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drippingghoneyy · 1 day ago

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No Touching - Vander x Fem!Reader

Summary: You worked at the bar, alongside Vander, for a few years now. Everyone knew the silent agreement that anyone who dared to get too close to you, answered to Vander. One man got a little brave, so Vander makes the rules clear.

Genre/ Pairing: Smut, Friends-to-lovers, Vander x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: MDNI!, SMUT 18+, Smoking/Drinking, Crying, BigDick!Vander, tension, teasing, dom/sub dynamics, pet names, piv, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, praise kink, overstimulation, creampie, oral sex ( f receiving),... (lmk if I missed any!)

Word Count: 9.2k.

Notes: I’ve been wanting to write about more people! So give me suggestions!

Reblog and like!! I read every comment, they make my whole day!

If you find any spelling errors, no you didn't. Grammarly don’t fail me now 🙂 If you don't like nsfw content, please don't read it!

The neon lights outside the bar flickered erratically, casting a sickly glow on the sidewalk. Inside, the air had the mingled scents of cheap whiskey, sweat, and the faint hint of burnt popcorn.

It was a Friday night, and the usual mix of locals and travelers packed the place, the chatter and laughter bouncing off the sticky wooden floors and stained walls. You glanced at the clock. It was almost closing time, and the anticipation of the weekend buzzed through the room like an electrical current.

You wove through the crowd, tray balanced precariously on one hand, delivering drinks with the ease of a seasoned dancer. The rhythm of the music pulsed in your veins, a silent metronome to the chaotic dance of your shift. The regulars greeted you with knowing smiles, and the newcomers with hopeful glances, trying to catch your eye. It was a game you played, flirting without meaning it, serving with a touch of charm that kept the tips flowing.

"Coming right up, sweetie," you called out to a customer, placing a frosty mug of beer in front of him with a flourish. The foam bubbled over the rim and he laughed, catching the overflow with his mouth. You winked in response, then spun away to grab the next round from Vander. He nodded in approval, a half-smile playing on his lips as he poured drinks with a practiced hand.

The children, the ones you had practically raised alongside the patrons, had already retreated to the back, their giggles and whispers echoing through the bar like a ghostly chorus. They knew the routine—once the sun dipped below the horizon on a Friday night, they had to make themselves scarce. They had their own world of tricks and games to navigate, leaving you and Vander to handle the adult one.

Vander's eyes met yours over the sea of heads, and you could feel the weight of his gaze even amidst the cacophony. His expression was a silent question, checking in to make sure you were okay. You nodded, a quick reassurance that you had everything under control, before diving back into the fray. The music grew louder, the laughter more raucous, and the lights dimmer as the night progressed. The energy was palpable, a heady mix of excitement and anticipation that fueled your every movement.

You loved weekend nights like this. The bar was alive with the throb of bass and the clink of glasses, the air thick with the promise of stories waiting to be told. Each person you served had a different tale etched into their features, their eyes telling silent narratives of triumphs and heartaches. You moved among them like a social butterfly, placing a gentle hand on a shoulder here, sharing a knowing smile there. Your touch was light, a whisper of comfort in the chaos.

But as the clock ticked closer to midnight, the atmosphere grew more volatile. A man, three drinks too many, began to leer at you, his gaze lingering on your curves in a way that made your skin crawl. He called you "sweetheart," and "babe," his voice slurred and too loud in your ear. You tried to ignore him, but his hand found your waist, his grip tightening as he leaned closer, his breath hot and unwelcome against your neck. Your smile faltered for a fraction of a second, and you felt a flicker of fear in your belly.

You searched the room for Vander, hoping he would notice, but he was busy with a rowdy group at the other end of the bar. The man's hand traveled higher, and you swallowed a gasp. But before you could react, a firm grip clamped down on his wrist, and you felt a jolt of relief as Vander's voice boomed over the din, "You don't wanna do that, buddy."

The man looked up, his eyes glazed and surprised, but the grip didn't loosen. Vander's smile had turned to a snarl, and you knew from experience that was the only warning he'd give.

You stepped away, heart racing, watching as Vander dragged the man to his feet and out of the bar, the crowd parting like the Red Sea for Moses. The music didn't stop, but the volume seemed to drop as the patrons' eyes followed the scene unfolding before them. You could hear the thud of fists and the grunt of pain outside, the sound of the man being taught a very clear lesson.

This wasn't the first time someone had overstepped, but it was the first time in a while. Usually, the regulars knew better than to lay a hand on you. You had an invisible barrier around you, a respect that had grown from years of serving drinks and smiles without ever leading anyone on.

They knew you were off-limits, even if they didn't know the full story. Vander had made sure of that, his protective aura as much a part of the bar's furniture as the stools and the pool table.

A few new faces would show up every week, not yet privy to the unspoken rule, and they'd try their luck. They'd leer, whisper sweet nothings, and maybe attempt to slip an extra dollar into your apron. But as soon as Vander caught wind of it, they'd be met with a glare that could cut through steel. It was a dance of dominance, a silent communication that sent the message loud and clear: don't touch what isn't yours. And when the music was too loud, or the whiskey too smooth, someone would forget the rules.

The man's hand had been like a brand on your skin, leaving you feeling dirty and exposed. You shivered, despite the warmth of the bar, and took a deep breath to steady your nerves. You could still hear the sounds of the scuffle outside, the thuds and grunts punctuating the night. The crowd had grown hushed, the tension in the air thick enough to slice with a knife. The music played on, but it felt like the bass was thumping in your chest now, a rhythm of fear and adrenaline.

Vander reappeared in the doorway, his knuckles red and raw, a smear of blood on his cheek. The man lay outside, a crumpled mess of pride and regret. The crowd, having witnessed the spectacle, returned to their drinks, murmuring among themselves but keeping a safe distance. They all knew the score—you weren't just another pretty face behind the bar; you were part of the fabric of this place, a sacred piece of its soul, and Vander was its fiercest protector.

The whispers grew louder as Vander approached, a silent wave of respect and fear rippling through the patrons. He'd sent more than one man packing with a bruised ego and a few bruised ribs. It was his way of reminding everyone of the unspoken rule—hands off. His eyes scanned the room, searching for any signs of dissent or discomfort, before finally landing on you. The fury in them softened as he saw the tremble in your hand, the way you gripped the edge of the bar like it was a lifeline.

You had become a local legend of sorts, the enigmatic woman behind the counter who served drinks with a smile but had a line no one dared to cross. It wasn't just Vander's protective nature that kept the peace; it was the aura that clung to you, a mix of sweetness and steel that everyone sensed. You were more than just the bar's employee; you were its heart, the reason some came back night after night. You were the dream they chased, the memory they clung to, the whiskey-soaked mirage that kept them coming back for more.

But tonight had been a close call, the man's touch a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the bar. You took a shaky breath, trying to shake off the feeling of his hand on your skin. Vander stepped closer, his bulk eclipsing the rest of the room. His hand reached out, not to touch you but to offer support, a gentle gesture that spoke louder than words. You took it, the warmth of his calloused skin grounding you.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the thump of the music.

You nodded, forcing a smile. "Thanks, Vander."

He nodded back, his eyes dark with anger as the crowd had returned to their conversations, the incident already forgotten, but the memory lingered in the air like the smell of spilled beer. Vander took your tray and nodded towards the back. "Take five. You've earned it."

You slipped through the kitchen, the clank of dishes and the sizzle of grease a stark contrast to the thumping bass outside. The children peeked out from their hiding spot, their wide eyes reflecting a mix of fear and awe. They knew the score, too. They'd seen it play out before, the silent standoffs and the not-so-silent brawls.

But it was the way Vander looked at you afterward that always sent shivers down their spines. It was a look that said, "You're safe. You're mine." And in that moment, you weren't just the bartender; you were the queen of the night, and he was your knight in faded denim armor.

You took a deep breath, the cool air washing over you like a balm. The scent of the kitchen—spicy and greasy—was a welcome respite from the suffocating tension of the bar. You leaned against the wall, feeling the roughness of the peeling paint against your skin. It was a reminder of reality, a grounding force amidst the chaos. You knew the look Vander gave you was one of concern, but it was tinged with something else—possession, maybe. You weren't just the bar's employee; you were a part of its soul, a piece of its very essence, and he was its fiercest protector.

You'd only been here a few years, but in that time, he'd made it clear that your safety was paramount. He'd thrown men out for less, men who'd been regulars for longer than you'd been old enough to drink. You knew it was because of what you served—not just the whiskey and beer, but the dreams and the comfort, the fleeting moments of companionship that made the hard days bearable. The touch of the man's hand was a violation, a breach of the unspoken contract between bartender and patron.

Straightening your apron and plastering a smile back on your face, you stepped out of the kitchen, the music swelling around you once more. You didn't look at the spot where the man had been, didn't acknowledge the hushed whispers of the patrons. Instead, you made your way back to the bar, your hand brushing against Vander's as you passed. It was a silent thank you, a promise of something unspoken. You knew you could never repay the countless times he'd stepped in to keep you safe, but the touch was all you had to offer in that moment.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of drink orders and laughter, the adrenaline from earlier slowly draining away. But the memory of Vander's touch lingered, a gentle reminder that you weren't alone. His eyes never left you for long, and every time you felt the weight of his gaze, you knew he was watching over you, making sure the invisible barrier remained intact. It was a luxury, that safety, one you hadn't had before you'd stumbled into this job, into his life.

And as the last of the patrons stumbled out into the night, the bar echoing with their drunken goodbyes, you couldn't help but feel a swell of gratitude for the towering presence that was as much a fixture of the place as the sticky floorboards.

You'd only been here a few years, but it felt like a lifetime. The bar had become your second home, the regulars your extended family, and Vander, well, he was more than just a co-worker. He was your rock, your shield, the person who had taught you to stand tall and never take crap from anyone.

You knew he had his own demons, his own reasons for being so protective, but you never asked. You didn't need to; his actions spoke louder than any words could. And as the final chords of the jukebox played out, the room empty but for you two, the silence was filled with the unspoken promise of camaraderie and protection.

The children had long ago retreated to their beds, the whispers and giggles replaced by the soft snores of the sleeping. Vander locked the door with a finality that was almost comforting, the heavy thud echoing through the room.

The neon lights outside cast a soft glow through the grimy windows, painting the bar in a palette of pinks and blues. You took a moment to appreciate the quiet, the hum of the fridge, and the ticking of the clock, the only sounds breaking the silence.

You wiped your hands on your apron, the fabric sticking slightly to your palms. The motion was automatic, a ritual performed countless times over the years. But tonight, it felt different—a declaration of strength, a symbol that you were ready to face whatever the night had in store.

You walked over to Vander, the floorboards creaking under your boots. His eyes searched yours, the concern in them unmistakable. Most people would have shrunk away from such a gaze, but in that moment, you felt an odd comfort in his fierce protection.

You looked up at him, your heart racing from the adrenaline of the evening. He towered over you, his face a mask of hardened steel. Yet, when he looked at you, there was a softness that only you saw. You leaned in, licking the pad of your thumb before gently raising it to the smear of blood on his cheek. Your hand hovered there for a brief second, a silent question in the air. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and you swiped the blood away with the tender care of an artist cleaning a brush.

The touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. You stepped back, the moment lingering, and then turned away to start wiping down the tables. The bar was a mess of spilled drinks and discarded peanut shells, but you tackled the task with renewed vigor, the need to keep moving a balm to your shaking nerves. Each swipe of the cloth was a declaration of normalcy, a silent protest against the ugliness of the world outside the bar's walls.

As you worked, you felt Vander's eyes on you, his presence a comforting warmth at your back. He didn't speak, but his silence was a conversation of its own, a wordless reassurance that he'd always be there, that you were safe. The tension slowly drained from your body as you fell into the rhythm of the task, the sound of the cloth swiping against the wood a soothing lullaby in the quiet after the storm.

When you had finished, the bar gleaming under the low lights, you turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but you could see the concern in the lines around his eyes. He took a step towards you, closing the gap between you. You didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, you took a deep breath and stepped closer, the air around you crackling with the energy of a thousand unspoken words.

His hand reached up, mirroring your earlier gesture, but instead of blood, he found your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the roughness of his skin. It was as if he was memorizing every contour of your face, committing it to memory in case the night ever came when he couldn't be there to protect it. You leaned into his hand, the warmth of his touch spreading through you like a warm embrace.

"I'm sorry, darlin'. I should've kept a closer eye on you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate within your very bones. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of distress, of fear. But all he found was a steely determination that made him proud.

You gave a small shake of your head, reaching up to cover his hand with yours. "It's okay, Vander. It's not your fault," you assured him, your voice steady despite the tremor you couldn't quite hide. "But, I appreciate you stepping in."

He nodded, the lines around his eyes deepening as he searched your face for any lingering traces of fear. "It's always gonna be my job to keep you safe," he said firmly, his voice a warm rumble that seemed to fill the space between you. "No one lays a hand on you unless you want them to."

There was a fierce possessiveness in his tone, a promise that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the kind of protectiveness that could be suffocating in the wrong hands, but with Vander, it was comforting. He had never crossed the line, never stepped too far, and you knew he never would. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt or discomfort, and when he found none, he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your forehead.

It was a gesture that was as surprising as it was tender, a gentle reassurance that you weren't just another body in the bar. You felt a warmth spread through you, a sense of belonging that was as potent as the whiskey you served. It was in moments like these that you realized just how much he cared, how deeply the bonds between you had grown over the years.

The silence stretched out, filled with the promise of more than just friendship. You knew it was there, the tension that had been building between you, a current that hummed just below the surface of every interaction. But you also knew that now wasn't the time to explore it. There were still dishes to wash, floors to mop, and a bar to close down. So, you stepped back, breaking the spell, and turned to grab the cleaning supplies.

"I'm fine, Vander," you assured him, your voice strong despite the tremble in your hands. "It's part of the job, I guess." You tried to laugh it off, but the sound was hollow, even to your own ears.

Vander's expression softened, his hand sliding down to yours, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of your hand. "It's never fine when someone puts their hands on you without permission," he said, his voice low and intense. "I shouldn't have let that happen."

He looked down at the floor, his jaw clenched, as if he was holding back a tide of anger. Then he looked up at you, his eyes searching your face for any trace of fear or upset. "I'm sorry," he murmured, the words heavy with regret. "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

The sincerity in his voice was palpable, and you felt your heart swell with affection for this gruff, protective man who had become so much more than just your boss. "It's okay," you repeated, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "But thank you for looking out for me."

Vander nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. He didn't need to say it; you could see it written all over his face—his regret, his concern, his promise to keep you safe. It was a silent vow, a bond forged in the fire of the bar's chaos, a pact that went beyond just employer and employee.

He stepped closer, his hand moving from your cheek to cradle your jaw, his thumb resting gently against your chin. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of fear, any hint of doubt. "You're more than okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the lingering buzz of the jukebox. "You're amazing."

The words hung in the air, thick with meaning, and you felt your cheeks flush. You knew he didn't dole out compliments lightly, and the fact that he was saying this now, in the aftermath of the incident, meant the world to you.

The air grew heavy with unspoken emotions, the bar's lights flickering in the quiet. For a moment, you just stood there, his hand on your face, your eyes locked on his. It was as if the world outside had ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the two of you, the beat of your hearts in sync with the fading music.

Vander's touch was firm but gentle, a contradiction that perfectly encapsulated his nature. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as his eyes searched yours. In that moment, you could feel the weight of his dominance, the power of his protective instincts that had just been on full display. Yet, there was something soft there too, a tenderness that you hadn't noticed before, or maybe you had just never allowed yourself to acknowledge it.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. "I don't ever want to see another man's hands on you like that," he murmured, the words a low, steady rumble. "You're mine to keep safe, and I won't let anyone take that from me."

You could see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his primal urge to claim and protect and his respect for your boundaries. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, the touch so light it was almost a question. You didn't pull away, your breath hitching at the intensity of his gaze. It was as if he was asking permission, giving you the power to decide the next move.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice a whisper in the quiet night. "But if you want more than just my protection... if you want me to touch you, to kiss you, to make sure that no one ever makes you feel that way again..." He trailed off, leaving the offer hanging in the air.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you considered his words. It was a bold move, one that could change everything. You knew what he was asking, what he was offering. And deep down, you knew you didn't just want it; you craved it. The safety of his arms, the warmth of his touch, the promise of his protection. It was tempting beyond belief.

You took a deep breath, your hand rising to cover his. "If that's what you want, Vander," you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. "If you're sure."

His eyes searched yours, the softness in them belying the steel in his spine. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, they held the weight of a thousand promises. "I am," he murmured, his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. "But only if you're okay with it."

The air grew thick with anticipation as you stared at him, the silence stretching out like a tightrope. You felt the heat of his hand, the warmth of his body so close to yours. The bar, the customers, the world outside—it all faded away until there was only the two of you, the thump of your hearts the only sound in the quiet.

"I am," you murmured back, your voice a soft echo of his.

Vander's eyes flared with something that could've been relief or desire—or both. His hand tightened on your face, and he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was both gentle and fierce. It was a kiss that spoke of protection and passion, of the bond that had grown between you over the years. A silent declaration that you were his to cherish, his to protect.

You melted into him, your hands sliding around his waist to pull him closer. The scent of whiskey and sweat clung to him, a heady perfume that seemed to intoxicate you. His other hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, holding you in place as if he never wanted to let you go. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if he was trying to erase the memory of the man's touch with his own.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of regret or doubt. But all he found was the same fire that burned in his own chest. "I never want to see another man's hands on you," he murmured again, the words a solemn vow. "I want to be the only one to make you feel this way."

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps. "Then it's a good thing I don't plan on letting anyone else touch me," you said, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. It was a bold statement, one that sent a thrill through you. But with Vander, it felt right.

He took a step back, his hands lingering on your hips. "But if you ever need me, if anyone ever tries to take what's not theirs..." He let the threat hang in the air, his eyes burning with a possessiveness that sent a thrill down your spine. "They'll answer to me."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken promise in his words. Vander was a man of his own set of rules, and protecting you was at the top of that list. It was a comfort, knowing that you had someone like him in your corner. But there was something else there too, a yearning that went beyond just keeping you safe. His thumb traced small circles on your lower back, a silent question.

You took a deep breath, looking up into his eyes. "I don't want anyone else's hands on me, Vander," you whispered, your voice shaking slightly. "Only yours."

His eyes searched yours, looking for any trace of doubt or fear. But what he saw was a spark of something else, something that mirrored the desire burning in his own chest. His hand slid up your back, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer. The kiss was slow and deliberate, a promise of things to come. His dominance was unmistakable, but it was tempered with a gentleness that made your heart ache.

He broke away, his eyes never leaving yours. "If we do this," he said, his voice low and gruff, "it's not just because of what happened tonight. It's because I want you, because I've wanted you for a long time, sweetheart "

You nodded, your heart racing. "I know," you murmured. "And I want you too."

Vander's expression softened at your words, the fiery protectiveness in his gaze morphing into something softer, yet equally intense. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his hand sliding up your spine to rest at the base of your neck. "We don't have to do anything tonight. Not after...this."

You turned to face him fully, looking up into his eyes. "I'm sure," you said firmly. "I want this. I want you."

He searched your face for a moment longer before giving a single nod, as if to say, 'If you're sure.' His hand tightened around your neck, the grip firm but gentle, sending a thrill through you. It was a silent assertion of his dominance, a promise that he would take care of you, that you were his. And for the first time in a long time, you didn't just feel safe; you felt desired, wanted.

He leaned in again, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was everything you'd ever dreamed of. It was as if the bar and all its troubles had disappeared, leaving only the two of you in the quiet, dimly lit room. His hand slid down to your waist, his other arm wrapping around you to pull you closer, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the coldness of the metal barstools. You melted into him, feeling the hard planes of his chest against your soft curves.

The kiss grew more urgent, his hand sliding down to cup your bottom, lifting you onto the bar. You gasped into his mouth, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His grip was firm, almost bruising, but it only served to make you feel more alive. You knew he was holding back, that he could crush you with his strength, but he never would. It was part of the dance, the push and pull that existed between the two of you, a silent conversation that had been building for months.

"Vander," you whispered, your voice trembling with need.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "You don't have to do this," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "Not after tonight. Not if you don't want to."

But you did want to. You wanted him to erase the feel of that man's hands with his own, to replace the fear with something else entirely. "I want this," you assured him, your voice strong. "I want you."

His gaze searched yours, all he found was the same burning need that reflected his own. He leaned in again, his kiss deepening, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the lines of your back. You arched into him, the softness of your body against his hardness. The bar was forgotten, the mess of the night left behind. There was only the two of you, the heat of your bodies melding together.

As the kiss grew more passionate, Vander's hands grew more insistent, his touch sure and confident. He knew exactly how to make you melt, how to make you feel like you were the only woman in the world. You could feel the tension in him, the restraint he was fighting to maintain. But tonight, you didn't want him to hold back. You wanted all of him—his strength, his protection, his passion.

"Please," you breathed against his lips, the word a plea.

He groaned, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over the hardened peak of your nipple. You gasped, the sensation shooting straight to your core. He took the sound as an invitation, his mouth moving from your lips to kiss along your jaw, his teeth grazing your earlobe. The bar was forgotten, the patrons a distant memory. There were only the two of you, the air charged with the electricity of a promise made and a need that had gone unspoken for too long.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "If you need me to stop, if it's too much, just say the word," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation of the bar.

You looked into his eyes, the softness there almost overwhelming. "I don't," you whispered, your voice a plea. "I need this, please…"

Vander nodded, his expression a mix of relief and desire. He kissed you again, his hand sliding down to the button of your jeans.

"Vander," you gasped, your body trembling with anticipation. His touch was firm but gentle, a stark contrast to the iron-willed man who had just defended your honor so fiercely. His fingers danced over your skin, unbuttoning and unzipping with a precision that spoke of his experience and control.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours. "You're sure?, last chance.." he asked one last time, his voice a low growl of need.

"Yes," you panted, your eyes never leaving his. "I'm sure."

With a final nod, he lifted you off the bar, his arms around your waist. He carried you to the back room, the sanctity of your shared space a stark contrast to the chaos of the bar. The room was small and cramped, filled with boxes of liquor and cleaning supplies, with a small cushioned chair, but in that moment, it was the most romantic place you could imagine. He set you down gently, his hands never leaving your body.

His kisses grew more urgent, his teeth nipping at your lower lip before he soothed the sting with his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, your hands fisting in his shirt as he unbuttoned it, revealing the hard planes of his chest. His skin was warm and rough, a stark contrast to the softness of yours.

You reached up to touch him, your hand shaking slightly. His muscles rippled under your fingertips, and you felt a thrill of power, knowing that this man, so strong and so fiercely protective, was yours to explore.

Vander's eyes never left yours as he carefully unbuttoned your shirt, his touch a gentle caress that belied the iron in his grip. He took his time, savoring the moment, his calloused fingers brushing against the softness of your skin. With each button released, you felt the weight of the garment slip away, baring more of yourself to him.

As he parted the fabric, his eyes trailed down your body, his gaze heated. But there was something else there too, a softness that made your heart race even faster. He was taking his time, treating you like something precious, something to be handled with care.

When the shirt was open, he took a moment to appreciate the sight before him. His eyes roamed over the curves of your breasts, the rise and fall of your chest as you breathed in anticipation. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, and kissed the hollow of your neck, making you shiver.

His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding the shirt down your arms. It fell to the floor with a soft whisper, leaving you in just your bra. He reached behind you, his movements precise and practiced, and unhooked the clasp. The fabric fell away, revealing your breasts.

The fabric pooled around your waist, leaving your breasts bare to his gaze. His eyes darkened with hunger, his pupils dilating as he took in the sight of you.

But it wasn't just about control—there was something tender there, too. A caring that was as palpable as the desire. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your skin as he took one peak into his mouth, the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive flesh sending shockwaves through your body.

His hands slid down to your hips, his thumbs digging in just enough to keep you in place. You could feel the tension in him, the need to claim you, to possess you utterly. But he held back, his movements a gentle dance of power and restraint.

As his mouth moved to your other breast, his hand slid down to your stomach, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing the soft curves. You trembled under his touch, the combination of his gentle care and the promise of his dominance leaving you breathless. His hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your open jeans to cup your sex. His eyes never left yours, watching for any sign of hesitation, any hint that you weren't ready. But all he saw was a desperate need, a reflection of his own.

Vander's dominance didn't just come from his physical strength or the way he wielded it. It was in his eyes, in the way he held you, in the possessive tilt of his head as he kissed you. His hand on your hip was firm, guiding you, but the way he touched your cheek was feather-light, a stark contrast that made your skin tingle with anticipation. He was a man who knew what he wanted, but he was also a man who knew how to ask for it without words.

His hand slid down your jeans, his grip tightening as he tugged them down your hips. He was urgent, but his movements were deliberate, as if he was savoring every moment. His eyes never left yours, as if he was looking for permission with every touch, ensuring you were as lost in the moment as he was. The denim hit the floor with a muffled thud, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He stepped closer, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of his body making you ache. His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, his touch gentle yet insistent. You could feel his restraint, the way his muscles coiled tightly as he held back, waiting for your consent. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of fear or doubt, but all he saw was the same fiery need that burned within him.

He stepped closer, his leg pressing between yours, the hardness of his thigh against your center making you gasp. His hand slid around to cup your backside, his fingers digging in just enough to make you aware of his power. But the way his other hand caressed your cheek, the way his thumb stroked your lower lip, was anything but rough. It was as if he was whispering sweet nothings with his fingertips, promising to cherish every inch of you.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his eyes devouring you as if you were the only thing in the world. "So soft, so sweet."

Vander's voice was a low rumble in the quiet of the room, the words sending a shiver down your spine. His hand traveled up to the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin just under your ear. His other hand remained on your hip, guiding you, controlling your movements with a gentle but firm touch. It was a dance of dominance and submission, one that you found yourself eagerly following.

