#reader pov

[starlitfables]

⋆. 𐙚˚࿔𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫❀˚⋆

⋆˙⟡Trouble In Heels𑣲˙⋆

pairing: mechanic!jason todd x bimbo!reader category: mechanic au, grumpy x sunshine, dc comics, romance, slice of life, slow burn, action, banter, soft tension, competent reader, strong female lead, slight violence, quick scene of SH (nothing graphic!), foul language word count: 6K dividers: enchanthings a/n: im starting a new series because i have a serious problem :3 im gonna be honest, im not the biggest fan of pink and the ultrafemme aesthetic just because my personal taste is def more androgynous goth, but after seeing these coquette images on pinterest (sponsor me pls) I just had a mental vomit for this fic series with my love Jason todd. i hope yall like it, enjoy reading <3

˚.𖦹°Masterlist✶⋆.˚/Next Chapter

The shop smells like oil and metal and something that might’ve died in the vents weeks ago. The neon RED LINE AUTO sign outside flickers like it’s having a nervous breakdown. Roy Harper sits on an upside-down bucket, waving a pink-glitter résumé in the air like he just found a treasure map.

“Jason, I’m tellin’ you—she’s perfect.”

Jason Todd doesn’t even look up from the busted transmission he’s elbows-deep in. “You say that every time someone with tits walks through the door.”

Roy grins, unoffended. “Yeah, but this one wrote in a glitter pen. That’s commitment.”

Jason snatches the paper from him. The thing sparkles under the fluorescent lights like it’s mocking him.

-Interests: fashion, manipulation, being the center of attention, and pink. What’s a carburetor?: I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t give a fuck.

Jason drags a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Harper.”

“She’s honest! Refreshing, even.”

“You wanna hire someone who thinks a carburetor is a mood.”

Roy shrugs. “We need someone who won’t scare off customers. Half the people who walk in here think you’re gonna eat their souls.”

Jason glares. “Maybe because you keep telling them I used to kill people.”

Roy grins, unapologetic. “Technically true.”

Before Jason can respond, the sharp click of heels echoes through the garage. Both men look up.

You’re framed in the open bay door, sunlight behind you like some divine joke. Pink miniskirt, cherry lip gloss, tiny heart-shaped purse swinging from your wrist. You smell like vanilla, chaos, and trouble.

“Hi!” you chirp, voice bright enough to make the lightbulbs hum. “I’m here about the job.”

Roy’s smirk widens. “Told ya.”

Jason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like fuck me under his breath.

You stop in the middle of the shop, taking in the grime, the oil-stained rags, and Roy’s “tasteful” pin-up calendar. “Well,” you say with a grin, “it’s definitely… rustic.”

“Welcome to Red Line Auto,” Jason deadpans. “You any good with paperwork?”

You flash him a smile that could melt asphalt. “I’m great at making things look good. Paperwork’s things, right?”

Roy’s practically glowing. “See? She’s got initiative.”

Jason groans. “You’re unbelievable.”

You tilt your head, sweet and unbothered. “Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know how to change a tire or whatever it is you people do here. But I can keep your appointments straight, make cranky old men spend more, and smile through just about anything. You’ll thank me later.”

Roy whispers, “She’s already doing better PR than we ever have.”

Jason shoots him a look that could kill. “We don’t even have a desk.”

“That’s fine,” you say, pulling a pink pen out of your bag. “I can improvise. Or you can build me one. You look like you have strong arms.”

Roy nearly chokes on his laughter. Jason just mutters, “You’re buying the damn desk, Harper.”

A few hours later, there’s a “desk”—if you can call a tool cart with a clipboard and half a phone a desk. You’re perched on a stool that wobbles if you breathe too hard, sipping cherry Coke from a straw, pretending you don’t notice Jason glancing your way every few minutes.

When the bell over the door jingles, you’re up before he can move. The guy looks like every impatient customer Jason hates dealing with—suit, Bluetooth earpiece, zero patience.

You beam, leaning on the counter with that smile that could sell air to a drowning man. “Afternoon! What’re we ruining your day with today—oil change, tire rotation, or a general lack of manners?”

The man blinks, then laughs. Roy whistles low. Jason hides a smile behind his hand.

As the customer fills out a form, Roy leans against Jason’s shoulder. “Told you, man. She’s customer-service magic.”

Jason doesn’t answer. He’s too busy pretending not to notice the way your pink pen glitters every time you write a number down, the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air, or the fact that—for the first time in months—the shop feels alive.

He mutters under his breath, “She’s gonna give me an aneurysm.”

Roy grins. “Yeah, but you’ll die happy.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The morning sunlight cuts through the cracked windows of the shop, slicing the dust like lazy, golden knives. The air smells like hot oil, stale coffee, and the ghost of cigarettes from tenants past.

Jason Todd’s under a Dodge, half awake, muttering at a bolt that refuses to turn. He’s been up since seven. His patience died around seven-thirty.

The door chime jingles.

He slides out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag. “One week on the job and you’re already—”

You sashay through the doorway in platform boots, caramel latte in one hand and a pink bakery box in the other. The smell of sugar and caffeine follows you like a halo.

“—late,” he finishes flatly.

“Not late,” you correct, setting the donuts on the nearest workbench. “Fashionably delayed. There’s a difference.”

Roy’s already peeling the lid open. “Bless you, angel of mercy.” He stuffs half a cruller into his mouth before Jason can even form a complaint.

Jason wipes the grease off his fingers, glaring. “It’s your first week, and you’re—”

“Improving morale,” you cut in with a smile that could blind a saint. “Step one: donuts. Step two: makeover.”

He groans. “No.”

“Yes,” you sing, sipping your latte.

Roy looks up, powdered sugar on his cheek. “Makeover sounds good to me.”

Jason mutters something about quitting his own damn shop.

You start before he can stop you. The first casualty is the pin-up calendar hanging crooked over Roy’s toolbox. You pluck it off the nail, flip it closed with two fingers, and hand it back to him with the bored grace of a queen returning a peasant’s trinket.

He straightens immediately. “Uh… yeah. Sure. Been meanin’ to take that down anyway.”

“In this century, we celebrate professionalism,” you say, pulling a dry-erase board from your oversized tote. You hang it with pink thumbtacks you absolutely did not ask permission to use.

In neat cursive, you start filling columns— Appointments — Parts ETA — Call Backs— all in rose-colored ink.

Roy whistles. “You actually… remembered all that?”

“Of course.” You dot a little heart over the “i” in Friday. “Organization is sexy.”

Jason passes behind you, pretending not to look, but his eyes keep drifting back to the board. It makes the chaos look almost manageable—like a real business instead of two guys white-knuckling a dream.

Next comes your desk—the battered tool cart Jason swore was junk. You roll it to the front window and lay down a strip of pink-gingham cloth. A fake succulent. A cup of glitter pens. A tidy stack of trash magazines: Vogue, People, and Mechanic Monthly, purely for irony. Beside it, your nail kit gleams under the fluorescent lights.

Roy peers over your shoulder. “You bringin’ a spa to the shop?”

“Maybe I’m bringing taste to the shop,” you shoot back, smoothing the cloth.

Then you pull the next miracle out of your bag: a mint-green thrift-store turntable.

Jason blinks like you’ve just announced a séance. “A what now?”

“For ambience,” you say.

“It’s a garage.”

“It’s a pièce de résistance, darling.” You set the record player beside your desk, drop the needle, and let the faint crackle of Fleetwood Mac hum under the clank of tools. “We’re manifesting prosperity.”

Roy nods sagely. “Manifest the hell outta it.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By midday you’re leaning against the counter, scrolling on your phone. “Okay, morale improvement, step three: hydration.”

Roy perks up. “Beer?”

“Mini fridge.” You turn the screen toward them—your cart already loaded with a bubble-gum-pink model. “Look at her. She’s perfect. Chic. Inspiring.”

Jason groans. “This isn’t a spa, it’s a real business.”

“It can be both if you have taste,” you shoot back. “We deserve nice things.”

Roy’s already on your side. “She’s got a point, man. My Red Bull’s been warm for weeks.”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not.”

Cut to ten minutes later: you supervising like a tyrant while both men wrestle the box through the door.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to buy this,” Jason mutters, trying not to drop it.

“Consider it a business expense,” you say, batting your lashes. “I’ll invoice you.”

“You have never successfully used our invoicing software,” he fires back.

“That’s because it’s ugly.”

Roy’s laughing too hard to help. They finally set it down beside your desk with a heavy thud. You plug it in, the little hum blending with the music, and ceremoniously stock it with cherry Cokes, bottled water, and one mysterious yogurt cup.

After making sure the refrigerator he “absolutely didn’t want” was in place, Jason rolls his shoulders and bends back into the guts of a Honda. It’s hot. The air smells like metal and summer. You let yourself look for half a second too long before you get a grip and turn back to your desk.

An hour later he’s still there, jaw tight, fighting a rusted bolt like it insulted his mother. Sweat runs down his temple, catching the light. You pop open the new fridge and grab a cold bottle.

You don’t say anything when you walk over. You just press it to the inside of his wrist.

He startles; then his shoulders drop like someone cut a wire. He takes it. “Thanks,” he says, quiet.

“Hydration’s hot,” you murmur. “Try it sometime.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

Fleetwood Mac keeps playing. The fridge hums. Outside, the neon sign flickers; for once, the shop doesn’t feel like a tomb—it feels alive.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The summer heat hits different in week three. The shop’s fans hum like lazy hornets, and every surface is sticky with either grease or humidity—or both. You’re perched behind your makeshift desk, painting a fresh coat of bubblegum pink over one thumbnail, the record player murmuring something low and dreamy in the background.

Jason’s under a car again, radio static buzzing from somewhere near his feet. Roy’s elbow-deep in an oil change, singing off-key to whatever’s playing. The rhythm is comfortable now, familiar.

Then the peace dies in a screech of tires.

A silver sports car slides into the parking lot like it’s trying to make an entrance. You can hear the ego before you see it.

Jason mutters something under his breath. “This’ll be fun.”

The guy who steps out looks like every overpaid Gotham executive rolled into one: fitted polo, mirrored shades, loafers that have never touched asphalt. He storms in like the shop owes him rent money.

“My engine light’s on,” he snaps, tossing his keys on your counter. “Fix it. Now.”

You glance down at the schedule you spent half the morning color-coding. “The main mechanics are tied up with pre-booked work, darling,” you say, polite and professional. “You’ll just need to hang tight until our other tech clocks in—shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

He laughs once—sharp, condescending. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem like a pretty decent little eye candy for this place, but I need someone who actually knows cars. Now.”

The sound that comes out of Jason is low, dark, and way too close to a growl. From across the shop, he straightens, eyes locked on the man like a scope finding its mark.

Roy mutters, “Here we go.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve seen this before—guys who think loud voices and big wallets can buy respect. You keep your tone sweet, sugar-laced with venom. “I’m so sorry, sugar, but I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.”

You tilt your head toward the mason jar at the corner of your cart— SUGGESTIONS / TIPS (cash only)—the label glittering under the fluorescent light. The jar is stuffed with bills.

“Feel free to drop your feedback right in there,” you say, flashing him your most dazzling smile.

The man’s mouth works soundlessly, as if his brain is buffering.

Jason’s already halfway across the floor before Roy catches his arm. “Let her handle it,” Roy hisses, but Jason’s jaw stays clenched.

Finally, the customer clears his throat. “Fine. I’ll wait,” he grumbles, voice thick with resentment, and snatches his keys back.

“Perfect!” you chirp. “There’s coffee over by the fan, and reading material right here.”

You hand him a magazine from your stash—glossy, pink, and absolutely titled 10 Signs You’re the Problem.

Roy snorts so hard he nearly drops a wrench. Jason actually—almost—smiles.

The man slumps into the waiting bench, defeated by your sugar-coated precision. You turn back to your nails, humming under your breath, unbothered.

Jason watches from the bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He tells himself he’s just impressed by your people skills. He doesn’t admit the real thought: that he’s proud of you, and that scares the hell out of him.

Roy leans over his shoulder and whispers, “She’s customer-service Batman.”

Jason shakes his head, smirking just a little. “Nah,” he mutters, turning back to his tools. “She’s scarier.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By the fifth week, the shop hums like a living thing. The new record player crackles quietly through the haze of exhaust—Madonna one day, The Runaways the next. Your whiteboard gleams in pink cursive, every appointment stacked and organized, every call logged with a heart over the “i.”

Jason won’t admit it out loud, but things actually run better now. He still grumbles every morning when he walks in and sees the fake plant and the pink fridge glowing like a neon sign of chaos, but the jobs get done. The bills are paid. Customers actually come back.

And then the jocks show up.

The glass door jingles and in they stroll—five of them, all varsity smiles and matching letterman jackets, smelling like cologne and entitlement. You recognize the type immediately: daddy’s cars, mama’s money, and an attention span shorter than a TikTok.

You smooth your skirt, tilt your head, and smile the kind of smile that makes men do stupid things. “Welcome to Red Line Auto, boys! What can I do for you?”

One of them—tall, all jawline—whistles low. “Damn, sweetheart, you actually work here?”

You beam. “Of course I do. Someone’s gotta keep these grease monkeys in line.”

They laugh—exactly the response you wanted. You lean a little on the counter, elbows just so. “Now, I’m sure handsome young men like you must have lucky girlfriends already. Why not buy them a few extra things to put in your car? A glitter-dice air freshener, maybe one of those heart keychains—make ’em happy.”

Within minutes, they’re arguing over colors. You keep your tone soft, teasing, all honey and manipulation. By the time they pay, the counter’s half empty and they’re out almost four hundred bucks in unnecessary accessories.

As the door jingles closed, one of them slides a slip of paper toward you. “My number. In case you, uh, wanna ride in a real car.”

You pick it up with two fingers, still smiling. “Aww. That’s precious.” They swagger out, laughing. The moment the glass door clicks shut, you drop the number straight into the trash can.

Jason’s there before you even look up. You didn’t hear him walk over, but you feel his presence—warm, heavy, grounding.

“Question,” he says gruffly, wiping his hands on a rag.

You glance up, pen still twirling between your fingers. “Shoot.”

He nods toward the door the jocks just left through. “Why d’you act like you’re suckling dumb pills around guys like that? You’re not.”

“Please,” you say, capping your pink pen with a click. “Of course I’m not. But do you want to sell more to rich jerks or have me lecture them about internalized misogyny?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brow furrows like he’s trying to argue but can’t find the angle.

You grin. “Didn’t think so. They tip better when they think I can’t spell receipt. I can. Shockingly.”

Jason stares for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s damn close. “You’re scary good at this.”

You wink. “I enjoy paying rent. The rest is theater.” You twirl the pen once and gesture at the impulse rack stacked with glitter-dice and lip-balm toolboxes. “Besides, I got them to pay five times as much thanks to this rack—” you tap the display “—and this rack.” You point to your chest.

Roy, passing behind with a tire slung over his shoulder, stops mid-stride and lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love capitalism.”

Jason drags a hand down his face, muttering, “I hate both of you.”

You just laugh—bright and easy—and turn back to rearranging your display. He watches a moment longer than he means to before heading back to the bay, jaw set, pulse just a little faster.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

By mid-afternoon, the air tastes like metal and heat. The record player hums something low and crackly, and you’re filing receipts while Jason and Roy bicker over who misplaced the torque wrench this time.

Then Roy freezes mid-argument, eyes wide. “Shit. I forgot to pick up the valve regulator.”

Jason groans. “You promised that job’d be done by five.”

Roy wipes his hands on his coveralls, already backing toward the door like a man walking into his own funeral. “Across the street’s got it,” he says quickly. “I can run—”

“I’ll go,” you chirp, already grabbing the purchase order and your bag. “I need steps. My watch yelled at me.”

Jason straightens immediately. “I’ll go.”

You turn to him with both hands on your hips, eyes narrowed like you’re about to scold a child. “Jason, you’re knee-deep in an alternator and Roy’s too busy pretending to be useful. This is exactly what I’m here for. Just because I don’t know what a fucking turbine looks like doesn’t mean I can’t handle picking up a part. I’ve survived rush hour at a Forever 21 on Black Friday. I’ll live.”

Roy whistles low. “She’s got a point, man.”

Jason steps forward to argue again—right into one of the glass hanging planters you installed last week. The thunk echoes across the shop.

You wince. “Oof. Sorry. That one’s glass. Don’t bleed on anything cute.”

He freezes, hand over his temple, grimacing. You take a step closer, guilt flickering under the sass. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, rubbing the spot.

“You sure? ’Cause I don’t think OSHA covers decorative injuries.”

That earns you a half-growl, half-grumble that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you take it as your cue to head out before he can protest again.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The rival shop—Iron Claw Auto—sits across the street like a bad omen: sign half-flickering, windows tinted too dark, the kind of place that smells like stolen hubcaps and cheap cologne. You can feel Jason’s eyes burning into your back from the doorway even before you cross.

Inside, the air is heavy with exhaust and bad flirting. A mechanic with slicked-back hair—Trent, according to the grease-stained name patch—leans on the counter the moment you walk in.

“Hey there, doll face,” he drawls, eyes dragging down your outfit like it’s for sale. “Don’t usually see a face like yours around here. You sure you’re in the right shop?”

You smile, light and professional, the kind that hides knives behind pearls. “Positive. I’m here for an order pick-up from Red Line.” You slide the purchase slip toward him with manicured fingers.

He doesn’t take it right away. “I could think of better ways to spend my afternoon than handing over car parts.”

“Lucky for both of us, I can’t,” you say brightly. “Now, about that part?”

Trent chuckles, finally turning to fetch it, his movements deliberately slow. You catch yourself glancing toward the open bay door, half expecting Jason to appear in full body armor and throw the man through a wall.

Across the street, he’s planted in the garage doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. Jason can’t hear words, only cadence—the bright lilt of your voice, the polite laughter you use when someone’s pressing your boundaries. The longer he watches, the tenser his shoulders get.

Trent leans closer when he hands over the bag, voice low and smug. Whatever he says makes you laugh once—sharp and empty. Then you sign the receipt, pivot, and walk out with the poise of a queen leaving court.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Back at Red Line, Roy’s on his knees searching under a workbench for a socket when you stride in. You toss him the bag. “Got it! He tried to flirt. I tried not to yawn.”

Roy peeks inside, smirking. “Did you get his number?”

“Yeah,” you say dryly, grabbing your cherry Coke from the mini fridge. “It’s 1-800-blocked.”

Jason doesn’t move aside fast enough when you pass him, so you shoulder through, perfume cutting through gasoline and ozone. His brain goes static for half a second before the noise settles.

You’re already back at your board, scribbling the part number in pink bubble letters, Coke sweating in the light from your mini fridge. Jason stands frozen, watching from the doorway, memorizing the faces across the street.

Roy sidles up beside him, wiping his hands. “You look constipated, man.”

“I’m fine,” Jason says automatically.

“Sure,” Roy says. “And I’m celibate.”

Jason doesn’t look away. “They’re dirty.”

Roy’s grin fades a fraction. “Yeah. I know.” He glances sideways. “Patrol duty on them next time?”

Jason’s eyes flicker darker. “Yeah. Maybe.”

For a long moment, they both just watch the rival shop in silence, the low hum of your record player filling the air behind them.

Jason finally looks back inside. The planter that nailed him earlier still sways gently from its string, a tiny leaf brushing the glass every time it turns. You, at your desk, are humming under your breath, completely oblivious to how much space you’ve taken up in his head.

“You okay, boss?” you call without looking up.

He blinks once. “Yeah.”

“Great,” you say. “’Cause you’re changing that lightbulb I told you about. I’m not risking breaking a nail on a ladder.”

He snorts despite himself. “I’ll get the ladder.”

You grin, slow and wicked. “Good boy.”

Roy immediately drops a wrench on purpose, just to make Jason flinch.

The record player crackles, the pink fridge hums, and sunlight bleeds gold across the floor. For the first time since the sign above the door started flickering, Red Line Auto feels like more than a business. It feels like the start of something dangerous and almost—almost—warm.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The day feels longer than it should. It’s end-of-month chaos—three cars behind schedule, one customer who screamed about oil stains on his floor mats, and Roy swearing he can “feel the caffeine vibrating in his blood.”

When the last car rolls out and the bay doors rattle shut, the shop finally exhales.

Roy slaps his paycheck against the counter, grinning wide. “We survived a month with Miss Sunshine here. We’re celebratin’.”

Jason doesn’t even look up from the invoice he’s signing. “We have work tomorrow.”

You glance over from your desk, one brow arched. “No booked appointments. We can schedule maybe two guys for a half day just in case we get walk-ins and take the weekend off.” You stand, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, it’s my one-month anniversary of dealing with you idiots. I deserve a toast.”

Roy whoops. “She’s got a point, boss!”

Jason mutters, “She’s got too many of those,” but his mouth twitches.

When Roy starts shutting off the lights, you groan dramatically, looking down at your carefully picked-out work clothes. “Wait, we’re going now? I can’t go to a bar looking like this. I look like a goddamn grease-goblin.”

Jason glances over his shoulder. “You don’t even have a stain on you.”

“That’s not the point!” you protest, waving a hand. “I can’t flirt with anyone in mechanic drag.”

Roy’s laughing. “We ain’t goin’ to flirt; we’re goin’ to drink.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then you can both drink without me looking like a swamp rat.”

Jason folds his arms, leaning against the workbench. “We’re not drivin’ across town just so you can change.”

You huff, dramatic as ever. “Fine. Watch and learn, boys.”

You grab your tote bag and march toward the bathroom, muttering something about “aesthetic integrity” under your breath.

The second the door shuts, Roy smirks at Jason. “You’re so whipped.”

Jason shoots him a glare. “I’m not whipped.”

Roy tosses his keys from hand to hand. “You act like you don’t care, but you’ve been watchin’ her since she walked in day one.”

“She’s trouble,” Jason mutters.

“She’s fun,” Roy corrects. “Besides, Red Line’s been boring as shit since before she showed up. Now we’ve got customers who actually smile at us.”

Jason doesn’t answer, just glances at the light flickering in the back corner. As if trying to steer the conversation somewhere that isn’t his fucked-up love life, he growls, “I still think Iron Claw’s dirty.”

Roy nods, expression sobering. “Patrol tonight after we drop her off?”

“Yeah,” Jason says quietly. “Just in case.”

