#this should not have taken me as long as it did

[natsaffection]

Redline. Pt 4 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver! Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), sexual tension, intentional crash

Word count: 10,3k

A/N: Okay…just 2 more chapters to go! Today, we’re focusing more on the dynamics between everyone. Aaand..don’t come at me for the ending!🧎🏻‍♀️

Part 3

The heat from the track still lingered in the air as you walked beside your father, the gravel crunching under your boots with every slow step. Neither of you spoke at first. The pit lane was behind you now, the silence stretching between you, heavy with everything unspoken.

Your hands were shoved deep into your fire suit pockets, your pulse still uneven from the confrontation with Natasha, her words, her touch, her smirk still lingering like a brand on your skin. You glanced at your father, jaw tight. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on the track ahead, the smooth asphalt, the sharp curves, the very place that had nearly taken you away from him once. “I wanted to see you race.”

Your chest tightened. “Dad-”

“Your test race was good.”

That stopped you. Your brows furrowed slightly, your steps faltering. Of all the things you expected, that wasn’t it. You turned to him, your voice careful. “You think so?”

His lips pressed together, his expression unreadable, Romanoff-like in his control. Then, after a moment, he nodded. “Very good.” The words should have made you feel proud. But there was something else beneath them. Something heavier. Something hesitant.

Your stomach twisted. “But?” His sigh was slow. Controlled. Measured. “But I still have doubts.”

The honesty stung more than it should have. You swallowed, looking back at the track, your fingers curling inside your pockets. “You don’t think I should be here.” It wasn’t a question. Because you already knew the answer.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his jaw before finally looking at you. “It’s not about what I think, Y/n. It’s about what this does to you.”

Your throat tightened. “I can handle it.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes studying you, seeing through you like he always did. “Can you?” The words hit deeper than you wanted them to. Because even after everything, even after clawing your way back, after surviving the rehab, after proving to the world that you were still here, there was still that one small part of you that wasn’t sure.

You blinked hard, looking away before he could see it. “Mom doesn’t think I can, does she?” His jaw tensed. That was all the confirmation you needed. “She hates it.” The words sat between you, heavy and unmoving. You exhaled sharply, your fingers flexing at your sides. “Of course, she does.”

He sighed. “Y/n-”

“No, I get it.” Your voice came out flat, bitter. “She spent a year watching me relearn how to fucking walk. She spent a year seeing me break down because I couldn’t even lift my own body weight anymore. She was there when the doctors told me that my career was over.” You swallowed hard, the memory of it clawing at the back of your mind. “So yeah. I get it.”

Your father sighed, stopping in his steps. You followed suit, keeping your gaze locked on the track ahead, refusing to let him see the way your hands were shaking. “She was scared.” His voice was softer now, edged with something tired. “She still is.”

“So are you.” He didn’t deny it. That said enough. Another long silence stretched between you, the weight of everything unspoken pressing hard against your ribs. Then, his voice changed. “Romanoff.”

You blinked, turning toward him. “What about her?” His gaze was unreadable again, calculating. “She’s difficult.” You huffed out a humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, his hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket. “Is she treating you right?” The question made your breath hitch. Not because it was strange. But because it was the first time he had acknowledged Natasha at all.

You looked away, exhaling slowly. “She’s…” You hesitated. Because how the hell were you supposed to explain Natasha? The woman who pushed you to your limits. The woman who made you want to scream and fight and prove her wrong every second you were on the track. The woman who, despite everything, had kept you here. “She’s tough.”

“Tough isn’t the same as fair.”

You clenched your jaw, voice quiet. “She’s fair enough.” Your father hummed slightly, unconvinced. Then, he exhaled, looking at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Be careful with her.”

Something in your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t talking about racing anymore. You knew that. And so did he. Looking back at the track, at the curve ahead, the stretch of asphalt that had nearly ended you once. Then, you exhaled, forcing the tension in your shoulders to ease. “I will.”

——

The moment the call came, you didn’t hesitate. You were in Natasha’s office within seconds. Not a second early. Not a second late. You weren’t going to give her another reason to tear into you.

The confrontation from the track still burned in your mind, the fire in her eyes, the way she had dragged you out of the car, ripped into you with the kind of rage only Natasha Romanoff could wield. You had pushed back. But she had pushed harder. And now? Now, you weren’t about to give her another excuse to throw you around like a chess piece.

You knocked once and firm, “Come in.” came through the heavy wood. Stepping inside, you braced yourself for another heated lecture, another round of Natasha pushing you to the brink. Instead, you stopped. Your brows furrowed as your eyes landed on the sleek leather couch, where a row of carefully curated outfits lay waiting. Dresses. Suits. Something in between. Sleek. Expensive. And entirely unexpected.

Natasha stood behind her desk, arms crossed, watching you like she was waiting for a reaction. You exhaled, tilting your head. “Are we throwing a fashion show now?”

She didn’t blink. “Try them on.”

It wasn’t a request. Your lips parted slightly, but before you could ask, her expression hardened, not angry, not quite daring, just expecting. So, you swallowed down the million questions burning at the tip of your tongue and moved toward the outfits. You weren’t stupid. You did what you were told.

The first outfit was too stiff. The second? Too formal. The third? Too boring. But the fourth? That one was perfect. Sleek black fabric hugged your form in all the right ways, polished, sharp, clean. It wasn’t a suit. It wasn’t a dress. It was somewhere in between. Powerful. Something that made you feel like you could stand next to anyone and not be overshadowed. You turned toward the mirror, adjusting the sleeves slightly before stepping back into the office.

Natasha was still at her desk, eyes scanning through a document. But the second she looked up, she stood. Green eyes flickered over you, sharp and unreadable, the weight of her gaze making your skin prickle.

“Can I touch you?”

Your breath caught slightly at the way she said it.. low, direct, careful. Your fingers twitched at your side. You nodded once. “Yeah.”

She stepped closer, movements effortless, controlled. One hand lifted, fingers barely grazing the fabric at your shoulder, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle. Then, she tugged the hem slightly, adjusting the fit. Her touch was warm, steady. Not rough like before. Not burning with frustration or anger. Just precise. Her fingers brushed along the edge of your sleeve, lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

You swallowed, voice quieter than intended. “What’s this about?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned, walked back to her desk, slipped her pen into place with slow precision, then met your gaze again. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

Your stomach twisted. “Leaving?”

“Family dinner.”

The words settled heavily between you. You blinked, processing, feeling your pulse tick up slightly. The Romanoffs?? Everyone knew them. They weren’t just a wealthy family, they were a dynasty, a legacy built on power, wealth, and absolute control. And now, you were about to walk into their world. Natasha watched your reaction closely, smirk deepening slightly. “You know them.”

It wasn’t a question. You hesitated, keeping your voice careful. “Everyone does.”

Her head tilted slightly, amusement flickering across her face. “Are you a fangirl?”

Your jaw locked. “No.”

Her smirk widened, slow and knowing. “Hesitation says otherwise.” You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to keep steady. “Should I be worried?” Natasha considered that for a moment, then smiled. “That depends.”

You swallowed, hating the way she always made you feel like she had all the cards, like she had been three steps ahead of you since the moment you walked in. She picked up her phone, already moving toward the door, already in control of the next move. Then, just before stepping out, she glanced back at you, something dangerously amused in her eyes.

“Don’t be late.” she murmured. “Wouldn’t want Mommy to think you don’t belong.” Your breath hitched. She saw it and she loved it. Then, she was gone. Leaving you standing there, pulse hammering in your ears, knowing full well that this wasn’t just dinner.

The car ride was tense, but not in the usual way. This wasn’t the quiet before a storm, the steady focus before a race. This was heavier and charged with something deeper, something unspoken.

You sat in the back of one of Natasha’s luxury cars, the engine purring smoothly as it cut through the night. The interior smelled of leather and something distinctly hers. She sat beside you, legs crossed, posture straight, eyes fixed on her phone, the soft glow illuminating her features. She hadn’t spoken much since leaving the city, only issuing short, clipped commands to the driver.

Across from you, Yelena was the only one who seemed completely unbothered. She stretched out in her seat, arms folded behind her head, feet casually propped up against the console like this was just another errand. But it wasn’t. You were on your way to meet the Romanoffs. Not just Natasha. Not just Yelena. The whole dynasty.

Their empire stretched across industries that mattered. Finance. Defense. Technology. Racing. There wasn’t a single major sector that didn’t have a Romanoff signature buried somewhere in its foundation. And Natasha? She wasn’t just part of it. She was born into it.

You exhaled slowly, fingers twitching against your knee. Yelena caught the movement instantly, smirking. “Nervous?”

You met her gaze, forcing a casual shrug. “A little..”

She let out a short laugh. “If you screw up, they might not let you leave.”

Your stomach dipped. Natasha didn’t react, not outwardly. But the corners of her lips twitched slightly, like she was holding back amusement. Yelena grinned, clearly enjoying herself, but before she could respond, Natasha finally spoke. “Enough.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath, but didn’t push further. The car continued its smooth ascent, winding up the private road leading to the estate. The further you drove, the more surreal it became. The Romanoff property was massive, gated, guarded, the kind of wealth that didn’t just sit pretty but protected itself. Pristine landscaping stretched for miles, leading up to the mansion itself. A fortress of glass and steel, sleek and modern, an architectural masterpiece.

When the car pulled up to the entrance, the doors were already open. Natasha moved first, stepping out smoothly, slipping her phone into her pocket as she approached the woman waiting at the entrance. Melina. Natasha’s mother.

You had seen pictures of her before, but seeing her in person was different. She was graceful, poised, elegant, but there was something colder beneath it. Something sharp. A woman who had built herself into something untouchable. She spoke to Natasha first, her voice low, unreadable. Then, her gaze flickered to you.

For a second, she said nothing. Just studied you. Her eyes swept over you like she was calculating something, measuring. Then, a smile. Melina’s lips curved slightly, gaze sharp but not unkind. “Ah. So you’re the one who’s been giving my daughter so much trouble.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Natasha exhaled quietly, a breath through her nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite amusement. Before you could scramble for a response, another voice cut in “Ah! There she is!”

You barely had time to react before a broad, shouldered man emerged from the house, grinning widely. Alexei. Natasha and Yelena’s father. You recognized him instantly, not just from pictures, but from history. A legend in his time. Ex-Racer. A force in the business world. A man who had built part of the Romanoff empire with nothing but sheer, stubborn will.

And yet, this was not the intimidating powerhouse you expected. Because the man was smiling. A full, wide, beaming smile. Like he had been waiting all day to meet you. He stepped forward without hesitation, eyes gleaming. “So! You’re the one who thinks she can handle my Natasha!”

Natasha’s exhale was louder this time. Melina took a long sip of her wine. Yelena, standing beside you, was grinning like a damn idiot. You scrambled for words. “I..uh-”

Alexei clapped a massive hand against your shoulder, nearly making you stumble forward. “She is small, but she looks tough! I like her!” You blinked. Natasha muttered something in Russian under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Melina sighed, already turning toward the dining room. “Come, before Alexei scares her off.”

The dining table was massive, stretching across the length of the room, its polished surface reflecting the warm glow of the chandeliers above. The entire setting felt surreal, like stepping into a world you weren’t meant to belong to, but here you were.

Seated between Natasha and Yelena, you could feel the weight of the Romanoff name pressing in from all sides. Melina sat at the head of the table, poised, watching. Across from you, Alexei cut into his steak with the ease of a man who had nothing to prove.

“So,” Alexei started, taking a massive bite, speaking around it like it was just another casual topic, “the championship race is coming up. You’re up against Walker, yes?”

You swallowed, gripping your fork a little tighter. “Yeah.”

Melina sipped her wine, tilting her head slightly. “Dreykov will be watching closely.” Natasha didn’t even look up. “Let him.”

Yelena smirked, leaning on her elbow. “I heard Walker’s already pissed about the competition.”

Alexei snorted. “Good! He should be worried.” Then, his sharp eyes flicked toward you. “Do you think you can beat him?”

The table went silent. Your pulse ticked up. Everyone was watching you. You met Alexei’s gaze head-on, steady, unwavering. “I know I can.”

Silence stretched, thick and expectant. Then, Alexei grinned. “Good answer.”

Natasha, beside you, didn’t react. But you felt her shift slightly. Like she had just gotten her answer too. Melina set her wine down with quiet precision. “You do realize this race isn’t just about you.”

Your jaw tightened. “I know.” She studied you, expression unreadable. “Do you?”

Alexei leaned forward, voice dropping just slightly. “If you win, Dreykov loses control of the narrative. If you lose? He buries you.”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “She’s not losing.”

Melina remained still, unreadable. “You’re in a unique position, Y/n. Most drivers only fight for themselves. You? You’re carrying a legacy that isn’t even yours.” Your fingers curled around your napkin. “Then I’ll make it mine.”

Silence. Natasha finally looked at you. Really looked. Like she wasn’t expecting that answer. Like she might have just decided something. Like she saw something shift in you, something she wasn’t sure was there before.

The weight of her gaze settled deep, assessing, considering, then she leaned back, just slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing. And she smirked. Not just amusement. Not just approval. Something more. Something like certainty. Like she was finally seeing what she needed to see.

As the meal continued, you found yourself answering Alexei’s now more benign questions, he asked about your hometown, clearly trying to be friendly. It was awkward, but well-meaning. In return, you posed a timid question or two of your own, asking Melina how long they had owned the estate. Her answer involved a brief, fascinating tale of an old friend from the KGB days. With each exchange, the initial fear in your chest uncoiled a bit more.

Natasha eventually rejoined the conversation, albeit in a mild way. When you complimented the stew, saying it was delicious, she interjected quietly, “It’s Melina’s special recipe. We had it a lot when I was young.”

You glanced over, surprised to hear Natasha offer personal information so easily. Her lips twitched in a faint semblance of a smile, perhaps at a memory. Melina tilted her head, giving Natasha a fond look. “Natasha used to help me chop vegetables for it.” she added.

To your astonishment, Natasha didn’t scowl or roll her eyes. Instead, she let out a small huff that might have been a very reluctant laugh. “Only because you made me.” she protested under her breath, but there was no real heat in it. The tension that had clouded her features had ebbed away, replaced by something almost approachable.

You witnessed this shift with quiet amazement. The dinner that had begun with your stomach in knots was slowly turning into something you never expected: an insight into Natasha’s world, into a family that was far more complex than the intimidating facade they projected.

They aren’t all like Natasha. In fact, Natasha herself wasn’t even always like the stone-cold version of her you had seen out in the field, not here, not with her parents tempering her.

Melina caught your eye once more and gave you a nod paired with that small, reassuring smile. It silently said, you’re doing fine. In that moment, you felt a rush of gratitude and something almost like belonging. You straightened up a bit, no longer curled in on yourself, and even dared to genuinely smile back.

Finally, as plates emptied and the evening air settled coolly around you, the dinner came to a close. Alexei pushed back his chair, satiated and in high spirits from the meal and conversation. Melina began stacking a couple of plates, and you automatically stood. “Oh, let me help with that.” you offered, ever polite, eager to show you weren’t just a burden.

Melina shoed you away gently. “Nonsense, you’re our guest!” she insisted, but her tone was kind. Natasha stood as well, collecting the remaining glasses with efficient movements. “I’ll help.” she said, giving you a brief nod, not quite warm, but not cold either. Something more neutral. Maybe even respectful.

Alexei chortled. “I’ll escort our guest to the sitting room.” He looped an arm (carefully) around your shoulder to guide you out, treating you now like a comrade rather than a suspect.

As you left the dining room, you glanced back over your shoulder. At the end of the table, Natasha and Melina stood quietly stacking dishes, mother and daughter in a rare moment of stillness. Melina leaned in, saying something low to Natasha. You couldn’t hear the words, but you saw Natasha roll her eyes, and then smile. An actual smile. Small, fleeting, but real.

Melina chuckled softly in response, bumping her shoulder affectionately against Natasha’s. The sight stayed with you: Natasha Romanoff, so cold and fierce in the field, standing there allowing herself a moment of lightness with her mother.

You turned forward again as Alexei led you down the hall, a multitude of new impressions swirling in your mind. I was wrong about them, you thought with a mixture of relief and wonder. The Romanoffs aren’t an unbreakable wall of ice; they’re a family, with warmth sparking in unexpected places.

The drive back to Natasha’s track was silent, the weight of the evening pressing down on you like a storm cloud. The Romanoff estate faded into the night behind you, the dark road ahead stretching endlessly. Eight days. Eight days until the first real race, the one that would determine your starting position for the championship. The thought settled uneasily in your chest, coiling like a slow-burning fire.

Yelena hummed along to some song playing softly on the radio, seemingly unbothered by the tension lingering in the air. Natasha sat in the passenger seat, silent as ever, fingers scrolling across her phone, but you knew she wasn’t distracted. She never was. She was thinking, calculating, already planning your next move before you even took your next breath.

The faint glow of the track’s floodlights appeared in the distance, growing brighter as the car pulled into the lot. The closer you got, the heavier your limbs felt. The test race still lingered in your muscles, your body stiff with the memory of every sharp turn, every acceleration, every mistake. The second the car came to a stop, you reached for the door handle, desperate for fresh air, for movement-

“Not so fast.”

Natasha’s voice cut through the night, sharp and unwavering. You froze mid-step, turning to see her already out of the car, arms crossed, gaze locked onto you with that same unrelenting intensity. The air around her was different now. Heavier. You straightened instinctively. “What?”

She stepped closer, closing the space between you. “Training starts tomorrow. Six a.m.”

Your jaw tensed. “Tomorrow?”

Her brow lifted. “Did you think you were getting a break?” Exhaling through your nose, you clenched your fists at your sides. “No.”

A quiet hum. Head tilting slightly, Natasha’s expression remained unreadable. “Good. Because you don’t get one.”

There was something about the way she said it, like a warning and a promise all at once. Eight days until the race. And Natasha wasn’t wasting a single second. She turned on her heel, already walking toward the garage, leaving you standing there, pulse thrumming in your ears. Yelena strolled past, patting your shoulder with a smirk. “You should probably set an alarm.”

Day One: 5:59 a.m.

The alarm had barely registered before a hard knock echoed through your door. “Training started a minute ago.” Natasha’s voice was sharp as a blade. “Move.”

There was no time to think, no time to hesitate. You threw on your gear, barely pulling your shoes on before being dragged into the gym. It wasn’t just a warm-up. It wasn’t just conditioning. It was a full-throttle, no-mercy assault on your body.

Natasha stood in front of you, arms crossed, while one of the team’s personal trainers pushed you through a relentless circuit, strength, endurance, core. Every time you thought you could catch a breath, her voice sliced through the haze.

“Too slow.”

“Your reaction time is pathetic.”

“You think you can keep up with Walker like this?”

By the time you collapsed onto the mat, sweat dripping down your face, Natasha crouched beside you, looking far too composed for someone who had just watched you suffer. “You’ve got seven days left.” she murmured, eyes dark. “If you want to survive, stop acting like a rookie.”

Day Two:

Six a.m., and you were thrown onto the simulator. Split-second decision-making drilled into you until your reflexes burned. By noon, you were out on the track, repeating the same sector over and over. Every mistake? Restart. Every hesitation? Restart. Natasha’s voice cut through the radio like a blade. “You missed the apex.”

“Too aggressive, back off.”

“Again.”

Again.

Again.

Your body moved on autopilot, muscles screaming, exhaustion creeping in. When she finally called you back in, you pulled into the pit, stepping out of the car, legs trembling. Natasha barely glanced up from her tablet. “Get some sleep.” Even. Unmoved. “You’ll need it.”

Day Three:

The training room was dim, the only light coming from the massive screen flickering with images of drivers. Dreykov’s team. Rivals. Threats. Natasha stood in front, hands on the table, voice measured. “Know them. Study them. Every habit, every weakness, every mistake they’ve ever made. Learn their tells. If you don’t, they’ll rip you apart.”

She turned, gaze flicking toward you. “You want to be better than Walker?” Her voice dipped lower, deadlier. “Then you don’t just beat him on track. You get inside his head. Make him doubt. Make him hesitate.” You swallowed hard, nodding. Natasha’s lips curled, just barely.

Day Four:

Tires screamed against the asphalt as you pushed through another lap, the track lights blurring into streaks of color. Natasha stood on the pit wall, headset on, arms crossed. Watching. Tracking every movement, every sector time. She saw it now. The shift. The way you moved. The way you didn’t hesitate anymore.

The radio crackled. “Better.”

Not praise. Not exactly. But something. And from Natasha? That was enough.

Day Five:

A miscalculation. A slight overcorrection. One second, you were flying through the straight, next, the car twitched. The back end stepped out. The world tilted. Your breath hitched, flashes of your past crash slammed into your skull. You hesitated. And that was your mistake.

The car skidded onto the run-off area, tires screeching. You caught it, but by then, it was too late. Lap ruined.

“Get back in the pit.”

You swallowed, bringing the car in, already bracing yourself. The second you stepped out, Natasha was there. She wasn’t yelling. That was worse. “You hesitated.”

Your mouth went dry.

“Do that in the race, and you’re done.” Her voice was sharp, but there was something else beneath it. Something almost…dangerous. “Fix it.”

Hours later, your body felt like lead as you walked back to your room, exhaustion sinking into your bones after another brutal day of training. Every drill, every lap, every order had been pushed to the extreme by Natasha, like she was determined to break you. And now? You could barely move. You had one thought in mind, collapse into bed and sleep for the next century. But before you could open the door, her voice cut through the silence.

“Be ready by nine.”

You stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing. Natasha stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, looking completely unaffected by the relentless day she had put you through. “For what?” you asked, already dreading the answer.

“Photoshoot.”

You blinked. “…You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I joke?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Please tell me this is just a few shots for the team.” Her lips twitched. That was never a good sign. “FIA. Sponsors. Press. Magazine covers.”

You exhaled sharply, head tilting back. “I can barely stand, Natasha. How do you expect me to pose for a camera?” She stepped forward, stopping just in front of you. Close enough that you could feel her heat. Her eyes flickered over you, assessing, calculating.

“You’ll manage.” And with that, she turned, walking away without another word, leaving you standing there, completely and utterly trapped.

Day six:

The next morning, you found yourself in a massive, high-end studio. Bright lights. White backdrops. Rows of expensive cameras and flashing bulbs. Everything screamed control. And in the middle of it all, Natasha, commanding the entire room. She stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching every single detail.

Every movement, every adjustment, every pose, she dictated all of it. When the crew hesitated, she fixed it. When the angles weren’t perfect, she adjusted them. Her presence was everywhere, in everything. And you hadn’t even stepped in front of the camera yet. This wasn’t just a photoshoot. This was a fucking mission.

Your first set was classic, controlled. You stood against the sleek backdrop in your race suit, arms crossed, chin high. The photographer and Natasha called out instructions.

“Look strong. Confident. Eyes sharp.”

“Fix your posture.”

Natasha’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Your jaw tightened. She was standing just off-camera, her gaze laser-focused on you.

“Shoulders squared.”

You adjusted. “Chin up.” You exhaled slowly, adjusting again. “Now hold it.”

You held it. The cameras flashed, one after another, capturing every angle. You could feel her watching you. Not just monitoring. Not just observing. Watching. Studying.

Next came the full team shots. You stood in the center, surrounded by the entire Romanoff Racing crew, mechanics, engineers, strategists. A wall of power. A force. The Romanoff insignia blazed behind you. The photographer adjusted his lens.

“Closer together. Stronger stance.”

You stepped forward, shoulders squared. The flashes erupted, capturing everything. You could feel the weight of it. The responsibility. The legacy you were now a part of.

Now, it was Natasha's turn and Jesus Christ. She stepped onto the set, a black suit, tailored to absolute perfection. She didn’t pose. Didn’t adjust. She just existed. And the entire room bent to her. The camera didn’t just capture her, it obeyed her. Her stance was effortless, natural, lethal. Her eyes sharp, lips pressed together in a look of absolute control.

And when she leaned against the car, one hand resting on the frame, the other tucked into her pocket, expression unreadable, you had to look away. Because holy shit..

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your stomach flipped. And suddenly, you weren’t breathing right. You forced yourself to focus on something, anything else. The camera flashes. The set crew. But your eyes kept drifting back.

And then, she turned her head. And caught you. Your breath hitched. For one unbearable second, neither of you moved. She didn’t smirk. Didn’t say anything. Just looked. And then, she moved on. Leaving you standing there, heart pounding.

Then came the part you weren’t prepared for. You. And Natasha. Together. The photographer waved you forward. “Alright, side by side. Look strong, look dominant.”

You took your place beside her. And immediately, something was off. “Closer.” the photographer instructed.

Natasha shifted beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. Your breath caught. Your muscles tensed. The camera clicked. Natasha glanced at you, brow furrowing slightly.

“Break. Ten minutes.” The team scattered. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to move. Before you could step away, Natasha’s voice stopped you. “What’s wrong?”

You froze. Your back was still to her, but you knew she was watching and waiting. You rolled your shoulders, forcing a casual shrug. “Nothing..” you muttered. “Just exhausted.”

Lie. Natasha wasn’t stupid. She saw right through you. Her eyes flickered over your face, searching, calculating. You knew you were caught. So you wiggled your shoulder slightly, brushing it off.

Natasha’s lips pressed together. She didn’t believe you. But she didn’t push. She just watched and something in her expression..something unreadable, something almost amused, made your stomach twist.

The photographer called you both back onto set, your stomach tightened again. “Alright, last round of shots. This time, we go for dominance!” the photographer instructed, adjusting the lighting. You swallowed hard. Natasha stepped up beside you. Close. Not too close. But close enough. “Cross your arms.” the photographer said.

You did. Natasha did too. Side by side. Like two weapons, locked and loaded. Another click. Another flash. “Now turn toward each other slightly.”

You’re kidding..You hesitated, just for a second. But Natasha didn’t. She shifted, her posture unwavering. Her sharp green eyes locked onto you, steady and unreadable. You mirrored her. Straightened your spine. Tilted your head slightly. The camera flashed again.

“Alright, I want something more intense. Y/n, look straight at the camera. Natasha, glance at her.” Your pulse jumped. But you did it. Held your stance. Held your breath. Just a few more minutes..! You were sweating at this point.

Natasha turned her head slightly, just enough to follow the instruction. The way her gaze landed on you, like she was assessing. Calculating. Waiting for you to break.

The shutter clicked. The camera caught it. And suddenly, you felt it too. This wasn’t just a team photo. This was a power move. A statement. The air between you was too charged. You could see it now. And so could everyone else in the room.

