#its so dark and quiet my ears are ringing

[leyavo]

TF141 x concussed stubborn!reader

Summary: the tf141 guys trying to help concussed stubborn!reader. Requested.

John’s used to being in charge, making sure everyone’s well looked after before he even thinks of himself. It’s why you don’t like to ask him for stuff, don’t want to burden him or push too much on his already stressed shoulders. Doesn’t matter how many times he’s told you it’s okay, you can’t bring yourself to add to his worries when you can do it yourself.

You don’t get a choice though, warm hands slip behind your head and you blink, harsh glow cutting through the darkness. Your words echo in your mind, but John’s voice is clear cut like crystal and it brings you back.

“Come on, Petal. Let’s just have a look…” he says, turning you to lay on your side. His hand pawing your face, rough pads of his fingers sweeping the hair out of your eyes.

Whatever you tried to say, it’s grumbled. Tongue heavy and throat dry, you try to swat his touch away, but your arms thud to the floor. The ringing in your ear makes you close your eyes, black dots lining your vision.

“Ah,ah. No you don’t, gotta stay awake for me,” he says, sitting you up. You slump against the wall, reaching for the cup of water as he helps you drink.

Slowly you come back from the haze, your head on John’s shoulder. His palm running up and down your spine. The tingling in your mouth fades away, tongue light and jaw relaxing. The back of your head tender as try to glance up at John, maybe you should have accepted his help earlier. You wouldn’t have fainted and hit the back of your head on the radiator if you’d just let him in.

“You remember ya’ name?” He asks, shoulder nudging your cheek. “Nah miss stubborn ain’t ya.” Not giving you a chance to reply.

“I remember you being quiet,” you mumble, pinching his side to shut him up.

Simon’s still getting used to having an independent partner. You’ve always had to rely on yourself, only going to him as a last resort even if it makes it difficult for you. He hovers around at a distance until you ask, but sometimes he has to convince you to let your guard down so he can look after you.

You’d been doing some renovation work in the flat and refused to spend money on contractors whilst Simon was away, which he preferred. But you had decided to do things yourself which included hanging a new much heavier curtain pole on the wall.

He hears the crash, the thud that could only be the sound of your body falling. A clang of metal rolling across the bedroom as he rushes in. You’re half covered by the curtain, sitting up thankfully with your head in your hands.

“Fuckin hell,” Simon gasps, his knees hitting the floor beside you. He pries your hands away from your face and tugs your wrists to keep you upright.

You’re out cold, ready to go down as soon as he lets go, but he won’t. No he inches closer and slips an arm around your waist and the other under your legs to lift you. He talks to you as he walks to the bed and lays you down, palm smoothing the graze on your forehead.

“Luv, hello luv, earth to…” he calls to you, his face hovering above yours. He continues talking to you till you start to blink back clear vision, there’s a cold washcloth on your forehead and an about four pillows beneath your head and upper back.

There’s no blood on the cloth as he lifts it off, not that it’d make a difference with the red curtains. “I know my name” your snap as he asks you, but you say it when he repeats the question.

“Why don’t we leave the walls to me, huh? Who got hit with the shelf last time I came home?” He says, shaking you in his hold as he tucks you into his side.

“You did,” you mumbled, trying to muffle the laugh at the memory. Simon had come home, you’d shut the bedroom door a little harsh and the shelf had come away from the wall. Thankfully its was a cheap faux wood one that had nothing on it, unfortunately it landed on Simon’s head and you haven’t heard the last of it.

“Good thing we’ve both got thick heads”

Kyle’s in the rec room when he hears about your botched mission and he rushes to the infirmary, not really taking in your lieutenant’s words as he trails after him. He hears your voice first, smile tugging his lips at your defiance.

“I’m a medic, just focus on the guys.” You’re in medic mode, as Kyle likes to call it. Too concerned with the injuries of others to even think about giving yourself some much needed care and attention.

You’re peeling a red tinged gauze off your forehead, looks like you’d slapped it on without any care. And by the sight of your task force friends, he can see you were too busy tending to them than yourself.

“Hey, baby,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror. The guys groan and you wave them off. Kyle’s hand wraps around your bicep and he gently turns you. He cups your face, titling it to check the cut.

Your eyes flutter shut expecting him to lean in for a kiss, but his hand slips from your face and takes the fresh gauze from your grasp. “Hey wha-,”

“Shh, let me help,” Kyle says, guiding you into the nearest chair. “Don’t even..” he dodges your attempt to take back the medic supplies and you huff, crossing your arms over chest. Head dipping, brows furrowed as you stared at your lap.

“I’m a medic, just a scratch. Can do it myself,” you mumble to yourself, all whilst Kyle bites back a smile. Always so stubborn.

Kyle crouches in front of you, palms on your knees. “The slur of your voice says otherwise.” He knows by the tremble of your legs that the adrenaline’s the only thing keeping you going. “You’re all done, you wanna second before we go?”

You scoff, pushing out of the chair and stumble into Kyle. He catches you easily, one arm slipping around your waist and you drape an arm around his shoulder leaning on him for support. You point to the nearest wash station, pausing in front of the mirror to inspect his work.

“Come on, I know the basics,” he grumbles and you can’t help, but chuckle. You regret it though, palm pressing to your bruised ribs, “looks like you’ll have to go without me, don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Kyle’s always trying to make you laugh, which is no easy feat, but he understands your humour now.

“Yeah, you’re kinda funny looking…”

He shakes his head, helping you back to the barracks. Asking you the usual questions, what is your name, the year etc you may have said the wrong date just to see his nose scrunch up and have him scold you.

Johnny loves hanging out with you in your art studio. He sits on the stool behind you, scooting around with you as organise your paints and mediums ready to start. The secondhand easel had been giving you a hard time lately, the bolt and nut falling off each time you adjusted it.

You fiddle with bolt, refusing Johnnys help. He’s still healing from the impact of an explosion, bruises lining his body and scrapes on his arm and one side of his face. There’s no way he’s going to spend his days fixing stuff for you. He needs to relax.

So you push him away after the first failed attempt and the easel that hit your shoulder a second ago. Telling him it’s nothing, not your first hit that’s for sure.

“It’s fine, Johnny…god dammit. I don’t need you to do anything,” you snap, readjusting the easel, but you feel the smack on your head before you hear the crack of wood. You don’t know what happened next, but you’re flung back.

Johnny catches you before you hit the ground, light spilling through the window warming his face and highlighting the coppery undertones of his hair. Your lips part, heavy eyelids flutter as you try to focus on his sapphire eyes or the deep scar on his chin. Anything to keep you in the present and push the dark spots out of your vision.

Johnny’s words are a distance echo, his touch melting away. Each blink feels like slow motion, vision blurring. Johnny’s lips are moving, but all you can hear is the blood pumping in your ear.

It takes you a while to return to your body, the dull buzz of Johnnys hums filtering through the haze.

“There’s me gal,” he says, lips curving into a smile. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheek. He’s patient, but the line between his brow and pout of his lips reveal his worry. He’s always quick to act, like something he can’t switch off. Never rests always alert.

“Was I out for long?” You mumble, leaning into his touch, his forehead pressing against yours lightly.

Johnny shook his head, leaning back with a grin. “You called me beautiful.”

Your mouth hangs open, but all you think of was the sun hitting the sharp planes of his cheek bones. Coppery undertones glimmering in the light, a muse if you must. Not that you’d feed into his inflated ego. You nudge him away playfully.

“You should hit your head more often,” he smirks.

[Masterlist]

I am well versed in a hit to head and have also pulled a curtain pole off the wall 😅 I’m dyslexic so there might be errors/mistakes - Leya

[ghoulsquid]

The power in my neighborhood went out and I watched my neighbor's inflated Christmas minion wither and die on their lawn.

[inknopewetrust]

𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠

When the Emperor summons you, you always answer the call. [Emperor Geta x Fem!Reader] [wc: 3.38k]

Warnings: minors DNI, smut, 18+, slight exhibition kink, pinv sex, unprotected sex (this is Ancient Rome, whores), Geta be a little submissive and possessive, corruption, dirty talk. I do not take responsibility for satan causing me to write this.

When you were summoned to the coliseum after dark, there was no questioning what be the cause.

The corridors of the great arena were near silent; distant growls and scratching claws filled its catacombs with a crawling anticipation: when the Emperor called, world at his feet quieted to hear his presence. Feeling the sands of the stage shift and meet the seats of the empty audience, there was nothing but the moonlight and wind to greet you.

You were not alone in Rome’s greatest achievement. The ghosts of the gladiators watched over the wicked as they fed off the suffering of the poor.

But when the guard left you to your devices upon the imperial seat looking over the arena, you forgot the evil that took over the man who called.

“It is quite the sight, no?”

In the silence of the amphitheater Geta’s words were quiet yet threatened to bounce off in echos. You ran your hands over the marble ledge. It’s once smooth nature lifting in bumps every inch of the glide your hand made. A gust of wind fluttered the fabric of your chiton to dance around your legs.

Geta dismissed his most loyal guard at the sight of you.

“It is different in the light,” you answered. The sand below you was not stained of blood and there was no chanting of what the Gods would decide of fate. “Peaceful… if I dare say.”

“If you were not to speak freely I would not have let my men go.”

“So there is no fear to be had here?” You turned your head over your shoulder. Barely capturing him in your vision, Emperor Geta leaned against his brother’s seat. The edge of the stone resting his body as his eyes traced you against the backdrop of his arena.

“There is no one to fear, my lady,” he spoke.

Emperor Geta was a man you had known for a long while. As children he often sought you out as a companion of play while his father helped prime himself and his brother, Caracalla, for their ascent to the throne. You, on the outskirts of royalty within a wealthy family of semi-relevant status to the Caesar, were allowed in their court as a potential wife.

The status of wife never came but it did not stop Geta from perusing you into adulthood.

It was on nights like these when the clouds floated to cover the moon and the poor laid soundly on the gravel on the outset of the building that Geta felt a need to see you, to have you for himself before the reality of morning came tumbling upon him. Weakened by his thoughts of want and bruised from a victory turned sour, his eyes shimmered in the darkness while the necessity grew.

But you knew the intent.

The one guard, never different from the last, summoning you from your villa with a coded message of: vi et animo, with heart and soul. Descend upon the place where he shall be waiting and when the act is done, as always, the same guard would see you home and little would be said between the next occasion. An invitation to sit behind him at a fight always went unanswered; the feasts in a Senator’s name would go uneaten.

You always had something to fear when a man, whom you had grown to be so utterly conflicted in lust and hatred, reigned unfairness from his palace on top a hill. The shining city of Rome was not what it once was but Geta cared for nothing except what he wanted.

And while you never accepted the invitations beyond these, the jewels around your neck, the ones that hung from your ears, and the pulsing of your heart spoke wonders for the truth within you.

Geta watched as your head turned back around and your hands curled over the balcony’s edge. His fingers rapped against the back of the chair; rings clashing against the golden adornments at the bristle of your objection.

“What summons me here?” You prompted. “Are the others not enough for you? Do they not fill your cup on nights as brutal as these?”

You were not to call the women he sought whores. They made their choices, or, they had none, but their actions did not relegate themselves to lesser. How were you any better than them? With your gold and your home and your money? You believed yourself, on the worst of nights, to be a wealthier version of what they had been subject to but unlike many of them, you let this linger beyond the reasonable time.

“I wish to think you know better than to question the call of your Emperor. You showed, after all.”

“I do not question your wants… what keeps you ticking,” you turned to rest your back away from the arena. Geta admired the wrap of your gown tightening against the stone. “You should be celebrating the conquering. Rome has just expanded. There is a celebration at the palace and yet you are here amongst the prisoners and the animals.”

“And you,” he looked pointedly.

Geta’s makeup was gone from the day. He wore a tunic of red and white with the golden laurels weaved in its fabric. The orange of his hair had gone muted in the dark.

“And me,” you agreed. “You have me here, Caesar—“

“Geta.”

You eyed him.

“Why are you playing a game tonight? You denied my invitation—“

“It is not my place,” you cut in. “I am no wife, I am not a… woman of a man’s delight. I did not wish to be an object on an arm.”

“I could have your head for such an implication,” he warned.

“You wouldn’t,” you affirmed. “No one else would be dragged here to kneel before you so willingly.”

“You want to be on your knees?”

You shook your head at him with a tick. No one would dare to speak to him like you. But you knew it bothered him in ways he couldn’t manifest. The blood rushing through his body—you challenged him in a way only he would allow you.

Geta removed his arm from the back of the seat and stepped down to you. Each step closer and closer until he came to rest directly in front of you and caged you like the animals below. Arms expanding on either side of you; his breath invading your space as his nose nicked yours. You shuddered; back piercing into the travertine not in fear but anticipation.

To be the lover of a corrupted Emperor… you had him in the palm of your hand.

“You speak so freely,” he hissed. “And yet you tremble in my presence.”

In an instant, your breathing had gone staggered. His hands drew into you. Feeling up the sides of your body as he pushed himself on you.

“The tremble is not you. It’s me.”

“I am the only one to make you feel this way, yes?”

His hands roamed freely. Geta’s thumbs rumbled up the fabric of the front of your body while his fingertips hardened against you. The plushness of your skin was melting to him. His nose tipped against your chin to turn your head upwards.

“Your Emperor asked you a question.”

“If I said no,” you breathed in as his fingers groped harder. They cupped your breasts from above and back down again. “What would become of me?”

“I’d lock you away,” he wouldn’t. “I’d see to you myself in the cells below the palace. You’d wear nothing,” you scoffed and his lip quirked up. You could feel his lips change against the column of your neck. “And when people would ask of you, they would not be allowed to see you.”

“So you would not want them to see us like this?”

He let out a low, bemused chuckle. “This is for me, us, to enjoy. But if you imagine the whole of Rome watching us, then please, my dear, listen to them.”

Geta rose his lips to your ear as his hands fell to your hips and then one of your legs. He maneuvered to grip the back of one of your thighs and opened up space for him to fall further into you. You could feel his excitement; the prodding of his want against your clothed self. His hot breath and lips danced across your cheek.

“Can you hear them? Gasping at the sight of you. It is the most beauty they have ever seen. So wet and glistening for their ruler.”

“And what of their Emperor?” Your hand came to clutch the extra fabric of his chest. His heart under your hand was picking up in paces. Beating against his ribcage while his eyes blew lustful.

“They should see their Emperor on his throne,” you commanded.

He dropped your leg and with a push from your hand on his chest, Geta stepped backwards until you pushed him to meet his throne. The seat wide for his liking, he sat upon it and grasped at the loose fabric of your dress at your hips.

“Further.” He pushed himself further back into the seat. Using the small step at the base of Geta’s seat, you lifted yourself onto him with your knees on either side.

“While he’s on his throne,” you let him pool the fabric into his hands and draw it upwards. You sat atop him and relished the way you could feel him grown underneath. “They shall see his weakness.”

“I do not have a weakness,” he growled, one hand clasping the back of your neck and forcing your face an inch from his own. You rolled your hips on him. His fingers adjusted the grip on the back of your neck and he hesitated. “I-I do not have a weakness.”

“Then what am I here for?” You asked against his lips and through his hesitancy, he gazed into your eyes before capturing his lips with yours. You sucked in a breath; cupping his head with both of your hands in strength.

Your fingers raked through his hair with a tug as his lips refused to separate themselves form yours. So desperate in want, he clutched himself on to you and your tongues melted together as one the longer he held you. One of his hands pulled on your dress and moved you forward, then tugging backwards to encourage you to grind above him. You needn’t a command to roll your body onto his.

Where your core rested on him, his erection formed against his tunic. You lined up, dragging yourself along the length of him and back. He pulled his lips away with a tug on your bottom lip. Geta bunched up your dress and watched as your cunt glided as best it could along his clothes. Each thrust painting the fabric a shade deeper he could see even in the night.

He was mesmerized. Entranced by your body—no different than the times he had taken you in the light or dusk of a day. You pussy glistened in the moonlight. Dripping with ecstasy as you only felt the outline of his cock above the thin piece that separated you.

Geta, annoyed the the amount of fabric that was your gown and released it roughly.

“Take it off,” he ordered. You huffed, unfurling it from the ties in on the side and letting it fall to the step below. Fully nude on his throne, his hands groped your ass to kiss you again.

“What of you?”

Geta simply pulled up the tunic on his chest and his cock sprung up in response. “You should know conscience now.”

“Us women do not see the same pleasures,” you meant in the form of clothing being simply. Geta quirked his head to the side and leaned it back against his seat.

He sat an awkward angle but was semi-sitting up with you on top of him. You lifted on your knees and palmed at his member with purpose. Remembering the lines and curve like the stones outside of your home, you pumped him as a grunt left his throat.

“I see that you do.”

“Not that anyone would know,” you snided.

Again, he furrowed his brows. “Do you want people to see? All of Rome to see what a woman of your stature does to me?”

“They don’t need to see, Geta,” you sighed and moved up on him. “If you wish to take a wife, that is already implied.”

“You are far too beautiful to be a wife. You are a goddess.”

“Who can only be sought in darkness.”

“That is when you come alive,” his eyes closed at the feel of his tip at the entrance of you. Moving back and forth along your slit while the wetness gathered to make his intrusion easier. The pull of your walls making room for him as you sunk down to take him whole; the claw of your fingernails into his chest at the sensation.

Your knees dug into the harshness of the chair as its girth, and his own, sent you ascending. Your back arched as his fingertips drove goosebumps along your spine. You started grinding on his cock slowly. Clit rubbing against his pubic bone, gently caressing your most sensitive bit as he gripped your hips tightly. You looked down at him prompting his stare to reach through you. It grabbed your soul and reminded you of all the reasons you kept answering his call.

Geta filled you completely. The stretch of him long and wide, your hands fell back to his knees and propelled you as you bounced on him the best your body could. He trusted up to you as the matched inside of you both struck hot and heavy. The burn of your body, the pulse of heat between your legs grew while the slick of your arousal coated his dick every time you sunk back down.

His hands bruised. They tightly gripped you as though you would slip away into the darkness should he let go. He needed to feel you in more ways than one. The digging of your nails into his skin transposed by the burn of his palms on your waist, hips, thighs, and wherever else they could touch.

“Look at you,” he praised breathlessly. “A God to a King.”

A Venus of Rome.

“My Venus,” Geta cut between his teeth. “Mine.”

His own pace superseded your own. Geta’s hips snapped up, racing a high that hit him like Cupid’s own bow straight to the heart. His pace was parading his strength he did not often show beyond words and measures. Your hands failed you on his knees and forced you forward.

Geta grabbed at your jawline, hand crushing your chin.

“You are mine,” he repeated. “No other man shall have you—as a wife nor lover.”

Your silence maddened him. He was relentless in his mission to send you to the edge. You could barely catch your breath and your chest, naked as the day you were born, rose and fell rapidly as the faint sheen of sweat washed over you.

“Do you understand me?” Geta stopped his movements and your shoulder jolted uncontrollably. He was the only one who had ever sent your body’s muscles into overdrive.

“Yes,” you nodded with his hand still grasping your jaw. “Yes, Geta.”

His eyes flicked back and forth between your own. You were truthful even if you hated him some days.

“Good,” he agreed with his own nod. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around,” Geta ordered again. “Your Emperor commands you.”

He released your jaw dismissively and let his hands fall beside his legs. You lifted yourself from him with a shiver and maneuvered yourself front facing. The arena before you, the empty spectator seats still viewing you freely in coitus. Geta’s hands roamed over your ass and up your back as you turned. He grasped himself at the base of his cock and lined up his head to you again.

“Come down,” he commanded.

You joined together as one again and you were quick to realize you had no bearings. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to support you except what little resistance your knees could gather against the harsh seat.

As though Geta could read your mind, he drew you back. He leaned you all the way against him to where you were nearly laying as though on a bed yet still angled as though lounging on a chaise. The new angle pushed his cock to the sweetest pull, pushing against your plush walls and letting a gasp escape you in turn. Geta smoothed the sides of your body while your feet turned under you and you let your weight lay on him.

He ran over your breasts slowly. Nipples long pebbled, he squeezed the flesh and brought them up before releasing them again. Geta brought his head to incline into yours as he thrusted into you once more.

“I see their jealousy. All of them—“ the non-existent spectators “—wanting to fuck a woman like you. If they saw an Empress so bare, so exposed, what would they do?”

Geta’s tone had become selfish. His pace returned to an unrelenting finish. He pounded into you. Each snap hitting your most pleasured spot perfectly as his hands cradled you and his words filled your mind with him.

“How would they feel seeing their Emperor defile the most exquisite creature that has ever graced Rome?”

“They would all wish to be you,” you admitted. His words of praise hit you as hard as his cock. Your head tossed back onto his shoulder.

“Open your eyes, darling. Head up.”

You did as commanded—like any good subject would do.

“This will be yours,” he guided one of your hands into his and brought them both to your bud as the other wrapped around your waist. With his finger atop yours, he helped circle your clit as his end was near.

“This land, Rome, can be ours. Just ours.”

That was, if he would ever be given permission to marry and the match was fixed.

“Gladiators in your name, fighting to see your beauty. Feasts and splendor for the sake of our children…”

The familiar heat in your core began to bubble like the markings of a volcano. You turned your head to his and kissed him deeply at the thought, rubbing your clit furiously with the help of his hand and relishing the way his cock completed your body.

“I will marry you,” Geta reaffirmed as his words caught every second his hips threatened to stutter at his release. “I will marry you I swear to the Gods if it is the last thing I do.”

Maybe you believed him, maybe you did not. Yet you would feel nothing but him and only him and everything he gave you in that moment. The utter devotion and the most raw form of his propensity.

If the night were not already fallen, you saw the waves of Heaven wash over you as the eruption of your orgasm shakes you to the core. The blinding hues of what Venus had brought upon you leaving you gasping for breath. Thoughtless and wordless of promises that carry on with the shaking of your thighs and soft whispers of marriage from his lips. Geta’s own release was missed by you. Mere seconds after your own, he stilled as his hips stuttered into you and the legacy of his spent began to leak beyond where he filled you.

Geta released his hand from your own and rubbed your arms soothingly as you laid heavier on him than before. The wear of your brilliance forging his content sighs. He closed his eyes as your head knocked into his own and the two of you sat there, in the empty arena, alone as one.

“I swear to the Gods,” he assured once more. “I will make you my wife.”

And if the Gods were fair, you would know it to be true. But they have never been fair in the life you knew. So, how could they be true now?

A/N: couldn’t help writing for Geta. The men of gladiator have me in a chokehold. Thanks for reading and while it isn’t required, reblogs and comments help writers the most! ♥️ [not proof read yet]

[velarisdusk]

Drunk on You

Azriel x Reader

summary: You and Azriel were just friends. Then came the dancing. The kiss. The night you stopped pretending. word count: 11.1k content: [ explicit sexual content (piv), oral sex (f receiving), grinding in da club (do i need to warn abt that??), explicit language, alcohol, VERY irresponsible consumption of alcohol, vomiting from drinking, FUI (flying under the influence) ] author's note: FUI arent i so funny lmfao as per usual with these, i know prythian doesnt have speakers/subwoofers , and prob also doesnt have strobe lights, but i write what i want so its ok yall can deal ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ shadowed elixir infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with lover’s knot stirred thank you @wildfloweroutlaw for the request!! i've never written a fic specifically having friends to lovers in mind so my mental block gave me a bit of trouble with this but i had a lot of fun writing it! <3

Velaris hums with life around you, the midday sun painting golden ribbons across cobblestone streets. The air is thick with the scent of spiced cider and honeyed pastries, threaded through with the briny whisper of the Sidra. Laughter swells and fades between vendors calling out their wares—bolts of silk that shimmer like liquid light, books with gilded spines that promise adventures, trinkets that glint like they’ve been kissed by starlight.

“It’s the pacing that makes it brilliant,” you say, sidestepping a wobbly cart stacked with jars of something dark and suspiciously jiggly. “You’d love it if you gave it a chance.”

Azriel walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans, his only accompanying shadow slinking along sun-warmed stones like it’s sulking. He’s a strange silhouette in the golden light—too dark for a day like this, like the night followed you out of habit. But he listens, quiet and steady, nodding at the right moments as you ramble about the last book you read. You’ve learned to hear the shape of his silences—how they stretch or shorten, the weight of them, what they hold back.

“I’m telling you,” you press, dodging a knot of children weaving through the crowd, “if you actually gave it a shot, you’d love it.”

Azriel huffs a soft laugh. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time. You’re just too stubborn to admit I have impeccable taste.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely. “You bought a book last month because the cover had a dragon making out with a sword.”

You gasp, scandalized. “That’s called intuition.”

“No. That’s called a gamble.”

You bump your elbow against his arm, grinning when he exhales through his nose. That small, hard-won sound. This—this is easy. Has always been.

As the crowd thickens, your attention snags on a jewelry stall to your left—slim chains catching the sun, gemstones winking in their delicate settings. At the same moment, Azriel’s gaze strays to a weapons vendor on the right, where a gleaming dagger is being turned over in calloused hands.

You both hesitate. Then look back at each other at the same time.

Azriel raises a brow.

You smile. “Meet you in a minute?”

He dips his chin in a slight nod, already angling toward the stall, fingers twitching like they’re itching for the weight of the blade. You drift toward the jewelry, drawn in by instinct more than intent. Your fingers trail over thin rings and polished charms, the glint of metal catching the light just right.

A pair of dangling earrings stops you—stones that shift hue in the sun, subtle and soft. Pretty. Eye-catching without being too much. The kind of thing that might go with the dress you picked up earlier while wandering the boutiques, half-killing time before the market. The one you hadn’t planned on trying, but slipped into just for fun. A little more daring than your usual. Soft in all the right ways, with a neckline you kept pretending not to think about. 

You’d stared at yourself longer than you meant to.

And walked out with your first shopping bag of the day.

You curl your fingers around the earrings, already halfway through justifying the purchase in your head.

It doesn’t take long to browse. After paying and a few lingering looks, you glance across the street to find Azriel still at the weapons stall, turning the dagger over in his hands. His expression is unreadable—calm, analytical, like he’s weighing something only he understands. The single shadow drifts across his back, restless beneath the unrelenting sun.

Your gaze finds him without thought. A habit carved over time. Familiar, even after everything, in that quiet, unconscious way habits become part of you. 

You blink and turn away just as he looks up. He’s already moving, steps unhurried, wings tucked in close, hands slipping into his pockets again as he falls into stride beside you.

“Anything good?” you ask lightly.

Azriel shrugs. “Steel’s folded differently—strong but light. Good balance. Sharp edge.” He huffs at himself. “It’s a good blade.”

