded, not with words, but with pull. The mist curled, thick and golden, rising from the water like hands. The land had always known her. Now it answered her grief.

Nathaniel tried to move toward her, but his feet sank deeper into the mud.

“Please,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean—”

She screamed.

Not loud, but raw. A sound that cracked the sky open inside her chest.

The light burst from her, sudden and wild.

Nathaniel slipped, hit the water hard. The glow clung to him like fireflies in a storm. He reached for her, eyes wide—

And then the water pulled.

He sank.

She lunged forward too late, hand outstretched.

“Nathaniel!”

Silence.

The ripples calmed.

The birds stopped singing.

The only sound left was the rush of her breath and the glow fading from her skin.

She fell to her knees at the water’s edge, trembling, numb. The swamp watched, impassive. It had only obeyed the wound she carried.

Her light flickered faintly, soft as a candle in mourning.

St. Landry Parish – That Night:

Amelia sat at the water’s edge until the moon climbed high, casting a silver veil over the trees. Her skirt was soaked, feet caked in mud, curls limp with sweat and mist.

She hadn’t moved since the bayou stilled.

The air buzzed faintly, like the magic hadn’t quite settled. A few fireflies still blinked around her, circling close, drawn to the grief that clung to her like perfume.

Her hands trembled in her lap.

She had seen death before.

But never like that.

Never because of her.

Her breath came shallow, uneven. She didn’t cry—not yet. The shock hadn’t cracked enough to let the tears come.

She stared at the place where he went under. No body surfaced. No bubbles rose. Just dark water and memory.

And still, part of her wanted to call his name again. Part of her wanted to believe the swamp might spit him back out—angry, coughing, yelling her name.

But it was over.

He was gone.

And she had done it.

She didn’t walk home. She wandered.

Branches snagged her dress. Mud pulled at her ankles. The night hummed with crickets and frogs, but it felt like the swamp had eyes now—and they were all on her.

By the time she reached the porch, she was shaking.

Inside, she stripped out of her clothes and washed her hands at the kitchen basin. The water ran red-brown with bayou dirt, her reflection warping in the rippling surface.

Her eyes still glowed faintly.

Too bright.

Too much.

She gripped the edge of the sink and finally gasped out a sob.

A single, ugly, sharp noise—ripped from the pit of her.

And then another.

And then she was on the floor, crumpled in front of the basin, the pendant around her neck glowing dim as a dying star. She wept hard, her body folding in on itself like flame snuffed by rain.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered to no one. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

But the land didn’t answer.

The swamp didn’t forgive.

And neither did she.

Now, the sweetening jar she’d made for Nathaniel changes. Inside has darkened. Not rotted — but thickened, like it’s carrying something unsaid. The jar sometimes fogs from the inside without temperature change. When Amelia touches it, she swears she hears faint echoes: his voice, or her own.

The rose petal has turned black at the edges. The note remains intact, but the ink bleeds slightly, as if the words are dissolving over time.

Most strange of all:

The jar has begun to warm when she dreams of him.

It hums faintly.

Soft. Sad. Almost like a heartbeat trapped in glass.

She keeps it in a velvet pouch inside her belongings — hidden, but never far. She tried once to bury it. The next morning, it was back on her windowsill, beads of honey at the lid.

Later that night, she sat in her grandmother’s rocker with the red journal in her lap. She didn’t open it. She just held it, like a child might hold a doll for comfort.

She tried to feel her grandmother’s presence.

Tried to imagine her hands, her voice, her touch.

But all she felt was heat under her skin, like embers buried beneath her flesh.

She knew now what her grandmother meant by blessing and burden.

She had the power to enchant, to glow, to stir hearts.

But she could also burn.

And she had.

“I’m not meant to love,” she whispered, “I ruin it.”

The rocker creaked softly as she moved.

A soft breeze stirred the curtains. Somewhere out there, the swamp was reclaiming him.

She thought about the way Nathaniel had looked—confused, afraid, reaching for her even at the end.

She could still feel his hand brushing hers before he sank.

The ache turned cold.

She rose, walked to the hearth, and placed the journal on the mantle.

Then she lit a single white candle. For the dead.

“For you,” she murmured, “For what we had. And what I took.”

She let it burn until dawn.

The glow didn’t vanish overnight.

It took days of practice. Days of sitting still in her grandmother’s old garden with soil between her fingers and her bare feet pressed into the earth. Days of whispering her own name over and over, as if calling herself back from the edge of becoming something too wild, too luminous.

Amelia learned to ground it.

To slow her breathing when her power flared.

To imagine pulling all that radiance back inside her body like coals drawn under ash. Still warm. But hidden.

She drank teas made from moss and wild yam and cooled her pulse with damp cloths of mugwort and fern. She stitched little sachets of lavender and salt and tucked them into her dress pockets, charms to keep her aura muted.

By the seventh day, even the birds that once lingered near her began to treat her like one of their own again. The fireflies stayed at a distance.

She had tamed her light. Or at least caged it.

No one would suspect now—unless they already knew.

The Visit from Celine:

It was near dusk when Amelia heard the sharp crunch of carriage wheels on gravel. A fine-boned white mare stopped at the edge of the path, its reins held by a man in a clean gray suit—hired help.

From the carriage, Celine descended like she was still stepping off the pulpit stairs: spine straight, jaw set, dressed in black satin like mourning suited her even when there was no funeral.

Amelia met her on the porch with calm eyes and clean hands.

“Celine,” she said, voice smooth.

Celine tilted her chin. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to come this far.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wrote Nathaniel,” Celine said, “He never wrote back. Then I followed his trail. I found your name in the ledger at that hotel on Chartres. I know he came to you.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “He left me too, Celine.”

Celine studied her face like it was scripture, her dark eyes taking in every line, every breath.

“I know he loved you,” Celine said, with the faintest quiver in her voice.

Amelia looked past her, out toward the trees. “And he still went home.”

Silence. Thick as summer heat.

Celine stepped up onto the porch, close enough to smell the rose water in Amelia’s hair. “You’d tell me if you knew where he was?”

Amelia met her eyes. Her voice was steady. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. She had known. Just not anymore.

Celine watched her a moment longer, then relented. Her grief didn’t show on her face, but Amelia could feel it—taut and tight, roiling under the surface.

“Vivienne always said you were too soft,” Celine muttered. “But I see now. You’re just quiet. Not innocent.”

She turned and stepped down. The carriage rolled off with a brittle dignity.

Amelia waited until the wheels were long gone before she sank onto the porch steps and exhaled—deep, full of something that wasn’t quite relief.

She had held her mask. She had passed the test.

But she couldn’t stay.

That night, under a quilt that smelled faintly of dried camphor and cedar, Amelia stared at the ceiling and asked herself where she could go.

Not back to New Orleans.

Not deeper into the parish, where old families remembered her face too well.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift like smoke—and then, like a warm note rising through memory, she saw her.

Annie.

Older than her by seven years, but never unkind. Strong hands, even as a girl, always tugging Amelia’s hair into ribbons or lifting her up so she could reach the sycamore fruit hanging from the tree.

Annie had laughed easily, talked slow, but watched everything. Her eyes were brown-black like polished stones, always catching glints of what others missed.

Her mother had been a healer, one of Vivienne’s few trusted friends.

Sometimes, when Vivienne left for her rootwork rounds, she’d leave Amelia with Annie. They’d sit on the back porch and Annie would braid herbs into Amelia’s curls, telling her stories about bones that danced and crossroads men who could grant you music in your fingers if you gave them something of your soul.

Annie had smelled like sassafras and moonflower, and even as a teenager, there was something grounding about her — like standing in deep water, cool and slow, but never dangerous.

St. Landry Parish, Louisiana — Summer, 1912

Amelia is 8. Annie is 15.

The colored section of Opelousas was a patchwork of red-dirt roads, shotgun houses, and porches that sang with gossip and music. Heat shimmered off tin roofs, and the air was thick with cayenne and the sound of washboards scraping rhythm into the afternoon. Zydeco spilled from radios and mouths like prayers.

Amelia ran barefoot down the road, curls bouncing, a rusted sardine can swinging from her hand. She was looking for crushed bottle caps to turn into charms. Her grandmother said she had a gift for finding the right ones — the ones that still held stories.

But the neighborhood children didn’t see that as a gift.

They called her strange.

“Swamp girl.”

“Creepy eyes.”

“Glows when she get mad.”

She tried to ignore them. But today, they’d followed her. Threw bits of gravel at her back. One boy grabbed her hair and pulled — hard.

“She ain’t right. She’s like a candle about to catch fire.”

That’s when she heard the voice.

“Let her go, ‘fore I put a root on your whole house.”

The kids froze.

Annie stood at the end of the alley, hands on her hips, skirts dusted with red clay. Fifteen and tall for her age, with smooth brown skin and sharp eyes like she’d seen more than most grown folks ever would.

She marched over, pulled Amelia behind her, and stared the boys down.

“You pick on little girls, you gonna learn what your mama’s belt feel like and what a snake root under your bed’ll do.”

They scattered.

Later that day, Amelia sat on Annie’s porch, knees pulled to her chest while Annie oiled her scalp.

“They call me names,” Amelia whispered.

“People fear what they don’t understand,” Annie said, parting her curls with careful fingers. “But fear ain’t the same as truth.”

Amelia relaxed beneath her touch—the rhythm of the comb, the scent of sweet almond oil, the hum of someone who cared.

Inside, Annie’s mama—Miss Geneva—hummed over a pot of herbs and bones. She didn’t talk much, but she’d given Amelia a long look earlier. A look like she’d seen her before. Not her face. Her light.

Later, Amelia overheard her speaking to Annie in a low voice.

“You watch that one. She’s touched. Not just by spirits…by something older. Something that walks between.”

“You mean like a ghost?”

“No. I mean like the wind that stirs before a storm. Like the glint you see in a fox’s eye right ‘fore it disappears. Girls like her shine too bright, baby. And light like that either draws folks in… or burns ‘em up.”

Annie didn’t understand all of it then.

But she remembered.

And so did Amelia.

Years later, when the memories blurred and the road twisted, Amelia would still remember the feeling of Annie’s hands in her hair. The sound of her defending her. The smell of fried okra drifting through the air.

And most of all—that someone had seen her, even if they didn’t yet know what she was.

Amelia hadn’t seen her in years.

But maybe… maybe she’d still be in Clarksdale.

Still working roots. Still living slow. Still sharp-eyed and warm.

Maybe she’d open the door, if Amelia knocked.

She would go to Mississippi.

To Annie.

To whatever came next.

St. Landry Parish – Two Days Later:

Rain tapped gently at the tin roof. The sky outside was overcast, low and thick like it couldn’t decide whether to cry or break open. Inside, the house was hushed. Amelia sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in one of Vivienne’s shawls, a cup of tea cooling beside her elbow.

Before her lay a blank sheet of paper, cream-colored and faintly textured. It looked too fine for what she was about to confess.

She dipped her pen in ink and began to write.

Dear Annie,

It’s been some years since I last wrote, though I’ve thought of you often.

I hope this letter finds you well, and that Mississippi has been kind to you. I heard, some time ago, that you and your mama had set up shop for healing and rootwork near Clarksdale. If she’s still with you, please send her my love.

I won’t pretend I’m writing with lightness. Things have gone dark for me here. My grandmother passed, and I’ve been adrift ever since. I tried staying with family, but it wasn’t right. Not safe, not for my spirit.

I remember how you used to braid herbs into my hair and tell me stories about the ones who walk the in-between. You always seemed to see more than others did—even then.

I need that now. Someone who sees. Someone who doesn’t turn away.

I was wondering if you might have room for one more. Just for a little while. I can work, clean, help with the healing if you still do that kind of thing. I won’t be a burden. I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely.

If it’s not too much to ask, write me back or send word to St. Landry Parish. I’ll wait.

With warmth,

Amelia Broussard

She read over the letter once, twice, and folded it carefully. No magic, no charm worked into the ink. Just truth—the parts she was brave enough to share.

She sealed it, wrote ‘Annie Fontaine, Clarksdale, Mississippi’ across the front, and set it near the door for the next post.

As she stood and looked out the window, she saw a single ray of sun slip through the clouds and strike the cypress trees beyond the fence line. The light shimmered briefly—not fae, not power. Just light.

Hope.

Clarksdale, Mississippi – One Week Later:

It was near sundown when Annie came back from tending old Mrs. Rucker’s hip poultice. The wind carried that earthy Delta scent—mud, cotton, honeysuckle—and the porch boards groaned beneath her sandals the way they always had.

Her mother’s old dog, Duma, lifted his head and huffed, tail thumping.

“Don’t get up on my account,” Annie murmured, grinning slightly.

She stooped to pick up the mail off the porch table— mostly circulars, one letter from Jackson, and then—

She paused.

The envelope was cream-colored. Southern Louisiana postmark. Handwritten in ink that curved gently, like someone who’d been taught to write with care.

The name hit her in the gut like memory:

Amelia Broussard.

Annie didn’t sit to read it. She opened it right there in the slanting light, her rough fingers careful, her heart suddenly tapping like a drum.

As she read, her eyes softened—then darkened. She reached the part where Amelia asked for shelter, and something in her throat went tight.

I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely…

She looked up from the page, the edges of her mouth pulled taut.

“Baby girl,” she whispered, “What’ve ya’ gotten yourself into?”

She folded the letter carefully, pressed it to her chest for a moment, and closed her eyes.

Annie remembered the way Amelia used to hum without knowing it, the strange way cats followed her around the porch like she was dripping cream. She remembered Vivienne’s warning once, years ago: “That child shines too bright. Best hope she learns how to shade herself before someone tries to bottle her up or burn her down.”

Annie didn’t write back.

She just set a bed with fresh sheets, cleared out the back room, and told herself: When she comes, I’ll be ready.

Arrival in Clarksdale

Four Days Later:

Amelia stepped off the train in Clarksdale with a small suitcases and a tired heart. The heat clung to her like breath on skin—Mississippi thick, sun low and orange in the sky.

The town moved slow. Mules in the street, voices floating from storefronts, blues drifting faintly from a porch radio.

She felt exposed, but no one looked too long. She had dulled her light well.

Still, the closer she got to Annie’s house, the more her stomach knotted.

What if Annie didn’t want her anymore? What if she had changed? What if—

Then the door opened.

Annie stood barefoot in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a smear of flour on her cheek.

She looked at Amelia once, just once, and all the worry in Amelia’s chest crumbled.

“Get on in here,” Annie said, voice low and warm like river silt. “You look like you been run ragged.”

Amelia didn’t speak. Her throat was too full.

She stepped forward and Annie opened her arms without asking. Amelia melted into them like rain into soil. Annie held her close, one hand behind her head, the other stroking her back with long, patient movements.

“You ain’t gotta say a word yet,” Annie murmured. “You’re safe now.”

And Amelia believed her.

In that porch-light dusk, wrapped in the scent of woodsmoke and magnolia, something inside her exhaled.

@blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams @rolemodelshit

[sweetfwr]

(TEASER!) ROSES & RETRIBUTION ˒˒ sjy

when you are accepted into solstice academy on a scholarship, you seek revenge on the illustrious park family, the very people that took away the life of your best friend. park sunghoon, an attendee of solstice, is sloppy, unaware of his surroundings, and completely out of touch- the perfect target for a clean assassination. the only problem? his irritatingly loyal best friend jake, who happens to be student council president, the son of one of the 7 families pulling strings in the academy, and the man you would later refer to as your greatest love.

pairing) jake sim x f!reader

tags) revenge story, old money themes, enemies to lovers, academy au, angst, love triangle

wc) SOON

now playing) slow down - chase atlantic

fast cars, daddy's rolex, private jets, chauffeurs, and all the damn power they could ever want. the rich kids of solstice really do have it all, emphasis on the fast cars.

it’s after midnight when the crowd of invite-only elites from solstice gather around the edge of the old mountain road, the air thick with cigarette smoke, expensive perfume, and the rumbling of engines ready to burn. students laughed together, leaning on super cars and sipping on champagne flutes like nothing in the world mattered– like they were untouchable. maybe they were.

across the lot, jake is sliding into his matte black lotus, the engine purring like a beast ready to pounce. his eyes flicked up once, right at the jacket covering your skimpy outfit, before his helmet went on. you almost scoff. you haven’t spoken to him since that night in his room, and you don’t intend to.

he had grabbed your wirst a little too tightly, warning you of what it meant to go against the park family. begging, pleading with you to stop with a strain in his voice, as if he knew what you could and couldn’t handle.

a sleek silver porsche rolls up next to jake’s car, undoubtedly belonging to sunoo. he steps out for a brief moment, tossing his keys to an underclassman with a smirk as his eyes scan the crowd for something, or someone.

once those hazel eyes land on you, or more specifically, what you’re wearing, you gulp inwardly.

“you wore it,” sunoo smiles lazily, approaching you confidently, but not without the envious stares of his brainless fans. “my jacket.”

“it’s cold,” you say dryly, but that does nothing to quell the fire you’ve stoked. his ego is sky high, and you can practically taste it in the air.

“is this what the rich do when they’re bored?”

“what, you think we play golf?” he snorts, helmet secured at his side. “stay for a while, doll. i’ll make it worth your time.”

it’s then that he saunters towards his car, and it hits you– he would be racing tonight. against jake. you can practically feel his eyes on you from the black lotus across the venue.

why wouldn’t they be? you were standing on his turf wearing another boy’s jacket like he hadn’t kissed you silly a few nights ago, hot and heavy and in the privacy of his student council dorm. it was driving him crazy, and it was no secret to anyone how much the thought of jake sim lying awake at night, incapable of thinking about anything but you, pleased you.

your lips twitch– just a little.

the crowd stirs when the cars roll up to the starting line, engines revving and headlights blazing through all the heavy smoke. music thumps in your ears, and your heartbeat grows faster with every cheer and rev of an engine. you’re positively thrilled, and you can’t say you don’t love it.

and then you hear it. hushed and low, but unmistakable. “they’re racing for her, aren’t they?”

you know better than to deny it.

lee heeseung steps forward and in between the two cars, a cigarette in one hand and a checkered flag in another. with a raise of his hand, sunoo settles into the driver’s seat like a prince on a throne, and jake adjusts his leather gloves from inside the lotus, shoulders tense. his gaze flicks to you once, then forward again, like a man on a mission.

the flag drops.

and then they’re gone.

metal and absolute madness. sunoo is reckless, silver beauty swerving at every curve as jake matches him turn for turn, not quite ahead of him yet but racing like a shadow that can’t be shaken. the cheering of other solstice students is deafening, but you can’t blame them. it’s not every day you see the golden boys at each other’s throats, especially not at the race tracks.

by the halfway point, it becomes clear; they’re racing to wound, not win. sunoo’s reckless confidence is almost dazzling, he hugs cliffs like he’s unafraid of death as he pushes his very limits. jake isn’t far behind, cold and calculated, clinical and furious.

when they hit the last bend, sunoo hits the brakes almost too late. it’s a near disaster, his car skids, but he swerves just in time to avoid driving over the cliff.

jake doesn’t hesitate.

he pulls forward, winning the race and making the crowd go wild. but he doesn’t stop to soak up the praise. instead, he’s stepping out of the black lotus, throwing his helmet to the ground, and storming towards you like a man deprived.

you’re somewhere in between wanting to disappear and hold your ground when he confronts you.

“is this fun for you?” jake says coldly, and the crowd begins to murmur and gasp, some even whispering about a fight. “watching us tear each other apart?”

“you did that to yourselves.” you say dryly, and he scoffs.

“because of you.”

“she never asked us to fight.” sunoo shrugs from behind him, having already rolled up on his purring porsche like he didn’t almost skid off the cliff minutes earlier. ”this is about you and your damn savior complex.”

jake turns to him so fast it looks like he might swing.

sunoo’s still leaning against his car, hands in his pockets like this whole situation matters little to him. “you want to save her from solstice. from me. but have you ever considered that she doesn’t want your help?”

jake turns to you. “is that true?”

you don't say anything because you don't know, at least not yet. instead, you’re caught in between two boys and their unwavering egos like you came to this school to play a part in a twisted love triangle and not your revenge.

you suppose revenge was the plan, desire was the collateral. it was never supposed to be about them— until it was.

slowly, you raise your eyes to meet sunoo’s and they’re twinkling dangerously. as if to tell you something.

i told you i’d make it worth your time.

like 4 tag once released?

© SWEETFWR

[rottingworship]

Bloodlust

[The Proxies x Reader]

Summary: You, a newly turned vampire, find yourself with a new group of friends. One night, things get dicey, leaving you running. When you are found, you come to the conclusion you are very frustrated. Your new friends are more than willing to help you out.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI! Depictions of murder, blood drinking, biting, praise, vaginal sex, cream pies, oral (male receiving), vaginal fingering, voyeurism, not so healthy relationship dynamics, not beta read (let me know if I missed any!)

Word Count: 7.1k

A/N: They/Them pronouns used for reader, but reader has a vagina. I have a second part of this planned. It will be more rough and definitely not as sweet as this one. I have a lot in mind for Vampire!Reader. The vampires aren't based off any particular media, either. Just a mesh of medias, I guess! this was supposed to be posted in October, but you get it now instead... this was me getting used to writing four characters at once, the next part will be very fun!

Being a vampire is new. Being able to smell everything, hear everything, and see everything is new. Your strength is something you never could have imagined. Sunlight is annoying now, practically burning you. Your body is always cold. You don't have to breathe, but it is something you are still used to doing. And every fucking time you inhale you are greeted with new scents.

Bloodlust though?

