#and for once your strings are what keeps you tethered to existence instead of bound to a lonely fate

[siliconcat]

tbh I forget the scarlet sisters exist like 80% of the time… I think about the tsukumo sisters more than them

[my-own-walker]

the request, in short, reads: 'what it would be like Kit's birthday inside Briarcliff, in celebration of this sweetheart's special day coming soon?! I love how in-depth your stories tend to be and I think you would do great with it! :D'

Waiting For What Once Was

note: happy bday kit! (may 9). we luv u

warnings: angst, sadness, squalor, the like.

+++

Before there was Alma, Kit celebrated his birthdays at home with his family. Just a small gathering. Him, his parents, his siblings, all huddled around a home-baked cake. The same tradition for each member of the family.

His mother would carefully wrap his yearly gift in the day’s newspaper. Tie it off with a string of twine. She’d deliver it to his lap in the family room with a grin so bright it paled in comparison to summer sunlight. They’d all huddle around to watch him carefully open the package, mindful to leave the paper in tact. He saved it every year. Kept in a little letter box under his bed.

The gift itself didn’t matter. His mother and father were so proud of themselves for what they agreed upon giving him. That was a gift enough for Kit. The warm May air would drift through the windows, singing lazy songs in the key of the sweetest, fairest colors of the daisies in the garden. The whispers of summer coming in echoes from the rustling of the leaves on the trees.

It was peaceful. In their little New England home, the family was happy. For one night and one night only, the world seemed to change its orbit to revolve around him. Kit Walker would lay his head down on his pillow, and as the sweet rumblings of sleep overcame him, he would feel nothing but all-encompassing love.

+

Kit wasn’t privy to the passing of time anymore. It had been months since the upheaval of his life and subsequent imprisonment in Briarcliff. He was none the wiser to how long it had been.

9 months and 9 days.

The days ran monotonously in the cold cement walls of the asylum. Kit found himself at the end of a long tether, hanging on for dear life. His fingers were growing red and raw, losing circulation, but against his every human instinct to let go, he tightened his grip. The metaphorical rope that was keeping him from sinking into utter despair was hurting him. Trying to retain some semblance of humanity was grating on him more than he was willing to admit.

'Who am I, and why am I here?' he would ask himself. A daily reminder to stay alert. Awake. He spent his days catering to people who acted like he was full of air. His story meant nothing to them. He existed merely to prove his innocence. It felt like his morals were gone and what had disappeared was never really there. Maybe he was a murderer.

In blatant ignorance of his inner turmoil, time marched on. So as it was, Kit's birthday arrived quietly. It slipped in the back door while he was asleep. It seemed that its entrance was so stealthy, the rest of the world was oblivious to it as well.

Briarcliff was so casually cruel to all of those who resided there. The staff had no regard for special days. You were a number to them, not a person. So it was fitting that the usual filth and misery of the place did not spare Kit on today of all days.

+

He was just a kid. He hadn't seen the world yet. He dreamed of road-tripping across the country with Alma and the kids someday. The perfect nuclear family existing in their little bubble of peace. He planned to spend his birthdays just as he did as a child. In a tiny home with the love of his life. He led with his heart, not his head. He was turning 24. Just a 24-year-old kid. Notions in his head and so much love left in his heart.

But instead there he was. In a cramped, sterile room in Briarcliff Asylum. Meeting with the head shrink assigned to the case of a crime he didn't commit. The room smelled of mildew. A pipe in the corner of the room leaked water onto the floor with a drip, drip, drip...in sync with the tick of the clock on the wall over the door.

His hands and feet were bound. Like he was some kind of animal. The leather straps dug into his skin spitefully, like they had a personal grudge against him. A heinous criminal like him deserved nothing more. All he was afforded was clothes made of paper-thin fabric, sheets that smelled of mold, and leather straps that bound him not only to this place but also to himself. The memories of the night his world turned upside down.

'Are you even listening to me?' Dr. Thredson sneered.

'Uh, gosh, sorry doctor,' Kit croaked. He didn't even realize he was lost in thought.

'So we're clear here?' Thredson asked. 'When they come asking questions, keep your mouth zipped, son. Not until I figure out what to do with you.'

Kit nodded in reply. Thredson began gathering the papers he had scattered on the desk in front of him. Details of Kit's life, what he supposedly did, how he did it. Leafing through the papers, he paused looking at one of the papers with a furrowed brow, stopping quickly only to say, 'Oh, Happy Birthday Kit,' before packing the files away in his briefcase and standing to leave.

'Th-thanks,' Kit mustered. The air left the room. It became a vacuum chamber for him and his thoughts, the world around him standing still. Images of his mother's smile as she passed him his annual birthday gift, a home-baked cake, Alma's smile, and rustling green leaves on trees, flashed in front of his eyes. A wave of an indescribable emotion coursed through him.

'Let's GO, Walker!' Frank shouted on the right side of Kit. He was standing by the now open door. Kit shook himself out of his trance. ‘I don’t have all FUCKIN’ day, Kit.’

Kit stood, not without a struggle due to his restraints, and shuffled to the door. Frank pushed him in an attempt to hurry him up. Not all there, though, mind a million miles away, Kit lost his footing and came crashing down onto his stomach in the middle of the dim hallway.

On the ground, there was no cool spring breeze. No smell of vanilla cake. No sunlight peeking through the windows of a warm home. No laughter. No love. Just cold, rough, wet concrete.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, his grip on the tether that kept him connected to reality loosened.

+++

OKAY FUCKIN FINALLY THIS TOOK ME FOREVER!!! Happy bday Kit bby <3 thank you for this super in-depth and creative request.

[brazenautomaton]

Fixing Afterlives: The Maw, First Visit

So our Shadowlands journey starts with the Maw. You know what? People hate this scenario now because you can’t skip it and have to go through it on every character, but the first time through, this is actually really good. You’re kicking in the gates of Hell with a platoon of Death Knights and then everything goes tits-up and you don’t have a beachhead and you’re lost and wandering and there are awful, awful things everywhere and you’re hiding and isolated and need to learn how to escape. You just need the option to skip it on your alts.

Plus the aesthetics of the Maw are great. They sell what it is -- the hostile architecture, sinister crystal formations, the way everything seems swept and shaped by a windstream of souls. We’ve seen plenty of environments that look like a Hell of flames. This is a Hell of pure suffering. Pain is what lives here. Pain is all that enters and pain is all that is produced. It’s only after you went farming Stygia for a while that the pain gets inflicted on you.

So we assemble the crew, get the exposition while we put together the Helm of Domination, get given a portal stone to establish a beachhead, and we bust in to find the four captives: Anduin, Jaina, Baine, Thrall. We rally the Death Knights into enough of a formation to make it in and find the evidence of Jaina, and I like that, I like how you track her by the huge formations of ice -- it shows you her power and the mark she leaves. Finding her is mostly the same although her dialogue is less generic and content-free (from now on assume I apply this caveat to all dialogue). She’s more confused and disoriented and even though she’s fighting it’s with a resignation that she knows it won’t work and she’s starting to think she’s only hurting herself by trying. She acts like she has been there for years. But you say you and the DKs are here to save her and she follows against her better judgment and agrees to try and find Thrall, who she struggles to remember, but seems to be trying very hard to be able to remember.

Then the Mawsworn Kyrian show up and laugh about her hopelessness, and you fight them. And they kill the shit out of you. 

More and more and more of them keep coming and they’re level 60 when you’re level 50 and if you do some bullshit to survive eventually one of them will grab you by the neck to Silence you, lift you into the air, and do the ol’ Val’Kyr Special and fatally drop you. You unavoidably die.

This is necessary early to establish what dying in the Shadowlands means. Play a special graphic effect when the player dies, something more drawn out and grasping. Play a sound effect appropriate to race/gender of the PC of them struggling against great pain and gasping. Then you appear next to a Spirit Healer (yes normally in the Maw you just respawn alive so you have to pick up your Stygia like in Dark Souls, we’ll explain the discrepancy later), a Mawsworn Spirit Healer, who says “No. Your suffering will not end. The Maw claims you.” and then starts to chase you the fuck down with a bunch of shades. You need to run, as a ghost, to claw your way back into your body. Obviously, if the shades catch you, you get dragged back to the start and the Spirit Healer fucks with you a bit. 