They lapse into silence, the hum of the record player filling the background—a David Bowie classic, the needle popping softly in the groove.

The bathroom door creaks open.

You emerge ten minutes later, a completely different creature—bare shoulders catching the dying sunlight, glossy lips, a skirt that should be illegal in three states. The pink neon from the window paints you in light like a stage spotlight.

Roy’s mid-sentence and just stops. “Holy hell.”

Jason’s holding a wrench; he forgets what for.

You smile sweetly, twirling your keys. “What? This old thing? It’s just my emergency outfit I keep in my bag.”

Roy’s already shrugging on his jacket, grinning ear to ear. “Truck’s out front! Let’s go before she changes her mind.”

Jason just exhales through his nose, muttering under his breath, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You catch it, of course. You always do. “Good. At least you’ll die looking at something cute.”

You saunter out first, Roy following, still laughing. Jason lingers a beat longer—because the record’s still playing, and he’s realizing for the first time that when you left, you took all the noise with you.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

The bar’s the kind of place that smells like whiskey, sweat, and lost paychecks. A jukebox groans something old in the corner.

You and Roy lead the charge, Jason trailing behind like a reluctant babysitter. He scans the room automatically—exits, corners, faces he doesn’t trust. He spots them instantly: the rival shop crowd, Trent included, laughing too loud in the back booth.

You head for a different one, only to find it already occupied. The solution? A smile, two sentences, and a tilt of your head. Within moments, the group vacates like you’re royalty.

Roy whistles. “She’s terrifying.”

Jason grunts. “Stay close. Don’t leave her alone.”

Roy snorts. “Relax, man. She’s fine.”

He’s not convinced.

You slide into the booth first, smoothing your skirt, ordering a round before the boys even sit down. Roy starts recounting some chaotic story about accidentally overfilling a radiator; you laugh so hard you nearly choke on your drink.

Jason watches the way your hand flicks against your glass, the way your laughter fills a space that used to feel too big. Roy’s clearly your favorite, and it needles him more than he’d ever admit.

When Roy excuses himself—“gonna hit the head”—Jason’s left with nothing but the noise of the bar and you across the table.

He clears his throat. “So… Venturi or some bullshit like that.”

You blink, confused. “Venturi?”

“The magazine,” he says, nodding toward the glossy cover peeking out of your bag. “You were reading it earlier.”

A slow grin spreads across your face. “It’s Versace, you dense little man. And it’s just another article about the brand’s new summer runway show.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Right. Well… you’d probably make it look better than they do anyway.”

You go still, that grin faltering just a little—because that wasn’t flirtation, not really. It sounded like honesty, quiet and clumsy.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn, fiddling with your straw, something close to nerves slipping through, “but I actually wanted to study fashion. Didn’t work out, though. Money was tight, and the whole industry’s a rich-kids-only club anyway, so fuck that bullshit.”

You shrug it off like it’s nothing, but Jason sees it—the mask of your bedazzled, dive-bar bravado cracking for a moment, revealing a girl whose dream got taken too fast by an elitist machine.

“But how do you still dress in fancy stuff all the time? Do you make your own?” Jason leans back, watching you, gently nudging you open.

You nod. “Most of it. Thrift stores, fabric bins, a sewing kit from hell. You’d be surprised what you can pull off when rent’s due and all you’ve got is a broken machine and a dream.”

Something in his expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”

You tilt your head. “You?”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t exactly grow up in luxury either,” he admits. “Before Bruce, it was just me and the streets. Parents didn’t give a crap. Ate if I could steal food, slept if I could find warmth.”

You study him—really study him—for the first time. The tired eyes, the old scars peeking from his sleeve, the weight he carries like it’s welded to his spine.

“You know, you’ve got that look,” you say quietly. “The one people get when they’ve lived through too much and still decided to keep going. It’s weirdly sexy.”

He blinks, utterly thrown. “That’s… one way to put it.”

You giggle, leaning in. “It’s a compliment, Jason. Take it before I revoke it.”

He looks away, ears burning red. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.” You grin, knowing.

Before he can recover, Roy reappears, sheepish and empty-handed. “She had a boyfriend. Tragic.”

You pat his shoulder, laughing. “You’ll survive, Casanova.”

Jason shakes his head, but he’s smiling—barely. For the first time, it’s not an almost. It’s small and crooked and real.

He stands. “I’ll get us another round.”

You watch him walk away, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. You tell it to shut the fuck up, but your pulse disagrees.

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

He peels away from the booth and threads through the crowd to the bar, shoulders loosening as he goes. He leans against the scarred wood and orders with that low rasp of a voice that could probably wring a confession out of a saint. The bartender slides him three bottles. Jason nods, eyes distant, the weight of the night settling.

Roy might be right, he thinks, watching bubbles climb through amber. She’s trouble.

But she’s also warmth. Color. Noise. Things he hasn’t let himself want in a long time. He hates how easy it’s getting to like you—how you don’t take his shit, how you always find the light in the cracks. Maybe he’ll let you through. Maybe.

He’s halfway back to the booth when his stomach drops.

You’re not alone.

Trent from Iron Claw Auto is tucked beside you, grinning like a snake. Roy is nowhere. Trent’s arm drapes the back of the booth, his body too close, his voice too loud.

Jason’s whole body goes tight. His fingers flex around the neck of a bottle, half-ready to smash it.

He doesn’t move—yet. He watches. Measures the distance. Trent laughs at something you didn’t say, his hand creeping toward your thigh.

And then you move first.

You don’t even flinch when his fingers brush you. You just smile, the kind that makes men nervous. “You’ve got something in your eye,” you say sweetly.

He blinks. “What?”

Pssst.

The pepper spray hisses before he can blink again.

Trent howls, stumbling back, hands flying to his face. The booth screeches as he kicks it, someone’s drink toppling in a splash. “You—bitch—”

He’s half-blind, reaching for you.

Jason’s there before the word finishes leaving Trent’s mouth.

He fists Trent’s collar and slams him into a pillar hard enough to rattle it. “Say that again,” Jason growls, voice low enough to shake something loose in Trent’s skull.

“Jay,” Roy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sudden and sharp. He’s back, catching Jason’s arm before things spiral. “Let the bouncer handle it, man.”

The bar erupts—shouts from every direction, someone yelling to call the cops, the bartender vaulting the counter. In seconds, Trent and his Iron Claw buddies are herded toward the door, still cursing and pawing at their eyes. The bouncer shoves them over the threshold and slams it, muttering about banning those assholes for life.

Silence lands heavy. Glass crunches under Jason’s boots as he turns, jaw locked, anger buzzing off him like static.

You’re already straightening your top, checking your reflection in your phone screen. “Well,” you say brightly, flipping your hair back into place, “that was a fucking waste of mascara.”

Roy’s still catching his breath, looking between you and Jason like he’s watching a bomb tick down.

Jason rounds on him first. “Where the hell were you?”

Roy throws his hands up. “I was talking to a girl! You told me to stay close, not glue myself to her hip, man!”

Before Jason can light him up, you cut in. “Hey—I told him to go. The blonde at the bar was eyeing him all night, and I wasn’t about to cockblock the poor guy. Plus, I can breathe without a fucking six-foot man beside me at all times, you know?”

The words hang there, sharp and unapologetic. Jason exhales through his nose, chest still tight.

A long, awkward beat. Then you hitch your purse higher on your shoulder. “Anyway. Night’s ruined. Let’s go.”

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

Outside, the air’s cool and sticky with summer. The parking lot glows orange under the flickering streetlights. You spot Roy leaning against his truck, grinning sheepishly while the blonde from earlier twirls her hair beside him.

You smirk. “I’m glad he’s gonna get laid. That girl’s hot. But I kinda lost my ride home. Still—no way I’m cockblocking that poor, desperate little man.”

Jason shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping before he can stop it. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

You arch a brow. “On the bike?”

“On the bike.”

You grin. “Yeah, fuck it. Why not?”

He helps you onto the back seat, steadying your hand as you swing your leg over. When your arms wrap around his waist, he goes absolutely still. The soft press of your chest against his back short-circuits every rational thought in his brain.

The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the night. Wind rushes your hair as the bike glides down nearly empty streets, city lights streaking past in gold and red. You laugh—an unrestrained, wild sound that makes something in Jason’s chest unclench.

He’s in trouble. He knows it

༄˖°.❤︎.ೃ࿔*:･

When he finally stops outside your apartment building, you slide off the bike, tugging off the helmet and shaking your hair loose. The night’s quiet again—just the hum of streetlights and the faint buzz of traffic a few blocks away.

You hand him the helmet. “You know,” you say softly, “I did mean it when I said I can take care of myself. I’m used to that kind of bullshit anyway.”

Jason looks at you for a long time, eyes dark and unreadable. “You shouldn’t have to, though.”

That lands heavier than either of you expect. For a second, neither of you moves. Then you break the tension the only way you know how—by making him laugh.

“Well,” you say with a crooked grin, “if this turns into a regular thing, I’m gonna need a custom helmet. Hot pink. Big bow on the back for flair.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You pause, blinking at the word. Then your grin sharpens. “Sweetheart, huh? Normally I’d drop-kick a guy in the balls for that.”

He’s already opening his mouth to apologize when you continue.

“But you…” You tilt your head, eyes glinting. “You can keep it. I like it when it comes from you. Good night, Jay.”

You turn toward the stairs, heels clicking on the pavement, leaving him standing there with the helmet still in his hands and his heart doing somersaults.

Jason watches you disappear through the doorway, the echo of your laughter still caught in his chest.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters, kicking the bike into gear and roaring off into the dark—faster than he needs to, like he’s trying to outrun the way you make him feel.

©starlitfables 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[determined-symphony]

right where you left me

Summary: You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.

I profusely apologize for the pain.

by @anomalyaly

Inspired by @sychenb for the prompt idea. Also crediting @sloanesallow for her headcanon about Sebastian keeping track of numbers.

(also sort of inspired by Unus Annus - iykyk - and Taylor Swift, if you couldn't guess by the title)

[PART 2]

Tags: Angst, F!Reader POV (you), unreliable narrator, vague ship (Sebastian x reader/Ominis x reader), Sebastian was in love with you but never confessed, death, grief, ambiguous ending, overall the sads in general, I cried while writing this

[AO3] [Wattpad]

It had been 279 days since you died.

At least, that’s what Sebastian tells you — your portrait, anyway. It was all that was left of you after the devastating battle you had fought and never walked away from. You hadn’t even known he’d had a portrait of you commissioned when you were alive until you woke up, your body cold, your face illuminated by the flickering candles of the Undercroft.

He comes to visit you every day — some days, he simply sits in front of you, cross-legged and silent. You creep into the frame and study him, the shadows on his face, a haunted look in his eye — unfamiliar. You can only recall a bright, talkative, charming boy with whom you were once close. You didn’t recognize him the first time he visited you, yet his presence brings you comfort.

On other days, you see traces of the boy he was before. He bursts in through the gate talking nonstop about everyone who misses you, about something he saw that you would have liked or that reminded him of you. Sometimes, he even brings you gifts and places them in front of your frame so you can admire them when he’s away.

That’s where he keeps you — hidden behind a wooden crate in the Undercroft like a sacred shrine, untouched by anyone but him. He only speaks with you when he is alone.

Another boy comes in on occasion, and you only know because of the sound of his voice and the pulsing red light of his wand that you can see from behind the pile of crates. Ominis, you remember Sebastian telling you, another friend from when you were alive. Sometimes they argue, other times they refuse to acknowledge each other. But Sebastian always keeps you tucked away, his own personal secret.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he sighs as he plops down in front of you. “300 days since you…well, since— ”

He could never bring himself to finish that sentence, even after almost a year. You never finish it for him.

“Are you going back to Feldcroft?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone. I couldn’t do that to you.”

You knew he probably hadn’t been back since that dreadful day. He had only spoken of it once to refresh your memory. He never brought it up again.

“Sebastian,” you say, and he perks up at the sound of his name leaving your painted lips, “how come you always hide me away when Ominis comes in? Doesn’t he want to talk to me, too?”

His eyes flash with something — anger, perhaps, it was hard to tell from your two-dimensional world — and he stands, approaching your portrait. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m only a portrait,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like you’ve been practicing necromancy.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but you don’t completely understand why. He turns away from you, fists clenched, shoulders tense and hunched over, before running his fingers through his hair and repeating himself more adamantly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

You remember him uttering a similar statement throughout your short life at Hogwarts — secrets that only the two of you shared, unbeknownst to Ominis until it was too late. “Surely he misses me, too— ”

“Did you love him?”

The question takes you by surprise, though you think it’s not the first time he’s asked it. “What?”

Sebastian whirls to face you, his gaze intense, demanding. “Did you love him? Or did you love me?”

Your portrait blinks, confused. Truthfully, you hadn’t been alive nearly long enough to confirm your feelings for either of them, but you knew that both boys had been important to you during your last few months of life. The portrait of you had only been a time capsule of your fifteen-year-old self — undecided and immature. You’re not even certain if the emotions you feel now are real or remnants of what you experienced when you were alive. “I…I cared deeply for both of you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Your answer nearly breaks him, as if he’s heard it a million times before. He tugs at his hair, the movement causing him to look frenzied and mad. “That’s not what I asked! Who did you — ”

“Sebastian?”

The voice of the intruder causes both of you to freeze. Sebastian pulls himself out from behind the crate and holds a finger to his lips before pushing it in front of you once more.

“Over here, Ominis.”

You hear footsteps and see the red glow of the other boy’s wand, then shuffling as Sebastian strategically places himself in front of the wooden box. The echoing footsteps grow closer, and you straighten at Ominis’s frantic tone as he speaks.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks. “I…I thought I heard…her.”

“No one else is here but me,” Sebastian says, guarded.

You can practically feel Ominis’s internal struggle to believe him. You decide that there have been enough secrets between the three of you — you’re not going to let it carry on post-mortem.

“Ominis? Is that you?” you call out. You hear Sebastian press his body against the crate in front of you. Ominis pushes past him, and they both tumble into it, knocking it over and exposing your portrait.

Chaos ensues at Ominis’s realization. The two boys are shouting at each other in front of you as you are helpless to stop them — Ominis, for having yet another secret kept from him, and Sebastian, for defending his reasonings. You aren’t sure if it’s because of jealousy, grief, or some combination of the two, but all you want is for the noise to stop.

You call out helplessly from your portrait, wishing you could step between them, just as you had done time and time again all those months ago. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Suddenly, hot, angry tears are pouring down both of their faces, and you are overcome with just how useless you are at this moment — a fragmented memory, trapped within the confines of your magical canvas. You want nothing more than to hug each of them, to let them feel your arms around them in comfort and take their pain away.

But you are gone.

The two boys now stand solemn and silent in front of you. Ominis takes a step closer, his wand hovering over your portrait before he runs his fingers along the gilded frame. “Is it…really you?”

“No.” You can hear the flatness in Sebastian’s voice, how tired and worn he truly is. He repeats exactly what you thought only moments before as if to confirm it. “She hardly remembers what happened, or even who we are. She’s just a fragment. A memory.”

You want to argue that it is you, but you know that he’s right. You barely remembered your living self until Sebastian explained everything to you on his daily visits. Whispers of your personality still shine through on occasion, but you are otherwise simply existing.

Ominis sighs, and you can hear the weight behind it, as if he had been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to release it. He traces his fingers along the divots of the frame once more, and you try to will yourself to feel it.

The two boys exchange an unspoken conversation that thickens the tension in the air. They seem to come to an agreement, and you let out a small breath — if you can call it that — of relief when they sit down in front of you and appear to bask in your presence. You stay quiet and allow them this moment — it’s the only thing you can do.

The days that follow are the same. No longer is Sebastian coming in alone for covert meetings with your portrait. Now, you see both Sebastian and Ominis at the same time every single day, a religious appointment that they’ve set aside just for you. They take turns talking to you, even if they can only manage a few words, and you learn to appreciate their company, knowing that you were loved by both of them in life.

Just like old times, Sebastian says, and the three of you laugh.

Christmas approaches quickly, or that’s what they say when they come to visit a short while later. They bring your favorite things from when you were alive — chocolate frogs, flowers, even books, which Sebastian reads to you — and they tell you stories about you and the kind of person they knew you to be. You wonder if it’s true, or if they have created an idealistic image of you since you are no longer there with them. Not really.

Kind, they say that you were, thoughtful, loving, self-sacrificial, and maybe a bit idealistic. You were friends with both of them, after all, the mischievous pair that they were, before everything was taken away from them, before life was unfair. They try to smile for you and remind you that Christmas at the castle is a time for celebration, but you can tell that it’s a weak facade.

You smile back at them anyway.

The anniversary of your death approaches. Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything, aside from a few words to honor you. So the three of you sit in tearful silence, admiring the flowers that they decorated your portrait with. You think you can almost smell the sweet aroma of the bouquets.

Something changes in the air — you can sense it — though you aren’t sure what. You notice it when their visits become shorter, with fewer stories to tell, and fewer presents left in front of your frame. Sebastian and Ominis start showing up at separate times, stopping in for a brief hello before leaving with an excuse. You start to wonder what they are doing when they are gone, but you are unable to leave your frame — only one portrait of you was ever commissioned.

Soon, they start missing days, returning at a later time with profuse apologies about how life was busy, but they still miss you. Difficult classes, detention, studying for NEWTs, and preparing for a career — all of these seem to take precedence over you. But they still manage to make time in all of the hectic day-to-day activities, and you look forward to the days when they do come.

You wake up one morning and realize you are in a different location — Feldcroft, most likely, though you hadn’t seen it since that fateful day. Sebastian hangs your frame up on the wall, promising that he and Ominis will come to visit you more often now that they have graduated.

They don’t.

The length of time in between seeing them grows longer, you’re certain of it. Each time one of them arrives, they look a little bit different — sometimes they have longer hair, other times a bit of scruff around their chins, but they always come in looking more weathered than they had when you last saw them.

You realize that they are doing something that you will never again be able to join them in — growing older. You start to wonder about their lives outside of you, yet your painted mind cannot comprehend what an adult life looks like, forever frozen in your adolescent state. You find that you are unable to relate to any of their stories, and they seem to be holding back in what they choose to share.

I wish you were still here, they always say before they go, and you start to wonder if they mean it.

At long last, the visits from your once two closest friends become scarce, and you aren’t certain how much time has passed since someone last spoke to you. The bright flowers that once decorated your golden frame wither and die, and the little gifts they used to leave stay untouched and unopened. The tiny cottage in Feldcroft becomes a sepulcher of your essence — a permanent reminder that you are no longer among the living.

You can’t help but wonder if it was something you did, if their reasons for not returning were your fault. You can feel the stories that they used to tell you fading away, unable to retain the memories in your current form.

You decide that it’s time to rest.

In the quiet house, just south of Hogwarts, your portrait closes its eyes. You do not wake again.

[PART 2]

[brokenengene]

❝ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐭 ❞ - p.sh

You’ve done dozens of fittings before Park Sunghoon—he’s designed for countless models. But what happens when he asks you to try on something that wasn't made for magazines?

pairing: designer!sunghoon x model!reader

genre: fashion au, romance, mutual pining, smut

This content is only for readers 18+

word count: 9.3k

content warning: strong language, oral sex (f. receiving, face riding), riding, light restraint, dom/sub undertones, praise kink, undressing/dressing kink, semi-public kiss, power imbalance, marking/hickeys, crying during sex, unprotected sex (wrap it ppl), aftercare, self-esteem/body image issues, angst

soundtrack: diamonds are forever- sabrina carpenter / sos (sex on sight) - victoria monet & usher / positions - ariana grande

You can’t help but notice how perfect Park Sunghoon's hands are as they trace across your waist. Still, calculated, not a sliver of doubt in his movements.

You stood nearly naked in front of him, but he didn’t seem fazed. He’s faced this countless times with countless models, so what makes this time any different? 

The cold measuring tape traces your skin as he wraps it around your waist. He drops down on one knee, holding his pen between his lips. 

“Exhale for me.” His voice cuts through the near silence. 

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until his words rang through your ears. On command, you let out a shaky breath. Sunghoon pulls the measuring tape tight around your waist before jotting down the number. 

He doesn’t even look at you as he sinks to his knees. Dirt brushing across his dark slacks as his hands pull the measuring tape between your thighs. 

You shift nervously, arms burning as you hold them out at your sides. He pulls the measuring tape tight, jotting down the measurements onto his notepad without a word. 

You don’t look at the number, you can’t. It’ll only hurt you more. 

“Thank you. I’ll have your designs tailored promptly.” Sunghoon says professionally. He stands up without giving you a second glance.

You freeze, feeling overwhelmed and confused in the same. Why is he being so cold? Is he like this with every model? 

You even realize you're staring into nothingness. Not until Sunghoon clears his throat, snapping you out of your spiral.

“You can get dressed-“ he says again, cold, harsh.

“Oh yes! Sorry—“ you stammer out as you nearly trip off the fitting stand. Your bare feet brush across the cold floor as you cross the room, swiftly grabbing you’re robe to cover your exposed skin. 

Sunghoon watches his expression stoic, unchanging as he notices your shaking hands, tying the robe tight in front of you. 

“My assistant Sunoo will be with you shortly to go over the run for Saturday's show. We’ll—see where you fit in.” Sunghoon says as he grips his notebook and pen tightly before leaving out the door. 

It shuts quietly, the sound cutting through the hum of silence as you’re left alone in the fitting room.

You exhale, finally. 

Park Sunghoon was Prada’s youngest designer. His designs caught the attention of the higher ups early, and since then he’s been designing piece after piece, show after show. 

It’s like he never runs out of designs; you can’t figure out how he juggles it all. 

The catch, though? He keeps to himself. 

While the other staff were friendly but professional, Sunghoon was cold, calculated, sharp, and harsh. 

You can’t tell what he’s feeling, can’t sense what he’s thinking. He’s like a blank white canvas with no paint.

He didn’t even look at you. 

You let out a frustrated groan as you hear the door creak open, but this time, a different energy flows through the cracks.

“I’m Sunghoon’s assistant Sunoo, it’s so nice to meet you!” He says, grinning from ear to ear, notebook in hand. 

It feels like whiplash, the stark coldness of Sunghoon being replaced with the warmth of his assistant.

You force a smile back, mind still lingering on Sunghoon’s calculated touch.

You kindly give Sunoo your name as he extends his hand to yours. You take it, and in return, he shakes your hand with enthusiasm. 

