#and he wants to be buried there when he dies but he a) never told bison about it so how was that going to happen before now

[aspenmissing]

ᴀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ x ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴇᴀᴛ. ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ/ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ/ᴊɪɴx/ᴠɪ/ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ) || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ-ɪꜱʜ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 7595 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʟᴇꜰᴛ (ᴊɪɴx)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴡᴇʟᴘ @xbakai , ꜱᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪɴᴀʟ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ. ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ (ꜱᴀᴅ) ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ. ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ (ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴛɪꜱꜱᴜᴇꜱ)

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀꜱ ᴠᴀʀʏ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ

The room had never felt so small.

It was Silco’s office, high above the murky streets of the Undercity, its windows stained with grime and flickering reflections from the chem-lamps below. The walls were lined with papers, maps, ledgers of power and plans and blood. The room had always felt vast when he was alone—room enough for ambition, rage, loss. But now, with Y/N sitting across from him, it was suffocating.

For hours, they had talked.

Father and daughter—torn apart by time and tragedy—piecing together the shattered mirror of their lives.

Silco barely spoke at first. He just listened. She told him everything. Of the crash. Of waking up alone, surrounded by strangers. Of the family in Piltover that had taken her in, cared for her, loved her as their own. She painted memories with careful words: holiday dinners, sunlit courtyards, books and school and laughter he had never heard.

She smiled as she spoke of them, but never boastfully. There was warmth in her voice, yes—but also caution. She didn’t want to hurt him. She knew what this must feel like. And yet, she couldn’t lie.

They had given her a good life. A safe life. Every word was like a quiet blade, twisting deeper.

Silco sat still, his elbows resting on the edge of his desk, his fingers steepled just beneath his chin. The dim light caught the uneven curve of his cheek, the red tide of his corrupted eye. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t interrupt. But inside, something was unraveling.

He should have been there.

He should have been the one to raise her, to hold her after nightmares, to tell her stories by candlelight and kiss her forehead before bed. He should have watched her take her first steps, cheered her victories, comforted her failures.

Instead, he had buried her.

In his mind, in his heart, she had died. And in the wake of that loss, he had scorched the world. Built an empire of ash and vengeance and resolve. A monument to the pain that had hollowed him.

And now, she was here.

Alive.

Laughing softly over a story about how Jayce had once ruined an entire kitchen trying to make breakfast for their adoptive mother.

Silco’s jaw clenched. He forced his voice into silence.

He had never envied Piltover before. Never. Not the polished brass of their towers, not the smug, pristine arrogance of their people. But now? Now he saw what it had given her.

And what he never could.

Still, he listened. Because her voice was something holy now—something he’d thought he’d never hear again.

When she finally fell silent, looking at him with cautious hope, Silco exhaled slowly. His fingers twitched against the desk. The weight in his chest was unbearable.

Even now—even reunited—one truth sat like lead in his gut. He could lose her again.

The thought twisted around his spine like rusted wire. He had just found her. And the world, cruel and relentless as it was, could still take her from him. He swallowed hard. Looked at her—really looked.

She was older, yes. Not the little girl who had once clung to his leg while he walked the alleys of Zaun. But there were pieces of her that hadn’t changed. The sharp eyes. The stubborn mouth. The familiar way she tilted her head when confused.

His Y/N. And he couldn’t lose her. Not again. So he made his decision.

"You should stay in Piltover," he said at last. His voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.

Y/N blinked, brows drawing together. "What?"

Silco met her gaze. His mismatched eyes held no malice—only something fragile. Fractured. Terrified. "It’s safer there. Safer for you."

She stared at him, stunned. "But I just got you back—"

He raised a hand, gently, halting her. His expression never wavered. "I know. I know what this means to both of us. But Zaun... is not a place for peace. Not for people like you."

"People like me?"

"Innocent. Hopeful." She almost laughed—but the tears in her eyes betrayed her.

"I’m not a child anymore."

"You shouldn’t have to become what this place would make you."

She rose from her chair, pacing now. The room felt too still, too cold. "So what, we just go back to living apart? Pretending this didn’t happen?"

Silco stood as well, not towering, but steady. "No. Never that. You’ll return to Piltover, yes—but you won’t be alone. Sevika will watch over you. Quietly. From a distance." Y/N turned to him, disbelief etched into her face.

"You’ve already thought this through."

"I started planning it the moment I saw you walk through that door." Silco’s voice shook then—barely, but she heard it. "Because the second I knew you were alive... I knew I couldn’t keep you here."

She looked away. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "I want to be here."

"And I want to keep you alive." Silence fell between them, thick and trembling.

"You’ll come when it’s safe," he added softly. "We’ll meet in the in-between. You’ll send word through Jayce, and I’ll make arrangements. But you will stay in Piltover."

Y/N closed her eyes. It felt like loss all over again. But she understood. He wasn’t choosing distance. He was choosing her life.

"Okay," she whispered. Her voice cracked like thin ice. "Okay." And then Silco moved—just once. He crossed the space between them and pulled her into his arms. For a long moment, she didn’t breathe.

He held her like she was made of glass.

"You are the only softness left in me," he murmured against her hair. "And I will protect that. Even from myself." She buried her face into his shoulder, fighting tears.

"I’ll come back," she whispered.

"You’d better," he replied, his voice rough, almost a smile—almost. "Or I’ll come find you."

They stayed like that for a long time.

And when she finally left—when her footsteps faded into the smog and shadows—Silco sat in the silence of that small, dim room.

The office had never felt emptier.

And so, for the next few years, they lived in the shadows of each other’s worlds.

Time did not move gently for them.

In Piltover, Y/N walked the pristine streets with a smile that didn’t always reach her eyes. She attended council galas, spoke at charity events, dined with the elite. On paper, she was the perfect ward of the Kirammans—a symbol of their mercy, their open arms. The city saw her as a miracle, a girl who had survived the impossible and risen through Piltover’s golden halls.

But beneath that gilded life was a secret stitched carefully into the lining of her world: Silco.

He kept his promise.

Through Sevika, he became her shadow. No matter where she went in Piltover—gallery openings, university lectures, even simple walks through the city gardens—there was always someone nearby. Watching. Protecting. Threats, even whispered ones, vanished before they reached her ears.

Those who leered too long at her were found days later nursing bruises and broken fingers. An arrogant son of a councilor who once cornered her at a party lost his family’s shipping license overnight.

Silco never said a word to her about these things. But she knew. She could feel his reach, quiet and cold, curling through the gears of Piltover’s underbelly like smoke.

And still, she found her way to him.

Under cover of darkness, cloaked and careful, she slipped from her rooms like a ghost. Sometimes she climbed down ivy-covered walls. Other times, Jayce turned a blind eye, claiming she had taken ill or gone to visit a friend in the country.

He had fought her on it at first.

"You’re walking into the Undercity alone," he’d snapped, pacing the floor of her parlour. "To him. Do you know what that looks like? What it means?"

But he wasn’t cruel.

He had seen how she changed after Silco re-entered her life. The way she softened when she spoke of him. The rare peace in her eyes when she returned from Zaun. Jayce didn’t trust Silco. He never would. But he did trust her.

So eventually, he helped.

==

Some nights he escorted her to the lift himself, standing like a sentinel until she disappeared into the shadows. Other times, he smuggled letters on her behalf, messages folded tight and passed through secret hands.

It was dangerous. Reckless. Foolish.

But it made her feel whole.

Each reunion was quiet, tucked away in dim rooms or hidden alleys. Silco would greet her with a nod, never quite reaching for her, but always looking at her like she was the last true thing left in his world. They didn’t need long speeches. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all. She would sit beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as he smoked his cigar, and they would simply exist in the same space—father and daughter, against the odds.

He never asked her to stay. She never begged to go. They understood each other.

But the Undercity was never still for long.

Silco ruled Zaun with a careful, brutal hand, and enemies were always stirring beneath the surface. His days were filled with tension, with strategy, with whispered threats. And yet, in the cracks between wars, he always found time for her.

He watched her grow. Not as the leader of Zaun, but as a father.

He noticed when she began wearing her hair differently. When she developed a fondness for painting, for old books, for spicy Undercity food. He teased her when she wrinkled her nose at Zaun’s rain-soaked streets, and she teased him back for how he hovered like an anxious shadow.

But not everything stayed quiet.

Because there was someone neither of them had accounted for.

Jinx.

=

She had always believed Silco’s daughter had died.

He’d never spoken of her much. A few passing mentions, maybe—wistful, strange moments where his eyes would drift to nowhere. But Jinx never pressed. She assumed it was ancient history, a wound long scabbed over. She was his daughter now. She was the one who mattered.

Until she saw them.

It had been an accident—one of those rare nights where she returned early from a mission, grime still on her gloves, boots still stained with soot. She had crept into the hideout like she always did, expecting to find Silco alone in his office, maybe sipping from his usual glass, brooding over maps.

Instead, she saw her.

Y/N.

Curled into one of the armchairs. Laughing.

Silco leaned forward, cigar burning low between his fingers, a real smile ghosting across his lips. His entire posture was different—softer, open. His eye wasn’t cold. His voice wasn’t sharp.

And the girl... she looked like something out of a dream. Out of a memory.

Jinx didn’t make a sound. She stood in the shadows, her breath caught like a bird in her throat.

Her mind spun.

Who was she? Why did Silco look at her like that?

She waited until the girl left—slipping into the dark like a secret—and then she asked him.

“Who was that?” Silco didn’t lie. He didn’t explain, either.

“She’s someone I thought I lost.” That was all he said. But that was all Jinx needed. The seed of doubt was planted—and it thrived.

What if she’s taking him away from me? What if he doesn’t need me anymore? What if she’s his real daughter?

The thoughts grew louder. More jagged. She followed Y/N the next time she came. Watched her greet Silco with open arms. Watched him smile again.

Jinx didn’t sleep that night.

The whispers came. The ones that sounded like her own voice, and her sister’s.

She’s replacing you. He’ll forget you. He already has.

She watched them more. Always from a distance. The more she saw, the more it twisted her heart.

She was losing him. She had lost everyone else. And now him too? She couldn’t let that happen.

So when the night came—the night the smoke was too thick, the city too loud, and her own heart too sharp—she made a decision.

She painted her lips. Packed her satchel. Loaded her guns. There were too many ghosts in Silco’s life already.

And she refused to become one of them.

The table was set. Not for peace. Not for family.

But for chaos.

Jinx had planned every detail herself—right down to the flickering candlelight that cast dancing shadows over the long, cracked table in Silco’s old office. There were places set for each of them. Plates. Cups. Silverware stolen from above the fissures of Zaun. She had even found a wilted bouquet and set it in a rusted tin can, like this was a celebration.

Like this was normal.

The scent of scorched metal lingered in the air, mixing with the sour tang of sweat and blood. The floor creaked underfoot, each sound echoing too loud, like the room itself held its breath.

Across from Jinx, Vi sat chained to a chair, her wrists rubbed raw from struggling. Her knuckles were bruised, and her jaw was clenched so tight it trembled. Caitlyn, not far from her, glared with quiet fury, a shallow cut across her cheek still bleeding from the ambush. Her uniform was torn, her usually-pristine blue jacket darkened with soot and grime. Neither had spoken in some time. Words had become dangerous here.

Silco sat at the head of the table.

His jaw was set so tight it looked carved from stone. There was no commanding presence in him now—no mask of composure. Only tension. Restraint. Rage boiling just beneath the surface. But he didn’t lash out.

Because he knew what Jinx was capable of when pushed.

And right now, she was already unravelling.

She paced behind her guests like a lion in a cage, her blue braids twitching with every sharp step. Her smile flickered in and out of existence—more a nervous tick than a true expression of joy. Her fingers danced along the edge of her gun, tapping the metal like it was a piano key. Her eyes darted to the clock. Then to the door. Then back again.

Something was missing.

No—someone.

“She should be here by now,” she whispered, mostly to herself. “Can’t have a family dinner without everyone, right? Not when Daddy’s favourite is late.”

The door creaked open. Two of Jinx’s goons dragged Y/N inside.

She was barely conscious, her steps stumbling, head lolling slightly. Blood had dried at her temple, and her wrists were chained in front of her, metal digging into her skin. Her dress—something soft and elegant she’d worn earlier that day in Piltover—was torn and grimy, stained with soot and fear. Her cheek bore a bruise where someone had struck her. Her lip was split. Her eyes, dazed and unfocused.

Silco’s heart stopped at the sight of her. His body tensed, muscles straining against the restraints that kept him bound to his chair. His hands, cuffed tight to the arms of the seat, clenched in desperation as he struggled in his restraints, his gaze fixed on her.

“Y/N—!” he cried out, his voice ragged with emotion.

He tried to rise, to move toward her, but the chains held him fast, forcing him back into the chair. The metal dug into his skin as he fought against the restraints, but they were unforgiving. His breathing quickened, chest rising and falling in frantic desperation, but it was no use. His arms were immobile, trapped.

Jinx, standing just behind her two goons, raised her gun, her hand shaking as it pointed directly at Silco’s chest. Her eyes gleamed with panic, not malice. A tremor ran through her as she spoke, her voice thin and hollow, barely a whisper.

“Don't move,” she ordered.

Silco froze, his face contorting with a mix of helpless fury and sorrow. He couldn’t reach her. He couldn’t protect her.

Jinx’s breath was shaky, and her fingers twitched nervously around the gun. The room, which had been filled with tension, now held a heavy silence, broken only by the ragged sound of Silco’s struggle against his bonds.

Y/N, still dazed, was shoved roughly into a chair across from him. The impact made her flinch, but she didn’t cry out. Her gaze, unfocused at first, slowly found Silco’s. There was a flicker of recognition, a spark of something in her eyes. But it was fleeting—lost behind the fog of pain and exhaustion.

Silco’s lips parted, his breath catching in his throat. “Y/N…” he whispered, his voice strained.

But Jinx only tightened her grip on the gun, her whole body shaking as she waited for something that wasn’t coming.

“Dad…” she breathed. And for the first time in her life, Y/N saw it.

Fear.

Not the fear of a crime lord, not the calculating dread of someone with something to lose—this was raw. Unfiltered. Fatherly. His hand trembled as he reached across the table, but the distance between them felt impossible.

“Jinx,” he said slowly. Carefully. “Let her go.”

“Why?” Her voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

The question was soft, but underneath it was a trembling fury. A sadness buried beneath denial.

“You told me everything,” she went on, pacing again. “You told me Vi was dead. You told me I was your girl. Your family. You said you lost her. But you didn’t, did you?”

“Jinx—”

“She’s alive.” Jinx stopped. Her gun pointed at the floor now, her finger twitching on the trigger. “She’s real. And you brought her back. You let her take you.”

“I did it to protect her,” Silco said, his voice cracking in a way that made even Vi pause. “You know our world. You know what Zaun does to the innocent. I had to keep her hidden. If I had told anyone… she wouldn’t have lived.”

“Bullshit!” Jinx shouted, slamming her hands on the table. The plates rattled. “You chose her over me. That’s what this is. You were going to replace me—weren’t you?!”

“No,” Silco said quickly, but the damage was already done.

Vi stirred, her eyes widening. “Jinx… you can't...” Her voice was raw. Honest. “That’s Y/N. You remember her, don’t you?”

Jinx froze.

Vi pushed forward in her chair. “She was with us. Before everything went to hell. She helped us steal bread when we were starving. She bandaged your knees when she fell. She kept us warm in winter. You cried when she left, Powder. Don’t you remember?”

Jinx’s expression trembled. For a moment, a flicker of something—recognition?—glimmered in her eyes.

“She always loved you,” Vi said softly. “You were like a little sister to her. She never stopped asking about you, even after she was taken in by Silco. She never gave up on any of us.”

Jinx shook her head slowly. “No… no, she left me. Just like you did.”

“She didn’t leave,” Vi whispered. “She was taken. Just like me. Like you. We were all taken. But this—this doesn’t have to end like this.”

Y/N tried to move. Tried to speak. Her lips parted, but the pain was sharp, her body not cooperating.

“Powder,” she whispered. “Please…”

That whisper sent something sharp through Jinx’s chest. Her grip on the gun tightened. Her heart was pounding like a war drum. Her thoughts were screaming. She wanted it to stop.

“I wanted this,” she whispered. “I wanted this. All of us. Together. But now you’re here. And he doesn’t look at me the same way anymore. You ruined everything.”

“Jinx,” Silco said, standing now. “She’s not your enemy.” Jinx’s face twisted. Her eyes filled with tears.

“She’s not?” she asked. “Then why does it feel like you don’t need me anymore?”

Silco stepped toward her. “That’s not true.”

But Jinx didn’t hear them.

Her mind was a whirlwind of screams and flashes—hallucinations swirling around her, twisted fragments of memories that weren’t hers to keep. She heard voices, but they weren’t real. No, they couldn’t be.

“Jinx, stop—” Vi’s voice, distorted by the chaos in her mind, felt like a rope tugging at her heart.

“Don’t do this,” Y/N’s voice followed, softer, almost pleading. But Jinx's hand trembled on the gun, and her eyes were wide, unblinking, staring at the chaos unfolding before her. She couldn't separate the real from the imagined, and every thought that cut through her mind felt like a blade scraping at her very soul.

The face before her blurred, flickered, and Y/N’s voice cracked through the fog, so weak, so desperate, it almost broke her resolve. “Jinx, please... stop...”

Y/N’s eyes were wide, barely focused, blood dripping from her mouth as her fingers twitched, reaching out toward her. There was something there—something real, something that reminded Jinx of the girl she once knew, the sister she thought she'd lost.

For a brief second, the hallucinations faded. The voices of her loved ones, all of them, reached out to her.

But it wasn’t enough.

She could see Silco in her mind—his face, full of disappointment, his eyes seething with anger, his lips twisting with betrayal. “I chose her,” his voice snarled, cutting through the haze. “I will always chose her.”

Jinx’s breath quickened, her hand shaking harder, as if her very grip was losing its strength. The world around her bent and warped, and in her fevered mind, she saw the girl—Y/N—standing there, her eyes hollow, her voice pleading with Jinx.

“Please... don’t.”

But the words didn’t sink in.

"He's mine" Y/N laughs at her, towering over her.

“NO!” Jinx screamed, her own voice shattering the fragile thread of sanity she had left. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

=

The deafening roar of the machine gun filled the room as bullets tore through the air. They ripped into the walls, the table, the air, until everything was consumed by the chaos. The sound reverberated in her head, amplifying the pulse of madness that pushed her to the edge.

Y/N’s body jerked from the impact, each bullet sounding like a thunderclap inside Jinx’s skull. The image of her—bleeding, breaking, so close, yet so unreachable—was the last thing Jinx saw before her mind snapped.

The room fell silent except for the ragged breathing of those still alive. Y/N, barely conscious, felt the wetness of her own blood against her skin, and the weight of Silco’s frantic hands on her.

But Jinx didn’t see it. Didn’t understand.

Her machine gun, now smoking, was lowered slowly as Jinx’s breath caught in her throat.

And in that moment, the world seemed to freeze. For a heartbeat, everything was still. Time stood in suspension.

Y/N's body jerked, her head lolling as the weight of her injuries overtook her. She slumped forward, her body sagging against the chains that bound her to the chair. The metal cut into her skin, but she barely reacted to the pain. Blood soaked the front of her torn dress, seeping into the cracked floorboards beneath her. She gasped, her chest heaving for air, but the sound was barely more than a wheeze, like a fish pulled from water.

Her fingers twitched weakly, reaching out toward Silco, but the restraints kept her arms pinned in place, forcing her to remain in the chair, hunched and helpless. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open, but the overwhelming darkness pressed against her.

Silco's breath caught in his throat, his gaze locked on her. His body fought against the restraints, but the chains held him fast, his muscles trembling with the effort to break free.

"Y/N..." he rasped, his voice cracking, helpless and desperate.

But Y/N couldn't respond. She was trapped, bound in both body and mind, and all she could do was twitch weakly against the restraints, her eyes searching for Silco as though her very soul was reaching out to him.

And in that moment, everything around them seemed to fade. There was only the sound of their breathing, the weight of the silence, and the shared understanding that the chaos was about to consume them all.

Silco roared. The sound was inhuman.

He broke free of the bindings at his wrists with a fury none of them had ever seen. His shoulder slammed into the table, knocking it aside as he dove to the floor. His knees hit hard. His hands found her—pressing into the wounds, trembling violently.

“Stay with me. Stay with me, Y/N. Please.” Silco’s voice broke, his hands trembling as he pressed against her wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to focus. Her lips trembled, and she tried to speak—tried to say his name.

But blood filled her mouth, choking her. She gasped in frantic, shallow breaths, each one weaker than the last.

“No. No. Don’t do this to me,” Silco pleaded, his voice splintering as he struggled to keep his composure. His chest tightened with every passing second. “You can’t leave me again. Not again…”

His hands, shaking with panic, moved swiftly to cut the chains binding her to the chair. The metal clattered to the floor as he freed her, lifting her limp form into his arms with a raw urgency. He didn’t think. He couldn’t think. There was no time.

Gently, he laid her down onto the cracked floor, her body sagging into the cold wood. He pressed his hands against her abdomen, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. His breath came out in short, sharp gasps, his heart racing as he frantically worked to stem the flow of blood.

Her eyes, glazed with pain and confusion, locked with his. The same eyes. The same deep, haunting eyes he knew so well, the ones he once cherished, the ones that mirrored his own. They were his. She was his.

Y/N’s fingers twitched weakly, her skin pale against the shadows of the room. Her chest hitched, her breath a broken, gurgling sound as blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth.

“I—I'm here,” he whispered, his voice a raw rasp. His hands shook as they pressed harder against her wounds, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t stop the blood. His heart twisted with the knowledge that he might lose her, just like he’d lost so many before.

Her lips parted, the words barely a whisper, choked with the effort to breathe. “D-Dad…” she gasped, her voice barely audible. She coughed weakly, blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth. “I... I’m... s-sorry…”

“No, no,” Silco said, his voice desperate as he brushed her hair from her face. “Don’t talk. Just stay with me. You’re not leaving. You’re not.”

Her chest rattled, her breath a strangled wheeze. She tried to reach for him with trembling fingers, but they fell short, landing weakly on the floor. “...L-love… you…”

“Y/N, please—” Silco choked, his heart breaking as he pressed his hand against her wounds with a frantic urgency. “I love you too. Please, don’t go…”

Her eyes flickered as she fought to stay awake, but the light in them was dimming, and with a final, weak gasp, she whispered, “Don’t... forget... me...”

And then, her hand fell limp, her body stilling in his arms.

Vi was screaming for help. Caitlyn was shouting orders. But Silco only heard the slowing pulse beneath his hands.

And then, like a man possessed, he scooped her into his arms.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t think. He only acted. He tore her from the floor and ran. His footsteps echoed like gunfire down the hallway. He had only one thought. Only one hope.

One name on his lips:

Singed.

The journey to Singed's lair was a blur. Silco’s mind was a maelstrom, every thought lost in the haze of panic, of raw, overwhelming fear. His steps were frantic, the sound of his boots slamming against the ground deafening in the silence of his own mind. His arms clutched Y/N’s fragile form, his only focus her bloodied, lifeless body. The world outside felt distant—irrelevant. He didn’t care about anything but her. She was all that mattered.

When the door to Singed’s lair finally burst open, the chaos in his chest mirrored the violence of his entrance. “Fix her. Now,” he rasped, barely able to form the words as they were torn from his throat. His voice was raw, frantic, his breath sharp and ragged from the frantic pace he'd set.

Singed, ever the calm, collected presence, didn’t waste a second. But there was something in the way he moved—something too methodical for the urgency Silco felt clawing at his insides. When the chemist’s fingers found her wrist, searching for a pulse, Silco was holding his breath, his entire being tense with hope.

But when Singed met his gaze, his expression cold and steady, Silco saw it: the pity. The quiet sorrow that burned like ice in Singed’s eyes. And that was when the truth hit him like a freight train.

Before he could even think, Silco grabbed Singed by the collar, yanking him closer, his fingers tightening in desperation. “Do something!” he roared, his voice breaking, the command coming out like a plea, like a child begging for salvation. “She’s not gone—she’s not—” His breath hitched, his words cracking under the weight of his own fear.

Singed’s gaze remained steady, but there was something colder in it now. Detached, as if he had already accepted the inevitable. His voice was low, even, the clinical tone of a man who had seen too much to be shaken. “It’s too late.”

The words fell like lead into Silco’s chest. They sliced through him, deeper than any blade could ever reach. His whole world fractured in that moment.

