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itneverendshere · 3 months ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWO

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of possible pregnancy, of abortion, of pregnancy risks & death. self-loathing. chapter one ┆ chapter three ┆ chapter four

You lied.

You didn’t take the tests the next day.

Or the next. You couldn’t. Every time you picked up one of the stupid boxes, your heart would drop to the pits of hell and your hands would start sweating. You’d shove it back in the drawer like it could disappear if you just ignored it hard enough.

Once you knew, you knew.

There was no more pretending as if nothing happened.

No more pretending like you didn't care that Rafe moved on like he didn’t just dump you, with no real closure and ran to the next girl he found.

Fuck, why did he have to look so happy that night? He got to be carefree, living his perfect little life with her, and you were there, sitting on the bathroom floor, too scared to even pee on a stick.

What if it was positive? Then what? The thought of seeing his name pop up on your phone after you blocked him, or worse, hearing her voice if she picked up...you’d rather die. He didn't deserve to know.

He didn't deserve anything from you anymore.

You started googling abortion clinics before you even touched the tests. You could afford it. That wasn’t even the issue.

You had more money than you knew what to do with. Your inheritance was just sitting there. You could book a flight tomorrow, pay for whatever procedure, whatever it took—fly out of state, out of the country, if you had to.

But that wasn’t the point. It has never been about the money. It was the overwhelming shame. The fear. The realization that Rafe might have left you, but he was still there, stuck in your head, in your body, in your fucking life. Even when he wasn’t.

He didn’t have to worry about any of this. He was most likely out on the boat, not even thinking about you. Not thinking about what he did to you.

And you— you were left with this. Sitting on a bathroom floor for hours a day, trying to figure out how you were supposed to make a decision that changed everything.

You started looking up clinics again, scrolling through the options, but your mind was barely even there. It was legal in North Carolina for now, but you read something about the 12-week ban they passed in June, and suddenly you were spiraling one more time, wondering how much time you even had.

Could you wait? Could you put it off like you’d been putting off the tests, like if you waited long enough, maybe the problem would just... disappear? Shit, wouldn’t that be easier?

You heard that voice in your head, the one that sounded like your mom, at least what you remembered from watching old videos.

It was depressing how life didn’t let you hold tightly to your memories sometimes. She always reminded you of the kind of person you were supposed to be. The type of girl who had her shit together. The type of girl who didn’t get herself into situations like this, in the first place.

But instead, you were the girl who lost everything—the life you were supposed to have—and somehow, you’d still found a way to screw up what was left.

You kept scrolling like you couldn’t stop.

One page led to another, and soon you weren’t just looking up clinics—you were looking up everything.

What happened during the procedure, how long it took, the side effects, the complications. You read horror stories about infections, about women who thought it was over and then bled for weeks, about people who changed their minds too late.

You even looked up what could happen if you didn’t get an abortion—what pregnancy could do to your body. And that was a whole other rabbit hole you didn’t need to go down. Your body changing, your hormones going insane. You thought about your boobs getting sore, your stomach stretching, the possibility of throwing up every morning, and it felt like your body was already betraying you. And then you read the serious stuff—gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, all these words you didn’t even know existed before that night. There was a minefield of things that could go wrong, things that would go wrong.

Complications. Risks. Dangers.

You read about women who almost died in labor. About miscarriages and stillbirths and the trauma of carrying a baby for months, only to lose it. You never even thought about that, how pregnancy wasn’t just this smooth, magical process people make it out to be. It was brutal. But you’d been the little sister, you never saw your mother go through it, or anyone for that matter.

Your younger cousin, Topper the bitching backstabber, had been born and raised in Los Angeles before he moved to Figure 8 when he was five.

You were terrified—not just of being pregnant, but of what it meant to stay pregnant. Would your body even handle it? You’d always lived off coffee and takeout half the time. An unreasonable amount of parties. Too many drinks some nights.

You weren’t exactly the picture of health. What if you weren’t strong enough? What if something went wrong, and you ended up in a hospital bed, alone, because Rafe sure as fuck wouldn’t be there. It was just you.

For a second there, you thought you might pass out.

You’d thrown your phone across the room, it hit the wall with a thud, but it didn’t help. The anxiety was still there, vibrating under your skin, making you want to scream. You glanced at the bathroom drawer again, where the pregnancy tests were hidden like some cursed thing.

Maybe you should’ve just taken one.

Rip off the bandaid.

The stupid phone rang, like was having fun pissing you off, vibrating on the floor where you’d thrown it. You stared at it for a second, debating if you should even pick it up. You didn’t feel like dealing with anyone, especially not whoever was about to ask something from you.

But it kept ringing, and of course, it was a number you recognized—Lily, one of the coordinators from your dad’s foundation. Shit. You forgot about the gala. Again. The one that was happening in two freaking days, the one you haven’t even thought about preparing for.

You swiped to answer, “Yeah?”

“Hey, I didn’t want to bother you, but we need to go over the final details for the gala,” She greeted you, sounding way too perky for how you were feeling. “I really need your input on the seating arrangements, and the auction items, and—”

It hit you just how ironic this was. You were sitting here, freaking out about being possibly pregnant, scrolling through nightmare stories about abortion and pregnancy complications, while Lily was talking about a fundraiser for children’s health. Kids. It felt like some twisted repulsive joke the universe was playing on you.

You blinked back into the conversation, realizing she still talking, and you hadn’t said a word. “Uh, yeah, sorry. I’ve been busy. Can you just handle it?” you muttered, feeling guilty but not enough to actually deal with any of it.

“I’ve already taken care of most things,” she said carefully, “but we really need your approval on the final guest list and the speech. You’re the face of the foundation, after all.”

The face of the foundation. The legacy your dad left you. It was supposed to be this huge responsibility. And it was. You’d always taken it seriously. The one thing in your life you never ruined. But this year, you hadn’t written the speech yet. Jesus, you forgot it was even happening. And the guest list? No clue.

You rubbed your forehead, “I’ll look at it later. Just send it over.”

Lily hesitated again, probably sensing that something was off, you'd always been a control freak. “Okay, I’ll email it to you. Just let me know by tomorrow, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You hung up before she could add anything else, staring at the ceiling. One more thing. One more responsibility piled on top of everything else. You were drowning in all these expectations—being the good daughter to dead parents, the responsible one, the perfect kook girl who was supposed to have everything. You were supposed to be the girl who had the trust fund, the perfect life, the foundation that helped kids in need.

You earned to be her.

Your phone buzzed again, this time with an email notification. You rolled your eyes, already knowing it was from Lily. She’d sent over the guest list, and you groaned, thinking you’d skim it, give it a half-assed glance, and send it back. But as you scrolled down the names, you stopped.

Rafe Cameron.

Of course, he was going to be there. Why wouldn’t he? His family had been involved in your dad’s foundation for years. It was like you couldn’t escape him.

The fucking nerve. To your gala. Your blood boiled instantly, your fingers gripping the phone so tight you almost cracked the screen.

Fuck him.

If he thought he could just show up and rub his new life in your face, he had another thing coming. Without thinking twice, you deleted his name, erasing him like he didn’t even exist. And then, without checking another name, you sent the list back to Lily.

You didn’t give a shit if it was petty. You didn’t care if it wasn’t professional.

If Rafe wanted to play games, you’d ruin his life if you had to. He thought he could fuck you over, leave you with all this—leave you with nothing? No. You weren’t going to let him have that power.

Not over this. Not over you.

You were shaking now, but it almost felt good. Even if it was just a stupid guest list. Let him find out when he got there and there was no table for him. No seat. No fucking room.

You still sat there staring at the screen with that stupid blinking cursor. The email from Lily sat open in front of you, and somewhere buried in the list of attachments was the speech. Blank.

Your speech—the one you were supposed to read at the gala in two days. The one you hadn’t even started writing.

This was always the hardest part. Writing it. Saying it. You used to cry every time. Standing in front of all those people, talking about your dad, your family, how the foundation was this beautiful way of keeping their memory alive. It was never just a speech—it was like ripping your heart out of your chest and letting everyone see it, year after year. It never got easier.

But Rafe, used to be there with you.

Every year. He’d sit with you while you struggled through every word, telling you it was okay to take your time, reminding you that you didn’t have to do it if you didn’t want to. And when the gala came, he was always by your side, standing just off stage, waiting for you after the speech was done. You’d run into his arms, and he’d whisper that you 'did great baby', holding you until the room stopped spinning so much.

You could still hear his voice in your head sometimes, 'you’re stronger than you think'.

That’s what he always said, even when you didn’t believe it. He’d hold you, kiss your forehead, and make you feel like it was true, like you really could get through it. He was always so sure of you. But this year? He wasn’t going to be there. He’d stop believing the lies he fed you. You were angry. You were seething. You were utterly alone.

You’d been avoiding this moment—writing.

This time around, it wasn’t just about the speech. It was about the fact that when you walked out of that stage, you wouldn’t have him waiting for you.

You’d step down into nothingness, with no one to catch you.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, but they wouldn’t move. What were you even supposed to say this year? How were you supposed to stand up in front of all those people and talk about love and family and legacy when yours was shattered?

You hated looking at yourself in the mirror, feeling like you’d lost every single piece of who you used to be.

Fuck the speech. Fuck the gala. Fuck Rafe Cameron and his stupid lies, his stupid smile, his stupid promises that he never kept.

If he thought you were weak, if he thought he could break you, if he thought you were the same girl who used to cling to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—he was wrong.

You were going to do this without him.

You were going to stand up there and give that speech, no matter how much it hurt. And if it killed you, so be it. You’d still do it.

Because unlike him, you didn’t just walk away from the things that mattered. Even if it tore you apart. Even if it was killing you to keep pretending like you were fine. You weren’t fine. But you’d fake it. You’d fake it until the whole world believed it.

You’d barely hit send on the email when your phone rang again, and this time it wasn’t Lily.

It was Topper. You hadn’t talked to him since that night—the night. The party where you’d found out, where you’d seen Rafe and Sofia together for the first time. Where you realized that everyone knew.

How he’d called Rafe over, like you needed him to fix it, like he was still yours to rely on.

“What?”

“Hey…” Topper’s voice was cautious, “I, uh, I wanted to call and apologize for the other night.”

You snorted, leaning your head back against the wall. “Yeah? For what part? For calling Rafe like his little bitch or for getting in front of my car when I was trying to leave?”

“I didn’t mean to fuck things up. I was just trying to stop you from doing something stupid.”

“Like what?” you snapped. “Leaving the party? Getting out of there before I had to watch him with her for one more second? Yeah, Top, real dumb of me.”

“You almost ran me over,” Topper shot back, his voice rising just a little, like he was offended you hadn’t mentioned that part. “Kinda felt like maybe you weren’t thinking straight.”

“You jumped in front of the car you fucking idiot. What the hell did you expect me to do? Slam on the brakes and listen to whatever bullshit you and Rafe had to say? Because trust me, ’m all out of patience for either of you.”

There was a sigh on the other end, the sound of him trying to not to lose his patentience, like he was the one in the right here. Typical Topper. Always wanting to smooth things over, play peacemaker between you and Rafe, like this was just another fight you’d get over.

He never really got it.

“Look,” Your cousin started, calmer this time, “I didn’t mean to call him. I just thought—”

“You always think calling him will fix things,” you cut in, “Like he’s the answer to every problem I have. He’s not. Not anymore.”

“I get that,” He added quickly, like he was afraid you’d hang up. “But I didn’t know what else to do! You were upset, and I thought maybe—”

“Maybe what? That he could swoop in and save the day?” You let out a bitter laugh. “He’s not your golden boy, Top. He doesn’t fix anything. He ruins things.”

Topper went quiet for a second, probably trying to figure out how to respond without setting you off on an angry rant again. “I get it,” he said finally, “You’re pissed at him. You have every right to be. But I didn’t call him to hurt you, okay? I was worried about you.”

You hated how genuine he sounded, hated that he meant well. He was a nuisance half of the time, sure, but he wasn’t malicious. He never was. He just had terrible judgment.

“Next time, don’t,” you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face. “I don’t need you playing little brother and calling him when things go wrong."

“I wasn’t trying to clean anything up,” Topper explained, a little defensive now. “I just didn’t want you driving like that. You were upset.”

You rolled your eyes. “Upset doesn’t mean I need you or Rafe deciding what’s best for me. I’m not a kid.”

“You’re not,” he agreed, “But you weren’t exactly in a great headspace, so yeah, I stopped you. I wasn’t gonna let you leave like that and end up in a ditch somewhere.”

It hurt like a bitch, because deep down, you knew Topper had a point.

You were having a meltdown, and he’d stepped in, like he always did when you went off the rails. That was the problem with him—he cared, even when you didn’t want him to. He was family, the only family you had left, and he was too loyal for his own good.

“You could’ve told me,” you confessed what had been upsetting you, your voice losing some of its initial attitude. “About them. Instead of letting me walk into that party blind.”

Topper sighed again, “I should’ve,” he admitted. “I didn’t want you to find out like that. But it wasn’t my place to say anything. And I didn’t want to make things worse.”

Your hand instinctively moved to cup your stomach. You didn’t even realize you were doing it at first, but the second your fingers touched your shirt, the earlier panic welled up inside you again. If he only knew how bad things were. How bad they could get. You yanked your hand away like you’d been burned, heart hammering against your ribs most painfully. There was no way you could even begin to explain what was going on inside your head—or your body.

Not to Topper. Not to anyone. If he knew, he’d freak and you didn’t need that right now.

You clenched your jaw, pushing yourself to focus on the conversation, on Topper still yammering on about apologies and guilt You shook your head, a bitter smile tugging at your lips.

“Are you even listening?”

“Unfortunately,” You sounded apathetic even to yourself, fingers tapping against the phone, agitated. “Look, Top, I don’t have time for this right now. I’m busy.”

He sighed. “I know you’re pissed, okay? I get it. But the gala’s in, like, two days. You... you still going, right?”

“Of course I’m going,” you scowled, barely able to hide the bitterness in your voice. “I have to. It’s not like I can just dip out and pretend it’s not happening.”

Unlike some people, you thought, but you bit your tongue.

“Good, because I’ll be there too. And I—”

“Oh, joy,” you interrupted, “Another chance for you to babysit me and make sure I don’t make a scene? Can’t wait.”

“Jesus, I’m just trying to help!” Topper groaned. “I didn’t want to make things worse the other night. I—”

“Yeah. Whatever, I’ll see you at the gala.”

You hung up. You didn’t have the patience to deal with him right now.

The day of the gala came faster than you thought it would.

It was like you blinked, and suddenly, you were standing in the middle of the venue, walking through final checks with Lily, nodding along as she rattled off details you barely absorbed.

The room was all glitz and glamour, with chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, and everything draped in the foundation’s signature gold and white.

Crisp tablecloths. Flowers in perfect, elegant arrangements. Waiters in black-tie uniforms were circulating, making sure everything looked flawless. Flawless.

That word made you want to gag.

You moved through the space like a ghost, smiling at the right moments, giving half-hearted approvals when needed. You didn’t care. People were running around, asking for your opinion on this or that. You’d stayed at the venue longer than planned, making sure everything was in order, but your mind was stuck in that floating-place. You wanted to burn the whole thing down, if you were being honest.

You should’ve called your doctor. Days ago. Hell, maybe weeks ago.

Making smart choices wasn’t your thing lately, was it?

When you finally slipped into the room where they’d set up your glam team, you just wanted to sleep. The room itself was a suite off to the side of the venue, a private space meant to make you feel like royalty.

A massive mirror ran across one wall, surrounded by soft, glowing lights. A table was set up with everything—hair tools, makeup brushes, palettes, serums. Bottles of champagne sat chilled in the corner, the condensation dripping down the glass, untouched. It was the kind of place you were supposed to feel special in.

Normally you did. But this year you were numb.

The stylist worked quietly on your hair, soft curls falling into place as she tugged and pinned each section with meticulous care. The makeup artist was dabbing foundation onto your skin, blending and contouring until you didn’t even recognize yourself in the mirror. The dress hung behind you, a shimmering white gown, custom-designed by Versace for the occasion.

You looked like you were stepping into one of those perfect, glamorous lives. But on the inside, you felt like you were going to lose it at any second. You nodded along, giving tight-lipped smiles when they complimented you, and then they finally left.

The room was dead silent now, just you and your reflection. You stood in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, the perfect curls, the glowy skin, the gown waiting behind you. It all felt wrong. It felt fake. You didn’t bear a resemblance to yourself.

You looked like the version of you that the world expected—the untouchable girl. A doll.

Your rifled through your bag for your phone, but instead, your fingers brushed something else. Cold, hard.

You hadn’t even realized it was in there.

One of the pregnancy tests. You must’ve thrown it in without thinking earlier that morning when you were rushing out the door. You hadn’t even noticed it until now.

What the fuck were you doing?

You had a gala to host in less than an hour. People were going to be looking at you, waiting for you to give the speech, expecting you to hold everything together like always. And there you were, standing in a private dressing room, about to do something so monumentally stupid. Maybe it was the pressure of tonight, or maybe it was the anger you’d been shoving down for weeks, but suddenly, you didn’t care.

You were going to do it.

Without even thinking, you stormed into the bathroom. You were so fucking tired of avoiding this. Tired of pretending like everything was fine, like you were fine.

What the hell was fine about any of this? You tore open the box, hands trembling as you pulled out the test. The room was so quiet, you could hear every little sound—your breath still uneven, the rustle of your dress against the tiles, the click of the test cap as you flicked it off.

You sat down, staring at the stick in your hand. This was insane. You were insane. Who the fuck took a pregnancy test ten minutes before they’re supposed to host a charity gala?

You couldn’t get a proper breath out as you waited, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might rip your chest open. You leaned against the sink, gripping the edge. Your stomach churned, the nausea rising again, and you had to close your eyes to stop the floor from spinning.

What if it was positive? What if it wasn’t?

You stared at the test, willing the result to appear, but it didn’t. Not yet. The little window stayed blank, as if taunting you, making you feel like you were losing your mind. You knew you had to wait longer. You weren’t stupid. You’d read those instructions a million times by now, but you hated waiting.

Hated not knowing.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the stupid little piece of plastic. Just one line or two. That was all it came down to. One fucking line or two, and your entire life would either fall apart or what? Be fine?

You glanced at the mirror, catching another glimpse of yourself, and it almost startled you—your eyes were wild. Desperate. They were the eyes of someone who was just about ready to do anything to get this over with.

You tried to picture telling him again, but the idea alone made you sick. You thought of Sofia, of her perfect smile next to his, and bile rose in your throat. Your hands never stopped shaking. You wanted to run. You wanted to throw that thing in the garbage can and never stare at it again.

Your thoughts spun in circles, going nowhere, just making everything worse. The clock on your phone ticked louder and louder, and you knew—somewhere out there, everyone was getting ready. Guests were arriving. The gala would start soon, and they’d all be waiting for you. Watching you. Expecting you to be the poised, perfect version of yourself you’d spent your whole life pretending to be.

And you were in here, trying not to lose your fucking mind.

You peeked back at it. Still nothing.

No line. No answer.

It felt like you were suspended in time. You closed your eyes, gripping the sink harder, praying for it to end—something to happen, anything.

Then finally, you felt it in your chest—a heavy, sinking feeling, like the moment before a fall.

You opened your eyes.

There it was.

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oneknightlight · 2 years ago

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Realizing the reason that content like UTDR is like crack to me is because Toby Fox has written a story that my brain’s pattern recognition literally cannot crack and that challenge is diabolically addicting

#the endless pit of theories and speculation #that’s why I hate when people rush toby fox for the next chapter #I’m like no #stop #take a LONG time #I want to marinate in my questions and curiosity for a while #and I want YOU to take your sweet time writing more plot that just boggles me further #I am thoroughly enjoying having a comfort media that my tism brain cannot get to the bottom of

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starmapz · 2 months ago

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what you know - ch2: prom queen || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. implied injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 12.3k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

The sun is high in the sky, warming your skin in the crisp air. The sounds of chatter and laughter fill the campus and in the distance a student is playing their guitar. Your thoughts, however, aren’t occupied by the warmth or the idle noise that fills the air around you. Your mind is preoccupied with Sukuna.

“Honestly, I just can’t get over the fact that you actually make it sound like you had a good time with him,” Shoko comments as you make your way from your lecture to the lunch hall. Of course, you’d left out any portions of the story that felt private, things Sukuna was likely trusting you with. Even without the shreds of vulnerability he showed you, your time with him is still so uncharacteristic for how Shoko would know Sukuna.

“Well… yeah. Honestly, I did,” you admit with a shrug, casting a glance at your phone to take a look at the time. “Hold on, I need to make a pit stop.”

Shoko hums in confusion, standing at the edge of the pathway as you casually jog to wait at the fountain for Sukuna a few minutes before noon. The autumnal breeze is cool as it hits your face, leaving behind a faint blush over your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Your fashionable but functional auburn knit sweatshirt hangs loosely over your shoulders to protect you from the wind’s bite as you shift from side to side on your heels awaiting Sukuna.

A minute past twelve, you catch a glimpse of him in the distance. His hair is pushed back as usual, his leather jacket hanging over his shoulders with a plain black muscle shirt and a pair of loose jeans hanging off his hips. His hands are shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable as usual.

As he approaches, you wave with a sweet smile. He meets your gaze, barely acknowledging you with a small nod. Coming to a stop before you, he drags his backpack down from his shoulder, digging through it for the GameBoy to hand it to you.

“Thought he left it at yours,” Sukuna sighs as he passes it to you.

Taking one look at the console, you shake your head as you slide your hands over his fingers and wrap them around the device for him. He scowls at you as he realizes your meaning before you can say it.

“You can keep-”

“No.”

You blink at his stubbornness, pulling your hands back to fiddle with the hems of your sleeves. “I really don’t mind. He’s a good kid, I’d rather it go to use than rot in my drawer,” you shrug.

“He stole, he doesn’t get to keep shit,” Sukuna insists.

“Then make it some sort of incentive. Get them to do some chores and if they do, they get it.” You smile at the idea, after all it’s somewhat of a gift for both kids given that they wouldn’t need to share any longer.

“It’s yours. I’m not taking it,” Sukuna stubbornly refuses, holding it out closer to you as though he’s trying to shove it into your grip.

Like that, it clicks and your gaze softens as you look up at the man towering over you. He doesn’t want to feel like a charity case, like he owes you something. He’s trying his best to get you to take it back for the same reason he hated that you paid for dinner. He doesn’t want to feel like he needs help.

“Why don’t we say it’s a gift for you instead of them, then?”

His brow twitches, somewhat taken aback, but he doesn’t say anything, quietly listening to you as you continue.

“As a thank you for saving me from being covered in oil. Now they won’t fight over your GameBoy and you can have some peace.”

You half expect him to boil over and blow up at you for even suggesting to give him a gift when you already paid for his dinner. And really, keeping you out of the hospital is more of a common courtesy than something that’s deserving of a gift. Yet, to both of your surprise, Sukuna just stares at the console, the air between you falling somewhere between tense and comfortable.

He’s fighting an inner battle to keep himself from blowing up, but he can’t bring himself to be upset with you. The part of him that does feel some sort of anger over the situation barely puts up a fight. He knows he doesn’t want to be angry with you just for being yourself. For being kind.

He sighs, shooting you one last look of consideration before he gives in. “Thanks,” he gruffs, shoving it back in backpack.

“No problem!” You grin cheerily. “Why don’t you come grab lunch with Shoko and I?” You ask, shooting a glance at your friend smoking on the path a few feet away as she waits for you.

Sukuna follows your gaze to Shoko before shaking his head. “Nah, I-”

“C’mon Sukuna,” you interrupt what you’re sure will be a meager excuse to not have lunch with you, making a point of not using his nickname in the middle of the campus. “Just for a bit?”

His eyes roll to the side as he gruffs out a “fine,” slinging his bag over his shoulder before shoving his hands in his pockets. He follows after you with a grumpy expression as you bound back to Shoko.

“Wait, is he coming with us?” Shoko asks, more in disbelief than anything else as you nod. She doesn’t mind, but Sukuna isn’t usually seen eating in the lunch hall. More often than not, he can be found with his group of friends tucked away in a back corner of the campus where it can’t be seen that they’re smoking weed.

Then there are the rumors that he’s been seen having a quickie in some girl’s car, something you wish Shoko hadn’t told you. You’re not even really sure why you’re so opposed to that knowledge but it makes you feel some sort of way.

You fall back into conversation with Shoko, trying to include Sukuna as best as you can although he doesn’t make it easy.

When you reach the lunch hall and grab your usual table, you pat the chair beside you for Sukuna to take a seat in as you and Shoko sit and pull out the lunches you’d both packed. You couldn’t be bothered with using one of the campus microwaves so you had meal prepped a bunch of sandwiches and salads for the week.

As more students begin filing into the cafeteria, the seats beside you begin to fill as the rest of your friend group finds their way to your table. Gojo and Geto sit on either side of Shoko, sharing an uneasy glance with one another at the sight of Sukuna at your side, followed shortly after by Nanami and Haibara, who hardly seem phased by the sight of Sukuna.

“Sukuna, right? I’m Haibara!” Yu introduces himself cheerily. You can practically feel the uneasy tension of the table as Satoru and Sukuna seem to have some sort of silent battle of egos. You can’t even really be shocked by it, they’re both about as boldly egotistic as it gets.

“Hey,” Sukuna replies without casting Yu a glance.

Sensing the uneasiness of the table, you do your best to lead damage control. “Sukuna and I have been working on a project together, I thought it would be nice to have him join us!” You introduce the idea to your friends, setting your palm on his bicep. Sukuna’s muscles are tense beneath your fingers, so you squeeze his arm gently in reassurance.

He finally rips his attention from Gojo, flashing your hand a glance before his unreadable expression lands on you. Slowly, Suguru pulls Satoru’s attention to him and the tension in the air dissolves. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as you take a bite of your sandwich.

When your hand leaves his bicep, Sukuna leans over the table on his elbow, chin in his hand as he stares blankly at the wall.

“Are you not gonna eat?” You ask with a tilt of your head.

“Nah, I’m fine.”

You pout, eyes filled with concern. Much to his dismay, you shove the rest of your sandwich in his direction. He curls his lip at the thought of taking more from you, shaking his head as he shoves your hand back. He can’t take more from you, not again. He can’t.

“I still have a salad, you can have it!”

Fuck, why are you so kind? And to him? Why are you so kind that he feels like he’s going crazy?

“Stop,” he grumbles, and he thinks if you were anyone else he would just walk away, so why does he tolerate how pushy you can be?

“Please?” You plead, tilting your head. You’re not sure what sort of miracle causes it to happen but with a glare, he snatches the sandwich and turns his shoulders to face the wall. Even as he makes a show of being a prick about it, you’re just glad he takes it at all.

You pull your fork from your bag with a smile and begin shoveling your salad into your mouth as you catch the look Shoko’s giving you. The way her brow is raised, eyes flitting between you and Sukuna says it all as you roll your eyes.

To your disappointment, Sukuna excuses himself shortly after finishing the sandwich, before you have an opportunity to chat with him at all. You call after him, but he doesn’t so much as acknowledge your presence. Sighing at the sight of him walking away without so much as a word to you, you can only hope you haven’t accidentally angered him again.

“What brought that up?” Geto asks curiously as the table focuses their attention on you.

“Yeah, since when does that asshole eat with us?”

“Satoru!” You kick the white-haired man from under the table. He sneers at you, crossing his arms over his chest dramatically as he waits for an answer. “He’s nice. I just thought he might want to join us,” you shrug. “He’s not an asshole.”

“Are we talking about the same guy? The guy who pretends he has charm for a night so that he can get someone to suck his dick at a party and not return the favor?” Satoru asks as he rolls his eyes.

“You’re one to talk,” Shoko teases with a knowing look, trying her best to divert the table’s attention away from your painfully obvious interest in the tattooed man as you fumble with your fork.

“At least I don’t flat out ignore anyone I sleep with afterwards.”

“Oh please, as if you’re any better. The way you greet people like they’re strangers that you didn’t fuck the night before may as well be criminal,” Geto scolds with a frown.

With a scoff and a roll of his eyes, Gojo drops the conversation, not thrilled at the idea of being roasted by the whole table. He may be the school’s heartthrob, but at this table he’s just Satoru.

You expect that to be the end of your lunches with Sukuna, but to your surprise on your way past the fountain the following day, you spot him sitting on the concrete’s edge. Nudging Shoko, you point at him and the two of you make your way over.

You walk past the courtyard fountain every day on your way to the lunch hall and you know for a fact that Sukuna doesn’t sit here. He’s in a baggy shirt and cargo pants, and you note that he looks tired again, his work likely wearing him down.

“Hey!” You greet him, bounding over with a grin. He lifts his head from what you assume is a notebook, his pencil halting as he looks you over and hums as a greeting. “You left so quickly yesterday, I didn’t get to say bye,” you pout, jutting out your lip.

His gaze flickers to your lips and back so quickly that you’re sure you imagined it. “Had somewhere to be,” he gruffs, shutting whatever he was working on.

“You should join us,” Shoko cuts to the chase, too hungry to watch you beat around the bush when clearly you wanted Sukuna to join your group for lunch again.

He contemplates the decision, but nods. When you grin up at him as he gets to his feet, he’s sure he must have gotten a head rush with how his head feels like it’s spinning. He’s not even really sure what he’s doing at the fountain to begin with, his legs brought him here without thinking twice about it.

He trails a short distance behind as you and Shoko discuss the strange lesson you had just gotten out of. Your professor has a habit of going off-topic to discuss his latest interests, which is frustrating enough as is, but on top of that, you have a test next week that both you and Shoko feel horribly unprepared for. Rather than learning about the modern revolution, you instead learned about your professor’s preferred bait to catch sea bass.

“Well if the test calls for the difference between deep sea fishing and lake fishing, I’m set,” Shoko scoffs, pulling a cigarette from a small box in her pocket and balancing it between her lips. She pulls out a lighter, sparking it multiple times to no avail, unable to light her cigarette.

Before she can groan about how her lighter’s about as useful as that class, Sukuna nudges her and hands her a lighter as he falls into step between you. Her eyes widen and she casts a glance at him before her lips quirk up into a grateful smile. Once lit, she hands the lighter back and thanks him as smoke puffs from her lips.

Sukuna hums, dropping the lighter in the pocket of his cargo pants. You don’t expect him to have anything to add to the conversation, but his deep voice catches you off-guard. “I could help.”

You tilt your head to look up at him questioningly.

“I’m a history major,” he reminds you.

“Oh!” You exclaim, lips pursed. “You know the modern revolution?”

“Mhm.”

“I-” You pause, staring straight ahead as you near the lunch hall. Of course you want to say yes, but one sidelong glance at his face reminds you just how little time he already has, and as is you’ve been taking up a lot of it recently. “Um, are you sure?”

He raises a brow as you hum and haw over his offer. “Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

It almost feels foreign to hear the man most commonly known for his shitty attitude and poor attendance offering his help in tutoring, of all things. Yet, if he’s proven anything to you over the past couple of weeks, it's that you shouldn’t be judging anyone so baselessly. After all, he may not be the most eloquent with words but Sukuna is extremely smart and dedicated.

“That would be great, thanks Sukuna!” You beam, grateful that maybe you won’t fail your test next week.

You push through the doors to the student cafeteria just as Shoko is stubbing out her cigarette beneath her foot. You and Sukuna follow her to your usual table, though as you make your way there it occurs to you for the first time that you’re being watched.

Multiple pairs of eyes follow you and your salmon-haired new friend, many giving you strange looks while others regard you with jealousy. You shrink into yourself, suddenly too aware of the eyes on you.

It’s not that you aren’t accustomed to staring on one hand, Satoru and Suguru sitting at your table earns a lot of longing eyes in your direction and you would be lying to say you don’t get your fair share of lingering stares. On the other hand, you can practically feel seething anger and envy coming from the surrounding crowd in droves, because Sukuna doesn’t sit with others at lunch. Sukuna doesn’t offer to tutor people. Sukuna to most, is an enigma. A hot one, at that. To most, he’s a cold-shouldered asshole who people would beg to sleep with.

Clearing your throat, you focus on the lunch you’ve pulled out of your bag as you take a seat. It’s still from the same group of prepped lunches from the day prior, a sandwich and salad, nothing too fancy, though your stomach growls at the sight of it.

Sukuna drops his bag at his feet, leaning forward over the table with his elbow propped beneath his chin just like the previous day. The rest of your friends file into the lunch hall shortly after you, and aside from Satoru’s clear contemptful look towards Sukuna, no one seems to think twice about having him there. Yu cheerfully greets him and Suguru offers a calm wave. Sukuna doesn’t return either, but if either of your friends are bothered, they don’t show it.

Before you can take a bite of your sandwich, you glance over at the man leaning over the table beside you. His expression is tired and distant as he stares blankly at the wall off to the side. Just like yesterday, he doesn’t have a lunch, so you push the container with your sandwich in it towards him until it nudges his elbow and gets his attention.

Sukuna blinks twice before staring down at the container. He shoves it back to you just as he had the day before.

“Take it as a thank you for helping Shoko and I study?” You plead, pushing it back towards him and insistently holding it in place. He sighs a little overdramatically and takes the sandwich, taking a bite of it and returning his chin to rest on his palm.

“You wanna do that now?” He asks as he finishes his first bite, staring sidelong at you.

Your eyes brighten and you grab Shoko’s attention with a nudge of your shoe against her leg across from you. “Come review the modern revolution with us.”

Her eyes, along with several other pairs of eyes at the table, fill with surprise and she nods as she gets up and settles on the opposite side of your new study buddy. Pulling out your textbook and notes, you open to the chapter your professor had seemingly glazed over in class.

You learn quickly that Sukuna isn’t the best teacher. He isn’t patient and doesn’t love repeating himself, but he does know the subject well. In spite of his obvious scowl when you ask him to reiterate a point, he still does so even if it’s followed by a dramatic sigh. By the time lunch ends, you have a surprisingly good grasp on the first chapter of your textbook.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you sigh as Sukuna gets to his feet quite suddenly. He doesn’t say anything, his expression unchanging as he slings his bag over his shoulder. He nods in acknowledgement and before Shoko can thank him he’s already gone again.

“You like one weird guy,” she comments as she slides into the chair he’d been occupying.

Turning your attention in her direction, you raise a brow. “I don’t like him in that way.”

She smiles, eyes shining. “Yeah, alright. You just run to him every time you see him for fun then, huh?”

“I don’t run to him every time I see him,” you scoff, shoving your notes into your bag.

“And I don’t smoke behind the lab,” she snorts, laughing when you shove her.

“Such a bad habit,” you mumble, diverting attention away from you. After all, Shoko’s wrong. Sukuna’s hot, but you aren’t crushing on him.

Not that the following day does anything to prove her wrong when you veer sharply to the right at the sight of Sukuna at his usual (as of 2 days ago) spot at the fountain.

“Hey!” You greet him as cheerily as ever as you stop in front of him. He shuts his notebook at the sound of your voice, his aloof expression shifting to one you almost don’t recognize on him- mirth. He looks well-rested today all things considered, and his shoulders seem to relax at the sight of you.

“Hey,” he replies easily, shoving his books into his bag as he gets up to trail behind you and Shoko without even needing to invite him to join you.

“You know, I’d almost think he likes sitting with us,” Shoko whispers quietly to you, casting a glance at him. He’s watching your exchange although you’re positive he can’t hear you. You do nothing more than giggle in reply.

“Care to share with the class?” Sukuna chides with a raised brow.

Just as you go to shake your head no, Shoko happily repeats herself. “I was just saying I think you like sitting with us.”

Sukuna’s expression is unreadable as his gaze flits to you momentarily before it lands on Shoko again. “I don’t have to help you study if you don’t want me to,” he replies evenly, his tone just as chiding as Shoko’s.

Her eyes widen slightly and she goes silent as she turns to light a cigarette with a new lighter. Sukuna smirks in triumph, his chest rumbling with a teasing hum. She lets you know she’ll catch up with you in a bit as she decides to finish smoking before following after you.

“How are Yuji and Choso?” You ask now that Sukuna falls into step with you as you enter the lunch hall.

He rubs a hand over his face, casting a glance around him. “Exhausting,” he grumbles, stifling a yawn at the mere thought. “Yuji’s been giving the sitter a hard time lately about going to bed when I’m not home.”

“That’s kinda sweet, honestly,” you comment as you catch sight of Haibara and Nanami already seated at the table. “He loves you.” Taking a seat beside Nanami with Sukuna on your opposite side, you quickly greet your friends before your attention returns to your tattooed counterpart. “I still don’t know how you do it all, though.”

He sighs as he leans forward on his hand, the dark circles under his eyes evident. “I dunno either.” There’s something forlorn about his tone that causes your face to fall.

You take in his expression for a moment, wanting nothing more than to offer your help but you think better of it when you recall the way he reacted the last time you offered help. “Sorry, Kuna.”

