#and she had a personality outside of the schemes that could work outside of the planning issues

[ayyy-pee]

𝕆𝕌𝕋𝕃𝔸𝕎

Discord 18+ - Twitter - Part Two of WANTED Series - WANTED Masterlist

Pairing: Outlaw!Suguru Geto x Female Reader Genre: Western AU WC: 8.7k Summary:

“Gettin’ train tickets ain’t easy. Where ya headed?” “Just a few towns over. Goin’ to visit family,” you explain, now more relaxed with him. Something about the way he was able to soothe your nerves makes Suguru feel proud. It also is making him clearly insane, because some sick part of Suguru begins to think he could be your family. If you’ll let him. “What about you?” His brows shoot up in surprise. Why would you want to know about him? “Me?” You nod quickly. “I know you’re…” You lean forward and Suguru mirrors the action as shivers race up his spine when you whisper scandalously, “...an outlaw.”

Story Warning: Train robbery, hostage situation, lying and scheming, profanity bc bitch it's me??, dub-con, Suguru has a corruption kink, needy downbad Suguru, "virgin" reader, guns, smut, blowjob, riding, fingering, spit, thinking about spitting, i love spit, dirty fantasies, titty sucking probably, using ropes, hair pulling (lmfaooooo), threats of violence, dirty talk, inexperienced reader, spit!, overstimulation, humiliation kink, Suguru is kinda pathetic, actually real pathetic, don't get your hopes up idk

Artist Credit: @/tsumusbeloved (on twitter)

A/N: FINALLYYYYY. This has been sitting in my drafts for like 3 months!!! I hope yall enjoy!!!

Tags: @syubseokie @yasu-1234 @cassayeee @glmpsfs @struxkbylightning @aotdump @oidloid @sunnysdiarythoughts @stillseren @lovebittenbyevans @avaatara @elliesndg @luv-kae @megtheebimbo @buttercupblu143 @toffeebrat @kaqua@moggleatlife @candy-s72 @sukunadckrider @xixflower @apchmon

It’s the shrill screech of the metal meeting metal on the train tracks that Suguru enjoys most about his work. How this massive tank of metal carrying so many people can just fly across the country, providing beautiful views of miles and miles of desert sands and mountains. The wildlife roams free on the frontier without a care in the world. And the train just keeps going, filling the sky with thick curls of black smoke.

Yeah, this train has many people on it.

Which means, this train has plenty of goods that will soon be his.

“Ah, you dropped your hat, boss.” A smooth voice speaks behind Suguru, holding open the train door as one other clambers in. Suguru kindly grabs his hat from the man, placing it atop his head as he watches his partner take the last person’s hand, lifting them inside.

It’s a woman, small and with strawberry blonde hair. She grabs onto the man before her. The disgust is clear on her face as her eyes roam along his body.

“Couldn’t pick another day to wear no shirt, Larue?” She complains, spreading a small cloud of dust as she brushes her clothes off.

Larue shrugs, chuckling lightly while he closes the train door. The rushing roar of the winds finally subsides. “It’s hot as all hell outside, Manami. Why not be shirtless? Besides, it gives everyone something spectacular to gawk at.” He motions towards his chest where his new set of ink lies – two hearts, one where each of his nipples are.

“A drunken bet gone right, if you ask me,” Larue had said the night after. “They’re gonna love these at the whorehouse.”

“If you two’re finished…” Suguru begins. Both Larue and Manami straighten up. “I wanna get in ‘n outta here. No funny business. Larue, take the back of the train. Better for you to be there in case the conductor gets any ideas. Grab what ‘ya can get your hands on – jewels, shoes, money. Don’t matter.” Suguru taps his chin in thought, running through his mental list to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. “Oh! And don’t forget to check the bars for any spoons or forks. Y’know what that silver’s worth. Me ‘n Manami will take the front of the train.”

Larue nods, no further instruction needed and Manami smiles next to him excitedly. She quickly shuffles over to Suguru’s side, looping her arm through his and Suguru rolls his eyes before slipping his arm out of her hold. Manami shoots him a pouty look before she quickly recovers, folding her arms over her chest.

“Alright, Boss. I’m ready.” She says with a hushed tone. Larue gives one more nod before he turns around and heads the opposite way. He slides the door slightly ajar, peering inside and just after he enters and the door has been shut and locked, Suguru and Manami hear the muffled shrieks of the passengers in the car.

“Hands in the fucking air! This is a stick up!”

Suguru peers down at Manami who is already staring up at him with eager eyes. And it takes everything in Suguru to not roll his eyes in response. She really gets on his last nerve.

‘I gotta get rid of her after this one,’ he thinks as he moves past the woman and into the opposite end of the train.

He slips through the door, closing it quietly behind Manami once she’s in. No one bothers to look up when they come in and Suguru counts his lucky stars that this will be easier than he anticipated. They make their way along the aisle, offering soft smiles to the passengers that happen to look up as they pass. Suguru thinks there’s nothing but a bunch of carefree monkeys too relaxed and stupid as all hell on this train. They don’t even know what’s coming and if they know what’s good for them, they won’t bother to fight back when they find out.

He lets Manami do the work of maintaining a mental checklist of every item worth its salt in this train car. This is where he’ll leave Manami to do her part. Then Suguru will take the final car where the stragglers usually reside. Larue is already taking care of everything in the back. When he’s done, he’ll pile up all the goods in an empty car and then make his rounds to grab what Manami and Suguru collect.

When they reach the end of the current car, Suguru turns to Manami who is already reaching into her blouse. She beams, eyes locked on Suguru as she slowly pulls out a pretty little Colt’s revolver. Her lips pull up at the corners, a sly grin on her face. If it’s meant to be alluring to Suguru, it’s not working. In fact it’s having the opposite effect. It’s so annoying, the way her pupils dilate when she looks at him. It’s only been a few months since Manami joined their group, but it’s only getting worse for Suguru. She spends half her time trying to seduce him and failing. And it’s not that Manami is unattractive. She’s a very beautiful woman, but she’s not exactly Suguru’s type.

He’s looking for someone a bit more…inexperienced when it comes to this life of crime. Someone he can mold into his ideal woman, untouched by the roughness that west has to offer. Manami has been doing this for far too long, and already has habits that consistently get under Suguru’s skin. She’d never interest him that way.

The pink haired woman flashes Suguru her gun, pointing her chin towards the last car as a signal for him to go on. Suguru nods, spinning on his heel and heading towards his destination. And just in time too, because he hears the door on the other end of the train car close and he knows Larue has finished and has come to assist Manami.

The train car slides shut behind Suguru right as he hears the passengers scream in the car behind him. It’s louder than the first instance and catches the attention of the passengers in his car who now stare at him with wide eyes, mouths agape like a sea of fish.

Suguru rubs the nape of his neck, frowning. Then, offering a goofy grin, he mutters, “Ah well…” He reaches behind him, wrapping his nimble fingers around the cool, wooden handle tucked into his waistband. He whips out his revolver, the sun glaring off of the fancy gold weapon as Suguru aims it at the passengers who all shriek in terror. The women clutch their jewels. The men hold onto their women. And Suguru? He laughs raucously before he barks out, “Put ‘em up!”

- - - - - -

It’s a little surprising how easily the heist goes, but Suguru tries not to give it too much thought. You start thinking something’s gonna go wrong and it damn sure will. While Manami is guiding passengers into the back cars, Larue has the conductor held hostage, locked away with threats of a bullet to his skull unless he continues driving. He’d only shown his face and quickly hid away in his cabin when Suguru told him to use his fucking brain unless he wanted it splattered across the window.

Now, Suguru finds himself roaming the cabin to see if there are any stragglers. And there is one. A very beautiful woman, at that. There you sit, in the last seat of the train car. He slowly makes his way over to you. Suguru thinks you must be some type of saloon girl. Your pretty little dress and waist neatly cinched in a leather corset is the giveaway. He glances over his shoulder, just to be sure this cabin is empty, only to find that it truly is only himself and you left. He hates having to wrangle the stragglers. That’s Manami and Larue’s job. And Suguru hates it even more when they’re not doing it.

He tightens the grip on his gun, turning to give you an earful until his eyes meet yours. They’re so wide and glistening, like you’re on the verge of tears. Your lips are quivering, your bottom lip protruding in a pout. It reminds him of the look Manami gave him just before the heist started. Except when coming from you, for some reason, it’s bringing out a different reaction. 

His heart rate quickens, and Suguru’s hands suddenly feel clammy and not from the heat in this train car. He can feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead and he has to swallow to quell the dryness that’s forming in his throat. Then he’s tucking his weapon away into his holster and moving towards you.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Suguru speaks calmly as he takes the seat in front of you. You peer up at him, with apparent fear in your eyes and he wants nothing more than to see that look disappear. Usually, he’d use force to get you out and rounded up with the rest of the passengers. He’s not sure why, but there’s something about you that makes Suguru want to take care of you. “Why didn’t you leave with the rest of the crowd?” He questions.

You’re fidgeting with the fabric of your dress in your lap, visibly shaken even as Suguru removes his hat and sets it on the seat in front of you before he sits down.

“I–” you clear your throat and bite down on your lip, seemingly to calm your nerves. 

“I’m not gonna hurt ya, ma’am,” he tells you softly, reassuring you. “Just wonderin’.” Suguru takes this time to drink in your features – how soft you look, the way your body so beautifully fills that dress of yours, how you’ve got a face that will be burned into his memory long after this encounter.

And for some reason, it also feels as if it was burned into his memory long before this encounter. There’s a familiarity about you that Suguru can’t quite place. He’s certain he’s seen your face somewhere. He had been through many saloons and brothels in his time traveling the frontier. Perhaps he had run into you in one of the many establishments he frequented? 

No. No, Suguru would remember if he saw a woman who looked like you in any of those places. You would have easily stood out in the crowd. He would have called you up to his room on any of those nights. 

You bite down on your lip as you stare at Suguru. As afraid as you look, you don’t break eye contact. To see you so stricken with fear, and yet you steadily look him in the eye without blinking. You show courage even when faced with danger, and it does something to him. 

The look on your face has him picturing all sorts of things about you and he doesn’t even know your name.

“I was afraid,” you mutter quietly. 

Thankfully so, because Suguru was just about to begin imagining a life outside of crime with you. Which is shocking in and of itself. Three minutes of simply staring at you had him visualizing a future on the prairie hanging laundry on the line while you fed the cattle.

‘Keep it together.’

“Don’t be scared. I’m not gonna hurt nobody,” Suguru reassures you again. He tries to calm your nerves with a smile which seems to work because he sees you visibly exhale. You return his gesture with a small smile of your own, and his imagination runs wild once more.

“Promise?” You ask, Suguru’s smile widens. 

‘Cute,’ he thinks. He wants to see more of those. “I promise, sweetheart.���

He can hear the way you huff, something between a laugh and a sigh of relief. And Suguru finds himself becoming more and more infatuated with you as he keeps the conversation going.

“Gettin’ train tickets ain’t easy. Where ya headed?”

“Just a few towns over. Goin’ to visit family,” you explain, now more relaxed with him. Something about the way he was able to soothe your nerves makes Suguru feel proud.

It also is making him clearly insane, because some sick part of Suguru begins to think he could be your family. If you’ll let him.

“What about you?”

His brows shoot up in surprise. Why would you want to know about him? “Me?”

You nod quickly. “I know you’re…” You lean forward and Suguru mirrors the action as shivers race up his spine when you whisper scandalously, “...an outlaw.”

He leans back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully while he purses his lips together. His gaze is locked onto you because he wonders if you’re up to something. If you’re not as sweet and innocent as you look. But when you lean back and flutter your lashes at him, he begins to doubt it. That sweet face of yours is a rare one to see on this side of the wild west; beautiful and unscarred. You don’t look like you’ve been exposed to anything more dangerous than a thunderstorm. And it’s arousing. The air of innocence that you carry has Suguru shifting in his seat, his pants suddenly feeling tighter.

This is exactly what he’s been wanting. Someone opposite of Manami, someone who is interested in his life, but not involved with crime in the least. As far as he can tell, you’re clean as a whistle. And Suguru likes to think he’s good at reading people.

“Never seen a outlaw before?” He drawls. You shake your head, back to messing around nervously with your dress.

“Never,” you answer softly, batting those pretty, long lashes at him. “Only seen ‘em on signs. Wanted…dead, or alive.”

Oh, you really are sheltered.

“Well, now you’ve seen one in person.” Suguru combs his fingers through his dark tresses, grinning like his criminal status is one to be proud of. To him, he supposes it is. “What d’ya think?”

You do that lip biting thing that Suguru is beginning to realize he finds cute. Maybe it’s a nervous tick, but this time it seems it’s to be you holding back a smile. Everything you do is cute to him. Everything you do is sweet, innocent, arousing.

“I…” You lean forward in your seat again, and whether you realize it or not, it gives Suguru a perfect view of the swell of your breasts. It’s a struggle to keep his focus on your face when your skin looks so smooth, and unmarred, perfect. Those plush lips of yours whisper, “...I think it’s exciting.”

He can only think one thought in this moment.

He wants to ruin you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s excitin’ about it?” He asks, though he has an idea what it is. The travel, not being tied down to anyone or anything, the freedom this life provides. It’s what they all say when they try to make small talk. “Pretty girl like you can’t possibly know nothin’ about this life.”

You inhale deeply, leaning back in your seat and Suguru watches closely, the way your chest rises and falls with the breath. “Well, I never seen a outlaw in person. Surely never spoke to one. And…” You purse your lips together, like you’re contemplating if you should say the next thing. But you do anyway. “I just never thought a outlaw could be so pretty.”

His eyes widen, the corners of his lips rising with a goofy grin. “Pretty?” He chuckles, combing his fingers through his hair again. “You really think so?”

He’s been called a lot of things, but pretty is not one of them.

“Yep. Look at ya.” You stand, moving quickly to cross the small gap between you both and take a seat next to him. You reach for his arm, then hesitate, pulling back for a second. You peer up at Suguru, silently asking permission and he nods. Your fingers ghost along his forearm, over his bicep, along his neck where his Adam's apple bobs with a gulp, and then your hand is cupping his cheek. Your trail leaves behind a trail of goosebumps.

And Suguru’s pants grow tighter.

Suguru has had his fair share of women and men alike during his time as a felon. But you’re particularly tempting. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted someone as badly as he wants you right now and it’s been all of ten minutes in this train car together. But any minute now, his crew is going to come through those doors and tell him they’re ready to go. And then Suguru will have to leave and the chances of him seeing you ever again are slim to none. 

But on the bright side, the chances of him seeing you again are slim to none. It’s a little sudden, but you seem like you want him with the way you’re feeling him up right about now. Maybe you'd let him bury his cock as deep as he can go, fuck you until you’re screaming his name, begging and crying on his cock. Then he’ll fill you with his seed, maybe leave a baby in you to remember him by if you’re lucky and then he’ll grab his spoils with Larue and the rest and go. Then he'll never see you again. 

This desert is far and wide. He’d have you today, then never have to face you again for the rest of his life. A woman like you? You'll be just fine. A pretty face and an even prettier smile. Though he thinks you're a bit naive. Have to be to be sitting here chatting with him like he’s some gentleman you met on a leisurely trip to see your relatives. Regardless, there will be some poor fool out there that'll be happy to have you after he's had his way with you.

‘Weren’t you just daydreaming about settling down with this woman?’

“Pretty eyes,” you hum, pulling Suguru from his filthy fantasies. “Nice skin, pretty lips. Just…very pretty.” Your thumb caresses his skin and his eyes can't help but notice the way your gaze is locked to his lips. He pokes his tongue out, watching your eyes widen just slightly at the motion, as he runs the wet muscle along his lips. And he’s right back in his head, thinking of all the ways he could have you.

There’s no mistaking the thick tension filling the room at this moment. Like a lightning bolt hitting the same spot repeatedly. Each stroke of your fingers along his cheek only intensifies the mood. Suguru’s lips curl into a teasing smirk, and yours into one that matches. “Why do I feel like you're trouble?” He says.

Your smile widens, and like a magnet, Suguru finds himself slowly being drawn closer and closer to you. Even as a soft laugh falls from your lips, his mind is wiped clean of all thoughts that don't consist of you.

“Me? That’s funny comin’ from a outlaw like yourself,” you mutter just as you close the distance between you, pressing your lips teasingly to Suguru's. They barely touch, truly a ghost of a touch but Suguru still has to swallow down the moan that damn near bursts from his chest the second your mouth was close enough to his.

You pull away suddenly, covering your lips as you lean away, your eyes wide with worry. “‘m sorry.”

“What are you apologizin’ for?” Suguru asks, scooting closer.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me…I just…” You’re back to fidgeting with your dress again, and Suguru places a large hand over yours to stop the movement. “You’re a criminal, and I’m just me. I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you.” You stare up at him with wide eyes, and fuck he wants you.

You look so sweet, so pure looking at him like that. And he feels a little like a piece of shit because while you’re looking at him with probably innocent thoughts floating around in your head, he’s thinking about how he’d love nothing more than to cover your face in his seed.

“I’m not a bad guy,” Suguru lies easily. “Have I done bad things?” He shrugs, because he’s done way too many terrible things to count. Better not to give a real answer to that one. “But I’m enjoyin’ our conversation. The kiss was just a perk. Wouldn’t mind it if it happened again. I’d gladly accept it.”

“But…I don’t even know you…”

‘All the better,’ is what he wants to say, but instead, he tells you, “And that’s fine. Listen–” he squeezes your hand gently. “Best part of bein’ a criminal is that I just do what I want. Don’t gotta ask permission for nothin’.”

Your eyes swim with curiosity. “It’s that easy?”

“Yep. Do what makes ya feel good, sweetheart.”

You still don’t look convinced, and if this next question doesn’t work, Suguru will have no choice but to tie you up and dump you in the other train car with the rest of the hostages. He doesn’t have much time to waste trying to get you just to kiss him.

“Lemme ask ya…did you like kissin’ me?”

He knows he should be worrying about the heist, not some pretty face distracting him from the job. But when you speak again, he tells himself the job can go to hell.

“Yes…but…I got scared. I– I’ve only done some things with a man…” you admit quietly. “And I’m not too good at it.”

Fuck. He has to have you.

“That’s not a problem, sweetheart,” he reassures you, and you beam.

Your hand grasps onto Suguru’s, squeezing tightly. “Really?”

He nods. “I don’t got much time before I gotta leave, but I can show ya some things real quick.”

“You’ll show me? How to do things?” Your voice is eager, so ready. Suguru is finding it hard to contain how much you’re turning him on right now. “Like kissin’ and…y’know other stuff?”

“What kinda stuff?” He asks, because he wants you to say it. Wants to know how far you’re willing to go if you’ve never done a damn thing before. You pinch your lips together, turning your head away shyly. But Suguru gently cups your chin, turning you to look at him again.

“What kinda stuff?” He repeats. “Tell me.”

“Stuff…that makes a man…y’know…”

He grins, tauntingly. “Enlighten me,” he whispers.

“Stuff to make a man…” you worry your lip between your teeth. “...feel good.”

Oh hell. 

What type of good deeds has Suguru done to find himself here? With someone as virtuous as you, who is asking him of all people to show you how to please him? He has half a mind to tell you no. He’s got shit to do and his partners are bound to come looking for him any minute. But his cock is screaming within the confines of his pants to get into those undergarments of yours. And there’s no argument to be had here. 

He’s listening to his dick.

Suguru crashes his lips to yours, swallowing up the yelp that escapes you from the sudden kiss. “I’ll teach ya whatever ya want, pretty girl.” He groans into your mouth. 

He kisses you hard, but slowly, giving you time to catch up. You’re a little slow to pick up, but you get there. Your lips slot against his, fingers slipping into his hair and holding on tight, making Suguru groan into the kiss once more.

“We don’t got a lotta time,” he breathes against you.

You nod, pulling away to look up at him. “What d’ya want?”

You.

He needs you – bent over the passenger seat and holding onto the bar sitting atop it while he fucks you from behind. He needs you sitting on his face, needs your hand around his length. But he’s looking at your face again, so desperate for instruction. Looks at your lips, swollen from the little bit of kissing you’ve been doing. And he knows exactly what he needs in this moment.

“Ever had a cock in your mouth?” He shifts, sitting back against the seat.

You shake your head.

“Ever touched one?”

Another shake of your head.

“What have you done?”

You hum, thinking only for a short time before you answer. “Kissed.”

What fucking luck.

Doesn’t matter what they score off the train today. This is the biggest reward of all.

“Good,” Suguru says, tugging your hand until you stand. With a grin, he guides you to the floor until you’re sitting up on your knees. “There won’t be another man who’s had ya then. I’ll show ya how to please me, make me feel good.” 

You nod, and Suguru can’t believe how easy this was as he fumbles with his belt, quickly undoing the buckle. He yanks his pants down, along with his underwear. Only to his knees. He wants to be able to get up quickly if needed. Suguru’s dick sits against his stomach, fat and long, with a harsh red tip that leaks with precum. He peers down at you, your eyes honed in on his length.

“Touch it,” he whispers encouragingly.

Your eyes meet as you move, your hands wrapping around Suguru tenderly, pulling a hiss from him. You hold his length like it’s a foreign object, and he supposes it is to you since it’s the first time you’ve done. Suguru grits his teeth, bringing a hand up to your fist. You’re simply touching him and his dick is throbbing in your grip.

“Move your hand…up ‘n down,” he tells you. “Like this.” He guides you, helping to move your hand in slow and light pumps until you’ve found a rhythm that works. His head falls back as the pleasure takes over. “Ahhh–shit, just like that, pretty girl.”

“It’s so big…” you sigh, licking your lips as you stroke his cock slowly.

From here, Suguru is certain he has a perfect view of you. Eyes wide and curious while you observe every ridge and vein running along his length. It turns him on beyond measure, his hips jerking upward in your grasp. 

“Damn,” he moans, fucking himself into your hands. For someone with no experience, you hold his dick just right. He never knew a woman’s touch could feel this good, but you’re a natural talent. You stroke him so good, his mouth falls slack as he lets himself enjoy the feeling of your hands around him. But you surprise him, just as you’ve been doing all this time, his eyes snapping open just in time to watch you lick from the base of his length all the way to the tip, teasing the slit with your tongue and lapping up the bead of precum that sits there.

“It’s salty,” you giggle before you kiss down his shaft, bringing your attention to his balls, kissing and licking the two orbs teasingly. Suguru inhales sharply, eyes rolling to the back of his head as the sensation makes his head swim with pleasure. Especially when your hand wraps around Suguru’s length again, pumping him up and down, slowly as you continue to lap at his balls.

“You’re already so good at this,” Suguru pants heavily.

“I am?” 

He can hear the excitement in your voice, so eager to please him. It turns him on knowing that you’re trying so hard to make him feel good. He wonders if you can feel his cock throb in your hands.

“So fucking good,” he praises you, loving the way you hum against him.

“Can I put it in my mouth?” You ask sweetly, squeezing your hands around his cock.

“God, please.”

When you take Suguru into the warmth of your mouth, you hum around him, and the vibrations make him shiver, back arching off of the seat. His palm finds the back of your head, his hips rolling up so he can shove his cock as far as possible without hurting you. He’s gentle at first. You’ve never done this before, after all. He wants to give you the time you need to adjust, though he can’t afford to give you too much. Which seems to be just fine, because just like before, you catch on quickly. You take his cock damn near to the base, and you take it so well, relaxing your throat for him so it’s easy. 

“Could fuck this pretty little mouth all day,” Suguru grunts, pumping into you. “So goddamn good.” The sound of his balls slapping against your chin as he fucks your face has his legs trembling, pleasure shooting straight up his spine. He wants to grab your head and push you down further, make you swallow all of him until he blows his load down your throat, then make you swallow that, too. But he doesn’t want to cum just yet.

He craves more from you. He needs more from you.

You hum again, sending another vibration through him as your fingers come up, caressing his balls. And Suguru squeezes his eyes shut, trying so hard not to cum. “Ah– shit, shit!” He pushes at your shoulders, forcing you off of him with a loud and wet pop. You look rather pleased with yourself, smiling when you see his red cheeks and the way he rapidly tries to catch his breath.

Like he noted before. You’re trouble.

“Fuck, you’re fuckin’ perfect,” he gasps, staring at your chin dripping with saliva and his juices. Suguru watches through hooded eyes as you swipe it away. He could watch you on your knees all day, taking his cock down your throat time and time again. But unfortunately, time is not on his side today. He needs to hurry it up.

“C’mere, pretty,” he calls for you, taking your hand. You stand, waiting for your next instruction as Suguru leans forward in his seat. His hands find your waist, pulling you close enough that he can press a kiss to your stomach before he leans back again. “Pull up your skirt for me.”

“Okay…” you agree, shakily. You reach for the hem of your skirt, pulling the layers of fabric as high as it’ll go. Suguru always hated these damn dresses. It’s like digging for gold trying to get through every damn piece of clothing. But eventually, you get to the end, revealing your bare thighs to him. Soft, plush, beautiful. But what he’s truly interested in remains concealed by your underwear.

Suguru swallows hard before he drags his finger along your clothed pussy, grinning when your thighs tremble just barely. His gaze glides back up your form until they rest on your face, watching as your mouth falls open with a silent moan. 

Hard to believe you’ve never been touched here. Also, so very arousing to think you’ve never been touched here. He thanks his lucky stars that you’re allowing him to be the first.

He slips his finger into the fabric, his slender fingers quickly finding your slit and sliding along your folds. He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels how soaked you are. He briefly brushes a finger against your entrance, pausing when he feels you tense up.

“Might hurt a little,” he warns as softly as he can manage right now. But you whisper, “go ahead”, hands coming to rest on his shoulders as he dips his finger into your pussy, biting back a moan when he feels your soft walls clench down on his hand. It’s tight, as expected but he moves slowly, pulling back every so often to work his way further.

You whimper above him, squeezing his shoulders as your breaths come rapidly while Suguru pumps his finger in and out of your hole. Your bottom lip sits between your teeth, and your brows are knitted together.

You’re enjoying this. 

And he’s enjoying watching you.

Suguru presses his thumb to your clit, slowly circling the sensitive nub. Dark eyes lock with yours as his other hand finds the top of your dress where he hooks his fingers into the cups and pulls it down. Your breasts spill out of the fabric and your breath hitches when the air caresses your nipples. Suguru kneads the soft flesh, his thumb swiping across one of the hardened buds. 

“Ahhh, yes,” you moan, your voice barely above a whisper. Your head falls back with a loud gasp as Suguru slips another finger into you. 

“Bein’ real good for me,” he coos. His dick grows painfully harder as he slowly thrusts his fingers inside of you, while his thumb stimulates your clit. He’s panting trying to hold himself together while he preps you for what he wants next. Your hips move on their own, riding Suguru’s hand, chasing your high. 

“Feel good?” He grunts, fingers slipping into you over and over, curling inside, and hitting your sweet spot and you can’t help but to gasp quietly each time Suguru touches it. 

“Y-yes, feels incredible,” you whine.

Suguru’s eyes are locked on your center where he watches his fingers disappear into your cunt over and over, your slick coating his hand more with each thrust. It only adds to Suguru’s struggle to keep it together as he ignores the pulsing need of his cock. Your pleasured moans and the squelching sound of your dripping pussy fill the space of the train car.

“I’m–” you breathe harshly against him and he feels your walls squeeze down on his digits. You’re close already.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart?” Suguru’s fingers dip into you faster. His eyes linger on your face as his thumb rubs tight circles on the sensitive bud between your legs. Your eyes flutter closed, mouth hanging open as a delicious moan rushes past your lips, your grip on Suguru’s shoulders tightening so much it stings. But he loves it, loves feeling your pussy squeezing down on his fingers, sucking them deeper as your release crashes over you until he can feel your cum dripping down his fingers and into his palm as he keeps pumping into you.

Suguru sighs as he stares at his fingers, slowly pulling them from you. He licks his lips, admiring his slick covered hand.

He’s never taken the time to just enjoy the moment with anyone. Never cared much to please a woman. It’s easier for him to just get himself off and high tail it out of there. No attachment to these ladies, no reason to stick around. But what is it about you that makes him want to see all the ways your body is capable of falling apart? Because it’s a beautiful sight to behold. 

“Outlaw…” you murmur, slipping your undergarments down your legs until you’re able to kick them off. You push Suguru back by the shoulders, lifting your skirt so that you can easily maneuver into his lap. His hands find your hips beneath your dress as you straddle him, and his thumbs caress the soft skin gently.

“Yeah, beautiful?”

So beautiful. He can’t stop staring at you and your eyes, glazed over with desire. You lean forward, the heat from between your legs making Suguru’s length twitch. It lightly taps your core and you gasp. Your hands clutch onto the bar that runs along the top of the train seat, one on each side of his head. Suguru’s palms glide around to your backside, squeezing the flesh of your ass. You brush your nose against his, soft breaths mingling with his as you whisper, “make love to me, outlaw…” just before your lips touch.

And Suguru’s groaning into your mouth, because this kiss is different. It’s hungry, hot, full of want and need. It’s sloppy and rushed, because you’re both aware of the time crunch you’re in. It’s intoxicating, addicting, the way he never wants to stop kissing you. To hell with the heist.

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” Suguru pants, a hand gripping his cock. He can feel the heat of your pussy radiating off of you and it makes him all the more eager to have you.

Your eyes are wide, filled with something Suguru thinks may be excitement. He’s not sure he sees any hesitation or fear behind your eyes. You want him badly, it’s clear as day. He wants you just as badly, if not more. So he positions himself at your entrance, nudging your hole gently with his tip. 

A small whimper slips past your lips, and Suguru kisses you sweetly. “It’s only gonna hurt for a second,” he coos. “Promise…”

He kisses you again, muttering, “I’m pushin’ in…” against your lips.

You close your eyes, teeth digging into your bottom lip as Suguru rolls his hips forward, slowly sinking his tip into your pussy, only stopping when you let out a harsh breath.

“‘S a tight fit,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. An understatement. Your pussy is gripping him with so much force, he’s struggling to breathe. You’re holding him hostage within your walls and the feeling has him tightening his hold on your ass. “You alright?”

Because he wants to make sure it feels good for you, too. Your pleasure is his. Which is a whole new feeling for him in and of itself. He’s aware of how the tables have turned. What started as him wanting to show you ways to please him, turned into him desperate to please you. But he likes it that way.

You nod, moaning quietly when Suguru keeps moving forward. “Ohhh…” 

“God, this pussy is so fuckin’ –” he can’t even finish his sentence. He needs to focus all his attention on not cumming already.

You take him all the way to the base, moaning loudly when you fully sink onto him. Your grip tightens around the bar, steadying yourself as Suguru lifts you by your ass before pulling you back down on him, so slowly. “Fuuuck–” he groans. He thrusts into you at a leisurely pace, slow and controlled, giving you time to adjust to his size. 

But his kisses…they’re rough. Such a contrast to the way he’s fucking you right now. The pleasure is overwhelming to Suguru, and when your tongue slips into his mouth, it’s him that’s whimpering now, thrusting just a little faster, a little harder.

“Damn, you take my cock so good, pretty girl–” he growls into your mouth. “Love the way you ride me.” He smacks your ass hard, eyes falling to your breast, bouncing up and down with the rhythm of his thrusts. He takes one into his mouth, greedily lapping at your nipple, nipping and sucking and loving the way your cries get louder.

“Oh my god, fuck!”

“Ride my cock, pretty. You already do it so good. Wanna see you ride me.” Suguru groans. He releases his hold on you, hands coming up to play with your breasts while you bounce wildly on his dick. He lifts your dress, relishing the view of his length, glistening with your slick, vanishes into your tight cunt over and over. “Shiiiitttt…”

You slip a hand into his tresses, pulling hard and forcing him away from your nipples. You pull so hard Suguru has to close his eyes because the sensation sends goosebumps igniting across his body. That, combined with the way you keep taking him to the tip before slamming down on his cock repeatedly. Fuck, you’re a quick learner.

Your pussy is what it feels like every single time he pulls off a heist successfully. Like fucking heaven. And he never wants to leave it.

His eyes flutter open, just enough to see your breasts bouncing with every rise and fall of your hips. Your velvety walls hug him tight, so fucking good, Suguru thinks he'd like to be able to have you all the time. Hell, he has half a mind to take you with him once they’re off this damned train. Being able to have you like this any time he wants, watch your body come undone under him, on top of him, in any position you’ll let him have you. He’d even give up this outlaw life if you wanted him to. Settle down, start a family if that’s what you wanted. The thought of it makes Suguru more excited than he’ll ever admit.

Each time your pussy sucks him back in, begging for him to cum, he can suddenly picture a life outside of this. Each time those sexy little noises fall from your sweet lips, he can suddenly envision raising a family with you, building himself a life where he's able to hear those sounds any time he desires. 

He lets his mind drift to these fantasies while he can, enjoying the feeling of you and the sounds you gift him with. 

There's a fire pooling in his belly, growing hotter each time his balls meet your ass. He's gonna blow his load here any second. And he can't wait. He wants to cum inside your walls, wants to thrust himself so deep into you that there's no way you're not carrying his child when he's done. Least you'll have something to remember him by if you tell him you don’t want shit to do with him after this. A sweet woman like you with a wanted felon? Of course you’d prefer to get your rocks off while you can and move on. Which is fine.

Because Suguru is gonna remember you, anyway. He’ll remember the way you squeeze around him, the way you moan the little nickname you’ve given him, the way your cunt feels fucking unlike any other woman’s. You’ve got him mesmerized. 

So much so, that he doesn't even notice the cool press of steel against the center of his forehead. 

“Ohhh,” you moan, whimpering, “Please…please…will you put a baby inside me, outlaw?” 

It’s like you read his mind, and Suguru’s eyes snap open, balls tightening as his release threatens to come at any moment. But then his eyes see the stiffness in your arm, see the glimmer of metal as the sunlight reflects off it through the windows, and he finally realizes you've got his gun to his head, and maybe that’s actually why his balls are tightening. You’ve got this wicked grin on your flushed face as you keep riding him. Hard, fast, walls squeezing him in a vice grip. And he can't do shit but let his eyes roll to the back of his head, let his pleasure race straight down his spine and into his balls as his release shoots from his cock before he has a chance to get ahold of himself.

But you don’t let him get a drop inside, lifting yourself smoothly off his lap just as fat, hot streams of cum land messily in his lap and on his stomach. Suguru’s gasping for air, still struggling to figure out what the fuck is going on. And you don’t give him a second to catch his breath, to let his mind catch up before you’re wrapping your hand around his cock again, squeezing and stroking his length until he’s so overstimulated his jaw is cramping up from how hard he’s gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

“What the fuck are you ahhh–” you run your thumb over his leaking tip, your eyes alight with joy when his hips buck up automatically, legs trembling as you keep pumping him, though his balls are beyond empty. 

You tsk, shaking your head as you press the barrel of the gun harder against his skin. “Where’s that sweet outlaw from before?” You drawl.

Your voice has changed. No longer soft spoken, shy and sweet. The hardness of your tone tells Suguru all he needs to know. The memories come flooding back. And now he realizes why you looked so familiar when he first laid eyes on you. 

Your face has been plastered on wanted posters in damn near every town he and his partners have stopped in. Murder, robbery, drunkenness, prison escape, cheating at cards. All the crimes that should have you in the town square hanging, you’re wanted for. Somehow, you’ve managed to never get caught.

How could he have let his guard down? How could he have fucked up this badly?

‘Thinking with your dick. That’s how.’

“Guess it takes an outlaw to know one,” He grits out, nostrils flared with fury. He can only hope his crew comes through those doors soon, though it’ll be fucking humiliating to be caught in this position.

A giggle spills from your lips and the sound makes Suguru sick to his stomach. You don’t even sound like the same person from before. “Y’all are pretty easy to spot. ‘Specially when all y’all think with your cocks–” You echo his thoughts, emphasizing the word by squeezing Suguru’s slowly softening length in your hand. You frown, releasing your hold on him. “Huh, thought you’d be able to gimme another one.”

He inhales deeply, shakily, narrowing his eyes at the woman – the stranger – that stands before him. “Everything you said was a lie, then.”

It’s not a question. He knows. Because you’re just like him. Maybe even worse.

Laughter bursts from deep within, like what he said was the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. “It really is easy to fool y’all men. Just gotta make our pussies feel reallllll tight and wet and y’all don’t question nothin’.”

You climb off of the seat, taking the gun off his head while you fix your undergarments, unbothered and careless. And Suguru decides to act fast, takes this moment to lunge for you. But he doesn’t make it far, because his head is yanked back roughly the moment he jumps forward. His scalp burns, and he reaches back, feeling a thick knot tied around the metal bar that sits atop the train seats. The same metal bar you were just holding onto moments ago.

“You fuckin’ tied my hair to the seat?!” He growls.