That's something you would not wish on your worst enemy. You almost wished you were dead when you woke up from being freshly turned. Or ‘saved’. Your throat was on fire and your entire body burned. Burned for something you did not want, but something you now needed.

Your first kill was horrid. Blood covered you and the victim. You wanted to sob but being a vampire does not let you do such human things.

Now? It's been almost three months since turning, and while you have a dysfunctional but somehow working support system around you, things still suck. Sometimes you wish you had not been spared. You wonder if this is a fate worse than death. But your friends do make it bearable. They keep you fed and do not seem to be judging you when you do happen to get messy. There is only one problem.

They all smell absolutely delicious.

Tim and Brian smell slightly better than your average human. You cannot help but wonder if your brain is playing tricks on you, since you are so close to them. You think that maybe you love them so much they now smell better than most. Toby is a slightly different story. He smells better than anything you can even remember loving as a human. You want to bite him and never let go. Ever. Your brain tells you to attack anytime he enters the room. ‘Latch on and do not release’ is all you seem to hear.

You have yet to have an incident around the men. They are careful with their sharp objects, and you are careful with your sharp teeth. There has been no instance where you have smelled them actively bleeding. Not until Toby decides to get your food by himself.

“Y– You-your eyes are changing.” Toby notices before anyone else. Normally, at least now that you aren't human, your eyes are red. Blood red. When hungry they get darker, until eventually, they are black. “I'll go get-get you some fresh bl-blood.”

He leaves before you can protest. Some time passes, about two hours, and Toby has not returned. He is pretty quick with his outings. You have grown anxious.

“Tim!” You shout as you walk down the hall, “Brian! Toby left and hasn't come back!” Brian's door opens first. Then Tim pokes his head out. You pout at the both of them and wait for them to come out of their rooms.

“Well shit,” Tim starts, “I sure wish we had something better than a bloodhound to find him.”

“Yeah, that'd be fucking insane.” Brian smirks at you.

“Ok, guys, I get it. I can smell him, but-” you fidget slightly, “I don't trust myself.” The mood shifts immediately. They both sigh and step out of their rooms. They meet you in the hall and you let them take the lead. “I can hunt him down. I just need my accountability partners.” You force a smile. You are joking, but only slightly.

“Accountability to not fucking murder Toby?”

“Suck him dry,” Brian laughs, “and not in the way he wants!”

Tim snorts. You blink at them. You stop and cross your arms. “Now is not the time for jokes…”

“I'm really not joking,” Brian shrugs and keeps walking.

You ignore him. A scent like nothing you've ever smelled before hits your nose and you almost moan. You cover your mouth and freeze. Your eyes widen and you look at Tim and Brian. “He's somewhere near.” It's taking all of you to not sprint towards the scent and devour him. “Someone is with him. I can smell more blood, that isn't his.”

Tim mumbles a ‘damn’ under his breath and you begin to take the lead. Toby is obviously hurt somewhere, potentially fighting someone off for you, and you need to find him. And not kill him. As you get closer the smell is taking over everything. A trail of blood appears before you. You stop yourself from figuring out if it is Toby's or whoever else is bleeding with him.

You see it, some man sprawled out, bloody and dying on the fall leaves. You begin to approach the body, hoping that if you feed, the want, no need, to ‘suck Toby dry’ leaves you. You do not get that far. A leaf crunches beside you, and Toby appears. Your head snaps towards him and you inhale sharply, your eyes narrowing. Your fists ball up immediately. He waves at you, says hi, and all you can do is hope you don't pounce. Your eyes scan him, and you see his thigh is slashed.

“Hey,” you hear Tim call your name. Blood is steadily coming from the cut on Toby’s thigh. You see it. Your eyes, dark and full of hunger, do not move from Toby. The need to feed is becoming stronger than the want to keep Toby safe. Toby does not move. It is almost as if he knows he's become the prey. Another crunch of leaves and a hand is grabbing your face. Harshly. “Hey.” Tim sounds much sterner. “Look at me. Focus on me.” Tim’s thumb rests on one cheek while his fingers grip on the other.

“I– I can't.” You want to sob.

“Okay,” Tim nods, “focus on that body.” He points to the twitching body on the ground by your feet.

Without thinking, you drop down on your knees. You grab the body violently; hatchet marks cover them. Your teeth sink into the soft flesh of the neck, and you begin to feed. You let out a low primal growl. Tim, Toby, and Brian, all watching you. Normally, they let you feed in peace. They never had watched you before. And now, here they are, staring at you, the back of your head burning from their stares.

You pull back from the neck and begin to bite and suck down the arm, getting as much ‘food’ as possible. Blood covers you. Your hands, mouth, and throat. By the time you are done you wish to cry. But you cannot. You are stuck, sitting with a bloody, dead body. Your friends are surrounding you. And your bloodlust is still lingering.

You turn towards Toby and watch him closely. Brian seems to have a sort of makeshift tourniquet on Toby’s thigh. The scent is still so strong. Your eyes hit a bloody knife inside the dead man's hand. The one he used to cut Toby.

“Don't-” Brian seems to know what you're looking at; know what you're thinking. You don't listen. Your hand snatches up the knife and you are quick to lick the blood up. Your eyes screw shut and you almost shiver. It is heavenly. It is not enough. Your head snaps towards Toby again and with a speed faster than the others can process, you are on him. He is on the ground faster than he knows it and you are leaning over him.

“Toby–” you growl, teeth gritting together, fangs bared.

“D-do it.”

Tim and Brian are frozen, watching in horror. You are much stronger than the both of them. You are stronger than the three of them put together, there is nothing they can do.

“Go a-ahead.” Toby is smiling under his muzzle. You are straddling him, pressing against his stomach, and your hands holding his shoulders down. You let out an animalistic noise, lowering yourself closer to Toby. His heart is pounding in his chest. He is not afraid though.

Far from it, actually.

It clicks. How he feels clicks in your head, and you are almost sent into a worse frenzy. You let out a strangled groan and leap up from Toby, and tear off deeper into the woods, going the exact opposite direction of your home.

Once your head is finally on straight, and you can think without wanting to murder, you find yourself on the outskirts of the city. Your shirt and pants are slightly ripped up from running through the thickest part of the woods. You, naturally, are unscathed. You cannot bring yourself to go home yet. You cannot hurt Toby. Dried blood covers you. It’s stuck to your skin; you feel it more than ever; painfully aware of how it’s dried and caked onto you in some areas.

You need to stay out of the sight of people, you know this. You don’t think that anyone is going to react normally to you. As you walk beside the almost empty road you look up at the sky. The moon is full; the stars are shining brightly. You sigh. Out of the corner of your eye you see headlights approaching, and they pass you just as quickly as they appeared. You look back at the road ahead of you and wrap your arms around yourself.

You hear tires screeching from behind you and the car that just passed turns back around, heading right for you. You look back at the blinding headlights and realize it is Brian’s car. You scrunch your face. You turn and keep walking. The car comes up beside you, and Brian rolls the window down. He looks over at you, your name rolling off his tongue. You do not look over.

“You aren’t running,” Brian states.

“Thank you for letting me know.” You huff.

“You don’t want to run,” Brian’s words make you stop. He pulls ahead a bit before pulling over on the side of the road. He gets out of the car and approaches you. “Listen,” Brian sighs, “something is going on–”

“No shit!” You snap. If you could, you would be crying right now. Everything is so much; everything is so, so amplified. You do not want to feel the need to eat the people who saved you. But here you are. Even now, you are keeping yourself from inhaling. You know Brian isn’t bleeding, and you are not hungry anymore, but your earlier actions have startled you. “I could have killed Toby! And you wouldn’t have been able to stop me!” You grip yourself tightly, holding your ripped sweater like a lifeline.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Brian comforts you. “You didn’t kill him. Toby really liked that anyway.” He smiles at you. A goofy grin. Your eyes drop to the road, and you instinctively suck in air, and you sigh out in frustration. Brian’s scent floods you. Your eyes look up at him and narrow. “Um,” He wants to take a step back, but he does not, “are you okay?”

Your brows furrow, sadness taking over. “I don’t… I don’t know.” You shake your head. “Brian?” He hums in response, and you continue. “I haven’t told anyone, but the three of you, especially Toby… You all smell different.”

“Like, stinky?” He seems concerned.

“Uh, no.” You laugh nervously. “Opposite, actually.” You rub your arm, comforting yourself. “You and Tim smell a lot better than the normal person, and Toby? He smells absolutely heavenly. That’s why I nearly lost it earlier. He smelled way better than that person he had handpicked for me to feed from. I can smell you guys even when you aren’t bleeding. It’s a lot. But bearable. I didn’t realize how much active bleeding would amplify it.”

“You didn’t realize?” Brian asks. “It’s out, it’s going to smell better. I would assume.”

“I know!” You want to yell. “I didn’t think… I’m just– Ugh!” You throw your hands up and walk past Brian, heading back towards the unknown.

Brian groans, spins around, and grabs you. “Stop.” You do not pull away. “You aren’t running, once again, you don’t want to run. If you did, you’d be gone by now. Look,” Brian stays where he is; behind you, holding your arm. You peek over your shoulder at him. “I know you don’t want to leave-”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“That’s not the only reason you stay.”

“I don’t know why you came out here. I just tried to fucking kill Toby. He could have died, and so could you.”

“I’m here because we obviously want you around. You’re going through something, and we are not going to just let you leave because of that.”

You deadpan, “I’m also useful to you guys, and The Operator. I know that’s why I’m kept around. I’m surprised he didn’t try to stop me when I left.” You roll your eyes.

“Come on.” Brian maneuvers around you, “I can’t lie, you are useful. But you’re also kind and funny. And really hot.” Brian shrugs. “So,” he motions towards the car, “please get in the car and come back with me.”

You blink at him, baffled. “Hot?” You almost scream. “What the fuck!?” You throw your hands up again. Brian is caught off guard. You let out a loud groan and debate on flipping his car and leaving. You look towards the car and back at Brian.

“What are you thinking…?” Brian is cautious.

“I'm just frustrated!” You do scream this time. Eyes shut tight and fists balled.

Brian takes a moment before speaking. “Sexually?” He asks, completely nonchalant.

“Maybe!” You look at him, huffing. “Maybe…” You speak a little quieter. You throw your head back and whine. “I just need to shower…”

Brian motions towards the car again. “You can do that at home.” Home. You freeze. It is your home. It has been for a few months now. You, in discomfort, make a face at Brian. He groans, “What now?”

“How do you trust me? I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You won’t.” Brian begins to walk towards the car. “Now come on.”

You are stuck. “Really, why do you think I wouldn’t hurt you?”

“Because I trust you, let’s go.” As soon as Brian says this, you shake your head. You need more answers. “I see the way you stare at us; you won’t hurt us.”

You look up at the sky, “Not intentionally-” Your nose burns. You inhale slowly and the feeling of wanting to pounce is returning. You look back at Brian and see him approaching you, a cut across his palm. He’s holding his hand up and out, his palm facing upwards. You are frozen, fighting the urge to destroy him. “Brian,” You whisper, eyes narrowing, “What are you-”

“I’m showing you something.”

“What if I kill you…?” You take a step back and he keeps on walking. He reaches you, his hand going towards you. “Brian, I’m being so fucking serious… I can’t control-”

“You aren’t starving anymore. You won’t hurt me. You can control it. You did earlier with Toby, and I don’t smell as good as him-”

“Brian…” You can’t look away from his cut. “Can I-”

“Go ahead.”

You, realizing how much stronger you are than him, make sure to gently grab his hand. You are thinking everything over a million times before you do it. The world is spinning and standing still at the same time. Brian is right, you are not starving, so you should not want to absolutely murder him. But you have not tested your self control to this level before. Your tongue runs up his palm and you feel Brian shiver. Your eyes shut and your fangs scrape his skin, ever so gently.

You let out a muffled moan as you slowly suck on the wound. Brian’s knees buckle. His hand tenses and you freeze. You do not want to pull away, your instincts are telling you to continue to drain him. But who you used to be is telling you to let him go. Your grip on him tightens as you battle with yourself. Then you hear Brian stifle a groan.

Immediately, you release him. You pull back and look at him with wild, animalistic eyes. You cock your head at him and wipe your mouth. “Sorry, are you alright?”

Brian nods, “More than alright…” He pauses briefly, “That’s not going to turn me, is it?”

You shake your head. “No, it will not. Did that hurt?” You bite the inside of your lip. “Because I've only ever killed people when feeding… And those people are most definitely not enjoying it.” You laugh.

“It, uh,” Brian is thinking, searching for the right words, “it felt good. It stung at first, but when you started to… ‘feed’, it felt amazing.”

You nod at him. “That makes sense. The man that turned me into a vampire, um, he said that” you gather your thoughts, “when one feeds from a human, there is a sort of like… Chemical, maybe? That will react with the human's blood, making them feel good. So, they don’t fight back as much. But it doesn’t turn the person. That is the actual ‘vampire venom’ that does that, but that burns. I know that from experience. The one that makes you feel good though? That wears off, eventually. Especially before death.”

“That would have been good to know before we almost killed your victims for you.” Brian smiles at you. “Can we go back now?”

“Sure, I guess.” You look at the wound again. “Let me fix that first.” You tear the hem of your already ripped sweater, getting just enough of the fabric to bandage his hand. You quickly wrap it up and pat it. “The feeling of pain will come back soon; we need to get home.”

The both of you make it to the car. You sit in the passenger seat, watching the road ahead of you, even if you are not even moving yet. Brian sits down and shifts. You inhale; you smell it again. Arousal. You know it isn’t your own. You are aroused as well though. You lick your lips and Brian’s blood is still on them, you grumble. You need more of him. You refrain. You rub your hands down your thighs; you are becoming antsy. Your brain is having a hard time wrapping around everything that is happening.

A hand is placed on yours. You look over at Brian, he gives you a reassuring smile. You bite the inside of your lip and calm down. You smile back at Brian and relax in the seat. Brian starts the car and as soon as the key is turned over his hand is on your thigh. You look over at him and wish for him to move his hand up. Further up your leg. You briefly think about moving his hand up your thigh, but before you can, Brian speaks up.

“I know that look in your eyes.” His eyes are back on the road; he doesn’t even look back over at you as he squeezes your thigh. “You’re about to do something.” He laughs. “You’re all bloody right now though. How about, after you get home and shower, we can… fix your frustrations.”

“I would like that.” You nod slowly. Getting home cannot come fast enough.

The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. The radio is turned down, so there is no noise. Brian’s hand is stuck to your thigh, squeezing it every once in a while. You have to hold back a moan. You want to latch onto Brian for a much different reason now.

He pulls up to the house and you jump out of the car. You shut the door and rush inside, scurrying to grab your things and jump into the shower. As you turn on the water, you hear Brian come into the house, you hear Tim ask him what happened. You hear Toby’s door open. You hear everything over the rushing water.

You try to not eavesdrop, but it is truly so hard when you can hear them like they are next to you. You hum softly, hoping your noise cancels out their speaking. It does not.

“What happened to your hand?” Tim asks Brian, and then quickly asks where you are.

“They’re showering.” It is all he gives his friend.

“What happened t-to your h-hand?” Toby sounds irritated.

Brian knows must know you can hear them. He says to ask you when you get out. How polite. You wash yourself as quickly as possible, and step out of the shower. You hear them start talking again.

“How did you find them?”

“Bloody, on the side of the road.” Brian starts. “We had a nice talk, and they vented their frustrations to me.” Okay, he knows I can hear him, you think to yourself.

“Wh-what kind of frustrations?” Toby asks. “Sexual?”

How the fuck do they all know? You want to scream. There is no response. You are certain Brian nodded at Toby. You get dressed and walk from the bathroom, take your clothes to the laundry closet, you hear mumbling, low and quiet. You can barely make out what they are saying. They immediately shut up as you walk in. You cross your arms and look at the three all standing around each other. They all turn to you at the same time, eyes boring into you. You want to scream.

“What the fuck did you say?” You look at Brian with confusion. You roll your eyes when there is no answer. “Why are you all three standing there… Conspiring against me?”

“Oh!” Toby smiles at you. With his muzzle off, his grin is frightening, leaving your stomach flipping. “I-I would say it’s the opposite of con-conspiring against you, dear.”

You are stuck. Toby is the first to step towards you. He’s wearing a black tank top and gray sweatpants. His cut has been bandaged completely; you can tell because the scent of his blood is not as strong as it was before. He still smells so good though, you are sure you are going to lose your mind.

“What happened to Brian’s hand?” Tim asks, snapping you out of your trance.

You look at Brian for reassurance. He nods, giving you the okay to share what happened. You look back at Tim. “He was proving a point to me,” You start, “that I can control myself.” Toby loses it. He twitches and his jaw clenches, before relaxing and he finally speaks. “You-you drank fr-from, from him?” He narrows his eyes at you, pointing at Brian.

“Yes.”

“And it was fucking hot!” Brian boasts.

You groan, placing your face in your hands. “Today's been a lot,” You are suddenly rethinking the earlier proposal from Brian. “I'm sure you are all tired–”

“No.” They all speak at once. Then Brian takes over the conversation. “We don't have to do this. But, I want you to know, we are here for you. No matter what you need.”

No matter what you need. There are heavy implications behind that. You can feel them. How he holds himself says it all. Tim and Toby seemingly agree. Toby is biting at the fucking bit to get to you; you can feel it. He is holding himself back extremely well. He shifts and you inhale slowly. They are all so aroused. Your jaw clenches and your eyes shut tight. You need to think.

“I've never done this.” You open your eyes and stare at the three of them. Toby’s head tilts and you notice his hand twitch. He is excited. “Had a threesome. I mean, I haven't done anything since being turned. What if I hurt one of you?”

“You-You won't. If you d-do, we-well we ha-have a wooden ste-steak.”

“You'd put me down? Just like that!?” You almost scream at him. Toby finds it funny.  You roll your eyes and cross your arms. “Really…” You stomp your foot a little bit. “I would not be able to live with myself if I accidently hurt one of you. And also, how are you going to decide who goes first?” You cock a brow at them.

“Me! M-Me! Brian got lu-lucky already, it's m-my turn!” Toby almost launches himself at you.

“Oh! So what am I? Chopped liver?” Tim grunts.

You have never had this much attention. It almost sends you into a spiral. “I promise, you'll all get a turn!” You put your hands up and speak without thinking. This ignites a fire in the men that is worse than whatever was going on before. They look like they are going to go absolutely mad to get to you. Toby immediately reaches for you. Without missing a beat, you are on the other side of the couch, staring at them.

“Ah,” You click your tongue. It clicks how much power you have at this moment. “I want to go over ground rules before we start this.” They all nod eagerly at you. “I need you all to tell me if it's too much. If I'm holding you too tightly or draining too much blood.”

“That it?” Tim crosses his arms at you.

You tap your chin. “I heal really quickly. Bite me, leave hickeys, do whatever. But–” You put a finger up, “Nothing too violent. I'm afraid if you happen to hit me I won't stop draining your blood. And then I'll have to face something I'd rather not even look at.”

“Sounds good enough.” Brian nods.

“Now,” You bite the inside of your lip, “I want to try something, if you're okay with it Toby?” He is the most excited. “I'll need my accountability partners here with me though.” You smile at Tim and Brian. They agree. “I want to taste you, if you're okay with that?” You know his answer. You need it verbalized.

“Y-yes! I tho-thought you wo-would never ask!”

“What am I supposed to do? If you start killing him?” Tim seems curious. More curious than concerned.

“I don't know!” You smile at them, shrugging. “Do you want to do this out here? Or on a bed?”

Toby sits on the couch and excitedly pats his lap. “H-Here. Th-the couch.” You nod. You stalk towards him, the thought of feeding from him is doing something for you. You stop in front of him.

“Toby?” Your eyes move from his eyes to his thigh, back to his eyes. Toby hums in response, slightly agitated you have not sat on his lap yet. “Um,” You purse your lips, “You don’t mind being, uh, naked in front of your friends do you?”

Toby laughs. “No.” His answer is short and sweet.

“Okay,” You nod, “take your pants off.”

Toby obliges. “Th-thought you w-would n-never ask.” He slides his sweats off, and he is not wearing any underwear. You bite your lip, seeing his cock is already hard. You drop to your knees immediately and scoot completely up to him. Toby’s hand instinctively rubs at his cock as you situate yourself, precum dripping from the head.

You grip the couch cushion and look at the bandage on Toby’s thigh. “Mind if I-”

“Please,” Toby whines. “Do so-something. I’m-I’m begg-ing.”

You rip the bandage away and stare at the wound momentarily. It definitely is not as bad as it seemed earlier. Your pupils are dilated, and you look up at Toby, wide eyes watching him, waiting for consent to go wild on his wound. You cannot even muster the will to ask if you can, you lick your lips and as soon as the brunette nods at you, your grip tightens on the couch cushions.

You know if you grab his legs you are going to bruise him. You do not take into consideration he would like that. Your eyes shut and you lick a stripe across the cut. You moan. Loudly, you moan into his thigh. One of the cushions pops under your white-knuckled grip. Foam comes out from between your fingers and Toby whimpers. This sends you into a fucking frenzy.

You let out a low, primal growl. Your eyes shoot open and meet Toby’s. His hand is working on his cock, stroking it. Tim and Brian are standing behind the couch, watching you become feral looking. They are turned on too. You can smell arousal all around the room.

“Bite- Bite me.”

You smile against his skin. You oblige. What sort of person could deny such an airy, whiny request? Not you, that is for sure.