The photographer stepped back. “That’s the one.”The crew murmured in agreement. You exhaled slowly. “Alright.” Natasha said, stepping away first. “That’s enough.”

And just like that, the spell was broken. The crew started packing up, cameras shutting down, the studio buzzing with movement. Natasha, as always, was already ahead of everyone. She stood at the monitors, scrolling through the raw images with the lead photographer.

You were halfway through unzipping your race suit when you heard her voice. “Y/n, come here.”

You hesitated. Took a breath. Then walked over. The screen displayed a row of thumbnails, hundreds of photos from the shoot. The first few were standard. You in your race suit, alone. The team standing beside you. You adjusting your helmet. You leaning against the car.

Then came Natasha’s. The black suit. The sharp gaze. The effortless power. You looked away but when Natasha clicked on the last image. The one with both of you. Your stomach tightened. It was..intimidating. You stood tall, shoulders squared, your expression unreadable. And Natasha? She was beside you, turned slightly, looking at you instead of the camera.

It wasn’t a casual glance. It was calculated. Deliberate. Like she was analyzing every move, every breath, every inch of control you had. It looked… powerful. More than that, it looked like something else. Something dangerous.

You swallowed. Natasha didn’t look at you. She just studied the screen, tapping her fingers against the console. “This one.” she said simply.

Your voice was quieter than you intended. “…Yeah.”Natasha finally turned her head, just slightly. Your eyes met. And for a moment..just a moment, it was too much. Then she smirked. “Good.”

She clicked the screen off. And just like that, it was over. But the image? It stayed with you. Long after the photoshoot ended. Long after the cameras shut down.

And long after you left the studio. The car was quiet. Too quiet. The low hum of the engine was the only sound filling the space, but you barely heard it. Your mind was somewhere else.

Still stuck on the photoshoot. On the way the camera had captured everything, the power, the intensity, the control. On the way Natasha had looked at you in that last shot. It wasn’t just a glance.

You stared out the window, barely blinking, your thoughts spiraling as the scenery blurred past. Natasha was speaking. Something about the schedule for tomorrow, about things you should have been listening to.. But you weren’t. You couldn’t. Your chest still felt too tight, your breath too shallow. “Y/N.” Your name snapped you out of your daze. You blinked, turning your head.

Natasha was watching you. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, her gaze sharp even in the dim light of the car. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

You opened your mouth, closed it and Natasha sighed. “Alright. We’re done for today.”

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“You’re off until tomorrow. Go rest. Clear your head.” You blinked again, trying to process her words. You were so used to the pressure, to the relentless push, to her orders keeping you on edge. But this? This was unexpected.

“Don’t look so surprised.” she muttered. “You earned it.” Her words settled in your chest, but you didn’t know what to do with them. So you just nodded. And for the rest of the ride, you sat in silence, still thinking, still feeling, still stuck in that moment.

Day 7:

Every drill was brutal. Every lap was ruthless. Natasha barely spoke, except to push you harder. Every limit you thought you had? She crushed it. By the time night fell, you thought she was done with you. Thought you could finally sleep. But Natasha found you later.

Fast asleep on the team’s lounge couch, still in your fireproofs, completely knocked out from exhaustion. She had stood there for a moment, watching. Then, without a word, she grabbed a blanket from the other side of the room and tossed it over you before leaving.

Day 8:

Final day. Final test. One last session to prove you were ready. The team stood by the pit wall. The car hummed beneath you, waiting. You took a breath. Natasha’s voice came through the comms.

“Last chance. Show me what you’ve got.”

And then, you drove. Fast, precise and unforgiving. You felt it. The shift. The control. The instinct overriding doubt. And when you pulled in, stepping out, Natasha was waiting. This time, she didn’t criticize. She just gave you one long look.

“You’re ready.”

——

The paddock was electric, alive with tension and expectation. Mechanics moved like clockwork, final checks being done, engineers poring over data, and drivers locked into their pre-race rituals. The weight of the moment pressed heavy on the entire grid.. this wasn’t just another qualifying session. This was the moment that decided who would start at the front. The moment that separated the contenders from the pretenders.

You sat in the cockpit, fireproofs clinging to your skin, harness so tight across your chest it felt like it was crushing your ribs. The scent of burned rubber and fuel lingered in the air, the familiar hum of engines warming up in the background. Your fingers flexed over the wheel, every part of your body wired, ready.

Across the pit wall, Natasha stood with arms crossed, headset secured, her green eyes locked on the track, calculating every possible scenario before the race had even started. She hadn’t spoken much that morning, not because she wasn’t paying attention, but because she was watching. Waiting for the moment to set the tone. Now, as you sat on the grid, the lights glowing red above you, her voice crackled through the radio.

“Listen to me.” Everything else fell away. “Today, you stop thinking like a rookie. Today, you stop waiting for opportunities to come to you. You take them. You fight for them. You rip them from their hands, and when they push back, you push harder. Do you understand me?”

Your breathing slowed. Your grip on the wheel tightened. “Understood.”

“Good. Because no one is going to move aside for you. Least of all Walker. He’ll do whatever it takes to hold that front row. Don’t let him.”

Your jaw locked at the mention of Walker. Natasha’s voice sharpened. “And if he tries anything, you make sure he regrets it.”

There it was. That edge. That lethal promise in her voice. The engineers gave the final signal. Time to go. You pulled onto the track, engine roaring as you weaved left and right, warming the tires, feeling out the car. The formation lap passed in a blur.

Lined up. Heart pounding. The lights above flickered on. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Green.

You launched off the grid, every fiber of your being focused, locked in. The tires gripped, the engine screamed, and the car shot forward. Walker was already moving to cover the inside line, expecting you to challenge immediately. You didn’t. Not yet. The first few corners were chaos, cars battling, elbows out, everyone jostling for position. You stayed aggressive, ruthless, refusing to back down when the space got tight.

P6. P5.

The radio crackled. Natasha’s voice was controlled but firm. “You’re faster. Stop waiting. Move.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. The next car ahead made the mistake of defending too early into Turn Seven. You sold the dummy, flicked the wheel the other way, and sent the car down the inside, clean, fast, brutal.

P4.

Natasha’s voice hummed in your ear. “Good.” P3 came soon after, the overtake executed so smoothly it almost felt effortless. But nothing about this was effortless. Because now, you had Walker in your sights. And he knew it.

Walker had picked up the pace, trying to pull away, but you were there, suffocating him. Every time he took a defensive line, you mirrored his movements, staying just inside his blind spot, making him feel the pressure.

Natasha’s voice cut through, sharp and knowing. “He’s breaking. Give him a reason to make a mistake.”

Turn Nine. Walker braked late, too late. His tires locked for a split second, and that was all you needed. Inside line. Full send. You were alongside him. Natasha’s voice held its breath. Next corner was yours.

You braced..then impact. Walker clipped your rear tire, sending your car into a violent snap-spin. The world tilted. Gravel exploded around you as the car skidded through the runoff, the steering kicking back violently in your hands. Natasha stood up, “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Her heart slammed against her ribcage, blood boiling as she watched your car skidding through the dirt. The pit crew held their breath. The race officials didn’t say a word. The safety car was on standby, waiting to see if you’d move.

Then, your car jerked forward. The engine roared back to life. Natasha froze. Then, sharp—“Y/n, report.” A beat of static. Then, your voice, steady but burning. “Still here.”

She exhaled sharply. “Get back on track. Now.” You were back. But you were P8 now. Too far back. Too much time lost. Your hands gripped the wheel. “I have an idea.”

Silence. Then, slower. “What idea?” You exhaled.

“It’s risky..”

“Everything in this sport is risky. Talk.” Your breathing was sharp, pulse hammering, your grip locked onto the wheel so tight your knuckles ached.

“If I overtake three cars before Turn Ten, I can keep it flat through sector two and make up time. But I need to go off-line in Turn Six.”

The moment you said it, the radio went dead. It was only for a second, but the silence was heavy, suffocating. Natasha wasn’t answering. Not immediately.

You could picture her in the pit wall, headset tight around her head, eyes narrowed at the screens, jaw locked, fingers gripping the radio as she weighed the calculation in her mind. If you missed the move by an inch, if the grip wasn’t there, if the car snapped on you at that speed, race over.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

Lap 15

Turn Six approached like a wall, a barrier you either broke through or crashed into. You didn’t lift. You went wide, off the racing line, into the part of the track where no one dared to find grip. The car trembled beneath you, the tires barely holding, but they held.

The move was insane. The pit wall erupted. The commentators lost their minds. The entire grandstand stood up. You didn’t hear any of it. Because the second you pulled off the move, the radio clicked. Natasha’s voice cracked through, lower now, almost breathless. “…You’re insane.”

A grin pulled at the corner of your lips. “Told you.”

P5. P4. P3.

The radio clicked again. Natasha was fully locked in now. No hesitation. No restraint. She was with you. “Walker is 1.8 seconds ahead. Three laps left. Close it.” And you did.

Final Lap

Walker was right there and desperate. His lines getting messier, his defense more aggressive. He knew you were coming, knew you were faster. But you knew something else..He was afraid.

Natasha’s voice cut through, sharp as a blade. “If he tries to block, don’t lift.”

Turn 12. Walker braked early, too early. He was trying to bait you, to force a mistake. But you weren’t falling for it. You threw the car inside, right on the limit, the tires barely holding, but it was enough. Walker tried to squeeze you off, but it was too late. You were gone.

P1.

The checkered flag waved. The radio was silent. For a long, long moment..nothing. “Now that…” A pause. “Was a fucking statement.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, exhaling hard, body vibrating from the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the everything. You had done it. You had won. And Natasha..Natasha had trusted you. You barely heard her, too overwhelmed by the sound of your own heartbeat pounding against your ribs, the raw rush of adrenaline and exhaustion making your body tremble against the seat. The realization hit all at once.

Pole position.

You had fought for it, clawed your way from the gravel, risked everything, and won. The car slowed on the cool-down lap, but your hands were still shaking, your breathing still uneven. The reality of what just happened was sinking in, and for the first time in a long time, you felt it.

Pride. A slow, satisfied smirk pulled at your lips as you finally spoke into the radio, breathless but grinning. “P1, huh?”

A small pause. Then, Natasha’s voice, quieter now, something different in it. “P1.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just letting the weight of it settle in. “Ha!!”

Natasha didn’t respond, but you could sense her smirk, even through the static. She let you have this moment. She didn’t cut it down, didn’t make a comment about how it was just qualifying, that the real race was still ahead. No, she let you feel it.

Because you had earned it. Natasha was already pulling off her headset, stepping away from the pit wall as the team erupted into cheers, shouts, and frantic celebrations. She had done her job. Now it was yours. And she wanted to see it. She moved through the chaos, eyes locked on the car rolling in. The mechanics were already lined up, waiting for you.

The moment you stepped out, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, they swarmed. Shouts, cheers, hands grabbing at you, pulling you into crushing embraces. You did it. You laughed, breathless, still high from the race, from the moment, from everything. One of the engineers grabbed your helmet, ruffling your hair before clapping you hard on the back. Someone else was already holding up the pit board. P1.

You looked at it, at the reality of it, and your chest swelled with something powerful. You turned, scanning the pit wall, searching. And then, you saw her.

Natasha stood a few feet away, arms crossed, just watching. She hadn’t rushed into the celebration, hadn’t thrown herself into the crowd of mechanics. No, she was just there, eyes sharp, lips pressed together in something unreadable. For a split second, you thought she was going to walk away.

Then, finally, she nodded. A small movement, barely there. But you saw it. And fuck..it meant everything.

——

The energy of the paddock still buzzed behind you as the car pulled away from the circuit, leaving behind the celebrations, the flashing cameras, and the press that would no doubt be dissecting every second of today’s session.

The atmosphere in the car was… different. Not tense. Not suffocating like usual. Lighter. For once, Natasha wasn’t drilling into you, wasn’t immediately picking apart every turn, every sector time, every moment that could have been improved. She wasn’t reminding you that qualifying was just the beginning, that the real fight was still ahead.

Sitting in the passenger seat, you sank into the leather, exhaustion finally settling in. Your body was still buzzing with adrenaline, muscles sore, heart still beating in the aftershock of what just happened. But this was the first moment you had to actually process it.

You had pole position.

You unlocked your phone, fingers instinctively scrolling through the flood of notifications. News articles. Tweets. Posts.

“Y/N Y/L/N Takes Stunning Pole After Dramatic Comeback.”

“Against All Odds—Romanoff’s New Signing Sends a Warning to the Grid.”

“Walker Struggles Under Pressure as Y/L/N Dominates Qualifying.”

That one made you grin. You scrolled further, seeing clips of your overtakes, of the moment you took pole, of the radio call with Natasha. People were already analyzing it, already picking apart the dynamic between you and her.

“Romanoff’s reaction to Y/L/N’s pole position is so telling.”

One clip showed Natasha standing on the pit wall, her face blank, except for the small, almost imperceptible nod.

The comments were relentless.

“That’s the highest form of Romanoff praise. If you know, you know..”

“She’s pleased. Trust me. She won’t say it, but she is.”

You had spent so long trying to prove you deserved to be back. Fighting against the doubts, the whispers, the endless questioning of whether you were still capable.

And today? Today, you gave them their answer.

You turned your head slightly, glancing at Natasha in the driver’s seat. She hadn’t said a word the entire drive, hadn’t given you that usual look like she was waiting to correct something. She was just driving. Calm. Focused. She caught you looking and raised a brow. “What?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “You’re being…nice.”

Natasha exhaled through her nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she kept her eyes on the road. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your lips twitched. “No?”

“Not a chance.”

You chuckled, shaking your head, the tension that had always sat between you and her finally settling, not disappearing, but shifting into something else. Something you weren’t sure how to name yet.

Then, Natasha’s voice cut through the silence again, lower this time, like a warning. “Enjoy today.” A beat. “Because tomorrow?”

She glanced at you, and for a second, the warmth was gone, replaced by something else entirely. “The real war starts.”

The first race of the season.

You sat in the passenger seat as the team drove toward the circuit, headphones in, music drowning out everything else. The low hum of bass vibrated through your ears, steady, grounding. The world outside blurred past, flashes of the approaching grandstands, the towering banners, the overwhelming storm of people already waiting for the main event.

Your fingers tapped rhythmically against your thigh, muscles tense beneath your race suit. This was the moment you had spent years clawing your way back to. And today, you had one job.

The second you stepped out of the car, the onslaught began. Flashes. Cameras. The swarm of media surged forward, microphones shoved in your direction before you even had the chance to breathe.

“Y/N, a quick word before the race!?”

“How are you handling the pressure of pole position?”

“Walker says you don’t have what it takes to hold first place, any response?”

The voices came all at once, words overlapping, the chaos pressing in around you. Your fingers twitched at your sides, the air tightening-

“That’s enough!” Natasha stepped in front of you in an instant, her presence slamming into the conversation like a force of nature, sharp green eyes locking onto the nearest journalist, unflinching. The words cut through the noise like a whip crack. Then, she turned to you,

“Go. Get ready. I’ll handle them.” You hesitated for only a second before nodding, stepping away and heading toward the paddock entrance, leaving the storm behind.

The garage was alive with controlled chaos, engineers running final checks, the steady hum of the team speaking through headsets, the unmistakable scent of fuel and anticipation thick in the air.

You exhaled slowly, rolling out your shoulders as you made your way toward your race suit stand, where one of the crew members was already waiting with your gloves. “Helmet’s prepped.” another said, handing it to you.

You took it, fingers grazing the visor, feeling the familiar weight settle into your grip. Another mechanic helped with your strap devices, securing it into place while you adjusted your gloves, making sure every strap, every fastening, was locked in. The tension in your chest coiled tighter with every second.

“Radio check.”

You exhaled once, pressing the comms button on your wheel. “Loud and clear.”

Natasha’s voice followed instantly, sharp and precise. “Copy. Comms are stable. Crew, confirm status.”

One by one, the voices of your engineers came through, confirming everything was set. The team was ready. The car was ready. You were ready.

The pit lane outside was roaring with noise, the grandstands full, the grid already lined up with cars rolling into position. And you were about to join them. This was it. The pre-race ceremony had begun, but you barely processed it. The national anthem played, the teams stood by their cars, the broadcast captured the entire starting lineup.

Pole position. Your car, first on the grid. It wasn’t the final step. It wasn’t the win. But it was the beginning of something.

“Y/n.”

You didn’t turn your head, just listened. Then, smooth, like she already knew what the answer would be- “You ready to fight?” You exhaled slowly, letting the tension in your chest morph into fire. “Always.”

The engine roared beneath you, a low, guttural vibration that thrummed through your bones. The grandstands blurred into a sea of colors, the sound of thousands of fans mixing with the distant hum of commentary and static-filled radio chatter.

Your grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was it. This was the real fight. You focused on the lights above you, glowing red, lined up like a countdown to war.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Lights out.

Your tires gripped hard, the acceleration pinning you into the seat as you launched off the line. Walker was already alongside you, his front wing barely inches from your rear tire, trying to force you wide into Turn One.

Not a chance. You braked late, hugging the inside, refusing to give an inch. The car behind you lunged forward, but you held firm, forcing Walker to the outside.

“Good start, Y/n. Hold the inside.”

Natasha’s voice was clear, sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade. Turn One, clean. Turn Two: Walker tried again, but you covered it, forcing him back. By the time you hit Turn Three, you had defended your position.

P1.

Walker was relentless. He stayed glued to your rear wing, waiting for an opening, a mistake, anything. Your heart pounded, every nerve in your body locked onto every sound, every movement, every vibration of the car beneath you.

The radio crackled. Natasha’s voice, calm, but watchful. “Don’t let him push you. Control the pace. Make him react to you.”

You adjusted, shifting your lines slightly, feeling out the car, forcing Walker to mirror your every move. Turn Eight and he went for it. He dove inside, too deep, too aggressive. You saw it coming before he even committed. A quick switch-back, flicking the car to the outside as he overshot the apex, and just like that- He was behind you again. The pit wall cheered, but Natasha? She only said, “Nice. Now keep your head down.”

Lap 12

The degradation was kicking in. Your tires were screaming through the high-speed corners, the grip beginning to fade, every lap getting harder to hold. The radio crackled. Natasha again. “Box this lap. We’re switching to mediums.”

Your fingers flexed over the wheel. “Copy.”

Coming out of Turn 14, you peeled off the racing line, diving into the pit lane, the speed limiter engaging as you barreled toward the box. The team was already waiting. You rolled in perfectly, stopping on the mark. Four tires. Fresh set. 2.3 seconds. Fast

You slammed the throttle the second you were released, shooting back onto the track, merging just as a car flew past.

P5.

Natasha’s voice was back in your ear. “You’ll regain track position when they stop. Just keep your pace up.”

Lap 18

The car felt lighter, the grip returning, your confidence growing. P3. P2.

Walker was right there again. Natasha’s voice cut through the radio. “He’s losing grip. He’ll defend aggressively. Watch for a late move.”

Turn 11 and walker went defensive. You faked the inside, forcing him to commit, then switched lines instantly, diving outside instead.

Your tires barely held, the car sliding on the edge of control and you were through. P1 again. The radio erupted with team cheers, but Natasha’s voice was the only one you focused on. “Good. Now put some distance between you.”

Lap after lap, you could feel Walker’s presence behind you like a shadow, clinging too close, pushing the limits of what was allowed. You knew him, knew the way he played the game, but this? This was different…

Something about the way he moved, the way he positioned himself right at your rear wing now, sent a flicker of unease through your chest. You gritted your teeth, forcing the feeling down as you powered through another turn, your car gliding over the asphalt like second nature.

Your hands gripped the wheel tighter as you closed in on him, calculating your every move, your breath steady despite the heat in your chest. But Walker? He was too close. Too aggressive, as usual. You could feel him right on your rearview, waiting for a moment to overtake, but you wouldn’t give him that. Not now. Not today.

Then, in a blink, he made his move. You saw him inching forward, his car too close for comfort, and that was when the panic flashed across your mind. Why was he doing this? What was his game? You didn’t have time to think about it long before your tires lost traction, and you could feel the weight of the car shift.

“What the hell is he doing!?” Your voice was sharp through the radio, frustration rising as you saw him get closer, too close for comfort. But there was nothing you could do. Before you could react, before you could even process it, he hit you.

The force was hard. You didn’t even have time to brace. It came from behind you, the rear tires suddenly lifted off the track as your car was jerked sideways. You fought for control, your hands desperately working the wheel to correct it, but the back end of your car was already out of your control. The track seemed to tilt beneath you. The wall loomed ahead, too close, too fast.

Your breath hitched. No, no, no, you thought, your heart racing. “N-NO!” The impact was swift. Your car slammed into the wall with such force that it felt like your body was being thrown against the harness. The crash sent a sharp shockwave through your entire body, and the world went blank.

The sound of your desperate voice on the radio hit Natasha like a punch to the gut. She was already watching, tracking Walker’s every move, every inch of the track. But nothing, nothing could prepare her for the moment she heard you. The raw fear in your voice was unlike anything she had ever heard from you before.

Her body reacted before her mind could process the fear in her chest. She shot to her feet, the chair behind her crashing to the floor as if it didn’t exist. She grabbed the radio, her hands trembling as she slammed the button down.

“Y/n, come in!” She was breathless, her voice tight with panic.

Nothing.

“Y/N! Answer me!” She tried again, but the radio crackled with silence. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. She saw the monitors flicker, showing the image of your car crashing hard into the wall. The feedback from the telemetry was dead, and all she could hear was the commentators’ panicked voices.

“That was a huge impact! No response from Y/N!”

Her hands clenched around the radio, the sensation of fear crawling up her spine. Her eyes stayed locked on the screen, watching the wreckage unfold in real time, but her heart was somewhere else..in the car with you.

Her team tried to speak, but Natasha didn’t hear them. The only thing she could hear was the pounding of her own pulse in her ears, the sound of your voice echoing in her mind, and the image of you, helpless and not responding. She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. The safety car was already on its way, and before she could even consider what she was doing, Natasha was already moving.

-

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🏷️ Taglist: @l0nelyish @ayrtonwilbury @ima-gi--na-tion @whatthesnoodle @blackswanxzn @ivyasproperty @seventeen-x @wandanatlov3r @nebthetautora @casquinhaa @veroeuqin

[eliasmelody]

He Doesn’t Say I Love You, He Says…

Tag: RAFAYEL x f!reader, Mutual pinning, fluff, short fic Warning: grammar & spelling

“Oh how sweet is time for allowing you and I to live in the same lifetime.” - Love and Wine

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

You let out a soft chuckle, unable to hold back your amusement. He turns his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a curious expression.

You two just emerged from the ocean, the cool waves retreating behind you as you step onto the shore. Dress clings to your skin, heavy with seawater, droplets cascading down in shimmering trails.

Rafayel drapes a towel over your shoulders, the fabric cool and slightly rough against your damp skin. He moves with quiet focus, gently patting away the seawater clinging to you, his touch careful, almost hesitant.

"What’s so funny?" He asks, his voice laced with curiosity.

You shake your head, still grinning. "Nothing. Just… you."

His brows raise slightly, intrigued. "Me?"

You nod, but you don’t elaborate. The words are there, lingering just behind your lips, but saying them out loud feels like crossing a line you’re not sure you’re ready to step over.

"Oh, how weird destiny is…" You murmur, a hint of wonder in your voice.

Taking a moment to admire him, a warm smile spreading across your lips. There’s something about this moment, as if the universe had conspired to bring you both here, right now.

"Out of all the infinite roads I might have taken, fate has led me here…"

Eyes soften as you gaze at him with quiet admiration.

"To you."

He holds your gaze for a moment, his eyes widening slightly as your words sink in His lips part slightly, as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, he exhales a quiet, breathless laugh, one of disbelief, maybe, or something deeper, something he isn’t ready to name.

A faint flush creeps up his cheeks. After a brief pause, he dares to glance at you again, his eyes flickering with something soft and uncertain.

"You say that like it’s a good thing." He murmurs, his voice quieter than usual, almost careful.

You tilt your head, smiling softly. "Isn’t it?"

His throat bobs as he swallows, his gaze searching yours, as if trying to find some trace of hesitation, some sign that you don’t truly mean it. But all he finds is sincerity, steady, unwavering.

And that terrifies him.

Because if destiny really did lead you to him, what happens if he isn’t meant to keep you?

But as he looks into your adoring eyes, something shifts. He doesn’t like hearing "Happy Birthday." He’s lived too long, heard it too many times, it lost meaning long ago. But you… you make it feel different.

You don’t just speak the words. You give them weight. You give him meaning in a way nothing else ever has.

And for the first time, he isn’t afraid of destiny.

Because if fate brought you to him, then maybe, just maybe, it intends for you to stay.

And that thought doesn’t terrify him at all.

"You should know that a Lumerian never parts with their greatest treasure."

Because no matter what destiny has planned, no matter what twists and turns the future holds…

"And I would sooner let the ocean take me than lose you."

Because you are his fate now, his most precious treasure, one he’ll never let slip from his grasp.

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦ Art work and char: belong to Infold Game ✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

Our Shayla 😭💜 Small fic cause school is back baby

[odileeclipse]

A Wager of Fate PT 8 Final part

The Silver Tree, once a pillar of luminous divinity, shuddered against its broken chains, its glow dimming with each passing moment. The air carried the scent of old magic, of something ancient unraveling. The Silver Knights stood at a distance, their figures rigid with hesitation, with sorrow. White Lily Cookie lingered among them, hands clasped tight around her staff, her fuchsia eyes dim with grief. And in the heart of it all Elder Faerie Cookie. His presence, once unwavering as the roots of the Silver Tree itself, was now weighed down by something heavier than time. He stood apart from the others, just as you had asked. Alone with you. Shadow Milk Cookie lingered just at the edges of your perception, watching, waiting. You could feel his gaze—expectant, patient in his own way, but still unwilling to slip too far from your side. He had already won, hadn’t he? What more was there for him to do but gloat? You turned slightly, gripping your arms. "Just… leave me alone with Elder Faerie for a bit." Your voice was barely above a whisper, but there was a tremor in it. There was a pause, a hum of amusement. "Alone?" Shadow Milk mused, tilting his head, unseen but there in the shifting light. "Ah, my dear, what a lonely request. After all we've been through?"