Your body has been dragged over to the area where Jaina and the rest are hiding; they fled while you were being merced. Jaina sees you stir. And she says “I’m sorry, champion. Death is no respite here. It is so hard to fight the pull… I struggle to even remember my body when I try to return.”

Jaina has been brutally killed over a dozen times. This is not her first rodeo. This is not her first escape attempt. This is not the first time she’s killed that particular Mawsworn tormenter whose name I don’t recall. It doesn’t end. It never ends. She doesn’t know why she tries any more, when she knows it will fail and she will die and suffer and claw her way back to her flesh and every time it gets harder and harder. All it buys her is the ability to offer futile resistance and maybe that isn’t even worth it.

Mood: established.

From there it goes mostly the same. You try to pump the shades for info about how to escape and they don’t know, they can’t know, they can’t even want to escape. The info you get is a memory of spitefully hating someone who fled to the waystone. You rescue your buddies. You see the Jailer fuck up Baine, only instead of giving him a spirit poison, he fucking snaps the dude like a Kit-Kat and drops his lifeless corpse, and you drag it to safety. You don’t need to find a poison dagger to counteract the spirit poison; you need to keep him safe and clear a path for his spirit to flee back to his body. Thus reinforcing what the danger here is and how it’s different and what they fear.

And while you do this, at some point, you run into Sylvanas. Maybe she just walks up to you while you’re all collected around Baine trying to help him revive. Since the Jailer won’t be saying “it’s not like you won anything b-b-baka, it was just a temporary setback,” you need to establish that feeling that he views your victories as completely meaningless. Sylvanas knows you’re here saving Baine. So does the Jailer. It does not matter. You cannot accomplish anything. 

Thrall kills her dead. She just gets back up. She has an escort for her soul to go back to her body. “How many times are you going to try that before you learn it’s futile? Come now, Thrall. I know you’re smarter than this. I know you respected me more than this.”

And then stuff like “How could you do this, Sylvanas? How could you betray the Horde?” Thrall is incredibly angry and offended at her. He thought he knew her. “Neither of us had any illusions you were not a monster, Banshee Queen. But I trusted you anyway because I knew you wanted what was best for your people. You were a monster, but a loyal one. How can you now turn your back on what little principle you had?” Sylvanas is hurt by this, but she doesn’t linger on it.

Jaina, however, is desperately trying to flatter her. Do this to sell the kind of impact this has had on Jaina, and what this suffering drives her to. “Please, Sylvanas. I know you were my enemy but you were an honorable one. It isn’t too late. Someone as cunning as you must know that this will end in ruin. I promise… I promise… I will surrender if you let me return. Kul Tiras will become servants of the Forsaken. Just, just let them live… please, you could rule our world, not slaughter it…”

Jaina breaks down in tears. Yes, she just tried to surrender her people to the enemy for mercy. Jaina is breaking. All of them will. The Maw is a Bad Place and makes them give up hope. That’s how we sell the threat. Not by making the enemies bigger or spikier, showing how they have broken these heroes. Less screaming anger. More pain.

Sylvanas scoffs at her offer. “It doesn’t matter where your people’s loyalty lies, Lord Admiral.” And then she says the phrase that will become a motif: “Nobody escapes the Maw.” She leaves. She doesn’t care what you do. It doesn’t matter.

But you have to still hold on to that sliver of hope that maybe the waystone is a way out. So you get Baine up and you sneak past this big-ass Maw army that can fuck 31 flavors of your day up. The jailer notices you and sends out a force to stop you at the waystone, and he repeats the phrase when he sends out the order: “Nobody escapes the Maw.”

So there’s the event, you fight off the army while the waystone charges, the army gets bigger and bigger, the charge meter gets stuck at 90%, you go to kick it and it teleports you to Oribos.

The mob descends on the other captives. Sylvanas and the Jailer look completely unconcerned with your escape. After having clearly seen you physically leave the Maw, Sylvanas brushes it off with “Nobody escapes the Maw.” Dun-DUNNN! Cutscene end.

You appear in Oribos. The Protectors stop you because you stink like the Maw and what the hell dude, yada yada. This is when you get a tour of the city, here’s the profession trainers, the bank, the transmog. Only secondary details need to be changed here. One, this is an instanced version of the city where no other players exist (you are the first one there, nobody else is). Two, Lich King Bolvar (hashtag #notmylichking) arrives from Azeroth and says SOMETHING to justify other players coming from the Maw but being less important than you. Something like, he saw what you did, there are other adventurers from Azeroth still in the Maw, his DKs are hunkering down in defensive positions and will try to make their way to the Waystone once it cools off because you already activated it, since you are the more special one, and there might be a chance that a couple others might have an echo of your power because they have had similar adventures. You are the True Maw Walker, and the context of the massively multiplayer element is “for your story, all those other guys have shitty Maw Walker powers that only work once you opened the pickle jar for them.” They can’t bring passengers, either.

Third, not the most importantly but yes the most importantly, if you are Forsaken or a Death Knight or Mechagnome or whatever you get a special dialogue where you say “Why do you keep calling me a ‘living mortal’? I’m not alive. I’m undead / a machine / maybe something else like maybe I missed the fact that vulpera are made of rocks and string.”

So Tal-Inara or whoever can be like “Oh, THAT’S what that is. Something was odd about you, mortal, that I couldn’t quite place. I call you ‘living’ because your soul is still tethered to a body. To us in the Shadowlands, to be bound in a vessel like this is far more important than the nature of the vessel itself.” That’s why people keep calling you “living”, to them you’re easy to mistake for one.

Kyrian in the Maw is disturbing news, and also WEIRD, because as Tal-Inara reminds us, “Nobody escapes the Maw.” Why would the Kyrian go down there when they can’t come back? It is terrible but not unheard of for mortals to try and speak to the Jailer but they never GO there because they can’t get out. And yet Sylvanas just walked in there? And he is mustering armies? Better go to Bastion and find out what is up. Let’s crank open this gateway, and...

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Trapped.

Commission for an anonymous donor.

Paring: Yandere!Oikawa/Reader.

TW: Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Non-Graphic Violence and Emotional Manipulation.

~  

It was the closest thing you had to a hobby, honestly.

The routine wasn’t complicated, but that was what you liked about it. You’d spend a few months working on your target, getting close and goating them on until they finally gave in and did something violent. Oikawa was your masterpiece. You knew he would be, from you found him, drinking alone after an injury separated him from his oh-so-beloved volleyball for the better half of a season. He was that perfect mixture of resourceful and desperate, sorely in need of an emotional bond you knew better than to give him.

He fell into the lifestyle quickly, too. You were hardly a month in when you first woke up in his guest room, a pair of shackles around your ankles and a thick, metallic chain keeping you bound to the furthest wall. It was a dance. He broke into your apartment, and you threw yourself down the fire-escape to get away. Oikawa cornered you outside your favorite club, and you screamed so loudly, even the bartender came to see if you were alright. He was dissatisfied, but you couldn’t have been more content. Not when an adrenaline rush was always waiting just around the next darkened corner.

He’d outdone himself, this time. There were no ugly, jagged edges or tools left lying around in the shape of luxuries, no, his basement had been stripped down to its essentials. When you woke up, you found little more than empty walls and a bare mattress, the plush surface serving as a consolation prize for the realization that Oikawa could no longer trust you with bedsheets. It didn’t matter, though. You didn’t care if he trusted you, not when your heart was beating faster and your pulse was beginning to race in your ears, that familiar sense of dread beginning to form a gnawing, tightening knot in the pit of your stomach. The kind that made it impossible to think. The kind that made you want to run and hide and submit, if only by reflex.

But, you didn’t. You steeled yourself and took a deep breath, and that was where the power came from. You weren’t powerless. You weren’t helpless. You were just as capable as everyone else, even with the odds stacked against you.

Without thinking, you felt along your side, probing the fabric of your shirt for something more solid than cloth. Near the hem, you went to work tearing through the flimsy material for the prize hidden beneath  - a rectangular razor blade, the type you’d stitched into a concealed pocket on every article of clothing you owned. It was easy enough to free the object, using the sharpened edge to cut the blade free before properly investigating Oikawa’s newest toy. He’d done away with his usual chains and cuffs, and instead, a braided cord linked the thick, steel collar around your neck to a nearby outlet, rope fading seamlessly into cement.