His grip on Singed’s collar loosened, his hands going slack as the last of his strength drained away. The fire that had once burned in him—a fire fueled by vengeance, power, and an iron will—died in an instant. Silco sank to his knees, pulling Y/N’s lifeless body against him as if he could somehow breathe life into her again. His trembling fingers brushed her bloodstained cheek, tracing the soft curve of her face that once held a spark of defiance, of life, of everything he had fought for. His vision blurred, but not with tears—not yet.

No, this wasn’t the moment for tears.

He couldn’t accept it. He couldn’t.

His hands gripped her tighter, pulling her closer as if he could somehow reverse the irreversible. He whispered her name, over and over, like a prayer, like a curse, like a desperate, futile attempt to bring her back.

“Y/N… Oh my darling girl…”

But the silence that followed her name was deafening. His breath grew shallow, jagged, and the reality of it—the cold, cruel finality of it—sank in.

=

And that was when it happened.

A sound—something broken, something raw—tore its way from Silco’s chest. It wasn’t a cry, not in the traditional sense. It was something deeper, something primal, like a wounded animal in its last moments. It was grief, pure and unadulterated, something so far beyond his carefully constructed façade that even he couldn’t recognize it. It was a sound of a man undone, of a father who had lost the only thing in his life that had ever truly mattered.

Singed said nothing. He simply turned and left, allowing Silco the solitude he had never wanted, the space he could never have asked for. He gave him the room to unravel completely, as Silco cradled Y/N’s broken form in his arms.

Alone in the dim light, Silco held her close. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there—time lost all meaning. The room around him seemed to close in, the walls pressing in on him, but still, he didn’t move. He refused to move.

His fingers, stiff with cold, gently brushed the strands of blood-matted hair from her face. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, the life that had once been there gone—snuffed out as quickly as a candle’s flame. His tears came then, slow and steady, falling like droplets from a broken dam, each one a reminder of everything he had failed to protect. But he didn’t weep for his lost empire or his empty ambitions. No, his grief was for her—his daughter, the one person he had ever allowed himself to love without reservation.

Silco had lived a lifetime in the darkness. He had walked alone for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to care for another soul. Y/N had reminded him. She had brought color to his existence, something bright and warm in the cold, gray world he had built. She was the reason he had kept fighting, kept surviving. She was the reason he had clung to life when it seemed pointless to do so. And now, she was gone.

He pulled her closer, his body trembling as he rocked her gently in his arms. The soft weight of her—once full of warmth and light—was now only a hollow echo. He closed his eyes, feeling the coldness seeping into his bones, but still, he held her close, unwilling to let her go.

This was where it had all started. Where he had first held her in his arms, the small, fragile infant who had depended on him for everything. And now, he was holding her again, this time for the last time. He leaned back against the table behind him, the cold wood pressing into his back, but he didn’t care.

He could almost feel the weight of those early memories, the ones when he had cradled her against his chest like this, when she had been small and helpless. He would sing to her back then, in the rare moments of peace, moments that now felt like another lifetime.

His breath hitched again, and his fingers traced her face one last time, brushing away the blood and the grime that had tainted her. She looked so different now—so far removed from the girl who had once smiled up at him, full of curiosity and defiance. But in her eyes, he could still see the same reflection. The same soul.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I remember the first time you smiled at me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You were so small, barely a month old. You looked up at me, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel so alone.” His fingers trembled as he gently stroked her cheek. “You were always so curious. Always asking questions. Always wanting to know more.”

Silco closed his eyes, the weight of the memory nearly crushing him.

“I used to tell you stories, you know?” His voice cracked, but he pushed on. “You liked the ones about the stars. You used to laugh when I told you the stars were watching over us. You said they would keep us safe.” He chuckled bitterly, but the sound was hollow. “I promised you I would always protect you. That I would never let anything happen to you. And now…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

His fingers brushed through her hair, and his breath shuddered as he let the memory take over. “You were never afraid. Not like me. You were strong. Even as a child, you were strong. That’s why you fought so hard, wasn’t it? You always wanted to prove you could handle it all, even when the world tried to break you. I admired that about you. I always did.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his lips trembling against her cool skin.

“You were always the light in my darkness,” he whispered, voice full of despair. “The one thing that made the endless nights bearable.” His hand slid down to her lifeless fingers, still warm but slowly losing that vital heat. “And now… now I’ll never see you smile again. Never hear you laugh. I’ll never feel your hand in mine again.”

His heart cracked. He didn’t think it was possible to break any further, but it did. It shattered.

“You deserved more,” he murmured, his voice thick with grief. “You deserved so much more than this.”

He pulled her tighter, as though he could somehow shield her from the world that had taken her. His chest heaved with silent sobs, the weight of his emotions too much to bear.

“Please, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice raw and desperate. “Please forgive me. I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t save you. And now... now I’ll have to live with that.”

The silence stretched on, broken only by the sound of his shallow, unsteady breathing. Silco clung to her, unwilling to release her, as if holding her tightly would keep her tethered to the world, keep her alive in some small way.

=

As the hours bled into each other, he whispered every memory he had of her, every moment that had once been a glimmer of joy in a life full of darkness. The nights they had spent together, her laughter, the moments she had reached out to him for comfort and strength.

In his arms, Silco held the remnants of his world, the only part of his life that had ever made sense. And as he rocked her gently, he vowed to never forget her. Never forget the girl who had been his heart, his reason for breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her, his voice cracking with a pain he could not contain. “I’m so sorry.”

But the words meant nothing now.

As the hours dragged on, the lair remained silent, save for the soft sobs that racked Silco’s body, as he sat there, still holding her close, unwilling to let go.

And in that quiet, dimly lit room, a father grieved the death of the one thing he had ever truly loved.

The rain was falling softly by the time Silco made the climb to Piltover.

A gray morning, quiet and cold—the kind that seemed to mourn with him. The sky hung low, heavy with unmoving clouds that smothered the light, casting a pale, funereal hush over the world. Each drop of rain that struck his worn coat felt like penance. Every step forward was a wound splitting open anew, an agony that sank into his bones and clung like a shadow. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look back. His arms, cradling the weight wrapped in white, never faltered.

Y/N was swaddled in a plain linen sheet, white and clean. A small mercy—one last kindness. The rain had dampened it, made it cling softly to the delicate contours of her form, but Silco ensured it stayed wrapped tight and neat. As if preserving her dignity could somehow preserve the memory of her light. The blood, the bruises, the violence of her final moments—gone now. Hidden. All that remained was stillness. Too peaceful, too cruel. She looked as though she were simply sleeping—like he might whisper her name and she would stir.

He had made the decision in silence.

There had been no debate, no orders given. Y/N had called Piltover home. The city she’d once dreamed of. The place she’d wandered with quiet awe in her eyes. Piltover had given her hope, purpose, even when he couldn’t. Silco had always hated the city—its hypocrisy, its pretension—but she had seen something different in it. She had believed in it. And in the end, if he could not give her life, he would give her the peace she’d longed for.

Sevika had tried to take the burden from him when they reached the edge of Zaun.

“Let me carry her,” she said softly. Her voice was rough but reverent. “You’ve been walking all night.”

But Silco only held tighter, jaw clenched, the rain running down his face like tears he refused to acknowledge.

“No,” he rasped, not meeting her eyes. “I will carry her.”

She said nothing more. Just walked beside him in silence, shoulders bowed under the weight of her own grief.

=

They passed through Zaun like phantoms. People stepped aside without a word. Some lowered their heads. Others simply turned away, unable to stomach the sight of the man who had ruled them now hollowed out, carrying something precious and lifeless in his arms. The whispers followed them—soft, stunned murmurs echoing off the stone.

By the time they reached the bridge to Piltover, the rain had thickened into a steady curtain. Enforcers flanked the entrance, their weapons uncertain in their hands. They didn’t stop him, not right away. Something in the way he walked—the slow, reverent pace, the figure wrapped in white—made them hesitate.

It wasn’t until Jayce arrived, armor hastily thrown over his shoulders, that the gates parted.

He halted at the sight, eyes locking onto the bundle in Silco’s arms. His breath caught.

“…Y/N?” he whispered.

Silco gave a single nod, the movement stiff, deliberate.

Jayce stepped forward instinctively, his gaze drifting to the linen-shrouded form. “What happened?” he asked, though his voice already held the tremor of someone who knew the answer.

“She’s gone,” Silco said simply. Absolute. Final. The words hung in the air like a guillotine’s fall.

The rain fell harder.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. Enemies by design, by principle—now just two grieving souls in the eye of a storm neither of them could control. Whatever history lay between them, it quieted now. Y/N had lived between their worlds, between their wars. And now, she lay still in Silco’s arms, beyond the reach of politics or pride.

“I want her buried here,” Silco said after a beat. “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with light.”

Jayce swallowed, his throat working around words that refused to form. Finally, he nodded.

“There’s a garden,” he said, voice rough. “She used to go there. A cliffside. She said it reminded her she could breathe.”

Silco gave no reply, only started walking again—toward the heart of the city.

Jayce walked beside him. Sevika trailed behind.

=

Through Piltover’s quiet streets, past the stone and glass towers, past the curious onlookers who froze at the sight. Silco walked through the city like a ghost, but he did not hide. He carried her still, his grip never loosening, every step filled with the devotion of a man burying the last good thing he had.

The garden was just as Jayce remembered—high on the cliffs, overlooking the silver sea, with flowers blooming despite the cold. Pale petals trembled under the rain. The air was still, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

A grave had been prepared. Jayce had sent word ahead.

Silco approached it slowly. The earth was damp, freshly turned. He knelt and laid her down with a tenderness that made Sevika’s eyes sting.

She knelt beside him, silent, as he unwrapped the cloth just enough to reveal her face. Together, they fixed her hair, brushed her brow. Jayce moved forward without hesitation and placed a simple white flower in her hands.

No words were spoken—not at first. None of them trusted their voices. The grief was too raw, too holy.

But as they stood in a solemn triangle around her, it was Silco who finally spoke.

“You were always the best of me,” he whispered, kneeling beside her once more. His voice cracked. “And I never told you enough. I never told you…”

He closed his eye, bent his head low, and pressed a kiss to her brow.

Sevika stepped forward next. She knelt without a sound, calloused fingers trailing lightly over Y/N’s hair. She swallowed hard, blinking fast.

“Rest easy, kid,” she murmured.

Jayce lingered last, hand trembling as he reached out. His fingertips brushed her hand.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said. His voice barely carried over the wind. “I should’ve…”

None of them finished their thoughts. Some things were too big for words.

Together—Silco, Jayce, and Sevika—they lowered her into the grave.

Jayce passed the first handful of earth to Silco, who scattered it in silence. Then Jayce. Then Sevika. The sound of soil striking linen echoed like thunder in their chests.

When it was done, Silco stood back, his hands streaked with dirt and rain. His face was unreadable, but his eye was distant—somewhere lost in memory.

Jayce planted a small wooden marker at the head of the grave. It wasn’t official. It wasn’t ornate. But it was enough.

They stood there for a long time, the three of them, shoulder to shoulder, with nothing but the sound of the sea and the quiet hush of rain around them.

Eventually, Jayce was the one to break the silence. “She wouldn’t have wanted us to keep fighting.”

Silco gave no answer. He didn’t need to. In that moment, there was no fight. Only loss.

And when the time came, when the rain had turned to mist and the sky began to pale, Silco turned.

He walked back through the garden alone, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow.

But just behind him, a step or two away, Sevika followed.

And Jayce watched them go, the weight of a world settling on his shoulders—lighter now, perhaps, for a moment.

But only just.

[bucksboobs]

Not to bring back bad memories but this kinda feels like Q all over again. Both suicidal men who eventually found love and friendship and a family and a purpose in life only to for sacrificing their lives for their friends. It's been years, and I'm still not over Quentin's death.

I’m actually glad someone made this comparison because I do find a stark contrast between the way the two deaths were handled on a narrative and Mets level.

Q’s death is intentionally a last ditch effort to save his friends that kills him and Bobby gets exposed to the contagion through no fault of his own, he never has to make the decision to die the way Q does. As he says to Athena “I’m not choosing to go, no amount of hope was going to change the math.”

Athena gets to say goodbye. Something Eliot never got, in fact Bobby tells her he doesn’t want her to see the final moments and she says she wants every moment she has left. There’s a very different way the two romantic relationships get treated at the end, because Eliot was still unconscious when Q died, after a season of Q desperately trying to save him. In The Magicians Eliot gets told Q loved him several episodes after the fact by Q’s other ex, but Bobby and Athena had 5 years of marriage and their final moments are them telling each other how much they love each other, how Athena saved his life.

I do get people taking issue with the “borrowed time” line because it does kinda suck but I also think it more fits with how Bobby probably sees his life in LA (“his penance”) than Q openly musing to Penny that maybe he just found a creative way to kill himself.

From a meta perspective, Tim talks about how this decision was about raising the stakes and telling new stories and everyone involved is honoring and celebrating Peter Krause. Compare that to Gamble and McNamara patting themselves on the backs for the daring decision to kill off “the white guy” while ignoring the way Q’s death very much played into the trope of burying your gays. I remember McNamara talking about how they didn’t have any interest in writing Q and Eliot as a happy couple (to his credit The Magicians has no happy couples so that tracks) and that was the part that hurt me the most.

Ultimately though both hurt I do think Bobby’s death is actually being handled well and I will be able to keep watching 911 in a way I was not able to with The Magicians.

[promisedhexvens]

"So I will not even know when you are going to strike? Well then, lets hope that your siblings do not pick up on it as well." She joked. It was easy to be with Atticus like this. It was how they had been since they were young. And whilst both of them might have changed a bit since then, it still felt natural to her. Being with him was as easy as breathing. If Josephine could return to that time, she knew that she would have stopped herself from breaking things off with him. She would have told her younger self that there were more important things than seeing the world. She would have told her that he was more important. It was too late now.

Now that she was this close to losing him for forever, all she wanted to do was to reach for him. She wanted to tell him that she had been stupid, that all she wanted was him. But she couldn't. She had, had her chance. She held his heart in her hands not once but twice and she had still destroyed in it. What was it within her that refused to let herself be happy?

Josephine had always had a picture for her life. A picture of learning and traveling and soaking up everything that she possibly could. She had been determined to follow that vision. She had never wanted to become like the other women of the Ton. She had never really wanted to be a wife. And then Atticus came into the picture. And he had changed the very fabric of her being. Suddenly, she wanted all of that. She wanted the home in the countryside, the family, the quiet life. When she was younger, she had ran from it. She had been so scared to deviate from the path she had always seen for herself. Maybe she was still scared of it now, maybe that was why she hadn't stopped running from him whenever he got too close.

"But don't you understand that you deserve more than just hoping for happiness?" She questioned. "Do you understand how truly wonderful you are Atticus?" She turned to him, properly. Her hand reached for his, "You are truly the best man that I have ever met. You are magnificent. And you deserve someone who is that too." Perhaps that's why she refused him, she wondered for the briefest of moments. "Do not settle for less than you deserve."

She had known that he wouldn't understand. It was a radical change in her thinking, after all. "There are things here - people here - who I couldn't -" Josephine sighed. "My father died, robin. He died and I wasn't even here. It took me close to a month to get home. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Not properly. I guess it all lost it's appeal a little after that." Atticus was one of the very few people that Josephine would talk about her father with. He was the only one that she would let see the grief that she had tried to keep buried. Not being there for her sisters was her deepest regret. "I pray you won't have to face that loss for a very, very long time but it changes a person. I feel like it might have changed me completely."

"It would not make for a good revenge plan if I were to share it with you, would it? No. You know me. I am a patient man. I just need to bide my time and let the pieces fall where I need them to." If this was them as children, likely he would have carried out some form of revenge, even if just playful. Atticus had always been Atticus, but there had been some youthful energy to awkward and cold Sinclair. It felt easier to have fun those days. Of course he still thought far too much on things before acting, but the thoughts that came before said act were not as long as they were now. He was not like Tobias by any means, but he was not the same now as he was then.

The thoughts that stormed in his head were quick and easy. Everything he had ever wanted was simple: Josephine. Atticus did not dream of grandstanding accomplishments or a renowned name. It was simply her. It was not all consuming, Atticus could think of others, of other moments of wanting for other things and people, but every road led back to Josephine. And it was never grand. Atticus would settle for her hand in his with the knowledge that they were finally and fully together.

If Atticus Sinclair could hold Josephine Hermance's hand without hesitation, that would be all he would ever need.

"We both know that that is not a luxury afforded to me anymore. I have squandered so much time in pursuit of things that just were not meant to be. Which can hurt, of course, but at least I tried. I can settle myself into a life with someone else with at least solace in that. And settling is the worst result. Who knows? Maybe my future wife is someone who I can share my time with comfortably and with happiness." He, of course, hoped for that. Did not ask for it, did not expect it, but he could try and hope for it.

"I...-Admittedly, for you? I do not think so. The last part does, I understand that. But Josephine you have wanted to be free of this place since you were but a child. I have known you to want that since...since I can recall memories of you. I find it shocking you would want to stay here," He nodded towards town. The notion of her staying ripped at his heart possibly even worse than her denying him. It solidified the thought, fully and completely in Atticus' mind, that they were clearly not meant for one another. "But I suppose you also are someone who knows themselves more than anyone else I have ever met. So while I reel from this information, I trust that it is not said with thought."

[blatantprinterpropaganda]

excuse me??? he just plopped a gravestone with his full name and year of birth somewhere next to a river and is like "yeah this is my secret gravestone. nobody knows i did this" while looking at the gravestone. with his name on it. secretly. somewhere in public. what!!! this show is so funny oh my god. imagine if bison had gone for a hike one day and stumbled onto a random gravestone in i guess the middle of nowhere with fadel's name on it

[freaktoru]

DO WHAT YOU WANT WITH ME BABY!

✰ pairing: nanami kento x fem!reader ✰ summary: after several sexless months of a very vanilla marriage, nanami kento learns how his slutty wife actually likes to be fucked. wc; 4.1k ✰ warnings: food play, a tiny bit of ass play, dirty talk, unprotected sex, praise, fingering, pet names, very light bondage, hair pulling, some very sweet after care, nanami is soo addicted to his wife, honestly just pure filth. 18+ MDNI

your sex life with your husband was basically dead—buried so deep, it felt like it might never come back.

i mean, you shouldn't be surprised right? when you got married, everyone warned you it would be this way. “just wait until the honeymoon phase is over”, “wait until work gets in the way”, “wait until you start sleeping in separate beds” they told you. although you thankfully hadn’t made it to the third phase yet, you didn't believe them—at least not at first.

the first few months of your marriage felt purely euphoric—like a drug you just couldn't get enough of. you were bathing in the seemingly never ending marital bliss, convinced that nothing could have come between you and your husband— at least not when the two of you were fucking like animals in heat, absolutely devouring each other no matter where the pair of you were. well, it seems life has a way of being deceiving, doesn't it?

so here you were, only one year into your marriage and somehow, sex had completely fallen off your marriage itinerary. you don’t even know how it happened. your work lives took over, and the honeymoon rush had slowly but surely died out. your daily orgasms slowly turned into weekly orgasms which eventually turned into none. the number of times you and your husband have had sex in the last few months has been a big, fat, zero. your revised daily routine now looked a little like this: wake up, breakfast, work, dinner, sleep. exciting right?

kento was a very busy man—you couldn't blame him. he was always working overtime, always being pushed past his limits by his boss and always coming home completely and utterly exhausted. but that didn't change the stark reality—your marriage had become painfully sexless, and severely depressing. and you’d endured months of this silent, dry torture before you finally stepped up and decided you had had enough.

you and nanami were a picture perfect couple—that much was obvious from just looking at the two of you. you had the perfect wedding, the perfect house and perfect vanilla sex. though, despite its initial merits, clearly it hadn't gotten you very far—not if you found yourself so sexless this early into your marriage.

you couldn't let your marriage go down like this, you simply wouldn't. something had to change; you both knew that. the only question was, who would be the one to fix it first? so, you finally mustered up the courage to tell your husband you were sick and tired of the drought, and you were more than ready to break this invisible wall which had stood between you two for months.

when you told nanami that you wanted him to fuck you nasty, whenever and however he pleased without so much as a warning— naturally, his cock hardened, and nanami had displayed the rarest of his facial expressions: shock. though, despite his obvious shock, he was just as desperate to bridge the painful distance between the two of you.

so, of course he agreed— because nanami kento was not one to deny his beautiful wife.

and then it began—the waiting game. a semblance of hope finally returned as a light in your plain, boring days and the thrill of the unknown had you going absolutely feral. not knowing when and if he was going to fuck you had you living through your day to day life in a constant state of need and arousal. you finally felt yourself getting closer and closer to the light at the end of the tunnel where a long, loving marriage awaited you.

it had only been two days since your conversation when he walked into your shared apartment after work, and saw you standing behind the kitchen island in the tiniest, sluttiest white dress, preparing his favorite after dinner dessert—apple pie. what a perfect, thoughtful wife you were.

you looked up from the recipe book to see him standing in the doorway, looking exhausted and overworked as usual but, also looking remarkably handsome in his clean suit. gosh. he had just walked through the door and already your warm and wet arousal was settling comfortably in your panties.

“hi kento, how was work?” you asked softly, your lips pulled into a light smile.

“tiring” he replied, his voice an octave deeper than normal. he must have worked very hard if he sounded this exhausted, you thought. his bag dropped to the ground with a thud and he took his shoes off followed by his blazer, leaving just his dress shirt and pants on. you watched him intently as he walked over to where you stood behind the kitchen island, rolling up his sleeves and throwing his tie on the marble surface.

you flinched as he wrapped his big arms around your waist, welcoming the warm yet unexpected touch. he nuzzled his stubbly face in the crook of your neck, placing feather light kisses along its delicate skin. you let out small, pathetic whimpers, feeling another rush of heat settle in your core. your slick would start dripping through your panties and onto the floor if you didn't fix this soon.

“my dear wife, i didn’t know you were so dirty” he mumbled into the sensitive flesh of your neck, lightly nibbling at it, and leaving a trail of wet kisses down it’s stretch. fuck. why had the two of you ever stopped doing this in the first place?

“w-what do you mean?” you asked breathlessly, already feeling worked up from his minor act of intimacy. he inhaled your sweet vanilla scent—relishing in it, before he spoke up.

“yes kento, i want to be fucked” he started, while slowly snaking his fingers down the side of your dress. “whenever you want, however you want” he finished, mocking you sweetly with your own filthy words from just days ago. he was playing with you, baiting you—and you were falling right into his waiting hands.

his fingers met with your soaked panties as you leaned your head back onto his shoulder, feeling him rub slow, lazy, teasing circles on your clothed clit, leaving you wishing you skipped the panties entirely when you got dressed this morning.

“is that not what you told me just a few days ago, my dear?” he whispered against the shell of your ear, watching you in amusement as you squirmed under his light touch. he’d barely given you anything yet your head was already clouded with arousal, making you literally tremble with need. dirty, dirty girl. “mhmmm” you hummed in response, not bothering to utter any words. not when you were so busy relishing in your husbands sweet proximity—a proximity you hadn’t felt for months.

“if i had known my wife was such a slut—” he said, slowly moving your wet panties aside with two long fingers “maybe we would’ve never had this issue in the first place” he finished, his deep, velvety voice sending little shivers racing across your skin. you closed your eyes, letting out sweet little mewls and whimpers while he toyed with your drenched pussy.

“k-kento” you moaned, desperate for more. it just wasn't enough. after so many celibate months, you were brimming with need, ready to burst at any given moment.

“yes baby? what is it?” his coo was sweet and honeyed. he toyed with you like a doll, teasingly pushing his fingers in and out of you, slowly pushing each and every coherent thought out of your mind, leaving you in a hazy, blur of need.

“ah— i n-need more” you whined pathetically in response, reaching a trembling hand up to the nape of his neck while your knuckles turned white on the other from your desperate grip on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“more what sweetheart? use your words for me” he practically purred in your ear, his voice a soft caress. the bastard knew exactly what he was doing, teasing you like this.

he pressed himself closer against you, removing your dress strap from your shoulder to give himself easier access to your tits. you bit your lip, desperately stifling your moans as he seized a handful of your breast, kneading and teasing the supple flesh, his fingers rolling your nipple with a torturous precision. fuck him.

