#I never remember how I tagged these things

[imnez-daydreams]

if you notice that this is my 3rd remmick fic, 2nd from this talented writer, no you don't. i know i knowww i haven't watched the movie but cmon i have free will let me read more about this vampire dude !! i'm in love with how rosie writes and almost every single warning tag is very much up my alley. so excited !!

'You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows."

the way your writing makes me visualise such beautiful scenes so easily, its like watching a movie when i read your work.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

i like the detail of remmick seemingly not weighing much ? idk if thats a vampire or a movie thing but earlier on also, reader noticed how there wasn't any shuffling or creaking. how remmick doesn't carry the same weight as a human idk its just a neat detail to me.

"Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear."

lovee the way you describe things ! its always explained in such an interesting manner. instead of just saying his voice lowered, you expand on it by also likening the tone drop to an act of intimacy. i love your brain rosie !!

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

giggling at the "dove" pet name. also remmick bending down, justtt a touch away from making contact despite not being able to enter yet is ... a sight.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

soft for remmick being soft. letting reader come to this choice by their own accord, even tho he knows the ending they share. that reader belonging to him is inevitable.

"He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map."

rosie your writing is soooo immersive. i was able to visualise this whole scene so easily like all the words just fell into place in my mind, painting such a vivid art piece. also that last line wowie, just goes to show how long remmick's been alive. he's probably seen empires rise and fall, experienced the change of lifestyles throughout each century.

"He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized."

hmm wow how long has remmick been watching reader i wonder. maybe he's just been looking over reader from the shadows through the years.

"You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having."

wow why is that last line so poetic to me. like this moment was something destined to happen or was already set in stone, even if reader doesn't subconsciously realise it.

"You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it."

"Maybe that was why he smiled."

the vampire diaries taught me that they have super hearing but anyways i like to think that remmick smiled because he knew even if reader ran to the other side of the earth, even if they made him wait and wait outside, the road would always lead them back to him. he had always known but tye confirmation of that fact just brought a smile to his face.

"He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling."

"He looked at you like he was already undressing you."

"Not your clothes—your will."

remmick being enraptured by reader, like a moth to a flame. i appreciate the way the bond goes beyond the sexual expect. that tension is there but its more about their connection, the yearning, the coming apart.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

...

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

hold awn what. what that mean bro dont just lore drop and walk away. hmm. ok so remmick saved reader and their brother right ? the way reader described it was that they were too desperate to care what form the help took, and that theres a debt to be repaid so im assuming he saved the brother from dying by turning him. but what could have compelled remmick to do this gesture of goodwill im thinking now that he knew reader's mother and was like idk watching over her kids ? what are the chances he shows up in their time of need when no other humans were around yaknow ? or maybe i'm reading too much into this sorry rosie haha.

"A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood."

omg empires and rise and fall im always so giddy when i'm on a similar wavelength as the writers hehe. but those are such beautiful ways to show remmick's age. kissed queens before they were beheaded ?? so unique.

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

baby you had me at "hello, dove" cmon lesgaurr. ok jokes aside, like the grave wanting the body ?? rose seriously your writing is genuinely broadening my mind on how the English language can be so beautifully manipulated into forming tuese sentences.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

umfff the way remmick knows when reader doesn't even know it themselves. he knows them in such an intimate manner, like he's has access to the inner workings of their mind, including the hidden parts that they don't want to acknowledge themselves.

"His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint."

love it. a creature like remmick being oh so soft just for reader, holding back his urges and instincts. it probably takes him more effort to not just take from reader.

"He looked like sin and the sermon that came after."

in awe. so so beautiful. both the damnation and salvation.

"He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease."

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

aakdhejdke remmick you are already ruining me !! the ease in his movement, the quiet strength, him saying that about being gentle im so okay.

"Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget."

the domesticity of it all. also ugh that line with the religious theme to describe how remmick looked. like he's something other trying to disguise himself as an angel but bits of his true nature still peeks out.

"His eyes stayed on your mouth."

...

"Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast."

knees weak at the visualisation of remmick leaning against the table so so close, focusing his eyes on reader's mouth despite movement from their hand with the fork. his eyes following reader eat. cant lie i'm a whore for Eye Contact.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

ROSIE DO YOU WANT ME DEAD ???? wkdhdkdk im soooo fine over thissss.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

...

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

thats hot. how remmick controlled himself, yet still has those desires after all those years. how he knows that reader wants it, wants him too.

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

reader and me twinning cos heck yeah i would listen to his instructions if it meant him keeping that Eye Contact.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

i cant. sorry yall i go batshit insane over the yearning, the unspoken and barely contained devotion, the want that extends past just sex.

"Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent."

i love how soft remmick's touches with reader are. his hand on reader's back, his hold around their wrist, sweeping his knuckles over their cheeks. rough n revenant is sooo. like a blood stained creature still practicing that devotion to their person/object of worship.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

put my phone down im. there's drugs in rosie's writing i can't explain it. ok but seriously the way you write these paragraphs with the most devastatingly beautiful imagery only to sweep the rug out from under my feet with these strong one liners. insane.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

the small declarations of intimacy are making me lose it in my room at 1am. save me.

"The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around."

rosie i wanna like. i wish i could commit cannibalism on your writing. this is so good i cant even. like remmick's the story that parents tell their children at night. those last 2 lines urghhHh.

im foaming at the mouth. how do i explain like this is better than the sex like AAAA. the yearning THE YEARNING. peeling back a veil, unwrapping something sacred like like like theyre at the alter getting married.

PLEASEEEE ROSIE my heart is weak !!! i am nawttt your strongest soldier. like it meant something like you meant something im. im on the floor. a prayer he answered with his mouth. pleasoelskeieirjfk

"He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision."

like reading scripture ohHHhhHh my dayssss.

SOMEBODY SEDATE MEEEEEE. the. the Eye Contact. remmick still excercising restraint in the heat of the moment. him demanding reader to not take their eyes off him so he can witness them come undone.

remmick making reader say it ohhh im so. help how am i gonna make it to the end rosie.

shaking the bars of my jail cell pulling at my hair he's so. he's SOOOOO. i could practically feeeel remmick crowding around and smiling against skin.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

well good for him for breathing because i on the other hand, stopped breathing.

omg its been like an hour since i started reading and rambling but i think i mentioned remmick thinking reader would dissappeared if he took his eyes of them :(. ohhh the intimacy of it all. forehead !! touch !!

"Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him."

again there's something about remmick knowing reader better than they know themselves. falling deeper into depravity but that's okay as long as reader falls with him.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

okay rosie just rip my heart out too while you're at it.

their bond is so intrinsically intertwined. reader is his punishment for all his sins up until that point in life, and his absolution for the remaining time he has.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded."

"You’re becomin’ mine."

gawdDDDD. i need this man.

"Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too."

he would walk through the flames of hell if it meant doing it with reader. would make reader stay by his side even it destroyed him

smut had me insane. kissing inside of wrist. "you feel like sin" "then sin with me". begging. sinful smile. worship. sacred. remakes. "say it". forehead touch.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

how does remmick go from being ooey gooey sweetness -> menace to society so quick.

tearing up crying throwing a fit. remmick still giving reader that choice to remain human, still letting reader choose even knowing it would break his very being when it would come the time for him to roam the earth alone again.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

what'd i jus say :"(

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

...

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

...

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

i'm so blown away i can't even begin to comprehend this gorgeous work of poetry that has me completely bewitched, body and soul. i think its taken me about a little over 2 hours to read and ramble. but wow. rosie i want you to know that i'm looking at showtimes of the sinners movie in theatres near my area as i'm writing this, all thanks to your alluring story. this was everything i craved and more. think it changed the wiring of my brain. soo sorry i got so carried away my rambles are probably gibberish haha, i'm quite certain that this is my longest fic ramble reblog too. thank you sooo so much rosie for writing this. truly a work of art. i'm sending you all the hugs and forehead kisses. thank you <3333.

Mercy Made Flesh

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In the heat-choked hush of the Mississippi Delta, you answer a knock you swore would never come. Remmick—unaging, unholy, unforgettable—returns to collect what was promised. What follows is not romance, but ritual. A slow, sensual surrender to a hunger older than the Trinity itself.

wc: 13.1k

a/n: Listen. I didn’t mean to simp for Vampire Jack O’Connell—but here we are. I make no apologies for letting Remmick bite first and ask questions never. Thank you to my bestie Nat (@kayharrisons) for beta reading and hyping me up, without her this fic wouldn't exist, everyone say thank you Nat!

warnings: vampirism, southern gothic erotica, blood drinking as intimacy, canon-typical violence, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), first time, bloodplay, biting, marking, monsterfucking (soft edition), religious imagery, devotion as obsession, gothic horror vibes, worship kink, consent affirmed, begging, dirty talk, gentle ruin, haunting eroticism, power imbalance, slow seduction, soul-binding, immortal x mortal, he wants to keep her forever, she lets him, fem!reader, second person pov, 1930s mississippi delta, house that breathes, you will be fed upon emotionally & literally

tags: @xhoneymoonx134

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated! please enjoy

Mississippi Delta, 1938

The heat hadn’t broken in days.

Not even after sunset, when the sky turned the color of old bruises and the crickets started singing like they were being paid to. It was the kind of heat that soaked into the floorboards, that crept beneath your thin cotton slip and clung to your back like sweat-slicked hands. The air was syrupy, heavy with magnolia and something murkier—soil, maybe. River water. Something that made you itch beneath your skin.

Your cottage sat just outside the edge of town, past the schoolhouse where you spent your days sorting through ledgers and lesson plans that no one but you ever really seemed to care about. It was modest—two rooms and a porch, set back behind a crumbling white-picket fence and swallowed by trees that whispered in the dark. A little sanctuary tucked into the Delta, surrounded by cornfields, creeks, and ghosts.

The kind of place a person could disappear if they wanted to. The kind of place someone could find you…if they were patient enough.

You stood in front of the sink, rinsing out a chipped enamel cup, your hands moving automatically. The oil lamp on the kitchen table flickered with each breath of wind slipping through the cracks in the warped window frame. A cicada screamed in the distance, then another, and then the whole world was humming in chorus.

And beneath it—beneath the cicadas, and the wind, and the nightbirds—you felt something shift.

A quiet. Too quiet.

You turned your head. Listened harder.

Nothing.

Not even the frogs.

Your hand paused in the dishwater. Fingers trembling just a little. It wasn’t like you to be spooked by the dark. You’d grown up in it. Learned to make friends with shadows. Learned not to flinch when things moved just out of sight.

But this?

This was different.

It was as if the night was holding its breath.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. But final.

Your body went stiff. The cup slipped beneath the water and bumped the side of the basin with a hollow clink.

No one ever came this far out after sundown. No one but—

You shook your head, almost hard enough to rattle something loose.

No.

He was gone. That part of your life was buried.

You made sure of it.

Still, your bare feet moved toward the door like they weren’t yours. Soft against the creaky wood. Slow. You reached for the small revolver you kept in the drawer beside the door frame, thumbed the hammer back.

Your hand rested on the knob.

Another knock. This time, softer.

Almost...polite.

The porch light had been dead for weeks, so you couldn’t see who was waiting on the other side. But the air—something in the air—told you.

It was him.

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

You stood there with your palm flat against the rough wood, your forehead nearly touching it too—eyes shut, breath shallow. The air on the other side didn’t stir like it should’ve. No footfalls creaking the porch. No shuffle of boots on sun-bleached planks. Just stillness. Waiting.

And underneath your ribs, something began to ache. Something you hadn’t let yourself feel in years.

You didn’t know his name, not back then. You only knew his eyes—gold in the shadows. Red when caught in the light. Like a firelight in the dark. Like a blood red moon through stained-glass windows.

And his voice. Low. Dragging vowels like syrup. A Southern accent that didn’t come from any map you’d ever seen—older than towns, older than state lines. A voice that had told you, seven years ago, with impossible calm:

"You’ll know when it’s time."

You knew. Your hands trembled against your sides. But you didn’t back away. Some part of you knew how useless running would be.

The knob beneath your hand felt cold. Too cold for Mississippi in August.

You turned it.

The door opened slow, hinges whining like they were trying to warn you. You stepped back instinctively—just one step—and then he was there.

Remmick.

Still tall, still lean in that devastating way—like his body was carved from something hard and mean, but shaped to tempt. He wore a crisp white shirt rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man who walked through the dirt. His hair was messy in that intentional way, brown and swept back like he’d been running hands through it all night. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, catching the lamplight just so.

But it was his face that rooted you to the floor. That hollowed out your breath.

Still young. Still wrong.

Not a wrinkle, not a scar. Not a mark of time. He hadn’t aged a day.

And his eyes—oh, God, his eyes.

They caught the lamp behind you and lit up red, bright and glinting, like the embers of a dying fire. Not human. Not even pretending.

"Hello, dove."

His voice curled into your bones like cigarette smoke. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You hated how your body reacted.

Hated that you could still feel it—like something old and molten stirring between your thighs, a flicker of the same heat you’d felt that night in the alley, back when you were too desperate to care what kind of creature answered your prayer.

He looked you over once. Not with hunger. With certainty. Like he already knew how this would end. Like he already owned you.

"You remember, don’t you?" he asked.

"I came to collect."

And your voice—when it finally came—was little more than a whisper.

"You can’t be real."

That smile. That slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Wolfish. Slow.

"You promised."

You wanted to shut the door. Slam it. Deadbolt it. But your hand didn’t move.

Remmick didn’t step forward, not yet. He stood just outside the threshold, framed by night and cypress trees and the distant flicker of heat lightning beyond the fields. The air around him pulsed with something old—older than the land, older than you, older than anything you could name.

He tilted his head the way animals do, watching you, letting the silence thicken like molasses between you.

"Still living out here all on your own," he murmured, gaze drifting over your shoulders, into the small, tidy kitchen behind you. "Hung your laundry on the line this morning. Blue dress, lace hem. Favorite one, ain’t it?"

Your stomach clenched. That dress hadn’t seen a neighbor’s eye all week.

"You've been watching me," you said, your voice low, unsure if it was accusation or realization.

"I’ve been waiting," he said. "Not the same thing."

You swallowed hard. Your breath caught in your throat like a thorn. The wind shifted, and you caught the faintest trace of something—dried tobacco, smoke, rain-soaked dirt, and beneath it, the iron-sweet tinge of blood.

Not fresh. Not violent. Just…present. Like it lived in him.

"I paid my debt," you whispered.

"No, you survived it," he said, stepping up onto the first board of the porch. The wood didn’t creak beneath his weight. "And that’s only half the bargain."

He still hadn’t crossed the threshold.

The stories came back to you, the ones whispered by old women with trembling hands and ash crosses pressed to their doorways—vampires couldn’t enter unless invited. But you hadn’t invited him, not this time.

"You don’t have permission," you said.

He smiled, eyes flashing red again.

"You gave it, seven years ago."

Your breath hitched.

"I was a girl," you said.

"You were desperate," he corrected. "And honest. Desperation makes people honest in ways they can’t be twice. You knew what you were offering me, even if you didn’t understand it. Your promise had teeth."

The wind pushed against your back, as if urging you forward.

Remmick stepped closer, just enough for the shadows to kiss the line of his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. His voice dropped, intimate now—dragging across your skin like a fingertip behind the ear.

"You asked for a miracle. I gave it to you. And now I’m here for what’s mine."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest.

"I didn’t think you’d come."

"That’s the thing about monsters, dove." He leaned down, lips almost grazing the curve of your jaw. "We always do."

And then—

He stepped back.

The wind stopped.

The night fell quiet again, like the world had paused just to watch what you’d do next.

"I’ll wait out here till you’re ready," he said, turning toward the swing on your porch and settling into it like he had all the time in the world. "But don’t make me knock twice. Wouldn’t be polite."

The swing groaned beneath him as it rocked gently, back and forth.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one bare foot still inside the house, the other brushing the edge of the porch.

You’d made a promise.

And he was here to keep it.

The door stayed open. Just enough for the night to reach inside.

You didn’t move.

Your body stood still but your mind wandered—back to that night in the alley, to the smell of blood and piss and riverwater, your knees soaked in your brother’s lifeblood as you screamed for help that never came. Except it did. It came in the shape of a man who didn’t breathe, didn’t blink, didn’t make promises the way mortals did.

It came in the shape of him.

You thought time would wash it away. That the years would smooth the edges of his voice in your memory, dull the sharpness of his presence. But now, with him just outside your door, it all returned like a fever dream—hot, all-consuming, too real to outrun.

You turned away from the threshold, slowly, carefully, as if the floor might cave in under you. Your hands trembled as you reached for the oil lamp on the table, adjusting the flame lower until it flickered like a dying heartbeat.

The silence behind you dragged, deep and waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t call for you.

He didn’t have to.

You moved through the house in slow circles. Touching things. Straightening them. Folding a dishcloth. Setting a book back on the shelf, even though you’d already read it twice. You tried to pretend you weren’t thinking about the man on your porch. But the heat of him pressed against the back of your mind like a hand.

You could feel him out there. Not just physically—but in you, somehow. Like the air had shifted around his shape, and the longer he lingered, the more your body remembered what it had felt like to stand in front of something not quite human and still want.

You passed the mirror in the hallway and paused.

Your reflection looked undone. Not in the way your hair had fallen from its pin, or the flush across your cheeks, but deeper—like something inside you had been cracked open. You touched your own throat, right where you imagined his mouth might go.

No bite.

Not yet.

But you swore you could feel phantom teeth.

You went back to the door, holding your breath, and looked at him through the screen.

He hadn’t moved. He sat on the swing, one leg stretched out, the other bent lazily beneath him, arms slung across the backrest like he’d always belonged there. A cigarette burned between two fingers, the tip flaring orange as he dragged from it. The scent of it hit you—rich, earthy, and somehow foreign, like something imported from a place no longer on the map.

He didn’t look at you right away.

Then, slowly, he did.

Red eyes caught yours.

He smiled, small and slow, like he was reading a page of you he’d already memorized.

"Thought you’d shut the door by now," he said.

"I should have," you answered.

"But you didn’t."

His voice curled into the quiet.

You stepped out onto the porch, barefoot, the boards warm beneath your soles. He didn’t move to greet you. He didn’t rise. He just watched you walk toward him like he’d been watching in dreams you never remembered having.

The swing groaned as you sat down beside him, a careful space between you.

His shoulder brushed yours.

You stared straight ahead, out into the night. A mist was beginning to rise off the distant fields. The moon hung low and orange like a wound in the sky.

Somewhere in the bayou, a whippoorwill called, long and mournful.

"How long have you been watching me?" you asked.

"Since before you knew to look."

"Why now?"

He turned toward you. His voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

"Because now…you’re ripe for the pickin’.”

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were on the porch beside him, listening to the slow groan of the swing and the way the crickets held their breath when he exhaled, the next you were waking in your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs like they were trying to hold you down.

The house was too quiet.

No birdsong. No creak of the windmill out back. No rustle of the sycamores that scraped against your bedroom window on stormy nights.

Just stillness.

And scent.

It clung to the cotton of your nightdress. Tobacco smoke, sweat, rain. Him.

You sat up slowly, pressing your hand to your chest. Your heart thudded like it was trying to remember who it belonged to. The lamp beside your bed had burned down to a stub. A trickle of wax curled like a vein down the side of the glass.

Your mouth tasted like smoke and guilt. Your thighs ached in that low, humming way—though you couldn’t say why. Nothing had happened. Not really.

But something had changed.

You felt it under your skin, in the place where blood meets breath.

The floor was cool under your feet as you moved. You didn’t dress. Just pulled a robe over your slip and stepped into the hallway. The house felt heavier than usual, thick with the ghost of his presence. Every corner held a whisper. Every shadow a shape.

You opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

The swing still rocked gently, as if someone had only just stood up from it.

A folded piece of paper lay on the top step, weighted down by a smooth river stone.

You picked it up with trembling hands.

Come.

That was all it said. One word. But it rang through your bones like gospel. Like a vow.

You looked out across the field. A narrow dirt road stretched beyond the tree line, overgrown but clear. You’d never dared follow it. That road didn’t belong to you.

It belonged to him.

And now…so did you.

You didn’t bring anything with you.

Not a suitcase. Not a shawl. Not a Bible tucked under your arm for comfort.

Just yourself.

And the road.

The hem of your slip was already damp by the time you reached the edge of the field. Dew clung to your ankles like cold fingers, and the earth was soft beneath your feet—fresh from last night’s storm, the kind that never really breaks the heat, only deepens it. The moon had gone down, but the sky was beginning to bruise with that blue-black ink that comes before sunrise. Everything smelled like wet grass, magnolia, and the faint rot of old wood.

The path curved, narrowing as it passed through trees that leaned in too close. Their branches kissed above you like they were whispering secrets into each other’s leaves. Spanish moss hung like veils from the oaks, dripping silver in the fading dark. It made the world feel smaller. Quieter. As if you were walking into something sacred—or something doomed.

A crow cawed once in the distance. Sharp. Hollow. You didn’t flinch.

There was no sound of wheels. No car waiting. Just the road and the fog and the promise you'd made.

And then you saw it.

The house.

Tucked deep in the grove, half-swallowed by vines and time, it rose like a memory from the earth. A decaying plantation, left to rot in the wet belly of the Delta. Its bones were still beautiful—white columns streaked with black mildew, a grand porch that sagged like a mouth missing teeth, shuttered windows with iron latches rusted shut. Ivy grew up the sides like it was trying to strangle the place. Or maybe protect it.

You stood there at the edge of the clearing, breath caught in your throat.

He’d brought you here.

Or maybe he’d always been here. Waiting. Dreaming of the moment you’d return to him without even knowing it.

A shape moved behind one of the upstairs curtains. Quick. Barely there.

You didn’t run.

Your bare foot found the first step.

It groaned like it recognized you.

The door was already open.

Not wide—just enough for you to know it had been waiting.

And you stepped inside.

The air inside was colder.

Not the kind of cold that came from breeze or shade—but from stillness, from the absence of sun and time. A hush so thick it felt like you were walking underwater. Like the house had held its breath for decades and only now began to exhale.

Dust spiraled in the faint light seeping through fractured windows, casting soft halos through the dark. The wooden floor beneath your feet was warped and groaning, but clean. Not in any natural sense—there was no broom that had touched these boards. No polish or soap.

But it had been kept.

The air didn’t smell like rot or mildew. It smelled like cedar. Like old leather. And deeper beneath that, like him.

He hadn’t lit any lamps.

Just the fireplace, burning low, glowing embers pulsing orange-red at the back of a cavernous hearth. The flame danced shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in long strips like dead skin. A high-backed chair faced the fire, velvet blackened from age, its silhouette looming like something alive.

You swallowed, lips dry, and stepped further in.

Your voice didn’t carry. It didn’t even try.

Remmick was nowhere in sight.

But he was here.

You could feel him in the walls, in the way the house seemed to lean closer with every step you took.

You passed through the parlor, past a dusty grand piano with one ivory key cracked down the middle. Past oil portraits too old to make out, their eyes blurred with time. Past a single vase of dried wildflowers, colorless now, but carefully arranged.

You paused in the doorway to the drawing room, your hand resting lightly on the frame.

A whisper of air moved behind you.

Then—

A hand.

Not grabbing. Not harsh. Just the light press of fingers against the small of your back, palm flat and warm through the thin cotton of your slip.

You froze.

He was behind you.

So close you could feel his breath at your neck. Not warm, not cold—just present. Like wind through a crack in the door. Like the memory of a touch before it lands.

His voice was low, close to your ear.

"You came."

You didn’t answer.

"You always would have."

You wanted to say no. Wanted to deny it. But you stood there trembling under his hand, your heartbeat so loud you were sure he could hear it.

Maybe that was why he smiled.

He stepped around you slowly, letting his fingers graze the side of your waist as he moved. His eyes glinted red in the firelight, catching on you like a flame drawn to dry kindling.

He looked at you like he was already undressing you.

Not your clothes—your will.

And it was already unraveling.

You’d suspected he wasn’t born of this soil.

Not just because of the way he moved—like he didn’t quite belong to gravity—but because of the way he spoke. Like time hadn’t worn the edges off his words the way it had with everyone else. His voice curled around vowels like smoke curling through keyholes. Rich and low, but laced with something older. Something foreign. Something that made the hair at the nape of your neck rise when he spoke too softly, too close.

He didn’t speak like a man from the Delta.

He spoke like something older than it.

Older than the country. Maybe older than God.

Remmick stopped in front of you, lit only by firelight.

His eyes had dulled from red to something deeper—like old garnet held to a candle. His shirt was open at the collar now, suspenders hanging slack, the buttons on his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were dusted with faint scars that looked like they had stories. His skin was pale in the glow, but not lifeless. He looked like marble warmed by touch.

He studied you for a long time.

You weren’t sure if it was your face he was reading, or something beneath it. Something you couldn’t hide.

"You look just like your mother," he said finally.

Your breath caught.

"You knew her?"

A soft smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve known a lot of people, dove. I just never forget the ones with your blood."

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet.

There was something heavy in his tone—something laced with memory that stretched back far further than it should. You had guessed, years ago, in the sleepless weeks after that alleyway miracle, that he was not new to this world. That his youth was a trick of the skin. A lie worn like a mask.

You’d read every folklore book you could get your hands on. Every whisper of vampire lore scratched into the margins of ledgers, stuffed between church hymnals, scribbled on the backs of newspapers.

Some said they aged. Slowly. Elegantly.

Others said they didn’t age at all. That they existed outside time. Beyond it.

You didn’t know how old Remmick was.

But something in your bones told you the truth.

Five hundred. Six hundred, maybe more.

A man who remembered empires. A man who had watched cities rise and burn. Who had danced in plague-slick ballrooms and kissed queens before they were beheaded. A man who had lived so long that names no longer mattered. Only debts. And blood.

And you’d given him both.

He stepped closer now, slow and deliberate.

"Yer heart’s gallopin’ like it thinks I’m here to take it."

You flinched. Not because he was wrong. But because he was right.

"You said you didn’t want my blood," you whispered.

"I don’t." He tilted his head. "Not yet."

"Then what do you want?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

"You."

He said it like it was a simple thing. Like the rain wanting the river. Like the grave wanting the body.

You swallowed hard.

"Why me?"

His gaze dragged down your frame, unhurried, like a man admiring a painting he’d stolen once and hidden from the world.

"Because you belong to me. You gave yourself freely. No bargain’s ever tasted so sweet."

Your throat tightened.

"I didn’t know what I was agreeing to."

"You did," he said, softly now, stepping close enough that his chest nearly brushed yours. "You knew. Your soul knew. Even if your head didn’t catch up."

You opened your mouth to protest, to say something, anything that would push back this slow suffocation of certainty—

But his hand came up to your jaw. Fingers feather-light. Not forcing. Just holding. Just there.

"And you’ve been thinkin’ about me ever since," he said.

Not a question. A statement.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice a rasp against your ear.

"You dream of me, don’t you?"

Your hands trembled at your sides.

"I don’t—"

"You wake wet. Ache in your belly. You don’t know why. But I do."

You let your eyes fall shut, shame burning behind them like fire.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he murmured, almost reverent. "You smell like want, dove. You always have.”

His hand didn’t move. It just stayed there at your jaw, thumb ghosting slow along the hollow beneath your cheekbone. A touch so gentle it made your knees ache. Because it wasn’t the roughness that undid you—it was the restraint.

He could’ve taken.

He didn’t.

Not yet.

His gaze held yours, slow and unblinking, red still smoldering in the center of his irises like the dying core of a flame that refused to go out.

"Say it," he murmured.

Your lips parted, but nothing came.

"I can smell it," he said, voice low, rich as molasses. "Your shame. Your want. You’ve been livin’ like a nun with a beast inside her, and no one knows but me."

You hated how your breath stuttered. Hated more that your thighs pressed together when he said it.

"Why do you talk like that," you whispered, barely able to get the words out, "like you already know what I’m feeling?"

His fingers slid down, grazing the side of your neck, stopping just before the pulse thudding there.

"Because I do."

"That’s not fair."

He smiled, slow and crooked, nothing kind in it.

"No, dove. It ain’t."

You hated him.

You hated how beautiful he was in this light, sleeves rolled, veins prominent in his arms, shirt hanging open just enough to show the faint line of a scar that trailed beneath his collarbone. A body shaped by time, not by vanity. Not perfect. Just true. Like someone carved him for a purpose and let the flaws stay because they made him real.

He looked like sin and the sermon that came after.

Remmick moved closer. You didn’t retreat.

His hand flattened over your sternum now, right above your heartbeat, the warmth of him pressing through the cotton of your slip like it meant to seep in. He leaned down, mouth near yours, not kissing, just breathing.

"You gave yourself to me once," he said. "I’m only here to collect the rest."

"You saved my brother."

"I saved you. You just didn’t know it yet."

A shiver rippled down your spine.

His hand moved lower, skimming the curve of your ribs, hovering just at the soft flare of your waist. You could feel the heat rolling off him like smoke from a coalbed. His body didn’t radiate warmth the way a man’s should—but something older. Wilder. Like the earth’s own breath in summer. Like the hush of a storm right before it split the sky.

"And if I tell you no?" you asked, barely more than a breath.

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable.

"I’ll wait."

You weren’t expecting that.

He smiled again, this time softer, almost cruel in its patience.

"I’ve waited centuries for sweeter things than you. But that don’t mean I won’t keep my hands on you ‘til you change your mind."

"You think I will?"

"You already have."

Your chest rose sharply, breath stung with heat.

"You think this is love?"

He laughed, low and dangerous, the sound curling around your ribs.

"No," he said. "This is hunger. Love comes later."

Then his mouth brushed your jaw—not a kiss, just the graze of lips against skin—and every nerve in your body arched to meet it.

Your knees buckled, barely.

He caught your waist in one hand, steadying you with maddening ease.

"I’m gonna ruin you," he whispered against your throat, his nose dragging lightly along your skin. "But I’ll be so gentle the first time you’ll beg me to do it again."

And God help you—

You wanted him to.

The house didn’t sleep.

Not the way houses were meant to.

It breathed.

The walls exhaled heat and memory, the floors creaked even when no one stepped, and somewhere in the rafters above your room, something paced slowly back and forth, back and forth, like a beast too restless to settle. The kind of place built with its own pulse.

You’d spent the rest of the night—if you could call it that—in a room that wasn’t yours, wearing nothing but a cotton shift and your silence. You hadn’t asked for anything. He hadn’t offered.

The room was spare but not cruel. A basin with a water pitcher. A four-poster bed draped in a netting veil to keep out the bugs—or the ghosts. The mattress was soft. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, firewood, and something else you didn’t recognize.

Him.

You didn’t undress. You lay on top of the blanket, fingers threaded together over your belly, the thrum of your heartbeat like a second mouth behind your ribs.

Your door had no lock. Just a handle that squeaked if turned. And you hated how many times your eyes flicked toward it. Waiting. Wanting.

But he never came.

And somehow, that was worse.

Morning broke soft and gray through the slatted shutters. The sun didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, and the light that filtered in was the color of dust and river fog.

When you finally stepped out barefoot into the hall, the house was already awake.

There was a scent in the air—coffee. Burned sugar. The faintest curl of cinnamon. Something sizzling in a skillet somewhere.

You followed it.

The kitchen was enormous, all brick hearth and cast iron and a long scarred table in the center with mismatched chairs pushed in unevenly. A window hung open, letting in a breath of swamp air that rustled the lace curtain and kissed your ankles.

Remmick stood at the stove with his back to you, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, suspenders crossed low over his back. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and clung to his sides with the cling of heat and skin. He moved like he didn’t hear you enter.

You knew he had.

He reached for the pan with a towel over his palm and flipped something in the cast iron with a deft flick of the wrist.

"Hope you like sweet," he said, voice thick with morning. "Ain’t got much else."

You didn’t speak. Just stood there in the doorway like a ghost he’d conjured and forgotten about.

He turned.

God help you.

Even like this, barefoot, collar open, hair mussed from sleep or maybe just time—he looked unreal. Like a sin someone had tried to scrub out of scripture but couldn’t quite forget.

"Sleep alright?" he asked.

You gave a small nod.

He looked at you a moment longer. Then—

"Sit down, dove."

You moved toward the table.

His voice followed you, lazy but pointed.

"That’s the wrong chair."

You paused.

He nodded to one at the head of the table—old, high-backed, carved with curling vines and symbols you didn’t recognize.

"That one’s yours now."

You hesitated, then lowered yourself into it slowly. The wood groaned under your weight. The air in the kitchen felt thicker now, tighter.

He brought the plate to you himself.

Two slices of skillet cornbread, golden and glistening with syrup. A few wild strawberries sliced and sugared. A smear of butter melting slow at the center like a pulse.

He set the plate in front of you with a quiet care that felt almost obscene.

"You ain’t gotta eat," he said, leaning against the table beside your chair. "But I like watchin’ you do it."

You picked up the fork.

His eyes stayed on your mouth.

The cornbread was still warm.

Steam curled from it like breath from parted lips. The syrup pooled thick at the edges, dripping off the edge of your fork in slow, amber ribbons. It stuck to your fingers when you touched it. Sweet. Sticky. Sensual.

You brought the first bite to your mouth, slow.

Remmick didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes tracked the motion like a starving man watching someone else’s feast.

The bite landed soft on your tongue—golden crisp on the outside, warm and tender in the middle, butter melting into every pore. It was perfect. Unreasonably so. And somehow you hated that even more. Because nothing about this should’ve tasted good. Not with him watching you like that. Not with your body still humming from the memory of his voice against your skin.

But you swallowed.

And he smiled.

"Good girl," he murmured.

You froze. The fork paused just above the plate.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you whispered.

"Why not?"

Your fingers tightened around the handle.

"Because it sounds like you earned it."

He chuckled, low and easy. A slow roll of thunder in his chest.

"Think I did. Think I earned every fuckin’ word after draggin’ you out that night and lettin’ you walk away without layin’ a hand on you."

You looked up sharply, heat crawling up your neck.

"You shouldn’t have touched me."

"I didn’t," he said. "But I wanted to. Still do."

Your breath caught.

His knuckles brushed the edge of your plate, slow, casual, like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm.

"And I know you want me to," he added, voice low enough that it coiled under your ribs and settled somewhere molten in your belly.

You pushed the plate away.

He didn’t flinch. Just reached forward and dragged it back in front of you like you hadn’t moved it at all.

"You eat," he said, gentler now. "You need it. House takes more from you than it gives."

You glanced around the kitchen, suddenly uneasy.

"You talk about it like it’s alive."

He gave a slow nod.

"It is. In a way."

"How?"

He looked down at your plate, then back at you.

"You’ll see."

