#façade (dangerous to know)

[vexic929]

façade (dangerous to know)

set in an alternate season 1 where Hartley is a grudging ally

Warnings: none

I watched him closely, noting every subtle flicker of disdain beneath that polished, detached exterior. Harrison sat there, composed as ever, sparing only a half-interested glance in my direction as I stopped in his office doorway before returning his focus to some unassuming paperwork, likely another layer to his meticulously constructed façade.

He looked up finally, calm and entirely unbothered, his gaze as detached as if I were a momentary distraction rather than the thorn in his side I'd become. His mouth pulled into a faint smile, thin and devoid of warmth. "Hartley," he said, his tone clipped. The way he'd said my name almost sounded like a slur. "What are you doing?"

It was a fair enough question; the last time we'd been alone, I'd attacked him. I was pretty sure if Allen had noticed I'd lingered behind, he wouldn't have sped off so quickly. But here we were.

I shifted my posture, tilting my head to fix him with a practiced look that was far more confident than I felt. "Nemo tenetur armare adversarium contra se."

"Equo debeo credite?" Harrison asked, spreading his hands in something of a shrug. As though he didn't already know the Trojan Horse he'd invited in.

I stepped forward, just enough to force his attention fully onto me. "You know, I saw someone in your home that night," I said, watching him carefully. "A figure, standing in the hall."

Harrison's expression remained carefully neutral. He was always unreadable, except to me. I knew when he was pretending. I knew when something - someone - was a threat.

His fingers tapped idly against the desk. "Hartley, I live alone."

I huffed out a laugh. "Oh, I know. You see, I didn't just see someone. I saw the way he held himself, the way he moved, the way he ran." I let my gaze sweep over him, down to the chair, back up again, deliberately.

For the first time, I saw the barest flicker of something in his eyes.

I leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something conspiratorial. "So tell me, Harrison - where was your wheelchair when I was escaping S.T.A.R. Labs?"

Silence.

The kind of silence that held something, waiting.

His fingers flexed just slightly against the desk before he stilled them, as if catching himself. But I wasn't going to stop - not until I had torn the truth out of him, even if it destroyed me in the process.

"Be careful," he warned softly, an echo of something he'd told me once before, under very different circumstances.

I remembered it all too well. The first time I had ever called him Harrison, without the formality, the distance. The way he had tilted my chin up, brushing his thumb across my jaw with the kind of deliberate intimacy that had made me lightheaded. "Be careful, Hartley," he'd murmured then, a warning with less of an edge.

I was careful. I had been careful. And it hadn't mattered.

He continued. "It wouldn't be wise to make baseless accusations, especially ones with evidence to the contrary."

"Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus," I countered.

"Fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt." A clear dismissal.

I scoffed, unwilling to let him have the last word, and shifted tactics.

"I listen in on a lot of parties I'm not invited to," I said coolly, my tone laced with the barest edge of a threat. "I hear things, Harrison. More than you'd like, I'm sure."

Harrison's smile barely moved. "Then I'll be sure to speak louder."

I grit my teeth, unable to shake the feeling of his condescension slipping under my skin like a sliver of glass.

"Hartley, by all means, if you have something to say then you should say it." He continued, leaning back in his chair and removing his glasses. "What, exactly, have you heard that you think needs addressing?"

His gaze swept over me, cool and assessing. That was his trick, wasn't it? Always playing the calm, collected mentor. But, somewhere beneath that well-tailored kindness, I knew he was itching to get rid of me. He just needed the right excuse.

I let the moment stretch, let him wonder just how much I was holding back before finally responding.

"Maybe you should ask Gideon instead. She seems to have all the answers."

For a fraction of a second, something else flickered through him, something deep and old and wrong. I had the ridiculous thought that he was about to lunge at me. That he could. That he would.

Instead, he only smiled. The kind of smile that had made me want to follow him anywhere, once. That smile didn't waver but his patience clearly had.

"Get out, Hartley," he said, voice a dangerous, silken whisper. I felt the phantom brush of his fingers still, a firm grip on my chin. He always managed to twist me at just the wrong angle. 

"You'll never truly replace me, you know." I was pushing my luck, I knew. 

There was a little animation in his bearing, one hand clenching and unclenching as though fantasizing what it might be like to wrap his fingers around my throat. To still the frantic beat of my heart with one smooth motion. 

"On the contrary, I've never had someone be so easily discarded before. It's a feat, even for you."

The insult stung, quickening my pulse and sending heat flooding to my face despite the effort I'd expended to soothe my nerves. Pointless. Wasted effort. He'd always known just how to needle his way beneath my skin.

"Is that a fact?" I asked, tone carefully light. There. The smallest of tics in his jaw. No one else would have seen it. 

"We can finish this conversation later." 

"Promise?" I said, a mocking edge to the word. 

"Get out. Now." 

I took a step back, giving ground. For now. I'd be back. He wouldn't shake me that easily and he knew it. I gave him the sort of flourishing little bow I'd give after performing a concerto. Again, the slightest twitch of the muscle in his jaw. He was slipping. Check.