And you chuckle, shifting your dress around until you’re decent again. The gun is pointed back at Suguru’s face, and he puts his hands back down, not daring to try and free himself when you’ve got a revolver ready to blow his brains out.

“And your hands are next,” you promise in a sing-song voice. You keep your word, spinning around briefly to reach between the wall and your original seat, where you’d apparently hidden a small rope. You make quick work of tying Suguru’s hands behind his back, leaning a little too close to him as you finish the knot. 

He can feel your breaths against his neck, and right now, if he’s being honest with himself – which he may as well be since he could very well be dead soon – it’s confusing him. Because he feels like he fucking hates you, is repulsed by you, could spit in your face right now. Oh, he really fucking wants to. But something tells him you’d like that anyway. And the thought of your face, depraved and covered in his saliva is making his still exposed length hard again. Even when you tug harshly on the rope for good measure, chuckling low in Suguru’s ear when you hear him hiss in pain, his cock stiffens further.

And of course you notice, your eyes glancing down to his lap, where the sticky mess you left him with lies. “Sure you don’t wanna go again?” You tease, laughing when Suguru scowls. 

You like him upset, and probably a little pathetic, because you press your lips to his pout, kissing him hungrily. And apparently, Suguru is as pathetic as he looks, because – and it’s a surprise to him, too – he kisses you back! Your tongues tangle during this brief meeting of your lips, fighting for dominance, though it’s apparent who’s the one in control here. 

The filthy moans between you are interrupted when Suguru feels that damned gun under his chin now, applying enough pressure to push him back. Only a line of your mixed saliva connects you two as you stare down at him in amusement.

“Like I said…” you peer down quickly at Suguru’s lap before whispering. “Aaaalways thinkin’ with your cock.” You step back, pointing the gun at him once again.

“What do ya want?” He asks, pulling at his restraints to no avail. He’d love nothing more than to wipe that cocky smile off your face and flip the tables on you, but it’s not looking good for him.

“What I want…” You wiggle the gun in his face, tauntingly. “...is already mine, outlaw.” There’s humor in your tone, and your body language is relaxed. You couldn’t see Suguru as less of a threat if you tried.

You piss him off.

And make him so fucking hard.

He’s confused!

The noise of the doors to the train cabin opening can be heard and Suguru grins. You’re fucked now. Larue is going to put a bullet between your eyes and sure, Suguru’ll be sad about it. But better you than him. You were a great fuck, he’ll admit. And yes, he entertained the idea of giving you a kid or two, maybe getting a little cabin out in the prairie. But that fantasy’s as dead as you’re about to be. Sad that he won’t be–

“The guy with the nipples and the girl have been taken care of, boss!” A chipper voice sings. 

That…is not Larue.

Suguru couldn’t turn his head if he tried, courtesy of this goddamn knot, but he can see the smirk on your face as you nod. “Great work, Hime. And the goods?”

“Already on the move with the others. Just gotta get on the horses when you’re ready.”

You turn your head, staring out the window and nodding again. Out of his peripheral, Suguru can just barely make out the form of two horses, racing alongside the train and he knows he’s screwed.

You sigh, shrugging while feigning sadness as you pout. “Well, outlaw…looks like this is the end of the line.”

Suguru tugs at his ropes again, struggling against the holds. “You gonna leave me here like this?” He gestures with his chin at his…situation. You must be forgetting his entire dick is out for the world to see. And that you’ve tied his hands up. Not to mention his fucking hair! If he has to cut his hair because of this…

You hum, like you’re actually giving deep thought to his question. You’re not.

“Yeah, actually. Think I am.” You lift your dress, not even pretending to be as innocent as you presented yourself to be when Suguru first laid eyes on you. You tuck his gun into the waistband of your undergarments, patting it affectionately. “Thanks for a grand ol’ time, outlaw. If you manage to survive this, we can do it again.”

You shoot him a wink before you lean over him, leaving him with one final kiss on the lips. It’s gentle this time, soft, save for a light nip to his bottom lip that embarrassingly enough, manages to arouse Suguru yet again. 

“At least tell me your name,” Suguru grits out through heavy breaths. “So I can be sure to repay the favor.”

It’s a threat, but you don’t take it as one. You simply smile. It’s warm, almost reminiscent of the woman he met just earlier. The woman he thought you were. But that look is gone as soon as it appeared. You pat his face gently, reaching across the seat to grab his hat that he had set aside when he’d first sat down. You sit it atop your head, wearing it like some sort of crown, and without another word, you leave.

The train cars open, the roaring rush of the wind filling the space for just a moment before they’re shut again, and Suguru is left with nothing but his thoughts and his dick literally out. He leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes to calm his racing heart and honestly to stifle the pain of his untouched erection.

This has been the wildest ride of his life. Definitely the worst heist he’s ever done. And if he does survive this, does manage to somehow talk his way out of charges and prison time, he’s going to find you. Fuck the robberies. Fuck the brothels. Fuck gambling and drinking all day. Yeah, if he manages to survive this, he will make it his life’s mission to find you again.

Because even after all is said and done, Suguru thinks he might fucking love you.

[woncheolisms]

wrong twin? (miya atsumu x reader)

summary: you have a massive crush on miya osamu. so the plan is to get closer to him through his twin brother. it’s genius. it’s bound to work. right?

word count: 3008

warnings: fem!reader, fluff, slight angst, swearing, maybe a dash of humor, atsumu being atsumu, him and reader bicker a lot

tags: @keiva1000

When you handed in your application to join the Inarizaki High School volleyball club as manager, you had a very clear agenda in mind, but nobody needed to know about that. You had a good knowledge of volleyball, you had good organizational skills, and you were responsible. They accepted your application in a heartbeat, and were none the wiser of your true intentions behind joining the team.

It was only when you cornered their blond setter after practice one day that you actually said the words out loud.

“Ya want me to do what?” He raised an eyebrow, shoving his volleyball shoes into his backpack.

“Help me get close to him!” You whispered in a conspiratorial tone, looking around to make sure no one was paying attention to you two. Your eyes lingered on Osamu where he was helping Gin clean up. “You’re his twin brother. You’re closest to him. If we hang out more, that would inevitably mean I get to hang out with Osamu more too. And we can become friends. Eventually, I will get him to fall in love with me.”

Atsumu stared at you with a very distinct ‘what the fuck’ look, but you stared right back, determined.

“Yer insane.” He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and making his way to the gym door. You followed behind.

“Please, Atsumu!” You begged, following him out of the gym and down the path leading out of the school.

“No!” He responded, not looking back at you. “Ya wanna get close to him, just go talk to him! Why ya gotta drag me into yer crazy schemes?!”

“I can’t just go talk to him, it would be creepy! I need a way into his circle.”

Atsumu gave you another look. “Oh yeah, what yer saying right now isn’t creepy at all.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

You huffed, scowling at the back of his blond head. Your eyes caught the lights of the corner convenience store, and you felt an idea forming.

“I will buy you an after-practice snack every day for a year.”

Atsumu stopped short, looking back at you. “Yer bein’ serious?”

You gestured to the store up ahead. “We could start right now. I have money on me.”

His answering grin meant you had a deal.

……………………

When you joined the twins for lunch the next day at Atsumu’s desk, Osamu raised an eyebrow.

“It was my idea.” Atsumu explained. “She’s cool so I said we should hang out more.”

Osamu seemed to buy it, shrugging and giving you a welcoming little smile. You felt yourself flush, giddy as you pulled up a chair and sat down next to Atsumu, opposite to his brother.

“Oh sweet, are those pancake rolls?” Osamu asked when you opened your bento. You nodded eagerly.

“I made them myself!” You replied, pushing the box closer to him. “Wanna try?”

You knew Osamu liked food (okay, maybe you had stalked him a little), and even though you sucked at cooking, you had meticulously made your lunch today for this very reason. You couldn’t help your grin when Osamu bit into a roll and moaned at the taste, saying it was delicious. You could feel how hot your face was, even the tips of your ears felt warm. Atsumu rolled his eyes in your periphery but you paid him no mind, striking up a conversation with his brother instead.

“Yer like a different person around him.” Atsumu commented later that evening, when you were sitting on the curb outside the convenience store and he was chowing down on a pork bun you had bought him. The rest of the team had gone ahead, most of them too tired to stop for a snack and just wanting to get to bed as soon as possible.

You sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. He makes me feel things.”

Atsumu chewed for a little bit, watching you stare at the moth circling the streetlight.

“Gross.”

You slapped him hard on the bicep at that, making him let out an ‘ow!’. He pouted at you as he rubbed his arm, while all you did was roll your eyes in return.

……………………………

Lunch became a normal thing with the twins after that. You would wake up at 5am, cook something new that you thought Osamu might appreciate, and you would watch him devour it, praising you for how good it was. One time, Atsumu had gotten curious and tried to reach for a piece of onigiri, making you smack his hand away. He yelped and clutched it.

“What was that for?!”

“You already get a snack out of me every day, Miya. Keep your paws off my lunch.”

Osamu had snickered at that, and your heart had skipped at the sound, effectively forgetting Atsumu even existed as your focus shifted entirely to his brother. Atsumu grumbled but complied, saying something about ‘’s probably not that good anyway’. You paid him no mind.

You got to know Osamu a lot better during your little lunch sessions. He didn’t talk as much as his brother, but he was perceptive, and a great listener. He seemed to balance out Atsumu perfectly, and you could see how close they actually were. You would often giggle at their banter, witnessing the many foul names they would call each other, but knowing they didn’t mean it at the end of the day.

You often went to their house, under the guise of tutoring Atsumu. At first, Atsumu had told you no one would buy it, but you were adamant to try. And you were right. When you told Osamu why you were there, he snorted in response.

“Figures. This dumb fuck needs all the help he can get.”

Atsumu had yelled and tried to swat at his brother, but Osamu expertly dodged him. You had laughed at their antics.

Your study sessions were often spent with you stealing glances at Osamu from the dining table where you and Atsumu were located. He wouldn’t stick around much, preferring to camp out in their shared bedroom, but you still appreciated every glimpse that you got of him when he wandered down to the kitchen for a snack. Atsumu would nudge you with his knee under the table.

“Be a little less obvious, will ya?”

You stuck a middle finger in his face in response. He grabbed your hand and twisted it a bit, just enough to make you yelp and try to push him away.

“Tsumu, you jerk! Let go!”

“Say sorry!”

“Over my dead body!”

Osamu had to break you two apart sometimes, while you glared at each other from either side of him.

At practice, you would stay late when they needed help perfecting their quick attack, throwing balls so Atsumu could set them for Osamu. On the way back, you would buy Atsumu his daily snack and offer to pay for Osamu’s as well, which he always refused.

“Unlike this tool, I’m not shameless enough to let someone else pay fer me.”

“Hey!”

With every passing day, you felt that you were getting closer and closer to Osamu. Where you had barely exchanged words before, you two could hold long conversations now, and you especially loved when you ganged up to shit on Atsumu, who would be overdramatic as hell about the insults and act like he just got shot. You couldn’t remember the last time you had laughed so much.

Then, Osamu got a girlfriend.

You didn’t learn about it until you saw a girl at the gym on one random Wednesday. You had raised an eyebrow at her, watching as she looked around for something.

“Can I help you?”

She shook her head. “I’m just looking for Osamu. He left some stuff at my place last night.”

Your brain short circuited. Her place? Last night?

Then he ran over to her. Greeted her and thanked her for bringing his stuff. And then he kissed her.

You were mentally tuned out of practice for the rest of the evening.

When Atsumu walked up to you after practice so you could make your usual trip to the convenience store, you had just silently followed him. You had bought him some yakusoba bread, and you sat on the curb, waiting to walk home after he finished eating.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You finally asked.

Atsumu sighed in return. “Didn’t want ya to get hurt.”

You turned to look at him. His attention was on the bread. “Did you expect me to never find out?”

He shook his head. “I was hopin’ to tell ya after practice. Just couldn’t think of the words.”

For some reason, you felt anger boil up inside you. You stood up abruptly. Atsumu paused his chewing to look up at you.

“I don’t need you to coddle me, Tsumu.” You grit out. “That was not the deal.”

Atsumu didn’t seem fazed by your tone. “Sit down.”

You glared at him. “I’m going home.”

When you turned to leave, you were stopped by his hand reaching up to clutch at the hem of your jacket, pulling you back.

“I know yer hurtin’. Just sit.”

You don’t know why that did it. Tears that had been building up all during practice were set free, rolling down your cheeks. Silently, you sat back down next to him. He didn’t talk as you cried, only shuffling closer until his side was pressed to yours. An unexpected comfort came to you with the contact. You leaned on him, resting your head on your knees, shoulders shaking.

When you had calmed down enough, you wiped your face with your sleeves, sitting up straighter. Atsumu extended his bread to you. You raised an eyebrow.

“When have you ever shared with me before?”

He rolled his eyes. “Ya want it or not?”

The bread seemed to melt in your mouth. Food did make you feel a bit better, but your mind was still on Osamu.

“‘M sorry yer scheme didn’t work out.”

You laughed a bit, taking another bite. “When you call it a scheme, it makes me think it was bound to fail from the start.”

Atsumu shook his head. “Nah. Ya made an effort. I respect that.” He stretched his legs in front of him, leaning back on his hands. “Yer a real catch. Yer smart and yer pretty. Samu’s blind ta not see that.”

You giggled, nudging Atsumu a bit. “Careful, Tsum-tsum. I might think you were falling for me.”

If your emotions weren’t so over the place, and if you hadn’t just tired yourself out from crying so much, you would’ve noticed how the older Miya’s eyes softened.

…………………………

Getting over Osamu wasn’t easy. Especially after having chased after him for so many months. It didn’t help that his little girlfriend seemed to come around more often, sometimes joining the team during practice. At times like those, you tried to stay as far away from her and Osamu, and that often meant you would find comfort in Atsumu, the only person who knew about your crush.

“What does he see in her anyway?” You voiced out loud, watching her laugh at something Osamu had said. You were sitting on a bench outside the gym with Atsumu, watching the two interact on the other side of the path. The rest of the team still weren’t done with their run. As usual, the twins were the first ones to reach the school.

Atsumu ran a towel over his neck, setting his water bottle down next to him. “Ya need ta get over him.”

You rolled your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never loved anything except volleyball.”

“Damn right. Has volleyball ever betrayed me? No. So suck it.”

You dug your elbow into his side, making him yelp and grab your head, pushing you away. His hand was massive and covered over half your face, and you struggled to get him off, digging your nails into his forearm.

“Tsumu, you asshole-”

You didn’t even notice when Osamu stared at the two of you, too absorbed in your little squabble.

So yeah, getting over Osamu wasn’t easy, but having Atsumu around helped a ton. Everytime he would see your eyes linger on Osamu too long, he would make some sort of comment, or change the subject, just trying to get your attention anywhere else. Too many times, he would physically grab you and turn you away from his twin, saying something along the lines of how you should be looking at the ‘better twin’ instead.

“Sorry but which one of you decided to dye their hair the color of piss?”

“It’s blond!”

“You ever heard of toner, dumbass?”

And you would grab his hair, messing it up and tugging at it a bit, giggling when he whined about you ruining his ‘hairstyle’. You also knew that Atsumu would kill anyone else who dared touch his hair, and the fact made your heart skip a bit. It also made you think, and once the gears in your head started turning, there was no going back.

Now that the fog of your infatuation with Osamu was lifting a bit, you seemed to notice his twin more. You would watch how Atsumu seemed to almost shield you from anything that reminded you of Osamu. How he had made it a habit after that one evening to always share half his snack with you, no matter how small it was. He would often say out of pocket shit, but rather than annoying you, it seemed to endear you more. It was like these little quips were a part of his charm, and you would giggle along instead of telling him to shut up.

He was awfully touchy too. You suppose he had always been, and you had just never thought about it. But now it seemed like none of his moves went unnoticed by you. He had a habit of gripping your head with one hand and turning your face to his when you weren’t paying attention. It used to annoy the crap out of you but now it made you pause and blink, meeting his caramel colored eyes. He would nudge you and poke you, he would drape an arm over your shoulders and whine about how tired he was. And your cheeks would warm up every time. You were forced to admit it.

You had a thing for Atsumu.

Deep down, you cursed at your luck, almost laughing in incredulity. What a joke this was, having a crush on both twins. But you knew that this was different. You knew this wasn’t just a silly crush.

Atsumu was more. He had always been more.

“Tsumu?”

He hummed in response, indicating he was listening, even if he was busy stuffing a chocolate bar into his mouth. You two were in your usual place, sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, lit up only by the light of the store behind you and the lamp post across the street. You watched his profile, the way his jaw moved when he chewed, his eyes trained before him, his undercut, and his dyed hair falling over his forehead slightly.

He was so painfully attractive. And you had never noticed.

He looked at you finally when you didn’t speak, raising an eyebrow.

“Everythin’ okay?”

You nodded hastily, turning away from him. You heard him pause, wrapping up what was left of his chocolate and placing it next to him before shuffling closer to you.

“Yer lyin’. What is it?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “You can read me so well.”

He shrugged in response, draping his arm over your shoulder. You closed your eyes, mentally accepting how the action now made you feel.

“I did spend the whole year hearin’ ya whine about yer feelings, so yeah. I can read ya pretty well.”

You sighed, turning your head to look at him. At this proximity, you could see the brown swirling in his eyes, and it reminded you of milk chocolate. You were nearly nose to nose with him, and you weren’t nervous at all. With Osamu, you would always be on edge. Your insides would squirm, your heart would race, and oftentimes, you would stumble over your words.

With Atsumu, you felt every muscle in your body relax when he touched you. Despite his chaotic personality and his crude language, Atsumu was so tuned in when it came to you. When you needed it, he was as calm as they come. There was such unprecedented comfort in his presence. When you were around him, it felt like everything would be okay.

“I love you.”

It came out of you involuntarily at that moment. But you weren’t scared to tell him. You should have been, but one look at him this close and all your fears were melting away. When Atsumu gave you a little smile, you couldn’t help but return it.

“I love ya too, sweets.”

His kiss was expected. Soft, slow, perfect. His lips were plush and warm, and he tasted like the chocolate he had just been eating. His arm around your shoulder tightened, and his other hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your head enough to deepen the kiss. You felt your head buzz, your hands fisting at the front of his shirt and trying to pull him closer, though it was impossible.

You whined in protest when he ended the kiss, making him chuckle slightly. The sound made your lips twitch up a bit, and you ran your eyes all over his face. He hummed in approval.

“There it is.”

You blinked. “What?”

He traced your cheekbone with his thumb. “Ya know how long I’ve wanted ya to look at me like that and not Samu?”

Right. Samu. You had forgotten about him completely the moment Atsumu’s lips touched yours. The thought made you giggle and pull at his jacket collar to tug him close, until his lips were meeting yours again.

[ahqkas]

♯ STARMAN ; remus lupin

PAIRING! young!remus lupin x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! during a snowy holiday at the potter residence, remus finds himself caught between the matchmaking ideas of his two best friends and his growing feelings for you

WARNINGS AND TAGS! fluff, idiots to lovers, kissing, james & sirius play the matchmakers, cursing + lmk

WORDS COUNT! 3k

NOTES! i posted this back on my old blog in 2022 / 2023 so if you’ve read this before no u didn’t❕ peter is absent in this ff , he’s spending the christmas with his own family

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

JAMES POTTER AND SIRIUS BLACK.

Good lads, great company, and even better matchmakers. Who wouldn't want to spend time with them? The two boys were always full of energy, their laughter infectious, and jokes just rolled from their tongues as naturally as breathing. You could be certain that boredom was a foreign concept in their presence.

That's what everyone thought.

Remus Lupin, however, isn't everyone.

To Remus, James and Sirius were more than just pranksters and school celebrities. They were his closest friends, brothers in all but blood, and the kids behind some of the most outlandish escapades Hogwarts had ever seen. Remus saw behind the facade of their shared humor and carefree attitudes. He understood the deeper layers of their cores — the loyalty that bound them together, the masked fears and insecurities, and the stupidity and courage that defined their actions.

James Potter, with his tousled hair and round glasses, had a heart as big as the Quidditch pitch. Sirius Black, with his roguish good looks and devil-may-care attitude, possessed a sharp intellect that clashed perfectly with his rebellious nature.

Yes, to the outside observers, James and Sirius appeared to be the life of the party (which they were) but to Remus, they were the definition of family.

Even though they certainly knew how to fuck things up.

ONE

"Just listen to us, Moony! This one will work out, me and James planned it for . . . one week, is it? Just trust us!"

Sirius Black's voice was brimming with enthusiasm, his gray eyes twinkling with the unspoken promise of yet another grand scheme. As these words left his mouth, Remus felt a surge of frustration well up inside him. His hands itched to do something else than the dishes — but he resisted the urge to punch the oldest Black brother. The sheer absurdity of the situation was almost laughable. This wasn't the first time his best friends came up with a plan to help him with one of his many problems. Some of their previous attempts had actually worked out quite well. But there were also unsolved problems that Remus had learned to live with, issues he simply couldn't — or wouldn't — allow them to meddle with. Like this one.

"Exactly, mate! We're not doing this just for fun, you know. We're doing it just for you, because as you can see, we know you don't have the courage to tell [Name] how you feel. And we wouldn't be suggesting this if we didn't think it had a real chance of working."

Remus nearly dropped the plate he was washing onto James' head. Did they really have to put their noses into his personal matters? It wasn't that he lacked the courage — he told himself that repeatedly — but the timing just wasn't right. And he had came over to James' house to enjoy the Christmas holiday in peace, not to snog off his best friend's face.

But once an idea comes into a marauder's head, it won't leave until it's out for the world to see.

Just Remus' luck.

The warm, soapy water cascaded over his hands as he resumed scrubbing the plate, trying to focus on the boring task before him rather than the frustration rushing through his system. Sirius's words carried in the air again.

"It was originally planned for Evans, but she wouldn't be as cool with it as [Name]. You know how they both are! Evans would try to hex James' ugly face first, then mine. And [Name]? Well, it seems like you just have to find out, mate."

You just have to find out, my arse.

"Look, why can't you just keep this thing as it was first planned? I'm sure Lily would appreciate the opportunity to snog James' stupid face," Remus said, his voice tinged with the frustration he felt. James made a noice that sounded suspiciously like a gasp and opened his mouth to protest, but Remus ignored him and kept going. "Okay, maybe not for the next ten years, but one day she surely would."

“For the record, my face is unbelievably handsome, thank you!”

The oldest Black brother crossed his arms across his chest, the rag he used to clean the dishes dangling from his hand and making a puddle of water beside him. James glared daggers at it. "You see, even if you politely declined our offer to bring some spice into your already boring life, we can't take no for an answer. We spent our free time searching up a single spell in the library. A bloody library, Moony! So, no. If you and [Name] don't kiss by the end of the Christmas, this prank will be considered unsuccessful, which is something the Marauders don't do."

Sirius' eyes held the same look of determination they had when Peter confidently told the rest of the group that he, Sirius Black, was going to win the snogging bet they made in their fourth year. Remus hadn't liked that gaze then, and he certainly didn't like it now, because he knew what it meant. Peter had won that bet. Which just means . . .

Remus saw his short life flash before his own eyes. This was not going to end up in the way he would like to. A bad, no wait, a horrible idea. But before he could do something to save himself from the coming catastrophe, the whole point of the prank entered the kitchen with a lopsided smile on your face. The boy always thought you were pretty. A pair of eyes that seemed to brighten up whenever your favourite topic is being talked about. A warm smile that makes Remus feel the comfort you gave to him. He wouldn't need to drink Veritaserum to admit that he fancied you.

"I just finished unpacking my stuff, so if you want to do something together . . ." you trailed off, looking into their eyes with an inviting gaze. Remus awkwardly moved his gaze away, heart pumping against rib cage.

James, being the little shit he is, nudged Sirius with a knowing smirk and nodded his head in the direction of his room. "Well, it looks like our job is finished here, doesn't it, Padfoot? We should help Moony here to unpack his trunk. Come on."

Before the werewolf could do anything to stop his two best mates, James grabbed Sirius by the crook of his elbow and ran into his room, leaving the pair of obvious friends alone in the Potters' kitchen.

You looked around, a little surprised by the sudden reaction of James and Sirius. Remus stood next to the sink, drying his hands on a rag. "That was new."

"Yeah, it was."

You leaned over the table, a playful glint was dancing in your eyes. "So, they left to unpack your trunk, huh? I wouldn't let them do it if I were in your place, because I know how much of a messy person James Potter can be. Sirius does look like one too. I've seen your dorm," you let out a laugh that Remus quickly joined.

"You're not wrong. Last time they helped me unpack, I couldn't find half my things for a week. They think it's hilarious to hide my socks in the most ridiculous places."

A playful twinkle sparkled in your eyes at the sudden memory. "Well, at least you know where to find them when something goes missing. I once found a pair of James' socks in the Astronomy Tower. Still haven't figured out how they got there."

"You know," the boy started, but his dark eyes caught the green and white blur above your head, and his breath hitched in the back of his throat. They really had the guts to do it! A spring of mistletoe hung precariously above you, clearly placed by James and Sirius.

Thinking quickly, Remus took your palm in his and met your gaze again. "You could help me unpack my things, so I know where they are and all that stuff you need to know about unpacking."

With a nod, you let him took the lead. "Okay, Remus. I'll save you from them."

Remus was going to kill these two.

TWO

The weather seemed to understand the friend group's wishes for snow, much to their excitement, prompting them all go out and mess around in the white blanket of cold snow. They couldn't charm snowballs yet, and the ice on the lake next to the Potter residence was a bit thin for their liking, but it was fun either way. Laughter and shouts of excitement filled the crisp air as they chased each other, fell into snowdrifts, and made the most of the wintry day.

When they returned home, it was already dark outside, and four mugs of hot chocolate were waiting for them, accompanied by Mrs Potter's cheerful face. The warmth and aroma of the sweet liquid welcomed them inside, melting away the chill from the frost.

James and Sirius, their energy finally exhausted, soon trudged off to bed after they finished their cups, leaving Remus and you to linger a bit longer. The house was quiet now, the only sounds the gentle cracking of fire and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors.

If only it could be like this every day, Remus thought to himself as he sat on the couch beside the fireplace. The flames radiated warmth, and with the mug in his hands, everything felt nice again. No stressing over studying, no thoughts for the upcoming war. He was in his own bubble, praying it wouldn't break at any given moment.

In his lap lay an opened annotated copy of a book you had given him as a Christmas present in your fourth year. He had read the book many times, and each time he found something new that caught his interest. It was like a never-ending story he never planned to finish.

"Hey, Remus."

The sudden sound of your voice and the feeling of your frame settling next to him, a knee brushing against his tight, made him shut the book with unnecessary force. The boy could feel your eyes on the side of his face so, he turned to meet your gaze, brown meeting [eye colour].

Remus had really pretty eyes. The rich brown seemed to melt in the warm room like the sweetest chocolate you had ever put on your tongue, with hazel sparks dancing in them. His eyes held something you couldn't quite put your finger on — a mystery, just like his person. But there was one thing you knew for sure: you would find comfort in them no matter the situation.

As you looked closer, you noticed faint freckles dusting his cheeks. Had they always been there? The gentle smattering of the constellation added to the roughness around his scars, making him appear even more breathtakingly beautiful. You found yourself mesmerized by the little details of his face, each one telling a story of its own.

Remus decided to talk first. "What are you doing here? Not that I mind, I'm just wondering. It's pretty late, you know," after those words left his mouth, Remus felt like a total fool. Merlin, talking with you was getting more difficult since he realized he liked you more than a friend should.

But when he saw your lips curving into a smile, he knew he hadn't messed up. "Can't sleep. It's hard to do so when you have to sleep on a different bed."

"Yeah, I can understand."

Once the comfortable silence fell upon the two of you, Remus wanted to stay like this as long as possible. Life with you in it, even after Hogwarts, would be like a dream come true. You could adopt a cat or a dog together. Remus had always wanted a pet . . . The thought of a future with you filled him with a warm, hopeful feeling.

Suddenly, you were standing on your feet in front of Remus, the book no longer in his lap. Instead, you were holding it open, reading the first words he had written on the front pages. He could feel his neck and ears start to warm up, and he was sure it wasn't from the unfinished hot chocolate.

"Nice book you got here. Must have been a nice present, don't you think?" You were teasing him, he knew it from the glint in your eyes, and you seemed to be enjoying it, too. So, he played along.

"Oh, I don't know, would you be surprised if your friends bought you a book when they see you every morning reading them?"

"This one must be your favourite, as the front is starting to lose its colour."

At the further mention of the book, Remus forgot about the teasing at took it from your hands. "You should read it, [Name], it's a really . . . ," he trailed off again, like he did yesterday, and it started to confuse you more and more. His eyes were looking at something above your head, too. Was the moving photo of little James framed behind you that interesting?

When you started to turn and look, Remus quickly turned you to face the direction of the kitchen and pushed the half filled mug with warm liquid into your palms. "I want more of that. Could you help me make it? Thanks, [Name]."

Remus was ready to push James and Sirius onto the thin ice tomorrow.

THREE

Remus didn't like packing. First, he needed to pack at least a day or two before leaving so he could sleep without overthinking, but he did overthink it anyway. Did I pack everything? I think I had more stuff when I got here . . . He usually spends half of the train ride worrying about things like this; the rest was joking around with his friends and saying goodbye for the summer. And second, he didn't like leaving. The places he went to — whether it was Hogwarts or the Potters' — had a special place in the depths of his heart. The only comforting thought in his head about it all was that he would come back.

With a sigh, he started to pick up his jumpers from the Gryffindor-themed rug James had in his room. They had spent their first Christmas together when they were twelve, and the boys slept in separated bedrooms to Mrs Potter's wishes. She wanted them to have their own privacy (they shared a dorm at school, after all), but as time went on and she realised her boys wanted to be together, the witch let them do as they wanted. You got your own room as this was your first holiday here.

As much as Remus thought about the task being annoying and gloomy, it was kind of relaxing to his mind into something else. James and Sirius hadn't tried anything on you two in the last few days, which worried the werewolf a bit. What were they planning? It wasn't like them, giving up on something they were so determined about.

At a knock on the door, Remus put his just-finished folded socks into his trunk and went to open the it. It couldn't be James and Sirius, and the adult Potters had gone for a walk into the village, which just leaves . . . you.

Oh.

Remus opened the door and revealed, in fact, your glowing face. His eyes took a look at you, and he found himself thinking how pretty you looked.

Your nose and cheeks looked like they were freezing, but it somehow made your face glow. Your beanie covered half of your forehead, and there was a huge spot of unmelted snow on it, probably thrown at you by one of the Marauders. But your eyes still caught his attention first. They showed your real emotions, and you were happy right now, which made Remus feel happy too.

Your smiled reached the corners of your eyes. Remus liked your smile. "Hi! Knew I would find you here. As you can probably see, we are having a snowball fight and I was wondering if you wanted to join me? James is being a git . . .”

Remus couldn't help but chuckle at your enthusiastic invitation. The idea of being outside with you, engaging in a playful snowball fight against his brothers, sounded far more appealing than packing his things. He also knew that if James was being a git, he'd have to intervene to keep the playing field fair.

He listened to you, he really did, but his attention was drawn by the green plant, dangling from the doorframe above your heads. However, this time you followed his gaze and saw what he was always searching for.

"Oh."

Before he could regret what he was about to do, his hands found your cheeks, and his eyes focused on yours, not bothered by the cold that started to reach his palms. "Can I kiss you?"

Your eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The heartfelt laughter of James and Sirius outside faded into the background, leaving only the two of you in that small, shared moment. A soft smile played on your lips as you voiced your inner desires.

"Yes, Remus, you can."

You placed your hands on the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape, and gently pulled him towards you. Your slightly cold lips met his warm ones, and the contrast sent shivers through both of you. The sensation was intoxicating, a rush of emotions and sensations that made your heart race. The warmth from his mouth spread through you, melting away any lingering cold from outside.

Remus's hands slid from your cheeks to cradle the back of your head, his fingers doing the same thing as yours, threading through your hair. You could feel the slightest tremble in them, a sign that he was just as affected by the kiss as you were.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested against each other, and you took a moment to catch your breath. Your eyelids fluttered open, and the look you shared was one of pure emotion. His brown eyes, now darker with desire and something deeper, gazed into yours with a mix of awe and admiration.

It felt like a core memory of your new found relationship was forming, one that will be forever treasured and reminded with nothing but adoration.

Remus was glad about the whole mistletoe prank but the boys will not hear a word from him about it. They were right, the Marauders won't let a prank go unfinished.

[wisteria-lodge]

I’d love if you ever expanded your thoughts on the way JKR writes romance, because it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while. One thing that’s very interesting to me is that jealousy is used as a driving force for both of the main romantic storylines in HP. It’s more obvious with Ron/Hermione (the Yule Ball, basically everything that happens between them in book 6, the locket horcrux stuff) but also plays a big role in Harry/Ginny. Harry’s jealousy of her relationship with Dean is what makes him realize he’s into her, and moments where he’s pining for Ginny tend to focus on that jealousy more than an actual appreciation of Ginny’s personality. The most important part of writing a convincing romance is making readers believe that these characters actually care about each other and want to spend time together, and it feels like maybe what you describe as JKR’s obsession with pining made her lose sight of that. What do you think?

We've also got jealousy as a motif in Harry/Cho and Severus/Lily. It is absolutely a trope she uses, a lot. 

When I was trying to get my head around how JKR writes romance, the main thing that made it click for me was realizing that, to her - romance is inherently threatening. And/or embarrassing, overpowering, animalistic, dangerous. (thanks to @the-phoenix-heart for that line.) 

Really, the Harry Potter books are kind of a romance-free zone. It is incredibly unusual to see a romantic couple, acting like a couple, on the page. We spend a lot of time with Arthur and Molly, and while they’re both pretty fleshed out as characters, we get almost nothing of their couple dynamic (and what we do get doesn’t seem all that positive…) The blocking tends to physically separate them - Molly isn’t at the World Cup or Harry’s hearing, Arthur is working overtime when Harry is at the Burrow, etc. This is a pattern: her romantic couples, of which there are not many, have a way of being in different rooms, on different side quests, one of them is mind-controlled, one of them is unconscious, it cuts to black right before Harry kisses Cho, and right after he kisses Ginny.

Ron/Hermione takes place mostly outside of Harry’s perspective, and Harry/Ginny takes place mostly out of *the reader's* perspective. It’s a lot of narration, a lot of “Harry could not help himself talking to Ginny, laughing with her, walking back from practice with her” and “[Harry] was supposedly finishing his Herbology homework but in reality reliving a particularly happy hour he had spent down by the lake with Ginny at lunchtime.” Like, I don’t know. I might have liked to see those scenes play out.  

Bill/Fleur is probably her most successful couple (I mean, who doesn't like Bill and Fleur?) But even they almost never interact with each other. They talk about their relationship to other people, other people talk about them, but like… I’m just going to go through a rundown of every single time we see Bill and Fleur interact: 

 “’E is always so thoughtful,” purred Fleur adoringly, stroking Bill’s nose. Ginny mimed vomiting into her cereal behind Fleur. Harry choked over his cornflakes.

(Romance = embarrassing) 

What if [Ron and Hermione] became like Bill and Fleur, and it became excruciatingly embarrassing to be in their presence, so that he was shut out for good?

(Romance = embarassing, threatening)

Most [of the people at Dumbledore’s funeral] Harry did not recognize, but a few he did, including (...) Bill supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George

(put a pin in this one, I’m going to come back to it) 

“Bah,” said Fleur [in Harry’s body], checking herself in the microwave door, “Bill, don’t look at me — I’m ’ideous.”

(I actually think this is kind of cute in context, but unfortunately JKR is being uncharitable to her hyper-femme characters again, and making a joke about woman-in-male-body, which unfortunately makes it less cute in the grand scheme of things) 

“I’m taking Fleur on a thestral,” said Bill. “She’s not that fond of brooms.” Fleur walked over to stand beside him, giving him a soppy, slavish look that Harry hoped with all his heart would never appear on his face again.

(Romance = embarrassing) 

“We saw [Mad-Eye die]” said Bill; Fleur nodded, tear tracks glittering on her cheeks... 

(Not sure if this counts as them interacting, but they are at least next to each other)

“No,” said Bill at once, “I’ll do it, I’ll come.” “Where are you going?” said Tonks and Fleur together. “Mad-Eye’s body,” said Lupin. “We need to recover it.”

(this one doesn’t even frame them as a couple, since the teams have split into Bill and Lupin and Tonks and Fleur.) 

“We can’t tell you what we’re doing,” said Harry flatly. “You’re in the Order, Bill, you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We’re not supposed to talk about it to anyone else.” Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look at her.”

(... does this imply that Fleur isn’t in the Order? Anyway, they’re married at this point, and kinda disagreeing a la Molly and Arthur) 

[Griphook] continued to request trays of food in his room, like the still frail Ollivander, until Bill (following an angry outburst from Fleur) went upstairs to tell him that the arrangement could not continue.

