#this is x and phantom before they go to sleep

[rottingghosty]

The Realms PR | DC X DP

Prompt/Summary: DC X DP SOCMED AU. Imagine Danny being so fucking tired of the GIW and is like Tucker, I’m making a twitter account, verify me IMMEDIATELY. So here’s Danny as Phantom on Twitter, verified with 0 followers and starts tweeting about how GIW is shit and how they claim ghosts are non sapient or sentient and just counterattacks by uploading videos of various ghosts to show that they in fact ARE previous humans and very much sentient.

Phantom ✔️

@OGPhantom

AP’s Local Hero | He/him | Ghost

📍 Infinite Realms   🗓️ Joined March 20XX

0 Following   ||   0 Followers

Phantom ✔️— @OGPhantom

“Ghosts aren’t sentient!” Yeah, what’s THIS then????

[Video: It shows a place with a sickening amount of the color green before it pans over to where a figure with a purple cloak with the hood down sat on a bench. The figure is softly singing to various blobs of green ghosts who chirp and trill along. The figure had long curly blue hair as they turned to the recorder Phantom— as a sweet smile formed on lips with purple lipstick. The figure had blue skin that showed as the cloak moved and showed blue tinted fingers.

The singing sounded echoed, staticky at times but otherwise soothing. The figure said something that the was untranslated but it was enough for the figure to later brighten up at what was said back. Red eyes instantly became starry.]

> Phantom ✔️— @OGPhantom

Ghosts are very much sentient. We rely on emotions. 🖕🏼You guys study a field you don’t even know about.

After a series of tweets where Danny showed more videos of ghosts (with their permission of course) on Twitter. He got off the app and decided to go to bed after ranting about the GIW. He was heavily unaware of how his tweets would blow up when Tucker had the best idea to have the tweets land on various FYP of influencers and maybe a few billionaires such as the Waynes.

“What.” Danny croaked out as he stared at the sudden fame he got overnight. He hadn’t expected his tweets to blow up, he simply thought only a few ghost fans would stumble upon his tweets and claim it was fake or edited, even call it CGI. He had not taken into the account of the fact that Amity Park residents would vouch (all while refraining from saying that they reside in Amity Park since they’re essentially a dead zone due to the ectoplasm affecting the town) and even provide their own information about Ghosts.

So now Danny suddenly is a thousand followers bigger, he has news teams wanting to interview him and he has people commenting on his tweets. He feels dizzy as hands gripped his biceps and gently tugged him into sitting on the chair that was basically his at the Foley home. His ears are ringing and his throat feels dry.

“Congrats on being famous, don’t forget us too soon.” Sam dryly says as she shoves water into Danny’s hands and helped him take a sip.

“Don’t be like that Sam, this is a good thing especially since the GIW are blocked from seeing Phantom’s account or anything Phantom related things even despite people reposting and tweeting on other social medias. Technus helped me with that.”

“Oh my god Phantom’s famous. I’m famous.”

The biggest video that blew up was his pinned video, it was of one of the older ghosts who had been around for a long time— the same Hope that had been placed in Pandora’s Box and why she is the Ancient of it after escaping.

He recorded her on a whim after a run in with the GIW and then constantly telling him that he’s a monster and how he isn’t sentient. He also privately kept the thought of himself using Hope’s singing as a lullaby whenever he couldn’t sleep after a rough day.

“Ancients.”

TLDR: Danny recorded the Ancient of Hope (an OC) on a whim after a bad day and decided to counteract the idea of GIW telling Amity Parkers that ghosts are evil. He genuinely thought only the Parkers would realize and not that. Tucker would have this bright idea to broaden his influence. So Danny is VERY much newly famous, has the attention of a lot of people now. Including one Jason Todd because he stumbled upon the video of Hope singing and it calmed the Pit so he’s like what the fuck.

Could be a Dead on Main, Dead Tired kinda thing idk, i thought of this at like 2am at work. But I think Danny as Phantom being internet famous about explaining the Infinite Realms (all while he tries to hide the fact that he’s royalty of it) and exclusively shitting on the GIW. Sam and Tucker obviously make accounts also cause they’re the ambassadors of Phantom and basically his PR team.

Meanwhile John Constantine is having a crisis in a meeting with the Justice League and JL Dark because what do you mean someone is experimenting on ghosts and declaring them as not human???

[novelistwriter]

The Phantom Shifter

DP x DC Prompt

Danny discovered a new power, it allows him to mold his Ectoplasm into anything he wants, with his Ectoplasm perfectly mimicking the properties of the things he molds it into.

He began testing it out in private, seeing if there is a limit to what his Ectoplasm can be molded into, there isn't a limit.

He slowly began to use his new power in his battles with the Ghosts, just to help him get an edge in battle, especially against Vlad.

A year later, he got so used to using his new power, that he began to use it a lot in his battles and was using it for everyday use.

One day, during a quiet day in the Fenton household, Danny tiredly made his way to the kitchen, using his new power to help him fend off some reanimated food, of course, his parents had seen, and attacked him for "Using their Son's body"

One thing his new power provides is that his Ectoplasmic Signature is different when he is fully something or someone else, he used that to his advantage when he got a good enough distance from his parents, shifting into one of the GIW Agents and throwing off his parents, he returned to his house, where Jazz is preparing to help Danny, but only sees a GIW Agent.

Danny had to change back when he got a moment to breathe in between Jazz's attacks against him when he was mimicking a GIW Agent, he had to shift back before their parents and the actual GIW got ahold of his ecto Signature again.

He had to leave quickly, there was no telling when their parents or the GIW would come to their home, so Danny got his Go Bag, a USB to take and delete the blueprints his parents had on everything they had made, and went into the portal, with Jazz promising to tell his friends what had happened.

Danny finds himself in front of Clockwork's Tower, so he goes to see the Time Ghost. He wasn't expecting to find it empty, except for a note beside a portal that leads to a different dimension.

'Daniel, the Observants have meddle with the Timeline to force this outcome, you need not worry about them, I have gone to deal with them, in the meantime, I have found a place for you to live in.

C.W'

He is grateful that Clockwork had thought ahead and is dealing with the Observants, so he heads into the portal that Clockwork provided for him.

He emerged in a cave from a pool of Ectoplasm, he sees that its empty, and he thought that this is the perfect time to cross one of the things off his bucket list for his new power, becoming a Dragon to live in a cave, only for a few days at least.

On.the second day of him being a big Dragon, he feels a Liminal Human nearby, he looks to the direction of the approaching Liminal, and sees a person in red and black gear that's obviously a Hero getup. They have a stare down for a few moments before the Liminal backs away slowly to where they came from. Danny just goes back to sleep when the Liminal is gone.

The next day, Danny feels more Liminal Humans coming, he feels the Liminal from yesterday and is not wary, he knows that they are just wary of him and not hostile, so to refuel his Ectoplasm, he begins to drink some from the pool of Ectoplasm with him.

That is what Tim, Bruce, Damian, and Jason walk into, a big Dragon drinking from the Lazarus Pit beneath Gotham. They stare at it for a few moments before Damian speaks up.

"Why did you not mention the 'Entity' was a Dragon, Drake?"

[dclovesdanny]

Time loop x Dead Serious

Damian had been in a time loop for 99 days.

It had taken 40 loops for him to realize Phantom, the newest member of the Justice League, was looping as well. When he finally managed to corner him, Phantom was as confused as he was. Apparently, Phantom’s mentor, who was the embodiment of time, was unable to be contacted.

Damian found out about Phantom’s civilian identity in loop 45 after he joined Phantom on a patrol.

Loop 56 was when they started getting closer than just allies. That was the loop where they saw someone die for the first time.

(Damian was too distracted. He didn’t realize Timothy was behind him. He had forgotten about the goons behind him. He didn’t see the bullet coming.)

(He couldn’t meet Timothy’s eyes when he was at breakfast that morning.)

It was loop 85 when they finally found out that someone had apparently found clockwork summoning circle. It took 3 more days for them to locate the cult and discover the cult was working with the League of Assassins.

(Damian could feel the eyes of his family, but he wasn’t willing to pretend he was the same. He had seen each of them die on patrol and knew each of their deaths was due to his actions. He refused to act the same.)

They spent two loops doing reconnaissance, and eight days of planning.

(Damian and Daniel-Danny, he had asked to be called Danny, were becoming codependent. Damian knew the signs of it. Danny had even brought it up. Still, they both had seen their friends and family die and wake up in the morning without any recollection. They were the only other people who understood what they had seen, the changes that happened in their minds.)

Loop day 99 was their “purge day”as Danny called it. Danny had taken him for a day of freedom before the fight, somehow, knowing that Damian couldn’t bear to look at his family right now.(He knew Danny felt the same. Danny had been the one who called him in a haze on loop 62 when his parents discovered who he was and tried to kill him. Danny had apparently had that happen once before during this loop, and it happened one other time after Danny and Damien became allies. Both times ended with the two of them silently cuddling through the night.)

The fight had been remarkably easy. Undoing the summoning circle was… more complicated.

Clockwork looked genuinely sorry. He apologized to them, and gave them both necklaces of time medallions, so that things like this or like speedsters would leave them unchanged.(Danny laughed a little after that, though it seemed partially hysterical.)

Danny spent that night in Damian’s arms in silence. Damien couldn’t fathom letting him go.

(the loop was ending, but what did that mean for them? They couldn’t pretend to be strangers again tomorrow. Were they supposed to be back to normal? how could Damien scoff and call Timothy by his last name when he had seen Timothy die for him? How could Danny act as if he trusted his parents when he had seen them find out he was a ghost and try to murder him? How were they supposed to move on?)

As Damien awoke to the sound of his door being opened, his arms still wrapped around Danny’s sleeping figure, he slowly realized that he had gotten into the habit of not setting his alarm anymore.



[writeriguess]

Katsuki x fem reader? Reader has a nightmare and he comforts her.

Safe With Him

The air feels heavier than it should. Like a weight pressing down on your chest, suffocating, crushing. You try to move, to run, but your limbs won’t listen. Shadows stretch and twist around you, faceless figures emerging from the darkness. Their hands reach for you, grasping, clawing—too strong, too many. A scream rises in your throat, but it dies before it can escape.

Then—suddenly—you’re falling.

The ground beneath you disappears, and your stomach lurches as you plummet into nothingness. Cold air rushes past your skin, the terror stealing every last breath from your lungs. You brace for impact, but it never comes.

Just an endless, suffocating void.

And then—

You wake up.

A sharp gasp rips through your chest, your body jerking upright as if yanked from the nightmare by invisible hands. The room is dark, but your eyes are wide and unseeing, your heart pounding erratically in your ribcage. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, drenched in lingering fear, and it takes everything in you not to sob.

Your fingers clutch the sheets, your breaths coming too fast, too shallow. You can still feel it—the phantom touch of those hands, the weight of the nightmare pressing against your skin like a bruise that won’t fade.

A groggy voice beside you stirs.

“Oi… what the hell?”

The sound of Katsuki’s voice—rough, low, laced with sleep—usually makes you feel safe. But right now, you’re too rattled to respond. Your breath hitches, your entire body trembling as you try to steady yourself, try to push the nightmare away.

Katsuki shifts beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. Even in the dark, you can feel the heat of his gaze burning into you.

“Babe?” His voice loses its edge, softening just a fraction.

You don’t answer. Can’t.

He notices.

His hand reaches out, resting against your back, and the moment his fingers make contact, you flinch. That makes him go still for half a second before his touch grows firmer, grounding, his palm tracing slow, steady circles against your spine.

“You’re shakin’,” he mutters, his voice quieter now. His hand moves, traveling up to your shoulder, squeezing gently before sliding down to your wrist, feeling your pulse racing beneath his fingertips. “Shit… what happened?”

You swallow hard, trying to force out an answer, but all you manage is a shaky whisper.

“Nightmare.”

His grip on you tightens.

“Tch.” The irritation in his voice isn’t aimed at you—no, it’s at whatever had the audacity to mess with you in your sleep. His other hand finds yours, prying your fingers away from the crumpled bedsheets before lacing them together. “It wasn’t real,” he mutters, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, soothing strokes. “You’re here. With me. Breathe.”

You try. You really do.

But the fear is still there, thick and suffocating.

Katsuki notices—of course he does. He always notices.

Without another word, he shifts closer, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you into his warmth. Your body melts into him instinctively, your forehead pressing against his bare chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek instantly grounding you. His scent surrounds you—warm, smoky caramel with a hint of something sharp, something distinctly him.

He tilts his head down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. “You wanna talk about it?”

You hesitate. The nightmare is still vivid in your mind, the images too raw, too unsettling. But the words get stuck in your throat, tangled with emotions you don’t know how to untangle.

So you shake your head against his chest.

“…No. Just wanna stay like this.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah. A’right.”

He doesn’t push. He never does. Instead, he moves you so you’re fully on his lap, cocooned in his embrace like he’s trying to shield you from whatever nightmare had dared to touch you. His arms are solid and strong, caging you in a way that makes you feel protected rather than trapped.

One hand slides up to the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair, massaging gentle circles into your scalp. The other wraps around your waist, holding you close, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

His voice is quieter now, a rare gentleness laced in his words.

“Just breathe, okay? You’re safe.”

You do.

Slow, deep, shaky breaths against his chest. Inhaling his warmth, exhaling the fear. Over and over, until the tremors in your body start to ease, until the nightmare no longer feels like it’s suffocating you.

“…D’you have nightmares a lot?” he asks after a long silence, his fingers still combing through your hair, slow and deliberate.

You hesitate, then nod.

His arms tighten, his breath ghosting over the top of your head. “You shoulda told me.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you…”

A sharp tsk leaves his lips, and he pulls back just enough to tip your chin up, making you look at him. His red eyes burn with something intense, something protective. “You ain’t ever a fuckin’ bother to me, got it?” His voice is firm but gentle, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “I don’t give a shit if it’s three in the fuckin’ morning—if you need me, you wake me up. End of story.”

Your throat tightens, emotions swelling in your chest. “…Okay.”

“Good.” He exhales through his nose, shifting so he can kiss your forehead again. “Now lie down. I ain’t lettin’ you spend the rest of the night shakin’ like a damn leaf.”

You let him pull you back down with him, your body naturally curling into his. He tangles your legs together, keeping you locked against his warmth, his hand resting against your back with slow, steady strokes.

His lips brush against your temple, voice quieter than before.

“Sleep, baby. I got you.”

And this time—wrapped in his warmth, his presence anchoring you—you actually believe him.

Because with Katsuki holding you like this, there’s no room for nightmares.

Just him.

Just safety.

Just love.

[natsaffection]

Code Red. | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha x Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24), Sexual tension, mention of sex, blood, hospital atmosphere

word count:

A/n: READ!! There’s way too much we could add to The Phantom, so I’m not even starting a series, because it would go on until I’m dead.

So, I’ll start with this chapter and add more whenever I have ideas or just want a Grey’s Anatomy episode with Natasha. AND I’m definitely waiting on my knees for your input, anything! Smut, fluff, hospital shooting…? 🧍🏻‍♀️

AND, dear Anon 🧸, please don’t point out any mistakes in this. Thank you 🙂‍↕️ I’m not nervous at all about having a real doctor on my profile.

The first thing you felt was warmth. Not the comfortable, wrapped in your own blankets kind of warmth. No..this was different. Too warm and too solid.

A slow, creeping dread settled in your stomach before your brain even caught up. Something was wrong. Your bed wasn’t this soft. Your sheets weren’t this silky. And..oh God, your room didn’t smell like this. Clean, crisp linen. A faint trace of something expensive. Something dangerous.

Your breath hitched as the weight beside you shifted, a slow, unconscious movement. Someone was next to you. Your entire body locked up. Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.

Your pulse skyrocketed as your fingers clutched the edge of the covers. Your entire life flashed before your eyes. Because you weren’t just in a stranger’s bed. You were in a stranger’s bed naked.

A slow, excruciating turn of your head confirmed your worst nightmare. There, draped across the pillow like a goddamn work of art, lay the most devastatingly attractive woman you had ever seen in your life. Red hair, tousled from sleep. A sharp, elegant jawline. Bare shoulders, toned arms, and, oh.

You whipped your gaze away, biting down on your lip to keep from making an undignified noise. You were going to die.

Memories flashed, fragments of last night slamming into you like a truck. The bar. The teasing smirk. A hand at the small of your back. A whisper at your ear. Your legs shaking as you stumbled through a door. The sheer heat of a body pressing you into the mattress. Oh my God!!

You bolted upright, panic exploding through your chest as you threw the covers off, eyes scanning the room for your clothes. There, jeans by the nightstand. Your shirt, hanging from the damn lamp.

“Fuck..” you whimpered, scrambling out of bed as quietly as possible. Your hands trembled as you shoved one leg into your jeans, your movements frantic. What did I do? What the hell did I do?! You had never done something like this. Never!!

A one-night stand? With a woman who was clearly older, clearly experienced, and clearly too damn attractive for your own good? No. Absolutely not. No. This wasn’t your life-

“Leaving so soon?”

Your soul left your body. You froze, every nerve ending screaming at the sound of that voice, low, smooth, amused as hell. Slowly, so slowly, you turned. And immediately wished you hadn’t.

The woman was awake now. And stretching. Naked. Completely, unapologetically, naked. You made a sound that could only be described as a dying animal. You whipped your gaze away so fast you nearly snapped your own neck. “Sorry..”

A low chuckle. “Cute.”

Your entire body locked up, heat rushing to your face. “You’re- you’re naked..”

“Mmm.” The woman sounded smug. “So were you, if I remember correctly.”

You clutched your jeans tighter, swallowing a scream. “I-I was drunk!”

“I was too.” she mused. “But didn’t seem to bother you when you were on your knees for me.”

Your knees buckled. “I-I have to go!” you blurted, tripping over yourself in your desperate attempt to shove your foot into your jeans.

The sheets rustled. And then, bare feet on the floor. Your stomach dropped. Your body locked as a presence closed in behind you. Overwhelming and too close. You sucked in a breath, hands trembling as you reached for your shirt.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” The voice was lower now, teasing, dangerous. You felt it before you saw it, a ghost of warmth at your exposed shoulder. A deliberate, torturously slow touch that never quite landed.

Your stomach flipped. “You were so eager last night..” she murmured, voice mocking, sinful. “Kept saying my name over and over again. Clutching my hair like your life depended on it-”

“S-Stop!! I don’t remember that!” you squeaked, your face burning.

A smirk. “Shame.”

You whimpered. You needed to leave. Before you did something stupid, like look at her again. “I- I have work!” you blurted, nearly falling over yourself as you shoved your arms through your shirt. “I- I have my first day-”

“Oh?” The amusement in her voice was undeniable. “First day?”

Your blood ran cold. You had said too much. But before you could backtrack, before you could even process the absolute disaster you had just walked into, she moved. Closer.

A single finger ghosted down your spine. Barely there. Not touching. Not quite. But enough. Enough to shatter every last coherent thought in your brain.

Your knees buckled, a firm grip caught your waist, steadying you. “Careful, sweetheart.” the redhead purred, lips dangerously close to your ear now. “Wouldn’t want you falling apart before your shift even starts.”

You made a noise you would never admit to. That was it. You were leaving. “I-I gotta go!” you sputtered, yanking yourself free and bolting toward the door, nearly tripping over your own shoes.

You didn’t look back.

You stumbled into the hospital lobby, heart still racing, legs still weak, body still on fire from this morning’s disaster. There was no time to process, before you could even take a breath, you were swept into a sea of white coats and nervous chatter. The new interns, all buzzing with a mix of excitement and terror.

You needed to get it together. You needed to forget. You needed to pretend you hadn’t just woken up in some impossibly sexy, dangerously confident woman’s bed.

“Are you okay?”

Your head snapped up, startled. A guy, tall, dark hair, sharp eyes, watched you curiously. “Yeah.” you lied instantly, gripping your bag’s strap like a lifeline. “Totally fine. First-day jitters, y’know?”

He smirked. “Oh yeah, we’re all on the verge of puking, don’t worry. I’m Levi, by the way.”

“Y/n.” you replied, shaking his hand, “are way too calm about this.”

He chuckled, and soon, more introductions followed, Taryn, Helm, DeLuca names and faces blurring together in your already-frazzled mind.

Then, a clap cut through the chaos. “Alright, listen up!”

A senior resident had arrived, scanning the group with a sharp, assessing gaze. “Welcome to hell. You’re the new interns, which means you’re at the bottom of the food chain. You don’t speak unless spoken to, you don’t slow us down, and most importantly, you don’t kill anyone. Got it?”

A chorus of nervous “Yes, doctor.”

Between navigating the endless white hallways, trying (and failing) to keep up with the nonstop stream of medical jargon, and the sheer terror of knowing you were now responsible for actual patients, you were barely holding it together.

But finally, finally, you felt like you were catching your breath. Until you slammed straight into someone. The impact sent you stumbling back, clipboard slipping from your grasp, papers flying everywhere.

“Crap, sorry-” you started, already bending down to grab your things. Then you looked up. And your blood turned to ice.

Your heart sank, breath caught in your throat, the entire hospital suddenly feeling too small, too suffocating, too cruel.

Because standing before you, in full scrubs, arms crossed, an obnoxiously amused smirk plastered across her face, was your one-night stand. The woman whose bed you had fled from like your life depended on it.

The woman you had spent the entire morning trying to erase from your memory. Pure delight flickered in her emerald eyes, her smirk widening as she took you in.

“Well, well.” she drawled, clearly entertained. “Look what the hospital dragged in.”

You wanted to die. “You..!” The word stuck in your throat, barely making it out as you gripped the edges of your coat. “You work here?!”

Natasha’s smirk deepened, her arms folding across her chest like this was the funniest thing she’d seen all day. “I do now.” Her gaze flicked to your intern badge, amusement curling at her lips. “And you, Dr. Y/l/n… are probably my new intern.”

You stopped breathing. Your stomach plummeted. Your jaw tightened, heat crawling up your neck, not from embarrassment, not from flustered panic, but from pure, burning frustration.

This couldn’t be happening. No, this was actually a nightmare. You clenched your fists, forcing your voice to stay professional, even. “No.” you said flatly. “No! You are not my attending!”

Natasha arched a brow, that damn smirk never fading. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”

You gritted your teeth. “Don’t call me that.”

She chuckled, tilting her head slightly. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

You flinched. Hands curling into fists. Jaw locking. Blood boiling. You had worked your ass off to get here. You had sacrificed everything to stand among the best, to become a damn surgeon. And now? Now you had to work under the woman you had made the worst mistake of your life with? Absolutely not.

“This is unprofessional!” you snapped. “I don’t care what happened last night, but here? In this hospital? You are my boss. Nothing more.”

Natasha’s grin widened, far too entertained. “Boss?” she echoed, feigning innocence as she took a step closer. “That’s funny. Didn’t seem like you minded me being in charge last night.”

Your blood boiled. Your body tensed, face burning, not in embarrassment, but in sheer, unfiltered frustration. “I don’t want to work under you.” you bit out.

Natasha’s eyes gleamed, her smirk turning downright wicked. “Oh, sweetheart.” she murmured, voice low, teasing, dangerous. “You already did.”

You nearly exploded. Heat rushed to your face. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to say something, to argue, to shut her down, to tell her exactly where she could shove her insufferable smirk.

But you couldn’t afford this. This was your career. Your future. So instead, you forced yourself to breathe, forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, forced yourself to be the bigger person.

“This is a professional environment.” you said stiffly, snatching your clipboard off the ground. “I don’t care what happened. It’s done. It’s over. I’ll switch teams if I have to, but I refuse to let this interfere with my job.”

Natasha hummed, mockingly considering your words. “You do that..” she mused. “But until then, Dr. Y/l/n…you’re stuck with me.”

Your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as you swallowed the thousand curses sitting at the tip of your tongue. You straightened your spine, lifted your chin, and without another word, stormed past her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you break.

——

The ER was chaotic, but in a way that was almost comforting. Here, surrounded by the hum of beeping monitors, the shuffle of rushing nurses, the sharp calls of orders being thrown across the room, you could breathe again.

Here, you could focus. You could forget. Forget the fact that you had woken up in Natasha Romanoff’s bed. Forget the way you had slammed straight into her in the hallway like some kind of rom-com protagonist in a fever dream. Forget the way she had smirked, amused as hell, like she hadn’t just wrecked your entire existence with one night.

Because right now? There was a patient to save. And that was all that mattered. A nurse shoved a chart into your hands as you jogged toward the trauma bay. “27-year-old male, motor vehicle accident. Multiple lacerations, blunt abdominal trauma, and a closed femur fracture. BP’s dropping, and he’s tachycardic. He’s all yours.”

Your first real patient. Your heart leapt into your throat, but you didn’t hesitate. “Got it.”

Pushing through the curtain, you snapped on gloves, immediately assessing the scene. The man on the stretcher was ashen, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Blood soaked through his torn shirt, pooling from a deep gash across his abdomen. His leg, bent at an unnatural angle, lay immobilized.

Internal bleeding. Hemorrhagic shock. “Sir, can you hear me?” you asked, pressing a hand against his shoulder.

The man groaned, eyelids fluttering. “Hurts…”

“I know, we’re going to help you.” you assured him, eyes flicking to the monitors.

He was crashing. “We need two large-bore IVs.” you said, voice steady. “Hang a liter of lactated Ringer’s. Crossmatch for blood.”

“Already on it.” a nurse confirmed.

Grabbing trauma shears, you cut through his bloodied shirt. The wound was deep, gaping. Bad. Focus.

You reached for the ultrasound probe, pressing it against his abdomen, and there it was. Dark, pooling black on the screen. Blood. Internal hemorrhage. Your stomach clenched.

“Scan is positive.” you reported quickly. “He’s bleeding into his abdomen.”

“We need imaging.” a nurse said, already prepping the portable X-ray for his leg.

You nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’ll get an abdominal CT after he’s stabilized-”

Then the monitor alarm blared. BP dropping. Heart rate spiking. “Pressure’s tanking!” a nurse shouted.

Your pulse skyrocketed. You knew what to do. You knew, but suddenly, everything felt too fast. Your mind whited out. Your hands shook as you grabbed the saline bag, fumbling with the IV.