You pushed another bite past your lips, slower this time, aware of the weight of his gaze with every chew, every swallow. You didn’t know why you obeyed. Maybe it was easier than defying him. Maybe it was because some part of you wanted him to keep watching.

When the plate was clean, he reached out and caught your wrist before you could stand.

Not hard. Not even firm. Just…inevitable.

"You full?" he asked, his voice all smoke and sin.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened.

"Then I’ll have my taste next."

Your breath lodged sharp in your throat.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like asking for your pulse was no more intimate than asking for your hand. But there was a glint in his eye—red barely flickering now, but still there—and it told you everything.

He was done pretending.

You didn’t move. Not right away.

His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, light but unyielding, the pad of his thumb grazing the fragile skin where your pulse drummed loud and frantic. Like it wanted to leap out of your veins and spill into his mouth.

You swallowed hard.

"You said you didn’t want blood."

"I don’t."

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

You watched him now, trying to make sense of what you wanted.

And what terrified you was this—

You didn’t want to run.

You wanted to know how it would feel.

To give something he couldn’t take without permission.

To see if your body could handle the worship of a mouth like his.

Remmick’s other hand came up slow, brushing hair from your cheek, his knuckles rough and reverent.

"You said I smelled like want," you whispered.

"You do."

"What do you smell like?"

He leaned in, mouth near your throat again, his nose dragging along your skin, slow, as if he were drawing in the scent of your soul.

"Rot. Hunger. Regret," he said. "Old things that don’t die right."

You shivered.

"And still I want you," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

"That’s the worst part, ain’t it?"

You didn’t answer.

Because he was right.

His hand slid down to your elbow, then lower, tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric. His touch was warm now, or maybe your body had just given up trying to tell the difference between threat and thrill.

He guided you up from the chair.

Didn’t yank. Didn’t drag.

Just stood and took your hand like a dance was beginning.

"Come with me," he said.

"Where?"

"Somewhere I can kneel."

Your heart stuttered.

He led you through the house, down the long hallway past doorways that watched like eyes. The floor groaned underfoot, the air thickening around your shoulders as he brought you deeper into the home’s belly. You passed portraits whose paint had faded to shadows, velvet drapes drawn tight, mirrors that refused to hold your reflection quite right.

The door at the end of the hall was already open.

Inside, the room was dark.

Just one candle lit, flickering low in a glass jar, its light catching the edges of something silver beside the bed. An old bowl. A cloth. A pair of gloves, yellowed from time.

A ritual.

Not violent.

Intimate.

Remmick turned toward you, his face bare in the soft light. He looked younger. More human. And somehow more dangerous for it.

"Sit," he said.

You sat.

He knelt.

And then his hands found your knees.

His hands rested on your knees like they belonged there. Not demanding. Not prying. Just there. Anchored. Reverent.

The candlelight licked up his jaw, catching in the hollows of his cheeks, the deep shadow beneath his throat. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like a story told by firelight—half-worshipped, half-feared. A sinner in the shape of a saint. Or maybe the other way around.

His thumbs made a slow pass over the inside of your thighs, just above the knee. Barely pressure. Barely touch. The kind of contact that made your breath feel too loud in your chest.

"Yer too quiet," he murmured.

"I don’t know what to say," you whispered back.

His gaze lifted, locking with yours, and in that moment the whole room seemed to still.

"Ya ain’t gotta say a damn thing," he said. "You just need to stay right there and let me show ya what I mean when I say I don’t want yer blood."

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

He leaned in, slow as honey in the heat, until his mouth hovered just above your knee. Then lower. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and maddening.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he pressed a single kiss just above the bone.

Your lungs stuttered.

His lips trailed higher.

Another kiss.

Then another.

Each one higher than the last, until your legs opened on instinct, until you felt the hem of your slip being eased upward by hands that moved with worshipful patience. Like he wasn’t just undressing you—he was peeling back a veil. Unwrapping something sacred.

"You ever had someone kneel for ya?" he asked, voice rough now. Thicker.

You shook your head.

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Good. Let me be the first."

He kissed the inside of your thigh like it meant something. Like you meant something. Like your skin wasn’t just skin, but a prayer he intended to answer with his mouth.

The air was too hot. Your thoughts slid loose from the edges of your mind. All you could do was breathe and feel.

He looked up at you once more, red eyes burning low, and said—

"You gave yerself to me. Let me taste what I already own."

And then he bowed his head, mouth meeting the softest part of you, and the rest of the world disappeared.

His mouth touched you like he’d been dreaming of it for years. Like he’d earned it.

No rush. No hunger. Just that first velvet press of his lips against the tender center of you, reverent and slow, like a kiss to a wound or a confession. He moaned, low and guttural, into your skin—and the sound of it vibrated up through your spine.

He parted you with his thumbs, just enough to taste you deeper. His tongue slipped between folds already slick and aching, and he groaned again, this time with something like gratitude.

"Sweet as I fuckin’ knew you’d be," he rasped, voice hot against your core.

Your hands gripped the edge of the chair. Wood bit into your palms. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you with patience, with purpose, like he was reading scripture written between your legs—each flick of his tongue slow and deliberate, every pass perfectly placed, building pressure inside you with maddening precision.

And all the while, he watched you.

When your head dropped forward, you found him staring up at you. Red eyes glowing low, heavy-lidded, mouth glistening, jaw tense with restraint. He looked ruined by the taste of you.

"Look at me," he said. "Wanna see you fall apart on my tongue."

Your breath hitched, hips rocking forward on instinct, chasing his mouth. He growled low and deep in his chest, gripping your thighs tighter.

"That’s it, dove," he murmured. "Don’t run from it. Give it to me."

He flattened his tongue and dragged it slow, then circled the swollen peak of your clit with the tip, teasing you to the edge and pulling back just before it broke.

You whined. Desperate.

He smirked against your cunt.

"You want it?" he asked, voice thick. "Say it."

Your lips barely formed the word—"Please."

He hummed in approval.

Then he devoured you.

No more teasing. No more pacing. Just his mouth fully locked on you, tongue relentless now, lips sealing around your clit while two fingers slid into you with that obscene, perfect pressure that made your body jolt.

You cried out, gasping, your thighs tightening around his head as the world tipped sideways.

"That’s it," he groaned, curling his fingers just right. "Cum f’r me, girl. Let me taste what’s mine."

And when it hit—

It hit like a fever. Like lightning. Like your soul cracked in half and bled straight into his mouth.

You broke with a cry, hips bucking, your fingers tangled in his hair as wave after wave crashed through you.

He didn’t stop. Not until your thighs twitched and your breath came in ragged little sobs, not until your body went limp in his hands.

Then, finally—finally—he pulled back.

His lips were wet. His eyes were feral. And he looked at you like a man who’d just fed.

"You’re fuckin’ divine," he whispered. "And I ain’t even started ruinin’ you yet."

The room pulsed with quiet. The candle flickered low, flame swaying as if it too had held its breath through your unraveling.

Your body felt boneless. Glazed in sweat. Your pulse echoed everywhere—in your wrists, your throat, between your legs where he’d buried his mouth like a man sent to worship. You weren’t sure how long it had been since you’d spoken. Since you’d breathed without shaking.

Remmick still knelt.

His hands were on your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles into your skin like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes were on you—watchful, reverent, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the softness between your legs and everything to do with something older. Something darker.

He looked drunk on you.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your voice caught on the edge of a sigh.

He beat you to it.

"Reckon you know what’s comin’ next," he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

He rose from his knees in one slow, unhurried motion. There was a heaviness to him now, a tension rolling just beneath his skin, like a dam about to split. He reached up with one hand and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of it—then licked the taste from his thumb like it was honey off the comb.

You watched, breath held tight in your chest.

He stepped closer. You stayed seated, knees still parted, your slip pushed up indecently high, but you didn’t fix it. Didn’t move at all. The heat between your legs hadn’t faded. If anything, it curled deeper now, thicker, laced with something close to fear but not quite.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head slightly.

"How’s yer heart?"

You blinked.

"It’s…fast," you whispered.

He smiled slow. Not mocking. Not soft either.

"Good. I want it fast."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

He leaned in, hands bracing on either side of your chair, body boxing you in without touching.

"‘Cause I want yer blood screamin’ for me when I take it."

Your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

He didn’t touch you yet—didn’t need to. The weight of his body, caging you in without a single finger laid, made your skin flush from your chest to your knees. Every inch of you throbbed with awareness. Of him. Of your own pulse. Of the air cooling the places he’d worshiped with his mouth not moments before.

You swallowed.

"You said you’d wait," you whispered.

He nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I did. And I have. But yer body’s already beggin’ for me. Ain’t it?"

You hated that he was right. That he could feel it somehow. Not just see the tremble in your thighs or the way your lips parted when he leaned closer—but that he could feel it in the air, like scent, like vibration.

You lifted your chin, barely.

"I’m not scared."

He chuckled low, and it rumbled through your bones.

"Good. But I don’t need ya scared, dove. I need ya open."

He raised one hand then, slow as scripture, and brushed his knuckles along the column of your throat. Just a whisper of contact, a ghost’s touch. Your head tilted for him without thinking, baring your neck.

"Right here," he murmured. "Right where it beats loudest. That’s where I wanna taste ya."

You shivered.

He bent down, mouth near your pulse. His breath was warm, slow, drawn in like he was savoring you already.

"I ain’t gonna hurt ya," he said. "Not unless you want it."

Your fingers twisted in your lap.

"Will it—" you started, but the question got tangled.

He smiled against your skin.

"Will it feel good?"

You said nothing.

"You already know."

You did.

Because everything with him did. Every word. Every look. Every touch. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t holy. But it was real. It lived under your skin like rot and root and ruin.

You nodded once.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

And then his lips pressed to your throat. Not with hunger. With reverence. Like a blessing.

"That’s my girl," he breathed.

And then he bit.

It wasn’t pain.

It was pressure, first.

A deep, aching pull that bloomed just beneath the skin, right where his mouth latched onto you. His lips sealed tight around your throat, and then—sharpness. Two points sinking in like teeth through silk. Like sin through flesh.

You gasped.

Not from fear. Not even from the sting. But from the rush.

Heat burst behind your eyes, white and sudden and dizzying. Your hands flew to his shoulders, clinging, grounding, anchoring you to something real while your mind drifted into something else—something otherworldly.

The pull came next.

A steady rhythm, slow and patient, like he was sipping you instead of drinking. Like he had all the time in the world. You could feel it, the way your blood left you in waves, not violent, not greedy—just…intimate. Like giving. Like surrender.

He groaned low against your neck, the sound vibrating through your bones.

"Fuck, you taste like sunlight," he rasped against your skin, voice thick with hunger and awe. "Like everythin’ warm I thought I’d forgotten."

Your head tipped further, offering him more.

You didn’t know when your legs opened wider, or when your hips rocked forward just to feel more of him. But his body shifted instinctively, meeting yours with a growl, his hand gripping your thigh now, possessive and unrelenting.

Your pulse faltered. Not from weakness, but from pleasure. From the unbearable knowing that he was inside you now, in the most ancient way. That your body had opened to him, and your blood had welcomed him.

Your moan was breathless.

"Remmick—"

He shushed you, mouth never leaving your throat.

"Don’t speak, dove. Just feel."

And you did.

You felt every lick. Every pull. Every sacred claim. You felt his tongue soothe where his fangs pierced, his hand slide higher along your thigh, his knee pushing between your legs until your breath stuttered out of you in something like a sob.

It was too much. It was not enough.

And when he finally pulled back, slow and reluctant, your blood on his lips like a mark, like a vow, he stared at you like you were holy.

Like he hadn’t fed on you.

Like he’d prayed.

The room was quiet, but your body wasn’t.

You felt every beat of your heart echo in the hollow where his mouth had been. A slow, reverent throb that pulsed through your neck, your chest, your thighs. It was like something had been lit beneath your skin, and now it smoldered there—glowing, aching, changed.

Remmick’s breath was uneven. His lips were stained red, parted just slightly, his jaw slack with something like awe. The burn of your blood still shimmered in his eyes, brighter now. Alive.

He looked undone.

And yet his hands were steady as he reached up, cupped your jaw in both palms, and tilted your face toward him. His thumb swept across your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t touch you just right.

"You alright?" he asked, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges like a match just struck.

You nodded, though your limbs still trembled.

"I feel…" you swallowed, the word too small for what bloomed in your chest, "…warm."

He laughed, soft and almost bitter, and leaned his forehead against yours.

"You should. You’re inside me now. Every drop of you."

The words rooted somewhere deep. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You could still feel the heat of his mouth, the bite, the pleasure that followed. It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just surrender. It was something older. Something binding.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, your fingers brushing the side of his neck, the line of his collarbone slick with sweat.

He looked at you like you’d asked the wrong question.

"Hurt?" he echoed. "Dove, it’s ecstasy."

You stared at him.

"You mean for you?"

He shook his head once.

"For us."

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. His gaze swept your features like he was committing them to memory. As if this moment, this very breath, was something sacred. His fingers moved to your throat again, this time to the place just above the bite, and he pressed lightly.

"You’ll bruise here," he said. "Won’t fade for a while."

"Will it heal?"

"Eventually."

"Do you want it to?"

His mouth curved, slow and wicked.

"No," he said. "I want the world to see what’s mine."

And before you could reply—before the heat in your belly could cool or your mind could gather itself—he kissed you.

Not soft.

Not careful.

His mouth claimed you like he’d already been inside you a thousand times and wanted to do it a thousand more. He kissed you like a man starving. Like a creature who’d gone too long without flesh, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

You tasted your own blood on his tongue.

And it tasted like forever.

The house knew.

It breathed deeper now. Its wood swelled, its walls sighed, its floorboards creaked in time with your heartbeat—as though it had taken you in too, accepted your offering, and now it wanted to keep you just like he did. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

As a belonging.

Remmick hadn’t let you go.

Not when the kiss ended. Not when your blood slowed in his mouth. Not when your knees gave and your body folded forward into him. His arms had caught you like he knew the shape of your collapse. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d never let you fall anywhere but into him.

He carried you now, one arm beneath your legs, the other braced around your back, his chest solid against yours.

"Don’t reckon you’re walkin’ after all that," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead, voice gone syrup-slow and thick with something possessive.

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t.

Your head rested against the place where his heart should’ve beat. But it was quiet there. Not lifeless—just other.

He carried you past rooms you hadn’t seen. A library, long abandoned, lined with crooked books and a grandfather clock that had no hands. A parlor soaked in velvet and silence. A door nailed shut from the outside, something heavy breathing behind it.

You didn’t ask.

He didn’t explain.

The room he took you to was nothing like the others.

It wasn’t grand.

It was personal.

The windows here were narrow and high, soft light slanting through the dusty glass in thin gold ribbons. The bed was simple but large, the sheets dark, the frame iron-wrought and worn smooth by time. A single cross hung above the headboard—but it had been turned upside down.

He set you down like you were breakable. Sat you on the edge of the bed, knelt once more to remove the slip still clinging to your body, inch by inch, as if undressing you were a sacrament.

"Y’ever wonder why I picked you?" he asked, voice low as the hush between thunderclaps.

Your breath stilled.

"I thought it was the blood."

He shook his head, his hands pausing at your hips.

"Nah, dove. Blood’s blood. Yours sings, sure. But it ain’t why I chose."

He looked up then, red eyes gleaming in the half-light.

"You remind me of the last thing I ever loved before I died."

The words landed like a stone in still water.

They rippled outward. Slow. Wide. Deep.

You stared at him, breath shallow, your skin bare under his hands, your throat still warm from where he’d fed. The room held its silence like breath behind gritted teeth. Outside, somewhere beyond the high windows, something moved through the trees—branches bending, wind pushing low and humid across the land—but in here, it was only the two of you.

Only his voice.

Only your blood between his teeth.

"What…what was she like?" you asked.

His thumbs drew circles at your hips, but his eyes drifted, not unfocused—just distant. Remembering.

"She had a mouth like yours. Sharp. Didn’t know when to shut it. Always speakin’ when she should’ve stayed quiet." A smile ghosted across his lips. "God, I loved that. I loved that she ain’t feared me even when she should’ve."

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

"But she didn’t get to finish bein’ mine."

Your brows pulled.

"What happened to her?"

He looked back at you then, and the heat in his gaze returned—not hunger, not even desire, but something deeper. Possessive. Terrifying in its tenderness.

"They tore her from me. Burned her in a chapel. Said she was a witch on account’a what I’d given her."

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

"Remmick—"

"She didn’t scream," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t cry. Just looked at me like she knew I’d find her again. And I have."

You froze.

His hands slid higher, up your ribs, his palms reverent.

"I don’t believe in fate. Not really. But you—" he leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low like a spell, "you make me wanna believe in things I ain’t allowed to have."

You whispered against the curl of his mouth.

"And what do you think I am?"

He kissed the hinge of your jaw.

"My penance," he said. "And my reward."

You shivered.

"You said you saved me."

He nodded.

"I did."

"Why?"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and his voice dropped to a near whisper.

"‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ another thing I love burn."

You didn’t realize you were crying until he touched your face.

Not with hunger, not with heat, but with the kind of softness that had no business living in a man like him. His thumb caught a tear on your cheek like he’d been waiting for it, like it meant something sacred.

"You ain’t her," he murmured. "But you feel like the same song in a different key."

His voice cracked a little at the edges, not enough to ruin the shape of it, just enough to prove that something in him still bled.

You reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped the side of his neck. The skin there was warmer now. Still inhuman, still not quite alive, but it held your heat like it didn’t want to give it back. You felt the ridges of old scars beneath your palm. The echo of stories not told.

"I don’t know what I’m becoming," you said.

He leaned into your hand, eyes half-lidded.

"You’re becomin’ mine."

Then he kissed you again—not like before. Not full of fire. But slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth. His lips moved over yours with a kind of tenderness that made your bones ache. A kind of reverence that said this is where I end and begin again.

When he pulled back, your breath followed him.

The room shifted.

You felt it. Like the house had exhaled too.

"Lie down," he said, voice softer than it had ever been. "Let me hold what I almost lost."

You obeyed.

You lay back against the sheets that smelled like him, like dust and dark and something unnameable. The iron bed creaked softly beneath you, and the candlelight trembled with the movement. He undressed with quiet purpose, shirt sliding from his shoulders, buttons undone by slow fingers, trousers falling away to bare the sharp planes of his body.

And when he climbed over you, it wasn’t to take.

It was to be taken.

Remmick hovered above you, breath warm at your lips, hands braced on either side of your head. He looked down at you like he was staring through time. Like you were something he'd pulled from the fire and decided to keep even if it burned him too.

You’re mine, he whispered, but didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t have to.

His body said it.

His mouth said it.

And when he finally eased inside you, slow and steady, filling you inch by trembling inch—your soul said it too.

His body hovered just above yours, every inch of him trembling with a control you didn’t quite understand—until you looked into his eyes.

That red glow was dimmer now. No less powerful, but softened by something raw. Something reverent.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Not even possession.

Devotion.

The kind that didn’t speak. The kind that buried itself in the bones and never left.

His hand slid down the side of your face, tracing the curve of your cheek, then the line of your jaw, calloused fingers lingering in the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat thudded wild and uneven.

"Still fast," he murmured, half to himself.

"You’re heavy," you whispered, not in protest, but in awe. Every breath you took was filled with him.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching in that crooked, wicked way of his.

"Ain’t even layin’ on you yet."

You didn’t laugh. Couldn’t. Your body was stretched too tight, strung out with anticipation and need. Every inch of you burned.

He leaned down then, not to kiss you, but to breathe you in. His nose skimmed your cheek, the edge of your ear, the curve of your throat already marked by his bite. His hands traced your ribs, the sides of your waist, slow and steady, like he was trying to learn you by touch alone.

"You’re shakin'," he whispered, voice low, thick with something close to worship.

"So are you."

A pause.

Then softer—truthfully,

"Yeah."

He kissed the inside of your wrist, then the space between your breasts, then lower still—his lips reverent as they moved over your belly, your hipbone, the softest parts of you.

"You ever had someone take their time with you?" he asked, mouth against your skin.

You didn’t speak.

"Didn’t think so," he muttered. "Shame."

His hand slid between your thighs, spreading you again—not rushed, not greedy, just gentle. Like he knew he’d already had the taste of you and now he wanted the feel.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he said.

"It already is."

He looked up at you then, his face half-shadowed, half-lit, and something flickered in his eyes.

"Good."

His cock brushed against your entrance, hot and heavy, and you nearly arched off the bed at the first contact. Not even inside. Just there. Teasing. Pressed to the slick mess he'd made of you earlier with his mouth.

He groaned deep.

"Fuck, you feel like sin."

You reached for him, pulled him down by the back of his neck until your mouths were inches apart.

"Then sin with me."

He didn’t hesitate.

He began to press in—slow. Devastatingly slow. The head of his cock stretching you open with a care that felt like madness. His hands gripped your hips as if holding himself back took more strength than killing ever had.

He moved in inch by inch, his breath hitched, jaw tight, sweat beginning to bead at his temple.

"Shit—ya takin’ me so good, dove. Just like that."

You moaned. Your fingers dug into his back. You were full of him and not even halfway there.

"Remmick—"

"I gotcha," he whispered. "Ain’t gonna let you break."

But he was already breaking you. Gently. Thoroughly. Beautifully.

He filled you like he’d been made for the task.

No sharp thrusts. No hurried rhythm. Just the unbearable slowness of it. The stretch. The burn. The drag of his cock as he sank deeper, deeper, deeper into you until there was nothing left untouched. Until your body stopped bracing and started opening.

You clung to him—hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt that still clung to his back, damp with sweat. He hadn’t even undressed all the way. There was something obscene about it, something holy, too—the way he kept his shirt on like this wasn’t about bareness, it was about belonging.

"That’s it," he rasped against your throat. "There she is."

Your moan was caught between breath and prayer.

He buried himself to the hilt.

And still—he didn’t move.

His hips pressed flush to yours, his breath shaky against your skin as he held himself there, nestled so deep inside you it felt like you’d never known emptiness before now. Like everything that came before this moment had just been the ache of waiting to be filled.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice thick, almost reverent. "Where I am inside ya?"

You nodded. Couldn’t find your voice.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear.

"Ain’t no leavin’ now. I’ll always be in ya. Even when I ain’t."

You whimpered.

Not from pain. From how true it felt.

He moved then—barely. Just a slow roll of his hips, a gentle retreat and return. It was enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch, your legs wrap tighter around him without thinking.

"That’s right, dove. Let me in. Let me have it."

You didn’t even know what it was anymore.

Your body?

Your blood?

Your soul?

You’d already given them all.

And still, he took more.

But not cruelly.

Like a man kissing the mouth of a well after years of thirst. Like a thief who knew how to make you feel grateful for the stealing.

He found a rhythm that made the air vanish from your lungs.

Slow. Deep. Measured. His hips grinding just right, dragging his cock against every place inside you that had never known such touch. Every stroke sang with heat. Every breath he took turned your name into something more than a sound.

"Fuck, I could stay in you forever," he groaned. "Like this. Warm. Tight. Mine."

You dug your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling.

"Please," you whispered, though you didn’t know what you were asking for.

He did.

"Beg me," he said, dragging his mouth down your neck, over the bite he’d left. "Beg me to make you come with my cock in you."

"Remmick—"

"Say it."

You were already gone. Already shaking. Already his.

"Make me come," you breathed. "Please—God, please—"

His smile was sinful.

And then he fucked you.

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow, no longer sacred.

It was worship in the way fire worships a forest. The kind that devours. The kind that remakes.

Remmick braced a hand behind your thigh, hitching your leg higher as he thrust harder, deeper, dragging guttural sounds from his chest that you felt before you heard. The bed groaned beneath you, iron frame clanging soft against the wall in time with his hips. But it was your body that made the noise that filled the room—the gasps, the breaking sighs, the high whimper of his name torn raw from your throat.

He kissed your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder, not like he was trying to be sweet but like he needed to taste every inch he claimed.

"You feel me in your belly yet?" he growled, words hot against your skin.

You nodded frantically, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

"Say it," he panted, each thrust brutal and beautiful.

"Yes—yes, I feel you, Remmick, I—"

"You gonna come f’r me like a good girl?"

"Yes."

"Say my fuckin’ name when you do."

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit like he’d owned it in another life, and the moment his fingers circled that aching bundle of nerves, your vision went white.

Your body seized around him.

The sound you made was raw, wrecked, something no one but him should ever hear.

He kept fucking you through it, hissing curses through his teeth, chasing his own high with the rhythm of a man who’d waited centuries for the perfect fit.

And then he broke.

With your name groaned low and reverent in your ear, he came deep inside you, hips stuttering, breath ragged, body shuddering with the force of it. You felt every throb of his cock inside you, every spill of heat, every ounce of him taking root.

For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move.

Only the sound of your breaths tangled together.

Your sweat mixing.

Your bodies still joined.

"That’s it," he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead to yours. "That’s how I know you’re mine."

The house exhaled around you.

The candle sputtered in its jar, flame dancing low and crooked, like even it had been made breathless by what it had witnessed. Somewhere in the walls, the wood groaned—settling. Sighing. Accepting.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Your body was a temple razed and rebuilt in a single night, still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his weight, the stretch of him inside you like a secret only your bones would remember. Every nerve hummed low and soft beneath your skin, like your blood hadn’t figured out how to move without his rhythm guiding it.

Remmick stayed inside you.

His body was heavy atop yours, but not crushing. His head tucked into the curve of your neck, the same place he’d bitten, the same place he’d worshipped like it held some holy truth. His breath came slow and ragged, the rise and fall of his chest matching yours as if your lungs had struck the same pace without meaning to.

"Don’t move yet," he muttered, voice wrecked and hoarse. "Wanna stay here just a minute longer."

You let your hand drift through his hair, damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. You carded through them lazily, mind blank, heart full.

He pressed a kiss to your throat. Then another, just above your collarbone.

"You still with me?" he asked, quieter now.

You nodded.

"Good," he murmured. "Didn’t mean to fuck the soul outta ya. Just…couldn’t help it."

You let out the softest laugh, and he smiled into your skin.

His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip, the spot where your thigh met his. His fingers moved slowly, not with lust, but with a kind of quiet awe.

"Y’know what you feel like?" he whispered.

"What?"

"Home."

The word struck something inside you. Something tender. Something deep.

He lifted his head then, just enough to look down at you. His eyes had faded from red to something darker, something richer—garnet in low light. The kind of color only seen in blood and wine and promises too old to be remembered by name.

"You still think this is just hunger?" he asked.

You blinked at him, dazed.

"It was never just hunger," he said. "Not with you."

The silence between you was warm now.

Not empty. Not tense. Just quiet, the kind that comes after thunder, when the storm’s rolled through and the trees are still deciding whether to stand or kneel.

You felt it in your limbs—heavy, humming, holy. The afterglow of something you didn’t have language for.

Remmick hadn’t moved far.

He still blanketed your body like a second skin, one arm braced beneath your shoulders, the other tracing idle shapes across your hip as if he were still mapping the terrain of you. His cock, softening but still nestled inside, pulsed faintly with the last of what he’d given you.

And he had given you something. Not just release. Not just blood. Something older. Something that whispered now in the place between your ribs.

You turned your head to look at him.

His gaze was already on you.

"What happens now?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he ran the back of his fingers along your cheekbone, down the side of your neck, pausing over the place where his mark had already begun to bruise.

"You askin’ what happens tonight," he murmured, "or what happens after?"

You blinked slowly. "Both."

He let out a breath through his nose, the sound tired but not cold.

"Tonight, I’ll hold you. Long as you’ll let me. Won’t leave this bed unless you beg me to. Might even make ya cry again, if you keep lookin’ at me like that."

You flushed, and he smiled.

"As for after…"

He looked past you then, toward the ceiling, like the truth was written in the beams.

"Ain’t never planned that far. Not with anyone. Just fed. Fucked. Moved on."

"But not with me."

His eyes snapped back to yours. Serious now.

"No, dove. Not with you."

You swallowed the knot rising in your throat.

"Why?"

His jaw flexed, tongue darting briefly across his lower lip before he answered.

"‘Cause I been alone too long. Lived too long. Thought I was too far gone to want anythin’ that didn’t bleed beneath me."

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, his next words no louder than a ghost’s sigh.

"But you—you made me want somethin’ tender. Somethin’ breakable."

"That doesn’t make sense."

"Don’t gotta. Nothin’ about you ever has. And yet here you are."

You let your eyes drift shut, just for a moment, and whispered into the stillness between your mouths.

"So I stay?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"You stay."

The candle had burned low.

Its glow flickered long shadows across the walls—your bodies painted in gold and blood-tinged bronze, limbs tangled in sheets that still clung with sweat and want. The house had quieted again, the way an animal settles when it knows its master is content. Outside, the wind threaded through the trees in soft moans, like the Delta herself was eavesdropping.

Neither of you spoke for a while. You didn’t need to.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns across Remmick’s chest—over his scars, the slope of muscle, the faint rise and fall beneath your palm. You still half-expected no heartbeat, but it was there, slow and stubborn, like he’d stolen it back just for you.

He watched you. One arm draped across your waist, his thumb stroking your bare back like you might fade if he stopped.

"You still ain’t askin’ the question you really wanna ask," he said, voice rough from silence and sleep.

You paused.

"What question is that?"

He tipped his head toward you, resting his chin on his knuckles.

"You wanna know if I turned you."

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

"And did you?"

He shook his head.

"Nah. Not yet."

"Why not?"

His fingers stilled. Then resumed.

"’Cause you ain’t asked me to."

You looked up at him sharply.

"Would you?"

A long beat passed. Then he nodded once.

"If it was you askin’. If it was real."

Your breath caught.

"And if I don’t?"

His gaze didn’t waver.

"Then I’ll stay with you. ‘Til you’re old. ‘Til your hands shake and your bones ache and your eyes stop lookin’ at me like I’m the only thing that ever made you feel alive."

Your throat tightened.

"That sounds awful."

He smiled, slow and aching.

"It sounds human."

You looked at him for a long time. At the man who had killed, who had bled you, who had tasted every part of you—body and soul—and still asked nothing unless you gave it.

"Would it hurt?"

His hand slid up, fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face to his.

"It’d hurt," he said. "But not more than bein’ without you would."

The quiet stretched long and low.

His words hung in the space between your mouths like smoke—something sweet and terrible, something tasted before it was fully breathed in.

Your chest rose and fell against his slowly, and for a long time, you said nothing. You just listened. To the house settling around you. To the wind curling past the windows. To the steady thrum of blood still echoing faintly in your ears.

And beneath it all—

You heard memory.

It came soft at first. A shape, not a sound. The slick thud of your knees hitting the alley pavement. The scream you didn’t recognize as your own. Your brother’s blood, warm and fast, pumping between your fingers like water from a broken pipe. His mouth slack. His eyes wide.

You remembered screaming to the sky. Not to God.

Just up.

Because you knew He’d stopped listening.

And then—

He came.

Out of nothing. Out of dark.

You remembered the slow scrape of his boots on the gravel. The silhouette of him under the weak yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. You remembered the quiet way he spoke.

"You want him to live?"

You didn’t answer with words. You just nodded, crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. And he’d knelt—right there in the blood—and laid his hand flat against your brother’s chest.

You never saw what he did. Only saw your brother’s eyes flutter. Only heard his breath return, sudden and wet.

And then he looked at you.

Not your brother.

Remmick.

He looked at you like he’d already taken something.

And he had.

Now, years later, lying in the hush of his house, your body still joined to his, you could still feel that moment thrumming beneath your skin. The moment when everything shifted. When your life became borrowed.

You looked up at him now, breathing steady, lips parted like a prayer just barely forming.

"I’ve already given you everything."

He shook his head.

"Not this."

He pressed two fingers to your chest, right over your heart.

"This is still yours."

"And you want it?"

He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away.

"I want it to keep beatin’. Forever. With mine."

You stared at him.

You thought about that alley. About your brother’s eyes opening again.

About how no one else came.

And you made your choice.

"Then take it."

Remmick stilled.

"Don’t say it unless you mean it, dove."

"I do."

His voice was barely more than a breath.

"You sure?"

You reached up, touched his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

His eyes shimmered—deep red now, alive with something wild and tender.

"Then I’ll make you eternal," he whispered. "And I’ll never let the world take you from me."

He didn’t rush.

Not now. Not with this.

Remmick looked at you like you were something rare—something holy—like he couldn’t believe you’d said it, even as your voice still echoed between the walls.

Then he moved.

Not with hunger. Not with heat.

With purpose.

He sat up, kneeling beside you on the bed, and pulled the sheet slowly down your body. His eyes drank you in again, but this time there was no heat in them. Just reverence. As if you were the altar, and he the sinner who’d finally been granted absolution.

"You sure you want this?" he asked one last time, voice soft, like the hush of water in a cathedral.

You nodded, throat tight.

"I want forever."

His jaw clenched. A tremble passed through him like he’d heard those words in another life and lost them before they were ever his.

He leaned down.

His hand cupped the back of your head, the other settled flat on your chest, palm over your heart.

"Close your eyes, dove."

You did.

And then—

You felt him.

His breath. His lips. The soft, cool press of his mouth against your neck. But he didn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kissed the mark he’d already left. Then higher. Then lower. Slow. Measured. Your body melted beneath him, your hands curling into the sheets.

And then—

A whisper against your skin.

"I’ll be gentle. But you’ll remember this forever."

And he sank his fangs in.

It wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t climax.

It was rebirth.

Pain bloomed sharp and bright—but only for a heartbeat. Then the warmth flooded in. Then the cold. Then the ache. Your pulse stuttered once, then surged. It was like drowning and being pulled to the surface at once. Like everything you’d ever been burned away and something older moved in to take its place.

He held you as it happened.

Cradled you like something delicate.

His mouth sealed over the wound, drinking slow, but not to feed. To anchor you. To tether you to him.

You felt yourself go limp. The world turned strange. Light and dark bled into each other. Your breath faded. Your heartbeat fluttered like wings against glass.

And then—

It stopped.

Silence.

Stillness.

And in the space where your heart had once beat…

You heard his.

Then—

Your eyes opened.

The world looked different.

Sharper.

Brighter.

Every shadow deeper. Every color richer. The candlelight burned gold-red and alive. The scent of the night air was so thick it choked you—smoke, soil, blood, him.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained crimson, breathing hard like he’d just returned from war.

And when he looked at you—

You saw yourself reflected in his eyes.

He smiled.

"Welcome home, darlin’."

