#BEGGING for the final two chapters

[shining-just-4-u]

u ever read a fanfic so good that you want. fanfic of the fanfic

[bratbarzal]

On My Side (NH13)

Pairing: Nico "I think the hockey gods were on my side" Hischier x Fem!OC Poppy

WC: 6k

part of the On Your Side universe

*This is a bonus chapter set after the ending of the overall fic, and can be read as a standalone if you haven't read the fic, but if you want to understand their dynamic and Poppy's personality a little more, you should!!!

Description: 18+ MDNI, Nico comes home to Poppy after scoring his first ever career hat-trick for the Devils. Way more fluff than smut but Nico is down bad as always.

A/N: You're all a bunch of enablers and that's all I have to say on the matter!!! Hope this fills the void while I continue to struggle with chapter ten lmao there is mention of Baby Cheeto in here but no spoilers for her name. Nico calls her Bug as a nickname, like _____-Bug, Chäferli (little bug) or just Bug for short, but it isn't her actual name. I can't use Cheeto forever lmao. I was literally trying to think of a title and remembered he said the words "on my side" WHAT IF I TOLD YOU HE'S A MASTERMIND he's an oys!truther if I ever saw one! Painfully obsessed with Poppy if you ask me. Also the way Cheeto would rock the heck out of this it's so cute I had to share

Nico Hischier likes to think he’s a patient man.

Finally scoring his first career hat-trick after 8 years in the NHL, after 476 games played with the Devils, would be the ultimate testament to that.

Doing so in the first ever game with his daughter in attendance - on home turf, his mother and Poppy holding her up in the family suite during warm-ups in her little Devils teddy sleeper that he can only just make out from down on the ice, but has his rampant heart beating out of his chest all the same - has him thinking that maybe, after all those years, after all those games, the stars had been aligning for him the whole time. 

And it was that sort of patience he had tried to tune into since the end of the second period, when he knew Poppy had left early to try skip traffic and get their little girl home safe for bed.

It’s what he tries to channel in the aftermath of the game, swarmed by reporters in the locker room, trying to remain polite and professional, not rushing them through their questions or giving half-assed answers - knowing he owes a lot more than that to the organisation that has allowed him to get this far. Trying to save just a speck of energy to give when he finally gets home, collapsing into the warm embrace of the girls he knows are waiting patiently for him.

It’s what he holds onto when he has to take a detour on his way home, dropping his mom off at her hotel and trying not to visibly squirm in his seat as she regales him with stories of how his daughter had captured the hearts of everyone she encountered, swallowing down the slight jealousy that he hadn’t been there to see it and clinging to the fact that he had his own success elsewhere in the night - success that played second fiddle in his own mother’s eyes to the experience of sharing her granddaughter’s first ever game with her, an experience he had to endure twice as she called his father from his car, deep chuckles ringing through the speakers as he tried to get a word in edge ways beyond her excitement.

It’s what has him shaking with anticipation as he almost skips down the hall to their apartment, mustering up the rest of his energy to walk into their home without the weight of the world on his shoulders, leaving any doubt, any insecurity, any lingering self-deprecation at the door so he can bask in this moment with the two hearts that are shaped entirely to fit him into them.

And it’s what has him shaking off whatever disappointment tries to creep in when he sees his little girl asleep in Poppy’s arms, knowing whatever tiny part of her he will ever get will always be enough - even if her big, glassy eyes aren’t looking up at him, even if he doesn’t come home to one of those heart-stopping beaming smiles she has started to give to him whenever he enters the room - her being here, sleeping safely in the arms of her beautiful mother, and him getting to come home to whatever version of them he can, is more than he could ever ask for.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the hat-trick hero.” Poppy’s soft voice carries to him as he makes his way over, dropping his bag on the floor and keys on the counter, heading straight to where she is now standing and pressing a kiss to her waiting lips. “Hi, handsome.”

“She didn’t wanna say goodnight to her daddy, huh?” He tries not to sound too dejected - he’s supposed to be on a high, after all - but after half an hour of his mother unintentionally bragging about all the attention she had been giving to her Gromi all night, he can’t help the slight sag of his shoulders - especially knowing that she’s going to be spending the morning with his mom tomorrow, too.

“Sorry, baby, we watched a little of you on the TV and then she got hangry,” Nico finds himself hypnotised by her still figure, enamoured with the way she exudes sheer calmness. The smile that creeps up on his lips seems to do so by muscle memory - a dopey kind of smile he’s probably had plastered on his face since she came into the world kicking and screaming 2 months ago, a smile permanently etched into his features from probably even before that. “I promise I tried to keep her up, she literally fell asleep on my boob.” Poppy whispers, watching with warm, glittery eyes as Nico takes in the sight of his two favourite people in front of him - Poppy already changed into one of his shirts, settled for the night, and his baby girl all cosy in her little teddy bear onesie, pacifier bobbing between her plush little lips.

“Look at her hat,” he pouts, running a finger along the folded seam of the way-too-big beanie Poppy has perched on top of her head, the knit fabric falling just short of her closed eyes. “That’s adorable.”

“Your mom put it on her before we left,” Poppy chuckles lightly, “Wanted to keep it on until you got home, we had to celebrate the hatty properly.” Her brows raise as if gesturing to the bill of the cap on her own head, one of his, he’s sure - no doubt stolen from their closet as soon as she got home.

“My little good luck charm,” he leans down to press a kiss to her cheek before he lifts himself back up and bends toward Poppy, “Gonna have to start coming to all the games.”

“I’ll let you break the news to her when she wakes up,” she hums as he presses his lips to hers, “She has a very low tolerance for everybody telling her to smile and getting all up in her space, been grouchy all night.”

“Just like Mami, huh, bug?”

“Oh, you think you’ve got jokes now?” Poppy scoffs as she steps back, ready to take their daughter to bed.  “Score your first hatty and you think you’re funny?”

“Always been funny, babe,” he smirks, flicking at the cap sat on her head before he takes it off, flipping it to place on top of his own and following her down the hall. “I’ll prove it to you when I get her first laugh.”

“She’ll be laughing at you, not with you.”

“Better than nothing.”

Nico sits on the edge of their bed as Poppy reaches into the crib to retrieve the sleeping bag in there before she lays it down beside him. He does the work unzipping and readying it for her to place their daughter inside while she rocks her still-sleeping body, and the two of them work in tandem to get her inside before zipping her back up, with Nico softly pulling the beanie from her head and watching her fluffy hair fan out in its absence. 

He runs a gentle hand over her head to smooth it down as Poppy lifts her, and leans into where she offers her up for a kiss before she puts her in the crib. Nico watches with a soft smile etched into his features, the familiarity of it all spreading warmth throughout his chest, his favourite part of every day being this - sharing a goodnight routine in the comfortable quiet, the two loves of his life safe and happy within arms reach.

None of it feels new or daunting anymore, just easy - and despite the constant warnings of it not always being this way, Nico just wants to feel it to its fullest extent; sheer happiness and serenity. 

Poppy returns to the front of him, and he instinctively spreads his legs to accommodate her, palms laying flat against his chest and his hands falling to her hips. She just looks at him for a good few seconds, eyes shimmering with admiration, lips tugged between teeth and a head tilted as her expression flickers into something more intense. 

Her hands travel down his arms, wordlessly, until she grasps at his wrists and pulls him to stand, leaning up to press a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth. “C’mon,” she whispers while her lips are still against his skin, “Wanna celebrate you.”

As if getting to come home to her isn’t celebration enough.

He follows her back through the hall with their hands clasped together, arms stretched between them so he can watch the hem of his shirt ride up against the backs of her soft thighs, and he starts to feel his throat go dry.

He thinks of all those mornings they would spend in the kitchen together in the summer, his shirts a little tighter around her pregnant belly, riding up against her curves and leaving very little to the imagination when she’d wear just his t-shirt and nothing else.

She’s wearing panties now, he can tell, could see the bottom of them peaking out when she’d leaned over to put their daughter in her crib. But he doesn’t mind inching them off, quite likes the slow pace of unwrapping her like a gift - a well-deserved present for all his hard efforts on the ice.

It’s where his fingers find themselves almost immediately when she stops just short of the couch, spinning and practically launching herself into his waiting arms. He can’t help but chuckle as they collide, large arms wrapping around her frame as she melts into him, hands gripping either side of his jaw to pull him down in a clash of teeth and tongues. He palms at her ass as she presses her hips forward, fingers slipping under the hem of her panties and wriggling under them until his knuckles are covered by the fabric, squeezing at the flesh until she groans into his open mouth. 

He feels deft fingers working between them to rid him of his own clothes, clumsily popping open the buttons of his jacket before working their way up his chest, slipping into the arms and helping him shrug it off. The weight of it drops to the floor with a heavy thud, and when her hands return to his chest for the next item of clothing to be removed, she pushes him back with an exaggerated huff.

“Baby, how many layers do you need?”

“You in some kind of rush, or something?” He chuckles, chasing her lips with a crane of his neck, getting a quick kiss in before she pushes him back again with palms laid flat on his broad chest.

“Your daughter has some sort of radar for when we’re within 2 inches of each other,” she says as her hands slide down, the feel of them through the extra layers he has on still present as she travels past the hard ridges of his abdomen. She grasps tight at the bottom of his hoody, and he lends a hand to tugging it up and over his head, throwing that to the floor, too. “We gotta get a move on before she wakes up,”

“My daughter?” He scoffs, removing his undershirt while she’s distracted, relishing the feeling of a heavy gaze on his chest once it’s fully revealed to her hungry eyes. “She’s really given you such a hard time that you’re disowning her?”

“She isn’t letting me have a hard time at all, that’s the problem.” Her hands reach back out seemingly of their own volition, fingers fanning out across his skin as her stare glides down, the weight of it sliding down his skin to the point he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. 

“That was weak for you.” He teases.

“I’m out of practice,” she pouts, closing the distance once more and pressing her lips to the slightly stubbled skin of his jaw, nipping at the flesh as her ministrations travel across his features, his jaw, his neck, the spot just below his ear, where she mutters, “Wanna show you how proud I am of you,”

“Oh yeah?” He asks as she works at the button of his pants, pushing until they pool at his feet and he can kick them off.

“Mmhm,” she moves her kisses back to his waiting lips, “Been waiting to get my hands on you all night.”

“Been waiting to get my hands on you all day,” he mutters back, bending to lift her with hands gripping her ass, “Been thinking about you teasing me in the kitchen this morning,” he starts heading for the couch, mind spinning as she continues kissing him - thinking of all the plans she had been making for the two of them while his mom takes Little Bug out in the morning, finally giving them some much needed, uninterrupted time to themselves. Plans of wasting the morning away between the sheets, sharing showers, having no responsibilities other than paying attention to one another. “Thinking about having you all to myself tomorrow."

“You gonna let me give you a preview?” 

He chuckles as he falls back onto the couch, all grace thrown out the window as they sink into the cushions, her still holding onto him and now straddling his lap, lips stretched into a blissful smile as he looks up at her.

She presses them straight to his, and he can’t bring himself to mind the way their teeth clash at her eagerness, hips grinding down onto his as she settles onto her knees.

He could spend forever kissing her like this, sensual and sloppy, the slight scratch of her nails against the sides of his neck and his grip on her thighs guiding her movements straight onto the aching growth between his legs.

He bucks up to meet her, and their lips part with a wet smack as she groans. 

"Bet you can’t wait for me to shave, eh?” he smiles as he swipes a thumb across the space between her nose and lip, the skin red raw from the scratch of his moustache.

“You know damn well I’d ban you from ever touching a razor again if I could.” She says, breathlessly, slowly thrusting down onto him.

“Tell that to your little red muzzy, you’re giving Luke a run for his money,”

“Hey,” she swats at his chest in feigned outrage, “The kid tried his best!” 

“No more talk about Hughes when you’re sat on my lap,”

“You brought him up!”

“Thought I was getting a preview,” he groans as he shuffles, reaching between them to slip a hand between her legs, tucking his fingers beneath her panties and swiping against her heat. “Jesus, Poppy.”

“Told you I’ve been thinking about you all night,” she pecks at his lips again, raising her hips a little to give him further access to slide his fingers through the almost excessive wetness that’s near enough soaked through her panties. 

He prods at her entrance, two fingers slipping straight in until she’s gasping against his cheek in sheer bliss. His digits move with ease, working his way up to his knuckles as he drinks up her pleasured moans, his chin tilting until their open mouths just press together without kissing, panting against one another as he works her up. 

He pushes the fabric of his shirt up her thighs with his other hand, exposing his handiwork to hungry eyes so he can see the way she glistens between her legs - can see the way his fingers slide in an out of her.

She takes his shirt off, throwing it beside them on the couch so she can see too, looking down for only a moment before she’s throwing her head back.

He’s so hard just watching her that it’s almost painful - straining against the seams of his briefs until they’re tenting beneath her. And she must notice, nimble fingers working him out until he’s thick and hot and heavy in her palm, gripping around him in with her thumb swiping at his tip, hips shuffling until his fingers slip out of her heat and she can move on her knees to hover above his waiting cock. 

He takes a hold of himself while her hands raise to steady herself on his shoulders, and he waits with bated breath as she lowers herself, sinking past her entrance until he’s sheathed entirely, tight, wet walls wrapped around him in a long-awaited embrace.

Their moans fall out in sync, both of them stilling, the only movements between them being the soft rise and fall of panting chests. 

It’s a minute before she starts to rock her hips, leaning back down to distract herself from whatever unease needs to fade away with the press of her lips to his - tongue swiping at his, sucking and nipping at the muscle as she works herself to the point where she can lift herself up a little.

“Fuck me,” he whines out in an elongated groan as she sinks down on him again, tight and slick and warm, and he feels tension in every cell in his body, strung taut to the point where he feels like he could snap entirely in any given moment.

“I’m working on it,” she pouts, “Think I overestimated my talents here,”

“Think you’re very talented,” he hums, pressing a kiss to her jaw as he lays large hands on the dip of her waist, fingers tickling into the arch of her back so her movements are a little smoother, a little more fluid. “So good to me, yeah? Just need a hand.”

He guides her hips into a steady rhythm - up, down, forward, back - until she’s rocking onto him in a mind numbing pace. 

God, he thinks, this is heaven.

It’s been so long since he’s had her like this. Probably all the way back in Switzerland in the summer, and he thinks a lot about this situation mirrors that - trying to stay quiet, trying to feel as much of each other as they possibly can without drawing attention from sleeping parties one room over. 

He remembers thinking, all those months ago, that it wouldn’t be possible to love Poppy any more than he did, then - that he couldn’t possibly feel more for her than he did when he shared that part of his world, and she had embraced it with open arms. She had blended straight into his family, had adapted herself to his routine, had brought new life and colour to what he had always considered vibrant, anyway, but she had changed the meaning of it all.

But she had done the same to life in Jersey. 

Long gone were any feelings of homesickness he used to get - especially around this time of the year. Fully immersed now into his season, summer seeming too far from his reach that he started to forget what home felt like. But not anymore.

Home is Poppy. Home is their baby girl sleeping soundly in the next room. It’s playing one of the greatest games of his career so far, meeting milestones he had been reaching for for so long, standing in the centre of the arena he has built his career in, hearing the rapturous cheers of fans chanting his name, and driving back knowing the love garnered there could never possibly compare to the love waiting for him in his apartment.

He brings her face down with a palm splayed gently across her jaw, fingers reaching back to tickle at the nape of her neck and thumb swiping tenderly at her soft cheekbone, until their mouths collide. He shifts his hips to meet her ministrations, finding a rhythm that has her gasping into his mouth, enough that his tongue can slip past the seam of her lips and press against hers - hot and fervid and eager.

He wonders as the pressure builds if this passion will ever wither. If this need to profess his love for her will ever wain away, if he’ll ever be casual about the way in which she has become the entire centre of his universe.

He hopes not. 

He hopes when he’s 80, he looks over at her and his heart still hammers in his chest. He hopes his mouth struggles to make sense of all the ways in which his brain tries to convey what she means to him - hopes he still stutters around his sentences and feels weak to the very base of his spine at the mere thought of her. 

In fact, he doesn’t hope at all.

He knows he will.

“You feel so good,” Poppy mutters into his mouth, panting against his swollen lips, “I’ve missed this so much.”

“Yeah?” He thrusts up, “You missed being full of me?”

He’s missed this far out look in her eyes, glassed over and almost gone as she nods in response - they haven’t really been able to get to this stage with their quick fumbles and rushed hookups in the last 2 weeks since she got the all clear from her doctor for them to start being intimate again. Sure, they had developed other methods over those first 6 weeks, making good use of hands and mouths in whatever limited time they could find together, but nothing compares to this.

To being attached at every point like they are one.

“You gonna come for me?”

He still remembers her tells, fluttering lashes, trembling thighs, stuttered breaths all combined with the spine tingling way in which she tightens around him, and he manages to time it so they come together, one final burst of energy used to lift his hips just as she sinks down, body slumping into tremors that wrack through the both of them.

He holds her in place for a second, large hands pushing his shirt up her back as he starts to rub circles into her flesh, soothing her back into a softened consciousness - hazy and frazzled but still in tune with every movement he makes. 

Her nose presses into the expanse of his neck, lips pecking at all the sensitive spots she can seek out as they both try to catch their breaths - and he realises she was probably right before, they haven’t had time like this for a while now. 

Still, he’ll take what he can get.

She lifts her hips just enough for him to slip out, and reaches to the small table at the side of the couch where she has miraculously stashed a pack of baby wipes. She takes two out, using one to clean the both of them before she bundles it into the clean one and discards of it back onto the table to be disposed when she eventually gets the feeling back in her legs.

And it’s as soon as Poppy’s legs give way and she collapses into him that they both hear it - a soft wail carrying through the monitor behind the couch. Cries filling the space around them and bursting their bubble with an almighty pop!

“Told you,” Poppy mumbles into his neck, skin sticky with a soft sheen of sweat. “Won’t even let me get a hatty of my own,”

Nico scoffs, snorting out a loud chuckle that shakes where she rests on his chest, and despite her feigned irritation, she feels her cheeks puff out into a soft, unbreakable grin. “Like you’d have lasted 3 rounds.”

“What happened to me being very talented?” She pouts, mustering whatever strength she has left to push herself up, swinging a leg back over and moving to stand, only for him to grasp back at her, pulling her until her back falls into the plush of the couch.

“Talented, Poppy, not super human,” he chuckles, standing from the cushions and tucking himself back into his briefs. “I’ve got her.”

“It’s probably wind, I changed and fed her before she went down.”

He presses one last kiss to Poppy’s head before heavy feet carry him down the hall toward their bedroom, where their daughter’s crib is temporarily positioned until she starts to sleep a little further through the night. He doesn’t bother flicking the light on as he enters, able to follow his muscle memory straight over to where she is without tripping over his own feet, and he lifts her as soon as he can, cooing at her as she cries into his chest.

“I’ve got you, Chäferli,” he mutters as he rocks her gently, large hand completely encompassing where he can feel her back through her sleeping bag. “Daddy’s here,”

He reaches over to shut off the monitor before he ambles over to his and Poppy’s bed, sitting with his daughter still clutched to his chest, little hiccups coming out as his hand tries to work up her wind. 

“Got yourself all worked up, huh?” He asks, so deep into his routine of talking to her about anything and everything that he no longer second guesses it. “My little bug, you’re okay.”

It takes a good few minutes to calm her down, to the point that Nico thinks she might even be hungry and he’ll have to call Poppy in, wiggling a finger between her lips to see if she latches on, but he continues to pat and rub at her back until she burps, and her cries turn into little coos, that turn into soft pants with wide, sparkling eyes staring up at him in wonder. 

He looks down at her in the same way, dark eyes flitting across her every feature. Across the soft but thick head of hair, the crazy long eyelashes, the puffy lips and the little button nose. 

She looks so much like Poppy that he feels his chest ache every time he looks at her - but it’s a good kind of ache, a longing and content kind of ache, that only aches to remind him of everything he stands to lose if he doesn’t work hard enough to keep it.

“Gromi told me you were charming everybody at daddy’s work,” he tells her with a soft smile, the pad of his finger pressing at the tip of her nose. “Says she’s gonna have to show you off around the city on her own tomorrow.”

Tiny fingers reach up to clasp around his, holding on and clutching with a grip he’s sure wasn’t so firm that morning when he had said his goodbyes. 

“Careful, bug,” he tells her, “You hold Papi’s hand too long and he won’t let you go.”

Wide eyes gleam back at him, and he watches in awe as they start to crinkle in the corners. 

He becomes all too aware of the hammering of his heart, and lays her beside him on the bed in fears that the echoing thud of it beating against his chest might disturb her. He curls up beside her, making sure she’s flat as he gets himself comfortable, and just lays there for a good few minutes, watching her as she watches him.

There isn’t a feeling in the world that compares to this, he thinks. He could score a hundred hat-tricks, have a million people chanting his name, and it won’t come close to how adored he feels in this moment, how proud he feels to have played any part in making a little human so perfect and beautiful.

He leans forward, kissing softly at her puffy cheek, careful not to press too hard that she feels the scratch of his moustache, and he relishes the little squeal of what he hopes is delight she gives in return. 

Poppy gives it 20 minutes before she decides to venture through to their bedroom, having cleaned up and busied herself sterilising bottles so they’re ready for Katja to come pick up in the morning. It’s been a rare occurrence lately that Nico has had his one-on-one time with their daughter, him being so busy with training and their trip to Florida - and he wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t fess up to the ways in which it gets him down, but she knows he feels like he’s missing a lot. 

She changes so much day to day - discovers so much about the world around her - and as much as Poppy tries to save things for him to see on his own, tries to find the balance between sharing the little moments she gets with him and letting him experience them for himself, she knows there’s nothing she can do to keep that nagging voice at bay.

He’s always been that way, unable to completely silence the thoughts that tell him no matter what he does, it isn’t enough. 

He’d even done it tonight - his first career hat-trick, him being the first Swiss-born player to score a natural hat-trick, a stadium filled with fans chanting his name, dominating a team the Devils hadn’t beat at home in close to 10 years - and it hadn’t been his best performance. 

She would gladly spend the rest of her life convincing him he’s good enough, she thinks. 

Her and their little Bug being the ones who get to welcome him home after a night like tonight? She doesn’t know what she did in a past life to get the Gods on her side like this, but she’d do it again a thousand times over.

As her feet pad softly down the hall toward their room, she listens out for the soft voice she usually has the pleasure of eavesdropping on when she thinks he doesn’t know she’s hovering on the other side of the door. A soft voice that tells their little girl exaggerated stories from his day about her uncles, about his games, about whatever he got up to while he was away and what he brought back for her from his travels. But this time, it’s quiet - the peaceful kind of quiet that wraps around her like a blanket, tranquil and warming as she pushes the door open and steps into the room.

Nico is curled up on his side of the bed, on top of the covers, and his arm is draped gently over their daughter’s sleeping bag, their faces inches apart as soft snores fall from their parted lips. She inches closer as quiet as she can manage, leaning over them and taking in their similar profiles - the gentle slope of their mirrored noses, dark lashes framing closed eyes that are turning darker to match her daddy’s day by day.

If anyone had told the Poppy of last November that this is where she would be now - that this is where she’d be with Nico - she never in a million years would have believed it. 

He has transformed her life in such little time that she can barely remember the before. Can barely remember a night she fell asleep in any other bed, by any other side, or woke up to anyone else. Can barely remember feeling anything close to this kind of happiness, this kind of content.

It’s like he’s introduced her to a whole new level of feelings. Ones she struggles to describe, like there’s no word in the English language that could possibly convey what he means to her.

Maybe his language has a word for it. Something that she’s never heard before, but just sounds right. Like she knew it somewhere much deeper than her brain allowed her access. She’ll have to ask him, tomorrow - when they finally have a morning to themselves and she can work up the energy to crawl out from under the sheets with him.

A part of her wishes she could take a snapshot of this moment - could send it back in time to the Poppy who never thought this kind of life would ever find her. The Poppy who was drifting, coasting, floating, afraid of landing on her own two feet and having to drag them for the rest of time through unfamiliar territories. The Poppy who pushed down her ever expanding adoration for the man currently cuddled up to their entire life in the bed they share, who convinced herself he could never possibly feel the same way, and wasted years of her life when she could have had this.

But another part of her thinks, what’s the point?

She has him, now. 

She’ll have him forever.

She allows herself to watch for a minute as they take deep breaths in sync, all the post-game tension in Nico’s body long melted away, before she quietly shuffles over to the bathroom to get herself ready for bed. 

She manages to make her way back over in the dark without stumbling, by some miracle, and reaches over to pick her baby girl up without interrupting her sleep, standing beside her crib and rocking her a little just to make sure she’s still fully drifted off - relishing the feeling of soft puffs of air falling into her neck as she cradles her.

Nico must wake at the loss of contact, instincts kicking in immediately when he can no longer feel the little body that had been resting under his protective arm, and when Poppy looks back over, she can see the reflective glint in his eyes as he watches her - soft and adoring and tooth-achingly sweet. 

Instead of putting her down, she bounces gently on her feet back over to Nico’s side of the bed, sitting beside him as he shuffles up, and the two of them just watch their daughter as she sleeps. 

For all the times they have been warned that this bliss is temporary, that it’s just a phase, Poppy can’t see it ending for as long as Nico looks at her like this. Like he has the entire world sat in front of him. 

“She was smiling at me before,” he whispers as he repositions himself, legs spread so that Poppy can sit between them. “Was trying to get her to calm down, and she was just looking straight at me with those big sparkly eyes and she smiled right at me.”

“She was doing it a little when we got home, earlier.” Poppy whispers back, hoping he doesn’t mind her raining on his parade a little to tell this story, “We just caught your interview on TV after the game, and there was this close up of you, and she smiled so big, Nico. She never smiles like that for anybody.”

“That’s ‘cause you snitch on her and tell everyone it’s gas.”

“I don’t want anyone else thinking they’re special.”

“But I am?” He asks, reaching to swipe the back of his finger softly against her cheek, the soft moonlight sifting into the room reflecting off of the ring on his finger, the quick glimmer enough to catch Poppy’s eye, to distract her so much that she can only hum in response, lips curving into a tender smile. 

“Yeah,” she breathes, the tranquility of the room a stark contrast to the way her heart erupts into thunderous applause for him - akin to that of the stadium full of fans earlier that night. Thousands of voices chanting his name, singing his praises, cheering him on for all the glory he brought to their night. He brings that to Poppy, tenfold, every day. “You’re really special.”

He leans over their sleeping daughter to press a loving kiss to Poppy’s lips, careful not to disturb the little angel between them, and Poppy kisses him straight back, fervent but fleeting.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.” she mutters into his mouth, careful not to invest too much of herself into another moment they’ll swiftly get interrupted from. 

“You gonna show me in the morning?” He mumbles back, their lips still touching, noses pressed together, his hand still cradling her face. She nods, and he feels her cheeks round into his palm. “Gonna give me that hatty you promised?”

“Gonna give you whatever you want.”

“Another baby, Frau?”

She scoffs, swallowing down the fizzing feeling at the back of her throat the nickname. 

“Ask me again after your next hat-trick.” 

[rainy-day-revelry]

Okay so one of my major fandoms has gotten pretty controversial since the main canon finished up, lots of people involved have done or at least been accused of some not so great things. And a lot of people left the fandom because of it which, you know, understandable.

The thing is, on Ao3 there are, depending on who is included in the fic, several periods of time from which I cannot read completed multi-chapter fics anymore because I’ll get really invested in a story and reach the last chapter and they’ll say “I heard about the drama and I’m not finishing this fic anymore. Sorry!” And like, I get it, but please, pretty please, tell me beforehand. They don’t put the Abandonded/Discontinued tag, they don’t leave it incomplete, they tag it as finished and then I stumble across it and get my heart broke.

I appreciate every author on that site, and I understand that they might not feel comfortable writing anymore, but misrepresenting your fic pisses me off. I know lots of people are okay with reading incomplete fics, they can accept that, but I’m not one of those people. There is nothing that hurts me worse than finding out that I will never get closure, and that includes in my fandoms. Don’t mislead me into thinking that there will be a conclusion and then rip the floor out from under me, you feel?

[stormyrainyday]

going insane bc i can't put up the chapter until tuesday bc of a variety of reasons so posting a sneak peek hehehehehe

Gingka didn’t comfort Kyoya when Wolf clawed his bey to shreds. He didn’t think to tell Kenta or Madoka where he was going. In the blinding fluorescence of the stadium lights, Gingka could feel nothing but the fury burning away his skin as he chased the departing helicopter, the rushing wind doing nothing to soothe the flame. 

All that running had led him here– shivering, shaking, and cold, now that his anger had fizzled out, alone in a city unbearably far from home. 

His own carelessness astounded him. I’m sorry, Father. What was the purpose of it all– of friends, of rivalries? They were trivial things in the face of retrieving L Drago. He couldn’t believe he’d been wooed by something so transient as an adversary, or someone who looked up to him, or (his chest twinged with guilt even as he thought the words) someone who’d fed him when he was sick and cared for Pegasus as if it were her own. 

[kthologue]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (𝐢) – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips, 7.2k words of gojo unable to process his feelings

notes. sorry for leaving everyone hanging after the prologue (make sure to read or reread since it's been a hot minute!) TT but here it finally is!!!...not proofread soz :x

series masterlist | chapter 1/2

You haunt his dreams, he’s sure. Gojo never believed in superstitions or the supernatural despite what all those old geezers preached. That was until your figure started to appear every time he closed his eyes.

The familiar scene of you gets cloudier every time it appears in his dreams, but he knows it is still you. It’s nearly comical how even his subconscious knew of your everlasting beauty. Everytime, the same sequence replays: a grand celebration he had hosted in the palace in honor of a prosperous year of his reign. The two of you were overlooking the guests, seated at the head of the room.

You’re wearing court attire that was altered to fit solely you (it hugged your body in such ways that made Gojo’s head spin), fabrics and dyes all originating from foreign lands. In your hair sits beautiful hair ornaments, swinging with every movement you make.

However, Gojo knows it is not the materialistic items that make you beautiful, no, he knows that it was simply you.

“Has anyone told you how unnerving your eyes are?” You quietly comment, eyes still trained on the party in front of you. Satoru cracks a slight smile, not ashamed in the slightest that he was caught ogling you.

“I thought you said you loved them?” He blinks at you, attempting to lean closer to show off his blue orbs. “You’re starting to hurt my feelings, beloved.”

You purse your lips, subtly leaning away before he can initiate improper conduct. He does not take your action well, snaking an arm around you to firmly cage you in his hold. Normally, you would welcome his advances but you’d rather not be publically humiliated in front of the entire Imperial Court and all of the influential clanheads of Japan.

“Please have mercy on me, Your Grace,” You whisper, eyes flitting across the room, making sure there were no eyes on you. Luckily, everyone was too absorbed with the luxurious goods Gojo had imported for the occasion. It was the anniversary of his coronation, after all.

He makes a noise of disapproval, “Can’t. Must let these people know that you’re mine.” Gojo closes the gap between you and sniffs your neck, softly moaning at your scent. He knows that if the geezers looked up from their silver spoons they would have a heart attack at his public display of affection. Not that he cares. His unorthodox ways may make them livid, but Gojo knows they won’t do anything. He was going to pave the way for the Golden Age of Japan— with you by his side.

“Your Grace!” You giggle at the ticklish sensation left by his warm breath. Any attempts of shying away from him are fruitless.

“Don’t run away,” His other hand firmly places itself on your clothed thigh, restricting your movements. All of this is hidden by the table that sits in front of the two of you.

You’re looking at him with those shiny eyes of yours, silently pleading with him. “Can’t this wait until tonight?”

He huffs, “I have suffered enough today without your presence. Ijichi kept begging me to finalize the preparations, but who am I to care? My flower was too busy having fun without me.” 

“You and your dramatics. I was only away to tend the gardens in the Consort’s Pavilion. Which, might I remind you, is fading by the moment because someone refuses for me to stay there.” You tut, picking up your chopsticks to eat the delectable fish placed in front of you. 

Gojo’s stare never falters as he watches you pick up a small piece, eyes shining as if he were watching a spectacle. “You know I can’t sleep without you.”

“And I, you.” You pop the piece inside of your mouth, chewing happily at the flavor that fills your tongue. “You know, I–” You began, but were cut off by the sudden seizing of your throat. 

The chopsticks in your hands clatter loudly with the porcelain they are dropped on. 

Gojo's breath hitched, his eyes wide and trembling with horror as he watched you struggle for air. "My love?” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of rising panic.

Your hands immediately travel to your neck to alleviate the sudden burning feeling that blossomed in it.

“[Name]!” He shouts, large hands quickly rising to cup your cheeks. In a desperate attempt, he squeezes your cheeks to get you to spit it out. 