Your eyes stay on Toby’s; you do not look away. Your fangs gently sink into his skin, and you let out a low groan. Fuck. You are not sure if you can let go now. You do not want to. Your tongue laps up the blood, and you begin to suck on the place you just bit. Your eyes shut, a shiver going down your spine, and your hand grabs Toby’s thigh.

Your nails dig into the skin. Toby shifts and you know he cannot feel the pain, but you do not want to cause any harm to him. But, at the same time, you want to drain him dry. He tastes divine.

“Do you feel it?” Brian asks, voice low. “The euphoria?” His hand is on the back of the couch; he is looking right at Toby.

Toby moans, and then softly whines. “Y-Yes.”

While Brian is asking Toby that question. Tim is focused on you. While it is completely sexy what you are doing, he does not want Toby dying. Tim says your name, trying to catch your attention, but you do not immediately pull away. Tim walks from around the couch and his hand hits your shoulder. A possessive growl escapes you. Tim does not falter. He snatches your shoulder back and you release Toby. Ready to latch onto whatever is stopping you. You do not register it as Tim at first. Just some threat stopping you from feeding.

“Hey,” Tim’s voice is low and stern. “You drank enough.”

Red warmth covers your mouth, throat, and chest. Your fangs are bared at Tim and your grip is tight on Toby’s thigh. Tim grabs your face and lowers himself to your level. You are still on your knees.

“You know,” He starts, “I’d kiss you right now, if you weren’t covered in Toby’s blood…”

This snaps you out of it. You pause briefly. Your eyes are back to normal, pupils blown from ecstasy. “You would?” Your face softens.

“Come- Come on!” Toby groans. “Thi-This dick is-isn’t g-gonna suck itself.”

You look back at him and bite the inside of your lip. Tim releases your face and shoos you back to Toby. You crawl back to him, resuming your earlier position.

“I would like to note,” You start, “I have not sucked dick since getting fangs. I’m so sorry if-”

“Don’t be.” Toby swallows hard. “Pl-Please, just- just do s-something.”

You licked over the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding long enough to get Toby off. He can take care of it after you are done with him. You wipe your mouth with your hand, quickly wiping the blood away. One of your hands rests on Toby’s thigh and the other goes towards his cock. Toby twitches as you touch him. He whimpers again as you touch him. You gently pump up and down and place your mouth over the tip. You begin to take him into your mouth, and you quickly realize you do not have a gag reflex anymore.

Your eyes open and look up at Toby. He is watching you closely, not daring to look away. “Keep- Keep looking at m-me.”

His voice is whiny, but he sounds so demanding at the same time. You follow his instructions. You moan as you suck his dick, head bobbing up and down. Your eyes don’t break away from Toby’s. One of your hands goes towards the heat between your legs. You moan again as you touch yourself.

Toby is slowly coming undone. Your pace on Toby picks up as your thumb finds your clit. It is becoming difficult, keeping up with everything. Making sure you do not hurt Toby, bringing yourself pleasure, and making Toby feel good. It is all so much.

“I’m-” Toby’s voice is airy, “-close.”

Toby has been restrained, but as soon as your eyes shut, ecstasy close to washing over you, Toby seems to sense that. His hips begin to buck into you; your hand was not there to restrain that. You gasp, shocked at the sudden movement, and your eyes open back up, wide and full of surprise.

Toby releases into your mouth. You, without thinking, swallow. You pull back from Toby and let out a growl. “Toby! I was close too! Now I’m just aching-”

“That was hot.” Brian interrupts you.

You stand up from Toby and look at Brian. Your eyes narrow and you huff. “Oh it would have been so much hotter if I got to come too!”

“I can fix that,” Tim takes a step closer to you. “Plus, I’m the only one who you haven’t fed from. You aren’t full, are you?”

Your eyes darken and you smile at him, “Of course not, Tim.” You realize just how bloody you are from Toby and pause. “Let me at least clean this blood off.”

Tim nods. As you walk to the bathroom, Tim follows you. You grab a washcloth and wet it. You take your shirt off, and Tim’s eyes wander to your chest. You are wearing nothing under your shirt. Tim does not say a word as he watches you clean up. He only watches. You watch him from the mirror. As your hand rubs the cloth across your skin, his eyes follow. Your movements are slow and meticulous. You smile at him, while looking at the mirror, as his eyes come back up to yours.

As you put the washcloth in the dirty clothes, you look at Tim. “What did you have in mind?”

“Let’s go to my bedroom.” He looks ravenous. You feel the way he looks.

You grab his hand and follow behind him as he leads you to the bedroom. Brian and Toby seem to hear you and begin to make their way to the room as well. You look back and see Toby is wearing his pants again, his wound most likely bandaged… again. Tim does not give you time to think about Toby’s blood. You are pushed against the wall, opposite of the door, and you look at Tim with surprise.

“Can I drink from you?” You give him a soft smile.

“Please,” He groans. You nod, excitedly, and you grab Tim’s shoulders and pull him closer. You begin to kiss at his neck. You kiss down the spot you want to bite. The spot where you can feel his pulse racing. He is not nervous though. He does not feel nervous at all.

 Before you bite him, Tim’s hands are wandering up and down your body. His hands tracing your cold skin, his fingers pinching at your nipples, before finally traveling to your waistband. As he pulls at the waistband of your pants, your teeth sink into his neck. He freezes up momentarily. You smirk against his skin. He feels it.

Tim grips your hip and his hand slides past the waistband, easily finding your pussy. He moans out as you slowly suck on his skin. He does not falter as you continue, his fingers pushing past your folds and into your entrance.

He begins to pump in and out, slowly at first. His thumb finds your clit and it is your turn to freeze up. Tim smiles and lets out a laugh. “How does it feel?” He coos at you. You lap at his neck and pull back. “How does it feel, them watching us?” Tim's head tilts. Your eyes move from Tim and towards Toby and Brian. You let out a whine, and Tim’s thumb grazes over your clit again.

“Feels good-” You look back at Tim. You clench around his fingers and Tim smiles.

“Want me to fuck you in front of them?”

You cannot answer. You only nod. Tim, noticing you are not as messy as you were with your earlier feeding, kisses you. His tongue slips into your mouth and his fingers work on you until you are coming undone. You clench around him again and moan into Tim’s mouth. Your hips buck into his hand and your legs are turning to jelly.

Tim pulls back and removes his hands from your pants. Your eyes open and you give him a confused look. He slides his belt off and you stand there, still slightly disoriented.

“Im going to fuck you, remember?” He says it so nonchalantly. Oh yeah. You nod but still just stand there. “Do you want me to do that with your pants on?” He questions you.

Oh… You are embarrassed now. If heat could rush to your cheeks, you would be on fire. You huff and slide your pants and underwear off. You stand uncomfortably for a moment. Your eyes look back at Toby and Brian. They are watching you, only you. You feel so small under their gaze. And for a moment, you forget how strong you are. You forget you could have the upper hand at any given moment.

“You still okay?” Tim asks.

You nod. “Just getting comfortable.”

“We have all night, sweetheart,” He is standing only in his underwear now.

“And all of tomorrow.” Brian smiles.

“Y-yeah.” Toby speaks up. “You-You can’t g-go out during th-the day.”

He has a point. “I think you three will not last all night and tomorrow with me.”

“That a challenge?” Tim asks, his brow cocking.

You shrug. “You three are humans, and I am not. I have pretty much endless stamina.”

“That’s a challenge.” Brian smirks.

You look at Tim, “Please, just fuck me.”

“Of course.” He smiles.

Tim is out of his underwear and on you in seconds. You are flush with the wall, and Tim is pressed against you. His hand grabs at your thigh, and you wrap it around his waist. Tim’s cock pushes into you and you groan. He lets out a low moan and you hear his heart rate pick up. Your hands are on his shoulders, and you press your forehead to his. Your arms wrap around his neck and refrain from scratching his back. You are still learning your own strength.

In no time, Tim is pumping in and out of you. Your hips are chasing his every time he pulls away and his hands are gripping you tightly. His bruising grip does not let up, it only becomes tighter as you moan and whine for him.

“Tim,” You cry out, “I’m-”

Tim’s pace quickens but is still not sloppy. His movements are thought out and nowhere near sloppy. The sound of him fucking you fills the room, and for you it is only amplified. You can feel, hear, and smell everything way better than when you were human. It is making you come quicker.

“Where can I-?”

Tim starts, and you do not let him finish. “Inside.” You huff out, “can’t get pregnant.”

That is all the reassurance he seems to need. Everything in you becomes tense. You are starting to see stars. As you come, so does Tim. He releases inside of you. You are nowhere near done though.

“Brian,” You lean your head back against the wall, Tim pulls away, his come is spilling out of you. Brian perks up. “Lay on the bed please. Preferably not clothed.” Brian is quick to undress and get on the bed. He is hard, seems to have been since you drank from him earlier. You bounce back fast and go towards the end of the bed. “Mind if I ride you?”

He shakes his head. “Do whatever you want to me.”

You nod. You get on the bed and crawl up towards Brian, straddling him. You hover above his cock and place one of your hands on his chest. “Let me know if it’s too much.”

“It won’t be.”

You nod. You place yourself on his cock and begin to move slowly. You begin to bounce, your pace becoming steady. You are slow at first. Brian grabs your hips with his hands. His grip is about as strong as Tim’s. It is fueling you. You lean forward slightly, one hand still on Brian’s chest, and the other grabbing the headboard.

It is becoming a lot for you. All the sensations are so much. The sound of your skin smacking against his, the feeling of Tim and Toby watching you, and the smell of blood and arousal in the room.

Brian’s hands guide you, almost forcing you to go faster. Figuring that must be what he wants, you pick up the speed. Your nails dig into the wood of the headboard, scratching the polished surface.

“Fuck!” Brian hisses out. “Just like that. You’re so good-” He reassures you.

You lean forward slightly, beginning to see stars again. “Shit!” You cry. “I can’t-” You make sure to not push down on his chest. Instead, you put all of your strength into the hand grabbing the headboard. You hear it snap as Brian comes inside of you. You do not immediately get off of him. Your fingers are digging into the splintered wood as your pace finally slows.

“Fuck,” You pull your hand from the headboard. “I’m so… Damn, I’m sorry.” You lean against Brian as you come back down from your high and you huff.

“You broke my headboard.” Tim sounds unamused.

“And- And the co-couch is fucked too.” Toby mentions, causing you to groan.

Brian’s arms wrap around you, and he laughs. “Come on guys, they’re still learning their own strength.”

“Yeah!” You snap back. “You’re all lucky I didn’t hurt any of you… More than I may have…” Brian’s hand rubs up and down your back. “As much as I would love to sit here, I need to clean up. And you three probably need to take some Motrin or something. Those bites will hurt soon.”

You push yourself up and begin to walk towards the bathroom. As you are leaving the room, Toby starts to speak to Brian and Tim. You ignore it, since he seems to be talking to them, and not you. You tune out what he is talking about and begin to clean yourself up. Again.

As you slide into the hot shower all you can think about is the new relationship forming between the four of you. You sigh and relax in the water. You do not have a care in the world, not even to Toby is talking about just outside in the room across the hall. All that matters is you have three people who seem to accept you. Even if you are some bloodlust ridden creature.

[fixated-cookies]

Milk, Flame, and the Witch's Pit

A powerful witch, once thought lost to time, returns to Earthbread-her body disguised, her magic not. She does not seduce. She does not beg. She commands. And those who cross her path-Burning Spice Cookie, full of fury, and Shadow Milk Cookie, her only loyal sin- will find themselves drawn into her pit of worship and ruin.

COMISSION

Minors do not interact

The wind changed before she arrived.

It slipped between stalks of caramel grass and dragged its breath across molasses stones, humming with a charge no Cookie could name. Flowers folded in her wake. Clouds parted above her with reverence or fear—it was difficult to tell the difference. She walked slowly, barefoot and regal, the color of her dough unknown beneath layers of velvet shadow. The bells at her hip did not ring. The sound had been devoured by the heat.

The Land of Spice trembled around her.

She had no name anymore. Names were for stories, and she had outlived every one whispered about her. What she carried was heavier than sugar, older than the ovens that birthed the Ancients. Her magic whispered at the edges of the world, soft as breath, sticky as sin.

And it did not go unnoticed.

A heat slammed into her path like a living wall.

“Hmm, what do we have here?” came a voice, cracked like scorched stone. “You don’t belong here.”

He stood half-wreathed in fire, chest bare and pulsing with the beat of battle, gold teeth bared in something between a snarl and a smile. Tattoos shimmered over his massive arms, and the antennae blazing from his skull lashed the air like twin serpents of flame.

Burning Spice Cookie.

She tilted her head, eyes calm. She said nothing.

He scoffed. “What? No words to be said? A worthy opponent?"

Still, she was silent. One finger raised—slowly, deliberately. A flick.

The fire at his feet dimmed. His snarl stuttered. Something like a shiver licked down his spine.

“You—” he started.

But her gaze had already gone through him. Past his teeth, past his fury. Into the place where his flame softened, where rage and lust touched hands like old friends.

One word slid from her lips.

“Bend.”

He tried to bark a laugh—but his breath caught in his throat. His knees hit the ground with a cruel crack. Heat surged from the base of his spine, uncoiling, throbbing. He gritted his teeth, growled—but his cock betrayed him. The tension twisted into pleasure, shame blooming in his gut like a scarlet lotus.

She turned. Walked on.

Behind her, Burning Spice Cookie stayed kneeling, panting in the ash, unable to understand why it felt so good.

She kept going, kept walking. As the desert became more filled with plants, forest appearing. Darkness.

The road behind her smoldered, and still she walked.

Beast Yeast welcomed no travelers—but it yielded to her. Vines parted like curtains, slick with dew and breath. Trees blinked when she passed, their bark pulsing faintly with the same rhythm as her slow, steady pulse. The air grew damp, cloying, laced with old sugar and something wilder. The shadows here were alive.

And they were watching.

She did not call his name. She didn’t need to. She merely stepped between two warped trunks, and the forest sighed.

“Even now,” came a voice, smooth and sly, “you enter like the last act of a forgotten play.”

Shadow Milk Cookie emerged from nothing—woven from gloom and glitter. His dual-toned hair curled like ink in water, strands shifting between jester’s blue and pitch-black oil. One of his hidden eyes opened within the shadow of his bangs, blinking slow. His smile was crooked, familiar, unbearable.

“You smell the same,” he whispered, drifting close. “Like broken vows and sugar-laced venom. Hah… I’d almost convinced myself you weren’t real.”

She said nothing.

He tilted his head, studying her like an art piece returned from ruin. His staff tapped once against the ground—a signal, or a habit. “You always did know how to time an entrance. Tell me… is this another illusion? Or have you truly come to finish what we started?”

Still, she gave no answer. She only looked at him.

That was enough.

The smile faltered. His breath caught—just once. Her eyes had not changed. Still that bottomless, terrible calm. He stepped closer, cautious, as if the very act of nearing her was dangerous.

“I missed you,” he confessed, low. “There. Does that please you? The Master of Deceit, saying something real for once.”

She raised her hand.

He didn’t flinch—but he swayed, like his body had remembered this moment from another lifetime. Her fingers touched his jaw, light as mist, and he shuddered.

“I tried to forget,” he rasped, leaning into her palm, “but I don’t lie to myself as well as I used to.”

His knees buckled. He sank into the moss and fog like he belonged there. Her presence curled around him, magic without movement. He gazed up at her with parted lips and eyes gone half-lidded—devotion without demand.

Shadow Milk knelt beneath her, chest rising with shallow breaths. His fingers hovered at the hem of her veil but never touched. He wouldn’t dare. Not yet.

“You didn’t come,” he said, voice almost childlike. “When I fell. When they shattered my name, trapped me. I waited.”

Silence again.

Then—

“I was afraid,” she murmured.

It was so quiet it barely counted as speech. But the forest flinched. Even the wind stopped.

His gaze snapped up.

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were turned inward, to some echo he couldn’t reach.

“I saw what they did to you. I saw the fire they lit in your absence. I told myself I couldn’t help. That it was too late. That if I moved, I’d fall with you.”

He laughed, but it cracked. “Fall? My dear. I needed you to fall. I was already at the bottom.”

“I know.”

She finally looked at him. The stillness between them turned sharp.

“I hated myself,” she whispered. “For staying behind. For surviving it clean. For watching your ruin like it was a play I'd written. I wanted to believe you didn’t need me.”

“I didn’t,” he said, breathless. “Not then.”

She leaned in.

“I need you now.”

The kiss was featherlight. Barely a press of mouth to mouth. But it burned. A memory drawn in blood. His whole body jolted—like magic, like mourning. His hands curled in the moss. He didn’t reach for her. He let it happen.

Another kiss. Slower.

Her lips dragged against his like she was trying to recall the shape of them. His eyes fluttered, a soft groan slipping loose. Her magic lingered on her tongue, bitter and sweet.

“I dreamed of this,” he gasped. “A hundred times. A thousand. I dreamed of you coming back.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. His jaw. Then his throat.

“I didn’t dream at all,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

His hand rose, shakily, and touched her wrist. Just once. As if afraid it would break the spell.

“Then let me dream for both of us.”

She didn’t answer. But her fingers slid into his hair. The tentacles beneath them stirred with recognition, sensing the shift. The ritual hadn’t begun—but it was coming.

And the air behind them shimmered—hot, jagged, furious.

The hunter had arrived.

The air shattered behind them.

A wave of raw heat swept through the glade, curling moss to ash and coaxing hissed warnings from the roots. Trees bent low as if in supplication. The fire had arrived.

Burning Spice Cookie stepped forward, flame-etched and radiant, his crimson eyes glowing coldly under the weight of fury. Sweat licked the curve of his throat, his dhoti clinging to the lines of his body. But his composure was unbroken.

“Is this what you’ve become, Deceit?” he said, voice smooth, low, deliberate. “On your knees for a woman who slithered in silence through our lands?”

Shadow Milk only grinned. “You say that like you’re above it.”

“I am above nothing. I descended long ago. But I did not rot.”

His gaze flicked to her—unflinching, dissecting.

“You… I remember your kind,” he murmured. “Temptresses spun from half-truths and perfumes. Witches who speak not in spells, but in silence. You are not new.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“You tread on sacred ground with your eyes half-lidded,” he continued. “You violate the body as if it were a scroll meant to be rewritten. And you leave your victims wanting.”

A flicker of tension beneath his jaw betrayed him. His control was fraying.

Shadow Milk tilted his head. “So you’ve felt it too.”

“I have felt… a corruption. Slithering beneath my skin like oil.” His voice darkened. “I do not know whether to burn it out or bend to it.”

Her voice was soft. “You came anyway.”

“I came,” he said, “because your magic reeks of something unfinished. And I do not abide loose ends.”

She raised her hand.

The earth opened.

Tentacles bloomed from the velvet pit below like petals of sin, dripping with soft luminescence. Runes pulsed in the air. The scent of aphrodisia filled their lungs. The sky flickered pink.

Shadow Milk had already sunk into the silk with a sigh. “Let go,” he whispered. “You’ll break more gracefully that way.”

“I do not break,” Burning Spice answered, a flash of gold behind his teeth. “I yield only to worthy flame.”

One of the tentacles brushed his thigh—gentle, exploratory.

He flinched.

His eyes narrowed.

“…You’ll have to prove yourself.”

The pit had become a chamber of sin—slick silk beneath them, velvet runes flickering in the air like warning lights, tentacles curling with silent anticipation. And at the center of it all, she sat untouched, radiant, her expression unreadable.

Then she moved.

She reached up—slowly—and undid the clasp at her collarbone. Her robe slipped down just enough to reveal the curve of her chest, pale and glowing, as if kissed by moonlight and marked by magic itself.

Her hands came to her breasts—round, heavy, soft in a way that defied the laws of dough and doughmakers. She pressed them together, the valley between them pulsing with a subtle enchantment—warm, wet, trembling like a mouth.

“You may use this,” she said simply.

Both Cookies froze.

Shadow Milk let out a whimpering laugh, rolling onto his elbows. “You’re… really letting us?”

“You will take turns.”

That was not a kindness. It was a command.

Burning Spice Cookie’s jaw ticked. His pride flickered in his eyes, but it was drowned beneath the ache that throbbed between his legs.

She shifted her knees apart, still seated, breasts lifted by her arms, gaze impassive.

“Come.”

Shadow Milk was first.

Of course he was.

He crawled to her, trembling. A tentacle gently guided his cock into place. He pressed forward—slow, reverent—and let out a shattered moan as his length sank between her breasts.

They were impossibly soft, slick with enchantment, tight like the space was made for him. She held them still—did not squirm, did not breathe hard. She watched.

He began to thrust—shallow, pretty movements, his breath stuttering with every pass. “Ah—so warm, it’s… ngh—"

A tentacle wrapped around his throat gently. Just a warning.

“Don’t finish,” she said.

“I—I won’t, I swear—”

His hips jerked anyway.

When he was close—too close—she pulled him back with a mere twitch of her finger. He let out a broken sob, cock twitching uselessly in open air, denied.

“Next.”

Burning Spice moved forward, slow as a soldier facing his executioner. His cock leaked with want—he was harder than he’d ever been, pulse thrumming in his ears.

She adjusted slightly. A little more lift. A tighter hold.

He gritted his teeth and pressed in—and immediately bit back a groan. “Tch—too much—too… gods—”

His hips bucked. Unlike Shadow Milk, his rhythm was rough, desperate. His face stayed hard, but his body betrayed him.

“You act controlled,” she murmured, “but I feel your tremble.”

He growled—but the sound caught, warbled, and fell apart in a groan. His cock throbbed against the plush heat of her chest, but he couldn’t cum.