"I'm going to make you feel so good," he promised, his voice a dark whisper, as his touch grew more insistent, his hand sliding between your legs to cup you fully. You were wet, soaking the fabric of your panties, and the feel of his palm against you was almost too much. His fingers slid under the elastic, his rough touch a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. You whimpered, your body begging for more.

He slid a finger along the edge of your panties, tracing the slickness that had gathered there. "You're so wet for me," he murmured, the words a dark praise that sent a shiver through you. His thumb circled your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you moan. "So responsive, so eager."

Vander's eyes never left yours, his gaze a mix of hunger and something softer, something that made you feel cherished. His voice was a low rumble, the kind that made your knees weak and your core clench with need. "You're mine," he murmured, the words a declaration of ownership that sent a thrill through your body. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing aside your underwear, his rough fingertips teasing the sensitive skin. His touch was firm, but not harsh, a gentle dominance that made you feel both safe and utterly claimed.

You moaned as his finger found your entrance, sliding in easily with the slickness of your arousal. He stroked you gently, his thumb playing with your clit in a rhythm that made your eyes roll back in your head. "So sweet," he whispered, his breath hot against your cheek. "So wet for me." His praises were dirty, but there was something tender about the way he said them, as if he was worshipping you, as if every part of you was sacred.

He slid another finger in, the sensation overwhelming as he curled them, pressing against that spot inside you that made your toes curl. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds that wanted to spill out, but his eyes never left yours, urging you to let go, to be as loud as you needed. "You're going to come for me," he murmured, the promise in his voice making your body tighten around his fingers. "And when you do, it's going to be because of me, because you're mine."

His hand worked you expertly, his thumb pressing harder, his fingers moving faster. You could feel yourself climbing, the tension in your body building. "Vander," you gasped, his name a plea.

He leaned in, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was as demanding as his touch. His tongue slid against yours, mimicking the motion of his fingers, driving you closer and closer to the edge. "Mine," he whispered again, his voice a dark promise.

And then you were falling, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. Vander held you through it, his hand never stilling, his kiss never breaking. He whispered sweet nothings against your lips, his praises turning into words of comfort as you rode out the waves of pleasure. "So good," he murmured. "So beautiful."

When you finally came down from the high, you were breathless, your body boneless against Vander's. His hand remained between your legs, his fingers still moving gently, keeping you on the edge of another climax. He leaned in, his teeth grazing your ear as he whispered, "You're so perfect, baby." His voice was a dark velvet caress, the kind that made you shiver.

You looked up at him, your eyes glazed with desire. He smiled, a wicked curve of his lips that made your heart race. His hand slid from your thigh to the center of your chest, his thumb tracing the rapid beat of your pulse. "You had to come for me," he murmured, his voice low and deep. "I need to feel you all around me." His eyes darkened, his need clear in every line of his body. "But once isn't enough. I need to make sure you're ready for me."

He stepped back, giving you space to breathe, his eyes never leaving yours. With a gentle tug, he removed your underwear, leaving you completely bare before him. He took a moment to appreciate the sight, his gaze lingering on the softness of your belly, the curve of your hips, the slight dark thatch of hair between your thighs. "So beautiful," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Vander leaned in, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered his dirty praises, his voice a mix of rough dominance and tender adoration. "You're so wet," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. "So tight and ready for me." His hand slid over your hip, his grip firm as he turned you to face him fully. The softness of his touch was a stark contrast to the iron in his voice, his fingertips tracing patterns that made your breath hitch.

He knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours as he spread your legs wider, his gaze dropping to the wetness between your thighs. "All mine," he said, the words a gentle demand. "I've needed to taste you, for so long..." His mouth closed over your sex, his tongue flicking over your clit in a soft, teasing motion that had you gripping the edge of the bar. His dominance was clear in every touch, every lick, but there was something soothing about the way he held you, his strong arms keeping you steady as your body trembled with need.

Vander's praises grew more insistent as he licked and sucked, his bearded cheeks brushing against your sensitive flesh. "You're going to come for me again," he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent vibrations through your core. "And then, baby, I'll make sure I fit." His fingers slid inside you, stretching you gently, preparing you for what was to come.

You felt his dominance in every stroke of his tongue, in every firm press of his fingers. But the way he held you, the way he whispered sweet nothings against your skin, made you feel cherished, adored.

Vander's tongue danced over your clit, his movements precise and practiced, as if he'd been dreaming of this moment for just as long as you had. His beard scraped against your sensitive flesh, the roughness a delicious contrast to the softness of his tongue. You could feel him savoring the taste of you, the way his eyes had searched your body just moments before. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you in place as he explored your folds with his mouth.

He licked and sucked with a gentle fierceness that had you panting, your body arching towards him. His hand slid up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over the peak as he watched your face contort with pleasure. His eyes never left yours, the intensity in his gaze making you feel like the most important person in the world. It was as if he was worshipping you, as if every inch of your body was sacred to him.

As you approached the peak again, his tongue moving in a steady rhythm that had you teetering on the edge. "Vander," you moaned, your voice a desperate plea. His only response was to suck harder, making you see stars. He was relentless, his dominance clear in every touch, but it was the tender. He held you in a way that made you feel safe, like you could let go completely.

You shuddered, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. His name was a cry on your lips, a declaration of surrender. Vander's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched you fall apart, his tongue never stopping, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure. His grip on your hips tightened, his mouth working you through the aftershocks until your legs could no longer hold you.

He stood, his eyes never leaving yours, his face a picture of masculine beauty, a mix of desire and dominance. His hand slid up your body, his thumb brushing over your swollen clit, making you jerk in response. His touch was feather-light, yet it had the power to make you tremble with need. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "You're mine," he murmured, the words a soft demand that sent a shiver down your spine. "Every part of you."

Vander took a step back, his gaze raking over your exposed body with a hunger that made you feel like the most desired woman in the world. He reached for his own pants, unbuckling them with a swiftness that spoke of his urgency. The fabric slid down his legs, revealing the hard length of him. You watched, your eyes wide, as he freed his cock, his hand stroking it gently. The sight of him, so focused on your pleasure, made your stomach clench with need.

He stepped closer again, his cock brushing against your thigh. The chair was behind you, and without a word, he positioned you, his hands on your hips guiding you back. The cool leather met your skin, sending a shiver through you. He leaned in, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered, "You're going to take me, baby. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

Vander's hands were gentle as they helped you straddle him, his own need evident in every line of his body. But there was a softness in his eyes, a tenderness that belied the iron in his grip. He was a man who knew what he wanted, but he also knew how to give, to take care of the woman who had just entrusted herself to him. He held you there for a moment, his cock pressing against your opening, his eyes never leaving yours as if asking for one final consent.

You nodded, unable to form words, your body trembling with anticipation. He positioned himself, the head of his cock nudging at your slick entrance. He pushed in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. His dominance was a gentle coaxing, his eyes full of a question that needed no words. Are you ready? Can you take me? The question was in his touch, his gaze, his every movement.

You sank down onto him, feeling him fill you completely, his girth stretching you in a way that was slightly painful. But the pain was quickly overridden by the pleasure, the feeling of being so utterly filled and claimed. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, setting the pace as he began to thrust up into you. His movements were slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he was watching for any sign that you weren't ready, any hint that he was being too rough. But all he saw was the desperate need reflected in your gaze, the silent plea for more.

Vander's dominance was a gentle coaxing, a whisper of power that made your body sing with every stroke. His hands slid up to your breasts, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks, his eyes never leaving yours. You leaned back, your palms flat on the chair, your body arching as he drove into you. His touch was firm but not harsh, a testament to his control, a silent promise that he would never hurt you, even in his need.

He kissed you, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips, his teeth nipping at your lower lip in a way that made you gasp. His movements grew more urgent, his hips slamming up into you, the chair groaning under your combined weight.

"So tight," he murmured, the words a dark praise that had your core clenching around him. "So good for me." His voice was a low growl, a declaration of possession that sent shivers down your spine. His hands were everywhere, one hand squeezing your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, the other hand sliding down to tease your clit, keeping you on the edge of ecstasy.

Vander's dominance was a gentle storm, his touch both firm and tender as he claimed you. "You're mine," he whispered, his eyes boring into yours. "Say it, darlin'. Tell me you're mine."

Your breath came in pants, his words echoing through your mind, mixing with the sensations that overwhelmed you. "Yours," you whispered, the word a declaration of submission that made your heart race. "All yours."

His grip tightened, his thrusts becoming more demanding, his praises turning into a chant that matched the beat of your pulse. "Mine, mine, mine," he murmured, his voice a dark symphony of possession and desire. His cock filled you, the feeling of fullness so intense it was almost too much to bear. But you took it, eager for more, your body moving with his, desperate to be one with him.

The room faded away, the bar outside forgotten as Vander brought you to the brink of another orgasm. His eyes never left yours, his gaze a mix of fierce need and something softer, something that made you feel cherished. "Come for me," he ordered, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Now."

And with that, the dam broke. His hand clamping over your mouth to stop you from screaming his name, your body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. He held you through it, his arms a steel band around your waist, his cock never stilling. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his dirty praises turning into gentle coos that soothed you through the aftermath.

As you came down from the high, you felt Vander's own climax building, his hips moving faster, his grip on you tightening. "I'm going to fill you, darlin'" he murmured, the words a promise that had your core clenching around him. "You're going to take all of me." His eyes were dark with lust, but there was something gentle in his gaze, something that made you feel safe, cherished even in the throes of such raw passion.

He whispered dirty, dominant praises as he thrust into you, his voice a mix of grit and velvet. "So good, so tight, so wet," he groaned, his words sent your mind spinning. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze making you feel like you were the only person in the world. The way he took you, the way he filled you, was both a claim and a promise.

Vander's touch remained soft, even as his grip tightened, his fingers digging into your hips. He held you in place, his dominance a gentle but firm presence that made you feel safe. With each stroke, you could feel him getting closer, his breath hitching in his chest, his eyes never leaving yours. The tension built between you, the air thick with the promise of his release.

And then it came, a low groan torn from his throat as he emptied himself into you. His body tensed, his muscles coiling with the force of his orgasm, but his hands never faltered, never let you go. He held you through it, his eyes a storm of pleasure and possession. It was a moment of raw, primal connection, one that had your heart racing and your body quivering.

As he came down from the peak, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you against his chest. His heart pounded against yours, a steady rhythm that matched the aftershocks of your own climax.

His breath was hot against your neck, his lips whispering sweet nothings as he kissed the sensitive skin there. "Always," he murmured, his voice a dark promise. "I'll always be here to protect you."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of comfort and excitement. Vander's dominance was a comforting blanket, wrapping you in a warmth that made you feel cherished and protected. You leaned into him, your body boneless with satisfaction. His cock was still inside you, a reminder of the claim he had made, the promise he had fulfilled.

The bar outside from earlier tonight was a distant memory. "Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. His only response was a gentle squeeze, a promise that he heard you, that he felt the same.

Vander pulled out of you with a groan, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of you, sprawled on the chair, your body a canvas of sweat and passion. He reached out, his thumb tracing the slickness on your thighs, the evidence of your pleasure. His eyes held a warmth that made your heart flutter.

He helped you off the chair, his arms strong around your waist as you swayed slightly, legs wobbly from the intense pleasure he had just given you.

Vander took a step back, his gaze sweeping over your body with a possessive hunger that made you feel cherished and desired. His eyes lingered on the marks his passion had left on your skin, the love bites and bruises that would fade to a sweet memory of this night.

With a gentle touch, he reached for a nearby towel, using it to clean the evidence of your shared ecstasy from your thighs. His movements were tender, his touch reverent, as if you were something precious that needed to be handled with care.

He helped you to your feet, your legs still shaky from the intensity of your release. You stepped closer to him, your bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces that had finally found their match.

He kissed you softly, hands roamed your body, his touch soothing the tender spots, his kisses leaving a trail of fire wherever he went. "Tomorrow," he murmured against your skin, "we'll do it all over again."

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cloudyluun · 17 hours ago

Text

Until You Stay | famous!harry

Summary: Beth Monroe is a sharp-tongued journalist looking for her big break. Harry Styles is a cocky, untouchable rockstar who doesn’t take well to being challenged. What starts as a battle of wills—sharp words and razor-edged tension—spirals into something darker, filthier, and impossible to walk away from. But when feelings get involved, when the masks slip, will they still be able to pretend it doesn’t mean anything?

A/N: This is a commissioned work of fiction based on Harry as a famous singer, I make no claims of knowing him personally in any way. But someone trusted me to bring their filthy, angsty dreams to life, and I may have gone just a little feral in the process. So enjoy the chaos, the tension, and, of course, Harry being an insufferable asshole.

Word Count: 7,7k

Warnings:

Explicit Smut (very detailed & filthy)

Rough Sex, Degradation, and Dom/Sub Dynamics

Jealous/Possessive Harry

Toxic Dynamics & Power Struggles

Strong Language & Dirty Talk

Angst & Emotional Turmoil

Paparazzi & Media Manipulation

Mentions of Alcohol & Self-Destructive Behavior

A Hard-Won Happy Ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Beth Monroe had always known she was meant for more than this.

Twenty-seven years old and already jaded, she was the kind of journalist who wanted to chase real stories—the ones that peeled back the glossy surface of the world and exposed what lay underneath. The truth. Not the watered-down, PR-approved version of it, but the raw, unfiltered mess of reality. That’s why she had spent years clawing her way through the ranks of journalism, determined to escape the suffocating confines of celebrity gossip and meaningless soundbites.

But the industry had other plans for her.

She had started with ambition, fresh out of college, ready to write the stories that mattered. But the jobs that paid? The ones that kept the rent covered and the lights on? Those were the ones that required clickbait headlines and shallow coverage of people who barely seemed real.

And so, Beth had become another faceless name in the sea of entertainment journalists, forced to write about scandals, red carpet outfits, and who's dating who. She’d learned how to craft engaging pieces that held just enough bite to make them feel substantial, but in the end, it was all just noise. A constant cycle of disposable stories about people whose lives would never be touched by the words she wrote.

That’s why this assignment felt like her last shot.

Her boss had made it clear—this was either going to be her big break or her last chance before she was permanently relegated to covering B-list divorces and influencer drama.

"We need something real, Beth," her editor, Jonathan Pierce, had told her, fingers tapping against his desk as he leveled her with that too-patient look. "Not just another shallow puff piece. Styles is at the peak of his career right now. People want to know who he is, not the version we see on stage, but the man underneath it all."

Beth had bit back the urge to roll her eyes.

Harry Styles.

Of course.

If there was one name that could guarantee headlines and clicks, it was his. He was a global phenomenon, a walking enigma, an untouchable icon. At thirty, he had long since outgrown his boyband past, solidifying himself as one of the most powerful and respected musicians in the industry. His concerts sold out within minutes. His albums dominated the charts. His face was plastered across billboards, magazines, and social media feeds worldwide.

And yet—he was also infamously private.

Beth had done her research. He gave interviews, sure, but they were carefully controlled, filled with charming deflections and rehearsed soundbites. The media loved him, but no one actually knew him.

Her job? To change that.

She had been granted exclusive access to his European tour, shadowing him across multiple countries, given rare, behind-the-scenes insight into the life of Harry Styles, the person.

Beth knew how this would go.

She would show up, ask the hard-hitting questions, and be met with infuriatingly smooth non-answers. He’d probably flash that boyish smirk, tilt his head just right, and make it impossible for anyone to push too hard. The public adored him for that.

But Beth?

She wasn’t here to adore him. She was here to unravel him.

Still, she wasn’t expecting her first glimpse of him to hit her like a gut punch.

The moment she stepped into that room, she knew.

He was going to be a problem.

The private event was held at an intimate venue in Paris; a low-lit, exclusive affair where only VIPs, industry elites, and carefully selected press members were allowed inside. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, leather seating, and the faint musk of whiskey poured into crystal glasses.

Beth walked in, blending into the sea of journalists and label executives, scanning the room for the man she had spent weeks researching.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles did not belong to the real world.

There was something about the way he existed in a space, the way people naturally gravitated toward him—an effortless pull, an undeniable gravity.

He stood near the back of the room, dressed in an all-black ensemble that should have looked simple but instead made him look infuriatingly expensive. The tailored slacks. The silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at tattoos inked across golden skin. The loose, effortless curls.

But it wasn’t just his looks.

It was the way he carried himself like he was untouchable.

Beth watched as he laughed at something someone said, flashing that devastating grin that made cameras worship him. But it was the look in his eyes that caught her attention—sharp, assessing, distant, even as he smiled.

And then, as if sensing her stare, he turned.

Their gazes met.

A slow flicker of recognition crossed his face, though they had never met before. His green eyes scanned her, quick and unreadable.

And then, just as fast, he looked away.

Dismissive.

Beth felt heat rise to her throat.

Oh.

Oh, he was going to be a problem.

And he had no idea what was coming for him.

Beth didn’t look away first.

She wasn’t the type to shrink under scrutiny, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. But Harry? He barely spared her a full second before shifting his attention elsewhere, like she wasn’t worth a second glance.

The disinterest was strategic, she realized almost immediately. A controlled dismissal. The kind that kept people chasing, trying harder, falling over themselves for just an ounce of acknowledgment. She’d seen it before—men in power using silence as their weapon, turning the simple act of ignoring someone into an exercise of dominance.

It didn’t work on her.

So when she was finally ushered forward—her name murmured alongside a polite introduction—she didn’t bother offering her hand or plastering on a media-friendly smile. She met him with the same level of apathy he had thrown her way.

“Beth Monroe,” the event coordinator introduced. “She’s covering the European tour for Pulse magazine.”

Harry, who had just been charming some record executive’s wife with an easy smile and effortless conversation, didn’t even pretend to be interested. He gave the barest nod, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before lifting it to his lips.

“Journalist,” he mused, voice low, almost amused—but not in a way that invited conversation. More like he was tasting the word and finding it unappetizing.

Beth crossed her arms. "Is that a problem?"

That made him look at her properly.

Up close, she could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the sharp contrast between deliberate nonchalance and razor-sharp awareness. She knew the game well—he was observing, measuring, deciding exactly how much space she was allowed to take up.

And then, in the most unbothered, condescending way possible, he simply muttered, "No. Just predictable."

Beth’s lips parted, caught between shock and incredulous amusement.

"Predictable?" she echoed, lifting an eyebrow. "That’s a bit rich coming from a man whose entire brand is built on being the world’s most palatable rockstar."

There it was.

The shift.

The flicker of something in his gaze like she had managed to surprise him. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting her to push back.

It lasted half a second before he schooled his features, tipping his glass back and dismissing her completely.

Beth could feel the eyes on them. The silent tension in the room as the moment stretched between them. But Harry? He wasn’t interested. At least, not enough to entertain her further.

His voice was maddeningly even as he murmured, "Enjoy the party, Miss Monroe."

And just like that, he turned his back on her.

Beth spent the rest of the night watching. Not because she was enthralled—fuck no—but because she needed to understand him. If she was going to do this job right, she needed to know what made him tick, needed to peel back the carefully constructed layers he used to keep the world at arm’s length.

What she noticed was infuriating.

Harry was charming with everyone else. Effortlessly engaged, magnetic in a way that made people lean in, hang on his every word. He gave them just enough of himself—never too much, never too little. His persona was crafted with surgical precision.

But with her?

Nothing.

He ignored her. Not obviously, not rudely, but in a way that felt intentional. Every time she tried to break into a conversation, he sidestepped her. When she asked a question, he answered in vague, detached sentences.

And when she finally managed to pull him into a one-on-one exchange again, it ended just as quickly as the first.

“I’ve noticed you never really answer questions,” she said, arms crossed as she studied him from across the dimly lit bar area.

Harry didn’t look up from where he was stirring his drink with a lazy wrist. “And I’ve noticed journalists never stop asking them.”

Beth exhaled sharply through her nose. “Right. Because heaven forbid anyone learns something real about Harry Styles.”

That got his attention.

He set his glass down, leaning against the counter as his gaze slid over her slowly.

“You lot aren’t interested in ‘real.’” His voice was quiet, but firm. “You’re interested in a headline.”

Beth bristled. “And you’re interested in a narrative.”

Something shifted.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

Then Harry smirked.

“Good luck with your story, Miss Monroe.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Beth clenched her jaw.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

Beth had dealt with difficult men before. Politicians who thought they were too powerful to be held accountable, executives who assumed her presence in a room meant she was someone’s assistant rather than the journalist they’d have to answer to. She had sharpened herself against condescension and arrogance, made a career out of standing her ground in rooms filled with people who wanted to dismiss her.

But Harry Styles?

He was a different breed of difficult.

For the next several weeks, Beth followed him across Europe, shadowing his tour with increasing frustration. She sat through press conferences where he charmed reporters into asking safe, meaningless questions—the kind that allowed him to give those clever, detached answers that never actually revealed anything.

She watched him interact with fans, saw the way he flipped the switch so effortlessly—one moment the distant, untouchable rockstar, the next, someone who could make a stadium of people feel like they mattered.

And yet, with her?

He remained a wall.

He made it a point to avoid her questions, brushing past them with an easy smirk and a raised eyebrow, like he found her attempts amusing.

“Beth, darling, you’re thinking too hard,” he had murmured once, lounging backstage after a show, still glistening with sweat from the stage lights. “Why don’t you just write the same piece everyone else does? You know, the whole ‘Harry Styles is mysterious but also terribly charming’ bit. Sells every time.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t write fanfiction.”

He grinned. “Shame.”

And then there were the games.

Beth would show up for scheduled interview slots, only to be told that Harry was "unavailable." Sometimes it was because he was in a mood. Sometimes it was because he was “too busy” relaxing in his dressing room, scrolling through his phone, while she sat outside with her recorder untouched on her lap.

When she finally called him out on it, he didn’t even pretend to feel bad.

“Beth, love,” he drawled, voice dripping in mock sympathy, “you’re in my world now. Things don’t always run on schedule.”

Her patience cracked. “So you’re just wasting my time for fun?”

Harry leaned back in his seat, legs spread wide, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest. “Not for fun.” Then, after a beat, he smirked. “Though it is fun watching you get all worked up.”

She wanted to throw something at him.

The breaking point came after a particularly brutal argument.

It had been a long day—one of those rare occasions when Beth had actually gotten a few uninterrupted moments to ask real questions. She had pushed harder than usual, refusing to let him slide through with half-answers and smirks.

“Why do you do that?” she had asked, arms crossed as she watched him peel the rings off his fingers after soundcheck.

Harry flicked a glance up. “Do what?”

“Pretend you’re giving people something real when all you’re actually doing is controlling the narrative.”

The look he gave her was sharp, guarded. “That’s rich, coming from someone whose job is to spin a story.”

Beth exhaled through her nose. “You think this is easy for me? That I just write whatever sells? I’m not here to make you look good, Harry. I’m here to write the truth.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

And then, before she even saw him move, he was in front of her.

Too close.

Her breath caught.

She wasn’t sure if he had stepped forward or if she had unconsciously leaned in, but suddenly, there was no space between them. The air thickened, buzzing with something hot and electric.

His jaw flexed.

His hands curled into loose fists at his sides, as if he was holding something back.

Beth lifted her chin, refusing to shrink away.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not in amusement, not quite. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and slow, a quiet challenge.

“You think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”

Beth swallowed, throat tight. “I think you hate that you can’t intimidate me.”

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating pause.

For a second—just a second—she swore his gaze dropped to her mouth.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them acted on it.

And later that night, when Beth was alone in her hotel room, staring at the ceiling—she realized she was still thinking about it.

She wondered if he was, too.

Beth liked to believe that she had control over herself—over her emotions, over the way her body reacted, over the frustrating, infuriating pull she felt every time Harry Styles so much as looked at her.

But control was hard to maintain when someone was constantly poking, prodding, pushing just to see where her breaking point was.

And Harry?

Harry was pushing.

Hard.

It happened in Milan.

The afterparty was in full swing—music thumping, bodies swaying, conversations weaving in and out of the dim, golden-lit space. Beth wasn’t drinking, but the atmosphere was intoxicating in itself, everyone high off the post-show adrenaline.

Harry had been watching her all night.

Not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she felt it. The flicker of his gaze when she moved through the crowd, the way his attention snagged whenever she threw her head back in laughter.

She ignored it.

She refused to let him get in her head.

Which was why, when another musician—Nate, a guitarist from one of the opening acts—struck up a conversation with her, Beth didn’t hesitate to let herself enjoy it.

He was easy to talk to, charming in a way that didn’t feel like a performance. And when he leaned in, whispering something that made her laugh—a real, unguarded laugh—she barely had time to register the shift in the air before Harry was there.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t say anything.

He just stood there, nursing a drink, his stare cutting through the noise like a blade.

Beth felt it before she saw it—the shift in Nate’s posture, the way his fingers curled around the bottle in his hand.

“I’ll catch you later,” Nate murmured, voice a little too careful.

Beth blinked. “Wait, what?”

But he was already slipping away, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the room.

And that was when she felt him.

The warmth of his presence behind her, the slow exhale against the shell of her ear.

“You like playing games, love?”

Beth closed her eyes.

Of course. Of course he had to do this.

She turned slowly, deliberately, only to find him watching her with a look she couldn’t quite place.

“Excuse me?” she said, tone light, though she could feel her pulse thrumming against her skin.

Harry tilted his head, mocking. “That was cute. The whole giggle and lean-in routine. Did you rehearse that?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not allowed to have a conversation without your approval?”

His jaw flexed. “Didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying, exactly?”

He took a step closer.

Then another.

Beth refused to step back.

His voice dropped lower, dangerously smooth.

“I’m saying… you’ve been running your mouth for weeks. Acting like you don’t give a shit about me. But then—” He let out a quiet, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “—then you go and pull that?”

She scoffed. “Pull what?”

Harry smiled. It wasn’t nice.

“You wanted me to see that.”

Beth’s stomach flipped.

She should have laughed in his face. Should have rolled her eyes, brushed past him, walked away.

But she didn’t.

Because there was something about the way he was looking at her.