It took less than three minutes to carve through a random section of the tether, a task you carried out with a meticulous, measured silence, content to let your absentee abductor believe you hadn’t yet awoken. It was a precaution you maintained as you started towards the only available exit - the basement door, a pallet of wood as thick as your forearm, and unfortunately, twice as solid. You climbed the ancient staircase as you considered how to bypass it, if Oikawa had felt thought to secure it properly. There’d been a padlock, last time, one you’d pried open with a hairpin and more frustration than you’d like to admit, and an alarm the time before that. You doubted he’d come up with anything more clever. Oikawa was persistent, but he wasn’t--

You didn’t get to finish that thought. Underneath you, a single step gave out, splitting down the middle as if someone had the forethought to nearly, nearly break it, before leaving it in place for you to find and stumble onto. It snapped under your weight, and reflexively, you stepped back, directly onto a platform that didn’t exist, much less stop you from stumbling back down to the concrete floor you were really beginning to dislike. 

There was no time to brace yourself, no time to prepare, your back taking the brunt of the fall and screeching in retaliation, a steady, pounding soreness spreading down the length of your spine. You tried to take a deep breath, to check for fractures and injuries and the string of bruises you knew would appear in an hour or two, but there wasn’t time.

Not when the basement door was already opening.

You acted on instinct. You moved to push yourself up, but before you could think, Oikawa was on top of you, forcing you back down and knocking the air from your lungs. There was a flash of white across your vision, the sound of something loose and metallic rattling in a careless hand, and it was all you could do to find your voice as a new, fresh wave of pure panic washed over you, ruthless in its arrival. “Fuck,” You spat, more for yourself than your aggressor. “You’re trying something new?”

“Oh, you noticed?” He had you on your chest, now, your hands pressed against the small of you back as he straddled your waist, his resolve seemingly undeterred by your constant writhing. “There’s only so many times I can tolerate your games before I get fed up,” He explained, taking you by the throat with his free hand and shoving you downward, only stopping when your cheek was pressed against the floor. “You’re not going anywhere, and you’re not getting away. I’m done chasing you. I’m not giving up the prize I’ve earned again.”

You didn’t indulge him with a response. Instead, you took hold of the hand currently restraining yours, burrowing your nails in his wrist and rolling to the side, throwing Oikawa off balance. There was a wordless, surprised noise, a sharp intake of air, and he faltered just long enough for you to throw your weight back and push yourself to your feet. You didn’t try to keep him down, you knew you wouldn’t be able to fight him with brute strength alone. Instead, you focused on sprinting towards that elusive, unreachable door, Oikawa’s footsteps following shortly after. You didn’t care. Once you were outside, you’d be safe. All you needed to do was make it that far.

You could practically taste fresh air. There was no deadbolt in sight, no lock or latch, nothing beyond the most minimalist of barriers. Your fist closed around the knob, and hastily, you pulled, eager to wallow in Oikawa’s despair, to see that scowl you doubted would ever really fade, the glare that never failed to burn holes into every patch of skin he deemed burnable. You couldn’t wait to hear him curse your name and…

And the door wasn’t opening.

It wasn’t opening.

Wirey arms wrapped around your midriff as you pulled, and pushed, and did everything you could think to do that might make the obstacle in front of you budge. Oikawa laughed, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder just as your eyes found the meager, unremarkable rotary, listing four digits in no particular order just above the door’s handle. It was simple, just a combination lock built into something you’d gotten passed hundreds of times already, and yet, you quickly found yourself frozen, unable to move.

Trapped.

Absolutely, unmistakably trapped.

“I thought it’d be a nice touch,” Oikawa teased, his voice muffled, barely audible. You wished he hadn’t said anything at all. “Something you can’t hit until it gives in, not that I don’t expect you to try.”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could. That’d never fazed Oikawa, though.

“I’m not letting you get away, this time.”

[iamtaekooked]

Stardust || Pt 2 || JJk

Genre: Soulmate AU! Red string of fate au!

{Part 1 here }

Word count: 4.5 k

Summary:

You didn’t believe in soulmates until you lay your eyes on Jeon Jeongguk, the younger brother of your best friend’s husband. That is when you see the red string which begins encircled around your pinky and ends in his.

A/N: Right so I am just going to leave this here. I don’t even know if this is good enough! but for the sake of my mental health I hope you guys like it :)

Summer of 2013, Vienna

Graduating feels like such an accomplishment that you decide to reward yourself.

“Lets go to Vienna” you announce one day while lying on the sand at the beach, being subjected to gawks and stares by your friends. You figure that after graduating your life would become mundane, the boring 9-5 every single day with no opportunity given to enjoy the few moments of beauty life spared.

You watch the shocked looks on their face fade into those of happy smiles as soon as they see the reasoning behind your sudden announcement. The last trip of freedom you dub the journey and spend all your savings on buying tickets to Vienna. With an almost empty bank account, but a full heart you begin on your journey .  Youth and impulsivity is such an overplayed concept and so shamed but there is a certain beauty in taking risks. There is a certain thrill in letting go of all preconceived notions, beliefs, expectations that you cannot help but feel a little rebellious.

Your initial few days consist of you lounging around in your hotel room due to the jet lag but as your body adjusts to the change you begin to venture outside, exploring the beautiful attractions the place has to offer. You don’t waste a single second after that holed up in your room, but instead spend even the early hours of dawn in the hustle and bustle of the city. Some days your accommodation is a bench in some random park, and some days you find yourself passed out in some night bar, with lipstick smudged and hair a mess.

Your friends don’t bother you much, even though it is a group vacation because they are aware how important your space and freedom is to you. You explore the cityscape sometimes by yourself, and sometimes by making acquaintance with a local and getting more benefit and enjoyment than you could have with a commercialized guide.

You are having the time of your life with your worries pushed to the back of your mind and the sole purpose at present being rebellious in your youth and charm that you find yourself drawn to a music festival.You drag some of your reluctant friends to the concert with the bribe that you would later do what they wanted and quit being picky.

Though you will never understand the language, the music itself is enough to drown you in a state of euphoria. You sway to the music like a person lost touch with sanity and let your mind drift deeper with the adrenaline pumping through your veins. The music vibrating through the surrounding space isn’t the only encouragement, for the beer you have been sipping on for the past two hours also contributes to your current state.

You don’t feel drunk, but you do feel buzzed enough to let loose and enjoy your time. Raising your arms above your head you move your body with the thumping music, and feel it hit your chest. Your feel it hit your ears with a force and you drown into the music once more. But your ecstasy is short lived when someone accidentally spills their beer on the back of your shirt while trying to pass through.

Irritably you turn around to scold the person but stop short when you find yourself faced with a handsome young man. Your body begins to burn up in his presence and you feel like a fire has been ignited in you, the soaking shirt already forgotten. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you because of the alcohol but you could swear you saw a spark of fire in his eyes. Or maybe its the light reflecting that gives the illusion but whatever the case may be, his eyes are as deep as the ocean and filled with so much wonder and passion, you find it hard to look away.

You two stand staring at each other in the midst of the vibrating music, and dancing sweaty bodies. He is the first to break out of the trance as he apologizes for ruining your shirt and quite possibly your night. But you refrain from telling him that he has possibly made your night instead of ruining it. You feel a pull towards him, but its not lust. Its not physical. You feel it in your bones, you feel it in your stomach, you feel it in your chest and its the kind of feeling you get when someone takes your breath away. You feel drawn to him and you cant help it.

So you smile in return and shake your head, acknowledging his apology but also conveying your forgiveness. He extends his hand forward the intention being an apology and an introduction.

Your eyes travel the expanse of his forearm and you see a vein bulge, which causes you to gulp. You quickly make haste and look away, placing your hand in his. You feel something similar to tingling you’ve read about in books, but its not the same thing. It’s like an itching sensation that travels up your arm and ends in your spine. His hand is gentle, wrapped around yours and his fingers slightly rub the skin of your palm.

He nods and slips his hand out of yours and in the moment of parting your fingers brush against each others before both of your hands fall at your sides. It reminds you of cheesy movies, and romantic poems. His eyes suddenly divert to his hand as you watch his face take on a shocked expression for a split second and if you hadn’t been watching, you would have missed it.

“Everything okay?” you ask in concern but when he smiles and nods, you feel it slipping away being replaced by a sense of happiness.

He takes you to the back of the wide open space where the music isn’t as loud and its easier to have a conversation. Finding a good spot to sit on, you take a seat next to him, ensuring some distance remains between you two. Its not because it makes you uncomfortable but because you know that you might end up doing something you shouldn’t. And for some reason you get the sense that he wouldn’t stop you either , and if his gentle stares and stolen glances are any indication he is interested too.