"Poi–poison," Your voice was hoarse, your face losing its color by the second. Satoru was frozen with fear. “Don’t eat it…Satoru.” With those parting words, you lose consciousness.

“[Name]?” Satoru’s hoarse voice can’t stop repeating your name like a prayer, hands lightly tapping your cheek as if it was going to bring you back to life.

Gojo wanted to laugh. Even when you were dying, you worried about him. Not that it mattered. You weren’t going to die. He refused.

Sometime during your struggle the chatter had stopped, and all eyes were on you. Satoru looks up from you to bark orders to the guards he had placed around the room. They leave to summon the Imperial Physician while Gojo is left clinging onto your limp body, praying to the Heavens above that they will grant him one more miracle.

—

Back in his chambers, Gojo’s head pounds, but he’s not sure whether it was the speed he shot up from his bed or the dream itself. He feels hot, sweat running from his bare chest that heaves to bring oxygen to his quickly pumping heart. He’s nearly certain his chest is going to cave any second with the way it constricts with pain. It was like he was a geezer, he humors silently.

“Your Grace?” A delicate hand cups his cheek. 

He follows the direction of the hand, eyes slowly trailing up the feminine body it belonged to, barely covered as a result of the thin silk nightgown that highlighted her natural curves. “Are you alright? It was only a nightmare.” She cradles his face, moving slowly in his vulnerable state.

Satoru breathes heavily, eyes widening as they travel from her breasts to her face, beautifully illuminated by the sparse moonlight leaking from the window. Her dark hair falls past her shoulders, obscuring some of his access to her skin. His beautiful mistress. He’s sure that she is whispering sweet nothings into his ear, but the images of his memory keep replaying in his mind, occupying it from functioning properly. ”Himiko, how did you–”

“I heard you and I couldn’t bear it.” Her finger softly caressed his flushed cheek, trying her best to ignore the bewildered look on her lover’s face. 

THE PRESENT —

The journey to the Inner Palace was a blur. After a long goodbye, a horse drawn carriage was sent to the front of Yaga’s estate the very next morning. Your mind was elsewhere the entire time, too busy mulling over your past and now damned future. 

That is why when the carriage comes to a complete stop in front of the servants’ quarters, you are startled to meet two awfully familiar faces.

The two are silent, eyes carefully watching you exit the carriage. The purple set of eyes steps forward first to take your bags from you. 

“Ah thank you Mister—“ Your voice trails off, eyes looking up from the dark robes in front of you only to be surprised with a familiar face. “L-Lord Geto?” 

His lips quirk up slightly upon recognition. “Welcome back, [Name].” Your heart throbs at his indifference from the last interaction you had. It is quickly concealed by the excitement in your voice when your eyes spot a comforting pair of eyes.

“And Kento?” You light up.

Suguru raises an eyebrow at your familiarity with the Imperial Chancellor. He knows he should be relieved that you held no malice towards himself and Nanami, knowing the struggle you were subjected to when banished. However, there was a foreboding feeling gnawing deep within his soul. Guilt? Fear? It was hard for Geto to put a finger on it.

Nanami simply nods in acknowledgment, but stays silent under Geto’s watchful gaze.

“[Name],” The black haired man starts. Your eyes return to his face. “I wanted to be the first to greet you here, but I suppose Lord Nanami must have had the same idea.” He chuckles lightly, but the mirth never makes it to his eyes. You don’t notice Lord Nanami stiffening up.

“To say I am flattered would be an understatement, Lord Geto.” You return the same sugarcoated pleasantries. 

Geto must have noticed your unease, reminding you, “Please, there is no need to keep your guard up around me. I don’t bite.” His voice has a teasing lilt. It does little to soothe you. 

“Can you blame me, Lord Geto?” Your eyes meet his purple ones that narrow at your allusion.

“I suppose not.” He hums. “Though I must tell you that the incident was out of my power. I must carry that burden everyday, so I implore you to forgive me, [Name].” He throws out your given name once again like you were familiar. 

When you don’t respond, he continues, “I know, it is easier said than done.”

“You don’t say.” You bite your tongue as soon as the words leave your mouth. He fails to acknowledge how your last interaction was your banishment, served just by the man in front of you.

A sigh escapes Geto’s lips. "As a gesture of my accountability, I place myself entirely at your disposal. Simply name a favor, and it shall be fulfilled." You can’t detect anything but sincerity in his words, leaving you speechless. “Of course, it had to be within my power, but I shall grant you one request in return for your forgiveness.”

“I—” You were too shocked to form a thought. “I don’t know what to say.”

Suguru’s eyes crinkle, "Our last encounter may not have been pleasant, but I still consider you a dear friend, after all.”

“I am flattered to say the least that you had decided to grant me such honor,” you gape.

Geto shakes his head softly, “You shouldn’t hold me to such high regard. I could hardly bear the weight of your disfavor.”

“You know I don’t harbor any ill feelings towards what happened,” you say softly. It wasn’t Suguru’s decision what happened that night.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself otherwise,” the black haired man in front of you pushes. You relent. Perhaps you should just bite your tongue and accept the opportunity presented. “Please. Just think about it.”

You watch in silence as Geto turns around to walk away. His sudden offer leaves your mind racing. A man of his caliber, second to none but the emperor himself, would be able to grant any of your desires. Perhaps you should ask to import Western literature, tales of great fantasy— or, you could think bigger and ask to move back with your clan. Though you highly doubt he will entertain the latter, considering your indentured servitude to the Inner Palace. 

Your racing thoughts are diverted when you hear someone clear their throat to capture your attention. You perk up when you realize that Lord Nanami was still here, and you have completely ignored his presence.

“I am just as surprised to see your immediate return to the palace.” Nanami adjusts the glasses on his face, sympathetic eyes never leaving you. You flush under his gaze. It was quite embarrassing knowing the entire palace probably had caught wind of your incident with the emperor.

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips. 

“It wasn’t my intention,” you mumble. “But I suppose if fate has decided, there is not much I can do.”

“You truly believe that it was fate that brought you here?” Nanami asks, the hold he had on your arm tightening enough to catch your attention but not enough to hurt. 

“I-” You begin, words failing to conjure. “I’m not sure.”  You had thought that your banishment was fate, but now that you had been brought back, it felt like you were simply at the mercy of something cruel.

Nanami watches your eyes staring wistfully at the blue sky above, his own flickering to each of your features. He wonders if you know that your expressions gave you away. It’s more endearing than anything, from the flutter of your eyelashes, the wrinkle of your nose, to the furrow of your eyebrows. Only a blind man would deny the fact that you were easy to fall in love with. However, it would make a foolish man to dare to pursue you.

 He’ll appreciate you and your charm from afar where his head may stay attached to his body.

The comfortable silence shared between the two of you is disrupted by a flock of handmaidens passing by. Nanami tenses his jaw when the voices become audible. 

“Is it really her?”

“It’s said that she tried to sneak into the Emperor’s chambers.”

“Is that Lord Nanami? My, we must warn him about that whore that tried to seduce the emperor!”

“Poor Lady Himiko.”

Anger swells in your chest. Though you’re not sure what tale had managed to escape the servants’ quarters, but you pray that they may never reach the emperor’s ears. It was simply profane to the beloved consort, an offense that you know Gojo would never forgive you for. You can deal with nasty gossip, having previous experience, but you doubt you can handle being beheaded for conspiring against the emperor and his consort.

“I’m afraid no matter how much time has passed, the palace rumors seem to never die.” Nanami sighs, exhaustion evident in his gravelly voice. “I advise you to brace yourself. Within these coming days, the fire will only get hotter.” He doesn’t bother elaborating on his words, choosing to lead you to your new chambers.

“Thank you for the advice Nanami,” you exhale. “However, I am sure I’ll be able to manage on my own. After all, I’ve been doing it for quite some time.” The moment the solemn words leave your mouth his eyes soften. You quickly look away, flustered.

“I know you can, [Name]. I suppose my anxieties are misplaced, forgive me.” You can feel his stare bore into the side of your face. He sighs, “it is a habit that comes natural to me.” He worries for you. The words go unsaid, but you are able to decipher his double meaning.

Your heart flutters at his kind implications, eyes too shy to meet him once more. Instead, you choose to fix your gaze on the doors to the servants’ quarters. The blonde man beside you takes the liberty to open the doors to your new room. 

At the sight in front of you, your heart lurches.

Before you stands a familiar head of white hair, standing tall with his back turned towards you. His head was tilted slightly, as if scrutinizing something unseen, before he slowly shook it. Then, with an unsettling calm, he turned to face you, his gaze heavy with unspoken intent.

“I’ll take her from here,” Gojo’s icy voice breaks the silence that had overtaken you and Nanami.

“Of course,” Nanami bows deeply. You turn to bid the man goodbye, but he leaves hurriedly without sparing you so much as a glance. You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows in confusion, eyes longingly watching your old friend walk away.

The moment the shoji doors close behind him, Gojo clears his throat.

“[Name],” he tests the waters, his movements deliberate as he takes a slow, tentative step toward you, the air between you thick with an unspoken tension.

“Your Majesty,” You respond shakily, retreating a step as your breath catches.

“Please,” Gojo mutters breathlessly, his voice trembling with unspoken desperation, his eyes pleading with an intensity that only deepens the pit in your stomach. He takes two deliberate strides forward, the gap between you vanishing as though drawn by an invisible force.

“No,” You shake your head, pain flashing across your face. You won’t let him waltz right into your life after carelessly tossing you away, not without consequence. It is to no surprise that words seem to go unheard to the man in front of you. His eyes glistened in the dim lighting, fixed intently on your face, tracing each feature with a quiet focus, as if he were trying to burn them into his memory.

The world seemed to stay still just for the two of you. But it only lasted for just a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Gojo mutters, a strong hand flying to the back of your neck tugging you towards him for a searing kiss. The instant his lips crash against yours, he lets out a soft whimper, as though the very act consumes him. Despite the passage of time, your body responds instinctively, like it was always meant to be this way.

It felt like the only thing that mattered was the fact that he was right in front of you, your fast beating hearts making contact with the way he had your chest pressed to his. All while pushing you against his body, Gojo allows his hand to trail down your back, revisiting every valley that he had once memorized.

“Mph,” your traitorous hands find their way into his head of white hair. He smiles into the kiss upon hearing his name leave your mouth.

“Yes?” He leaves a wet kiss at the base of your throat, bending down to continue his frenzy.

“This isn’t right,” the words came out of your mouth in a whisper, as if you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

“You’re wrong.” He inhales deeply, attaching his mouth onto your collarbone, ”I was made solely for this.” A small whine leaves his mouth when you hesitantly try to push him off. He uses his innate strength to fight your attempts.

“May I ask something of you?”

A kiss was placed on your jawline. Another on the base of your throat.

“Anything,” he breathes.

“Do you..” Your voice falters. “Do you love her?” Like you loved me? 

The trail of kisses come to a complete stop. For a second you fear you may have overstepped. The emperor’s silence was palpable. The only sound that filled your ears was the harsh thuds of your own heart. 

“[Name]...” he slowly stands up to tower over you with his height. The distant look in his eyes forms a pit in your stomach.

“Answer me,” you whisper, the pit deepening.

“I am just a man,” he reasons. Your heart drops at his answer.

“You could not even take an oath of monogamy,” you spit. “You are nothing but a weak man.” 

His eyes shoot up from their trance frantically. You fear that the lust he had been tempted with had worn off, and now you were left with nothing but wrath.

“I understand that I was nothing but a spoil of war, but you could have done me one last favor by allowing me to leave on my own accord. You did not have to cast me away,” your vision starts to waver with the tears that puddle in your eyes. “If I knew your heart had yearned for another I would have left.”

The set of blue eyes that stare at you are no longer the lively shade that you had grown to love. They have been replaced by an uncertain stormy grey. It was almost laughable. A man, so big, who had the world in the palm of his hand looked so small.

A cruel part in you enjoyed seeing the turmoil in his eyes after the events that had transpired.

“Had I known the tribulations I put you through, perhaps I would have put a second thought before choosing you.” Gojo exhales, pinching in between his eyebrows. “But I must assure you that you weren’t the only one suffering.” And for a moment you think you see lightning strike in those stormy irises of his. 

Your eyes widen at his confession.

He lets out a deep sigh, “The head maid will be here any minute. I bid you farewell. I pray that with our next interaction, your heart learns to soften.”

Ever for dramatics, Gojo leaves before you can get the last word.

—

True to his word, the head maid soon comes to assign your duties. You’re not surprised at your new set of responsibilities: tending to the emperor’s garden, sweeping the floors to his chambers, and overseeing his meal preparations. 

It is nothing out of your skill set, and you’re more than willing to accept your predicament rather than being burned alive for offending the emperor on numerous accounts. You suppose even Gojo was kind enough to spare you from that cruel fate. It almost softens your heart enough to decide to forgive him of his transgressions. Almost.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud clang of a pot. When you turn your head towards the direction of the sound, you’re met with the head maid’s stern gaze. Her eyes narrowed on the wooden spoon you had been mixing in the broth. 

Ah. She wanted you to perform the mandatory poison test before serving the food to the emperor.

However, just as you bring the spoon to your lips, it is violently swatted from your hand, clattering to the floor. Your eyes sadly linger on the spilled broth before snapping to the culprit, your gaze filled with disbelief.

"There were strict orders to ensure that the task did not fall to you," the head maid, Ogami, declared sharply. The elderly woman, with silver hair neatly tied in a tight bun and skin etched with the marks of years spent in service, raised a wrinkled finger in your direction.

You blink, taken aback by her sudden reprimand, the sharpness in her gaze leaving you momentarily frozen. It didn’t make sense—there had been no mention of any such orders, no one had informed you of any changes. You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch in your throat, swallowed by the weight of her unyielding stare. 

How strange.

Days pass by like a blur, your routine falling into place. When dawn arrives, you’re up to prepare the emperor’s garments for the day. Your mid-mornings grow even busier as the palace comes alive with activity. Whether mending torn hems or ensuring the ceremonial robes are free of imperfection, you move like a ghost through the corridors with hopes of going unnoticed. The emperor’s unusual antics, however, make it nearly impossible to slip by unnoticed. He seems to have a knack for drawing your attention. His antics often begin at ungodly hours, long before the sun graces the horizon, as he attempts to coax you into sharing the first meal of the day with him. You decline each time, yet his persistence never wavers, a boyish grin always accompanying his invitations. By the time the sun reaches its zenith, Gojo finally departs to attend to his imperial duties. It’s only then, in the quiet lull of his absence, that you find the chance to make real progress with your work.

“To say I am relieved because of your presence would be an understatement, [Name].” Nanami and you overlook the palace’s main courtyard. 

You smile, hands filled with silks that needed washing, “I could say the same.” The emperor’s outrageous requests were driving you mad. Your mind flashes to earlier that week when he had insisted on hand feeding you honey! You wonder how he survived without a personal servant before you took the position.

“His Majesty is as eccentric as ever, I assume.” Nanami’s eyes crinkle. 

You laugh, “You know him too well!”

“I didn’t have much choice,” he shakes his head, smile ghosting his lips. “We’ve known eachother since our youth.”

You perk up at the news, your curiosity piqued. The confusion must have been written all over your face, prompting Nanami to offer a quick clarification.

“It was brief, our time at the academy. But we were both under the instruction of Yaga,” he elaborates. Huh. What a small world, you think as Nanami paints an unexpected connection. 

“I am struggling to imagine you and him studying under the ever serious Yaga,” you giggle.

“I was in the year below him. It was Lord Geto and Shoko who were first hand witnesses to his nature.” Nanami tells you. 

You nearly dropped all of the emperor’s clothes, “Shoko?” The revelation that your own friend was acquainted with the emperor stopped you dead in your tracks. Had she known him personally all along? If so, she made no effort to reveal it. Instead, she appeared almost disgusted by him, though you had chalked it up to her disdain for the new ruling dynasty rather than a personal vendetta against the man himself.

“I am aware you were well acquainted with her in your time in the Outer Palace, no?” “Yes, but–” you pause, before eyes snapping back to Nanami. “How did you know?”

Nanami blinks, momentarily caught off guard. His eyes widen a fraction, and he opens his mouth as if to explain, but then falters, his words stumbling.

Before he can say anything, a soft, familiar voice drifts from behind you.

“[Name]!” A servant of Lady Himiko calls urgently, her voice laced with a sense of urgency. You turn to face her.

“Yes?”

“The emperor requests your presence in the ceremonial hall. He says it is of great importance and that you must make haste!” The girl exclaims, grabbing your only free arm and tugging you toward the hall.

You glance back at Nanami, your eyes silently promising him that this conversation is far from over. He gives a small nod, acknowledging your unspoken words as he bids you farewell.

“Ah, may I ask what the emperor requires of me?” you ask, trying to maintain some control over the situation.

“You’ll see,” she replies, her tone clipped. Without sparing you a glance, she pulls you forward with determination, clearly focused on her task.

Like a lamb heading toward slaughter, you find yourself helplessly being dragged through the grand doors of the ceremonial hall, your thoughts swirling with questions you can’t yet answer.

The expansive room was eerily empty, a stark contrast to its usual grandeur. The sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting long beams of light that danced across the polished floors, illuminating the intricate tapestries and the grand pillars that lined the hall. But your gaze soon shifted, focusing on the emperor’s seat at the very end of the room.

You had expected the usual scene: Gojo slouched in his throne-like chair, whiny and complaining about the mountain of paperwork he despised. But what greeted you instead was something far more unexpected.

A figure stood poised at the head of the room, commanding the space with an elegance that was undeniable. Anyone familiar with the court could recognize her signature choice of kimono—the rich plum silk embroidered with intricate gold patterns, delicate yet striking. Her hair, black as midnight and flowing like a river of silk, cascaded down her back in perfect waves, a stark contrast to her porcelain-like complexion.

It was Lady Himiko. Her beauty was legendary, whispered about among women across the nation, often compared to a living work of art. The rumors of her grace and poise weren’t exaggerated. Standing there, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, who remained perfectly still and attentive at her side.

Her eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, your breath was stolen. The stillness of the room was palpable, and you couldn’t help but wonder why she was here, in the emperor’s seat, with not a whisper of Gojo in sight.

“Ah, just the one I was looking for!” her eyes light up when she sees her servant return with you in her hand. The gleam in her eyes fill you with unease.

“Lady Himiko, it is an honor,” you bow.

“There’s no need for that! Please, stand.” She waves her slender fingers at you, or so it seems, but at her silent command, her ladies-in-waiting begin to move toward you.

You take a step back, instinctively using the emperor’s garments, still damp from your earlier washing, as a shield against their sudden movements. The soft rustling of fabric is almost deafening in the silence that follows.

Lady Himiko’s eyes narrow at the motion, her sharp gaze flicking to the garments you hold between you and her. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays at the corners of her lips, but it does nothing to ease the tension thickening in the air.

“I understand the unspoken animosity between us,” she says, her voice smooth, but there's an edge to it that sets your nerves on edge. “I pray you will accept my humble apology.” She clasps her hands together, but her eyes remain calculating, never leaving yours.

Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “I had not expected the emperor to kindle such… passion for me so suddenly. It was neither of our intentions that fateful night we reunited after the days of our youth.” She shakes her head softly, laughing nervously. "How rude of me, I doubt you of all would want to hear about Satoru and I."

Your breath hitches, caught between surprise and a tightening knot of discomfort in your chest. The weight of her words presses down on you, and you struggle to maintain composure.

“I do apologize for bringing you here on such deceptive terms, but I had to get your attention somehow,” she continues. “As one who has been a former concubine, I wanted your counsel on how I should navigate this delicate matter.” If you didn’t know any better, you would say she was mocking you. But you knew Himiko wasn’t one you wanted to offend, so you bite your tongue.

Instead, you nod, steeling yourself against the discomfort crawling up your spine. “What is it that you need from me?” you ask, your voice betraying none of the wariness you feel.

Himiko’s ladies-in-waiting close in around you swiftly, subtly guiding your every step toward the emperor’s stand. The grand hall feels even larger as you’re led deeper into its heart, each step reverberating through the space.

At the end of the room stands Himiko, watching you approach with a distant gaze. The soft glow from the nearby windows catches on the polished surface of the wooden desk before her, where inkstones, brushes, and stacks of paper lie in disarray.

You pause, your gaze falling upon the desk, and that’s when you notice the manuscript she’s pointing to. Her perfectly filed nails trace the edges of the paper with deliberate slowness. Though you cannot read the characters from this distance, the emblems that adorn the papers are unmistakable. They belong to some of the most powerful clans in the empire, each one a mark of authority and influence.

As your eyes skim across the paper Himiko’s hand rests on, the characters seem to leap off the page in a rush of realization. It’s a proposal– one written by the notorious Zenin clan. You can almost feel the air grow heavy as you piece it together. The words speak of demands for more autonomy—an increase in their power, more control over the lands they already possess. And you know, instinctively, that if this were to pass, everything Gojo has fought for, everything he’s struggled to protect, would crumble into dust. His fight against the rigid clan-based hierarchy would be for naught.

For a moment, your mind reels. This is no mere conversation or request for guidance. This is a game of power, one where you’re being used as a pawn. Her eyes lock with yours, and the air between you thickens with unspoken understanding. She must’ve taken you for a mere tool to execute her own plans.

But you’re no fool, and that realization comes like a slap to the face. You straighten your posture, eyes hardening as the weight of the situation settles in.

“These seals...” Your voice falters as you stare at the emblems, your hand hovering over the manuscript as though touching it might implicate you further. The weight of the realization crashes down on you like a cold wave. You look up at Himiko, bewildered, your heart pounding in your chest. Meddling with state affairs, let alone tampering with the emperor’s documents was a crime punishable by death.

“Does the emperor know about this?” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and indignation. “This—this could be considered treason!”

“Careful with your words,” she says softly, her tone calm. “It is not treason when it is for the betterment of the empire.”

Your mouth opens as if to respond, but no sound escapes.

“The emperor has always held you in high regard,” Himiko says with a wistful sigh, her eyes narrowing on your figure. “I’ve no doubt he would find it impossible to refuse any command spoken by you.”

Her cryptic words linger in the air, their implications sinking into you. You’re left reeling, unsure of whether her remark is meant as flattery or a thinly veiled mockery of your banishment. 

She scoffs, her delicate façade cracking as her tone turns venomous. “The emperor may not know, but I see right through you. Seducing him to claim yourself as some spoil of war and twisting his mind to lead our nation to ruin—it’s sickening. Truly, a shame the assassination attempt failed.” Her words lash out like a whip, her civil mask shattering entirely.

You gasp, her implications cutting deep even as your heart hardens against the venom. Had she known–?

“Perhaps that is what the entire Court believes of me,” you manage, your voice trembling yet steady enough to carry your conviction. Months of whispered rumors and vicious gossip had thickened your skin, and you refused to crumble under her scrutiny. “But I will not allow you to sully the emperor’s reputation.”

As much as you detested Gojo, your disdain for the corrupt elders burned hotter. They had plotted your downfall, attempted to take your life, and now sought to undermine everything Gojo was fighting to build. You could not allow them to gain any more power in the Court  than they already held.

Himiko’s lips curl into a cold, triumphant smile as she picks up an inkstone and brush from the emperor’s desk. “As his Honored Consort and future Empress I command you to hold this for me while I pave the way for a greater future.” Her words are laced with mockery as she extends the inkstone toward you.

You recoil instinctively, shaking your head. “No. I refuse—” Your rejection is firm, your voice sharper than you expected, as you pull away, clutching the emperor’s garments protectively against your chest. 

The next few moments unravel in slow motion, as though fate itself had decided to humiliate you. Himiko’s gasp pierces the air as your sudden movement causes the inkstone to slip, spilling its dark, viscous contents over her elaborate kimono. The silk, undoubtedly crafted from the finest threads in Japan, drinks in the stain, the deep black spreading like a wound across the fabric.

“My lady!” Her servants rush to her side, their collective cries of alarm startle you. They push you aside as they fuss over her, their movements frantic as they attempt to salvage her now-ruined garment.

You stumble back, staring in disbelief at the disaster you’d unwittingly caused. “I—I am truly sorry—” you begin, but your words falter under the weight of the situation.

“What is going on here?”

The booming voice echoes through the hall like thunder, freezing everyone in place. You whip your head toward the source, your pulse quickening as your eyes land on the figure now standing in the doorway. The emperor himself, Gojo, commands the room with his presence, his expression a mixture of confusion and rising fury as he takes in the scene before him. By his side stands the owner of the voice, an elder, with an expression carved with barely restrained anger piercing through you.

Himiko lets out a sharp cry, her voice trembling with a convincing mix of distress and indignation. Gojo reacts instantly, rushing by her side, his features hardening with concern.

“I found her forging His Majesty’s signature,” Himiko exclaims, her voice wavering just enough to sound genuine. “When I tried to intervene, she lashed out and attacked me.” She trembles as she buries her head against the emperor’s chest.

It hits you—the full realization of her calculated scheme. This was her plan all along.

“I-I didn’t!” you stammer, your voice raw with desperation. “That wasn’t what happened at all– she was the one tampering with imperial documents. I tried to stop her!”

Gojo’s piercing blue eyes snap to yours, cutting off your explanation. His gaze, once warm and teasing, now burns with unrestrained fury. The bile rises in your throat as you see it. Anger, disdain, and worst of all, disbelief.

“Himiko,” he murmurs, his arms tightening protectively around her trembling form. Her soft sniffling only adds to the spectacle.

“To be caught tampering with imperial records is one thing,” Gojo finally says, his voice icy and cutting, “but to stoop so low as to accuse Lady Himiko? Was this an act out of jealousy? Spite? How pathetic. This is beneath even you, [Name].”

You feel your knees weaken, the tears you’ve fought to hold back beginning to pool in your eyes. “Please, you have to believe me,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of his words.

His expression darkens further, the light in his sky-blue eyes replaced by thunderclouds. “Why would I believe you?” he sneers, his tone laced with contempt.

A single tear escapes down your cheek, followed by another, and then another, until you can no longer stop them. The dam of your resolve breaks, shattered by his cruel dismissal.

“Why?” Your voice trembles, breaking as the tears come freely now. “Why don’t you believe me?”

Gojo’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “Don’t make me laugh,” he says coldly. “How could I ever believe in one as base as you?”

His words cut deeper than any blade, piercing through the walls you’d built to protect yourself. You’d convinced yourself you were immune to his indifference, but the searing pain in your chest proves otherwise.

“Leave,” he commands, his voice sharp and final. “Do not look back. Your very presence stirs nothing but disdain within me.”

You stagger back, his words striking harder than any physical blow. He might as well have drawn his sword and ended it here. The infamous tales you had heard about Gojo were once glorious images that were painted of your beloved. You had never thought you would be on the other end of his blade. 

Without a word, you turn and run, your vision blurred with tears. The emperor’s garments slip from your hands, forgotten in your haste to escape the suffocating anguish. You don’t look back, even as the echoes of his disgust chase you out of the hall.

If there was one undeniable truth that Geto Suguru knew, it was that his best friend, Gojo Satoru could be an utter fool. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of a youth stolen too soon, replaced by the crushing weight of an empire resting on his shoulders. The brilliance that made Gojo a formidable emperor rendered him hopelessly inept when it came to navigating the labyrinth of his own emotions.

And as his closest confidant, bound by loyalty and friendship, Geto Suguru couldn’t help but feel the urge to shake some sense into him—to force him to confront what he stubbornly refused to see.

That is why, when your trembling form hurries across the courtyard, tears streaming down your face, Geto Suguru can’t help but halt you in your steps. 

“I’m leaving.” you declare, your voice raw, your eyes red and swollen. The words, so resolute despite your trembling tone, catch him off guard.

“What?” he asks, his brows knitting together in confusion.

“My favor,” you say firmly, though your voice wavers. “I want to leave this place.”

For a moment, Geto says nothing, his sharp mind scrambling to process the abruptness of your request. Then he shakes his head, his expression softening. “You know I can’t do that.”

Your incredulous gaze snaps up to meet him. “So you lied to me?”

“No, not at all,” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “I meant—I can grant you time off. But as someone under the emperor’s direct supervision, I can’t allow you to leave permanently. What I can do is give you one lunar cycle away from court.”

You hesitate, weighing his offer before giving a sharp nod. “I’ll take it. Just let me leave,” you reply, sniffling.

Geto watches you for a moment longer, his chest tightening at the sight of your despair. “I’ll make the arrangements right away,” he says gently. “I’m sorry we seem to meet only under such terrible circumstances.”

“I’m sorry too,” you murmur, your tone hollow.

He hesitates, searching for the right words to offer some semblance of comfort. “Whatever he did, I’m sure—”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, your voice colder now. “He made his disgust for me perfectly clear.” You march past him, your steps resolute despite the trembling in your shoulders. “Thank you for understanding, though I must beg you to keep this between us. Who knows what might happen to either of us if he finds out.”

Geto exhales slowly, his composure steady but his mind racing. Just what, exactly, had his best friend done this time? Gojo’s antics always seemed to leave Geto cleaning up the aftermath, but this—this was something else entirely.

Just as he promised, there is a carriage waiting for you outside of the servants’ quarters. With heavy bags in hand and an even heavier heart, you make your way toward it, each step weighted with reluctant resolve. The irony of the moment doesn’t escape you, a sense of déjà vu washing over you, as though life had played this scene out countless times before.

You turn sharply, your bleary eyes meeting the calm, hazel gaze of someone you hadn’t expected to see.

“Nanami?” you breathe, disbelief coloring your tone.

He inclines his head in a polite nod. “Forgive the intrusion, but I insist on accompanying you,” he says, his voice as composed as ever. “The roads beyond the palace can be dangerous, especially for someone traveling alone.”

For a moment, you simply stare, caught between gratitude and confusion. The warmth in your chest battles against the ache that lingers from your earlier ordeal. “And what of the emperor?” you ask, forcing a faint smile. “Would he not throw a fit in your absence?”

Nanami lets out a quiet, mirthless laugh, the sound more bitter than amused. “Perhaps,” he admits, adjusting the luggage in his hands with ease. “But he was never one to share, was he?”

taglist. @wr4inn @sukioyakio @siopaoxcc @thejujvtsupost @bakananya @catobsessedlady @fiannee @sleepycow21 @kirashuu @deluludyslexic @isaacdaknight @bathroom-sand @arehzhera @lostinneocity @victoria1676 @uziwork @alexatiu @taenosaurrr @sukunasleftkneecap @toecurlingstories @yandere-stories @dreamsarenicer @hiyaitssans @getoicious @docosahexaenoic-san @goldenglow149 @amiorcani @step-on-me-melissa @erensswife1 @roses-and-reeses @ssc7514 @hyunsuks-beanie @crankyarchives @wooasecret @theiridescentdragon @mshitachin @kieralive @cake-with-the-cream @miffysoo @msvalsius @drthymby @sherryuki-callmeyuki @anonymous-creep @altgojo @aesukuni @sadmonke @luna-v-roiya @hightoasterr @rebeccawinters @paprikaquinn @frozenmallows

[yoiisa]

It is possible to write with Blue Lock Bys (Yukimiya, Reo, Rin, Michael, Shidou and Isagi) with a s/o who has high libido. Please😫😈

of course darling hehe (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

part 2 with sae, barou, nagi, and ness is here!

all characters aged up (20+)! Tags: pwp ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ), dirty talk, unprotected sex, p in v, begging, thigh humping (yukimiya), lingerie kink (reo), fingering (rin), oral sex f! receiving (kaiser), car sex, slight degredation (shidou), and body worship (isagi), please proceed with caution as this is smutty!!

➜ yukimiya kenyu would be such a tease with you, but like, in a knowing way ➜ like he'd pretend to jump at the opportunity to sate your appetite, but actions speak louder than words, and he would tease you by continuously putting sex off until you're actually dying for it ➜ he wants you begging for it, because then he can finally take care of you fully, caring for your every need with intense diligence ➜ he's very particular about enjoying every little detail about you, so by teasing you and drawing out your need so much, he thinks it helps him experience everything more intensely ➜ and it most certainly ensures you feel everything more intensely

"Kenyu, please~" you whine as you sit on his lap. "Please..." "What is it baby? he coos softly. It's sarcastic, you know, but still the rumble of his voice is something, and you're so desperate right now you'll take something over nothing any day of the week. Your hips begin to rub against his thighs in an unconscious effort for friction. Your eyes close as you rest your head on his shoulder. A small sigh of relief escapes your lips as Yukimiya allows the ministrations, and a tiny smile pulls at your mouth. At least there's this. Something over nothing, remember that- "Baby, I told you, at the end of this chapter, I'll-" Yukimiya's hand moves to you ass, gripping it tightly, trying to still your hips. "Kenyu, you said that three chapters ago!" your voice is high pitched and almost manic as a particularly sharp sensation of pleasure echoes through your body. You fist his shirt and nuzzle into the crook of his neck. "Mmmmm- please Ken, I . . . I can't take this anymore~" With a sigh, he closes his book. He sets it off to the side and wraps his arms around you, pulling you tighter against him. You begin kissing at his neck and jaw, your tongue darting out to taste his skin. You feel like you're floating, everything about Yukimiya furthering how deep you spiral into a sweet needy mess for him. "Okay, come on," he says sweetly, kissing your temple. "I'll give you exactly what you need my sweet baby." You can only preen at the idea that you're finally getting what you want as he lifts you bridal style from the couch and kicks the bedroom door closed behind you two with his heel.