“I am so excited to have you as a part of the team! You are going to kill it on Saturday, just look at you!” Sunoo says, giving you a soft look up and down. Nose scrunching with excitement.

You stutter at the generous comment, immediately pushing the words to the back of your mind. It can't be genuine. He's just saying what he's told to say.

“Well, but—“ 

“Those legs? Gorgeous. Let’s figure out where you’ll be in the lineup.” He interrupts with a smile and a compliment? 

You shift nervously, aching to steady your footing as he licks his fingertip, flipping the pages of his notebook.

“How tall are you again?” He asks curiously, his eyes locked on the pages in front of him.

“Uh..I’m…” you stutter, still trying to recover from the emotional whiplash.

“Ahh, it’s written right here! You’ll probably be in the middle, not first but not last. So no pressure this time around.” Sunoo says with a smile. 

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” You say as your arms cross over your chest. Your foot is tapping anxiously against the ground.

“Looks like you’ll be in design 23—SO excited, let me grab it for you. I’ll get you situated before the boss comes back.” Sunoo says, clapping his hands together with excitement. He slips out of the room, leaving you again in silence.

It doesn’t last long, soon Sunoo is rolling in a cart of designs, you’re eyes light up as you see the colors of the dresses hanging on the rack. 

Did Sunghoon design all these beautiful pieces? 

Guess he does live up to his reputation.

Sunoo flips through the designs as the sound of metal hangers clicking together echoes. You watch as the white light of the fitting room shines on the textures of the fabrics. 

You can’t lie to yourself, Sunghoon is talented.

“Number 22—Ah, number 23...” Sunoo mutters under his breath as he takes the garment off the rack and holds it in both hands.

It’s a stunning piece, lots of sheer white fabric draped almost like a Greek sculpture. It’s got a gentle sheen, catching the light in a flattering way. 

Sunoo hands you the piece, and you take it gently, feeling the brush of the smooth, silky fabric beneath your fingertips. 

You step behind the curtain. Slipping off your robe and sliding into the piece. It’s not the best fit. Some places are too tight, others too loose. But that’s what the measurements are for. 

You step out into the open. The white dress, sheer, complimenting the undertone of your skin. It’s a high cut on the hip, showing off your legs. 

“Oh my God…Sunghoon has outdone himself—it’s stunning. You’re stunning.” Sunoo says as you stand back on the platform in front of him. 

You smile nervously at the praise. Your feet are shifting under your weight as the cool air sends shivers across your exposed skin. 

The neckline cuts low, showing off your collarbone and other assets. Your shoulders stand out against the sleeveless nature of the design. 

The dress looks like it’s made of stained glass, the sheen catching the light. The fabric flows like water pooling gracefully at your feet.

Sunoo’s right. 

It’s stunning.

So why do you feel the need for a rebuttal? 

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by the click of the door. Your shoulders hunch nervously, your heart rate picking up as you notice who it is. 

Sunghoon adjusts his glasses as he steps back into the sterile room. His steps are swift, quick.

Sunoo steps out of the way as he forcefully marches through the room. Not even giving his assistant a second glance. 

Your hands shake at your sides as he looks at you again. His gaze makes you want to claw at your own burning skin. 

“Turn around.” He asks coldly. 

You shiver again. Exhaling as you hesitate before making a shaky 180 on the platform. 

You were used to being exposed like this, but now you can’t help but tremble. The fabric cascades down your spine, exposing more than enough skin from the nature of the cut.

You flinch as he takes a step closer. His fingertips untying the back of the dress you messily attempted to tie onto yourself.. 

You suck in a sharp breath. Holding your hands over your stomach as Sunghoon’s fingertips untie the dress, only to neatly lace it back up into place. 

He pulls the dress tight. His hands lingered a moment longer than they should. 

He pulls away to look you up and down, his eyes running across the dress as it flows down your body. 

“The pleats aren’t lying straight on your hips..” he mumbles under his breath. You aren’t entirely sure if you were meant to catch it. 

“Sorry..” you mumble, dropping your head to avoid his gaze, not wanting to see him or yourself anymore in the mirror. 

“Don’t apologize, it’s not you. It’s an easy fix. Sunoo?” Sunghoon gestures. Sunoo knows exactly what he needs, bringing him a roll of white thread and a delicate needle. 

He bends back down, situating himself on one knee, pinning the fabric into place as he delicately stitches it onto your form. 

You can’t help but feel nervous, a shiver races up your spine as you feel his fingertips on your body again.

“You’re shaking…” Sunghoon whispers as his fingertips trace across your hip. His eyes stay narrowed on the fabric as he pins and stitches it to lie perfectly across your body. 

“Sorry I—“

“Stop apologizing..” Sunghoon says as he pulls the seam tight. You shut your mouth and eyes wide at his remark. Any comeback getting caught in the tightness of your throat.

“It’s a simple fix, you haven’t done anything wrong—trust me,” Sunghoon whispers weakly. You shudder, the words hitting the warmth of your heart. 

Sunghoon pulls the thread tight, ripping it with his mouth before pinning the needle to his shirt. 

He takes a few steps back, just looking at the dress. 

Looking at you. 

He lets out a shaky breath as his expression changes, enough for you to notice but not enough to read. 

“I want you—in this, on Saturday…” Sunghoon says softly. His voice no longer commanding. 

“You’re exactly the type of woman I had in mind for this design…” Sunghoon confirms. You can’t tell if he’s glancing at you. Or at the fabric cascading down your form. 

His eyes meet yours again. That's when you realize—

He's not staring at the dress.

He opens his mouth to continue, to say something—anything. But the words slide back down the back of his throat.

He awkwardly clears his throat again, suddenly cracking the tightness in his knuckles before tearing his eyes away from your body.

“Let Sunoo know if you need any help undressing. I’ll have the dress tailored for you before this weekend.” Sunghoon concludes.

 And with that, he’s out the door.

Your chest feels tight and you feel like you can’t breathe. But the feeling of Sunoo’s fingertips gently unlacing the back of your dress brings you back into reality. 

You exhale sharply as the fabric loosens around your waist, your skin hot, mind still running calculations on Sunghoon’s unreadable tone.

“He’s right, you know. This dress was made for you.” Sunoo says softly as his fingertips loosen the ties at your back, as you hold up the front of your dress.

“Thanks...” you say as his fingertips leave your skin. The dress is now only being held up by the weight of your hands. 

You step behind the curtain, carefully stepping out of the dress as you let it sink to the floor. You pull your robe back over your body, mind still lingering on the warmth of Sunghoon’s touch.

Your arms carefully tuck under the sparkling garment as you bring the garment back towards the rack.

Sunoo gives you a weak smile, his soft eyes turning up at the sides. You shiver, and he sees through the mask. Like he sees right through you. 

He takes the dress, hanging it back up with the rest of the designs without another word. 

“First fittings are always the hardest. Truly, don’t let it get to you. You’re amazing, I can tell.” Sunoo says with another gentle smile. 

Your heart feels like it’s being tugged in so many directions. You open your mouth to speak, but all you can do is reply with a soft nod. 

And with that, Sunoo rolls the designs out the door, letting it slam shut, leaving you once again alone in the silence. 

It hits you hard. Maybe because Sunghoon didn’t glance back as he left the door. Maybe you wanted him to. 

You can't shake the memory of his fingertips, gentle and steady as he sewed you into that dress.

You don’t know whether to be intimidated or excited for your first walk. 

୨୧

The Saturday show sneaks up on you quickly. Backstage is bustling with activity. Makeup artists, models, hairstylists. The loud backstage chatter only amplifies your racing thoughts. 

You push through the crowd. Gently clasping onto the edge of your robe for support. Until you find exactly who you’re looking for. 

Sunoo lets out a gasp of surprise when he sees you with your hair and makeup perfectly styled. His clipboard rests on his hip as he looks you up and down, jaw dropped, completely stunned. 

“Oh my God—Sunghoon is going to flip when—“

“I’m going to what?” You hear a deep voice slice through the noise. It makes you jump a few inches back. 

Sunghoon steps from behind one of the backstage curtains. Dressed in a sleek black suit—complimenting his dark hair and pale skin as he looks down at you. His expression unchanging. 

You watch as he steps through the heavy curtain, heart fluttering as you notice just how good he looks in this moment.

His deep brows furrow, his eyes taking you up and down like so many times before. 

“You’re cut.” He says bluntly.

You nearly gasp. Your heart sinks deep into your stomach at his words. 

“I’m—I’m cut?” You whisper. Voice trembling underneath all the backstage noise. Sunghoon lets out a sharp huff. His strong arms crossed over his chest as he looked down at you. Again. 

You can’t believe this is happening, never in all these years of modeling have you been cut, especially on the day of the show.

Sunghoon’s gaze stays stoic as he watches you compute, the words making so many emotions race through you at once.

“You’re not walking—You’re not ready,” Sunghoon says harshly. His words carve through your heart like a knife. 

Your legs tremble, but you fight it, holding back the tears as your chest only gets tighter and tighter. 

He’s serious, he's seriously cutting you.

You came here to prove yourself. To make it known that you were something worth seeing. 

Yet you haven't even gotten into the dress yet, and you’re scared. Scared to be anything bigger than small. Scared to break out of a mold you spent years training to fit into. 

You’re not ready.

That fucking hurts more than it should. 

Because you know deep down. He’s right.

You glance up into his dark eyes, silently pleading for him to change his mind.

He hesitates, brows furrowing, maybe in apology?

Sunghoon doesn’t give you another moment to think. He turns on his heel. Not giving you another glance as he disappears into the sea of chaos.

All of a sudden, your skin feels hot, your robe is too tight, the backstage lights too bright. Your mind chest feels like it's on fire, the loud backstage chatter only making things worse.

You have to get out of here.

You immediately push through the chaos in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” Sunoo calls out, but you don’t look back. The only thing on your mind is getting away from the chaos, getting as far away as possible from him.

Sunoo follows behind you, desperately trying to get your attention until he finds you in a dark hallway in the backrooms of the stage.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—“ Sunoo comforts. He tucks his clipboard under his arm as he steps closer. His expression was concerned as you fight back the tears aching to spill.

“It’s ok..really…” You choke out. A sob gets caught in your throat. You can’t hold back, the tears silently falling. Tearing a path through your professionally done makeup. 

“It’s not ok. He’s harsh, he truly means well—I think? God, he shouldn’t have done that to you. Not now.” Sunoo says with a gentle tone. His soft hands gently wipe the tears from your face as he tries not to smear any more makeup.

“He’s just—“ Sunoo mumbles, words getting caught in his throat as he searches for the words. 

You glance up at him, face tearstained as black makeup runs down your cheeks. There has to be a reason; he can’t just be doing this out of pure disservice.

Sunoo’s heart breaks as he looks down at you, his fingertips starting to tremble as he smears more tear-stained makeup across your face.

 “Never mind.” He whispers, replacing his concern with the usual soft smile in an attempt to make things better.

You cry, and he gently holds your hands as you sit on the dirty floor of one of the dark backstage halls. Tears falling into your lap. Chest aching with each sob.

Tonight was supposed to be your big debut here; you were supposed to wear the show-stopping design “made for a woman like you.”

You thought maybe this time—

You don’t know whether to curse or scream, or cry. 

Before you can do either, Sunoo’s gentle hands soothe your back. His voice was soft in the chaos and ruin.

“Do you want me to call you a car?” He offers. 

“Please…please thank you, Sunoo..” you reply as you wipe your sniffly nose with the back of your hand. Sunoo stands up, resting his clipboard on his hip as he extends his free hand to you. 

You smile through the tears at the kind gesture, gently taking his hand in yours as he helps you stand up from the dirty tile. 

The drive home is devastating. You glance out the window, seeing countless photographers and reporters doing interviews on the red carpet. The ache is inexplicably painful. 

That was supposed to be you out there.

The flashing lights soon disappear into a blur in the distance. 

With your luck, of course, it starts to rain. The city was soon enveloped in a cloud of murky gray. The water hits the car, the pavement, and the roads immediately get congested. 

You feel the tears starting to fall again, the driver rolling his eyes like you're not the only sobbing girl he's had to drive around tonight.

You try to be patient, try to wait. 10 minutes go by, then 20.

You’re itching to get out of the car, the rain already making the city feel more crowded than any other weekend night.

“You can just let me out here, I’ll walk the rest.” You inform the driver. 

He nods, unlocking the back door for you to step out of the car without another word. 

You step into the rain. Bare feet hitting the wet sidewalk as you hold your heels in your hand. The rain soaks your hair, ruining the perfect styling. You start to walk down the bustling city streets. 

Soaked, makeup running, no shoes. 

And you can’t even bring yourself to care. 

“You’re not walking—“

“You’re not ready—“ 

You squint. Tears mingling with the falling raindrops as you round the corner to your apartment building. 

You step into the lobby completely soaked. The receptionist yells something about you being soaked.

Maybe someone called out, maybe not. You couldn’t hear a single thing besides Sunghoon's words in your head. 

And that night, you cried yourself to sleep. 

Because you want to hate him.

But you know in your heart he’s right. 

୨୧

The weekend passes by in a blur. Missed calls, missed meals. You’re devastated and can’t bring yourself to do more. 

You sit lazily on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through the channels. One brain-dead show after another. 

It helps numb the pain, helps keep the thought of failure after failure out of your mind. 

At least one 45-minute episode at a time.

You feel your phone buzz under the blankets. Out of habit, you pick it up to check. 

Sunoo(7:49pm) The boss wanted me to send you this. He wants to see you.  291 Mildrige  Ln,   10007, Manhattan, NY APT 108 Come after hours.  -p.sh

Sunoo(7:50pm) You don’t have to go, but I think you might want to. Not sure if he’s trying to fix this. But he might be. 

You stare at the screen. Shooting back a thank you text out of courtesy.

After hours? Seriously? He’s got to be joking. 

You let out a deep sigh before unpausing your show. Trying to get your mind off of Sunghoon. Despite his brutal words, you linger on the gentleness in his touch. 

But your heart is tugging at you. The way his fingertips brushed against your waist. The way he said that dress was made for you.

So why would he cut you? Why sew you into a dress like you were the only woman in the world he could touch? 

Your curiosity gets the best of you. You throw on a coat over your dress. Grab your keys before making your way out the door. 

You’re already having second thoughts as you take the elevator up. Your hands clammy at your sides.

You hold your arms over your chest as you strut down the hall. Looking at the apartment numbers nailed to the outside of the doors.

You stop right in front of the door that says 108. You raise your hand to knock, but you pause. Mind racing with thoughts. Your brain is telling you to turn around and head back.

Before you can make that choice yourself, the door pulls open. Sunghoon's eyes widen in surprise as he sees you standing in front of him. 

A plain, casual minidress, paired with a long leather coat. 

He glances you up and down, eyes lingering on your exposed skin, the sheer elegance you exude even at his hour.

“You—you came?” He asks softly, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he studies you. Like he’s making sure you’re the right girl. 

“Make this quick before I change my mind.” You snap back. He doesn’t deserve sympathy. Not after the stunt he pulled at the last show. 

“Of course—Come in. This is my studio, I wanted to show you…” He says softly, stepping aside to let you inside the dimly lit room. 

You let your coat fall off your shoulders as you slip past him. Immediately, you’re hit with the faint scent of cinnamon and sage.

The large window immediately grabs your attention. The bustling city beneath you earns its name. Still dark—yet vibrant with life even at this hour.

You look around the studio as Sunghoon shuts the door behind you. Your eyes scan the large table by the window, the walls taped with countless designs of clothing and bags. Some are just sketches, others are fully fleshed out designs.

There are pastels and sketching pencils underneath the desk, Paints and other mediums scattered across the surface. And on the table, even more designs.

There's a small couch, the living area minimally decorated with a variety of greenery. Music softly playing on the television was nestled in the corner of the room. 

The last thing to catch your eye is a clothing rack packed full of dresses and designs. Your brows furrow with confusion. What designer keeps couture designs in their own apartment space?

“Sorry, this place is kind of a mess—” Sunghoon chuckles as he nervously bends down to pick up a rogue paintbrush and pencil off the floor.

“Why did you call me here?” You ask as you watch him messily try to stack up scattered designs and art supplies.

Your eyes linger on his arms as he rolls his white sleeves up to his elbows. Watching as he rakes his fingertips through his messy, unstyled hair.

“Because I need you to see what I see—” Sunghoon replies softly. He turns over his shoulder to see you stalking behind him, angry, exhausted.

You want to roll your eyes, how can he change his mind so fast, especially after the stunt he pulled cutting you last minute at the show?

He lets out a shaky breath like this is just as hard for him as it is for you. He drags his feet against the hard floor, stopping just a few inches in front of you.

He hesitates before gently offering his hand for you to take. Your gaze shifts from the palm of his hand to his eyes, no longer cold and harsh. There's a softness you didn’t notice before, maybe you were too caught up to notice it all along.

You let out a shaky breath, untying your arms from across your chest to offer him your hand.

He takes it, gently pulling you in closer. Your body brushes against his as he looks down at you.

“I know how I sounded on Saturday. I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have done that to you.” Sunghoon whispers, his voice cracking in the silence as he gently brushes your hair out of your face, his fingertips lingering on the side of your face.

“I’m sorry. I can only imagine how badly that hurt you—all to prove a point.” He chokes out, his voice unstable as his chest tightens under his words.

You feel your eyes water at his apology, the shame and hurt flooding back through your system as he brings up the cut.

“It’s okay, Sunghoon…” You choke out, tears threatening to spill at any moment.

Sunghoon’s expression grew pained as he heard the hurt in your voice. He pulls you closer into his arms, his fingertips gently wiping the stray tears from your cheeks.

“No, don’t say that. What I did was not okay.” He states, his voice steady as he gently wipes the silent tears from your face.

“Please, give me one chance, let me show you what I see in you…” Sunghoon whispers, his voice barely audible over the soft background music.

You smile softly, warmth pooling in your chest as he pulls you into a gentle hug. His cheek resting on the top of your head as he holds you through the last few sobs of tears.

He smiles down at you, his heart racing as you nod. He gently intertwined your fingertips with his as he guided you towards the large window, taking you to the clothing rack placed right next to it.

“These are my own designs. Not for Prada, not for my team, or Sunoo or anyone.” Sunghoon whispers.

“Anything catch your eye?” Sunghoon says as his hand slides to rest on your lower back, gently guiding you towards the small rack of designs.

You glance over the shimmering metallics and velvet jewels, a sultry red catching your eye as you glance over the designs.

It’s bold, sexy, fiery against the other colors on the rack. 

“This one…” You say softly as you pull the design from the rack, letting it rest in your arms. The fabric is a delicate shimmering red, catching all the dim light from the room. 

“That one’s dangerous…” Sunghoon whispers into your ear, his fingertips lingering on your waist like before. 

“Want to try it?” He suggests deeply, gesturing to a small folded divider tucked into the corner of his room. 

You try to bite back your excitement as you nod. Swiftly stepping behind the divider to change. 

You slip your coat off your shoulders and lay it across the top of the barrier, the cold air of the room hitting your bare skin as you slip into the dress. Pull it up over your hips and chest. 

The dress is breathtaking, tailored exactly to your body. The sleeves fall off the shoulders, and the necking plunges just deep enough to shape your figure. 

The fabric bathes at your waist, framing your curves before it pools at your bare feet. 

The back is corset-like, needing to be laced up tight against your spine. You pull at the strings, arms cramping as you try to do it yourself. 

“I think I need help with the laces.” You call out from behind the barrier. 

You hear Sunghoon step against the hard floor as he strides across the room, pushing the divider out of the way to find you holding your dress up. 

You swear you noticed a soft slush across his cheeks as he stood behind you. Fingertips gently grabbing the strings, pulling you tight into the dress.

You can hardly breathe, partly from the top design of the dress, partly because of the way Sunghoon's fingertips feel on your body. 

Once he’s got you laced in, he grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. 

His eyes scan up in the design. Noticing the perfect flow and cut of the fabric, but this time you know. 

He’s not looking at the dress. 

He’s looking at you, every part of you. 

He bites his lip as he pulls you closer, guiding you to the open space of his apartment. 

“You look so stunning…I—I don’t have words,” Sunghoon whispers intimately as his hands slide up your waist, brushing across the glittering brick red of the dress.

Your heart races at his words, not because he’s talking about your dress or your body. 

Deep down, you know he’s talking about you. 

“These dresses…you made them for me?” You ask as his hands trace the perfect stitching of the garment. Somehow hugging every curve perfectly. 

“After that first fitting, I hardly even slept. You just inspired me so much, you made me forget how to breathe. You were all I could think about.” Sunghoon confesses as he pulls you into his body. The heat is undeniable as he softly lets his hands trace over your curves. 

“Because even though you were trembling, I saw something in you, you have no idea how long I’ve been designing, waiting for a woman like you.” Sunghoon completes, his breath hot against your skin as he leans in, breath fanning across your cheeks and lips. 

He’s close, so close. It feels like your heart is going to thump out of your chest. 

“You have so much potential to be great…when they aren’t pressuring you. The woman in front of me right now? That’s not the same woman behind that stage. That’s why I cut you.” Sunghoon confesses, his breath heavy and unchecked. 

“When you wear these designs, I want you to look, to feel like you. Not like the version of you the magazines want.” Sunghoon finishes, his lips charting dangerously close to yours. 

“You have no idea how badly I’m falling for you,” Sunghoon confesses with an intimate whisper. 

The words cut through all the noise. It’s all you can hear as it echoes back. The way his hands hold your body, his lips, so close.

You close the distance, gently capturing his lips with your own. 

Sunghoon's breath hitches as his hand cups the side of your face. Lips soft and gentle against your own. 

You pull away, briefly, just enough to whisper against his lips.

“Why’d you say that like you mean it?” You whisper, voice cracking softly with emotion. 

“Because I do mean it, every word…” Sunghoon completes before he crashes his lips back into yours, hands steadying you as he gently sucks your lips into his own.

Sunghoon pulls your body into his, the warmth exploding between you as your lips melt perfectly against his mouth. Your heart races, heat rushing to the back of your neck. 

Sunghoon pulls away, breathless, lips swollen and flushed from tasting your own. 

“I don’t want to ruin this, not again,” Sunghoon whispers. His voice was shaky and hoarse.