Your shoulders tensed. "Please." A beat of silence. Then, a chuckle lighter than it should have been, but not unkind. "As you wish, little Faerie." A playful lilt, but no deceit in his words this time. "But don't keep me waiting too long." And with that, the weight of his presence receded, though you knew better than to believe he was truly gone. Finally, Elder Faerie spoke. “I had thought,” he murmured, “that I would never feel this kind of pain.” Your breath hitched. Elder Faerie exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It is not the seal,” he continued. “Not the kingdom. Not even the danger you have released upon Earthbread.” His gaze, though lined with exhaustion, did not waver from you. “It is you that pains me most.” Your hands curled into trembling fists. “Elder Faerie, I-” “I will not allow you to be remembered this way,” he interrupted softly. His voice did not carry the weight of anger, but of something far worse. “Your name will not be tied to destruction. Not if I can help it.” You swallowed the lump in your throat near unbearable. He stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow beneath the waning glow of the Silver Tree. “Even now,” he continued, quieter, “I cannot bring myself to hate you.” Your breath came sharp. “I should.” His voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I should rage at you. I should curse your name, demand that you answer for what you have done.” His fingers tightened around his staff, his composure threatening to crack. “But I cannot.” Your vision blurred with unshed tears. “Then…then hate him.” Elder Faerie’s expression darkened, his free hand curling into a fist at his side. “I do.” The admission was quiet, restrained. “I loathe him for what he has taken. For what he has twisted.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then let out a slow breath. “But my hatred means nothing now. The seal is broken.”

Your body trembled. “Then we can fix it-” “No.” Elder Faerie’s voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed the weight he carried. “I can no longer fix it.” A pause. Then, more softly, “I have grown weaker over eons. The tree is no longer what it was.” Your breath came uneven. “But there has to be” “Do not dwell on it,” he interrupted, his voice gentle yet firm. “That is no longer your burden.” Your chest ached, torn between desperation and guilt. “But I” Elder Faerie reached out. His hand, despite everything, came to rest lightly against the side of your face. It was warm, grounding. A gesture of comfort. Of forgiveness. “I know you,” he whispered. “Better than you know yourself.” His fingers curled slightly, not in force, but in something fragile. “Your heart, your instinct, it has always been what guided you. It led you astray, but…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I do not believe it was ever meant to harm.” Your lips parted, but no words came. His gaze, softer than you deserved, held you captive. “Follow it, one last time.” The weight of his words settled deep in your chest. “Elder Faerie…” He gave the smallest of smiles, faint, tired. “Do not worry.” A pause. Then, quieter, “I will find a way.” The promise was as heavy as it was impossible. But even as he spoke it, you could see, could feel the pain beneath it. He blamed himself. For failing to guide you. For failing to save you. And even as he stood before you, speaking of hope, speaking of solutions his heart was breaking.

Tears blurred your vision, the fractured light of the Silver Tree casting a wavering glow over Elder Faerie’s grief-stricken face. His hand still rested against your cheek, warm despite the cold reality that had settled between you. You had broken the seal. You had shattered everything you had once vowed to protect. And yet, he stood there not condemning you, not striking you down, but aching for you. Your breath trembled as you whispered, “If I’m going to be remembered for this if they curse my name for what I’ve done then let them.” Your hands clenched at your sides. “You shouldn’t cover it up.” Elder Faerie’s expression flickered, but the sorrow in his eyes remained unmoving. “I chose this,” you continued, voice shaking but resolute. “Even if it’s wrong, even if I can’t take it back, I won’t let you erase it for me.” Your chest ached with every word. “I can own up to what I’ve done.” Elder Faerie exhaled slowly, his eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment. When he opened them again, his sadness had not lessened, but his resolve had hardened. “No,” he said softly. “I will not let you bear this weight.” A sharp inhale stung your throat. “Why—” “Because you are still my kin.” His voice, though quiet, carried the finality of a thousand years. “Even now.” His fingers curled slightly against your skin before he withdrew his hand. A silence stretched between you, heavy with the truth neither of you wanted to face. Elder Faerie turned slightly, his gaze shifting beyond the ruined seal, beyond the Silver Tree that now stood vulnerable, its light waning. The Silver Knights still lingered, hesitant, awaiting orders that could no longer undo what had already been done. White Lily Cookie stood among them, her fuchsia eyes dark with sorrow.

With a weary sigh, Elder Faerie straightened his posture, the weight of leadership settling over him once more. “We are leaving.” Your breath hitched. “What?” “There is nothing left for us here.” His voice carried the burden of his decision. “The seal is broken. There is no longer a cage to protect.” He turned to you once more, his gaze firm. “I must protect my people instead.” A lump formed in your throat. “But Shadow Milk he’s-” “He is sparing the kingdom for you.” Elder Faerie’s voice, though not unkind, left no room for denial. “And that is not something I can gamble with. His mercy is not our salvation, it is a fleeting kindness.” His jaw tightened. “I will not allow unnecessary danger to fall upon my people.” The words sent a chill through you. “You mean to run?” “I mean to survive.” Elder Faerie’s eyes burned with determination. “I will not let our people fall, not while I still have the strength to lead them away from this.” Your lips parted, searching for words, searching for anything that could convince him otherwise. But what could you say? You had already chosen your path. Elder Faerie let out a quiet breath, stepping past you, back toward his people, the silver knights as the kingdom’s fate was unknown. “Stay if you must,” he said, the slightest waver in his voice betraying the pain beneath his resolve. “But I will not allow them to suffer for your decision.” The finality of his words settled over you like a crushing weight. And as he walked away, leading the remnants of the Faerie Kingdom into the shadows, you could do nothing but watch.

Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to reach out, to hold onto just a moment longer before he was gone. But you didn't. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and let your hand fall back to your side. Your wings trembled as you watched Elder Faerie retreat, his silhouette fading into the gathering darkness, his presence growing ever distant. Even now, he refused to hate you. Even now, he carried the weight of this loss as if it were his burden to bear instead of yours. Your chest ached. A whisper, barely above breath, slipped from your lips. “…Shadow Milk.” The wind curled around you, stirring the remnants of broken magic in the air, but you felt the shift almost instantly. A presence, cool and familiar, coiling around the edges of your senses. It seeped into the space beside you, unseen but undeniably there. “You called for me, little Faerie?” His voice was softer now, almost indulgent, as if savoring the way you sought him. Your eyes remained on the path where Elder Faerie had disappeared, but your fingers curled slightly as if grasping for something unseen. “Did I…” You swallowed, throat dry. “Did I do the right thing?”

A silence followed, but not an empty one. It was a silence considering, a silence that weighed your question like a game piece in hand. Then, Shadow Milk sighed, a sound both amused and something else you couldn’t decipher. “Ah, my dear, sweet thing… still seeking absolution?” His tone was almost fond. “Do you wish for me to ease your conscience?” You blinked hard, trying to clear the blur of your tears. “I don’t know what happens now.” Your voice was fragile, breaking at the edges. “What do I do?” A soft chuckle, curling with something unspoken. “Well,” Shadow Milk murmured, “you are free now.” That word free. It didn’t feel as weightless as it should have. You exhaled shakily. “Are the others…?” You hesitated, staring at the broken remnants of the seal. “Are they still dormant?” Shadow Milk’s response was slow, deliberate. “For now.” Your breath hitched. “When?” “When will I wake them?” His voice lilted, teasing, but you could feel the coil of something much sharper beneath it. You turned slightly, not quite facing him, but seeking him all the same. “Yes.” Shadow Milk hummed, considering. “Now, now… that would be spoiling the fun, wouldn’t it?” A chill curled around your spine. You could feel the amusement in his tone, but it was like a magician withholding the final reveal. A game he refused to lay bare. “Then… they’re still asleep?” you asked, almost hopeful. Shadow Milk laughed, a quiet, velvety sound. “Oh, little Faerie… you ask so many questions.” His voice lowered, curling at the edges of your mind. “Why not enjoy the moment? I am here, after all.” You let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t giving you answers. Not yet. Maybe not ever. “…Then what happens now?” Shadow Milk didn’t answer right away. Instead, you felt him shift, felt the weight of his presence settle closer, his words pressing against your ear like a secret. “Now?” He purred. “Now, we dance.”

You let out a short, breathless laugh, blinking up at the darkened sky. “You’re joking.” Shadow Milk only tilted his head or at least, you felt the shift of his presence, playful and indulgent. You shook your head, a wry smile ghosting over your lips despite everything. “Why dance?” He hummed, the sound rich and teasing, curling around you like silk. “Would you prefer I say something dreadfully serious?” His voice lilted with kindness, yet there was something almost intentional in his lightness, as if daring you to follow. “Or is it that you think a dance couldn’t possibly be fitting for the moment?” You crossed your arms, wings twitching. “Do you think that would cheer me up?” Your voice was softer than you meant it to be, not accusing just tired. “Or are you just trying to distract me from everything?” Shadow Milk chuckled. “Why, both, of course.” You sighed, shaking your head. “I own what I did,” you murmured. “I made my choice. I know that. But I’m not… happy about how I got here.” You hesitated, watching the remnants of the shattered seal glimmer faintly against the wind. “Shadow Milk… is this supposed to make it easier?”

Silence, for just a moment. Then, a whisper of a touch just the ghost of a presence brushing against your fingers, cold yet oddly inviting. “Dancing,” he mused, his voice dipping into something softer, “is not about forgetting.” A pause. “It’s about moving forward.” Your breath caught. “Would you rather stand still?” His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. “Would you rather dwell in misery, in self-loathing, in regret?” His tone dipped into something almost mocking not cruel, just coaxing. “Or would you rather live?” You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching slightly. “And dancing is living?” Shadow Milk exhaled a sigh, as if you were terribly, terribly slow. “Oh, my dear.” There was a smile in his voice now. “Dancing is simply another form of freedom.” You weren’t sure what to say to that. He waited, patient, ever-present. “…Do I have a choice?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. His chuckle curled against your ear like mist. “You always do.” The wind stirred. The air shifted. And then, like a hand extended into the dark, his presence curled around you once more. “Well?” Shadow Milk purred. “Shall we?”

The wind carried the last remnants of silver leaves across the ruined clearing, their shimmer dull beneath the weight of what had transpired. The once-sacred heart of the Faerie Kingdom lay fractured, the Silver Tree’s light all but extinguished. And yet, in the midst of the devastation, there he stood real, no longer just a voice in the dark. You had seen his real form before but you didn’t get a chance to take it all in. Maybe it was the way in the end, you and him had chosen each other. Shadow Milk Cookie was no longer a mere whisper in your mind, no longer a presence lurking just beyond reach. He was here, standing before you in full form, his tall, spindly frame draped in the harlequin darks of his bodysuit. His cyan and cerulean eyes glowed with something unreadable, flickering between amusement and something deeper. He extended a hand toward you, palm up, inviting. You hesitated. Now that you could truly see him, there was no excuse to hide behind the ambiguity of shadows. There was no veil of mystery, no plausible deniability. He was real, tangible, a force unshackled by the chains you had shattered with your own hands. And yet… he looked at you as if none of that mattered. "You hesitate," he mused, his voice dipping into a knowing lilt. “Shall I extend the invitation more sweetly? Should I bow? Kiss your hand? Or…” He leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his mismatched eyes. “Perhaps you’d prefer I demand it? A grand decree, from your villain of choice.” You scoffed, shaking your head, forcing something close to amusement onto your face. “You really think this is going to fix everything?” Shadow Milk hummed, unbothered. “Oh, little Faerie, I never said that.” His fingers flexed slightly, a silent offer still waiting. “I simply said we should dance.”

You exhaled slowly, looking past him for just a moment. Beyond the clearing, hidden within the trees, a figure stood in the dim glow of the fractured remnants of the Silver Tree. Elder Faerie Cookie watched. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders bore the weight of unspoken sorrow. He had sworn to erase you from the kingdom’s history, to protect you even as you had broken him. He would not allow you to be remembered as a villain but it didn’t change the truth. He had already lost you. Perhaps he had lost you long before this moment. Your fingers twitched at your side. The ache in your chest burned, sharp and unrelenting. You could not go back. Not after this. Not even if he forgave you. The Faerie Kingdom was no longer yours, no longer a place that would welcome you with open arms. Perhaps, it never truly had. You let out a breathy laugh, hollow but deceptively lighthearted. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, lifting your gaze back to Shadow Milk. His smile stretched into something terribly pleased. “Mmm. Yet you always come back” You swallowed. Your hands trembled, just barely. Then, before you could stop yourself, you reached forward and placed your hand in his. His fingers curled around yours instantly, cold yet steady, grounding in a way that sent a shiver up your spine. He grinned, sharp and triumphant, but there was something else in his eyes, something that wasn’t quite mockery, wasn’t quite gloating. Something softer.

Shadow Milk did not rush you. He did not sweep you into some grand, theatrical motion. Instead, he took a single step closer, his free hand resting lightly against your waist, guiding you gently into place. And then, the dance began. The broken clearing became your stage. Shadow Milk moved with effortless grace, leading you through slow, deliberate steps, his body curling and twisting with the natural showmanship of an entertainer who knew his craft well. His coattails swirled like dark silk, the eyes within them blinking lazily in time with the movements. You followed, your feet lighter than you had expected, though your heart remained unbearably heavy. “So,” you said after a moment, feigning nonchalance, “what do I get for playing along with your little show?” Shadow Milk smirked. “Ah, so you do know how to play.” “Answer the question.” He hummed, pretending to think. “You get to forget, for a moment.” He twirled you with ease, letting you spiral before catching you again, his grip firm yet never forceful. “You get to pretend, just as I do. Isn’t that what you wanted?” You hated how easy it was to let yourself fall into the rhythm. Hated how the weight in your chest eased, if only slightly, as the world blurred around you in a slow waltz of shadow and silver light. Maybe you did want to pretend. Maybe deceit was all you had left. From the distance, Elder Faerie Cookie still watched, his expression unreadable, his grief buried beneath the stoicism of a ruler who had no choice but to move forward. But even as he turned away, retreating into the forest to gather what was left of his people, his heart ached with the bitter knowledge that, at the very least, You had chosen this.

The world outside your musicless dance had long since begun to fade. The broken clearing, the Silver Tree’s dying glow, the ghosts of the past that still lingered behind them it all blurred into irrelevance. The only thing left was the steady twirl of shadow and movement, the quiet rhythm that only the two of them could hear. But even as your feet moved in time with his, even as the air between you became lighter with each step, the weight in your chest never truly lifted. There was still something you needed to know. Your fingers curled slightly against his as you exhaled, steadying yourself. “Why me?” Shadow Milk tilted his head, mismatched eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, and here I thought you had already figured it out.” You shook your head, gaze steady despite the hesitance twisting in your gut. “Did you always feel this way? Or was it because I could free you?”

For the first time, Shadow Milk faltered. It was barely a flicker a momentary pause in his movement, a beat of silence too brief to be intentional. And then he laughed, soft and lilting, his grip on you tightening just slightly as he resumed his steps. “Would it truly matter?” he mused, spinning you once more before catching you again. “You were the only one who could hear me. The only one who listened.” His voice dipped, something unreadable in the way he regarded you now. “That was all it took.” Your throat felt tight. “That’s not an answer.” Shadow Milk only smiled. Your gaze searched his face, looking for something, some hint of truth, some crack in the performance. But he was as unreadable as ever, his expression locked in the same knowing amusement that had always defined him. Maybe he didn’t even know the answer himself. Maybe you didn’t want to hear it. You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe through the weight in your chest. “Where are we going after all this?” He hummed, seemingly pleased by your acceptance of the change in subject. “The Spire of Knowledge.”

Your brow furrowed. “The Spire…?” You hesitated, something about the name tugging at old memories. “That was your domain.” Shadow Milk’s grin stretched wider. “Was being the key word.” He twirled you again, slower this time, deliberate. “It was once a place of truth. Of wisdom, enlightenment a monument to Knowledge itself.” He leaned in slightly, voice dipping to a whisper against your ear. “But truth is such a fragile thing, isn’t it?” You shivered, but not from fear. He pulled back, mismatched eyes glinting with something dangerously pleased. “It is only fitting that it becomes something new.” Your stomach twisted. “What do you mean?” “The Spire of Deceit.” His voice was soft, but the weight of the words made the air around you feel colder. “More befitting of who I am now than what I once was.” A chill ran through you, not from his words alone, but from the way he said them. There was no hesitation, no regret only a quiet certainty. Your gaze flickered downward. This is what I chose. There was no going back. Shadow Milk shifted slightly, his grip on your hand loosening just enough to give you an out—to let you step away, if you wanted. But you didn’t. Your fingers remained laced with his, your body still moving with his lead, even as doubt clawed at your ribs. From the distance, beyond the ruins of the Silver Tree, the Faerie Kingdom lay shrouded in the veil of deceit Shadow Milk had cast. You couldn’t see Elder Faerie anymore. You didn’t know if he had left or if he simply no longer watched. But it didn’t matter. Your world had already changed.

The realization settled in slowly, like ink bleeding into parchment.  

If you had stayed, if you had remained the Silver Tree’s guardian, you would have never been free. Not truly. Even if you had fought off the whispers, resisted temptation, devoted yourself wholly to the kingdom… the chains of duty would have remained. You would have always been at war with the shadows. Always peering over your shoulder, waiting for the next deceit to creep in and sink its claws into you.  But now?   Now, there was nothing left to guard. The Silver Tree no longer bound you. Everything comes at a price. Perhaps this was yours. As the dance slowed, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of duty no longer suffocated your ribs, no longer dictated every action, every thought. You were unshackled. And yet, even in this newfound freedom, you found yourself searching for something, some lingering trace of what had once been.  

Your gaze flickered back to Shadow Milk. His expression was unreadable, though amusement still curled at the edges of his lips. He had won. He knew it. But there was no gloating, no smug declarations of victory. He simply watched you, waiting. You hesitated, then spoke. “What was it like?”  His brow arched. “What was what like?”  Your grip on his hand tightened slightly. “Being the Sage of Truth. Before… all of this.”  For the first time since his freedom, Shadow Milk was silent.  The air between you grew still, the weight of your question settling over the space like a thick mist. His grip did not falter, but something in his posture shifted just slightly. The ever-present playfulness in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something quieter, something distant. “…Ah,” he murmured, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to ask. He exhaled, gaze flickering skyward. “It was…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. Your heart twisted.  It was rare to see him hesitate. Shadow Milk was never at a loss for words, always weaving truths and lies together so seamlessly that one could never tell where reality ended and illusion began. But now? Now he looked as though he were peering through a fogged window, trying to recall a reflection that had long since faded.Finally, he spoke. “It was lonely.”  

Your breath caught. His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself to the present. “Truth is a bitter thing. Everyone claims to seek it, to crave knowledge, to desire understanding. But in the end…” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “They only want the truths that comfort them. The rest?” His fingers brushed against yours, slow and deliberate. “They discard. They turn away. They call it cruel, monstrous even when it is simply reality.”  His mismatched eyes met yours, glinting with something almost unreadable. “That is why they chose him over me.” You knew who he meant. Pure Vanilla Cookie. Your lips parted, but you found yourself at a loss. What could you even say?  Shadow Milk smiled, but it was different this time. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… tired. “I thought I could endure it. I thought I could bear the burden alone.” His voice softened. “But even the strongest of foundations can crumble beneath the weight of solitude.” The ache in your chest deepened. He had been a Sage. A beacon of truth. A pillar of wisdom. And yet, in the end, he had been left alone. The realization settled into your bones, heavy and undeniable. Even now, he does not regret it. He had embraced his role as Deceit wholeheartedly, had cast aside his past identity without hesitation. But deep down beneath the layers of illusion, beneath the theatrics and cunning smiles there was still something lingering. Something forgotten. You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself. “…Do you miss it?” Shadow Milk blinked.  

Then, slowly, he tilted his head, as if pondering the question himself. “No,” he said at last. “Not in the way you think.” His thumb traced absent circles against your palm. “Truth may be a virtue, but deceit…?” A soft, amused hum left his lips. “Deceit is freedom.” Your breath hitched.  He smiled, tilting your chin up slightly with a single finger. “And now, my dear… you are free too.” The words sent a shiver down your spine. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the ruins of the Silver Tree, the winds carried away the last remnants of what once was.

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he lifted a hand to your face. His touch was featherlight, fingertips brushing just beneath your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his own mismatched eyes one bright and knowing, the other dark and unreadable.

"Tsk, tsk. Don’t do that," he murmured, his tone somewhere between amused and admonishing. "I am no wounded creature, no broken thing in need of fixing." His smile curved, sharp yet indulgent, as if he found the very thought amusing. "You know better than that, don’t you?" You swallowed thickly, unsure of how to respond. He only chuckled again, as though your silence confirmed something. Then, without another word, he turned, leading you forward away from the ruins of what had been, toward something unknown.

The path to the Spire of Deceit was unlike any you had ever walked before. The air shimmered, thick with an otherworldly presence, as if the very fabric of reality had begun to unravel and weave itself anew. The sky overhead was deep, dark indigo, fractured with veins of silver light that pulsed like the slow, steady heartbeat of something ancient. The world around you twisted and bent, landmasses floating in impossible formations, staircases spiraling into the void only to reappear elsewhere. Then, you saw it. The Spire. It rose from the shifting landscape like an unshaken pillar amidst chaos, its towering, jagged peaks reaching toward infinity. The structure was built from dark stone that gleamed like polished onyx, lined with veins of cerulean light that pulsed and flickered in rhythm with the strange magic saturating the air. Bridges hung suspended in midair, leading to archways that seemed to vanish the moment you blinked, shifting as though alive. The very walls breathed, curling with elaborate carvings that reshaped themselves when you turned away. Despite its eerie, twisting nature, the Spire was… breathtaking. Shadow Milk turned slightly, watching you take it in, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Ah, there it is," he mused. "That look of wonder—untainted, unburdened." He gestured broadly, the extravagant flourish of a performer unveiling his grand stage. "It was once the Spire of Knowledge, a haven for scholars and seekers of truth. But knowledge is a fickle thing, is it not?" His smirk deepened. "Now, it is something far more fitting." The Spire of Deceit.

A home for him. A home, now, for you. And before you even realized it, your feet had already found their way toward one place the library. Though you had a feeling he could control the spire’s illusions at will and was the guiding hand towards the library. The moment you stepped through its towering archway, the air shifted. A quiet hum filled the vast chamber, the sound of countless floating tomes drifting through open space, their pages fluttering despite the lack of wind. Shelves stretched impossibly high, their ends lost to shadow. Rivers of ink cascaded in midair, suspended in time, forming words that rewrote themselves before dissolving once more. The scent of parchment, old and new, mingled with something more something ancient, something lost.

Your fingers trailed instinctively along the spine of a floating tome, drawn by the same hunger that had always burned within you. Even now after everything your curiosity refused to wane. "You are predictable," Shadow Milk murmured, his voice a soft tease as he leaned lazily against the edge of a nearby desk. "Not even a moment to mourn the past, and already, you dive into what lies ahead." His mismatched gaze glinted with something akin to approval. You exhaled a quiet breath, scanning the text in your hands. "It was always about learning," you admitted. "Even when I was meant to inherit the role of Guardian… I think I cared more about the knowledge than the duty itself." Shadow Milk tilted his head, watching you with unreadable amusement. "Duty is an illusion an expectation forced upon you," he mused. "Knowledge, however… that is a choice. Your choice." His words curled around you, sinking into the quiet recesses of your mind. Yet, even as they settled, uncertainty still gnawed at you. And so, the question left your lips before you could stop it. "If there had been another heir… if someone else had been chosen to guard the Silver Tree…" Your voice faltered, but you pushed through. "Would it still have been me?"

Would he still have sought you out? Would he still be here, beside you? Would you still matter? Shadow Milk stilled. For a moment, the silence between you was thick, pressing. His expression gave nothing away, his mismatched eyes locked onto yours, searching. Then, he moved. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His presence curled around you, dark and velvety, his voice a low murmur against the hush of the library. "You ask as though there was ever another choice." Your breath hitched. His fingers brushed beneath your chin once more, tilting your face up toward his. There was no trickery in his gaze, no jest in his tone only certainty. "Even if the stars had aligned differently, even if fate had woven another path… I would have found you." His voice dipped lower, the words sinking deep into your chest. "And I would have chosen you." Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Truth or deception? You weren’t sure. But in that moment, as you stood in the vast, ever-shifting halls of the Spire of Deceit—beneath the glow of floating ink and the hum of knowledge long lost—none of it seemed to matter. Because, for the first time in what felt like forever, you had chosen this, too. And perhaps… that was enough.

The air in the Spire of Deceit was still, as if the very walls were waiting to hear your answer. The halls, lined with towering bookshelves and twisting staircases, seemed to stretch endlessly into the abyss, their winding paths mirroring the labyrinth of emotions inside you. The knowledge here was vast, unshackled, and tainted by neither truth nor lies just as he was. Shadow Milk Cookie stood before you, his presence inescapable. His mismatched eyes gleamed with something unreadable, watching as you struggled with words too heavy to speak. The quiet between you was suffocating, yet he seemed content to let you drown in it, his expression unreadable waiting. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’ll stay,” you finally breathed, and the moment the words left your lips, something inside you shifted, solidified. “I already chose you.” His smirk faltered for the briefest second. Barely noticeable. But you caught it. His thumb grazed your cheek, an almost hesitant touch, before his fingers settled beneath your chin, tilting your head up. His touch was cold, yet it burned. “You choose me,” he mused, more to himself than to you. His voice was softer now, lacking its usual theatrical flourish, as if the weight of your words had settled somewhere deep within him.

“I do,” you whispered. His grip on you tightened just slightly. But then, you continued. “But I don’t want to be part of destruction.” Your voice trembled, but you forced yourself forward. “I won’t fight against what’s already happened. I chose this. I’ll bear it. But I won’t… I won’t let it go further. I can’t. I won’t break Elder Faerie’s heart any more than I already have.” Silence. Shadow Milk Cookie simply stared at you, unreadable. Then, he laughed. Softly, breathlessly almost disbelieving. His hand fell from your chin, but the air between you remained electric, thick with something unspoken. “You think,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement, “that you can stand beside me and remain untouched by what I do?” “I have to try,” you said, voice shaking. His smirk widened, but his expression and his eyes were darker now. “You are a fool,” he said, and there was no mockery in his tone. “Maybe.” His fingers ghosted over your wrist, lingering there, as if he was debating something. “Then answer me this,” he murmured, tilting his head. “If I were to refuse? If I told you that you must embrace the world I intend to create?” Your heart twisted painfully in your chest, but you stood firm. “Then I will go.” Something in his expression flickered. You didn’t know if it was amusement. Annoyance. Pain. Then, he exhaled slow and deliberate. The hand on your wrist slid towards your hand, his fingers curling loosely around your own. His grip was gentle, but firm, as if testing your resolve. “You would leave me,” he mused, voice soft, “after everything?” A lump formed in your throat. “If you make me,” you whispered. Another silence stretched between you. Then, unexpectedly his grip tightened. He didn’t let go. A low, knowing chuckle escaped him, but it wasn’t his usual laughter. No mockery. No theatrics. Instead, something deeper settled behind his mismatched eyes, something indulgent, something dangerously close to tenderness.