“We- we need to push more fluids, get blood down here-”

“Move.”

The voice was sharp. Cold. Unyielding. Before you could process, Natasha swept past you, taking control of the situation without hesitation. Gone was the amused, smug woman from earlier. Gone was the flirty, teasing tone.

This was Dr. Romanoff. And she was all business. “Push a unit of O-negative now.” she ordered, her voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. “I want a second line in, 18 gauge. Keep the fluids running. Prep for an emergency laparotomy.”

The room snapped into motion. No hesitation. No wasted time. Natasha’s hands moved expertly, assessing the injury with calculated precision. “He’s peritoneal. This isn’t something we wait on.” she said briskly. “He’s going up to the OR.”

The OR. You stared, blindsided, mind short-circuiting. You had expected Natasha to take over. To push you aside and tell you to go chart it like a good little intern.

But the OR? That meant surgery. That meant you were going with her. “He’s going up?” you repeated stupidly, voice higher than it should’ve been.

Natasha shot you a look. “That’s what I just said. Unless you want to stand here and watch him bleed out?”

You snapped out of it. “N-No, I- right, OR. Got it.”

“Then move.”

She didn’t wait, already calling ahead to the surgical team as the gurney rolled forward. You hesitated for only a second before grabbing the other side, helping push the stretcher toward the elevator. Your heart hammered, adrenaline surging through your veins.

This was happening. You were going into the OR. On your first day. As the elevator doors slid shut, Natasha finally looked at you. Not with amusement. Not with the teasing glint she had worn this morning. This was different. This was real.

“Do not freeze up in there.” she said, her tone cool, firm. “If I let you assist, you stay focused. If you panic again, I’m kicking you off the table. Understood?”

You swallowed. You nodded. “Understood.”

She studied you for a beat, then nodded. The elevator dinged. The doors slid open to the bright, sterile lights of the operating room. And just like that, you were in it. Bright overhead lights glared down on the open abdomen of the man on the table, the metallic scent of blood thick in the air, mixing with the sterile burn of antiseptics. The beeping monitors echoed through the room, a steady, nerve-wracking reminder of how little time they had.

Your hands shook as you stepped up to the table, gloved fingers hovering over the surgical field. “Y/l/n, you are assisting me, not standing there like an idiot.” Natasha snapped, not even glancing up. “Hands on the field. Now.”

You snapped into motion, placing your hands on the edges of the incision, breath uneven as you took in the damage. Blood. So much blood. The patient’s abdomen was a mess of pooling crimson, dark and slick, spilling out with every passing second. Too much blood.

“He’s still bleeding out.” Natasha said briskly, already moving, hands precise, unforgiving, unstoppable. “I need a better view. Retract.”

Scrambling for the retractor, you adjusted your grip, unsteady fingers pulling back the edges of the incision, exposing the ruptured spleen beneath.

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “The splenic artery’s still hemorrhaging..” she growled. “Suction, NOW.”

You fumbled with the suction catheter, pressing it into the cavity, watching as more blood gushed out, fast and relentless.

“Another clamp.” she ordered, hand outstretched, not even looking up as the instrument was placed into her palm. “Suction here. I need a clearer field.”

The nurse complied instantly, moving in sync with her. Natasha was in control, the chaos of the OR bending to her will, her focus so absolute that for a moment, you were just trying to keep up. You had never seen someone move like that, so sure of every decision, so damn precise. And you had certainly never seen this version of Natasha before.

Gone was the teasing smirk, the smug amusement, this was nothing like the woman who had toyed with you in the hallway, nothing like the one who had made you feel like the punchline of some inside joke. This Natasha was something else entirely.

“Y/l/n, I need you to assist.”

The words snapped you back into focus. You moved to the other side of the table, the weight of the moment slamming into you. This was real. This was happening. Your heart pounded, but you nodded, swallowing the nerves that threatened to choke you.

You were ready. Or at least, you thought you were. Then it all went wrong. The blood flow surged again, faster than expected. The clamp slipped from its position. A sudden gush of dark, arterial blood flooded the cavity, spilling over the sterile drapes, soaking everything in red.

The room changed instantly. A beat of silence, then voices overlapping“BP dropping-” “He’s losing pressure-” “Get another unit of blood down here-”

Your vision blurred. The sounds around you became distant, muffled like they were coming from underwater. The instruments in your hands felt foreign, too heavy, too light at the same time. You could feel the eyes on you, the other surgeons, the nurses, the interns watching from the observation deck above, staring down at you like a lab experiment about to fail.

Your breath caught in your throat. You were freezing. Natasha’s hands had stopped. She wasn’t fixing it. She was waiting. The realization hit like a slap. She wasn’t saving you. She was letting it happen. Letting you drown in the moment. Because if you couldn’t handle this, if you couldn’t keep it together when things got bad, you had no business being in this OR.

Your lungs burned. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You couldn’t breathe- A touch. Not harsh. Not demanding. Just a single gloved hand pressing against the back of yours, steady, deliberate.

Not taking over. Not fixing it for you. Just grounding you. “Look at me.”

The words weren’t sharp this time. They weren’t barked over the chaos. They were quiet. Firm. Your eyes flickered up, locking onto green. Natasha was looking at you. Not the patient. Not the monitors. You.

Not mocking. Not amused. Just watching. Your chest tightened, but then, something clicked. You had trained for this. You knew what to do.

The blood obscured the view, but the clamp had only slipped, it wasn’t lost. You forced your hands to steady, gripping the instrument properly this time. Found the artery beneath the pooling blood. Slid the clamp into place, securing it with the exact pressure needed to stop the hemorrhaging without crushing the tissue.

The bleeding slowed. The monitors stabilized. For a second, the entire OR seemed to pause. Then Natasha nodded, expression unreadable, and went back to work. “Good.” she said simply. “Now keep up.”

And just like that, you were back in it. The panic didn’t disappear completely, but it shifted, settling into something you could control. Your breath steadied. Your hands followed Natasha’s instructions, each movement more sure than the last.

By the time they were ready to close, you could barely believe it. You had almost fallen apart, but you had done it. And Natasha had let you break just enough to prove you could put yourself back together.

As you placed the last suture, Natasha watched you for a moment, then simply pulled off her gloves and tossed them onto the tray. Without looking at you, she said, “You won’t forget that moment.”

The hallway outside the OR was quieter than it should have been, considering how loud your heart was pounding. The rush of the surgery still coursed through your veins, but it wasn’t just the adrenaline anymore.

It was her. Natasha. The woman who had pushed you to the edge in that OR. The woman who had watched you struggle. The woman who had let you drown just enough before forcing you to swim. And now, she was standing against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like she already owned the world.

Or worse..like she owned you. “Not bad.” she mused, tilting her head slightly, watching you with undeniable interest. “For an intern.”

You swallowed, fingers curling into your scrub top as you forced yourself to breathe. You should walk away. You should thank her, say Goodnight, Dr. Romanoff, and pretend your legs weren’t seconds from giving out.

But something was gnawing at you. Had been since you stepped into that OR. Natasha had picked you. But why?

The question stuck in your throat, creeping under your skin until you couldn’t ignore it. You forced yourself to ask. “Did you..Did you pick me because we-”

God, you wished you could swallow the words back down. But Natasha was already on you. She stepped forward, slow, predatory, her smirk deepening as she leaned in just enough to make your body lock up.

“Because we fucked?”

Your breath caught. Your face burned. The heat of her body, her presence, too overwhelming, too much. And then, just for a second..That teasing flickered. Just for a second, Natasha’s smirk softened. And when she spoke again, her voice was lower.

“I picked you because you were the best.” she said, her eyes locking onto yours like she was pinning you in place. “Because you had the highest scores. Because your recommendations spoke for themselves. Because I wanted to see if you could handle real pressure.”

Your chest tightened. And somehow, that made everything so much worse. Because you had been afraid of the answer. Afraid that this morning had been a mistake you would never outrun, a stain that would follow your career before it had even started.

But it wasn’t. Natasha had picked you because you were good. And somehow, that made everything so much worse. You barely had time to process it before someone else entered the hallway.

“Dr. Romanoff.”

You turned just as another surgeon approached, her stride purposeful, her eyes locked onto Natasha like she knew exactly what she wanted. She didn’t even glance at you. Instead, she stepped in close, fingers grazing Natasha’s arm with easy familiarity, her touch dragging just enough to linger.

“I’m waiting for you..” she murmured, voice low. Suggestive. “Sleeping room.”

Your stomach twisted. And Natasha? Natasha just smiled. Not her usual smirk. Not teasing. Not mocking. Something pleased. Something interested. She turned back to you, her smirk curling just enough to be infuriating.

“I’ve got business to do.” she said smoothly. “See you around, Dr. Y/l/n.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t move. You just stood there, watching as Natasha turned, as she let that other woman lead her away, as she disappeared down the hall like none of this even mattered.

Like you weren’t still standing there, pulse still racing, skin still burning from where she had touched you. And maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe this was exactly what you should have expected.

Maybe Natasha had only been proving a point, showing you that you had nothing to prove. That you had been chosen for your talent, not for a night you barely remembered. But the sick feeling in your stomach said otherwise. The way your skin still tingled said otherwise. And the fact that Natasha hadn’t looked back?

That said everything.

Part 2

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[makethatelevenrings]

Lose Control // J. Abbot x gn!reader

*shuffles in and deposits this before sprinting away*

I spent three days trying to write out a huge fic with lots of plot but my brain kept giving up and then I could only fixate on the idea of Jack suffering from phantom limb pain so I wrote this piece of shit that can hardly be called writing and now I'm going to throw it on your dashes and go back to watching Bravo.

and if anyone gets the nickname joke, congrats. ur in my mind.

tw: mention of blood, Jack has a PTSD episode and phantom limb pain, mentions of you (reader) nearly dying in the past

It’s noon when you’re woken up by a crash.

Instinctively, your hand stretched out to find the space beside you empty. The sheets are still warm, so he must have only got up to go to the bathroom. You were about to roll over and fall back asleep when a muttered curse echoed from the bathroom.

“Bugs?”

“I’m fine,” came Jack’s reply. “Go back to sleep.”

Something fell over in the bathroom and you decided to ignore his suggestion and instead, rolled out of bed. The second your feet hit the ground, the bathroom door flung open. Jack stood in the dim light of the bathroom and your heart nearly stopped at the sight of the blood all over his hand.

“Don’t,” he ordered. “There’s glass.”

You took a step forward, your hands outstretched to reach for him to check his injury, but he drew away from you. It was then that you noticed the way his chest heaved with every breath and his eyes were darting around rapidly, as if searching for something in the room behind you. Peeking behind him, you saw what glass he was talking about. The mirror above the sink was shattered, shards and chunks of glass decorating the sink and floor. You looked at Jack once more, noticing how he leaned most of his weight against the wall instead of his crutch.

“Jack.” His actual name coming from your mouth snapped him out of whatever he was thinking and you held up your hand to assure him that you were just stepping away for a quick second. You hurried to the closet and yanked on the first pair of closed toed shoes. When you rounded back around the bed, he hadn’t moved from the doorframe. He looked almost too rigid.

“Hey, come here.” You stepped closer to him and slipped his arm over your shoulders so he could lean his weight on you. The crutch slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground, but you paid it no mind. You just focused on getting him to the mattress. You maneuvered the both of you around so he could sit. He immediately lifted the hand he had injured so as to not get blood on the comforter, but you really couldn’t give a shit. Grabbing a towel from the bathroom, you wrapped it around his hand and then kneeled between his legs.

“Jack,” you spoke softly, as if anything loud would startle him. He looked at you with those chocolate eyes, but it was as though he was staring right through you. You raised your hand to cup his cheek and he inhaled sharply at the touch. His eyes fell shut and you stroked your thumb over the soft planes of his face.

“You’re not there. You’re here, in your place.”

“Ours,” he huffed out and you let your lip curve up into a hint of a smile. At least he was still so stubborn. The two of you had moved into a townhome together in the Strip District just a month ago and you were still struggling to come to terms with that. He insisted he would remind you until it was imprinted in your mind.

“Our place,” you corrected. You rubbed the shell of his ear and he let out a trembling sigh. Your other hand moved down to rub against the chafed skin of his stump but he winced the second you touched him.

“What? Does it hurt?”

“Like I’m on fire,” he rasped out. “Woke me up and I thought…it was like being back in the hospital when…Punched the fucking mirror to try and snap out of it. Sorry.” He grit his teeth at the very memory, and you leaned up to press your forehead against his.

“Look at me,” you ordered. “Jack. Look me in the eyes.” He complied and you kept his gaze on yours. “You are not there. You are experiencing phantom limb pain and it can hurt like a bitch. You’re here. In our home. You’re safe.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounded so broken that you felt his words fracture your chest.

“No. No, don’t apologize, honey. We’re in this together, right? We’re a team, Bugs. That’s what you told me.” This wasn’t the first time one of you had been through this. Usually it was Jack helping you through the memories that plagued your mind, but you didn’t mind being the one offering a hand to help pull him out of his mind. He had said it all those years ago when you were bleeding out on the floor of a trauma bay as he kept you stable despite shaking hands and a hospital in lockdown.

“Keep your eyes open for me, baby. We’re in this together, damnit. We’re a fucking team. So you keep those fucking eyes open.”

You took his uninjured hand and pulled it down to rest against the puffy scar that lingered on your abdomen. He traced his own handiwork with a delicate touch and you dipped your chin down so you could meet his eyes once more.

“And don’t you start on that shit about me deserving better or whatever,” you added. “Because I chose you, Jack Abbot. So don’t piss me off with all of that bullshit.”

He chuckled and then grimaced when the adrenaline drop made him realize that his hand actually hurt like a bitch. You glanced down at the towel that had spots of blood appearing on the surface and clicked your tongue.

“Alright, here’s the plan. I’m going to get the full length mirror from the closet down and you’re going to do mirror therapy while I fix up your hand. And then you’re going to let me give you a massage and maybe a bit of melatonin and you’re going to sleep until at least four.”

You stood, but Jack let his hand slide down to linger on your hip. He gazed up at you in what you could only describe as devotion. You reached up to slide your fingers through the silky soft strands of his hair, marvelling at the way the silver reflected off the dim lighting from the bathroom.

“Thank you,” he murmured, dipping his head down to brush a kiss to the inside of your wrist. You smiled and bent down to kiss him. He tasted like mint toothpaste and your strawberry chapstick that he liked to steal. You let out a satisfied hum as you pulled away from him and stood up straight.

“Alright, Thumper. Let’s get you fixed up.”

[mintyys-blog]

Hello!!♥️ I really enjoyed all other invincible stories and writing for each mark i find em such a spot on. I was wondering if it would alright to request invincible (any mark) with reader having powers like Danny phantom? :0 i thought it could be cool idea in invincible world to have someoke with supernatural powers as in like ghost powers and stuff in way and would be useful when the power of possessing bodies comes in play and be helpful too? lol imagine reader spooking mark once a while ptff

MY BOO | mark grayson x danny phantom! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS:

You’ve made it your life’s mission to scare the absolute hell out of Mark at least once a week. Whether it’s floating above his bed while he’s mid-sleep, your glowing eyes flickering in the dark like some demonic entity, or phasing through the wall with a blood-curdling whisper, it never gets old. The way he jumps, fists ready, eyes wide—it’s a masterpiece every time. And while he plays it off like he’s “used to it,” the haunted look in his eyes says otherwise.

There was one particular morning you phased through the ceiling right as he stepped out of the shower. He screamed and almost flew through the damn wall. “You can’t keep doing that!” he shouted, wrapping a towel around himself while still trying to act tough. You just floated upside down, smirking, saying, “If you didn’t look so cute when scared, maybe I’d stop.” He blushed. You called that a win.

When it comes to fighting, though, you’re a dream teammate. Mark’s all power and speed, but your ghost powers make you unpredictable. He flies in with brute force, and you phase through the ground, possess a villain’s body, and start using them as a puppet. Once, during a mission, you made a mercenary punch himself in the face so hard he knocked out cold. Mark stared, jaw slack. “Did you just—” “Yeah. Possessed him. Also made him twerk a little before I left. Hope that’s okay.” He couldn’t stop laughing… until you told him the next person you planned on possessing was him.

He didn’t take it seriously until one day you actually did. It was a light possession, nothing permanent—just enough to feel what flying felt like from his perspective. He freaked out the moment he felt his body moving without input. “Babe, this is NOT funny—oh my god why am I doing flips?! STOP DOING FLIPS.” You eventually let go and floated beside him, smug as hell. “So this is what it’s like to have pecs. Wild.”

You have a habit of turning invisible when you’re mad. Mid-argument, Mark would blink and realize you’ve vanished into thin air. “Seriously? You ghosted me? LITERALLY?” he’d yell, arms thrown up. You’d pop back in through the floor, say something dramatic like, “I rise from the dead… only to hear more of your bullshit,” and disappear again. It was infuriatingly effective.

Late nights were the worst for him. You’d wait until he’s half-asleep, then whisper his name like some haunted movie villain. “Maaaark…” and he’d jolt awake, looking around like he’s in a horror film. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” he mumbles, face buried in the pillow. “That’s the point,” you reply sweetly, curling up beside him.

Mark actually loves the deep parts of your powers too—the way you can feel shifts in the spiritual world, how your ghost sense picks up emotions, memories, and even lost souls. It’s not just creepy—it’s beautiful. You bring perspective to his strength, make him think about more than just punching the bad guy. He loves listening to you talk about the strange energy of being stuck between two worlds—living, but not completely. You once told him, “You were born to destroy planets. I was born already half-dead. We both carry things we didn’t ask for.” He kissed you so hard that night, holding you like you were the most real thing in the universe.

People definitely fear you more than him sometimes. You don’t just knock people out—you break them down psychologically, force them to confront guilt, possess their bodies and make them apologize to their teammates before walking off in your glowing form. Mark’s tried to act like the more intimidating one, but even he knows—when villains see you, they run.

He has a collection of ghost puns for you. “Boo-thang,” “my spooky girl,” “hauntie,” and even “Casper, but hot.” You pretend to hate it, but you secretly live for it.

And when he talks about the future, about maybe having a home or kids one day, he always says, “Would they be half-Viltrumite, half-ghost? Because that sounds terrifying, and I’m into it.” You grin, saying, “They’d be invisible until they want juice. Then they’d phase through the fridge.” Mark laughs but lowkey hopes it really happens.

You’re his chaos. His phantom menace. His mischievous, glowy-eyed, haunting little piece of home. And even if he never quite gets used to you floating through walls or making the TV talk back to him, he knows one thing for certain—life has never been more fun, more weird, or more perfect.

[trashland-llamas]

Body Pillow

x gn reader

Jason who comes home after patrol, just wanting to cuddle up to y/n in their shared bed, in their shared apartment. There's a wooden bench with a few milk crates underneath it for him to strip out of his gear. A sorta makeshift mud room. His helmet, masks, and weapons are the first to go.

Jason groans as he bends down to shuck off his shoes, not bothering to even unlace them. His pants follow suit as he sits back up. Jason basks in the moonlight for a moment, letting himself feel the soreness of his muscles, before bracing his hands on the wood to stand up. His loud footfalls echoes through the hallway.

'Oh, sweet cheeks,' Jason croaks, spotting his lover koala bear hugging a body pillow. Clad in underwear and a t-shirt that does nothing to cover their ass. Gently untangling their limbs to take the pillow's spot. It's not a difficult task with y/n still deep asleep.

'Cuddling you is my job, not some damn pillow.' Jason's words have no bite to them. 'Hmm,' y/n sleepily hums, nuzzling their head into his chest akin to a cat. 'Jay?' The familiar smell of gunpowder tickled their nose.

Taking a few deep breaths. 'I'm here, go back to sleep hun,' kissing the top of their hair. Rubbing circles into their skin, his fingertips traced along the stretch marks he finds on their sides. Y/n heeds his words, closing their eyes. Safe in the city that was Gotham.

Jason almost questioned if this was real. He fought against the phantom sandman, desperately not wanting to wake up to an empty bed. Yet the warmth of their body told him this was real. That they were really here and this simply wasn't a dream.

'Go to sleep Jay, m'not going anywhere...you's stuck with me.'

[gyuuberryy]

baby, come and get it

part 2 to teeth

"feel the bite between my jaw, so tasty"

pairing: vampire!heeseung x reader

synopsis: after the intimate moment you shared with heeseung, he starts to avoid you, leaving you confused and frustrated. you cannot stop craving him, resulting in a confrontation which gives you exactly what you want...and more.

genre: enemies to lovers, vampire au, neighbours au, angst, fluff

warnings: lots of suggestive content!!(read at your own discretion), blood and biting, making out, swearing

note: so many of you wanted a second part so here you go! this is the final installment. the writing style may be a bit different from the previous part because it's almost been a year whew. listen to teeth while reading this, enjoy!

word count: 3.8k

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3 | taglist

the door clicks shut behind you, sealing the two of you inside the dimly lit sanctuary of your apartment. 

you don’t turn around immediately. you can’t. your pulse is a frantic drum against your ribs, and you know he can hear it, feel it, with the way his breath hitches behind you.

you take a slow, measured step forward, but it’s futile. heeseung is faster. always faster. his presence looms before you can gain any distance, his body heat—or lack thereof—ghosting against your back.

"so," he drawls, voice smooth, teasing. "how do you want me to repay you?"

you swallow. hard. heeseung steps closer, close enough that the faint scent of him—something dark, something rich—clouds your thoughts. you know you should say something, make some sharp remark, but your words fail you when his fingers ghost down your arm, featherlight and deliberate.

you turn to face him, finally, but the motion makes the room spin. the sudden wave of dizziness nearly knocks you off your feet.

heeseung’s expression shifts in an instant. his teasing smirk vanishes, replaced by something unreadable, something almost concerned. before you can collapse, his hands are on you, strong, steady, holding you up with ease.

"shit," he mutters, barely above a whisper. "you’re weaker than i thought."

you blink up at him, disoriented, your body strangely light, like your limbs aren't fully your own. the effects of his bite are still there, lingering like a phantom touch, a whisper of pleasure tangled with exhaustion.

his hands tighten around you, firm but careful. you expect him to make a joke, to smirk down at you and say something insufferable. but he doesn't. his jaw is clenched, his gaze dark, serious.

"you need to rest," he says, and for once, there's no teasing lilt to his voice, no flirtation. just quiet authority.

you want to protest, but the weight pressing on your limbs betrays you. heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s irritated, like he's mad at you for being this fragile. but his actions betray him. his arm hooks around your waist, guiding you toward the couch with a touch gentler than you’ve ever known from him.

"sit," he orders, and you’re too drained to argue.

he watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. then, without another word, he steps away, disappearing toward the door.

your stomach knots. "where are you—"

"just sleep," he says, not turning back. "i’ll be back."

and then he's gone.

but the tension he leaves behind lingers, curling in your chest, coiling in your veins. sleep does not come easily. not with the memory of his hands still burning against your skin. not with the echo of his voice, rough and low, still whispering through your mind.

not with the reminder that, for all the danger heeseung poses, you still let him in.

you wake up with a sharp inhale, the kind that feels like resurfacing from deep underwater. for a second, you expect the weight of exhaustion to drag you back down, to feel the lingering ache of what heeseung took from you. but when you push yourself upright, there’s nothing. no dizziness, no weakness, no soreness in your limbs.

physically, you feel fine. too fine.

your fingers ghost over your neck, searching for evidence of his touch—of his bite—but your skin is smooth, unmarked. as if it never happened. but you know it did. you can still feel it, phantom traces of the way his lips had burned against your skin before his fangs had pierced through. the way he had held you afterwards, firm but careful, something unreadable in his darkened gaze.

something had changed. you felt it.

but now, in the cold quiet of morning, it almost seems like a fever dream.

you exhale, slow and controlled, forcing yourself to push past it. you are not going to sit here analysing a moment that clearly meant nothing to him. heeseung had left without a word. again.

if he can move on, so can you.

so you do.

you wake up early, run until your legs ache, drink coffee even though you don’t need it, just for something warm to hold onto. you take extra shifts, bury yourself in work, fill the empty spaces of your day with anything and everything that will keep your mind from circling back to him.

and yet.

no matter what you do, his absence lingers.

not once do you hear his voice in the hallway, teasing or otherwise. not once do you catch his gaze from across the courtyard, that knowing smirk playing at his lips. you don’t see him by the elevators, don’t hear his steps behind you, don’t feel his presence like a shadow at your back.

and it’s wrong.

because for weeks, heeseung was everywhere. inescapable. a constant thorn in your side, always watching, always pushing, always there.

but now?

nothing.

and you hate that it bothers you. hate that a part of you waits for something—anything—to prove that you didn’t imagine it all. that what happened between you mattered.

by the fifth day, you’re frustrated. restless. itching for something, for him, just so you don’t have to sit with this stupid, unbearable silence.

and then, finally, he appears.

not in some dramatic moment, not in some fateful encounter charged with tension, but in the mailroom.

you nearly miss him entirely, too lost in your thoughts to notice at first. but then, there he is. standing in front of the row of metal mailboxes, effortlessly composed, as if nothing has changed.

except it has.

you stop mid-step, heart hammering. heeseung is right there. close enough to touch. close enough that if he just looked up, just met your eyes—

but he doesn’t.

he doesn’t even hesitate. just opens his mailbox, pulls out a single envelope, tucks it into the pocket of his jacket.

no teasing. no smirk. not even a glance in your direction.

heeseung doesn’t acknowledge you at all.

your breath catches, a sharp pang blooming in your chest. you don’t know what you expected—some sign that he’s affected, that he remembers everything as vividly as you do—but the complete indifference?

it stings.

more than you care to admit.

you watch as he turns, his movements smooth, unhurried. his gaze flickers past you, impassive, as if you’re just another person in the building. just another insignificant moment in his day.

then, without a word, he walks away.

just like that.

you stand frozen, heart pounding, anger rising to smother the ache.

days have passed since the encounter in the mailroom, since heeseung brushed past you as if you were nothing. you hate how much it gets to you. how much you miss the push and pull, the way he used to get under your skin like it was his favourite pastime. but if he wants to act like nothing happened, fine. you’ll just have to remind him.

the opportunity comes unexpectedly.

you’re standing in the hallway, ripping open a package with more force than necessary, frustration still simmering beneath your skin. the cardboard is stubborn, sealed too tightly, and in your impatience, the jagged edge of the tape slices cleanly across your fingertip.