“Is this too soon? To ask…” Sunghoon chokes out, his voice heavy like everything he’s ever wanted as laid out on the line in front of him. 

Your heart warms, and you know exactly what he means. 

And you realize you want it just as much. 

A smile spreads across your lips that you can’t hide you nod softly in reply. 

“It’s not too soon, Sunghoon, I want you too.” You confess with a shy smile. 

Sunghoon lets out a shaky breath of disbelief. He leans in, kissing you again, this time hotter, heavier. 

He smiles against your lips as he tugs at the shimmering fabric of the dress. His hands gently guiding you to the small couch in the corner.

Faint cinnamon and sage still linger, as well as the soft music. Sunghoon sits on the couch, gently guiding you into his lap.

As soon as you’re situated, his lips as back on yours, breathless as he drags them beneath your jawline. 

You throw your head back, letting him explore and trace your lines like one of his most intricate sketches.

You let out a soft breath, not of frustration but of immense relief. Relief at how gentle his touch is, how reverent it is as he glides his lips across the skin of your neck. 

His hands gently hold your waist as he kisses you lower. Over the sharp lines of your collarbone to the top of your exposed breasts. 

“Every inch of you…God, I could get lost in this body.” Sunghoon moans as he gently drags his lips over the soft skin of your chest, right above the hem of your dress.

Your breath catches as his hands slide to your back, shamelessly pulling at the ties to loosen your dress. 

The deep red slides down your body as it loosens, revealing more of your skin to his gaze. 

Sunghoon pulls you in, bringing his face to your chest as he favors the sweet scent of you. His lips dragging across the fullness of your breasts. 

“You have no idea how many times I sketched this neckline, imagining you sitting in it.” Sunghoon coaxes, his lips dragging from the underside of your breast to your nipple.

 He takes the sensitive bud in his mouth, warm and wet, caressing it with his tongue. 

Your hips tremble as the sensations rush through you. You’re breath is labored as he drags his lips under your chest, molding your warm flesh in his mouth. 

You arch into him. Moaning softly as the warmth spreads from your core. Sunghoon smirks against your skin, his lips hot and wet as they pull away.

He lets out a deep groan as he drags his lips across the other side, wet and messy, his hands pulling you down further into his lap.

You can feel how much he's straining against the zipper of his dress pants already. You grind down on his lap, just enough to catch yourself on his hardness, letting the pleasure build.

Sunghoon pulls his swollen lips away completely breathless, soft marks of blue and purple left on the fullness of your breasts in his wake.

You glance down, hands still gently resting on his shoulders as you take in the bruises left by his mouth. You feel yourself getting hotter at the sight of Sunghoon marking you as his.

Sunghoon's brows furrow as he notices you staring, your dress still loosely falling off your body, fabric crooked and pooling anywhere it can.

“Sorry, I should’ve asked—” Sunghoon whispers as his fingertips graze across the hickeys left on your skin. The blues, mixing with hues of green and purple as they darken.

Your breath catches at his words, you lean in, gently kissing the tension away as your mouth warmly melts into his.

“I love it… It's nothing the makeup team can't cover up.” You say with a cheeky smile.

Sunghoon chuckles against your lips as he leans in to taste more of you, his large hands sliding across the bare skin of your arms before resting on your thighs.

You straddle him in the dress, core loosely grinding against his clothed cock as hands trace you, memorizing every freckle and line.

“Every inch of you is just perfection. I want you to see that.” Sunghoon mumbles as he drags his lips down your throat.

You gasp, hands trembling as you hold onto him for support, sweat already forming a thin layer across your skin. The red dress feels hot, too hot, as you pant on top of him.

“I want to hear you, you’re not just my muse right now. I want this to be about us, no brand deals or labels. Just me and you.” Sunghoon mumbles into the skin of your neck. His hands gently slipping into the fallen straps of your dress, asking for permission before gently pulling it down.

You whimper as you feel his lips on your sensitive skin. It bruises more easily than you remember. Sunghoon pulls away, placing a chaste kiss to the darkening spot before looking back into your eyes. 

You don’t even know when the tears started to fall. Your chest pounds, maybe from embarrassment, you can’t truly tell. 

Sunghoon silently wipes your tears. This time, he doesn’t have flashy words or lavish compliments. 

And that’s exactly what you need to realize—this thing is real. 

And for the first time in a long time, you’re actually being seen.

Not through a camera lens, not through a magazine. 

Just you and a man who’s willing to change and give you everything he has because it’s true he’s been waiting. 

“Thank you…Sunghoon—“You choke out a quiet sob. Your hands are shaking as you try to wipe the tears. 

“I’m the one who should be thanking you,” Sunghoon mumbles as he gently wipes your tears with his sleeve. A soft smile tugged at his lips even after everything. His heart still swells for you. 

“I want you to undress me…” You whisper, your voice finally stabilizing as you ground it. This time there’s no more trembling, no more hiding. 

Sunghoon's expression melts at your words as you finally take control, finally own the version of you he knew was buried down inside. 

He looks up at you, grinning, his hands gently raking through your hair with affection. 

“There she is…” Sunghoon whispers before pulling you back down into another messy kiss. 

You match his enthusiasm, letting your tongue melt against his as he tears moans from your throat, moans you never imagined he would hear.

He slides his hands down your arms, pulling the straps of the dress down with them as more of your skin catches in the dim light. 

His lips stay melted on yours as his chest rises and falls with anticipation’s his fingers trembling for the first time as he forcefully removes the rest of the laces from your back. 

The dress immediately falls, you shuffle awkwardly to slip out of it, letting the dark crimson pool long forgotten on the ground. 

“Come here..” Sunghoon mumbles as he lies back down on the couch, pulling you back on top of him. You let yourself laugh softly as he pulls you back into his warmth. 

Sunghoon smiles into another kiss, your laughter making his heart race as his hands roam across your body in exploration. 

“I want you here if that’s okay?” Sunghoon pulls away to whisper, his hands gently rubbing your hips, pulling you up his torso to lie across his chest. 

You immediately feel hot as you catch on, the cool fabric of his shirt contrasting with the heat of your skin and core. 

“I want you to ride my face…” he confesses, his voice heavy, shaking as his eyes stay locked on you and only you. 

“You sure?” you question, biting back a smirk as you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“More than…” Sunghoon replies as his hands slide to your thighs, helping to guide you into position. 

Your thighs burn as they dig into the cushions of the couch, holding yourself up as you start to drip over his face. 

You let out a shaky breath as you sink down, his warm, hot mouth enveloping you, sending a shock of heat throughout your body. 

You let out a deep moan, unfiltered, unashamed, as his tongue drags through your folds. You grip the soft leather of the couch, trying to keep yourself from putting too much pressure on his face.

Sunghoon lets his eyes flutter shut as he memorizes you with his mouth. His tongue takes its time to glide through every fold, hitting every nerve to make you shiver. 

He moans deep with satisfaction as he feasts on you. Your essence dripping down his lips and chin as his nose buries further into your heat. 

He doesn’t come up for air; he doesn’t speak. He just devours you, getting off at your newfound sounds of pleasure. 

His tongue slides through your folds to gently circle your clit. You whimper, hips buckling against his face as his tongue slides down to your hole, gently fucking into you with reverence.

It feels good, too good. You start to grind your hips down on his tongue, chasing that same spark of pleasure.

You let go of the couch, your hands gently fisting handfuls of his dark hair as you let yourself shamelessly drop fully onto his face.

You let out a sharp exhale of relief, your thighs burning from the intensity as you slowly roll your hips against him, wetness dripping onto his lips, down his chin and neck.

Sunghoon groans into your pussy, his tongue picking up intensity as he feels you drop onto his face. His breath comes in short pants as he struggles to lap up all your dripping arousal.

“Fuck Sunghoon—” You moan, finding your voice as his tongue circles your clit again, giving the sensitive nub extra attention.

Sunghoon chuckles into your heat as you grind against him, letting his tongue circle your wet, glistening hole as his nose rubs against your clit.

Your grip on his hair tightens as you grind down on his face, rougher, harder. Sunghoon's hands slide to your ass, fingertips digging into the skin as he helps you fuck yourself on his tounge and nose.

You feel a knot pulling at your lower stomach, your pussy aching, clenching around his tongue as he struggles to lap up the dripping mess you're shamelessly making.

Sunghoon moans deeper, rougher as his hands help you ride his face harder and harder. He feels you clenching around his tongue, signaling you're close.

You’re hair starts to stick to the back of your neck, thighs still straining as you chase release. Your legs tremble next to his ears, leather from the couch sticking to your skin as you slide yourself up and down.

“Shit—Sunghoon gonna come, can I?” You ask, trebling on top of him, gripping him tight as your orgasm teeters on the edge.

“Fucking soak me—” He groans into your pussy, the sound barely audible as he pulls you down into him more.

You rub your clit against his nose one time, then two—it breaks you. You cry out his name, shamelessly letting every curse and moan spill from the back of your throat. Your hands pulling at his dark hair as you fuck yourself through your orgasm.

Sunghoon lets out a sigh of relief, his tongue spreading your slick all through your folds as you soak his lips and chin, arousal dripping down his neck, pooling on the leather of the couch.

“Fucking perfect—God.” Sunghoon moans as his hands help to guide you off his face to straddle his torso again.

His lips and chin are still glistening with your come, the collar of his shirt dampened from your mess. 

You feel that tinge in your stomach again as you look at him. So perfect, so wrecked. Cheeks flushed, slips swollen and glistening, hair tossled from your grip. 

“Mr. Park. If your goal was to make me feel confident, well—you’ve done a good job.” You say, teeth tugging at your bottom lip as you pick up the red dress from the ground. 

A shaky breath falls from your lips as you clean off his face with the hem. Your come catching on the fabric as you wipe Sunghoon's lips, chin and neck clean. 

 You toss the dress aside, letting your hips straddle his own as your hands get to work on his dress shirt. 

You remove one button at a time, his pale skin catching off the light one inch at a time. 

Sunghoon lies back, his hands resting on your hips, a smug grin on his face as he lets you take control

The soft fabric of his shirt is cool against your skin as you push it over his shoulders. Letting his bare back stick to the leather of the couch. 

A warmth hits your skin as his hands find their way back to your waist, on instinct Sunghoon tries to flip you over. 

“No..” you mumble. Your hands grabbing his wrists, your knee pushing his chest back down toward the couch. 

Sunghoon's eyes widen as you sharply pin his wrists above his head. This is new, this is exiting. Never in his life has he been with a woman like this. 

And that just makes him fall for you even more. 

“No touching, no guiding. Please Sunghoon—“ you whisper, voice cracking loud in the near silence. 

“Let me lead this.” You whisper, leaning down to capture his lips with your own, your grip tightening around his wrists. 

Sunghoon gasps into the kiss, his eyes fluttering shut as his mouth moves against yours.

One of your hands slips between your bodies, the other holding his wrists tight above his head. You fumble with the buckle of his belt, fingers brushing against his hard cock as you slide the zipper down. 

Sunghoon lifts his hips, letting you pull the fabric down just as much as you need. 

You straddle him, letting your hand guide his thick, aching cock towards your slick entrance.

“I want to see you wrecked a little more—“ you say as you bite back a smile. Your wetness teasing the sensitive tip of his cock. 

Sunghoon nods. 

And you don’t waste another second before you let your hips drop. 

The stretch is satisfying, and you let out a sharp moan as his thick cock drags against the ridges of your warm walls. 

Sunghoon moans your name, sharp and broken as he feels your tight channel enveloping him in his entirety. His head falls back, chest heaving as he struggles for breath. 

His wrists twitch under your grip, like he wants to reach out, like he’s aching to touch you. 

But you’re determined to draw this out.

Your thighs clench as you pull yourself up, only to sink back down with that same delicious sensation. 

“Holy…I’ve never—“Sunghoon chokes out, his wrists still trembling beneath your harsh grip. 

You lean down, letting your lips find his in another messy, wet kiss. You pull away, gasping as you let your hips rock against his own. His cock is dragging across all the spots that make you shiver. 

“Yeah? Feels good, doesn’t it?” You reply, placing a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

Sunghoon nods, a weak chuckle falls from his lips, his chest still aching at the fill. 

“You feel like a perfect fucking fit—“ Sunghoon gasps as he crashes his mouth back into yours. Greedy, hot, and claiming. 

You match his enthusiasm, letting your tongue tangle with his between breathless moans. Your hips are still slamming down on his cock. 

You release your grip, pulling Sunghoon up with you. His back leaves the couch as his hands finally trace your sides and waist. His hands cupping your breasts, aching to savor every inch of skin they can. 

You ride him faster, panting against his mouth as you take charge of the rhythm. His hips thrust up in time with yours. The friction maddening as you slip in and out with ease. 

Sunghoon's head falls to your shoulder, his hands aimlessly roaming your hot skin. His jaw locked tight, and his brows furrowed as he struggles to hold back. 

You catch on, keeping that same fast, wet pace. He lazily thrusts up into you as you clench around him. 

You feel him twitching inside, and you know he’s close. 

“You’re so fucking perfect like this, so wrecked, made for a body like mine.” You coax. The words spilling from your tongue with no filter. It surprises even yourself; you didn’t know you had this side in you until Sunghoon brought it out. 

“Yeah..fuck yeah you were.” Sunghoon pants as his lips drag softly against your shoulder. 

You feel your core growing tight. The familiar tingling and warmth from earlier starts to take over. Your ankles feel numb, your thighs are burning and aching.

You know you’re close. 

Your sweat mixes with his as you lie him back, forehead resting on his, as you ride him faster and harder. Dragging out your own orgasm. 

“Yes…Sunghoon God—“You pant into his mouth as you feel the warmth rushing through your body, a wave of wetness flowing suit as you shamelessly come all over his cock. 

A shaky laugh falls from your lips as you grind yourself through the waves. Your body clenches around his, pulling him over the edge with you. 

Sunghoon moans deep as he comes, his cock twitching inside your heat as he spills into your wet walls. His hips jerking as his eyes roll back, his come spilling into your open channel.

Your name falls from his lips as he comes down from his high. His hips still jerking as you milk him for every drop. 

The moment between you is quietly charged. The sound of your panting fills the air. The smell of sex mingling with cinnamon and sage. 

You glance down at Sunghoon, panting, sweaty, and flushed.

He looks completely wrecked. 

And you couldn’t be happier that it was because of you. 

You pull yourself off of him, trying to keep the mess to a minimum. Sunghoon gently cups your face, his lips finding yours again. 

“I’d love for you to stay…” Sunghoon mumbles breathlessly against your lips. His eyes flicking up to glance into yours. 

This time, he glances at you like you’re more than just his muse. 

୨୧

Today is the big day, Your chance at finally getting redemption. 

You can’t hide your smile as the makeup artist bakes your face for the stage. Your hair perfectly styled to compliment your natural beauty. 

You feel a warmth in your chest, not entirely from the simmering stage lights. 

“May I?” You hear a familiar voice call out from behind the curtain. 

Sunoo steps through the curtain. Clipboard still rested at his side. His face still bearing same sweet smile and kind eyes as before. 

“You look like an angel in that dress—“ Sunoo compliments truthfully. 

This time? You smile back, the compliment warming your heart. This time there’s no tug for rebuttal, no pointing out the obvious puffiness under your eyes, or the shape of your hips. 

The stylists finish their work, leaving you camera-ready to walk. The same white dress from before is now perfectly tailored to your measurements, with your decolletage and spine as the highlights of the cuts. 

“Thank you Sunoo.” You reply kindly. Sunoo notices his smile beaming brighter. He offers you his hand with a soft laugh. The chatter of the backstage chaos swiftly fades into the background. 

Sunoo playfully spins you around, the dress fluttering as it catches in the air. You can’t help but exhale as he holds your soft hand with his. 

You feel ready, you know it. And Sunghoon knows it too. 

You pull away to glance at yourself in the mirror, smoothing out the small wrinkles around your waistline. Eyes lingering on the faded marks covered up professionally by your makeup team. 

Your heart beats faster as the memories flash, Sunghoon's warm mouth on your skin and cleavage. Marking you as his.

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Sunoo raises an eyebrow. 

His thought process is interrupted when Sunghoon himself steps back into the room. A large garment bag in his arms. 

“Boss, what are you—“ Sunoo questions softly. 

Sunghoon's breath catches as he watches you twirl in front of the mirror. The fabric moves like a waterfall down your curves, the white bringing out the vivid undertones of your skin. 

“I want you to wear this—“ Sunghoon says, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. 

Your heart races as you turn around. Eyes are raking up and down his professionally dressed figure. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair perfectly styled out of his dark eyes. 

“And I want you to close the show.” 

Your lungs widen, and you can hardly breathe. 

Close the show? Sunghoon wants you to close his show. 

A flicker of dread and fear flickers in your expression, but it’s quickly changed out with something else. 

“You want me to close?” You ask softly, shaking your head to make sure you heard him right. 

Sunghoon smiles warmly, taking another step towards you as he peels the garment bag away from the dress. 

You recognize that familiar crimson red. The same from that night. 

The night he helped you see the version of yourself that has been hidden all along. You swear you hear Sunoo gasp in the background as the red catches the backstage light. 

His own design, not made for cameras or clients. 

The dress he made was only for you. 

Sunoo's eyes widen as you pull Sunghoon by the collar. Your lips shamelessly crashing into his. 

“I want you to close, in this…” Sunghoon mumbles into your mouth before he pulls away, cheeks flushed from the nearly public display of affection. 

“I will.” You say confidently. Tilting your head to look into his dark eyes. 

Sunghoon pulls you in for another chaste kiss before quickly dipping out the other side of the curtain, leaving Sunoo appalled.

“Did I miss something?!” Sunoo exclaims as he crosses the room to help you unlace the white dress in preparation for the red. 

“Yeah, I guess you did miss a chapter—“ you say playfully with a soft chuckle. 

“Listen, I knew something was different, but—wait. You’re not hooking up with him, are you?!” Sunoo gasps, like he just received the juiciest gossip of his life. 

“That’s…confidential," You reply, but you can’t hide the truth behind your expression. 

“Knew it,” Sunoo replies as he pulls the last of the back laces free. 

You change into the same red dress as before. It gently hugs your hips, frames your shoulders, and pools at your heels. 

It truly was made just for you. A perfect fit. 

You wince as you step onto the runway. Cameras flashing, faces hidden behind phones. 

You suck in a deep breath, exhaling as you put one foot in front of the other. Taking up space as you own the runway. 

Once you reach the edge of the stage, you’re hit with camera flash after camera flash. Your vision goes white as you get lost in the moment. Lost in the feeling of finally being seen. 

Your confidence follows you as you turn back. Smiling and waving at the front row guests without a care in the world. 

Then the lights go out, and applause erupts. 

For Sunghoon, and for you. 

You’re panting as you stand in the wings of the runway. Eyes darting through the crowd in search of Sunoo. 

But your attention shifts as you feel Sunghoon’s hand against your wrist. 

He pulls you from the crowd, ignoring all the chants and calls for photos and interviews. 

He pulls you into your dressing room. And without another word his mouth is on yours. 

You exhale as your hands slide up his chest to his face. Gently pulling him in for more as your lipstick smudges all over his face and yours. 

You pull away, gasping. Forehead resting against his as the sounds of the press grow louder and louder outside the door. 

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” Sunghoon whispers.

You kiss him again. His lips too sweet to resist, you chuckle against his lips as the adrenaline fades. 

And you realize you wouldn’t want to be in anyone else’s arms. 

“Me too…I’m proud of me too.” You break apart to reply. 

You never thought you were worthy of finding your perfect fit. 

But you found it. In Sunghoon—

And in yourself.

© brokenengene

kate's note: I hope you guys enjoyed this story! It was challenging to write, but I hope it's satisfying for you all. I just want to say thank you guys for all the support I've received, im so so grateful for all of it. And like always, take care.

written with love,

xoxo kate<3

perm. taglist: @aggarwaldrishti @kristynaaah @vanillaxbambi @ninistranaut @dulcetnostalgia @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @nesquikluvr @osakinanadesu @m1kkso @yazmike @lovcheol @luvksnn @taesnumber1 @kookiesnkim @skzenhalove @seungsoftly @sourkiki @ziiao

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[kennysflowers]

‘CAUSE THEY SAY IT’S A VIRTUE TO NOT LET GOOD LOVE SLIP AWAY — JASON TODD

in which you love jason todd… right? and that should be enough… right???

warnings: angstttt so much angst. readers self doubts not only about their relationship, but their personal feelings. readers is sad as dust. sex is mentioned, not in detail. kinda gender neutral reader. i do use the term “madwoman.” y/n is not used in this one. based off ‘begged’ by olivia rodrigo. you can tell i’m a big fan huh.

divider: @enchanthings

574 words

right now, you’re lying in bed, staring at your ceiling. thoughts of yours and jason’s relationship cloud your mind. why is nothing ever enough for you and your endless well of needs? what you two have is good, right? somewhat steady. sure, you argue, but what should that compare to the love you have for him?

overall, jason tries to be an attentive lover. because even though he’s not perfect, he cares. he tries his best. you know that this whole relationship thing is new to him, he’s learning. but he puts up these walls that you can never fully break down, no matter how much you attempt to. you try to be patient, but you can’t pretend it’s not hurting. although everything is damn near perfect, you can’t help but think about the last argument you two shared.

the words of, “please, jason. i’m begging. begging for you to just try harder.” ring in your head. you can’t get him saying, “you want me to try? can you not see that all i do is try for you?” out of your mind. that night, the two of you kept going back and forth after this, until the night ultimately ended with you two having your sex and making amends. with your usual careless sweet nothings mounted after.

as usual, the morning after goes as it always does. he tries extra hard. brings you breakfast in bed. makes your coffee extra sweet. let’s the day slip away as he cuddles up with you. you wish it was enough. enough to forget about the fact that to get this, you begged.

why isn’t it enough for you? you lie in bed, thinking about how you feel trapped inside your life. about how both of you know you can never leave. you’ll both continue to cling to hope like snow on mountains, until it inevitably becomes all too much.

afterall, you’ll take all of what he’s giving. no matter how much you have to fight back the weight of a static lovers’ dread. you feel like a penny in a fountain, just ever so patiently waiting for your luck to change. waiting to not feel overwhelmed and underfed.

you’re pacing around your room now, taking deep breaths with your hands on your hips. what a shame he’s not here to witness your devotion.

you begin to doubt everything. maybe he doesn’t even love you like that anymore? maybe he has eyes for someone else? i mean, he could be anywhere right now. you just wish you knew. knew that he wants this. to know undoubtedly, that he only has eyes for you. hell, you’d give anything just to know that he’s safe right now. you wish you could break past this barrier he’s put up. maybe you don’t even know the real him. lately, it seems like these doubts are all your mind could muster up.

you feel like a madwoman, trying to put the pieces together. but no matter how much pacing you do, or how much lying in bed with strange thoughts, you know that you’re going to stick it out. what you two have is real. you know deep down that you can never find someone else as true and raw as jason is.

afterall, they say it’s a virtue to not let good love slip away, right? if you really have to, you’ll continue to beg and beg for endless amounts of years, until he finally call it quits. because you know that this has to end on his terms. if you could, you’d bask in this dread forever.