➜ oh reo mikage my king ➜ i think reo's favorite hobby when it comes to people he cares about is spoiling them rotten, so if you have a high drive, he's all for it, 100% ➜ if you come calling, he'll drop everything for you. ➜ also, bonus! in my mind, this man has a thing for lingerie, so you better fucking believe that this man has an entire section of your closet just dedicated to different sets. ➜ maroon, black, lavender, navy blue, gold, in silk, satin, lace, and whatever else your mind can conjure up. If you can think it, he has probably bought it and fucked you in it ➜ after all, he has the time and the resources, and he's nothing if not generous, so why not make the most of it?

Reo ran his hand over his face, then threading his fingers through his hair. The hour was wearing on him, he could feel the ache settling into his bones. He stands and walks to a chaise in his study, pouring a drink for himself and sipping it. However, he barely gets two sips down his throat before the glass is being forced away from his lips. His eyes widen and he looks down to see you, with your fingers gently pushing at the rim of his glass. You're dressed in a lavender silk robe, the fabric hanging loosely over a peak of lace hugging your skin. His pupils enlarge as he takes in the teasing glimpse and you laugh softly at his expression. "I . . . thought you might be stressed," you say, taking the glass from him and setting it on a table next to the chaise. "I wanted to come help." He's silent for a moment, before a smirk tugging at his lips. A soft blush paints his cheeks and he cups your face lovingly in his hands. "Is that the only reason?" You pout and wrap your arms around his neck, giggling softly. "Hmmm . . . no~" And that's how you end up on the chaise, your legs bent over his shoulder. Your panties are pulled to the side, and your bra is still on, but your robe has been tossed somewhere far behind the two of you. Reo hovers above you, dragging moans and cries of pleasure from your mouth with each deep thrust into you. He's intoxicating, and you can't seem to get enough of him. And as you stare deep into his eyes, you know he feels the same. As you reach your peak for the third time that night, your eyes flutter closed, your back arches, and he welcomes it with a sharp inhale of his own and a kiss pressed against the hollow of your throat.

➜ i feel like rin itoshi's drive isn't the highest thing in the world ➜ like, he enjoys sex and he with you he really enjoys it, but it's never been his priority in the relationship ➜ also I feel like between soccer practices and other responsibilities he gets tired pretty easily ➜ that being said, he does still want to help you out whenever you get needy, so when he's too spent to use his cock, he resorts to his next best thing ➜ or in my opinion, my fav thing about him: his fingers

"Rin!" you gasp, clinging to his body like a madman. His fingers delve deftly inside of you, curling at all the right angles, and sending sparks of pure bliss throughout your lower body. When your hips give a particularly harsh buck, he tsks and grabs your ass with his free hand. "Stop moving so much," he growls. The deep cadence of his voice sends another thrill of pleasure in you and you nuzzle your head deep into neck. "Sorry, 't just feels so good," you mewl. "I love it so much . . . ah~!" A smirk appears on Rin's face, but just as quickly as it comes it vanishes. He licks his lips as he stares down at your disheveled appearance. Your hair is disheveled, and your bare from the waist down. You're not wearing a bra, so he can see the outlines of your chest as it heaves beneath your shirt, which hangs loosely over your frame. When you pull back from his neck, the look in your eyes almost makes him finish right then and there. They glisten with tears of pleasure, and are lidded. He can see the pleasure you're feeling etched into every line of your iris, and love is mixed within that. He feels a tight pull in his chest and he can't help himself from leaning down and catching your lips in his. His tongue immediately delves into your mouth, exploring your mouth. You moan softly into his mouth and he sighs. His fingers don't let up at all, continuing to tease and prod and touch every crevice it can reach. You start to writhe in his arms, but he holds fast, keeping you still. You have no choice but to succumb to his assault on your core. Rin kisses you as you finish on his hand, groaning as you go all sweet and pliant in his hands. When he pulls back, you slump against him like a rag doll and he huffs out a hoarse laugh. As you regain your bearings, he lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean.

➜ michael kaiser operates entirely on his own schedule, so to be honest, if he's not in the mood, you're kinda screwed ➜ but if he is in the mood, YOU are in for it ➜ all his want and desire make your neediness seem like nothing ➜ also, kaiser's got some good ass stamina, so if you set him off, you better pray your drive doesn't fizzle out because this man is getting his fill of you ➜ whether it's on his tongue or on his dick

You squeal as your boyfriend practically chucks you onto the bed. You look over your shoulder and your heart stops beating after you catch a glimpse of the sheer delight on his face. His smile is cocky and powerful and is so goddam sexy. You match his smile and flip onto your back, pushing yourself up on your forearms as Kaiser practically crawls on top of you. Kisses on your mouth turn to kisses on your neck, which turns into kisses along your chest, then your stomach, and before you know it, he's shirtless, you're naked, and his kissing the inside of your thighs. Your hands thread through his hair and he stares up at you, his blue eyes lidded and wanton. His tongue is gentle at first, testing the waters of your arousal, but soon he's lapping at you like a madman. His tongue works wonders on your core, leaving you fully satisfied but still achy for more at the same time. You know it doesn't make any sense, but the "Please" and the "More" still drip from your mouth even as he's delivering everything you've been craving since morning. And he is well aware of the effect he's having on you. You can feel his mouth twist into a smirk against you and it only drives you crazier. Your hands tug at his hair and he hisses, sending sweet vibrations through your core. Your whimpers and moans continue to build in pitch and volume, before finally, you're exploding on his tongue with a sharp call of his name. When Kaiser pulls back, he takes in your mussed appearance with a heat in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. His lips and chin glisten with your fluids. He licks his lips as he settles his hips in between your thighs and gives a sharp grind. "Don't give out on me just yet liebe," he coos. "I'm not done with you yet."

➜ shidou ryusei matches your freak the best on this whole list I think ➜ he will be down for whatever and whenever you want, but also . . . wherever you want ➜ shidou lives for the thrill of life, and chases the high of something new and exciting, so if you're high sex drive comes with promises of that, sign him the fuck up!

"Ryu!" you cry out as he yanks on your hair. The two of you have climbed into the backseat of the car. You're pressed up against the leather of the seats, with his chest flush against yours. You squeal and a slutty smile etches itself onto your face as he licks your neck. "Ryu~ ah . . . oh my god- slow down-ah." "Slow down, huh?" Shidou growls, his lips pulling into a smug smile. "Why~? You were just begging for it a few minutes ago." "I-I know, but- holy shit, you- ah!" You didn't even know it was possible for someone to fuck like this, but here he was. One hand perched on the roof of the car, the other holding the dip of your waist. His face moves from your neck to between the shoulder blades, and he litters kisses there, and sucks bruises down your spine. He travels back up to your shoulder and nips at the skin there, his hips never faltering once in their rhythm. "God I love this little body of yours so much," Shidou whispers hotly against the curve of your ear. "Every single time I see you, fuck, you don't even know how hard you make me." "Mmmmmm," your head tilts back, resting on his shoulder. "I think I do," you whine. "Yeah, can you feel it babygirl? It's all hard and deep inside of you isn't it?" he laughs, the sound sharp and hoarse in your ear. To anyone else, it might be grating, but all it's serving to do right is bridge you closer and closer to the edge. "Fuck! Ryuseiii, I'm gonna- uh! Wait- I, I-!" your eyes go cross and your body shakes with violent tremors. You bite down on your lip to try and keep quiet, but Shidou presses his hand to your lips, prying them open. "Come on now, lemme hear those sweet, sweet- fucking I'm gonna come too. Oh, fuck, fuck, yes. Fuck!" The two of you lean into one another, sweat slicking your bodies as you reach your peak together.

➜ my babygirl isagi yoichi is the easiest to get seduced by you ➜ i had this idea for a fic a long time ago where he comes home and your really needy and it was this whole ovulation type thing, but basically the point boils down to, if you want it isagi will give it ➜ in my mind, he's the most flexible to appeal to whatever type of sex you want, whether it be hard and rough or soft and loving ➜ as we all know he's super adaptable and that carries over during sex, so yay to anyone who's dating him!

Sunlight filters in through the window, the early morning glow giving everything a soft halo to it, including you. You and Isagi are laying on your sides, your chest pressed against his and your leg tossed across his hips. One of your arms are wrapped around his neck and the other trapped between your bodies, your hand intwined with his. A soft blush paints your cheeks and his, and you stare into Isagi's deep blue eyes through your lashes. His strokes are deep and send soft whimpers flowing from your lips. Each whisper of his name only sends Isagi down a path for more, more, more. "Pretty," you whisper, "you look so pretty like this Yoichi, mmm!" He huffs out a dry laugh and shakes his head. Compared to how you look right now- flushed cheeks, dilated eyes, plump lips ready for kissing- he can't imagine how he could even compare to your beauty. You clench down around him and he groans. "You feel so good," he sighs, closing his eyes. His hand squeezes yours and he leans in to nuzzle his nose against yours. "Even this early in the morning . . . how do you always feel so good?" You giggle softly, the sound dissolving into a moan. "Mmmm . . . Yoichi, I love you . . . I love you so much- mmph!" He cuts you off with a firm kiss. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to the end and an embarrassing threatens to escape his lips. For the sake of his dignity, this is the best move. His tongue brushes against yours, and your quick to return his kiss with just as much fervor. He finishes before you, but that's okay. As he says while your panting from the kiss, "It's still early. We have enough time for two- maybe three rounds. Are you okay to keep going?" All you can do is nod, and he continues earnestly, flipping you onto your back and ensuring this time you finish.

a/n: this was a beast to write, especially Shidou. Although I appreciate his freak, I fear I cannot match it as well as I would like lol, so I had to really brainstorm with his to make sure they all didn't just sound the same (˶˃⤙˂˶)

[livinghalfway]

Bury Him with the Roses

TW: mentions of being buried alive

Damian finds out that his twin brother Danyal is alive after finding an article about purple-back gorillas, and as much as he dreads it he does have to inform his father about the child he never knew about. 

Chaos explodes in the house after that revelation. Everyone is doing everything they can to dig up information on the kid. What’s weird though is that getting any sort of information out of Amity Park is proving to be quite difficult. It was a miracle it seems that Damian even found the article in the place. 

In the end though they were able to find an address for the Fenton household. Which is why one week after that discovery Bruce, Damian, and Dick are all on a plane towards Illonis. 

Only when they finally reach their destination late in the evening—the sun already nearly set—, and knock on the door do they come face to face with two grieving parents. The three of them are told that Danyal had died, and had been buried mere hours ago. The two are kind enough though to give them the location of his burial after they explain why they are there. 

Despite it now being dark Damian refuses to go back to the hotel, and demands they go to the grave that instant. He has waited so long to be near his brother once more, and he will not waste another second. 

Walking through the graveyard was a silent affair; guilt heavy in the air. As they walk closer though a light can be seen in the distance along with two individuals. Both of whom are holding shovels; digging. Once it is clear that it is Danyal’s grave specifically nothing is going to hold Damian back. 

He dashes forward and tackles the closest graverobber. Bruce and Dick not far behind grab the other one out of the knee deep hole already dug. The two quickly try to explain that they are friends of Danyal, and are there to save him. That his parents buried him alive. They beg for a moment of silence to prove their case. 

That is when a weak, muffled cry can be heard coming from below their feet. 

Edit: First Chapter for this can be found here

[sitepathos]

Yandere Alpha Batfamily and Omega Male Reader

Been on a bit of an A/B/O kick on AO3 on the last few days, so here’s this. Enjoy it while waiting for the next chapter of From Gold to Mold!

The Wayne Pack is the most famous pack in Gotham and is one of the most influential packs both in America and in the world, not only due to its wealth, connections, and resources, but because it’s populated almost entirely of Alphas (Alfred is a Beta), with Bruce earning the nickname “Alpha of Alphas.”

Everyone knows that Alphas are biologically hardwired to give orders, not take them, but Brave managed to find a way to reign them in and Gotham is in awe that Bruce Wayne was able to raise several Alphas and lead them into high profile galas, auctions, and other events. They also fawn over the fact that everyone in the Wayne Pack has the perfect blend of looks, intelligence, and body.

Needless to say, the Wayne Pack is a pack many wish to join, especially Gotham’s elite. People by the thousands would sacrifice a limb if it meant being a part of such a prestigious pack.

You were the consequence of a one-night stand between Bruce Wayne and a rising romance author Beta woman.

Just like in From Gold to Mold, your mother dies from a drunk driver on the day of your sixth birthday and after a DNA test showed you to be the son of Bruce Wayne, Alfred came to Goodsprings and you were brought to Gotham to live at Wayne Manor.

You always wished to have a Daddy when your friends talked about theirs and now, you were about to be welcomed with open arms.

Needless to say, you were extremely hurt when he barely acknowledged you and walked off, telling Alfred he was going out.

Alfred told you he was dealing with a lot, namely the untimely death of his pup, Jason, and that he just needed time.

Almost a week after you moved in, Bruce adopted Tim Drake and treated him with love and affection. You greeted Tim, hoping to have someone other than Alfred to talk to, but he just gave you a once-over before following Bruce.

You stood by and watched as the two of them would sneak away to the library and stay in there for hours, especially at night.

After a month, when the two of them made their way to the library, you tried to follow and begged Bruce to allow you to join them, clinging to his arm and tears streaming down your cheeks. All you wanted was just a little bit of his love that he shows Tim.

You realized that was never going to happen he shoved you to the floor, growling at you and baring his fangs, his Alpha instincts on full display. And Tim just stood there and said nothing; in fact, he almost seemed to approve.

They didn’t even watch you as you scrambled to get up and run away as fast as you could, fat tears and loud sobs following you as you retreat to your room.

Time passes and as Bruce welcomes more orphans into his house and treats them like his own children, you withdraw more and more into your distant corner of the manor, where only Alfred deigns to tread. And not only do all of them eventually present as Alphas, but they all possess talents, wit, and charm that add to the Wayne Pack’s prestige and social standing.

Then there’s you, smelling of nothing, meaning you’re a mere Beta. Hell, you feel less than that since Alfred’s a Beta and he’s arguably the one who keeps the Wayne Pack functioning. You’re average in every way possible, and in a pack like the Wayne Pack, that’s unforgivable.

You can do nothing but listen as they pile into the pack nest room where they scent one another, eat a stupid amount of fast food and desserts, and laugh at some movie they put on. After the first dozen times, you learned that you’ll never be invited because you’re not pack.

The final straw came when the bane of your existence, Damian Wayne, came to live at the manor. When he tried to kill you with that sword of his and was just carried away and Dick was telling you to turn the other cheek, you realized that no one cares about you and staying in Gotham would ultimately lead to your death.

The next few years play out as they do in From Gold to Mold, complete with the Pen Incident with Damian, your kidnapping and almost murder, and you becoming the host of the Megamycete.

However, when you enter your house in Goodsprings and all the memories come flooding back, you feel an odd sensation coursing throughout your body, like being set aflame, and you smell something sweet, like Alfred’s baking.

It’s thanks to the Megamycete’s archives that you learn that you’ve just presented as an Omega. Specifically, a male Omega, which is less than 1% of the Omega population and is a highly sought after commodity.

You remember from senior biology lesson that Omegas apparently have a built-in defense mechanism; if a would-be Omega feels that their current environment is unable to accommodate their physical, mental, and emotional needs, so much to the point that their life is in danger, they will refuse to present, going as far as imitating Betas until they’re in a proper environment that they feel safe in.

You freak out, knowing that Omegas are looked down on by most of the world and Gotham is ranked one for the worst places to be an Omega due to the residents of Arkham and the archaic laws that deem Omegas unable to function in the outside world and must be kept inside to “shield their fragile hearts and tender souls.”

If it gets out that you’re an Omega, you’ll most likely be sent back to the Waynes and while they may advocate for Omega rights and sponsor many Omega shelters, they’d most likely make an exception in your case and continue treating you like shit.

Hell, they might even throw you on the streets, knowing no one in Gotham would hire an Omega. Or sell you off to one of their rich friends to further their standing in Gotham’s high society.

Then, you learn that Nevada was actually one of the first places to give Omegas equal rights as the state relies on gambling for revenue. They figured that allowing Omegas to work would lead to them using said money at one of the state’s various casinos. And many casinos saw the appeal in hiring Omegas to work in their game rooms, luring countless Alphas in to gamble and drink their hard earned money away.

For the first time in years, you finally felt happy.

For the next four years, the Wayne Pack loses its cohesion. Bruce loses his temper more easily and is more often than not unable to get his children to follow his orders; Dick struggles to keep the peace between Bruce and his siblings; Barbara fails to fulfill her role as Oracle; Jason seems to blow up at everyone for no reason (except Alfred); Tim withdraws more and more from the family; Cass has a hard time focusing on anything, be it ballet or crime fighting; Steph’s usual witty remarks become more harsh and scathing; and Damian refuses to let anyone near him, only allowing Alfred and his loyal pets into his personal space.

Bruce is at his wit’s end at the state of his pack, all his efforts to bring them together only drive them apart. And he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something missing. Something that he never noticed, but was apparently extremely important.

His burning desire to solve this mystery is satisfied when he discovered a gaming magazine mixed in with his newspapers (Alfred claims it’s one of the children’s and must’ve gotten mixed up with Bruce’s papers, but Alfred totally arranged for that to happen) and when he took a good look at the cover, he saw an older version of you staring back at him.

“This is Y/N,” he asks Alfred, totally baffled at what you look like. “That can’t be him! He’s not old enough!”

“And how old do you think he is, sir,” the butler retorts, an eyebrow raised.

Bruce is capable of answering thousands of questions with highly detailed answers almost instantly, but this one makes him freeze due to him not having an answer.

You were… how old when you first moved in? When was that? How old are you? Wait, when is your birthday? And what is your scent? Actually, when was the last time he talked to you?

As he slowly realizes that he knows less than nothing about you, from your birthday to your age to your scent. He bolts out of his office and to the family’s wing of the manor, but he discovers that the only occupied rooms belong to his children and the room next to his has been unoccupied for over a decade.

He frantically asks Alfred where your room is, quickly leading to the others coming to see Bruce almost on his knees and begging to see you, someone none of them have even thought about in years.

Without uttering a word, Alfred leads them to your old room and all of them are ashamed to learn that you spent years in some dingy guest room with a bed that’s barely large enough for a child, let alone a young adult.

“Where’s Y/N,” Bruce asks, trying to keep his composure. “Is he in Gotham?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. Master Y/N left the manor after his graduation (many of them whimper when they learn they missed your graduation) and moved back to his childhood home.” He pauses and when it sinks in they don’t even know where you lived prior to moving into the manor, he adds, “Goodsprings, Nevada.”

It takes everything Bruce has, but he’s able to force his kids to remain in Gotham while he travels to Metropolis so he can attend your award ceremony and convince you to return to his pack where you belong. As he travels, he has Alfred arrange for the unoccupied room to be turned into a proper room for you, complete with anything you might need. He also plans for you and him to have some quality time with each other before the others fight one another over who gets to have you next.

When you finally take the stage to accept your award and give your speech, he realizes something unexpected: you’re an Omega.

Omegas are barely 10% of the global population and males are practically nonexistent and any that are found are quickly scooped up by opportunistic Alphas.

How could he not have known that?! Even if none of them have spent any time with you during your time at the manor, the smell of an Omega would’ve been smelled by someone. Especially Alfred. Lord knows nothing gets past that man.

Were you taking suppressants? And what kind? And how many times a day? If you’ve been taking them since you presented, there’s no telling what kind of damage has been done to your body!

As he begins to draft up a recovery plan for long term suppressant use, it dawns on him that anyone with a functioning nose can smell the tantalizing sweet smell Omegas are known for. Why aren’t you on suppressants now? Did you run out? Or is it too dangerous for you to take them anymore?

Questions begin to pile on top of one another and as much as he’s glad to hear your voice, he wants the ceremony to wrap up quickly so he can take you into his arms and carry you back to the manor so he can burn your scent into his memory and smother you in his scent.

As the ceremony continues, he hears many Alphas in the audience talking among themselves, all of them wishing to drag you into their beds and knot you. It takes everything in him not to break every one of their jaws and ruin your night.

You’re his son and his pack’s Omega! Anyone wanting to court you will have to go through him and your siblings and there’s no one in this galaxy or the next that will ever be worthy of you! Besides, he and your siblings are all you need!

While many of Gotham’s elite consider Omegas to be status symbols and breeding tools, the Wayne Pack is one of the very few to consider Omegas something to be cherished and valued; Omegas bring life into the world and nurture pups and help bring stability into a pack, no matter the personal cost to them.

All packs yearn to have an Omega and while he’s denied any such need, he’s yearned to add an Omega to his pack that they can all trust and work with due to their nightly activities.

It pains him beyond words to know he scorned such a perfect, beautiful gift and he intends to spend the rest of his life atoning for it.

Finally, the ceremony ends and he manages to find you and he commits very detail about you to memory (he’s saddened to see you inherited none of his physical traits and with you using your mother’s maiden name, there’s nothing showing you’re his pup), from the way you stand to the way you look… horrified at the sight of him.

He tries to speak, to apologize for his actions, to beg you to come home, but he barely gets you name past his lips when you throw your glass at him. He can only watch in horror as you berate him for being here and yelling for him to get away from you.

“Y/N, please. We know we messed up�� that I messed up. But things will be different, I swear! Just come home, Y/N! We’re a mess without you—“

“Oh, you people are so dysfunctional that the only way you can live together is if you have someone to take your insecurities and shortcomings out on? And it’s fine that it’s me because I’m an Omega since that’s my lot in life?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that—“

Before he knows it, you’ve backhanded him so hard, black spots dance across his field of vision and before he can recover, you shove him hard and he falls onto the floor. When he looks up, he sees a look on you he’s only seen on Jason and himself: pure rage; the kind that leads to people being seriously injured or dead. It’s also then he smells the putrid stench of hate-pain-rage wafting off you; the smell is so thick that it catches in his lungs and leaves him unable to take a breath.

Before you can do anything else, security comes and separates the two of you. At first, they were going to escort you out for daring to strike an Alpha (New York has strict laws about Omega behavior in public, though not as strict as Gotham), but Lex-fucking-Luthor swooped in and told them to let you go.

“An Omega should never be treated like some common criminal,” he says in an infuriatingly sweet tone. “And it seems to me Bruce Wayne was asking for it.” He holds out his arm. “Might I have the privilege of your company for the evening, Mr. Gould?”

His vision went red and it took all his self control to keep from growling and tearing the man apart as you take his arm and walk with that son of a bitch. When it became clear he wasn’t going to be get close to you again, he leaves the building and lets his children know that there will be a family meeting when he gets home.

They already knew you were an Omega thanks to countless videos taken during your interaction with Bruce, complete with your throwing your drink at him and slapping and shoving him.

Needless to say, they’re all broken up about how their treatment of you for years led to you forgoing on presenting as an Omega and running away to the other side of the country, far away from them.

Bruce knows he’s not the best father in the world (being called the okayest dad would be extremely generous), but this realization really drives home just how much of a failure of a father he is. Not only did he treat his firstborn son like an intruder, but he drove away a vital piece of his pack away. All he thinks about now is holding you in his arms and never letting you go, showering you in his love and merging your scents into one.

He gets more and more pissed since now that everyone knows the firstborn Wayne son is an Omega, he has all of Gotham’s elite petitioning him everywhere he goes to allow them to court you, offering him money, business opportunities, and various luxury goods.

How dare these parasites think you’re something to be bought and traded! You’re a person, for fuck’s sake!

However, he’s ashamed to admit and he keeps this in the darkest corner of his mind, but he does get possessive and territorial when he thinks of you. He thinks of everyone in his pack as his, no matter how old they are or how much he fucks up, and you, his firstborn son and an Omega sends his Alpha instincts into overdrive.

You’re his and his pack’s and he’s not going to rest until you’re in the pack nest, surrounded by all of them.

And once you’re home and covered in all their scents, he’ll throw the biggest gala Gotham’s ever seen in your honor, showing off the Wayne Pack’s treasured Omega, where everyone can seethe at the fact none of them will ever have you.

Dick got misty eyed when he realized that he all but forgot you existed, but when he saw the video that exposed you as an Omega, he couldn’t hold it back and broke down crying for all to see.

If there’s one thing in life Dick holds sacred, it’s his status as the pack’s big brother; in fact, Bruce knows Dick will do everything possible to keep his siblings safe that he made his eldest son the pack’s Right Hand, a position that makes him Bruce’s second-in-command and the first to take over should anything happen to Bruce.

He loves all his siblings equally and goes out of his way to make sure they’re well-taken care of, from calling them on a weekly basis to picking them up for one-on-one outings.

To see you look at them, look at him, with such hatred and contempt in your eyes makes him feel that he’s failed in his role as the pack’s big brother and Right Hand.

And don’t get him wrong, he’s a major advocate for Omega rights, but the world is a dangerous place and being so far from your pack is just asking for trouble! There’s all sorts of people that would love to prey upon an innocent Omega like you!

“Come on, baby bird, the manor’s your real home! Here, let me come get you, and we can order in and have a movie night just for us!”

Barbara actually throws up when the guilt hits her.

When you moved in, she hadn’t been crippled for too long and she was still dealing with having to retire from being Batgirl; when you first approached her, she lashed out at you and made you, a six-year-old who had just lost his mom and had to move across the country, cry.

Her guilt only grows when it hits her that she had not only the love and attention of her dad, but Bruce’s as well; she’s greedy and she feels disgusted whenever she looks in a mirror.

But she wants to make amends and she’s not going to take no for an answer; she use every trick and resource at her disposal to bring you back into the pack and she’ll be one of the first to give you a big hug.

“I know I’m selfish and you have every right to hate me, hate us, but we need you. And we’ll have you, one way or another.”

Jason, arguably, takes this revelation worse than any of them, potentially surpassing Bruce’s distress.

As Red Hood, he seeks to protect all the people of Crime Alley to the best of his ability, but there’s two types he prioritizes: children and Omegas. Children are powerless, rely on the adults of their lives to protect and provide for them, and are the first to suffer when things go wrong and Omegas are kind hearted creatures that care for all their packmates equally (even when said packmates treat them like shit) and everyone thinks they can walk all over them just because they’re smaller and weaker than the rest of the world.

And everyone knows that if Red Hood catches you hurting a kid or an Omega, not even the Bats will be able to find your body.

He beats himself up as every time he hit, threatened, or insulted you, going as far as to claw his chest, drawing blood as some form of penance for his transgressions.

He was pissed at Bruce for allowing Joker to live after killing him and for replacing him with Tim and he had to take it out on you, thinking you were just like Bruce because you shared his DNA, but he was too blinded by rage to see you were just a kid who was unlucky to lose his mom and have Bruce Wayne as a dad. Had he pulled his head out of his ass, he would’ve seen you were a scared pup looking for someone to hold him and tell him everything would be ok.

You two are so much alike it hurts; hell, he might be more of a brother to you than Damian.

He gets why you want nothing to do with them, trust him, he’s been there. Unfortunately, when the Wayne Pack has its hooks in you, they’re impossible to remove and the more you fight, the more you become ensnared in them.

“Look, kid, I get it, really, I do. But, just come home. Trust me, it’s not worth the headache. If you want, I’ll keep them out for your room until you’re ready for them.”

Tim is beating himself up for not finding out about this sooner.

While you and Damian are Bruce’s biological sons and all of them possess traits that are similar to Bruce, it can be said that Tim is more like Bruce than anyone else in the Wayne Pack, complete with his obsessive need to know everything about the people close to him and his inability to understand the concept of personal space.

He has entire archives on everyone in the Wayne Pack, full of personal observations, psych profiles, likes and dislikes, etc and when he goes to find yours, he discovers he has no file on you. At first, he can’t understand how you could’ve lived in the manor and just fly under his radar, but then his very first interaction with you comes rushing back and he realizes that he never considered you worth his attention and now he’s paying the price for his stupidity.

His parents, both Alphas, never really taught him how to interact with Omegas since they were always busy with work and travel, but after seeing Omegas caring for their pups, he began to long for one; all he wanted from his parents was love, but they were too busy to even glance his way.

But Omegas never neglect anyone, and when he was old enough to take over Drake Industries, he’d get his own Omega and keep them in the lap of luxury so all their time could go to loving him and he’s love them.

Of course, his parents’ death happened and he was adopted by Bruce and became robin, so that dream kinda fell to the wayside, but it was always there, whispering to him whenever he felt like he wasn’t enough. While his job as CEO of Drake Industries and Red Robin takes up all his time, he does allow himself to daydream what it would be like to have an Omega mate.

He was so close to having an Omega and he had to go and ruin it! But, he won’t allow you to remain outside the pack. They need you… he needs you. And he’ll do whatever it takes to bring you back into the fold, be it intimidating you by reciting crime rates against Omegas to using your biology against you. After all, Omegas are submissive by nature and he spends his nights intimidating Gotham’s criminals.

And once you’re back, you won;t be able to do anything without him knowing about it and adding it to your file on his computer.

“Did you know that Omegas who remain packless are more likely to become depressed? So, not coming home will do you more harm than good in the long run.”

Steph is known for being a bit of a bitch, but it’s always done in good fun. This time, however, she feels like a total bitch and there’s nothing to be proud about it.

When the two of you first met, she spent some time of you for like a week before discarding you like a puppy that got too big to be considered cute. When she learned that you were normal and not like them, she didn’t see the point in being around you.

But she knows she screwed up and she wants to fix that! You can join her, Babs, and Cass on Girls’ Night, and she’ll show you all the ways to screw with the others, and you can watch her cut all your suitors down to size (metaphorically, of course… but she’ll literally do it if you want her to).

She really wants you to come back; she sees how it’s affecting everyone, which is what happens when a pack is fractured, and it’s really become depressing in the manor, so she’s ready to help bring you back, whether willingly or unwillingly.

“Come on, Y/N, we miss you and you need a pack! Tell you what, I’ll help you get revenge on Damian! I know what really pisses him off!”

Cass has never known what true guilt feels like; sure, when Bruce showed her she didn’t have to be a living weapon, she felt remorse about the pain she caused, but she still had the excuse of her upbringing.

Her total dismissal of you when she deemed you harmless? She has no excuse for that. Bruce was offering her the chance to be in a real pack and because she could tell you had no combat capability or other useful abilities, she deemed you unimportant. A real packmates would embrace all her packmates, not just the “useful” ones.

She’s not the most affectionate member of the Wayne Pack (no one can take that title from Dick) and she still thinks all her hands are capable of doing is hurting people, but she’ll step out of her comfort zone for you; she hug you, hold your hand, scent you all day every ay if it means you coming back to the pack.

And if you want to be alone for a little bit? She’ll stand outside your door, guarding it against any intruder, including Bruce.

She can tell the pack is reeling from your absence, threatening not only their bonds but their ability to protect Gotham. She knows the only way to fix this is by bringing you back home and if she has to do drag you all the way from Goodsprings, she will. She can spend the rest of her life making it up to you.

Damian shows no emotion when the revelation hits home, but on the inside, he’s torn up about how he drove his only blood brother away.

During his time with the League, he grew up thinking he was the only legitimate heir of the Bat, but when he moved to Gotham and learned of your existence, he felt threatened and attempted to eliminate you in order to cement his place as his sire’s true heir; after he found out you were a helpless whelp born of a dalliance between his father and a harlot, he knew his place as the future Alpha of the Wayne Pack was secure and in order to keep you beneath him where you belong, he made your life difficult, insulting you to the point you cry and torturing you with his animals.

Once, he thought having a you for a blood brother was a liability, but now, after spending years with his pack, he now knows he was wrong to treat you so poorly and now wants to repair the damage to your relationship.

And you being an Omega? Well, the League saw Omegas as a means of reproduction, sure, but they were treated with the utmost respect; everyone served a purpose in the League and stressed out Omegas don’t produce quality pups. He’s actually happy you’re an Omega as the pack has enough Alphas and packs with an Omega function far better than those who don’t as Omegas keep the peace and see that all members are cared for.