Sukuna sits pin-straight as you use his nickname, an unspoken warning in his eyes. “Don’t call me that,” he growls, his voice lowering an octave as he shoots a glance at his surroundings.

“Oh, right! Sorry,” your cheeks redden as he relaxes slowly, letting the mistake go as he realizes it wasn’t intentional. You let out a breath as you realize he’s letting it slide, thankful he’s not taking it too seriously. “I think it’s cute,” you comment with a shrug as you pull out your lunch. “The name, I mean.”

“The last thing I need is to be seen as ‘cute’.” The word is sour on his tongue as he scornfully huffs his displeasure at the nickname.

You can’t help a smile at his comment which is somehow equally as cute as the nickname itself. Before you can tease him anymore, Shoko takes a seat beside him, pulling her textbook open to chapter two of the modern revolution. It doesn’t take long for him to dive into explanations of the demise of the military government that begin to make more sense with someone explaining the subject in more broad terms than the textbook states.

At some point in his lesson, you push your sandwich towards him and to your surprise, he seems to subconsciously take and eat it. You’re grateful to see that he doesn’t make a big deal of it either. Sukuna isn’t entirely aware he took it at all, his body acting on instinct as a natural part of the new schedule that came along with joining you for lunch.

It’s heartwarming regardless to know that to some extent, you’re getting through his tough exterior.

As your next class quickly approaches, you begin to pack up and tilt your head at Sukuna. “Will I see you in Art History later?”

The tall man casts a glance at his watch. “Yeah but I’ll only have a couple of minutes after class. Choso has some…” he stares at the ceiling as he wracks his brain for an answer. “I dunno. Some thing at his school.”

“No worries! We only have the visual portion left anyway. Oh! But I did refine the written part a bit, I was hoping to go over that with you.”

“Sure,” he agrees, and just like every other day he’s striding quickly away before you can even say bye. You let out a soft sigh as you watch him leave, staring blankly at the door until Shoko nudges you.

She has a knowing gleam in her eyes as she slides into the seat where Sukuna had been. “So, lovergirl. Care to admit it yet?”

“There’s nothing to admit,” you groan with a roll of your eyes.

“Sure, sure.” She lets the silence hang in the air for a moment as she leans against the table. “So since when have you started lying to your literal best friend?”

“You’re so dramatic Sho, I’m not lying,” you roll your eyes. “There’s just more to him than people think. He’s nice.”

“He’s nice to you,” Gojo butts his head into your conversation, only to receive two glares in return.

“Shut up, Satoru,” Geto scolds the white-haired man with a scowl. You shoot him an appreciative smile, but you’re taking back the smile almost immediately as he follows up with, “I’m listening in to this Sukuna drama, don’t interrupt.”

Idiots, both of them.

“You’re equally as unbelievable,” Shoko rolls her eyes at her friend, shoving her textbook into her bag alongside you as you both get to your feet to head to your next classes. “Listen, all I’m saying is that you’ve been around him a lot lately and it’s pretty fucking obvious at this point. So I don’t know if you don’t want to admit it to the dumbasses at the table, to me, or to yourself, but you aren’t fooling me.”

“Sho seriously, I promise it’s not like that. I just… feel for him. He’s a nice guy and has way more on his plate than any one person can handle,” you insist.

“And you like him.”

“And I like being around him,” you rationalize yourself to her, staring up at the ceiling as you leisurely make your way to your next class.

“You’re lucky I need to go the other way, girl. I could fight you on this all day.”

You brush her off with a wave and smile, sighing as you’re finally blessed with silence. It’s not that you don’t love Shoko, but her incessant teasing over Sukuna is becoming a lot. Not only that, but you don’t want to begin questioning your emotions when it comes to him given that you both have enough on your plate as is. Your attraction to him is surface level, and that’s fine with you.

–

When you’re dismissed by the professor, you quickly make your way up to Sukuna, who’s chewing on a toothpick with his nose in his notebook. You take a seat next to him, knowing you won’t have much time but hoping to at least get something together for the visual portion.

Sukuna casts a glance at you, keeping his thumb on the page of his notebook he was engrossed in as he shuts it and leans back. There’s a scowl on his face as he takes a look at the time. “Y’ got ten minutes.”

He sounds grumpy, so you try to make things quick. “Right, let’s start with the visual portion, since we have about a week left.”

Sukuna hums, sitting up and setting his notebook on the surface in front of him. He taps it a couple of times in thought before he opens the page to the one his thumb had kept a tab on. Curiously, you peer at the page as he pushes the book towards you.

It’s not a notebook at all, but a sketchbook and your eyes widen as you take in the stunning art scrawled across the page. All three art pieces the two of you had chosen have been blended into one piece, with the fallen angel at the center. Your jaw drops as you pull the book closer, examining the details and the way Sukuna has shaded everything.

“You drew this?” You gasp, tearing your eyes from the gorgeous piece Sukuna has drawn to take a look at him.

“Yeah. It’s just a sketch. I’d do it on letter size paper if you’re good with it.”

“Just a- what?” You gawk at him as you stare down at his ‘sketch’. It already looks like a damn masterpiece and you’re certain you could turn it in as it is and still get a high grade. This is better than anything you had in mind, the only thing you feel guilty over is that he’s actually done the whole thing on his own, and you doubt you can do anything to help. “How can I- I don’t know how I can help with-”

“So y’like it?” He smirks, leaning somewhat closer to you.

“It’s amazing! I don’t know how I can help, though,” you admit, looking up at him with a furrowed brow as you examine his features. A muscle in his jaw clenches as he chews on the toothpick that’s still hanging loosely from his teeth, dark eyes set on the page in your hands.

“You could look after the-” he pauses, glancing around momentarily to find that there’s no one nearby when he continues. “-the brats while I work on it.”

“Is that… enough? I mean, I’ll owe a good portion of the grade to you,” you point out.

“It’s fine,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

You can’t help it, but you’re pouting at him, and he can’t help but smirk at the sight. You want to do more to help, though a break from his brothers is more than enough for him to consider the visual portion to be a group effort. Besides, he knows you edited his written portion to sound more formal. He doesn’t realize it only took you five minutes, but that’s besides the point.

“Text me when you’re free? Oh wait-!” You snicker to yourself. “Email me when you’re free?”

In an instant Sukuna is on his feet, shoving his things into his bag as you giggle to yourself. “I’m leaving,” he grumbles, throwing his hood up over his head and popping in his headphones.

“Don’t forget to email me!” You call after him. He flips you off on his way out the door, your continued laughter to yourself met with stares from the few remaining students around the room. You aren’t oblivious to the fact that you and Sukuna are… an odd pair to say the least, but it doesn’t make the stares any less uneasy as you quiet down and quickly slip out of the room not too far behind Sukuna.

–

Sukuna’s email came fairly early in the morning before you woke up. When you checked it, you smiled to yourself.

[email protected] - Saturday, 6:34 AM off at 4. come over after

[email protected] - Saturday, 10:04 AM You gotta make these emails sound less like booty calls. Sounds good though!! I'll be there at 5 :)

You’re don’t expect to ear back from him given his lack of phone, so you get ready and go about your day while you wait for four in the afternoon to pass.

To your surprise, a bit after he’s off work, Sukuna sends you his address and a teasing ‘don’t threaten me with a good time’ that sends your mind spiraling more than you’d like to admit as you stare at the screen with a pounding heart. You don’t know how to reply to the email, so you leave it be, shutting your laptop for good measure.

It’s just teasing, anyway. It has to be.

So why the hell will your heart not slow down?

You drive over to his address with a bag of takeout given the time. Sukuna’ll likely be irritated by it, but at this point you’re willing to push his buttons to show him gratitude for how much help he’s been on this project, especially if you owe what you can only imagine will be another perfect grade to his art skills.

You dial his unit number in the lobby of his apartment at the buzzer, listening to the shrill rings from the box as you wait.

“Come up!” Comes Choso’s voice over the buzzer and the door beeps as it unlocks. You smile and make your way to the elevator, glancing over each unit number until you reach Sukuna’s door.

“Come in,” Sukuna’s deep voice travels through the door. You twist the knob and realize suddenly why it was Choso who answered the buzz, and why Sukuna had insisted that watching his little brothers would be enough.

Towards the back of the apartment is a table where Sukuna’s seated, clearly trying to work on the project. Choso is leaning over the edge of the table, eyes trained on the drawing as his face is practically blocking Sukuna’s. Yuji, on the other hand, is another story entirely. He’s dangling off of his older brother’s arm, going on about something he saw on TV today. You can’t help a bubbly giggle at the sight of Sukuna’s frustrated glance in your direction. He looks like his patience is hanging on by a very thin thread.

Yuji’s head whips around to face you when he hears the door shut and he cries out your name, dropping from Sukuna’s arm to bound up to you. Choso follows shortly after, waving at you as the youngest brother runs straight into your arms. You pick him up, supporting his weight as he hugs you while you smile at Choso. You kick off your shoes, making your way over to your project partner.

“How’s it coming along?” You ask, taking note that Sukuna seems to be using more than one medium, graphite and charcoal. Peering over his shoulder, you smile at the sight. Sukuna’s got basic shapes blocked out on the page, and the fallen angel’s face started. It looks so professional that you can’t help but wonder what Sukuna’s doing as a history major.

“It’s coming,” he grumbles, leaning forward on the heel of his palm as he eyes the way you’re trying to hold up his youngest brother, while also holding onto a brown paper bag and your backpack hangs off your shoulder. “Yuji, get down,” he scolds, crimson eyes sharp as the young boy clambers down from your arms and immediately begins excitedly prodding at Choso to get his attention.

“It looks amazing so far! I brought some stuff to keep the kids entertained while you work,” you tell him, rolling your shoulder in reference to your backpack. “Oh! I also brought dinner for us all.”

Sukuna’s eye twitches. You know what’s going through his mind right now, you can practically hear it, so you elaborate before he can snap.

“I just thought it would be a nice thing to do since you’re doing the whole visual portion of the project and all I’m doing is watching these two angels.” You make sure to emphasize that he’s doing more work than you are, that this isn’t a favor, this is repayment. All you can do is hope he’ll let it slide.

Your tattooed counterpart lets his gaze trail to his brothers as you call them angels, before it lands on the bag. He frowns, reaching out to take it from you and set it on the table in front of him as he looks in the bag. You know he’s not happy, it’s about as obvious as the sun in the sky, but for one reason or another he’s holding back his attitude, and for that you’re grateful.

“I’ll eat while I work. Leave me be,” he mutters, his voice strained as he shoots you a very obvious dismissive and irritated glance.

Your smile falters as he pulls a meal out of the bag before shoving it back towards you.

“Just let me know if you need anything,” you smile hesitantly before grabbing the bag and turning back to the two boys. They lead you over to the living room, split from the kitchen and small table area by only a counter.

Sukuna’s apartment is nicer than you expected. It seems to be a two bedroom apartment with a small kitchen and living room area. It’s obviously older and a bit run-down in comparison to your apartment but Sukuna’s kept it fairly clean considering how much work he already has on his hands. There’s an old flat screen TV facing a couch in the living room, as well as a shelf of mostly kids’ movies and a couple of horror films.

You take a seat with both kids excitedly peering at you as you open the takeout bag and hand each of them a small plastic bowl with ramen. Yuji takes it giddily and Choso quietly thanks you as they begin eating.

Your night is entertaining as you look after Sukuna’s little brothers. They’re both sweet and excited to see you, and you’re more than thrilled to find them warming up to you even more. When you pulled the old GameCube out of your bag and hooked it up to the TV for them, they were both over the moon and entertained for the rest of the night, making your part of the project beyond easy.

Glancing back at Sukuna as the boys played an old kart racer, you find yourself admiring the way his broad shoulders rise and fall with each breath, sharp eyes focused on his art. His jaw would move every so often as he concentrated on the project, running a hand through his pink hair in an effort to keep it off of his forehead.

As the night closes in on all sides, Sukuna makes his way over to the couch, leaning over the back of the couch on strong arms.

“Time for bed, all of you.”

“All of us?” You tease, peering over at Sukuna. His veins are protruding obviously from his muscular forearms and you need to divert your attention as your cheeks heat up at your own thoughts.

He smirks at you, eyes somewhat lidded. After a moment, he chuckles breathily and rolls his eyes, but his attention is pulled away from you quickly by his brothers. Yuji and Choso protest adamantly with their older brother, neither of the young boys wanting to head to bed ‘so early’ as though nine is early.

“If you two go get ready, I’ll read you something before bed,” you coax in an effort to alleviate any effort on Sukuna’s part. He eyes you curiously, and though you can’t see his expression, he’s relieved that he doesn’t need to argue with the kids.

“Promise?” Yuji’s eyes are filled with wonder as he approaches you.

“Pinky promise,” you reply, extending your finger to him. He wraps his own tiny pinky around yours in a silent agreement before the two boys go running off to brush their teeth and get changed.

Silence settles between you and Sukuna, one that sits somewhere between easy and tense. There’s really no way of knowing with him whether he’s still upset that you brought dinner or not as his expression gives nothing away. You can only hope his chuckle moments ago points towards the latter.

“Are you that shit at MarioKart or did you let them win?”

His gruff voice breaks the silence with a teasing lilt that makes your lips pull into a smirk. “I let them win,” you say with a fond smile as you glance at the screen detailing your seventeen losses.

“Yeah? The Prom Queen’s a gamer?” Sukuna’s got a sparkle in his eye that you don’t recognize from the past couple of weeks of getting to know him, but it suits him. His tone is as teasing as it is cocky and it’s exactly what you would expect from someone with an ego as big as his, at least now that he isn’t so painfully sleep deprived and toning himself down to handle his brothers.

You wonder if this is a glimpse of who he really is.

… Wait, did he just call you the Prom Queen?

“Prom Queen?” You scoff, eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sukuna raises a brow. “You tellin’ me you didn’t try to get elected Prom Queen or however that shit works?”

You open your mouth in an attempt to defend yourself but you can’t manage to formulate a retort. As any chance of sparing yourself from humiliation dies on your tongue, Sukuna lets out a breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.

“Figured. I bet you ate that shit up in high school,” he teases further.

“Whatever, it’s not something to be ashamed of,” you pout, staring down at the indigo controller in your hands as you fidget with the buttons.

“So why’re you actin’ that way if you’re not embarrassed?” Sukuna pushes, smoothly hopping over the back of the couch as he leans close enough to you that your cheeks heat up from the close proximity. His eyes narrow as his smirk turns to a grin when an idea worms its way into his mind. “Holy shit, did I clock ya? You didn’t just try to get elected- you were the Prom Queen, weren’t you?” He pushes.

Huffing, you let out an exaggerated groan. “Yeah, I was. So what? It was fun.”

Sukuna throws his head back against the couch in a laugh. A genuine laugh that makes any amount of embarrassment over how easily he’d read you dissolve. His laugh is hoarse, husky in the way his speaking voice is, and you can’t help but smile despite yourself as warmth pools in your chest at the sight of him at ease and enjoying himself.

“‘Course it was,” Sukuna agrees teasingly with a shake of his head.

“I bet you didn’t even go to Prom.” There’s no way you don’t have him read like a book too, Sukuna wouldn’t possibly have gone to-

“You wanna put money on that bet?” Sukuna’s got a smug grin plastered across his face as your jaw hangs ajar. Shocked isn’t really the right word for what you’re feeling right now, but there’s certainly more to the grumpy history major than meets the eye.

“You went to Prom?”

“Don’t sound so shocked, Prom Queen,” he moves his hands behind his head, leaning back as he spreads his legs like a slut. Not that you’d say that to his face.

“I’m not- I’m just-”

Saving you from the embarrassment of trying to defend your misjudgment of Sukuna, Yuji calls out for you. Setting the controller aside, you flee from Sukuna’s side in search of the room where Yuji’s voice rang out. You disappear from the aloof man’s sight as you peer into the first of three open doors, oblivious to his gaze searing into your back as he chuckles to himself.

After a couple of moments, he sighs heavily, running a hand roughly through his messy locks. What the hell was he doing letting you into his life so carelessly? Fuck, you were helping his brothers fall asleep right now. Even for projects, Sukuna never brought anyone home. He didn’t get friendly with people either. His secrets started and ended with Uraume, his best friend, and now somehow you had wormed your way into his life and the thought of such a thing had him squirming in discomfort.

He rolls his shoulders backwards, staring at the ceiling as he listens to the sound of your voice. You’re speaking softly as you read to the boys, giggling when Yuji begins to tell you you’ve said one of the characters’ names wrong. Sukuna’s eyes flicker mindlessly over small details in the ceiling. A water stain here, a small hole from the rocket toy Choso had gotten for his birthday last year. Small details, small distractions from the real turmoil in Sukuna’s mind that he was avoiding.

You know too much about him. You’re too close. Once this project is over, that’s it. All ties cut loose, he can’t have you so close to him. He’s better off on his own, the way things have always been.

Hell, he’ll even still help you pass your test. But once that’s done and this project is handed in, that’s it. He’ll disappear. You don’t belong in his life and he doesn’t belong in yours. You aren’t two sides of the same coin, you’re cut from entirely different cloth.

You round the corner quietly after several minutes of Sukuna deliberating, smiling softly at him as you plop down on the couch beside him. “So, how’s the project coming along?”

Sukuna looks down at you, an eyebrow quirked. “Did they actually get to sleep?”

Your head tilts questioningly. Cute. Wait, cute? Sukuna shakes his head as if to shake the thought from his mind. Shit, he needs to get laid. Get these thoughts out of his head.

“Yeah, why?”

“Huh.” Sukuna taps his finger on his thigh twice. They never fall asleep without Sukuna there, even if he’s in the apartment. The neighbor across the hall who helps with babysitting always mentioned the two boys would whine and cry until Sukuna returned to say goodnight. So what makes you different?

When Sukuna doesn’t elaborate, you decide not to push, bright eyes moving behind the couch to the table. “Can I see the project?”

“Mhm.”

Your excited grin pierces his chest in a way that leaves him dumbfounded and frozen to the couch, unable to follow you as he stares blankly at the win screen of MarioKart. What the fuck was that?

Skipping off to the table, you stop and peer over the table at the mix of charcoal messily strewn along the edges of the paper in a similar style to ‘All is Vanity’, one of the three pieces your project is on, while the rest of the piece is precisely detailed in graphite. The fallen angel at the center of the piece admires himself in a skull-shaped mirror while clocks melt and litter the surroundings in a subtle manner. It’s so gorgeous and meticulously detailed that it draws your breath from your lungs in disbelief.

“Kuna,” you gasp, eyes wide as you admire the piece that Sukuna did in- what, five hours? “This is beautiful.”

The sound of your voice snaps him from his stupor and he gets to his feet, eyes trailing the length of your body before landing on the art piece.

“You think so, Prom Queen?”

“Don’t call me that,” you mumble, unable to pull your gaze from his art.

“Don’t call me ‘Kuna’.”

“It’s cute,” you insist, finally looking up at him. He’s frowning, eyes narrowed as he watches you sit down at the table and admire the art.

“I ain’t cute.”

You choose to ignore him, instead admiring his art once more.

“That work for the project?” He inquires.

Nodding eagerly, you grin at him. “There’s no way we don’t get a good grade. This is way better than anything I could have come up with.”

Warmth pools in Sukuna’s chest, unfamiliar as it takes root in his heart at your compliment. He scratches at his chest idly as if to rid himself of the feeling, humming in response.

Silence settles over you as you lean back in your chair. You know you should probably leave, but something piques your curiosity.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you in history?”

Sukuna’s crimson irises flicker between yours in thought. He contemplates whether he wants to bother with the conversation at all but gives in and sits down at the table with you. He runs a hand through his tousled pink locks, sighing.

“My dad was a history teacher, shit’s interesting. It made sense at the time.” He doesn’t look at you, resting over the table with his temple against his palm.

“Why not go into art?” You ask.

He shoots you a sidelong glance, rubbing his hand over his face. “What the fuck am I gonna do with an art degree?” He asks. There’s no malice in his tone, he’s asking genuinely. “Shit’s no better than history for someone like me.”

“I’m not sure…” You deliberate. “Marketing or graphic design?” You offer, blinking at him.

He scoffs a laugh. “Shit’s impossible to get into. No firm wants a delinquent with attendance issues and face tattoos for an intern.”

Though he speaks matter-of-factly, there’s an underlying sadness to his tone, one that’s burrowed between layers of exhaustion and carefully built walls. He rubs his eyes, inhaling sharply.

“It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”

“I think you could do a lot with your art.”

He lets out a deep sigh. “Maybe.”

“Really, I mean it when I say-”

“I get it.” He interrupts, a biting edge nipping at his tone as he shoots you a sidelong warning glance. You blink at him a couple of times, nodding slowly as you realize this is clearly a tough subject for him. Really, what subject isn’t tough with him? Sometimes you feel like you’re walking on eggshells around him, never knowing what’ll set him off next.

“Sorry,” you mumble, glancing at the art in front of you. “I just thought-”

“I don’t care what you thought,” he snarls, that last strong of patience for the day snapping. “Shit’s complicated, alright? Not everyone gets everything handed to them on a silver fucking platter.”

Hurt pangs in your chest, piercing your heart in a way you don’t expect. You know his reputation, you know he can be an asshole, but it’s still a side of him that you haven’t seen yet. You bite your lip, nodding slowly. “You really think that?” He doesn’t reply, fire burning behind his pinprick pupils. You scoff out a breathy laugh. “Right. Um- I should go.” Your voice is meeker than intended as you get to your feet and head to the living room to pack up.

Sukuna’s head is still leaning on his palm as he stares at the table, his chest rising and falling with each frustrated breath. He doesn’t say a word as the looping background music from MarioKart cuts out suddenly. You stand uncomfortably on the opposite side of the couch, shifting on both feet as you stare at Sukuna.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” You throw your backpack over your shoulder, turning to the door and flipping the lock. One last glance at your project partner tells you he hasn’t moved. You press your lips into a thin line, nodding as you show yourself out.

When you’re finally gone, Sukuna leans back in his chair, slouching back as he stares at the ceiling. He knows you’re hurt, he’s not oblivious that he snapped at you. Maybe this is for the best though. He’ll be gone from your life before the week even starts, like you never knew him at all.

–

Lunch the following day brings an uneasy feeling that settles in your chest as you walk past the fountain. You need Sukuna’s help, but when you slow as you approach the path that leads to the fixture, he’s not there.

Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach. Had he really been that hurt by your words? You hadn’t meant to get under his skin, you only intended to help- but that’s the issue with him, it always is.

Besides that, you’re not sure what’s worse- the fact that you can hardly bring yourself to be mad at him or that he hurt you in assuming that life came easily to you and you didn’t have your own fair share of struggles. Sure, you aren’t working two jobs and taking care of your younger siblings, but that doesn’t mean life is a free ride for you.

“Where’s your bad boy?” Shoko asks, scanning the clearing for any sign of the man in question as she slows to a stop beside you. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped when you turn to face her.

You chew on your lip, shaking your head. “I don’t think he’s coming.”

Shoko’s brow lifts. “Oh?”

“I think I pissed him off,” you admit, mindlessly tugging at the hem of your skirt. “Sorry. If you fail the test, then drinks are on me,” you mumble, hardly trying to mask the hurt in your voice.

“Are you alright?” Shoko asks, pushing past your insistence on buying drinks.

“Yeah. Yeah! I’m fine,” you shoot her just about the least convincing smile she’s ever seen.

“C’mon girl, I always told you he was trouble. Just didn’t think he’d break your heart before you even admitted to liking him,” she mumbles the last part, earning a scowl from you as she tugs you away from the fountain.

Plastering a smile on your face, you let her lead the way to the lunch hall, taking a seat in your usual spot. Nanami slides in beside you alongside Haibara, with Gojo and Geto only a minute behind them.

“You’re early,” Kento comments, surprising you as his mahogany gaze peers past you to where Sukuna’s been the past week or so.

“We’re always the first ones here,” you cock your head to the side, wishing desperately in this moment that you could be oblivious to the stares from the rest of the table. For all they know, he could just be sick. Or away for the day. Or at work. They don’t need to know you had a petty and stupid disagreement.

“I fucking toooold you he’s an asshole,” Gojo interrupts your thoughts with the most grating comment he possibly can and you have to shut your eyes and take a breath in order to respond evenly.

“Nothing happened, Satoru. We just finished our project and he doesn’t need to hang around anymore,” you attempt to defend yourself.

“Oh? So studying wasn’t a priority, then?” Geto has his own way of being equally infuriating. Although Gojo has a reputation for being a nuisance, it’s a wonder Geto doesn’t share that reputation.

“We-” You pause, chewing on your lip. “Finished. We finished studying.”

“I seem to recall you were only on chapter three,” Nanami comments, though his push is more out of concern for your grades than your personal business, so you don’t let it get to you.

“That sounds right,” Geto agrees, as though the ball has been passed back to his court. “Of five, isn’t that so?”

“Enough, boys,” Shoko scolds in a motherly tone. You let out a breath, thankful for the way she manages to wrangle in Satoru and Suguru. Gojo shoots you one last knowing smirk, entirely too proud of himself for something that doesn’t concern him. Geto’s final glance cast your way is more genuine. Although he enjoys teasing, it’s clear he does care. You don’t spare either of them a glance as Kento speaks up.

“I can help you study, if you need. I’m no history major but I can read a textbook and make cue cards.”

You let out a grateful sigh, smiling half-heartedly at him. “Honestly, I’d appreciate it.”

He nods as you grab your textbook and notebook, pulling it open to the fourth chapter in the modern revolution section and beginning to go over it. As you work through the chapter with Shoko and Kento, you mindlessly pull out your salad and sandwich, your attention wavering and your hunger dying as you stare at the sandwich in particular.

Something stirs deep in your chest, twisting like a knife. Not only had your attention completely faltered, but so had your hunger, and you can only hope the rest of the table doesn’t notice as you quietly return the sandwich to your bag.

–

As Friday approaches quickly, you prepare your project to be turned in, only able to pray Sukuna would bring the visual component on his own terms, otherwise you’d be fucked. Your professor is fairly old-school and prefers everything to be turned in personally, which would be fine in most scenarios, but unfortunately you know Sukuna and you know he has a habit of not showing up to class.

Maybe you should have taken the art for safe keeping.

No, that would be rude.

Sitting in your usual spot with your printed thesis and your face in your hands, you rub your features in an effort to clear your mind. Sukuna needs this grade just as much as you do, he’ll be here. You sigh to yourself, watching the clock as the minutes tick by and Sukuna doesn’t make an appearance. You can’t even bring yourself to pay attention to the professor, too caught up in your own thoughts.

With one last glance backwards, you feel your heart sink to your stomach in dread as you have to turn in your project without the visual portion. You’ve chewed your lip raw at this point from the nerves of Sukuna not showing up and the taste of iron is stark on your tongue. Running your tongue over your lower lip, you wait until the rest of the class has left to meekly make your way to the front.

“Hi, I’m really sorry but I thought Sukuna would be here and he has our visual portion, so I’m not really sure what to do.” Your voice comes out as a mumble and your professor tilts his head questioningly.

“He dropped it off this morning. He let me know he wouldn’t be at class and that you have the thesis.”

“Oh.” You purse your lips, staring down at the thesis as you set it on his desk. You can’t decide whether you’re more shocked he was so proactive, or hurt that you couldn’t talk to him. Shaking your head, you plaster a smile over your features and take a breath. “Well, here’s the rest, then.”

Your professor observes you for a moment before accepting your submission, placing it in a folder with Sukuna’s art that’s been carefully placed inside a portfolio intended to keep charcoal from smudging. Catching a glimpse of the art makes the memory of Sukuna’s frustration pop back into your head and you press your lips into a tight line, excusing yourself.

It’s over. You don’t need to see him again. You don’t need to talk to him again. You can and should forget about him.

Pulling out your phone, you text Shoko in search of some liquid therapy.

–

A full week and a half later, your life has returned to the status quo, which you’re grateful for. Sukuna is little more than a passing thought, just another project partner in another class. Back to how it should be.

You managed to pass your history test and although you owe a good portion of that to Kento, you can’t deny the fact that Sukuna had been a godsend in helping you truly understand at least the first half of the modern revolution. You had wanted to share your grade with him, but at the end of the day, you weren’t friends. You had to keep reminding yourself of that.

“I literally owe you my life, Kento,” you sigh as you stare at your grade on your screen. “I honestly think my parents would have killed me if I lost my scholarship over a bad grade in history of all things.”

He hums, a calm smile gracing his sharp features. “No problem. I’m taking that class next semester, so I suppose I’ll be prepared.” You grin, casting a glance at Shoko who’s scrolling the page in search of her grade.

“Oh thank god,” she breathes out when she finally finds her student ID, leaning forward on the picnic table you’re all at after your last class.

The days are getting colder as fall makes way for winter. Leaves coat the ground, the sound of their crunching a constant as students make their way to their next classes. A crisp breeze bites at the exposed skin of your ankles, reminding you to swap your cute heels for a pair of warm boots.

Pulling your coat more snugly over your body as the breeze nips at you, you barely notice the vibration of your phone in your pocket. Pulling it out, you stare at the caller ID with a furrowed brow.

“Who is it?” Shoko asks curiously as she takes note of your expression.

You shrug, setting the phone back in your lap. “Auto Parts and Services?” You shake your head, leaning forward over the picnic table. “Must be a wrong number. I’ve never used them and my car is fine.”

“Maybe they heard the way you called your car fine even though it rattles whenever you stop,” Shoko teases.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “It’s just a loose screw or something, it’s not a big deal.”

“I would argue a loose screw in a car is a big deal,” Nanami frowns, concern etched across his features.

You open your mouth to defend yourself when your phone rings again. Confused, you pick it up, staring at the screen. “They’re calling back,” you comment, your thumb now hovering over the green button as you contemplate picking it up. Maybe someone hit your car while it was parked? No, then you would be getting a call from your insurance, right?

“They’re probably just trying to sell you something,” Shoko shrugs. “I’d ignore it.”

Taking her advice, you nod and set aside your phone again, letting it ring. If it was important, surely they’d leave a message.

“Anyways,” you continue, “you passed?”

Shoko nods. “I don’t know how you did it, Nanami, but I owe you too.”

He smiles easily, zipping his jacket up. “You don’t owe me anything. I don’t mind.”

“I’m still gonna do something for you,” you insist with a grin.

As your phone rings- again- you start to feel as though you really should pick up.

“Is it the auto shop again?” Shoko asks as you stare at the screen.

You nod, shooting a glance at her with a furrowed brow and, against your better judgment, you finally pick up and bring your phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Christ, you have a working phone but just can’t be bothered to use it, or what?”

Your eyes widen at the sound of the gruff voice on the other line. “Sukuna? You know, you could have started with a hello, or-”

Shoko and Nanami exchange a glance at the realization you’re getting a call from the very same Sukuna you’d been moping over the last week.

He audibly huffs on the other line. “Listen, I-” he cuts himself off with another frustrated huff, struggling to get through what he wants to say. “I wouldn’t be fuckin’ calling if I had anyone else to turn to.”

“Did you just call to insult me, or-?”

Another huff. “No. I didn’t mean it like that,” he sighs, shuffling on the other line. “Listen, I need-” he pauses, the silence on the line tense as he contemplates what to say. He harshly rubs his hand over his features as he finally manages to find his words. “I need a favor.”

Your jaw parts and you stare blankly at the picnic table. You should turn him down, you tell yourself. He should reap what he sowed in choosing to be rude to you, but are you even still mad about that? Were you ever mad over it? It hurt, sure, but a part of you hopes he didn’t mean to lash out. Didn’t mean what he said. You knew his boundaries and you’d pushed, even if only a little bit.

Sighing, you wonder if you’ll regret this. “What’s the favor?”

“The woman across the hall usually watches the brats while I work but Yuji just got sick and she’s ancient and doesn’t want to get sick too,” Sukuna begins to explain.

Stifling a halfhearted laugh, you shake your head. “You can’t say that about her, Sukuna,” you mumble over how he refers to the woman.

“What?” His smirk is audible in his tone. “It’s true. The point is, I can’t leave them alone. Choso can’t cook and I don’t-”

He doesn’t have money for them to order and he doesn’t want to leave them alone. You can fill in the details without him needing to embarrass himself any further than you’re sure he’s already feeling.

“I can… I can watch them,” you agree quietly. Shoko and Nanami exchange another glance.

You hear shuffling on the other side as Sukuna lets out a breath of relief. “I’ll owe you one, or whatever,” he grumbles, covering the shop’s phone with his hand as you hear someone call his name. His voice is muffled as he tells them he’ll be right there. “When you get there, just let Cho know it’s you on the call box. He’ll let you in.”

“Oh, um, yeah! Okay. When will you be back?”

He pauses for a moment. “Ten.”

You pull your phone away from your face, blinking at the clock. It’s just past three, you’ll be with them most of the night, which you don’t mind, but the lingering feeling of discomfort over your last interaction with Sukuna is one that you don’t particularly want to face now that you’ve mostly gotten over it.

“Okay, I’ll head over now.”

“Fuck, I owe you.”

“I don’t mind,” you insist. “You’re sure Choso will let me in?”

“He’s a smart kid,” Sukuna shrugs, though you can’t see it. “I gotta go. This is the shop’s number, call if ya need anything.”

“Right,” you barely manage to get out, chewing on your lip as the line disconnects.

“What just happened?” Shoko asks in disbelief, four pairs of eyes glued to you as they wait for an answer.

You glance between Shoko and Nanami. You can’t tell the truth, given that you’d promised Sukuna you wouldn’t tell anyone he was the sole caretaker of his little brothers and Kento didn’t know, so you make your reply as simple as possible.

“I’m just doing him a favor.”

“You just got over him and you’re gonna make me hear about him again? You have such a soft spot for him.” Shoko complains, as if this is about her.

“There was nothing to get over,” you groan, zipping up your coat and getting to your feet. You fumble with your keys in your pockets.

“Be careful,” Kento hums, aware he’s missing several pieces of the puzzle that is your relation to Sukuna, but still caring in the way only Nanami knows how.

You shoot him a grateful smile before making your way to your car.

The drive to Sukuna’s place has grown somewhat familiar as you pull into a guest spot at his apartment. Walking up to the buzzer, you hit the unmarked button for Sukuna’s apartment. It clicks as someone picks up, Choso’s voice sounding tired as he answers your buzz with a ‘hello?’

“Hey Cho, it’s me!” You reply, thankful he lets you in when the door buzzes. You make your way up to the apartment and twist the doorknob, which Choso has already unlocked for you.

The sound of distant muffled crying has you wincing as Choso peers up at you with a grateful expression, immediately clinging to your waist as he hugs you.

“Oh-!” You let out a small noise in surprise as he squeezes you tight.

“I dunno what to do…” He mumbles against you, pointing towards his shared bedroom with his little brother.

“That’s okay, I’ve got you,” you assure him with a gentle hug before making your way into his room with Choso latched to your leg. Yuji’s bawling at the foot of his bed, arms wrapped around his knees as he wipes away his tears.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you coo, gently stroking his hair. “Can you tell me what hurts?”

Tears trail down Yuji’s cheeks as he stops wailing at the sight of you, sniffling and wiping at his face. “Where’s Kuna?”

“Your brother’s at work, honey,” you tell him softly, kneeling down to his level to get a better look at him. You press the back of your hand to his forehead and sigh. The poor kid’s running a high fever and you doubt he can keep anything down. His breathing is uneven as the news of Sukuna being at work goes over less than ideally and he starts sobbing again. “Shh, it’s okay,” you coo with a gentle smile. “Can you tell me what hurts?” You repeat.

He quiets down for another moment, hiccuping as he points to his stomach.

You nod in understanding. “Were you sick?”

He nods, sniffling.

“That’s okay, why don’t we get you in bed?”

Yuji complies immediately, letting you pick him up and tuck him into his bed.

“Choso, do you guys have any medicine?”

The older of the two boys nods from where he’s still stuck to your leg, pointing towards the washroom. He lets go of your leg finally to lead the way, opening the cabinet beneath the sink. There’s a very messy variety of different medications and hygiene products for you to sift through until you come across children’s tylenol. That should work, right?

Returning to Yuji, you pour some tylenol into the measuring cup it comes with and hold it up for him to drink. He makes a face, though over the amount of tears and snot dripping down his face, it hardly comes across as anything but sadness.

Your heart pangs as he takes the tylenol before burrowing beneath the covers and sniffling again. Sitting on the edge of his bed, you gently rub his back. “Are you hungry at all?”

He shakes his head no. “Cold.”

“Do you have blankets, Cho?”

Choso blinks at you with a devastatingly sad look of concern before padding out of the room. The sound of a thump has you wincing and you get up to peek out of the room in time to see a walking pile of blankets. With a lopsided smile, you pick up the top blanket and find the young boy’s hair standing straight from static. Pulling the blankets from his short arms, you glance back at the pile of remaining sheets, blankets, towels, and other linens.