[wwinterwitch]

safe haven – bucky barnes

summary: bucky goes back to you after the void incident pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 3.7k tags: thunderbolts* spoilers!, vague void experience on purpose (for the full x reader experience), sam is back and he's pissed, fluff and fluff and more fluff (love is in the air people!), comfort, kissing, things get heated at the end but no actual smut is included (i think i'll make another part exclusively for the smut lovers, so the people that don't read smut can still enjoy this part)

please reblog and/or comment in you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | previous part

You gasp, snapping back to reality after...whatever the fuck just happened, trying to catch your breath in hopes of easing your headache and slow your heart rate. The broom you were using to clean up your apartment lays on the floor next to you, everything looking the exact same as it was when you left.

It cannot possibly be another Thanos situation, right? That time it felt like you just blinked, but now it feels like you've been gone for long tortuous hours. That time your roommate almost had a heart attack when you knocked on the door of your shared apartment because she thought she’d never see you again. And you certainly don't remember anything about experiencing the blip. Now...now you wish you could forget what you saw back there.

You were forced to experience the most traumatizing memories playing in a loop over and over again until all you could do is sit in a corner and cry as you beg for the images to go away. A horrifying display of the darkest moments of your life. The times you felt more unhappy and hopeless. And every time you thought you’d managed to escape, you’d just end up in yet another memory.

But somehow you're back in your apartment now. Everything looks the exact same and it seems like no time has passed.

Still, even when it seemingly feels like you're safe, you can't help but feel uneasy. The thought of what you saw is still very much present in the back of your mind, replaying over and over again, taking over your senses and clouding your judgement. 

What if this is just another trick and you’re about to experience another horrible memory? You look around your apartment, too afraid to move, expecting to see something that confirms that you’re still stuck in this never-ending nightmare. That you’ll have to stay in this place for the rest of your life.

The unexpected buzzing of your phone makes you jump, snapping you back to reality as you frantically search for it. Quickly spotting it on top of your dinner table, you keep wondering what the hell is happening as you read Sam's name on your screen.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? I'VE BEEN TEXTING YOU LIKE CRAZY,” you hear him shout on the other line as soon as you picked up, sounding incredibly agitated.

“I'm sorry, I...I don't exactly know what happened,” you mutter, staring outside the window in hopes of seeing something out there that might give you any clues of what is going on. To your surprise, you can see a few ambulances speeding past your street and you can spot a large cloud of smoke in the distance. 

Bucky and the others are most likely involved in that commotion. You can only hope that they’re okay, still having no updates. You can’t really tell how much time has passed since they left, so you can’t know for sure when Bucky is going to show up.

“The entirety of New York just went black,” he explains. “It just looked like darkness.”

“What?” you ask in disbelief. “I don't remember anything about it. I was just cleaning up my apartment and then somehow I was in...I don't even know what it was. It was like purgatory or something.”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, not really wanting to go into too much detail about the stuff you had to witness. Honestly, you wish you could just forget it. “It was like being tortured, Sam. I don't know what it was, just that it was awful. I was cleaning my apartment and that's pretty much the last thing I remember before waking up in that place.”

There's a brief silence and for a second you thought perhaps the call was disconnected, but you suddenly hear Sam's voice again. “Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me!”

“What happened?” you say, evidently confused.

“Put on the news,” he sighs, muttering something else under his breath you can't quite hear correctly. “I gotta go, but I'll talk to you later, okay?” he says in a ruther rushed voice, sounding both pissed and worried. “Take care.”

“Sure. Bye, Sam.”

You hang up the phone as you sit on your couch, TV remote in your hand as you search for any news broadcast that's on. As soon as you find one, you stare at it in disbelief. There, in the middle of a street, is Valentina giving some bullshit speech you don't really care to pay attention to, and behind her stands the entire group of people that were in your apartment just seconds (or minutes? Hours?) ago, joined by a blonde guy you have never seen before.

They look exhausted and visibly confused to be in front of so many cameras. Bucky and Yelena look particularly pissed. But what matters the most to you is that they're all alive.

The next thing that really catches your attention is the text on the banner beneath the image. 'Introducing the New Avengers'.

What the hell is really going on right now?

The broadcast finally ended, and it doesn't take Bucky that long to arrive. All he wanted to do was to get away from Valentina and all the press that just kept taking pictures of him and the others. He barely even acknowledged the rest of the group, leaving as soon as possible. All he wants right now is to see you and make sure you're okay. He knows you're probably safe– of course you are, but he won't be calm until he's standing before you to make sure you really are unharmed.

He walks inside your apartment and immediately walks towards you, grabbing your face with both of his hands as soon as he's standing in front of you, frantically scanning your face for any sight of hurt or discomfort. It's almost as if you were the one out there fighting.

“Are you okay?” he asks, slightly out of breath, still not letting you go.

“Yes, I'm okay,” you reply with a reassuring smile, and he immediately pulls you in for a hug. “How are you?”

“Uh...as good as I can be.” 

His arms are still tightly wrapped around you, not wanting to let you go any time soon. Yes, he’s holding onto you because it’s a huge relief to confirm that you’re safe, but it also brings him an enormous amount of comfort, which is what he was craving ever since he stepped foot into the void.

“What kind of answer is that?”

“I don't know. It's been a lot. I was so worried about you.”

“I was so worried about you!”

He pulls away just enough, and you almost want to roll your eyes at the playful smirk on his face. “Don't try to make this a competition.”

“I won't make it a competition because I would obviously win,” you reply, exasperated. “I wasn't the one who was out there fighting...what was the guy's name again?”

“Sentry.” There’s a brief pause, his expression hardening considerably. “Were you there too?”

You get even more exasperated because you still don't understand shit. “Where?”

“The void.”

Realization hits you right there. The entirety of New York being consumed by darkness as Sam explained over the phone, the horrible things you had to see...of course a place like that would have such a fitting name. It felt exactly like it. You just felt empty and alone.

“So that's what it was. And the entire city was experiencing the same thing?” you ask, still in complete disbelief at the idea of one person having that much power. It certainly is a terrifying and dangerous ability to have. 

Then, after a quick pause, you realize Bucky had to experience that too, immediately hating the idea of him having to endure that. "Were you...?"

Bucky notices the shift in your expression, offering you a weak smile. “Yeah, we were all there.”

You don't know what to say at first. If you thought you had a hard time in there, you can't even begin to imagine the horrors Bucky was forced to watch over and over again. It breaks your heart to think about it. Even when he has made a lot of progress when it comes to healing from his past and learning to forgive himself, it doesn't mean the pain and guilt are not there.

“I'm so sorry,” is all you can say, feeling completely useless at that moment. Sorry doesn't make it better in any way.

“It's okay. It's not like this is the first time I've been there.”

His last statement absolutely crushes you. If you could find a way to take all of that burden off his shoulders, you'll do it in a heartbeat. Still feeling completely useless, you decide to pull him in for another hug, because at least that’s doing a little more than just saying you’re sorry.

“I wish I could do more to make you feel better,” you whisper, feeling his fingers gently running through your hair in an affectionate manner, kissing the top of your head.

“Being here with you is more than enough,” he whispers back. “You are more than enough."

“Oh, please don't make me cry now,” you warm him with a soft giggle, feeling like a few tears might actually come out any second now.

The sound of Bucky's laugh makes you feel just a hundred times better about the entire situation involving that stupid void, loving to hear it under such circumstances. It's impossible not to feel overwhelmed right now. That place really left you feeling like an emotional mess.

You move back from the hug just enough and Bucky takes that as his opportunity to pull you in for a kiss. The type of kiss that makes your knees weak and leaves your mind completely blank. A kiss you see in a movie with fireworks adorning the night sky, right before the end credits roll. One that feels like he's been dying to give you a kiss since he closed the door of your apartment before New York was consumed by darkness.

A kiss that shows you he really does mean it when he says you are more than enough.

“I'm really happy you're okay,” he mutters right after the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

I love you. That's all you can think of in this moment, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud because how fucking insane would that be? To not even be an official couple and already say such a thing? Perhaps it wouldn't be so crazy given you've been best friends for so many years (and you've had a crush on him for most of them), but still. It's just too soon. Too weird. Too intense.

The fucking void really did numbers on you. Just get it together, please!

“I'm happy you're okay too,” is what you say instead, which sounds appropriate. And not weird. And not intense at all.

You offer to make him a snack after all that happened, forcing him to take a seat when he said he could do it himself. As you prepared a few sandwiches, he tried to explain as much as possible about everything that's been going on.

“So Bob doesn't remember anything?” you ask once he's done, just as you're handing him a plate with two grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Apparently,” he replies, right before leaning over the counter to give you a quick kiss as a way of thanking you for the food.

“Well, that's probably for the best, right? I mean if the Sentry part returns, it's only a matter of time until the Void part wants to have a bit of fun again too.”

He practically devours one of the sandwiches, looking like he hasn't eaten in centuries. “Probably,” he says nonchalantly, clearly more focused on eating. It's impossible to blame him for it, especially considering everything he's been through today.

You can't help but smile at the image of him eating the sandwiches like he's been deprived of food his entire life. So much so that he can barely hold a conversation.

I love you. It's like you just couldn't hold yourself back from wanting to blurt those three little words once again. Like it's physically impossible to hold them in. It doesn’t matter if he’s saying cute things to you or if he’s eating like a caveman. You love both sides of him. 

But you can't say it. You can't be weird.

Instead, you try a much more appropriate approach once again. “You're so cute,” you say with a smile, moving closer to run a hand through his hair affectionately. Then, you suddenly remember something that you two haven't discussed yet, and your 'I'm-so-down-bad' smile turns into a 'just-thought-of-the-best-joke-ever' smirk. “Might as well start calling you the cutest Avenger, huh?”

He turns to look at you with a soft grin on his face, immediately shaking his head. “Please, tell me you didn't see that.”

“Oh, but of course I did!” You take a seat next to him on your kitchen counter, getting more comfortable to continue teasing him. “The news called you ‘The New Avengers’. Who would’ve thought!”

“It was all Valentina's plan to save her ass.”

“So you guys are not going to accept the title?”

“We are, but we still need to have a few meetings to set some rules if we plan on working together…and boundaries.”

“Oh, don’t act like you’re so irritated by the idea! I can tell you’re starting to feel more comfortable around them.”

He’s completely silent for a few seconds, knowing he can’t lie without you noticing. “Okay. They might be growing on me.”

“Awwh,” you reply, but not with the intention of making fun of him. “I thought they were very nice. And I'm glad you're making new friends.”

“You're never gonna stop teasing me about any of these, aren't you?”

“Well...yeah, but I actually mean it when I say I like seeing you meeting new people,” you reply, changing your tone and demeanor to let him know you're serious. “And yes, I'll tease you about the whole Avengers thing, but that doesn't mean I'm not excited to witness this new chapter in your life.”

You begin gently caressing his arm as you offer him a sincere smile. “You deserve it. You deserve to be recognized for your kind heart and your willingness to help others,” you continue. “I'm so proud of how far you've come. And I'm sure Steve is proud of you too.”

The mention of his childhood friend brings a melancholy to his expression that is both sad and beautiful to see. It shows he still deeply misses him, but has learned to think of him without breaking down. It's the type of expression you have when you've finally found peace with the fact that someone you love is not around anymore...not entirely around, at least. He'll always carry a part of Steve Rogers with him.

"Thank you," he says, genuinely meaning it. 

I love you. Those three words threaten to make their way into your conversation again, but this time it's not you the one fighting back the urge to say them.

But It's just a little too soon, right? Last thing he wants is to make things awkward between the two of you. So he decides not to say anything, just like you have decided twice already.

You smile, standing up from your seat. “Finish eating, okay? I have to clean the mess the New Avengers left in my living room earlier.”

“Yeah, you'll have to get used to that, unfortunately.”

“Like I haven't had to deal with that before,” you joke, hinting back at all the times you had people like Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton randomly showing up at your place.

Bucky stays in your kitchen while you finish brooming until you’re sure the floor of your living room is impeccable, familiarity slowly setting in after everything that happened today. You could faintly hear Bucky having a phone call with someone, but you couldn't quite make the words out over the music you had playing on your own phone to make the cleaning much more entertaining.

You go back to your kitchen to throw away the dirt and dust you collected from the living room, just in time to see Bucky standing up to wash the dish he used, sandwiches long gone.

“I just got a call from Sam,” Bucky says as soon as he notices you, his tone letting you know it wasn't exactly a pleasant conversation.

“What did he want?”

“For us to immediately backtrack and not go through with the whole Avengers thing.”

“Yeah, he called me just as it was airing and he didn't sound too happy about it. What are you going to do?”

Bucky sighs, exhaustion visible in his demeanor. “I'll talk to him later. I don't think anyone in the team feels like backtracking right now. Most of them looked pretty excited actually.” You can't help but smile, which makes him let out a soft chuckle. “What?”

“You said 'the team'. I just thought it was cute,” you shrug, crossing your arms across your chest. “I should invite them for a pizza night or something. Get to know them a little better. And meet this Bob guy too.”

“You'll invite John?” he asks, half-joking.

“Please don't call him John,” you immediately reply, squinting your nose in disgust. “I'll have to warm up to him...very slowly. I still feel like punching him in the face when I see him.”

“That's fair,” he agrees with you, perfectly understanding where your discomfort with John Walker's presence comes from. Perhaps that might explain some of the reasons as to why Sam seems so against the idea of this team being a thing.

You notice Bucky walks towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Even when the possible pizza night sounds exciting, I kind of just want to think about the two of us spending time together alone,” he says, grinning mischievously. 

A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his fingers near your neck, gently pulling the fabric of your hoodie to the side, exposing more of your collarbone. He places a few kisses there. Slow and careful.

“Perhaps I can stay here with you for a few more days?” he suggests, right before leaving another kiss on your skin, using his other hand that’s firmly placed on your lower back to bring your body closer to his.

“Of course you can stay,” you reply in a soft voice, trying not to let it show just how much his actions are affecting you.

He practically hums against your skin. “Do you want me to stay?” he whispers, definitely making you shiver now that his metal fingers are tracing lazy patterns on your skin, underneath your hoodie. What a teasing piece of shit.

It’s almost impossible to speak now. “Yes.”

His fingers trail further up your spine, but not that much higher. Just enough to allow you to feel his touch in a slightly different place, making you crave for more. A silent reminder that he can just move his fingers wherever he pleases, but he deliberately chooses not to grant you that pleasure.

“Then say it properly.”

It’s not a suggestion or a plea. It’s straight up an instruction. And he sounds like he’s absolutely certain that you’ll do exactly as he says. 

And you do. “I want you to stay here with me.”

The kisses on your neck continue and it feels like a reward, so you just stand there and enjoy it, allowing him to worship your skin with his lips until you're practically trapped between his body and the counter.

You can feel your cheeks burning red, the warmth spreading to the rest of your body with each kiss. “Don't you want to take a shower?” you try being a voice of reason, your brain just doing whatever it can to help you feel less nervous.

“Why? You're thinking about joining me?” he whispers against your skin, which immediately makes you regret ever opening your mouth because what the fuck is wrong with him and how does he dare to say something like that?

Okay. To justify your growing nerves, you've technically never been fully intimate with Bucky yet. You've been pretty close because a girl can only hold back for so long, but the two of you have been mainly focusing on your emotional connection and that one is just so mind-blowingly special that there hasn't been a need to immediately jump to the physical aspects of your relationship.

But oh, is he tasting your limits right now...

“How you even have the energy right now is beyond me,” you comment again. You're not against the idea of something happening, but your nervous brain gets the best of you so you find yourself blurting out random things yet again.

Finally, Bucky moves away just enough, a playful smile adorning his lips. “I'll always have the energy for you,” he replies, and the implication behind his words has you blushing even harder.

You immediately hide your face in his chest while he wraps his arms around you, laughing at your reaction. “I hate you,” you mutter.

“No, you don't.”

That's true. You really don't hate him at all. It's actually quite the opposite, but you can already picture him walking out the front door if he hears you say how you truly feel about him. The thought of daring to confess you love him is a thousand times more terrifying than the idea of having sex with him for the first time.

You look up, smiling up at him when he kisses your forehead. “No, I don't.”

“Glad to see you're agreeing with me for once in your life,” he comments playfully.

“Don't push it,” you warn him, making him laugh once again.

“How about I take a shower like you suggested and then we take a nap together,” he suggests casually, still keeping his arms around you. “I think we can both use a little sleep.”

“Yeah, a nap sounds good.”

“Wow, two in a row! What has gotten into you?” he jokes yet again, trying to get you to stay in his arms when you start to push him away after that little comment, but he doesn't put up that much resistance, so you're eventually getting away from him.

“You're insufferable,” you comment in an obviously fake tone of annoyance, right before leaving the kitchen to head towards your bedroom.

“And you're beautiful,” he replies with a genuine smile, following after you.

[thediormulan]

PICK A CARD

WHAT IS YOUR BODY TRYING TO TELL YOU?

Before we begin—know this: I’m not a therapist. This reading is not a substitute for professional mental health care, trauma healing, or bodywork. This is a spiritual mirror. A tender one. And it holds my most vulnerable channeling for the collective yet.

This isn’t a self-love fluff fest. This is reclamation.Your body has been whispering through pain, shape-shifting through timelines, and holding onto stories you’ve been too scared to speak. Your insecurities? They’re not flaws. They’re portals.Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t. And if one line hits while another misses? It still means the medicine is meant for you.

There are four piles to choose from. Breathe deep. Pick the one that sees you.And if this reading cracks something open—and you want to go deeper—I offer personal readings. You can find everything in the Velvet offerings page.

And if you want a personal reading tailored to your body, beauty, or becoming—check The Velvet offerings.

What your body wants you to know:

Your skin remembers everything you’ve tried to forget. The weight you carry in your stomach isn’t just food—it’s shame, it’s abandonment, it’s the punishment you learned to administer after someone taught you your body was only lovable if it was smaller, smoother, silent. But your body is tired of negotiating its worth in whispers. It’s asking you to stop bracing every mirror like a battlefield. It doesn’t want your apology. It wants your praise. The tightness in your jaw? That’s the scream you swallowed in fifth grade when someone called you “too big.” The fatigue in your legs? That’s the lifetime of walking on eggshells to be “pretty enough.” You’ve called your softness weakness, but it’s always been survival.

What your insecurities want you to know:

You don’t actually hate your arms. You hate that someone taught you your arms were only beautiful if they could be wrapped around someone thinner. You don’t hate your acne. You hate what it symbolizes—the failure to be effortlessly flawless in a culture that profits from your self-rejection. Every part of you that you try to shrink is the part that wanted to expand. And that resentment you feel? That’s not self-loathing. That’s grief. Grief for every version of you that had to hide under oversized hoodies, ghost their own joy in photos, and numb themselves with self-critique. Your insecurities are exhausted from the performance of perfection. Let them speak. They’re only ugly when they’re silenced.

From your future self, three years ahead:

Baby, you’re going to love how your hips move when you walk into your purpose. You’re going to thank your thighs for holding the legacy of your lineage. You’re going to crave your own reflection—not out of ego, but because you’ll finally see the truth: you were never broken, just buried. Your glow is not a trend. It’s your natural state when shame no longer writes your story. Three years from now, you’ll run your hands along your stretch marks and call them sigils. You’ll wear your softness like silk. And the only thing you’ll regret is how long you let your body go unloved.

Numerology: 5, 10, 17, 33

Astrology: Aquarius, Leo, Venus-ruled transits, Chiron activation.

Angel Numbers: 1010, 333, 441

Confirmation Letters: R, L, A, V, E

From Your Higher Self:

You’ve never been too much—you’ve simply been unclaimed. Every “imperfection” has been armor, shaped by pain but forged in divine flame. The skin you pick at, the curves you hide, the stretch marks you resent? They’re stories. Sacred, sovereign stories. I already see you dancing topless under the moonlight—free. You don’t have to be healed to be holy.

From the Universe:

Your glow-up is not just aesthetic. It is ancestral. Let the softness come. Let the hunger end. You are the altar you’ve been crawling toward.

Drop a 🌹 if you’re done hiding your glow. Tag your softest selfie. Let this pile be your permission.

What your body wants you to know:

Your body has been your shield. Every extra pound, every pimple, every patch of dry skin or hair out of place has been a form of armor. Because deep down, part of you didn’t want to be seen. Not really. You wanted to be safe. Your stomach bloat? It’s your gut holding unspoken betrayals. The migraines? Mental overload from trying to curate your entire existence. The sluggishness? A body that’s been touched too much or not at all, aching for autonomy. Your softness has been called laziness, but in truth—it’s been your womb space protecting you from a world that sexualized you before you could say no. Your body wants you to know she’s been fighting for you the whole time, even when you cursed her.

What your insecurities want you to know:

You learned to critique before you learned to breathe. Picked apart in dressing rooms, scrutinized in your own bed, compared to filtered ghosts online. You think you’re ugly—but it’s projection. Your real fear is that no one will ever truly see you beyond the body. Your chest, your nose, your teeth, your scars—they’ve been auditioning for approval. And your insecurity isn’t vanity. It’s vigilance. You’re not obsessed with your flaws—you’re afraid of being punished for them. Every moment you’ve starved yourself of joy to be “disciplined” was a betrayal of the divine. You don’t need more discipline. You need devotion.

From your future self, three years ahead:

You’re going to look back and sob—not because you hated yourself, but because you didn’t know how sacred you were. That belly you tried to flatten will be the soft place your lover rests their head. Those arms you used to hide will hold your dreams to life. You won’t count calories—you’ll count moon cycles. You’ll look in the mirror and say, “Damn, I made it.” The fear will still whisper sometimes, but you won’t obey. Because in three years, your body becomes your oracle, your ally, your altar. And the only thing that changes is that you finally listen.

Numerology: 2, 3, 7, 11

Astrology: Virgo, Cancer, Pisces, Lilith aspects

Angel Numbers: 777, 222, 1101

Confirmation Letters: S, D, K, M, T

From Your Higher Self:

You’re allowed to be soft without being broken. Your body has held so much—too much—and still you keep walking. But now? I want you to rest. Your stomach doesn’t need to be flat to deserve joy. Your thighs don’t need to shrink to be safe. You are the temple. Start honoring yourself like the sacred site you are.

From the Universe:

Your body is not a war zone. It’s a sanctuary. Burn the script that says otherwise.

Comment a crescent 🌙 emoji if you’re ready to reclaim rest, ritual, and softness.

What your body wants you to know:

Your body doesn’t recognize the filtered version of you. It craves breath, movement, realness—not pixel-perfect fantasy. The inflammation in your joints? That’s repressed rage. The flinching when someone touches your waist? That’s old trauma echoing in your fascia. Your body is not resisting you. It’s revealing you. Every flare-up, every hormonal shift, every ache is an SOS: “Stop editing yourself.” Your inner fire has been dimmed by people-pleasing and fake self-love mantras. But your body is done pretending. It’s ready to erupt. It wants you to stop dressing like you’re apologizing and start embodying like you’re prophesying.

What your insecurities want you to know:

Let’s be honest—you’ve made war with your own face. That jawline. That nose. That body hair. You’ve begged your body to conform so you could be worthy of desire. But your insecurity is trying to reroute you to truth. It’s not saying “you’re ugly”—it’s saying “you’re not being real.” You’re afraid that if someone saw the unfiltered you, they’d leave. But the gag is: the ones who stayed through the mask? Aren’t even your people. You don’t need more makeup. You need more truth. Your soul didn’t come here to be palatable. It came here to set the standard.

From your future self, three years ahead:

You’re going to laugh at how long you edited photos instead of editing the internal dialogue. You won’t just feel sexy—you’ll embody it. Powerfully. Naturally. Unapologetically. You’ll walk into rooms and feel eyes not because of aesthetics—but because of presence. And your body won’t be perfect, but it’ll be honest. Honest hips. Honest belly. Honest eyes. And that will be magnetic. You’ll realize the mirror didn’t deserve your loyalty. And your fire? It’ll be dancing in your skin, unapologetic.

Numerology: 1, 8, 9, 20

Astrology: Capricorn, Sagittarius, Pluto transits, Mars activations

Angel Numbers: 999, 888, 1818

Confirmation Letters: J, B, F, P, C

From Your Higher Self:

You’ve spent years looking at yourself through someone else’s lens. But I’m here to rip the veil off. That mirror doesn’t know you like I do. You’re not here to be digestible. You’re here to be undeniable. Let your body speak in movement, not comparison. Let your pain become presence.

From the Universe:

This is not the end of your confidence. It’s the beginning of your fire.

Drop a fire 🔥 emoji if you’re done letting mirrors decide your worth. Reblog with one truth about your body you’re reclaiming.

What your body wants you to know:

You think you’re late. Behind on the glow-up. Behind on the body goals. Behind on the healing. But time is your illusion, not your truth. Your body is growing at the exact pace your soul can handle. That weight gain wasn’t failure—it was pause. That back pain? A sign you’ve been carrying generational burdens. That hair loss? A shedding of identities that no longer serve. You’re not stagnant—you’re rooting. You don’t need another diet, detox, or “discipline.” You need hydration, self-forgiveness, and honest rituals. Your body is already in bloom—you just haven’t stepped outside to see it.

What your insecurities want you to know:

You don’t hate your body. You hate that you’ve never had the space to truly inhabit it. Your insecurity isn’t about the belly rolls—it’s about the fear that you’ll never feel free inside your skin. You’ve inherited a script of beauty that was never written for someone like you. So, you performed. But your soul is done acting. Your nervous system is screaming for safety, not sculpting. Your reflection doesn’t want admiration—it wants intimacy. Stop treating your beauty like a prize to earn. It’s a presence to honor. Right now. Not “when you lose the weight.” Not “when you get surgery.”

From your future self, three years ahead:

I wear clothes now that you didn’t dare dream of. I sleep naked in confidence. I look at my body and don’t see projects—I see poetry. I’m not “healed.” I’m in love. With this body. With her timing. With her tenderness. And you know what? It wasn’t a makeover. It was a permission slip. You gave it to yourself. One ritual at a time. One brave mirror moment at a time. Three years from now, your body feels like home. And the key? Was always in your hands.

Numerology: 4, 6, 10, 19

Astrology: Pisces, Libra, Saturn cycles, Solar returns

Angel Numbers: 444, 616, 1001

Confirmation Letters: N, Y, G, W, H

From Your Higher Self:

I’m already living in the body you’re dreaming of. It didn’t happen through hustle—it happened through surrender. You don’t have to fight for beauty. You are the bloom. Water yourself the way you’ve always watered others. I promise, the garden shows up when you stop hiding from the sun.

From the Universe:

Your evolution is inevitable. And it’s going to be gorgeous.

Drop a sunflower 🌻emoji if you’re finally choosing to trust your body’s timeline.

Your body is not your enemy.

Your insecurities are not curses.

They are sacred invitations back to yourself.

Worship your reflection.

Reclaim your rhythm.

Let your scars speak in your native tongue: power.

If this moved you—share it. Tag someone. Drop a truth in the comments. Let someone else know they’re not alone in their skin.

And if you want a personal reading tailored to your body, beauty, or becoming—check The Velvet offerings.

Channeled with velvet devotion by Dior Harris.

Stay infinite. Stay divine. Stay velvet.

[berrryparfait]

amortentia ! ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

‪‪‬♥︎ featuring: slytherin! sylus x hufflepuff! fem!reader | prompt

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: oh, how marvelous your school days were—going to class, brewing potions, befriending magical creatures... and getting tormented by that awful (and infuriatingly handsome) slytherin boy! 「you never forget your first love...」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: hogwarts au, some angst, brief depictions of bullying, enemies-to-lovers, first love, character development, implied hea

— ༉‧₊ᐟ word count: 9k

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: harry in winter, neville's waltz, potter waltz (from harry potter and the goblet of fire)

✧ a/n: just a cliche little fic for yall. combining two things i love from the bottom of my heart and turning it into a story of life and first love... i leave this in your hands now, so i hope you love it as much as i do. i’ve included a number of references and easter eggs in this fic—click here for bts! <3

You’ll never forget those glorious days of your youth—Hogwarts really is and will always be your home. The wonderful friends you made, the lifelong lessons you learned, all of it can be traced back to that school, that magical place.

Ah, but you mustn't skip over that part; the story of your very first love. How an arrogant, horrible young boy turned out to be your greatest, most everlasting love. Your only true love.

It all began in third year, the year you discovered your witch-hood and transferred from muggle school. Little did you know, at the time, that a particular white-haired boy from Slytherin house was about to uproot your life…

...

You’ve just been placed in Hufflepuff. The house of the kind, they said. To be completely honest, you’re...excited about your first day of school. You’ve always been an introvert, but there’ll be other introverts around—from each and every house, surely. You won’t have to worry about bumping into boisterous Gryffindors or snobbish Ravenclaws, or even those especially awful Slytherins you’ve heard tales about.

Clutching your textbooks, you round the corner and stop short. Just your luck. A small boy in Hufflepuff robes dangles in midair in front of you, his face streaked with tears. A first-year, perhaps? Cackling in the corner are a group of Slytherin boys who look like they’re having the time of their lives, clutching their bellies as if this is the best thing that’s happened to them all year. You can’t believe it— Such an evil act in broad daylight is...is abhorrent!

Bracing yourself, you take a deep breath and shout, “Put him down at once!” The bullies turn to stare at you, the smiles on their face vanishing for a brief second before returning in full force. Your cheeks flush and you try your best to stop your knees from shaking.

One of the boys recovers from his fit and begins to approach you, a sardonic grin twisting his lips. He’s the tallest of the bunch, with a head of pale white hair that seems to glisten in the sunlight. His eyes are a deep, crimson red, piercing and intense. “Is there a problem?” he drawls, a hidden edge to his otherwise snarky exterior.

“Put him down, now. I won’t ask again.” Though your chin trembles and your hands have gone numb, you stand your ground, refusing to avert your gaze.

His jaw ticks, annoyance written all over his face. “I’m going to remember you, Hufflepuff,” he sneers as he stalks past you and down the neighboring corridor, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes. The boy is abruptly released from the invisible force as the other Slytherins follow their leader into the shadows.

In a moment of shocking clarity, you feel those red eyes glance back at you as you flee the other way.

What a horrible boy, going around scaring people like that! You exhale in relief when they disappear, counting your lucky stars. Still, something tells you this is only the beginning of a terrible—and likely very irritating—string of encounters…

As a result of your rash righteousness, you spent the rest of the year avoiding him—and failing miserably. He seemed to trail you everywhere you went, finding new ways to torment you each week. Every few days or so, he’d either pull a stupid prank on you in front of a million (utterly useless) students or spread some nasty rumor about you that thankfully wasn’t likely to gain much traction.

Most teenagers grew tired of watching the same show over and over again, and soon enough this rivalry of yours became a personal thing. Of course, there was the added effect of him having significantly more friends than you, but that didn’t mean you were unable to defend yourself when it mattered…

…

Why hasn’t anyone been working to find a cure for werewolfism if it’s that deadly? Where’s the urgency—the compassion for those poor werewolves?! You frown at the textbook in front of you, the lack of justice for werewolves muddling your mind.

Something is crawling up the side of your face. “AHH—!” you shriek, swatting the hairy spider away from you. Your vision blurs as your heart pounds so fast you think you might collapse on the spot. You’ve always been deathly afraid of spiders; a fear you’d acquired back when you’d been left on a stranger’s doorstep with nothing but gangly arachnids to keep you company.

“Is something the matter, Miss <y/n>?” The professor appears unamused as he squints at you, mild confusion in his tone.

Pulse stammering, you look down at the floor where the spider should have been...and find nothing. “T-There was a spider, r-right there—” you stammer, a bad, sinking feeling settling deep in your stomach.

You swivel around at the sound of a group of boys giggling uncontrollably, the mirth in their eyes cruel. “There was a spider, she said! Well, where is it? Tell us now so we can kill it!” the purple-haired Rafayel whistles, before proceeding to imitate your piercing scream. The entire class erupts in laughter, and hot tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.

Sitting next to him is his best friend Sylus, a look of pure, spiteful satisfaction on his face. An illusion charm. A blinding rage consumes you, pumping through your veins like lava as you rise, your seat toppling over behind you. The professor can’t stop you. Your deskmate can’t convince you to sit back down. In this moment, you’re invincible. You storm toward the smirking rat so fast that the students you pass flinch away from you like a sea of startled turtles.

Time freezes as you deliver the hardest, most powerful punch you’d ever thought possible, your knuckles bruising from the impact. He’s nearly flung out of his seat, the shock in his eyes tangible. That stupid grin wiped off his perfect face. “What the—”

Your voice, surprisingly steady, cuts him off. “Don’t you ever bother me again. You hear me?! I swear on your bloodline that you will regret it. Leave. Me. Alone.” His friends have gone silent, their mouths hanging agape. The professor is too stunned to speak.

Sylus simply stares at you, a glaring red mark blooming on his cheekbone. His gaze never leaves yours, half-dumbfounded and half-…something else. You sashay out of the classroom, fully aware that your very condemning display just cost Hufflepuff ten points—possibly more. But you couldn’t care less. Today, you stood up for yourself, and it felt amazing.

What felt more amazing, however, was the way his scarlet eyes followed you all the way out the door.

…

On the very last day of school that year, right before summer break, Sylus came up to you in the Great Hall. He was alone, a rare sight considering (you believed, at least) he had an odd fear of being seen by himself.

He sauntered over with ease, a lazy grin playing on his lips. And though you hated to admit it, he truly was gorgeous. All sharp edges and hard lines. Yet there was a boyish sort of charm to him—one he would soon outgrow and trade for a more masculine allure, as you’d come to discover in the years ahead.

You drop your eyes to his hand in his pocket, not wanting to cause a scene on your last day. “What do you want, Sylus…” Exasperation saturates your words.

He appears almost wounded. “Do I have to want something to come and talk to you?”

“Stop playing around. You won’t be seeing me for the next couple months, alright? That’s what you want, isn’t it? Since you seem to dislike me or something…” You gather your books and begin to walk away from him.

“Dislike you? Whoever said that?” He’s as unbothered as ever, sharp canines visible from behind that lopsided smile of his. God, he’s annoying. Why does he have to look like that?

“You’ve spent the past year making my life a living hell!” Sure, life in the castle wouldn’t have been half as interesting without him testing your patience every other day, but you aren’t children anymore.

“Please. Even you have to admit that trick with the spider was a new level of genius, even for me.” Smooth as honey, evil as sin. It isn’t unbelievable in the slightest that he comes from one of the wealthiest pure-blood families in the country.

You huff at his ignorance. A part of you wants him to know just how sore of a spot he’d touched that day. Would it diminish your power act? Maybe. But you want him to feel guilty for what he did. To hurt, if only a little. “I don’t do well with spiders. My parents left me on a stranger’s doorstep when I was a child. It was riddled with them. I’ve been terrified of the creatures ever since.” You say it with confidence, as if it doesn’t bother you in the slightest. What if it doesn’t anymore? Distantly, a part of you wonders if you’re baring your vulnerabilities to him in an act of stupidity. But you’ve also made peace with the fact that this boy’s opinion matters less to you than that of an ant’s.