You roll your eyes. “Careful—Truthteller’s going to get jealous.”

His mouth twitches. “There’s no one like her,” he murmurs, and his hand brushes the small of your back as he steers you out of the path of two shrieking children.

He nods toward the bag in your hand. “Let’s see it.”

You fish out the black velvet box and flip it open with a grin. “For the dress!”

Azriel snorts. “You mean that napkin you bought earlier?”

You snap the box shut a little too forcefully. “It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s barely a scarf.”

“Azriel.”

The full name earns you another twitch of a smile. His voice lowers, amused. “I still don’t know where you plan on wearing it. I’ve seen you more hesitant to leave the House in sweaters.”

Your cheeks warm. “Well, I didn’t feel as confident in those.”

His brow rises slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Your voice is lighter when you add, “Maybe you’re just nervous you won’t be able to handle seeing me in it.”

“I’ll manage,” Azriel says dryly. “It’s your delusion I’m worried about.”

You bump his shoulder again, and this time he lets the smile break free. The two of you fall into easy conversation—Cassian’s most recent baking disaster (“explosive,” Azriel says without inflection), café gossip, a gentle debate about whether Velaris even needed the twelfth coffee shop to begin with.

At the townhouse, Azriel steps ahead to hold the door open, shadow trailing in behind him. The antechamber hums with warmth—laughter echoing from the next room, spices lingering in the air.

“I’m telling you, I found it just sitting there,” Cassian insists as you enter. He’s pacing like he’s testifying in court, hands gesturing wildly. “Brand new bottle of amber whiskey. Uncorked. Untouched. In a bush.”

“In a bush?” Mor deadpans from the couch.

Cassian gestures wildly. “In a bush! Behind the stables! What are the odds?”

Mor narrows her eyes. “Any chance you’re feeling lucky enough to gamble?”

They lock eyes, Cassian’s grin curling at the edges.

Feyre perks up from her place on the sofa. “If gambling means Rita’s, I’m in. I haven’t gone out in weeks, and I plan to be very irresponsible tonight.”

All three turn to you with matching looks—expectant and conspiratorial, like they’ve already know your answer but want to hear you say it. Feyre’s smile is the worst of them—sweet and smug and knowing.

You glance at Azriel. He’s already sighing, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose like he can feel the impending headache.

“Guess we know when—”

“Yeah, alright,” Azriel mutters.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You lean in toward the mirror, smoothing a final sweep of gloss over your lips. Then you take a step back, letting your eyes rake over your reflection. Hair styled just how you like it—precise where it matters, undone where it doesn’t—and your makeup? Soft, glowing, and just sharp enough to slice. The kind that shines when the light catches your cheekbones and mouth.

Behind you, Feyre whistles low. “He’s going to eat his words.”

Mor, sprawled on the bed in a pose that screams practiced indifference, smirks. “And probably choke on them.”

You snort, reaching for the earrings you bought earlier. “It’s not for him.”

Feyre slides up beside you, linking her arm through yours as she catches your eye in the mirror. “Maybe not. But you wouldn’t mind if he looked.”

She’s not wrong.

Mor rises in a stretch, her plum dress catching every sliver of light as it hugs her curves like a secret. The hem’s scandalous, the neckline worse—and with her golden hair cascading over one bare shoulder, she looks like she could topple empires with a single breath. Feyre’s in a slate blue that borders on silver, cool-toned and backless, the color making her blue eyes even more piercing beneath  artfully smudged liner. And with her soft waves pinned just so, she looks like smoke made woman.

You fasten your earrings with a quiet click and smile at your reflection. You feel good. Confident. Not just in the dress, but in your skin. 

There was a time when what you felt for him lived quietly in your chest—soft, persistent, and patient. Over time, it faded into something else. Something easier. You let it go long before anyone knew you were holding on.

But it never disappeared completely. Not really. Not in a way that matters. Not in a way that would stop you, if he ever hinted at wanting something more.  

Downstairs, the low murmur of male voices curls up the staircase from the sitting room. That deep, familiar hum threaded with laughter. It’s comfortable and easy. The kind of sound born from long nights, drinks shared, and old stories retold—brothers teasing one another into comfort. 

Cassian’s laugh is unmistakable—loud and unrestrained over the clink of glass. Rhysand’s is more of a drawl, lazy and pleased with itself. And then there’s Azriel. Low, steady. A quiet current that runs beneath them all, silk wrapped around steel.

The sound of heels on the stairs draws their attention—Cassian’s first. He whistles, low and appreciative, as Mor appears at the top step, her dress catching the light with every step. Rhysand gives an exaggerated bow from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch. Even Azriel lets his gaze linger, just a touch longer than polite, before returning it to his drink.

Then comes Feyre, laughing at whatever wicked comment Mor whispered over her shoulder. Rhysand is off the couch and moving before she’s even halfway down, reaching for her hand like gravity’s got nothing on the pull she has on him. He murmurs something low against her ear as he takes her hand, earning an eye roll and a muttered warning that sounds suspiciously like a threat. He grins like a male entirely too pleased with himself.

And then—

You. 

The last to appear. Not intentionally, of course. But you’d be lying if you said the timing didn’t work in your favor. 

There’s a pause—just a breath—but enough. Enough to feel it.

Cassian is the first to recover. “Damn,” he says, voice a little rougher than before.

Mor beams, smug and delighted, as if she’s taking personal credit. Rhys gives a low hum of approval, already spinning something cocky to say—but whatever it is goes unheard.

Because Azriel’s gaze is already there, fixed on the landing, like he’d been watching the space just waiting for you to step into it. And when you do, he doesn’t look away. 

His stare lands heavy—enough to steal the air from your lungs. 

You wait for the usual—some sharp, clipped remark, maybe a too-smooth deflection. But instead—

“...Huh.”

That’s it.

A single, unimpressed syllable that cuts through the air like a blade dipped in ice.

You blink. Huh?

He doesn’t elaborate. Just turns back toward Cassian, nodding at his shirt—half unbuttoned, chest on shameless display as if confidence could count as tailoring. “Bold of you to challenge her like that. One of you’s going to end up hypothermic.”

Cassian grins like he’s been handed a gift. “At least I’m not stuffed into those jeans you’re trying to pass off as comfortable. One wrong move and we’ll be calling a healer.”

Azriel’s lips twitch, barely. He doesn’t rise to the bait. Just takes a slow sip of his drink.

Your eyes drop of their own accord. Those jeans are unforgivable. So is the way they fit him.

You force your gaze away, descending the final step with all the poise you can muster.

Cassian, with a mischievous grin, offers his arm like it’s second nature. “Guess we’ll be whores together tonight.”

You loop your arm through his with a grin that could make the Mother herself blush. “Fine. But I’m the classier whore. More expensive.”

He barks a laugh, delighted. “High-class whore. Got it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor teases, stealing the rest of Rhys’ drink without a shred of remorse (he mutters a tight ‘Hey’ through clenched teeth, swatting at his cousin as she ducks away).

Feyre checks the time with mock exasperation. “Stay any longer and we’ll miss half the night.”

“Then let’s go,” Mor cheers, grabbing you and Cassian like a female on a mission.

And then—chaos. Magic coils, wind rushes, the floor disappears beneath your feet.

A heartbeat later, you’re outside, blinking against the lights and noise of Rita’s.

Your stomach flips—like it always does. It never gets easier.

Music pulses from the open doors, thick in the night air, and faelights paint the pavement in deep gold and violet. Mor’s fingers slip from your wrist; she’s already halfway to the entrance, weaving through the crowd like it’s parting for her. 

The cool night clings to your skin, but the heat radiating from the club ahead makes it all feel alive, electric with possibility. The air is saturated with cologne, alcohol, and the faintest hint of smoke as you approach the bouncers. The low hum of the waiting crowd blends with the deeper thrum of bass that threatens to crack open the night. 

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere hits—thick and heavy with energy. The music is deafening, the bass a living thing that thrums through your chest, infecting your limbs with a restless kind of excitement. Faelights strobe in wild streaks—purple, blue, red—and for a second, it feels as though you’re in some kind of dream. 

Feyre pulls you into the crowd first, her grin wide and wicked as she leads the way toward the bar. Mor follows close behind, laughing, already calling out to familiar faces. The guys trail after—quieter, maybe, but impossible to miss in the way they cut through the crowd. 

Drinks are ordered. Jokes fly. Within minutes, your group claims a half-circle booth just off the dance floor. It doesn’t take long for the music to pull you all in. Cassian downs half his drink and drags Mor out first, the two of them already moving like they’ve danced together a thousand times—and they probably have. Feyre loops her arm around your waist, eyes glinting beneath the lights. “Come on,” she yells over the music.

You don’t need convincing.

Rhys just waves you off with a smirk, already settling into the booth like he plans to stay there all night. 

The next stretch of time blurs—song bleeding into song, breathless laughter and clinking glasses, the bass settling into your chest like a second heartbeat. The lights cast everything in hues of violet and electric blue, cutting shadows across flushed skin and gleaming teeth. You’re dancing with Feyre, the two of you falling into easy rhythm. Mor and Cassian egg each other on nearby, reckless and unbothered, like children left unsupervised. 

At one point, Mor grabs your hand and twirls you fast enough to make your head spin. You stumble into her, both of you breathless with laughter, alcohol making everything weightless.

Feyre slips between you and Mor, twirling with abandon, her hair catching the light like strands of liquid gold. Off to the side, you spot Cassian mid-charm offensive, working a pair of females with that lethal grin—the kind that guarantees more than they can handle. Judging by their reaction, it’s going well. Rhys lounges nearby, nursing his drink and watching Feyre with a crooked grin, content to let her shine. 

But a few beats later Feyre drifts away from you both, drawn by something only she and Rhys can hear. Across the floor, Azriel leans against a column in the shadows, arms crossed, the picture of cool disinterest. You throw him an exaggerated beckoning gesture—all wide eyes and mouthed dramatics. Mor mirrors you, adding a pout for effect. 

He doesn’t move, just shakes his head, unimpressed. 

You and Mor exchange a look—then stick your tongues out at him, childish and triumphant. 

You think you catch the ghost of a smile. 

Then Cassian appears beside him, clapping a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, mischief written all over his face. “Her friend’s cute,” he shouts over the music. “Be a good wingman.”

To your surprise, Az lets it happen. 

As he moves past, his arm brushes against yours—barely a touch, but enough to feel. He angles toward the other female—tall, elegant, with dark eyes and a laugh that rings above the music. She’s beautiful in a way that turns heads. 

Still, some stubborn part of you insists she’s not that pretty. Not compared to you. 

The thought surfaces unbidden—and you shut it down just as fast. Jealousy doesn’t suit you. And this? This isn’t that. 

To anyone watching, Azriel looks engaged. His smile is easy, even bordering on smug, and he leans in like he means it. But you know better. That’s your best friend. You see the signs: the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes skim past her, too fast and too often.

Which is probably why you keep catching him glancing your way. 

Or maybe you’re reading too much into it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, the lighting, the way this dress hugs your curves like a second skin. Still… you’d swear his gaze lingered. And not just on your face. 

The music shifts—louder, dirtier, the kind that grabs your spine and doesn’t let go. Mor’s gone to get drinks, and for the first time tonight, you’re alone. But with the alcohol warm in your veins, you don’t mind. You let the beat carry you, movements fluid and loose, like your body already knows the song by heart. The crowd thickens, lights blur, and everything becomes a haze of motion and heat. The tempo rises. You drift closer to the center, caught in the music, untethered. 

Then, during a rare lull between songs, you glance back toward the booth—

And spot Feyre in Rhys’ lap, flushed and breathless. Her hair sticks to her forehead as she lifts a tiny glass with exaggerated flair. Rhysand just raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, as she tries to coax him into a shot. 

He refuses. She pouts. Then she steals his beer instead, chugging it right there in his lap. He fumbles for the glass, shouting something you can’t hear. But she just twists away, triumphant, dodging him until the glass is empty. With a dramatic gasp, she slams it on the table and struts off—slightly wobbly—leaving Rhys with nothing but the small shot of dark liquor.

You laugh—can’t help it. 

But the sight of Azriel freezes your grin halfway between amusement and something more. Because he’s still talking to the female—who, from what you can tell, is more than happy to let him steer the conversation. But even as his words flow smoothly to her, his eyes are locked on you—piercing and intense, like he can’t look away, even if he’s supposed to be. 

And that gaze… it cuts straight through you.

Warmth blooms low in your belly. Not from the alcohol. Not entirely. You hold his gaze, and the rest of the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowd—they’re distant noise now. Because though the space between you is still wide, it feels like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something that isn’t the music. 

Maybe it’s the buzz. Maybe it’s the bass still pounding in your chest. Maybe it’s the fact that his gaze is still on you. 

The music shifts again, and your body follows without a thought. You let the music guide you, every slow roll of your hips deliberate, every look daring him to match you. You aren’t sure why you’re dancing for him (because it is for him, isn’t it?), or why your eyes haven’t left his once, but the rush is intoxicating. 

His expression doesn’t change. Not at first. But then something flickers in his eyes—brief and unreadable.

For a heartbeat, you wonder if maybe you’ve imagined it all. 

But then he claps a hand on Cassian’s shoulder, leans in to say something. He nods once at the female—goodbyes, maybe? You can’t be sure. 

And then Azriel steps through the crowd. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t smile. He just starts toward you, weaving through the crowd with that unhurried, measured stride you know by heart. 

He doesn’t say a word. 

He doesn’t have to. 

When he stops in front of you, the music swells again—and this time, it feels like it’s for you. Drunk enough not to overthink it, you don’t hesitate—you just reach for him, pulling him into your orbit. 

And just like that, you fall into step with him. 

Effortless. Unspoken. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment—like they remembered each other from another lifetime. There’s no need for words, not when the music does all the talking. Not when the bass pulses through your spine and Azriel’s warmth curls in your blood like smoke.

His hands settle low on your hips—too low, maybe—and the contact short-circuits something in you. Through the thin fabric of your dress, his palms burn. You swear his grip tightens as you move, subtle but unmistakable, like he’s testing how far he can go. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You move in tandem, one body split in two. Every step aligned. Every breath shared. The sway of your hips becomes a silent conversation, and even as the crowd surges around you, none of it touches you. All you feel is the slow drag of his hand, the brush of his chest when he leans in too close. All you hear is the rasp of his breath in your ear.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder where Mor is with your drink. You hope—fervently—she’s seen you like this and decided to give you space. You don’t want to be saved.

Then Azriel catches your hand. Twines his fingers through yours. Wordless, he spins you out, guiding you around him with a kind of reverence that feels like worship. The fabric of your dress strains, hugging every curve as you spin. His palm stays anchored to your waist, steady and possessive. And when you slip behind him, your gaze catches—hungry—on the curve of his ass in those sinfully tight jeans. The stretch of cotton over his back. The muscles shifting under his shirt like a promise.

By the time you return to face him, breathless and hot-faced, he’s already watching you. And he knows. Cauldron, he knows.

His hair sticks to his forehead, dark strands damp from the press of bodies, the heat. His collar’s still loose, open just enough to hint at skin, at the strong line of his throat. A silver chain catches the light where it rests against his collarbone, the cobalt glint of his siphon nestled low—one of the simpler siphon pieces you’ve seen him wear, reserved for nights like this when the full set would only get in the way. 

And then there are his eyes.

Not friendly. Not protective. Nothing safe. They’re molten—dark and slow and unapologetic as they trace the length of you. They leave scorch marks in their wake. And when you meet that gaze, something primal shifts inside you. Something ancient and aching.

He pulls you in, flush against him, his hands spanning your back, scarred fingers grazing bare skin. The contact is searing. Your breath falters.

Still, you manage to play it cool—or try to. “What’s wrong, Az? You’re staring.” It’s meant to be teasing. Light. But it comes out quieter than you intended. Softer. As if even your voice can’t help giving you away.

His breath stutters. Just enough. “Don’t tease me right now.” His voice is low and rough, his eyes now dark enough to drown in. “It’s not the dress.”

And then—then—his thigh slots between yours and he drags you close enough to steal your balance. The dance shifts—slower now, hungrier. There’s something dangerous uncoiling between you.

The pressure of his thigh is subtle, maddening. The friction sets a slow-burning ache deep inside you, and without thinking, you move. Just enough to chase it. Just enough to make yourself feel something. He notices. Of course he does. His fingers press firmer at your back, holding you there, and you wonder—ache to know—if he feels it too. This tension. This current humming under your skin, magnetic and irrevocable.

Your hips move in time with his, a rhythm that no longer has anything to do with the music. You brush against him, again and again, and each pass stokes the fire curling low in your belly. His hand steadies at the small of your back—firm, coaxing, guiding the rhythm of your hips until you’re moving in time with him. Until you’re grinding slow and sure against the solid line of his thigh. He watches every flicker of reaction like it’s a secret he’s been aching to unearth. 

His shadows brush your skin—light as breath, bold as fingertips. They slip under the hem of your dress, past the dip of your neckline, exploring, learning, teasing. It’s not enough to satisfy, but it’s enough to tempt. To make you dizzy. 

Your breath stutters, and for a moment, his gaze dips to your mouth. 

You barely manage a smile. “Still not about the dress?” you murmur, your voice low, throat dry. 

Azriel’s eyes flicker—then settle on you like a storm about to break. “Not even a little.”

And when his nose grazes yours, it isn’t a kiss. But it could be. It’s the moment right before—the breath, the space, the choice. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But the song changes, the spell snaps, and suddenly the room exists again. Someone bumps into Azriel from behind, and his hand drops to your ass to steady you. A reflex. But it brands.

You both laugh, too breathless, too wired, too aware of what just almost happened. And his hand is still on your ass. 

You need a second—a buffer, a breath of air before you do something you can’t undo.

“I need a drink,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His hands linger but eventually fall away. Slow. Reluctant.

You glance up at him, give him a look you hope says this isn’t over, and slip through the crowd toward the bar.

The bartender slides a drink your way before you can even remember ordering one. You catch it on instinct, fingers curling around the chilled glass just as the condensation begins to bead. It slicks your grip slightly, grounding you in the present—the weight of the glass, the sting of alcohol, the echo of Azriel’s touch still humming beneath your skin.

You barely have time to take a sip before an arm braces beside yours on the counter—long, inked, and annoyingly familiar. Then the rest of Rhysand follows—tall, rakish, and far too smug for someone clearly on the brink of losing his balance.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, voice syrupy and just loose enough at the edges to toe the line between charming and concerning. “If it isn’t our little heartbreaker.”

You blink at him over the rim of your glass, your mouth still parted mid-sip. “How drunk are you?”

“Moderate,” he says, with the blind confidence of a man absolutely not moderate. Then, solemnly: “I think I just tried to winnow to the moon. Cass said no.”

A laugh bursts out of you, sharp and surprised, catching you off guard. “You were supposed to be the responsible one tonight.”

Rhys makes a sweeping gesture with one hand that nearly sends a nearby cocktail crashing to the floor. “Fuck responsible. Do you know how hard it is to stay sober when everyone around you is glowing and half-delirious? Mor and Feyre have been spinning like drunk ballerinas for the last twenty minutes. Cassian challenged a table of strangers to an arm-wrestle for ‘honor and glory.’ And Azriel—”

He cuts off, lips twitching. That grin, slow and sly, curls like smoke.

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he sing-songs, turning away to steal a sip from someone else’s drink before grimacing and abandoning it.

Gods, you’ve never seen him like this. Loose. Unfiltered. Unbothered by image or control. You make a mental note to corner Cassian and Azriel as soon as possible, if only to demand every humiliating story they’ve ever collected on him.

“You were going to say something,” you groan, watching him closely.

Rhys gives you a beatific smile that practically screams I’m lying. “Me? Never.”

You take another slow sip of your drink, trying—failing—to will the heat from your cheeks. But Rhys, of course, is infuriatingly perceptive. Even through a haze of liquor, he clocks you immediately.

“Oh no,” he breathes, voice gone delighted and a little too loud. “Oh no, it’s happening.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You’re falling in love with my shadowsinger.”

The words land like a match dropped in dry grass.

You choke, spluttering into your drink. “I’m not—”

“Sure, sure,” he says, cutting you off with a patronizing pat to your arm. “And neither is he. You two are just dry-humping in the dark, panting like—like you’re seconds away from devouring each other. All very normal friend behavior, I’m sure.”

You groan and let your head fall forward, forehead thunking against the bar top. The cool wood offers no relief from the mortification burning behind your eyes.

“Go away.”

Rhys props his chin on his palm, utterly content. “Can’t. Too drunk to move.”

You turn your head just enough to peer at him, face still pressed to the bar. “Do I need to find Feyre?”

His expression shifts to something like panic. “Please… do not.”

“Right.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face and letting it rest there. “You’re impossible.”

Rhys smiles lazily, lashes low and smug. “And you’re glowing. All flushed and starry-eyed. It’s disgusting.”

You flip him off without looking.

That’s when the night starts to blur. 

At some point, you find yourself curled under Cassian’s arm, both of you howling over a story he refuses to finish because he keeps laughing too hard. He smells like sweat and cologne and a bad idea—not that you haven’t entertained the thought once or twice. When you reach for your drink, he snatches it just out of reach with a devilish grin. 

“You’ve had enough,” he slurs—then immediately downs his own.

You wait until he’s distracted, then snatch your drink back and down it in one go. 

Across the room, Mor is spinning Azriel in a slow, ridiculous waltz to music that’s far too fast. Her head is thrown back in laughter, one heel discarded, and Azriel’s grinning wide and unrestrained as she twirls herself dramatically beneath his arm. One of his shadows retrieves her fallen shoe and dutifully returns it. He pretends not to notice. 

Rhys, for some reason, decides the whole place needs another round—again. He’s at the bar holding up fingers in rapid succession—four, five, seven—gesturing to absolutely no one. When the bartender ignores him, he levitates a bottle of amber liquor off the shelf with a flourish and begins personally pouring shots into the mouths of nearby patrons like some deranged, drunken Father Solstice.

Cassian finds Azriel in the crowd and immediately throws an arm around his neck, dragging him close with a sloppy grin. “My brother,” he declares, far too loud, smacking a kiss to Azriel’s temple before pulling him into a one-armed hug that rattles both of them. “Do you know—do you know—how much I love you?”

Azriel just blinks. “Unfortunately.”

“Shut up,” Cassian slurs, already halfway into his next declaration. “You’re the best of us. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Except me. Sometimes. But even then—”

“I’m going to kill you,” Azriel says—quiet and deadly. But he doesn’t move to escape. If anything, he leans into it. 

Later, you, Feyre, and Mor vanish into the bathroom, which starts as a mission of necessity and ends in chaos. The line’s too long. The floor’s sticky. You all start yelling about how no one cleans the stalls in this place. And somehow, ten minutes later, Mor’s knees are on the tile while you and Feyre crouch beside her, holding her hair back and cackling as she curses Rhysand’s name for “making” her take that last glowing green shot.

“You’ll live,” Feyre says, patting her back with the resigned affection of someone who’s done this before. 

“Probably,” you add.

Eventually, the three of you stagger back to the booth—giggling, disheveled, makeup slightly smeared but still beautiful. Because drunk girls in packs always are. 

You collapse into the cushions, and for a moment, everything just is—a tangle of warm limbs, laughter, glitter. Cassian’s still trying to tell a story no one can follow. Azriel is methodically peeling an orange he must’ve stolen from the bar. Mor keeps interrupting to dramatically rehash her brush with death on the bathroom floor.

Somewhere between the fourth retelling and a new round of drinks, Feyre bumps into your side, giggling as she climbs— climbs—into Rhysand’s lap. 

“Oh my gods,” she breathes, burying her face into his neck. “You smell like night and sin and trouble.”

Rhys hums, stroking a hand up her thigh. “And you, darling, are my favorite sort of trouble.”

You try to ignore it. You really do. And, for a few minutes, you’re fine. But then Feyre whispers, “I swear to the Cauldron, if you keep touching me like that I will drag you into the shadows and make you beg to—”

“No,” you say sharply, holding up a hand. “Absolutely not. You cannot do this in the communal booth.”

Rhysand and Feyre both blink at you. Slowly. Like they’re just now realizing the rest of you exist.

“Oh,” Feyre says, blinking again. “I said that… out loud?”

Cassian groans and drops his head to the table. “Yes. You did.”

“We all heard it,” Mor says, looking personally offended. 

Rhys looks vaguely affronted. “We were talking through the bond—”

“You weren’t,” you, Cassian, and Mor all say at once. 

Azriel only sighs and catches your eye, mouthing, Every damn time.

And then—

Too much light. Too much warmth. Music in your bones. Glitter on your cheeks. Someone grabs your hand and drags you back to the dance floor. You don’t know who. Doesn’t matter. You let the rhythm carry you, laughter bubbling up like it’s been trapped for months. 

Azriel finds you in the chaos. Quiet. Solid. He takes your hand, spins you once—lazy, sweet—then pulls you close with that look. Like the world is loud but you are not. 

And then—

The night slips.

You and Mor, arms around each other, cheeks dusted with shimmer.

Cassian balances a shotglass between the clawed tips of his wings—a feat that’s nothing short of impressive—while Azriel leans in to drink from it for the fourth time and misses. Again. 

Rhys stumbling through a dance with Feyre, refusing to let go of her hand even as he trips.

Azriel laughing, loud and bright, shirt drenched in spilled liquor and clinging to him like a second skin. 

It’s beautiful, in the messy, ephemeral way nights like this always are. 

And when it ends—when the cold air bites and your heels dangle from your fingers—you’re walking beside him.

Azriel. Silent and steady.

Side by side. Arms brushing.

Still friends. 

Still not in love. 

Definitely not. 

Probably. 

… Maybe.

The others are a few paces ahead, their laughter echoing down the cobbled street, mingling with the night’s quiet. You’d all chosen to walk back to the townhouse instead of winnowing—mostly to spare Mor another tragic bathroom incident.

You glance at Azriel, his profile softened by the pale glow of distant streetlights, the sharp edges of him mellowed by the dim light. He’s quieter now, more anchored, like the buzz is finally starting to bleed out of him too.

For a fleeting moment, your eyes meet, and something shifts, an unspoken weight hanging in the air between you. It’s not just the silence—it’s everything that comes with it. He looks away first, but the tension doesn’t dissipate. It lingers, thick and undeniable.

“So,” you say, your voice light, but there’s a brittleness beneath it, a crack in the calm. “You get this fucked up before?”