[lomlmarvel]

MASTERLIST POST – Starlight Princess

Starlight Princess | A Star Wars Fanfiction Masterlist

Poe Dameron x Solo! Reader

What if Leia Organa’s daughter survived the fall of the Jedi Temple? In Starlight Princess, you are the twin flame of the Force, daughter of Leia Organa and Han Solo, sister of Ben Solo, and Poe Dameron's unexpected partner in rebellion and heart. This reimagining of the sequel trilogy blends canon with new emotional arcs, political stakes, and romance, with a slow-burn Poe x Reader relationship and a deeper redemption arc for Ben Solo.

Series Info: Title: Starlight Princess POV: Second-person (You x Poe Dameron) Genre: Action, Romance, Drama, Force lore, Canon Divergence Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader Warnings: Canon-typical violence, emotional trauma, pregnancy, slow-burn, Force visions

Chapters by Act:

Act I: Burning Stars and Broken Light

(The Force Awakens)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp.5 Chp.6 Chp.7

Act II: Echoes of Rebellion

(The Last Jedi)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7

Act III: Seeds of a New Dawn

Chp. 1 Chp.2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7

Act IV: The Rise of the Starlight Princess

(The Rise of Skywalker)

Chp. 1 Chp. 2 Chp. 3 Chp. 4 Chp. 5 Chp. 6 Chp. 7 Chp. 8 Chp. 9 Chp. 10 Chp. 11 Chp. 12

Epilogue

💫 Thanks for reading Starlight Princess! ✨ Reblogs = reach. Comments = joy.

[frownyalfred]

I for one am loving the tiktok trend of dunking on Y/N (respectfully) from the POV of the billionaire CEO’s secretary who can’t even look at Y/N or the CEO will growl in the back of his throat like he’s some sort of vampire (you don’t know if he is or not, anything could happen with Y/N because…yeah, she’s Y/N).

Moreover, I love the “POV: you see Y/N walking into the CEO’s office but then you remember it’s Bruce Wayne. you’re safe” and I love even more how that has become “but then you realize he’s in there with Clark Kent, Daily Planet Reporter” 🤣

[ijustwannabecool]

hello! i am absolutely enthralled with moments you wished you caught on camera - i've truthfully read it multiple times now 🥹 i just adore that fic!! i was wondering if you'd ever write smth similar for charles??

also!! i've just recently discovered your account & your fics are just amazing! i've already read the entirety of your max & charles masterlists (my favs🤭). thank you for blessing us all with your wonderful writing 🫶🏻 have a lovely day!

First of all I love you 🫶🏻!!! Thank you for your sweet message🥹 You asked and you shall receive. I hope you love it :)

Moments You Wish You Caught on Camera - Charles Version

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary…Six Strangers. Six ordinary places. One unforgettable couple. This is a collection of short, cinematic glimpses into Charles Leclerc’s life with the woman he’s loved beyond the track. Seen through the eyes of strangers who just happened to be in the right place, at the right time.

♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚｡⋆♡

RESERVATION RUN-IN

— Nina, 24, new Ferrari junior marketing coordinator, still figuring out the cafeteria coffee machine, and definitely not ready for what she saw at dinner.

It was supposed to be a celebratory night.

Nina had survived her first week at Ferrari. Five whirlwind days of press releases, brand decks, and learning how to properly pronounce Scuderia. Her small onboarding cohort decided to treat themselves to dinner at a little tucked-away restaurant in Modena. A place so charming it made pasta feel sacred.

They had just started on their second round of drinks when Marco, the guy from media partnerships, nearly choked on his Aperol.

“Holy shit. Don’t look now. Or actually, look. Just not all at once.”

Too late.

Every head turned toward the restaurant entrance, where a man in soft navy trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt was stepping in with casual ease. Tousled brown curls, sun-kissed skin, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Charles Leclerc.

But it wasn’t the sighting itself that stunned them. It was the fact that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was tucked into his side, hand interlaced with his. Her long, sundress swayed slightly as they walked. She looked relaxed. Happy. Gorgeous.

Charles pulled out her chair for her, kissed her cheek before sitting down. Then, like it was habit, reached halfway across the table with an open palm. She placed hers on top without hesitation. Their wedding bands sparkled subtly in the candlelight.

“Is that his wife?” someone whispered.

“He’s married?!”

“I thought she was a model.”

“She looks…normal. Like us.”

But she didn’t look ordinary. Not to Charles. Not by the way he watched her talk, leaning in like every word was the only one worth hearing. Not by the way he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like it was muscle memory.

Nina tried to focus on her gnocchi. Failed.

At one point, Y/N laughed, head tilted back, nose scrunched, full-body kind of joy. Charles mirrored it instantly, a low laugh that sounded nothing like the polite one he used in press conferences. This one was real. Unfiltered. Like he hadn’t laughed that way in weeks.

Their food arrived. They shared everything. He offered her a bite, raised an eyebrow when she took too much, then immediately forked over another taste. She stole his drink. He didn’t mind.

When she got up to use the restroom, a waiter tried to clear her plate.

Charles stopped him with a soft, “Non ancora. She’s coming back.”

A few minutes later, Nina herself bumped into Y/N by the sink.

“Oh! Sorry,” Y/N said immediately. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. You okay?”

Nina nodded, starstruck. “Yeah. You just…you look beautiful.”

Y/N smiled warmly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. I’m still getting used to wearing heels again.”

She complimented Nina’s dress before ducking into a stall. Completely normal. Completely kind.

Back at the table, the mood between Charles and Y/N had shifted. Softer. Closer.

Her fingers trailed along the stem of her wine glass. His hand rested low on the back of her chair. She leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his eyes darken instantly.

A beat later, he flagged down the server, dropped a stack of bills with zero ceremony, and stood to help her into her coat.

Their exit was quiet, but Nina caught it all—the way Charles held her hand like it was something sacred. The way he looked at her like no one else in the room mattered. The way her laugh floated back toward them as they disappeared through the door.

The table sat in stunned silence for a moment.

Then Marco muttered, “Forget TikTok edits. That was the real thing.”

And Nina, with stars in her eyes and a stupid grin on her face, finally took a sip of her now-warm wine and whispered, “I think I just witnessed a rom-com in real life.”

THE RAINY TRAIN RIDE TO MONACO

— Henri, 72, retired art teacher, hobbyist painter, and lifelong romantic with a sketchbook full of strangers.

The train rocked gently as rain tapped the windows in a steady rhythm. Henri sat by the window, sketchpad in hand, capturing the silhouettes of the passengers around him.

He wasn’t looking for anything special. Just shapes. Light and shadow. Faces in thought.

But then he saw them.

A young couple seated across the aisle. The man in a navy sweater and loafers, his arm draped casually over the shoulders of the woman tucked into his side. She had her knees drawn up, a book open but forgotten in her lap. Her head rested against his chest, eyes closed, their fingers lazily intertwined.

Henri watched them for a long while.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t scroll on phones. They just... were.

So he sketched. Quietly. Carefully. The tilt of her head, the curve of his hand on her hip, the ease in their closeness. Love looked different in every face he drew, but this one, it felt familiar.

When the conductor called out Monaco as the next stop, the man gently nudged the woman awake with a kiss to her temple. She stirred, blinking herself back into the world, then smiled up at him with a look that could warm marble.

Henri stood and approached them slowly, sketchbook in hand.

“Excuse me,” he said in accented English.

They looked up, surprised.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he continued, turning the book around to reveal the drawing. “You two... you reminded me of me and my wife. Many, many years ago. On this same train.”

Y/N blinked at the portrait. “Oh. Oh wow… this is beautiful.”

Charles smiled, touched. “Merci. That’s incredibly kind.”

Henri smiled back. “Hold on to each other. Make time to listen more than you speak. Kiss even when you’re tired. And never, ever stop choosing each other, even on the hard days.”

He handed them the sketch, carefully torn from the spiral binding. “You look like you’re just beginning something worth everything.”

They thanked him quietly as he returned to his seat.

When the train stopped, Charles tucked the drawing carefully into his bag. As they stepped onto the platform, the rain still gentle, Y/N looped her arm through his.

“That was lovely,” she said.

Charles nodded, a little quiet. “It was. I think I want to grow old like that.”

She looked up at him. “With me?”

He gave her a look so full of affection it made her chest ache. “Only with you.”

They walked on, the smell of rain in the air, hearts warm beneath their coats, a paper memory folded between them.

MEDIA DAY MADNESS

— Gianna, 31, freelance makeup artist, first Ferrari gig, not mentally prepared to witness Charles Leclerc in husband mode.

The media room at Ferrari HQ was buzzing.

Cameras, lights, clipboards, producers pacing like the fate of the universe rested on the exact timing of a five-second promo shot. Gianna was on her third espresso and her second emergency beauty blender, and it was only 9:12 a.m.

She wasn’t new to chaos. She’d done shoots for footballers, actors, even a royal once. But this, Formula 1 pre-season media day, was its own monster.

Her assignment: keep Charles Leclerc looking like he hadn’t just stepped off a red-eye from Monaco.

He was scheduled for his final touch-up after a round of interviews, but when the call sheet hit a ten-minute delay, Gianna found herself camped near the back hallway, grateful for the silence.

That’s when she heard laughter.

Not the stiff PR kind. The kind that made you want to smile even if you didn’t know the joke.

She glanced up just in time to see him.

Charles. Not in front of a camera. Not in fireproofs. Just… Charles. Hoodie pulled over his curls. One hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup, the other linked tightly with a woman walking beside him.

She was half-laughing, half-whispering something into his shoulder, and he was clearly trying (and failing) not to laugh back. It was the kind of laugh that made him bite his lip. Crinkle his eyes. Lean in like her words were gravity.

Y/N.

Gianna had heard her name floating around all morning. She wasn’t crew, but everyone knew she was coming.

The wife.

She didn’t expect her to be so… casual. In jeans and white sneakers, with her hair loosely tied and the kind of face that made natural look like magic.

They disappeared around the corner for a moment. When they reemerged, they were each holding a croissant, whispering like kids playing hooky.

Charles was smiling at her like there weren’t fifty cameras waiting. Like he didn’t have the weight of an entire nation on his back. Like nothing else existed.

When they passed by, Gianna tried not to stare.

Charles nodded politely. Y/N caught her gaze and smiled warmly.

“Sorry,” Y/N said, motioning toward the pastries. “We were on a very serious mission.”

“Vital carbs,” Charles added solemnly.

Gianna laughed. “Well, you look a lot more relaxed than everyone else here.”

Charles shrugged. “That’s her fault.”

He looked at Y/N like he meant it. Like that ten-minute delay had been a gift.

Back in the makeup chair minutes later, Gianna set to work while Charles scrolled through his phone.

“Can you hold still for just a sec?” she asked.

He nodded, put the phone down.

Gianna caught a glimpse of the screen as he locked it.

It was a photo.

Of Y/N. Wearing his hoodie. Holding the coffee she clearly didn’t want to share. Smiling at the camera like he was the only person who’d ever made her laugh that hard.

She didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

“You really love her.”

Charles blinked, surprised, then nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Gianna stepped back, brush in hand, heart weirdly full.

She’d done hundreds of faces. Watched hundreds of men step into their public personas. But in that quiet ten-minute window, she’d seen something else entirely.

Not Charles Leclerc, the Ferrari driver.

Just Charles. Someone’s husband. Someone who looked at his wife like she was the only peace he’d ever known.

Gianna made a mental note to text her sister:

You wouldn’t believe who I saw today. But more than that… you wouldn’t believe how he looked at her.

RAIN DELAY AT SILVERSTONE

— Freya, 22, student photographer, soaked to the bone, and emotionally unprepared for the Leclercs in the rain.

The sky had opened up over Silverstone in biblical proportions.

Freya was soaked, her camera strap sticking to her neck, her waterproof jacket failing miserably, and her feet dangerously close to pruning in her boots. The race had been delayed indefinitely, the grandstands were buzzing with energy and impatience, and umbrellas popped up like mushrooms across the paddock.

She was huddled under the eave of the Ferrari hospitality tent, trying to dry her lens, when she spotted them.

Charles Leclerc and his wife, walking hand in hand through the paddock like the rain had been invited.

No umbrella. No sprinting for cover. Just strolling.

Y/N was wearing an oversized Ferrari rain jacket—clearly his, if the way it swallowed her was anything to go by—and she kept tugging the hood back so she could look up at the sky.

Charles said something, and she laughed. Head thrown back, cheeks flushed, soaking wet and absolutely glowing.

Freya raised her camera instinctively. Not to shoot, not professionally. Just to remember.

Charles glanced up, spotted her, and offered a small smile. Not the PR smile. Not the podium smile.

Just… soft.

Y/N nudged him and whispered something.

He grinned. Turned toward her. Tucked a dripping strand of hair behind her ear.

And kissed her.

Slow. Steady. Rain clinging to their lashes. The kind of kiss that looked like a thank you. Like a promise.

Freya’s heart thudded.

Later, she spotted them again near the garages. Y/N stood on the edge of the pit lane, arms wrapped around herself, watching the water pool across the tarmac.

Charles came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back into his chest.

“I always liked the rain,” he said quietly.

She leaned back. “Why?”

“Because it slows everything down. Even racing.”

She turned in his arms, pressed her forehead to his. “You hate slowing down.”

“Except for you,” he said.

Freya snapped the photo before she could second guess it.

Back home, she kept the shot for herself—framed it even. Because no one else needed to see it.

Not the fans. Not the sponsors. Not the media.

It wasn’t for them.

It was for the kind of love that didn’t need a checkered flag. Just a rain delay and the right person to walk slow with.

THE PLAYGROUND SURPRISE

— Clara, 27, nanny with a mild caffeine addiction and a wild 3-year-old charge, not expecting to make a new mom friend.

“Hi! Is this seat taken?”

Clara looked up from her iced coffee, blinking in the midday Monaco sun. A woman about her age was standing beside the park bench, a toddler on her hip and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Nope, you’re good!” Clara scooted over, wiping condensation from the bench.

“Thank you. I’m Y/N, and this little troublemaker is Colette.”

The toddler flashed a big grin, curls bouncing as she waved. “Hi!”

“I’m Clara. That chaos gremlin over there on the slide is Matteo. I nanny for his family.”

Y/N smiled wide, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. “God bless you. Seriously.”

“Right back at you,” Clara replied, amused.

As their kids played, they fell into easy conversation. Clara found herself surprised by how down-to-earth Y/N was. She swore like a sailor, offered Clara half her granola bar without asking, and immediately launched into a rant about the judgmental moms at the other park by the marina.

“Swear to God, if one more woman side-eyes Colette’s snacks or asks me if I’ve considered yoga for ‘postpartum toning,’ I’m going to fake my own death,” Y/N muttered.

Clara barked out a laugh. “Okay, where were you two months ago when I was trying to survive toddler teething alone?”

“Probably crying over a lost pacifier under the fridge,” Y/N replied without hesitation.

It was easy. Uncomplicated. Until Clara noticed the tote bag.

“Wait—is that the limited edition Gucci monogram tote?” she asked, eyes wide.

Y/N looked down, rolled her eyes fondly. “Unfortunately. My husband got it for me on ‘International Stay-at-Home Parent Day,’ which is fake, by the way. He just knows I yell if he buys me expensive stuff for no reason.”

Clara laughed but clocked the massive ring on Y/N’s finger next. It was gorgeous. Eye-watering.

Before she could say anything, Y/N’s phone buzzed. She picked it up without looking. “Hi, baby. Yeah. The park near the bakery. She’s on the slide in the pink overalls.”

Y/N hung up and looked at Clara. “My husband’s coming by. He has meetings later and wanted to see Colette before bedtime.”

“That’s really sweet,” Clara said, thinking of her own boss—who couldn’t be bothered to FaceTime.

Y/N just smiled, a bit dreamy. “Yeah. He’s really good to us.”

A few minutes later, Clara heard the soft rumble of a high-end engine pulling into the lot. She turned just in time to see a sleek Ferrari park like it belonged there.

Out stepped Charles Leclerc.

Clara froze.

Hair tousled, sunglasses on, casual hoodie and joggers like it wasn’t Monaco’s golden boy striding toward them. The man her employers followed like religion. The one with posters in every other shop window.

He didn’t glance at the bench. His eyes were on Colette.

“Hi, mon ange,” he called out. Colette squealed and sprinted toward him, launching into his arms. Charles lifted her with ease, doting and soft.

Y/N stood to greet him with a kiss. He tucked her into his side immediately, one hand slipping under the hem of her shirt to rub her back like it was second nature.

“Oh—Charles, this is Clara. We’ve been bonding over snack packs and judgmental moms.”

Clara tried not to choke. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Charles gave her a kind smile and nodded. “You’ve got the good bench spot. Shade always disappears by 4.”

They chatted a few minutes more. Colette returned to the jungle gym, this time with Charles trailing behind like her personal security.

Clara turned to Y/N, eyebrows high. “So… you’re married to Charles Leclerc?”

Y/N snorted. “I know. Doesn’t fit the vibe, right?”

“Honestly, you’re way cooler than I expected a Formula 1 wife to be.”

Y/N winked. “Don’t tell the other ones. They still think I know what a diffuser does.”

Clara would end up texting her sister that night: Met the love of Charles Leclerc’s life today. Spoiler alert: it’s not F1. It’s her.

THE STADIUM GLANCE

— Lina, 25, team hospitality staffer at Ferrari, trying to keep her head down… until she catches sight of the man who once changed her life.

Lina didn’t mind her job. She liked the behind-the-scenes chaos, the espresso machines, the rush of getting everything just right. What she didn’t like was how invisible it sometimes made her feel.

Except once.

One night after a long debrief, she’d been hiding in a tucked-away hallway outside the paddock garage, trying to stop herself from crying after her student loan payment failed to go through again.

“What’s wrong?” came a voice—calm, accented, quiet.

She looked up to find Charles Leclerc.

She was horrified. Embarrassed. Tried to brush it off.

But he stayed.

Asked again.

She broke. Told him everything in a flood of panicked breath: about school, money, her brother she helped support.

Charles didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled out his phone, typed for a moment, and told her to check her email.

There was a Ferrari scholarship grant in her name. Paid. Approved.

When she looked up, he was already walking away.

He never mentioned it again.

Lina never told a soul. She didn’t want to cheapen it by turning it into gossip.

----

Months later, Lina was at a Monaco football match with her cousin, box seats, courtesy of a friend of a friend. She wasn’t expecting much.

Until she saw the Ferrari suite next door.

Just two people inside.

Charles.

And a woman.

Y/N.

She’d never seen him like that.

Not on a podium. Not in the garage. Not in full sponsor-mode.

Just… soft.

Y/N was visibly pregnant, cradling her bump in one hand and a hot dog in the other. Charles had his arm slung over the back of her chair, pressed so close it looked like he’d never moved.

They laughed at something together. Y/N nudged him with her shoulder and leaned back against his chest. Charles responded by wrapping both arms around her middle and dropping his head onto her shoulder.

For a full five minutes, he didn’t move.

Just rubbed small circles over the fabric stretched across her belly. Pressed a kiss to her temple. Let her feed him bites of cotton candy like it was a Michelin-star meal.

Lina watched, heart caught in her throat.

At one point, Charles pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of Y/N mid-laugh. He looked at it, smiled to himself, and locked the screen like it was something private. Sacred.

Lina had to blink back tears.

Toward the end of the match, Y/N looked sleepy. Charles helped her put on his jacket, held her hand while she stood, and tucked a hand under her belly with almost reverence as they exited the suite.

They never saw her watching.

But Lina never forgot.

She still has that grant email in her inbox. Still opens it on hard days. Not for the money.

But for what it meant:

There are still people who quietly show up when it matters most. And sometimes, they sit beside you in the stands, more in love than ever.

[mill3rd]

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME MOON

synopsis. in the solitude of an undisturbed manor, a tangled bond between a girl marked by a dark legacy and a mysterious vampire unfolds. haunted by a painful secret she barely understands, she finds herself drawn to him—an enigmatic guardian who sees what others cannot. as tension rises within her family and the night reveals hidden truths, their connection becomes a dangerous battle between desire, fear, and survival, forcing them both to face what lurks beneath the surface and decide what they’re willing to lose for each other.

tags and warnings. body horror, mythical and fantasy creatures, blood, remmicks a silly guy who dabbles in danger, remmick and his saviour complex, stereotyping amongst creatures, emotional and familial conflict, not angsty for once (lie we only do angst round here partna), kinda fluffy, remmick is really off putting, this was inspired by another post and some requests

wc. 14k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

remmick had passed through a tight knit community, full of wealth and harmony. he’d heard tail of a family that had been rooted here well before the 16th century. generations lived and died in the manor beyond the orchard. he had to take a look for himself, figure out what he was dealing with, maybe try and gain control and root his own found family in these very parts.

he wandered through the orchard, his footsteps soft on the grass until he came across a tree with a swing hanging low. settling onto it, he swayed gently back and forth, eyes fixed on the house beyond. even under the first quarter moon, draped in a thick fog that swallowed the light, the manor stood imposing and alive. its sturdy bricks, darkened by time, held three solid floors—and maybe a fourth, if the attic windows weren’t just for show. a greenhouse clung to one side, its lantern flickering weakly before fading as its occupant departed. the house breathed with life, full of warmth and laughter—a family woven together in quiet happiness.

remmick admired the house for a moment longer before three children burst out from the shadows, their laughter bright and wild in the cool night air. they moved with a speed that was almost too swift, their footsteps light and sure—a clear sign the family within wasn’t entirely human. before he could slip away, they spotted him, their eyes gleaming with mischief as they clumsily but determinedly surrounded him, cutting off his escape.

the three children came bounding up to remmick, their footsteps light and quick like whispers on the grass. their eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and mischief as they closed the distance, circling him with unrestrained energy.