He is a stranger and you don’t know what to ask him. If he was someone else you might have started a conversation but with him you cant seem to find the right words. He is a stranger but this stranger makes you spell bound. You realize you can’t look at him for longer than two seconds because then your stomach flips and nervousness builds up. At least before him, you want to put up a confident front, no matter what goes on inside.

He breaks the silence first.

“Are you travelling or do you live here?” he looks at you, but the moment your eyes meet he is the first one to look away. You find it cute that his face flushes red, and he fidgets with his fingers because then you don’t feel so alone with your feelings.

“Just travelling. Wanted to get away” you stop yourself because you find words at the tip of your tongue that are dangerous to divulge to a stranger. That too a handsome stranger.

He nods, and takes a sip of his beer side eyeing you again. You chuckle at his naivety.

“You?”

“I thought I would find my soulmate here” his laugh sounds like a mocking at his own words. But his straightforward answer takes you by surprise.

“Did you?” you ask, your heart sinking because you didn’t want him to have a soulmate. If he did then it would somehow hurt you.

It was absurd because you knew nothing about the man, yet you felt an inexplicable connection to him, a connection you couldn’t explain in words. It was this white hot feeling. The feeling to hold him, to kiss him, to have him and to call him your own. It was the feeling of your soul calling out to his as if they were lovers in a past life. It was as if an invisible object tethered you to him in some way and at some point during your reverie you thought you lost your mind because it couldn’t be possible. Was this what they called love at first sight?

Soulmates didn’t exist and the people who claimed they did and claimed to have found one had simply turned to wishful thinking and hope because imagination and hope always masked away the pain. Because to remain sane, people would turn to all sorts of things to keep from falling apart.

“Yes” he whispers his answer but he isn’t looking at you while confirming your worst fear, instead he is looking out into the distance towards the stage where the band is playing.

“Oh” you reply and take a sip of your drink to swallow away the lump growing in your throat.

“Oh..” he mimics you

Turning around at the same time your eyes lock. You look away first but you can still sense his eyes on you.

“Stop looking at me like that” you whisper taking a sip of your beer to soothe your parched throat

“Like what? This” he moves even closer and you can feel his breath hitting your cheek.

“So do you really see the crimson string then?” you ask him trying to normalize the tense atmosphere because it feels like you will explode from all the emotions you are trying to hold back

“Yea I do. But its twisted on itself. That can’t mean anything good” he sighs through his nostrils looking solemnly at the ground, finally letting some distance fall between you two for which you feel bitterly thankful.

“You’re lucky you are one of the few people who can see it”

“It can be a curse you know because I see it everywhere, but when it came to me its tangled up”

You nod in understanding of his point of view.

“Maybe that just means you will find your soulmate sometime in the future again. Maybe its a test of your love” you beam at him, and he reciprocates the smile.

“Yeah maybe”

“Does your soulmate know?”

“I am not sure” he smiles at you, looking straight into your eyes.

Your brows furrow at his vague answer because neither is that a yes nor a direct no. But you refrain from pushing because you know its none of your business and some lines should never be crossed.

While you are busy looking out towards the stage in some distance, he is busy looking at you. His lips are turned up at the corners in a slight smile.

“What will you do if you find your soulmate?” he asks so suddenly that your automatic response is to tilt your head in confusion

“I don’t know” you chuckle and his heart drops. Your response isn’t what he expects but he pretends to be okay with it.

“What if he’s handsome? Like me?”

You laugh before responding. “Well aren’t you one for subtlety”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you looking at me” he teases and his bashful tone causes your cheeks to heat up.

“You’re right. I have been looking at you. So what?” you try your hardest to hold eye contact with him despite the anxious feeling rising in your stomach

“So I think you like me” he playfully smirks

“What if I say I do?” you arch an eyebrow in question surprised at your own confidence. But you know you are confident because he is reciprocating the subtle playfulness behind your words. It gives away his interest and if he hadn’t been so complying to your coquettish ways you wouldn’t have been so open.

“I don’t think my soulmate would like that very much” he tries to hold in his smile and you watch his lip quivering but he covers it up by pulling his lip between his teeth.

“Would you like it though?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to?” he smiles lopsidedly and you know he’s turned the tables onto you

“You have a way with words you know?” You look away and let your eyes fall to the ground

“You don’t sound that impressed though” he flashes his eyebrows

“Thats because I am not” you lie but you have no choice because you he cant know how he makes you feel. He already has a soulmate.

“Sure if you say so” he shrugs but its clear that he knows

“What are we doing right now?” you narrow your eyes at him in curiosity

“Talking?” his tone raises at the end making the statement into a question. But even behind his question you can tell he is being a tease since he knows exactly what you mean.

You look at him with your eyebrow cocked up and head tilting to the side.You know he knows. And he knows you know. But neither of you wants to say it.

Its flirting at its best and neither of you is in the mood to give up. But you are hit by the icy realization that he has a soulmate. For some reason that hurts. Its fucked up because you don’t even know him and yet you’ve cultivated some kind of feeling for him and its definitely not in the platonic end.

“Would you tell me if I asked you your name?” you look up at him and he breaks out into laughter.

“Depends” and your brows furrow to relay your confusion.

“I mean I don’t want to tell you my name if it happens that we never meet each other again. How about we settle on being nameless strangers who bump into each other on a whimsical night?”

The proposition doesn’t sound bad at all because you know that you are probably never going to see this man again. Knowing his name would just make it that much hard to forget him after your time with him is over. Its always been easy for you to forget faces rather than names so you whole heartedly agree with his idea.

“Nameless strangers it is” you nod in approval and the blinding smile on his face is back.

“Tell you what if we ever meet again in this life I’ll tell you my name and then you’ll have to go out on a date with me” his eyebrows are raised in question, but you know he is being playful about it because there is no way you would ever see him again.

“What if we’re married by then, you know to different people?”

“I doubt it, but okay” he shrugs

“Why do you doubt it? You can’t see the future can you?” You joke and he is quick to catch on. “No. But how do you know we will be?” You sigh in response because he’s turned the tables again. He really does have a way with words.

“Why a date?” your curiosity and increasing interest get the best of you because his proposition is mysterious at best.

“Doesn’t the story always end with the guy asking the girl out on a date?”

You shake your head at his naively romantic logic but you cant refute it either because a part of you wishes to see him again and take him up on his offer.

“Fine. If we ever meet again lets go out on a date” you extend your hand forward and he takes it, sealing the deal in place.

As if remembering something you fumble in your pocket and when you pull your hand out, clutched in your fist is a piece of paper. You extend your fist in his direction and open it revealing the crumpled piece of paper.

“Take this” you open your palm fully laying out the paper flat.

“What is this?”

“Its my favourite poem. It fits your situation. You should have it, as a symbol of hope and all you know for your future” he stares at the paper in your hand and then back at you. At your nod he takes the paper and reads over the inked words, a smile growing on his lips in recognition of the similarity between the words and his circumstance. You don’t whether you give to him as a keepsake to remember you by and maybe one day find you again or whether you really want to him to keep it as a symbol of hope.

“It does fit. Thank you” he carefully folds the paper neatly and places it in his pocket.

Then you say goodbye to him because your friends drag you away as night falls and your flight has to leave. You say goodbye feeling crestfallen because although it was a short lived meeting you became fond of him.

Present Day

You stare at him and it feels as if time has come to a standstill. The night when you had abruptly left, there was a certain pain behind the goodbye so much so that you chose to forget about the it all together rather than let him remain a fragment in your memory ; as part of the countless people you had encountered in your life. Simply put he wasn’t just a single encounter to you, he meant something you couldn’t define or identify.

So you let him get buried deep into your consciousness and until this night you never thought you would remember him again. You never liked the idea of soulmates before, but now it had a certain appeal because fate brought him back to you again. Like a sense of deja vu, the feelings you felt the night you met him for the very first time resurfaced.

He smiles down at you, and you see the fire in his eyes once more. But this time you are not buzzed and you know that what you are seeing is real.

“I remember now. We talked about your soulmate” you look at him and once again the empty feeling from that night makes it way into your heart, the cold spreading like a chill through your body.

“We did” he chuckles and nods his head at the ground.