"p-please kento, want you t-to make me feel g-good" you let out, voice shallow and breathy. your whines and moans were music to his ears, and he vowed they would be the only sound he ever craved to hear again.

you let yourself surrender to the waves of pleasure that coursed through your body as nanami pumped two of his thick, long fingers in and out of you. god, what a sight you were for him—eyes squeezed shut, rosy-cheeked and completely breathless. until this moment, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed in these last few sexless, stressful months he had lived through.

you whimpered a desperate plea as your husband pulled his fingers out, leaving you teetering on the edge of release. no, he was not going to give it to you that easy— especially not after this long of a wait. he turned you around to face him, and in one swift motion, lifted you onto the kitchen counter, the cold marble cooling the burning, aroused skin of your thighs. you felt a strong, big hand grab your waist while the other rest on the soft skin of your cheek. he looked at you through lust filled, hazel eyes—admiring his irresistible wife.

growing impatient, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. "kento" you breathed against his lips, desperate for more of his attention. no matter how much he gave you, you felt it would never be enough to make up for all the time you missed with your husband.

he kissed you softly, mapping every inch of your mouth with his wet tongue. you flinched, as he caught your lip between his teeth, teasingly biting down and nibbling on it before pulling away and leaving you whining and aching all over again. removing his hand from your cheek, he reached his arm around you and picked up the bottle of whipped cream that stood with the rest of the pie ingredients.

"my dear wife, when was the last time you made me this pie? the day after our wedding?" he chuckled deeply, studying the can in his hands.

"thought you'd like it" you mumbled, embarrassed by his mocking tone. you'd never seen him like this. his expression was one—in all your years of dating and one year of marriage—you've never seen him display. he looked hungry. a hunger that went beyond satisfying his human needs—this hunger looked feral, almost primal and he looked ready to do whatever it took to satisfy it.

nanami took a step back, opening your legs further apart to give him a better view of all your sweetest parts. you watched him flick the cap off the whipped cream can, buzzing with impatience as you waited for his next move. a strong hand pushed the fabric of your skimpy linen dress up to your waist, and you almost jumped when he sprayed some on your leg.

"ah- kento, what are you doing?" you gasped, looking down at your bare thigh, where a cute little heart of whipped cream was now drawn.

"apologizing to my sweet wife" he muttered, placing the can back down on the counter. he leaned his head down to your thigh, one of your hands instantly tangling itself in his hair. that's right. this is how nanami kento would apologize for all your missed orgasms—for unknowingly denying his wife.

his tongue met with your leg and he began slowly dragging it up and down the skin of your thigh, licking up all the cream that sat in the shape of a heart. a soft moan escaped your parted lips, and you tugged on his hair to pull his head up despite him not being finished.

"dear husband, when did you become so dirty?" you echoed his earlier words right back at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you locked eyes with his ravenous gaze. there it was, that hunger— that pure look of desire which you hoped would never disappear from his eyes. marriage was hard but in this moment you were both convinced that doing this every night, would make it feel effortless. nanami only smirked lightly before diving his head back down to meet your trembling thigh. that's right, he had you trembling with need—that's how desperate you were for his touch.

strong hands held your thigh down as he finished licking the heart of whipped cream on your leg. this was an interesting way to apologize to say the least. he lifted himself up, locking eyes with you as he slowly licked the last traces of cream from his lips. holy fuck, you almost came from the sight alone.

moving his hands, he pulled your dress over your head, leaving you in just your skimpy, soaked, panties. "so beautiful" he rasped, drinking you in with just his gaze while grabbing the can and getting to work on your tits. you giggled, watching him spray two hearts of whipped cream, one around each of your nipples.

"baby you- ah" the words died on your lips as he began licking the cream, finishing off with a light nibble that had your toes curling from pleasure. with a groan, he worked his way to the other one, sending chills down your spine and whimpers past your lips. one thing was for sure—nanami knew exactly what he was doing. and he wasn't going to stop.

"please" you whined desperately— impatiently. nanami was holding you on the brink of release, dangling your orgasm right in front of you before ripping it right back when you were about to finish. it was fucking frustrating.

so many nights, while nanami stayed late at work, you lay in your shared bed, desperate and aching, your fingers working tirelessly—trying, and failing, to replicate the feeling of his. little did you know that your dear husband spent his time in similar ways. in the late hours of the night while you were soundly asleep, he stood in the giant two person shower of your shared bathroom, hand wrapped around his veiny cock, warm water streaming down his body, pumping himself endlessly. he tried, he really tried. but nothing—nothing could compare to the addictive pleasure that came from your warm, tight walls clenching around his cock or the heavenly feeling of your soft, wet lips wrapping him so sweetly. yes, it was safe to say you were both very desperate and very frustrated.

"you wanted it nasty baby, that's exactly how i'll give it to you" he groaned in your ear moments before you were flipped face down onto the counter, toes barely touching the floor. you had awakened something inside him, and now that you'd gotten a taste of this nanami, you never wanted to go back.

you craned your neck to look back at him, watching him unbutton his now crumpled white dress shirt. he met your gaze, smiling at you while he reached beside you to grab his tie. you had never reacted to your husband this viscerally before. just the mere sight of him was intoxicating, leaving your head light and hazy, as if you were drunk on his presence alone.

he moved your hands behind your back, crossing them over each other before binding them together with his tie. a light moan escaped you, and you wiggled your hands, getting a feel for the restraint.

"spread your legs" he ordered, his suddenly stern and commanding voice only fueling the desperate throb between your thighs. you obeyed, stepping your toes further apart to allow him to stand between your legs.

you'd never thought you'd be this pliable, this eager to please. but here you were, pushed against the marble counter, wrists tied and ready to fulfill any of his wishes and demands—no matter how filthy. nanami held a dangerous level of control over you and your body, and the thought of wanting it any other way terrified you. surely this is what addiction felt like.

you flipped your head over to the other side, enjoying the cooling feeling of the marble against your burning cheek while you watched him pick up his handy whipped cream once again. guess he wasn't done with that huh.

"kento" you whined, indulging in the slow, sweet pleasure but impatiently needing more than just the teasing he was giving you. it wasn't fair. you had waited long enough.

"ah ah, so impatient, my dear wife" he clicked his tongue, grabbing hold of your wrists. you shuddered slightly when you felt the cold whipped cream meet with your tight holes. oh. he placed the can down, and got on his knees, still holding your bound wrists tightly with one hand and squishing the flesh of your soft thighs with the other. he dragged his tongue up all the way from your clit to your ass, licking up the string of cream he had drawn on you just moments before.

god, this man was filthy. his tongue lingered around your rear entrance, licking playful circles around it and prodding it with his tongue. the initially foreign feeling slowly grew on you, shooting warm pulses of pleasure through every vein in your body and deep into your aching core.

he dragged his tongue away from your tight ring, lapping up the last bits of cream left around your drenched cunt. you clenched your fists, desperate to hold something—anything to help you cope with the overwhelming pleasure you felt.

"kento— e-enough, i need you inside me" you uttered, unable to contain your restless, writhing need for him any longer.

"fine, if my beautiful wife so desires" he replied lazily, letting out a low laugh. you heard him unbuckle his belt, dropping it to the ground while he unzipped his pants. finally.

"my dirty, filthy wife" he muttered, idly pumping his hard, veiny cock with one hand. before you could protest, his fat, leaking tip found itself at your seeping entrance, prodding the wet flesh around it. you heard him suck in a sharp breath, a low hiss slipping from his lips as he pushed into you slowly, stretching you so wide that your eyes fluttered to the back of your head.

"nngh- ah" you moaned at the feeling of his tip reaching your cervix. he was sheathed inside you, waiting for your quivering body to adjust to his thick length. nanami was huge—there was no denying it. no matter how many times you had taken his cock, it was always an adjustment for you.

wiggling your hips, you tried to get as comfortable as you could on the hard, white marble countertop while he started slowly moving his cock in and out of you. "i-i haven't ah-adjusted" you whined, needing more time to get used to him. after all, the months of fucking yourself with your small fingers were nothing compared to your husbands cock.

but nanami only said, "you can take it" whilst speeding up to an almost frantic pace. you felt like you were going to fucking break. but don't say you didn't ask for this. you exposed your most vulnerable self to your husband just days before, begging to be treated like this. so yeah, you asked for it. and he was only doing what his wife desired.

nanami began to question his sanity. he never cracked under pressure, no matter the circumstance, but he felt his once strong grasp on his self control now slipping through his fingers. yup. this felt almost too good to be real—like he was either high on the most potent drug or finally losing his damn mind. he couldn't recall the last time he'd ever felt like this—not even during all the other times you had sex. you just felt that good in this moment.

each thrust had you crying out and clenching around him tighter and tighter—reassuring you that this marriage could be saved, that your sex life was not dead forever. your mind was swimming in pleasure and pain, the head of his cock kissed your cervix so roughly yet so sweetly. you silently said your final goodbyes to the sweet, innocent, vanilla versions of yourselves, and welcomed this new beginning for your marriage. you wanted this version of nanami for the rest of your life.

he fisted a handful of your hair, quite literally pulling you out of your lustful haze. nanami wrapped the strands around his hand once, securing you in place—not that you had any intention of being anywhere else anyway.

"fuck- baby you feel so fucking good" he growled from behind you, his breaths slowing into heavier, raspier ones. push. pull. push. that's what this fucking felt like. your scalp ached from the strong pull on your hair and your pussy throbbed from how hard he fucked you. your bodies fused together, connecting with each of his slams inside of you.

"nngh k-kento gonna c-cum" you stuttered out. he had you so fucked out on his cock you were barely able to even think, let alone form a sentence. it was fucking pathetic.

"yeah- f-fuck come for me" his voice came out in a ragged breath and his erratic pace began to slow into a more languid, agonizing one. he couldn't help himself—he wanted, no— needed to feel every single muscle along your tight walls clench around his cock. nothing felt better than this.

a desperate cry ripped from your throat as your entire body tensed, the long built up pressure in your core finally snapping free. your breath hitched, and you surrendered completely to the overwhelming sensation, finally unraveling around him. your walls clenched and throbbed, milking his cock with every pulsating wave of pleasure that coursed through your body.

"that's it, good girl" nanami purred behind you, feeling his cock throb deep inside you— the unmistakable sign of his climax finally reaching him. he went still, letting his cum spill out inside of you as he came down from his high. he gently untangled his hand from your hair letting your head drop back down onto the counter top.

your eyes were shut and your body was limp. there was no way that you’d be able to get up and walk around— at least not for a while. you felt your husband finally pull out of you, hearing him buckle his pants back up. warm hands met with your still trembling body, and he gently flipped you over, scooping your body up into his arms. not a single word would come out of you. you were fucking spent.

“my love” he whispered softly, placing you onto the plush bed of your shared bedroom. you looked up at him through half lidded, blurry eyes. “hm?” you hummed out, hoping that was enough of an answer for him.

“let’s take a bath” he said simply and you nodded in response. you could use a warm soothing bath right about now. he stalked into the bathroom and you heard the water turn on. he came out naked moments later, and picked you up off the bed, carrying your limp, exhausted body to the bathroom.

he lowered himself in, and you followed, sitting in between his thighs, his huge frame towering over you from behind. he pushed you lightly to sit up and you obeyed, tilting your head backwards to give him easier access to your hair. he began running his long fingers through the strands, untangling the little knots that resulted from his pulling earlier. you hummed lightly at the feeling, enjoying this small, sweet act of intimacy.

he moved his hands down to your shoulders momentarily, placing light, wet kisses on each one, and a few down the length of your back. “you did so good for me” he whispered sweetly, his gentle praise sending a rush of warmth through you.

god. you loved your husband. he was so caring and so tender, and moments like these made sure to remind you of that. you hoped you’d never have to experience another drought in your marriage like that again and you would do anything to make sure it stayed the way it was in this very moment.

“kento?” you spoke up softly, eyes still closed and head thrown back as he began to lather your hair with your vanilla scented shampoo. “yes my love?” he asked in response, waiting to hear what you mustered up all your remaining strength to say.

“i didn't finish baking the pie" you said, letting out a soft laugh. so much for being thoughtful.

he let out a deeply chuckle in return, recalling how adorable you looked, baking in a cute little white dress. he'd never eat his favorite pie again if it meant sex like that for the rest of his life.

he lowered his mouth to your ear and whispered "it's okay, i already had my favorite dessert"

a/n: holy shit if u made it this far thank you so much for reading. this ended up being wayyyyyy longer than i planned it to be but i had such a good time with this <3

[ipushhimback]

we were drunk it happens - part 3

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4

pairing: lando norris x verstappen!reader warnings: pregnancy, jos verstappen words: 1.5 k

summary: Y/N find out she is pregnant. she doesn’t want to tell Lando as she was scared of his reaction.

taglist: @martygraciesversion381 / @l-vroom4 / @comicalivy / @sid-is-gr8

Fuck. That was the only thought in her head as she stared at the pregnancy test in front of her. She was on birth control. How the hell was she pregnant now.

This couldn’t be happening. She was only 22 years old. Definitely not ready to be a mom! And a single mom? No way she could do that. Oh my god. How should she tell Lando.

She took her phone and clicked on her brother’s contact. She really needed advice right now and who was better for that than her brother. He would probably be a bit upset but Y/N couldn’t really think of anyone else who could help her right now. After only one rang, Max answered.

“Hey, little one. What’s up? Everything alright?”, he asked.

“No, Max. Nothing is alright! Please. Can you come here? I need you.” Y/N felt tears welling up in her eyes and her voice broke.

“Of course. Are you hurt? Did something bad happen?” Over the phone, she heard how Max grabbed his keys as told Kelly he would have to leave. A second later she heard a door close.

“I am not hurt. No. Please just hurry.” She sank down against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall and just hung up. Max would be there soon. And then everything was going to be okay.

The doorbell rang and Y/N got up slowly to open it. When she did, her brother immediately went to hug her as he saw her wet cheeks.

“Hey. What happened. Did someone hurt you? Are you sick?”, Max asked as he leaned back a bit to look her in the eyes. “You know you can tell me everything, right?”

Y/N just held up the pregnancy test. There was no chance it was wrong. The word pregnant was clearly written across the little display in the white stick.

“That’s… yours? I assume?”, Max asked carefully.

“Of course it is mine! Why else would I stand in my fucking house and cry like someone died?! I don’t know what to do, Max. He will kill me if he finds out.” Well aware that she would make Max’ shirt completely wet, she buried her face in his grey shirt.

“Who will kill you? Who even is the father? Oh my god. It’s Lando, isn’t it. No way.” Max looked concerned, but now Y/N could also see he was a bit disappointed, even though he would never show it.

He was too much of a supportive brother. He would never show his disappointment, nor would he upset her on purpose.

“It’s ok. Everything is going to be alright. I promise. Do you want to tell him, already?”

Y/N shook her head furiously.

“No. He… he can’t know. We said no feelings. He really can’t know. Not yet.” Her brother just nodded while looking thoughtful.

“Do you… do you wanna keep it?” He looked worried as if he was scared that he might have said the wrong thing.

Y/N nodded. She thought about an abortion, but she simply couldn’t. It was her baby. And more importantly, it was her and Lando’s baby.

“I do. It is mine.” She placed her hand on her still flat belly.

“Ok. I just want you to know that Kelly and I will support you. No matter how you decide to raise it in the end. And hey, maybe your baby will be friends with ours in the end. They won’t have a huge age gap.” The Formula 1 driver laughed a bit.

“You are not disappointed?”, Y/N asked. She honestly would have thought that Max would be a bit mad, but here he was, being the most understanding person.

“Maybe a little. No… that’s not right. I am just a little scared. You are my little sister. And… I am not really disappointed just worried about you. But you know I will always support you, no matter what happens.” Max smiled at her which made Y/N a little happier.

“I am going to have a baby”, she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

***

For over a week, Y/N had been feeling nauseous. The pregnancy made her tired, dizzy and she couldn’t keep any food down. Still, she told Max that she will attend the next grand prix. Monza. She was happy, because she slowly started to like F1 again. When she was younger, Monza had been her favorite grand prix and the atmosphere when the Ferraris were on the podium…

Like Seb had been saying. Everybody’s a Ferrari fan. Even if they’re not they are Ferrari fans.

Even though Y/N was looking forward to watching the race, she couldn’t help but feel nauseous as fuck. She threw up her whole breakfast earlier and now she just felt weak.

Because the last thing she wanted now was being alone, she had decided to go to the Ferrari garage where Charles’ girlfriend Alex already was. They have become quite good friends over the last weeks so Y/N enjoyed being around her. Together they were now staring at the tv in front of them. Observing the different cars and occasionally swearing when they were annoyed or too caught up in the moment.

At some point Y/N excused herself to head to the bathroom, needing to puke again. When she returned, Alex looked at her a bit worried.

“You look shitty today”, she said bluntly.

“Wow. Thank you. I didn’t see that already in the mirror or so…”

“No… I didn’t mean it like that, Y/N. More in an ‘are you okay’ way. Because seriously, you look like you’re about to faint. And I don’t want to explain that to Max later.” Alex looked at her, definitely worried.

“No. I am alright. It just happens sometimes.” Y/N suppressed the urge to throw up again and took a deep breath. “Let’s focus on the race, ok?”

Alex nodded hesitantly.

Y/N really wanted to tell Alex that she was pregnant, but she simply didn’t know how. Furthermore she wanted to tell all her friends she made over the last weeks together. Alex, Lily, Carmen, Rebecca. And of course, her childhood best friend.

A bit later, the race was finished. Charles came in P1, much to Alex’ joy, Max in P2 and Lando in P3. Everything was perfect, until it wasn’t.

She just went outside to head to the Red Bull garage but just as she came near, she heard a sharp voice.

“P2? And you are proud of yourself? Wipe that damn smile from your face, Max. You started from pole; you should have won easily. Didn’t I raise you better?”

Y/N froze outside and couldn’t move anymore. What was her dad doing here? Max didn’t know about it, did he?

Suddenly she felt like she might really faint. Black spots were dancing in front of her eyes, and she couldn’t breathe anymore. She hasn’t seen her dad in at least three years. And honestly, she was glad about it. She didn’t want him in her life anymore.

Y/N knew that Max didn’t have as much of a problem with Jos as she did, but he still didn’t exactly like it when his dad was complaining about him being P2 in a race. She knew he would beat himself up for it, as it would make him believe he was terrible at what he does.

“Y/N? Are you ok?”, she heard a voice say. Lando.

“Uhm. Yes. Everything’s alright.”

Lando eyed her.

“You don’t look like you’re alright… You’re pale and you look like you just saw a ghost. Did something happen? Are you not feeling well?”, he asked.

“No. Seriously everything’s alright.” But in that moment Max walked around the corner, and Jos was just behind him.

“Oh. Y/N. Nice to see you again after you’ve been ignoring my calls for what now… three years? And still living in your brother’s shadow I see.” Jos laughed and Y/N felt like she wanted to die.

She felt tears welling up in her eyes and her chest tightened. The nausea was back as well, and she hated it. Why couldn’t she just live in a normal family?

“Are you alright, Y/N?”, Max asked from where he was standing. His sister just nodded before turning around and walking to Max’ driver’s room.

“Great, dad. Well, done.”, she heard Max say to their dad behind her. But she just started crying. Damn pregnancy hormones.

A little later when she sat on a small couch in the room, she heard a knock on the door. Max.

“Can I come in please?”, he asked while he was already opening the door. “I didn’t know he would be here, I promise, I would have told you. I wouldn’t want to hurt you or even the baby.”

But exactly then, Y/N saw Lando in front of the wooden door. He looked at her with wide eyes the shock evident in his eyes.

“A baby?”

A/N: sorry it took me so long to write this part but i was so tired thanks to school i didn’t have the energy to write a lot. also updates to the next fics and what i am writing etc is on my pinned post / intro post

[naanook]

I'm imagining something like this- Hear. Me. Out.

After the war, you left to America to finish your studies there and you became a hero.

Years later, you return to a UA reunion, meeting all your old friends

And when Bakugou sees you, he just questions his entire life, he's about to get married, move in with what he thought was the love of his life, but of course you had to come back, as well as those... those feelings! He never got the chance to say goodbye, to proper mourn the lost of touch with you, and he just thought the crush he had just... died.

But of course not, you had to return and... change everything, like you always did.

So now he was just having an identity crisis, asking himself if he wants to get married or... or not.

He can't just throw everything he built now, no, he can't. So he decides to have a talk with you, give his... enormous crush of you a proper funeral and even bury it, but when you told him you felt the same way he just-

Cut to next morning, you sleeping on his arms, and he just stares at the ceiling recalling everything that happened yesterday. Oh god. He's so screwed

the extended version ;D

[op-sys-chaos]

DPxDC prompt (demon twins au)

A video from your son, the email was titled. Bruce was confused. Which of his kids would send a video to his public work email??

Bruce clicked play.

On the screen was a boy who look a lot like Damian, but most certainly wasn’t him.

“This video is for the eyes of Bruce Wayne only.

Hi Dad. I’m Danny. You likely don’t know I exist, and if you’re receiving this, I’m already dead. Well, more dead than I already was. Maybe it’s cruel of me to send you a message post-mortem, but you deserve the truth, and telling you earlier would’ve put you in danger.

This email is set to automatically send if I haven’t opened my computer for 3 days. I sometimes set it longer if I’m on vacation or expecting trouble, but I’ve mostly likely been away from home for a bit over three days if you’re receiving this.

I don’t know who killed me. Obviously. I’m recording this in advance. But it was probably either the GIW or my adoptive parents, the Fentons. I half-died at 14 and became a local ghost superhero, but they never realized I was trying to help and kept talking about tearing ghost-me apart molecule by molecule, so I bet that’s what happened. There will be nothing left of me to bury. Sorry about that!

The rest of the story is this. I was raised in an assassin cult, eventually escaping at the age of 6 when they sent me on mission and I successfully faked my death.

My biggest regret is that I escaped alone. And that’s the reason I’m reaching out to you.

You’re a civilian. If you know too much about the League of Assassins you’ll be in danger. But I need you to save my twin Damian. He’s likely still there after all these years. He never wanted to escape; he took pride in being the heir to the league. He’s probably going to be stabby; he’s an assassin after all. But it’s not his fault. Ra’s - our grandfather - brainwashed him a lot more than he brainwashed me because Damian was more susceptible to it. It’s not his fault. Please. Save him. I’m begging you. My biggest regret is leaving Damian in the league. You have a chance to save him. Please, please do it.

I wish it would’ve been safe for me to get to know you. You seem like a cool dad, from what I’ve seen of you on the news with your oldest kids. I bet you’re like that with the youngest you hide from the public too. I wish you all the best. Thank you for listening.

Your long lost almost certainly dead by now son, Danny Fenton.”

Bruce took a second to process this, then picked up his phone and dialed his youngest’s number.

“Father.”

“Damian, did you have a twin named Danny?”

“…Who told you?”

Bruce hung up and sent Damian the video. He needed a minute to process this anyway.

Damian called back a few minutes later, after watching the video.

“Father. I do not care what state he is in. We must discover exactly what happened to Danny. Even if there is only a single molecule left. We must discover the truth.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Damian.”

Dealer’s choice on whether Danny is alive. The few ideas I have for this are:

- they find him mid-vivisection and rescue him

- they find what’s left of him post-vivisection and post his core being crushed

- he’s perfectly fine and just forgot to open his computer (maybe clockwork made sure he forgot?) and now he’s panicking about the fact that his family knows about him and could be in danger. He wanted them to know he existed, not make themselves a walking target for the league by finding him and trying to bring him home!

- Jazz found the automatic email and, deciding to meddle in her brother’s life and him back to his family and maybe get a good parent for herself as a bonus, sent it early

- Technus decided to start shit and sent it while haunting Danny’s computer

- Clockwork screwed with time to make sure it got sent

Lmk what yall do with this!

[aakaneeee]

Love is presented in many ways throughout Alien Stage: For Mizi and Sua, it's codependent, romantic to a worrying extent. For Ivan and Till, it's one sided, unrequited, and painful.

And for Hyuna and Luka, it's a curse.

Not only a curse, but one that haunts them. Jacob once told Hyuna to "Forgive yourself", which, to her, was misplaced. She could have forgiven herself. It was Luka who she couldn't forgive. But, in the end, she couldn't fulfill the legacy. She couldn't forgive herself for loving Luka. She couldn't forgive Luka for killing who she loved. And so, what did she do? She passed on the legacy.

The words "Forgive yourself" didn't help her. They built who she was, but in the worst possible way. She couldn't take his words, because she didn't consider herself the culprit, but the one she resented.