Actually, you’ll find him seeking you out more because of your designation. Talia wasn’t exactly the most affectionate of mothers and his interactions with his grandfather were always so cold and formal; his time in Gotham showed him wanting to be close to your fellow packmates is nothing to be ashamed of and it makes you stronger, not weaker. And everyone knows physical affection and Omegas go hand in hand.

He’s actually ordered dozens blankets and pillows from several of Gotham’s luxury nest supply stores and has placed several of his and Bruce’s clothes in your room to help you acclimate to your place in the pack (the others tried to put some of their clothes in your room, but he denied it on the grounds that it would overwhelm you) and can’t wait to offer to help you build your nest.

He daydreams of you returning and has drawn up many activities for you two to do, from him painting your portrait to escorting to Gotham’s finest restaurants and museums and educating you on the finer things in life.

He understands that you have every right to hate them, but you can’t escape the fact that Wayne blood courses through your veins, tying you to him, Bruce, and even Gotham itself. You belong back at the manor, with him and your father, and he’ll fight through hell to bring you back to your proper home.

“I know my behavior was unacceptable, brother, but we still share blood. You belong in Gotham, not this pathetic backwater village. It’s time you assume your role as the Wayne Omega.”

As the Bats spiral into madness with their need to bring you home and make amends for their behavior, Alfred watches on. He knew you wanted to return to Goodsprings and your time in Gotham could be considered worse than losing your mother, but you’re still Bruce’s son and a member of the Wayne Pack.

He’s not about to let his packmates’ stupidity chase you away when your place is right here.

And when he learned you’re an Omega? It only strengthened his resolve to bring you back home.

The world is a harsh place for Omegas and while life may have dealt you a bad hand, you still have a good heart and it’s in danger of being stomped out by those who wish you harm.

“I know the manor brings you many bad memories, Master Y/N, but it’s still your proper home. I promise you, things will be different this time.”

[tangerineastronaut]

Let's Put the End in Friends | Jackson Wang (Part 2)

Part 1

The one where your best friend/sort of boyfriend really wants to fuck you.

Pairing: Jackson Wang (GOT7) x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff, SMUT, BestFriend!Reader, idiots to lovers Requested: Yes w.c. 7.8k Warnings: reader is bad at feelings, jackson is in love, two horny weirdos, "begging" for sex (but not in a bad/manipulative way there's a mutual understanding ok), oral - fem!receiving (the man eats it like cake even after he hits), unprotected sex (don't do it unless you're best friends with Jackson Wang and I'm guessing you aren't), discussion of contraceptives, breeding kink sorta kinda heh, brief talk of having kids in future, banter, teasing, name calling, dirty talk, I think that's all?? they're still really annoying except just horny now A/N: Ughhhh here's the part two that I desperately wanted to write and finally people requested it!! This chapter is like 15% feelings and 85% smut, but it's all kinda mixed in so I apologize in advance. Jfc I love these two so much. If this is bad I'm sorry! I love writing where it takes me and it all felt right. I love my readers so much. <3 Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

You hadn’t really known what to expect. 

In dramas, after a confession, things were usually a little awkward, shy, sweet. But the day after Jackson confessed to you, he nearly bit your hand off when you tried to steal one of his dumplings. Granted, you bit him first, but it was his job to be chivalrous, not yours. 

“Um, maybe eat your own before you try to steal mine?”

“I’m literally just a girl, Jackson.”

A few weeks after said confession, things were still mostly the same, as you were awoken by someone pinching your cheek. Bleary eyed, you squinted, looking up at a very hot, very annoyed face. 

“Where the hell is my academy sweatshirt? I’m gonna be late for my shift,” he huffed, giving you another pinch. Jackson worked part time at an MMA academy, teaching a class of young children. Unfortunately, that meant three days out of the week, he had to wake up at 7 in the morning to be ready by 8. And if he was up, so were you. 

“I dunno,” you whined groggily, rolling over. “I didn’t wear it. Promise.”

“Liar,” he accuses. 

“Mmn. ‘m not lying, check my laundry.”

You hear shuffling, the sound of your hamper being opened (filled with clean clothes, because dirty clothes go on the bathroom floor of course), and quickly tug the blanket over your head as Jackson calls your bluff. 

“At least it’s clean,” you attempt to plead your case, but the covers are yanked off. You yelp as Jackson flips you onto your back and begins to tickle you. 

“Didn’t wear it, huh? Seriously, of all my clothes?” he snarls, fingers digging into your sides. You can’t speak; you instead make animalistic noises of possession as you attempt to free yourself. You wrap your legs around his waist and shove at his chest, shouting apologies in between fits of laughter. 

At last, the tickling ends, and you all but collapse against the sheets, sprawled out like half a starfish. 

“I’m going to start charging you for the things you steal,” Jackson says, breathless himself from the efforts of torture. Only then are you made aware that his hands are on your thighs. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, until you do, when he squeezes them beneath his palms and brushes his thumbs under your pajama shorts. 

“Hey,” you warn, wriggling beneath him. He laughs and leans over you. 

“What?”

“You know what. Get off of me.”

He sighs, letting his head drop down as though weary. 

When he looks at you again, his eyes have gone all soft, and it makes you feel warm and tingly inside. You swallow and force yourself to look away. You weren’t completely immune to his charms and didn’t want to risk it, answering the question he hadn’t asked. 

“Nope.”

That was the deal. 

Kissing was alright—as long as it wasn’t too long or too deep. Touching was fine too, just avoid any erogenous zones. Truthfully, you weren’t sure why you’d placed such heavy restrictions on your…relationship? Whatever this was. Probably because at the end of the day, you were still terrified of losing him. Of crossing a bridge that crumbles behind you, never being able to return to where you were. 

Right now, the two of you could still be around your friends, could still shamelessly flirt and insist it isn’t flirting. When you’d shown up to dinner with the guys, your hand clasped in Jackson’s to test the waters, no one said a word. Youngjae crinkled his nose and said it was cringe…and that’s it. That was the only reaction. The only people surprised about this development were the two of you, apparently, mostly you. And, you hadn’t realized how horny you were for one another. 

When you’d stare at him after a shower, when he had the audacity to drink juice from the carton wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, you noticed that…you’ve always stared. That wasn’t new. It’s just that you were now aware of it, and also very aware of how it felt to see his throat working as he swallows, beads of water dripping down his chest and following the dip of his abs like a treasure map for your tongue—

But it went both ways, fortunately, as Jackson’s playful way of grabbing your waist when you were busily bent over no longer felt fun, but rather, made you want to push against him, feel his hands sliding elsewhere, because god had they always been so big? Had his fingers always been so long?

Presently, Jackson rolls his eyes and kisses your cheek. You refuse to look at him still, so he tilts down, where his lips brush your throat; when your head snaps up to scold him, he takes the opportunity to catch your lips with his, sighing as though relieved. 

Kissing him feels so normal that it’s almost painful, like every second his lips are against yours, you ask yourself why you were so stupid, why you hadn’t noticed before, why you hadn’t understood that the feelings you’ve had for him were being confused for platonic when they were much, much closer to something akin to lo—

“Mmff…ou’re ‘unna ‘ee ate,” you mumble, though Jackson doesn’t stop kissing you. You giggle as your words are slurred by his mouth, which in turn makes him smile, which in turn makes you wrap your arms around his neck and consider begging him to let the kids down just this once. 

You know he wouldn’t hesitate. So that’s why you groan and push him away. You squirm from beneath him before he can snatch you up, fixing your pajamas as though you were preparing to walk the red carpet. When you look up at Jackson, he’s on his knees on your bed, hands gripping the covers and head tilted to the side. Oh. 

“Stop looking at me like that, puppy boy,” you mumble, rolling your eyes. You cross your arms, taking on the weight of the world’s strongest soldier as Jackson fucking Wang silently begs to bend you over the mattress

Jackson lets his legs slip over the side, feet planted on the floor as he tugs you toward him by the strings of your shorts. You whine in protest—losing a drawstring was so—

“I think you like it when I beg,” Jackson says, voice too low to be good for your health. You look at him in surprise, his expression hasn’t really changed, but why did he have to do this to you?

“I think you’re gonna be late,” you huff, feeling your cheeks redden. 

“I think you’re cute when you blush.”

“I think—”

“I think we’re gonna be good for each other.”

“It was my turn,” you pout. “I think you need a cold shower.”

Jackson mumbles something you don’t catch as he nuzzles his face against your stomach. His arms hang loosely around your hips, and you’re once again left with emotional whiplash as the man somehow goes from fuck me~ to hold me in the span of a few seconds. You swallow and rake your fingers through his hair (which he pulls at less nowadays, thanks to your nagging). 

“I want to,” you say quietly, nails scratching at his head. “But I’m scared. Like…we could probably bounce back from this, and from holding hands and even kissing. But I’m afraid that I’d never be able to, you know, not hurt around you the further we go if things turn out bad. We just don’t know what’ll happen if we commit. That’s scary.”

To your surprise, Jackson squeezes you tighter. He tilts his head back to look up at you, his chin resting just above your belly button. 

“What is it gonna take, pie?” he asks softly. Your brows furrow, though he continues. “What’s it gonna take for you to realize I’ve been yours this entire time?”

Your breath catches in your throat; you know he can feel it from the way your stomach tightens. He noses at the material of your top, planting a kiss there. Then the bastard opens his mouth again. You can taste his words.

“You own me, baby.”

You wake up confused and sweaty, fumbling around for your phone. You grab the device and groan—it’s not even five in the morning, and it’s a saturday. 

The dream woke you up. You and Jackson had an idea to conserve water, apparently, sharing a shower too small for one person let alone two. Your brain filled in the blanks for the missing information, unfortunately for you, though you had no doubt he was as beautiful in this reality, too.

It was almost impossible for you to go back to sleep after waking up usually, so you throw the covers off with much more attitude than necessary before quietly stepping out of your room. The light beneath Jackson’s door is off, and you tiptoe down the hall, but when you round the corner to the kitchen you gasp in surprise. 

Jackson raises a brow at you, taking a sip from the bottle of water in his hand. He’s wearing nothing but black boxers, showing off the lean muscles he works so hard on. So very hard. 

“You’re up?” he asks, and by his raspy tone it’s clear he woke up not long before you. You nod and shrug for no reason at all other than to distract from the fact that your eyes are eating him alive. He has the sexiest bedhead, and the thin chain he wears glints as it drapes over his collar bones.

“Thirsty,” you lie. You move past him to reach the fridge, but an arm hooks around your waist. You inhale sharply as you’re tugged against his chest, the warmth of him shooting tingles down your back. You swallow, and he holds the bottle in front of you. 

“Here,” he mumbles. He sounds so casual, like his actions hadn’t just made your soul briefly leave your physical form. You take the water from him and tilt your head back for a sip, not having realized how thirsty you were until you’ve finished half of it. 

You turn around, though he doesn’t release you, so you remain pressed to his bare chest. You have no idea why, but you lean forward and kiss him just below his collar bone, realizing too late how cruel you were being. In an attempt to make it chaste, you kiss the other side, right above his heart, though Jackson’s hand flies to your hair. He cups the back of your head and refuses to let you move. 

“Jackson,” you protest, but he whines. 

He fucking. Whines. 

“Please, pie. Just keep your lips on me. Please,” he breathes. You exhale a shaky breath and nod. 

“Okay,” you say quietly, and you swear he sighs with relief. You watch his face, tilting in again and pressing another kiss to the same spot as before. Jackson nods, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips. 

You kiss the center of his chest, lips dragging over his skin to his left pec. When you move a tad bit lower, this time where his heart beats, he hisses and tightens his grip in your hair. You gasp for all the right reasons, though he doesn’t know that.  

“Fuck, sorry,” he whispers as though the two of you are sneaking around rather than doing…whatever this was in the middle of your shared kitchen. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you giggle softly. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

Jackson looks down at you, his expression morphing completely into…calmness? But it still puts you on edge. 

“What’d I say?” you ask with a frown. 

“I haven’t had sex in almost a year,” he admits. 

You blink. 

“You…what?” you breathe, shaking your head. “But, you’ve had tinder…you’ve gone on dates.”

Jackson pulls you close again, silently asking for more kisses. You realize he might’ve been right…you like when he begs. You kiss him as he asks, this time close to his nipple, and he shudders.

“I’m not gonna fuck a girl who wants more than I can give her,” he says. You mouth over his skin, tongue reaching the edge of his areola. You like his answer. 

“Why can’t you give her what she wants?” you ask, knowing what he’ll say but wanting to hear it all the same. Jackson knows this too, but he’s more than happy to give you what you want. 

“Because she—fuck—”

Your tongue lathes over his nipple and he grips the counter tight. 

“—’cause she’s not you,” he finishes. “None of them are. Can’t be anything for anyone except you. Wanna…wanna be everything to you.”

“You are…you are…” you mumble carelessly, barely kissing him, but rather rubbing your mouth on his chest. He seems more than okay with that, his head falling back, though he shakes it. 

“I’m not, baby. I’ve got so much to give you, gonna show you what it’s like to be loved right, fucked right, needed right. I need you, y/n. I-I fucking need you so bad. Always have.”

You were supposed to be turning him on, not getting choked up, but you pulled back and covered your face. Jackson was still a little breathless and out of it, but he grabbed at your wrists.

“Sorry, fuck, was that…was that bad? I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” you mumble, wiping helplessly at tears that slide down your cheeks. Jackson pulls you forward, crushing you to his chest. He wraps both arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. You love it. 

What else do you love?

You love that you can feel his cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, that you can feel how much he wants from you. You swallow your tears and reach between you, your palm finding the thick outline beneath his boxers and squeezing. 

Jackson’s reaction is visceral and downright sinful. He jumps, then buries his face into your hair. 

“Again, p-please,” he mumbles. You do it again. There’s a weird mix between sadness and horniness between you, but you keep going, sliding your hand up and down his clothed length. He’s definitely thick and a little longer than average, but not frighteningly so. 

Thick enough to make you choke, but not enough to bruise your cervix. Perfect. Somehow, you think you know exactly what it feels like to be fucked by him. 

“Jesus fuck—I don’t care if I get to fuck you, just please…let me taste you, baby,” Jackson grunts, hips lazily bucking against you. 

That…sounds alright with you. You take your hand off his cock and grab his wrist to pull him to his room, but he twists you around so that your back is to the counter. You open your mouth to ask what he’s doing, but the words die on your tongue when he drops to his knees. 

“J-Jackson, you don’t have t-to…”

“Shh, baby,” he mumbles, cupping the backs of your thighs. You feel dumb, forgetting how to speak. “Let me make you feel good. Wanna hear those pretty sounds you make when you play with yourself.”

Your cheeks flush pink, Jackson’s words hardly registering in your brain. He hooks his fingers into the elastic of your pajama shorts, leaning forward to kiss the front of your thigh before he begins tugging them down. 

“W-What do you mean when I pla—oh…”

Jackson doesn’t hesitate, going face first between your legs and groaning. The vibrations ring through your inner thighs and go straight to your clit, nearly sending you down. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet. 

“If you tell me you didn’t want me to hear you fucking yourself, I’m gonna call you a liar,” he whispers. His lips graze over the hair you keep trimmed—you could be a little self conscious about that at times, a couple past partners even commenting on it, but Jackson is worshipping your pussy without words and you’ve never felt so perfectly adequate. 

You think over what he said once you regain a little bit of consciousness. And fuck.

You were tired of this sort of hindsight ability you had now, the way you felt when you thought back to the times you were so obviously head over heels in love with him and had convinced yourself you were friends. 

Like fucking yourself with your favorite toy, back to the wall splitting your rooms. Moaning loud even though you didn’t do that when he wasn’t home.

“S-Sorry,” you whimper, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say? You feel warmth as Jackson breathes a laugh against your thighs, teeth grazing the sensitive skin near your labia. 

“It’s okay, baby. Just do it again for me, hm? While I’m in the same room at least?”

Did he have to be such a fucking brat? You thought “pie” and his attitude would disappear after all of this, but you were sorely mistaken. You opened your mouth to complain.

Jackson pushed your thighs open wider, settling between them and looking up at you from his knees. You squeaked, and the last thing you saw before his face disappeared was that smug grin underneath his pretty brown eyes. 

You learned two lessons very quickly. One: 

Jackson Wang ate pussy like his life depended on it. 

And two, you were immediately jealous of any woman who’d ever had him like this, on his knees between their legs. This should be illegal. 

His tongue slid between your tender pussy lips, expertly finding your clit and daring to flick at it beneath the hood. Your knees did buckle, but he hugged your thighs and kept you upright, taking the opportunity to squeeze and knead at your ass. You reached down and gripped his hair for purchase, tugging, eliciting a groan from him that felt better than any dick you’d ever had. You did it again, and this time he practically sang praises into you—he was literally fucking you with his moans. 

“Jesus fuck, Jackson?” you ask, unable to do much else other than feel and squeak out your needs. His fingers dug into the plushness of your thighs, though one hand slipped beneath your shirt. His thumb grazed over your nipple before gently pinching it, and you were ready to die. 

When he sucked the tender flesh of your clit into his mouth, you stumbled forward, nearly sending him back until he caught you by the waist. You whimper and tug at him to let you go until finally, he pulls away from your cunt, looking far too pleased with shiny lips. He licks them and you fall into his lap, shuddering as you cling to him. 

“That bad, huh? Should I keep my day job?” He teases you gently, one hand cupping the back of your head while the other hugs you tighter. You can still feel his cock straining against his boxers, nearly perfectly aligned as it presses against your ass. 

“S-Shut up, a-asshole,” you stammer out, gripping his shoulders tightly for comfort—or maybe dear life. Jackson chuckles in a way that makes you feel safe and annoyed—because how can he send you to fucking space and then try to convince you it’s all good and dandy with the same mouth?

“You okay baby?” he asks softly. When you nod, he pulls back enough to kiss your temple, though keeps his lips there. You swallow, having a feeling that he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

“Was it good?” he asks.

“Very c-classy,” you manage to huff, but Jackson only laughs. 

“Mmm. Knew you’d taste good. Knew you’d love me on my knees,” he hums. You shiver, and he moves to your ear, nipping at your lobe. “Knew you’d look so pretty while I eat it.”

You let out a soft whine, your hips rolling into his. You’re spreading your sticky juices along his clothed cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he grabs your waist and bites his lower lip. 

“Are you done? Hm? Or can I take you to my room and finish you off?” Jackson asks, tilting his head to kiss below your ear. “Lay you down and hold you open until that pretty clit is nice and swollen…”

“F-Fuck,” you whine, digging your nails into his shoulders. “N-No.”

“M’kay, need me to run you a bath then? I bought some new bath bombs—”

“No I meant…” you breathe, letting your head drop to his shoulder. You were dizzy, but your thoughts had never been more clear. Not necessarily a decision out of desperation, just…it needed to happen. You needed it. 

“I-I don’t want you to eat me out, Jackson,” you say as you swallow. 

You lift your head, relieved to see there’s no frustration in his gaze, no disappointment. God, he’s really just here to make sure you’re happy, safe, comfortable. 

“I want…I want you to fuck me.”

“Why are we in your room?”

“My bed is bigger.”

“When’s the last time you washed your sheets?”

“I don’t know, pie. When’s the last time you washed my sheets?”

You crinkle your nose, but Jackson just rolls his eyes. He drags you onto the bed with him, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it in your face. You sniff, your eyes immediately narrowing. 

“Have you seriously been washing your bedding regularly now under the implication that we’d fuck soon?” you hiss, sitting up to glare at him. He was sprawled out, looking much too happy for your liking.

“Yes,” he says gleefully. You grab the pillow and make an attempt to suffocate him, but he doesn’t fight back, and that’s not very fun. 

Oh yeah! You’re also only wearing his a t-shirt, and he’s only wearing boxers, and his cock is very hard and you’d very much like to put it in your mouth now that you’ve recovered somewhat from his tongue.

“You’re such a boy,” you groan, throwing the pillow back to the headboard. Jackson nods, tugging at the hem of your shirt. 

“Yeah. Take this off and sit on my face please,” he hums, lying back as though preparing to be sacrificed to the thigh smothering gods. 

“How romantic,” you scoff. 

“Come sit on my face so I can make you cry the only way a man should make a woman cry, please~”

“Better.”

With the back and forth out of the way, you can’t bring yourself to smile, pulling your knees to your chest. Jackson sits up, reaching out to take one of your hands in his large one. 

“Hey, no expectations, remember? You wanna stop right now, we’ll stop and never do anything like this again. You want me to finish you off, that’s fine too,” he says, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles. You shake your head. 

“No. I think…I think we should. We need to, I mean, otherwise we’re gonna be in limbo forever. But…” you pause, feeling your eyes burn a little damn it. When you look up at him, his boyish charm is gone, replaced completely by a concerned man who almost looks in love with you. 

“Hm? What is it, pie?” he asks, coaxing you gently. Ugh—why did sex have to be so god damn complicated?

“Promise me,” you say, biting your lower lip as you gather your words. “Promise me if we hate it, if it’s bad, just…stay with me? Like, forever? Please don’t move out? I mean if you have to get married just try to find someone who’s nice enough to let me stay? I’ll do the laundry. We can be like a throuple except you both just have to feed me and nothing else.”

“I love you, y/n.”

“Nevermind, let’s just do it.”

Jackson laughed as you flopped onto your back, though he leaned over you and caught your chin in his hand. You avoided looking at him, but he tilted your head down and pressed his forehead to yours to prevent you from escaping his eyes.

“I know you’re allergic to that word—”

“I am not—”

“But I love you. I love y/n and I love pie and I love the girl who thinks ‘coinkydink’ is an appropriate alternative for ‘coincidence’—”

“It is but okay—”

Jackson rolls his eyes, cupping your cheek under the romantic guise of making you shut up by pressing his thumb to your lips. 

“Do you know why I want to fuck you?” he asks, his voice oddly gentle for such an erotic question. You blink, he lifts his thumb. 

“Um, ‘cause I’m hot?” you offer with a shrug. His thumb goes back to your lips. 

“Yes, but the truth? I want to make love to you but I assumed your reaction to that phrasing would be…”

Jackson lifts his thumb. 

“Cringe?” 

“Correct,” he smiles. “I’m gonna do what I can so the next man you meet has to climb to fucking heaven to reach the lowest bar for you. I’m nowhere near perfect, but I’ll be damned if you leave my bed able to call your best friend and complain that your inner thigh got more action than you did.”

You pout and push his hand away. 

“That was one time,” you mumble. “If sex with you sucks, who am I gonna call? Yugyeom?”

“I dare you to fucking try,” Jackson says, narrowing his eyes. You beam, attempting to boop his nose, but he leans forward and kisses you instead. “If you leave this bed and hate me after, I’ll move out before sunset. And if you want me to l-o-v-e you for the rest of your life, I’ll do that too. I told you, pie. I’m yours.”

You kiss him this time, turning into him and cupping his jaw. Why couldn’t he see that the more of this he showed you, the less you wanted to risk it all disappearing? 

You tilt your head to the side, nuzzling your face against his throat to plant kisses there. He inhales, leg sliding between yours as a hand strokes your hair. 

“Mm…what do you want, y/n?” he asks, groaning when you suck beneath his jaw. 

“Wanna suck you off,” you mumble against his skin, relishing in the heavy groan you feel from him. “Then I want you to fuck me.”

“I can do that,” Jackson nods, licking his lips. You release him and sit up, looking over his stretched out form. He was so fucking gorgeous, and you were in his bed.

You place a hand in the center of his chest, and Jackson sits up on his elbows, his thighs parting eagerly. You giggle, gently kneeing his side. 

“Patience,” you hum, dragging your hand down to his abs, letting your fingertips dip between the muscles. You remembered all those times you fantasized about drawing your tongue against them—realizing you can. So you throw a leg over his, sliding down until you’re hovering over his thighs, face level with his hips. 

One hand rests on the elastic of his boxers while the other palms his abs. You look up at him as you drag your finger through the lines, following the shape of his muscles. He’s tense, but still coherent, so your other hand slides down to palm him again. 

Jackson curses under his breath, eyes never leaving yours. So you lean down and flatten your tongue below his navel. He gasps as you lick down the thin trail of hair that disappears beneath his boxers, kissing the sensitive skin there before moving up again. Jackson whines, and you lift a brow. 

“You’re not being very patient,” you say, kissing his stomach before licking up to his chest. Jackson’s head falls back, one hand moving to your hair. 

“It’s been almost a year, pie,” he groans. “Want this…want you…”

You giggle softly. When you palm him again, curling your fingers around his constricted length, Jackson practically flies off the bed, grabbing your wrist. 

“Baby, I will let you suck my cock until the sun explodes, just…please not now, I’m so fucking close, wanna be inside you…” he breathes. You’re surprised to see his chest flushed and heaving, not having realized how worked up he was over just a few light touches. You swallow and nod.

He smiles in relief, pulling you in for a kiss before sitting up on his knees, gently guiding you back. It’s a little jarring, suddenly being underneath your best friend, but Jackson immediately gives you gentle kisses, whispering your name and promises to make you feel good. You believe him. 

You lie there awkwardly as he reaches over you to the bedside table, removing a foil packet. You feel your cheeks redden, which makes him chuckle, and you mumble a quiet shut up. When he holds the condom packet between his teeth and thumbs the waist of his boxers, you realize that you should probably be naked, too. So you cross your arms over the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it to the side. 

The condom drops and bounces off your thigh as Jackson’s lips part in shock.

“What?” you mumble shyly, bringing your arms to your chest. He clears his throat and fumbles for the condom, shaking his head. 

“Nothing. You’re gorgeous. Knew you were, just..." he sucks in air through his teeth.

You blush harder, resisting the urge to tell him to hurry. 

Jackson manages to slide his boxers down to his thighs. His cock, once freed, smacks his toned stomach and you grip the covers at your sides as you watch an enticing bead of precum slide down the shaft. It’s exactly as you’d imagined; a little bigger than average, thick, and so beautifully veiny. God it’d feel so good on your tongue, but later. The idea that, hopefully in the future you could suck his beautiful cock whenever you wanted to, made you happier than you’d ever admit to anyone.

You watch as he rolls the condom down his length, swallowing down your doubts as he drops to his forearms on either side of you. 

“You okay?” he asks, no humor, no teasing, just genuine concern. You nod and lick your lips. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” you say with a shaky breath. Jackson smiles, leaning forward until your noses bump. The action makes you giggle until you realize he’s fitting your mouths together, and suddenly he’s kissing you. 

It’s gentle and soft, his lips sucking at your lower one but moving no further than that. Your arms move to loosely hang around his shoulders, where both of his slip beneath you. You feel the head of his cock brush over your clit and jump. Jackson chuckles. It happens again, but this time, the swollen head catches against the opening between your folds, and you can already feel the stretch, wriggling your hips as if to wedge him in. 

Jackson begins to push. 

The stretch is slow, heavy, delicious, both of you releasing sounds of relief with eyes rolling back into your skulls as though you’ve both spent four years pretending you don’t want this. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, he squeezes you tight beneath him as he sinks deeper and deeper. At last, his hips meet yours, and Jackson Wang, your best friend, is balls deep inside of you. You squeeze your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the sudden and intense sensations and emotions.

“Are you okay? Feels okay, baby?” he asks softly, clearly restraining himself. You nod, licking your lips. 

“Mhm. It’s good. So good,” you babble. Jackson chuckles, nodding as he kisses you again. It’s sweeter this time, moreso as he begins to slide out. The drag of his cock makes you shudder, and you clamp your thighs tight around his waist. 

“That’s it,” he hums, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Lock me up inside you, baby. So fucking pretty.”

You purr in response, arching your back. Jackson takes this as a go ahead, pushing himself up to his palms as he begins to fuck you properly. 

You feel your mouth open in shock as he thrusts rhythmically, the switch between emptiness and fullness making your head spin. Every time his hips smack the backs of your thighs, another grunt escapes his mouth, and fuck if you couldn’t listen to that sound for the rest of your life. 

Jackson leans down and kisses you. This time, you make sure it’s not as sweet, sucking his tongue and letting him lick yours. You taste his groan as he bucks heavily, pausing to collect himself. Your legs hook around his waist, heel digging into his lower spine, making him moan. 

“F-Fuck baby, gonna make me come already,” he breathes, letting his head hang down. You smile, cupping his face and pulling him into you. 

“So sensitive,” you purr. Jackson huffs.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he hums, wincing at his own sharp thrust. “Maybe I should pull out and leave that gorgeous head to wonder what it’d be like.”

“You won’t,” you reply, calling his bluff. “If I begged you, I bet you’d go raw.”

Jackson surges forward, hands moving behind your knees as he folds you nearly in half. You choke on air and look up at him, wondering why the fuck you've forced yourself to wait for this.

“You don’t have to beg for shit. Don’t fucking tempt me, y/n.”

Your mouth opens at his tone, but he begins to fuck you harder, gripping your form against him as he gives you everything he has. Your whines turn into muffled cries as he tucks your face into his shoulder. 

“Shh…let’s not let the neighbors know I’m finally inside you baby…that’s it, quietly…take it for me, yeah?” he hums, and you whimper, digging your nails into his skin. Your legs bounce uselessly where he holds them in place, giving him room to be flush against your ass each time he bottoms out. 

“Can’t wait for you to let me lick this sweet little cunt until you cry,” he murmurs, leaning back to slip a hand between you. You jump when he immediately finds your clit, index and middle finger repeatedly alternating pressure. He’s a god damned expert, and you feel yourself clenching tight around the obstruction of his cock. 

“Fuck…is that all it takes? You’re squeezing me like a fucking vice, y/n," Jackson groans. “More, baby. That’s it…fuck. So fucking good.”

“J-Jackson,” you huff, squirming beneath the pressure of his weight. “Nng…f-feels so good…”

“Yeah, princess? Just like you've dreamed about?"

Fuck. He always knew, knew you too well, were you made of glass?

"Y-yeah," you whimper, choosing not to lie. "B-Better."

Jackson kisses you again, his hand slowing its movements to match his hips. 

“Show me,” he says roughly, obviously close himself. “I wanna feel you cum, baby. Want my cock shiny and sticky like my tongue was.”

“Mm..don’t stop, ‘m close,” you breathe. You tuck your hands into his hair, tugging at the strands, knowing what kind of response you’d experience. He groans, as expected, though pulls back and pushes your thighs apart. 

He looks down at your cunt swallowing his cock whole as he rubs at your hooded clit, cursing and biting his lip. Your cheeks flush despite everything, and when his eyes flicker to your face—you’re not sure what to call that expression if not love. 

You want him to cum first. You bring his hand away from your clit and up to your lips, kissing the wet pads of his fingers before slipping them into your mouth. Jackson lets out a high pitched noise that you can’t wait to tease him over later as he watches you suck them. 

He swallows and leans forwards, pulling your fingers away from your mouth to kiss you. You think it’s an accident, the intimacy, but the kiss is soft, so soft that he stops thrusting and you stop trying to make him cum, so soft that you’re suddenly crying and hugging him and apologizing for being a fucking idiot. 

“Hey, ‘s okay baby, I’m here,” he whispers, his own eyes wet. “Stop crying, y/n. I’m right here. I’m yours. I’ll still be yours tomorrow. Shh...”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” you breathe, burying your head against his throat despite the fact that his cock is kissing the opening of your cervix currently. “I was scared, Jackson, so fucking scared, I-I think I loved you so much that I scared myself into thinking I couldn’t.”

“Huh?” he asks, knowing damn well what you said according to the stupid grin on his face. You roll your eyes, using the back of your hand to wipe at your tears. 

“I said I love you, asshole,” you whisper, sniffling. “And ‘m not gonna say it again.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, pulling your hands down to wipe your tears himself. “Fine. I’ll just memorize the way you sound when you say it and play it over and over until we live in a nursing home together."

"You roll your eyes, smiling through the teariness. Only you would cry in the middle of sex, but Jackson seemed to love this, taking it as your not-so-silent confession. 

He eventually shifts again, making you shudder despite the fact that he was only getting comfortable. He prepares to ask—you already know—want me to stop? So you shake your head before he gets the words out. 

“I want it, you know, without,” you say instead, shyly looking up at him from your elbows. Jackson looks a little confused, and you sigh, gesturing around as if that’s helpful at all. “You know. Without.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying, pie—”

“I’m saying I want you to fuck me, and then I want you to tell me you love me so I can say it back without dying, and then I want to go to the pharmacy with you and get plan b even though I’m on birth control because we’d make cute babies but I wanna wait like 10 years probably. So, like, without? If you want?”

You finish your monologue, your cheeks burning hot. You flop to your back and cover your face, once again forgetting about the cock buried inside of you. Jackson doesn’t, of course.