“Can you go put the rest of that back? I’ve got this.” Choso nods, turning away. “Thank you!” You call after him, making your way back to Yuji. With a flick of your wrists, you spread a couple of blankets over Yuji’s bed, tucking them in around him before setting the last one at the foot of the bed. “How’s that, honey?” You ask with a sympathetic smile.

Yuji manages a sickly groan, huddling further under the blankets. You glance around the room, finding a large tiger plush and handing it to him. Like an eel awaiting its prey, he reaches for it and pulls it into his pile of blankets, burying his face into it. You smile at him before shutting off the lights and backing away to the door.

“Let me know if you need anything, I’ll be in the living room with your brother,” you let the young boy know softly before shutting the door.

Choso shifts on his feet outside the door, clinging to your side again.

“Hey Cho, did you have lunch?” You ask, gently rubbing his back.

You can feel him nod against you, clinging to you tighter as you attempt to make your way to the living room, dragging your leg and the boy along with you.

“What did you wanna do?” You ask as you finally manage to drag him to the couch, relieved when he finally lets go of you to plop down on the couch beside you.

“Did you bring your GameCube?”

“No, I’m sorry sweetie,” you frown, “your brother called me while I was at school.”

“That’s okay. Can we watch a movie?”

“Sure! What did you wanna watch?” You beam at him, getting to your feet to head over to the shelf of movies. Scanning the spines of the films, there’s a few that stand out as very obviously Sukuna’s, while the rest seem to be for the boys. That being said, you also notice they’re all older, from the same era as when you were their age and you wonder if they were once Sukuna’s as well.

“Can we watch the Land Before Time?”

Ohhh he wants you to cry. “Of course!” You grin, mentally preparing yourself to watch it. You fumble under the TV for the DVD player until the movie begins before settling down to watch it, thankful to see that Choso seems to relax once it’s on, no longer occupied with worrying about his little brother.

The rest of the evening goes by without a hitch as you make pasta for Choso and soup for Yuji, who manages at least a couple of bites before going back to sleep. The older of the two boys continues to cling to you, insisting on a movie marathon. It’s getting late, but the poor boy’s clearly still concerned and you don’t have the heart to tell him to get some sleep.

With The Nightmare Before Christmas playing in the background and the clock ticking closer and closer to ten, your mind wanders to how your conversation with Sukuna could possibly go. It doesn’t feel as though there’s a world where it goes over well, so all you can truly do is sit and boil in your own thoughts, waiting for the click of the door as Choso slowly drifts off to sleep clinging to your arm.

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❦ a/n ; poor yuji :(( i hope you enjoyed!! chapter 3 will take a bit longer as i'm going to a work conference all week so i won't have much time to work on it. as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are super appreciated <33

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yourcutelittlegayfriend · 14 days ago

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✧✦✧ Chapter 4 ✧✦✧

Oh Love, Why can't I See You?

Yandere Platonic Bat Family x Neglected Regressing GN Reader

Warning this part contains: Blood, Biting, Fighting&Yelling, Batman beating the shit out of people and Joker, almost drowning, usage of Lazarus pit and Mental breakdown.

Notes: Bruce's POV HA! I hope I did him justice and not too OOC, I notice a lack of actual Yandere themes on this fic from the family so I started with the patriach first because why not?

MASTERLIST Pages ↻3 , 5...➣

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𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪

It's weird

I see her face again, but not on her; I see it on her child's face. If I met her when she was young, their chubby and plump cheeks would look like hers, and their small stature would be strong and fierce, just like hers, if I remember correctly.

and yet why-?

Why do I see myself in her eyes? tired and exhausted, burnt out even? feeling like the world has already killed you from the inside and only your body can be seen by people who would never look past your walls?

Why do you look so much like me?

I stare at them as they tense up behind Alfred's legs after they told me their name, they were scared yes but I could see their anger behind those eyes, hatred and hateful like the boiling pits of lava, Scalding to touch by anyone and ready to erupt any day something that I couldn't stop if it were to happen.

As I watch them walk away from me and hide, I turn to Alfred and talk to him about last night. Unconsciously, something in my mind is already forgetting about them.

I haven't even known you that long, yet I'm already guilty of choosing a whole city over you.

𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪

It was a rough and tough night in Gotham, I was new and the evil I've been fighting has been longer than me.

Groaning I limp out of my office and head to my father's medical room when I stumble and crash on the floor, wincing I hold my side from the gunshot in one of the fights tonight, Eyes turning blurry as the air in my lungs get scarce as well as my body who beg for a rest, I can only hear my heartbeat and rushing of my blood on my ears as I lay on the carpet floor bleeding heavily until-

A tiny pair of footsteps reverberate on the floor, thudding slowly until they stop and shuffle in front of me, opening my eyes and look up to see the child looking down at me, they tilt their tiny head before turning on the side as they open their mouth like they're talking to somebody.

"...........do I-?.......... won't matter-...............never remember anyway". Their voice were all over the place as they conversed alone then their eyes turned back to me, they stared deeply through my soul, Judging me and criticizing me with just one look, Something a child shouldn't have, and yet this one was more mature, Like me- funny how they look like an exact replica of when I was just a boy, Who would have thought that there's another kid like me laying around, having the exact pain and trauma I've endured.

I feel my body get dragged on the floor as I hear their grunts and pants from pulling my cape turning, I see their face, even with frustration written on them I can still see a sliver of a child peeking through behind their cold and quiet front betrayed by their tiny pout and small huffs, never notice that before- why did I never try to notice you before?

Blinking back from the darkness, I suddenly found myself staring up at the ceiling with the familiar warm lighting from my father's old fireplace illuminating the design carved on it- Mother loved it and Father wanted her to feel welcome when she stayed on the couches reading books with me as we wait for him to finish his paperwork.

I grunt in pain when I felt something touch my side, Looking down a pair of small hands was wrapping my abdomen with a roll of gauze, They stop and look up at me, A look of indifference on their face before looking back down again and continued on before cutting the wrap and finished.

"....You.....when did you-". I tried to talk but they just looked at me making me quiet.

"..... It's best if you just stayed quiet and rest Mr. Wayne... You won't be of use when you're....." Their eyes traveled on my wounds and shots that were perfectly clean and wrapped before continuing.

".....Dead". They hummed making me tense from their choice of words before walking away as I watched them clean up the medical tray and any bloody equipment and put away saline solutions and gauze back.

My brows frowned when their words came back into my head, I touched my face not feeling the familiar texture of the cowl on my face making my eyes slightly widen and I stared at the back of their head.

-Why do I feel less scared on the thought of you knowing my identity was revealed?.

Why do I feel hurt when you won't call me Fa-.

Hearing a clutter I turn and see them adding more wood to the fireplace and poking the embers with a fire poker before putting it away and turning to me.

Both of us stare at each other, the fire behind them grows larger as their shadow grew and cast over me while their eyes seem to glow and light up with a roaring fire, a child too small and vulnerable to face the world and the evil within this city and yet they looked more than ready to burn this city to the ground and eradicate the devil's weed growing on the cracks of broken concretes of the people, something Batman has yet to do, something I can never do.

"Goodnight, Mr. Wayne". They said before walking out and closing the door behind them with a soft thud.

I look at the wooden fixture and become surprised when I see my good arm thoughtlessly reaching out for them.

𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪

A few more months have passed since they started living here and I find myself paying attention or moving my sights over them more and more, how they walk so silently that you can't even hear it until you finally spot them when they practically stand out in the open, They even blend perfectly anywhere like they don't want people to see or even look at them and how their voice is always on that same lower volume where you can hear them perfectly but thought it was just the wind whispering something.

But I do, I always knew, it was like seeing gold shining around their form, and anything they did it's like everything was duller except them, I even took note of little things like the twitch on their lips when something annoyed them or a raise of their brow when they're interested.

So why do you look so angry when I just want to give you attention?

"No I don't want a debut, Mr. Wayne". They replied with a glare as they sat on the other side of the table barely eating the dinner Alfred made when I asked them to join me.

I was baffled and slightly vexed at their choice and the way they didn't even take the time to think about it, or maybe it's because you still kept looking at me with that-.

"No? What do you mean no? It's only right for you as a Wayne to debut especially for your birth-". I insisted but they cut me off by slamming their hands on the hardwood surface of the table, The dishes jumped, and the pitcher of water almost tipped over from the force while my glass of wine tumbled on the side and spilled the contents.

"I said No! I don't want anything, especially from you-!". They send me a hateful look pointing a finger at me.

"And don't you ever use my birthday on anything!". They shouted before pushing back their chair and walking away, Everything was moving so fast, I could hear my heartbeat pumping harder as my breathing became heavier and faster before I knew it I was already out of my chair as my hand was just reaching for them then gripped their arm tightly.

"Where do you think you're going? This conversation isn't over". I snap as I tug them harder, They look at me in surprise as I saw fear peeking in their irises before hiding it back and hardening their eyes as they pry off my fingers from their arm.

"Yes, it is! Now let go!". They cried as the two of us continued tugging before I let go when I felt sharp pain erupt from my hand I looked and saw a bleeding bite mark on the side of my palm.

Looking up in shock, they stood there holding their arm back as a trickle of my blood dripped down their lips while they bore their teeth at me like what a scared animal would do.

"I'm sorry-". I tried to reach out for them but they only backed away until Alfred came -probably from the ruckus we made- who escorted them away before focusing on my hand.

As Alfred was cleaning my hand I kept looking at the direction they left as I listened to him chastise me on how I approached the situation.

"I only wanted to give them what any child would have wanted Alfred". I reasoned with him but I knew deep inside I already said the wrong answer.

"You are correct to some extent sir and I understand you have good intentions, Master Bruce, They may be a child but a different one, Their only world is gone not too long ago and not only that but their Mother died on their own birthday as well". Alfred confessed the reason behind their actions making my blood turn cold from the truth.

"-You, yourself must understand what it must feel like to have everything gone in just a flash". He said before tying up the gauze and backing away from me.

"Give them time and if you are still persistent about the event then let me have a discussion with them first and let the child have a say or even a few choices on the matter". He added as he started to fix up the mess while he left me thinking.

𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪

After Alfred had a chance to consult with them, from what he relayed is that they agreed as long as they have the choice to leave whenever they wanted and no fancy stuff that exceed on what most normal people's party should be. By taking any wins that I could get, I personally planned everything that where only proper to call a normal party making sure it's not too extravagant, an event of finally viewing them as a Wayne, to show everyone that they are my child.

How did everything go so wrong so fast?

Joker and his newly formed goons who escaped Arkham Asylum after I foiled his plans months before crashed and destroyed the party and took them away.

"So sorry for being fashionably late Mr. Wayne! I was a little heartbroken when you decided to invite all of Gotham except lil' o me SO! I've decided why not both of me and this little ball of joy have the same debut! I'm sure Batsy won't mind right?" They cackle before driving off to who knows where while I stress as the people run like ants in the rain.

I was quick, I knew I was, searching for them like hell and made sure no stone or concrete was unturned in the city even if my hands were covered by the blood of his goons or other criminals that tried to get in my way but-

When I saw them falling down that green boiling pits I knew I should have arrived sooner, I should have never let them go in the first place, I should have hidden you instead.

I yelled out for them like a desperate man till my throat was raw as their hands -just inches- slipped pass mine, their body plummeting down the liquid as they tried their best to reach out the surface and stay afloat, I pounded my wrist on the metal catwalk that I dropped onto before rushing down and rounded the clown till he was down on the floor wheezing and bloodied, his face more purple and black than his pale white ashy skin.

I knelt down in anguish gripping the rocky shore of the green glowing pool when I heard a splash, looking up to see them crying out in pain and screeching like a bat out from hell making my heartbeat stop and started to pump again as adrenaline shot through my muscles as I quickly fished them out, they cried and cried in my arms while screaming out as their body spasm and muscles twitch as green veins cracked their skin.

Shushing their cries as I hold them close and tightly, tears slowly dropped from my eyes, running down the mask till they landed on their face as they whined from fatigue yet their head looked up as our eyes met, I pulled them near my chest as I lay their head on my shoulder as I try to whisper sweet nothings into their ear, hands trembling as I dig on anything my hand could touch, my voice wavering but not my promises to protect them, to give them what they want, to love them and to stay with them forever.

"Everything is alright now, you'll be alright, Father's right here I'm not going anywhere." I whispered as I kissed the top of their head and swaying them back and forth trying to lull them to sleep.

"I see you now, I'm right here and I won't let you out of my arms ever again"

𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪 𓆩𓆪

Hope this ain't too shitty hahaha inspired when silco tried to save jinx with shimmer kept dreaming about it last night.

#No More Chances #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere #yandere platonic batman #yandere platonic batman x reader #yandere platonic Bruce Wayne x reader #yandere bruce wayne #yandere bruce wayne x reader

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ittybittyfanblog · 7 days ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 8

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes, again with the slight smut phew, angst on top of more angst, no comfort... yet (or ever? hmm much to ponder about) A/N: Imagine if I leave it here lmao Also, I've been listening to White Ferrari on repeat while editing this chapter. I'm not saying that you should too while you're reading, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh, and Angel by Massive Attack. Trust me, it's gonna come up. (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor wreak a shiver through your body.

You’re curled up in front of the toilet, barely upright after another round of puking what little bile is left in your stomach. Cold beads of sweat dot your forehead and every breath feels thin, ragged, like you’re trying to gulp air through a pinhole. The chill seeps under your skin, leaving you shuddering involuntarily between dry heaves.

You make the rookie mistake of tilting your head ever-so-slightly to rest against the cool porcelain, and the miniscule action threatens to send the room careening into another violent spin. A wave of nausea hits you and you desperately gnaw on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from gagging.

You feel like absolute shit.

There’s something lodged inside, sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. A poison, a corruption—heavier than the excess of alcohol still clawing its way through your system. It isn’t the simple penance for overindulging, no; it’s darker, rawer, less perfunctory than the remnants of last night’s events.

It churns inside you, leaving an acrid, metallic taste on your tongue and a dull ache behind your eyes.

The buzzing of your phone reverberates beside you, a relentless vibration against your thigh. It hasn’t stopped since the moment you clawed your way out of bed and staggered toward your porcelain waste bucket. You weren’t supposed to bring it along with you—it should’ve been left abandoned outside of this room, far from this bleak sanctuary. This… this disgusting aftermath of your revelry.

Unfortunately, it’s practically an extension of you now. A limb, almost. Or worse, a crutch—something you lean on so habitually, that the mere thought of its absence feels like an amputation.

“S-sorry,” you release a shaky breath, tears pricking your vision, unbidden. Unwelcome. “Sorry.”

Another vibration. You can picture it clearly in your head: the worry marring his face, the exasperation in his eyes.

You retch.

––––

The red takeout box from Panda Express sits in front of you, its contents lukewarm and forgotten for the better part of the hour. You barely remember ordering it—actually, now that you think about it… Did you even order it yourself? Your memory’s a little hazy, just like everything else today. And last night.

Sylus’ voice crackles through your phone, propped precariously against a half-empty mug of tea on the low table.

His presence, as always, manages to fill the room, though this time there’s a palpable tension in the air since you opened the game. His initial greeting had all the warmth of a parent catching their kid sneaking in past curfew. The moment his image blinked into view, you could see the battle in his eyes.

On one end, he simmered with ire, almost ready to boil over. On the other, he looked like he’d gladly claw his way out the screen just to tuck you into bed and personally force-feed you the food you’ve been ignoring for the past forty minutes.

“Eat it,” he grouses, a hint of steel sharpening his deceptively calm tone. The worry beneath it feels like it could strangle you.

(And if it could, it probably would—if he has any say in it.)

You whine, burrowing deeper under the blanket, folding yourself into a sad, uncooperative ball on the couch. “I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he echoes, the incredulity clear in his voice. “Do you plan on eating it soon as it becomes inedible, or is this a test of endurance?”

With a sigh that feels like it’s pulled from the depths of your soul, you poke halfheartedly at the lid. The smell of grease and fried food wafts out, making your stomach churn. Whether it’s from nausea or hunger pangs, you can’t tell.

“It smells like regret,” you mutter, swallowing the lump rising from your esophagus.

Sylus snorts, and you can tell it slipped out before he could stop it. “Considering the state you’re in? Can’t say I’m surprised. But you still need to eat, kitten. You can’t run on stubbornness alone.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” you argue weakly, knowing you’re not convincing anyone. Your body feels like it’s been put through the wringer—limbs heavy, muscles crying in protest, a pounding headache that refuses to let up.

“Fine,” he repeats, dry as ash. “You can barely hold yourself up, but sure, let’s call that fine.”

You finally flip the box open, revealing a mess of something fried and vaguely brown. The smell hits you harder this time, and you salivate something odd. “I don’t think—”

“Eat,” he cuts you off, voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ve done well with the tea, but now you need something to fill you up.”

“I can think of something else I’d like to fill me up,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself.

A beat of silence, and then Sylus’ tone shifts—a touch amused now, but it’s edged with a deliberate weight that makes your skin prickle. Uh-oh.

“Sweetie,” he says slowly, almost indulgent, “if you’ve got the energy to make jokes like that, you’ve got the energy to eat. Be good, and I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once you’re feeling better.”

You laugh, breathless, trying to mask your nervousness from the subtle innuendo. Obediently, you pick up the plastic spork beside the carton. “You’re really selling this hard, huh.”

“I’m not here to sell it,” he sighs, voice losing its edge, but there’s still a firmness to it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t pass out. One bite. Start there.”

You spear a piece of shrimp hesitantly. It looks harmless enough, but you lift it like it might bite back.

You take the tiniest nibble.

It’s greasy, salty, and absolutely meh—but it doesn’t immediately trigger your gag reflex, which in itself feels like a small victory.

“There,” he says, his satisfaction palpable. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” you shoot back half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

“I’ll make sure to congratulate you later for your heroic recovery,” he says wryly. “Now another bite, sweetheart.”

You make a reluctant noise but comply, munching slowly. He hums in approval. When you glance at the screen, his expression has mellowed—the severity giving way to something almost tender.

You look away quickly, swallowing hard; though you're not sure if it’s because of the tiny morsel of food or from the heavier something that's lodged in your throat.

The sound of your chewing is slightly amplified by the silence that comes after. You’re afraid to break it first.

So Sylus does it for you. Once he’s decided you’ve had your fill of the fried rice.

“Would you like to talk about last night?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “What about last night?”

A long pause.

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “I’m just saying that if you want to, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. You press your lips together, unsure of how to answer. There’s discomfort; the unease brought by your own self-consciousness.

“I—uh—” You start, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to… make things weird or anything. I don't usually get that wasted,” You sigh, blowing a stray hair out of your face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“The only thing you did wrong last night was ignore my messages,” Sylus murmurs, his tone a little admonishing. “Making me worry about your well-being.”

You glance up, catching the affection in his eyes. He gives you a slight smile, relieved to finally have your attention fully on him.

You scrunch the blanket in your fist, fiddling with a loose string. You want to say something. Anything. But you can’t seem to summon the courage.

Finally—

“You don’t think…” you hesitate, voice small. “You don’t think it’s– that I’m… too much trouble?”

He tuts softly, the sound playful, with hints of something fond. Comforting, almost. So you hold his gaze, even if it’s a little harder than you’d like it to be.

Sylus looks at you with something so… endearing that it’s almost painful. “You’re perfect. My little troublemaker,” his eyes burn a little brighter. “Mine.”

The words hit you like a wave—soothing, gratifying. Staggering.

Oh, you want to believe him. You want to lose yourself in his words, to give in to the feeling of being cherished, of being seen. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything as much as this.

But turmoil wages a war inside you, and you’re stuck between the pull to let yourself believe and the sharp reality of your situation.

The futility of it all.

It makes you hurt, deep inside, in a way you don’t know how to fix.

––––

The package you got from the lobby is nondescript. Unassuming. The kind of box that could contain anything from kitchenware to – you don’t know, maybe a desk lamp? You turn it over in your hands, squinting at the lack of clues of its content and its sender.

Did you order something and forgot?

Payroll was over a week ago, and you’re aware of your irresponsible tendency to pile everything that catches your eye onto an online shopping cart just to tempt yourself into buying shit you don’t need, but you’re pretty sure you’d remember spending money on… whatever this is.

It’s not until you’re back in the privacy of your apartment, scissors in hand, that the mystery begins—and promptly ends.

The contents spill out, leaving you to blink owlishly at the mess of shredded wrapping paper and its pièce de résistance: a nine-inch monstrosity of a dildo, hot red in color.

The… thing is practically a weapon, its twisting ridges and intimidating girth looking more like something you’d need a user manual for. Or a fucking exorcist, you distantly think in rising panic.

“Uhh…” The sound tumbles out, an embarrassing mix of confused and gobsmacked. “I don’t remember—?”

Ping!

Your phone chimes before you can finish, and you slowly turn your gaze towards the screen, a sinking feeling beginning to form in your gut.

The message is short. And oh-so-smug.

Ah. Just in time.

The realization dawns on you, and your cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg. “Sylus!”

What? Even in text, his tone carries that infuriating slyness you can practically hear from a mile away. You’ve earned it.

Your mouth works uselessly for a moment before words could spill out, clumsy and agitated. “Earned what?!”

A little treat for being such an obedient little thing while you were recovering, remember?

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up your throat as you hold the draconic cock far from you as if it’s gonna attack at any second. Fuck, it might. “This is almost as big as my forearm! The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

What do I expect you to do with it? Sylus’s reply comes almost instantly, the weight of his insinuation almost coming across as mocking. I thought that was obvious.

You didn’t think your face could go any redder, and you’re sure you resemble a fucking tomato right at that moment. “Sy-Sy, this is—” You gulp, glancing at the toy with wide eyes. “fucking massive. It–it has… it’s got scales!”

Ah, so you’ve noticed the craftsmanship. Quite exquisite, isn’t it?

“E-Exquisite?” you sputter, voice soaring at a higher octave. “This looks like it came out of Alien or something! I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start moving on its own…”

Only if you press a button.

Your brain short-circuits, and you frantically examine the thing for telltale signs of any hidden mechanization.

There’s a short lull, laden with barely restrained amusement. Then: Relax, sweetheart. It’s not going to bite.

You let out another – nervous – laugh, gingerly setting the large toy down as if it might explode from its sheer audacity. “I hate you.”

No, you don’t, Sylus counters without missing a beat. But I do appreciate how flustered you’re getting. Go on, sweet thing—tell me how it’s too much for you. I could listen to that all night.

You let out a strangled noise, burying your face in your hands. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Mmh, you know me so well.

You sigh, the gravity of what’s inevitable setting in. It was like fighting a losing battle.

Something the both of you knew right from the start.

(You are my angel)

“I-It hurts to put in,” you whimper, body trembling as sweat clings to your flushed skin. Every muscle feels taut, coiled tight with both anticipation and a flicker of fear. “p-please…”

“We have the rest of the night, little dove. We’ll take it slow,” Sylus whispers, his voice a velvet caress in your ear, warm and grounding. “I’m right here.”

His words melt into you like cloying liquid, wrapping around your resolve like a sensual embrace.

(Come from way above)

“Again.”

“I-I can’t,” you sniffle, the words breaking into short, shaky gasps as your chest heaves. The remnants of your last orgasm still ripple through you, the one he’s ripped from you mercilessly.

“You can, poppet,” he coos, the endearment sliding over you like cool mercury. “Give me one more, yeah? Want to see those pretty eyes rolling for me.”

The thought alone has you shivering, his tone dripping with enough heat to stir something molten from within you.

(To bring me love)

The air hangs unbearably hot, almost suffocating. Every nerve sings, alive with the memory of his ministrations—though he’s never truly touched you, has he?

It doesn’t matter. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs further with every passing moment.

Your body burns, and yet you crave more, more—the pulsing ache of your stretched walls only feeding the gnawing hunger that builds inside, like an unrestrained beast.

You blink sluggishly; your vision swimming as pleasure courses through you in heavy, dizzying surges.

Has he bewitched you? You’ve become insatiable, ravenous—monstrous in your desire. For him. For the addicting high only he could give, and teasingly dangle just out of reach.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

How…? He’s nothing but a voice, incorporeal, yet he commands you completely. Your hands, your movements, your very breath feels as if it belongs to him. They follow his instructions without hesitation, carving paths of fire and electricity across the bare expanse of your skin.

“More?” Sylus rasps, and the edge in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. There’s something feral in his tone, and it brings you an almost animalistic sense of glee to know that he isn’t unaffected by all of this any less than you are.

“More,” you beg, raw and needy. He groans in response.

“Good, so good for me,” he hisses a litany of praise that sounds so much like a curse. “My good girl. Mine to break, mine to ruin.”

Your back arches as you cry out; muscles locking, mouth falling open in a soundless scream as both agony and ecstasy crash over you like a tidal wave.

(Love you, love you, love you, love you Love you, lo–ve you, love you, love you … Love you, love you—love you, love you…)

––––

"My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

You say it with an air of nonchalance, your voice light, as if you’re just commenting on the weather.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. His usual quick wit is conspicuously absent, replaced by a silence that stretches long, settling into the room like a beam of sunlight from your window. The continuous whirr of the electric fan and the droning of the news anchor on TV fill the space instead, in place of conversation.

You don’t force it. Instead, you wait patiently until it bends under its own weight and breaks.

After what feels like minutes, his voice cuts through the quiet; neutral and impassive. "Where's it happening?"

"A little chapel in Downtown Orlando, near Lake Lucerne. Nothing fancy. They’re keeping it small."

He nods, his gaze distant. Somewhere you can’t follow. "Just close family?"

"Yeah," you murmur, your fingers absently tugging at the fraying hem of your cardigan. "And a few friends. My mom’s going, along with her new husband. They sent me photos of the setup earlier—it’s pretty."

Sylus hums. “Would you have gone, if it weren’t so far away?”

“Yeah,” you answer automatically. “Yeah, ‘course. But I’m here, and they’re there. So I could only send my regards.”

Maru pads into the room, brushing against your leg before bumping his head insistently against your shin. You scoop him up, ignoring his soft meows of protest, and cradle him in your lap.

“She’s been planning it for months,” you continue, scratching behind soft cat ears. “Way before she got engaged. She’s one of those people who just… knows. Knows what she wants, knows how to get there. All mapped out, down to the finer details.”

In the corner of your eye, you see a faint smile ghosting his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "What a luxury,” he remarks, almost wistfully. "To pave your life so easily, just like that."

There’s something unspoken behind his words, something heavier than a passing comment.

"Do you think about it?" His question startles you—not just its suddenness but the way his gaze locks onto yours, intent and searching, like he’s trying to read the answer in your face before you could even utter a word.

You blink. "... About what?"

"Marriage."

You hesitate. The question feels delicate, like a soap bubble floating in the air, fragile enough to burst at the slightest touch. "Sometimes," you admit. "But not like she does. It's always been more of an abstract idea, I guess."

He doesn’t speak.

"I don’t know," you say softly, “if it’s something I could ever want. Or if it’s even meant for me."

Your voice falters, and the rest is left unsaid, though it lingers between the spaces untouched.

I don’t think about it, no. Not if… if it’s not with—

You stop yourself before the thought takes flight, tampering it back down.

Sylus leans back, his gaze flickering away. "It’s a commitment," he says eventually. "One that requires a lot of thought. I understand."

He doesn’t elaborate, and for a moment, you almost consider leaving it there. But something in you—persistent, prying—urges you to press just a little further.

"What about you? Have you thought about it?"

There’s an imperceptible shift in his expression; the faintest furrow between his brows, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Perhaps not in the way you're thinking," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder what it means. For someone like me." He hesitates, glancing at you, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in those deep pools of red. “For…”

His words hang unfinished; you feel its hollowness pushing down on you, as though they bore meaning neither of you can bring yourself to name.

You feel it settle in your chest, vacant and aching, like an absence of something. Gone before it even began.

––––

It dawns on you on a regular Saturday evening, as you're (clumsily) peeling potatoes for dinner, and Sylus is dutifully recounting the events of his day to you like your very own talk show host on late night cable.

It creeps up at you—not in an explosive burst of clarity, no. No fanfare, no earth-shattering epiphany. It’s quieter than that, like the tides under the moon, rising unnoticed until you’re already ankle-deep.

Maybe it’s always been there, tucked into the corners of your mind, hidden in the spaces between the teasing banter and the way he watches you when he thinks you’re unaware. A whisper that you refused to acknowledge, too afraid of what it would bring.

You must have known, even then. Right from the start.

From the way it feels when he says your name—softly, reverently, like it’s a privilege to utter it so freely.

From the way you ache when he waits for you to finish a thought, as though every word you speak is something worth treasuring.

And it’s in the way he knows you better than you understand yourself, filling your silences with meaning so you don’t have to.

You love him.

You know how this ends.

––––

Coming down from a mind-numbing high is always an experience, a short state of nirvana; this time no different from the rest.

For a fleeting moment, everything feels infinite—a small eternity suspended in pleasure. Petite mort.

But then reality hits you once again, and the pleasure vanishes like smoke.

It leaves you feeling utterly spent. Empty. The silence crashes back in like a tsunami, heavier than before. The stillness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud.

The sound of your shallow breathing, the oppressive white noise, the distant hum of the city from outside your window… These are your only source of life. There’s no warm touch to ground you. No arms to pull you close. No sweet nothings to piece you back together. Just this. Just you.

You had known. You always knew.

This was it—the price of wanting something you were never meant to have. For surrendering yourself to something that exists only in fragments and pixels, bound by lines of code and a screen you can’t cross. You delude yourself into thinking it’s worth it, that these fleeting moments of bliss outweigh the quiet wake of devastation it leaves behind, every time.

And yet—

A choked sob breaks past your lips, shattering the silence. It tears out of you like something primal, something you can’t control.

Your body folds in on itself, naked and trembling, your arms banding across your stomach like you’re trying to hold something broken together. The sheets beneath you feel clammy, disgusting, but you pull them tighter anyway, desperate for something to hold on to.

It hurts all the same.

“Talk to me,” Sylus whispers urgently. There’s something jagged and desperate about it. “Please. Tell me how to make it better.”

How could you?

What words could bridge this chasm between you? How do you explain a hurt so uniquely yours, so tied to the fragile intricacies of a body he doesn’t have, of feelings that leads to nowhere?

How do you describe the way it breaks you, knowing that he’s oh-so close, yet still—yet always—out of reach?

How do you describe the weight of being too human in moments like this?

You press your forehead to your knees, heart in your throat. You don’t know how to make him understand.

“I can’t,” you whisper into your knees, voice cracking under the weight of what’s left unsaid.

The next morning arrives with the muted glow of daylight filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to lift the oppressive tension in the room. You don’t mention last night. You don’t even glance at the lit phone screen.

Sylus doesn’t bring it up either—not directly. But you feel him. The weight of his attention clings to the edges of the silence you’ve imposed, like static crackling just beneath the surface.

You keep moving. It doesn’t matter how; you make yourself busy. Work has never been more engrossing as it does at that very moment, and you hurl yourself into the thrilling world of emails, spreadsheets, and Teams meetings like you’re vying for the spot as best employee of the month.

His impatience is impossible to ignore. It presses against you, insistent, like a gasp of breath waiting to be released. But you don’t give him the chance.

At some point, his voice drifts from the speakers, low and clipped, but careful; as if he’s reigning in his emotions, afraid to scare you further away.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

Your fingers hover the keyboard. For a moment, the mouse cursor taunts you, as if it's also impatiently waiting for an answer.

Sylus thinks the silence you leave him suspended in is deliberate, even cruel.

He doesn’t push, not immediately. You hear the faint noise of the game’s background music, the tinkling piano keys, a reminder of his presence.

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, laced with something almost… pleading. The change in his tone doesn’t ease the tension; it makes it worse.

“I can’t help if you shut me out, my heart.”

Still, you offer nothing.

The air feels brittle, stretched too thin, like glass just before it shatters. You can almost hear the first cracks forming, spidering between the two of you.

He doesn’t speak again.

The day drags on in an uneasy rhythm. You move through the hours like a ghost, and Sylus remains silent. But the quietness pulses with disconcertment; a build up without release. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that crackles like a frayed wire. It collides with your refusal to confront it.

And so it goes: you avoid, he waits, and the distance between you grows.

––––

You’re at a crosswalk on the 4-A highway intersection, surrounded by a sea of pedestrians, the incessant hum of the metropolis vibrating beneath your feet as if the very ground you walk on is alive.

The moment your gaze lands on a couple just ahead of you, everything seems to quiet down, like a fuzzy FM radio station on mute. You see them, caught in their own little world, oblivious to the noise and rush of the city.

The woman’s laughter is light—happy. Her hand in his, secure and relaxed. The way she looks at him… it’s familiar, almost. Something you recognize.

The man beside her moves with a subtle grace. His presence is undeniable, but it’s the way he watches her, something soft and devout in his gaze, that draws you in. He’s tall, his sharp features and posture elegant—and somehow, it fits perfectly beside the smaller figure pulling him effortlessly against the throng of people.

Without warning, the unnamed man’s features shift into something more distinct, and the woman turns into the reflection you see every day in the mirror.

It’s not the couple before you that you see anymore—it’s you, against Sylus’ chest, his silvery-white hair stark against the dark fabric of his clothes. You imagine his red eyes, those sharp features, the quiet strength of his presence wrapping around you, like it’s where you belong.

You're lost in the fantasy—the way it could be, if the two of you existed in the same world, side by side. His hand around your waist, the shared intimacy, the profound joy. Just the two of you against all odds.

A smile starts to tug at the corners of your lips, but before it can fully settle, the harsh blare of a car horn shatters the illusion.

The world rushes back around you. A teen bumps into your shoulder, pushing you forward. The vision of them—of him—dissolves, leaving you in the busy street, once again just another face in the crowd.

––––

Everything falls apart one afternoon.

You confront Sylus, words spilling out before you can stop them. You don’t know what drives you—bravery, desperation, or maybe the crushing weight of hopelessness that has finally stripped you of your fear.

“How’s she?”

His brows furrow. “Who?” He looks genuinely thrown, and for a second, you wish you could take the words back.

When you finally say her name, his expression shifts. It’s quick—a flicker of something you couldn’t catch before he schools his features again.

“Why do you ask?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice now, his tone wary, eyes searching yours. “I try to avoid any interactions with her if it’s not needed.”

He pauses; then his gaze softens, though there’s still a guardedness to it. “Are you… worried?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, with him, with all of it. “It’s not—It’s not that.” You don’t know how to put it into words.

How can you explain the knot in your chest? The envy—not for reasons he thinks… or maybe for exactly those reasons. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at you like that, imploring and cautious at the same time.

“You have her,” you finally say, and the words fall flat, bitter on your tongue.

Sylus’ eyes flash, sharp and unyielding. “And you and I both know who I’d rather have.”

Now, isn’t that the crux of it all?

Your throat closes up, a hard lump that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t know how you could,” you manage, though it rings hollow in the dead air.

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh now, rougher than you’re used to. Frustration bleeds through his usual composure. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

You bite your lip, your gaze darting away. He calls your name, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, like it costs him something just to say aloud.

You choke out a laugh that sounds more of a sob than anything. “I don’t know where to go from here. It was fun at first, but now… It’s just sad.”

He frowns, and for a moment, there’s a boyishness to the expression, an innocence to his vulnerability. It stirs something deep in your chest.

He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask why—why now, why this? Why are you unraveling in front of him, like this?

But you don’t give him the chance.

“I love you, Sylus.” You admit, barely above a whisper. The words fall heavy between you, a confession and a wound all at once.

Sylus stills.

The silence fills the room, but his eyes—those soft crimson—speak volumes. His jaw tightens, hands clench into fists, but there’s no real surprise in his face. He’s always known.

“I know,” he tells you.

There’s something ancient in the timbre of his voice, like it’s been torn from the deepest part of him. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

He feels it—the way you’re slipping through his fingers. Every word you say feels like a step away, less of a standstill, more a surrender, and he… he’s never felt more powerless than he does in this moment.

(And isn’t that just grand? You’ve always had this uncanny ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. He just wishes it wasn’t like this—wishes it wasn’t slipping into something he can’t hold onto.)

He doesn’t know what to say or do, doesn’t know what could possibly alter the trajectory you’re both hurtling towards. But the thought of losing this, of losing you, is unimaginable.

“I love you,” he says, rough and uneven, like the admission physically hurts. “In ways that terrify me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes widen, and he sees it—the flicker of hope. Fragile and fleeting, but there. Your gazes lock, and the world stops.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no movement—just the two of you standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

“I want—” His voice cracks, infinitesimally, but it echoes in the void between you. “I want to hold you. To wake up next to you. To touch you in all the ways that matter, not just in words and binary. I want to be what you need.”

You know what’s coming.

“But—”

The word lingers.