The spell wouldn’t allow it.

His knees buckled.

He pulled out before he begged.

Shadow Milk whimpered beside him, face buried in his hands. A tentacle stroked his back in mock sympathy.

She wiped her chest clean with a flick of her magic.

“You are permitted to rut,” she said. “Not to release. Your seed is not earned.”

They both stared at her—trembling, ruined, cocks twitching, lips bitten raw.

And she just looked back.

Unmoved.

.....

They lay collapsed in the pit’s silk—Shadow Milk’s limbs tangled in a dozen tentacles, his voice gone hoarse from moaning, begging, breaking. Burning Spice sat upright still, if only by sheer force of will, sweat glistening along his temple, his cock still twitching from denial that bordered on cruelty.

Their breathing filled the silence.

Wet. Shaky. Ruined.

The tentacles eased—for now.

From her throne above, the Witch exhaled softly, lowering her arms. Her body, untouched. Her robes, barely ruffled. Her eyes, still glowing low like a hearth you could never warm yourself by.

“You performed as expected,” she said.

Shadow Milk laughed—quiet, delirious. “Then… then why does it still hurt…”

Burning Spice didn’t speak. He merely turned his face away, jaw tight, humiliation thick on his tongue.

The pit pulsed again—deeper this time. A rhythm like a heartbeat. Like something awakening.

She stood.

Both Cookies stirred at once—half out of instinct, half in dread.

She stepped down into the silk, barefoot. The ground did not touch her. The tentacles curled back in reverence.

“Rest while you can,” she murmured.

Her hand hovered briefly above their heads—not quite touching, but close enough for them to ache for it.

“This was only an opening. A taste.”

She looked down at them—two once-proud titans of power and war, now trembling at her feet.

“You will come again.”

And then she was gone—vanishing like steam from hot skin, leaving behind nothing but scent and ruin.

The pit quieted.

And deep below, something else… shifted.

A presence. Watching. Waiting.

Shadow Milk shuddered.

Burning Spice clenched his fists.

Neither spoke.

The ritual wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

---

This took forever to make, I typed it on laptop but then had to edit it on phone lol

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞

Pairing: manager!jisung x intern!afab!reader, enemies to lovers, law firm, the slow burn

synopsis: in mind and law. You tackle the new momentum of your job, something you've mentally and physically prepared for. But emotionally? It's not what you had in mind

warnings: suggestive, angst, law, lots of law, jisung is sarcastic, tension, mention of Changbin, plot, one Korean word (translations), time skips

a/n: 16k+ words, fellas. if you dare to have extra eyes for errors no you motherfucking dont. I loved this a lot.

You were born on the wrong side of the skyline. A place where ambition was considered arrogance, and dreams were just things people couldn’t afford. Your father was a mechanic—soft-spoken, hands always coated in grease, and eyes full of pride when you read under the streetlamp because the power went out again. Your mother, a former literature teacher turned night shift waitress, fed you stories instead of lullabies. They taught you that intellect was armor. That silence wasn’t submission, but strategy. That being underestimated was a weapon.

You weren’t the loudest girl in school—but you were dangerous on paper. Top of every class. Knew how to smile at teachers just enough to get what you needed, but never too much to owe them anything. You worked part-time at a bookstore just to read for free. When other kids were partying, you were drafting essays for scholarship competitions at 2AM with shaking hands and coffee-stained sleeves. You didn’t get into university by luck. You got in because you bled for it.

It was Riversley Law University, one of the most prestigious and soul-crushing programs in the country. Everyone whispered about the competition. The gatekeeping. The legacy students who’d never even touched a student loan form. You applied anyway. With one glowing recommendation from a retired judge, you’d once tutored on legal tech for free. With an application essay so raw it made the admissions board cry. With test scores so perfect they thought they were fake until you walked into the interview and quoted obscure 14th-century civil codes like they were bedtime stories.

You got in. Full ride. No one knew how. They thought you were connected. Rich. Sponsored.

You let them think what they wanted.

The top firms came recruiting like vultures during your final year. But Daejin & Grey? They didn’t do job fairs. They didn’t post openings. They hand-picked. And one day, a letter arrived. Real envelope. Black wax seal. No email. No call.

“You’re invited to an exclusive selection round. No details will be repeated. Bring your brain, your backbone, and black ink.”

Turns out, you were one of six students in the entire nation selected to compete for one internship spot. The selection process was insane—contracts in languages you barely knew, impossible moral dilemmas, interrogation-style interviews. People dropped out. Cried. Snapped. You didn’t. You passed. And you became the girl no one saw coming. The intern with fire in her veins and no family name behind her just you. Alone. Hungry. Unshakable.

Jisung was born into brilliance… and burden.

His mother was a top criminal defense lawyer known as “The Viper” in the courtroom—sharp heels, sharper tongue. His father, an occult historian and philosopher who lectured on forbidden languages and secret societies. He grew up in a glass penthouse where success was oxygen and weakness were punishable by silence. Jisung was 17 when Daejin & Grey found him. He had just won an underground student legal warfare competition (an invite-only thing where prodigies go to destroy each other’s arguments in mock trials that felt more like mind combat). He didn’t even enter; someone forged his application. He just showed up… and obliterated future politicians, heirs, and scholars. A week later, a man in an obsidian coat approached his mother during one of her high-profile court cases. Whispered something in her ear. She signed a contract on the back of a napkin. Jisung was summoned. They didn’t interview him. They tested him. Gave him an unsolvable case and watched him create a loophole in 24 hours.

They mentored him in secret. Fed him real cases under the table. Made him sign a blood clause at 19. By 24, he was the youngest partner in the firm’s history. He was the youngest to ever win a national law debate. A certified genius with a smirk that could convince CEOs to sign away their souls and maybe they did. People admired him. Feared him. Worshipped him. But they didn’t know him.

Because Jisung? Jisung was never taught love. He was taught leverage.

Daejin & Grey Law Firm wasn’t founded. It was forged out of war, silence, and unspeakable deals.

The firm traces back over 80 years, born during the post-war reconstruction era. Two men, Ha Daejin—a radical, silver-tongued lawyer who defended war criminals—and Theodore Grey, a disgraced British solicitor exiled for running a covert empire of offshore finance and blackmail, met in Seoul under unusual circumstances. Both were brilliant, both had nothing left to lose, and both were addicted to power. Together, they built Daejin & Grey as more than a firm. It became a sanctuary for those too cunning for politics, too dangerous for the courts, too ambitious for morality. It handles clients that other firms fear from criminal syndicates, foreign diplomats, to weaponized corporations. It's not just law, it’s chess. And they always win.

Rumor has it: The firm has a vault with contracts that could collapse governments. There's a floor you can only access if your name is etched in obsidian. No one leaves Daejin & Grey. You’re either promoted… or erased.

---

You stood in the towering glass lobby of Daejin & Grey, your heels echoing on the polished marble like tiny declarations of war. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Her access badge was silver. Everyone else’s was black. You felt the heat of judgment from passing associates, the subtle way people scanned your thrifted yet sharply styled outfit. You knew you didn’t look like money. But your mind? That was priceless.

An older woman with tightly coiled hair and stilettos sharp enough to stab came striding toward you.

“Intern. Y/N. You’re late,” she said. You weren’t.

“Follow. No questions.”

You moved through what felt like a museum of silence and danger—glass-walled rooms, people whispering in three languages, floors that required fingerprint scans. And then the library.

My God, the library.

Blackwood shelves. Ancient tomes. One door labeled RESTRICTED: Contractual Souls Only.

You swallowed. This wasn’t law school anymore. This was the underworld in heels.

Han Jisung entered from the rooftop.

The chopper dropped him five minutes behind schedule, and he hated being late—especially today, when a new batch of interns were supposed to arrive. He hated interns. Eager. Sweaty. Trying to impress him with quotes from Nietzsche.

He adjusted his ring, black obsidian with a serpent curling up his middle finger and rolled his neck before descending. His assistant, Jinhee, tried to brief him. He waved her off.

“Did they assign me one of the interns?”

“Not officially, but the chairman requested one observe your methods—”

“No.”

“But sir—”

“I said no.”

He walked into his office. 47th floor. The air smelled like power and espresso. His desk was cluttered with folders, red-stamped files, and one curious black envelope marked:

“Observe her. She doesn’t belong—but she might change everything.”

He frowned. Tossed it aside. He didn’t believe in fate.

---

Jisung and Y/N walked the same hall that morning. Opposite directions. Didn’t notice each other—yet. Y/N was being led through the Hall of Legal Legends, where portraits of past partners hung like silent judges. She paused in front of one particularly cold-looking man.

“That’s Ha Daejin,” the tour guide said. “He once freed a serial killer because he didn’t believe in prison. Said the law should be feared, not followed.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a villain.” The guide smirked. “You’ll hear more of that.”

Meanwhile, Jisung turned a corner, passed a group of interns. Didn’t look at them—except for a second. One girl. Silver badge. Holding a leather-bound notebook like it was a weapon. Unfazed by the architecture. Sharp eyes. He paused for half a second. Blinked. Then walked on.

She felt it. That glance. That storm. They didn’t know each other yet.

---

The conference room at Daejin & Grey was less a meeting space and more a statement. A massive oval table of obsidian-black glass stretched across the room like the eye of some mythic beast. The lighting was deliberately dim—soft golden strips along the ceiling—making everyone’s expressions unreadable, dangerous. It smelled of polished leather, old money, and cold ambition. Interns filed in one by one silent, shoulders squared, eyes darting. You were among them, notebook pressed to your side, trying not to flinch at the weight of legacy pressing on you. All of you were being watched. Every step, every breath, being measured.

You took a seat at the far end, instinctively positioning yourself with your back to the wall. Never the center. Always the observer. The doors opened again and this time, the room actually paused.

In came Mr. Grey.

No one knows his first name. Not really. Just Grey. He walked with a cane not because he needed to, but because he liked the sound of it on marble. A silver three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, skin pale like stone, and a face so unreadable it could’ve been carved.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Sharks in training,” he said, his voice laced with silk and venom. “Welcome to Daejin & Grey.”

“You are not here to learn. You’re here to prove you can survive. We will not teach you to be great. We will simply see if you already are. If you are not—” he gestured lazily toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, “—there is the door, and down there is your future. Bleak. Insignificant.”

Someone gulped. You did not. “From now on,” Grey continued, “you do not breathe without purpose. You do not blink without calculation. And if you ever speak in this room without reason…”

He smiled. Sharp and slow. “I will end your career before it begins.” He stepped back. “Now, allow me to introduce one of our youngest and most... unorthodox partners.”

The doors slammed open again.

Han Jisung strode in with the kind of lazy confidence that screamed I own this room. No tie. Shirt collar undone just enough. A black ring catching the dim light. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a midnight negotiation and won. He didn’t look at anyone. He just leaned against the edge of the table, one hand in his pocket.

“Interns,” he said. His voice was casual, disinterested. “Congrats on making it this far. I assume most of you will disappoint me.” Some people chuckled nervously.

He scanned the room—quick sweep. And then, their eyes met.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t fate. It was challenge. His gaze said, Don’t try me.

Yours said, I already am.

Something shifted. Jisung turned back to Grey. “Can I go?”

Grey raised an amused brow. “You just got here.” Jisung shrugged, pushing off the table. “I’ve seen enough.” But he paused by the door. Tilted his head. Glanced over his shoulder not at the group. Just at her.

One second.

Two.

Then he left.

And you? You smelled the war before it began.

After Jisung made his dramatic exit, Mr. Grey waved a gloved hand, summoning the woman standing beside the projection screen. That was Ms. Park, the Head of Public Relations a woman whose smile was sharper than her Louboutins.

She took the lead. “Here at Daejin & Grey,” she began, “we operate on six principles. Discipline. Foresight. Loyalty. Discretion. Precision. And finally—ruthlessness.”

A nervous laugh rippled across the room. She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”

The next forty-five minutes were a blur of corporate philosophies and non-negotiable ethics. Every new intern had to memorize the internal PR structure, the crisis protocols, and the company’s “zero tolerance” policy for emotional decisions. Everything had a script. Even your heartbeat.

You took notes like your life depended on it. Because it did. But the more the PowerPoint clicked forward, the more you felt the weight of your blouse clinging to her skin not from nerves, but from expectation. From the knowing glance Grey had shot her earlier. He knew.

The interns were finally dismissed for a break, filing out toward the executive café like a herd of wolves pretending to be sheep. The space was insane, sleek glass, gold accents, and meals plated like art. Even the salad looked like it had a stock portfolio.

You picked at a caprese toast, more out of habit than hunger.

Jisung wasn’t there. Of course not. He probably had his meals flown in, signed with blood, and served with jazz. You sipped your drink, but your mind wandered. Back to that look. The unreadable glance between you and Jisung. Like a challenge had been accepted without a single word exchanged.

Just as you were returning your tray, a shadow passed over you.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

That voice. Smooth as obsidian. You turned. Mr. Grey. He didn’t beckon. He just turned, and you followed. You stepped into a smaller conference lounge less intimidating, more personal. Warm-toned wood, a velvet chaise. Only the elite got invited here, you were sure of it.

Grey didn’t sit. He stood by the window, cane in hand, observing the city skyline.

“Well?” he said without turning. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “I… I think I’m scared. But I’m also excited.”

He glanced at you now. Just slightly. “Good. Fear without eagerness is cowardice. Eagerness without fear is arrogance. We don’t need either.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.” Grey turned to face you fully now. His expression softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker. Almost paternal. “I know where you came from,” he said.

You froze. He continued, “Not everyone here was raised on champagne and legacy. Some of us crawled into this place with blood on our hands and fire in our eyes. You belong here, Y/N. But you’ll need armor.”

“I’ll build it,” you whispered, voice steady.

Grey nodded, satisfied. But then he tilted his head, curious. “You looked at Han Jisung today.” A pause. You raised a brow, unashamed. “He looked first.” That earned the ghost of a chuckle.

“You want to know about him?” Grey asked.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Grey tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Han Jisung is a prodigy. Recruited after flipping the legal department of a rival firm upside down as a client. Took the bar just to prove he could. Now he leads special projects and high-risk negotiations. Untouchable. Brilliant. Reckless.”

You absorbed the information like wine. Grey’s tone turned sharp again. “He does not play well with others. And he doesn’t train interns.”

You met his gaze. “Noted.” Grey smirked. “Good girl.”

---

The door clicked shut behind you.

Your apartment was quiet. Small, but personal. Walls filled with original sketches, abstract prints, pinned timelines, articles with handwritten notes in the margins. A vision board sat in the corner with the word “Grey-level” in capital gold foil across the top. You kicked off your heels and unpinned your hair, letting the curls fall as you moved like clockwork—smooth, efficient, methodical. Laptop open. Lights dimmed. Jazz humming low in the background.

Search: Han Jisung | Daejin & Grey

The results? Not much. Of course not. Grey’s people erased footprints before they were even made. But you was raised to dig deeper than the surface. And you did.

You found mentions of his name in trade journals, coded phrases like “unexpected turnaround,” “miracle negotiation,” and “the golden ghost.” Not a single photo. But a whisper here, a quote there.

Then, an old university blog.

“The Boy Who Sued a Corporation and Won.”

You clicked. A grainy screenshot showed a boy with a snapback on backwards, standing outside a courthouse. Young. Angry. Smirking like he knew too much for someone his age.

Summary:

Age 19. Filed a class action suit against a powerful music label for contract exploitation. Represented himself in preliminary hearings. Won the case and took a settlement. Disappeared from public eye for three years. Resurfaced… at Daejin & Grey.

You sat back, the gears in your mind turning. “So he’s that type,” you murmured.

Anger-driven. Genius-fed. Doesn't like to lose. Hides behind sarcasm because it's safer than vulnerability. You bookmarked the article. Then looked out the window at the glowing city. A little smile curved on your lips.

“This’ll be fun.”

And with that, you shut your laptop and poured yourself a glass of red a silent toast to a storm you knew was coming.

---

The routine had set in fast.

Early mornings. Sharp tailoring. Neutral tones and cool metal accents. You walked the marble floors like you’d owned them in another life, heels tapping like a metronome against the low murmurs of ambition. Daejin & Grey was a world built on precision and aesthetics—every glass panel, every steel fixture, every whisper of silk or leather had its place. You adapted like water in a crystal decanter.

You learned fast, spoke clearly, and listened sharper. You made yourself invaluable to your department, your reports were always early, always clean, always with that extra insight that made supervisors raise their brows and take notes. You didn’t speak unnecessarily in meetings, but when you did, the room always turned.

But Jisung?

Ghosted in and out. Rarely at your floor. Always with his tie loose, mouth set in a line of amusement or disapproval, never in between.

You caught glimpses. Like shadows in polished windows. And every single time your eyes met; it was electric. Subtle, but raw. Sometimes it was across the coffee machine, him leaning against the wall with a smirk as you stirred your drink without sugar. Sometimes in passing through the 8th floor where the high-stakes clients had rooms like hotel lobbies and meetings that reeked of old money and moral grey zones. And sometimes, just a glance across the conference table, where he sat sideways, his leg crossed, chewing the tip of a pen like he knew you were looking.

And she always was.

The blinds were half-drawn, letting in only slanted light that painted the dark wood floor in broken stripes. Mr. Grey sat behind his massive obsidian desk, signature cup of jet-black coffee steaming near his right hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed a tablet. His navy tie was undone, a telltale sign he’d been in meetings since dawn. Jisung stood by the window, posture casual, arms crossed, dressed in a soft black turtleneck and slacks that looked far too expensive for how uninterested he seemed. His hair was slightly tousled—he’d run his hand through it a few too many times. Typical.

“I told you, Grey. I don’t like babysitting,” he said, eyes fixed on the skyline. “There’s enough on my plate. Lee’s merger alone is—”

“This isn’t babysitting.” Grey didn’t even look up. “It’s exposure. Real-world pressure. She needs to be in the field, and you…” He finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “You need to get out of that damn ivory tower you’ve built around yourself.”

Jisung scoffed. “Nice motivational speech. You should sell it with the company’s scented candle line.”

“I’m serious, Han.” Grey slid a file folder across the desk. “Y/N. She’s sharp. Observant. A little quiet. Good instincts, but not molded yet. Reminds me of someone else I hired years ago.”

“Oh, please don’t say—”

“You,” Grey cut him off dryly.

Jisung rolled his eyes and walked over, taking the file with reluctance. He cracked it open, the name Y/N typed neatly on the top corner. There was a small square photo paperclipped to the first page. His eyes flicked over it briefly. She looked poised. Quietly powerful. The kind of face that looked like it’d seen a lot, but wouldn’t tell you unless you earned it.

He didn’t say anything.

“You’ll meet her at the conference,” Grey added, sipping his coffee. “I told her she’d be perfect for this. Don’t make me a liar.”

Jisung closed the folder with a snap and ran a hand through his hair. “What time?”

“Eleven. Don’t be late.”

“I’m always late.”

“I’ll dock your paycheck.”

“Charming,” he muttered, tucking the folder under his arm. “She better be worth the hassle.”

“She is,” Grey said, finality in his tone. “And maybe… just maybe, she’s the type to make you think again, Jisung.” Han Jisung didn’t answer. He just walked out, file in hand, wondering why the hell this girl was already starting to live in the back of his mind.

It was a Thursday.

You remembered because you wore the wide-legged gray slacks you saved for “power move” days. A quarterly strategy conference was underway, where junior analysts, interns, and mid-level associates were gathered to observe the department leads speak on major upcoming cases. Mr. Grey sat at the head of the room, calm, in control, sleek in that navy suit with no tie.

Then came the part no one expected: live assignments.

“Some of you will be handling case shadows,” Grey said, clasping his hands. “And some of you will be leading minor client packages. Let’s make things interesting.”

Papers were passed.

Your folder landed with a soft thunk. You opened it. A name. A file. A logo. A red tab labeled

Priority Confidential.

Below it:

Supervisor – Han Jisung

Your blood stilled. Just as you looked up, you saw him lean on the doorframe at the back of the room, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, silver watch catching the light. He tilted his head slightly as your eyes met, mouth tugging in that slow, you ready for this? smirk.

“Y/N,” Mr. Grey called from the head of the table. “You’ll be reporting directly to Jisung. He’ll catch you up on the brief by end of day. Congratulations.” You swallowed, spine straight. “Understood, sir.” Jisung gave you a two-finger salute. The room kept moving.

But you? You were already calculating. Preparing. Bracing for impact. Because something told you this assignment was going to be everything you wanted… and everything you weren’t ready for.

You stood outside the glass wall of Jisung’s office, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. Your reflection blinked back at you, sharp, composed, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass. The folder in your hand had bite marks on the corner where you’d chewed it while overthinking. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You exhaled once. Twice. Then knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was casual, distracted. You entered.

Jisung was leaning back in his chair, black sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen lazily twirling between his fingers. His office smelled like cedar and fresh ink, the lighting warm but sterile like someone had tried to make it welcoming but gave up halfway through. Like him, maybe.

His eyes flicked up briefly. Then back down to the paper on his desk. “Y/N, right?”

“Yes.” You shut the door softly behind her. “You’re my supervisor on the K-Tech acquisition case.”

“Mmh,” Jisung hummed, still reading. “That’s what Grey says.” You didn’t sit until he gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of him barely looking up. His posture was everything you’d expect from someone with way too much power and too little patience: cocky, distant, infuriatingly relaxed.

You hated it.