“What happened?” and as you utter these words your heart feels heavy like it had all those years ago. Nothing has changed since then.

“I found her, but she still doesn’t seem to know who I am and who she is”

“She seems a bit dumb” you laugh to try and make the atmosphere feel less tense.

“Speak for yourself”

“Hmm? What?”

He didn’t know if it was the many years he spent apart searching for you or if its was this sudden wave of overwhelming emotions rolling over him.

“Do you seriously not see the string?” he brings his pinky up and you stare at it for a few moments slowly shaking your head at being met with nothing but his finger. But then you abruptly stop when you see a flash of red appearing around his finger. You gasp in shock as you see it tied around around his little finger and as you run your eyes along its length you stop when you see it ending around your finger.

Then everything begins to fall into place. The unexplainable allure you felt towards him all those years ago and once again now. The feelings of bitter disappointment at the mention of his soulmate, and the itch to keep him in your sight begins to make sense. Its because he is your soulmate and all these years you were blind to it.

“Di- did you see it that night?” you pause “In Vienna I mean”

He nods and immediately guilt washes over you. You even gave him your favourite poem and now you realized how ironic and mocking it was.

“Why didn’t you say anything”

“You asked me if I had found my soulmate but at that time I didn’t even know what that meant. I just saw this red piece of thread between us and I didn’t think it meant anything because you couldnt even see it. Until today atleast I didnt think it meant anything”

“What do you mean?”

“You see that poem you had given me. I had lost it. I misplaced it in some library book and I went every day to the library to check whether it was there and it wasn’t. I went every day for the past 3 years. Every single day and I didn’t find it until today when I saw it in one of Hyung’s journals. I don’t know how it ended up there but I remembered you said to think of it as a symbol of finding my soulmate in the future. I did” he then pulls out the piece of paper which has turned a bit yellow and torn on the corners.

“If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you. Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you. Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I”

You feel tears pool in your eyes as he reads the poem. You chuckle feeling bittersweet because the poem really fits your story.

“See I told you it fits” he steps forwards, placing his arms behind your waist and pulling you closer. He rests his head against yours, gently caressing your cheek with his fingers and wiping the stray tears on your cheek.

“I found you. Again” he presses his lips against your forehead in a soft feathery kiss that causes a tumultuous response in your stomach but you don’t care because he’s found you and you’ve found him.

“Took you long enough” you press your hands against his letting them lace together.

“Oh come on babe, look whose talking. At least I tried. You didn’t even try. You forgot me” he accuses you but the playful tone in his voice is evident.

Out all all the words he said babe stuck out the most so it felt best to make some sort of comment on it.

“Seriously. Babe? Isn’t it a bit too early for all that. Besides we don’t even know each others names. Remember?” You look at him questioningly

“I am Jeongguk and I am crazy in love with you. Happy?” he extends his hand.

“I am y/n. And I cant believe I have cheese for a soulmate because thats the cheesiest thing anyone has ever said to me” you place your hand in his, and he gently squeezes it. Just as you had assumed your body begins to burn, and a tingling warmth spreads from your head to your toes and it almost takes your breath away. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something else?” he looks at you questioningly, but at the same time he is trying to bite back the smile that threatens to break out.

“What?”

“That date we talked about. Babe” he adds at the end.

“Isn’t this date-y enough for you? And seriously.. babe again?” you give him a look that speaks of your disbelief at his boldness but then thats nothing new. He was probably born like that and you wouldn’t be surprised if ends up confirming that statement.

“I didn’t know you were the traditional type. Fine how about sweetheart instead of babe. Plus this is nothing y/n I would give you the world” he tries to contain his smile at your expression which conveys your dislike and disgust; a scrunch of the nose accompanied by a frown. You really can’t believe he is that cheesy.

“Just give up already” you laugh and he presses a kiss to your cheek.

“No” then he kisses your other cheek. “Never” he places a kiss on your nose. “Babygirl” he lays a soft peck on your lips

You suddenly remember his flirtatious ways and cannot help but ask him about it.

“Why did you flirt with me that night despite being unsure of what the whole deal meant?”

“Just because I wasn’t sold on the long term deal back then, doesn’t mean I wasn’t attracted to you-” he pauses and moves closer to your ear. “Babygirl” he finishes with the word which makes your cheeks taint a bright shade of pink.

“Are you sold on the long term deal now?” you hold your breath for his answer.

He ponders the question for a few moments looking heavenward with his eyes scrunched in question.

“Hmmm… Too bad for you babygirl even if you wanted to get rid of me I am not going anywhere” he shakes his head

“You might not but what if I fall for someone else” you tease but your smile falters when you see the expression on his face darken abandoning all traces of the playful smile earlier.

“Then you are just ensuring that person’s end. Don’t make me a killer y/n because I want to live a long life with you. Together” he adds after a small pause and the smile is back on his face.

His response elicits a laugh from you and he watches with something akin to admiration and fondness in his eyes. The way your eyes crinkle when you smile and the sound of your laughter fills his heart with so much warmth. It sounds like music, feels like home and tastes like love. So he stands still and revels in the beauty that he thinks in your presence and your existence. And for a moment or two he wishes time freezes so he can look at you to his heart’s content. So that he can memorize every detail of your face until it is as clear as crystal in his mind.

In that moment he wishes to shower you with all the love he had kept safe in his heart for the day that he finally meets you again.

The familiarity and the normality of your flirtatious conversation fills you with a sense of deja vu. It happened before in Vienna and its happening again.

Your stomach erupts in butterflies as he smiles down at you and the image resurfaces in your head like a distant memory, a distant dream hidden away. You are hit with the realization that you fell in love with him that night not knowing he was your destined partner. 

But maybe that’s what being soulmates is all about ; feeling drawn to the other person even without the knowledge of who they truly are. Maybe that is the pull of the thread connecting him to you. For the man you had yearned for in a different place, in a different time, under different circumstances was once again stood in front of you.

“Look” he whispers as he looks down at your hands and you watch in awe as the thread unwinds ,slowly unknotting , and in the process binding your love.

“This reminds me of another poem. Wanna hear it?” he groans as he throws his head back.

“One poem caused me enough problem. I don’t want another one”

“Its really poetic and beautiful, hear me out”

He loves you too much to say no and the look of childlike joy and excitement on your face compels him to comply. So he wraps a tight arm around your waist and looks at you with such love and fondness that it makes his heart quiver. He walks beside you as you recite the poem :

“I don’t know how you are so familiar to me or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before—in another time, a different place, some other existence”

Let me know your thoughts in the comments down below or leave me an ask! If you liked it dont forget to click that heart and reblog! :) Thanks for reading!

[anavoliselenu]

Claim me chapter 9

“Goddammit, Justin!”

I watch the two men, trying to understand what is really going on here. Trying to intuit why Justin’s refusal to attend the dedication and his very public announcement as to the reason means so much to the elder Stark. Justin did not outright say that Richter abused him, and he certainly didn’t say that his father was involved. Is that what Jeremiah fears will come next? That once Justin spills one truth, the rest will come tumbling out? If, as I suspect, that truly is the rest.

I don’t know, and all I can do is hold tight to Justin’s hand.

Justin has not responded to the criticisms his father poured out. Instead, he has been staring at the elder man’s face, his eyes narrowed as if the older man’s features were some sort of equation with a missing variable.

When he finally speaks, I do not understand the context: “How much of this is your doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jerry says, sitting up straight, his eyes wide as a child getting chastised. Even I can see that he is lying.

“Let’s get this straight,” Justin says. “I am not interested in your opinion or your help. Now get out. Edward, pull over.” We’ve circled three blocks, and now we’re at Pershing Square, two full blocks from where we started.

“I’m not even parked near here.”

“I don’t care,” Justin says. “Out.”

Suddenly, Edward is outside pulling the door open. Jerry hesitates, then looks from Justin to me. “Does she know? I wouldn’t tell her, Justin,” he says, and there’s malice in his voice. “If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.”

He gets out, and Edward immediately slams the door, as if the driver wants him gone as much as Justin and I do.

Justin runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“So, you’ve met my mom and I’ve met your dad. I guess that means we’re really dating.” I’m shooting for a light moment here, but Justin’s expression doesn’t change. “Hey,” I say. “It’s okay.”

“Very little about this entire day falls into the category of okay.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I rather enjoyed dancing with you.”