“But you can’t,” you whisper, finishing what he couldn’t.

Sylus looks at you, his red eyes burning with an intensity that feels heartbreakingly human.

You’ve reached another impasse, and it feels like the final one. The air between you is thick with words unspoken, promises that can’t be made. It’s not anger that lingers, nor is it blame. It’s something quieter. More agonizing.

A resignation.

And yet, even in this fragile moment, a piece of you—of both of you—refuses to let go. To what could be, to what never will.

––––

Your mom’s voice rings bright through Facetime, a faint blur of words as she gives you the rundown of the events from your cousin’s wedding. The dress (An elegant Oscar de la Renta boat neck), the cake (A three-tier red velvet, a little on the sweeter side), and the vows (“Oh, you would’ve cried, honey!”).

You try to listen, but your attention keeps drifting away. She notices, of course.

“You seem more preoccupied lately, dear. Boy troubles?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands differently. Her voice is too light, too casual, like she’s asking if you’re still eating your vegetables.

She doesn’t seem to acknowledge how far the distance has grown between you, how many years have passed where you stopped expecting her to understand. You’ve wanted her to notice, to see the parts of you she never asked about. The changes in you, whether small or monumental. But she never did. And you stopped waiting.

You chuckle tiredly.

“Yeah, mom. Boy troubles.”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #sylus qin

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aliyahwritings · 2 months ago

Text

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (10)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Supermodel!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 8.7k

Aliyah's Notes: another long chapter!!!! had a bit of an issue with this chapter. didn't know where to go, and how to finish it but i'm pretty satisfied with the ending... hope y'all will feel that way too #scared

You were going to throw up.

It was 6 in the morning, and your apartment was filled with a pre-party energy—Aisha fluttering around checking final details, making sure everything was perfect for you. But for you, the weight of the day felt unbearable. The engagement party was only a few hours away, and you were supposed to feel excited, but instead, all you could feel was anxiety.

You stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at your reflection as the fabric of your saree clung to your skin. It was a beautiful one—pale yellow with blue hues, simple, elegant. But as you looked at yourself, all you saw were flaws. Your stomach, the slight curve of your hips, your arms felt weird. Every inch of you felt exposed, like you were wearing your insecurities on display for the world to see. The saree that was supposed to make you feel confident now felt like a prison, the tightness around your chest suffocating you.

You tugged at the fabric, your fingers trembling as your heart raced in your chest. “I don’t know, Aish,” you said, your voice faltering. “I just… I don’t think I can do this.”

Aisha, who had been running around your place, stopped and turned to you with a frown, concern written all over her face. “Y/N, you look perfect. Rafe is going to love it, I swear. You look incredible, seriously.”

But her words didn’t reach you. They never did. They didn’t fix the sinking feeling in your stomach, the pit that had been growing since you woke up. You didn’t feel incredible. You felt like a mess. Like a lie. You felt like you didn’t belong in this world of glitz and glamour, not when the weight of your own past was pressing down on you.

You turned back to the mirror, avoiding her gaze, and exhaled shakily. “It’s not about Rafe,” you said, barely above a whisper, as if the words were too heavy to say aloud. “It’s… it’s everything. Everyone.”

She didn’t speak at first, but you could hear her footsteps approach slowly, her presence gentle and calm as she stood beside you. “What do you mean?”

“They’re not here,” you murmured, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “My family—they haven’t been here. They don’t care.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and so did the tears running down your face. You quickly wiped them away, trying to maintain some sort of control, but it was useless. The reality of it all hit you like a tidal wave.

Aisah’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on your shoulder. “Look, I know it’s tough, but you left for a reason. They treated you like an animal—you were nothing to them and look at you now. You have everything you want, you’re surrounded by people who love you, and you’re engaged to an amazing guy.”

“But you don’t get it,” your voice broke. “I haven’t spoken to them in years, Aisha. I haven’t heard from them since… you know… My Amma and Appa… they’ve never cared to fix what happened. And now they’re not here for this huge moment. They’re not here for me. And I just feel… I feel like none of this matters without them.”

You could feel the tightness in your chest grow, a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. Every time you thought about them—your parents, your siblings—it felt like the world was falling apart again. All the years of silence, the anger, the bitterness, the feeling of being abandoned… it was all still there, festering under the surface. You couldn’t help but wonder if you were always going to feel like the outsider, the one who wasn’t good enough for their love.

Aisha watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again, her voice softer. “Y/N, I know this isn’t easy. But this isn’t about your family. This is about you and the life you’re building. You’re so much more than your past, and tonight you get to shine. You’re not doing this for them. You’re doing it for you.”

You closed your eyes, letting her words sink in. You still feel the weight of it all, but as Aisha gave you one last reassuring look, you felt a small spark of resolve. Maybe you didn’t feel perfect. Maybe you never would. But tonight, you would step into this new chapter of your life, for you, and not for anyone else.

“You’re right,” you whispered, putting on a fake-ish smile. “Let me get over this. There’s too much to do today.”

The hours before the engagement party moved in a blur of preparations, but the nerves clung to you like an unwelcome guest. After Aisha helped you steady yourself, you dove into the checklist for the day, hoping to lose your anxieties in the bustle. Your hairdresser and makeup artist arrived promptly, transforming your apartment into a whirlwind of brushes, palettes, and fabric draping.

Despite the chaos, you couldn’t help but glance at your phone every few minutes, the screen lighting up teasingly with messages from Rafe. He’d been training all morning, but somehow still found the time to send you a steady stream of texts.

Rafe: Do you think this party will have snacks? Asking for a hungry basketball player.

You: There’s a buffet, Rafe. You’ll survive.

Rafe: Buffet doesn’t count. I want something good, like that thing you brought over the other day.

You: If you’re fishing for more biryani, the answer is no.

Rafe: Wow, first you take my penthouse, now you refuse me food? This marriage is starting off rocky.

You: This marriage hasn’t even started yet.

The exchange brought a smile to your lips despite yourself. He had this way of teasing that felt like a lifeline at the moment.

“Are you blushing?” Aisha teased from where she was meticulously laying out your jewelry.

“What? No,” you said, far too quickly. “Why would I even be blushing? You’re nuts… absolutely… absolutely nuts…”

“Oh my fucking God! You are!” she said with a grin, leaning in to glance at your phone. You pulled it away before she could peek at the screen, but the damage was done. “God, it’s so cute how he makes you smile like that.”

“You’re actually insane,” you mumbled, heat creeping up your neck.

She only laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “Denial is a river in Egypt, babe.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop your lips from twitching into a small grin. Rafe sent another message.

Rafe: So, what are you wearing?

You hesitated for a moment before replying.

You: Why? Thinking of copying my outfit?

Rafe: Maybe. But only if it’s good.

You: It’s a saree. Pale yellow with blue embroidery.

Rafe: Does it have one of those drapey things?

You: Yes, Cameron. That’s literally what makes it a saree!!!

Rafe: Got it. Drapey thing = saree. Send me a picture.

You didn’t respond, setting your phone down and pretending to focus on your makeup.

“Your husband?” Aisha asked, noticing your sudden quiet.

“Future husband,” you corrected with a finger up. “And obviously.”

“What’d he say?”

“He wants a picture.”

“Send him one. He’ll probably lose his mind. And let’s be real—you could use the ego boost.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Aisha wasn’t wrong. The way Rafe looked at you sometimes—or even texted you—had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the room.

The hairdresser finished with your slicked half-up half-down hairstyle. Aisha brought over the jewelry: delicate gold bangles, matching earrings, and a necklace that felt heavy against your collarbones.

“Perfect,” Aisha said, stepping back to admire the finished look.

You glanced at your reflection in the mirror. The saree hugged you gracefully, the embroidery catching the light with every movement. The makeup brought a glow to your skin, and the hair framed your face perfectly. For the first time all day, you felt... good.

Before you could overthink it, you picked up your phone and snapped a quick selfie—just enough to show the saree and the soft smile playing on your lips.

You: Fine. Here.

The reply came almost instantly.

Rafe: ...You’re killing me here.

Your heart skipped a beat at the simplicity of the words.

Rafe: Thank you brown people for existing, and making you. Rafe: Truly humanity owes them. Rafe: Forget the engagement party. Let’s just elope.

You laughed out loud, shaking your head.

You: Not happening. See you tonight.

His response made your stomach flutter in the strangest way.

Rafe: Can’t wait to become your fiancé, sweetheart.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the venue, its soft hum fading into the gentle buzz of the world outside. Through the tinted windows, you could see flashes of light—camera shutters capturing every moment like hunters seeking prey. The glow spilling from the venue, golden and inviting, felt overwhelming, almost oppressive. It danced off the grand arches of the villa, the soft flicker of string lights crisscrossing the courtyard casting a magical glow on the scene.

For a moment, you sat frozen, your fingers clutching the delicate fabric of your saree. It was meant to represent happiness, a tie to your heritage that should have brought you pride. But tonight, it felt more like a shackle, reminding you of the pieces of yourself you’d lost along the way.

“You okay?” Aisha’s voice came softly from beside you, laced with the familiar tone of concern that only she could carry so effortlessly. She looked radiant in her pale pink dress.

“Yeah… I… I’m fine,” you replied, the lie clumsy on your tongue.

Aisha raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but deciding to let it slide. The car door opened, and she stepped out first, her head held high as though she didn’t care about anything—and knowing Aisha, she probably really didn’t care. When she turned to offer you her hand, her expression softened—a silent gesture of reassurance. You took it hesitantly, forcing your legs to carry you out of the car.

The cool evening air brushed against your skin, but it wasn’t enough to soothe the heat in your chest. Cameras clicked relentlessly, their flashes a blinding assault as the whispers began to ripple through the crowd.

“She’s a bit late.”

“She looks beautiful.”

“Why didn’t Rafe escort her out?”

“What is she wearing?”

Each word clawed at you, threatening to unravel the carefully constructed image you wore like an armor. You kept your head down, focusing on the rhythmic click of your heels against the gravel path as you made your way toward the villa’s entrance. The towering structure loomed over you, its ivy-draped walls and ornate carvings reminiscent of a bygone era. The cascading floral arrangements, all in deep crimson and soft pink hues.

Everything added to the suffocating pressure weighing on your chest.

Inside, the air buzzed with laughter and conversation as guests began to fill the sprawling garden. Long tables stretched across the courtyard, their surfaces glimmering with candles and vases bursting with fresh blooms. Everything was picturesque, perfect. Yet, all you could feel was a rising sense of dread.

“I need a minute,” you whispered to Aisha, not waiting for her reply before walking rapidly inside the villa.

You navigated the winding hallways with purpose, your steps quick but unsteady. You needed to escape—to find a quiet corner where the world’s eyes couldn’t follow, where you could let the overwhelming storm inside you settle, even just for a moment. The getting-ready room—it was the perfect refuge, a place to breathe and gather yourself before you faced the crowd again.

But as you rounded the corner, your steps faltered.

Rafe was there.

He leaned against the doorframe with an ease that felt infuriatingly effortless, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored white suit. The soft lighting played tricks with the lines of his face, his tousled hair looking as if it had been styled by the wind itself. The open collar of his shirt gave him an air of nonchalance that made him seem untouchable—except for the flicker of something warm in his eyes as he met your gaze.

“You planning to bolt already?” he teased, a crooked smile playing on his lips. His voice, low and smooth, carried the same blend of humor and arrogance that had always annoyed you.

You stopped, caught off guard. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Rafe pushed off the doorframe, taking a slow step toward you. “Waiting for you,” he said, his gaze dragging deliberately over your saree. His smile deepened as his eyes met yours again. “You look beau—”

“Rafe, I can’t do this,” you blurted, your voice trembling as the words spilled out before you could stop them.

The smile faded from his face, replaced by an expression of concern. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” you said, your voice breaking. “The people, the cameras, the party—it’s all too much.”

Rafe’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. “You’ve done this a hundred times before,” he said softly. “What’s different now?”

You hesitated. “It’s not important,” you muttered, hoping he’d let it go.

But Rafe wasn’t one to back down easily.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice steady but insistent. “Talk to me.”

You sighed, the lump in your throat growing heavier. “It’s stupid, okay? I’m just… I’m not used to this.”

“That’s not true.”

Your jaw tightened, and you looked away, your voice dropping to a whisper. “They’re not here.”

“Who?”

The question made you flinch, but you kept your response measured, your tone distant. “No one. It doesn’t matter.”

Rafe stepped closer, his presence grounding but not invasive. “It matters if it’s upsetting you.”

“It’s just… my family. We’re not close anymore, okay? And moments like this just remind me of that. But it’s fine. Whatever.”

His eyes softened, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say more. The details of your fractured relationship with your parents, the abuse, the years of silence—it wasn’t something you wanted to unpack here, not with him. You hated being this exposed, hated feeling so small under the weight of it all.

Rafe’s expression shifted, the concern in his eyes deepening. Slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against your arm. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice steady but kind. “Look at me.”

“I can’t,” you shook your head, refusing. “You won’t understand.”

“Then help me,” he urged, his hand still resting lightly on your arm. “Talk to me.”

The lump in your throat grew, the words threatening to choke you. “I left them,” you started. “But I had a reason. I couldn’t continue living there. We were poor, so poor, Rafe. Some days we were barely fed and barely had a roof over our heads,” your voice trembled, and you forced yourself to not close your eyes to not relieve that part of your life. “They forced me to se—” but you stopped yourself. Not ready to admit it to Rafe. “—whatever. I just don’t feel like I belong anywhere.”

His jaw tightened, his grip on your arm firming slightly. For a moment, he said nothing, his blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to piece together the fractures you’d worked so hard to hide. Then, quietly, he spoke.

“You belong here,” he said firmly, his voice steady. “With me. Tonight, this party, all of it—it’s for us. And I don’t care who’s not here, because I’m here, okay? You worked hard to get where you are, and you can’t let your past, or anyone, ruin it for you.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, the sincerity in his voice cutting through the fog of your doubt. Slowly, he reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours with a warmth that steadied you.

You walked back toward the door, Rafe’s hand lightly resting against your back, guiding you through the villa. As you stepped into the bustling courtyard, the noise of the party hit you again—the sound of laughter, the clinking of glasses, the faint hum of music. It was impossible to escape the energy, the pressure of eyes watching.

You took a deep breath, trying to center yourself. Tonight wasn’t going to be easy, but you’d already survived the worst of it. With Rafe by your side, you could handle whatever came next.

The first person you spotted was Nina, her smile bright and easy as she chatted with a few guests by the drink station. She caught sight of you and waved, excusing herself from the conversation. Her dress—an elegant gold one—flattered her frame as she approached.

“You two disappeared for a while,” Nina said with a teasing glint in her eyes, though there was a hint of concern there, too. “Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah, don’t worry. Everything’s perfect,” you waved your hands to not worry her. “By the way, Rafe, this is Nina Ramos—my agent and my second mother.”

He extended his hand with a charming grin. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly. “YN’s been telling me a lot about you.”

Liar.

Nina took his hand, her sharp eyes flicking between the two of you. “Has she now? All good I hope,” and you nodded instantly. “Well, this party is important and beautiful. Maybe all your overthinking served you well—you look absolutely perfect, honey. You too, Rafe.”

“Thanks,” you blushed at her compliment.

Rafe smirked. “She does look perfect, doesn’t she?”

You gave him a playful look, your lips curling into a reluctant smile at his compliment.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “But it was great meeting you, Rafe Cameron.”

“Likewise,” he replied, and with one last smile, Nina disappeared back into the crowd.

As soon as she was out of earshot, you turned to Rafe with a small smile. “She’s a good friend of mine,” you said softly. “You’ll like her.”

Rafe gave you a raised eyebrow. “She seems cool. I can see why you’re friends.”

Before you could respond, the sound of laughter caught your attention, and you spotted Aisha, her arm linked with a tall, broad-shouldered man. Her husband, Ishan—someone you hadn’t seen in a while. You had to blink to fully register the change in him, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable.

Without thinking, you broke into a smile and made your way toward them, Rafe following behind.

As soon as Aisha spotted you, her face lit up with recognition. “Look who decided to surprise you,” she smiled, her voice higher because of how excited she was.

You immediately wrapped your arms around her husband, stepping into a hug. He chuckled, holding you tightly as he returned the embrace. “I’ve missed you,” you said, squeezing him as he laughed.

Ishan was like an older brother to you. He’d been there through some of the toughest times in your life, and his easy going nature always managed to bring you a sense of peace. His deep laugh and the familiarity of his embrace were exactly what you needed.

“I’ve missed you too, behen,” he said. “I come back to New York and I’m being told you’re getting married to Rafe Cameron. Imagine my surprise when Aisha told me.”

You pulled back from the embrace and laughed awkwardly. “Ah, yes, Rafe… Surprise, surprise, right?”

Ishan furrowed his brows but you moved your hands. “I can’t really believe it… It’s really happening…”

“No, no! It’s not like—uh, well, okay, it is, but it’s like…” you turned your head to find Rafe behind Aisha making a cross with his hands. “I love it. He’s so, so, so funny and charming—and very committed, you know…”

“Uh huh, I see,” Ishan nodded and laughed at how weird you were being. “Can’t believe he’s gonna marry a loser like y—”

“So, you’re actually here. It’s been too long—how’s Switzerland?” you interrupted, and he sent you a look because he hated when you did that. “Sorry… but how is it? Did you climb every mountain and, like, yodel on top of a glacier?”

He chuckled a little and shook his head. “No, no yodelling, but I did eat tons of chocolate. I bought some for you too.” You did not even have time to reply to him that he extended a hand toward Rafe, his tone both warm and challenging. “So, you’re the infamous Rafe Cameron. My wife gave me a run-down on you. Some good things… and some questionable ones.”

"Your wife? Wait, who’s your wife?" Rafe asked, his confusion evident.

Oh, crap. You totally forgot to explain the whole family tree situation. Rookie mistake.

Aisha sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes as she raised her hand. "I’m the wife, genius. Seriously, YN—did you not tell him?"

"I’m sorry!" You blurted, cringing. "It completely slipped my mind. It’s just so normal to me that I didn’t even think to—"

Rafe interrupted you, and took Ishan’s hand in his. His smirk disarming but his handshake firm. “Well, I hope the good outweighed the questionable.”

“Debatable,” Ishan replied with a shrug. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt… at least until you give me a reason not to.”

You felt a knot in your stomach as you glanced between the two. Ishan wasn’t being hostile, but his protectiveness had always been intense, like that of an older brother who wasn’t afraid to test the waters.

Rafe, to his credit, didn’t back down. His smirk deepened slightly, and he shrugged with an air of playful confidence. “Fair enough. I’ll do my best not to disappoint.”

“I’d hope so,” Ishan said lightly, though the undertone was clear. His gaze softened as it flicked toward you, his voice gentler now. “You’ve got a good one here. Don’t mess it up.”

“Trust me, I know how lucky I am,” Rafe replied, glancing at you with an expression so sincere it caught you off guard.

The words made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t prepared for, a warmth spreading through you despite the nervous energy still bubbling beneath the surface.

Aisha rolled her eyes, slapping her husband’s chest. “Alright, alright, that’s enough intimidation for one night. Let’s get some drinks, baby.”

Ishan laughed, ruffling Aisha’s hair affectionately before turning to you. “If he gives you any trouble, you know where to find me, behen.”

You grinned at the familiar term of endearment, feeling a wave of gratitude for his presence. “Yup!”

With a wink, they both disappeared into the crowd, leaving you and Rafe standing together.

The second they were out of earshot, Rafe let out a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his hair. “So, is everyone in your life this protective, or is it just me getting the special treatment?”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “What can I say? People care about me. Better get used to it.”

“Noted,” Rafe said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “I’ll add it to the ever-growing list of things to keep in mind when dealing with your very... passionate circle of people.”

An awkward silence stretched between us as you scanned the guests arriving. You recognized a few—Aisha’s mom, aunts, and cousins, mingling with Nina’s friends and siblings. You couldn't help but wonder if your wedding would be filled with people who didn’t really know you either.

Rafe stepped closer, standing next to you, and flashed a playful grin. "So, Ishan… he’s your… older brother, right?" He asked, clearly trying to figure out the family dynamic.

You turned to him with a soft laugh, shaking my head. "No, not my brother," you said, before pausing for a moment, trying to find the right words. "Okay, let me explain." You drew in a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. "Ishan’s more like the brother I never had—well, I do have brothers, but when I left home, I hadn’t really connected with them. But then I came to the U.S. and met Aisha, and Ishan just sort of stepped into that role. We’ve been through everything together—good, bad, you name it. He’s always had my back. No blood relation, but he might as well be."

Rafe’s expression softened as he absorbed that, nodding. “Sounds like he’s a pretty solid guy.”

“He really is,” you smiled, warmth creeping into your voice. “He and Aisha have always had my back, and they’ve been together for years now. They make a great team.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” he said, grinning. “He’s got that same intimidating vibe as she does. You can practically feel it.”

You laughed, nodding in agreement. “Exactly! Aisha and I used to joke about it. She always said, if I needed someone to scare off a date, I’d just call Ishan. Aisha’s got that sharp edge, and Ishan? He’s got the muscles.”

“I can definitely see that…” he said with a thoughtful nod before asking, “So, what kind of dynamic do you think we have?”

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze for a moment as the question hung in the air. “Uh, well…” You cleared your throat. “I mean, we’re… we’re like, uh, a work in progress? Yeah, that sounds right. Like one of those ‘under construction’ signs, you know? A little chaotic…?” You laughed nervously, rubbing the back of your neck.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Chaotic? Really? You’re gonna call us chaotic?”

“Yeah, well, have you met you?” You shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re like a walking disaster zone.”

He laughed, leaning back. “Oh, I’m a disaster? You’re the one who keeps on throwing shade. For no reason at all.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to mind your own business,” you snapped, the words biting as you shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re the one getting all up in my space with your weird questions.”

“I’m not asking weird questions,” he shot back, his voice rising to match the sharpness of yours. “And do you seriously think we’re chaotic?”

You gave him a side-eye, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Chaotic is an understatement, Cameron. We’re a disaster—with a capital D.”

He laughed, the sound low and amused, as though he didn’t take you seriously. “Oh really? You’re one to talk. You practically live for the drama.”

“Me? I live for drama?” You scoffed, pivoting fully to face him now, hands planted firmly on your hips as you let your eyes travel up and down him in a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “You’re the definition of drama. You can’t even breathe without making everything about you.”

His lips curled into a grin, the kind that made your stomach twist in a way you refused to acknowledge. “You’re so easy to rile up.”

“You’re a jackass,” you muttered, shaking your head, every fiber of your being wanting to push him away—but not sure if you meant physically or emotionally.

He leaned in slightly, as if to throw another jibe your way, but instead, his eyes gleamed with mischief. “I think you’re just mad because I’m better at this than you.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you closed the distance between you, but the move was more impulsive than you intended. You instantly regretted it, realizing just how close you were to him now, the heat from his body practically radiating against yours. You swallowed, trying to mask the effect it had on you. “Better at what? Being a complete asshole?” Your voice wavered with a sharpness that betrayed how much it bothered you. “Yeah, Rafe, you’re a pro at that.”

He leaned in even closer, and this time, his grin wasn’t just playful—it was dangerous. “You love it,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave, making your heart skip a beat.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you rolled your eyes, trying to keep control of the situation. “Oh, fuck off. The only thing I like is when you finally shut up.” You crossed your arms tighter, trying to distance yourself emotionally, but it was hard to ignore the proximity between you two, the tension hanging thick in the air.

He was close now, too close, and it was suffocating in the most unsettling way. His breath was warm against your skin, the space between you closing so much that you could almost taste the words on his lips before they even came.

“Is that so?” His voice was low, teasing, his grin widening as his gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there just long enough to make you feel it.

You couldn’t help it—you gulped, the way he was looking at you making your pulse race, something deep inside you stirring against the cold front you were trying so hard to put up. “Yeah, that so,” you managed, but your voice had a tremor to it now, and you hated yourself for it.

He smiled, the kind of smile that could make you want to punch him and kiss him all at once. “Well, in that case,” he said, the words dragging as he leaned even closer, his breath ghosting over your ear, “I’m just gonna keep talking.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried enough weight to send a shiver down your spine.

You couldn’t tell if you wanted to scream at him or kiss him.

You could feel his presence pressing in on you, the heat between you two almost unbearable, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. The world outside of him seemed to vanish, the hum of the city, the weight of your thoughts, everything melting away until there was only the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. You knew you should pull away, should say something, anything, to break this tension, but the words wouldn’t come.

He watched you closely, his eyes locked onto yours, a hint of something unreadable flickering there—something playful, something dangerous, maybe both.

“You look like you’re about to say something,” he said, his voice thick with amusement.

You opened your mouth, trying to push past the lump in your throat, but it felt like the words were stuck. Instead, you just looked at him—really looked at him for the first time in what felt like forever. He was close, too close, but in that moment, it felt impossible to back away. He made you feel things you didn’t want to feel, things that you didn’t understand.

“I don’t wanna say anything,” you muttered, the words slipping out as a mix of frustration and something you refused to acknowledge.

“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, that devilish smirk curling on his lips.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, but you didn’t say a word. You simply nodded, lips pressed together in a thin line, trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

He closed the gap between you, leaning in with deliberate slowness. You could feel the heat of his body inching closer, the soft scent of his cologne filling your senses, until his lips barely brushed against your cheek. The kiss was featherlight, teasing—infuriatingly so. It was enough to make your stomach twist with desire, but you refused to let it show. You wanted to press your thighs together, to feel that familiar ache between your legs, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he was affecting you.

“Well, I have something to say,” his voice was low, rich with satisfaction as he lingered just inches from your skin. “I think… You’re not as immune to me as you like to pretend.”

The words sent a jolt through your chest, but you shook your head, pulling your hands up to his chest, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt, then gliding slowly to his neck, tracing the line of his jaw before resting at the back of it. You felt his pulse under your fingertips, and your breath hitched.

“I don’t… I don’t pretend,” you said, your voice quieter, but the frustration bubbling underneath was unmistakable. “You’re just an idiot,” you continued, pressing your palms harder into his skin. “And so fucking frustrating.”

He let out a dark chuckle, the sound dripping with arrogance. “Look at you.” His hand reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. “You’re getting all worked up. You want this, don’t you? I can see it. You’re practically begging me to fuck you right now with those eyes. Is that what you want, baby?”

Every nerve in your body screamed yes. You could feel your pulse racing, your skin burning as his words settled deep inside you. The ache between your legs was undeniable now, but your mind fought back. Your heart was pounding in your ears, screaming no. You couldn't let yourself fall for this again. You remembered the last time—the cold distance after everything had gotten too real, the way he’d pulled away, leaving you shattered. You couldn’t be left like that again.

But then, the look on his face—those sharp eyes, glimmering with something dangerous. He looked so good, so fucking good, in that white suit that fit him like a second skin. The way it molded to his chest, the tightness around his biceps, made your breath catch in your throat. You couldn’t help it. You wanted to touch him, feel the strength of his muscles under your fingers, wanted to bite at his neck, press your lips to the smooth skin there and feel him shudder beneath you.

God, it was maddening. You hated how he made you feel so out of control, how every inch of him seemed to draw you in. Your body was betraying you, and you hated it.

But what about him? Did he feel the same pull? Did he burn for you the way you did for him, or was this just another game for him to play, another conquest to add to his long list? The uncertainty gnawed at you.

Rafe’s eyes never left you as you fought to suppress the desire stirring within you. But he knew it. He could see it in the way your breath hitched, in the way you couldn’t stop your hands from brushing against him, testing the limits, even as you pretended to resist.

But something shifted in him. He straightened, his posture changing, the smug grin slipping ever so slightly as his gaze flickered to the entrance of the party.

It wasn’t just any glance—it was sharp, instinctive. He’d caught sight of someone familiar, someone whose presence immediately shifted the air in the room.

You followed his line of sight, your chest tightening as you noticed who it was: The Cameron family. Sarah, Wheezie, Rose, and Ward. Their arrival had a different weight, one that Rafe clearly felt deep in his bones. You saw the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes darkened for just a moment, before he quickly masked it with a flash of that signature cocky smile.

Ward, tall and imposing in his crisp suit, moved with the sort of authority that always seemed to follow him. Rose, on his arm, was more subdued but equally elegant, her gaze sharp as she surveyed the crowd, clearly scanning for something or someone. Their eyes met Rafe’s across the room, and the tension in his body was palpable.

His hand, which had been resting lightly at your waist, now tightened, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress in a way that made you wonder if he even noticed. But you noticed him. You noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way he suddenly seemed aware of every movement, every gesture, every word spoken around him.

He cleared his throat, stepping back slightly from you, though his body remained rigid, still keeping you close. “I think my parents just walked in,” he said quietly, as though speaking more to himself than to you, but the edge in his voice was unmistakable.

You looked at him, the reality of the situation settling in. His family—his father, especially—was here, and suddenly everything felt different. The air seemed heavier. The playful banter between you both had shifted into something more guarded, more calculated.

“Yeah, I noticed,” you whispered.

Rafe took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving his parents as they moved further into the room, exchanging greetings with guests. He didn’t speak immediately, as if preparing himself for whatever role he was about to play in front of them. His jaw clenched again, but he quickly forced a smile back onto his face, turning to you.

“Let’s go say hello, yeah?” His voice was smoother now, though you could still sense the unease beneath the surface. It was almost like he was pulling back, retreating into the version of himself he showed them—controlled, perfect, everything his father demanded of him. “Is that okay with you?”

No.

You nodded, feeling the weight of his tension on your shoulders, but you followed him. The closer you got to his family, the more you could feel the pressure build. Rafe's movements were more deliberate now, like he was preparing to play his part in the family drama. You couldn’t help but notice how differently he held himself around them—like a man who knew he would never measure up, no matter how much he tried.

Rafe paused just before reaching them, throwing you a look that was both apologetic and protective. It was as if, for just a moment, he needed you to understand how much this moment mattered. But you weren’t sure if it was about impressing them or surviving the encounter with his family’s expectations. Whatever it was, you could feel it thick in the air, something unspoken but undeniable.

Rafe’s steps slowed as you reached his father, Ward. He was a towering figure, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his presence seemingly taking over the entire space. Rose, his stepmother, stood slightly behind him, elegant and poised, her eyes a sharp contrast to Ward’s cool and calculating demeanor.

Rafe stopped just short of them, his hand still on your waist, but his stance had subtly shifted—he was guarded, unsure, like he was ready to retreat if the need arose.

“Dad,” Rafe greeted, his voice smooth but lacking its usual confidence. His posture was just a little too stiff, as if waiting for the inevitable judgment that would come with every interaction.

Ward's gaze lingered on Rafe for a beat longer than normal before he acknowledged him, his tone clipped. “Rafe,” he said, the smile on his face barely noticeable, more a polite curve of the lips than anything genuine. “You’re looking well.”

The words hung in the air, but they didn’t carry any warmth. It was a statement of fact rather than praise, and it made your skin prickle. You could feel Rafe tense beside you, his fingers tightening just a little, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he gave a small, practiced smile and nodded. “Thanks, Dad.”

You remained silent for a moment, unsure of where to fit in, but Sarah, ever the warm presence, was the first to step forward. She flashed you a grin, her eyes already lighting up with recognition. “Hey, YN!” she said enthusiastically, her voice a welcome contrast to the tension in the air. "So good to see you again!"

"Hi, Sarah," you responded, your smile easing a little, feeling comforted by her energy. "It’s good to see you too."

She pulled you into a friendly hug, and you found yourself relaxing into it. Sarah had this easygoing charm about her, a lightness that made you forget the weight of the room for a moment. She was everything Rafe wasn’t—effortlessly kind, bubbly, and generous with her affection.

“Wheezie and I were just talking about you,” Sarah added, and you turned to find a petite, younger girl standing a few feet away.

Wheezie’s face lit up when she caught your gaze. “Hi. I’m Wheezie. It’s cool to meet you.”

You smiled at her. “Hi, Wheezie. I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you too.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, clearly nervous. “You’re a model, right? That’s so cool. I’ve seen your pictures in Vogue!”

You blinked in surprise, warmth spreading in your chest. “You have?”

“Yeah!” Wheezie nodded enthusiastically. “You’re so pretty, and your outfits are amazing. How did you even start doing that?”

Her genuine curiosity was disarming, and for a moment, you forgot the tension hanging in the air. You leaned slightly closer, your smile becoming more natural. “It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you sometime if you want.”

Wheezie’s face lit up. “Really? That’d be awesome.”

Rafe, who had been watching the interaction silently, finally spoke up, his voice tinged with amusement. “Wheezie, you’re gonna scare her off.”

Wheezie flushed, but she grinned up at her brother. “I’m just being friendly.”

“She’s fine,” you said quickly, shooting Wheezie a reassuring smile. “It’s nice to meet someone who’s actually interested in what I do.”

Rose cleared her throat, interrupting the light moment. “Oh, we’re interested in you, dear,” she said, her tone honeyed but with an edge of condescension. “Rafe’s been so secretive about you, it’s about time we got to know you better.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you apologized with a polite smile. “I’m here now, though.”

“Yes, you are,” Ward interjected, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Rafe mentioned your career. It must be… demanding.”

You nodded carefully. “It can be, but I enjoy it. I’ve worked hard to get where I am.”

Ward tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “And maintaining that image must be just as hard. I imagine you have to watch every calorie to stay in shape for your work. Must be exhausting.”

The words hit you like a sharp slap, your chest tightening as old insecurities clawed their way to the surface. You forced a neutral smile, but your nails dug into the palm of your hand to keep steady. “It’s part of the job,” you replied carefully, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you.

Rose waved a dismissive hand, her eyes flitting over you in a way that felt equally invasive. “Don’t listen to him, honey. You look perfectly healthy to me. Honestly, I’d kill to have your body.”

Her words were meant as a compliment, but they were worse than his. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice quieter now.

Rafe stiffened beside you, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Alright, that’s enough,” he said, his tone firm, a warning laced beneath the words.

But Ward ignored him, his attention still on you. “We’re not saying anything wrong. She does look healthy… in a sickly way.” His smile was thin, and though the words were spoken lightly, there was an edge to them.

You forced another smile, but your composure was slipping. The weight of their attention, the veiled comments, the subtle dissection of your body—it was too much.

“I’m sorry,” you said abruptly, stepping back slightly. “Excuse me for a moment.”

The moment you stepped into the bathroom, the world outside seemed to dissolve. The faint hum of voices from the gathering became muffled as you locked the door and leaned against it, your chest heaving. You clutched your stomach, the ache inside more emotional than physical, as Ward’s and Rose’s comments echoed in your mind.

Your reflection in the mirror stared back, unkind and unforgiving. You pressed your trembling hands against the sink, breathing shallowly as the familiar sensation of panic crept up your throat.

No matter how far you thought you’d come, it was always there — lurking in the shadows, waiting for a moment of vulnerability. Your stomach churned violently, the pressure too much. You barely made it to the toilet before the wave overtook you.

Kneeling on the cold tile, you hated yourself for this relapse. Your body trembled as tears stung your eyes, the shame wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket. You knew better. Yet here you were, undone by a handful of careless words.

The door suddenly creaked open. Panic seized you as you tried to compose yourself, but it was too late.

“YN?” Rafe’s voice was low and tentative, laced with worry. He must’ve picked the lock.

You froze, your back to him, trying to will him away. “Go away, Rafe.”

He didn’t. Instead, he stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him.

You heard the scuff of his shoes as he approached, but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around. “Please,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Just leave me alone.”

But then he was kneeling beside you, his presence warm and steady despite the storm raging inside you. His hand gently touched your back, and you flinched, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’m here,” he said simply, his tone quiet but firm. He reached out, gathering your hair and pulling it away from your face with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “You don’t have to say anything. Just let me help.”

The knot in your throat tightened, and a sob escaped before you could stop it. You covered your face with your hands, shaking your head. “I’m so pathetic,” you choked out, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I promised myself I’d never do this again. I’ve tried so hard to move on, to be better. But it’s always there. It’s always waiting for me to fail.”

He paused, his hand stilling for a moment before he spoke. “You’re not failing,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re human. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re still standing. That’s not failing, YN. That’s surviving.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you finally turned to look at him. His blue eyes were fixed on you, full of a mix of anger and concern—not at you, but for you. He reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek with a gentleness that nearly broke you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked carefully.

You hesitated, your walls instinctively rising. But something about the way he looked at you—without judgment, without pity—made you feel safe enough to let them down.

“It’s… it’s complicated,” you began, your voice shaky. “I’ve struggled with this for a long time. Since I was a teenager. Modeling didn’t cause it, but it made it worse. Everyone always has something to say about my body—it’s too thin, it’s too big, it’s never enough.” you swallowed hard, your throat burning. “And tonight… your dad, Rose… they just hit a nerve.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, and you could see the anger flickering in his eyes. But he didn’t interrupt, letting you speak at your own pace.