Something thick and charged and dangerous.

His hands twitched at his sides, like he didn’t trust himself not to touch her.

Beth’s breath shook.

The music downstairs faded into a dull throb, the laughter and chatter dissolving into nothing. The party might as well have been on the other side of the world.

It was just them now.

Beth barely registered how it happened—one moment, she was in the thick of the afterparty, heat and voices pressing in on all sides. The next, the door clicked shut behind her. A soft, decisive sound.

She turned just in time to see Harry’s hand linger on the lock, fingers curling around the metal, twisting until it slid into place. A quiet snick.

Her pulse skittered.

Slowly, he turned back to her, gaze dark and unreadable.

Somehow, between one breath and the next, Beth’s back was already against the wall, cool brick pressing through the thin fabric of her dress. She could still feel the phantom warmth of Nate’s touch—light, fleeting—but it didn’t matter. Not when Harry was in front of her now. Not when his body was taut with something sharp, something dark. His eyes, usually lidded with lazy arrogance, were harder now. Narrowed. Burning.

His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was trying to control himself.

Then, low, rough, "You like playing games, love?"

A shiver ran down her spine.

She forced herself to lift her chin. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

His jaw twitched.

Slow. Measured. He reached out, running two fingers up her arm, featherlight but searing. Beth refused to react, refused to show him that he got under her skin.

His lips curled. "Laughing. Touching. Batting your lashes at him like you wanted him to take you right there in front of everyone."

That made her scoff. "Oh, fuck off—"

She barely got the words out before he was on her.

No warning. No hesitation.

One hand shot to her throat—not squeezing, just holding, firm enough to make her gasp as his body pressed flush against hers. His other hand planted itself beside her head, caging her in completely.

His mouth hovered just above hers, breath warm, uneven.

"You wanna push me, is that it?" he murmured, voice like gravel. "You wanna see what happens when I lose my patience?"

Her breath hitched.

It wasn’t fear curling in her stomach. It was something much worse.

She wanted this.

Needed it.

So she pushed him again, knowing it was reckless. "Maybe I do."

That was all it took.

Harry didn’t waste another second.

His grip tightened, and then he was kissing her—if it could even be called that. There was nothing soft about it. No buildup, no hesitation. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a war between them.

His hand left her throat, moving down, down, over the thin fabric of her dress, gripping her waist so tightly it ached.

Beth’s nails raked down his arms, her own frustration spilling over. She wanted to hurt him. Make him feel this the way she did.

"Fuck—"

The word was ripped from her throat as he yanked her leg up, hitching it over his hip. The dress rode up instantly, baring her thigh, and then his hand was there, fingers digging into her skin, making her burn.

Desperate.

That was what this was.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t romance.

It was hunger.

It was starving.

His teeth scraped along her jaw, down her neck. He bit—not enough to leave marks, but enough to make her feel it.

“Look at you,” he rasped, dragging his mouth down her jaw. “Needy. Desperate. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Her fingers fisted in his hair. "Fuck you."

He laughed, breathless, dark.

"Say it," he pressed. "Say you want it."

Beth clenched her teeth. She hated him.

And yet.

"Say it."

She swallowed hard, nails still biting into his shoulders. "I want it."

He hummed in approval, pushing her harder against the wall. "Good girl."

Then he wrecked her.

There was no teasing. No gentle touch. He dragged her panties down and shoved her dress up with no regard, making her gasp as the cool air kissed her exposed skin. His fingers slid between her thighs, finding her soaked, and he smirked.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he muttered, lips brushing her ear. "You act like you don’t want this, but look at you."

She bit her lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sound.

It didn’t last.

His fingers slipped inside her, rough, unrelenting, and the cry broke from her throat before she could stop it.

"That’s it," he murmured, pumping them hard and deep. "Don’t hold back now."

Her head tipped back against the wall, hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of his shirt. His thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing, teasing, pushing her closer and closer to the edge with every sharp movement.

"Thinkin’ about him now?" Harry taunted, voice low. "Bet you’re not."

She wasn’t.

She hated it, but she wasn’t.

All she could think about was Harry.

His fingers. His voice. The way he was taking what he wanted without a second thought.

Her whole body tensed, pleasure winding tight in her stomach.

And then he pulled away.

A whimper slipped out before she could stop it.

He grinned. "Not yet."

He undid his belt in a swift motion, shoved his jeans down just enough, and then he was lifting her completely, pressing her against the wall, spreading her open for him.

She barely had time to take a breath before he slammed into her.

"Fuck—"

She choked on a gasp, nails raking down his back as he filled her, stretched her in a way that made her legs shake.

There was no time to adjust.

No time to breathe.

He just fucked her.

Hard.

Desperate.

The wall scraped against her back with every sharp thrust, and she loved it.

His fingers bit into her thighs, holding her in place, making her take every inch, every punishing roll of his hips.

"You take me so fuckin’ well," he murmured, voice strained, lips dragging over her neck. "Like you need this."

She did.

God help her, she did.

She was close—so fucking close, and she knew he could feel it in the way she clenched around him, in the way her nails dug deeper, in the way her body arched.

"Say it," he ordered. "Say you’re mine."

Her breath stuttered.

He thrust harder. "Say it, Beth."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her body screaming for release.

And then she broke.

"I’m yours."

He groaned, deep and guttural, and that was all it took.

Pleasure crashed through her, leaving her shaking, wrecked, gasping as he kept going, drawing it out until she had nothing left to give.

Moments later, he followed, hips jerking, a rough growl spilling from his throat as he came deep inside her.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Their breathing was heavy, erratic, mingling in the thick air between them.

Then, just like that, it was gone.

Harry pulled away, adjusted himself, ran a hand through his hair like nothing had happened.

Beth watched, still breathless, still reeling.

He met her eyes, his own dark, unreadable.

Then, with a smirk that made her stomach flip, he stepped back.

"See you around, love."

And then he was gone.

Leaving her wrecked, ruined, and still fucking wanting.

But worst of all?

She still wanted him.

She hated herself for it.

She hated him more.

Beth barely remembered leaving the party, barely registered the way the city lights blurred together in the back of her cab, the hum of Milan’s nightlife drowning out the noise in her head. Her body still felt him—his hands, his breath, the rough edge of his voice scraping against her skin.

It should have been enough.

It should have burned her out, smothered whatever slow, insidious pull had been building between them.

But it didn’t.

Because when she saw him again the next day, sitting in the green room of the arena, lounging like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t ruined her the night before—Beth realized something awful.

She wasn’t done with him yet.

Harry was different now.

Not in the way Beth had expected—not in the way most men got after a night like that.

There was no smugness, no knowing smirk, no self-satisfied arrogance that she could take a swing at.

Instead, he was… colder.

Distant. Detached. Like she was nothing more than a mild inconvenience, an insignificant blip on his radar.

He barely looked at her.

Didn’t acknowledge her when she walked into a room, didn’t spare her even a glance during soundcheck or press briefings.

And that should have been fine.

She should have been fine.

But the second she started talking to someone else—the second she so much as smiled in another man’s direction—Harry’s jaw would lock.

His shoulders would tense.

His fingers would curl around his drink, around his microphone, around anything to keep from doing something reckless.

Beth noticed.

And she made sure he knew it.

She leaned in closer when someone else made her laugh. Let her fingers linger just a little longer when she touched an arm. Tilted her head just right when she listened, knowing Harry was in the room, knowing he was watching even if he refused to look at her directly.

She wanted to prove a point.

If she was just a fuck, if she was nothing, then he shouldn’t care.

So why did he?

It happened in Paris.

Beth had been talking to a photographer, a harmless conversation, nothing she wasn’t allowed to do.

Harry had been across the room, pretending he didn’t give a shit.

Then suddenly, he wasn’t.

Suddenly, he was right there.

His hand closed around her wrist, fingers tight, his voice just low enough for only her to hear.

“Outside. Now.”

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence. “Excuse me?”

His grip didn’t loosen. “You heard me.”

For a second, she considered telling him to go to hell.

But she didn’t.

Because she wanted this too.

The door barely shut behind them before he was on her.

Teeth at her jaw, hands rough on her hips, shoving her against the brick wall of some dark alley behind the venue.

Beth gasped, but it wasn’t from shock.

She should have expected this.

She had wanted this.

“You’re a fucking brat,” Harry muttered against her skin, his voice thick with frustration, with heat, with something else she couldn’t name. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

Beth grinned, sharp and mean. “What am I doing, Harry?”

His fingers tightened.

“You think you can get a reaction out of me?” His teeth scraped her jaw. “Think you can make me jealous?”

Her breath hitched.

“So you admit it?” she whispered. “You were jealous?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the way he touched her—rougher, filthier than before—told her everything she needed to know.

The first time had been about control. About proving a point.

This time?

This time, it was a need.

Desperate. Dirty. Addictive.

And neither of them could stop.

Every time they tried, they failed.

The silence never lasted. The distance never held.

Because the second they were in the same room again, the second their eyes locked across crowded spaces, it was already too late.

They had pulled each other under too many times to pretend they knew how to breathe without drowning.

Beth knew it was toxic.

Knew it in the way her hands trembled when she buttoned up her shirt in the dark, his warmth still clinging to her skin.

Knew it in the way Harry’s fingers curled into fists when he watched her leave, like he wanted to reach for her but refused to let himself.

Knew it in the way they never talked about it.

Because talking would make it real. Talking would force them to admit that it wasn’t just physical, wasn’t just convenience, wasn’t just a mistake they kept making over and over again.

But they didn’t stop.

Not when they should have.

Not even when the headlines started.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown rumors, twisting what they had into something uglier, something Beth couldn’t control.

She was losing pieces of herself to this, to him.

And Harry—Harry wasn’t losing anything.

Not his reputation. Not his career. Not his control.

She should have left before it reached this point—before it ripped through them like a wildfire, scorching everything in its path, leaving nothing but wreckage and ruin in its wake.

Before it bled into everything else.

Before it turned into this.

It happened in London, outside a sleek, high-end restaurant that reeked of old money and exclusivity—the kind of place Harry fit into effortlessly, where his name alone held weight, where he belonged.

Beth never had any interest in it. The glint of polished silverware, the hushed conversations over expensive wine, the way the air itself seemed thicker inside—like money had a scent, and it didn’t belong to people like her.

She hadn’t even wanted to come. Had told herself, promised herself, that she was done. That she wouldn’t let him do this to her again.

And yet, here she was.

The air outside was thick, muggy, summer pressing against her skin like a second layer, suffocating, clinging. A neon sign from across the street flickered, buzzing intermittently, painting the pavement in broken splashes of red light.

Harry stood a few steps away, pacing, hands raking through his already-messy curls. His jaw was locked, shoulders drawn tight, his frustration visible in the tense way he moved. He looked untouchable—towering, sharp, devastating in his black suit, the collar of his shirt slightly open like even it couldn’t handle the heat of the moment.

His eyes found hers—dark, searing, burning like embers about to catch.

“Are you seriously fucking mad at me for this?” His voice was low, taut, a thread stretched too thin, on the verge of snapping.

Beth folded her arms tightly across her chest, holding herself together. She could feel the anger, coiling hot in her stomach, winding through her like a slow, controlled burn. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

His lips pressed into a hard, thin line. “Enlighten me.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. He didn’t care. He never fucking cared.

“Your team,” she spat, voice shaking despite her best efforts, “just made me look like some desperate, attention-seeking—”

“—that’s not what happened.”

“Really?” She stepped closer, chin tilting up defiantly, her eyes searching his face for something—anything. A flicker of regret. Understanding. A crack in the cold, calculated exterior he was so good at wearing. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like they threw me under the fucking bus to save your ass.”

The photos had hit the tabloids that morning.

Beth Monroe, clinging to Harry Styles. Beth Monroe, picking a fight in public. Beth Monroe, the problem.

Headlines twisting the truth, reshaping the narrative, turning her into something she wasn’t. His PR team had done what they always did—spun the story, cleaned up the mess, protected the asset.

Beth had been collateral damage.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze flicking away as if he couldn’t be bothered to deal with this. “Jesus, Beth, why do you care so much what people think?”

Her stomach twisted—not just at the words, but at how he said them.

Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

Like all of this—all the nights, all the touches, all the ways they’d clawed at each other, desperate and reckless—had meant absolutely fucking nothing to him.

And maybe it hadn’t. Maybe she had been fooling herself this entire time.

Something inside her snapped—something raw and fragile and past the point of saving.

“You know what?” She took a breath, forcing her voice to stay steady, forcing herself to hold his gaze even though it hurt. “I don’t. Not anymore.”

And before she could change her mind—before she could let him pull her back in—she turned around.

And for the first time, she didn’t look back.

It should have been a relief.

Should have felt like he had won.

But it didn’t.

Harry downed the rest of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass as he set it down with more force than necessary.

The neon lights of the club flickered above him, casting shadows along the crowded space. Smoke curled through the air, mixing with the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor, a heartbeat that wasn’t his. People surrounded him—laughter, touches, whispers—but none of it registered.

His third drink.

Or maybe his fourth.

He wasn’t keeping track. Didn’t need to.

Because Beth was gone.

And he should feel lighter. Should feel fucking free.

But instead, there was just this—this hollow, gnawing feeling in his chest, a slow rot that no amount of whiskey could burn away.

He had told himself it was just sex. That it was just a game.

A messy, reckless game they both played, fully aware of the rules.

So why the fuck was he still thinking about her?

Why did he still hear her voice—sharp and furious, echoing in his ears like an accusation he couldn’t shake?

I don’t. Not anymore.

Why did he still see her face when he closed his eyes—not the smirking, defiant expression she always wore when they fought, but the way she had looked at him that night—raw, open, hurt.

Why the fuck did that bother him?

Harry scoffed under his breath, shaking his head, reaching for another drink.

Fuck that.

She’d be back.

She always came back.

Wouldn’t she?

The weeks passed.

She didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t show up at any more venues.

And no matter how many women he took home—no matter how many soft lips and unfamiliar hands he let touch him—it was never the same.

Because none of them were her.

None of them made him feel alive the way she did when she pushed him, when she fought him, when she stood her ground and refused to give in.

And for the first time, Harry realized—

He had fucked up.

Not just in the way he always did—careless, reckless, breaking things without thinking about the consequences.

No, this was different.

This was real.

This was Beth.

And he had let her slip through his fingers like she was nothing.

Like she hadn’t changed him.

Like she hadn’t fucking ruined him.

It took him weeks. Too many weeks.

Weeks of sleepless nights, of bitter drinks that burned as they went down, of meaningless encounters with women who weren’t her.

Weeks of ignoring the pit in his stomach whenever he reached for his phone and saw her name missing from his notifications.

Weeks of denying—lying to himself—until he couldn’t anymore.

Until it became impossible to pretend that this wasn’t more.

That she wasn’t everything.

So, he found her.

No cameras. No PR team carefully crafting the narrative. No staged apology meant to keep his image intact.

Just him.

Beth stood in the doorway of her apartment, eyes wary, lips pressed together like she wasn’t sure if she should slam the door in his face or let him inside just to yell at him.

She was in sweats, hair tied back, looking so soft and real and heartbreakingly beautiful that Harry had to clench his fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You really have no concept of boundaries, do you?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Would it help if I said I knocked first?”

Beth lifted a single, unimpressed brow.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

She sighed, exhaling heavily, fingers gripping the doorframe. “What do you want, Harry?”

Her voice was flat, tired—so fucking tired—and it hit him in the chest like a punch.

He did that.

He made her sound like that.

And maybe if she had been yelling, maybe if she had been angry, it would have been easier.

But this?

This quiet disappointment, this absence of fire, of fight—this was worse.

Because it meant she had already decided to let him go.

And he couldn’t have that.

He wouldn’t.

Harry swallowed, licking his lips, feeling the words crawl up his throat, unfamiliar and foreign and terrifying.

“I was afraid,” he admitted, voice rough, uneven. “You got too close.”

Beth’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop him either.

“I didn’t—I don’t—” He let out a slow breath, shifting his weight. “You were supposed to be temporary, Beth.” His voice cracked on her name. “And I don’t want temporary anymore.”

Her eyes softened. Just a little.

But she didn’t let him off the hook.

Not yet.

She folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head. “So what? You came all this way just to tell me that?”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”

“And now you expect me to just—what? Forget everything? Pretend like you didn’t throw me to the wolves the second things got hard?”

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t expect that.”

Beth exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before she looked at him again, and fuck, he felt stripped bare under her gaze.

“I was falling for you,” she whispered, the words barely audible but lethal. “And you made me feel like I was nothing.”

His stomach dropped.

“I know,” he rasped. “And I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, Beth.”

She didn’t speak, but her fingers trembled where they curled around her sleeve.

Harry took a step closer.

Then another.

Until she was right there, close enough to touch, but he didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he just let himself be seen—raw, vulnerable, desperate in a way he had never allowed himself to be before.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice low, uneven. “But I want to try. I want you.”

Beth swallowed hard, blinking quickly, like she was trying to hold something back.

“Say it again.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Say it again,” she whispered.

Harry took a breath, steady and sure.

“I want you.”

Beth let out a shaky exhale, something breaking, fracturing between them—but this time, it wasn’t falling apart.

It was falling into place.

She didn’t answer.

Not with words.

But when she finally reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him down, letting him in—

He knew.

She wanted him too.

This isn’t like before.

It’s not fueled by resentment, not tangled in frustration or sharp-edged words.

It’s not an attempt to silence their own thoughts or to claim victory in an unwinnable battle.

This time, it’s different.

Because this time, they’re choosing each other.

And neither of them wants to pretend anymore.

It’s quiet.

Not the uneasy, tension-laced silence they used to share, but something softer. He’s brought her here—to his real place, not some impersonal hotel room or a shadowy corner where they could disappear without consequence.

It’s his space.

Dim lighting from the city outside filters through half-drawn blinds, painting warm, golden stripes across the floor. The air is thick, heavy with something unspoken, the echoes of every past moment clinging to the walls.

No noise from the outside world.

Just them.

And for the first time, that’s all they need.

They stand close but don’t touch—not yet.

It’s strange, this carefulness between them, this slow, deliberate restraint. For so long, everything between them has been about force, about taking, about dominance wrapped in lust.

But now—

His fingers reach for her, hesitant but certain, trailing the line of her jaw with an aching kind of reverence.

No roughness. No bruising grip.

Just a slow, featherlight touch, like he’s memorizing her, like he’s afraid to move too fast.

Beth’s breath stutters. She tilts her face into his touch, just barely, just enough to tell him that she wants this too.

When she opens her eyes, he’s already watching her.

Already waiting.

Already sure.

When he kisses her, it’s nothing like before.

Not an attempt to overpower, not a silent demand for control.

It’s soft.

Tentative, at first—like he’s rediscovering her, learning the shape of her lips, savoring her warmth. A slow slide of mouths, the quiet exhale of breath mingling between them.

And then—

The restraint fractures.

A low, desperate groan rumbles in his chest, and his hands move to her waist, pulling her closer, molding her against him. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, but it’s not about possession anymore.

It’s need.

It’s want.

It’s everything they’ve never allowed themselves to feel.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him down into her, and he lets her. Lets her take as much as she wants.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear at her clothes like before, doesn’t drag fabric over her skin like it’s just another obstacle to get through.

He takes his time.

Fingers skimming her shoulders, down the length of her arms, over her ribs. He lingers, watching her, drinking her in like he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with something raw, something that sounds like awe.

Her breath catches.

She should feel exposed. Vulnerable.

But the heat in his gaze doesn’t make her feel bare.

It makes her feel wanted.

She reaches for him then, pulling at his shirt, sliding her hands over warm, firm skin, feeling the steady, grounding beat of his heart beneath her palms.

He lets her undress him too.

No rush. No urgency.

Just this.

Just them.

He takes his time.

Worships her with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, exploring every inch like he’s memorizing her, like he never wants to forget the way she feels beneath him.

His fingers trace the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the softness of her inner thigh.

He doesn’t hurry.

Doesn’t just take.

He gives.

She fists the sheets when he drags his mouth lower, when he pauses to watch her reaction, when he smirks against her skin at the way she shifts, needy, impatient.

She doesn’t want to beg. Not this time.

But when his mouth finally touches her, warm and devastatingly slow—

She does.

He doesn’t rush her to the edge.

He builds it.

His mouth works her over with precision, savoring every shudder, every gasp, every quiet, breathless plea.

His hands hold her open, steadying her, grounding her, keeping her exactly where he wants her.

He watches her the entire time.

Doesn’t look away.

Not when she trembles.

Not when she cries out his name.

Not when she finally, finally falls apart beneath him.

He just holds her gaze, dark and unwavering, like he’s making damn sure she knows—

This means something.

When he finally slides into her, it’s different.

No rough, frantic pace. No bruising hands.

Just this.

Just the slow, deliberate push of his hips, deep and measured, drawing a gasp from her lips.

He stills for a moment, presses his forehead against hers, breathing her in, grounding himself in the feel of her.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, her nails dragging lightly over his skin.

Not clawing.

Not marking.

Just holding.

He moves then.

Not just fucking—making love.

Every slow thrust feels like a confession.

Every whispered “mine” against her lips feels like a promise.

And this time—

She doesn’t fight it.

She lets him have her.

And takes him in return.

No rush to leave.

No scramble for clothes.

No silence.

Just this.

Just them, tangled in sheets that smell like them, his arms heavy around her, his fingers tracing slow, mindless patterns against her back.

For the first time, he stays.

For the first time, she lets him.

There’s a pause. A deep, quiet moment where neither of them speaks.

Then—

“You’re mine now, aren’t you?”

His voice is quiet. Certain.

Beth doesn’t hesitate.

She shifts closer, presses her lips against his jaw, and breathes him in.

“Yeah, Harry.”

A slow smile tugs at his lips.

She watches it spread, watches the tension leave his body, watches the way he finally lets himself believe it.

“I am.”

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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#harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles fiction #harry styles fan fic #cloudyluun #commission

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lvrrgirlll · 1 day ago

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Currently thinking about semi-arranged marriage!patrick x wedding planner!reader…

Patrick wasn’t ever really keen on the idea of marriage. He always thought it was something that just wasn’t for him. He still thought that, actually. But his parents didn’t.

He had taken some time off the tour to visit his parents after years of struggling to really get where he wanted to go. Both he and his parents knew why he was really there, though. They had frozen his trust fund.

Long story short, they gave him an ultimatum: either get married and settle down or lose access to the trust fund. And if the couple months he’d gone without the trust fund had taught him anything, it was that he only had one skill in life, and he was barely good enough at that to stay afloat. That’s how he ended up meeting you.

His fiancé, a nice yuppie who his parents had set him up with, had hired you, a wedding planner, to plan the most elaborate wedding money could buy for the two of them. Unfortunately, though, (or fortunately —depending on how you look at it) she was far too busy between wedding dress fittings, long days at the office, regular gym sessions, and shopping outings with her friends to ever actually show up for your meetings. She would always just tell Patrick what she wanted, and he would show up.

So over the months of planning the wedding, you two grew a lot closer than he felt with his own fiancé. After all, he was only marrying her for his trust fund and she was only marrying him because she was scared she was getting too old and decided it was time, no matter who it was with.

You had told yourself that whatever you felt, it would never come to the surface, but you couldn’t help all those little moments when it almost felt like you could be playing your wedding with him. Like when you two were at the cake tasting and he got a little frosting on the corner of his lip and you wiped it off. Anyone would do that though, right? Or when you two were touring venues and didn’t even realize you had started holding hands. It was a mindless thing, of course…

The worst one was when you were sampling different brands and types of champagne. His fiancé had told him to make sure he really tried them all because she only wanted the best. And somewhere in all of the tasting, you two both got a little tipsy. And maybe while you were tipsy you two kissed, which turned into making out in your car. You were both too sober to call it some drunk mistake, but you both called it one anyways.

“So what’s it like being a wedding planner,” he’d asked once, when you two were at a florist looking at different sample arrangements.

“Fun. Y’know, you help plan the happiest day of some people’s lives,” you responded simply.

He chuckled dryly. “Happiest day of their lives, huh…” he repeated under his breath, a sort of bitter, contemplative tone lingering. “And it’s not… lonely?” He’d noticed the lack of a ring on your finger long ago, when you two had first met to start planning.

You froze for a moment, trying to brush off whatever feelings his comment stirred up. “Well… yes. Sometimes.” You cleared your throat, avoiding eye contact with him as you messed with the flowers in front of you. “I mean, of course I hope to plan my own wedding someday, instead of someone else’s.”

When you two leave the florist, onto the next project, Patrick stops you for a moment. He wordlessly fiddles something out of his pocket, a small flower he must’ve taken from inside. He’s tied the stem in a ring. “Here.” Offering a smile, one of pity and longing and a sort of… sorrow, perhaps, he slips the dainty flower ring onto your left hand ring finger. He proceeds walking then.

“C’mon, our wedding’s not gonna plan itself,” he reminds you. But when he says “our wedding” you have to remind yourself he doesn’t mean yours and his. He means his and hers.

#ok this was supposed to be cute and silly and it still is but the end got sad uhh…#idk y’all I’m in a tragic yearning mood ig?#also I know this concept is lowkey evil bc like yes he has a fiancé but…#cordelia makes moodboards #cordelia writes #patrick zweig #challengers #patrick zweig x reader

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simpingforbots · 3 days ago

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Big scary grandpa – part 3

You stared at the big map stapled to the sign that showed what the small camping ground offered wth curiosity and a note of excitement. This place was surprisingly somewhat modern – they had designated areas for restroom and showers, a separate cabin for laundry room, that also seemd to store some arcade and a small store, a bar and grill that adults prohibited kids to even approach (you thing that they just want to have some space away from all the kids and their troubles), a big pond for swimming, a smaller one for fishing, connecting to a passing by river, basketball/football area, playground, dumpster area. You can guess that the laundry room was already flooded with your classmates as it most likely had wi-fi in there, making you quietly grin to your self as you had a very good deal with your parents, getting your own pocket router as long as you keep your grades up, which is not that hard, plus being a proud “teachers Pet”.