“hey, mister,” the smallest one piped up, tilting her head with a cheeky grin, “what’s your name?”

remmick’s lips curled into a crooked smile, “they call me remmick,” he said smoothly, his voice low and teasing, “and who might you speedy three be?”

the tallest girl crossed her arms, a playful challenge glinting in her eyes, “we be the fastest runners in the orchard. bet you can’t catch us.”

he chuckled, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise, “oh? a challenge already? careful, or i might just take you up on it.”

the third child, a boy with wild curls, leaned in, sniffing subtly, “you ain’t from ‘round here, is you? you smell… funny.”

remmick winked, the corner of his mouth twitching, “funny how? like cinnamon and danger?”

“not funny haha… funny weird,” the girl replied with a coy raise of her brow.

“weird?” remmick leaned closer, his gaze sharp but amused, “i prefer intriguing but tell me—what secrets do you little orchard ghosts hide?”

the smallest child exchanged a glance with her siblings before smirking, “maybe we’ll tell you… if you’re nice.”

“now that’s tempting,” remmick murmured, voice softening, “i’m a great listener. maybe i’ll stick around and find out.”

the tallest girl’s expression hardened slightly, “just don’t try anything weird, ‘kay? our family don’t take too kindly to strangers.”

remmick’s grin deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “noted. but maybe i’m exactly the kind of stranger you need.”

suddenly, the main door burst open and a taller figure rushed down the steps with urgent strides. you moved with the same quickness as the children, closing the distance in moments. three names were called—mara, sloane and orion—with urgency. your eyes scanned the trio before locking onto remmick. he could hear the steady rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart, and feel the way your muscles subtly shifted—tense but beginning to relax, ready for whatever came next.

“alright, you three,” you announced, keeping your voice light but firm, “auntie talia’s doin’ bed checks. if i get reprimanded for yous being out again, i swear i ain’t taking the fall this time.”

that did the trick. their faces dropped into guilt, and they scrambled to leave, muttering apologies under their breath. then, in a cheerful, too-casual chorus, they turned back and called out:

“bye, remmick!”

remmick felt the chill in your blood like a sudden drop in the air. his eyes studied your serious expression, the worry unmistakable. your form matched your face—arms crossed tightly over your chest, legs set shoulder-width apart. you weren’t completely defensive, but far from careless, radiating a tense calm that kept him on edge. actually, he thought it made you quite attractive. clearly, you were one with undying loyalty.

“you got business here?” you asked, voice low and steady, eyes narrowing as you sized him up. every instinct in you prickled, like a storm gathering just beyond the tree line. he shook his head slowly, offering a casual shrug that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“not at all,” he said smoothly, “just passin’ through. new to the area, saw a swing, ain’t realize it was in your front yard. my apologies, miss…?” he trailed off, waiting for your name—but the hesitation in his voice felt deliberate, like he was testing the waters, sizing you up.

you ignored the bait, cutting straight to the point, “you part of anything? any groups, clans…” your tone carried weight—a challenge wrapped in calm steel.

remmick caught it immediately. he shook his head, voice tightening with a flicker of offense, “miss.”

he took a step back, hands rising in a peaceful gesture, “hand on my heart, cross it and hope to die—i mean no physical, spiritual, or mental harm. especially the discriminatory kind. no way.”

you sized him up, eyes sharp and steady, “why’re you really here?” you asked, voice low.

remmick’s smile flickered, like a candle in the wind. fierce, beautiful, and not easily fooled. he swallowed the pull in his chest, “like i said, just passing through,” he reminded, “but i guess fate’s got a funny way of introducing itself.”

you crossed your arms, skeptical, “passing through or looking for something?”

he ilaughed softly, a hint of something darker beneath the sound, “maybe a little of both. people say this place has a history—roots that go deep. i’m curious.”

your gaze didn’t soften, “curiosity can get you hurt.”

remmick nodded slowly, the weight of his own thoughts settling. curiosity’s dangerous—especially when it’s about her, “maybe. but sometimes, the risk is worth it.”

you took a step closer, voice low and steady, “just remember, some risks don’t come with second chances.”

he met your gaze, the smile slipping into something more serious, “i’m learning.”

remmick’s gaze flickered down to the obsidian pendant resting against your chest. his breath hitched as a darker thought slipped in — the curve of your neck, the way your collarbone peeked beneath your shirt. what would it feel like to trace that line, to see if you’d shiver?

he cleared his throat, trying to steady himself, “learning’s a dangerous game too, but sometimes the stakes make it worth the trouble,” he said, voice low and a little rough, hiding the pull in his chest.

you narrowed your eyes, unamused, “i’m not in the habit of handing out chances.”

he smirked, stepping just a fraction closer, letting the tension thicken, “maybe i ain’t askin’ for chances. maybe i’m offerin’ you somethin’ else. somethin’ worth the risk.”

you were enough to give him a pulse back, the phantom feeling of it quickening raced inside him. she’s fire and ice, and god help me if i’m stupid enough to get burned.

you held your ground, eyes never leaving his, “you should go, remmick. while i’m still in a generous mood.”

he chuckled softly, the sound curling at the edges, “guess that’s my cue, then.”

he took a slow step back, hands raised in mock surrender, “you got bite… i like that.”

“don’t get used to it,” you reply coolly, but there was the faintest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

his gaze lingered for just a moment longer, like he wanted to say something else—or maybe commit your face to memory—before turning toward the orchard, the fog swallowing his figure with every step.

“see you around,” he called over his shoulder, voice low and amused.

you didn’t respond.

remmick slipped back into the orchard, weaving between the trees as the fog clung thick around him. his thoughts kept circling you—someone fierce, with a fire that didn’t back down or bend. the more he thought about it, the harder it became to focus. could he gain control over that wild spirit? maybe. or maybe he’d let you keep that edge—it only made the pull stronger, the tension more intoxicating. it was a dangerous kind of fascination, one that stirred something dark and undeniably electric inside him.

would you bare your teeth the closer he got to your core? would that fire in your chest flare into fury, daring him to come closer, to test the edges of your control—or would something in you shift? would you soften, just slightly, enough for him to find a way in, to press up against all that tension you held like armor?

he couldn’t stop thinking about it—about you. about the way your gaze didn’t flinch, the way your voice had weight and warning. it thrilled him. not in a sweet, romantic way, but in a way that lit something reckless beneath his skin. he wanted to see if that heat in you burned just as bright up close. would you stay fierce, push back, make him work for every breath between you—or would you yield, slowly, inch by guarded inch?

he didn’t want obedience. he wanted resistance, the kind that made every moment feel earned. he imagined it—your defiance, your fire, your control barely slipping. would you let him see that part of you? or would he have to tear it from your clenched hands, dig into the marrow of you just to taste the truth?

either way, he wasn’t looking for softness. not really. but the idea of watching you flicker between fight and surrender—that stayed with him, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

remmick’s thoughts drifted to the obsidian strung around your neck, the way it caught the moonlight like it was forged from the night itself. any creature worth their salt knew what that meant. grounding. restraint. a tether between the beast and the bones it lived inside.

he’d been around—across continents, through cities older than most bloodlines—and never once had he seen someone wear obsidian casually. that stone wasn’t for decoration. it was for control. survival.

you wore it like a warning, like a lock on a door too dangerous to open. and that, more than anything, intrigued him. because if you needed that kind of restraint... he couldn’t help but wonder what happened when you didn’t use it.

his boots sank softly into the orchard floor as he moved, every step muffled by moss and fallen leaves. the air was thicker tonight—heavier, laced with that same scent he couldn’t stop noticing, the one that clung to you like smoke to skin.

remmick paused at the edge of a clearing, gaze lifting to the house beyond the trees. windows glowed like distant lanterns, warm and pulsing. life radiated from inside—laughter, footsteps, the occasional bark of a dog or scrape of a chair.

but his eyes weren’t on the house. they were on the pendant in his mind, the image of it nestled against your collarbone. obsidian. it made him curious. no—hungry.

a family like yours didn’t welcome strangers easily. and yet, somehow, he’d slipped past the first gate. just barely.

he smiled to himself, slow and knowing.

“let’s see how deep the roots go,” he murmured.

then, with a hand brushed against the trunk of an old fig tree, he melted back into the orchard’s shadows. watching. waiting.

back at the house, the wind shifted.

you stood in the upstairs hallway, staring out a narrow window that overlooked the orchard. the fog hadn’t cleared. if anything, it pressed tighter against the land, swallowing the trees until they looked like silhouettes drawn in ash. something in your chest tugged—a slow, sour pull that wouldn’t ease.

your pendant was warm against your skin. not hot, but pulsing. responding.

you didn’t like that.

behind you, the floor creaked softly. it was one of your sisters, barefoot and half-asleep, rubbing her eyes. she mumbled something about needing water, but you hardly heard her. your focus stayed out there, on the dark line where the trees met the field.

he was still close. you couldn’t see him, but you felt it.

downstairs, the front door was locked, bolted in three places. but that meant very little. doors didn’t stop what came through the orchard, not for long

you turned from the window, catching your reflection in the glass—tense, tired, eyes sharper than you meant them to be. this wasn’t over. not even close.

and tomorrow night, the moon would be fuller.

remmick slipped through the orchard under the cloak of night, the fog wrapping around him like a shroud. the moon hung low, its silver light filtered through the dense mist, casting eerie shadows that danced between the gnarled branches. the house loomed ahead, silent and stoic, its dark windows like watchful eyes.

he paused near the swing, fingers brushing the worn rope. the silence pressed in on him, heavier than before. no laughter, no footsteps—just the soft rustle of leaves.

his mind churned, thoughts tangled between fascination and frustration. you with the obsidian pendant—the fierce fire behind your eyes—haunted him more than he cared to admit. you were a puzzle wrapped in danger, and every step closer only deepened his intrigue.

he wasn’t here for greetings or excuses. no, he was here to stake his claim, to test the boundaries of this quiet world. and maybe, just maybe, to see if you’d let him in.

remmick’s eyes caught a splash of color at the base of a nearby tree—speckles of water hemlocks, their petals a silky white against the dark earth. the flowers were put together and tame, standing out naturally, just like the woman who lived here. without thinking, he bent down and carefully gathered a small bouquet, fingers brushing the soft petals. a quiet gesture, but one full of meaning—bold, but simple, impossible to ignore.

remmick stepped closer to the house, the fog curling around his boots as he approached the front door. he raised his hand and knocked—firm, deliberate, no hesitation. no welcome mat lay beneath the door, a quiet sign of caution. smart, he thought, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. this wasn’t a place that invited strangers in easily. good. just the way he liked it.

remmick heard soft shuffling on the other side of the door—several voices, one mature and steady, the others light and childish. the heavy, weathered door creaked open slowly, the knock trembling with the motion. a warm glow spilled out, illuminating remmick’s face as your silhouette stepped into view. behind you, the three children from yesterday peeked around your legs, their curious eyes wide. all of you were draped in nightgowns, the softness of the fabric catching the light, a striking contrast to the tension lingering in the air.

“mister remmick!” the trio called out, their voices bright as they stepped forward eagerly. you quickly raised a hand, blocking their way, your eyes narrowing sharply at him. remmick didn’t flinch—if anything, a crooked, tender smile played across his lips, unshaken by your warning.

you glance down at the trio, your voice firm but gentle, “yous go on up to bed. i’ll be up there soon myself.” mara, sloane, and orion let out a collective sigh but begin their slow, reluctant climb upstairs. you shift, blocking the doorway with your body, leaning against the frame as your eyes lock onto remmick’s, “why’re you back? i wasn’t exactly friendly.”

remmick shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips, “i brought you flowers.”

he extends the bouquet toward you, but you instinctively recoil. his smile falters for a brief moment, “you don’t like them?” you swallow, keeping your voice steady, “funnily enough, i do—er, they are pretty… but i’m allergic.”

remmick’s smile softens, a hint of genuine regret in his voice, “would’ve picked you something else if i’d known.” you wave a dismissive hand, cool but casual, “don’t worry about it, probably wouldn’t have accepted them anyway.”

he scratches the back of his neck, his stance shifting uneasily as his eyes flicker behind him, scanning the shadows like he’s looking for something—or someone. tough crowd, he thinks quietly, the challenge only making him more intrigued.

you cross your arms, eyeing him, “what’s the point of coming back?”

remmick shrugs, voice smooth like a slow drawl, “i figured it’s polite to check in. plus, places like this... well, they tend to keep their groundin’ spirits close.”

you frown, unsure if he’s joking or not, “grounding spirits?”

he nods, almost like it’s obvious, “yeah. keeps things steady when the world gets shaky. you can feel it here—that pull, that hum beneath everythin’.”

you shift your weight, suddenly aware of how close he stands, “you know a lot about this place?”

he smiles, a little too knowing, “i pick up things. better safe than sorry.”

you huff, humourless, “ain’t nothing safe here at night, i can assure you.”

remmick smirks, eyes flickering over your pendant, “that’s a striking necklace—where’d you get it?”

you shift, wary under his gaze, “family. been with us for generations.”

he nods slowly, voice low, almost knowing, “some things are better left undisturbed, huh?”

you meet his eyes, a flicker of suspicion rising, “maybe. depends on who’s asking.”

remmick nods slowly, stepping back with a lazy sway as his gaze drifts over the manor, taking it all in, “be careful with that. they break real easy.”

you give a short nod, voice flat with boredom, “right.”

then his eyes snap back to yours, glowing faintly. a flash of gold turned red, “i’m serious.”

you catch your breath, dismissing the warning. stepping firmly inside, you cut through the air, “you need to leave. now.”

“thought we were havin’ a good one on one,” remmick says, his frown mocking, almost playful.

you shake your head, voice sharp, “i know what you are. you don’t belong here.”

remmick raises a brow and chuckles darkly, “well, guess i blew my cover—peachy keen, huh?” he runs a hand down his face, smirking, “but you ain’t exactly ordinary yourself. this beautiful family o’ yours? yous somethin’ else. more than human… or maybe less.”

"i think we’re perfectly normal," you hiss, voice urgent and clipped. your arm shoots out, finger aimed dead at his chest, "now, if you don’t turn around in the next five seconds, i’ll scream loud enough to wake the dead. my brothers’ll be out here with rifles loaded full of silver, and that’s if my daddy doesn’t get to you first."

remmick lifts his hands, instinctive, and eases back down the stone steps. your gaze pins him in place even as he retreats. he knows you mean it—every word, every edge in your voice. but beneath the threat, he hears something else. the rush of your blood, not with fear, but with thrill. it’s eager, alive, and it unsettles him more than any weapon could.

the door shuts, and the light cuts out almost immediately, leaving the manor in total darkness. remmick stares at the door for a few seconds longer before turning away and heading back down into the orchard.

you’re out later than yesterday. remmick knows because he can smell you before he sees you. you wander the evening by yourself carrying two full paper bags. it’s the time where the sunlight dims, making way for not quite the moon but the darker sky that comes before just as the clock tower strikes four and remmick is more confident going out while it’s still predominantly daytime.

you sense him before he can fall into step with you—an instinct, like the shift in air pressure before a storm. you stop short, the weight of your bags swinging slightly as you whip around to face him. your jaw is tight, nostrils flared, every inch of you drawn sharp.

“you need to leave me alone.”

the words hit with force, but remmick doesn’t flinch. he barely pauses. his gaze drops to your arms, full to the point of imbalance—paper bags creasing under your fingers, a book clutched against your hip, a jacket slipping from the crook of your elbow.

he lifts an eyebrow, then says, calm as ever, “looks like you need help.”

his tone is maddeningly casual, like this is a normal conversation, like he hasn’t followed you three blocks without invitation. his eyes linger too long—not in a way that’s leering, but in a way that suggests he still doesn’t understand he’s not supposed to look at you like that. like you’re something soft, not someone already burning.

"i’ve managed this far,” you say with a shrug, arrogance tucked into the lift of your chin. the bags shift as you adjust your grip, rustling like they’re protesting too, “i’ll be fine. it’s just the orchard.”

your voice lands cool, dismissive, but your cheek betrays you—caught gently between your teeth, tongue pressing against it in a motion too practiced to notice. a nervous habit you’ve adapted to.

remmick moves before you can stop him—smooth, unbothered, like he’s done it a hundred times in his head. his hand slips between your elbow and the worn paperback balanced against your hip, sliding it out with an easy finesse. the cover bends slightly under his fingers, but he doesn’t fumble.

before the protest even rises in your throat, his other hand catches the edge of your jacket just as it slips from your arm, pinching the collar like it’s something delicate. like it matters to him, somehow.

he holds both items up in one hand, smug like he just pulled off a magic trick.

“you’re juggling them like you’re in a one-woman circus,” he says, cocking his head, “i figured i’d step in before you started tossin’ flaming knives.”

the smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it—just the corner, just enough for him to notice. and of course he notices.

“there it is,” he grins, voice a little softer now, “knew you had a smile somewhere under all that pride.”

you look away, cheeks warming, but don’t ask for the book back.

you carry on in silence, the only sounds the crunch of gravel beneath your feet and the occasional rustle of shifting bags. the sun dips low behind the trees, casting long, reaching shadows that stretch across the path like fingers trying to catch hold of something.

you notice how remmick keeps drifting—edging toward the shadows as they lengthen, then stepping back into the light, only to veer sideways again as if testing the boundary. it’s subtle at first, like he’s just restless, but then it happens again. and again.

the way he keeps dodging the shifting light, weaving in and out like the shadows are playing tag with him, starts to amuse you. there’s something oddly graceful about it, like he can’t help but move with the world around him.

you don’t say anything—just watch from the corner of your eye as he side-steps a narrow band of light, lips pursed like he's pretending it doesn’t matter.

he catches you staring once, eyebrows lifting, but he doesn’t explain himself. just smirks and keeps walking.

night finally settles by the time you both reach the patch of water hemlocks. in the dim light, they look almost spectral—tall, pale stalks rising from the damp earth like they’ve been summoned rather than grown.

the ground has replaced them. where remmick had pulled them from the root, there's no sign of disturbance—no broken stems, no torn soil. they’ve returned, impossibly upright, as if his hands had never touched them.

the air is colder here. wetter. thick with the hum of unseen things.

you veer off instinctively, avoiding the patch the way remmick avoided the sun. not rushed, not obvious—just a quiet, deliberate drift to the side, like your body knows better than to draw a straight line through something that remembers.

he follows you, quiet and steady, until you get to the swing.

it creaks gently in the wind—an old thing, strung up between two thick trees, swaying like it remembers someone long gone. you hesitate, eyes fixed on it, before turning to him.

“this is where we part,” you acknowledge, voice even,“thank you for holding my things for me.”

remmick doesn’t hand them back. instead, he frowns like you’ve skipped a step, like the script you’re reading from isn’t the one he memorized.

“i’d feel better if i walked you to your door,” he insists. there’s a grin on his lips, but it doesn’t soften the flash in his eyes—sharp and unnatural, catching the moonlight like it’s being reflected from something deeper beneath his skin.

this is his hour. his quiet, silver-lit kingdom.

you shake your head, a firm motion, grounded and unshaken, “i’m fine.”

he sighs, not in defeat but in that low, deliberate way people do when they’re choosing patience.

“you sure your family’d be alright with you coming home alone? i imagine they’re worried—out this late ‘n all.”

you nod, slow and sardonic, “they’d be angry if i let a man walk me to my door. a white man too? gosh, they’d be devastated.”

remmick chuckles at that, the sound low and amused, “ain’t no need to bring skin into it,” he murmurs, stepping forward, “i’ll leave.”

you barely register the movement—he’s already there, draping your coat around your shoulders with a strange gentleness, fingers grazing your collarbone for the briefest moment. then, smoothly, he slides your book into the coat’s too-small pocket.

“‘s a tight squeeze,” he notes, tapping the fabric lightly, “but it works.”

you blink, thrown. something in you reacts before your thoughts can catch up, and you step back. not far, but enough. your eyes stay locked on his, even as he starts to turn, the shape of him shrinking with each step away.

then, just before the dark takes him, he pauses.

his voice carries, smooth and unsettlingly warm.

“why don’t you relax every once in a while?”

a beat.