"fuck," you hiss, pulling your hand back. a single bead of blood wells up, bright and rich against your skin.

at that exact moment, the elevator dings.

the doors slide open, and heeseung steps out.

your breath catches.

his reaction is immediate, visceral. his entire body goes still, eyes locking onto your hand before you can even think to move. his pupils dilate, dark swallowing lighter brown, his lips parting slightly as if he’s just been hit with a scent too intoxicating to ignore.

for the first time in days, you have him.

it’s reckless and stupid, but you do it anyway.

without breaking eye contact, you bring your hand to your lips, tongue darting out to slowly lick away the blood.

it’s a calculated move, a challenge, a dare. you see it the moment something cracks in him—his jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists at his sides. the hunger is there, raw and barely restrained, flickering across his face like a fire he’s desperately trying to smother.

you expect him to snap. to say something cutting, to lunge, to do anything.

but instead, his expression hardens.

just like in the mailroom, he schools his features into cold indifference, locks every bit of his hunger behind a wall of steel.

without a word, he walks past you.

you’re left standing there, lips tingling, the taste of your own blood still faint on your tongue.

at first, it feels like victory.

but later, when you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with your body burning too hot beneath the sheets, it doesn’t feel like winning at all.

you shift restlessly, fingers clenching at your comforter, but nothing soothes the restless ache under your skin. the teasing had been for him. a way to make him react. so why does your body feel unsatisfied? why does your breath still hitch at the memory of his eyes, dark and hungry, before he forced himself to walk away?

why does your throat feel dry at the thought of his teeth against your skin again?

he’s a vampire, for fuck’s sake. you shouldn’t be acting like this.

you squeeze your eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but they remain, curling around you like an addiction you refuse to name.

you tell yourself you’re still in control.

you don’t quite believe it.

you don’t know when it happens—when the frustration festers into something unbearable, when the tension morphs into something that demands to be acknowledged.

all you know is that it’s late, and you’re standing outside heeseung’s door, pulse hammering, knuckles hovering just inches from the dark wood.

your body feels wrong. too warm, too tight, every inch of you coiled with an ache you don’t want to name. sleep has evaded you for nights, ever since that moment in the hallway, ever since you tasted your own blood on your tongue and saw the raw hunger flicker across his face.

he hadn’t touched you. hadn’t spoken. hadn’t given you anything.

and yet, he’s everywhere. in the silence of your apartment, in the ghost of his hands on your body, in the phantom heat of his breath against your skin. he’s burrowed under your skin, insidious and intoxicating, refusing to let go.

your fist connects with the door before you can second-guess yourself. once. twice. sharp, deliberate knocks that feel like surrender.

the sound echoes in the hallway. there’s just the presence of silence thick enough to choke you—then, you hear the faint creak of movement inside.

your breath catches.

seconds later, the door swings open, and he’s there.

heeseung leans against the frame, one hand braced above his head, and every thought in your head blanks at the sight of him.

he’s shirtless.

his skin gleams under the dim hallway lights, the planes of his collarbones sharp and distracting. his hair is tousled and messy—like he’s been running his hands through it, like he’s been restless, pacing, waiting for something he never wanted to name.

but his eyes—his eyes—are the worst part.

they flicker over you, taking in your tense stance, your parted lips, the way you’re still catching your breath like you ran here.

for a moment, just for a brief, flickering second—he looks wrecked.

then he schools his expression, forces something cold into his gaze, and when he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse.

"what are you doing here?"

you swallow hard, fingers curling at your sides. "i think you already know."

heeseung exhales sharply, turning his head away for a second, like he needs to think. like he needs to remind himself why this is a bad idea.

"you shouldn’t be here." his voice is rough, frayed at the edges.

"but i am."

that gets his attention.

his gaze snaps back to yours, and something flickers in the depths of his dark eyes—something dangerous.

"you don’t know what you’re asking for," he murmurs, voice quieter now, like he’s losing the will to fight this.

you take a step closer. "then show me."

his throat bobs, the muscle in his jaw ticking, tension rolling through his frame like he’s seconds away from breaking.

heeseung sways forward.

it’s so subtle you almost miss it, but you don’t.

"say it," he rasps, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you, like he’s still holding himself back.

"say what you want."

you know what he’s doing. he’s giving you one last chance. one final moment to walk away before this turns into something neither of you can take back.

but you don’t move.

"you."

the single word leaves your lips breathlessly quiet, dripping with your true feelings. and then, in the span of a heartbeat, he breaks.

his hands are on you before you can process it, shoving you back against the doorframe, his lips crashing into yours, all heat and hunger and frustration.

his mouth is relentless, desperate, claiming yours with a kind of urgency that makes your knees go weak. heeseung kisses you like he’s trying to devour you, like he’s spent weeks, months, forever waiting for this moment. his lips are soft but unrelenting, molding perfectly against yours, his breath hot and uneven as he drinks you in.

his hands are everywhere—gripping at your waist, your hips, sliding up your spine, pulling you against him like he doesn’t just want you close, he needs you closer. your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging slightly, and the sound that rumbles from his throat is a deep, hungry growl that sends a sharp jolt of heat straight through you.

his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, slow and teasing, before he deepens the kiss. it’s intoxicating, the way he moves, the way he controls the moment without ever taking it away from you. his lips part yours easily, his tongue sliding against yours, coaxing, demanding, taking.

a gasp catches in your throat, and heeseung seizes the moment, swallowing it whole, his fingers pressing deeper into your skin. he tilts his head, angling the kiss even deeper, his body pressing flush against yours, pinning you between him and the door.

"i hate you," he mutters between kisses, teeth catching your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. "do you know how hard i tried to stay away?"

"then why didn’t you?" your voice is a whisper, barely a breath.

his forehead presses against yours, his eyes dark and wild.

"because i fucking can’t."

his mouth is on you again before you can respond. this time, it’s slower—more deliberate. his tongue parts your lips, tasting you, savoring the way you melt beneath him. he deepens the kiss, his hands roaming, sliding beneath your shirt, gripping at your bare skin like he can’t stand the distance.

your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he groans as his grip tightens on you.

"tell me to stop," he breathes against your lips, voice strained, shaking with restraint.

but you don’t.

you tilt your head, exposing the side of your neck, pulse hammering beneath your skin.

and heeseung shatters.

his breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound, before his fangs sink into your skin.

the pain is brief, sharp, before it melts into something else entirely—something warm and dizzying and consuming. a moan slips past your lips, your fingers flying to his shoulders, gripping onto him as a wave of unbearable pleasure crashes through you.

he holds you steady, arms locking around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he drinks deep.

it’s too much. not enough.

your body trembles, caught in the haze of sensation, every nerve alight. the tension that’s been coiling inside you for days—finally breaks.

and relief floods through you.

heeseung pulls back too soon, licking over the fresh wound, soothing the sting. his breath is ragged, his hands still gripping you tightly, his body trembling with the force of his own restraint.

but you don’t let go.

your fingers curl into his skin, your own body still burning, still aching, and it’s only when heeseung lifts his head, his lips brushing over your pulse point, that you realize—

you don’t want this to end.

his eyes meet yours, darker than you’ve ever seen them.

"sweetheart," he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, with possession that made you shudder.

heeseung smirks, but there’s something softer beneath it now—something dangerously close to fondness.

his hands slide down your back, grounding you, keeping you steady.

"i hope you know," he says, his lips brushing against the fresh mark on your neck, "you’re mine now."

your breath catches.

and god help you, but you want to be.

his lips are still slick with your blood. you can feel it in the way they drag against your skin, slow and deliberate, a silent claim that makes heat coil low in your stomach. his breath is uneven, his grip firm on your waist like he’s holding himself back—or holding himself together.

your head tilts slightly, trying to catch your breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. but you don’t get the chance, because he suddenly picks you up, hands gripping your thighs as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. you squeal as he carries you effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, like he’s been waiting to do this.

you barely register the way your back collides with the mattress, how his weight follows, pressing you down, his body caging yours in. his lips don’t leave yours—not for a second. he kisses you softly, like you’re the only thing that can sate the hunger clawing at his insides.

his hand slides beneath your shirt, fingers skimming over your burning skin, and you shudder. your own hands roam desperately—grasping at his bare shoulders, threading through his hair, clinging to him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

everything blurs—a feverish mess of heat, tangled limbs, whispered breaths. every touch stokes the fire burning in your veins, every movement winds the tension between you tighter.

but then, he stops.

his forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven.

"not tonight," he murmurs, voice strained, reluctant.

you blink up at him, dazed, lips tingling, body thrumming with electricity. "why not?"

heeseung’s fingers trace absent circles against your skin, his touch soothing. "because if i start, i won’t stop."

he exhales sharply, his lips ghosting over your cheek. "and you deserve better than that."

your chest tightens, but not with disappointment. with something else. something warmer.

"stay," he says softly, his voice quieter now, his hand curling around your wrist. "just for tonight."

and somehow, that’s enough.

he pulls you against him, arms wrapping around you, pressing you into the sheets. he shifts until you’re tucked against his chest, one arm draped over your waist, the other beneath the pillows. the way he holds you is instinctive, like he’s done this a thousand times before—like he’s been waiting to do this.

your breath is uneven as you try to process it all—the way his body fits against yours, the warmth of his skin, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm.

"you okay?" heeseung’s voice is quieter now, rough with exhaustion but laced with something else. something deeper.

you swallow, nodding. "yeah."

he hums softly, his fingers tracing idle circles against your back.

"this is new," you murmur, barely above a whisper.

"what is?"

"you," you say, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "not pushing me away."

heeseung’s lips twitch, but his smirk doesn’t hold its usual sharpness. instead, he watches you, studying your face like he’s trying to commit every inch of it to memory.

"i think i got tired of running."

your breath catches. you don’t know what to say to that—what to do with that. so you don’t say anything.

instead, you shift closer, letting your fingers trace over the bare skin of his chest, over the sharp planes of his collarbones, the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. heeseung shivers, his breath hitching just slightly.

he shifts, rolling onto his side, bringing you with him so you’re pressed against his chest, so close you can feel his breath against your lips.

his fingers tilt your chin up, and the moment stretches, charged, waiting—until he leans in, pressing the softest kiss against your lips.

it’s nothing like before. nothing like the desperation, the hunger, the madness that had consumed you both just minutes ago.

this one is slow. lingering. almost tender.

his hand settles against your jaw, thumb tracing delicate patterns along your cheekbone.

then after a long silence he hesitantly speaks up, "why were you looking for me?"

your breath stills.

heeseung’s voice is careful, but not indifferent. it’s something softer, something almost uncertain.

"you were avoiding me," you murmur, pressing your palm flat against his chest. "i wanted to know why."

heeseung doesn’t answer right away. his fingers still, hesitating, before he exhales, a slow, heavy sound.

"because i was afraid."

that makes you look up. "afraid?"

his jaw tenses. "afraid that if i let myself have this—have you—i wouldn't be able to stop."

your throat tightens. "and now?"

heeseung’s lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smirk. "i already lost that fight, sweetheart."

your heart clenches, something warm unfurling deep in your chest.

"then stop pretending you don’t want this." your voice is quieter now, steadier.

his eyes flicker over your face, searching, considering.

"and what if i do?" he murmurs. "what if i want all of it?"

you feel your breath hitch, pulse stuttering beneath your skin.

"then we figure it out."

the silence stretches, but this time, it’s not heavy. it’s something else, something warm.

heeseung exhales softly, then leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple.

"you drive me insane," he mumbles, lips brushing against your skin.

"good," you whisper, smiling against his shoulder.

heeseung shifts slightly, pressing you closer, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, tracing absentminded patterns against your spine.

"so," he says after a beat, voice tinged with amusement, "what do you think people will say when they find out you’re dating a vampire?"

your stomach flips.

"who said anything about dating?" you tease, lifting your head slightly.

heeseung raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "oh? you want me all to yourself, but you don’t want to call it dating?"

you roll your eyes, nudging him playfully. "you’re impossible."

"and you’re stuck with me now."

his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something real underneath it—something steady, something sure.

something that tells you this isn’t just tonight.

it’s more.

you let out a soft laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

"guess i am."

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[lunarxcity]

Why Choose? (Part IX to Why me?)

azriel x rhys' sister! reader

angst/eventual comfort (Eris, Azriel, and Jealousy. Do I need to say more?)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

Parts I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, and VIII if you missed them!

-

You wake up cold, like a blanket has been ripped off of you in your sleep. You see a blanket is laid over your shoulders and then the previous night comes rushing back to you.

You blew up at Azriel for his lack of remorse over the years for the way he's treated you, how he's made you feel second to those in his life. You held it together and didn't accidentally reveal to him everything that he was to you both in title and feeling.

You were still upset with Azriel, a single conversation isn't going to patch up hundreds of years of heartache, but this was progress. He apologised to you and from the tears that had left his eyes, you knew that he meant it.

Your cheeks begin to heat up when you remembered how your night had ended and the phantom feeling of a scarred had pressed against your cheek. You looked to your left and saw that your desk chair had been moved right beside your bed, so he had stayed for a while and had left.

There's a part of you that wished he had stayed. The part that is fighting against you to tell him everything and to tug on the bond and convince him to be yours, but you know that you deserve much better than trying to convince someone to want you. At your most desperate you might have entertained the idea, but not now, not after everything.

The hurt from watching him pine after another woman so clearly in front of you was something you couldn't get out of your system. The image burned into your mind, and the feelings burned into your heart. Twice had this happened with members of your family and not once had you been the one to be the subject of his obsession.

He apologised. He said everything was over with Elain and he's been over Mor for years. The longer you dwell on it, the further you let yourself stray into that dark place the farther you will be from Azriel.

You decided to put the thoughts of inadequacy away. You were so accomplished in your own right and what Azriel thinks or doesn't think doesn't affect that. So you decided to do what you do best and get back to work. You got up and started getting ready for your day filled with productivity and emptied from thoughts of the shadowsinger.

-

You had to fight your way out of the house of wind, your brother insisted that you needed at least a week to rest and recuperate before launching yourself right back into work. Your stubbornness is a trait that you and Rhys had always shared which drove your poor mother mad in your early years.

He tried to grab you, likely to throw you onto his shoulder and march you to Cauldron knows where telling you to go do something relaxing, but you evaded his grasp winnowing directly to the hall of healing.

The next thing you knew you were on the ground a potted tree beneath you and dirt all over the floor. Madja looked at you from her desk with all the patience she could muster.

Madja had been the royal healer as long as you could remember and probably long before that. She was almost family to you and Rhys and the closest thing to a maternal figure that you had left.

She was stern, but kind and the one thing she hated most of all was untidiness. This likely explained the scolding look she had on her face as you did just knock down one of her plants.

She lets out a sigh, but the warmth in her eyes betrays her. "I'm glad to see you're back, but you do know you're supposed to take a few days for yourself before jumping straight into work?"

You are suddenly a child again who broke your mother's vase trying to guiltily hide all the broken pieces that your life had know become. Madja knew you almost better than anyone, would she know about the whole ordeal of the mating bond and Azriel.

You give her an exaggerated smile, obviously trying to get back on her good side. "Well, I couldn't wait to see you."

You hold your arms out for a hug and she smiles back and brings you in to a tender embrace and for a moment everything is okay. She's stroking your hair and you feel like a kid again in the warmth of your mother's arms.

"Well I've missed you too." She leads you to her desk to begin your work since logistics always came first which meant that today would be a paperwork day.

Her back is turned and you follow her. She clears her throat and states, "It's always good to see you, even if you are using me as a distraction and an excuse from dealing with your mating bond with the shadowsinger."

Your face blanks and she gives you a sly smile. Shame on you for thinking you could get anything past her, this woman could have all of Velaris in her hand if she chose to.

"You knew?" You ask her, wondering what exactly had given it away.

She just smiles fondly, "My child I had always known. Me and your mother had placed bets on how long it would take for you two to finally come together."

At that you had a million questions you wanted to ask her, each one dancing on the tip of her tongue but she interrupts you before you could get a word in.

"I thought you came here for a distraction? This seems like quite the opposite from that." She gives you a knowing look and you nod in response.

"Yes so about the paperwork-"

-

FIrst day was exhausting. No real research was done, it was a purely paperwork day. Locating certain texts, registering you as Madja's apprentice, and ordering all that you would need to begin your work.

It seems like lounging around in Autumn had accustomed you to laziness because you were tired down to the bone. So tired you had barely been able to winnow, but you somehow winnowed yourself directly into your bed as it had been all you were able to think about.

You could lie down for 10-15 minutes and then you could go downstairs and scour the kitchen for food. You had stayed a lot later than intended, not realising that it was almost midnight and you were famished.

You forced your eyes open and they noticed an extra addition on your desk that had not been there when you left. You throw yourself onto your feet and trudge over. You see that you had been brought a plate of tonights dinner.

Meat and potatoes with greens and some sort of fragrant juice. You could almost cry at the sight. Your stomach roared and you sat down to eat.

It was still warm and you didn't want to think too much about who brought it here. You knew it wasn't the house because of the elaborate plating. The food sat on a silver tray dressed with a lace cloth, the napkins folded to perfection, and a silver goblet as accompaniment.

A singular white rose sat on the tray with a blue ribbon tied on it's stem; The color of renewal, forgiveness, and new beginnings. You knew this had to be Azriel's doing and the shadow that you saw scurrying off in the corner of your eye confirmed it.

You were frankly too tired and too hungry to do anything about it. If Azriel was trying to get in to your good graces through kind gestures it would take a lot more than that to smooth out everything between you two. For now you didn't dwell on it too much there was an eternity to be upset with him, you thanked him in your head and ate your dinner.

Much too tired to be bothered with anything else. You had changed into your nightclothes and threw yourself on the bed letting exhaustion take you over for the night.

-

Sleep finds you and she is restless as if trying to prove to you that Azriel's presence is a comforting blanket that gently guides you to her.

You are awakened by a loud crash from your balcony. Fear floods your system at the possibilities of who the intruder could be. How did they bypass the wards? Are they coming for you?

You shoot up as your balcony doors open to reveal the heir of Autumn in dark green pajamas, a brown robe, and slippers. If only your court could see him now, their fearsome enemy in fuzzy slippers with little puff balls for ears to make them resemble a bear.

Eris' room is right above yours and you thought that would stop him from dragging you into any late night antics. Apparently you were wrong as it is the perfect place to be to drop down onto your balcony in the middle of the night.

You know you look sleep haggered and you're too cranky to care. "What do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the heir of Autumn in his teddy bear slippers."

Eris retorts back with a scoff. "The bear is a formidable, fearsome, and very respected animal. Many consider me to bear the same qualities you know.'

His grin is filled with mischief and you are too tired to deal with him right now. "Do they same about the teddy bear because that's what your slippers are closer to resembling."

He looks offended and you launch a pillow at his face before he has a chance to retort.

"And to think I came here to bring you a gift." Your eyes immediately light up, curious as to what Eris could have possibly brought you.

He sighs, "I wanted to make sure you had a piece of Autumn here in the Night Court." He pulls out the fox you and Lucien had chased down on Solstice, the night that had started this all. Your first night in Autumn.

The fox nearly bites him and you laugh, "I can see why you wanted to give her back to me."

"Well, she might miss her siblings, so you will have to come back to Autumn in case she gets lonely.

He cracks a soft smile, so uncharacteristic to his malicious grins you've become accustomed to.

"Who knows after Beron is overthrown my court will have an open position for a Night Court princess and her moody fox should she ever want it. I'm talking about the fox of course."

You smile, "Oh yes I will definitely keep that in mind if she becomes too bored in Night. I am also talking about the fox of course."

Your touching moment was ruined by a soft knock on the door.

Eris looks at you with a shit-eating grin and he saunters to the door, "Well this was lovely princess, but I'm afraid your brooding mate is kicking me out. He's probably not too happy at my presence."

He is enjoying this way too much for your liking. That bastard.

He opens the door, and just like he says, the shadowsinger is standing there. Dark hair touseled as if he was harshly yanked from sleep and eyes rapidly scanning the room for any threats.

He meets Eris' gaze and you see shock and then pure disdain fills his eyes. He gives Eris a look so vile, you would have thought that he was going to put Eris to death for committing some heinous crime.

"Eris." His words at short and as sharp as the blade at his hip.

"I assume you were the intrusion that I heard." No smile. No even semblance of kindness or cordiality. Just pure anger? Disgust?

He looks at Azriel and then you and then back at Azriel. Still holding his smirk he goes, "I was just taking my leave."

He saunters out of the room hands in mock surrender. Thankfully deciding to take the door this time.

He closes the door behind him leaving you and Azriel alone since your emotional discussion? Arguement? You didn't even know what it was.

That teary emotional Azriel was very different from the Azriel currently in front of you. His face was set in the mask of the shadowsinger, the cold indifference that he shows the rest of the world.

You knew he wasn't Eris' biggest fan, but the shadowsinger was acting as if Eris had personally wronged him. Fully brooding it was almost comical that he would let Eris' presence affect him this much.

He clears his throat and blinks. The malice clears from his eyes and he's back to being your Azriel. Quiet and stoic at times yes, but not cruel never towards you.

He rakes you over with his eyes and exhales a sigh of relief. "Are you alright? I thought I heard you scream."

You don't remembering eliciting a sound at Eris' unexpected presence, but the fear may have clouded your memory.

You give him a reassuring nod. "Yes I am. Eris just just the worst time possible to give me my gift, you can go back to sleep now."

At the mention of a gift he begins to look over the room, trying to find the new addition. When suddenly your fox jumps on his back from the dresser.

The fox was accustomed to pouncing on your shadow and well Azriel was flanked by a whole lot of them. They were tightly worn up too, probably reflecting the state of their master. This made them that much more enticing to your fox who was now perched on Azriel's shoulder, swatting at the shadow's.

The shadowsinger was surprisingly unphased, he looked at the fox, shrugged, and just let the fox do this thing. Maybe it's true what they say about how the key to attracting animals is to not pay them any attention. If you could only tell that to your younger self who had chased wild bunnies to no avail.

The sight of sleepy Azriel, messy hair and forgotten shirt, holding your pet fox had stirred something in you. You try to convince yourself that it's the tiredness getting to you, but the most handsome male you have ever seen is shirtless in front of you playing with your pet fox it's basic math that you would be looking and looking you were.

The shadowsinger, all keen senses didn't even need to spare you a glance to know what you were doing. "You're staring." He informs you unceremoniously.

You cheeks heat up and you try to maintain your composure as much as someone who has just been caught unabashedly staring can.

"I had to make sure you didn't drop her. Call it a precaution...for her safety..." You cringe at your obvious attempt to cover up your actions.

"I didn't tell you to stop." His eyes shine with playfulness, it's a challenge he's never extended to you. What is going on?

The disbelief must have been written clean across your features because he gives you a small chuckle.

He goes on like he didn't say anything previously at all. "Now we wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her. Well anything else considering she already had to deal with Eris."

You were about to interrupt him telling him to be nice to Eris, he's a guest of this court, but he gently takes the fox off his shoulder and puts her in your arms.

Your hands brush, and you feel a jolt of electricity shoot up your spine. You feel the bond beginning you to seen, beginning to be acknowledged, beginning to be felt. Azriel has always been hot and cold, but he had never been this hot? Banter with Azriel was always teasing, but never flirty. Were you reading it wrong? Mother above what is happening? Azriel was killing you.

If that wasn't enough the final nail in the coffin is when he bends down and starts to talk to the fox he just put into your arms.

"There we go. You're in very good hands now. I do have to say I'm jealous." He pets the foxes head and it borderline purrs.

Is this a dream? You must be dreaming right now, everything from the moment you woke up has been surreal.

"This isn't a dream. Does the fact that you think it is mean you dream of me often?" He is slightly smirking.

You look at him, just pure confusion on your face. "Azriel are you okay? Are you possessed by the ghost of Cassian or something?"

This almost snaps him out of whatever trance he must have been in. "It must be the exhaustion loosening my tongue."

You both laugh at this. Half delirious in your sleep-deprived state.

He gives you a bow, now much too formal. "Azriel what is this are you a courtier now? This is all so uncharacteristic of you, you must truly be exhausted."

At this he just gives up. He sighs and walks towards you and surprises you by picking you up bridal style and throwing you on your bed.

"Goodnight princess. Try not to dream of me too much." He says as he takes his leave from your room.

"You-" He closes the door before you can get a retort in.

"Bastard." You now say into the darkness of night. It's fine his shadows can deliver the message for you.

Your fox jumps up on the bed and curls up next to your face. For the second time tonight you let sleep take you and this time she takes you gently and swiftly.

-

Somewhere in a realm that is neither here nor there the Mother is looking at Fate as if she were about to kill him. "How did you manage to get that piece back on the chessboard? That's not even a legal chess move."

Fate responds with a coy smile, "It's not just chess darling. It's life. Besides, I see myself in the young Autumn princeling "

She responds to him with a warm smile, which contradicts the chess piece she launches at his head.

He ducks it as if though he was already anticipating that outcome. Fate knows the mother all too well.

"Good we didn't need the Tamlin piece anyways." He stills for a moment, like he's remembering the high lord of spring, and then visibly cringes.

The Mother didn't laugh. She has been playing this game for much too long now and longs to see you and Azriel happy.

She has her own plans in store for the heir of Autumn. Plans that didn't involve you, but now his piece is back on the board it seems.

"We only get the most desperate when we feel as if that which we love is going to be taken from us." Fate grabs her hand over the table, a gesture meant to calm the fire that is burning in her eyes.

"You made them mates my love and I would never interfere with your divine plan. I am just as invested in their success as you are, I just think it's time for Azriel to have some competition."

At this the Mother smiles, "Interfering for the better? Meddling for the betterment of people's lives? Who are you and what did you do to the man I fell in love with?"