"You truly are something else," he murmured, his voice almost… fond. And then, he leaned in. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “Very well.” The tension in your chest loosened just slightly. His fingers dragged upwards on your arm before finally slipping away, giving you space. And yet, his presence coiled around you like an inescapable shadow. “I won’t force you to take part in my grand designs,” he continued. “Not yet, at least.” His smirk twitched at your sharp look. "But" His hand lifted in a careless flourish, his voice returning to its usual lilting amusement. "I will ask for something in return.” Your stomach twisted.“What?” He leaned back, watching you with knowing eyes. "Stay." One, simple request. No tricks. No riddles. Just that. Your heart ached at the simplicity of it. At the weight of it. You had thrown everything away for him. Your home. Your legacy. The love of the only father figure you had ever known. And yet here he was. The one thing in this world you could never predict. A monster draped in silk and illusions, deceit curled upon his tongue like honey. And yet he had never lied about what he was. The choice was yours. Your throat tightened. “I…” Your voice cracked. You exhaled. “…I will.” Shadow Milk Cookie only smiled. It was not triumphant. It was not victorious. It was satisfied. As if he had always known you would say yes. His fingers brushed against yours once more so fleetingly, so carefully, that for a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it. Then, his presence pulled away, and the air grew heavier once more.

"You do amuse me," he mused, the playfulness creeping back into his tone, though something else lingered beneath it. "But know this, dear, my path has already been paved. My plans, my pact, are not yours to break.” A cold shiver ran down your spine. He turned, walking toward the towering windows of the spire, where the fractured sky bled into the horizon. "You wished for kindness, and I have granted it," he continued. "For you, I have spared them…for now." He turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder, his grin sharp as a knife. "But do not mistake that for weakness, my dear. My destruction has already been written. You simply are not part of its ink." 

Days in the spire were mainly mundane Shadow Milk was never too busy for you, however he was still scheming never letting you see his plans. Maybe it was for your own good. The halls of the Spire of Deceit wound like a labyrinth, towering shelves stacked with books whose truths had long since been twisted beyond recognition. It was neither day nor night here, just an eternal limbo where time bled into itself, much like the lines between truth and deception. The wind curled through the open halls of the Spire of Deceit, carrying with it the scent of aged parchment and something faintly sweet, like the last traces of a dream before waking. Shadow Milk Cookie stood before the grand window, his silhouette dark against the star-streaked sky. The view stretched endlessly, a world waiting to be rewritten.  You lingered at the threshold, watching him, waiting. He was always so unreadable, so infuriatingly composed, yet today… today felt different. He turned his head slightly. “If you have something to say, little Faerie, say it.” You swallowed. “Why me?” you had always asked this, asked yourself, asked him. You wouldn’t stop not until you got a concrete answer. That question always made him pause. You pressed on, stepping closer, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. “From the moment you saw me at the tree, why did it have to be me? Was it just because I could release you?” Shadow Milk did not answer immediately. He exhaled slowly, his fingers trailing along the glass of the window before he finally turned to face you fully. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed in the dim light, the ever-watching shadows in his hair blinking lazily. “When I first saw you,” he mused, “when I could finally see beyond that wretched bark I thought you naïve.” His gaze flickered with something unreadable. “Entertaining, yes. But hopelessly foolish.” A smirk curled at his lips, but there was no mockery in it. “Enough to make me want to keep watching.”

You blinked. “Watching?”

His gaze flickered, and he took a step forward, closer than before. “When the seal weakened, and I could see through the bark of that cursed tree, you were the first thing I laid eyes upon.” His voice dropped to something softer, something almost dangerous in its honesty. “And I could not look away.” Your breath caught in your throat. “And it didn’t take long before I found myself waiting,” he admitted, voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. “For your voice. For your questions. For your presence.” His mismatched eyes locked onto yours. “My patience has never been my strong suit, but for you? I endured.”

“I told myself it was strategy,” he continued, tilting his head as though studying you. “That it was only a matter of finding the right strings to pull, the right lies to whisper. But the more I watched, the more you became something else.” A hand reached out, brushing barely against your cheek before he pulled away, as if catching himself. “I don’t shackle easily,” he murmured. “And yet, somehow, you’ve bound me without a single chain.” His fingers grazed yours, barely touching, his voice dropping lower. “And when you did set me free… I realized that my shackles had never been made of wood or magic.” His lips twitched into something wry, something resigned. “They were made of you.” Your heart pounded. “Then… you would do as I ask?” Shadow Milk chuckled, the sound dark and rich. “Anything,” he said smoothly, “except abandon my purpose.” A chill settled over you. “The Beasts.” His smirk did not falter. “The pact I made with them was never yours to undo.”

Your throat tightened, a familiar ache clawing at your ribs. You had known—perhaps you had always known—that some things were beyond your reach. And yet, here he stood before you, offering everything but that. Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “Then what am I to you?” Shadow Milk leaned in ever so slightly, his mismatched eyes sharp with something unreadable. “You,” he said, voice a whisper against your skin, “are the only thing I choose to keep.” The words settled deep in your bones. There was no deception in them, no half-truths. And perhaps that was what frightened you mostYour chest tightened at the weight of his words. But you had to ask. “And if I walk away?” His smirk was immediate. “Then I shall follow.” You frowned. “And if I run?” His eyes darkened with amusement. “Then I shall chase.” You let out a quiet, shaky laugh, shaking your head. “You speak of me as though I belong to you.” “Don’t you?” The question hung in the air between you, heavier than any spell, more binding than any seal. You thought of the Silver Tree, of Elder Faerie Cookie’s pained expression as he turned away from you for the last time. Of the home you had lost, of the kingdom that would pretend you never existed. You thought of how, despite it all, you did not regret it. Because the truth was, you had always been running. From duty. From expectation. From a life that had never truly been your own. And now, at last, there was no need to run. Not when you stood before the one who had always seen you. Swallowing, you met his gaze fully. “And what now?” Shadow Milk Cookie smiled, slow and knowing, taking your hand in his. “Now?” He leaned in, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Now, we rewrite the world.”

A/N I hope this ending was satisfactory I didn't want to rush to get to the ending. I really loved writing this and I took a little longer when tweaking it because I didn't like the ending I had written so I rewrote it please enjoy <3

[kykyonthemoon]

A Surprise For Him

After more than a month of training and being apart, you unexpectedly returned to Linkon without notice to surprise him.

୨ৎ. Rafayel x Reader (MC)

୨ৎ. Tags: just pure fluff, cute and sweet, phone calls, no y/n as always

୨ৎ. Word count: ~800w

୨ৎ. Requested by Yuki

୨ৎ. Masterlist ♡ Request a fic (read more for current status)

Rafayel went home with the beautiful moonlight overhead. The antique camera was slung around his neck. He gripped it in one hand while hastily searching his pocket for his phone. 

The first name that flashed on the screen was undoubtedly the girl he adored the most. He tapped the call button. One beep, two beeps, then three… He waited forever but you didn’t pick up. Rafayel regarded the phone in his fingers with a serious gaze.

You must be busy. With the new training program, the Hunters Association had sent you to another city for two months. Sixty days may not seem like much when compared to the lengthy life of a Lemurian like him, but it did not help the time pass any faster.

Rafayel missed you. He did not even try to hide it. The hour-long calls every night, the emails of encouragement every day, the pictures he took of the beautiful but empty landscape without you… He poured all his heart into them. When you get accustomed to someone's presence in your life, their absence creates an even greater void.

Putting the phone back in his pocket, Rafayel sighed and kept strolling along the lonely street. He fiddled with the camera in his palm, thinking about the photos he had taken at the festival and how he wanted to show you when you returned home. Then his phone rang. 

Rafayel picked up almost immediately.

“Where have you been, my Miss Bodyguard? It’s ten past three. What if something happened to me in those three minutes? Like… I could trip over my paintbrush and fall. Or a thief could steal those precious pictures I wanted you to see, along with my camera…”

“Rafayel!” You giggled on the other end of the phone. “I haven’t forgotten our nightly ten o’clock call.”

“Then what did you do in those three minutes?”

“I… just had some work to do.”

If you were here, you would have seen the sullen look on Rafayel’s face. But he just replied:

“No matter how much work you have, you have to rest on time.”

“I understand. Don't worry.”

You happily told him about your day. Then it was his turn to talk about the festival on the other side of the beach that he had just attended.

“…I took a lot of pictures. I should mail them to you.”

“You don't have to do that.”

Rafayel had just entered the little road leading to his studio. He was a little saddened when he heard that. You quickly added:

“Actually, I want to see the pictures with you by my side.”

"Huh? You mentioned that the facility where you were training was really secure, and I wasn't even permitted to see you," Rafayel recounted what you had said the day you had departed.

“That’s true.”

"So I have to wait another two weeks to see the photos with you?"

A few seconds of silence elapsed. You, like Rafayel, must have sensed that time was moving way too slow. Then, on the other end of the line, you spoke:

“We don’t have to wait that long. We can see them now.”

Rafayel was astonished. He asked: “How? I might not be able to find a seagull that can fly that fast to your side.”

His Miss Hunter chuckled.

"Just open the gate."

Rafayel didn't understand what you meant. However, he was already in front of the studio gate. He recalled locking it before leaving, but a little push revealed that it was wide open. While he was standing there, he heard your voice calling his name.

"Rafayel!"

He heard your call, loud and clear as if you were present and not on the phone. Then, your figure rushed forward from nowhere and your arms were thrown around his neck.

It was you. It was really you.

“Am I in a dream?” Rafayel’s lips moved. He held you tightly, spinning you around with your feet dangling a few inches off the ground. When he put you down, you said, smiling:

“My training wrapped up early. Sorry for not telling you sooner. I wanted to see this surprised face of yours so much.”

You lifted your hands and softly pinched Rafayel's cheeks. As soon as you arrived at the airport, you rushed right to his studio. You were in such a haste that your hair was a mess. Rafayel gently brushed it with his hand, then grinned.

 “Now I'd want to see how frantic you were when you raced here. That would be a sight. Let's go inside. I’ll cook something for you while you take a look at my pictures, okay?”

[bluukive]

My Little Artist

content - SFW, please have age in bio when interacting, dad!gojo, unnamed daughter, affectionate father with not so affectionate daughter, daughter lacks a bit of confidence, daughter is around 5-6 years old, pure fluff

an - posting twice today but I HAD to get this out. This is more self-indulging than anything else since I never got to experience this. This was really comforting for me to write and I hope it is to anyone else out there who enjoys art, needs something fluffy to read, etc. <3

"What's that behind your back, cupcake?"

"I'm not a cupcake, dad."

Satoru grinned at the mini version of you both standing before him. Except, she was more prone to scowling more than he was. Her chubby hands were clutching a scrap of crumpled paper behind her back, tight around the little gift for her dearest mother and father.

It was well known that Satoru was an affectionate man and even more so a father. But his daughter?

Nah, not so much.

She's got his blue eyes, his snowy hair, but—unfortunately for Satoru—none of his clingy tendencies. He was lucky if he got a high-five without bribing her with a delayed bedtime.

Satoru crouched down to her level, resting his chin in his palm. It was quite comical seeing the freakishly tall man do so.

"Oh? You're not a cupcake? But you suuure are sweet like one, aren't ya?"

His daughter frowned, shifting the paper further behind her back.

"...no? I don't think so."

"Then why are you hiding something from your dearest, most charming father?"

God... even now, he had the most insufferable ego. Why did you marry him again?

Satoru pouted dramatically, placing a hand over his heart after a beat of silence. "Could it be… a gift for me, hehe?"

She scoffed, brows furrowing just a tad bit more. "It’s not a gift, dad." Satoru gasped dramatically, fist now clutching his fitted t-shirt. "You wound me! And after everything I've done for you—"

"You didn't let me stay up last night."

"Ah, but I did the night before, didn't I? Your mother would kill me if she found out, silly girl."

His daughter rolled her eyes dramatically, and Satoru took his chance whilst she was distracted. With a crooked grin and inhuman speed, he not-so-gently snatched the crumpled paper from her tiny hands, dodging her immediate attempt to grab it back.

"Hey!" she snapped, crossing her arms brattily as Satoru unfolded the paper. She immediately gave up trying to grab for it since... well, he's 6'3, and she's barely four inches.

The moment Satoru saw what was inside, his heart stuttered. His breath was taken away. His eyes twinkled.

It was a scribbly, slightly lopsided drawing of him—his spiky white hair, big blue sunglasses, and a wide, goofy grin. Next to him, a smaller figure with the same hair held his hand. It was obvious it was done with a blunt crayon, the lines haphazard and clumsily done.

But beneath it, in wobbly letters, was written:

Mom, dad, and me.

Satoru’s chest swelled, his lips twitching with how hard he was trying not to cry. He blinked back glossy tears, face scrunched with effort. "Awh, cupcake…"

"I told you, I’m not a cupcake." She huffed, shifting on her feet. "...it’s ugly. You don’t have to keep it," she added as well, digging her foot into the carpet with her head hung down low.

Satoru let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, tears long forgotten. How could his child dare to say that to him?

"Ugly? Jeez, are you kidding? Picasso has nothing on you. Van Gogh, WHO? I should frame this—no, I should take it to a museum!"

He lifted her up in his safe, strong arms, spinning her in a circle as she let out a startled yelp. "I’m printing a million copies of this, ya know. Gonna stick a copy on every wall of this goddamn house."

"Put me down!" she protested, smacking his bulky shoulder. But naturally, he didn't feel it. "Gah, you're so annoying, dad!"

"And you looooove me for it," Satoru sang, pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to her cheek followed by a snicker.

"Ugh!" She wiped her face with a dramatic groan after he set her down on her clumsy little legs. But if you squinted, just a tiny weeny bit, you'd see the corner of her lips quirk up a little in a stubborn little smile.

Satoru chuckled, holding her close as he stared at the drawing again, his heart beating erratically against hers. He couldn't wait for you to come home to show you what a talented little artist your daughter was.

- End

[saixria]

*looks at apollo* ah zeus his golden boy.....you shine way to bright ....Tell my sister athena i did say hello... (love your art from apollo and athena my ares would love to meet them)

It should not have taken me as long as it did to do this IM SORRY LMFAO ANYWAYYY here’s the two war gods being their war god selves and Apollo trying not to kill Athena himself (I love your ares design!!)

[sinful-sonnet]

Office Hours

Professor! Joel Miller x Female Reader Slow Burn | Age Gap | Power Dynamics | Eventual NSFW | W/C: 3k

You weren't supposed to be here. Not like this, sitting across from him in the dim glow of his office lamp, fingers twisting in your lap as he looked over your latest essay with that familiar furrow in his brow.

Joel Miller was nothing like the other professors on campus. He wasn’t one for pointless lectures or pretentious intellectual posturing. He spoke with purpose, moved like he belonged in a different world—one of sweat and hard labor rather than academia. And unlike the men your age, he carried himself with something heavier. Experience. Strength. A quiet intensity that made your stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t.

You’d signed up for his class purely on accident—another elective to fill your credits. You hadn’t expected to spend the semester shifting in your seat, hanging onto every word that left his mouth, heat rising to your cheeks when his gaze landed on you. And now, alone with him, the reality of your situation pressed against you like a vice.

He cleared his throat, flipping the paper closed. “You can do better.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—”

“I know you can,” he interrupted, leveling you with a stare that made your breath hitch. “You’ve got a sharp mind. This feels like you were rushin’ through it.”

You swallowed. He was right, but the way he said it—low, rough, with just a hint of something softer—made your pulse race for an entirely different reason.

“I’ve just been... distracted.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He leaned back in his chair, broad arms crossing over his chest. “That so?”

You hesitated. This was a dangerous game, toeing the line between student and professor, between innocent and something else entirely. But you’d seen the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. You weren’t imagining it—the fleeting glances, the way his fingers sometimes gripped his coffee mug a little too tightly when you spoke.

You nodded, voice softer now. “Yeah.”

His gaze didn’t waver. For a long moment, the only sound in the office was the hum of the old heater against the quiet night outside. Then, finally, he exhaled, shaking his head.

“You should go.”

Your heart dropped. “Professor Miller, I—”

“This ain’t somethin’ you wanna start.” His voice was gruff, but there was no real anger in it. Just restraint. “Trust me.”

And maybe you should have left. Maybe you should have taken the out he was giving you. But instead, you stood, slowly crossing the room until you stood just beside his desk. Close enough that you could see the flecks of silver in his beard, the way his hands curled into fists against the polished wood.

“Maybe I do,” you murmured.

His breath caught. For the first time since you stepped into his office, you saw it—the crack in his resolve, the way his pupils darkened as his gaze flickered down to your lips.

But then, just as quickly, he turned away, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Go home.”

You hesitated, then nodded, stepping back. You didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you.

You left, heart pounding. But you knew one thing for certain.

This wasn’t over.

You sat at the very back of the lecture hall, your legs crossed, trying to appear unaffected by his presence at the front of the room. Professor Miller paced in front of the chalkboard, his voice steady, firm, explaining the intricacies of physics with that deep, commanding tone that made your stomach clench.

But you weren’t listening.

Your hand was hidden beneath the desk, fingers gripping the hem of your skirt before slipping between your thighs. You exhaled slowly, barely parting them, just enough to let your fingers trail over the sensitive flesh underneath. A quiet thrill ran up your spine, heat pooling low in your belly as you let yourself indulge in the forbidden.

He had no idea.

Or did he?

You risked a glance up. Joel was standing by the board, writing an equation, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the fabric of his button-up. You could see the way the veins in his forearms flexed as he moved, the strong lines of his hands as he gripped the chalk.

Your fingers pressed a little deeper. A little slower.

God, if only he knew. If only he’d look up, see the way your breath was coming faster, the way your knees trembled just slightly as you bit your lip to keep from making a sound.

His voice cut through your thoughts. “Everyone understand so far?”

A few murmured affirmations from the class. You barely registered them. Your fingers were slick now, the friction sending jolts of pleasure up your spine, making it harder to keep still.

Then—

His gaze flickered up. Right at you.

Your breath hitched, the tension tightening in your stomach, coiling hot and tight, ready to snap—

And then the bell rang.

A chorus of movement surrounded you. Chairs scraped against the floor, bags were slung over shoulders, and the hush of the classroom broke into murmurs as students began to rise, shuffling toward the door.

The moment was ripped from you just as quickly as it had built, the pressure in your core left unresolved, frustratingly close yet so far away. You swallowed hard, withdrawing your hand as heat flooded your cheeks.

Joel looked away abruptly, his shoulders stiff, his fingers gripping the edge of the podium with enough force that his knuckles turned white.

He had to get out of here. Fast.

But not before he risked one last glance at you.

And what he saw nearly ruined him.

Your pupils were blown, your lips parted, and you were breathing just a little too fast. He knew.

And he knew this wasn’t over.

Joel clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the edge of the podium as he watched you gather your things. His body was wound tight, heat creeping up his neck as he tried to steady his breathing.

You had no idea what you were doing to him.

Or maybe you did.

That thought alone made it worse.

He’d seen your flushed cheeks, the way your lips parted just before the bell rang. That dazed, needy look in your eyes when you realized the moment had slipped away from you. And fuck, he’d almost let himself watch for too long—almost let himself acknowledge what you had been doing under that desk.

Almost.

His grip on the wood tightened as he let out a slow breath through his nose, forcing his gaze away from you. Students were still filing out, shuffling past him, their voices a dull murmur against the rush of blood in his ears. He needed to leave. He needed to get the hell out of this room before he did something stupid.

But then he felt it.

Your presence.

Lingering.

He didn’t look up right away. He couldn’t. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his expression neutral, to keep himself from giving too much away. But he could sense you standing near the exit, hesitating.

Waiting.

His fingers flexed against the podium before he exhaled sharply and finally forced himself to meet your gaze.

It was a mistake.

Because the moment his eyes locked onto yours, his control cracked.

There was something different in the way you looked at him now. A quiet challenge. A hint of satisfaction beneath the lingering frustration of being denied what you had been so close to achieving.

Joel swallowed hard.

He should say something. Dismiss you. Tell you to go home, like he had in his office that night.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, the silence stretched between you, heavy and unspoken.

His heart slammed against his ribs as his body betrayed him, his mind flashing back to the sight of you in that chair, shifting, your breath catching. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

And yet—

“Professor?”

Your voice was soft, but there was a dangerous edge to it. A knowing lilt.

His throat went dry.

He should walk away.

Instead, he nodded once, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for only a second before stepping closer—too close. Close enough that he could see the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. Close enough that he could smell the faintest hint of your perfume, something warm and sweet that curled around him, sinking into his skin.

“I… had a question about today’s lecture.”

Joel clenched his jaw. He knew exactly what you were doing.

And he was letting you.

Fucking idiot.

He glanced around, making sure the last of the students had left before answering. “What’s your question?”

Your lips curved—not quite a smile, but close.

“I was hoping you could explain something… in more detail.”

His pulse hammered.

This was bad.

This was really bad.

But instead of shutting it down, instead of telling you to leave, Joel exhaled slowly and stepped back, nodding toward his desk.

“Close the door.”

And just like that, the last thread of his restraint unraveled.

You hesitated for only a moment before you did as he said, reaching back to gently push the door closed. The click of the latch echoed in the empty lecture hall, sending a shiver up your spine.

Your pulse was a drum in your ears, anticipation and anxiety twisting together as you turned to face him. Joel stood by his desk, his fingers curled against the wood as if he needed to physically ground himself. His jaw was tight, his gaze unreadable—but there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes.

God, you wanted him.

Hell, you needed him.

But the moment you took a step forward, another thought hit you, cold and sharp.

What if someone found out?

What if the higher-ups heard whispers of this? What if a student saw the way he looked at you, the way you lingered after class? What if someone suspected something and reported him?

The thought made your stomach drop.

Joel had worked here for years. He had a reputation—respected, intelligent, firm but fair. He wasn’t the type to abuse his position, to cross lines he shouldn’t. If anyone so much as hinted at misconduct, it could ruin him.

It could ruin both of you.

Your throat tightened.

This wasn’t just some reckless crush on an older professor. This was dangerous. A risk. And yet, as much as the fear gripped you, it didn’t lessen the ache that had taken root deep in your core.

You wanted this.

You wanted him.

But was it worth the consequences?

You licked your lips, heart hammering. “Professor, I—”

He tensed. “Don’t.” His voice was hoarse, like he was barely holding himself together. “Don’t call me that right now.”

A shiver rolled through you.

He was struggling just as much as you were.

And that only made you want him more.

Still, you forced yourself to take a breath, to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly. “This is dangerous,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s eyes darkened. “I know.”

He should be the one to stop this. To tell you to leave, to walk away before either of you did something you couldn’t take back.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched you. Waiting.

Letting you decide.

Your fingers curled at your sides. If you left now, if you walked out that door and never pushed this again, he would let you. He’d pretend nothing had happened, pretend he hadn’t seen what you were doing under the desk, pretend he hadn’t felt his own restraint slipping when he looked at you.

But if you stayed—

If you took another step forward—

There would be no turning back.

Your breath came out unsteady as you swallowed hard, your heart caught between reason and desire.

The air in the lecture hall was thick, heavy with unspoken tension. Your hands felt clammy at your sides, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was from fear, from need, or from the undeniable weight of this—whatever it was you were about to do.

Joel sat at the edge of his desk, his broad arms crossed, watching you. His expression was unreadable, his jaw tight, his fingers gripping at the edge of the wood like he was forcing himself to stay put.

You could tell.

He was waiting.

“Alright,” he finally said, voice rough. “What’s the question?”

You swallowed.

“What?”

He tilted his head, his dark eyes unwavering. “You said you had a question about today’s lecture.” His voice was measured, calm—too calm. Like he was testing you, pushing you, but not crossing the line himself. Not yet.

He was going to make you do it.

If you wanted this, if you really wanted this, it would have to be your move.

Not his.

Because if he made the first move, if he gave in first, there’d be no coming back from it.

Your breath hitched as you realized exactly what he was doing.

Giving you an out.

If you wanted to pretend this was nothing, if you wanted to walk away and never touch this line again, he was letting you. He wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t even let himself admit what had been simmering between you both for weeks now.

But if you gave him an excuse—

If you so much as hinted at what you really wanted—

He wouldn’t hold back.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You felt too hot, too aware of the space between you. Your thighs clenched together instinctively, but you knew that wouldn’t help anything.

Your mind was screaming at you to be smart, to walk away, to leave before you got him into something he couldn’t escape.

But your body?

Your body was already making the decision for you.

Slowly, carefully, you stepped closer.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His only reaction was a small, sharp inhale through his nose, his fingers flexing against the desk.

Your stomach flipped.

This was it.

Your move.

Your choice.

What the hell were you going to do?

Your mind was spinning, every rational thought tangled up in the thick pull of him, of the weight of his gaze, the way his fingers flexed against the desk like he was barely holding himself back.

You could still walk away. You should walk away.

But instead, you inhaled deeply and forced yourself to focus, to think of something—anything—that could give you a reason to stay.

A question.

Something that would force him to touch you.

Your lips parted, and the words spilled before you could stop them.

“I… I didn’t quite understand how force and acceleration relate in a real-world scenario,” you murmured, voice quieter than you intended. “The equation makes sense, but I can’t seem to feel it. I think I need to see it applied physically.”

Joel’s brows furrowed slightly, but something flickered in his eyes—something dark, something aware.

You were treading dangerous waters, and he knew it.

Still, he didn’t stop you.

Instead, he pushed off the desk and took a slow step forward, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes roamed over you, sharp and assessing, like he was deciding whether or not to call your bluff.

“You wanna feel it,” he echoed, voice low and edged with something dangerous.

You swallowed. “Y-yeah.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching you, his gaze dragging over your face, your parted lips, the way your fingers fidgeted at your sides.

Then, without a word, he reached past you.

You sucked in a breath as his arm brushed against yours, his warmth seeping through your sleeve. He grabbed a textbook from the desk, flipping it open absently, pretending like this was just any other lesson.

But it wasn’t.

You both knew it.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough as he turned a page. “You remember Newton’s Second Law?”

You nodded quickly. “Force equals mass times acceleration.”

He hummed, his gaze flicking to yours, unreadable. “Right.”