“I thought I was past it,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “But it never really goes away. It just… quiets down. Until something like this happens.”

Rafe nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I get it,” he said, surprising you. “Not in the same way, but I get it. The pressure, the expectations. Feeling like no matter what you do, it’s never enough.”

You stared at him, the rawness in his voice catching you off guard.

“I’m sorry for that,” you whispered, fresh tears spilling over. “And for what you saw.”

“Don’t apologize,” Rafe said firmly, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “You don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

His words cracked something open inside you, and the sobs came harder now, wracking your body. Rafe didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as you cried into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice steady and soothing. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

After what felt like an eternity, your tears began to subside. You pulled back slightly, embarrassed by the mess you’d made of his shirt. “Sorry,” you mumbled, wiping at your face.

Rafe chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Don’t be. This shirt was ugly anyway.”

The small attempt at humor made you smile, even if it was faint. He stood, helping you to your feet, his hand steadying you as you wavered.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze searching for yours.

You nodded, though you weren’t entirely sure. “I just… need a minute. Is that okay?”

Rafe hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave you alone. But after a moment, he nodded. “Alright… Take all the time you need. I’ll be right outside.”

As he stepped toward the door, you felt a pang of guilt. “Rafe?”

He turned back, his expression softening.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For… this.”

His lips curved into a small smile. “Don’t mention it.”

“Are you serious right now?” Rafe’s voice was sharp, cutting through the murmur of conversation like a knife. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Rafe—” Ward started, but his son didn’t let him finish.

“No, you listen to me,” he snapped, his anger palpable. “If you ever talk to her like that, we’re done. I mean it.”

Your heart stopped, and you moved closer, careful to stay out of sight.

“Rafe, calm down,” Rose’s voice said, her tone exasperated.

“No,” Rafe snapped. “I’m not calming down. Do you have any idea what you just did? What your comments did to her?”

There was a beat of silence before Ward spoke, his tone dismissive. “It was just a harmless observation. She’s a grown woman. She can handle it.”

“Harmless?” Rafe’s voice rose, trembling with fury. “You don’t know the first thing about her, and you sure as hell don’t get to say shit like that to her ever again.”

“Rafe—”

“No,” he cut Ward off, his voice firm and unyielding. “You don’t get to do this. Not to her. If you can’t show her some respect for once in your life, then don’t bother talking to her at all.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.

Your chest tightened, a swell of emotions rising as you listened to him defend you with such ferocity. For all his cocky bravado and sarcastic quips, Rafe had just shown you a side of himself you hadn’t expected.

A side that cared.

A side that would fight for you.

You stepped back, went back to the bathroom, giving him space to finish the conversation. But as you stood there, a small, genuine smile broke across your face.

When Rafe returned to the bathroom, his shoulders were tense, but his eyes softened when they landed on you. “Hey,” he said quietly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“Hey,” you echoed, your voice trembling slightly.

“I’m sorry if I took too long,” he said, sitting beside you on the floor. “I had to take care of some—.”

“I heard you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You heard me?” his brows furrowed. “Heard what?”

“What you said. To them. Ward and Rose.”

“Oh…” his eyes widened. “I’m sorry if you think I stepped a line. It just really pissed me off what they said about you and thought that if you were going to see them again, they should know their li—”

“You don’t need to apologize, Cameron,” you interrupted, a quiet laugh slipping past your lips, the sound easing the tension in his shoulders. “Thank you, though…”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside the room fell away. “Of course.”

He stood and extended a hand to you, palm open and steady. You hesitated for the briefest moment, not because you didn’t want to take it but because the gesture felt like more than it was. When your hand slipped into his, his fingers closed around yours.

You stood, brushing invisible creases from your saree and adjusting the edges with nervous precision. Rafe’s eyes lingered on you, watching the delicate way your fingers moved, the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders as you steadied yourself.

When you glanced up at him, offering a soft, grateful smile, something in his chest tightened, and he knew he was done for.

“Okay, let’s do this,” you said, your voice stronger now.

He nodded, but as you turned toward the door, he couldn’t stop himself from saying it, even if you wouldn’t hear it. “You’re worth it,” he whispered, the words low and raw, like they’d been pulled straight from his heart.

He stood there, hand still tingling from where yours had been, a storm of emotions churning inside him. His mind raced, his heart pounded, and every inch of him felt consumed by something he wasn’t ready to name.

chapter eleven.

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mountainsandmayhem · 4 months ago

Text

BDSMaid - Chapter 4

Series Summary: After recently graduating you take what is supposed to be a job to save money before you go back to university to get your law degree. Your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. Easy. Simple. Mundane. Until one of your clients is home and everything you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.

Chapter Summary: JMKink is nothing and everything that you need and want it to be. Meanwhile, you are nothing and everything that Joel imagines you to be.

WC: 13.8k

TW: Warnings are below the cut in small red, feel free to skip them if you want to avoid chapter spoilers, but there are some descriptions of reader so I would classify this as more of an original character versus a blank canvas female reader.

AN: I actually cannot believe how many of you reached out all excited about September 1st approaching. From the bottom of my cold dead heart, thank you!! The more I write this, the more I picture video game Joel, so do with that what you will haha. Thanks so @ak-vintage and @lotusbxtch for beta reading for me. Support banners and dividers by @saradika-graphics. I recently got promoted at work (yay me), but the job is now waaaaaay more work than before, so enjoy this chapter slowly because I am not sure when I will be writing chapter 5.

Series Masterlist || My Masterlist

TW: p in v, dirty talk, sub dom relationships, age gap, alcohol consumption, flirting, voyeurism, description of a threesome and other sexual acts, use of sex toys, nipple clamps, female orgasm, talks of neglectful parents during childhood and loss of a spouse. Mutual pining.

“Hnnng, fuck yes, daddy.” He’s rutting into you deeper than anyone else ever has. Long, slow strokes of his heavy cock sending you into a spiral of white hot, sparkling nirvana.

“So fuckin’ wet n’ tight. Fuck, sweet girl.” His deep voice devours you - rattling around your skull, echoing slightly as if you’re in a large, empty room.

Everything is black; darker than the onyx pits of his eyes. You’re not sure if you’re up or down, and you’re either blindfolded or have your face buried in a pillow as he fucks into you from behind. All you can feel is the pleasurable push and pull of his thick, vein lined cock slamming in and out of you. The vast darkness and the feeling of him filling you so full is overwhelming

“Please, daddy. Please. I’m so close.”

The soft mushroom head of his cock is kissing right where he taught you to crave it, and you wouldn’t be surprised if that spongy spot had ‘Property of Joel Miller’ branded on it by now. Within seconds of him pressing inside of you tonight you had completely submitted to him; surrendering to the darkness, the sensation, the exquisite pleasure. This is exactly where you were meant to be, and he’s the only one you’d want to be here with. It has never been this good, and even with your limited experience you know that it will probably never be this good with anyone else.

“Don’t stop this time. Please don’t stop this time.” You’re an aching, crying, desperate crumb of yourself; wholly at his mercy.

“No coming until I say.” His voice seems further away with every word and dread settles in your stomach as it all starts to fade.

“No! Nonono. Please no.” You feel a hot tear run down your face as the euphoria fades. You can barely feel or hear him anymore as little slits of yellow light appear. You blink once, twice. After a third long blink your bedroom comes into view.

Fuck.

This has been the start of your new three part morning routine for the last few nights, since that kiss with Joel, since filling out your preferences and signing all the waivers. Since being asked to submit test results and proof of birth control. Since Joel Miller became your Dom. Night after night you dream of him fucking you, and night after night, right as you’re about to fall over the edge, he tells you not to come until he says and you wake up.

The second part of your morning routine is a lot more cathartic and vocal - very vocal. Your newly painted cotton candy pink nails (anything to stay distracted and busy) dig into the soft cotton of your pillow as you pull it out from behind your head, pressing it to your face and screaming until your throat feels raw.

Fuck.

When all the breath is pushed from your lungs, you put your pillow back and kick off the blanket. Your bare feet drag along the worn down carpet of your bedroom to the cold and cheap linoleum of your bathroom. You pee, avoiding your clit at all costs when you clean up. You know you’re down fucking bad when even the scratchy 1-ply toilet paper is enough to make you almost crumble.

Part three of your new morning ritual is probably the part that shocks you the most. You change into leggings and a tank top, slipping a ten dollar bill and your house key into the side of your sports bra. The old springs of your mattress creak as you sit to slip on socks and your lavender colored runners, that you honestly forgot you owned until the morning after your twenty second birthday. You sneak out of your apartment, careful not to wake your roommate and jog down the stairs from your fourth floor suite to step into the cool March morning air.

Fuck.

After shaking out each leg, you start to run. There’s no technique to your form or a planned out route. You leave your phone behind, only sounds are the morning traffic and your struggling breath to keep you company. It's just you, pushing your body to forget how badly you’re throbbing between your thighs and trying to erase the feeling of him. As you turn the corner at the end of your block you can see the bright green grass and leafy trees of the park. Your calf muscles burn with every step, but it’s not enough; you can still feel him. As you reach the park your lungs start to burn; they feel like they’re filling with fluid. Your ankles protest with every strike of your feet against the concrete. Finally, just as you swear you’re about to meet your maker it happens, the sweet release you’re pushing for. Finally every trace of the ghost of Joel Miller disappears.

Your legs slow below you and you clutch your side, wandering lazily around the park. The rush of blood through your ears is nearly deafening, almost completely drowning out the chirping of the birds and the trickling of the water in the large stone fountain. You suck in quick, deep breaths, essentially doing everything and anything not to pass out. You’re free from him, if only for a little bit, as you fight against what feels like death knocking on your door.

As you walk home you grab a coffee - black with just a splash of almond milk, apologizing to the barista as you hand her the sweaty ten dollar bill that was tucked into your bra and begin mentally scheduling your day. It’s Monday, which means you don’t work today and you can focus on studying and laundry. Your LSAT retake is just a few days away, today is your last full free day, and you have to get as much studying and practicing done as possible. The dread of taking that test again has your hot coffee doing flips in your stomach. Getting some college letters would really help put you at ease. You know you applied early but it would be nice to know if you need to continue to push or if you can finally rest.

When you get back to your apartment your roommate has already left for her classes. You check your phone and your heart lurches in your chest at Joel’s name across your cracked lock screen. There’s been no contact between the two of you since Friday night. You slide open the text with shaky fingers

Good Morning, sweet girl. Are you ready to learn?

You bite your lip as you respond.

Yes, please, Mr Miller.

You stare at the text thread for a while. Although you aren’t sure if a total of three texts can be considered a thread, but you stare anyway trying to will more messages into existence. After a few minutes you give up, locking your phone and stripping your bedsheets. The trek to the laundry in the building feels like it takes forever and you rush back to check your phone. There’s no response but you do have a little red bubble on your JMK app. You excitedly tap on the app to see a new menu titled ‘Dominant Preferences’ added at the top. When you click it, everything from your Reddit wormholes is revealed.

‘Joel Miller likes to participate in bondage play, nipple play, toy play, dirty talk, oral sex (both giving and receiving), and fingering. He doesn’t like brat taming, but is willing to participate in scenes where his submissive needs to be put in her place occasionally. He never has sexual intercourse - vaginal or anal, this is a hard limit for him and his submissives need to understand that there is zero room for negotiation on this matter. He’s very open to impact play, but believes that only good girls should get spankings.’

You click off the little ‘Read and Accepted’ box at the bottom without hesitation. As if he’s waiting for you to accept, he texts you seconds after your finger has made contact with the screen.

8pm tomorrow. I’m sending a car for you. You should dress comfortably.

The same kind faced man from your birthday waits for you outside your apartment at 7:30 the next night. He opens the door, smiling gently at you as you hop in; leather and new car smell wafting around you. During the drive to the club you learn his name is Arthur, but my friends call me Cap.

“Can I ask you a question, Cap?” You ask as downtown comes into view.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you drive all of Joel’s, umm, do you drive lots of women around for Joel?”

He chuckles knowingly from the driver's seat, glancing into the rearview mirror at you. “No ma’am. Joel is a pretty secretive man. I have driven him places when he’s alone, or I drive Tommy’s subs, but never Joels.”

You nod and look out the window. It’s just you, sweet girl, only you.

Cap rushes to open the door when he pulls up to JMKink. The club is in a different building than Joel’s office; that was in the tall building across the street. Three bright and expansive floors of that red stone faced building belonged to JM Inc. Assumingly, the home base for all the businesses he has his hands in. This building, however, is smaller amongst the tall skyscrapers of the Austin skyline. The entire building is coated in a shiny black chrome, from the steel framing to the windows, except for the golden JMK logo on the front door. You take a calming breath before heading up the steps, the blacked out glass door slides open automatically.

Your dark high heeled boots click on the black and honey flecked marble, the floor reminding you of Joel’s eyes. You wish the marble would suck you into it so you could live in that feeling you get when Joel looks at you. Where it might be seen as cold and intimidating to others, to you it feels warm and inviting, almost familiar, and that little box of feelings in the back of your mind stirs a little bit.

He told you to dress comfortably tonight, and you felt most at ease in a deep green sweater dress and knee high heeled boots. The dress just barely skims your thighs, making your legs look long and toned. You could use a tan, but it’s only March, everyone in Texas could use a tan at this point. You left your hair down in loose curls and kept your makeup minimal, as always.

There are three people in the small foyer. Two stunning women stand behind the hostesses desk in matching black dresses and collars. To the right of them stands a man who looks like he could kill you with his pinkie. He’s also dressed in all black, and stands in front of a large door. Everything here seems like it’s meant to intimidate but all you can see and feel is the safety that comes with knowing Joel Miller.

One of the women looks up at you, smiling comfortingly and asks for your name. Before you can respond, Joel's honey lined voice answers her. The sound of your name on his tongue feels like taking a breath of fresh winter air. Goosebumps break out across your skin, your own breath leaping in your throat as you spin slowly to meet his gaze. There’s no other way to around it, Joel Miller is fucking exquisite. His slightly outgrown curls are pushed back, silver reflecting off his temples and throughout his beard. Tonight he’s wearing a deep midnight blue Tom Ford suit with one jacket button done up, underneath he’s wearing a crisp white t-shirt, paired with brown dress shoes and what you assume will be a matching belt. One of his hands is tucked in the pocket of pants that literally look like they weren’t made for him, the other hangs loose at his side and you catch that gold ring again.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he speaks to everyone in the lobby, “You’re all to remember her name. She is my guest, my only guest, and as far as you’re all concerned she’s the most important person in this club. Understand?”

The little box of feelings lifts its lid a little. No, you say to the box, banishing it back to its dark corner.

A jumbled mess of ‘yes’ and ‘sorry’ fills the lobby but the only thing that’s clear to you is Joel as he wanders over, placing his hand on the small of your back, and leading you towards the large black door that the lethal looking man is guarding. As he pulls you into his side his voice quiets, his words a low growl meant only for you. “Hi, sweetheart.” When he sponges a soft kiss to your temple you press your lips together to stop the giggle that’s trying to burst out of you. Joel Miller makes you giddy in a way that you haven’t felt since you were much younger and saw a One Direction music video for the first time.

This afternoon, you had your easily predicted moment of panic. As with every decision you’ve ever made, you started to think that this wasn’t the right one. Maybe Tommy was the safer choice. Maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew, or girlbossed too close to the proverbial sun. Or in kink terms, flirted too closely with the St Andews Cross. But now, being here tucked tightly against Joel's side as he guides you into your first experience with the world of kink you couldn’t feel any more sure of your decision.

You hold your breath as the shiny black marble door opens, this feels like one of those big climatic moments you see in the movies, like you know the main character's life is about to change, and a nervous excitement buzzes through your veins. As the club comes into view it’s nothing like you thought. For starters, there aren’t cages or naked people around, and at first glance it looks just like a lounge in a high end hotel or restaurant. JMKink is beautiful, breathtaking.

Light pine flooring is set in a herringbone pattern across the entire club. Directly in front of you are a few tall tables and then, situated in the middle of the space, is a large black marble bar. The bartender is surrounded by a halo of soft chiffon light that casts down from a brushed gold chandelier. The tables and bar top have tealight candles on them, making the entire thing feel sensual and soft. It’s just dimly lit enough that you can’t see beyond the bar from here. Joel guides you gently to the right. The booths that line the wall are only illuminated by the flickering candle on the table. Three of the booths are roped off, guarded by a tank of a man in a black suit. As Joel leads you towards them, you notice each of those tables have a gold plated reserved sign along with a name; Joel, Tommy and Tess.

Confusion swirls in your brain at the romantic feeling the club gives off. Part of you expected to walk into a sex dungeon or that red room that Christian took Anastasia to, but you definitely weren’t expecting this. If this place was just a bit brighter you could imagine studying here on weekends.

This isn’t a sex club, there’s no way.

As you slide into the furthest booth you’re able to see a small stage on the back wall and empty dance floor looking area on the other side of the bar. You can feel Joel’s warm gaze on you as you look around with wide eyes. Right when you’re almost convinced that you interpreted the information you found on Reddit wrong, your eyes land on the far left side of the room.

No, now that you see if from this angle, you are indeed in a kink club; a well stocked kink club based on the entire sex shop in the corner. You feel your cheeks flush and you dart your eyes towards Joel, pushing at your cuticle under the table, smiling shyly at him.

“What’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours?” His voice is syrupy and warm as two drinks land on the table. Whiskey neat for him and some sort of pink martini for you.

“Nothing..I just, it’s not what I expected,” you swallow the sand that’s found its way into your throat at seeing all those sex toys just out on display in the corner and flick your eyes towards your drink.

“That's a cosmopolitan. I can get you something else if you want, sweetheart. The female staff here seems to love them.”

“No, I should have said thank you. I’m sorry.” His hand comes to meet yours as it’s picking furiously at the non-existent skin of your nail bed. He wraps his hand tightly around yours, and brings them to rest on the top of the table together.

“Take a breath, sweet girl. You’re ok.” His words wrap around you tightly, calming you. You’re ok. Your heart rate slows and you relax into the plush velvet lined booth a little bit, smiling sheepishly up at Joel. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” Your free hand grabs the martini glass and you bring it to your nose, it smells like cranberry and lime.

As you take a small sip Joel says, “You really don’t have to drink it, baby girl. I can get you whatever.”

The vodka burns away any sand that remains in your throat. It’s tart, and dangerously delicious. You can see yourself getting very fucked up these with your girlfriends one day soon. “No, I like it. Thank you.”

After putting the glass safely on the table, Joel lets go of your hand, wraps his arm around your waist and slides you across the seat, pressing you to his side. “Is this ok?”

JOEL

His cock twitches at the little hum you make in agreement. You lift your leg closest to him and rest it over his under the table. He squeezes your side gently, sinking into the comfort of you and grabs his whiskey. “So if this isn’t what you thought, what were you expecting?”

He loves the way you blush a little before answering him. “People just, you know, it’s a sex club, so just having sex here.”

He lowers his head to yours and whispers just for you, “There are people having sex here, sweet girl.”

He laughs to himself as your eyes narrow and you look around at the other people in the bar. “Not out here, just because you’re in a sex club doesn’t mean you have to consent to seeing or hearing people fuck. Or to be having sex yourself, really.” He loves the way you look at him with surprise at his boldness. He cocks his head towards a guarded door between the stage and booths along the wall, “But behind that door - well, people are indulging as we speak.”

He watches the small shiver of your spine, pulling back to take a sip of his whiskey, allowing you time to look around and become comfortable in your surroundings. He watches your perfect lips part, finding himself jealous of the rim of the glass as you take another sip. Great, first spoons and now glasses. As he watches your neck work to liquid down he says, “So did you leave that little pussy alone like I asked?”

Your head whips to face him, he can’t quite place your facial expression. It’s a twisted mix of fear, shyness and embarrassment, like you’re worried that someone may have heard him say pussy; but if you only knew the kinds of things happening in this club right now.

“What?” you ask shakily.

“Did you come? Or did you listen?”

“Umm…I,” he can tell that you’re flustered, and he finds you nearly irresistible like this.

“Are you nervous, sweet girl?”

He’s not sure if you realize it, but when you’re tense and he calls you by that nickname you relax a little. Your shoulders lower, the little crease in between your eyebrows softens. “No,” you say, and he’s not convinced.

Joel deepens his voice, a voice he only intends to use when you’re at the club together. Or when she’s in my bedroom. He pushes any thoughts of you outside of the confines of this space away, “Lesson number one, don’t lie to your Dom. We have to be able to trust each other.”

You look up at him through your lashes and it damn near kills him. You’re so beautiful, absolutely glowing against all the black in the room. The soft golden light bounces off of every little perfect piece of you; from the deep cupid's bow above your top lip, to the caramel highlights in your hair. He can tell by the long breath you suck in that you’re about to do that adorable thing where you ramble. “I’m nervous, but it’s an excited kind of nervous. And no, I didn’t…that thing.”

He can’t fight the smile at your shyness, “Lesson number two, If you can’t say it then you shouldn’t be here. What thing, sweet girl?”

You close your eyes and say, “Come,” and then open your eyes to look at him again.

So shy. So cute. I’m fucked, so very fucked, he thinks. He takes another pull of his whiskey if only to keep his hands and lips busy and to himself. He usually enjoys the burn but with you beside him it tastes sweeter.

As you bring your martini glass to your lips he commands, “One more time, this time look at me when you say it.”

Over your glass, sparkling eyes locked on him you mumble, “I didn’t come, Joel.”

“That reminds me. Lesson number three, as soon as we cross the threshold into my private room, you will refer to me as Mister Miller only. Out here, and anywhere else, I can be Joel, but in there,” he tilts his head towards a door on the other side of the stage, this one isn’t guarded, instead there’s a security pad that you need to have a microchip to unlock, “In there, I’m Mister Miller. Understand?”

He watches your throat again as you swallow, the palm of his hand tingles at the thought of wrapping his hand around it again. One of your eyebrows raises just a touch and he knows that cheeky little line of your lips. “Yes, Mister Miller.”

Your voice is husky as you say it and this time it’s him who has to fight the goosebumps rising on his skin and the icy shiver trailing down his spine. So perfect.

“Can I ask you a question?” You don’t make eye contact with him when you say it, like you fear he might say no and he has a feeling that whoever made you feel that you needed to make plans A through Z also told you are a burden for asking questions. Joel isn’t a violent man, but would happily ring whoever’s neck did this to you.

“Of course, sweet girl.”

You turn to face him, taking a sip of your martini before you say, “Why did you send me into your basement that day?”

Joel clears his throat, weighing how transparent he wants to be in his answer, but there’s no hiding it after what he said to you in his office last week. “I’m not always going to be nice to you here, sweet girl. I’m going to push you, I might even hurt you. Yes, it’s all consensual, but I didn’t want you thinkin’ I’m some sort of monster.”

He watches as you take a long pull of the pink liquid from your glass. You set it back on the table, the earlier tremble of your hand gone as you reply, “Thank you for being honest with me. I don’t think I could ever see you as a monster, Mister Miller. I need this.”

The devious smile you give him has his cock come to life. He doesn’t fuck his subs, but he would take you right here in this booth if he could. “Would you like a tour of the club?”

Your eyes light up, “Can I bring my drink?”

“Anywhere out here, yes. But not behind those two doors.” He takes the last drink from his whiskey and then watches as you take two big gulps to finish your Cosmopolitan. Your nose crinkles at what he assumes is the burn of the vodka.

“So fuckin’ cute,” Joel says quietly, and hopefully just to himself, as he slides out of the booth.

No, you say to the little box of feelings when you overhear his whispered words, don’t start with me right now.

You follow him as he heads towards the store in the corner. Even with the condoms, dildos, plugs, gags, whips, lube and all sorts of other things on display it’s somehow still classy and beautiful. Lots of these things you’ve never seen before, or had any desire to play with, but you’re pretty sure you’d try almost anything with Joel.

He nods at the man working the store counter and then walks you around the main area, his voice thick with passion as he speaks. “Usually on Friday and Saturday nights there's more of a nightclub feel, couples who like to swap partners can mingle with the room. This is a safe space, monogamous couples aren’t offended by the attention and everyone stays very respectful of others wishes and limits. There’s a drink limit of course, keeping things safe and consensual is my utmost priority.”

You walk slowly, crossing the middle of the currently unoccupied dance floor, “That stage is often used for workshops or shows. This is a place to learn just as much as it’s a place to enjoy sex and kink. We have a new workshop coming up next week actually.”

The two of you stop beside the guarded door - the door Joel said people were indulging behind. You can’t help but be curious about what's happening back there, but you’re also desperately horny and unsure how you might react to whatever is unfolding in the dark. The man standing in front of the door is also dressed in a black suit, this seems to be the uniform of those who work at JM Kink, he says a cordial, “Good Evening, Joel.” Then nods at you and adds, “Miss.”

You jump as Joel’s hand connects with yours, his strong fingers linking with your slender ones. He spins you to face him. His freehand cups your chin, the band of his ring cold against your pink flushed skin. He tilts your face up to meet his, seriousness etched across his face. “My sweet girl, behind that door can be a bit intense at first. You’re an adult, but you shouldn’t have to see anything you don’t want to see. So you’re in charge in there. If you want to leave, we leave. If you want to cover your eyes, do it and I’ll lead you away. On the contrary, if you see something you like and want to get closer, then get closer. If you have questions, just ask. Ok?”

You nod, and Joel leads you through what you hope is the second life changing door of the night. The air feels different on this side of the threshold, something about it makes you feel like you’ve been plugged into a low voltage socket, you’re buzzing in an exciting and dangerous way. It’s dark enough in here that you can’t see your black boots as they click quietly against the hardwood. Joel's strong hand comes around your waist, tucking you into the side of his body protectively. After taking a deep breath, the familiar ash and leather scent of Joel intoxicating and calming your senses, you look up.

You and Joel stand intertwined at one end of a long rectangular room. Across from where you stand and down to your left and right the wall is lined with large windows. On the side of the hallway where you stand are plush chairs and couches, some of which are occupied by singles or couples as they watch what’s happening beyond the windows.

You wonder if it gets easier, standing in a dark hall where you can watch people fucking. Joel is so calm, like a still glassy sea, meanwhile you are fighting against the tides. He stands almost statuesque, his thumb rubbing calming circles on your hip, while keeping you tucked safely into him. He has made it clear that you’re in charge here, so staying in the shadows as much as possible, you wander towards the first window. As if he’s another limb on your body, Joel follows you effortlessly.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you approach the first window. The room has a large bed that remains untouched. A man is tied to a chair at the end of the bed with black silk ties, and you stifle a gasp at the painful looking device he has clamped around his hard cock. You can hear his whines through the ball gag, and the moans of pleasure from the woman spread eagle on the floor in front of him as she fucks herself with a large dildo.

Joel’s soft stubble brushes against your ear as he whispers, “We won’t be doing that.”

“Looks fun for me,” you giggle and he lightly pinches your hip.

The next window has the blinds drawn, little slits of light illuminating the edges is the only sign that someone is in the room. “You can choose to let people watch or not watch, as well as how much you want those in the voyeur area to hear when you rent the rooms,” Joel explains softly as you approach the next open window.

The bed in this room is occupied by three people. A curvy woman is lying down on her back, a copper skinned man with a shaved head has his face buried in her pussy while a fully tattoed beefcake of man fucks his ass. The look of pure pleasure on all their faces has your clit twitching and aching. And when Joel lowers himself to your ear the little hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“We also won’t be doing that,” Joel’s voice is so light and carefree. For a second you forget that any minute now he’s going to use that deep baritone voice to boss you around while you’re completely naked.

“Again, it also looks fun for me,” you joke, and a small smile crosses your lips as you feel Joel’s body shake with silent laughter beside yours. There’s about ten windows in this room from what you can see, most are closed or dark, probably since it’s a weekday. You lead the two of you down the room to the next open window. “Can they see us?”

“Not unless you get close to the glass,” he instructs. You stop in your tracks at the next window. Despite your teasing with Joel the last two were not your thing, but this window you could easily watch for a while. A man and a woman lay on the large red silk sheeted bed while hundreds of battery operated candles flicker around them. He’s on top of her, one of her legs slung over his shoulder, the other around his waist. As you step closer you can see a sparkly, thin layer of sweat coating both their bodies as they slowly grind together, kissing passionately. You take another step closer, if they want to be seen then it shouldn’t matter if they see you. Once you’re close enough you can hear the gentle moans she’s making as he thrusts slowly in and out of her.

“Well,” you say softly, leaning into Joel’s side and looking up into his warm chocolate eyes, “That doesn’t look so bad.”

He cranes his neck and places a lingering kiss on your forehead and as your eyelids flutter closed you can no longer deny just how turned on you are. He pulls back to look at you, smiling slightly before saying, “When I first got here he had her hogtied and was paddling her.”

“Like I said,” you say while giggling softly, “That doesn’t look so bad.”

The two of you watch them for a while as they fuck languidly. This should feel wrong, watching something so personal, but the beauty of them together like this is comforting and almost inviting. Her cries grow louder and as she starts to shake he pauses his hips, fully seated inside of her while whispering and smiling down at her, pushing her sweat soaked hair off her forehead. The love behind the glass is so palpable that you feel yourself getting choked up a little.

Just as you’re about to ask Joel to take you to his room, you notice another window with about five people lined up along the glass. Curiosity gets the better of you and you lead Joel the few steps to see what’s going on. No longer feeling nervous or shy, you step right up to the glass. This time, Joel moves his body to be behind yours, pulling your back against his strong body. One of his arms wraps around your middle, the other sweeps your hair to one side and then rests gently on your shoulder.

The set up of this room is similar to the others you’ve seen: a large bed to the right, a chair to the left, and a chest of drawers to the back. There’s a woman strapped face up on the bed, wrists and ankles bound to the four posts of the frame. Her perky breasts rise and fall rapidly with her breathing. At the back of the room, a broad tanned man faces away from you, looking through a drawer for something. As your eyes travel up his back from his hard, round ass cheeks he spins to face the window. You step back into Joel as Tommy Miller’s gaze flicks to the people along the window and then to the sub he’s chosen for the night.

In your sane mind you tell yourself that you should look away. It's one thing to watch strangers but watching someone you sort of know feels like an invasion of their privacy. Plus, there’s no way Joel wants to see his brother like this. As if he can read your mind, Joel's lips brush against your neck, “I’m right here, sweet girl. Tommy likes an audience, he’s an exhibitionist, and lots of members come just to watch him.”

You glance up at Joel and he smiles softly. Your voice is just above a whisper, “Can we watch for a bit?”

“You’re in charge, sweetheart.” He patiently reminds you as you nod and look back towards the room.

The horny demon that seems to have taken over your body since catching Joel in his office has you dying to see more: more sex, more kink, more Tommy. Without consciously controlling it, your eyes travel down his tanned chest, to the hair around his belly button and then down to his fully erect cock. You can’t help but appreciate the beauty of his body, he looks like he’s carved out of stone, and that includes his cock. He’s decently long, but thick, a prominent vein running along one side of it. It’s slightly upturned and the head is smooth and glistening with precome. He looks so powerful and the small fire that’s been building in your stomach grows.

You bite at your bottom lip nervously, crossing your arms to rest on top of the one Joel has wrapped around you. Tommy walks over to the bed; grasped in one of his large hands is a black vibrator, his other holds a small glass jar housing a lit candle. He climbs onto the bed, then drizzles hot wax along the woman's thighs. Her back arches off the bed and through the speakers along the glass you hear her pained moans. Tommy watches her intently, his lips moving but you can’t hear what he’s saying. Once she’s settled back on the bed, Tommy places the vibrator on her clit.

She writhes and pulls at the velvety cuffs holding her to the bed. “Sir, oh god, I’m - I’m gonna - Sir, fuck, I’m gonna come.”

When she calls him sir you see the dark flash of obsidian across his eyes, the same look when you called him that at the poker game. Through your research, you know that doms have preferred names and your cheeks flush a little at the thought of accidentally using his with him.

Tommy pulls the vibrator away right before she falls over the edge and drizzles wax on her stomach. She cries out with more desperation this time, and then again, once she’s calm Tommy places the vibrator between her thighs. It’s suddenly hard to breathe and when you step back into Joel you feel his cock is hard against your back and a fresh wave of arousal coats the lace of your panties.

Tommy takes the vibrator away as she starts shaking and moaning, then hot wax splashes down her sternum. You feel antsy, like little pins and needles are pricking along your entire body. You squeeze your thighs together, Joel's warm breath against your neck causes you to shudder.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he hums.

“N-nothing.”

“You sure? You’re squirmin’.” His hand runs slowly down your arm, your hands moving on their own so he can wrap you in his muscle lined arms. A light kiss lands just below your ear and you bite back a moan.

The combination of not being allowed to have an orgasm, the feeling of Joel’s warm body pressed against you, and the erotic scenes you’ve witnessed tonight is almost too much. It’s also not lost on you that that could have been you in there with Tommy right now. Your clit is throbbing between your legs, and you aren’t sure if you have ever been this turned on.

Joel smiles into your skin as you watch Tommy tease his sub with the vibrator again, “Do you like what you’re seein’?”

You nod, trying to calm your breathing. It hitches as he adds, “Would you like to try that one day?”

Wax hits one of her nipples, the beads hardening along the peak of her perky, round breast. You adjust your stance to cross your legs together, squeezing hard to ease the almost painful ache at the apex of your thighs. Her and Tommy speak softly to one another, he smiles down at her, puts the candle down and then adjusts himself between her legs, spreading the lips of her puffy pussy with two fingers and putting the vibrator right where you know it would ruin you.

“Would you?” Joel repeats.

“Yes, Mister Miller.” You say, your voice shaky, almost like it’s impossible to form words as you look up at him. He’s so beautiful in the shadowy light, his tanned skin almost seems to glow against the darkness.

His eyes dance around your face, his voice comes out soft and sensual, quiet enough for just you to hear, “Do you want to go play now, sweet girl?”

You bite your cheek to try to fight the smile, but as Joel’s eyes flick to your lips it’s no use. A shy smile tugs at the corners of your soft pink lips. “Are you going to let me come?”

He looks at you the same way he did when you drank the water and ate that toast. Pride. He’s proud of you for asking for what you want, and you can almost feel your insecurity and fear around asking for things starting to shrink.

The softness in his voice morphs into a growl, “If you’re a good girl.”

You spin your body towards him, determination lacing your face. “I can be your good girl, Mister Miller.”

Joel’s strong fingers link with yours and a quiet giggle passes your lips as he hauls you towards a door in the shadows close to where you two entered. Truthfully, if it wasn't for the little red light on the security pad, you wouldn’t have even known there was a door there. He waves his ring past the device and after a quiet beep sounds the light flashes green and the door clicks open. He pulls you through and as soon as Joel hears the final click of the door closing he hauls you over his shoulder. Your squeal at your world literally turning upside down with his brute strength melts into an aroused moan as his strong hands grasp the back of your bare thighs.

When Joel stops walking, you tear your eyes away from his perfectly sculpted ass, like these pants must be stuffed, there’s no way this man has a better ass than me. You glance up to see two other doors; assumingly belonging to Tommy and Tess. A familiar beep sounds in the quiet hall and your throat goes dry as he steps into his room. He takes a few long strides before sliding you down his muscle lined chest and placing you at the foot of the bed. He stays close, your breasts just barely grazing his warm body. Your gazes are locked, and even though you’ve grown comfortable with his intense need for eye contact your breathing still goes shaky and uneven.

Oh fuck, this is it.

His hand cradles your cheek, “You read and signed off on everything in the app, but I want to reiterate a few things, baby girl.”

You swallow hard, his finger now tracing down your throat and you swear you can feel every whorl of his fingertips as they trail along your soft skin.

“From now on, you belong to me and I belong to you. No one else. You are not allowed to come unless I say.”

His hand continues its road trip of your body, settling to wrap around the nape of your neck. “Y-Yes, Mister Miller.”

“I have a no sex rule. I’ll give you orgasms, I’ll fuck you with my fingers and toys, even my tongue, but not my cock. I need you to understand that my rule is nothing against you, sweetheart. Are you ok with that?”

“Yes, sir, Mister Miller,” you coo. The nervous excitement from early has returned, every bit of skin that he’s touching is almost humming, butterflies with sharp wings scrape at your stomach. You bring your hands to the lapels of his expensive blue suit, fisting the soft fabric.

“Fuuck,” he moans, “That sounds so pretty coming out of your mouth, sweet girl.”

You smile up at him. He squeezes the back of your neck gently, his other hand cradling your chin between his thumb and forefinger. The rough pad of his thumb caresses your chin. “Nothin’ tonight that will require a safeword-”

“Stegosaurus,” you say eagerly, cutting him off. It’s silly really, but that little dinosaur on top of his coffee machine is what first intrigued you about the anonymous millionaire whose home had been assigned to you to clean. It also has some sort of meaning to him, so it seemed only natural for that to be your safeword.