"Don't worry," I called over my shoulder. "I'll see myself out."

~~~~~

translations:

Nemo tenetur armare adversarium contra se - No one is required to arm an opponent against himself

Equo debeo credite? - Should I trust the (Trojan) horse?

Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus - Liar in one, liar in all

Fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt - Men generally believe what they want to

[lunaetis]

[ the sudden need to write something emotional with yelan ... ]

[luv-lock]

⸻ ɪ ɴ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴅ ᴀ ʀ ᴋ ⸻

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Fem Reader

Headcanon: how would he be when he's obsessed?

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Bruce Wayne is a man shaped by tragedy, a billionaire with an iron will and an unrelenting sense of justice. But beneath the stoic façade lies a broken soul. When Bruce becomes obsessed, it isn’t violent outbursts or chaotic behavior—it’s cold, calculated, and methodical. He doesn’t lose himself to obsession; he leans into it, weaponizing his resources and intelligence to keep you close. After all, what is Batman if not a man who cannot let go?

Maybe you’re someone he met at a gala—a rare individual who caught his attention without trying. Maybe you’re an employee at Wayne Enterprises, someone who treated him like a person rather than the playboy billionaire. Or maybe you stumbled into Gotham’s darker corners, and he saved you as Batman. Whatever the case, Bruce finds himself drawn to you in a way he hasn’t been to anyone else in years.

At first, he tells himself it’s curiosity. You’re intriguing, sure, but nothing more. Yet he can’t stop thinking about you. Every word you said, every look you gave him, replays in his mind like a song stuck on repeat. And Bruce, has to understand why.

Bruce doesn’t approach you immediately; instead, he observes. He justifies it as caution. After all, he’s Batman—he needs to know everything about you to protect you.

He learns everything there is to know: your name, your routines, your friends, your secrets. He watches you through security cameras, listens to your conversations through bugs he discreetly plants, and even monitors your online activity.

But to Bruce, this isn’t invasive—it’s necessary. How else can he ensure your safety in a city as dangerous as Gotham?

As Bruce Wayne, he’s charming, attentive, and subtly magnetic. He uses his wealth and influence to insert himself into your life. Invitations to exclusive events? Job offers at Wayne Enterprises? He makes it impossible for you to say no without coming across as ungrateful.

As Batman, he’s your silent protector, always one step ahead. If you’re ever in trouble, he’s there—appearing out of the shadows to save you. He doesn’t speak much when he’s Batman, but the way his gaze lingers on you feels almost suffocating.

You’d never suspect that the billionaire who’s so eager to help you and the vigilante who seems to always be around are one and the same.

Bruce’s obsession manifests in his need for control. He doesn’t see himself as possessive—he sees himself as protective. You don’t need to worry about toxic friends, late-night walks, or bad decisions because Bruce will take care of everything.

If someone gets too close to you, Bruce doesn’t lose his temper. Instead, he uses his resources to quietly remove them from your life. A coworker who flirts too much? Suddenly transferred. A friend who badmouths Bruce? Their secrets mysteriously come to light.

“It’s for your own good,” he tells himself. After all, Bruce believes he knows what’s best for you better than you do.

Bruce is painfully self-aware. He knows his feelings for you aren’t healthy, and he hates himself for it. But his guilt doesn’t stop him; it fuels him. He rationalizes his actions by convincing himself that you’re safer with him watching over you.

“I’ve already lost so much,” he whispers to himself late at night in the Batcave, your face flickering on the monitor in front of him. “I can’t lose her too.”

In his mind, his obsession is just another sacrifice he makes for the people he loves. He can bear the weight of being a monster as long as it means keeping you safe.

Bruce rarely shows his jealousy outright—it’s subtle, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. If you mention another man, his jaw tightens imperceptibly. If someone touches you, his eyes darken, and his hand lingers a little too long on your shoulder as he pulls you away.

Behind the scenes, though, he’s ruthless. The man who asked for your number? He’ll find himself the target of a police investigation. That friend who keeps trying to set you up on dates? Suddenly, they’re avoiding you without explanation.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he says when you start to notice how people in your life seem to vanish. “Gotham is dangerous. You can never be too careful.”

Bruce’s obsession remains controlled until you try to distance yourself. Maybe you’ve started to feel smothered, or maybe you’ve realized that the people disappearing from your life aren’t coincidences. When you confront him—whether as Bruce or Batman—he’s calm, almost unnervingly so.

“I only want what’s best for you,” he says, his voice steady. “Do you have any idea how much danger you’re in without me?”

If you try to leave, that calm facade shatters. He won’t hurt you—never you—but he’ll do everything in his power to make sure you stay. He’ll cut off your options, isolate you, and remind you that no one else can protect you the way he can.

“You think you’re safer without me?” he says, his voice laced with desperation and anger. “You’re wrong. Gotham will chew you up and spit you out. I’m the only thing standing between you and harm.”

Despite his obsession, Bruce’s love for you is genuine in its own twisted way. He wants you to be happy, even if he doesn’t understand that his actions are suffocating you.

There are moments when the mask slips—when Bruce is just a broken man trying to hold onto the one good thing in his life. Late at night, he’ll hold you close, his voice trembling as he whispers, “You’re everything to me. I can’t lose you. Not after everything I’ve already lost.”

In those moments, it’s hard to tell where Bruce Wayne ends and Batman begins. To him, they’re both the same—a man who would do anything to protect the one person he can’t live without.

𝒍𝒖𝒗-𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 ☆ 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[justblades]

❝ THE GENERALS' COCKSLEEVE ! ❞

ᝰ. JIYAN x afab! reader x GESHU LIN

๋ᝰ. IN WHICH geshu lin tries to heal your hurt heart as you thought it was a one sided love with jiyan

ᝰ. SMUT, 18+ ONLY. double vaginal penetration, threesome, possessive! geshu lin, WC: 4.2k

a confidential expedition was sought in order to study the occurrences in the battle beneath the crescent. as there was no concrete evidence that recounts the whole of what transpired way back then, it was then decided the magistrate to take precautionary steps to delve deeper into the event.

as soon as the decision has been made, jiyan reaches out for you to talk in private. a secluded room freed from disturbances and lurking ears, a solemn look dances in his golden gaze. "the magistrate ordered for us to study the geographic location when the first retroact rain befell." he states as he shuffles the letter back to the envelope that he received from jinhsi.

a wax seal of ivory color engrained with the sentinel jué's design adorns the surface, jiyan's fingers trail the edges. you purse your lips tightly, reluctance slightly rising from your façade of composure. a tale as old as time, the jinzhou residents knew very well the story of the battle of the crescent.

what dawns in your perturbed mind was the former general behind it, the one deemed as the hero, the savior of all eventually leads the lives of the many to meaningless sacrifices. just the mere stories of those who witnessed general geshu's might would suffice to reinforce the thought on anyone that he was strong, mighty, that those onyx flames of his seared and tore through his countless enemies.

you're just as curious as the person next door. being jiyan's one of the few trusted rangers, you nodded, giving consent to the mission. the two of you will then embark on the journey once the sun rays peek through the bed of stars and the darkness.

it will pass . . . and so, the daybreak arises.

coming vis-à-vis with the general upon the agreed time to meet, the two of you swiftly weave through the vast forest, eliminating any possible tacet discord that might hinder your exploration progress with swift and haste. "we're nearing the norfall barrens now, be careful." jiyan reminds you as he treads forward, the broadblade hoisted at hand to prepare for any case of danger to come.

"yes, general." you reply as you manage to scan your surroundings carefully. as the ground beneath your feet starts to feel different the farther you walked and the olden structures welcome your vision with a faint light, the general looks back at you to confirm his observation. nodding in agreement, a sharp, gelid wind blows within, jiyan's teal locks ripple along the muted breeze.

"the magistrate ordered for us to not stay here for too long, as there's a possibility we might encounter larger waves of tacet discords." he pauses for a short while. "however, if we do not split up and make haste, we might lose the frequencies left behind the battle that might lead to  potential clues. given that we're both resonators, we're capable of diluting the echoes residing within the field."

he stops in his tracks, explaining the pros and cons of the decision to take. naturally, he's gearing towards the advice of jinhsi, as it is true that staying longer in this place will expose the two of you in greater danger. but a part of him doesn't want to split up from you, worrying he'll lose a trustworthy, competent figure in the midst of this expedition.

having known the general for quite some time, you've come to understand patches of his personality as if it were the back of your hand. you'd notice in the slightest change of his facial expressions, even more so in his tone lacing his words. no matter how miniscule the shift is, you'll always be able to know. "fret not, general. i assume you know me well as i know you." you simply state, flashing a small reassuring smile to subside the doubt gnawing at his bones.

jiyan nods slightly in exchange. "understood. i'll contact you via your terminal once i'm finished with exploring the half of the land and you'll do the same with yours. if you come into trouble, just ring me up, i'll come to your aid quickly." you reach for the gourd behind you, double checking if its functions are working in pristine condition.

after enough preparation, the two of you then separated ways with no goal other than to stay alive, rush to the aid of your companion in any hint of trouble and lastly, to pick up clues that draw back to the event. you make your way to the west of the norfall barrens, focusing on your senses to ensure that the exploration would go smoothly.

darkness envelops the whole land, dark embers of faded crimson continually drift from one place to another. among the lingering eerie noises resonating in the field, a distinct voice surfaces - "so it is you."

goosebumps ride on your skin as you prepare into stance and hoist your weapon, eyebrows furrowed as sobriety exudes from your body. when all of a sudden, a towering presence appears behind your back, and as you take a swift turn to face your supposedly opponent and strike them down in a single swing, black and indigo violet flames set the barren lands ablaze, kindling with the littlest movements from the broadblade the person does.

you take a step back, a suffocating heat engulfs everything, the oxygen left in your lungs thinning. struggling to catch your breath, you ball your fists and cough repetitively - the scale of this power is far too destructive.

"still holding out? impressive. no wonder he picked you."

once you finally manage to stabilize your breathing, you enhance your physical body with your forte, bracing impact once the person finally engages with you head on. within a blink of an eye, strands of long, grayish white hair comes to sight, and a pair of honey golden eyes lock gazes with yours.

he closes in with immense speed as the two of you exchange blows left and right. the male grits his teeth as the corner of his lips twitch upwards, "commend yourself for being able to withstand a fraction of my flames."

a gut feeling kicks in, that the danger you were watching out for - was finally settling. you instantly reach for the gourd as an attempt to reach jiyan on the other end, but no avail, the mysterious figure was faster than you. he approaches from above, swinging once more, clashing with your sword as his broadblade defeats yours. he successfully unarms you and manages to immobilize you with makeshift of bindings to keep you still. your back crashes flat on the dry land, a sharp pang of pain striking on your torso.

met with utter loss, he draws closer to you. he reaches his bandaged hand to your face, "could it be . . ." and your consciousness gradually fades away. "general geshu lin?"

rousing from a shortlived slumber, you jolt awake as your eyes peel open, your movements feel minimized. you examine the surroundings, and then yourself - a special restraint encages the both of your wrists together, seemingly one that is made of advanced technology especially catered to confine resonators. you knew from one look that it'd be useless to try and break free and you no longer bothered trying. instead, you opted for any possible methods to escape.

"general jiyan would not be able to come to your aid today, unfortunately." there it was again, the hoarse voice that resounds to your ears like a nightmare fuel. you flinch as you see him within your line of vision once more, confusion washes over yourself, at a loss for words in response to what he said.

"general, why?" was all you could verbalize amidst the worry pulling back your tongue. you bite your lip and could not help but think about jiyan, who put faith in your capabilities only for you to end up like this. "you're asking the wrong question." he says and kneels lower to your level, driving you to a corner as birch walls meet your back.

it was a small cabin from no one knows where that he resided in, necessary supplies and equipment arranged in a chronological manner displayed on the shelves. a dim light illuminated the vicinity, it flickers in opposition to geshu's strong gaze. "i know you have an unrequited love for the general - but you know as much as any midnight ranger that love is not a priority in jiyan's life."

his words struck like sharp lightning aiming to your heart, crushing it whole into smithereens of pain as your world flips upside down. questions come whirring in your mind, such as: why does he know? how does he know? what benefit does this fact bring to him?

unfortunately, his claim was true. being by the general's side for several years, you've seen him be vulnerable, reliable, and resolute regarding whatever trouble may come in his way. his bravery to withstand the lurking unknown sparked your faded flame inside your heart. jiyan became the beacon of light in your muddled world, as the two of you brave through the obstacles with joint forces, in every long night.

the sorrow he faced that you shared with him - it was halved. the joys he witnessed that you shared with him - it was doubled.

"come, be my companion instead. let us eliminate together the darkness at bay." geshu proposes and inches closer to you, his masculine features coming into full view. this time, you could see him better this time, only now noticing details you haven't before. a small mark adorns his face under his left eye and a diagonal scar carves his sultry lips.

he looks at you solemnly, you could feel the proximity between the two of you increase, until he finally presses his lips onto yours gently. shock courses in your veins - the general's tongue makes way inside your mouth, lapping your taste as it twirls with yours, performing a tantalizing rhythm to which mewls were elicited from the drowning pleasure.

you try to retort in opposition to his actions, but your protest was silenced as his right arm snakes its way up to your torso, tearing the fabric of your clothing with little effort. he nestles your nipple within the warm palm of his hand, his calloused fingertips fiddle on the very hard bud.

after making a concoction of your salivas mixed together, geshu breaks the kiss, leaving a trail that connects your lips to his.  "i-i can't abandon general jiyan from a petty reason. i did not uphold my duty all this time just so my feelings were to be reciprocated."

his aureate irises fixate on your features, "and you're loyal too. sorry, but i won't be as gentle as jiyan is to you." geshu crashes his lips on yours once more, this time, a burning carnal desire exudes from his aura, hands now exploring your body, removing the remaining worn out clothing as your tits spring free, nipples erect as glacial winds caress your skin. "so? have you two engaged in such an encounter before?" he manages to query in between heated kisses.

a muffled "no" reverberates and geshu immediately understands. a smirk creeps up to his face and pulls away, an idea slipping into his mind as he now buries his face in the crook of your neck. he asserts dominance as the general flicks his tongue all over the shell of your ear, proceeding to give the whole part slow, sloppy licks, as well as biting on the lobe to determine which you'd like more.

as if you were melting, you felt like putty in his touches as he continues to toy with your breasts. he savors your skin down to the sweet spot on your neck, putting pressure once he sucks on the part, leaving lust filled bruises. taking turns from licking, biting, and sucking, he finally gets his fill as his erection grows bigger and harder to restrain within.

a thought crosses your mind as his bulge brushes on your clothed region, maybe it isn't that bad, accepting general geshu lin's proposal, that is.

geshu shifts positions, he lays on his back as he makes you straddle his pelvis. "cat bit your tongue? i suppose i have to let your body do the talking from here on." heat rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment dawning as you, ironically, grind your lower region against his bulge, creating friction to ease the lust brewing in your lower stomach.

the confinements of the both of your clothing felt impeding to the satisfaction the both of you are chasing. no longer spending time to be rational, you let your emotions guide your next course of action - you strip down his black pants alongside his undergarment, revealing his girthy cock itching for action.

it was adorned by the most prominent blueish veins, it continually twitches, as well as very warm in contrariety to the chilly, tranquil atmosphere encompassing the two of you. you gather spit from the back of your cheeks, redirecting it past your lips, creating leeway for it to trickle down geshu's throbbing dick.

with heavy lidded eyes and blind guess if the accuracy was right, your drool drips down from the head of his cock down to the shaft, cloudy hues gracing it. you slowly wrap your hands around his length, carelessly curling your fingers as you stroke it up and down, starting slowly yet sloppily.

geshu's body tenses from the foreign sensation, his legs trembling and arms jerking. he shuts his eyes, indulging in the feeling as you continue pumping him, granting you low growls of pleasure from the male. meanwhile you remain straddling him, higher levels of libido rushing to your bloodstream as you pick up the pacing. "t-that's it—" geshu verbalizes with a faint voice.

he gets along with your momentum, thrusting his hips upwards in accordance to your rhythm. as he was nearing his release the faster it dragged on, he rises only to flip your frail body around, pinning you down against the floorboards. geshu's chest rises and falls continuously, panting heavily as he feels his release draw back, much to his wish. you've never felt so small and helpless before.

you could pick up every detail of his body language, yet heeded no mind for the embarrassment that was previously gushing in your system. your mind starts to feel dizzy yet carefree, as if like you've drifted far away from reality and only cared about nothing other than satiating your hunger for carnal desire. once geshu's breathing stabilizes, he presses your lips against yours again, relishing every drop of your saliva.

it was becoming messy, but still, the two of you continued like animals in heat. he bites on your lower lip and sucks on the part up to no end, granting him winces of pain mixed with pleasure altogether. a deep chuckle resounds, "quite daring for you to enjoy that."

"no matter, i'll proceed as i please now." he continues and sweeps aside your soaked panties, revealing a heavenly view for him to revel in - white liquids seep out of your slit, a certain pungent scent wafts into his nostrils. "your scent is everywhere." the general states as a matter of fact.

uncertain if that was to be taken in a positive connotation, he wraps his hand around his dick and slaps it against your folds lightly, tapping the very head on your clit. the littlest touches send you spiraling into bliss, a strong yearning growing within. "put it in." you whisper with a weak voice. geshu looks at you, surprised, even more so once you add, "please."

your melting expressions have long been engraved in his mind, as he guides his tip to your slit, the door of his cabin busts open, a strong force sends it flying to the other side of the wall. geshu lin lets out a hoarse laugh, "ah, look who's here!" almost as if he was rejoicing, he repositions the two of your bodies, now holding you up as you sat on his dick.

your sight becomes hazy from all the foreplay ensuing, weakening senses coming back as you saw the familiar hues of teal within your bleary vision. jiyan stands across from your lust-lost bodies, eyes enlarging into two full moons as shock was painted upon his masculine features.

he hoists up his broadblade once more, threatening geshu to let go of your naked body. "general jiyan, if you would not treat such a competent figure like her right, then let me do it in your stead . . . as i am confident that i can treat her better."

rivalry rose from the two males, "that is no way to treat someone." jiyan's words cut through the thick tension sharply, while geshu's brows knit. "you say that, but have you paid attention to the face she's making?" just as he finishes his question, he pushes your body against his cock, thrusting into your cunt with no forewarnings. the intrusion makes a lewd, sloppy noise, accompanied by your moan unintentionally slipping.

a surprising warmth expands through your insides, stretching your velvet walls apart as they mold around the shape of the general's cock. you throw your head back in immense pleasure as he fills you up, mind almost threatening to go blank. "if you want to take her back, prove that she'd want you to reclaim her away from my grasp."

"if not . . . i'm afraid this will be the last time you'll be able to set your eyes on her."

jiyan has always been a rational person, one of the many qualities that renounce him to be truly befitting a title of a general. yet, as he sees you get lost among the sea of pleasure geshu lin has been drowning you in, a sense of ache thrums his heart against his ribcage. with slow steps he took, he's now merely inches apart from you.

geshu continues to hold you up and still, while jiyan leaves a chaste kiss on your cheek first and foremost: a sight that the former general would rather not have seen at all, contributing to his annoyance. while you remained there, incapable of taking action as if you're merely just existing. with little mustered strength, you manage to wrap you arms around jiyan's neck as you loll him into a deep kiss.

a deep kiss capable of delivering human emotions through an intimate action, "general. . ." your voice was faint, yet he understood your intentions. he shuts his eyes and let his emotions take control, immediately fondling your exposed chest as the icy tips of his golden armor fiddle your perked up buds. a moan escapes, followed by even more as the light haired general thrusts in and out of you with great force, the tip of his dick kissing your very womb. "g-general!" you yelp in an attempt to cry for mercy, yet you were only met with more brazenness.

"now you sound like you're yearning for two inside your tight hole." geshu says, frustration lacing his tone as he clicks his tongue afterwards.

jiyan's breathing becomes staggered, letting himself loose as he licks your boobs with his wet tongue, poking its tip on your erect nipples. your body flinches, its sensitivity building up while you remain a moaning mess. even you, yourself lost track of which general you were pleading to for, all you want is to drift afloat into the euphoric seventh heaven, with no other worries in mind but having your thirst quenched.

"will it fit . . ?" he asks as he casts you a look of concern, eyes fixing particularly on your lips that have been stained by three salivas all in all. jiyan unbuckles the dyad belt adorning his waist, letting everything come undone while geshu continues to pump in and out of you, his strong hands grip the plush of your thighs rather tight.

you could hear his mewls from behind, yet your attention was taken by jiyan who's currently stroking himself at the view in front of him. he sheepishly watches you get your cunt pistoned by the former general, his aching erection protruding from the fine fabric of his boxers. " . . . put it in too, general."

the two of them, simultaneously, had their jaws fall agape in shock upon hearing such yearning words come out of your mouth. with a sense of responsibility burning within jiyan, he strips himself naked at this point in time - ready to heed your request. his hands glide all the way down to your inner thighs, his dominant hand's fingers brush back and forth on your dewed folds. he anchors his attention on your pussy alone, at how it flutters every time geshu's cock pounds you in and out.

his patience starts to wear thin, the same could be said for you. with watery eyes and melting expressions, you call for him once more. "please." you mumble, but was eventually silenced as geshu turns you to him and initiates an open mouthed kiss. the teal haired general ached twice as much for more pleasure as he finally spreads your lower lips open, making more space for his dick to go in.

the head of his cock kisses the outermost part of your walls yet you were already squirming. numbness strikes through your legs and quiver, but geshu lin stabilizes them with his one arm hooked on the both of your thighs. he shoots jiyan a frustrated glare, one that seemingly felt that spoke words of "what are you waiting for?"

with slow motions, he finally inserts himself into you, the shaft of his cock comes into contact along with geshu's. jiyan's eyes dared to fall, a titillating feeling wallowing his dick whole. "so tight." he manages to utter in between his hardly stifled, ragged breathing, evident that this feeling was overwhelming.

it was getting overstimulating within each passing minute, with two, fat, big cocks buried inside of you, warming and accompanying your velvet walls as one of them itches to move - geshu's tip crooks inside and rubs on your sweet, textured spot, rewarding the generals your strings of satisfaction. "ah— i'm cumming!"

perhaps it was too late when you said it, but geshu pulls out, giving jiyan a chance to fully savor your slutty hole. "i'll make use of your mouth for now." he flips you around, making you stand on all fours with your ass perked upwards, giving jiyan a full view of your aching cunt.

you shake your hips in desperation, wriggling around just to feel his tip come into contact with your slicked walls again. all the while you coil your digits around geshu's cock, starting off with the head by kitty licks on its little slit. the white haired general loses composure and restraint, hands finding themselves cupping the frame of your face, urging for you to go deeper. as obedient as you became once lust runs in your system, you finally lap all his length up, and at the same time, jiyan rams into you, continuing where he left off earlier.

more sloppy sounds emit from the intercourse as slurping and licking accompanied geshu's dick. sweat begins to trickle all the way down all of your bodies, both the generals' luscious hair becomes disheveled, they ramp their movements by a notch as jiyan performs such impactful thrusts, ramming with his balls deep in and as for geshu, he fills your mouth with his dick alone - both aiming to chase the familiar feeling of release.

jiyan's pacing transitions into a faster one, hands gripping your waist hardly that'll certainly leave a burning sensation on your skin later on. meanwhile geshu lin, he bucks his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing the very back of your throat. tears then begin to well up in your eyes, burning your irises as your gag reflex was getting harder and harder to tame.

"swallow it."

"i'll shoot it inside."

the both of them says in unison, and finally, strings of their sticky cum sprawl all over your body's insides: one in your womb and another in your throat. the two generals took some time to let these events sink in their desire filled minds, dicks still not softening any time soon.

jiyan looks at your naked back, the supple skin of yours makes him want to do more; eventually succumbing to the temptation. he wraps his arms around your chest and pulls you to a tight embrace, chin rests on your shoulder blade. you heavily pant, the back of your head now laid on the plane of his chest. the two of you then look over to geshu lin, whose facial expressions say that he's in no way satisfied. reading the ambience of the atmosphere, a gut feeling kicks in and tells you that jiyan feels the same.

geshu lin closes in, kissing away the drool escaping past the margins of your soft, sultry lips. jiyan then does the same, softly nibbling on your shoulder, making you elicit a short whimper.

"now, tell us. which one of us do you prefer?"

[bye-bye-sunbird]

About Little Dove

Character dialogue snippets from Tartaglia, Scaramouche, and Arlecchino discussing Little Dove.

Tartaglia "The Little Dove? Ah, yes... She’s not one of us, and she’s certainly not a fighter. People in Snezhnaya whisper about her like she’s some romantic heroine in a story. They don’t understand. She may seem like a dream, distant and untouchable, but she’s real. She’s just... softer. I guess that’s why I can’t help but be gentle with her, too. You ever meet someone and just know they don’t belong in the world they’ve been thrown into?

Scaramouche "Little Dove? Capitano’s soft, fragile little prize. It’s pathetic how people talk about her like she’s some tragic, romantic figure. They don’t get it. She’s nothing but a prisoner—helpless, weak, completely out of her depth. She’s nothing more than a songbird locked away, meant to be admired but never truly free. Still, there’s something about her that gnaws at you, isn’t there? She’s harmless, sure, but even from a distance, you can tell she’s holding onto something—hope, maybe? Hah... it makes me want to tear it all down, rip apart that façade, and show her the reality of it all.

Arlecchino "Little Dove... Capitano’s pet, his treasure. She doesn’t fight, doesn’t scheme—just sits in the shadow of his protection. Sad, really, but captivating in a way. You see, the true power isn’t in the one wielding the sword, but in the one who controls the person holding it. And she... she’s a master of that without even realizing it. Capitano is revered as an honorable man, his name carries weight on the battlefield, but this obsession of his? It could be his downfall. No one stays a prisoner forever, and if she ever learned how to wield her position... she could be dangerous. But for now, she remains soft, untouched by the polution surrounding her."

[gutsby]

Honor Among Thieves

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Marrying Brooklyn’s most dangerous man was easy. Divorcing him proves to be a bit harder—particularly when you’re pregnant with his child.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Breeding kink. Hurt/Comfort/We-Almost-Just-Died-Sex. Morning sickness. Manslaughter. Brief coerced kissing. Beefy, mob boss Bucky is a possessive expectant father who just wants to make sure he knocked you up properly

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Bucky’s words reverberated like a shotgun’s report, skimming across two dozen feet of marble, glass, and stainless steel before reaching your ears on the opposite end of the room. He was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, and your back was turned to him. Lucky thing, too, or else he would’ve seen the smile threatening to tug at both ends of your lips—effectively blowing your cover.

“Really, I don’t have the slightest idea, Barnes,” you told him, and it took everything in you not to laugh. Having just narrowly preserved your composure, you continued, “You keep me locked in this prison all day and expect me not to find ways to entertain myself? Well, this is all it is.”

Like hell it was, you could already hear in Bucky’s head. Feeling him eye you up and down from the archway, take his first steps into the room, loosen his tie, most likely.

“Prison?” You registered a low scoff, and his voice was already so much closer than it’d been five seconds ago.

Your husband was striding as quickly as his smooth, dark, tailored suit would allow, and he was undressing as he walked. You could hear the clothes coming off but pretended not to notice. Instead staring more intently at the crab bisque simmering on the stove before you, you licked the spoon you were holding and hummed a little.

“Yes,” you answered, simply, “Prison.”

Bucky was by your side in no time at all. Up close, he smelled like rosemary, oakmoss, and gunpowder.

“Well, this is news to me,” he said. He dragged out the middle syllables of his words longer than was necessary, likely to make his move sidling up closer to you. The last sound had scarcely died in his throat more than a second or two before you felt an arm loop around your back. A hand coming to rest on your hip, then his voice, again:

“See, I never knew they built ‘prisons’ up in first-class penthouse apartments in Brooklyn. Must be pretty nice.”

Bucky stepped behind you, and you were half-certain the black suit jacket he’d come home wearing was fully removed. Again, you pretended not to see, or care.

“It’s a metaphor, James.” But your voice wavered.

“A metaphor?” Bucky’s head sank into the soft groove between your neck and your shoulder, and he kissed it.

“Yes.”

Your mouth made a sound more akin to a breath than a real, enunciated word, and you knew Bucky felt it too. He sensed this headstrong, no-bullshit façade of yours was sure to come crumbling apart any second, and each new brush of his hands and lips would be making it happen. Knowing this, he wasn’t in a rush to get the rest of his clothes off. He did, however, start to toy with yours.

“Tell me more. Am I really holding you hostage, doll?”

You took a ladle and started to stir, trying to stay cool. Meanwhile, your husband tugged gently on your dress.

“Hostage, housewife, same thing,” you muttered, low.

For once, it was Bucky’s turn to break character, as he laughed. It was short-lived and sweet, and he pressed another kiss to the skin of your neck, as if in apology.

“Right, right. I forgot. You were forced to marry me.”

“Right,” you shook your head, just slightly emboldened by the way you’d made him crack, if only for a moment, “I’m forced to marry you, move into this horrific little shanty in Brooklyn”—gesturing to the multi-million dollar apartment surrounding you both—“and then you leave me here, all by myself, with nothing to do while you go play Godfather with your mobster friends. It’s not fair.”

By the tail end of that last sentence, you and Bucky both were already grinning a little, coming to terms with just how ridiculous it sounded when you phrased it like that. Still, your husband seemed game to keep the bit going.

“Now that’s just not true,” he said, tone all faux offense.

You felt the soft snap of a ribbon coming undone, and in a second realized it was the satin bow holding the back of your dress together. The fabric loosened, and Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, over your front—of course.

“I didn’t leave you ‘by yourself’ at all, doll,” he said, and suddenly, his palms were fanning out, over something, “Gave you this baby to keep you company, didn’t I?”

The ‘something’ he was touching now was your belly. All soft and smooth and protruding out in a perfect little globe beneath your dress, no bigger than when he’d left for work that morning. Bucky treated the bump like it was a novelty all the same—like he was seeing it for the first time and couldn’t believe he was actually the one responsible for making it get like that. It had gotten to be a hobby of his, nearly, just how much he loved watching it grow. He had his fingers splayed out across your tummy virtually every chance he could get, and that didn’t stop whether you were out in public or sharing a moment in the comfort of home; he couldn’t get enough.

Which was why Bucky was right when he’d said you knew exactly what you were doing when he came home that day. You knew just the kind of effect that wearing a tight, white dress while cooking dinner would have on him, and you hoped it would rile him up just like this: with his hands roaming over every inch of your body, making soft, sweet circles along the swell of your belly, and kissing your neck again and again. Biting some, too. Getting so worked up he was all but gnawing at the skin as he drank in your scent and got lost to pure instinct.

If it wasn’t clear that Bucky had had a breeding kink before, you saw it written plain as day across his face every morning and night since he’d first learned you were pregnant. Like all the life force within him was just a byproduct of the knowledge that you were his—and this baby, growing bigger each day, was a mix of you both.

You hated to say it, but fatherhood suited your assassin-trained, mob-heading, bloodlusting husband better than anyone could have predicted in a million years or more.

Presently, Bucky flipped you around and sank to his knees. He slid you over to the counterspace area, away from the stove, and made sure to flip each knob to ‘off’ to make sure there wasn’t a chance you’d get burned. You cast one last look at the crab bisque and knew at once your hard work would have to be put on the back burner for now, because Bucky wasn’t hungry for that.

Still, you kicked a foot in soft, muted protest when you felt him slide his hands up your legs, under your dress, and start to reach for your panties. You let out a breath.

“I spent two hours perfecting the seasoning on that, Barnes,” you chided him, gently and without much admonition in your voice as you pointed to the soup, “You say you want a good little housewife but won’t even leave me un-fucked long enough to try any food I make!”

“And I’m very sorry about that, Mrs. Barnes,” Bucky replied, head disappearing beneath your skirt so he could take your underwear off with his teeth instead.

But, much like your reproach, your husband’s strained apology held less than half of its professed sincerity. Your blue cotton panties were discarded in a second, your hips pushed back against the cool white marble behind it, and Bucky, almost too cheekily, brought his head back up from underneath your dress just to steal a quick look at your belly, then up at you. He was smiling.

“Anything you make tastes amazing, honey. Daddy just needs to eat a little something beforehand, that okay?”

He already knew what you’d say. The sweet, shit-eating grin hovering over your lower half knew all that and more. Bucky just loved to tease, taking the hem of your dress between his index and thumb, and rubbing all the more tenderly, murmuring again, ‘That alright with you, pretty girl?’ and ‘My wife likes getting tonguefucked in the kitchen, doesn’t she?’ while his breaths spread over you.

You nodded that you did. Momentarily forgetting the three-course meal you’d had planned for him since early that morning, you let your knees fall limply apart from one another, and Bucky’s broad form filled the space in between. The fabric of your dress was snug, especially so over your belly. Your husband pushed the material up your hips and let it rest just high enough to expose your warmth to him. Angling your hips back the slightest bit, trailing his fingers up your thighs and inside them, gently, Bucky let out a low groan against your body, and you could feel the vibrations of it travel up your spine.

“I really am mean for keeping you here all day, aren’t I?” he teased, sliding the tips of his fingers between your glistening folds and watching you jolt in response.

“So— so mean. Bucky, please.”

Your voice was far more hoarse than circumstances would seem to beget; your husband had just eaten you out that morning. Nevertheless, your hand was trembling as it reached for his head. Your pull was taut and dire. While your fingers threaded in through his hair and your body opened itself more and more for him, you could feel that kind smile, even if you couldn’t see it. Frankly, the swelling of eight-and-a-half months made it difficult to see much of anything below the waist, but Bucky made sure to let you know he was there. By holding your hand, skimming his lips against your skin, starting, just then, to sink his fingers in toward the heat of your body, and softly pulling his face away so he could look up at you.

“Baby?” he breathed.

Your eyes locked with his as he slid two fingers inside you. The stretch alone was enough to put your brain on the fritz, but, fighting the first shockwaves of pleasure:

“Y-Yeah?”

He withdrew. Pressed them back in and let out a grunt.

“I need you to do something for me.”

You couldn’t fathom what that might be, but you nodded anyway. ‘Anything’ was what you managed to choke out.

“And you might not like it, doll.”

Your eyes widened some.

“O— O-Okay, what?”

Bucky’s fingers curled inside you, and a short, sharp streak of dizzying pleasure pulsed through your body. Your knees felt weak, and your mind even worse, but with what little resolve you had left, you were able to keep your eyes entirely open and fastened to his. A look that struck you as almost bittersweet crossed your husband’s features, and you saw his gaze soften again.

“I need you to wake up,” he said, calmly.

“What?”

Your toes curled tight underneath you, and the warmth between your legs leapt up to over a thousand degrees.

“Melaya, I need you to wake up.”

At the same time, your blood ran cold in your veins. Surely, you couldn’t be hearing him right if the voice he used was so gruff and low—and laden with a Russian lilt.