At this Fate smiles. He knows the mother was going to win this game one way or another, but he also knows that the more competitive he makes it, the happier she will be when she finally crushes him. Godspeed Azriel.

part x

-

note: Here is the jealousy you all wanted our shadowsinger has very interesting way of coping with this feeling. Is he trying to be more like Eris because he thinks that what the reader wants? Is he processing his emotions healthily? Or is he just uninhibited? Who knows? (except for me hahahaha). I am sorry if we have hit a bit of a lull in the story I can either continue putting out more shorter chapters every few days or do one long chapter a week feel free to lmk what you guys prefer. Until next time my darlings!

note note: This is so unedited I can almost sense the typos...

my lovely taglist: @alimarie1105 @chaosabroad @bbontenswhhore @tele86 @ashblooddragons @circe143 @i-am-infinite @princesssunderworld @thestartitaness @tiffany-xx @cpfantasybooks @lucia-valentinaa @jennigsonl @ivy-34 @firefly-forest @k-homosapien @coeurdeveea @cherryjain17 @bckynatt @becstersworld @rcarbo1 @gojospearlycim @atluky @juliebluehufflepuff @willowpains @abadfantasybook @neverendingstay @hellohauntedturnstudent @highladyofhogwarts @littowl @iluvyewman-blog @lunaticpotatoe @justlivinginadaydream @julesiebean @shylahstarzz @olive-main @lreadsstuff @noonenuts @sourapplex @aquellaspequenascosas @anuttellaa @honethatty12 @moonlwghts @kittymeyers @beabogsims @sillyfreakfanparty @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @lilah-asteria

[enhaflixer]

sjy - Chasing Ghosts

a Criminal!Jake x Detective!Reader sexy crime thriller!

🔹 SYNOPSIS: You spent years chasing Specter, the most elusive criminal the force has ever encountered. But every near miss, every failed case, every lead that went cold—it was never just bad luck. It was orchestrated. Because the real traitor wasn’t the man you were hunting. It was the one standing right beside you. 

🔹 WC: ~14.7K (full-length fic, completed)

🔹 TAGS: crime thriller, enemies to lovers, morally gray!Jake, found family, betrayal & redemption, slow burn to inferno, high stakes, forced proximity, heavy angst with a soft landing, house on the hill trope, HEA, High stakes

🔹 WARNINGS: violence, corruption, deception, heavy themes of betrayal & loss, morally ambiguous decisions, explicit language, slow descent into trust issues hell, eventual comfort but only after suffering, guns, sexual content MDNI, f! receiving, sexual intercourse, soft dom jake, really so sexy ngllll

-

The city never truly sleeps.

It thrums beneath flickering streetlights, alleyways breathing shadows, skyscrapers standing like silent witnesses to the corruption embedded in its veins. You’ve lived in this world long enough to know the rules: the rich get richer, the poor get forgotten, and crime is both a disease and a cure.

You lean forward, elbows resting on the scuffed wooden desk, eyes scanning the wall of evidence in front of you. Newspaper clippings, grainy surveillance images, red string connecting seemingly unrelated heists, yet all pointing to one singular entity.

A legend. A phantom. A criminal mastermind who never gets caught.

Your jaw tightens as you reread the headline from last week’s front page:

"SPECTER STRIKES AGAIN: $25 MILLION STOLEN FROM CARMICHAEL ESTATES—NO TRACE LEFT BEHIND."

"He’s mocking us," Jungwon mutters, arms crossed as he studies the board from his seat beside you. "Leaving those calling cards like he wants us to know he’s always ahead."

Your eyes drift to the small, laminated playing card pinned to the center of the board.

Checkmate.

Left at every crime scene. A silent taunt, a message that he’s playing a game you can’t win.

"Yeah," you say quietly, fingers grazing the edge of the card. "And I’m getting tired of losing."

A scoff sounds from across the room. "That makes two of us."

Lieutenant Heeseung stands by the window, arms folded, his sharp gaze flicking between you and the board. He’s been after Specter longer than anyone—long enough to have a personal vendetta, long enough that you’ve seen the sleepless nights weigh down on him.

He sighs, rubbing his temples. "We need a win. Something—anything—before the higher-ups start pulling us off this case."

You exchange a look with Jungwon.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not after how deep you’ve sunk into this. Not after five years of chasing a ghost.

And yet, you can feel it—the patience of the department wearing thin. Because how do you justify throwing manpower at an enemy you can’t even see?

"Maybe we finally have something," Jungwon says, flipping open a folder. "Our informant came through—Specter’s next target. The Reinsworth. The biggest auction of the year. Billions in assets, a room full of the richest people in the city, and enough security to make Fort Knox jealous."

Your pulse quickens.

"He’s going after them?"

Jungwon nods. "Anonymous tip. No confirmed details, but if he sticks to pattern, he’ll move that night."

Heeseung exhales. "Then we move first."

You clench your fists.

If Specter is going to be there, then so will you.

And this time, you won’t let him slip away.

20/11/2024 3:21 PM – The Precinct

The conference room is suffocating.

Not because of the size—no, the space is big enough, with its sleek steel table and sterile white walls. It’s the weight in the air, the kind that settles on your shoulders like chains, the kind that reminds you just how much is at stake.

The walls are lined with case files, printed blueprints, and surveillance shots pinned against corkboards. At the center of it all?

Specter.

His name—bold and in capital letters—sits atop the massive evidence board at the front of the room, surrounded by the aftermath of his work. Red lines connect his crimes, threads forming a chaotic web of high-stakes thefts, shattered security protocols, and corporate greed laid bare.

Another heist. Another Checkmate.

And yet?

No face. No trace. No identity.

But that changes tonight.

You fold your arms, standing near the edge of the table as Heeseung leans forward, placing both hands on the polished surface. His sharp eyes scan the room, locking onto each person present.

“Alright,” he says, voice cutting through the silence. “Let’s get one thing straight: this is our best chance yet to catch Specter. We’ve been chasing this bastard for five years, and every damn time, he’s managed to stay ahead. But this time? He’s walking into our trap.”

Heeseung nods toward Sunghoon, who steps forward and clicks a button on the remote in his hand. The screen behind them flickers to life, displaying a 3D-rendered blueprint of the Reinsworth Estate.

“The Reinsworth Gala is scheduled for Friday night, starting at 7:00 PM sharp,” Sunghoon begins, his voice steady and authoritative. “It’s an exclusive, high-profile auction—art pieces, rare jewels, black-market artifacts, the whole deal. The who’s who of the city will be in attendance. That includes politicians, corporate CEOs, and a handful of powerful individuals who have a lot of dirty money to spend.”

He pauses, letting that sink in.

“And it’s exactly the kind of event Specter likes to hit.”

You inhale sharply, your gaze locked on the blueprint.

It makes sense.

The kind of money in this auction isn’t just rich—it’s tainted. Crooked deals, offshore accounts, hush-hush transactions happening in plain sight, masked as “charity donations.”

And Specter?

He doesn’t just steal from the rich.

He exposes them.

Jungwon clicks his pen absentmindedly, studying the layout. “What’s our security coverage?”

Sunghoon presses another button, and red markers appear over key entry points.

“The estate has seven points of entry,” he explains. “Two main doors, three side exits, a rooftop access, and a private underground tunnel that only the estate owner and his personal guards know about.”

Heeseung’s gaze sharpens. “That tunnel—how do we know Specter isn’t using it?”

You nod in agreement. “It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d find a way into.”

Sunghoon clicks again. A live-feed pops up—a grainy, black-and-white video showing a dimly lit corridor beneath the estate.

“We’ve already got a covert team monitoring the underground passage,” he confirms. “If he tries using it, we’ll know.”

You press your lips together. “What about the security staff inside the gala?”

“About twenty armed guards,” Sunghoon replies. “All ex-military, highly trained. There’s also an internal security system—facial recognition scanners, metal detectors at the main entrances, and motion sensors in the vault rooms where the most expensive items are stored.”

Jungwon raises a brow. “And Specter’s still going to pull this off?”

Heeseung exhales sharply. “He always does.”

That’s the terrifying part.

It doesn’t matter how much security you throw in his way. He doesn’t just bypass it—he plays with it. He wants you to think you’re in control, that you have him cornered—only for him to slip away at the last second.

And leave you humiliated.

Not this time.

“This is how it’s going to go,” Heeseung continues, straightening. “We’ll be inside. Undercover.”

Sunghoon clicks again. The blueprint zooms in, red markers shifting into detailed placement zones.

“We’ve divided the team into key positions,” he explains. “Each of us will be in a different area, covering different points of interest.”

ASSIGNMENTS:

🟥 YOU: The ballroom & auction floor. You’ll be blending in with the guests, keeping an eye on potential suspects and looking for Specter’s entry point.

🟦 JUNGWON: Security room. He’ll have access to all internal cameras, monitoring movements and looking for anomalies.

🟩 SUNGHOON: Entrance and exit surveillance. He’ll be tracking arrivals and departures, making sure Specter doesn’t slip out undetected.

🟨 HEESEUNG: Rooftop surveillance & field coordination. He’ll oversee the entire operation from an elevated position, maintaining real-time communication between all units.

“Once Specter makes his move,” Heeseung says, voice like iron, “we cut off all exits. He will have nowhere to go.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of conviction.

But deep down?

You know it’s never that easy.

You lean back against the table, arms crossed. “And what’s our game plan if we actually get him in our sights?”

Silence.

Because none of you have ever gotten that close.

Specter doesn’t get caught.

Heeseung rubs his jaw. “We do not engage alone. If anyone spots him, you alert the team and wait for backup. We move together, we take him down, and we don’t let him—”

A sudden ping interrupts him.

Your phone screen flashes with a new message.

You blink, puzzled.

Unknown Number:See you Friday. 😉

Your pulse stops.

Your fingers tighten around your phone, breath catching in your throat.

He knows.

Specter knows.

And he’s already waiting.

-

 21/11/2024 6:47 PM – En Route to the Reinsworth Estate

The air in the car is thick with unspoken tension, the kind that wraps around your chest like a coiled wire, pressing down with every breath. Outside, the city hums in its usual Friday night rhythm—flashing billboards, the distant wail of a siren, the blur of pedestrians moving through their lives without a care for what’s about to unfold.

Inside the car, the atmosphere is suffocating.

Sunghoon grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure, his jaw set in the kind of rigid line that tells you he’s already running through every worst-case scenario in his head. You know he’s trying to temper his expectations, preparing himself for another failure, another night where Specter slips through your fingers and leaves behind nothing but his signature playing card—a mockery of the very system you swore to uphold.

You sit in the backseat, the weight of your firearm strapped to your thigh grounding you, but it does nothing to settle the anxious rhythm of your thoughts. Across from you, Jungwon scrolls through his tablet, reviewing the blueprints of the Reinsworth Estate for what must be the tenth time tonight. He’s meticulous, careful in his calculations, but even he seems restless, his fingers tightening around the edge of the device every so often.

For weeks now, Specter has been untouchable. Every lead has led to a dead end, every attempt to corner him has only resulted in another public embarrassment for the force. The media has begun to paint him as some kind of folk hero, the vigilante thief exposing the corruption that runs through the veins of the elite while making a mockery of law enforcement.

But you know better.

Specter isn’t a hero. He’s a criminal—one who thrives in the spaces between right and wrong, dancing just out of reach with an arrogance that sets your blood on fire.

This mission is your best chance at taking him down, and yet, something about tonight feels... off.

Sunghoon exhales through his nose, breaking the silence. "We can’t afford to lose him again," he says, his voice low but firm. "Not tonight."

His words settle like a weight in the pit of your stomach.

You don’t need to be reminded.

Everyone in this car knows what’s at stake. Another failure means another headline ridiculing the force, another step closer to higher-ups pulling you off the case.

For you, it’s even more than that.

This case is your life.

Without it, without the chase, without this relentless hunt for something greater, what are you?

The answer is one you don’t want to face.

You shift your gaze back to the blurred skyline outside the window, ignoring the ache in your chest, ignoring the part of yourself that wonders if there will ever be a moment where you’re not chasing ghosts.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. A text.

Unknown Number:Hope you brought your best dress. It’d be a shame if no one noticed you. 😉

Your fingers tighten around the device.

Specter.

The bastard is already watching.

21/11/2024 7:15 PM – Inside the Reinsworth Gala

The first thing you notice is the opulence.

Everything about the Reinsworth Estate is designed to exude power—high ceilings adorned with gold leaf trim, crystal chandeliers dripping from the rafters, marble floors polished to a shine so pristine that it reflects the guests who glide across it. The air smells of aged whiskey, expensive perfume, and the kind of unapologetic wealth that makes your skin itch.

You step carefully, keeping your posture poised as you weave through the crowd. The black dress you wear is sleek, professional yet elegant enough to blend in with the socialites sipping from delicate champagne flutes. The concealed weapon strapped to your thigh is a familiar weight, a silent reminder of why you’re here.

Your earpiece crackles as Sunghoon’s voice filters through. "Position check."

Jungwon responds first. "Security room. All feeds are clear so far."

Sunghoon is next. "Covering entrances and exits. No unusual movement yet."

You take a slow breath before replying. "Ballroom. Watching for anomalies."

The mission is simple: Wait. Watch. Observe.

If Specter is here, he’ll make his move soon.

You move toward the bar, casually scanning the room as you take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Your eyes flicker over the guests—politicians, CEOs, black-market dealers—the usual lineup of people who profit off the suffering of others. These are the people Specter targets.

And yet, for all your careful observation, you don’t expect to see him.

Not Specter.

Not your target.

Someone else.

At first, it’s unintentional—just a brief flicker of movement in the corner of your vision. But something about the way he stands, the way his body moves with the kind of ease that suggests he belongs here without trying, pulls your attention.

Dark hair slightly tousled, as if he ran a hand through it carelessly. A tailored black suit that fits too well to be rented, the top button of his shirt undone, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone. He leans against the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, his expression unreadable.

He’s striking.

And he’s the first person in months who has made you look twice.

Your stomach tightens, the realization settling in a second too late.

This is a distraction.

You don’t get to have distractions.

You’re about to turn away when he looks up—eyes meeting yours in a way that feels deliberate.

His lips quirk up at the corners, slow, easy, like he’s amused by the fact that you’ve been watching him.

You should walk away.

You should refocus on the mission.

But instead, you move toward him.

21/11/2024 7:22 PM – The Bar

You slide into the empty space beside him, setting your glass on the polished counter. The bartender approaches, but before you can place an order, the man beside you speaks.

“She’ll have another.”

His voice is smooth, warm, effortlessly confident. He doesn’t even glance at you, instead sliding a bill across the counter with practiced ease.

You raise a brow, finally taking him in up close. His features are unfairly sharp, the kind of attractiveness that doesn’t seem real—high cheekbones, dark lashes that frame his deep-set eyes, lips curved in a smirk that looks both relaxed and knowing.

"You didn’t have to do that," you say, tilting your head slightly.

His smirk widens. "I know."

There’s something infuriatingly easy about the way he says it. Like he’s used to getting away with things. Like he’s used to being liked.

Your lips press together as you study him. He doesn’t seem nervous, doesn’t fidget the way people do when they have something to hide. If anything, he looks... bored.

A man dragged to a gala he didn’t want to attend.

And for some reason, that makes you want to talk to him.

"So," you say, lifting your newly refilled glass. "Are you always this generous to strangers, or am I just lucky tonight?"

He chuckles, finally turning to meet your gaze fully.

"You could say I have a soft spot for people who look like they’d rather be anywhere else," he muses, sipping his whiskey.

Your breath catches for half a second.

Because he’s not wrong.

And you don’t realize—

This is the first lie between you.

And the beginning of your downfall.

21/11/2024 9:15 PM – The Ballroom

The night drags on in a slow, meticulous rhythm, each minute stretching into the next as you weave through the ballroom, scanning the faces of the elite. Champagne flows endlessly, expensive fabric sways under the chandelier’s golden glow, and money changes hands under the guise of civility. It’s a performance—one you’ve seen play out time and time again, the rich finding new ways to remind each other just how powerful they are.

You, however, are looking for something else.

You’ve spent the last hour subtly circling the room, keeping track of exits, watching for anything out of place. But there’s nothing. No indication that Specter has made his move. No sudden disappearances, no disruption in the security feeds. If he’s here, he’s waiting.

And the waiting is starting to unravel you.

"Anything?" Sunghoon’s voice crackles through your earpiece.

You press your fingers against the device discreetly, eyes still moving over the crowd. "Negative. Ballroom is normal."

Jungwon chimes in from the security room. "No breaches in the system yet. If Specter is moving, he’s being damn careful."

Sunghoon exhales sharply. "We cannot afford another loss tonight."

You can hear the frustration in his voice, the tension woven into every syllable. He doesn’t need to say what you’re all thinking—if Specter escapes again, if this night ends like all the others, it might be your last chance to bring him down.

A bead of sweat trails down the back of your neck, the pressure tightening around your ribs like a vice. You swallow, rolling your shoulders to shake off the weight pressing against you.

That’s when you see him.

At first, it’s nothing. A casual glance, a flicker of movement. But something about him catches your eye—something unassuming yet magnetic, something that makes it impossible to look away.

Jake.

He’s standing near the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other tucked loosely in his pocket. The dim lighting catches against the faint golden tint of his skin, his suit perfectly fitted to his frame, his posture relaxed yet controlled. He’s not doing anything special—just existing in that effortless, confident way that makes him stand out without trying.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself be distracted.

It’s reckless. You know that. You should be focused on the job, not on some guy you met an hour ago.

But something about him pulls at you.

Something about him feels different.

And so, against your better judgment, you let your legs carry you toward him.

21/11/2024 10:22 PM – The Private Lounge

You don’t remember how the conversation started.

One minute, you were talking in the ballroom, your words light, teasing, your mind telling you to keep it surface-level—keep it meaningless. And yet, before you knew it, you were here, tucked away in a private lounge on the second floor, away from the prying eyes of the gala.

Jake is leaning against the arm of the couch, his whiskey glass now abandoned on the table beside him. The dim lighting casts soft shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp curve of his jaw, the slight tilt of his smirk.

"You really don’t belong here," he murmurs, voice low, smooth.

You raise a brow. "And why’s that?"

He lets his gaze trail over you, slow and deliberate, like he’s reading between the lines of your existence.

"You’re too stiff," he muses. "Too guarded. People at events like this—they move like they own the room. You move like you’re trying to control it."

Your breath catches for half a second.

He’s not wrong.

It’s something you’ve never said out loud, something you’ve never let yourself acknowledge—the way you always stand on the outskirts, never truly letting yourself blend in. Because you’re not one of them. You’re not a guest, not someone who can just drink and laugh and enjoy the night.

You’re always working.

You’re always watching.

Jake tilts his head slightly. "You know, it’s okay to let go once in a while."

The words hit deeper than they should.

Let go.

It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself feel anything other than exhaustion, than the weight of responsibility pressing against your ribs.

Jake doesn’t look away. He watches you like he already knows what you’re thinking, like he’s waiting.

And the worst part?

You let him win.

His hand brushes against yours, tentative at first, as if waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, your fingers shift, your breath catches, and the space between you collapses.

His lips meet yours in a slow, controlled movement, the kind that leaves no room for uncertainty. His fingers press into your waist, pulling you closer, the warmth of his body against yours sending a sharp thrill down your spine.

You gasp softly against his mouth when his hands slide lower, gripping at the fabric of your dress. He doesn’t rush—he’s measured, calculated, taking his time with you like he’s savoring every second.

Your back meets the plush couch, your hands threading into his hair as his lips trail lower, pressing against your jaw, then your throat.

It feels too real, too good—like for the first time in years, you’re not just existing, not just moving through the motions.

You’re alive.

And because of that—

You miss it.

You miss everything.

21/11/2024 10:41 PM – Security Breach

Jungwon’s voice is the first thing that rips through the haze.

"Shit—what the hell?"

Your earpiece crackles, the distortion breaking through the moment like a gunshot. You barely register Jake pulling away slightly, brows furrowed as he studies your expression.

In the surveillance van outside, Heeseung is already moving. "What’s happening?"

Jungwon curses. "Security feeds just cut out—this wasn’t an external hack, it was internal."

Sunghoon’s voice is sharp. "That means someone’s inside."

You push yourself upright, your mind snapping back into focus. Your heart is still pounding, but now it’s for a different reason. You grab the earpiece, voice urgent. "What do you need?"

Jungwon is typing furiously. "We still have motion sensors in the west corridor—someone just breached the main vault."

Sunghoon is already moving through the ballroom. "I see him. Black suit, short dark hair, five-eight, heading for the exit."

Heeseung barks an order. "Don’t let him out."

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. He runs.

21/11/2024 10:45 PM 

The suspect never makes it past the emergency stairwell.

Sunghoon catches up to him just as he reaches for the door handle, his body moving on pure instinct as he yanks the man back, shoving him against the cold marble wall. The force of it knocks the breath from his lungs, a choked sound escaping as his hands instinctively rise in surrender.

"Freeze!" Sunghoon barks, his gun leveled. "On the ground! Now!"

The entire ballroom stills, guests gasping as they step back, clearing a wide space around them. The security guards stationed throughout the estate move in, forming a barrier between the suspect and the exits.

The man lifts his chin, looking irritated rather than fearful, his black suit slightly disheveled from the struggle. Jongseong.

Sunghoon's breath catches as he fully registers his face, recognition setting in like a sharp blade to the ribs.

Jongseong. A known associate of underground networks, a name that has surfaced more than once in relation to Specter’s operations—but never directly linked. A runner, not a mastermind.

Heeseung arrives at Sunghoon’s side in seconds, gun also raised, his expression unreadable. "Where's the money?"

Jongseong exhales through his nose, then lets out a low chuckle. "No idea what you’re talking about."

His voice is calm. Too calm.

That’s the first sign that something is wrong.

"Pat him down," Heeseung orders.

A security officer steps forward, roughly searching Jongseong’s suit for any concealed items. No weapons. No stolen artifacts. No hidden communication devices.

Nothing.

Your stomach twists. This isn’t right.

Where’s the evidence? Where’s the vault key? The schematics? Anything that proves he’s the one who breached security?

And then—

Jongseong smirks.

It’s barely there, just a flicker of amusement before it vanishes beneath a practiced mask of indifference.

But you see it.

And that’s the second sign.

Something is very, very wrong.

"Take him in," Heeseung commands. "We’ll question him at the precinct."

As Jongseong is forced to his knees, his wrists bound with cuffs, he barely resists. He doesn't fight, doesn't argue.

Because he doesn’t need to.

Because this is exactly what he wanted.

By the time you step outside, the night air is thick with tension. The once-luxurious gala has descended into controlled chaos, guests still murmuring as they’re escorted to waiting cars, security scrambling to regain control of the estate.

The suspect is in custody.

The heist is over.

And yet—something feels unfinished.

Your head is still spinning, the adrenaline from earlier colliding with the lingering haze of Jake’s hands on your body, the warmth of his lips still ghosting against your skin.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him right now.

Not when you should be celebrating a win.

Not when you should be focused on why this doesn’t feel like a victory at all.

Sunghoon stops beside you, running a hand down his face. "Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks this was too easy."

You swallow hard, gripping your arms against the sudden chill in the air.

"No," you murmur. "You’re not the only one."

Because deep down, you know.

This was too perfect.

Too clean.

Too easy.

And Specter?

Specter never makes it easy.

21/11/2024 11:30 PM – Private Lounge, Reinsworth Estate

You don’t expect to find Jake waiting for you again.

Yet, when you return to the second-floor lounge, needing a moment to breathe, he’s still there—composed, collected, untouched by the storm that just unfolded.

He leans against the plush couch, one leg stretched out lazily, a fresh glass of whiskey in hand. He glances up when he sees you, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

"Back so soon?" he muses, tilting his head.

You let out a breath, shaking your head as you step inside. "I needed to get away from the chaos for a second."

Jake hums, watching you with an unreadable expression. "So, what’s the verdict? Did you get your guy?"

You hesitate for just a moment too long.

Then, you nod. "Yeah. We got him."

Jake smiles, lifting his glass in a lazy toast. "Then that means you won, right?"

You should feel like you’ve won.

But you don’t.

You feel like you’re missing something.

Like you’re being played.

And when Jake stands, moving toward you with that same slow, easy confidence, you suddenly find yourself forgetting—just for a moment—why you should even be thinking about anything else at all.

"You’re still tense," he murmurs, his voice softer now, lower, like he’s reading between the lines of everything you aren’t saying. "Still thinking too much."

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him you’re fine, that you’re always fine.

But then his fingers brush against yours, a fleeting touch that makes your pulse stutter.

"Let me help with that," he whispers.

And before you can stop yourself—before you can think about what you’re doing—you let him.

22/11/2024 12:30 AM – Jake’s Apartment

His apartment is dimly lit, quiet except for the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. It smells like whiskey and something undeniably him, something warm and sharp and dangerous in a way that doesn’t set off alarms—only curiosity.

You don’t remember how you got here.

One minute, you were at the gala, your head spinning with questions you couldn’t answer. The next, Jake was leading you inside, his hands steady on your waist, his lips a breath away from ruining you completely.

The first kiss is slow.

A quiet test. A question you don’t answer with words but with the way your hands tangle into his hair, the way your body presses against his, desperate for something you can’t name.

His fingers skim the zipper of your dress, trailing down your spine, his touch sending a slow fire licking down your skin. He moves deliberately—never rushing, never demanding—just taking his time, like he’s savoring every second of breaking you apart.

You let yourself fall.

Because Specter is gone.

Because the hunt is over.

Because for the first time in years, you let yourself want something that isn’t a case file, a mission, a ghost you can never catch.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, his voice low and seductive. "I want to show you how much I've been wanting this."

You sank into the plush sofa, your heart racing as Jake knelt before you, his hands gently caressing your thighs. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your knee, slowly inching their way up your leg. You let out a soft moan, unable to contain the pleasure that was building within. His touch was like a flame igniting your desire, melting away the constraints of your undercover role.

"You're exquisite," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "I want to taste every inch of you."