“I’ve already gone through the case summary,” you said, placing the folder neatly on his desk. “I’ve highlighted the inconsistencies in the subsidiary’s financials. There’s—”

“—a shell company in Taipei laundering R&D funds,” he finished without missing a beat, still not looking at you. “Yeah. Noted that three weeks ago.”

You paused. Tilted your head. “Then why is it still unresolved?” That made him look up.

Slowly. Like a cat flicking its tail, unbothered but aware. His gaze was sharp, dark, and laced with something unreadable. Maybe amusement. Maybe boredom. Maybe both.

“Grey told me to loop you in,” he said, leaning back, fingers steepled. “Not give you the steering wheel.”

“I’m not here to steer,” you shot back, tone cool. “I’m here to work. But if you’d rather I sit in the corner and watch you twirl pens, I can pencil that in too.” There was a beat of silence.

Then,

“Cute,” Jisung said, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’ve got teeth.” You sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “And you’ve got ego. Big one. I’m surprised it fits in here with all the air you take up.” He actually laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off-guard and he didn’t hate it.

“Most interns are too scared to say half that.”

“I’m not most interns,” she said simply.

His gaze lingered. Too long.

You didn’t flinch. Didn't blink. You was dangerous, he realized. Not in the way of lawsuits or incompetence—but in the way your eyes cut right through his performance, the way your presence didn’t flinch under pressure. He’d seen plenty of people fold under his disinterest. But not you.

And the thing was, he liked it. God, he liked it way too much.

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping a note lower. “Let’s get this straight. You bring me something smart, I’ll listen. You waste my time; I’ll make you regret it.”

Your lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “You won’t scare me off, Han.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Good. Wouldn’t be fun if I did.” The room felt smaller. Warmer. Something thick and charged buzzed in the silence between you. Then he grabbed your folder and opened it, eyes scanning fast. You watched him, arms still folded, legs crossed, a flicker of fire in her gaze.

“I need full employee logs for the Taipei branch,” Jisung said, tapping his pen against the folder. “Also, see if you can get internal memos from the last quarter. Anything involving the budget committee.”

“Got it,” You replied, standing smoothly.

You reached for the folder, fingers brushing the edge of his desk like it owed you something. Confident. Effortless. And just as she turned on her heel to leave—

—he looked.

He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It just—happened.

The way your skirt hugged your hips, the subtle sway as you walked like every step was calculated, fluid, commanding the air around her. Jisung blinked, his jaw clenching a little too tightly.

Fuck.

He looked away fast. Sat back. Ran a hand down his face like it’d erase the ten seconds of weakness he just experienced.

“She’s your intern, man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, already annoyed with himself. “Get a grip.” But the image lingered. Along with the snarky little grin you gave him earlier the fire in your voice, the nerve.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to argue with you or—

Nope.

He shut the thought down. Immediately. He grabbed a random paper off his desk and stared at it like it was the holy gospel.

It wasn’t. It was a receipt for pens. Still, anything to distract himself. Because damn it, you were going to be a problem. And a hot one at that.

---

You leaned your head against the window, the cool glass pressing gently into your temple as your car hummed along the road, lights of the city beginning to dim behind you. Your phone was plugged into the AUX, and the low, rhythmic voice of RM filled the car like an ocean tide.

His voice always settled her nerves. Heavy thoughts dissolved into gentle weightlessness as you watched neighborhoods blur past concrete melting into trees, the air growing less polluted, the traffic thinning. Your week had already been a blur: Daejin’s pressure cooker energy, the barbed words exchanged with Jisung, the way he looked at you today like you were both a problem and a puzzle—

And still, he stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or fold.

You scoffed softly to yourself and turned up the volume. You weren’t going to think about him right now. Not when your heart softened the closer you got to home.

The car crunched against the gravel driveway, your headlights sweeping over the familiar brick front and small white porch your dad had painted a decade ago. The house stood modest, cozy—just big enough to hold love and struggle in equal measure. You stepped out, heels in hand, dress blazer folded over your arm. The night air smelled like coming rain and hibiscus soap, your mom’s favorite. You climbed the steps two at a time and opened the door.

Inside, your father was seated by the small living room window, a blanket over his lap, the TV on low. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself and peeling fruit, and Mr. Tae—her parents’ long-time caregiver—stood nearby folding laundry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Tae greeted first, smiling warmly as he turned around.

“Hi,” you whispered, setting your bag down. Your voice dropped into something gentle, reverent. “How’ve they been today?”

“Good. Your mom’s been on her feet most of the day—she’s stubborn as always. Your dad’s been quieter. Tired. But good.” You smiled softly and nodded. You walked over to your dad first, knelt beside him, and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t say much—just smiled at you with kind, weary eyes and touched your hair the way he used to when she was little.

Your mom came over next, wrapping you in a warm hug that still somehow smelled like love and cornbread.

“How’s the new job?” her mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You gave a half-laugh. “Complicated. Intense. Full of egos and deadlines. But I’m hanging in.”

“You always do,” your mom replied, patting your hand. “You’re our miracle, remember?” You sat with them for a while. Ate some fruit. Let yourself be their daughter instead of a rising corporate intern or legal assistant. Let yourself exhale.

Because when you walked back into Daejin the next morning…you’d need that fire again.

---

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jisung leaned against it for a moment, keys still in his hand, the silence of the apartment washing over him like warm static. No city horns here. No coworkers. No Grey. No you. He exhaled slowly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes with mechanical grace. The space was minimal, sleek—clean lines and dark accents. Black couch, polished concrete floor, deep green plants that he tried not to forget to water.

It looked like someone with taste lived here. It felt like a hotel room someone never fully unpacked in. He peeled off his blazer, draped it over the bar stool, and walked straight to the kitchen—grabbing a water bottle and a leftover half sandwich from the fridge. Gourmet. Chef Han at it again.

The light of his laptop blinked softly from the corner of the living room.

He ignored it. Instead, he wandered to the window, bottle in hand, and stared down at the city glowing like an artificial galaxy beneath him.

Another day of everything and nothing. He’d barely slept this week. Work had been brutal. Interns had been annoying.

Well…one intern.

His jaw twitched slightly at the memory of you walking out of his office, confident as hell, throwing shade and facts like you was born in a courtroom. That mouth on you—sharp. Quick.

Too damn smart for her own good. Too damn hot for his peace of mind.

He took a long sip of water, then grabbed his phone. Your file was still open in his emails. He didn’t mean to reread it. He did anyway. Background: modest. Grades: impressive. Demeanor: biting. Expression? Always looked like she was two seconds from either kissing you or ending your entire bloodline.

And that skirt?

Jesus.

He dropped the phone face down on the kitchen island.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t ideal. He hated supervising for a reason—he didn’t like people clinging to him, watching him, depending on him. Especially not people who stirred up whatever this was. But you were different. Not in some romanticized, poetic way. No, more like…threateningly competent with legs for days and an attitude that gave him a headache and a half-chub at the same time. He groaned, running both hands through his hair before sinking onto the couch.

“God, Grey, why her?” he muttered aloud, throwing his head back dramatically.

No answer, of course. Just the sound of Seoul vibrating behind his window.

The weight of your stare still burned behind his eyes.

He knew this was going to get messy. He just didn’t know how soon.

But one thing was for sure, you were going to ruin him if he wasn’t careful. And part of him?

Didn’t want to be.

The food he had ordered just arrived, a warm burst of garlic and spice filling the cool silence of the apartment. Jisung set the cartons down on the island, unwrapping the napkins with the kind of robotic precision you pick up when you’ve eaten alone too many nights in a row. Spicy pork bulgogi, kimchi, rice, a small bottle of soju he didn’t ask for but the restaurant always tossed it in when they recognized his name on the order.

Perks of being Han Jisung.

He had just opened the chopsticks when his phone buzzed.

Dad

Incoming call.

Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening. His thumb hovered, not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he already knew how this conversation would go. Still, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

A deep voice crackled through the line, rough and low like worn leather.

“You sound tired.”

“I am,” Jisung replied simply, stabbing into his rice. “Been a long week.”

“Hm. You’re still working with Grey?”

“Still am.”

A pause. The silence between them said more than words could. His father had always had this way of making small talk feel like an interrogation.

“He’s using you.”

Jisung scoffed, mouth full. “Grey doesn’t use people. He recruits weapons.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t answer. He chewed slowly, staring at the television that wasn’t even on.

“You still think you’re doing something different than me?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Jisung said flatly. “Because I don’t destroy people for sport.”

Another pause. This time heavier.

“You sound just like your mother when you say shit like that.”

Jisung’s stomach twisted. He took another bite, mostly to shut himself up.

“You supervising someone?” his dad continued, like nothing had just happened.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Because I know what that means. You don’t let people close. If Grey’s making you, it’s not for nothing.”

Jisung hesitated, his mind flickering to you, the fire-eyed intern with the mouth that didn’t quit and the brain to match. The way you stood her ground, talked back, made his blood rush like he was seventeen again.

“She’s…interesting,” he finally muttered.

“She hot?”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“What? You said interesting. That’s code.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s smart. Loud. Got a mouth on her.”

“So, you hate her.”

“…Something like that.”

There was a hum of amusement through the phone. For once, not a scoff or scold. Just understanding. A scary kind. “Watch yourself,” his father warned. “Grey doesn’t push you unless he’s trying to teach you something. Or test you. Or both.”

“I’m not new to this.”

“You’re new to her.” Jisung froze for a second, chopsticks suspended in the air.

“I gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Call your mother.”

“I will.”

“Jisung.”

“What.”

“Don’t ruin it before it starts.”

Click.

The line went dead. Jisung sat there for a second, staring at the phone like it might say more. Then he set it down, picked up his food again, and muttered under his breath,

“…She’s still just an intern.”

But for some reason, he didn’t believe it.

Jisung was never the golden boy. Not in the traditional sense.

He wasn’t the loudest, or the most obedient, or the one who stayed out of trouble. But he was the sharpest. Razor-witted, eyes always ten steps ahead, and a tongue that could cut through hypocrisy like glass. From a young age, he was used to watching people argue from the staircase—his father, tall and thunderous, always in some perfectly pressed suit, barking down at his mother like she was one of the many subordinates who feared him.

His father, Han Joon-won, was a underground kingpin. Notorious in South Korea’s legal underworld for getting even the dirtiest white-collar criminals off scot-free. even though he was just a professor, he made his name not by defending the innocent, but by twisting narratives so well, the guilty walked out smiling.

His mother, on the other hand, Min So-ra, had been a viper in her work but the soul of the house.  Jisung had grown up watching them clash. Not over love—they hadn’t had that in years—but over principles. Over Jisung.

“He’s not going to be your legacy, Joon-won.”

“No. He’s going to be my evolution.”

When Jisung was 16, his mother left. Just packed her bags one night, kissed his forehead, and disappeared into a train station fog with nothing but her passport and a spine of steel.

She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t drag him through courts. She just said, “I trust you to choose who you want to become.” And that ruined him more than any custody battle ever could.

When he was 20 and fresh out of university—with the kind of transcripts people framed—Jisung had offers lined up. Corporate firms, legal think tanks, political gigs. But none of it felt… earned. It felt like a train his father had put him on long ago, and the tracks were already built for him.

Daejin wasn’t a regular firm. It wasn’t even fully public. It was a private legal-intelligence consulting group, used by billionaires and politicians when the government couldn’t be trusted. Rumors said they helped broker backdoor treaties and helped dismantle crime rings from the inside. Jisung had accepted. Not because he trusted Grey, not because his mother signed behind his back, but because it felt like the first decision that was his.

He’d finished the bulgogi, the soju still cold beside his elbow, untouched. A silence lingered too long in the space around him—the kind that scratched at his ears. So, he picked up his phone again and scrolled to “엄마”. mom

He hadn’t called in weeks. She picked up on the second ring.

“Sung-ah.”

His chest clenched. Her voice hadn’t changed. Soft, calm, always like the air after a thunderstorm.

“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “You free?”

“For you? Always.”

He smiled softly, letting his head fall back against the couch.

“I got assigned someone today.”

“At work?”

“Yeah. Intern. I’m her supervisor.”

“And how do you feel about that?” He paused. How did he feel?

“She’s… interesting,” he muttered.

“That’s not a feeling, baby.”

He chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “She’s annoying. And smart. And looks at me like she’s trying to read my blood type.”

“So, she’s not scared of you.”

“No. And that’s the problem.”

“Or the point.”

Silence passed between them again, but this time it felt full. Safe. “Don’t let your father live in your mirror,” she said softly. “Not when there’s still light in your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. Let her words sink in.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Call more often. I like hearing you wrestle with your own stubbornness.”

He smiled, biting back the wave of emotion building in his chest.

“I will.”

Click.

The line ended, and Jisung sat there for a long time phone on his chest, soju uncapped. Thinking about you, about the case, about whether this internship of yours was the beginning of your legacy...

…or the unraveling of his.

---

The lights in War Room A were low but moody designed that way to make people feel like the truth mattered more in the dark. Glass boards lined the walls, already filled with cryptic arrows and pin-dotted strings from other ongoing cases. The table was long, cold steel, with matte black folders laid out like they were handling national security instead of corporate lawsuits. Y/N walked in clutching her notepad, lips set in a calm line, her heels tapping softly against the grey tile. Her nerves simmered under the surface, but her expression stayed focused, professional. The room had a tension to it like the oxygen had been filtered for people who played chess with lives.

Jisung was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearms, silver watch glinting under the ceiling light. His jaw looked sharper this morning tighter. He didn’t look up when she entered.

Just said, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” she replied smoothly, glancing at the wall clock—9:02.

He looked up then. Eyes dragging from her face to the file in her hand, then back. “Right. Two minutes early. Congratulations, you want a cookie?”

“Only if it’s got sarcasm chips in it.”

A ghost of a smirk flicked at the corner of his lips. But it vanished before it could get comfortable. “Sit,” he muttered, motioning to the seat beside him. As she sat, more of the upper-tier team began filing in. Analysts. Consultants. A lead from the surveillance branch. Everyone looked polished and exhausted, like they hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. The weight of high-profile work wore heavy on everyone here and Y/N felt it. Like iron in her bones.

Grey entered last. Of course.

Wearing an all-black turtleneck and long grey coat, he looked more like a grieving poet than the head of a high-level legal-intelligence firm. But the room straightened when he walked in. His presence commanded without barking.

He didn’t speak until he’d set his black coffee down.

“This is the KraneTech litigation,” he began. “Thirty-two million dollars’ worth of hush money misfiled as marketing budget. A whistleblower’s coming forward. We’re handling the internal case, prepping for external liability.”

He glanced around the table, then locked eyes with Y/N.

“This will be Y/N’s first live case. She’s under Han.” Jisung sighed through his nose. Loud enough for her to hear it. Not loud enough to get called out.

“Everyone, give her the floor.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait—”

“You have 90 seconds,” Grey added casually. “What’s your understanding of the case from the file you read yesterday?”

Shit.

She straightened. “KraneTech misappropriated marketing funds to pay off silence regarding potential internal abuse and fraudulent operations. The whistleblower is anonymous for now but has indicated they have documentation and digital logs.”

The room watched her like hawks. She continued. “There’s a timeline gap between February and April 2023 where no financial statements match the campaign budgets. That’s likely when the payouts happened. There’s also a legal scrub done during April that feels… strategic. Like they were anticipating investigation.”

Grey leaned back, considering. “Interesting.”

She held her breath. Then, he nodded once. “You’ll shadow Han. You have two days to prove you can handle the next phase of the audit alone.”

He turned to Jisung. “She’s yours. Try not to murder each other.”

Jisung’s jaw ticked.

Grey left with most of the others. The moment the room was half empty, Jisung stood and walked toward the glass board at the front of the room. Y/N followed, silent, watching him as he clicked a button and the case projection flickered to life.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re not bad.”

“Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m writing it down anyway.”

“You do that.”

They stood side by side now, looking at the digital board—emails, blurred invoices, personnel profiles. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

She crossed her arms. “Trace the digital logins. Identify the cleaner who did the scrub in April. Follow the emails that were archived after the fact. There’s always metadata.”

“Metadata and luck.” He paused. “You might actually survive here.”

“I don’t need to survive,” she muttered. “I plan to win.” He turned his head just slightly, watching her profile as her eyes stayed on the board. It annoyed him. How pretty she looked when she was focused. How cocky she sounded when she didn’t even know the half of what Daejin really did behind closed doors.

“You’re stubborn,” he said.

“I adapt.”

“That’s worse.”

She smirked without turning to him. “Maybe you’re just slow.” He blinked. God, she was insufferable. And kinda hot.

He cleared his throat. “Meeting’s over. Get what you need. I’ll send you internal files by noon.” She nodded, then turned to leave the room.

His eyes dropped instinctively—for a second—to the sway of her hips, her skirt hugging just enough.

He looked away instantly, jaw clenched.

“Fucking hell…” he whispered under his breath.

The office they used was colder than necessary. The kind of cold that kept you awake and working, courtesy of Daejin’s air conditioning set to “keep them alert or kill them trying.” The space was sleek, functional, and minimal: two large desks facing opposite walls, a shared table in the center stacked with files, highlighters, redacted papers, and two half-drunk cups of espresso.

Y/N had shed her blazer somewhere around 9AM. Now in a simple white shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows, her fingers flew over her keyboard, the blue glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She was in full problem-solver mode, lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in that way Jisung had, unfortunately, noticed more than once.

Jisung sat across from her, slightly reclined, eyes darting between an evidence board and the KraneTech whistleblower’s anonymized file. He was chewing the tip of a pen, annoyed that it was yielding nothing new. His own desk was chaos with purpose: files, sticky notes, USB drives, all organized in his uniquely ‘smart but unhinged’ way.

Silence passed between them—not uncomfortable. Just focused.

“You notice this?” Y/N asked suddenly, flipping her laptop to face him.

Jisung stood and leaned over, arms braced on either side of her chair as he scanned her screen. Her perfume—something light and sweet—hit him too quickly. He pulled back a little.

She pointed. “The logs from the scrub session in April? Someone tried to delete twice. Different time stamps. But only one was executed.” His eyes scanned fast. Sharp. “Good catch. That means they weren’t working alone. One initiated. One canceled. Which means—”

“Which means the second person might’ve backed out,” she finished. Their eyes met. A beat of satisfaction passed between them.

She looked smug. He hated that he liked it. He straightened and returned to his desk without comment. “Cross-check the list of digital IDs with those on the financial audits,” he added, already typing again. “There’s a chance the person who canceled left a trail out of guilt. I’ll trace the IP from the meta headers.”

“On it,” she replied.

Hours passed. Coffee refilled. Notes scribbled. The room thickened with brainpower and caffeine fumes. By 12:17 PM, her stomach growled audibly. She froze. Jisung glanced up, cocked a brow. “You gonna eat or let your stomach file a complaint to HR?”

“I’ll grab something later—”

“You’ve been saying that for four hours,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. A few taps. “Lunch will be here in ten.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I chose to. Which means now you’re going to eat, intern.” His tone was teasing but firm. “Take a break. Let your frontal lobe reset before it fries.” She gave him a look, soft but stubborn. “You didn’t have to—”

“If you say that one more time, I’m ordering dinner too and making you eat it in front of the entire board.”

She blinked. He smirked.

“And that’s not an empty threat.”

Ten minutes later, lunch arrived—grilled chicken wraps, sweet potato fries, and iced black tea. Jisung slid one over to her, then turned back to his desk like it meant nothing. Y/N stared at the food. Then him.

“You’re not eating?”

“Later,” he muttered. “I want to finish this trace.”

“You sure? I can share.” He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t tempt me.” Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a sarcastic chuckle, “Relax, Han. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s just fries.” He smirked, but didn’t respond, back to his files, eyes scanning deep.

Y/N finally took a bite.

And—damn it—it was really good.

For the next half hour, they worked in silence again. Separate desks. Separate minds. But the same rhythm. The same obsession. The same unspoken energy. Enemies? No. Allies with fire in the air? Absolutely.

And neither of them realized it yet…

…but this was how chemistry always began at Daejin.

The city outside had long gone quiet. Seoul’s skyline twinkled through the window, streetlights casting streaks of orange and silver across the tiled floor. The office was quieter now—no whirring printers or urgent footsteps. Just two exhausted minds submerged in data, theories, and the kind of mental endurance that only legal warfare demanded.

Y/N sat cross-legged in her chair, one earbud in, hair messily pinned up with a pen poking through it. Her screen was a swirl of digital records, duplicated entries, firewall logs, she was squinting now, moving files around like puzzle pieces in her mind. A cold cup of coffee sat beside her, untouched for the last hour. Her knee bounced unconsciously, the adrenaline refusing to die down even though her body begged for sleep.

Then—she paused.

Froze.

Brows lifted slowly, lips parting. Her fingers darted over the keys, pulling up the original access logs from April’s double-deletion. She’d been chasing a ghost for hours, but there it was, plain as day: a duplicated ID signature tied to two different employee databases. The same person had registered under two different teams. Fake alias.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathless.

She snatched the file from the table where Jisung had left it earlier—his own scribbled notes, dots connected, theories half-built. The answer had been under both their noses the whole time.

“Jisung!” she called out instinctively, spinning her chair around, face bright with excitement and a little disbelief.

But when she turned—

He wasn’t responding.

Slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily across the desk, Jisung’s head had dropped sideways. His laptop screen still flickered, casting soft light over his peaceful expression. One hand was still holding onto the same file she now clutched, his notes stopped mid-sentence.

She blinked, then smiled. The moment softened her. There was something intimate about seeing someone brilliant in their most unguarded state. She stepped closer, voice low. “Guess we cracked it… both of us. Not bad for an overachiever and a half-asleep grump.”