He lets out a low chuckle, the sound familiar and warm, but with something in it that feels like the night itself. “Should’ve seen us three while we were training. You wouldn’t have recognized us.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Azriel smirks, eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place, a mystery veiled beneath his calm. “I’ll answer that when I’m sober enough to remember half of it.”

A teasing grin tugs at your lips, unspoken but understood.

His gaze shifts toward you then, and the playful edge in his expression softens, ever so briefly. It’s a shift so subtle, it feels as though the air around you changes. His steps slow, just enough to bring him closer—his presence, steady and grounding, a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

And then, before you can fully comprehend it, his hand is at your back again—a subtle, possessive touch, just above your waist. It’s not new, this gesture. He’s done it before, but tonight, it feels different.

“You okay?” His voice is soft, low—barely above the city’s hum, but it cuts through everything else.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the weight behind the question, the way it settles in your chest. You nod, forcing a smile, though it feels less like a smile and more like a fragile shield. You meet his gaze through your lashes.

“I’m drunk,” you admit, a small giggle escaping, but the sound feels a little too light for the heaviness in the air.

Azriel huffs a soft laugh, warm breath brushing against your skin. “Yeah, I figured.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, in a way—a strange sort of peace between the two of you. The laughter and raucous chatter of your group fades further ahead, their voices lost in the night, leaving only the faint echo of their noise behind. Here, between you and Azriel, there’s nothing but quiet. His hand still rests at your back, the lightest touch, but you can feel it—every brush of his fingers against the fabric of your dress, like an unspoken promise.

You glance over at him, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. “Answer my question though. Did you have fun tonight? I know you don’t like coming out much.”

Azriel doesn’t look at you. His gaze remains fixed on the path ahead, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Fun?” he mutters, his voice light but carrying an edge. “If I’d known the night would end with me trying to drink out of Cassian’s wings, I might’ve stayed in.”

You laugh softly, the sound laced with warmth. “Oh, but you looked like you were having a blast.”

“I was,” he admits, voice lower now, quieter.

His words hang in the air, settling between you, filling the space with something deeper, something more. You glance at him again, and this time, his gaze finds yours. Dark, steady, unwavering.

And in that moment, everything feels charged, like the next move is inevitable.

You stop walking.

Azriel doesn’t pull his hand from your waist. Instead he swings around, turning to face you with an abruptness that feels almost instinctive, like the idea of letting go wasn’t even an option. Like keeping his hand on you mattered more than keeping his feet on the ground. Now, he stands before you, close enough that the heat of his body bleeds into yours, the cool night air thick with the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. 

For a moment, there’s nothing—just the two of you, suspended in the quiet, the distance between you and your family growing with each passing second.

It’s like a pulse, something deep within both of you that knows this is the moment, one that’s been silently building, lingering, biding its time.

You feel it in the way his eyes lock onto yours, how his body shifts ever so slightly—so close now you could reach up, could touch him, but you don’t move. 

Then, as if it was always meant to happen, his hand slides from your back, cupping the side of your face gently. His thumb brushes across your cheek, soft and tender, a quiet, unspoken question hanging between you.

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in first. Your lips find his—soft, uncertain at first, like you’re both holding your breath. But the second they meet, it’s like something clicks into place. Like every unsaid thing between you is finally, finally speaking.

But then it deepens, the kiss turning more urgent, the gentle press of lips becoming something more, something full of warmth and heat. The taste of alcohol lingers, but underneath that is the familiar, the comforting—years of friendship tangled into something new, something wild. The world shifts, or maybe it’s just the two of you, with everything else fading away.

Azriel’s hands slip into your hair, finding the nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder, pulling you closer. And the kiss is no longer just soft; it’s a quiet intensity, like something between you both has been building for far longer than either of you realized.

When you part, it’s only just enough to breathe, just enough to meet his gaze. Your lips feel swollen, your heart racing in your chest. But all you can think about is how desperately you want more. Not just his mouth, but all of him—his body, his touch. The press of him, hot and solid against you. The drag of his hand down your spine, the way his fingers splayed across your waist like he never wanted to let go. You want him closer. You want him everywhere. His hand between your legs. You want—

You blink, the haze slowly clearing.

As you lean past him, you finally take in the world around you again. The rest of the group is a fair distance ahead now, moving in a disjointed knot—Cassian with his arm slung lazily around Mor, Feyre pulling Rhys by the wrist as he slurs something half-laughing.

“Guys,” you call, breathless, voice a little hoarse, “we’re going to the… to the House of—” But you realize, mid-sentence, that no one is listening.

“Forget it,” Azriel mutters, and without warning, he grabs your hand.

He tugs you right, pulling you away from the main walkway and down a narrow side street, dimly lit by the soft glow of faelights overhead. You follow without hesitation, heart racing, your legs moving before your mind can fully catch up. The sounds of the city—music drifting from an open window, the distant clang of something dropped—feel muffled now, like they belong to someone else.

All you know is the heat of his hand in yours, the excitement blooming in your chest as a grin spreads across your face. And then, you’re running.

Laughing, breathless, borderline euphoric as your feet hit the cobblestone in time with his. His fingers are laced with yours, and he doesn’t let go—not once—not even when you nearly trip on a loose stone and bark out a curse through your grin. He just squeezes your hand tighter and keeps going. 

The wind rushes past, sweeping your hair into your face, and still you run, streetlights flickering overhead like stars caught in motion. You glance at him once, just once, and gods, it knocks the breath clean out of you.

He looks good. Stupidly good. His wings are tucked in tight behind him, shadows trailing in his wake like they can't quite keep up. There’s a flush high on his cheeks from the alcohol or the running—or maybe the kiss—and his smile. His smile is rare and wild and real, splitting his face in a way that makes something in your chest twist. His eyes find yours, dark and bright all at once, and the way he looks at you feels like falling without ever hitting the ground.

You’ve known him for years. Fought beside him, argued with him, trusted him more than you’ve trusted most. You’ve always thought he was beautiful in that silent, devastating kind of way. The kind of beautiful that hurts if you look too long. But this is new. Or maybe not new at all—maybe it’s just undeniable now. 

He slows only once the path narrows again, steps easing to a walk, his hand still firm in yours. You're panting, your heart racing in your chest like it’s trying to tell you something urgent, something important.

Azriel glances at you, still grinning. “Want a shortcut?”

You eye him, arching a brow. “A shortcut, or are you about to throw me over your shoulder?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I could throw you over my shoulder.”

You snort. “You’re drunk.”

His smile deepens. “Tipsy.”

You tilt your head. “Drunk, and you think you’re in any shape to fly us home?”

He smirks, swaying slightly. “I could.”

You blink at him. “Could you even land us properly?”

He pauses—just for a beat—then looks at you with a glint in his eye that’s half mischief, half something far more dangerous. “I’m so fucking glad you didn’t know me growing up.”

Before you can ask what the hell that means, he sweeps forward. One arm wraps around your waist, the other slides behind your knees, and suddenly you’re airborne—held tight against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders without a second thought.

“Azriel—”

But he’s already launching into the air, wings snapping wide, the wind catching beneath them as the city drops away below.

You press your face into the side of his neck, your laughter half-dazed, half-horrified. “You’re actually insane.”

He hums, voice a little smug. “Maybe. But you’re the one who kissed me.”

And gods help you, you’re already wondering when you can do it again.

Maybe he feels it—senses it—because before you can even finish the thought, he adjusts his grip just enough to shift you higher against him. Your arms loop instinctively around his neck, noses brushing, breath mingling. The wind whips past, cold and biting, but you don’t feel it.

You only feel him.

Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s nothing like that first kiss—nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s needy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and breathless hunger. 

You moan into him—can’t help it. The sound is swallowed by the sky, lost to the night. But he hears it. You know he does. His grip tightens like he needs you closer, like there’s not a single inch of air he’s willing to spare between you. His shadows are stirring again, curling around you like they want in on the taste.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your teeth graze his bottom lip, and he growls—deep and low and barely restrained.

“Azriel—” you gasp against his mouth. He huffs a laugh, sharp and wicked.

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips trailing hot over your jaw. “I might miss the landing on purpose.” 

You barely manage a breath. “We need to land,” you murmur, though it sounds more like a curse than a request. “Now.”

He lets out a sound that’s half-groan, half-laugh, and the next moment, he angles downward.

The house appears below in a blur, the lights from the windows streaking past as he descends fast and sharp. The landing is rougher than usual—feet hitting the balcony hard, wings flaring wide to catch the worst of it—but neither of you care. Not when his mouth crashes back onto yours the second you touch solid ground.

He walks you backward through the open doors, his hands already skimming beneath your dress—rough and hungry, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you first. The fabric slips higher with every step, until it's bunched around your waist and you’re moaning into his mouth, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like you might tear it clean off.

Instead, you reach behind him, fumbling at the slats that hold it together around his wings. The second you get the first one undone, he groans into your mouth, kissing you harder. His hands slip down your back, eager and sure, grasping for the zipper of your dress. 

You undo the next, and the next—moving fast, clumsy with urgency. By the time the last one comes loose, he’s all but panting against your jaw.

“Off,” you whisper, and he shrugs out of the shirt with a sound that’s damn near a growl.

He lifts you again like you weigh nothing, kissing you through the hall like he’s starving—stumbling a little, both of you half-drunk on each other and the leftover buzz of the night. His shirt falls somewhere by the wall, your heels were long since discarded on the veranda, and your dress slips off your shoulders as you reach the stairs, falling in a silky heap at your feet. You barely register the path, only the heat of his mouth on your throat, the scrape of his teeth at your collarbone, the low, broken noises he keeps making like he needs this—needs you.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you, and then you’re falling back onto the bed, and he’s following you down.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, cool sheets against your back—his body a furnace as it presses to yours, bracing on his forearms. 

His lips find yours again, slower now, but no less desperate. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way you sigh into every kiss like it’s the only one you’ll ever need.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking gently over your cheekbone as he leans in deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that feels far too practiced for two people who’ve never done this before. But you have, haven’t you? In glances. In moments stolen in shadows. In the soft touches that used to mean nothing—until they meant everything.

You arch into him when his hand skims down your side, across your ribs, ghosting the curve of your waist like he’s still not sure you’re real. Like he can’t believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, breath catching. “You’re so—”

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

You feel it in the way he lowers his head and wraps his lips around your nipple, warm and wet and slow. Your back arches off the bed, a gasp escaping you as he laps his tongue over the sensitive bud, sucking just hard enough to make your thighs clench around his hips.

You dig your fingers into his hair, letting your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut as his hands roam—one cupping your other breast, the other smoothing down the length of your thigh. He shifts, nudging your legs apart with his knee, sliding between them like he belongs there.

And gods, he does.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him—his dark hair falling into his face, his mouth wet and red from kissing you. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more wrecked.

“Az,” you whisper, breathless, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone.

He lifts his head. Meets your gaze.

The look in his eyes nearly undoes you—like he’s never seen you before, not like this. Like something old has cracked open between you and there’s no going back.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and raw. “Longer than I ever let myself admit.”

You don’t reply. Because his hands shake as they trail down your body, slipping under the waistband of your underwear. You barely have time to catch your breath before his fingers tug at the fabric, dragging it down your hips and past your thighs.

“Cauldron, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, the words thick with desire, as he works your underwear off your legs. His eyes trace the path of his hands like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “It took everything in me not to stare when you came down those stairs,” he says, voice rough. “You looked like you’d strung up the fucking stars just to watch them burn.”

Your heart gives a traitorous flutter. He was looking. He did care. And knowing that makes something inside you ache. 

You spread your legs for him, a silent invitation. His gaze flicks back up to yours, hungry and wide, a dark promise in his eyes. But it’s not just hunger in those eyes—there’s something deeper, more tender, that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

He shifts, dropping to his stomach, his wings spread out behind him like a dark, protective shield. You gasp as his lips brush the inside of your thigh, the heat of his breath against your skin making you shiver. He’s barely touched you, but your body is already aching, already craving more.

Azriel hums as he presses his mouth against the soft skin of your inner thigh, the sound a low vibration that runs straight through you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your thighs as he settles between them.

He can’t wait any longer.

His lips finally brush your folds, and you can’t help the needy whimper that escapes you. His mouth is hot—so hot, and as soon as his tongue flicks against you, your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his hair. He groans, low and satisfied, and the sound makes your chest tighten with need.

Azriel loves this—loves the taste of you, the way you tremble under his touch. It’s like he’s starving, and your pussy is the only thing that will ever fill him. He’s quick to bury his face deeper, his tongue lapping at your clit with the precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, each movement a studied perfection. You feel him groan into you, his entire body trembling, like he can’t get enough.

And then, he starts grinding.

You feel the slow, desperate rut of his hips against the mattress—like he needs the friction, like it hurts not to be inside you. His cock throbs against the fabric of his underwear, and still, he doesn’t stop. He moans into your cunt, a low, broken whine of a sound, his mouth locked to you like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. 

You reach for his hair, tugging him closer, hips moving of their own accord as you grind up into his face. He moans louder this time, his hands pressing down on your hips to hold you still just long enough for him to really feel you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling away just long enough to breathe, “you’re so fucking sweet. Can’t get enough.”

“Then don’t stop,” you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Az—just—”

You don’t need to finish. He’s already back, his mouth pressing against you again like a man starved, devouring you with everything he’s got. Every flick of his tongue against your clit, every deep stroke, sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, building you up higher and higher until you can’t think of anything else but him—his tongue, his mouth, his need.

He’s lost in you, his hips still grinding desperately into the mattress as he eats you out like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have. You grip his hair tighter, pulling him even closer, rocking your hips against his face, each thrust of his tongue like a promise.

And when you finally let go—when you shatter, your body arching against his mouth and your vision going white—he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, keeps licking and sucking until you’re trembling, until you’ve been pushed past every point of endurance.

He pulls away slowly, his face glistening with you, and his dark eyes are glowing—feral, hungry. His lips curl into a satisfied grin, like he just won the most important battle of his life.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice thick, and then he crawls back up your body, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

You can feel his chest press against yours, his heartbeat racing as fast as yours. He pulls away, and for a moment, you just look at each other—eyes locked, the world outside forgotten.

He brushes his nose against yours, a soft, lingering touch, and then lowers his forehead to yours. “You okay?” His voice is rough, still full of desire, but there’s a softness to it now, a care that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, breathless, a shaky laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. You reach for him, your hands shaking just a little as you trail your fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat under your fingertips. His eyes close as your hands move lower, tracing the defined lines of his stomach. You want to memorize him—want to feel him, every part of him.

As your fingers brush against the waistband of his underwear, your breath catches in your throat. The tension in the air thickens, and for a moment, you hesitate, fingers trembling just above the fabric. His body is taut beneath your touch, but his eyes remain locked on yours—expectant, but still tender.

You pull them down slowly, the fabric sliding off his hips, revealing him fully for the first time. Your gaze flicks downward.

And gods, he's big.

You blink, your heart racing as you take in the sight. The soft glow of the room highlights the sharp, defined lines of his body, but it's him, his cock, that makes your breath hitch. Thick and hard, standing at attention, the tip flushed with need, and for a moment, all you can do is stare, wide-eyed and speechless.

Your stomach does this strange flip, a mix of awe and anticipation. You’ve seen his body before—shirtless, after sparring, sweaty from training—but this... this is something else.

It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s bigger than you thought, intimidating in a way that makes your cheeks flush.

The heat between your legs flares, but it's not just lust—it’s the overwhelming realization of how much he desires you. The connection. The intimacy. This is your best friend, exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s more than you expected. Bigger, thicker than you thought—intimidating and... a little overwhelming.

A warmth starts to bloom in your chest, spreading down to the pit of your stomach. It’s not just lust, though there’s plenty of that. It’s a sort of quiet shock that makes your whole body feel electrified, like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d ever have the courage to leap into.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you finally look up at him. He looks nervous—his gaze flicking down, then back up again, like he’s unsure how you’ll react. “I can handle it, Az.”

He doesn’t answer at first, just watches you with those dark, stormy eyes, searching for something in yours. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

“Are you sure?” His voice is thick, strained. The weight of his hesitation settles between you. You nod, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“I’m sure,” you breathe out. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

A shudder runs through him at your words, but he doesn’t move to rush it. Instead, he leans down, placing a soft kiss to your lips, his hand gently cradling your face as he deepens the kiss, his tongue coaxing and tender. He pulls back, his eyes searching yours again.

“I’ll never rush you, okay? Anything—you let me know,” he says, his voice low and filled with such sincerity that it makes your chest tighten. He slowly begins to ease himself between your legs, the tip of his cock nudging against you.

It’s everything you imagined and more—every inch of him solid and warm, the weight of him just right as he finally pushes into you. The stretch is slow, controlled, and you wince slightly at the initial burn, but it fades quickly as he inches in deeper, his hands gentle on your hips. He pauses once he's fully seated inside, both of you panting, your body adjusting to the sensation.

Azriel’s breath is ragged as he pulls back slightly, then presses in again—slow, deliberate, giving you time to adjust. “Fuck, you feel so good, (y/n),” he groans, his voice thick with desire.

You feel him everywhere, his every movement slow and deliberate, the depth of his tenderness filling you in ways you never expected. But as the heat builds in your belly, a need rises in you too—a need for him to give in, to let go, to stop holding back.

“I need more, Az,” you whisper. “Please.”

His eyes lock onto yours, a mixture of conflict and desire flickering across his features. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, his voice rough, but you can see the way his hands grip the bed, his muscles straining as he tries to hold back.

You reach up, hands sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer to kiss him again, more urgently this time. “I said I’m sure,” you whisper against his lips, fingers brushing the edge of his wing.

And that’s all it takes. He straightens suddenly, hands sliding down to grip your waist as he begins to move, his thrusts steady and sure. He’s still gentle, his rhythm slow but building in intensity with every movement. His eyes never leave yours, and in them, you see the same fierce desire mirrored back at you, mixed with something deeper—something softer.

Each stroke is powerful as he drives into you with growing urgency. You moan, fingers digging into his biceps, your body arching to meet every snap of his hips. 

“Azriel,” you gasp, your nails scraping down his back as the pleasure begins to build inside you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a breathless growl as he thrusts harder, the force of him filling you completely. “Always got you.”

The heat builds fast, that deep, aching tension curling tighter with every thrust, stoking the fire within you. His hands find your hips, fingers curling hard into the flesh—gripping you like he’s claiming you, like he can’t bear to let go—as he pulls you onto him again and again. He angles his movements just right, drinking in every sound you make and relishing each one more than the last. 

His movements are still slow, deliberate, but there's a hunger there now—something primal in the way he grips you, the way he pulls you closer, urging you to take more of him.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, desperate for more, for him to push you over the edge.

Azriel responds with a low, hungry groan, his thrusts becoming a little quicker, a little harder. He can feel the way your body trembles beneath him, the way you react to him. He loves it, loves knowing that he’s the one who’s breaking through all the walls, all the restraint you both held before.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, his voice rough with need, words spilling out in a rush as he braces himself over you. His forearms cage you in, hands on either side of your face, cradling your jaw, holding you there like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. He thrusts deeper, pushing you further into the mattress, and the room seems to spin. Your world narrows to just the two of you, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

Your breath hitches as you feel yourself tightening around him, your body winding up with a force that threatens to snap. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, the pleasure building inside you, getting closer, almost overwhelming.

“Az, I’m—” you choke out, unable to finish the sentence as the pressure inside you becomes almost unbearable.

“Let go, baby,” he says, low and raspy, urging you on. “Let me feel you.”

You never thought you’d hear him like this, hoarse and hungry and just a little wrecked, and fuck, it’s the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life.

And then, it happens—the release hits you like a wave, washing over you, taking over every part of you. You cry out his name, your body trembling as your nails scrape down his back once more.

Azriel groans your name, the sound raw and desperate, and as your body contracts around him, his thrusts falter for a moment before he loses himself too, the intensity of the moment taking him to the edge.

He buries himself deep with a guttural moan—low and wrecked, like the sound’s been punched out of him—his breath hitching, hips stuttering as he spills into you, body trembling with the force of it. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck—”

You’re both still breathing hard when he suddenly stills, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wide. 

“Shit,” he pants. “I didn’t even ask—are you on the tonic? I’m so sorry, I just—fuck I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to—”

You laugh, breathless. “Az, I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He exhales shakily. “Okay. Good. Fuck, good… Just—yeah. Okay.”

For a moment, all there is is the sound of your breathing, the feel of him against you, and the pulse of your hearts racing together. You both just stare at each other for a moment, trying to catch your breath, the weight of everything hanging between you in the most beautiful, unspoken way.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, still hovering over you, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

You nod, your fingers gently tracing his jawline. “More than okay,” you whisper, your voice still breathless, a contented smile tugging at your lips.

Azriel presses a kiss to your forehead and slips out, easing onto the bed and tugging you with him until your head rests on his chest, your body draped over his. One arm wraps around your waist, and his wings wrap around you both like a blanket. 

You lie there in silence, skin sticky with sweat, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out. You’d deal with everything in the morning—whatever this was now, whatever it meant. You’d figure out what to say to Mor, to Cassian, to Feyre and Rhysand. But for now, you just press your face into Azriel’s chest and let yourself rest, wrapped in him, wrapped in this.

[seaweef]

SO , SO NOISY !!

synopis. he just wont shut up, wont he? i guess we'll have to fix this issue...

feat. choso, nanami, gojo

cw. smut, fem!reader, riding, gagging, sex in potentially public areas ( reader is afraid they might get caught ), satoru being a bitch

weefnote. i have NOT reviewed for my test but writing this instead of studying was so worth it ALSO PLEASE REBLOG + COMMENT I LOVE LIKES BUT REBLOGS AND COMMENTS HAVE MY HEART

# — CHOSO

"o-oh, ngh, fuck..." choso whimpers, his nails digging crescents into your hips, mesmerized by how his cock gets swallowed whole by that pretty pussy of yours as you snap down on him. "s-so good, haah,"

"choso, shh, we'll get caught..." you drawl while dragging a finger down his handsome button nose, watching as he scrunches his face up at the ticklish feather light touch, in contrast to the hypnotic smack of your hips against his. your words fall upon deaf ears, he makes that clear when you press that finger against his glossy, parted lips in an attempt to shush him, but to no avail.

sighing, you halt your movement. he stammers, and you get a good look of those soft eyes and the tears hanging from his dark lashes. "baby, w-why'd you stop?" he sounds so upset, it makes you giggle into your fist. just as he's about to start whining again, you shove the same pair of lace panties you had been wearing earlier into his mouth. "mgh-!?"

you feel his cock twitch inside you while you smile as if youre innocent. "better."

he lets out a broken moan into the fabric as you slam yourself back on his cock. the sight was heavenly, drool spilling out from the corner of his mouth as his eyes roll back.

yeah, you should definitely do that more often.

# — NANAMI

kento is often quiet during sex, a few occasional groans here and there. but today...

"oh, sweetheart," hes throwing his head back, his once neat hair all disheveled and his eyelids heavy. hes like an animal, ramming into you with no restraints whatsoever as youre scrambling to find something to grab on, fingernails scratching desperately at the wood of his desk. papers fly everywhere, but thats a problem for later. "hngh, k-ken'! t-they'll, ooh, hear us!"

"why? dont want them to- shit, dont want them to hear how good your husband's fucking you?"

"i-its not thahaat, but- keeen!"

"fuck..." he looks down at the sight, the creamy white ring forming around the base of his cock, and he hisses. hes well aware how noisy he must be, so one hand leaves your arched back, pulling his tie to bite on it.

you look back, pussy tightening at what you see, and he all but moans.

"l-love you, love you so much," his voice is muffled, but you bury your face into the crook of your elbow while sniffling. "i- hah- love you too,"

and all hell breaks loose.

# — GOJO

"yeaaah, let me use this sexy cunt," satoru drawls out his words annoyingly, annoyingly enough that you register it through how deep he was in you right now.

"shut the fuck up, you're s-ah, so noisy," you seethe. hes always like this when in charge, and he clearly enjoy the power he holds at times like these, when hes on top of you, hands on the back of your knees and folding you back.

he laughs, licking his lips afterwards. "yeah?" and his face is suddenly so close to yours. "whatcha gonna do if i dont? make me, sweetie."

you (try to) roll your eyes at the challenge, a shaky hand extending to grab at his hair, and the other hand-

"whatre you-?"

you push two fingers into his mouth, pressing them against his tongue. for a moment hes hesitant, but then his blue eyes crinkle at the sides, and he swirls his tongue around your fingertips.

"fhuuck," you mewl, his stupid handsome face somehow getting you even wetter and tighter than you already were, his cock throbbing.

when you take your fingers out of his mouth, a string of salive connects them to his lips, and he grins. "wow, that was hot."

before you can even reply, he pulls your own hand towards your neglected clit and guides you to rub yourself with the same fingers that were in his mouth earlier.

as you moan, he flashes a smug smile. "whos the noisy one now?"

[backtothefanfiction]

Sleep Talking | Joaquin Torres

Summary; Joaquin could never keep a secret.

Warnings: none, this is all fluff

A/N: I couldn’t sleep until I’d put something out so yeah, this is just a real quick short before bed kind of story. I’ll get back on my asks/wips/part 2s of stuff tomorrow. For now, enjoy this. Also sorry I haven’t done tags it’s late and I’m tired so hope this finds you fine.

You woke unable to breathe. “Ouch, Joaquin,” you grumbled as your mind and body slowly dragged itself from sleep.

“Huh?” He grumbled sleepily.

“Baby, you’re squishing me.”

“What?” he groaned, but you could tell he was only half awake.

“Roll over. You’re squishing me. And you’re making me feel like I’m sleeping with a freaking radiator. Jeez.” you moaned as he shifted slightly and you truly felt how stifling it had become under the covers.

“It’s not me. It’s you,” he sleepily grumbled. You didn’t even have a chance to respond before he grumbled another response. “No.” he said with a sigh as he rolled back over onto his back on his pillow. “It was you. I know you ate my sandwich.” he mumbled.

Sandwich? What was he- ohhh, he’s sleep talking.

You chuckled to yourself as you rolled over onto your side to watch him sleep. Every now and again his lips would silently move to talk again, but it was mostly silent. You were just about to close your eyes and go back to sleep when you heard the words, “Because I’m going to marry her.”

There was a pause as if he was listening to someone else speak before he said, “What do you mean who? Y/N who else. I’ve already got the ring. I’ve been keeping it in my underwear drawer for weeks now.”

You were suddenly wide awake. You didn’t know if it was just the dream or if there was some actual truth to it and his subconscious was bleeding through. But there was one thing for sure, you weren’t going back to sleep until you knew for sure.