With that, Jake began a slow, sensual exploration of your body. His lips trailed kisses along your inner thighs, his hands gently massaging your hips, driving you wild with anticipation. You arched your back, offering yourself to him, eager for the pleasure he promised. His tongue teased the sensitive skin just above your knee, sending waves of delight through your body.

As his lips finally reached your core, you gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation. Jake's tongue was skilled, flicking and lapping at your clit, sending shivers of pleasure through your entire being. He teased and tormented you, building the tension until you were writhing with need. His fingers joined the dance, slipping inside you, finding the spots that made you cry out in ecstasy.

"Oh, Jake," you panted, your hands gripping the sofa cushions. "I can't take much more..."

But Jake was relentless, determined to bring you to the brink of ecstasy. He sucked on your clit, his fingers working in perfect rhythm, driving you higher and higher until you exploded in a mind-shattering orgasm. Your body trembled as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, leaving you breathless and utterly satisfied.

As you lay there, basking in the aftermath of your release, Jake's gentle hands caressed your face, wiping away the traces of your passion. He smiled, his eyes filled with a mixture of satisfaction and adoration.

"Baby that was incredible," he whispered. "But we're not done yet. I want to give you even more pleasure."

You smiled back, feeling a connection with Jake that went beyond the physical. In that moment, you both understood that this encounter was about more than just sex. It was a shared escape from the pressures of your respective lives, a stolen moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

As the night deepened, Jake led you to the bedroom, where he continued to worship your body with his touch. He explored every inch of your skin, his hands and lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You returned the favor, running your hands over his muscular frame, reveling in the feel of his hard body against yours.

The passion between you escalated, and soon you found yourself straddling Jake, guiding his throbbing cock into your wetness. You rode him with abandon, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. The sensation of being filled by him was exquisite, and you couldn't help but let out a string of moans and cries as you neared the edge once more.

Just as you were about to climax, Jake flipped you onto your back, his eyes blazing with desire. He thrust into you with a primal urgency, his body demanding release. You matched his intensity, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. Together, you soared towards a shared climax, your bodies becoming one in a frenzy of pleasure.

As your orgasms subsided, you lay entangled in each other's arms, panting and sweaty. The night had been a whirlwind of passion and desire, a much-needed respite from the weight of your undercover mission. Jake's gentle touch and insatiable hunger had taken you to new heights of ecstasy, leaving you craving more.

"I never expected this," you whispered, tracing your fingers along his chest. "But I'm glad I found you." Jake smiled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "This is just the beginning.”

22/11/2024 7:00 AM – The Precinct

Morning light spills through the windows, casting sharp lines across the stacks of files on your desk. The precinct is already buzzing—officers moving in and out, reports being filed, the usual chaos after a major arrest.

And yet, something feels off.

You step inside the holding area, your stomach twisting. Jongseong sits in the same spot you left him last night—calm, unbothered, waiting.

Jungwon is the first to speak, handing you a fresh report. His voice is flat, controlled. "We have a problem."

You skim the document, your fingers tightening around the pages.

No forensic evidence. No DNA. No stolen assets found in Jongseong’s possession.

Your heart pounds.

Sunghoon’s voice is grim beside you. "We might have arrested the wrong man."

Heeseung steps forward, his expression dark. "If we don’t find anything, we’ll have to release him within twenty-four hours."

Your stomach drops.

Because if Jongseong isn’t Specter—

Then Specter is still out there.

Still watching.

And you were too distracted to notice.

22/11/2024 7:30 AM – The Precinct

The precinct is suffocating in the way only a place filled with exhausted, overworked officers and the lingering smell of bad coffee can be. The overhead fluorescent lights flicker slightly, buzzing faintly above your desk as you sit, staring at the case file spread open before you.

You’ve spent the past hour combing through the case reports, reading and rereading the timeline of Jongseong’s arrest. Everything lines up—too well, too perfectly. The location, the security breach, the direction of the escape route—it was all exactly what you expected.

But Specter has never been predictable before.

So why now?

The doubt gnaws at you, sharp and insistent, but you shove it down. You need to focus. 

A sharp sound pulls you from your thoughts—the scrape of a chair being dragged against the floor. You glance up to find Sunghoon sitting across from you, arms crossed over his chest, his entire body wound tight with barely contained anger.

He looks like he hasn’t slept.

There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and his jaw is locked in a way that makes his frustration painfully obvious. His knuckles are white where they press against his biceps, tension coiling through his entire frame like he’s physically restraining himself from exploding.

You don’t have to ask him what’s wrong.

You already know.

Sunghoon has always been the most ruthless of all of you when it comes to Specter. His hatred for the man isn’t just professional—it’s personal, woven into his very being, laced into every clipped word he speaks about the case.

And right now, that hatred is radiating off of him like heat from an open flame.

"He’s laughing at us," he says finally, his voice low and strained.

You blink, setting your pen down. "Jongseong?"

Sunghoon lets out a harsh, humorless scoff. "No," he spits. "Specter."

The name alone seems to poison the air between you.

"He’s out there right now, watching us scramble, watching us pat ourselves on the back like we finally got him." He shakes his head, his upper lip curling slightly in disgust. "He set this whole thing up, and we fell for it like idiots."

His anger is palpable, simmering beneath the surface like a storm barely held at bay. You’ve seen Sunghoon mad before—you’ve seen him frustrated, seen him snap at officers who weren’t taking the case seriously.

But this?

This is different.

He’s not just angry.

He’s seething.

"You don’t know that," you say carefully, trying to sound more sure than you feel. "Jongseong fits the profile. He was at the scene, moving toward an escape vehicle. We caught him in the act."

Sunghoon lets out a breath through his nose, his hands gripping his arms even tighter. He looks like he’s one wrong word away from completely losing it.

"Jongseong is a distraction," he grits out. "That’s all he is. And do you know what makes me fucking sick?"

His eyes snap up to meet yours, dark and furious.

"We let it happen. Again."

The weight of his words crashes into you like a sledgehammer.

You don’t respond, because what is there to say?

Sunghoon isn’t wrong.

And that’s what makes it worse.

His jaw tightens, and he leans forward slightly, his voice dropping lower, quieter—but no less filled with rage.

"I hate him," he says, the words filled with so much venom you almost flinch. "I hate that every single time we think we have him, he’s already ten steps ahead. I hate that he makes us look like fucking amateurs. I hate that the media paints him like some goddamn folk hero while we’re stuck looking like corrupt bureaucrats."

His fingers dig into his biceps so hard you think he might bruise himself, but he doesn’t seem to care.

"But most of all," he continues, his voice even quieter now, almost a whisper, "I hate that no matter how hard I try, no matter how many hours I put into this case, no matter how much I want to see him behind bars—I can’t fucking touch him."

For a moment, the room feels unbearably silent.

The weight of his words presses down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Because you understand.

Because you feel it too.

The helplessness. The frustration. The overwhelming, all-consuming obsession with someone who refuses to be caught.

You sit in that silence for a long moment, neither of you moving, neither of you speaking.

And then, finally—

Sunghoon exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I need to get out of here."

Without another word, he pushes back from the desk and strides toward the door, his hands still clenched into fists.

And you?

You’re left sitting there, wondering if you just saw a crack in the foundation of everything you thought you knew about him.

Because Sunghoon doesn’t just hate Specter.

He despises him with every fiber of his being

22/11/2024 9:15 AM – Jake’s Apartment

The contrast between Sunghoon’s suffocating rage and Jake’s quiet, effortless warmth is jarring.

You shouldn’t be here again.

You should be at the precinct, knee-deep in case files, trying to untangle the mess that Specter has left behind. But instead, you’re standing in Jake’s kitchen, his shirt draped over your shoulders, a cup of coffee cradled between your hands.

It feels too easy.

Too normal.

Too good.

Jake leans against the counter across from you, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. His hair is still slightly tousled from sleep, his suit jacket discarded somewhere in the other room. He looks so completely unbothered by everything—by the world, by the chaos you left behind at the station—that for a moment, you let yourself believe he really is just Jake.

Just a man.

Not a suspect. Not a ghost. Not a thief who has spent years evading you.

Just someone who makes you feel like yourself again.

"You’re thinking too much," he muses, sipping his coffee.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"It is when you do it like this," he counters, setting his cup down and stepping closer. "Like you’re trying to convince yourself that you shouldn’t be here."

Your fingers tighten around the mug.

Because he’s right.

And you hate that he sees you so clearly.

Jake tilts his head slightly, watching you. "Stay," he says softly.

A single word.

No pressure. No demand. Just an invitation.

And for the first time in years, you don’t fight it.

You let yourself fall.

02/12/2024 9:30 AM – Jake’s Apartment

The apartment is bathed in the kind of morning light that makes everything feel too perfect, golden rays slipping through half-drawn blinds, casting a warm glow over the rumpled sheets tangled around your legs. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, mingling with something distinctly him—a mix of cedarwood and whatever expensive cologne he wears without trying too hard.

Jake stands at the stove, his sleeves pushed up, one hand casually flipping pancakes in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.

You watch him from where you’re curled on his couch, sipping the coffee he made for you, wondering how the hell you got here—wrapped up in a man who feels like both an escape and a mistake waiting to happen.

He turns, catching you staring, and smirks.

“You look dangerously comfortable,” he muses, setting down the spatula. “Should I be worried?”

You huff, rolling your eyes as you set your coffee down. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s just a good couch.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “So it’s the couch and not the charming man making you breakfast?”

You pretend to think for a moment, lips pursed. “Mm. Jury’s still out.”

Jake clutches his chest dramatically. “That hurts, detective.”

You roll your eyes again, but there’s a warmth in your chest that you can’t ignore. It’s been so long since you’ve laughed like this, since you’ve let yourself exist in a space that wasn’t suffocating under the weight of your job.

And Jake?

Jake makes it too easy.

He slides onto the couch beside you, two plates in hand, setting one on your lap. The pancakes are stacked high, drizzled with syrup, looking almost criminally perfect.

You raise a brow. “Okay, is there anything you’re bad at?”

Jake hums, tilting his head in fake thought. “I can’t dance.”

You snort, cutting into your pancakes. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, gesturing dramatically. “It’s embarrassing. If you ever make me dance, I’ll trip over my own feet and probably take you down with me.”

You laugh, the sound coming too easily, your walls lowering too quickly—but right now, you don’t care.

For the first time in years, you feel like a person first, a detective second.

02/12/2024 12:00 PM – The Precinct

If Jungwon notices the shift in your mood when you walk into the precinct, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he gives you one long, knowing glance before simply shaking his head and shuffling his files into a neater stack.

You sit down at your desk, flipping through your own paperwork, waiting for the inevitable.

It doesn’t take long.

“You seem happy,” Jungwon finally says, tapping his pen against the table rhythmically. “Which is weird. Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy before.”

You roll your eyes. “Not this again.”

“What?” he asks innocently. “I’m just making an observation.”

You sigh, setting your file down. “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Jungwon leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “Alright. You’ve been different lately. Less stressed. Less... I don’t know. Broody?”

“Broody?” you repeat, unimpressed.

“You know what I mean.”

You sigh again, rubbing a hand over your face. “I’m not broody.”

Jungwon just looks at you.

You groan. “Fine. I just—I don’t know. I met someone, I guess.”

Jungwon’s eyebrows shoot up, his entire demeanor shifting. “Oh?”

You immediately regret saying anything. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, but he’s already grinning. “It’s just—you? In a relationship? I genuinely didn’t think it was possible.”

You glare. “I hate you.”

Jungwon snickers, leaning forward. “Okay, tell me about him. What’s his name? What does he do? Is he an accountant? He feels like an accountant.”

You exhale sharply. “His name is Jake.”

Jungwon blinks. Then blinks again. “Wait. Jake? As in Jake Jake?”

You pause. “...What does that mean?”

Jungwon shakes his head in disbelief. “You mean the guy from the gala? The one who’s stupidly hot?”

Heat creeps up your neck. “Why do you know he’s hot?”

“Because I have eyes,” Jungwon says, exasperated. “And so does half the precinct. The guy looks like he walked out of a cologne commercial.”

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”

Jungwon laughs, slapping his hand against the desk. “No, no, I’m thrilled. This is hilarious.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “Why?”

“Because you’re you. And you’ve somehow landed yourself a hot, normal guy, and now I have to watch you try to function like a normal person in a relationship.” He grins. “This is my favorite thing that’s ever happened.”

Despite yourself, you laugh.

It’s easy with Jungwon. He’s been your partner for years, and out of everyone in the precinct, he’s the only one who knows how to keep you grounded.

And maybe...

Maybe a small part of you needed someone to tell you that it’s okay to be happy.

Even if it’s temporary.

Even if you don’t deserve it.

26/12/2024 7:45 PM – Jake’s Apartment

Falling in love with Jake is like slipping into a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

It happens slowly, piece by piece, until one day you realize he’s settled into your life like he’s always belonged there.

At first, it was the late-night conversations, stretched out across his couch, where he’d listen to you vent about your job while nursing a glass of whiskey, nodding along like he understood the weight of it. Then, it was waking up next to him, sunlight slipping through the curtains, watching the way his lashes fluttered against his cheek before he stirred, smiling lazily as if seeing you first thing in the morning was the best part of his day.

Now?

Now, it’s this—him standing in his kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, making pasta like it’s second nature, humming along to a song playing softly in the background.

It’s so damn normal that it terrifies you.

"You know," Jake muses, glancing at you over his shoulder, "for someone who spends their life chasing criminals, you seem way too impressed by my ability to make pasta."

You scoff from where you’re perched on a stool by the counter, sipping the glass of wine he poured for you. "I wouldn’t say impressed. More... mildly surprised you haven’t set the kitchen on fire yet."

Jake clutches his chest dramatically. "Wow. No faith in me at all?"

"I mean," you say, smirking, "you work in HR, not a kitchen. I think my skepticism is warranted."

Jake rolls his eyes, but there’s amusement dancing in his gaze. "I’ll have you know HR requires people skills, which I’m excellent at."

You hum, tilting your head. "So you just charm your way through workplace disputes?"

"Basically." He grins. "It’s a lot of, ‘Hey, let’s all be adults and not fight over stolen office mugs.’"

You laugh, the sound coming too easily, your walls lowering too quickly.

"You’re good at this," you admit before you can stop yourself.

Jake raises a brow. "Cooking?"

"No." You hesitate, swirling the wine in your glass. "This. Making things feel... normal."

His smirk softens into something gentler, something that makes your stomach flip. He sets down the spoon he was using, stepping closer, sliding his hands onto the counter on either side of you, caging you in.

"You deserve normal," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more serious. "You deserve good things, you know that, right?"

You don’t respond.

Because you don’t know that.

Not when your entire life has been about chasing something just out of reach.

Not when every time you think you’re getting close to something real, it slips through your fingers like it was never there to begin with.

27/12/2024 10:30 AM – The Precinct

The sense of peace from the night before disappears the second you step into the precinct.

It’s in the air—the tension, the unspoken weight pressing down on everyone. Conversations are hushed, glances are exchanged, and something is off.

Jungwon looks up from his desk when you approach, his expression more serious than usual. He doesn’t say anything at first, just motions for you to come closer.

"What’s going on?" you ask, setting your coffee down.

Jungwon exhales, rubbing his temple before flipping open a file.

“There’s talk of a mole.”

Your stomach drops.

You grip the edge of your desk. "What?"

Jungwon nods grimly. “It’s coming from higher up. Too many failures. Too many slip-ups. Someone’s been feeding Specter information.”

A cold weight settles in your chest.

A mole. Someone inside the department.

Your mind races. Who?

"Who are they suspecting?" you ask carefully.

Jungwon shrugs, but his expression darkens. “Right now? No one specific. But it’s only a matter of time before they start pointing fingers.”

29/12/2024 11:45 PM - Uptown

It happens fast.

One minute, you’re outside a high-rise in the wealthiest part of the city, waiting for Specter to make his move.

The intel was solid. Too solid. The security patterns, the movement of stolen assets, the whispers from informants—everything lined up.

And yet—

The heist never happens.

You stand there, breath misting in the cold night air, fingers curled around your radio, listening to the silence.

No breach. No alarms. Nothing.

Then—

Jungwon’s voice crackles through the earpiece, quiet, urgent.

“He’s not coming.”

Your pulse spikes. “What?”

“Specter’s not here,” Jungwon says. “There’s nothing happening. This was a dead lead.”

Your blood chills.

How? How?

This was your best shot. The kind of lead you don’t get twice. And yet, you were waiting for nothing. The truth sinks into your stomach like a stone.

Specter knew. Somehow, he knew.

And you were left standing there, like a fool, chasing shadows.

30/12/2024 2:00 AM – Jake’s Apartment

You don’t remember the drive.

You don’t remember knocking on his door.

All you know is that the second it opens, Jake pulls you inside, holds you tight, and doesn’t let go.

You’re shaking—frustration, exhaustion, helplessness all swirling in your chest like a storm. You bury your face against his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of him, letting the warmth of his body ground you.

Jake presses a slow kiss to the top of your head. “Rough night?”

You let out a breathy laugh, but it’s hollow.

"You have no idea."

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions. He just leads you to the couch, pulling you onto his lap like it’s second nature, letting you curl against him. His fingers skim your back in slow, comforting patterns, his lips pressing fleeting kisses against your temple, your cheek, your jaw.

You tilt your head, letting him kiss you properly this time, letting yourself melt into him, letting him pull you under completely. Because right now, Jake is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

He’s the reason you’re falling in the first place.

31/12/2024 11:45 PM – Jake’s Apartment

New Year’s Eve in the city was a spectacle—fireworks poised to explode over the skyline, laughter and music pouring from every open window, the streets alive with the kind of energy that only came when people believed they were on the precipice of something new, something better.

But none of that mattered to you right now.

Because instead of being out there, in the chaos, you were here.

Here, in Jake’s apartment, curled up beside him on the couch, a half-empty bottle of champagne on the coffee table, and the faint hum of a jazz record playing in the background. The world outside didn’t exist in this moment. There was only the glow of the string lights he had lazily draped across his bookshelves, the warmth of his body against yours, and the quiet rightness of it all.

“Okay, so tell me,” Jake mused, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh as he leaned back against the cushions. “Are you the type of person who actually makes New Year’s resolutions, or do you just wing it?”

You smirked, shifting so you could face him better. “I don’t think I’ve ever had the luxury of just ‘winging it.’”

Jake’s lips quirked at that, his eyes soft as he studied you. “Of course you haven’t.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “You probably have a ten-year plan, don’t you?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I did once.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for a moment before sighing, tilting your head back against the couch. “It was the typical checklist, you know? Make detective, take down the bad guys, climb the ranks—maybe even make lieutenant one day.”

Jake hummed, resting his chin on his hand. “And now?”

You let out a breath, watching the golden bubbles swirl in your champagne glass. “Now? I don’t know.”

The admission surprised even you. When was the last time you didn’t have an answer?

Jake shifted closer, his warmth seeping into your skin. “That’s not a bad thing.”

You met his gaze, something tight wrapping around your ribs. “Isn’t it?”

He shook his head, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think sometimes, life surprises you. You spend so long chasing one thing, thinking it’s the only thing that matters, and then out of nowhere—you realize you want something else.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest ache.

Because he was right.

What you wanted now—what you had never allowed yourself to want before—was him.

The clock struck midnight, and somewhere outside, fireworks erupted, lighting up the city.

But you barely heard them.

Because Jake was kissing you.

His hands cradled your face, his lips slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every second of this moment, of you. Your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself against him, against the dizzying warmth threatening to consume you whole.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Happy New Year,” he murmured.

You smiled, eyes fluttering open. “Happy New Year Baby.”

There was a softness in his gaze when he pulled you back against his chest, your legs tangled together on the couch. A comfortable silence stretched between you before he spoke again, voice quieter this time.

“Do you ever think about it?”

You glanced up. “Think about what?”

Jake hesitated for half a second before exhaling. “The future. What it’d look like... if we did this. If we kept doing this.”

Your heart skipped.

If we kept doing this.

The words settled in your chest, weaving into the fabric of something dangerous, something real.

A part of you wanted to be cautious. To remind him that it was too soon, that you had only known each other for a few months, that relationships—real ones—needed time to be built.

But then another part of you—the part that had spent years alone, the part that had never imagined wanting something beyond the chase—wanted to believe in this.

In him.

So you let yourself speak the words before fear could stop you.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I think about it.”

Jake’s lips twitched into a smile. “And?”

You swallowed, shifting against him. “It’s crazy.”

He huffed a laugh. “Insane.”

You exhaled. “But it feels... right.”

Jake’s arm tightened around you. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It really does.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“I’d want a house,” Jake mused. “One of those quiet ones, up on a hill. A big porch. A stupidly expensive coffee machine in the kitchen.”

You snorted. “Of course you would.”

Jake smirked. “Hey, I have priorities.”

You shook your head fondly. “And kids?”

Jake blinked, then tilted his head in mock thought. “I don’t know. How much chaos are we talking?”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Two, maybe three? Enough to keep you on your toes.”

Jake grinned. “I like those odds.”

Your breath hitched.

Because it was crazy to be talking like this.

But it didn’t feel crazy.

It felt like standing in the sun after a lifetime in the rain.

15/01/2025 11:45 PM – Curator’s Galleria Downtown

The air inside Sunoo’s gallery hums with energy, a strange blend of sophistication and tension. The city’s wealthiest patrons sip champagne, swirling golden liquid in delicate crystal flutes, murmuring about the price of art like it’s something more than a status symbol.

But you’re not looking at the art.

You’re scanning the room, waiting for the moment everything falls apart.

Specter is here. He has to be.

Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in an expensive black suit that helps him blend into the crowd. But even in the dim glow of chandelier light, you can see the way his shoulders are tense, the way his jaw is locked. He’s waiting too.

Jungwon’s voice crackles in your earpiece. “Security is clean so far. No unusual movement.”

That only makes your stomach tighten further.

If Specter is here, he’s already inside.

And he’s waiting to make his move.

You take a slow sip of champagne, scanning the guests with careful precision. The art world is one of Specter’s favorite playgrounds—not just because of the wealth, but because it’s built on illusion. People come here flaunting riches they didn’t earn, bidding on pieces they barely understand.

And if you’ve learned anything about him, it’s that he loves stealing from people who don’t deserve what they have.

A slight movement at the far end of the gallery catches your eye. A man—tall, broad shoulders, dressed in black, his face tilted away from the light.

Your heart stutters.

Jake.

The realization hits you like a punch to the ribs. He’s here. Right in front of you.

You can’t move. Not yet.

Not when you know he’s watching you too.

He turns his head slightly, just enough for your eyes to meet across the crowded room. And in that moment, it’s as if time stops.

Jake doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t smile.

But his gaze is steady, dark, pulling you in like gravity itself.

Daring you.

And just as you step forward, ready to push through the crowd—

The lights flicker.

For half a second, the room is cast in darkness.

And then—

The alarms blare.

Your earpiece erupts with chaos.

“Security breach—third floor, west wing! Unauthorized access to the vault!”

He’s already moving.

Jake turns on his heel, slipping through a side exit before you can even blink.

You chase after him.

15/01/2025 11:50 PM – The Gallery’s Private Wing

The marble floors are cold beneath your heels as you sprint through the hallway, gun drawn, heart hammering in your chest.

Somewhere ahead, Jake moves with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times before.

You should call for backup. You know that.

But this is personal.

You round the corner, just in time to see him disappear into the vault room.

This time, you don’t hesitate.

You shove the door open, gun raised—

And Jake is standing there, waiting for you.

Not running. Not moving.

Just waiting.

The vault is already cracked open behind him, the security systems completely dismantled. But he’s not grabbing anything. Not moving toward the stolen art.

He’s just watching you, lips curling into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“You’re getting faster, detective,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Almost had me.”

Your hands tighten around the gun. “Hands where I can see them.”

Jake doesn’t comply.

Instead, he takes a slow, deliberate step toward you, his eyes locked on yours.

“I don’t think you’ll shoot me,” he says, voice too soft, too knowing.

Your finger twitches on the trigger. “Try me.”

He takes another step.

Too close now.

You should shoot. You should.

But his eyes hold you still.

And then, just as he’s a breath away—

He leans in.

“Not tonight, sweetheart.”

And before you can even react—

The window behind him shatters.

A smoke grenade explodes at your feet, filling the room with thick, choking gray.

You cough, stumbling back, but by the time you push forward—

He’s already gone.

16/01/2025 12:15 AM – The Aftermath

The gallery is chaos.

Security is swarming the scene, officers questioning stunned guests, the once-elegant evening now reduced to frantic whispers and flashing red lights.

You stand near the vault entrance, hands on your hips, trying to catch your breath.

Jake was right there.

You had him.

And you let him go.

Sunghoon stalks up beside you, his expression dark.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is sharp, accusing.

You exhale, jaw tightening. “He was here. I had him.”

Sunghoon’s eyes narrow. “And?”

You hesitate. Just for a second.

And that’s all it takes.

His gaze sharpens, something unreadable flashing across his face.

Like he knows.

Like he knows everything.

And when he speaks again, his voice is lower, almost careful.

“We need to talk.”

16/01/2025 12:30 AM – The Private Office

The walls feel like they’re closing in.

The overhead light flickers faintly, casting jagged shadows along the edges of the small security office. The space is suffocating, the air too still, too thick with something unspoken.

Your pulse is still hammering in your ears, an uneven rhythm that refuses to settle. Your grip tightens around the edges of the desk as you force yourself to breathe, in—out, in—out, but it doesn’t help.

Because Jake was there.

Because you had him.

And because you let him slip away.

The weight of it crashes over you like a wave, cold and unrelenting. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until you see the way your fingers tremble against the smooth wood of the desk.

Behind you, Sunghoon stands too still. His posture is relaxed—too relaxed. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his face is carefully unreadable.

But his silence is a warning.

And that’s what finally makes you turn to face him.

"You said we needed to talk," you say, voice strained, barely steady.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightens. He watches you for a moment, like he’s debating something, like he’s about to tell you something you won’t like.

Then he sighs.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “We do.”

Something in his tone makes the hairs on your arms rise.

Your instincts scream at you to prepare for impact.

You fold your arms, trying to keep yourself together. "Then talk."

Sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.