He smiles, laughing gently, “Not tonight, baby. If you want to stop tonight, just say so and I’ll stop. Ok?”

Your pussy flutters at the unexpected moments to come, but a gnawing anxiety starts to claw at your chest. You’re not sure what causes the shift, but suddenly you go from excited nervous to just plain nervous. Am I ready to give up control? What if he sees me naked and doesn’t like it. He said it was only me, what if he regrets that decision?

Your chest tightens, the knife-winged butterflies multiplying and traveling up your throat. Joel must sense a shift in you, he steps closer to you and softens his eyes as they dance around your face, a silent sign that he’s patiently waiting for you. If you said you wanted to go home you know he would kiss you softly and call your new friend Cap, but you don’t want that. You want this, you want whatever is about to happen; you just need to let go.

Vulnerability is thick in your voice as you break one of his rules and murmur, “J-Joel?”

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice waivers, making you feel a little bit better.

“I’m nervous.”

He lowers his head towards yours, running the tip of his hooked nose down the slender bridge of yours. You close your eyes and take him all in. He’s warm and hard, yet somehow so soft. His familiar ash and leather scent is mixed with the expensive whiskey he drank earlier.

“So am I, sweet girl,” he whispers into your lips before kissing you softly. You melt into him, his hands moving to cup your face. His soft lips sponge against yours and everything quiets. You’re not sure how he does it, but kissing him feels like dunking your head under water, everything silences, all the nervousness dissipates. It’s just the two of you, floating in tandem in an endless void.

He’s nervous too? Because of me? I make this strong, successful, brooding man nervous? Your inner voice of anxiety starts to settle. I’m safe here.

The comfort of your thoughts is enough to have you pulling yourself into Joel more. You increase the intensity of your kiss, turning your head and parting your lips slightly. He follows suit, running his soft tongue along yours. The air in the room has morphed, it’s saturated with passion and arousal. With just one kiss he’s managed to erase all your fears and worries, your mind is silent and ready for whatever instructions he’s going to give you. When he pulls away your both panting for breath.

He turns his back to you, sliding his dark blue suit jacket down, the white t-shirt underneath clinging with perfection to the muscle and sinew that pack on top of each other along his back. He drapes his jacket over a padded bench about five feet away from you; you know from your extensive research that that’s a spanking bench. He spins to face you, slipping his gold and black ring off his hand, keeping his eyes locked with yours as he drops it in a dish on top of a low chest of drawers on his left. You can’t describe it, but the sound of the gold clashing with the ceramic dish puts you in a trance. Like a ritualistic symbol that you are his now.

His hands slip into his pockets, his voice taking on its deep dominant tone, “We are going to start now. You can stay fully clothed or you can get as undressed as you feel comfortable being. I’m serious here, sweet girl. Leave on as little or as much as you want. When you’re done, lay face up on the bed.”

Without thinking your hands fly back to the zipper on your boots, you unzip them and toe them off. You don’t break eye contact as you grab the hem of your sweater dress and pull it up and over your body. As your vision is temporarily blocked by the knitted fabric you can feel his eyes on your bare skin. You’re left in just a matching nude bra and panty set. He’s already seen your tits so you don’t hesitate to unclasp your bra and let it fall away from your body.

Joel swallows hard and licks his lips. “Beautiful,” he mumbles appreciatively and it coats your skin in warmth.

You hesitate for a moment with your thumbs hooked in the waistband of your panties. You know they’re soaked through, and you’re sure he can see that from where he’s standing. He’s so fucking good at reading you, so you’re not surprised when he says, “Only take off what you feel comfortable with, my sweet girl.”

“I do…I am…I w-want to…I just,” you fiddle with the band a bit.

“You can say it.” He nods encouragingly.

“I like having them taken off me. I - I want to see your face up close when you…when you see it for the first time.”

Joel smirks, popping his hip out to lean on the spanking bench. “See what the first time?”

“Don’t make me say it, Mister Miller.”

He clicks his tongue at you, “Mmm, but I love hearing that pretty little mouth say dirty words.” You stay silent, chewing your cheek as he continues. “Come on…say it. Say, I want to see your face up close when you see my cunt for the first time, Mister Miller.”

You feel your cheeks flush. Earlier tonight he asked you to look at him when you say it, so you roll your shoulders back and hold your head high. As confidently as possible you say, “I want to see your face up close when..” you take a shaky inhale, “When you see my cunt for the first time, Mister Miller.”

Before the last syllable has left your lips he’s across the room, lifting you off the ground by the back of your thighs. You instinctively wrap your legs around him and gasp at the sudden pressure right where you’re aching for him.

“I have memorized every answer from your preferences,” he growls into your collar bone, walking you around the bed. “I have strategically planned what I’m going to teach you and then you say stuff like that and fuck. I have to fight every sick and twisted thought I have, sweet girl.” He climbs onto the bed, laying you down just how he wants you, “You have no idea what you do to me. How out of control you make me feel.”

Joel shuffles his body down, kissing down your sternum before cupping your tits. Pushing them together and sucking one of your nipples into his hot mouth. This is exactly what you’ve been fantasizing about since that moment in his office. His tongue is warm and soft as it flicks across your hardening nipple. He lightly rolls the other one between his fingers.

“Please - oh god - please Mister Miller.” You moan needily. You try to arch into him, but his large body holds you down.

He grazes his teeth along your nipple then looks up at you, “I’m gonna take care of you. Just relax.”

You can’t take your eyes off him as he dives back in. Sucking and biting at your other nipple. You plant your feet on the mattress, hands tangling into his hair, as you try to grind your aching clit into his warm, hard stomach.

“Stay still sweetheart,” He says between suckles.

“I c-can’t. Please.”

He pinches both nipples hard, harder than you’re used to, and you whimper, freezing your hips. His voice is as deep as the obsidian in his gaze, “Stay still. I’m going to make you come. I promise. You need to trust me, relax.”

The pressure on your nipples eases and you pout before letting yourself melt back into the mattress. He smirks, a dimple carving itself in the patchy scruff of his cheek. “That’s my girl. You like your nipples being played with?”

The pad of his thumb ghosts over the tops of them, you shiver and moan, “Uh-huh.”

“Good. Then you’re going to enjoy what I have planned tonight.” He kisses your forehead and then climbs off the bed. You rise on your elbows, watching him as he pads across the room to a chest of drawers. He toes off his brown dress shoes and removes his belt before digging through a drawer. The actions were so simple, yet the domesticity of them has you fighting with your little box of feelings again.

No, you tell it silently as it inches out of the darkness. I am his sub and nothing more. The box seems to have grown a very annoying and persistent personality and it almost says, ‘but he’s nervous too’ back at you.

He turns back to face you, snapping you out of your fight with the imaginary box in your brain. The same vibrator Tommy had is clasped in one hand, his other is palm up, cupping something that he’s shaking much like a gambler does with dice.

“My sweet girl, you put a five for nipple clamps. Remind me, have you ever used them before?”

“No, Mister Miller.”

He wanders lazily back over to the bed, and if he was anyone else you’d tell him to hurry up, but you never want to rush a single moment with Joel Miller. On top of that, you need to let him take control; he said he was going to make you come if you just relax and trust him, so that’s exactly what you’re going to do. He places the vibrator on the small table beside the bed and then sits beside you, holding out his free hand to help you sit up.

He holds the clamps out to you and explains softly, “These are beginner clamps. See this little dial? I can control how tight they are.”

You watch his thick fingers along the dainty metal of the clamps, he’s so soft yet could have you crying with the snap of his fingers if he wanted. A fresh wave of arousal floods between your thighs completely ruining the panties he still hasn’t taken off your body. You nod and whisper, “Ok.”

“You control what happens here tonight. If you tell me that it hurts too much or to stop, I will.”

It’s time to show Joel just how good of a girl you can be, you look at him through your eyelash and sweetly coo, “Yes, Mister Miller.”

A deep growl rumbles in his chest, “Fuck. Lay down..now.”

You lay back, hair fanning around you. Joel stays seated on the edge of the bed beside you and lightly places the first clamp on your right nipple. It’s a light pinching pressure and it feels so good that your eyes flutter shut and you melt into the bed. He puts the next clamp on and you whimper.

“How’s that feel?” he asks, his strong hands gripping your hips, pushing you into the mattress and grounding you in the warm pleasure that floods your stiff nipples.

“S-so good Mister Miller,” you groan. You’re almost convinced this is another dream, he’s doing almost exactly what you have imagined countless times. You open your eyes to watch him, determined to visually take in every single thing he gives you.

“Good, baby. I want you to feel good. I’m gonna tighten them now, jus’ a little.” He twists the little knob. You start breathing heavily, teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure. You bring your hands to his strong, warm forearms as you suck in air.

“Too much?”

Your chest heaves at the delicious feeling flooding your tits. “No, no. More. P-Please, more. More.”

“Good girl,” he hums deeply, the words settling right behind your clit as he tightens the tiny clamps more. The warmth around your nipples spreads to your arms and down your sides. When you cry out he asks, “Pain or pleasure, sweet girl?”

At this point you aren’t sure, it definitely hurts, but it also feels good, and his deep brown eyes are looking at you the same way they always do, full of concern and care, almost like he’s assessing you.

“Both. Both, oh fuck. More, Mister Miller.” He kisses the left one gently and you arch into him, “More, more, please.”

“That’s as tight as they go, are you sure you want more?”

You keep your eyes on him, nodding fervently, “Yes. Please, yes.”

He pops them off and you gasp out in pain, heat rushes to both your nipples and it burns in white hot passion. Joel blows cool air along both of them and you can’t seem to stop your mumbling begging, “More. I need more. Please!”

“I know, baby. I got you.” He opens the drawer on the bedside table and takes out two gold plated clamps. You look down, your nipples already look sore, tinged slightly purple. “I’m so fucking proud of you already. Askin’ so nicely like the good girl I know you are. Goddamn, look at these stiff, perky, perfect little nipples. I love seeing you like this, seeing them like this. Are you wet for me? Are those flimsy lace panties soaked through?”

He places one of the new clamps and you cry out a ‘yes’.

“Ya? Just dripping and desperate for me?” He puts the other clamp on as you chant a chorus of yes’s and oh god’s.

Joel

Joel knew that tonight would either make or break him. As his name spills sweetly from your perfect pouty lips he feels it, the same tug behind his belly button that he felt with Tiffany, that his grandpa said was how he’d know when he found something special; something to hold onto.

“Please, Mister Miller,” you murmur. He doesn’t know what it is you’re asking for, and he’s sure you don’t know either. What is it about you saying those three little words that gets him so rattled? Countless subs have called him that in the past and it never made his cock swell this painfully behind his zipper.

He taps at your nipples lightly and watches your body shudder and arch off the bed. You aren’t even fully naked and he’s fighting the urge to come right there in his pants. He loves the way your body reacts, he can already tell you’re going to look stunning as you come.

“That feel good?” He asks, his voice deep and husky.

“Yes. Oh god, yes!” You haven’t taken your eyes off him and he loves how your eyelids have become hooded from the pleasure while your brows furrow with the pain.

“Does it hurt?” Your cheeks are flushed pink making the colour of your eyes pop.

“Yes,” just as he’s convincing himself to remove the clamps you moan, “Please don’t stop.”

Joel grabs the vibrator from the bedside table before sliding his body down the bed. He starts kissing at your hip bone before wrapping his teeth around the slender band of your panties. Your eyes dart down to him, this is what you asked for; to his face the first time he sees your cunt. He pulls your panties with his teeth, smiling against your soft upper thigh when you instinctively lift your hips to help him. As he shimmies down the bed his eyes stay on your face.

He gets to the end of the bed, standing with your soaked through thong still between his teeth. He relaxes his jaw, dropping the panties in his hand and bringing them to his face. “God fuckin’ damn, sweet girl. You smell so fuckin’ sweet. Imma crave that smell when you aren’t around.” He tucks your panties into the pocket of his four thousand dollar, custom made Tom Ford suit. As far as he’s concerned, that drenched thong is the most expensive and important thing he now owns.

He trails his eyes down your sternum, your legs are straight out in front of you, not parted, but he can see your puffy pink clit pushing through the soft looking outer lips. He feels himself switching into full dom mode. The room around him fades away, everything outside of you and this room doesn’t matter anymore.

“Show me,” he growls. “Spread those gorgeous legs and show me that perfect little cunt.”

He crawls up the bed, following the path you make as you bend both knees up. He feels like a starved dog who’s about to get a meal. Your feet stop, and as he hovers above you, gaze wholly fixated on your core, you relax your legs and your knees butterfly open. God he loves how eager you are, how good of a listener you can be. He licks his lips as your outer thighs finally meet the soft sheets, baring yourself for him completely. He stops breathing as your lips part, sticky with arousal. Your pussy is swollen and glistening, your needy clit puffy and pink.

A deep moan rumbles in his chest as he lowers himself to the be, his face between your legs. Once he’s close enough he can see the tight little hole he’s vowed not to fuck. “Shit, sweetheart. This is goin’ to be so much harder than I thought.”

Your cries wash over him; he’s experienced enough to know that it’s from your nipples hardening under the clamps at his words. He smirks up at you, “How are you so wet already?”

“You, Mister Miller.”

“That right? Me playin’ with those nipples get you all turned on?”

“Uh-huh, and you said I couldn’t touch myself. I’ve been like this for days.” Your bottom lip pokes out and it absolutely ruins him, but he pushes down the overwhelming need to fix it and give you exactly what you need. No, you want to experience being a submissive, and that’s what he’s going to do.

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tsking at you. He kisses right above your clit and you gasp. He’s close enough to know the heat of his breath is going to have you squirming and he can’t wait to watch how beautiful you’ll look doing it. “So wet. Smells so good. Fuck, She’s right in front of me but I already miss her. You look so soft and tight. Goddamn, you’re gonna have me breakin’ all my rules, sweet girl.”

“Please touch me. Please.”

“Mmmm, such a good girl for asking so nicely. I can’t say no when you beg like that, baby, makes me weak.” He kisses the crook of your inner thigh, he knows how much he’s teasing you right now, he watches you get wetter by the second, the beautiful folds of your pussy opening like a flower in the sun for him and flushing a deeper pink and the blood courses to your most sensitive parts.

“I need you Mister Miller,” your voice waivers as you say his name, and you blink a little harder, he knows you’re fighting back the tears and it makes his cock throb harder, the teeth of his zipper practically digging into him.

After what feels like hours, he finally brings a thick finger to tease at your entrance. You buck into him, desperate for the friction.

“Don’t make me tie you up. Stay still for me, please.” Even with the please at the end, it’s a command - deep and serious, and you don’t dare test him. Your nipples stiffen every time he speaks, and they ache under the clamps, it’s the perfect twinge of pain to heighten the bits of pleasure he’s giving you.

You press your lips in a tight line, hands grounding you as they ball the sheets, focusing on keeping still. You want to shamelessly fuck yourself with his fingers; meanwhile, he’s being slow and calculated. Joel torturously draws slow little circles along the waiting hole with just the tip of his finger. He watches as your sticky white arousal coats his fingertip, then groans as he slowly pushes his middle finger all the way inside of you. You gasp at the welcome stretch and fight like hell to stay still.

“Look at you, fuck. So warm and inviting.” He slips his finger out slowly and lets out an exasperated sigh. Your heart falls into your stomach.

“Mister Miller, no. Please, it felt so good,” you practically cry at the loss at the feeling of him finally inside of you, finally giving you a taste of what you need the most.

“I know,” he shushes, “But that’s not what I have planned, not yet at least. My sweet girl, I need ya to be loud for me. I’ve been wanting this for so long. Need to hear you. Understand?”

The distinct sound of the vibrator you forgot he had comes to life and you squirm with anticipation. “Yes, Mister Miller. I will, just please, please make me feel good.”

He reaches up, the black vibrator makes contact with your nipple and an intense pain shoots to your core before it blooms into pleasure. One of your hands leaves the sheets, fingernails digging into the forearms of the hand he has holding the vibrator and you sob out.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he groans before moving the vibrator to the other nipple, circling it around this time instead of holding it flush. “Jus’ tell me if you need me to stop.”

“Don’t, please don’t. Oh god, yes.” You know you’re screaming, you doubt anyone can hear you, but at this point you don’t care if they can. The pleasure becomes overwhelming, you slam your eyes shut and arch your back. Joel’s strong chest is warm in between your thighs, he’s so broad that he’s keeping you spread open. You grind into the soft white cotton of his t-shirt.

“Look at me. Focus, sweet girl,” you peel your eyes open to meet his gaze. Warm coffee and hazel eyes stare down at you. “Stay still, please.”

“I can’t - aah!” He presses hard on your sore nipple and it brings you back into your own body. You manage to still your hips and release your grip, leaving behind little crescent shaped indents in his muscle lined forearm.

“Good girl,” he praises and then pulls the vibrator away from your breasts. His free hand comes to your mound, he swallows hard before breaking eye contact, pulling his hand back and looking at your puffy, and completely exposed bundle of nerves. A devious uptick of the right side of the mouth sets your blood on fire before he taps lightly at your clit once with the soft head of vibrator.

You cry out in pleasure.

He taps again and you gasp out loudly.

He taps a third time and you’re almost certain that this is how you’re going to die. No man has ever teased you like this. You’re desperate to come, your body breaking out in sweat, but you never want Joel to stop. Moans and whines are pouring out of you without you even realizing it, he looks so fucking beautiful between your thighs, staring at your pussy like it’s the sunrise over the ocean, like he’s never seen anything as beautiful or fascinating and it makes your feel unstoppable. You make him look like that. Him. A man who could have anyone in the world, but here he is, looking at you like you’re his whole world.

“Let me hear you, show me how you can be a good girl,” he clicks the vibrator up and holds it tightly to your clit. The sensation is almost too much and your nipples ache under the little gold clamps.

Your body starts to shake involuntarily and your moans become longer and huskier, you’re going to come any second now. You squeeze your eyes shut and Joel pulls the vibrator away.

“No,” you gasp. “More. Please, I need more. Please.” The fear of him leaving you like this has the back of your eyes burning. Was there a time limit you weren’t aware of with the room? No, this is his private room. Right? Didn’t he say that he has a private room? And it shouldn’t matter if the club is open or closed, he’s the owner.

“Look at me, sweetheart.” You blink your eyes open, trying to focus on his face, but you’re so turned on that the edges of him seem fuzzy. “That feel good? The vibrator teasing your desperately swollen clit?”

You nod your head, “Yes, again. Please, Mister Miller.”

“Tell me what you want?”

Historically, situations like this have riddled you with insecurity. You’ve never been a talker in the bedroom and as a textbook people pleaser you never, like NEVER, ask for what you want. Yes, being here fully naked with a fully clothed Joel makes you feel safer and more understood than you have ever been. You know that if you ask for anything in this room and beyond, he’d do it.

The words leave your mouth without you even thinking about it, without second guessing or carefully planning what it is you’re going to say. “Please make me come. I’ll be so loud for you. I’ll scream and moan until I have no voice. I’ve been such a good girl and I’ll do whatever you want. Just please, please make me come.”

He raises an eyebrow at you and his voice washes over you like honey, “Good fuckin’ girl. Eyes on me and hold on.”

It happens in an instant, the vibrator flicks to the highest setting as he adjusts his body to hold you firmly against the mattress with this forearm, your hands grab onto his shoulders as he presses the soft, thick head of the sex toy right onto your clit.

You scream and squeeze at the strong muscles of his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure courses through your system, you tense under his touch. The build of your orgasm somehow too much and not enough all at once.

“Oh god. Oh god. Yes, I’m - Mist - fuuuck.”

“I know, I’m right here.” He says darkly.

“Gonna come,” you sputter between your cries of ecstasy. You can feel that familiar tightness building.

“Relax and let go for me. Come for me, sweet girl. Let me see this beautiful little cunt twitch.”

His words send you over the edge and your orgasm rocks through you violently. You convulse with so much force that Joel grunts as he holds you down. You’re nothing but what Joel is giving you, not a single thought or insecurity, not a single worry about studying or school, you’re just what Joel has made you and it feels fucking fantastic. His dark onyx eyes swallow you whole.

The pleasure of your orgasm, mixed with the pain in your nipples is so much more than you’ve ever known, and Joel’s deep gravel filled voice praises you the whole time.

‘There’s my girl.’

‘Sooo good for me.’

‘Fuck, that’s it my sweet girl.’

‘Beautiful when you scream for me.’

It starts to become too much. Your throat is hoarse from screaming. As your nails start to dig deep into his shoulders Joel slows the vibrator down and holds it lightly to your twitching clit as the aftershocks course through you. He releases your body from his and kisses your hip bone before shutting the vibrator off completely.

He’s stills between your thighs, your hands resting on his shoulders. Joel smiles up at you sweetly and you pull at his t shirt to encourage him to crawl on top of you. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his stong body on top of yours, resting his forearms on each side of your head.

“Do I have your consent to kiss you?” He whispers.

“Yes,” you coo. His mouth meets yours similar to how it did when you both confessed to being nervous. It’s soft and lingering as you take shaky, calming breaths through your nose. That annoying little box of feelings shivers in the corner of your mind and you mentally put a piece of packing tape over the lid.

You end this kiss this time, pushing your head into the pillow. “I’m gonna grab some cooling spray and take those clamps off now, is that okay?”

You nod and hum in agreement. Your eyelids and muscles feel heavy and sated. Joel's warm body parts from yours and a chill runs up your spine. When he releases the first clamp you whimper, the burning ache goes away as soon as he sprays it with a cooling coconut scented mist. When he removes the second one, your pussy clenches around nothing, a small but powerful orgasm waves through you as the cool droplets of the aftercare spray land on your pebbled breast.

“Did you just come?” Joel questions proudly.

Your hands cover your face as you blush harder than you have in years, “Yeah.”

Joel’s warmth encompasses you again as he climbs back on top of you, he gently pulls your hands away by your wrists. “Fuck, baby. I think I’m addicted to you.” He kisses the tip of your nose, “Such a good girl.”

You shiver underneath him and he rolls the two of you so he can wrap the blanket around you, your head rests on his chest, your body half on him and half on the soft bed. He holds you tightly, his meaty hands rubbing any place they can over the fluffy down filled cocoon he’s got you in.

A comfortable silence falls around the two of you, your breaths in sync with one another. Your eyelids flutter closed, and that little voice starts to come back, lacing you with insecurity. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. You clear your throat quietly and ask, “Are you seeing any other subs?”

“No,” he replies softly, his lips brushing the top of your head. “But I haven’t told all of them yet. The dom/sub relationship is a delicate one. I can’t exactly just message them on the app that it’s over.”

You settle deeper into him. “What else do you have planned for us?”

You can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “I’m going to show you everything you want to know.”

A fire burns in your stomach, “When?”

Joel lets out a small laugh, then tilts your chin up, pulling back a little so he can look at you. “You’re so fucking cute when you’re eager. I have to go out of town tomorrow, but we’ll make sure to find time when I’m back this weekend.”

Him leaving is a bit of a blessing in disguise for you. “I take the LSAT again on Friday, so I guess this gives me lots of study time.”

He cranes his neck to sponge his lips to yours, the scruff of his mustache tickles a little and you giggle into his kiss. “How long have you owned the club?”

“Almost five years,” he replies.

You let an impressed hum, tucking your head into the crook of his neck as the two of you fall into a comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds are your mixed breathing and his calloused hand along the blanket. You remember all the times tonight that he called you ‘my sweet girl’ and you wonder if he’s feeling the same way you are, or if he’s so used to all of this that it’s just second nature to him. The packing tape on that fucking box starts to peels as if to say ‘he was nervous too and it’s only you’.

After a while Joel breaks the silence. “Becoming a lawyer is a pretty intense process. Your family must be really proud of you.”

“Umm, well, I actually don’t really know,” you say.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Joel says lightly and you know he means it. You know he would never push you to give him something you didn’t want to, he might push your sexual limits, but never your personal ones, and for whatever reason that almost makes it easier to tell him.

You roll onto your stomach and prop yourself up on your forearms on his chest. For a second you let your eyes look around the room. You were so focused on Joel earlier that you didn’t notice the rings and hooks along the black steel bed frame; or the paddles and ropes hanging on the wall next to a ladder and St Andrews Cross. In classic Joel fashion, everything is black and softly lit. Everything but the bed sheets which are plush and white.

You take a deep breath, resting your chin on your hands, and start, “I don’t want pity for this, truthfully I’m grateful that this is my reality, but my parents had me when they were very young and they were both very selfish when I was growing up. Never abusive or anything, and not neglectful in a physical way, but emotionally I was left alone a lot. I realized early on that if I excelled in something they would show up, and for a long time that felt really fucking good. But as soon as I hit high school I realized they were showing up for themselves. They’d brag about me to other adults, but not actually congratulate me. They’d show up to honour roll ceremonies, but not with me or for me, it was so they could say I was their daughter. They didn’t help me get those grades, I did that on my own. And I’m still doing that on my own.”

Joel’s eyes soften, those two permanent lines between his eyebrows disappearing. “That explains so much, my sweet girl. I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

The tape on the box of feelings snaps as the lid flies off. Not now, you scold.

“I know, but honestly, I don’t really need anyone to take care of me. I’ve made it this far and I plan on making it the rest of the way the only way I know how.”

“Doesn’t that get lonely?” He asks.

“Doesn’t this?” you say gently, gesturing to the room.

“No,” he blinks at you a few times. “I was in my early twenties when my wife died. I needed to focus on raising Sarah, but I’m still an adult male with needs, so I found the world of BDSM and kink. It allowed me to get what I wanted, and what my partner wanted, without the attachment of a relationship.” His words are so real and honest and in just those few sentences you feel like you know Joel Miller more deeply than you know anyone else.

“My way doesn’t get lonely either,” you say with a smile, tucking your head back into his chest.

Joel

Your breathing is calm and heavy, it kills him that he’s going to have to wake you up. Usually his aftercare doesn’t involve opening up about his past like this. He’s not a monster, but he is very strict about keeping his kink life and his real life separate. Something about you though has him opening up about Tiffany and Sarah.

“Baby,” he whispers into the crown of your head, shaking you a little. “We can’t sleep here, I’m sorry.”

You blink up at him and his heart ceases at how beautiful you look all sleepy and supple. He finds himself unconsciously memorizing the little details of your face. Your lips are puffy from his kisses and you have a little mascara smudge under your eye. He thumbs the black make up away gently and says, “Let me help you get dressed and then Cap will take you home, ok?”

You nod lazily and he helps you gently roll off him. He stands and starts to gather your clothing. After a few minutes of looking around he huffs, “Where are your panties?”

A tiny giggle sounds from the cloud of white blankets, the sound shooting straight through his belly button, “Check your pockets.”

He laughs at himself, reaching into his pants pocket to pull out your lacy nude thong. He helps you sit up, “I’m keeping these, by the way.”

“Should I be expecting my panties to go missing every time?” You say jokingly as you take your bra from him and put it on.

He nods and asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Good, really good actually,” After you put your bra on he pulls your dress over your head and then kneels to help you with your boots. “I - umm - I was hoping that this would help turn my brain off for a while and it did. I feel, I don’t know. Recharged almost?”

This is exactly why he loves kink, it’s an escape from the world for him and his sub. He kisses your knee and moves to the other boot. “Good, that’s what is supposed to happen.”

He pulls you to your feet and allows you to steady yourself before pulling you in for a hug. “Thank you for tonight,” he whispers. He hopes you know that he needs this as much as you do, how much this helps him clear his mind and reground himself.

After closing the door to the town car and sending you home he goes back into the club, waving for a whiskey and joining Tommy at the bar top.

“She was pretty,” Tommy says, clinking his glass against Joel’s.

“Yep,” he swirls the amber liquid in the cup.

“New?” Tommy asks.

“Yep,” Joel repeats and then sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I think I’m fucked, Tommy.”

Tommy puts his glass down and turns to face Joel, gripping his shoulder. “Are you ending it with all your other subs for this girl?”

Joel takes a long sip from his crystal highball glass. Repeating the only word he seems to know lately, “Yep.”

Tommy lets out a breath, “Shit. Ya, you’re definitely fucked.”

“Tiff told me to find someone who scares me. This fucking scares me, man.” Joel finishes off his whiskey, and even though there’s a drink limit, the glass is refilled before it’s even hit the table. “This is - I just - I ain’t felt like this in a long time.”

Tommy smiles at Joel, “I’m happy for ya, man. And look, as long as you aren’t keepin’ her panties then it’s probably not as bad as you think.”

Joel pulls that nude thong from his pocket and puts it on the bar top as he finishes off his second glass of whiskey and then waves the bartender off, silently signaling that he’s done.

“Shit, so you are fucked then?” Tommy laughs.

“We didn’t,” Joel says defensively, brows pulling together.

“I didn’t ask if you fucked. I said you are fucked.” Tommy shakes his head at his older brother.

Joel runs a hand down his face and through his scruff. “Look, you gonna be ok this week while I’m in Paris?”

“Ya, me and Tess got it.” He claps Joel’s back roughly as he stands. “Safe travels, hey?”

Joel nods and waves over his head at his brother. He hasn’t fucked you or let you suck his cock yet and he’s already feeling all turned around. But god, the way your body twitched in response to him, the way you melt into his arms every time he kisses you. How brave and confident you were after overcoming the shyness of asking for what you want. He can’t wait to teach you more, but he’s going to have to find a way to not let whatever feelings he might be having get in the way.

Next chapter

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madschiavelique · 1 month ago

Text

A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 6 - Seven Of Cups

summary : your detention doesn't happen like you'd have thought it would, and power goes out at the dormitories, leading you to odd exchanges with viktor

content warnings : fighting at the beginning of the chap but nothing much, other than that none (if you find anything to add here do tell).

word count : 7,6k

author's note : these bitches can't stop bantering okay, and i can't make them stop so yea

proofread by the lovely @yaffles-world

masterlist : here

taglist : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal

You landed a blow to the throat of the girl facing you, who backed away as she regained some air and you were able to regain your composure as the screams grew louder all around you. All the way down your oesophagus, from your stomach to the back of your throat, the acid of your empty stomach burned all sanity.

Hunger could have made you do anything, the fire within making you nauseous as you tried not to wobble on your legs. You could have eaten the sandy soil on the floor of the pit if someone had told you that it would nourish you a little, or ease your ravenous hunger.

Your opponent was older than you, taller, heavier, and less gnawed by famine. The stands were screaming at you, one to get back on her feet, the other to strike until her skull burst. You could feel the rain of their spit on your skin as your opponent came back at you.

You tried to avoid her punches, retreating into the arena, trying to gain time by tiring her out. But she slapped you so hard that you fell to the ground. You tried to crawl back away from her as the crowd swelled in roars. You turned your head towards her for one last breath before she struck you a hard blow in the cheek.

The shock woke you from your dream.

You breathed in, wiping away the single tear from your cheek that had left a stain on your pillow. The gesture made you hiss, bringing your hand up to your swollen cheek, still aching. Ah, that's right, your little attempt at justice in the corridors yesterday came back to mind.

You huffed and puffed, turning over on your back in bed and letting your gaze drift to the ceiling, trying not to shake as you breathed softly.

Another nightmare, these days were not going to be easy.

You placed your hand on your belly, trying to control your breathing in the hopes of calming yourself slowly.

Why can't the past just die ?

Because I'm not dead yet, you think. Only in death, maybe, could you say goodbye to all of this.

You shook your head, you had too much to fight for, enough to defeat death, enough to push her back to your doorstep and chase her from your house no matter how hard she'd knock on the door of your mind.

To heal your wounds you had to stop touching them. You knew that, you knew that your little fight in the hallway had brought it back, that your constant fight against yourself and Viktor was pushing it all back to the front of your mind.

But what were you supposed to do? Let him be ridiculed like that, martyred by a student who wasn't there by any merit and only through the influence of a patron?

Since when had Viktor's respect been something you considered? You were supposed to hate him, not develop an obsession about hating him.

"Almost sounds like you're obsessed with me."

You hated the fact that, despite your best efforts to talk yourself out of it, he wasn't wrong. You turned, groaning in your bed. How could you agree with him?

You thought back to what Selene had said to you once, ‘there are 3 reasons why people hate you: they see you as a threat, the people who hate you hate themselves, or they want to be like you.’

Did you want to be like Viktor? No, you certainly didn't, did you? The other two arguments were of course on your list, but was the last one really on it?

Yes, you probably wanted to be like him: to be first in everything, with a gift for conversation, to be almost perfect in everything he did...

You picked up your pillow, pulling it back over your head and letting the weight of it muffle your groan.

Obviously, you weren't going to get back to sleep, all those obsessive thoughts preventing any other idea from entering your mind. So you got up and went about your day.

You worked bitterly this weekend, not looking forward to your detention.

You wondered if your guardian knew, if the gossip had started to spread throughout the school and had finally infiltrated the teachers' room. What image would that give you? One of someone trying to teach a lesson to an insolent person attacking an innocent, or a bully who would never overcome the stereotype of her origins no matter how hard she worked?

You'd seen Viktor come into the café with Jayce, but they were both just passing through and had a takeaway. You couldn't help but notice two things about them. Firstly, the two of them were up to something, either about an assignment they perhaps had to do in another subject, or about a personal project that Jayce had never had to tell you about.

And secondly, Viktor couldn't stop looking at you.

His amber eyes were deeply piercing, looking right through you, searching for something, the key to an equation that would solve everything. But he couldn't find anything, at least not until you'd tell him about the missing piece yourself.

You weren't ready to give it to him. Not him, and probably not anyone else either. You always averted your gaze from his whenever you met him, but you felt it on you, lingering.

Monday came earlier than you would have liked, and when the day was over, you dragged your feet towards Madame Agrane's classroom. She was waiting there, arms folded, a stern expression on her face.

You gave her back a cold expression, devoid of any empathy. Your nature had disgusted her enough for you to find yourself in such a situation, thus it was for her nature that you returned her gaze so cold and steely.

You took your place in the room, taking out some of the homework you were planning to do, particularly the presentation you were supposed to do with -

"Am I late ?"

Your head went from your notes to the door in a flash, as Viktor himself was standing in the doorway.

"Late for what ?" asked Agrane, confused.

Viktor stepped through the doorway, walking in your direction. "Detention."

Your eyes widened, your lips parting in surprise. What was he doing?

"You don't have det-" Agrane laughed nervously before Viktor interrupted.

"Yes, I do." He turned to her as he sat down just to your right, sending her a distinct look, one you'd given him during your work session for the Heimerdinger subjectc: silence.

She fell quiet, breathing out a little annoyed gasp before settling her half moon glasses back on her nose and jotting something down on one of her papers.

Viktor started to take out his things, and you shouted at him in a whisper:

"What are you doing?"

He placed his notebook on the table and turned to you. "Currently ? I'm with you in detention."

"I know what-" you breathed at his irony, looking him in the eye this time, "what are you doing here ?"

"I'm doing detention-"

"Viktor," the word stopped him in his tracks, "you know that's not what I'm asking."

He stood speechless for a moment, and you realised that it was the first time you'd ever called him by his name to his face. You hadn't even called him by his name until now, no doubt because the word was bitter on your tongue, and he seemed just as surprised as you that, against all odds, his name from your lips wasn't full of spite.

He blinked repeatedly, turning to his page and pretending to search for his notes as he cleared his throat. "I thought it was unfair that you were the only one getting detention when you tried helping me for my own harshness."

You couldn't believe your eyes, your eyebrows jumping to your hairline in surprise. Viktor, of all people you would have preferred to have by your side at this very moment, had come to keep you company, and of his own free will.

It was almost sadistic, the torture he was inflicting on you. He was perfectly aware by now of your worries, or at least of the worries his presence was causing you. So why was he here?

The thought occurred to you that, eventually, Viktor might have respected you.

No... that was probably absurd. He was only here out of pity, or perhaps as a sign of student solidarity to get a message across. You could already hear the gossip: ‘Didn't you see? Viktor voluntarily went to detention as a sign of solidarity with the bully who broke the nose of the pupil who tripped him. How gallant!’

Would you have come if the roles had been reversed? If he had done you justice, taking the detention hour instead of you? Would you have shown honour despite what was at stake for you? You wouldn't have received any nice rumours about yourself, people would probably have said ‘she doesn't even want to be second to get detention, she always has to chase after him to try and shine in his shadow!’

You stopped looking at him, pretending to read your notes and rearrange them.

"You didn't need to do that." you tell him, your voice on the level of a whisper.

"And you didn't need to help me." he replies, turning a page.

"It was unfair, he deserved a good punch."

He turned to you, resting his chin on his palm, "So you getting detention for helping me is not unfair ?"

He had a point. It was a compelling and convincing argument, and for that very reason, you chose to ignore it. You didn't even exchange a glance with him, feeling the arrogance of the ‘I'm right and you know it’ weighing in his eyes.