(Another conflict, but hey, at least it sounds like they resolved it. We hear about their daughter Victoire in the epilogue, but this is the last time we see Bill and Fleur together.) 

But, okay. Not putting romance in the Harry Potter books is a perfectly fine creative choice. JKR can absolutely decide she just wants to give other things more emotional weight. What clarified this for me was the Fantastic Beasts films and her adult literature (particularly the Cormoran Strike books.) In those, JKR is wanting to write romance. And yet....

In Fantastic Beasts, she can write the awkward getting-to-know-you pre-romance stuff, but the second Jacob and Queenie are actually a couple - he loses his memory, then he’s brainwashed, she’s with Grindelwald, they’re different plot lines that never intersect… and then they just get married at the end of Secrets of Dumbledore. So it’s not even a slow-burn, will-they-won’t-they thing. Tina and Newt get the same treatment, except their pre-romance getting-to-know-you beats are so subtle that a lot of people missed them completely. Then Tina's angry at Newt for a very silly misunderstanding… then in a separate plotline… and is only in the third film for two minutes at the end. People compare the structure of these films to Indiana Jones, but in those movies the love interest is actually hanging out with Indy the whole time. In the Cormoran Strike books, the romantic leads do spend time together, but they’ve also been doing a pining, bad timing, will they/won’t they back-and-forth thing for seven books. And they’re long books. 

So okay. What’s going on. Why is this. 

JK Rowling has been very public about the trauma she has from abusive relationships and sexual assault, and I’m afraid I do have to bring that up in a conversation about why she treats romance so negatively. More specifically - if I had to guess - I think she finds male attraction towards women threatening. (I’m sure we all remember Harry’s chest monster.)  I think she feels a little icky writing it, which is why when she does do it… it feels perfunctory, generic, repetitive, and also not the sort of thing that would come from a teenage boy. (Like when has a 14-year-old boy ever thought a girl was pretty because she had nice teeth. That’s such a straight girl compliment.) BUT, when she writes about the attractiveness of guys - it gets more specific, more nuanced, more interesting, and also a lot less uncomfortable. J.K. Rowling likes guys! She’s allowed. 

But of course, she also tends to write male viewpoint characters, and I think this is why a lot of her guys (and Harry specifically) kinda read as queer to a lot of people. We’re told Harry is distracted by/attracted to Cho Chang… but is he though? Compared to the way “pretty boy” Cedric, or “sleek haired” Draco get under his skin? 

I want to take a look at her adult romantic leads for a second. Because in Fantastic Beasts, she really did pull out all the stops to make Newt and Jacob as non-threatening as humanly possible. Newt is a gentle, pacifist, Doctor Dolittle-type conservationist who barely seems interested in women at all, and Jacob… is a Muggle baker. She pairs Newt with Tina, tough as nails American star auror. Jacob is with Queenie, who is constantly literally reading his mind. Which is an ability we’ve only seen with the most powerful wizards. These guys are not a threat to these ladies. In Queenie’s case, the power balance is tipped so insanely far in her direction that I’m a little bit worried for Jacob (and she does in fact, bewitch him into doing stuff.) I think JKR wrote her couples this way so any romance she wrote with them would also feel safe… and sadly I don’t think it worked. The most fleshed out couple dynamic we get is Dumbledore/Grindelwald, who have a coffee date and a duel in the third movie. But - that’s the one movie where she doesn’t have sole screenwriting credit, they’re exes, and they're also both GUYS, so she doesn’t have to worry about any kind of male/female power imbalance gunk, or put herself in the headspace of a guy being attracted to women.

Now I do want to talk about Cormoran Strike. Of all her non-threatening male love interests, this is the one who seems to work best for her. She’s stuck with him the longest, and it actually seems possible that we might get an actual romantic scene with him in the next book. 

Here’s my theory. I think that when JKR was writing Goblet of Fire, and it came time to introduce the real Mad-Eye Moody - imprisoned in the bottom of his own trunk, weak, down a leg and an eye -  something clicked. Because that is someone who is both entirely masculine, and entirely safe, and that makes him the perfect romantic figure. And I absolutely think she grabbed that archetype when it came to writing Cormoran Strike.

Basically, this character just is Mad-Eye Moody, only 15(ish) years younger, and non-magical. Strike is an ex-military cop who now freelances. He’s older than his love interest, he’s been around the block a few times. He’s gruff, but careful and kind, world-weary and grizzled, extremely capable, principled, tough, and just sort of hyper aware of what’s going on around him. He is also a bigger guy with some access weight who is not “conventionally attractive” - and for JKR this is a feature, not a bug. If your female character is into someone who is not *~*~handsome~*~* that means they’re cool, deep, not like other girls. Viktor Krum is not conventionally attractive, and (after the werewolf attack) neither is Bill. In fact “he now bore a distinct resemblance to Mad-Eye Moody.” JKR likes Mad-Eye Moody. 

And you better believe that Cormoran Strike has a broken nose and a missing leg, just like Mad-Eye Moody. Strike’s prosthetic leg comes up a *lot.* I think it’s telling that the loving interaction we see between Bill and Fleur is her physically supporting him at Dumbledore's funeral post werewolf attack, and the loving little wrist squeeze we get between Lucius and Narcissa is right before Lucius hands his wand over. Basically, JKR likes someone who is sexy and capable and has a lot of presence, but who you get to take care of, and who… can’t chase you. Doesn’t pose a threat. That's the fantasy. 

[urdreamydoodles]

Can you write bat villains x someone who use to be a psychologist? And gn please

Bat-Villains x Reader

You used to be a psychologist

Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, Two-Face, The Riddler & The Penguin

I hope I did what you hoped. Love you guys, bye ♡

The Joker

- You’ve always known that your choice to leave psychology behind wasn’t entirely your own. It became evident the moment you met him, the infamous Joker, during your stint at Arkham. You were initially his psychologist, drawn into his world by the challenge of untangling his chaotic psyche. But instead of understanding him, you found yourself caught in his web. Your analytical mind fascinated him—your attempts to “fix” him became his favorite game, one that always ended with him flipping the script and dissecting you instead.

- Your former training as a psychologist now feels like a double-edged sword in your relationship. On one hand, it’s the reason he respects you. You’re the one person who can spar with him intellectually, who can try (and sometimes fail) to keep up with the labyrinthine way his mind works. On the other hand, he sees your past profession as an ongoing joke. He’ll mockingly call you “Doc” or ask if you’d like to analyze him, knowing full well that any attempt would end in him exposing your own vulnerabilities instead.

- The Joker revels in pushing your boundaries. He’ll leave Rorschach test cards lying around the hideout, asking for your “professional opinion” with a maniacal grin. He’ll turn every fight or disagreement into a warped therapy session, making you question your own motives and sanity. Yet, there’s a twisted tenderness in the way he values your insight. When he’s planning his next big scheme, he’ll ask for your input—not because he needs it, but because he enjoys the way your mind works.

- You often catch yourself analyzing him even now, despite knowing it’s a futile exercise. But every once in a while, you’ll hit a nerve. When you call out the cracks in his façade, when you pinpoint the rare moments where his chaos feels less calculated and more personal, he’ll grow uncharacteristically quiet. Those are the moments when you see the man beneath the madness, even if only for a fleeting second.

- He loves reminding you that you’ve crossed a line no ethical psychologist ever should. “Falling for your patient, Doc? That’s against the rules,” he’ll say with mock horror. But there’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes because you didn’t just fall for anyone—you fell for him, the one person no one else could ever hope to understand. And in his own twisted way, that makes you his perfect match.

Harleen Quinzel aka. Harley Quinn

- Meeting Harley was like meeting a mirror image of yourself—if the mirror had cracks and glitter smeared all over it. You’d both been psychologists, both lured into the world of Gotham’s rogues by the thrill of understanding the incomprehensible. She was fascinated by the fact that you shared her background, though she couldn’t resist teasing you about being the “goody-goody” version of her.

- Your shared history in psychology becomes a cornerstone of your relationship. You’ll spend hours debating therapeutic techniques, discussing old case studies, or laughing over the absurdity of Freudian theories. Harley loves hearing about your time as a psychologist, often joking that you’re her “normal” counterpart—but deep down, she’s proud that you chose her world over your old one.

- Despite her playful nature, Harley respects your insights in ways few others do. When her insecurities bubble to the surface—whether it’s about her past with the Joker or her struggle to define herself outside of it—she’ll come to you for advice. She values your ability to articulate what she’s feeling when she can’t find the words herself. And while she doesn’t always follow your advice, the fact that she listens at all is a testament to how much she trusts you.

- You sometimes find yourself slipping into “therapist mode” when Harley spirals, but she’s quick to call you out if she feels you’re treating her like a patient instead of a partner. “I’m not sittin’ on your couch, doc,” she’ll say with a pout, before pulling you into a playful wrestling match to lighten the mood. Still, she appreciates your ability to ground her when things get too overwhelming.

- Harley loves that you chose her, knowing full well the risks involved. “You coulda stayed all boring and normal, but you jumped into the deep end with me,” she’ll say with a proud grin. And while your past as a psychologist may have shaped you, she loves that you’ve embraced the chaos of her world without losing the core of who you are.

Pamela Isley aka. Poison Ivy

- Ivy found your past as a psychologist both intriguing and amusing. “A former mind doctor falling for a plant lady,” she’d tease with a sly smirk. “I suppose it’s only natural—plants are easier to understand than people.” But beneath her teasing lies a deep respect for your intelligence and your ability to see the world in ways others can’t.

- Your psychological background often comes into play in your relationship with Ivy. She values your insight when it comes to understanding human nature, a realm she’s often detached from. You help her navigate her complex feelings about humanity—her disdain for their destructive tendencies versus her occasional, begrudging hope that they might change.

- Ivy’s cool, analytical nature contrasts with your warmth, creating a balance that neither of you expected. She’ll often challenge you to apply your psychological theories to her world of plants and ecosystems, delighting in your attempts to bridge the gap between the two. You’ve become her sounding board for her plans, helping her refine her ideas and temper her more extreme impulses.

- There are moments when Ivy grows frustrated with your attempts to analyze her, particularly when you delve into her trauma or question her motives. “Not everything needs a diagnosis,” she’ll snap, her walls going up. But over time, she’s come to appreciate your perspective, even if she doesn’t always show it.

- Ivy loves that you see her as more than just a villain or a force of nature. You see the layers of Pamela Isley beneath Poison Ivy, and that makes her feel truly understood. Your shared bond is rooted in a mutual respect for each other’s intellect and a deep, unspoken trust that neither of you takes for granted.

Bane

- Your relationship with Bane began with mutual curiosity. He was fascinated by your background as a psychologist, viewing your profession as a form of intellectual strength. You, in turn, were drawn to his disciplined mind and the way he combined brute force with strategic brilliance. “You dissect minds; I conquer them,” he’d say with a rare, genuine smile.

- Bane respects your intellect in a way that few others do. He sees your psychological expertise as a weapon, one that complements his physical prowess. He’ll often ask for your insights when planning his strategies, valuing your ability to predict human behavior and anticipate his enemies’ moves.

- Your past as a psychologist also gives you a unique perspective on Bane’s struggles. You understand the toll his dependency on Venom takes on him, both physically and mentally. While he rarely lets his vulnerabilities show, he appreciates your ability to see past his armor and offer support without judgment.

- Bane occasionally challenges you to analyze him, though it’s always on his terms. “Tell me, doctor,” he’ll say with a smirk, “what drives a man to seek strength at all costs?” These moments often turn into deep, philosophical discussions that leave you both with a greater understanding of each other—and yourselves.

- Your relationship with Bane is built on mutual respect and an unshakable trust. He admires your strength, not just as a psychologist but as a person who chose to stand by his side despite the risks. And while he may be the one known for breaking Batman, you’re the one who’s managed to break through his emotional walls, earning a place in his heart that no one else ever could.

Jonathan Crane aka. Scarecrow

- Jonathan Crane was both intrigued and suspicious when he learned of your past as a psychologist. “Another mind eager to probe into fear,” he’d remark, his tone dripping with both mockery and fascination. You, however, weren’t interested in analyzing him, at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, you saw through his bravado to the wounded man behind the Scarecrow.

- Your shared background creates a dynamic of intellectual sparring. Jonathan delights in challenging your understanding of fear, throwing hypothetical scenarios at you to see if you can unravel them. He respects your insights, though he’s quick to remind you that fear, in his eyes, is an art—something that transcends mere psychology.

- Despite his attempts to maintain dominance in your relationship, there are times when Jonathan allows himself to be vulnerable. You’re the only one he trusts to see the cracks in his armor, to hear the stories of his childhood torment without judgment. Your empathetic yet clinical approach soothes him, though he’d never admit it aloud.

- Jonathan often tests your limits, pushing you into scenarios meant to evoke fear. At first, it frustrated you, but over time you came to understand it as his way of sharing his world with you. When you show resilience or even appreciation for his experiments, he’s secretly proud, though his compliments are always wrapped in veiled insults like, “I suppose you’re not as naive as I thought.”

- Your past as a psychologist doesn’t just make you his partner—it makes you his equal. Jonathan loves that you don’t cower before his intellect or his fascination with fear. Instead, you challenge him, forcing him to confront his own insecurities and vulnerabilities, something no one else has dared to do. And though he thrives on fear, you’ve become the one person who doesn’t fear him at all.

Harvey Dent aka. Two-Face

- Harvey Dent was initially wary of your background as a psychologist, fearing you’d see him as just another case study. But your approach was different—you didn’t try to fix him or push him toward integration. Instead, you accepted both sides of him, recognizing the war within and respecting it as part of who he was.

- Your ability to navigate Harvey’s duality sets you apart. You’ve learned to address both Harvey and Two-Face as separate entities, treating them with equal respect. This earns you a rare level of trust from both sides of his fractured psyche. Harvey appreciates your kindness and understanding, while Two-Face values your refusal to dismiss him as the “bad” half.

- Your past profession comes in handy during Harvey’s darker moments. When he spirals, you use your skills to help him regain balance, though it’s always a delicate dance. You never push too hard, knowing that forcing him to confront his trauma could drive him further into chaos. Instead, you offer guidance when he’s ready to hear it, a patience he’s deeply grateful for.

- Two-Face often tests your loyalty, flipping his coin to decide whether you’ve earned his trust. At first, it unnerved you, but over time you came to see it as his way of coping with uncertainty. You’ve even convinced him to let you flip the coin once or twice, a rare display of vulnerability that leaves Harvey quietly amazed.

- Harvey loves that you don’t pity him or try to change him. You see the man he was, the villain he’s become, and everything in between, and you accept it all. Your background as a psychologist gives you the tools to navigate his complexities, but it’s your unwavering loyalty that makes you indispensable to him.

Edward Nygma aka. The Riddler

- Edward Nygma couldn’t resist testing you when he learned of your background as a psychologist. “A mind-reader, are we?” he’d sneer, throwing riddles your way to see if you were as clever as he hoped. When you solved his puzzles with ease, his skepticism turned to fascination. You were a challenge, and he loved every second of it.

- Your relationship with Edward revolves around intellect. He thrives on your ability to keep up with him, often dragging you into his elaborate schemes just to see how you’ll react. Your psychological training gives you a unique edge in solving his riddles, something he alternately admires and resents.

- Edward often uses your past profession as fodder for his own ego. He’ll mockingly ask if you’re trying to analyze him, only to turn the tables and psychoanalyze you instead. Yet, there are moments when he lets his guard down, asking for your insight on his compulsions and insecurities. He values your honesty, even if it stings.

- Your shared love of puzzles and problem-solving creates a bond unlike any other. Edward delights in creating challenges specifically for you, riddles designed to test your wit and emotional intelligence. When you solve them, he’s genuinely impressed, though he’ll grumble about needing to “up his game.”

- Edward loves that you don’t see him as just a criminal or a narcissist. Your past as a psychologist allows you to see the layers beneath his arrogance—the insecurities, the need for validation, the brilliance he feels the world constantly underestimates. And in return, he gives you his loyalty, a rare gift from a man who trusts so few.

Oswald Cobblepot aka. The Penguin

- Oswald Cobblepot was immediately intrigued by your background as a psychologist. To him, it was a sign of power—not physical strength, but the ability to control and manipulate others with your mind. He saw your potential as an asset, but what he didn’t expect was how deeply he’d come to care for you.

- Your relationship with Oswald is built on mutual respect. He admires your intellect and your ability to read people, often seeking your advice on how to handle rivals or navigate the treacherous waters of Gotham’s criminal underworld. You, in turn, appreciate his cunning and his ability to turn every disadvantage into an opportunity.

- Oswald occasionally uses your past as a psychologist to his advantage, asking you to “profile” his enemies or predict their moves. While you’re happy to help, you’ve set boundaries, refusing to let your skills be used for outright manipulation. Surprisingly, he respects this, though he’ll grumble about it being “bad for business.”

- Despite his tough exterior, Oswald has moments of vulnerability that only you get to see. He trusts you to understand the pain and rejection that shaped him, the insecurities he hides behind his bravado. Your psychological insight helps you navigate these moments, offering comfort without making him feel weak.

- Oswald loves that you see him as more than just the Penguin. Your past as a psychologist allows you to understand his complexities in ways no one else does, but it’s your unwavering loyalty that truly wins his heart. With you by his side, he feels invincible—both as a crime lord and as the man he is underneath.

[writingforthe118]

Hii, can I please request Buck x fem reader where they have broken up and the whole team (and Athena with Maddie) are trying to make them up?

Thanks ❤️

I am so sorry this took so long. If you'd like a part 2, let me know!

It had been a few days since you and Buck had broken up. Every time you were around quite literally anyone you both knew, they all seemed to be scheming to get you back together. It all started when Athena offered to take you to get coffee so you could talk.

Of course why would you refuse such a friendly offer? So you accepted. While at the coffee shop however, things turned into her sort of attempting to get you and Buck back together.

"Why don't you give him another chance" she asks while sipping her coffee. "Because Athena, we're just not a good match. Nothing more to it." She raises an eyebrow at you. "Not a good match? That's a bullshit excuse if I've ever heard one."

"What do you want me to say Athena? We're just too different" you reply, sipping your coffee. "Opposites attract, don't let that dictate a relationship" Athena says. You shook your head but you were starting to think maybe she was right.

You pushed the thought away while you were hanging out with Maddie one day. You had been friends with her a bit before you even met Buck. There was no reason not to see her despite the fact that she is Buck's sister.

"Are you sure you and Buck won't give it another shot?" Maddie asks you. "I don't know anymore. You're the second person trying to meddle us back together" you say. "Me, meddling...never. But you know if you wanna talk to him I can get him over here."

"Maddie, that's not a good idea." She looks at you, "Why not?" You sigh leaning back on the couch "Because, we're not getting back together. There is no need to talk to him outside of work" She looks at you but doesn't push.

A few days later at work, you knew you'd technically have to talk with Buck. You worked together, you had to communicate. Your team eventually got called out to a fire. "Alright I want everyone paired up for this" Bobby says. You watch as everyone pairs up. Conveniently leaving you and Buck as the only two not paired up. You shoot the team a look. They all just look at you innocently, leaving you paired up with Buck.

[korkorali]

The Misogyny of It All

So a lot of Della Duck Discourse is rehashed all the time, points are made again and again, but one thing that I almost never see people defend -and conversely, see people attack all the time- is The Line.

You know what I'm talking about. The Line from Glomtales.

"Your plans, your schemes, they only lead to bad things for your family. If you want to be a part of this family, you've gotta stop."

That one.

Now, what exactly Della was trying to get across with that line is a whole other can of worms that deserves its own post (basically she -and also the writers- horribly failed her Speech check).

What we're going over here is how that mimics a certain line from the last season, said by a parental figure to a child, that gets so much less flack. That, in fact, often gets paraded around as 'an interesting twist on a character.'

"You are not family!"

I have never seen people attack this line with the same amount of vitriol as they attack Della's, which is funny when they're the exact same line.

Actually, not even that- Scrooge's is worse.

It's more direct, it's literally yelled at Webby, it doesn't even attempt to address the issue Scrooge had (Webby blaming him for what happened to Della) and instead just straight-up attacks her as a person.

Now, to be fully honest- I like this line! I do genuinely think it's an interesting route for Scrooge to take, and is quite realistic to the grumpy old bastard. It's just funny that nobody ever comes to Webby's defense the same way they do for Louie.

Because the thing is- between Webby and Louie, one of these two has genuine, canonical issues with feeling like they're not a part of the family, like they're an outsider amongst those they love the most, like they don't belong.

And it's not Louie.

It is a consistent part of Webby's characterization that she feels like she doesn't belong. This gets touched on in all three seasons (and honestly, it could be argued that it gets worse after this moment).

Conversely, that just is not a part of Louie's canonical characterization. Even in the first episode of season 2, the one where Louie gets the closest to an 'I don't belong in this family' moment, it's less 'I don't belong here' and more 'fuck me I am terrible at adventuring'. And! It gets resolved in that episode!

(Of course, there is absolutely something to be said for how it's resolved- specifically by Scrooge encouraging him to be a scheming little bastard, which then thusly becomes the thing that threatens his family the most. Which would, logically, be a pretty big blow to his self-esteem. This isn't what I'm here to discuss right now but it is genuinely interesting.)

Louie never really shows an issue with feeling like he doesn't belong in his family. He shows a disconnect with his family at times, but in canon that never really evolves into a full-blown feeling of displacement. It does get close in Glomtales, but never quite reaches it.

So it's 'interesting' (read: not interesting) that Scrooge's fuckup here gets brushed away pretty easily. A lot of the time the line just straight-up isn't addressed, and when it is, often times it's about how "Oh he apologized to Webby offscreen, obviously."

Which.

Not he did not.

I mean, let me be clear: I don't mind it when that's the answer. It works for me to just brush it away if it's not meant to be the focus...

But Scrooge almost certainly didn't apologize for it.

As 'New Gods on the Block!' Showed us, Scrooge is downright awful at realizing when his actions have hurt people.

More likely than not, Scrooge would just assume that everything is fine and would avoid bringing it up at all costs because he'd feel awkward about it. Because he is, very importantly, not good at talking about things he doesn't want to talk about.

So why is it that Louie is always the one feeling like he doesn't belong? Why is it Della who is always a terrible parent for what she's said? Why are Webby's feelings of disconnect never really given the same gravity as Louie's? Why is Scrooge's blunder let off the hook super easily?

It just feels silly to me.

And, well.

Kinda like the fact that, since Scrooge is a guy and Webby's a girl, and Della is a woman and Louie's a boy, has something to do with it.

I'll happily give the benefit of the doubt and assume it's not deliberate, but quite frankly it is a double standard.

I think that people would be less upset with the Della Duck Discourse if Scrooge was held in a similarly critical position over what he's said and done. If it was acknowledged that Della isn't uniquely awful in what she says and does, and that a lot of the others have fucked up in extremely similar ways.

(I mean for fuck's sake, everybody goes on and on about how Della left her kids for ten years -which, for the record, wasn't what she wanted to do- but nobody ever criticizes Donald for taking the kids away from their family and never talking to them about Della- which is something he actively and deliberately chose to do)

TL;DR: The fact that Della gets intensely criticized for what she's said and done, but Donald and Scrooge are conversely celebrated as 'interesting' and 'complex' for what they've said and done, even when it brings harm to the kids, is a blatant double-standard. And if you don't think that this double-standard is bad or wrong for existing (or even that it Doesn't Actually Exist), instead of immediately claiming that it's a non-issue, maybe try to look inward and figure out why you really think that is.

[hellfirenacht]

C'mon, It's Just One Night (Part 1)

Summary: After getting a fake love note in your locker, you ask Eddie to help you mess up some bullies plans. 

Tags: Eddie Munson x Reader, smut later, fem reader, reader wears a dress at one point, mentions of bullying, actual bullying, three-shot

Master List

Work Count: 3.7k Words

You ain't seen nothing yet....

The thing that always confused you about jocks and popular kids was that they always assumed that everyone else was dumber than them. Girls would come up to you and give you a compliment that was clearly not sincere and when you thanked them just to get them to leave you alone they would giggle and think that you believed them. Guys would ask you on dates as a joke and you’d roll your eyes and try to ignore them, even as they tried desperately for your attention for their own amusement. 

Thankfully, there were certain perks that came with being in the Hellfire Club. Being associated with Eddie “the Freak” Munson meant that as long as you were standing near your friend, you’d mostly be left alone. You’d sit with him at lunch, try and walk with him to class in the hallways, and in general just tried to avoid any jock that looked particularly bored. 

However it had been quiet over the past few weeks, too quiet for your liking. Honestly, you were almost missing some of the backhanded compliments because it at least gave you a chance to blow off some steam outside of Hellfire. Well, something out there heard your wish and that’s how you found yourself watching from the other end of the hallway as two boys shoved a note in your locker, snickering to themselves. 

Well, this should be entertaining at least. 

They didn’t even try and look around to see if anyone was watching them, too caught up in their own scheme to realize the person who’s locker they were messing with was watching them from just a few yards away. 

“-’s gonna be so funny.” laughed one. You didn’t even know their names. There were so many people at this school that how were you expected to keep up with everyone when you didn’t even speak to them?

“Yeah, she’s gonna be embarrassed and we’ll get a free show out of it.” laughed the other one. 

You were right there. How was it that you could be on their radar for this shit and yet still remain completely invisible? 

The two turned around and you pretended to be throwing something away in a nearby trash can quickly, so that they wouldn’t realize that you had been staring at them. 

“There she is, we gotta go!” you heard one say in a voice that you assumed was his idea of whispering as the two scampered off while trying to hold off their laughter. 

You gave them a generous thirty seconds to get away before making your way to your locker and opening it up, grabbing the note and reading it over. It took everything you had not to burst out laughing right there, and you were just going to throw it away when you had an idea. 

Tucking it into your pocket, you smiled and made your way to the drama room for Hellfire as you started making your own plans for what you’d just read. 

“And with the Dwarf’s golden pick rightfully returned to him, I think this is a good stopping point.” Eddie said, finally sitting back in his chair. He’d been really revved up today, jumping around the table and getting in everyone’s faces as he described what was happening. He’d nearly rammed his head into yours at one point and you had barely managed to lean back enough so he didn’t. 

Eddie was always revved up, always ready to put on a show. He wasn’t afraid to be loud or call out the bullshit of what was expected. Eddie would jump on tables, get in people's faces, declare himself King Freak. 

He was perfect. 

...For your plan. Nothing more. You knew he’d be on board when you explained what you wanted to do. He was perfect for... that. 

As the rest of the club filed out, you stayed behind to help clean up the leftover soda cans and break down the board. You were also stalling because you didn’t want any of the other members to witness what you were about to ask of Eddie. 

“Your Scottish accent is getting better and worse at the same time.” you said, handing him one of the minis. “Sometimes you nail it, and sometimes I don’t think you’re even trying to say anything legible.” 

“It’s better than your character's accent! Is your tiefling from New Jersey or trans-atlantic?” Eddie laughed, shoving his notes unceremoniously in a folder. 

“Why do Dwarves need to be Scottish anyway?” you ignored his question, fully aware that your accents were no better. “I think you should mix it up. Make Canadian dwarves or something.”

This is how Hellfire usually ended, with the two of you joking around and talking about the session and making fun of each other while you tried to get hints about what was to come. He never gave anything away. 

You blew out a few candles and Eddie went to readjust the lights. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the note. 

“So, Eddie.” you started, turning to him. “Remember how last month I helped you study for Mrs. O’Donnel’s midterm and you got a solid B?”

Eddie’s brow furrowed and he stopped what he was doing to look at you. Under the multicolored spotlights he looked... you never had the words to describe it. He just looked like Eddie. The Eddie that should be playing guitar on stage or the Eddie that kept your attention so easily and rapturously when he was running his games. You weren’t ready to say that to his face yet, despite the contradiction of what you were about to do. 

“I remember.” he said, walking over to you and crossing his arms. “I take it you aren’t just bringing up a fond memory of us to reminisce about?”

“Not a chance.” you looked into his brown doe eyes. “It’s time for you to pay up.” And with that you handed over the note. 

Eddie took it with a slight tilt of his head and unfolded it, scanning the contents. 

My Dearest, 

I’ve been watching you for weeks now, enraptored by your beauty. I’ve been too shy to talk to you, but now I want the chance to confess to you. I’m in love with you, and have been all year. I don’t care if everyone thinks you’re some weird Satanist freak because I’m into that. Please be my date for homecoming and meet me at the school at 7:30 pm.

-Your secret admirer  

“It’s not really a secret if you’re handing this directly to my face.” Eddie said, looking up from the note. “And you spelled ‘enraptured’ wrong.” 

“I found this in my locker.” you said, ignoring his comments. “Some jocks think they’re being funny and are clearly trying to pull some sort of prank to humiliate me.” 

“Think it’s a Carrie situation?” Eddie asked, looking over the note again before handing it back to you. 

“They don’t have the guts to get any pig's blood.” you shook your head. 

“So what does this have to do with me? You know that Hellfire doesn’t do school dances.” He said. “I thought we were just gonna blow it off, and Corroded Coffin is gonna do a secret show at the Quarry.”

“Eddie, all your shows are secret.”

“Not true, we have recently gained another groupie. There are now a grand total of six drunks that regularly listen to us play.” Eddie pouted. “Six and a half if you count the cat that’s been hanging around the Hideout.” 

“Yeah, okay, remember me when you’re famous.” You said. “Listen, I need your help. I’m coming to you wanting to cash in my favor. I need the Freak to help me out here, Eddie.”

“For what, exactly?” His eyes narrowed, but you stood your ground. 

“If I show up to homecoming, something's gonna happen. The best case scenario is that I show up and they ignore me and laugh while I wait for this fake person to show up. The worst case scenario ends with pigs blood and me learning I have telekinetic powers.” You explained. 

“So why even bother going? I thought we all agreed that Hellfire doesn’t do school events.” 

That was a good point, and you were making a gamble on this. Eddie didn’t do school events, and tried to make it a rule for his club as well. That didn’t go over well when Mike insisted that he was going to take his girlfriend Jane to homecoming, and everyone finally came clean that Lucas was playing both sides of the field and playing basketball AND doing Hellfire. 

You had to admit, Eddie’s face of disappointment and disapproval was pretty funny. You felt bad for the guy though, he avoided anything school related like the plague outside of this club. Eddie had boasted that he’d never gone to prom or homecoming, and had been skipping any pep rally since his second senior year. 

“You agreed that you didn’t go to events. I never agreed to anything.” you said firmly. “I only agreed to show up every Friday and wear the Hellfire shirt.”

“And again I ask, what does this have to do with me?” Eddie pushed. 

“Be my date for homecoming.” you said. “My fake date. I want you to get to me before they have the chance to.”

Eddie froze for a second, a thousand emotions flashing through his eyes at once. You’d seen this look countless times when one of his players had thrown him a curve-ball and he had to scramble to figure out how to make it work for the game. 

“Your fake date.” he said slowly. “So you want me to- what exactly?” 

“I want you to show up and pretend to be the person who wrote this note.” you explained. “I’ll pretend to be thrilled, you get to be seen with a cute girl at a dance, the gossip train gets something to talk about, and the jocks get their plans foiled. Everybody wins.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes at your plan. “Or you could just not show up at all and just come help us set up for the show.” He said. 

“But that’s not fun.” You pointed out. “Besides, if they think we’re together even just for the night then they’ll leave me alone. Probably”

Eddie looked skeptical. 

“Please?” you leaned closer, making your eyes wide as possible. “Eddie, these dicks have been on my ass all semester. I can’t go two weeks without getting asked out as a joke or having some meat head yell about how his “friend thinks I’m cute”. It’s fucking annoying, and ignoring them has done jack and shit.” 

You saw the stone look in his eyes falter and his shoulders ease up. “You’re really serious about this?” he asked. 

“I am.” you confirmed. “You do this for me, and you can have full creative control. Show up in your Hellfire shirt, hell you could show up in your pjs and I’ll pretend to be thrilled that you’re my secret admirer. We’ll make sure that we’re seen, then we can go to the quarry. We don’t even have to stay for fifteen minutes. Just show up for me, Eddie. Please.” 

Eddie took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his hands. “Fifteen minutes. All I have to do is show up and pretend that I’m your secret admirer and then we leave. Right?”

“Right.” You promised. “That’s all I need.”

Eddie sighed deeply and grabbed his jacket and threw it on. “I am never asking for your help studying again. You drive a hard bargain.” Despite his words he had a grin on his face. 

“I’m going easy on you, if you had gotten an A I’d be demanding that you show up in a full tux with roses.” you teased. “I’m talking about the full cheesy school dance treatment. Corsage, first dance, all of it.”

“Don’t even start, you’d have to get me to completely ace her whole class to get that kind of treatment.” Eddie grabbed your shoulder and started pushing you up the stairs. “I wouldn’t even know where to get a tux.” 

“I think you’re supposed to rent one.” you laughed as the two of you made your way out of the drama room and closed the door. “I, however, will need to actually buy my dress.”

“You’re really gonna get a dress for this? We’re only going for fifteen minutes.” Eddie pointed out. 

“Oh, would you rather me show up looking terrible?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “You really wanna show up and fake-confess to me looking plain and like I don’t care?”

“You really want to sell this, huh?” Eddie laughed. 

“It’s the only way I can think of for them to stop.” You said. 

The two of you made your way to the parking lot. Eddie walking you to your car. 

“Remember Eddie, you have full creative control over how you want to do this.” you said, getting in the driver's seat. “I don’t care how you show up, just go loud.”

“Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson would never disappoint.” he said, closing the door for you with a flourish.

You were going to get a dress for this. 

No, you weren’t, you were only going to be there for fifteen minutes at most. 

But your mom would want to take pictures and be thrilled you were even going. After all, you’d avoided it during your first four years of high school. 

And you wanted to. 

That was the real kick in the pants for all this. You wanted to go to homecoming. You wanted to have a night to dress up and look nice and have fun with your friends. Unfortunately, only the freshmen were going to the dance, and as much as you loved Mike, Lucas, and Dustin, you didn’t really think you’d have a lot of fun with some kids a good five years younger than you. Hell, Mike and Lucas had actual dates and Dustin had a long distance girlfriend! 

You’d be the single person in the group and that didn’t exactly put points in your favor for sticking around for the dance. The rest of Hellfire didn’t bother going to these kinds of things, as this town made it clear that school events were for normal people who enjoyed normal things, whatever the fuck that meant. 

As much as you denied ever wanting to go to homecoming or prom, you knew that you wanted to, and you knew who you wanted to go with. 

On the bright side, at least you’d get your secret wish now, even if it was for fifteen minutes. 

Eddie had made it clear since the first time the words “school dance” were uttered in his presence a few years ago that he wasn’t going to even entertain the idea of showing up. Those nights were dedicated to one shots or longer sessions for Hellfire. So for the past few years you had skipped out on any dances in favor of at least telling your beat up journal that you had technically spent prom or homecoming with Eddie Munson. 

You walked into the department store that you knew had a sizable selection of dresses, took one look at the price tags, and walked right back out. It was insane to spend that money on one night of dancing, let alone fifteen minutes. 

Besides, where else would you even wear a dress like that? You laughed at the idea of showing up to Hellfire, with your shirt on over whatever you would have picked. That’d be stupid. 

....

But it’d also be funny. 

You walked back into the department store and ignored the front and center mannequins to hit up the clearance rack instead. Even as you browsed, you were still trying to convince yourself that you didn’t need to buy something for this. Eddie was probably just going to show up in his old faded DIO shirt and some old jeans (maybe the ones that had that hole in the butt that showed his boxers when you stood behind him, if you were lucky). He probably wouldn’t even brush his hair. 

You had a choice to make. How much of an effort did you want to put into your appearance for this? Should you follow Eddie’s approach and just show up as normal, or should you allow yourself an indulgence in the Cinderella fantasy? What did you want, and what did this revenge situation call for?

You wanted to look nice. You wanted to tell your journal that you had a date with Eddie and that you looked good and that those asshole jocks didn’t even recognize you. Wouldn’t it be better that way anyway? No matter what Eddie looked like when he showed up, the point would be made clear; you were off the market (as far as anyone would be able to tell) and Eddie Munson had gotten the girl. No, not the girl; a girl. Being the girl implied that you were someone that Eddie had an interest in. 

Dresses of different lengths and cuts and colors started to blend together as you indulged in the fantasy of matching your dress to whatever Eddie was going to wear. You flipped through the dress rack while you mentally flipped through all the shirts you had seen Eddie wear in the last few weeks. He favored darker colors most times, the main exception being the white Hellfire Club shirt. 

“Dark clothes don’t stain as easily.” he’d explained before. 

You kept flipping through the racks of last seasons’ fashion, trying to find something that you could wear. Halfway through you considered giving up and just showing up in what you would have worn to the quarry if you hadn’t planned this whole thing. 