No reply. Just a soft rise and fall of his chest. A slight twitch of his lips, like he was dreaming—maybe about work, maybe something far less exhausting. She shook her head fondly, knelt beside him, and tapped his arm gently.

“Hey, genius. Sleeping on the job now?”

Jisung stirred. Eyes slowly opened, bleary and unfocused at first. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted as he squinted.

“Shit—did I pass out?” he muttered, sitting up too fast.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right in the middle of your future law firm commercial. ‘Han Jisung: brilliant, relentless, occasionally unconscious.’”

He ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.” He looked at her, confused, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You need to go home,” she said softly, but there was command in it. “You look like you’ve been tired for years, not just tonight.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t argue.” She reached for his laptop and closed it. “I’ll clean up here, write up a preliminary. I’ll shoot you a copy before morning.”

He hesitated, still groggy, but caught in her unwavering gaze. Her voice was gentle, but it left no room for negotiation.

“…You always like bossing people around?” he mumbled, standing slowly.

“Only when they’re being stupidly self-destructive. Karma, really.”

That earned a small smirk. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he left, he paused at the doorway. She was already turning back to her laptop, immersed again.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. She didn’t look up.

“Go home, Han.” He lingered for one more second, eyes tracing her silhouette under the cool light of the monitor.

And then he was gone.

---

Han Jisung’s apartment was all clean lines and controlled chaos. A half-folded hoodie hung off a kitchen chair, vinyl records were stacked by the turntable in no real order, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway like a memory too stubborn to leave. He was buttoning up his dress shirt, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, his hair damp and messy from a rushed shower.

He grabbed his phone from the counter just as it buzzed.

New Email: Preliminary Draft — Case #1782

Sender: Y/N [yn.daejin.legal@corp.kr]

He blinked, brows furrowing.

Already?

He opened it, skimming fast at first—but then slowing.

Thorough. Organized. Insightful. She hadn’t just pieced together the data. She’d cross-referenced employee signatures, restructured their timeline, and even color-coded the suspects in the margin.

“…Damn,” he muttered, under his breath.

Then another ping.

Text from Y/N:

Morning. I might come in a little late today—just wanted to give a heads-up. Will join as soon as I’m done. Thanks again for last night. Hope you got decent sleep.

He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but definitely wasn’t neutral. His fingers hovered above the keyboard—he started to type, paused, erased, then just tossed the phone on the bed.

“Tch,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer. “Why is she so annoyingly good at this…”

And still, as he grabbed his bag and locked the door behind him, the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop lifting.

He walked into the morning rush of Seoul, suit crisp, heart slightly off-beat, and thoughts already spiraling back to the girl who’d made him a little more tired… and a lot more intrigued.

—

The room hummed with pre-trial tension. A long, oval table dominated the center—sleek, black wood polished to a mirror shine. Screens displayed the case name, stacks of legal documents fanned out in front of each assigned seat, water bottles untouched beside stiff black folders. Jisung sat near the end, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes flicking between the time on his watch and the door.

9:05. You was five minutes late. Not a big deal.

But it made his left eye twitch.

He was about to tap his pen against the desk when the door finally swung open.

You stepped in—hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail, glasses perched delicately on your nose. That outfit? Deadly. A gray pinstriped shirt peeking from beneath a black cropped cardigan, slacks hugging your hips in a way that made Jisung’s train of thought flatline for two full seconds. He sat up straighter unconsciously.

You looked... put-together. Smart. Sharp. And not trying too hard. Your eyes met his and—there it was again—that same flicker of tension. Familiar, unspoken. But you walked over calmly, confidence in your steps, setting down your laptop and notes beside his before leaning in slightly and whispering, “Did you read the preliminary?”

He gave you a slow blink.

“Yeah.”

“Did I mess anything up? I—I rushed the tail end and didn’t double check that section with the warehouse codes.”

Jisung’s brows rose. You were nervous.

He leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth. “No, you didn’t mess up. It’s tight. You caught things even I didn’t at first glance.” You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, biting back a smile. “You’re being sarcastic.”

Jisung tilted his head. “I’m actually not. Don’t get used to it though.”

You chuckled softly and straightened your back, trying to hide the little breath of pride you exhaled. The compliment, sarcastic or not, buzzed in your chest. Just then, the door opened again and Grey strolled in, black suit, no tie, coffee in hand, and that ever-serious gleam in his eyes.

“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s get this started. We’ve got five days before trial and no time to fumble.”

The room fell silent instantly, shuffling to attention. Jisung caught your glance from the corner of his eye as you both turned to face the screen. You were in this. Present. Awake. Ready. And damn if he wasn’t a little impressed. And a little more in trouble than he thought. Grey stood at the head of the table, setting down his coffee and clapping his hands once to get everyone locked in.

“Let’s keep it clean, focused, and brutal,” he said, eyes sweeping over the team. “We’ve got motive, but the jury’s going to need a narrative they can eat with a spoon. What’s the angle?”

There was a beat of silence before you cleared her throat gently.

“We start with the financial discrepancies in the subsidiary accounts,” you said, clicking your laptop and flipping the screen to show a clean graph. “Every quarter leading up to the embezzlement charge, there’s a small spike in activity—same offshore account, different shell companies.”

Grey raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And the evidence chain?”

“Verified. We have authenticated statements, plus a testimony lined up from the former assistant—she’s agreed to testify under condition of anonymity.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen against his thigh. “It’s a good start. But it’s not enough to prove intent. The defense will call it mismanagement or incompetence. We need to tie the money trail to motive.” Grey nodded slowly and gestured. “Han?”

Jisung leaned forward, fingers steepled. “So, we hit them where it hurts—optics. The accused transferred funds under the guise of ‘consultancy fees’ to a company owned by his college roommate. We subpoenaed his travel history—it matches up with four ‘retreats’ that happen to line up with the largest deposits. Add in emails recovered from the IT sweep…”

He tapped his file. “There’s one that says—and I quote—‘just make sure they don’t notice until Q3.’ That’s intent, with a side of cocky.” Your eyes flicked over to him. “And we link that to the board vote he forced through last September? That’s when he got majority control.”

Jisung glanced sideways at you and gave a little nod. “Exactly.” Grey folded his arms. “So, what’s the sequence of presentation?”

You raised a hand slightly, already halfway flipping pages. “We open with the paper trail—the clean, technical breakdown. It builds credibility. Then Jisung drives the intent point home with the emails and personal ties. By the time we present the witness, the jury already suspects him. Her testimony just confirms it.”

Jisung looked at you. Really looked. “We build the wall first, then drop the hammer.”

You didn’t smile, but your lips twitched in mutual understanding. “Exactly.” Grey looked between them for a moment before nodding, pleased. “Good. Tag team it. Han, you handle cross. YN, you prep the witness and the opening presentation. You’ve got three days. I want a mock run-through by Thursday.”

Everyone else began gathering their things and filtering out, but YN and Jisung lingered, documents still splayed across the table like a living crime scene. You gathered your notes silently, then paused.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said lightly, not looking at him.

Jisung let out a soft scoff. “You’re pretty decent yourself. For someone who doesn’t shut up.”

“Maybe if you weren’t always so smug, I’d have less to say.” He shot you a lazy smirk, grabbing his folder. “Nah. You’d still talk. It’s the only way you function.” You raised a brow, grabbing her coffee as she stood. “Just be ready Thursday, counselor.”

“Oh, I will be,” he murmured, half to himself as you walked off ahead of him. His eyes dropped to the sway of-

Focus, Han. Not now.

The case was a web. But with you, he realized it wasn’t just untangling it. It was figuring out who was pulling the strings alongside him. And for once, it didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.

Prep for the Mock Trial

The fluorescent lights in your shared office buzzed quietly as papers rustled and two cups of coffee sat cooling, forgotten. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM, but neither of you had noticed the time. You were seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, balancing your laptop on your knees, voice low but focused as you ran through your opening statement draft. Jisung was pacing slowly with a pen in his mouth and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, eyes darting from paper to whiteboard. Every now and then, he’d mumble something or make a noise of disapproval under his breath.

“You skipped over the offshore transfer in August,” he said suddenly, cutting into her flow like a scalpel. “What?” you blinked, scrolling up. “No, I didn’t—”

“You did. You jumped from July to September like August didn’t exist. That transfer ties into the witness’ credibility. If you miss that in court, we lose the entire momentum.”

“I said August,” you insisted, your tone sharp now. “You must’ve zoned out again.” Jisung rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t zone out; I just actually pay attention.” That landed a little harder than he expected.

Your fingers froze on the trackpad. “Are you seriously implying I don’t pay attention to my own case?”

“I’m implying,” he said coolly, “that maybe if you stopped treating this like a performance and started treating it like law, you wouldn’t miss simple stuff.” Your mouth parted, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re great at talking, Y/N, no doubt. But law isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about being right. And sometimes, you skip details because you’re so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room.”

The air went ice cold.

“Wow,” you said, standing up slowly, voice lower than before. “You know, I get it. You’re used to being the genius. The golden boy. So, God forbid someone comes in and actually keeps up.” Jisung’s mouth opened, then shut. His jaw flexed.

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you think it. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do care about how I come across—because I have to. Because unlike you, I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have parents who could afford law school. I don’t have a family name. I earned my place here.”

“You think I didn’t?”

“No,” you snapped, “I think you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to be seen. I think you have no idea what it’s like to have people doubt your intelligence the second you walk in because you don’t come from the right background.”

He looked like he wanted to fight that but then he muttered it, barely audible:

“Maybe if you weren’t so defensive all the damn time, people wouldn’t doubt you.” Your eyes widened slowly. That one hit like a punch to the ribs.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Screw this.”

You grabbed your laptop and shoved it into your bag with trembling hands. He stepped forward instinctively, guilt rushing in like a wave, but you cut him off with just one glance, eyes glassy and betrayed.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Y/N, I—”

“You don’t get to apologize.” The door clicked behind you as you walked out, leaving only silence and the buzzing light.

Jisung stood there for a long time, the weight of his words pressing down hard. He knew he messed up. And he knew sorry wasn’t going to cut it.

---

The atmosphere in the trial room was different.

Tense. Unspoken.

The team sat behind the long table facing the mock jury box. Grey was seated like a hawk, sharp-eyed and still. Jisung was at the end of the table, posture impeccable, face unreadable. His tie was perfect, hair neat, but his fingers tapped nervously under the desk. You walked in five minutes before the session started.

You were pristine with pressed slacks, a sleek ponytail, silver-rimmed glasses. The same woman from the steps that morning. Cool, composed, unreadable.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t even hesitate. Grey gave a curt nod as the session began. “Let’s run it like it’s real. Y/N, opening.” You stood, the room holding its breath.

And as you spoke—calm, clear, devastatingly precise—Jisung could feel the growing tension in his chest. You were flawless. Unshakable.

And she wasn’t looking at him.

The mock courtroom buzzed with a synthetic energy, the kind that stemmed from performance but mimicked the high-stakes atmosphere of a real trial. Every step, every statement was under scrutiny. Professors and legal consultants sat with clipboards, eyes flickering between the two leads of the case.

You hadn't glanced at Jisung once. Not during his opening statement, which was admittedly impressive but a touch rushed. Not when they passed each other the exhibit binder. Not even when he tapped your arm to hand over his notes on the cross. You took them without a word.

Your expression remained neutral, every movement calculated.

Jisung was unraveling. Internally. On the outside, he maintained the illusion of calm, jotting things down, nodding here and there, but underneath, it was pure chaos. He’d stolen a few glances. Your eyes were deadset on the witness, your jaw sharp, mouth pursed in thought. And each time you succeeded, each time the jury murmured in appreciation, he should’ve felt pride.

Instead, he felt the hollow throb of regret.

You stood for cross-examination, heels clacking against the floor with commanding rhythm.

“Mr. Wexler, you mentioned that the email correspondence between you and the defendant occurred ‘frequently’ throughout Q3, correct?”

“Yes.”

You tilted her head, sharp. “Can you define ‘frequently’?”

“Uh… maybe twice a week?”

“Twice a week,” you echoed, eyes flicking to the projector. “Then can you explain why there are only four emails logged between July and September?”

The room shifted. The witness stammered. Jisung smiled. Instinctively, he turned to share that moment with you.

You didn’t even twitch. Didn’t acknowledge the success. Didn’t give him the usual side-smirk you shared when a point landed. Nothing.

You sat, fingers interlaced calmly. Cold. Professional. Grey leaned in slightly toward Jisung, whispering just loud enough: “She’s sharper today.”

Jisung forced a grin. “Yeah. She is.”

What Grey didn’t know was why she was sharper. Pain had a funny way of refining focus. And you were in no mood to forgive and forget. Especially not mid-trial.

As everyone gathered near the board, unpacking the session, you contributed where necessary, objective and direct. When Jisung asked you if you needed his notes for the rebuttal? You turned to Grey and said, “Could you pass me the updated printout?”

When he brought up a shared strategy they’d discussed last night?

“Actually, I revised that this morning. I’ll use mine.”

Every time he tried to breach the space between you — professional or personal — you slid past him like smoke. Unbothered. It was killing him.

---

Jisung finally caught you at the vending machine, alone. No audience. No Grey.

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Your tone was low but heavy. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You didn’t even turn. Just grabbed your drink and walked away, leaving him standing there with his apology still stuck in his throat.

The Actual Courtroom Trial – Day One

Location: Seoul District Court, 9:15 AM.

The courtroom was charged. Polished wood gleamed under harsh lighting, papers rustled like whispers, and every cough, click, and sigh echoed like it mattered. The gallery was half-filled with press, executives, and sharp-eyed legal interns hungry for drama. Y/N sat at the plaintiff’s table, expression blank, body composed like a trained performer. Her braids were pinned in a clean updo, her suit crisply tailored, gray with a deep navy undershirt that matched the cold glint in her eyes. Jisung, sitting beside her, looked the part too, fitted black suit, no tie, top button undone. Hands loosely folded over his notes; brows furrowed. He’d barely said a word to her since the mock trial.

She hadn’t said a word back. And now wasn’t the time to fix anything. Because the judge walked in.

“All rise.”

Everyone stood.

“Court is now in session in the matter of Daejin Tech vs. KraneTech and Min Hyunsoo.”

The judge, an older man with sharp eyes behind square glasses, glanced down at his docket. “Opening statements?”

Grey stood first. “Your Honor, we intend to prove that not only did the defendant willfully breach contract, but in doing so, they manipulated internal reporting systems to inflate data and secure funding under false pretenses.” He glanced down at Jisung, who gave the most subtle nod. Grey continued: “We will show you emails, witness statements, and system logs that confirm deliberate falsification, with direct involvement from Mr. Min.”

It was clean. Sharp. Confident.

The defense countered with a calm but vague approach — denying nothing directly, playing the ‘miscommunication between departments’ angle.

Classic. But weak.

Witness Examination — Day Two

By now, the courtroom had warmed up. The crowd had grown. Legal press had started posting snippets, curious about the two Daejin lawyers making waves. Jisung took the floor this time. His steps were slow, measured. The court reporter’s keys tapped steadily as he approached the witness: a former financial analyst who’d been fired six months prior.

“You mentioned seeing irregularities in the data, correct?”

“Yes.”

Jisung leaned against the podium, casual but precise. “And you reported it?”

“I tried. But the internal review team—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Withdrawn,” Jisung said easily, before shifting pace. “So you saw something. And you did…nothing?” The witness shifted. “I was told it wasn’t my place.”

“By whom?”

The man hesitated. “Let the record show the witness is taking a long pause,” Jisung added calmly, then looked to the jury. “Sometimes silence tells us more than words.”

The gallery buzzed. Y/N didn’t look at him. But her pen stopped moving for half a second. Just a twitch. Their next witness was the IT manager. Now it was Y/N’s turn. She stood tall, calm, with a file in hand as she stepped to the center. Her voice? Smooth and precise.

“You were in charge of all server logs for KraneTech?”

“Yes.”

“You have access to login timestamps, message histories, cloud storage?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She clicked a remote. The screen lit up behind her. “Can you explain this file name?” she asked, pointing to a suspicious folder — ’dev_recalibrationsQ3_v2’.

“It’s not one I authorized.”

“Yet it came from your department.”

“It did.”

“Then who accessed it?”

The man hesitated. Y/N didn’t blink. “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said, clicking again. “The IP address matches the defendant’s personal office system. And the login code was hardwired to his biometric key.”

Gasps.

“Would you still say you weren’t aware of any tampering?” she asked quietly. He swallowed. “No, ma’am.” Her face was emotionless as she turned back to the judge. “No further questions.”

Recess

Grey gave both Y/N and Jisung subtle nods of approval, but neither of them smiled. They weren’t talking. Not outside the courtroom. Not even in the prep room. They passed each other case files like strangers forced to cooperate. They presented united fronts like seasoned partners. But underneath?

It was a cold war.

Final Courtroom Verdict — Seoul District Court

Day Six, 3:45 PM

The courtroom was still. Not the kind of silence that came from boredom or fatigue, no, this one crackled. Anticipation hung heavy like fog, wrapping around every person in the room. Phones had been tucked away. The press wasn’t even live-tweeting anymore. Everyone was waiting. Jisung sat tall, his hands resting loosely on his lap. He didn’t look at Y/N. Not once. She looked straight ahead, lips barely parted, a pen clutched tightly in her right hand not writing, not fidgeting. Just holding. Her back was straight. Her jaw was steel.

The judge cleared his throat. “I have reviewed the evidence, testimonies, and expert analysis provided throughout this trial.”

A pause. “And while the defense attempted to establish a chain of miscommunication, this court finds that the fraud was deliberate, premeditated, and tied directly to Mr. Min Hyunsoo.”

A murmur swept through the gallery.

“I hereby rule in favor of the plaintiff, Daejin Tech.”

Boom. Just like that. Case closed. Grey let out the smallest exhale. A pleased smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Well done,” he said under his breath. But his gaze wasn’t on Jisung. It was on Y/N.

They stood. They bowed. The courtroom emptied slowly, reluctantly — like no one really wanted to miss what came next.

But Y/N didn’t stay. She packed up her documents methodically, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone. The moment the courtroom cleared, she slipped into the hallway, heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. Her suit jacket clung perfectly, hair neat, gaze fixed forward.

Until,

“Y/N,” Jisung called from behind her.

She didn’t stop. Not until he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path just outside the conference room doors. The hall was mostly empty, voices muffled behind glass and oak.

“I just—” He paused, jaw clenching. “I need to apologize. What I said that night, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but cutting. She looked up at him, not angry just… disappointed. Like she'd seen a side of him she wished she hadn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with you,” she said, slowly. “That was my mistake.”

Jisung’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“And I’m sorry for assuming I could be safe around you and still… be myself.” Her eyes dropped for just a second, then came back up, colder. “Won’t happen again.”

“YN/…” His brows furrowed, the guilt in his expression unmistakable. “Don’t do that.”

But she was already pulling herself back together. Tightening the line in her shoulders. Drawing the wall back up, brick by goddamn brick. “I’ll see you at work, sir,” she said, stepping past him.

That one word — sir — sliced clean and cruel. Not professional. Not respectful. Just distant.

And then she was gone. Leaving Jisung standing in the hall, stunned silent, holding onto an apology that had come too late.

---

The house smelled like warm rice and thyme-simmered chicken, that comforting kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and said you’re safe here. You sat at the edge of the couch, curled up under your mom’s old woven blanket. Your mother had already bombarded you with a second helping of food you didn’t ask for, and your dad had just settled beside her with a cold glass of malt.

“So,” her mom said gently, “how’d the case go?”

You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink into the soft curve of the couch. “We won,” you murmured, voice small but proud. Your mom grinned and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All those sleepless nights, hm?”

“Barely slept at all,” You chuckled softly. Your dad leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “And this Jisung guy? Your supervisor?” Your lips tightened slightly. “He was… fine.”

“You say that like he set your desk on fire,” your mom said with a teasing smirk. You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate. Just twisted the edge of the blanket between your fingers. Your dad raised a brow, the way he always did when he was scanning for more beneath the surface. “Something happen?”

There was a long pause before you gave a small nod. “He said something… personal. During a fight. It just… I don’t know. Hit too close.” Your mom’s eyes darkened slightly. “What did he say?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” you muttered.

Your dad studied you for a moment longer, then sat back with a deep sigh, that thoughtful dad sigh that only ever came before life advice that could level you. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes we say stupid things when we care too much and don’t know how to say it.”

You blinked. “He doesn’t care—”

“He does. That’s why he pissed you off so easily. And why you’re still hurt.” You looked at him then, eyes tired. He met your gaze with a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve said some cruel things to your mother before. Words that hurt deep, even if I didn’t mean them. Sometimes men get scared, or flustered, and instead of admitting it… we shoot. And the first thing in the line of fire is usually the person closest.”

Your mom nodded softly from beside you. “Forgiveness doesn’t make you weak, darling. It means you’re strong enough to love past someone’s worst day.” You exhaled through your nose, leaning your head on your dad’s shoulder. You didn’t say anything but the weight in your chest loosened just a little.

—

The office lights were dimmed to a low glow, but Jisung hadn’t moved. His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone. He stared at the report on his desk, not really reading it. His fingers tapped mindlessly against the table.

There was no music. No celebration. Just silence and a gnawing ache behind his eyes.

He couldn’t stop replaying the way she said sir.

He’d earned that. He deserved that. But it still stung like hell. The door creaked open, and Grey strolled in with two takeaway cups in hand. “You’re still here?” he asked, incredulous. “Jesus, Sungie — we just won our most high-profile case this quarter.”