Your eyes wondered from the map, checking all the other posters stapled to the wooden poster, protected by the plastic display from weather – most of them were about wild birds and some animals, list of rules and a kind nor asking to clean after them self you inhaled deeply, taking in sweet scent of clear air, able to smell something sweet hanging around and looked to the side, focusing on one of two vending machines by the sign they still worked and offered a fine selection of chips, sweets, nuts and a range of cold drinks in another. All it needed was a special token you were all given immideatly upon you arrival – a small coin with tree engraved, allowing you to do laundry, play arcades or by drinks, though there was also simple rules: do not spend all in one place and that you can earn it for doing something, be it as simple as helping teacher around the camp or completing tasks set in the beginning of the day, with list being posted in the main tent. In hindsight it seamed like a good idea and moment to teach young generation money responsibility and prepare them for the future life, how ever some students took it as a greenlight to just go wild and they ran in to arcade. You sighed, smacking your dry lips and gripped you water flask.

On one hand a though of a snack and cold Coke sounded noice, on the other you will be spending money in something that you will be provided by your teachers and you can safe the coins for something useful, like washing machine, tie-pods, and some sanitary things in case you will need it and something told you will cus even your own body hates you. Sighing, you decided to go and refeel your water bottle and taking a swing while looking around you already ’ve seen that someone offered 5 coins to help with making food so you decided to head there to offer a helping hand to designated chef of this trip, who seemed more then happy to put you to work – pealing and chopping some vegetables for upcoming evening meal.

Soon enough the sun slowly hid behind the horizon, the last warm ray of light disappearing behind the trees, letting biting chill of night slowly take over and gathering every one around the fire pit to enjoy the warmth of dancing orange flames and warm meal the area immideatly coma to live with chatter and laughter, along with some people time to time singing along to an old guitars tune played by one of teachers, time to time taking request. Right now theyr were playing an old classic – Don’t stop believing with every one joining in for the good part. You sighed happily, whispering along all while watching majestic and mysterious dance if flames, intrigued by the story it hid behind all while red hot ash slowly rose high up to join the older fiery sibling in the night sky, getting their own spot in story maps of the cosmos. Out here the stars seemd to glow even brighter, something that you could started forever if you could, shivering a bit as cold chill ran up the spine, you gripped papper bowl a bit tighter, soaking in the warmth of food while slowly picking the spoon up and humming quietly at the flavour of the food. The moment seamed very peaceful and warm, making you sigh with content, relaxing and worming in the light of flames, time to time sipping on a can of coke teacher handed out.

It did not take to long though for the drinks to ran out and teachers started whispering between them selfs, pondering on who to send to get more drinks for the rest of the class as kids started asking for more, and that mostly adults really did not wanted to leave safety and warmth of the campfire. You listened for a bit, listening to their whispers, trying to keep to your elf, yet your heart gave up and you sighed, closing your eyes in frustration at your self for being so kind, putting your plate on the seat you just left, feeling cold biting your lower part already, lifting your hand and offering to go get drinks. It seemed that also being a Teachers Pet played a good roll with teachers giving you a hefty amount of tokens, saying that you can keep it in case shop is closed, sending you in to darkness to follow the path to the small shop. Shivering and pulling hoody of shark hoodie you liked over your head, you ventured in to the darkness, with your phone acting as a small flashlight to shine your path to the building ten muinets away, why was it so far you relay did not care, just wanitng to get this over with.

Who knew human can obsess over paperwork so much, letting a quite grumble and feeling his cooling system kick in to over dive, Megatron rubbed his face, unable to even look at the documents anymore or he will get an error in his processor, pushing data pad to the side. Karen piled this documents on him after they all failed to catch Mandroid, once again, with this document acting like some kind of punishment. Grumbling and stretching in the chair he was resting on, he could feel his inner system stretch pleasantly, checking his messages he got a few from one of Terrans – Twitch and Hashtag, proudly showing of their daily activities. Big bot smiled as he swiped though pictures of sparkling and kids having fun and from what he can guess annoying Bumblebee to no end. It warmed his spark to see young generation not worrying about anything and just having fun. Speaking of young generation. Getting up, Megatron walked out of his room, scaning his surroundings for unwanted eyes, making sure no human or bot saw him leave. Clear. With that he quietly left the base and headed towards small camp site. It was already dark by the time he left so it was not big surprise to see every human gathered around a campfire, getting louder as they sang along or just talked to each other. It did not take to long to find the little human he was looking for, huddled in to blanket and slowly enjoying the meal, eyes glued to the fire and it’s dance. It will be hard to outright come out there to just speak to you as his past reputation still haunted him and most humans did not fancy him like Terrance and Malto’s did. Hell, Karen was only acting nice to him because he was useful, Megatron was sure of it.

Grumbling and scratching his metal chin, Megatron kneeled down, his silver paint easily helping him hide in the dark of the forest, especialy that the only source of light aorund this whole place was campfire. He kept watching for a bit, as before, you kept to your self, yet still did your best to be part of the social group, singing along to some songs old bot recognized, smiling widely. Soon you seemd to be troubled by something, listening intently and then getting up, turning to face adults, taking something from them and then leaving the safety of the fire and walking in to the forest, your small phone acting as the only source of light to shine the path. Why did you left he really did not care as he was pleasantly surprised by such sudden action, quietly following behind, making sure to not make much ruckus as humans tend to get spooked easily and he does not want to scare you. It was surprisingly easy to scare humans with just his presence alone, so moving quietly through the forest and just watching you walk though the forest, his presence scaring wild animals who grew accustomed to humans away, making sure it was even more safer, even if the animals were harmless at first sight. You walked over to some building, all while muttering something to your self all the way, hyping your self in to false sense of security and make your self braver, sadly though your bravery wont pay off as the building was closed, sending you back in to the dark forest. And back to him... maybe now be the good time to make him self known?

You jumped at every branch snap and leaf rustle, scared that something will jump out at you, your heart ponding a milling beats per second, echoing in your own scull. Why, why did you had to be so “brave” as to offer your help and go away from the fire? All those scary stories you listened are now flooding back in to your mind to hunt you. Slowly but surely you made it to the shop, only to find the lights were out. Walking up and peaking in, you can see no-one was inside and the sign on the window clearly spelled closed, meaning you will have t go back empty handed, your shoulders drop with regret and started your journey back. Only this time the forest seemd to be to quite your footstep on gravel echoing to loud even for you now, making you be on guard as far to many stories you read warned that when ever the forest goes quite it means nothing good. Eyes skipping all over the place, you could feel anxiety digging in to your guts with it’s dead-cold claws, slowly speeding up your walk until in the corner of your eyes you noticed something move in the shadows and you turned your head, only to freeze in spot. In the darkness of the forest two red orbs floated high above you, focused on you, unmoving and terrifying, making your blood run cod. Your brain was throwing every thing at you and it took a second for you to inhale deeply and let a scream out and turn aorund to run, only to immideatly trip over your own two feet, stumbling and faceplanting in to the gravel with a loud “FUCK”. You tried scrambling up, forgetting every thing, fuck the dignity, hell you ready to crawl like a dog just to get away from what ever nightmare creature resides in the forest, only seemed that luck was not on your side as something hard quickly wrapped around you and started lifting you up. You fought and kicked all you could, screams muffled by huge hands carefully plased over your head and you can feel the thing move, but you did not give up help, even if you fall and break or twist your leg, you are getting out of here. You twisted and turned, pushed and kicked, time to time able to feel that you were sleeping out of the grasp only to be readjusted and something slid up and down, a soft noise trying to calm you down, but you did not give up. YOU are NOT dying today!

Following you, you seemd to be alert and Megatron took a step forward, kneeling down, ready to call out to you when you spun so suddenly it shocked even him. It took seconds for you to start screaming very loudly and dart away only to trip over your own peds and fall on your face. Worried, Megatron quickly reached for you, wrapping his hands and pressing close to his chest, shushing you and trying to clam you down by slightly sliding his servo up and down your back, trying to muffle your scream with another. Someone clearly heard your scream as he can her someone calling out, sending his processor in to overdrive and purely out of panic he flees in to the forest, carrying you with him. Primus who knew humans were this active and slipper, almost loosing grip far to many times, still trying to calm you down, yet soon decided to let your run out of steam while wrapping both his hands around you, sort of caging and leaving only legs dangling out, and seems like having you squished calmed you down more effective as you stopped moving so much, but not completely. He kept walking away from the camp, quickly loosing it and any-one who tired to see what was going, finding a quite spot and seating down on the rock. This is not how he expected things to go, nor to traumatize you to death. Still holding you to his chest, he hummed quietly, feeling you tier out eventually, carefully pulling you away from his chest. You are a strong one to scream and kick this loud for so long, but now could barley move, chest falling and rising with quick pace, finally looking up, eyes wide, only this time not from fear, but shock and confusion, one of little hands gripping on his digits. Letting a sigh of relief, Megatron looked at them with soft and concerned eyes.

“You alright little one? I did not mean to scare you”

“Mr Megatron? What- what’s going on?” you slowly moved, trying to seat up and have a more comfortable position after being squished, even if not to tightly, it still was not to comfortable “You scared me! I though I was gonna die!”

“And I am sorry for this... Must say, almost dropped you few times with how hard you tried to get out, I must applaud you for this.” He coked his head to the side slightly, eyes focused on you, on how you place a small hand on your chest, slowly moving his thumb as to not scare such fragile being even more, yet you did seemd to flinch just for a second, out of instinct as soon as he touched your back, rubbing it slightly and you letting your guard down. “I was passing by and saw fire, though it was some wildfire. I know how bad they can get”

“Ah” you inhaled deeply and sighed, leaning in to soft touch. And not because it was the warmest lace aorund as of now. “Sorry”

“For?” a bit taken back, old mech blinked rapidly why is the little one apologising when he is the one in the wrong.

“I... I don’t know. Its good to see you. How are you?” you quickly changed the topic, looking around to get down. Even if it was Megatron and not creature of nightmares you prefer to be on solid ground, plus it felt a bit.. wired to be held by bigger being. Not in bad way, you just felt uncomfortable, like when you in someone’s home and try to be polite, seating on the edge of the sofa. Yet you also did not wanted to leave because of the warmth.

“I am doing well. How will be you? I was looking forward to seeing you again it’s getting a bit lonely when you have no one to speak with”

“What? I though you and Optimus were good friends? No offence” you added quickly.

“It’s get tiering to talk to him time to time” Megatron sighed and rolled his opticks, not that he did not like Optimus, it just time to time he needs break from him and talking to the same person for so long can get tiering, plus terrance are more interested in other stories and it’s nice to have to talk to some one new. “And I did enjoy our last talk, so I was looking to the next one. Found any other interesting books in archives?”

“Not really. Most of them I read though already” you confessed “Do you have any new once? “

Megatron smiled, quickly settling you on his lap to free his hand. Indeed he had, with all the time he spend reading though archives, and he was more then glad to share it with you, going in to all about them. Hearing all the stories he had brought, you quickly forgot where you were seating, bringing legs under you, seating in lotus position, listening intent fully to every word, time to time even asking few questions when some things did not made any scense to you.

“Did you guys had any mythology?” you finally asked, coking your head to the side and letting a cold shiver run though your body. Megaron seemed to notise it, nudging you jently close to his body and you quickly leaned in to his torso, soaking the warmth he radiated. It was expected as his was a big metal being with all the machinery that you can now hear quietly working inside of him, cliking, shifting and whirring inside, producing heat and warmth that you more than happy to borrow from the big bot, who also seamed not to greedy about sharing.

“We did, we had stories surrounding 13 primes. I am sure you read about them already in one of the book of yours”

“Yeah!” you felt a yawn coming in, quickly turning away and covering your mouth, blinking a bit as small tears formed in your eyes. It was late after all and you had a strict bed time you put upon your self, doing your best to follow it, yet you pushed your self though, after all who knew when will be the next chance you can see Megatron again “13 primes – one of the first cybertronians created by Prime, right?”

“Mhm.” Megatron nodded “they had a lot of stories following them and achievements. Young ones seemd to have favourites, do you?”

“yeah. I like Solus! She sounded badass” you smiled and tried to show that you were still awake, yet your body was slowly giving up and the warmth from the bot did not helped your cause.

“I though so” Megatron chuckled, moving you a bit closer, wrapping his hand aorund your shoulder and could feel you melt in to the palm, letting another yawn escape your body, shaking your head a bit and blinking rapidly to blink the sleep away. Bot let a quiet sigh escape his system, eyes softening at the small human sparkling resting on his lap, half asleep, trying to talk more about history, yet bot also knew how to lull any sparkling to sleep, not against you falling asleep on him. “I have some stories about her, would you like to hear them?”

“Yeah!” you quickly woke up, eyes glinting with interest about what stories did Megatron had cus you did not find much in library and Megatron was more then happy to oblige, starting his tale about what was going between Primes, especialy Megtaronus and Solus relation ship. He kept talking, keeping a watchful eye as he can see sleep slowly taking over once more, you nodding off, thoug still fighting squinting slightly, raising his temperature just a bit, and yet it all it took for you to finely give up, yawning last time, murmuring something under your breath, as if trying to still be part of conversation, time between blinking getting longer and he can see how hard it was becoming for you to keep your eyes open, leaning in to the body and not even protesting as he started slowly rubbing your back with his thumb, drawing circles in your back and feel your little heart slowing down. Soon enough you closed your eyes, falling asleep, making old bot’s spark warm up. Why are the younglings look so peaceful and cute when they are asleep he does not understand, but he will not fight it. He jus set there, looking up at the sky to stare at those glowing orbs of light, wondering just what would happened if he never started the war. Letting a long sight though his vents, he slowly lifted you up, your entire body limp like a ragdoll, limbs swinging slightly at the movement while he cradled you to his chest, you curling up and turning a bit in his palm, string just for a bit before settling in completely again, letting a long sigh of content.

“Hm” Megatron hummed, slightly coking his head, letting a soft smile escape him. He can’t wait to introduce you to other kids, just has to time it right, for now he will just seat here, doing his best to not let intrusive though of just carrying you to base win. Well it was sort of logical as the base was much wormer and safer then the camp, especialy with Mandroid still loose. It relay was the mostly logical thing in this moment, stirring in his processor – leaving you in such feeble shelter like your tent really did not sit well, but you were also surrounded by others and adults, who most likely were worried and scared after hearing a scream, letting a small grunt, he set just for a bit longer, before getting up, big bot placed another hand over you, caging and shielding from cold wind as he began walking back towards camp.

To his surprise no one seemd to panic and adults were enjoying cheep wine by the dying fire alone after sending other kids to sleep. A bit worried how they were not panicked about a sudden yell coming from forest, but with so many teens he can guess that they took it as not so good prank. Keeping down, he snuck towards your camp, thankful that you placed it close to the forest, pulling the “doors” open and manoeuvring you inside on soft bedding and making sure to cover you, not wishing for you to catch any cold. For a second he felt your little hand clasp on to his digits, refusing to let go, making him smile and turn away. Why you have to be so cute... okay that is it, he is introducing you to Malto kids this week!

#transformers #transformers x human #transformers x reader #megatron #earthspark megatron #tf earthspark #tf es #tfe megatron #Big Scary grandpa

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 10 hours ago

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Somewhere Safe | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

This story touches on sensitive themes of domestic abuse. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse, please know that help is available. I've included resources below that offer support, guidance, and ways to take action. You are not alone, and there is always hope for a way out. Please take care of yourself as you read.

International Domestic Abuse Resource Link

Words: ~9,500

Tags: Violence, Abuse, Trauma, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Post Hogwarts, Hurt/Comfort

Beta: @newdreamlove95💚

The world tilted when Sebastian pressed his back against the wall, a slow, lazy grin tugging at his lips as the woman in front of him whispered something he didn’t quite catch.

K-something.

Karina? Kelsey? Kate? Fuck, had she even told him? Maybe once, over the roar of the music in the bar, the hum of Ominis and Garreth’s laughter, the clink of glasses and shouted orders. It was distant now, fuzzy around the edges. The only thing sharp was the heat of her breath on his skin, the way her nails scratched lightly over the fabric of his shirt.

He let his head tip back against the wall, eyes slipping closed for just a moment. He was tipsy, not drunk. The whiskey still swam warm in his veins, enough to make everything feel slow and a little surreal, like watching himself from the outside. Too much, probably. He hadn’t planned on drinking that much, but Garreth had been in rare form tonight, rambling about some catastrophic potion mishap that had almost set his shop on fire, and Ominis—miraculously—had tolerated them both for longer than usual before fucking off home.

Sebastian had thought about leaving then, too. He should have. He'd been about to grab his coat, already debating—instinctively—whether to call you.

It was always you. Even after all these years, through all the tangled, unspoken things between you, his first thought was always you.

But then K-something had leaned into him at the bar, laughing, a teasing nail dragging down his arm. The look she gave him was clear, unmistakable—an invitation, no strings attached, nothing complicated, nothing messy. Just one night.

That had been enough. He let her take his hand, let her press against him in the back of the cab, let her perfume wrap around him—something floral, a little too sweet. Not right. Not familiar.

And now, here they were. His apartment. His mind blank where it mattered.

The door had barely clicked shut before her hands were on him, pressing, pulling, trying to unravel him. Her lips were eager, swallowing the taste of whiskey on his tongue, coaxing him toward the bedroom. His fingers ghosted over her hips, hesitant, and for the first time tonight, the thought crept in—

I don’t actually want this.

He ignored it.

Sebastian let her push him back against the wall, let her fingertips skim the waistband of his jeans, let his mind fog over with something other than the sharp edges of thought. He was just loose enough to let his body take over where his mind was absent.

And then—

A thunderous pounding on his front door.

K-something startled against him, pulling back with a little noise of surprise. Another knock—louder, harder, more frantic.

“What the hell?” she murmured, but Sebastian wasn’t listening.

Something was wrong.

If it were Garreth, he’d be yelling something obnoxious through the door. If it were Ominis, he would have texted first, making some sardonic remark about how it was far too late for him to be dealing with Sebastian’s nonsense.

Then—

“Sebastian, are you there?”

Your voice. Hoarse and desperate.

“Who is that?” K-something asked, tilting her head toward the door, annoyance creeping into her tone.

Sebastian didn’t answer. His whole body was already moving—pushing past her, heart pounding.

Another hit—this one shakier, weaker. A small, broken sound from the other side.

His hands were on the lock in an instant, fumbling, his pulse roaring in his ears. The second the front door swung open, his breath caught in his throat.

What the fuck happened to you?

Your hair was a mess, wild and tangled like you’d been running. Your shirt—torn, slipping off one shoulder—was smeared with something dark, and his brain tried to tell him it was just dirt, instead of what he feared. Your eyebrow was split, a thin trail of blood tracing down your temple. The bruises blooming along your arms and neck were fresh, ugly, fingershaped.

You were shaking, too, and not from the cold. You were wrung out, your breath coming too fast, too shallow, like you were barely holding yourself together.

But it was your expression that really sent ice straight through his veins. Wide, fractured eyes. Lips parted, trembling like you wanted to speak but couldn’t. Like you were afraid.

"Fuck," he breathed. "What—"

Your eyes flickered past him into the apartment, taking in the scene—the woman behind him, her rumpled clothes, the way Sebastian had clearly been in the middle of something when you knocked.

Your face crumpled. Your whole body tensed. You took a step back.

"Sorry, I—I shouldn’t have come." Your voice wavered, raw and too damn small. Your fingers curled against your ribs like something there ached. "I didn’t mean to—"

Oh, hell no.

Sebastian took a step forward, his fingers wrapping around your wrist before you could slip away, but his voice never had the chance to follow—

A voice from behind him cut through the moment.

“Sebastian?” K-something called, her impatience laced with confusion. “Who is—”

She finally stepped closer, eyes widening when she took in your appearance. Her lips parted, expression shifting from irritation to realization. She wasn’t stupid. She could see what this was.

“…I should go.” She sputtered, already grabbing her bag from the counter. “I’ll call a cab.”

Sebastian barely heard her. He didn’t care.

She did hover for a moment, like she expected him to say something—to at least acknowledge her—but his eyes never left you. Eventually, she exhaled sharply and muttered something about Sebastian being a “waste of time” before leaving.

The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall, the distant slam of the stairwell door barely registering in his ears. It was like a pressure valve had released, but it didn’t make anything better.

Because Sebastian had never—not once—seen you like this. Not even out in the field, back-to-back with him, dueling dark wizards without hesitation. Not even on the worst nights, when you were exhausted and bleeding but still smirking, still throwing out some dry remark.

But here? Now?

You were a mess of trembling limbs and wide, haunted eyes. You looked like you were barely holding yourself together, like if he breathed wrong, you might break apart completely.

His grip on your wrist was light—barely there—but your pulse raced beneath his fingers. You hadn’t tried to pull away, but you weren’t looking at him either, gaze flickering somewhere over his shoulder like you wished you could vanish entirely.

He swallowed hard, speaking past the gravel in his throat.

“What happened?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out, just a shaky exhale that barely made it past your teeth.

Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled you inside, stepping around you to close the door with a quiet click. You stood stiffly in the entryway, one wrist still in his hand, your other arm wrapped around yourself like you were holding your own ribs together.

Sebastian could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. His skin still buzzed with whiskey, his body sluggish from the alcohol, but his mind—fuck, his mind was awake now.

Someone had hurt you. Not just in the way that left bruises blooming across your skin or a sluggish trickle of blood tracing down your brow—but in the way you stood, small and hollowed out, like something inside you had caved in.

And he was going to make them pay for it.

The rage inside him wasn’t just anger—it was something worse. Something deeper. A raw, seething thing that coiled around his spine, tightening with every second he spent looking at you like this. It clawed at his ribs, demanding blood, demanding violence.

Sebastian had done a lot of things in his life—things he wasn’t proud of, things he couldn’t take back—but none of it would compare to what he would do to the person who put their hands on you.

His voice came out strained. “Tell me who did this.”

He watched the hesitation flicker across your face. You shook your head once. No.

He felt his pulse hammer in his throat, hot frustration bubbling up beneath his skin.

“Who?” His voice came sharper than he meant, rough and edged with something dangerous. “Just tell me who—”

Sebastian felt the second he fucked up. The moment the sharp edge of his voice cut the air, you flinched—so small, so fleeting, but there. And suddenly, the anger curdling in his chest didn’t matter. You didn’t need his temper, his anger, the violence simmering beneath his skin. You needed the part of him that knew how to take care of you.

His grip on your wrist loosened instantly, shifting instead into something light, barely-there, just enough to anchor you without holding you in place. His entire body language changed—he softened, dropping the heat, the demand, everything that might make you feel like you were being cornered. Because you weren’t. Never with him.

“Hey, sorry, I didn't mean to push,” he said quickly, voice dropping low, steady, warm. “You’re safe now, love. You’re with me."

Your lips pressed together, a sharp inhale stuttering in your chest, like you were trying to keep yourself from unraveling.

Sebastian took a slow step forward. Not too close. Just enough.

“I’ve got you," he murmured, even softer now. The backs of his knuckles brushed against your arm, barely a touch. Just enough to let you know he was there. That he wasn’t like whoever had put their hands on you tonight.

“You don’t have to tell me anything right now, okay? We’ll deal with it later. You just—” His throat tightened. “Just let me help, alright sweetheart?”

Your gaze flickered to his, and for the first time since he’d opened the door, he saw it—relief. Not much, just a flicker. A tiny, fragile thing. But it was enough.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, nodding once.

“Come here.” His voice was barely above a whisper, like he was making an offering. A place to land. A way out of your own head.

And when you stepped forward—hesitant, small, but willing—he didn’t hesitate.

Sebastian’s arms came around you in an instant, warm and solid, pulling you in carefully, shielding, steady. His hands were broad against your back, his entire frame curving around you, like maybe if he just held you tight enough, nothing could touch you anymore.

Your breath stuttered against his chest, the tension in your shoulders loosening just a fraction. He felt it happen—felt the smallest bit of weight drop from you as your forehead pressed lightly against his collarbone, like you were finally, finally letting yourself breathe.

Sebastian shut his eyes, exhaling slow and controlled. His voice was a low, quiet promise against your hair.

"You're safe. You hear me, love? You're safe now. You're with me."

Your voice came out quiet, fragile in a way he’d never heard before.

“I—I’m sorry, Seb” you murmured shakily against his chest. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I just—I ended up here, and—”

Sebastian stiffened. For a second, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. His grip on you twitched, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, to see the exhausted tilt of your head, the way your eyes wouldn’t quite meet his, how you were curling in on yourself like you could make yourself smaller, less of an inconvenience.

Something sharp lodged itself in his throat.

His hands ghosted down your arms, then one of them lifted before he could stop himself—fingertips barely brushing the side of your face, near the cut on your eyebrow. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"You didn't 'ruin' anything. You can always come to me,” he murmured. “No matter what. Doesn’t matter where I am, what I’m doing—you can always come to me. Understand?”

You swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out. Instead, your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his shirt, gripping at him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

Sebastian exhaled softly. “That’s my girl.”

Your weight was pressing against him now, not quite leaning but… there. Trusting.

Then, so quiet he almost missed it, you hummed softly against his chest.

“I don’t even remember coming here,” you murmured. “I just… walked. It’s like my feet knew where to go before I did.”

Sebastian stilled. His mind tripped over itself, racing to keep up. You walked here? From your flat? That wasn’t close—at least three miles, probably more. At this hour? In this state?

His stomach turned.

Had someone broken in? Had they been waiting for you? Did you even get a chance to fight back? Why didn’t you use magic? His pulse roared in his ears, questions piling up faster than he could process them—

But he didn’t voice any of it.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers curling lightly beneath your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, sharp—wide with something like realization.

“You walked here?” His voice was low, too calm, too careful—like he was trying not to startle you. Like he was trying to make sure he’d heard you correctly before he let himself lose it.