Then, before you could react, he shifted closer—so close that your back bumped into the edge of a nearby desk. You barely had time to process the way heat radiated off of him before his hand was wrapping gently around your wrist.

Your breath caught.

“This,” he murmured, guiding your hand toward the heavy textbook, “is mass.”

You shivered, the warmth of his palm pressing firmly against yours. His grip was steady, his fingers rough with experience, but he didn’t move any closer. Didn’t push.

He was waiting.

Waiting for you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

Your heart pounded as he placed the book in your hand, his other palm coming up to hover just over your shoulder. Close. Too close.

“Now,” he continued, voice softer, “apply force.”

You hesitated, your grip tightening around the textbook.

He raised an eyebrow, then—so slightly you barely registered it—his fingers brushed against your wrist, guiding you to move.

You inhaled sharply as you lifted the book, feeling the weight shift under your control. Your arm trembled slightly—not because of the strain, but because of him. Because of his hand on you, the way his touch sent shivers up your spine.

“See?” he murmured. “The greater the force, the greater the acceleration.”

You barely heard him. Your brain wasn’t computing physics anymore. The only thing you could process was the warmth of his skin, the way he hadn’t pulled away yet.

How dangerously easy it would be to turn just a fraction, to press yourself fully against him, to close the space entirely.

Joel exhaled slowly. His grip lingered for just a second too long before he finally let go, stepping back like nothing had happened.

But the tension?

It was still there.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “That answer your question?”

You blinked up at him, breathless.

You should say yes. Should thank him and leave before you did something reckless.

But instead—

“Not quite.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, like he knew exactly what you were doing.

And he was going to let you.

Your move.

Joel stared at you.

Not just looked, but really stared—like he was fighting every single instinct screaming at him to stop, to walk away, to keep whatever this was buried deep down where it belonged.

But you weren’t letting him.

You saw it in the way his jaw flexed, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to grab something—wanted to grab you.

And still, he hesitated.

“Go home.” His voice was low, strained, barely controlled.

You shook your head. “No.”

His nostrils flared. “I ain’t doin’ this.”

You stepped closer, closing what little distance remained between you, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please… just show me.”

It shattered whatever restraint he had left.

Joel moved faster than you could process, grabbing you, his rough hands wrapping around your waist as he spun you around, your back hitting the desk behind you with a sharp gasp.

Before you could blink, his large hand was at your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

"You wanna be shown?" he muttered, voice dripping with something dark, something possessive.

You nodded, breathless, aching.

He let out a sharp exhale, his forehead almost pressing against yours. "Goddamn it."

Then he kissed you.

No, kissed wasn’t the right word—he took you.

It was rough, unrelenting, his lips hot and desperate against yours, his fingers digging into your waist as if you might disappear if he didn’t hold you still.

You moaned into his mouth, your hands flying up to grip at his shirt, fisting the fabric to keep yourself steady as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your knees buckle.

Joel felt it, because in the next second, he was grabbing the back of your thigh and lifting you onto the desk like you weighed nothing.

Your legs instinctively parted, and he wasted no time stepping between them, his hips pressing into yours, trapping you in place.

“This what you wanted, huh?” he growled, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that made you shiver. “Wanted to push me until I cracked?”

You could barely think, let alone form words.

“Yes,” you breathed, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He groaned, gripping your hips tighter. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he muttered against your skin, his lips finding the spot just below your ear, biting down just enough to make you whimper. “Should send you home.”

You shuddered, arching into him. “Then do it.”

He growled, his fingers tightening around your thighs, spreading them wider.

“No,” he muttered, voice raw. “Not after the way you looked at me in that classroom. Not after what you were doin’ under that damn desk.”

His hand slid higher, pushing up your skirt, fingers ghosting over the sensitive heat between your legs. You gasped, your whole body tensing as he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath hot, heavy.

“You wanted me to notice, didn’t you?”

You nodded frantically, your breath hitching.

“Say it.”

You swallowed hard. “I… I wanted you to notice.”

His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, barely touching where you needed him most. “And now that I have?”

You were trembling, aching. “Please.”

Joel let out a deep, guttural sound, his self-control snapping like a rubber band stretched too tight for too long.

"Fine," he murmured darkly, his lips brushing against yours.

"Let me show you."

Joel’s hands were everywhere—hot, rough, steady—grounding you against the desk as if he were calculating every movement, every reaction.

"Force equals mass times acceleration," he muttered, voice thick, his lips brushing against your ear as he pressed his body against yours.

You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. "Joel—"

"Shh," he murmured, his large hands gripping your waist, positioning you, as if this was nothing more than another physics demonstration. "You wanted to feel the equation, right?"

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"Th-this isn't what I meant," you managed to stammer, though you both knew that was a lie.

Joel chuckled, a deep, knowing sound, his fingers trailing down your thighs. "Nah, sweetheart, I think it is."

He nudged your legs apart, his grip tightening, anchoring you in place.

"Acceleration," he murmured, pressing a little closer, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. "It’s the rate of change of velocity over time."

You swallowed hard. "O-okay…"

His fingers trailed along your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "So if I apply a constant force…" His hips shifted just slightly, making your breath catch. Joel positioned himself at your entrance "The acceleration increases. You feel that?"

You bit your lip, your entire body thrumming under his control.

"Yes," you whispered.

Joel hummed in approval, his breath warm against your cheek. "Good. Now, mass…" His hand traveled back down, gripping your thigh. "More mass means more resistance, right? Takes more force to move it."

He lifted you slightly, effortlessly adjusting you against the desk.

"And since you're the mass in this equation, I’ve gotta work a little harder, don’t I?"

Your breath stuttered.

You knew he wasn’t talking about physics anymore.

"Joel…"

He smirked, his fingers trailing back up, gripping your hips. "You wanted me to show you, darlin’. I’m just makin’ sure you learn somethin’ from it."

His voice dipped lower, raspier. "So tell me—what happens when you apply a force in one direction?"

Your head was spinning, body buzzing with anticipation. "It—" You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "It accelerates in that direction."

"That’s right." His hands tightened. "And what happens when there’s no opposing force to slow it down?"

You were breathless now, clinging to him as the tension stretched impossibly thin between you both.

"It… keeps going."

Joel’s lips brushed against your temple, a quiet hum of satisfaction rolling through his chest.

"Exactly."

And then—

He moved. Fitting his whole length inside you.

His hands, his force, his body—everything was calculated, precise, deliberate.

Physics had never felt like this before.

You gasped, gripping onto him, feeling every single application of the lesson in real time.

Joel groaned, his voice tight with restraint. "Now you’re gettin’ it."

You didn’t know if you were learning physics.

But you were definitely learning him.

Joel didn’t let up.

His grip on you was firm, steady, as if he was ensuring you wouldn’t slip through his fingers—not that you wanted to. Every breath you took felt heavier, filled with something charged, something that made the air between you almost unbearable.

“You remember Newton’s Third Law?” His voice was rough, edged with something dangerous, something that made your stomach tighten.

Your mind was spinning, barely able to process words as his hands grounded you against the desk.

“I—” You swallowed, your fingers gripping at his shirt.

Joel chuckled, dark and low, his lips just brushing against your ear. “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” he murmured. “That means—”

Before you could even prepare, he moved, hips snapping faster, harder, pressing closer, his presence overwhelming.

You gasped, your body instinctively responding, pushing against him without even realizing it.

Joel smirked. “See? That’s reactionary force, darlin’.”

Your breath hitched. “J-Joel—”

“That’s how it works,” he continued, ignoring your attempt to ground yourself. “I push, you push back.” His hands tightened. “I apply force, you absorb it.”

Your stomach flipped. He was making you feel every word, every lesson, in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with physics anymore.

Joel leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck. “Now, let’s talk about friction.”

Oh, God.

You knew where this was going.

You weren’t even sure you could speak at this point, but Joel didn’t need your answer—he was already moving again, showing you exactly what he meant.

“Friction is resistance,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he demonstrated. “You feel that? The way two surfaces move against each other?”

You definitely felt it.

Your fingers dug into his arms, nails scraping against fabric as you struggled to keep up, to breathe.

“Too little friction,” he went on, his grip adjusting, “and there’s no control. But just the right amount?” His lips hovered over yours, teasing. “It keeps everything right where it needs to be.”

You whimpered, your body betraying you, arching into him before you could stop yourself.

Joel’s smirk deepened.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured.

Your head spun. Your heart pounded.

You weren’t sure if this was physics anymore or something else entirely, something much more dangerous.

And the worst part?

You didn’t care.

The air between you crackled, thick with unspoken words and undeniable tension, something electric that neither of you could ignore any longer. It surged between you, a live wire waiting for a spark, and Joel was the one holding the match.

He was everywhere—his hands gripping your waist, firm and possessive, fingertips pressing just enough to leave an imprint. His broad frame loomed over you, his presence suffocating in the best possible way. His scent, all musk and faint traces of leather and gun oil, curled around you like a second skin. There was no escaping him, no resisting the gravity that pulled you deeper into his orbit.

“You starting to get it now?” His voice was low, rough, each syllable a deliberate scrape against your fraying composure. The heat of his breath skimmed over your lips, teasing but never quite touching.

You nodded—frantically, desperately.

But that wasn’t enough for him.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” His grip tightened, his fingers digging in just enough to make your breath stutter. The force of him, the sheer dominance in his stance, made your pulse hammer. “Tell me what you learned.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to think beyond the way he felt, the way his body pressed into yours, caging you in like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

“I—I learned that…” Your voice was shaky, uneven, your thoughts tangled in the suffocating heat of him. But he waited, unwavering, his dark eyes watching, demanding.

Joel wasn’t going to let you off that easy.

“…that every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” you finally whispered, your lips barely brushing his with each syllable.

His smirk was dangerous, a slow, knowing thing that sent shivers down your spine. His grip on your waist flexed, the strength in his hands enough to remind you just how easily he could control this moment, could control you.

“Good girl.”

The praise hit like a physical force, a shudder rolling through your body as heat pooled low in your stomach. Your fingers curled into his shirt, clinging to the fabric as if it was the only thing tethering you to reality. You needed something to hold onto, something solid, because Joel Miller was unraveling you by the second.

He noticed.

Of course, he did.

And he loved it.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a fresh wave of heat down your spine. “Now, what happens when an object in motion stays in motion…” His hands adjusted, sliding lower, pulling you against him until there was no space left between your bodies. “…until acted upon by an external force?”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. He was the external force, the unstoppable force, the immovable object all in one. And you? You were caught in his gravitational pull, helpless to do anything but surrender.

“Joel—”

“That force…” His voice was a growl now, deeper, darker, filled with something that made your entire body thrum with anticipation. His fingers skimmed along your lower back, tracing slow, deliberate patterns before gripping you tighter. “That’s me.”

Your entire world tilted.

Joel moved deliberately, with calculated precision, pressing you firmly against the nearest surface—something solid, something unyielding, just like him. His hands roamed, mapping out every inch of you as if he had all the time in the world. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, only an unrelenting purpose that made your skin burn with every touch.

His lips ghosted over your jaw, dragging down, teasing, testing. You felt the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the lingering restraint that wouldn’t last much longer.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

Your nails dug into his shirt, your head tilting to give him more, offering yourself up without a second thought. “Yes,” you breathed, voice barely more than a whimper.

Joel chuckled, low and satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he showed you exactly what happened when an object in motion met an unstoppable force.

The pace was relentless, the heat unbearable. His movements were precise, purposeful, dragging you to the very edge before pulling you right back in. Every sound, every sensation built up, coiling tight in your core until there was nowhere left to go but over.

His breath was ragged, his grip unyielding, his body against yours nothing short of devastating. You felt the tension snap all at once, a wave of heat crashing through you as his own release followed, a deep, shuddering groan breaking past his lips. The feeling of him—hot, pulsing, buried deep—was the final push you needed, sending you spiraling into oblivion.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, the air between you thick and heavy with everything that had just passed. His hands stayed firm on your body, his presence still anchoring you in place, as if he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

And neither were you.

Because there was no resistance left.

Not from you.

Not from him.

And you both knew it.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with the remnants of everything that had just happened.

Your breaths were still uneven as you slowly came back to yourself, your body still buzzing from the way Joel had taken you apart, piece by piece, like you were nothing more than a lesson he needed to teach—one he made damn sure you wouldn’t forget.

You swallowed hard, willing your legs to stop trembling as you steadied yourself on the desk.

Joel hadn’t moved much.

He was still standing there, broad frame looming, his gaze locked onto you with something dark and unreadable. His breathing was slower now, controlled, but the tension between you hadn’t dissipated.

Not one bit.

You knew this wasn’t over.

Not really.

There was something in the way he was watching you—something unfinished, something that told you this was only the beginning of whatever the hell this had become.

You exhaled shakily, running your hands over your rumpled skirt, attempting to fix yourself before finally forcing yourself to move.

Joel’s eyes followed you.

You made it to the door, your fingers just barely wrapping around the handle when his voice rumbled behind you—low, rough, dangerous.

"Let’s go over another lesson again sometime."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You turned just enough to meet his gaze, your pulse spiking all over again when you saw the way he was looking at you—like he wasn’t done with you.

Like this was far from over.

Your fingers tightened on the handle.

You knew you should leave. Walk away. Pretend like you hadn’t just let your professor turn a physics lesson into something else entirely.

But instead—

Instead, you smirked.

A slow, knowing, daring smirk.

And then you opened the door and walked out.

But as you disappeared down the hallway, your mind raced, your body still thrumming with the aftermath of his hands, his words, his control.

And one thought lingered in your mind:

You were definitely coming back for another lesson

[nanenna]

A Brief Look from a Different Angle

Going back in time just a little to have a look from a different PoV.

Sleepy King masterpost

---

Jazz flung open the door to the basement so forcefully it nearly bounced right back into her face. “Mom! Dad!”

“Jazz?” Mom asked curiously from below as Jazz descended the basement stairs. “Sweetie, come look! We think we got the new settings for the blasters set correctly.”

“Mom, where's Danny?” Jazz asked in a tight voice.

“Isn't he with you?” Mom asked warily, looking past Jazz to where she was flanked by Sam and Tucker.

“Did he wander off after school?” Dad suggested cheerfully.

“School's not over yet, we left early because Danny never made it to school this morning. Didn't they call you?” Jazz had thought it was weird the school office had called her at all, especially when she was at the very same school when they had.

Her parents frowned as they pulled their phones from their pockets. “No missed calls,” Mom said.

Dad turned to the computer, “Not the house line either. But there were a couple readings last night, perhaps Danny slept in?”

“I called him on the Fenton phone, you'll never guess who answered.” Jazz gave her parents a moment to turn their full attention back to her. “Superman.”

“Oh, well they're the good guys so he's safe at least, right?” Dad asked cheerfully.

“What did Superman say, honey?”

“He said Danny had been kidnapped and rescued, but has some sort of magical side effects the Justice League is working to fix before sending him home. He wouldn't tell me any more details, not who kidnapped him, not what the side effects are, not when he'll be home, nothing.”

“And they didn't inform you, his parents,” Sam added on.

“I'm worried they don't know about Danny’s ghost status and might accidentally hurt him trying to cure him of whatever,” Tucker added, still tapping away at his modified tablet.

“Well that's just unacceptable,” Mom said angrily.

“Right!” Dad agreed eagerly. “We're his parents and he's still a minor, we should be there to approve of his medical treatment!”

Jazz was already heading over to the corner to collect ol’ reliable: the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick™. “They said he's at one of the JL bases.”

Everyone turned to look at Tucker. “Their security is pretty tight, as to be expected, but as always there's social engineering. One of the JL members is complaining in a private discord server about still being on monitor duty on the Watchtower despite it currently being on lockdown for unspecified magical reasons.”

“The Watchtower?” Dad asked.

“Isn't that in space?” Sam sounded incredulous.

“Danny must be so excited,” Mom said with a fond sigh.

“How do we get to space?” Jazz asked forcefully.

Everyone looked around at each other for a moment. “The specter speeder is air tight,” Dad suggested.

“We can go through the ‘Zone,” Jazz added, already digging through the benign supply storage.

“Ask Frostbite for the infi-map?” Tucker suggested.

“Or we just use this!” Jazz triumphantly held up the booo-merang.

There was a resounding sound of approval from the group, followed by a flurry of activity as everyone set about getting ready to travel to space. Mom had taken over the pilot’s seat for the specter speeder, Dad was clearing away everything they had been working on to give the speeder a clear runway, Sam and Tucker were gathering up various ‘just in case’ supplies like a few weapons and the emergency ghost first aid kit, and all the while Jazz was double checking the booo-merang was properly calibrated and battery charged. Once everyone was in place and everything set up, Jazz threw the booo-merang at the open portal and hopped into the speeder so they could take off after it.

Once through, Dad activated the new remote to close the blast doors behind them. No chance of anyone sneaking through while they’re away. A new safety feature that had drastically reduced the number of ghost attacks. Danny had been delighted. Jazz had been upset it took so long for their parents to listen to her concerns when she’d brought up the portal’s security a year prior, shortly after finding out about Danny’s ghostliness.

Jazz mentally shook those thoughts away, no use retreading old ground. Instead she kept her eyes on the booo-merang as it flew through the Ghost Zone, lazily spinning along at a pace that was pretty easy for the speeder to keep up with.

“It sure is taking a while,” Tucker said with a bored sigh.

“We'll get there when we get there,” Sam replied with a grin.

They lapsed back into silence, everyone watching the booo-merang leading them further and further into the ‘Zone. Then it suddenly took a sharp left at the same time it doubled its speed. The boo-merang slipped through a portal that seemed to open and close just for it.

The speeder rocked as Maddie tried to follow the sudden course change, then cursed when they missed the portal.

“Welp,” Tucker said tiredly, “guess we head to the Far Frozen to ask for the infi-map.”

Sam snickered, “Bet you fifty it hit him in the head.”

“That's not a bet, that's a guarantee.”

“Hey!” Jazz protested.

Before Jazz could properly defend herself, a portal opened right in front of them. They ended up on the other side before anyone could do more than gasp.

“Is that… the Watchtower?” Mom asked hesitantly.

“I think so,” Tucker replied.

There, floating before them backed by a field of stars,was a matte gray tube with more tubes attached around it covered with windows leaking buttery yellow light into the void.

“Okay, so now what?”

There was a moment of silence as everyone processed what had just happened. Danny was inside and they were outside, they needed to find their way in and then somehow find Danny without their only tracking device. Great.

The radio came to life with a burst of static. “This is the Watchtower to the unknown vessel, please identify yourself.”

“Great, guess we can't sneak on,” Sam groused.

“Like that was ever even an option,” Tucker replied sarcastically.

“Kids!” Dad chided. Then he started fiddling with various knobs, “How do we reply?”

Mom frowned, “I'm not sure we can.”

“Something to upgrade for next time!”

“Hopefully there won't be a next time,” Jazz muttered.

“Still, it’s best to be prepared,” Dad said jovially. The radio spit more static and garbled requests for identification.

“Perhaps we should just… approach? They probably have an airlock or something we can use.” Mom gently nudged the speeder forward, heading slowly towards the Watchtower.

“Hopefully they don’t think we’re hostile,” Tucker grumbled.

“Don’t worry, we’ve got ghost shields!” Dad said enthusiastically with a finger hovering over a button.

“Dad, the Justice League doesn’t have any ghosts,” Jazz reminded him with a sigh. She shook her head, her parents were a little too specialized. Maybe this would help them realize they lost sight of the broader picture.

“Well hopefully it’ll stop whatever that is,” Tucker said nervously, pointing at where a small white dot was growing larger as it approached them.

The dot turned out to be a man wearing a white half cape, the red and gold coming into focus as he got closer. Clearly he was some kind of superhero, since he wasn’t even wearing a helmet or space suit. Jazz narrowed her eyes at him, “Is that Superman?”

“No,” Sam and Tucker said at the same time. Tucker took over, “That’s Captain Marvel, the champion of magic. Not related to Superman at all, aside from being coworkers I guess.”

“Good for him.” Jazz readjusted her grip on the anti-creep stick.

Captain Marvel slowed down as he got closer, stopping a few yards away. He smiled and waved, everyone waved back. Then he beckoned for them to follow.

“How nice, they sent someone to lead the way.” Mom maneuvered the speeder to follow, matching the easy pace Captain Marvel set.

“Hold on, Danny, we’re coming,” Jazz murmured, gripping the anti-creep stick tight.

[liliasenbyhusband]

Play stupid games

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joanne x reader (company, f!Bobbie)

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI!!!, smutty thoughts but no actual smut, drinking, mentions of smoking and cigarettes, that’s it I think??

Tags: longing, established friendship between reader, Joanne, a bit more angsty than the other chapter, loneliness, drinking, hangover, flirting

Summary: Joanne comes home after Bobbie’s party to an empty apartment and has a hard time dealing with the loneliness that accompanies that.

Notes: Honestly, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter. I have very mixed emotions about it. I hope you guys like it though. I’m hoping to be able to post the next chapter next weekend, but I can’t make any promises cause uni is really taking it out of me atm. As always, English isn’t my first language so please excuse any mistakes.

Words: ~3.7k

Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2: Bobbie’s best friend

Joanne sighed as she entered her empty apartment, if she hadn’t been so hellbent on winning that stupid argument with Bobbie then she could have asked you to join her for a nightcap… would it still be considered a nightcap at 4 am in the morning..? She shrugged and decided to pour herself a glass of whiskey. She really did despise coming home to an empty apartment, especially when she didn’t get to properly say goodbye to you.

She had no one to blame but herself really. She could have easily let Bobbie win the argument and then asked you to go with her to her apartment. Or she could have at least taken a proper break from arguing to take her time to say goodbye to you. But at the time winning their little fight had been more important so now she had to deal with the emptiness that had settled into her heart, an all too familiar feeling whenever you weren’t around. Joanne hated a lot of things, but missing you might just be one of the things she hated the most.

She groaned at her own patheticness, she had just seen you, how was she already craving your company again? She blamed the alcohol for her neediness and the persistent ache that seemed insistent on haunting her whenever she thought about you for too long. She also decided to ignore the wet patch that had formed in her underwear, the result of being a little too flirty with you and her inability to stop her horny thoughts from taking over whenever you were around.

Joanne threw herself on her couch after taking off her shoes and began sipping her whiskey. She knew it was a bad idea to drink even more, but it was the only thing she could think to do to fight the sadness that had woven itself into every fiber of her being.

Her faulty plan to distract herself with more alcohol had been doomed from the start and it completely backfired when she failed to find something else to think of or keep herself busy with. The thoughts she had tried to repress took over, alcohol tended to have that effect on her… and yet she never learned from her past mistakes and continued to drink whenever her heart felt sad or empty. So, unable to do anything to stop it, she groaned as the memories and feelings from this turbulent past year and a half began to plague her.

Joanne had never entertained the thought of liking women.. let alone the idea that she might not like men. She had blamed the fact that her marriages never worked out on the fact that she had never met a man that could handle her or meet her high standards. Joanne had never questioned it… not until her third marriage had ended and she once again felt nothing but relief to be rid of another husband.

Surely she should have been more upset at losing her third husband, at another broken marriage… sure Larry hadn’t been perfect but he had been kind and gentle and patient. So why was she so happy to be rid of him? And that’s when it hit her, him being so patient and gentle had been the problem. He had started getting too close, he knew her too well and he was too kind, wanted to be intimate too much and loved her too much. Whenever she pulled away, he took a step closer and it was insufferable, so she had ended things.

With every husband she had found flaws, flaws that were too great to look past, that she could not stand, that irritated her beyond comprehension. And during every marriage she had made it impossible for the relationship to bloom and thrive, always finding new ways to pull back or taunt her spouse. It had started to make her question things, even during her marriage with Larry.

And then, when the expected hurt at losing someone, who so clearly loved her, didn’t follow, after she felt nothing but relief and guilt, she had started to really look at herself and her previous marriages. Of course with the help of some a lot of alcohol, because trying to do any introspection sober was a fate worse than death.

Joanne realised she had never felt attracted to her husbands… in fact she barely even tolerated most of them.. she couldn’t even remember why she had married them, other than it had been expected of her so she’d done it.

In the midst of this personal journey, Bobbie had introduced her new best friend to the group. When Bobbie had announced that she’d be bringing you to their next gathering, because she wanted everyone to meet you, Joanne had been skeptical of adding another person to their already big and chaotic friend group. She also wasn’t sure if she had the emotional strength to deal with meeting someone new right now. But it had seemed important to Bobbie, and whether she admitted it or not, she cared for her.. so she’d begrudgingly agreed to be there for the next gathering and had promised to be nice to you.

A decision she was now incredibly grateful for. When first meeting you she had started jokingly flirting with you, just like she did with most women she met for the first time, she found it usually eased the tension and awkwardness. Although most women never really matched her energy, usually just rolling their eyes or laughing at Joanne’s remarks. But then you came and you matched every dirty remark with an even filthier one and you had even managed to fluster her every once in a while, a feat only a very few people could claim to have accomplished. Meeting you had been like finally feeling a cool breeze after being trapped in a hot room for days on end.

And then she got to know you better, and you were so clearly and unapologetically yourself, she had to admit she admired it. You were no longer just a fun person to throw filthy comments at, but you had actually stirred something deep within her. She found herself feeling feelings she thought people had been lying about existing, she certainly never felt these butterflies around any of her husbands… when she began to truly think about it, the only time she had ever felt this giddy around anyone was during her college days when she had spent most of her time hanging out with her closest friend.

And that’s how all the puzzle pieces finally fell into place.. on a random Friday night at Bobbie’s, surrounded by her friends and while talking to you. Suddenly everything made sense. Why she had despised every single one of her husbands, how they had never been able to match her high standards, why she had felt so betrayed when her closest friend had gotten a boyfriend, and why she suddenly felt butterflies whenever you touched her. She was a lesbian… it was a crushing realization, accompanied by a wave of many intense emotions, both good and bad.

Joanne had never been more grateful for her ability to hide her emotions behind a well crafted mask and a strongly built wall than she had been that random Friday night. She had somehow managed to hold everything together till she got to her apartment, where she let the wave of emotions drown her completely while reaching for her familiar bottle of vodka.

The journey to acceptance had been a long and arduous one, especially since she refused to tell anyone about what she was going through, not out of a fear of not being accepted, but simply because she refused to seem weak. She had spent years creating this persona and she would be damned before ever showing her real self to these people.

The fact that she had developed a bit of a crush on you hadn’t helped this predicament either… she had only known you for a couple of months and hung out with you outside of the friend group twice and yet she had somehow managed to make this harder on herself than it already was.