“Bucky? What— What do you mean?”

But you knew. Or suspected something of it anyway.

Now the sound from your own throat was hardly one that you recognized as yours, so shrill and high and strange—what could he mean by that? Why was he watching you in that way? Your husband wasn’t smiling so brightly anymore, and the once-gratifying conflagration between your legs had grown to an almost scorching degree, no longer nice, generous, or pleasurable in the slightest.

“We need you to wake up now, honey. Right now.”

His tone, too, was distorted. Grating.

“Bucky, I-I don’t underst—”

“WAKE UP!”

“WAKE UP!”

Natasha shook you hard, and it hurt.

She didn’t mean for it to. She just needed you up and out of bed, and you’d been asleep for almost fourteen hours.

You started at the fifth or sixth shake, nearly punching yourself in the face when you tried yanking a set of covers up and over your head and discovered, shortly, that there was none. You were splayed out on a bed in an as-yet unfamiliar home—Steve’s new place—and, while you slept, you’d kicked all of the blankets you’d been given the night before off your body and onto the floor.

Your eyes were wide as saucers as they darted to Nat’s.

There was no need to say what had happened—she knew these dreams were getting worse by the day.

It’d been a week since you fled your Brooklyn apartment in an all-out terror. A week since a senseless, short-sighted idea on your part had led to the discovery that your husband was once part of a HYDRA sleeper cell whose activation phrase turned him into an agent of total destruction at will. A week since you’d seen a half dozen bodies litter your living room floor, more still being bludgeoned by the so-called ‘Winter Soldier,’ as Bucky had formerly been known. A week since you’d sobbed in Natasha’s arms and begged her not to let you go back. A week since you’d been obliged to hide out in Steve Rogers’ new bachelor pad upstate, because, frankly, there was nowhere else you could safely live until this whole ordeal with Bucky was settled—if it ever would be.

A full week since you’d learned you were pregnant, too.

As far as you knew, your husband was wholly unaware of this fact, and of Steve’s most recent real estate purchase up in Buffalo, and you’d been existing in a semi-serene and largely dissociated state for the past seven days.

Your gaze adjusted to the light, and you blinked up at Nat, feeling damp in just about every place on your body. You looked down and found yourself drenched in sweat.

“Hydrate. Please.”

It wasn’t so much a request as it was a standing order: Nat holding out a glass of water and instructing you to drink. Though your first instinct was to make a face and shake your head—you’d found that any new fluids in your body this early in the morning would only get thrown back up when you made your first frantic trip to the toilet—you accepted it anyway. You drank three big gulps to appease the woman standing next to the bed, then wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled

“I’m gonna go puke now,” you said.

“Aim for inside the toilet bowl if you can,” Steve called out from the doorway. By the look on his face, you’d been doing a pretty shit job of aiming vomit lately.

“My bad, Rogers.”

You had a hand on your stomach, slowly easing back up into a seated position, when you heard something being flung across the room, followed by a ‘HEY!’ and a crash.

“Your aim sucks, too, Romanoff,” Steve griped, loudly, “And I was kidding. She can puke wherever she wants.”

By the door, a hefty hardcover book lay open on the floor. Apparently Nat’s options for projectiles had been limited.

“All good, Rogers,” you offered anyway. Fighting a smirk.

You were starting to stand, and your head felt as if you’d just taken your first steps off a rocking boat. Your other hand jumped to your mouth, and you muttered, ‘Fuck’ before brushing past Nat and her outstretched arms.

She held your hair while Steve retrieved the glass of water, as well as a towel. The unsightly first trimester ritual proceeded as it had for all of the last week, with Nat rubbing circles in your back and Steve making well-meaning but completely useless live commentary like, ‘Babies are a real pain in the ass, aren’t they?’ At the conclusion of each new stupid remark, Natasha would shoot a dirty look his way, but you never let her shoo him away. Through no conscious choice of your own, Steve had become something of a comfort blanket over the course of the past chaotic days. At the very least, you two were no longer at each other’s throats flinging accusations and exorbitantly-priced tumblers in the other’s direction, which was a marked improvement from where you were the day after you and Bucky’s wedding.

At length, you lifted your head from the toilet, and he daubed at your cheek with the towel—mostly just trying to wipe off spit and your own queasy-looking expression. He succeeded in clearing away just the former, but you forced a smile all the same, then shared it with Natasha.

Nat couldn’t smile back. In fact, the grimace on her face only etched even deeper, and her forehead creased.

“This is a horrible time to be asking you this, I know—”

“Nat, please.” Steve groaned.

Nat, what? There wasn’t a lot more that could catch you off guard after all the shit you’d come to see that week. Still, Nat’s breaths were both measured and slow, and you could see she was chewing on the inside of her cheek like she wasn’t quite sure how best to phrase her words. This, coming from one of the most astute legal minds this side of the Hudson River, gave you pause.

“Ask anything. I’m pretty numb, if you haven’t noticed.” You rapped on the side of your head for comedic effect, but neither Natasha nor Steve laughed or cracked a grin.

“How do you feel about filing for divorce tomorrow?”

At the sound of Nat’s words, you felt the bile jump back up your throat. You knew there wasn’t enough food or fluid to make much of anything now, but all the same, you craned your neck back over the toilet and retched. When nothing came out, as expected, you turned back.

“What?”

Natasha looked a little ill herself, but still, she continued.

“How do you feel about just…fast-tracking a divorce from him and taking off new? We’ll talk assets later.”

Assets? Fast-track? Divorce? What the fuck?

“What the fuck, Nat?” you repeated as much out loud.

It normally wasn’t your thing to be so blunt with her, but the inquiry certainly seemed to invite some extra candor. You swiped at your mouth for any excess spit that might’ve trickled out, crudely, and in a second, Steve was handing you the towel. Then helping you to your feet, holding your arm and lower back in a grip you could feel was secure. You were unsteady on your legs, so he and Natasha guided you over to the sink, where you could regain your bearings and freshen up a bit. Sneaking a look at your reflection in the mirror was a bad idea; your face was sallow, and the rest of your body had every appearance of being horribly weak, for lack of a better word. You caught a glimpse of a gash sitting just above your left temple and immediately looked away. Stupidly, you hoped Steve and Nat hadn’t seen it.

“He did that to you,” Nat said without missing a beat.

You winced, and you washed your hands, not looking up.

“I thought you said it wasn’t him. Soldat, you told me.” And for a second, your eyes flickered to Steve, whose expression was a touch more sympathetic, if not visibly discomfited now. Like he didn’t want to speak for once.

He did, anyway: “Doesn’t matter if it was Winter or him, really. Point is he hurt you while trying to protect y—”

“And yet, you asked me to forgive him just last week for killing my dad in the same type of rage,” you replied, and instantly regretted the accusatory tone you’d taken on.

Your anger was misdirected at Steve. It wasn’t his fault for sharing the truth about your husband’s—his best friend’s—past when you’d asked him. These were queries you’d made, helping to form justifications for your own decision to stay after what had happened in Madripoor. Obviously, Steve would be biased to help support his friend in a time of need. But now things were different; Bucky had never been activated as soldat and ended up hurting someone he’d loved before. Steve was free to change his mind after seeing that happen and urge you to leave, or at least reconsider, your marriage to Bucky.

The second look you gave him attempted to convey as much, a bit more apologetic as he and Natasha led the way out of the bathroom. Steve smiled and held your arm again, though you probably didn’t need it. You walked downstairs to the kitchen together. Over by the toaster, Sam was inspecting a charred bagel with a scowl

“Rogers, you really need to ditch this shit,” he said, gesturing to the rusted metal contraption that appeared to be from 1918, and had just burnt two bagels to a crisp.

“It was a gift from a friend, piss off,” Steve replied, grinning a little. Reaching for the blackened bread roll and even going so far as to take a bite, crunching loudly.

“Did your friend happen to fight in World War II?” Nat asked. She lent one look to the archaic machine but said nothing further, opting instead to take a seat at the kitchen table, where a sea of papers was strewn about.

Then, to you, “Come. Sit.”

Somewhere in your tentative stroll from where you stood to where she sat, and in the middle of the men’s toaster bickering, Sam called out that he’d have bacon and eggs ready in a second. Steve offered up his singed sesame bagel in the interim, and you told him no thanks. With a still slightly throbbing skull and a nauseous gait, you took the chair next to Nat’s and looked down at her papers.

Honestly, you thought your present condition might warrant some leeway when it came to holding off on the heavy-hitting topics first thing, but, to your surprise, Natasha slid a crisp white packet over almost instantly.

“Nat, what the fuck?” you groaned for the second time.

“Read it. Give it a second to digest, then we can—”

“No!” you cut in, pushing the packet back to her with a little more force than you’d meant, “I-I can’t. Not now.”

On the very first page, in bold and capitalized typeface, there was printed a brief string of words you’d never wanted—or thought you would ever need—to see:

‘VERIFIED COMPLAINT: ACTION FOR DIVORCE’

“It’s just the petition. No harm in taking a look,” Nat said.

You could hear a faintly gentler tone in her voice, even as you shook your head and looked away from the papers.

“I don’t want to. I can’t do this right now.” You kept shaking your head for a couple seconds after, turning your gaze instead to the bay window of Steve’s kitchen.

A nice, sprawling yard stretched as far as you could see. In the distance, a fuzzy white horizon was punctuated the slightest bit by the outline of a wood fence, but apart from that, the land was empty. The lot was secluded. Happy and effervescent in a nearly cloudless sky, the midmorning sun cast its rays without so much as the threat of a storm’s hinderance. You fixed your eyes on the clear expanse above and silently wished it would rain.

Before more than a minute or two had passed like that, Sam was approaching the table with two platters. Steve balanced four more by himself, watching the sway of one plate of scrambled eggs in his arms with a wary look before setting each one of the dishes on the table.

“Bon appétit,” Steve said, butchering his French just about as badly as Sam had the bagels. You and Nat thanked them both anyway and started clearing off the table, pushing papers away in favor of steaming plates. Sam and Steve sat down, and all of you began to eat.

While you dutifully piled on each scoop of eggs, bacon, sausage links, biscuits, gravy, and grits—far more than you knew you could feasibly consume—you wished again for a rainstorm, and maybe a quiet breakfast. One that wasn’t marred by talks of legal separation and lengthy battles in court, if you could help it at all. To this end, and perhaps against your body’s best interest, you shoveled two supersized spoonfuls of egg in your mouth, so that if Nat tried reviving those subjects again, you could put off the conversation by simply continuing to chew. You felt your stomach turn inside you but, stubbornly, ate more.

You had just swallowed it all, about to make way for a warm, flaky buttermilk biscuit, when a sound cut in, and your belly flipped again. Your teeth had barely sunk into the bread a second when Nat set her own food aside, then used two fingers to push something toward you.

“Just skim it. Let me explain what the process can be,” she said, tapping her index on the first line and meeting your eyes as if to plead. She had to have known she’d be met with resistance—from you, of course, but also Steve. She raised a defensive hand to him before he even cut in:

“Come the fuck on, Nat. Will you give her a break?”

“I’m saying this for her sake! I’m doing it for her.”

“And throwing divorce papers in her face over breakfast is really the best way of going about it? Is that for her?”

Sam swallowed whatever he’d been chewing on, glanced down at the top paper, and seemed to brace himself.

“Guys, is now really the right time—” he started.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Steve barked over him.

Natasha ignored the plainly disdainful look from the latter, lifted her hand off the paperwork and instead trained her gaze solely on you. Just like she had in Zurich. Focusing intently on your face, ignoring whatever Steve or Sam were saying in the moment, she turned to you and found your expression was stale. Unmoving. Frankly, half of what was running through your mind right then was how badly you wanted to puke again. As if the eggs had turned rotten in your gut the second they reached their destination in your GI tract, you felt a heavy, oppressive fog of nausea taking shape between your ears, and you just wanted everyone to stop talking.

Sam and Steve continued on without a hitch, agreeing vaguely but also appearing to bicker over other things, like when was the most appropriate time to have this conversation. Natasha was leaning in, reaching for your hand this time, and you knew she meant well. You would bet any large sum of money there wasn’t a malicious bone in her body, and she was doing this for your benefit. All the same, you were grateful when the front door swung back on its hinges, and a new person walked in. Nat, Sam, and Steve all suspended their conversations.

“Hey, wh—” the blissfully unaware, semi-stranger began.

“Sharon!” Steve cried, “Would you tell Romanoff she’s being a goddamn pest with no sense of boundaries?”

Sharon halted at the threshold of the house, skating a look between Nat and Steve at first, then Steve and Sam, then just at you. The look didn’t linger for long, and before you knew it, she was setting down a fistful of grocery bags and twisting her mouth into a frown.

“Will you shut up, Steve?” was her only response.

Sam rose from his chair and pointed as if to say, ‘Yeah, that’ before joining her in the foyer to help carry in the Wegmans bags. Natasha leaned back in her chair with a vaguely pleased look, and Steve just rolled his eyes. He slapped his palm overtop the stack of divorce papers still laying before you and, seemingly undeterred, continued,

“Do you think it’s fair for her to force divorce papers on this poor soul—” pointing to you, the poor soul, apparently, “—when it’s been a week since she left?”

Sharon started handing off the frozen stuff first, sliding a box of Stouffer’s across the counter to Sam, who then deposited it in the freezer. These exchanges took place in relatively quick succession, with Sharon only chancing a look toward the kitchen table once or twice as they did.

“I think she should do whatever the hell she wants,” she said, “And I think their divorce is none of our business.”

Fair enough take. One that you could respect, at the very least, even if you weren’t certain she particularly cared for you at all. You reckoned she had no reason to, and on the whole, appeared to be a pretty reserved person.

You wanted to add a word in her defense, reiterate to Steve that he didn’t have to go to bat for you, the poor, defenseless soul, right now. Instead of being able to speak, though, you felt an upsurge of something heavy in your throat. You clamped a hand to your mouth again, cheeks flushing with the heady sensation and also out of embarrassment, then pushed your chair back and stood.

“I— gotta—” you stammered, just audible to the table, through the wall your fingers had made over your lips.

You sprinted up the stairs without another word.

The first trimester ritual repeated, and ten minutes later, you re-emerged from the bathroom feeling two big spoonfuls of scrambled eggs lighter and still none the happier, healthier, or wiser. You took a peek in the full-length mirror at the other end of the room and discerned from a distance of ten feet that you looked like dogshit.

You flopped down on the bed face-first, heedless of the pool of sweat that still encompassed roughly half of it, and let out a weak, muffled breath into the sheets. Someone had been gracious enough to replace all the blankets and pillows you’d kicked off last night. When you heard a knock on the door, it sounded a lot like Nat’s.

You rolled to the side, eyes screwed shut in frustration.

“If you’ve come to tell me my marriage is a fucking dumpsterfire, I agree completely, Natasha. I’m dumb.”

A little huff of a half-laugh sounded from the doorway. You opened your eyes and saw Sharon standing there.

Up close, she looked a little paler than you’d remembered seeing her last in Switzerland. Soft beads of perspiration dotted her neckline from what had likely been a hot and arduous journey walking up the driveway with all the food, and presently, she seemed tired. She wore a simple gingham blouse that had her eyes shining with vibrance, though, and both hands, you noticed, were full—she had a mug in one and a spoon in the other. She smiled kindly.

“The mob tends to have that effect,” she said, strolling in. Setting the mug on the nightstand and easing the spoon into it, stirring, “Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

You had no idea what all she knew about your marriage. You weren’t so sure you could extricate yourself from all the blame of having the thing go up in flames in four short weeks. Nevertheless, you smiled back and offered up something good-humored in return, like, well, I’m not exactly winning wife of the fucking year anytime soon.

Again, Sharon chuckled. It was small. She leaned back against the nearest armchair and, pointing to the cup she’d left to rest on the nightstand, said in a soft voice,

“Give that a minute. It’s hot.”

You glanced over and saw a little string that you guessed was attached to a teabag sitting at the bottom of the mug. The drink smelled like chamomile, maybe. You sat up, readjusted your pyjama top, then slid your socked feet underneath you so you could scoot closer to the edge of the bed. On a deeper inhale, you decided the tea was definitely chamomile. And too hot, as Sharon said.

“Thank you,” you told her.

“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” she replied. Letting out that funny little chuckle of hers—one too low to be considered a full laugh, but very close—and then, seeming to realize what she said might’ve sounded off, “Like— I heard what happened with Schröder. Him trying to drug you after the wedding and all…that. I— I’m sorry.”

Bad time to be making jokes, she appeared to chastise herself, but you just nodded along with the faintest grin.

“It’s OK. I’d pay money to be knocked the fuck out now.”

You grinned bigger, and she smiled too.

“It should make you sleepier, if you wanted to nap.”

You replied that you would, in fact, love to be unconscious right now if it meant not having to put up with all this bullshit morning sickness, and you slowly reached for the mug. Sharon stood up, and while you took your first sips, she fluffed the pillows behind you.

She was right. The tea felt like a hug. You settled under the covers and brought the cup to your lips once more, taking two big draughts before setting the drink aside. Yeah, that shit’ll put you right out, no drugs needed. You sank even further under the sheets and watched Sharon hover between the bed and the doorway, looking around as if trying to find something to do—some way to make herself feel more useful, if you had to guess from the pensive look in her eyes. Finally, she settled closer to the door and gave you one, fairly sanguine look. The warmth of your drink had already begun to nestle inside your weary bones, and your eyelids felt heavier. Still, you tried to return the sunny look before getting fully settled.

“Thanks again, Sharon. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She started to leave. In fact, she’d already made it three-fourths out of the room when something stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to you, and you looked up.

“This…probably doesn’t mean a whole lot coming from me, but—whatever you decide to do with Bucky…is okay. We’ll support you, whether you choose to raise this baby with him or do…whatever it is you want to do. Don’t let Nat or Steve or Sam or anybody tell you differently. It’s your choice, y’know, whether you wanna stay married…”

Sharon trailed off, and somewhere inside, you could tell she meant to finish with words like, ‘…even if you didn’t get to make the choice to get married in the first place.’ You appreciated it. You beamed with just your head poking out from over the covers and thanked her again.

And, before she left, for the second time, she stopped. She walked over to the nightstand and bent slightly at the waist, just enough to set something small down. You turned to the side and saw a vial—a minuscule tube—on the surface. Your eyes widened, realizing what it was.

“Sam picked it up in Madripoor. He said Steve had given this to you…to, uh, give to Schröder, and I thought you should have it back,” she said, pausing, “Just in case.”

You eyed the little vial of poison on the nightstand and nodded, still not completely understanding. Your head throbbed, your stomach was still turning, churning. Your brain was about ten blinks away from logging off entirely and drifting to sleep. All you could do, then, was repeat what Sharon had said as you exchanged one final look.

“Just in case.”

Your eyes closed, and you fell asleep very soon after.

You couldn’t have been out for more than an hour; you were sure of it. However, the next time you glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, you saw it read 11:04.

P.M.

Shit.

SHIT.

That chamomille tea was no fucking joke.

Just as your thoughts drifted back to Sharon, the conversation you’d shared, the drink she’d given you, the poison she’d left behind for you to keep, you heard her voice all over again—and now, not just in your own head.

Presently, she was standing over your bed again, though the room was much darker this time around. She pressed a finger to her lips, hey, please, please, be quiet, alright? At first you wanted to make a sharp and strangled sound. A cry for help? You weren’t sure. Didn’t know. Couldn’t see very much of the woman at all, except for the outline of her face from the moonlight streaming in through the window. She stared and ‘shh’ed’ some more.

And you were contemplating yelling out a loud obscenity in response to it when next she cut in, markedly gentler:

“Keep it quick. Nat and the guys will be back in thirty.”

You blinked hard into the darkness and waited for your vision, or else your still-missing voice, to return. It didn’t. You just stared back, eyelids going up and down and up and down like a goddamn idiot gone sluggish off one too many Quaaludes, and it was several seconds more before she gestured behind her, into the shadows.

You tensed under the covers, chock-full of terror. You squinted, and shrank, and might’ve nearly pissed yourself were it not for the intervening force of a face.

A familiar face.

Bucky’s face.

You leapt up from the bed, displacing each one of Sharon’s cool and careful warnings from your mind all at once. You didn’t mean to, and as soon as she’d shushed you again, you shut your mouth. Fell still. Sharon slipped out of the room, reminding you both, again, that you had to be quiet, and you had to be quick. Then it was just you and Bucky. Silence and slightly less than five feet of space between you two. Then, shortly, no space to spare at all, as you ran to meet each for a hug a second later.

Your head struck his chest, and it was hard. That, alongside the python’s squeeze he wrapped around your body, hugging you to him in the tightest embrace imaginable, had your mind reeling, skull pulsing just a bit. You pulled back and stood smiling up at Bucky, whose eyes were wide, drinking the sight of you in.

‘Are you hurt?’ were his first words.

You shook your head that you weren’t, still unable to talk.

“Why are you— Who— who brought you— I didn’t—”

It seemed Bucky was equally hard-pressed to form a sentence himself, while his eyes were roaming wildly, all over you. Looking for bumps or bruises or cuts, whatever the wound might have been. He stumbled to the lamp and flicked it on. You tilted your head left, reflexively.

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you said. Sudden and swift, “I’m good.”

But you didn’t move your head too far to the right, either, for fear he might see the cut above your temple—the one soldat had caused when he’d pushed you to the floor, trying to protect you from a threat he couldn’t see.

As it was, your husband seemed to be too much in shock to see anything else apart from what stood immediately in front of him. He hugged you again. He kissed the crown of your head. He constricted your body so tight in his arms you felt a pressure start to build behind your eyes, and suddenly you weren’t so much pulling away as you were wrenching your body from him. When you met Bucky’s gaze again, the sweet blue irises were glossy.

“Nat wouldn’t say where you were, just that you were safe and needed to be…be alone for a while, but I—” He stopped, and it was as if he couldn’t even finish with the words, because his breath was stuck in his throat and his eyes were stinging too much. He looked down, briefly.

You wanted to reach for his hand but hesitated. He took yours a second later, holding extra tight as he continued:

“I thought I’d— thought you might’ve…left. I don’t know. I hadn’t been able to sleep, and then she— Sharon, she called me tonight, said you were here, so— so—”

You felt a pang of guilt holding his gaze, seeing how all the hurt that had come to accumulate behind those eyes over the last week went spilling, at length, into emotions he was either too overcome or sleep-deprived to express. The weight of this suffocated him, made him extra quick to speak his mind but slow to make sense of just about anything that was coming out of his mouth. He stopped, sucked in a breath, then pinched your hand in his, and you didn’t know what to do. You had no idea what to say.

“I was scared, Bucky.”

It sounded pathetic coming out of your mouth. Your husband nodded as though you’d just said the most profound thing in the world. His knuckles went white from just how hard he was gripping your hand, his head bobbed along in agreement, and for a moment, you winced to think that he might hug you again. Instead, the fingers tangled between yours just made a tighter knot.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said.

“You scared me,” you added, voice wavering.

Your left hand was going numb. You didn’t want to give him pause—possibly hurt his feelings—by freeing your touch from his, but that grip was brutal. Deathly rigid and unforgiving. Thoughts of Brooklyn and Madripoor came flooding back; Bucky was so much stronger than he realized. His tone, in contrast, was dulcet and soft.

“I didn’t know I’d get like that. I should’ve told you, doll.”

“I shouldn’t have tried the activation in the first place.”

You shouldn’t have tried digging into Bucky’s past all. When all there seemed to be at every turn was a brand new way for him to hurt you, or the people you loved, maybe there came a time when you had to stop asking questions altogether. Maybe that was what his mother and all the women who’d gone before her had known to do, what you had been too stupid to see all along. There was no knowing these men at all, only taking them as they were and learning to cope with what they became.

Bucky shook his head.

“No, doll, it’s not on you,” he murmured low. Still forceful

Thankfully, he released your hand to cup your cheeks, and he kissed your forehead. You felt your pulse in your palm, throbbing from where he’d held it. When he let go the second time, his expression was considerably softer.

“Listen, I’ll take you home, we can talk things over. As long as I know you’re safe, it doesn’t have to— to—”

Hey. He was already halfway toward the door before he realized you weren’t following him. He turned and gestured forward. He beckoned you, brows drawing in.

“Baby? C’mon.”

You didn’t budge.

Your feet were rooted in place, as though cemented to the floor. No matter how much you wanted to appease him, go along with whatever he asked, you couldn’t. You shook your head, and Bucky tilted his own, confused.

“Baby?”

“I’m leaving, Bucky.”

You couldn’t hear your own words slipping out between your teeth, only the blood rushing through your ears. Bucky stopped and turned to face you completely.

“What?”

“I’m leaving.”

“What— what do you mean, ‘you’re leaving’?”

“I want a divorce.”

That part you did hear yourself. You wished you hadn’t.

You wished you hadn’t seen the light break off from Bucky’s eyes, expression going limp the instant your words registered with him. You nearly wished you hadn’t said them at all, seeing just how far his face fell and how hurt he looked by them—but quietly, from somewhere more rational-headed inside yourself, there was a voice reminding the rest of you that it needed to be done. You couldn’t keep pretending like this wasn’t what had had to come next. What you’d been skirting with Nat all day and hadn’t been able to bring yourself to admit before now.

Your husband still didn’t seem to be computing it fully. He walked closer to you, and his gait was unsteady.

“Divorce?”

Your vision was bleary; you hadn’t even realized tears had begun to brim at your waterline as you watched him.

“It’s what we need, Bucky,” you could barely get it out.

“I don’t,” he shot back, not missing a beat, “I don’t.”

“It’s what I need.”

“You don’t mean that.”

His voice was hoarse, face shifting from lax incredulity to one of a wince—screwed up in a way that said he felt ill. You shook your head but couldn’t look away from him.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated.

“It’s what I want,” you pressed on, just as sick yourself.

“You said what you wanted was me.” Again, Bucky’s voice splintered, and you could feel the pain in it.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.”

Gritting your teeth, unsure where else to fix your stare on his face but those eyes—while your own betrayed their feelings too easily, fraught with wet, rolling tears—you shouldn’t have been surprised when his went wider.

“What are you talking about?”

The question was short, sharp, and biting, spoken with such haste as might be mistaken for anger, but the eyes softened his look at once. The anguish painting them now as he stared back at you were a proof, beyond a doubt, that it was betrayal, not rage, which steered him. He turned, and it was as if he couldn’t see a thing but you; his elbow clipped the lamp and knocked it over, but still, he just stared. In turn, the ceramic appliance rolled onto its side, toppled the mug and the vial beside it, and all three went crashing to the floor. Bucky didn’t blink.

“Wh—” he started again, but you didn’t hear the rest.

You remembered Sharon. Heard a flash of her last admonition in your head—be quiet, be quick—and without thinking, you fell to your knees. You tried retrieving what pieces of chipped lamp and shattered mug you could, quickly. You spotted the small vial on the floor and shoved it in a pocket. Your hands swept over the broken pieces without any real idea of what you were doing—all except needing to clean Bucky’s mess—and then swiftly, stupidly, you tried picking it up by yourself.

Of course, a shard cut you. The little slit that was left in its wake could have been no wider than a fraction of an inch, but still, it bled. You looked down at the cut, just then starting to sprout red from left to right along the side of your palm, when a new sight crossed your vision. It was fast, too. All but thoughtless in the way it broke in, gripping your hand in his, and yanking you to your feet. Bucky hadn’t seen that you’d cut yourself, it seemed, and, out of instinct, had grabbed your hand to help you up. As before, his grasp was like a vice, and his thumb pressed right inside the lacerated flesh, sending a whole new maelstrom of pain shooting up your wrist and arm. Now, as then, he was heedless of his strength and his sheer, brute force, that he didn’t even see the effect of his grip. He just held on, held you, tighter, tighter, and—

“STOP!” you shrieked.

You shoved him off. Pried his touch off your palm and gripped your forearm in your other hand and pored over the sight, seeing the gash almost doubled in size from just where Bucky’s finger had sunk into the fresh wound. You let out a sharp, muffled cry through lips that tried to stay closed—remembering Sharon again. You shook your head, clenched your jaw, and tore off the other direction.

And when your husband reached out, eyes wide with their own shock and apologies, ‘Baby, fuck, I’m so sorr—’ you threw him off again. With your non-bleeding palm, you thrust your hand against his chest and pushed hard:

“Don’t touch me!”

When he reached for you again, as if by force of habit, you held up a defensive arm and sobbed out, ‘Stop!’

‘Don’t touch me, don’t—don’t—don’t fucking touch me.’

You screamed it. You didn’t mean to. Thinking only vaguely of the need to be quiet, and almost entirely on the stabbing pain in your hand, the imprint of Bucky’s touch on your body, and the blood trickling down your forearm, you darted into the bathroom and threw the door closed behind you. You locked it. You meant to.

Twenty minutes might as well have been twenty years in Bucky Barnes’ mind. In a moment like this, following yet another supreme fuck up on his part, he felt powerless. He had had to fight the instinct to barge into the next room over with every fiber of his being, and, making fists by his sides and pacing the floor and hating himself was all that seemed capable of occupying his mind just then.

He’d knocked on the bathroom door at least ten times. He’d been ignored each time, no matter the duration.

He still had your blood on his thumb, and it made him ill.

You said you wouldn’t hurt me, Bucky.

While he uncurled his hand from a fist just long enough to stare at the streaks of red stretched over his finger, he heard those words replay over and over again in his head. He’d said it—swore it—himself, and still your blood was turning a cool, dark, dry shade of crimson on his thumb.

This wasn’t how he’d meant for any of this to go. Still, notwithstanding his best intentions, none of it mattered. He’d seen a sincere look of fear in your eyes looking up at him, and nothing in the world would change what he’d done, or who he was. He’d caused you pain tonight, last week—though his memory of that was still so hazy and dark he hardly knew what else had happened, even now—and above all, he’d failed you as a husband, a protector.

You were likely curled up in a ball by the bathroom sink, cowering in fear because of him. The thought sent another tidal wave of nausea thrumming through his skull, a lump in his throat growing larger alongside it, and before he knew what he was doing, Bucky was striding back to the bathroom door. He banged his fist against it.

“Honey?”

No answer.

“Baby, please open the door.”

More silence.

The moment brought to mind a memory from the night you two had been married. How you’d fled to the en-suite bathroom and locked yourself in it; how Bucky had rattled the whole doorframe with the force of his knocks, demanding you come out. He’d hardly known you then. You hardly knew him now. The realization of this made the weight in his throat all the more excruciating as he stood, and, wincing with pain, Bucky kept knocking.

“I’m sorry, honey, I’m so sorry.”

Pleading now. His voice was hoarse all over again.

Had he been the slightest bit more desperate and reckless, he might’ve been tempted to muscle through, kick the door in with his boot. But Bucky knew better. He could already guess how much that action would terrify you now, while tending to an injury that he himself had inadvertently made worse. Barreling inside would be neither romantic nor sweet, just sinking what may then be a lethal dose of salt in the deeper, metaphorical wound. He refrained. Instead of continuing to knock, he dropped his forehead to the door and closed his eyes.

“Please believe me, baby,” he tried again.

He’d said it so quietly he feared you might not hear it. Then, a little bit louder, ‘Please, please believe me.’

No sound to be heard inside but running water.

“You mean everything to me, doll.”

By now, his voice was clogged with pain, teetering on the brink of agony as he rested his hands on the door, and willed you to open it. Say something to him. Anything.

“I’d never mean to hurt you. Not in a million years.”

For a moment, he heard nothing more. Just how desperately he needed to hear a voice in reply could not be overstated. Craving a new sound worse than oxygen in his lungs. At first, when he heard something other than himself nearby, it nearly knocked him back with joy.

A voice right next to his ear, “But you did, didn’t you?”

The joy lasted less than a second.

The voice beside him was low. And close. Not coming from the other side of the bathroom door, as he might’ve reasonably expected from you, and not even in the tone of a female’s voice, as he might’ve seen, were Sharon to have appeared by his side. This new voice was deep, and masculine, and in his ear now, chuckling some as a gloved hand pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple.

Bucky didn’t blink.

You stepped outside not wanting to see him.

The bleeding had long since stopped, thanks to the aid of a cool, damp washcloth and a few minutes’ pressure, but even once it ceased, your legs were reluctant to carry you back. You dreaded the thought of having to resume your conversation with Bucky—of having to look him in the eye and tell him all over again that it wasn’t safe for you to be married to him. But you didn’t have much of a choice now, either. This wasn’t your honeymoon, where you could stay locked in the bathroom, try climbing out a window, and hope for the best like you’d done before. You had the man’s child inside you, for fuck’s sake.

That uncomfortable subject and at least a dozen more were already swarming your brain as you made your way out of the bathroom. You’d taken a few extra squares of toilet paper to press into the cut, were looking down at it with a tense, uncertain gaze as you ventured out, when you were obliged to stop just a few steps into the room.

“Hi, honey.”

It wasn’t Bucky.

Your eyes snapped up to the source of the voice in an instant, and, on seeing you were right—that it wasn’t Bucky but a gaunt, grinning blond with a gun to your husband’s head—you almost screamed at the sight.

You’d wanted to scream, anyway. It would’ve been the sane thing to do, and one that nobody could’ve blamed you for in the moment, you reckoned, but strangely the sound never came. You just stared at the two, eyes wide and jaw slightly more lax as your lips made an ‘o’. Bile jumped up in your throat. You wished it would choke you.

‘Please. Don’t.’ was all you could get out.

Johann Schröder’s smile stretched wider.

“Don’t what?”

The question was clearly meant to be derisive, rhetorical. Still, with your fingers trembling, you tried answering:

“Don’t hurt h—”

“Why?”

You watched the gun sink deeper against your husband’s face, and he flinched. Your stomach clenched inside you.

“Why shouldn’t I hurt him, hon? Seems like he’s gotten pretty damn good at doing it to you,” Schröder sneered.

His words stung. The grin didn’t flinch. And, as if to punctuate his sentence, or else remind your husband that he was tied to a chair and entirely at his mercy now, Schröder struck Bucky in the face with the butt of his gun. If an onlooker hadn’t known better, they might’ve mistaken you for the one who’d been hit, though—at last, you unleashed that scream, and you reached out for Bucky, hands open and pathetic and desperate to help.

“Think it hurt as bad as your hand?” Schröder hummed.

Your feet were stumbling forward, “He didn’t mean—”

Another resounding thud against Bucky’s skull, this time hard enough to split his lip in half. If he’d grimaced in the slightest, you would’ve seen the teeth smeared with blood. But, true to form, James Barnes didn’t wince. He hadn’t even seemed to acknowledge the blow as it landed. Just stared at you and, with eyes as hollow and deadened and faintly pleading as you’d ever seen them before, manifested their silent apology to yours—again.

“Bet he didn’t mean to hurt anyone as the Winter Soldier, either. Still couldn’t have felt too good for all the folks he butchered, though.” At that, Schröder’s sick amusement morphed into a laugh, and he was taking Bucky’s collar in his other hand. Shaking him lightly while he spoke.

“Couldn’t have felt all that great for your dad, I bet.”

The diversion turned to you, all toothy smiles and mocking eyes. He didn’t care. He let you stagger another step toward the two of them, even try to get your hands close to Bucky. But when you’d drawn too close, he stopped you cold. Not thinking much else in the moment, you made a move to push Schröder’s arm away, hard, and were shortly rewarded with a shove of your own. He knocked you sideways onto the bed, and you landed on the hand you’d hurt. Before you could let out so much as a sound yourself, Bucky’s voice tore in:

“Schröder.”

Schröder turned. He raised his Ruger to your husband’s head again, as casually as if he’d asked him for the time.

“Yes?”

“Don’t touch her.”

Schröder turned to you. Though he didn’t move the Ruger again, he did point his finger at your form, haplessly curled into itself amidst the covers and pillows.

“Why? Saving all the rough stuff for later, are we?”

You cowered as his free hand reached for you, and just as your husband’s eyes went wide and a vein nearly tore through his skin from how hard it protruded, you cried,

“What do you want?!”

Schröder stopped. He brought his hand to a halt just south of your thigh—and then he dropped his weight on the bed beside you. He gestured indistinctly, almost disbelievingly, toward Bucky. The latter appeared near-apoplectic, nails raking down either arm of the chair.

“What do I want?” Schröder quipped, incredulous, “What do you want, doll? To stay married to him?”