His lips part ever so slightly at your revelation, and he hesitates. What a foreign display, Sylus hesitating. “I apologize. I was unaware.” He only sounds partially apologetic. Forty percent, at best. But you don’t have time for his antics right now. He can miss the train, for all you care—you’re getting on that carriage if it’s the last damn thing you do.

“Okay. Bye.” You scurry past him as that tiny smirk returns to his face, so quickly it’s as if it had been begging to be set free.

“Don’t miss me too much, Hufflepuff,” he calls from behind you, a lightheartedness in his tone that has you questioning things.

Naturally, you roll your eyes instead of dealing with those things, and your third year ends there; with you running to board the Hogwarts Express, and Sylus left watching you leave, just as he had a million times before.

Your fourth year was as irritating as you’d expected. However much Sylus had bothered you the year before couldn’t compare to the endless teasing and dreadful clinging you had to deal with this time—for instead of pulling pranks on you, he’d started to talk to you.

He trailed you in hallways and whispered to you in classrooms, asking you stupid questions like, “Do you think I should start charging a fee every time I catch you staring at me?” and “I believe there’s a ball of lint somewhere on my robe. Care to remove it for me?”

God, he was a pesky one. Your interactions with him lacked hostility, but were somehow more difficult to deal with. How on earth were you supposed to respond to those questions? What is he trying to achieve here? It all puzzled you to no end. You tried your best to ignore him, but he was like a bad omen stuck to your clothes—permanent and a pain in your ass.

It goes without saying that he wasn’t above making fun of you from time to time. Him and his Slytherin buddies loved a good joke, but it was…different, that year. While his goal last semester had been to humiliate you, now it seemed he was merely after a reaction—any kind at all.

You’ll always remember that small corner of the library; books piled high on your desk, tears streaming down your face, and that insolent white-haired boy finding you at the worst possible time…

…

Again. You failed your Transfiguration test again. You just can’t seem to get it right! How embarrassing to be sitting here bawling my eyes out while all the other students are feasting away on their stupid treacle tarts and cauldron cakes and—

Someone’s coming towards you. You wipe your eyes on your sleeves and hastily sit up in your chair, suddenly acutely aware of how much of a mess you are right now.

Inquisitive red eyes meet yours. “Oh. It’s you,” you say between sniffles, the repulsion in your voice clear as day.

He grabs the chair beside you, spins it around, and plops down, resting his arms across the back like he owns the place. Your tears don’t seem to faze him, nor do they earn you any form of tact. “Looks like Hufflepuff here is missing out on the festivities. Displeased to see me, Myrtle?”

You know he meant it jokingly, but it stings more than it should. Do I really look like Moaning Myrtle right now? “Do I really look like Moaning Myrtle right now?”

He chokes out a laugh before reeling it in, pretending to be mindful of your current state. “A little. What’s wrong? Run-in with a spider, perchance?”

“Not funny, Sylus. I failed Transfiguration, okay? Now leave me alone… I don’t need to hear your weak attempts at rubbing it in…” You don’t know why you chose to be honest with him. The words just rolled off your tongue before you could stop yourself.

“If it makes you feel any better, I failed too.” You stare at him, surprised. Such sensitivity feels strange coming from the likes of him.

“Really?”

“No.” He laughs so hard he’s driven to tears, and though every inch of you wants to be mad, you end up fighting a smile of your own. This boy and his stupid, contagious laugh.

Maybe you feel a little better. It’s impossible to tell—all you want to do right now is smack him on the shoulder. So you do, lightly.

His laughter fades and your sniffles slow to a halt, the sound of your heartbeat filling your ears. Suspend your disbelief, and this almost feels like a comfortable moment between…friends.

Friends? No, that doesn’t seem right. He still pisses you off to no end.

Noticing the awkward silence, he jolts back into annoying mode and coos, “Gullible as ever, Hufflepuff. Good to know that’s a constant.”

It rubs you the wrong way. Instantly, your mood is soured and you no longer want to sit here and play-fight with him. “Great. I’m so glad to hear I’ll always be the same old, gullible me. Always the one getting taken advantage of, right, Sylus?” No response. “I hope you got what you came here for.”

He’s no longer laughing. “That’s not what I—” You don’t hear his feeble protests. You’re already rushing out of the booth.

You know you’re overreacting, but something about him makes it so hard to react…normally. Don’t turn around, you tell yourself. Because even though you can’t see him, you know he’s tracking your every movement.

Fifth year was a tumultuous whirlwind of mess, feelings and blurred lines. You were to sit for your O.W.L.s that year, and you were hell-bent on besting Sylus this time around. How you loathed the way he always managed to achieve top scores while barely paying attention in class. It wasn’t fair.

However, most students seemed far more concerned with another event set to take place on school grounds: the Triwizard Tournament…

…

The tournament has been nothing short of exhilarating. You have to admit, despite your insistence on focusing on your studies this year, you too have been swept up in the heat of competition. Everywhere you go, excitement buzzes in the air, the entire school in silent support of their champion.

Caleb Xia—the charming Gryffindor boy whose name had been chosen by the Goblet of Fire—happens to be one of Hogwarts’ most popular students, and you find yourself rooting for him, too. He’s easy on the eyes and a menace on the Quidditch pitch—a deadly combination.

He’s looked at you once, from across the main courtyard, and you’d blushed so hard your friends teased you for days.

The first task concluded a week ago, with Caleb emerging victorious. Everyone went positively out of their minds, plastering his handsome face on every wall and cheering wherever he went. You cheered too, naturally, though you’d never really expected him to notice a wallflower like you.

You were wrong.

Caleb Xia began to say hello to you. You. It started with simple waves from a few feet away and eventually progressed to him coming up to you and asking what you were up to after class. It still baffles you, the fact that a high-flyer like him would be romantically interested in you, but it feels…nice, to be noticed in that way. He’s sweet, polite, and genuinely compassionate—all traits you hold in the highest regard.

It goes without saying that Sylus has been observing you and your new suitor. He’s mellowed down a little since last year, but a dark presence still trails him like a cloak, the intensity in his gaze grounding.

“How’s loverboy?” he hums, low and calculating.

You bumped into him at The Three Broomsticks and decided to sit down for a drink. Butterbeer, of course. Sylus and his underage drinking have nothing to do with you. “We’re just friends.” It’s the truth—for now, at least.

“Right. And you’re the Triwizard champion.” He takes a slow sip of beer from his cup. Amusement plays at his lips, but his words carry a blade barely sheathed. “I saw you making goo-goo eyes at him earlier.”

“Happy to hear you’re looking out for me,” you chirp in response.

He rolls his eyes, a not-quite-smile tugging at his lips. “Please. As if you’d ever get yourself into any kind of situation.”

A primary gear in you shifts, dangerously, and you feel a sudden urge to do something rash. To prove him wrong. You snatch his mug and chug the remnants of the beer, gulping it down as it drips past your chin.

He raises his eyebrows, mildly amused and probably a little concerned. You've got that lightweight quality to you, and it doesn’t take an expert to notice. “I’m impressed, Hufflepuff. Now, can you hold it?”

Your face grows warm as you struggle to think of a coherent response. I’m not drunk I’m not drunk I’m not drunk— “D’uh…” Damn it, you’re drunk. Buzzed, maybe? You don’t know the difference. Whatever it is, you’re sober enough to make out his next words.

“One pint. You humor me, you know.”

Your mind clears a little—it was only beer, after all. “I told you, I’m not drunk. You’re getting on my nerves now. Bye.”

He puts a hand on your elbow, steadying you as you hop off the barstool. “Not so fast, Puff. You’re tipsy. Let me take you back to the castle.”

You swat his arm away. “Stop pretending to care! It won’t work on me! Oh, look, she’s here—” Your friend walks into the tavern and spots you, in your wobbly state, making your way toward the door. She sighs and grabs you by the waist, steering you in the right direction.

“To the castle!” you shout, throwing one last glare at Sylus.

He sits in silence, your cup of butterbeer in hand, watching you leave.

…

Utter chaos.

The Yule Ball is fast approaching, and the student body couldn't be more ready for a night of dancing and fancy dresses. The air hums with electricity, alive with the prospect of flirting and courtship and mysterious suitors—none of which you had much interest in before, but…things change. Hope fills you at the thought of him asking you to the ball, a feeling you welcome with open arms.

Caleb Xia is a dream come true. And the best part? He’s interested in you. So interested he goes out of his way to sit next to you in the Great Hall, offering you his potatoes after you’ve finished yours.

So why hasn’t he asked you yet? The ball is taking place in two days.

Surprisingly, Sylus doesn’t have a date yet either. It doesn't make any sense—everyone practically throws themselves at him every chance they get. How is he having trouble finding a dance partner? To think he had the nerve to comment on your dire lack of a date when he clearly isn’t any better off…

“Still no date, Hufflepuff? Huh. That’s unexpected.” He said it sarcastically (as usual), which ticked you off.

“I could say the same about you, prick. Relieved to know your fanclub has finally come to its senses.”

He sneered at you then, but was there something else he wanted to say to you at the time? Now that you’re thinking about it, he did linger a little more than usual that day…

Whatever. Who cares what Sylus had to say? Besides, there’s still a chance Caleb might ask you to the ball. Patience, patience…

Speak of the angel.

Caleb walks up to you, drenched in sweat after what you can only assume was an intense Quidditch practice. “Sorry I’m late. I have something to ask you.”

Your heart leaps. You dreamed of this moment. Literally. “What is it?”

“Will you be my date to the ball? I know this is short notice, but I think we’ll have a great time together.” A shy smile. Earnest, sincere eyes. How could anyone possibly decline such an invitation?

“I think we will!”

…

Snowflakes glisten like crystals midair, winking at you playfully as you make your way down the grand staircase. They’ve really outdone themselves with the festive decorations—pearly white snow covers the ground, and powdered Christmas trees stand around every corner.

And of course, you’re dressed for the occasion. You picked out a gorgeous off-shoulder gown just yesterday, the dark red fabric cascading around you in majestic waves bound to draw plenty of second glances. Your bosom is tightly secured by an off-shoulder lace corset, and your pointed heels are just an inch too high.

You feel beautiful.

Caleb waits at the foot of the staircase, his mouth slightly agape in awe of your appearance. Standing further behind him, in the shadows, is none other than your nemesis, You-Know-Who. His gaze rakes over you as you glide down the stone steps, dark and dreadful.

You take Caleb’s outstretched hand, and he smirks at the scene before him.

Take that, Sylus. I’m here with a Triwizard champion. Who are you with? Oh, no one? What a shame…

Your inflated thoughts are brutally popped by the sight of a stunning young woman in pastel blue looping her arm through his. It doesn’t take you long to identify her—you’ve been watching her all year, in the crowd. The Beauxbatons champion. The Beauxbatons champion is Sylus’ date.

It’s like the wind has been knocked out of your lungs. “Are you…alright?” Caleb sounds concerned.

"I’m fine. Just a little hard to breathe in this corset," you reply casually, with a hint of humor.

The rest of the night involves a lot of dancing, during which you cast hesitant glances in Sylus’ direction. Really?! The Beauxbatons champion?! She’s ethereal! And so out of his league! They look like the perfect couple, gracefully waltzing to the music while getting lost in each other’s eyes…

It sickens you.

The crowd dies down towards the end of the night, most students trading their cheering and elaborate waltzes for slow dancing and mocktails. Caleb went to the washroom and hasn’t returned since. So here you are, sipping your glass in silence with no one to socialize with.

You turn your head at the sound of footsteps and are greeted by a crisp, very expensive-looking set of robes. He’s dressed head to toe in jet black, silver embroidery decorating his cuffs and collar with meticulous detail. Devastatingly handsome, deathly irritating. You roll your eyes.

“Lost your date?” Though his voice drips with honey, for the first time ever, he doesn’t look so disgustingly pleased with himself.

You decide to humor him. “Lost yours?”

“It seems my dance partner has fled to the toilet with yours.” He says it with disdain, as if the word “toilet” insults his dignity.

An unexpected anger rises to the surface then—and it has nothing to do with Caleb. You realize you couldn’t care less if he were making out with another girl or stealing a Mandrake from the Herbology greenhouses.

You’re furious at Sylus for trying to make you feel less than. What exactly did he hope to achieve by feeding you this information? Did he get some kind of sick kick out of your reaction?

No, that’s not it… You’re missing something. There’s a gaping hole in your emotions, one you can’t explain. It’s like he’s complicating things. Muddying them. The words fly out of your mouth in a failed attempt to untangle your mess of feelings.

“Stop. Whatever you’re doing, it isn’t working on me.”

He crinkles his brows, taken aback. “What are you talking about?” There’s no more sarcasm. No more mockery.

“This. You’re trying to-to trick me or deceive me or—play with my—” You pause, frustrated by your inability to put your feelings into words. “It’s not going to work. You can’t use this against me.”

A shadow passes over Sylus’ face, and—for a split second—he looks like one of those Death Eaters you learned about last year. He curls his lip into a sneer. “All you had to do was ask.”

You’re stunned into silence. What on earth does that mean? “Huh?”

He seems even more offended by your ignorance. “Don’t pretend. I waited until yesterday to ask her, and she said yes. It’s not my fault.”

Understanding clicks, and it does nothing to tame your indignation. You don’t want to address it—not even in your head. You’d rather shove it down deep and ignore it for all eternity. A whole minute passes before you decide that this is too much to deal with tonight.

“You’re an asshole. I never want to speak to you again.”

You turn around and make a run for the exit, nearly tripping over the elaborate skirt of your dress in the process. Suddenly, it’s as if your corset is squeezing the life out of your lungs.

Your heart feels almost as heavy as his gaze on your back, weighing you down with every desperate step you take. Hot tears sting the corners of your eyes, but you’re determined not to let them fall.

Everything is a mess right now. Your night has been effectively ruined, and you still can’t quite figure out why your body feels like a ticking time bomb and your pride has shattered into a million pieces.

But just like how no one’s discovered a cure for werewolfism, it isn’t that simple.

Soon after, your fifth year came to an end. You aced your O.W.L.s and celebrated Caleb Xia’s victory—toward whom you held no ill will, truly. It turned out he’d been in love with the Beauxbatons champion all along and was only trying to make her jealous at the ball. Maybe you should’ve felt vexed at being blindsided, but you mostly felt… indifferent. All power to him.

You figured this was the innocent kind of infatuation they talked about—the kind you quickly forgot once bigger things came along.

As for Sylus… you avoided him for the rest of the year, neither of you making any attempt to reach out after that night. Part of you felt a little embarrassed by your harshness, but another part insisted he deserved it. How dare he complain about not being asked, when he could’ve asked you himself?

Regardless, none of that mattered anymore—your sixth year was about to begin…

…

“Alright, class. Today, you’ll be learning about Amortentia. Can anyone tell me what Amortentia is?”

Someone answers, “It’s the most powerful love potion in the world, Professor. A single drop can stir a powerful obsession with the maker, and it’s said to smell like the things a person desires most.”

You stare at the swirling potion on the professor’s desk, its enchanting white sheen inviting. The first thought that occurs to you is how dangerous this potion could be in the wrong hands. Love is the strongest force in the world—and the evil this concoction could unleash is unspeakable.

“As part of today’s lesson, you’ll each be making a vial of Amortentia. However, I must caution you all that the use of any amount of this potion on other students is strictly prohibited. Take this as a learning experience and a learning experience alone.”

After setting up your cauldron and gathering the required ingredients, it’s time to get to work. You hear Rafayel whisper something to Sylus somewhere behind you and try your best to drown out their conversation.

You and Sylus haven’t exactly been on speaking terms lately. Ever since the ball, it’s as if he’s been avoiding you just as much as you’ve been avoiding him. I don’t care. It’s not like I want him anywhere near me anyway.

"The potion bubbles and glows in the cauldron before you, and it’s as if you can feel its magic brewing beneath your fingertips. All at once, you’re hit with a wave of potent aromas and heady emotion.

Freshly-picked flowers. The pages of old books. Warm loaves of bread…

A final scent hits you then, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s strong. Pleasant. Familiar—too familiar.

You spin around to see Sylus at the back of the classroom, silently cracking up at something Rafayel said. They both look positively unhinged.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

…

The Potions professor asked you to speak with him after class, so you ended up being the last student to transfer your potion into a vial. By then, the transparent vials had run out, and an opaque one had to be fished out of the storage room for you. A small matter.

Now, you’re running to the edge of the forest for your next class: Care of Magical Creatures. You’ve always rather enjoyed this class; animals have always been drawn to you—and you to them.

“This is a hippogriff.” The professor gestures toward a feathered, winged beast, though it isn’t quite a bird. It caws softly at its introduction. “You were supposed to meet this fellow in your third year. However, with the old professor going missing and turning up dead and all—” You wince at the memory of Professor Beans’ death.

As she goes on about the origins of the hippogriff, you reach into your bag for a sip of water—and realize your tiny vial of Amortentia has vanished. No. No no no—

A movement in the corner of your eye catches your attention. It’s Sylus, in his haphazard Slytherin robes, taking a sip from your opaque potion vial. The very same one—

Oh no.

“Now, are there any volunteers?”

You startle at the question, every inch of you tensing in panic. Far too soon. Everything is happening all at once—

“No volunteers? Alright then. Miss <y/n>, Sylus, come up to the front.”

Oh no.

Slowly, you inch toward the hippogriff, unsure whether to be more wary of it or the fidgeting boy beside you. You glance at him suspiciously, anticipating any…strange behavior. His expression is unreadable, but you get the distinct feeling he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“With my help, you’re both going to mount him. You should be back in no time.”

You still. “What?”

No time is wasted. She guides you to the creature’s side and helps you onto its back. Its feathers bristle slightly at the added weight, but it generally responds warmly to your presence. The same can’t be said for Sylus. It resists his touch, crying out once or twice as if distrustful of him. Sylus flinches in kind. Is he… scared?

It’s an amusing thought—but his chest brushing against your back abruptly pulls your thoughts back to his ingestion of your love potion, and once again, your pulse picks up speed. You have no idea what to think, what to feel— Does he hate you? Is he thinking unsavory thoughts at this very moment? Will the effects of the potion last forever—

“Hold tight, Hufflepuff,” he whispers in your ear—and the world disappears beneath you.

Cool wind breezes through your hair as you soar over the forest grounds, large wings flapping on either side of you and a grounding warmth around your waist.

It’s magical. You wish you could bottle this moment and save it for your darkest days.

You’ve never seen sights quite like this: the sprawling castle with its many towers, winding pathways leading to Hogsmeade, huts and fires set up for travelers far below. Breathtaking.

“Wait, why isn’t he going back down?!” you shout over the roaring in your ears. It’s been about ten minutes, and the hippogriff shows no sign of returning to class.

“I don’t know! Look, he’s headed for the mountain pass—” Sylus yells back, pointing towards the giant row of mountains south of Hogwarts.

He lands smoothly, a gust of wind kicking up the loose dirt at the cliff’s edge. You slide off his back with a “thud”, and he nuzzles his beak against your hand. Sylus is practically thrown off and poked at disdainfully, to which he scoffs, glaring daggers at the winged beast.

It makes you laugh, and he turns to look at you—really look at you—for the first time in months.

“This isn’t quite how I’d expected to spend my evening, but here we are.”

“It’s beautiful,” you sigh, gazing out at the shimmering lake below. The sky is awash in hues of orange, pink, and gold, bathing you both in an almost ethereal light. Sunset.

His eyes are on you as he says, “It’s…alright.”

Together, you move to sit at the cliff’s edge, your feet dangling over. The silence is comfortable, peaceful. He isn’t acting strange, so the Amortentia must not have affected him—thank god.

You feel the sudden urge to say something.

“Why haven’t you—” “I’ve been wanting to—” you both start at the same time. Ugh. So much for “not awkward”.

He recovers first. “Wait.” A faint note of desperation laces his otherwise steady voice. “I have no interest in playing any more of these games.” His steely gaze is locked on yours, intense and sincere.

“What games? You’re the one who’s been avoiding me all year.”

He squints. “I assumed you hated me.”

A ball of guilt lodges itself between your ribs, cold and selfish. To this day, his formal way of speaking still endears him to you. “…I don’t hate you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just stares at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve—a puzzle he’s desperate to unravel, so achingly it might kill him if he can’t. “I wanted to ask you. To the ball.”

It stings. “I figured.”

“He had a habit of getting in the way,” he chuckles wryly, that familiar darkness flickering across his face. “Did you love him?”

You shake your head without pausing to think. “Nope. Never did.” You feel lighter. This genuine conversation with him is…nice. “What about you? You ever like her?”

He shakes his head. “I had my reasons for asking, and she had her reasons for saying yes.” You can’t explain the rush of relief that floods you then.

Minutes pass as you talk about dreams, family, and the past—learning things about each other you never thought to ask. You lose yourself in his company, a fragile, delicate thread pulling you closer, twisting your lips into a smile. You learn about his desire to become an Auror, his complicated relationship with his pure-blooded parents, and his particular fondness for sweet treats. You tell him about your experience in foster homes—both good and bad—and what it was like discovering you were a witch.

The exchange is light, yet a tinge of regret punctuates your mood. You’re halfway through your sixth year. If only you’d gotten to know him sooner…

“What, disappointed you never got to date me, Hufflepuff?” He sees right through you, and the mood shifts. Static electricity crackles in the space between your bodies, and that bittersweet feeling somehow intensifies. You roll your eyes at him, fighting a smile.

No. Your stomach drops, the fuzzy bliss fading from your head. The love potion.

“What’s wrong?”

You’re a horrible person. You have to come clean. “The vial you drank from earlier—it was mine. You drank my love potion and now you’re in love with me but it isn’t real so you have to snap out of it, okay? God, I’m so sorry—”

You would’ve kept rambling if it weren’t for the fit of laughter he suddenly bursts into. He’s clutching his belly, wheezing as tears form in the corners of his eyes.

“What’s…so funny?”

“That wasn’t your love potion. How would I even have gotten my hands on it? Use that brain of yours, silly.”

Okay, now you’re really lost. “Huh? I swear I couldn’t find it…” You dig around in your satchel and gasp when your fingers close around a familiar vial—opaque and very much there. “Oh my god.”

He grins that snarky, boyish grin at you, and your stomach flips.

Your cheeks flush pink as you half-heartedly jab at his arm, the most flustered you’ve ever been in your life. As usual, your first instinct is to lash out at him. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?! I thought I was taking advantage of you! I thought I was being a complete idiot!”

Sylus simply stares at you, a dreamy, enraptured look on his slightly rosy face. He looks positively bewitched. “I like it when you yell at me.”

You stutter, at a loss for words. How…infuriating! You huff at him defiantly, but your heart feels full and warm.

Something still pokes at your conscience. “Wait… We have the exact same vial. If you didn’t drink Amortentia earlier, what did you drink?”

He beams at you impishly. Victoriously.

“Liquid Luck.”

…

You stand by the open doors of the Hogwarts Express on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, bidding your friends goodbye and wishing them a happy summer holiday.

A tall, lean figure appears behind you. “Leaving so soon?”

Your face warms at his voice, and you try your best to hide it—though something tells you you can’t hide from him, not anymore. “My family’s waiting outside. We’re travelling this summer.”

He nods, a hint of disappointment crossing his features. “Will you write back?” Knowing him, he tries to act nonchalant, but you hear the subtle fear in his voice.

“I will,” you say, and you mean it. “I’ve really got to go… Bye.” You smile sweetly at him and wave, and he returns the gesture. See you next semester, Sylus.

You turn to leave for King’s Cross, your sixth year at Hogwarts now behind you.

Summer came and went, a dizzying rush of new beginnings and many, many letters. You kept your word, writing back almost instantly each time a new package arrived in the mail, your fingertips tracing the cursive letters that spelled out your name. His script. His scent.

You felt close to him, even though you were away for most of the holiday. So many times, you wished you could be near him. He told you about his new kitten and his strange difficulty casting a Patronus charm. You replied with a few possible solutions, but he’d struggled to think of many happy memories growing up—Something to work on later, you made a mental note.

Subconsciously, you counted down the days until you could see him again. Of course, there were your N.E.W.T.s to focus on—you placed great importance on pursuing your dream career as a magizoologist—but spending your final year at Hogwarts with Sylus felt like a dream in itself. One you desperately didn’t want to end…

…

“Never thought to visit Hogsmeade at this hour.” Your breath fogs as you take in your surroundings.

The village is quiet—fast asleep. A few windows still flicker with candlelight, but not a soul stirs on the streets. The streetlamps cast a soft, hazy glow, their light barely cutting through the mist, shadows dancing along your profile.

It’s enchanting, strolling with Sylus like this. Just the two of you tonight.

His plush Slytherin scarf sits snug around his neck. “Naturally. Ever the follower of rules,” he teases. You punch him in the arm and he sniggers.

It’s still surreal to you, the fact that you’re going out with Sylus, of all people. Your mind flashes back to the days he used to tug on your robes and laugh at your walk, the pesky little scoundrel who went out of his way to make your life miserable. Somewhere along the way, that boy grew up, and now you spend most of your time exchanging flirtatious glances and wishing he would just hold your hand.

As if reading your mind (again) he slips his hand from his pocket and wraps it around yours. It’s large in comparison, warm. Your skin prickles with nerves—the delicious kind—and an uncontrollable urge to kiss him compels you.

You stop in your tracks, and he does too. A single snowflake lands on his lashes. You reach up with your free hand to brush it away. Rising onto your tiptoes, you lean in, and he doesn’t pull away…

“STUDENTS SNEAKING OUT! THERE’S STUDENTS IN THE VILLAGE!” someone howls, and you’re startled away from him.

A devastating smile curls his mouth, and for a second, your need to kiss him senseless only multiplies. He tightens his grip around your hand. “Run?”

You nod and race off into the night with him, laughter bubbling up your throat.

…

For eight whole months, you and Sylus were inseparable. You studied together, went to parties together, snuck into the forest together… You even supported him at his Quidditch games, biting your lip as your eyes searched for the white-haired Beater in the opponent’s robes.

For eight whole months, you were completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy.

But good things, as you’d soon come to learn, were never meant to last forever.

…

Your N.E.W.T.s went well, and now all that remains is to make a strong impression on the Ministry officials visiting the school this week. If you're lucky, you'll be earmarked as a potential hire in the Beast Division—and finally, you'll have reason to celebrate a successful final year.

It’s a grand affair, with students and Ministry employees swarming the place. Pleasantries are exchanged, hands shaken, introductions made, and though your capacity for socializing is wearing thin, the noble art of “networking” must be seen through.

The head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a stern-looking elderly woman, approaches you, having heard of your active involvement in the conservation of magical beasts. Oh my god, I can’t believe this is actually happening— A wave of anxious nausea threatens to seize you, but then you glance across the room. Sylus catches your eye and winks. Reassuring. Confident in your abilities.

You take a deep breath and introduce yourself. After that, everything flows naturally. You talk about your passions, your journey, and what led you to fall in love with magizoology. She listens—captivated—and your confidence builds with each word. By the end of it, you're left with a glowing sense of pride. I deserve this.

"I have to say, Miss <y/n>, I’m impressed by your knowledge of the subject and your conviction to expand the realm of magical research. It’s rare for someone your age to show such unwavering compassion, and I must applaud that to the highest degree.” Her voice is frail, yet her gaze is ironclad. “I’d like to offer you a rare opportunity: an internship at the Beast Division, where you’ll be working directly under me.”

The smile that stretches across your face is so wide it hurts. It’s as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, the sun’s rays warm against your back. Years of determination have led up to this. I can’t wait to tell him.

After profusely thanking the lady for her generous offer, you reconvene with Sylus outside the hall. From the way you’re beaming like a psychopath, it’s not hard to tell things went well.

He smirks at your squealing, pride glinting in the crimson pools of his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you you had it in the bag?”

Bursting with untapped glee, you wrap your arms around his middle and pull him into a suffocatingly tight embrace. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He places a hand on your head as he returns your squeeze, his breaths coming out short and uneven.

Oops. You almost forgot to ask how it went for him. “And…you?”

He hesitates for a second, a shadow of doubt passing over his face. “…It’s hardly anything to celebrate. Don’t worry about me. I want to hear everything about your interview with the beast lady.” A small smile touches his lips, but it’s false—you can tell right away.

“Hey! You’re evading my question. How did it go? You know you can tell me.”

Sylus shrugs, as if what he’s about to say holds little importance, though it couldn’t be further from the truth. “I’ve been offered a spot as a Junior Auror. It’s no big deal.”

Your mouth falls open. “Sylus, this is amazing. It takes years to become an Auror, and they’ve just handed it to you—! They must know how brilliant you are at Defence Against the Dark Arts. You have to accept it immediately—”

“MACUSA. Junior Auror at MACUSA,” he interrupts, staring at the ground.

MACUSA? America? The realization dawns, and you nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Oh.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “It’s no matter. I don’t plan on leaving, so it doesn’t concern me.”

“Why not? Sylus, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m perfectly capable of working my way up here. The British Ministry needs Aurors. I’ll do just fine taking the regular route.”

The unspoken truth hangs in the air, but you understand it immediately. He doesn’t want to leave you. He’s willing to pass up a lightning-strike chance just to stay by your side.

No. You won’t allow it.

…

Your last week of school was the worst week of your life.

You tried to act distant, as if you had no interest in spending time with him, when in truth, all you really wanted was to nuzzle up next to him and tell him how sorry you were. Sorry you had to put up this act for his own good. Sorry for disrespecting his decisions.

Sorry for loving him so much that you couldn’t bear to watch him sacrifice his dreams for you.

You hadn’t told him you loved him—not yet. And now you never will.

It tears you apart each time you brush him off, leaving him looking wounded and confused. You feel like a villain, when all you’re trying to do is give him the one thing you possibly can.

So here you are, brisk walking in the rain towards the Hogwarts Express. The train doors should be closing any minute now.

A MACUSA carriage had been sent to the castle to escort students of interest to New York. You need him to get on that carriage.

You need him away from the train.

“Wait—” he calls from behind you. He’s caught up to you. Shit. The harsh pitter-patter of raindrops fills your ears, cold rainwater drenching you, soaking you to the bone. “Tell me what’s going on.”

The quaver in his voice is like a stab to your gut. You spin around so violently he flinches.

Everyone else has boarded—you’re the only students left. Bracing yourself, you bite out the most painful words you’ve ever had to say. “Stop bothering me! Haven’t you taken the hint?!”

The hurt in his eyes is palpable. Somewhere, deep inside, he refuses to believe you’d toss him aside like this. There has to be another reason—something he hasn’t accounted for, a past grievance he never addressed— “I’m sorry for tormenting you when we were children,” he says quietly.

He’s desperate, lost.

“This has nothing to do with that!” you spit, bitterness coating your tongue. “I. Don’t. Want. To be with you. You’re holding me back.”

A flash of unresolved rage fills him then, bursting to the surface like his head’s been held underwater. “Is that all this was, then? Just—some kind of distraction?”

You nod, hoping it stings.

And, oh god, it stings. It hurts. It hurts so much you want to crumple up and disappear. Sylus, the boy who’s always waited for you, always stayed behind and silently looked after you while you conquered your battles and chased after your dreams. Sylus, who never asked for anything in return.

Your Sylus. Devastated beyond repair because of you.

You glance up at him, and his anger is gone. Just like that. Like he can no longer bear to be mad at you.

Like you’re on borrowed time, and all he can do now is beg.

“Please don’t do this…” he whispers, taking half a step closer. “I love you.”

Your entire world crumbles. Tears well in your eyes, and you tilt your head up to keep them from falling; because if they do, you don’t think they’ll ever stop. You imagine running to him, closing the distance, kissing him then and there—his hands on your waist, yours in his hair—as if you were the only two people on earth.

Telling him you love him too.

But some dreams just aren’t meant to come true.

So you turn your back to him. “I don’t love you.”

It’s such a blatant lie you fear he might see right through it.

But you don’t give him the chance. You step onto the train just as the doors hiss shut, eyes fixed on your feet. If you looked back... you might not survive it.

I’m sorry, Sylus. I’m so, so sorry…

You watch, blurry-eyed, as the castle shrinks in the window, bidding your time at Hogwarts—and a very special boy—farewell.

Ten years later…

…

Applications: check. Research paper: check. Sampling session with Tabitha… Need to reschedule that one.

You tap your quill against the table as you try to sort out your schedule, possibly your most daunting task as Head of the Beast Division. It’s been rather busy at the Ministry lately, with reports of magical creatures running wild and escaping into the Muggle world.

Not to mention that creepy coworker of yours who won’t take no for an answer.

Everything’s piling up, and you’re in desperate need of someone to share it all with.

It’s moments like these when your mind flits back to your school years. How you long to return to Hogwarts one day—perhaps as a professor, or maybe even as a tourist. There are so many places you’d love to revisit: Hogsmeade village, the Great Hall, the Hufflepuff common room... Every nook and cranny of that place brims with memories you’ll hold dear forever.

Then, of course, there’s your first love—the boy with the startling snowy hair and striking scarlet eyes.

Your heart pangs, a small piece of you breaking all over again. You wonder how he’s doing now. Is he still in New York? Does he have a partner? Kids?

Great, now your mood’s soured all over again.

Though love is like this—no matter how selfish it makes you feel, no matter how scorned, you wish nothing but the best for them. From the bottom of your barely beating heart.

Your coworker bursts through the door, a glass of champagne in one hand and a half-eaten cauldron cake in the other. "Sorry to interrupt— There’s a party downstairs to welcome the newest members of the Ministry. Care to join us, or…?”

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a second.”

…

Your heels click sharply against the polished floors as you weave through the crowd, eyeing the dessert trays while trying not to knock anyone over.

The headquarters of the Ministry is a sprawling place, all moody colors and serious faces. Maybe you should go on that expedition in Brazil after all.

A hand touches your elbow, and you turn to see your coworker smiling almost psychotically at you. “Miss <y/n>, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Again with the sucking up. You’re fed up with it. How important could this person possibly be that they needed to be greeted with a shiny smile crafted just for them? How entitled—

Tall, built, handsome. A sharp glint in his ruby eyes, matching the equally sharp angles of his features.

A head of pale white hair that seems to glisten in the sunlight.

You freeze, not sure what to think, what to say—a million questions swarming your head— How many years has it been? Why is he here? Does he even remember me?

The past decade of hurt and regret and longing crashes into you, all at once. I can’t breathe.

“Hi,” you blurt out, self-conscious and fidgety.