You need to commit to the bit. You reminded yourself. These jocks are expecting you to look pretty and then try to embarrass you. Don’t half ass it.

Sucking it up, you made your way over to the normal racks. Your mom had given you some cash to buy yourself a nice dress, but you had been hoping to just buy something cheaper and save the rest to buy off of Eddie later. 

You walked out of the store, bag in hand, with a receipt showing a number that made you feel sick. You reminded yourself over and over it was for you, Eddie, and your mom. 

“Are you sure you have the charisma for this?” Gareth asked. “You always roll shit with any charisma roll.”

“Gareth, I don’t know if you know this, but rolling a die and saying that I’m trying to do something is different than actually doing it outside of the game.” you said as the two of you made your way into the Library. You had it on good authority that this was the jocks study hall period, and you wanted to really sell your plan. 

“I still don’t get why I have to be part of this. I’m not even going to homecoming either.” He grumbled. “This whole thing is stupid. You should just come to the show instead.” 

“I can do both.” you waved him off. “All I need you to do is let me talk at you-”

“You do that anyway.”

“Yes, but this time I need you to pretend to be invested.” You explained. “You let me talk about how excited I am for homecoming and to meet my secret admirer and I use my powers of being able to leave school during lunch to bring you McDonald’s tomorrow.” 

Gareth couldn’t argue with that, no teenage boy could resist the sweet temptation of greasy fast food in the middle of the school day. It was more than a fair trade, even if Gareth didn’t see the point in this. You just really wanted to sell your plan. 

“Remember, all you need to do is ask me who I’m going to Homecoming with.” you reminded him. 

The two of you walked over to where the group of basketball players were goofing off and not really studying, and the two who had slid the note into your locker started nudging each other and snickering to themselves. 

“So who are you going to homecoming with?” Gareth asked, his line delivery stiff and unnatural and disinterested. You had to fight with yourself to not roll your eyes at the lackluster performance. 

“I don’t know!” your voice was a little higher pitched at the response, trying to emulate the cheerleaders you’d seen giggling in their groups as they gossiped. You pulled the note that you had been keeping in your pocket. “I got this note asking me to meet them at the dance, so I have no idea!”

You continued to gush to the disinterested Gareth how excited you were to be asked to go, and speculating on who it could be. The entire time, your friend looked like he’d rather be smashing his head against the table than listen to you talk about this, which was honestly more fun for you than the jocks reactions. 

From the table behind you, the normally loud group of boys were attempting to be quiet as they snickered and nudged each other. You wished that Gareth would try and talk a little more so that you could stop talking to eavesdrop on them. 

When the jocks started getting louder again, that’s when you dropped the conversation. They weren’t interested in hearing anymore and so you weren’t either. 

“So what was the point of that?” Gareth muttered, making his way to the exit of the library. 

“I don’t want them to forget about me. If I’m gonna be completely honest, I really just expected them to totally forget they left something in my locker about this.” you adjusted your backpack, following him out. “I’m committed to the bit.”

“Sounds like you’re just asking for trouble.” He shook his head. 

“Maybe a little.” you sighed. “Eddie and I are graduating this year and I don’t want to look back at my time here and think that I just took the bullshit that was given to me. I just want them to get off my ass for the rest of the year.” 

“Do you really think it’ll work?” 

“Only one way to find out.” 

Part 2 It's Gonna Be A Night We'll Never Forget (Coming Soon)

Dividers By: @strangergraphics

Tag List: @somethingvicked @ladysilence @leelei1980 @seexyyprincess @rosebudsgarden @ghcstpyre @crocwork-clockodile

[xo-hoon]

an eye for an eye — p.sh

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: revenge, angst, smut, fluff

synopsis: Sunghoon nurtured a profound animosity towards his childhood friend, Lee Heeseung, blaming him for his sister's death. To Sunghoon, his sister was the only person who had genuinely loved him, making Heeseung's perceived betrayal unforgivable. This deep resentment sparked an intense desire for revenge, driving Sunghoon to extreme measures to achieve it. But to what extent would he go to find satisfaction in his vengeance against Lee Heeseung? Would his plans unfold smoothly, or would everything take an unexpected turn, throwing his schemes into something he didn’t expect.

word count: 4.2k

warnings: swearing, kidnapping (kinda), possessive hoon, mentions of death, fake marriage, depression, fist fighting, minor bleeding, hoon has detachment issues. (typographical errors)

an eye for an eye: last part - masterlist

Sunghoon woke up with the feeling of his wife’s figure laying on his chest. You really looked angelic while sleeping.

He couldn’t help but to stroke your cheek and feel the softness of your lips. He wished to see this sight every morning for the rest of his life. That way, even if it was cloudy outside, he’d always wake up with his own brand of sunshine. He wrapped you in his arms and basked in your warmth. He vowed to never let you slip away from him.

He would do everything to tie you to him forever. And for that to happen, he needed to take action.

He gave you a tender kiss on the forehead before getting up to take a shower and prepare himself for the day. Upon leaving the room, he went straight to the garden where he suspected his father was.

“Dad,” He called. From his newspaper, her father glanced up at him.

“Good morning, son. Sit down. Do you need anything?” Sunghoon sat down in front of him.

“I’m thinking of taking my wife on a belated honeymoon trip.”

His forehead creased. “Where are you planning on going?”

“Japan. I also wanted to visit Grandma and Grandpa.” They had never been close to him, but they knew your family. “I’d be grateful if your secretary could arrange everything for me and my wife.”

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. “Why does this seem sudden? What about the farm? I’m getting old, Sunghoon. I can’t manage everything anymore.”

“We have good people here, Dad. They are all hardworking and trustworthy. My manager could take over, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” His father fell silent for a moment, deep in thought over what he had just said. “Alright, I understand. When are you going back home?”

Sunghoon shrugged. “I don’t know. As long as possible?” His father’s lips twitched and his eyes filled with profound curiosity.

“Why do I feel like you’re planning to live there? Is there a problem, Sunghoon?”

Yes, there is. Sunghoon laughed. “Nothing, Dad. Anyway, we can’t stay there for long. I just wanted a little vacation with my wife.” He leaned back and looked at his father intently.

“Fine. But make sure to call here often. I’ll get my secretary to arrange everything. I’ll also have him come here to get both your passports.”

“Okay, Dad. Thank you.” He said and stood up after bidding farewell. Sunghoon breathed a sigh of relief. His father agreed. And hopefully, everything would go as smoothly as this.

—

You’ve noticed that your husband has been exceptionally busy these past few days. You already knew he was hard working, workaholic, even. But it’s quite different these days as if he’s constantly chasing after something. Today, he left with his father because they said they had someone to talk to.

You glanced at the oven timer, signaling that the cream cheese garlic bread you made is cooked. Once you checked and saw that they were golden brown, you grabbed the mittens to take the baking tray out.

“Wow, that looks delicious, Y/n.” Aunt Chul said as she just entered the kitchen. You smiled at her.

“I won’t be modest, Auntie. It is really delicious.” You giggled, placing the tray on the table. She chuckled.

“Really? Let me have a taste then.”

“Sure! But let’s wait for it to cool down for a bit,” You said as you removed the mittens and took the tongs to carefully transfer the bread onto the basket lined with wax paper.

“Oh! I’ll make us something to drink, Dear. What would you like?”

“I’ll have some green tea, please.” You requested.

“Sure, just a moment.” She began boiling the water and fetched the cups while you were arranging the bread in the basket, making it look presentable. Shortly after, you and the woman enjoyed the bread and tea together.

“This is so good, Dear!” Aunt Chul happily commented after the first bite. You nodded in agreement.

“Yes, it really is. I wonder who made it?”

The woman chuckled lightly. “No joke, Dear. It really is delicious. The cream cheese garlic bread I’ve had before didn’t taste like this. Sunghoon is really lucky to have someone like you, Dear. I hope you know that.” You were speechless at her words.

“I remember, Sohyun and Sunghoon used to love eating you baked good back then. They were the ones tasting and critiquing your creations.” Your smile faded as you recalled the past.

“I felt that they grew tired of tasting my breads back then. Especially Sunghoon.” You whispered softly.

“Oh, Dear! I doubt that,” The woman said with a chuckle and shook he head. “Didn’t Sunghoon always insist on tasting even the burnt ones?”

Yes, you could vividly remember that. Every batch you baked, whether perfectly made or not, Sunghoon always tasted them. He would praise them if they were delicious and cheer you on to do better next time if they weren’t. He was always there for you, ready to make you smile and feel good. He was your everything backthen. While you couldn’t do anything for him. You sighed.

“Yes, he’s a good guy…” You said softly just above whisper.

“What was that, dear?” The elderly woman asked. You glanced at her and gave a small smile.

“Nothing, Auntie.”

She took another bite of the bread and savored it like a child. “This is really delicious, Dear. I’ll miss this when you’re in Japan.”

You paused mid-bite upon hearing her words. “What? Japan?” You asked, confused.

“Yes, Japan. Didn’t Sunghoon tell you? You’re leaving tomorrow to go to Japan. Your husband has already arranged for your things to be packed,” She explained. Your jaw might have dropped at Aunt Chul’s news. Japan? Leaving? Tomorrow? You had no idea of what she was talking about. You felt your phone vibrating in your pocket.

“Heeseung…” You murmured as you saw the registered number. Quickly excusing yourself from Aunt Chul, you hurried upstairs to your room to answer the call.

“Heeseung?”

“What’s this I hear about you and Sunghoon leaving?”

He asked sternly. You paced back and forth in the room, feeling like a cat about to give birth, anxious and unsettled.

“I don’t know! Aunt Chul just mentioned it to me just now. I had no idea. Sunghoon hasn’t said anything about us leaving.”

You stopped in your tracks and pulled at your hair, feeling frustrated. What was he thinking?

“He’s freaking insane! You need to come home now, Y/n. We need to talk about this,”

He insisted.

“But—”

“If you won’t come here, I’ll come there.”

He said sharply. You took a deep breath.

“Okay, I’ll be there in an hour.”

You quickly left the mansion, being careful not to be seen by anyone. You also didn’t ask the driver to take you to avoid anyone from knowing where you were going. Upon arriving at your house, Heeseung form immediately greeted you. His face was serious.

“Let’s talk inside.” He said, leading the way.

—

Sunghoon and his father was greeted by Aunt Chul once they entered the mansion. “Would you like to two like to have snacks or rest first?” She asked.

“I’ll rest for a bit. I’ll come down later for dinner,” Mr. Park replied, heading up to his room.

“And you, son?” The woman turned to him. Sunghoon smiled at her.

“I’ll go rest first, Auntie.”

“Is that so? Y/n baked cream cheese garlic bread,” She added making him chuckle at her obvious teasing.

“I’ll go see her first, Auntie,” He replied.

“Oh, yes. That’s right.” She quickly agreed. “Go on, she’s in your room. She went up there after we ate earlier.” She gently nudged him.

“Hurry up now.” He chuckled at the woman’s gesture. He was near the stairs when she called him.

“I’m glad you hear your laughter again, son.” She said sincerely. He smiled back at her.

“Me too, Auntie.”

He went up to their room. However. It was dark inside, and you weren’t there. The windows were open, and the curtains swayed gently with the breeze. He wondered and checked the bathroom as well, but you weren’t there either. He went downstairs to find Aunt Chul.

“Auntie, have you seen Y/n?” He asked. She furrowed her brow.

“Isn’t she in your room?” He shook his head. “No.”

“Well, I just came from the garden, she wasn’t there either. Did you check the study? Other rooms?”

“Not yet,” He sighed. “Wait, maybe she went to her brother? Your wife had someone calling her from her phone earlier.”

Your phone? He recalled Heeseung visiting the bakery. He felt knot in his stomach. The fear he felt when he woke up and found the woman was not by his side returned.

“I’ll be out for a while,” He said and rushed to his car, got in, and drove away.

—

“I have talked to a friend who’s willing to lend us the money we need. If you’re still worried about that bastard’s check, I’ll go top the bank tomorrow and—”

“It’s not that simple, Hee,” You whispered. You were both on the sofa in your living room, having a serious conversation. You felt a chill at what your brother wanted to happen.

“What do you mean?” You sighed and looked straight at him. “Do you think Sunghoon would just agree to that?” He wasn’t able to respond. “He wouldn’t, Heeseung.”

Heeseung ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and leaned back on the sofa. “Then I think it would be better if you took some time away from him,” He suggested.

You shook your head. “I think it would only make things worse if I did that.”

“Then what do you think would work?” You couldn’t answer. None of your plans had worked. Reconciling the father and son. Gradually avoiding your husband. None of it happened.

“Look, y/n. I just want you safe. I don’t want you to get hurt, that’s why I’m doing this,” He said, holding your hand. “I’ll face Sunghoon myself. I’m the reason for all of this.”

You gave him a sad smile. “Liar.” He paused. “We both know who’s really at fault for all of this.”

He tightened his grip on your hand.“Y/n, I don’t want you thinking like that.”

You sighed. “Let me handle this, Hee. Let me leaver with Sunghoon to Japan, and there I’ll figure some things out.”

His eyes narrowed and he let go of your hand. “Are you seriously telling me that you’re really going with him?”

You looked down. “Honestly, I’m still hesitant about it. I’ll try to convince him later not to leave. But if he insists, maybe it’s better if I go with him for now.” You pleaded with him to understand. “I just can’t leave him.”

He stood up abruptly, clenching his fists.

“No.” It was a firm command. “You stay out of this. I’ll confront that piece of shit right now, and I’ll resolve this mess with him.”

“I’m here, Heeseung,” You and your brother almost simultaneously turned towards a cold and low voice. You gaped as you saw Sunghoon there.

He looked at you. “We’re going home, Y/n.” He was about to reach out to you but your brother’s large figure blocked his way as he stood up.

“Over my dead body.” You grabbed his arm.

“Hee, don’t start.”

“He was the one who started all of this!” Heeseung exclaimed. “And for what? Revenge? Only children would think of—” You gasped as Sunghoon lunged forward and delivered a punch at your brother’s face.

Heeseung slumped to the floor due to the impact. Your eyes widen as you saw Heeseung’s lip split open. You rushed to him and hurriedly wiped the blood from the corner of his lips. He stood up, his eyes glaring with retaliation for the punch he received from Sunghoon.

“Stop it!” You shouted, trying to intervene to break them up. When they didn’t budge, you raised your voice louder. “Enough!”

That seemed to snap them out of it, reminding them of your presence. Both men were panting heavily, and you could feel the tension thick in the air around them. You faced your brother. “We’re leaving. I’m going with him.”

He grabbed your arm. “No!”

“Please,” Your voice trembled in plea. Reluctantly, he let go and gave Sunghoon a sharp look. You called a helper and instructed them to bring a first aid kit. “Treat your wounds, Hee. Take care.” You hugged him.

You felt your husband tug on you. “Let’s go,” He whispered. He guided you out of the house towards his car. Heeseung didn’t follow, which you were thankful for. Upon reaching the car, Sunghoon spoke.

“Don’t try to run away from me like that.” He looked at you intently. He seemed to claim all the good looks in the world because even in dim light, he still looked godly… whit a bruised lip. You reached for his face.

“You have a bruise. Let’s hurry home so we can treat that,” You said.

He grasped your hand. “Answer me. Tell me you won’t run away from me.” His intense gaze made you feel like you were burning. You nodded slightly in response.

“Say it, damn it!”

“Sunghoon, I...” He held both sides of your face and gently forced you to meet his eyes.

“Is it really that hard? To be tied to me? To stay with me and remain by my side?” Your lips parted as you saw the desperation on Sunghoon’s face, as if his life depended on you staying.

“I promise I won’t hurt you. I won’t. I can’t”

“But you’re hurting my brother. And because of that, you’re also hurting me.” You don’t have the right to complain. You deserved the pain. But your brother?

He let go and sniffed the air. “Okay. You want me to stop hating on your brother? I can do that. I’ll do it for you.” He looked at you with a longing look. “You also said I should forgive my father? Fine, I’ll do that too.” You couldn’t speak. What was he trying to do to you? He reached out and held your palm, then clasped your hands.

“If I do all that, will you stay by my side? Will you promise not to leave me? Will you stay with me forever?”

“I realized that I was blinded by anger. Sohyun wouldn’t want me to blame the man she loved forever.” Joy enveloped your heart. It felt so good to hear your husband’s words. You never expected that he would be willing to do everything just to keep you by his side. That he’s finally ready to set his anger aside. But there’s one thing he didn’t know. And Sunghoon would hate you more if you keep it hidden from him much longer. You should have confessed earlier.

How will he believe you now? Even if you tell him that you love him…

Your eyes stung with tears. You shook your head. “No… You don’t understand.”

Sunghoon lifted your face with a finger, wiping your tear that traced a path down your cheek. “What do I not understand?” He asked, his voice soft yet urgent. “What is it, Y/n?”

You could only shake your head, your tears falling relentlessly. Sunghoon enveloped you in a warm embrace, offering you solace in the cold, dark night.

“Please, Y/n,” He murmured, his voice trembling with emotions. “Just promise me that you won’t run away. That we’ll always be together. That’s all I want to hear. Please.”

You continued to sob into his chest. Truth be told, you wanted the same thing—to be together forever, to be happy in each other’s arms. But that was impossible. It was never going to happen. You sniffled and gathered all your courage. Gently, you pushed him away from you. You shut your eyes tightly before looking straight into his eyes.

“It wasn’t my brother’s fault that Sohyun died. It was mine.” Your throat ached, and the words seemed to resist coming out. “It was only right that I pay for what I did. So it’s not fair that you blamed Heeseung for what happened…”

You saw Sunghoon’s expression change. “What are you talking about, y/n?” This isn’t your fault.”

You stood firm You knew you had to stick to the truth, no matter how painful. “It was all my idea. It was my decision that led to Sohyun’s death. I can’t let Heeseung suffer for something he didn’t do.”

A mixed of shock and confusion crossed Sunghoon’s face. “It wasn’t Heeseung’s fault that your sister is no longer with us. It was my fault. The anniversary surprise, the candle lit dinner—” You gulped, and tears streamed down your cheeks again. “Those were all my idea.” You roughly wiped away the tears, but no matter what you did, they kept falling.

“If I hadn’t suggested all that, Sohyun would still be here. You wouldn’t be left alone. Everything would be okay.” Your chest tightened as you confessed everything to him. “Sunghoon… I… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

You could barely breathe from crying, and through it all, Sunghoon just stood there in front of you. This must be it. He must be hating you now and cursing you to death. You wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly told you to rot in hell. You turned away to head back to your house. You had your answers. You didn’t need to leave because Sunghoon wouldn’t want you anywhere with him anymore.

You calmed yourself and dried the tears to see your way, but a tight hug from behind stopped you in your tracks. The embrace was so firm, you could barely breathe. You cried even harder. Sunghoon turned you around and you buried your face in his chest.

‘I’m so sorry. I never thought it would all end in an accident.”

He comforted you. “Heeseung’s surprise for my sister was your idea. That’s all it was. You and Heeseung didn’t mean her any harm. Both of you just wanted to make her happy.” You pulled away slightly and looked up at him. There wasn’t a trace of hatred on his face.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me? Sohyun died because of me.” At that, you started crying again. He sighed and tried to calm you down.

“Weren’t you listening? To be honest, ever since you came back to in to my life, my anger had gradually disappeared. I think I used what happened as an excuse to keep you by my side. I could never hate you.”

“But—” He silenced you with a kiss.

“I’m sure my sister is happy up there. I know that because I felt like she’s watching over me from there. Sohyun never wanted me to live a miserable life.” He gently stroked your hair.

“She once told me that I should stop shutting myself from the world. And when she died, it felt like my anger was the only thing keeping me alive. Until I saw you again. You were so bright that I wanted to put everything behind me. And I remembered that my sister told me I always needed to stay in the light.” He carefully caressed your cheek. After a very long time, you saw the man you loved once again.

“And you are my light, Y/n. you’re my very own brand of sunshine. The moment I saw you again, I felt alive. You complete the happy days I once had.”

If this was a dream, you wished to be a princess who had slept for a long time. And if possible, you hoped never to wake up. If this was real, why did it seem so unbelievable? You had expected a mad beast with eyes full of hate, not a handsome prince with eyes filled with love.

Oh God. Is this real?

“Yes, Y/n. This is real.” You hadn’t realized that you voiced your question out.

“But, Sunghoon. I know how much Sohyun’s death affected you. I don’t want you to hide that from me just because you promised not to hurt me. Whatever makes you feel better—”

“It’s true that my sister’s death nearly killed me. But you…” He paused, searching for the right words.

“The thought of another person I love frightened the hell out of me. If I lose you, I know I won’t be able survive.”

You embraced him tightly. “I won’t leave you.”

“Do you really accept me as your husband, Y/n? Are you ready to be with me for always? Will you love me too?” He looked deep into your eyes.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell him that you already loved him. That you have loved him for a long time. Your gaze shifted towards your house, where you saw your brother watching the both of you. He nodded, as if giving you the encouragement to do what you truly wanted. Slowly, a smile spread across your face. You looked up to Sunghoon, who was gazing at you with complete love. Tears pooled in your eyes again, but this time, they were tears of joy.

“I love you, Park Sunghoon.” You finally managed to say. “I’ve always loved you. Even when our paths separated, that love never faded. I still love you.” Sunghoon let put a breath, his eyes closing briefly.

He hugged you tight and kissed the top of your head. “Thank you. Thank you for loving me.”

You returned the warm embrace to your husband. “I still feel guilty about Sohyun,” you sighed.

“Stop it,” He scolded you gently. “She loves us, and I know she wants us to be happy. There’s nothing to worry about now, baby.” Right. Sohyun had been a kind and loving sister top Sunghoon. She treated you like a sibling too. She genuinely loved your brother. She wouldn’t want anyone of you to be sad.

Under the moonlight, you promised to love the man you promised to be with for a lifetime with all your heart. You would give him the light he needed and all the love you could offer. You would be together for an eternity. And it would start now.

“I love you so much. Y/n.” You heard him whisper. You tightened your hug on Sunghoon even more.

“I love you.”

It was supposed to be rainy afternoon according to the weather report last night. But the weather seemed to be cooperating with them because not a single dark cloud marred the sky. You wondered how it would feel to live in a world where there was no sadness and pain; where only the warmth of love and happiness enveloped you.

Then you realized that in this world, one need all those sufferings to appreciate the beauty of life. You should face your fears and endure trials to become a better person. You smiled as you looked back and saw your husband leaning against the tree where you were taking shelter.

Sunghoon is a great example of someone consumed by darkness, yet learning to return to the colorful world. Well, all of you went through some tough times, but you believed it was Sunghoon who suffered the most. You approached him, locking eyes. You sucked in your breath. He still looked dark and powerful, but that was just because of his striking physical appearance. The dark aura that used to surround him was gone.

“We need to get going, you know?” You reminded with a smile.

He held your waist and pulled you closer to him. “I know, baby. I was just doing some reminiscing.”

“Like when you tripped here while we were chasing after Sohyun and Heeseung?” you teased him. The corners of his lips lifted in to a smile.

“Very funny.” You grinned and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

“So… Shall we go to Sohyun’s grave?” Before, his expression darkened whenever he remembered his sister, not it didn’t. He maintained a light demeanor. It was Sohyun’s death anniversary, and you planned to visit with your brother, Heeseung. The feud between the two men had been resolved.

“Yeah, I think we should go now. I want to catch Heeseung being dramatic.”

You wrinkled your nose. “How mean.” Sunghoon just grinned and kissed you quickly on the lips. You both started walking towards his car.

“You know what? My visits to my sister will be different now,” He said.

“What do you mean?”

“Before, whenever I would visit her, I always said I would seek revenge on those responsible for her loss.” He tightened his grip on your hand. “But today would be different because you’re with me, and Heeseung and I are okay. I used to visit her with a heavy heart, but this time, I would face her with a smile.”

“And she must be smiling back at you,” You said happily.

“I know.” Sunghoon stopped walking and looked at you with lovingly.

“Thank you. Thank you for being my light, y/n.” You were momentarily taken aback but quickly returned the smile to your lips.

“I always got you. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

[rei-ismyname]

Magneto retires from the Quiet Council

Inferno has just happened. Destiny returned, Moira defected, and Xavier and Chuck's secret Duumvirate has been exposed - along with their lies and schemes. Neither man is trusted and Magneto has had enough. He is moving to Arakko to retire, though he still looks incredibly attractive.

It's implied that Xavier and Mags have stopped talking, or at least aren't confiding in each other. I don't believe for a second that Chuck wouldn't take a peek, but Mags wears that helmet for a reason. Sinister is delighted, Emma is still pissed about being lied to but happy Mags is leaving, Shaw doesn't give a fuck. We don't know what Kitty thinks, but it's a safe bet she's disappointed. Exodus looks like he's clapping his hands though his facial expression is clear.

Ororo knows what's up and still has a good relationship with Mags. They'll work together on Arakko. Colossus is mind controlled so whatever he says can't be taken at face value. Kurt is probably telling Mags off while imploring him to reconsider. Maybe. The loser husbands aren't popular right now. Mystique hates them both and with good reason. Destiny, on the other hand, is observing Sinister, as EVERYONE else should be. Sinister knew this was coming because he cloned Moira, so he acts surprised. It's not very convincing, in part because Destiny throws him off his game.

Xavier appeals to his sense of responsibility and their relationship, but Mags is just done. He doesn't have the desire to continue this farce. Exodus takes it as a personal betrayal - Krakoa is the promised land to him and quitting is blasphemous. Emma is just plain suspicious, zero trust in these men. She calls a vote to deprive him of any say in his successor - opening the door and kicking him out.

She's concerned that the loser husbands have a proxy ready to go, so Mags can retain his political power on Krakoa while scheming on Arakko. It's nothing of the sort, but she's been burnt badly. The vote passes and Magneto storms out.

The Quiet Council needs to fill his seat, so they put the word out. I doubt they told everyone, it's more likely an invite only/word of mouth thing. Nobody's learnt a damn thing.

Angel pitches on competence and being good looking. Monet pitches on being a better choice than Warren. Gorgon is there. Vulcan surprisingly applied - he hates Krakoa and most of the council. His experience is mostly war crimes and atrocities. Brand wants power to achieve her accelerationist goals and Beast, I don't know. He's not popular right now, though he has a PowerPoint presentation. The council doesn't even wait until he leaves the room before talking smack about him.

Then there's Selene, one of the worst people on the island. Top ten, easily. She actually has a great pitch and points out what the council lacks - a magic expert. She's so very right and they should have listened to her, just not let her anywhere near the council.

Hope agrees with me, and puts herself forward instead. She's the first person to actually pitch on representative government. The Five are the foundation Krakoa is built on but they're not 💯 with the decisions being made. They want a voice. A big reason the Quiet Council sucks is that it isn't representative or accountable. Hope's pitch could be the start of reformation. It won't be, but it could have.

Turns out this was Exodus' idea, stoking the dissatisfaction that was already there. We don't hear his reasons directly, and his faith is surely a factor, but it's implied he made the representation argument and pointed out the degree of influence she has. It's rare to see him counting votes and politicking outside the council chamber, but it's a sign he takes his job seriously.

Turns out he made a deal with the Hellfire voting bloc and Destiny/Mystique are indebted for resurrecting the former. The motion has enough backers to go to a vote immediately, with Sinister smugly calling how it's going to go. Taking time to deliberate would have been clever, but it's comic books. There's always tragedy in rushing making important decisions.

Sinister is right about everyone except Destiny and himself. When he votes no, Destiny does the same, which throws him for a loop. Destiny is playing her own game - saving all of reality. She knows they must be on the same side, but she also likes fucking with him. Sinister panics and changes his vote to ensure Hope sits on the council. It's very unsubtle, and he'll fuck everything up, but these idiots should have erased him from existence by now.

With that, Magneto is out and Hope is in. Selene is not happy, but she'll get her turn on the council only to sell it to ORCHIS. She's awful. Mags will be missed, but he has some hearty adventures on Arakko.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Office smut where reader is Rafe's assistant and they both work at cameron developpement

I've never been a fan of these assistant/boss dynamics, but it fits for Rafe so I gave it a try...and it ended up being 2.5k

Warnings: 18+, fingering, unprotected p + v,

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Never in your life did you imagine yourself pursuing a career in real estate, but when an opportunity to work as a personal assistant at Cameron Development practically fell into your lap, you hadn’t been able to decline. 

It was a sunny day on the golf course with your father, enjoying some quality father-daughter time before the end of summer. As you both played a round, you came across one of his golf buddies — Ward Cameron. You vaguely remembered the man, having played with his kids a few times when you were little. Sarah was the one you remembered the most, she had blond hair and always talked about turtles.

Small talk flowed between your father and Mr. Cameron as they caught up on each other's lives. Then, your college studies came into the conversation. You had graduated college this spring, but hadn’t found any jobs in your field yet. Fortunately for you, Mr. Cameron informed you that there were a few jobs available at Cameron Developpement. 

You weren’t interested in real estate, but working for a well reputed company could do no wrong to your curriculum vitae. So you accepted the offer, not knowing that you would be working for his son, Rafe, as his personal assistant. 

You knocked on the door at the end of the hallway, announcing your presence. ‘’You wanted to see me, Mr. Cameron?’’ 

He looked up from the stack of documents neatly placed before him on his desk and your breath caught in your throat. Fuck me. It was a good thing you had put on lipgloss and a nice pair of heels instead of loafers because Rafe Cameron was a fine man. He looked right out of a smutty romance novel with his crisp button up and a navy blue suit jacket that brought out the color of his eyes. 

‘’Yes,’’ he replied, flashing you a polite and effortlessly charming smile. ‘’First, I wanted to meet my new assistant before I hand off the work I'd rather not deal with. My father was insistent about getting me a personal assistant, but I'm actually glad he hired you.’’ His eyes followed down your body in the most subtle way, taking note of how well your skirt was hugging your hips and anticipating the even better view when he’ll watch you go.  

‘’I’m glad I took the job too. Hopefully I won’t disappoint you,’’ you responded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips, trying to hide everything you were feeling right now.

‘’I’m sure you won’t,’’ Rafe assured, his voice carrying a trace of amusement. ‘’Secondly, I was reviewing some paperwork, and it has come to my attention that Mr. Gilbert has not remitted his payment for the condo he recently bought. Can you give him a call and ask for payment? If he refuses to forward us the money before 4pm, we’ll cancel the sale agreement and find another prospective buyer.’’

You nodded in acknowledgment. 

Calling Mr. Gilbert. That should be easy for your first task. 

‘’Anything else?’’ 

Rafe shook his head. ‘’Not for the moment. You may leave.’’ 

‘’Well, Mr. Cameron.’’ 

His eyes lingered for a second, a hint of something more as he watched you turn to leave, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

Over the span of a few weeks, professional exchanges gradually morphed into something outside of your assigned tasks. You were still bringing him coffee whenever he asked and answering emails, but specks of flirting now laced your conversation and soon evolved with lingering glances to your chest while going over some work related paperwork. 

Once in a while, he would call you into his office and scheme excuses just to look at you. 

It wasn’t until that argument with his father that he — finally — made a move on you. 

You came to work early that day and, on your way to your office, you had heard Mr. Cameron shout at his son for a mistake he had made concerning the company and how it was going to make a big dent in their finances to fix it. To respect their privacy and not wanting them to think you were eavesdropping, you quickly went to your workspace and started your work. 

When Rafe came out of his father’s office, he saw you sitting at your desk. His chest was heaving with the intensity of the encounter, a storm brewing in his expression. You heard his office door close and, a few seconds later, an email popped on your screen.

My office. Now.

You thought he needed something, but when you stepped in, Rafe was waiting by the door and crashed his mouth on yours, giving in to the desires he’s been pushing aside since you walked in his office on your first day. 

A small gasp left your lips, not expecting to be kissed by your boss on a Thursday morning. A cloud of confusion fogged your brain and you broke the kiss, trying to fight the invisible string pulling you to him. 

Rafe's gaze lowered down yours, a complex blend of frustration and longing evident in his eyes.

The reason why he had never made a move on you before stemmed from a promise to his father, who had made him promise to not fool around with the personnel if he wanted to be part of Cameron Developpement. It hadn't been too difficult until now, the employees being mostly women in their thirties and up. Then, you came around and Rafe had to use a lot of self-control to not charm his way into your panties. To further complicate the situation, you were responsive to his advances and flirting. 

However, after a heated exchange with his father, Rafe was in the mood to piss him off, so to hell with his stupid rules.

‘’Can I trust you that this stays between us?’’ His hands roamed across your sides, down your body, feeling what he had been staring at these past weeks.  

‘’I never kiss and tell.’’ 

Rafe's thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, removing a smudge of lipstick. ‘’Good girl.’’

The way he said it went straight to your core, waking an ache between your legs. How could a voice have such a strong effect? 

Your eyes traveled to the clock on the wall. Agnes, one of the secretaries, should arrive in twenty minutes. You knew her routine because her desk was right by the hallway leading to Rafe’s office. You also knew that she visited him every morning after checking her emails.

Your thoughts were interrupted when Rafe’s mouth found its way back on yours, his tongue slipping between your lips and he pulled you closer to him, pressing his body against yours as his other hand traveled down your legs, to the hem of your tight skirt. He caressed and grabbed one of your ass cheeks, groaning at the feeling. 

Wasting no time getting undressed, Rafe hiked your skirt up, eliciting a small gasp as cool air hit your skin. ‘’Can you be quiet for me?’’ he asked, pressing against you and letting you feel the length of his hard cock against your thigh. ‘’The walls are thin and Agnes is gonna get here soon. We don’t want her to hear us, do we?’’ 

You shook your head. ‘’Are you gonna fuck me, Mr. Cameron?’’ 

Aside from one mishap, you and Rafe successfully kept your secret business from the other employees. If the whispers of your unprofessional doings in his office were to get to his father, you would both be in a lot of trouble. 

 ‘’I have Anthony Gilbert from the construction company on the first line. He has some questions about the new condos,’’ you informed Rafe after he returned from an afternoon meeting, his tie slightly loosened.  

A sigh left his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, visibly tired. ‘’Transfer him to my secretary.’’  

You shifted on your heels, sensing Rafe didn’t want to speak to this man. ‘’He asked to speak to you specifically.’’ 

‘’Well, we can’t always get what we want,’’ he pressed. ‘’Agnes will take care of it,’’ Rafe repeated, his tone final. 

You nodded. ‘’Yes, Mr. Cameron.’’ 

‘’Now, would you please close the door? There’s a document I would like to go over with you.’’ 

A document. You held a snicker and shut the door as requested. 

Once you turned the lock, Rafe patted his lap and you walked around his desk. He watched you with hungry eyes, impatient to get his hands all over you. Get his cock inside you. 

‘’Looking good today, babydoll. Is this new?’’ he asked, running his thumb over the neckline of your wrap dress as you seated yourself on his lap, careful to not rub the sole of your heels on his pants and leave a mark. 

You hummed in response, leaning forward to expose more of your chest. ‘’Do you like it?’’

Rafe let his hand glide down, following the cut of the dress, until he reached the tie to undo it. He pulled until the knot came off, revealing your bra — a soft pink lace number that did not much other than looking pretty. A shudder left your lips as his hand cupped your breast through your bra, his thumb brushing over where he knew your nipple was. 

‘’Very.’’ 

You carded your fingers as he mouthed at your chest and neck, careful to leave no marks behind. A sigh left your lips, wishing he would pull your bra down and just take suck on your nipple, but Rafe had other plans. While his mouth was working, one hand slipped between your thighs, seeking out your warmth, his hand pressed itself against your soaked panties.

He grinned against your skin. ‘’Would you look at that,’’ Rafe murmured, teasing you over the fabric and sending jolts of pleasure to your core. ‘’Were you thinking of me while I was at my meeting?’’ he questioned his fingers pushing your panties to the side, fingers delving into your slick, a low moan fell from your lips. ‘’Get on the desk.’’ 

You wordlessly climb up onto his cold desk, ignoring the papers that got scattered, leaning back with your hands to spread your legs for him. Rafe pulled your panties down your legs and discarded them in one of the drawers — a little keepsake. 

He dipped two fingers between your soaked folds, causing you to moan slowly. ‘’You look so pretty spread out for me like this,’’ he muttered between you, his cock twitching in his pants and straining against the fabric. ‘’Ready for me to take.’’ His thumb grazed over your clit and a gasp fell from your lips, your hands instinctively grabbing the edge of the desk to brace yourself.

‘’I’m always ready for you,’’ you said, speaking the embarrassing truth. ‘’I’ve never wanted a cock as bad as I want yours.’’

Your words had the desired effect, making Rafe groan. ‘’Shit, babydoll. Where did you get that filthy mouth?’’ 

Rafe reached down and rubbed himself over his pants before deftly unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers. He stood from his seat, the bulge in his boxers making your mouth water and your pussy clench. 

You used to feel guilty for fooling around on your work hours. It felt wrong and dishonest to your boss, but all guilt would go out the window the moment Rafe’s big cock entered you. Fuck work ethics and policies. 