“Yes,” he says. “So did I. Come here.” I am already right beside him, but I slide closer and lean against him. His arm is draped over my shoulder and his fingers are idly stroking my arm. I slide down and put my head on his lap. I kick off my shoes and curl my legs up on the seat as Justin strokes my hair. Part of me wants to stay like that forever, warm and safe in Justin’s lap. But another part of me has questions—so many questions. I want to understand what Justin’s father was talking about—why he cares so much whether or not Justin endorses the tennis center. But I don’t want to ask—I want Justin to tell me because he wants me to know.

If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.

I shiver. I can think of nothing so horrible that I would walk away from Justin. But is that because nothing exists that is so bad it could rip us apart? Or do I simply lack the imagination to think of it?

Justin holds me calmly for the short drive to the Tower apartment.

He remains coolly collected as Edward pulls into the parking garage beneath Stark Tower.

His composure doesn’t break during the ride either to the building lobby or from the lobby to the penthouse fifty-seven floors up that houses his private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.

It is only once the doors to the apartment slide open and we have entered the residence that Justin’s equilibrium shifts and the facade of calm vanishes. There is something desperate in his eyes, and he grabs both ends of the scarf that is still draped around my neck. “What was it you said about tying you up?”

His words are as rough as the anger that still clings to him. “Yes,” I say, because I know he needs it. He needs to get lost in the passion that is always ready to burst between us. He needs to forget what just happened—the paparazzi, his father, Ollie, and even my own refusal to meet him here tonight.

He needs to do something about that tapestry of his that is coming undone.

He needs to be in complete control—and right then, I want nothing more than to surrender to him.

“Yes,” I repeat, my voice raw. “Yes, please.”

He uses the scarf to shift our position until my back is against the wall, and he is against me, and I am breathing hard, my body quickening with excitement and expectation. With one hand, he holds both ends of the scarf while the other hand strokes slowly down my body, over my breast, down my belly, over my hip. His touch is slow, the movements designed to make me melt. It’s working. My lips are parted, my skin hot and sensitive. If I was not already leaning against a solid structure with Justin keeping me upright, I think I would sink to the floor, my body too limp and malleable to hold myself up.

He slips his hand inside my sarong skirt, his finger dipping under the string of my thong to find me wet.

I tremble, a small shiver rushing through me, as if a portent of an explosion to come.

“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “I do believe you want me.”

I bite my lower lip and say nothing; he doesn’t need to hear my answer. He already knows he’s right.

Slowly—so painfully slowly—he starts to peel me out of my clothing. The knot of the sarong. The tiny thong panties. The tank he tugs gently over my head. Even the scarf falls into a pile on the floor. I see it there, a lonely bit of pink in a sea of black, and I sigh.

“Trouble?”

“I thought you were going to tie me up.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“Oh.”

“Complaining, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Never with you, Mr. Stark.”

“Good answer. For that, you get a reward.” His expression takes on a dangerous edge. “Come with me.”

I follow him to the bedroom, where he lays a blanket on the floor, then opens one of the leather trunks. He pulls out two lengths of rope and slowly twines them between his hands. I can feel my eyes go wide. We’ve moved a long way from soft pink scarves.

“What are you going to do?”

But Justin doesn’t answer. He just nods at the floor and tells me to lie down. I hesitate only a moment, and then comply, my head near the foot of the bed and my body stretched out on the blanket.

“Hands above your head,” he says.

I stretch my arms up, my excitement building along with my curiosity, and he uses the shorter length of rope to tie my wrists together. Then he fastens my bound hands to the center leg of his king-size bedframe.

“I’m going to please you, Selena,” he says, then strokes his fingertip slowly down my arm. He starts at my wrist, then gently teases the soft flesh of my inner arm, then the bend of my elbow, his fingertip finally trailing along my upper arm to the sensitive flesh of my underarm.

I bite my lower lip and squirm. The sensation of his finger upon my skin is exquisite. It is feather-soft, almost a tickle, and desperately, wildly erotic.

“Do you see how you writhe?” he asks. “That movement lets you control the intensity so that you’re not overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“I’m going to take that away from you,” he says as he begins to position me. He moves the soles of my feet together, and then slowly wraps the jute rope around them once, twice. I test the bindings and find that I cannot move my feet at all. I am strangely helpless, and it’s unnerving and exciting all at the same time.

“There will be no writhing,” Justin says as he gently spreads my knees and brings my joined feet up higher on the blanket. “No shifting. No place to hide.”

I’m essentially in the butterfly pose from yoga now, my knees spread wide and each only inches off the floor. I’m not particularly athletic, but my mother kept me doing both yoga and ballet long enough that I am sufficiently limber, so that Justin has no trouble positioning me.

My back is arched, the inside of my thighs tight from the stretch. And, yes, my sex is completely exposed. The position is undeniably erotic, and not only because I am so wide open. As Justin has said, there is nowhere to go. Not now, and certainly not when he finishes what he has started. I will be utterly at his mercy—and that, of course, is the point. Justin has lost so much tonight, but these ropes and my body can give him some of it back.

But this isn’t just about what Justin needs. I want this, too. I want to surrender to him. I want to abdicate my pleasure to Justin’s command. I want to float, with only Justin to tether me.

Justin’s eyes meet mine, and when he then trails his gaze down my body, there is so much heat, it is a wonder that he doesn’t leave scorch marks on my skin.

He has used the middle section of the long length of rope to bind my feet, and now he takes one of the free ends and begins to encircle the shin and thigh of my left leg.

“I’m giving you pleasure, pain, and beauty combined,” he says. “I want to look at you like this, open for me, your legs bent, your body like a diamond shining bright and glistening for me.”

He pulls the rope tight so that it both marks my flesh and ensures that my legs stay at the proper angle. Then he ties it off. I am now half-bound—and completely turned on.

“You’re like the portrait,” he says. “A vision of erotic beauty. But a portrait isn’t flesh, and its beauty can’t feel pleasure.”

He closes his mouth over my breast and sucks and I feel a fast, electric trill race from my nipple to my cunt. My sex tightens, as if begging for attention, but Justin is in no hurry, and he suckles and teases, his teeth grazing my tender nipple, his mouth drawing against my flesh until my areola is tight and puckered. His tongue teasing my skin, and he is right—I am desperate to move beneath him, to escape even slightly from the overwhelming sweetness of this onslaught. But I am trapped and the sensual assault continues, edging me high and higher until I am certain I have no choice but to fall.

Just when I am certain that I will scream if he doesn’t relent, he trails kisses down my belly until he reaches my navel. He takes a quick, playful nip, then sits up and returns to the task of tying me down. He takes the rope again, and this time moves to my other leg. Before he does, though, he gently strokes my sex. I’m hot and needy, and a tremble runs through me. I want him to do it again, another stroke, his mouth, his fingers deep inside me. I want that tremble to turn into a full-blown explosion. I want that—and Justin damn well knows it.

He does nothing about it, though, except focus on my other leg. “You’re wet, baby. And every quiver, every sign, every dewy hint of your arousal is on display for me. Tell me you like it, Selena,” he says as he finishes binding me. “Tell me you like being open and ready for me.”

As he speaks, he trails his finger up and down my leg, then traces the rope that binds me. My body trembles and shivers run through me, sparked in the wake of his touch. I can barely breathe, much less talk. I want to tell him everything that’s bubbling inside me. That there is an exquisite joy in surrendering to him. In giving myself over for his pleasure and trusting that he will see to mine.

I want to tell him that “like” doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel, and it is certainly a poor measure of the extent of my arousal.

I want to pour my heart out to him, but I can manage only one simple word: “Yes.”

He has finished binding me, and the ropes are tight. They cut into my skin just past the point of pleasure and into the realm of pain. I close my eyes and draw it in, idly wondering if other women need time to get used to this. I do not. I simply lie back and revel in it. After the night we’ve had, I want this; I want everything that Justin is willing to give.

I want the pain and the pleasure and everything that comes between.

Slowly, methodically, Justin places his hands on my shoulders, then traces his fingertips down my body, over my breasts, along my waist, down my inner thighs.

I bite my lip, fighting against the painfully sweet sensation, but he’s right; bound like this, there is no escaping—and the pleasure crescendos, leading toward the edge of pain.

When he finally stops touching me, I exhale in a burst, only then realizing that I’ve been holding my breath. I gasp, my chest rising and falling, my eyes wide open as I watch Justin rise and stand near my own bound feet.