You tried to be as quiet as you possibly could as you crept out of bed, reaching for your phone and turning on the torch. Your feet padded quietly across the floor as Joaquin continued to let out small little murmurs. Every tiny shift you made to open the drawer sounded like thunder in your ears and you desperately hoped he wouldn’t wake up and catch you in the act. You gave one last quick tug on the old dresser drawer and there it was. Barely concealed by a pair of underpants, a square blue box.

You stood frozen in agony as you warred with yourself over what to do. Did you look and ruin the surprise completely or did you pretend you didn’t know it was there and climb back into bed. But you couldn’t help it. Now you knew of its existence, it was going to be burning a hole in the back of your head. You just wanted to be sure he picked a good ring, you tried to reason with yourself. You could be a good actress. You could still look surprised. You tried to rationalise as your fingers pulled out the velvet box. I mean he’s asleep, he’s not gonna know. You thought.

“Baby? What are you doing?” Joaquin asked, his voice hoarse with sleep. You looked at him guiltily. This was no sleep talking, he was well and truly awake now, sitting upright in bed as his eyes squinted, trying to adjust to the light of your torch in the dim room. That’s when he looked at your hands. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed. “Baby, I- wait, how did you-“ he paused as you continued to stand at the end of the bed frozen. Then he realised. “I was sleep talking.”

“Yes.” you finally said softly.

He groaned in frustration. “My mom said I could never keep a secret. I just wished for once I could have kept this one.”

“It’s alright,” you said.

“Did you look?” he asked.

“Not yet.” you replied. Your answer brought a soft smile to his face and he silently beckoned you over to sit with him.

“You know, I was waiting to do this on that trip to New York we were gonna take in a couple of weeks.” he began to explain, “but I guess this is good too.” Although it was dark in the room, you could tell he was beginning to blush as he took the box from your fingers.

“Y/N,” he said as his fingers deftly removed the ring from the box before he set it to one side. He tucked the ring into his fingers so you couldn’t see it just yet before he shuffled closer to you to continue his speech. “I have been in love with you from the minute I laid eyes on you. You can ask any of the boys, the second I saw you I said, that’s her, that’s the girl I’m going to marry. And of course they didn’t believe me, but I knew. You’ve been there with me for everything. Every hard day. Every promotion. You were always there to be my light and cheer me on.” he said, his voice shaking slightly with nerves. “You make every single day of my life, so much brighter and I don’t ever want to think of a day when you don’t wake up by my side. Y/N, will you do me, the greatest honour of my whole life,” he said, finally holding out the ring to you. “Will you marry me?”

It may have been 4am. It may have been in the dark of the night and extremely unconventional, but it was Joaquin. And you were always going to say yes to Joaquin.

[midnite-c6]

Omg so I just LOVED the fics that you wrote about thanos and namgyu soo I wanted to ask can you like write more fics about them in like threesome degrading tf out of us so much that we cannot even think of anything or maybe like a second part for timid!reader THAT ONE WAS AMAZING!!!! keep up w your work btw its really good 😭🙏🏻

help thank you😭😭 honestly i love writing abt them i jus.. meow...

thanos & nam-gyu imagine pt. 4!! 🤤

warnings: 18+ DARK content, drugging, dubcon (read at ur own riskk!!)

they both believe you can't fight for yourself since you're so quiet, so they do their best to keep you safe!! they're so kind despite their nature!! you think to urself..., and despite the way they used your body after the six legged race, you still stick with them since they helped you in mingle too!! honestly, thanos and nam-gyu would've thought you'd be getting away from them after that incident, so by you staying, they've confirmed they've got you right in their trap!!

thanos looks up from his food, his eyes lighting up when he sees you "señorita?" he tilts his head, "i don't have any other group to eat with.." you say, looking down at your feet, "nooo! i know what it is!" he nudges nam-gyu's shoulder, "you're here for more aren't you?" he says with that smirk again, dramatically gasping. "what..no.." you weren't like that, you swear! nam-gyu laughed "shit, she's just using our bodies, man!" you quickly shake your head "no!" nam-gyu tilts his head "when did you learn to say no?" thanos stands up, getting closer to you, "listen here, beautiful, we'll do whatever you want, sure.. you're the one in-charge." he smiled 'innocently', leaning in to whisper in your ear "c'mere after lights out, kay?"

nsfw below.. (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)/

"you really are a fucking whore." thanos quietly whispers into your ear as he slams in and out of you, your back pressed against his chest, your moans being muffled by his hand, it was a good thing thanos' bed was closer to the ground and that the players above him were already dead, but you know the other players could still hear the faint squeaking of his mattress. "of course you'd listen like a slut, coming here, infact, you were excited for this. hmm?" why DID you go there anyway? ..maybe it did feel good? but poor you! his thrusts weren't giving you any mercy at all.

"i bet.. you don't have any shame at all. you're quietness is just an act.." nam-gyu whispered aswell, with his body infront of you, his hands exploring every inch of your skin, painfully pinching your nipples and biting your neck as you rub your hand in and out of his cock. "you're practically begging for it." "n-n.." you couldn't speak back because of that purple-haired addict's hand!

"wait.. fuuuck, you're sucking me in like crazy, you're gonna cut my dick off, god." thanos whined, putting in two fingers inside your mouth, the taste of his fingers all over your tongue.

"y'knoww.. so fucking funny how she's volunteered to be our personal ..stress toy." nam-gyu's hand find it's way to thanos' necklace filled with ecstacy, he grabs a pill, his attention back on you "we truly thank you for that.. are you proud of your services, freak?" he says mockingly just to spite you, his other hand grabs thanos' hand muffling your mouth. "let go, dude." "she's gonna scream," "nah, nah, she won't. she doesn't wanna die does she?" you whined, shaking your head. "good, slut." nam-gyu smiled, taking the pill he had in his hand and putting it in his mouth. thanos' takes off his hand, his middle and ring finger covered in your saliva as he now places it on your clit, rubbing sloppily. and before you could make any noise, nam-gyu slams his mouth against yours, making you swallow the pill of ecstacy. his tongue tasting your mouth, swallowing each moan escaping your lips. nam-gyu pulls away from your mouth, forcing it to open just to spit inside.

with all the pleasure they were giving despite the mean words, you camee:( your legs were shaking like crazy! "hey! no fair, bitch! i didn't get to cum yet." thanos was frustrated, yet you whimpered in response, you didn't mean to cum!!. "but.. just means we'll be here for muuuuch longer, baby. ya' can't complain, you know you're a whore who can't live without us." thanos didn't lie, your cunt was throbbing and overstimulated by both of their cocks in and out of you. he also didn't lie about how you wouldn't be alive without them, it's true, they saved you anyway, guess you gotta thank them for keeping you safe. ♡

this is pretty long, im srry guyss!! only putting in what my mind is thinking of atm AHHAAH 3somes are so hard to write 😭😭😿🙏🏻

[calebs-spouse]

Sylus sits you in his lap to finger you.

The two of you had just come back from a nice, romantic dinner. You had decided to get all dolled up in a little black dress with your hair pinned up. Sylus was donning a dark red dress shirt, neatly tucked into a pair of well-fitting black trousers. Very well fitting. His ass and thighs looked incredible.

Upon arrival back to your apartment, Sylus sat down on the couch, eyeing you. He had been doing it all night, frankly. His intense red eyes boring into your soul, undressing you throughout that whole dinner. You could feel it.

His gaze gave you goosebumps, your previously smooth skin now littered with them. You couldn’t tell what was on his mind— As if that was new— It was Sylus. Unless he told you, you never knew what that man was thinking.

The silence in the apartment was finally broken by his gravely voice. “Come, Kitten.” He ordered, a strong hand patting between his thighs that were manspread confidently across the couch.

You didn’t respond. Your body did. As if on autopilot, your heels clicked against the faux wood flooring, directly to his lap.

“Yes?” You asked, standing between his legs. “You need to give me a bit more than that.” You tilted your head, loose strands of hair falling out of the way and accidentally giving him a clear view of your unmarked neck.

“Sit. I promise I dont bite.” His voice was filled with this tantalizing, teasing tone. Almost entrancing.

And you did— turning around so your back was to his chest— you slotted yourself between his thighs. They now bracketed your hips, a strong hand of his slung across your waist to keep you in place.

“How was the dinner, Kitten? Did you enjoy yourself?” He asked so casually, the exact opposite of his current actions. His free hand made its way between your legs, spreading them wide for him. The strong hand once slung across your waist now holding one of your knees to keep them open.

In your confusion, you started to answer. “Of course, my love. It was really— Ah-“

Your breath caught in your throat, his long fingers running along the seams of your underwear.

“Continue. You weren’t done.” He reminds you, his voice like velvet and directly in your ear.

“Um.” You took a moment to gather your thoughts. “Right. Dinner was really— Hhh-“ A sharp, breath hitching whimper flies from your throat. Interrupted once more by Sylus. His fingers now rubbing you directly through your panties, making slow, drawn out circles with four of his fingers against your heat.

You couldn’t help the way your body reacted to him. You were already soaked. And he knew it too. A smug, quiet laugh like bass in your ear from behind you.

“What’s the matter, Sweetie? Cat got your tongue?”

The dirtiest thing about all of this was how casual Sylus was about the whole ordeal, not even acknowledging the fact that his hand was between your legs. Teasing you. Making you desperate.

And you knew he didn’t want you to acknowledge it either.

“No, I’m fine.” You lied, having no choice but to play along. Anything to keep him going. “Was really good. So— Mhmm- Good—“

A slender, ringed finger pushed past your underwear and slid itself inside of you. Your head lulled back, now resting on Sylus’s broad shoulder as he started pumping it in and out of you. Slowly.

His cologne was now more prevalent than ever to you. Since you were unable to look at his face, you clung to anything about him you could sense. And the masculine, hypnotizing scent was what you grabbed onto.

“Sylus-“ You whined, your eyes firmly shut as he dipped another long finger into you, increasing his pace.

You were already so, desperately wound up. You could feel your body tensing up in anticipation of an orgasm. God, how was it so easy for him?

“What do you need, Kitten? Tell me.” His voice was like a siren’s song. So smooth and soothing and sexy.

“Keep going, please. Im gonna—“ Your voice gave out as a long moan replaced your words, your body shuddering as his fingers hammered into you, your slick dripping between your thighs and onto the couch.

The tension in your abdomen broke, head soaring into a fuzzy, euphoric state as your vision blurred. Your back arched off of Sylus’s chest, head resting on his shoulder.

“That’s it. Such a good little one.” He encouraged as you came, his hand that was holding your knee now across your chest to hold you as you come down. Preventing you from falling forward.

It took you a solid moment to reconnect with reality. Standing up, you noticed the mess you left on the couch cushion. “Oh my god..” You muttered, slightly embarrassed.

“I’ve got it.” Sylus chuckled, pulling your dress back down for you and planting a kiss on the top of your head. “Meet me in the bedroom.” His eyes pointed towards the doorway. “Oh. Okay. Sure-“ You shuffled away quickly towards the bedroom, knowing exactly what mood Sylus was in.

And that meant he certainly wasnt done.

————————————————————

(I take requests. Submit in ask box)

[eraserbread]

satoru finally comes home, and he's pissed. its a good thing his husband, suguru, has a plan. catch up on parts 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. <3

satoru bursts through the door like law enforcement, dropping his work tote and reaching for the button on his dark pants. he’s home twenty minutes after he’s supposed to, deciding grading essays in his empty lecture hall was better than risking humiliation by running to his car with a hard-on. the dullness of reading the same shit over and over really has a tendency to turn him off, he’s just glad it worked in his favor this time.

“suguru geto!” he calls into the home, face beet red and shoes still on as he marches to their office. in the hallway, he can hear you loud and clear — crying and sniffling backed by the glorious noise of geto’s shaking, dominant voice.

“take it, baby — yeah. oh, don’t run away from me.”

suguru’s hand find the bulk of your hair, pulling it back to pierce you further on his cock. just like you wanted — he’s not showing any mercy.

it’s what satoru sees when he pushes open the door, flushed and breathing heavy when his pretty blue eyes scan the scene in front of him. it’s damning, god — he’s so hard.

you’re too fucked to notice his presence, but suguru does. he locks in on it immediately, but you didn’t have to know that. he wonders how long he can milk it.

so, he presses his pointer finger to his lips as he and his husband lock eyes.

“do-don’t stop, god, mm.” you cry, forearms wet with tears and body overspent and shaking. you still want him — you need him to keep fucking you like this, driving you into the hard edge of his desk as he coaxes your fourth orgasm out of your body. “sugu, baby, please—”

“i hear you, my dear.” suguru leans down, kissing over your ear and the sensitive skin behind it. he’s never seen you in such a state during sex, he assumes it’s the harshness of his hips slapping over your reddened, bruising ass that's making you so emotional. he should feel guilty, yet all he feels when he looks at you is insurmountable, devouring lust. he'd definitely dream about you tonight.

satoru watches for a second, trying to find his head as he scans from your wrecked body, to his husbands sweaty one. suguru wanted him quiet, but he wants to say something — anything.

he wants to see your perfect face screw up in shame at the thought of him seeing you like this.

when suguru sits back up, it’s with a clouded look in his eyes. he nods satoru over, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to gain his composure. he has an idea, but satoru could so easily fuck it up that he debates throwing it away.

he stops fucking you for a second, keeping his palm on the back of your head, so he can press your face into the desk.

then, staring right at his husband, motionless in the doorway, he says: "i know baby, my dear. but, i have to grab my phone so i can send satoru a video of you cumming for the fourth time, today." he whispers silky sweet in your ear. you can see him leaning next to you when you blink open your weary eyes, and the sight makes a stupid, little smile tug at the corners.

geto - his sweet familiarity, his long hair cascading in sweaty waves over his shoulder, and his sincere, gentle, dark stare.

it's like you've died and gone to heaven.

"are you God?"

gojo fucking cracks a laugh in the doorway, ducking out so he can control himself in time. glancing up at him shortly, suguru glares, then looks back at you so softly with that close-eyes, close-lipped little smile that fucking melts you every single time. in your fucked state, it's like church bells are ringing against his sensitive, astute demeanor. then, he responds like an angel - "nope, just your suguru."

all you can say is, "please... why'd you stop?"

he chuckles sweetly, rubbing your lids when your eyes drift shut. you miss his warmth behind you - you were so close.

you can't see it, but once satoru's composed, suguru nods him into the room. then, he stands up straight, reaching for his phone next to you so the act is believable.

they watch each other, eye contact never once faltering until gojo's behind you. so much is said within those few seconds and the room is too quiet, you feel like a dumbass still whining loosely and muttering suguru's name.

then, he steps away, and you're cold again. you can still feel suguru's hand trailing over your body as he steps behind you again, probably opening his camera and getting ready to fuck you senseless again. that's what you want -- but he had other plans.

behind you, gojo takes the spot suguru once held, pants already loose and barely hanging on his thigh as he jerks himself off hungrily. he knows exactly what his husband is pulling, so he does try to make it believable. he has to work and warm himself up, even spitting in his palm to make the flushed tip of his pretty, long cock glisten against your whiny cunt.

"gonna fuck you so good, my baby. wanna make you scream my name so gojo can see just how greedy you are for my cock." he fucking purrs in satoru's ear, just loud enough to make you think he's talking to you. he's trailing hands across gojo's covered chest, kissing across and over his ear.

"you make me crazy..." its the first thing satoru is whispering to him, already fucked off of residuals.

"what are you waiting for? you see how her cunt is fluttering for you? begging you so hard, baby. i wanna see you fuck her sooo bad."

then, you're whining against wet wood as what you think is suguru's warm cock slips inside of you like it just belongs. for some reason, it's harder to take this time - your breath catches in your throat, tearing out little whines and pleas for help, or more. just jibberish -- you fucking love him.

satoru fucks you like only he can, agile, quick thrusts knocking you deeper into the desk and driving you crazy. geto's holding onto him from behind like a stuffed animal, digging his fingers in the lanky muscle so he can catch some friction on his spent cock everytime satoru pulls out of you.

if suguru was merciless, satoru was evil. he's fucking you like a toy, digging his fingers so deep into the flesh in your hips that you'd be bruised there, too. it's so mean, but so hot, you can't help that you cum as soon as he kisses over your g-spot.

this time is the last, you can tell when your vision completely wipes out with tremors and baseless begs and more tears. they've never, ever fucked you like this, and if you had the strength to look over your shoulder, you would see gojo's eyes twitching and rolling back in his head as you tighten and push around him.

it's so fucking hot, he wants to praise you. he needs you to know that you're so perfect and sexy and so naughty, but he loves it. he loves when you fuck with suguru and loves when you fuck with him, too. he never wants you to stop.

then, he takes your limp body, closing his hand around the base of your shoulder and flipping you over so you can really see who’s fucking you. it doesn't even register that it's not suguru anymore until you're blinking open your eyes to stare into his harsh, blue stare.

you still don't understand. "s-sa...toru..?"

over his shoulder and big arms crossed over his chest, suguru smirks, licking over his husband's jawline as he still works you into oblivion.

their stares are so real and mean and fucking starved for you. you love it when they're showing affection to each other and you simultaneously, but you're too fucked to appreciate it, right now.

all you can do is draw a lazy, limp smile when you feel satoru press you down and fill you to the brim with his seed he's been keeping for you all day. there's barely any more room in your womb, so it spills out, making a filthy, intertwined mess of the three of you as it drips out on your legs and geto's desk.

"so..." you try to speak, but you just can't.

"...two 're so pretty."

[ohnogemini]

Do No Harm

Hello - its Gem again ✧⭑๋ I wrote this fic about 6 months ago when I was in a weird place and just now got around to edit it and make it presentable. I hope you enjoy ♡⊹

✶ Word Count: 19k (sorry)

★ Genre: !afab reader x Bang Chan

✹ Rating: Explicit 18+ Minors Do Not Enter

❀ Comments: Tropes used: friends to lovers. Mentions of anxiety, depression. Hurt/Comfort. Mentions of Ex husband (not skz). Self deprecation. Slow to smut but it gets there. Unprotected consensual sex ; some cursing ; very light d/s dynamics. Please let me know if I left out any big TW/CW.

‎‎₊˚⊹ 𐦍༘⋆₊ ⊹

Nothing could have prepared you for the deep wave of nausea that hits you. The week had moved fast, too fast for your mind to process what occurred. Nothing is particularly shocking about the events; you knew it was coming. Bolting awake without an alarm on Saturday morning, firm, bright light fighting its way through your dark blue curtains, you find yourself lightly gasping and clawing at the damp sheet that’s covering your half naked frame.

Alone. Truly alone, again.

Yanking the sheet off, you rush into your bathroom and flip on the icy water from the sink faucet. The soft churning of the water and its cool contents hitting the porcelain pulling your focus from the pit in your stomach. You pull your hair into a quick bun at the back of your head with the hair tie sitting to your right, still on the counter from a few nights earlier, and stick your wrists in succession under the water, shocking your system into rebooting. You signed the divorce papers late Tuesday evening. Work was busy enough that you hadn’t had a chance to sit and think about it during the day. Two emergency surgeries this week: a large German Shepherd with a broken femur and a young cat struggling to birth on her own. Both were successful, and you’re ashamed to admit that if they were not, you’re unsure how you would have been able to deal with it. By night you were so exhausted from your early mornings that a glass of wine and a plate stacked with an assortment of veggies, cheese and deli meat was all you could muster before falling asleep in bed or on your large, too comfortable couch. TV turned loud enough to drown out your thoughts but quiet enough to lull you to sleep.

The freezing water brings your attention forward and you inhale deeply. A soft shake cascading down your spine as the breath leaves your lungs. Glancing up at yourself now would be a mistake. Instead, you’re softly pushing the tap off, placing your hands on the cool countertop and shutting your eyes to reel your breathing back in.

As if on cue, you hear your phone with its unsettling, cheery ring going off in your bedroom. Not the time, you think to yourself. The phone continues its lively tune until whoever is caught on the other end goes to voicemail. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message. However, the phone barely stops its melody before it starts again.

Aggravation seeps into limbs. How dare someone interrupt my panic? My pain? This moment is for you alone. No one else needs to see or hear how pathetic you feel right now. But what if they can help? It wouldn’t hurt for them to try. But it would hurt. It would hurt you for them to try and fail. Knowing it was foolish for the attempt. It would hurt them to give their all in sweet sincerity just for you to still be a pile of lost puzzle pieces at their feet by the end. You push off the sink and trail your way around the bed to your nightstand, wiping the water from your wrists and hands on your sleep shirt as you reach for your still ringing phone. The contact is there, lit plainly. As is the clock above it that reads 11:38 AM. A rush of guilt, or denial pinches your nose and brows together. You rub your eyes, press the green button, and give yourself a few seconds before lifting the device up to your ear. “Hey,” you try to conceal the shakiness, but anyone with ears can hear it. “Hey Bug, sorry I called you twice, but this is time sensitive. Are you busy right now?” his voice is strained also but nowhere near the same edge as yours. “No. I was just cleaning the bathroom.” A harmless lie. It will make sense of the tiredness in your voice.

“I thought you only cleaned on Sundays?” He’s not pushing, just a genuine question. Of course he remembers that. You roll your eyes slightly. “I spilled some coffee on the floor yesterday morning and didn’t have time to properly clean it. Sue me for not wanting sticky feet.” You’re unsure why you continue the lie. You could have easily just brushed past it and moved on. Deceit never did feel good on you, but in this moment, your endorphins have come down from your rude awakening and the embarrassment is pushing you to cover it up. “Anyways Chris, what’s up?” Just divert it. You can hear a soft laugh from his end. He seems nervous, and you’re not sure why he is but you’re also nervous. You hope your emotions aren’t seeping through the phone. “Well, I know this is really last minute and I know you take your weekends of rest very seriously, but I was invited to my sister’s opening today, and of course I want to support her, but I’m in one of those… ya’know, moods. I was hoping you could come with me so I can show face and also have you as my trusty support to help get me out of conversations I can’t exactly stomach right now.” His words are rushed and straightforward. Laced with ragged breaths and a few uncomfortable fake laughs. You know this feeling all too well. A yielding plea of someone to hold your hand through something so small and mundane to most but overwhelming and suffocating to others.

You pull the phone far away from your face again to take a long-tremored breath. You didn’t mention to him on purpose that Alex and you signed the divorce papers this week. You know he’d worry about you and at the moment you can’t fathom having his soft eyes and voice trained on you. You’re certain he would have done his best not to make a big deal out of it at your wishes, but his character is not lost on you. “What time is it?” you bring the phone back and ask him. “Right now? Uh, it’s almost noon?” he sounds confused. “No Chris, the event. What time is the event? I haven’t showered today, and I need to know what style to dress in.” You sound exasperated but it’s not at him. “OH! So, you’ll come, yeah? It’s at 1pm. It’s casual and I’ve already gotten ready if you want me to come over and help you pick something out? I figured I’d pick you up anyway. Seeing as you’re doing me a favor and all…” “No no, that’s alright. Just picking me up is fine. Is noon too early for a glass of wine? Don’t answer that. I’ll, uh, just get ready right now and I’ll see you in 40?” You lightened your tone and hope he picks up that you’re fine. He is anywhere far from a burden, and you trust he knows that. “Okay perfect, see you soon. And Y/N? Thank you again. I really do appreciate it…” His voice is soft and deep. Softer than at the beginning of the convo, and the sweetness in it creeps down your chest, willing your heart to unfreeze. Even just for a moment. You nod, brush off his niceties, quickly say your goodbyes and hang up, tossing the phone on your bed. Forty minutes is not nearly enough time to tighten all the red string that’s holding together your expressions or emotions, but you’ll just have to make do. He would do the same for you in a heartbeat. What you do have time for is a glass of wine, a bit of cheese and bread, and a shower.

You pull out a freshly ironed pair of black high waisted trousers, a black belt with a gold buckle, a crisp white crop shirt and a black princess vest style top with ties in the front, paired with black boots. The outfit sits splayed out on your bed, and you sigh, rubbing your face with one hand. The fit is as dark and depressed as you. It's not worth rethinking. What is worth it is the glass of wine you pour and bring into the shower with you. Placing it in your designated ‘wine only’ spot on the top rack of your shampoo holder. You hopped into the shower before the water was a decent temperature, so you back yourself against the tile, letting the water rush in front of you with your head leaned back and eyes closed. Can’t let him see your pain today. It’s a fair assumption to think he might already know. Heard from an acquaintance about the week’s events. People never know how to keep their mouths shut especially when talking about things they have nothing to do with. Or worse, everything to do with. The alarm you set earlier on your phone to give you a timing warning goes off. You scramble a still dry hand out the side of your shower curtain and swipe the off button. Shit, 20 minutes. Truly no time to overthink now. The expensive wine in your cup doesn’t deserve this but you down the rest in one gulp and rush through washing yourself, hoping your hair has the decency to dry nicely on your head without having time to style it properly. By the time you’re dressed, you know he’ll be arriving any minute. Shoot him a quick text saying the door is open and start your make up. He can wait, but the bags under your eyes and the paleness of your skin needs to be dealt with. You hear the front door creak open, “Heyyyyy, I’m here!”

“Just a minute, I’ll be right out!” you yell back. One final swipe of a light mauve lipstick to your lips and a glance at yourself in the long mirror on your bathroom door. One could say you look nice, fresh and ready for the day. However, if they took the time to look in your eyes, like really look into your eyes, they would notice otherwise. As you step out into the living room, he is sat in one of your large emerald armchairs scrolling idlily on his phone, one arm leaned against his knee with his head resting in his palm. His eyes bolt up at once upon you entering, and he stands just as fast. “I’ll go change,” you quip out before turning to head back to your room, but before you can fully turn around one of his strong hands gently catches your arm and pulls you back to look at him. “What? Nooo, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter. You look nice, and I don’t think anyone will care or notice.” He has a big, dimpled smile on his face. You blink a few times to stomach the immediate ease it brings you. You wiggle your arm free and step back to look him up and down, gesturing wildly at him and yourself. “Chris, we are basically matching head to toe.”

He's wearing fitted black slacks with a belt, a fresh white tee with a black button up shirt open and black boots. Topped with one of his favorite hats. It couldn’t be any more identical, but his buckle is silver to match the chain bracelet that sits delicately on his wrist. “I promise you its fine. Our plan is to stay incognito as much as possible. Besides, we’re going to be late.” And before you have time to protest again, he pulls your purse off the hook and opens the door, nodding for you to exit. “You look great. It would be a shame to let that outfit go to waste.” His smile dons his teeth this time, and you can’t help but give him a small smile back while slightly rolling your eyes. “Fine, okay. I hope they have good snacks there.” You grab your purse from him and walk through the door, trusting him to turn the locks on the inside before he shuts it.