You blinked at him, like it hadn’t even occurred to you that this was something he might react to. “…Yeah?”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

“That’s—” He exhaled sharply. “That’s miles away.”

You flinched, just barely, but this time it wasn’t from him—it was like you were only just now realizing what you had done, the reality settling in now that he had said it aloud.

“I—” Your voice wavered. “I didn’t even think about it, I just—” You shook your head, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, I just needed to go. And I guess—”

Sebastian didn’t let you finish.

His hands were tightening around you in an instant—not gripping, not pulling, just there. Solid. Like he needed to convince himself that you weren’t still out there wandering the streets, hurt and vulnerable and alone.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead dropping briefly against yours, eyes screwing shut. “Fuck, fuck—”

The thought of you, alone, stumbling through the dark like a ghost, disoriented, wrecked, bleeding—it made him sick. You could have collapsed. You could have gotten lost. You could have—he couldn't even finish the thought.

Sebastian sucked in a slow breath, forcing himself to breathe, to be what you needed.

“Alright.” His voice was softer now, quieter. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s sit you down so I can clean you up, yeah?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. Then, finally, you nodded.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, nodding once in return.

“Good girl.” The words slipped out without thought, low and full of quiet, genuine relief.

Then, before you could process that—before he could process that—Sebastian was already moving, guiding you carefully toward his bedroom.

The dim glow from the bedside lamp bathed the space in soft, golden light, stretching long shadows across the floor. It was familiar, safe. You’d been here a thousand times before—kicking off your shoes without a second thought, making yourself at home on his bed, wrapped in that massive, worn-out blanket you always stole whenever you stayed over.

Sebastian barely had to nudge you down before you were sinking onto the edge of the mattress, exhausted, hands twisting together in your lap like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Without a word, Sebastian pulled the heavy blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your shoulders, tucking it in carefully. You sank into it immediately, pulling the edges closer.

"Just sit tight," Sebastian murmured. "I’ll be right back."

You nodded—slow, small—and he gave your shoulder the lightest squeeze before pushing himself to his feet.

The moment he stepped into the ensuite, he exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against the cool porcelain of the sink. His reflection in the mirror looked as wrecked as he felt—jaw clenched, eyes dark with something raw and sharp.

The cabinet door creaked as he yanked it open, hands moving fast. A clean washcloth, warm from the sink. A Dixie cup of water. The first aid kit he’d barely ever needed but always kept—just in case. He nearly knocked over a bottle of cologne reaching for it.

When he returned, you hadn’t moved much. Still perched on the edge of his bed, shoulders drawn in, hands curled loosely in your lap. The trembling had eased, but not completely.

Sebastian set everything on the floor and knelt in front of you, careful, steady, slipping effortlessly into the version of himself you needed right now. The one who would take care of you.

“Here.” He held out the paper cup, his fingers brushing against yours as you took it. “Drink.”

You brought it to your lips, taking slow, small sips. Sebastian didn’t look away, watching carefully, making sure you drank enough. Making sure you weren’t about to fold in on yourself.

Then, once you’d set the cup aside, he reached for the washcloth, folding it into a neat square.

“Okay,” he murmured. “This might sting.”

Your gaze flicked toward his, cautious but steady, and you nodded.

His fingers were steady when they cupped your cheek, tilting your face just enough to give him a better look at the cut above your eyebrow. He barely even touched you, just the ghost of his palm against your jaw, his thumb resting near your temple.

And fuck, seeing it up close was worse.

The cut wasn’t deep, but it was still bleeding sluggishly. The skin around it was red and raw, like you had wiped at it with the sleeve of your shirt at some point. There were bruises along your temple too, darkening by the second.

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it sent a dull ache down his neck.

Breathe. Focus.

He kept his touch gentle, dabbing carefully at the blood along your brow, slow enough to avoid hurting you more than necessary.

You winced, breath hitching just slightly, but you didn’t pull away. Your eyes fluttered for a moment before settling on him. And that was when he felt it. Like a thread pulling taut between you—delicate but unbreakable.

He knew that look. He’d known it for years. Had seen it a thousand times in fleeting moments—across the rim of a coffee mug, under the hazy glow of streetlights on late-night walks, in the quiet of stolen glances when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

Soft. Open. Trusting. Loving.

Even now. Even after tonight—after whatever fresh hell you’d been put through—you still looked at him like that. Like he was safe. Like he was yours.

Sebastian swallowed hard, forcing down the impossible tightness in his throat.

“Good news is,” he managed, trying to keep his voice light, normal, like he wasn’t seconds away from completely fucking losing it, “you still got your pretty face intact.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of your lips. Not quite a smile, but close—softer than anything he’d seen from you all night. More importantly, it earned him the softest exhale, a breath of sound barely there, barely audible, but approaching a laugh.

Sebastian let himself smile—small, reassuring, nothing too much.

His thumb moved before he could stop it, brushing over your cheekbone, the lightest, most absent-minded touch.

"Let me see your hands," he murmured.

There was hesitation—he felt it before he even saw it. Your fingers curled into the blanket, your body tensing, as if you weren’t sure you wanted him to look. Then, slowly, you unwound your fingers, releasing the fabric, and let him take your hands.

And fuck. Even your knuckles were torn up—split, raw, some still sluggishly weeping where the skin had broken open. Dark smudges of dried blood clung between your fingers, across your palms. The skin along your wrist was bruised, as if someone had grabbed you.

He felt his pulse slam against his ribs.

You’d fought back. Of course you did. Of course you fucking did.

Because you were you. Because you were strong, stubborn, fierce even when the odds were stacked against you. But the thought of you having to fight—having to defend yourself like this, having to claw your way out of something horrible—

Sebastian inhaled sharply through his nose.

He forced it down—the fire, the violence curling under his skin, the instinct to demand names, places, details—he swallowed all of it.

Later. He’d deal with that later. Right now, you needed him.

Sebastian lifted the washcloth again, pressing it carefully to your knuckles. You hissed softly at the sting, hands jerking slightly in his grip.

“Easy, love,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, thick with something that sounded like devotion. “I’ve got you.”

He cleaned away the blood with slow, deliberate strokes, careful and methodical. Taking his time, as if it might make a difference. As if he could erase what had happened, wipe it from your skin, lift the weight from your shoulders and take it onto his own.

The silence between you settled, thick and heavy but not suffocating. Not tense. Just… there. A presence in the room.

When he finished, he set the washcloth aside and reached for the first aid kit again, fingers brushing over the zipper before he pulled it open. His hands were steady, practiced, as he found what he needed—a small tube of antibiotic ointment.

He twisted the cap off and squeezed a little onto his fingertip.

Neither of you spoke when he smoothed it gently over the cut above your eyebrow, his touch featherlight. You didn’t flinch, didn’t tense, just let him. And when he moved to your knuckles, carefully spreading the ointment over the split skin, you watched him—eyes dark, unreadable, but there. Present.

When he was finished, he squeezed your hand. That part wasn’t strictly necessary, but he did it anyway. A small thing. A quiet reassurance. And thenyour fingers curled around his, squeezing back—just barely.

Sebastian swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “I’m getting you a clean shirt,” he said softly.

He turned to his dresser, yanking open a drawer and rifling through the mess. Because you were not staying in that fucking t-shirt. Not when the collar was torn, stretched where it shouldn’t be, the fabric stained with blood.

The thought of you still wearing it made something ugly curl in his stomach.

So he found the softest thing he owned—one of his old hoodies, oversized and warm, worn to hell but clean. Safe. Something that smelled like him.

He turned back to you, pressing it into your hands.

"Thanks," you murmured, your fingers curling into the fabric, the sleeves bunched between your knuckles.

Sebastian cleared his throat. “You can change in here,” he said. “Or the bathroom. Whatever’s—”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

His entire body went still. The words weren’t loud. If the room had been any noisier from the traffic outside, he might have missed them. But they hit like a gut punch, like a fist curling around his ribs and squeezing tight.

You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was downcast, fixed somewhere near the floor, but your posture told him everything. Shoulders curled inward. Small. Hesitant.

Sebastian turned back to you instantly.

"Alright," he murmured, voice steady, unwavering. "I'll stay right here."

Something in your expression shifted, like the tension in your chest eased just slightly. Then slowly, carefully you peeled off your ruined t-shirt.

Sebastian tore his gaze away, jaw clenching. Not because he didn’t want to look—fuck, that was never the problem.

But because this wasn’t about that.

You needed comfort, not whatever mess of feelings he was shoving down, not whatever heat curled low in his stomach whenever you were close. Not the part of him that had spent years wanting to touch you, years wanting you in ways he’d never said aloud.

So he clenched his fists and stared at the wall, listening to the soft rustle of fabric as you pulled his hoodie over your head.

A moment of silence stretched between you.

“Okay,” you murmured.

Sebastian turned back.

The hoodie was massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair before nodding once. “Better?”

You gave the smallest nod.

“Good.” His voice softer now, the rough edge smoothed just slightly. “Right then, let’s get you settled.”

Sebastian reached for the bed, moving on instinct. He pulled back the messy covers, shaking them out before propping up the pillows against the headboard, making sure they were stacked just right. Then, with quiet purpose, he turned back to you, nodding toward the bed.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low, steady.

Your gaze flickered up at him, exhaustion dulling your eyes, but beneath it—gratitude. Silent, unspoken, but undeniable.

Slowly, you crawled onto the mattress, shifting beneath the blankets, and the second your head hit the pillow, you curled in on yourself, like your body had been waiting for this—this warmth, this safety—to finally let go.

Sebastian grabbed the blanket—your blanket—and tucked it securely over you, smoothing it over your shoulders before sitting on the edge of the bed, just close enough to reach you if you needed him.

“Anything I can get you?” he asked. “Tea? A snack? Whatever you want, love, just say the word.”

Your fingers curled into the edge of the blanket, your brows drawing together slightly like you hadn’t even considered that option.

“I—” Your voice was quiet, hesitant. “I don’t know.”

Sebastian huffed a quiet, almost amused sound. “Not exactly a helpful answer.”

You exhaled a soft breath—one that might have been the ghost of a laugh if you weren’t so drawn out—and ducked your chin into the blanket.

Sebastian watched you for a second, then nodded to himself, already making up his mind.

“Alright,” he murmured, standing. “Something to eat, then.”

You blinked up at him, looking so small, so tired, but you didn’t protest. Sebastian took that as a win.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, already scrolling through the UberEats app with single-minded focus. He wasn’t just looking for just anything—he was looking for your favorite restaurant.

He knew what you liked. Knew what you always ordered when you were too exhausted to cook, when you’d had a rough day, when you needed something warm and familiar to make the world feel a little less harsh.

And besides, it wasn’t like he had anything useful in his kitchen. The last time he’d checked, his fridge contained precisely one beer, a half-empty bottle of hot sauce, and something that might have once been a loaf of bread but was now a science experiment.

Not exactly ideal.

But even if he had groceries, it wouldn’t have mattered. You’d said you didn’t want to be alone. So he wasn’t going anywhere—not even to the damn kitchen.

As he flicked through the menu, your voice broke the silence.

“…Seb?”

He glanced up immediately, his full attention snapping back to you in an instant.

“Yeah?”

“…Will you lay with me?”

Something thick and impossible to name lodged itself in his throat, pressing against his ribs.

“Yeah,” he murmured, already moving. “Of course.”

He climbed into the bed beside you, careful and deliberate, mindful to keep a respectful distance—giving you space to breathe, to settle, to feel safe. But the second he was still, the second the warmth of him fully registered beside you, you scooted closer, the space between you vanishing in an instant. You curled into him, pressing into his side, burrowing against his chest like it was the only place you wanted to be.

Sebastian barely had a second to process it before instinct took over.

His free arm came around you automatically, pulling you in, keeping you there. He didn’t even think about it—just moved, just held.

And fuck, you fit against him so perfectly it made his heart lurch.

He ignored it.

Ignored the way your warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, ignored the way your breath ghosted against his neck, ignored the way his own pulse stupidly, traitorously picked up speed as you curled your fingers into the hem of his hoodie like you had no plans to let go.

Instead, he adjusted the angle of his phone so you could see the screen, keeping his voice casual. Normal. Like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting at the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“Here,” he murmured. “Do you want your usual?”

“…Yeah,” you said, voice half-muffled against his chest. “That sounds good.”

Sebastian hummed, tapping the order in without question.

“Alright,” he said. “Then it’s settled.”

His fingers flexed lightly against your waist, soothing, absent-minded, and you sighed, breath warm against his throat.

Sebastian swallowed hard, ignoring the way something deep in his chest ached at the feeling. He was in trouble.

But fuck it.

He’d deal with that later.

The next little while passed in silence—not the uncomfortable kind, not tense or heavy, just quiet. Steady.

Sebastian didn’t say anything. Neither did you. You just lay there, curled into him, your breath even and slow, the warmth of you pressed into his side.

But Sebastian didn’t need words.

He was just thankful you were here, that your body had finally started to relax, that the tension had drained from your limbs.

Then, eventually, the soft buzz of his phone vibrating on the nightstand broke the stillness.

The food was here.

Sebastian sighed, shifting slightly, preparing to get up, but the second he moved, he felt it. You stiffened. Barely perceptible, just the slightest tensing of your fingers against his shirt, but enough. Enough for something cold to crawl up his spine.

So instead of pulling away completely, he murmured, “Alright, come on then,” and reached down, slipping his arm around you.

You made a soft, startled sound as he shifted, rolling forward until you were draped across his back. His hands hooked securely under your thighs as he straightened, carrying you with him as he padded toward the door.

You didn’t protest. You just buried your face into the crook of his neck, fingers loosely gripping his shoulders as he moved.

Sebastian grabbed the takeout bag with one hand, snatched a couple of forks from the kitchen drawer on his way back, and carried you straight back to bed.

He placed the food between you, climbed in beside you again, and grabbed the remote, flipping on the TV. Some random YouTube video started playing—something dumb, nothing serious, just background noise to keep things from feeling too quiet.

You didn’t eat much. Just picked at your food, nudging pieces around with your fork.

That was fine. Sebastian didn’t push. Didn’t say anything about it. Just sat beside you, eating in easy silence, letting you take what you needed at your own pace.

And then, finally, you spoke.

Your voice was soft, quiet, but clear.

“…Sebastian.”

He glanced over immediately. “Yeah, love?”

You swallowed, staring at your food like you weren’t really seeing it. Then, slowly, you set your fork aside, taking in a shaky breath.

“I'm... I'm ready to tell you what happened.”

Sebastian’s fork stopped midway to his mouth.

The words settled between you, quiet but heavy, sinking into his ribs like a slow, aching weight.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched you as you stared down at your takeout, your breath uneven like you were preparing yourself.

Slowly, he reached for the remote. The video playing in the background cut off instantly, plunging the room into a thick, expectant silence. Sebastian set his fork down on the nightstand and turned his full attention to you.

“Alright,” he murmured. “I’m listening.”

You inhaled sharply, like you were bracing yourself, and when you spoke, your voice wavered—small and fragile in a way that made something in his chest splinter.

“It was him.”

The second the words left your mouth, his stomach dropped, and a sharp, seething hatred coiled hot and violent in his chest.

Sebastian knew who you meant. It was him.

And fuck, of course it was. How hadn't he put it together sooner?

Sebastian had never liked your boyfriend. Never. Not even in the beginning, when everyone else had acted like he was some goddamn catch. Sebastian hadn’t needed a reason, hadn’t needed proof—he just knew there was something off about him. Something that never sat right with Sebastian, no matter how many times you swore he was nice.

He’d never said anything, though. Not outright. You were happy, or at least that's what you said, and Sebastian—Sebastian, who was a selfish bastard on the best of days when it came to you—hadn’t wanted to be the bitter one. The one sitting on the sidelines, waiting for something to go wrong.

But now—now—he was fucking furious at himself for not pushing harder.

Because if he had, if he’d done something, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting here, hands trembling, voice wrecked, telling him about how the person who was supposed to love you had put his fucking hands on you.

His fists clenched in the blanket.

He had never understood why the fuck you got with him in the first place. A Muggle, sure, fine—Sebastian didn’t give a shit about blood status—but him?

You were brilliant, sharp, always three steps ahead in a conversation, in a duel, in everything. You had a way of reading people, of understanding things too quickly, like your mind was always moving, always making connections that no one else could see.

And your boyfriend? The guy was dense. It wasn’t even an insult, just a fact.

Sebastian had been baffled when you first introduced him. Because what the hell did you even talk about? He wasn’t clever, or funny, or anything that made sense for you. He was just… there. All tall, broad-shouldered, perfect-featured statue of a man, like some idiot Greek god who had never had a thought deeper than his own reflection.

And you, who could debate theory for hours, who could outduel anyone, who never backed down from an argument—had ended up with him?

It made no fucking sense.

At first, Sebastian had assumed it was just a passing thing. Maybe you were into the whole tall, hot, and dumb aesthetic. Maybe you just wanted something easy. Someone who wouldn’t challenge you, someone who wouldn’t drag you into the kind of shit Sebastian always did.

But then the relationship had lasted. For months.

Sebastian tried telling himself that his problem with your boyfriend was just jealousy, that it was something ugly in him that hated seeing you with someone else.

But deep down, it wasn’t just that.

He had never liked him. Never trusted him. And now—now he fucking knew why.

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of Sebastian’s hoodie, but you didn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed locked on the blanket draped over your lap, like you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes.

“He went out drinking,” you murmured, voice thin and raw. “Came home late. I was already in bed, and I—I could hear him from the other room. Slamming drawers, throwing shit. He was mad about something—probably work, or maybe just the fucking weather, I don’t know. But I knew it was bad. I knew the second I heard him that it was one of those nights.”

Sebastian didn’t move. His entire body had gone tight, coiled like a wire stretched too thin. One of those nights?

How many times had you stood there, listening to him throw shit around the apartment, waiting for him to come for you? How many nights had you lain awake, breath shallow, heart pounding, afraid of the man who was supposed to love you? How many times had you flinched at the sound of keys in the door?

Sebastian's breath was slow, measured—too controlled. He had to keep himself in check. Because if he let himself fully think about it, if he let himself process the fact that this wasn’t just some freak incident, that you had lived like this—

You kept talking, your voice quiet but raw, and he forced himself to listen.

“I tried to pretend I was asleep,” you muttered. “Hoped he’d just pass out on the couch. But then he came into the bedroom. Flicked on the light. Stood in the doorway for a second, just looking at me.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

“And then he started talking—no, ranting—about everything that had gone wrong today. Like it was my fault. Like I was supposed to fix it. I told him to calm down, but that just made it worse.”

Sebastian swallowed, his throat dry as fucking sandpaper.

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, knuckles pressing against your ribs like you were trying to hold yourself together. “He got in my face,” you continued. “He does that sometimes, to intimidate me, I think. I told him to back off, but he didn’t.” Your voice broke slightly, and you sucked in a sharp breath. “I—I reached for my wand.”

Sebastian inhaled sharply.

And then, he knew. He knew what was coming. Knew it.

But when you finally said it—when the words left your mouth, shaking, broken—he still felt like the fucking floor had been ripped out from under him.

“He grabbed it out of my hand,” you whispered. “And he snapped it in half.”

But you weren’t done.

“And then he grabbed me.”

Sebastian barely resisted the urge to fucking break something.

“I hit him,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I tried. That’s why my knuckles are—” You gestured vaguely to one hand with the other, your fingers trembling. “But obviously I was never going to win against him. Then he shoved me, slammed me against the wall so hard I thought my head was gonna split open.”

Sebastian’s fingers twitched against the blanket. His breath was coming too fast, too sharp. He needed to stay still, needed to stay quiet because this wasn’t about him, but—fuck. You were shaking now, and it took everything in him not to pull you into his arms right then and there.

“I—I must have hit the dresser on the way down,” you said, voice thick as you reached up, brushing a fingertip over your eyebrow.

Sebastian felt sick.

“He grabbed me again,” you continued, voice unsteady. “By the arms. He was yelling, I don’t even know what the fuck he was saying anymore. I—I tried to claw him off, and then he—”

You stopped. Sebastian’s pulse roared in his ears.

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He could feel what was coming next, and it terrified him more than anything else you’d said.

His voice, when it finally came, was low. Too low.

“He what?”

You swallowed, voice thick with unshed tears. “He put his hands around my throat.”

Sebastian’s world went fucking silent. The breath was knocked out of him. His heart slammed so hard against his ribs he thought it might crack them.

“And I—I couldn’t—” Your voice wavered, raw and unsteady. “I couldn’t breathe. I was kicking, and I—I think I got him in the ribs or something, because he let go just long enough for me to shove him and run.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw so hard it ached.

“ I didn’t think. I didn’t even grab anything,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I just—I had to get out, so I ran, and… and I dunno, I ended up here.”

Sebastian couldn’t breathe. You had to run from your own home. You had to run for your life.

Sebastian was going to kill him. No—he was going to do worse.

And then, then, his mind supplied the worst possible thought.

His voice came out strained. Tight. Lethal. “…Did he do anything else? Did he— did he touch you?”

You shook your head. Small. Quick. Immediate.

“No,” you whispered, voice thick. “No. He didn’t.”

Sebastian barely resisted the urge to collapse with relief. But the fact that he even had to ask—the fact that he had even worried about it—was enough to send another wave of fury rolling through his chest.

His voice, when it finally came, was flat, cold in a way that barely sounded like him.

“Where is he now?”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”

Sebastian’s fingers curled into the blanket, his jaw locking so hard it ached.

“I don’t know if he chased me down the street,” you muttered, voice distant, "or if he just passed out on the floor in the flat.” Your mouth twisted slightly, bitter. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Sebastian saw red. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the first fucking time. The words slammed into him like a punch to the gut, a brutal, taunting echo that wouldn’t stop.

How long? How long had this been happening? Had there been times when you’d wanted to tell him? When the words had almost left your lips, only to be swallowed back down by fear? How many times had you thought about leaving but been too scared?

Sebastian’s stomach twisted violently, a sickening, nauseating weight settling deep in his ribs.

Had he ever looked at you and missed it? Had you ever shown up to work, to his flat, tired or distracted, wearing long sleeves even when it was warm? Had he ever caught a glimpse of something he should have seen—some hidden bruise, some flicker of fear in your eyes—and fucking ignored it?

His vision blurred at the edges. He should have known. He should have fucking known.

And now—now it was too late, because it had already happened, and you were sitting right here, bruised and battered, wearing his hoodie because your own clothes were ruined, voice small and wrecked as you told him about how you had run for your life.

Sebastian couldn’t sit still.

The rage was too much, too sharp, clawing up his throat, curling around his spine, making his limbs itch with the need to move, to do something, to fucking fix this.

So he shoved his takeout onto the nightstand, barely registering the sound it made, and pushed off the bed before the anger swallowed him whole.

But he didn’t get far.

The second he was standing, he felt it—your fingers catching weakly at the fabric of his shirt, not pulling, not stopping him, just… holding.

Sebastian froze. His hands twitched at his sides, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself to breathe, swallowing the violence in his throat.

“Tomorrow,” he said, voice hard with finality, “I’m getting all your stuff from your place.”

Your head snapped up, eyes widening slightly, but Sebastian didn’t let you speak.

“You’re never going back there,” he continued, unmoving. “You live here now.”

Your lips parted, and for a second, he saw it—that flicker of resistance, the part of you that was always so fucking stubborn, always ready to argue, to find some logical excuse for why you couldn't—

Sebastian didn’t give you the chance.

“No.” His tone was unyielding, “You don’t get to argue with me on this."

Sebastian steeled himself, forcing himself to be rational, to speak in the way you’d actually listen instead of just demanding you do what he fucking said.

“You don’t have a wand,” he reminded you, voice rough but steady. “You don’t know where he is. I’m not letting you walk back into that flat. Ever.”

You swallowed hard. “But—”

Sebastian shook his head.

“No. This is your home now,” he said. “For as long as you need. As long as you want.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but finally—so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“…Okay.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from his shoulders just slightly, just enough that his hands didn’t feel like they were about to break something.

“If you want to report it,” he said, steady, certain, determined, “we’ll figure it out. We’ll go to the Ministry if we need to, or the Muggle police.” His throat felt tight, but he pushed through it. “Whatever you need. Whatever justice looks like for you—we’ll get it.”

Your breath stuttered slightly, but you didn’t speak.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We can ask Ominis which one to go to. He’s good with this shit—he’ll know what to do.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “And if you don’t want to tell him… that’s fine, too. I’ll sort it out myself.”

Because he would. If you wanted to handle this the legal way, he’d be right there beside you, every step of the way. And if you didn’t—

“But if you don’t want to do that,” he said, voice dropping lower, gentler, softer in a way that made his ribs ache, “that’s okay.”

It was your choice. All of it. For what was probably the first time in months, it was yours.

Sebastian was about to say more—was about to ask if you wanted him to do something now, to go to the flat, to find that fucking bastard—but then you made a sound. A small, barely there sound, like something breaking apart inside you. And before he could even process it, your shoulders shook, your face crumpling as the first sob ripped out of you.

Sebastian's stomach dropped.

Fuck—

What did he say? What did he do?

He had tried to be so careful, but now you were crying—really crying, for the first time all night—and fuck, had he pushed too hard? Had he said something—

Your hands were reaching for him.

Sebastian barely had time to breathe before you were clutching at him, holding him with all the strength left in you.

He melted. His arms came around you instantly, pulling you in, one hand cupping the back of your head as you buried your face into his chest. He felt the shudder of your breath, the way your whole body trembled as you broke apart against him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"Hey, hey—" His voice was low, rough, but so fucking gentle. "I've got you. It’s alright. Just—just let it out."

You gasped between sobs, fists curling into him like you needed him to keep you steady.

And then, through the shaking, through the broken sobs, “Thank you.”

Sebastian's breath stuttered, his grip tightening around you. You were still crying, still wrecked, still clinging to him, but the words were so raw, so genuine, it made something ache deep in his chest.