She told this curse, "Forgive yourself" again. She told them to Luka, sentence that almost sounded mocking on her lips. She couldn't have died before because she had to keep moving forward, but now, the pressure wasn't on her shoulders anymore.

She loves Luka, of course she does. But she cannot possibly forgive him. She knows he doesn't realize the suffering he inflicts. It's ironic, he's so unbearably smart, solving puzzles in a matter of seconds, but he doesn't know how to take in the real world, and the feelings of the ones around him, the most important 'puzzle' of them all. So, she gives him the biggest dilemma of his life. It's harsh, cruel, messed up in every sense. It's the puzzle she knew he could never solve, because she herself, who knew humanity, couldn't. Hyuna knew Luka loved her more than himself. And Hyuna cared for Hyunwoo more than for herself. Luka killed Hyunwoo, and so, Hyuna repaid him with the same coin, an eye for an eye. With an act that is the ultimate sacrifice, and the ultimate revenge.

As I have said, Hyuna knew the love he had for her, beyond the limits of his own body. She must've known how much her act would destroy his world: a fate worse than death. Her kind tone, telling him to take as much time as he needs to solve the newfound question she has proposed in such an ugly way, appears almost taunting.

And the way she holds him in her arms, purposefully close, and looks into his eyes, makes it just so much more painful. And yet, when she speaks her soul, passes everything she was carrying on her shoulders, over to him, her face is hidden away, buried in his shoulder. She's free. She finally had her revenge. She can forgive him, and then herself, even though the price was destroying him, without building him up again. Leaving him like pieces of a puzzle that never got solved. She's been cruelly betrayed, and she, even more cruelly, fed him his own medicine.

Hyuna is haunted by both Hyunwoo and Luka, similar to how Mizi is haunted by Sua. Hyunwoo brings the horror aspect: the bloodied blouse and head, while Luka has the smile that Sua has in the imaginations. The two people she loved most: the one who couldn't forgive her because she didn't get to apologize, and the one she didn't forgive. It's all so incredibly complex: she hates and loves, she resents and adores. Hyuna can't pick anymore. We're shown that she's such an active person, sociable, loving, having a whole group of humans just like her, and yet, we're told that she thinks all of them are selfish, even if they seem altruistic. She doesn't trust them, it seems it's a facade. In this, Luka and Hyuna are similar, but divided by the fact he wants to conceal his emotions, and she wants to make them more visible.

This page, specifically, made me click MiziSua and HyuLuka together. They look scarily alike. The same lovey-dovey expression, versus the distressed one of the lover, even the slight glow that Luka has is similar. I think this is meant to show that they still depend on each other, despite the fact that Hyuna seems to resent him so much.

Hyuna says Luka doesn't know the meaning of love. That the only thing he's ever shown, the only thing he genuinely knows, is suffering, and that his abilities basically stop at inflicting the same. (At least, emotional ones.) This is a parallel to Ivan, in my opinion, who didn't know love either, but he liked the idea of it. Instead, Luka loved with everything he had, even though he had no idea what it truly was. His love is obsessive, and somehow, so impossibly innocent at the same time. Because in a way, he's still a child. When he sees Hyuna, he becomes immature again, his facade of control dissipating into thin air. He mocked Mizi for her inability, but he's even worse.

According to his ear monitor, his heart was beating out of his chest. He could hear his own erratic heartbeat. It's painful, how happy he was, how excited, to be in her arms again. And yet, despite the love, the embrace was just as much of revenge.

Ever since Wiege, we've seen Luka smile so much. Just for him to never truly smile again.

I am a fan of the gentleness that Hyuna treats young Luka with. She seems awfully attached to the image of that innocence she knew. But it's not like Mizi's idea of Sua, the perfect one. It's an image she can't bear seeing again. "I couldn't stand seeing myself on those posters, because I knew exactly the face the you'd have. Yes, I bet you were smiling ear to ear." We've only seen him like this for the first time, but to her, it was so familiar, even years apart, she still knew.

Another thing I have noticed is that Hyunwoo's grave is right infront of a tree, almost separated from the others, just the way Luka was sitting before Hyuna found him. Now, this time, Hyunwoo lost Hyuna, and he's forever forced to be lonely in the garden he'll never grow out of.

Hyuna wanted to give Luka a rubik's cube he wouldn't be able to solve, something difficult. A rubik's cube can represent human nature, who Luka seems to have mastered completely. But Hyuna finally manages to postpone him: the puzzle is herself.

And in the end, after Hyuna's body goes limp, he finally manages to take her in his arms. He promised that there, she'd be safe, but he didn't manage to keep her that way. And suddenly, the words "My Savior" from Ruler of my Heart are awfully true.

[jyoongim]

THE WAY U WRITE THE OLD RED DEMON MAN IS JUST SO NEKEKDKEOWB

Might I just add onto the seemingly continuous alastor requests. I'd love to see Alastor x Reader where reader is in heat and Al finds it pathetic but takes pity on them and helps anyway bc like poor thing can't even get their own instincts in control they're obviously hopeless

warnings: 18+!!!NSFW

You thought when you died you would be rid of hormones.

Periods were a pain while living, but this is was worst.

When you were alive, your periods plagued you with mood swings, random cravings, and pain.

Now that you were dead, you didn’t experience the dreadful red flood and raging mood swings; no. Now all you felt was unbelievably horny and needy.

And you hated it.

You usually carried yourself with confidence and elegance.

You usually liked to help around the hotel and were generally friendly with everyone.

You grimaced as you woke up to feel just how drenched your panties were. I really need to stock up on new underwear you thought as you tossed the ruined panties into the hamper.

You usually spent your heats alone and could hide in a hole until you felt normal again. You usually could control yourself well enough til you had enough free time to ease the tension between your legs.

Or until you found a poor sinner.

Weeeeellll that was hard when you lived in a hotel with a ton of shit to do. You really didn’t want to hear Angel’s jabs as you dragged some unfortunate soul to endear your sex rage.

You sighed, hopefully you could get through the next few days without embarrassing yourself completely.

So far so good you thought as you went about your day doing whatever activity Charlie had you do with the group.

Every touch and scent didn’t send your cunt into a tingling frenzy; yes you had to change your panties a few times but nothing crazy.

That was until you were around Alastor.

Your body practically buzzed whenever the tall red demon was in your vicinity.

You first chalked it up to that it was because you did found him attractive and simply thought it would go away.

But your cunt begged a differ.

You squirmed a bit on the couch as Alastor took a seat beside you, clenching your thighs to ease the uncomfortable throbbing.

It didn’t help that he smelled amazing.

Alastor smelled like evergreens how y’all ever smelled Christmas pine??? That shit is delicious!!!!

And you didn’t realized you had took a deep inhale of him until he turned to you

”Is everything alright my dear?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

fuck how were you going to tell him you wanted to bury your nose into his neck and just SNIFF? 

“O-oh I’m f-fine…i-its just you smelled nice?” You wanted to facepalm.

He blinked at you before letting out a laugh “OOooh why thank you my dear” that shit eating grin widened, voice dropping a slight octave“I must smell very enticing if you’re sniffing at me” his eyes narrowed slightly.

A shiver ran through your body and you swear you were leaking through onto the couch. You wanted to die of embarrassment.

“I-I just never noticed before that’s all” You said shrugging, trying to ignore the fact that his very voice was affecting you.

Charlie had ended whatever the hell you were doing and you quickly made your way to your room, causing some confusion.

You were usually a social butterfly with the gang. You never not chat away with Angel as he told the wild shit he did on set.

“Has got to be that time of the month” Angel commented as you almost sprinted out the room. Charlie and Vaggie gave confused looks ”what?” He sighed “You know…” nope not a clue.

”She was a human remember? Every so often her pussy basically shreds itself to bits”

Charlie gasped “So she’s hurt? Shouldn’t we do something?” Angel laughed,shaking his head “Nah we can’t help. But she'll be fine. Just give her a few days and she'll be normal again”

Alastor was in the background listening, the smile on his face sharpened, you weren’t hurt or bleeding, but there was definitely something that could be done.

You snarled as your vibrator died and tossed it. You groaned as your clit continued to throb. You had thought four orgasms would have did the trick but nope you still had the irritating itch.

You didn’t own a dildo because it was pointless.

it wasn’t the real thing.

You wanted to cry. This was your first heat while you’ve been at the hotel and you didn’t just want to drag a stranger here.

You had more control than that.

At least that’s what you thought.

You had locked yourself in your room as you tore your room to bits. The walls were shredded, pillows and sheets drenched in slick and your poor toy was in pieces.

Panting, you curled in a corner and tugged at your hair, squeezing your eyes tight as tears began to pool in your eyes.

You hated this.

 You hated how it felt like you didn’t even feel like yourself. 

Hated that you couldn’t even control your own damn bodily function.

Hated how your body desperately wanted to be filled.

You would give anything to make this horrid feat of yours go away.

“I would have never thought to see you in such a state my dear”

You froze at the voice and jerked your head to the source.

Alastor.

He was standing at the entrance of your bedroom, a smirk on his face as he took in the state of your room.

”I must say, it. Is rather entertaining to see your lack of control” he said as he approached your curled form.

He crouched down, feigning a concerned look before a clawed hand seized your hair and wrenched your face til your noses were bumping against each other.

”did you think I couldn’t smell you?” He growled “You smell just like a bitch in heat”

You whimpered as his lips ghosted over yours “I-I’m sorry”

His scent was surrounding you. It was a drug. Assaulting your every nerve with each breath you took.

He smelled so good 

please

”Please” you whispered as your cunt buzzed, tingling from his clos proximity and in hopes he would have mercy on you.

Alastor sucked his teeth at you. What a pitiful thing you were…

With a deep breathe, he stood and walked over to your ruined bed and sat. You watched as he sat his mic down and removed his coat. Yanking at his tie, he unbuttoned his shirt and looked over at you with narrowed eyes “Well? Do you want to continue to ruin your furnishings or do you wish to satisfy that brazen desire of yours?”

He widened his legs and your eyes honed in on how he unbuckled his pants.

Your throat tightened and you found yourself crawling over to him, no regard that you were naked.

Kneeling between his legs, your hands soothed up his thighs as your rubbed your head against his crotch.

Alastor lifted your chin for your eyes to meet his. Your eyes were blown out and you winced as his grip tightened.

”I pity you my dear, reduced to wanton whore, but don’t fret…Ill help you through your heat” a thumb ran over your pouty lip.

Your cunt clenched around nothing at his words.

You damn near drooled as he adjusted himself to pull his cock free from its restraints.

It was big, in both length and girth. It slapped against your face, causing you to hum at the weight of it.

You nuzzled it, nose gliding along his length before softly pressing kissed along it. When you came to his mushroom tip, you didn’t hesitate to suck at it. Alastor sighed as you gave the head of his cock kitten licks.

Head clouded with desire, you slowly bobbed your head along his length, taking him whole as you gagged once you reached the hilt.

You eased him out your throat and with a sickening pop, you admired as his spit-covered cock shined. You opted to jerk him off slowly as you buried your nose in his ball, inhaling his scent.

Alastor’s hand found your hair and guided you away from his cock, bringing you to climb up his body, until your smoldering heat was rubbing against his cock as he pressed kisses to your shoulder and neck. A gasp tore from your throat as he nipped at your jaw.

”On fours my dear”

Clumsily, you scrambled to follow his instruction. You must not have been to his liking because he pressed your head til your cheek was flat to the bed, back in a deep low arch, thighs pressed to your stomach and spreaded wide with your ass and cunt exposed to the air. 

You would have blushed in embarrassment if you weren’t so turned on.

A hand glided down your back, causing you to shiver and then jolt as a harsh slap was planted on your ass, before it soothed over the burning cheek.

Alastor kneaded your ass before sliding his fingers down to your cunt.

Your slit was swollen and your clit, puffy with need. 

You were dripping.

He dipped a finger inside you, testing how wet you were.

Soppy. 

He added a second, your cunt greedily welcomed his fingers with ease, giving into resistance.

He chuckled “What a greedy cunt, sucking in my fingers like a cock”

You whined when he took his fingers out, already missing the feel of something inside you.

Alastor took his cock and rubbed it against your cunt, coating himself in your slick.

”I am going to fuck you to your little sinful heart desires and you are going to be grateful of everything I give you. You are going to take every bit of my cum until it spills from this cunt and then again and again until I have bred you so thoroughly. Do you understand slut?”

You were breathing heavily, trembling in excitement.

With a single, sharp thrust he filled your cunt, earning a soft cry from you.

”Do you understand?”he hissed through clenched teeth.

”Y-Yes A-Alastor”. you whimpered, eyes clenched shut in pleasure.

”Good girl”

He drew back and thrusted into you again

And again

And again

He had set a slow, but rough pace. Thrusting his cock deep into the soft warmth of your cunt with each drag.

Soft moans filled the air as he buried his cock inside you.

It felt so good. 

He reached depths your finger couldn’t quite reach.

And it was amazing.

”A-Ala-stor Aah! Aaah! Hah!” You pushed your hips against his, mewling loudly as he grinned his cock into you.

”Youre pathetic ” He laughed, eyes watching his cock disappeared inside you, giving you a hard thrust at his words.

”Nothing but pathetic slut who can’t control their own body”

His grip on your hips pulled you flushed against him, making you take him til his balls was nestled against your slit.

”You probably would have spreaded your legs for any poor sinner, just wanting to be fucked dumb” Your body rippled as his thrusts got harder.

Your cunt only got wetter.

He noticed as he seemed to sink even deeper into you, as if your cunt loosened to welcome him

”oh? I bet you would have liked that wouldn’t you? So out of sorts with need that you would have just anyone bred this cunt”

He growled at the squelching noises from your cunt, you shook your head in denial.

No. No you wouldn’t haven’t done something like that.

”N-no I-I wouldn’t-” You cried out as his finger ghosted over your swollen clit.

”You would have been happy to bend over and offer your cunt to anyone, as long as you had a cock fill you” Alastor continued before a cruel, deep laugh erupted from him

”But instead you sought me out. I had no intention in satisfying you, but what a gentleman would i had been if I ignored a lady in need?” You felt him lean over, hips never missing a beat as he sunk his teeth into your shoulder.

”Oooh how fortunate you are my dear”

You were suddenly flipped onto your back. Hair sprawled around you like a halo, your chest heaving as he pushed your knees to your chin. 

Your lidded eyes watching as he slide his cock between your pussy lips, bumping your clit. He grabbed your wrists, using them as leverage as he thrusted back into you, the new angle making your throw your head back with a broken cry

”FuuuuuUccckk Ah Ah AH!” His hips dug into the underside of your ass as he pounded your cunt.

Alastor hadn’t lost composure the entire time he fucked you.

He watched as you fell apart, your hips wiggling to accommodate to his harsh administrations.

Your cunt took him so good. A white, creamy ring formed at his base as he scraped against that sponges nerve inside you.

You welcomed him gratefully. Letting him wrench pleasurable sounds from your pretty lips.

Pushing your raised legs apart, he lowered his weight on you as he slammed his lips on yours, swallowing your moans. Your tongues danced as he rocked into your body.

The sounds of him ruining your cunt pushed him to fulfill your primal desire.

You felt that familiar blaze of heat take over your body as Alastor fucked short rapid thrusts into you.

Every brush of his abdomen against your clit had your cunt going haywire.

You were going to cum.

Alastor was going to make you cum.

You moaned at the thought

You were gonna cum on his cock

And he was gonna breed you

Breed your soppy cunt

and you were going to let him

”please….” You whined into his mouth

Fuck the very thought had your body buzzing.

”please what?” he purred

Your head was reeling, foggy with the need to be filled.

A hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing

“What are you begging me for slut? Hmm?” His strokes were hitting harder and deeper.

”You want me to breed your cunt? You want to me to fill you up so good that all you’ll ever think is how my cum belongs inside you? What do the little slut want?”

Yes you wanted all of it.

You wanted him to fuck you so good, you wouldn’t even think of wanting another cock from his.

You wanted him to fill your cunt to the brim and then fuck it back inside.

You wanted him to breed you like the little slut you were.

To breed you til he had his fill.

Your instincts had practically took over, fuck sanity.

”Mhmm! I want it. I want you to Ah! I want you to fill me with your cum! Please please breed me Alastor” You whined, feeling your belly clench as your orgasm hung over you, promising sweet relief.

The hand around your throat, tightened causing you to gasp as he spoke into your ear, voice deep and purring

”Youre gonna make yourself cum on my cock slut”

your hand flew to your clit to flick fast circles on the bud.

Alastor’s thrusts quickened, growls pouring from his lips

”Who’s a filthy little slut?”

”M-Me”

”Whos a pathetic slut that’s gonna take my cum?”

”Me!”

”Fucking slut gonna let be breed her dumb”

A sob tore from you as your orgasm washed over you, he fucked you as you milked him, hips angled to thrusts so deep you’re sure your cunt had molded into the shape of his cock

”hah hah aaah fuuucckk fuck fuck Al-Alastor!”

You saw white as your mouth opened in a silent scream only for him to swallow the whine in your throat.

”That’s it you pathetic slut take it. Take my cum. That’s a good girl. Let me breed this sweet cunt cher” your hips raised as he sunk into you and with a deep groan, he cummed into your spasming cunt, making sure to thrust deep enough he hit your cervix as he painted your walls white.

Whether conscious or by instinct, you gave him a ditzy smile, eyes glazed over as you slowly rubbed your clit, whimpering. Holding eye contact with him, a soft pout graced your lips

“Again”

You truly were a pathetic, needy little thing.

But don’t worry pretty Doe, Alastor’s going to make sure you

satisfied and stuffed to your heart’s content

 It was going to be very interesting for the next 36 hours…

@markster666 @alastorsfawn @senseichaos @alastoralltruist @dasimp777 @imgonnadielaughing-blog @thewinchestah @strawberrypimp666 @tpks @stygianoir @polytheatrix @prosciuttosblog @angelltheninth @peachedtv @yourdoorisunlocked @kiralaufeyson84

[serpentandlily]

Birds of a Feather - Azriel x Reader

Birds of a Feather - Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had been your closest friend, made from the very same things as you—birds of a feather, as they say. But you were not the girl he chose to fall in love with. So all you could do was love your mate in the shadows until the day you died.  

Warnings: angst angst angst

A/n: Inspired by Birds of a Feather by Billie Eilish, but this is a more sad interpretation of the song. Hope you enjoy! (Epilogue HERE)

• ───────────────── •

I want you to stay

'Til I'm in the grave

'Til I rot away, dead and buried

'Til I'm in the casket you carry

• ───────────────── •

A flick of golden brown hair caught your eye as Elain tossed her head back with her lilting laughter. So soft. So beautiful. So charming. You could hardly blame Azriel for being so enraptured by her. To him, she was probably the answer to all his questions, all his insecurities and doubt. To have someone like Elain look at him like that…Well, it seemed like it had healed something in him.

Unfortunately for you, it had done the opposite. It had completely destroyed you. Torn your heart into pieces. Opened new wounds and old wounds. It had shined a light on every single insecurity you felt. Because you had been praying for the day that Azriel would look at you the way he looked at her. But that day had never come and it never would.

You hadn’t been good enough for him. Hadn’t been beautiful enough to catch his attention like Mor and Elain had. Hadn’t been sweet enough to serve as a beacon of light for him. Hadn’t been soft enough to bring him comfort. 

You slipped out of the back door. No one even noticed your disappearance, all too happy in this new little family they had created with all three of the Archeron sisters. 

Tears lined your eyes as you hugged yourself, slowly walking along the Sidra towards your apartment. You had been naive to think you’d ever have a love like Feyre and Rhys or Nesta and Cassian. Azriel had been right that night you’d overheard him in the High Lord’s office.

The Cauldron had gotten it wrong. It had gotten it all so wrong.

Azriel was your mate. He was supposed to love and cherish you. Not her. But he had never looked your way once—not like that. You’d been best friends since the dawn of time, since you had entered each other’s lives. But that was all the companionship he could give you.

On nights like this, you almost wished you had told him about the mating bond when it had snapped for you. But you had hoped and prayed that he would come to love you for you and not for the mating bond. So you never spoke a word of it to anyone and maybe that had been your mistake.  

But you didn’t want a love that only existed because of the mating bond. You wanted a love that felt real and deep—with the mating bond only serving as the cherry on top. You didn’t regret not telling him. But you did regret sticking around to watch him fall in love with another girl. 

It didn’t help that Elain was the opposite of you. She was all sunshine and flowers, soft warm bread and honey. You were a creature of the night. You were the moon and its shadows, cryptic and grim. It was why you thought you and Azriel got along so well. You were made of all the same things. But he had always hated that about himself so really, it shouldn’t have been so surprising that he would look for someone who embodied the opposite. 

It hurt though, it hurt so much. 

You were his equal. You lived in the shadows as much as he did. Your soul was made from the same essence as his. You were birds of a feather. You were companions. He was the only one who understood you completely and you were the only one who saw him and loved him as he was—darkness and all. 

You were supposed to stick together through it all.

But…he hadn’t chosen you. 

You finally made it back to your apartment and hung up your coat before collapsing on your bed and letting the sobs ricochet through the utter silence of your home. 

Alone once again. 

As you always would be.

• ───────────────── •

Birds of a feather, we should stick together, I know

I said I'd never think I wasn't better alone

Can't change the weather, might not be forever

But if it's forever, it's even better

• ───────────────── •

All you had wanted to do today was get lost in your book and forget about your own life for a few hours. That was what you had planned, why you were even in the private library at the River House. But of course, the Mother decided to spite you once again.

Azriel sat on the armchair across from you, fiddling with Truth-teller as he ranted about Rhysand for the millionth time. He was still upset about your High Lord telling him to stay away from Elain, even though he had completely ignored those orders anyways. As far as you knew, Rhys hadn’t brought it up again. 

Your jaw was clenched as he brought up Lucien, laminating on how much Elain didn’t want him or the mating bond between them. You blinked away the tears that threatened to come. It almost felt like he was talking about the mating bond between the two of you—the one he still had no idea existed. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest, your stomach tossing and turning. You were so in love with the male sitting before you, so in love with your best friend. And here you were, listening to him talk about another girl the way you wished he’d talk about you. 

You cleared your throat when silence finally overtook the library, your eyes darting to the fireplace that was lacking any light—cold and dusty—the same way you felt inside. 

“Don’t you think…” you started, not looking at Azriel, not sure you wanted to say the words lingering in your throat. 

“Do I think what?” Azriel raised an eyebrow at you. 

You looked away again. 

“I don’t know,” you hesitated before continuing, “Don’t you think that Rhys might actually have a point?” 

You were still focused on the fireplace as you awaited his response with a bated breath. It was the first time you’d addressed his interest in Elain without being positive. But you just had to poke at it once—just once to make sure you were right in keeping the mating bond from him. 

“Oh Gods,” Azriel groaned. “Not you, too.”

“I’m just asking,” you said in your defense. “What if…what if in ten years Elain decides she does actually want to give Lucien a shot? The mating bond—”

“Is godsdamn stupid, is what it is,” Azriel scoffed. “She doesn’t want Lucien, Y/n. She wants me. We want each other. Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, I’m not saying that,” you grimaced, “But what if you find your mate? Would you…would you stay with Elain?” 

“Of course I would,” Azriel answered without missing a beat, digging that dagger into your heart a little more. “I don’t have a mate and even if I did, I would only ever feel sorry for her. For being cursed and shackled to me. At least Elain is choosing me. She is choosing me, Y/n. Over her own mate. If that isn’t love, then what is?” 

“I don’t know, Az.” You swallowed harshly, your throat closing up the further this conversation went on. You wanted to scream and sew your mouth shut at the same time. “Is that what this is? Are you truly in love with her?” 

This was it. The question you had been avoiding for months. And his answer would solidify everything. It would either put the nail in the coffin between the two of you or it would lighten the weight on your shoulders for just a minute—give you a modicum of hope to hang onto. 

“I am,” Azriel snapped, surprising you with his sudden ire. He rose from his seat, his eyes narrowing at you. “What is wrong with you? I thought you cared about me. I thought you were my friend, Y/n, and you’re acting just like Rhysand.” 

You shot up from your seat, eyes wide. “No, Az, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way, I just—”

“No, I get it,” Azriel scoffed, cutting you off. His eyes were ice cold. He had never looked at you like that before. It made your heart pause. “You just want me to continue being miserable. Because that’s always been why the two of us got along so well. Both lonely and so unhappy and now that I’m finally not, you want to drag me back down. Maybe one day someone will love you the way me and Elain love each other. But just because no one does right now, does not mean I have to give up my happiness to keep being miserable with you.” 