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The opening went smoothly. A couple rushed glances from him telling you he was at his limit with a certain interaction that you solved deftly with a “Sorry to interrupt, Chris can you show me where the restrooms are?” or “Oh I left my phone in your car, would you mind grabbing it for me? I’m expecting an important phone call.” Giving him reprieve from unwanted questions. He spent a quiet moment with his sister towards the end which left you at a deserted snack table munching on decadent squares of brownies, and crackers perfectly arranged with soft cheese and prosciutto, garnished with a sort of pickled onion. A quiet moment for yourself. You spent your time here closely following his movements and body language. Picking up on the little things people usually wouldn’t notice. His fingers fidgeting with his bracelet. A short shuffle of his shoes, bouncing on one foot to the next. Things you’ve picked up on the years you’ve known him. Little alerts to your mind that he’s in a silent war with himself. 7 years is a long enough time to align yourself with someone’s idiosyncrasies. It especially wasn’t hard for you knowing he shared your same anxieties. You’ve always put each other at ease. In college, pulling the other away from isolating study sessions to take a walk and breathe fresh air. Silently keeping tabs on schedules to leave a favorite sweets or drink on a desk before a daunting exam. It was never implied that it was expected. It was easy. Inevitably when you parted, both off to specialized schools to further your individual career paths it was more than difficult to say goodbye. You weren’t especially far from each other, less than a two hours drive. But eventually the short, happy, safe moments you often shared before were long gone. The hole they left was deeper than you had imagined. You kept in touch during those years apart. Meeting once or twice a month and calling often to check in or distract each other. When you met Alex, however, the meetings slowed to a halt, your attention drawn elsewhere. He was happy for you, understanding your absence and missed calls. You thought you were happy, too.

Your attention is ripped from your thoughts at a soft touch to your lower back, jumping from the contact and almost dropping the last bite of brownie from your hand you turn to see his shocked expression hands up to his sides. “Oh, fucking hell, Chris, you scared me.” Placing your free hand on your chest, you will your heart back into its normal rhythm. His shocked expression turns into an almost gleeful laugh. “I’m so sorry; I thought you heard me call your name.” “I guess I must have been entranced by the flavors of this brownie. Have you tried one yet?” He looks to the quarter piece in your hand and to the table, where the plate that once held the brownies is left barren. “Oh, uh, whoops.” You smile sheepishly and offer the last bite up to his lips. He takes it carefully from your fingers with his teeth, but you don’t miss how his bottom lip drags along one of your fingers for a moment. He closes his eyes as he chews, then they open and crinkle at the corners. “Mm, delicious. Now how about we get the hell out of here and eat something more substantial.” You can tell his eyes are tired and worn down from the social interactions, but the way he looks at you with admiration never changes. “I thought you’d never ask.”

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The car ride was comfortably quiet. Both of you relaxing into the gentle hum of the car and nonexistent expectations to be “on” anymore. Shutting your brains off for a moment, taking contented breaths. You agreed that eating at a restaurant would be more than either you could handle now, instead opting to pick up some pizza and go back to your place to unwind before the day’s end. By the time you arrive at your humble apartment, it’s nearly 5pm. You shuffle around in your purse for your keys and swing the door open gesturing for him to enter before you. “Pizza first.” Your lips make a smile out of a thin line. He laughs and dips his head as he walks through the threshold. Closing the door behind you, you hang your purse and kick off your shoes. Turning to see he’s still standing in the entryway, shoes off waiting for your next move. “Go ahead and dig in. I’m gunna go change real quick, this belt is driving me to madness.” You slip past him and make your way to your bedroom. “Do you want to eat at the table or...” “I didn’t skip the restaurant just to sit at an equally uncomfortable chair at home.” You say with a smirk over your shoulder as you enter your bedroom. As soon as your feet hit the cold tile of the bathroom, you’re reminded of your morning long forgotten since you kept your mind busy focusing on Chris’s needs today. Thinking of how you were planning on spending the day quite literally rotting on the couch by yourself - if anyone knew how to keep you from yourself, it would be him.

You fuss with your buckle and pull the belt from your pants in one swoop, coiling it up and setting it on the bathroom counter. Whether or not he knows about the finalization of the divorce papers, you’re not sure. If he does, he’s fantastic at hiding it. Could he have pulled you to this event on purpose? To keep your mind busy when he knows you need it the most. It’s not unlike him to predict what you need before you know it yourself. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you stand still, frozen for a moment, evaluating your indistinct expression. The way you’re sure your shoulders don’t stand as tall as they used to. How your favorite pair of pants digs ever so slightly tighter on your hips. Your eyes glaze over at the silent judgment in your head, and you spot your trusty shower wine glass sitting empty in its space. That certainly needs tending too. Never mind your doom and gloom right now. You quickly undress and throw on a comfortable, plain t-shirt, some black biking shorts and grab your empty glass heading back into the living room. “Ah, there you are.” He beams up at you from his favorite spot on your couch tucked into the left corner, legs up and crisscrossed under his body. The table has two plates, each with 3 slices of pizza barely fitting except one plate, your plate, has a dollop of ranch squeezed onto one side. In front of your plate is a wine glass filled halfway and in front of his sits an unopened beer. “Beat me to it,” you smirk at him and jiggle the empty glass in your hand. He pats the empty cushion next to him – “Least I could do.”

You slide past him and flop down in your seat, setting down your empty cup, grabbing the full glass of wine and taking a long sip. “You did good today. How’s your sister? I only got a quick moment to say hi to her.” He pops the top of his beer off and clinks your glass before taking a swig and sighs, staring up at the blank wall above your TV. Fiddling with the paper label on the bottle. “She’s great. Like usual. I’m really proud of her. Being able to open a second store was never in her plans but she excels at everything.” He sighs again and takes another sip, places his beer on the table and leans back on the couch. That’s all he really wants to say, and you can tell. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about her or that he’s not actually proud, because he is. You’re aware of the pressure he puts on himself. By no means is he doing bad in his career. His life. But you're not the type to assume everything is fine just because things seem to be in order on the surface. You silently place a hand on his knee that’s closest to you and give him a patient smile. His eyes fall to your hand, and he reaches out to grab your fingertips, giving them a quick squeeze. “Eat your pizza before it gets any colder.” His turn for diversion.

You both tuck into the pizza while mindlessly scrolling through a streaming app to find something to watch. Landing on an old classic comedy you’ve both seen a hundred times and could probably recite the lines. The bottle of wine found a spot on your coffee table, nearly empty by now. And you had no intention to stop there. 

It was unlike Chris to drink more than a beer or two. Tonight, after the three beers that were left in your fridge from the last time you had a few people over, he popped a second bottle of wine and poured himself a glass along with topping yours off. To others there would be some concern. To you, nothing but a friend needing a little extra help in the quiet your mind department. However it wasn’t working as well for you this evening. Feet propped up on an ottoman next to the coffee table, your body insisted on sinking heavier and heavier into the cushions. Seeking to be enveloped. Pulled down between cracks where the dust bunnies and, likely, a forgotten hair pin lived. 

You can tell he’s feeling better. Laughing almost a little too loudly at jokes he’s heard before. Lips permanently parted in a delicate contentedness. Hands locked behind his head, leaning back, legs stretched out and spread before him. Relaxed. Comfortable. Seeing him this way makes you feel guilty. As if he should be somewhere else, with someone happier.

Someone who could really help him feel better. Who could hug him tightly without letting their own shadow creep over him. The wine was making your head fuzzy, but where it would usually quiet your emotions, they seem to swirl in your lower belly sticking to anything with purchase. You weren’t upset about the divorce in a common sense. Yes, you had loved Alex, but the stability and togetherness were something you craved the most. It’s not hard to tell yourself now why you latched onto him and the idea so quickly. You were simply afraid of being alone after you and Chris had stopped being so close. Something you’ve never admitted out loud but are aware that your ex-husband surmised after just a few short years of being married.

Sitting here now, next to him, smelling his familiar cologne, hearing his laughter and feeling that easy tranquility that comes with your relationship. It should be enough. So why do you feel this way?

Your eyes sting and your throat tightens as you stare down at your empty glass. Willing the tears back in with an iron grasp on the glass stem in your hand. “Hey hey hey, what’s going on here?” he coos at your side, and before you can turn your head to face away from him, you’re pulled across the cushion to rest your head on his lap. He removes the empty glass from your hand and places it on the table, then lays one hand on your shoulder while the other gently strokes your hair. Something he knows well will help ease you. You sink down into him and squeeze your eyes shut, covering them with the hand that’s not lodged beneath your body. “I figured I’d wait ‘til you brought it up,” he says delicately above you. “Your sister texted me Thursday. Said she was worried about you but wouldn’t tell me why. As I expect you told her not to,” he rakes through the bangs obscuring the view of the hand covering your face and traces a finger over your pointer that’s resting over your eyebrow. “We don’t have to talk about it, but I wish you would have told me.” He sighs lightly.

Your hand frees from your face and balls in front of you placed on his knee - “What is there to tell, Chris? We all knew it was going to happen. I mean, we’ve been living apart for almost 6 months now. All we did was sign the papers and finalize the results of our shitty decisions.” The tears have made their way out, and they seep onto his nice slacks. A physical example of you spreading your disease.

“I didn’t want you to worry about me.” Your fist unclenches and falls palm up on the couch in front of you.

He hums in understanding. “You’re aware that I always worry about you, right?”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” You flip your body around onto your back to look up at him.

“How long have you been doing that? Worrying about me? Your career is taking off, no matter how much you want to downplay that, along with Felix joining your company. You’ve moved back closer to your family, which I know pained you to be so far away, and I heard from Changbin last month that Lisa asked to give it another shot. Why do you insist on always keeping tabs on me?”

You shoot up from your place in his lap and turn your body to face him. The tears that were streaming have crawled their way back up as your mind races with confusion and misplaced anger. “You have so much to look forward to, Chris. We’re not stupid college kids anymore. It just doesn’t make sense to me how you continue to give a shit about this sorry sack of shit sitting in front of you.” You sigh and close your eyes rubbing at them with your fingertips. FUCK. You know he doesn’t deserve this, and you’re not even sure why you felt the need to say any of that. In its essence, your friend is just doing what friends do. Being there for each other. For some reason, though, his care always felt different than anyone else’s.

You know why it felt that way for you. But even after so many years, you never let the thought fully develop.

“Are you done?” His hand pulls yours away from your face, and he’s switched his position on the couch to face you. He tilts his head forward and locks eyes with you, his expression a look of ‘now was that really necessary?’ with a small smirk on his lips. “Do you feel like you need a reason for me to care? Did you have a good reason to drop whatever plans you had today to come help me out at my sister’s event?” His eyebrows knit together. You know these are rhetorical questions. You let a breath escape you and lull your head to the side, staring at the empty space between you two on the couch. My reason was ‘it’s you.’ I’d do anything for you. You keep this thought locked tight and away from his ears. “No matter how much I feel like I’m trying to help you I feel like it will never be enough. Or the good kind. The kind that actually helps. I think I’m stunted.” You bring your arm up on the back of the couch and bend it, laying your face in the crook of your elbow. An arm comes out, and his soft hand connects with your back as he rubs small circles between your shoulder blades. It’s been a while since you had prolonged contact with him, and it feels good. You’ve spent a decent amount of time together over the last year but typically just brunches turned into lunches, or him dropping off food to your house for dinner making sure both of you eat well. You still your body and whisper a selfish silent prayer in your head that he doesn’t stop.

“I've never seen any problems with how you care. If I were to look back at the receipts, I'd say 99.9% of all your attempts were successful.” It’s apparent he’s saying this through a smile. You don’t lift your head but mumble into your limb, “And the other .1%?” “Remember that time in our third year at university I was upset my roommate had to move out, and you bought that insane painting from the vintage shop of that lady with a really long neck to put up on his side of the room and keep me company? I still have nightmares about her, I swear." His hand stops its movement on your back while he’s recollecting the painting. Your head pops back up to make eye contact, a mock look of shock on your face. “I thought she was pretty and elegant!” “Her eyes staring off into the distance... or was she looking at you? What was she looking at? Why was her neck so… long...?" he ponders, letting his eyes glaze over while glancing over your shoulder to solidify his point.

The tightness in your chest breaks way to a full belly laugh. Catching him off guard and prompting him to join in the fit. Both of your incessant giggling bouncing off the walls together. “You’re ridiculous you know that?” You say as your hysterics subside, gently slapping his knee. Your bodies had both shifted closer to each other on the cushions during your laughter, and your anxieties have settled again. Safe. Easy. Staring down and fiddling with the hem of your shirt mindlessly, you hum out your comfort. “Bug?” He whispers his silly nickname out for your attention. Still with a half-smile on your face, eyes downcast, picking at a string that should not be meddled with, you respond, “Yeah?” You wait a few moments for a question or statement, but the air stays silent. “Wha-…” Your words are cut off by a clashing of lips. His hand on your cheek guiding you up to face him, his plush lips firm but slightly off mark from aligning directly with yours. Your eyes widen and a hand flies up to catch his wrist. A small but not unwelcome spark flits up your lower back as you start to register what’s occurring. Then the realization fully develops.

Your stomach flips in a somersault. First down to the bottom where it feels alive and floating, prickling the tops of your thighs; then up to your throat where it sticks and tries to strangle you from the inside out. A panic settles there. You pull his hand away from your face and throw yourself up onto your feet as if something just burned you. Confusion and guilt paints his face as his hands both come up to run through his soft, dark brunette hair. One of your hands finds your lips as you turn and pad around to the front of the coffee table. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” He turns his body to sit straightforward in his spot, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped and not ready to make eye contact. You stare at the top of his head. Brain running as fast as the wine and confusion will allow. That couldn’t have been real. That was in your head, right? His posture says otherwise.

“Please Bug, can we just…will you let me say something?” His eyes come up to meet yours finally. Pleading and looking like he could have just been slapped across the face. Or stabbed in the back by somebody he loves. His eyes cut right through your fog, and you snap back into place. Moving shakily, you grab both your empty wine glasses off the table and make your way to the kitchen, nearly speed walking. Opening the dishwasher and placing them both in, then closing it. He doesn’t follow, and you take a few deep breaths in the open space of your kitchen. A few questions strike you particularly hard in this moment of clarity. 

Where did that come from? 

Did you miss something? 

Does this mean something more than a stupid drunk mistake? You’re certain he didn’t drink that much. Sure, a little more than usual, but 4 drinks are not nearly enough for him to be that far removed from himself. Was that pity? And most importantly,

Why did you stop it?

Every point your mind tries to make, every conclusion to your questions only fuels a deep self-deprecation as you toss around the information in your head. No matter the answer your mind revolts. Unaccepting of any critical thinking.

Sleep. You both just need sleep. This is the only rational thing you can accept. You decide quickly and round the corner back into the living room, stopping just short of the hallway to the rest of your home. “You can stay in the guest bedroom. The blanket that’s usually on the bed is folded and in the closet on the shelf. Just uhm…never mind. I’m… I’m sorry.” Your eyes prickle as you see him still in the same spot, only now his head is in his hands. “Please don’t leave me yet,” he asks earnestly. Low, as if coming from a wounded dog. You couldn’t stay right now. None of the words that would come out of your mouth would make any sense. In fact, you’re scared of what you might say. Selfish. You’re being selfish. Whatever led him to do what he did; his reaction to your abrupt shock, he deserves something from you. “Chris, it’s fine, I just…think we need some sleep,” you lie to him again today. You know neither of you will be getting any sleep, just a few steps from each other’s beds in your little apartment. He sighs into his hands and lifts his head from them, looking forward at the TV screen, long since forgotten, its screensaver bright and cheery, bouncing soft blues and pinks off his features.

You twist the front of your shirt in your hands and bite the inside of your cheek. He looks defeated, and you’re worried that you’re the reason. Five minutes ago, he was doing everything he could to make you smile and be nice to yourself. To help you. As you said to yourself earlier, you knew you would do nothing but hurt whoever tried. There is no other choice now; you just need to turn and walk away. “Goodnight.” You say under your breath and make the move towards your bedroom, taking a quick look out of the corner of your eyes at the barren guest room. Filled only with a bed, one nightstand and a standing lamp in the corner. It feels cruel to send him into the cold like that tonight. You hadn’t had any time to plan or decorate it all that much. No physical hobbies you brought from your old house with your ex to don the walls or fill shelves. Just as empty as you felt day after day. Your room had more warmth at least. More than you deserved tonight. The lamp next to your bed is clicked on already, casting a soft orange glow over your bed. The clothes you wore earlier were thrown hastily toward your hamper in the corner of your room and your white cropped t-shirt sits crumpled on the ground in front of it.

You grab it and toss it properly into the bin then pull your comforter back slipping under its fine and delicate fabric. You pull it up to your chin, curling in on yourself on your side and sinking as far as you can manage into the mattress.

Sleep. You tell yourself again. It’s what you both need.

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The minutes to hours clicked by like thick mud descending a slope. By the time the clock next to your bed reads 3:04 AM, you knew you weren’t getting any sleep. Your body at this point buzzing with anxiety, eyes forcing themselves open despite your protests. Trying to force yourself not to think was impossible. You practice the tricks you’ve learned from years of meditation. Lying on your back focusing all your might and energy to release the tension one limb at a time. Starting at your jaw where the anger was, down to your shoulders where sadness hung, through the hot veins in your arms and out your fingertips where the anxiety lies. Nothing would stop the never-ending cycle of guilt. You tried to drown everything out by zeroing in on the sound of the ceiling fan above your head. Instead, your ears searched for any sound of him moving around. You’d hoped that he was able to sleep, unlike you. Wished for him peaceful oblivion from the uncomfortable position you both were in. You hear the hall bathroom door click shut and see the light from under the door illuminating the hardwood flooring of the hallway.

Seems his night is no different from yours. What could he have possibly told you that would have made sense of his actions earlier?

Is it impossible for you to think he might…love you? Even after all these years of seeing what a natural disaster you are? You let the thought cascade down your body like a warm sunset over a mountain. You’ve had this thought throughout your life many times in many different ways. Too bizarre to be true. Chris, in all his wholesome, thoughtful actions. Putting the needs of others above himself. Letting himself get pushed and pulled by people like you into dim light. Giving, giving, giving. 

And you, a taker. Taking people’s soft looks and touches. Drawing out their pity. Unintentionally, truly. You just seem to bring out the nurturing parts of people when they look at your frail state. Despite doing your best not to. Trying to strive, to do well. Make people proud and not show how desperate you are to keep your head above water.

Could this be one of those moments? Did he just want to make you feel better and not continue to watch you suffer in silence? What would be the goal if this was what he was trying to accomplish. One night of heat and passion to keep your mind busy? He’s just not the type. Thinking this of him makes your stomach turn and guilt pang in your chest. The toilet flushes and you hear the sink turn on. The familiar rush of icy water from the tap. The light dims in the hallway and the door clicks open, followed by his padding footsteps to the guest room. There could be a reality in which you took his words at face value. Whatever he did want to tell you. Honoring the trust built between you. Why instead do you insist that you’re underserving of it? His trust. His love. Determined to continue lying to yourself, pretending you didn’t wish it was Chris who held you when you were stressed after work. Who wiped your tears when a loved one passed. It’s possible you could do the same for him.

Your mind focuses back on the sounds of the house. There’s some rustling coming from the guest room. He might have drifted back to sleep.

You have two choices. Spend the rest of your night ignoring all these thoughts and feelings, essentially leaving him on a proverbial ‘read’ until tomorrow morning where you would surely share an awkward goodbye. Or… just talk to him.

There’s a 50/50 chance he is still awake in his room. What’s the harm in trying?

Your adrenaline picks up as you make the decision. Sitting up and ripping your comforter off your body, swinging your legs over the side standing up quickly. If you don’t move your feet now, you’re scared you won’t make it to the guest room. Just go. Getting to the hallway was a feat in itself, and you slow your steps as you reach the corner of the door. It’s sitting halfway open, and the room is softly lit. The lamp in the corner of the room turned down to its lowest setting. Your nerves catch up to you as you plan on either peaking around the corner or calling in to see if he answers. If you call for him and he’s sleeping, then you’ll wake him from well-deserved slumber. If you peek around and he’s awake, he might see you, and you’ll have no choice but to confront the situation. If you peek and he’s asleep, then you may have a chance to save you from yourself, just grab a glass of water and take yourself back to bed. “Just come in already.” You hear him say.

His voice startles you from your thoughts, and a gasp escapes you. He must have heard your erratic footsteps coming to a halt right before the door. Maybe he’s been listening for you too. Shame covers your brow as you poke your head around the corner to see him sitting up in bed, leaning back against a pillow and the headboard. His shirt is off, and the dim light from the lamp curls around his muscles, forming rich curves and indents immediately muddling your thoughts.

You swallow harshly. “Uh, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t sleep, and I heard you get up a little bit ago. I was just going to grab myself some water, do you want some?” An excuse but not technically a lie. God, I'm pathetic.

“Sure.” He nods, his smile is weak and appeasing. Clearly letting you take the lead in this dance.

You take the opportunity gladly, making your way down the hallway and into the kitchen. Using it again as a spot to gather your thoughts. You grab two tall glasses from your cupboards and fill your cups from the fridge filter. Just let him talk. Listen to him, not yourself.

Stilling your shaking hands, you trail back into the hallway and don’t let yourself stop at the door frame this time. However, you don’t dare come around to his side of the bed, seeing him up close right now in his ‘state’ would fizzle out whatever common sense you had left. You don’t make eye contact, but you can feel his eyes follow you around the bed to the opposite side and sit uncomfortably on the edge shoving your hand out to pass him the water. Taking a long sip from your own and visibly trying to settle your nerves. Being nervous around him is not something you’re used to anymore. In college when you first started hanging out, sure, meeting thanks to your mutual friend Felix, you realized early that he might possibly be one of the most beautiful and kind people you had ever encountered. But you had also decided early on you did not deserve him. Despite how quickly he gravitated towards you. And you to him.

He doesn’t seem nervous right now though, and that confuses you more than anything. He takes the cup from you and takes a small sip, sitting it on the nightstand next to him only briefly taking his eyes off you to make sure it lands on the coaster. You can sense he’s waiting for you to start the conversation, ever the patient man. “I’m… I’m sorry about earlier” is all you can manage right now. Regardless of his resolve to clearly let you take the lead here, you’re lost for words and whatever you manage to think, it’s next to impossible to try and voice them. “Why do you keep saying sorry?” His voice is a little hoarse. The question catches you off guard, and you finally look up from the cup in your hands to meet his eyes. “Because… I don’t know. I just am.” Easier to be vague. His hair is curled and ruffled on his head, making him look soft and almost resemblant to the boyish charm he held back in the day. He doesn’t speak again. His face shows he’s not happy with your answer. “I’m sorry for who I am as a person. I’m sorry I always tend to make situations worse in my personal life. I’m sorry I always make the people in my life suffer from my actions.” The words come out quick and despairing. He sighs and hangs his head, shaking it.

"I’d like to think I’ve never given you the impression that you've made me feel this way towards you.” He puts his hands on the bed to shuffle his body straighter which slightly reveals the top of his black Calvin Klien boxers peeking up over the blanket that rests on his legs. You avert your eyes and stare back down at your water. Maybe a cup of chamomile would have been better. “I can’t help right now if I don’t know what you’re thinking.” He tilts his head to try and bring your focus back up to him. “I don’t know what to think right now, Chris.” It’s true. Your head is full to the brim with thoughts but none of them feel worth sharing. “Just give me anything. The first thought that pops up in your head.” It’s apparent he may not know where to start either. “Why?” 

A simple word. It shoots out of you quicker than you imagined it would. You know it’s not an easy question to answer. But it’s the word that prefaces all the questions you’ve made yourself suffer through the entire sleepless night.

His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. He seems at a loss for words just as you. He ponders for a moment before shifting nervously. “Did you not want me too?” “That’s not an answer to my question.” He sighs and his arms come up and behind his head to grab the headboard, leaning his head back and directing his eyes up at the ceiling. You’re not making this easy on him, but you could say the same. You suppose you could make the question clearer, add context. “Why did you want to?” You’re both grown adults. But this conversation seems more difficult than trying to explain to a parent why their favorite vase sits in pieces on the floor. “It felt like it was time.” His arms come back down, and his eyes meet yours, filled to the brim with sincerity. You shake your head. Irritation trying to make its way forward. You pull both legs up on the bed sitting on your knees completely facing him. Hands still gripped tight around the glass of water in your hands.

“It was time for what, Chris? That doesn’t make it any clearer.” The frustration is plain in your voice and directing it at him feels wrong, yet the voice of reason in your head is not paying any attention. He repositions himself to face you dead on, just as you were earlier. “Our entire conversation on the couch was centered around you, in some sort of wild disbelief, that I care deeply for you. Has it not been apparent over the past, I don’t know, seven, almost eight years that caring for you is not a burden to me? That seeing you sad or stressed or angry pains me to my core? And I know I can’t just take that away from you; I can’t tell it to stop or will it away. But could you at least give me the chance to try and protect you from it? From letting you beat yourself up behind closed doors. Or at the very least let me hold your hand when it all gets too much, just as you would for me?” His words rush past you in a haze. You can’t seem to move, but your hands begin to shake again and your chin quivers. It’s typical of him to know exactly what you need to hear. Nonetheless that unyielding, rattling voice in the crawl space of your mind does what it does best and tries to beat down any accepting thoughts.

He moves closer to you, grabs the cup from your hand and reaches back to set it next to his on the nightstand. His strong hands maneuver your body to sit more comfortably on the open side of the bed, and you let him. Guiding you to rest the side of your body, head against the free pillow to his left and the headboard. Pulling the blanket that was once wrapped around his body up over both your legs and gently clasps your hands in his. He takes a few moments to let you adjust to your new position. Tears welling in the corner of your eyes not yet making their escape. He sits cross-legged in front of you. And you finally let your eyes focus on his striking features. The look on his face the very epitome of being free from pretense or judgement. You clear your throat as his thumbs rub small circles over the tops of your hands. “Is there a world in which I could make you believe me?” He asks. His monologue had shell shocked you. You know he cares for you just as you do him. Hearing it said so plainly and to a deeper extent was not at all what you were expecting. Still, caring deeply for someone and being physical are not mutually exclusive. It still doesn’t explain why…

“It’s not that I don’t believe you Chris. I just don’t understand why. And I care about you too. It’s not a secret that I’d drop just about anything to help you if you’d need it, but I know my reasonings. And still what you said doesn’t explain at all why you would– about the…” Your words trail off. Your lips unsure of the confidence of saying it out loud. “The kiss?” His lips press together, and his eyebrows slightly raise, like he knew it would be hard for you to say. Your face heats and your cheeks turn a light shade of rose. Your mind finally registering that your hands are lightly placed in his. His hands grip a little tighter as if on instinct he knew you might pull away. He’s not wrong. The flush that’s running down your neck into your chest is screaming at you to abort physical contact no matter how good it feels. “Look, Bug; I know things have been a lot lately. In hindsight, the timing for that move might not have been perfect. But I don’t know how much longer I can wait for you to come to your senses.”  There’s a smirk on his lips that begs you to fall in line and understand what he’s trying to say. However, you’re too stubborn for that. “What are you trying to say, Chris?”  Your eyes are like saucers. Big and round. He chuckles in feigned exasperation, his eyes pinched shut accentuated with a big, dimpled smile. He shakes it off and looks up at you through his eye lashes. Sudden sincerity clearly in his expression.