Jisung didn’t look up. Grey set one cup on his desk. “Why aren’t you home getting drunk and screaming into a karaoke mic with Changbin?”

Silence.

Grey’s gaze narrowed as he pulled up a chair. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. “I shouldn’t’ve made you supervise her,” Grey said eventually. “You hate team-ups. I knew that.” Jisung finally shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not it.” Grey’s brow lifted. “Then what is?”

Silence again but heavier this time. More telling.

Grey leaned back, mouth twitching. “You fought, didn’t you?”

Jisung didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t have to. Grey sighed, shaking his head. “She’s smart. And she keeps you on your toes. And she makes you care when you’re trying not to.”

“Grey…” Jisung muttered, tone low and warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna lecture you. I’m just saying, maybe don’t be a dumbass.” He stood, finishing his coffee. “Go home, Jisung. This office doesn’t need your brooding. And she sure as hell doesn’t need more silence from you.”

He clapped him on the shoulder once not hard, not playful. Just grounding. Then he walked out.

And Jisung sat alone again.

But this time… he picked up his phone. And he stared at her name. For a very, very long time.

…One Week Later…

The clack of heels against marble, the hum of printers, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the break room work carried on like the world hadn’t cracked open just days ago.

Y/N walked in every morning exactly at 8:50. Not too early. Not too late. Her hair pinned neatly, makeup clean and sharp. Professional. Untouchable.

Jisung noticed. He always did. But he kept his eyes on his screen when she passed his office. He pretended not to glance up when her laugh rang out from across the hall quieter now, but still there.

They only spoke when absolutely necessary.

And those conversations?

Clinical. Precise.

Like cutting stitches with cold hands.

Jisung stepped in to the meeting room with a file in hand, the tie he forgot to tighten swinging slightly as he moved. Y/N was already seated at the end of the table, flipping through a document.

“Update on the Barlow merger,” she said without looking up.

He slid into the seat across from her. “I… yeah. I got your notes.” A pause. “They were good. Really… good.” She nodded, still not looking at him.

The silence stretched like plastic wrap thin and suffocating. Jisung tapped the corner of his folder. “YN, I—”

She turned a page.

He swallowed. “About last week—”

“Jisung,” she said gently but firmly, still not lifting her eyes. “Let’s keep it about work.”

He nodded. Slowly. The tightness in his chest returned like a tide. “Right. Just work.” He left first.

---

The doors slid open. She was already inside.

He hesitated just for a second. But it was enough. She saw it.

“Getting in?” she asked quietly.

He stepped in. They stood in opposite corners, the silence buzzing with everything unsaid. As the doors closed, he risked a glance. Her arms were crossed. Eyes forward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

“That night,” he said, a little louder now. “What I said. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I know.” That should’ve been comforting.

But it wasn’t. “Then why won’t you look at me?” She exhaled. “Because I’m trying to keep my distance.”

The elevator dinged. She stepped out without turning back.

---

Grey glanced up from his desk when Jisung walked in looking like a man who’d just been hit with a lawsuit and a love confession at the same time.

“She talked to me,” Jisung said, tossing himself into a chair.

“Progress?”

“I think it was worse than silence.”

Grey hummed, closing his laptop. “You wanna know the worst kind of heartbreak?” Jisung rubbed his temple. “I already feel it, so go ahead.”

“When you realize they don’t hate you,” Grey said, “they just don’t trust you anymore.”

Jisung didn’t respond. Grey leaned back. “So, you’ve got two options. One — give up. Let her slip away because it’s easier than fighting. Or two — work your ass off to prove her heart’s safe with you again.”

Jisung looked up slowly. “And if she never gives me that chance?”

Grey cracked a small smile. “Then you better make damn sure she knows you would’ve taken it.”

---

The knock was soft, but firm.

Grey didn’t even look up from his screen. “Come in, Y/N.”

She pushed the door open, the crisp scent of bergamot tea and wood polish instantly familiar. The blinds were cracked just enough for the golden evening light to spill in, catching the silver in Grey’s cufflinks. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, stepping in and shutting the door behind her.

He finally looked up tired eyes, lips pursed, tie slightly loosened like he’d been too busy to care today. Or maybe, too weighed down.

“I hate doing this,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, passionately, hate it. But apparently, I’ve become the damn emotional chaperone in this firm.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry… for what, exactly?”

Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You and Han Jisung. You haven’t spoken more than four sentences unless it’s about legal briefs or witness statements in two weeks. And that boy—” he paused, exhaling deeply, “—he’s not okay.” Her throat tightened just slightly, but she kept her face still. “We’re being professional.”

“You’re being frosty,” Grey deadpanned. “And he’s being distant because he thinks he deserves it. But the truth is, Y/N…” He paused. “He’s breaking. Quietly. Slowly. And I’ve only seen him like this once — first year. He tried so hard to prove himself and failed a case that cost an innocent man jail time. I walked into the office and he was just… sitting there in the dark.”

YN swallowed. She hated the visual of that, Jisung, the firecracker of their courtroom, looking that dim. That alone hurt.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said carefully.

“Because he doesn’t know how to,” Grey said. “Because people like Jisung? They weren’t taught love like you were.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Grey leaned forward. “His parents didn’t raise him with softness. His father only calls to scold or guilt-trip, and his mother left him to fight those battles alone. Every emotion he’s got, every ounce of passion or fear or pride, he channels into work because it’s the one place he can control. He doesn’t fall for people easily, YN. But when he does, it’s… heavy. Terrifying.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, heart twisting.

“Of course you didn’t,” Grey said gently. “He doesn’t let people know. But I do. I’ve seen it. I see it now. He’s in love with you, Y/N. Has been for a while.”

Her breath caught. She blinked. “No… he’s not. He’s just… regretful.”

“Regret doesn’t make someone stare at your desk like it’s a missing limb,” Grey said sharply. “Regret doesn’t make him pause at your office door and walk away ten times in a day. That’s love. Unsaid. Unshaped. But it’s there.”

She sat back in the chair, the leather cool against her skin as her mind tried to wrap around the weight of Grey’s words. The idea that Jisung — chaotic, brilliant, frustrating Jisung — loved her was something she hadn’t let herself entertain. Not really.

“You’re scared too,” Grey said quietly, watching her expression change. “But I’m telling you now… either talk to him, or you both keep walking around like ghosts. And you’ll regret it far more than that night.”

Y/N didn’t speak for a long time.

But when she left his office, her fingers hovered near her phone.

---

The quiet of your apartment felt louder than usual. No music. No background show running just for noise. Just the low hum of the fridge, and her pacing footsteps against the hardwood floor.

You stood by the window, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over Jisung’s contact like it weighed ten pounds. Grey’s words were still spinning in your head, colliding with the memory of Jisung’s tired eyes, his hands pausing at her office door, the things he never said.

You pressed Call before she could overthink it again. The phone didn’t even get to the second ring.

“Hello?” His voice came fast, sharp, almost breathless. “Y/N? Hey. Hi—are you okay? Did something happen? I—I was just—Are you okay?”

You blinked at the window, lips twitching despite herself. “Hey, Jisung.”

“Hey,” he breathed, like your voice hit him like air after drowning. There was a pause. Then he continued, voice softer, still a little shaky:

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I hoped you would. I just—God, it’s good to hear you.”

Your chest squeezed at that. “I just wanted to check on you,” you said gently. “How are you?”

Another pause. A breath.

“I’m okay. I mean—work’s fine. Everything’s… fine. I’m just—” He stopped himself, then laughed under his breath, awkward and raw. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, heart aching. “Me too.”

You could hear his breath slow just slightly, like the ice between them cracked not broken yet, but thinned. “I wanted to ask,” she continued, voice steady now, “if I could see you. Tomorrow. In your office. Just us. If that’s okay.”

Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said immediately. Then softer. “Yeah. Please. Anytime. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” she said, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

There was another silence, but this one was warm. Almost comforting. And when they hung up, both of them stared at their ceilings for a long, long time. Waiting. Ready to try again.

---

The sun had barely settled into the sky when you stood at the threshold of Jisung’s office, your heart thudding harder with every breath. You weren’t nervous at least, you told yourself you weren’t. You were just… bracing yourself. For a conversation overdue. For feelings neither of you had signed up for. Your hand hovered over the handle, fingers curling in, then releasing. The hallway was quiet at this hour. No distractions. No excuses. Just you, a closed door, and the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about.

You finally knocked, three soft taps. Polite. Almost unsure.

“Come in,” his voice called through almost instantly, like he’d been sitting there waiting.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was how he looked up fast, like he’d been facing the door the whole time. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t really slept even though it was a new day. His tie was loose. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms.

Your heart did a little tumble you didn’t appreciate.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping in. He stood up halfway. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of you knew what to say. It was like the air between you was stitched together with tension and apologies that couldn’t be said in passing. Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the two chairs by the coffee table near his desk. The sunlight was spilling in through the blinds, casting soft stripes of light over everything. You nodded and took a seat, smoothing down your skirt. He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, like he was ready to leap forward—or run.

“I wanted to talk,” you started, eyes locked on him.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I mean—I’m glad you did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to…” He trailed off, sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve messed things up, haven’t I?”

“Not entirely,” you said softly. He looked up at you like that single sentence kept him from drowning. You licked your lips. “I talked to Grey.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Oh.”

“He told me things. About you. About how you grew up. About how… hard it is for you to get close to people.” Jisung shifted. The slight flinch in his posture wasn’t lost on you. “I didn’t come here to push you,” you said gently. “I came here because I needed to hear you. Not your file. Not Grey. You.”

He exhaled, almost crumbling.

“You scare me,” he muttered suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You do. You walk in like you’re on fire and you don’t even notice the way the room bends around you. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You challenge me. You see through me like no one ever has and I—I hate it because it’s terrifying and I love it because it’s you.”

You sat frozen for a breath. Then another. Your lips parted, stunned. “I didn’t mean what I said that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I knew I crossed the line the second I saw your face fall. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry ever since.”

You nodded once. “You did hurt me.”

“I know.”

“But I also didn’t let you explain.” Jisung stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” she said back. Another moment passed. And then you reached for the coffee cup sitting cold on the table between them, lifted it to your lips, and made a face. “Jesus. How long has this been sitting here?”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t drink that.”

“So, we agree it’s toxic waste?”

He nodded. “100%.” A beat. Then she smiled barely. But it was there. And Jisung? He smiled too, but his was full, slow, blooming like it had been dying to stretch across his face again.

“I still owe you lunch,” he said.

“And I still owe you a win,” youreplied.

They weren’t fixed. But they were trying.

Han Jisung’s hands have never felt so useless. He’d just begun to feel like the ground beneath them was leveling out, like he could speak to you again without hating himself. And then you had to look at him like that, half-curious, half-devilish. Like you were planning something dangerous, and he was helpless to stop it.

You sat forward, your eyes locked on him, voice honeyed but sharp.

“So… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked casually, like you weren’t about to unravel him.

Jisung blinked. “Tell you what?”

“That you have feelings for me.” His brain blue-screened. Full-on system failure. “I—uh—w-what? Feelings? Me?” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Grey sort of told me yesterday.”

“Grey told—?!” he choked. “That—traitor—”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked again, eyes twinkling. He fidgeted in his seat like it was suddenly too small for him. “Because! You’re—you. And I’m me. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m your—supervisor,” he stressed, as if that helped.

“That never stopped you from bossing me around in meetings,” you teased.

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that, I already feel like I’ve committed emotional HR violations.” You leaned back, lips pressing together to hide your laugh. And then, slowly, you stood. Jisung watched you, wary. “What are you doing?”

You circled his desk like a cat, stopping behind his chair. “Wait,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “are you flustered right now?”

“I’m not—!” he squeaked, voice cracking slightly. “I am composed, thank you.”

“Flustered. About me,” you sang, enjoying this far too much. “Han Jisung has a crush on his intern…”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing even deeper.

“As if you aren’t too,” he shot back suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. And it hit you like a slap of heat. Your smile faltered for half a second. You blinked. “What did you just say?”

Jisung’s lips parted, like he wanted to take it back but he didn’t. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and honest.

“Don’t act like it’s just me.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and buzzing. And then—God help them both—you leaned forward, bracing your hands on the arms of his chair. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath hitch.

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

Then, without warning, you kissed him.

Soft. Bold. Quick. But the second your lips pressed to his, your brain short-circuited with a thousand alarms. What did I just do? Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic bubbling up before you even pulled back.

“I—” you breathed, stepping back fast, “I shouldn’t have—”

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. Jisung was already out of his chair. And then his hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and his lips were back on yours, urgent this time. Messy. Real. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued with him.

You melted into it until you were both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths.

“You totally overstepped,” he whispered, grinning. You rolled her eyes. “You literally chased me.” He smirked, still breathless. “And I’d do it again.”

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Then neither of you could remember who started what anymore. Jisung’s hands were frantic, like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. Your waist? Your jaw? Your hips? He settled for all of them, one after the other, pulling you impossibly closer between kisses that left you both gasping.

You weren’t helping—at all. You were smirking against his lips, fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt as you murmured, “You know, for someone so professional in meetings… you’re kinda desperate right now.” Jisung pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted in shock. “Wh—” His voice cracked. “That’s not fair—!”

“Awww,” you teased, dragging your finger down the center of his chest, “did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes!” he whined, genuinely, breath stuttering. “Why are you bullying me right now?”

“Because you’re easy,” you grinned, grabbing the end of his tie and giving it a little tug. “And cute when you pout.” Jisung muttered something incoherent—probably a curse—before he gave up entirely and kissed you again, this time deeper, one hand firm at the small of your back while the other traveled down, fingers skimming the edge of her thighs. You let out a sharp inhale when he hoisted you up onto his desk like you weighed nothing. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen went clattering to the floor, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care because his hands God, his hands were trailing up your legs with reverence and want all rolled into one shaky exhale.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to worship you or unravel you.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her skin.

“I learned from the best,” you shot back, already popping open the first button of his shirt. “Mr. Han.”

“Oh my God—” He was dizzy. Fully, utterly gone for you. His tie was undone, shirt halfway open, and your lips were ghosting along the edge of his collarbone like you wanted to memorize the taste of him.

And then—

RIIINGGGG—!!

The desk phone blared.

The two of you froze.

Jisung groaned. “No. No, no, no.” You snorted, forehead falling to his shoulder in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m about to unplug that thing for life,” he mumbled into your neck. “Shouldn’t you pick it up?” you teased.

“I should sue it for emotional damage.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You kissed me and now I’m ruined—of course I’m dramatic!”

The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, breath still uneven, Jisung reached around you for the receiver, muttering a soft, “Don’t move,” like you were going to evaporate if he looked away for too long. He cleared his throat before answering voice still wrecked, like he’d just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Y-Yeah, Han speaking…”

There was a pause. You watched his expression shift from annoyed to concerned, his brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

“Mhm. Okay—okay. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and sighed like he just aged ten years in thirty seconds. You tilted your head. “That didn’t sound like a lunch reservation.” Jisung winced. “It’s not. That was about the Parker brief—something blew up with the client and I need to help clean it before it spirals. They’re asking for me personally.”

He stepped closer, brushing your hair back gently. “I swear to God, if I didn’t have to go—”

“You’d what?” you teased, lips quirking. He grinned, leaning in to kiss you one more time, slow and deliberate. “I’d definitely get fired.”

You laughed against his mouth and pulled back. “So dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere. “But I am going to make it up to you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Dinner. Just you and me. No work. No Grey. No emergencies. Just us.” Your brows raised. “Is this a bribe, Mr. Han?”

“This is me asking you on a date, finally,” he said, smirking. “And lowkey bribing you.”

“You’re lucky I like food,” you said, hopping off the desk as he helped her down. “Lucky you like me,” he mumbled under his breath.

You caught that. You both smiled. As you adjusted your blouse and smoothed your skirt, you stepped over to him and fixed his tie with practiced ease, eyes focused on the knot like it was the most delicate task in the world. Then you slid a finger down the center of his shirt, giving one button an extra pat.

“There,” you murmured. “Ready for war.”

“I was gonna say court,” he chuckled, “but same energy.” You turned to leave, heels clicking against the polished floor. And of course, his eyes dropped immediately to your hips. And stayed there. Shamelessly. You didn’t even have to look back to know. You paused at the door, turned slowly, and caught him red-handed, gaze glued to you like he was trying to memorize every step you took.

“So, you were staring,” you said, one brow arched in challenge.

Jisung blinked, caught like a guilty puppy. “I—I was just—I mean, technically, you’re walking in my office so it’s my job to supervise…”

“Supervise my ass?” He grinned. “Exactly.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still showing up for dinner.”

“Only because I want dessert.”

“Ohhh my God.”

You winked and walked out, leaving Jisung running a hand through his hair, muttering, “She’s gonna destroy me,” with the biggest lovestruck smile on his face.

Waw....our flustered boy always comes out in the end huh? 🥰

Taglist: purple means I can't tag you

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather @necrozica @sh0dor1 @leeknow-minho2 @jitrulyslayyed @igotajuicyass @bbokvhs @katyxstay @maisyyyyyy @katchowbbie @yoongiismylove2018 @morkleesgirl @rockstarkkami @alisonyus @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @makeawitchoutofme @jc27s @jeonginnieswifey @nikki143777 @lillymochilover @imeverycliche @heartsbystars @iknow-uknow-leeknow @maxidential @ebnabi @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @zerillia @queenofdumbfuckery

check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

~kc💗

[call-sign-shark]

Echo of Shadows || Masterlist

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!OCreader || Alina Starkov x Heartrender!OCreader || Malyen Oretsevx HeartRender!OCreader

Summary: "They called her the White Plague, a saint or a monster—but she was neither, only destruction wrapped in a pretty bow."

In Ravka's frosty heart, the legend of the White Plague spreads—a woman with snow-white hair, frozen-fire eyes, and powers that rival those of Jurda Parem. Once a slave in the Menagerie, the one who calls herself Heaven is now a myth, either leaving towns in ruins or former disease-ridden people crying with gratitude. A Sankta.

General Kirigan's interest soon turns dark and his desire obsessive. Never had he been so captivated and haunted by someone. Someone he could finally share his eternal life with. Caught in a cruel game of power and love, she's torn between Kirigan’s corrupting passion and Alina Starkov’s promise of freedom.

Amidst the chaos, one question arises: will she become a savior, a monster, or something far more dangerous?

TW: Explicit sexual content, slow burn, borderline consent, heavy pinning, toxic relationship [manipulation, obsession, extreme jealousy, controlling behavior], graphic sexual description, graphic depiction of murder and torture, blood!kink, size!kink, radioactive couple, codependency, reference to past SA and child SA, dark romance & mad romance trope, ambiguous relationship with Alina. This story is brutal, bloody and rated +18.

ACT I: A BURNING LIMERENCE

1. Keep Moving, Little Girl

2. Their Frozen Shackles

3. The Court of Shadows

4. The Fear Within

5. Beneath his Watchful Eyes 🔞

6. Until Nothing is Left

7. Dangerous

8. Blood and Honey

9. Gazed Into the Abyss, It Gazed Back Into Me 🔞

10. Raw

11 Burn Your Village 🔞

13. Light of my Life.

14. My Night and Stars. 🔞

ACT II. RAPTURE OF THE DEEP

Queen of Spades

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Light

Like a Feeling of Déjà Vue

Blinding Light

I was Made for Loving You, Baby 🔞

It's in Our Veins

Your Darkness Flayed 🔞

After the Storm, the Sun

Safe in the Dark 🔞

Paint Me Black 🔞

Golden Cage for a Pretty Bird

Your Heart, My Chains

Good Ending? You Haven't Been Paying Attention

ACT III. THE CALL OF THE VOID

The Assasymphony

Never You

Barbwire Kiss🔞

It Has Always Been You 🔞

I'm Not Ruined. I'm Ruination.

Here Comes the Wolves

Your Love is an Open Wound 🔞

The Starless Saint of Broken Hearts

The Mask of the Red Death

Candy-Coated Suicide

Symphony of Our Ruins

Epilogue: Eternal Eclipse

ONE SHOTS

Much Ado About Jam Toasts- fun & fluff

A Dangerous White Tigress - action, Hurt/Comfort

Away From the Deep Shadow

Damaged

MODERN AU*

Mental Health Is Sexy Masterlist

*Amos is Aleksander's modern identity.

GAME OF THRONES AU

Damaged Masterlist

*Amos is Aleksander.

VISUALS

Light in the Dark

"Call me Aleksander" - trailer by the beloved @elizabethblood9

My Night and Stars

ASK

Modern!Aleksander x Heaven for Christmas

Notes:

☾ I haven't read the books so this work is based on the TV show even though I know it's fairly different from the original Grisha verse. If you're an adorable lore psycho, you might not want to read that! :(

☾ Taglist: @lunawants , @emtaz-art, @lightinbug, @kmc1989, @thepassionatereader @mystic-mara @m-riaa @kallista-diune @meadows5 @kasagia @watersquirtpewpewboomm @the-sweet-psycho @sarahsobsession @elizabethblood9 @ritzzzzz @sophialeiros @noortsshift @sassyvilliantrope @sherwoodforesttales @a-smidges-stuff

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Greenwashing set Canada on fire

On September 22, I'm (virtually) presenting at the DIG Festival in Modena, Italy. On September 27, I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine.

As a teenager growing up in Ontario, I always envied the kids who spent their summers tree planting; they'd come back from the bush in September, insect-chewed and leathery, with new muscle, incredible stories, thousands of dollars, and a glow imparted by the knowledge that they'd made a new forest with their own blistered hands.