Tears welled up in your eyes, your lower lip wobbling. All you wanted was Azriel to be happy. It was another reason why you hadn’t said anything about the mating bond. Because he was happy with Elain and you didn’t want to throw a wrench into that. You hadn’t meant anything by asking him those questions—only wanted a bit of closure for yourself. 

Well, you had gotten closure, all right. Azriel would never choose you. He was right. You were miserable and lonely and heartbroken. Why would he choose you? But you hadn’t expected him to be so harsh. A simple yes would’ve done the same. Tears slipped down your cheeks and the anger from Azriel’s eyes was washed away.

But you didn’t stick around to hear his half-assed apology. You couldn’t. Not when your heart was being ripped apart in your chest, not as bile was rising in your hoarse throat. You dropped your book down on the coffee table before fleeing from the room, ignoring his calls of your name as you left.

• ───────────────── •

But you're so full of shit, 

Tell me it's a bit, 

Say you don't see it, your mind's polluted

Say you wanna quit, don't be stupid

• ───────────────── •

Months went by, all meshing together. You had avoided Azriel since that day in the library. It hurt but being around him hurt even more. It was all you could do to protect your already broken heart. He didn’t reach out to you either, instead all of his attention went to Elain. 

Elain who had finally told Lucien she would never accept their bond. 

And so Azriel and her had finally proclaimed their love to the whole family. A family you felt yourself slipping away from bit by bit. No one even seemed to notice. After all, it had always been you and Azriel hiding away in the shadows—content to observe and love from the corners of the room. 

But now it was just you in that corner, all alone. 

You stopped going to family dinners, stopped hanging around the River House, stopped going to training with the Valkyries. You began to disappear from their lives day by day. You couldn’t bring yourself to stay. Not when your mate was in love with someone else—not as they all started new chapters in their lives and left you behind. 

You had overstayed your welcome. No longer Azriel’s closest friend and confidant. No longer Cassian’s sparring buddy. No longer an extra ear for Rhys to run court decisions by. No longer Mor’s dancing partner or Amren’s pupil to bully. 

You became a shadow of yourself. Sleepless nights led to a lack of energy and focus. Constant tears led to being voiceless. You couldn’t even resort to alcohol because it made the steely barrier you had put up to block out the mating bond come tumbling down, flooding you with all of Azriel’s feelings. Happiness, joy, lust, desire, satiation. 

It was just a reminder that you weren’t the one giving him those things. 

But you couldn’t disappear the way you wanted to. Not when a new war started with Koschei. Despite months of not being around, Rhysand still sent you a notice to come to a meeting to discuss strategy and to inform everyone of new developments. 

You wanted to ignore the summons but the thought of Azriel going into battle again without you around to watch his back nearly sent you spiraling. So you made your way to the River House, eyes on the floor the whole time as you stepped inside and hung up your coat. 

You were about to go up the stairs to get to Rhys’s office when a hand on your shoulder stopped you. You spun around and your breath caught in your throat as you came face to face with Azriel. You took a shaky step away from him, your hand coming up to grip at your chest. The mating bond you had been trying to ignore shoved its way through your defenses—bombarding you with Azriel’s emotions once again. 

His hazel eyes were filled with a bit of guilt and remorse. “Y/n, I was wondering if you were going to show up today. I…I’ve been wanting to talk to you but you haven’t been around much.”

Your mouth opened and closed, no words coming out. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Azriel hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck before speaking, “I never got to apologize for the things I said to you. It's not an excuse, but Rhys had just laid into me again about Elain before I found you in the library and I took my anger out on you when you were just trying to be a good friend and I am truly sorry for what I said to you. I didn’t mean any of it.” 

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, looking away from him. His words had felt true that day. Besides, what he said to you might’ve been wrong but that didn’t take away from the fact that he was in love with someone else. Regardless of his apology, there was no way you could go back to being his friend. It hurt too much. 

Azriel seemed to be waiting for you to say anything else and his shoulders deflated a bit when he realized you weren’t going to. He gave you a weak smile before summoning something from his shadows. An envelope. He held it out for you to grab. You took it from him with a questioning look. 

“It’s an invitation,” Azriel explained. “Me and Elain are getting married. I wanted to deliver this to you in person. It would mean a lot to have you there, Y/n.” 

You stared at the envelope in your hand. 

Stared and stared and stared. 

Even throughout the whole meeting with the Inner Circle, all you could do was stare at that godsdamn envelope. Because inside of it was the last piece of your broken heart, smashed and weeping. Azriel was getting married…and not to you. To her. 

So when Rhys announced his plans of attack for Koschei and how he needed someone to act as bait for the Death God, you were the first to volunteer because you truly had nothing left to lose. 

• ───────────────── •

And I don't know what I'm crying for

I don't think I could love you more

Might not be long, but baby, I

Don't wanna say goodbye

• ───────────────── •

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit up front with the rest of us?” Feyre asked.

You looked up at her from your seat in the very back of the temple, shaking your head. You gave her a blank look. “No, it’s all right. I’m fine back here. You know I don’t like that attention of sitting near the High Lord and Lady.” 

Feyre gave you an understanding nod. “Okay, but you will sit with us at the reception. I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

You nodded to appease her, knowing you had no intentions of staying past the ceremony. You were only here for one reason—because Azriel had asked you to be here and you could never say no to him. So here you sat, your chest empty and your eyes sore from the tears you spilled last night. 

This wedding felt more like a funeral to you and in some ways, it was. You were saying goodbye to a future you could’ve had with your mate, giving up the final piece of yourself for his sake, and getting to watch him be happy and free, such a bittersweet feeling. All you had ever wished was that he could be happy with you but that was just a dream—that’s all it would ever be. 

Elain looked so beautiful in her wedding gown, as she always did. 

Azriel’s eyes lit up the moment she came through the doorway, striding down the aisle to him. He held out his hand for her, helping her up the steps to stand before him. They didn’t look away from each other for a single moment during the ceremony. He was so in love with her. So in love with her and not you…never you. 

The whole room was bursting with joy but not you. You were happy for him, of course. But you couldn’t help but feel that ache in your chest and everything that came with it. The hurt, the jealousy, the grief. 

Had he even really wanted you here or had it been a pity invite? It didn’t matter because he took no notice of anyone but Elain. So when the ceremony ended and everyone began to make their way to the reception, you slinked into the shadows and disappeared once again. 

• ───────────────── •

I'll love you 'til the day that I die

'Til the day that I die

'Til the light leaves my eyes

'Til the day that I die

• ───────────────── •

The battle was over. Koschei had been defeated. You had gone through with serving as the bait for this plan to work. It had cost so much to finally take him down. So many lives, so much power. And you. It had cost you everything. 

You were dying. Slowly.

But you knew this was the end for you.

Even if you could be saved, you didn’t want to be.

You wanted to let death embrace you in his cold arms.

You wanted to leave behind this life finally.

Everyone was still cheering and hugging with relief when you stumbled back into the war camp. You pressed a hand against the deep wound in your stomach, blood bubbling through the cracks in your fingers as you passed by everyone—no one taking notice of you or your severely injured state.

Not until you made it to the main tent where the rest of the Inner Circle had begun to celebrate the victory. 

It was Feyre who noticed you first, her gasp alerting the rest of them to your presence. But you were only looking at Azriel as you stumbled into the tent, barely making it past the threshold before you crumbled to the ground. You choked on the blood filling up your mouth, some of it trickling out of your lips. 

Azriel shouted your name, pushing Cassian out of his way to get to you. He knelt before you, eyes wide with panic as he grasped your shoulders. In the background, you could faintly hear Rhysand shouting for a healer but you knew it was too late for that. 

You weakly smiled up at Azriel. This is what you wanted. To just see him one last time. To let his face be the last thing you see before death came to take you. You reached a hand out, letting your fingertips brush against his jaw. 

It took you being gravely injured for the mating bond to finally snap in place for him. You knew the minute he realized. The mating bond hummed in your chest but its song was so quiet now…so, so quiet. 

It was slowly fraying as your life dimmed. 

“Mate,” Azriel choked out in a whisper, his hand resting on your cheek. His eyes were still full of panic. “You’re…You’re my mate.” 

You nodded, coughing again and more blood slipped out of your lips and down your chin. Azriel shouted frantically for a healer before focusing on you again, his eyes searching yours. “You knew?” 

You nodded again, your body sagging in his hold. He let out a panicked cry and pulled you into his lap. “How long? How long have you known?” 

“A while,” you managed to croak, your fingers raising to caress his jaw again. 

Azriel stared at you in horror as he shouted again for a healer. You could hear the pounding of feet and other panicked whispers but you tuned it all out. You just wanted to go peacefully. No screaming, no cries. Just you and Azriel for the last second of your life. 

“Why?” he cried out, wiping one of your tears away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You…were…happy,” you struggled to get out, your eyes closing with the effort. Azriel shook your body, tears filling up in his eyes.

“No, stay awake, Y/n, you have to stay awake,” Azriel pleaded with you. “The healer is almost here, okay. Just stay awake a little longer.” 

“I-It’s…okay,” you mumbled. “Want…want to go.” 

You coughed again, blood splatting your face. Azriel released a cry that nearly caused the ground to shake. “No, you can’t. You can’t go. You’re my mate, Y/n. You can’t do this to me!” 

“I’ll find…you…again,” you slurred out. “Maybe…maybe I’ll be…good enough….then.” 

You blinked once, your vision blurry but you could see Azriel’s beautiful face. Gods, he was so beautiful. He was screaming something but your hearing went along with your vision, slowly worsening until finally, your heart stopped beating in your chest. 

And with that, the pain was finally gone. 

• ───────────────── •

I knew you in another life

You had that same look in your eyes

I love you, don't act so surprised

• ───────────────── •

Epilogue

[hrrtshape]

things that my boyfriend does in my better cr that truly warms my heart ( aka emma yaps about coryo . . again )

i just have to say that like every time i am with him it might as well be raining rose petals because GRAH . i love this man so bad fuck

he steals the hair tie off my wrist mid-conversation just to snap it lightly against my arm. menace behaviour. then kisses the spot he snapped like it's reparations. it's not. but okay.

he uses my perfume when he misses me. pretends it was "accidental" because he was "in a rush" but i literally caught him spritzing it on his pillow. okay scented softboy.

him scribbling my name in the margins of his physics homework.

when i'm sitting on the counter he stands between my knees like it's just. where he belongs. like we're in a 2007 coming-of-age movie starring people with tumblr edits. which we are.

he bought a stupid little charm for my pandora bracelet when he went on a trip without me. i asked why that one. he said "it looked lonely." shut. UP.

he hates when i'm crying, like. goes feral. paces. brings me tea and tissues and then blames the weather. he’ll be like "it's always cloudy when you're sad" like okay shakespeare.

he always knows when i'm cold before i say anything. he'll just silently drape his jacket over my shoulders like it's a cape.

he keeps the receipts from our dates in a box. they're relics. we're going to bury them under a tree one day and kiss above the grave.

he'll grab my wrist when we’re crossing the street. dramatically. we're in a victorian and there’s a carriage hurtling toward me. we're literally on a suburban sidewalk.

he kisses my knuckles. ALL. OF. THEM. slow. one by one.

he makes me playlists with stupid names like "songs for when you're being dramatic (but i love u anyway)" or "music to study the divine tragedy of your smile to" and then says "it's not that deep." shut up it IS.

his mom super duper likes me because i helped carry the groceries once and he hasn't stopped bringing it up like i saved a child from a burning building.

he'll just. rest his head in my lap. no words. he's safe there!!!!!!!!!! that's home.

every time he kisses my temple i lose two years off my life expectancy. every. single. time.

he eats around the onions in my burger. without even saying anything. and then gives me the side-eye like how did you not check for onions.

he always opens my drinks for me. bottle caps, soda cans, vitamin waters. he lives to hear the hiss-pop and hand it to me like some sort of carbonated chalice. boycoded service.

he lets me pop his zits. i don't even want to unpack this one. i think it means we're married.

he pulled a leaf out of my hair and kept it in his wallet. it's still there. crunched and dry and maybe disgusting. romantic rot. ROMANTIC ROT.

every time we're walking past those claw machine games he makes me stop. wins me a plushie.

he saves the voice notes i send him.

he fixed the chain on my necklace with his teeth. we were running late. i was spiralling. and he just said "come here" and bit the clasp back together. yea. yea.

he let me win at chess once and i knew.

if i fall asleep anywhere near him, car, sofa, bench, airport floor, he'll tuck something under my head. his hoodie. his bag. his own arm. i'm never on tile. i'm on love.

i dunno if i ever said that....but yes....he has...indeed....put his jacket over a puddle.

he wrote "ema was here" in the dust on the back of his car. left it there for days. weeks. i checked. he washed everything else. not that. (p.s., i have an obsession with him writing ema instead of emma. just something about that.)

he carries my water bottle like it's his cross to bear but also refills it without me asking. i’m not a girl. i'm a beloved houseplant.

he figured out my coffee order before i told him and now i feel unsafe (in a romantic way).

my phone dies and he lets me use his. like "here. text your mom." and i'm like ??? i'm texting my pinterest mutual actually but thank you!!!

he keeps gum in his glovebox just for me. like i asked once. in january. and now it's always there.

when he walks behind me he'll tuck my tag in.

sings along to my favourite songs under his breath while driving even though he acts like he's too cool for them. you know. he knows every word.

when i wear lip gloss he won't kiss me right away. just stares. and says something stupid like "you're too pretty. it's a trap."

sometimes he picks me up and spins me like we're in a musical. usually in the kitchen. mind you, i'm just trying to get juice.

he learned how to tie a silk ribbon in my hair. doesn't talk about it. just does it when i can't get it right.

once i got mascara in my eye and he said "blink at me. i'll get it out" as if i was a disney princess.

he has my shampoo. doesn't use it. but. it's there. help.

he never lets me carry a takeaway bag. even if it's like. one (1) croissant. "you're not meant to suffer," he'll say, already loading five things into his arms.

he lifts me onto countertops. regularly.

he puts my earrings in his wallet if i take them off.

every time we hold hands he presses his thumb into the back of mine.

if i fall asleep in his bed he'll put socks (his!!!!!) on my feet and act like it's just something that happens.

when i talk about something i love, he looks at me instead of the thing. full eye contact. the whole time. THAT one image from pinterest. you know the one.

when i'm talking and he wants to kiss me, he just. does. mid-sentence.

once when i was crying he wiped my tears and went "you're gonna get dehydrated." (hrrtshape dot com is malfunctioning currently i need a moment)

knows how i take my tea. knows what brand. knows i like the ugly mug.

he put the 'emergency chocolate' in his bag. for me. not himself.

told me he dreams about me. casually. just said it.

when i send a selfie he'll say "come home."

he walks slower when we're holding hands so our steps match. who does that. freak behaviour. soulmate behaviour.

sometimes i catch him just watching me, smiling, and when i ask why he says "nothing." MHMHMMHMHMHMMmmmmmmm.

[nikkeora]

jason todd puts flowers on his own grave.

it wa curiosity at first. after he'd spent a while at the league and mellowed out, formed a proper plan besides simply burning wayne manor to the ground, he wondered what his grave would say. they'd told him there had been a funeral, after all. probably closed casket, with an altered death certificate saying he'd died in a car crash or something. not like bruce could face the truth if it beat him with a crowbar.

beloved son? a generic lie.

loving brother? much the same.

something bitter rises in his throat as his feet hit worn, damp stone. the streets aren't familiar anymore.. even crime alley has changed - there must've been a turf war or something, because those goons following him most definitely aren't black mask's usual pick. then again, maybe old roman's changed, too.

he sighs in frustration when he meets a dead end. gone for just how many years and they brick up an entire street? ridiculous. he hears the telltale sign of weapons being drawn behind him before he turns around with his own.

gone but not forgotten? they'd moved on fine without him. everyone had.

he stashes their bodies behind some dumpsters and moves quick. he's not in much of a mood for a fight right now. he isn't in a mood to do much of anything; there's a strange sense of melancholy in his chest.

he makes it the rest of the way to gotham's main cemetery without another incident. it's relatively easy to find his place there. thomas and martha wayne have a large tree next to their joint grave, and he just assumed he'd be somewhere near them. he's a little surprised to see his headstone right on their left. that spot used to be saved for bruce.

tentatively, he reads the inscription.

jason todd.

...

he shouldn't be surprised, really, what else did he expect? he wasn't in any of their lives for long, they barely knew him. he thought he knew them, he was wrong. they didn't care. the only thing they wanted to remember about him was his name, birth and death date, he doesn't doubt they would've had a blank headstone if they could, hell, maybe there wouldn't even have been a funeral if he hadn't existed in the public eye, he might as well have been buried in an unmarked, shallow grave next to that goddamn warehouse-

a drop of rain tears him out of his spiral.

...inhale...

...exhale.

maybe he'd hoped they cared.

that little boy who died that night deserved to have someone that cared.

...because that boy had cared so, so much.

come next morning, he's gotten himself a shitty apartment in crime alley and there's a small bouquet of flowers in his hand as he visits his grave for the second time. there's none already there, not even wilted ones. but as he crouches down to give himself what he believes to be the first flowers that boy has ever gotten, something in the grass glitters, catching his eye.

his first thought is a used needle, but as he looks a little closer, he realizes it's a little bracelet.

it's a little rusty and definitely made for a kid. the chain is cheap and a bit chunky. but the charm, a tiny, half heart meant to be a matching set to another bff bracelet, brings back a flood of memories.

he knew he'd forgotten a couple things when he'd come back. most of it was unimportant stuff. there's a jane austen book he doesn't recall reading? great, he gets to experience it for the first time again. his favorite color? well, he knows it's not green for sure, and that's really the only thing he needs to know. which floor his room was in the manor? he was never going to go back, anyway.

but how could he ever have forgotten you?

that tiny bracelet, tucked away from prying eyes and grubby hands in the taller grass near his headstone and meant for a boy he no longer was, said that someone had cared. enough to visit him. enough to leave something he would have wanted to take with him.

and maybe, just maybe, if he keeps coming back... he'll see you again one day.

so jason todd puts flowers on his own grave. every week, every day. same time, same place.

for that boy who had cared, and his friend who missed him.

and one day, a little while after his grand plan had gone to shit, there are flowers in his hand again. he doesn't get to place them on his grave, though. when he spots someone standing there - different clothes, different hair, but the same eyes that had been his first love all those years ago… it’s like seeing you for the first time all over again.

those flowers are for you now.

[moonxknightx]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : A SECOND CHANCE : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ Hwang In-ho x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Fluff

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆FANDOM: Squid Game

ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNINGS: Nothing major! mentions of [Y/N] (sorry), let’s pretend that for the storyline sake’s, everyone in the fanfic is speaking Korean

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: A story where In-ho falls in love with a girl who makes him feel alive again after he had sworn to himself to never love again.

Next part

IN-HO WAS IN LOVE. It felt strange, almost absurd. Love had been a foreign concept to him for so long, buried under years of bitterness and regret. After everything that happened with his wife, he had promised himself he would never feel that way again. Not for anyone. Love, he decided, was a weakness, a fissure in the armor he had painstakingly built around himself.

When his wife died, it shattered more than just his faith in relationships. It destroyed his faith in humanity as a whole. The games had only made his belief stronger that people were selfish creatures at their core, willing to do anything, betray anyone for survival. He had seen it all firsthand. desperation turning to violence, trust changing into treachery, and the raw, primal instincts that stripped people of their masks. He’d grown numb to it, the horror no longer shocking him, the blood no longer making him flinch. If love once held the power to warm him, it now only served as a warning tale, a reminder of how deeply pain could cut when you let someone in.

So he threw himself fully into the games, immersing himself in their structure and chaos, their cruel order. He told himself he had no room for anything else, no capacity for emotions beyond the cold logic of running the games. It was easier that way, easier to stay distant, detached, and invulnerable. Love was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous in his world.

That was until you entered his life.

Every wall he had built around himself crumbled the moment he laid his eyes on you and he hated it. He hated every little second of it. But what could he do? You were so kind and sweet.

It all started when In-ho returned to Seoul after the 33rd edition of the games was over. First he dropped Seong Gi-hun off somewhere on a sidewalk before he ordered the guard who was driving to drop him off at his apartment.

He was actually dreading to go back home. If he could even call it a ‘home’. He’d much rather stay on the island, but he was forced to go back to Seoul by his boss, Oh Il-nam.

The moment he stepped into his apartment, his heart ached. He tried his best to stay calm as he wandered around the small living space. After his wife died, he moved to a much smaller apartment, not seeing the need of having a bigger place for just himself.

When he walked into the kitchen, he realized that he needed to go grocery shopping as everything he had in his kitchen, had turned bad.

With a sigh he walked back to the front door. He checked if he had his wallet and keys before leaving the apartment.

While heading towards the store In-ho felt empty. He actually felt like he wasn’t alive. Nothing mattered to him anymore. Especially now he was away from the island.

He decided to go to a convenience store nearby as it was already well past midnight. In-ho groaned when he was met with the bright lights of the store as he walked towards the food section.

“Oh come on!”

In-ho looked up. He scanned his surroundings until his eyes fell on a woman trying to reach for something on the highest shelf. It was you.

“Why do i have to be so damn short!” You groaned to yourself while standing on your tippy toes. You were already standing on an empty crate, but you still couldn’t reach the top.

In-ho wanted to look away, but something about you pulled him in. Until he realized that you were staring at him.

“Hey sir? Would you mind helping me?” You asked while trying one more time to reach those instant noodles you so desperately craved.

You watched how the man quickly looked down. He tried to look busy, scanning some products with his eyes before grabbing a lollipop. You could see how the man internally cursed himself for grabbing such a random object.

“I know you heard me.” You said softly, not sounding at all angry. The man sighed to himself before making eye contact again.

“I’m really sorry for bothering you, but I really want those noodles and I can’t reach them. Would you be so kind to help me?” You asked with a slight smile.

In-ho wanted to walk away. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He cleared his throat, placed the lollipop back and walked towards you. “Which one do you want?” He asked while looking at the top shelf.

“That one please.” You pointed at the noodles you wanted and In-ho nodded, grabbed them and handed them to you. “Here you go.” In-ho tried to avoid making eye contact, but he failed when he accidentally looked into your eyes to see you giggling.

“You are really bad at this aren’t you?” You smiled as In-ho awkwardly stood in front of you. “At what?” He asked gruffly. “At being around other people, let alone helping them.” You said softly.

In-ho scoffed and looked away. You tried to hold back your smile as you jumped down the crate you were standing on. In-ho didn’t want to look, but he did. Even when you were standing on the crate, you were still a good amount shorter than him, but now that you were just standing on the floor, the difference only got bigger.

“Well thank you sir for helping me.” You gave In-ho one last smile before heading towards the cashier. In-ho blinked a few times before shrugging it off. He quickly grabbed the items he wanted before following after you.

Why did he feel the need to follow you?

When it was his turn to pay, you were already outside. You were trying to light a cigarette but your lighter wouldn’t work.

A small smile crept onto In-ho’s face as he looked at you and he hated every second of it.

Nonetheless, he was quick with paying for his groceries before walking out of the store. In-ho carefully took a few steps towards you, reaching in his pocket to pull out his own lighter.

“Here.” He said as he held the lighter in front of him. You quickly looked up to see the man again. You looked at his face and then at his hand.

“Thank you.” You said as you grabbed the lighter to light up your cigarette. “It’s nothing.” In-ho mumbled as he grabbed a pack of cigarettes out of his other pocket.

You handed the lighter back and watched how he used it to light his own cigarette before putting the lighter back in his pocket.

It was quiet for a moment. Both not really knowing what to say until you cleared your throat.

“My name is [Y/N].”

In-ho’s eyebrows shot up as he looked at you. Why would she introduce herself to me?

Suddenly he realized that you were staring at him, waiting for him to introduce himself as well.

“My name is In-ho.” He said awkwardly while scratching the back of his neck. “Well nice to meet you In-ho.” You smiled as you took a drag from your cigarette.

As In-ho looked at you for a moment, he suddenly realized that he didn’t feel so empty anymore. Was it you that did that? It had to be, what other reason did he have?

“You seem to be deep in thought.” You giggled. In-ho glanced at you which made you smile even more.

“God I thought that I was awkward!” You laughed. In-ho shot you a glare but when he saw you laughing he couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. And you noticed.