"Don't you have anything better to do than being here ? Deaf kids to read to ? Students to beat with your cane ?"

"True that with my patron's help I could get through all of these fun times."

Madame Agrane gave you a reprimanding shush, telling you that your low masses would have to be kept to a minimum during this hour of detention.

You sighed, lowering your head to return to your notes, tapping the eraser of your pencil on your paper. You caught yourself glancing at Viktor a few times, despite your will, but inevitably returned to your paper as you tried to write down what you knew for the presentation.

Then, Viktor placed a sheet of paper near your side of the table. You watched him for a moment, the latter wearing his usual nonchalance as he read a passage from a textbook, his fingers following the lines.

You lowered your eyes to the page, which would have been almost blank if Viktor hadn't written at the top of the page in his own graceful handwriting:

"A simple thank you you could've done it."

You scoffed, seriously? Was he still going to be petty about it? He had got himself into this situation after all. So you wrote in reply:

"Me ? Thanking you ? That's a largeness of spirit I don't have."

You passed him the sheet of paper again with your written answer, and, as he read it, as if imitating you, he laughed back. You didn't think it was funny at all.

So he wrote on the sheet in turn, and you found yourself waiting for his reply, waiting almost impatiently for him to finish whatever he was writing. You wondered if he was taking his time on purpose, savouring the act of writing to you and keeping you waiting, keeping you itching for the outcome between his long, slender fingers.

He handed you the paper again, you pretending to be indifferent to it as you feigned interest in your notes before taking it.

"Are you still thinking about me? Is that why you're so unfocused?"

You stopped yourself from humming because you didn't want to grumble at his insolence. What a little... well, in a certain case and from a certain angle, he wasn't wrong, but that didn't mean you were going to prove him right any time soon.

So you almost aggressively took up your pen to answer him in three simple words:

"In your dreams."

If only your dreams could be so tranquil... although you feared that one day Viktor would end up in your dreams. He haunted you enough on a daily basis, and if he came to chase you even in your dreams, that would probably mark the end of you.

He received the note, read it, smiled to himself and began to write back. You didn't know what you would prefer at the time, to at least refocus a little on your homework, or to continue this little round of exchanging notes that was taking you both back to high school.

You didn't even have time to get his next note while he was writing it because, almost with a bang, the door flew open. Before the astonished eyes of Viktor, Madame Agrane and yourself, a deeply angry Selene entered the room. She swept her eyes around the room, eyebrows furrowed over the dark, mystical shadow covering her eyelids, then came to rest on Agrane.

"What's all this about?" she asked, her tone stern.

Agrane seemed to want to make herself very small in her chair. No doubt she knew Selene and the links she had with the councillors. Which, in this case, placed her in a position to receive unwanted news should she have indulged in things Selene disagreed about.

"A simple detention for two students at fault, madam." she replied in a tiny voice.

"At fault?!" her dark shawl hemmed around her like a night wave as she crossed her arms, "and what fault have they committed?"

Agrane was about to answer, parting her lips, but Selene cut her off with a wave of her hand.

"I don't want to ask you," she turned to Viktor and you, still surprised, "I want to listen to them."

So she walked towards you.

"Them?" almost choked Agrane.

"Do you have hearing problems as well as judgement, madam?" she said, deeply exasperated as she turned to you and mumbled, "Who still gives detention in an academy."

You straightened up, giving Viktor a look as he recognised the astronomy teacher, but didn't seem to particularly understand why she herself had come to visit you, and especially in such an emotional state.

"Madame Agrane, I'm sure that-"

"If you think this dear lady is a liar, I want to see for myself." She was turned towards you, her eyes rimmed with a bluish night-shade, not letting you go. "I know when she's lying."

You huffed, exchanging a look with her. There was no need to make a scene of it, you thought, who knows what image it would give you? To be chaperoned when you'd beaten your academic success brick by brick?

"What happened." Selene asked, in a calm tone.

There was no need to lie to her, or to lighten the conversation with understatements. Selene, in this kind of situation, wanted to get straight to the point.

“We were coming back from the library,” you began, ”a student tripped my classmate-”

“What's your name, young man?” she questioned, turning to your nemesis.

“Viktor,” he cleared his throat, still surprised by the situation, ”Viktor Moravec.”

“Viktor huh?” she turned, raising her eyebrows at you and pointing him with one of her long fingernails before resting her eyes on him, ”you're the Viktor?”

Shit.

Viktor had, on every evening you spent in Selene's company - rare though they were - been an inescapable point of conversation. You couldn't help grumbling about him. Sélène being the only person around you who didn't know him from your hours of gossip wouldn't therefore be able to tell you ‘I don't see why you don't like Viktor.’ like all the others would.

And now she was meeting him.

Viktor nodded, and Selene smiled.

“I've heard quite a lot about you actu-”

“I knocked down the student who tripped him,” you resumed, hoping Selene wouldn't scatter her words and reveal more than was necessary. “He punched me, and I broke his nose.”

Selene's smile had vanished from her face. Her eyes then drifted to your cheek.

You'd managed to find a concealer in the back of your drawers. Selene had given it to you a few years ago for an event you'd accompanied her to. It was covering enough to hide much of the hematoma on your cheek, but its dark color managed to stand out slightly through the cosmetic.

“And why are you in detention, and not the other student?”

Agrane rose from her chair, embarrassed surely. “Madame Sélène, this is all a misunderstanding. These two students are from Zaun-”

“And so?” questioned Sélène towards her, ”do they deserve less to be here?”

Agrane pouted, lowering her gaze.

“Look me in the eye and dare to tell me for even a moment that students from Zaun have less merit to study here when they're the ones who fight the hardest to even graze the walls of the academy.”

Agrane's eyes were fixed on the floor, at a loss for words.

Selene turned back to you. “You're no longer in detention, go home.”

You just stayed there for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek that had been hit. The pain pierced you, but you didn't let it show. You weren't particularly fond of the idea of having found yourself in this situation, and you didn't like the fact that you'd hidden your injury and your situation from Selene either.

She didn't seem too happy about it either, but no doubt for reasons quite different from your own.

You gathered up your belongings, placing them in your satchel almost mechanically, Viktor seeming to do the same, although still startled.

You stood up, following Sélène out of the room. Once in the corridor, however, when Viktor wasn't far behind you, she pressed on.

“In my office, young lady. Immediately.”

You sighed, not much good would come of this conversation.

You didn't turn around, Viktor's gaze weighing on you and the weight of his future requests for explanations following you like your shadow.

You followed Selene, her heels clicking on the glossy floors of the academy. Hadn't you had enough trouble with teachers for one month? Heimerdinger, then Agrane, then her, the list seemed to go on without your good will.

She opened her office door, letting you in before slamming it shut.

“So,” she began, ”when were you going to tell me about all this?”

“I had no time to-”

“Even right after this happened?” she stopped you. “When else would you have told me, eh? Would you have kept it to yourself and hidden it under concealer until the blue faded?”

“I would have shared it with you tomorrow.” you retorted, pinching the bridge of your nose, ”I've had enough complications this week.”

“Since when has that stopped you from coming to see me and staying the night?” she resumed. “Do you think I'm not worried about you?”

You weren't angry with her; she only wanted what was best for you. You couldn't imagine her reaction when the teacher gossip started in the staff room. She was your guardian, and you getting beaten up in the corridors didn't reflect very well on what she should have done for you. Without her, you wouldn't be here.

And you were ashamed of your behavior. You had tried in vain to bring justice to the corridors, to reframe an impertinent man who wanted to play the tough guy by attacking someone weaker than him. You'd left behind a life of violence, and you didn't want to return to it. Yes, you were ashamed that Selene, who had educated and helped you, had to learn that the girl she had taken under her wing had come to blows.

You wanted to make her proud, and you felt you were failing.

You huffed and puffed, suddenly finding the floor an interesting piece of scenery.

Sélène's office was cosy. The velvet armchairs caught the warmth of the sun streaming into the room through the bay window taking up the entire wall opposite the entrance. A desk with dark, smoothed wood, a freshly cleaned chalkboard with new chalk, and a shelf where she kept her various teas played their part in the furniture of the office.

“I'm sorry I didn't come to you sooner,” you admitted, ”I just- haven't had good days lately.”

She crossed her arms, looking at you, softened. “More nightmares?”

You regained her eyes for a moment before turning your back on her and moving to one of the velvet armchairs, “Guess which lucky person has been chosen by Heimerdinger himself to be my presentation partner.”

Her shoulders slumped, her arms falling along her body as she walked over to you, sitting down in the armchair opposite.

“Why did you do this?” she questioned, ”Why did you go out of your way to protect Viktor, of all?”

You bite the inside of your lip, slumped in the armchair, eyes resting on the glass table where empty teapot and teacups reside.

“This guy, the student, he was... he'd called Zaunites rats.”

Sélène straightened up, listening to you, urging you to elaborate.

“He insulted Viktor,” you explained without meeting her eyes, “and when he had the guts to answer him, he made him trip over. I just... took Viktor's cane to push behind his knee and make him have a taste of his own medicine. As you can tell,” you pointed your cheek, ”he didn't like that very much. So, he gave me a punch. It was pretty hard, not that I've seen better but... I couldn't help myself. Call it muscle memory or whatever but I hit him on the nose and-”

You replayed the scene in your head, the muffled sound of Viktor's voice as he fell to the ground, the evil twang in the jerk's voice, and the looks on the lot. You sighed as your eyes landed on Selene's.

“I don't like Viktor. Of that, you are aware. But he's one of ours, and sticking with our people is too important for me not to throw decorum out of the window because a guy with a golden ass tried to put him back under the sole of his shoe.”

You almost became carried away, letting the energy of frustration take over for a moment before calming down again.

“Turns out golden ass has a powerful patron,” you recounted as you rolled your eyes and hemmed your bottom lip under the ridiculousness of this situation. “It scared Agrane enough for her to put me alone in detention.”

Selene frowned, “You alone?”

Your knee was beginning to twitch with anxiety.

“Viktor decided to integrate himself into the detention.”

A small smile appeared on Selene's lips, to which you replied with exasperation, raising an eyebrow.

“This boy likes you.”

You rolled your eyes and parted your lips in shock as your head fell to the side. “Please don't send me that kind of curse or I'll never finish this year in one piece.”

She laughed gently, watching you for a moment. You couldn't figure out what she was thinking, couldn't figure her out.

“Do I disappoint you?”

Her eyes softened, sighing as if nothing in the world could ever bring her to this end.

“You never disappoint me, and I don't think you ever will even if you tried your hardest.”

“Setting me on another challenge?” you joked.

“I don't think this one is the kind I want to see you excel in.” she laughed.

The conversation continued a little longer, with Sélène asking about your last few nights' sleep and, incidentally, your day's tarot card.

This morning you had drawn the seven of cups, to which mention Selene, after an interested A-ha, straightened up to recite as if facing one of her clients:

“Options, visions of dreams turning real, wild imagination. The card reflects illusions but also multiple choices. The character is in the dark while the cups are lighted. Is reality as delicious as the imaginary ? All the possibilities are on the table, only the mind limits what we can do. You are prone to illusion and unrealistic ideals. An opportunity with promises of more money, more fame, or more power may sound appealing, but as you look deeper into what is on offer, you may realise it’s not everything it’s cracked up to be. Your ego may pull you in a specific direction, but it’s important you check in with your Higher Self first.”

Your Higher Self, eh? She was on vacation, surely.

Night had already fallen by the time you left Sélène's office and returned from the academy. You felt lighter for having spoken to her; the weight of the lie would have hung too heavy in your heart anyway.

You returned to the dormitories, where Sky was cooking. You chatted for a while, asking her how her day had gone, before taking a seat at your desk and rereading your notes for the day.

Only, a good fifteen minutes later, all the lights went out.

You wondered at the time whether you'd been knocked unconscious, or whether you'd suddenly lost consciousness through exhaustion. It wasn't until Sky called your name in the darkness that you realized the power had simply gone out.

You groped around in the dark, looking for your flashlight, which you reached and turned on. You tucked it between your teeth, searching through your drawers. You'd kept some candles from Eris, Zaun candles made of a special wax that slowed down the melting time of the flame, perfect for a nation of miners.

After several minutes of diligent searching, you finally found them, holding them out to Sky as you picked up your matchbox. You gently placed the flames on them, taking one in your hands.

There was a knock at the door, probably from some students wondering if you too were experiencing a similar situation and if you had anything to keep the light on.

You opened the door, on Viktor.

“You,” you exclaimed in a tone that was equal parts repugnance and disbelief.

“Ah, how I've longed for your sweet voice,” he smiled.

“What do you want?” you inquired, tired enough as it was.

“Can't you answer ‘yes’ like all normal people?” he sighed, pointing with his chin to your candle. “Have you got any more of those?”

“Where's Jayce?”

“Contacting the electrical crew.”

“The whole building's out?”

“The whole neighborhood. Do you have any more candles, or do I have to answer a whole form of your questions to get some light?”

“Here Viktor,” Sky stepped forward, handing him her own candle.

He took it, almost surprised by the gesture.

“Thanks, Ms Young.”

“Sky?” called Orcelyia not far behind Viktor, ”You coming? Everyone's reuniting downstairs in front of the chimney for some warmth.”

“Coming!” confirmed Sky.

“Wait, Sky?” you stopped her, handing her your own candle so she wouldn't get lost on the way since all the students were moving either blindly or with a meager flashlight. “You're not coming?”

“Yes in a-” you were about to answer when Viktor himself replied for you.

“Not yet, we'll join you all soon.”

Sky offered a small smile, her eyes darting back and forth between you and him before leaving in the half-light.

“Did the middle of my sentence interrupt the beginning of yours?” you said, turning back to Viktor.

“I'm sure you'll manage to recover from the deeply traumatic event of me cutting you off while you speak. Do you have any more candles?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “But to find them I need light, and that means a candle.” You held out your hand to him. “Pass me the candle.”

He tilted his head back slightly. “What's the magic word?”

“Oh, yeah nevermind. I'll get it myself.” you say as you turn, trying to make out where to go in the gloom.

“Magic words really aren't your thing,” Viktor remarked, sighing and following you to offer you some light all the same. “Are 'please' and 'thank you' really that hard?”

You knelt down to rummage through the box where the candles were stored. “They're magic words, do you really expect me to waste them on someone like you when they're so full of worth?”

“Oh, I thought that miss Second would just-”

You were on your feet in no time, facing him, and pointing a candle at him.

“Call me that one more time, see what happens.”

He looked startled in the half-light, eyes wide for a moment before they softened. He had a kind of mystical aura, standing there in your room. The almond of flame atop the candle reflected in his amber eyes and lit him softly like those dark, silent paintings.

“You're threatening me with a candle?”

“Zaun candle, much harder when it breaks. Want a taste?”

“If it's from Zaun I doubt it tastes good.”

“Better add that line to our exposé.”

“You're the funniest girl in the whole cemetery,” confirmed Viktor.

“Haha.” you say, not knowing what to say, so you pulled the minimalist irony card.

He moved his candle closer to you, and you exchanged a silent glance with him before bringing your candle closer to let it take flame at its tip. But he drew it back at the last minute, preventing you from doing so.

“Then,” he took a step towards you, ”pick your nickname.”

The indigence and intellectual vacuity of Viktor's principles at the top of their game was back.

“I don't want a nickname.”

“What should I call you then?”

“Don't call me ?”

“I'm afraid that is going to be slightly complicated.”

“Find a solution for it then.”

You moved your candle towards his again, but he withdrew it. Again.

“What now?”

“What did you and Sélène talk about, in her office?”

“How is that any of your business?”

“Shed some light on my questions and I will offer you some.” he said, moving his candle in his fingers like a bone to a dog.

You sighed, your shoulders drooping. “I told her what happened, that's all.”

“Is it, though?” he remarked, arching an eyebrow. “You're not telling me everything.”

“And why the hell would I tell you anything?”

“Because otherwise I will tell the entire building that you stole Jayce's nail polish he uses for his toes.”

You giggled. “Pardon?” you cleared your throat though. “Are you threatening me with fictitious concepts?”

“Do you underestimate my ability to spread rumors, miss?”

You clenched your fist, glaring at him. At least he hadn't affixed the sobriquet 'Number Two' to you again. He annoyed you, constantly having an answer, always something close on his tongue to send you like a knife gift by his accent.

He squinted, his mouth forming into a small, hurried O, as if he'd just touched a nerve. “Go on, I've seen more formidable foes in a toddler's tantrum. Yet, my question still remains: what are you not telling me here?”

You inhaled, raising your chin without ever leaving his gaze.

“You're wasting time with your questions.” you indicated, your chin pointing to the flame. "No flame takes its time."

“Like you said, Zaun candles.” he continued, observing the candle like a gem. ”Harder and longer no matter the situation, like its people. You set them on fire, and you'll be the one burning. So,” his eyes returned to yours, ”I've got all the time I need.”

You looked at him, his eyes boring into yours, waiting for answers. He wouldn't let you go, would he?

“Selene is my guardian.”

His eyes crinkled for a moment. “Your guardian?”

“My legal guardian. Is that enough for you, or do I have to answer a whole form of your questions to get some light?”

He stayed here for a moment, parted lips from your use of his previous words forcing him to be quiet. You hesitated to take his hand, just to stop him from backing away once more, but you had no need to do anything.

He said nothing, simply moved his candle towards yours and, of his own accord, set the little rod alight. It didn't take long for it to settle at the end. After all, no flame takes its time.

“Viktor?” called Jayce, coming down the hall.

You exchanged a silent glance, Viktor's eyes seemingly full of questions in the face of what you'd revealed to him, but he didn't ask for anything else.

“Over here,” Viktor indicated with a raise of his voice, his eyes remaining on you for a moment before turning back and moving towards the corridor.

“Ah, there you are.” Jayce breathed. “We went a bit too strong this time, I don't think this building can...”

But whatever Jayce was about to say died on his tongue as he watched you emerge from your apartment right after Viktor.

“... Can?” you asked, waiting for the end of his sentence.

“Can, um... warm the heater enough to cook something!” He smiled, far too proud of his excuse, mediocre as it was. “Yeah we uh, we've been getting issues with our stove lately so we just tried cooking on top of our heater...”

He scratched the back of his neck nervously, a worried smile placed on his face as you let your eyes shift from him to Viktor.

“Don't look at me like that, we have to get solutions one way or another.” he said, so confidently that you could almost have fallen for this boilerplate explanation undoubtedly covering an entirely different truth.

“You're both part of the top students of all classes, and you decided to use a heater as a way to cook?” you turned to Jayce for a moment before returning to Viktor's eyes. “You'd allow him to go through such an idea huh.”

“Eh...” Viktor seemed to seriously consider the idea, looking up as if to imagine the scene.

“Did you go to NSI? The National School for Idiots?” you asked.

“Hey it's fine,” resumed Jayce, who clearly still had his sights set on making you and Viktor best friends. “How about we join the others downstairs, hm?”

You sighed, taking the front step down. “Jayce, your rose-colored glasses are indestructible.”

So you joined the tiny group of students downstairs, some of whom had even brought out blankets from their rooms to share. It was cold already, the heaters having all been turned off by the power cut, so everyone had gathered in front of the big fireplace in the hall.

Jayce was called out by other classmates, Viktor staying by your side while you remained slightly apart from the group of students.

“So,” Viktor began, “she's your guardian.”

You sighed, “Here we go again.”

“I wouldn't have imagined that Selene, serene as she is, would be your guardian.”

“If there's any fault in her upbringing, it's mine, not hers. Why do you even care so much about all of this?”

He turned to you. “Does it really seem that impossible to you that I want to learn more about you out of genuine curiosity?”

His sentence took you by surprise. Of all the things Viktor could have said, this most unsettled you. Why did he go out of his way to interact with you? To find you to tease, to pester you on a daily basis and throw in some of his jokes in the bunch while balancing it with genuine, honest questions like these?

Your lips were parted, nothing coming to the front of your mind as you tried formulating anything, but still couldn't manage as an unfortunately familiar voice interrupted you.

“So, how was the detention hour?”

Viktor and you turned, the idiot at the heart of your detention standing not far from you.

“Hey Tyler, quit it man,” one of his friends tried to reason, but to no avail.

But he pretended to be deaf to his remark. “Looks like Agrane hasn't lost her mind in the end, Zaunites like you should deserve a longer time in detention, especially behind bars.”

“Why, do we feel threatening to you, Tyler?” asked Viktor almost innocently, pressing the fool's name to his lips.

“What ?No-” replied the latter, baffled for a moment, then frowning and dilating his nostrils through his anger. “Pieces of trash like you just don't belong here, you're getting this place dirty by your sole presence.”

“Being a victim of your own mediocrity must be hard to endure every day of your existence, Tyler.” you chuckled, approaching him who remained standing not far from the fireplace.

“What,” he sneered, ”Miss Number One has become his dog now huh? His guardian to cover him any time he's in trouble?”

“Have you become our groupie?” Your lips almost stretched into a haughty smile, “Are you obsessed with us?”

His face contorted in incomprehension and shame.

“Aw, little Tyler is obsessed with us so much. You cared enough to ask how my detention was, now I'll kindly ask: are you looking for more stitches to cover your face? A black eye to match your nose ?”

He let out a laugh somewhere between mockery and nervousness.

“You wouldn't dare.”

“We're on a field outside the walls of the academy, what happens here, therefore, doesn't happen there and isn't related to it.”

He huffed like a rhinoceros, his shoulders dropping and rising rapidly as he came to clutch a poker before the bemused eyes and exclamations of surprise that rose in the students.

“You're going to pay you fucking bitch.”

But as he began to step forward, Jayce interjected between the both of you.

“Say that again, Tyler. I dare you.”

Tyler froze in place, surprise passing over his face like a suddenly opened curtain letting in the morning light.

“Talis?”

Your heart pounded into your throat as Jayce's massive back faced you, separating you from a fool who knew only hatred and cheap ideas.

“What did you just call my friend, hm? Mind repeating that?”

You met Tyler's gaze behind Jayce's shoulder, the latter exchanging a glance with you before regaining Viktor's in the distance.

“Got two dogs for yourself Viktor,” he said, raising his voice, ”don't you know animals are forbidden in this place ?”

“You should go back with your goldfish peers then,” you remarked.

“You stupid-”

“One more insult to them and you will be sure that a conversation will be held about your case to councillor Torman Hoskel.”

That seemed to be enough to turn Tyler from tomato red to white as a sheet. Jayce seemed to know more about the students than he was letting on, and use it to his advantage, much to your surprise.

The light suddenly returned, and the students all had to get used to the brightness again. Jayce didn't take his eyes off Tyler until the latter finally lowered his head.

“Well,” Jayce resumed, ”everyone, I think it's time for us to go back to our rooms.”

Tyler gave you one last angry look before leaving.

It didn't take long for everyone to pick up their comforters and scatter, Viktor joining you and Jayce in front of the fireplace.

“Having a conversation with Hoskel?” you repeated, confused.

Jayce sighed, his jaw muscle tensing for a moment as he watched you. “From what I remember of Viktor's explanation of last Friday's incidents, he'd mentioned having a powerful patron, or something like that.”

“And his patron is Hoskel?” you concluded bemusedly.

He nodded. “Yes, as well as his uncle.”

You chuckled, not believing the privileges hidden in every student at the academy.

“And how would you expect to have such a conversation?”

Viktor interjected, “By discussing it with his girlfriend.”

Your eyes widened. Your eyes went from Viktor to Jayce like two ping pong balls swinging between the two. Eventually, they settled back on Jayce.

“You have a girlfriend?”

He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Mhm.”

You weren't really surprised, in fact it would have been surprising if the opposite had been true. Jayce was handsome, successful, caring, a walking green flag, and it would have been the injustice of the century if he hadn't found love.

“Who is she ? Do I know her ?” you asked.

“Well...” Jayce shrugged, looking at the ceiling and then the fireplace, shrugging. “Sort of ?”

“What do you mean sort of?” you quipped.

“Let's say his girlfriend might or might not be sitting at the council.” sighed Viktor.

You turned to him, and by his sigh, you could well imagine how much of Jayce's time was spent talking about her. You chuckled at the thought, at the fact that Viktor, who was martyring you, also had a pain in the ass to put up with most of the time.

“Vik, come on,” Jayce breathed.

“What? She'd have figured it out one day or another.” confirmed Viktor with a shrug.

You listed the councillors in your head, eliminating all the men with ease to find two women. Councilwoman Shoola seemed to frighten Jayce more than anything else, with her long gold claw rings and gear ruff. That left only one obvious option.

“Are you seriously dating Mel Medarda?” you asked, your jaw ready to drop.

“... Yes?”

You gasped. “You are Mel Medarda's boyfriend, daughter of Ambessa Medarda of Noxus?”

“Let's not go too far with the titles,” Jayce laughed nervously.

“When did you- How did you-” All the questions suddenly overlapped, and Jayce placed a hand on your shoulder to stop you.

“I will answer all of this in due time.” He stepped back. “For now, I'm gonna head back to our room. You comin Vik ?”

“In a minute.” he affirmed.

As Jayce rushed down the corridor to the wing of their apartment, Viktor turned to you, a flash of mischief in his eyes.

“I got a body guard for myself now, are you going to save me from papercuts when we'll be back to the library on friday?”

“Do you want me to push your teeth in?”

“You're supposed to be protecting me, not sending me to certain danger, Miss.”

“Whatever, have a night, Viktor.” you sighed as you made your way to your own dormitory.

“A night ? Are you really removing the word 'good' in here?”

“I am, have a night!”

You climbed the stairs to your floor and walked to your room, finding Sky again. She had turned the hob back on and resumed preparing the meal.

“Are you alright?” she asked, turning away from the mini kitchen, genuinely concerned.

“Why wouldn't I be?” you breathed, heading off to lie on your bed for a moment.

“This guy Tyler, he... You were so brave standing up to him.” she said, bits of adoration sparkling in her words. “Is he the same that got you in detention today?”

“The very same,” you sighed, placing your arm over your eyes as you lay back. “Fortunately for me, a teacher heard of it and let us out.”

“I see,” she said, turning back to the pan and its contents. “What did you and Viktor talk about when you were here? You took a bit of time to come down with the rest of us.”

The question was almost bitter beneath its gentle, curious tones. Acidic ideas resonated in it: the fact that you and Viktor had something going on away from everyone, even her and Jayce. Whether this jealousy was amorous or friendly, you weren't sure, but the wording made you feel a twinge of guilt.

It was absurd, though. Did she honestly think that, with the animosity that permeated you about Viktor, you'd have feelings for him and that you'd be... something more than classmates?

“He took the opportunity to pick up some notes I took for Heimerdinger's presentation,” you replied. “We split up the work so he needed to check he wasn't repeating himself with what I say in the paper. I swear if I cross the path of Heimerdinger again or that he puts me on a task with the skeleton king I'm going to shave his fur.”

Sky laughed, erasing your concerns with this gesture alone.

“If you do that I don't know how I'll be able to focus in class, his shaved version must be... so small?”

You laughed a little, ate your meal, chatted quietly until you went back to your respective beds.

You couldn't help thinking about everything that had happened that day. First of all, the fact that Viktor had voluntarily come to spend the hour, or at least the five-minute detention with you. Then the long discussion with Selene, and then the power cut...

Once again you hadn't hesitated to take the lead on him, but that was on principle, wasn't it?

When had the limit been crossed where you could put yourself in danger for him? And for his part, since when had he crossed the line where he would voluntarily, as a friend would, inquire about you?

Does it really seem that impossible to you that I want to learn more about you out of genuine curiosity?

You tossed and turned in bed. Did he mean it? Was he serious, or was this just another sarcasm to add to the long list of bickerings you sent each other on a daily basis?

Miss.

Your train of thought stopped in an instant, and any empathy you'd felt for Viktor vanished into thin air. You realized right then and there its connotation. That no matter what, you'd always be a failure, a miss.

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just-some-random-blogger · 3 months ago

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Tormented Spirit | 2

Part 1 2 3

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, smut (piv, loss of virginity, fingering, semi-public sex, Daemon talking you through it), DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, mentions/depictions of death/suicidal ideation/murder, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: i am surprised I got as many comments as I did on chapter 1 🥺🫶 it's not that I think my writing is bad... Well... Idk it felt aimless when I started so I am grateful for the positive reinforcement. 👉👈 I am once again asking for more pls comment n reblog I would love u forever if u did | cross posted on ao3

Tagging: @arabellasleopardcoat

Daemon heads to your chambers, eager to shake you awake and ruin your morning once more. When he arrives to the room, he stops in his tracks, disappointed to see you were risen. That is, until he realizes the state you were in.

You roused long before the sun had and could not find sleep no matter how badly you searched. You decided to draw yourself a warm bath in hopes of finding sleep in the tub; you only find more restlessness and simply accept your fate.

You hear Daemon's entrance and turn to him from the vanity you were wallowing. You were half dressed. Your corset was undone and you had given up on braiding the sides of your head. You smile weakly at him, "good morrow."

Nothing about your tired, sullen eyes agreed with that, and it irritates him to know that you're one of those people. Pretenders.

"Well, finish up then," Daemon furrows his brows, "get dressed. We have yet to accomplish our task."

You mimic his expression, brushing your dark hair back, "task?"

He rolls his eyes, "I do not believe yesterday counts as an introduction."

Upon realizing he meant the introduction to Caraxes, your body tenses. You look sick. You stand to try and convince him out of it, but Daemon reaches you before you can get on your feet. He places a hand on your shoulder, keeping you in place. Your heart thunders when he brushes your hair to one shoulder. He secures your dress from behind, and your breath grows heavy as you watch him from the mirror.

"It is not so bad, riding a dragon," the prince says to plant a false sense of trust in you, "who knows? You might enjoy it."

There is an unnatural warmth that spills across your form when your husband then completes your braids. He weaves in a manner far gentler than Gwayne ever has. It makes your lips part.

He brings you to your feet. Daemon takes in your expression, lips curling slightly, "there you are, wife."

Your brows knit.

He knew his artificial gentleness has you off-guard. There is no better moment to have you do his bidding than now.

One might be surprised to know that Caraxes actually enjoyed having you on his back, as did Daemon, not because they suddenly liked you— gods no, but because the sound of your screams were oh-so satisfying.

You could do little else but release cries of terror as you clung to your husband from behind. Daemon made it a point to do flips and all sorts of unnecessarily moves whilst flying, hoping your hold would falter. The time you spent in the air felt like eternity. It seemed your husband was set on touring the entire 7 realms.

You never thought you would be so ever happy to see the pit. The pit could not say the same about you however. You spill your guts out to the floor exactly like the first time you were here.

Daemon makes a face. He turns to the keepers and orders them to clean your mess up, lest it get on Caraxes' claw.

Woe is you who is forced to repeat the exact thing the next morning. You could not even plead your case, for your throat was sore. The sound of your screams this time were not as entertaining to Daemon, as your voice is hoarse. At some point, the terror is too great, you cannot scream. Because of this, he cuts the flight short in boredom, excited instead at the promise of watching you suffer through another retch. But, oh, by the gods, were you an inconveniencing woman.

Instead of remaining consistent, you just had to make a show and faint into him, did you?

He could not care less for you, which is why he chucks you off into the arms of a dragon keeper, but the damned old man could no longer carry such a weight, and so he was begrudgingly forced to throw you over his shoulder and bring you to a maester himself.

In truth, he'd all forgotten about his wife fainting until the next morning, when he came to the maester's quarters to ask for something to soothe his hammering head from his heavy drinking the night before. He was, in fact, offended, when the maester insinuated that he had come to check up on his bride.

Before he could give the greying maester a piece of his mind, he hears a terrible voice barking from the ward. Its grating timbre made it clear to Daemon that Lord Hand Cunttower was off on a yapping session again.

He walks deeper into the room. Weeping sounds become audible.

"—no, you do not understand," Otto snaps, hunched over at the side of your bed.

Ah, twas you who was being terrorized.

You dare not turn to your father, for you knew your throat would only tighten more that it already has. You force yourself to take deep breaths, but it's easier said than done. You remain still on the bed you laid on.

"You must sire as many children as your body can take, or you will die," the man says.

But you were dying anyway.

"The process will not be pleasant."

Nothing is pleasant.

"It will hurt-"

Everything hurts.

"-but it is a better fate than-"

"Enough!" you snap, glaring at him with angry, red eyes. You repeat, though your voice is weaker, "enough, enough, eno-"

Otto gravely speaks your name. Your body recognized the danger, but having realized upon waking up to the face of a maester, it mattered little where or who it came from, you were destined to hurt- to die.

"Do not fall complacent be-"

"You are no longer my lord," you quip. Sweat forms on your nape. This is the first time you've ever interrupted your father.

He is gobsmacked. He is bewildered. His back straightens, "what?"

You feel yourself descend into heavy fraught. Your saliva tries to choke you.

"What," he presses, "did you say, girl?"

"You are my father," your voice falters, "but not my lord."

Otto's face warps.

Your breath grows shorter and shorter, "my liege lord is my-" pant "-husband, and what he-" pant "-desires, I will-" pant "-do."

Daemon's ears and brows perk at your misplaced loyalty. Part of him wants to laugh out loud and make himself known, but then he sees, even from where he stood, how it got Otto twisted. He chuckles to himself instead.

Your father enunciates as though he means to stab you with them, "you stupid fucking whore."

You crumble like chalk. You fall into another round of body arresting tremors. Your chest is tight and you screw your eyes painfully shut. It becomes apparent to Daemon, as it would anyone who'd witness, where your condition sourced. Otto grabs your shoulders, "you know nothing of-" but then recoils.

Daemon shoves him away, glaring as he says, "unhand her."

Otto manages to balance himself, but he looks as though the veins on his temples were about to pop. He clenches his jaw, "I am speaking to my daughter."

"You mean at her," his silver hair slips over his shoulder as he turns to you, "she does not look like she can hold conversation."

"This is personal matter," Otto steps forward.

"Mmm," Daemon turns back to him, "I do say, I am glad to have interrupted," he shifts on his leg, linking his fingers together, "a dutiful husband should know all personal matters of his wife. Don't you agree?"

Though you were still wrestling with yourself, you heard every word. You knew if you did not interject, they will fight each other for your carcass. You feel lightheaded, but you force yourself to open your eyes and speak.

Of course, the only sound you manage to make is a strangled and pained one.

Otto averts his attention to you, and tries to come to your side.

Daemon steps in front of him and tilts his head back, "oh... I would adore it if you give me a reason to kill you."

You choke out, "Daemon."

Your father stiffens as he looks past the said man to inspect you, missing the way the said man smirks. Otto turns back to Daemon, feeling bile spread in his mouth as the prince says, "see. She does not want you."

Otto's lips curl and his hands ball into fists.

Your husband waves a hand, "go away. You're clearly upsetting her."

Otto does the most to remain calm, "she is my da-"

"She is my wife," Daemon snaps, imposing upon him.

You gulp with difficulty as you catch the way your father's jaw clenches. You force yourself to sit up and open your mouth to speak, but everyone's attention is averted to the Kingsguard that walks into the room.

Daemon's forehead curls at the Cargyll knight, "my prince. Lord Hand."

"Which one are you?" asks the prince.

"Arryk, my prince."

"State your business, Arryk."

"I-"

"I requested a ward for the princess," Lord Hand answers instead.

Daemon makes a face at him and chuckles dryly under his breath.

Arryk looks between the two again then slowly continues, "I and my brother have been awarded the honor of serving ward to the Princess of Dragonstone. I take first watch today."

Daemon chuckles again, "a bit late, aren't you?"

The white cloak stiffens then bows, "I was just given word this hour."

"Hmm. Well, Arryk," he motions, "why don't you go escort the Lord Hand out of the room before someone dies."

He stiffens again, but turns to the said man nonetheless. He does not question it and merely does what was instructed.

Or at least tries to.

"I do not trust you with my daughter's well-being," Otto steps forward, pointing a finger to the ground, "you are the very reason she is in that bed."

Daemon gasps dramatically. At this point, you finally had enough wits about you to speak, "please-" but your voice is easily drowned out however.

"Do you not remember thanking my brother for the, what was it," the prince pretends to think, "joyous union? Or would you like to watch me stake my claim upon he—"

Otto's face twists in horror and repulsion, but that is not why Daemon's words are cut short. It is because of the cold, clammy, trembling hand that takes his own that he looks down. He watches as you sigh out, "leave us, father."

The said man turns to you in grave offence. In your fear, you do not notice the betrayal that is mixed with it. His anger flares and he scoffs. He gives you one last look, and you knew exactly it was just that. This would be last time he would ever look upon you. When he storms away, you feel it in your chest: this is the last time you will ever call him father. You were forsaken, truly forsaken.

Otto is seen out by Arryk.

Your hand slips from Daemon's, as you no longer had the strength. You muster all your remaining energy to reach the drink propped on your bedside table. It was a futile attempt though, as instead of grasping it, you knock it over, which only leads you into another fit of tears.