And you knew he’d intended the question to be hurtful; you knew it by the glint in his eye, the goading tone of voice and the look he’d flitted to Bucky—nondescript and yet saying a world more than words could ever convey. He knew what had gone on between you, had likely heard your last conversation in its entirety, and was now using it against you. Mostly to taunt, then to injure your husband with truths he hadn’t yet uncovered himself.

Schröder’s eyes were shining with sadistic delight as he took your hand in his. He didn’t waste another second.

“No, no, that isn’t what you want at all, is it?”

Ignoring the screech of Bucky’s restraints as he tried to lunge out of his chair. Hearing him curse when he failed.

“—you said you’re leaving him, right?”

Schröder slid the thin, glistening ring off the hand he’d been holding before you could even think to stop him.

“—said you want a divorce, is that it?”

Then his grin got so big and conceited and enlivened by the sight of pain working its way onto Bucky’s face that any good sense you’d had left inside you was abandoned in a blink. You didn’t hesitate, or else try and make a pass to retrieve your ring—you just hit the man in the face.

Your fist was small, and his chin was hard. You knew before you ever threw the punch that it’d probably hurt you more than him, but you did it anyway. It succeeded, at the very least, in catching Schröder by surprise and swiftly pissing him off. Seeing this and feeling a bit bolder, you were somehow able to dodge his hands when he lurched for you again. Inside, your own anger flared.

“Why the fuck do you care?” you spat.

You found momentary respite in the corner of the bed, sliding back against a wall that would only protect you for so long. As soon as Schröder regained his bearings, he had you back in his sights and his grasp just as quick.

He dragged you back. He pulled you up. He dug the tips of his fingers so hard into your side that you thought the flesh might tear in two across your ribs. But it didn’t. Crescent-like indentations did leave their mark in a grisly set of five, though. You felt the sting of it as Schröder loosened his grip, then sucked his next breath through his teeth as if calming himself. Your gaze only hardened.

“I care,” he said, once he’d completed this slow inhale. He replaced his touch by pinching your face in one hand and bringing it up to his, expression more like a snarl. Then, raising the gun to your face in his other hand, “because I made a deal with your father. Remember?”

You did. Your head jerked back by force of instinct, but he held it. From every direction, then, you had nothing to hear but the sound of your own pulse thrumming a fast, panicked tempo in your skull. You tasted blood in your mouth without a drop on your tongue. And, had that deafening fear and revulsion been anything less, you likely would’ve heard something else beneath it all.

Would’ve felt it, if you weren’t already so numb: Schröder’s hand sliding its way down your body, diamond ring still stuck to the tip of his index finger. You sensed it as though seeing yourself from another perspective—watching his hand trail lower, lower, lower until something in Bucky split in two and he bellowed:

“SCHRÖDER—”

He said something more after that; you were sure of it. You just couldn’t hear him, or see him, or discern much of anything else but your own racing heart as the man who’d just beat your husband twice and lifted a gun to your head proceeded to press his touch to your belly. Almost conscientious and gentle as he lowered it.

“Was this part of the deal, too, doll?”

Your eyes widened. Realizing—then feeling fear seize you completely. Forgetting the metal at your temple and shaking your head with a force, but slow enough that your husband wouldn’t see it. Meanwhile, across from you both, Bucky seemed more than sufficiently occupied by his own blinding rage—he spit a glob of blood to the floor and, with his teeth bared again, swore he’d kill him.

Over and over and over again, oaths of taking Schröder’s life and making it gruesome and painful and slow filled your ears, but none of it stuck, for either you or Schröder. Instead, your maniacal captor just smiled, leaning in.

“I said, was this part of the deal, Mrs. Barnes?”

The heel of his palm sank into your stomach, and as the shock of his first words began to fade, a pain replaced it. His hand made an impressive demonstration of flattening and forcing itself so hard against the skin that a flurry of stars cropped up in your eyes, and you cried:

“Stop! I-It wasn’t— just— just stop. Stop.”

“Stop? Was it part of the deal or not?”

Schröder bore down even harder.

“It just happened!” you keened. Unsure why you felt compelled to answer for what had gone on at all—addressing the baby in this awful, oblique way—though reckoning it had something to do with the pressure he was applying to your stomach. You tried to squirm back.

But your stuttering pulse and your pleading gaze and the ache in your stomach proved to be all too much for any real progress to be made. You’d scarcely moved off an inch before he drove his palm deeper, and with the agony of a body about to rupture beneath it, a shriek clawed out of your throat. Your mouth fell open, and for once, you couldn’t curtail the pain, or fear. Schröder’s hand had just forced the noise from your mouth, along with some mindless, broken pleas to stop pushing, it hurts, please, please, when the face above yours only brightened. Schröder’s cruel, snide mouth flashed a smile above you, and before you could whine again—

He kissed you.

It couldn’t have lasted for more than a second.

Still, the moment seemed to stretch indefinitely. And felt perverse. So deeply nauseating and unsettling to every last nerve, muscle, tendon, and bone in your body that the response it evoked could be nothing less than visceral. You didn’t need to think at all to shove him off. Whatever might’ve given you pause with a loaded gun to your head was forgotten in a second, and soon enough, you weren’t alone in letting your reproach be known.

It started off with a crack, then a harsh, crude splintering of wood. A violent rift, from what you could hear of it, and when you turned your head, your suspicions were confirmed: Bucky had snapped half the arm of his chair away from the seat, and his right hand was almost freed.

Whatever barrier he faced in being bound more than four times over with rope seemed immaterial to him now. He could strain as hard as he pleased—feel the coarse synthetic fibers dig into his flesh and leave streaks of red, if not break the skin itself—and any pain, as before, hardly appeared to register with your husband at all. He just muscled through it, thrusting his wrist even harder. The whole force of this movement rocked the chair on its legs, and just when you sensed it might collapse beneath his weight, you felt Schröder stand up. The man didn’t need to move too far or do much else other than drop his hold on you and flip his gun to point it at Bucky instead.

Even when he had, though, Bucky didn’t flinch. His hands were in fists and his drive was like a machine’s—he tried forcing his way out of the right hand’s restraints, and the second the wood gave way, he was shoving it off.

Blind to the firearm Schröder was holding, or his words:

“Stay where you are, Barnes.”

Bucky was just then shaking off the rope that had been loosened by the break in the wood, jaw still tight as ever.

“You’ve got three other limbs to free, my friend, just—”

Schröder was still speaking when you saw his finger slip to the trigger, and it seemed to you it was itching to pull.

“James, stop!”

That plea came from you. More of a strangled cry, really—no more pleasant for either man to hear than it was for your throat to shriek. It did, however, stop Bucky cold. Your husband paused just long enough to meet your gaze. And in it, you saw, at least, that he was all there, if not enraged. But not soldat, or anyone else but himself.

You sighed in relief, despite what seeing two red rivers seeping out of Bucky’s mouth might otherwise provoke.

It was him. You might’ve smiled if another hadn’t cut in.

Schröder seized Bucky’s wrist. With it, you saw his hand just as mangled and bloodied as his lips. Knuckles cracked, slit, and soon to be littered with bruises of every shade, he shocked you again by how calmly he took it. Even when Schröder sank a thumb inside a big, gaping crater of a flesh wound he’d found on the back of his hand, your husband didn’t blink; he just looked at you.

‘I’m sorry.’

When the barrel of the gun returned to his head—this time, at the rear, as Schröder had circled back around the half-broken chair and was leaning over him—you could see the apology lodged in his eyes on full display.

“For safekeeping.” The man wielding the gun seemed almost pleased as he dropped your ring inside the breast pocket of your husband’s shirt, before patting it gently:

“Now where were we?”

A beat. Bucky’s right hand twitched beside him, but evidently, he knew better than to move in that moment.

“Right, right—” Schröder pretended to be remembering, tapping steel to Bucky’s skull, “She’s leaving, isn’t she?”

More silence.

You wanted to speak, beg Schröder for mercy, anything.

“Do you know why that is, Bucky?”

But before you could utter even a word of protest, the voice pressed on. Schröder was leaning in his ear.

“—what you did to her?”

The baby. Brooklyn. All the bloodshed that had ensued last week, leaving your husband completely in the dark. Of course, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t been himself, and was scarcely more able to control his actions as the Winter Soldier than he could in a dream.

To your horror, Schröder reached down for Bucky’s hand, and, still holding the gun to him with the other, lifted it.

Pointed it.

Pushed it closer to you.

“C’mon, Buck. You don’t want me touching her, right? Why don’t you feel for yourself what she’s been hiding?”

Your blood turned to ice. You’d never felt so immobile—paralyzed—in your life, but seeing the hands drift closer and closer and feeling defenseless to their course, your body went numb. Your limbs grew heavier than lead.

And when you felt the smug, smiling blond guide your husband’s touch toward your head, you understood it all.

You were perched at the edge of the bed a foot away. Schröder was nudging Bucky forward in his chair, urging him to reach out and tilt her chin a little, go on, that’s it. And neither one of you had a choice, so he touched you. His fingers, directed by someone else, were obliged to brush the skin of your chin, your jaw, your cheek, and your brow, before finally settling above your left temple.

Your husband felt the cut—touched the stitches.

You winced, but not from any physical pain. It was Bucky’s face as the tips of his fingers skimmed the wound. The look of chagrin that crossed his eyes. Then bewilderment. Fear, as plain as anyone could see it— was he the cause of that? Had the hurt been from him?

You couldn’t bear to answer him, so you looked away. It was Schröder, again, who had all the power to speak.

“Can’t remember pushing her down?” he said, tone dark, “Making her split her head open on the bedside table because soldat didn’t know his own strength—only that he had to keep her safe—and sensed a threat outside?”

Bucky shook his head. His face was grave.

Schröder kept making him prod the skin.

“It’s bruised here, too. You feel it?”

Your husband did, and you thought it might break him. So tender and forlorn were the eyes, raking over every spot where a touch, his touch, had left you hurt before.

If nothing else could bring you back to your senses, the wounded look in Bucky’s gaze was sure to get it done.

You hardly thought again, just croaked: ‘It’s not his fault.’

Schröder’s hand then descended your neck, your torso.

As if he hadn’t heard you at all—

“You already saw what happened to her hand.”

—and forcing Bucky’s touch lower still.

“But what about here?”

Your breath hitched in your throat when you felt your husband’s hand come to rest on your stomach.

It was like a fire had ignited in your lower half, and nothing close to the soft, pleasurable kind. Not the flutter felt in anticipation of a touch from your husband, not the desirous sort. In fact, you dreaded it now; seeing Schröder over his shoulder, urging him closer, making him flatten his big, broad, scorching palm over your belly.

What should’ve been the ecstatic scene you’d conjured in your mind at least a hundred times since marrying him—the picture of domestic bliss as you said it, smiling, I’m pregnant—was now nothing short of torture. Choice all but stripped from you here, forced to emerge inside this terrible place, you found yourself needing to shrink back, shake your head, look to Schröder’s stubborn, unyielding gaze and beg him not to make you do this now. Not now.

Not here, with Bucky’s skin a shade of glacial white and his eyes going wide, taking on a look you’d never seen.

“What do you—”

He stared hard at the hand on your belly, but it didn’t last for long. As if realization were trying to seep in, he couldn’t meet it. His eyes flitted back to your face.

“Baby, what’s—” he tried again, stammering.

“—right, that’s it, Mr. Barnes.” That was Schröder.

Satisfied in the suspense of the moment keeping your husband still, he lifted his hand from Bucky’s and snapped, that’s it, and clapped him over the shoulder.

Congratulating him before the truth had even sunk in.

“A baby, that’s right! You’re going to be a father, Buck.”

And how far was the look on Bucky’s face from the one you’d dreamed before. The lips you’d envisioned in a smile now twisting bleakly, parting slightly, and the eyes you’d once hoped to be bright and elated only staring back with rings of red enveloping the irises. Whatever tears formed at his waterline were decidedly not of joy.

Only guilt.

“You did it.”

Desperation.

More moisture in his eyes as his hand started to tremble across your stomach, voice hoarse and soft, “Is it true?”

You didn’t need to nod. You just watched him, let your own eyes fill with the worst, stinging tears you had felt in your life, and from the silence that followed, Bucky knew.

As if the life beneath his palm were something dear, but still too much for him to comprehend, he shook his head. He stroked his thumb over the cotton of your pyjamas and tried inching closer, as much as his restraints would allow him. Then, with words that were audibly strained, but always gentle, he lowered his voice—as if to keep the communication between you two, despite your position:

“I love you.”

His hand was still on your belly as he said it. He reached up to cup your face. Even lower than before, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

That much was evident from every look he’d given you tonight. Every move he made a de facto apology, all actions in the vein of atonement, it couldn’t possibly escape your mind or his that he knew he’d done wrong. It was only a matter of accepting this—maybe coming to terms with the fact that your life wasn’t safe in his hands—for the guilt plaguing Bucky to multiply. Paralyze him.

There was no better time for Schröder to strike. Just as the anguish had flooded Bucky’s face completely, and his hand had had to lower itself from want of strength, a sound split the air. Bucky was so lost in his thoughts that it didn’t even register at first, but the impact was real, and it was harsh: Schröder punched him squarely in the jaw. The next, swift snap was his nasal bone taking a blow, and breaking beneath it. Blood breezed down and into his mouth. Feeling warm, his lips and chin doused in a second, he sensed nothing else. He might’ve groaned.

He caught another swift right hook, and his mind went blank. Nothing of substance threatened to materialize between his ears, save for the rush of blood through and from his skull and the dim recognition of something ugly.

Something horrific.

He couldn’t protect you.

His body was as much an idle waste as it was a danger. Useless now, as he was tied to this chair, and a risk to your well-being even if he weren’t. The hazard was him.

Schröder hit him again, and Bucky realized that the ringing he’d heard in his ears was your screaming.

“I’m doing her a favor,” Schröder spat before shoving him back in the chair, almost knocking it sideways.

The blond advanced with ease. His knuckles were drenched in blood; none of it was his. When he reached for Bucky again, the resistance was slight, and a simple, firm grip on the collar was all that was needed to drag his frame to sit straight. Bucky was barely upright for a second before the next—and worst—blow struck his face. His whole head rang with it, reeling, but still, he could make out the words as they were spoken to him.

“She’ll never be safe with you, Barnes. Never—” and at the last, Schröder lowered his gun. Started to loosen the rope from Bucky’s left arm, “—I could free you now, and you still wouldn’t get within an inch of what you want.”

He nudged the rope away and let it fall to the floor. Bucky lifted his hand, but the effort was in vain. No sooner had a finger of his stirred than Schröder was delivering a kick to the chair and letting it splinter. Topple. Skitter a half-foot across the hardwood floor with Bucky’s ankles still bound to it, before finally, gracelessly, breaking apart.

Bucky was on the floor, blinking through a stream of blood and a sea of muddied thoughts when Schröder kicked the chair again. The rope slackened some more.

“Her own father knew as much, so he made me a deal to take her off of your hands. Settle his debts the way he should’ve done the first time around,” Schröder said, and now his tone was lower. Lethal as it ever was, and stern.

“I know how much you hate to lose your playthings, Buck, but this one’s better off with me, I promise.”

And, as if to emphasize his point, Schröder turned and reached for you. Bucky’s own hands were slow, fumbling in fits and bursts to get the rope unwound from his ankles, but they were determined. He just couldn’t get the bleeding to stop, the ringing to subside, or his brain, in its concussed state, to let him move with a little more agility. He’d been hit too many times. He could barely lift his head off his shoulders and hold it straight, so he was forced to stay where he was, keep at his task, and listen.

“You’re weak when you’re not soldat.”

Using his knuckles, Schröder brushed the blood that was evidently all Bucky’s across your cheek, and you flinched.

“When you make the switch, still…you’re inhuman.”

Then he tilted your head, making you show them both the mutilated, stitched-up flesh above your temple. Again, you tried to slink away, but his touch was firm.

“Don’t you think your bride deserves better than that? Your child? Forced to live in fear of that thing you are?”

Blood coursed down Bucky’s face, and his lips were curled apart in a grimace, mouth hanging slightly ajar. His eyes fixed their look on you. The rope was undone.

He’d just started to try and stand when the edge of his vision blurred. He felt the lacerations in his face pulse as one, and with it, half his sight went skewed to the left. Schröder couldn’t help but crack a smile seeing him stumble, pitch back, and barely catch himself on the bedside table. When he stood, he was mostly hunched.

“Look at you, Buck. You can’t try and save her like this,” Schröder taunted, drawing you closer, “So stop trying.”

The man’s hand was like ice holding your face. The grip grew tighter when he saw your husband limping your way, and before either one of you could move, the index of Schröder’s other hand had slid down to the trigger. He didn’t wait to give another warning before he did it—just pointed the gun and fired one shot over Bucky’s head.

His aim was good. The bullet missed your husband by less than an inch. The gun had gone off by your ear, and immediately, you seized the side of your head as a sharp, searing pain cropped up. Your skull was still ringing when you heard the thing discharge again, and you realized it had been aimed at Bucky’s neck. He’d ventured another step, and Schröder had fired a second round to graze the top of his shoulder. Crimson bloomed through his shirt.

Bucky should’ve stumbled again. He might’ve staggered back with a grunt of pain, lifted a quick, reflexive hand to feel the wound, but the sense of it all was slow to reach him. The moments that passed him were delayed just the same, as if the world around him were distorted—the fibers of time tugged and stretched before his eyes—and he could hardly keep himself straight. When he got another look down the barrel of the gun, he didn’t blink. Couldn’t see, really. It was all misshapen sights and sounds and a dim recognition that his mind was in a fog.

Somewhere from within that mist, he heard, faintly:

“I’ll go— I’ll go— I’ll go with you, I’ll go— just stop.”

Schröder turned to you, and the smile that he wore was cruel, but Bucky wasn’t able to make out the expression.

All he could see then, to the faintest extent, was you—your face, gripped hard in another man’s hand, eyes pleading and wet with tears, and a slightly slack jaw.

“Leave him for me?” Schröder repeated, sneering.

You nodded. Blinked. Rolled your tongue along the inside of your cheek before pulling it back and biting down once. There was a hint of a wince in your eyes, but, from what Bucky could tell, it vanished just as fast as it came.

Your lips parted again. Your eyes widened a little.

“So the girl has some fucking sense.” That was Schröder.

He’d had his weapon re-holstered and your face firmly seized in both of his hands in no more than a second.

What came next surprised no one, though the sensations of disgust and rage were as quick to turn a stomach as the shock would have done. Schröder bent down and, having pulled your face closer to his, kissed you again.

Schröder’s mouth was glistening with a grin and Bucky’s own blood—smeared all over your face from how hard he’d been holding you—when he looked up and turned.

“Sensible and sweet, isn’t she? Tastes like it, too.”

Bucky saw nothing but red. It wasn’t just blood crowding his vision now but violence and rancor and outright hatred, stirring his limbs to start moving again when the rest of his body was plainly too battered to venture an inch in that condition. He staggered again, watched you again, and had made it almost halfway across the room when another sight slowed him, if only for a moment.

Schröder’s lips were back on yours, as if to mock him, but what startled him, really, was the way you’d opened your mouth. You couldn’t mean it. Clearly. Schröder was gripping your jaw, forcing it open—it had to be—and he was coaxing your tongue out from inside and weaving it with his. Once more, time moved like molasses, and that was all your husband had had to see: you kissing him back, gripping his arm through the thick, black tactical gear, and still parting your lips more and more for him. Like you needed a touch, or something, worse than ever.

That stalled Bucky, though he was nowhere close to stopping now. Briefly preoccupied, and seemingly shocked as well that you’d accepted the kiss so eagerly this time, Schröder didn’t see the approach. If he had, he likely would’ve turned and made a move for his Ruger, but as it was, he had only to blink—and there was Bucky.

He hit him with a force that was blinding, directly to the side of his head so hard that he’d had no choice but to separate from you. Schröder was stunned one second and on the floor in the next. Bucky threw him there, kicked him down, and, wavering for only a moment to cock back the shoulder that’d been shot, he ignored the pain and punched the man again. And again. And again.

There was a callousness, an indolence, and an ease with which he was able to inflict the pain, that much was evident. What didn’t seem so natural, at least in Bucky’s mind, was the weight that was in his hands: Schröder’s body felt limp before he’d even landed the second blow.

The pressure grew heavier and heavier in his hands the harder, and more frequently, he delivered each hit, but for now, he didn’t care. Bucky kept on punching until the face beneath him was gnarled and bloody, and his own fist, too, slashed every which way with more cuts than he was able to count. He would’ve kept going—could’ve ignored the stabbing pain in his shoulder for as long as it would take to ensure the man was dead—but as it was, he refused to ignore the voice he heard. It was yours.

Muffled now, as your body was bent to the side and your head drooped lower still. Your voice was soft but clear:

“Bucky, please, stop.”

He did.

He dropped the man’s collar from his hands as soon as he’d heard you say it, and he turned away as if nothing had transpired behind him at all. His focus was on you.

“Baby—”

To his surprise, he watched you spit on the floor.

Your face was grim and almost sick, and you spit again.

The look grew even worse, and afterward, you didn’t waste a second more; you stood and left the room.

Bucky was stunned at first, and his instinct had been to follow. Then he heard a rattling sound beside him. He glanced down and paled, seeing Schröder there.

His face had turned blue much sooner than Bucky had expected—and not from any bruising but a lack of oxygen in his lungs. He was choking, foaming slightly at the mouth while he gasped for air. Surely, it hadn’t been the hits that caused it. The whites of Schröder’s eyes were as conspicuous as he’d ever seen them. Desperate.

Bucky swiftly got the sense that the life of his former captor was lost, and frankly, he didn’t care enough to watch him die. He left what remained of Schröder’s form to continue writhing on the floor, choking and sputtering for a breath that would never come, and went after you.

Downstairs, he found you hunched over the kitchen sink—spitting, retching, and trembling, too, but breathing.

You let the water from the faucet fill your mouth, and you rinsed again. You winced as something stuck your cheek.

Bucky drew closer, quickly, and when he was right by your side, he saw you spit a shard of glass into the sink. He looked over to the counter, and he spotted three more

They were minuscule, really. Nothing quite the size to leave a wound too deep, but sharp enough to cut your lips, your tongue, or the insides of your cheeks. When Bucky leaned in, he saw droplets of red joining the flow of the water beneath it. You coughed over and over again

“Don’t,” you croaked, seeing Bucky reach for the glass.

Before he could reply: “It’s the poison. From Madripoor.”

Your husband’s blood went cold in his veins. He didn’t touch the glass, but he did press closer to you, feeling his insides churn as the cogs started to turn in his head.

The vial of poison you’d been given to slip in Schröder’s drink at the Foxy Den—how the hell had you gotten it back? Why would you think you needed it, if he— but no, that couldn’t be the case. There wasn’t a shot you just—

“—put it in your mouth?” Bucky couldn’t curb the fear in his voice. He reached for you and spun you to face him.

“Did it kill him?”

Your eyes were wide for entirely different reasons. Bucky couldn’t believe what he was seeing; his mouth was dry.

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” you went on, voice shaking a little, “I didn’t— I just— I couldn’t get him the poison any other way. I knew he’d kiss me again, and when he did—”

“I know,” Bucky said. He smoothed the hair from your face, shaking his head. Feeling his stomach clench with fear and dread as he hurried to get a look in your mouth.

You’d snuck the vial inside your cheek, then crushed it between your teeth before Schröder had kissed you. You’d all but forced him to swallow the poison, shoving your tongue down his throat, but what of the stuff that remained? The rough, trembling fingers of Bucky’s hand were trying to pry your lips apart as gently as they could, ensure all the serum was out, but at present, you wouldn’t let him. You pushed back gently, though not too far to prevent your own touch from roaming his shoulder.

“The bullet—” you started.

“Barely nicked me,” Bucky cut in, “Baby, I need to see—”

That you’re safe. That you won’t be hurt in any way. He couldn’t finish the thought himself, having seen what the poison did to Schröder. Instead, he just held you closer and fought the lump that was starting to form in his throat. Adrenaline had worked well enough to clear his mind of the haze, but the rest of him was all high-strung.

Your clothes clung to you both, wet with blood and sweat. Your breaths were fast. Your expressions were feral, eyes no calmer as they scanned over the other’s form and soaked in every trace of what had happened. Bucky in his formalwear and you in something close to a chemise—like your honeymoon night all over again—you each got a glimpse of the gore ornamenting yourselves and let the room fall quiet, if only for a minute or two.

Your husband was the one to break the silence, at length, with cracked and grisly hands sliding down to your hips.

“You’re okay?”

His touch shifted you back in place to sit on the counter.

“I’m alright.”

You wanted to say more; assure him, in a voice as sedate as you could manage, that this wasn’t his fault. Whether he would believe a word of what you said was a separate question, but, at any rate, it didn’t matter. The next thing you knew, Bucky was slotting himself in the space between your legs and pulling you into his arms.

In spite of himself and all the wounds, he held you tight.

“You’re alright,” he repeated.

His face sank into the crook of your neck, and you felt his muscles contract again—pulling you closer—as he drew a shaky breath against your skin. You hugged him back.

“Are you?” Your voice was small.

In a blink, Bucky resurfaced. He lifted his head from your neck and, still holding you, hadn’t seemed to have heard.

“The baby,” he said quickly.

He stepped back. Lowered his gaze and his hands to trail over your hips and near your stomach, and he stared, as if trying to make sense of something dire. His blue eyes were wide, and they assumed such a look of panic that you feared a blood vessel might actually burst in one.

After all the great lengths he’d gone to, ensuring you were safe and taking extra precautions, on the off-chance you might be pregnant, here you were.

And there he went, sliding his touch lower and lower again until his hand was pressed into your belly, and the gaze you’d once thought soft before had all but melted into tenderness—delicacy. Complete, loving unreserve.

When his eyes met yours a second time, they were shiny.

Wet with the only kind of tears you’d want to see in them.

“You’re really…” he started, just to taper off, blinking.

And then his cheeks were dotted with the tiny, round droplets, and he’d finally ventured a smile for the first time in what seemed like ages and you couldn’t keep from reaching for him. The second you’d lifted your arms you were back in his, lips and nose smushed against the front of his stained white button-up and breathing deep.

Or trying to, anyway. Bucky had you squeezed so tight to his chest you had nothing but his shirt to inhale at first. You didn’t mind, and when he pulled away a moment later, you realized that your eyes, too, were filling up quick. You had to steel yourself against a maelstrom of emotions that threatened to emerge—the aftermath of a half-dozen traumas laid bare over the last hour—but the longer you were here, and the more your husband stared at you like that, the quicker your courage was depleted. In the span of five seconds, your senses were shot to hell. All you could think was what you could feel, and all you felt was Bucky: his arms and his hands and the raw, blistering heat between your bodies. The rest was noise.

It surprised you both when you kissed him. Physically, your mouth and his were hardly up to do it, injured as they were, but the impulse was strong, and it flowed between you. As soon as your lips latched onto his, Bucky was holding your face, molding his body to yours without so much as a second thought, and the mouth you met was sturdy. Hungry in the way it kissed back.

A string of words from Schröder flashed in your mind—‘Never be safe’—and you grit your teeth together, snagging the cusp of Bucky’s lower lip as you did it. He groaned. Before you could even try to apologize, though, he was gripping your face harder in his hands and coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. His front was still flush with yours, and your legs were starting to wind around his hips. Your husband nudged you back against the cabinets, and from the force of that push, you felt it.

Felt him.

Surely, it had had to take two very fucked up individuals to get all hot and bothered from a bloodbath that had just taken place; but, again, here you were—together.

And there you went, grinding your lower half with his.

“Doll?” Bucky broke out, word slurred just a little.

For a second, you thought he was going to stop you. Your eyes scanned his, and you were already planning to apologize for being so horny, it must just be the—

“You know I love you, right?” he breathed.

You blinked. You were about to nod, when you felt the bulge in his slacks start to rub against your barely-clothed heat, and something akin to a shockwave coursed through your frame. It couldn’t be helped. A monsoon of hyper-sensitized pleasure trembled over the skin in a way you’d never felt it before, and suddenly you were letting out a moan: a muffled cry of, ‘Yes, I-I know.’

Your husband swallowed and stared, slightly taken aback by the reaction his erection had produced. He’d never felt that either. At least from what he could remember.

The truth was that he’d never had a pregnant wife before—someone whose body was now extraordinarily responsive to his touch, nearly aching for him.

When you scooted your butt to the edge of the counter and dug your heels in the backs of his legs, humping him, almost, he got the idea. Bucky swallowed again.

“I love you too, I— I—” you started, already out of breath, “I just really need you to fuck me. Can you— please—”

Bucky didn’t need to be asked once, much less twice. He already had his belt, button, and zip undone before you could even look down, and then your own pyjama shorts were sliding off too. The counter was cool against your skin, but your husband’s warmth was more than enough to compensate for the loss. You smiled again, sheepish.

“It’s just…hormones,” you said, quieter toward the end.

You weren’t sure why you felt so ashamed to simply say, ‘James, I’ve been damn near insane with desire ever since you put a baby in me. Can you give me five more?’ But you did. You felt your cheeks start to heat as your lower half was left exposed to the air, and Bucky slipped his hand down between your legs, practically groaning:

“Honey, you’re soaked.”

There wasn’t one iota of shame in his tone.

He was more than happy to find you drenched beneath his touch. He had a smile on his face and a warmth bleeding from every fingertip as he caressed that soft, tender spot. You didn’t need to tell him what was on your mind, either. He sensed something was making you shy, and rather than have you say it aloud, he just touched you gentler, stroked the skin more affectionately, and tilted his head so only you could hear him, quiet as ever:

“That’s my girl. Feeling good for me?”

You felt your heartbeat between your thighs.

“My baby,” Bucky went on, voice dulcet and slow.

Your body was trembling at the edge, waiting. Impatient.

“My wife,” he said that with a smile, into your neck.

He lowered you onto his length, and you whined.

“Mother of my child.” The smile got bigger.

You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Feeling him slide inside the most precious, wet, pliable part of you, stretching you out, you couldn’t help the sounds you made. You felt full in a whole new way; the groan Bucky let out when you were impaled down to the base of his cock said he shared the feeling. He throbbed inside you.

“You’re—fuck.” Bucky’s words broke off at the sensation.

Your walls were as slick as ever, your body delicate, rolling your hips to the first gentle thrusts that his shaft carved inside. Neither one of you could last long like this.

Still, at the threat of sublime pleasure, you felt fear, briefly: Schröder’s implacable stare—and the thousands more like him in HYDRA. You couldn’t help but grip Bucky tighter, willing these thoughts away with the rhythm of your body over his. Feeling him fill you up, fuck you with quick, deliberate thrusts and hold you, ‘That’s it, take what you need, sweet girl, you’re okay.’

You wished you were. You wanted to be. With every stab of Bucky’s hips, you hoped this would be the last night you ever feared for you or your child’s life, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. This was everything your husband’s varied ‘enterprises’ entailed, and a life with him meant never knowing a day without it—fear.

The head of Bucky’s cock grazed an especially sensitive ridge in your walls, and you whimpered into his shoulder.

You smelled blood.

He pushed you back against the counter and pounded harder, breaths heavy and labored and gruff as he spoke:

“You’re okay, baby, it’s alright.”

Your mind tried clinging to that thought, nodding along as if to convince yourself. The pleasure grew stronger, and your body was hot. Everything was heightened. Bucky couldn’t keep his eyes or his lips or his rough, bloodied touch from roaming you wherever he could reach, and he kept rutting his hips, assuring you gently, again and again, that it was all okay. He was right here.

The pleasure from the depths of your body was beyond your control—you couldn’t help it when the band inside of you snapped. You held Bucky closer and you moaned, more desperate and needy and soaking for him, taking something from him, and knowing the bliss you felt would only steal the dark thoughts for a moment or two.

Bucky’s eyes said it just the same. He couldn’t keep stuffing you full, feeling his pleasure hit its peak, and finally painting your insides without sharing that look.

You were less than halfway down from your highs when you felt him go still, panting fast, then hold your face.

“I love you.”

It was desperate. Hoping for something.

“I love you, too,” you told him, and you meant it.

But there was more. Both of you knew there was more.

“I can’t be married to you, Bucky.”

You didn’t know why it had to come out now, but the emotions were there—his gaze had all but drawn it out.

Still sheathed inside you, your husband tensed. He looked as if he might try and shake his head, but the movement was stalled by his own momentary shock. He’d known the words were coming, but the sound of you saying them now wasn’t any less jarring to hear. Before he could reply, you found yourself cutting back in:

“Not now, at least. We need some…time. To think.”

You weren’t sure what you were saying, just that your lips were moving and every new word was hurting him more.

“Even with Schröder gone, there are so many…dangers for both—or, all—of us, and I don’t know…I just can’t—”

—imagine bringing a child into a world like this. Like his.

You didn’t need to say it.

The pain in Bucky’s eyes already communicated as much, and the conviction in your own only convinced him that you’d meant it—and what you said was the truth. You couldn’t stay in a marriage that wasn’t safe.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something more, the man surprised you when he squeezed your hand.

Nodding, almost imperceptibly, in front of you.

“I can wait,” he said, “Whenever you’re ready, doll.”

His voice was hoarse, words strained from the lump in his throat as he spoke, but the message was sincere.

“Whenever you feel safe,” he added, softly.

You wanted to hold him again. Like before, your eyes began to well with something stinging and harsh, but the look you’d fixed on him was filled with nothing but love. You would’ve reached for him then, if he hadn’t moved his hand to his pocket. He felt around inside it, briefly.

Then Bucky retrieved your wedding ring.

Holding you up against him, pressed snugly into the counter with your legs still wrapped around his lower half, he pinched the silver band between his forefinger and thumb and held it up to you. It glistened in the light.

“The next time you wear it, I want it to be because you chose to marry me. Not for anything, or anyone, else.”

Nothing arranged, no game, no being forced to stay.

You nodded and had to blink through a layer of tears.

Bucky’s thumb traced the moisture, cupping your cheek in one of his hands. He’d had to keep blinking himself, and before you could reach for him, he kissed you.

“I really hope you marry me again one day, Mrs. Barnes.”

You smiled, having parted but still holding on.

“I think I would like that, too. One day.”

The next thing you heard was a sound at the front door: what sounded like a crash. Half a dozen sets of feet stumbling inside, crowding the foyer, making a loud, frantic clamor that you and Bucky knew only too well. The two of you scrambled to get your clothes back on as Steve, Nat, Sam, and Sharon all seemed to yell at once.

You had one hell of a story to tell them.

Taglist: @vicmc624 @she-could-never @mcira @kentokaze @ordelixx @stinkerbelle007 @wilsons-striped-ties @pono-pura-vida @geminiflanagansblog @buggy14 @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @buckysdoll1520 @armystay89 @kunakizen @ghostiebby06 @blackhawkfanatic @sushiseoks @deansapplepie @mrsjoequinn @lunaroserites @first-edition @jaggedsi @excusememrbarnes @mostlymarvelgirl @yujyujj @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @athenabarnes @christinabae @wintrsoldrluvr @bethbunnyy @i-heart-smut @5thgoddess @oogaboogabeepboop @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @buckysdoll1520 @armystay89 @mimimarvelingmarvel @counteveresttt @thepetitemandalorian @diannana @aagn360 @aka-tua-braindump @shortnloud @dahliawolfe @fantasyfootballchampion @lilyevanstan1325 @kandis-mom @ladyvenera @gyokujyn @bigtreefest @winterschildren8 @mega-kittyglitter-1

[rafecameronssl4t]

The weight of expectations || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: I know you guys wanted more soft moments between Rafe and reader in this au so here you go!!!

Warnings: nothing!

Word count: 1,532

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The dimly lit office in the Cameron building had always carried an air of prestige, a reminder of the empire Ward Cameron had built with his own hands. But now, Rafe sat behind the polished mahogany desk, feeling the weight of that legacy pressing down on his shoulders.

His reflection in the window—sharp suit, tired eyes, jaw clenched—was one of a man constantly battling his own demons. Rafe’s phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. The meeting with Mr. Cartwright was scheduled for five minutes ago, but knowing Cartwright, he would make him wait a little longer just to make a point.

Rafe’s lip twitched in annoyance. This was supposed to be simple—sign the deal, deliver, and collect the reward. But like everything in his life lately, nothing was as easy as it seemed. As if on cue, the heavy doors creaked open, and Mr. Cartwright strode in, his presence filling the room with the unmistakable arrogance of someone who thought he could toy with the Camerons.