“Are you asking me to hit it raw—”

“Must you be so unromantic—”

“Shut up and c’mere,” he mumbles. He leans down, pulling you up enough to kiss you. You feel him shuffling between you, embarrassed by the gasp that slips out when he pulls back. Jackson smirks. There’s a snap of rubber and he winces as he removes the condom, tossing it into his desk trash can. 

“Easy, baby. He’ll be back,” he chuckles. 

“I’m actually going to kill you,” you groan. But then he’s pushing into you again, and fuck if the look on his face doesn’t make you want to buy a first class ticket to hell. 

“Fucking…jesus…baby…” he gasps. You giggle, though he just pushes you back to hide the apparent blush on his cheeks. 

“That bad huh?” you mock him, feeling him bottom out, completely. He curses and dips his head to kiss you, but it’s messy and desperate and feeds the fire that’s been burning inside of you for too long. 

“So fucking…nng…so fucking pretty,” he says with a sharp snap of his hips. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he leans down. He kisses you again, hard, palms flattening on the bed on either side of your hips. He uses the leverage to fuck you harder, leaning over you until you’re pinned beneath him. 

“D-Didn’t know it’d turn you into an animal,” you giggle breathlessly, hand fisting his hair. He groans and tilts his head to the side. 

“You turn me into a fucking animal, baby,” Jackson grunts. “Makes me…makes me want to do stupid things, like fuck you without a condom and cum so deep the pill doesn’t do shit to stop it—”

“Jackson—”

“You said it first. Still gonna make you swallow the pill with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You squeak and tug him down for a filthy kiss, tongues barely missing the mark as his thrusts become loose and sloppy. He’s fucking himself dumb, gripping the sheets and whining against your mouth like a dog. 

“G-Gotta make you cum. Gotta make it good for you,” he breathes, reaching between you. You pull his hand away, shaking your head. He begins to argue but you squeeze your thighs around his waist, making him shudder and stumble. He falls against you, cursing into your hair as he continues his thrusts. 

“Want you to cum first,” you whisper, hugging him tight. “Want you to fill me up like you said, so fucking deep—"

He groans, leaning on you and thrusting heavy as he snaps his hips forward. His speed remains the same, but you can hear the sound of his hips meeting your ass like he's trying to bury himself in you indefinitely.

"T-That's...fuck..." you whimper, nodding. "Good, that's good."

“Ah…ah…” Jackson whines, shaking his head. “F-Fuck, baby…gonna cum, is that…is that okay? Fucking…ah…c-can I cum?”

Oh. Oh.

You were going to explore this later, him asking permission to cum. But not now. 

“Please, Jax. Please cum for me, in me?” you beg softly. “Promise, I’ll take it so good."

“Fuck, I know you will, princess. Know you’ll take it all so good for me…so perfect, so fucking beautiful…all mine, baby…”

Jackson clings to you so tight you have trouble breathing, but you feel him shudder, hear him gasp, and you squeeze him back just as much. He releases a sob into your hair, his muscles tensing as he cums hard. You feel his cock pulsing, the warmth spreading inside of you, and realize with a start that you’re feeling his actual cum seeping into your womb. 

You rub his back for a few minutes while he recovers, until he finally sits up and hisses at the sensitivity of his softening cock still buried in you. When he tugs away, it’s your turn to gasp, shivering at the cool emptiness you feel. 

“Was that okay?” he asks quietly, hands pushing your thighs apart. You nod. 

“Yeah, ‘s good. What are you—shit.”

Jackson knelt between your legs, lips first kissing your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. You all but scream, trying to clamp your legs together, but his easy strength prevents that. 

“F…Jackson...fuck, w-what are you doing?” you whimper again, trying to push yourself up to look at him. He uses a hand on the soft of your belly, pushing you back down. He pops off of your clit, free hand taking over the strokes. 

“My babygirl didn’t cum. I’m gonna make sure she does,” he explains as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

“B-But you…your cum…”

“Mhm, keep reminding me,” he moans, tongue slipping beneath the hood of your clit while two long fingers prod at your sore hole. You wince, but he slowly eases them in, his own cum working as lube. Rather than move them, he holds them there, gently stroking inside of your walls while he laps freely between your labia. 

In a frighteningly short amount of time, you’re coming off the bed (literally) with a cry of surprise, mumbling his name over and over again as though he could save you from the crushing pleasure you felt. Your thighs clamped around his head, though he made no move to escape, apparently right where he wanted to be as it allowed him to continue sucking and licking the sensitive bundle of nerves until your legs trembled violently. 

It stole your breath, and you saw stars, mixed in a few moments later with a boyish grin and someone peppering your face with kisses. It was the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, definitely if you were comparing him to other men. Well. There was no comparison. 

You could only imagine how it'd feel with his cock as deep as it was. Next time. You'd suck his cock, cum on it...maybe make him beg to do the same.

Jackson is patient enough to wait until you’ve mostly returned to your body before he smugly proclaims that he was right, the sex was great, and you owe him a backrub (don’t you usually have to make bets to win them in the first place?) but whatever, because you were fucked out and your boy was happy and probably planning your wedding. 

But once you attempted to sit up, wincing at the soreness of keeping your legs open, Jackson kissed you sweetly and urged you to lie down again. He left for a few minutes, returning with boxers (darn it) and a bottle of water, which he forced you to sip whilst he ran you a bath. 

You were helped down the hall, feeling like a frail old lady after you insisted you could do it—and had to catch yourself by the doorframe as you walked like a baby deer. You informed him it wasn’t polite to laugh at people you’ve nearly fucked to death, regretting your words immediately as a somehow cocky Jackson became even cockier. 

He guided you into the bath, telling you to relax while he ran to the pharmacy. Before he left though, he knelt beside the tub, fingers tapping at the lava-like water you were soaking in.

“Do you like the smell?” he asks, resting his chin on his fist. You nod, letting your fingers find his and trying to pull them beneath the water. He compromised by pulling yours out, kissing the back of your knuckles. “Good. It’s strawberry scented.”

“Fucking me doesn’t make my bath bombs free real estate,” you say pointedly.

“Fucking me doesn’t make my clothes free real estate.”

You open your mouth, then purse your lips. 

“Touche.”

“I have something to ask,” he sighs, resting his lips on your hand. “It’s really important.”

Oh god. What. 

“Yeah?” you ask, your voice shaky. Jackson grins. 

“Just…did you like my cream, pie?”

You stare at him for a few seconds, contemplating the last hour and four years of your life. “I want a divorce.”

“I love you.”

“How…how long have you thought of that joke?” you ask. You didn’t really want to know the answer.

“Um…about 20 seconds after I called you pie for the first time? Not with you of course.”

“Well why in the god damn hell not with me!?”

“I mean? Yes with you?”

“Creep.”

“I love you.”

“I still want a divorce.”

“I still love you.”

“Nng.”

“That means I love you in worm?”

“...Yeah.”

“Heh~”

“Hey Jackson?”

“Mm?”

“Your lil sperms might be kinda fast? So like? Maybe leave now? I do love you but I will not have your babies right now?”

“Oh. Yeah. Be right back. Try not to make a baby with those in the meantime, they’re not ripe yet, you know?”

"...Hurry."

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter one: Ultimatum

Summary: Y/Ns father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

1 | next

Series Masterlist

Click, Click, Click the sound of your heels clacking on the floor echoed throughout the hallway. You stood in front of the door to the VIP room, where sick and twisted men drop millions of dollars on a death game. Unfortunately your father is one of them. The room reeked of power and desperation, two forces colliding in ways that felt suffocating. The black walls with gold jungle like accents were a stark contrast to the mahogany table in the center of the room. You sat down in the farthest corner of the polished table, trying to avoid your father’s hawk-like gaze. The air conditioning hummed faintly, serving as the only sound punctuating the heavy silence, but it did little to cool the heat simmering beneath your skin.

Across from you, the man they called the Frontman sat stiffly, his sharp, black mask reflecting the harsh light of the overhead chandelier. He hasn’t moved an inch since you entered the room, and the lack of expression from the cold, unfeeling mask made your stomach churn violently.

“I’ve been more than generous,” your father began heatedly, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal glass. He wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about what he was suggesting. “The games thrive on my contributions, but generosity only goes so far without… stability.” Your father finished with a concerning glint in his eye.

The masked man tilted his head, just slightly. “What kind of stability are you referring to?” His voice was even, almost dismissive, like he already knew where this was going but didn’t care enough to stop it.

You did, though.

“Dad-” you attempted to start your protest, he couldn’t go through with this.

“Quiet,” he snapped demeaningly without even sparing a glance towards you. His attention was fixed on the Frontman, the kind of single-minded determination that always made him dangerous.

The Frontman leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lightly on the table. “Speak plainly.”

Your father smirked, a wolfish grin that made your stomach twist. “Marriage. My daughter will marry you. The deal will be sealed, and my funding continues uninterrupted. You gain the security to maintain the games without… complications.” A crazed look in his eyes matched his maniacal grin.

Your mouth fell open, a sharp, indignant laugh escaping before you could stop it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Your father shot you a look, the kind that demanded obedience, but you weren’t a child anymore.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said, as if this was a business deal like any other. “You’ve lived in comfort because of the wealth this partnership provides. It’s time to play your part.” The look on his face was nothing less than a look of hatred. Your eyes bounced between the frontman and your father incredulously.

“Play my part?” you repeated, standing so fast your chair scraped loudly against the marble floor. “You can’t just marry me off like some pawn in your sick games!”

“I can,” he said, his tone sharp and final.

You turned to the Frontman, searching for some sign of humanity beneath the mask. “And you’re okay with this? You’re just going to go along with it?” You were pleading, ready to get on your hands and knees and beg for him to reject this proposal.

The Frontman was silent, his stillness unnerving. Finally, he said, “What happens if I refuse?”

Your father shrugged, taking another sip of his drink. “The funding stops. The games collapse. And we both know what the VIPs will do if that happens.” That caused a slight falter in the frontman’s appearance. His gloved fingers curled against the edge of the table. The air felt heavy, oppressive, as if some invisible battle was taking place between the two men.

Finally, he stood. The chair scraped softly against the floor as he rose to his full height, towering over everyone in the room. “If this is the cost of stability, then so be it.” Your heart dropped to your stomach, any drop of freedom that you had previously had was stripped from you by a few mere words and you had no control over it, you were trapped just as much as the players were.

———————

The wedding took place two days later, in a grand hall that felt more like a theater than anything sacred. Rows of VIPs sat in velvet chairs, sipping champagne and watching the proceedings as if it were just another form of entertainment.

You stood at the end of the aisle in a dress that felt more like a costume, the intricate embroidery and heavy fabric weighing you down. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as the officiant droned on about unity and partnership, words that felt hollow in a place like this. You felt like you were drowning and couldn’t resurface.

The Frontman stood beside you, his mask still firmly in place, his posture rigid. He hadn’t spoken to you since the meeting. He hadn’t looked at you either.

When it came time for the vows, he recited them mechanically, his voice devoid of emotion.

“I do,” he said, the words landing like stones in the pit of your stomach.

You hesitated, your mouth dry as the Sahara when the officiant turned to you. For a brief moment, you considered saying no, throwing the whole charade into chaos. But the weight of your father’s expectations and the suffocating gaze of the VIPs pressed down on you.

“I do,” you said finally, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, laced with venom that would slowly suffocate you.

The crowd erupted into applause as the officiant pronounced you husband and wife. It felt wrong, surreal, like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

The quarters you were escorted to after the ceremony were spacious and cold, a reflection of the man who now shared them with you. You wandered through the rooms in silence, your heels clicking against the marble floors.

When you finally stopped in the main sitting area, the Frontman was already there, standing by the window with his back to you.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said, breaking the silence. Your voice was firm, but it wavered slightly at the edges.

“I know,” he replied without turning around.

You wanted to scream at him, to demand answers, but you were too exhausted. Instead, you turned and walked into the adjoining bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

You didn’t cry. You refused to. Instead, you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ornate rug beneath your feet and wondering how your life had spiraled so completely out of your control.

Be nice lmao, this is my first time ever writing anything like this.. pls let me know how I did and you would actually like to see other parts. :)

also thank you to @sunny21200 for the idea!!

[maskedbyghost]

part 3 of Simon marrying another woman. tw: violence, mental health struggles, torture, mentions of death.

Your breath caught in your throat. Time seemed to slow as Simon raised the gun to his head, his hands steady on the trigger.

But your voice cut through the silence, even though it felt like you couldn’t move at all.

"Do it, then. If that’s really who you are."

His hand froze, the gun still on his temple.

His eyes snapped to yours filled with confusion. It seemed like you weren’t good at this.

You moved a bit forward, eyes locked on his. "But don’t pretend this is strength. Don’t act like this is the man who’s led us through hell and back. The man who doesn’t quit."

His grip tightened for a second, then stopped.

But you didn’t stop. "You think this is how it ends? You, sitting here while everything burns down around you? That’s not you, Simon. You fight. You endure. That’s who you are."

He still kept looking at you.

Another inch closer. "So go ahead. Pull the trigger. But if you do, you’re not the man I thought you were. Not the man who kept us alive when it mattered."

The gun trembled in his hand, lowering just a fraction.

Your voice was low that Price, who was still standing behind the two of you, barely even heard. "Or you can drop it. Stand up. And prove me right."

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, the gun slipped from his grasp, landing with a thud on the floor.

Simon slumped back against the wall and you felt like you could finally breath again.  

You didn’t move closer. You didn’t offer comfort.

You just stared him down.

And that was enough. For now, at least.

A few days since that night things were quieter, but you could still feel the tension deep iside you. Simon had begged Price and you not to tell anyone what had happened—what he'd almost done. You still remember the panic in his eyes as he requested you both keep it between the three of you. Price had agreed, but only if Simon promised to see a psychologist.

The terms were set. Simon would keep up with the therapy, or he would retire early. But Simon didn’t resist; he knew it was his only chance to avoid the fallout, to start dealing with everything.

You hadn’t tried to talk to him much since that day. You gave him space. You knew it wasn’t your place anymore—not after everything. There were moments when you’d catch him in passing, but your gaze would quickly drop to the floor, avoiding the awkwardness that had settled between you both. He didn’t reach out either, not that you expected him to. Simon was good at keeping everything locked away, just like he had always done.

You saw him during briefings, his eyes weren’t the same anymore—not the man you once knew. But that was something he had to face on his own. You weren’t going to intrude. You couldn't.

And the thing that hurt the most? He still didn’t talk about her. You knew she wasn’t in the picture anymore, but he never said a word about their relationship, not to you or anyone else. He’d simply let it go, as if she had never been part of his life.

As if she didn’t ruin everything.

You didn’t ask. You couldn’t. Maybe it was better that way—both of you pretending like that chapter never existed. But, deep down, you knew better. You knew Simon had his reasons, and you didn’t need to hear them.

You didn’t expect anything from Simon anymore. You’d let go of that hope months ago. But you knew the team was watching, concerned. Soap had asked you about it a few times, always in his own way. He never pushed, but you could tell he saw what was happening, saw how it affected you. But none of them pushed. None of them knew what to say.

So you stayed back, kept your distance. If Simon wanted to get better, if he wanted to talk, you’d be there. But for now, you had to let him find his own way.

A few days later as you walked into your room, you tossed your gear aside and slumped into the chair at your desk. But something caught your eye, a small folded piece of paper sitting on your desk.

A letter.

With a deep breath, you picked it up, your fingers trembling as you unfolded it. The handwriting was unmistakable, Simon’s familiar handwriting filled the whole page. You felt a pang in your chest before you even read the first word, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“I don’t know how to do this love, but I need to tell you. The therapist says I should, and I think I have to. You deserve to know the truth

It’s not easy to admit this, but I’ve been living a lie. She lied to me, twisted everything in my head, and I let her. She fed me so many things—things about you, about us, about my life—that I didn’t even know what was real anymore. I don’t know how to explain it, but I believed her. I believed everything she said. She was my childhood friend after all. I thought I was doing the right thing when I left you, when I walked away. Oh, what a fool I was.

The night I left... that fucking picture. She showed it to me. It looked real—too real. You and him. Another soldier from the squad. She said it was proof. Proof that you were with someone else, that I wasn’t the one for you. She made it seem like it was your betrayal. I was hurt, so damn hurt, and I couldn’t think clearly. I didn’t want to believe it, but I did. She had everything lined up, a story that made sense.

And then I left. I told myself I was doing the right thing. I thought I had to walk away, that maybe it was for the best. She was there for me. She comforted me, and I was angry, so angry. I didn’t want to be angry with you, but I couldn’t help it. I thought you’d done something you clearly hadn’t. And I couldn’t even tell you the reason. What a fucking idiot.

And then she kissed me. She kissed me first, and I didn’t stop her because I thought it was a way to move on. Maybe it was the only way to forget, to forget you and the happiest period of my life. And when she started saying we were dating, I let it happen. I thought maybe this was the right choice. Maybe she was the one I was supposed to be with.

Then came marriage. She kept talking about it, about us being a family. And for a while, I didn’t know what to think. I thought I should just go with it, that it was the only way to keep going forward. But I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with her. I told myself I needed time, maybe because she wasn’t you. It was never the same. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t do it.

She understood at first. But then one night, she started giving me alcohol, glass after glass, trying to push me into something I wasn’t ready for. She thought if I was drunk enough, maybe I’d forget you. Maybe I’d forget all of it. We kissed that night, and in the middle of it, I said your name. Your name. I couldn’t stop myself. And that’s when the fights started. That’s when everything I’d been avoiding came crashing down.

Then, that day when Price found me in my office, someone came to me. Someone from the team. I never thought they would be the one to speak up, but they did. They told me the truth. About her. About that picture. It wasn’t real. She had it photoshopped. She hired him and made it look like you and that soldier were sleeping together.

And when she asked for more proof, she wanted him to photoshop something with you and Soap. She thought if I saw that, I’d really walk away from everything, from the team, from you. She wanted to tear us apart, and I couldn’t see it.

And then he told me the that she had been cheating on me. She had been with him the whole time, and she’d used the pictures to manipulate me. She wanted me gone from the team. She wanted me out of your life. And I lost it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told her to pack her bags and leave. I told her it was over.

I konw don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I have to say it. I’ve been living a lie, and I hurt you because of it. I let her make me believe you betrayed me, and I walked away without ever giving you a chance to explain. I was wrong. I’ve spent months lost without you, and I know now that I can’t move on from you. I’d get on my knees for the rest of my life, begging for your forgiveness if that’s what it takes, because I know I don’t deserve it, but I’ll spend every day proving I’m worth it.

Please, love, tell me how to fix this, please let me love you and be a part of your world again.

Still yours,

Simon.”

Your heart felt like it had shattered and been pieced back together in the same breath. The betrayal, the lies, everything she had done—it wasn’t just him being reckless; it was her plan all along. She had played on his emotions, fed him exactly what he wanted to hear, and made him believe you’d betrayed him.

The man who had once been yours, and in so many ways still was, was telling you everything—his pain, his regret, his desire for you to be in his life again. But the past still lingered between you both.

You sat there for a long time, the letter crumpled in your hands, the weight of his words sinking in slowly. Simon had been lost, and you had been left behind in ways you couldn’t even fully understand yet.

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

You didn’t waste any more time. You folded the paper with shaky hands and made your way to Simon’s office.

The hallway was quiet as you approached the door, your footsteps louder than you wanted them to be. When you reached it, you didn’t hesitate. You pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges made Simon look up, his eyes meeting yours after many days.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did you at first. For a long moment, the two of you just stood there, looking at each other.

Finally, you broke it. “So, you’re begging now,” you said, your voice sharp, filled with all the anger and hurt you’d been carrying. “After everything. After you walked away without a single explanation!”

You couldn’t hold back any longer. The anger you’d kept buried for so long spilled out.

“You left me, Simon,” you said, your voice now shaking. “You left me without a single word. You let someone else twist your mind, made me out to be the villain in your life. All I ever did was love you, and you threw that away like it didn’t even matter.”

You could see the regret in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough. Not now.

“You don’t get to just come back and act like nothing happened! You don’t get to ask me to forgive you after all of this, after everything. How the hell do you think this works? You think you can just walk back in and everything will be fine? It doesn’t work that way, Simon!”

He didn’t interrupt you. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, watching you, his eyes full of pain. He just took it, and it made you angrier.

“You ruined everything! You destroyed us!” Your hands balled into fists at your sides, and you paced in front of him. “And now you want me to believe you? To trust you again? To just let you back in like you didn’t break me? What do you want me to say, huh?”

Still, he didn’t speak. He just watched you with that same, haunted look, his jaw clenched.

And then, slowly, he started moving. It was almost too slow to notice at first, but you caught it—the way he stepped toward you, the way his feet seemed to drag across the floor.

Before you could say anything else, he was in front of you, kneeling down, slowly lowering himself onto the ground until he was on his knees. It made you freeze. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it, but there he was, on the floor, looking up at you with nothing but regret in his eyes.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What the hell are you doing?” you demanded, your voice almost a whisper, still raw from the firestorm of words you’d thrown at him.

His head tilted down, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “I’m serious about begging,” Simon said, his voice soft. “I’ll do anything. I don’t care what it is.”

Your heart raced. This wasn’t what you expected. It wasn’t some desperate plea or just empty words. He was on his knees—literally on his knees—in front of you.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Simon continued, still looking up at you, his eyes full of an intensity you hadn’t seen in a long time. “But I can’t live with what I’ve done to you, not anymore. If it’s the only way to make things right, I’ll do it. I’ll beg. I’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees if that’s what it takes to prove I’m sorry.”

You stood there, staring at him, your chest tight. You’d never seen him like this. This wasn’t the Simon you knew. The man you’d loved, the man who had always been strong, never one to show vulnerability like this.

But here he was. On his knees, asking for a chance. And you didn’t know if you were ready to give it to him. Not yet. But with everything that he was saying, the sincerity in his eyes—it hit you harder than anything else.

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come right away. It felt like a lifetime before you finally spoke.

“Why?” It was all you could manage.

Simon’s gaze never wavered. “Because I don’t want to live in the lie anymore. I don’t want to be the man who hurt you. I want to fix it, if you’ll let me. I’m begging you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

And before you could speak, before you could even think, Simon’s hands reached out and grabbed at your legs. He pulled himself even closer, his face pressing against the fabric of your pants, his breath shaky against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over, his voice breaking with each word. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.”

He held on, his arms around your legs, his forehead pressed against you like he didn’t want to ever let go. The sight of him, once so strong, now so broken, made something inside you stir. You hadn’t expected this. This wasn’t the man you thought you knew.

“Si?” You said, your voice barely audible.

“I’ll do anything,” Simon muttered, his grip tightening. “I swear, I’ll do anything. Just... please, let me fix this. Let me make it right.”

He stayed there, kneeling, holding you, his words still coming in soft, broken whispers, and all you could feel was the weight of everything—everything he had done, everything he was asking, everything that had been broken between you two.

He just continued to apologize, and you stood there, staring down at him, unsure of what came next.

A few days later, the feelings between you and Simon had settled, at least for now. Things weren’t perfect, but they were different. You could talk again—really talk—without the anger clouding everything.

He was still Simon, the man who had been by your side for so long, but now there was space between you, a new kind of distance. Friends again, not lovers, but it was a start.

You found yourself standing in his office again as Simon worked through paperwork on his desk. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper filled the room as he glanced up at you.

“I’ve got the divorce papers ready,” Simon said, you could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’ll send them to Price, and he can take care of sending them to her.”

You nodded, thinking for a moment. “I’ll take them to Price myself,” you said. “I need to see him anyway.”

Simon looked at you, a slight nod of approval. “Alright. Thanks, love.”

“How about we grab a cup of coffee after? Just as friends,” Simon added, his voice still soft, hopeful.

You thought about it for a second, then gave him a small nod. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He smiled, just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

As you turned to leave, your hand reached for the divorce papers on Simon's desk. Simon didn’t stop you as you picked up the papers and walked out of the office, the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hallway.

But as you made your way down the corridor, instead of heading to Price’s office, you turned down a different hallway, towards the abandoned building on the other side of the base. It had been years since anyone had used it, but you knew it well enough.

The old building creaked as you descended the stairs, the air heavy with the musty smell of decay. You could hear the sound of your boots hitting the concrete floor as you entered the basement, the space cold and unwelcoming. But there, in the corner of the room, hanging from a noose, was the woman who had taken everything from you—The bitch.

Her body swayed slightly as you approached, the dim light casting long shadows over the room. You stopped just in front of her, the cold fury building inside you.

You grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down from the ceiling, letting her body fall to the floor with a thud. She was still warm, her fingers twitching slightly as you knelt beside her.

"You're going to sign something for me," you said, your voice cold, deadly. "With a hand that's still functional though... before I kill you."

Her lips trembled, but she didn't say anything. She couldn’t. The pain and fear were clear in her eyes, but it was too late for her now. You knew what you had to do.

With a sigh, you reached for a pen. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” you whispered, ready to sign her fate.

-------------------------------------------

Once I click post now I'm running away. I'm scared haha

what do you guys think????

@daydreamerwoah @postm0rt3m @blacpiink @nightunite @surprisinglydreaming @shybasementtree @foxwitch666 @snaaaaaaaaaked @somethingsaladsomething @massivescissorsthingperson @abbeyskeff @a66-1 @mortem-writes @jupitersmoon167 @blankk3 @yxfairyrx @balletbiscuit @pickyourpoisonandevolve @emilia527 @midgalaxysparkle @0bonnie-bunny0 @kittygonap @babybimbo777 @johnnyshoe @probably--possessed @iloveoutlinesiswear @lucienofthelakes @foxintheferns @mamamayhem36 @sxnshinebxcky @keiva1000 @rain-likes-purple @piconico17 @sai-int @soosouyoung @cobyjackkkkk @dvmbk1tty @angstdaddy

[harryspet]

rough hands, soft chains [4] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!rancher!rafe x bimbo!cowgirl!reader, arranged marriage, rancher au, manipulation, size difference, jealousy, DUBCON, oral sex, rafe is HUGE, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

a/n: I posted this drabble about readers' state of mind at the end of chapter 3 if you'd like read it before this chapter :)

In which everything is perfect, it's you and Rafe’s wedding shower, and nothing could possibly go wrong.

word count: 5.5k

rough hands, soft chains masterlist

“I hate this shit,” Rafe grumbled, fumbling with the engraved silver buckle that adorned his belt. You thought he looked handsome. His shirt was crisp and white, his leather blazer a deep charcoal with subtle western embroidery, and his dark-wash jeans looked expensive but well-worn enough to look natural on him. He looked like the perfect cowboy to you. He’d sat his deep brown hat on the edge of your freshly made bed before he plopped down next to it, “We should stay up here. Have Wheezie bring us food.”

"But it's our wedding shower," you murmured absentmindedly, your focus fixed on the precise sweep of your mascara wand. Each coat was deliberate, just enough to make your eyes stand out, but not so much that it overwhelmed the rest of your look.

“I never would’ve agreed to let Rose plan this if I-I …. if I knew there had to be an engagement party, bridal shower, wedding shower, and a rehearsal dinner before we even got to the actual wedding.” 

“But you only get married once, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, baby,” Rafe continued, waving a hand dismissively, “But that’s not the point.”

You spent another five minutes adding blush and bronzer, then you spent a full ten minutes doing your lips, and you topped it off with a fine mist, locking everything into place. Your armor for the day. Rafe had begun pacing but that wasn’t out of the norm, “How do I look?” You asked when you finally revealed your carefully designed look to match the dress you and Sarah had bought together. 

The dress was made of delicate lace, an ivory color, that gave a hint of the skin beneath. The bodice was fitted, hugging your curves, strapless and the skirt flowed softly from your waist, ending above your knees. It was completely romantic, in your opinion, and Sarah had begged you to get it. 

At first, Rafe said nothing. His expression shifted, his brow knitting together, lips pressing into a firm line. His eyes locked onto you, dark and unreadable. He scratched at the back of his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot, a sign that something was brewing beneath his surface. 

“Uh,” Rafe started, his eyes going wide, “Fuck …yeah, baby, you look fucking gorgeous.” 

You couldn’t help the smile that formed on your face, glossy lips pulled into a curve. You walked closer and Rafe placed his hands on your hips, “You think so?” You batted heavy eyelashes up at him, placing your hands on his chest. You felt his heart beating fast beneath your palm. 

“Don’t do that,” Rafe smirked, leaning down until his breath was fanning over your face, “I’ll keep you up here, I will. Tie you down to the bed.” 

“That will mess up my makeup.”

“Well, I was going to mess up your makeup either way. You can decide if it’s before or after the party.”

He didn’t wait for your response, leaning down to peck your lips. It was brief but soft and warm. You giggled when you opened your eyes, finding his lips glossy in the same shade of pink as yours. 

You liked the version Rafe you’d gotten to know over the last two weeks. It made your heart race with anxiety to even think about him pinning you down on Ward’s desk. But your heart filled up when you thought about laying next to Rafe everyday after that. You felt broken, barely able to pull yourself out of bed, but he stayed with you. He made sure you ate, kept Rose from prying into your business, and brought you flowers nearly every other day, filling the surface of your antique dresser. You did your best to care for them, but only now were they beginning to wilt.

He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his suit jacket and you saw a bit of blush rise in his cheeks. 

You pulled from him, crossing the room to your closet. You picked out the strappy heels that you’d also bought with Sarah. You came back to sit on your bed, leaning down to lace them onto your feet. Rafe rounded your footboard, hand hanging on the wood and upholstery. 

“I’m excited,” You admitted, “I’m, like, nervous still. But it’s exciting.”

You glanced at him, finding his eyes fixed on your exposed legs, his eys trailing up to your thighs. It was a hungry look. He’d grown kinder but his appetite was still there. Part of you worried that his darker side might return, that he couldn’t contain his true nature, and it was a matter of time before he snapped. He held you tight at night, his fingers slipped into the front of your panties, oftentimes when you were still drowsy in the morning. He took your orgasms from you, as he always did, but he hadn’t pushed you again like that day two weeks ago. 

“You should be excited,” He said, “We’re very close to life being exactly as it should be.” 

You gave him an agreeing look. A honeymoon in Florida and then you and Rafe would have a whole house to yourself. A home. You didn’t know what you wanted from life before you met Rafe. You knew you wanted your Dad back but since you couldn’t have that, following his wishes would the next best thing. Maybe this was the best thing your father could’ve done for you. 

“I’m excited to meet Kiara,” You said, finishing strapping your feet into your heels. You stood, taller than before, but still much shorter than Rafe. 

“Kie?” Rafe’s brow raised and your heart stumbled, afraid that you had made a mistep, “What do you mean?”

Sarah had explained that Rafe didn’t necessarily like her friends but you also understood that Rafe didn’t like many things in general.  You'd thought hard about it once. He liked you and Wheezie. He liked whiskey. He liked movies where guys raced fast cars. He liked riding his horse and working with his Dad. You couldn't come up with anything else.

"Sarah’s bringing her as a date," you said, your voice turning a little unsure. "And, um, I think her family is, like… catering the wedding? I think?"

You could feel him thinking deeply, “Interesting.” Was all he said. 

That sounded neutral, right? Neutral was good. Safe.

You smiled, encouraged. "Oh! I was thinking it’d be fun if she came to my bachelorette too! So it’s not just me and Sarah."

“What about Wheeze?” He asked, voice deep and concerned. 

“Oh,” You started, “Sarah thinks she’s too young.”

“Sarah,” he spoke his sister’s name like it was a cruse, “You know she’ll be pissed. And I don’t think Sarah should be planning anything for your day that isn’t appropriate for my little sister. I thought you guys were going to the spa or something.”

You took in all his words, beginning to feel guilty about not including Wheezie, “I can talk to Sarah,” You said, “I just don’t know what most girls do. Sarah seemed to have good ideas about fun things to do. And she said the spa ideas was, um, boring.”

“Sarah’s idea of fun should not be your idea of fun.”

Your brows furrowed. Now you were confused, “But …” Despite the time you had spent with him, you’d yet to learn how to successfully argue with him, “What’s my idea of fun then?”

Sometimes you liked when Rafe filled in all of your blanks. It kept you from thinking too much and overthinking always led to shallow breaths and watery eyes. 

Rafe exhaled, like he’d already worked this all out in his head. “Something that involves Wheezie.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an answer. You nodded automatically. “Okay.”

It was a simple enough request. You’d just have to tell Sarah. And really, what was there to do in town, anyway? It wasn’t like you had a million options.

The backyard stretched endlessly, turing into rolling hills, and groves of towering pines. Edison bulbs twinkled above your head, shining light down onto long, wooden banquet tables. Dinner was over. Everyone was standing now, drinking glasses of wine, and talking in small groups. The Cameron’s knew a lot of people. People you didn’t even recognize from living here all your life. Rafe explained that they were business partners. A live band, one man with an acoustic guitar, the other with a fiddle played softly from a wooden platform. 