"I know you think you almost had him tonight," he starts, voice measured, careful. "But you need to see the bigger picture here."

Your fingers dig into your arms. "The bigger picture?" Your voice is sharp, barely concealing the frustration bubbling beneath your skin. "I saw him with my own eyes, Sunghoon. I had him in my sights. I know what I saw."

His gaze flickers. Just for a second.

And then, he shifts.

His stance changes—less defensive, more calculating.

"You saw what he wanted you to see," he says finally. "Jake has always been one step ahead. That was never going to change tonight."

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach turn.

But before you can respond, he keeps going.

"And that’s the problem," he mutters. "He always knows when we’re coming. Always." His eyes darken. "You don’t think that’s strange?"

Your pulse falters.

"Of course it’s strange," you snap. "That’s why we’re hunting him."

Sunghoon shakes his head, stepping closer, lowering his voice.

"No, it’s more than that," he says. "It’s not just that he’s good—it’s that he knows things he shouldn’t."

Your chest tightens.

"What are you saying?"

Sunghoon holds your gaze, steady and unwavering.

"I’m saying there’s a mole."

A sharp chill skates down your spine.

You swallow, mind racing. No. No, that doesn’t make sense.

"We already thought that," you argue. "We looked into it."

"We looked in the wrong places," Sunghoon counters. "We thought it had to be someone feeding him details from the top. Someone high up. But what if it’s not?"

Your blood runs cold.

"What if it’s someone closer?"

The room feels too small.

Your breath catches.

Sunghoon doesn’t blink.

"What if it’s Jungwon?"

Your head snaps up.

"What?" The word barely leaves your lips.

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. "Think about it. Every single time we’ve made a move, Specter has always been a step ahead. He doesn’t just know our missions—he knows our weaknesses. Our blind spots. He knows you."

A lump forms in your throat.

"He would know that anyway," you say, forcing yourself to stay rational. "We’ve been after him for years."

Sunghoon shakes his head. "Not like this. This is different. This is intimate."

The word sends a violent shudder through you.

Because you know he’s talking about Jake. About the way he looks at you. About the way you almost caught him tonight, only to hesitate when he got too close.

But that’s not why you lost him.

You know that.

Sunghoon watches you carefully. "We need to think logically here. Who’s the one person who’s had access to every failed lead? Who’s been working alongside us, tracking our moves? Who’s had time to slip Specter information without ever getting caught?"

Your breath comes faster, uneven. Because you know who he’s leading you to.

"Jungwon," he says.

The name feels like a gunshot.

And your first instinct is to reject it.

"No," you whisper, shaking your head. "Jungwon wouldn’t—he’s not like that. He’s—he’s one of us."

Sunghoon tilts his head. "Is he?"

The question lodges itself into your chest.

Jungwon, who has stood beside you for years. Jungwon, who has had your back through every chase, every failure.Jungwon, who believed in you when no one else did.

The doubt creeps in like poison. Because what if Sunghoon is right? What if all this time, the real mole was the person standing closest to you? You press a hand to your forehead, head spinning.

"Just think about it," Sunghoon murmurs. "We can’t afford to ignore the possibility."

You squeeze your eyes shut. Your chest is tight, your mind is unraveling. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Nothing feels real.

16/01/2025 1:10 AM – The Rooftop, Somewhere in the City

The wind is vicious this high up, howling between the buildings, biting against your skin as if trying to cut through the rage boiling underneath. You barely feel the cold.

You’re still burning—anger, betrayal, exhaustion all coiling together inside you, twisting and tightening until you feel like you might explode.

The city stretches out beneath you, a glittering sprawl of everything you thought you knew. The streets below are alive, moving, breathing—but you feel separate from it all.

Like you’re somewhere else entirely.

Like you’re on the edge of a different world.

And then—

A quiet sound behind you.

The scrape of a boot against the rooftop floor.

Your muscles go rigid, fingers twitching toward your gun, but you don’t turn around immediately. You don’t need to.

Because you already know who it is.

Jake.

His presence is unmistakable, a force that seems to push against the air itself, something you can feel even without seeing him.

And God, it suffocates you.

You force yourself to breathe, even as your pulse pounds against your ribs, even as your thoughts spiral and spin, crashing over each other in a mess of fury and confusion.

"Took you long enough," you say, voice sharp, cutting through the space between you.

There’s a pause—just long enough for you to picture his expression, the slow tilt of his head, the way his eyes will be watching, waiting.

Then—

"You were expecting me?"

His voice is smooth, controlled, but there’s something beneath it—something frayed, something tense.

You finally turn to face him.

And the sight of him makes something in your chest twist painfully.

Jake is standing near the rooftop entrance, dressed in black, suit unbuttoned, tie loosened, the faintest hint of sweat at his collarbone. Like he’s been running.

Like he’s been chasing something, too.

And maybe—maybe that’s you.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, your nails digging into your palm.

"I knew you’d come," you say, voice lower now. More dangerous.

Jake exhales slowly. "And yet, you’re still here."

You don’t answer immediately.

Because you don’t have one.

Because you don’t know why you’re still standing here, waiting for him.

"You ran," you say instead, accusing. "Again. Like you always do."

Jake flinches. Just slightly. Just enough.

"I had to." His voice is steady, but there’s a rough edge to it, something raw scraping against the surface. "You weren’t ready for the truth."

You take a slow step forward, barely aware of the way your body is coiled tight, like a wire ready to snap.

"And what truth is that, Jake?"

His jaw tightens.

"You know," he says, gaze never leaving yours. "You’ve always known."

Your breath catches.

And that’s when you lose it.

"Don’t do that," you snap, stepping closer, your voice trembling with something dangerous. "Don’t stand there and act like this was inevitable. Like you didn’t have a fucking choice."

Jake’s eyes darken.

"You think I had a choice?" His voice is lower now, sharper, strained.

You scoff, the sound bitter, painful. "Of course you did."

Jake exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "You still don’t get it, do you?"

Your hands clench into fists. "Then make me get it, Jake."

He steps closer, too close, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you can see the storm raging in his eyes.

"You want the truth?" he murmurs, voice low and rough. "The truth is, I never wanted to lie to you."

You laugh, sharp and broken.

"Then why did you?"

Jake’s breath shudders.

"Because if I didn’t, I would’ve had to watch you destroy yourself chasing something that was never going to be real."

The words hit like a bullet.

You inhale sharply, vision blurring at the edges.

"You let me," you whisper. "You let me chase you. You let me believe—"

Your voice catches, cracks, and suddenly it’s too much.

Your body moves before you can stop it, hands slamming against his chest, shoving him back.

Jake doesn’t resist.

But he doesn’t step away either.

"You let me think I was winning," you continue, breath shaking. "You let me think I was getting closer. And the whole time, it was just a game to you."

Jake clenches his jaw.

"It was never a game."

You shake your head. "Then what the hell was it?"

He exhales sharply.

"A mistake," he says, soft and broken.

Jake swallows hard, gaze locked onto yours. "Because the second I met you, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop."

The confession cuts deep.

Because you believe him.

And you hate that you believe him.

Jake steps forward, voice lower, rougher, desperate.

"Run away with me."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitch at his sides. "You don’t have to stay. You don’t have to let them take you down for something you never did. Come with me."

Your stomach drops.

Jake sees the hesitation flicker across your face.

"Please," he murmurs. "You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to trust me. But you can’t stay here."

And for a second—

Just one second—

You almost consider it.

And then—

The door to the rooftop slams open.

Jungwon’s voice is breathless, shaking.

"You need to see this."

Your head snaps up, your entire body going rigid. And when Jungwon steps forward, he tosses a thick folder onto the floor between you and Jake.

It lands with a heavy thud. And across the top, a single name.

PARK SUNGHOON.

Your heart stops. Jungwon’s breathing is ragged, his gaze flickering between the two of you.

"You were chasing the wrong person," he says, voice strained.

You swallow hard, but your throat is dry, tight, too tight.

Your fingers shake as you slowly, carefully crouch down, flipping open the folder.

And then—

The world collapses.

Jake is silent as you stare at the pages in front of you.

You don’t hear anything.

Not the city. Not the wind.

Not even the sound of your own heart breaking.

Sunghoon was the mole.

Sunghoon was the reason you lost every chase.

Sunghoon was the reason Jake always escaped.

It wasn’t Jungwon.

It was never Jungwon.

It was the person you trusted most.

And when you finally look up, your voice is barely a whisper.

"Where is he?"

Jake exhales slowly.

And then—

"Gone."

16/01/2025 1:35 AM 

The wind cut through the rooftop like a blade, sharp and unforgiving against your skin. It howled between the buildings, drowning out the city noise below, but it wasn’t loud enough to silence the thoughts screaming inside your head.

The folder was still open in your hands, but the words blurred, letters bleeding into one another. The truth was too heavy to just exist on paper. It weighed on your chest, pressed against your ribs, and squeezed the breath from your lungs.

You tried to blink, tried to make sense of the files, the documents, the photos that confirmed everything you didn’t want to believe. But no matter how hard you stared, the reality didn’t change.

Sunghoon was the mole.

Sunghoon was the reason you had lost every chase, the reason every lead had gone cold, the reason Specter—Jake—had always slipped away at the last second.

Your partner. Your best friend.

Your traitor.

The air felt thinner, like you weren’t breathing right, like the world had tilted sideways. Somewhere behind you, Jungwon was speaking, voice quiet but firm, his words measured as he pointed to different reports in the file. He was piecing it together out loud, trying to form something logical, something tangible, but you couldn’t process any of it.

Because standing across from you, watching you with an unreadable expression, was Jake.

Jake, who had known the truth all along.

Jake, who hadn’t said a single goddamn word.

Your grip tightened around the folder until the edges of the paper crumpled beneath your fingers.

"You knew," you finally said, and though your voice wasn’t raised, it cut through the space between you like a gunshot.

Jake didn’t flinch. His posture remained loose, relaxed in that way that always made you want to hit him, but there was something else there—something almost too still, too controlled, like he was bracing for impact.

"Yeah," he said, voice even.

And that was it.

That was all it took for something inside you to snap.

"You knew." This time, your voice rose, the words scraping against your throat as you threw the folder down onto the rooftop floor, sending pages scattering between you. "You knew this whole time, and you let me—you let me chase you like a fucking idiot while my own best friend was working for you?"

Jake exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking off the weight of your anger. "It wasn’t that simple."

"Wasn’t that simple?" Your laugh came out harsh, sharp, like shattered glass. "You let me turn on the wrong people! You let me think Jungwon—Jesus Christ, Jake, I almost had him arrested!"

Jake’s jaw clenched. "I didn’t let you do anything."

"Like hell you didn’t!" You stepped closer, shoving him hard against the chest. He barely moved, but it wasn’t about that. It was about hurting him the way he had hurt you, about making him feel even a fraction of the betrayal clawing at your insides.

Jake took it.

He didn’t step away, didn’t try to stop you. He just looked at you, eyes dark, unreadable, waiting for you to finish breaking yourself against him.

"You let me think I was getting closer," you whispered, voice shaking. "You let me think I was catching up to you, that I had a chance—"

Your breath caught, and suddenly, you hated yourself.

Hated that you had ever believed in the chase, hated that you had ever let yourself fall for him.

"You played me," you said, quieter now. "You played me the whole time."

Jake shook his head, voice rough. "I never wanted to play you."

"Then what the hell was it?"

He hesitated, just for a second. And then—

"A mistake," he murmured, something raw in his voice. "Because the second I met you, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop."

Your pulse stuttered.

"I should’ve stayed away," Jake continued, jaw tight, voice lower now, rougher. "I should’ve let you be. But I didn’t. And that’s on me."

"Sunghoon and I grew up together," Jake continues, almost like he’s talking about someone else. "We were kids. We didn’t have a choice but to run. He made it into the system first, cleaned up his past, made himself useful. I followed later, but by then, we’d already figured it out—how to survive."

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You lied about everything.”

Jake’s expression doesn’t change. But for the first time, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—regret.

“Not everything,” he says.

And that’s what breaks you the most.

Because even now, even after this, there’s a part of you that wants to believe him.

He took a step forward.

You stepped back.

"I lied about a lot of things," he admitted. "But not about you."

The wind between you howled.

You wanted to believe him. That was the worst part.

You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.

But then he said something that made your stomach drop.

"You need to leave."

Your head snapped up. "What?"

Jake exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "They’re turning against you next. You’re the easiest target now. Sunghoon’s gone, and the force needs someone to blame."

Jungwon, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "What are you talking about?"

Jake looked at him then, like he was deciding whether to explain, whether it was even worth it. And then—

"Heeseung," Jake said simply. "He’s running everything. The entire system is built around him."

Jungwon’s expression froze. "That’s—no. That’s not—"

Jake laughed, but there was nothing amused about it. "You still think the force is clean?" He shook his head. "He’s been pulling the strings since day one. Every case you thought you were leading, every step you thought you were taking forward—he let you."

You swallowed hard. "And you know this how?"

Jake gave you a pointed look. "Because I made sure I did."

Your pulse roared in your ears.

"You think you’re going to be safe after this?" Jake asked, stepping closer. "They’re going to frame you for everything, Baby. You’ve been working this case for too long, and now that it’s unraveling, they need a loose end to tie up. That’s you."

Your breath came faster, uneven, frantic.

No. No, that couldn’t be true.

But it made sense.

The second Sunghoon disappeared, they needed someone else. Someone already involved, someone already in too deep.

You.

Jake turned to Jungwon then, voice sharp. "Both of you need to run."

Jungwon’s brows furrowed. "I can’t just—"

"You can," Jake snapped. "And you will."

You couldn’t breathe.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This wasn’t how the story was supposed to end.

Jake looked at you, gaze steady. "I don’t care if you never forgive me," he murmured. "But I can’t let you die for this."

You hated him.

You hated that you were considering it.

"You can run with me," Jake said. "Or you can run without me." His voice softened. "But you have to run."

The rooftop felt like it was tilting beneath your feet.

Jungwon was still frozen beside you, his mind trying to process what this meant for him, for the force, for everything.

And you?

You had to decide.

The wind had died down, leaving only a heavy silence between the three of you. The world outside this rooftop continued on, cars moving through the streets below, lights flickering in windows of high-rise buildings, people going about their lives as if nothing had changed.

But up here?

Everything had.

Jake stood in front of you, shoulders tense, gaze steady despite the storm raging behind his eyes. Jungwon had gone still beside you, fingers flexing at his sides as he processed the weight of what had just been laid out.

And you?

You weren’t sure you were breathing anymore.

Because everything Jake had said made too much sense.

The force wasn’t looking for justice. The moment Sunghoon had vanished, they had needed someone else to take the fall, someone already deep enough in the case that it wouldn’t seem suspicious.

They needed a scapegoat.

They needed you.

Your hands were cold. You curled them into fists to stop them from shaking, but the feeling settled deep, twisting in your stomach like a sickness you couldn’t shake.

Jungwon cleared his throat, voice hoarse. "If Heeseung really is behind this, if he’s the one controlling everything—" He swallowed, shaking his head. "We can’t just run. We have to—"

Jake cut him off, voice sharp. "No."

Jungwon blinked.

"You don’t get it, do you?" Jake exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair. "You think you can fight this. You think you can take this system down from the inside. But you won’t. You’ll be dead before you even get close."

Jungwon’s jaw clenched, but he stayed silent.

You turned to Jake, voice low. "And what do you suggest?"

Jake’s eyes softened just slightly, but there was something else there, too.

Something like pleading.

"You know what I’m suggesting," he murmured.

The weight of his words settled between you.

You knew.

There was no fight left to win.

No justice left to seek.

The only thing left was to leave.

Jake took a slow step forward, gaze never wavering. "I told you before, I don’t care if you hate me. But I’m not letting you die for something you had no control over."

You sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the finality of this moment press down on you.

He was asking you to choose.

Not just between running and staying.

But between your past and your future.

Between what you had believed in and what you were finally starting to see as the truth.

Jake extended his hand.

Five Years Later – Somewhere in Italy

The afternoon sun stretched lazily across the rolling hills, casting golden hues over the vineyards and stone-paved roads. The world here moved slower, untouched by the chaos of the life you had left behind. From the balcony of your home, the scent of citrus and sea salt drifted through the warm breeze, carrying the quiet hum of the nearby town.

This place had become your sanctuary. A world away from everything you once knew.

The house was small, nothing extravagant—two stories, white stucco walls, terracotta roof tiles that had been worn down by the Mediterranean sun. The shutters were always left open, allowing the crisp air to weave its way inside, and in the early mornings, the golden light would pour through the bedroom window, painting the sheets in soft amber.

Standing at the edge of the balcony, you ran your fingers along the cool stone railing, gaze fixed on the horizon where the ocean stretched endlessly. It had been years, but sometimes, it still felt like a dream. That at any moment, you would wake up back in that city, back in the cold alleys and smoky rooftops, back in the endless chase that had consumed you for so long.

But then you would hear him—the steady sound of footsteps behind you, the quiet exhale as he stepped closer. And just like that, the past no longer mattered.

Jake leaned against the balcony beside you, the soft fabric of his shirt brushing against your arm. He had yet to fully wake up, the faint creases from sleep still lingering in his skin, his dark hair tousled in a way that was almost careless. There was no urgency in his movements anymore, no tension coiled beneath the surface, no need to always be one step ahead. He was different now.

Or maybe, he was simply allowed to be.

"You’re up early," he murmured, voice still rough from sleep, as he cast a glance toward you.

You inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly before answering. "Couldn’t sleep."

Jake tilted his head slightly, studying your expression. He didn’t ask why, didn’t press for an answer. He already knew. There were nights when the past still found you, lingering in the spaces between dreams, seeping into the quiet moments where memories felt sharper. It wasn’t regret that kept you awake—it was the echoes of what once was.

"Thinking about the past again?" he asked, though his tone was gentle, not accusatory.

You glanced at him before turning back to the view. "Not as much as I used to."

It was the truth.

The past no longer had its claws in you. It existed, like an old scar—faint, but still there, a reminder of everything that had led you here. There was a time when you thought you would never escape it, when you thought you were trapped in an endless cycle of chasing and being chased.

But now?

Now you had chosen a different life.

Jake followed your gaze, eyes drifting over the vineyards below. "It's different, isn't it?" he said, voice quieter this time. "Not having to run."

You turned your head slightly, taking him in. There was something almost strange about seeing him like this—completely at ease. His shoulders no longer carried the weight of expectation, of deception, of a world built on calculated risks. The sharp edges were still there, but they had softened, replaced by something steadier. Something real.

"Do you miss it?" you asked, watching him carefully.

Jake was silent for a moment, considering your words. Then, he shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "No," he admitted. "I really don’t."

Neither did you.

The sound of laughter echoed from inside the house, faint but familiar. Jungwon’s voice carried through the open window, followed by Jongseong’s exasperated groan—probably another one of their endless debates over who made the best coffee. It was mundane, simple, ordinary. But after years of living on the edge of survival, it was everything.

Jake turned toward you then, leaning slightly closer. "Do you ever wonder?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Wonder what?"

"If things had gone differently. If we had stayed." His gaze was steady, but there was something thoughtful in the way he studied you, like he was searching for an answer before you even gave it. "Do you think we would have made it out alive?"

You exhaled slowly, thinking back to that night on the rooftop, to the weight of your choice, to the moment you finally let go of the life you had sworn to uphold. The truth was, you didn’t know. Maybe you would have survived. Maybe you wouldn’t have. But either way, it wouldn’t have been this.

And that was what mattered.

"No," you said finally, turning to meet his gaze. "I don’t think we would have."

Jake held your stare for a long moment before nodding, as if he had expected that answer.

Then, he reached for your hand, fingers brushing over yours before lacing them together. His thumb traced absent circles against your skin, grounding, familiar.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, voice softer now.

You didn’t hesitate.

"Not even for a second."

Jake’s lips curved into a smile, warm and real, the kind that had nothing to do with deception or carefully crafted personas. It was the kind of smile you had only seen in stolen moments, in whispered confessions between tangled sheets, in the quiet spaces of a life not meant to last.

But here?

Here, it was forever.

Jake lifted your joined hands, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles before murmuring against your skin, "Me neither."

The sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, casting golden streaks across the fields below. The wind carried the scent of sun-warmed fruit through the air, blending with the quiet hum of the town in the distance.

You looked back at the house—the place you had built from nothing, the place that had no ghosts, no past chasing after you. It wasn’t just a hiding place.

It was home.

And finally—after years of running, of chasing something you could never quite catch—you were free.

fin.

Taglist: @manuosorioh @dazzlingjaeyun @jkslvsnella @vernorica123 @lillotus17 @wonnienyang @firstclassjaylee @belle643 @ijustwannareadstuff20 @heelovesmeknot @heeseunggotrizz @jaeyunsbimbo @immelissaaa @somuchdard @naurwayyyyy

[novelistwriter]

The Ghost of the Theater

DP x DC Prompt

Danny had been running nonstop since escaping the GIW lab he was held in. His own parents gave him to the GIW when they couldn't accept that their son was one of the Ghosts. They loved him enough not to attack him, but that love wasn't enough to accept him.

Jazz, Sam, and Tucker had slowly begun to drift away from Danny after the "Dan" incident, but Jazz is the only one keeping regular contact with Danny.

When he arrived in Gotham, the city spirit that was born from Gotham had spoken to him, but didn't show herself

"Young King Phantom, I welcome you to my Haunt. Those who are chasing you will not find you here. Rest in the theater below you, I will keep you safe, so long as you remain in my Haunt."

And so, Danny did enter the abandoned theater below him and went to sleep, but he didn't see or feel what happened. He was encased in an Ectoplasm orb by Clockwork to heal faster and that Ectoplasm orb is giving off enough power to be noticed by the Bats, but not the GIW.

Oracle had noticed a strange power surge at a theater, but not any theater, the theater that's near Crime Alley, the theater that had been the Wayne's last place of family bonding before they were killed in front Bruce.

They had to be wary, so a team was created to go in, Bruce, Damian, Jason, and Cass would go in first, while Dick, Steph, Tim, Duke, and anyone else they could talk to would be on standby near the theater.

But they hadn't anticipated that an injured boy with a glowing crown and Ring in what looks like armor and a cape made up of the stars would be encased in a Lazarus orb within the theater.

[studioeisa]

what the fuKCKENFR IM SO MAD I CANT REBLOG YOUR POSTS OR MSG U ON MY SIDEBLOG RN COS ANOTHER??? HOZIER??? FIC????

(work song next WHHAT WHO SAID THAT)

so full of love (i could barely eat) 🍒 seungcheol x reader.

★ established relationship, pet name ['baby'], inspired by hozier's work song. viv, i know this was supposed to be in response to worship in the bedroom (and not really a serious request), but the thought of cheol x work song did not let me go. a little gift for u. <3 word count: 755.

It’s nearly two in the morning when Seungcheol gets home. 

One of those days, he likes to call it. He had been out of the apartment before the sun rose up, had jumped from one schedule to another with something akin to reckless abandon. Fan meet. Radio show. Practice. Meeting.

When he’s busy, the exhaustion is kept at bay. There’s no time to think about the phantom ache behind his knee, the pesky soreness of his thigh.

But then he walks through the front door and it all comes crashing down on him. Suddenly, he is Atlas, bearing the heavens on his shoulders. 

He toes off his shoes with a soft sigh. Evidence of you is apparent from the entryway. The kitchen light has been left on. The humidifier is spewing one of his favorite scents. A collection of sweet nothings, none of which he thinks he deserves.

Had he even texted you today? Seungcheol isn’t certain. He remembers seeing your texts light up his screen, though. Gentle reminders from morning to evening. 

Don’t forget your vitamins. 

Grab lunch. 

Bundle up. It’s snowing, and your bones are weak to the cold. 

Seungcheol had listened at each turn, whether or not he realized it. A multivitamin from Seungkwan. A sandwich hurriedly eaten on the way to the studio. The scarf you had given him, the one that still faintly smelled like you.

He knows there’s probably food waiting for him in the microwave, knows you’ve likely set aside a plate in anticipation of his late arrival. Seungcheol bypasses it in favor of heading for your shared bedroom. 

Sure enough, you’re already asleep. He’ll realize a little later that you texted about that, too— a message of might be asleep when you get home, I love you— but for now, he only lingers by the doorway as he watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest. 

He feels everything then. The gnaw of guilt. The overwhelming affection. The urge to protect and provide. 

As quietly as he can manage, Seungcheol crosses the room. He can already predict how you’re going to react to him sinking into bed and sliding underneath the covers with you. 

You stir in your sleep at the feeling of Seungcheol snaking his arm around your waist. Despite being half-awake, you have the wits to mumble, “You’re still wearing outside clothes.” 

Bingo. 

Seungcheol knew it, and the thought of that— of correctly predicting what you might do or say— fills him with an odd sense of pride. He doesn’t give voice to it, though, not wanting to rouse you more than he already has. 

“I’ll change.” His voice is a murmur even though there’s no other soul in the apartment besides you two. Something about the early hour and the low light makes him feel like he should tread carefully, like the moment is as fragile as ice on a lake. “Just wanted to hold you for a bit, baby.” 

You grumble something incoherent, the words lost to the way you bury your face into the front of Seungcheol’s shirt. And suddenly Seungcheol can’t help himself. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. Then one to your forehead. Then one to your temple. Then—

“Cheol.” You whine out his name, your tone edged with exhaustion. You never did take kindly to your sleep being interrupted. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he huffs. 

He kisses the tip of your nose for good measure. 

It’s one of those days. Seungcheol is bone-tired, and home late, and he missed you. If he were a stronger man, a better man, he’d let you sleep. Stalk off to eat his microwaved dinner and change into his pajamas so you don’t gripe about dirty sheets in the morning. 

Seungcheol decides: He’s not a good man. And so instead he holds you a little tighter, leaves a couple more kisses across your face, allows his body to let go of the day’s weight. 

After his nth kiss to your face, you let out another low grumble. He’s about to apologize, about to tell you that he’ll finally, finally let off, when you tilt your head up to lazily slot your lips against his. You’re barely coherent, and yet you’re still giving him exactly what he wants needs. 

Soft, sleepy, sweet. His, his, his.