“Wow you can smile!” You joked making In-ho roll his eyes. He watched how you threw your cigarette on the ground and stood on it.

���Well I guess I wil see you around, In-ho.” You said softly as you started to head home. “Wait!” In-ho internally cringed at himself for saying something.

You turned around and looked at him. In-ho sighed before speaking. “It’s dangerous to walk alone this late.” He commented, causing you to smile. “Don’t worry, i’ve done it before.”

Why does she have to be so stubborn? In-ho thought to himself. “Let me walk with you.” You seemed surprised by his words and so did he. Why did i say that? “I was going to head that way anyway.” A lie. If In-ho wanted to go home, he actually needed to go in the opposite direction you were heading for. But you didn’t have to know that.

“If that’s true, then sure why not.” You said with a slight shrug and smile. In-ho threw his cigarette away as well and followed after you.

“You didn’t grow up here did you?” In-ho suddenly asked. You looked at your feet and smiled.

“Is it that noticeable?” You asked softly. In-ho lifted his shoulders and let out a deep breath. “You have a slight accent when you speak Korean.”

“Oh…” You said quietly, not sure of what to say now. In-ho quickly tried to think of something to say, not wanting you to feel uncomfortable. So without thinking he said,

“I think it’s rather cute.”

Fuck. Thought In-ho the moment those words left his mouth. Your head shot up at his remark and In-ho quickly looked away.

“I mean…” In-ho stopped talking when he heard you laughing. He slowly turned his face towards you. “You are really, really bad at this.”

In-ho tried his best not to smile, why would he? He had not one reason in his life to smile right now. But somehow he just couldn’t help the way his lips moved on it’s on into a small smile. For a second time! What was happening to him?

“Here this way.” You said as you tugged on In-ho’s sleeve, pulling him into a small alleyway that led to your apartment building.

In-ho let himself be pulled by you and soon enough the two of you had arrived at your apartment.

“Can I have your phone?” You asked suddenly. In-ho raised his eyebrows while giving you a questioning look.

“Please.” You smiled. In-ho didn’t want to give his phone to you. So he had no idea how it ended up in your hands. Did I really just gave her my phone?

You held his phone in front of his face to unlock it and immediately went to his contacts. In-ho watched how you clicked on ‘add a new contact.’ He saw how you wrote down your number and added your name at the top.

Then he watched with wide eyes how you handed him his phone back. “Give me a call sometime.” You smiled at him. In-ho said nothing.

“Thank you for walking me home, In-Ho.” Was all you said before entering your apartment complex, leaving In-ho outside at a loss for words.

“What the...” He mumbled as he suddenly came to his senses and looked down at his phone, staring at your number.

He wasn’t going to call you. He didn’t want to. What would even be the point? He didn’t want friends and he sure as hell didn’t want to fall in love. He had sworn that to himself.

But then why the hell did he call you the next day?

(A/N): I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS FANFIC!! I FEEL LIKE TUMBLR NEEDS WAY MORE SOFT IN-HO CONTENT, SO WHY NOT DO IT MYSELF?

I’M ACTUALLY PRETTY EXCITED ABOUT THIS FANFIC SO I MIGHT MAKE A PART TWO

WHAT DO YOU ALL THINK?

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason: Bruce, I know we’ve made amends and I’m back in this insane family, and I’m well aware you tried to kill the Joker to avenge my honor. You didn’t go through with it, but still, there’s a lot to unpack here. I want that soldier memorial removed. I never wanted a statue that labels me as a damn child soldier.

Bruce: Yeah, I told Alfred the same thing. Honestly, I’m thinking we could replace it with photos of you, Dick, Tim, and Damian.

Jason: You told Alfred the same thing?

Bruce (swishing his Cognac in his glass): Alfred set up that memorial and included the soldier line. I hated it—not because it reminds me of you but because equating you to a soldier reduces the fact that you're my son who chose to fight alongside me. I may be emotionally distant, but I do love you. You were never a solider, you are my son.

Jason blinked, momentarily stunned, and turned away, coughing to maintain his composure. Bruce half-smiled, noticing his son misty-eyed.

Jason: Right, back to the Alfred comment. He put that up? Jesus, I know he’s old and things were different back then, but “soldier” for a teenage Robin? How is that okay?

Bruce: Alfred means well. He tends to do insane things without my approval. He made Tim a Robin after I vowed never to have another child sidekick.

Jason (shocked): What the hell?!

Bruce chuckled dryly as he drank the rest of his Cognac and poured another glass.

Bruce: Yeah, when you died in that explosion and I cradled your lifeless body, I thought about you—my sidekick, my son. I reflected on Dick and what he went through, how he was going low contact with me. I spiraled, thinking, “What kind of monster does this to his son? To the kids he claims to care about? I just buried a kid… a kid who lost his life before it even started.”

He downed the second glass of Cognac, his throat dry, and slammed the glass on the table.

Bruce: So I vowed to never get another one. Obviously, that didn’t stick. Tim figured out Dick was Nightwing and the first Robin; I couldn’t resist rubbing that in his face for weeks once I felt better. But before that, I turned Tim away. I didn’t want a child sidekick. I thought I could handle this alone. Dick and I were still on terrible terms, and I was losing it. This was after I tried to kill the Joker, by the way.

Jason: Right.

Bruce: I was, to put it lightly, losing my mind. I was inches away from having my one bad day moment, on the brink of insanity. But Alfred and… I think Dick got Tim your old suit—

Jason: My old suit? The one I died in?!

Bruce: No, the backup you had. Keep up. So they gave him that suit, and he saved me. Alfred was like, "Master Bruce, I got you a new sidekick. You don’t have to thank me." I didn’t thank him, but Tim was precocious and adorable. I probably would’ve died without him. But yeah, Alfred was behind that as well.

Jason: …

Bruce: I know it’s a lot to take in. I hope you aren’t angry at Alfred for this.

Jason (burying his head in his hands): I’m so conflicted.

Bruce: That’s usually how I feel when Alfred decides to do things I didn't agree with. He means well though, the man was there for me when I had no one after my parents died. Do you still want to remove the memorial? I have a small one set up for you already, just photos of us together.

Jason: Aww, Bruce, that’s actually nice and makes sense for you. Let’s keep the memorial. I don’t have it in me to get mad at Alfred. Can I have some of that alcohol, though? I think I need it.

Bruce (already pouring him a glass): I expected that. If you have more questions, I’m two drinks in and becoming an open book like that time we got hit with truth pollen.

Jason: I actually wanted to ask what you said to Superman after he stupidly tried to stop you from avenging your son.

Bruce: I’d love to talk about that, and I hope he hears us.

inspired by this kaylee.jaye

[foxtrology]

sweet dark haired man (6)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 13.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut.

The Cape Cod light was brutal in its honesty—too bright, too clean, the kind of afternoon sun that made everything look sharper than it should. The ocean beyond the windows of the renovated beach house sparkled like glass, waves crashing against the shore in rhythmic indifference.

Lucy hated it.

She hated how picturesque it was. How calm. How settled. How every breath felt like a performance of peace.

John had gone into town to pick up oysters and a bottle of wine he couldn’t pronounce. He kissed her cheek before he left. He always did that. Like routine made up for the silence between them.

She was curled on the white couch in her favorite silk robe—cream, embroidered, delicate—as if softness could protect her. Her hair was tied up with a scrunchie she didn’t remember choosing. The mug of green tea beside her had long gone cold. She hadn’t touched it.

Her laptop was open on her knees. And the email was staring at her.

Subject: FYI — goes live tomorrow, late afternoon. Thought you’d want to see it first.

From: Carrie Roth

No greeting. No punctuation. Just a single link beneath the sentence. No context.

But Lucy didn’t need context.

She clicked. And the screen unfurled into a headline she already knew would hurt.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

Her breath hitched.

Below the headline, the byline—Carrie Roth. Of course. And below that?

The photo. That photo. The one Harry had supposedly made Carrie delete.

Lucy blinked hard.

There they were—in Harry’s lobby. She remembered the building. The hallway. The marble floors. The stupid orchid arrangement by the elevator that never died.

But that wasn’t what made her pause.

It was the way Harry was looking at the girl. She was in his clothes. Hair wet like she just took a bath. At his place. But Harry? Harry was looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

It was instinctive. Natural. The kind of look you didn’t even realize you gave unless someone froze the moment.

Lucy stared at the image. Her hands went cold. Her ring—thin gold, small diamond, a gift from John—pressed into her skin as she clenched her fingers.

She scrolled. The article wasn’t cruel. Not exactly.

It was careful. Surgical. The kind of carefully worded gossip Carrie was famous for—less fire, more poison. Phrases like “rare public moment,” and “sources say she doesn’t have a last name that anyone can find,” and “Castillo’s first serious appearance with someone new since his highly publicized breakup with his ex Lucy.”

Lucy flinched at the mention of her name. It was in bold.

Of course it was.

Carrie had buried the quote deeper in the piece, almost like a treat for the diligent reader.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet,” Lucy had said, when asked if she knew about the woman. “How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

She hadn’t meant it to sound bitter. Or maybe she had.

Maybe some part of her had wanted Harry to read that line and feel something sharp in his chest. But now, looking at the photo—the girl in his clothes, the way his body was angled toward her, protective, intimate—Lucy felt something sharp in hers.

Because she recognized that version of him.

The quiet Harry. The gentle one. The one who made tea without asking and never needed to be told what you were thinking because he already knew.

She had killed that version of him. And someone had brought him back to life.

Lucy’s phone buzzed once. A message from John.

John: Need anything else from the store? 

She didn’t answer right away. She just stared out the window. The sea was bluer than usual. A boat skimmed across the horizon like punctuation.

She clicked the link again. Scrolled back to the photo. Studied the girl’s face—partially turned, but visible. Eyes cast down. Mouth soft. She didn’t look like a socialite. Or an actress. Or a woman who’d ever once tried to control a room.

She looked like someone who’d wandered into Harry’s life by accident. And stayed.

Lucy’s finger hovered over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked back to the headline. Then to the quote.

She’s not built for it.

She closed the laptop. Stood. The silence in the house was so loud it made her ears ring. And suddenly, Lucy wasn’t sure if she’d moved on at all.

Back in Italy, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the hills, casting everything in gold.

The villa glowed like a painting—stone walls kissed by twilight, lanterns strung along the balcony flickering to life one by one. The air was warm, threaded with rosemary, lemon, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.

She stood in front of the mirror, still pinning one last piece of her hair into place.

Her dress was a soft rust color, silk again, but different from last night. This one moved like water when she walked, low in the back, delicate at the shoulders. Her earrings were borrowed from Francesca. Her lipstick was a shade she got from Maya. 

Harry watched her from the edge of the bed.

Shirt crisp. Pants pressed. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a small glass of something he hadn’t sipped yet. He’d shaved, but left a trace of scruff. His chain caught the last bit of sunlight, gleaming like a secret.

“You keep staring,” she said, not looking at him.

“I can’t help it.”

She smiled at her reflection. “Is it the hair?”

“It’s the everything.”

He walked over slowly. Stood behind her. Met her eyes in the mirror.

“I thought I was in love with you before,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder. “But then you did that thing with the peach at lunch.”

She laughed, head tilting back slightly. “That wasn’t me. That was the wine.”

“You were licking your thumb.”

“I was cleaning my hand.”

“It was obscene.”

She turned. Faced him.

And for a moment, they just stood there. Quiet. Grounded.

“Well,” she said softly, “good thing I brought extra peaches.”

Harry groaned like a man in pain. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

She kissed him once, quick and mischievous. Then grabbed her bag.

Chiara had texted the address hours ago. Danny was still sulking around the villa, probably pretending not to exist.

The car was waiting. The roads were winding. The evening had started.

And neither of them had any idea what tomorrow night's headline would bring.

But for now—

They were still in Florence. Still in the golden hour. Still theirs.

The driver didn’t speak much.

Harry gave the address once and the rest of the ride passed in a hush, the hum of the engine soft beneath the cobblestone rhythm. The roads curled like ribbon through the hills, olive trees flashing past the windows in soft blurs, golden light smearing the windshield.

In the backseat, she let her head rest against the window for a while, watching the landscape spill by like something dreamt.

Harry sat beside her, shirt deep navy, sleeves rolled up neatly. His trousers were black, fitted. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine—controlled, watchful, impossibly composed.

But his fingers found hers anyway. Laced them together. Rested their joined hands on the seat between them like a promise.

She smiled without turning her head. They didn’t speak the whole ride. They didn’t need to.

When the car finally turned off the main road and slowed onto a gravel path lined with wildflowers and pale stone, she sat up straighter. Adjusted her silk dress. Smoothed her hands down the front.

Harry reached over without a word and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb grazed her jaw.

“You ready?” he asked softly.

“Nope.”

“Too late.”

The car stopped. And there it was.

Chiara’s family home was nothing like the villa. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t curated. It was warm. Chaotic. Built like a hug.

A long, low house with chipped shutters, ivy spilling down the side, and music floating faintly from the open windows. Children’s laughter rang out somewhere around back. The scent of tomato and garlic clung to the air like an old coat.

Lights were strung overhead—crooked, twinkling fairy lights bouncing between olive trees and the wooden beams of a pergola that shaded the long dinner table already half-filled with people.

They stepped out of the car. The gravel crunched under her sandals. Harry opened the door for her, of course. Offered his hand. She took it.

It was now 8:30. And the sun had just melted fully behind the hills, leaving everything bathed in the kind of purple-gold glow that only happened in Italy and movies.

Chiara spotted them first. She was barefoot again, curls pinned half-up, wearing a thin white dress with a red sweater tied around her waist like a ribbon. She bounded toward them with a glass of wine in one hand and a sprig of rosemary in the other.

“You came!” she beamed, flinging her arms around her in a hug. Then looked at Harry and added, “You too. Terrifying boyfriend.”

Harry’s brow ticked. “Thanks.”

Chiara only grinned. “Come meet everyone.”

She grabbed her hand, tugged her forward without giving her time to panic. Harry followed behind, towering, silent, one hand in his pocket, already receiving double-takes from some of the guests as they approached.

The table was long. Wood worn soft by weather and wine stains. Set with mismatched plates and linen napkins. There were pitchers of red wine and baskets of bread at each end. Someone had set out bowls of figs and mozzarella, tomatoes still warm from the vine, plates of roasted eggplant and olives soaked in garlic oil.

Chiara pointed as she rambled on. “That’s my mother—Rosalinda and that’s my father—Leo. Don’t let him pour your wine or you’ll never stop drinking. My brothers—Matteo and Gianni."

There were a bunch of other guests that she didn't introduce but still they still waved.

Everyone waved.

Rosalinda gave a warm smile. “Benvenuti. Welcome.”

Chiara tugged her to two empty chairs at the far end of the table, tucked beneath a blooming wisteria vine. “These are yours. I saved them.”

Harry held the chair out for her. She sat. He took the one beside her.

And just like that, they were in it. The wine was poured before either of them could decline. The bread basket was passed like gospel.

Someone slid over a small dish of anchovies and roasted peppers with a murmur, “Try this. It’ll change your life.”

She was dizzy already—in the best way. Everything smelled like salt and basil and firewood. The table was loud, people speaking over each other in fast Italian, gesturing wildly, laughter bubbling up in waves.

And Harry? Harry didn’t say a word. He didn’t smile. Didn’t reach for the wine. He just sat there—hands folded, watching everything like he was gathering intel.

No one said anything for a while. Until Gianni, Chiara’s younger brother—maybe twenty, maybe high—leaned over the table, squinting.

“So,” he said, accent thick but voice teasing, “you are the scary man, yes?”

Harry looked up. Raised a brow.

Gianni grinned. “Chiara said you looked like you kill people for fun.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Harry replied, deadpan.

The table froze. Chiara choked on her wine. Then—Rosalinda burst into laughter. Loud. Unapologetic.

Everyone followed. Even Harry smiled, just barely. The kind of smile that curled at the corner of his mouth like a secret. And from that moment, the ice cracked. A little.

Rosalinda passed him the wine again. This time, he took it.

A cousin leaned forward and asked if he was a Gemini.

He said, “Worse.”

The table howled. Dinner unfolded in waves.

The food kept coming—handmade pasta with sage butter and lemon zest, grilled zucchini, risotto flecked with saffron. Someone brought out slices of porchetta carved from a roast, still warm, the scent making her stomach ache with joy.

She reached for a piece of bread and Harry slid the butter toward her without being asked.

Their knees touched under the table. At one point, she turned to him and whispered, “You okay?”

He nodded. “You?”

She smiled. “I’m good.”

He reached for her hand beneath the table. Held it loosely, fingers stroking hers as the night softened.

The stars came out slowly. Someone put on a record player—crackling, old jazz spinning from a speaker tucked beneath the table.

Rosalinda began reading tarot cards near the rosemary bush.

Chiara danced barefoot with her grandmother under the vines.

Leo refilled Harry’s glass without asking. He didn’t argue.

He was still quiet. Still him. But softer now. Warmer.

He leaned in close once, mouth brushing her temple, and murmured, “This is the best night I’ve had in years.”

She looked at him. Eyes lit.

“Me too.”

They didn’t talk about Lucy. They didn’t know that across the ocean, Lucy had just stared down the proof of their intimacy frozen in pixels. They didn’t know the article was going live tomorrow.

They didn’t know that Danny was trying—desperately, recklessly—to contain the fallout.

For now, they just drank the wine. Ate the figs. Held hands under a string of crooked lights.

And when Chiara brought out a lemon cake her aunt had baked that morning, they split a slice and fed each other bites like fools. Harry didn’t even flinch when someone took a photo.

“You’re different here,” she whispered, later, when the table had quieted and only the older guests remained, nursing espresso and arguing softly about soccer.

Harry looked at her.

“You’re softer,” she said.

“I think you make me that way.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. His fingers threaded through hers. The record spun to a close. And for now, the night held. Long and safe and theirs.

But even the gentlest nights had to end.

She was mid-laugh, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass as Chiara told some absurd story about falling into a canal in Venice when she was a child—elbows flying, hands gesturing, cheeks pink with wine and warmth—when it happened.

Harry saw it. The yawn.

Small. Half-hidden. She tried to stifle it behind her knuckles, the motion lazy and unbothered. But he caught it. Of course he did.

It wasn’t the kind of yawn that meant boredom. It was the kind that meant her bones were heavy and her body had officially stopped running on adrenaline and sugar and wine. The kind that meant she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes open much longer.

He leaned down slightly, his voice brushing her ear like something private.

“You’re fading. Tired?”

She turned, blinking up at him with bleary affection. “No, I’m not.”

“You just yawned mid-sentence.”

“Did not.”

“You did.”

“That was a—dramatic breath,” she mumbled. “For storytelling.”

He smiled. Barely.

Then stood.

It was subtle—how quickly the table noticed. A hush, almost reverent, like the weather had shifted. Conversations paused. Heads tilted.

Harry Castillo had stood. And that meant something.

Chiara looked up. “Leaving?”

Harry gave a slight nod, hand resting at the back of her chair. “We should.”

She opened her mouth to protest. To insist she was fine. But another yawn betrayed her.

Harry quirked a brow.

She gave up. “Okay, fine.”

Chiara leaned over and hugged her, cheek warm against her own. “Thank you for coming. Truly.”

“She’s the one that made us come,” Harry muttered as he shook Leo’s hand.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” Chiara said. Then added, teasing, “Terrifying. But good.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He just placed a hand on the small of her back—warm, grounding—and guided her through the garden path, away from the laughter, the flickering lights, the music still curling into the air like a lullaby.

They walked slowly.

She leaned into him more with each step, her sandals forgotten in one hand, her body sagging with contented exhaustion. The rust silk of her dress shifted with each step, catching moonlight and memory like it was something alive.

The gravel crunched beneath them. The breeze had cooled now, brushing through the trees like whispered secrets. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. The sound echoed.

When they reached the car, Harry opened the door for her, of course. Helped her in without speaking. Tucked her sandals at her feet. Then slid into the seat beside her and gave the driver a short nod.

They didn’t speak much on the way back.

She leaned her head on his shoulder somewhere between the vineyard and the old church they’d passed earlier that afternoon. Her fingers drifted to his thigh out of habit. He let her stay like that, barely moving, afraid to shift and break the spell.

By the time the car pulled into the villa’s gravel courtyard, she was half-asleep.

The windows glowed with low golden light. The stone shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Everything felt soft. Suspended. Like they were the last people left in the world.

Until Harry saw movement. Someone was pacing near the stone fountain at the edge of the courtyard. Fast. Sharp. A phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing wildly.

Danny. He looked...frantic.

Harry’s brows furrowed.

She stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Are we back?”

He kissed her temple. “Yeah. Just a second.”

Before she could fully register it, Harry had stepped out of the car, door shutting softly behind him. She blinked herself upright, trying to process the sudden absence of his warmth.

Outside, Harry walked toward Danny with a slow, deliberate pace.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” he asked, voice low and even.

Danny jumped. Spun.

“Oh—shit—Harry. It’s nothing.”

Harry stopped a few feet away. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Danny covered the receiver with one hand. “It’s personal.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “From your tone, it sounds like work.”

“It’s not,” Danny said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s one of my exes. She’s losing it. You know how it goes. Screaming about closure or whatever. I’m just trying to shut it down before she flies here with a bat.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”

Danny’s jaw clenched. “I’m not.”

Harry took one step closer.

And for a second—just one, tight, fragile second—Danny’s face cracked.

Not fully. Not visibly. But enough for Harry to see it. To catalog it. To file it under I’ll ask again later.

He looked over Danny once more, then pulled back.

“Figure it out,” Harry muttered, already walking away. “I don’t like being lied to.”

Danny exhaled. Said nothing.

Harry returned to the car without another glance. She was waiting, sandals back on, dress wrinkled from the ride.

“You okay?” she asked, groggy.

“Yeah,” he lied.

He offered his hand. She took it.

Their room was exactly how they’d left it. Soft lighting. The bed turned down. A carafe of water on the nightstand, fresh flowers in the bowl by the window.

She let out a sigh the moment she stepped inside. Toed off her sandals. Swayed slightly in place. Harry locked the door behind them.

She was already halfway to the bed when he said, “Shower first.”

She groaned like a child. “Noooo.”

“Yes.”

“I’m too tired.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I’ll feel better horizontal.”

Harry arched a brow. “That can be arranged. After you shower.”

“Harry,” she whined, dragging out the syllables like syrup. “I have no bones.”

He moved toward her.

She backed away dramatically, flopping onto the bed like a fainting Victorian ghost. “I’m already dying. Leave me.”

He reached down, grabbed her ankle, and gently tugged her toward the edge of the mattress. She shrieked—quietly, theatrically—but didn’t resist.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Arms up.”

She blinked.

Then slowly raised her arms. Like surrender.

He knelt down, unzipped the back of her dress. The rust silk peeled away like petals. It fell in a pool at her feet.

She stood in her underwear, hair messy, cheeks flushed from wine and heat and fatigue. She looked like a painting. A little bruised by the night. A little radiant because of it.

Harry touched her waist.

“Shower,” he repeated.

She whined. “You go with me?”

He nodded.

“Fine,” she huffed. “But you better carry me after.”

“Done.”

The shower was warm. Quick.

She leaned into him the entire time, face pressed against his chest, arms around his neck while he washed her hair with the patience of a saint. She mumbled something incoherent about peaches and tarot cards. He just listened. 

He dried her gently afterward, wrapping her in a towel, then carrying her back to the bed like she’d demanded.

She giggled when he nearly dropped her onto the mattress. “You’re such a gentleman.”

“I’m reconsidering it.”

She didn’t respond.

She was already half-asleep.

He dressed her slowly—one of his t-shirts again, soft and oversized then a pair of his boxers. Kissed the crown of her head. Pulled the blanket up to her shoulders.

Her lashes fluttered. Then stilled.

And Harry…

Harry sat at the edge of the bed for a while. Just watched her. She looked safe now. Soft. Here. He wanted to believe the worst of it had passed.

But something in Danny’s face—something in that lie—coiled like wire under his ribs.

He reached over. Turned off the lamp. Slipped under the covers beside her.

She stirred only once—just enough to press her cheek to his shoulder, murmuring something like “mine.”

Harry closed his eyes. Wrapped an arm around her waist. And held on. Tighter than usual.

Just in case. But just in case wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Harry opened his eyes before the light did.

It was instinct—some built-in warning system that had always protected him from the worst of it. From too many hours asleep. From the risk of rest. Rest meant exposure. Rest meant you might miss something.