“The year following your marriage to Alex was probably one of the hardest years of my life. It felt like I was mourning. And in a sense, I was. I had lost the last viable chance I thought I had in this life to make you finally see me. You were gone. Out of reach forever.” “I didn’t go anywhere. We’ve still been in each other’s lives...” “I know. I know. I knew we’d still be friends just as we always were. I could call you when I needed to hear your voice. Or meet for lunch when not seeing you every day became such a miserable thought in my mind. I don’t think you realize how many times just a simple voicemail from you, snarky and annoyed that I didn’t answer your call, saved me. Made me smile and laugh when I was unsure if I could dig myself out of a hole that I made for myself.”

“Laughing at my annoyed voicemails. Interesting.” You narrow your eyes in pretend irritation, trying to hide a sly smile from your lips. He leans back and huffs out a breath with a smile on his face, shaking your hands together back and forth. “My point is!” He lets go of your hands and cards his hands through his hair, ruffling the front a bit to sit how he’d like it to on his forehead. You let your eyes dance around his flexed muscles more freely this time. His hands fall back into his lap, and he takes a deep breath, fidgeting with his bracelet on his wrist. This time, you reach one hand out and pull his hand away from its busy work and cup his hand between both of yours. You stare down at them folded together. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone in my life that is more deserving of my attention and care…” He says softly and exhales slowly, 

“Or love.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you close your eyes. A familiar sting behind them. You feel his free hand brush past your cheek with his knuckles and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear landing to cup your chin. “Y/N, look at me, please.” You’re afraid to open your eyes because surely the tears will fall. But you let him raise your head, suck in a slow breath and slowly open them. His eyes are trained on yours, earnest and full of adoration. The foundational nature of a kindness one is born into the world with. A simple tear falls from your right eye, and he swipes it with his thumb. “Will you let me show you? Will you let me help fight the thoughts that tell you you’re not?” “Chris, I…” And before you can finish your sentence you’re pulled into his lap. Rounded up into his toned bare chest and cocooned inside his arms. With your seat between his open legs and yours laid across one of his thighs, you curl your arms into your chest with one hand splayed hesitantly on the side of his lower neck and your head tucked beneath his chin. The fantasy of it all sounds like a dream. You let yourself feel it. A world in which his devotion focuses on you. Where you don’t have to imagine yourself without him. One where when you inevitably fall in a pit you’ve created for yourself, and he is there to catch you. He says he wants to show you how you deserve that kind of protection.

But does he deserve what little you have to give? It's plain to see what his intentions are. Even with his arms wrapped tightly around you, the feeling of being frail and frozen inside is still deep within you. Of course, he could make you feel safe and perhaps even truly loved. But at what cost to him?

“What if I can’t be enough for you? If I can’t give you what you deserve?” It comes out of you so small. So weak. Like a tiny branch, not yet ready to hold up the season’s first fresh ripe apple. “Whaddya mean? Was that not you today? My knight in shining black boots, rescuing me from fumbling over my words in countless conversations today at the opening? I think you forget just how strong you can be.” One of his hands that’s resting on your side lightly raps on your ribs eliciting a small yelp and squirm from you.

You pull your head up to look him into the eyes, “If you tickle me right now, I swear to god I will get up and leave this room, Christopher.”

He laughs and tucks your head back under his chin then rocks you both back and forth a few times before settling with one arm still wrapped tightly around you and his other hand on the back of your head.

“You only brought me there to busy me.” You’re back to talking quietly. Body heat is radiating off him. One of your arms is pressed tightly between your side and his defined abs. Your always cold skin, pulling the warmth from his body to put life into yours. “I think it can be described as a win-win.” He pushes his fingers through your hair to massage your scalp in slow circles. “You know it’s been hard for me lately. Hannah’s success has nothing to do with me but, my five-year plan isn't exactly going as well as I'd hoped it would.” Sighing deeply, he strokes your hair. Combing his fingers through and setting the wavy strands back into place after tussling them from his services.You use a finger to lightly trace a small infinity symbol on the skin of his arm that’s directly in your line of sight - “Finish college, move back home, start your business then watch it grow. It seems like it’s going just about as good as I recall you telling me about.”

His deep breath in and out shifts your body,

“To fall in love again,” he says in a whisper.

Your finger stops moving.

“That was part of it too, but I guess I found it hard to tell you. It’s not the easiest to tell the person you’re in love with that you hope you’ll eventually get over them and find someone else.” His hand that was on your head comes down to lock around his wrist caging you in against him again. The last time you spoke about your ‘five-year plans’ was a little over a year into your marriage to Alex. Chris had just bought his first office space, and you remember him calling you absolutely beaming through the phone about it. You laughed together and gave congratulations. The conversation didn’t seem somber to you then. “I really need you to know something, Chris.” You wrap your small fingers around his arm as far as they can reach, and squeeze lightly.

He picks his chin off from the top of your head and pulls back to try and look you in the eyes, but you stop him and pull him back against you. Unable to let his soft eyes waver your resolve to not cry in this moment.

“I really loved you.” You pause to steady yourself before continuing.

“I was sure that after we parted ways and went to different schools, I’d never find someone who could make me feel so safe. Someone who could help me not feel so isolated. I was scared, Chris. Talking to you on the phone, seeing you when we could spare the time, truly grounded me. But the loneliness, the inaccessibility, the inability to reach out to you whenever I felt like I couldn’t even stand on my own two feet… it wore me down…” A breath stutters out from you, and your throat begins to tighten. You can feel your stupid lip start to quiver despite clenching your teeth as hard as you can for a moment. He loosens his arms ever so slightly when he feels you readjust your weight. “I could have told you.” You continue. “It wouldn’t have been fair to you. You can’t convince me that if I did tell you that you wouldn’t have dropped everything to come to me. You would have put a hold on your dreams to protect me from whatever nightmare I caused for myself. And that’s dumb, Chris. That’s really really dumb and selfish of me.” “Y/N, I could’ve-”

“No, you know it’s true. So instead, I did the only thing I thought would help relieve you from the burden and tried to find someone else. And…and all it ended up doing is hurt you even more. No matter how I try, I just continue to salt your wound or push you away.” The resolve you had finally crumbles, and you can feel the hot rush of tears begin their descent down your cheek. You can sense his panic start to set in as his arms unclasp themselves and hastily find their way to your head, fussing with the hair that’s draped around your face, pushing it away over your shoulders. Both hands find your cheeks, and he holds your head in his hands and forces you to look at him. Your hands scramble up to cover your face, but he’s quick to move them out of the way with his arms. Letting them fall limp in your lap you acquiesce to his desire to meet eye to eye.

“Do you still love me?” His eyebrows are knitted together, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so serious before. His brown eyes are so deep, the question filling the pool to the brim. Your hands reach up again and grab his wrists. Eyes blinking rapidly to force your tears to stop blurring your vision. “Chris, we-“ “Do you love me, Y/N?” His thumbs brush a few stray tears from the apple of each of your cheeks and he studies your face again. His gaze moving from one eye to the other. You pinch your eyes shut for a moment, scrunching your face tight. Then you let it go lax, let a deep breath out through your nose, and open your eyes to lock with his. “I always will.” All at once, the tension and worry in his face gives way as his eyes soften and his lips part. His hands move slowly, pushing any stray hairs that were fighting in your favor to cover your face back behind your ears. They proceed downwards until his fingers are delicately at the back of your neck and his thumbs rub softly on your jawline. A gentle smile paints his soft lips. “You really made me fight for that, didn’t you?” He says through his smile and a light chuckle.

You huff out an annoyed laugh and begin to roll your eyes, as soon as they shut, you feel his heated lips press to your forehead. They stay there as he breaths out. He repeats the kiss a few more times as your hands let go of his wrists and make their way around his waist. Wrapping your arms tight around him, letting the affection spill from his lips.

⊹ ⋆ ₊❀∿.✧ཐི༏ཋྀ󠀮✧∿.❀₊ ⋆ ⊹

Warmth spreads across the back of your legs before you can see the reason behind it. It stirs you in a nice way. Your hand comes up and runs through your hair, brushing stray pieces away from your face. Lungs fill deeply, slowly and steadily as you muster the courage to peek your eyes open. The dark blue curtains covering your window are halfway open. Letting a spill of late morning light fall through and onto the lower half of your body. Rolling onto your back you stretch all your limbs out at once in a starfish, wiggling your fingers and toes. You must have slept almost 10 hours. Eyes finally closing around midnight last night and waking naturally this morning when your body was ready. It’s in no rush despite the eagerness you have for the day.

You grab your phone and check your notifications. A few emails, a couple of social media posts from some of your favorite artists and 5 text messages. The digital clock says 10:03 AM but that doesn’t bother you. Your thumb pulls down the bar and sees the sender names of the texts waiting for you. One reads your sister’s name and the other says Chris.

You start with your sister’s. Three messages came in between 1 AM to a few minutes after 3 AM. 

Why weren’t you going to tell me this show was going to make me cry. DANG IT Y/N I CAN’T BE SOBBING LIKE THIS AT 3AM. 

Oh, thank God. The ending was fine. You are forgiven.

You giggle at your phone and type out a response:

If I would have told you, you wouldn’t have watched it. But you liked it didn’t you!

You hit the back button and click on Chris. Both messages came in around 8:30 AM.

The first message is an image. You click on the photo to make it bigger and smile. It’s a selfie of him sitting on the back porch of his parents’ house, his dog Berry sitting in his lap. You can tell he’s giving her good scratches because her eyes are closed and she’s leaning her little head into his hand. His smile is wide and bright. The dimple on the right side of his face prominent and tender.

You click the bottom left button on the screen and save the image to your phone then you click out and scroll to see the message underneath. Berry says Goooood morning! I do too of course. Can’t wait for later, hehehe ^_^ You scroll back up and look at the picture again for a few moments. Your smile deepens and you bite your lower lip clicking into the reply spot. Good morning to Berry and her loyal ear scratcher <3 Me too, see you at 4! You hit send and roll onto your side placing your phone back on the nightstand. You have quite a few hours to get ready and not too much cleaning to do. A nervousness swirls through your stomach but not in a bad way. You lay for a while, thinking and blinking at the rays of light shimmering through the window. It's been a month since you’ve seen Chris. By your own decision. That fateful night, before you fell asleep in his arms, you told him you needed some time to rearrange your thoughts. He of course accepted this, patience is his middle name. He told you he had already waited years and would wait more if he had to.

You didn’t need years to answer the question. The thought alone is simple enough. “Will you let me?” Can you, will you be able to let him love you? Spending years telling yourself and believing that you’re not deserving of it can’t be rewired overnight. Or even over a few weeks. But the beginning of the process must start with you. Will you love yourself enough to accept his love?

What is the condition one must be in to relinquish control over your emotions and let someone else bring your feelings out of you? What you knew for certain was that you were not yet in that state. Hard boiled and stagnant. Walls placed brick by brick around you with exceptionally frail edges.

Pushing the sheet off, you place your feet on the cold hardwood and stand slowly, stretching your arms up above your head, twisting your back to the left and right to smooth out any soft aches. You recall one of the emails in your phone telling you a package had arrived early this morning, find your way out to the living room, and twist the locks to open the front door.

A tall, thin cardboard box sits up against the wall to the side of your door. Excitedly, you slip your sandals on and step out to retrieve it. It’s not heavy in the slightest, you knew it wouldn’t be, but it still surprises you when you lift it so easily. You make your way back inside and push the door closed with your foot, heading straight to the guest bedroom. Placing the box on the bed you open the drawer of the desk in the corner of the room to grab a pair of scissors and start opening it up. Carefully you cut the bubble wrap and pull the painting out. The watercolors grab your vision at once. Every shade of green imaginable. Dark and rich at the forefront, light and feathery towards the top. A landscape of the treetops, of a deep vast forest with a soft mist of fog dipping in between the layers of Redwoods. A vision of home. You had already measured and prepared for its arrival, so you step up onto the bed and fix the painting onto the hooks. Easing back down onto your knees you back up until you reach the bottom of the bed and look up at your new art. It fits perfectly above the headboard and between the tall bookshelves at each side of the bed.

What is self-reflection? was a thought you had many times these few last weeks. What does it look like to move forward? To see yourself make progress and evolve past your former predispositions. It was clear to you that you didn’t have a clue.

The first week after that night you spent every hour at work and at home racking your brain to figure out your plan. Picking apart each negative thought you’ve had about yourself to see if you could find its source and snuff it out. It went nowhere. You spent hours reading articles and motivational books on self-care. All it did was make you feel silly. Out of touch with guides and steps to take.

You weren’t sure if you could call this a deep depression. You had been there before, and it didn’t quite look like this. You spoke with your family and friends often. You loved your job and took pride in your work. Cleaning your home and making dinner weren’t your favorite things to do, but they never truly were in the first place.

It was more of a wrong turn your brain had taken a long time ago. And continued to make for a long time. Set on a track headed for a cliff you knew was coming but never reached. The anxiety building and building but never falling off the edge.Halfway into the second week, you laid flat on your back on the bed in the guest bedroom. Frustrated with yourself and your inability to see the path before you. See the steps you were sure you needed to take. Fresh tears quietly and slowly making their way down your face and onto the baren bed below you. Your phone buzzed next to your head interrupting your thoughts.

A text message from Chris. A habit of his always seeming to know, even when you’re not around each other or haven’t spoken to each other, that you were silently suffering. Wiping the tears away, you pulled your phone in front of you and opened the message.

I saw this pretty thing today and thought of you. I hope you have space on your walls for a new friend.

Attached was an image of his hand holding a small square frame with a dry-preserved Atlas Moth pinned beneath the glass. The beauty and the irony were not lost on you. It was then that you knew you didn’t have to worry so much about what it looked like to move forward.

If you could let yourself enjoy the feelings he gave to you, it would be enough for now. 

The work you wanted to do on yourself would move along with him there beside you. There was no strategy to this. To love. For oneself or for another. The two things weren’t mutually exclusive. You had to take a step back and look at yourself as he would look at you. As anyone would. At the end of the day, you were just as deserving of love as anyone else was. You could say this to a friend or a family member but had a hard time saying it to yourself. 

Instead, you turned your focus to the guest bedroom you were laying in. Walls untouched. Void of color and warmth. You were never one to call yourself a minimalist. The room itself became a metaphor for your unwillingness to let Chris shine brightly the way he wants to for you.

Now sitting here in the bed scanning the room around you, it felt inviting.

You placed each object in the room with care. Bookshelves filled with some of your favorite authors and even a few rows of comic books and old video game cartridges. Shelves on the walls stacked with antique knickknacks that made you laugh and brought you joy. And now your new piece of art that reminds you of home.

Shifting off the bed, you grab the remnants of the cardboard box and wrap and take it to the kitchen. Ripping the cardboard into smaller pieces and placing all the trash neatly into your recycle bin. Chris had suggested a small Italian restaurant for dinner tonight, but you declined. Saying you two would have plenty of time to go out together, and you’d rather spend this Saturday alone with him. 

The rest of your day went by in a flash. With the only things left to do being a quick clean of the kitchen and mopping the floors, followed by a hot shower and pre-cutting the ingredients for dinner. 

Chris requested something to take the chill from his bones caused by the crisp late winter air. You could never call yourself a chef, but one dish your mother taught you and taught you well was Caldo Verde. A comforting Portuguese sausage, kale and potato soup. Homey and rich, the perfect soup to ground you both and warm your bellies. 

Despite not wanting to leave the house, it didn’t mean you couldn’t dress up a little. You gazed at yourself in the long mirror in your bathroom checking your outfit over again. A beige oversized cable knit sweater, plain black mini skirt with a slit up the side of your right thigh paired with matching beige cable knit leg warmers and fluffy closed back slippers. Cute, but not too much. 

Picking up your phone from the counter your stomach swirled once you read the time. 15 minutes to four. You couldn’t help bouncing on your toes a little bit before catching yourself and planting your hands on the counter to reel yourself back in. All you had left to do was be patient for a few more minutes.

‎‎₊˚⊹ 𐦍༘⋆₊ ⊹

Standing in your kitchen you swirled a tall, elegant wine decanter around in front of you. Appreciating the smell and the sound the wine made in its glass container when you hear a few quick knocks on your front door. You close your eyes and press your lips together while sucking in a breath, nerves coursing through your veins. It’s just Chris, stop being so nervous. Get it together girl. 

Quickly you place the decanter back on the kitchen countertop and step your way to the front door. You left it unlocked assuming he would just walk in as he usually has done before so you turn the handle and pause a second, readjusting your skirt one last time before opening it. 

And there he was, standing in the doorway, dimples on full display, one hand behind his back and the other holding a small square green pot with succulents in it.

“Anacampseros Telephiastrum Variegata.” He says in best fancy voice. 

You bring an arm across your stomach and put your elbow on your hand, resting your cheek on your closed fist. Looking at him with a smile and furrowed brows. 

“Otherwise known as ‘Sunrise’. I know you think flowers are cheesy, but I wanted to bring you something. I’ve been practicing saying the Latin name correctly all day.” He chuckles and winks at you. 

You reach out to take the plant from him and grab his now free hand to pull him inside.

“It’s beautiful, Chris. I’ve been meaning to add more color to my selection by the window.” You close the door and hear him set something down behind you and right before you turn around, you feel his arms come around your waist and embrace you from the back. One arm wrapped around your stomach, hand resting on your hip, and the other resting across one of your arms, hand resting on your bicep. 

“Mmmm, you smell so nice. A new perfume?” He says into your neck, taking a deep breath in. 

Your cheeks immediately flush, and you giggle awkwardly at the sudden contact.

“No, not new. I just never have a reason to wear it.” 

“Well, it suits you perfectly.” He rubs his face back and forth on your neck a few times, nose brushing the skin just below your ear then lets go, backing up a pace and picking up whatever was on the floor.

You turn around and see him holding a white gift bag. It’s now that you can appreciate how he looks. He’s wearing a silk black long sleeve shirt with quite a few buttons undone at the top, revealing a wide V of his prominent pectoral muscles, sleeves rolled a few times up and slightly tucked in at the front. Black, freshly pressed slacks that fit him perfectly and of course, shining black, dress shoes. A simple silver chain sits around his neck along with his favorite silver chain bracelet around his wrist. 

Fuck, he looked good.

You take a deep breath and blink a few times.

“Chris, you didn’t have to bring me anything. I feel so silly I didn’t get anything for you!” 

“Oh shush. You’re making dinner for me, aren’t you? That’s enough in itself. Promise. Plus, this is just your new friend.” He hands the bag out to you, and you grab the handles with your free hand and try to peek into the top. 

“I love him. Can’t wait to put him up with all the others. I don’t think I have a moth yet.” You say as you pace your way into the living room and set the bag and plant down on the coffee table. Chris swivels around on his heels and watches you. Arms in front of him, one hand clasped on top of the other and his head tilted to the side.

“You look beautiful.” He says just above a whisper. 

The blush that you were willing away fights its way back to the surface of your cheek bones. You shuffle on your feet and look down, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, too embarrassed to raise your head and make eye contact.

“I love the shirt.” The delicate laugh you let out is absolutely telling of your nerves, and you are positive he can sense it. 

He laughs under his breath and takes the short few steps towards you. 

“It’s really soft, wanna feel it?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

You scoff and turn your head to the side as he reaches out pulling you into another hug. Arms encircling you. This time with the side of your face pressed right up against his shoulder. Your arms lay slack for a minute before hesitantly coming up around his waist and locking behind his back.

You take a deep breath and feel that swift sense of relief and comfort wash over your body. All the spikey nerves in your arms and legs fizzling out to make way for a flowing sensation of calm. He hums above your head and runs a hand up and down your back. 

“So, is dinner coming out alright, or do I need to prepare to order some food in?” He asks in a teasing voice.  

You pull back and swat one of his arms. 

“It’s perfectly fine, thank you very much. Speaking of which, go sit your ass down at the table before I accidentally on purpose burn your pieces of bread.” You point a finger at him, and he raises his arms up, his eyes wide and closed-mouthed smirk on his lips. 

Dinner was in fact fine. The soup was still the perfect temperature when you served it despite making it a little earlier than you should have. Chris devoured his bowl and asked for seconds, which you happily obliged. Conversation was easy and light, him asking you about your work week and you asking about how his parents are doing and of course Berry.

He showed you several more pictures of her on his phone before demanding he be the one to clean the table and do the dishes. You sat on a barstool on the onlook of your kitchen, slowly sipping from your wine glass and watching him bounce and dance around the kitchen, acting way too happy for someone who’s cleaning. 

When he was done, you made him go sit on the couch as you prepped snacks for the rest of the night. And along with the snacks, you made sure yesterday to stop by the bakery near your work and pick up two slices of his favorite chocolate cake. 

You glanced at him a few times through the opening in the kitchen and saw he sat on the edge of the couch, leg bouncing, elbows on his knees, worrying his lip and wringing his hands. It made you feel a little better that you weren’t the only one nervous about the night, but you still couldn’t wrap your head around what he could possibly be thinking that would make him on edge like that.

Padding into the living room you placed a platter of assorted fancy cheeses and meats with some pickled vegetables and crackers. He smiled up at you so affectionately as you smirked and quirked an eyebrow then turned back around to grab cake and wine. 

Finally bringing the rest out on another tray you sat it down and picked up the two plates of cake, handing one to him and sitting down next to him holding out two forks between you. He took one and smiled again at you although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

You kept eye contact a little longer before gesturing at the cake in front of him. 

“You still like chocolate cake, right?” You asked while forking a small piece off the tip of your slice and taking the bite into your mouth.

He huffed out a laugh and followed suit. Taking a rather small bite for his standards and dancing the flavors around on his tongue before swallowing and looking back up at you. 

“It’s okay if you’re full. We can save it for later, you know.” You place your fork down on your plate and sit it on your lap. 

You watch as he slowly turns something over in his mind and sits his fork and plate back down on the tray, then reaches over to yours and takes it out of your hands, placing it next to his. His slow movements and hesitancy send a shiver of worry up your spine, and you can’t stop yourself from the comical gulp you make.

He turns his body towards you and reaches out to take your hands in his. His hands are so warm against your icy fingers, and you stare down at them for a second before looking up into his eyes. And there they are. Soft and round. You can’t make out what they portray. Somehow hiding their intel from you. 

The lights in the room seem to fuzz around you. You feel scared. Like he has a secret he’s been holding onto, and you’re the only one in the world who doesn’t know. Your heartbeat picks up as he pinches his eyes shut for a moment and runs his tongue along his bottom lip. 

“Chris, what’s wrong? Did I do something?” You tilt your head and question. A familiar sting behind your eyes and in your throat. 

“Oh god, no. No no no.” He shakes his head and lets out another nervous laugh. 

“Then why do I feel like you’re about to tell me the worst news of my life?” You gulp again and pull your bottom lip into your mouth. 

“Man, I’m really not good at this am I?” He chuckles again and turns your hands over in his so his are on top of yours like he’s grounding himself.

“Y/N, I was so worried these past few weeks. I mean, the amount of pacing I did in my room, I could have run a marathon instead.” He laughs again and runs a hand through his hair before bringing it back down to yours and grips a bit tighter. 

“I was worried you were going to shut me out. You responded to my texts, which gave me hope that wasn’t the case, but I still wasn’t sure if it was you being, well… just your regular self.” 

Your stomach knots. Another chip you had unknowingly taken out of his heart.

“I told you I’d wait for you, and of course I will. I don’t think I’d ever not wait for you. But I… I realized within that time what I didn’t notice before… the pressure I was putting on you. Asking you to take this leap of faith that I could be everything you needed. That you could feel safe with me, and I’d protect you. I can’t just…decide that for you. No matter how much I want to be that for you, it’s not my place to tell you I am what you need…” 

“Chris.” You cut him off gently. His eyes had been staring down at your hands clasped together. You could see the worry lines on his forehead from this angle. And the tears of doubt and worry in your eyes that were trying to force their way to the surface cooled their heat. 

You see him scrunch up his nose then pull his face back up to look at you. 

“I want to show you something.” Standing, you pull him up with you. You turn and keep one of his hands in yours as you walk down the hallway before stopping at the closed guest bedroom door. Turning, you face him with your hand on the doorknob. He looks at the door and then back to you confused.

Opening the door, you click on the light and drag him in along with you. You stop right at the foot of the bed, still holding his hand and sigh contentedly. 

You watch him as his eyes scan the room. The shelfs and books. The soft lavender duvet on the bed with a few decorative pillows. And eventually land on the painting on the wall. A light grin appears on him, but his eyes and brows still etch themselves confused. 

“It looks really nice. But I still don’t understand why...” 

“I’m sorry I made you wait for me again. I really am. I don’t want to continue making you feel that. But, this time it was necessary. I don’t have any concern of your, for a lack of a better word, devotion. It’s never been you who I worry about. It’s myself. You’ve never put any pressure on me, in any sense of the word, since I’ve known you, Chris. You make me feel safe. You always have.” 

You turn and sit on the edge of the bed and bring him with you. 

“My concern wasn’t that you couldn’t provide those things for me. I was afraid that I wouldn’t let you. I mean, for fuck’s sake you know how stubborn I can be.” You look at him with your lips pressed in a thin line and big eyes. 

He laughs, eyes closed and rubs the back of his neck. 

“You said it, not me.” He says playfully.

“What I’m trying to say is: I learned something important during these last few weeks… I need to stop worrying and just live. I need to let myself enjoy the things I love and accept the things I cannot change. Especially about myself. The only way I can stop myself from pushing you away is to remind myself that I am worth it. And I know, I know, you’ll tell me a thousand times over I am, but how can I take your words and believe them if I don’t think them myself?” 