He stares at you with those bright, intense eyes, a familiar feeling you can’t quite pinpoint written all over his face. “Hey.”

The crowd fades to dust, and suddenly, it’s like you’re standing face to face on the platform all over again. “How are you?”

“Good. You?” He’s still the same boy you remember from your childhood. Yet…he’s changed. He’s grown, matured—just as you have.

“I have so much to say to you,” you breathe, thick, raw emotion rising in your throat, choking you. “So much to explain.”

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “You don’t have to. I’m not an idiot, however much you think me one. And by the way, I finally managed to conjure a Patronus, in case you were wondering.”

A laugh escapes your lips despite yourself, and for the first time in a decade, you let your tears slip.

He’s here. He’s the same, but different. He’s working for the Ministry.

He’s here.

And though you’re both young, and stupid, and very well may always be, there’s one thing you know for certain:

No more running away. No more leaving.

“I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Hufflepuff.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[lily-claw]

First of all, im sorry if you took it as something rude because just because i mainly ship bkdk doesnt mean i dont like izuocha and i believe izuocha deserved better than this.

You actually said it on your own, Ochako had/has feelings for him and she deserves to be someone she likes. Yes, i agree but not in a rushed way, trying to make them look better in a chapter looked bad and she deserved better than that.

We can comment on an art as long as we do not act rude so i find it funny🤡 I think the way you say "THIS MEANS NOTHING" is way much more rude and its not only to other shippers but also for the artist bc wdym by"this means nothing?"

I think its like bnha's last chapters in a nutshell thingy but in one art lmao

Did you see Ochako's page in final fan book? We didn't see anything new about her program. The way horikoshi made it look lile her program isnt even close to bakugo and todoroki's remedial class is even worse. The only thing we saw was her trying to help a child to use his beaming(?) quirk to shot Lemillion' s butt💀💀 I've never said "i want her to be a lesbian for her dead lover so she can be happy" just how are you reading my comments? 😭😭

Also how does she not daydreaming about toga? We saw her seeing toga in her dreams, we saw her talking about toga with tsuyu, we saw her seeing toga giving a push to her when she was with izuku. Do you really mean that those were nothing or that was real? 🤔

And you know what, im gonna add toga deserved better tag there too since hori actually thought about letting her being alive. She deserved better too. She just died bc it was a way for her to take punishment. I dont understand how this would make anything better.

And also where do you know that bakugo never wanted to be with him? Or Izuku also has feelings for Ochako? Did horikoshi told you? Bc i remember him saying "imagine it" (sorry izuocha shippers deserved vetter too, he lowkey roasted you💀

Bakugo literally said "for the rest of our lives" thingy, and just after deku starting to be back in top numbers he got in top 5🤡🤡 even if he doesnt love him like you think, i dont think that he hates him bud🫠

I think Bakugo deserved better bc he looked so depressed in chapter 431. He was number 4 but just because his loud mouth, he became number 15. Then how the heck Endeavor stayed as number 2?? What actually changed in the system? Was he actually acting out of his place so he become number 15?? (and the way he become number 5 was also a lil bit weird lol did he just shut his mouth so he'd be more close to deku?? It doesn't feel good enough.)

Also weve never seen them having therapy ofc they deserved better than this ayo they all need therapy before anything 😭😭 according to psychology, the grieving process is an average of one year under normal circumstances so-🥴🥴

I really wanna know why you needed to say to me stop being delusional bc i genuinely thought that picture is funny

Also anyone can ship whatever they want as long as it doesnt harm anyone. We can joke about the ship situation as long as we dont actually try to hurt each other in any way. It really is not that much of a serious thing, you know? 🫠🫠

I dont think that i was trying to belittle izuocha, if you understood it that way im sorry that i hurt your feelings but the way you write this post doesnt look kind either. I hope you can write something like this in a more kind way if you are gonna write again because you dont look like you have any respect to me either.

I will also take out izuocha tag out from there if any izuocha shippers can give me an actual and kind comment about how it disrespects the ship.

The fact that noguchi cencored this bc he thought its sensitive... Guys, I think he is trying to cope while being known as Horikoshi's assistant.

It looks like that meme where deku asks "does your gf has to be here?" and uraraka responds as "does yours?" lmao I can't take this seriously...

[blackbat05]

Opposites Attract

Congressman Bucky x Library Staff Reader

Plot: You were never really one for politics, but when Congressman James "Bucky" Barnes and an Avenger comes to grace the library for work, he may just prove you wrong...

Genre: PG-13

A/N: Super self-indulgent (yet again). Watched Thunderbolts over the weekend and despite being very partial to the MCU, this movie seriously impressed me! I love my rag-tag team~ Please excuse the subpar writing as I feel like I'm still in a funk.

He absolutely regrets this.

Yeah he should have never agreed to this.

“Congressman Barnes?”

The secertary snaps him out of his anxiety hazed stupor. “Sorry Linda, you were saying?”

“As I was saying, your appearance at the public library has been shifted up to 2pm. There’s a kid’s program and they’re hoping you’ll be able to grace them with your presence.” Linda informs.

“Thank you.” Bucky dismisses the secretary, immediately taking out his darned notes that Gary insisted he had to read.

“New York Public Library recently had their children’s library go under redevelopment…”

***

“Y/N!” Darcy rushes over. The young girl drags a chair to sit beside you as you’re pouring over the story time you planned for the kids coming in for the reading session at 2pm.

“Someone’s awfully cheery after lunch.”

“Congressman James Barnes is coming! To our library!” She hisses with excitement. “Gosh he’s so cute, I hope he gets to interact with the kids because that would just make me explode!”

“Okayyy, someone needs to calm down on the caffeine.” You swivel your chair to face her. “First of all, he’s doing his duty Darcy, second of all aren’t you being too vocal with your fantasies?”

“A girl can dream.” Darcy singsongs. “Good luck!”

You sigh at her enthusiasm that was bordering on naivety. The congressman was probably going to be the same as the rest, they always are. They’ll come and show their faces for photos and leave without truly understanding what they had to be here for.

Though a part of you can’t help but to agree with Darcy. Those good looks are wasted in politics.

The clock read 1.15pm. You should start getting ready for the session.

***

“You seem very engrossed in that packet, sir.”

“I find it tough how we can fund billions for weapons and nuclear warfare but it takes almost six years to refurbish the children’s section of the New York Library.”

“I can’t say anything else apart from my need to agree with you, sir.” Linda crisply responds.

Bucky stays silent, thinking about his own memories as a child in the library. A library was meant to be a safe space, away from the ruckus of life.

The car rolls to a stop and Bucky gets out with two guards trailing behind him.

“What am I? An invalid? I don’t need bodyguards, Linda. This is a Children’s Library. I don’t need them to have more things to be scared of.”

“Apologies sir. I’ll speak with the Director and make other necessary arrangements after the event.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

The trio departs from Bucky who decides to take the chance to explore the library that was as every bit as he remembered it.

He takes a random book and finds a spot that is hidden away from the public eye to do some people watching at the Children’s Library.

Mothers take this chance for a reprieve and catch up with their friends while the little ones try to flip big picture books with much effort. The older children roam around the series section, discussing in excited hushed voices the latest book that they had each read. Bucky’s heart oddly feels satisfied when he sees a little boy nose deep into a Geronimo Stilton book. Ah, a timeless classic for kids.

“Congressman Barnes?”

Bucky turns around, slightly apologetic that he had been people watching for too long.

“I’m the children’s librarian- well, technically support staff. I’m working towards becoming a librarian but of course you didn’t need to know that.” You inwardly cursed at yourself. He’s definitely going to think you’re bonkers.

Then, he chuckled.

Actually chuckled.

“I’ll be sitting in your session later? I promise not to stare as much.”

Before you can get a good word in, the charming congressman strolls away, leaving you in a mess.

***

"Good afternoon children!" You put on your best enthusiastic voice, as you greet the crowd.

"Good afternoon Ms Y/N!"

Even after doing this for too many times to count, being in front of children who were waiting to be impressed still gave you the jitters. Nevertheless, you were proud to say that you had build rapport with them steadily over the past six months.

"So, we've been reading books about values and I thought we could continue our discussion with a short but humorous story that I know will promise a good laugh." You show the book, eliciting a couple of giggles from the children.

“Today’s story is by Jon Klassen and it’s titled - I want my hat back…”

***

By the end of the story, the children were throughly amused at the simple but larger than life visuals that told a clear message. You were also glad that all that practice of different animal voices came in handy.

“Thank you for listening so well! For the last part of our session as we won’t be seeing each other for two weeks, we can do something fun! We’re going to create our very own paper hats!” You continued. “That’s not all, we’ll be doing it with a very special guest so I want all of you to help him along okay?”

Once you introduced Bucky, you offered him to roam around the tables where the children were already planning how to design the best hat.

As you helped a boy add stickers to his hat, your attention is diverted to a mini commotion at the table ahead.

“What’s all the buzz about?” You moved closer, almost bursting into unruly laughter yourself when you see the Congressman sitting in tiny plastic chair wearing a red cone hat similar to the character while the kids fluttered around to add sparkles and glitters, blissfully unaware of your presence.

Not Bucky though as his eyes widen at the sight of you. You give a slight cough to get the attention of the children.

“Alright now, let’s not crowd around Mr Barnes.” You ushered the children away, giving a couple of soft apologies on their behalf.

“Don’t be. I enjoyed it.” He appeared to have snapped out of his momentary embarrassment of being covered in glitter, back to his charming self that you had the privilege of experiencing firsthand.

The rest of the session went smoothly (and glitter free). Bucky watches you bid goodbye to each kid in a unique and special way, from fist bumps to hugs and sometimes just a simple wave of the hand to the quieter kids. The children's section is quiet once more and he is amazed how you flutter around the tables, cleaning up effortlessly.

"Can I help?" He finds himself speaking up.

"Oh, that's alright. Wouldn't want to get your suit all messed up." You respond airily, trying to ignore the close proximity with Bucky.

"I insist." He says firmly and starts helping you to gather the scissors. You can't help but to notice how there's a butterfly sticker on his metal hand.

"A little girl - Lucy, she put this on me." He explains fondly. "Can't bear to take it off, at least not today."

Lucy. She never failed to turn up for every library session. Although she wasn't the loudest in the room, she participated with a quiet determination. Which was why you found this revelation particularly surprising.

"That's amazing. She takes a while to warm up to strangers. Well, not that you aren't a complete stranger. You're an Avenger- oh I'm doing it again aren't I?"

"That's okay." Bucky reassures you calmly. "I like it."

His straightforwardness throws you off, leaving you flustered but oddly pleased.

"Hey-"

"No, you go first."

"Do you want to get a drink?" Bucky asks. Before you could respond, loud voices could be heard from the adult's section, slowly becoming much louder.

"Oh no..."

"There you are!" Bucky spots Alexi from a mile away with that strikingly bright red suit. The rest of the team hushes him collectively, with Yelena attempting to make herself as small as possible.

"We've been trying to call you! Then your assistant- and she said you were in this place of knowledge! Oh, and who is this lady?" Alexi stares at you, intrigued. Bucky steps in front, feeling protective.

"Alright, can we focus, please?" Bucky shoots you an apologetic look that you clearly understood.

You'll have to reschedule.

***

“So! Are you not going to tell us who she is?” John is the first to broach the topic. Bucky gives him one of his famous death glares. However, this only encourages him and the rest of the team more.

"She seems lovely." Yelena teases, "Though I'm not sure why she would be attracted to a grump like you."

"Opposites attract." Ava adds helpfully (or unhelpfully in Bucky's opinion).

The jet flies across the ocean, making its way back home. Bucky taps his foot impatiently. Any longer with this group and having to endure their teasing might just make him commit daylight murder.

Bucky feels a buzz in his pocket and he fishes out his phone to read the message.

"Oooooh! Someone's texted back!" The team is in sync with their onslaught on their leader.

"Someone just kill me now." He mumbles under his breath.

*** You tug on your cardigan, waiting for Bucky on the steps of the library.

"Doll!" You hear a familiar voice that made your heart skip a beat. Though you must say, you were a little shocked to find out that he wasn't alone.

"Hello! Miss Librarian!" Alexi booms.

"Oh my god Dad she has a name." Yelena groans.

"Yes but she is proud of her job no?"

"Sorry about these idiots. Hi, John Walker." The man extends his hand for a handshake before being brushed aside by Bucky.

"Hi," you decide to make yourself known. "Bucky's told me about all of you."

"Whatever he's told you, don't believe all of it. The man's too grumpy for his own good." Yelena pipes up as Ava nods.

"Ok! And it is time for you to all go. The jet does not need a parking ticket." Bucky interjects pushing his teammates away from you. "Bob's waiting!"

With a couple more goodbyes, the jet zooms away, leaving the two of you still standing on the steps of the library.

"Not everyday my date is late because he's keeping the world safe from bad guys and outer space threats." You joke.

Bucky doesn't say a word and you're suddenly afraid that you may have fried his internal circuits.

"Sorry, I wasn't mad-"

"I'm your date?" He says with a grin and your words slowly sink in.

"Oh, well... I thought... um..." You scramble for words much to Bucky's amusement and he takes a step closer towards you.

"Would it be weird to say right now that I was thinking exactly the same thing?"

The both of you laugh and your stomach takes this moment to grumble loudly.

"Someone's hungry. I know a good Japanese Restaurant."

"I'm always down for good food."

He slots his fingers in between yours, holding on to your hand firmly.

"Great, then Sushi awaits."

"You are a god send."

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 8) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

previous chapter | next chapter

Morning light spilled through the curtains, catching dust motes dancing in the golden beam. You stirred, registering the warmth of Lewis's arm draped around your waist, the unfamiliar comfort of waking up completely entangled with someone else. Three days since that first kiss, and your body still tingled at the memory of how thoroughly Lewis Hamilton approached everything he decided was worth his attention.

You shifted slightly, surprised at how quickly things had changed between you. The movement made Lewis pull you closer against his chest.

"Stop thinking so loudly," Lewis murmured against your hair, his sleep-roughened voice sending warmth through you. "Too early for whatever's going on in your head."

You laughed softly, surprised at how easily he read you now. "I didn't know thinking had a volume."

"Yours does." His hand slid along your arm in a gentle caress. "It's practically deafening."

The casual touch caught you off-guard—this playful version of Lewis so different from the controlled crime lord whose reputation had preceded your arranged marriage. In three days, he'd become increasingly affectionate, his restraint giving way to a tenderness that manifested in constant touches and soft kisses that left you wanting more.

"Just... processing," you admitted, finding it strange how easily honesty came now.

Lewis's eyes opened, focusing on your face with an intensity that still made your breath catch. "Regrets?" he asked directly.

"No," you replied immediately, surprising yourself with your certainty. "Just adjusting to the new normal."

His expression softened, though his eyes remained watchful. "You mean how I can't seem to stop myself from kissing you, or how your uncle keeps giving me those looks over breakfast?"

Heat rushed to your cheeks, remembering Paolo's barely concealed amusement. Yesterday, your uncle had taken one look at you—hair still messy from a make-out session in the library—and said something in Italian that made Carmen snort coffee through her nose while Lewis pretended not to understand.

"God, he's so embarrassing," you groaned, burying your face against Lewis's chest. "Like some teenage boy making jokes."

Lewis's laugh vibrated through you, the sound still rare enough to feel like a victory. "To be fair, he did find us in the library yesterday."

"We were just kissing!" you protested, though the memory of Lewis standing too close, his hand on your waist and his voice dropping to that tone that never failed to make your stomach flip, undermined your point.

"Sure we were," Lewis agreed, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. "Just like we're just talking now."

The shift happened quickly—from sleepy conversation to charged awareness. Lewis's eyes darkened as his fingers traced your cheekbone, each touch expertly calculated to get a response.

"We have the security briefing in thirty minutes," you reminded him, though your body was already leaning into his touch.

"Plenty of time," Lewis replied, his eyes dropping to your lips.

Something sparked inside you—that competitive instinct now channeled into something far more pleasurable than business negotiations.

"For what?" you asked, your voice teasing though your heart was already racing.

Lewis's response was to lean forward, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened. His hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved against yours with growing intensity. You melted into him, your fingers sliding into his braids, pulling him closer.

There was something about the way Lewis kissed you—confident but never pushy, passionate but still somehow restrained, like he was holding part of himself back even as he pressed you closer. It drove you crazy in the best possible way, made you want to break through that last bit of control he maintained.

When you finally pulled apart, both breathing harder, Lewis rested his forehead against yours. "Good morning," he whispered, a rare smile spreading across his face.

"Morning," you replied, feeling almost shy despite the intimacy you'd just shared. This was still new territory—allowing yourself to be vulnerable, to want someone this way.

Lewis brushed his lips against yours once more, softer this time. "We should get up," he said, though he made no move to pull away. "Before Jensen comes looking for us."

"Five more minutes," you murmured, leaning in to steal another kiss. You felt his smile against your lips as he pulled you closer, his hand sliding to your waist.

Five minutes turned into fifteen, both of you lost in each other as morning kisses grew more heated. Lewis's hand stayed respectfully at your waist or tangled in your hair, never pushing for more than you were sharing, but the intensity between you built with each passing moment.

"God, you're addictive," Lewis breathed against your neck, pressing gentle kisses along your throat that made you shiver. "I could do this all day."

The genuine wonder in his voice made your heart flutter. This was Lewis Hamilton—powerful, dangerous, controlled—admitting that kissing you made him lose track of time.

Carmen's voice calling up the stairs that Jensen and Paolo were waiting in the communications room finally broke the spell. You both reluctantly pulled apart, reality intruding once more.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, slightly swollen lips, hair a mess from Lewis's fingers—and felt a moment of disbelief that this was your life now.

"You look thoroughly kissed," Lewis observed with satisfaction, brushing his thumb across your lower lip. "It suits you."

You rolled your eyes, even as warmth bloomed in your chest at the possessive edge in his voice. "And you look smug. Not exactly professional for a security briefing."

Lewis's gaze met yours in the mirror, something unexpectedly serious replacing his playfulness. "I don't give a damn how it looks. Not anymore."

The simple declaration caught you off-guard—Lewis Hamilton, master of control, deliberately discarding the professional distance that had marked your early interactions.

"Well, I do," you countered, turning to straighten his collar with unsteady hands. "My uncle already thinks you've corrupted me. No need to give him more ammunition."

Lewis caught your hands, pressing a kiss to your palms that carried both tenderness and promise. "If he only knew how much I want to," he murmured, eyes darkening with desire that he continued to keep carefully in check.

Five minutes later, you were in the communications room with Lewis, Paolo, Jensen, and Naomi, reviewing yesterday's trap operation. The contrast between your heated bedroom moments and tactical planning should have been jarring, but somehow felt like complementary parts of your new reality.

"Package one was accessed at three this morning," Jensen reported, showing data on the main screen. "Corsaro's channel. Initial patterns looked normal, but there was a second access at 4:17 with data being sent through encrypted servers."

"Where did it go?" Lewis asked, his posture now carrying that coiled readiness that marked his professional focus, though his hand rested lightly at the small of your back.

"Bounced through multiple servers," Naomi said, pulling up a map with routing indicators. "But final locations cluster around southern Florida. Miami, specifically."

"Suarez," Paolo confirmed grimly, the playful uncle from breakfast now replaced by your father's most effective enforcer. "Fucking Corsaro. Thirty years with the family, and he sells us out for what? Gambling debts?"

"Maybe," Lewis replied, studying the data patterns with narrowed eyes. "Or maybe it's misdirection."

You moved closer to the screen, examining the transmission patterns, Lewis's hand shifting to your shoulder in a subtle gesture of support. "What do you mean?"

"The patterns are too clean," Lewis explained, pointing to the timing indicators. "Too methodical. Corsaro's impulsive, erratic in how he communicates. These transmissions are precisely timed, consistently structured. Almost like—"

"Like someone wants us to think it's Corsaro," you finished, the possibility becoming clear as you studied the evidence. "You think he's being set up?"

Lewis glanced at you with brief approval warming his expression, his thumb stroking a small circle against your shoulder. "It's worth considering. Especially with what's at stake."

Paolo rubbed his jaw, reconsidering with new skepticism. "Could be. Mike's always been a hothead, acts on impulse. These transmissions look like someone who plans every move."

"Could Corsaro have cleaned up his act?" Naomi suggested. "If Suarez is paying him enough, maybe he's being more careful."

"Possible but unlikely," Lewis countered. "People don't change their patterns overnight, especially someone with decades of habits."

You nodded in agreement. "And if someone was setting him up as the mole, that would explain the discrepancies Uncle Paolo mentioned earlier—how shipping routes were compromised without Corsaro having access to all that information."

Jensen pulled up additional data, showing transmission patterns from past months. "The historical data supports that. Previous leaks happened when Corsaro was in Atlantic City, physically away from our secure servers."

"So if not Corsaro," Paolo said slowly, "then who?"

A heavy silence fell as you all considered the implications. If Corsaro was being framed, the actual mole wasn't just betraying your father's organization but strategically misdirecting suspicion—a more sophisticated approach than simple betrayal for money.

"What about the other packages?" you asked, returning focus to the immediate investigation. "Did Venucci or De Garza access their versions?"

"Both checked their information, but no transmissions went out from either channel," Naomi reported. "Normal access patterns consistent with routine security reviews."

"Which tells us nothing if Corsaro's being framed," Paolo pointed out. "The real mole could have used Corsaro's channels rather than their own."

Lewis was already moving to another computer, typing quickly. "Our team has been monitoring all digital access points since we identified the leak. Let's see if anyone else accessed Corsaro's systems during or before the transmission."

The screen filled with scrolling data, access logs that meant little to untrained eyes but clearly told Lewis and his team a story. You moved closer, watching over his shoulder as his fingers continued typing commands.

"There," he said suddenly, highlighting a sequence of codes. "Secondary login credentials accessing Corsaro's account at 3:52, fifteen minutes before the outbound transmission. Routed through internal systems to hide where it came from."

"Can you track it?" Paolo asked, leaning forward with renewed attention.

Lewis's expression shifted toward something darker, more predatory, as his fingers danced across the keyboard. "Already working on it. The masking is good, but our systems are better."

The tension in the room ratcheted up as Lewis worked to unravel the digital disguise hiding the betrayer in your father's organization. Minutes stretched in silence, broken only by the sound of keys clicking and occasional muttered curses from Paolo as new data appeared.

Finally, Lewis sat back, his expression grimly satisfied. "Got it. Terminal access in your father's New York office. User credentials belonging to Antonio De Garza, using Corsaro's login to access the data and send it out."

"De Garza?" Paolo looked genuinely shocked. "He's been like a son to your father. Practically raised him in the business."

"Which would give him access to information beyond his official clearance," you noted, the betrayal landing with so much personal impact. Antonio was a close family friend, your driver, a man who covered for you so many times. "And the trust needed to operate without suspicion."

Lewis was already reaching for his phone, forwarding the evidence to the rest of the team. "We need absolute confirmation before taking this to your father. De Garza's position means any accusation will have major consequences if not completely supported."

"My people can start watching him immediately," Paolo offered, reaching for his own phone. "Track his movements, monitor his contacts, build physical evidence to back up the digital trail."

"I should call my father," you said, the obligation clear despite the complications. "He needs to know we've identified the potential source, even if we're still gathering evidence."

Lewis glanced up from his phone, that subtle protective shift in his posture now so familiar. His hand reached for yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We'll set up a secure line in my office," he agreed. "But let's wait until the team confirms the digital evidence. We need absolute certainty before taking this to Salvatore."

The use of your father's first name rather than "your father" registered as another small but significant shift—Lewis positioning himself as equal rather than subordinate in the family hierarchy.

The discussion continued, plans forming for surveillance and evidence gathering, with Jensen coordinating security protocols while Naomi prepared briefing materials. Throughout, you found yourself increasingly aware of Lewis's physical presence—the subtle ways he positioned himself near you when possible, the brief touches when passing documents, the way his eyes sought yours during key decision moments.

Paolo noticed too, his expression shifting between knowing amusement and something more complicated when he thought no one was watching. Your uncle had watched you grow from headstrong child to calculated adult. The changes in you since marrying Lewis—not just the obvious physical affection, but the evolution toward genuine partnership—clearly registered with someone who knew you so well.

"We're getting alerts from the perimeter sensors," Jensen reported suddenly, attention shifting to a secondary monitor showing the estate's security grid. "Eastern approach, just beyond the tree line. Multiple signatures moving in formation."

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly from planning to immediate threat response, Lewis moving toward the security station with predatory focus. "How many?"

"Six signatures, moving in pairs." Jensen zoomed in on the display, highlighting heat signatures moving through the forested area. "Movement pattern looks like a professional team, not local trespassers."

"Local police?" Paolo suggested, though his tone indicated he already knew the answer.

"No," Naomi confirmed, examining the movement patterns. "No registered law enforcement operations in this area, and they're avoiding standard patrol routes. Definitely not official."

Lewis's expression had hardened into something cold and focused, the playful lover from your bedroom completely replaced by the dangerous strategist who had built an empire from nothing. "Interception team alpha, deploy to coordinates 44-27. Beta team, establish containment at secondary boundary markers. No one gets through, no one gets out without direct authorization."

As security personnel moved with practiced efficiency, Paolo was already checking his weapon with the calm competence of someone who had faced similar situations countless times.

"Your people or mine?" he asked Lewis, the question carrying no challenge despite its potential for conflict.

"Combined team," Lewis replied without hesitation. "Your men know Suarez's tactics, mine know the terrain. Working together gives us the best coverage."

"We should move you to the secure room," Naomi suggested, addressing you directly. "Underground access, reinforced walls, separate communication systems independent of the main house."

The recommendation made perfect tactical sense—isolating high-value assets during a potential security breach. Yet something in you rebelled against the passive role.

"No," you said firmly, your decision suddenly clear. "I'm staying in the communications hub. I need to see what's happening."

Lewis glanced at you, something complex passing through his expression—assessment and approval and concern somehow simultaneously present. His hand moved to your shoulder, a gentle squeeze conveying his support. "Security team delta stays here regardless," he said after a brief pause, neither contradicting your decision nor fully endorsing it.

The compromise reflected the partnership that had been developing since Geneva, tactical cooperation alongside growing personal connection. Different from your father's approach, which would have simply ordered your removal without discussion.

"Approaching visual range," Jensen reported. "Tactical feed online in three, two, one..."

The main screen filled with body-camera footage from the interception team, images slightly shaky but clear enough to show dense forest giving way to the eastern edge of the estate, where the stone wall provided a barrier between the property and surrounding wilderness.

"Target acquired," came a voice through the communications system. "Six individuals, military-style movement, carrying what appear to be tactical equipment bags and weapons."

Lewis moved closer to the screen, his expression now carrying that deadly focus you'd glimpsed when he ordered Bianchi's execution—calculated lethality rather than emotional reaction. "Maintain position. Let them commit to approach first."

The tension in the room increased as you all watched the infiltration team move closer to the estate boundaries. These weren't random intruders or local troublemakers—they were a tactical team with a specific objective, moving with precision that suggested extensive preparation.

"Breaching equipment," Jensen observed as one figure removed items from their bag. "They're planning to create access through the eastern wall section, likely targeting the security blind spot we discussed in the briefing."

"The honeypot is working," Lewis noted with grim satisfaction.

"Interception teams in position," came another voice through the system. "Awaiting authorization for engagement."

Lewis's eyes never left the screen as the infiltration team began setting up what appeared to be controlled breaching charges along a section of the ancient stone wall. "Hold position," he instructed, voice carrying that quiet intensity that commanded immediate compliance. "We want prisoners, not just deterrence."

"Breaching charges set," Jensen reported, tension in his voice the only indication of his concern. "Detonation sequence appears to be starting."

"Defensive teams, prepare for breach," Lewis instructed, his posture shifting subtly toward greater readiness. "Contain and capture, lethal force only if absolutely necessary."

The next minutes unfolded with tense precision—the breaching charge detonating with controlled force that created access through the ancient stone wall, the infiltration team moving through with tactical discipline suggesting military or specialized security background, interception teams allowing entry before closing the trap with synchronized efficiency that left no route for escape.

The firefight was brief but intense. Within minutes, the estate's combined security forces had neutralized the threat, three infiltrators dead and the remaining three subdued with minimal injury.

"Perimeter secured," came the report through communications channels. "Three prisoners in custody, being transported to secure holding area as instructed."

Lewis turned to Jensen, his expression now carrying that cold focus that reminded you of exactly who you had married. "Prep the workshop for interrogation. I want them separated, no communication between them, full monitoring of all interactions."

"Yes, sir," Jensen replied before leaving.

"Naomi, coordinate with your team to begin identifying the prisoners. I want to know who they are, who sent them, and what exactly they were after before they've even reached the holding area."

"Already on it," Naomi confirmed, her fingers flying across her keyboard.

Throughout this exchange, you found yourself watching Lewis carefully—the seamless shift from tactical leader to interrogation strategist highlighting the dangerous capability that existed alongside the increasingly gentle man he had become in your private interactions.

"I want to be there," you said suddenly, your decision forming with surprising clarity. "For the interrogation."

Lewis's attention shifted fully to you, that penetrating assessment scanning your expression. "Why?" he asked, neither refusing nor agreeing.

The question made you pause, examining your own motivation with the honesty that had been developing between you. "Because I need to see it," you admitted. "To understand exactly what we're facing, without filters or sanitized reports."

Something shifted in Lewis's expression—recognition rather than surprise. His hand came up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, the tender gesture at odds with the tense situation. "It won't be pleasant," he warned, voice dropping lower. "Interrogation rarely is, especially with professionals who know what's at stake."

"I grew up in Salvatore Ricci's house," you reminded him, meeting his gaze directly. "I've seen interrogations before."

"Not mine," Lewis replied simply.

The implied difference registered immediately—your father's theatrical approaches versus Lewis's likely more calculated methods, different objectives shaping different techniques.

"Even more reason I should be there," you countered. "I need to see all of the operation."

Lewis's eyes narrowed slightly as he registered the challenge. "Alright," he agreed after a moment. "But you stay behind the observation glass. No direct interaction with prisoners, no matter what happens in the interrogation room."

The condition was reasonable. "Okay," you replied, nodding your agreement.

Paolo approached with an uneasy expression on his face. "You sure about this?" he asked, addressing you directly while glancing toward Lewis.

"I'm sure," you confirmed. "I need to see exactly what we're dealing with."

Paolo nodded slowly. "Your father wouldn't like it," he observed.

"My father isn't here," you pointed out. "And I'm not just his daughter anymore."

Lewis's hand found yours briefly, the contact hidden from others but carrying reassurance. "We'll head down in ten minutes," he said. "Jensen will have everything prepared by then."

The "workshop" proved to be a converted wine cellar beneath the main house, its ancient stone walls providing both soundproofing and temperature control. Modern lighting had been installed along stone arches, creating bright light that left no shadows. A one-way glass partition separated the observation area from the central interrogation space, where a single metal chair had been bolted to the floor.

"First prisoner is being brought in now," Jensen informed Lewis as you entered the observation area.

Lewis nodded, surveying the space. "Start with standard disorientation protocols. I want baseline established before direct intervention."

"Package incoming," Naomi announced, indicating the approaching security team with the first prisoner.

The man they brought in didn't match stereotypical expectations—mid-thirties with unremarkable features, build suggesting regular exercise, clothing practical rather than tactical. The kind of person who would blend perfectly into any crowd, attracting no attention.

Jensen's team secured him to the chair, the prisoner offering no resistance beyond initial tension when restraints were applied. No dramatic defiance or theatrical threats, just wary assessment of surroundings and silent calculation as he scanned the space.

"Professional," Lewis observed quietly beside you, his shoulder pressed against yours in silent support. "Not first-line operative but not amateur either. Note the physical control, the absence of emotional display despite stress indicators in his posture and breathing."

Lewis's words directed your attention to details you might otherwise have missed. The interrogation began with surprisingly mundane questions—name, nationality, current residence, employment history—delivered by someone from Jensen's team.

"Baseline establishment," Lewis explained, noting your questioning expression, his voice soft near your ear. "Identifying speech patterns, physical tells, reference frameworks before applying actual pressure."

After establishing the preliminary patterns, Jensen entered the room—his presence immediately shifting the dynamic despite maintaining the same calm professionalism.

"We know you work for Raúl Suarez," Jensen stated plainly. "We know you were sent to breach the Hamilton estate with specific objectives. What we don't know is whether you're worth keeping alive or not."

"I have nothing to say," the prisoner replied.

Jensen nodded as if this were a valuable contribution. "That's your choice. But before you commit to that position, you should understand the alternatives. Mr. Hamilton will be joining us shortly. He has particular interest in your team's objectives regarding his wife. His methods when personally involved tend to be more... direct than our standard protocols."

The mention of Lewis produced the first genuine reaction from the prisoner—subtle but detectable tension in his shoulders, a micro-expression of concern that was quickly masked.

"Interesting," Lewis murmured beside you. "He really knows who I am." He then straightened his shoulders. "Time to continue the conversation," he said, voice carrying that deadly focus that still sometimes caught you off-guard.

"Are you going in there yourself?" you asked, something tightening in your chest that felt like worry.

Lewis's eyes met yours, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. "Yes," he replied simply. "Some questions need personal attention to ensure accurate answers. Remember our agreement," he added, his voice softening slightly. "Behind the glass, regardless of what happens in there."

You nodded despite growing unease about what Lewis's direct interrogation might entail. Before he left, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, the tender gesture at odds with the situation.

"It'll be over soon," he promised quietly.

As Lewis moved toward the interrogation room door, Paolo stepped closer to you—his presence offering silent support without commentary or unnecessary reassurance.

"He's different than I expected," Paolo said quietly, his eyes tracking Lewis. "More... controlled than most in his position."

Lewis's entry into the interrogation room shifted the atmosphere immediately—the prisoner's posture tensing despite attempts at composure, Jensen stepping back with subtle deference while remaining present for support.

"You know who I am," Lewis stated rather than asked, voice carrying that deadly quiet that somehow commanded attention more effectively than shouting ever could. "Which means you understand exactly how this conversation ends if I don't get the information I need."

The prisoner remained silent, though his breathing had quickened despite efforts to keep control.

"Let me be perfectly clear," Lewis continued, removing his jacket with methodical precision that somehow made the gesture more threatening than dramatic display would have been. "I don't enjoy this part of operations. I don't have satisfaction from physical persuasion or take pleasure in causing pain."

He rolled up his sleeves with the same careful efficiency, exposing the tattoos that covered his forearms—the patterns you'd traced with your fingers last night now visible in clinical light as he prepared for whatever would follow.