Rafe hated men like him. Cartwright was older, maybe late forties, with graying hair slicked back and a suit so tailored it made a statement by itself. Still, Cartwright had power, and Rafe knew they needed him for this deal. Rafe’s eyes narrowed, but he stood, gesturing to the chair across from him. “You’re late.”

Cartwright smirked, unbothered. “You’ve got nothing but time, Cameron.” Rafe resisted the urge to slam his fist on the table. The conversation turned cold quickly, escalating from subtle jabs to outright confrontation as Cartwright slammed his hand on the desk. “This wasn’t the outcome we agreed on, Cameron. I expected the deal to be completed two weeks ago.”

Rafe gritted his teeth, leaning back in his chair, trying to play it cool. Cartwright was testing him, seeing if Rafe would break under pressure. “Things take time, Cartwright. We’re working on it. You can’t expect a project this size to wrap up overnight.” But Cartwright wasn’t having it.

“I expected results, not excuses. I trusted your family’s name—your father’s name—when I signed on to this. Now, you’re telling me I just need to ‘wait’? My investors don’t have time for your delays.” Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “I think you forget I was my father’s protégé, and now I’m handling the business. You underestimate me.”

“I don’t care what your investors think. The timelines shifted, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that. We’ll deliver, but on our schedule, not yours.” Mr. Cartwright slams his hand down on the table, eyes narrowing. “Your schedule is putting my reputation on the line. I’m not some small-time client you can string along. My name holds weight, and if your company can’t keep up, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

Rafe’s eyes flicker with irritation, but he maintains his composure, though his tone becomes icier. “You’re not going anywhere, and we both know that.” He leans forward, his stare sharp. “You’ve invested too much in this project to pull out now. So let’s stop pretending you have the upper hand here.”

Mr. Cartwright scoffs, clearly insulted. “Your father knew how to handle his business. You, on the other hand, seem more interested in playing house with your perfect little wife and children than focusing on the deals that matter.” The mention of you brought heat rising to Rafe’s face.

His jaw clenched as he fought to control his temper. The comment hit too close to home. Cartwright had no idea what his marriage was like, the public façade they upheld, the tangled mess of feelings that simmered beneath the surface. “Mention my wife again, and you’ll regret it,” Rafe spat, his voice low and dangerous.

Cartwright just smirked. “Touchy subject, huh? Maybe if you focused on the business instead of her, this deal wouldn’t be falling apart.” That did it. Rafe was out of his chair, leaning over the desk, his eyes flashing with barely controlled rage. “You don’t get to talk about her. You signed the contract. You’ll get what we promised, but on our terms.”

“If you’re too much of a coward to stick it out, then fine—walk away. But you’re not going to find anyone better than me in this industry, and you know it.” The room was tense, their stares locked in a silent battle of wills. Cartwright didn’t budge. Instead, he straightened his suit jacket, his mouth set in a hard line.

“I’ll give you one month, Cameron. If this doesn’t turn around by then, I’ll make sure everyone knows how your family is crumbling—starting with you. Rafe forced himself to relax, stepping back from the desk, his smirk returning, though there was no warmth behind it. “One month. You’ll get your results. But you don’t scare me, Cartwright. Cross me, and you’ll regret it.”

With one final glance, Cartwright turned on his heel and stormed out of the office, leaving Rafe standing alone, the weight of the confrontation settling over him. He ran a hand through his hair, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

~

It was nearing 8 p.m. when Rafe pulled into the driveway, his mind still buzzing from the heated argument with Cartwright. He had no doubt he could deliver on the deal—he always found a way. But tonight, Cartwright’s words had gotten under his skin in a way that lingered, like a dull throb at the back of his mind.

The quiet of the house was almost unsettling as he stepped inside, the weight of the day’s events hanging heavily on his shoulders. Making his way upstairs, Rafe entered the bedroom, immediately spotting you on the bed, nursing Leo. Your eyes were closed, head leaned back against the headboard, one hand gently patting Leo’s back as he fed contentedly.

Rafe sighed, running a hand over his face, feeling the tension in his body slowly begin to ease. As complicated as things were between you, there was an undeniable comfort in your presence—an unspoken understanding that neither of you acknowledged but both felt. Rafe quietly crossed the room, his gaze softening as he approached.

Leo’s wide eyes met his, curious and bright. Rafe couldn’t help but smile, reaching out to gently stroke his son’s cheek. Leo’s tiny hand immediately grasped Rafe’s finger, holding on tight. A warmth spread through Rafe’s chest, and for a moment, the stress of the day melted away. His eyes shifted back to you.

Your breathing was calm, features relaxed in a way that made you look at peace, despite everything swirling around your lives. There was something soothing about the scene in front of him—something grounding. Leo’s eyes never left Rafe, watching his father with that same innocent curiosity. “Tough day?” Your voice, soft but alert, broke the silence.

Rafe’s gaze snapped up, meeting your half-lidded eyes as you watched him, though you hadn’t moved. He straightened, clearing his throat as he walked to the dresser, his back turned to you. “Just another asshole trying to tell me how to run my business,” he muttered, slipping off his watch and setting it down with more force than necessary.

“Cartwright’s testing me,” Rafe continued, running a hand through his hair before heading turned back around, leaning against the dresser. “Thinks I’m not my father.” Your gaze softened as you watched him. “You’re not your father, Rafe. And that’s not a bad thing.”

His blue eyes searched yours, trying to figure out if you truly meant it. There was a sincerity there, a quiet support that he wasn’t used to. It disarmed him for a moment, making him pause as he watched you with a curiosity that mirrored his son’s. The way you moved so naturally—so gracefully—as you gently lifted Leo and placed him in his bassinet beside the bed was a sight he found himself quietly admiring.

A soft sigh left your lips as you tucked him in, smoothing the blankets before slipping back beneath the sheets. You glanced up at him, still leaning against the dresser, lost in thought. “Are you going to get ready for bed?” you asked, your voice soft but carrying that calm tone you always seemed to have when it came to him.

There was no pressure, just a simple question, but it tugged at something deeper within Rafe. He cleared his throat, standing up a little straighter. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec,” he muttered, his voice low as he turned back to the dresser, his fingers absently fiddling with the cufflinks on his shirt.

But he didn’t move right away. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, watching you settle into the bed, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around him like a comfort he hadn’t realised he needed. Despite the chaos that always seemed to swirl around them—around him—there was a strange sense of peace in this room, in this space they shared.

Even if it wasn’t always easy, even if things between them were complicated, there was something grounding in the quiet moments like these. And as much as Rafe hated to admit it, those moments were starting to mean more to him than he had ever expected.

[carnalcrows]

BEHIND THE MASK - THE FRONTMAN

pairing: frontman x vip male!reader

synopsis: A bold VIP and the stoic Frontman share a night where secrets unravel, desires ignite, and masks finally come off—literally and figuratively.

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, blowjob (reader receiving), missisonary, unprotected sex, breeding, creampie.

word count: 0.9k

A/N: reqested by @ryomenhadryan; link

The Front Man’s quarters were a sanctuary of shadows and silence. It was here, away from the prying eyes of the guards and VIPs, that In-ho allowed himself rare moments of solitude. But tonight, even the solitude felt suffocating. His thoughts had been consumed by one person—you.

You, one of the VIPs who seemed so different from the others. While the others indulged in their grotesque whims, you had observed the games with an unsettling calm, your sharp intellect shining through in every bet you placed. And when your eyes met his—just a fleeting glance through the mask—it was as though you saw straight through him.

It unnerved him. It thrilled him.

In-ho’s train of thought was interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps. He turned sharply, his masked face giving nothing away as the door to his quarters slid open.

You stepped inside, clad in your tailored suit, exuding confidence and charm. The kind of confidence that had made you stand out among the other VIPs.

“Frontman,” you said, your voice smooth and commanding. “We need to talk.”

Hearing his name from your lips sent a jolt down his spine. Rarely did anyone dare to address him so informally. But you… you were different.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice cold and measured.

“And yet, here I am.” You smirked, taking a few steps closer. “You’ve been watching me.”

In-ho stiffened, his gloved hands curling into fists. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” you countered, stopping just a few feet away. Your eyes locked onto his mask, as if trying to pierce through the façade. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. Don’t bother denying it.”

He said nothing, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

You took another step forward, now close enough to reach out and touch him. “I’m here because I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel the same way.”

In-ho’s breath hitched, though his mask hid any sign of his reaction. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Life is a dangerous game,” you replied, your voice softening as your hand reached up to gently touch the edge of his mask. “But sometimes, the risk is worth it.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached up and removed his mask, revealing the sharp, weary features beneath. His dark eyes bore into yours, filled with a mixture of longing and hesitation.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.

“Maybe not,” you admitted. “But I know what I want.”

Before he could respond, you closed the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was both tender and electrifying. In-ho froze for a split second before his instincts took over, his hands gripping your waist as he deepened the kiss.

The control he usually wielded so effortlessly seemed to slip away as the kiss grew more intense, more desperate. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and he pulled you closer, as if trying to erase the space between you entirely.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together.

“In-ho,” you whispered, your voice laced with emotion. “Let me in.”

He closed his eyes, his grip on you tightening as if afraid you’d disappear. “You already have.”

You take the lead by slowly pushing the man onto the bed, it's base creaking with the sudden weight.

His hands— oh they felt heavenly; slowly tracing the curve of your jaw, to you neck and they travelled lower and lower until they reached your belt.

He tugged on your buckle, a silent plea for permission. You let him, releasing your cock from the confines of your pants.

His hand slowly traced across the vein that travelled from you tip to the base, and soon replaced his fingers with his tounge.

His tounge worked on your length almost skillfully, as if he were painting on a canvas. 

Your hands gripped his hair, the pleasure from his tounge sending jolts down your spine.

He continued his movements, unfazed by the grip on his hair, but when it tightened, he knew that you were close to a climax— and he pulled off.

You gasped, feeling your orgasm being ripped away from you.

“Not yet my love, be patient,” was the only thing he said before switching your positions. You were now on the bed and he was on top, his breath ragged.

You had no idea when he had discarded his own pants, but his cock had suddenly pressed into your awaiting hole, the tip cold with lube.

He slowly pushed in, his fingers intertwining with yours. The sudden stretch made you arch your back, a loud moan tumbling past your lips.

“That's it darlin’ let go f’me,” the man groans in your ear, his pace speeding up, each thrust going places you never knew could be reached.

You feel yourself unravel, slowly coming undone as he pounds into you with a fervour, almost like he was an animal in heat.

Soon, you felt an orgasm wash over you like a waterfall, back arching as you spurted white onto the man's stomach.

Inho felt your hole clench tightly around him, and had no choice but to release into your gummy walls, painting them white.

As you both lay there panting, still in the afterglow of sex, the door to the Frontman’s quarters creaked open.

“Boss we're all ready for the final– oh.”

It's safe to say that there was one less square in the ranks of guards the following day.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and and I take genuine effort to do them.

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 8 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: How beautiful your life could be, if only you weren't so damaged and he wasn't so deranged. And despite all that, you can't help but want him and submit to his twisted desires. You also can't help but think something about him is more off than usual.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening, mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, smut, (rough) oral sex, fingering, unprotected sex, degradation kink, mouth-spitting, dom/sub dynamics, daddy, not beta-read, if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

You felt a tight knot form in your stomach as you stared down at the blister in front of you.

Of course you knew it was necessary. You couldn’t imagine a more irresponsible thing than to conceive a child of a psychopath like him. And yet, you felt your thoughts wander down a dangerous path again.

He had never explicitly said he wanted you to take them. It was almost like a part of him was keen on getting you pregnant. Like the mere thought of filling you up again and again and again, serving the purpose of knocking you up, turned him on even more. And still, he bought them for you and left them on the kitchen table. It was your decision, you suddenly realized.

How irresponsible of him.

Didn’t he understand you were hardly able to even take care of yourself? Let alone a child.

Let alone birth a child.

There was actually nothing that scared you more. Not your mother, not him, not even the prospect of being sold off into some sick psychopaths’ fangs. Another psychopaths’.

No, the thought of having to bear a child, dying during the delivery or – God forbid, something going wrong and you losing it – was your worst fear.

You didn’t even know where the fear came from. It had simply always been there, even when you were a child.

Even when you thought you’d never have sex.

And now you had had sex. And he bought the pill, because he was considerate like that.

He was twisted and cruel, scary and sadistic and yet he put on this façade, this front, of a perfect man, whenever he wanted to. He paid bills and he owned this beautiful apartment. He was obviously well-read and he knew how to cook. He wasn’t a rapist. A murderer, yes. But not a rapist.

He was many things. One of them was always far more prominent than the others.

He was sick.

You couldn’t tell if he had been born like this or if there were things that happened which made him turn out the way he did. Whatever it was, he was sick now.

So far, you only had a hunch of the things he truly enjoyed. He had briefly mentioned some of them. Others you had guessed. The erection he got whenever he beat you was enough for you to realize he liked to hurt people.

He threatened you with words and objects more than once. A knife, a gun, a belt, a whip.

So far, so good, right? Many people were into pain, either receiving or delivering.

He was also into blood. For some reason, you could tell.

He enjoyed degrading you. Calling you names whenever he got angry, making you crawl around like a dog and drink from a bowl on the floor.

So far, he had always taken care of his insanity on his own. Treated the bulge in his pants with silence, ignoring it skillfully like it wasn’t there. But you saw it, felt its’ presence like a specter.

The one time you had sex had been nothing like you expected. The gentleness in his touch, his kisses on your neck and body and God, the sinful things he did with his tongue.

You remembered the feeling vividly and it immediately sent a shiver through your body. You took a soft breath and tried to focus back on the pill, but somehow your mind didn’t comply. You kept asking yourself, if you had somehow signed a death warrant when you agreed to be his girl.

You did it to survive, surely, but you slowly felt your resolve crumble. There was more to it, you acknowledged it. But you didn’t allow yourself to think about the things you felt, while you had sex. You blamed his gentle touch. His ardent kiss. The way he subtly threatened all the people who had ever wronged you.

You closed your eyes. God, what was going on in your head?

All you needed was a breath of fresh air to clear out your head.

Would you ever breathe real air again?

You wanted a family one day, didn’t you?

Now you couldn’t tell if you would ever get that. Looking back, it hadn’t been all too sure before he abducted you either. After all, all you ever did was hide yourself behind computer screens and book pages. But now you were here and he had taken that chance from you.

Or had he?

Would he ever let you go?

No. You remembered his words like the lyrics of a song you hated, yet it kept playing on the radio day and night.

I’ll never let you go.

And for some reason, you knew he didn’t just say that. He meant it. And you remembered what you thought when you first came here.

You wouldn’t ever leave this place. At least not alive.

Your thoughts were interrupted when you heard the front door open. Your head perked up and before he had the chance to enter the kitchen, you choked down the plan-b-pill with half a glass of water. You swallowed and stared down at the empty blister with wide eyes.

You had to play along, yes. But you couldn’t give him some foolish, twisted hope for something that just wasn’t an option.

The kitchen door opened and he came inside, his briefcase still in his hand. He looked down at you, taking in your flushed expression and his gaze wandered down to the empty blister. A faint hint of recognition flashed over his handsome features, followed by something you were sure was disappointment. But he schooled his expression so quickly, it immediately reminded you of the instability of his mind.

He tilted his head to the side and smiled at you. You couldn’t quite grasp the meaning behind the smile. It most likely wasn’t genuine. When had it ever been?

“Darling”, he said in a soft tone. Then he did something that made your chest ache. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You felt like throwing up. You were sure you were stuck in some kind of cruel video game, a sick simulation of yet another psychopath who enjoyed torturing poor, deranged girls. Girls who never had a chance anyway.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and tried to smile back, but it was indeed a failed attempt.

Things were somewhat less tense between you, since you had sex. Sometimes he let you speak your mind without hurting you in return. And sometimes, like that day, he came home and kissed you. Like you were a normal couple.

Like you were a couple at all.

It was painful. Because, no matter how hard you tried to shut the dangerous thoughts out, they always snuck their way back into your head.

He would have made the perfect man, if only he was normal.

If only he was human.

And if only you were, too.

He turned away from you and set the briefcase down on a chair, before he washed his hands. You couldn’t help but stare. It looked so normal, almost innocent.

A man who came home and the first thing he did was to wash his hands.

A man to fall in love with.

You forced your gaze away.

“Did you eat anything today?” He asked matter-of-factly, without even looking at you.

You still nodded. “There were a few of these things left. You know, the ones that look like sushi, but aren’t.”

“Gimbap.”

“Gimbap.” You repeated and he smirked.

He dried his hands and turned to look at you. “That’s all you ate today?”

You shrugged and he sighed. “How did you even survive up until now?”

You thought about it. Breakfast was easy. Back in England even. But lunch was where it got hard. You either ate leftovers or nothing. It was like you were unable to cook if it was for you only.

As if you were unable to exist properly when you were alone.

It made you realize how empty your days were whenever he left. You spent most of your time waiting for him, reading or crying and brooding over the horror that was your life.

But even before that, even before him, you had barely functioned on your own.

It was like your depression got worse, the longer you were alone.

It didn’t matter that your mother was the devil in human form, at least you ate when she was around.

Whenever she’d let you.

At some point in your life, you learned to really appreciate food, especially when it was homecooked. You weren’t good at this. You didn’t doubt that you could cook and all that, you just didn’t know how to really live.

A part of you appreciated the numbness even more for that exact reason. Your sadness was your solace, your darkness your shelter.

You didn’t need to worry about existing, when you weren’t really there. It was just a body trying to keep itself alive, while your soul floated around in non-existence.

A small frown formed on his face and he stepped closer, resting his hands on your shoulders. You had almost grown accustomed to his touch by now.

You could tell when to expect a blow and when not.

In most cases.

Was now the time?

“Go, take a bath.” He purred in your ear. “I’ll make dinner.”

You closed your eyes and suddenly you were all too aware again. The thought you had so skillfully avoided since that night.

Today was the day.

The night, actually.

And he’d finally get to have his way with you.

The thought equally sent a warm shiver as well as cold sweat spiraling down your skin.

“Alright.” You murmured and got up. You exhaled a soft sigh and before you left turned back to face him once more. He was still looking at you, the soft, seductive smile on his lips. But his eyes were narrowed in a way that told you there was indeed more on his mind than he let on.

You forced yourself to look away and leave the room. Within a few minutes, you prepared yourself a bath and with a soft sigh sank into the warm water. It felt like a gentle embrace, which was so very needed after everything you went through every day.

You allowed yourself to close your eyes and try to relax for once.

He had kindly repaired the door and put it back in its place to give you a semblance of privacy, but he didn’t restore the lock.

You didn’t get the privilege of ultimate privacy.

You kept your eyes closed as you tried to imagine what tonight would bring.

Mostly, you dreaded it.

He’d be cruel.

He’d be selfish.

You’d wake up the next morning, feeling battered and bruised.

So not much different from how it had been so far. Except for that one night. But as much as you loved to think back at it and revel in the memory, you knew it would be more clever to try and erase it from your mind.

That had never happened.

He had never kissed your neck or the inside of your thighs.

He had never called you princess.

Never taken your virginity with such gentleness and care.

Your brows furrowed and you felt your hand itch to move down your body, when you heard the faint knock on the bathroom door. Your eyes shot open and your first reaction was to cover yourself.

What a ridiculous thought, but you still fumbled for a towel. When he came in and witnessed that, you all wet and reaching for a towel you would never reach in time, he raised a brow and smirked. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves again in that way that made you weak.

When you finally realized you wouldn’t reach the towel without breaking your neck, you instead delved back down into the water, keeping your gaze on him.

“You’re still shy around me. How cute.”

You attempted to shoot him a glare, but that worked about as good as your smile did earlier.

“Did you want something?”

He hummed and slowly inched closer, as he let his gaze shamelessly rake over your body in a way that made you feel hot and cold all the same.

“Actually, yes.” He purred as he slowly leaned down to get a better look at your wet, shivering form. The warm water didn’t prevent him from staring at you and it didn’t prevent you from feeling exposed and excited under his gaze.

“You looked so miserable earlier. I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

You immediately frowned. That was hardly the reason. As gentle as he happened to be sometimes, he wasn’t caring or soft like that. Or even genuine.

He was cold and cruel and psychotic.

“I’m-“

Your words died on your tongue when suddenly he slid his hand under the water surface. It didn’t take him two seconds to force your legs apart and slide his fingers over your already slick core.

You inhaled sharply and your brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise, embarrassment and arousal. You looked up at him with half-lidded, confused eyes.

“I thought…after dinner”, was all you managed to gasp out.

He hummed in response. No muscle on his face moved as he slowly slid his index finger inside you, curling it torturously.

“Oh God.”

It didn’t take him longer than a few seconds to have you writhe and moan. You had quickly noticed that he was good at what he was doing. He knew where to touch you, how to move his fingers and when to use his tongue instead. He knew exactly how to roll his hips. When to be rough and when gentle.

The thought filled you with as much relief as it filled you with jealousy.

There had been others before. That was all you could think about.

It wasn’t the fact that he barged into the bathroom and took control of your body whenever he pleased, that bothered you. It was the thought that he might have done this to someone else before he met you.

And the thought made you feel nauseous with jealousy.

You almost wanted to be angry at him, for being able to, for having the audacity to have had someone else before you.

While he was the only one who ever took you.

The only one who ever parted your lips with his tongue.

The only one who had ever felt you around him, envelop him and take him in like he belonged there.

You wanted to stay angry, but his fingers did things to you that clouded your mind. Your eyes rolled back and you were nearly there.

“Please-“

But the next moment, you let out a desperate whine, when you felt him swiftly withdraw his hand.

“Please…”

He smirked.

“Please what, sweet girl?”

Your face flushed furiously and you looked down at the bath water.

The spell was intact again. And you were unable to speak your wicked mind.

“Look at me.” He said in a rather firm tone. You immediately did. His eyes were a mixture of curiosity and wariness. He narrowed them slightly.

“Say it.”

You wanted to bite your lip and avert your gaze, but the way he stared down at you with such an intensity made you reconsider.

“Please let me cum.” You whispered in a voice that was hardly your own.

He hummed. He was obviously pleased and the smirk was back.

“Please let you cum, what?”

Since he didn’t have a name, he made you choose between Daddy and Sir, whenever one felt like it made any sense in the situation.

Daddy was far more embarrassing, but also more intimate.

Calling him Sir felt more degrading though. Which was something he probably liked.

You didn’t know which one was worse, so you always went for the one that fit the aesthetic of the moment best.

“Please let me cum, daddy.” You whispered, your face red.

He chuckled. A horrible sound.

A beautiful sound.

“Good girl.”

He slid his hand back down and instantly you felt his finger back inside you, before he slowly added a second one. It was enough to let you release a soft sigh and lean your head against the edge of the tub.

It was so easy to relax when he had you like this.

You could always count on him to make you cum.

And that was exactly what he did. He moved his fingers inside you in such a pleasurable and skilled way, that he had you writhing and begging within a few more seconds. An explosive wave of warmth and bliss filled you, while you arched your hips up against his hand, desperately seeking the friction and the release that only he could give to you.

You had never felt anything close to this before.

Once you slowly came down from your high, you took a moment to regain your ability to breathe and then you slowly opened your eyes.

You looked up at him and the way he smirked down at you with such smugness. It made you want to punch and kiss him.

“Thank me.” He whispered.

You swallowed. It was always far more embarrassing afterwards. “Thank you for making me cum, daddy.”

He bared his teeth in a grin. “Good girl. Now, open your mouth for me.”

You didn’t even have the time to digest his words, when you already felt him push his fingers in your mouth. A soft gasp came over your lips as he parted them and rubbed his fingers over your tongue, making you taste yourself on him.

Were you supposed to be embarrassed or repulsed? Probably. But all you truly felt was how the arousal slowly began to build again. The heat pooled between your legs whenever he got like this. Demanding, rough, but also gracious enough to let you cum.

You moaned when he pushed his fingers deeper in, all the while he had his eyes fixed on your face. His lips were slightly parted and there was a thoughtful frown on his face, as he began to fuck your mouth with his fingers, making saliva drip down your chin.

You choked back the gag that threatened to escape and forced yourself to keep looking at him, despite the way your eyes watered and slowly got more and more red.

“Come out.” He whispered. “Come out of the tub. On your knees.”

You withdrew your mouth from his hand, only to hold onto his arm and get up in a hurry, not caring that you got everything wet.

It was what he did to you all the time, anyway.

You knelt down on the cold bathroom floor, ignoring the ache between your legs. Had you just released? You couldn’t tell. You already felt desperate for him again.

He made you do this every so often, kneel and look up at him like an obedient little doll. Suck on his fingers and look into his eyes.

But he’d never gone further than that. Until now. You could tell. Now was different.

And it made you as nervous, as it turned you on.

“Take my belt off.” He whispered.

You forced your gaze away from his face just long enough to slowly unbuckle his belt. Your fingers were shaking against the leather. The nervousness won.

When you kept fidgeting with it restlessly, he gently stopped you and pushed your hands down and instead, did it himself. He got rid of the belt within seconds and it landed on the ground with a soft click. His slacks followed in a swift movement, until all there was left separating you was the thin material of his boxers.

His hardness strained against them and you found yourself aching to free him of them.

You had never known you were so terribly wicked.

And you were sure you hadn’t been, until you met him.

You hadn’t had any form of sex aside from the way he sometimes teased you and fingered you to oblivion ever since that night. He wanted to give you some time to adjust to your new role as his girl.

His princess. His fucktoy.

And now here you were. On your knees, wet as hell and desperate to feel him.

The memory of that night shot back into your head and it made you ache again. You remembered how you had expected him to send you back to your room. To just be finished with you and get rid of you like you were nothing more than a toy he’d use whenever he felt like it.

But instead he let you stay. You had spent the night curled up against his side, feeling his heart beat next to yours.

He was so terribly confusing.

Of course you didn’t find any sleep that night. And he probably didn’t either. You were unable to fully trust him, despite your gentle and considerate encounter. And he was probably unsure if he had broken you enough to not try and slit his throat in the middle of the night.

Maybe he’d trust you fully one day.

You liked to think that.

His voice pulled you out of your thoughts again. “Kiss me.”

You licked your lips in a desperate attempt to fight the dryness of your mouth, but nothing worked. So instead you took a shaky breath and slowly leaned in. You brushed your lips over the waistband of his boxers and slowly, so very slowly, moved them further down. By the time they reached his arousal, you felt him breathe out a moan.

“Take them off.” He murmured. “And I don’t want to see your hands for the time being.”

You could imagine what that meant. With a shaky breath, you slowly brought your hands behind your back and dug your nails into your wrists.

Oh God, he would ravage you.

And oh God, you wanted him to.

You bit down on the material and tried to carefully pull the boxers down. It took you two more attempts, but eventually you managed to pull them down to his knees and then they slid off of him on their own. You pulled your head back and were greeted by the sight of his hardened cock, throbbing and waiting to ruin you even more.

Your heart skipped a beat and your chest heaved rapidly under the weight of your nervous breaths. You licked your lips again. This time, they weren’t dry.

You slowly looked up at him, your eyes wide and nervous.

He didn’t mock or tease you this time. He seemed more focused and stern than ever before.

You felt his fingers tangle in your hair and gently curl up in it.

“Worship me.”

The words were enough to draw a soft whimper from your lips.

“I’m not sure, how.” You murmured.

He shook his head. “You’ll figure it out.”

You swallowed again and nodded before you slowly let your gaze wander down again.

Even his cock was perfect.

You took a deep breath and leaned in. The moment you brushed your lips over the tip, he exhaled a soft moan. You closed your eyes.

Fucking hell.

You slowly moved your lips down his length and back up again, unsure how to start and where.

The feeling of him on your lips was enough to drive you insane and you caught yourself wanting more. You were nervous, but also eager.

You wanted to watch him throw his head back in pleasure and call out your…well, however he would call you.

When he got a little impatient, he bucked his hips and you felt him press forward and slowly part your lips on his own. A moan came over your lips when you felt him slowly press further and further forward, until he bumped against the warm wetness of your tongue.

“Ah, yes.”

The sounds he made were enough to motivate you further. You opened your mouth wider and coated him in your saliva, feeling him go slick and throb against your tongue. His hand in your hair tightened and he pulled you closer against him.

You hummed against him and slowly wrapped your lips around him, sucking gently and moving up and down like you’d seen in countless videos.

His grip only ever got tighter and God, the sounds he made.

You tried to glance up at him as he moved. The reaction to your touch was written on his face. He bit down on his lip and stared down at you with a focused frown.

You felt so dirty and sinful, naughty and wicked and every time he bucked his hips up, you were sure you felt yourself get close without even being touched.

“Good girl.” He breathed out. “My good girl. My dirty girl. Let me fuck your pretty mouth.”

His hand tightened even more in your hair, until his grip was bordering on painful. He held your head in place as he began to move his hips, thrusting against your mouth like a madman. You found yourself in a chokehold, gagging against him and desperately gasping for air. All the while you were sure you felt your own arousal slowly drip down your thighs. You had a hard time keeping your hands behind your back.

All you wanted was to touch yourself. But you knew better than to try that.

He roughly pulled your head back by your hair and you had to suppress a wince of pain. You were about to ask what the hell was going on, when he gritted out: “Open your mouth.”

You immediately obeyed, parting your swollen, aching lips for him. You knew what was coming, you knew he would degrade you and you didn’t mind.

You would probably hate yourself afterwards, like you normally did when you fantasized about such things. But in that moment, you didn’t care the least bit. You wanted to make him feel good. You wanted to make him cum. You wanted to please him.

You opened your mouth and just a second later you felt his saliva slide past your lips, gliding down your tongue. An involuntary moan came over your lips and your brows furrowed as you stared up at him, feeling a myriad of emotions.

“Good girl. Swallow.”

Your mouth fell shut and you obeyed. You swallowed his spit like a good girl.

His good girl.

His girl.

The sound he made was torturous. A moan mixed with a sigh.

“Yes, just like that.” He murmured. “Fuck, yes. Suck me off, baby. Make me cum.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You parted your lips and took him back in. He kept bucking his hips against you, but you were determined to meet him halfway.

Fighting against the gagging and the small scare you got whenever you felt like you couldn’t breathe, you kept moving. Again and again, flicking your tongue against him and moaning against him, until you felt him tense up. His grip on your hair became so hard, it felt like he was trying to rip your hair out. All the while his painfully hard cock throbbed against your tongue.

And then he came.

You felt him coat your mouth and throat with his seed, causing you to moan at the intensity and surprise of it.

He was shaking and grunting in pleasure, keeping himself pressed against you as tight as possible, until the throbbing began to subside slowly.

He licked his lips, since his own mouth seemed to be pretty dry by now and finally released his tight grip on your hair. Instead he soothingly rubbed his fingertips along your scalp and sighed deeply.

“Fuck.” He breathed out. “Show me your mouth.”

It took you a moment, but you swallowed the evidence of his lustful outburst and eventually opened your mouth to show him it was empty.

He hummed in approval and gently cupped your cheek in his hand. You found yourself leaning into his touch like a cat craving attention.

“My good girl.” He praised in a soft whisper. “God, you’re so good for me. I-“

He frowned deeply and stopped himself. You quickly looked up at him.

Oh God, you had done something wrong.

Oh, no, no, no, not right now, damn it.

But the dreaded yell never came and he also didn’t attempt to push you back or slap you. Instead he cleared his throat and gently pulled you back up to your feet.

“You enjoy being my girl, don’t you?”

You stared at him speachlessly. What were you supposed to say to that? And why was he asking that right now?

Despite the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts you had, you found yourself nodding.

“Good.” He said quietly and gently caressed your cheek.

Something was off. Something was always off, but now, you were sure you had no connection to his thoughts whatsoever. You could never really tell what he was thinking, but sometimes you got lucky and got a glimpse of whatever it was he hid behind nonchalance and psychopathy.

Or was that truly all that there was to him?

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Come. We have a bath to finish.”

He got rid of his shirt and within seconds submerged under the water. You watched him with a thoughtful expression, before you quietly followed him. You sat with your back pressed against his chest.

He would say something cruel.

He couldn’t be gentle, without having a cruel jab follow. He just couldn’t.

But all you felt was how he slowly poured some warm water over your hair, before he gently massaged the shampoo into your scalp.

The same scalp he had just bruised while he used you like a doll.

He washed the water out and it felt like a piece of Heaven. You allowed yourself to close your eyes and lean back against him.

If only every moment of your life could be like this.

“I never knew you could be so wicked.” He whispered as he began to gently massage your shoulders. You sighed at the touch. Another thing he was so skilled at.

Another thing to get jealous over.

His words made your face flush and you suddenly remembered how you had writhed in agony while he used your mouth, how your fingers had ached to touch yourself.

“I…”

“I like that side of you.” He murmured without taking his hands off you. “When you let go, I mean. I can tell you’re enjoying it. You’re just too ashamed to think about it.”

When you didn’t respond, he leaned closer and his breath tickled your ear when he whispered.

He was indeed the devil.

Beautiful, dangerous and manipulative.

“Don’t worry, my sweet girl. I’ll make you overcome that, too.”

_____________________________________________________

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If I forgot anyone, please let me know and I'll fix it!

I freaking love you all!

[bblairxe]

More brattamer!abby please I’m sick in the head

me too babes me too

abby anderson was no stranger to discipline. it wasn’t a new topic within your guys’ relationship. you always had a slick comment ready for her, but abby made sure you didn’t have another word left by the time she was through with you — simple as that. so when you start pushing her buttons: rolling your eyes everytime she spoke, slipping out a sarcastic quip, or refuse to do something when told. she didn’t just ignore it, no she noticed.

abby starts walking towards you slowly, she has that certain look in her eye that she gets whenever you’ve ticked her off. her figure tall and muscular, she could easily manhandle you if she wanted, “you think you’re funny?” abby’s voice was low, dangerously calm, so calm to the point it kind of concerned you.