And something was off. He knew it the moment he registered how calm everything was. Too calm.

The room was still. The kind of stillness that only came before something terrible.

She was curled into him like always—head pressed into his chest, one leg tangled over his hip, lips slightly parted as she dreamed something soft.

He looked at her. Really looked.

Hair a little damp from the night before. Cheeks flushed with sleep. The collar of his shirt slipping off one shoulder, exposing the delicate slope of skin he’d kissed a dozen times the night before. Her arm was draped over his chest like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

And he knew—

He would burn the whole fucking world down to keep this. To keep her.

To keep mornings like this where her skin smelled like lavender and sweat and him, where her body knew his even in sleep, where everything had finally felt like it was settling into something close to peace.

Which is why the dread crawling up his spine was unbearable.

He carefully, silently, shifted her arm. She murmured something incoherent. He stilled. Waited.

Then slowly slid out from beneath her. She didn’t wake. Just rolled over, curling into the spot he left behind, still warm.

He grabbed a hoodie off the chair. Pulled it on. Then left.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in soft amber light from the wall sconces. The villa was still asleep—except for Harry. Always Harry. Awake before anyone could disappoint him.

He didn’t make noise. Didn’t need to. He knew exactly where Danny’s room was. Didn’t bother knocking. Just twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked. Because Danny, for all his skills, never thought he needed to hide things from Harry for long.

The room was a mess. Clothes tossed over the back of a chair. Two empty water bottles on the desk. One of those tiny espresso cups half-filled and forgotten on the nightstand.

Danny was asleep on the couch. Fully dressed. Mouth slightly open. One arm flung across his chest like he’d passed out mid-heart attack.

But Harry wasn’t looking at Danny.

His eyes were on the laptop. Sitting open. Still glowing faintly on the coffee table.

He walked over slowly. Silent. Careful. Grabbed the laptop and sat down on a nearby chair. 

Danny didn’t stir.

The laptop screen was still unlocked. And there it was. The tab. His name. Her anonymity. His stomach dropped. He clicked it.

There was a draft open—scheduled for publishing at 5PM EST. 11PM Florence. A timestamp in the corner. Carrie Roth.

He felt something cold settle in his ribs.

The headline was more appalling than he expected.

"The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name."

But it didn’t matter.

Because right below it—

The photo.

The one he’d tried to bury. The one she never even saw. The one Carrie took from the lobby of his penthouse—the day of the delivery, when she was in his clothes, her hair still wet from the bath they took together, no warning. 

And him?

He looked like he belonged to her. It wasn’t scandalous. But it was real. Too real.

It was a portrait of something not yet built. Something fragile.

And Carrie had caught it. Was going to publish it. Was going to make it permanent.

He read the first few lines of the article, his jaw tightening with every word...

"She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight."

"Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?"

His fingers clenched around the edge of the laptop.

Of course Carrie knew about them in Italy. Livia definitely was the one that informed her.

Of fucking course.  

The article was bait. Softly written, yes. But full of implication.

A mystery woman? No digital footprint? They made her sound like a ghost. Like a scandal. Like something waiting to be exposed.

And Harry knew what would come next.

The blogs. The forums. The Reddit threads. The obsessed Twitter girls. The old money pages on TikTok that would start stitching clips of her walking into restaurants and speculating about her outfit, her past, her worth.

They’d find photos. Someone would dig up something. And if there wasn’t anything to find? They’d make it up.

He sat there, breath slowing, vision narrowing. Not out of panic. But calculation.

She didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t ready. This wasn’t what she signed up for. And he should’ve protected her. Should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve buried it the moment Carrie Roth stepped into that lobby. Should’ve crushed it before it had the chance to exist.

But he hadn’t. And now? Now there was a countdown.

Nineteen hours. Until her face was everywhere. Until the silence around her wasn’t a sanctuary—it was an invitation for speculation.

He closed the laptop. Carefully. Stood. Walked over to Danny. And kicked the bottom of the couch. Hard.

Danny jolted awake with a sound that could’ve passed for a war cry. “Jesus fu—Harry?!”

Harry stared down at him. “You lied to me.”

Danny blinked. Rubbed his face. “What?”

“You lied. Last night. In the courtyard. You said it was one of your exes.”

Danny sat up slowly. “Look, I was trying to—”

“You think I give a fuck about your intentions?”

Danny sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t ready yet. The article. Carrie’s still fighting with her editor about the angle. Allegra said—”

“You should’ve told me.”

“Allegra made me swear not to.”

Harry’s voice dropped. “And you listened to her?”

Danny’s jaw twitched.

“I asked you one thing,” Harry said. “One fucking thing. Be honest with me.”

“Carrie was going to publish it no matter what,” Danny snapped. “You think she needed my permission? I was trying to delay it. Manage it. Spin it if I could.”

“You let me walk into that dinner. Laugh and drink and kiss her like everything was fine—”

“Because I knew if I told you, you’d ruin it before it hit the press. You’d blow up at Carrie, maybe even call her yourself, and then she’d publish it just to spite you. I was trying to protect her too.”

That stopped Harry.

A beat passed. He looked down. Then back at Danny.

And his voice was cold now. “You don’t get to say that.”

Danny stood. “Harry—”

“You don’t get to say you were protecting her. Because you don’t know her.”

“I know what she means to you.”

Harry turned. Started for the door.

Danny’s voice followed him. “What are you going to do?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just walked out. Back through the hallway.

Back into the room.

She was still asleep. Barely.

One arm stretched across his pillow now. Her mouth slightly open. Her face soft.

She looked peaceful.

And Harry knew—

He had about sixteen hours to keep it that way. To protect the only thing in his life that didn’t feel manufactured.

To preserve whatever fragile, fierce, ridiculous thing they’d built between cups of espresso and whispered fights and silk dresses and rain-soaked kisses.

And he would. He didn’t know how yet. But he would.

He slipped back into bed beside her. Careful not to wake her. Careful with everything now. More careful than he’d ever been.

He wrapped his arm around her again. Pulled her in.

Held her tighter than he did the night before. Just in case. Because the day was coming.

And with it?

Hell.

Harry didn’t go back to sleep. He couldn’t.

Instead, he laid there with her pressed to his chest and stared at the ceiling like it might give him an answer. Something, anything, to make nineteen hours feel less like a death sentence.

Because that’s what it was. A countdown.

Not just to the article—but to the before and after.

Before, quiet mornings and peach juice on her wrist, wine-stained linen and soft kisses behind alleyway walls, her foot in his lap at lunch, the sound of her laughing with Francesca, the way she tucked into his coat like it was always hers.

After, the world.

He already knew how it would go. He’d seen it a thousand times.

The internet would eat her alive.

They’d comb through every blurry photo, every scrap of background noise, and when they didn’t find anything, they’d start making things up.

“She’s too young for him.”

“She’s using him.”

“She’s boring.”

“She’s not boring enough.”

“She’s not even pretty.”

“She’s too pretty—it’s obvious she’s had work done.”

“She’s only with him for the money.”

“She’s not interesting.”

“She’s trying too hard to be interesting.”

“She’s just like Lucy.”

That one would be the worst.

The comparisons. The analysis. The recycled history he’d spent years burying.

And the photo—that fucking photo—would be the centerpiece. Used in every post, every headline, every whisper campaign. Frozen in time.

A moment that had belonged only to them.

Now handed over to the wolves.

He looked at her again. Still asleep. Still soft and safe and everything the world didn’t deserve.

And he made a decision. He would tell her.

Not all of it. Not yet. He couldn’t put that kind of fear in her eyes. But she needed to know what was coming. Before she saw her own face at a newsstand or on a feed. Before someone DM’d her a link.

She’d never forgive him if he let her find out like that.

So when she woke, he’d tell her. Gently. Slowly. He’d cushion it with espresso and pastries and the kind of touch that said, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

The light started to shift around 7:30. The room warmed. Birds stirred outside the balcony. A linen curtain fluttered against the open door.

She woke with a faint groan, face buried in his chest.

“Time is it?” she mumbled, her voice raspy.

“Too early,” Harry murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

But she stretched instead, her body arching against him like a cat.

“No, I’m up. Kind of. Sort of. Halfway.”

He kissed her hair. “Let me get you coffee.”

“No,” she groaned, grabbing his shirt. “You’re too warm. Stay here for five more minutes.”

He did. Of course he did.

She could’ve asked him for anything.

When she finally sat up, the shirt slipped off her shoulder again. She blinked slowly, hair wild, cheeks creased from the pillow. She looked like a dream.

Harry sat up behind her, running his hand down her spine.

“Breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

He helped her out of the shirt—slowly, carefully, like it was ritual. She kissed his jaw before heading into the bathroom, and he stood for a moment in the doorway just watching her.

He wasn’t ready to let her out of his sight.

Not today.

He got dressed while she did her skincare—charcoal slacks, black button-up, sleeves rolled once at the elbow. No tie. No blazer. Just sharp enough to look deliberate.

“Okay, I feel human again,” she declared, voice soft and bright. “Are we staying here for breakfast or leaving?”

He swallowed. “Staying.”

She smiled. “Perfect. I want something carby and sweet and bad for me.”

He watched her cross the room, picking through her things—eventually settling on a soft, tank top and a white cotton skirt. No makeup. Gold hoops. She didn’t even bother with shoes.

“You look…” he stopped, unable to find the right word. “You look beautiful. Truly.”

She blinked.

Then laughed, flushed. “Thank you.”

“You really are.”

They headed down the corridor together, slow and unhurried.

Every staff member they passed tried to look away discreetly. Some nodded. One stuttered out a buongiorno before tripping over his own cart.

She leaned into Harry’s side and whispered, “You know you’re terrifying, right?”

He didn’t respond. Just smirked faintly.

They reached the courtyard where breakfast was being served—small, shaded tables nestled beneath white umbrellas. The smell of espresso, fresh fruit, and butter drifted in the warm air.

She let out a soft sound of delight.

Harry pulled out her chair before she could. She blinked at him, amused.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Castillo.”

He sat beside her, not across. Always beside.

“Of course.”

They ordered coffee—hers with sugar, his black—and two plates of pastries. Then eggs. Then more fruit. He kept glancing at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

She noticed.

“What?” she asked, smiling around her spoon.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” she teased, nudging his thigh with her knee.

He chuckled softly. Then looked up.

Danny. Crossing the garden with his phone in hand, looking half-dead.

She spotted him too.

“Danny!” she called out, waving.

Harry tried not to flinch.

Danny turned. Paused.

Smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

She tilted her head, voice playful. “You’ve been ghosting me.”

Danny approached slowly. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since dinner, and I was beginning to think you hated me.”

Danny gave her a sheepish shrug. “Just busy. Logistics. Emails. All that boring shit.”

“You should eat. Come sit.”

Danny looked between them. Then shook his head. “Nah. You two should have your moment. You lovebirds deserve it.”

She frowned slightly. “You sure?”

Harry stared at him. Flat. Cold.

Danny nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got to take a call anyway.”

Harry didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched him turn and leave like a man on fire.

She turned back to Harry. “He’s acting weird.”

“He’s always weird,” Harry muttered, sipping his espresso.

She leaned her chin into her hand and looked at him. “You okay?”

He nodded once. But she didn’t buy it.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

He set down his cup. Met her eyes. And suddenly, the timing felt like glass.

She was so calm. So soft. Wrapped in sunlight and kindness. And he was about to put a crack in that.

But she deserved to know.

So he took her hand. Held it across the table. And started to speak. Because the world was coming. And he wanted her to hear it from him.

Harry shifted his chair beside her, closer than before.

The courtyard buzzed around them in that golden, slow way—espresso cups clinking, forks scraping, someone laughing faintly in the distance—but at their table, time stopped.

She looked radiant in the morning light, unaware that the world was already bending its gaze toward her. That somewhere, in sleek offices and messy group chats, her name was being typed. That headlines were drafted. That judgment had been scheduled.

And Harry—Harry looked like a man about to ruin something precious.

He didn’t start with the photo. He started with her hand. He took it—quietly, deliberately, fingers wrapping around hers like he was grounding himself first.

Then he turned to her, jaw tense, voice low.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She stilled. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

The air between them shifted, dipped.

“I found out early this morning,” he continued, “and it's something you should know.”

He glanced away for a moment—toward the far end of the garden where the waiter had just placed another cappuccino down. Then back to her.

“There’s going to be an article. New York Times. It goes live tonight at 11. 5PM back home.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But inside? Her heart cracked.

Just once. A fracture.

He kept going.

“It’s about us.”

That hit. Us.

She heard the weight in it—the implication, the inevitability. About us. Not about him. Not just a line in passing about a man seen with a woman. No, this was different. This was targeted. This was real.

Her stomach dropped. Her throat tightened.

“They’re using the photo,” he added. “The one from the lobby. The woman—Carrie—she didn’t delete it like I told her to.”

There it was.

She blinked once. Twice.

Then nodded.

But she didn’t speak.

And that terrified him more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he said, almost under his breath. “I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve gotten ahead of it. Should’ve—” he stopped himself, jaw tightening. “It’s my fault.”

She shook her head.

“No,” she said finally, her voice quiet but sharp. “It’s not your fault.”

But she didn’t look at him.

Just stared at the tablecloth.

A pale smear of fig jam stained the edge of her plate. A bird chirped somewhere above. It felt wrong that the world was still moving.

She had known—of course she had. Knew the risk the second she let herself be seen with him in public. Knew the reality the first time he brought her over to his place like she'd belonged to him.

But knowing something and facing it were not the same.

Now it was here. Now she had less than fifteen hours before the world knew her face.

Hopefully maybe more.

Her mind spiraled before she could stop it.

What if they dig?

What if they find the pieces I buried?

What if Harry finds them too?

She tried to breathe normally.

Tried to pretend she wasn’t unraveling inch by inch.

Harry’s voice was gentle now. Careful.

“We can stay here. We don’t have to go anywhere today. I’ll talk to the villa staff—have everything brought in. We’ll just… ride it out.”

She nodded again, but it was slow. Mechanical.

He wasn’t getting it. Not really.

He was trying to protect her, and that only made the shame worse. The guilt. The fear.

Because she hadn’t told him. Not all of it.

Not the history that lived behind her ribs, locked up in a box she’d buried at twenty-one and never opened again. Not the part of her life that wasn’t elegant or poetic or beautifully broken—but messy and raw and stained in ways that didn’t wash out.

He didn’t know.

And once the article hit—once her name spread—once someone, anyone, decided to pull a thread—

He would.

And then what?

Would he look at her differently?

Would the way he kissed her change?

Would she become another complication he had to manage?

She couldn’t bear that.

Not from him.

So she stayed quiet.

Let him think it was just nerves.

Let him reach for her coffee cup and slide it closer, let him kiss her knuckles like it meant something more than a sweet morning gesture.

He thought she was afraid of the article.

But she wasn’t.

She was afraid of the fallout. Of what he’d find in the ashes.

He could feel her slipping into herself, pulling back in that silent, practiced way she did when she was scared.

He moved closer. Touched her jaw, guiding her to look at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Not yet. I just need you to know—none of this changes anything. Not for me. They can write what they want. Post what they want. You’re still mine.”

That broke her a little more.

She forced a smile—soft and small and almost real.

But inside? Panic.

He didn’t know.

And I can’t be the one to tell him.

Not today.

Maybe not ever.

So she leaned into his touch.

Let him kiss her cheek. Let him finish her coffee. Let him believe she was okay.

But part of her heart had already braced for impact. And the worst part?

She wasn’t afraid of the world finding out who she used to be.

She was afraid of Harry finding out.

Because if he looked at her differently—if he pulled away—if the softness in his voice ever twisted into something cold—

It wouldn’t just break her. It would wreck her.

So she smiled.

Held his hand tighter.

And whispered, “Okay.”

Even though it wasn’t. Even though it was anything but.

They finished their breakfast quietly. She picked at a pastry, peeled apart a fig. Harry didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just let her move at her own pace, his hand never far from hers, his eyes lingering like he was memorizing her all over again.

And when they stood to leave, he didn’t let go of her hand.

Didn’t say a word.

He just walked her back through the sun-washed corridors of the villa, their footsteps soft against the cool stone floors, her cotton skirt swaying gently with each step.

The second the door closed behind them, it changed.

The quiet was heavier now. Not cold. But dense.

Loaded with things neither of them had fully said.

She crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing over the top of the dresser like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. The breeze from the open balcony door moved through the curtains like breath. Her hair fluttered across her shoulder.

Harry watched her for a long moment. Then moved.

He came up behind her—slow, deliberate—his presence folding over her like gravity. His hands slid around her waist. Firm. Certain.

She let out a breath. Leaned into him.

He pressed a kiss to her neck. Then another. Then one just behind her ear, hot and slow, and she shivered.

“You are quiet,” he said softly.

“I’m okay.”

He exhaled against her skin. “You don’t have to be.”

She turned slightly, eyes catching his. “I just need you.”

That did it. Something shifted behind his gaze. His jaw tightened. His grip on her waist flexed.

And before she could blink, she was being spun—back pressed against the dresser, his hands caging her in on either side, his eyes dark and hungry and full of everything he’d been trying to hold back since dawn.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low.

“I need you.”

He kissed her. Hard. Full-mouth, no space in between them, kissed her.

His hands gripped her face, holding her in place as he devoured her mouth—like he was angry at the air between them. She moaned, arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer like she couldn’t get enough.

His hands moved fast—down her sides, over her hips, sliding beneath the soft hem of her tank top. When he touched bare skin, he growled into her mouth.

“No bra?”

She shook her head, breathless.

He smirked—feral, gorgeous.

“Good.”

The shirt was gone in seconds—tugged up and over her head, tossed somewhere across the room without ceremony.

Then his mouth was on her chest.

Kissing. Biting.

Sucking marks into the tops of her breasts like he needed to brand her. His hands palmed her, thumbs rolling over her nipples until her knees buckled.

“Harry—”

He lifted her. Effortless.

Turned and walked her back toward the bed, kissing her the whole time like he couldn’t stop. He dropped her onto the mattress like he was done being soft. Like something inside him had snapped.

The cotton skirt was next—pushed up her thighs, bunched around her waist.

“Keep wearing this fucking skirt,” he murmured, voice rasping like gravel. “It's like you want me to lose my mind.”

“I do.”

He froze. Looked at her.

Then tugged her panties down in one rough motion, dragging them down her legs and off with a single pull.

He didn’t even kiss her again.

Just sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged her hips toward him.

She gasped.

“Harry—”

“Shh.”

He hooked her knees over his shoulders and dove in. His mouth on her was feral. Starved.

He licked her like he was trying to silence every thought in her head—slow, messy drags of his tongue that made her cry out, one hand clutching the sheets, the other buried in his hair.

He held her open, fingers digging into her thighs like he wanted to leave bruises. Every time she tried to squirm, he growled and pulled her tighter against his face.

“You taste like a fucking dream,” he muttered against her, voice hoarse. “This pussy’s mine.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yours—Harry, please—”

He moaned into her, sending a jolt straight through her spine. When he added two fingers—thrusting them deep and curling just right—she nearly came right then. Her legs shook. Her head dropped back.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “So wet for me already.”

He worked her like he knew her body better than she did. Licked her until she was whimpering, fucked her with his fingers until her thighs trembled, until her hips bucked uncontrollably.

Then, without warning, he stopped. She whimpered in protest.

He stood.

And looked down at her—chest rising, cheeks flushed, mouth open.

“Turn over.”

She blinked. “What?”

“On your knees.”

The tone left no room for negotiation.

She obeyed—heart pounding, breath ragged.

He dragged her skirt up again. Gripped her ass. Slid two fingers back inside her, slow and deep, making her arch.

“Still so fucking wet,” he growled. “You were dripping at breakfast. Did you like knowing I could take you apart the second we got back here?”

She moaned, pushing back against his hand.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Good girl.”

She heard the rustle of his clothes—his belt, his zipper, the soft hiss of fabric as he freed himself. Then the blunt heat of him at her entrance.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed into her in one deep, punishing thrust.

She cried out, hands fisting the sheets.

“Fuck, Harry—”

“Shhh, baby,” he growled, leaning over her, one hand on her hip, the other wrapping around her throat. “You can take it. You always do.”

He pulled out slowly—almost all the way—then slammed back in, harder. Deeper. Again. Again. Relentless. Unyielding. Each thrust drove her forward on the mattress, her body a plaything in his hands.

And the sounds—

The slap of skin, her soft gasps, his low grunts—all of it filled the room like heat.

“Look at you,” he rasped, tightening his grip on her throat just slightly. “Letting me fuck you like this. Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

“I was,” she whimpered. “I am—Harry, please—”

He growled.

Dragged her up by the throat, back flush to his chest, his cock still deep inside her.

“Say it.”

She turned her face, breath catching. “Yours.”

He kissed her—deep and brutal—while fucking her harder from behind, one hand between her legs now, rubbing tight circles over her clit until her body started to break apart.

“I’m gonna—Harry—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her mouth. “Let go.”

She shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a wave—loud and long, her whole body convulsing as she moaned his name, clenching hard around him. He held her through it, fucked her through it, chasing his own release.

And when he came, he growled something filthy into her neck—buried so deep, so rough, it knocked the breath from both of them.

They collapsed together.

A tangle of limbs and sweat and silk. He stayed inside her. Just held her. Breathing heavy.

His hand moved to her chest—flat over her heart like he was anchoring her. Or himself.

For a long time, neither of them said anything.

Then—

“You’re mine,” he whispered again. Fierce. Quiet.

She nodded. Still trembling.

“I don’t care what they say,” he added. “You’re mine.”

And even though her heart was still racing, even though her mind was already spiraling toward what was coming—

She believed him.

She was his.

And he was hers.

They didn’t move for a while.

The sunlight crept across the bed, warming their bare skin, catching in the folds of the white sheets, highlighting the flushed pink across her chest where he’d kissed too hard, bitten too softly. Her leg was still slung over his hip. Her fingers rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each breath like they were syncing again, recalibrating after the heat of what they’d just done.

Harry couldn’t stop touching her.

His thumb traced idle patterns along the slope of her hip. Her skin was damp, glowing. She was too beautiful like this—undone and half-asleep, skin smelling like lavender, sex, and sweat, hair stuck to her temple.

She blinked up at him. He was already watching her.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, voice hoarse from pleasure.

“I always stare.”

She smiled. Barely. Then tucked her face against his chest, breathing him in like she didn’t want to forget this. Like she was memorizing the shape of his body beneath her.

Harry looked up at the ceiling, his palm gliding up and down her spine.

Neither of them spoke for a long while. They didn’t need to.

Eventually, she sighed, voice sleepy. “Do we have to leave the room? Or talk to people?”

“No,” Harry said instantly. “We’re not leaving this room today.”

She lifted her head a little. “Really?”

He nodded. “I’m not in the mood to be charming. Or diplomatic. Or hear Lorenzo’s snarky little comments.”

She laughed against his chest. “God, he’s exhausting.”

“Everything out of his mouth is a TED Talk laced with disdain.”

“And Livia’s probably halfway through writing her own op-ed about us already.”

“Exactly,” Harry muttered. “Let them all speculate.”

She sat up slightly, still naked, still flushed, still glowing.

“You sure?” she asked, more serious now. “There’s probably some contract thing or meeting or…I don’t know…state secrets you’re supposed to be handling.”

Harry leaned up on one elbow. Brushed a strand of hair off her cheek.

“I want today to be just ours,” he said softly. “Before everything changes.”

That hit.

She looked at him—really looked at him. The shadows under his eyes. The way his voice dropped when he said “ours.” The crack in his armor that only she ever got to see.

She nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s keep the world out. Just for today.”

He kissed her forehead.

Then wrapped her in the sheet, pulling her back down to his chest, tangling them together like he needed to anchor her to the bed.

They spent the next few hours like that. Not moving much.

Just limbs tangled, bodies lazy with heat and afterglow.

Harry ordered breakfast again—more fruit, more coffee, more bread—then had it delivered straight to the room. When the knock came, he pulled on his slacks and shirt but left the top buttons undone, his chest bare as he cracked the door open and took the tray.

She watched from the bed, head propped on her hand.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “You’re like a hot dad in a cologne ad.”

He smirked. “Tell me more.”

They ate in bed. She sat cross-legged in his t-shirt, drinking espresso from a delicate porcelain cup while he peeled figs and passed them to her, one by one. She stole a bite of his toast. He wiped butter off her lip with his thumb. They didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t check their phones. The world felt far away.