Slowly, so painfully slowly, he takes off his clothes. His cock is hard and thick and I inhale, my breath shuddering in my chest, the desire pooling in my wide open sex. Then, with slow deliberation, he comes to me and kneels over my bound feet. Gently, he places the pads of his thumbs on each of my inner thighs, then slides his hands upward. I shiver, my body primed to explode, but he still doesn’t touch me where I crave him most, and I am left hanging on a precipice.

“You’re a cruel man, Mr. Stark.”

“Am I?” He leans farther in, and those hands that I want so desperately between my legs move up to cup my breasts. I gasp as he pinches my nipples, once again sending hot threads of desire all through me. I bite my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut. I swear if he does that again I really will come, and I silently beg him to do just that.

Naturally, he doesn’t, and I teeter there on my imaginary cliff, so very ready to leap into the chasm, but quite unable to take myself there.

“Cruel?” he whispers. “Or am I being very, very good to you?”

“Cruel,” I say very firmly, then smile when he laughs.

He slides his hands off my breasts to curve around my sides. I can feel the fragile bones of my rib cage beneath his strong hands, a reminder once again of how much I am his in this moment. Bound. Helpless. His to tease, to torment, to command.

Tenderly, he kisses the tiny scar above my pubic bone. I feel the rough brush of his beard stubble against my sensitive skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. “I want to hear you say it.”

I open my mouth, but no words come. “You,” I finally manage. My voice is rough. “I want you inside me.”

“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my pubis and his voice so low I can barely hear him. “Are you saying you want to be fucked?”

“God, yes.”

“I like your answer.” He gently cups my needy sex. His skin is hot, but not as hot as mine. “But I don’t think you’re quite ready.”

It is entirely possible that I will die from frustration. I suck in a breath and find my words. “Mr. Stark,” I say sternly, “if you can’t tell how ready I am, then I’m afraid you’re not as skilled a lover as I had thought.”

“On the contrary,” he whispers. “I’m an exceptional lover. You just need to be more patient and let me prove it to you, slowly, methodically, and very, very thoroughly.”

I say nothing. Every sensation in my body, every ounce of feeling and desire has rushed between my legs. I feel heavy and swollen and desperate.

I need him inside me. If he doesn’t fuck me soon, I’m one-hundred-percent certain that I will implode. “Justin, please.”

“This?” He slides two fingers inside my vagina, and I gasp as my body tightens hungrily around him. My hips gyrate without me even thinking about it, and it’s an odd, amazing sensation with my legs bound open like that, because he is right. Not even the slightest shimmer of my desire can be hidden.

“Yes,” I manage, forcing the word to my lips. “But more. You.”

He adds another finger and begins a slow, sensual in-and-out. I tilt my head back, letting the pleasure build. I’m close, so very close, my muscles constricting to pull him in, harder and deeper. And then, finally, he gives me what I really want. He shifts his body over mine and holds himself up with one hand near my waist. The other he slides under my ass, lifting me just slightly. It feels strange because I cannot help. My knees and feet are not my own, but it’s not something I’m particularly worried about—for that matter, I’m no longer worried about anything, because Justin penetrates me now, his hips thrusting forward, his cock hard inside me as he holds my hips with his hands and pulls me toward him to meet his thrusts.

His movements are steady, even, and the tingling sensation in my body is like electricity building to a thrumming, steady power. But that’s the thing about electricity—it can surprise you, and when Justin changes the rhythm, I cry out, my body shuddering as a powerful, unexpected orgasm bursts through me, sending vibrant sensations throughout me like ripples from a rock in a pond.

Justin doesn’t stop. He thrusts again, harder and faster, again and again, until he, too, explodes. And, more than that, I explode again with him.

“Oh, baby,” he says, as his body melts against mine.

“That was spectacular,” I say, surprised that I can actually manage to form words.

He leans up on his elbow and looks at me. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm.” I moan in satisfaction. “More than okay. But just a little stiff,” I add.

He chuckles, then kisses me softly and tells me to wait. A moment later he is carefully cleaning me, then slowly unbinding me, massaging each place where the rope cut into me, and gently stretching out my limbs.

He picks me up and carries me to bed, then eases up to spoon behind me, his arms around my waist. I sigh, lost in the pleasure of being so well attended to. I feel spoiled and cherished. More than that, I feel safe.

For a moment, we are silent, but as my mind drifts back over the evening, I cannot keep my question in any longer.

“Justin?”

“Yes?” His voice is tired. Sleep will soon be upon both of us.

“What was your father talking about? Why do you need to be squeaky clean?”

He is quiet for so long that I hold my breath.

“He’s yanking my chain,” Justin finally says. But that is not the truth, and I’m certain that Justin realizes I know it.

“Justin—”

He rolls me over, and something about his eyes tells me that this is it. If I press, he will tell me.

I swallow. Because this isn’t about learning the truth, it’s about Justin willingly sharing the truth with me.

I begin again. “How did you know where to find me tonight?”

For a moment his expression reveals nothing. Then I see the smile light his eyes, though it does not reach his lips. He cups my head with his hand and looks at me with an expression of such adoration it takes my breath away.

“Don’t you know, Selena? No matter where you go, I will always find you.”

12

My legs are deliciously sore when I wake Saturday morning. I roll over, searching for Justin, but he isn’t there. I consider staying in bed—after all, at some point he has to come back—but the lure of coffee wins out and I head for the kitchen.

The man knows me well, because the note he left for me is taped to the coffeepot.

A few things came up. At the office. Loved last night. The image of you naked and bound, spread wide for me, is burned into my mind. I expect that I will find it difficult to concentrate. I may just have to spank you later for distracting me so …

I smile and tuck the note into my purse. Then I shower and change before heading through the door in the back that connects the apartment to the office. When I finish navigating the maze of hallways and find myself in the reception area, Ms. Peters greets me with a smile.

“Good morning. He and Mr. Maynard are on the phone. Would you like to wait?”

“That’s okay. He’s obviously busy.” I think about the reporters and what they said about an indictment. If Charles is here, there must be some legal wrangling going on with one of the Stark International divisions.

Edward isn’t working until later, but Ms. Peters arranges another car for me. Only the cat greets me when I come through the door. Jamie, I assume, is with Raine.

I haven’t been alone that much lately, and it’s nice to be in my room with my things. Especially since so many of my things now remind me of Justin.

I look over at the Monet he gave me—haystacks at sunset. It’s stunning, and thank God it’s insured. I’m still nervous, though, but at the same time, I don’t want it anywhere else except the room in which I sleep. Well, the room in which I sleep when I’m not with Justin, anyway.

I settle in front of my computer and start looking through my image files. I should be doing work stuff, but I so rarely have time to spend on the gift I’m making for Justin—a scrapbook filled with mementos of our time together. A snapshot of the Monet. Dozens of pictures of sunsets, and lots and lots of images of the two of us together. As much as I hate the paparazzi, I have to admit they’ve captured a few nice candid shots.

I work on organizing the pictures and writing captions for a few hours, then decide I ought to tackle cleaning the apartment before I shower for tonight. Weirdly, “cleaning” includes making up the bed in our living room.

As I vacuum, the sound of grunts and moans comes from next door, loud enough to be heard over the machine. I close my eyes, silently thankful that Jamie is not still sleeping with Douglas, our too-loud, too-fucked by too-many women, neighbor. Mostly, I wish she hadn’t fucked him in the first place, especially since he’s been making hints about wanting her again.

By the time Jamie gets home, Douglas’s latest fuck buddy has gone and I’ve moved on to the kitchen counters.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re hired.”

I lift a brow. Jamie’s idea of cleaning is to let the place get completely trashed, then spend an entire day complaining about how much she hates cleaning. It drives me nuts.

“Will there be food tonight?” she asks.

“Appetizers and drinks,” I say.

“Wanna grab a late lunch?”

I shrug. “Sure. Edward will be here at six to get us, so we want to leave time to come back and change.”

“In the limo?” Jamie perks up.

“I don’t know,” I say, tossing her a sponge. “But if you go wipe down the bathroom counters, I’ll text Justin and tell him that’s what we want.”

And that, I think as she trots off to clean, is how to manage a roommate.

“Holy architecture, Batman,” Jamie says as one of the staff that Justin hired for the party opens the door for us.