Seungcheol’s eyes flutter close. He makes no move to deepen the kiss, to ask for more than what you can offer. 

In your arms, he feels a little less like Atlas. 

In your arms, he’s just Seungcheol. 

There's nothin' sweeter than my baby I'd never want once from the cherry tree 'Cause my baby's sweet as can be She'd give me toothaches just from kissin' me

[fleurriee]

from the dirty lil compliments list i bring to u ❛  you have the most perfect tits.  ❜

we’re so back!!! first neteyam drabble in a while…. i want nete to do this to me. pls, i beg 😩 tysm for requesting anon!!

pairing ; neteyam x fem!reader

summary ; neteyam could never stay too long away from you, especially when it comes to your tits.

themes ; explicit content: titty squeezing, illusions/mentions of p in v sex…

During the middle of the night, you almost always find the best comfort in the midnight breeze, the way the winds caress gently upon your skin and there’s nothing other than the forest-life around you to catch in your ears.

It’s why, more often than not, you find yourself sat in the middle of your tent, weaving random little things as you kept your mind occupied. Sometimes you struggled to succumb to sleep when your thoughts were so raging, and sometimes you sought out the idea of staying up later just so you could experience this.

There was something about being completely free with it all, too, of being vulnerable. You shared your tent with your mate, Neteyam, and after being mated now for years, there was nothing that couldn’t be shared between the two of you, nothing that could stop the love for one another.

So, going to sleep naked, and waking up and completing small chores before your day truly began, was normal for the two of you. It brought about a vulnerability that could only be shared between two mates than irrevocably loved one another. There were no fears, no insecurities - just pure, gentle love.

And, now, as time seemed to slow down just a little, soft caresses against your skin whilst you smoothly hummed your songcord to yourself, you didn’t take notice of the other noises shifting behind you.

Except, when a small grunt sounded out, extremely close to you, and then an entire figure sitting directly behind you, pulling you flush against his front did you realise what was happening. Neteyam had woken up and spotted your disappearance. He wasn’t clingy, per say, but one of his favourite things would always be to fall asleep with you tangled in his embrace, so unbelievably close, you simply couldn’t be two separate people.

That’s why you’re not entirely shocked when he presses you up against him, forcing his face between the dip of your neck, inhaling deeply. A soft chuckle escapes your lips at your mate’s antics, loving the feel of him being so clingy. You bring your hand up to caress the side of his face, inadvertently bringing him closer, whilst his own arms wrap themselves tight around your waist.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” You question, knowing that such a situation has occurred before. You hope it was the reason this time, as Neteyam needs to be up fairly early in the morning to meet his father.

A sigh breathes against the skin of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. “No,” he pauses, no doubt too sleepy to really understand his surroundings, “I missed you…”

His words resonated within you and cut deep within your core, wanting to tattoo them on your skin and never forget them. Still, even when they were so incredibly loving, you couldn’t help but laugh at him. “I haven’t been out of bed for long.”

“Still,” he’s adamant, squeezing you tighter within his embrace. Then, his fingers start dancing against your skin, sending gentle patterns along your stomach. They travel higher and higher at an agonisingly slow pace, until they’re so close to your chest, you can practically feel his phantom touches.

For a moment, you think he’s just teasing you like he loves to do to you, but it’s obvious how truly sleepy he is when he takes both of your boobs within his grasps, and squeezes them. Before you can help it, a soft moan falls from your lips, closing your eyes in bliss at his sudden actions. “You have the most perfect tits.”

His voice is nothing but husky and guttural now, full of both love and lust all for you. Your insides are churning, a knot that feels so unbelievably amazing forming at the bottom of your stomach. So badly do you want to give into him, but you know there’s a possibility he’ll regret it in the morning if he doesn’t get enough sleep.

“‘Teyam…” you start, wanting to sound confident and strong, but it comes out like you’re moaning his name. It’s obvious he’s enjoying himself, too, by the way he squeezes you tighter and a low growl sounds from the back of his throat. You swallow deeply, “‘Teyam, you need to be up in the morning…”

“That’s okay,” he whispers, now starting to pepper sultry kisses against the skin of your neck. “I don’t mind being a little late if it means I get to devour you whole, yawne (beloved)…”

Another moan sounds from your lips, and that’s when he knows you’re putty in his hands.

[rippersz]

𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

(Lilia Calderu x Fem!Witchy!Reader) (NSFW Themes; Mostly fluff) (~9.1k words)

You are Lilia Calderu's roommate. You celebrate Christmas. Also, you are so undeniably, completely, totally, hopelessly, unbelievably (but also very believably) in love with her. Poor you.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

You wanted her. 

You wanted her so bad. 

Since the very day you met her, you wanted her. 

You wanted to hold her hand. You wanted to kiss her. You wanted to wake up next to her. 

Was that a crazy thing to say? A crazy thing to think? To want your boss/roommate like you wanted your boss/roommate? Maybe. Probably. But no one ever said matters of the heart led down a road of sanity—so how on Earth could you be blamed? 

Short answer: You couldn’t.

Not when the woman you wanted was as wise, as intelligent, as kooky, as beautiful, as charming as Lilia Murgo Calderu. An interpreter of the divine - and to you, all divine within herself. 

Even when she’d just woken up, dreams still swimming behind her eyes, orange slippers on her feet as she shuffled around the kitchen. Even when she took her time brewing tea, fixing her hair, humming quietly to herself. Even when she looked up to acknowledge you with a good morning and a lazy wave of her hand, to which you always responded with a smile and a chuckle because honestly you found her early-morning demeanour to be quite endearing. Even with the bags under her hazel eyes and the exhaustion of a terrible night weighing on her shoulders. Even when she rarely slept peacefully and then spent the entire next day getting lost within her thoughts. Even when she screamed in her sleep, cried out for help, yelped from a phantom pain. You ran to her on those nights, practically flying out of your room to find her tossing and turning in her bed, and always stumbled in the dark over to her side. Even when she was overtaken by nightmares, by visions and ‘possessions’, by people speaking through her and people speaking to her. Even then, when she was at her most volatile, with golden wicks of magic sparking along her knuckles and her fingertips, still harnessing power in her dreams, you scrambled to take her hands. To hold them gently. To pry them from their fists and smooth them with your touches.

“Lilia,” you’d whisper, heart pounding and touch soft, “Lilia you have to wake up now, you’re going to hurt yourself sweetheart.” And by then, she’d already be mid-gasp, shooting up in bed, looking around the room wildly before settling on you. 

Always you. Always at her side. Always willing to help. Her assistant, her roommate, the young woman everyone saw her around town with. The one who, perhaps, understood her more than anyone ever had before. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Oooo,” you smiled, led by your nose through the door that separated the front of the shop from the back of the flat, whisked along easily by the smell of food. “This looks amazing..” 

The spoon poised to the right of the stove, already dirty with the tomato and meat from the cooking pasta, was quickly picked up by your hand and dipped back into the pot. 

“Lilia you are a godsend,” you whispered to yourself, bringing the spoon (heaped with bolognese) up to your mouth, already closing your eyes before anything could land on your tongue. 

“Aht!” A sharp voice cut through your bliss, followed by a small smack and sting on the back of your knuckles as the devil herself walked up to your side and hip-bumped you away from the stove. “No tasting before it’s ready!” She scolded, taking the spoon right out of your hold and pushing it back into the pasta to stir.

“Hey!” You protested instantly, lightly shoving her back as you pressed yourself to her side and looked over the pot. She was warm, soft, and you felt your heart jump at the scent of her bourbon and wildflower perfume. “Gimme some now,” you teased, reaching over her for the spoon. 

“Can’t you wait for five minutes!?” Lilia said loudly, shooting you a glare out of the corner of her eye as she moved her body and elbowed you away again. 

“Ow- that hurt!” You cradled your belly. It didn’t, not at all, but you loved to add fuel to the fire. 

Unfortunately, the fire had all the fuel she needed. “Good!” Lilia quipped, putting the spoon back into place in its holder, “I’m glad!” 

You tried hard to hide the smile on your lips and the desperate giggles that wanted to fly out, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

“So mean to me…,” came your laughter-laden lament as you moved to the table in the centre of the room. “Making me set the table, too.” You shook your head and let out a sigh that was much too loud, exaggerating the mope in your shoulders and the dragging of your feet while you moved around the room to get bowls and cutlery. “This is illegal, I think.” 

A snort came from the stove, making you glance up just in time to see the smirk on red lips before she turned her head away to the spice cabinet. “Oh yeah? Who you gonna call? Ghostbusters?” 

“The police.” You set the bowls down quietly and gave her a scoffing ‘duh’ to follow up. 

“Oh please.” Lilia shook her head, sending grey and silver curls swishing around her neck, “The police will take one look at you and give you back.” 

You paused at the drawer, a fork already in your hand, and whipped around with a gasp. “Did you just call me ugly?” You looked quite affronted, mouth agape, eyebrows furrowed, one foot already pointed out to tap rapidly on the floor. 

“Is that what I said?” She shot back, spinning in her place to give you a look in return. Eyebrows raised, tone sarcastic, casting beautiful coffee eyes over the length of your body to prove her point. In the face of that gaze, intense in all its flawless effort, you had to control the sudden hot feeling that spread across your cheeks.

“That’s what I gathered,” you pointed out, sheepish beneath the weight of her full attention, and ducked your head to rifle through the drawer, “And you like to imply things.” You bumped it shut when you found another fork. 

“Oh yeah?” Lilia huffed. “Well you like to accuse. So put that in your pipe.”

“And smoke it.” You spat, smiling.

“Exactly!” 

The two of you laughed, creating a joyful harmony as you finished setting up the table and went to turn down some of the lights. Lilia, in the meanwhile, added the finishing touches to the pasta and donned tarot-themed oven mitts (which you gifted her last year for Christmas after her others were accidentally set on fire) to carry the pot to its trivet. 

“Careful,” came your soft call as you double-checked the lock on the flat door. 

“Hmm,” Lilia hummed, slipping the mitts off and throwing them on the countertop. “Come sit, I’m starving.” 

“Shoulda cooked earlier then,” you teased, practically skipping over to the table to pull out her chair. 

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” she waved her hand and rolled her eyes before taking her seat, falling into your familiar routine.

It was your pleasure, above anything and everything else in life, to make Lilia Calderu’s days as smooth and bright as possible. You made breakfast, you helped clean up, you always pulled out her chair for her and always beat her to the dishes, and at night, you turned down the lights before heading off to your own room. It was small, decorated to suit you, and totally unnecessary. You’d insisted in the beginning of your stay that Lilia have it instead, because it had a door and was less open-spacey, but she brushed it off and said that she was already comfortable in her little pull-out bed. You didn’t enjoy the thought of it, not with the way her back hurt sometimes, but it was nothing a good spot of healing tea couldn’t fix—or so she claimed. You also learned early on that Lilia was neat, careful, and entirely against rushing. She did not like to rush. Nor did she like to argue, or raise her voice when angry, or get angry in the first place. And she didn’t like sleeping in too much and she didn’t like cold showers and she didn’t like when you didn’t respond to her texts (which happened maybe two times and both times you got an earful). But you never minded the things she didn’t like. You made sure to work on time-management, to avoid rushing, and you never got angry with her, only frustrated, and you never yelled at her (because you were quite sure that you’d rather be stabbed then ever do so), and you woke her up before her late alarm and only let her sleep in if she had a rough night, and you never used too much of the hot water, and you kept your phone ringer on whenever you left the shop, and all of the things she needed you to make space for, you did. You gave her privacy, you gave her an ear, a shoulder, you gave her gifts and you gave her attention and you gave her banter and jokes and stability and routine and beneath it all, every time you smiled at her, every time you both sat down in the armchairs to read your books, every time you stayed up late to listen to her rant about the world’s offences against witches, you were also giving her your heart. 

Happily, gladly, giving her your heart. 

“My compliments to the chef,” you grinned as you took your spot opposite her, putting your napkin on your lap as though you were in a fancy restaurant. 

“Mm, let me know if it’s too salty,” she ran her tongue over her teeth before grabbing your bowl, sliding it closer, and starting to dish up. 

You couldn’t help the way you looked at her, keeping one elbow on the table, holding your chin with the cup of your hand, admiring the way she moved. There was a specialness to it, a gracefulness found only in someone like Lilia. Even the way she put homemade pasta into your bowl, even the way she gave you a hefty helping, to make sure you ate properly, and even the way she slid it back to you with a small smile. The way the dim lights darkened her eyes, the way she focused on her own food, the way she shifted to get comfortable. 

Your heart felt just about ready to burst from your chest. 

“It’s perfect,” was the only thing you could say after you had your first bite; a common phrase in your combined household because Lilia was a fantastic cook. 

“Eh. Not bad,” she shrugged, but after her first bowl was finished, you smirked as you watched her grab another helping. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

At first, living together was a bit awkward. 

You were still a juvenile witch, having learned as much as you could from your previous mentor before she suggested Lilia as a continued source of help; and the last thing you expected when stumbling into Madame Calderu’s for the first time was the key to a future filled with the best of fortunes. You never got your palm read, never had her look into a crystal ball for you and pretend to know dead relatives, but still you were certain—your future was the best future one could have. There was a roof over your head, food at your table, books at your fingertips, and Lilia Calderu at your side. There was nothing more to want. 

Though in the beginning, that wasn’t the case. 

You tiptoed around her as though you were scared she was going to smite you down with all the power of the Divine Mother if you stepped out of line. You were the quietest, kindest, most endearing soul you could ever be—all in an effort to avoid being thrown out on your ass. But when you recognised Lilia’s way of living, how some larger part of her didn’t seem to really mind your presence at all, you began to settle. You lingered in shared spaces, you asked both the boring and exciting questions, and the tension in your shoulders faded. Sleeping came easier, smiling was instinct, and when you heard Lilia laugh at one of your jokes for the first time, you knew there was nothing in the world that could take you away from her home. 

Her home which eventually became yours, but which would always be hers no matter what she claimed. 

It was Lilia’s flat, your presence. 

It was Lilia’s life, you tagging along. 

It was Lilia’s heart, you left at the outskirts, mingling with the other acquaintances and friends (not that there were many, but still. Not in the inner circle of Lilia’s Inferno.) 

And in your life, in your heart, she was at the very centre, embedded in everything you did. 

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“Merry Christmas!!” Your excited yell bounced off the walls, obnoxiously loud and announcing your entrance before you skated into the living room in fuzzy socks and holiday-themed pyjamas. 

The only answer that greeted you was a low gravelly groan, muffled by the press of Lilia’s face into her sheets. And on top of her head, squishing her beloved curls? A pillow. 

“Wake up now, Madame Calderu! It’s time to celebrate!” You sang, taking in the air of your shared flat. 

It was decorated beautifully, with lights along the cabinets, a fake purple tree in the corner, and other little festive trinkets you found in thrift shops, dotted around any flat surface there was. Dancing snowmen, a penguin with an ‘I love you’ sign (a symbol of your devotion, as subtle as you could make it), two stockings hung on the wall beside the tree, each of your initials sewn into the fabric. And on the tree itself? Colour-changing lights, baubles and plastic decor, some in the shapes of stars, others in the shapes of the moon’s phases, a few depicting typical witchy symbols (a hat, a little witch on a broom, two that were painted like tarot cards. The Lovers and The World.) Beneath it, there was a red and white tree skirt, fuzzy and dotted with little purple faux-pines, and on top of that, forming a little neat pile, were a few gift-wrapped presents. It was the most wonderful, heart-warming, heart-wrenching thing you had ever seen. You could spot the ones you picked out for Lilia, the gifts you spent so long thinking about, and noticed a few days before Christmas morning that she had matched each one with a wrapped present of her own. The contrast couldn’t have been more obvious; hers were all clad in some shimmery blue iridescent paper you’d never seen before in your life and yours were dressed up in a matte red and brown pattern that repeated the scene of a little bear in a Santa hat reading a book. 

You didn’t expect the presents to be there, in fact you didn’t really expect anything from her at all, and yet there they sat, adding to your pile of four. Four gifts for her and then, because she really was the softest person at heart, four gifts for you. As a thank you that evening, you’d made dinner - sweet potato chilli and slices of fresh bread. She loved it, but still you felt that a simple meal wasn’t a big enough show of gratitude. 

Christmas morning pancakes, however, would make a stunning addition to the ‘thank you’ list, especially as they were Lilia’s favourite. Two with chocolate chips and two with blueberries (though you always made at least one extra of each just in case). And beside that, a mug of herbal tea and beside that, a mug of hot chocolate. You were dead silent as you worked, trying hard to give the resident witch at least a few more minutes of peaceful sleep before you woke her up for a proper celebration. It was hard to contain the excitement, the lightning in your veins as you anticipated the rest of the day. The company, the warmth, the movies you’d watch, the books you’d read. The shop was closed, partly because the roads were full of unpaved snow, but also because you were not going to be waiting for customers on Christmas Day. You wouldn’t allow it, and eventually Lilia agreed. It was unlikely anyone would go looking for a palm reading anyway, not in that chill. Plus they all had other things to do as well, like spend time with family and cuddle up with their kids and their lovers and hold their wives and drink wine with their lovers and their wives and eat biscuits with their wives and kiss their wives and open gifts with their beautiful wives and ugh! Well. 

There were still gifts to open, gifts that you’d cherish no matter what they were. Even if Lilia got you the most basic things, like socks or a new body lotion or a water bottle, you’d wear them every day, you’d put it all over your hands, you’d never drink from anything else ever again. To even be in her busy head enough to receive a gift felt like an honour, and that was such a strange sentiment for someone you loved, putting her on a pedestal, but you were past the point of caring. Lilia Calderu was no perfect woman, you knew that more than anyone, but she wasn’t trying to be. Her kindness was taught, learned, maintained, and you weren’t sure which Gods you pleased enough to deserve it, but not a day went by where her care was overlooked. So all you could do was return the favour. 

“Merry Christmas indeed,” came a sudden rumbling purr over your shoulder, husky with sleep and tinged with amusement as Lilia shuffled her way up to the counter. 

You gave her a glance, taking in the robe around her shoulders, the colourful pattern of her nightgown, the slippers on her feet, and the sweet smirk on her lips, and could only smile when the heavy weight of her head leaned itself against your shoulder. Her curls tickled your neck a little, tied up as they were, but you had no complaints. She was warm, comforting, and still a bit tired. You would always be her headrest if that’s what she needed.

“Did you sleep well?” It was compulsory for you to ask, a habit you fell into as soon as you felt comfortable in the flat. Checking on Lilia was a common occurrence, though you only asked about sleep after she went through the night without waking up in a fit. The evening before had been quiet, so you had high hopes.

“Like a babe. What about you?” And that was the typical response, bringing a soft smile to your lips as you slid the mug of tea over to her. 

“Likewise, though I fell asleep to a delightful little playlist called Lilia’s snoring.” 

She gasped. “How dare you? I do not snore.” Wide coffee eyes looked at you, shocked, and one hand, devoid of decorative rings, playfully swiped at your arm. “Maybe you were hearing your own.” Lilia sassed before she hid her growing smirk behind her mug.

“Oh yeah right,” you rolled your eyes, moving away to shimmy the last pancake onto the small stack. “Let’s just go with that.” 

Lilia snorted and took her chance then to dip into the bathroom, still intent on completing her morning routine before eating. You got to setting the table, putting the pancakes on each plate and the rest on a separate one off to the side, placing Lilia’s favourite fork and knife beside her dish (they were made for her a while ago, complete with engraved gems and smoothed symbols, the only surviving two out of a full set), and completed the table with your mugs. It looked a bit romantic, as it always did when it was just the two of you sitting at your little kitchen table, but over the course of your time together, neither of you mentioned it. Once, in the beginning of your routine, you lit a candle and placed it in the centre of the table arrangement, and promptly promised yourself never to do so again. For as soon as Lilia sat down, embraced by the flame’s flickering light and short warmth, you felt your cheeks grow hot. She looked unbelievably handsome that evening, meeting smouldering eyes over the candlelight, showing off the shadows of her wizened face, and you were overcome with the distinct desire to lunge across the table and kiss her senseless. 

Fortunately for your friendship, you never did. And unfortunately for your friendship, the urge to do so only got worse. From kissing to holding, from holding to loving, from loving to fucking. You couldn’t help yourself, couldn’t control the flutter of your heart, but there was nothing to be done. Lilia was your roommate, your mentor, the woman who laughed with you and cried with you and consoled you when you were on your period and needed a shoulder. She wasn’t the woman you kissed or the woman you held or the woman you fucked and in all seriousness, you knew that she probably never would be. And although that thought came with its own sense of pain, its own sorrow and bone-breaking ache, it was also followed by relief. If you weren’t close enough for that, then you weren’t close enough to break each other’s hearts. So there was no need to fear, no need to worry, and if ever there came a day where Lilia found someone to be with her for good, then you would be happy. You would be happy. For her, for the woman you found yourself loving, you would be happy.

And speak of the witch, the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, followed by soft footsteps, broke you out of your staring contest with the counter. 

“Thank you for breakfast,” she said airily, fresh-faced with a small bit of makeup, a spritz of perfume, and a better style for her unruly curls. You nodded, almost in a bow, as you slid her seat out for her and gently pushed her back in. 

“It’s always my pleasure. Especially today.” You knew your eyes were shining, pouring with Christmas glee, but Lilia didn’t seem to mind the excitement. 

Ever since the beginning of December rolled around, she’d been happy to help you decorate. She took the time to hang lights with you, standing on the tips of her toes to give you the string as you circled it around the tree, then she spent the second evening of her December dotting it with decorations, inspecting the ornaments and baubles as she went, and she even bought a wreath to hang from the inside of the front door. You felt as though your heart was going to crawl out of your chest, it was so full of light and love. And at the end of the evening, when she affixed the Triple Goddess’ symbol to the top of your purple tree instead of an angel, and whispered a quick, happy, “Four of Wands” to you when she settled back on her feet, you couldn’t help but wrap her up in a hug. If that’s what her heart told her, if that’s what the divine whispered, an upright Four of Wands, then who were you to dictate? The higher powers were more right that evening than they had ever been before: in that moment, everything was Four of Wands. 

And while you ate a silent breakfast across from Lilia Calderu, enjoying the warmth and taste of your meal, taking in the slight chill of the morning and the beautiful image of her lounging in her nightie and robe, everything felt like Four of Wands all over again.

“You know I didn’t expect you to get me anything,” you finally murmured, hiding your eyes as you sipped from your mug. “It wasn’t supposed to be an eye for an eye sort of thing.” 

Lilia finished her bite, licked the side of her mouth, and raised an eyebrow. “So you expected me to be the only one opening gifts on Christmas morning? I don’t even celebrate Christmas. Why would I leave you empty handed?” 

You shrugged, already feeling the beginnings of warmth taking over your cheeks. You knew she didn’t celebrate - and technically you weren’t inclined to do so either, but the holiday cheer always got to you. And she had been so patient, going along with your joy. “I just assumed- I dunno…. We didn’t do it for each other the past two years, and exactly. You don’t celebrate. So I hope you know that just because I got you things-”

“Wait wait wait wait, stop right there.” Lilia cut you off, waving her hands a little bit, forcing your avoidant eyes from your plate up to her face. Her expression was strange, serious mixed with a distinct shadow of outrage, brick-red lips set into a frown; but behind her chocolate eyes? All you could see was warmth. “Before you even go any further, I’ll have you know that I did not feel obligated to get you Christmas presents just because you got some for me, and I certainly didn’t do it because I felt sympathetic.” 

You opened your mouth, ready to interrupt, but were quickly shut down by a held-up palm and a stern look. Your jaw clicked shut.

“I did it because I wanted to.” She held your eyes. “I did it because I didn’t want you to be celebrating alone and although it has been a long time since I last celebrated the holidays, I have to tell you that this has been very nice.” Lilia nodded at you, her lips tilting up into a smile, and she watched with delight as you couldn’t help but mirror it. “It’s been nice, right?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, resisting the urge to shyly duck away, “yeah it’s been nice.” 

“And that is precisely why I did it. Because this is the kind of atmosphere every home should have,” she spread her hands out, breaking away to look around your living room with pride and care, taking in the purposefully mis-coloured tree, the lights and ornaments, the gifts, the holiday trinkets, the stockings, the sight of your books mixed with her books in the shelf, your shoes next to her shoes by the front door, your notes stuck to the fridge, your handwriting on the wall calendar, the TV you bought a little while ago, the paintings you hung up, the food that you made for her and dished for her and placed beside her favourite knife and fork, the drinks you prepared, the look in your eyes… And when she brought her attention back to you then, you almost cracked right in half when she leaned forward as though she were going to tell you a secret and said, in a playful whisper with a smirk on her face, “And there is no other person I would rather celebrate with.” 

You were so thankful she couldn’t read minds. 

“Okay?” She nodded as a reassurance and you returned it without hesitation. 

“Okay. Thank you…,” you breathed, shuddery and annoying, so out of tune, but when she looked at you in the way she did, when she spoke so gently, so firmly, you simply weren’t sure how you could’ve regained your footing sooner. “I- I appreciate it.” 

“I know you do,” Lilia was smug as she leaned back in her seat and crossed one leg over the other while she finished her breakfast.

“Shut up.” 

The response you got was a near-silent huff of laughter. 

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

“Okay! Stocking first or presents?” 

You stood in the middle of the room and Lilia sat in the blue armchair, nursing another brewed mug of hot chocolate. You hadn’t taken the chance to change, insisting that Christmas morning gifts were always unwrapped while still in your pyjamas, and Lilia had inclined her head to tell you that the reins were yours before she got cuddled into her seat.

“Let’s start with the big guns. Presents.” 

You nodded, still managing to somehow follow orders, and swiftly crouched beneath the tree, then carefully picked up all four gifts for Lilia and shuffled back to her on your knees. 

“Your gifts, m’lady.” 

“Why thank you,” she smiled, looked down at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, stroking the fire in your heart, and put her mug off to the side before holding her hands out and taking the wrapped presents into her lap. They weren’t very big, one of them wasn’t even a box, so she had no trouble balancing as you quickly turned around to grab your own. 