And yet, somehow, she managed to slowly but surely start accepting this part of herself and her life had started to make a whole lot more sense now. She would never say it out loud, but opening up to you, even just a little, had helped her journey immensely and even though she hadn’t exactly come out to you, she still felt like you somehow knew, like you could see through her and, unlike with Larry, the thought brought her ease and comfort.

Her phone vibrating brought her out of her thoughts, as she checked who had messaged her, she noticed the time: 6 am. Had she really been lost in thought that long..? She sighed and downed the rest of her whiskey before reading the message Bobbie had sent her. It was a very poorly written apology, wanting to make sure Joanne hadn’t been angry with her after their little quarrel.

Bobbie was very clearly drunk, she always got anxious and began to overthink everything when she was drunk and alone. Joanne rolled her eyes and sighed but there was no real annoyance behind it, she cared a lot about Bobbie, and deep down she understood her more than she’d ever admit. She saw a great deal of herself in the other woman. She typed out a quick message, full of mistakes, reassuring Bobbie that they were okay and that she wasn’t upset about the argument. Quite frankly she couldn’t even remember what the argument had been about… the only thing she could remember was that it had seemed important to win it… but then again, to Joanne, winning any argument at all was always important

When she exited their chat, she saw your name right under Bobbie’s, which is when she remembered that she hadn’t sent you a text, to tell you that she had gotten home safe, yet. You and Joanne usually texted each other immediately after getting home…she couldn’t exactly remember when or why you had started doing it, but it was nice nonetheless. It made her feel like someone cared about her and it was always nice to know that you’d gotten home safe.

She had completely forgotten to text you this time though, too absorbed in her own thoughts to remember to let you know she’d made it to her apartment in one piece… so she quickly sent you a message, letting you know she had gotten home safely. In her drunken haste to reply to you, she had struggled to write a coherent message, the singular sentence containing more spelling mistakes than words spelled correctly, but she knew you wouldn’t care.. as long as you knew she got home safe.

Joanne groaned as she felt that familiar ache once again begin to settle into her heart upon seeing your name on her screen. Her little crush, attraction and fascination with you had turned into something much deeper these past months. She had tried to push it down, bottle it up, forget about it, but her feelings always found a way back to the forefront of her mind. Luckily for her, you seemed to be none the wiser, the years of perfecting the walls she had built around her heart had paid off.

Sometimes she dreamed about telling you how she felt or confessing to you that she was a lesbian, just so she could say it out loud to someone. And who better to tell than the only person she felt comfortable opening up to, even just a little? Besides she was quite sure you knew already or at least suspected something.

But then the shame and embarrassment kicked in.. how on Earth had it taken her this long to find out she liked women? She knew you wouldn’t judge her but… well maybe you should. She had gone through life proclaiming to know it all, telling anyone who would listen how she had life completely figured out and yet… she didn’t even discover this essential part of herself until fairly recently. Not only had it taken her multiple decades to figure it out, but it had also taken her three whole divorces… no she was too proud to ever admit this to anyone, even you. Accepting herself was one thing, having to deal with the consequences of her own actions was something entirely different. And what was the point, anyway? It was too late, she was too old… and there was no way you’d be interested in her.

“There is still time.”

She whispered into the cold air of her living room, it sounded desperate, like she was trying to convince herself of a lie. It was supposed to be comforting, a reminder that it wasn’t too late, that she could still explore this side of herself…there was still time. Except it didn’t feel comforting, instead it felt like a curse, there is still time.. there is always time… and nothing to fill it with, no dreams to be chased, no goals to be accomplished, no wishes to be fulfilled, no work to be completed… just time.. an endless stretch of time that she couldn’t seem to assign any meaning to. She stared at her now empty glass as the reality of having a future with no goals she wished to chase, settled into her once again.

No, you would never be into her, you needed someone ambitious, someone who could help you grow in life and would encourage you to follow your dreams… not a drunk old broad who spent her days doing nothing but complaining and drinking.

Joanne groaned as she got up from the couch, she really hated coming home to an empty apartment, her thoughts seemed to never stop when she was alone. With great difficulty she made her way over to her bed. She couldn’t be bothered to change out of today's clothes, so she just let herself fall into her bed. She’d regret all of this tomorrow morning.. or well, more accurately, later today.. but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

Thanks to the alcohol, she managed to fall asleep rather quickly, but it didn’t provide her any solace. You haunted her dreams with your understanding eyes, witty remarks and comforting touches.

Joanne woke up feeling worse than she did when she had gone to bed. Not only did she have a massive hangover but having dreamt of you laying beside her and then waking up in an empty bed, in the same clothes she had worn yesterday, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, had hit her harder than she would ever admit.

She slowly got out of bed, opting to take a cold shower before trying to do anything, needing to get rid of this smell and hoping to get rid of some of the brain fog.

When Joanne got out of the shower, she was entirely unaware of what part of the day it was, she had no clue how long she had slept, all she knew was that she needed a cigarette, an aspirin and something to eat… although her nausea did not agree with that last part.

She threw on the comfiest pair of pants she owned and one of her favourite blouses. As she was about to search for her phone, to try and figure how late it was, a knock disturbed the silence that hung in her apartment. A confused frown made its way onto her face, she was quite sure she hadn’t made any plans today, anticipating that she would be too hungover to follow through on any of them.

She made her way over to her door nonetheless, not bothering to check what she looked like. She would tell whoever was on the other side of that door they could fuck off anyway. She was not in the mood for any company.

The second Joanne opened the door she regretted not putting on her make-up or checking herself in the mirror. As her eyes landed on your smiling form, a bit of self consciousness began to creep its way into her mind.

Her confusion must have been clear on her face because you quickly began to explain yourself, holding up two cups of coffee and a bag that she assumed had some sort of food in it. You were clearly a little nervous as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

“Judging by the text you sent early this morning, I figured you might have a rough morning or, more accurately, afternoon. So I reckoned why not surprise you with your favourite coffee and some breakfast.. I thought you might need it. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

Joanne shook her head and softly reassured you that she had been awake already, electing to leave out that she had only been awake for approximately half an hour. She couldn’t stop the small smile from making its way onto her face, you were so thoughtful. She mentally cursed herself as she felt her heart flutter at your kind gesture.

She tried to act like her self assured self while letting you in, but she suddenly was very aware of the state she had left her apartment in after getting back home. Her empty glass was still sat on top of the living room table, her coat had been thrown on the first chair she had seen and her shoes were carelessly discarded in front of the couch. On top of that you had never seen her without make-up. The self consciousness that had already been creeping its way into her mind now doubled in intensity.

Joanne didn’t miss the worried look you sent her way, you must have picked up on her uneasiness. She quickly sent you a reassuring smile, muttering something about a hangover as she slipped her confident mask back on, before taking the coffee you had handed her.

“So what did you bring me for breakfast? Besides you of course?”

Joanne teased, her voice light while her lips twitched into a smirk. She found these type of teasing remarks usually helped her slip back into the persona she had created for herself. And trying to fluster you was also an added bonus.

She watched as you tried to hide the faintest blush by taking a sip from your coffee. She had noticed how you got flustered more often and easier lately, she sometimes wondered what had suddenly changed for you to suddenly become more shy. It reminded her of the conversation she had overheard between you and Bobbie yesterday. Maybe Bobbie was implying that it had been too long since you had gotten laid? Could that be part of the reason why you had gotten so easy to fluster? Maybe Bobbie had offered to introduce you to someone and then told you to take action, to not let her offer go to waste… it certainly would make sense.

That thought left her with a feeling she hadn’t felt in ages, jealousy. She internally groaned at her own stupidity. She had absolutely no right to be jealous, besides she didn’t even know if there was anything to be jealous of. She realised she might not know you as well as she thought she did. You had never talked much about your love life, at least not to Joanne… Bobbie seemed to know more though… she definitely knew something that Joanne didn’t.

The jealousy that she had felt earlier only got worse at that. This wasn’t her thoughts coming up with a hypothetical scenario.. this was reality…you trusted Bobbie more than her… maybe even liked her more than her. Joanne took a sip from her coffee, trying to stop the lump that had threatened to form in her throat.

She silently scolded herself, you were Bobbie’s best friend, it made complete sense for you to trust her more, share more secrets with her, share parts of your life that you didn’t with Joanne.

Her racing thoughts came to a halt when you spoke up to answer her question, a question she had completely forgotten she had asked in the first place.

“Pastries from that cute little bakery on the corner. If you still have an appetite after them, you can have your dessert.”

Your voice sounded light and playful and the wink you sent her way had a much bigger effect on her than it should have. She was quite sure she wouldn’t be able to get the image of eating you out on her couch out of her head for the rest of the day.

When you handed her the bag with pastries those filthy thoughts were replaced by a much warmer, softer feeling. She only now realised you had gone to her favourite bakery and as she opened the bag, she saw that you had not only gone to her favourite bakery, but you had also gotten her favourite pastries.

Joanne had mentioned that bakery and her favourite pastries once or twice and couldn’t believe you had remembered it. Any sadness that had previously tainted her heart was replaced by the comforting feeling that accompanied the knowledge that you cared enough about her to remember these little things.

A genuine and heartfelt “thank you” slipped from her lips as she looked into your eyes, the gratitude clearly displayed in her own.

The rest of the afternoon was spent teasing one another, talking about everything and nothing, as the sound of laughter filled the air. The contrast with earlier that day could not have been bigger. The sadness and coldness that had polluted the air of the living room mere hours earlier, had now been replaced with a warmth that could only come from time spent with you, watching you blush and hearing you laugh at Joanne’s dirty jokes.

The warmth still lingered even after you had begrudgingly left, reminders of your presence lingering in her kitchen and living room. Your discarded coffee cup on the living room table and the bag, with still half a pastry in it, laid on the kitchen counter. The emptiness that had taken hold of Joanne’s heart earlier had now been filled with a feeling only you could bring out in her, she didn’t have a name for it, not yet, but for once she didn’t care that she didn’t know. She just wanted to bask in this feeling for a little while longer, before the ache of missing you inevitably took hold of her once again.

[1d1195]

Buttercup - Extra I

Read Buttercup here ~2.6k words

From me: most of the asks and follow up requests were for showing how in love they are and how Harry' s going to treat her right after she wasn't for so long. Hopefully this will work 💕

Warnings: a little angsty, but fluffy overall. Maybe a little TOO fluffy. Nauseating, if you will. Like eating too many peanut buttercups.

Summary: Moving in next to Harry is one of the best thing that's ever happened to her.

It seemed like it had been raining for weeks. The wind provided an eerie soundtrack to her dreams. The rain sheeting against her window didn’t help either. She wished she had taken Harry’s offer to install a doorbell camera. However, she worried she would stare at it excessively, worried about who could be approaching her house.

Staring at the ceiling she sighed covering her eyes with her palms groaning to herself. The house was too quiet. Of course, she felt safe. It was just the wind and rain adding to her anxious mind. All she needed to do was fall asleep and in the morning everything would be fine. Her phone said it was just after two she still had ample time to sleep before her alarm went off.

Stupid Levi.

She thought she was a pretty independent person. Given that she kept her secret of leaving Levi for a couple months she felt she deserved the title. It took careful planning. Her heart had been in her throat for well over a year prior to her escape.

A little wind and rain shouldn’t have bothered her.

But it did. Every extra sound made it feel like someone was breaking in. They weren’t and she knew it. There was only one person that would try to break in and despite his threat, he hadn’t been back in the months since he showed up unexpectedly.

Two in the morning was too early. It had to be. There had to be a limit. For God’s sake they’d hardly been dating long at all. Swallowing, she put the phone to her ear and sighed as she listened to the quiet ring. One, two, not even three. “’Lo?” He murmured. Clearly, she woke him. Part of her thought she should just hang up and let him sleep. “Buttercup, baby, y’okay?” His voice clearer as she didn’t answer.

Great. Now he’s worried. “Hi,” she whispered.

He chuffed out a breath of laughter. “Hi kitten,” his voice sounded way too good. It should have been illegal to sound that good half asleep. What was the reason? “Y’okay, Buttercup?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause, and she hoped Harry fell back asleep so he wouldn’t worry about her. She could hang up and he wouldn’t even notice. She would tell him he dreamt the whole thing in the morning. “Jus’ wanted t’hear m’voice, then?” He asked.

She sighed heavily. “No...” she shook her head. “Not... no. I woke up and... forget it. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“Buttercup,” he practically cooed. “Tell me.”

His voice was too soothing. Too enticing. She was pretty sure as independent as she was that if Harry asked or said it, with his pretty voice, she was doomed. He could convince her to rob a bank just by asking. Or quit her job and rub his shoulders all day.

“M’jus’ gonna come over, kitten,” she heard the rustling of his comforter and sheets. The creak of his bedroom door and his quiet footsteps around his house.

“No!” She said quickly, sitting up and pressing a hand to her forehead. “That’s ridiculous, Harry.”

“No, s’not,” he yawned. “S’actually a great idea. This weather keeps waking me up. I need someone t’snuggle with if I want t’save any remainder of m’sleep. I’ll use m’key. See y’in a minute.”

He was gone before she could respond. She threw her covers off and hurried to the front door switching on every light she passed. As she reached the front door, Harry was closing and locking the deadbolt. “Hi, Buttercup,” he grinned, kicking his shoes off. He was soaked from the short walk, the tips of his curls that didn’t stay in his hood dripped on his face. His jacket dripped on her floor (not that she cared). “Let’s go t’bed,” he hung up his coat and pulled her by the hand as he walked back toward her room.

He switched off each light she just turned on, saying nothing about the impromptu visit. In her room he stripped his shirt off making her gulp because even though she had seen Harry many times without a shirt on, he was stunning and made her speechless. He slipped out of his sweats next and all but tossed himself beneath the covers. The poor thing seemed totally exhausted.

“C’mere, kitten,” he mumbled and lifted the covers for her to fall into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered when she was settled into his embrace. He pulled her in, so she was spooned into his body. He was so warm it was insane. She threaded her fingers between his and tucked his hand beneath her chin. His other hand outstretched below her pillow. His lips were at the back of her head. Softly he pressed kisses along the spot on her neck he could reach.

“What are y’apologizing for, Buttercup?”

“For waking you—”

“Y’didn’t wake me,” he interrupted. She huffed because she knew he was lying. Lying to make her feel better. “S’not a big deal,” he decided after a moment. “Getting t’sleep with you s’a great reward.”

“But you had to go out in the rain and it’s late—”

“M’not gonna melt, baby.” She huffed again, irritation evident in the tone of just her breath. “Talk t’me, kitten.”

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He inched his body closer to hers. It seemed impossible as the heat of his thigh on the back of hers felt like she was suntanning in the tropics. “Scared of what, Buttercup?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “The weather was just loud I guess, and every little noise bothered—”

“M’sorry,” he mumbled and kissed her skin. “I’ll stay when we have bad weather from now—”

“Harry, that’s not your responsibil—”

“You’re m’girlfriend, Buttercup. S’not a chore or anything. S’what m’supposed to do and more than that, I want t’do it. Sleeping with you is one of m’favorite things,” he explained.

“It’s silly. I’m a grown, independent woman and I shouldn’t need my boyfriend to sleep with me because I’m scared of a little weather.”

There was a long pause. She would have thought Harry had fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the fact that he released her hand to use his fingers to trace the skin on her arm. “Y’not scared of weather, Buttercup,” he whispered. She felt her cheeks warm at his accurate statement. “Y’don’t have t’be brave for me. Y’had t’deal with a really scary thing and frankly I’m scared for you. Not because I think he’s going t’come back, but because I know y’think he might, and it scares you and s’not fair for you t’live like that. S’why I sleep with m’phone on full volume. I would sleep over every night if y’asked. I would love t’do that. Jus’ because y’don’t need a lot from me, doesn’t mean y’can’t ask nor deserve it. Y’can be independent and still need me,” he spoke slowly, his reassuring words felt elongated by the night. She felt her eyes sting with tears. Harry saw her so clearly and easily. He didn’t even have to see her to know he needed her. He was willing to lie to her about her own emotions so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed.

“Can you tell me you love me already so I can say it back?”

He chuckled and twisted her around until she faced him in the dark. He cupped her face stroking his thumbs along her cheeks. “Y’could have said it first at any time, baby.”

“Absolutely not. You would have said something mean if I said it first.”

“Mean? Like what?”

“Like... thank you or something, I don’t know. Some silly prank that would make you laugh.”

He chuckled. “S’a good idea.”

“Exactly. Laugh exactly like that. I’m not saying it first. I don’t care how ridiculous that is.”

He brushed his thumb on her lip and leaned in blindly in the dark to press a gentle, warm, firm, and lovely kiss on her lips. It made her dizzy and she couldn’t believe he liked her so much despite her bad attitude and her stubbornness. “I love you, Buttercup,” he whispered softly, his breath fanning across her face.

She couldn’t believe he loved her.

“Thank you,” she sighed dreamily. He snorted, shook his head, and kissed her forehead. “I love you, too.”

“Go t’sleep, Buttercup,” he murmured and tucked her into his chest. “S’jus’ a little wind and rain.”

She fell asleep before he finished his sentence.

*

When she came home from work, Harry was on her front step. However, he wasn’t waiting for her this time. His attention was fixed right next to the handle of her door. “Hi Buttercup,” he grinned over his shoulder as she approached. “How was your day?” He asked. She stared at him as he continued installing the doorbell camera. “What did y’have for lunch?”

She watched him silently as he worked. “What are you doing?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Nothing, baby,” he shrugged. “Jus’ making sure y’feel safe.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Harry made her feel so safe all the time. “How—”

“I should’ve done this when we discussed it the first time,” he shrugged one shoulder and then put the screwdriver he was using in the small toolbox he laid on the porch at his feet. “Can I see your phone?” He asked. She opened the bag on her shoulder and handed off her phone. He unlocked it with her passcode. “Now y’can see,” he put a hand on her lower back. “Y’can adjust the sensitivity. Y’probably don’t need t’know every time a squirrel runs across the porch,” he kissed her temple while the back of her eyes started to sting with the threat of tears. “What do y’want t’do for dinner, Buttercup?” She shrugged and turned toward him. She pressed her face into his chest. “Hey, s’matter, kitten?” He hummed kissing the top of her head. “Hey,” he chuckled. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re so nice,” she sniffled.

“Buttercup,” he sighed and squeezed her tighter. “S’what a boyfriend is supposed t’do. I love taking care of you,” he promised her. “S’normal things t’do for you. S’what y’do when we’re in love.”

“I don’t do anything like this for you.”

“Oh, Buttercup, s’not true...” he frowned. “Y’make dinner, y’rub my back, y’made our garden look so much better than I ever could’ve done. And, not t’mention y’kiss me and let me do naughty things t’your pretty body,” he smiled impishly. “So y’do sweet things all the time.”

“But you make me feel safe and I don’t—”

“Buttercup, your existence makes me feel safe. S’my job t’make y’feel safe.”

“Are you guys making out in front of the doorbell to save for later?” Louis called from the yard. “That’s weird.”

Harry flipped him off and tipped her chin up. “S’a good idea,” he winked and pressed his lips against hers.

“I love you,” she sighed.

“Thank you,” he grinned.

She shoved him and he chuckled, pulling her back to his chest. “I love you so much, Buttercup.”

*

Harry woke up to the smell of something coming from the kitchen. It seemed unlikely that Louis was cooking something because the last time he tried, he thought they were going to need a fire extinguisher. He headed down the hall. “El are y’cooking breakfast?” He yawned rubbing his eye as he did.

“Not quite,” she giggled.

Harry perked up excitedly and quickened the last steps to the kitchen. “Good morning, Buttercup, t’what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, coming up behind her at the counter. He pressed kisses to the crook of her neck while she worked with the waffle maker. There was an upturned bowl beside her little work station. “This is sweet of you, Buttercup. S’it our anniversary already and I forgot?”

“No,” she smiled. “I just, wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You’re always nice t’me, baby.”

“Well really nice then.”

She pulled the waffle from the iron and placed it under the bowl with three others before putting the bowl back to keep them warm. Harry’s couldn’t stop his hands from roaming her hips and sides. “M’in love with this,” he sighed dreamily. He tucked his face into her neck and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Me making breakfast?” She laughed.

“S’jus’ nice, Buttercup. I would never expect you t’make me breakfast, but s’jus’ thoughtful. You’re perfect.”

“Do you want something extra? You’re being super complimentary.”

“I love you, kitten. Take the compliments,” he chuckled, his words mumbled and obstructed by the way he pressed his mouth to her skin. She focused on the waffle again and remained quiet for a few moments. Then Harry realized the error of his words. “S’probably hard to take the compliments, hmm?” She shrugged one shoulder but didn’t say anything; confirming exactly what Harry already knew. “Well, s’a good thing I like complimenting you. S’good practice for you t’get used to it,” he peppered her cheek with kisses. “Can I help y’with something?” He asked.

She smiled. “No, I’m just going to put this on the table.”

Harry was so distracted by how pretty she looked in his kitchen early in the morning, making him breakfast, he didn’t even notice how cute the table looked. There were flowers in a vase in the middle. Four plates and sets of silverware set up like they were at a restaurant. There were strawberries, blueberries, chocolate chips, whipped cream, and butter. Orange juice and a tray of four coffees from their favorite shop nearby.

“You’re incredible,” he pulled her away from the waffle iron as she set the last one. He wrapped one arm around her waist, cupped her face with the other and tipped her back to kiss her. Her lips were so soft and so warm. his heart started pounding like he had never kissed anyone before. She tasted so good, sweeter than the yummy waffles they were about to eat. He couldn’t help but smile as he kissed her. He used to love pranking her; the joy he felt was unmatched when he made her grumpy. God, kissing her was triple the dopamine, quadruple the serotonin. It felt almost illegal to be so happy. It spread all through his body.

“Harry,” she giggled against his mouth. “Breakfast.”

“You taste better,” he mumbled not pausing his kisses against her mouth.

“At least taste the waffles before you insult them,” she whispered pulling back slightly while he dotted kisses along her face while she spoke.

He squeezed her tight to his body, tucking his face back into her neck as he did. “Hey Buttercup?” His voice muffled once more by her skin and his reluctance to move from her body.

“Yeah?”

It warmed Harry how easily she answered to the little name. She was lovely. Perfect. The best thing to happen to Harry. While he hated why she had to move into their neighborhood, he was so grateful her pretty self created a home right next door. He pulled back to cup her face, skimmed his thumb on her cheek. “You deserve compliments.”

He didn’t follow it up with anything cute. Didn’t even compliment her afterwards. He wanted it to sink into her brain—even if it only sank in an inch. He would tell her every day. She deserved all the best and Harry was happy to remind her of such and do whatever he needed to make her feel that way.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll go get El and Lou.”

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you lots.”

“Me too, Buttercup. So much,” he winked heading down the hall.

--

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[tommiib]

The Mistake We Keep Making ~ P.SH

warnings: angst, suggestive, depressed reader, infidelity, cheating, self hatred, toxic hwa.

wc: 1.5k

Just a little drabble.. I hope you enjoy!

How did you end up here? Naked. Vulnerable. Sticky.

It’s a tale you’re all too familiar with, a story that should have ended long ago—one that should have never begun. You know it’s wrong, but you can’t help it. Not when he smiles at you like you’ve made his day, not when he brings you lunch during your grueling study sessions, not when he’s between your legs, devouring you like you’re his last meal, whispering how beautiful you are, how sweet you taste, how good you feel. Not when he looks up at you with hooded eyes, bottom lip quivering as he spills into you. Not when you collapse into each other, bodies tangled, drowning in a high you were never meant to share.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to be with him.

You both knew it.

--------

“Y/N.”

Your name pulls you back, snapping you out of your daze. You’ve been zoning out more lately—a side effect of exhaustion, of self-inflicted chaos. The weight of your last year in university, the pressures of grad school applications, a demanding internship, moving out of your old apartment before the lease expires. You’re barely holding it together, and maybe that’s why you keep making the same mistakes. Why you keep letting him in.

“Huh—oh, yes?” you blink, refocusing on Lara, her golden nose ring glinting under the soft apartment lighting. Gorgeous as ever, her warm brown skin flawless, her long red curls framing a face too symmetrical to be real.

“You’re scaring me,” she says, eyes scanning you with concern. “You keep zoning out. I think you have too much on your plate.”

She knows you too well. She always has. You’re a chronic overachiever, running yourself into the ground without ever leaving space to breathe. The difference is, Lara has balance. She’s just as busy—final year, business major, yet somehow her life is seamless. Perfect boyfriend, a family with money, an apartment that isn’t suffocating under the weight of bad decisions.

Meanwhile, you trick yourself into thinking that 5am gym sessions compensate for the disorder of your life, that productivity masks your wreckage. You can’t even remember a time when you weren’t a mess.

“I think so too,” you admit, sighing. “But I’m too deep in. I worked so hard for that internship, I can’t screw it up now. Maybe once I finish moving, things will settle.” You take a sip of your hot chocolate, hoping the warmth will calm your nerves.

“I literally offered to hire movers for you.”

“Okay, but who’s going to unpack all my shit?”

“I said I’d help you.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like people touching my things.”

Lara scoffs. “Why do you make things so hard for yourself?”

You don’t know. You really don’t. But it’s a pattern—one you can’t seem to break.

“You know I like doing things myself, Lara. If I can’t handle it alone, then what’s the point?” It’s a mindset etched into your bones.

She exhales sharply, rolling her eyes. “I don’t understand you.”

“Me neither.” You chuckle, but it’s hollow.

She convinces you to let her help with the move, and though you resist, you’re relieved. You’re grateful to have her, even if a small, ugly part of you resents how effortlessly put-together she is.

You’ve known Lara since third grade, since you found her beating up the class bully, Seth. You were inseparable after that. Her 4’9, 60-pound eight-year-old self had taken on the biggest guy in the grade and won. She was fearless, independent, kind—all the things you pretend to be. Maybe that’s why you push away her help. Accepting it feels like pity. It’s cruel to feel that way about your best friend, but you can’t help it.

She’s perfect without trying. And you…

You’re crying. Alone. In your car. In the parking garage of Lara’s apartment.

Pathetic.

You slam your forehead against the steering wheel, frustration bubbling up in your throat. You’re so sick of crying. Sick of feeling. Sick of yourself. The weight of everything—the past, the present, the future—presses down on your chest, suffocating.

Your phone vibrates.

A name you should’ve erased long ago lights up your screen.

Hwa: I want to see you.

You exhale sharply, fingers tightening around your phone. He always seems to find you when you’re at your lowest. As if he has a sixth sense for your weakness. But the truth is, you wouldn’t have said no even if he’d texted at any other time.