I follow her inside, and stop just over the threshold. Apparently Justin has house elves, because the huge room that was bare just yesterday is now furnished in a manner that is both welcoming and opulent. The white marble tiles, which extend through the entrance hall all the way to the back of the house, gleam, a perfect stage for the equally white furniture that now fills the space, the only color provided by the vibrant artwork decorating the two walls to the left and right. The far wall is glass and is constructed like the door to the third-floor balcony so that the panels can be thrust aside and the room opened to the pool deck and the negative-edge pool that extends beyond. The ceiling extends up all four floors to a glass skylight, giving the room an atrium-like feel.

The two focal points—the pool outside and the massive marble staircase—complement each other, as if each is beckoning the visitor to come exploring, promising all sorts of delights no matter which direction the guest chooses to go.

“This place is fabulous,” Jamie continues in a stage whisper that probably carries all the way to the third floor.

“I know,” I say as a kind of proprietary pride swells through me. I have had nothing to do with building or decorating this house, and yet there is no denying the simple truth that it feels like home. “Want a tour?”

“Drink first,” she says. “Tour later.”

“Come on, then.” I lead her to the marble stairs and we climb up to the third floor. The second floor is really more of a balcony or mezzanine and has no enclosed rooms. Instead, it is an area that is accessed from either a set of stairs near the kitchen or from the small service elevator. What makes the floor unique is that it serves as a library, and as our climb takes us even with that level, I hear Jamie suck in air. “Wow,” she says.

“Amazing, huh? The workers just finished the shelving a few days ago. I have no idea where Justin was storing all those books.” From our perspective on the stairs we appear to be completely surrounded by cherrywood bookshelves filled top to bottom with every volume imaginable, ranging from rare first editions to spine-broken sci-fi paperbacks that Justin has read over and over again.

Like the rest of the house, one entire wall is made of glass and looks out over the ocean. This glass, however, is especially designed to block damaging rays that could harm the books. Four leather armchairs make up the focal point of the reading area. They are a deep, chocolate brown and they are covered with a buttery soft leather that I happen to know feels wonderful against naked skin.

Even with no enhancements, the library would be awe-inspiring. Tonight, though, it is magical. Justin must have had a crew working all day, because the intricate iron railing now sparkles with strings of white lights. They glow softly, invitingly, and when we ascend the stairs and pass by them, the twinkle of lights gives the illusion that we are passing by the stars and entering heaven.

I’ve brought my Leica tonight, despite the fact that my camera bag does nothing for the stunning blue dress that Justin bought me, and I pause on the stairs long enough to take a photo of Jamie with the lights shining behind her.

I tuck the camera back into the bag and we continue up to the third floor, then step out onto the landing. Beside me, Jamie gasps. I do, too.

Because the first thing I see is me, my naked body, standing strong and bound for the world.

“Not a bad way to greet visitors, eh, Texas?” Evelyn smiles broadly as she hurries over to envelop me in a very un-LA-like bear hug. Evelyn is not an air kiss kind of woman. “You are as gorgeous in that painting as you are in real life,” she says, adding another squeeze to the hug.

She releases me and turns to face Jamie. “And you must be Jamie.”

“I guess I must be.”

“Well, then, turn around and let me have a look at you.”

I’ve never seen Jamie intimidated, but I think she’s a little bowled over by Evelyn because Jamie spins without complaint, showing off the red sheath dress she purchased for the party.

“Good ass, nice tits. Definitely got the face and the hair.”

“What?” Jamie asks, deadpan. “Is there something wrong with my legs?”

Evelyn snorts and looks at me. “I like her.” She turns back to Jamie. “Texas tells me you’re an actress.”

“Trying to be,” Jamie says.

“Well, assuming you can actually act, you’ve got the right equipment to make it in this business. And between you and me, your assets are good enough that you can probably even make it without that pesky talent thing.”

“I can act,” Jamie assures her.

“You find me later. We’ll talk. I may not be in the business anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have a hand in the pie.”

“Sure.” If Jamie smiles any broader, she’s going to injure her facial muscles. “Thank you. That would be great.”

Evelyn turns to signal one of the waitresses, and as she does, Jamie faces me. Wow, she mouths. I know, I reply.

When the waitress arrives with a tray topped with wine and champagne, Evelyn hands a glass to each of us. “Come on in, girls. No point in standing here on the landing all night.” She indicates the room, which is now sparsely furnished in the same style as the first floor. Considering the care that Justin took in decorating the library, I assume that these furnishings are for tonight only, probably leased from a company that stages real estate for sale.

Scattered among the tables, chairs, and small sofas are easels displaying Blaine’s work. Unlike my portrait, those canvases are actually on sale tonight. The artist himself fidgets with one easel, adjusting the angle of a small canvas featuring a nude on an Oriental rug. Evelyn lifts her hand in a wave, but Blaine doesn’t see her.

“Come on,” she says, taking my friend’s arm. “I’ll introduce you to the man of the hour. Selena, if you’re looking for Justin, he said he was going to go change. By the way, looks like great minds think alike. Turns out he did help Giselle get the paintings back from Palm Springs. Edward was bringing some in from the limo yesterday when I was finishing up.”

“Oh.” Her words surprise me, because Justin hadn’t mentioned that he’d seen Giselle, and I feel a little finger of irritation start to claw at me. I force myself to shake it off. I’m just sensitive because Giselle is suddenly, inexplicably in my orbit, what with Palm Springs and Tanner’s strange comment. And now past jealousies are poking up their little heads. But I don’t want to be that girl, and I smack down their green-eyed little faces.

As Evelyn leads Jamie to Blaine, I head into the kitchen, planning to drop off my camera bag and continue to the closet.

I don’t get that far, however, because as I’m hooking the Leica strap over my arm and putting the bag in one of the cabinets, I see Justin coming down the hallway from the bedroom area. I stop what I’m doing, and stand frozen, simply staring at him. He’s wearing pressed black pants and a collarless black jacket over one of the starched white shirts I love so well. It’s unbuttoned, and the open shirt paired with the jacket gives him the quality of a powerful rebel. He looks so breathtakingly sexy that I have a hard time believing that he is real, much less that he’s mine. On the contrary, he must be a fantasy that I have conjured. A dream in which I’m now living. A perfect dream from which I do not wish to wake.

He’s holding his phone and speaking low, so that I can only make out a few words. But from his tone, I can tell that the subject is urgent, and that he is bothered.

I think about last night and wonder if this is more fallout. Maybe it’s his father. Or maybe it has to do with Stark International’s legal troubles in Germany.

After a moment, he frowns, ends the call, and slides the phone into his pocket. For a fleeting instant, I can see the irritation on his face. Then it is wiped away, as if he has willed the universe to behave, and the universe has no choice but to agree. Justin Stark is a man who gets what he wants, however he wants.

When he looks in my direction, I see in his eyes that what he wants right now is me.

His smile is as potent a greeting as any kiss could ever be. It is like something inside me has come undone and I rush to him, then throw myself in his outstretched arms. He pulls me close, and the last wisps of jealousy disintegrate under the touch of this man.

When I’ve had my fill of him—though, really, I can never have my fill of him—I ease back and smile. “Missed you.”

“Missed you more.”

“Is everything okay?”

He eyes me oddly. “Of course. Why?”

“I saw you just now. On the phone, I mean.”

For a moment, the irritation is back. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Something I thought was under control has turned out to be more volatile than I expected. Nothing to worry about, though.” He tilts my chin up and gazes into my eyes for so long that I feel as though I am going to fall in. Then he smiles, so slowly and sweetly that I cannot help but sigh. “You look beautiful,” he says, after we’ve stood like that, lost in each other, for what feels like a lifetime.

“Thank you for the dress.” I do a small turn to show it off. “And for the bed.” I’m looking right at him as I speak, so there is no missing the shadow that crosses his face. “Justin? What is it?”

He hesitates, and I see the ghost of a frown before it fades into a smile. “I’m just very pleased you like them.”

“Of course I do.” Worried, I look in his eyes, the dark one seeming to draw me in and the amber one bathing me in a warm, loving glow. Whatever hesitation I thought I’d seen has faded, but I am not soothed. There are things he wants to say to me, and yet he is not saying them. I start to press, but hold back. Now is not the time.

“We should join the party,” I say.

“In a minute.” He pulls me closer to him, so that my breasts are pressed against his chest and my chin is tucked onto his shoulder. I breathe deeply, memorizing the scent of him, all musk and masculine spices.

“How is it that I can miss you so much when you’re not beside me?” he asks.

t-sizy[�@