it made your ‘big and scary’ façade falter only for a spilt second until you shot back, “depends on who’s asking.” abby stepped forward, her boots echoing on the wooden floor growing closer and closer to your presence. you only notice how serious she is when she’s looking down at you. her expression is unreadable, it always turned you on scared you when she was like this.

she grabs your chin, angling your face up to meet her gaze. she can see it now: the cracks forming in your mask, your bratty confidence starting to crumble under her touch. “over my lap, now.” she spat, you can tell she’s serious and it only makes you want more. abby begins to take a seat on her soft plush couch, tapping her leg as a signal for you to come on.

“but abby — i’ve done nothing wrong.” you plead with big doe eyes, she almost falls for your innocent act, but she quickly sets herself straight. she smacks her thigh again while looking you dead in the eye, this really gets you to start moving.

once you’re bent over her, your ass up in the air just like how she likes it. she moves your black skirt up so she gets that perfect view of you and your pretty cunt. she massages the fat in between her hands while whispering sweet praises. everything seemed so comforting until . . . smack!

the sting from her hand connecting to your ass has you crying out, begging for forgiveness. “this is only one, and you’re already you’re already whining? pathetic.” she lands another firm slap on your ass, ogling at the recoil. “instead of fuckin’ crying how bout you start countin’ .”

you choke on a shaky breath, face burning just as much as the throbbing ache spreading through you. “o-one,” your words are barely legible, due to the stream of tears running down your face. yet, no matter how much you cry it still isn’t enough for abby. she wants to break you, make you prove to her you can still be good for her.

abby hums disapprovingly, her hand smoothing over the spot she struck. the small warming action makes you think she’s done with punishing you. it’d be nice to think about, but deep down you know she’s far from being done. “louder,” she demands, “i wanna hear you.” abby’s hand comes down hard, the sharp sound echoing throughout the room. “three, fuck!” the words spilling out without control.

you hear a small chuckle coming from it sounds almost mocking ? “makin’ a mess all over my hand,” she snickers, her tone dripping with amusement. “getting off while you’re getting punished? so fuckin’ dirty.” before you can respond, she wraps a hand around your throat, firm enough to slow your breathing but not enough to hurt you. she tilts your head back, forcing you to meet her gaze.

“look at you,” she mutters, her tone making you need more than what she’s giving you. “you act so tough, but you’re just needy, hm?” her grip tightens a little, “maybe by fifteen you’ll learn how to ask properly.”

[littlepeach-world]

Hear me out on this oneshot... 🎾🎾

In-ho and his wife has a child together *about 3 years old now* that ran off while at the island during the games and the guards along with In-ho are running all over the place looking for him and then find him inside of a game room that's already been played and empty, but still dangerous!! Toddlers always sneak away, i know mine does😂

Echoes of Fear

Pairing: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Warnings: Husband!Inho, Protective!Inho, Dad!Inho, Pregnant!Wifereader, Pregnancy-Related Stress, Child going missing, Parental Anxiety, Emotional Distress, Threats of Violence, Guilt and Self-Blame, Reference to Bereavement.

Word count: 1.3k

You just returned to your desk after putting Jaehyun down for his nap, feeling exhausted but determined to finish the work that had been piling up. Being seven months pregnant was taking its toll, making you more fatigued than ever. Inho, your caring and protective husband, constantly fretted about your well-being. He didn't even want you to work or do anything at all besides staying in bed all day. His concerns for your safety, Jaehyun's, and that of the baby were genuine and heartfelt, often leading to gentle arguments about your need to stay busy. He would lovingly remind you, "Your health, Jaehyun's health, and our baby's health come first, always."

Yet, bed rotting isn't your thing; you liked to stay busy. After a few hours of tackling your work, you decide it's time to check on Jaehyun, who should be fast asleep from his nap. The thought of seeing his peaceful face is a welcome break from the stress of the day.

However, when you enter his room, it is empty. Confusion hits you immediately, a wave of unease washing over you. "Jaehyun?" you call out, your voice echoing through the house. The silence is deafening, and a sense of foreboding begins to creep in.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm as you start searching the neighboring rooms. Each empty room you enter heightens your anxiety, but you try to maintain a semblance of composure.

Your serenity is shattered when you run into June, the nanny, who is pacing nervously in the hallway. Her usually neat appearance is disheveled, and her face is etched with worry.

"June, have you seen Jaehyun?" you ask, attempting to keep your voice steady.

She looks up, her expression filled with guilt and fear. "Jaehyun ran off, and I can't find him," she admits, voice trembling.

Your heart stops, a surge of panic flooding your system. "What! What do you mean you can’t find him? Where did he go?" you demand, your voice rising.

June stammers, trying to explain, but her words blur into an incoherent buzz. Your mind goes blank, your focus narrowing to a sharp point: finding Jaehyun and informing your husband, Inho. Instinctively, you reach for your phone, your hands shaking uncontrollably.

"Stay here and keep looking. I'll call Inho," you manage to instruct June, though your voice cracks with desperation.

You frantically dial Inho's number, the phone feeling slippery in your sweaty grip. Each ring amplifies your anxiety until he finally answers.

"Inho," you say, your voice on the edge of hysteria, "Jaehyun's missing! He's gone!" The words tumble out in a frantic rush.

Inho's calm façade shatters upon hearing the distressing news. The lines in his face deepen with worry, and his usual steady demeanor falters. Yet, somehow, he manages to regain enough composure to soothe your hysteria and urges you to recount every detail as he makes his way toward home. His mind races consumed by the sheer terror of losing Jaehyun.

By the time Inho arrives, he is a man on the edge, but the sight of your tear-streaked face nearly breaks him. He pulls you into a fierce embrace, his voice a soft murmur of comforting words. "We'll find him. I promise," he whispers into your hair, holding you as tightly as he dares.

Despite his own crippling fear, Inho maintains a composed exterior. He knows that he must be the pillar of strength for both you and the situation at hand. Gathering himself quickly, he turns to June, his eyes narrowing with a sharp intensity.

"How could you be so careless?" he snaps, his voice as cold and cutting as a blade. "I swear, if something happens to our son, it won’t just be you I'll deal with—it will be everyone you ever loved, anyone you’ve ever laid eyes on."

Your tears falling freely, you grab his arm gently, interrupting his tirade. "Inho, please," you plead softly. "Threatening her won’t bring Jaehyun back."

Inho takes a deep breath, locking eyes with you, understanding the profound truth in your words. His shoulders slump slightly as he nods, his rage giving way to helplessness for a moment. "I have guards searching the island, Y/N. We will find him. I promise," he vows, tightening his protective grip on you. He places one hand tenderly on your pregnant belly, the gesture meant to ground both of you.

"Breathe, please. For our baby," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your overwrought nerves.

You nod, clinging to him like a lifeline amid the tumultuous sea of your emotions. "You’ll bring him home," you say, your voice tinged with both hope and desperation, more as an affirmation than a question.

"I will," Inho reassures, his voice imbued with determination and a fierce resolve. Leaving you in the care of another trusted aide, he steps back, giving one last reassuring squeeze to your hand before joining the search.

As Inho rushes out to find Jaehyun, his mind is consumed with guilt. He berates himself for being a bad father, too busy with work to spend time with his child. The pain of losing his first wife is still fresh, and the mere thought of losing another loved one is unbearable.

"Why didn't I spend more time with him?" he mutters under his breath, running his hands through his hair in frustration. Memories of Jaehyun's laughter and your gentle smile flood his thoughts, intensifying his sense of urgency.

Frantically searching the building, calling out Jaehyun’s name, Inho's panic escalates with each empty room. His heart races, and his breaths come in short, desperate gasps. Just as he's thinking the worst, his walkie-talkie crackles to life—it's a call from a guard.

“Frontman,” says the guard, his voice slightly nervous, “I believe I know where your son is. He was seen heading towards the old game room. Stage 7.”

Without wasting a second, Inho sprints to the game room, dread and hope battling within him. He presses the button on his walkie-talkie and speaks in a cold, deadly voice, “If anyone hurts my child, there will be dire consequences.”

Approaching the room, Inho pushes open the door without hesitation. The familiar setup catches his eye immediately—it's the same room used for playing "Dalgona." His eyes scan the room desperately, and finally, he sees him— your son, Jaehyun, sitting in a corner, happily nibbling on a piece of Dalgona.

“Jaehyun!” Inho calls out, his voice a mixture of relief and authority.

Jaehyun looks up, startled and scared, his eyes widening in confusion. It dawns on Inho that he's still wearing the Front Man mask, which his son has never seen before.

Hastily, Inho removes the mask, revealing his face. “Jaehyun-ah, it’s appa,” he says, his voice softening.

Jaehyun's fear melts into recognition and then into a wide, delighted smile. “Appa!” he exclaims, jumping up and running into Inho’s open arms.

Relief washes over Inho as he holds Jaehyun tight, the weight of his fears dissolving in the warmth of the embrace. Tears of gratitude and overwhelming love sting his eyes as he showers his son with kisses.

“Never run off like that again,” Inho says, his voice gentle but firm. “Eomma and I were so worried.”

Jaehyun looks up, his small hand reaching out to wipe away Inho's tears. “Appa, no cry,” he says, his voice filled with innocence.

Surprised by his own tears, Inho chuckles softly, “Appa's okay. I love you so much."

“wuv you too,” Jaehyun responds, tightening his little arms around Inho's neck.

Inho's heart swells with love and relief. He puts his mask back on, knowing he must return to his role but grateful for this precious moment. He picks up Jaehyun, carrying him out of the game room.

As they head home, Inho thinks of you waiting for them, and he feels a profound sense of gratitude. Holding Jaehyun close, he carries the warmth of their reunion with him, vowing to cherish every moment with his family from now on.

[depravitycentral]

Tw: stalking, dub-con turned non-con but the reader is still kind of into it, recording, non-consensual recording, physical assault, threats, reader's kind of a freak in this

Thinking of yanderes who are so, so desperate to be intimate with you that they’re willing to go by your terms and adhere to the conditions you lay out for them.

You don’t want to touch him, not really – not with everything you know he’s done. You know he’s stalked you incessantly, following you like your shadow for months on end with no sense of privacy or personal space, intruding on every aspect of your personal life with only a passing sense of guilt.

(He’s watched you sleep, even settling beside you on your bed and watching the rise and fall of your chest, listening to the soft inhales and exhales, even going so far as to let his mouth hover over yours, breathing in the air of your soft little snores. He’s watched you shower, setting up cameras and staring through windows to see even a peek of your nude figure, palming himself and practically drooling because fuck, he would cut off his own limb to be washing your hair for you or soaping down your back, your thighs, your tits…)

You know he’s threatened others, blackmailed friends, family, and partners, perhaps even permanently eliminated potential rivals. You know he’s gone to extreme lengths to keep you right where he  wants you, to keep you within his imaginary grasp so that he can finally, finally make the final move to make you officially his.

He's a creep in every sense of word, but perhaps you’re a bit of a creep, too, because there’s something about the raw, carnal desperation he’s exhibiting for you that almost feels good. It’s flattering in a fucked up way, making your self-confidence skyrocket because here’s this grown man that’s absolutely whipped for you, willing to do all sorts of illegal and depraved things just for your allowance of him to breath the same air and occupy the same space as you.

You may not be a particularly egocentric person, but perhaps you can indulge his little obsession. Perhaps it’s boredom, excitement at just how pathetically eager he is, or maybe it’s even a genuine sort of fondness and attraction you’ve developed for him – regardless, the next time he begs for you to please, please just give him a single chance to show you that he can make you feel good, you’re biting your lip and nodding, interrupting his stuttered gasp and shocked r-really with a few conditions of your own.

And yet, no matter what conditions you lay forward, things don’t go quite as you’d planned, quite as you’d hoped. Somehow you lose control of the situation, and before you can stop it you realize you’ve opened the floodgates, the truly breadth of his yearning and disregard for morality uncomfortably obvious. Somehow, the creep manages to bend you to his whim – showcasing just how dangerous and strong his Loverboy, eager-to-please façade had been. Because now, the man hovering over you and groaning declarations of love and devotion is suddenly very strong and very impossible to push off of you.

And yet, his creep has rubbed off onto you, because you’re almost enjoying it.

And now, for the sake of imagination, let’s say you give one of three possible conditions…

He’s not allowed to touch you.

It’s a proposition that makes him whine, disappointment settling deep in his chest because how is he supposed to show you what you’re missing out on if he can’t kiss you or touch you or stuff you so full of his cock that you’re dazed and nonsensical?

It irritates him, but the prospect of getting to touch himself with you looking at him is enough to get him agreeing, and you’ll find yourself sitting in front of him, fully clothed even while he’s stripped down to nothing, red, swollen cock in hand as he furiously brings his wrist up and down. It’s loud – squelching and making bassy, tacky thump noises with each slam of his fist against his navel, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He’s too busy staring at you, eyes seemingly unblinking even when they’re half-closed in lust.

It’s arousing at first to watch a man so blatantly and needily masturbating to you, but the moment that your eyes stray from him and his body he’s faltering, fury sprouting from his gut because how dare you not be looking at him during this. How dare you not contribute the same amount of attention and intimacy that he is. How dare you ignore him like he’s just some little puny bug when he’s whining and gasping about every little explicit, detailed fantasy he’s had of you.

And he’s moving before you know it, grabbing your clothed wrists in a single hand and pinning them above your head, keeping your thighs trapped between his own as he ruts into his fist, the smell and sound overwhelming now as he hovers over you.

Look at me look at me look at me he’s chanting to you, voice strained and uneven as the pleasure mounts, the scared look in your eye only making him harder, precum oozing from his sensitive tip in copious amounts, even dripping down his knuckles and lightly staining your shirt.

It’s not long before he’s coming, crying out your name and pressing his crotch against your body, cum spurting out to cover your torso, even getting a little bit against your neck and chin, the hot, slimy sensation making you squirm.

He’s panting, and as he resumes stroking himself, hissing and wincing slightly at the overstimulation, he’ll only breathily laugh down at you, smile too wide and his cheeks too flushed as he reminds you that I’m not touching you, am I? Fabric separating us still, but isn’t this good? D’you like being covered in my spunk?

It feels like hours before he finally lets his fist slow down, cum covering your chest, but with the majority of his releases concentrated over the expanse of your cunt, seeping through the fabric of your jeans and leaving the skin below feeling wet, the sheer volume impressive and leaving you to wonder how he hasn’t passed out from exhaustion.

He’ll groan, eyes fluttering closed briefly before opening up wide, leaning down so that he’s merely a breath away from your lips, murmuring next time, we’ll do this again and I’ll stick to your fucking rules, but a condom counts as not touching, right? Right?

Kyojuro Rengoku, Gyutarou, Koushi Sugawara, Atsumu Miya, Yuu Nishinoya, Koutarou Bokuto, Hawks, Jin Bubaigawara, Nobunaga Hazama, Uvogin, Leorio Paradinight

2. You want another person present in the room.

Maybe it’s a safety precaution, or perhaps this is the chance to play out some long-standing fantasy of a threesome you’ve had for longer than you’d care to admit. Regardless, he’s not pleased about the prospect of sharing you, but the months of wringing himself dry to the point of rashes and skin-rubbed-raw leave him babbling out a yes, promising to include whoever you desire.

Except, maybe you really are a sadist because of course you choose the man he hates most.

It’s a slap in the face but he manages to pull through, irritation already coursing through him the moment the three of you settle onto the bed, but things only get progressively worse. Almost immediately, the fucker is stealing your attention – pulling you in for a messy, loud kiss, and it makes his skin crawl to see the way your eyes close, how you lean into the kiss, how you guide his hands to cup your tits and grope at your thighs.

The intruder is far too comfortable, and as your yandere grabs you and physically puts you onto the other side of the bed so that he’s sitting between you two, he can only swallow. He’s immediately leaning in for a kiss of his own, lips working against yours in a fervor, hands unable to stay still as he yanks at the hem of your shift, ripping the material. He’s groaning against you, moving hurriedly as he tries to strip you, unwilling to let the intruder do anything as monumental and intimate as undressing you. But it’s too late, because the man is moving to your other side, pressing his navel against your ass and biting at your ear, and you’re breaking the kiss to moan and he thinks he’s going to be sick because the intruder’s hand is slipping under your skirt.

He slaps the man’s hand away, sending him a glare that makes even a shiver roll down your spine, before shoving his hand between your thighs instead, sucking in a breath because he knows what panties you’re wearing by feel, the pretty black ones that make your ass look so damn good, the one he’s stolen and jerked himself with so many times that it’s making a sort of Pavlov response hit him and oh oh oh no no no he can’t come yet oh please god no –

The moment is ruined, though, because the intruder’s kissing you again, suddenly slapping your thigh with his cock and telling you to beg for it, pretty girl, tell me you want it and something inside your yandere just sort of snaps.

He’s got the man on the ground before he can stop himself, fists raised and connecting with the man’s face, blood already covering his knuckles with just a few hits. He’s growling, a sort of inhuman sound that leaves his teeth bared, audible even over the man’s pained whimpers, even as the consciousness slips from his eyes and he goes limp against the ground, chest rising and falling very slowly.

And you’re still on the bed, staring with a dropped jaw and fear swimming in those pretty eyes as your yandere comes back to you, blood staining his palms and speckling his shirt, his breathing ragged as he shoves your head down to his crotch, telling you suck it clean or I’ll kill him, a smirk settling on his lips as you immediately hollow your cheeks.

And as he maneuvers you onto your knees, fingertips groping and kneading at your cheeks as he fucks into you from behind hard enough to leave your ass ricocheting and jiggling, it’s difficult to not hear the way he breathily laughs, thumb coming around to pinch at your clit as he tells you didn’t break your rule, there’s still another person in the room, isn’t there? Stupid fucker’s just not able to see how well you take my cock.

He’s shoving your face too far into the mattress to respond though, so he only answers himself with a slurred groan of ‘m coming, fuck take it take it –

Sanemi and Giyuu, Akaza and Douma, Oikawa and Kageyama, Kuroo and Daichi, Daishou and Kuroo, Tsukishima and Hinata, Shigaraki and Dabi, Endeavor and All Might, Nobunaga and Franklin

3. You want everything on camera.

Maybe it’s a kink for being recorded or maybe you simply want hard evidence to be able to use against him when you eventually take him to court, confident that he’ll let something incriminating slip out. Regardless, he’s very, very eager to fulfill your request, only growing slightly camera shy when the time finally comes.

It’s not a complicated set up, really – you’ve got a tripod of sorts with your phone balanced on it, the video rolling and centered on the bed where you’re settled in his lap. He’s clutching at you, making all sorts of little whimpers and whines as you kiss him, his lips eager and insistent and his tongue immediately pushing into your mouth the moment he can. It’s sticky sounding, and you’re sure the camera can pick it up.

When you pull back for air, letting your shirt come up and over your head, you’re almost embarrassed at the way he immediately shoves his face between your breasts, violently shaking his head back and forth, not paying attention to the way your bra cups poke at his eyes. He’s mouthing at your nipples over the fabric, even going so far as to dig one out of the cup, sucking and licking at it. His free hands travel down the expanse of your back, tracing the muscles under the skin and eventually settling at your ass, moving you to grind on his already very hard cock.

He pulls back with a little pop noise, licking his lips and looking up at you almost dazed. So pretty, he mumbles to himself, squeezing his hands, and you can only shiver in both excitement and discomfort as he starts rambling.

Been dreaming of this for so long, baby, stalked you for so long that I know exactly how to touch you, how to fuck ya… Been touching myself too much to the thought of you, huh? Feel how fucking hard I am just from a bit of kissing and touching?

He giggles at that, nipping at your nipple and enjoying the way you squirm slightly.

Broke into your apartment almost every day the last year, stolen your stuff and licked every utensil you own. Wore your panties and sucked on your toothbrush, stole your mail and hacked into your laptop and phone cameras just to get a front row view of you.

The information makes your stomach drop and you stiffen in his hold, his his insistent, guided grinds against his crotch only pick up.

Touched you while you slept, too, but I think you already knew that. You’re hard to wake up, y’know? And you make this cute little whine when I finger you, but this is much better right now. You’re hotter when you’re awake, but I’ll take you either way.

It’s ten more minutes of dreadful, disturbing admissions from him as he grinds you against him and suckles at your chest, leaving your nipples sore and bruised, puffy and overly-sensitive. The camera’s still rolling, and it’s only when he curls in on himself, a strained f-fuck spilling past his lips as something warm and wet seeps through his boxers that he slows down, stopping and cupping at your tits, squeezing harshly and burying his face in them once more for a brief moment.

He detaches himself, walking over to your phone and ending the video, before pulling his own out and replacing it with yours, walking back over to you and licking his lips.

Hey now that we’ve got yours and I’ve confessed to all the shit you wanted me to, it’s my turn, yeah? We make a video for you, now we make a sex tape for me. Oh, don’t make that face – ‘m not going to show it to anyone. Well, except maybe you, would you like to watch it back with me?

He doesn’t give you time to respond as he flips you onto your stomach, displaying a level of strength that shocks you, keeping you flat against the bed as he pulls you towards him so that you’re dangling off the edge, ass bared to the camera. He giggles, tracing a fingers against your clothed cunt, before slapping at it harshly, enjoying the way you squirm.

Let’s put on a good show, huh? I’m thinking…

He lets a leg stand on either side of your hips, settling himself so that his chest is pressed flush against your back, lips brushing at your ear as he murmurs we’ll start like this, the angle will be really good, I promise. Trust me, ‘ve watched a lot of porn – you’ll look good like this.

Then he’s forcing you into his lap, facing the camera and making your legs spread wide, a hand slipping into your shorts and toying with your clit. Then like this – think I can make you squirt? Think it’ll reach the camera from all the way over here?

Finally, he’s forcing you onto your knees while he stands over you, the camera right at your face level as he pets at your hair, sighing dreamily and saying and we’ll finish it like this – be loud, okay? Wanna see you gagging and choking. And if you don’t swallow, I’ll just have to do it again – thoughts on throatfucking?

And as he settles you onto your stomach, mounting you and letting the camera roll as he fucks into you hard enough to leave you screaming his name, he’ll only whisper in your ear between hearty groans and the slap of his balls against your ass remember, you wanted the video sweetheart.

Douma, Tengen Uzui, Rintarou Suna, Kenma Kozume, Tooru Oikawa, Dabi, Hizashi Yamada, Shalnark (like a LOT), Uvogin

Be careful what you wish for, because with your rule in place, they will bend it to work to their advantage – but don’t be too hard on yourself for enjoying it. After all, they know you better than you know yourself – can you really be surprised that they know exactly what will turn you on, too?

[gigabyte-flare]

The Death of Peace of Mind

[A Gigabyte Flare One Shot]

Summary: Traumatized by your time in Skyhaven, you seek the comfort and safety of the man you trust with your heart, little do you know, however, that nowhere is truly safe anymore; not even the N109 Zone.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Caleb x fem!reader (afab)/Sylus x fem!reader (afab)

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Actions depicted in this story are not condoned in real life. You are responsible for your own content consumption. If any of the following warnings trigger you, please read at your own risk. Minors do not interact, this story is 18+ only.

WARNING, THIS STORY WILL CONTAIN THE FOLLOWING: DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, Spoilers for Homecoming Wings, yandere tropes, non-con kissing, implied non-con s3x, pseudo-incest, depictions of PTSD, vomiting, mention of loss of virginity, pet names, unprotected but consensual p in v, denied orgasm, depiction of a panic attack, aftercare, implied murder, stalking

A/N: I have been totally, utterly consumed by Caleb brain rot. Sylus is still my man, but oh my god Caleb does things to me. Inspired by this scene in Caleb's main story, I was so utterly unnerved and fascinated by this whole interaction and I was immediately inspired. Beware that this is very dark. Reader's discretion is advised.

Title inspired by The Death of Peace of Mind performed by Bad Omens

Line Break Divider by cafekitsune

"What if I told you I was always like this?"

Your breath hitches as you press yourself against the back of the sofa, moving away from Caleb's outstretched hand. Caleb's face immediately darkens, his form towering over you as he cages you on the sofa with his arms.

"You're always hurling yourself into danger, whether you realize it or not," Caleb continues, his violet gaze boring into yours, "those that are after your power, you know, the ones that wanna hurt you? They should all just…"

He leans in close, his face inches away from yours, "disappear."

You can feel your heart racing in your chest as you desperately try to move yourself away from him, however, his 'cage' keeps you firmly in place, his resolve unwavering.

"The only place you are truly safe is by my side."

There is a subtle smile on Caleb's lips that unnerve you to your core and you exhale a heavy sigh in an attempt to calm your racing heart. You swallow hard, gathering up your resolve to retort his words, "I am a Deepspace Hunter, Caleb. I face danger head-on, not cower behind a façade of "safety." I don't need--"

"You don't need me? You don't need me?!" he says as he shakes his head; you hear his hands dig into the fabric of the sofa, "is that what you truly think?"

You bring your hand up to shove him away, however he grasps your wrist, squeezing it in a vice-like grip as he pins it to the couch; he leans in closer, his expression taking on a half crazed look, "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you."

He pauses before continuing. "Wanna return to Linkon? Just say the word. We'll go back to our past, rebuild our old house and move in together. If that isn't enough for you, I'll build you a whole mansion; you know, the kind with one of those large hedge mazes. I'll plant all your favorite flowers and decorate it with all your favorite things," he gently cups your right cheek before continuing, "it will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you will ever lay eyes on."

Your words fail you, all you can do is stare up at him, completely stunned into silence. A gentle smile forms on his lips before he continues once more, "where I take you, no one will ever find you again. I'll protect you forever."

You blink a few times, shaking your head as you curl up your right fist, placing it on his chest, "Caleb… you can't just--" you stop yourself, considering your next words very carefully, lest you invoke his fury, "I can't let you do that… you are very important to me, but--"

"But what?"

You take his hesitation as an opportunity to escape from his grasp. You try to stand up and push him off, but he grabs both your wrists, pinning them back onto the back of the sofa, his form looming over you once more, "ever since I first met you, I've stifled my true feelings for you every… single… fucking… day. It was suffocating."

A sudden flash of lightning, followed by a roar of thunder, causes you to jump. Your breath trembles as Caleb leans in closer to your face.

"I am done playing these games."

Without any kind of warning, Caleb's lips crash into yours in a searing, passion filled kiss. He practically devours you like a starving animal, a low moan escaping him as he pushes himself into you. You open your mouth to scream, however this just invites Caleb's tongue to delve into your mouth to perform a sick dance with yours as his hands move to slide under your shirt--

You wake up screaming, clutching your pillow tight to your chest as your eyes snap open. You take in gulps of air as your eyes dart around your bedroom, taking in your surroundings.

You're at home in your apartment in Linkon. It was just a nightmare.

You close your eyes, taking deep breaths as you calm yourself; your racing heart taking a few minutes to finally settle into a steady rhythm. You feel a couple of tears roll down the sides of your face. You slowly sit up in bed, however a sudden wave of nausea comes over you and you quickly climb out of bed and race to the bathroom with your hand covering your mouth. You barely are able to turn the bathroom light on and kneel in front of the toilet when you begin heaving into the toilet bowl, only managing to vomit up bile.

You start to sob as you continue to cough into the toilet bowl, your throat stinging as you swallow back more bile. When your stomach finally settles down, you sit back with your legs tucked beneath you. You wipe a tear from your eye when you hear it, a subtle noise coming from inside your apartment. Immediately, you're on high alert. You stand back up, stepping into the doorway leading into your living room, you peer around your darkened apartment, the open layout allowing you to see that its empty; there's no one here but you.

So what was that noise you heard?

Not giving yourself another opportunity to hear it again, you race back into your bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind you. You dart over to your nightstand, grasping your phone like it's your last lifeline and call the one person you are now realizing you can truly trust, especially at this hour: Onychinus's fearless leader, Sylus.

You press the call icon as you sit on the end of your bed. The phone barely rings before he answers.

"Kitten… what are you doing up so late? It's three in the morning; did you miss--"

"Can you come pick me up?" you ask, cutting him off.

You hear Sylus suck in a breath before he continues, the alarm evident in his voice, "what's the matter, Sweetie?"

It's then you hear another noise from inside your apartment beyond your bedroom door, "can you just come? You have the key to my apartment I gave you, right?"

"I do. What's this about? Are you ok?"

"Sylus, please…" you plead, tears once again threatening to fall down your cheeks.

"I'll be there in 10 minutes."

You hang up the call, clutching your phone to your chest, your heart once again racing in your chest as your mind wanders back to one of your last encounters with Caleb. He was someone you grew up with, trusted, and loved. You called it a miracle when he came back into your life after you thought him dead for over a year, but something happened to him. Something changed him, or so you thought. You'd never thought in a million years that Caleb would force himself on you. You shake your head as you choke back a sob, willing yourself not to think about what happened after he kissed you that night.

The only reason you're back in Linkon now is because Caleb and his fleet were sent on an expedition into the Deepspace Tunnel, granting you your only means of escape from him. While it's been a few days since you got home from Skyhaven, each time you close your eyes, you see Caleb's face, those words burned into your brain.

As you wait for Sylus, you think back on your childhood, your eyes widening in horror as you slowly come to the realization that Caleb was right. From that time he locked you in the attic to prevent you from confronting those bullies to his insistent hovering over you, he was completely and utterly obsessed with you. So why didn't you see the warning signs sooner?

"What if I told you I was always like this?"

When you look at someone through a rose colored lens, all the red flags just look like flags…

The sound of keys jingling followed by the front door of your apartment opening snaps you back into reality; you practically spring off the bed and whip open your bedroom door. You don't even give Sylus a chance to say anything as you slip on some shoes and approach him, wrapping your arms around his torso, burying your face into his broad chest as you inhale the scent of his cologne. The relief you feel is indescribable as you break your embrace and take his hand, practically dragging him out of your apartment before shutting and locking the front door.

It takes everything in you to not run to Sylus's sports car waiting outside. Sylus guides you to the passenger's seat, opening the door for you to climb inside as he walks over to the driver's side, getting in and starting the car before driving off into the night.

"Do you want to explain what this is about, Kitten?" he asks as he looks over at you, his face full of concern.

"I'll tell you once we're at the base. Just drive," you say, your voice flat as you lean your head against the passenger's side window, watching the city lights go by as Sylus drives.

Sylus reaches over, gently rubbing your thigh before placing his hand back on the car's stick shift. Seeking his touch, you place your hand on top of his as he shifts gears, your fingers intertwining with each other. Before you know it, he drives into N109 Zone territory, the red moon casting an eerie glow as he continues his drive to his base. Once he arrives, he parks the car and motions to you to stay seated. He climbs out of the car, coming over the passenger's side to open the door. He scoops you up out of the car, carrying you bridal style into the base.

Once inside, Luke and Kieran stand to attention, clearing their throats before Luke speaks, "Boss, you're back! That must be some kind of record-- Oh! Miss Hunter!"

"Ensure the base is secure, I do not want to be disturbed," Sylus orders as he carries you deeper into the base.

"Yessir!" you hear the twins reply before listening to their steps scurry away.

Sylus carries you into his bedroom, laying you down onto the bed gently before walking around to climb onto the bed next to you. He brings his hand up to your face, gently caressing your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Now, Kitten, do you mind telling me what's the matter?"

You take a deep breath, but despite trying to compose yourself, you break down and begin to spill everything to Sylus. You tell him about how you infiltrated the Farspace Fleet to investigate an explosion that was eerily similar to the one you had experienced that took the lives of your adoptive grandmother and your adoptive brother; only to find out that his life wasn't claimed in that explosion after all.

You tell him about the relief you felt finding out that your beloved Caleb was alive and well, but were shocked to find out he's now the ruthless Colonel of the Farspace Fleet. You tell Sylus about your growing suspicions of Caleb, about how he had drugged you to prevent you from rescuing a child that was involved in the explosion you were investigating. You told him about Caleb's increasingly unhinged behavior that eventually led up to… what had happened to you before Caleb's departure to the Deepspace Tunnel expedition. It was the first time since it happened that you let yourself recall the full details of that night.

Sylus's expression grimaces, his lips twitching into a snarl as he clenches his fists in his lap. "Was that your first time?" he asks, his voice low.

You bite your bottom lip, desperately fighting back more tears as you nod, "yes… it was."

Sylus closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before looking back over at you. Funny enough, you once feared those crimson eyes, but as you got to know Sylus, you came to love them and, in a way, fall in love with the person attached to them, although you didn't want to admit it given the fact you were a Hunter and he was the leader of the largest crime syndicate on the planet. After the incident with the Aether Core at the auction, you came to discover that Sylus was not the heartless monster that everyone painted him to be. He was always kind to you, showering you in gifts and affection; not even mentioning he always empowered you to be your best self, no matter what. He also was always honest with you.

Caleb was not.

Overwhelmed with emotion, you shift yourself closer to Sylus, gently caressing the side of his face in your hand. Sylus gives you a gentle smile before once again caressing your face with the backs of his fingers.

"If you'll have me, Sweetie, I want to take away your pain. Let me replace that horror with my love."

Smiling at him as a tear rolls down your cheek, you give him a subtle nod. Gently grasping the back of your head, Sylus pulls your face to his, his lips pressing against yours gingerly, as if testing the waters. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer and you feel yourself practically melt in his embrace. His kiss was nothing like Caleb's had been; it was gentle and loving, but also confident. Your hands caress his chest, feeling his toned muscle beneath his shirt. It's not long before your fingers are undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Within minutes, yours and his clothing have been discarded on the floor on each side of Sylus's bed. Having climbed under the sheets, Sylus positions himself above you, his mouth devouring yours, your tongues dancing in each other's mouths as his large hands grope your breasts. You moan Sylus's name between kisses, the slick of your arousal gathering between your legs. Sylus breaks the kiss, staring down at you as he slowly parts your legs, his eyes glazed in lust as he stares down at you.

"Do you want this, Kitten?" he asks softly.

Your chest heaving, you stare up into Sylus's crimson gaze, a smile teasing the corners of your mouth before you whisper, "yes, I do."

Sylus smiles as he reaches down between your bodies, grasping his throbbing hard cock and positioning it at your entrance, but as he moves his hips to sheath himself inside you, you place your hand onto his chest, stopping him.

"I'm safe here, right?" you ask, the worry clear in your eyes.

"Of course you are," Sylus whispers before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, "no one enters the N109 Zone without me knowing about it, I assure you."

"Ok," you reply, gently nodding as you remove your hand from his chest.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you? It's ok if you have, Sweetie."

You quickly shake your head as you drape your arms around his strong shoulders, "no, I haven't. I need you, Sylus…"

Sylus leans back down to kiss you once more and as he does so, he pushes himself into you, the feeling of your soft walls caressing his length pulling a soft moan from him. Once he's sheathed himself fully inside you, he pauses his movement to allow your body to adjust to his length and girth. Your breaths become ragged as your legs hook around his waist; the brief discomfort quickly replaced by pleasure as the head of his cock presses gently against your cervix.

"You can move, Sylus, I'm ok."

Smiling at your reassurance of your comfort, he begins to move his hips into you. His thrusts are gentle at first, but as your soft whimpers evolve into loud moans, he quickens his pace, burying his face into the crook of your neck, sucking and biting marks into your skin, marking you as his.

"Oh my God, Sylus…" you moan, tilting your head back against the pillow behind your head, allowing better access to your neck for Sylus, who happily accepts your unspoken invitation.