"Don’t thank me," he muttered, pressing his cheek against the top of your head. "You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. This—" He exhaled, his voice barely above a whisper. "I would do anything for you. You do know that, don't you?"

You let out a soft, breathy laugh against his chest, barely more than a shaky exhale. It wasn’t light, wasn’t joyful. It was exhausted, raw, frayed at the edges like you didn’t quite have the energy for it but couldn’t help yourself. A sound that came from somewhere deep, somewhere aching.

And then, you whispered, "Yeah, Seb… I know."

Your voice was hoarse, wrecked—but sure in a way that made his ribs feel like they were caving in. Like there had never been a doubt in your mind. Like you had always known.

And something inside him cracked.

All the anger, the panic, the terror that had been keeping him upright—keeping him steady—just snapped, and suddenly he was unraveling too, spilling apart at the seams before he could even think to stop it.

Because the truth, the reality of this finally hit him—really hit him, slamming into him all at once like a freight train, like a fist to the ribs, like something he would never recover from.

You could have not made it here. He could have lost you. Not in some abstract, distant, what if kind of way.

No.

This had been real. This had happened. And if things had gone just a little differently—if you hadn’t gotten away, if that bastard had held on just a second longer—

The thought suffocated him, dragged him under, wrenched something raw and painful out of his chest. His breath hitched sharply against your hair. His shoulders trembled. And then, before he could stop it, before he could even fight it, a choked, wrecked sob ripped out of him.

Sebastian never cried.

Not when his uncle died. Not when he thought he’d lost Ominis for good. Not even when he lost Anne and the weight of his own mistakes had nearly crushed him. He’d swallowed it all down, shoved it away, because crying never changed anything.

But this—

This was different. This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t regret or guilt or self-hatred.

This was terror.

Pure. Crippling. The kind that hollowed you out, carved into you like a knife, left you feeling like there was nothing inside but raw, open wounds.

He could’ve lost you.

His breath came too fast, uneven, the pressure in his chest too much, and his mouth was already moving before he could stop it.

“I swear to God, I don’t— I don’t know what I would have done if—” His voice cracked, a raw, fractured thing that barely made it out past his lips.

“I—I should’ve known, I should’ve done something—” His grip flexed, desperate. “I knew something was off about him, I fucking knew, and I didn’t say anything—”

“Sebastian—”

“And I—fuck, I can’t stop picturing it. You— you walked here, you were just, just out there, all alone, and I wasn’t—” His voice cracked again, barely holding together. “I wasn’t there, I didn’t know—”

Your hand lifted, soft and soothing, brushing against the side of his face, and it wrecked him, because fuck, you shouldn’t have to comfort him. Not after what you had just been through. Not when he was supposed to be taking care of you.

But you did. You just held him.

Sebastian let out another ragged breath, desperately clinging to you. “I could have lost you.”

Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, gentle, careful, steady. "You didn’t.”

He let out a sound—somewhere between a sharp exhale and a broken laugh, because that wasn’t the point. The point was that it had been so fucking close.

“I—” His fingers curled against the nape of your neck, into your hair, gripping you like a lifeline. "You have no fucking idea—I just—I thought—" He inhaled sharply, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice turning frantic, desperate.

"Sebastian—"

"I knew he was wrong for you, I knew it, and I—fuck—I just let it happen—"

"Seb—"

"I love you."

It ripped out of him.

Messy. Raw. Completely unfiltered.

“I love you and—fuck—" his voice was wild, frantic, cracking over itself. "And I swear to God, I’m going to kill him." His breath hitched, a sharp, furious sound. " I’m going to bury him, I’m going to make him suffer, I’m going to make sure he knows—"

His breath came hard, uneven, furious, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

"He’s done," His laugh was sharp, bitter, wrecked. "I mean it—I mean it, I will put him in the fucking ground, I will tear him apart with my bare hands—"

His voice was getting rougher, more desperate, more unhinged with every word that tumbled out. He couldn’t stop—couldn’t stop picturing it, him, with his hands on you, hurting you, breaking your wand, stealing your power, making you run for your life—

"I should’ve stopped this, I should’ve—fuck, I should’ve done something the second I saw him looking at you like you were his, I should’ve fucking known—"

"Seb—"

"You don’t understand—he put his hands on you. On you. Do you have any idea what that means to me? Do you have any clue what I would do for you?" His breath came sharp and fast, his words spilling out unchecked, unstoppable. "You—you’re everything to me—I love you, fuck, I love you—"

And that was when it hit him.

He said it.

Again.

For the fourth fucking time, actually.

He had said the one thing he was never supposed to say, the thing he had spent years shoving down under layers of denial and cowardice and self-preservation because it was safer that way. Because it was easier to pretend, easier to be your friend, easier to just be there for you without ruining everything.

But it was out now. It was out, and there was no taking it back, and fuck, he shouldn’t have said it—not like this, not when this wasn’t about him, not when you had just been through hell—

And suddenly, fresh panic was clawing up his throat, his mind spinning too fast, spiraling, trying to fix it, trying to backpedal—

And then you kissed him.

Sebastian’s mind blipped.

Just shut off completely.

One second, he was losing his goddamn mind, his body shaking, his hands gripping onto you like you were the only thing keeping him from self-destructing, and the next, your lips were on his, soft and desperate and real.

It was like slamming into a wall at full speed.

Every thought cut out at once.

The rage. The panic. The terror.

Gone.

All that was left was this. You. The feeling of your hands curling into the neckline of his shirt, pulling him closer. The way your breath hitched against his lips, the way your body melted against his like you had wanted this just as much as he had.

Sebastian made a noise in the back of his throat—wrecked, wild—before he sank into you completely.

His hands flew up, cupping your face, tilting your head like he needed more, like he was drowning and this was the only thing that could save him.

He felt your fingers shaking, gripping him like you needed him as much as he needed you, and fuck, if that wasn’t enough to destroy him.

He broke away just long enough to suck in a breath, his forehead dropping to yours, his whole body shaking.

And then—softly, like he couldn’t help himself—he let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh.

“…Okay,” he breathed, his lips barely an inch from yours. “Okay. That was—yeah. That was a good way to shut me up.”

Your lips twitched—small, barely there—

But there.

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milkistar · 2 days ago

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𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔. ⊹ ˚ 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐

can you take this spike? will it wash away this jet black, now? [ . . . ] please save my soul. [ . . . ]

i'll never let them hurt you, not tonight.

⤹ you can find pt. 1 › here.

you were sent on a mission to hunt a dangerous vampire, but when you finally find him, he’s nothing like the monster you expected - he doesn’t fit the stories you were told.

★:: sunghoon (enhypen) x reader. tags:: gn reader, vampire au, reader should kill the vampire but guess what, blood, mentions of violence, mentions of murder.

you stayed in the church for an hour after sunrise. you knew that vampires couldn’t tolerate sunlight, so they had already disappeared from the forest for a while, but you wanted to be sure you wouldn’t run into any of them; after all, you were unarmed.

in the end, that vampire—sunghoon—hadn’t lied to you. it was truly consecrated ground, and he had really saved your life. you couldn’t deny it—you were curious to know why.

you stepped out of the church cautiously, looking around for any potential threats—you were still in a forest, after all. it was all clear.

you pulled your phone out of your uniform pocket and checked the battery: there was still a little left, hopefully enough.

last night, after taking refuge in the church, you had tried to call the academy for help, but there was no signal. and, in fact, there wasn’t any that morning either.

with a sigh, you started walking through the forest, searching for a place where your phone would get reception.

your leg muscles ached from last night’s sprint, and the time spent awake in the church (there was no way you were going to sleep in a situation like that), so the act of standing up and walking once again was harder than it seemed.

meanwhile, you couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened the night before. was it terrifying? absolutely. did you feel guilty for surviving while your teammates likely hadn’t? you could bet on it. and yet, those weren’t the thoughts tormenting your mind.

the studies you had done on vampires, the textbooks you had read, the certainties on which your life had been built for the past few years… they were all wrong.

sure, vampires had proven to be bloodthirsty monsters, just like everyone had always said (you could still feel that red liquid on your hand), but they weren’t as different from humans as they were described.

and that was a crucial detail.

sunghoon had repaid the favor you had done him by not killing him, and then he had also kept his word. it was almost ridiculous because many humans weren’t even capable of that. and then—

and then, distracted by the signal icon finally appearing on your phone, you tripped and fell to the ground over a branch. or rather, a person.

a dead person.

instinctively, you brought a hand to your mouth to stifle a scream as your eyes gradually recognized the remains of the person in front of you: it was kieran, a foreign student a couple of years older than you.

the visible parts of his body were covered in bites and bruises, his uniform stained with blood and torn in several places. his body, so drained of blood, would be enough to give you nightmares for years to come.

“oh my god,” you whispered, though such an exclamation felt terribly out of place in a situation like this.

with trembling hands, you managed to dial the academy’s number and pressed the phone to your ear.

you waited for an answer on the other end, then spoke. “this is y/n y/s from the mission regarding the vampire. i need assistance—there is at least one confirmed dead.”

—---

the days following that event passed as slowly as a movie you hate but are forced to watch. sunghoon and kieran’s ravaged body were a constant weight in your mind.

during those days, the academy’s research team made progress on the case, and as the sole survivor, you were reassigned to the mission.

your suspicions had been confirmed: all three of your teammates had died, all in the same way—killed by vampires.

you were questioned about that night, but you didn’t mention sunghoon. you said you had found the church on your own, by accident, while trying to escape, and decided to take shelter inside. there was no need for them to know the truth, right? you knew it wasn’t right, but you liked convincing yourself otherwise.

regardless of your help, the researchers managed to track down the culprits. apparently, the murders of your teammates—and those of the civilians—weren’t the work of a single individual, but an entire clan of seven members.

the clan, at least three centuries old, was known as one of the most dangerous and bloodthirsty in the supernatural world. since their formation, they had killed hundreds, if not thousands, of people.

but here came the interesting part: you were the only survivor in their entire history.

it made no sense. why you?

that evening, after classes, you grabbed every file you could find about the clan from the archives, determined to learn more about the situation.

you went to the library, which was strangely almost always empty, and compared the files with books about vampires you had taken from the shelves.

that wing of the academy was a place you often visited when you wanted to study, reflect, or simply relax. the white walls and towering mahogany shelves filled with books were like a paradise to you—they made you feel at ease.

you started comparing everything written about the clan with what expert supernatural historians and doctors said about vampires, sorting plausible facts from obvious fabrications.

you were so absorbed in your research that you didn’t notice a man sitting across from you in the library—a man with pale skin and raven-black hair.

“if you wanted to know something about me, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.” his voice pulled you back to reality.

you didn’t need to look up to know it was him—that voice was something you hadn’t been able to forget.

when you did look at him, his eyes were no longer red like they had been that night but black, like his hair.

'like his bloodstained clothes,' a voice inside you reminded you, but you silenced it.

“what are you doing here?” you asked, glancing around. no one was noticing the vampire speaking to you at that moment, right?

“oh, come on, are you suffering from memory loss now?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, his expression disappointed. “i told you i’d come visit.”

in fact, he had. and he had also proven to be a man of his word. yet, his visit was the last thing you had expected.

he rested his chin on the palm of his hand, elbow propped on the table, and looked bored at the files in front of you.

you took deep breaths, trying to steady your heartbeat, which was rapidly accelerating. despite everything, that vampire made you more than a little uneasy.

“these reports are inaccurate,” he said, picking up a sheet from your files and bringing it closer to his face to read it better—it was the approximate victim count. “we’ve killed far more.”

he slid the paper back toward you across the wooden table. “but they deserved it.”

“how could anyone ever deserve death?” you asked, trying your best not to raise your voice. what he was saying made no sense.

nonsense you should have expected from a vampire. but in those days, your image of him had become too romanticized, almost making you forget his true nature. luckily, he had come to remind you.

“were you there?” he asked, locking eyes with yours. the boredom on his face was replaced by seriousness.

you didn’t answer—it was obvious. their murders had happened in different places around the world, spanning centuries of history. you were just a human—it was impossible for you to have been there.

“exactly,” he said after studying your expression. “don’t judge what you don’t understand.”

a moment of silence passed, where he continued to look at you while you wondered why no one had started screaming ‘vampire!’ at his presence yet.

then, you decided to break the quiet with the question that had been circling in your mind. “why did you decide to save me?”

he said nothing for a moment, then smiled—exactly like he had that night, in an almost unsettling way.

“why didn’t you tell your superiors about me?” he asked in return, his sharp canines visible behind his grin.

it was a fair question, but one even you didn’t know the answer to.

you watched as he stood from his chair, unnoticed once again.

“expect another visit from me. i want to hear what other fantasy stories you’ve found about me.” he chuckled slightly, then turned around, giving you his back. “this time, don’t forget, sweetheart.”

without looking back, he gave you a small wave and walked away, undisturbed.

you sat there for a couple of minutes, staring at the pages in front of you. then, with a frustrated groan, you slammed the books shut with a thud.

this time, everyone turned to look at your table.

a/n : not gonna lie that wasn't supposed to be out this early 😭😭 but i needed to distract myself with something, so -

‹𝟹 taglist :: @whateveridontcaresheesh ﹑ @gudkc ﹑ @tasnemluvs .

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sylusonychinus · 3 days ago

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Episode Three: A Question Left Hanging

The clinking of silverware and the hum of conversation filled the reunion hall as the dinner progressed. Laughter echoed from different corners of the room, old classmates sharing stories of how they made it in the aviation world. But amidst the cheerful energy, Marissa had her sights set on something else.

Or rather, someone else.

"You know, Caleb," Marissa drawled, swirling the wine in her glass, "it’s so surprising that you’re sitting with [Reader]. I mean, of all people."

[Reader] sighed inwardly. Here we go.

Caleb arched a brow, his fork pausing midair. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Marissa smirked. "Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s just… people change, you know? Some for the better, some for the worse." Her eyes flickered toward [Reader], full of artificial concern. "I just don’t want you to waste your time on someone who doesn’t deserve you."

The table grew quiet. Eyes darted between them, some eager for drama, others visibly uncomfortable.

Liana Reyes, seated a few chairs away, leaned in with a practiced smile. "What Marissa means is," she said, her voice saccharine sweet, "you and I would make a much better match, Caleb. We come from the same background, the same standards. [Reader]… well, she’s just not in our league, is she?"

[Reader] clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around her napkin.

But before she could respond, Caleb set his glass down with an audible clink, his usually calm expression darkening.

"Marissa," he said, voice steady but cold, "shut up."

Marissa’s smug expression faltered. "W-What?"

"You heard me." He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. "I don’t know where you got the idea that I need your opinion on who’s worth my time, but let me make something clear—I decide that. Not you. And definitely not Liana."

Liana scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "No need to be so defensive, Caleb. We’re just looking out for you."

"Yeah?" Caleb tilted his head. "Then maybe you should start by not treating people like garbage."

Marissa’s face turned red, her mouth opening and closing like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

[Reader] placed a hand on Caleb’s arm, a silent gesture to calm him down before she stood.

"Let me handle this," she murmured.

Caleb hesitated, then gave her a small nod.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to Marissa, her voice clear and unwavering. "You’ve spent years trying to make me feel small, haven’t you?" She tilted her head. "Why? Did it make you feel powerful? Like you were better than me?"

Marissa scoffed. "Oh, please—"

"You called me pathetic, made fun of my clothes, told people I’d never make it. But look at where we are now." She gestured to the grand hall around them. "I built my career with my own hands. What about you?"

Marissa stiffened.

[Reader] let a smirk cross her lips. "Oh, that’s right. You spend more time chasing after men with money than actually earning it yourself."

A few gasps rippled across the table, quiet murmurs breaking out. Marissa paled.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d rather enjoy my evening with people who actually matter." [Reader] picked up her drink and sat back down beside Caleb, dismissing Marissa completely.

Humiliated, Marissa grabbed her purse and stormed out, Liana quickly following after her.

The tension slowly dissipated, and soon, the table erupted into casual conversations again, as if the whole ordeal had never happened.

Caleb let out a low chuckle, nudging [Reader] slightly. "That was satisfying to watch."

She smirked. "She had it coming."

—

After the reunion, Caleb and [Reader] stepped outside together, the night air crisp and cool. The city lights flickered below, painting the streets in a golden glow.

Caleb shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at her. "I still can’t believe I didn’t recognize you."

She laughed softly. "I wasn’t exactly the loudest person back then. Always kept to myself."

"Yeah, but we studied together, trained together. It’s crazy." He shook his head with a chuckle. "I must’ve been blind."

"Or just busy being the golden boy of the academy," she teased.

He groaned. "Please don’t call me that."

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment before Caleb slowed his steps.

"You know," he started, voice quieter, "our moms set up that blind date hoping something would happen between us."

She hummed, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, I figured."

He turned to face her. "Did you ever consider it?"

That made her pause.

All these years, she had carried that quiet, unspoken crush—watching him from afar, wondering what it would be like if he ever noticed her.

And now, here he was, asking if she had ever thought about them.

She opened her mouth, ready to answer.

But then—

His phone rang.

Caleb pulled it out, checking the caller ID. His expression shifted, a flicker of frustration crossing his features.

"Another emergency flight," he muttered. He let out a sigh before meeting her gaze again. "I don’t need your answer now," he said, voice firm. "But when I come back…"

He took a step closer, just enough for her to catch the warmth in his eyes.

"I want to hear it."

And just like that, he was gone again—leaving [Reader] staring after him, her heart pounding.

For the first time in years, she had a chance.

And for the first time ever—Caleb was waiting for her.

Taglist: @jinwoosbabyboo @kithyyy @mcdepressed290 @nezuswritingdesk @elegantdeerlady @yuuuumii @duhgurl @lumieresdreams @bidisasterforevermore @i-messed-up-big-time

@that-one-scoundrel @justpassingdontworry @ansbobcar @nagireos

#caleb x you #caleb x reader #calebxreader #caleb x mc #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb #lnds caleb #lnds #caleb lads

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runningincircl3s · 4 hours ago

Text

Blood Sport

Noah Sebastian x Reader

Chapter Two

chapter warnings: mentions of drinks (although never stated as alcoholic?)

happy friday!! i did NOT expect this story to get so much love so far, i can't believe it?? seriously thank you so much!! i'm hoping it lives up to it's expectations as it's been so so fun to write, i've definitely fallen back in love with writing and i think this story will certainly reflect that <3

also, like with nothing ever after, i thought i'd share my playlist for this story! i wanted to make it fit with the chapters but nope it is an unorganised mess, and i will still be adding to it as i write more! but anyways are we ready to face noah again...

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You adjusted the strap of your dress in front of Matt's hallway mirror, trying your best to ignore the anxiety crawling up your spine. This wasn’t supposed to be difficult, not for you. Matt and Alyson were getting married, and you were invited to celebrate with them. It's not like this was your big day. So it should be simple, right?

Except everything about this felt complicated. Besides Bryan (and now Matt and Folio), you hadn’t seen any of the guys in the band since last year, so you were worried about how they'd react, especially Noah. You couldn't even think about him without your chest tightening, so the thought of seeing him again had your heart beating faster than you were comfortable with.

However, you pushed all these thoughts to the back of your mind, attempting to focus on the task at hand.

“Are you ready?” You asked Matt, before helping him adjust his tie.

“As ready as I can be.”

You chuckled, smoothing down the fabric of his jacket, admiring the way he looked in his suit.

“You look great. Alyson’s going to lose it when she sees you.”

Matt smiled, but there was a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

“I just… I don’t want to mess this up, you know?”

You paused, giving him a reassuring look.

“You’re not going to mess anything up. You love her. She loves you. That’s all that matters.”

He met your gaze, his usual confidence had been replaced by anxiety, but he still put on his best smile.

“I’m lucky, huh?”

“Very.” You agreed softly, your smile turning a little bittersweet as your mind brought you back to somebody.

Noah.

How, if things were different, he would've been here with you. You could've been attending your best friends wedding together.

But instead, you almost felt like you shouldn't be going. He surely wouldn't want to see you again, how would he react to you turning up to his best friends wedding?

Matt seemed to notice you drift away into thought, so he cleared his throat.

“Alright, enough of this sentimental stuff. We've got a wedding to get to!”

As he turned toward the door, you called out.

“Wait, Matt. You’re forgetting something.”

He suddenly spun back around.

“I am?”

You dug into your bag and pulled out a small box, handing it to him.

“A little something I got you for good luck.” You said with a wink.

"Good luck?" He raised an eyebrow, "Isn't this just for the bride?"

"Well, not this time." You chuckled, watching him inspect it.

Matt opened the box, revealing a small silver keychain with a tiny plush raccoon hanging from it.

“You know me too well.” He grinned, tucking it into his pocket. “Thanks, y/n. Seriously. You were the first person I told when I thought about proposing, you’ve been a part of this since day one. Even if it's tough for you... I’m really glad you’re here.”

You smiled, feeling that familiar lump at the back of your throat.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

As Matt stepped out, you couldn’t help but think back to when you first met the guys, and how so much had changed, but so much had stayed the same.

You still remember when Matt first met Alyson, he had told you it was love at first sight, which made it even more difficult for him to ask her out on their first date, fearing she'd say no and he'd spend the rest of his life alone.

And now here they were, all these years later, on their wedding day.

Something in the air felt different this afternoon as you stepped out of the house into the warm sun. For the first time in months, you felt hopeful. You were starting to feel like maybe you were ready for you own next step, whatever that might be.

Maybe it was time to make a profile on some dating apps.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Your anxiety was sky high when you wandered through the venue, knowing he would be there somewhere. The venue itself was beautiful, the colour theme was red and cream, with touches of black, so all the decorations were set out to match.

You took a deep breath, smoothing your dress as you scanned the room, your eyes landing on Jolly.

You felt a relief wash over you at the familiar face, so you began to walk over to greet him and Nicole.

“Hi!” You grinned, noticing their surprise as they turned around to see you.

“Oh my God, y/n!” Nicole wrapped her arms around you, embracing you in a warm hug as Jolly chuckled.

“Let her breathe, ‘Cole.”

“Sorry,” she laughed, “You look so beautiful… How have you been? Jolly kinda told me about the... Situation…”

“I’m okay,” you said, forcing a smile, “Just a little nervous about seeing him again. But that’s not what todays for, it’s Matt and Alyson’s big day and I won’t let him ruin it.”

“So how long have you been back?” Jolly asked, sliding an arm around his girlfriend's waist.

“I got here a couple days ago, I’m staying with Matt at the moment, but me and Folio are actually looking to find a place together around here!”

Their faces screwed up, a look of horror washing over them.

“You and Folio…?!”

“As friends, Jesus!” You laughed, “He wants to get out of Noah’s place, and I’ve got to be out of my place by the end of the month, so you might be seeing a whole lot more of me.”

“That’s great!” Nicole smiled.

“I’m sure Noah would agree.” Jolly smirked, before Nicole gave him a look, making him apologise.

“So… Is he here?” You asked.

“By the bar,” Jolly nodded, “I can’t believe he brought her.”

Your chest burned, turning back to look at Jolly.

“Her?”

“You don’t know about Amy?”

“No?”

“Shit,” he ran his hand through his hair, “She’s this girl he’s kind of... Dating. I thought one of the guys would've told you.”

“Why should they? What he does doesn’t concern me anymore,” you said, as if you were trying to convince yourself, “He can do whatever he wants.”

Then, as you looked away again, you spotted him by the bar.

Noah.

It was like the air shifted the moment you spotted him.

He stood leaning against the bar, a drink in hand as he spoke to Ruffilo. The sharp black suit he wore fit too well, his dark hair parted in the middle, falling over his eyes perfectly like it always did.

He was still Noah. Still the stupid, hot bastard.

And then, as if he felt you staring, he looked up.

The moment your eyes met, the world around you quietened.

His posture stiffened ever so slightly, fingers tightening around his glass. For a moment, neither of you could look away. You noticed the look of surprise in his eyes, he clearly didn’t expect to see you here.

You’d spent the weeks leading up to today trying to prepare for this, but nothing could have braced you for actually seeing him again. Especially when he looked this damn good.

Then, just as quickly as the moment arrived, it shattered.

A perfectly manicured hand curled around his arm, and a girl leaned her head on his shoulder.

So that must be Amy.

She was stunning, the type of beauty that would make you turn your head on the streets. Everything about her was flawless, her hair, her dress, her makeup- if you didn’t know better, you’d think she was the one getting married today.

And suddenly, you felt small.

“Everything okay?” Jolly asked softly, snapping you out of whatever was going on in your mind.

You swallowed hard, willing away the tightness in your chest as you nodded.

“Yep... Never been better.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

As you all began to get into your places for the actual ceremony, you caught Folio, dragging him by the arm to the corner of the room.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about Amy?” You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice down.

“I wasn’t sure how…” He explained, “They’re nothing serious, I didn’t even know she’d be here today. Fuck, I don’t even know how she is, she wasn’t invited!”

"Nothing serious? Nick, Jolly told me they're dating!"

"Okay, maybe they are..."

“How long?”

“Huh?”

“How long have they been together?” You said through gritted teeth, trying to keep your composure.

“...A few months.”

You nodded your head.

You had no reason to be upset, angry or even jealous. He wasn’t yours anymore, he was never really yours to begin with.

Your eyes drifted over to them, chatting by the front row. You watched the way her hand brushed his arm, the way he smiled down at her, looking at her like she was the only person in the room.

You don't care. You shouldn't care. Why did you care?

“I’m sorry,” you said, shaking your head, “I shouldn’t care anymore, should I?”

Nick’s expression softened, and he frowned as he took your hand in his.

“You loved him… There’s no stronger feeling than that. If it was really real, you can’t expect to just make it stop.”

“I guess,” you sighed, your gaze catching a very stressed out Matt pacing the floor, “I guess we better get in our places.”

“Yeah,” Folio smiled, dropping your hand, “Good idea.”

The two of you walked down to your seats, and you were glad to see you were in between the two Nick’s.

“Oh, Nick!” You grinned as you greeted him, “I’ve missed you so much.”