You were at Rafe’s side for a majority of the night. A photographer also seemd to follow the two of you everywhere. Under Rose’s direction, you took posed photos under a floral arch with white roses, Montana wildflowers and fresh greenery. In one, Rafe tilted your chin up, kissing you so deeply that you thought your heart might explode. 

The sky had darkened, the party continued to stretch into the night, and Rafe’s attention began to wander. He’d made it to his fifth bud light and now he was loudly talking into his friend, Kelce’s ear, his hand having left your hips moments before. 

You decided to look for Sarah, slipping away because Rafe wasn’t paying attention to you anyways. Some people walked up to you to congratulate you, some to offer condolences, and some just stared. 

You weren’t sure what to say to any of them. The words tangled somewhere in your throat, so you just smiled. Small, pretty, vacant.  You scanned the crowd, searching for Sarah’s familiar silhouette, but all you found were unfamiliar faces, whispering in hushed voices as their eyes lingered on you just a second too long.

Once you made your way back inside, shuffling through servers in their bright white shirts, you found Wheezie standing in the foyer, her eyes fixed down on her phone, “Wheezie, have you seen Sarah?” You asked and she barely looked up. 

“She left.” 

You stomached dipped, “What do you mean?”

“Kiara and her walked out like twenty minutes ago. Think they went to the barn.”

“Oh," You tried to hide your disappointment with a small grin, “Why?”

“I don’t know why Sarah does anything she does,” Wheezie tilted her head, studying you, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go look for them.”

“Alone?” She inquired, “Rafe’s gonna come looking for you.”

“He’s busy, I think,” You said, “I’ll be back in like ten minutes anways!”

Although Wheezie didn’t look convinced, she didn’t stop you either. She simply hummed, shifting her focus back to her phone. You walked out the front door, feeling the cool night air on your skin. You decided to leave your heels behind, knowing they’d just get stuck in the mud. Rafe would notice you were gone, eventually, but still your feet carried you forward. 

You recalled the first night you were here, when Rafe walked with you to the barn, and spread your legs on the floor of it. The other building, farther off in the distance, was the ranch hand’s quarters. You remembered that too. 

You heard them before you saw them. Laughter. Sarah’s was unmistakable and you’d gotten used to John B’s voice as well but you hesitated at the barn’s open doors when you heard an unfamiliar male voice. Slowly, you peered inside. You spotted Sarah sitting on a bale of hay next to a girl with light brown skin and curly hair. Sarah had an entire bottle of wine in her hand and sipped from it casually. 

Across from them stood John B. and a dark-skinned boy with a lean build and soft, deep brown eyes. Next to him was a boy whose sun-kissed blonde hair was kept in check by a weathered white cowboy hat. His skin was tanned and his smile was wide with mischief. 

A strong smell hit your nose too, earthy and smoky. You assumed it came from the cigarette in John B.'s hand, or at least, you thought it was a cigarette. 

It was too late to abort, because the blonde had spotted you and, in turn, all eyes turned to you. You wandered into the light of the barn awkwardly, your eyes meeting Sarah’s, her brown one’s lighting up with excitement, “Y/N!” She shouted, handing the wine bottle over to Kiara, and crossing the space to get to you. Her arms wrapped around your waist as she pulled you forward, “Guys, this is Y/N! Y/N, these are my friends I was telling you about.”

The group looked you over with curious eyes, their smiles friendly but tinged with cautious skepticism, as if still unsure of what to make of you.

She pointed them all out. Pope, JJ and Kiara. John B., you knew, of course. “Welcome,” John B. said. 

“Hi,” You waved. 

“You look so good!” Sarah exclaimed and you smelt the wine on her breath, “I was telling everyone how beautiful you are!”

“Thank you,” You smiled faintly, glancing over at Kiara, who gave you a soft, welcoming wave, “...Um, how come you guys didn’t come to the party?” 

“Oh–” JJ started but Pope quickly interjected. 

“It was a little too crowded,” Pope said, offering you an apologetic smile.

You nodded, accepting it, but your eyes couldn’t help but find JJ’s. His gaze was intense, but not in the way Rafe’s could be. It was the kind of stare that took you in without any hidden motive, no pressure. Just curiosity.

“Yeah,” Sarah chimed in, trying to ease the moment. “But I’m glad you came out here.”

“Rafe didn’t follow you, did he?” Kiara asked and you felt the tension that grew between the five of them. 

“No,” You shook your head, “I didn’t say anything,” you assured them, looking at each of them with wide, innocent eyes.

“Good,” Sarah said in approval and your mood lightened. 

JJ, however, seemed unfazed by the tension. He pushed past Pope, whose gaze had hardened slightly, as if issuing a warning that went unnoticed. JJ’s eyes were back on you, and his voice was playful as he moved closer, his grin widening. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” You blinked, feeling a little taken aback.

“Yeah, word gets around,” JJ replied, his eyes scanning you again, like he was memorizing your every detail. You fidgeted with the edge of your lace dress,  “And now I see why. You're hard to miss.”

“JJ,” John B. and Pope spoke at the same time. 

“What? I was just about to offer our guest some refreshments,” He turned to look at them but his gaze was fixed back on you soon. He gestured to the makeshift bar sitting on top of one of the stall gates. A bottle of clear liquor, a six-pack of beers with only two beers left, and a dirty shot glass, “She’s the bride. Gotta make sure she has a good time.”

“You don’t have to drink anything,” Sarah said. 

“She should at least have a shot,” JJ argued, “It’s her party, after all.”

You hesitated, but something about JJ’s easy confidence made the thought of refusing feel wrong. You didn’t want to come off as boring. 

“JJ, don’t be weird,” Kiara spoke, sounding annoyed, “That’s Rafe’s fiance.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Big, bad, Rafe. I’m shaking in my boots,” You didn’t understand and your eyes darted between all of them before they landed back on JJ, “What do you say, Y/N? Celebratory shot?’

It was just a shot. Nothing crazy. Except you’d forgotten to eat in all the commotion and attention, and the alcohol immediately went to your head. Plus, it burned your throat. You coughed but JJ’s smiled wider, making you think that you’d done something right. Everyone else was watching you with interest. 

Moments later, he was pouring you another and cracking open the rest of the beers, handing one to Kiara and then to Pope, “To new friends?” He raised his glass and you glanced around as everyone raised their respective glasses. 

“To new friends,” The others answered reluctantly and tilted back their drinks. You downed the second shot, wincing as it went down, smoother than the first one but still awful. 

Surprisingly, you heard Kiara laugh, “You’re brave for drinking out of that glass, girl.” 

"You’re more fun than I expected, cowgirl," JJ said with a teasing grin, his voice low and smooth.

“That’s mean, JJ.” Kiara said.

“Seriously, you’re cool, how did you end up engaged to Rafe?”

"JJ," John B. warned, his voice a little sharp as he glanced at him.

To your surprise, Pope, who’d been mostly quiet up until now, chimed in with a serious look. “No, I think it’s a valid question.”

You froze for a second. It wasn’t like you could just come out and say, well, it’s complicated and totally a mess. You didn’t even know what was going on with Rafe half the time. You decided to shrug it off, “I’m still figuring things out,” You tried to sound casual, though your heart was pounding, “I mean, we’re figuring things out together.”

“Enough interrogating, guys,” John B. said and you were grateful.

You’d been gone for too long, anyways, “I should get back to the party. It was really nice meeting ya'll.”

“We’ll see you around then, Y/N,” Pope smiled at you and you couldn’t help but feel warm. Or maybe that was just the alcohol.

“Yeah,” you agreed. You turned to Kiara, “Kiara, I hope you can come to my bachelorette.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” She spoke in a way that made you think she might be coolest girl you’d ever met. 

“Alright,” As you walked pass, Sarah grabbed your hand and gave it a squeeze. The warmth of her touch felt like a promise, like you’d just been accepted into something new, something different than what you were used to.

When you were back in the night, clear of the barn doors, you heard Pope’s voice loudly erupt, “Are you a fucking idiot, JJ?” 

Back inside the house, you searched for Wheezie, wanting her to break the news to Rose that you wanted to retire for the night. The party could certainly go on without you seeing as you knew barely anyone here. Your eyes felt tired, and honestly you felt a little bit wobbly, “Wheezie,” You whispered, as you peaked around corners and opened all the downstairs doors, hoping to find her on her phone, “Wheeeeezie.”

You made your way upstairs next, deciding to check her room. The teenager’s room was completely empty and you let out a tired huff. You just needed to lay down for a second. As soon as you turned on your heel, Rafe appeared, tall legs hurrying up the stairs. 

“Y/N,” His voice boomed as heavy as his steps, “Where you been?”

You tried to steady yourself but you stumbled backwards, “What’s going on, baby?” He caught you quickly, his voice softening. He held your waist, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You leaned against the wall, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I just …wanted to get away from the party,” You spoke slowly, your head swimming, “I’m fine. Just sleepy.”

Rafe studied you for a moment longer, his brows furrowing as if piecing something together. He looked down at your feet, “You went outside. Where’s your shoes?” 

“Downstairs somewhere. I guess I lost them,” You smiled weakly. 

“Hmm,” He leaned down to kiss your lips and you accepted, your tongue dancing with his.  

He pulled away, his eyes darkening, “You taste like vodka,” he murmured, his voice low and quiet. “Cheap vodka.”

“It’s a party, right?” You asked softly, “Our party.”

“I know they weren’t serving whatever you’ve been drinking. Tell me, what have you been doing? And with who?”

“I feel like … I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

His hand reached up, cupping your face with surprising tenderness. “I won’t be mad at you,” he said, his voice reassuring, though his eyes betrayed something darker. “But I need to know, darlin’. And I need you to be honest.”

You faltered, struggling with your words. “I don’t want you to be mad at anyone else either. Can we just go to bed?”

His jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. “Sarah,” he muttered, his voice low. “She gave it to you, didn’t she?”

“Wha–” You froze as Rafe’s jaw tightened, “It wasn’t her–”

“And you smell like fucking weed,” His face scrunched up and his voice turned low and painful. 

"I smell like... a weed?" you asked, confused, the words coming out in a dazed haze as you tried to process his words.

“Fucking Pogues,” Rafe cursed and you yelped when his fist pounded against the wall beside your head, “Stay here. I’ll deal with this.”

You reached out to grab his arm, your fingers trembling against tense muscles beneath his skin, “Wait. No, no, no, stay here with me.” 

He grabbed you next, and lifted you off your feet as he dragged you across the hallway. You tried to pull away, to get him to let you go, but his grip tightened. "Rafe, please!" you cried, struggling to free yourself, but it was futile. His hold on you was ironclad.

"Stay the fuck in here. I’ll be right back," he commanded, his voice colder than ice as he forced you into his room. The door slammed shut and then there was a wall between the two of you. The click of the lock followed and you stumbled back, your heart racing. 

You heard his footsteps retreat, a few heavy thuds followed by the faint sound of him calling out to someone. You pressed your ear against the door, straining to hear anything, but it was quiet for a moment.

You hurried towards the window, pressing your palms against the cool glass as you looked down toward the front of the house. Through the dim light spilling from the porch, you could see a trio of men walking in a purposeful, determined line away from the house.

He’ll be right back. You doubted that. You should’ve laid down then. But you did your best to undo the zipper of your dress, needing more room to breathe, before you wandered into Rafe’s closet. You pushed a mountain of clothes to the side, settling in the corner, and cried your makeup away. 

How did you manage to mess up everything with Sarah, her friends, and Rafe all in one night? Why did you have to ruin everything?

It wasn’t the first time Rafe had blown up at Sarah. She often stood in the way of everything he wanted in life. Ward loved her more than him, for some unknown reason that baffled Rafe the more he tried to understand it. This night was about him and you and yet Sarah and her pogue friends had to crash their party. Rafe couldn’t have one thing that was just his. Now she was trying to corrupt you, his sweet and clueless bride. 

“Where’s the rest of your friends?” Rafe asked when he and his friends found just John B., Kiara and Sarah in the barn, “They run? Huh?” 

Sarah rolled her eyes, hard, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t mess with me, Sarah.”

“What? Did you snort too many lines tonight?” 

Rafe imagined his hands around her throat. He squeezed his fist tight, examining the scene before him, assessing what exactly he could get away with in this moment. Soon, someone would notice that both Rafe and his future bride had disappeared from their own party. He was on thin ice with Ward already.

Kiara shifted, stepping in front of Sarah like some kind of shield. “Back off, Rafe.” Her voice was steady, but he could see the way her hands clenched into nervous fists.

Rafe let out a cold laugh, pointing straight at his sister, his gaze razor-sharp. “I’ll make every last one of your little Pogue friends miserable, you hear me?” His voice was low, dangerous, a promise rather than a threat. “I’m gettin’ the company, the money, the influence, every goddamn thing. Cameron Ranch pays all their fucking bills, and you know it. You think Heyward’s could run without us? Kie, your parents buy their beef from us, same as every other rich asshole in this town. Y’all survive because we let you…and you …”

Rafe turned towards John B., “You know better. No one else in this town would have you on with your history. And your friend, JJ, if I find out he put one finger on her. I’ll fucking kill him.” His voice dropped to a whisper, seething with a quiet rage. 

It was a promise. His blood boiled at the idea of JJ’s eyes on you. He would’ve killed him if the pogue hadn't been smart enough to run. That’s why he left you in his room, he knew he wouldn’t be able to control himself if he saw him. 

“That’s enough!” Sarah shouted, her expression twisted in frustration, “Stop, Rafe. You got your point across.”

“Nothing even happened, asshole,” Kiara said. 

“Like he should believe that,” Topper scoffed, speaking up, “Dirty pogues.”

“Let it go,” John B. said, “Before you do something you regret, man.” 

Rafe nodded, jaw tight. He considered them lucky. Damn lucky. They were on his property, his land, trespassing, he had every right to go after them, “Keep your friends away from Y/N,” Rafe said to his sister, “I’m serious.”

“You can’t control who she’s friends with!”

“I promise you won’t like it if you push me on this one, Sarah,” With one last glance at Sarah, he turned on his heel, heading back toward the house, back toward something far more important, back towards you. 

Rose ripped into him, of course, after the happy couple completely abandoned their own wedding shower. He would’ve preferred his father’s yelling over hers. She cornered him in the foyer, before he could climb the stairs, and Rafe started to feel a headache coming on. It was then he remembered the beers and the fact that he was not even close to sober. It wasn’t his fault the night ended in disaster. He’d done his part, networked, kept up appearances, and even posed for a million photos. The Pogues showing up and manipulating his fiance into getting drunk was out of his control. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Wheezie peaking from the bannister upstairs. She was eavesdropping, of course. He apologized to Rose instead of raising his voice. She continued. He apologized five more times. She didn’t accept, he didn’t expect her to. She threw up her hands in exhaustion, said she was going to talk to Ward, and then stormed off. 

With a heavy sigh, Rafe climbed the stairs.

His nosy little sister asked, “Why is Y/N crying in your room? She sounds like a kicked puppy.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. Great.

“Ask Sarah,” Rafe spoke curtly, annoyed. He reached into his pocket for his keys. 

“Sarah?”

“Goodnight, Wheezie.” Was all he said before he unlocked his bedroom door, pushed inside, and slammed it shut. 

He understood immediately what Wheezie meant by you sounding like a kicked puppy. You weren’t where he expected you'd be but it didn’t take long to narrow down where you were. He gave himself a few minutes to collect himself, bracing for your torrent of emotions, bracing for the anger you probably felt towards him. 

Being mad at him would be useless in the end. Rafe had decided the two of your belonged together. He certainly didn’t believe in soulmates but he understood ownership and possession. Whatever it was, the two of you would work for it, because you belonged to him. 

He found you, head in your hands, shaking like a leaf. He kicked off his boots, lowered down to the ground, and moved next to you, “Y/N?” 

“I’m sorry,” You said immediately, your voice pitiful. 

“You’re sorry, baby?” It wasn’t the reaction he expected from you but he leaned into it, “You’re sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry for,” You hiccuped, “For drinking. I don’t know why I did it. I just …” 

“You want Sarah to like you,” Rafe filled in your often incomplete thoughts and you finally looked up. Despite the streaked mascara and smudged lipstick, he thought you looked gorgeous. 

“Yeah … I shouldn’t, right?” You asked hesitantly, "You know, sometimes it feels like everyone knows what’s going on except me. I think she thinks I’m stupid and she’d be right.. I can’t even take care of myself.” 

“Look, I’m not happy with Sarah but I know she doesn’t think that,” Rafe assured you, but made sure to add on, “And you shouldn’t care what she thinks. She hangs out with a bunch of lowlifes. She’s going nowhere. You, baby, have so much potential. So what, you don’t know everything, but you don’t need to take care of yourself. How many times do I have to tell you? That’s my job.”

Rafe watched you nod your head, eyes still watery, “My Dad wanted it.”

“He did,” Rafe agreed, “I don’t like to see you like this …things will be better when we have our own house. Our own family. I know it will.”

“Was she upset?” You wiped your own tears, “When you went out there…” 

“You’re too sweet for your own good.” 

He was watching you closely now, scanning your body language, gauging whether you were on the verge of a panic attack. This moment, it was an opportunity for him. Somehow, despite everything, he wasn’t the bad guy in this situation. Maybe it was the trust he’d built with you over the last two weeks, maybe it was something else entirely. Either way, he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.

“C’mere,” He reached for you, fingers wrapping around your wrists, guiding you toward him. You shuffled forward onto your knees, letting him pull you closer. His hands slid to your hips, gripping firmly as he positioned you over his lap, your legs straddling his. Now, you were right where he wanted you, face to face, eyes locked, nowhere to hide.

“She was upset,” he admitted, his thumbs smoothing slow circles against your sides. “But not as upset as me.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly.

“It wasn’t just the drinking,” he continued, voice low and steady. “It was who you were drinking with. You were with them. Without me.” His jaw tensed. “Knowing that those dirty Pogues got to look at you, be near you-” He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re the most beautiful thing in my life. I don’t think it’s selfish to want you to myself.”

Shame flickered across your features. 

“I wasn’t thinking,” You murmured and part of Rafe’s mind, the sick part, rejoiced, “I’m so sorry.”

A weak smile tugged at his lips, “I forgive you, baby. I’m not mad anymore. At all. “

He kept his voice reassuring, his words gentle, but his touch was anything but. 

“What makes them so bad, Rafe?” You asked curiously, your voice barely above a whisper, “They didn’t look that dirty to me.”

“Not tonight, I don’t want to talk about them,” Rafe ran his hands over your thighs, traveling beneath the skirt of your dress, before he gripped a handful of your ass in his hands, “I wanna teach you something.”

“Mhm,” You hummed as Rafe leaned into your neck, kissing you softly. You were so responsive, even in this fragile state. 

“I know how you can make it up to me.”

Rafe felt you tense when you felt it, the growing hardness that was currently being restrained by his zipper. Barely contained. He leaned his head down, just as he moved his hands to your breast. He squeezed tightly, savoring the handful, “Rafe …I-I–I don’t know.” 

He did wonder how far he could push you before you couldn’t take it anymore. But he remembered how much further he’d gotten with you being a little more gentle, “Don’t worry,” He assured you, “I’m going to teach you how to use your mouth on me. It won’t hurt at all.”

“It won’t? But …. But  it can’t fit in my mouth.” 

Patience, he reminded himself. 

“I’ll show you,” Rafe pressed his thumb against your soft lips, “Open, baby.”

Rafe saw it in your eyes, the hesitance, the fear but he kept his touch soft. He brushed your tongue, “Suck on my finger,” You closed your mouth around his finger and when he felt your teeth scrape his skin, he added, “But don’t bite. No teeth. That’s lesson number one.”

He moved his thumb slowly in and out of your mouth, allowing you practice. The way your wide eyes were fixed on him, looking for his approval, was probably the sexiest thing he’d seen you do. And you were his, “Good girl, darlin’” he praised, and your lashes fluttered at the words.

He promised to take it slow and was a man of his word. He gave you plenty of practice before the real thing. You were right, he couldn’t fit inside your mouth. Most of him. But he taught you how to hold him, how to stroke him, how to keep touching him in the moments where your mouth got too tired. That was lesson two.  Just the tip this time, you could handle that. He had been holding off for two weeks, and it wouldn’t take much.

And when the moment finally came, when his release spilled hot and thick onto your tongue, Rafe taught you lesson number three.

“You never spit, baby,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your swollen lips. “My cum is your reward for all your hard work. You swallow all of it.”

And when you did, although your face scrunched at the unfamiliarity of it, Rafe pressed a slow, claiming kiss against your lips.

hope you enjoyed!!

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong. 

None of it was a choice you should have to make. 

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give. 

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah. 

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through. 

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister’s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone. 

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people. 

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean. 

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you. 

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?” 

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.” 

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either. 

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you. 

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

 “You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset. 

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical. 

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t—"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle. 

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y’all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” 

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you. 

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break. 

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm. 

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people. 

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day. 

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby. 

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away. 

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach. 

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel. 

Rafe. 

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you. 

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle. 

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms. 

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face. 

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect, all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter. 

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. 

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else. 

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience. 

“Put me down!” 

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate. 

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit. 

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here. 

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours. 

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall. 

 "Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape. 

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much. 

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over. 

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him. 

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode. 

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

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[ariestrxsh]

olderbrothersbsf!matt x innocent!reader

જ⁀➴ ♡ content warning: smut, innocence corruption, masturbation, public fingering, praise, sneaking around, mentions of sex and virginity loss, small age gap (both characters are adults)

જ⁀➴ ♡ summary: your brother's childhood best friend, matt sturniolo, takes your virginity, and the two of you begin sneaking around in plain sight.

dividers by @/roseraris

Young God

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

Matt woke up in a cold sweat, his chest covered in a thick layer of perspiration, laying on the floor next to your brother's bed in his dark room. He had heard your brother's voice so clearly in his dream that he was sure it was real while it was happening.

He had taken your virginity earlier in the night, and his conscience was already nagging at him in the form of vivid nightmares that the interaction had ended in your brother walking in on the two of you.

In reality, he was thankfully a heavy sleeper, and it was a running joke in the family that he could sleep through a car accident, and he actually had once. It was a minor fender bender, but still. So even as Matt woke up in a panic, gasping for air, your brother was snoring loudly, the same way he was when Matt had snuck back into the room after he'd cleaned you up.

It's not that Matt regretted having sex with you. In fact, he was already plotting how he could get you alone again. But he knew he was playing a dangerous game. Your brother was bigger than he was, stronger than he was, and he'd seen him beat the shit out of people for less. Matt really believed him when he told him he'd kill him if he had sex with you.

But how could he have walked away from you after finding you like that, pleasuring yourself and moaning his name? He really thought it would have been more cruel to have left you all alone to your own devices when he knew that what you really wanted was between his legs, and he knew he could make you feel better than any toy could.

He started pawing at himself through the soft fabric of his underwear while he replayed the encounter in his head. He recalled the way he had stumbled upon you with your vibrator, softly moaning his name from one room over. He remembered how vulnerable and fuckable you'd looked.

His curious hand wandered into his waistband, and he wrapped his fingers around his thick shaft, fervently tugging at his cock while he recounted the shocked expression on your pretty face while he'd breached your entrance. He couldn't stop thinking about all the lovely sounds you'd made while he'd deflowered you, stretching you out for the very first time.

He started pumping faster, his mind flooded with images of you, getting closer and closer to the finale. He remembered how you'd clenched around him while he played with you and the way your breasts had jiggled while he had pounded into your sweet little cunt.

You were no longer pure and virginal, and it was all thanks to him. He had tainted your innocence with his dark desires.

He threw his head back and shut his eyes as a few strangled moans filled the room. His stomach dropped, and his muscles tightened as he finished himself off, milking his throbbing cock for all of its worth. He came all over his hand while he pictured your hole dripping with his seed after he'd filled you up.

He remembered the way you had softly begged him, "Please, don't tell my brother," while peering up at him with your big eyes, your lip caught between your teeth as his cum was still dribbling out of you. "I wouldn't dream of it," he had panted in response before leaning down and pulling you into a deep kiss.

A satisfied smile formed on Matt's face as he slowly brought his strokes to a halt, and a soft chuckle escaped his lips. He couldn't wait until the next time he got to have his way with you.

Finally, Matt was able to drift off again and sneak in a few more hours of uninterrupted sleep before the sun began to rise.

જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴

The next morning, you woke up smiling and satisfied from what Matt had done to you the previous night. You galavanted into the long hallway, tiptoeing past your brother's door. You floated down the staircase, running your hand along the smooth banister like you did every morning on your way to the kitchen.

"Morning Boots!" You greeted the family dog, ruffling his fur, and he wagged his tail in response. You let him out the back door to do his morning business.

You were humming to yourself, rifling through the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs when Matt appeared out of the corner of your eye at the bottom of the steps. "Shit," you muttered as you lost your grip on the carton of eggs, sending the last six in the container crashing to the floor about your feet.

"Sorry, sweet thing. I didn't mean to startle you," Matt chuckled, watching you forget how your motor skills worked just because he was in your presence. "Hi, Matt," you timidly greeted him.

For a moment, you glanced up at him and then back down at the shattered eggs beneath you as you remembered the vulnerable position he'd seen you in the night before. You knelt down on the ground and started scooping up the broken shells.

"I make you nervous, don't I?" Matt smirked, slowly walking towards you. You innocently looked up at him with a flushed expression and your big, doe eyes. You didn't have to respond for him to know he was right. "Has anyone ever told you how pretty you look on your knees?" Matt cooed quietly, bending down and softly brushing his thumb against your smooth, pink cheek.

You felt your stomach drop as Matt looked into your eyes, caressing your face and saying all the right things to you. "You were such a good girl for me last night," Matt whispered, smiling deviously and running the pad of his thumb along your plump bottom lip.

Suddenly, you heard heavy foot steps descending the stairs, and Matt quickly pulled his hand away as your brother materialized at the bottom of the staircase. Matt started to help you pick up the broken egg shells, but you couldn't will away the pink shade your face took on after Matt had spoken so sweetly to you.

"That's okay. I'll just have cereal for breakfast," your brother rolled his eyes, approaching the pantry after witnessing the mess. "It's my fault," Matt said, winking at you as he stood up, disposing of the eggs shells and rinsing off his hand. You avoided eye contact with them both, cleaning the rest of the egg off the tile.

You appreciated that Matt took the attention off you by taking the blame. You were paranoid that if your brother looked at you for too long that he could see it written on your face that you weren't a virgin anymore.

"You know, why don't we all go out for breakfast?" Matt suggested, smirking over at you once he picked up the nearly empty carton of milk out of the fridge.

જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴ ♡ જ⁀➴

You, Matt, and your brother found yourselves at a nearby local diner with a bit of a 50's vibe to it - classic checkerboard floor, a vintage jukebox, and vinyl pink booths. I Only Have Eyes For You by The Flamingo's played quietly through the speakers as a woman in bright red lipstick and a poodle skirt greeted the three of you and led you towards your table in the back of the empty restaurant.

Both you and your brother sat down across from each other, and Matt made the bold move of taking a seat next to you, earning a curious look from your brother that Matt quickly brushed off.

The waitress poured fresh, hot coffee into each of your ceramic mugs and set off in another direction to give you all a few minutes with your menus.

You decided on French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Matt got the biscuits and gravy combo, and your brother got steak and eggs. Shortly after ordering, the server came back around to top off everyone's coffee.

"So what do you guys like the most about being away at college?" You asked Matt and your brother as you stirred a couple sugars and cream into your mug. "Definitely the fact that our overprotective mother isn't always asking where I'm going," your brother chuckled, taking a sip of coffee.

"How about you, Matt? What do you like the most about college?" You asked, batting your lashes at him. "Probably how loud I can fuck now that I don't live at home with my parents," Matt said, smirking over at you.

"Wow. How inspirational. Maybe tone done the sex talk in front of my little sister, huh?" Your brother snorted, dipping his fingers into his water and flicking it at Matt. Matt did the same in return. You blushed and giggled at their rapport.

"What have you guys missed the most about being home?" You wondered, glancing between the two boys. "I missed Boots the most. We can't keep pets in our dorm rooms," your brother stated, excited to be around the family dog again.

You turned your attention towards the boy to your left to hear his response. "I missed you the most," Matt said in a seductive voice, staring into your eyes, nudging you in the knee with his, and secretly placing his hand on your thigh. You smiled and blushed at him.

"Did you miss me as much as I missed you?" He cooed, gently drawing circles with his fingers just inches from your heat. You bit your lip and nodded. "Hey, Matt. Could you stop hitting on my little sister in front of me?" Your brother asked nonchalantly. "No. Look at how much she likes it," Matt sneered at him, and your brother kicked him under the table.

It was a small price to pay in order to watch how embarrassed and flustered you'd get around him.

It was around this time that the waitress returned with your steaming hot breakfast. The smell of maple syrup and bacon wafted through the air, and you each thanked her as she placed your plates in front of you all. There were a few moments of silence while everyone dug into their meals.

You felt Matt's hand that was resting on the inside of your thigh as he started hiking up your sparkly pink dress and inching towards your pussy. Your eyes widened, and you slowly looked over towards Matt as he casually pulled your panties to the side.

He shot a subtle smirk in your direction as he slipped a finger between your folds, gently stroking up and down and just barely grazing your clit. You bit down on your lip to suppress a whimper. With one hand between your legs and the other gripping his fork, he nodded at your brother while he recounted his least favorite teacher his first semester of his freshman year of college.

"Hopefully, you don't get him next year, sis. Basically had to teach myself trigonometry because he refused to dumb down the information. Pretentious bastard," your brother mumbled under his breath. "Yeah, and he was a real hard-ass for no reason," Matt added, gesturing with his fork while he rubbed your sensitive button underneath the table.

"Just because you never showed up to class doesn't mean every single one of your teachers is a hard-ass, Matt," your brother snarked at him. Matt chuckled at your brother's comment while he inserted a finger into your drooling hole as you were taking a sip of your coffee.

You inhaled sharply, sputtering on your hot drink and nearly spitting it out onto the table. "You good?" Your brother asked you, and you nodded while you placed your mug back down with a trembling hand. "Lay off the coffee. You're shaking," he pointed out before cutting into his steak.

Matt slowly thrust his finger into you while you tried to remain as composed as possible. You loved the feeling of him moving in and out of you while your brother was across from you, unaware of what the two of you were up to on the other side of the booth.

Thankfully, after a few more minutes, your brother excused himself to use the bathroom, and he walked away without paying any mind to what Matt's fingers were doing under the table.

The second he disappeared around the corner, Matt grabbed ahold of your leg and rested it on his knee to open you up further. He spread your lips and stared down at your wet, juicy cunt. "Such a pretty pink pussy you have," Matt admired, hungrily wetting his lips.

He lined two of his fingers up with your entrance and started fucking you hard and fast with them under the table. "If the waitress or your brother start coming this way, be a good girl and let me know. I don't think this will take very long, though," he whispered, seductively smiling at you.

A few strangled moans escaped your lips as you gripped the edge of the table. "Good girl. You're so wet," Matt softly commented as his digits slipped in and out of you with ease. You could feel your stomach dropping, your core tightening, and your whole body quivering as Matt brought you to the quickest climax you'd had in your life.

There was something about the risky factor and the publicity of it all that sent you plummeting over the edge while Matt passionately finger-fucked you.

"That's it. Cum all over my fingers. Come on, sweet thing. I know you can do it," he urged you. His praise sent a current of pleasure through you while you started rhythmically clenching around his digits, your hips bucking as he finished you off.

"Good girl," he lustfully commended you as your jaw fell open and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He pumped in and out, slowing down his pace as your orgasm concluded. A wave of tranquility washed over you, and Matt gave you a mischevious smile as he pulled his fingers from your slick hole that were covered in shiny layer of your juices.

"Mmm," he hummed as he stuck them in his mouth and licked them clean, cherishing your flavor. "I can't get enough of you," he whispered as you pulled your legs shut again, smoothing out your dress, and going back to eating your food as your brother came into view from around the corner on his way back from the bathroom.

You almost couldn't believe you'd let Matt do that to you in such a high-risk situation, but you fucking loved the rush you got from it, and Matt could tell due to how quickly you came.

When your brother returned to the table, you could feel how flushed your face must have looked as your brother's eyes traveled between you and his best friend. Matt couldn't hide the guilty smirk from his face, but he tried to cover it with his hand as he propped his elbow up on the table.