At one point, she curled into his side again, her cheek pressed to his chest. His hand moved slowly through her hair, over and over, soothing. She drifted off like that—worn out and warm and full of carbs and comfort.

And Harry?

Harry laid there, watching her sleep. For hours. 

Until he realized it was past three already. His mind never stopped.

He wanted her to rest. Wanted her to stay soft and safe in their little bubble of stolen hours.

But there was the countdown.

And the closer the clock crept to eleven, the tighter his chest felt.

He waited until her breathing evened out, until her fingers went slack against his stomach. Then, slowly, he slid out from beneath her. Careful. Quiet. Placing a kiss at the crown of her head before easing out of bed.

He dressed quickly—charcoal trousers, navy sweater, no shoes. Ran a hand through his hair. Didn’t bother looking in the mirror.

Then he left the room. For the second time today.

Danny was in the corner of the villa he ran off to, holed up in what used to be a study but had become his makeshift office—a tangle of laptops, chargers, espresso cups, and half-buried Italian snack wrappers.

He barely looked up when Harry walked in.

“Close the door,” Danny muttered.

Harry did.

Then crossed the room in a few long strides.

Danny spoke before he could.

“I’ve been talking to Sadie back at the office all morning. She’s trying to get ahead of it. Our options are limited, but—”

“We’re doing a statement,” Harry said flatly.

Danny blinked. “What?”

“When the article goes live. We control the narrative.”

Danny leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. “You’re sure?”

Harry nodded. “She’s not going to become someone’s TikTok theory. I’m not letting people build a myth out of her silence. They’ll do it anyway—but I’m not giving them fuel.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair. “You realize this means press calls. Confirmations. You’ll have to say something. Actually say it.”

“I don’t care.”

Danny looked at him for a beat.

Then nodded.

“Okay. Then we do it your way.”

Harry exhaled.

The silence that followed was short-lived.

Because then Danny added, almost too casually, “There’s something else.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “What?”

Danny hesitated.

“Spit it out.”

Danny didn’t meet his eyes. Just opened his laptop again. Clicked once. Then turned the screen toward him.

It was the article. Still in preview form. But this time—there was a new paragraph at the bottom.

And Harry’s name wasn’t the only one in bold.

Lucy’s was.

He read the quote.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to.”

Harry stilled. Everything in his body went quiet.

Then—

He laughed. Once. Sharp. A sound with no humor in it.

Then he leaned back, ran a hand down his face, and muttered, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Danny didn’t answer.

Harry stood. Started pacing.

“She gave a quote,” he said flatly. “To Carrie Roth.”

Danny nodded.

Harry barked out another bitter laugh. “The same woman who fed a wedding invite to my team like it was an olive branch now wants to narrate my personal life for the New York fucking Times?”

“Harry—”

“She left,” he snapped. “She left me. She walked away. She broke something in me that no one has touched since, and now—what? She wants to throw rocks at the glass house she abandoned?”

“I don’t think she expected you to—”

“To move on?” Harry turned, eyes dark. “Yeah. That sounds like her.”

Danny watched him carefully.

Harry’s voice dropped, razor-sharp.

“She’s not protecting anyone. She’s not warning anyone. She just wants to stay relevant in my story.”

A long pause. Harry walked to the window. Stared out at the hills.

Then said, quietly—

“She can’t stand that I’m happy.”

Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Harry turned back, calmer now. But there was something in his eyes. Something cold. Resolved.

“I want it noted in the statement,” he said. “No comment about Lucy. No clapback. Just silence. Her quote will scream louder against it.”

“You sure?”

“I want her words to hang in the air with nothing to land on.”

Danny nodded. “Okay.”

“And when the article drops—have the staff pull the villa Wi-Fi.”

Danny tilted his head. “You really think that’s necessary?”

Harry didn’t blink. “I want her to sleep through it.”

Danny exhaled. “Understood.”

Harry looked down. Then out the window again.

The sun was slipping low now. Dipping into late afternoon. Only a few hours left.

And somewhere upstairs, she was still asleep in his bed—barely covered, skin warm, lips parted, dreaming of nothing.

Still untouched by what was coming.

He clenched his jaw.

“I’m going back,” he said. “I want her to have as much of today as she can.”

Danny didn’t say another word.

Harry turned. Opened the door. And left.

The light was different when he returned. Softer. Golden. Filtering in through the gauzy curtains like a whispered promise.

She was still curled up in bed, just where he left her—one arm flung over his pillow, the other tucked beneath her cheek. Her hair was a mess. Her leg was kicked out from under the sheets. Her mouth twitched once, like she was smiling in her sleep.

He stood at the doorway for a long time. Just watched her. The most peaceful thing in his world.

And he knew—

He would burn it all down if they touched her. If they twisted her story. If they dug too deep.

But for now? She was just his.

He toed off his shoes. Pulled his sweater over his head. Slid back into bed beside her, gentle and quiet, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She stirred. Then melted into him like she’d never left.

And Harry?

Harry closed his eyes. Just for a minute.

Because something was coming.

And with it—hell. But not yet. Not now.

The world outside their villa room remained distant. Muffled. The kind of late afternoon lull that made everything feel dipped in honey. The sun was still warm but fading, and the breeze through the balcony door carried the scent of lemon trees and salt and something blooming.

She was still asleep.

Curled into his side again, her small hand wrapped gently around his thumb like she knew, even in dreams, that something was coming. Harry held her close with one arm, the other resting on the blanket. He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

But his mind wouldn’t rest.

He stared at the ceiling. Then at the golden curve of her cheek.

Then, slowly, reached for his phone from the nightstand. The screen glared to life—27 missed messages, 14 emails, 6 calendar alerts—and he ignored them all.

Instead, he opened something he hadn’t touched in weeks.

Messages.

He scrolled down until he found her name.

Lucy.

And clicked.

The thread opened like a wound. Not because he missed her.

But because he couldn’t remember how the hell he ever loved her.

He scrolled, slowly at first. Then faster.

Messages from a year ago. Six months ago.

Texts full of jabs that looked like jokes. Compliments edged with contempt. Whole stretches of time when she wouldn’t respond at all—just long silences punctuated by acid replies.

Harry: I moved the 3PM to 5 to make time for your meeting. Want to get dinner after?

Lucy: Not if you’re going to talk about your profits the whole time again.

He kept scrolling.

Harry: Missed you this morning. Hope your flight was okay.

Lucy: Did you leave the AC on again? My plants are dead. Again.

Another set.

Harry: Can we talk about what happened last night?

Lucy: There’s nothing to talk about. You overreacted. As usual.

He stared at that one for a long moment.

Then scrolled up again.

Harry: I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to understand why you said that.

Lucy: I said it because it’s true. You’re exhausting, Harry. I’m not going to babysit your emotions every time you feel insecure.

He winced. He remembered that night.

Remembered how she’d looked in the restaurant, eyes glittering like a knife. How she’d laughed in front of the waiter when he tried to explain why a news leak had made him sad.

She’d called him fragile.

He kept scrolling. Closer to the end now.

The final texts before it all fell apart.

Harry: Why are you making me feel guilty for wanting to pay the bill?

Lucy: Because you always do it. Because it makes me feel like I owe you something. You don’t know how to exist in a relationship without treating it like a transaction.

Harry: That’s not fair.

Lucy: Life’s not fair. Grow up.

The last message was his.

One he never got a reply to.

Harry: I just want to take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Three days later, she posted a photo onto Instagram in Montauk with John. Smiling. Holding his hand.

The broke ass waiter she used to mock under her breath during charity dinners. The one she told Harry would never understand her. The one she ran to after burning every bridge in his chest.

Harry looked down at his screen. At the last words he ever typed to Lucy.

Then looked at the girl sleeping on his chest. Everything inside him softened.

Because this—what he had now—was not the same storm. It was something else entirely.

She breathed evenly. Her hand twitched once in her sleep, like she was dreaming of running. Or dancing. Or chasing something. Her leg was still tangled with his, bare skin on bare skin beneath the sheets, her body warm and real and here.

And she didn’t ask him to shrink.

She never mocked his care.

She let him hold her.

She leaned into his protection like it meant something. Like he wasn’t some cold, obsessive machine.

She smiled when he opened the door. Laughed when he kissed her shoulder. Praised him with a look alone.

She was everything Lucy never was.

And Harry felt it in his bones—that she wasn’t just a phase or a fix or a fever. She was real. She was joy and grief and survival and softness all tangled into one beautiful, infuriating, irresistible thing.

He wanted to protect her.

He wanted to keep her laughing in bed, lips sticky with figs and espresso, forever. He wanted her to have days where her past didn’t feel like an undertow and nights where she fell asleep safe in his arms, knowing that no one—not Carrie Roth, not Lucy, not the internet—would ever touch her without going through him first.

His phone buzzed. Once. Then again.

He glanced down, expecting another update from Danny. But it was from Luca.

Luca: Francesca got the film developed.

Luca: Thought you’d want these.

Luca: Don’t let her see them yet unless you’re ready to cry like a little bitch.

Harry opened the message.

Three photos. Film. Unedited. Grainy in the way that made things feel truer.

And the moment he saw the first one, his breath left his chest.

They were at lunch. The one with the crooked string lights and those marzipan. The one where they were wine-drunk and sunk into each other like vines.

The first photo was her on his shoulder. Eyes half-lidded. Flushed cheeks. Lips slightly parted. He was saying something into her ear—something private, something that made her laugh in the second photo. That laugh that cracked her whole face open like light through stained glass.

He looked down at her like she was the only thing that existed.

And in the third photo? She was feeding him a bite of cake. Her fingers near his mouth.

And he was smiling.

Not the tight-lipped, polite kind.

But the kind that looked like freedom. Like after.

Harry stared at the screen, heart hammering.

Francesca had been right. They looked like they’d been in love for a hundred years.

He gently tilted the phone away, not wanting to wake her with the brightness.

Instead, he tucked it under the pillow and looked back at her. Still sleeping.

Still unaware that somewhere, deep in the belly of the internet, her face was already loaded into a server, waiting to be released into the wild.

But not yet. He still had time.

And so, with the weight of Lucy’s cruelty still echoing in the back of his mind and the ghost of her last text sitting unanswered in his pocket, Harry wrapped both arms around the woman he hadn’t lost.

And whispered into her hair like a vow.

“I’ve got you.”

Because for the first time in years, he meant it.

And she believed him. Even in sleep. Especially then.

The late Florence light spilled across their bed like honey, warm and gold and cruel in how peaceful it made everything look. She was still tucked into him, limbs loose and trusting, face slack with sleep. Her cheek pressed to his chest, one hand resting over his heart like she needed to feel it beat to believe it was real.

Harry exhaled slowly.

He was still holding the memory of that photo—her laughing, head tilted, eyes closed, like she’d never known anything but love. It rattled something in his chest. A different kind of grief. The kind you only feel when you realize you almost lived your whole life without something that should’ve been this easy.

His hand moved through her hair.

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to drift.

All the way.

Just enough. Just far enough to feel her breath against his ribs.

Six more hours until the world opened its mouth and swallowed them whole.

Across the other wing, Danny sat hunched over his laptop, AirPods shoved into his ears, a half-empty espresso growing cold beside a massive spreadsheet of crisis comms protocols. Allegra had finally—finally—gotten Carrie Roth on the phone, and now Danny was regretting every second of his life that had led him here.

The call connected with a click.

And then—

“Danny,” Carrie said. Her voice was syrupy and sharp, like honey poured over glass. “Didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“You know why I’m calling,” he said flatly.

She laughed. Not kindly.

“I’m flattered. You sound so serious. Are you practicing for a deposition already?”

“Cut the shit, Carrie,” Danny snapped, already red in the face. “We know what you’re planning. You’re sitting on an invasion of privacy and running it under the guise of journalism.”

“I’m reporting a public figure’s romantic life,” she replied breezily. “Not the Pentagon Papers.”

“She was followed into his home,” Danny snapped. “The lobby was private property—”

“It’s not private if there’s a camera and a doorman.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing. That headline is disgusting. You’re using an image that was never meant for public consumption.”

There was a pause on the line.

Then Carrie’s voice dropped, slow and smug.

“She’s in his clothes, Danny. Her hair’s wet. She looks like she just blew him in his penthouse shower. I’m reporting the moment.”

Danny’s jaw clenched.

“Harry’s going to sue you.”

Another pause.

And then Carrie laughed.

“Let him,” she said. “Honestly, it might boost traffic.”

“You’re playing with people’s lives—”

“Oh please,” she snapped. “Don’t act like he hasn’t played with other people’s lives before. This is how it works. You want to keep her private? Keep her off Fifth Avenue. Don’t parade her around Italy, you know Livia is a good conversationalist.”

Danny stood up from the desk.

Paced.

“You publish that article and I swear to God—”

“It’s done.”

Danny froze.

“What?”

Carrie’s voice was calm. Deliberate. Cold as marble.

“I got tired of the back-and-forth. My editor was stalling and frankly, I don’t care. The world should know. Everyone’s waiting. Might as well give them the headline, fuck those six hours.”

“Carrie—”

“Refresh your browser, Danny.”

He did.

Fingers shaking.

And there it was.

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

Danny’s stomach dropped.

He opened the article—only the top, only the first few lines before the paywall.

But the photo was there. The photo.

Her. Wet hair. In his sweats. His shirt draped over her frame. Standing beside Harry in his penthouse lobby, his hand hovering near her back like it belonged there.

And Harry—

Harry looked in love.

Frozen in a moment he thought no one would ever see. And now? Now the whole world could.

Danny sank back into his chair, chest tight.

Allegra’s voice buzzed through his phone screen as she called again.

Too late. It was already too late. He was fucking too late. The six hours were gone in an instant.

In the west wing of the villa, the silence still held.

She stirred in Harry’s arms, half-asleep, half-dreaming, lips parted against his skin. Her lashes fluttered. One leg kicked softly under the covers. She murmured something unintelligible—something safe, something soft.

Harry was still asleep.

His chest rose and fell evenly. His face relaxed. His hand loosely tangled in her hair like he couldn’t let go even while unconscious.

They were still untouched. Still dreaming in gold. Still pretending they had six more hours.

And outside their door—

The wolves were already circling.

Meanwhile, across the ocean, Cape Cod was overcast.

The clouds had rolled in sometime after breakfast, dragging a dull gray light over everything—the sand, the water, the white clapboard house Lucy still couldn’t believe she lived in. It was a borrowed kind of life, the kind where the floors creaked like someone else’s memories still lived in the walls.

The kind where she still sometimes reached for a card key instead of a brass doorknob. 

John was out back. Raking the garden. They’d promised her parents they’d try growing tomatoes this year. He looked ridiculous in the sweater she shrank in the wash, sleeves too short, collar stretched. He had one earbud in and was humming something off-key. 

Lucy watched him from the kitchen window.

There was a teabag steeping in a mug on the counter. She hadn’t touched it. 

The clock on the oven read 11:26 AM.

She had tried to write that morning. Opened her laptop. Closed it again. Her Substack hadn’t been updated in two weeks. She had a folder of half-finished drafts, all of them brittle and tired. None of them sounded like her.

She couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say anymore.

The house smelled like Windex and laundry detergent.

She hadn't worn makeup in three days. Her robe was slipping off her shoulder again. The dog—a small mutt they adopted from a local shelter last week—was asleep at her feet.

She didn’t hear her phone at first.

It buzzed once on the counter, face-down. Then again. Then a third time, longer.

She flipped it over with two fingers.

CARRIE ROTH

Lucy stared at the name. The screen. The blinking green light.

Then she answered.

“Carrie,” she said, voice flat. “It’s not a great time.”

“It dropped.”

Lucy’s breath caught. Carrie didn’t elaborate. She didn’t need to. There was only one thing it could mean.

Lucy turned away from the window. Walked slowly to the table. Sat down.

Her voice was quieter now. “Already?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Lucy swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“I thought—”

“Danny threatened to sue me,” Carrie said. “It annoyed me. So I pulled the trigger.”

Lucy didn’t respond.

“People are reading it already,” Carrie continued. “It’s trending.”

Lucy closed her eyes.

“And you used my quote?” she asked. Her voice didn’t shake. But it was cold now. A razor sheathed in velvet.

“You know I did.”

Another long silence.

Carrie didn’t fill it. Just waited.

Finally, Lucy asked, “Does she know yet?”

She could hear the smile in Carrie’s voice.

"She will soon."

Lucy’s stomach turned. She hung up without saying goodbye.

The phone stayed pressed to her palm, screen black, fingers tightening around it like it had betrayed her.

Outside, John waved at her through the glass.

She didn’t wave back. She sat there for a long time.

Long enough for the tea to go cold. Long enough for the dog to shift, whine softly, and curl closer to her feet like it could sense something wrong.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t the crying type. But something inside her splintered. A small, sharp ache behind the ribs.

She told herself it wasn’t jealousy. She told herself it wasn’t regret. She had made a choice. She left New York. She left him.

And not just the high-rise penthouse and the assistant with the dry wit and the perfectly tailored suits. She left the man.

Harry Castillo. The one who loved quietly.

Who boiled her tea before bed even when they weren’t speaking. Who carried her keys in his coat pocket without asking. Who hated poetry but listened when she read it out loud like he was trying to understand anyway.

But also—

The man who never told her how he felt unless she dragged it out of him. Who made her feel like she was constantly trying to earn softness. Who made the walls of their penthouse feel colder every time he shut down instead of shouting.

They were never right for each other. But they had been something.

And now? He was in love again. And someone had captured it on film.

Lucy had already seen the photo. She didn’t want to have to see it again. She would feel it this time.

The way Carrie had broke it to her. That wasn’t journalism. That was a knife. That was salt in a wound no one was supposed to know she still had.

She looked down at her robe. At the ring on her finger. Thinner than the one Harry had once picked out and never got the chance to give her. The diamond smaller. The love less complicated.

She looked at the phone again. It didn’t buzz. Didn’t ring.

No one was calling to tell her how it felt to be quoted like that. No one was telling her how Harry had reacted.

She wouldn’t know unless she asked. And she wasn’t going to ask.

Because even if she still thought about him when the wind off the ocean sounded like Manhattan in the winter—

Even if she still had his number saved under Harry <3.

Even if she sometimes imagined what he’d say about the neighbors, or the farmer’s market, or the chipped tile in the bathroom—

She had left. And he had moved on.

So she sat there. In the silence. And for the first time since the article dropped—

She wondered if he’d finally fallen in love for real.

And if that woman—whoever she was—wasn’t a nobody after all. But someone who had given him something Lucy never could.

Peace. And the permission to be soft.

She got up slowly. Turned off her phone.And didn’t open the article. Not yet.

─────

The New York Times

Culture & Style

The Billionaire and the Nobody: How Harry Castillo Fell for a Woman Without a Name

By Carrie Roth | Published 11:14 AM EST, March 5th, 2025

When Harry Castillo, the notoriously private hedge fund billionaire and reluctant society darling, walked away from the limelight in late 2024 after a very public and very painful breakup with longtime partner Lucy, no one expected to see him surface again in any intimate context.

Yet here we are.

Castillo, 54, was photographed in the lobby of his Fifth Avenue penthouse earlier this month with a woman whose name, background, and entire existence appear to have baffled both the social elite and the media machine equally. In a world where a last name can function as currency, this woman has none—or at least, not one that anyone seems able to find.

The photo—captured by Carrie Roth and verified by multiple sources—features Castillo in a pair of dark joggers and a custom Valentino long sleeve, his expression unreadable. The woman beside him is dressed in what appear to be his clothes, oversized sweatpants, a faded navy shirt likely pulled from his top drawer, and socks patterned in chaotic, juvenile colors that make one wonder if she dressed herself in the dark or simply enjoys looking like a college freshman home for spring break.

Her hair is wet. So is his. Her face is bare. Her body language, reserved.

It would be forgettable if it weren’t so telling.

She doesn’t look like someone accustomed to being photographed. She doesn’t carry herself like a model, actress, heiress, or anyone remotely used to proximity to power. She looks like she just stepped out of his shower, borrowed his laundry, and followed him out without knowing where they were going next. There’s no stylist, no heels, no curated façade. There’s not even a purse in sight.

Which, of course, begs the question...Who is she?

At the time of publication, no verified identity has been confirmed. What we do know, she’s American. Likely in her twenties or early thirties. No public social media. No recognizable affiliations. No traceable digital footprint. A true anomaly in a city—and a culture—obsessed with documentation.

Some will say it’s romantic. That Castillo, long labeled cold and career-obsessed, has finally fallen for someone outside the machine. That love found him in a quiet corner of life and pulled him back into the light.

Others are less convinced.

The most damning quote comes from Lucy herself, the woman who knew him best—and left.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like yet. How intense. How obsessive. How cold he can be when he wants to. She’s not built for it. She’ll realize eventually. It’s a facade. All of it. He doesn’t do warm. Not really.”

Harsh words from a woman once fiercely loyal to the man she now paints as emotionally inaccessible. But they do echo a question many of Castillo's partners are quietly asking...What happens when the charm wears off?

Castillo’s pattern is well-documented. He disappears for months, reemerges without explanation, and surrounds himself with handlers more loyal than blood. He doesn’t date. He selects. Curates. And if this woman—this “nobody”—has truly captured his attention, she may have unknowingly stepped into a role with no script, no exit, and no idea of the performance required.

The optics are troubling.

The power imbalance is obvious.

He’s 54. She, allegedly is in her late twenties, early thirties. He is a billionaire. She, by all accounts, works in a field so mundane no one’s been able to confirm what it is. (Waitress? Gallerist? Nanny? The rumors span the alphabet.) She does not appear to be in fashion, finance, tech, or any industry tangential to his world.

She is not, in the traditional sense, someone.

And maybe that’s what he wants.

Someone who doesn’t challenge him. Someone who looks up to him. Someone who—like the rest of us—didn’t see it coming.

But let’s be clear, this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a headline.

And for now, that headline reads like the beginning of a story that’s more about power than love. More about fantasy than future. More about the image of intimacy than the truth of it.

Whether or not the woman in the photo understands what she’s walked into remains to be seen.

But the internet has already decided.

She’s already a meme.

Already a conspiracy thread.

Already a canvas for everyone’s projections.

And Harry Castillo, once the ghost of Manhattan's most elite rooms, has reemerged—only to set the world ablaze with a single photo of a girl who, until now, had the gift of being unseen.

Now?

Now she belongs to the feed.

And the feed never forgets.

Comments (238):

louisa83 Isn’t she that girl from Charlotte? Her brother…you know. The one who killed himself after their dad went to prison?

sampaige OMG. YES. my cousin went to school with her at hillside academy. her family basically imploded. her dad was some finance guy who scammed half the town. people lost their homes. then the son took his own life and the mom vanished overseas. it was a whole thing. wild to see her resurface like this.

deannareads Yup. This was a huge story here in North Carolina. Her dad ran a fake investment firm and got busted in 2019. Ponzi-style. Churches lost money. Local businesses folded. I had a friend whose grandmother lost her retirement in that mess. The daughter (the one in the article) disappeared right after the brother’s funeral. Like poof. Gone.

moneymessNC THEY LIVED IN THAT BIG BRICK HOUSE ON CEDAR RIDGE LANE! Her mom used to throw those weird garden parties and acted like she was royalty. Then the FBI raided their house and it all went to hell. I heard the mom dipped to Europe with a new identity. And now the daughter’s dating a billionaire? Make it make sense.

brookee02 “she doesn’t have a digital footprint” ....or maybe she just scrubbed the hell out of it after the biggest scandal in north carolina since john edwards. this girl isn’t a mystery. she’s a cover up and fake!!!!

southernbella She used to go by a different last name, I swear. She changed it after the trial. Her dad was literally sentenced to life. People were protesting outside their house for weeks. The fact that she ended up with Castillo? Feels strategic. Sorry not sorry.

annahayes Not her climbing her way back up to billionaire status like nothing happened...I remember the story. That family imploded. We’re talking lawsuits, fraud, rehab, funerals, extradition rumors. The whole Netflix package.

jadedjuliet sooo let me get this straight. her dad ruins hundreds of lives, her brother dies, her mom runs away, and she gets to rebrand as mysterious and date a billionaire? cool. must be nice to fail upward.

stellamae Nothing like a tragic backstory to distract from the gold digging. Daddy’s in prison, mommy’s in hiding, brother’s six feet under and she’s wearing $900 sweats in a billionaire’s penthouse like it’s a redemption arc. Give me a break.

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