"But I am exceptionally good at it," Lewis added with matter-of-fact certainty. "Because I see it as tactical necessity rather than emotional indulgence. Which means I apply exactly the effort required to achieve objectives—no more, no less."

The distinction was delivered with cold precision—more disturbing than theatrical threats would be.

"Last chance to cooperate," Lewis said, placing his watch on the metal table. "Tell me who sent you, your orders regarding my wife, and your extraction protocols."

The prisoner remained silent, though sweat appeared on his forehead despite the cool cellar.

"Very well." Lewis nodded to Jensen, who placed a metal case on the table and opened it.

Your breath caught seeing the contents. Not crude tools but specialized ones designed for effectiveness with minimal permanent damage, surgical rather than savage, yet more disturbing for their purpose.

"Jesus," Paolo muttered beside you, assessing professionally rather than judging. "Your husband doesn't fuck around."

"No," you agreed quietly, unable to look away. "He doesn't."

Lewis selected forceps-like tool, examining it with familiar ease. He then moved behind the prisoner, placing a hand on his shoulder with gentle precision. "The key of interrogation is understanding vulnerabilities. For some, it's a pain threshold. For others, fear of disability. But for professionals like ourselves, it's often fear of mission failure that provides the greatest leverage."

Suddenly Lewis's movements accelerated—applying precise pressure to the junction between neck and shoulder. The man jerked violently, a cry escaping despite training.

"Brachial plexus," Lewis explained clinically. "Stimulate it correctly, and pain radiates through the entire arm without permanent damage. Useful before moving to more lasting methods."

The forceps twisted slightly, drawing another sound as the prisoner's composure cracked.

"I won't repeat questions," Lewis continued, releasing pressure before reapplying at a different angle. "Instead, I'll increase intensity until speaking becomes more tolerable than silence."

From your position behind the glass, you found yourself watching with complex emotions as the interrogation unfolded. Lewis's methods were precise and calculated, nothing like the theatrical displays your father's men often employed, but equally effective. The prisoner eventually broke, providing the information Lewis sought.

"Suarez," he gasped. "Raúl Suarez. From Miami."

Lewis eased pressure slightly, a reward for cooperation. "We already knew that part," he replied steadily. "Continue with information we don't already possess."

"Primary target extraction," the prisoner continued, words spilling faster as his resistance crumbled. "Female, mid twenties, black hair. Wife of property owner. To be taken alive, unharmed, sedated for transport."

"Destination?" Lewis pressed.

"Private airfield thirty miles south. Jet waiting for immediate departure to secondary location." The man's breathing came in short gasps. "Coordinates programmed into team leader's GPS. I don't know the final destination."

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the evident anger in his eyes. "The extraction protocol. Specifically."

"Breach perimeter, locate target, administer sedative, secure for transport using specialized restraint system." The words rushed out now. "Non-lethal approaches for all security personnel except primary male occupant. Hamilton. You. Standing kill order for you only."

That part made you gasp audibly; killing Lewis while taking you alive, confirming Suarez's motivations was personal.

"Suarez's personal instructions?" Lewis asked.

"She wasn't to be marked. Not a scratch." The prisoner's eyes darted toward the observation glass. "Said she was meant to be his. That you stole what belonged to him."

Lewis's control slipped momentarily, his pressure increasing beyond calculated application into something carrying genuine anger.

"Details of Suarez's current location," Lewis demanded, voice harder than before. "Where is he coordinating these operations from?"

"I don't know," the prisoner gasped, desperation evident. "Team assignments came through intermediary. Santiago. Florida-based operations manager. We never met Suarez directly."

"Santiago's full name and location," Lewis pressed.

Names, locations, communication protocols, extraction routes, and contingency plans flowed as Lewis continued his work.

When the interrogation was finally over, Lewis stepped back, carefully removing the forceps before wiping his hands on a cloth Jensen provided.

"Have medical examine him, then secure in isolation," Lewis instructed. "Keep monitoring for any additional details he might remember once the shock wears off."

As Jensen complied, Lewis turned toward the observation window—eyes finding yours with unsettling accuracy despite the one-way design.

You felt Paolo shift beside you, his presence momentarily forgotten during the intensity of the interrogation. "I should check on the surveillance teams monitoring those extraction routes," he said. "Make sure they're maintaining position."

His departure left you alone when Lewis entered the observation area moments later, the heavy door closing behind him.

Neither of you spoke immediately, the weight of what you'd witnessed creating momentary uncertainty.

"That was..." you began, searching for words.

"Who I am," Lewis finished simply, neither apologetic nor defensive. "Part of it, at least."

"I know," you replied, matching his honesty. "I've always known. Theoretically, at least."

Lewis moved closer, his proximity creating awareness—the same hands that had applied precisely calibrated pressure now reaching for yours with careful gentleness.

"Theoretical understanding is different from direct observation," he said, his eyes searching yours intently.

"He was going to take me to Suarez," you said. "That's what this was about."

Lewis's expression hardened momentarily. "Yes," he confirmed, no attempt to soften reality. "Alive and 'unmarked,' according to specific instructions."

"And kill you in the process," you added. "Not capture or negotiate. Just kill."

"It's standard approach," Lewis acknowledged with a nod.

Before you could respond, Lewis's arms were around you, pulling you against his chest in a protective embrace that surprised you with its intensity. His hand cradled the back of your head as he held you close, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

"I won't let him touch you," he murmured against your hair, the promise carrying absolute certainty.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, holding him just as tightly. This was new for both of you—seeking comfort in each other, acknowledging vulnerability instead of hiding it beneath strategic calculation.

"I know," you replied simply. "Just like I won't let him hurt you either."

Lewis pulled back slightly, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch—tender and fierce and vulnerable all at once. Without a word, he lowered his head and kissed you, his lips gentle. Your hands slid up to cup his face as you kissed him back, pouring everything you couldn't yet say into the connection.

When you finally broke apart, Lewis rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he took a steadying breath. "This changes our timeline," he said, returning to tactical reality though his arms remained around you. "Suarez moving faster than we thought means we need to move up our counter-measures."

"So what's the play?" you asked, deliberately echoing his phrasing from previous tactical discussions, your fingers absently stroking the nape of his neck. "How do we respond to this without creating more problems?"

"We focus on identifying the mole and apply pressure points against Suarez," he replied.

"Through Santiago," you suggested. "The operations manager."

"Exactly," Lewis nodded, pressing another quick kiss to your lips before reluctantly releasing you. "We should get back to the others," he said, his voice warm despite the seriousness of the situation. "Coordinate the revised timeline with the current intelligence."

You nodded, but as Lewis moved toward the door, something prompted you to speak before the operational urgency took over again.

"Lewis," you said, causing him to pause with his hand already on the door handle. "What I saw in there..." You hesitated.

He turned back, eyes holding yours with that penetrating focus that still sometimes made your breath catch. "Yes?" he prompted.

"Thank you," you said finally. "For protecting what's yours."

Something softened in his expression as he crossed back to you in two quick strides, cupping your face in his hands. "Always," he promised, before kissing you again, this time with a possessive intensity that left you breathless.

As you rejoined the operational planning already happening in the communications hub, Carmen caught your eye from across the room—her sharp gaze taking in both your composed expression and the way Lewis kept you close to his side, his hand resting at the small of your back.

"You saw," she stated rather than asked, moving closer while others focused on tactical coordination.

"Yes," you confirmed, neither elaborating nor hiding the reality of what had happened.

Carmen studied you for a moment longer, something like approval in her eyes. "And you're still here," she stated.

"Where else would I be?" you replied, genuinely confused.

Carmen's expression softened briefly, rare vulnerability replacing her usual directness. "Many women in our world choose not to see certain sides of the men they marry," she said quietly. "Easier to have comfortable illusions than acknowledge the whole reality."

Her words reflected her own experience, understanding the common patterns among women in your shared world, between those who chose willing blindness and those who accepted complete reality despite its occasionally disturbing moments.

"I'm not interested in comfortable lies," you replied honestly. "Never have been."

"No," Carmen agreed. "You're not. Which makes you exactly what he needs, whether he fully realizes it yet or not."

Before you could respond, tactical planning reclaimed immediate priority—Jensen approaching with updated security assessments, Naomi reporting preliminary findings from her team's analysis, Paolo returning from coordination with the perimeter teams.

Throughout the renewed operational focus, you found yourself watching Lewis with growing awareness of exactly what his protection entailed—the calculated violence when necessary, the precise application of force, the cold efficiency with which he eliminated threats to what mattered most.

As tactical planning continued around you, Lewis's eyes met yours across the room—that moment of connection amid operational activity that had become increasingly frequent since Geneva, silent communication requiring no words. He offered you a small, private smile that warmed you from the inside out.

*************************************************

Later, when the immediate crisis had been handled and plans set in motion, Lewis found you alone in the library. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still safe.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, his hand stroking your back in soothing circles.

"Yes," you replied, resting your head against his chest.

Lewis tilted your chin up gently, searching your eyes. "Still no regrets about us?"

The vulnerability in the question caught you off guard—this dangerous, powerful man asking if you regretted the connection growing between you.

Your answer was to stretch up on your toes and kiss him softly. "Not a single one," you murmured against his lips.

Lewis's arms tightened around you as he deepened the kiss, his mouth moving against yours with growing urgency. You melted against him, your hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders, holding on as the kiss intensified. His restraint was still evident—his hands remained at your waist and back, never straying further though you could feel the tension in his body, the careful control he maintained even as he pulled you closer.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Lewis rested his forehead against yours. "You're making it very difficult to focus on security protocols," he murmured, a rare smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Good," you replied, surprising yourself with your boldness. "You think too much."

He laughed softly, the sound warming something deep inside you. "Says the woman who analyzes everything."

"Maybe we're rubbing off on each other," you suggested, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Lewis's eyes darkened slightly, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "I like the sound of that."

A throat clearing from the doorway broke the moment. Paolo stood there, his expression caught between amusement and embarrassment. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, not sounding particularly sorry, "but Jensen needs Lewis in the communications room. Something about the satellite data from Miami."

Lewis nodded, reluctantly stepping back though his hand lingered on your waist. "Tell him I'll be right there."

Paolo gave you a knowing look before disappearing back down the hallway.

"Duty calls," you said, echoing Lewis's words from earlier that morning.

"Always does," he agreed, brushing his lips against yours one more time. "But this isn't over," he added, his voice dropping to that lower register that never failed to send shivers down your spine.

"Promise?" you asked, smiling up at him.

His answering smile was slow and full of promise. "Count on it."

As Lewis left for the communications room, you found yourself alone in the library, your fingers absently touching your lips where his had been moments ago. This growing connection between you was still new, still evolving, but there was no denying its power. It had transformed into something neither of you had anticipated—something that made your heart race and your mind quiet in a way you'd never experienced before.

You moved to the window, looking out at the Scottish landscape stretching beyond the estate grounds. So much had changed in such a short time. The woman who had arrived in Scotland still wary of her strategic husband was being replaced by someone who looked forward to his touches, who sought his kisses, who found herself thinking about him at odd moments throughout the day.

The realization should have been frightening—vulnerability had always been something to avoid in your world—but instead, you felt strangely calm. Whatever was developing between you and Lewis wasn't a weakness to be exploited but a strength neither of you had counted on.

After dinner had been cleared and plans finalized for the coming days, Lewis found you in the small sitting room adjacent to your bedroom. You were curled up in an armchair, watching the flames in the fireplace dance and flicker against the darkening sky outside.

"Hey," he said softly, leaning against the doorframe. "Mind if I join you?"

You smiled, gesturing to the empty chair beside yours. "It's your house."

"Our house," he corrected, crossing the room to sit next to you. "At least for now."

The casual assertion of shared space shouldn't have affected you as much as it did, but the simple "our" warmed you more than the fire.

"Any updates from Jensen's team?" you asked, though business was the last thing on your mind.

Lewis shook his head, reaching out to take your hand, his thumb tracing patterns against your skin. "Nothing that can't wait until morning." His eyes met yours, something soft in his gaze that made your breath catch. "I thought maybe we could just... be here. Together. Without tactics or strategies or security protocols for a little while."

"I'd like that," you replied, squeezing his hand.

For a while, you sat in comfortable silence, watching the fire and enjoying the simple connection of his hand in yours. The quiet intimacy felt new but somehow familiar, as if you'd been doing this for years instead of days.

"What are you thinking about?" Lewis asked eventually, his voice gentle in the firelit room.

You considered deflecting with something tactical or trivial, but the honesty that had been growing between you pushed for a different answer. "Us," you admitted. "How different this is from what I expected when I agreed to marry you."

Lewis's expression softened, his eyes warm as they held yours. "Different good or different bad?"

"Different good," you replied without hesitation. "Very good."

Something in his posture relaxed at your words, as if he'd been holding tension you hadn't noticed until it eased. "For me too," he said quietly. "I didn't expect... this."

The admission hung between you, neither of you quite ready to name what "this" was, but both acknowledging its growing importance.

Lewis tugged gently on your hand. "Come ‘ere," he said softly, shifting to make space for you.

Without overthinking it, you rose from your chair and moved to his, settling against him as his arm wrapped around you. The position should have felt awkward—the chair wasn't really meant for two—but somehow you fit perfectly, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm secure around your waist.

"Better," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You relaxed into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear surprisingly comforting. This casual physical affection was still new, still something you were getting used to, but you couldn't deny how right it felt to be held by him.

"Tell me something about you," you said, surprising yourself with the request. "Something I don't already know."

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing patterns against your arm as he considered. "I used to draw," he said finally. "When I was younger. Mostly architectural designs—buildings, bridges, structural elements."

The revelation was unexpected. "Really?"

You felt him nod. "It was my first interest, before I got pulled into all of this. I wanted to be an architect." There was no bitterness in his voice, just simple acknowledgment of a path not taken.

"Do you still draw?" you asked, curious about this newly revealed facet of him.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "Not often. Mostly when I'm planning something particularly complex and need to visualize the components."

"I'd like to see your drawings sometime," you said softly.

His arm tightened around you slightly. "Maybe," he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "Your turn now. Tell me something I don't know about you."

You considered what to share, what small piece of yourself to offer in this quiet moment. "I used to dance," you said finally. "Ballet, from when I was six until I was fifteen. My father thought it would teach me grace and discipline."

"Did it?" Lewis asked, his fingers now gently playing with your hair.

"The discipline part, definitely. The grace..." You laughed softly. "I was better at the technical aspects than the artistic ones. My instructor used to say I approached dance like a military operation."

Lewis chuckled, the sound rumbling pleasantly through his chest. "That I can picture."

"Hey!" you protested, playfully swatting his arm.

He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss that made your heart skip. "I meant it as a compliment," he said, his eyes warm with amusement. "Precision is underrated."

"Smooth recovery," you murmured, settling back against him.

The conversation flowed easily after that, small revelations and quiet laughter as the fire burned low in the grate. You found yourself sharing stories you'd almost forgotten—childhood memories, teenage rebellions, moments that had shaped you—and listening just as eagerly to his. Different backgrounds but surprising parallels, the children of powerful men finding their own paths.

When you finally fell silent, comfortable in the shared quiet, you realized how natural it felt to be here with him like this. How easily you'd slipped from strategic partners to something much more personal.

"It's getting late," Lewis said eventually, though he made no move to let you go. "We should probably get some sleep."

You nodded reluctantly, not wanting to break the bubble of intimacy you'd created, but knowing tomorrow would bring renewed focus on the operational tasks ahead.

Lewis stood, keeping you steady as you both rose from the chair. His hand found yours as you walked to the bedroom, fingers intertwined in a gesture that had quickly become familiar. He smiled, a real smile that transformed his usually serious face and made your heart flip in your chest. Then he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

You melted into him, your arms sliding around his neck as the kiss intensified. There was something different about it—less restraint, more hunger, though still tempered with control. His hand splayed across your lower back, pressing you against him as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance that you readily granted.

The kiss turned heated, a slow exploration that made your head spin and your body warm. His hand tangled in your hair, angling your head for better access as he deepened the kiss further.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Lewis rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as if savoring the moment. "We should stop," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "Before I forget why we're taking this slow."

The admission that he wanted more, that he was deliberately holding back, sent a thrill through you. "And why is that again?" you asked, your own voice breathless.

Lewis's eyes opened, dark with desire but still warm with something deeper. "Because you deserve better than rushed decisions made in the middle of a security crisis," he said, pressing a softer kiss to your lips. "Because I want you to be absolutely sure about what you want. About who you want."

The tenderness in the statement made your heart ache in the best possible way. This was so far from the cold, strategic marriage you'd expected—this man who looked at you like you were precious, who prioritized your certainty above his own desires.

"I'm getting more sure every day," you admitted, your hand coming up to trace the line of his jaw.

His smile was slow and full of promise. "Good," he murmured, kissing you once more, softly this time. "So am I."

As you prepared for bed, moving through the now-familiar routine of sharing space, you found yourself contemplating how much had changed. You lay with your head tucked against Lewis's chest, his arm wrapped securely around you, and you listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. This growing comfort in physical closeness still surprised you—how easily you'd adapted to seeking his touch, to finding peace in his embrace.

tbd......

[shieldofiron]

Angry Again

Also on Ao3

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Breakup/Makeup, Happy ending don't worry, TW: Car collision, Hospital Visit

Billy's sure the phone is never going to ring.

After all, he's the one who walked out on Steve. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. Steve obviously deserves so much better. This is for the best. He knows it's the best thing for Steve, and he loves Steve more than anything.

Still, you'd think after six months he would be over watching the phone, but he can't help it. He's attached to it, in a way Heather says is definitely unhealthy.

It's just... he kept thinking if Steve would only call, angry. Show how much he cares about Billy, tell him to come back, or go fuck himself... if Steve just cared, Billy wouldn't be able to stop himself.

The only time he wasn't looking at it is when he's sleeping. So of course...

"Muhullo?" He mumbled into the phone, his four days old stubble brushing hard against the glass.

"Hello Mr. Hargrove, this is Amy at Hawkins General. I'm sorry to wake you. We're calling about a Steven A. Harrington. He's been admitted after a car collision and he appears to be stable.

""What?" Billy blinked. "Is he ok?"

"Can you confirm that you're the emergency contact for Steven Alessandro Harrington?"

"I... guess?" Billy mumbled, sitting up.

"Are you available to come to the hospital? He's stable but unconscious, and we have some questions about his medical history." 

Billy sucked in a breath, shame cratering out his stomach. "He has a history of concussions... two in high school and one from just after, he... is he ok?"

He heard typing in the background. "You should come soon, if possible."

Billy's heart was in his throat as he fumbled out a thank you and jumped out of bed, tossing on some pajama bottoms and a hoodie over his head. He grabs his wallet and then, at the last minute, a book. He might be waiting a while, he's not sure.

The drive passed in a blur, which is probably dangerous, given the circumstances. He wanted a cigarette or two or twenty but then he remembered he promised Steve he quit, and even though they’re not together… it’s still Steve.

He was sweating bullets as he came into the emergency room, but as he expected, he isn't allowed see Steve. He was still not family, and it was still late. He filled out Steve's paperwork and waited. He watched the tv playing reruns of King of Queens. He read, the words blurring together into nothing. He cried, when no one was there to see.

They wouldn't tell him anything, just that Steve is stable. Stable, stable, when Billy felt like a rickety table with the legs kicked out.

He had woken before he realized he was asleep, a hand on his shoulder gently squeezing.

"Mr. Hargrove?"

Billy squinted into the fluorescent light. There's a nurse and...

It was Steve, his hair curling over the edge of a neck brace. He looked a little haggard, but remarkably well, considering. He looked full and sweet and Steve, even if his hair is much longer than Billy'd ever seen it.

Billy looked down at his book. It was a copy Steve had given him for his birthday. A Separate Peace.

"He's free to go home, here's his care instructions," the nurse handed over a packet. "You'll want to monitor his concussion but he can sleep, he's allowed."

It felt like a dream. The nurse walked Steve through the discharge papers. Billy stood, useless except for his car. He didn't dare ask about Steve's right now.

And then they were sealed in the car, something antiseptic and sharp piercing the space like a lance. Steve's hand, his wrist loosely circled by a hospital bracelet, tightened on the door as if holding on for dear life, even though they weren't moving. Billy stuck his dead cell in the console. The only person he wanted to call was here.

"Are you ok?"

"I... yeah..." Steve said.

"Cuz they wouldn't tell me anything, just that you were stable."

He could hear Steve thinking, the gears turning to decide between bitchy and sincere.

Billy held his breath.

"A car hit me in the intersection. We were both fine, but I passed out in the ambulance. Concussion. No sign of swelling or anything." Steve said it dispassionately, and Billy's stomach sank. Bitchy at least meant Steve cared. He didn't sound like he cared at all.

Billy wanted to ask, why am I still your emergency contact? Why does this still hurt so much and when did it stop hurting for you? When will it stop?

"I'll just... take you home. Same place?" Billy forced the same dispassionate tone, sniffing slightly and squinting into the sun.

They'd been like this many times before. Not this exactly but. Steve playing passenger princess. Early morning rides to breakfast. Rides home after a night together.

"Same place." Steve said softly.

There's no music playing. Billy'd been too panicked last night and now he can't imagine anything more embarrassing than turning on top 40 right now.

They're almost in front of Steve's place way too soon. Way too soon, even though the ride was awkward as fuck. It was the last ride Billy would ever have, he was sure of it and he couldn't... didn't... want to let go yet.

Steve realized Billy's crying before Billy does. He urged Billy to pull over on the side of some random street and switched the gears into park.

"I thought.... I thought...." Billy's breath won't come. Nothing will come. No one will call, and if Steve hadn't left him as emergency contact, no one would have called and- "If you had died... if you had died, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve..."

Steve pulled him across the console and this was all wrong, Billy shouldn't be the one being comforted but somehow, he was.

"I was so glad it was you," Steve said, his arms tightening with every word. "I'm glad you came. Fuck, I was so scared."

"It's my fault, Steve..."

"It wasn't your fault, Billy."

"It was. I left you," Billy took a deep breath, trying to haul himself back from the edge. Shame burned around his edges, his father's voice in his head told him that he was acting like a pussy.

"Oh. That. Yeah, that was your fault." Steve's voice sounds more amused than really mad.

"I... I'm so sorry, Steve. I didn't.... I wanted to... I thought you'd be better off without me," Billy whispered brokenly, pulling back.

"I'm..." Steve took a deep breath. "I want to talk about that later. Now I want to go to my apartment with you and rest. Is that ok?"

"Are you gonna be mad later?"

"Yeah, probably."

Billy smiled, a weak warbly thing. "Good."

He follows Steve up the stairs to Steve's little apartment, their hands knit together. They read the instructions and Billy slowly helped Steve into bed.

"I hate being fucking sick." Steve muttered.

"I know you do."

"I hope you know this means we're together again. Boyfriends. The full nine yards."

Billy's breath caught in the back of his throat.

"I know."

"Good. Now get into bed so I stop feeling like... ugh... that weird old Charles Dickens lady who never left her bed."

"Miss Havisham?" Billy smirked, teasing. "I can get you a wedding dress."

Steve huffed, his eyes starting to drift closed. "After I ask you. And after you promise never to pull this 'better for you' bullshit again. Fuckin'... wedding dress."

He had dark circles, and his hair was far too long, shaggy the way he hated it. Billy brushed Steve's cheek.

"I love you."

"I know," Steve's voice was drifting, half sleepy. "This doesn't mean I'm not pissed."

"I know."

[tranquilreign]

at arms length II. | mini series

- © tranquilreign - all rights reserved | DO NOT STEAL, TAKE, or COPY any of MY WORK without MY PERMISSION.

pairing; jungkook/reader genre: ex best friends au! college au! warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, alcohol consumption, attempted assault word count: 2.4k synopsis: he lost everything when he lost you. now he'll do anything to make amends and set things right. tags: @whoa-jo @jungkookie-7 @thelilbutifulthings @foulmoneybathoagie-blog @darklove2020 @llallaaa (I was unsure if those that asked for a part two but didn't say about a tag wanted it, but I still did it nonetheless, I hope that's okay! <3) parts: at arms' length I.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

Jungkook still remembered it like it was yesterday. Watching you walk away, slipping through his fingers. He so desperately wanted to follow you, but he knew you wouldn't listen to him. He had taken you for granted for so long, and now he realised just how much he needed you.

He couldn't sleep properly anymore, often falling asleep during classes. Eating was something that was far from his thoughts. He would pick at his food during break, or would have completely forgotten to bring in lunch.

At first, he ignorantly thought this would be something you'd get over. But as the days turned into weeks, he knew you weren't coming back to him.

You were there for him through everything. No matter how big or small. And now, with you no longer by his side, he was lost, as if he were wandering through a forest with no end.

His friends had noticed this early on, growing more worried as time went on, not knowing how to help. You would have known what to do in a situation like this, but you weren't here anymore.

Jungkook tried everything to get you to forgive him. But no matter what he did, how he apologised, you would never accept it.

"Y/n, please," he begged.

He was on his hands and knees, leaning forward, pleading for forgiveness. You stood above him, nothing but anger in your eyes.

"You're not sorry, Jungkook. You're just sorry you got caught."

"What do I have to do to make you forgive me. I know I was wrong. I know I shouldn't have talked badly about you or shared your secrets. I know how badly I've hurt you, and I want to make things right," Jungkook cried out, tears now forming.

"There's nothing you can do," you answered coldly. "I don't want you to talk to me ever again. You got that?"

You hadn't bothered to wait for an answer, turning on your heel and walking away. Jungkook stayed still, his forehead pressed against the floor, tears cascading down his cheeks and hitting the concrete.

From then on, Jungkook kept his distance, but never once stopped caring for you. He would watch you from afar, making sure you were safe.

You had made a new group of friends over time, sitting with them during lunch. You knew Jungkook was watching you. You had often caught him staring.

You'd be lying if you had said you didn't miss him. But he hurt you deeply, and you knew you couldn't forgive him for what he had done. But knowing he was watching you, in a way, made you feel safe.

"Y/n," your friend, Min, chirped in your ear.

You flinched at the sound of your name, zoning back in and looking at your group of friends. They all giggled at you, making you smile sheepishly.

"Sorry. I was in my own world."

"We could tell," Sara laughed. "So this weekend there's a party happening at Min's boyfriend's. Are you in?"

"Ah, I don't know," you said unsurely. Parties were never your thing. You loved a drink, but typically you preferred that in your own dorm with friends.

"Oh, come on, Y/n! You never come out," Min pouted, looking at you with pleading eyes.

"Fine," you sighed.

The girls cheered, quickly bidding you goodbye as they made their way to class. You sat, uncomfortable at the thought of the party. But your friends were right. You hadn't properly been out with them, and now it was time to change that.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

You arrived at the party with your friends an hour after it had started, and it was packed. Music blared from every direction. Cups and empty booze cans had been discarded in every possible part of the house.

"Fucking hell," Sara yelled over the music.

You all pushed in through the front door, slowly squeezing past the dancing bodies and into the kitchen.

"Min! Ladies, so glad you could make it!" your friend's boyfriend slurred.

He was completely smashed. Min cringed at her boyfriend's state, slinging his arm over her shoulder.

"I'll get him outside for some fresh air and water," she yelled, picking up a bottle of unopened water. "Just pour yourselves some drinks and I'll be back soon!"

With that, Min left. Sara quickly grabbed a beer and popped the can open. She offered you one, but you shook your head, instead grabbing a cup and pouring yourself a rum and coke.

You glanced around the room, taking a sip of your drink. At that moment, your eyes landed on a familiar figure. Jungkook. He was laughing, for what seemed like the first time in a while, talking to his friends.

He wore a pair of ripped black jeans and a loose black top. And his hair was slightly damp with sweat. You fought with yourself to not go over and speak to him. Every time you saw him, your heart ached. As if he had sensed your presence, he turned, locking eyes with you.

You quickly avoided his gaze, deciding it may be better to drink more than you initially planned. Making sure Jungkook was watching, you downed your drink in a shift motion.

"Fucking hell Y/n, I didn't realise you could drink like that!" Sara laughed, clapping enthusiastically. Min had returned at that moment, cheering when she had seen you holding out a drink for her.

"Let's get fucked up," you joked, laughing with them.

Jungkook's jaw clenched as he watched you down your drink. He hadn't known you would be here. His friends continued to talk amongst themselves until Jimin noticed Jungkook's lack of attention.

Jimin nudged Yoongi, and together they followed Jungkook's gaze until it fell upon you.

"Oh fucking hell," Yoongi groaned. The three boys watched as you poured your third drink. You and Sara pushed your cups together before downing them.

"Should we stop her?" Jimin asked Yoongi.

"Honestly, I don't know."

For the next two hours, the three boys watched you closely. Yoongi had to stop Jungkook from storming over whenever a boy would begin to talk to you. He couldn't blame the guys who were shamelessly flirting with you. Tonight, you looked stunning.

You had decided to wear a short black dress that stopped at the mid-thigh and a pair of knee-high heeled boots. Something which Jungkook had never seen you wear before. It was very clear that Min and Sara had taken you out to the mall to get some new clothes.

By this point, you were drunk, but the boys were surprised at how well you were holding your drink. Sara was struggling to keep up with you, gagging every now and then as if she was going to be sick. And she was.

You guided your friend to the sink so she could spew somewhere that wasn't as hard to clean. Your cup had been left on the countertop while you rubbed your friend's back reassuringly.

"Is she alright?" someone asked from behind you.

You turned around to see someone you didn't know. All you knew was that he was handsome. He was resting against the countertop, concern written all over his face.

"Ye-yeah, she's fine. Just had a bit too much," you reassured, still rubbing your friend's back. You glanced over at Min, who grinned. She moved to you, pushing your hand off Sara's back, motioning you to go to the boy.

"Go," she said quickly, then returned to Sara.

"I don't believe we've met. I'm Ha-joon." He held his hand out.

"Y/n," you responded, taking his hand and shaking it.

"Do you wanna dance?" he offered.

Drunkenly, you accepted, grabbing your drink and allowing him to pull you into the crowd of people on the makeshift dance floor. The music blared as you both danced, slowly getting closer to one another.

You allowed Ha-joon to grab you by the waist and began to lead your movements. You laughed, drinking the last of your drink and spinning around so you faced him. Letting your arms fall over his shoulders, you began to grind into each other, completely letting go.

Jungkook eyed you, anger building up as he watched you dance with Ha-joon. His fists clenched, the urge to protect you intensifying. Yoongi grabbed hold of Jungkook, making him look back at the other boy. Yoongi shook his head, warning Jungkook not to interfere.

When the song had finished, you laughed, pulling away from Ha-joon. You sauntered back over to the kitchen and leaned against the countertop. Min and Sara were gone, most likely upstairs to get cleaned up.

Ha-joon stood behind you, placing his hands on your hips and pulling you flush against his chest. At that moment, your head began to spin, feeling as if your legs were going to give out.

"Let's get out of here," Ha-joon whispered in your ear.

You stumbled out of the house behind him, allowing Ha-joon to lead you away from the party.

"W-wait," you stammered. "I really don't feel... good."

Ha-joon sighed, looking back at you.

"I know it must be a horrible feeling. But you're just so fucking hot," he muttered. He watched as you slumped to the floor, passing out on the spot. Drunkenly, he pulled you up by the neck, his hot breath fanning your face. He leaned in, kissing you.

"You fucking bastard!"

At the moment, Ha-joon was pulled off of you and thrown back onto the ground. Jungkook stood above him, chest heaving in rage. He stepped over Ha-joon, kneeling down and let his fist collide with his face.

Yoongi and Jimin had followed behind, covering your legs and shoulders with their jackets.

"Kook," Yoongi growled, stepping over to the younger boy. "Jungkook, that's enough!"

Yoongi aggressively pulled Jungkook off the unconscious boy. Jungkook calmed for a moment, realising he had completely lost control. He turned and ran to you.

"Y/n," he breathed. He moved your damp, sweaty hair out of your face, cupping it between his hands.

He looked over your body, making sure Ha-joon hadn't done anything but kiss you. Jungkook scooped you up into his arms, looking back at his friends.

"Whose house is closest?"

"Mine," Yoongi responded. "It will also be the best place for Y/n. It's where she's been living for the past few weeks."

Jungkook shot Yoongi a look, but now wasn't the time. What was important was that he got you somewhere safe.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

The next morning, you rose with the worst headache you'd ever experienced. It was as if the world was still spinning. You held your hand to your head, a poor attempt to try and make sense of where you were.

"Y/n," a voice beside you said.

Blinking to try and focus your eyes, you looked in the direction of the voice. Beside you sat Yoongi and Jimin, who both looked incredibly worried.

"Hey guys," you groaned. "God, my head."

"Are you alright, Y/n?" Jimin asked, moving to take hold of your other hand.

"Yeah, I'm fine... why?"

"Last night at the party. You were spiked," Yoongi explained.

All the memories came flooding back in that moment. Sara being sick, you having left your cup on the countertop to help her. At that time, Ha-joon had come over. He had spiked your drink before he spoke to you.

"Oh my god," you said in a panic. "Did- Did he..."

"No, he didn't," Jimin cut you off.

"You're lucky that Jungkook had been watching you, Y/n. If it wasn't for him..." Yoongi trailed off.

"Jungkook... Jungkook saved me?" you asked in disbelief. "Why would he do that?"

"Because despite all he's said and done to you. He still cares deeply for you, Y/n," Yoongi spoke. "And I know you've seen it as well."

You sat in silence, not knowing what to do or say. After so long. After everything he said, how could he care for you? For the first time in a long while, you cried. You leaned forward, tears rolling down your cheeks at the realisation of just how much he truly cared for you.

"Y/n?"

Your head shot up at the familiar voice. Jungkook. In that moment, it was as if time had frozen. He stood by the door, half hidden behind it, in case you didn't want to see him.

He flinched when you climbed out of the bed and ran at him. You pulled the door away from him and threw your arms around him, crying aloud. He was shocked but immediately wrapped his arms around you, a feeling he had missed so dearly.

"We'll leave you two," Jimin whispered as the other boys left.

Jungkook did what he did best when it came to comforting you. He stroked your hair, whispering reassuringly in your ear. You both sank to the floor, where Jungkook proceeded to rock you back and forward gently.

Slowly, your sobs stopped, your breathing becoming even once again. In that moment, you knew just how much you missed Jungkook.

"I'm so sorry," you choked out.

Jungkook shook his head.

"You have nothing to apologise for," he cooed. "I'm the one who should be sorry for every word I said. And for not being quick enough to realise what had happened and protect you sooner."

You mimicked him, shaking your head. He chuckled, bringing you so that your head rested against his chest. You could feel his heart race.