Completely lost in pleasure, you feel Sylus move himself away from your neck after a few minutes to cage your body with his. He angles his hips in such a way that the head of his cock hits your g-spot repeatedly, causing you to see stars behind your eyelids.

"Fuck…" you breathe out, "I'm gonna cum…"

You slowly open your eyes to look up as Sylus before he hurtles you over the edge, however, it's not Sylus's face staring down at you.

It's Caleb's.

"Doesn't this feel good, pip-squeak?"

You suck in a breath as your eyes widen in horror. You bring your hands up to push him off as you start screaming. You kick at him and thrash your body as you are thrown into a full blown panic. Tears stream down your face as you shut your eyes tight, refusing to look into his purple eyes. You feel hands grasp your arms.

"Hey, hey, hey! Shhh, shhh, shhh…" you hear Sylus's voice say as he abruptly pulls himself out of you, cradling your face in his hands, "I'm right here, Kitten. You're safe, it's ok…"

Upon hearing Sylus's comforting voice, you slowly open your eyes and see Sylus's concerned expression staring down at you as he gently grasps your shoulders, caressing them slowly in an effort to calm you down.

"Oh my god, Sylus… I'm so sorry…" you say, your lips trembling as you start to cry, "I'm so fucking sorry…"

"There is nothing to apologize for, Kitten," he replies as he brushes your disheveled hair away from your face, "what can I do to help you?"

"Just hold me… please…"

"Of course."

Rolling off you, Sylus wraps his arms around you, holding you tight as you snuggle into his embrace, the warmth of his body lulling you to sleep as you wrap your arms around his torso. He rubs your back, placing a kiss onto the top of your head before closing his eyes, quickly falling asleep as well.

The bodies of two masked men lay crumpled on the floor in front of the intruder, their blood seeping out onto the marble. Their positions are unnatural, as if they were crushed by some unimaginable force. Clutched in the intruder's right hand is a mechanical crow, it's neck crushed by his grasp. He let's go of the bird, its metallic body hitting the floor with a loud clank. He adjusts the hat on his head, signifying his high rank in the Farspace Fleet as he begins to walk down the hallway, his leather boots picking up the blood from the bodies and trailing it down the hall.

It only takes him a few minutes to find what he's looking for: the master bedroom. His gloved hand grabs the handle, slowly turning it as to not announce his presence as he gently pushes the door open. It softly creaks as it opens, opening up into a large bedroom. The intruder's purple gaze shifts across the room, observing the lit fireplace and a four poster bed over to the left. His brow furrows when he sees the bed's occupants: his beloved and the leader of Onychinus himself. The sight of their nude bodies embracing each other causes his blood to boil.

The muscles in his neck tensing, he slowly walks over to the bed. When he approaches, he stands at the end of the bed, staring down at the bed's occupants, watching their chests and shoulders rise and fall in unison as they slumber, completely unaware of the intruder's presence. He simply stares at them for minutes on end, allowing himself to ruminate and let his anger consume him. He narrows his eyes at the silver haired man as he slowly pulls out one of his large pistols from its holster. He twirls the gun in his hand, using one hand to check the chamber to ensure it's loaded before twirling it again, aiming the gun at the silver haired man's head.

And pulling the trigger.

[itsnesss]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 | lee myung-gi (player 333) × fem!reader

summary | player 230 threatens and intimidates you, but player 333 intervenes, protecting you from him

warnings | mild threat and intimidation, tension, angst, fluff

word count | 0.5 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me thanks ᡣ𐭩

The tension in the room is palpable. The murmurs of the other players fade as player number 230, Thanos, slowly approaches you.

“Wow, what do we have here?” Thanos says, his voice deep and gravelly, a tone he knows how to manipulate to make everyone around him feel uncomfortable. His eyes scan your figure from head to toe with a predatory gaze. “You’re... interesting.”

A chill runs down your spine. You don’t know if it’s the way he’s looking at you, the way his words feel like a game you can’t win, or if it’s the fact that you know exactly what he’s after.

“What do you want?” you respond, trying to sound firm, but fear slips into your voice despite yourself.

He smiles, that kind of smile that makes you think he already has everything under control. He steps closer, and you can see his eyes gleam with a mix of amusement and threat.

“What I want... is to know what’s beneath that façade of resistance. It’s always fun to break people like you.”

Your breath quickens. You know you’re on dangerous ground, but you can’t back down. You’re trapped. However, just as Thanos takes another step toward you, someone intervenes.

“If you don’t mind, I think she’s not interested,” comes the voice, firm and determined.

You quickly turn around and see player 333. He has positioned himself between you and Thanos, standing tall with a look of resolve in his eyes.

Thanos looks at him, sizing up the new intruder, his smile now more mocking.

“And who are you to get involved in this?” he asks with disdain, raising an eyebrow.

Player 333 doesn’t flinch. He’s calm, but you can feel the tension in his body, the same kind of tension that occurs before a confrontation.

“I’m someone who won’t let you touch her,” he responds in a calm yet firm voice.

Thanos laughs, but the laugh doesn’t reach his eyes. He steps toward player 333, testing his reaction, not sure if he’s truly willing to fight or if he’s just testing the other’s limits.

“Do you really think you can stop me?” he asks, eyeing him from head to toe, as if he were just an insect he could crush easily.

But player 333 doesn’t take a step back. Their eyes lock, and you can feel the electricity in the air. The kind of tension that only appears before a storm.

“I don’t need to stop you, I just need you to step away,” he says without moving a muscle, his voice a challenge in itself.

Thanos watches him in silence for a long moment, as if considering whether it’s worth continuing with this provocation. The arrogance on his face fades slightly, and it’s as if he suddenly realizes that player 333 isn’t going to back down.

Finally, Thanos snorts in disdain.

“This isn’t over,” he says, his voice heavy with threat, before turning and walking away, his presence still lingering in the air.

333 doesn’t move until Thanos has disappeared completely. Only then does he turn to you, his eyes softening slightly.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his tone much gentler than before.

You, still in shock from the intervention, nod, though you can’t help but feel your hands tremble slightly.

“Thank you... I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

333 makes a nearly dismissive gesture with his hand, but there’s a slight smile on his lips, as if the danger meant nothing compared to seeing you calm.

“You don’t have to thank me. I wasn’t going to let someone like him touch you.”

“But...”

“It doesn’t matter.” His tone is serious, but there’s something protective in his gaze that makes you feel safe. “Here, no one is going to touch you if I can help it.”

For a moment, you stand there, speechless, watching him. Something inside you feels grateful, but beyond that, there’s a deeper feeling, a connection you can’t even explain.

[kngrose]

hiii can u pls make yandere jinx reacting to somebody trying 2 ask out the reader

(feel free 2 ignore!!💗💗)

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐗

when someone asks out her partner

WARNINGS: implied mental illness, violence, implied murder, coercion, manipulation. be safe, heed warnings!

from roselí. ᡣ𐭩 : i tried to make this as realistic and in character as i possibly could. i rlly wish people would study characters more often </3

It’s not like you were going to say yes, Jinx just never lets you get the chance to handle these situations on your own. She’s so impulsive; a loose canon just ready to shoot at the smallest spark.

Bless the poor thing, pretty little painter you usually catch making murals on buildings and alleys— you could tell they’d spent a lot of time working up the courage to ask. There’s a telling flush on their cheeks that spreads to their ears, their shuffling nervously on their feet— they can’t seem to keep their lip from under their teeth. They’re actually cute.

But you weren’t going to say yes.

Jinx had been leaning lazily against a crumbling wall when it all took place, her bright pink eyes tracking you and the stranger near a rusty vending machine. She twirled her zap-gun idly, the manic energy simmering just beneath the surface of her carefree façade.

Her ears pricked at the stranger’s words.

“So, uh, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime? Just you and me.”

Her heart skipped. Then it dropped. The world tilted, her vision blurring for a moment before splitting into two: one part cold fury, one part trembling vulnerability. A clawing void of rejection surged in her chest.

They want to take her from you.

Her hands stopped their idle twirl, gripping her weapon tightly. She was all jagged edges now, sauntering toward the scene with a growing, unhinged smile plastered across her face.

“Well, well, well! What do we have here? Little paint shop loser thinks they can steal my baby, huh?” she cooed dryly. The stranger held their hands up defensively, stammering, “N-no, I didn’t know she was—”

“LIAR!” Jinx’s voice cracked, her finger twitching on the trigger of the zapper. She wavered between hysterical rage and a crushing sense of inadequacy, her bipolar emotions splitting her perception into black and white. You are hers—all hers—and this person was a threat. The idea of losing you gripped her like a vice, her mind screaming.

She’ll leave you. She’ll leave because you’re not enough.

“You thought you could just waltz right up, and take her— right? She cackled dryly, “WRONG!” You could see the whirlwind of thought manifesting on her face— snarls turning into grins turning into scowls. You stepped forward, raising a hand to try and calm her. “Jinx, it’s not—”

“Quiet, cupcake,” she snapped, her voice suddenly sharp. But the moment she looked at you, her tone softened into something sickeningly sweet. “I’ll take care of this, okay? You just stand there looking all cute and perfect for me.”

The poor thing tried to back away, mumbling apologies, but Jinx was already there, her speed unnervingly quick. She was inches from their face now, her gun’s barrel resting lightly against their chest. “You know,” she whispered, her voice dangerously low and leveled, “I don’t like sharing. In fact, I hate it.” She trailed the gun upwards, letting it rise under their chin. “Of all the canvases you chose mine…” She meets their gaze with a stone cold glare, “Wanna paint the walls with your insides? Hmm?”

“Jinx!” You blurt frantically— she’s taking this way too far. “it’s fine! You don’t have to do this— I wasn’t even going to say yes—”

"No, it's NOT fine!" Jinx snapped, her voice cracking as she turned toward her you, her expression twisting in anguish. Her manic energy flipped into desperation in an instant. "Why would you even talk to someone like them?! Am I not enough? You're not— you're not gonna leave me, right? RIGHT?!" Her breathing grew ragged, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. The admirer took a nervous step back, clearly reconsidering every life decision that had led to this moment.

“No— you’re enough. I’m not going anywhere,” you assured her softly, taking small measured steps towards her. Jinx’s wild gaze flickered to you, the raw emotion on her face breaking through the chaos. Tears welled in her eyes, but the anger didn’t leave, not fully. Her breathing was ragged as her your steady voice seemingly pulled her back from the brink.

Abruptly, she embraced you, making you flinch. She buried her face into you shoulder, her voice muffled, “I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered, raw and vulnerable. You took the opportunity to motion to the painter still standing still in fear. ‘Leave’, you mouthed frantically, still trying to pacify Jinx by rubbing her back softly.

“You won’t, Jinx. I love you.”

Jinx's head whipped rapidly up toward you, leveling your eyes. Her expression was… darkening. She was splitting again, now so suddenly, her emotions cycling too fast for anyone to keep up. “You mean that?” She asked, raising a sharp brow. She traced your face meticulously.

“What? Of course I mean that.” You stare at her bewilderingly, eyebrows furrowing. You could only watch as she processed something internally, but you could never guess what goes on in her sick mind. “Good.” She smiled, a sweet smile. She grabbed your hand gently, placing her gun into your palm, “Shoot them.”

“W-what—! Jinx— you can’t be serious?” Your mind swirled, you were so taken aback by her statement you physically reeled your head, the gun slipping in your palm. Her hand moved to your shoulder, fingers digging into your skin with possessive force, her grip tightening as she leaned in, her lips brushing your neck. "Didn't you hear them? They want you, not me. I'm the one who's supposed to be with you," she hissed, a manic fury flickering in her wide, unblinking eyes.

The sound of your heart hammering in your chest was deafening. You wanted to argue, to protest, to deny this madness, but the words caught in your throat. The way she looked at you— possessive, desperate, almost like a starving animal ready to pounce-made it clear there was no room for dissent.

"You have to choose," Jinx cooed, a twisted smile playing at the edges of her lips. She gestured toward the figure standing helplessly in the distance, "Either you choose me... or you choose them." Her voice dropped lower, darker, her breath coming in ragged bursts. "But if you choose them... you know what will happen. Don't you?"

You tried to pull away, but her grip on you was ironclad. Her fingers tightened, forcing your arm to aim at the person who'd dared to look at you with affection. Jinx's hand hovered over yours, guiding the gun slowly, insistently, until the barrel was trained on their chest.

"You're going to make them sorry, right? You're going to show them who you really belong to." The gun felt like a lead weight, too heavy for your trembling hands. But Jinx's eyes were on you, her gaze cold and calculating, burning with obsession. She moved closer, her body almost pressed against yours now, her voice dropping into a low, seductive whisper. "Don't make me do it for you. I want to see you do it. I want you to prove your loyalty. You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"

"They're waiting for you. Waiting for you to make your choice. Show them how much you care about me, darling. Show them who's the real threat here."

You could feel her breath against your ear as she leaned in, her voice almost sweet now, laced with madness. "It's simple, really. One pull of the trigger— POW! And it's all over. You and me. Forever. No one else. Ever." She snarled noticing your hesitation, ever the big heart you had.

"You know I won't let them have you," she whispered, her voice laced with a mix of fear and obsession. “Jinx—” You murmur painfully, biting back scared tears, but she hushes you instantly. "You're mine, and I won't share you."

Her smile returned, but there was no joy in it. Only the chilling certainty of someone who had already made up their mind. "Do it. Or I will," she dared, her eyes narrowing as her grip on you tightened. The world narrowed down to that single moment— the gun in your hand, the silent figure before you, and Jinx, her eyes gleaming with a terrifying expectation. There was no escape, no way out.

Only the grim reality of her twisted love, a love that demanded everything-and if you didn't comply, it would take everything away. Her voice was the last thing you heard before you were forced to make the decision.

"Choose. Me or them."

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[scarluna]

Y/N, a gifted but self-conscious graphic designer, lands a job at Jeon Enterprises, a powerhouse ruled by the sharp and controlling Jeon Jungkook, whose ruthless perfectionism hides behind an enigmatic façade. Though admired and feared, Jungkook targets Y/N’s insecurities, using them as weapons against her.

Beside him stands his best friend, Min Yoongi, a sly and unpredictable force whose hot-and-cold behavior leaves Y/N questioning his motives.

Tangled in a web of cold authority, teasing games, and unspoken desire, Y/N must navigate a dangerous love triangle where ambition and emotion collide, threatening to unravel everything.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader x Min Yoongi

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, enemies to lovers, ceo!jungkook, graphic designer!reader, mafia!yoongi

Link to the other chapters: ACT I / ACT II / ACT III / ACT IV / ACT VI / ACT VII / ACT VIII

Chapters: 5 / ?

Chapter Warnings: mature language, bullying, slow burn, enemies to lovers

A/N: Thank you all so much for the likes and the comments. I did not think this story would become so liked. Again, thank you and enjoy! x

ACT V.

I climbed onto the bus and found an empty seat near the back. The hum of the engine and the faint chatter of passengers filled the air, but it all felt distant. My mind was a swirling storm of everything that had happened, and I couldn’t focus on anything else. I stared out the window as the city blurred past, the gray sky above mirroring the heaviness in my chest.

The tears threatened to spill again, but I clenched my fists and bit the inside of my cheek to hold them back. Not here. Not in front of strangers. I kept my face turned to the window, pretending to watch the scenery, hoping no one would notice how broken I felt inside. I had sunken in that headspace again, where I felt helpless and I didn't felt human at all. It was a nightmare for me. My mind was only stuck in the past and the pain was never ending cycle.

When the bus finally reached my stop, I stepped off into the cool air. My feet carried me the short distance to my apartment automatically, like I was on autopilot. The moment I closed the door behind me, the silence hit, and with it came the flood of emotions I’d been trying to keep at bay.

I dropped my bag by the door and slumped against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. My chest heaved as the first sob broke free, and then another, and another, until I was crying uncontrollably. All the frustration, anger, and pain from today—hell, from the past few days—poured out of me in waves. I hugged my knees to my chest, rocking slightly, as if trying to comfort myself. Since I was a kid there was no one to comfort me, all the adults I once had believed in were never there for me. My dad was an alcoholic who used to mentally abuse me, my mom and my brother. My mother to this day is obsessed with control and she has always had the mentality of the victim. My brother was always the one who was cherished more, as the only boy of the family. And of course, I was thrown to the side with my emotional needs. So at this point, I had to be there for myself. And as grew up in adult, I felt comfortable crying and picking my pain alone rather than being vulnerable with someone. I knew I was broken, I didn't know how broken until now. 

I stayed like that for hours, crying until my throat was raw and my head pounded. Everything became a blur and I felt my body shaking. My breath was cut short and this is when I realized I was having an anxiety attack. I tried to grip at whatever I could find, my bag or my clothing as I sharply braeathed in and out of my nose, counting random numbers. At some point, my phone started buzzing incessantly, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, didn’t want to explain or relive any of it. I was busy prioritizing myself at this very moment and nothing else mattered.

When the tears finally stopped, I felt hollow. My body ached from the tension, and my eyes were sore and swollen. I sat there in silence for what felt like forever, staring at nothing, feeling like I had nothing left to give. Eventually, I forced myself to stand, my movements sluggish and heavy.

I shuffled to the bathroom and turned on the shower, stripping off my clothes while the water heated up. The warmth of the shower felt soothing against my skin, like it was washing away the mess of the day and all the negative emotions I have felt until now. When I stepped out, I wrapped myself in a towel, drying off quickly before changing into sweats and grabbing Hades’ leash.

My dog greeted me eagerly, his tail wagging as if sensing I needed comfort. “Come on, boy,” I murmured, attaching the leash to his collar. His soft brown eyes met mine, and I felt a small pang of warmth in my chest. At least I had him. Hades was the only one that I felt was giving me the unconditional love I so desperately craved.

We went for a short walk around the block. The cold air biting at my skin but somehow grounding me. Hades trotted happily beside me, occasionally sniffing at patches of grass or barking at squirrels. His enthusiasm was a welcome distraction from the mess in my head, and for a brief moment, I felt like I could breathe again.

When we got back, I gave him a treat and collapsed into bed, wrapping myself in the blankets yet again. My body was exhausted, but sleep didn’t come easily. My mind replayed everything—the picture, Yoongi’s words, Rya’s betrayal, Tina’s cruelty—until I finally slipped into a restless slumber.

-

When my alarm went off, it took every ounce of willpower I had to drag myself out of bed. My eyes were dry, almost painfully so, but the crying had done its work—I felt an empty hollow shell of myself. I had realized that I slept for more than ten hours which was a record, yet I still didn't feel refreshed at all. I felt the same slump as I did yesterday. I didn't even manage to have any dinner, not that I felt like eating at all. In the last few days I skept meals way too much and I noticed my clothes growing bigger on me, which was odd because I wasn't a person to skip any meal. 

I finally went through the motions of getting ready: a quick shower, brushing my hair, slapping on some concealer to hide the evidence of my breakdown. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like me at all. I couldn't recognize the person I had became. I was drowning in my own pain and it was getting harder to keep my head above the water. Grasping the sink, I stilled for a moment to give myself sometime to breathe. In and out. Until I felt I was grounded in my body and in my mind.

The bus ride to work felt endless. I kept my headphones in, the music drowning out the world around me as I stared out the window. I wasn’t ready for today, I wasn’t ready to face anyone, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to hold my head high and continue to push further. I shouldn't run away because these things would keep hunting me.

When I stepped into the office, the usual hustle and bustle felt distant, like I was walking through a dream.The people and their chatters almost sounded as an echo as I made my way toward my desk. It was Thursday now, and all I could think about was how close the masquerade ball was. 

I sat at my desk, turning on my computer and trying to focus, but my mind was still a jumbled mess. The excitement I’d once felt for the ball was gone, replaced by a dull ache in my chest. What was the point of pretending to care about it? Everything felt meaningless now.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to start working. One task at a time, I told myself. Just get through the day and go home. I was too mentally exhausted with everything at this point. I typed on my keyboard, my eyes raking over the screen and the e-mail I was typing.

The office felt heavier than usual as I worked, staring blankly at the screen in front of me. The steady hum of keyboards and muted voices of my coworkers swirled around me, but I didn’t register any of it. 

“Y/N?”

I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. That voice—soft, hesitant—made my stomach churn. I clenched my jaw, refusing to acknowledge her presence. My eyes stayed glued to the screen, fingers tapping faster on the keyboard in an attempt to appear busy.

“Can I talk to you? Please?” Rya’s voice was quiet, almost trembling.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t even turn my head. The silence stretched between us and I could feel her discomfort, her desperation hanging in the air.

“I just... I need to explain. I didn’t mean for it to—”

“Don’t.” My voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. I turned to her slowly, my expression cold and unyielding. “I don’t want to hear any of it, Rya. What's done is done.”

Her face crumpled, her lips pressing together as if trying to hold back tears. “I messed up, okay? I know I did. I—I shouldn’t have sent that picture to Hoseok. I thought it was just—”

“Just what?” I snapped, finally swiveling my chair to face her fully. “Funny? Harmless? What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

Her shoulders slumped, her gaze falling to the floor. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking, Y/N. I was just... being stupid. I didn’t think he’d actually—”

I held up a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t care what you were thinking, Rya. You sent something private—something personal—to someone else without my permission. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

She looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’ll do anything to make it right. Please, just—”

“Make it right?” I let out a humorless laugh, shaking my head. “You can’t. It’s done. And I don’t want your apology.”

Before she could say anything else, another voice interrupted.

“Y/N.”

I looked up to see Hoseok standing a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked guilty, his eyes avoiding mine at first before he forced himself to meet my gaze.

Great. Just what I needed.

“I want to apologize as well, it wasn't okay for me to do that—” he asked, his voice low.

I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. “I don't need your apology.”

“Please,” he said, stepping closer. “I messed up as well, okay? I shouldn’t have shown that picture to anyone. I just wanted to show off how happy you looked that night. It was immature and wrong, and I’m sorry. I—I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear.”

I stared at him, my expression unreadable. “But you did. Both of you did.”

Hoseok sighed, running a hand through his hair. He seemed worried and frustrated. “I know. I was stupid, and I regret it more than anything. I’ve felt like crap ever since. Please, Y/N, I’m begging you. Just give us a chance to make it up to you.”

I shook my head, standing up from my chair. “You don’t get to feel bad about this, Hoseok. Neither of you do. You made your choices, and now you have to live with them.”

Rya sniffled beside me, her voice barely a whisper. I could see that she has been crying, her eyes were red and her face was swollen. “Y/N, please—”

“No,” I said firmly, cutting her off. “We’re done here. Both of you, leave me alone.”

Without another word, I slowly stood up headed to the break room to escape the suffocating tension. My hands were trembling as I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my breathing. Thankfully they didn't follow me or else I'd have leashed on them even worse than I did back there. Soft sigh escaped my lips as I closed my eyes.

They might have been sorry, but their apologies didn’t mean anything to me. Not now. Maybe not ever. I could feel the entire office's eyes on me as I arrived here this morning, their judgy stares, the way they would whisper about me as I passed by . . . it almost felt like I was in high school all over again. I hated it.

The cool stream of water poured steadily into the glass I had picked from the cabinet as I focused on controlling my breathing. The break room felt quieter than usual, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the space. I brought the glass to my lips, taking a small sip, when the sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness.

I turned my head just as Jungkook entered the room, his sharp suit tailored perfectly, his posture confident yet somehow intimidating. He glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable as he made his way to the coffee machine.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice even and professional as he greeted. That man was so cold. I could feel the chills in the room. He stared at my face for far too long to be comfortable. I tried to look away, but he grabbed my jaw. My breath stopped for a moment. The way he touched me, so gently, his skin felt burning sensation on me.* "Have you been crying?" he asked, tone low and demanding. I sighed and shrugged. "None of your business if I did." I could practically hear him roll his eyes. My Boss was not a man who tolerated such answers, but in my case, he remained silent. Instead, he changed the subject rather quickly and I was appreciating that, because I was not ready to talk about how I was with anyone. “About the 2 PM meeting today. You’ll need to be ready with the brief.”

I set the glass down on the counter, nodding. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Good.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and added, “Make sure Tina looks over it before you hand it to me.”

The words made me freeze for a split second. I turned to him, my expression hardening. “No.”

He looked up from his coffee cup, eyebrows slightly raised. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not giving Tina my work,” I said firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I’ll present it directly to you.”

Jungkook sighed, leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms. “Y/N, Tina is your direct manager. It’s her job to review your work before it reaches me.”

“And it’s my job to make sure the work is actually done right,” I shot back, my tone sharper than intended. “Every time Tina gets involved, she messes things up. This is important, and I’m not taking that risk.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Fine. You can present it directly to me. But don’t let this happen again. The hierarchy is there for a reason, Y/N. We can’t just ignore it.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t argue further. It was already a small victory.

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes briefly studying me. Then, in a tone noticeably cooler, he asked, “I hope you are feeling better than yesterday. That doesn't mean you should slack at your work, understood?” His gaze was sharp, and yet there was something softer lurking beneath the surface.

“I won't,” I said curtly, my defenses snapping back into place.

Jungkook’s expression didn’t change, but he gave a slight nod before turning to leave the break room.

As the door swung shut behind him, I let out a slow breath. My hands still trembled slightly from the conversation me and him had, but I refused to let it show. If there was one thing I had to prove today, it was that I could handle myself—and my work—without interference.

-

By the time the meeting started, the tension in the room was palpable. Tina sat stiffly across the table from me, her lips pressed into a thin line. Jungkook, ever the professional, appeared calm, but there was a hint of worry in his expression. Whether it was about Yoongi’s absence that went unnoticed by me as well or something else, he didn’t let on.

As we began, I passed copies of my brief directly to Jungkook and the other key members of the team. Tina shot me a pointed look, her eyes narrowing. Rya and Hoseok looked at me as if they tried to say something but I did not give thim that opportunity.

“Y/N,” she said, her tone clipped, “you were supposed to send this to me first.”

“I decided it was better to present it directly,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral but firm as I reached my seat and sat back down.

Tina’s glare hardened, but before she could say anything further, Jungkook cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Let’s focus on the content of the work,” he said, flipping through the pages. His expression shifted slightly as he reviewed my document, a hint of approval crossing his features. He set the papers down and looked at me.

“Good work, Y/N. This is thorough and well-presented. It shows that you had improvement since last time.” Is he serious? I wanted to roll my eyes so fucking bad but I did not. Soft sigh escaped my lips. At the same time however, I fought to keep the pride from showing too much on my face but couldn’t stop a small, satisfied smile from tugging at my lips.

Jungkook turned to Tina, his tone calm but pointed. “Tina, I understand you’re managing multiple aspects of the team, but when Y/N expresses concerns about her work being compromised, those concerns need to be heard. You should take her input seriously going forward. That said, the two of you need to keep collaborating effectively.”

Tina’s jaw clenched, but she nodded stiffly. “Understood.”

I couldn’t resist. Leaning back slightly in my chair, I fixed her with a steady gaze, my smirk subtle but unmistakable. Her eyes flicked to mine briefly before she looked away, her irritation clear.

Satisfied, I shifted my attention back to Jungkook as he moved on to the next topic on the agenda: the current project documentation.

“The documentation for the ongoing projects needs a thorough review,” Jungkook said. “There have been inconsistencies flagged by the higher-ups, and we need to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

The discussion continued, but I barely registered Tina’s contributions. The small victory from earlier left me feeling hyped, even as I knew the real challenges lay ahead. Jungkook’s approval meant something, even if his cold professionalism sometimes made it hard to tell.

As the meeting wrapped up, I caught Jungkook’s gaze briefly. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, before gathering his papers and leaving the room. Tina stormed out soon after, her heels clicking against the floor.

I allowed myself one more small, triumphant smile before heading back to my desk to finish my current brief.

-

The night had already fallen by the time I finally managed to clear my apartment. The chaos from the past few days had left my place in disarray—papers scattered on the floor, dishes piled up in the sink, and the weight of everything I was trying to avoid pressed against the walls. But now, as I wiped down the last countertop and took a deep breath, it was like a small weight had been lifted. At least something in my life felt under control, even if it was just this tiny corner of my world.

I collapsed onto the couch, trying to relax for a moment before I had to dive back into whatever would come next. But just as I settled, my phone buzzed loudly on the table. I picked it up with a sigh, already knowing who it was from.

Tae <3

I’d seen his name flashing on my screen in these days, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind, but now, with everything finally settling down a little, I pressed the green button.

“Hey, Tae,” I said softly, my voice hoarse from the days of tension.

“Y/N! I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” he said, his voice filled with concern. “Are you okay? I… am worried.”

I let out a slow exhale, feeling a knot form in my chest as I tried to explain what had happened. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just… it’s been a rough couple of days. There’s a lot to explain, honestly.”

I spent the next few minutes filling him in on the events that had unfolded at work—about the picture, the drama with Yoongi, Tina’s cruelty, and Rya’s betrayal. Tae listened patiently, his silence comforting. Even though I was exhausted from talking about it all, his kind, calming presence over the phone helped ground me.

“Y/N, that’s… a lot. I’m really sorry you had to go through that,” Tae said, his voice tender with compassion. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but I’m here for you, okay?”

His words meant more than he probably realized. Despite everything, it felt like a small lifeline.

“I appreciate it, Tae. Really. It’s just… I don’t know what to think anymore. I feel like I’ve been surrounded by lies. It’s all just been too much.”

“I get it. But know that you have people around you that care and you should not forget who you are, stand your ground, Y/N.” he reassured me.

His voice was steady, and for the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope. And then I remembered what my parents had told me. Did Tae actually had feelings for me? Did he stuck around all this time because he felt something for me and I blantantly ignored him, oblivious to his advances and words? I felt like such a bad person. I had to figure out what I actually felt toward him, but deep down I was afraid that I might loose him. 

“We should hang out this weekend,” he continued, his voice pulled me out of the trance I was falling into. “Maybe grab a bite, just get out of there for a bit. How about Sunday- I mean, we will still see each other at the masquerade ball tomorrow but still?”

“Sunday sounds perfect,” I replied, the idea of spending some time with him lifting my spirits. No matter how many times I was with him, it always felt like a gulp of fresh air.

“Great. I’ll text you the details. And Y/N, take care of yourself, okay?”

The sincerity in his voice had me biting my lip to keep from tearing up. “Thanks, Tae. I’ll see you then.”

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up feeling lighter. The weight that had been dragging me down all day wasn’t gone, but it had lessened. I had a plan for Sunday after the ball, something to look forward to, and that was enough for now. I should start prioritizing my life and controlling my emotions better. This was such a vulnerable and cruical moment for me. I had let people peel my skin and expose me so bad that it hurt. I was going to fight and not let anyone do that anymore.

I set my phone down and glanced at the clock, surprised to see that it was already eleven pm. Time was passing fast when I was lost in my own little world.

Before I could do anything, my phone buzzed again, the screen flashing an anonymous number. I hesitated for a second, but curiosity got the better of me. Who could this be in such hour? I swiped the green button and pressed the phone to my ear.

The line was eerily quiet, nothing but slow breathing on the other end. My heart began to race, a strange chill creeping up my spine.

“Hello?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

The silence continued for a moment longer, making my skin crawl. And then, just as I was about to hang up, I heard a voice.

“Y/N,” Yoongi’s voice came through the phone, gravelly and almost unrecognizable. “Please-” he slurred, "come down, I am in front of y-your apartment." 

A cold wave of panic washed over me.

“Yoongi? What the hell are you talking about?” I stood up and my bare feet tapped quickly and hastily toward my large window. I removed the curtain and I saw him. Yoongi's Hyundai Palisade was parked at the front and he was leaning against it. He glanced up but it was as if he was looking straight through me.

The line went silent again. His breathing was slow, labored, like he was struggling to stay awake.

My hands shook as I held the phone, my mind racing. What was he doing here? Why now? How the fuck did he get my phone and address?

I didn’t want to go down there, didn’t want to face him after everything that had happened. But something in his voice, a combination of weariness and something I couldn’t place, made me grab my jacket and slip on my shoes as I headed out of my apartment. My heart pounding in my chest as I walked towards the elevator. There was no way I could ignore this.

When I stepped outside, I froze.

Yoongi was standing there, barely able to stand on his own. His face was bruised, and his clothes were disheveled. His eyes were half-lidded, a bottle of something in his hand. He looked like he’d been through hell.

“Yoongi?” I whispered, my voice shaky. “What happened to you?” I took a few hesitant steps toward him. The view was horrific. It appeared as if Yoongi has fought with someone. And on top of that he was drunk and got here driving. The fuck was wrong with him?!

He didn’t respond immediately, swaying slightly on his feet. His breath was thick with alcohol, and his usually sharp gaze was dull and unfocused. He lifted his head and glared at me, trying to stand on his two feet.

“I… I just needed to see you,” he muttered, his voice thick with something I couldn’t quite place. He took a step toward me, his hand outstretched.

“You’re drunk,” I said, my voice rising in panic as I took a step back. “Yoongi, what the hell—why are you even here? Why are you acting like this?”

His eyes flickered to mine, a brief moment of recognition, “I… didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he slurred. I could hear the pain in his voice, it was strained but it was there. 

I stood there, shocked and unsure of what to do. My mind screamed at me to walk away, to shut the door and forget this ever happened. But something inside me—something I couldn’t ignore—told me that I needed to help him. Even if I didn’t want to. See, I wasn't a person that would let others in distress or pain. Unfortunately, I'd even help to people who hurt me deeply. It was how I was raised, to always care for other's comfort but ours. It was a wicked game really, I was standing there and stared at his condition. In the months I have been at this company, I have never seen Yoongi drunk and like this. Vulnerable.

"Yoongi, you need to go home," I said, my voice firm despite the confusion swirling inside me. I felt him approach me but for some reason I didn't move. He towered over me, his brown eyes gazed at me but yet again, it felt like he was seeing right through me. Before I could say something he leaned over and pressed his face into my shoulder, sighing quietly. He dropped the bottle and I could feel him grow heavy. Was he about to pass out? Fuck.

I had second to decide what to do. To leave him lay there or drag him inside.  "Come on, let’s get you inside." I muttered quickly, wrapping my arms around him.

He didn’t argue, allowing me to help him stumble towards the entrance. He was a mess, and I hated that I couldn’t just leave him out there. I hated that I was a kind and caring person toward people that didn't deserve it at all.

As I guided him inside of the elevators and the doors closed, my mind raced with all sorts of questions.

Yoongi lifted his head and stared at my face yet again. I frowned his way and his lips twitched as he soon gave me a drunkish grin. "You are pretty like this." I rolled my eyes. "You are hallucinating,"  "I wish I was, then I wouldn't feel like shit for saying all those things to you and making you cry." he muttered lowly.