The rest of his clothes came off and he stood between your parted legs, one of his large hands grabbing your thigh while his other was holding his hard length at your entrance. His blue eyes gazed up at you with a mischievous glint as he rubbed his tip against your folds, making you whine with anticipation. 

His teasing turned on him as you reached for his cock and wrapped your hand around its length, drawing a moan from him. ‘’Little minx.’’

You grinned, continuing your motions. Teasing could go both ways. 

‘’Ahh,’’ you gasped as he pressed in, a slow delicious burn that sent a shiver down your spine as he pushed his way through your tight walls. 

Rafe leaned down his forehead, pressing down onto yours and breathing you in as he rolled his hips into you. A moan spilled from your throat at the sensation, a little too loud, and he was quick to clamp his hand over your mouth to muffle any sounds, the floor still full at this hour. 

To add to the noises, the desk was creaking every time Rafe was dragging his cock in and out of you. Although the angle was great, the desk might not be the quietest — unfortunately. 

 ‘’You like that babydoll, you like when I fuck you like this?’’ 

You nodded, your mouth still covered. 

Fuck, just like that, you wanted to scream, your back arching when he hit the right spot over and over at a toe curling pace. God, this was the best sex of your life. Some men just knows what they're doing.

The shrill of the phone echoed in the office, but you both ignored it — Agnes will answer. It was probably the man who wanted to speak to Rafe calling again. 

Sorry Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Cameron is very busy fucking the life out of his personal assistant.

Your body writhed against Rafe, your hands leaving the desk to pull at his hair and grab at his arm while your heels dug into his ass. He grunted, your walls clenching around him. A few more hard thrusts and his thumb sweeping over your clit had your thighs trembling as the waves of pleasure washed over you.

Rafe continued to push into you, dragging out your orgasm as his took over, pulling out quickly and cumming on your stomach, trying to not get any drop on your dress.  

You didn’t have time to get dressed or catch your breath that a knock came on the door. Momentarily forgetting you had locked it, you jumped, thinking you were going to get caught. 

‘’What is it?’’ Rafe called out, trying not to sound too out of breath. 

‘’I have Mr. Gilbert on the phone on line three. He’s asking to speak to you,’’ Agnes’s sweet voice said through the door. ‘’A pressing matter, he said.’’ 

‘’I’m unable to take the call at the moment. I’m busy going over a document for a client I’m seeing tomorrow morning. Could you please take the call for me?’’ he asked, rubbing his hands over your thighs, wishing his secretary would leave so he can get on his knees and get his mouth between your legs.

Agnes nodded although he couldn’t see her. ‘’I understand, Mr. Cameron. I'll inform him right away.’’ 

Rafe waited to hear clicks of her heels down the hallway to sink to his knees and get back to business. He did tell Agnes that he was working on a document, no one would question how long you were locked in his office for.

—

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[familiarscars]

Lost In Control | Bad Omens | CHAPTER 19

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Bad Omens X ex-girlfriend and singer!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. You and Noah had a difficult ending, but you still need to support each other for the band.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). melancholy, ex-boyfriends, difficult relationships, alcohol abuse, swearing, drug addiction, violence.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind, and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

California, August 24, 2020.

Twenty minutes until the band's final performance of the year, and you'd finally be on vacation.

The air circulated better in your lungs when you remembered that you’d finally get to rest after an intense and seemingly endless string of album promotions and tours. Maybe you could even travel to a new country or perhaps visit a distant beach where not a single human soul roamed.

But when you remembered this required a plane ride, you immediately gave up, deciding that staying home and not stepping foot outside until the return to the stage next year was the better choice. The idea of relaxing in a distant place felt as impossible as the notion of taking a real vacation. You needed to come to terms with your reality.

“Can we say this phase of the band has been a real success? We’ve seen you at more festivals and opening for bigger metal names, which should mean you're reaching a broader audience, right?” the interviewer asked, holding the microphone close to your face.

“That depends on what success means to you,” your voice came out sharp, maybe a little too pointed. “Being at a lot of festivals and opening for more shows than in our last phase doesn’t mean success to me. That audience definitely isn’t ours when we’re placed in spaces disproportionate to our style. They’re not here to see us and couldn’t care less about getting to know us.”

“Looking at it that way, you’re right, especially considering the last incident at a recent festival. That crowd wasn’t ready to embrace a different musical style, and you paid the price for that.”

Your head nodded slowly as she agreed with your point. At the last festival in Florida, which she referenced, you had to endure an overwhelming amount of criticism from the audience simply for replacing a major band they actually wanted to see.

Fair enough, situations like that happened frequently in the music world, but it seemed deliberate that Gerard kept pushing you into unpleasant, unsuitable situations just for the thrill of easy money and stuffing your schedules to keep his ridiculous scheme running.

He didn’t even bother to read contracts or check if the working conditions were remotely decent.

“But that’s the price you pay when the person managing the band and booking our gigs values money above all else,” you said with a tight smile, shrugging. “We can die on stage repeating the same formula for years, playing in tiny venues and festivals that go against what we believe in and even alienate us from our real audience, but that will never measure whether the band has truly succeeded. Because it was never about quantity.”

“Do you think social media reach could change that?”

“Maybe, but it’s not something we have control over. We could blow up on a social network tomorrow with a generic song that takes less than ten minutes to produce, but if we’re still tied to someone who cares less about us than we do about ourselves because we’re just a smokescreen to cover up label problems, the issues will remain the same.”

“Wow!” the interviewer gasped slightly, her eyes widening. You couldn’t deny she had been kind and professional since she insisted this interview should solely feature the band’s female voice—a rare occurrence for you. “It’s important to know that, as a key band member, you think this way. We go to the shows and listen to the music without knowing half of what goes on behind the scenes. That’s sad.”

“Our biggest responsibility is handling our own mess without letting it spill over to the audience. You deserve to enjoy the art we create especially for you, and we’ll take care of the rest—just that.” You smiled, blowing a kiss toward the camera. “See you next time!”

You skipped back to the dressing room, certain it wouldn’t be long before Gerard stormed through the door to choke you out over your statements in the interview. He knew full well you disagreed with his management style, and you made it more evident every day as you counted down the days to free yourself from the one thing that still bound you: the contract.

In your mind, the more you defied him and eroded his dignity in front of the media, the sooner he’d give up using you as his captive.

Huffing until your lips trembled, you stood before the mirror, retouching anything out of place in your makeup. Your fingers pressed the compact powder under your eyes and a bit over your nose. You didn’t usually warm up and found it unnecessary, but at most, you’d breathe deeply a few times, holding the air in before releasing it, eyes closed.

You had a good boyfriend who loved you, a happy home you’d always dreamed of sharing with him, talent, a career, fans who followed you, and real friends who cared about you. Yet there was still this growing hollowness in the pit of your stomach, whispering constantly that none of it was enough.

You didn’t deserve any of this.

The room was partially lit, with only the faint glow of a lamp in the corner casting shadows on the walls of the dressing room. You were making the final touches to your makeup, the muffled sound of the opening band echoing in the background. The usual pre-show nerves were almost comforting.

Suddenly, the door creaked as it opened. Without turning around, you sighed, keeping your tone nonchalant.

“Sorry, but I’m not seeing any fans right now.”

There was no immediate reply, just the sound of soft footsteps crossing the carpet.

“I said I’m not—” You stopped when a chill ran down your spine. The sensation was instant, an invisible weight pressing on your chest, making the air feel heavier.

“Is that how you treat family now, doll?” The raspy, familiar voice froze you to the core.

You turned slowly, as if your mind was trying to delay the inevitable. When your eyes finally landed on the figure emerging from the shadows, your throat went dry, and the lipstick you were holding slipped from your hand.

“You...” Your voice was trembling, barely more than a whisper.

Seth took another step forward, the shadows dancing across his face partially hidden by a cap. His smile was as cold as his words.

“Oh, yes, doll. It’s me. I missed you.”

You stood frozen, unable to move a muscle. Your heart pounded so hard it echoed in your ears, and the air became harder to draw in. Your hands started to shake, buried memories struggling to resurface.

He stepped closer, his sarcastic tone dripping with menace.

“After everything we went through together, you acted like an ungrateful little bitch, handing me over to the cops with all those lies. Did you really think you could rat me out and then just go on tour with your band like we didn’t have unfinished business?”

“No…” You breathed as you tried to back away. “This place is full of security watching the band members, and if you take another step, I’ll make a scene.”

When he reached out to grab you, you stepped back, but your legs felt like lead.

“Then scream, doll! Scream!” He laughed.

You moved quickly, darting through the small gap he left to run toward the door. But with a single stride, Seth reached your torso and threw you to the floor, pinning you down as he straddled you. Your air was cut off, and before you could scream, he silenced you with a punch to the side of your face, making your head loll to the side.

“Listen here, doll,” he growled, grabbing your face with one hand and covering your mouth with the other, forcing you to look at him. “I really ought to kill you, but luckily for you, I got out of your little stunt. So, I’ll just punish you for being a stupid bitch!”

Your heart was pounding so fiercely it felt like it might burst from your chest. Sweat ran down your spine like a stream, and all you wanted was to scream until your organs trembled, but something held you back. A moment of desperation made you avert your gaze, your eyes widening, and in a desperate impulse, your teeth sank into the flesh of his hand covering your mouth, hard enough for the metallic taste to flood your palate.

He growled in pain, yanking his hand away abruptly. The momentary distraction was enough for you to wriggle free and stumble to your feet.

Your heart was still racing uncontrollably, and your eyes darted around frantically for an escape, anything to get you away from him. But he recovered quickly, his gaze darkened with fury, rage fueled by the pain.

“You think you’re stronger than me?” he sneered venomously, wiping the blood from his hand on his shirt. “You haven’t changed at all. Still the same weak, broken little girl.”

His words were like knives, cutting straight to your core. Your breathing was erratic, and your knees threatened to buckle at any moment. Seth opened his mouth to say more, but his words were cut off when a furious blur grabbed him by the collar, yanking him away from you.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I’m about to kill you for laying a hand on her.”

Seth laughed as he tried to break free, but Noah slammed him against the wall with enough force to make a dull thud echo through the room. That was all it took to unleash a flurry of punches that made Seth retaliate with one that struck Noah’s face, but Noah seemed fueled by pure rage. Within seconds, the two were exchanging fierce blows amidst growls, toppling chairs and scattering makeup and clothes across the floor.

Your stepfather seemed at a disadvantage as Noah blocked his arm to prevent him from striking. Through the haze clouding your vision, you could see all of Noah’s anger pouring out on that damned man, whose face became unrecognizable from the sheer amount of blood streaming down.

You stood still, hands trembling and eyes fixed on his face, as if frozen in time. Everything around you seemed like a blur. The sounds of the fight, the muffled screams, the thudding of fists meeting flesh—all of it felt distant.

Your whole body shook, a mix of fear and memory. It was as if you'd been transported back in time, the same sense of helplessness washing over you.

Finally, the sound of hurried footsteps broke into the dressing room—members of the crew rushing in to separate the two. Seth was forcibly dragged away, still trying to fight with a sneering expression, but Noah kept glaring at him with eyes full of hatred, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“We’ll see each other soon. Don’t forget, I’m a big fan of the band, doll,” Seth said as he was dragged down the hallway, while you tried to cover your ears.

Noah wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, turning his gaze back to you. His face softened instantly when he noticed your state.

“Hey,” he called, his voice quieter now as he knelt in front of you. His restless, gleaming eyes assessed the situation on your face and carefully passed over the bruise on your cheekbone. “Sorry for losing control like that, but when I walked in and saw he’d hurt you, I just…”

You didn’t want to hear more, cutting him off by throwing yourself into his lap, desperately seeking his embrace. Noah sighed and pulled you into his arms, cradling you gently. He rested his lips on the top of your head, pressing a lingering kiss there.

He was never violent, had never even raised his voice to you in all these years together. You knew that for something to have triggered his primal instincts like this, it meant he truly cared.

“Who was he?” he asked, running his thumb along the side of your arm.

“Seth.” You barely mustered the strength to respond, the name slipping out. “My mom’s boyfriend.”

“Why didn’t I know he existed?” As pointed as the question was, he sounded only curious. “And why the hell did he show up like that?”

“I thought I’d buried that part of my life when I left Richmond. I didn’t want to remember where I came from, much less what drove me to leave that house.”

“I don’t recall you ever mentioning your home, and now I understand why,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.

“To me, he died the day I turned him in to the police, just hours before we officially moved to Los Angeles.”

You had no idea he’d been out there beyond the voices in your head and the delusions that made you think you’d seen him somewhere. You had believed it was just your mind sabotaging you, but he had remained silent all these years, simply tracking your steps.

“He found out what I did and was trying to punish me for it. Sorry for never bringing this up before—I’ve always tried to forget that part of my life, and it took me longer than it should’ve to report what he did,” you said, your voice breaking as you bit your lip and clung to Noah tighter. “First, I had to learn on my own that I wasn’t the defective piece in the factory.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t have to go into it if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll never stop thinking you’re the bravest woman I know because of this.”

The subtle brush of his lips on the tip of your nose made you crack a brief smile. No matter what dirty lies your mind tried to plant to ruin the moment, they couldn’t steal the feeling of being truly safe without having to fight to survive alone.

“20 seconds until you’re onstage.” A deep voice interrupted sharply, drawing your attention to the door.

“We’re not performing tonight,” Noah declared. “She’s hurt, and she’s just been through a lot.”

“20 seconds until you’re onstage,” Gerard repeated, pounding on the door again. “Jolly and Ruffilo are already starting the intro, and I won’t tolerate delays when this counts as a direct breach of contract with the event’s producers!”

“Did you hear what I said?” Noah turned to him over his shoulder, his tone hardening. “Neither of us is in the right headspace to perform!”

Slowly, you pulled away from Noah’s embrace and got to your feet with a tired sigh. This might be the first time he’d have to deal with Gerard’s true nature so blatantly, but you were used to swallowing your problems and getting to work.

Gerard entered the room with slow steps and stopped in front of him, waiting until he also stood.

“I remember saying I didn’t care if you two were screwing around as long as it didn’t interfere with your work,” he said, stroking his chin. “But I feel like that agreement is being broken when you can’t even hide on stage that you were trying to kill each other in the dressing room.”

“But…” Noah tried to argue, but Gerard cut him off.

“I don’t care what you were doing!” He pointed a finger for emphasis. “But both of you are going to find a way to cover that up on your faces, and for every second you delay, I’m docking it from your pay at the end of the month.”

With those harsh words, he turned and left the room. The intro of the first song was already playing faintly in the distance, and you and Noah exchanged glances for a few seconds. It didn’t really matter what either of you wanted or whether the situation was fair.

You never believed much in justice anyway.

The adrenaline from the stage was still coursing through your veins as you walked backstage, an almost electric energy pulsing through every movement, and the vibration of the crowd still echoed in your ears, drowning out everything around you, including the shadow that approached almost imperceptibly.

"Good job today," the man said casually, with a friendly smile that could fool anyone. Before you could react, he slipped something small and discreet into the palm of your hand.

You froze for a second, but the euphoria of the moment seemed to justify the gesture. It wasn’t as if it were something new. Still, as you glanced at the small package, your throat went dry.

"Thanks," you murmured softly, trying not to draw attention.

Your steps quickened toward the dressing room, and the sound of the boys' voices grew more distant as you moved away. As soon as you entered the small space, you heard the door slam shut behind you, and, like a furious storm, Noah advanced, snatching what was in your hand.

He held the package at eye level, his gaze fixed on you as if trying to solve an impossible puzzle.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice as sharp as a blade.

You tried to respond, but the knot in your throat held you back.

"I asked you what the fuck this is!" he yelled, throwing the package onto the nearby table. The small object slid across the surface and stopped right in your line of sight.

"It’s..." you stammered, scratching the back of your neck and pulling at some strands of hair. "It’s nothing important."

"Nothing important?" he repeated, incredulous. "Are you kidding me?"

"Of course not."

"Is this why you’ve been acting weird?" he pressed.

You averted your gaze, unable to look at him, but he wasn’t going to let it go.

"You lied to me," he continued, anger spilling from every word. "You made me believe you were just nervous, that there was too much going on at once. You made me believe it was all about the music, about the show, about me... But it’s this?"

He pointed at the package as if it were something vile.

"When did we start hiding things from each other like we don’t live under the same roof? When did you become someone I don’t know, someone who has a life parallel to the one you show me every day?"

"Stop, Noah!" you shouted back, finally finding the strength to speak, clutching the sides of your head. "You’re doing this again, and I don’t need you managing my life like I’m your responsibility!"

He let out a bitter laugh, running his hands through his hair—a gesture you recognized as a sign of extreme frustration.

"You don’t get it, do you?" he said, his voice now lower but still charged with intensity. "I care about you! I care about everything we’ve built together, and now it feels like we’re not even on the same page, but you always said we were!"

He stopped, the words seeming to choke him.

"I’m not going to stand by and watch this happen."

You tried to respond, but the guilt and weight of emotions were overwhelming. Deep down, you knew he was right. But admitting it was something you weren’t ready to do.

The words came out like a desperate sob, broken and repetitive. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me."

You knew each syllable carried a torment that felt impossible to express, yet they spilled out between sobs. Your eyes met his, and it was like looking into a mirror of pain. Noah’s eyes were brimming with tears, his face flushed with a mix of anger and deep sadness you never wanted to see in him—especially because of you.

He stepped back, as if he needed distance to breathe, but you couldn’t let him go. Without thinking, you stepped forward and grabbed his hand. Your touch, though trembling, had the power to disarm him. You felt his shoulders gradually relax, his furrowed brows softening. Still, the hurt remained there, etched in every line of his face.

This was what you hated—hated so much. Having to show him the darkest parts of yourself, the ones you did everything to hide. Noah didn’t deserve this.

He was good, so good.

You not.

"You’re absolutely right, my love," you said in a weak voice, almost a whisper. "I was nervous; I thought it was the better choice… But this was never about you. Not when it’s by your side that my noisy mind finds a little silence."

As you spoke, your fingers sought his damp cheeks, carefully tracing the lines of his pain. He yielded, the rigidity in his expression giving way to exhausted weariness, and he rested his forehead against yours. There, in the small space between you, your breaths began to intertwine until they became one rhythm.

Noah closed his eyes as he felt the tip of your nose brush against his.

"I’ll never do this again," you promised, your voice choked. "I’ll never use it again. I’ll never lose myself like this, but I need you not to leave me alone when I only have you."

He remained silent for what felt like an eternity. When he finally spoke, it was with an almost inaudible whisper, yet it carried the weight of the world.

"If you’re feeling bad about something, if your past still hurts, if you feel like you don’t belong where you are now… then share it with me. Let it hurt me, but don’t do this to yourself." He paused, his voice breaking in the midst of his confession. "I love you so much, little storm, and I would never treat you this way."

Your heart clenched with a new pain, a guilt that seemed intent on suffocating you. You loved him more than anything, but was this what love did? It placed you in front of yourself, forcing you to face your flaws?

"I know. I know. I know." You repeated, the words falling like rain as you held his face in both hands. "I love you, my love, and I’ll never hurt you like this again."

He opened his eyes, now filled with a painful hope.

"Promise?"

That word clenched your throat tightly. You couldn’t lie to him anymore. Not after this.

"I promise," you replied, your voice low but firm.

And, for a moment, as your eyes remained locked on his, you almost believed you could keep that promise.

⭑ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lma1986 ; @chey-h ; @supersquirrel1996 ; @zozaline ; @just-randomm-stuff

[slaymitchabernathy]

Family First

“Mr. President, over here!”

“Mr. President, a quick word please!”

“Mr. President, what are your thoughts on the upcoming elections?”

Coriolanus has grown used to ignoring these pestering questions. Especially when walking to his front door.

These pesky reporters haven’t let up since the day he moved into the Presidential Mansion, waiting outside the front gates, desperate for something juicy.

As if he’d ever answer them.

They can’t get through the fence but their words certainly can, their annoying questions about things that don’t truly matter in the grand scheme of things.

He’s got much more important things to worry about today.

He has to address the nation.

Riots have been breaking out across the Districts, causing shortages of food and supplies in the Capitol. If he doesn’t get things under control they might have another war on their hands. And he can’t have that.

Coriolanus nods at the two Peacekeepers stationed outside of the side entrance to the Mansion, a less impressive one yes, but easier to walk out of compared to the front door where everyone is watching.

He steps inside the Mansion and is immediately greeted by Eudora Trinket, his trusted coordinator who hopefully, has whipped something up for him to say to all the citizens of Panem.

“You’re terribly last minute with these things, you know that don’t you?” She asks as they briskly walk down the great hall towards one of the many conference rooms they have in the Mansion.

Coriolanus merely glances down at the middle-aged woman who is always sporting a new colored wig with eyelashes to match. She keeps him on task so he doesn’t comment on her fashion choices.

“Do you have a speech?”

Eudora scoffs, whipping out a stack of notecards, “Do I have a speech? Of course, I have a speech Coriolanus. This isn’t amateur hour!”

Coriolanus takes the cards from her, glancing over the prepared lines she’s written for him. They seem good, strong, and authoritative, not leaving any room for argument.

“Let’s just hope everything’s ready,” he mumbles as they walk into the largest conference room they have in the Mansion, already occupied by all his advisors and several diplomats whose jobs are all currently on the line for letting this happen.

They said they could handle it. Now he has to clean up their mess.

Coriolanus makes his way to the podium, a camera already positioned in front of it, ready to roll to the entire nation at his command.

Coriolanus grips the edges of the podium, reminding himself to breathe. Eudora says he’s going to get gray hairs before he turns thirty but running a country can be stressful.

He glances around the room and finds the one person he truly cares about it missing.

But there’s a good reason for that.

Ten years ago, Coriolanus met the love of his life, Soarynn Nightingale.

He knew from the moment he saw her that she was the one for him, no questions asked. He courted her, learned about her, and fell in love with her. They got married right after graduating from University and right before he began his campaign to become the youngest President of Panem.

She had supported him through everything, the hardships, and the victories. And just when he thought she couldn't possibly give him anything else, she gave him a daughter. Ceraphina Snow was two years old and the apple of his eye. With her golden curls and eyes identical to her mother's, she had him wrapped around her little finger.

He didn't get to see her as often as he liked, spending most of his time working on keeping this country under control but he cherished every moment he had with his baby girl.

He listens to the sound of quiet yet stressed whispers throughout the room, all from men who might be fired by the end of the night. They all look so pathetic in their seats, nervously looking at him before looking back at each other, trying to shift the blame off of themselves.

Coriolanus stares back down at the podium, looking at the cards Eudora wrote for him. He usually prefers to write these things himself but he was pulled out of a meeting to do this. This was a dire circumstance it seemed.

A hush falls over the room and he glances up to see why.

Soarynn is finally here.

She looks jarred, like she was just sleeping which she probably was, she's been more tired lately but there's good reason for that. His eyes zero in on his darling daughter who's hugged to Soarynn's hip, curiously looking around at all these men who will be jobless by the end of the night.

Her eyes finally find his and Ceraphina lets out a shriek of excitement, "Daddy!"

Coriolanus can't help but grin at how cute she is, reaching out for him. Soarynn is quick to quiet down their child, bouncing her up and down for a moment. She looks beautiful as always, with her hair pinned up while wearing a green dress, flowy and flattering.

He feels so bad about dragging her into this at the last minute but as President of Panem, it's important that his family is always seen by his side.

Soarynn gives him a small smile before nodding at everyone who stood up the moment she stepped into the room, silently telling them to sit down again. They do and several men let out sighs of relief as if an ounce of kindness from Soarynn can save them from a lifetime of wrath from their employer.

Soarynn takes her seat next to Eudora, to the immediate right of the podium and Ceraphina immediately reaches out for Eudora, most likely to touch her eyelashes which have always fascinated their daughter since the day she was born.

Eudora who claims to not like children gives her hand a little squeeze before she turns to look up at Coriolanus and give him a nod to go ahead. It's time.

The room falls silent once again and the nation's anthem begins to play, the cameras begin to roll and Coriolanus begins to speak directly to the camera, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Over the course of the past six weeks, rebels have been wreaking havoc in the Districts, disrupting production and challenging those who are above them." He eyes his advisors who are nearly on the edge of their seats. "But I am here to put an end to these foolish attempts to disrupt what we know to be a great nation, rich with resources that are so gladly provided to the citizens of the Capitol."

Ceraphina tugs on Soarynn's dress, already tired of sitting still while her father talks.

"Starting today, all working District citizens will be given four additional hours of work to make up for lost production time. Those who have been detained for inciting riots will be executed."

A few eyes widen at his words but Coriolanus means every bit of them. If they let these rebels live, they'll spread this ideology to other people until the Capitol is left with Districts full of rebels and roaches.

"Let me be clear, we do not tolerate rebels in Panem, we will not ever tolerate rebels in Panem. This way of thinking will get you nowhere, it will only harm those you wish to help. We are a great nation that will rise together out of the ashes that these rebels have so foolishly created. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever."

The camera cuts off and Coriolanus is met with words of praise from every man in the room.

"Excellent speech sir."

"They won't dare to try and cross us now."

"Wonderfully said Mr. President."

He'd kill all of them right now if there weren't ladies present.

"Tonight we'll have a meeting to discuss further plans," he tells them, "eight o'clock." Then at nine o'clock, he'll start hiring new men to take their places.

He steps down from the podium and is greeted by Ceraphina beaming up at him, a big smile on her sweet little face. "Daddy!" Coriolanus grins down at her, unable to ignore her sweet nature, "Hello my darling, were you sleeping with your mother before you two arrived?"

Soarynn sighs and brushes a stray curl out from Ceraphina's face, "We were having very pleasant dreams before we found out that you'd be addressing the nation and threatening to execute half of it if things didn’t start to shape up.”

Eudora hums and gives him a sharp poke, “I don’t believe I mentioned anything about executions in my speech,” she hisses but Coriolanus ignores her, taking Ceraphina into his hold and pressing a kiss to her cheek. She thinks the world of her father, even if he is sometimes a heartless man, and he’d like to keep it that way.

“Sometimes we have to do hard things,” he tells both women, blowing a raspberry against Ceraphina’s cheek which makes her tumble into a fit of laughter, “Daddy no!”

Soarynn watches the sweet sight with a small smile on her lips but he can tell she’s still exhausted, probably more so after hearing that speech, “We’re having lunch if you’d like to join us,” he offers, already knowing she’ll likely decline.

Soarynn shakes her head and rests her hand on the side of his face, a gesture she’s done at least a thousand times to comfort him in times of stress, “I wish we could darling, but we’re both rather tired today, aren’t we Ceraphina?”

“No Mommy,” Ceraphina says with a shake of her head, curls bouncing, “lunch with Daddy.”

Coriolanus presses another kiss to his daughter's cheek before handing her back over to his wife, "Next time my darling," he promises Ceraphina, "you'd be terribly bored anyway."

Ceraphina pouts but doesn't cry, at two years old, she's already quite well behaved and Coriolanus has Soarynn to thank for that. She's been quite involved in raising their daughter, causing her to be oh-so-sweet and polite to all she comes across, just like Soarynn.

Soarynn hums, brushing back Ceraphina's curls, "He's right darling, we'll have much more fun upstairs." Ceraphina doesn't look too convinced but Coriolanus is already being pulled in another direction by one of his trusted advisors, Quintus Heavensbee, someone who will not be fired tonight.

"Actually, it might be good for people to see all three of you together," he suggests in a hushed whisper, eyeing Soarynn for a moment, "or all four of you." Coriolanus rests a hand on Soarynn's stomach, just starting to show signs of pregnancy at five months which has only led him to be more protective over her.

He's kept her away from the news and media as much as possible, wanting her to have a calm and quiet pregnancy with their second little girl but it seems that duty comes before desire sometimes.

Before he can suggest something else that doesn't involve the love of his life, Soarynn cuts in with that sweet smile of hers, known to calm down the most tense situations, "A few minutes in front of the cameras couldn't hurt darling," she says, "it's our job to speak directly to our people."

Coriolanus bites the inside of his cheek, sometimes he wishes she weren't so selflessly devoted to this country and its well-being. From the beginning, Soarynn has always been the perfect First Lady, speaking at events, shaking important hands, and always knowing just what to say.

"Five minutes," he decides, giving both Soarynn and Quintus a knowing look, "I still have a lunch to attend." He also doesn’t want Soarynn to exhaust herself but he keeps that to himself.

Quintus smiles, pleased that Coriolanus agreed to his suggestion so easily and Ceraphina smiles too, excited to be with her father for a little longer. "Daddy carry me," she reaches out for him again. He can hardly deny such a request and takes her from Soarynn, "Best manners Ceraphina," he reminds her as they make their way out of the room and down the hallway.

The reporters are still outside waiting for him once they walk through the side entrance, sticking their hands and cameras through the iron fence that surrounds the entirety of the President's Mansion.

Coriolanus rests one hand on Soarynn's lower back while the other holds Ceraphina to his hip. A group of Peacekeepers surround the Presidential Family while they walk to the front gates of the Mansion and Coriolanus hates every second of it. He wants Soarynn inside, away from all of this.

"Mr. President, how do you plan to follow through with your threats of executions?"

"President Snow, by how many weeks will you continue to increase the District's workload?"

"Mrs. Snow, what do you think of your husband's brutish threats towards those in the Districts?"

It's the last question that makes his nostrils flare so of course it's the one Soarynn chooses to answer. "I trust in my husband's ability to keep our country safe and under control," she answers in a calm tone, the same one she uses whenever Ceraphina gets fussy, "the Capitol wants everyone to stay safe and riots endanger everyone."

Quintus lets out a grunt of approval, even Coriolanus is impressed by her answer, short and to the point and above all, praising the Capitol. Ceraphina kicks her feet, bored already, "Mommy, I want to go play!"

Coriolanus quickly quiets her down with a stern look, he can't afford to have her say something contradicting, "Mr. President, when can we be expecting your second child?" Perhaps Ceraphina's small outburst can help shift the conversation elsewhere, he wraps his arm around Soarynn's waist, pulling her into him.

"Our precious little girl will be born in four months," he says proudly, "we're overjoyed with healthy reports on her growth and can't wait to strengthen and expand our family."

Soarynn leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder and the cameras all start flashing, capturing the sweet moment between the President and First Lady.

"Do you have any names planned?"

Soarynn smiles up at him, "We have a few ideas," she says, "but we still have a while to go."

Ceraphina reaches out for her mother and Soarynn takes hold of her small hand, once again, causing the cameras to flash. "Thank you for your time gentlemen," Coriolanus says to the reporters, ready to go back inside, "we hope to see you again soon."

He wishes he could banish anyone from waiting outside of his home, desperate for a blurry photograph of him or his family but he can only do so much before raising concerns about his harsh behavior. Threatening to execute any rebels certainly hasn't helped his case.

"Excellent job sir," Quintus commends him once they're all back inside, safe from the cameras and prying questions. Coriolanus hands Ceraphina back to Soarynn, straightening out his tie, "They're relentless with the questions," he mumbles, shaking his head, "and they're not even good questions."

Ceraphina giggles when Soarynn tickles under her chin, momentarily causing Coriolanus to forget about his stressful job, he wishes he could spend the rest of the day with his girls but he can't.

"Any news is good news," Quintus reminds him.

Coriolanus doesn't quite agree with that way of thinking but he doesn't say anything against it, instead, he presses a kiss to Soarynn's temple, "I'll see you tonight darling," he promises her.

He tries to have dinner with his family but it doesn't always happen, especially on days like today. But Soarynn understands that, giving his arm an encouraging squeeze, "Don't work too hard Coryo," she says softly, pulling at his heartstrings. If Soarynn had her way, they'd be nobodies, happily married and living a quiet life in his old penthouse apartment.

She's been so devoted to him and his dreams that she sacrificed her own dreams of raising a family out of the spotlight. A small price to pay for a lifetime of happiness with him but he recognizes all she's done for him.

"I'll try," is all he says, pinching Ceraphina's cheek, "be good for your mother sweetheart."

Watching them walk up the stairs feels like parting with a piece of his soul but he pushes that soft part of him away, right now he needs to do his job and be the cold, heartless man people know him to be.

It's better this way, safer this way.

꧁ ꧂

Later that night after firing every man who caused him strife today, Coriolanus sits in his bedroom on the sofa by the fireplace. Soarynn is in the bathroom getting ready for bed and he's got a newspaper in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.

It's the perfect way to end the night.

Eudora threw the newspaper on his desk right before she left for the night. Fresh off the presses from their impromptu family interview this afternoon after he addressed and threatened the entire nation.

'President Snow is a Family Man' the headline reads.

He smiles at the photograph on the front page, Soarynn pressed to his side and Ceraphina on the other, holding each other's hands in a loving manner while Soarynn looks up at him so adoringly. He couldn't have planned it better himself.

He reads a few of the lines written about what Soarynn said, calling Coriolanus a President who puts his family first. Exactly. He's so glad the reporters can see it that way.

He’s more than pleased with how today turned out. He had been angry at first, angry at the men who made him look bad due to their own incompetence but Soarynn’s sweet voice seems to be the cure for everything.

He peers into the bathroom and catches a glimpse of his glowing wife dressed merely in her underwear, a hand resting on her baby bump. He smiles to himself, in a few months their baby girl will be here and they’ll be a perfect family unit.

Soarynn has truly given him so much, endless support, two children in about two years and she’s stunning on top of all of that.

The press can say all they want about him and so can people in the Districts for that matter. At the end of the day, so long as he has Soarynn by his side, he’ll always be known as a man who puts family first.

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

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[blood-starved-beast]

This offer is so interesting from Ambessa's perspective cause for all intents and purposes it's a reasonable one.

If you take an outsider's view of things, Caitlyn was obviously more "obsessed" with Vi than the other way around. Who wax poetry about how great Vi is then threatened to defund the police if she did not have her on the Force? Why Caitlyn of course, for the woman who was getting drunk and littering in the corner with a bum (an action if anything showed that Vi was not as invested in the situation as one might think and that's not excluding how she was complaining the whole time) . It could not be more obvious that Caitlyn was obsessed with Vi other than like if Cupcake were to tattoo Vi's name on her left tit or something.

Then suddenly Vi's gone and Caitlyn is rebounding like crazy. Based on the clues, it can be assumed that Vi left on her own volition - clearly Caitlyn did not and would not share the details as to Vi's departure or her fault in that.

So from Ambessa's perspective it's entirely safe to assume that Vi might actually be malleable, might be a good tool to win over and use as a mole to either control Caitlyn, or spy on her. Cause clearly the loyalty is very one-sided if seen from Ambessa's limited perspective. And that's not including the classist impressions of Zaunites - self serving, impoverish lowlives making things worse for themselves or whatever the Noxians here believe. Ambessa would assume Vi was one of these based on all the factors about that.

But that's the problem with Ambessa's perspective - she doesn't know the history. She doesn't know that Caitlyn pushed Vi away, or that Vi is as much as a massive Simp towards Caitlyn or how much Vi's indebted to Caitlyn despite the horrible breakup. Or Vi's personal history about lose, love, and attachment. Or that she loves Caitlyn very much despite being very angry with her, enough to ignore the whole nasty breakup Ambessa doesn't know of (or perhaps, Caitlyn lied about) so that they can work together.

Idk how much of a trump card Vi and Caitlyn realized they had with this scheme, but it's safe to say that it's pretty much expired now and Ambessa thinks Caitlyn was playing the long game to get the upper hand on her. Something that wouldn't have been possible had things not gotten sour organically the way they did.

And, if Vi had stayed longer, Ambessa likely would've clocked how important Caitlyn was to Vi eventually. And I doubt that offer she gives here, made with the lopsided impression (Ambessa does not say Caitlyn stole Vi's heart after all), would not have hold. No, I think had Ambessa known the truth Vi would've been "disappeared" like Amara. Killed. Ironically, in the nasty breakup, Caitlyn might've protected Vi in a way that might not have otherwise, and in doing so, used Ambessa's own tactic with Mel of alienation for protection in a way that actually worked.

[yoursinisforgiven]

SECRETARY ──

pairing: james x reader (non–listener)

cw: light dark content, smut, pwp (so much plot..), impact play, gunplay(?), afab reader, a little pain play,, sex in front of another person(?) (but not really), vaginal fingering, somewhat based off this movie, established relationship, reader and james are implied to have been together since highschool, age difference relationships (reader is implied to be somewhat younger than james), violence, mentions of gangs, reader is referred to as james ‘wife’, references to this fic, writer is a liar and didnt actually re listen to any audios because she's too lazy!

you are responsible for your own media consumption, the piece of writing contains dark content; it’s not suitable or meant to be enjoyed by all readers.

Perhaps you should have settled for something else—a simpler life.

