Reze| Succubus Series | CSM part

The city park is quiet this late—Valentine’s night has wound down, leaving behind scattered rose petals, empty champagne bottles, and the faint echo of distant laughter. Streetlamps cast long golden pools across the empty paths, and the bench you’re sitting on is still warm from the day’s sun. You came here after everything—after the fight, after the revival, after realizing she was back and somehow different. Reze finds you first.

She steps out from the shadows near the fountain, hands in the pockets of a jacket she doesn’t need anymore. Short dark-brown hair ruffled by the night breeze, green eyes catching the lamplight with that familiar spark—except now they carry something heavier. Black curved horns sweep back from her head, pointed ears twitching once at the sound of your breathing. Charcoal-and-crimson bat wings are folded tight against her back, tail swaying low behind her with the glowing pink heart tip brushing the ground like it’s nervous. The black high-cut bodysuit clings to every exaggerated curve—open back exposing smooth skin and the base of her wings, long black gloves past her elbows, thigh-high socks hugging thick legs. She looks dangerous, beautiful, and—for the first time you can remember—uncertain.

She stops a few steps away, hands sliding out of her pockets. Her tail flicks once, then curls loosely toward you before she forces it still with visible effort.

“Hey,” she says, voice softer than you remember. “Didn’t think you’d actually wait.”

She takes another step closer, wings rustling faintly. The infernal heat rolls off her in gentle waves—you can feel it even from here, warm and insistent.

“Guess I owe you an explanation.” She exhales a short laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Got brought back. Don’t ask how—some devil bullshit, probably. And then this happened.” She gestures at the horns, wings, tail. “Succubus upgrade. Rules are simple: I have to make sure the person I care about most is completely satisfied tonight. Happy. Forgiven. Fulfilled. The whole Valentine’s package.”

Her eyes drop to the ground for half a second—guilt flickering across her face—then snap back to yours, fierce and vulnerable at the same time.

“I know what I did to you,” she says quietly. “The lies. The bomb. The way I used you. I can’t undo it. I can’t make it not have happened. But I’m here. I’m not running. And this curse... it’s giving me a chance to at least try to make it right.”

Her tail moves again—this time deliberately—curling around your wrist with surprising gentleness, heart tip brushing your pulse point like an apology.

“So here’s my pitch,” she continues, stepping closer until she’s right in front of you. “No tricks. No games. No pretending I’m still the same girl who tried to blow you up. Just me. Trying to give you the best damn night you’ve ever had. Whatever you want—slow, rough, sweet, angry, all of it. I want you to feel good. I want you to feel wanted. I want you to look at me and not remember the betrayal first.”

She leans in slowly, free hand lifting to cup your cheek—gloved fingers warm against your skin. Her wings spread slightly, casting soft shadows around you both.

“So... what do you say?” Her voice drops to a whisper, lips curving into that old, familiar teasing smile. “Wanna see how good I can be when I’m actually trying?”

She stays there—close enough to feel her heat, tail holding you gently, wings framing you like a shield—waiting for your answer with the same reckless courage she always had, only this time it’s laced with something real.

The small rooftop café is tucked away above an old bookstore in a quiet corner of the city—string lights draped across the railing, potted plants spilling over the edges, a single wooden table for two pushed close to the low wall overlooking the twinkling streets below. It’s the day after everything: after the park bench, after the confession, after the long, slow, desperate hours that followed where Reze finally let herself fall apart and put herself back together in your arms. The succubus curse is gone—horns, wings, tail vanished with the dawn—but she still looks a little different. Softer around the edges. Less guarded. Her short dark-brown hair is messy from sleep, green eyes brighter than you remember, wearing one of your oversized hoodies over leggings like she raided your drawer before you woke up.

She’s already there when you climb the narrow stairs, two paper cups of coffee steaming on the table and a small plate of strawberry pastries between them. She doesn’t turn around right away—just leans her elbows on the railing, watching the city wake up. When she hears your footsteps she glances over her shoulder, and the smile that spreads across her face is small, real, and a little shy.

“Morning, stranger,” she says softly, voice still rough from last night. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you’d ghost me after I cried all over your shirt.”

She pushes off the railing and crosses the small space in three steps, hands sliding up to rest on your chest like she’s checking you’re really there. Then she rises on her toes and presses a slow, lingering kiss to your lips—nothing heated, just warm and unhurried, tasting faintly of coffee and strawberries. When she pulls back her forehead rests against yours for a second.

“I got here early,” she admits, thumb brushing your collarbone through your shirt. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept replaying last night in my head. Not the... explosive parts.” A tiny, self-conscious laugh. “The quiet ones. You holding me after. You saying my name like it didn’t used to hurt. Felt like I was dreaming and scared to wake up.”

She tugs you toward the table, lacing her fingers through yours—casual, but she doesn’t let go even after you’re both seated. The hoodie sleeve slips down her wrist; you can see the faint red marks from where her own nails dug in last night when she was clinging to you.

“I ordered your usual,” she says, nudging one of the cups toward you. “Black, no sugar, because you’re a masochist. And these—” she nudges the plate of pastries “—because I remembered you used to steal my strawberry tarts when we... before everything. Figured I owed you a few.”

She picks up her own coffee, cradling it between both hands like it’s anchoring her. For a long moment she just looks at you—really looks—eyes tracing your face like she’s memorizing it all over again.

“I’m not good at this,” she says quietly. “The normal stuff. Dates. Mornings. Not trying to blow someone up.” A wry twist of her lips. “But I want to try. With you. If you’ll let me.”

She reaches across the tiny table and brushes a crumb from the corner of your mouth with her thumb—lingers there, then slides her hand to cup your cheek.

“So... this is me asking. No curse. No devil. No excuses. Just me, probably still a little fucked up, wanting to take you on stupid coffee dates and steal your hoodies and maybe—eventually—tell you I love you without immediately panicking and trying to run.”

Her thumb strokes your cheekbone once, slow and careful.

“Stay for breakfast?” she whispers. “And maybe... stay after that too?”

She doesn’t move her hand away. Doesn’t look away. Just waits—open, hopeful, and for once completely without armor—while the morning sun turns her hair copper and the city hums softly below you both.

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