"I took your friendship for granted, and for that, I truly am sorry. These past weeks, honestly, have been hell," he admitted. "It felt as if part of me was missing when you weren't around. And if I could take back everything I said, I would in a heartbeat."

"All that matters is that you're here now, Kook," you breathed, grasping a fistful of his shirt.

You both stayed as you were, holding one another in a moment of silence, enjoying each other's presence, having missed it for so long.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

hello there! hope you enjoyed the final part of this mini series! it may not have been what people wanted, but I was just in my feels with it.

if you enjoyed it please take a look at my other works or if you're interested in requesting an idea/or have a prompt click the links below!

masterlist | requests | request rules | prompt list

tranquilreign~

[maple-writes1802]

Sevika x reader angst!! (with a happy ending)

Someone badly hurts reader to get back at sevika since it’s known they’re in a relationship. Sevika realizing she’s endangering reader, distances herself from her so reader doesn’t get targeted anymore. Reader finds sevika after searching for her and begs her to stop running away from her. Sevika realizes that distancing herself from reader hurt her more deeply than the initial attack. She apologies and swears to never do that again :}

ship: sevika x reader

word count: 1843

tags: short break up, hurt/comfort, reconciliation, set in s1

The bedsheets feel cold, everything feels cold when Sevika isn't near you. It's been days since she left and respecting her decision becomes harder with each moment that is spent in her absence. Sevika was never a loud person to live with, but her presence was certainly felt. She emitted warmth like that of a lit fireplace and you were but an innocent passerby trying to ease the cold in your bones. Now, the cold is prevalent, making a home for itself deep within your chest.

You miss her.

You miss her gentle touches, the ever-present smell of whiskey, cigars and her own earthy musk. You miss her voice soothing you to sleep at night and coaxing you out of dreamland in the morning. You miss her hugs, feeling her eyes on you at all times, how she manhandles your body in moments of passion and then massages it until you're mush in her hands. You miss everything about her, the good and the bad.

But what were you to do? You swore to yourself you'd let her go if she wished to go. You wouldn't keep her caged.

But fuck if this wasn't the stupidest damn reason to leave. And it all happened because you weren't careful enough.

-flashback-

A weary sigh escaped your lips as you lock the store, finally closing down for the day. It's much later than you'd like it to be and usually Sevika would pick you up after your shift and the two of you would walk home together but lately she's been so stressed out with her own job, that you reassured her you'd be fine and insisted she went to bed early to get some proper rest.

You walk down an alleyway, not the safest part of the Lanes but definitely the quickest to your place. What you failed to notice, however, was a group of enforcers, three or four it you recall correctly, but your memory of the event is foggy at best. They were smoking and chatting, probably taking a break from harassing local Zaunites (or as they liked to call it, ''going on patrols''). The chatter stopped when they noticed you and, before you could turn back, one of them started walking towards you. Sensing the oncoming threat, you prepared to knee him in the crotch but he grabbed and yanked you towards them before you got the chance.

You remember receiving a knee to the stomach and the pain knocked you down onto the wet ground. What followed was a flurry of punches, jeers, kicks, spits, and insults. The more you tried to fight them off, the more violent they became. The only thing you could do was curl up in a ball and protect your head with your arms. Despite your best efforts, eventually the world sank into darkness and you were left to the mercy of your attackers.

The next thing you remember is opening your eyes and feeling confused, for instead of the cold, damp pavement you were met with the familiar warmth and softness of your bed. Forcing yourself to sit up, you groan as your body protests, but your eyes are already looking for Sevika. Feeling disappointment when she is nowhere to be seen, you try to comfort yourself, figuring that she's probably in the living room. That is, until your gaze lands on a piece of paper laying on the nightstand. Picking it up with shaky hands, your heart stutters when you recognize Sevika's handwriting.

To my soulmate,

I hope you're not in too much pain when you wake up. I did my best to bandage you up, but you've always been better at tending to cuts and scrapes than I was.

Hell, if this is how you felt every time I came home all bruised and bloody from a job gone wrong, then I am sincerely sorry for all the pain I put you through because I was damn near sure that my heart was going to give out on me when I found you in that alley.

Don't worry your pretty little head, the guys who did this to you will have to eat through a straw for the rest of their miserable, meaningless lives. They didn't get far before I caught up to them.

After making sure you're all clean and bandaged up, and handing those bastards their death sentence, I did a lot of thinking. And I decided that the only way to keep you safe was if I left. One of those idiots squealed before I broke his fingers and it turns out that the only reason they hurt you was because they knew who you were. And more importantly, they knew who you were to me. I guess their strategy was to weaken me by hurting you and using that moment of weakness to get to Silco.

Of course, that won't be happening given that I broke all their teeth and fingers. But I doubt they'll be the last ones to think of something like this. That's why, for your sake, it's best for me to stay away.

I love you, baby, and that won't ever change. But I can't live with myself knowing that you could get hurt because of me. I'm sorry, but I know you'll be okay with time. You're the strongest person I know and there are plenty of people out there who deserve you much more than I do.

Take care of yourself for me, give yourself time to heal and move on.

Forever yours, despite everything,

Sevika

P.S. You can keep the apartment and the cat, I got them for you anyways. Give the furball my regards.

By the time you finish reading her letter, several spots on the paper have already been coated by your tears. You could do nothing but curl up on the half-empty bed and sob your little heart out.

-end of flashback-

And now, all you can think about is how this change benefits neither of you.

Sevika is probably drinking her sorrows away, surviving on cigars and pure spite. Meanwhile, you're unable to last ten minutes without bursting into tears. Safety doesn't mean much to you if you have to give up the love of your life to attain it.

This is ridiculous. You think as you get out of bed, pulling one of Sevika's cardigans over your shoulders. You held it close these days, as a reminder of her presence. It smelled like her, although now her signature scent was fading away and you'd be damned if you had to spend the rest of your life without it. Without her.

You ignore your body's protests as you hastily put on some loose pants and shoes before running out of your apartment, almost forgetting to lock the door behind you.

Eventually, the Last Drop comes into view and you approach it with determination flowing through your veins. The bouncers immediately recognize you and step aside to let you in.

Once inside, the first person you notice is Ran, who, upon noticing you, mouths the words 'thank Janna' before pointing to a spot in the corner.

A lonely form sits there, slumped over a table and nursing a whiskey bottle while a lonely cigar burns out in an ashtray. You can feel your heart squeeze painfully at the sight of your beloved looking so defeated.

Sevika jumps like a wounded animal when you lay a gentle hand on her shoulder, her eyes wide when she turns around and spots you.

''What the hell are you doing here?'' she asks, trying her best to sound angry and intimidating but failing miserably. You were always her weak spot and you possessed the ability to see through her facade and spending some time apart couldn't change that.

''I'm here for you, asshole.'' you reply with a small huff and Sevika almost cracks a smile at our snarky response, she always loved your feisty side and being next to you makes her want to grovel for your forgiveness. But she holds back, barely upholding a displeased expression on her tired face.

''If you're gonna try and convince me to come back, then you're wasting your time, sweetheart.'' she grumbles and goes to have a swig of the whiskey but you snatch the bottle away before she can even smell the alcoholic drink. If the situation wasn't so serious, you would giggle at the childish pout she's giving you.

''Vika, baby, this is ridiculous.'' you mumble as you sit down at the table.

''Keeping you safe is never ridiculous.'' she replies, avoiding eye contact. ''It's my fault you got hurt. I should have been there.''

You sigh, she was always too selfless for her own good when it came to you, always taking the blame.

''Sevika,'' you begin, carefully putting your hands on top of hers. She flinches but doesn't pull away. ''We live in Zaun, bad things happen all the time.''

''But they shouldn't happen to you.'' She argues stubbornly, taking ahold of your fingers.

''I'm a grown woman, you can't protect me from everything. Pain is a part of life. And besides...'' you trail off, taking a deep breath as tears gather in your eyes. ''You leaving hurt a lot more than any beating ever could.''

Sevika's eyes widen at your words, her resolve cracking at the shakiness of your voice and the wetness in your eyes.

''Baby, I-'', she begins, but before she can utter an argument, you cut her off.

''No, Sev, just... come home. Please.'' you whisper, your tone on the verge of begging.

''I... this doesn't make sense without you and it's not fair to either of us. You promised me we'd work through everything together, jump over any hurdle that life throws at us. You can't just... up and leave as soon as we face a hurdle that's bigger than the ones before. We can go through anything together. There's no me without you and home isn't home if you're not there.''

You can see the gears turning in her head as she thinks your words over, her gaze peeled to your intertwined fingers.

''And what if someone tries to hurt you again?'' she whispers, more to herself than to you.

''You'll protect me.'' you reply without hesitation. ''And if not then you'll just have to patch me up and give me lots of kisses until I'm all better.''

''You always gotta have the answer to everything, huh?'' Sevika quips with a small grin, the quirk of her lips making her smile lines show.

''And you love me for it.''

''I do.'' she whispers, lifting one of your hands to her lips and pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles.

''Let's head home. You've got lots of kisses left to give me.'' you remind her cheekily as you both stand up and prepare to head home.

''Anything for you, sweetling.''

...

''By the way, is that my sweater?''

''...it smells like you.''

''By Janna, I fucking love you, babe. You're too cute.''

''Love you too, Sev.''

A/N: whewww that turned out a lot lengthier than i planned! thank you for your request anon! this is the first piece i've written in a long while and english isn't my first language so i hope this wasn't too bad <3

[nocasdatsgay]

All this? Over an Heir?

A Neapolitan Bond’s Fic.

Pairing: Azriel/Eris/Reader | Rating: T| Word count: 3341

Master List | Read on A03 | For @sjmxreaderweek day 5 Heir.

Summary: Eris and Azriel are acting strange after a meeting with the Governors that you were not able to attend. You venture to find out what happened. You are not prepared for the truth.

Warnings: Discussion of having children, some slut shaming, off screen murder, some bigotry

A/N: I wasn’t planning on writing this but… it happens. Note the POV shift and the flashback when Eris is telling his story.

Tagging: (I am hoping I got everyone): @myromanempiree @pit-and-the-pen @lilah-asteria @crazylokonugget @st4r-girl-official @thisblogisaboutabook @paleidiot @div94 @tele86 @chaos-on-stand-bi @bobbyisbored @ysmtttty @romantasyreader28 @azrielsshadows42 @stargirlrchive @scarsandallaz @paintedbyshadows @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @acourtofbatboydreams @ninthcircleofprythian @secret-third-thing @theicarustoyourcertainty2 @hieragalbatorixdottir @daycourtofficial @prythianpages

Something was off with Eris and Azriel. 

You knew their tells by now for when something was bothering them. Eris had tense shoulders and a clenched jaw even if it was subtle. Azriel’s shadows flurried more no matter how much he shooed them away. You’d been in the village all day and returned shortly before sundown, so you had no idea what transpired. You waited for them to talk about it at dinner. 

Nothing. 

They only asked how your visit was and told you how the governors meeting started off rocky but ended well. At least by bed they’d relaxed, but still something was off. You’d made it your mission to find out what happened. You outright asked Azriel if he was alright the next day. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” A lie if you ever heard it. 

“Your shadows seemed more active is all,” you shrugged. His wings bristled but he didn’t respond. 

When you went to Eris, you had to ask less direct questions. You asked about any hangups in plans for the month. Issues with the budget. When nothing worked, you asked for the written record of the meeting you missed. That seemed to get a reaction. 

“I would have to find it.” Eris sighed. “It went three hours over and in a tired haze I can’t remember where I put it.” 

Eris never forgot where he put things. 

“When you find it, let me know.” You smiled sweetly. 

You then went through the House looking for one person who could give you information. Charlotte, wife of Elden, was the biggest gossip in Autumn. She heard everything and forgot nothing. You invited her to tea under the disguise of catching up. 

She was an older fae- her brown hair streaked with graying strands. It suited her, with how she pinned it up. She always had a flower in her hair to match her dress. Today it was a marigold and her dress was a velvet yellow. She greeted you with a kiss on the cheek and instantly went to chatting. It only took you a few sips of tea for her to bring up what you’d been waiting on. 

“And poor Lord Hurbert, may The Mother keep him. I plan to visit his wife later today. Though I doubt she will be mourning heavily.” 

“Lord Hurbert passed away?” You tilted your head. He was an elderly fae but not so old he was frail. 

Charlotte’s well maintained brows arched. 

“You didn’t know?” You shook your head. She made a hmph noise. “Elden said that the High Lord who, well” she let her voice trail.

“I’m sorry?” You put your cup down before your grip could break it. 

“That’s what Elden told me. He wouldn’t speak of what happened. Came back from his meeting all shook up. Whatever it was, he did say Hurbert deserved it. The Mother knows the old fool had a temper.”

You sat there in silence. Eris had murdered someone? You felt a coolness against your wrist. You looked down and the shadow that followed you had curled around your wrist. 

“Oh dear, don’t look so distraught,” Charlotte’s voice made you snap out of your haze. “Forty years and this is the first time the High Lord has done away with someone? Lord Beron used to make it a point to torture at least every full moon. Cauldron knows Lord Eris is better than his father. If I may speak plainly, Hubert was a dreadful male. I never knew why Lord Eris let him live when he came to power in the first place.” 

That brought you no comfort. 

“I need to speak with my husband,” you muttered, still in a daze. 

You went to stand and Lady Charlotte stood with you. She grasped your sleeve, her dainty hand holding a tight grip on the fabric. You met her gaze and saw the panic in her eyes. 

“Do not tell the High Lord I told you.” Gone was the humor and haughty tone, replaced with a harsh whisper. “I’d rather not be on the receiving end of his temper should he still have it.”

“Of course, I- I will not tell him,” you said firmly. “I am bound to learn of it soon enough regardless.”

She eased her grip and relaxed her shoulders. “Thank you, Lady.” 

“Of course, Charlotte.”  

You left the south parlor, your boots clicking almost too loudly on the tiles of the hall. The shadow continued to pulse on your wrist. An attempt to get you to keep your breath even. It helped but-

You went into an empty room. You could see some dust as the evening light poured in from the window. There were covers over furniture, bookcases bare along the wall. A fireplace almost pristine in appearance from being unused. Thirty years in this house and you still found secrets. You leaned back against the door after you shut it. 

Eris had killed someone. 

During a meeting no less. 

He didn’t tell you. 

Azriel knew and he didn’t tell you. 

You tugged the bonds. You felt them both tug back twice. You looked down at the shadow. 

“Tell them where I am please,” you whispered. 

The shadow uncurled and disappeared. You waited and didn’t bother to move from the door. They would winnow in. You also didn’t care if sadness poured through the bond to them either. You didn’t have to wait long- a blaze of fire lit up the room and swirls of shadows followed next to it. 

You crossed your arms when they came into view. Eris was in his deep brown riding pants and tight white shirt. You’d forgotten he was going to take his horse out. Azriel smelled like the wind, and he too wore tight clothes, leathers he used for flying. You ignored the concern on their faces and spoke before they could. 

“What happened at that meeting yesterday?” You were curt and to the point. “Do not lie to me.” 

Eris’s face hardened, his hands flexed at his side. He reached up and brushed back his hair from his face. It was back long enough that it fell over his shoulders again. A flame appeared in the fireplace. Without a flick of his hand, magic fell heavy over the room- a ward. He wasn’t your mate at that moment. He was Autumn’s High Lord. 

“Lord Hurbert Graham crossed a line and I handled it.” 

“By murdering him?” You asked loudly. 

You didn’t like that Lord. He constantly made digs at Azriel. Covert ones that you could only mitigate with a stern tone. But it felt wrong. It felt wrong for Eris to have just killed him. It felt too much like the stories you heard of Beron. 

“Eris did him a favor,” Azriel said darkly. His shadows flurried around him. “I wouldn’t have made it as quick.” 

You looked between them both. “What did he do?” It came out as a whisper. 

A flicker of emotion on both of their faces and a painful pulse in the bonds meant it had to be terrible. The fire died down but still burned in the fireplace. Thankfully Eris tampered the heat down from it. Neither of them spoke, so you asked again. 

“I am your mate. I am Lady of this court- a High Lady if you had your way, Eris. I deserve to know exactly what transpired.” 

A moment passed and Eris finally relaxed his shoulders. 

“I am going to need a drink.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Eris convinced you to go to his study and not your chambers. He would not repeat those words within the walls of his refuge. Az was tense. What transpired got to him more than he was letting on. Eris poured himself a shot first and threw it back to try and drown out the look of disappointment on your face from moments ago. He prepped your drink and Azriel’s, which he added a second shot to. It did not go unnoticed by Eris that you sat yours down to the side and looked at him expectantly. 

“Tell me what happened,” you repeated firmly. “And do not coat it in sugar.” 

“If that is what you wish,” He replied. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Lord Eris, may I speak freely?”

The meeting had just started and Eris was already annoyed. The annual governor’s meeting was never enjoyable, But without you- he forgot this was what it was like. Lord Hurbert had waited for a lull in the conversation to poise his question. The eldest of the Governors- save for Elden and Rafael. Hurbert was his least favorite but his loyalty to Eris while his father lived was something he respected. But that was about all Eris cared about. Even looking at him now two seats down, Eris had little care for the male. Even more so due to this interruption. 

“You’ve never been one to hold your tongue before,” Eris replied smartly. Az sent a wave of humor down the bond. 

“Thank you, High Lord.” Hurbert’s smile grated Eris’s nerves. “While I do not doubt we will continue to see times of peace for more decades to come, may the Mother bless us all, there is never a guarantee.” 

Eris felt Azriel tense beside him. “Is there something you know that we don’t?”

He ignored Azriel. An offense Eris took note of to deal with later. Hurbert’s voice grew louder, as if he was trying to captivate everyone’s attention despite already having it. 

“You’ve been High Lord for nearly four decades, Lord Eris. But you’ve taken the mantle much later in life than your- much later than the previous High Lord.“

A knot twisted into Eris’s stomach. “Do you have a point?”

Eris did not hide his frustration this time. Hurbert knew it too, with the way his beady eyes blinked and he shifted in his seat.

“You have a wife now.”

Eris felt unease in the bond to Az. He tried to send back something soothing but knew he failed. 

”She is my mate and Lady of Autumn.“ Eris replied, staring down the male in a way that had him squirming again. “You will address her as such even when she isn’t here.”

“Of course, Lord Eris. We’ve had a new Lady of Autumn now for almost three decades. She is very kind and capable. Arguably she does more work than she has to; I find that admirable.”

”I’ll pass on the compliment.” Eris ensured his tone conveyed the discussion was over. “Shall we continue?”

 Hurbert held up his fingers. ”Actually, Lord Eris-“

”You are testing my patience, Hurbert.” Eris could feel the flames growing in him. “If you want to flatter my mate you may do so on your own time.”

Despite the older male shrinking back in his chair, he continued. 

“My point is, we simply have some concerns.“ 

Azriel spoke before Eris could. ”And what might these concerns be?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Kelvin three seats to the left spoke up. He looked at Eris with a knowing smile and a glint in his eye. Eris trusted him- but the male was as messy as some of the females of the court when it came to gossip and knowing secrets.”

”I want it on record that I, myself, have no concerns High Lord.” 

Kelvin brushed back his short red hair. A signal to Eris that this topic had been discussed before without his presence. He felt his blood start to boil. 

“Nor do I.“ Dresden added. 

Elden, the second oldest male at the table, looked to be sweating nervously. He liked Elden, trusted him since he treated the tenants of his land and the lesser fae well even when his father was alive. He was staring at Hubert. 

“Hurbert, maybe this topic is best suited for a different time.’ He said softly. 

Hurbert turned red in the face. “We have been putting off this topic for thirty seven years.” He turned his round red face to Eris. “High Lord, you’ve been blessed with two bonds. Which is a sure sign that the Mother herself favors you. And yet-“

“Yet what?” Eris said each word slowly and with venom that had the governors closest to him pushing their chairs back.

“You don’t have an heir.” 

The fireplace, which had been empty, came to life behind him. 

“And what consequence is it to you?” Eris leaned back in his chair like a snake waiting to strike. “Carefully consider what words leave your mouth next, Lord Hurbert.”

”It is a valid concern.” He replied weakly. 

“I didn’t realize how I am fucking my mates were anyone's concern but my own.” 

That only seemed to fuel Hurbert’s frustrations. He spoke louder this time. 

“The Cauldron has blessed you with a female. A beautiful, court trained high fae mate.” The glass of water started to steam from the heat Eris began to radiate at his words. “Your mother had three children in the same time frame, and she was simply a wife. The concern is that The Lady’s endeavors may be too ambitious, that she has lost sight of her courtly duties.“ 

Azriel was on his feet, shadow whirling. His knife was already in his hand. “Watch your mouth.”

Hurbert rose to his own feet. Gone was the semblance of weakness he had with Eris. His face skewed into pure disgust as he looked at Azriel. 

“What would a low born Illryian understand about the importance of an heir?”

Eris stood as well. “You’re out of line Graham.” His High Lord voice boomed throughout the room. “This is the last warning I will give you. Silence yourself before I make you.”

Hurbert, somehow redder, looked at Eris with sneer. “Am I out of line? The truth is that so called Lady of Autumn slinks around the house fucking that animal where ever they please like a whore. 

He pointed to Azriel. Then he pointed to Eris. 

“Maybe it is you who has lost sight of the duties to this court, High Lord. If she spent half the time on your cock as she does his, you’d have an heir by now. Or do you plan to follow your father’s lead by letting another breed your wife instead.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“And then,” Eris paused for a moment. “I set him ablaze.”

Az watched you carefully the whole time Eris spoke. He was attuned to every subtle shift in your expression. He sent extra shadows to help keep you calm. But you were surprisingly a statue, still and enraptured with every word Eris spoke. 

“I do not remember much of it. I was too enraged to think.’ Eris continued, his tone turning cold. “He was a pile of ash in an instant. I then commanded everyone else to answer if they had so called concerns or comments about my mates. None of them did.” 

“If they had, they would have been mine to deal with,” Az muttered, more to himself than for you to hear. 

Eris sighed. “I did not want to tell you, love. But you are correct. You deserved to know.” 

You finally blinked, your face still expressionless as you tilted your head slightly. 

“Do you want a child?”

Az knew Eris paled without even looking at him. Children were not something they had discussed with you. Even worse, Az remembered when he and Eris talked about it. Eris had said he was actually thrilled his mate was a male. He didn’t want younglings- he didn’t want to risk becoming like his own father. Nothing Az said deterred him of that opinion.

Then they found you.

But Azriel also knew what you weren’t saying. You left the bond open. All your emotions bubbling under the surface were pushed to him. He could feel you question your own worth. That this is what the court really thought of you. He could envision your embarrassment at the comment that fae had made about you and himself. How people must whisper behind your back for how brazen you were. Az tried to push back his love for you even if it felt like it wasn’t working. 

“It isn’t about what I want,” Eris finally answered. 

“If the court wants an heir, should we not try to give them one?” you ask slowly.

Az felt his blood boiling. “It doesn’t matter what the court wants.”

“I am not a fool, Azriel.” You looked at him with so much sadness in your eyes. “If it is important to the citizens of Autumn, then as their Lady it is important to me.”

“It was one male,” Eris snapped. “A foolish one who clung to the rules of my father. This court doesn’t need an heir. Nor will anyone force you to carry one.” 

“But what if I wanted to?” You whispered. 

Az finally looked over to Eris. He was as pale as he expected. His gaze dropped to the hand around his drink- Az was shocked Eris hadn’t broken it yet. Eris didn’t reply and he felt you turn your gaze to him. 

“And you Az?”

“Out of the question.” He winced at himself for how harsh his tone was. And how you recoiled. “It’s too risky. There is half of a chance the babe would-“

His voice cracked and he swallowed back tears. Images of Feyre slowly dying flashed in his mind. He could hear Rhys’s screaming and a flash of Nyx, so tiny and unresponsive in Mor’s arms. 

He took a deep breath. 

“The baby could have wings. I won’t risk your life like that. I can’t do that to you.” 

A pause. Then you asked, “so neither of you want children?”

“Do you?” Eris asked. 

A mix of emotions flickered in the bond from you. 

“I don’t know,” you looked down at your hands. “Not right now. But if neither of you want a baby then does it truly matter?” 

“It isn’t,” Eris paused again and took a long swing of his drink. He sighed. “I would need time. I am open to children but I would need time. I do not want my past to haunt my children.” 

“But if,” another flood of emotions came through from you. Feelings of worry about Azriel. 

“I would treat any child we have as my own,” Az said firmly. He pushed it through both bonds as well. “You are both my mates. A baby doesn’t have to be of my actual blood for me to love them. I mean that.” 

“Okay.” 

You stared down at your hands. Moments passed and the emotions from earlier resurfaced in the bond. 

“Does everyone really think I’m a whore?” You whispered and your face crumpled. 

“If they did, they would not be alive long enough for it to matter.” Eris’s words were sharp and venomous. “I commanded the governors in that room for a reason. That male said what he did because he thought he could get a rise out of me. But he forgot I am still a Vanserra and he suffered the consequences of that.” 

“He should have suffered more,” Az hissed. 

He was still just a little put out Eris didn’t allow him to end that male’s life. That male had undermined Azriel since the beginning. It was an honest surprise that it took him this long to say something that crossed the line for all of them. Az understood that Eris lost control, but it didn’t make it easier. 

“The people of this court adore you,” Eris said softly and drew Azriel out of his thoughts. “There is not a person in his House who thinks ill of you.”

“I know but,” you wiped your eyes and a laugh escaped you. “I probably have fucked you both in every room of this house.”

“Not every room,” Eris said. 

His statement broke the tension, you bursting into a laughing fit over it. When things settled he and Eris promised to not withhold information this severe again. You were right; you could handle it. Even if Eris and Az both felt you shouldn’t have to.

[gnabhanji04]

“everyday it will rain” part 1:

pairings: bf!bangchan x gn!reader

genre:angst,heartbreak,

exes to lovers , second chance romance

Warnings: talks of depression

Summary: you and chan broke up after 4 years. you wrote one last goodbye text to him wanting to get back to the way it was, hoping he would respond.

Notes: finally finished writing this after my horrible writers block lmaao we are sooo back! Hope u all enjoy and let me know what you think and what I can improve:))

Tags: @channiesbaby1433 @zerillia @astrolexi @wishpid :))

You and chan have officially broken up after 4 years of dating. nothing really extraordinary happened between you guys. you guys just decided it would be best to part ways since chan is going on tour with the boys soon. you weren’t sure about long distance. you were scared it was going to affect your relationship in the end.

It’s been 2 weeks since the breakup and you’ve been miserable than ever, you were in the darkest point in your life. you couldn’t get up from bed, you couldn’t make food, you were unable to do normal everyday things. almost everything you see and touch reminds you of him.

~fri may 2nd 2025~

3 weeks gone by, you start to feel slightly better than you were before. you haven’t thought about chan that much at all. as you were done shopping, you got in your car and turned on your radio. the radio started playing a familiar tune, you recognized that tune before. It was a bruno mars song you and chan used to play in the car when you were together. It was called “it will rain” by bruno mars,

the song began playing with the words “if you ever leave me baby, leave some morphine at my door”. every word, every letter, every verse, you remembered how the whole song went. you and chan used to sing it together. you guys would take turns as a duet. he would sing the first verse, you would sing the second verse, then you both scream out the words together while holding hands. It was a beautiful moment you would never forget. chan would always tell you how beautiful you sang.

“Cause there will be no sunlight if I lose you baby and there will be no clear skies if I lose you baby”

when the chorus started playing you started tearing up again, reminiscing of all the moments you guys spent together. but you were also listening to the lyrics closely and you resonated a lot with it. there wouldn’t be no sunlight without chan, without him the sun never shines. there wouldn’t be no clear skies, everyday it would rain.

when you arrived home you couldnt stop crying, you turned off the radio, got out of the car and grabbed your groceries. and as soon you rushed inside the house you couldn’t take it anymore. you threw the bags on the ground and started bawling uncontrollably you missed him so much, it hurts not seeing his face everyday, it hurts not getting to hold him and never letting go, it hurts not being to say I love you anymore.

you wanted to text him and say how much you missed him, how much you missed his touch and how you’re dying to go back to the way it was. you decided to text him one last goodbye before you lay down.

Channie

Y/n

Chan hi..it’s me

you’re probably never gonna see this cause you might have me blocked but I just wanna say I miss u and I wanna go back to the way things were between us

I miss us

Pls talk to me

…

you went to put your phone down at first and then you heard a ring. it’s from chan.

*incoming message from channie*

Stay tuned for part 2

[merrybloomwrites]

When The Wolves Come Out (Chapter 5)

Story Summary: When Y/N gets hired to play drums for One Direction, the last thing she expects is to find herself as part of their pack. Especially since it seems that they don’t want her there. Only time will tell if they’ll accept her, or if the omega will have to deal with rejection from the others.

Chapter Summary: Things begin to shift between Y/N and her band mates, and she isn’t sure how to feel about the change.

Previous Chapters: one, two, three, four

Word Count: 1.7K

Tags/CW: omega verse, omega reader, alpha Harry, alpha Zayn, alpha Louis, beta Niall, beta Liam, poly, panic attack

AN: Thank you to everyone who reaches out about how they’re enjoying this series and what they want to see included. I love your ideas and though I do have an outline of how this will go, your feedback in definitely helping my shape the story!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you wake up the next morning you lay in bed for a while. The bus isn’t moving so you’ve likely already made it to the venue for tonight. You hear movement and voices from the kitchen so at least a couple of the boys are already awake. You have no desire to see any of them right now, but your rumbling stomach has other plans.

Slowly you drag yourself out of bed and head to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Harry says with a smile.

“Morning,” you reply, curt but polite.

“Coffee or tea this morning?” Zayn asks.

This throws you off. Sure they’ve always been nice enough, but never have they offered to make you anything, even if they’re already making it for themselves.

“Tea, please,” you manage to squeak out. Still keeping an eye on the others, you sit on the bench. The three of you sit in awkward silence until the kettle boils, and Zayn pours three mugs of tea before placing them on the table. He adds a little bit of milk and sugar to one of the mugs and slides it over to you.

Cautiously, you take a small sip. You’re pretty particular about how you take your tea, and you’re shocked when it tastes just right.

“How did you know what to put in mine?” You ask.

Zayn looks confused for a moment and then replies, “I’m honestly not sure. Guess I’ve seen you make it and just remembered. Is it okay?”

“It’s perfect,” you answer, and Zayn smiles shyly, releasing pleased pheromones.

“Morning everyone!” Liam says as he cheerfully enters the room. “I feel like some real breakfast. Who’s hungry? Y/N, breakfast?”

You’re once again thrown off by being included so clearly, but you accept this offer. Just as Liam starts plating food, Niall and Louis join.

If Liam, Harry and Zayn’s attitudes towards you have changed overnight, so have Louis and Niall’s. But they seem to have gone the opposite way. There’s an air of guilt, and it seems the first three are trying to be nice to make up for the way they treated you, while the other two are distancing themselves even more.

All of this is confusing, both to you, and to your inner omega. All throughout breakfast you’re watching the boys, trying to figure out their next moves, and wondering if what happened last night really was a wake up call of some kind for them.

“I’ll get that for you,” Harry says when you’re finished, and he picks up your dishes and takes care of them.

“Thanks,” you say. “And thanks for the tea and breakfast. It was nice.”

Before anyone can say anything else, you get up and go back to your bunk. Your mind is swirling with what just happened. Sure, all you’ve wanted for months is them paying attention to you. You wanted to be included.

Instead you got rejected. Pushed aside like you didn’t matter. And it hurt. As much as you tried to hide it, or play off that you were fine, you were hurting. It made you sad to be so ostracized, and they caused your omega literal pain.

One meal with half of them being extra nice won’t fix this.

“Y/N,” you hear Liam say. Poking your head out you find him and Zayn standing in the aisle between bunks, and he says, “We were going to head out and hang in the park across the street for a bit. Wanna join?”

“No thanks. I could use a shower. Think I’ll head into the stadium early, probably better than the bus.” An honest and convenient excuse.

“Alright, see you later,” Zayn says and the two of them turn to leave. Once you’re sure they’re gone you grab your things and make your way into tonight’s venue. A staff member gives you directions and you head to the rooms set for the band to get ready.

Stadium showers aren’t ideal, but as expected, it’s better than showering on the bus. You spend the rest of the day before the concert with the backing band, and since there are multiple shows here you’re given a hotel room. It’s nice to have some distance from the boys for a couple of days.

This is how it goes for the next couple of weeks. You stay away from the boys as much as you can, but when you’re forced together on the bus, Harry, Zayn, and Liam do everything they can to try and include you. Niall and Louis remain distant.

You fear that it could cause a rift to form between them. On the drive from St. Louis to Chicago you overhear Harry ask, “Why are you still fighting this so hard?”

There’s silence for a moment, but then you hear Louis reply, “Honestly, I’m not even sure anymore. Maybe it’s a control thing. Like we didn’t get to choose her. They just chose for us.”

“But we can choose. Liam and Zayn and I, we all chose her.”

“But Simon sent her here. This is his plan.”

“And? Yea, it always sucks when he gets his way. But Y/N is a wonderful person. And you shouldn’t rule her out just to spite Simon,” Harry states.

It’s quiet for another minute, before Louis says, “I didn’t think of it that way. Didn’t realize that’s what I was doing. But I think you’re right. I’m fighting so hard so that Simon can’t win.”

“And hurting Y/N in the process.”

“I’ve been a terrible Alpha,” Louis says quietly, his voice full of regret.

“We’ve all been pretty terrible pack mates,” Harry adds.

“I promise to do better,” Louis says.

“What about Niall? He’s still pretty opposed,” Harry asks.

“I think Niall is following my lead. And he’s nervous that he’ll be pushed aside if he have a pack omega.”

“So we have to reassure him that won’t happen.”

“I’ll talk to him next time I get a chance,” Louis says.

There’s movement that sounds like them getting up, and you duck back into your bed so you don’t get caught eavesdropping. Once again your mind begins to swim with these revelations.

You understand Louis’ perspective, and you feel for him. It’s no secret that these boys have been controlled over the years, and it’s natural that they’d fight back to try and regain some of that control. But did you have to get caught in the crossfires?

And then you think about Niall. And you get his perspective as well. Probably more than Louis’. Because if another omega had joined the Jonas pack and taken some of the attention that had been yours for years, you’d have been upset too.

You mull things over a bit longer and decide that if they can make an effort to do better, you can try to forgive them.

So when they ask you to join them for a breakfast out the next morning, you reply yes without hesitation. Everyone’s being nice, though Niall is still keeping his distance and Louis is giving off uncomfortable vibes. You can tell that he’s thinking about his conversation with Harry and he’s trying to figure out how to act around you now.