To say you hated your job was somehow both an understatement and a dramatic stretch. It wasn't hate, not exactly. It was exhaustion, it was unease, it was the weight of something you couldn’t name pressing against your chest at odd hours of the night. A heaviness that settled in the marrow of your bones and refused to be shaken. Sometimes, it felt like a knot twisted tight around your ribs, only loosening when the lights went down and the city outside faded into darkness. But that darkness never lasted long, not here.

In the rare quiet moments between phone calls and schedules, between bloodstained suits and unreadable gazes, you found yourself drifting. You thought about a different life. Somewhere quiet. Maybe Maine—a small town with large plots of land, a comfortable house with a garden that smelled like lavender and thyme in the summer, not like the sterile walls of your current life. The house you lived in now, the one that never truly felt like home.

Perhaps it was ignorant to complain about living a life of luxury, a life James and Tara—

Tara. The name comes like a sting, sharp and sudden, slicing through the fragile calm you’d tried to build. The ache was immediate, a raw burn that spread through your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs as easily as it had the day you first felt it. That gnawing hole in the pit of your stomach—a hole that had never fully healed.

She had been a part of this. A part of him. And now she was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the past. But the memory lingered, gnawing at you, always reminding you of a life that could never be.

They had worked so hard to give you this life. To give everyone they cared about this life. A life that was always far too expensive to be simple, too soaked in blood to be pure. Still, that thought nagged at you. A simpler life. A smaller house. Maybe even a small garden. Maybe in another life.

The sound of the heavy-duty metal door—the one you'd insisted on having reinforced to be bullet- and explosion-resistant—creaks open, its metal scraping against the frame with a high-pitched screech. The kind of sound that makes your teeth ache, a sharp, abrasive noise that feels almost intrusive in the stillness of the room. The door slams shut with a force that rattles the thick windows, sending a tremor through the polished floors.

You flinch. Once, twice. Your grip tightens around the clipboard in your hands, the cool plastic pressing into your fingers as if the act of holding it might ground you. The pen’s smooth surface does little to help. It’s just an object, a small thing, useless in the grand scheme of things.

Then, James enters.

His jacket, once immaculate, is now in his hand, dangling like a discarded thing. Streaks of blood stain the fabric in long, uneven lines, a violent contrast against the dark fabric. The blood, a deep crimson, has already begun to dry, turning the material into something almost stiff—crusted like an old wound that refuses to heal. The sight of it twists something deep in your stomach, the sharp reminder that no matter how much you pretend, the blood of his work is never truly washed away.

His hands, always so steady, are now visibly trembling. Only slightly, imperceptible to anyone else, but you see it. It’s there, in the way he grips the jacket like a lifeline, his fingers white at the knuckles.

You can’t remember a time when the weight of him didn’t settle into the air around you. Heavy, suffocating. And yet, it was always this quiet pressure, never the explosion you might expect from someone so… well, like him.

He doesn’t say anything.

He never does when he’s in this state. No need. You know better than anyone that silence is a language all its own when it comes to James.

The anger isn’t like the rage you’ve seen in others. It doesn’t explode outward, tearing through the world with a destructive force. No, his is a different kind of fury—a quiet, restrained anger that lingers, always contained, simmering beneath the surface. You can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the subtle twitch of his left hand, the way his eyes dart to the floor for a fraction of a second, as if to gather himself before facing whatever he’s about to say.

But it’s there, and you can read it, the way you’ve always been able to.

The thick, cold air of the basement wraps itself around you as you step into the hall behind him. The Quetza’s—a stupid name, you'd complained to Warren once. Too hard to spell, too hard to remember for customers. Not that it mattered. The hotel was never meant to be memorable. It was meant to be a front— hallways always feel like a maze—narrow, dimly lit by harsh fluorescent lights that cast long shadows on the walls, the sort that never seem to leave, even when the lights are off. The walls are thick, reinforced with concrete, designed to keep whatever happens inside contained.

It’s a far cry from the house you’d imagined. A simple house with soft lighting and warm wood floors. But you knew, even as the thought crossed your mind, that this life was never meant for you. Not really. You’d always been a bystander, a reluctant participant in something much darker than you could’ve ever imagined.

James walks ahead, his bloodied jacket swaying slightly with each step, the dark fabric almost blending into the shadows around him. His shoes click against the polished floors in a rhythmic pattern that, if you listened long enough, could almost lull you into a trance.

You follow him out of the basement, the echoes of your footsteps bouncing off the walls, a reminder of just how far away you were from any notion of peace.

Maybe in another life, another world, you could’ve had that simple house. That small garden. Maybe James wouldn’t have blood on his hands every night. Maybe you wouldn’t know the exact shade of red fresh blood dried into. Maybe you wouldn’t have to stomach the weight of it all.

But then again, maybe you would.

──

The car door opens with a soft groan of metal, a sound that feels almost sentient, like the vehicle itself is weary of its purpose. The air outside is cool against your skin, though it doesn’t feel like it should be—more a gentle reminder that no matter how much you try, you’ll never escape the chill of this life. It lingers, seeps into the bones, makes a home in the spaces between each inhale and exhale.

The Bentley’s interior greets you with a familiar, almost suffocating warmth. The cream leather of the seat molds against you like an old friend, but the seat feels a bit too empty tonight. A void where something should be—what, you’re not sure. Something intangible, something just beyond reach.

You slide in beside James, the motion smooth, practiced. You’ve done this a thousand times, but tonight, the air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken. The scent of leather surrounds you, mingling with the faint remnants of his cologne. It’s still there, but it feels distant, as if the man beside you isn’t the same one whose scent clung to your sheets, your clothes, the air around you. As if this is only a fragment of him, a ghost of a man wearing his skin.

The leather beneath your fingers is cool, but it always is—never too warm, never too cold. The car’s interior smells faintly of coffee, the dark roast still clinging to the upholstery as though it, too, could never be truly washed away. A detail so small, so seemingly unnecessary, but it sticks with you, lingers in the air like a ghost that refuses to leave.

James grips the steering wheel, his hands trembling just slightly. Not enough for the untrained eye to notice, but you do. His forearms are exposed, the crisp white of his dress shirt bunched up just below the elbows, revealing the taut muscles of his biceps. The veins stand out, dark against his skin, pulsing with the same tension that fills the car.

Had you not felt his anger hanging thick in the air, this moment could’ve gone a very different way—one that didn’t involve questions or bloodstained suits but instead ended in a tangled mess of limbs in the backseat.

But you feel it. And so does he.

The silence between you both is thick, suffocating. It stretches, expands, curls around the edges of the conversation that hasn’t even begun yet.

Finally, you speak.

“Did you kill him?”

The question is simple, direct, but it feels too heavy for the air between you. Words can be heavier than actions, sometimes. They can weigh down a moment, making it unbearable.

James doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers tighten around the wheel until his knuckles turn white, the soft leather creaking under the pressure. His jaw flexes, just slightly, a muscle ticking beneath the skin.

For a moment, the world outside the car window seems distant, distant enough to feel like you’re not really here. Not really alive. Just a shadow passing through a fog.

“What?” James asks, his voice low and even, but the tension is unmistakable.

The car is still not moving. The engine hums faintly, like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

You meet his gaze, steady and unwavering, despite the gnawing feeling in your gut, the unease creeping up your spine.

“I said, did you kill him?”

Your words hang in the air between you, a quiet challenge, a flicker of something dangerous.

“Why are you worried about the life of another man, a traitor nonetheless.” He spits, a tone full of envy and jealousy, sharp enough to cut through the silence.

At this, you scoff at his childishness, adjusting in the seat slightly. The car had now felt entirely too hot, suffocating in a way it hadn’t before. You move the notes and clipboard in your lap to the floor, the action slow, deliberate, a momentary distraction. As you do this, you speak, voice measured. “Because it’s important to get information out of these people, especially with everything going on with the Ve—”

“He tried to kill my nephew.”

James hadn’t yelled. No, he hadn’t. But he raised his voice, and the weight of it sent a surge through you. A ripple of something primal, something sharp.

But you aren’t one to act on anger, not immediately. You take a breath, let the moment settle. Then, you give him one last look—one of indifference, of quiet understanding wrapped in apathy—before turning to face the window as he begins to drive.

The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow, the rain beginning to tap against the windshield in uneven rhythms.

“Then I suppose he deserved it,” you murmur, not looking at him. But the words sink, settle between you both like stones dropped into deep water.

James says nothing. He just drives, and the road stretches endlessly ahead.

──

Three days.

For three days, not a word had been exchanged between you and James—not directly, at least. Pride and stubbornness never made the greatest duo, did they? A war of silence waged between you, neither side willing to surrender first. Three days of touchless moments, of quiet, stifled spaces where once there had been presence.

Not a word—at least, not directly. The necessities of work had forced the occasional exchange, brief and clipped, but there was nothing of substance. No offhanded comments, no stolen glances, no presence.

Three days of avoiding each other’s eyes in the morning, pretending not to exist in the same space. Three nights of lying in the same bed but never facing each other, your backs nearly touching yet never quite meeting. James had nightmares about Tara—ones he’d never mention. Never acknowledged the way his body would tense in the dead of night, the way his fingers sometimes twitched, as if grasping for something—or someone—no longer there. But you knew.

You knew that, when his eyes shut, Tara’s ghost was waiting for him on the other side.

You’d grown restless, waking at odd hours, staring at the ceiling until dawn painted the room in pale, gray light. The exhaustion carved into your skin, dark circles settling beneath your eyes like the ghosts of sleepless nights.

The days felt longer this way.

The car rides to the base were the worst. Silence stretched between you like an iron chain, unyielding and suffocating. No stolen glances, no shared words. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of James’s fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel. He hadn’t stopped by your office either.

Instead, he’d been spending his time with Warden.

James never needed to tell you how he felt about the man; you knew. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t respect. It was something different, something purely transactional. If Tara hadn’t tied the two together, you had no doubt James would’ve put a bullet in him by now.

And with James’s absence came an odd sort of imbalance. Your office felt too empty. It was harder to focus. Emails seemed to multiply overnight, contacts needing approval, weapons shipments requiring clearance. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable—you had been handling these things long before James had made it a habit to visit you during his breaks—but the quiet gnawed at you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Then—

Knock.

Just once.

You didn’t need to hear the voice behind the door to know who it was. Lexi.

The woman had a peculiar way about her—never knocking more than once, never announcing herself unnecessarily. Her presence was felt before it was seen, a force in the room even when she was silent.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing Lexi’s sharp silhouette against the dimly lit hallway. She stepped inside with her usual ease, her gaze sweeping over you like she was reading every emotion you weren’t saying out loud.

She was dressed like she always was—practical, dark clothing, not quite tactical but enough to blend in. Her boots barely made a sound against the hardwood floor, but you knew better than to mistake her quiet nature for gentleness. Lexi was one of the Wraiths’ more efficient executives, someone who could kill as easily as she could converse, someone whose loyalty was neither blind nor hesitant.

She stopped in front of your desk, tilting her head slightly. “You look like shit.”

You exhaled through your nose, rubbing at the bridge of it. “Thanks, Lexi. You always know how to make someone feel better.”

She smirked, but there was something knowing in her gaze. Something that said, I know exactly why you look like this.

Still, she didn’t push—not yet. Instead, she leaned against the chair across from you, arms crossed over her chest. “You’ve been working too much,” she observed, her tone annoyingly neutral.

You gave a humorless chuckle. “Someone has to.”

“James would’ve been handling half of this.”

The name sat between you like a loaded gun.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you picked up a pen, twirling it between your fingers, letting the silence settle.

“He’s been with Warden,” you finally said, not bothering to mask the exhaustion in your voice. “And I doubt he’ll be stopping by anytime soon.”

Lexi raised an eyebrow, but if she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “So that’s what this is about.”

“This isn’t about anything.”

“Three days,” she reminded you. “Three days of not speaking to each other.”

You rolled your eyes. “And?”

Lexi sighed, shifting her weight. “And I think you both need to stop being so damn stubborn.”

There it was—the directness you expected from her.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. “James will talk when he’s ready.”

“Will he?” she asked, her gaze sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.”

That made you pause.

James—the same man who commanded an entire syndicate, who made decisions with brutal efficiency, who never hesitated—waiting for you? It was absurd. But the moment Lexi said it, something in you twisted uncomfortably.

The silence in the room stretched.

Lexi sighed again, pushing herself off the chair. “Think about it,” she said, already turning toward the door.

She stopped.

Turned back.

That smirk grew just slightly, something sly sparking in her gaze.

“Oh, and I need you to visit the lovebirds at the house,” she said casually, like it was just another task. “You know, the two-week reload?”

You blinked. “Lovebirds?”

Muttering the word under your breath, you tried to place the reference—until it clicked.

A small chuckle slipped past your lips. Elias and the Brewhouse survivor.

You remembered James mentioning it once, his voice laced with something dangerously close to amusement as he recounted the story of teasing his nephew.

Elias.

James had always spoken about him with a sort of exasperated fondness, though he’d never outright say it. It was in the way his lips twitched whenever Elias had done something particularly reckless, the way his gaze softened—barely—when he thought no one was looking.

Still, James had always been strict with him, always watching with that quiet, assessing stare of his. The way a wolf might watch a younger one in the pack, making sure he didn’t stray too far, but giving him just enough space to learn.

And now, Elias had his own person.

You glanced back at Lexi, raising an eyebrow. “Why me?”

She shrugged. “Because James isn’t going to do it, and I don’t feel like babysitting.” She shot you a look. “Besides, you could use the break.”

A break. Right.

You weren’t sure what was less appealing—the idea of stepping away from your never-ending inbox or the possibility of running into James before you left.

But still…

Elias.

It had been too long since you’d last seen him, long enough for the absence to settle uncomfortably in your chest. You hated the feeling—this quiet, nagging guilt, this weight that pressed against your ribs whenever you realized how much distance had grown between you.

Because there had been a time when he had been yours in a way. Not by blood, not by duty, but something else—something quiet and unspoken, something built in the space left behind by Tara’s absence.

You could still remember the way he used to cling to your side as a child, always looking to you first, always trusting you without question. How many times had you picked him up from school early, your voice light and teasing as you made up some excuse, as if it were just a whim? Just because. Just because there might have been someone waiting outside who shouldn’t have been. Just because James had sent you. Just because the world you all lived in was one where safety was never guaranteed.

Even after Tara died, you had cared for him as your own. Tended to his wounds when he got into fights, cooked him meals when James was too busy with work, sat with him in silence when the weight of everything was too much.

Somewhere along the way, though, things had shifted. Elias had grown older, more independent, more reckless. The closeness you once shared had become something less defined, stretched thin by time and circumstance.

And now, here you were—hesitating.

You sighed, rolling your shoulders back. “Fine.”

Lexi’s smirk widened, and she gave you a mock salute before slipping out the door.

──

The drive to the safe house felt like it could stretch into infinity, the thick silence between you and the car's interior heavy and suffocating. You had tried, for the first few minutes, to drown out the noise in your mind, but it kept circling back, like a vulture waiting to feast.

The last three days replayed in your head, over and over, each moment a jagged, painful reminder of how things had shifted. Your gaze kept slipping back to the memory of James walking past you, not even sparing you a glance, like you weren’t there.

You could tell yourself it hadn’t hurt. You could tell yourself that it wasn’t real pain, that the ache wasn’t something you could touch or see, not like a bruise or scar. But the sting was there, nestled deep in your chest, curling its fingers around your ribs. The kind of pain that doesn’t have a visible wound. And that made it all the more insidious.

But what was the point of dwelling on something that couldn’t be fixed? Wasn’t it pointless to think about something that wasn’t tangible? You should focus, focus on the mission, your mind told you, yet the silence felt like it carried the weight of an elephant.

By the time you arrived at the house, the sky had already dimmed, the sun dipping low into the horizon and casting long, golden streaks across the pavement. The world seemed to pause for a moment, held in the soft glow of the fading day. The house stood before you, inconspicuous—small, nondescript, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world, encased in layers of security that made it more of a fortress than a home.

Yet even as you stepped from the car, there was a tightness in your chest. It wasn’t fear, but something else. Something that gnawed at you, deep down. A sharp pang of something that was far too difficult to name. Remorse.

The notion of the safe house, the very place where everything was supposed to be safe, should have been a relief. You should have felt comforted by the idea of them here, tucked away, protected. But instead, that odd sense of bitterness settled in the pit of your stomach like a bad taste.

You knocked once—Lexi’s bad habit was rubbing off on you—, then instantly cursed under your breath. The gesture felt pointless. Foolish. The locks on the door were designed to be more than a barrier—they were a deterrent, and your knock could never override that. You didn't need to announce your presence. So, with practiced ease, you let your hand hover over the keypad, your fingers punching in the security code. A soft click sounded, and you stepped into the house.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the air shifted. The scent hit you immediately—the scent of spicy noodles, rich and inviting, tangled with something faintly herbal. It was warm, comforting in its own way, reminding you of something you couldn't quite place. The house was dimly lit, the kind of soft lighting that made it feel like a home, lived in but not untidy. On the coffee table, a half-empty mug sat, steam still curling lazily from the surface. Beside it was a well-worn book, its spine cracked and pages slightly dog-eared, evidence of frequent use. A jacket was slung carelessly over the back of the couch, sleeves uneven as though someone had discarded it in a hurry, a small but significant detail in the otherwise neat surroundings.

And then you heard it—the sound of laughter. Low, familiar, almost musical. It came from the direction of the kitchen, and for a moment, you froze, your heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t the kind of sound you’d expected to hear here, not in this house, not in this moment.

You followed the sound, your feet moving almost without thought, each step bringing you closer to the source. The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of overhead lights, and there, in the middle of it, was Elias. His sleeves were rolled up, hands still damp from whatever he'd been doing, a dish towel slung casually over his shoulder. His dark hair was slightly damp as if he'd just rinsed off, and droplets of water clung to his wrists, catching the light in small bursts of brightness.

Across from him, perched on the kitchen island, was the brewhouse survivor— legs swinging idly as they watched Elias with an amused smile.

Neither of them noticed you at first. They were too wrapped up in their own quiet conversation, too comfortable in their own little bubble. For a moment, you just stood there, watching them both, and it felt like something unfamiliar stirred deep inside you.

Because this... this felt like something you had once dreamed of, something you had wanted—a life of simplicity, of warmth, of normality. It felt like something you could have had.

Then Elias’s gaze flicked up, and just like that, the moment shattered.

“You’re early,” he remarked casually, his voice low but not unwelcoming.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “And you’re… domestic,” you said, the words escaping before you could stop them.

His lips quirked. “Don’t let James hear you say that.”

Beside him, the survivor smirked. “No, please, tell James,” they quipped, their voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “I’d love to see how that conversation goes.”

Elias shot them a look, one that was more bemused than irritated. There was something easy in the exchange, something so effortless that it almost made your chest ache.

You studied the two of them for a long beat, then spoke, your tone matter-of-fact. “You’re due for a reload.”

Elias exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, figured,” he said, a touch of resignation in his voice. His gaze flicked toward the survivor, a softer look passing between them, something unreadable. “Mind giving us a minute?”

The survivor hesitated, looking between the two of you for a moment before hopping off the counter, landing lightly on the floor.

As they passed, their hand brushed Elias’s—just barely, just enough to make you notice.

It was small. Inconsequential, really.

But to you, it was everything.

Once the survivor had disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with Elias, silence filled the space between you. The kind of silence that was too thick to ignore, the kind that made the walls seem to close in.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe a little more, your gaze sharp. “You’re getting attached.”

Elias didn’t even flinch, his expression cool and unfazed. “And?”

“And that’s not always a good thing,” you replied, your voice barely more than a murmur.

He huffed out a soft laugh, almost like he didn’t care. “Right. Because nothing good ever comes from caring.” The words were flippant, but there was an edge to them, a bite that made your chest tighten.

You didn’t answer. Because deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. Deep down, you weren’t sure he was wrong.

Elias studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes heavy with something unspoken. “James sent you, didn’t he?”

For a brief second, you hesitated, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them. “No.”

Elias raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear.

You exhaled, more to yourself than anyone else. “Lexi did.”

Elias smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Figures.”

A long stretch of silence followed, the air between you taut with unspoken tension. Then, just as casually as if he were discussing the weather, Elias leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “So... how’s Uncle James?”

Your gaze faltered, your eyes briefly drifting away. “He’s fine.”

Elias's voice softened, though it carried the same skepticism as before. “Right. And you?”

You hesitated for just a moment before replying, your voice tight, “I’m fine.”

Elias chuckled, low and almost amused. “You used to be a better liar.”

The words, soft as they were, landed with surprising weight. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t even particularly harsh. But they hit somewhere inside you, in a place that you hadn’t realized was still raw.

You opened your mouth to respond, to say anything, but—

A voice called out from down the hallway.

“Did you tell them yet?”

The survivor.

Elias groaned, tilting his head back in frustration. “No, because I knew you’d want to be here for it.”

Your eyes narrowed, your curiosity piqued. “Tell me what?”

The survivor appeared in the doorway once more, arms crossed and a gleam of amusement in their eyes. “Oh, just something funny we were talking about earlier,” they said, their grin widening. “You know—how Elias used to have a crush on you.”

The room seemed to fall into complete silence.

Elias’s entire body tensed, his posture stiffening, his shoulders rigid with barely contained annoyance. “I swear to God—”

The survivor’s grin only widened, practically oozing mischief. “What? It’s not like it was a secret.”

You could feel your own brows lifting, amusement flickering across your face.

Elias shot you a look—the kind that could only be described as a desperate drop-this-now type of look.

But it was too late.

A slow smirk tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. “Oh?”

Elias groaned, dragging a hand down his face in defeat. “You love making my life difficult, don’t you?”

The survivor simply shrugged, their grin unrepentant. “It’s a hobby.”

You leaned against the doorframe, your arms still crossed as you eyed Elias. “You had a crush on me?”

Elias muttered something under his breath, a low, irritated sound that made you grin all the more. He exhaled sharply, his eyes meeting yours with a look that was unreadable, distant. “It was a long time ago.”

You hummed thoughtfully, pretending to mull it over. “How long?”

Elias’s scowl deepened, and he finally snapped, “Does it matter?”

The survivor, clearly enjoying every moment of this, snorted. “I’d say... middle school? Maybe early high school? That’s what he told me at least.”

Elias shot them a venomous glare. “You weren’t supposed to—”

They raised their hands in mock surrender. “Hey, it’s not my fault you used to get all weird whenever they were mentioned.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Weird how?”

Elias groaned again, rubbing his temples in exasperation. “I hate both of you.”

The survivor merely grinned, clearly unbothered.

You couldn't fight the sharp tug at your lips, a mixture between the two’s laughter and bickering in the air and for the first time in three days, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

 ──

Knock!

The sound barely registered at first. It was quiet but firm, measured in a way that wasn’t intrusive but also wasn’t asking for permission.

Still, it brought the faintest pull of a smile to your lips.

You shook your head, already knowing who it was.

“Come in,” you called out, voice gentle, expectant.

You didn’t turn around completely. Lexi never took it to heart—at least, you didn’t think so. She had always been understanding of your divided attention, the way work swallowed you whole, the way your focus always seemed to linger somewhere just beyond the present moment.

Your gaze remained fixed on the screen in front of you, fingers hovering above the keyboard, the glow of the monitor casting faint shadows across your hands. It wasn’t the body of the email that held your attention—it was the name of the sender.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as you read it again.

The unfamiliarity of it made something in your chest tighten.

A gut feeling.

A whisper of unease that slithered down your spine, settling at the base of your neck.

Still, you pushed past it.

“Hey, Lex, do we know an Asr—”

The sentence never fully left your lips.

Because when you turned, it wasn’t Lexi standing in the doorway.

It was a gun.

Close—too close.

Your breath hitched in your throat, every muscle in your body stiffening before your mind could fully process what was happening.

Recognition struck you in an instant. Not just the weapon, but this one in particular.

The double-barrel design was unmistakable.

An old-school relic, the kind rarely used in modern action—too impractical, too slow. It was a collector’s piece, meant to sit behind glass, admired but never wielded.

But this one had been wielded.

The craftsmanship was still immaculate, the metal polished to a high shine. But the wood handle—deep, aged mahogany—bore subtle signs of wear, the kind that came from use rather than time.

And there, delicately etched in gold, were two sets of initials.

Yours and his.

The realization coiled in your gut like a vice.

You had bought this gun for James on your anniversary.

Now, it was pressed against your temple.

The cool metal sent a shiver down your spine, its biting chill cutting through the heat of tension that had been festering beneath your skin for days. It was grounding, in a way. An undeniable, inescapable truth—one that existed outside of speculation, emotion, or doubt.

“James.”

His name left your lips in a slow exhale, more acknowledgment than question.

The weight of it settled between you, thick, unmoving.

Your eyes lifted, trailing up the length of his arm, past the unwavering grip of his fingers around the handle, until they met his gaze.

James stood before you, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

But his eyes—

There was something in them.

Something deep and simmering, a storm barely restrained.

You had seen James angry before. You had seen him ruthless, had watched him drenched in blood that wasn’t his own, had witnessed the quiet, deliberate way he handled betrayal, vengeance, violence.

But this—this was different.

There was no unrestrained fury spilling from him. No eruption of rage. No cold, clinical detachment.

This was something worse.

This was James at his most dangerous.

Quiet. Controlled. Unknowable.

The gun didn’t waver.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, but your voice remained steady.

“That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation,” you murmured, tilting your head ever so slightly, enough to feel the barrel shift against your skin. “I assume you have a point to make?”

James didn’t blink.

“You tell me.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came after a decision had already been made, when there was nothing left to debate.

A pause.

A slow inhale.

Your fingers curled against the edge of your desk—not in fear, but in frustration.

This was a game.

And James never played unless he had already won.

Unfortunate for him, you were a sore loser.

Your hand moved swiftly, reaching for the desk drawer.

A fraction of a second.

The whisper of wood sliding against metal.

And then—

The weight of a Wraith-issued pistol in your grip.

The weapon felt unfamiliar, heavy in a way that wasn’t just physical. A weight not of metal, but of something deeper—history, expectation, consequence.

You rose to your feet, the barrel of your gun snapping upward in response.

For the first time, James moved.

One step forward.

You stepped back.

Another.

You mirrored him again, your body tense, heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

And then—

A miscalculation.

Your back met the desk.

You flinched, just slightly, but it was enough.

James took another step forward, closing the space between you in an instant.

The air between you thickened, electric, charged with something that was neither fear nor anger, but something far more dangerous.

Your fingers tightened around the pistol, but James—James simply stared.

Not at the gun. Not at your stance.

At you.

Like he was seeing something beyond flesh, beyond the moment, beyond the choices that had led you both here.

Like he was searching for something.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure if he had found it.

You swallowed, your breath shallow, uneven.

“I suppose this is the part where we decide who pulls the trigger first,” you murmured.

In truth, you hated the feeling of the pistol in your hand. No, more than that—you hated the idea of it being pointed at James, at the man who, despite everything, was still your husband. It felt unnatural, wrong in a way that clawed at your insides, turning your stomach with something heavier than guilt.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly lowered the weapon, placing it down on a pile of untouched documents littering your desk. The paper crinkled beneath the weight, the stark contrast of cold steel against soft parchment feeling like a metaphor too on the nose to ignore. A quiet surrender. One you weren’t sure if James would accept. One you weren’t sure you even wanted him to.

Something unspooled inside you at the action, some tightly wound tension unraveling at the edges, leaving nothing but raw vulnerability in its wake. You tried to speak, to bridge the impossible distance between you, but the words snagged in your throat. Your voice came out broken, fractured around the edges of something unspoken.

“I—I’m sorr—”

Before the sentence could fully leave your lips, James moved.

Faster than thought, faster than hesitation, faster than you could ever hope to react. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing whatever apology had been lingering there, whatever trembling confession you had been on the verge of making. The force of it pushed you backward, your body yielding instinctively as you found yourself sitting atop the desk, papers scattering beneath you.

The sound of his gun hitting the floor barely registered.

What did register—what consumed you entirely—was the way his hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with a desperation that felt almost bruising. Like he was trying to ground himself in you, like he needed you as much as he needed air, as much as he needed control. And for once, James wasn’t in control.

There was nothing careful about the way he kissed you. Nothing measured, nothing restrained. This wasn’t the cold calculation of a man who always thought three steps ahead. This was reckless. This was need, raw and unfiltered, bleeding through the cracks of whatever dam had finally broken inside him.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself in the sheer intensity of his presence. He responded in kind, his hands sliding up your waist, pressing against your ribs, dragging you against him until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the lingering taste of everything that had been left unsaid.

For all the years you had spent beside James, watching him, learning him, understanding him in ways no one else ever could, there had always been a distance. A line he never let himself cross, a carefulness to the way he touched you, spoke to you, held you. A constant battle between what he wanted and what he was willing to take.

That line was gone now.

His grip on you tightened as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, trailing lower, the rough scratch of his stubble sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled against your skin, hot and unsteady, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. It was the first sign—maybe the only sign—that this wasn’t just hunger.

It was fear.

Not fear of you. Not fear of the gun that had been pointed at him only moments ago.

Fear of loss.

Fear of what had nearly happened.

Fear that for the first time, he had looked at you and seen a stranger holding a weapon, rather than his wife.

You felt it too. The weight of it. The lingering ghost of that moment still hung between you, a silent specter whispering of everything that had been fractured.

Your fingers found his face, cupping it between your palms, forcing him to meet your gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark and stormy, like a sea caught in the eye of a hurricane. He looked at you the way a drowning man looks at the surface of the water—like salvation, like the only thing keeping him from slipping under.

You swallowed hard, the emotion thick in your throat, the remnants of a sob still threatening to break free.

“I never wanted—” Your voice wavered, cracking under the weight of what you wanted to say, what you couldn’t. “James, I—”

James’ lips pressed against yours again, but this time, it wasn’t the frantic desperation of before. It wasn’t wild or reckless.

It was slow. Deep. Unyielding.

It was a claim.

A reminder of exactly who he was. Exactly who you were to him.

Your breath stuttered, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as if holding onto him might keep you grounded, might keep you from slipping under the weight of what was happening. But there was no grounding yourself when it came to James. He was gravity and chaos all at once, pulling you into his orbit with a force you could never resist, no matter how much you tried.

And you weren’t sure you even wanted to.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips the moment his hands found your waistband, fingers deft and practiced as they worked the button free, then the zipper, peeling away the fabric with an ease that left you dizzy. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just the rough, insistent press of his palms against your hips, pushing your pants down, dragging them lower, lower, until they pooled at your ankles before being carelessly discarded to the floor.

The rush of air against your exposed skin sent a shiver racing through you, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off of him, to the way his touch lingered, possessive and intent.

"James—" Your voice broke on his name, a mixture of warning and something else entirely—something breathless, something unsure, something dangerously close to surrender.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him—disheveled, breathing heavy, eyes dark and unreadable—sent another thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins. He reached for his belt, the soft, deliberate sound of metal sliding against leather filling the charged space between you.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, hoarse, barely more than a rasp, like he had already decided what was going to happen but was still giving you the chance to stop him.

You swallowed hard, hands bracing against the desk beneath you, trying to find some semblance of control, some way to slow the dizzying pace of whatever this was.

"Here?" The question barely made it past your lips, almost swallowed by the pounding of your own heart. "Really?"

For a moment, James didn’t answer. He just stood there, belt now undone, the fabric of his shirt slightly rumpled from your grip, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable. And then, slowly, his hands found your thighs again, his touch steady, almost too gentle given the tension that crackled in the air between you.

"You think the place matters?" His voice was quiet, but there was something lethal beneath it, something simmering just beneath the surface. "After what just happened? After I had to look at you and see a weapon pointed at me instead of my wife?"

A sharp, visceral ache twisted in your chest at his words.

Because it was true.

For a fraction of a second, you hadn’t been his. You had been someone else entirely.

And James—James wasn’t the kind of man to let something like that go.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to make you gasp, to remind you of exactly who was in control, exactly who had always been in control.

"Tell me," he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "Do you feel like stopping?"

Your breath hitched.

Because he already knew the answer.

And before you could even part your lips, before you could even beg for his touch—

The phone rang.

The sharp, intrusive sound sliced through the thick, heated air between you, shattering the moment, tearing you both from the precipice of something inevitable. The weight of it still lingered, heavy, suffocating, clinging to your skin like the heat of a dying flame.

For a split second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

The only sound was that damn ringing, sharp and insistent, like a sneering reminder of the outside world—a world that had no place here, not in this charged space, not in this fragile, dangerous moment where time had threatened to stop altogether.

James tensed first. You felt it in the way his hands stiffened against your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to make you shiver. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his lips pressed into a thin, tight line, his eyes flickering—just once—to the phone.

And then, under his breath, barely above a whisper—

“Fuck.”

A single, venomous syllable that mirrored the exact thought already running through your own mind.

Your stomach twisted in frustration, the fire still burning low in your veins, aching, demanding, unfulfilled. Slowly, reluctantly, your gaze flickered to the phone, its screen glowing mockingly atop the pile of scattered documents on your desk. No name—just a string of unfamiliar numbers, impersonal and meaningless, yet somehow powerful enough to sever whatever fragile tether had held you and James suspended in this moment.

Your fingers twitched against the polished wood beneath you, torn between answering and letting it ring, between responsibility and the undeniable pull of the man still standing between your legs, still caging you in with the heat of his presence, still looking at you like he hadn’t quite decided whether to let this interruption slide or take matters into his own hands.

The phone rang again.

You swallowed hard, exhaling sharply through your nose before forcing yourself to move.

Reaching over, you grabbed the receiver, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than it should have, like lifting it was some kind of defeat. You brought it to your ear, inhaling deeply, forcing down the heat still simmering beneath your skin, forcing your voice into something neutral, something professional, something entirely detached from the way James was still standing too close, still watching you with that dark, unreadable gaze.

"Good afternoon." The words slipped from your mouth, smooth, practiced—effortless. The same professional cadence you had used countless times, honed over years of training, of suppressing every raw, unfiltered emotion that threatened to spill over in the heat of the moment. "Speaking."

But there was a tremor in your chest, something that had no place in your voice. You weren’t sure what had caused it—You tried to stifle it, tried to disguise it with a cough, but the damage was already done—the sound escaping in a way that felt almost damning. And you weren’t sure which was more responsible for it: the name that came through the receiver, clear and unfamiliar yet laced with something that sent a whisper of unease crawling down your spine… or James.

James, who had moved the second your attention was divided.

James, who had pulled you down from the desk with ease, his strength effortless, practiced, the shift so sudden and fluid that you barely had time to process it before you found yourself turned—flipped—your palms catching against the wood as your chest pressed to the cool surface, your lower half snug against him.

James, who now stood behind you, solid and unmoving, his presence burning through the thin layer of your remaining clothing, his grip firm where his fingers splayed against your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You were trying to focus. Trying to concentrate on the call, to maintain the control you had so carefully built over the years. But the longer you stood there, the harder it became.

And then there was the name that had just been introduced to you, the name that had you instantly questioning everything.

The email. The sender. The message.

Your stomach twisted, and you could feel the weight of it, the gravity of the situation, pulling you down, suffocating you with a thousand unsaid words. The name had triggered something in you—something darker, something buried. Your fingers tightened around the receiver, almost too tight, as you fought to regain some semblance of composure.

But you couldn’t. Not when James’ lips brushed against your ear, a soft, barely audible breath against your skin, the proximity of his body making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.

The name. The email. It all felt like a distant noise—so far removed from the chaos James was stirring in you.

With a shaky breath, you forced yourself to speak again, but the words stumbled over your tongue, each one more difficult than the last.

"Y—yes! I had received it," you managed, voice catching in your throat. The stutter was involuntary, a reflex in the wake of the pressure building inside you, the whirlwind of emotions, the way James was consuming every inch of you, both physically and mentally. "I—I apologize, I didn’t get the chance to read it—"

Your words faltered, and it wasn’t because of the call itself. It was because James had shifted again, his grip tightening, pulling you further into him, the subtle movement of his hips against yours sending a ripple of heat through you that made it even harder to concentrate. You could feel him, the heat of his body seeping into yours, and your mind was hazy, your thoughts tangled in knots.

The name, the email, all of it was fading into the background as the tension between you and James tightened further, like a noose, squeezing the air from your lungs and making it nearly impossible to think straight.

Then, a name you recognized.

Vic.

It snapped you back for a moment. You nodded instinctively, as if the man on the other side of the phone could somehow see you. It was a strange, disorienting reflex, a last-ditch attempt to retain some semblance of professionalism, some thread of the woman you had been moments ago.

“Yes, I’m quite familiar,” you said, voice still trembling, betraying you in ways you couldn’t stop. “Will he be scheduling a meeting as we—”

Before you could finish, before the sentence could even hang in the air, James moved.

The last piece of clothing that had separated you from him—the fabric that had barely shielded you from the storm you knew was coming—was torn away with a swift, practiced motion. A soft, lingering sensation connected you to the discarded fabric as it fluttered to the floor, the connection leaving you exposed, raw.