His arms pull you in to a warm hug as he stands up.

“Hey! It’s so good to see you again… I missed you too, what happened?”

“What do you mean?” You asked, pulling away.

“I get why you’d stop talking to Noah, but us too?”

“I didn’t think you guys would ever want to talk to me again,” you frowned, “I’m sorry.”

“Of course we'd still want you in our lives, it'd be weird without you," he chuckled, "We all make mistakes, y/n."

“Yeah, some worse than others.” You sigh, sitting down in your seat.

Your eyes meet Noah's again as you look up, like he had already been watching you. Your breath caught and you felt your face heat up as you quickly diverted your vision, and he did the same.

"We didn't tell him you were coming," Nicholas explained, "He asked me about you last night, I had to lie and tell him I didn't know if you'd be here."

“I’m starting to think I shouldn’t be.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The reception was beautiful, warm string lights draped across the garden of the venue, casting everything in a soft, golden glow as the sun began to set. You tried your best to enjoy yourself, talking with your friends, having a few drinks, meeting some of Matt and Alyson's other friends. You wanted tonight to be fun, for you all to look back with happy memories of it. But one thing made that difficult.

One person.

You had done your best to avoid Noah all evening, but it was impossible to ignore his presence, the sound of his voice, his laughter over the music. Even when you weren't looking, you could still feel he was there. You tried to keep your eye on him to make sure you didn't come face to face unexpectedly.

You had made it through the first hour unscathed.

Then, you slipped up.

You approached the bar for another drink, forgetting that he had been standing just a few feet away.

You noticed Amy had left early, as Noah was alone for most of the night, and through Jolly, you had learned the details of their relationship. She was a model and a wannabe singer who had reached out to Noah for help writing a song. Instead of making music, they clearly made something else.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but somehow, you both ended up side by side at the bar. Close enough that you could smell his cologne, the smell that was once comforting now filled you with nerves.

Noah barely glanced at you as he leaned against the counter, fingers drumming against the wood while he waited for his drink.

“You look…” He started but then stopped, shaking his head.

You slowly turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“I look?”

“Never mind.” He scoffed, bringing his glass to his lips. “Forget I said anything.”

He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing like he was annoyed with himself for almost slipping. The words had nearly left his lips, and for a moment he had forgotten how this was supposed to be, how he was supposed to act cold, distant, indifferent.

But you saw it in his eyes as he looked at you, and you heard the way his voice softened as he spoke to you. There was something there that told you he missed you, even if hed never admit it.

You hated how much it made your heart race.

A tense silence stretched between you, filled with all the things left unsaid. The kind that made it impossible to breathe.

Until finally, he broke it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come today.” His voice was quieter this time.

“Yeah, well… They're my friends too.”

Before you could say anything else, the music slowed and Matt and Alyson’s first dance started.

Everyone turned to watch them sway together beneath the twinkling lights. The moment was intimate, beautiful, and it should’ve been nothing more than that. But standing here, next to Noah, watching two people so in love, it made your heart ache in your chest.

You thought about what you've lost, what you could've had with Noah. How this could've been the two of you one day, but instead you were stood side by side in silence, like you were nothing more than strangers.

You felt his gaze shift to you, and despite yourself, you turned to meet it.

There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place, softness, maybe, or hesitation. Like he wanted to say something, but knew better.

Your fingers rested against the bar, just inches from his. Your breath hitched when his hand shifted ever so slightly, the smallest movement, like he almost wanted to close the distance. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed, like the past year had been nothing but a bad dream.

But then reality came crashing back.

He had Amy now. He had clearly moved on.

And so you pulled your hand back.

His eyes flickered downward, landing on the necklace you wore. The one he had given you for your birthday. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words

"You still wear it?" He asked, almost as if he was in disbelief.

You swallowed hard, your fingers instinctively reaching for the necklace his eyes were fixed on. The one he had given you on your birthday, the day before everything turned to shit.

"I never take it off," you admitted, "I guess... It reminds me of you."

Without thinking, he reached out, fingertips ghosting over the pendant and gently brushing over your skin, a barely-there touch that sent a shiver down your spine. But the second he made contact, something in him snapped.

His hand recoiled like he had been burned.

Without thinking, he reached out, fingertips ghosting over the pendant, a barely-there touch that sent a shiver down your spine. But the second he made contact, something in him snapped.

His hand recoiled like he had been burned.

He straightened, swallowing hard, his expression closing off as quickly as it had softened. Whatever moment you’d just shared, he crushed it, along with any hopes you had that maybe there was still something between you, that your relationship could be salvaged.

“Enjoy the wedding." He said, voice unreadable, before walking away.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, gripping the edge of the bar to steady yourself.

So that was how it was going to be.

Fine.

You finished your drink and headed back to the table where Nick was sitting with Jolly and Nicole.

“Everything okay?” He asked, a slight smirk tugging on his lips.

“Yeah. Why?” You questioned, sitting down beside him.

“We saw you talking to him… What did he say?”

You sighed, your eyes drifting away to him, watching how he laughed with his friends. At least he wasn’t hurting anymore, or so you thought.

Noah, on the other hand, didn’t know how he felt. He had spent so long telling himself he was over you, that he had moved on. But the moment he saw you tonight, he realised that nothing had really changed.

The feelings were still there.

And he hated himself for it.

“He said he wasn’t sure I’d come tonight.” You finally say, turning back to Folio.

“Was that it?” He scoffed, “The way he was looking at you I thought you’d come back and tell us he confessed his undying love-”

“Nick, leave it, please.” You groaned, watching as Matt and Alyson still danced on the floor, a more upbeat song playing now.

“No. I know there’s something he’s hiding, y/n. The two of you need to talk, you need to-”

“Nick.” You repeated, “Stop. I don’t want to do this tonight. He has a girlfriend now, I need to respect that.”

Nicole turned to look at you, an almost sympathetic look on her face before she got up, reaching a hand out to you.

“C’mon, dance with me.”

“Me?” You laughed, shooting a look at Jolly as if to say it should be you!

“Yes, you! We need to lighten the mood, and I love this song!” She grinned as she pulled you along to the dancefloor.

Do you believe in life after love…

“You’re lucky I love you!” You grinned, "I wouldn't dance with anybody else!"

"Oh yeah?" She smirked, eyes trailing over to Noah, who seemed to be watching from the corner of his eye.

The two of you danced along, and after Matt left, Alyson joined the two of you.

“Are you having fun?!” She shouted over the music.

“We are now!” Nicole smiled.

“I can’t believe you’re finally married!” You shouted, and Alyson nodded.

“I know! And to my best friend… If only I could go back in time and tell myself… Things will get better…” You could see her eyes filling with tears, and you quickly wrapped your arms around her.

“Hey!” You frowned, wiping away her tears, "None of that! This is a happy night!"

Alyson let out a teary laugh, nodding as she hugged you back.

"You're right. I'm just- I'm so happy, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before."

Nicole wrapped her arms around both of you, pulling you into a tight embrace as she called for a group hug.

The three of you danced along to the music together for a moment, and for the first time in forever, you let yourself be happy. You let yourself enjoy the moment, surrounded by your favourite people, your friends that you considered family.

But then, as you turned, your eyes met his again.

Noah was still there, still watching.

His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his gaze that you couldn't quite place. A look of regret? Longing?

You weren’t sure.

And you weren’t sure you even wanted to know.

So, instead of lingering, instead of thinking too much, you turned back to your friends and let yourself laugh and have fun, you let yourself feel like everything was okay.

Just for tonight.

-------------------------------@bloody-spades @death-ofpeace-ofmind @miss570 @dominuslunae @dontwantthemoney @amelia-acero @noahslutbastian @blade-dressed-in-red @super-btstrash-posts @kait16xo @oobleoob @sunshine-lvrr @lacy1986 @enemiestolovershoe @samanthasgone

this is still a new taglist so if i forgot you (IM SORRY) or you want to be added please just let me know!! :)

#★blood sport #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens fanfic

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forestclan-clangen · 2 days ago

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ForestClan History: Apprentice Trials

The apprentice trials are considered to be a part of some of the bloodiest and most shameful rituals ever implemented within ForestClan's history. Originally born from a misunderstanding of the nature of the woods, apprentice trials have been introduced and removed more than once throughout the course of ForestClan's lifetime. Whether it be from superstition about how the woods functioned, or a genuine purpose of reducing collective harm, the end result was a lot of young cats being sent to die, and many grieving cats growing bitter and resentful. Apprentice trials were almost always the catalyst for political pressure and complete turnarounds in political stances between leaderships.

This history dive will be split into three parts, detailing the ritual itself, explaining its origin and historical upkeep, and the impact these trials had on modern-day ForestClan.

THE TRIAL PROCESS

Once a cat turned six moons old, they would be promoted to an apprentice, and given the -paw suffix to go with it. However, before they were assigned a mentor, they would be asked to leave camp, and "seek approval from the woods". The method of how this is done was purposefully vague. Most adult cats understood that the only thing of importance was to survive, and often whispered these realities in secret to the apprentices before they left. The only rules were the following:

The trial must be done immediately after being named an apprentice.

They had to be outside and far enough away to be unable to see camp.

They had to be alone and silent for the duration of their trial.

They had to return within 8 hours, with an additional 4 hour grace period. Over 12 hours, and it was assumed the apprentice was fed to the woods.

Only once all apprentices returned, or the time allocated ran out, would any remaining apprentices be finally assigned a mentor and permitted to train.

Trials could be done during the day or night, but day trials were preferred. This was considered to be merciful, as it was assumed that Woodcrawlers and other Deep Root entities were nocturnal. It also allowed patrols to possibly run into an apprentice during their trial. While the apprentice could not talk to the patrol, and they had to avoid each other, it was still a relief for a clanmate to see them.

Most apprentices spent their time trying to find hiding spots in empty burrows or under upturned trees. If they somehow managed to teach themselves how to climb a tree, this was their safest option. Bold apprentices who didn't believe in the true strength of the woods would be vulnerable - namely because they would explore the territory without caution, and possibly run into Woodcrawler dens or Nature's Mockeries. Any apprentices who were insecure or believed in the supersition of needing "approval" were extremely vulnerable, as they would sit around waiting for "approval" in front of Woodcrawler dens.

Despite being told that their trial had to be done alone, this didn't stop tightly-bonded littermates or friends from trying to find each other after separating from camp. It also didn't stop apprentices from running away from the clan entirely, crossing the border to the Twoleg Greenleaf Camps and becoming kittypets. These were well-guarded secrets behind closed doors. Leaders usually knew about it as well - but it was a case of "don't ask, don't tell". This was also why a leader hosting an apprentice ceremony after sunhigh or at dusk was considered to be cold and merciless. Twolegs were asleep at night and less likely to see a wandering cat, Woodcrawlers would be active, and there wouldn't be any patrols out to provide a passive morale boost.

HISTORICAL ORIGIN

The exact reasons why the apprentice trials began were unfortunately lost to time, but modern-day ForestClan has some ideas, based on stories passed down. After the loss of the other four Clans, the amount of Deep Root entities started to increase. Their once-clear communication with StarClan through their dreams no longer existed. They now gave prophecies, omens, and visions. Their former sacred site to communicate with their ancestors was also destroyed in the Wretch's rampage, and so, many cats panicked. They believed that the Well Groomed Cats were sent by the woods themselves, and by refusing to communicate with them, the woods punished all Clans, including their ancestors. Despite a vision received by an old medicine cat about a gentle camp ringed in spears, many cats felt like they had to beg the Well-Groomed Cats for forgiveness.

It's assumed that the existence of Living Tendrils contributed to the narrative of "seeking approval from the woods". If tendrils were to steal a queen's kits, then the kits were deemed unworthy. When younger apprentices were more prone to stumbling into Nature's Mockeries or Woodcrawlers, their deaths were considered to be the woods showing their disapproval. So, apprentice trials were set up as a way to determine if the woods approved of an apprentice right away, instead of training an apprentice that would die halfway through training.

This practice started to fall apart when a new sacred site to commune with StarClan was found - the Half-Moon Dome. The medicine cats and leaders were told the truth about StarClan's lack of direct communication, the woods, and how the Deep Root entities came from the Iris. The Woodcrawlers were alien animals, not supernatural entities. Vowing to change and make things right, the leaders and medicine cats named themselves secret keepers, and protectors of secrets - to hide the secret about the horrible Iris that threatened to destroy all life. Subsequently, they banned apprentice trials.

However, beliefs are hard to shake, and the fact that Living Tendrils still stole their kits and apprentices still died, lead to many cats doubting their leaders. New problems started to develop as well - with more attempts to stop the Tendrils from taking kits and less overall deaths, ForestClan struggled to find enough prey to feed themselves. Whether it was from deep-rooted fear of superstition, or the realization that Woodcrawlers ate their prey, leaders struggled over the years - repeatedly banning and reinstating apprentice trials after periods of bloodshed and starvation. StarClan themselves have struggled to adequately judge souls based on whether they instated apprentice trials or not, as they also do not have a true solution to the woods' hunger. StarClan are also flawed, individual souls of several cats who are simply trying to keep ForestClan safe and alive, and have their own thoughts on how to do it.

After many moons of infighting among the souls of StarClan, they made a decree to not judge leaders based on whether or not they enforced apprentice trials. The Iris was the ultimate enemy, and it was StarClan's priority. The woods would need to remain the enemy of the living, and something that ForestClan has the free will to decide on how to manage. If a new path to manage the woods' hunger is found that would both save lives and be effective, then StarClan will judge leaders on whether they chose that new method or not. Until then, they abstain from judging leaders based on their practice of trials - much to many StarClan cats' frustrations.

LASTING IMPACT

Currently, ForestClan no longer engages in the practice of apprentice trials. Redstar officially banned the practice outright with the apprenticeship of Talonpaw in Moon 2, much to the joy of the Clan. Part of Lakestar's tyrannical reign did involve the enforcement of apprentice trials, and she often dangled the timing of ceremonies over the heads of any warriors or queens who tried to defy her. Her favouritism was not a secret - she allowed the kits of warriors who supported her to have daylight trials, while those who tried to rebel had their kits assigned to night trials.

Iciclepool's kits and Cloudthunder herself were some of the cats subjected to night trials, where Cloudthunder was the only survivor. Windfur was spared of having to undergo an apprentice trial by the order of Lakestar, who wanted Chicoryglint to stop being the sole medicine cat and actually pass on her knowledge to someone. Barleywave was given a day trial, and he often carries passive guilt from not having the same struggles as other cats.

Redstar and Iciclepool are very adamant about the cruelty of the apprentice trials, and Redstar staunchly believes that feeding her nine lives to the woods should be enough. While she does have the historical knowledge of how apprentice trials came to be, she clings onto one, single hope: the fact that she doesn't have a single piece of historical evidence that the leaders tried feeding themselves to the woods. While Lakestar told her that the woods could tell that they were being fed false food, Redstar holds onto the idea that this is a lie, and that leaders simply haven't tried. This will weigh heavily on Redstar during the course of the story, as it would be too easy for ForestClan to be at peace if that were the case, wouldn't it?

Apprentice trials also have an impact on how outsiders perceive ForestClan. Due to many apprentices running away from home, it's not uncommon for them to share their stories with other kittypets, and those kittypets pass it on to loners and rogues, and so on. With Lakestar's recent reign, outsiders heard horrifying stories of cruel cats sending their children to die at six moons old. Misinformation about this period of time has led to many cats believing that ForestClan is a death cult. Combating this misinformation and proving themselves to be a home for those who need it will be a central focus of ForestClan's interactions with outsiders.

#warrior cats #clangen #warrior cats clangen #clan generator #forestclan #pixel art #forestclan lore #warriors cats #Redstar #Lakestar #Iciclepool #Cloudthunder #Barleywave #Windfur #Chicoryglint #gemini home entertainment #also i'm a liar somehow I write more when I have peer pressure jesus christ

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rocks-in-space · 3 days ago

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A) Holy cow I will never recover from this episode

B) Can we talk about Ame choosing to check under the tarp? I've seen this decision generating some frustration, but I think it makes a lot of sense and is so interesting. Don't get me wrong, when it happened I was metaphorically rattling the bars of the fourth wall and literally almost screaming at my computer. But there's a world (in Umora) where that decision could have been the thing that saves them. Maybe actively honoring the Great Bullfrog would have given him enough strength to resist the worst of whatever is binding/dispelling/whatever him. Maybe another spirit hears it and this episode ends with a local river spirit coming in clutch to speed their rowboat down the river out of the grasp of the imperial guard. From Orima's shrine to Naram to the river spirit in Abassin, we know these things are possible.

Also I don't think it's fair to say that it was obviously a trap for Ame, why would she think there was a trap for her in this town. (Now, a trap for anyone who would publicly honor a spirit? Sure, that's more likely. Sending the fox was definitely a better idea)

To be clear, I definitely don't think Ame was doing it for selfish reasons like thinking that a spirit might save them; that's more just me speaking to the audience's expectations that this would go badly.

But I think that this decision is really about her trying to be the Witch of the World's Heart and figuring out what that looks like. What that looked like in this moment was choosing to honor a Great Spirit regardless of the risk to herself, her friends, and the mission to save the kids. Like I really don't see this as her being totally foolish and impulsive. She knew the risk! And if she didn't, Suvi just told her. And she does it anyway. I think it really follows from her kind of conflict with Eursulon last episode about prioritizing the kids or the Great Bullfrog. We know that she's prioritizing the spirit, and it shows here. They say they're the most aligned that they've been since childhood, but how aligned are they really.

I hope there's room in the story to thoroughly address this decision, because I think it is extremely meaningful.

#goddammit worlds beyond number i am desperately supposed to be working on writing my paper #and instead i am writing paragraphs about a podcast!!#there's so much to say about this episode but i just had to get this off my chest #what a story!!!!#worlds beyond number #wbn #twtatwo #sam speaks

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enhaflixer · 7 hours ago

Note

For our marriage law couple:

Q1. Did the readers' parents ever meet jay or their kid/s????

Q2. How did they find out about the pregnancy? Muggle ways or any magical ones????

Q3. How is jay during the pregnancy??

Thank you soooo much for the wonderful fics love you <3

Exclusive Interview with Park Jongseong & His Wife on Love, Parenthood, and a Certain Marriage Law

—A sit-down with the unexpected love story that defied the Ministry’s rules, featuring Jay Park, his wife, and a surprise mention of their daughter.

Q1: Did your parents ever meet Jay or Jane?

(You sigh, running a hand through your hair while Jay, sitting next to you, casually rests an arm along the back of your chair. His thumb absentmindedly brushes against your shoulder.)

You: “Not for a long time.”

Jay: nods slowly “Yeah, that was… complicated.”

You: “I didn’t expect them to reply when I texted them about the marriage. And they didn’t.”

Jay: quietly “For years.”

You: nods “It wasn’t until Jane was, what? Two?”

Jay: “Yeah, around then. I remember because we had just started thinking about putting her in a playgroup, and that’s when your parents reached out.”

You: “It was... tense.”

Jay: shrugs “I mean, I get it. They didn’t know me. And the whole ‘pureblood wizard married their daughter through some law they probably didn’t even understand’ thing? Not exactly the easiest thing to process.”

You: snorts “I think they barely tolerated the idea of magic in general, let alone their grandchild having it.”

Jay: grinning slightly “To be fair, Jane won them over before I did.”

You: softly “Yeah. They were distant at first, but then Jane did… I don’t know, something ridiculously adorable, and suddenly my mother was acting like she was the world’s most doting grandmother.”

Jay: smirks “She levitated a toy broomstick, and your dad nearly fainted.”

You: “He still thinks she’s telekinetic.”

Jay: shrugs “Let him believe that. If it helps him sleep at night.”

Q2: How did you find out you were pregnant? Muggle ways or magical ones?

Jay: groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face “This is my villain origin story.”

You: laughing “Jay knew before I did.”

Jay: deadpan “Because your magic was acting up. And you kept getting dizzy.”

You: mocking “And your first thought was ‘pregnancy’?”

Jay: “And I was right.”

You: grinning “But I still needed proof, so after the healer confirmed it, I made Jay go buy a Muggle pregnancy test—”

Jay: glaring at you “There are way too many kinds of those things.”

You: mocking “Which one is the most accurate? I should just buy all of them—”

Jay: grumbling “Look, if I was going to do it, I was going to do it right.”

You: laughing “Anyway, I took the test, stared at the two pink lines, still trying to process, and then he just—” pauses, smiling at Jay “You just knelt in front of me, held my hand, and said, ‘It’s real, baby.’”

Jay: clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck “Yeah.”

Q3: How was Jay during the pregnancy?

(You roll your eyes. Jay scoffs, shaking his head, because he already knows what you’re about to say.)

You: “A complete mess.”

Jay: offended “I was not a mess.”

You: flatly “Jay. You read twelve books on pregnancy, six on magical child development, and made a whole binder of research.”

Jay: muttering “...organization is key.”

You: “He wouldn’t let me carry anything heavier than a quill. And if I so much as sighed, he was at my side like, ‘Are you okay? Do you need water? Are you hungry? Should I get the healer?’”

Jay: grumbling “I was taking care of you.”

You: grinning “You were being dramatic.”

Jay: “And you loved it.”

You: softens “Yeah. I did.”

Jay: smirks “Told you.”

You: “You were also so soft. You would just randomly kiss my belly, whisper to Jane when you thought I was asleep. And you lived for when she kicked. The first time it happened, you completely froze.”

Jay: “Listen, feeling an actual human foot kick your hand from inside your wife is a lot to process.”

You: laughs “You were so in love already.”

Jay: quietly, brushing his fingers over your hand “Still am.”

Q4: Why Jane? Why that name?

Jay: scoffs “You act like this was some deep, symbolic decision. We were just tired of arguing.”

You: grinning “We fought for months over names.”

Jay: “Because you kept coming up with the worst ones.”

You: mocking “‘Jayden’ wasn’t that bad.”

Jay: horrified “I refuse to name my daughter after myself like some egotistical maniac.”

You: “Says the guy who wanted ‘Seraphina Aurelius Park.’”

Jay: shrugging “Sounds powerful.”

You: “Sounds like she should be ruling an empire.”

Jay: smirks “Maybe she will.”

You: laughing “Anyway, we were lying in bed one night, and I just said, ‘What about Jane?’ and he didn’t even argue. Just said, ‘Yeah. That’s it.’”

Jay: grinning “Because it fit. It was simple, classic. No unnecessary nonsense.”

You: mocking “So not Seraphina Aurelius Park?”

Jay: deadpan “I stand by my decision.”

And there you have it—proof that even a government-mandated marriage couldn’t stop love from finding its way in.

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @ddolleri @somuchdard @beariegyu @ijustwannareadstuff20 @zzhengyu @annybah

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muffinsin · 2 days ago

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can i request a story of daniela being taken to a beach for the first time by her aussie butch partner? 🥹 not been able to stop thinking about doing that for her lately

Awhh! That’s adorable, hon! For sure!

Let’s get into it!🙌🌊🏖️

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Your hands gently resting over her face, covering her eyes after you caught her peeking despite promising to keep them closed, you can't help but giggle. You feel her lips curve into a smile, her excitement clear as day. You hear her sniff, her excitement and curiosity only growing as she picks up the scent of the air, salty and fresh due to the waves. She hears them, too, flinches in surprise whenever they smack against nearby rocks. You haven't yet allowed her to see for herself, but are certain there's plenty of images forming in her mind already.

Daniela Dimitrescu has never seen the ocean before.

It's an odd thought, one that almost doesn't sit right with you. But, with her having stayed in the castle her whole life, fed and allowed to express herself, shielded from the cold, comfortable and in contact with her swarm and among her family, it's hardly surprising.

You, and her mother, have told her stories of endless waves, salt-kissed air, and the way the sea melts into the blue horizon on particularly beautiful days. But standing here now, with the sand soft beneath her bare feet and the wind tugging at her auburn hair, she realizes she never truly understood what they meant, even with her eyes covered.

You watch as she raises a shaky hand to yours, her soft fingers tightening around your strong wrist. You notice: she seems almost nervous, as though the warm wind and hot sand, the foreign smell and the sounds of animals in the surrounding area bring her back to the realization of just how far away from home she is. So far she no longer feels her connection to the swarm, her mind far too quiet, her sisters no longer reachable. So far away from them, from Mother, who you practically had to beg and convnice for months to allow her daughter this visit. Now, you notice her tense up a little, her lashes blinking against your palm, her body pressing back into yours as pale skin brushes against your sun-warmed one.

"Are you okay?", you whisper by her ear, wrapping one strong arm around her. She's thankful for it, and just momentarily you turn her and remove your hand, watching her beautiful, golden eyes focus on you. She looks up at you doe-eyed, but at the sight of your eyes, warm and comforting, she relaxes again and nods.

"Can I see now?", she whispers instead, her frown quickly turning to an excited smile again. She's moving her legs, her feet dragging against the swarm sand she's never once experienced before in her life.

You smile, and allow her to turn.

Immediately, you hear her gasp as she tries to take it in.

The beach, she finds, is nothing like the lake at the village, and is so much more beautiful than even Mother was capable of describing it.

"Big, isn’t it?", you tease, your accent a little thicker. You can't help but giggle when she only nods, unable to find the words for a comeback. The sound of crashing waves is deafening yet rhythmic, almost hypnotic to her.

Briefly, struck by curiosity, she moves forwards and you think she's going to run towards the water. But then one of the waves nears the shore and, at the sight of the water washing up against the sand, she quickly draws back again, gasping when her back bumps against your front.

Reaching out, you gently take her hand and shoot her an encouraging smile. "C’mon, let’s get your feet wet", you hum, smiling when you feel her hand squeeze yours in return.

This time, you pull her a little closer, and she allows it. Daniela still eyes the water as it surges forwards, the cool foam ticklish as it washes over her toes before retreating again. She frowns, wiggling her toes and stepping closer to the water, as though chasing it.