He got a sort of sick satisfaction out of sneaking around with his best friend's little sister right in front of his face. The only problem was that he was too smug and arrogant for his own good, and his God complex would quickly have him falling from good graces if he wasn't careful.

"You guys are acting weird today," he commented, narrowing his gaze. "If one of you did something to my food while I was gone, you're both dead," he laughed, skeptically looking at you and the boy beside you.

"Nah, nothing like that. Don't worry about it," Matt replied in a conceited tone. "If you're playing some kind of prank on me, I'm gonna figure it out, Sturniolo," your brother responded, laughing and pointing at him with his fork.

You sat uncomfortably in your soaking wet panties, silently finishing your coffee, unable to look at either one of them. Your heart was still beating quickly, and you were still trying to subtly call your breath back to you. Luckily, the subject changed, and the boys started talking about something unrelated.

You couldn't bring yourself to add to the conversation, so you listened quietly while you picked at your french toast and eggs, trying to draw as little attention to yourself as possible.

You couldn't keep your eyes off Matt the whole ride home, studying his profile and swooning every time he turned around to wink at you or lick his lips while he peered between your legs. Every silent exchange between the two of you felt like a little secret that only the two of you were privy to.

You liked concealing the sexual nature of your relationship with Matt. As far as everyone else around you knew, he was just your brother's best friend. However, behind closed doors (and under the table in empty diners), he was the manifestation of your fantasies, the embodiment of your wildest wet dream, and the boy who had popped your cherry.

All you could think about was the next time you'd get to be alone with him. Behind his hauntingly beautiful blue eyes, he was wondering the same about you, daydreaming about the next time he could fill you with his cock.

part three here ❣️

taglist: @thepubeburgler @realqueenofpepsi @mattsredgaphoodie @purpledreamertyphoon @moosegirl96 @bsturnzmtts @sturniolo-girl @theyluvme-2315 @jassturn @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @jaysturniolo @sturniolosweetheart33 @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @luvhsien @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @babysturniolo @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx @sturniolocharms @mickelodeon-2003 @sigmarizzler1 @chrislova

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- Minors do not enter

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Masterlist

Chapter 2: The Wolves' Den

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed nine as you returned to the drawing room with Hongjoong. The conversation between the men paused, all eyes turning to assess your expressions, searching for signs of reconciliation or further hostility.

You kept your face carefully blank, taking your seat once more. If they were hoping for a miraculous change of heart during your garden chat, they were about to be sorely disappointed.

"Have you two reached an understanding?" your father asked, his tone suggesting he expected the answer to be yes.

"We understand each other perfectly," you replied coolly, not looking at Hongjoong. "We always have."

Mr. Kim cleared his throat. "Excellent. Then perhaps we can finalize the remaining details."

Your father nodded. "As we discussed, the wedding will take place at the Kim estate. Traditional ceremony, followed by a reception for our closest associates."

"And the honeymoon?" Mr. Kim inquired.

"Two weeks in Sicily," your father replied. "At the family villa."

You bit back a bitter laugh. Of course they'd already planned your honeymoon. Why not your entire future while they were at it?

"And in the meantime," your father continued, his eyes shifting to you, "Y/n will be staying at the Kim estate to become better acquainted with her future husband and his... organization."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I beg your pardon?"

Your father's expression hardened slightly. "It's been decided, Y/n. You'll be moving to the Kim estate tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" You leaned forward, dropping all pretense of composure. "You're shipping me off to live with strangers for three months?"

"They're hardly strangers," your father countered. "You've known Hongjoong and his associates since childhood."

"Known and been abandoned by," you corrected sharply. "And you expect me to just... what? Pack up and move in with them? Like some sort of trial run before the main event?"

"It's a common practice for arranged marriages in our circles," Seonghwa interjected smoothly. "It allows the bride to acclimate to her new family and household before the wedding."

You turned your glare on him. "Thank you for the cultural lesson, Mr. Park. I'm well aware of our 'traditions.' I'm simply questioning why this particular one is necessary in my case."

"Because," your father said firmly, "the Ricci estate is no longer secure."

That stopped you cold. "What do you mean?"

A look passed between your father and Mr. Kim—a silent communication that sent a chill down your spine.

"The Russo family has been making moves," your father said finally. "We've intercepted information suggesting they may target you to get to me."

"So instead of increasing security here, you're sending me away?" you asked incredulously.

"The ATEEZ compound is the most secure location in the city," Hongjoong said, speaking up for the first time since you'd returned from the garden. "No one gets in or out without our knowledge."

You turned to him slowly. "ATEEZ?"

"Our organization," he replied, a hint of pride coloring his tone. "Separate from our family businesses, though allied. The eight of us formed it five years ago."

"How entrepreneurial of you," you said sarcastically. "And this compound—who exactly will be there?"

Hongjoong met your gaze steadily. "Myself. Seonghwa. Yunho. Yeosang. San. Mingi. Wooyoung. And Jongho."

You couldn't help the sound that escaped you—something between a laugh and a growl. "All eight of you. Together. How convenient."

"Each has their role," Hongjoong continued, undeterred by your reaction. "We've built something... significant."

"I'm sure you have," you said, your voice dripping venom. "One big happy family. And now you want to add me to your collection."

"Y/n," your father warned.

But you were beyond caring about decorum. "So I'm to be a prisoner in a house full of men who couldn't even be bothered to say goodbye seven years ago? Is that it?"

The words hung in the air, and for a split second, you caught something flash across Hongjoong's face—guilt, perhaps, or regret. Seonghwa's expression remained carefully neutral, but you noticed his hand tighten imperceptibly on the arm of his chair.

"You'll be a guest," Seonghwa corrected. "Protected and respected."

"Forgive me if I don't find that particularly reassuring coming from you," you said, Seonghwa's parting words from seven years ago echoing in your mind: "Find some nice civilian boy to marry, Y/n. Someone more... your speed."

"Enough," your father said sharply. "This isn't a negotiation, Y/n. It's been decided. You'll go with Hongjoong tomorrow and stay at the ATEEZ compound until the wedding. End of discussion."

The finality in his tone left no room for argument. You sat back in your chair, fury building inside you like a gathering storm. Trapped. You were going to be trapped with all eight of them, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the memories and the pain they represented.

"If that's settled," Mr. Kim said, rising to his feet, "we should be going. We have much to prepare for Y/n's arrival."

Your father stood as well, extending his hand. "We'll speak tomorrow before she leaves."

As the men exchanged handshakes and platitudes, you remained seated, your mind racing. Three months in the lions' den—no, the wolves' den. Because that's what they were, weren't they? A pack of wolves who had once welcomed you as one of their own, only to turn on you when it suited them.

"Y/n," your father's voice broke through your thoughts. "Say goodbye to our guests."

You rose mechanically, your smile tight and false. "Mr. Kim, it was a pleasure. Mr. Park, always illuminating. Hongjoong... until tomorrow, I suppose."

Hongjoong inclined his head slightly. "I'll send a car at noon."

"How thoughtful," you replied. "I'll be sure to pack light. Wouldn't want to impose."

His eyes narrowed slightly at your tone, but he said nothing more. As they turned to leave, you caught Seonghwa watching you with an unreadable expression. For a moment, you thought you saw something like regret in his gaze, but it was gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

Once the door closed behind them, you rounded on your father. "How could you do this to me?"

"I'm protecting you," he said firmly. "The ATEEZ compound is a fortress. You'll be safer there than anywhere else."

"With the same men who abandoned me without a word? Who left me wondering for years what I'd done wrong? That's your idea of protection?"

"We felt sorry for you because your mom was sick, but she's gone now. Maybe it's time you learned to be alone." Wooyoung's last words to you floated through your mind, making your chest tighten with renewed pain.

Your father sighed heavily, suddenly looking older than his years. "There are things you don't understand, Y/n."

"Then explain them to me!" you demanded. "Tell me why my best friends disappeared from my life overnight. Tell me why you're suddenly so eager to marry me off to one of them."

A flicker of something—guilt? discomfort?—passed across your father's face before he carefully composed his features again.

He moved to the bar, pouring himself another drink. "Some secrets aren't mine to tell."

"Convenient excuse," you spat. "Everyone has secrets they can't share, decisions they can't explain. Am I the only one expected to accept everything blindly?"

Your father turned to face you, his expression grave. "In our world, ignorance can be a form of protection. Sometimes, not knowing is the safest position to be in."

"I stopped being safe the day I was born a Ricci," you countered. "At least give me the dignity of knowing what I'm walking into."

For a moment, something like indecision flickered across your father's face. Then he downed his drink in one swift motion. "Pack your things, Y/n. The decision is made."

You stared at him in disbelief, then turned on your heel and stormed out of the room. Your heels echoed against the marble floor as you climbed the stairs to your bedroom, each step fueled by rage and frustration.

Once inside, you slammed the door behind you with enough force to rattle the paintings on the walls. For a moment, you stood there, breathing heavily, fighting the urge to scream or break something—or everything.

Instead, you moved to your closet and yanked out a suitcase, throwing it onto the bed with unnecessary force. The thought of living under the same roof as all eight of them—eating breakfast across from Yunho's too-bright smile after he'd once told you to "Stop crying, it's embarrassing," passing San in the hallway who had called you a "lost puppy," hearing Wooyoung's distinctive laugh echoing through the rooms after he'd said you were "exhausting and needy"—it sent a confusing mix of emotions coursing through you. Anger, yes. Resentment, absolutely. But beneath that, something else—a dangerous flutter of anticipation that you refused to acknowledge.

You began throwing clothes into the suitcase haphazardly, muttering curses under your breath. "Stupid, arrogant, presumptuous men, thinking they can just—"

A knock at your door interrupted your tirade. "What?" you snapped.

Paolo's voice came through the door. "Miss Y/n, your father asked me to tell you that security protocols have been updated in light of tomorrow's move. No one leaves the house tonight without an escort."

"Fine," you called back. "Is that all?"

A pause. "He also said to remind you that the ATEEZ organization has a... reputation. They're not the boys you once knew."

You stilled, a silk blouse dangling from your fingers. "What kind of reputation?"

"They're effective," Paolo said simply. "Ruthless when necessary. But fair, by our standards."

Our standards. The standards of a world built on violence and power, where loyalty was currency and betrayal was punishable by death. A world where childhood friends could tell you that you were "not special" and that they'd been "just being polite all these years," then disappear without a trace.

"Thank you, Paolo," you said quietly. "Good night."

"Good night, Miss Y/n."

As his footsteps faded away, you sank onto the edge of your bed, the blouse forgotten in your lap. ATEEZ. You'd heard whispers of the name over the years—a new player in the city's underworld, methodical and disciplined in a way most organizations weren't. You'd never connected it to them, never imagined that the boys who had once sneaked you ice cream past your bedtime were now the men others in your world spoke of with wary respect.

You looked around your bedroom—the space that had been your sanctuary for years, the one place where you could pretend to be normal, where the weight of the Ricci name sometimes felt a little lighter. Tomorrow, you would leave it behind for a house full of ghosts from your past.

With renewed determination, you returned to your packing, this time with more care. If you were walking into the wolves' den, you'd be damned if you'd go unprepared.

As you folded a black evening dress—the kind that could double as armor in the right circumstances—you made yourself a promise. You wouldn't be the victim in this story. Not again. If they thought you were still that same trusting girl they'd left behind, they were about to learn how wrong they were.

The words that had haunted you for seven years—"You talk too much," "It's pathetic," "We've outgrown this phase of our lives," "Find your own life"—you would force them to eat every single one.

Hongjoong Kim might have agreed to marry you, and your father might have agreed to send you away, but that didn't mean you had to make it easy for any of them.

The game had changed, and this time, you would be the one setting the rules.

***

The morning arrived too quickly, sunlight streaming through windows you'd forgotten to close. You'd slept fitfully, dreams filled with shadows and fragments of memories—eight faces, eight voices, eight different kinds of betrayal.

By eleven, your bags were packed and waiting by the door. You'd chosen your outfit with deliberate care—black high-waisted trousers, a crimson silk blouse, and heels that added three dangerous inches to your height. Battle armor of a different kind.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.

"Come in," you called, expecting your father with one final lecture about behavior and duty.

Instead, Paolo entered, carrying a small wooden box. His weathered face was solemn as he approached, setting the box on your dressing table.

"Your father is on a call," he said. "He asked me to see you off."

You nodded, unsurprised but still disappointed. "Of course he did."

Paolo's gaze softened. "Before you go, I have something for you." He gestured to the box. "It was your mother's."

Curious, you approached the box, running your fingers over the polished wood before lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lay a pearl-handled pistol and an ornate dagger with an engraved hilt. Your breath caught in your throat.

"My mother's..." you whispered.

Paolo nodded. "The Beretta was a gift from your father on their wedding day. The knife was her grandfather's—Sicilian, from the old country." He reached in, lifting the pistol with careful hands. "She called this her insurance policy. Said a woman in our world should never be without options."

You took the weapon, feeling its weight—surprisingly light, perfectly balanced. Despite its delicate appearance, you knew it was as deadly as any of the more modern firearms in your father's collection.

"It's loaded," Paolo said quietly. "And the knife is sharp enough to slice through silk."

You looked up at him, understanding the message beneath his words. "Thank you, Paolo."

He inclined his head. "Your mother was fierce. You remind me of her more each day." His eyes met yours. "The ATEEZ boys—they're dangerous men now. But they were good boys once. I remember."

"People change," you said, carefully replacing the pistol in the box and closing the lid. Mingi's words echoed in your mind: "We're not the same people we were as kids, and honestly? Neither are you."

"Yes," Paolo agreed. "But not always completely." He lifted the box, handing it to you. "Hide these well. And remember—"

"A woman in our world should never be without options," you finished for him, tucking the box into your handbag.

A sad smile crossed his face. "May God go with you, little one."

You reached up, pressing a kiss to his weathered cheek. "Thank you for everything, Paolo."

He nodded once more, then turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Your father loves you, Y/n. In his way."

"I know," you said softly. "In his way."

After he was gone, you stood alone in your bedroom for the last time, mentally saying goodbye to the sanctuary it had been. Then, squaring your shoulders, you picked up your handbag—now considerably heavier with your mother's "insurance policy"—and headed downstairs to meet the car that would take you to your new life.

* * *

The ATEEZ estate loomed before you like something from a gothic novel—a sprawling modern mansion of stone and glass, set behind imposing gates and surrounded by meticulously landscaped grounds. Security cameras tracked your arrival, and armed guards stood at strategic points along the perimeter.

As the car pulled up the circular driveway, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. Your mother's pistol and knife, now hidden in strategic places on your person, gave you a small measure of comfort.

The driver—a stoic man who hadn't spoken a word during the thirty-minute drive—opened your door. "Miss Ricci," he said with a slight bow. "Welcome to the ATEEZ compound."

You stepped out, surveying the fortress that would be your home for the next three months. "Charming," you murmured. "Does it come with a dungeon, or is that extra?"

The driver's expression didn't change as he retrieved your luggage from the trunk. "Mr. Kim and the others are waiting for you inside."

Before you could respond, the massive front doors swung open, and there they were—all eight of them, lined up in the entrance hall like a receiving line from your nightmares.

For a moment, you couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. Seven years collapsed into nothing as you took in their faces—so familiar yet so changed. Boys no longer, but men with edges hardened by whatever lives they'd led since leaving yours.

Hongjoong stood at the center, impeccably dressed in all black, his posture rigid. His last words to you hung in the air between you: "Did you really think this was real, Y/n? We have real futures to build now, and frankly... you don't fit into them."

Beside him, Seonghwa watched you with that same unreadable expression from the night before, the man who once told you to "find some nice civilian boy to marry."

Yunho, taller than you remembered, shifted his weight nervously, the same man who had once said, "Stop crying, Y/n. It's embarrassing."

Yeosang's face remained impassive, but his eyes never left yours—the quiet one who had cruelly told you that you "talk too much" and that they "used to draw straws to see who had to listen to you ramble."

San's lips curved in a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, the charmer who had dismissed you as "pathetic" and compared you to a "lost puppy."

Mingi stood slightly apart, his gaze so intense it was almost physical—the gentle soul who had become harsh enough to call you "clingy" and "desperate."

Wooyoung fidgeted, barely containing whatever energy coursed through him, the one whose words had cut deepest when he called you "exhausting and needy" and said they only tolerated you because they "felt sorry for you."

And Jongho, the youngest but somehow looking the most formidable, stood with arms crossed—the protector who had told you that you were "embarrassing yourself and your family" and to "have some dignity."

Eight men. Eight ghosts. Eight pieces of your past, standing before you in the flesh.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words and buried memories.

Then, like a dam breaking, Wooyoung bounded forward with a cry of "Y/n!" before anyone could stop him. He swept you into a crushing hug, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around just as he had countless times when you were younger.

"You're finally here! I've been counting down the minutes! You look amazing—that red is totally your color—and your hair! I love what you've done with it!" His words tumbled out in a rush, his embrace warm and familiar, smelling of expensive cologne and something uniquely Wooyoung.

For one treacherous moment, you melted into the hug, your body remembering the comfort his arms had once provided. This was Wooyoung, your Wooyoung, who had once held you through the night after your mother's funeral, who had made you laugh even on your darkest days.

Then, just as quickly, another memory surfaced—Wooyoung's face, cold and distant, telling you that you were "exhausting" and that they "used to joke about how suffocating you were." The memory sent a chill through you, hardening your resolve.

You stiffened, planting your hands on his chest and shoving him away with enough force to make him stumble. "Touch me again without permission," you said icily, reaching into your jacket where the knife was hidden, "and I'll shoot you where you stand."

Rather than looking hurt or offended, Wooyoung's face split into a delighted grin. "There she is! Our fierce Y/n!" He turned to the others. "Didn't I tell you guys? Still the same spitfire!"

"Wooyoung," Hongjoong's voice cut through the air, sharp with warning. "Give her space."

Wooyoung pouted but stepped back, still grinning at you like you'd just shared an inside joke instead of threatening his life.

Your eyes swept over the rest of them, cataloging their reactions. Seonghwa's lips had thinned in disapproval—at Wooyoung's behavior or yours, you couldn't tell. Yunho looked caught between amusement and concern. Yeosang's expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had softened. San was openly smirking now. Jongho had unfolded his arms, his stance slightly more relaxed.

And Mingi... Mingi was looking at you with such naked longing that it felt like a physical blow. His eyes traced your face as if memorizing every detail, his expression so full of yearning and regret that for a moment, you felt your resolve waver. How could the same man who had called you "clingy" and "desperate" now look at you with such undisguised need?

You tore your gaze away, focusing instead on Hongjoong. "So, my dearly devoted fiancé," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, "please show me to my cell. And I'd also make sure either the guns or bullets are hidden because if I find both, it will be a long night."

A muscle twitched in Hongjoong's jaw, but his expression remained controlled. "Your room is upstairs. Follow me."

You moved toward the staircase, deliberately brushing past the others without acknowledgment. As you passed Mingi, you felt him inhale sharply, as if capturing your scent.

"I'll have your bags brought up," Seonghwa said, his voice perfectly composed.

"How hospitable," you replied without looking back.

As you ascended the stairs beside Hongjoong, you could hear the murmur of voices below.

"Holy shit," San's voice drifted up. "She's even more beautiful than before."

"And deadlier," came Yeosang's quiet observation.

"That mouth on her though," Yunho added with a low whistle. "She's got more spirit than I remember."

"More sad," Mingi's solemn voice cut through the others. "Didn't you see her eyes? She's carrying ghosts."

There was a pause, then Wooyoung's distinctive laugh. "If she keeps being that mean to me, I might fall in love all over again."

"All of you, shut up," Jongho's deep voice commanded. "She can probably hear you."

You allowed yourself a small, bitter smile as you continued climbing. Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them feel a fraction of the confusion and pain they'd inflicted on you.

Hongjoong remained silent beside you, leading you down a long hallway lined with modern art and subtle security cameras. Finally, he stopped before a door at the end of the corridor, producing a key.

"This will be your room," he said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. "You have your own bathroom and a small sitting area. The balcony overlooks the garden."

You stepped inside, taking in the spacious room with its elegant furnishings and muted color palette. It was beautiful, tasteful, and completely impersonal—like an upscale hotel suite.

"The key," you said, holding out your hand.

Hongjoong hesitated. "We don't typically lock doors here. The compound itself is secure."

"The key, Hongjoong," you insisted, remembering how he'd once told you that you were just "convenient when we were bored."

After a moment, he placed it in your palm. "Dinner is at seven in the main dining room. Seonghwa will show you the way."

"How thoughtful," you said flatly, closing your fingers around the key. "Anything else I should know about my incarceration?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "This isn't a prison, Y/n."

"No? Then I'm free to leave whenever I choose?"

"You know that's not possible," he said quietly. "Not with the Russo threat."

You laughed without humor. "Of course. Always some convenient reason why I have to do exactly as I'm told." You turned away from him, moving to the window. "You can go now."

You could feel him watching you, could almost hear the words he wasn't saying. Finally, he spoke.

"For what it's worth," he said softly, "this isn't how I imagined seeing you again."

You didn't turn around. "I'm sure it isn't. Your plans probably involved me being much more compliant and much less armed."

"Y/n—"

"Seven o'clock," you cut him off. "I'll be there. Now please leave."

The door closed quietly behind him. Only then did you allow your shoulders to sag, the weight of seeing all of them—of being seen by all of them—suddenly overwhelming.

You moved to the bed, sinking down onto its edge and pulling your mother's pistol from its hiding place. The pearl handle caught the light as you turned it in your hands, cool and solid and real when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

"Insurance policy," you whispered to yourself, echoing Paolo's words. Whatever game they were playing, whatever secrets they were keeping, you wouldn't be defenseless.

You thought of all the cruel words they had hurled at you seven years ago, words that had cut deeper than any knife could reach. Words like "pathetic," "embarrassing," "clingy," "exhausting," words that had made you question your worth, your place, your very self.

But now, sitting in the heart of their domain with your mother's pistol in your hand, you made yourself a new promise: they would never hurt you like that again.

Not this time.

Next>>

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[syluses]

HEART WANTS WHAT IT WANTS

𓍯𓂃 PART TWO (2) of the stepdad! sylus x reader series

(2) THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND

𓍯𓂃 CONTENT: stepdad! sylus therefore step/pseudocest, eventual smut, nsfw, dubcon, slowburn, yandere undertones, all characters are 18+ (mc is presently 23; sylus is in early forties), possessive & yandere behaviors, age difference, daddy kink, unreliable narrator, drinking, non-evol au, modern au, lowkey enemies to lovers, lots of (sexual) tension, loss of virginity, emotional breakdowns, some angst, some fluff, a lil bit of everything; tags will be added as story progresses— but know the story is relatively triggering

𓍯𓂃 SIDENOTE: ayyy finally got chapter 2 out ✨ apologies for the wait!! but i hope u enjoy this one my friends :] 💕 also sorry for any typos PLEASE overlook them i beg :,) i hate the edit/revise process it took SO long but i hope my sleep-addled brain did me decent as i went thru to correct stuff. oh also i made a teeny mistake in part one, but i fixed it and its very inconsequential (used wrong number: 6 changed to 7). but anyway just letting u know if ur very observant & noticed a difference lol!! [art credit: @/chimmyming on twitter/X]

It’s hard to be secretive, tiptoeing down the hallway toward the stairs, when halfway through it opens up into the living room’s overhang.

If someone were sitting on the couch, and they heard so much as a creak from above, all it’d take is a glance thrown over their shoulder to spot you with a hand hesitantly placed on the banister, leery of stepping down to the first floor.

Nervewracking.

Perhaps it’s a bit dramatic to compare it to walking into the lion’s den- but you’re not the most talkative of persons, especially not with him, and it does seem daunting in your head to be cornered into conversation. Like prey meeting predator. Small meeting big. One delicate discussion could do you in, but you won’t bet on your demise being brought along so… easily.

To your immense relief, when you you peek around the stone column and survey the area below (mainly the L-shaped sofa, facing the massive wall-mounted TV above the fireplace), you find it empty.

At that, you let out a quiet breath. Some of your courage returns.

If you had spotted the twins, it would’ve been manageable, more so than if it was their dad, anyway.

It was only an hour ago (well, an hour and ten minutes, but you hope they won’t hold that against you— and considering all their tardy slips in highschool, they wouldn’t have the right) that you’d held conversation with them, and it went alright.

It’s a bit harder for you to admit that it was actually pretty nice to see them again.

Cathartic, even.

There’s a part of you that’s vulnerable and girlish- carefully stowed beneath the tough skin you lay on in front of most of everyone else- locked somewhere safe- and yes, it did miss them.

But you’re meant to dislike the three of them. Your meddling stepfamily who slipped into the cracks of your home, your mother’s heart, no different than an invasive species would. Stuck a foot into the door of your life and pressed until the hinge gave.

Once, it was easy. As effortless as breathing.

You didn’t have to think about it, or deliberate on it, or make all the justifications in your head- no, you hated them and that was it.

That feeling was meant to be final. Set in stone.

You thought it was.

For a time you even likened Sylus to Cinderella’s evil stepmother and his two conniving sons to the insufferable stepsisters. Oh, it’s childish, you know; looking back on those moments, you don’t know whether you want to hug the teenage girl you’d been or laugh in the face of her.

As it stands, though, Anastasia and Drizella aren’t half the monsters you’d once liked to believe. Awfully enough, you’ve warmed up to them, maybe even came to love them.

You’re stubborn, not stupid: Luke and Kieran have a special place in your heart and you recognize that.

You’re sure that they do, too. It’s what makes them bolder during every confrontation; brings out the smiles where they once paled. Scared you’d yell or shriek for your mom to just—

Get these two idiots out of my room!

That was then, though.

Things are different now. Changed.

…The ‘Lady Tremaine’ in this picture is still a work in progress. If you’re being honest, you wouldn’t be too terribly upset if it stayed that way—

No. But no, because…

Your mother would’ve been happy if you got along with him. Made amends. It’s a truth as sour as it is undebatable.

“Baby, please- he’s a good man, really. Can you just try, for me? I know you miss your dad, I know you do, I do, too-“

‘Does she?’ To save your hide, you bite that remark down, but listen on just as grumpily.

“-but I think that this can be a good thing if you just-“

Her words echo in the walls of your head. Plangent, bouncing. Like a gunshot ringing out through a canyon, it’s still loud in your conscience, even more so now that she won’t be around to nag you on the matter any further.

—“Smiled.”

If you don’t like Sylus, you’re the bad guy, right? And damn it all if that doesn’t dredge up an ounce of bitterness in you, but—

…For the sake of this trip, for the sake of her no longer being here (and oh, what you wouldn’t give so she could be here), you’ll do your best to swallow down your misgivings about your stepfather.

And you’ll be good.

Two weeks.

Reminding yourself of that for what must be the millionth time, you push off the truffle-wrap pillar to continue into the lofty hall. Starting down the wide, marble staircase in silence.

You’re not so sure where their father is. You definitely have your guesses— A fancy-shmancy meeting or outing that’s called him outside of the estate, or perhaps he’s simply in his study working, running an errand— All of which you hope are correct for the sake of avoiding him.

This late lunch of yours and the twins’ should be just that.

Yours and the twins’.

✦

The further you press into the first floor, the more you smell whatever the private chef is cooking.

Delicious, whatever it is. And no surprise there- the man who hired him demands only the best of the best. He’ll brook nothing less.

As you get closer, the aromas (some too faint to label, others almost dominating your senses: garlic, a pinch of ginger, the mouthwatering scent of meat) blend into a savory potpourri. A cohesive, expertly-made dish, you’re sure.

It’s true that in the past five years since your moving out that your visits have become more sporadic, far and few in between, but meals gathered around a tabletop brimming with tasty sides and entrées will always be a distinct memory you hold of this place.

I mean, you were all but forced by your mother to endure them. Thus, dinner became a special time for you and your stepfamily to bond.

Even Sylus, the endlessly busy CEO of some lucrative company you pretend not to know the name of, made room within his schedule where he could.

However, bonding is not what generally happened.

Teenage you always thought those dinners were stupid. Awkward at the best of times. Smiles too tight to be polite, hands passing around bowls you’d stick your nose up to. Not out of disgust, no, the platters never failed to make you drool- but because you’d take your dad’s homemade roast chicken over your stepfather’s insincere, gourmet trays any day of the week.

To be honest? you’d been mean to them, you’ll admit that much. Cruel even. A big brat with an even bigger bone to pick. You and your family didn’t come from rags, but your origins were infinitely more humble than the twin’s, than what Sylus had— yet you were prissy and rude in a way that they somehow weren’t... Presumptuous.

So upset with the new arrangement you couldn’t think straight.

“Y/n, pick up the fork for God’s sake- can’t you see your father went through all this just to have a meal with us tonight?”

Placatingly, “Honey. It’s alright.”

It’s not quite a snarl that you throw her way, but it’s close. With no one here to spank you, you’re allowed to mouth off a little, be unruly. No one’s here to stop you— your mother’s never had the arm for the paddle and regardless of that, she clearly shouldn’t be responsible over you if she can’t even make good decisions for herself.

To date, her worst decision yet is bringing that asshole around…

Pointedly ignoring the attention that’s gravitated to you, you scowl.

Maybe you are pushing the part of brat a touch too far- a shock, taking your past obedience into play- but how else will you get her to see you? Your hurt? I mean, the twins misbehave endlessly at school and at best, they get a slap on the wrist, no doubt because of their mogul of a father, but you don’t miss the laughs or rueful glances tossed their way.

The positive feedback.

“…Father?” You snip, eyes laser-focused on the woman at the far end of the table. The twins juggle between watching you and their dad with bated breath, half grinning in mischievous delight.

For several moments, the latter doesn’t move.

Sure enough, though, that cardinal gaze finds its roost on you. Not that you’re paying it any mind.

The air shifts when you open your mouth again, rising from the table with a start. The finely-placed cutlery jumps as you do.

“I don’t care if you’ve married him, made him your ‘quote on quote’ husband, that’s not my father and never will be. And these stupid boys that trail me all damn day long aren’t my family, either!”

“Whoa-ho! We caught a stray, bro!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Galileo crosses your mind; mainly what he did when the spotlight fell to him. The point is that there’s still time to recant, the rational part of your brain whispers. To backtrack.

Your cheeks warm. Heart pounding in your chest at the embarrassment of voicing your emotions, making a literal stand. But you can’t stop now. It’s too late to.

“A-And…” A tremble. You’re- You’re trembling, comes the small revelation. Ignoring it, you barely repress a wince, standing there uncertainly.

Finally, your mother- finding her bearings- angrily sputters out your government name.

You almost cow to it.

But you can’t be weak, not now, not in front of them, and-

In a frantic moment, your eyes dart over opposite the table to collide with his, your voice shaking wildly as the twins, at either side of you, snicker.

You swallow down the dregs of your self-consciousness to uncivilly pick up your fork and wave it at him.

“And you! Don’t even get me started on how awful you are! What you’ve done to me!”

All along you’ve done your damnedest to ignore him, only adding in your two cents where it was absolutely necessary. The last month or two you’ve spent under the same roof as him has been nothing less than an excellent demonstration of the cold shoulder on your part. You want the credit for that.

So when you point a literal finger, staring him down like you would prey through a muzzle and furrow your brow as unbidden tears wet your lash-line, his eyes actually double in size. Your stepfather, having forgotten to breathe by the looks of it (albeit, you have too), straightens by a fraction.

Good. That’s...

That’s good, you think.

Something in the back of your mind says ‘heel,’ says ‘don’t poke the bear,’ warns in every possible language you can think of that this is NOT a good idea. He’s rich enough to fill whole swimming pools with cash and powerful enough to move people like chess pieces— probably nudge them out of the game and off the board, too.

But he’ll never be the man of your house. You won’t allow it. So call it sheer stupidity on your end or just a death wish but—

“Y-You’ve stolen everything from me!”

On your right, Luke blinks with hesitant awe, his amusement petering out. Kieran’s jaw shuts. The foot he’d been kicking you with under the table draws away from yours. He exchanges a brief, suddenly sobered look with his brother as everything you’ve been holding back on these past several weeks looses to the surface.

“Y/n-!”

“You took it all! My mother, my dad’s honor, even my fucking house-!”

For the second time, your government name flies across the panel of demurred faces, but you’ve reached your melting point. The watershed where fear and politeness, all the conventional little things you’re supposed to respect and operate by, warps into hot unbridled anger.

This is a cut that originated from your father’s death, one exacerbated awfully by Sylus and his two sly, obnoxious sons- so you think it’s due time to let it bleed.

Bleed, it does.

But then- “You ruined my life, you-“

A breath. Stuttering and shallow and tender. It’s horrifying to realize it came from you.

“Y-You….”

Through the blur is a low, gentle murmur.