You: I need you, Hwa.

And that’s the worst part.

Because it’s not just loneliness. It’s not just sex. It’s something much darker, much deeper. A sickness rooted in your bones, in your mind, in the way you let yourself believe that this—this—is the only way you can feel anything at all.

Maybe that’s why you always end up in his bed.

Even though you know that’s not where you’re supposed to be.

-------

Seonghwa’s fingers trace the curve of your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The warmth of his touch sends a slow burn through your veins, igniting something reckless inside you.

“Angel,” he murmurs, voice smooth, coaxing. “Look at me.”

You do, blinking up at him from where you rest in his lap, curled into him on the couch. He smells like cedarwood and sin, his presence intoxicating. The movie playing on the screen is long forgotten, drowned out by the steady drum of your pulse.

It’s always the same routine—he comes over, you eat, you talk, you fuck. Repeat. Some nights feel different. Some nights, he lingers. Holds you a little longer. Whispers things in the dark that make your chest ache. Tonight is one of those nights.

His wife and daughter are away for the weekend, visiting family. He couldn’t go because of work.

You don’t know who you hate more. Him. His wife. Or yourself.

You hum softly, lashes fluttering as you meet his gaze. His thumb brushes against your lower lip, eyes darkening.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” he muses. “What’s on your mind?”

Everything. Nothing. You.

Instead of answering, you shift in his lap, pressing your thighs together. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed. His hand tightens on your jaw, the other gripping your waist. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes locked onto yours, heavy with intent.

He leans in, breath warm against your skin.

“Tell me what you need.”

You swallow, heart hammering. You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. But your body betrays you, melting into him, chasing his warmth.

You whisper the words you always do, the ones that keep you bound to him in this cycle of ruin.

“You.”

Without hesitation, Hwa leans down, his lips meeting yours with a tenderness that should not belong to you. It is slow, deliberate—loving. The kind of kiss a man gives his wife, the kind of kiss a man should give his wife. And yet, here he is, pressing that devotion into you, stealing what was never yours to have.

"Hwa," you breathe between his kisses, your voice barely a whisper, more of a plea than a protest. 

"Hm?" He hums, lost in you, unaware—or perhaps too aware—of how he unravels you piece by piece. 

"You're so gentle tonight," you murmur, tilting your head to grant him access, surrendering before you can think twice. His lips trail down your jaw, onto the delicate skin of your neck, his breath warm against your pulse. 

"I finally have as much time with you as I want," he says, each word pressing into you like a brand. "I'm going to take my time. Savor you. Every part of you."

The words hit deep, sinking into the hollow spaces you pretend don’t exist. He wants to savor you. To be with you. To consume you slowly, as if you are something precious, something worth lingering over. But are you? Is this self-destruction or indulgence? Is this a wound or a reward?

"I missed you so much, angel. Your smell, your face, your taste. Always so pretty for me. You know that?" 

Here he goes again, whispering the words he knows will break you apart, dissolving the fragile pieces of your restraint. He knows you too well. Maybe that’s why he chose you. He knew you were empty, a void waiting to be filled, so he poured himself into you—made you whole in the only way he knew how. Physical love, fleeting love, the kind that fades with the morning light. Because there’s no way he could truly love you, right?

Hwa strips away his shirt, then yours, discarding them like the last remnants of reason. His hands are firm yet reverent as he lifts you, carrying you toward your empty, half-packed room. He stumbles over a box, nearly losing balance, and you let out a quiet laugh. 

He silences you with a kiss, deep and claiming, before laying you tenderly onto the mattress. 

Tonight, you are his. 

Tonight, he is yours. 

And when the morning comes, reality will take him back. 

But for now—for now, he lingers.

[xoxochb]

dated february 28

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

this has been the most uneventful and boring and stupid week of my life.

I’ve been sick since saturday with the flu and while it is for the most part gone it’s still there faintly.

but at least I get to be babied by percy. or really that’s until I start complaining and complaining and then he ignores me. I pull his hair and that gets him talking. kinda like a children’s toy !

I think he’s been doing something differently because he’s looked extra nice this week. maybe he’s pregnant and that’s why he’s glowing. he told me once that female seahorses get the males pregnant because they have a pouch which can carry the eggs.

I asked him once if he’d like to be seahorses with me so I could get him pregnant. he said “no thank you” but offered to impregnate me instead. unsurprisingly, I said “no thank you” and to wait until we’re older. that made him happy so I was happy too.

but I seriously think he’s doing something though. or maybe it’s just because summer is on the horizon. I can’t wait until it’s hot outside and I get to see him shirtless every day. though I do during winter too anyways…

on that thought, I do everyday. but you get the point, it’s still nice.

he convinced mr. d to let him take a week long trip to see his family. which I’m happy for him because I know he misses them. but I’m going to miss him too! maybe even more! :(

but luckily I’ve prepared myself for this moment! I took a couple of his clothes back to my cabin so he can’t find them so when he leaves, his clothes will still smell like him so I can wear them. and cry in my bed maybe possibly probably.

percy asked me not to cry while he leaves but it’s hard not to because we’re together 99% of our lives and when he’s gone it’s kinda boring.

and it’s sad because I’ll miss him.

but I won’t think about this until the time comes.

today I made a playlist for us. it’s songs I like that remind me of percy and some of him and me both. I almost let him help me find the perfect songs but I knew he’d end up making it just a bunch of led zeppelin songs so I decided against that idea.

but I did make him sit through the entire playlist and rate each song. he said it was a 10/10 playlist because I made it. I guess that’s progress!

percy told me he was going to make a playlist himself for me so I’m kinda excited to see what he’s putting on it. and kind of nervous you never know with him.

he’s kind of suffocating me right now. he passed out after we shared a bowl of ice cream but I presume that any minute he’ll be up and bouncing off the walls. by then I would become sleepy. that’s a later problem though…

for right now I’ll just enjoy watching his peaceful state. I like watching him sleep it’s nice. he’s very pretty and I like his hair. and his eyes, sea green is my favorite color. but his eyes are closed right now. I’ll take a look later.

I think I should go to sleep before he wakes up so well actually get around to sleeping tonight because most nights we don’t sleep and stay up until, like, three in the morning and that’s usually when he crashes.

then we miss breakfast and he cooks me something for brunch. today he made me heart shaped pancakes and they even had chocolate chips!!!!!! I gave him a large kiss in return. he asked for more since he had even taken it upon himself to add powdered sugar. I told him tonight.

and that idiot remembered. so as he asked, I granted.

but I just keep talking….. I should rest my eyes and my wrist before it falls off.

xoxo, sweet girl <3

[deepinthegroves]

what i've learnt about shifting and manifestation while playing a board game:

disclaimer: i was playing around with reality while playing a board game because i figured that a board game was inconsequential and one of the best places to test things out and analyse them. i apologise if this is really long because it'd have my analysis alongside it.

the one and only thing that i've taken away from this is that shifting and manifestation are easy, and that i shouldn't overcomplicate it. i mean, that's clear. it's told to us again and again on shiftblr. so why am i making this post? i'm going to give examples of how i overcomplicated things and how it affected my manifestation/ shifting, and what to do instead.

exhibit #1: i repeated affirmations again and again in my head and it did NOT manifest. there is nothing wrong with using affirmations to manifest, nor am i saying it doesn't work, but in my case, i was laser focused on affirming again and again and it felt like i was forcing reality to bend. why does that matter? for example, when i was manifesting for the password to be 2, my brain twisted it and assumed that the "original" reality's password was something else, and that i was changing it to 2. so when i tried to open the vault, the password was NOT 2 because i was assuming that it was NOT 2 and i was trying to change it.

exhibit #2: i focused on imagining how it'd be if i got the password right and opened the vault, and yet it did not open. again, not saying this will 100% not work for others, just explaining where i went wrong. when i did that, i was thinking "IF i'm right, this is how it'd feel." which made my assumption that i was indeed wrong about the password, and so reality showed me that assumption.

so what should we do instead to not make the mistakes I made? take a step back (and i know this is difficult, especially when you have a lot riding on your manifestation). instead of trying to force it, entertain the notion. play with it. laugh to yourself at the possibility. wouldn't it be fun and great if it happened? imagine if it happened! take the weight off of it and your brain won't have the need to spiral over it. know that it is easy and that it is yours. that's all. accept that. know that you have it and that it indeed will happen as you say. manifestation done. you have shifted. full stop. that all happens the moment you decide it did, and there's no need for any other overcomplication.

other notes: i was playing monopoly secret vault, if anyone's curious. oh and i won the game. this may be more rambling than anything else...

[chichay7]

Between Mercy & Malice (CH. 1)

Pairing - Ominis Gaunt x Fem!Reader

Word Count - 4945

Content Warning - Lack of formatting? (someone help I beg) Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Pain, Spiralling!Sebastian Sallow, Endearing Nicknames, Flashbacks, Ominis would burn down the world for you (and I love it), This is literally so self indulgent (I love yearning men)

Summary - Trapped in Salazar Slytherin’s Scriptorium, you, Ominis Gaunt, and Sebastian Sallow are forced to make an unforgivable choice—one that will leave scars far deeper than magic itself.

Author's Summary; my version of getting to Slytherin's Scriptorium, but with a bit more angst. Chapter 1 of 4 (maybe)

A.N. - I stopped writing years ago, but I don't see enough love for my boy Ominis. I'm an Ominis-girly through and through. I have an idea of how this ends but we'll also see how I feel lol. Please review/comment - they feed my motivation. Also I did write this instead of my thesis so like pls let me know if it was actually worth it

================================================

The air was heavy. Thick with dust and something far worse.

It curled in your throat, the scent of rot lingering long after you had already taken your next breath. The walls of the Scriptorium stretched high above, their looming presence pressing down like unseen hands, and yet somehow, the space still felt suffocatingly small. The light from your wand barely reached beyond a few feet, casting long, flickering shadows that made the darkness seem alive.

The silence was deafening.

And then you saw her.

Aunt Noctua’s remains lay crumpled before the sealed door, her bony fingers still outstretched toward salvation that never came. Her tattered robes, once fine, were stiff with age, pooled around her skeletal frame in a final, undignified heap.

Your stomach twisted.

But it wasn’t just her remains that caught your attention—it was what surrounded them.

The word Crucio had been carved into the stone, deep enough that the grooves were still sharp despite time’s best efforts to wear them away. It was jagged, uneven—done with a shaking hand.

And beside her, a wand.

Snapped in two. The broken edges blackened and burnt. A sign of how many times she had tried. How many times she had forced herself to endure.

And still, it had not been enough.

A breath hitched beside you.

Ominis.

His face was unreadable, but his cloudy eyes—usually so guarded—gave him away. A deep crease had formed between his brows, his lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t. His pale irises, though sightless, moved as if trying to chase away the horrible images forming in his mind. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Sebastian stepped forward, his boots scraping against the stone. His gaze lingered on Noctua’s remains for only a moment before flicking toward the door. His expression hardened.

“So, this is it,” he murmured. “This is what happened to her.”

“She died here, Sebastian.” Ominis’ voice was quiet, but there was a tremor beneath it.

Sebastian didn’t look disturbed. He barely even looked concerned. “And do you know why?” His gaze flickered back to the word on the ground. “She hesitated. She wasted time. That’s why she—”

“That’s why what?” Ominis’ voice was razor-sharp.

Sebastian hesitated—only for a fraction of a second. “That’s why she didn’t make it,” he said, but something about the way he spoke made your skin crawl.

Ominis turned his head slightly. His expression darkened. “You pity her.” The words weren’t a question.

Sebastian scoffed. “I don’t—”

“You think she was weak.” Ominis’ breath came faster, something fraying at the edges of his composure. “You look at her, and you see someone who should have just gotten on with it, don’t you?”

Sebastian frowned. “Ominis—”

“Say it,” Ominis demanded, stepping forward. “Say what you’re really thinking.”

Sebastian clenched his jaw.

You could see the war in his head. He wanted to deny it. He knew he should deny it. But he didn’t believe it.

Ominis let out a slow, humourless laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

Sebastian’s expression flickered. Just for a second.

Then his face hardened. “I’m disgusting? You’re the one pretending she had a choice!” His voice was rising now, sharp with frustration. He gestured toward the word carved into the ground. “This was the way out. She knew it. And she still couldn’t do it.”

“Because she wasn’t a monster like you!” Ominis snapped.

The words cracked like a whip.

Sebastian’s expression darkened. His eyes held something dangerous, something wrong. His grip on his wand twitched.

“You’d rather we rot down here with her?” His voice dropped, quieter now, but far more dangerous. “You’d rather let Anne suffer, too?”

Ominis inhaled sharply.

You turned to Sebastian—really looked at him.

He was different. Paler. Sharper. His eyes were darker than they should have been, and there was something unsettling in the way he gripped his wand—his fingers twitching, restless.

Something was changing in him.

And Ominis saw it, too. He was gripping his own wand tightly, his knuckles pale. But he said nothing.

Sebastian took another step forward, closing the space between them. “I’m not going to let her suffer because you have a problem with what needs to be done.”

Ominis exhaled sharply through his nose. His shoulders rose—tensed—then, suddenly, he let out a slow breath.

The anger in his face faded.

Not into acceptance.

Into resignation.

“Fine,” he said.

Sebastian blinked. “Fine?”

Ominis straightened, tilting his chin up. “We cast it.”

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, Sebastian smirked. “Finally. You’re—”

“But you will not touch her.”

Sebastian’s smirk faltered. His gaze flickered to you, then back to Ominis.

Ominis stepped closer. “You will curse me.”

Your breath hitched. “Ominis—”

His head turned slightly toward you. His brows furrowed, something tightening in his jaw. “I won’t let you take it.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply. “And you refuse cast it.”

“Exactly.” Ominis squared his shoulders. “That’s why you will do it. And you will listen to me. You will do it properly.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “I know how to—”

“No, you don’t.” Ominis’ voice cut through the space like ice. “If you don’t mean it, it won’t work. If you hesitate, it will be worse.” He exhaled, voice dropping lower. “If you do it wrong, Merlin knows if you’ll be able to do it again.”

Sebastian didn’t respond.

Ominis took another breath. His hands trembled at his sides, but he didn’t step back.

“Do it right the first time.”

Sebastian lifted his wand.

Your heart pounded. You stepped forward before you even realized it. “Wait—”

Ominis turned sharply. “Stay out of this.”

You froze.

His expression was unreadable now, his pale eyes like ghostly embers in the dim light. His hands were still shaking.

But not from fear.

He was bracing himself.

Sebastian hesitated for only a second.

Then—

"Crucio."

====================================

You didn’t think.

You just did.

Before either of them could stop you, before Ominis could say another word, you threw yourself forward—toward him.

It was a desperate, instinctual movement. The force of it made your heart race as you curled your body around his, pushing him back with your arms, shielding him with your body—your back preparing to take the curse.

“Wait!” Ominis’ voice cracked, panicked and desperate, but it was too late.

Your eyes were already fixed on Ominis.

Sebastian hestitated. The curse shot from his wand with a violent crack.

The air itself seemed to bend, contort, twist around the curse as it rocketed toward you. The sound of it hitting the air was deafening—like a whip cracking, followed by a deep, unnerving hum of raw, unrelenting power.

But something was wrong.

The curse didn’t feel right.

The red lightning that arced from Sebastian’s wand was jagged—unnatural. It flickered in violent, erratic patterns, crackling around the room like it was searching for something to latch onto, something to devour.

It was more than just wrong. It was dangerous.

And then, in a flash of agonizing pain, it slammed into your back.

Your body seized.

It felt like the bones in your spine were being ripped out one by one. The pain spread, deep and searing, until every muscle in your body was burning. Your breath caught in your throat, suffocating you. It was like your entire body had been set alight from the inside, but the fire wasn’t the kind that could burn away your pain—it was the kind that tore you apart, piece by piece.

You couldn’t scream.

Your lungs refused to work.

The pain was suffocating. It pulled every breath from your body, leaving nothing but raw, unrelenting agony.

Your vision blurred. Every edge of your sight frayed and split, and the world seemed to distort around you.

But it was the sound that cut the deepest—the sound of your own voice, trying to scream, but only a horrible, strangled cry escaping your lips.

Ominis shouted something, but his voice was lost in the crackling chaos around you.

You could hear nothing but the storm that raged inside your chest, the writhing agony in your spine, the sickeningly sharp pain that seemed to dig deeper with every pulse of the curse.

Sebastian’s intent was wrong—too strong.

You felt the wrongness in every electric current that shot through your body.

Your back arched as if you were being pulled in two, the pain pulling you taut like a bowstring. The curse writhed, unrelenting, twisting deeper, tearing your insides apart with each vicious shock that sent ripples of red lightning across your vision. The crackling of the curse itself seemed to snap and crackle, like an unnatural storm roaring above you. It was as though the curse was alive—hunting you, tearing through you with no mercy, with no end.

You barely noticed Ominis’ frantic, shaking hands reaching for you, his fingers brushing against your arm. His touch was like fire, his body trembling violently with the effort to pull you away from the curse that was consuming you.

But it wasn’t enough.

The agony surged again, more intense than before, sending you collapsing forward, barely managing to keep yourself upright. Your entire body felt hollow. Numb. But the pain... the pain was far from over. It kept coming, wave after wave of agony so intense it felt like your body was splitting apart.

Your heart hammered. Your body screamed for mercy that would never come.

And still, Sebastian didn’t stop.

His expression was twisted, consumed by the power he had unleashed. His face was a grimace of frustration, his eyes locked on you—his focus now entirely on you, his rage growing with every second the curse refused to let go.

“Sebastian! Stop!” Ominis shouted again, but his voice was lost to the air around them.

Sebastian’s hand clenched tighter around his wand, his voice muttering curses under his breath, as though he couldn’t hear Ominis’ plea. His grip on the wand tightened, and the curse continued to pulse through with a brutal shock.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

The pressure inside you was unbearable, but Sebastian was too far gone—he was too consumed by his own anger and frustration, too deep in the darkness of the curse he had cast.

Ominis’ eyes widened in realization.

His lips twisted into something tight and furious, and with a single, furious motion, he cast Depulso.

The force of it hit Sebastian’s chest like a cannonball, sending him stumbling backward with a sharp gasp. His wand slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor, his concentration shattering as his wide eyes locked onto Ominis.

“What the hell, Ominis?” Sebastian growled, his confusion clear, his face flushed with irritation.

But Ominis didn’t care. His breathing was heavy, his anger clearly evident.

“What the hell? What do you mean ‘what the hell’? You just—” Ominis’ voice was strained, choked with fury as he stepped forward. “You nearly killed her, Sebastian. You—”

Sebastian blinked, still disoriented by the sudden force of the spell. “I—what? I was trying to—”

But Ominis wasn’t listening anymore.

His hands were shaking as he reached for you, pulling you into his arms. “Don’t you ever—” he started, but his voice cracked. His anger softened, replaced by something almost like desperation. “Don’t you ever do something like that again.”

Sebastian didn’t move, standing there with his eyes wide in confusion, his breath still ragged from his outburst. “Ominis… I didn’t mean—”

Ominis didn’t respond. His focus was on you now, his hand gently brushing the hair from your face, his eyes wild and desperate as he cradled you against him.

Sebastian’s face fell, realization starting to set in. He had pushed too far; gone too far down a path he was already walking.

But Ominis didn’t care for the explanation.

He was angry. Furious. Furious at Sebastian for the reckless violence of it all, furious at him for the danger he had almost put you in.

And he wasn’t willing to let it slide.

====================================

The stone wall rumbled with a low, deep groan, and then the crackling of ancient magic reverberated through the room. The wall split with a sharp, jagged sound, and the heavy stone blocks moved apart, revealing the passageway to Salazar Slytherin’s scriptorium. Dark, swirling shadows pulsed from the newly revealed entrance, as though the very air itself shuddered with the raw magic that lingered in this forbidden space.

Sebastian’s attention snapped immediately to the opening, his eyes narrowing with renewed determination. He began to step forward, but Ominis’ voice cut through the thick tension in the air like a whip.

“No.” The word was sharp, laced with a dangerous finality. His fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve, gripping tightly as though to keep you tethered to him. “We’re not going in there.”

Sebastian hesitated, confused. “What? We came here for this, Ominis. We’ve got to finish this. The Scriptorium is right there.”

Ominis’ breath hitched, his chest rising and falling with barely contained anger. He could hear the desperation in Sebastian’s voice, but it only made his stomach twist further. His pulse quickened as he glanced down at you, the pain still evident in your features, and he cursed under his breath. His voice shook, though he tried to mask it with force.

“You’ve done enough,” Ominis spat, his words sharp like the crack of a whip. His grip tightened around your arm, and he shifted closer to you, his fingers trembling slightly. The sight of you still reeling from the curse gnawed at him. The fury swirled inside him, growing with every second.

Then, you stirred—slightly, as if to push yourself up, to stand despite the searing pain still running through your body. You grimaced, trying to brush it off as if you were okay, but the effort failed you. A strangled grunt escaped your throat, and your hands clenched at your side. The force of the agony made tears spring to your eyes, a sob escaping before you could stop it. Your body shook, unable to bear the pressure of movement.

Ominis’ breath caught in his throat. His heart clenched at the sight of you trying to push through the pain. His expression twisted into something fierce, though it quickly softened as he moved closer, his hands steadying you.

“Don’t.” Ominis’ voice was rough, but it softened slightly as he worked to soothe you, his fingers brushing over your skin with a care that belied his rage. “You’re not going anywhere. You hear me?”

The touch of his hand on your forehead was almost too gentle for the force in his voice. His trembling fingers continued their delicate path across your skin, the contrast stark against the fury that burned behind his eyes. He could feel the raw heat of your pain beneath the cloth, and it only fuelled the fire inside him.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he repeated, his words steady despite the storm raging inside him. “We’re not moving from here until you’re able.”

Sebastian, who had watched the exchange with growing concern, stepped forward once more, though his face was still clouded with confusion.

“I’m trying to help,” Sebastian said, his voice losing some of its earlier certainty, a bit of doubt creeping into his tone. He started to take a step forward, but Ominis immediately tensed.

“No,” Ominis snarled, his voice thick with barely contained fury. “You’re not helping, Sebastian. You’ve done enough.” His grip tightened around your arm, and he shifted closer to you, his fingers trembling slightly. The anger twisted within him, made more potent by his fear—fear of losing you, fear of what Sebastian’s recklessness had done to you.

He cast a quick glance at the newly opened stone doorway, his mind working furiously. He could feel the cold, oppressive magic of the scriptorium creeping through the air, but he couldn’t focus on that now. You needed him.

His hand snapped into his pocket, his fingers brushing over his handkerchief. With a muttered incantation, water erupted from the tip of his wand, and he quickly conjured a steady stream of it onto the fabric. Holding it against his trembling hand, he pressed the cool cloth to your forehead with a delicate touch.

Sebastian, watching from a distance, seemed to struggle with the unfolding situation. His brows furrowed, his lips pressing together in frustration. He opened his mouth to protest, but then his gaze flicked to the scriptorium again. The door, still open, seemed to beckon. There was no denying the pull of it, the promise of answers hidden within those darkened walls. But then his gaze slid back to Ominis—saw the fury in his posture, the raw emotion radiating from him. For the first time, a hint of uncertainty crossed his face.

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, taking a moment to compose himself. His voice dropped to something a little lighter, though the edge of urgency remained. “Hey, come on, you’ve got to admit, we’ve come this far. We can’t just turn back now, right?” He flashed a small, almost amused smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll help you, and we’ll sort this out together, yeah? The Scriptorium’s right there.”

He started to take a step closer to you, his hand outstretched, as though trying to coax you into moving with him, like nothing had happened. His tone was light, trying to make it sound easy—like you could simply walk into the scriptorium and leave the pain behind.

Before Sebastian could take another step, Ominis was already moving, quickly shifting from his position on the floor. His grip on your arm tightened, and with a forceful but careful motion, he lifted your head onto his rolled-up robe, using it as a cushion. His expression darkened as he placed himself in between you and Sebastian, his body tense, his blind eyes narrowing with barely concealed anger. His breath was shallow, his entire demeanour radiating a storm of emotion.

“You’re not going near her,” Ominis hissed, his voice dangerously low. His wand flicked, and its tip was aimed straight at Sebastian, a warning—sharp and unyielding.

Sebastian stared at Ominis for a long, tense moment, before smirking lightly. “Or else what?”

Ominis’ grip on his wand tightened, his fingers brushing against the cool surface of the wood. The tension in the air thickened, and his jaw clenched. He knew that if Sebastian pushed further, the situation would escalate beyond words, beyond warnings. The frustration—and something far more dangerous—radiated from Ominis as he stared down at Sebastian.

Ominis stepped forward, rising from his crouch, his body broad and solid despite his lean build. His height loomed over Sebastian, though the other boy was far more muscular. Still, Ominis had the advantage of reach and anger. His stance was one of quiet threat, every inch of his body vibrating with raw emotion. He towered over Sebastian, his blind eyes dark and sharp, betraying none of the hesitation that once might have softened his words.

His voice dropped low, the tension in his chest tight, his words a sharp warning. “Don’t ever try me again. You’ve done enough, Sebastian. Now stay the hell away from her.”

Sebastian’s face flickered with a mix of frustration and confusion. He took a half-step back, looking Ominis over, then back at the girl lying behind his friend. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his jaw tightened as he met Ominis’ unwavering gaze. He opened his mouth to retort but shut it again with a huff, clearly seeing that Ominis was beyond the point of reason.

Ominis didn’t give him another chance to argue. He stepped fully between Sebastian and you, his stance firm, his wand still held at the ready. “I won’t let you drag her into this any further,” he snarled, his voice trembling with the heat of anger. “Not while I’m still standing.”

The air was thick with tension as Ominis stared down at Sebastian, his wand unwavering. His gaze was a silent threat, an unspoken promise that anyone who tried to get closer to you would find themselves facing the full force of Ominis Gaunt’s fury.

Sebastian stared up at Ominis, unflinching, his eyes scanning the tall, lean figure of his friend—his once-trusted companion—who now stood between him and the girl they both cared about. His lips curled into a smirk, though there was no real humour in it. He tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as he took in the storm brewing in Ominis’ posture. The space between them felt thick, charged with something far more volatile than the air around them.

“Or else what?” Sebastian asked, his voice light, though there was a hint of sarcasm that laced his words, as though he didn’t take Ominis’ threat seriously. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back slightly, a mocking glint in his eyes, trying to mask the unease that was beginning to creep in. “You really think you can stop me? I’m your friend, Ominis. You think this is about you and me now? Is this really the hill you want to die on?”