I dragged Yoongi inside, half-carrying him as he leaned heavily against me, barely able to keep his footing. His breath was labored, and his body seemed to have gone limp. It was like he was a completely different person from the Yoongi I had known—the one with sharp wit and even sharper eyes. This Yoongi was a shell, drunk and beaten, stumbling through the door of my apartment.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I just knew I had to get him off the hallway, away from the peeking neighbours and cold night air. I laid him down on my couch, watching as he immediately passed out, his head lolling to the side. He looked so vulnerable in that moment—so fragile—and it made my stomach turn. I hated seeing him like this.

I stood over him for a moment, my hands on my hips as I was unsure of what to do next. My mind was still reeling from the shock of his unexpected appearance, but there was something deeper stirring inside me. I had to make sure he was okay. Or at least, make sure he wasn’t going to hurt himself more.

I didn't really know any people closer to Yoongi than Jungkook. So I grabbed my phone and dialed Jungkook's number. After a few signals, he picked up.

“Hello?” Jungkook’s voice came through the speaker, sounding concerned and confused as of to who that might be. He probably didn't have my number saved at all. "It's uh- Y/N..." I trailed off, "sorry to bother you this late," I could tell by the sound of his voice that he was probably asleep.  "No, it's fine. Whats going on?"

“Well. . . Yoongi at my apartment. He showed up drunk with his car parked in front of my place and he’s passed out on my couch.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and I could almost hear Jungkook’s mind racing. I heard faint curses and then some rustling before he spoke again.

“Give me your address, I will be on my way shortly,” he mumbled, I took a deep breath and gave him the location and then the line disconnected.

True to his word, Jungkook arrived fifteen minutes later. He was quiet when he walked in, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Yoongi, sprawled helplessly on the couch. His jaw tightened for a moment, but he said nothing. I noticed Jungkook was wearing his pajamas. This is why he was so fast, he just got up and rushed here? 

“Will he be okay?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended.

Jungkook ran a hand through his messy dark hair and sighed, kneeling beside Yoongi. “Yeah. It's not his first time being like this.”

I bit my lip, watching as Jungkook carefully adjusted Yoongi’s position, making sure he was comfortable. The whole situation felt too surreal.

“Why is he like this?” I asked. The question had been gnawing at me ever since I found him outside, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Why would he show up like this, covered in bruises?”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered to me for a moment, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately, as if weighing how much he could reveal. After a long pause, he finally said, “Yoongi doesn’t handle emotional pain well. He’d rather take physical pain than face whatever’s going on inside. It’s easier for him, in a way.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Physical pain over emotional pain. I had always thought Yoongi was this hard, untouchable person, but hearing that made me realize how much he was hiding beneath that façade.

“That’s… that’s not normal,” I whispered, my heart aching for him.

Jungkook gave me a look, as if to say, You don’t know the half of it. He stood up and turned toward me, his eyes piercing right through me.

“I’m taking him home,” Jungkook muttered, his voice a little softer now. “I’ll make sure he’s settled in. But Y/N…”

I looked up at him, surprised by the seriousness in his voice.

“He won’t admit it, but he needs help. And I don’t think he’ll let anyone in if he knows they’re worried...”

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words.

Jungkook gave Yoongi one last look before he crouched down and gently shook him awake. It took a moment, but Yoongi stirred, groaning as he slowly blinked his eyes open.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook said, his voice low and commanding. “We’re taking you home. Can you stand?”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and he winced as he tried to sit up. “I don’t want to go home…” he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Jungkook’s eyes softened for just a second. “We don’t have much of a choice. Come on.”

With a little effort, Jungkook helped Yoongi stand, supporting him as they made their way out of my apartment. My eyes followed them as they left, a mixture of concern and confusion swirling inside me. I had no idea what was going on in Yoongi’s life, what demons he was fighting. But I could tell it was more than just the things I saw at work.

I stood in the doorway for a while after they left, the quiet of my apartment settling back in around me. There was a lot more to Yoongi than I had ever realized, and I couldn’t help but wonder—what else was he hiding?

The night felt long, and I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same after tonight.

-

I tossed and turned in my bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to escape the thoughts swirling in my mind. Yoongi. What was going on inside his head? Why would he let himself fall to such a low point? I had been so wrapped up in my own problems, so focused on myself, that I failed to look outside my bubble.

Was he suffering just as much as I was? Or worse? His words, those harsh, cutting words, still echoed in my head. I couldn’t ignore them, no matter how much I wanted to. The damage had been done. There was no coming back from that—at least not for me. His actions, his words, they had already crossed a line I wasn’t willing to forgive.

I didn’t trust him anymore. How could I? But despite my resolve, I still wondered—why? Why had he let himself get to that point? Why was he hurting like this? Was he just as lost as I felt sometimes?

But that didn’t change anything. I couldn’t let my guard down. Not now. Not after everything he had put me through.

By the time morning came, I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. I forced myself to get up, get dressed, and head to work, though it felt like everything was happening in a haze. When I walked into the building, everything felt louder, more intense. But my mind was still stuck on Yoongi.

As I walked down the hallway, lost in my own thoughts, I almost bumped into Jungkook.

"Hey," he said quietly, his tone almost cautious.

I glanced up at him, blinking a few times as I tried to focus. "How's Yoongi?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Jungkook gave me a quick glance, and I could tell from his expression that Yoongi’s condition was still on his mind, but he didn’t want to dwell on it. “He’s fine. Just a little bruised up. He’ll be at the ball tomorrow.”

I nodded, but the words hit me harder than I expected. The ball? He was going to attend? After everything that happened?

Before I could process any more thoughts, I heard the click of heels approaching. Tina. Of course, she couldn’t leave us alone. She came up to us with that smug look she always wore, her eyes narrowing as she took in our whispered conversation.

“So, what’s going on here?” she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness, arms crossed against her chest. “Are you two flirting?”

I rolled my eyes, not even bothering to entertain her question. I had better things to do than to deal with Tina and her constant attempts at stirring drama. "She's all yours." I muttered to him.

Jungkook, on the other hand, wasn’t as forgiving. He snapped back at her harshly, his tone cold. “No, Tina. We’re not flirting. I suggest you stop with the snarky comments or I will make you regret it.”

Tina’s eyes widened slightly, and I could see the jealousy bubbling beneath the surface. She looked from Jungkook to me, trying to read our expressions, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of a response.

Instead, I just turned and walked away, not bothering to waste my time on her games. Tina was starting to get pathetic even more in my eyes. 

Jungkook sighed behind me, clearly frustrated, but he didn’t say anything more.

It was strange—despite everything that had happened, despite the weight of my own emotions, there was something comforting about Jungkook’s presence. Maybe it was his steady calmness, or maybe it was the fact that he didn’t play games like Tina. Whatever it was, I didn’t feel as alone when he was around.

But even with that small comfort, my mind couldn’t let go of Yoongi. He was still a mess. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I couldn’t help but feel responsible for part of it.

I had to focus. On the work. On moving forward. Because if I didn’t, I might drown in all of this.

-

The afternoon sunlight streamed softly through my apartment windows, warming the room as I sipped my sugarless coffee, the cup cradled in both hands. At my feet, Hades curled up, his soft fur was shining under the soft rays of the sun. My eyes kept drifting to the royal blue dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door.

Rya had talked me into it—her determination was unrelenting. “You deserve to look stunning, Y/N,” she’d said, dragging me into store after store until she found the dress.

I reached for the diamond hair accessory on my dresser, its glimmer catching the sunlight. My fingers grazed it thoughtfully as I imagined how it would sit in my hair, which Rya had insisted I style in soft, flowing beach curls. I sighed, setting it down again.

Hades stirred, flicking his tail against my ankle as I took another sip of coffee, trying to ground myself. My thoughts were tangled, looping through the chaos of the past few weeks. Yoongi. Jungkook. The picture. The insults. And now, the ball. A part of me was still so anxious, but beneath it all was a simmering determination to get through this. To face everything head-on.

My phone buzzed on the counter, interrupting my thoughts. I picked it up, my heart sinking a little when I saw my parents’ number.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice.

“Sweetheart,” came my mom’s familiar voice, warm but tinged with hesitation. "Have you been alright, my girl?"  I paused, should I tell her about what happened to me or keep it to myself. I swallowed thickly and forced a steady voice, it was tough not being able to be understood by your own mother. I knew what she was gonna say so I did not bother letting her know about this. "I am okay, mom. How's dad?" "Oh, you know, he has a new hobby which is grilling. He is quite alright per say." I humed in response and there was a pause. “Your brother’s parole was denied.” she served it as if it was the most casual thing ever. I frowned and rose up from my bed, biting on my lips. The words hit me like a dull thud in the chest, but I kept my voice steady. “What now? Should we change the attorney?”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll visit him soon and see how we should proceed.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Alright," I trailed off. I couldn't believe his parole was denied. That probably wrecked him completely. 

We chatted a little longer before saying our goodbyes, but the call left a small crack in my composure. I set the phone down and took a deep breath. Focus, Y/N. Tonight is about showing up and holding your own.

-

The drive to the MNT Media headquarters was a blur. Taehyung had picked me up in his sleek black Genesis GV80 SUV, his reaction when he saw me leaving my apartment still fresh in my mind.

“Wow, Y/N,” he had said, his eyes widening as I stepped outside. “You look... incredible.”

I’d smiled, a little shy under his burning gaze. “Thanks, Tae." I was not used to compliments, but I took enough time to look at myself in the mirror. I did look quite well tonight. That dress hugged my curves perfectly and it showed everything that had to be shown and everything that had to stay hidden. The color perfectly contrasted with my skin. The mask was hiding who I struggled to be, it was made from royal blue diamonds and it shined under the lighting of my apartment.  And the jewlery in my hair only added to the effect of luxury. 

Tae however, he was wearing a black suit, tailored to perfection, with a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie. His mask—a gold and black design that made him look impossibly suave—only added to his charm. His brown locks of hair tossled and messy suited him perfectly. He looked like a handsome prince. And for a moment I found the thought of him liking me ridicilous. Why would someone who looked so perfect would like someone like me? As we drove, he threw out compliments like they were second nature, his voice laced with a playful flirtation that made me laugh despite my nerves.

“You’re going to steal the show tonight,” he said, his eyes briefly flicking toward me before returning to the road. "You are exaggerating." I gazed at him with soft grin and my eyes raked over his face and that smug smirk from my response. However, my eyes focused on his veiny hands that held the steering wheel. I stared at them for a little too long as he obviously noticed my stare. "Something wrong?" I snapped out of it and looked away, clearing my throat. "No- not at all."  I saw that dumbass smirk smugly at me. I wanted to punch him but instead a small giggle escaped my lips.

When we pulled up to the grand entrance of MNT Media’s headquarters, I felt a wave of anxiety crash over me. The paparazzi were already gathered outside, their cameras flashing incessantly, blinding all the people that passed by. The building itself was a towering masterpiece of glass and steel, lit up like a beacon in the night. It screamed 'you are out of this world, Y/N' in big bold letters.

Taehyung parked, stepping out first before circling around to open my door. “Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand like the real gentleman he was.

I nodded, placing my hand in his. I felt electricity run down my spine as I felt the warmth and softness of his skin. He held my hand ever so gentle as if he was afraid I'd break. I spared a glance at his face and then my focuse went on my exit from the car. As I stepped out, the flashing lights of the cameras hit me like a tidal wave. I felt overwhelmed for a moment, but Taehyung offered his arm, and I clung to it like a lifeline.

“Just keep your eyes forward,” he whispered, leaning close so only I could hear. “You’ve got this.”

I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and let him lead me inside.

The ballroom was breathtaking. The lights were dimmed, casting everything in a soft golden glow. Crystal chandeliers hung high above, their facets sparkling like stars. Guests milled about in masks, their laughter and conversation blending with the sound of a grand piano being played in the corner. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne, champagne, and roses.

Round tables draped in white silk lined the edges of the room, while the center was open for dancing. Everything oozed luxury—from the gilded accents on the walls to the servers circulating with trays of expensive champagne.

“Not bad, huh?” Taehyung said, his tone light as we stepped inside.

“It’s beautiful,” I admitted, my eyes sweeping over the scene.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice quieter this time.

I glanced up at him, his expression softer now, less playful. It was cute really, all I could do was give him a soft grin in response.

As we moved deeper into the room, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of the evening settling over me. And whatever happened tonight, I knew it was going to change everything.

I scanned the room, feeling a little overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all. Everywhere I looked, there were important people—CEOs, celebrities, politicians—all dressed in their finest. The men wore tailored suits with intricate masks, while the women dazzled in luxurious gowns, their jewels glinting under the chandeliers. The anonymity of the masks made it impossible to identify anyone from Jeon Enterprises however.

Taehyung and I found a spot near one of the round tables draped in white silk. He handed me a glass of champagne, the bubbling liquid catching the warm golden glow of the chandeliers.

“You’re doing great,” he said, leaning closer so I could hear him over the soft murmur of conversation.

I gave him a small smile, grateful for his calming presence. “Thanks, Tae.”

We lounged there for a while, sipping our champagne and observing the scene. Taehyung’s easy charm and lighthearted comments kept me grounded, though my thoughts still occasionally drifted to the potential encounters lurking behind the glittering masks.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw them—Rya and Hoseok.

Rya looked absolutely stunning, as she always did. She wore a deep crimson gown with a plunging neckline, the fabric hugging her petite frame and flowing elegantly to the floor. Her dark hair was pinned up in a sophisticated bun, and her mask—a delicate creation of red lace and gold—perfectly matched her dress. She exuded confidence, but there was a cautiousness in her eyes as she approached.

Hoseok, by contrast, looked sharp and understated in a classic black suit paired with a sleek white mask. The suit was tailored impeccably to his lean frame, and the silk pocket square matched the ivory tones of his mask. His usual bright smile was subdued as he stood beside Rya, his hands in his pockets, his posture slightly hesitant.

They stopped a few feet away from me, and for a moment, the air seemed to hang heavy between us.

“Y/N,” Rya said, her voice tentative.

I smiled softly, deciding tonight wasn’t the time for grudges or rehashing old wounds. The ball was too grand, the stakes too high for petty arguments. “Rya. Hoseok,” I greeted politely, nodding to each of them. “You both look amazing.”

Relief washed over their faces.

“You too,” Rya said, her smile finally reaching her eyes. “That dress... wow. You look incredible.”

“She’s right,” Hoseok added, his tone sincere. “You’re... glowing, Y/N. Like, really.”

I gave a small laugh, shaking my head. “You two are just trying to butter me up.”

“No, really,” Rya insisted, stepping closer. “I’m so sorry about everything. We are. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand—”

“Not tonight,” I interrupted gently, raising a hand to stop her. “Let’s just enjoy the ball, okay? We can talk about it another time.”

They exchanged a glance before nodding in unison. “Okay,” Rya said. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Thank you,” Hoseok echoed, his smile finally warming.

I felt a small weight lift off my chest. It wasn’t forgiveness—not entirely—but it was a step in the right direction. Tonight wasn’t about grudges or misunderstandings. It was about standing tall, embracing the moment, and maybe even letting myself enjoy it.

Taehyung, who had been quietly observing the exchange, leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “See? You’re a natural at this.”

I gave him a playful nudge, but his words made me smile. The night was still young, and for now, I was determined to make the most of it.

The conversation with Rya and Hoseok had settled into an easy rhythm, the earlier tension softening with every passing minute. I was just starting to feel comfortable when the grand double doors at the far end of the ballroom opened, drawing everyone’s attention.

I turned toward the entrance, my champagne glass frozen mid-air. That’s when I saw him—Jungkook.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his broad shoulders commanding attention even amidst the sea of masked guests. His dark mask was minimalistic yet elegant, fitting his sharp, chiseled features like it was made for him. But what truly caught me off guard was the person on his arm.

Tina.

She clung to him like her life depended on it, her smug expression practically radiating across the room. Her gown, a striking emerald green with a dangerously high slit, screamed of someone desperate to make an impression. She looked ecstatic—proud, even—and for good reason. To show up with Jeon Jungkook at her side? That was a trophy in itself.

My stomach twisted uncomfortably as I watched her lean closer to him, giggling at something he said. But Jungkook didn’t seem invested in her. His eyes were scanning the room, restless, as though he was searching for someone.

Someone?

Before I could make sense of it my eyes shifted to the second couple that had just walked in.

This time, it was Yoongi.

The sight of him stole my breath for a moment. He was dressed in an all-black ensemble as well, but with a velvet jacket that added an edge of understated luxury. His mask, a rich silver that contrasted against his dark hair, gave him an air of quiet mystery. But it wasn’t just him.

On his arm was Gina.

Gina—the same girl from the cafeteria who had made those snide comments about my weight. The same Gina who had once asked Hoseok to this ball and been pushed away. She had traded in her usual uniform for a glittering golden gown that hugged her figure like it had been poured onto her. Her mask sparkled with rhinestones, matching the shimmering confidence in her eyes.

The sight of her with Yoongi made my chest tighten, though I couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe it was because she had made me feel so small that day in the cafeteria, and now she was walking in like she owned the place.

I stared longer than I should have, my gaze flicking between the two pairs—Jungkook and Tina, Yoongi and Gina. "The hell, Tina and Gina?" Rya asked in disbelief. Hoseok giggled. "Their names rhyme." "They are both equally evil." Rya answered with a flat tone, "that's why." I burst out laughing at this, because let's face it. It was true, both of them thrived on attention. I wonder how the Boss and Yoongi fell for their traps.

“You’re staring,” Taehyung’s voice broke through my thoughts. He leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. “Don’t let them see they’ve gotten to you,” he murmured, his tone soft but firm.

I blinked, snapping my gaze back to Taehyung. His brown eyes were warm, reassuring, and I gave him a small nod. He was right. I wouldn’t let them have that satisfaction.

But it seemed I wasn’t as subtle as I thought.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jungkook’s head turn in my direction. His eyes, sharp and focused even behind the mask, landed on me almost instantly. I couldn’t see his expression entirely, but something flickered there—recognition.

And then Yoongi’s gaze followed.

It was as though time slowed for a moment. Jungkook and Yoongi both stared at me, their attention laser-focused despite the room full of people.

I felt exposed, vulnerable, even though I was fully covered by my mask and gown.

“Looks like you’ve been spotted,” Taehyung said, an annoying lilt to his voice as he lifted his glass to his lips.

I exhaled slowly, trying to calm the sudden flutter of nerves in my stomach. “Let them look,” I muttered, tilting my chin up slightly.

But as much as I wanted to exude confidence, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this night was about to get a lot more complicated.

A hush fell over the ballroom as a woman walked onto the stage at the far end of the room. The murmurs around me stilled as all eyes turned toward her. Octavia Leeroy, the CEO of MNT Media, stood tall and commanding under the spotlight.

She was stunning—her elegance more commanding than any gown or mask in the room. Dressed in a sleek, black floor-length gown with subtle sequins that caught the light, she radiated power and sophistication. Her mask was a bold gold creation, but her presence alone was enough to command attention.

As she took her place at the microphone, her voice carried through the room, smooth and steady.

“Welcome,” she began, her tone warm yet authoritative. “Tonight is a celebration—a celebration of not only our successes but of the people who make those successes possible. Each of you represents a piece of a puzzle that drives industries, builds communities, and inspires change. But let’s not forget, behind every mask, every polished exterior, are sacrifices, challenges, and battles fought in silence.”

I felt a lump form in my throat as her words resonated. She spoke with a sincerity that cut through the grandeur of the event, sharing stories of her struggles—the nights she worked tirelessly, the people who doubted her and the moments she doubted herself.

Her voice wavered only slightly when she spoke of the cost of ambition, but she never faltered. She had built an empire with blood, sweat, and tears, and now she stood as a symbol of resilience.

A wave of admiration surged through me. This is what strength looks like, I thought to myself, soaking in every word. She was everything I dreamed of becoming—powerful, respected, unshakable. When Octavia finished her speech, a thunderous applause erupted, echoing through the grand ballroom. I clapped along with the crowd, my heart swelling with a renewed sense of determination.

As the applause faded, the music resumed—a gentle, lilting melody that invited couples to the dance floor.

I turned back to Taehyung, who was already watching me with a mischievous glint in his eye. He extended his hand, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “May I have this dance?”

I hesitated for only a moment before taking his hand. “You may,” I replied, my voice light. Rya and Hoseok also joined the dance floor and swayed in the slow rhytum of the piano music.

Taehyung led me to the dance floor, his confidence putting me at ease. He placed one hand on my waist, the other still holding mine, and we began to move in time with the music.

At first, our steps were measured, almost formal. But as we swayed, something shifted. The space between us grew smaller, and the intensity of his gaze deepened. His fingers lingered on my waist, his touch light yet deliberate.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Me?” I countered, my heart fluttering as his gaze dropped briefly to my lips. “You’re the one making all the bold moves.”

He chuckled, spinning me gently. “Maybe I like seeing you off guard.”

Before I could respond, I felt a pair of hands catch me mid-spin, steadying me. The grip was firm, different.

When I turned to look up, I froze.

Jungkook.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, a flicker of something unspoken passing between us. His mask did little to hide the sharp angles of his face, and the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips.

“Mind if I cut in?” he asked, his tone smooth yet edged with something deeper.

I blinked, my breath hitching as I realized I had no choice—Taehyung had already stepped back, a deep scowl at his lips as he let Jungkook take the lead without any other word. 

Jungkook’s hand slid to my waist, his other still holding mine as he began to move us effortlessly across the floor. His proximity, the intensity of his gaze, left me completely unmoored.

“You look proper,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. Proper? Really? What should I expect from a man like him.

“Thanks,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

His smirk deepened as he twirled me, his movements confident and precise. “I’d say I look more than ‘not too bad‘.’”

I rolled my eyes, despite the warmth creeping up my neck. “Careful, Jungkook. Your ego’s showing.”

He chuckled, his grip on my waist tightening slightly as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And here I thought you’d be too nervous to handle a dance like this.”

I tilted my chin up, refusing to let him rattle me. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

His gaze darkened, his expression unreadable as we continued to move in perfect synchronization. For a moment, the world around us blurred—the guests, the music, the grandeur of the ballroom. It was just him and me, locked in a silent battle of wills.  "You came with Tina?" I asked in a hushed tone as we danced. He frowned but then low chuckle escaped his plump lips. Was he amused? "Are you jealous?" "You fucking wish." I spoke out and Jungkook laughed at that. I have never seen him so cheery.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another familiar figure on the edge of the dance floor. Yoongi.

He was watching us, his expression unreadable behind his mask, but his eyes told a different story. He was intently staring at me and Jungkook as Gina was tugging his arm to go to the dance floor but by his expression and his stoic frame, he refused. Gina gave up and crossed her arms against her chest.

The tension in the air between Jungkook and me was palpable. I couldn't breathe from the closeness of him. He was intoxicating me, like a bottle of strong alcohol making my knees go weak. I had my breath hitched the entire dance before the music stopped and everyone parted. Jungkook refused to let me go.  "You are really beautiful tonight, Y/N." he muttered, his eyes exploring my face. I cleared my throat and pulled away immediately, "T-thanks." He hummed and soon I saw a few guys call out to him. Jungkook turned around to see who it was then back at me. "I have to go. Talk to you later." he said before he headed toward the group of people as I was left alone at the dance floor.

Suddenly, a voice called my name from behind me.

“Y/N?”

I turned around, my steps faltering as I came face-to-face with a man I hadn’t seen in years. Richard Delgrassi.

“Mr. Delgrassi?” I stammered, the surprise evident in my tone. What was he doing here?

He smiled warmly, his salt-and-pepper hair adding a distinguished edge to his polished appearance. Dressed in a charcoal-gray tuxedo and a black mask that matched his sharp features, he exuded the same air of authority and charm I remembered from my childhood.

“I thought that was you,” he said, his tone brimming with familiarity. “My, how you’ve grown. It’s been what—ten years?”

“More like twelve,” I replied, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’m surprised you recognized me with this mask.”

“Your eyes, dear,” he said, gesturing lightly. “They’re unmistakable. Just like your father’s.”

At the mention of my father, a pang of nostalgia hit me. Richard Delgrassi had been one of my father’s closest associates back when our family was still living the high life. My father, Benjamin, had owned one of the most successful car manufacturing companies in the country. His name had once been synonymous with innovation and luxury in the automobile industry. Richard had been his right-hand man, helping to expand the business and secure lucrative deals. But as fate would have it, a series of unfortunate events—including betrayal from within the company—had forced my father to sell his empire and move abroad, leaving behind the life he had built so painstakingly.

Now, Richard was a prominent politician, known for his advocacy for economic reform and his push for ethical practices in business. His transformation from a business mogul’s associate to a public figure had been nothing short of remarkable.

“It’s been ages,” I said, trying to suppress the rush of emotions his presence stirred. “How have you been?”

“Well, politics keeps me busy,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’ve been keeping an eye on the industry. It’s hard to let go of one’s roots entirely, you know.”

I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant.

“And you?” he asked, his tone shifting to genuine curiosity. “What are you doing these days? Last I heard, your family had moved overseas.”

“I’m working here now,” I said, straightening slightly. “At Jeon Enterprises.”

His brows shot up in surprise. “Jeon Enterprises? That’s unexpected. What are you doing there?”

“I’m part of their marketing team,” I explained, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “It’s... challenging, but it’s been a learning experience.”

Richard studied me for a moment, a glimmer of intrigue sparking in his eyes. “Jeon Enterprises, you say? That’s an interesting choice. They have quite the reputation—for better or worse.”

I tilted my head slightly, curious. “You know them?”

“I’ve crossed paths with their CEO, Jungkook, a few times,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes shifting behind me. I didn't have to turn around to know he was staring at Jungkook. “He’s a sharp one, but his company’s ethos has always been... pragmatic, shall we say. I’ve been looking for an organization that values long-term growth over short-term profits, something more aligned with my goals.”

“And you think Jeon Enterprises could be that organization?” I asked, intrigued.

“Perhaps,” he said, stroking his chin. “If they’re willing to adapt. But enough about me—how do you find it there? Are they treating you well?”

The question caught me off guard. I hesitated, the memories of Tina’s snarky remarks and Yoongi’s cold demeanor flashing through my mind. But then I thought of the moments when Jungkook had, in his own quiet way, come to my defense.

“It has its ups and downs,” I admitted carefully. “But I’m learning a lot.”

Richard nodded approvingly. “Good. That’s what matters. And who knows, perhaps our paths might cross again soon in a more... professional capacity.” I saw him pull out a business card out of his pocket and give it to me. Did I just made the first client join our company? My heart skipped. I accepted it. "Then, we should discuss this over a meeting at our company soon. "Excellent. See you soon, Y/N. And give Benjamin my regards."

A mix of nostalgia and newfound curiosity swirling in my chest. For years, I had tried to bury the life my family had left behind, but seeing Richard here, so firmly planted in this world of power and influence, made me wonder if maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t entirely out of reach for me either.

As he excused himself to speak with another guest, I couldn’t help but feel that this meeting was more than just a coincidence. Perhaps, amidst all the chaos, this was the start of something new. Something I hadn’t even realized I was searching for.

-

The evening had been going surprisingly well so far. I stood among a small group of representatives from various companies, discussing Jeon Enterprises and its potential as a reliable partner. My nerves had simmered down, and I was finally hitting my stride in the conversation.

“So, what makes Jeon Enterprises stand out from its competitors?” a tall, sharp-suited executive asked, his tone curious yet skeptical.

I took a deep breath, summoning the confidence I had been building over the months. “Aside from our innovative approach to market trends, Jeon Enterprises is focused on creating long-term solutions rather than short-term fixes. We prioritize adaptability, ensuring that our clients’ needs are met even as industries evolve. And with the resources we provide, we’re not just a business partner—we’re a growth catalyst.”

The executive nodded thoughtfully, and I could see that I was making headway.

But just as I was about to elaborate further, I heard the telltale clink of heels approaching.

And then it happened.

A sudden cold splash against my side made me flinch, and I looked down to see a vivid crimson stain blooming across my royal blue gown.

“Oh no!” came Tina’s voice, syrupy and fake, as she stood there holding an almost-empty glass of wine. “I’m so clumsy. I didn’t see you standing there, Y/N.”

Her tone didn’t match her words; there wasn’t an ounce of remorse in her expression. Instead, her lips curled into a smug smirk as her gaze swept over me, clearly reveling in the scene she’d just created.

Around me, the small crowd went silent, their eyes darting between Tina and me. The heat of their stares burned on my skin as I stood frozen for a moment, staring at the spreading stain.

Tina’s mockery didn’t stop there. “Oh dear, that dress must have cost a fortune. It’s such a shame, really.”

I clenched my fists, biting back a sharp retort. She wanted a scene, and I refused to give her one.

Forcing a tight smile, I turned to the group I had been speaking with. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

Their sympathetic nods did little to ease the weight of humiliation pressing down on me as I stepped away. As I walked past Taehyung, who had been nearby, he immediately stood and reached for my arm.

“Y/N, let me—”

“No,” I said quickly, not wanting to draw more attention. “I’ve got this, Tae. I’ll be fine.”

He hesitated but nodded, his concern clear in his eyes as he let me go.

I made my way toward the restrooms, my chest tightening with every step. The laughter and conversation from the ballroom felt like it was directed at me, though I knew logically that wasn’t the case. Still, the weight of humiliation was suffocating.

Once in the restroom, I tried dabbing at the stain with water, but it was no use. The red had seeped too deeply into the fabric. Sighing, I gave up and left, heading toward the balcony for some air.

The cold night breeze hit me as I stepped outside, the quiet a welcome reprieve from the noise and judgment inside. I leaned against the stone railing, my eyes sweeping over the city lights below. They sparkled like a sea of stars, but even their beauty couldn’t distract me from the ache in my chest.

I felt humiliated, small, like no matter how much effort I put into proving myself, people like Tina would always find a way to knock me down.

“Thought I might find you here,” came a familiar voice from behind me.

I stiffened, glancing over my shoulder. Yoongi stood there, his mask pushed up slightly on his forehead, his bruised face partially illuminated by the soft glow of the lights. I noticed him not taking off his mask at all at the ball room. Probably because he didn't want anyone to see his bruised face.

“Did you come to add to the humiliation?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

He sighed, stepping closer but leaving enough space between us to keep it comfortable. “No,” he said simply. “You looked like you could use some air.”

I turned back to the railing, the weight of the evening pressing down on me again. “Well, congratulations. You were right. I don’t belong here.”

His silence was surprising, and when I glanced at him, I saw something I didn’t expect—regret.

“I didn’t say that,” he said after a moment, his voice low.

“You didn’t have to.”

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know I’ve been... a jerk.”

I scoffed at the understatement but said nothing, letting him continue.

“I’ve said things—done things—that I’m not proud of,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “And I can’t take those back. But for what it’s worth... I don’t think you’re out of place here. Not tonight. Not ever.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, and I stared at him, a cocktail of emotions swirling inside me. Regret? From Min Yoongi? It was almost laughable. Almost.

I turned back toward the city lights, gripping the railing tighter. “You think a couple of kind words will fix everything?” I asked, my tone sharp.

He didn’t respond right away, and I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and searching.

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” he said finally. “I just... I wanted to say it.”

“Well, you can’t just ‘say it’ and expect me to forget everything else.” I spun to face him, the emotions I’d been suppressing all night bubbling to the surface. “You humiliated me, Yoongi. Over and over again. And for what? To make yourself feel better?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I deserve that.”

“You deserve more than that,” I snapped. “But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is what you did that night. Do you even realize what could’ve happened? Driving drunk to my apartment like that? What the hell were you thinking?”

Yoongi blinked, clearly not expecting the shift in conversation. His face darkened, a flicker of shame passing over his features. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just... I needed to see you.”

“To see me?” I threw my hands up in disbelief. “So you thought, ‘Hey, let me risk my life and possibly someone else’s because I’m having a bad day’? What if you’d hurt someone, Yoongi? What if you’d hurt yourself?”

He took a step closer, his expression pained. “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I know it was stupid. I wasn’t in a good place—”

“That’s not an excuse,” I cut him off, my voice trembling. “You don’t get to make reckless decisions and then shrug it off because you ‘weren’t in a good place.’”

He looked down, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You’re right. It’s not an excuse. I just...” He trailed off, shaking his head as if searching for the right words. “I didn’t know how to deal with... everything. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

I let out a bitter laugh, turning away from him. “Clearly.”

Silence settled between us, the tension thick and suffocating. The sounds of the city below seemed to fade as I struggled to rein in my emotions.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice catching me off guard. “For all of it. For the things I said, the way I treated you, for... showing up that night. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

His words hit me harder than I expected, but I wasn’t ready to let go of my anger just yet. “You’re right, I didn’t,” I said coldly. “And sorry doesn’t erase what you did.”

“I know it doesn’t,” he said quickly, his tone pleading now. “But it’s all I can give you.”

I turned to face him again, searching his eyes for something—anything—that would make sense of the man standing before me. He looked vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before, the usual cool confidence stripped away.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I said finally, my voice breaking. “You hurt me, Yoongi. Over and over. And I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand.”

The weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear, and I looked away, my chest tight with a mix of anger, sadness, and something I didn’t want to name.

“I’m trying to be better,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if that matters to you, but... I thought you should know.”

I didn’t respond, my emotions too tangled to form a coherent thought. Instead, I turned back to the city lights, the cold air biting at my skin.

Yoongi stayed for a moment longer, as if waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, anything. But when it became clear I wasn’t going to give him one, he sighed and stepped back.

“Have fun at the ball, Y/N. You deserve it.” he said softly before turning and walking away, leaving me alone on the balcony with my thoughts.

I gripped the railing tighter, the ache in my chest growing stronger as I watched him disappear into the shadows of the ballroom.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.