“Right,” once you were settled at her feet on the floor, cross-legged and acutely aware of how close you were, you set the boxes down in front of you and clapped your hands. “You go first, then me, then you, then me. Deal?” 

“What if I want you to go first?” One dark eyebrow raised, adding to the wicked pleasure of a dark-lipped smirk, and you instantly tried playing off your fluster with a shrug. 

“Then I will. Is that what you’d like, Madame Calderu?” Only used in moments of teasing, you enjoyed seeing the slight pink that went to Lilia’s cheeks as she heard you use her unofficial official title. Despite it being the name of her shop, it was rare that a customer addressed her as so. In time then, she only came to associate it with you. 

“Yeah, why not,” Lilia shrugged, and you instantly picked up the first gift nearest to you. 

“Can I shake it?” You grinned.

“If you’re interested in breaking things, be my guest.” 

“Mmm, no thank you,” came your little murmur as you carefully (trying to hide your eagerness) undid the wrapping. It was a long box, thin, and as the gift was revealed and the paper fell off to the floor, you felt your heart stutter. Clearly, it was jewellery. And clearly, you had to open it. But the front caught your eye, stalling you, and you took in the small golden cursive L. with interest. “Did you make this?” You whispered, shifting the box to hold it like precious gems. 

“Open it first, ask questions later,” you didn’t have to look up to know she was smiling, so you did what was desired. 

The top came off with little resistance and suddenly you were looking down at a necklace. A familiar necklace. Familiar and yet different. Made of smaller beads with similar colours, more delicate and fitting to your less loud aesthetic, but with the same rectangular shaped pendant in the centre. You nearly folded yourself in half looking closer, feeling your heart in your throat when you recognized that yes, it was like Lilia’s, but it wasn’t meant to be a replica - it was meant to match. Two hands against a white background hovered above and below a sun with an open eye, fitting the same mould, but Lilia’s hands were an iridescent blue-green, the top one pointing down from the right and the bottom pointing palm-up from the left. Yours was in complete contrast. A deep blue background, opal coloured hands, the top one pointing down from the left, the bottom pointing up from the right, and the sun in the middle was not a sun at all but a full moon, painted white, the eye’s iris a dark midnight blue. It was perfect in a way you could not even voice, hand-crafted with so much care, and you looked up at Lilia as though she herself had the bright idea to create the sun and moon and hang them both in the sky. 

“I- this is- Lilia…,” you swallowed, glancing at the necklace resting against her chest before looking down at its partner in your hands. “Holy shit, Lilia.” 

“Here, let me help you put it on.” She flapped her hands to gesture you forward and forward you went, placing the box aside and taking the necklace out with the gentlest touch. When you turned and she slung it around your neck, the jewellery was cold, but her hands were warm, and in seconds you were suddenly matching with the woman you loved. 

“...I feel like I’m part of your coven now,” you whispered while looking down, stroking it with reverence. 

“Ha!” Lilia cackled, her smile brighter than fresh snow in the sun. “You don’t want to be part of my coven, kiddo,” she took a sip of her tea. 

A very mean, insecure voice in the pit of your mind hissed at the sound of that nickname. It always incited a wild, twisting fire inside you. You hated to be reminded of your age, of the differences between you, because it always served as a symbol of what could never be. Coming to terms with unrequited love was one thing, but having the reason why it was unrequited spoken to your face so boldly, even without intent to do so, was a different beast entirely. You could handle the sadness when not reminded of its roots, but a quick ‘kiddo’ or ‘kid’ or reference to age spoken from Lilia’s lips had you instantly defensive. Of course you never showed it, never in front of her, but that didn’t mean the punch to your psyche didn’t hurt like a bitch. 

“Yes, I do.” You insisted, moving the opened box and wrapping paper out of the way. “Of course I do. Lilia Calderu’s coven? Sign me the fuck up right now.” 

She huffed, put her mug down, and turned back to her own gifts. “Shall I?” 

“You shall.” 

The first one she picked up was the squishy one, soft and medium sized, and you delighted in the way her brows furrowed as she pressed it between her fingers. Three seconds later, when the paper was torn off (just as gently as you did it, you noted), a small gasp, followed by a rich laugh, filled the air. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Lilia grinned as she picked up the oven mitts and slipped them onto her hands. It was a cute addition to your running joke. Only a few months before that moment, Lilia had somehow accidentally set her old oven mitts on fire. Bright flame and all. It was a miracle how you got there just before the smoke detectors went off and managed to throw the things outside before dousing them in water. They were still on her hands too! You’d nearly had a heart attack, staring at her with eyes so wide it gave you a headache as you ignored the half-charred mitts and held her palms. Lilia insisted she was okay as you inspected them, but she never pulled away and she didn’t protest when you asked her to please run them under cold water for a few minutes. Since then, the only ‘oven mitts’ she had were dish towels and every time you meant to buy replacements, you procrastinated or you forgot. That simply wouldn’t do—thus, the tarot card themed oven mitts she had on her hands, waving them around and pinching her thumb to her fingers with satisfaction. 

“These are lovely. Thank you,” her voice was liquid gold with gratitude as she finally slipped them off and gently set them on the table, giving them a pat for good measure. 

“Yeah, I thought you might have needed some,” you smirked and gladly accepted the small playful slipper-covered kick you got to the knee. “Now my turn again.” 

The next gift was softer than a box, but shaped like one, with a weird hard lump on the front, and once you got the wrapping paper off, your face almost split in half with the width of your smile. 

“This looks so beautiful, oh my god,” your left hand stroked and fiddled with the pendant at your neck, holding it as a newfound comfort while your right hand explored the leather-bound notebook you found in your lap. The lump you felt on the front was a sewn-in gem, coloured gold and orange, and you felt warm with the thought that it reminded you so much of Lilia’s magical tint. “Thank you Lilia.. I promise you it won’t go to waste.” 

Her eyes were shining proudly when you looked up at her, and you noticed the quick glance away from your collarbone to the book in your lap. She must have thought the necklace was just as beautiful as you did. 

“It better not, or I’ll take it back,” she teased, humming a soft sound of agreement as you marvelled at the fraying, fabric pages. 

“No chance. Now open your next one, please.” The notebook was gently set aside after you re-clasped the metal hinge. 

As Lilia picked up one of the smaller boxes, harder than the oven mitts, and began unwrapping, you briefly wondered about what you were going to put in the new journal. There were no lines, so it was perfect for sketching, but at the same time you hadn’t kept a diary in so long and it was the perfect opportunity, accompanied by the most perfect feeling. Making use of something a loved one had given you. And you would make use of it, without a doubt you would. 

“Is this a book of spells?” Lilia asked, turning the little brown book over in her hands with a furrowed brow and a confused smile. 

You straightened up and shuffled closer to her knees, practically putting your chin in her lap when you excitedly reached up to hold it open for her. “That’s exactly what it is, yes. I had to get a bit of help from Elise, but…,” you bit your lip, suddenly shy at all the effort you’d put into contacting your mentor. She agreed to help because she loved you, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t teased, and as you looked up at Lilia then, staring into dark enchanting eyes, you felt a blush roll over your cheeks. “...It’s um- it’s little obscure spells. For like cleaning and mending and things. I think there’s one in there for even stitching stars? Just stars? And a few others. Shining copper, cleaning lipstick off of glass…,” you trailed off, watching as Lilia hummed and took the book from you again. 

She took a moment to flip through the pages and read the small descriptions, taking the time to react to each one in kind. And when she got to the end, going a bit faster in her perusing, she suddenly stopped. You paused just as she paused and watched, with confusion, as her eyebrows promptly shot up.

“You think I need an.. ‘overstimulating orgasm’?” 

….

“Excuse me?” 

You went still. 

Lilia’s eyes bounced from you to the page and back again before she turned it around on her lap, nonverbally forcing you to read it. 

And there, in your mentor’s handwriting, were the cursive words, “Spell for a Very Special Feeling”. 

And beneath it, in smaller print:

‘Do your wrists ever get tired? Your hands? Are you eager for a satisfying night in? A chance to really release your frustrations without doing the work yourself? I know just the spell.

Completing the steps below will result in a release like no other. It will burn, it will feel painful, but the pleasure will override the ache and in no time at all, you will find yourself feeling delightfully… overstimulated. No tiring hours of doing it yourself! No chickening out! Give it a try maybe once. Or twice. As many times as your body can take.’ 

And a diagram showing hand movements, followed by a chant to go along with it. 

That motherfucker!

“Judging by your expression, I’m guessing you didn’t look through this thoroughly before you wrapped it for me?” Lilia smirked, cheeks growing pinker the longer you stared at the writing in complete and utter shock. 

It took you a good second to react and then another two seconds to respond. You were quick to reach out and grab the book, wanting to look through it properly to avoid any other utterly embarrassing miscommunications, but Lilia yanked it back before you could. 

“Too late,” she shook her head, and you floundered. 

“N-no! That is not supposed to say that, I swear. I would never- that- Elise wrote them all! I approved them! I don’t even know how- why-” 

Lilia raised one of her palms, cutting your sentence right in half, and you fell quiet as she smiled. 

“She must’ve slipped it in. I think she’s trying to tell me something,” the book went flipping back and forth between her palms and you sighed. 

“I’m really sorry about that, oh my god. It was just supposed to be a cute little gift.” 

“And it is,” Lilia insisted, snapping the book shut with a smirk. “Don’t feel embarrassed. It’s only natural.” You felt something in you shiver when she winked and desperately tried pulling yourself together when she turned to put the little book on the side table. 

Dwelling on the moment, now matter how enticing the idea sounded, was not a very good decision to make. You couldn’t afford to get distracted or blush too hard, but dear lord it seemed to be an impossible feat - especially with the image of Lilia in your head. Panting, blushing, hands gripping her sheets… the same hands, soft hands, with delicate wrinkles and perfect nails, just the right length and just the right width and so deceptively strong, no matter how feminine they seemed… the same hands she used to do her sewing, her cooking, her readings, her hair… the same hands she used to thread two fingers through the curve of her mug’s handle… oh in much the same way you wished they could curve into- no. 

No. 

You wrenched your eyes away, declining the draw of lust, and picked up the next gift on autopilot. As you tried emptying your head, the wrapping paper fell apart under your wandering hands, and soon you were staring down at what seemed to be a box of tarot cards. A very unique box of tarot cards with unique drawings, sequences, and detailing - art nouveau inspired. One of your favourites. 

“I don’t have this set yet…,” you breathed, drifting your fingertips over the glossy cover of the box like it was your Bible. 

“I know.” She hummed, still drinking from her hot chocolate, watching you with curiosity.  

Tarot set collecting somehow became your combined hobby over the years, although your preferences differed so as to not have any duplicates. Lilia had a set she used only for the shop, one that didn’t hold the same sentimental value as the few others she had, and you displayed your decks on the empty surface of your dresser. Lilia rarely got new ones, she was quite connected to the five that she already had, they all held different meanings, and you only enjoyed splurging when you saw ones that were really incredible. Your next gift was a surprise for Lilia, it would bump her deck number up to six, and you smiled softly as you slid the top off of the decorative box and swiftly counted the cards as the tenth addition to your collection. 

“These are gorgeous. Where did you get them?” You couldn’t tear your eyes away. 

“A witch never tells,” Lilia put two fingers to her pursed lips and though you didn’t look up to see it, you still huffed at her words. 

“Well can a witch accept a thank you?” 

“She can,” your roommate acquiesced, giving you a heartfelt “You’re welcome” when you thanked her on the spot. 

“I will say I think you and I had the same idea,” you admitted when Lilia got around to opening her next gift. She raised quizzical eyebrows as she looked down at the box in her hands, and you watched with glee as her lips parted in surprise. “We know each other so well.” 

“It appears we do…,” she murmured low beneath her breath before she tossed the wrapping paper down to you and gave the box a proper look.

It was medium sized, wooden, hand painted, and carved. On the front, there was a rather uncanny all-black cameo of Lilia’s side profile. It was perfect, from the shelf of her brow to the distinct curve of her nose down to the gentle slope of her neck, and it was front and centre in the painted format of a tarot card. At the bottom were two words written in your pen, ‘The Divine’. And at all four corners, little details of the sun, moon, Saturn, and stars. Lilia was quiet as she opened the hinged lid, and then she gasped as she came face to face with The Empress. It took her less than a second to realise what you’d done. Her gaze shifted quickly, from every individual stroke to every mark and design, from every corner signature to every line. With slow movements, pouring with awe, The Empress was quickly pushed to the back as Lilia slipped the entire stack out of the box and began fanning them with her fingertips. Her touch was delicate, hovering as she traced outlines and ran her thumb along the curves of the cards. 

“Hand painted,” she said softly and you looked from her to the deck and back again with a nod and a smile. 

“Do you like them?” You didn’t really have to ask, you knew she did, but some part of you was always nervous whenever you did something nice for your roommate. You had to toe the line carefully, balancing being platonic and being romantic, and gifts were, at times, a difficult thing to interpret. You wanted her to enjoy them, to find use in them, to keep them for the rest of her long life just as she had with a bunch of her other souvenirs. If ever she had to leave, flee, or travel somewhere without you, you hoped that she would stop to pack them in with her things first. Or better yet, use them for special occasions. Times where she could tell people that she got that deck of tarot cards from a young woman she once knew, a woman she thought of often with fondness. Maybe a woman who could become her wife one day, though it was such a silly thought you could only shake it out of your head.

“Yes, I like them,” Lilia breathed, eyes still hungrily devouring the details. She looked quite impressed. “These are beautifully done. Thank you.” Her smile felt like a hug around your shoulders when she peered down at you. 

“Oh I- of course…,” you said shyly, resisting the urge to bow your head or look away, and her smile only grew as she turned back to her new deck and began realigning them. You watched her for a moment, seeing her care and appreciation in the way she handled them like fine china, and it was only when the box made a light clink against the side table that you finally snapped out of it.

“Why don’t we open the last ones together?” You suggested, perking up with a renewed sense of interest. The last gift was your personal favourite as it contained the most magic, and since you had yet to find your own physical form of the craft, like Lilia’s golden whisps, it was also the most time consuming. Laborious magic was a true pain in the ass, but you had a little help from your mentor and in only a few days, the gift was complete. You prayed the witch in front of you enjoyed it. 

“Good idea,” she put the wooden box to the side and picked up the last gift.

You mirrored her, then watched as both of you worked at the wrapping paper and revealed your last gifts. 

In your hand, a small unassuming brown box. In Lilia’s, a long Tiffany-blue box. You shared a look and in unison, slid the tops off.

Inside the box, nestled in a soft foam mould, was a simple, smooth, shining Black Tourmaline. It was about the size of the dip in your palm and when you picked it up, your hand dropped just a bit with the weight. You glanced up at Lilia, meeting her eyes over the ledge of her knees, and smiled in confusion. 

“This is gorgeous, but why is it so heavy?” You laughed, holding the gemstone like gold as you slid it between your palms and ran your fingers over the smooth surface. 

“Turn it around,” she responded as she looked down at her own gift and hummed, moving to gently take it out of its own foam mould as though it was made of glass. 

“Oh… woah…” On the other side was an engraving. A symbol. Seven points to a complex star. You’d seen glimpses of it in various books over the years, but it wasn’t among the most common signs in witchcraft, so you never paid it any proper attention. Clearly, to Lilia, you should’ve. 

“It’s a Heptagram. In many religions, its existence is overwhelmingly positive,” Lilia said offhandedly, eyes still glued to her own gift, “and this…,” she twirled it in her fingers, face glimmering with the way the sun shone through the kitchen curtains and caught the light off of one of the shining little bunches, “is a bouquet of hemlock stuck in stasis.” Her vision readjusted, moving past the green of the stems to you, sitting in direct view behind them. You watched as the film of magic made the bunch glow. From certain angles, it seemed as though it stood beneath shining stained glass, casting reds, oranges, yellows, blues, purples, greens, pinks, and whites all in various shades.

“I knew it was a bit on the nose, but it can’t hurt you unless you decide to eat it,” you explained, “Elise helped me cast the spell. It will be like that forever, I’m pretty sure. That’s why it’s shimmering. Pretty, isn’t it?” You smiled, running your fingers over your new stone aimlessly. 

“It’s perfect,” Lilia said warmly, tilting her head with a sweet smile on her face. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” You rushed out, chest almost heaving with the weight of her affection “Now are you going to tell me the meaning behind this stone?” You asked and held it up before your eye, symbol facing her. 

“It’s a protective ward. Throughout the ages, it has come to mean different things to different believers, but I focused my energy into divine protection. As long as it’s with you, anyone with bad intentions will turn the other way,” she explained in her teacher voice, speaking matter-of-factly.

You blinked at her. 

She looked entirely unbothered, maybe a little bit proud, as if it was just another one of her lessons. As if she did something like that for everyone, everyday. 

“Or that’s what it’s supposed to do,” Lilia rolled her eyes and swung her head to the side as she picked up her mug again, “but I’m certain I got it right.” 

Oh. Right. Of course. As if it was just another one of her lessons. Like a Christmas Day lesson. Like perhaps it was no big deal. Like maybe it wasn’t a true feat of magic, no matter how small the gem. Like protection wasn’t that hard. Like it wasn’t genuinely the kindest thing anyone had ever done for you. Ever. And like you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life, which you would, of course, cuz you’d hold the thing in your pocket, in your hand, you’d sew it into your skin, if it meant you wouldn’t lose it. 

Not that you could, you decided. No. You’d have it forever. You’d keep it until death, considering that’s what Lilia wanted. Your safety. Your protection. She went as far as to pick out a gem for you, went through the time of making it compact enough, smooth enough, and spent lord knows how long carving the symbol into its surface. Then continued to cast on it, doubling the chance of success, tripling the strength. For your protection. For your survival. Because she cared. Lilia Calderu cared. And you knew she did, so you weren’t sure why tears started to prick at your eyes, but it wasn’t like she noticed anyway.

She was too focused on her hemlock, admiring it still with a pleasant smile on her lips, and you watched her lick the hot chocolate from her mouth and put her mug down before you sprang into action. 

You hadn’t even realised that’s what you’d been waiting for, why you hesitated, but the second her hands were empty and you felt the warmth of her body press into your own, it made sense. That’s what you craved. That’s what you always missed. The subtle buzz in your body, calling as if it were without something, begging for a concept you knew nothing off, went quiet. Like a switch being turned off. Your hands tucked themselves beneath her arms and went winding up to her back, splaying out with the stone squished gently in between your left hand and her pyjamas. Of course that’s what you wanted. Lilia. Always Lilia. She still smelled so lovely, like the sweet perfume of your home and the lemon of her shampoo, and you shuddered as you felt a soft puff of breath along your neck. Jesus, you melted for her. Like ice in the sun. Like butter in a pan. Warm with love, with sunlight, and you felt as though you could soak her up forever. You could stay there, nearly collapsing at the feel of her arms running up to curl along the curve of your back, forever.

“Thank you Lilia,” you whispered into her ear, sounding shuddery and frail as those sweet hands patted you once, twice, so warm and so calming. Her arms squeezed gently, nonverbally returning the sentiment, and you felt weak. “Thank you…” 

A minute passed, then she shifted and pulled you a bit closer. 

“Merry Christmas, honey,” Lilia murmured, red lips so close to your skin you swore you could feel the brush of them. The pull of them. Like maybe she wanted them to be there. 

What a silly thought. 

“Merry Christmas, Madame Calderu,” you replied, just as softly, and grinned with joy as her shoulders began to jump with happy quiet laughter.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

The witch came back the very next day oh the witch came back...

Hi! Hello! Hi! Let me know what you all think? Did I get the characterization right? I have another part in mind for this, so if you like it and you show your love, you may have more Lilia Calderu coming your way. I really hope you're all doing well. - Yours, Ripley x

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・✩・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

[with-my-calamitous-love]

too young / too dumb / to know things like love

katsuki bk. x f! reader

when perhaps one of the most heartbreaking and stressful relationship of your entire life comes to an end, katsuki can’t resist having you for one more night. angst/smut, breakup sex, y/a katsuki

@crushmeeren the snippet i left in ur inbox 🫧 thank you for all your love

another big kiss for u, 5sos nation 🤍 inspired by ghost of you

7:09 am.

katsuki wakes up, still pushed to one corner of the bed. he has the entire king size to himself, but remains unable to sleep on that side of the bed. your side.

he groans when he sits up, pain in his shoulders and a dull throb in his heart. red eyes flicker over to the leftover coffee mug on the beside. as time passes, your lipstick stain fades. but he doesn’t need the satin red makeup left on your favourite mug to remember how your lips felt, the way they tasted.

he wishes to go back to sleep, to dream long enough for you to tell him he’d be fine. he wants to believe that, to hold onto it. even if you know he’ll find himself drowning out his pain, dancing through his house alone, he hopes you’ll lie to him.

worst of all? so many saw it coming. but you both hoped, foolishly so, that you could defy the odds.

you didn’t.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.*

“so thats it?” you ask, but its more like a statement than anything. the finality in your tone isn’t lost on katsuki. the plates in the sink are left unwashed, dinner cold and neglected. the couch mourns the couple that once embraced on it, floorboards preparing to only creak for one.

years of training, of self doubt, surviving a war and becoming a hero, and the hardest thing katsuki has ever done was walk away from you.

“i have to do this.” he chokes back tears. “you’re not happy. i’m not either

and you want to lie and tell him he’s wrong, but he’s not and that what makes you so fucking angry. he’s hoping his absence will give you the peace his love couldn’t.

“i’ll give you your sweaters back.” you say, not knowing what else to add. you’re hoping he’ll say no. keep them. there yours. they’ve always been.

instead: “thanks, babe.”

“don’t fucking call me that!” you snap, tears spilling like a broken dam.

its at that moment when it sets in for him. when he realizes this’ll be the last time he sees you, or hears your voice. that from now on, he’ll have to drown it out, dancing through his apartment with nothing but the phantoms of what was.

“…sorry, [y/n].” he hesitantly steps closer. he wishes he could yell, be the asshole you know him for. but he right now, he’s wounded, returning only half his weight. he was losing his favourite part of him.

almost pathetically so, you jump into his arms, sobbing into his chest despite the anger you feel in your bones. he doesn’t think twice before wrapping his arms around yours, pulling you into him like its the last time. it is.

“fuck you, katsuki.” you cry, and he takes it. “yeah, fuck you too, [y/n].”

he says right before kissing you, but its different this time. there’s desperation in it, to feel you, to make this goodbye count.

as much as you try to, you know you love katsuki when you can’t hate him for breaking your heart. you tug him in by his collar, dragging the two of you to the couch. cries turn into moans, pain remains more or less the same.

he’s already shirtless, something he was always comfortable doing around you. he’s so hot it makes you mad, almost wishing you wore something nicer than his old zeppelin shirt thats too big it pools at your waist.

but he doesn’t care. katsuki will fuck you no matter what, evident by how he doesn’t even bother to take it off all the way, impatient. he grabs the hem, dragging it just above your chest. its no secret he wants to see your tits bounce and face flush when he’s buried deep in you.

your morning him, and the fact that from here on out you’ll never get a dick this good.

he rubs circles on your clothed clit, rough, hypnotizing you. he has to resist the urge to slam himself into you right away. he’s already breaking your heart, he doesn’t need to hurt your pussy in the process.

but maybe you don’t care anymore, whispering in his ear. “c’mon, kats, i want you.”

his breath hitches, red eyes looking concerned. “you sure?”

“just fucking do it.”

normally, he’d tease you, tell you to be patient. but he’s not patient either, moving your panties to the side before sliding himself into you. you both moan in relief. it doesn’t take long before he starts thrusting.

“i’m sorry. i’m so fuckin’ sorry.” he almost cries, kissing his apology into your skin, his cock deeply embedded into you. he normally likes it rough, getting you on your knees and pressing you into the pillow. but right now, he needs to see you- all of you. he knows this might be the last time.

“fuck, you feel so good, katsuki.” you whisper, cupping his face while he takes deep, intimate strokes. even on the verge of destruction, even as forever falls apart, he’s still able to make love and pleasure blossom from your heart and mind. he has that hold on you, that even if you married another man the next minute, he’d still have the key to parts of you you never knew you had.

hearing his name roll off of your tongue already breaks his heart. he swears that in another universe, this works. that right after he plants his release deep in you, kissing you through your orgasm, blurring the lines between fucking and making love, he’d hold you close and wake up to your face the next morning. and when that morning comes, he’ll head off to his agency after kissing you goodbye. he’ll think of you, of protecting you, of putting you at the centre of everything he fights for. even after this all ends, he still thinks that’ll be true. even if you lose your love for him.

“where do you want me to finish, baby?” he grits out, knowing he won’t be able to call you baby anymore. for a second you think of correcting him, but resign.

“just.. do it in me.” you cry. “i don’t want you pulling out.”

“fuck, you sure ‘bout that?” he grits, but he’s not complaining. he can’t give you forever, or even proper love, but if you want it, he can give you this.

you muster out a nod, his forehead pressed against yours. he feels that your close and so is he, his pace not faltering for even a moment. this really is the last time.

and when he releases, your mind whites out in pleasure. he makes sure to get as deep into you as humanly possible, wanting every lewd drop of him nestled deep in you. he groans into your ear, riding out your pleasure with a few more thrusts before collapsing next to you.

he pulls you in, almost on instinct. tomorrow it’ll be over, but you gave him tonight.

“you fucking idiot.” he whispers, though you’re not sure if he means you or him. either way, it’d make sense. idiot was his rude, endearing nickname name for you. idiot was also how he felt about himself, losing you.

“i love you.” you say, not knowing whats next, but knowing that whatever it is, it can wait till the sun rises.

“i love you so fucking much.”

and he’s happy that those are his last words to you, because the next day, he wakes up alone.

he pats the spot where you laid on the couch. he’s hurt, but not surprised. all his things are there, but its empty. haunted.

and he’ll find other girls, models, pro heroes, names he can’t remember. he’ll lay them down on his couch, hold their hands, kiss them or even love them. you’ll find other guys to unbutton your blouse, to lend you sweaters and promise you forever. but theres a deep understanding between both you and katsuki.

it’ll never be the same like what it was with you.