Ominis didn’t move at first. His wand was steady, the tip pointed directly at Sebastian as though it were a warning, but it wasn’t just the wand. It was everything about Ominis: the tense, broad set of his shoulders, the slow, deliberate way he stepped forward. The anger was practically visible, swirling around him like a storm, but it was more than that—it was disappointment that clawed at Ominis’ insides. It made him feel sick. It made his heart ache with the need to protect you.

Sebastian’s smirk faltered slightly as Ominis took that step forward, towering over him despite the smaller, more solid frame of Sebastian. The two of them were different—Ominis was taller, leaner, his body not as physically imposing as Sebastian’s, but there was no doubt Ominis had the upper hand in sheer presence right now. His rage seemed to fill the space between them, suffocating and heavy.

Sebastian let out a small, sarcastic laugh, though it lacked the bite it might’ve had just moments ago. He shifted slightly on his feet, clearly trying to read Ominis, sizing him up, as if searching for a way to defuse the tension or maybe to call his bluff.

“Oh, I see,” Sebastian said, his tone still light but now laced with a touch of defiance. “You think you can just stand there and stop me because I’ve upset you?” He raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that it? Ominis Gaunt, the one who always plays it so carefully, so calmly... suddenly making threats?”

The air between them crackled with rising tension as Ominis didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. The depth of his silence spoke volumes, and Sebastian could feel the shift in the atmosphere—something darker, something more dangerous. He was still sizing Ominis up, but there was a distinct shift in his own stance now, his feet planted firmly. He was calculating, watching for any sign of hesitation. Still, he refused to be intimidated, refusing to show weakness.

But Ominis was unwavering. He took another step, his voice low, dangerous, vibrating with emotion. “Don’t.” It was more of a growl than a word. “You’ve done enough already, Sebastian.”

Sebastian's confident façade cracked just slightly. He was used to being the one in control, the one who took risks and challenged anyone who stood in his way. But there was something about the way Ominis stood, his posture firm, his blind eyes dark with something like fury that made Sebastian falter—just for a moment.

Still, Sebastian’s smirk didn’t disappear entirely. He was used to the tension, to the games they played, but this... this felt different. The intensity in Ominis’ gaze, the way the wand trembled ever so slightly in his hand—Sebastian could feel the rawness of it, the bite of the anger that Ominis had been holding back for far too long.

“You’re still my friend, Ominis,” Sebastian said, his voice softer now, but the sarcasm remained. He half-expected Ominis to lash out, to say something cruel, to give in to the storm within him—but Ominis didn’t. He just stood there, staring at him with such intensity that it felt like a challenge.

The silence between them grew, thickening with every passing moment. Sebastian felt his heart rate pick up slightly, though he didn’t let it show. He could tell Ominis was no longer just angry. There was something else—something more desperate, more personal. It was the same rage he’d seen in his friend’s eyes when something mattered so much, when it threatened the very core of what they’d once shared.

But Sebastian wasn’t backing down. He stood his ground, meeting Ominis’ unyielding gaze with a spark of defiance in his own eyes. He wanted to say more, to press Ominis to understand that they couldn’t just stop, but there was something in the way Ominis’ body was now squared against him—something in the air that made Sebastian pause, just for a moment. The tension was suffocating, a silent battle between their wills, between their understanding of what needed to happen next.

And then Ominis spoke again, his voice calm but dripping with authority.

“Stay the hell away from her,” he said, his voice low but filled with conviction. “You’re not needed here anymore, Sebastian.”

It was a threat, sure, but it was also an ultimatum. The meaning was clear. Ominis wasn’t about to let Sebastian anywhere near you, not while you were in this state, not while he could feel every fibre of his being screaming to keep you safe.

Sebastian didn’t move for a long moment, his gaze flicking over Ominis, reading him as if searching for weakness. But there was none to find. Instead, there was only the raw intensity in Ominis’ stance, the surety in his voice. And for the first time, Sebastian realized that Ominis wasn’t bluffing. There was no hesitation anymore. This wasn’t the same Ominis who had kept quiet and followed Sebastian’s lead. This was someone who was willing to fight for you—someone who had already decided where his loyalty lay.

Sebastian swallowed hard, but he didn’t back down. His smirk faded, and for a moment, he looked... unsure. A brief flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came.

The silence between them grew, and Sebastian, ever the one to break it with barbed words, leaned in slightly, his voice lighter, but with that unmistakable edge of provocation. “Once a Gaunt, always a Gaunt, right?” He let out a small, dry chuckle, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “All that noble blood running through your veins—just like them. It’s no surprise you’d turn out like this, is it? Condescending, self-righteous, always looking down on the rest of us.”

The words stung, though Sebastian’s voice was too casual for it to seem like anything more than a jab—one that had been waiting to be thrown for some time. His eyes were fixed on Ominis, watching for any sign of a reaction. He knew how to push, how to prod, how to expose the cracks beneath the surface of a person who had been raised with such heavy expectations. Ominis’ family wasn’t just a name—it was a curse, and Sebastian knew it, could see it written in every movement, every word Ominis had ever said.

But Ominis didn’t flinch. Not yet. His grip on his wand tightened, his hand shaking ever so slightly, though his posture remained unnervingly calm.

Sebastian took another step forward, his eyes glittering with that old sense of challenge. “Or are you just trying to surpress the Gaunt in you? Trying to protect the helpless one, because your family would never let you do anything else. Always playing the saviour, aren’t you? Always overcompensating for something rooted deep into you.”

Ominis’ breath hitched slightly, his jaw tightening at the insinuation. His hands clenched into fists, the weight of the accusation sinking into his chest. He could feel the blood rushing to his ears, the heat of anger rising in him like a wave.

But it was more than anger now. It was something else, something deeper. Something born from the years of having that name pressed upon him, of carrying the weight of what his family stood for. The endless expectations. The suffocating belief that he was meant for something darker. And now, here was Sebastian—poking at the old wounds, making it sting once more.

“I’m nothing like them,” Ominis muttered, his voice low, barely above a whisper. But there was a steeliness behind it now, a promise. “I won’t be like them.”

The tension between them thickened, wrapping around both of them like an invisible barrier, each word adding more weight to the words that had been left unspoken for far too long.

Sebastian’s lips twisted into a smirk, his words sharper now, digging deeper. “Sure, Ominis. Keep telling yourself that. But in the end, you’re just as much a Gaunt as they were.”

Ominis’ grip tightened on his wand, and he took a step forward, the movement slow but deliberate, his body a line of unyielding tension. “You know nothing about me,” he ground out, every word laced with fury.

Sebastian paused, a small flicker of surprise crossing his face, but he didn’t back down. “Maybe not,” he said with a shrug, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “But I’ve seen enough to know where your loyalties lie.”

[amphitriteswife]

Romance

Pairing: Raphael x Apostle reader

Source: killer peter

Warnings: implied yandere

Tagging: @kinaoryi

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‘You called boss?’ Raphael turned his head to look at you. A playful yet empty smirk plastered on his lips. ‘Apostle Matthew and Judas already went. So sorry!’ Raphael watched you closely, curious as to how you would react, his lips pressed against his wine glass. He had deliberately called you here to order you to be the next one to go after Peter, yet he had ordered Judas and Matthew to do the same thing, just a little earlier. His hazel eyes pierce into your form. What will you do? Will you get angry at him? Perhaps even insult him? He’s dying to know! You’re always so..stoic and indifferent. He wants to see you break…only for him. ‘If that’s the case i’m assuming i’m dismissed?’ Raphael placed his wine glass down. His eyes still looking over at you. He’s almost naked. Yet you’re still not staring at his body. Why? Don’t you think he’s attractive? ‘Don’t be a bummer. Join me.’ Raphael watches your form sit down on the couch his eyes following your every move. He had been suspicious of you ever since you had taken an interest in the whole case with Peter. Usually you obeyed him, you did only what he asked of you. Nothing less, but also nothing more. Now however you did your own research. Did you like Peter? Why Peter but not him? It makes him a little irritated…but that’s okay. As long as he can keep you for the night he’ll be fine for the next few weeks… ‘have you had dinner yet?’ The question was pretty random…and weird. He never seemed interested in your daily life until some months ago. ‘I have not.’ The answer made him hum. His eyes focused on the big screen, he was watching some gruesome movie. It was weird, almost everything he did was always so morbid. A creepy smile plastered on his face when someone in the film was brutally murdered.

‘Would you like something to eat? Perhaps a steak?’ He wondered if you’d accept. Should he drug you? No..no you would notice that…would you? Rapheal waved his hand. Signaling you to come closer, and without a doubt you obliged. ‘I don’t eat steak.’ Ah…you’re denying his offer once again. First it was you refusing to go to his office. Then the refusal of his gifts. Then it was the fact you started being interested in Peter. You’re making him quite irritated dear. You noticed the subtle change in Raphael’s demeanor but brushed it off. That was until a fork with a piece of steak was brought to your lips. ‘Open.’ Your eyes glancing towards the steak and then back at Raphael. You shifted back a little. ‘I don’t eat stake boss. Religious reasons.’ Raphael blinked. Religious? He didn’t know that before. It’s certainly not mentioned in your documents…and didn’t he see you eat that with Thaddeus before? So you’re lying to him….aren’t you? Ouch. ‘Close your eyes and part your lips.’ A rather wide smirk appeared on his lips when you obeyed him. Good. Very good. You’re at least still obeying him. When your vision was all black, there was still nothing against your lips. No bloody steak. That was until you suddenly felt a soft sensation of warm wind. It smelled like wine…and cologne. Raphael. Your eyes fluttered a little which made Raphael click his tongue. ‘No looking.’ You furrowed your eyebrows. Parting your lips again. You felt suspicious, very suspicious of Raphael…but he had always been like that. He’s playful yet sadistic…you shouldn’t let your guard down. You took a few breaths..just to calm you down.

In one swift motion you were pushed back onto the couch, Raphael’s mouth onto yours on a forceful kiss with his tongue intertwining with yours. You opened your eyes a hard thud was heard in the room. The servant who was cleaning up Raphael’s glass watched the scene in shock. You slapped him. ‘That hurt darling.’ Raphael said, his hand gently touching his cheek. ‘I-i’m sorry boss….’ Rapheal looked at you with wide eyes, the yellow colored pupils drilling into your soul. A slight smirk made its way to his lips…finally. A reaction out of you after all that indifference…but..since you slapped him anyway. He can just milk the situation. ‘Are you? Are you really sorry?…prove it’ Raphael watched you stare at him. Yes, stare even more. Stare at his body. He wore these clothes for you. You like that right? You like seeing him out of his work clothes? Gaze upon him like you would have if it was Peter…Raphael grabbed your hand. Grazing it over his toned body, making sure you feel every smooth piece of skin. ‘Come on…i’m waiting darling.’ He guided your hand into his comfortable sweatpants. Ah…your hand is so soft and warm. It makes him hard. Rock hard even. His head leaned back onto the sofa. ‘Touch me more.’ Raphael released your hand to let you touch him on his own…he had waited so long for you to touch him. He didn’t care of you did it willingly or not. All he wants is you to touch him. To feel him. To be as crazy about him like he is to you. Rapheal ground against your hand. He wonders what you think now that you find out he isn’t wearing any boxers. His eyes dart down to his bulge. The outline of your hand stroking him in his pants makes him shiver. He thought about things like this almost everyday. Do you like it as much as he likes it?…he feels so exited. Ah. He might just bust from the images in his mind. He can already picture you kissing him. Touching him like you are now. Pushing him onto the bed. Your mouth around his cock. His hands playing with your nipples. Your body moving up and down his dick. Ah he can’t take it. He wants it. All of it. He wants you to want him. Ah…he can already imagining you telling him how much you love him. That you want to be with him. How you’d rather be with him than Peter or be an Apostle. Raphael threw his head back, his body shivering and a loud grunt escaping his lips. Ugh…his pants are all sticky now. His eyes watched you closely as you pulled your hand out his pants. His eyes glaring at your face…you’re indifferent again. Why? Didn’t you like it? It makes him so angry that you’re not reacting to him…say something. Look disgusted. Anything! But you’re not doing anything at all…you’re just wiping your hand…fine. Fine you win..but next time..next time he’ll have you. His voice is much colder now…way colder than usual. ‘You’re dismissed’

[dragon-susceptible]

Different Path Taken Ch11: Forgiveness

The second scene of this chapter is what was previously posted as a bonus scene between Skor and Runaan. The first part is that long-overdue talk for Andromeda and Rayla. Fun fact, once put together, they make the chapter exactly 3k words long.

Ram had forgiven her.  Skor had been soft with her ever since the Banther Lodge and her confrontation with the general, apparently considering that experience punishment enough for her lie.  Callisto seemed to be nonchalant about it all, treating Rayla like a team member again with no more guardedness than he used against all of them save for Skor and Runaan.

She had done something very brave and very selfless, and Andromeda just . . . 

Wanted to talk to her friend again.

It just still hurt.

“Rayla?” She asked as the princes settled down to bed and she saw the younger girl finish setting up her own tent. “Can I speak with you?”

Rayla looked startled at the request, her ears tilting back with surprise, and she had to tuck the braid Runaan had given her back behind one. “Now?” She asked.

“I mean, before you sleep.” Andromeda said, uncertain what else Rayla could be busy with at the moment, though she noticed now that her brows were furrowed and she seemed to be troubled. 

“Yeah.” Rayla took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Yeah, we can talk.  It - now’s fine.” 

Andromeda almost started at the very large presence she suddenly sensed beside her elbow as Runaan passed her.  She hadn’t noticed him get up from his tent entrance. “When you are finished,” He said lowly, “Come speak with me, Andromeda.” He looked over at Rayla. “I trust Ram has already informed you of his concerns?” 

His concerns?

Rayla nodded to her father, that troubled look back on her young face.

“Then you may come with her to discuss it or not as you wish.  I’m going to speak with Callisto and Skor before they go to bed.  Find me when you’re done.” Runaan directed the instruction back to Andromeda and slipped away to the other older assassins.

She would get the news out of him when she reported to him after, Andromeda supposed, and suppressed her curiosity for now to focus on Rayla.  She stepped away from her tent, where the princes were resting, and crossed the camp to sit on the rocks nearer Ram and Skor’s tents.  Rayla followed her and perched nearby.

“Rayla . . .” Andromeda trailed off, and rubbed her face tiredly before looking over at the girl. “You did something very brave today.” She said finally. “And I think it was wonderful of you, and I want to be so proud of you for doing it.”

Rayla shrank the longer she talked, and her ears were nearly held flat when she looked up over her knees at Andromeda. “But you’re still upset.”

“Yes.” Andromeda sighed, and adjusted her shorts so that the lines lined up with her tattoos again.

“I’m sorry.” Rayla said dejectedly. “I know I should have just killed that guard, but if I had, we never would have found the egg or started all this.  I don’t know what to think.  But I’m sorry I put us all in danger like that.  I just - I never thought about how afraid humans must be of dyin’, if they don’t know death like we do.”

Andromeda shook her head in frustration. “I’m not angry at you for not killing the soldier, Rayla.  That’s on Runaan for judging you ready when you weren’t.” She said flatly. “I’m angry that you lied about it.  If you just had told us the truth, we hadn’t taken our oath yet.  We weren’t on a timer.  We could have just waited for the next full moon when their guard eased a little, when we had more time to investigate the place; the dragons would have waited.  But you didn’t say anything, we discovered it from the soldier after we were already bound to the mission.  You were going to let us run right into a trap, Rayla!” She cried, spreading her hands. “It’s hard not to feel like you were just throwing our lives away because you didn’t want to face the consequences.”

Rayla flinched. “I didn’t mean to!” She protested. “I asked Runaan - I talked to him about what would happen if they knew we were comin’.  I didn’t know how t’ say it, because I should have been able to handle it, and I wasn’t.  I was ashamed!”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed that you had mercy, Rayla.” Andromeda said firmly, though the whole thing still sat bitterly in her chest. “You have a kind, selfless heart, and it’s what made you that little boy’s hero today.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  I just . . . It hurts that you lied to us.  What did you think we would do?  Did you really think we’d all just kill you?  That Runaan would let us kill you?”

Rayla looked down at the ground, ears pulled flat to her head. “He almost did.” She said softly. 

Andromeda blinked at her, taken aback by the statement.  She’d thought Rayla didn’t trust the rest of them, not Runaan. “What?”

“He said he wanted to speak for me, but he didn’t.” Rayla said, frowning at the ground. “If it doesn’t matter what my mistake led to, it doesn’t matter what he’s said since then.  I know how I feel about him, I know how he feels, but that didn’t matter then!  We weren’t-” She broke off and rested her face in her folded arms, just her eyes showing above them. “I didn’t want him t’be ashamed of me like my parents, an’ then, he didn’t even defend me, Callisto did, and I . . . I was scared, Andromeda.  I wasn’ afraid of dyin’, I was afraid that he hated me.”

Andromeda stared at her, and then looked over to where Runaan was talking quietly to Skor and Callisto.  She couldn’t imagine Runaan hating almost anyone, least of all Rayla. “Has he ever said anything to make you think he could?” She asked, shocked, but concerned nonetheless.

When Rayla didn’t answer right away she looked back, and the girl was picking at her own boots. “No.  It’s not his fault, it’s my parents.  I know they loved me - I thought they loved me.  But they left me for a duty they didn’t even believe in!  What am I supposed to think?  And if they didn’t, how can I expect Runaan to- to be anythin’ but my leader?” 

Her eyes were welling with tears and Andromeda’s heart went out to her despite her anger at the lie.  Oh.  Oh, this lie had nothing to do with the rest of them. “Rayla . . . you sweet child, Runaan loves you more than anything.  I know Skor suggested we kill you, but no one really expected Runaan to agree.  He didn’t.  We weren’t taking his opinion because we know what his judgment is like with you.  He would have defended you, love.  We knew that.”

For once Rayla didn’t even protest being called a child.  She wiped tears from her eyes and stared at the ground. “I’m sorry I lied.  You’re right, I should ha’ just come clean from the beginnin’, but I was so scared my failure would mean I’m just like them.  I couldn’t let that happen, an’ then I just got in too deep and it was too late.  I’m sorry.  I know I was wrong.” She hunched in on herself even further.

Oh, this poor girl.  Andromeda scrubbed her own face tiredly as she felt her own anger and frustration ease.  She was still hurt, but it made sense.  Rayla was only 15, this was her very first mission, and it was so emotionally charged for her.  If it weren’t for how poorly the village treated the children of Ghosts, and how this mission was meant to be a relatively easy strike for vengeance that would have spared her that shame, Andromeda would have thought Runaan foolish and selfish to bring her.  Of course it was going to lead to problems, if Rayla wasn’t quite ready, if she made any mistakes or hesitated even once.  She couldn’t blame the girl for being messed up by her complicated family situation.

“Rayla?”

“Andromeda?”

“I forgive you.” Andromeda said clearly, and watched as Rayla looked up at her in surprise. “I’m still hurt, and it will take time before I’m okay again.  I understand why you did it, but you still hurt me.  But I also see how much my pain matters to you, and I know you wouldn’t do it again.  You might not kill the next person, but you won’t lie about it, and that’s what I was really angry about.  So I forgive you.” 

Rayla gave her a shaky smile. “Thanks, Andromeda.  I dunno if I deserve it . . . but thank ye.  Still friends?” She asked hopefully.

“Yes.  Still friends.” Andromeda leaned over and hugged her, and Rayla clung to her like she was drowning for a moment.  Yes, still friends with Rayla, though she had a few choice words for Runaan.  He needed to know how his distance was fucking with his own child. “You’re a good kid, Rayla.” They just needed to remember how young she really was.  She was of age, with her horns fully grown and stained with their adult patterns, but she was still only 15, with all the turmoil that came with, and young enough to need guidance.  It was easy to forget sometimes when her skill and talent brought her toe-to-toe with Runaan already when they trained.

“I’ve missed ye.” Rayla confessed, still leaning on her shoulder.

“I’ve missed you too, Rayla.” Andromeda hugged her tighter for a moment and smiled at her after letting her go. “And - the others are right.  You did a very brave thing today saving the toad.  I’m proud of you too.”

Rayla gave her a real smile that time. “Thanks, Andromeda.”

Unfortunately, that was about when Andromeda remembered Runaan’s summons.  She glanced over to check where he was, and he was seated a little further from Skor and Callisto, obviously waiting for her.  She’d said what she really needed to say, she supposed. “Rest well, Rayla, when you do.” She settled on saying. “And I’m glad to be talking to you again.  I need to go talk to Runaan.”

“I’m comin’ with ye.  Now that the princes are asleep, I want to hear what he has to say about what Ram said.” Rayla unfolded herself, wiping her face clean, that troubled look back on her face.  Andromeda agreed, puzzled, and met Runaan near the other two, with Ram soon joining them to discuss the younger man’s suspicions.

Andromeda didn’t like the sound of them one bit, but Runaan cautioned against stressing too much and she tried to take comfort in this advice.  In the end, the others were all sent to bed with instructions to take what rest they could get.  Andromeda took the first watch, as the princes were in her tent tonight; she would wake Ram and take his tent later, and the rest of them would cycle through in that manner.  It didn’t escape her notice that Skor never left Callisto’s tent after settling them there, though, and she wondered how that would go when Ram went to wake him for his watch. 

Twenty years of this duty had made Runaan a light sleeper whenever he was outside the shelter of his home hollow - or his husband's arms - and he woke enough to be aware of it when Ram handed the night's watch over to Skor. He blinked through the darkness at them, confused for a moment. Since the addition of the children, they'd all been alternating tents; the princes stayed in the tent of the first watch, and they traded through the other five as the night went on. This time Skor showed his teeth at Ram for even ducking towards the tent he emerged from. Waking up a little further to look, it was clear enough as to why - he had been in Callisto's, and the wounded elf was still asleep inside.

As Skor went to sit on the watcher's perch and Ram obediently backed off and went to sleep in Skor's empty tent, Runaan sighed deep and low and pushed himself out of his bedroll. He needed to talk to his friend.

Skor was silent when Runaan sat down next to him, though he glanced over to acknowledge his approach.

“Callisto?” Runaan prompted softly.

Asleep. Skor signed.

Runaan raised an eyebrow at him. “Your throat?”

Shouting over the water.

“Ah.” Runaan shifted to face him, to see his hands better. “So. Callisto is worth holding a numbing spell over, but when I needed stitches a year ago . . .”

Skor rolled his eyes. “You were fine.” He signed pointedly.

“I am.” Runaan agreed, but tilted his head at his friend. “But that isn't why this was different.”

Skor didn't deny it, just cast his gaze back down from the tree to watch the occasional sign of the tracker they'd picked up over the course of the day. They had finally caught up a bit after night fell, though they weren't too daring getting closer.

Runaan watched him for a moment and then glanced back at the tent, which Skor had shut firmly behind him when he left it. He felt Skor's tension rise when he looked, and gave him another pointed look in response.

“Say what you want to say, Master of Blades.” Skor signed with a flat look through his hair.

Runaan sighed. “You are both very dear friends of mine.” He said softly. “I will not ask for details, because I do not want them if he comes to me. I will not be your go-between. But Skor, as your friend, I have to ask, are you happy?”

Skor looked at him sharply.

“You need connection so much more than he does.” Runaan met his gaze. “Are you certain you're happy with the distance he keeps?”

His friend blinked at him and then looked back at the tent, then at the forest. “You know me well, but he knows me better,” Skor replied carefully. “You are right that I need connection, but I have enough. He gives me the space to be who I am now. Yes, I am happy.”

“Even with the distance he keeps from you?”

Skor closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “He is afraid of leaving someone to grieve. I am afraid of leaving someone I love. We aren't . . . We both need time to change, before we can be more than this, Runaan.”

“You are already more than just friends, Skor. We all see it in how you care for each other.”

“I know.” Skor said, a bit sadly. “But committing is too dangerous for us both. We aren't you, Runaan, or Andromeda.”

It was somewhat true that he and Andromeda were the odd ones out. Most assassins married within the guild, fought and died together, or remained unmated until they had left it. The problem was that Runaan knew how dedicated both Skor and Callisto were to the guild, and knew in his sinking heart that neither would ever leave it. “Will you wait forever for him?” he asked softly. “If you had a chance to retire, to have the family you wanted when you were young-”

“That chance is long gone, Runaan. I lost that dream when I was sixteen.” Skor cut him off with a gesture, and touched his unmarked throat meaningfully. “Even if I left, had children, I would never be able to speak to them, tell them stories, sing them songs, the way I wanted to back then.”

“A voice is not a requirement for fatherhood, Skor.”

“No. But it was part of that dream. My hopes have changed, Runaan. Callisto is worth waiting for. If they are never ready, I will be all right, so long as I have them close to my heart.” He touched the braid that Runaan knew Callisto had placed in his hair. “Maybe one day, my friend. But not yet. We aren't ready.”

Runaan watched his face for a moment, seeing only sincerity, a bit of thoughtfulness, and sighed slowly. “I will not pry further. But things have not changed between you for nearly ten years, Skor. I truly hope you both find peace within yourselves, because watching you is beginning to be painful for me.”

Skor smirked at him broadly. “Now you know how everyone else felt when Ethari moved to the Silvergrove.”

Runaan rolled his eyes, but Skor wasn't done.

“And how Rayla feels whenever he shows to the training grounds with a new scar on his jaw from your horns.”

“Yes, yes.” Runaan's cheeks turned faintly pink under his tattoos and he cleared his throat. “I take your point.”

“Not as much as you take -”

“I'm not listening to this anymore.” Runaan pointedly looked away before Skor finished the sentence, and stood up from the branch. “I just wanted to check on you and this is how you betray me.”

When he looked back down, Skor's smile was a little more sincere. “Thank you, my friend. I am all right, I promise.”

“Good. Will you wake him for his turn on watch?”

“What do you take me for?”

“A man very much in love.” Runaan replied bluntly, and his heart ached at how Skor's smile faded a little and he looked away. “Wake me early for mine, if you insist on letting him sleep. Do not exhaust yourself for him.”

Skor nodded. “I will wake you.”

“Good night, Skor. Moon watch over you.”

Skor replied with an old, traditional sign that meant Moon watch over us all, and Runaan dropped down from the branch to return to his tent. While it comforted him that Skor seemed genuinely content with how things were, he still wished for a resolve to this dance his friends had been doing. They seemed all right, but it hadn’t escaped his notice that Skor never said he was happy. Callisto never did, either.

He couldn’t force them into it, though. He just hoped providing what little counsel he could would be enough.