"It's...fast", she states, smiling widely and giggling when the water once again washes over her feet, all the way to her ankles this time. She now understands why you insisted on dressing her in something lighter than her usual long, dark dress. Well, the water is one reason, she's sure, as well as the fact she's felt your eyes on her a hundred times since you've redressed her.

"That’s the ocean for ya", you chuckle, holding her hand a little tighter before you add; "she's always got somewhere to be".

Daniela glances up, her golden eyes sharp, her smile wide and playful as she answers, remembering the countless times she's seen you run about the castle; "Like you?"

"Nah, love. I always come right back to you", you promise, noting the way her cheeks heat up.

Taking a slow breath, she then steps forward, her curiosity- as often- grander than her unease at the fast, wild water. She allows you to guide her in a little more, though stops when the water nearly reaches up to her knees.

Looking back, you watch the worried frown form on her face, her lips parting even as no words come out. Then, just before you speak up, you notice: it's no worried frown she wears.

Daniela is not uneasy.

She's scared.

Immediately, you step back to her, holding her hip tight when another, larger wave comes your way and dares knock the still somewhat petite woman over. She clings to you worriedly, her head lifting and eyes finding yours when you cup her soft cheek. The flies of her upper body, those not in the water, buzz anxiously, so loud you're sure you've just stepped into some kind of nest. You've never seen her like this before.

"Hey...", you coo, recapturing her attention as another large wave splashes against your back, your larger, wider body shielding her effortlessly from the strenght of the waves.

"What's going on? Talk to me, my love", you whisper, smiling gently when- just as you expected- the petname has her look up at you again. She swallows, her nails digging slightly into your arm.

Then, at last, she speaks, her voice lower than you've ever experienced it;

"What if we drown?"

Drown?

Suddenly, it hits you, her fear, her lifelong fear. You smile gently, pull her a little closer and use the opportunity to lift her. She squeals, though relaxes against you as she realises; no more part of her touches the water at all.

You slowly walk back towards ths shore, careful no wave can catch you off guard and make you fall. When you're back by the sand, you gently move her to her feet, allowing her to get used to the water by her toes and ankles again.

You cup her cheeks, your strong thumb lovingly caressing her soft cheek.

"I would never let that happen", you promise her.

For the rest of the day, you keep her by the shore, laughing as she goes around exploring the foreign area. You find; Daniela loves the little (and big) creatures by the beach, and becomes quite comfortable right by the shore.

So much so, she even sits, her knees tucked to her chest and feet in the water, as you swim. Occaisonally, you move back to her, laughing and shaking your head like a dog, all to pull happy squeals from her when the water hits her warm body.

And despite her fear,

she loves this visit with you.

#cassandra dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu x reader #dani is a certified babygirl

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moosesarecute · 17 hours ago

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Chapter 19: The Shadow to my Flame

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The continent was simply amazing. She had eaten so much food, drunk too much wine and gone on so many adventures. Ashe and Lucien had travelled from place to place. Both by winnowing, but also by walking. They had spent days in both woods and mountains. Lucien had taught her about all the different plants and flowers. Ashe didn’t have a lot to teach Lucien, but her curiosity made the trip more adventurous for both of them.

Lucien was known for many social connections. Ashe, however, could easily have known more people than he did if she had been allowed to explore. She had become friends with everyone. All the people they had met had been so kind and happy to see her. In return, Ashe had showed her curiosity, and she had listened as strangers told her about all and nothing. She had learned about so many different lives. Some had taught her recipes, others had told her about myths and fables. Ashe had learned enough in just one month to write an entire book of random stories.

“You should definitely become an emissary,” Lucien told her. His voice annoyed her. “So many people are oversharing with you after just one smile. It’s almost scary.”

Ashe had to admit she had been thinking about it. She had always known she loved speaking to people, but this last month had been something other entirely. She felt connected to all the people she had met. After just one conversation she felt like she had gotten new friends.

On the other side, maybe it only meant she should socialize more. That she was longing for interactions with other people than the ones in her family. Ashe sort of felt that was more accurate than her wanting to change her occupation again.

“I don’t think so,” she answered her little brother.

Lucien shrugged.

They were starting to hate each other again. Not hate that would last, but it was still hate. The past two days they had been arguing about all and nothing. Lucien refused to take the paths Ashe wanted to, and then Ashe refused to help Lucien hunt for dinner.

It was only two days left of their trip, so it made sense that they were getting more and more annoyed by each other. Siblings were supposed to argue. Especially siblings that have spent prolonged time with the only company being each other.

They had walked through the last city on their adventure. They had spent a few hours talking and drinking at the local tavern. That’s when they started speaking with the locals and Ashe had learned how to make the stew the two of them were currently eating for dinner.

The weather was nice, and the sky was clear. They had decided to spend the night outside. A fire was dancing in front of them, and they found both familiarity and respect in it.

The next day, they would move to a better spot for winnowing back to the Night Court. Now they were on a place on the continent that laid east of the Autumn Court. So, they wished to travel a little north before they winnowed.

“Happy with the trip?” Lucien was obviously trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Ashe felt every word he spoke to make her more and more tired of having him around. She rolled her eyes mentally and decided to try to keep the mood light.

“Very happy,” she answered as little sarcastic as she could. “It definitely won’t be the last time I’m here.”

Lucien smiled at that. He opened his mouth and was about so say something when they heard a stick breaking. Both of their attentions shot towards the sound, and they found a soldier.

He looked exhausted and hurt, but at the same time he wore a disgusting smile. Behind him more and more soldiers arrived. There had to be at least a dozen.

Lucien and Ashe shared a quick glance before they jumped into action. They had been sitting quite a few meters apart on opposite sides of the fire, but they hurried to get to each other. Ashe hadn’t needed to winnow far distances in over two centuries. The furthest she had winnowed was the length of Velaris. To get to a certainly safe space, Lucien would have to winnow both of them.

However, they didn’t reach each other before the soldiers attacked with ash arrows. Ashe immediately started thinking about her mate’s pale face as an ash arrow was shot through his chest. The thought made the nausea worse.

The arrow hit her in the leg and Ashe hit the ground before the pain could even get to her. She gritted her teeth and pulled the arrow out with a scream. Even though she was dizzy from the pain, she managed to see Lucien in a similar situation to herself. However, he had been hit by two arrows. He had one in each shoulder, and he couldn’t move enough to remove either one of them.

Shit.

The soldiers were closing, but they didn’t pay much attention to Ashe. That was a huge mistake.

Ashe slowly sat up and tried to find some of the weak points of the soldiers. That’s when she noticed it was only three of them left. She was sure she had seen over a dozen before they got hit.

The bastards must have seen them get hit and thought the fight was over. But it had only just begun.

Ashe raised up on both feet and tried to hide her hiss. The wound on her left tight was quite a lot worse than she had hoped. The blood was pouring out and it was so painful she could cry.

The soldiers were now almost surrounding Lucien. He was struggling on the ground, and the ash seemed to get to him quickly.

Ashe looked around. All the weapons they had brought laid behind Lucien, so she wouldn’t be able to get to them without being noticed. The only weapon she could use was the ash arrow that she had pulled out of her own thigh.

She moved quietly, trying to remember all the tricks her mate had taught her. Her gaze flickered between the ground and the soldiers. She could not step on a branch, that would make too much sound. She also tried to make herself as little as possible, while still standing steady on her feet.

Ashe had been taught to protect herself, but she hadn’t needed to do so in a while. During the war, she had been in the healer’s tents helping there and before that, life had been calm. It was only during the battle of Velaris she had fought, but she had been so angry that day. So angry, she hadn’t even thought twice before she burned down the warrior threatening to attack.

It had been the first time she killed, and Ashe had hoped she never needed to do it again. She had buried herself in the total horror of knowing she had taken someone’s life, and Azriel hadn’t let go of her until she spoke about it and cried her eyes out in his arms. She had tried not to think about it since, but now all the memories came back in a rush.

Ashe shut the door to her feelings and tried to focus. If she jabbed the arrow into one of the soldier’s arms, all three of them would hopefully be unfocused long enough for her to at least get one arrow out of Lucien. Right?

She didn’t allow herself to think.

It was a fast planned, maybe stupid, plan, but it worked. Ashe used all her power as she forced the arrow into the male’s arm. He let out a scream that would hunt Ashe’s nightmares for a while.

The two other soldiers moved their gaze from Lucien and Ashe immediatly ran to Lucien and forcefully ripped the arrows out of his shoulders. He also screamed from the pain but quickly recovered.

Ashe didn’t have time to do much more before one of the soldiers ripped her away from her brother and threw her into a tree. She hit the tree headfirst and instantly became even more dizzy and nauseous.

“Breathe”, she told herself with a hiss. “In and out, come on, in and out.”

After a few breaths, her vision was back to normal, but it was too late.

“Ashe!” her brother yelled, but she noticed the soldier too late.

Ashe was picked up by a strong and painful grip and then thrown harshly into the tree once more. This time, she hit a branch with her shoulder, and she could feel the blood soak the clothes she was wearing. She thanked the mother that she had decided to wear pants and not a dress that day.

The only positive thing about the branch hitting her shoulder, was the fact that her head had even more time to recover. So, when the soldier picked her up one more time, she had time to think of a way to protect herself.

He held her by her shoulders. So, she simply sat her arms on fire.

The male snarled but let her go. She landed on her feet and was about to run when she was the one that was hit by fire. She wasn’t wearing leathers, except for her sports-bra. The fabric burned easily. Soon, the leather bra was the only thing she wore on her upper body. It was ages since she had been burned by someone that wasn’t herself. It brought her many emotions. Fear, sadness and pain, but also anger. So much anger.

Anger from the pain she had gone through countless times. Anger for all the other victims. Anger for the bastard that thought he could burn her and get away with it.

Ashe turned swiftly, but she didn’t even notice her own unleashing power before it was too late. He was too slow to react and started screaming loudly. One second, he stood there, the next, he was gone. Only some pieces of his uniform were left.

She hadn’t meant to kill him. Ashe only wanted to harm him enough to stop his attacks. She lost control, again. Feelings of horror spread through her body.

“Ashe,” Lucien’s voice was horse, but soft. “We need to winnow, Ashe. We should get off the continent. It’s not safe here.”

She heard his words but wasn’t able to react to them properly. It was first when his hand rested on her shoulder, she got out of her thoughts.

Lucien looked awful. His shoulders were still bleeding, his nose was broken, and he looked wobbly on his feet. Ashe suspected she looked similar. Her back hurt from the fire and the wounds on her thigh and shoulder was aching. She only wished to lay down and cry. She wanted to cry in her mate’s arms. She needed to hear his heartbeat. To know that he was safe. Ashe needed to know that even though she was hurt and scared, he was safe and his perfect self.

She couldn’t stop the tears as they rolled down her face. Even though her brother stood before her, she suddenly felt utterly alone without her mate being there to hold her.

“You need to winnow, Ashe,” Lucien said, his voice had grown even more horse and shaky.

“Why can’t you?” she asked. Her own voice was also shaky, but that was because of the tears.

“I’m too weak right now, I can’t take both of us,” he hissed in pain as he spoke. “We’ll winnow to Autumn.”

“What? We can’t do that!”

“We don’t have much choice. Neither one of us will get much further. We’ll go to Eris’ cabin. It’s Saturday, so he’s hopefully there. Then he can winnow us to the Night Court within minutes.”

Ashe did as he told her. Lucien counted to three and then, they winnowed. How she got all the way to the Autumn Court, she didn’t know. It must have been the adrenaline. However, as she landed in the cabin, she lost all control over her emotions.

Lucien, who had a third wound from the arrows that Ashe hadn’t seen before, passed out the second he landed in the cabin. Ashe was too focused on not hyperventilating to notice it.

“What the hell is going on?” Eris asked the second he came running into the living room. He held a sword but lowered it the second he saw his siblings. “Are you okay?”

“I killed him,” Ashe muttered and then completely broke down. She fell to her knees. It hurt as hell upon impact, because of the arrow wound, but she didn’t care. She had lost control, and she had killed.

Eris’ widened. He dropped the sword and ran towards Lucien. He crunched down and laid a hand on his chest. A sigh of relief left him.

“I killed him,” she cried. Her heart was breaking. The male didn’t breathe any longer. He could no longer think or laugh or smile. He was gone. Nothing was left. Nothing to bury. What if he had a mate waiting for him?

She threw up at that thought.

Eris was suddenly at her side, holding her hair.

What if someone had killed Azriel? What if someone had lost control and killed him? What if she lost control and killed him?

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest was too tight, and her heart was beating too loud. Eris spoke to her, but she couldn’t hear a word he said. Her entire body was shaking.

She was awful. She had lost control and killed. Killed a male that had a future. He had a life, and she had taken it from him.

Ashe didn’t feel her own powers burning into her arms. She didn’t feel the fire as it burned its way from her fingers to her elbows. She only noticed it when Eris rubbed her arms fast enough to stop the flame. Then, she felt the relief. But it didn’t last long before she was again lost in her thoughts.

Ashe didn’t feel how Eris let go of her. Hadn’t noticed him walking to the table, scribbling a note and sending it away. Ashe was still bawling and heaving as he picked up Lucien and sat back down beside her. She barely noticed that they winnowed.

She threw up once more, now in the summer sun of the Night Court. Ashe was shaking. The adrenaline was starting to disappear and pain from her wounds started bothering her along the breaking of her heart.

It was first when she smelled him, she understood she was safe. Finally safe.

Shadows swirled and bunched together around her wounds. Some on her shoulder, some on her thigh, some calmed the blisters that formed on her arms. Most of them, however, stayed in front of her heart.

“Come here, Flame,” Azriel whispered into her ear as he picked her up. Ashe allowed herself to break only when she was in his safe arms.

He had been looking at her at least three times. He was definitely planning something. Ashe hated that she didn’t know what.

The Night Court had been allying with Eris for a while, but just recently come up with the idea of using Ashe against him. Or as a reward for him. They didn’t know how he would take it.

Nesta and Eris was in the middle of a beautiful dance. Ashe could see multiple people that was in a trance because of it, but she knew that neither one of them used any magic.

It was almost funny seeing Cassian trying to control himself. Ashe would usually laugh at him, but she felt a little unsure. Both because of Eris, but also because she just wasn’t used to being in the Hewn City.

Azriel was a mess trying to take care of her, so he didn’t help a lot. He hated having her here. He hated even the sight of Eris. It seemed like he always would.

Azriel had been in meeting with Eris not long after Ashe and Lucien had returned from their adventure.

She and Lucien sat in the couch talking about their childhood. They often sat together trying to piece together things they were unsure about. Their evenings puzzling together their existence became longer and longer for each night. Especially now that Ashe and Azriel lived in their own house and not the Townhouse. They had been asked if they wanted the Townhouse as theirs, but it was simply too big.

Azriel came home. He didn’t make a sound, but Ashe still felt his presence. He walked through the door into the livingroom, saw Ashe on the couch and almost fell upon her. Ashe was quick to worry about her mate, but the movement of the shadows told her he was okay, just tired.

“I hate your brother,” he muttered into her chest.

“Me too, but just to be sure, which brother?” she asked him.

Lucien let out an insulted gasp.

“All of them.”

“That’s it, I’m leaving,” Lucien said next. He pretended to be insulted as he walked out with his head held high.

“Good night!” Ashe yelled after him. She would usually follow him to the door, but Azriel was still laying upon her, crushing her just a little.

Lucien muttered something from the door and then Ashe heard the door closing. She shifted her attention to her mate.

“What did he do this time?” she asked. She didn’t have to say who she was talking about, they both knew it was Eris.

“He’s too good at reading people. He knows exactly what to say to get on my nerves.”

That was a quality it seemed like all her siblings had. Reading people and using it for their own advantage.

“He knows about the two of us, or at least some of it,” Azriel said next. “And I hate it.”

They had discussed many times before whether Eris should know about their relationship or not. Ashe was for it, but not as much as Azriel was against it. So, they had decided to keep it a secret.

When Ashe and Lucien had winnowed to Eris and Azriel and Rhys had met them at the border, Azriel had felt so much of Ashe’s pain and spiralling thoughts, he couldn’t hold back even one second. In the days after, he had regretted it immensely. It led to the two of them having mental breakdowns at the same time, and that didn’t end very well.

It seemed that Azriel had hated Eris even more than before ever since.

“I don’t like this,” Azriel muttered and pulled Ashe from her thoughts.

Eris and Nesta had finished their dance and started a new one. However, Cassian didn’t let them finish it. While Cassian impressed with his new dance skills. Mor and Ashe had taught both Cass and Nesta how to dance. Ashe had mostly helped Nesta with the Autumn Court dances, but she had enjoyed watching Cassian struggling to be graceful.

It was so obvious that Eris was being a prick. Ashe could see it on his entire face. He was smug and proud as he stood and spoke with Rhys and Feyre. Ashe really wanted to be a part of the conversation.

However, it was quickly over. Eris looked back at Nesta and saw that she and Cassian was still dancing. That’s when his gaze landed on Ashe and stayed there.

She could feel Azriel’s anger grow bigger for each step Eris took towards the two of them. Eris ignored him completely.

He stopped two meters away from them. With one hand on his back and the other reached towards her, he spoke.

“May I have this dance?”

He spoke normal. His voice was proud and steady. But it was his eyes that gave away the desperation. They were begging. Begging her to take his hand and join him.

It was a time when dancing had been Ashe’s biggest dream. Now, it was something she enjoyed often. Azriel loved dancing with her. That’s what they would do every Starfall, sometimes also just the two of them at home. It was no longer something she was longing after. However, she decided to give him a chance.

She walked up to him and took his hand with a slight bend in her knees. Eris bowed at her and led the way to the dancefloor.

It was an easy dance. No fancy movements, just a normal waltz. It was originally from the Autumn Court, but it was Ashe’s favourite. Mostly because it was the only one she could so without stepping wrong. She had taught the dance to Azriel, but it was Eris that had taught her. Azriel didn’t know that of course, then he wouldn’t let himself enjoy it.

They moved together as they danced. Their movements were intertwined, but not at all as graceful as the ones he had with Nesta. However, both smiled a little. Not at each other, but both smiled from their memories together. The first time they danced, Ashe had been yelled at by Beron for handing out the wrong glasses. Ashe had just been a stand in and was supposed to have the night off. It hadn’t been her fault, but Beron didn’t care.

Eris had come to make sure she was okay after the ball was finished and then he taught her to dance. He spent almost an hour for her to understand the first move, so they continued next week too. And the one after that.

“You’ve gotten better,” Eris said. “You finally have a left and a right foot, not two left.”

“I’ve had the opportunity to practice more than before,” she spat back.

“I should have seen that coming,” he answered. He was about to say something else when Ashe spoke.

“I thought you didn’t like dancing as a way of getting to speak.”

He shut his mouth, and it stayed closed. They continued dancing a little stiffer than before.

That’s when Ashe felt the exhaustion. The total full body exhaustion of walking around being angry. Being annoyed. Forcing herself to be in a foul mood when she really wanted to smile and be happy while dancing.

She of course knew why she was angry at Eris. He had done many awful things that broke her trust completely. But so had Lucien. And now they were almost best friends, like they used to be when they were children.

She let out a sigh when she realized her entire mind and body told her to forgive him. To forgive Eris.

Azriel must have noticed it too, because even though he hated Eris, he poured just enough love through the bond for Ashe to get the bravery to speak.

“I taught Azriel this dance. We dance it often,” she told her brother, and he looked utterly shocked at her. She couldn’t help the laugh that left her. “Especially on Starfall.”

Eris nodded and gave her a small spin. He held her up when she started losing her balance and the rhythm.

“You’re married then?” he asked carefully. It was like he also felt the need to ask even though it felt so unnatural.

“We’re mates.”

He didn’t look too surprised at that.

“That’s how he knew you needed him that day.”

He was speaking about the day Beron almost killed her. One of the many times he had wanted to end her life.

She nodded even though he hadn’t asked.

“He treats you well?”

“Better than anyone else ever have,” she answered without hesitation and Eris flinched. They were deep into foreign territory, so Ashe decided to keep going. “Why didn’t you tell me Eris? You told me so much else. So many things that would have gotten me killed if they knew I knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

His gaze burned into her, and she made her own eyes burn into his. They had the same eyes, the same amber eyes.

“Because I’m a coward. I thought I could keep you safe and unknowing. I realize that I was wrong, but I thought knowing what he was would break you.”

“It did break me. It still does at times.”

Eris had the horrible look of guilt in his eyes, but his movements did not linger. He still led beautifully. They stayed silent for a while. Ashe didn’t know what else to ask. Eris didn’t know how to answer without ruining the little time she had given him.

“He didn’t know it was you,” Eris started, and Ashe looked confused at him. “Beron didn’t know it was you that gave the information to the Night Court. He only wanted you dead. They continued looking for the traitor afterwards. Only mother and I know.”

It was too much. Ashe understood what Eris was doing. He couldn’t answer Ashe’s questions in a way that she would like, so he gave up some other information instead. Information that Ashe should know, but it still hurt.

“What?” was all she could mutter as an answer.

Everything became overwhelming. They hadn’t known.

“Beron wanted you dead so, Maria gave him all the details that could lead to the traitor being you. He then used it against you, even though he did not at all have enough proof.”

Ashe stepped on Eris’ foot and faltered for the first time in the dance. Eris kept her upright and continued pretending like nothing had happened.

Beron had wanted to kill her so badly, he wanted her framed for a crime he didn’t even know she committed. Azriel had told her before that she had been given a much harsher punishment than Samli would have when she took her punishment. It had been awful to hear, but he hadn’t tried to kill her.

Or maybe he had, but she had been stronger than he expected.

The movements got too much. Her chest tightened and she felt suddenly so out of breath. Eris had already been embarrassed by Cassian interrupting his dancing with Nesta, and how she would have to embarrass him by stopping in the middle of the dance. She couldn’t breathe.

“Mind if I take over?” Azriel’s voice sounded from behind her.

Eris stopped their movements and gave a small bow before he left without any questioning looks.

Azriel didn’t smile as he took her hands. He laid one of her hands on his chest and the other around his neck. Feelings his steady heartbeat relaxed Ashe enough for her to catch her breath. Her chest still felt strangled, but it got better for each deep breath she took.

Then, he started moving. His movements were smaller than the ones Eris had made. Ashe didn’t need to stretch herself more than she felt comfortable. They stayed together and moved together to finish the dance.

“I’m proud of you, Flame,” he said to her. The song slowed and the dance was coming to an end. Azriel stopped, leaned down and kissed her forehead and then held his hand on her lower back as they made their way back to the corner they had been standing in before. And they stayed there for the rest of the night.

When the party ended, Azriel and Ashe had gone straight home. Ashe explained everything Eris had said to her.

Azriel had always cursed at Beron. He had gone it long before he met Ashe. He had done it so much more after meeting her. But knowing that he had wanted to kill his own daughter for something he wasn’t even sure she had done, how horrible could someone be?

“I’m going to work on forgiving him,” Ashe said next and Azriel felt his brain explode. How could she forgive Beron? How could she even think the thought? He didn’t deserve to be forgiven, not for hurting her or anyone else. “Eris. I’m going to forgive Eris.”

Azriel relaxed at that, let out a chuckle at his own jumping to conclusion and kissed her forehead.

“I’m tired of being angry at him. I’m tired of being angry in general, but I think forgiving him will make it better for me. I’m doing this for me, not for him.”

It just made him want to hold her tighter.

They laid together on the couch. The fancy dress and tunic were changed into more cosy sweats. Ashe laid upon him and he held both his arms and wings around both of them.

Ashe had always had issues with her emotions. Azriel liked to explain it as she was feeling a little too much. Extreme feelings of anger and fear, but also happiness and safety often brought her to tears. It was overwhelming and too much for her.

Anger had always been the worse. Anger tended to unleash her powers. Earlier, also the other emotions had made her go up into flames, but she had worked on it and now it rarely happened. But she was still carrying too much anger.

Azriel knew she had gone through so much, and to know that she still had the bravery to face her feelings and trying to get better always impressed him. He loved it. Truly. He loved her. She was his inspiration every day.

“I’m going to start answering his letters, I think,” Ashe continued. Eris had sent her letters every year. On the first of December Rhysand would receive a letter to “Avron Venture”. It was obvious it was to Ashe Vanserra. Ashe always read through the letter. She kept them all, but she never answered them. Until now apparently. “I’ll start with just letting him slightly into my life again. Just like Lucien have done.”

His Flame was determined to make things better. And he was determined to stay by her side and keep her safe throughout the entire period.

Avron Venture,

December 1st

The year has been long and painful. Mother seems to be doing worse and worse. I’ve tried to get father away from her as often as possible, but I don’t think it’s helping.

The hounds have gotten another litter. The young ones are exploring around my cabin as I write. They are eating, licking and peeing on everything in sight, but they are also adorable. I’m looking forward to training new pups again.

Father is bothering me about marriage again. I’ve decided to not marry until he’s dead. I don’t want to bring more people into this horrible family.

I hope you are doing well, even after the horrid experience it seemed like you and our brother had on the continent. I hope you know I am here if something similar happens again and you need a safe place to go.

Rhysand has invited me to a ball on the days closer to Winter Solstice. I hope to see you there.

Take care of yourself,

Evan Venture

Evan Venture,

December 27th

I’m happy to hear you’re doing your best to take care of our mother. I was hoping you could tell her about my mate. I must admit, I don’t know her very well, but I hope my happy news can bring her some happiness as well.

My year has been great. Even though our trip to the continent ended badly, I have never felt as free as I did when I was there.

Our brother and I explored all we could find. He taught me a lot, but the locals told me the most. I hope to go back at a safer time to explore even more.

I’m so happy to hear the puppies are doing great. Please hug and kiss each and every one of them for me. And please do not be too harsh in the training.

It’s good to hear from you. I suggest a monthly exchange of letters instead of a yearly one. Hope that’s okay with you.

Looking forward to your reply,

Avron Scheme (I do not go by your surname, I want you to use my mate’s chosen surname)

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