You pause and glance over your shoulder at the painting on the wall. Serene, empty, yet full. The quietness of a deep forest. Just living. His eyes don’t follow you to the painting but stay trained on your profile.

“I can’t promise you in the slightest that I have accepted this overnight or that I’m immediately a changed woman, because that’s just not how change works, I think. But… I can promise you that I will try for you. Forever. Until I get it right.” 

You sigh deeply and bring your face and eyes back to meet his. His eyes are creased, accompanying a smile one could worship. And you intend to do so.

His free hand comes up and cups the side of your face, brushing his thumb across your cheek. 

“I love you.” He says softly. 

“I will always love you.” You say, brimming with sincerity as you wrap your free hand around his wrist that’s holding your face. 

His eyes dance back and forth between yours, his smile delicate, as if asking for permission. Without hesitation you lean into him, placing your lips against his. This time you feel just how plump and perfect they are. His nose pressed softly against your cheek. He presses a bit harder and pulls away to reconnect at a better angle. 

You let his hand go and reach out to place your hand on his bare chest right in the middle of the V from his shirt. His free hand comes up to mirror his other hand on your cheek and pulls you closer to him. You feel as though the lights in the room really have gone dark this time. Encasing you and him in a pocket of time.

The heat between you two rises in an instant. He uses his grip on your face to his advantage, tilting your head side to side to press his lips onto yours repeatedly until you can feel yourself go dizzy in the head. Instinctively both your hands grasp at the front of his shirt, pulling him even still closer to you and run your tongue along his bottom lip. You can feel the shutter of his body  as it takes control over him, and he pushes you back onto the bed. You gasp quietly as your lips open for access.

His tongue enters your mouth slowly, tentatively as he rolls it around to find yours. The taste of him sweet like the bite of chocolate cake he savored earlier. Your stomach rolls up into your chest, a million soft wings of butterflies, moths, birds, dancing inside you. His right-hand slips down from your face, down your side to the hem of your big sweater and creeps up below it, brushing along the skin of your hip, sending goosebumps up your skin. 

You gasp again away from the kiss at the sensation. He pulls his hand away and opens his eyes to look at you. 

“I’m… I’m so sorry we don’t have to do this right now; I just got so carried away and I, god you feel so good against my lips.” He says rushed, out of breath. His elbow and forearm lay flat next to the side of your head, and he rests his other hand on the bed next to the hip he was once touching.

You take a second to catch your breath and smile, the most genuine smile you’ve ever had. Bringing your arms up, you wrap them around his neck and pull him down flush against you.

“I don’t think there is anything I’ve ever wanted more in this world, Chris. Now please, I love this shirt but take it off before I rip it off.” 

His eyes go wide, but he quickly recovers and smirks, adjusting his body to get the right angle and pulls your body up the bed so your legs are no longer dangling off the side. Then he gets on the bed and slots his knees between your thighs. Still upright on his knees, and smirk still adorning his face, he slowly unbuttons the last few buttons left on his shirt. 

You can’t help the giggle that comes out of you as your hands come up to cover your bright, heated cheeks as you watch him peel the silky tight shirt off his shoulders, behind his back and down his arms till he swings it above his head, balls it in his hands and sends it flying across the room to the floor. You cover your face as you laugh again at his ridiculousness. 

The bed thumps as his hands come down on either side of your head. You pull your hands down and peek over them. He slowly comes closer, down on his elbows, pressing his body against yours. Hips now connected to yours, slotted between your thighs. Pulling your arms out completely from between your bodies you wrap them back around his neck. Brushing at the hair on the nape of his neck with your fingertips.

The intensity in the air comes back quickly at your new position. He shifts his elbows down a little so he can brush the hair from your forehead and eyes.

“You’re so beautiful. The universe really did its thing when it made you.” He says simply as he kisses the top of your forehead, your nose, your beauty mark, and then connects your lips again. 

This time it’s your body that takes control. Your arms wrapping tighter around his neck bringing his full body weight on top of you. Feeling as if he could take your last breath now from your lips and you’d die happy. 

His tongue asks for entrance immediately, and you let him. Your knees come up and your feet plant on the bed, shifting your mini skirt up your legs, hips involuntarily pushing up against him to feel him beneath his tight slacks. A soft groan in his throat tells you he liked that, so you do it again. He moves his hips along with yours for a better angle, and this time you can feel his hardness pressed to your heat. 

His right hand comes down to resume the work he started earlier and quickly slips beneath your sweater. Running up your side all the way up, forcing your sweater to bunch and ghosting over your breast, all the way up through the hole in the top of the sweater, hand softly grabbing your neck and pushing your face to the side. 

He kisses down your jaw, until he reaches the soft skin of your neck. Your breath hitches in your throat as he trails kisses down your pulse point until he stops and nibbles delicately right above your collarbone.

Your arms unlock from his neck and smooth over his strong shoulders. Feeling every muscle as he continues to suck and bite on your neck. A moan escapes you at a particularly hard bite, and he hisses through his teeth while tightening his fingers around your throat. A high-pitched whine from you pulls his attention back as he lets go and leans off you. 

You gasp at the sudden lack of pressure only to look up and see a fire in his eyes staring down at you. Chest heaving, his eyes are lidded, and tongue comes out to brush his bottom lip. The silhouette of his body alone could send you into a coma.

“Take your sweater off for me.” His voice is deep. Your breath still catching up to you and your mind floaty, it takes you a second to realize what he said.

His tone was not lost on you though. Something you’ll have to tuck away for later and unpack with him. 

Pulling your upper body off the bed to sit upright, you quickly acquiesce to his request and yank your sweater up over your head and throw it to the floor while maintaining eye contact as best as you can. However, your hands have a mind of their own.

Your palms come up and lay flat against his lower abdomen, running up the rivulets of his abs followed by your lips, pressing soft kisses one by one around his belly button as your hands continue up and over his chest and down his sides. Your eyes flit closed as you feel his hands run through your hair then find their way against your scalp and tighten against the roots pulling your face slightly away from him. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing you from this angle.” He says as he brushes his free knuckles against the side of your face and jaw, your eyes opening slowly to see his gentle eyes scanning your face. A rush of heat dances in your belly, and you are overcome with the sudden urge to please him. To make him feel good, the way he makes you feel good by just existing in your life. 

Your hands find the button of his slacks quickly, unbuttoning them and pulling the zipper down. His hand tightens in your hair faintly, and you can’t help the moan that escapes your throat. 

“Pants,” is all you can muster. Your hands grab the waistband and try to pull but the snugness of the fit fights against you. Before you can summon the courage to clarify yourself, his hand tightens aggressively as he maneuvers your head to face back up at him.

“Come again?” His face is stoic, except for a brow that’s raised. His composure is so different than he’s ever been with you before. His attitude was always kind, lamb-like towards you. Soft words spoken to a soft shell of a person. But the tone in his words, the severity of this change in him, like he knows your body is craving someone to be rough with you. 

“These pants need to come off.” You tug at the waistband again, but his face remains focused on you. Expression changeless. His eyes bore into you while your mind finally reaches for what he wants from you. 

“Take your pants off… please?” You don’t miss the desperation in your voice. It’s not a new tone for you but the words felt fresh coming from your lips.

“Anything for you baby.” As he releases your hair and pushes your body back slowly until you’re resting on your elbows. 

He backs off the edge of the bed, and you watch as he steps out of his tight black slacks. The dips in his pelvic area creating the perfect tunnel for your eyes to follow down to his boxers. You can tell his eyes are watching yours, but you continue to stare down, mesmerized by every curve his body makes. 

He waits for you to meet his eyes before he makes the next move to pull down his boxers. Your lips part as you see in your peripheral, his cock springing free. You continue to stare at each other for a moment, your heart racing, until his eyes slowly trail down to your legs sitting open in front of him.

A rush of nerves flows down your body at your vulnerable position, and instinctively you move to close your legs, but he quickly reaches out and catches your knees before they can shut. 

“No being shy now. I need to see you.” He says as his hands smooth down your upper thighs to the hem of your skirt. He touches the fabric softly before pushing it further up to expose you more. His hands come up the outside of your thighs before hooking under your knees and pushing them up against your stomach. 

There you are, laid out for him in just your lacy black bra and matching panties with your skirt pushed up and his hands on your body. Your arms feel weak, and your elbows almost give out when you have a moment to really study his face looking down at you. He almost looks pained. His jaw is set tight, and his brows are bunched together. Your stomach swirls, and you feel the patch of wetness on your panties grow.

“Fuck. I can’t believe I’ve had to wait this long to see you like this.” He says as he brings his knees back onto the bed to get closer to you. Between the small gap of your knees your eyes can finally see his cock. Your breath hitches in your throat as you take in its length and size, filled out completely from just looking down at your body.

“Chris, please, I wanna taste you. Let me taste you.” You say, breathless.

He laughs and pokes his tongue into his cheek before pushing your legs closer to your chest forcing you off your elbows and onto your back. 

“No matter how much I loved hearing that from your lips, you’re gonna have to stop saying stuff like that, babygirl, or you’re going to drive me insane. I could come right now from the sight of you alone.” His fingers on your thighs dig into you a little deeper.

Your hands grip the fabric of the bed and whatever little patience or control you thought you might have had slips away. 

“Then kiss me. Shut me up.” You say with frustration.

A small, mischievous smile twists his lips, 

“I plan on it.” He says as his body dips to flatten on the bed. Before you can register what is happening, his plush lips press softly on the thin cotton covering you. A moan escapes you as you feel the heat flood your body. 

“This isn’t going to keep me quiet.” You say under your breath.

His lips come off you, and his hands find their way down your thighs till they both rest next to your center. You feel one of his fingers gently trace their way from the top, down to the bottom of the wetness on the cotton and back up again. The sensation sending a soft shudder down your spine.

“I don’t want it to.” He says as he hooks his finger into the fabric and pulls it aside, exposing you to the cold air. A deep breath is sucked into your chest as you feel the first contact of his tongue pressed flat against you. The warmth invades your senses. He keeps it there a moment before starting to lick at you slowly, then increasing in speed and intensity, finding every inch of skin with his tongue. 

This feeling alone has you panting quickly, your fingers digging into the soft bedspread below you. His free hand palms at the flesh on your thigh, massaging it deeply with his thumb until it reaches the edge of you, spreading you out for better access. You yelp as his tongue enters you, and the muscle dances around creating a buzz beneath your stomach.

“Mmmm, you taste fucking fantastic.” He says before attaching his plump lips to your clit, sucking gently.

“Chris.. ohmygod...” Is all you can get out before you feel one of his fingers find your entrance and tease you with it. The combined feeling has you pinching your eyes shut and a whine leaving your throat. Before you can manage to wrap your head around the pleasure coursing through your body you feel two of his fingers thrust themselves inside of you, each finger alternating in a curling motion.

Your head is spinning as you become a mess of heavy breathing and loud moans falling from your lips. His name coming in between harsh inhales. Your legs tremble as his sucking increases in intensity, coiling a knot inside of you so tight that when it snaps, you’re afraid recovering from it will be impossible. 

“I, Chris, I’m..” You mumble incoherently as your legs give out and fall from their hiked-up position to rest over his shoulders effectively closing him in between your thighs. 

“Come for me, baby, come on my fingers. Let me hear you.” He says before reattaching his lips on you and furthering his power and concentration on your pleasure. 

His tongue swirls around your clit, sending you fast over the edge. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you hold it in while the muscles in your body let go and dance under his touch. The feeling courses through you so strongly, when the peak finally subsides your legs instinctively close against his head suffocating him in your center. You hear him moan deeply and his fingers leave you so both of his hands can come around to your hips, gripping you and pushing your body harder against his face.

His mouth on overdrive, he licks, sucks and kisses you into oversensitivity. Your head buzzes at the feeling as your hands find his on your hips, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and bucking your hips further into him. 

“Chris, please, oh fuck,” you muster between your whines. 

His grip tightens on you, and you hear another moan from him, this time louder and deeper sending vibrations through your skin and deep into the bottom of your stomach. You’re positive you’ve never come twice in such quick succession, but your body reacts on its own, sending you straight off the edge from his attention.

Your body shakes, and your hands let go of him to find their way into your hair. You squeeze at the roots and ground yourself into the sweeping sensation all over your body. His hands release your hips and smooth over your stomach and waist feeling your muscles tighten and contract beneath them.

He slows his exertion, seemingly satisfied with your exhaustion and pulls his head away slightly guiding you to drop your tight hold with your thighs. They part and fall to the sides leaving his face unobstructed from your view, if only you could find the strength to lift your head.

Before you can fully catch your breath, you feel him untangle himself from your lower half, grab your panties and skirt, pulling them down and off your legs, and crawl up the bed and over your body until you’re face to face. His eyes are lidded and heavy and the bottom half of his face glistens as his tongue comes out to lick his lips. 

“I hope you liked that as much as I did.” He says with a slightly cocky smile on his lips. 

“For fuck’s sake, Chris.” You huff out jokingly as his body flattens against yours between your legs. His cock hard and warm, pressed flat against your wetness. Your tiredness aside, the sensation sparks through your body, making your breath shudder.

He laughs and connects your lips together. You didn’t even realize just how much you missed the feeling of his soft lips pressed against yours, however busy they were just a few seconds ago. Your stomach stirs again feeling his body weight against yours.

“You’re so tight, baby. We might have to go a little bit slow even after me doing my best to help you relax.” He says between kisses. Your arms wrap around his neck and legs come up to hook themselves around his waist, moving your hips until the tip of his cock is closer to your entrance. 

“I can handle it. I know I can.” You say against his lips.

His eyes close and his brows furrow as you slightly move your hips again in a circular motion. Dragging him along your wetness hoping to edge his patience into taking action. You stick your tongue out and lick his lower lip. His eyes snap back open and in one quick motion you are flipped around until you are laying over him.

“Come on baby, sit yourself down on me. Take your time. I wanna see your face as you work yourself open on me.” He reaches down and cups your ass to get a handful and squeezes. 

Your brain feels foggy, and it can’t believe it’s hearing Chris say these things to you. Using his arms as leverage you push yourself up into a seated position on your knees with him nestled perfectly beneath you. Your hands come up to your bra and go to unhook it, but his hands stop you.

“Leave it on.” His voice is deep again in a way that vibrates your chest. His hands push yours aside and caresses both of your breasts over the lacy fabric, using his thumbs to rub back and forth over your nipples. The fabric is thin, and the contact is enough to make them harden beneath it. You watch his face as he continues his work, feeling your nipples through the fabric, pinching them a few times making you moan and then pulling the fabric down to expose them. 

He ghosts his fingertips over them sending a shiver down your spine. One of his hands comes up to your mouth, softly pressing his fingertips onto your lips until you part them and take them in, gently sucking and licking them. His own lips part as you wet his fingers, and his hips rut up once against you as if working on their own accord. 

A soft “fuck” leaves his lips as he takes his fingers away and rubs them against one of your nipples. Circling it and pinching it, creating sweet shocks of pleasure. You close your eyes and enjoy the feeling until you feel a sharp smack on your ass. You can’t help the excited yelp that leaves you as your eyes snap back open.

“Let me feel you, babygirl,” he says, eyes lidded, looking like he’s right on the edge of his self-control. As if he wants to snap and take over but is fighting himself to let you take the lead. 

A new swirl in your stomach forms and you plant your hands on his chest. You move your hips up and down on him slightly, feeling his length beneath you before lifting yourself off him. One of his hands comes down to grip your waist, and the other to the base of his cock to hold it up for you to do with as you please. 

You waste little time centering and slowly sinking an inch or two down. The hand holding himself quickly pulls away before attaching itself to the other side of your waist. His eyebrows bunch as he fixes his gaze down to where you two meet. You stay there for a few beats, relishing in the stretch and heat of him. It floods all your senses, sending warmth from below your belly all the way up to the tips of your ears.

Not even a moment passes before your body sends desperate shivers down your legs to give in and sink down. You can sense he’s being extremely patient with your pace, his fingers twitching slightly on your skin, begging you to move. You swirl your hips in a circle as you lower yourself fully onto him, unable to resist the urge to let your jaw go slack and your head fall back.

You feel immediately insane. Every inch of your body is screaming to keep yourself filled by him forever. Your hands grip his pecs as you start to bounce on him. You see his expression change rapidly from one of frustration and restraint to pure, uncontained lust. His hands seek your hips and squeeze harshly on the flesh prompting you to pick up your pace. It’s not long before you’re panting and moaning softly above him. Almost unable to keep your eyes open at the pleasure coursing through your body.

Desperate to feel him even deeper than you could possibly imagine you pick your hands off him and sit up arching your back and rolling your hips forward. His hands are quick to react to your new position as they start to roam over your stomach, up your sides and back down to squeeze at your thighs working hard over him. 

Your hands come back behind you and land on his upper thighs to help keep you upright as you continue to bounce on him. However, you know it won’t last long, the power you want cannot be maintained by the strength that you have. 

Moving your face back down to face him you’re stunned by how beautiful he looks beneath you. His skin is glistening above his collarbones and gently across the apples of his cheeks. His mouth is open and his eyes that were once dancing across your body come up to meet yours. 

“Chris, I…” You start before moaning loudly as his hands grab your ass and squeeze.

“Kiss me, please,” leaves your lips as you feel your legs shake.

He groans softly and quickly fixes himself into an upright position and latches his lips onto yours, wrapping his arms around your body. His new position creates a new angle, and you clench around him pressing your body up against his and wrapping your arms around his neck. As soon as he feels you, his body reacts pistoning up into you as best as he can at a bed shaking pace.

His kisses renew your strength as your body starts to move with his, pushing him further into you and hitting the perfect spot over and over again.

"How does it feel, baby?" His lips detach for yours and find themselves at your neck sucking harshly at the skin.

“So.. good” is all you can mumble between breaths.

“Tell me again.” He says firmly, biting down on the space just above your collarbone then quickly licking over the sensitive skin. 

"You feel so good, Chris. I need you. Please." Your words are accentuated by you clenching around him. His hips stutter, and he quickly flips both of you over until you are lying on your back again under him. His hands smooth up your body as he sinks all the way down into you and stops at the hilt.

"You’re so perfect. You feel so perfect. I need you to come for me again, you're going to do that for me, right?" He fixes the position of his body until your legs are pushed up against your chest again, and his body is laying on top of yours. He puts one hand between you to massage your clit with his thumb as the other comes up to caress your face, his elbow perched on the bed beside your head. 

His passion is pouring out through his hips as soon as he starts to move again. You need more though; you need his perfect lips against yours again to seal all the emotion and pleasure. You reach an arm out and wrap it around his neck pulling his face into yours and without missing a beat he licks into your mouth and pulls on your bottom lip with his teeth sending you fast off the edge of your next high.

Your body shakes and pushes itself up against him, willing him to let go with you, to feel him inside of you. 

“Give me what I want, Chris. Please baby.” you whisper in his ear.

Your words spur him on as both of his hands find their way to your face and he kisses you through his release. Sloppy and heated kisses mixed with his stuttering hips colliding with you slowly over and over again until he is satisfied with his depth and pleasure.

He pulls away from your face slowly, leaving soft pecks on your lips until he can look you in the eyes. A tired smile is gentle across your face. Both of your heavy breathing mix in the air together. He takes his time moving his body off yours and onto the bed next to you, pulling you onto your side with one of your arms and legs draped across his front.

His hand runs up and down your arm as you both settle your breathing and bask in the heated air. There’s a serene sort of stillness that has settled around you that only comes from clearing your soul out. 

You hear him hum in contentment above you. His hand on your back rubs up and down your spine. Your breath is soft again, blowing gently across his chest as you lift your head up and place a kiss where your cheek was then crane your neck to look up at his face. His eyes are closed and the glow on his face is ethereal. 

“We still have cake.” You whisper to him with a soft smile on your lips.

His eyes jump open, “Oh fuck, that sounds so good right now.” He’s never sounded so serious about a piece of cake before.

You start to laugh as his body kicks into action, jumping off the bed and swooping you up into his arms bridal style carrying you back into the living room. 

“Chris, our clothes!” You bark out through your laughter as your arms wrap around his neck.

He winks and kisses the tip of your nose, “Nahhh, we don’t need 'em yet.”

Thank you to @thehandmaidenofcreativity for helping me edit this mess! Love you bb <3

[jjk4isen]

ꗃ 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝟏𝟎𝟎𝟎 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐖.

❝ you're not a curse, you have never been. you were my blessing and my salvation– the best thing that has ever happened to me. you cleared my skies and showed me how it was to love… and be loved. ❞

summary: when your entire village faced the king of curses' wrath, you were sure you'd be as good as food for him but life decides to weave the strings of fate and intertwine yours with the very person who tries to cut it short.

desc: 8.6k words, f!reader, sfw, angsty angst hehe, major character death, cannibalistic thoughts (sukuna is a cannibal after all), takes place in the heian era, true form sukuna, bit ooc bc we know his ass isn't capable of love, ! slightly gory parts!, this is canon bc i said so, kenjaku isn't known as kenjaku yet – he's still known as noritoshi kamo, yorozu mentioned, basically just me raw dogging the storyline during the heian era lol.

notes: this took way longer than it should but i battled like three burn out sessions to write this so lmao. also does anybody get the aot reference in the title? this might MIGHT have a part two if i can think of a good plot to mirror it. if you get the reference, you'll alr know what it's going to be titled :P

must be horrifying isn't it? being a mere human amongst sorcerers and curse users capable of destroying and killing— powerless among the powerful whose thirst for yet more power remain a bottomless pit of unquenchable desire.

in this state of the world, your life wasn't your own. it belonged to the people who were strong enough to kill you or considerate enough to spare you.

and among dangers looming throughout, one triumphs all. one whose name was even powerful enough to send curses back at just the mention of it.

ryomen sukuna. feared by curses and non curses alike. the ruthless evil entity who feeds off of humans. there is no doubt about him being the king of curses, capable of having any being in the palm of his hands.

including you.

your village faced the wrath of the king of curses himself, not a brick was intact nor a rock left unturned. and what's even worse? he didn't have any reason for his destruction. he just did it out of his sheer will.

perhaps you should consider yourself lucky to have your life spared, along with some other women and children. all the men were gone without traces — maybe for the better.

trapped in the basement of the castle’s kitchen, you await your fate to be eaten.

what was that you said before? lucky? no, you realise how horribly wrong you were. the wails and cries of terror as yet another person was dragged out of the small room was enough to ring in your ears forever.

the sudden quietness that followed soon after was enough to suffocate you.

the room was dark, wet and disgusting. it reeked of decomposed bodies and blood. nobody was fed well and even if one or two loaves of pitiful bread were thrown into the small cell, it wasn't nearly enough to feed a group of starving people.

at least the number keeps decreasing day by day.

you'd notice how the people who cried, begged or fought back were likely speeding up their deaths so you kept to yourself, waiting for your turn, even if it's just a while later.

after what you think was a couple of days came your turn. you had lost your perception of everything in this tiny suffocating room; you might as well be dead.

you heard some loud clanks of the metal door and suddenly, a harsh pull sends you essentially flying towards whoever was grabbing you.

“this is the last one” you heard a gruff voice say as a light shone inside. it felt like ages since you saw any sort of light, of warmth. in a way, you were relieved. your suffering must be finally coming to an end.

“its this one isn't it?” a low voice asks as they being a lamp closer to inspect you. your eyes were opened and after a long while, you saw again.

“why is she in such a weakly state?” the person holding the lamp grimaces at your sight. through your hazy vision, you could still make out the white hair, perfectly in place. they were beautiful.

“well that ain't my fault is it?” the big creature yanks your arm and you fall wherever it does.

suddenly shards of ice fill the room and the fire from the lamp is put out. in its place is a glowing icy caricature of the creature, holding you intact.

as terrifying as cursed techniques can be, they were also mesmerising. the beautiful fridgid sculpture leave you in awe; the rough hand holding your arm was now frozen and unmoving.

“now.” the icy person leans down, meeting your eye level, you hadn't realised the dim moonlight illuminating the ice crystals in the room “what shall we do with you?”

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the next time you're concious enough to make out your surroundings, you find yourself in a small dimly lit room. it was heaven in comparision to the previous one.

you scrumble towards the small lamp and take in the warmth. you had no idea where you were, what happened or what would happen but for now, you were alive. barely, but alive still.

weakly, you sit on the floor— there isn't anywhere else to sit anyway. upon hugging your knees you notice an apparent bruse on your arm. the same place where you were grabbed, the memories come back slowly.

did the white haired person save you? could you maybe have a chance at life?

no, being in captivity by the king of curses himself tells you enough that you weren't going to make it out of here alive. well, it's not like you necessarily want to either. your home and the people in it were gone, some of whom you witnessed their end.

it's only fair for you to meet the same fate as them.

the sound of the door unlocking interrupts your thoughts, then in came the person with snow like hair.

“finish this” they hold out a tray of food and set it down next to you. you only lean away defensively.

without so much of another word, they make their way towards the door that is, until you decided to stop them.

“you saved me didn't you?” it had been a while since you even heard your own voice and you don't miss the way it sounded more resigned than it had ever been.

“do not be fooled. it is all in consideration for my master. finish the plate” with that they walk away, leaving you with even more questions than before.

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when the certain white haired person decides to show up, they look pleased with your health. well, it should come as a no surprise since they keep feeding you — overfeeding you in fact. and you know why.

fatten up the stock so that it's in top shape when it's time to consume it.

“follow me” they say, holding the door open.

obediently, you follow the person you owe your life to, for now anyway, and they lead you through alleys and stairways you had never seen before.

only sounds of footsteps and your exhausted huffs can be heard in the hallway filled with various markings on the wall. you don't even want to know what they mean.

“so… how do i call you?” you manage to ask, maybe if you try to get close to them, maybe they can help a second time.

don't kid yourself.

no reply comes and you feel heat rush to your cheeks from embarassment. but hey at least you tried.

your wandering eyes missed to see them stop before a certain door and you crash into them with a grunt. they must be well built because the impact did not faze them at all.

“sorry” you rub your nose that was sore from bumping your face into their back.

“i go by uraume. i am master sukuna's loyal servant. beyond this door is the garden and you are to take a walk twice a day to build up your stamina. i shall be checking on you daily.”

“why should i need to do that?”

“do as you are told. now go” they open the door for you.

beyond the door is a garden too beautiful to belong in the palace of such an abominable being. flowers of all kind adjourn each corner, flourishing in all their bloosoming glory.

the sky was as clear as can be, with the sun brightly shining as if it's wishing people a good day. the birds chirping and the gentle breeze that brushes through your hair reminds you of your home back in the village and your heart aches a little.