Daemon curses and shakes his foot that's gotten soaked. He did mean to snap at you for it, but you were already clearly suffering. Your breathing is short and it seemed like you were mumbling something.

He hunches over in an attempt to hear you, "what?"

It takes a myriad of repetitions for him to realize you were apologizing.

His face contorts, "gods," what pathetic creature had he been given to?

Daemon's upper lip curls and he can no longer bear the sound of your whining any further. He calls for the maester, asking for another cup of water because you had knocked over your own. Just as the maester goes off to get you another drink, he remembers he came here for his own affliction because his head begins to hammer again. He rubs his temples and sits on the vacant bed besides yours.

"Here, my prince," the maester says upon arrival, "milk of the poppy enough for the both of you."

Daemon squints as the man places a tray on your bedside table. Daemon is handed a cup first, but does not drink it until after he watches you be helped to drink your own fill. After, the maester promptly leaves with a curt nod. The drink does not take effect on you until after Daemon finishes his own

Your voice shakes, "t-thank you."

Daemon puts his cup down.

"You did not have to come," you say softly.

"Do not flatter yourself," he scoffs, "I did not come for you. I came for my headache."

"Yet it remains," you turn to him, face tight and gleaming from all the tears you've shed, "you did not have to come."

He stares at you for a moment. You looked so frail, so devoid of hope. Truly, death would be mercy to you at this point.

Just then, ser Arryk returns. He finally sees you and gives you a deep bow, "princess."

Being addressed as such makes you feel sad... and lonely.

"I am ser Arryk Cargyll. I will be your ward, along with my twin brother, Erryk, who you will meet after my shift." The kingsguard straightens up, "I will do all that I can to ensure your health does not falter and that you are always seen to."

You think of your own twin as you take in the man's features. The idea that your father purposefully chose twin brothers as your ward made you feel sad and sick, but it was hardly Arryk's fault Otto liked mocking you, so you smile at him, "I have a twin."

The man nods, offering you a smile far more genuine than yours, "aye. Ser Gwayne Hightower. He is deft with the short sword."

You turn to your hands, recalling just a few days ago when you had watched him train. Your lips curl upwards, "though, not as good as I."

Daemon pulls his head back, face contorting. He is taken aback when Arryk's sniggers. The latter nods, "perhaps you will show me your tricks, my lady."

There is a twinkle in your eye as you turn back to him, "perhaps."

Daemon raises a brow at the interaction and decides to stand, "come," he reaches a hand to you, "some fresh air would do you good."

Fresh air? Your jaw slacks and you turn to Daemon with a fallen expression. Be as it was, you were no fool. You did not believe your husband had your best interest in mind, and yet, it was not like you had much of a choice. Against yourself, you to take his hand.

He pulls you up and Arryk comes to your side to assist you. He helps you to your feet, hand on your arm and shoulder.

Daemon is annoyed by his fussing. "Yes. Very good, Cargyll. I can manage to bring her to the dragon pit myself."

You close your eyes and sigh. Just as you dreaded.

"Dragon pit?" Arryk repeats.

"Yes. She needs fresh air." The prince narrows his eyes, "do you contest me?"

Arryk releases you and shakes his head, "I would not."

"Good," he motions with nod, "out of the way then."

You see, after being scorched by the fire of your maker— your father, the sight of Caraxes emerging from the depths did not strike as much fear into you as it did before. In fact, the promise of malice from the beast felt... cathartic, and for once, you welcomed Daemon's insistence on being brought to its maw.

You stumbled against Caraxes' scaly cheek. Having done nothing but lay in the maester's chambers, your hair was not tied or braided in any way. As the wind blew, it tickled against the dragon's face. Caraxes did not seem to enjoy the sensation, and so he growled and snapped his teeth.

Daemon was quick to chastise his mount, and for that, he did not realize your lack of self-preservation. Oh, but Caraxes did; he even growled again, only to be met once more by your unflinching demeanor.

Daemon would only realize your change after taking flight and landing on a beach. Upon dismounting, Caraxes takes it upon himself to screech as you hover. The prince doesn't know who is more bewildered, him or his dragon, when you screech back.

Your neck veins pop and spit comes out of your mouth at the intensity of it all. A harsh wind blows your hair and your skirt. You heave after releasing such a harsh noise.

In truth, perhaps Caraxes is more perturbed as, unlike Daemon's who presses forward, the beast pulls back and shakes his head. He bleats as he watches his rider grab your arm.

The prince means to berate you for your insanity, but then, gods, you rather conveniently succumb to another arrest to your heart and lungs. He does not know why he catches you when your legs give in but he knows exactly why he suggests: "get in the water."

You look up at him, your glassy eyes meeting his violet ones.

He lets you crumble to the ground and bends down to undo your dress, "a swim would do you wonders."

"N-no- you will regret-" you sputter.

But Daemon ignores you, not that it took much effort, for you were incoherent soon enough.

He pulls you out of your dress until you're in nothing but your slip. You sob, and he hushes you, assuring he will be by your side. He removes his tunic. Soon, he is dragging you down deeper and deeper, and you are choking and spitting saltwater.

Daemon decides to simply release you and wait until your body floats lifeless. With how you were gasping, it would not take long. He turns his head when his face is splashed by your flailing arms. When he looks back, the water is calm and your body is nowhere to be seen.

... well, that was rather quick.

He waits for a moment, watching bubbles float up. After a while, he purses his lips and decides to go back ashore. He should have done this sooner.

He freezes when you emerge in front of him, pushing your brown hair off your face. He is perturbed by the serenity across your features; it was as though you were reborn.

You sigh, "I told you you would regret it."

Daemon blankly stares at you.

"There is a great river in Oldtown," you wade around, "the water there is not nearly as pleasant or warm as this, but still... swimming was one of the only ways I could calm myself."

His jaw clenches. He does not even try to hide his disappointment.

You lick your lips at it and turn to Caraxes, who was happily soaking in the sun from the sandy shore, "take heart. Your dragon might entertain himself by eating me yet," you turn to him, "or perhaps my Lord Hand will kill me himself."

His face twists, "what?"

You shake your head and roll your eyes.

He pulls his head back, offended and confused by your sudden nerve.

You allow your body to float up in the water, "you need not pretend. I know you long to kill me."

Daemon is insulted by your brashness. He grabs your floating hip and pushes you down until you're once again face to face. Not a semblance of fear is on your features. It only angers him further.

He snaps, "I could have your tongue for that."

He cannot deny the way his stomach rolls when you place your hands by the base of his neck. The complete change in your temperament puts him on edge. Have you been playing him all along?

"Would it not be simpler to have my head?" you speak plainly, as though you were genuinely curious of his response.

His nostrils flare.

Before he can act, you are swimming off. You emerge from the water, dripping wet. Your clothing is sheer and hugs every part of your body, leaving nothing to the imagination. He could not help but look, but then he was sorely insulted all over when you pet Caraxes head and he lets you.

It was a twisted hallucination. He is suddenly reminded of the milk of the poppy he'd drank; you've probably poisoned him and planned all of this with your cunt father like the conniving whore you really were.

You do not hear him emerge, but only know he did because he is upon you. He forces you around through a severe squeeze on your arms, "what is your game, Hightower cunt?!"

Your body seizes, but you do not succumb to the thundering of your heart, as you had just been relaxed.

He shakes you, making you gasp, "SPEAK!"

"There is no game!" you whimper.

He chuckles dryly, shaking you harshly once more "perhaps it should be said that I need no assistance from my dragon to kill you."

A shiver runs down your spine, "please-"

"Then tell me th-"

"-just do it."

The sound of Caraxes huffing brings Daemon back to reality. And yet it takes you speaking, "just kill me," for him to realize you meant exactly what he thought.

He stills where you descend into further torment. He knows then that it is true. There was no plot, or at least not one where this creature of agony could ever oversee. You were calmed by the water, but not cured. Very truly, he thinks again death would be mercy, convenient for him as well. Yet, in his nature, Daemon does opposite of what he is told and pries his hands off. He mutters under his breath, "ao mūdas run," you terrible thing.

You sob, as if you understood him.

You shed tears unlike the others he's witnessed; there is no panic or fear, only pain.

"Surely you agree it is better than living this way."

The clarity of your voice takes him aback. He turns away, uncomfortable of your sudden agency.

"I have been this way since I can remember," you confess, "and they've all have counted my days for just as long."

"Why must I bloody my hands for you?" he squints, "if you despise living so much, do it yourself."

Your laugh is haunting. You shake your head and wipe your face, "I am not as brave as you. I could not even kill the fishes Gwayne caught for me, though I ate them."

Daemon is unmoved, twice so at the mention of your brother.

"And Gwayne..." you sigh, "he would blame himself." You turn to your feet, warmed by the sand beneath it, "I would not do that to him." You shake your head again, "but again, take heart," you smile, "it will happen soon enough."

His forehead curls.

"I can feel it in my gut," you rub your belly, "it is putrid and festering... whatever it is."

He tilts his head, "then do me a favor and wallow in silence—" he walks off, sparing one last glance, "and try scheming with your cunt father somewhere you will not be caught."

You manically laugh and rip at your hair, "he is my illness, if it is not plain to you."

He stops and turns back to you.

"I am the way that I am because I-" you poke your chest, "am he, had he been born a woman." You rub your sternum, "he loathes me because he is I. I am his hair, his nose, his temper, his... weakness, only amplified because I did not inherit his cock.

"When I pray..." you sniffle, "sometimes I think the gods keep me alive for I am his reckoning— that I must torment him for all the years he has tormented others... tormented me."

Daemon watches the salt from your eyes join the salt on your slip. He stares at your pert nipples then watches you chew your lower lip. He licks his own, "did you mean what you told him?"

You watch as he inches closer, "what?"

"That he is no longer your liege lord," he reaches for your arm, "that I am."

"I-"

Daemon pushes the shoulder of your slip dress down.

Your hand darts to his chest, "i-it is the truth."

He hums and tilts his head. You gasp when he kisses your neck. He licks the saltwater off your skin, enjoying the sound you make when his teeth graze you, "very well then."

Goosebumps form when he pulls your skirt up your thighs.

"It would be beneath a prince to withhold aid for such a tormented spirit."

You do not speak for soon his mouth is claiming yours. It is not as horrid as you imagined it would be. You did not think someone who's shown nothing but aggression could behold you so tenderly. You shiver when he continues to rid you of your sopping clothes. When you break away for air, you manage to mutter, "someone c-could see."

Daemon's expression is changed as stares at you and pushes you to the ground. You gasp as you find yourself atop the garbs he already managed to remove. He undoes his breeches, "who? My dragon?"

You do not know if he means Caraxes.

"You are my wife," he drops to his knees, grabbing yours, "the sin lies with the looker," he pushes your legs apart, "not us."

You bite your lips, feeling the the need to repel him, but decide against it. You simply close your eyes and dig your fingers into the sand.

His loins burn at the sound of your sigh. He sinks into you and relishes your submission. He wraps your legs around him and rocks his hips into yours. You mewl and dig into his back. He bites your lobe before whispering, "you belong to me."

You scratch your nails up his back as his rocking hips send bolts of pleasure in your body.

"Say it."

"I-I-" you heave, "belong to you."

He squeezes your thighs, "you are to do what I so desire."

You gasp softly when he grabs your jaw, making you turn to him.

"-especially if it is against your father, yes?"

You gulp, unable to speak. You simply nod.

Daemon's eyes become hooded. He releases your jaw, claiming your thigh again, "good."

You both remain this way, kissing and rubbing, but then you begin to grow impatient. You bring your mouth to his to catch his attention but do not kiss him. He is taken aback by your unintentional tease and digs his fingers into your flesh. This is why you whimper as you speak, "you- can... enter."

He is broken from his trance, "what?"

"I," you scratch his skin gently, as if to encourage him, "know you are ready. You do not have to hold back. I am accustomed to pain."

He knits his brows, then tilts his head, "how could a virgin know such things?"

He watches bashfulness claim you. You shake your head, "I read it."

"Did your book not tell you it need not be painful?"

"I-" you let out a loud noise when you feel his fingers touch your womanhood, "Daemon-"

He purrs at the sound of his name, "I will show you how good it can feel so that you can tell your father all about it."

The horrifying thought does not even register as he makes you feel things you did not know possible. You begin to shiver and whine, but it is entirely opposite to what your body is accustomed to. Your breath begins to shorten and you instinctively begin to panic, but Daemon's voice keeps you grounded.

"Breathe," he licks your pulse, "it feels good, does it not? Breathe and think of how good I'm making you feel."

You are entirely subservient to him, to his baritone, to his fingers, to his hips. There is nothing but sand and Daemon. You whine when you feel a hard intrusion. The sensation is foreign, and it causes your belly to tense.

He kisses the line that forms between your brows, "relax, my wife. Now is not the time for pain," he hooks his hands behind your knees, "it's a time for pleasure."

It's all a blurry haze after this. Daemon moves into you in a way that makes you wonder how this could ever hurt. Every thrust sends ripples of bliss down your spine. Every hit draws out the lewdest of sounds from your throat. You understand then why they call it love making; you love every moment of it. Your bliss is heightened when he touches something inside you, and again, and again-

For once in your life, as your breath grows heavy, you do not feel like you're about to die.

Daemon alternates tempos, but ultimately resigns to fast and hard. He does not cease until your rigid body goes limp beneath him. The pressure in your stomach breaks into a million burning pieces, and just as it becomes all too much, he pulls out, propping himself up on one arm. You gasp at the heat thats spills on your thigh as he strokes himself. Soon, his arm gives out and he collapses beside you.

You behold the mess of red and white between your legs, but find no shame, only arousal, which you did not expect. You turn to your husband, watching his chest heave, his temples sweat, and his tongue lick his lips.

He's... he's beautiful.

#daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen fluff #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon smut #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #daemon angst #daemon targaryen angst #daemon #daemon targeryan #house of the dragon

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katsu28 · 3 months ago

Text

summer's golden haze - chapter two

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: backyard barbecues, the local market, and an unexpected discovery that has you wondering what exactly you may have just gotten yourself into. (5k)

warnings: angst (this early on, i know i'm sorry but it's for the plot i promise <3), lando and max f bickering like an old married couple

a/n: she's here!!!! sorry it took a little longer than expected but i hope you all enjoy this chapter :) pls feel free to come chat in my asks if you want to, i'd love to hear what everyone think about it so far!

previous chapter | masterlist

“Are these guys rich or something?”

Camille voices exactly the thought running through your mind as you roll to a stop to the address Lando had texted you yesterday, gawking out at the sprawling acreage in front of you.

You peer at the impressive villa through the windshield, taking in everything with baited breath. She’s absolutely right.

This house has to be two, if not three times the size of the one you’re all staying at, and that’s just what you can see so far. Vines bursting with colorful flowers crawl up white stone walls, curling around trellises of even more foliage, shutters on huge windows. There’s even a massive fountain in the middle of the courtyard, pristine marble, spewing crystal clear water in streams.

It’s a classic old money countryside villa—worth millions, you assume, not even taking in the gathering of vintage and expensive sports cars parked along the cobblestone driveway. You suddenly feel so, so small compared to the extravagance of just the exterior of the place.

Who are these people?

A guy with brown curls similar to Lando’s pulls open the door when you ring the bell, in the middle of yelling something at someone further inside the house, before turning his gaze on you all. His face lights up in recognition at the sight of you. “Oh, hey, you’re the girl Lando won’t shut up about! I’m Max, but I’m sure he’s told you all about me, hasn’t he?”

So this is Max. Lando’s told you a little about him, but mainly just funny stories. You wonder if Max knows his best friend is going around telling girls he’s just met about the time Max walked into a glass sliding door.

“A little bit, not much. It’s nice to put a face to the name though!” You say politely.

Max sighs dramatically, shaking his head in faux disappointment. He and Lando must be close. “I’m the best part of his life, and he doesn’t think to share it! What a knob. Anyways, welcome, come on in, make yourselves at home!”

He ushers you all inside, leading you through the house and out huge double French doors leading to the backyard. The rest of their group sits on couches gathered around a stone fire pit, drinks in hand, chatting amongst themselves until they see you all coming. Max does the introductions between your two groups, but there’s one person missing. The one person you were looking forward to seeing again is nowhere to be found.

Max must notice how your eyes search for Lando, because he grins knowingly. “He’ll be out in a bit. Work called.”

“Oh, what does he do?” Samira chimes in. You fight the urge to throw a stone at her, because you know what she’s doing. She’s getting information on Lando because you haven’t got the guts to do it yourself yet.

“Has he not told you yet?” Max raises a brow, taking a sip of his drink. When you shake your head, he presses his lips together, like he’s debating whether or not to tell you himself. “Yeah, sorry, I think I’m gonna stay out of this one. He gets pissy when I meddle with his budding relationships.”

Budding relationship. Your face flames hot at the insinuation, but Samira takes it in stride, raising a skeptical brow.

“What, is he in the mafia or something?”

“‘Course not, that’s ridiculous. Pretty boy like him, he’d never make it in the mafia,” Max snorts. “No, he’s…look, it’s not really my place to say. I’m sure he’ll tell you when he’s ready.”

Lando materializes from inside at that very moment, brows furrowed. There’s a tic going off in his jaw and he looks a little pissed off about something, but as soon as he looks up and sees that there’s company, he composes himself in a split second.

“Hey, guys!” He chirps, hand raising in a wave. He makes his way over to where you all are, plopping down in the empty spot beside you without hesitation. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for the invite,” Maren replies, ever the polite one. “And the coffee yesterday.”

Max makes an offended noise from the back of his throat at his friend. “You bought them coffee yesterday? Where was mine? You never buy me coffee.”

“Mate, you don’t even drink coffee!”

“Maybe I would if you bought it for me!”

The two boys continue to bicker with each other in the same way all evening, which leads you to believe this is just how they are with one another. It gives Lando another dimension in your mind, and you like it.

There are a handful of common interests amongst your friends and Lando’s, ones that spark conversation immediately. As the night goes on, it feels like you’ve all been friends for a while, and you’re glad. Part of you was worried things would be awkward between everyone, but thankfully that isn’t the case.

It passes the time quicker than you expect. Soon enough it’s nearing midnight and you’re close to nodding off onto Lando’s shoulder, fighting to stay awake and looped into the ongoing conversation despite the sleep threatening to overtake you.

It certainly doesn’t help that he exudes warmth from where you’ve wound up pressed against each other on the small couch. You turn your head to look at him, to take in the little details of him. The angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose. The smattering of moles across his face and neck.

One wayward curl hangs over his forehead, and you want to reach out, brush it away. You don’t think you’re quite at that stage of comfort with each other yet, but then he tears his attention away from the rest of the group and meets your gaze with what you can only describe as pure fondness dripping from his lazy grin.

“You alright?” He says softly, shifting his body to face you a little more.

You nod, because you’re more than alright. For the first time in a while, everything feels just the way it should be. “Are you?”

“Hm?” Lando replies noncommittally, sipping his drink. “Fine, why?”

“Earlier, after your phone call, you seemed…upset. I don’t mean to pry, I just wanted to see if everything was alright.”

“Oh, that? Nah, that was nothing, just my boss. Wanted to talk work stuff, but I wasn’t feeling it, y’know?” He shrugs. It feels like there’s more to what he’s saying, but you don’t want to push too hard. You’re still familiarizing yourself with him. “You’re sweet to check on me, though.”

“Okay. But if you, um, if you need to talk or anything, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

Lando traces a finger briefly over the thin strap of your dress, just over your shoulder, before dropping his chin into his palm. You already know he’s about to change the subject. Involuntarily, you shiver at his touch, and he definitely notices, because he suddenly looks a little smug.

“Pretty dress,” He hums, tilting his head.

You weren't trying to make a good impression on Lando, but you weren't exactly not trying, if that makes sense. It doesn't really make sense to you, but you’d gone for cute but comfy with a dress you’d borrowed, hoping it says you’d made an effort, but not too much of one.

Suddenly you can’t remember what you were just thinking about not being at a certain stage of comfort with one another. Is it weird that you're secretly pleased he liked it enough to mention it?

“It’s not mine,” You say softly. Lando lets out a noise of question. “I borrowed it from Maren.”

“Ah. Well, you should definitely get one for yourself then. It’s a nice color on you.”

You want to say thank you, or really just say anything at all, but the moment your gaze flicks back up to his, you’re lost in his eyes again. Everything around you blurs into the background until it feels like it’s just the two of you. You’re teetering on the edge of something, and fuck, it would be so easy to just go over. To let yourself fall and fall and fall into his waiting arms at the bottom.

Suddenly you hear your own voice in your head.

Don’t get attached.

Clearing your throat, you pull back from Lando as smooth as you can manage with him muddling up your brain like this. “It’s late. We should get going,” You say, a tad louder than necessary.

“She’s right,” Camille chimes in, taking note of the slight urgency in your tone. “We’ve got a guided hike in the morning—sunrise, can you believe it?”

Lando’s mouth dips into a tiny frown for a moment, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared. He nods understandingly. “Sure. I’ll walk you out.”

You all say your goodbyes and thank you’s, to which the boys wholeheartedly agree you should all do this again sometime before you part ways.

Lando trails behind a bit like he’s unsure, but catches up to you quickly on the way out, shoulder bumping against yours lightly as you fall into step with each other. His hand brushes yours and lingers a little, pinkies almost intertwining.

“Tonight was nice,” He says casually.

“Yeah, it was,” You agree, bobbing your head.

“Would you—I dunno, maybe want to hang out again?”

“With you guys? ‘Course we would, I’m sure the girls would love to.” You smile, casting a glance at your friends. They’ve all coincidentally already gotten into the car, but if you squint hard enough you can see them gawking at Lando and yourself through the windshield.

How very not subtle of them.

Lando rocks on the balls of his feet almost nervously, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “No, I meant, like…just the two of us.”

“You mean, like, alone?”

“A date. I’m trying to ask you out on a date,” He blurts, nose scrunching. “And failing miserably apparently.”

“Oh!” You feel your face burn hot, yet you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried. You’re about to take him up on the offer, but before you can say a word, another voice pops into the conversation.

“Yes! She says yes! Whatever you’re asking, her answer is yes!” Samira yells through the window enthusiastically, muffled through the glass but still very audible.

Neither you nor Lando can stop the laughs that escape your mouths, especially when you turn around and all three girls are shooting you excited thumbs ups.

“Guess that’s settled then,” You giggle, turning back to face him.

“It’s a date.” He pushes forward, catching you by surprise when he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. As cliche as it sounds, the touch of his lips against your skin, although fleeting, sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. “I’ll text you later to plan, yeah? Get home safe.”

He waits for you to pull around the circular driveway, and as his waving form gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, a glimmer of hope worms its way through you.

In the back of your mind, you know you should keep it in check. This could be totally casual. A short summer fling that won’t hurt anyone no matter how it ends. But maybe, just maybe, it could turn into something more.

-------

Your schedules don't end up giving you a free afternoon together until a few days later, though you come to realize it only makes you look forward to seeing Lando again even more.

You're supposed to be meeting him at the local market in the center of town at half past one, but you find yourself there early, wanting to get a lay of the land before he gets there.

Evidently Lando had the same idea, because you spot him within the first few steps into the open air marketplace, squatting next to a stand with crates and buckets of bright flowers. He’s already got a bouquet clutched in his hands, but still he browses through the different bunches.

“Flowers for Max?” You joke.

Lando shoots to his feet so fast he nearly hits his head on the lightbulb hanging above, only managing to miss it by mere inches as he startles at the sudden voice. When he realizes it’s just you, he snorts with laughter. “He wishes! They’re for you, actually.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” He says teasingly. You don’t even know what to say. Flowers on the first date might be normal, yet nobody’s ever done it for you before. You’re touched, but he must take your silence as something else, because his smile drops the tiniest bit. “Unless you see something you like better? I can still put these back.”

You study the flowers he’s picked out already. A little on the smaller side, it boasts a beautiful mix of both soft and brighter colors while still being simple—it’s exactly the sort of thing you would’ve chosen if you were buying flowers for yourself. “They’re perfect.”

He pays for the flowers and passes them over to you with the biggest smile on his face, one that grows even bigger when you tuck them carefully into the crook of your arm after giving the delicate blossoms a sniff.

You notice the camera hanging around his neck at that moment, despite knowing close to nothing about golf, you do know a thing or two about photography. “Golfer and photographer? Impressive.”

“Amateur at best.”

“Oh, I’m sure you're just being modest.”

“Not even a little bit. I just enjoy taking pictures of things I like.”

He swings around to face you fully, bringing the camera up to his eye and pausing only a second to make sure you're in focus before snapping a photo of you. The shutter clicks twice before you have the sense to hold up a hand out in front of you, a surprised laugh spilling from your mouth. Even then he grins, takes another one before lowering the camera. "What, you don't like having your photo taken?"

“I’m just not very photogenic!”

Lando scoffs immediately, shooting you a pointed look. “That is such a lie.”

“I probably just broke your fancy expensive camera,” You joke.

“We’ll just have to wait til I get it developed and see. I think it’ll turn out wonderful.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“I’ll buy you dinner. If I’m right, then…you let me buy you dinner.”

You let out a noise of surprise. “Well, that doesn’t seem very fair, does it? You’d have to buy me dinner either way.”

“I can think of worse things than taking a pretty girl out for a nice meal.” His words take you by surprise, but judging by the smug grin on his face, Lando takes pride in eliciting a reaction from you. “Shall we?” And just like that, he’s sauntering off down the path like he didn’t just leave you at a loss for words, pep in his step even as he turns around to shoot you a roguish smile. “You coming or what?”

You push aside the fluttering in your chest, giving your head an amused shake before catching up with him. It’s cute that he thinks he’s funny. Even cuter that he seems rather eager to take you out on a second date before the first one has even started.

The two of you wander through the market aimlessly, stopping here and there at various stalls to have a look around. If you had the means, you’d buy everything you see. You wind up picking up some gorgeous looking fruit and a bottle of locally pressed wine, a few small souvenirs for your family back home, but the most important thing you buy isn’t even for you.

Lando had lingered at a stall selling handmade jewelry early on, seemingly interested in a woven bracelet of blues and whites, but didn't pick it up. Part of you wonders why, but it sparks an idea in your head.

You tug at Lando’s arm lightly, smiling guiltily when he turns to look at you. “I think I left my phone at that fruit stand a few stalls back.”

“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your body, you muppet,” He chides, shaking his head fondly. “C’mon, let’s find it.”

“No, I can get it. Why don’t you find us something good for lunch? I’m starving.”

“Are you sure?” Lando cocks his head, shoulder bumping against yours. “I don’t mind.”

“I’ll be right back,” You promise. To sweeten the deal, you make the bold move of pressing a kiss to his cheek. He freezes under your touch, but you pass it off as him not expecting it and being taken by surprise. “Two minutes, okay? Maybe less.”

As soon as you confirm he isn’t paying any attention to you, you slip back through the crowd, finding the same stall and buying the bracelet he’d been looking at. You tuck it safely into your pocket, quickly making your way back to Lando before he realizes you’ve been gone long and comes looking for you.

“All good?” He asks upon noticing you reappear by his side.

You wiggle your phone in the air. “Never better. What's for lunch?”

Lando grins happily, reciting the spiel that the very friendly older man at the food stand gave to him when he’d decided on the delicious looking food. Sure, maybe he stumbles over his pronunciation a little bit, but you find his giggled embarrassment sweet.

You find a semi-secluded bench a little jaunt away to enjoy your food, and you do enjoy it. You think it might be one of the best things you’ve ever had, and when you tell Lando, he looks pleasantly surprised. As you continue to savor every bite, Lando’s eyes light up with amusement, so much so that you wonder what’s suddenly got him all smiling big like this.

“What?” You say incredulously.

He gestures to the lower part of his face. “You’ve got a little…”

Mortified, you mirror his actions on your own face, searching for the food you’ve somehow gotten smudged on your chin. After a few tries that have him shaking his head, you whine, “Help me, please?”, to which he obliges with a soft chuckle. He reaches out, thumb rubbing at the corner of your mouth briefly.

This moment almost seems too intimate, but then again, so have a lot of moments between the two of you. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’ve still got something on your face, but then his gaze flicks down to your lips again almost imperceptibly, and you have an inkling of what’s about to happen.

“Did you get it?” You ask softly. You’re not sure why you break the silence, but it's definitely not because you don’t want him to kiss you. If you think about it, you’ve wanted Lando to kiss you this whole time.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got it," He replies. His hand lingers, long fingers splaying flat under the curve of your jaw now. You surprise yourself by shifting forward slightly, as if encouraging Lando to close the gap. He leans in closer and closer still, and your eyes fall shut on their own accord, heartbeat hammering against your rib cage.

You nearly melt the moment his lips touch yours, held up only by the firm grasp of his hand cupping your face. It’s a little awkward with the food in between the two of you blocking you from pushing closer to him, but you make it work, reaching over it to wrap your fingers around Lando’s forearm. You feel like you need it to ground yourself, because holy shit, you’re kissing him.

Well, more like he’s kissing you, because you’re definitely not the one leading the way. Lando kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and judging by how you feel weak in the knees when you’re not even standing, he does know exactly what he’s doing.

You’re falling, falling, falling, getting lost in him, until—

“Wait, hang on,” He breathes, pulling away. Your eyes flutter open in an almost dazed sort of way, focusing on him in hopes of finding him in the same state, but all you’re met with is…guilt? Sadness? Shame? Maybe a mixture of everything, you’re not sure. All you know is that it has your heart plummeting in your chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Everything hits you at once, and suddenly you’re crashing back down to reality. Lando thinks kissing you was a mistake. You were so sure he liked you back, sure enough to go on a date with him, and now here you are with egg on your face, feeling unbelievably stupid. Hurt.

“I’m gonna—I have to go,” You mumble, scrambling to your feet. You don’t even have an excuse prepared, you just need to get out of here, get away from Lando before you spontaneously combust from the sheer embarrassment.

His hand encircles your wrist before you can make it even a step away.

“No, no, don’t! Please, just let me…let me explain. I promise things will all make sense in a second, if you’ll just hear me out,” He says pleadingly. Despite your better judgment, you sit back down, expression guarded. Lando blows out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. “Look, I like you. I really like you, and I wish things were as simple as that, but there’s things I’ve not told you. Things that, if you knew, you might not want to be with me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, burying your burning face into your hands with a muffled groan. “Oh my god, you are in the mafia, aren’t you?”

“The—what?” Lando blurts, sounding wildly confused. “No, I’m not, I’m not in the mafia. Are you mad? I’m a Formula 1 driver!”

You crack one eye open, then the other. “Formula 1.” You repeat, disbelieving. “Like, the racing thing?”

He nods enthusiastically, tells you everything—how his childhood dream turned into a career, how he gets to travel all around the world doing what he loves. The fame, the lifestyle, the opportunities he’s worked so hard for, all while sounding entirely humble and grateful for everything and everyone who’ve gotten him to where he is today.

It’s impressive, to say the least. The fact that he’s still fairly young and has already accomplished more than what some people have in a whole lifetime. Then he gets to how the chaos that doing what he does at the level he does it at wreaks havoc on other parts of his life, and you feel a wave of sympathy roll over you.

The tradeoff for all that success is not getting to have a normal life in almost every aspect, and given the downward set of his brow as he tells you about it, this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation with someone.

“It makes being in a relationship…difficult, is the best way I can describe it. I’m never in one place more than a week most times, and the whole time zones thing makes it harder too. And after these two weeks are up, I’m already off to somewhere else, jumping right back into the second half of the season and hitting the ground running.”

Realization hits you like a truck at this point, and you have to fight the urge to laugh out loud. Of course Lando is who he is. Of course you had to form a connection with someone with a life as complicated and as far away from your own as possible, someone who couldn’t be in a normal relationship even if he wanted to.

“I wish it were different, but I just—I wanted you to know what you might be getting into if we…” He trails off, but you know what he means. If we want to get involved with each other. If we want to be together.

“So like, long distance, but infinitely harder.” You’re doing your best to put a light spin on the massive amount of new information you’ve just acquired, but you’re barely managing to process it all, let alone even think about what it would be like to date someone as well known as Lando.

“Yeah, something like that,” He says softly, shoulders creeping up towards his ears. “It’s—well, it’s a lot of baggage for anyone to have to deal with. Lots of eyes and ears, pretty public. Not really your cup of tea, I’ve noticed.”

He’s right. You’ve never been one to enjoy being the center of attention, preferring to fly under the radar. Blend into the background. And you hate to say it, but knowing all of what he’s just told you changes things. You don’t think you can handle being thrust into the public eye, and it makes you feel like the most selfish person in the world to walk away from him just because of who he happens to be.

Your life would be forever altered, your sense of privacy and security gone, and that isn’t something you want to compromise. You’re comfortable being nobody significant. With Lando, that would change, no matter how many measures you take to make sure it doesn’t.

As much as you’ve come to like him—and you really like him—it’s just not something you can see yourself being fully okay with.

“I’m so sorry, Lando,” You say quietly. He just smiles sadly, like he already knew it was coming, and you can't help but think about how many relationships—platonic or romantic—that he's lost out on because of his status. The thought alone makes you feel even worse. “I like you too, but I can’t—I don’t think I can be what you want me to be. It’s not me, it’s not the way I can live my life.”

“Don’t be sorry. You haven’t got a reason to be,” He murmurs, thumb rubbing across your knuckles comfortingly. “Knew it was too good to be true, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry,” You say again, hoping that Lando knows you truly mean it. “I wish it were different, but—”

Lando shakes his head, interrupting before you can grasp for any other ways to apologize. He squeezes your hand reassuringly again. “Hey. It’s alright, I promise. I’d never ask anyone to do something they aren’t comfortable with. Especially not you.”

Even when he’s sad, he’s still so thoughtful. It would take a different kind of awful monster not to want to be with him. Apparently that monster is you.

You wish you were someone else, someone who could take huge changes in stride and never miss a step, but you’re not. Someone who knows what they want and goes for it—who knows who they want and doesn’t let anything get in their way.

Unfortunately, you’re not that kind of person.

“What do we do now?”

Lando drops your hand to run his fingers through his curls, down to the back of his neck sheepishly. “Dunno about you, but I’ve—d’you think there’s any chance we can still be friends? I really do enjoy spending time with you lot, we all do.”

“Friends would be nice,” You say softly. It feels strange to agree with him so wholeheartedly.

Maybe it’ll be awkward between the two of you, maybe you won’t even be able to sit next to each other with what’s happened today, but you can’t bring yourself to care all that much. The only thought running through your mind is that you don’t want to lose Lando, even as just a friend.

You’ve gotten attached.

The bracelet you’d bought Lando burns a hole through your pocket. It would be weird to give it to him now, after you’d just turned him down, but you can’t exactly just return it either. You don’t really want to.

Maybe it won’t go to him, but you’re sure you’ll find something to do with it someday.

The girls are waiting in the living room when you finally make your way home, gathered on the sofa with identical innocent smiles like you hadn’t seen them with their heads poked through the curtains. Samira bounces off the cushions with what you can only describe as a gleeful cackle to grab your flowers, showing them off to the other two like a game show host before grabbing your hand and dragging you into the center of their blanket pile.

You know they're expecting good news and you wish you could give it to them, but you can’t.

“So??? How’d it go?”

“He got her flowers, obviously it went well!”

“Okay, spill, now,” Camille presses, easing the bouquet out of Samira’s hands and setting it on the coffee table. “What’s he like, what’d you do—”

“When’s your second date?” chimes in Maren excitedly. The other two nod their vigorous agreement.

“Lando’s amazing,” You sigh, letting yourself fall back against the plush pillows. “He’s super sweet and really funny, we walked around and looked at all the vendors, and then we had lunch and talked for ages, and…there won’t be a second date.”

“What? That’s impossible, you guys were like, made for each other!”

You sigh, rub at a flower petal that’s fallen away from the bouquet. “It’s complicated. I don’t—I’m not ready to get into all of it again this soon, but long story short, our lives are just too different. Being with him would mean compromising things I’m just not ready to lose right now.”

If any of them wants to push for a better explanation, and you know they do, they refrain from doing so. They know you’ll tell them when you’re ready.

But even Samira can tell you’re not quite as okay as you insist you are, and she’s been rooting for you extra hard. She leans her head onto your shoulder, squeezes your hand reassuringly. “You did what was best for you, and that’s all that matters.”

“We agreed to still be friends, so we can still hang out with the guys and stuff like that, but—I mean, yeah, it just didn’t work out.” You don’t think you sound very convincing at all, but it’s the bed you've made, you’ve got to lay in it. “I just don’t really want to talk about it right now, but it's fine. I'm fine.”

It has to be. You have to be. You’ve made sure of it.

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#lando norris #lando norris x reader #ln4 #ln4 x reader #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris x you #lando norris fic #lando norris series #f1 fic #summer's golden haze

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