I was too unathletic to follow them into the bush, but I spent my summers doing my bit, ringing doorbells for Greenpeace to get my neighbours fired up about the Canadian pulp-and-paper industry, which wasn't merely clear-cutting our old-growth forests – it was also poisoning the Great Lakes system with PCBs, threatening us all.

At the time, I thought of tree-planting as a small victory – sure, our homegrown, rapacious, extractive industry was able to pollute with impunity, but at least the government had reined them in on forests, forcing them to pay my pals to spend their summers replacing the forests they'd fed into their mills.

I was wrong. Last summer's Canadian wildfires blanketed the whole east coast and midwest in choking smoke as millions of trees burned and millions of tons of CO2 were sent into the atmosphere. Those wildfires weren't just an effect of the climate emergency: they were made far worse by all those trees planted by my pals in the eighties and nineties.

Writing in the New York Times, novelist Claire Cameron describes her own teen years working in the bush, planting row after row of black spruces, precisely spaced at six-foot intervals:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/15/opinion/wildfires-treeplanting-timebomb.html

Cameron's summer job was funded by the logging industry, whose self-pegulated, self-assigned "penalty" for clearcutting diverse forests of spruce, pine and aspen was to pay teenagers to create a tree farm, at nine cents per sapling (minus camp costs).

Black spruces are made to burn, filled with flammable sap and equipped with resin-filled cones that rely on fire, only opening and dropping seeds when they're heated. They're so flammable that firefighters call them "gas on a stick."

Cameron and her friends planted under brutal conditions: working long hours in blowlamp heat and dripping wet bulb humidity, amidst clouds of stinging insects, fingers blistered and muscles aching. But when they hit rock bottom and were ready to quit, they'd encourage one another with a rallying cry: "Let's go make a forest!"

Planting neat rows of black spruces was great for the logging industry: the even spacing guaranteed that when the trees matured, they could be easily reaped, with ample space between each near-identical tree for massive shears to operate. But that same monocropped, evenly spaced "forest" was also optimized to burn.

It burned.

The climate emergency's frequent droughts turn black spruces into "something closer to a blowtorch." The "pines in lines" approach to reforesting was an act of sabotage, not remediation. Black spruces are thirsty, and they absorb the water that moss needs to thrive, producing "kindling in the place of fire retardant."

Cameron's column concludes with this heartbreaking line: "Now when I think of that summer, I don’t think that I was planting trees at all. I was planting thousands of blowtorches a day."

The logging industry committed a triple crime. First, they stole our old-growth forests. Next, they (literally) planted a time-bomb across Ontario's north. Finally, they stole the idealism of people who genuinely cared about the environment. They taught a generation that resistance is futile, that anything you do to make a better future is a scam, and you're a sucker for falling for it. They planted nihilism with every tree.

That scam never ended. Today, we're sold carbon offsets, a modern Papal indulgence. We are told that if we pay the finance sector, they can absolve us for our climate sins. Carbon offsets are a scam, a market for lemons. The "offset" you buy might be a generated by a fake charity like the Nature Conservancy, who use well-intentioned donations to buy up wildlife reserves that can't be logged, which are then converted into carbon credits by promising not to log them:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/12/fairy-use-tale/#greenwashing

The credit-card company that promises to plant trees every time you use your card? They combine false promises, deceptive advertising, and legal threats against critics to convince you that you're saving the planet by shopping:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/17/do-well-do-good-do-nothing/#greenwashing

The carbon offset world is full of scams. The carbon offset that made the thing you bought into a "net zero" product? It might be a forest that already burned:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/11/a-market-for-flaming-lemons/#money-for-nothing

The only reason we have carbon offsets is that market cultists have spent forty years convincing us that actual regulation is impossible. In the neoliberal learned helplessness mind-palace, there's no way to simply say, "You may not log old-growth forests." Rather, we have to say, "We will 'align your incentives' by making you replace those forests."

The Climate Ad Project's "Murder Offsets" video deftly punctures this bubble. In it, a detective points his finger at the man who committed the locked-room murder in the isolated mansion. The murderer cheerfully admits that he did it, but produces a "murder offset," which allowed him to pay someone else not to commit a murder, using market-based price-discovery mechanisms to put a dollar-figure on the true worth of a murder, which he duly paid, making his kill absolutely fine:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy

What's the alternative to murder offsets/carbon credits? We could ask our expert regulators to decide which carbon intensive activities are necessary and which ones aren't, and ban the unnecessary ones. We could ask those regulators to devise remediation programs that actually work. After all, there are plenty of forests that have already been clearcut, plenty that have burned. It would be nice to know how we can plant new forests there that aren't "thousands of blowtorches."

If that sounds implausible to you, then you've gotten trapped in the neoliberal mind-palace.

The term "regulatory capture" was popularized by far-right Chicago School economists who were promoting "public choice theory." In their telling, regulatory capture is inevitable, because companies will spend whatever it takes to get the government to pass laws making what they do legal, and making competing with them into a crime:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/13/public-choice/#ajit-pai-still-terrible

This is true, as far as it goes. Capitalists hate capitalism, and if an "entrepreneur" can make it illegal to compete with him, he will. But while this is a reasonable starting-point, the place that Public Choice Theory weirdos get to next is bonkers. They say that since corporations will always seek to capture their regulators, we should abolish regulators.

They say that it's impossible for good regulations to exist, and therefore the only regulation that is even possible is to let businesses do whatever they want and wait for the invisible hand to sweep away the bad companies. Rather than creating hand-washing rules for restaurant kitchens, we should let restaurateurs decide whether it's economically rational to make us shit ourselves to death. The ones that choose poorly will get bad online reviews and people will "vote with their dollars" for the good restaurants.

And if the online review site decides to sell "reputation management" to restaurants that get bad reviews? Well, soon the public will learn that the review site can't be trusted and they'll take their business elsewhere. No regulation needed! Unleash the innovators! Set the job-creators free!

This is the Ur-nihilism from which all the other nihilism springs. It contends that the regulations we have – the ones that keep our buildings from falling down on our heads, that keep our groceries from poisoning us, that keep our cars from exploding on impact – are either illusory, or perhaps the forgotten art of a lost civilization. Making good regulations is like embalming Pharaohs, something the ancients practiced in mist-shrouded, unrecoverable antiquity – and that may not have happened at all.

Regulation is corruptible, but it need not be corrupt. Regulation, like science, is a process of neutrally adjudicated, adversarial peer-review. In a robust regulatory process, multiple parties respond to a fact-intensive question – "what alloys and other properties make a reinforced steel joist structurally sound?" – with a mix of robust evidence and self-serving bullshit and then proceed to sort the two by pantsing each other, pointing out one another's lies.

The regulator, an independent expert with no conflicts of interest, sorts through the claims and counterclaims and makes a rule, showing their workings and leaving the door open to revisiting the rule based on new evidence or challenges to the evidence presented.

But when an industry becomes concentrated, it becomes unregulatable. 100 small and medium-sized companies will squabble. They'll struggle to come up with a common lie. There will always be defectors in their midst. Their conduct will be legible to external experts, who will be able to spot the self-serving BS.

But let that industry dwindle to a handful of giant companies, let them shrink to a number that will fit around a boardroom table, and they will sit down at a table and agree on a cozy arrangement that fucks us all over to their benefit. They will become so inbred that the only people who understand how they work will be their own insiders, and so top regulators will be drawn from their own number and be hopelessly conflicted.

When the corporate sector takes over, regulatory capture is inevitable. But corporate takeover isn't inevitable. We can – and have, and will again – fight corporate power, with antitrust law, with unions, and with consumer rights groups. Knowing things is possible. It simply requires that we keep the entities that profit by our confusion poor and thus weak.

The thing is, corporations don't always lie about regulations. Take the fight over working encryption, which – once again – the UK government is trying to ban:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2023/feb/24/signal-app-warns-it-will-quit-uk-if-law-weakens-end-to-end-encryption

Advocates for criminalising working encryption insist that the claims that this is impossible are the same kind of self-serving nonsense as claims that banning clearcutting of old-growth forests is impossible:

https://twitter.com/JimBethell/status/1699339739042599276

They say that when technologists say, "We can't make an encryption system that keeps bad guys out but lets good guys in," that they are being lazy and unimaginative. "I have faith in you geeks," they said. "Go nerd harder! You'll figure it out."

Google and Apple and Meta say that selectively breakable encryption is impossible. But they also claim that a bunch of eminently possible things are impossible. Apple claims that it's impossible to have a secure device where you get to decide which software you want to use and where publishers aren't deprive of 30 cents on every dollar you spend. Google says it's impossible to search the web without being comprehensively, nonconsensually spied upon from asshole to appetite. Meta insists that it's impossible to have digital social relationship without having your friendships surveilled and commodified.

While they're not lying about encryption, they are lying about these other things, and sorting out the lies from the truth is the job of regulators, but that job is nearly impossible thanks to the fact that everyone who runs a large online service tells the same lies – and the regulators themselves are alumni of the industry's upper eschelons.

Logging companies know a lot about forests. When we ask, "What is the best way to remediate our forests," the companies may well have useful things to say. But those useful things will be mixed with actively harmful lies. The carefully cultivated incompetence of our regulators means that they can't tell the difference.

Conspiratorialism is characterized as a problem of what people believe, but the true roots of conspiracy belief isn't what we believe, it's how we decide what to believe. It's not beliefs, it's epistemology.

Because most of us aren't qualified to sort good reforesting programs from bad ones. And even if we are, we're probably not also well-versed enough in cryptography to sort credible claims about encryption from wishful thinking. And even if we're capable of making that determination, we're not experts in food hygiene or structural engineering.

Daily life in the 21st century means resolving a thousand life-or-death technical questions every day. Our regulators – corrupted by literally out-of-control corporations – are no longer reliable sources of ground truth on these questions. The resulting epistemological chaos is a cancer that gnaws away at our resolve to do anything about it. It is a festering pool where nihilism outbreaks are incubated.

The liberal response to conspiratorialism is mockery. In her new book Doppelganger, Naomi Klein tells of how right-wing surveillance fearmongering about QR-code "vaccine passports" was dismissed with a glib, "Wait until they hear about cellphones!"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

But as Klein points out, it's not good that our cellphones invade our privacy in the way that right-wing conspiracists thought that vaccine passports might. The nihilism of liberalism – which insists that things can't be changed except through market "solutions" – leads us to despair.

By contrast, leftism – a muscular belief in democratic, publicly run planning and action – offers a tonic to nihilism. We don't have to let logging companies decide whether a forest can be cut, or what should be planted when it is. We can have nice things. The art of finding out what's true or prudent didn't die with the Reagan Revolution (or the discount Canadian version, the Mulroney Malaise). The truth is knowable. Doing stuff is possible. Things don't have to be on fire.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/16/murder-offsets/#pulped-and-papered

[lyinginmeadow]

Make the clock reverse I Paul Lahote x reader

Summary: You had been dating Paul for what feels like an eternity, his loyalty was something you never thought you'd have to question until she appeared, tearing you two apart. Word count: 2,2k TW: cheating (kind of), insecurity, violence, angst, hurt and absolutely no comfort (you had been warned) a/n: I feel like I should apologize in advance. Also I don't hate Rachel, I just used her character since I didn't feel like creating a new one.

You never were a jealous person by any means. The first glimpse of jealousy came when you first became an imprint. People might believe that the whole ordeal affected mainly the wolf who imprinted, but boy, were they wrong. You might not have been as possessive as Paul, or as vocal about it, but the bond still made you want to remind everyone that he was yours.

You didn't run into any issues until she became close with the pack when she returned from college. Rachel Black was becoming a thorn in your side, causing many problems within your relationship with Paul.

He, of course, didn't believe the accusation that you spat in his face once you had had enough. After you both had time to cool down, he assured you that nothing could ever happen. You were, as the fates decided, the only person in his heart. That he would choose you even if you weren't his imprint, fates be damned. It did the trick to soothe your worries for a while. But a little bug still lived in the back of your mind, quietly reminding you whenever he was with her that maybe fate was wrong.

Tonight was the bonfire that everyone in the pack was to attend. The imprints were invited, and you hoped Rachel wouldn't show up. That, of course, was ridiculous and wishful thinking since she was in fact Billy's daughter, and since coming back to the reservation, she became part of the annual events happening within the tight-knit community. Your insecurity was like a bright beacon for her. Shining, tempting her. You could almost swear she was doing it on purpose. She was part of the community ever since she was born, and you were an outsider who somehow ended up as an imprint. Hand in hand, you arrived, greeting all of your friends. They were always there to assure you of Paul's adoration for you, seeing what jealousy was doing to you. ''Em, do you need any help with the food?'' You asked your close friend who was there for you when you became an imprint, and ever since then, you had become inseparable. ''No, I got it covered. But thank you.'' She smiled, nodding to Sam, who had just come into view with five plates.

You laughed and let Paul take you to a seat near the fire. Just as you were about to sit, he pulled you onto his lap, snuggling his nose into your neck. ''I love you.'' He mumbled almost inaudibly. You giggled. ''I love you, too.''

As everyone gathered, you could feel the daggers sent your way. You tried to focus on Billy and his legends. Ever since the tribe let you listen in, you had been invested. Today was different. You were not able to concentrate on a single word. Shivering out of discomfort, your gaze shifted to the fires burning bright. She made you feel as if you didn't belong. Your imprint, however, pulled you even closer, trapping you with his arms. ''You okay?'' He asked, worry lacing his voice.

''Yeah, the wind is just cold.'' You whispered, setting your head on his shoulder. That was not the best excuse you could master since his embrace was always warm, and you sat near a fire, but he didn't seem to hold you hostage over your little lie, probably thinking that you could talk about it in a private setting of your home.

As the legends and stories came to an end, music and laughter replaced Billy's voice as the elders retreated to their respective households. Paul reluctantly let go of you, so you could stand up. You joined the girls as you gushed over Kim's new job. Rachel, as per usual, didn't join you. Instead, she took the opportunity that your boyfriend was just with his pack members to get closer to him. You rolled your eyes, not having the energy to deal with her. After all, you trusted your imprint to be loyal, he never gave you an excuse to do otherwise. And you believed she wouldn't try anything with you present.

''So I have this weird colleague who is like obsessed with his lunch. Which I would get, food can be a touchy subject,'' She gestured toward the guys, earning a laugh from you both. ''But he has a camera in the fridge. A camera. Who does that?'' She shook her head in disbelief.

''I can see Quil doing it, so don't give him any ideas.'' You laughed. ''No, you're absolutely right.'' Emily agreed.

"Soo, how was the honeymoon?" Kim turned to Emily. After the events of a near war with the vampire royalty, the world around you fell quiet, peaceful. Tranquility called for celebrations, weddings, and time spent together without looking behind your backs, expecting another danger to follow. Paul and Jared tried their best to fill Sam's role while he was gone with Emily. But you could tell neither of them particularly enjoyed that task.

''Well, let's just say it's about to get even more crowded around here.'' You and Kim squealed and hugged her. ''Emily, that's amazing, congratulations.''  You were ecstatic for her; she always wanted to be a mother, and you knew that she would make an amazing one.

While discussing all the ways you and Kim would spoil the newest addition to the pack, you looked around, noticing that Paul's missing. Frowning, you tried not to jump to any conclusions, trying and failing to find Rachel in the crowd. Excusing yourself to get a cup of water, you left your chattering friends behind.

As you entered the kitchen, reality seemed to crush down around you. Paul had his back to you, but the action was unmistakable. The intimacy of the moment made your heart drop into your stomach. She snaked her arm around his neck, pulling him even closer to her. His hands were slack, hanging alongside his body. Her eyes opened, meeting yours as she moaned into the kiss.

Your whole world crumbled as you quickly spun on your heel, walking out of the house swiftly, tears gathering at the edges of your eyes, blurring your vision. Your mind was drawing a blank, trying to recover from the shock.

The ringing in your ears was nearly deafeng as you took the couple of steps down the porch into the clearing. You wore a distraught expression, feeling numb as if someone had just torn your heart out of your chest. The widened eyes of your friends were on you in an instance. ''What's wrong, what happened?'' Emily asked.

''Paul, he..." You stopped yourself, "I just want to go home. I'm so sorry, Emily. I-'' You couldn't find words, stumbling over them as you tried to remove yourself from the situation, looking around like a wounded animal.

''Do you need a lift?'' She asked, concerned for your safety.

''No, no. I'll call a taxi or something. Don't worry about it.'' You answered as you continued walking from the premises. The looks of pity from your friends followed you, haunting you. Would you now lose them, too? They were Paul's friends first, and since he was in the pack, it wasn't like they could banish him.

You wanted to rage and scream until your throat was raw, but the fire within you was extinguished. Embers of the anger dimmed in comparison to the deep, unending sense of devastation, as if your very soul had been ripped from your body. Because losing him felt like a fate worse than death. The bond stretched thin, aching with every breath you took.

It was so cold that evening, a clear sign that autumn was about to begin. You walked along the road, night enveloping you. You wished it could swallow you whole. Moonlight shined dimly, letting you see just a few inches ahead. If you weren't so distraught, you wouldn't be walking alone in these woods. Paul wouldn't let you, given that the vampires roamed around, looking for their next victim. But he was not with you.

He was with her.

Before you found out about the supernatural surrounding the Olympic Peninsula, the woods made you feel safe. At peace. Walking alongside it helped you feel grounded even now, when the world was crumbling. But not even the forest was enough to fade the memory of Paul and Rachel kissing.

Shuddering from the sudden pick-up in wind, you realized that your sobs weren't the only thing keeping you company. You stiffened, shivers traveling down your spine. The woods fell silent, watching the scene unfold. Holding its breath in the wake of a predator stalking its prey.

''I'll make it quick, I promise.'' A low hiss was the last sound you heard before fire enveloped you, threatening to swallow you whole.

''What the fuck, Rachel!'' He exclaimed as he pushed her off of him, "I have a girlfriend. An imprint. You know this. For fuck's sake.'' He started to pace around the kitchen, fingers pulling on his hair. ''What were you thinking? She was right. Fuck.'' He didn't know what to do. He needed to find her, tell her what happened, and apologize, even if he didn't technically kiss her on his own free will. How does one even explain this?

"I'm sorry, okay? Geez, I just thought-"

He turned swiftly, nostrils flaring. ''You didn't think. Who do you think you are?'' He yelled, feeling his temper rise as he began to shake. ''Dammit... I need to find her.'' He left her behind, stumbling out of the house, looking around, trying to catch a glimpse of you. Usually, you were the first thing his eyes automatically searched for in the crowd.

Instead, he was met by his friends. ''What did you do to her, Lahote?'' Yelled Kim as she closed the distance between the two of them. He looked around to find you again, but you weren't there. The implications of you leaving and Kim's yelling made his mind go blank. You saw them. You saw them and left. He trembled once more, shouting, ''Where is she? Where did she go?''

''I asked you first, so fucking answer.'' She shoved him, but he didn't move an inch. He growled as he towered over her, not appreciating her getting in his face. She should know better than to cross paths with an angry shifter. Jared made his way to his imprint, his boyish grin long gone. Baring his teeth at Paul, he took a protective stance next to Kim.

''I don't have time for this.'' Snarling, he began to leave when Rachel walked out, stopping on the steps of the porch, avoiding the gazes of onlookers. Shame coated her cheeks as she gnawed on her lip.

''You didn't...'' Said Emily, a knowing look crossing her features. Paul turned back to her, anguish glimmering in his gaze. ''You did.'' She whispered, her expression falling in disappointment.

Paul had begun to shake again, this time changing into his wolf form as he ran away from the angry faces of his friends. The whole situation made his heart beat faster, pumping blood into his ears. He couldn't wait for their answers; if you saw them, he had to fix it. He would fix it. He had to tell you it wasn't how it looked. That he would never betray you like this.

You told him how Rachel made you feel. He reassured you times and times again, that she was no one to him and that he only saw you. Which was the truth, he would never do that to you, he couldn't. Only now, you didn't believe it. Didn't believe him. And rightfully so. To you, this must have cut deeper than any knife could.

Running through the woods, he tried to catch your scent. Your words kept replaying in his mind, taunting him. His vision grew hazy with the images of your face, the betrayal in your eyes he didn't see but could vividly imagine. He stumbled, paws digging into the moss-covered ground as he picked up the scent of blood in the wind.

Human blood.

His pace quickened as he ran onto the road.

He saw it. You. In the arms of an unknown pale figure.

A vicious growl left his throat, catching the attention of the vampire. Crimson washed across his vision as the cold one pulled his bloodied teeth from your neck, hissing at the intruder. Without a second thought, Paul charged at him, teeth snapping in the direction of hard, cold skin. The vampire lost his grip, sending your body crumbling to the ground like a house of cards. Your head collided with the concrete with a bounce that echoed through Paul's mind.

Suddenly not interested in his prey, he started running toward the shadows of the woods, choosing life instead. A life he didn't hesitate to take from someone else. He wasn't quick enough when the grey wolf pounced on him, ripping his head off in a swift movement. 

The taste of your blood sat heavily on Paul's tongue, making his stomach turn. Spitting the head out, he let it fall with a sickening thud. His gaze shifted to your unmoving form, lying lifeless on the road. Your eyes were staring at him, the light in them extinguished, as if taunting him further. His whole world shifted while he stood there, processing the image before him.

The whole pack could hear the sorrow-filled howls shaking the earth itself beneath him. Begging anything, anyone to change the fates' design. The woods fell quiet once more. Listening, watching as the two souls, that were destined to be tethered together, get separated in a single moment.