You couldn’t help but gasp, the sharpness of the air hitting the wet skin making the moment feel infinitely more intimate, infinitely more exposed than you had ever intended.

And then, the sound of James’ low chuckle—low and almost mocking—whispered across the back of your neck.

"You don't even need any prep, do you?" His voice was quiet, the words slipping out with that same predatory calm that always made your pulse race, always made your heart skip in a way that felt both thrilling and dangerous.

Before you could even register the full impact of his words, the sharp sting of his hand landing against your mound cut through the haze of your thoughts, and you couldn’t contain the gasp that followed. It was a reaction, involuntary, the shock of it jolting through you, making your entire body stiffen.

It wasn’t just the physical sting.

It was the way he had pushed you to this point, the way he was controlling the pace, the rhythm, even of your breath. It was the absolute knowing in his touch, the calculated way he seemed to anticipate each and every response you would give before it even left your body.

And then, as if to add insult to injury, the man on the other end of the phone chuckled.

It was a low sound, thick and full, like something dark and ugly. A sound that, for a brief moment, made your stomach twist in humiliation.

Had he known? Had he heard?

The thought, the possibility of it, made you falter. It made your heart skip in a way that wasn’t just nervous—it was something worse. Something deeper. The question lingered, pulling at you like a thread unraveling a tapestry, revealing more than you wanted to see, more than you could process.

But James? He never wavered. Never once broke the rhythm. His focus remained on you—on making sure you were both lost in this moment, trapped in it, unable to look away.

Without missing a beat, James moved. The shift was so sudden, so precise, that it stole your breath in an instant. The warmth of his hand was already there, and before you could even process what was happening, he was deeper—his fingers pressing inside of you, stretching you, claiming you with a force that sent a shock through your entire body.

You gasped, your chest tightening, your pulse hammering in your ears. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, the feeling of him—of being claimed—almost unbearable in its intensity.

“Look how needy you are.” James’ voice was low, thick with something darker, something that made your stomach tighten in a strange mix of exhilaration and dread. The words weren’t a question; they were a fact. He spoke to them with the kind of certainty that only he could wield, his hand holding you firm, his every touch deliberate. “You love this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Not right away. The words were lost, caught somewhere in the heat, in the shock of the moment. Every inch of your body felt exposed, raw, as if James had already stripped you bare in ways that went beyond the physical. It wasn’t just your clothes that were gone—it was everything.

Then, just as the wave of sensations started to overwhelm you, a voice broke through.

“Is this a—bad time?”

It was a question, but it wasn’t a question. The tone was light, mocking even, as if the man on the other end of the line could sense the disruption, the tension hanging in the air. He didn’t sound concerned. He didn’t sound apologetic.

It was almost as if he was amused.

Your throat tightened, and for a brief moment, you wondered if he knew. If he really knew what was happening. You couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, the voice on the other end wasn’t just a casual interruption. No, it was almost as if it was feeding into the chaos, like it was part of the game being played, unaware—or perhaps completely aware—of the fire it had just thrown gasoline on.

James’ grip on you tightened, his eyes burning with that same unrelenting intensity, a glimmer of something almost amused in the way his gaze flickered to yours. You could hear his breathing deepen, feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his movements grew more deliberate, more controlled.

He didn’t say a word.

But the way he pressed against you, the way his fingers curled, the way his gaze never left you—it was a silent statement, a clear declaration that there was nothing, not even the intrusion of a phone call, that would pull him from this moment.

As the voice on the phone continued to linger, the mockery in his tone impossible to ignore, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all crashing down on you. The walls were closing in. The tension was building to a breaking point. It was a game now, and you were trapped in it—no way to escape, no way to retreat.

James's fingers pumped relentlessly into your sopping wet cunt, plunging in and out, stirring up your juices until they dripped down onto the desk beneath you. The obscene squelching and schlicking sounds filled the office, punctuated by James's harsh pants and your own breathy moans.

He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that spongy spot on your front wall that made your toes curl and your back arch. James rubbed and massaged your G-spot with ruthless precision, determined to make you fall apart on his invading digits.

"You’re taking it so well," James taunted, his voice dripping with lust and amusement. "I bet you wish it was my cock stuffing this greedy hole instead of my fingers, don't you?"

His thumb flicked and rubbed your clit with brutal efficiency, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. James could feel your velvety walls clenching and fluttering around his pumping fingers, trying to suck him in deeper.

Slick juices coated his hand, dripping down to pool on the floor below as he fingered you with wild abandon. James's other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he fucked his fingers into your needy cunt with punishing force.

His other hand gripped your ass, squeezing the taut globe roughly as he fingered you. The sound of your arousal filled the office, the obscene squelching and schlicking of your juices coating his pistoning fingers a lewd symphony.

The voice on the other end of the line cut through the haze of your thoughts with unnerving precision. It was almost as if he were savoring the moment, the weight of his words landing in the stillness of the room like a stone dropped in water, sending ripples of discomfort through your already overloaded senses.

“I’ll call back later,” he said smoothly, as if everything were normal. As if your world hadn’t just been twisted, as if James’ relentless pace hadn’t already stripped away any semblance of control. "Save the number."

The words hung in the air between you like a threat, or perhaps a promise, you couldn’t quite decide. There was no urgency in his voice, no rush. Just that same mocking, detached amusement that made the situation feel even more surreal. He knew. He knew what was happening. He could hear it in your breath, in the tension in your voice, in the silence that followed his request.

You swallowed hard, trying to regain some composure, but it was impossible. The connection was cut before you could say anything more, but his final words echoed in your mind, reverberating through your thoughts long after the line went dead.

Your hands moved instinctively, reaching down, desperate to grasp his wrist, to hold onto something solid. But it was futile. His pace, his rhythm—too fast, too relentless—left you barely able to focus on anything other than the overwhelming sensations flooding your body. It was as if his movements were designed to blur everything else, to leave you without any clear thoughts, only fragmented sensations.

Your fingers barely grazed his wrist before your hand fell back uselessly, and for a moment, you were nothing but lost in the haze, tangled in the chaos he had woven around you.

James abruptly pulled his soaked fingers from your dripping cunt, leaving you feeling empty and aching for more. You heard the obscene slurping sounds as he sucked your juices from his digits, cleaning them with lewd relish. The sound of his belt buckle jingling—His belt was already undone, the leather strap dangling loose–and his zipper lowering filled the air, followed by the unmistakable rustle of fabric. Then, with a low groan, James freed his thick, hard cock from the confines of his slacks.

You felt the scorching heat of it before you saw it, the swollen head brushing against your ass, smearing your dripping arousal onto your skin. James's cock was thick and long, the veins along his shaft pulsing with need.

"Look at what you do to me," James muttered, gripping his length and slapping it against your ass cheeks. He rubbed the leaking tip through your soaked folds, coating himself in your slick juices. James's breathing grew heavier, harsher, as he notched the head of his cock against your entrance.

James gripped your hips bruisingly, fingers digging into the flesh as he lined himself up. With one brutal thrust, he slammed forward, burying his thick cock balls-deep into your fluttering heat. A guttural groan tore from his throat at the exquisite sensation of your silken walls gripping him like a vice.

James's hips pistoned wildly, slamming into your ass with brutal force as he fucked you over the desk. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mingling with your wanton moans and James's guttural grunts. Sweat dripped down his chest, splattering onto your back as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

"I fucking love you," James panted harshly, his voice rough with lust and emotion. "Goddamn, I love you so much." He punctuated his declaration with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass.

Suddenly, James leaned down, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers cascading down your spine.

"I love you," James murmured softly, his voice low and filled with tender affection. "I love you so fucking much."

He placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, a stark contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. The tender gesture made your heart swell, even as your body was wracked with pleasure. James's love, even in the heat of the moment, was a balm to your soul. “James–” You croak out, words caught in your throat at a partially brutal thrust, “---I love you too” 

"I'm going to fill this pussy up," James promised darkly, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside your fluttering walls. "Pump you so full of my cum, everyone will know you belong to me."

ames's words, dripping with love and dark promise, sent a thrill of ecstasy shooting through you. He could feel your velvet walls starting to quiver and clench around his pistoning cock, your orgasm approaching rapidly.

"That's it, baby," James encouraged, his voice a low, seductive rumble in your ear. "Come for me."

His hand snaked around to your front, finding your aching clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles, his calloused fingers providing the perfect friction. At the same time, James slammed his cock into you with renewed vigor, the head ramming against your cervix with every thrust.

The dual stimulation proved too much, and with a sharp cry of James's name, your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clamped down around James's shaft, gripping him like a silken vise as you came undone.

He thrust into you one, two, three more times before burying himself to the hilt. With a guttural groan, James began to unload, his cock pulsing and jerking as it unleashed a torrent of hot, thick cum deep inside you.

Wave after wave of James's essence flooded your spasming channel, your womb quickly filling with his potent release. You could feel the warm, sticky fluid sloshing inside you as James emptied his balls, marking you, claiming you from the inside out.

You lingered there together, your bodies entwined, hearts still racing. The office was a chaotic mess, papers scattered across the floor, furniture out of place, the remnants of everything that had just transpired. But in that moment, the world outside faded away. All that mattered was the connection between the two of you, raw and intimate, grounded in the silence that followed.

Still breathless, James muttered under his breath, his voice low and casual, as if it were just another question in the midst of everything that had already unfolded. “Hey… who was that?”

It took a full thirty seconds for the fog in your mind to clear, for the reality of his question to cut through the haze of your body still humming with pleasure. Then, it hit you—the phone call. The voice on the other end. The name.

“Someone named Asriel?” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying it out loud would somehow change everything.

James’ expression shifted just slightly, his gaze darkening for a fraction of a second. The air between you both grew thick with something unspoken, a tension that seemed to stretch and pull in every direction.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang, thick and suffocating, as if weighing the consequences of what you’d just said.

His fingers, which had been lightly tracing your skin, stilled, and you could feel the change in his demeanor, like the calm before a storm.

──

author's note: no clue how this got so long omg.

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 5: If It's All In My Head, Tell Me Now. Tell Me I've Got It Wrong Somehow.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

Anna had been everything to Remy once. She wasn’t just his wife; she was the anchor that had kept him grounded in a world that seemed determined to pull him under. When they met, Remy had been younger, wilder—the charming thief with a devil-may-care attitude. But Anna had seen something in him that no one else had. She saw beyond the bravado, beyond the criminal lifestyle, and found the man underneath. She loved him for who he truly was, not who the world thought he was. And in return, Remy had given her his heart.

Their love had been intense, passionate, but also tender and steady. Anna had been his safe place, the one person who could calm the storm that always seemed to rage inside him. She had this way of making him feel like he was enough, like he didn’t have to prove anything to anyone. With her, he could just be.

But then she was gone.

A drunk driver had taken her from him in an instant, and with her, she’d taken a piece of Remy’s soul. After her death, Remy had been lost, adrift in a sea of guilt and pain. He’d buried himself in his work, in his schemes, in his life, trying to forget. Trying to outrun the grief that clung to him like a shadow.

But he never really let her go. He never could.

That photo album was a testament to that. It was filled with pictures of their life together, from their first date to their wedding day. It held snapshots of the moments that had defined them, the quiet mornings spent in bed, the laughter shared over shared meals, the way she used to look at him like he was her whole world. Remy sat in the car, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. The rain falling outside blurred the world into a haze, but all he could focus on was the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He knew he shouldn’t be here. Every part of his mind screamed at him to leave—turn the key, drive away, and forget about this. He’d done it before. Sent flowers, a note, maybe a gift wrapped in pretty paper. It was a playbook he knew well. It always worked. It kept things simple, kept people at arm’s length.

But with you, it wasn’t simple. It never had been.

He glanced down at the worn leather album in his lap, his hands trembling as they hovered over it. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Showing you this—showing you her—wasn't just a risk, it was terrifying. Because you weren't like anyone else. You saw through the charm, through the slick words and the easy smiles.

You didn’t look at him the way others did—with fear, with caution, with that wary glint in their eyes, like they were always waiting for the other shoe to drop. You didn’t see the dangerous man who had built his life on lies and half-truths. You didn’t see the thief, the Cajun rogue with a past he tried to bury. You saw him. The real Remy. The one he didn’t show anyone.

And you hadn’t flinched.

Not once.

He could still remember the first time he realized you were different. It wasn’t anything grand, nothing that should’ve knocked him off balance the way it had. You had just looked at him—really looked at him—and it was like you saw all the cracks in his armor, all the pieces of him he kept hidden. And instead of pulling back, instead of retreating like most people did when they got too close, you had stayed. You had smiled, laughed, as if what you saw wasn’t something to be afraid of. You were sitting on that crate talking like you had known him your whole life.

That was the thing about you. You made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had. And that scared him more than any risk he’d ever taken.

Remy leaned back in the seat, the rain beating against the windshield like a relentless drum, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as his mind replayed the moment over and over again. His heart gave a painful twist as he thought about how badly he had messed things up—how, in that split second, he had done what he always did. He’d used you. And now, as the realization settled in, it cut him deeper than any wound he’d ever taken in a fight.

That kiss—it haunted him.

At first, it had been instinct. The second he spotted the police closing in, his mind had gone into overdrive, calculating, strategizing, looking for an out. And then he’d turned to you, and everything changed. The plan was simple, something he’d done a hundred times before, a quick kiss to cover his tracks, to slip the drugs to you without a second thought. You were an opportunity. A convenient shield. And in that brief moment, that’s what he had reduced you to.

But now? Now he wished more than anything that he could take it back.

Because the kiss—the feel of your lips against his, the way your breath had hitched in surprise—had stirred something in him he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it did. The second his lips touched yours, something inside him shifted, and for the briefest moment, all of the noise, all of the chaos around him had faded away, leaving only you.

And that’s when the guilt hit him like a punch to the gut.

He had kissed you, not because he wanted to, not because he couldn’t resist the pull he always felt when he was near you, but because he was thinking of himself. He was thinking of how to keep himself out of trouble, of how to use you to slip away unnoticed, just another move in a game he had been playing his whole life. And it made him sick.

Because you weren’t some pawn. You weren’t some piece on his chessboard, some convenient cover he could use and discard when it suited him. You were you. And you deserved more than that.

But in that moment, he hadn’t considered any of that. He hadn’t thought about how it would make you feel, how much it would hurt you when you realized what he had done. He had only seen you as someone who would always be there, someone who would cover for him, who would take the hit, even though he knew deep down it would cost you. And while he was thinking only of himself, of his escape, he had pushed you away.

He could still see the look in your eyes afterward—the confusion, the hurt, the betrayal.

And now, sitting here in the car, the album in his lap, the rain pouring down outside, he realized just how much he had lost in that moment. Because the truth was, that kiss had meant something. It had meant everything. And he had ruined it.

His mind flashed back to the warmth of your lips, the way your body had instinctively leaned into his, just for a second, before the reality of what he’d done had hit you. He had felt the connection between you, the spark he had always tried to ignore, to push away, because it scared him. Because you scared him. You made him feel things he wasn’t used to feeling—things he didn’t know how to handle. And instead of facing that, instead of being honest with himself and with you, he had taken the easy way out. He had used you.

And now, he wasn’t sure if he could ever make it right.

His heart clenched painfully as he thought about the last time he had seen you. The hurt in your eyes when he had pulled away, when he had shut you out. The way you had looked at him, waiting for him to say something, to do something—anything—that would prove he wasn’t the man you feared he was becoming. But he hadn’t. He had let you walk away because it was easier than facing the truth. Easier than admitting that you had gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever had.

And now, sitting here in the car, staring at the rain-soaked streets outside your small house, he realized that this might be his last chance. His last chance to fix what he had broken. His usual tricks, his charm, his smooth words—they wouldn’t work on you. They never had. You’d see right through them. You’d see right through him.

He glanced down at the album again, his fingers tracing the worn leather cover. Inside were pieces of his life he had never shared with anyone. Memories, photographs, moments that had shaped him into the man he was today. And maybe, just maybe, if he showed you this—if he let you see the things he kept hidden—it would be enough to show you that he cared. That you weren’t just another person in his life.

His heart pounded in his chest as he finally made the decision, his body moving on autopilot as he grabbed the album and forced himself out of the car. The rain hit him immediately, cold and relentless, but he barely felt it. His mind was too focused, too consumed with the thought of you—of what he needed to say, of what he needed to show you. As Remy stood in front of your door, his hand hovering over the wood, the mental anguish clawed at him. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to walk away before he made a fool of himself, before he bared parts of himself he wasn’t sure you wanted to see. But his heart—his heart wouldn’t let him leave. His heart was telling him that you were worth the risk. That you were worth the fear, the vulnerability, the potential for rejection.

His hand knocked, the sound barely audible over the rain, but loud enough to send a jolt of dread through him. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The rain was a dull roar in the background as he waited, his heart thundering in his chest, the weight of his mistakes pressing down on him like a physical thing.

Then, the door opened.

There you were, standing in the doorway, your eyes widening slightly in surprise. He must’ve looked like a mess—soaked through, clutching an old album like it was the only thing keeping him grounded—but you didn’t laugh. You didn’t scoff or turn away. You just looked at him, your gaze soft, confused, but not unkind.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said quietly, your voice full of questions, but also something else—something that made his heart ache even more.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his mind racing. He had spent hours trying to figure out what to say, how to explain himself, but now that he was here, standing in front of you, every word seemed to crumble before it could leave his mouth. He forced himself to speak, his voice rough, thick with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. “I know I messed up,” he started, his accent thicker than usual, his words almost slurring together in his rush to get them out. “I know I pushed ya away when I shoulda le’ ya in. I know I made ya think I didn’ care.”

The words hung between you, heavy with regret. He looked down at the album in his hands, his fingers trembling as he held it out toward you. “But I do care. More than I know how t’ say.”

He hesitated, glancing between the album and your eyes, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break. “This…” His voice faltered for a moment, the vulnerability in his chest squeezing tight. “This is me, chère. The real me. The parts I don’t show anyone. The parts I’ve been too scared to let anyone see.” He licked his lips, his throat feeling dry despite the rain soaking him to his skin. “This album, it’s… it’s everything I am. It’s the one thing that means more to me than anything.”

His breath shook as he held it out farther, urging you to take it. “I don’t know if it’s enough. But it’s all I got. An’ I need ya t’ see it.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and full of unspoken words, unasked questions. Remy’s heart pounded in his chest, fear clawing at him, but he didn’t look away from your face, didn’t let himself retreat. Everything was riding on this moment. If you turned him away now, if you rejected him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to come back from it.

You stared at the album for what felt like an eternity, your eyes flicking between it and him. Searching his face for something—truth, maybe. Or sincerity. Or the kind of vulnerability he so rarely let anyone see. Whatever it was, you must’ve found it, because after what seemed like forever, you stepped aside, your voice soft but steady.

“Come in.”

And just like that, the tightness in his chest loosened, just a little. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it was a chance. And for a man like Remy, who had spent his whole life running from the things that scared him, that was more than he deserved. But he was going to take it. He had to.

This was the moment. The one he had been too scared to face for so long. The moment where he had to stop hiding, stop running, and show you who he really was. The man behind the charm, the smooth words, the reputation. The man he wasn’t sure you’d still want once you saw all the cracks, all the broken pieces he kept hidden.

But you had opened the door. You had given him a chance. And for the first time in his life, Remy was choosing to fight for something real. For something that terrified him more than anything else ever had.

Because for the first time in a long time, he had something to fight for.  And that something was you. <><><><><><><><> Remy lingered between your two armchairs, the weight of the album in his hands grounding him as he took in your living room in silence. It was a space that shouldn’t have worked—the mismatched furniture, the clutter, the lived-in feel of it all—but somehow, it did. The green armchair with its weathered fabric and the burgundy one with its sagging cushions were like two old friends that didn’t quite belong together but had found a way to coexist. The soft blanket tossed over the back of one chair, the pillows strewn across the couch, even the uneven stack of magazines on the coffee table—it was messy, but it was home.

The room had a heartbeat, a warmth that made Remy feel both out of place and strangely drawn in. He wasn’t used to this kind of space. Everything in his world had a temporary feel to it, like he was always one step away from leaving. But here… here it felt like things were meant to stay. The mismatched furniture, the little signs of life scattered around the room, the warmth of the space—it all spoke of permanence, of a life that had roots. And that unsettled him in a way he hadn’t expected.

He glanced over at the coffee table, where a plate of microwaved food sat next to a half-empty glass of water. The remnants of your dinner. He could still smell the faint aroma of reheated pasta and tomato sauce, and it reminded him how human this moment was. There was no pretense here, no attempt to clean up or make things look perfect before he arrived. You hadn’t been expecting him, and you weren’t trying to impress him. And for some reason, that made him feel more exposed than anything else.

You muted the television and turned toward him, the soft glow of the screen casting a muted light across the room. Your expression was careful, guarded, like you weren’t quite sure why he was here, standing in the middle of your living room, soaked to the bone, clutching an old album like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“You can sit if you want,” you said, your voice gentle but cautious, like you were still trying to make sense of the situation.

He hesitated for a moment, his fingers tightening around the album as his eyes flicked between you and the empty armchair. The invitation was simple, but it felt like so much more than that. Sitting down meant staying. It meant acknowledging that he was here for a reason, that he wasn’t just passing through. And that terrified him. But you were giving him a chance—one he didn’t deserve, but one he was desperate not to waste.

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and lowered himself into the burgundy armchair. The springs creaked under his weight, but it didn’t bother him. There was something comforting about the worn-out chair, something that made the room feel lived-in and real. He leaned back slightly, trying to settle the nervous energy buzzing through him, but it was hard to relax when everything inside him felt like it was teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t control.

You pulled your feet up onto the couch, sitting cross-legged, watching him carefully. Your eyes followed his every move, not in a hostile way, but in a way that told him you were still trying to figure him out. You didn’t trust him fully—not after what he’d done. And he didn’t blame you. He didn’t trust himself most of the time.

His heart raced as he leaned forward and gently placed the worn leather album on the coffee table, the weight of it leaving his hands but not his heart. His fingers lingered on the edges of the cover, tracing the familiar creases in the leather, as if letting go of it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was, in a way. This album was more than just a collection of memories; it was a piece of him, a part of his life that he had never shown anyone.

“This…” He hesitated, his voice quieter now, thick with emotion that he wasn’t used to showing. “This is me, chère. The real me. The parts I don’t show nobody.”

The words felt heavy in the air between you, like they carried the weight of years of secrets, of a life built on half-truths and misdirection. He glanced up at you, his red-on-black eyes soft, full of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure how to explain it, how to tell you that this album wasn’t just a collection of old photographs or memories—it was the one thing in his life that grounded him. The one thing that hadn’t slipped through his fingers the way everything else always did.

He took a deep breath, his chest tightening as he tried to find the right words. “This album, it’s… it’s everythin’ I am. It’s the one thing that means more t’ me than anythin’ else. An’ I know I ain’t been good about lettin’ people in, about showin’ ‘em the real side of me, but…” He paused, his throat tightening as he looked down at the album again. “I need you t’ see it. I need you to know what’s in here.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken questions and the weight of everything he hadn’t said. He wasn’t used to this kind of vulnerability, wasn’t used to laying himself bare like this. His whole life, he had built walls—walls of charm, of wit, of bravado—to keep people from getting too close. But with you, those walls had crumbled, and he wasn’t sure how to protect himself anymore.

He could feel your eyes on him, studying him, searching for something. He didn’t know if you were ready to forgive him, or if you even wanted to. All he knew was that he had to try—because for the first time in his life, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t hiding behind his usual tricks. He was sitting here, in your mismatched living room, offering you the one thing that meant more to him than anything else.

Your living room felt like the opposite of his life. Where you had things that didn’t quite fit together but still worked, his life had always been about carefully curated moments, about making sure everything stayed in place just long enough for him to slip away before anyone could see the cracks. But here, surrounded by mismatched furniture and the warmth of a space that you had made your own, he felt something unfamiliar—he felt like maybe, just maybe, he could belong.

You sat on the couch, your feet tucked up under you, watching him. Watching Remy. It was hard to put into words how you felt in that moment—tired, frustrated, and yet still, somehow, a little hopeful. You scanned his face, searching for some kind of clue, some indication of why the hell he was sitting in your living room at this hour, soaked through, clutching that old, weathered album like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His red-on-black eyes flicked nervously between you and the album, and you could see his fingers tightening around it, like he wasn’t sure he could let it go.

You let out a small sigh, the weight of the day—and the weeks, months even—pressing down on you.

“I have nothing more to give you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t trying to hurt him, but the exhaustion in your words was undeniable. “You showed me today that whatever you do—it’s always more important than the people around you.”

Your tone wasn’t sharp, but it was raw, honest. You weren’t yelling. You didn’t have it in you to yell anymore. God, you were just tired. Tired of feeling like you were constantly fighting an uphill battle with him. Tired of giving and giving and getting nothing in return except half-truths and evasions. You watched him, carefully weighing your words.

He swallowed hard and looked down at the floor, his jaw tightening as he absorbed what you were saying. You could see the guilt in his posture, the way his shoulders slumped slightly, as though the weight of his mistakes was finally crashing down on him.

“I…” You paused, biting your lip, trying to find the strength to keep going. “I give a shit about you. Believe it or not. All I wanted—all I’ve ever wanted—was for you to show me that this isn’t just in my head. That whatever the hell this is between us isn’t just me overanalyzing things, isn’t just me holding on to something that doesn’t exist.”

You were laying it all out now, the hurt, the confusion, the feeling of being strung along, unsure if you were the one imagining things, unsure if you were reading too much into stolen glances, lingering touches, and moments that felt like they meant something, only for him to pull away.

“It’s not,” Remy interrupted softly. His voice was rough, thick with emotion, and when you looked up, you saw that his gaze had shifted back to you. There was something raw in his eyes, something that made your heart clench in your chest.

He took a breath, his hands still trembling slightly as he kept his grip on the album, like it was anchoring him to this moment. “From the first day I met ya… you did somethin’ t’ me, chère. I don’t know how t’ explain it.” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, his movements restless, as though he couldn’t stay still under the weight of what he was about to say. “Ya saw me. Not what everyone else sees. Not th’ smooth talker, not the guy everyone’s scared of, not the guy who always knows how t’ get outta trouble. You saw me. An’ that scared the hell outta me.”

His voice softened, his accent thickening as he spoke, the vulnerability in his tone cutting through the usual bravado he wore like a second skin. “I ain’t used t’ that. I ain’t used t’ someone actually givin’ a damn about me. Not the real me. I’ve spent my whole life runnin’, keepin’ people at arm’s length ‘cause it’s easier that way. It’s safer. But you…” He shook his head, his eyes locking onto yours. “Ya made it impossible to run.”

You sat there, staring at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The room felt suddenly too small, too quiet, the weight of his words hanging heavy between you.

“I’m here because I can’t let ya walk away without tryin’ t’ make this right,” he continued, his voice breaking slightly. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt ya. But I can’t jus’ le’ ya think that all of this—” he gestured between the two of you, “—that all of this don’t mean nothin’. ‘Cause it does. It means more t’ me than I know how t’ say. An’ I’m done runnin’ from it.”

He stood up and stepped forward, closing the distance between you, holding out the album. You glanced down at it, your brow furrowing in confusion. Why was he giving this to you? What could possibly be in that old, worn book that would make any of this make sense?

“In here…” His voice faltered for a moment, and he swallowed hard. You could see the struggle on his face, the way he was fighting with himself to get the words out. “In here is Anna.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t heard that name before. You looked up at him, searching his face for answers, but he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

“She was my wife,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “She died in a car accident. Drunk driver hit her. I didn’t even get t’ say goodbye.”

The room seemed to go still, the air thick with the weight of his confession. You felt the tightness in your chest, the ache of hearing something so deeply personal, something that clearly haunted him.

You reached out slowly, your fingers brushing against the leather cover of the album as you took it from his hands. “Remy…” you began softly, your voice gentle, unsure. You didn’t want him to feel like he had to do this, like he had to bare himself completely just to prove something to you. “You don’t have to—”

He cut you off, his voice firm but raw. “I do. I ain’t never shown anyone what’s in there, chère. Not a soul. ‘Cause it’s the one thing in my life that’s mine, the one thing I’ve been too scared t’ share with anyone.” His eyes were intense as they finally met yours fully, the vulnerability in his gaze almost too much to bear. “But ya need t’ know. You need t’ know how much I care about ya. An’ I don’t know how else t’ show ya that unless I show ya this.”

You held the album in your lap, your fingers tracing the worn edges of the leather, your heart racing as you looked back up at him. This wasn’t just about him telling you something painful from his past. This was about trust. About Remy giving you something that no one else had—a part of himself that he had kept locked away because it was too painful, too personal, too real.

“I’ve been scared, chère,” he admitted, his voice low and full of regret. “Scared t’ let ya in. Scared t’ let anyone in. ‘Cause I don’t know what happens when I let someone get close. I don’t know how to stop pushin’ them away. But I can’t keep doin’ that with ya. I can’t keep hurtin’ ya like that.”

He knelt down in front of you, his eyes level with yours, his expression open, raw. “I’m showin’ ya this ‘cause ya need t’ understand that ya ain’t imaginin’ things. This thing between us? It’s real. An’ I’m done pretendin’ like it ain’t.”

You looked down at the album in your hands, feeling the weight of it, not just physically, but emotionally. It was a piece of his life, a part of him that he had never shared with anyone. And he was giving it to you. Trusting you with it. Trusting you with her.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers hovering over the edge of the album’s cover, feeling the worn, soft leather beneath your fingertips. The weight of it in your lap was more than just physical—it carried the weight of Remy’s past, of his pain, of everything he’d been too afraid to share until now. You glanced over at him, sitting next to you on the couch, his body tense, his eyes trained on the album like it held both his salvation and his undoing. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching ever so slightly, betraying the calm he was trying so hard to maintain.

He hadn’t said a word since you took the album from him, and you hadn’t pushed. Something about the silence felt sacred, like this moment needed to breathe on its own.

With a deep breath, you opened the cover.

The first thing you saw was a photograph, carefully placed but slightly faded with age. A woman smiled up at you—young, vibrant, with vibrant red hair and eyes that seemed to sparkle even from the stillness of the picture. Her smile was warm, genuine, and there was something about her that made your chest tighten, like you could feel the love and life that radiated from her even through the years that separated her from this moment. You knew, without needing to ask, that this was Anna.

Remy’s Anna.

You turned the page slowly, afraid that moving too quickly would somehow break the fragile air between you and him. The next page held more photos—candid shots of a life you hadn’t known Remy had lived. Him and Anna, laughing together, holding hands, walking along a street in some city you didn’t recognize. They both looked so happy, so carefree. You couldn’t remember ever seeing Remy look that way—fully at ease, fully present, without the weight of the world constantly dragging him down.

As you flipped through the pages—each one revealing pieces of a life he’d kept hidden, snapshots of love and pain—you began to feel a knot forming in your chest. Picture after picture, you saw them together in moments you could tell had meant everything to him. Anna leaning into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Remy with his arm wrapped around her, his face soft and unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. They looked like they belonged to each other in a way that was so natural, so effortless. You could see how much he had loved her. It was in every picture, in every smile, in the way he looked at her like she was his whole world.

You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, though he hadn’t moved. You didn’t need to look at him to know how hard this was for him—to sit here, to show you this, to open up the most painful part of his life and let you in. It wasn’t just about Anna. It wasn’t just about his past. It was about trust. It was about letting you see the part of him that had been broken, the part of him that he had buried so deep that no one else had ever found it.

And in doing that, in showing you this, he was giving you the only way he knew how to tell you that you mattered. That you weren’t imagining this—whatever this was between the two of you. That it was real. That you were real to him. This was his way of saying that he cared—deeply, maybe more deeply than he even knew how to articulate with words. This was his way of saying that he didn’t want to run anymore. That he was trying, even if he didn’t know how to do it perfectly.

You swallowed, your throat tight, and turned another page.

There was a photo of them at what looked like a wedding. Anna was in a simple white dress, her eyes glowing as she looked up at him, her smile wide and full of joy. Remy stood next to her, looking impossibly young and happy, his hand resting on her waist, his expression softer than you had ever seen it. There was a light in his eyes in that picture, a light that hadn’t fully returned since you’d known him.

Your heart ached for him—ached for the love he had lost, for the pain he had carried with him for so long. You could feel the enormity of it, the weight of a life that had been stolen from him in an instant. And yet, here he was. Here, with you, offering you this piece of himself that he had never let anyone else see.

The album wasn’t just a collection of memories—it was Remy’s heart, laid bare. It was everything he had been too scared to show you, too scared to say. And as you sat there, flipping through the pages, you realized that this was his way of telling you that he cared about you. That he trusted you. That he was willing to let you in in a way he hadn’t let anyone in since Anna.

Your fingers stilled on a page, and you let out a soft breath.

“Remy…” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

He didn’t say anything, but you felt the shift in the air between you. He was waiting. Waiting for you to understand what this meant. Waiting for you to see that this was the only way he knew how to show you how much he cared. That he wasn’t just showing you his past—he was showing you her. The person he had loved most in the world. And that meant something.

You looked over at him, and for the first time, you really saw him. Not just the man who had hurt you, who had pushed you away when you had tried to get close. Not just the charming, infuriating, complicated man who had made your heart race and your head ache in equal measure. But the man who had been broken by loss, who had spent years running from his pain, and who was now, finally, trying to stop running. Trying to let you in.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He met your gaze, his eyes intense but vulnerable, his expression open in a way it almost never was. “Ya don’t gotta say nothin’, chère,” he murmured.  “I’m showin’ ya this ‘cause I can’t let you think that this—us—that it don’t mean nothin’. ‘Cause it does. It means more t’ me than I know how t’ say.”

Your heart clenched, the weight of his words sinking in. He wasn’t just telling you he cared—he was telling you that you mattered enough for him to open up the most painful part of his life. He was telling you that you weren’t just in his head. You were in his heart.

You looked down at the album in your lap, the photos of Anna smiling up at you, and you felt the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Slowly, carefully, you closed the album and placed it gently on the coffee table in front of you.

Then, you turned to Remy, your voice quiet but steady. “Thank you for showing me this. I know how much it means to you.”

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed hard, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Ya needed t’ see it,” he said softly.

And in that moment, you knew. You knew that this was the closest Remy had come to saying I love you since Anna. And maybe he couldn’t say the words yet, maybe he wasn’t ready to put it all into neat little phrases, but this—this was enough. This was real. This was him, opening up and showing you that he wasn’t just running anymore.

You reached out and took his hand, your fingers lacing through his. He squeezed your hand gently, his touch warm and steady, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t fighting this battle alone anymore. Remy couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this exposed.

Sitting beside you on the couch, the album resting on the coffee table like a piece of his past he had never meant to share, he felt the weight of his whole life pressing down on him. His heart was beating so hard against his chest, he was sure you could hear it. He’d spent years perfecting the art of hiding—hiding behind charm, behind quick smiles, behind walls so thick and so high that no one ever got close. No one ever made it past that carefully constructed exterior.

But you had.

And now, with you sitting so close to him, the warmth of your body just inches away, the album open on your lap, he felt like he was standing on the edge of something he wasn’t sure he knew how to handle. The pictures of Anna, his memories of her—the life he had lost—were all there, laid bare in front of you. He had never shown anyone this. Not a soul. Because letting people in had always been too dangerous. It had always meant giving up some piece of himself that he couldn’t afford to lose.

But with you… something was different. He wasn’t sure when it had started, wasn’t sure when you had begun to slip past his defenses, but now that you were here—now that he had let you see the most fragile, broken parts of himself—he couldn’t imagine going back to the way things had been. He couldn’t imagine pretending that this didn’t mean something. That you didn’t mean something.

So when you leaned toward him, when you closed the distance between you with that look in your eyes—soft, searching, like you were trying to figure out if this was real—his breath caught in his throat. His instinct, for just a split second, was to pull away. To protect himself. To run.

But he didn’t.

Because for the first time, he didn’t want to run.

Your lips touched his, soft and tentative at first, and he could feel the world tilt beneath him. It wasn’t like any kiss he’d had before—no heat of the moment, no rush to get to the next thing. This was different. This was slow, deliberate, like you were both testing the waters of something that had been building for so long, something that had been threatening to break through the surface and overwhelm you both.

And it did.

The kiss deepened, your lips pressing more firmly against his, and Remy felt everything inside him unravel. His hand moved almost without thinking, slipping from his lap to your waist, pulling you closer with a soft, barely-there tug. He felt your fingers slide into his hair, gentle but insistent, and the warmth of your touch sent a shiver down his spine. It was like you were grounding him, anchoring him to this moment, to you. His other hand came up to cradle your neck, his thumb brushing against your jaw as he kissed you deeper, slower, like he was afraid to let go.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t thinking about what came next, wasn’t thinking about the walls he had carefully constructed over the years. He wasn’t thinking about Anna, or the guilt that had lingered in the back of his mind for so long. He was just… here. With you.