“y’know… let loose?”

the question lingers—heavier than the coat, heavier than the night. it lands somewhere in your chest, quiet and unwelcome.

obsidian pulses against your sternum—deep and slow, like a second heartbeat pounding beneath your skin. the pressure builds until it stings, sharp enough to catch your breath, sharp enough to burn straight up into your skull.

your vision wavers, focus slips. the world around you blurs at the edges.

his question still echoes, though you know he didn’t expect an answer. it wasn’t a request—it was a warning dressed as something lighter. and it lingers, clinging to you like fog.

you don’t stay to give it weight.

you turn, quick and ungraceful, the coat tugging against your shoulders as you rush toward the distant glow of your home—toward warmth, toward safety, toward anything that isn’t him.

behind you, remmick doesn’t follow.

he stands by the swing instead, the old ropes creaking like his presence alone adds extra weight. he watches you go, his silhouette unmoving, half-shadow, half-man.

and remmick hates to see you go.

he leans against the tree, hands resting in his pockets, but there’s tension in him now—quiet, tightening. he feels it between you two: something rising, slow and certain, like a tether being pulled from both ends. it tugs at him, coils around his thoughts, curls into the corners of his mind where reason and instinct starts to loosen.

he doesn’t wonder if you feel it too.

he knows you do.

he saw it in the flicker of your eyes when his fingers brushed your skin, in the hesitation in your step, the breath you held too long. but you resist it—of course you do. he can almost hear the echoes of your childhood, the lullabies laced with warnings.

your mama, smoothing your hair back with a soft hand, whispering stories that taught you to run from anything with teeth that smiled too easily.

your daddy, watching the dark like it had a name, warning you about men who lingered too long after sunset. men who watched. men who waited.

men who weren’t quite... men.

remmick exhales, low and amused, though there’s something sharp behind it. he understands. he doesn’t fault you for it.

but god, he loves to watch you leave.

remmick blinks, disoriented, the haze of sleep clinging to him like smoke. he exhales hard, jaw tight, chest rising with the effort of a breath that won’t settle—like he's been holding it for hours. maybe longer.

sunlight streams in, golden and merciless, striking the window directly. the thick velvet curtains hold it at bay, just barely, the edges glowing with a warning heat. if even a sliver found him, it would devour him whole—set him alight from the inside out, blistering skin and boiling marrow.

he’s sweating, though his kind doesn’t run warm. his skin, usually cold to the touch, is damp, sticky, clinging to the sheets of the bed he’s claimed—borrowed, stolen, it hardly matters.

his muscles twitch under the heat, beneath the weight of something he can’t name. he pants, trying his hardest to catch a breath that isn’t there, that will never come.

fever burns where it shouldn't.

with a low growl, he drags his claws back—retracts them carefully, deliberately—then runs a hand through his tangled hair, pushing it off his forehead. the gesture is more human than he wants to admit.

but even in sleep, you haunt him. not like a ghost—no, ghosts whisper. you sear.

you blaze through his mind, bright and consuming. insatiable. you leave no part of him untouched. not even in dreams.

remmick falls back onto the bed, the mattress groaning beneath him as he stares up at the ceiling—unseeing, unraveled. the room is quiet but his mind isn’t.

the dream clings to him, vivid and too real, like the echo of heat after lightning strikes. he can still feel it: your hands at the nape of his neck, soft and deliberate, fingers curling just enough to ground him, hold him in place without force.

your thumbs ghosted over his cheekbones—light, reverent, like you were memorizing the shape of him. like you didn’t know whether to worship or destroy.

it’s the contrast that undoes him.

you, always so sharp with your words, so ready to draw a line in the sand and shove him back behind it. and yet—yet—the version of you in his dream was anything but cold.

the way you leaned in, voice low and intimate, a question wrapped in a challenge, a lure:

“how do you want me?”

those four words slither through him now, slow and burning. enticing. cruel.

because they weren't yours. not really. but he wants them to be. god, how he wants them to be.

you don’t know it, but he yearns for you in ways he doesn’t have language for. it’s not just your face he memorizes, or the way your voice drops when you’re trying not to feel something. it’s everything underneath. everything you work so hard to bury.

you think you’re a mystery, and maybe you are—but to remmick, you’re a promise. not of love, not of safety, but of truth.

he sees it in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. that flicker, that fracture.

the way your calm is a performance, a costume stitched too tight.

he wants to see you shed it.

he wants the parts of you you think would drive someone away. the parts you’ve been taught to fear in yourself.

the monster behind the manners. the howl behind the hush.

you wear your control like armor, but he doesn’t want your composure. he wants what writhes beneath it.

he wants the blood-warm rage, the hunger you won’t name.

the darkness you flinch from, even when it’s your own reflection: let him see it, tear it open, dare him to run; he won’t.

he’s not afraid of the creature you’re hiding—he’s afraid you’ll never show it to him.

later on, remmick lingers by the swing. he wouldn’t say he’s waiting for you, exactly—but he knows you plan to sneak out tonight. don’t ask how. he just knows.

the stars are bold overhead, casting a silver spotlight on your rebellion like they’re in on it too. the night feels too loud to be secret, too still to be innocent.

and then—there you are.

you slip from the side door of the conservatory, all quiet grace and calculated risk and veiled by the mist supplied by the night. you move like you’ve done this before: down the worn stone steps, past the edge of the flower beds, and into the darker stretch of the orchard behind the manor.

remmick tilts his head, eyes narrowing with interest.

you’re not dressed for mischief, not really, but there’s purpose in your stride.

he doesn’t call out. doesn’t announce himself.

instead, something in him shifts—and he follows.

the orchard is veiled in fog—soft, rolling, deliberate. it clings low to the ground, weaving between the tree trunks like it belongs there, like it has always belonged. moonlight filters through the canopy in fractured beams, catching on the mist and turning the world pale and blurred, as if he’s stepped into a dream someone else forgot to finish.

remmick moves quietly, his steps silent on the damp grass, eyes fixed on your distant figure. the fog swirls around your ankles as you walk, each motion leaving a trail in the silver haze. the trees bow slightly under the weight of dew, their silhouettes gnarled and noble in the half-light.

everything smells faintly of apples, moss, and old magic.

he breathes it in.

up above, the stars are clean and sharp, watching with impassive eyes. no clouds, no wind—just the hush of the orchard and the shape of you, drifting deeper into it like you’re following something only you can hear.

he feels it again, that pull—gentle but undeniable.

not just toward you, but toward this moment. this place. this stillness.

and though he’s meant to linger in shadows, he feels no threat here. only curiosity. only want.

he keeps his distance, for now.

watching, listening. waiting for whatever comes next.

you stop at a clearing, lowering and laying back in the grass. your curls fall unevenly in your face and flatten behind you. your eyes study the moon, its phase nearly at its fullest. your irises glint in time with the stars.

you stop in a clearing, the fog parting around you like a breath held too long. slowly, you lower yourself into the grass, careful at first, then surrendering completely as your limbs sink into the damp earth. your curls tumble across your face, stray strands catching in the corners of your mouth, while the rest fan out beneath you—dark against the silver-lit green.

above, the moon looms heavy and round, nearly full, its light cold but comforting. it casts a glow that doesn’t warm, only reveals—peeling back shadow from the edges of the trees, tracing soft white outlines on your skin. the stars are scattered behind it like shattered glass, sharp and far and endless.

you stare upward, unblinking.

the moon’s face looks worn tonight. older. like it understands.

it hangs there not as a witness, but as a companion—quiet, distant, and impossibly close. its slow cycle feels like your own lately: always almost whole, always missing something. the stars, meanwhile, blink in and out of view, like they’re trying to keep time with the ache that’s been dragging at your chest these past few weeks.

there’s a rhythm to the sky tonight, and somehow, your sadness fits into it—neatly, effortlessly. the melancholy in you doesn’t feel like a burden out here. it feels like it belongs. like the moon carries a little of it. like the stars shoulder the rest.

for once, you don’t try to push it away.

you just feel.

behind you, the grass rustles—subtle, but enough. your body reacts before your thoughts do. you sit up sharply, curls clinging to your cheek, and turn your head toward the sound.

he’s there. remmick.

your shadow—chosen or cursed, you're not sure anymore. he stands at the edge of the clearing, half cloaked in mist, half bathed in moonlight. unmoving.

his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering, unreadable. there’s no pretense in his stance, no apology in being caught. if anything, he looks like he wanted to be seen.

waited for it.

your expression falters.

you don’t speak, but your body betrays you. your pulse picks up, quick and stupid, rushing hot beneath your skin. you feel it in your throat, your fingertips, your temples.

and still, he just watches.

he doesn’t smile. doesn’t flinch. just sees you like he always does. too well, too much.

you don’t have it in you to be mean right now and remmick senses it. senses the tension in your being, the pain in your soul. he wants to save you, take away your pain. his fangs ache inside his gums, threatening to give way. but he has control. it’s almost hypocritical how he encourages you to let loose, lose control when he keeps himself so composed around you.

he keeps his distance and for some reason it hurts you more. usually, you would’ve been glad that he hadn’t forced some unexpected affection on you but tonight is different.

“you shouldn’t be out at this hour,” remmick advises, voice low, almost teasing, “you’ve got no clue what roams around here.”

you roll your eyes and turn back around, pulling your knees to your chest, “i know you roam around here. can’t seem to leave me alone.”

he shrugs, easy and unbothered, “that much is true. still doesn’t explain why you’re out here.”

you glance up at the sky, voice softer now, “i’m stargazing. i come here sometimes when there’s… nowhere else to be.”

“you wanna tell me about it?” he asks, gently.

“about what?”

“c’mon.” his tone dips lower, not quite pitying, but knowing, “you and me both know you ain’t out here just to count stars, sweetheart.”

you don’t answer right away. the silence settles between you like a blanket—heavy, but not unkind.

“my ma wasn’t happy last night,” you begin quietly, eyes still on the stars, “kept me locked in the house all day, goin’ on and on about how i came home smellin’ like rot.”

you pause, the memory sharp in your chest.

“said it was the stench of death. somethin’ sick clingin’ to me. accused me of doin’ things i’m not supposed to. said vampires don’t mix with our kind—and there’s a reason for that.”

your voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close, “like i’ve done something wrong just by bein’ near you.”

the fog curls a little tighter around your ankles. the night doesn’t feel as quiet anymore.

“i guess she was right to assume,” you mutter, voice low and bitter, “but i don’t know why she assumed.”

you glance back at remmick, your gaze sharp despite the quiet in your tone.

“i ain’t messin’ with you. in fact, i don’t even know why you keep followin’ me around.”

you look away again, jaw tightening.

“would’ve told her the same damn thing, but…”

a humorless laugh slips out.

“i think she’d tear me apart if she knew i’ve been around a vampire this long. maybe even with her bare hands.”

the silence that follows feels like it holds its breath.

remmick shifts his weight, slow and deliberate, but he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t dare break the fragile space between you.

“i follow you ‘round ‘cause you don’t run,” he explains simply, almost like it’s obvious, “you glare, you grumble, but you don’t run. not really,” his voice softens, “and maybe i like that.”

you scoff, but it’s half-hearted, “so you’re just hangin’ around ‘cause i’m not scared of you?”

he tilts his head, eyes catching the moonlight. “you should be,” he suggests, not unkindly, “but no. that ain’t it.”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical, “then what is it?”

he considers you for a moment, the way you hug your knees and keep your mouth sharp so nothing else slips out.

“you’re a storm bottled up,” he says finally, “and i’m just… curious what you sound like when you crack open.”

you shake your head, looking away, but your voice is softer when you answer.

“you’re playin’ a dangerous game.”

“maybe,” he murmurs, “but so are you.”

your fingers curl into the damp grass as you stare ahead, unsure whether you’re more rattled by his words or the way they settle so easily in your chest—like they’ve always belonged there. like he’s always seen more than he should.

“you don’t know nothin’ about me,” you mutter, though there’s no bite to it. not anymore. it sounds like a warning, but mostly to yourself.

remmick hums low in his throat, a quiet sound that vibrates in the night air.

“maybe not everything,” he admits, “but i know enough to tell yous carryin’ more than you let on.”

you glance at him, only briefly, and the way he’s looking at you makes your throat feel tight. steady, unflinching—like he’s not afraid of the things hiding behind your silence. like he wants to find them.

“it ain’t safe,” you say quietly, “bein’ around me.”

“funny,” he says, with a crooked smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “i told you the same thing ‘bout me many times.”

that gets a flicker of a smile out of you, unwilling and soft. it fades just as quick, but it was there. remmick catches it—and says nothing.

instead, he steps closer, slow and careful, until he’s just at the edge of your space.

“you want me to go?” he asks, voice low, real.

the question hangs in the air, honest and unpressing.

you don’t answer right away. because part of you does. and part of you really, really doesn’t.

you rise suddenly, a sharpness in your movement that startles even the stillness around you. there’s purpose in your stride as you cut across the clearing, fast and tense, your eyes locked on the ground like if you look up, something might break.

“don’t come back,” you say, firm but not loud. the words fall heavy between you, “don’t look for me. i mean it.”

you don’t glance at remmick—not once. but he watches you. watches the way your jaw tightens, the way your hands ball into fists like you’re holding something in that’s on the verge of spilling.

then your pendant flares—an obsidian throb against your chest—and pain flashes across your face. you flinch, hand flying up to clutch at it, a soft hiss of breath escaping through your teeth.

remmick steps forward instinctively, concern cracking through his stillness, but you’re already backing away. already turning.

“i mean it,” you echo, voice thinner now. and then you’re gone—disappearing into the orchard, swallowed by the mist and shadow, leaving behind nothing but the scent of wildgrass and a tension that won’t let the night settle.

remmick stays rooted where you left him, jaw clenched, hands at his sides.

and for the first time in a while—he doesn’t follow.

the orchard closes around you like a secret, branches knitting tighter overhead as you push deeper into its belly. the fog thickens, wraps around your ankles, your wrists, your throat—like it wants to keep you here, like it knows something broke back there.

you don’t let yourself cry. not yet. not for him.

the pendant still burns against your chest, a steady throb that echoes the tremble in your pulse. it’s a warning, it always is. and tonight, you listened—too late, maybe, but still.

you told him to stay away, you meant it… didn’t you?

behind you, the clearing stays silent. remmick doesn’t follow. you don’t hear his footsteps, don’t feel the way the air shifts when he’s near. and somehow, that hurts worse than if he had. worse than if he’d argued.

because it means he heard you.

and worse—it means he believed you.

somewhere beyond the trees, your home glows dim through the fog, a quiet reminder of everything you're meant to be. everything you’re not allowed to want.

and still, part of you lingers in that clearing—beside him. part of you waits.

you slip through the orchard like muscle memory, like a shadow retracing its steps. the air is colder here, closer to the edge of the property. the fog grows denser, clinging to your skin like sweat, blurring the trees into vague silhouettes. your breath comes shallow, not from fear—but from restraint.

because all you want to do is turn around.

you told him not to follow. you told him to leave you be. and he did. you should be relieved. you should feel powerful. in control… but you don’t.

you feel hollow—like you left something behind in that clearing that isn’t coming back. like maybe it never truly belonged to you in the first place.

your fingers graze your pendant, now cool against your skin. the pain has passed, but it’s left a phantom ache in its wake. like it took something from you in return.

it happens all at once—quick, sharp, merciless.

your foot catches on a gnarled root and you stumble, catching yourself on the trunk of a twisted apple tree. it groans beneath your touch, heavy with fruit that no longer ripens.

that’s when it surges.

a violent, unnatural heat erupts from the obsidian, sinking straight through your skin like a blade dipped in fire. it spreads fast—an inferno trapped beneath your ribs, licking up your throat, curling around your spine.

you gasp—or try to.

but the sound snags halfway up your windpipe, like something unseen reached down and ripped your voice out before it could escape.

your mouth opens, a desperate cry locked in the cage of your lungs. it claws at your throat, dry and rasping, but nothing comes out—just a hoarse, broken rasp that dies in the fog.

your knees hit the earth with a dull thud.

your fingers claw at the pendant, trying to tear it away, to stop whatever this is—but it won’t budge. it pulses again, harder this time, and you convulse around it, shuddering as the pain tunnels through you like it’s searching for something.

you don’t understand.

you’ve worn this pendant since you were a child. it’s always been heavy, always been strange—but it’s never hurt.

now it feels alive.

angry and hungry.

your vision blurs at the edges, fog mixing with tears, and the world tilts sideways—but you don’t fall. you just kneel, trembling, silent, and swallowed by something you can’t name.

and for a flicker of a moment, you wonder if he’s still back there—if remmick is still watching, still waiting, just beyond the veil of fog.

but he’s not. you asked for this.

so you straighten, grit your teeth, and walk the rest of the way home in tied agony.

alone.

like you were taught to, like you were supposed to.

remmick lingers just beyond the edge of the orchard, where the trees begin to thin and the manor's silhouette bleeds into the mist. the light from your room glows faintly through the conservatory windows, filtered through fog and glass. soft, amber, human.

he shouldn't be here. not this close. not after what just happened.

but he can't tear himself away.

he's leaning against the gnarled trunk of a tree, arms crossed tightly over his chest, trying to anchor himself—trying to make sense of what he felt back there in the clearing where you’d left him.

it wasn't just pain, it was memory. your memory.

and something else, buried deeper. a pulse of ancient power that recoiled from him like it knew what he was. like it despised him for it.

his throat burns with a cry that would never come.

he shuts his eyes. for a moment, he can see you crumpled in the dirt, lips parted around a scream that never made it out. he could’ve helped you, but he didn’t. remmick’s stomach churns with bile as he imagines you over and over again. he regrets it none, but your pain was shared. the pain he watched you endure in an agony of solitude. but the worst part wasn't your silence—it was your eyes.

how lost they looked. how far from yourself you'd drifted.

and now you were back inside, hidden behind brick and stained glass, surrounded by people who would never understand what really lives beneath your skin. who would hate you more if they did.

remmick exhales, slow and ragged, you ain’t the only one carryin’ somethin’ monstrous.

he runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall to his side.

you told me not to follow, he thinks, dragging his fingertips along the bark of a young apple tree. it's soft and damp beneath the pads of his fingers—vulnerable. like skin that’s never been touched before. like you, pretending you don’t want to be seen.

but after tonight?

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like that’ll make his his pulse pound against the walls of his ribs once more. it doesn’t.

his boots crunch through the grass and fallen petals, the orchard dense and drowsy under the weight of the full moon. he walks the path like it belongs to him, like it was carved by his own hands—and in a way, it was.

how many nights has he wandered this route to the swing? nine, maybe ten nights of longing that he hasn’t experienced in so long.

how many times has he stood beneath your window, letting you reject him in silence, letting your silhouette keep him warm?

he presses his palm flat to the next tree, breathes in the cool rot of early fruit.

“you got no clue what you’re askin’ me to do. not really,” he grins at the glow emanating from your window.

leave you alone? pretend i ain’t see the way your body curved in that light, didn’t feel the heat radiating through that cracked-open window like a heartbeat?

nah, you wan’ed me to see. you left the curtain open, the lamp on. you gave me enough to starve on, and now i’m jus’ ‘posed to pretend i’m full?

remmick laughs under his breath, but it’s bitter, sharp.

you don’t get to ask for distance and drip affection in the same breath. not with him, not when he knows the way your mouth trembles when you lie.

he reaches the swing and lets it sway as he brushes past it, hand grazing the rope.

a small part of him wants to wait here again. the faithful ghost. the shadow you can always count on to never knock, never demand—just exist at the edges of your world.

but tonight? tonight the ache is louder than the patience.

and he’s done pretending crumbs are enough.

he tilts his head, eyes flicking toward the glint of your window through the trees. your silhouette moves, just for a moment. a turn of the shoulder. the stretch of your arm. just enough.

it’s always just enough.

“you told me not to follow,” he murmurs to the dark, voice low, private, like a prayer or a promise, “but sweetheart…”

his jaw tightens.

“…after tonight, i don’t think i can stay away.”

not when you keep acting like you don’t want him there, not when everything about you says otherwise. not when he’s already so far gone, he’d burn down the whole orchard just to see your face up close.

so every night for five nights, remmick stands in the treeline—still, watchful, half-swallowed by the orchard's hush. he tells himself it's patience. restraint. a courtesy. but it isn't. not really. it's calculation.

because he wants you.

not just the glimpse you allow him—your silhouette framed in golden lamplight, the flash of your thigh as you move past the curtains, the long slope of your back when you lean over something unseen. no. he wants more. all of you.

and he plans to have it.

you think you’ve shut him out. think those words—don’t come back, don’t find me—were enough to keep him at bay. and maybe they would’ve been, if you hadn’t left the curtain drawn. if you hadn’t left the light on. if your shadow hadn’t started moving slower, more deliberate, like maybe you knew exactly where he was standing in the dark.

it’s a game now.

one you’re playing too, even if you won’t admit it.

every movement you make behind that glass, he studies like scripture. he knows the way your arms cross when you’re lost in thought. the dip of your hip when you lean on one leg. the subtle shiver in your spine when you peel off a sweat-dampened blouse.

and he imagines.

god, how he imagines.

he knows you want to be good. knows you’re holding yourself back out of loyalty or fear or guilt. that your mother’s voice is louder in your head than your own. but he also knows the way your breath hitched the last time he touched your hand. the way your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

you don’t hate him, you’re terrified of what you feel for him… and that’s all the opening he needs.

he won’t storm your door. he won’t demand. remmick’s smarter than that. he knows how to wait, how to wear down your resolve with silence and presence, the promise of heat just beyond reach. every night he lets you feel him at the edge of your world—watching, wanting, waiting.

not forever.

just long enough for your walls to crack.

because eventually, you’ll open that window. maybe just to speak, maybe just to ask why he keeps coming back. but that’ll be the start. the door he needs. and once he’s in—truly in—he won’t leave with scraps.

he’ll have the real you—the one behind the curtain, the one with the sharp tongue and aching heart, the one who trembles when touched, who burns beneath the surface.

remmick doesn’t just want your body. no, he wants the monster you keep caged, the fire you deny yourself, the truth you’re afraid to say out loud…

he’s not watching to admire; he’s watching to learn, to predict the moment you’ll break.

and when you do—when your breath stutters and your hand reaches for that latch—he’ll be ready.

because he’s not here to leave empty-handed. he’s here to take what’s already his.

the morning of the sixth day comes slow, cruel.

sunlight seeps into your room through the curtains, warm and gold, but it does nothing to soothe the fire torching in your chest.

the obsidian pulses just beneath your skin—deep and anchored to your sternum like it’s burrowed there, latched on. what began as a dull, bruising throb the night before has bloomed into a full-bodied torment.

your breath hitches with every heartbeat. your hands shake uncontrollably. you lie curled in your bed, limbs twisted in the sheets, damp with sweat—drenched, really. your nightclothes cling to your body, soaked through, your skin fever-hot but your blood feels cold.

your teeth clench as another wave hits, searing down your spine and wrapping tight around your ribs. it’s like being wrung out from the inside—like something ancient is pulling, dragging, testing. your fingers dig into the mattress, fists twisted in fabric, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood just to stop from screaming.

but the worst part is the stillness of the house. how no one comes.

until she does.

the door creaks open, slow and deliberate, and your mother’s silhouette fills the doorway.

she doesn’t rush to you. she doesn’t speak, not at first. you gasp, chest heaving. your vision blurs.

“mama,” you whisper, voice like gravel. your throat is raw. it hurts just to speak.

she walks in like nothing’s wrong. composed, hair pinned, face unreadable as always. she stands at the foot of your bed and folds her hands.

“you crave the uncraveable,” she notes. flat. final. with defeat.

you blink through the blur, eyes wide. your lips tremble.

“make it stop,” you rasp, “please, mama, i—i can’t—”

“yes, you can.”

your mother watches you with that same stillness she always wears when things go wrong. like she's seen this before—like she's endured it.

she doesn’t flinch when you writhe beneath the sheets, doesn’t blink at the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes or the way your hands tremble like snapped branches.

her voice is calm when it finally comes.

low. clipped. deliberate.

“this pain,” she says, “it’s not punishment. it’s temptation.”

you choke on a breath, eyes wide and wet as you clutch at your ribs, as though you could claw the stone out yourself.