Rich and thick. You think even if your ears ceased to work, something in your chest could still recognize it; the bass moves through your ribs and rattles them.

In your periphery, for as fogged as it’s become what with the tears that suddenly speckle the room- the ones you vaguely acknowledge but do all you can to hold, even if just for a few more moments- the silver-haired man sets down his utensil. Nonchalant per usual. With unrivaled class.

It pisses you off.

Without looking at your frazzled mother, he raises a hand to calm her. “Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Let her speak.”

Speak…?

Oh- Is that what he fucking thinks this is? That you’ve stood, clinking the side of your glass with a spoon to humbly direct the diners’ attention from the plates spread tastefully before them to you as you prepare a fancy speech of sorts-?

This isn’t an announcement you’re making. This is not even a conversation. It’s just-

It’s just-

The epiphany that every set of eyes is on you including the chef’s (still tucked in the kitchen, as poor as any man could be as he hurriedly cleans up)— and that you are being treated no different than a dangerous animal that needs patience and slow movement to be handled, corralled back into a fucking cage—

It’s so infuriating you go quiet.

Your brain reaches a lapse and you shut up. Lips flattening into a pursed line immediately, you ball your fists and scamper back off to where it’s safest.

Your room.

“Sis, wait, Kieran said he’s sorry for kicking you under the table-“

You’d ignored it all and then you’d cried.

“Kieran,” an unexpected growl. “A word.”

…You suppose time has a funny way of soothing, though, because right now when you recollect the moment, you find the humor in it and scoff quietly.

“Dad, wait, I-I was just kidding around with her!”

Yeah okay, it was a bit embarrassing- you were a bit embarrassing- but you won’t hold that against sixteen year old you. She knew fuck all else how to navigate.

The big house is familiar and airy as you walk through the lower floor, as quiet as you left it.

Even if you’d forgotten the layout, whatever fragrance wafting from the kitchen would be enough to guide you there.

You wonder if it’s some kind of stirfry. A far cry from the humble PB&J’s you’ve been making yourself at home with chips sometimes as a side, but your tummy growls for it all the same.

You haven’t ate since sometime yesterday. As your tongue wets itself in anticipation, you’re made very aware of that now.

You spot the rice cooker on the side counter when you finally walk in and the blurred figures of the twins as they turn to look at you.

Luke, perched on a bar stool to eagerly watch the chef work his magic, hops off just to pull out another one at its right. The look in his eye, glittering, full of anticipation, tells you verbatim to ‘sit right here’. You don’t bother protesting- you’re already some minutes late after all- and climb up onto the seat between them.

Kieran, at your left, scoots closer to sling his arm over your shoulder. You let it happen with a small wince. The chair supporting the other twin gives a short screech when he, too, inches closer to fold his arms on the counter, lean his head on them, and angle his cheek to look at you.

“So, sis, how do you like Linkon so far?”

Not paying them much attention, you quirk an eyebrow.

Between watching the chef as he deftly tosses the pan back and forth (broccoli, you see now, with meat cubes he folds in) and glancing at the archways connecting the rest of the house into the kitchen- eyes peeled for someone- the twins are not your priority right now.

At the top, that list looks something like this: Eat a nice midday meal without any incident involving their dad.

“I’ve lived in Linkon almost all my life, don’t act like this is my first time here,” you poke back, albeit in a somewhat hushed tone. The walls might as well have ears.

Kieran reaches out to run an idle finger down the jut of your shoulder, his chin lazily propped up by his hand.

He looks at you.

“Sis, do you even realize for how long you were gone?”

His voice is light. Conversational. You’re not so deluded, though, by their indifferent, laidback act. You’ve known them not for a decade but not far off from that either, and you’ve learned to catch the whiff of trouble in the air before it blows its wind your way.

When you finally throw them each a gander, hesitantly prying your gaze from the open entries, the delight masked behind each placid set of eyes is absolutely there— just hiding well.

They’re getting much more amusement out of this than they’re letting on.

You’ll give them credit here: they’ve gotten better at pretending they’re not up to no good,… but there’s no bamboozling you.

You think about it for a few seconds before quipping back. “Almost seven months,… right?”

“Right,” Luke chirps beside you, “Seven whole months!” You turn your head to focus on him now.

(Ah, that’s right- you inwardly alert yourself upon notice- no matter who you’re facing, the other will inevitably be in your blindspot… Have to keep on your toes these upcoming weeks if you don’t want them pulling a trick on you.)

He pouts his lips, ever dramatic, to play up the kicked expression and make it all the more impactful as they guilt trip you. “Seven whole months where Kieran and I were left alllllll on our lonesome. Left to fend for ourselves.”

“Oh, you big babies.” With a huff, half-smiling, you lean out to flick his forehead. His hood slips off when he tries to nod away from your attack, laughing softly as wild, red tufts come loose.

“You’re plenty old enough now to care for yourselves. You can’t always rely on me for everything. Besides,” you start, thoughtful, and this is when your already quiet voice slinks into a whisper, one the boys draw in to hear.

Luke’s attention drifting past your shoulder, “you already have the big boss man covering your asses in every sense of the word.”

From the archway, a sonorous voice rings out.

“She’s right, you know.”

You and Kieran snap your heads over to look. The chef (and you don’t why you’re suddenly staring at him, or the ground, for that matter, nervous) gives a little glance his way, dipping his chin respectfully, but doesn’t note him beyond that. A big grin blooms across the lower half of Luke’s face. You’d smack it off if you could.

Beside you, Kieran suddenly lets out a chuckle, both of the twins once more very interested in you- particularly the reaction you’re trying to hide- as you swallow and look away.

Under the broad arch, their stepfather adjusts his sleeves before casually propping himself against the wall, arms folded.

You risk a glance over and instantly regret it when you catch his eyes on yours, a brow quirked teasingly.

…Directed at the boys, you realize when he speaks again. Of course. “You two lean on your sister far too much, don’t you think? I’d say you’re lucky she’s been so patient with you both.”

A huff from one of them. But they’re so similar it might as well come from the other. “Hah, I have the patience of a saint, especially when it comes to her! Don’t forget, dad, how long it took for me to get her to even talk to me-“

Frowning, you open your mouth to argue against that, to defend your past-self’s choices (because she had every reason to ignore the obnoxious pair), but to your suprise Luke beats you to the punch.

“Bro, you have to admit,” he starts with a sheepish laugh, “we were kind of annoying kids… I mean, we were pretty much always trying to find a new way to bother her…”

Curtly, you close your mouth. That deep, rumbling voice sounds out again- light in tone- and your heart skips a beat.

“Honesty’s not a bad start... Kieran, you might benefit from taking notes from your brother.”

“Eh…”

From behind the island, tucked in front of the stove- you swear you hear the cuisiner chuckle.

The pan sizzles. Your mouth waters and you’re reminded of how hungry you are, but the longer the silver-haired man lingers in the entryway the more you’re afraid he’s there to stay.

It was supposed to be just the three of you eating together. Not- Not him. And yeah, sure, this is his house at the end of the day— you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t already painfully aware of that- a fact that’s more obvious than ever now that your only real tether to this place, your mother, is gone— but why did he have to show up now of all times?

As every gripe starts to form in your head-

Two weeks. And then, and then it’ll be over for the last time.

-you silence them.

A moment passes and Luke, still studying you with the ghost of a grin, asks what you all really want to know.

“So, dad, are you staying for lunch?”

A beat. You furtively glance up in time to watch him check his expensive wristwatch, his brow furrowed.

“Lunch, you say?” He chuckles, ruby-red eyes practically sparkling when he lifts his chin, one corner of his mouth curved- though you can tell he’s trying to mask it. “And I guess this is the early bird special?”

“Sleepyhead Y/n here rolled out of bed late.”

You huff, crossing your arms, distracting yourself with the busy chef. “And these two all but barged in while I was still busy unpacking.”

Like clockwork, much of the mirth in his expression wanes. He frowns expectantly, voice neither stern nor flat but something in between. “Boys. What did I tell you about not pestering our guest while she’s still here?”

Luke and Kieran snicker. You bite down on a grin.

“Yeah, boys,” you murmur to be annoying, just loud enough for them to hear. That’s the hope, at least.

Sylus’s little smirk returns with a vengeance. He refolds his arms, adjusting.

“…Anyway, though. I can’t stay. I have a meeting I need to sit in at the main office, unfortunately. I would’ve…” A raking of his eyes between the three of you, interested, and a brief pause, “Enjoyed that, though.”

He hums, saying more to himself now than to any of you, “another time.”

For a number of moments, the air seems oddly tense. A miasma of something unsaid hangs between the four of you, thickening the air between, and in the split second before someone breaks the silence, you’re struggling to pinpoint the root cause.

It’s just the ice from last night, you decide quietly, the bits of it that didn’t break. The friction left over.

You’re still settling in, after all.

…And yet when his gaze finds yours again, something not to be uttered in it as cherry hues zero in on you, his lashes fluttering ever so slightly—

The pulse in your chest trips and picks itself back up again.

You blink, looking down to his chest. When your stare sweeps up again to his face, almost hesitant to find what may be waiting there, he’s addressing the twins and it’s already gone.

“Well. I’m out, then. Boys: don’t drive your sister crazy. And… Kitten…”

Your brow pinches unwittingly. There, again, is that strange yet patient twinkle in his eye and it steals all the breath from your lungs in one fell swoop.

Either side of you, Luke and Kieran trade off between appearing uncertain and then appearing just as eager. Behind the steaming stove, even the chef, cottoning onto the shift in atmosphere, tosses the briefest of looks over his shoulder to assess the situation.

You nervously wet your lip. “Y-Yeah?”

Promptly, your stepfather’s countenance smooths out into an easy, pellucid smile. A whit challenging; a whit encouraging— but not at all reluctant, no, the mite of intimidation in his gaze is a simple result of your clouded thinking these past few days. Nothing more.

“Don’t pull your punches if they do.”

A swallow. “Alright.”

The twins, no different than conspiring, bothersome little rats, slap a hand over their mouths to hide a laugh, and then their dad is skimming between all three of you in your row at the counter. Albeit, his tone is too gentle for them—

“Call if you need something,” he suggests.

And then he’s gone.

A tumbleweed blows through. Kieran turns to you afterward, Luke’s hand idly dangling off your shoulder, the pair far too comfortable with taking up your space- but for now, obedient enough.

“Well, chef, how’s it looking?”

Lunch is served on a silver platter.

Swallowing down your reservations, your typical discomfort with their casual, sumptuous lifestyle, you fold to your hunger and dig in.

Kieran, ever the pest, laughs when you finish before them, shoveling a share of his saucy broccoli onto your plate. His grin is shit-eating, but you can appreciate the generosity laced under his teasing remark for what it is.

“Wow, someone’s hungry, huh? Bet you’re wishing you ate during your flight!”

✦

In the hours after, you trampoline between idling through the massive home, revisiting various memories you hold of each room and long corridor, and sitting down with a hand over your full belly. Thinking.

Maybe all the reflection isn’t for the better, though, as much as you try to keep optimistic by playing dumb to your circumstances.

You don’t blame the boys for being so energetic, even amidst the doom and gloom that’s reared its head in just the past few days— it’s a lot to handle, everything with your mother, sure it is, but they’re known for their mischief, for being nothing but happy-go-lucky. Besides… sometimes grief manifests itself in strange ways. Whether it be through inconvenient fits of laughter or a stone-faced apathy, it’s all of the same brood: an interesting yet no less instinctual coping mechanism.

Considering you’ve been forcefully naive surrounding your reasons for being flown out, you know plenty about those mechanisms yourself.

It’s not impossible that they’re mourning her in their own way, the twins. Behind all the admittedly strange, insouciant remarks and the carelessness around such a delicate situation- tasteless at the best of times- you think you see it, the cracks.

The fleeting blips of unease in Luke’s eyes. The moments where the room goes quiet after a good joke makes its round through and he has to blink something away from his conscience. Or the gelidity of his brother, for that matter. The wide-eyed stare into nothingness before he, too, shakes it away like whatever it is is no more than an intrusive thought to be tossed aside and disregarded.

Not to mention they’re gentler with you. More… chivalrous, almost.

Exhibit A:

The boys approach you closer to sunset in your bedroom, their polite, small smiles and knocks before coming in pleasant surprises each.

Perched on your bedroom’s dormer window, you boredly flip through a book you’ve read at least thrice as they ask if you’ve found a dress yet for the funeral, as respectful as they ever could be.

On cue, your world weathers at the edges. Like paper thinning through after its corner is put to a lighter.

Right, right. A dress. The- The funeral….

You’ve not even been in the Qin estate for 24 hours but you’re already letting these things- these very paramount things- slip from your mind. They should be in the forefront of it, but the more you dwell on them (your priorities: using these two weeks to prepare for the ceremony, finding suitable attire, hopefully going through her belongings once you’re ready enough), the more it hurts, so you just shut it out.

See, all of this— the dreadful knowing that your veritable mother is gone and in terms of blood and bone family, you’re now left utterly alone (that maybe if you’d just- fucking hung around a bit more you somehow could’ve reversed her fate)— has obviously affected you as much as it has your stepfamily if not more- considering they were the ones who found her and all. But the twins, and even their father, are demonstrating a master class in composure, and you don’t know whether to find gratitude in their lack of flying off the handle (in this hell, someone needs to remain coolheaded) or be offended by it.

It almost feels like she was never here.

Like nothing went wrong... But you can’t really blame them for their cool and collected behaviors, because you’re putting up a strong front yourself.

Maybe your mother wasn’t the twins’ given at birth, sure... But they operated as a true family. Even when you were bitter and stuck-up and rude, the four of them were tight-knit, so much so that eventually you felt like the fucking interloper in it all, the outlying number in the equation.

So you quietly understand that there’s hurt involved on their side around her death- whether they’re being loud about it or not- and choose not to tally it against them.

…Perhaps, you think, it’s high time for you to retire your childhood grudges, anyway.

You close the book, smoothing over the cover.

If the five-second rule applies— you use four and a half to pick up your pieces off the floor and formulate a reply, not hiding how crestfallen you are.

“No. I… I haven’t even went shopping yet. I mean, I figured-“

A thick swallow on your end- and an exhale that sounds more like the stirrings of a panic attack and the boys are at your side in a moment. Their softer facets coming through as they join you on the loft window.

Luke takes the worn stuffed animal he almost crushes, dutifully ignoring its matted fur, and places it in your lap to distract you as you struggle to articulate your emotions. Kieran does his best to not scrutinize you too much, knowing you typically don’t like the attention, while you fidget with the plushie and give them an odd show of vulnerability.

I mean, fuck it. They see you as their sister, and you’re tired of pretending to be too tough to rely on them as your brothers, so—

“I- I figured we had two whole weeks, you know? And… And that’s plenty of time to just get a dress later. Have- Have you two gotten everything ready for it?”

“Yeah,” Luke murmurs back, taking your hand in his to swallow it up in warmth. It surprises you but you don’t make a comment. As if wanting to be included as well, or maybe he’s just mad his brother beat him to the punch, Kieran quietly nudges the plushie from your other hand and intwines his fingers with yours.

Your cheeks warm.

Your heart, ricocheting in your chest, whispers something you don’t quite catch as one of them sluggishly props his chin on your shoulder, mumbling a hey, it’s alright as you furiously blink, and you’re inundated with a foreign sense of- of—

Security? …Is that it?

“We went with dad yesterday to buy the suits.”

“Before he picked you up at the airport,” Luke clarifies in a light tone.

At your back, the sun glares over a chilly courtyard, lighting the fountain and iron-wrought gates with liquid, reflective gold. It only makes the near identical visages either side of you look all the more daring and impish— boyishly handsome— as dusk washes its hues over the three of you.

It’s just a little jarring.

A set of knuckles, almost experimentally, caresses your toasty cheek.

…For perhaps the first documented time in history, you don’t bite.

“We can take you, if you want? There’s a place in town that can tailor something perfectly for you. We can go tonight to get your measurements, sis, what do you think? Just get it done?”

It’s… not a bad idea. Far from it, actually.

You’d be able to quiet the restless part of your mind. Accomplish this seemingly easy task that’s become gargantuan in your head all within the span of just one night. To top it all off, it’d be with the added bonus of the twins’ brotherly support.

“A-Actually,” you start, lifting your chin to look at Luke, and then Kieran, voice thin, “I was, um, wondering if you two could take me somewhere else.”

They wait, owlish.

You meekly continue, “I’ve already read all the books I have here. I was thinking if you could drive me to that store downtown, just so I can pick up a few. Something to, um, fill in the time while I’m here, you know?“

Kieran blinks at you, dark eyes examining your face carefully, like he’s taking it in in a new light. You’re sure they don’t know what to make of you right now: for most if not all of your teen years, you played the part of distant stepsister very well, never wore your emotions on your sleeve and hesitated to be open with any of the members of your stepfamily.

Perhaps they think you’re taking a page from their book— setting them up for some grandiose joke so you can cackle in their faces.

Luke, smiling faintly, nudges your shoulder with his and leans in. “Sure, sis. Me and Kieran will take you. I guess you haven’t changed too much while you’ve been gone, huh? You’re still a big bookworm.”

“A big nerd.”

“Alright, you two,” you chuckle lightly, jabbing them both playfully- to which they both offer up a fake, dramatic grunt of pain to- before wiping the tear that almost beads at your eye. You hope they don’t notice. But if they do, they don’t make any sly remark about it. For that you’re thankful.

It seems you’ve all matured quite a bit since pre-adulthood, but it’s somehow more obvious this time around.

This visit is different from the last in more ways than one.

Looking between them both, hardly able to hold their respective gazes as your pulse swings in your throat— “Thank you”— you murmur, gentle.

For as embarrassing as it is to be vulnerable, you let yourself be just a little sweet with them... Considering your mother is gone, and the unsteady grounds you stand on with Sylus especially- the veritable owner of this home- you think you’re less of an inhabitant here and more of a… guest.

Once these two weeks are up and the funeral concludes, you’ll be going away again. Probably for the last time. Nothing will call you back.

(You’d been such a brat. What would want to?)

The twins, unable to hide the little, genuine smirks rippling across their faces, regard you inquisitively when something like sadness flashes across your gaze.

You clear your throat. That thought of finally escaping your stepfamily- your stepfather and all he represented- for good shouldn’t make something in your heart tremble. But oh, it does.

Politely, you brush off their hands and rise to your feet. You’re not sure what’s gotten into you, but you plaster on an awkward yet no less friendly smile and cross your arms.

“So, boys? You ready to go now? Or…?”

Kieran, the utter moron he is, comments something about how he was born ready, jumping up, and then they’re ushering you out the door and into the hall, towards the stairs, in a two-person stampede.

✦

You buy a book.

Three, for good measure, each thicker than the one before. Just something to occupy your mind in the windows of silence you’ll no doubt spend idling around the mansion before the ceremony.

On the way back, the sky is black underneath a cladding of clouds. Ash as far as the eye can see. The stars are hiding, but you lean your cheek against the car window and look up as if trying to spot them, anyway.

Lost in your mind, your own musings holding you close as the bag sits atop your lap, you don’t pay much attention to the boys when they ask if you wanna stop somewhere to eat because they’re getting munchy.

Without looking, though, you do tell them ‘no thanks, you’re getting kind of sleepy’ and Kieran makes the turn home— albeit not without a dramatic sigh.

It’s… pleasant though, surprisingly. Being with them.

It’s like luck is finally shuffling over to your side. Like things are finally looking up- no matter how trife or trivial they seem. For as shitty of a week it’s turned out to be, you need all the silver linings you can get. So (although with some reluctance, some… confusion) you’ll count this time with them as a small blessing.

Maybe, just maybe, this impromptu trip to Linkon is finally taking a turn for the better. Maybe each and every one of your efforts to remain patient and open-minded and mature with your stepfamily have actually begun to pay off. Maybe you won’t be tearfully pulling hair from your scalp after all, driven mad.

The twins’ harmless griping is a backdrop you smile at as the gates of the estate come into view through the woody road.

In the warmer seasons, it’s a monolithic modern thing erected atop rolling lawns striped green. As it stands now, though, the courtyard is a dull, frosted sage, quiet and cold. The fountain will need to be turned off soon before everything freezes, before the snow comes. You vaguely wonder if one of the workers or bush trimmers that come along every week or two will remember before Sylus even gives them the order. It’s likely.

A thud. “Are you sure, sis?” Your door closes behind you.

Hand still on the wheel, Kieran waggles his eyebrows as his sibling hollers from the passenger seat, thinking you’ll take his lilts as an invitation to get back into the vehicle.

“I’m sure,” you murmur fondly, actually stopping at the driver’s window for a moment to hear them out. You adjust the plastic bag in your grasp and throw a look down the rest of the driveway, towards the house.

“You want us to bring something back, at least? We found this cool new place that opened up that has the best—“

A chuckle. “I’m alright, really. We had lunch and dinner together, ‘member?” Then, you give your throat a soft, innocuous clear, scuffing your shoes over the pavement. “By the way, uh… Do you think your dad’s home yet?”

With the garage closed, the path empty and only the lights you left on in the house warmly shining through, it’s hard to tell if anybody else has come by.

Kieran actually snickers at your hesitance, the little bastard.

You reach forward to flick his forehead and he reels away with an excited shout. “Calm down, sis, I didn’t even say anything!”

“Yeah, but I see you laughing you dummy-“

“It’s just cute, is all. You’re always so worried about our old man and what he’s up to.”

You huff at that, maybe even visibly fluster. But before you can say anything, hop to your own defense, a puckish voice overlaps yours. “If you were in a cartoon, you’d have steam coming out of your ears right now.”

“Ugh! You two are unbearable-!”

“Hey, Kieran said it, not me-“

“But you thought it, didn’t you? You two share the same handful of braincells after all!!”

They both laugh, more endeared by your insults than offended- much to your dismay- and you put your tongue in your cheek. Your narrowed eyes drift back to the titanic of a home. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you almost swear you see a shadow flutter by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the bottom level and—

“Did you see that?” You untuck your arms from their weave at your chest and squint. The boys, still sniggering, follow your gaze. “I think he is home.”

A beat of silence passes.

You turn over. Luke faces ahead in his seat, wetting his lip wordlessly, but Kieran dangles his arm out the side of the fancy, sleek car (that his father surely bought for him as a toy) with his eyes set on you.

Holding your gaze with a shake of his head, his smirk is a tenuous thing, but it’s there. “Nah, I’m pretty sure he’s gone, sis.”

If you ever write a guide on surviving the Qin family, the first page would say: step one, do not believe the twins if they utter anything even a stone’s throw from the two words—

“Don’t worry.”

You frown, uncertain.

He laughs at your pouting. “Kieran- just tell me the truth-“

“I’m serious! He’ll be back later tonight, probably midnight. You know how it is. His schedule is spotty.”

A wind sweeps through and you shiver ever so slightly, clasping either of your arms as you hug them close to your body. Your lips are getting that uncomfortable dry feeling but you know it’ll only worsen if you run your tongue over them. So you don’t.

You eye the lavish, yet unassuming front of the home, ruminating. “Kieran-“

“Now go back in before you catch a cold. Dad will really kill me and Luke if he finds out you were standing out in the dark just to bicker with us.”

“I’m innocent in this,” his brother murmurs before exaggerating a yawn.

You analyze the crafty duo one more time before sensing no dupe on their end and sighing, marching up towards the house.

“Fine,” you call over your shoulder, just a little testy. You don’t want to be fooled, but there isn’t a big reason for them to lie about whether their dad’s returned or not- and even if he did make it back already, it’s no major thorn in your side. There’s a fat chance you’ll just casually, quietly, pass him by as you head to your room- and that’s even if you bump into him in the first place. The place isn’t exactly small or conducive to chance meetings.

“But if you’re lying,” you start, before blushing because you can’t quite think of a good threat. “You’ll- you’ll regret it.”

The engine purrs and the car pulls off- thank God- carrying the harmless yet bothersome mocking words of your stepbrothers with it. “Ohhhh so scary! See you later!”

You cluck your tongue, shaking your head at no annoyance of theirs in particular as you hop up the steps and fish for the key in your pocket.

Giggling under your breath. Idiots.

✦

You’re not giggling when you enter the open foyer, locking the door behind you, and spot a figure in the living room, splayed out on the large L-shaped sofa.

No, you’re not even thinking about the boys anymore, just the dilemma laid out before you as you press your lips together in a thin line and turn your feet into feathers to begin making your way through.

God’s hand must be over your life though, because upon closer, very furtive inspection, tiptoeing towards the archway, he’s…

Asleep.

You let out a soundless sigh of relief at that, shoulders slumping.

…And you should take the opportunity- glad it’s even come to you- and go, you know. It’s as good a moment as any to slip off, undetected, and retreat into the privacy of your bedroom.

It’s all but waiting for you.

What you told the twins was as much of a truth as it was a good excuse— you’re tired and it’s encroaching on that time where you want to plop into bed and curl up under the covers.

Not because it’s past your curfew or anything, no- honestly, you usually have a penchant to stay up late- but because you’re still a little jet-lagged from the flight and you’d prefer to sleep instead of loaf the evening through with the unwanted company of whatever thoughts that might creep in.

You’re not… incredibly close with Sylus. Unbidden feelings of safety and peace in his presence nudged aside, you’re not chummy with the guy and you really have no reason to stick around especially when you’re growing tired but—

Approaching the archway, you slowly reach a hand to rest on it, and you watch.

A half-touched mug of coffee sits on the table before the couch. Strewn beside it is his laptop, mousepad and mouse, and one of those yellow, lined notebooks that you quirk a brow at only because it’s deceptively cheap for a man so expensive.

It’s closer to something your own father- your real, now deceased one- would use to mark out measurements for his woodworking projects, or keep on the fridge under a magnet as a note to himself.

…Huh.

A mite amused by the sight of your generally very awake, proactive stepfather, you fight off a grudging smile- all too entertained by the languid display- and rest your shoulder against the wall.

Dim, golden lights fall over him in a gentle haze, but the shadow cut by his bumped nose is sharp.

You know they’re not related, Sylus and his unruly sons. The twins are splitting images of each other, but they mirror nothing of Sylus’s face— so when you heard the casual murmurs between him and your mother behind closed doors one evening about their ‘adoption’ long ago, you shouldn’t have been surprised. Yet you were.

For as much as you disliked him, it was never because he was a bad father.

The opposite, if you’re completely honest.

He’s always been good to the boys. Nothing short of nurturing (in his own indirect way, of course), paternal, and teacherly. Offering a hand of guidance where it was needed but never ironlike or suffocating with how he used it. If anything, he was even a smidgen lax with them- which you’d quietly admire but only in absolute secret.

Every parent has their faults, that’s a given.

Sylus had very little.

A head full of silver (and some grey, albeit it’s hard to notice his age just because he handles it so gracefully, so boldly) tipped against the back of the couch with an arm resting on the side of it- the shaggy throw blanket on his lap with the wintry chill kept in mind— he’s more than just peaceful. He’s…

Domestic. Relaxed.

This is his territory, you’re reminded again.

You’re just passing through it.

A five o’clock shadow dots the slant of his jaw. His lashes don’t even flutter in his sleep; you reckon he’s deep into it. A pen hangs between his fingers, limp.

Interest dashes through you as you quietly observe him.

You’re not… spying, per se, it’s just- You’re just curious, alright? And to be fair, he wouldn’t have any right to call you out on your observation even if he wanted to, because the number of times you’ve felt and ignored his patient, hopeful, or outright (for whatever reason) amazed stare is too high to be logged.

A pair of glasses rests on the tip of his nose, sloping off. There’s no way to tell just when he got home, but it’s obvious he had been hard at work with something on his computer.

Humming thoughtfully, you pull your gaze away before sluggishly pushing off the threshold.

You shake your head at yourself, readjusting your bag as you find the trace of humor in your desultory actions. Why you let your curiosity get the better of you, you don’t know. It’s very possible at this point that something’s possessed you. Either that, or your cold, guarded heart is thawing out at rates National Geographic needs to get an angle on ASAP.

In any case- you really ought to head up for bed now.

Quiet as a mouse, careful lest you wake and alert him to your presence, you pad behind the couch and across the width of the massive living room to the just as opulent stairs.

You look up to them—

Looming. Dark.

In your mind’s eye, so unrealistically steep- so dangerous—

Breath suddenly hitching, you glance down to your feet, planted firmly beneath you- unmoving- and remind yourself of good things. Other, things.

Puppies. Kittens. Rainbows with pots of gold waiting at the other end with leprechauns to greedily guard them- varying flights of fancy.

Awfully enough, in all your attempts to distract and soothe yourself, four portraits pop up into your brain and three of them belong to none other than your stepfamily.

You want to be callous. But it’s not working this time around.

This wound of yours that your mother’s death left behind is too open, too fleshy, for you to pretend that your skin is so hardened.

Reopening your eyes, you swallow down the bad gut feeling that twists like a knife- the inexplicable unease disappearing as quickly as it came- and reach a hand for the railing.

Bed. Bed. Clearly, you need the rest—

“Kitten?”

A groggy voice. That, and a shuffle.

You flip around.

You’re too shocked to even remember you’re meant to dislike him, hand flying over your heart in a trice. “Y-Yeah?”

Your stepfather, looking sideward over the couch at you, blinks away sleep casually.

Oh, God. It’s just him…

“Oh,” he mumbles, “Sorry, Sweetie. I didn’t mean to scare you…” lazily tossing a glance to the unoccupied space around him, even the banister overhead; checking for something, you realize as your heart slowly takes its foot out from your throat.

You sigh out, visibly deflating.

You think you see his gaze drop to the bag in your hand, giving you a once-over, but his ruby eyes are catching the light in a way that makes it near impossible to discern. You can only tell he’s looking at you because he’s facing you.

“Where’s the boys? You left with them, didn’t you?”

Your lashes bounce against your cheekbone, rapid as you collect your bearings. “Oh, they…”

His tone gets a little stern, then, his eyes a little clearer now as he dips his chin and quirks a searching brow. Incredulous, very. “Is… everything alright? They behaved themselves, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, no- the boys were fine,” you shake your head, rubbing nothing from your eye. Fatigue, maybe, as it drapes itself over you. It takes a second for you to remember the events that led you here before opening your mouth to speak on them. “Um, they just wanted to get a snack and I wanted to be dropped off, so…”

He takes a moment to ponder that.

Unconvinced, “But everything went well?” His attention skims over you hastily. You see that, now. The intense glitter in his eye, wholly transfixed, as the dregs of his slumber wear off- however, the gravel in his voice is more stubborn to go.

He sighs, long-suffering. “You can tell me. I won’t let them know it was you.”

You struggle to imagine how that would go, but shake your head in the next moment anyway.

“Really, it was fine. Everything went well.”

“Good.” He hums, then, seemingly satisfied.

He pores over you, curious all over again as a tiny bunch forms between his brow, wrinkling it slightly. “You’re… heading up for the night now, I guess?”

Oh, yes actually, you think to yourself in time with his reminding you of it- but you go to reply and hold off on it when he glances down at what you correctly assume to be his wristwatch, pausing thoughtfully.

“Oh, my. It’s gotten pretty late out now,” he drawls. “Hm. I must’ve drifted off while I was waiting for-”

You quirk a brow. “Ah. Waiting for this spreadsheet to get interesting,” he smoothly chuckles, looking at the screen of his computer and the low battery sign that pops up as a window on it.

Before you can think to respond- “Goodnight then, Kitten,” he lilts as high as his sleep-addled voice will allow, “I’ll see you in the morning. Should I,” a pause again, “wake you for breakfast?”

You swallow, momentarily glancing at the top landing of the stairs. “No thanks.”

“Are you sure?” He breathes.

Persistence is needed in business, you know that; it’s why you don’t hold it against him when his first instinct is to push rather than pull away. His realm is different than yours. And anyway, he’s just being polite— playing the part of the concerned, doting, yet nonetheless hesitant stepfather who is terribly uncertain with how to best handle his grouchy stepdaughter. He does it well.

“You’re not afraid of missing out?”

You offer a mildly amused huff, choosing to indulge him just this once- just for these two weeks. “On my sleep, maybe.”

He chuckles. It’s a full and rich sound. There’ll come a day where Luke and Kieran will coax more of the same out of him, and you’ll give them genuine, congratulatory claps on the back each for the achievement.

For now, though, that feat is yours and yours alone. Not that you’re… exactly proud of it.

“Alright, alright, I get the hint, little miss night owl… I won’t disturb you tomorrow. You have my word.” He smirks just barely. Just safe enough.

“Sleep tight, Sweetie.”

The ice is melting between you both, yes- a phenomenon you both curiously, warily observe— but he will watch his step.

You set your foot on the first stair, “T-Thanks. You too.”

…As will you.

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read part 3 here