And the feeling of it hit him like a freight train.

Because this wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything he hadn’t been able to say. Everything he had felt for you but had been too scared to admit. Every glance, every touch, every moment between the two of you that had been filled with tension, with unspoken words, with what ifs—it was all pouring into this one kiss. And for the first time, he allowed himself to feel it.

He allowed himself to feel you.

His lips moved slowly, almost reverently against yours, and he could feel the pull in his chest—the quiet, persistent ache he had been trying to ignore for so long. His hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you even closer, and he could feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest. It was calming, soothing, and for the first time in a long time, Remy felt like he could breathe.

When you pulled back slightly, your forehead resting against his, your breath warm and shaky against his lips, he kept his eyes closed, savoring the closeness. He could still feel the ghost of your kiss lingering on his lips, and part of him didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to break the moment. Because this—this—was something he hadn’t let himself hope for.

But when he did open his eyes, and saw you looking at him—really looking at him, like you saw all of him—he felt his heart stutter in his chest. Your eyes were soft, full of something that made his throat tighten, and he realized then that this wasn’t just about him anymore. This was about you, too. About the way you had been standing there, waiting for him to let you in. Waiting for him to stop pushing you away. To stop running.

You smiled softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek, and Remy felt something inside him shift. It was subtle, quiet, but it was there. The fear that had always been lurking just beneath the surface—the fear of losing someone again, of letting someone in only to have them slip through his fingers—it wasn’t gone completely, but it was quieter. Softer. Because in this moment, sitting here with you, feeling the warmth of your hand on his skin, he realized that he wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

When you kissed him again, it was softer this time, slower, like you were both taking your time. Like you were savoring the feel of each other. His hand slid up the curve of your back, resting just beneath your shoulder blade, keeping you close. He could feel your heartbeat, steady and sure, and it grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected. Everything about this moment felt real, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t terrified of that reality.

The kiss deepened, your lips moving in sync with his, and Remy felt the tension in his chest slowly begin to unwind. He wasn’t used to feeling this—this—whatever it was. This softness. This quiet, steady warmth that spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers. He wasn’t used to letting himself need someone like this. But with you, sitting here in the quiet of your mismatched living room, the world outside fading into the background, it felt right.

When the kiss broke again, this time slower, more languid, he kept his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in slow, steady exhales. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the moment. Because in this moment, everything felt right. Everything felt like it was finally where it was supposed to be.

“I care about ya,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but the words felt like they carried the weight of everything he hadn’t been able to say before. “More than I know how t’ say.”

And in that moment, as you looked at him, your eyes full of something soft, something real, Remy knew that this was it. This was the moment he had been running from for so long. The moment he had been too scared to let happen. The air between you and Remy seemed to thrum with an unspoken tension, a kind of magnetic pull that had been simmering just beneath the surface for so long it felt like it had always been there. It was in the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his hand rested on the small of your back, the way your breaths synced, slow and heavy, like you both knew something was about to shift but neither of you was quite ready to say it out loud.

You had kissed him. Properly kissed him. And in those moments, it felt like everything had changed. The weight of the album, of Anna, of Remy’s past, of his title as the King of New Orleans—it was still there, but it didn’t feel like a wall between you anymore. It felt like something you had both acknowledged, something you had both accepted, and now… now it was just you and him. No running. No hiding. Just two people who had been skirting around this moment for what felt like forever.

And now, the moment was here.

Remy’s hand slid from your back to your waist, his touch slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his fingertips. His eyes, those deep, red-on-black eyes that had always been so guarded, so full of mystery, were locked on yours, and for the first time, there was no hesitation in them. No fear. Just hunger. Hunger and something deeper—something raw and fragile and real.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. Because this—whatever this was—was something you both wanted. Needed, maybe. It felt like the natural progression of everything that had been building between you, every charged glance, every stolen touch, every moment where you had both been walking the line between friends and something more. And now, you were both ready to cross that line.

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responded immediately, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than before. There was no rush, no frantic urgency, just the steady heat of two people who had been waiting for this for longer than they cared to admit. His lips were soft, but the kiss was firm, insistent, like he was pouring every unspoken word, every buried emotion, into it.

You could feel the warmth of his body pressing against yours, his hand sliding up your back, pulling you even closer until there was hardly any space left between you. The couch felt too small, too cramped for the weight of the moment, for the way your bodies seemed to respond to each other, the way your heart was pounding in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears.

When he pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still resting on your waist, his voice was low and thick with emotion. “You sure about this?” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt, any hesitation.

But there wasn’t any.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and all you saw was the man in front of you—not the thief, not the charming rogue, not the man who had been running from his past for so long—but Remy. Just Remy. The man who had let you in, who had shown you the most vulnerable parts of himself, who had trusted you with his pain, with his heart. And that was enough. More than enough.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.”

That was all it took.

His hand slid from your waist to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin before his lips were on yours again, this time with more intensity, more urgency. The kiss deepened, and you could feel the shift in the air between you, the way the tension that had been simmering for so long now threatened to consume you both. His hand slipped to the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against the skin of your waist, and the feel of his touch sent a shiver down your spine. It was like every nerve in your body was suddenly alive, every inch of you hyperaware of him, of the way his body pressed against yours, of the heat that was building between you.

As your fingers slid up Remy’s chest, your palms pressed against the firm planes of his body, you felt the smooth, taut skin beneath his shirt, you could feel his muscles ripple under your touch, warm and alive in a way that made your own pulse quicken. His chest was solid, strong, the kind of strength that came from years of living on the edge—running, fighting, always moving. His muscles were defined but not overly so, more lean than bulky, the kind of body that told a story of someone who had always depended on both speed and agility, someone who had learned to survive in a world that constantly tried to take from him.

When he pulled back long enough to strip off his shirt, tossing it aside with an effortless grace, your breath caught at the sight of him. His body was sculpted, lean and powerful, his skin a canvas of sun-kissed bronze, with faint shadows cast by the low light of the room. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a narrow waist, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he moved, as he reached for you again, his hands already pulling you back into him with a kind of quiet desperation.

The bare skin of his chest pressed against you, and the warmth of his body was almost overwhelming, like being enveloped in a heat that both burned and soothed. Every inch of him felt alive, buzzing with energy, with the raw intensity of the moment. His breath hitched when your fingers traced the line of his collarbone, and you could feel the slight tremor in his body as if even the smallest touch was enough to undo him.

His hands were on your waist, firm but not rough, guiding you into his lap as you straddled him, as if every movement had its own rhythm, its own unspoken language. His touch was deliberate, slow, like he was savoring the feel of your body against his, like he was trying to memorize every curve, every sensation. His lips found yours again, more insistent this time, more desperate, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles flexed beneath your hands, the way his breath came in short, sharp bursts as your lips met and parted, again and again.

His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, and the soft press of his lips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, making your breath catch in your throat. You could feel the steady, deliberate pressure of his mouth as he kissed along the line of your neck, his hands sliding up your back, his fingers tracing patterns that left a trail of heat in their wake.

There was something intoxicating about the way he moved, the way his body felt beneath yours—a combination of strength and vulnerability, of someone who had always fought to keep his distance but now, in this moment, was letting you in, letting you see him, feel him. Every touch, every kiss felt like a revelation, like peeling back the layers of someone who had spent years hiding behind masks and walls, someone who had always kept everyone at arm’s length—until now.

And now, as his lips found yours again, as his hands roamed over your body with a slow, deliberate intensity, you could feel it—the weight of everything he wasn’t saying, the emotions he didn’t know how to express. But he didn’t need to say it. You could feel it in the way his body responded to yours, in the way his breath hitched when your fingers traced the curve of his spine, in the way his hands gripped your waist like he was afraid to let go.

Remy’s fingers, warm and sure, slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch sending sparks across your skin as he gently tugged upwards. There was no rush in his movements, no frantic need, just the slow, deliberate pull of fabric as he lifted your shirt over your head. You raised your arms, letting him undress you, and in that brief moment before the shirt joined his on the floor, you caught the look in his eyes.

He was watching you, really watching, like he was trying to imprint the image of you into his memory, to burn it into his mind. His eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail—the way your cheeks were flushed with heat and anticipation, the way your lips were slightly swollen from the intensity of the kiss, the way your chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. There was something reverent in the way he looked at you, something almost tender, as though this moment—you—were more precious than anything he had ever held before.

His breath hitched, just barely, and you could see the way his chest expanded as he took in a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady himself, to ground himself in the moment. His eyes darkened with a mix of desire and something softer, something deeper, and it made your heart race even faster. You could feel the heat building between you, the air thick with the weight of everything neither of you had said but both of you understood.

For a few heartbeats, neither of you moved. His hands, now resting on your waist, gripped you with a kind of gentle possessiveness, like he wasn’t sure if this was real, like he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear. You could feel the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady rise and fall of his breath, and it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you—your bodies, your breaths, your heartbeats, all in sync, all connected by this invisible thread that had been pulling you together for so long.

Then, in that low, gravelly voice that always seemed to send shivers down your spine, he asked, “Ya got a bedroom, chère?”

His tone was soft, almost hesitant, but there was an edge of heat to it, a quiet urgency that echoed in the space between you. His accent, that lazy Cajun drawl, wrapped around you, making your skin tingle, making your breath catch. And in that moment, you knew that this wasn’t just about the physical. This was about more. This was about trust. About the walls that had come down between you, about the vulnerability you were both offering each other.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice, your heart pounding in your chest. Without breaking eye contact, your fingers slipped into his hand, guiding him as you stood, pulling him up from the couch. The air between you felt electric, charged, as his hand slid down to intertwine with yours, his grip firm and steady, but his thumb rubbing soft, soothing circles against the back of your hand. It was such a simple gesture, but it made your heart swell, made you realize how much care, how much tenderness, was wrapped up in this moment.

With a soft tug, you led him toward the bedroom, the weight of his presence behind you both grounding and intoxicating. Every step felt heavy with anticipation, every beat of your heart loud in your ears, each breath shallow and quick. You could feel his gaze on you the entire time, his eyes dark and hungry but patient, like he was letting you set the pace, like he was waiting for you to make the final call.

When you reached the bedroom, you pushed the door open, the soft creak of the hinges the only sound that broke the quiet tension between you. The room, dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, felt intimate, like it had been waiting for this moment. The bed, with its rumpled sheets, suddenly seemed like the center of the universe, a quiet invitation to let go, to give in.

Remy stepped in behind you, his body close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, but he didn’t touch you just yet. Instead, he stood there, his breath warm against the back of your neck, his presence a steady, grounding force that made your pulse quicken. His hands hovered just above your hips, like he was waiting for permission, waiting for you to make the next move.

You turned to face him, your chest brushing against his as you looked up into his eyes. His gaze was intense, filled with a hunger that matched your own, but there was something else there too—something softer, something that spoke of more than just desire. His fingers found your waist again, slow and deliberate, and he pulled you closer, the fabric of his jeans rough against your bare skin, the heat between you almost unbearable now.

His lips found yours once more, but this kiss was different from the others. It was softer, slower, filled with a kind of quiet reverence, like he was savoring the taste of you, like he was trying to commit every second to memory. His hands roamed your back, tracing lazy circles on your skin, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back, waiting for you, giving you the space to lead.

You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through his hair, your body pressing against his as the kiss deepened, your tongues tangling in a slow, deliberate dance. You could feel the heat building between you again, the soft friction of skin on skin, the way his breath hitched when your hands slipped down to the waistband of his jeans, teasing the line of flesh just above.

“Remy…” you whispered against his lips, your voice barely more than a breath, but it was enough to make him groan softly, his hands tightening on your waist, pulling you even closer, his body firm and solid against yours.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes searched yours, dark and full of something raw, something that made your chest ache with how much he was holding back.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, full of need but also… something more. Something that told you he was waiting for you, that he’d follow your lead, that this wasn’t just about what he wanted.

And in that moment, you knew what you wanted. You wanted him. All of him. Not just his body, not just the heat and the passion, but everything—the vulnerability, the trust, the connection that had been growing between you for so long.

You pulled him toward the bed, your steps slow, deliberate, your heart pounding as you whispered, “I want you, Remy.”

His eyes darkened at your words, a soft groan escaping his lips as he followed your lead, his hands never leaving your body as you both moved toward the bed. When the back of your knees hit the edge, you sank down onto the mattress, pulling him with you, his body pressing down against yours, warm and solid and real.

He hovered over you for a moment, his gaze locked on yours, his breath shaky, his hands framing your face as if you were something fragile, something precious. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss so soft, so full of emotion, that it made your heart ache.

This was it. This was the moment when everything else fell away—the past, the walls, the fears. It was just the two of you, together, in this moment. No running. No hiding. Just you and him, giving in to the connection that had always been there, waiting for you both to finally let it happen.

And as his body moved over yours, as your hands explored the expanse of his skin, as your breaths mingled and your heartbeats synced, you knew that this wasn’t just a physical act. This was the start of something deeper, something so much more. Remy’s body pressed down against yours, his weight grounding you in a way that made everything feel more real, more intense. His lips moved against yours with a slow, deliberate hunger, like he wasn’t just kissing you—he was claiming you, savoring every second of contact, every taste of your skin. But there was a tenderness in the way he touched you, a carefulness that made your heart ache with the realization of how much he was holding back, how much he was afraid to break this fragile moment.

His hands slid down your sides, his touch featherlight but firm, as if he was learning your body, mapping each curve, each dip, committing it all to memory. When his fingers brushed the waistband of your pants, he paused, his breath hitching, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. There was a tension in him, a restraint, as if he was waiting for a sign from you, waiting for you to tell him it was okay to keep going.

You tilted your head up and kissed him again, soft and slow, your hands tracing the muscles of his back, feeling the way they rippled beneath your touch. His skin was warm, almost hot, the heat between your bodies growing with every second, with every soft press of his lips against yours.

“Remy…” you whispered his name, and the sound of it seemed to break something in him. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you flush against him, his body hard and unyielding against yours. You could feel the tension in every inch of him, the way his muscles coiled with barely restrained need, but still, he waited, his lips hovering just above yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely more than a breath. His accent, thick and languid, wrapped around you, making your skin tingle. “Tell me ya want me.”

The raw vulnerability in his words made your heart skip a beat. You could hear the hesitation, the unspoken fear that maybe this was too much, that maybe you’d change your mind, that maybe you didn’t want him as much as he wanted you. But you did. God, you did.

You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble of his jaw. His eyes closed at the contact, a soft sound escaping from the back of his throat, like even the smallest touch from you was enough to undo him.

“I want you,” you whispered, your voice steady, full of certainty. “I’ve always wanted you.”

The moment the words left your lips, something shifted in him. His eyes snapped open, dark and intense, and the look he gave you was full of so much heat, so much raw need, that it made your breath catch in your throat.

Without another word, his lips crashed against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that had been building between you for so long. His hands moved to your pants, fingers deft as he unbuttoned them, pulling them down your hips with a kind of quiet urgency that made your pulse race.

You kicked them off, your heart pounding in your chest as you felt the cool air of the room against your bare skin. Every nerve in your body was alive, buzzing with anticipation, with the weight of what was about to happen.

Remy pulled back just long enough to look at you, his eyes raking over your body with a gaze so intense, so full of desire, that it made your breath hitch. His hand came up, fingers brushing lightly over the curve of your breast, down the line of your stomach, his touch so gentle, so reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“You’re beautiful, chère,” he whispered, his voice rough, full of awe. “So damn beautiful…”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion, with the realization that this wasn’t just about lust for him. There was something deeper here, something raw and unspoken that neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. But it was there, simmering beneath the surface, in every touch, every kiss, every breathless moment between you.

You reached for him, your hands slipping to the waistband of his jeans, your fingers fumbling slightly as you unbuttoned them, the anticipation making your hands tremble. Remy let out a low groan, his hands tightening on your hips as you pushed the fabric down, revealing more of him, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your palms.

When his jeans finally hit the floor, and he stood before you, bare and vulnerable, it felt like the air between you shifted. The weight of the moment hit you both, the realization that there was no going back from this. This was it. This was the moment when everything would change.

And yet, when he lowered himself over you again, his body pressing against yours, his skin warm and slick and solid, it didn’t feel like a decision. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.

His lips found yours, softer this time, slower, and you could feel the way his body trembled slightly against yours, the way his breath shuddered as he kissed you. His hands slid down your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your hips, before he finally found the last barrier of fabric between you. He hesitated for just a second, his eyes searching yours, asking for permission, waiting for you to give him the final signal.

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as he slowly peeled away the last of your clothing, leaving you bare beneath him. The cool air hit your skin, but the warmth of his body was enough to keep you grounded, to keep you tethered to the moment.

For a few heartbeats, the world seemed to hold its breath. Remy’s eyes roamed over your face, dark and intense, but filled with something deeper than just desire—something vulnerable, something that made your chest tighten because you could see it all, the unspoken emotions swirling behind those crimson-black irises. He wasn’t just looking at your body; he was seeing you, all of you, every layer you’d let him peel back, every scar, every secret.

His hands moved slowly, sliding back up your sides, his touch feather-light as though he was afraid to break the moment, like he was memorizing every curve, every inch of skin. His fingers traced a delicate path from your waist to your ribs, then higher, brushing along your collarbone, before settling just below your throat, where your pulse raced wildly beneath his fingertips. The rhythm of your heartbeat, fast and erratic, seemed to draw him closer, his breath warm and unsteady as he hovered just inches above you.

His forehead rested against yours, the intimacy of the gesture making your head spin. You could feel his breath, hot and shallow, mixing with your own, and the closeness of it all—the rawness of being this open, this exposed—made the moment feel more real, more significant, than anything you had ever experienced before.

His voice, when it came, was a low rasp, barely more than a whisper. “You’re sure?” There was a crack in it, a kind of quiet, desperate plea hiding beneath the words. It wasn’t just about asking for consent; it was about asking for reassurance, about making sure this was real, that you truly wanted him in the same way he wanted you. You could feel the weight of what he was really asking—his need for confirmation that he wasn’t alone in this, that you were with him, not just physically, but emotionally, in every way that mattered.

The tenderness in his question made your throat tighten. You could feel the vulnerability radiating off him, the way his body trembled ever so slightly, the way his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he waited for your answer. It wasn’t just about sex. It wasn’t just about the heat between you. This was about trust—about breaking down the walls you’d both kept up for so long, about letting each other in, completely, without reservation.

You reached up slowly, your hand shaking just a little as your fingers brushed against the rough stubble of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath your palm, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled as though he was trying to hold himself back, trying to give you space, to let you decide what came next. Your thumb brushed over his lips, soft and full, and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a quiet, shuddering breath escaping him as he leaned into your touch.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice steady, unwavering, even though your heart was pounding in your chest. “I want this. I want you.”

The moment the words left your lips, something shifted in him. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. His pupils dilated, darkening the crimson in his gaze, and his breath hitched, his chest rising sharply as if your words had punched the air out of him. The vulnerability in his expression melted into something deeper, something raw and urgent, but still laced with so much care, so much tenderness.

“Tha’s all I needed to hear,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with emotion.

And then, his lips were on yours again—no more hesitation, no more holding back. The kiss was deep and consuming, his mouth moving against yours with a hunger that spoke of all the unspoken things between you. His hands, which had been so careful, so tentative, now gripped your waist with a new sense of purpose, pulling you closer, aligning your bodies until there was no space left between you. The heat of his skin against yours was almost overwhelming, but in the best possible way, like being consumed by a fire that didn’t burn but instead made you feel alive.

His mouth left yours only briefly, trailing down your jaw, pressing soft kisses along the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. Each kiss sent a wave of heat rushing through you, making your body arch into his, seeking more contact, more of him. His hands moved over you, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of your body with a kind of reverence that made your heart ache, made you feel like you were something precious, something sacred.

When his lips found yours again, he shifted, his body moving over yours with a slow, deliberate grace, his weight pressing down on you in a way that felt grounding, reassuring. His hands slipped to your hips, guiding you, holding you steady as he positioned himself between your legs. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles flexed and tightened as he held himself back, waiting for the final moment, the final signal.

As he finally entered you, the world seemed to stop for a moment, a breathless pause where nothing else mattered but the feeling of him, the connection between you. Your body tensed at first, not from discomfort but from the overwhelming rush of sensation that swept through you, making your breath hitch, your heart race. It was as though every nerve in your body had come alive all at once, heightened to the point of being almost unbearable, but in the best possible way.

The slow, deliberate way he moved, the care he took, made it feel so much more than just a physical act. There was an intimacy in it, a kind of quiet reverence that made your chest ache with emotion. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tightened and flexed as he held himself above you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath shaky, uneven. His hands were firm yet tender on your hips, holding you steady, guiding you into him as though he didn’t want to rush a single moment, as though he wanted to savor every second, every inch of you.

And as he filled you, slowly, completely, it was like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, in every way that had been building between you. A connection that went beyond touch, beyond words. It was something deeper, something that had been growing for so long, waiting for this moment to be fully realized.

Your breath caught in your throat as he moved, your body instinctively responding to his, meeting him, matching the slow rhythm he set. There was no urgency, no frantic pace. Just the steady, deliberate movement of your bodies, each thrust a gentle push and pull, like a dance you had always known the steps to but had never truly danced until now.

The way your bodies fit together felt effortless, natural, like you were made for each other. Each movement sent a ripple of pleasure through you, but it wasn’t just the physical sensation that made you gasp, that made your fingers tighten in his hair, your nails dig into his skin. It was the emotional weight of the moment, the way he looked at you—his eyes dark and filled with something so raw, so vulnerable, that it made your chest tighten with everything you felt for him.

Every soft sound he made, every groan, every whispered breath of your name, sent a shiver down your spine, made your body tremble beneath his. You could feel the need in him, the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched each time your hands roamed over his back, down his sides, pulling him closer, deeper. But more than that, you could feel the care, the tenderness in every touch, in the way his thumb brushed over your skin, the way he kissed you softly in between ragged breaths.

It was as though time had slowed, and each second stretched out, adding weight to every movement, every touch. The intensity of it all wrapped around you both like a cocoon, insulating you from the rest of the world. There was no past, no future—only this moment, only the feel of his body against yours, inside yours, the rhythm of your heartbeats syncing as you moved together, as you breathed together.

And it was more than just the pleasure, more than just the physical connection. It was the release of everything that had been building between you for so long—the tension, the longing, the unspoken words, the walls you had both kept up for so long. They were gone now, crumbled away in the quiet intensity of this moment, leaving nothing but the raw, honest truth of how you felt for each other.

You whispered his name, barely more than a breath, and the way he responded, the soft groan that escaped his lips, the way his body trembled against yours, made your heart swell with emotion. His hands gripped your hips a little tighter, his movements becoming just a fraction more deliberate, more focused, and you could feel the way he was struggling to hold back, to keep himself in check, to make sure that this was perfect for you.

And it was. It was perfect in a way you hadn’t expected—perfect not because of the pleasure, though that was undeniable, but because of the connection. Because in this moment, it wasn’t just about the physical act. It was about trust, about letting each other in, about breaking down the walls and allowing yourselves to be vulnerable, to be seen, to be loved in a way that went beyond words.

Your hands slid up to his face, your fingers brushing over his jaw, his cheeks, as you pulled him down to kiss you, slow and sweet. His breath shuddered against your lips as he kissed you back, his body moving with yours in perfect harmony, the pace never quickening, never rushing. The slow, steady rhythm between you felt like a promise, like a vow that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment, that this was something real, something deeper than either of you had ever let yourselves acknowledge before.

And as you moved together, as your bodies found their perfect rhythm, you knew that this was the culmination of everything you’d been feeling for so long. It was the release of all the tension, all the unspoken desires, all the walls that had kept you apart. It was the quiet, profound acknowledgment that there was more between you than just desire, more than just physical attraction.

It was love.

Pure, unspoken, undeniable love.

And when you finally reached that peak together, when your body trembled beneath his and his breath hitched in his throat, it wasn’t just the physical release that overwhelmed you. It was the emotional release, the sense of finally letting go, of finally allowing yourself to feel everything, to be completely open, completely vulnerable, and knowing that he was there with you, feeling the same way.

He shuddered against you, his body tense, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as he held you close, his forehead resting against yours, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, reverent kisses. And in that moment, as you lay there together, your bodies still tangled, your heartbeats slowly returning to normal, you knew that everything had changed.

You knew that this was more than just a connection of bodies.

This was a connection of souls. <><<><><><><><><> As the night deepened and sleep began to pull you under, Remy's arms wrapped around you with a protective, almost possessive tenderness. His body molded perfectly against yours, fitting like a puzzle piece. His chest was pressed against your back, his heartbeat a steady, soothing rhythm that lulled you further into the quiet peace of the moment. His breath, soft and slow, caressed the back of your neck, each exhale a reminder that he was still there, holding you, grounding you in the present.

You shifted slightly in his arms, a soft murmur escaping your lips as you nestled closer to him, your body instinctively seeking his warmth. His grip tightened just a little, his hand sliding over your hip to rest against your stomach, holding you close, as if he was afraid that if he let go, even for a second, you might slip away. His fingers spread out across your skin, firm but gentle, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your skin.

For a while, he just watched you. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets and the faint sound of your breathing, now deep and even as you drifted into sleep. The moonlight filtering through the curtains cast a soft glow over your face, illuminating the peaceful expression you wore, the slight curve of your lips that made it seem like you were smiling in your dreams. And as he looked at you, something inside him tightened—a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite name, but knew with certainty that he had never felt anything like this before.

There was a softness to the way you slept, a vulnerability that made his chest ache. You had let him in, trusted him in ways that no one else had. And in return, you had made yourself a part of him—woven yourself into the very fabric of his being without even realizing it. And that scared him in a way he hadn’t expected. Because for the first time in a long time, he had something—someone—to lose.

As he held you, his mind began to wander, thoughts creeping in despite the quiet peace of the moment. Remy had always been careful, always lived with the knowledge that his life came with risks. The shadows he walked in weren’t just metaphors—they were real, dangerous, and constant. His world was one of deception, of danger lurking around every corner, of enemies who wouldn’t hesitate to use the people he cared about to get to him. He knew how easily things could change, how quickly that darkness could spread and consume everything in its path.

And that was why, as he looked down at you, so peaceful, so safe in his arms, he made a silent vow to himself.

He would keep you safe. No matter what it took. No matter how hard it became. He would protect you from the world he lived in, from the dangers that followed him like shadows. You were too precious, too important. He couldn’t let you be pulled into that darkness, into the chaos that constantly threatened to swallow him whole. You deserved better than that. You deserved peace. And this place—this bed, these moments with you—would be your sanctuary.

He would make sure of it.

His hand tightened slightly on your stomach, as if reinforcing that silent promise. He would never let anything touch you. Not here. Not in the space you had created together. He couldn’t change who he was, couldn’t erase the past that haunted him, or the enemies that would always be out there, waiting for a moment of weakness. But he could draw a line. He could make sure that his world stayed separate from yours.

You could know of his life, of the things he did, the people he dealt with. He wouldn’t hide the truth from you. But you would never be a part of it. He would never let you get too close to the danger. There would always be a boundary, always that invisible wall between you and the darkness he carried with him. He had never been good at protecting himself—had always accepted the risks, the wounds, the scars that came with his life. But you? You were different. He couldn’t bear the thought of you being hurt, of his world touching you in any way.

The thought of it made his chest tighten, a sharp stab of fear that he hadn’t expected. He had never been afraid of much in his life, had always faced danger head-on, unflinching. But now, lying there with you in his arms, the stakes felt higher. The thought of you being pulled into his world, of you being hurt because of him, was the one thing that truly terrified him.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his lips lingering for just a moment as he breathed you in, trying to ground himself in the warmth of your skin, in the sound of your steady breathing.

This place—here—would always be your sanctuary. He would make sure of that. No matter what happened, no matter what danger came knocking on his door, he would keep it away from you. You had given him something he hadn’t even realized he needed—peace, comfort, a place where he could just be without the weight of the world on his shoulders. And he would protect that with everything he had.

He knew it wouldn’t be easy. His life wasn’t one that allowed for simple happiness, for quiet moments like this. But for you—for what you had given him—he would fight to keep it. He would keep the darkness at bay, even if it meant keeping parts of himself hidden from you, even if it meant sacrificing the parts of him that longed to let you in fully.

Because in the end, keeping you safe was more important than anything else. It was the only thing that mattered.

With that silent promise heavy in his chest, Remy closed his eyes, his arms still wrapped securely around you. He allowed himself to breathe in the moment, to let the softness of your body against his, the warmth of your skin, anchor him. And as sleep began to pull him under, his grip on you never loosened, his body instinctively curling around yours as if to shield you, to protect you even in sleep.

This place, this bed, this night—it was yours. It was his. It was safe.

And he would make sure it stayed that way. <><><><>><><>< You awoke with a groan, the shrill sound of your phone’s ringtone dragging you from the warm cocoon of sleep. Without opening your eyes, your hand fumbled across the nightstand, searching blindly for the device. Finally, your fingers found it, and you slid your thumb across the screen to answer, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Hello?” you mumbled, your head sinking back into the pillow, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to cling to the remnants of your dreams.

“You’re late,” came Abigail’s sharp voice, cutting through the grogginess like a knife. “I’m giving you twenty minutes to get here before I fire you myself.”

You winced, pulling the phone away from your ear long enough to squint at the screen. Your eyes widened when you saw the time—thirty minutes past the start of your shift. Shit.

“I—uh, sorry, I’ll be right there,” you stammered, your heart kicking into high gear as reality started to sink in.

“Good,” Abigail replied, her tone as icy as ever. “Because James is an idiot without you there managing him.”

Before you could respond, the line went dead, leaving you holding your phone to your ear with a growing sense of panic. You groaned again, louder this time, the sound muffled by your pillow as you flopped back down onto the mattress. Great. Just great.

But as your mind cleared and your heart stopped racing, you became aware of something else—someone else.

You turned your head slowly, the events of the night before flooding back into your consciousness as you gazed at the figure lying next to you. Remy. His bare chest rose and fell with the slow, steady rhythm of sleep, his arm slung lazily over his eyes, blocking out the morning light that filtered in through the curtains. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, leaving his torso exposed, the faint scars on his skin a quiet reminder of the life he lived beyond the sanctuary of this room.

A soft smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you watched him, your heart swelling with a mixture of affection and wonder. He looked so peaceful, so different from the guarded man he usually was. The lines of worry and tension that normally creased his brow were gone, replaced by the calm serenity of sleep. And for a moment, you let yourself just look at him, drinking in the sight of him lying there beside you, so open, so vulnerable in a way you had never seen him before.

You didn’t want to wake him. God, you really didn’t want to wake him. Especially after last night—after that quiet, intense connection you had shared. You wanted to stay in this moment, to curl back into him and let the outside world disappear for just a little longer.

But you didn’t have a choice.

With a frustrated sigh, you pushed yourself up into a sitting position, the cool air hitting your skin as you slipped out from under the covers. The bed shifted slightly beneath you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see if the movement had disturbed him. But Remy didn’t stir. His arm remained draped over his eyes, his breathing deep and even. You hesitated for just a second, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the soft rise and fall of his chest.

As you leaned down to press a soft kiss to Remy's cheek, you felt him stir beneath you. His breath hitched slightly, and before you could pull away, his arm shifted, falling from his eyes to rest lazily across his chest. He blinked up at you, his eyes still heavy with sleep, a small, sleepy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Mm, mornin’, cher,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand reached for you, his fingers brushing lightly against your side, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet. His touch was soft, warm, and for a moment, you were tempted to crawl back into bed with him, to let the rest of the world wait.

But then you remembered the phone call.

You let out a soft sigh, brushing your fingers lightly through his tangled hair as you whispered, “I’m late for work.”

Remy’s eyes flickered with amusement, but there was something warmer behind it, too—something softer, more tender. He shifted onto his elbow, leaning up slightly as his gaze roamed over your face, taking you in as if he was trying to memorize every detail before you slipped away from him again.

“Work, huh?” he teased, his voice still thick with sleep. “Was hopin’ I could convince ya t’ stay a little longer.”

You laughed softly, but the sound was tinged with regret. “Believe me, I’d love to, but Abigail’s already threatening to fire me.”

He winced slightly at that, a sympathetic smile crossing his face. His hand slipped from your side, trailing down your arm before resting on the bed beside him, his fingers brushing against the sheets where your body had been just moments ago. “Guess I can’t be the reason ya lose your job.”

You shook your head, smiling as you leaned in to kiss him again—this time, a little more firmly, savoring the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of him, before you pulled away. “Not today, at least.”

As you stood up, reaching for your clothes scattered around the room, a thought crept into your mind, one that you couldn’t quite shake. You glanced back at him as you pulled your shirt over your head, your movements slowing as you watched him stretch out lazily on the bed, his bare chest rising and falling with each steady breath. His eyes were on you, dark and intense, full of something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Will I see you later?” you asked, trying to sound casual, even though the question carried more weight than you intended. It felt strange, waking up like this—so close, so connected—and not knowing when you’d see him again.

Remy’s smile faded slightly as he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his body still half-covered by the sheets. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, his expression softening, though there was something guarded in his eyes now—something distant.

“I don’t think so, cher,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Got some things I need to take care of today. Business.”

You tried to hide your disappointment, but he saw it, his gaze flickering over your face as if he could read every thought, every feeling. He sighed softly, reaching for your hand and pulling you gently toward him. You stepped closer, letting him tug you between his legs as he sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly on your hips.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and gentle. “Ya know I’d rather be here wit’ ya, right?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you looked down at him. His thumb brushed softly over your skin, a silent reassurance, but the distance in his eyes remained, like there was something unspoken between you—something he wasn’t letting you see.

“I get it,” you said softly, though the words felt heavier than you wanted them to. “You’ve got your life, I’ve got mine.”

Remy’s grip on your hips tightened slightly, just for a moment, as if he didn’t like the sound of those words. But then he let out a quiet breath, his lips quirking into a faint smile as he looked up at you.

“Don’t worry, cher,” he said. “I’ll find ya soon enough.”

You smiled, but there was still a lingering sense of uncertainty as you pulled away from him, stepping back to gather the rest of your things. You couldn’t help but feel like there was more to his words, more to the way he was pulling away from you. But you didn’t press him. Not now.

As you finished pulling on your shoes, you glanced back at Remy, still sitting on the edge of the bed, his bare chest catching the soft morning light that filtered through the curtains. He was watching you, his expression unreadable but his eyes warm, following your every move. You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to leave him alone in the quiet of your apartment, but work was calling, and you were already late.

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. “You can stay as long as you need to. Feel free to use the shower, grab something to eat.” You paused, offering him a small smile. “Just remember to pull the deadlock when you leave, okay?”

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips, and he leaned back slightly, resting his hands on the bed behind him as he looked up at you. “You're t’ good t’ me, cher.”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but the way he was looking at you made your stomach flutter. “It’s no big deal. I trust you.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes—something deeper, unspoken—but before you could dwell on it, he stood up, moving with that easy grace that always seemed to follow him. He reached down to where his jeans lay crumpled on the floor, fishing around in the pocket until he pulled out his phone.

“How abo’ I make it up to ya?” he said, glancing at you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Lemme take ya out tonight. Just you and me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “Tonight?”

He nodded, already scrolling through his phone, his fingers moving deftly over the screen. “Yeah. After ya done wit’ work, I’ll text ya. We can meet somewhere. No distractions, no interruptions. Just us.”

You bit your lip, feeling a surge of excitement rise in your chest despite the lingering haze of your morning rush. The way he said it—just us—felt like a promise, something more than just a casual night out. It felt like he was offering you a piece of himself, something you hadn’t quite seen before. And despite everything, despite the uncertainty that sometimes clouded your connection, you wanted that. You wanted him.

“Okay,” you said, your smile growing as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Text me, and I’ll meet you.”

Remy’s grin widened, a rare, genuine smile that softened the edges of his normally guarded demeanor. “I’s a date, then.”

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you forgot all about the ticking clock, about Abigail, about how late you were for work. All you could think about was him—the way he smelled, the way his body radiated heat, and the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room.

When he pulled back, his hand lingered on your arm for just a second longer before he let go, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I’ll see yalater, cher.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as you turned toward the door. “Yeah. See you.”

As you stepped out of the room, you glanced back one last time, catching one more glimpse of him standing there, his phone still in hand, his gaze following you like a quiet promise. You didn’t want to leave, not really, but the thought of seeing him later—just the two of you—gave you something to look forward to, something to hold onto through the chaos of the day ahead.

“Don’t forget the deadlock,” you called over your shoulder with a teasing grin.

Remy chuckled softly, his voice warm and familiar as it trailed after you. “I got it, darlin’. Don’t worry.”

And with that, you slipped out the door, a smile still lingering on your lips as you headed down the hallway, already counting the hours until you could see him again.