“you’re yearning for something,” she goes on, “something you cannot have… and the pendant knows it. it was made to protect you. from yourself but also to keep your bloodline pure. clean.”

you groan as another bolt of fire drives down your spine, curling your toes. your muscles seize.

“this is a test of will,” she tells you, voice like steel beneath velvet, “it burns because you’re still tempted. it stops when you stop wanting.”

you whimper. you want to scream, you want to tear the obsidian from your chest and throw it out into the orchard.

but more than anything—more than escape—you know who you’re thinking of and that’s the real sickness.

your mother leans forward slightly.

“you let go of what draws you in, and the stone will quiet.”

you can’t even lift your head, can barely breathe but her words stick.

they lodge themselves into your ribs, right beside the burning stone—it stops when you stop wanting.

you don’t know whether it’s anger or sadness or indifference in her voice. maybe it’s all of them. maybe it’s none.

“this is a test,” she continues, “a test of willpower. of loyalty. you endure this, and it’ll never touch you again.”

another pulse crashes through you, sharper than before. it’s like glass grinding through bone, like your own heartbeat is trying to rip you apart.

you curl inward, fetal, fists pressed to your mouth to muffle the moan that slips out—raw, guttural, ugly.

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” she repeats, firmer this time.

you sob into your palms, forehead pressed to the pillow. your body jolts again, like a live wire snapping inside your muscles.

she steps forward, kneels beside the bed, but she doesn’t touch you. her hands stay folded in her lap.

“breathe through it,” your mother advises, “do not fight it. and do not let it win.”

but it is winning. it’s claiming every inch of you, every cell.

and still, you clench your teeth. sweat drips down your temple. your nails cut half-moons into your palms.

because she’s still there. watching. expecting.

and if this is the fire that forges you—you’re going to survive it. or die trying.

that night, the moon hangs like an omen—round and watching, flooding the orchard with that sickly, silver glow. the conservatory is too still, your skin hot and prickling beneath your nightclothes, the air thick like something is about to snap.

you don’t plan to go anywhere. your mother’s words still echo like a curse in your chest: endure it. it’ll pass.

but it doesn’t. the ache remains. duller now, but coiled tight behind your ribs. like it’s waiting for something.

then comes the knock. sharp, deliberate, right against the conservatory door.

you freeze.

not him. not tonight.

he knocks again.

you’re storming down the stairs before you realize, hair loose, jaw clenched, barefoot against the cold marble. you fling the door open with a snarl already caught in your throat.

“what part of leave me alone didn’t you understand?”

remmick stands in the fog, arms crossed, that usual lazy look gone. there’s tension in his jaw too—something dangerous.

“you look like hell,” he notes, instead of hello.

you glare, “you don’t get to comment on that.”

“you been locked in this damn house for nearly a week. i thought—”

“you thought wrong. you always think you know what i need.”

he steps forward, “i know that thing around your neck is killing you slowly and ain’t nobody inside that house doin’ anythin’ but watchin’.”

your hand flies to the pendant like he’s physically touched it.

“you don’t know what you’re talking about,” you snap.

“i do,” he bites, his voice rising, “i can smell the pain on you. you think your mother has all the answers? she’s feeding you fear, not healing. you’re hurtin’—”

“so what?” you shout angrily, baring your teeth like a hunted beast, “that don’t mean i want you to fix it. why do you even care? why do you keep showin’ up like i asked for this?”

he goes still. then, low and sharp: “‘cause i can’t stay away.”

you flinch like he’s struck you. your chest seizes and the pendant pulses.

“i never wanted you here!” you scream, stepping out onto the stone patio, “you ruin everything. i was fine before you—”

he grabs your wrist. not hard, just enough to stop you, “don’t you walk away from me like this, screamin’ at me like i ain’t mean shit to you,” he demands, his voice rough now, “you ain’t thinking straight—”

you yank your arm back, your face flushed with fury. your mind is overflowing with the pain of your pendant and your father’s warnings and the control your mother has over you with her judgement and the feelings you don’t want to have for remmick. it makes you sick and dizzy and you almost feel like you’re playing tug of war but in this case, you are the rope.

you slip on the slick stone step and you stumble forwards.

remmick reaches for you, but you’re already going down—knee smacks the step, elbow grates the edge. your chest hits the bottom step with a jolt, and the pendant—crack.

the sound is sickening.

the obsidian splits beneath you.

you don’t even have time to react before a heat erupts from the stone like it’s been holding in the sun. your back arches upwards, a scream caught in your throat—but it doesn’t come out. nothing does. your voice is swallowed, choked, crushed by invisible hands.

remmick’s voice reaches through the haze, distant and warped, yelling your name like it’s the only thing that matters.

you don’t respond… you can’t.

the moon slips through the clouds, casting silver light across the patio. it lands on your hunched form like a spotlight, exposing every tremble, every shallow breath. remmick stands still, watching you—concern etched deep into his face. there’s fear in his eyes now, not of you, but for you. because whatever this is, it isn’t normal. it isn’t right. and it’s getting worse.

remmick hears you grunt, a guttural sound torn from deep inside—like you’re fighting to hold back vomit. your body convulses violently, heaving and gasping for air that won’t come. then, a scream rips free, a sound so raw, so pure in its torment, it pierces the night: pure excruciation.

your back arches sharply, ripping through your nightgown with a sound like tearing flesh. bones crack and snap, shifting and stretching in impossible ways—longer, thinner, grimly warped. muscles strain, stretched tight across exposed bone, sinew twisting and coiling like dark cords. tufts of coarse hair sprout wildly, but barely mask the unnatural, writhing changes beneath your skin.

remmick’s stomach churns violently, a sickness foreign and fierce overtaking him. he’s seen centuries of horror, but never this—a primal, unsettling transformation that twists his gut with nausea.

and then it’s done.

you rise—towering now, nearly two feet taller. your jaw unhinges grotesquely, stretching wide to reveal jagged rows of yellowed, broken teeth, uneven and sharp, glistening with thick, viscous drool that drips in slow, heavy globs. the sight is monstrous, raw, terrifying—and utterly alive.

and in some sick, twisted way, he believes you are more beautiful than ever—raw and untamed, stripped of every mask and pretense. here you stand, pure and primal, a creature shaped by the night itself. a powerful beast, fierce and wild, born to rule the darkness.

it’s tense as you lean down, your snarl curling into something more guttural, masking the growl clawing up your throat. drool spills freely now, thick and glistening—years of suppressing your true self have left you starved, feral, aching to give in to instinct.

remmick doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t run.

he just gazes up at you like a man witnessing a god—wide-eyed, awestruck, the stars reflected in his pupils. his lips part, a faux breath caught somewhere deep, but nothing comes out. no warmth, no fog in the air. just stillness. a reminder that he is inhuman.

now you are both raw—bare as bones, pure as sin.

your snout twitches. you inhale sharply, deeply, catching a scent far richer, far more alluring than the vampire before you. your gaze cuts toward the orchard, nostrils flaring. something delicate waits out there—something trembling, alive.

you pull back, your heavy limbs tense with anticipation.

remmick watches, dazed, as you leap forward—claws slicing into the damp grass, propelling your massive form into the dark. you vanish between the trees, the sound of your stride echoing long after the orchard swallows you whole.

and it seems the commotion has stirred the manor—its old bones creaking with sudden life. the first to burst through the doors are your aunt talia and uncle, faces drawn tight in alarm. remmick recognizes the names; you’d mentioned them once, maybe twice, in passing.

talia storms forward, eyes blazing, her nostrils flared and fists clenched at her sides like she’s ready to strike the night itself. her voice cuts through the dark, sharp and commanding—“lucius, get roxanne. now.”

lucius hesitates only for a breath before disappearing back into the house.

and then—more footsteps. faster, heavier. your mother and father rush into the scene, breathless, disheveled. your mother’s eyes go straight to the torn fabric on the patio and the broken pieces of obsidian that glint faintly in the moonlight. your father scans the orchard, hand instinctively going to the blade tucked at his hip.

remmick doesn’t move. he stays rooted in the shadows behind the wall, watching them all with a gaze like ice—unblinking, unreadable. waiting.

roxanne steps in fast, her expression unreadable but her pace all urgency. talia’s already waiting, pacing in place like a caged animal.

“that damn vampire,” talia spits the moment their eyes meet, voice low and sharp, “i knew he was trouble the second she started acting strange.”

roxanne doesn’t immediately reply—just scans the mess: the snapped twigs, the broken pendant, the churned-up ground.

“you think he did this?” she asks quietly, but there’s no softness in her tone.

talia scoffs, “please. you know what he is. even if he didn’t cause it, he’s the reason she’s rebelling.”

roxanne exhales through her nose, slow, “no. not rebelling. changing.”

talia whirls on her, “don’t get poetic with me, rox. she was fine before he came around.”

roxanne’s eyes flick to the darkened orchard. she doesn’t respond. remmick hears her coo at the younger children before telling the older children to get the others to bed.

remmick swallows hard, “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at the roots. he doesn’t want to intervene—not yet—but the urge claws at him. it’s not about heroism or guilt. it’s control. it’s instinct. it’s her.

and whether she wants him there or not, he knows it’s better if he keeps watch. keeps close. just in case.

the town had no warning. no omen. just blood.

you moved through the fields first—silent and low. the livestock never stood a chance. sheep were torn open like paper dolls, cattle gutted clean down the middle. the ground drank it all, soaking up the red until the grass bowed under the weight of it.

your eyes glowed—something between amber and hellfire—as you prowled through smoke rising from barns now caved in.

remmick watched from the edge of the treeline, still as the trees around him, his chest rising and falling with something close to awe, close to grief.

he should’ve stopped you. gods, he should’ve.

but he couldn’t bring himself to.

not when you looked so alive.

you hunted with purpose, with rage buried so deep it poured out of you in snarls and ragged breaths. you didn’t pause. didn’t question. a horse kicked and ran; you dragged it back down. chickens fluttered, feathers floating like snow in your wake.

a man stepped outside with a lantern. your head snapped in his direction. he didn’t even scream.

remmick looked away only once—when the crunch of bone echoed too loud, too final—and by the time he looked back, you were already gone again.

just red footprints and silence.

he hears the crash before he sees it—the sickening sound of wood splintering and glass shattering. screams cut through the night air, frantic and raw, echoing from inside the house. somewhere a dog barks wildly, sharp and desperate, but then it whimpers, trailing off into silence.

then you burst through the broken doorway, wild and untamed, dripping with thick, dark blood. it clings to your skin and fur, slick and heavy, pooling at your feet with every step you take. your breath is ragged, muscles tense and ready to spring again.

remmick’s eyes narrow as he watches you, every inch of you fierce and raw under the moonlight. without a word, he whistles—a low, teasing sound that cuts through the chaos.

you turn, a flash of hunger and madness in your eyes, and with a snarl. remmick watches you for a moment, chest tightening with a strange mix of dread and exhilaration. the cold night air bites at his skin, carrying the sharp scent of crushed grass and blood that clings to you. faint sounds of splintered wood and distant, fading screams hang in the air, but all he can focus on is the wild pulse of your movements. the moonlight glints off your claws, wet and gleaming. then suddenly, you spring forward, muscles coiling and releasing with raw power, and remmick feels the thrill ripple through him as you peel after him into the orchard, the chase igniting beneath the stars.

remmick jogs slowly, purposely letting the distance between you grow. the rhythm of his footsteps shifts, becoming heavier, deliberate, almost inviting. beneath the tangled branches of an ancient oak, he stops completely, body tense but still—waiting. his chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths, masking the hunger that pulses beneath his skin. the cool night air presses against him, but his focus is fixed on the sharp snap of twigs behind him—your approach.

then, with a sudden, feral burst, you pounce, claws digging into his shoulders, teeth bared in a wild snarl. remmick catches your weight, grinning despite the sting of your claws, eyes dark with longing. he doesn’t struggle; instead, he thrusts his head forward, sinking his teeth into the tender skin of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper—a sharp, startled sound that ripples through the night air. but before he can linger, you smack him away, fierce and sudden, breaking free with a flash of movement. you scramble off, claws scraping against the earth, breath ragged as you vanish into the shadows, leaving him grinning—half frustrated, half exhilarated—still craving more.

he finds you face down in the field, the first pale light of dawn just brushing the horizon. your skin is bare, smeared with blood—crimson against the pale frost that clings to the grass beneath your trembling fingers. despite everything, you look raw, untamed, and hauntingly natural, as if this wildness is your true form. slowly, you lift your head, eyes meeting remmick’s. he’s standing over you, a crooked smile playing on his lips, full of something like admiration and something darker, something that makes the air between you crackle with unspoken promises.

your eyes are heavy with exhaustion as your fingers trace the tender wound on your neck, “you bit me..” you whisper.

remmick nods, a small smirk tugging at his lips, “yeah, vampire bites act like werewolf neutralizers. funny how that works, huh? shoulda just told me from the get-go, but…” his voice trails off, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something softer beneath.

“i thought you was breathtaking tonight,” he murmurs, the words a quiet play on the night’s violence and your fragile beauty. you laugh through tears, then break, sobbing harder as the weight of the lives you took settles over you.

he lowers himself to his knees, fingers petting down your tangled hair. your face twists with anguish—he knows you feel stained, broken.

remmick moves quickly, pulling you into his lap, his voice soft and steady as he soothes you, “there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of. you’re okay.”

you shake your head fiercely, voice trembling, “i killed people, remmick. that’s not okay.”

he holds you tighter, eyes fierce but tender, “this is whatcha are. you can’t help that… and you looked so free, nothin’ holdin’ you back, the best version of yourself.”

remmick wipes your tears, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with you.”

you nod slowly, a shaky smile breaking through your tears, the rawness of the night still clinging to your skin. remmick’s hands cup your face gently, thumbs tracing the damp trails your tears have left, grounding you in the moment.

his eyes glint with something fierce yet tender, an unspoken promise of acceptance and understanding. the world outside disappears—it’s just the two of you, bound by something deeper than fear or pain.

your breath mingles, shallow and uneven, as you lean into him, the warmth of his cold body strangely comforting against the chill in your bones. for a moment, the chaos fades, replaced by the quiet, electric charge of being so close, wrapped in a silence that speaks louder than words.

his lips press against yours, but it’s not just a kiss—it’s something darker, more primal. remmick’s tongue slips inside your mouth, tasting the blood that lingers there, lapping it up like a thirst long denied. every movement feels hungry, possessive, like he’s consuming you piece by piece—not just your blood, but your very soul. you shiver beneath him, caught in the fierce intimacy of it, the way he devours you with his mouth, claiming you in a way no words ever could. it’s raw, intense, and somehow painfully tender all at once.

remmick’s hands roam from your hair down to the curve of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left between you. his lips part, brushing yours with a hunger that’s been smoldering too long, and you respond with equal fire—pressing your body against his, tasting the sharp, intoxicating heat of him. every kiss is deeper, more desperate, like you’re both trying to memorize the other, to hold on through the chaos inside and out. his touch sets your skin ablaze, fingers tracing every inch, igniting a fire you didn’t know you had. breaths hitch, hearts race—though his doesn’t beat—and the world fades, leaving only the wild, aching connection binding you both.

remmick slides you gently from his lap onto the cool grass, the early morning wrapping around you both like a secret. he brushes a soft kiss to your lips—delicate, a quiet promise—before his mouth trails down your skin, each kiss deeper, more urgent. he sucks softly, reverently, as if memorizing every inch of you, worshipping your body in the tender darkness. the world falls away until there’s only the heat of him, the pulse beneath your skin, and the breathless connection binding you close.

remmick moves like a slow bloom unfurling under the dawn’s soft light, petals parting one by one with deliberate grace.

his lips trace the curve of your skin like dew settling on fragile blossoms, sending shivers like whispers through your veins. goosebumps rise like tiny buds swelling beneath his touch, a dark promise flashing like thorns beneath velvet petals.

with reverent hunger, his mouth explores you—each kiss a tender petal brushing against delicate skin, each lick a slow dance of nectar and desire.

you are the flower, opening to his devotion, each gasp a petal trembling in the morning breeze, every shiver a blossom swaying in the heat of the sun. his hands roam possessively, like vines curling and clasping, drawing you ever closer into his embrace.

beneath the stars, you are both wild garden and sacred ritual, blooming fiercely into the night, petals drenched in euphoria.

waves of pleasure unfurl inside you like a sudden burst of color, fireworks blossoming behind your eyes. your cries are the song of blooming petals tearing free from the bud, soft moans and desperate gasps unfolding like fragrant blossoms bursting open in the heat.

your hands claw the earth, roots digging deep as your body twists and curves in pure, untamed bloom. every flick of his tongue, every brush of his lips is a gentle caress of pollen on petals, igniting sparks that bloom like wildfires in your veins.

as the tension builds, the flower’s pistil pulses—stamen trembling, petals ready to burst—then, with a shudder like the first rain after a drought, you erupt into a dazzling bloom, white-hot and radiant, your cries the fragrance carried on the wind.

he holds you steady, vines wrapped possessively around the fragile bloom, as you ride the wild storm of blossoming fire—lost in the beauty of becoming, wild and free.

your breath quickens, shallow and ragged, chest rising and falling with desperate urgency. the heat pools deep between your thighs, spreading in wild, insistent waves that make your skin tingle, your senses sharpen.

your fingers clutch at his hair tighter, nails digging in, desperate to anchor yourself as the pressure builds unbearably, every nerve screaming in delicious torment.

the world fades until all you feel is the ache, the need, the rush of sensation exploding inside you—a crescendo that promises to break you open completely.

and just as you’re about to cum again, just as you tilt over the edge remmick pulls away, eyes glossed over, faded with want.

remmick lingers close, his breath warm against your skin, eyes searching yours for the faintest hesitation.

“you sure?” he murmurs, voice low and tender, almost fragile. you nod, chest rising and falling with a desperate urgency.

“yes,” you whisper, voice trembling—not with fear, but with need.

he pauses, fingertips brushing your cheek softly, savoring the moment before finally closing the distance. it’s slow, deliberate—a tender claim wrapped in raw desire.

he pauses, fingertips brushing your cheek softly, savoring the moment before finally closing the distance. it’s slow, deliberate—a tender claim wrapped in raw desire.

the world narrows until there’s only the two of you, the silent promise between gasps and trembling hands. he moves with a careful reverence, every touch gentle yet filled with an aching hunger.

his hands slide along your sides, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

your breath hitches as he lowers himself, lips tracing a path over your collarbone, down to where your skin burns beneath his touch.

“i’m here,” he whispers, voice rough and full of need, waiting for you—wanting you to feel safe, wanted, desperate like him.

when you nod again, wordless and sure, he enters you slowly, carefully, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. the world falls away with every shared breath and every pulse of closeness, the moment raw and fragile and utterly consuming.

he stays gentle but fierce, moving with a steady rhythm that speaks of both passion and reverence—of a connection neither of you can deny.

his hands cup your face firmly, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as his fingers trace the sharp line of your jaw with deliberate tenderness.

he leans in slowly, lips parting before crashing onto yours in a fierce, searing kiss that steals your breath. the heat of his mouth is intoxicating—hungry and possessive—melding with the softness of yours, a storm of fire and silk.

your bodies press tighter together, his chest warm and steady against you, every pulse and shiver sending sparks through your veins. the world shrinks until only the slick slide of his tongue, the rough scrape of his stubble, and the desperate gasps you share remain—each breath, each sigh, each whispered name weaving you deeper into a suspended moment of raw, aching desire.

he moves with deliberate patience, matching your desperation—slow, steady, each stroke tightening the coil of tension between you both until it’s raw, pulsing, unrelenting.

your hands claw at his back, nails digging deep into muscle and skin, desperate for something solid to hold onto amid the raging storm inside you. every thrust sends sparks shooting through your core, breath hitching, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

then, breaking through the mounting pressure, you cry out—voice trembling with a fierce mix of pleasure and anguish. hot tears spill down your cheeks, salt mingling with the sweat slicking your skin, as waves of ecstasy crash against the sharp sting of guilt: the bitter weight of betraying your family cuts through the haze, but beneath it all, the fire he’s ignited inside you burns too fierce to resist.

trembling and undone, you surrender completely—naked, vulnerable, and fiercely alive—in the fierce, consuming heat of his arms.

the storm inside you finally settles, leaving a calm so deep it feels almost unreal. your breath slows, your body still humming with warmth as the tension unwinds from every muscle.

your eyes flutter open, and for a heartbeat, you see two versions of remmick—one close, smiling gently with quiet satisfaction, and another, faint and distant, like a shadow lingering just beyond the edges of your vision. your gaze drifts away, far off into a place only you can see, and remmick catches that look—the one filled with a thousand unspoken thoughts.

your eyes flutter open, and for a heartbeat, you see two versions of remmick—one close, smiling gently with quiet satisfaction, and another, faint and distant, like a shadow lingering just beyond the edges of your vision. your gaze drifts away, far off into a place only you can see, and remmick catches that look—the one filled with a thousand unspoken thoughts.

he smiles tenderly, understanding without words, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as if to anchor you back. in that soft, fragile moment, everything else fades—the world, the pain, the fear—and all that remains is the quiet promise held in his eyes and the gentle pulse of your shared breath.

you walk through the orchard, the dawn just peeking over the horizon, painting the sky with soft pink and gold. you’re wrapped in remmick’s too-big button-up, sleeves hanging past your hands, and he’s shirtless beside you, cool morning air kissing his skin. everything’s quiet, like the world’s holding its breath just for you two.

he breaks the hush, voice low and steady, “ain’t gonna be easy, you know that. your kin—they won’t take it gentle. they’ll make it hard as hell.”

you pull the shirt tighter, shivering but steady, “i know. but we’ll get through it. no matter what. together.”

he takes your hand in his, fingers lacing easy and sure, like home, “i know you’re tougher than anythin’ they throw at you. i ain’t givin’ you up.”

you squeeze back, heart thumping, feeling that wild hope in his touch, “then we face it all. come hell or high water.”

he kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering, “tha’s my girl,” he smiles into your hair, voice rough with something tender beneath the edge, “ain’t no storm gonna break us.”

you lean your head on his bare shoulder, breath mingling with his, the orchard waking around you—the scent of dew, the distant call of a waking bird, “we got each other,” you whisper, “and that’s all that matters.”

he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, like he’s holding the whole world in that one embrace, “just you ‘n me, darlin’. nothin’ else matters.”