Overall it’s a nice breakfast, and you finally start to feel like you fit in with the rest of them. A perfect show that night has you feeling on a high, and getting to sleep in a real bed at a hotel rounds out this great day.

The next morning you decide to head out into Chicago. There’s no show that night so your day is wide open. You’ve been to Chicago before so you’re not worried about going out alone.

What you didn’t account for is your recent rise in fame. When you toured with the Jonas Brothers you would get recognized. But people would just say hi, maybe ask for a photo, tell you how much they love the band.

You figured it would be the same now. But you’d underestimated the One Direction fan base. As you take your walk you notice some heads turn. Soon enough people are calling your name and saying hi, just like you’re used to.

But then the number of fans steadily grows, and before you know it you’re surrounded by people calling out, trying to get selfies, asking where the boys are, and getting way too close for comfort. You’re surrounded, and while you keep control of your expression, internally you’re struggling.

You begin to panic, and as you pick up on some strange alpha scents, your omega freaks out as well. Black spots swim in your vision and your heart begins to race. More and more voices add to the din, and you work on autopilot, saying you have a meeting you have to get to and gently pushing your way out of the crowd.

Quickly you make your way back to the hotel, and even though you’re away from everyone, you can’t shake the intense feelings that have settled in. You make it back to your floor of the hotel, and as you fight with your room key another door opens, causing you to jump.

“You alright?” Niall asks.

Despite your best efforts to tell him you’re okay, no sound comes out. You wonder why he’s swaying until you realize it’s you who’s unsteady.

“I need some help!” Niall calls when he realizes how serious this is.

“What’s wrong?” Liam asks as he rushes into the hall.

“I don’t know, I just found her like this. Is she dropping?”

“Shit, I think you’re right,” Liam says.

“Then doesn’t she need an alpha?”

“Yea, but Harry and Zayn are out,” Liam informs him.

Another door opens, and you look up to see Louis walking towards you, his gaze serious and intense. Without a word they betas move out of his way, and the alpha scoops you up bridal style. “You’re okay,” he says. “You’re safe here.”

And your world goes black.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Thank you for reading! I’d love to hear your feedback, and lmk anything you’d like to see in this story!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event.

Despite All My Rage I'm Still Just a Rat In a Cage

Prompt: Locked Door | Word Count: 3335 | Rating: M | CW: Kidnapping/Hostages, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Injuries | POV: Eddie | Relationship(s): Steddie | Tags: Post S4, Future Fic, Famous Eddie, Teacher Steve, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Finding Themselves in a Predicament, Getting Together, With a Drastic Nudge

Also on ao3.

It's day three. 

At least, Eddie thinks today is day three. But he's not certain. Mainly because he doesn't remember how he got here in the first place. He went to bed, then woke up here, kidnapped and drugged. At least he assumes so, because things were fucking fuzzy at first, and now he's been stuck in this dark, dingy, slightly damp room. 

There's holes in the ceiling, letting beams of light filter through at certain times of day, but screaming for help hasn't seemed to produce any results. His throat is just scratchy and raw. Worse than playing a week of shows straight.

He never hears anything from outside. No street noise. No sounds of life.

Surely people are looking for him. His friends, his band. Wayne. The media, in general.

"Eddie," comes the voice over a crackling walkie talkie mounted out of his reach. The voice is disguised in some way, and sounds almost inhuman.

He's sick of the creepy disembodied voice. They never tell him anything. Just taunt him, trying to make him submit.

Never. He'll fucking never. He'll die first.

"Just kill me or let me go!" he screams, rolling over onto his knees, struggling to stand. If this was a ransom mission, it's gone on too long. He's not sure what the end goal is, just that he's being kept.

"Calm down," the voice says. "I have a present for you."

Eddie doesn't want anything from this asshole besides his freedom.

"Since you're so lonely. All those songs, all that pain, all that longing," he says, and Eddie doesn't know what the fuck they're talking about. He seems like a loner in public, but that's not true. Not outside of his stage persona.

He has a lot of people in his corner. 

The door starts to open for the first time, and Eddie's ankles are chained together, so he can't move fast, but he tries his best. There's no time. The door opens, a man with a burlap sack is shoved into the room, and then the door clangs shut again. Heavy locks turning. 

The guy is shoeless, only wearing a pair of shorts. His hairy chest on display, and he looks like —

No. No, no, no. 

Eddie reaches up and yanks the sack off his head, and lets out a pained whine. He shouldn't be here, and he put up a fight not to be, clearly. His nose is caked with dried blood, and his left eye has a painful looking bruise forming underneath it. 

Eddie's heart sinks. 

"Steve," Eddie says, taking a step closer, hands cupping his cheeks, "Harrington? Can you hear me?"

"Eddie?" Steve asks, and then just starts crying. Eddie's gonna kill whoever is responsible for this. It's one thing to snag him, with the hope of getting a payday or whatever. But invading Steve's life? Hurting him like this? That's unforgivable, and they will fucking pay if it's the last thing Eddie does.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks, checking him over as best he can. They've done this before, after Vecna, and he hates that he has to do it again now. Steve never deserved another ounce of physical pain.

Steve shakes his head, and it was a dumb question. Of course he's not okay. 

"I went out to get the paper," he says, "I just stepped on my porch."

"I know," Eddie says, even if he doesn't. He has no idea how he was nabbed.

"They grabbed me."

"More than one?" Eddie asks.

"Yes. I think. I don't know. It had to be right?"

Eddie doesn't know, but he takes off his jacket, and moves to drape it over Steve's shoulders. He can't put it on better than that, not with his hands bound. But it's reminiscent of days gone by. Back when they were healing from that shitty Spring Break. When they both needed help to do lots of things for a while.

When he turns him, there's a key taped in the small of Steve's back, with a note. Eddie is gentle with the tape, not wanting to cause him any more pain. Though, he knows tape is nothing compared to what he's already gone through. 

The key is to the cuffs, he's sure of it. 

He frees Steve's hands, and then tries the lock on his own ankles, just in case it works for both.

It does. 

His raw ankles are grateful when the cuffs fall loose, but he's cautious when he unfolds the note. It's the ramblings of someone very out of touch with reality, and Eddie reads it three times trying to understand. 

His songs were too sad, and they wanted him to have the one thing he couldn't have?

And that's…Steve?

They've never, they're friends. Just friends. Old friends. And now they've both been taken hostage because someone musically illiterate they think Steve is the thing missing from Eddie's life.

Steve's in Eddie's life, and Eddie realizes now that's what caused this. Seeing them out and about, as friends, made this psycho snap for whatever reason.

This is all Eddie's fault, and he doesn't know how to deal with that.

They sit on the floor, and at least Eddie's convinced that Steve's okay, now. He looks better than he did when he was thrown into the cage. The door locking behind him. 

It's easier, having someone else in here with him, especially someone he knows as well as he knows Steve. He just wishes Steve wouldn't have gotten dragged into this, he's suffered enough bullshit over the years. He deserves his quiet life, with his classroom full of little kids that are surely missing him like crazy.

Eddie's not sure who will be the bigger news story: Famous Musician, who is a little rough around the edges or the All-American Teacher, who looks like Steve does. 

He wonders if their disappearances will be connected. If the media will even put together that they know each other.

Nancy will. Robin will. Henderson. Erica. The band. Taking Steve is going to throw up so many red flags that none of them will be able to ignore it. Eddie disappearing off the grid for a while? Maybe they could explain that away. Steve, though? No fucking way. 

This dude just fucked up, and Eddie laughs to himself. As much as Eddie hates that Steve's been dragged into whatever the fuck this is, involving someone as well-loved as Steve is gonna be the downfall for this asshole. Fucking good. 

"Tell me again how it happened," Eddie requests.

"I went out, and then I was grabbed. I fought them, took an elbow to the face," Steve says. He's told Eddie over and over.

"And they said sorry," Eddie says.

"They said sorry," Steve confirms. It makes no sense.

The door to the bean hole slides open and another bag of fast food is tossed in. It's scary how well they know him from their stalking. No matter what they drop off, it's something he'd order, customizations and all. 

When he opens these, they even got Steve's burger right. No tomatoes.

It's unnerving. 

Eddie's jolted awake by the speaker crackling to life. 

"If you'd just get on with it, you could go, you know?" he asks, and Eddie doesn't know what he's talking about. 

"What the fuck are you talking about? Just open that door and face us like a goddamn man, if you're so powerful. If you think you can take us. Try."

"That's not what this is," he says, voice steady, as if his feathers are never ruffled, "it's not about me. It's about you, both of you, making it right with each other."

Making it right with each other? They aren't fighting, they've never been fighting, not since Eddie's whole world turned upside down. Literally.

"We're good. Look at us? Are we fighting? You've made a mistake. Let Steve go. People are gonna be looking for him, and when they find you, you're gonna wish they didn't."

Eddie believes that fully. If they don't want to experience the full wrath of Nancy Wheeler, they'd better backtrack, fast. 

The speaker cuts out, and Eddie slumps back again. 

"Wheeler is looking for you," Eddie says, "Buckley. All of them. I know it."

Steve nods, "Yeah, probably. We knew you'd holed up somewhere, Wayne called. Looking for you, thinking maybe you'd decided to camp out with us for a while. He said he was getting the runaround from the boys and didn't like it. I mean, I didn't expect that this is what happened. I'm sorry we didn't round up a posse."

Eddie laughs, "I'm not mad you didn't assume I'd been held captive. That's quite the leap to make. We're experts in otherworldly things, not human monsters."

"Yeah, I guess," Steve says, and Eddie squeezes his thigh.

"They'll find us," Eddie reassures, and Steve just nods.

The sliding door to the outside, where the food is thrown in, is opened and closed again. Eddie hears it. And when he grabs the bag that thudded hard on the ground, it's not what he expected. Instead of food, there's a bottle of lube. 

"Is this a fucking joke?!" Eddie screams, "What's it for? For you to continue fucking us, for what?!"

The speaker crackles on, "I'm not gonna fuck you, you idiot."

"Then what—" Eddie starts, when Steve speaks up.

"It's for us. Right? You want us to…?" Steve asks.

"I knew one of you would be smart. I should have expected it to be the teacher, I suppose."

"You're a sick fucker!" Eddie shouts. They're friends. And they definitely aren't gonna fuck for this sicko. If they were gonna do that, it would have happened years ago. It didn't. Such is life. 

"Eddie," Steve says, pulling on his pant leg from his spot on the ground.

"We aren't fucking for his perversions," Eddie snaps, "don't worry."

"Eddie, just sit. Calm down," Steve says, and Eddie does. If Steve asks, he's gonna do whatever he wants. That's how this goes. He can sit and try to calm down. For Steve. 

They sit in silence for a while, Eddie trying to not be so goddamn pissed off.

"We could just do it," Steve says.

"No way," Eddie answers. "I'm not letting some sick fucker get his way to get his rocks off, or whatever. He's probably filming us. He can do whatever the fuck he wants to me, I'm Eddie Munson. Freak. Nobody will be surprised. But I'm not letting him get footage of you like that. You have a job you love. No way."

"Eddie," Steve says softly, but that's all he says. There's nothing else to say. They'll just sit here. 

Another day, and Eddie is plotting this fucker's death. He's never killed anyone, or anything, but he's gonna make an exception when he gets out of this shithole. 

Steve is leaning against his shoulder.

"We should just do it," Steve says. "Just fuck me."

He's said that fifty times over the past day. 

Eddie shakes his head. Again. Not happening.

This time, Steve huffs out a breath of annoyance, "I know you don't want to fuck me. I get it. Message has been received loud and clear. But, like, can you just suck it up and get us the fuck out of here? Take one for the team? Goddamn, Eddie. I'm tired."

Eddie stills. That's. That's not what's happening here.

"I'm not raping you for his pleasure, what the fuck?"

"You can't rape the willing," Steve says, and Eddie laughs, he can't help it. But Steve laughs, too, and Eddie can feel the tension drain from between them. 

"You're ridiculous," Eddie says, wrapping his arm around Steve's shoulder, patting his arm.

"I'm serious," Steve says, "like, I get that you're not really into it."

Eddie's into it. Eddie's always been into it. 

Eddie laughs, "I'm not not into it, Steve. What the fuck? I'm just not about to do this," he says, waving his hand between the two of them, "because of this. Because we're trapped here, okay? I'm not. If we didn't get there on our own, it wasn't meant to be."

Steve is quiet, too quiet, and Eddie looks over at him to see what's going on. Steve's just staring, like he's working through something in his head, before finally asking, "Did you? Did you want to? With me? When?"

When? Always. 

"That summer, after," Eddie says, because that's the truth. The first truth. "But you were trying to work through your feelings for Nancy—"

"Nance stayed with Jonathan!" Steve snaps. 

She did. That didn't change that Steve was working through it.

"I know, but that's where you were. Where your head was. Your heart. With her, not me."

Steve presses his fists into his eyes, "You're a fucking asshole."

Eddie laughs, "Well, yeah. That's the deal. The whole persona."

Steve laughs, pulling his hands away from his face, "I was interested. I thought you weren't."

The smile falls from Eddie's face. He feels it slip, and this is no longer a fun conversation to be having. Had they? Was there? Had there been a chance and neither one of them took it? Fuck.

"I was interested," Eddie says, "fuck, Steve. I was in love with you."

Probably still is. The asshole behind the curtain pulling the strings probably didn't misunderstand his lyrics at all. Eddie's just been in deep denial for years and years. Desperate to make sure he didn't fuck up their friendship. He couldn't afford to lose Steve totally.

"Still am, I suppose," Eddie admits, and the sound that comes out of Steve's mouth is full of pain and sorrow.

"We're both idiots," Steve finally chokes out, and presses his face into Eddie's shoulder. 

Well, no shit. Of course they are. Eddie could have told him that years ago.

Steve shifts, and rests his head on Eddie's shoulder, "We've wasted a lot of time. Can we not waste anymore?"

And fuck. Steve's asking, and Eddie wants to give him anything he wants.

"Okay. Okay, c'mere," Eddie says, and Steve crawls onto Eddie's lap, straddling his thighs.

And then he's kissing him. It's what Eddie's always wanted, but not here, not like this. Both of them are dirty, and neither have great breath. Eddie resents that this is how their first time is gonna go. Being watched.

Eddie slides his hand down the back of Steve's shorts, fingers just barely brushing against his hole. He reaches for the lube with his other hand, and hears the lock on the door click open. A heavy, echoing sound. 

He freezes. Nobody comes in, and maybe it's a trick. Maybe it's their doom. Maybe they should stay right where they are, doing this, because maybe it's the last chance they'll ever have to do it.

But if the door is unlocked, and this is their chance to escape, they gotta take it.

Eddie slides his hand out of Steve's shorts, and lifts his arms, letting Steve push himself to his feet, before pulling Eddie up after him. 

They walk towards the door, cautious, leery of what they might find on the other side. 

Eddie pushes on it, and it's heavy, but it swings open, revealing more of the same, just a larger area of an old warehouse instead of the room where they'd been holed up. He takes Steve's hand, and they head for the other door across the way. When he grabs the knob, turning, they are hit with bright sunlight. They both shield their eyes on instinct, before Eddie forces himself to look around. 

There's a car. His car, actually. Sitting along the deserted road. The keys are in the seat, on top of a note. Steve gets in and Eddie hits the automatic locks, locking themselves behind another set of doors, however, this one seems safer. 

Unfolding the note, in a marker, it just says: Congrats. You finally did it. Tell Steve sorry about the black eye. He put up more of a fight than we expected.

That's it. There's no other explanation. He hands it to Steve, and Steve reads it, and then just says, "Huh."

Eddie starts the car, they don't explode which he was only slightly concerned about, and pull down the dirt road. He has no idea where they are. Not what state, hell, maybe not what country, though he assumes they didn't go too far if his car is here.

"Do you recognize where we are?" Eddie asks, paused at the stop sign onto a highway.

"Not at all," Steve answers.

"Left or right?" Eddie asks, and Steve looks in both directions.

"Right."

Right it is.

They stop at the first motel they see. Ready to get cleaned up, ready to call someone, report that they're safe. First, they'll call home, then the police. In that order.

Eddie knows once that official call is made, all hell is gonna break loose. A media circus that he just isn't prepared for yet. They're safe. It can wait a second. 

Steve sits on the motel bed, and presses the touch tone buttons on the phone. It rings and rings, before it finally connects.

"Robin," Steve says. 

"Hey! Way to not check in after your flight landed," she says, very clearly annoyed. 

"My flight? Where did you think I went?" he asks, and Eddie leans close so he can hear, too. 

"Hawaii? With Eddie?" 

Eddie snatches the phone from Steve's hand, "Who the fuck told you that?" 

"Jeff," she says. "Are you not in Hawaii?" 

"We are not in Hawaii. I don't think," Eddie says, and looks at Steve, who shakes his head. There's no way they're in Hawaii. "We were kidnapped. Nobody was looking for us?" 

"Well, no? We didn't know we were supposed to be! Steve Harrington, did you get kidnapped and not tell me?!" 

"You thought Steve Harrington just skipped school?! Just didn't show up to work? And that didn't worry anyone?!" 

"It's Spring Break," she says, "I thought. Shit. I just thought he'd finally, that you'd both finally…nevermind."

Eddie hangs his head. Nobody was even looking for them. They could be dead in a warehouse and nobody would even know to start looking for longer than Eddie's comfortable with. 

Steve takes the phone back, "We're fine. I'll call you back."

Next, Eddie calls Gareth. No answer. No answer from Goodie either. Jeff, however, does pick up.

"Why the fuck did you tell Robin I took Steve to Hawaii?"

"Did you not?" he asks, like he's totally unbothered.

Of course he fucking did not.

After getting off the phone with Jeff, Eddie's now trying to decide if they were all duped by a psycho stalker fan that snagged him or if those three assholes are who locked them up together. In some sort of horribly misguided matchmaking scheme. 

"You think it was them, don't you?" Steve asks.

"Well, kinda. Why else would they lie to Robin? And Wayne. Something's not adding up, and if I find out they threw us both in a cage to try and get us to admit our feelings or whatever, I'm gonna kill them. That's not their business. And they hurt you."

Steve reaches out and grasps both of Eddie's shoulders, "I'm fine. Maybe we needed a little sense knocked into us."

"You didn't need a black eye," Eddie seethes. "Or another concussion."

"I'm fine, Eddie. Look at me. I don't have a concussion. I need a shower, yes, but other than that, I'm good. We're good."

"What would they have done if we'd called the cops first?"

Steve laughs, "Well. We could always call them and tell them that's exactly what we did, and see if they flinch."

Eddie cackles. Oh, hell yes. If it was them, he's gonna make them squirm. They deserve it.

Even if it's probably gotten him what he's always wanted: Steve.

Still. If he finds out this was them, they're gonna pay for it, dearly.

"Shower first," Eddie says, "retribution later."

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event!

Notes: Title from Bullets With Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins. (I wondered where this note had gone. I accidently put it on yesterday's fic, lol. Whoops.)

Did the CC boys kidnap them? I don't know. You tell me. 🤣

[the-kr8tor]

Yk like you did those amazing fae Hobie hc could you do one with TTN Hobie Because I just finished all of it and I’m SO HAPPY it a good ending I’m in love with your writing gonna go go pirate Hobie next then fae

TTN! Hobie oh how I missed you! 🥹 Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.2k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Bestfriend to lovers, Set in my Thread the Needle series, established relationship, headcanons, fluff!

Navigation

Thread the Needle Masterlist

Bestfriend! Hobie, who has been your mate for as long as you could remember, whose voice is the first and last thing you hear during the day.

You ring him up in the chilly mornings to wake him up because he almost always sleeps through his alarm clock. And in turn, he's the one calling you before bed, chatting about the day you two had as if you weren't attached by the hip throughout the day.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who helps you study your notes while trying to keep you awake by poking your cheek relentlessly until you swat him away as he chuckles.

He has definitely tried to teach you how to play the guitar, but you're distracted, eyes looking at his hands. He wonders why.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who hasn't seen you as more than a friend until he saw you laughing at his shitty joke that he couldn't even remember now when you're smiling at him like that.

While you've been in love with him longer, he fell harder for you.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who was afraid of you leaving the city and him after graduating high school. Even though he was worrying about it, he did everything to help you study for every entrance exam. And he was even more ecstatic when you passed almost every university you applied to. Moreso when you accepted the one that's still within the city. Oh the hug he gave you that day could rival all the hugs he gave you through the years.

Once when it suddenly snowed through the night, he knocked on your dorm room door, asking if you wanted to go sledding with him just like old times when you were kids. It ended with a snowball fight, giggles bouncing off the fluffy snow.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who saw you through your bad and good days, holding and talking to you during the awful ones, and making you laugh on most days, making it better.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who comforted you when a date stood you up, angry that someone could do that to someone who's as amazing as you. He told you that he'll never do that, he should've added the words ‘to you.’ but he just couldn't, mouth clamped shut, nerves slithering through him.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who even tried to set you up with a bandmate of his to help him get over you but it backfired when he saw you laughing and looking like you fancied the guy, he felt like the ground swallowed him whole and spat him out right in between you and his mate.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who was hiding his smile when you said that his friend was nice but not someone you see being with. All the while he finally noticed your lingering touches, longing stares and shy smiles whenever you talk to him. It's not something mates do, but he's still afraid to confess, worried that it'll ruin a decade of friendship with you. For now, he'll settle for those shy smiles and arms embracing him while he drives you to class on his motorbike.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who made you your own customised helmet with your favourite colour and numerous stickers that you'll love. The way your face lit up has been in the forefront of his mind ever since.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who looks at you like you're everything to him, like you hung up the stars in the sky for him. He loves you, he realizes.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who lets you sleep next to him after a night out or a gig you accompanied him and the band to. Just like when you were kids. But this time, it has his heart pounding loudly every morning he wakes up to your drooling face.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who has had enough of trying to hide his feelings for you and started unabashedly flirting at you, trying to get his point across without saying the exact words he needs to say. It hasn't worked yet while you wave it away, thinking that's just classic Hobie bantering with you. Unbeknownst to him, you're melting into a puddle.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who almost shuts down when you flirt back at him.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who was heartbroken when he saw you slouched in the medical tent while you're cradling your sprained wrist.

He was afraid when the spider bit him, but he was more afraid of leaving you alone in the world. So he took care of himself, drank a liter of water and some meds before waking up like a new man.

Bestfriend! Hobie, who tells you everything you dreamed of, he loves you, no buts, no ifs, no sugar coating it, “I love you” and he says it with his whole chest, walking the dreaded runway and kissing you right after. He was never one for the dramatics, but with you, he's ready to get his point across this time. And he was lucky enough that you said the same thing to him, kissing him like he dreamed of.

Boyfriend! Hobie, who lets you go and live your dream across the country even though he wants to be selfish and hold onto you.

Boyfriend! Hobie, who becomes your roommate, living in the same houseboat, sleeping in the same bed and waking up to your face every morning. He doesn't want to waste any time with you, spending almost every minute with you. And doing everything he together with you while you hold his hand as he etches your touch in his mind.

Grocery dates, record dates, picnics, amusement parks, and aquariums, you name it, and you've been to them with Hobie lovingly tugging at your hand.

He helps you pack your bags, slowly at that to spend more time with you.

Hobie drives you to the airport in Yuri's beaten up car, stays there with you until it's time for you to board your flight and holds you until the tears stop flowing. As he watches your retreating back, memories flood back to him, and when he finally gets home, houseboat empty and devoid of your presence, he lets himself cry.

You left your sewing machine with him, with a note that tells him that he should use it, that it's time for him to learn how to mend his clothes. He cries again after finding the note.

During his patrols, he uses the same machine your hands have touched to mend and sew the marks left on his suit. He smiles when he thinks that you'll be chastising him for the lopsided stitching.

Whenever you call, he drops everything and talks to you as if you're just beside him and not halfway across the world from him.

Birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays, you two never missed a single call even when the phone bill hurts both of your pockets.

Years after you've left, your things are still in the same place you left it, shoes in the rack, coat draped over the couch, and your sewing machine well taken care of, waiting for you, just like he has.

When you finally come back home, he feels like he could breathe again, his other half smiling up at him as he lounges on the roof that he immediately leaps off to embrace you just like has all those years ago.

It's as if you've never left as he kisses you like he had when he confessed backstage during your college fashion show.

[sulphuricgrin]

WIP Whensday

Last week I was tagged by: @hircines-hunter @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @theoneandonlysemla and @saltymaplesyrup thank you c: AND I'M TAGGING YOU BACK🫵

no pressure tagging: @pocket-vvardvark @firefly-factory @madam-whim @moriche @dirty-bosmer @sunlightpassingthroughthewater @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @changelingsandothernonsense

@scholarlyhermit @illumiera @yansurnummu @thescrolls-haveforetold @truth-01001001-liar @silly-little-diary @captain-of-silvenar

Almost Wednesday, but whatever. Sorry i've been kinda MIA. Emotional burnout is tiring, i'm trying to take care of myself first and foremost right now. I skipped last week in favor of putting out a new chapter. So this week, (because Kuri told me to) I'm gonna share 2 WIPS. I'm sorry if it's a lot to read. Each are 1k.

Before we start, as always, if you see a mistake, no, you didn't. It's WIPs after all ;-;

First WIP: I've started writing Miraak's first chapter in Fate-Touched, which I'm weirdly anxious about sharing, but fuck it. (I say while crying lol) I have thoughts to possibly rewrite this later, but that's future-me's problem.

-

Time did not pass in Apocrypha. It layered, like dust on untouched tomes, like mold beneath cracked parchment.

Miraak has learned long ago not to measure it.

There were no seasons here, no stars, no calendar to mark the creeping ruin of days. Light filtered in through nowhere. The sky, if it could be called that, rolls in shades of green. Books fell from nothing and towers breathed like great slumbering beasts. One could not measure time in a place that had no heartbeat. You could only endure it. 

And endure it he had. 

He no longer remembered the warmth of the sun, not truly. The idea of it remained, abstract and academic: golden heat on skin, the smell of pine-sap and stone after rain, a horizon that stretched beyond sight. He could recite the sensations. He could even summon phantom echoes of them in dreams. But when he reached for them in his waking mind, they fell apart like old scrolls in damp hands. 

But Miraak had learned patience. 

The patience of seeds buried in ash, waiting for the forest to burn itself away. The patience of a prisoner scraping at the same patch of wall for centuries, knowing that one day, even stone will remember the shape of his hand. The patience of the tapestry weaver who vanished into her threads, knowing that beauty takes time and vengeance even more. 

Hermaeus Mora had taught him many things. How to consume knowledge without choking on it. How to see with more than just his eyes. How to bend words into weapons. But perhaps the most cruel lession the Daedric Prince has offered was the nature of obedience ― how a man could serve and resist at the same time. 

He played the servant now. Worked with ciphers when it suited him. Spoke in half-truths, in carefully shaped lies. He walks the stacks of Apocrypha like a ghost, silent and watching, rarely interfering unless it was necessary ― and when it was necessary, it was final. 

To the Ciphers of Apocrypha, he was legend and warning in one. 

Some revered him: the First Servant, the first mortal deemed fit to help their Lord, forever here and powerful. Others feared him: the drowned man who whispered secrets into their ears and left them mad with knowing. The wisest among them understood the truth: Miraak could be helpful in this exchange of knowledge, but never fully trusted. He would manipulate them, use them, discard them without remorse if they prove no longer useful. He was not cruel for cruelty’s sake. He was methodical. 

He has patience. Not mercy. 

And in that patience, he schemed. 

Every so often, a new plan took shape. A path to escape. A possible weakness in Mora’s design taken advantage of. Yet each time, it unraveled ― whether by fate, or sabotage, or the Prince’s quiet disapproval. Once he had nearly breached the walls of the realm, a gate had opened. He had tasted the air beyond― and then, suddenly, it had collapsed, melted to ink. A book he’d written himself lay where the gate had been, rewritten in a tongue only he could read. 

A message. His leash tugged on. 

A warning. 

But he did not rage. Not anymore. Not after all these innumerable, never-ending years. He watched. He waited. Patience was a power in slow form, the kind of power Mora underestimated in mortals. (Though he could hardly be considered one, both with his dragon soul and seemingly immortal body.) 

Miraak had all the time in the world, with a body lost out of time. And when his patience bore fruit, when, not if, his prison cracked and the stars remembered his name―

Many would quickly understand what it meant to cage a mind that never stopped planning. 

For now, he watches the dullness of the Cipher’s Midden. He barely remembers a time when there was no such thing within Apocrypha, no mortals settling within this plane of Oblivion. But over the― over the centuries it slowly grew. Buildings slowly built in the area. Slowly one grew to three, to six, to ten, to more and more. It acted as a pseudo-capital for the ciphers and visiting cultists, and a hub for brave and greedy merchants willing to step into Oblivion to sell to disadvantaged ciphers. This was Oblivion, there was nothing friendly to mortal lives here ― no flora or fauna that was proper to sustain life. So they had to depend on visiting merchants or return to Nirn to restock. 

He stalks the upper levels of the Midden, his face covered by his mask. He preferred it that way when here or when interacting with the Ciphers and cultists in general. It left them in the dark how he really looked, making it easier to disarm them if he approaches one of them without it. Even in their little myths about him, the damn mask was how new generations learn to recognize him, and fear him. It was the simplest of intimidation tactics to use. Even now as he walks, the inhabitants of the Midden warily part a path for him.

Walking along one of the wooden bridges in the Midden, he stops to the side and looks down below briefly, where it was busy with several merchants pawning goods to needy ciphers. Eyes glance around not out of need, but boredom. He turns and walks off. There were two he’s seen before and one new one ― some blonde elf from what he could see, but thought little of it. 

The further he walks away though, his mind refuses to shed the idea of the new one. The more he runs the scene in his head. Tall, taller than everyone around them. In a sea of greens and blacks, merchants were often the biggest source of colour, but they were in deep, rich blues and golds. Something― something is telling him to go back and so he does, turning on his heels. 

But when he returns, he cannot find them. 

He shakes his head at such impulsivity, and decides to forget about them. 

----

-

Onto the second WIP: Uhhh, I wrote this in a parking lot on the laptop I carry around, because I knew I'd lose it/the vibe before getting home. I might not even use it honestly?? But- but I wrote it and it's a WIP. So have a kinda soft Dragonsong scene. :>

Also yeah, song is In A Week by Hozier

She finds him in her study, listening to one of the imprinted stones she had stashed. 

It was one of those rare moments where he felt exhaustion, and found respite here, listening to records of her voice. He sits back in her desk chair, body and mind feeling weary. Legs are outstretched, crossed at the ankles and his body slumped in the chair with arms crossed. His head leans back, eyes closed as he listens to the slow song and― he sighs when he hears a soft chuckle. 

Lifting his head, he sees her watching him, almost bemused by the sight of him. “You know this is my study?” Her eyes glance at the recorded image of her and a man singing and dancing. He hadn’t cared much about the image, not liking the scene of her in another’s arms, but he certainly doesn’t voice this. Both the image and the audio are slightly worn, the image slightly foggy and the audio quiet. Neither mention this happens from repeated watching, the magic wearing out. She looks over him again, and continues when he doesn’t reply to her question. “You seem tired.” 

He’s surprised a comment on his age doesn’t immediately follow that. He replies with nothing, instead unfolding his arms. His right stays in his lap as the left reaches for the imprint stone, turning the magic off, knowing the end will begin to stutter. 

She turns and he hopes she plans to leave him be. But, per usual, she defies expectations, instead pulling an additional chair up to the desk. She positions it in front of him, and sits so that they face each other. Without explanation, he feels that light bit of magicka from her and she begins to sing the song he had been listening to. 

Her voice is a far better substitute to that fiance of hers she had been with in the recording, even as she sings in her more masculine voice. As she sings, it is all her, with no other, shifting between voices. 

“I have never known peace

Like the damp grass that yields to me

I have never known hunger

Like these insects that feast on me”

He stays relaxed in the chair, but oddly cannot watch her. In such close quarters and this song, it feels too― He leans his head back again, and allows himself to enjoy it, but swallow the feelings that threaten to bubble. Her feet bump into his, proving how close they are, yet does not move away. He unconsciously separates his feet and hers is quick to come between, their ankles against the other. 

“A thousand teeth

And yours among them, I know

Our hungers appeased

Our heartbeats becoming slow”

She sings of death, yet of soft romance; her voice layering in a duet. It fits her too well, it fits them. His left hand fidgets with the imprint stone still in his hand on the desk. He hates how his mind, twisted as it was, thinks of their own bodies, perhaps somewhere on Nirn, composing into the dirt side by side one day. A sort of peace, when time finally gets him. Or perhaps they’ll kill each other.

“We lay here for years or for hours

Thrown here or found, to freeze or to thaw

So long, we'd become the flowers

Two corpses we were, two corpses I saw.”

Her right hand gently pulls the stone from his hand, and then her fingers come back to touch his. This was something he’s grown accustomed to, her almost experimental touches. But now? He starves for them. For her to never stop. Damn him for this want. 

“And they'd find us in a week

When the weather gets hot

After the insects have made their claim

I'd be home with you, I'd be home with you”

He moves to look at her again. She does not have her gaze on him, but on their hands. His mind tells him to pull away and yet, his body defies him. Instead, for the first time, his fingers moves to grasp her calloused hand. He curses her difficult to read expression. 

“I have never known sleep

Like this slumber that creeps to me

I have never known colour

Like this morning reveals to me”

This is foolish behavior. And feelings. 

But her hand doesn’t leave his. 

“And you haven't moved an inch

Such that I would not know

If you sleep always like this

The flesh calmly going cold”

Long, slender fingers simply shift in his grasp and lace their hands together. Her hands, slightly longer than his, but they fit just right. She looks almost curious at them and stops singing to give a short, low hum as she stares. 

This intimacy feels almost wrong ― far too gentle for either of them, but― but here they are, doing so. It makes his skin itch and his chest too heavy for this. This is foolish. His fingers twitch, a half-thought to pull away, but she gives the faintest of squeezes in response, as if to stop him, and her head just so barely tilts to the side. 

It’s in these moments of her rare silence that he even more rarely wishes to hear her babble her string of consciousness, listen to her unbidden thoughts. 

He hates that he― 

That―

Inwardly he groans over all of this. Of all people, after such a terribly long time stuck here, she is the one he pines over. What a terribly weak, pathetic word for it. 

He starves for her, yet drowns in her presence. It’s now been two years since he realised and he hates every bit of it. And by the gods, was she a tease; he cannot tell her wants, yet she does things like this. Would it just be easier to simply force her to stay in Apocrypha?

He does not know. 

Her thumb softly caresses the side of his forefinger and he’s ready to retreat, accept a loss in this odd battle.