“thankyou” you turn back but uraume is now long gone.

gee must people be so cold around here?

you stroll along the garden, savoring your time outside in so long. how long has it been exactly? you couldn't recall. maybe you should ask uraume the next time they come around.

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only this time when uraume does show up, they don't lead you towards the garden. instead, you find yourself at the door of the king of curses’ throne room.

uraume doesn't say a word and only ushers you in.

is this doomsday? you recall the screams of fear from the people you used to share a home with. the look on their faces, their nails desperately clinging onto the prison bar while pleading for mercy — all of that for naught.

and the silence that followed.

it's possible that the well timed meals and the strolls you took in the beautiful garden was the mercy your people begged for but never got.

maybe you should be thankful you even got to have those.

“master is impatient. you should go in right this instant” uraume insists. something about their behaviour tells you if you don't do as told, you'd have a fate worse than what you could ever think of.

with all the courage you could muster, you unlock the door and take strides into it, as confident as you could make it seem.

the four armed monster looms in front of you, starting down at you as if you were only a mere bug.

perhaps you were — small and helpless, under the mercy of the predator who had seen you.

you bow politely, it seemed like it was the only appropriate thing to do.

sukuna thinks you're pathetic.

just a mere human and not worth his time. there was only a small reason as to why he hasn't had his way with you yet.

your flesh and blood.

to him, you smelled hauntingly sweet and hypnotisingly alluring. that was what drew him to your village in the first place — the hunt for the sweet scent that awakened all his senses, although he doesn't have any idea why.

sukuna is a curious being, he seeks to know the mysteries of the world — one of the reasons why he's so wise, adding to his strength.

so until he has his answers, he plans to keep you around. after that, he can enjoy your flesh however he wants.

just you standing mere feet away from him was enough to tempt him to bite you already. how would it feel to sink his teeth into your skin and have your blood flow down his throat? sukuna couldn't wait until he has the chance to do so.

“leave.” the monster only dismisses you after staring at you so intently, he might as well be staring deep into your soul.

you look up at him in confusion, why would he call you here without any particular reason?

“do your ears not work, human?” sukuna says, rather impatiently.

“lower your gaze and know your place, fool” he practically growls and you look away faster than the speed of light. one more bow and you're bolting out the door.

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your stay at the palace was a cycle of eating, sleeping and taking strolls. it was beginning to get monotonous, boring even. but its much better than facing the king of curses ever again.

you still had no idea why he called you to his throne room and honestly, you don't even want to find out why.

life wasn't so bad — the flowers were beautiful and smelled lovely, the meals were scrumptious and your sleep? well nightmares were inevitable but there were nights when you slept like a log.

and unbeknownst to you, a certain four eyed creature could be seen watching over you. no, observing you. its only right for him to observe his prey right?

it's not out of the goodness of his heart that when you whimper and cry out in your sleep because of a weak nightmare curse looming over your head, he kills it with only a tilt of his own. no, it's only because that curse deters your well being, hence your development to reach your full potential to be a perfect feast for him. nothing more.

weak human, you don't have the means to kill such a low grade curse or even see it. so why were you special? what makes you so different than the other filthy beings with no cursed techniques roaming the earth? sukuna still couldn't tell.

he's aware though — of your silent fear and unspoken resentment you have towards him. he's aware of your quivering soul whenever you sense his presence. he's aware of your desire to escape this place.

but he's also aware of how your smile becomes a little more genuine when you smell a particular flower in his garden. he's aware of how your eyes soften when you see the setting sun. he's aware of how you tried to get close to uraume and only get shut out. he's aware of you.

and that angers him to no end.

what infuriates him even more is how that pathetic servant thinks he can talk to you, and with such ease too. how dare he speak lowly of you? that's a direct insult to him isn't it?

‘you mean less than a concubine?’ sukuna scoffs at him for even comparing you to one.

so the next time he calls the council for a lecture, he doesn't even blink one of his four eyes when the said servant in question gets slashed by his formidable cursed technique.

the room grows thick with the smell of blood that was now splashed all over the carpets and tapestry hanging on the wall—a grueling task for the cleaners later.

“every tongue that rises against my prey shall fall.” the headless body of his once loyal servant serve as testimony to his words.

the palace may be big but rumours flew around: another servant ruthlessly executed by the monstrous beast. even the people under him weren't given an ounce of consideration.

is it a coincidence that it was the same person who cornered you just a day ago? you don't ponder.

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after the ruthless slaughter of your village and everything in it, it didn't take long for sukuna to find his next target.

it wasn't anything new to anybody at all that he was a bloodthirsty beast, revelling in chaos and ruin. one after another, his victims were crushed mindlessly and so easily, it made you sick how powerless other people are in comparison to him.

out of all his battles and countless destruction, one prominent opponent was the fujiwara clan.

they were an elite clan, taking pride in the strength of their squadrons. the world held its breath upon hearing of the battle, maybe they had the potential to rival the king of curses.

the outcome didn't change though. sukuna remained prevalent—bringing the sun, moon and stars at his feet. the five empty generals did not even measure upto him.

the battle must have been so agonising to the point where the authorities were willing to hold festivals in his honour, out of utter terror.

it was at this harvest festival where sukuna had encountered a certain shameless sorcerer who was on her way to be completely obsessed with him.

yorozu had only one goal: to alleviate sukuna's loneliness with her love — something she believed only she was capable of.

thus why she leeches onto him, much like a hick. perhaps sukuna doesn't see her as a threat or he deems her powerful enough, he didn't get rid of her, for now at least.

however, her dreams were short lived.

yorozu sits next to sukuna in his throne room, enticing him with gentle nudges of her exposed chest. her haori was united and her hair fell graciously past her shoulders all the way down her chest.

she only shrieks in horror as she stares at the uninterested man. “you look different… you are different!” she screams angrily.

sukuna only hums in response, deep in thought of how his little prey has been holding up. despite his festivities and celebrations, you were there in the back of his mind, like an itch that cannot be quite scratched.

she stares at him, stepping back further and further “it couldn't be…”

yorozu brings herself to her knees, looking up at sukuna desperately. “i have so much more to teach you about love and the ultimate strength and solitude that it brings!”

she rises, her eyes were erratic, anyone would be afraid of her outburst that was about to come. anyone but sukuna.

“im the one who will teach you about love. that is my purpose and my goal. now tell me, who is it that is taking away your loneliness?”

sukuna raises a brow. it's possibly the only time he indulges yorozu’s antics and also the last.

“i will find out who it is! it doesn't matter if i have to tear this palace apart” yorozu violently darts out the room in search of something, anything. to her, if it was powerful enough to move sukuna then she would have no trouble finding whatever it is.

and she doesn't. not because you're too powerful but rather because of the lack of it. you stuck out like a sore thumb with no cursed energy running through your body, weak and unarmed just strolling across the garden— like the pathetic human you are.

sukuna arrives at the scene, ever observing, ever thinking.

“that is not true love” yorozu mutters, her fists were clenched on her sides as her gaze burnt into you who was unknowing of the fury burning inside her.

“you're mistaken, sukuna. i will show you what real love looks like!” yorozu screams, making her way towards you who could only stare at her in fear, frozen in place.

it would take sukuna less than a blink of his eye to stop her but he was intrigued. what would he feel if you were to be killed? would he feel pain? anger? the beast always finds his answers so he waits.

and what was that about true love? does that woman think he was capable of it? with you, no less? she sees you, a mere human, as a threat so that must mean something.

yorozu lands on you, digging her nails into your skin, blood gushing out of it. sukuna admires the sight.

you scream in agony as she continue to scratch through you and into you with ease. a maniac expression forms on her face at your slowed breaths and now silent helpless whimpers.

but before you were completely gone, sukuna gets rid of her. you were too busy holding onto your life to tell how he did it but one blink was enough for her to be gone and another makes you realise you were caged in the arms of the four armed monster.

“interesting” you heard sukuna say, before your lashes flutter and your eyes close against your will.

sukuna holds your limp body in his arms protectively with calculated gentleness as if a slight jerk would hurt you. well, in your state, it would.

upon watching you get torn apart, sukuna realises he isn't as heartless as he deemed himself. it drives him angry. how could a being as weak as you would have the capability to move him? how could you inflict pain onto him when you're the one who's at his mercy? he scoffs at how ridiculous it is all.

but when his eyes land on you– your fragile body almost lifeless and bleeding, his only thought was towards your safety and not towards devouring you, albeit the sweet scent of your blood tempting him and calling out to him to drink it.

he stares at his hands tainted with the pretty crimson colour, glistening in the sun but it pales in comparison to the way your eyes were shut as if you were only asleep. sukuna sighs, alright then.

his reversed cursed technique flows through his body into your own, healing the deep tears and cuts. he only hopes you aren't too angry at him for waiting that long to step in.

your staggered breathing was replaced with slow even ones and your wounds disappeared as if they had never been there in the first place. a peaceful expression forms on your face and all of sukuna's eyes soften.

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the next time you awaken you find yourself in the comfort of your own room making you doubt if everything that happened was a vivid dream. and you would have believed that doubt if not for the person sitting in the corner of your room, his four arms folded into each other.

you flinch upon seeing him and sit straight up, a groan escapes you involuntarily from your sore body.

“you're awake, brat” his deep voice sends shivers down your spine.

you nod slightly, your eyes on anything besides him.

“how are you feeling?” this makes you jolt your head towards him because did he just ask about your well being? you would say you misheard but the frown and distaste on his face only confirms that he was, in fact, concerned about your condition somehow.

“im feeling alright” you say quietly, still a bit afraid of the man sitting in your room who could easily overpower you if he wanted.

“i should hope so. your weak body didn't take much to heal as easily injurable as it is” he sneers from the shadows that enveloped him.

“so it wasn't a dream?” your voice shook a little which doesn't go unnoticed.

“no. i have taken care of the matter. you may rest at ease” he rises to his feet, he looks way too big to feel safe around. you hug your blankets a little tighter. wait, when did you even have that many?

“do not fear. i do not intend to harm you.” two out of four eyes narrow at you and how scared of him you looked. sukuna doesn't like how that bothers him.

“how do i know that?” your eyes didn't meet him, rightfully so, if it was anyone else who questioned him, sukuna would waste no second getting rid of them altogether.

“it is i.” a viable answer – one that doesn't need any further explaination. sukuna maybe a merciless hard hearted being but he's also a man of his words. anyone who knows him would be aware of this fact.

“but i don't know you.”

he supposes you're right. in a way, nobody knows him. this was also why he remained so strong despite people and sorcerers alike sharpened themselves while fighting him. he did not have an opening to allow them to kill him.

“then you can start from this moment forward.”

“i don't want to.” for the first time, sukuna faces disappointment; but it's a different kind of disappointment. normally he would be discouraged at how nobody was able to stand a chance against him but now, he feels helpless. much like he was the prey and you're the predator.

“and your reason for that is?” ever so curious, he glowered at your body which had somehow become smaller amongst the sheets of blanket you're enveloped by.

“because then… then i will grow to understand you. if i do understand you then that would mean id find out you have a heart. someone with a heart would never… would never…” your voice trails away and you look horrified by the memories flooding your mind.

“so i don't want to know you.” you muster up enough courage to stare into his eyes, all of his eyes and sukuna can feel your soul tremble.

he only watched silently as you fidget under his watchful gaze. great. he's at a loss by someone who's terrified of him, how much more could you hit a blow to his pride.

without a word, he steps out of your room and he could hear you exhale. he huffs in annoyance at how tense you are in his presence. and your words. they might as well be your cursed technique attacking him with every enunciation that came from your mouth.

and they were working.

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the world was somehow shifting. you couldn't exactly pinpoint where or how but it was.

“master has assigned you a new room that would be more comfortable for your stay” uraume says, standing in front of you in a polite stance. “please allow me to guide you there.”

if this is his attempt to make you forget about all the destruction he caused, for whatever reason, it was futile. he was irredeemable.

your thoughts might have been apparant on your face because uraume continues, “master says he does not have an ulterior motive. he simply wants you to be comfortable.”

since when did that beast care about other people's comfort except for his own?

“fine then, show me” if he offered, then there's no problem in accepting. heck maybe you should be taking advantage of his hospitality and ask for whatever you desire. he has put you on death's row and wiped of everyone you knew after all.

you were led to a room that was closer to the main area of the palace, a stark contrast to the basement of the kitchen — where you started from.

pieces of beautiful art were decorating each corner, finest tapestry hanging from the walls, and the curtains? they were of the best material you had ever known. no doubt, this was a room that exceeded even your dreams.

uraume opened the closet revealing kimonos of various kinds, from silk to linen to satin— every kind was there. “i was not aware of your taste so i assorted various kinds.”

you were amazed at the room, the materials – everything but these measly riches don't bring lives back and the monster certainly wasn't capable of any empathy so the words saying he has no ulterior motive were nothing but empty to you.

“what? have i been promoted from prey to concubine now?” the word alone makes you sick to your stomach but it's the only explanation that makes sense.

“you are very wrong. master does not keep concubines. it is only an extension of his kindness.” you laugh, sukuna? kindness? please.

four eyes narrowed at your bitter laugh, sukuna stands in the doorway, each of his two arms folded in each other. he has lost count of how much disrespect he tolerates from you but strangely, it does not give him a drive to kill, only annoyance.

a brow raises when you turn around after being aware of his presence and your laugh, as mocking as it was, dropped into a frown.

seeing how speechless you are, he huffs. from out of nowhere, he conjures up a bow and an arrow to go along with it. sukuna moves stealthily, one step and he's already next to you.

the bow and arrow are shoved into your hands “i have heard you are exceptionally good with these” sukuna says, his voice was low and calculating – if you hadn't known better, you'd say it quivered a little.

he wasn't wrong though, you had to hone some sort of hunting skill for food. life wasn't kind and you learnt it the hard way. nevertheless you felt safer with some kind of weapon you were familiar with, even though they won't be of much help against a sorcerer.

“master’s very own bow and arrow” uraume interrupted, their face had an expression of shock you had never seen on them before. there was an engraving on them– the same mark that sukuna had on his body.

“why give me this?” you ask and receive no answer. not because sukuna doesn't want to answer you, he simply doesn't have a reason. he just wanted you to have it. it felt natural. he'll be damned before he ever admits that to you or even to himself.

“what if i use it on you?” you press on, clutching onto the wooden weapon tightly. “what if i wanted to fire this at you?”

“i would let you.”

it caught you by surprise. why? you want to ask but you also didn't want to hear his reason. you don't want to know him. the little barrier you had put between you both is the only thing giving you leverage against such a vicious being, you couldn't afford to have it break down.

taking a quick abrupt step back, you line the end of the arrow to the bowstring and pull on it with an expert ease, aiming it at sukuna. uraume was about to step in but sukuna waves them off. as if the most feared curse user couldn't defend himself.

he could already have you breathing your last breath in a mere second if he wanted to but of course, he doesn't. he just stands there unmoving. his lack of response to your threat made you all the more aggravated.

“aren't you going to stop me?”

“no. proceed with whatever you intend to do, i shall not stop you.” sukuna's folded arms fell to his sides, giving you an open target for his heart.

now you should be firing your arrow with no hesitation right? you have hunted down countless moving targets from as small as a bird to something as big as a deer.

and they were running while you manage to hit a bullseye – every single time. so now this unmoving big target within just a few meters would be a piece of cake. it's your chance to end the tyranny of his wicked rule and him altogether– a chance that had not been granted to anyone who stands against him.

but your hands wouldn't move. they wouldn't let go of the string to propel the arrow towards him. they were frozen in place. you would have doubted uraume’s technique being in play but no signs of ice crystals found themselves anywhere near.

sukuna waits and you wonder if he was ever this patient.

your hands tremble, slowly letting your form down. why couldn't you just do it?

“human–”

sukuna's words were cut short by a swift arrow flying towards him. he didn't make a move to avoid it.

your trembling hands were now perfectly stable holding the bow. your breathing was calm, collected even. if anyone were to see you now, they'd wonder who the beast is. empty eyes deadpan at your target.

sukuna stares back, his cheek bleeding from the graze of the arrow. unlike your soul-less face, a satisfactory smile creeps onto sukuna's. “you didn't miss, did you? you aimed here on purpose.” his hands caress the small wound in awe.

“next time i wont.”

“as i have said, i will not stop you.”

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the new room was comfortable, all your needs were tended to and your conduct exceeded your desires. you were treated equal to a queen, if you knew how.

and uraume, sukuna's loyal servant, was now your own. they were still very distant though, not speaking more than they needed to. not like you really minded anyway.

uraume was there to observe. they were under strict orders to keep you safe and also report your daily status to sukuna. you weren't exactly aware of this part but there's no harm done so by logic, there wasn't a problem with it either.

sukuna finds the corner of his mouth twitch when uraume mentioned that you sang obnoxiously loud because you thought nobody was around. he'd have loved to hear that himself.

the amusing brief about you was however rudely interrupted by a strange person brave enough to march directly into the throne room unannounced.

“you're from the kamo clan aren't you? have you come to die a meaningful death?” sukuna's thirst for battle heightened upon seeing a sorcerer from one of the three main clans in jujutsu. maybe finally, he can have a strong opponent and enjoy the fight without having it end too early.

but the man only chuckles “no, i have come here to negotiate with the almighty king of curses himself”

sukuna frowns, now staring at him unamused “you do not have anything worth a value to me. fight or die a pathetic death.”

“i will do neither of those.” noritoshi kamo, stands face to face with sukuna without a hint of fear in his eyes and that makes sukuna curious. just what kind of offer does he have to be so bold?

“prove that you are worth my time you filthy scum” sukuna glowers at the man, getting more and more impatient by the second.

“how about that prey? how is your little prey doing?” kamo smirks and it's enough to tempt sukuna to cut through his skull but no, he refrains because anything that involves you, sukuna doesn't take it lightly.

“speak up or i’ll have you slashed.” sukuna remarks impatiently.

“it would be a shame to have her taken away from you isn't it?” the old man sneers.

the next thing he knows is his ragged breath and a sharp pain across his chest, kamo falls to his knees. sukuna’s technique had manifested a cut through his chest, although not deep enough to end him. with blood oozing out of the fresh cut and his mouth, he still has the courage to glare at the four eyed creature.

“you must not value your life” sukuna says nonchalantly, leaning against one of his hand, the grotesque sight was nothing new to him at all.

“your reign is coming to an end isn't it?” kamo laughs, although it comes out through splutters of blood. “no matter how powerful you are, you are not immortal sukuna, you still won't defeat death!”

as if sukuna is one to fear death. sukuna only sighs, revelling in the bloodied state of his intimidator.

“and your little human toy won't either” that earns a reaction from him. sukuna's eyes narrow at the pitiful man fighting for his life.

“what are you suggesting?”

“what if i tell you– that there is a way for you to be immortal? and that it's possible to find her in every lifetime?”

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everyone who knows sukuna knows that he does not get hurt. or yet, there's nobody who's strong enough to hurt him. generation upon generation, sorcerers have teamed up to get rid of him but with no luck. not even one of them could land a hit on the ferocious being.

all the more reason for you to be speechless when he returns with a huge hole in his stomach, bleeding continuously.

it was during your stroll that you saw him staggering over to his room.

okay maybe that was a lie. maybe you'd heard that a very prominent sorcerer in the jujutsu society had challenged him. you didn't know much about that world but it was enough to worry you, even if sukuna was undefeated.

so maybe that worry brings you into a situation where he arrived just while you were taking a stroll in the garden. you definitely didn't purposely take longer to watch the birds fly back to their nest in hopes of making sure sukuna returns. definitely not.

that's also NOT why you're knocking on his door boldly.

the door opens, revealing a confused sukuna. your eyes dart down to his injury but it seems the blood had stopped, still looking nasty regardless.

you wince just by looking at it but sukuna interrupts your unwarranted examination. “eyes here human. what do you want?”

for someone who's supposed to be prey, you're bold because in the next moment, you find yourself pushing through the door and asking him to sit down.

yes. you— a mere human, barged through his room and asked him to sit. when he doesn't comply, you walk up to him, pulling on one of his hands, guiding him towards his chair and sat him down. and strangely, no hint of protest came from him – not even a grunt or a growl.

with familiar ease, you call in uraume and ask for an emergency kit. they hesitate but comply regardless.

your expert hands slowly disinfect the wound and start stitching it up, not even sparing a glance at the man who just watches you and lets you do whatever you want to him.

“where have you garnered skills to do this?” sukuna asks mid stitch and it's only then that you realised he hasn't done so much as flinch. you could imagine how painful it would've been for a normal human but apparently this counts for nothing to him.

“when you're desperate enough, you just know” the last string goes through his flesh and you tie a knot, snapping the thread off. your movements slow when you realise you're touching him– skin and all, with your own.

your eyes lock when you search for his and they stare back. this time, you don't see a vicious brute but in its place, you see the eyes of a man. and not just any man, if you allowed your thoughts to wander you'd say it was the same look of a man capable of love.

but you don't – you look away. and sukuna's could feel a slight pull in his chest.

“human.”

“i have a name”

“human.”

the disregard for your name only makes you roll your eyes in annoyance. the man only chuckles at the sight.

“you do realise i can heal myself?”

a pause. of course how could you forget? reversed cursed technique they call it? all these magical powers granted to them made no sense to you at all. you only stare at the wall dumbfounded as sukuna downright laughs at your humiliated expression.

“why didn't you stop me then?” your grumble only amuses him further.

“perhaps because i wanted you to acknowledge how foolish you are?” his tone was teasing and not a hint of malicious intent was within it. a smile creeps on your lips and sukuna could swear his heart rate accelerated.

“i could show it to you if you're curious” your wide eyes give him all the confirmation he needed. sukuna rises on his feet, the prior horrid injury long forgotten.

“you could… take off the bandages. if they aren't effective anyway since you can heal” you shrug, trying to brush off your wholly service that was in fact not required in the first place.

“i rather they stay.” his hands graze them gently and you could swear he smiled at the pitiful mounts of cotton plastered on his abdomen.

“come. allow me to show you what im capable of.” he offers you a hand, out of the many he has and his shoulder slumps in relief when you take it without any protest.

he takes you outside and leads you towards your favourite spot in the garden. you don't let yourself wonder if it's a coincidence or not.

“see that fruit?” he gestures to a ripe apple hanging on its tree – super red and just the perfect size.

“yeah want about it?” you tilt your head towards him curiously making sukuna more enthusiastic to show you his perfectly crafted technique.

an invisible slash cuts the single fruit out of the tree, making it fall. it was barely noticeable and you'd think it fell on its own if not for the perfect slices it has all while it landed in the palm of your hands.

your wide eyed gaze only delights the man responsible for it. you take one slice off and admire the precision “you did this?? no way!”

sukuna heaves his chest proudly. strangely, your adulation to his antic gives him so much more satisfaction than wiping out an entire village.

“wait till you see this” sukuna takes a step back, his lips quirking up into a tight smirk upon seeing your expectant expression.

he places his hands together and gestures up signs that were not familiar to you. “fuga « open »” his low voice chants while fire manifests into the palm of his hands. he moulds the flames skillfully as it takes the shape of an arrow – a fire arrow.

and you're left with your mouth agape, he was truly terrifying. such bright flames don't even burn him but instead falls into his command.

sukuna likes the way you stare at him in wonder and was tempted to tell you that he created this very technique in honour of you and your bold decision in grazing his cheek with your arrow but for now, he holds his tongue and lets you admire as long as you want.

when the flames burn away, you're still in a haze— staring at the man in front of you with diluted pupils: one might think you're in love.

as sukuna focuses his eyes into your own, he's certain he could see into your soul which grows a little more familiar to him everytime he sees you. no it's not how he feels the familiar terror in someone's soul when they tremble in fear of him just as he was about to take their life.

it's not the same shudder of fear he used to feel when he's around you. this time, it's inviting. he feels he could be stripped of his technique and just be a normal being if it meant he could submerge himself in it.

───────────── 🃜 🃚 🃖 🃁 🂭 🂺

sukuna used to anticipate how he would die. he wanted to meet someone who would be strong enough to give him a formidable death fit for the most evil being to tread the world. news of fresh generation of strong sorcerers would excite him.

but the moment he knew he was entranced by you, that prior excitement was now replaced by fear. not fear for his death but rather, for yours. if anything were to happen to him, who would protect you?

it doesn't help how his enemies were catching hints on his possible weakness now. it all started with that damn bastard from the kamo clan, whom sukuna swears to kill. him and everybody else that could pose as a threat to you, he swears he will kill them all.

a little part of him also starts to fear for his own end. he fears that no matter how long he lives, he might think he doesn't have enough time with you. how could he when you're here, showing the sides or the world he never knew existed? the same world you weaved with every gentle word you say, no matter how insignificant.

sukuna can't get enough of the small smiles that were appearing more frequently when he reaches out to hold your tiny hand in his big ones.

he can't get enough of your soft snores when you're asleep in his chest– no more nightmares haunting your sleep because as long as he's around, any curse would have to fight him to get to you. no curse was bold enough to do so.

and mostly, he can't get enough of your small gentle strokes across his face. your touch was feather light and curious but so so loving that even when your hands were about to be pulled away, his own grabs them and makes them stay.

sukuna has nothing at all to base it off of, but if he had to name what he's feeling right now, it would be along the lines of complete devotion to you – in other words, he suspects it's the feeling these weak humans and yozoru keep preaching about: love.

and he's not denying it– not to himself at least or he can't. during his recent battles, he observes himself ending it as quick as possible.

instead of luxuriating in the thrill of battle, he finds himself rushing to kill his opponent – to end it as quick as it was humanely possible because every second he spends away from you is a second wasted.

he was becoming more precise and ruthless now that he has something to protect.

that's why even when you ask about his murder streak and if he could lessen it, he just ruffles your hair and tells you not to worry.

any sorcerer who has gotten close enough to land their sights on you were brutally tortured until they give up on their life altogether.

however, life can be funny at times. his own fear for your well being is possibly responsible for the curse that now latches onto you, consuming and draining the life out of you and sukuna's forced to watch as you slowly became a husk of who you used to be. so really, it's not funny at all.

he feels helpless and he is. none of the cursed techniques he has could exorcise the curse blooming inside you and spreading through your veins.

he has been warned before and he didn't care. he never fathomed to ever find someone to love so he traded his soul for his fervent reign – a binding vow: any being whose soul remotely gets near his own would ruin itself without any means for its resurrection.

another condition of the vow was for him to forget about it only after it was too late. at the time the vow was made, sukuna had thought, no, he'd known he lucked out by a power at the price of such a feeble condition but now… now he knows how gut wrenchingly wrong he was.

sukuna slumps in defeat at the sight of your weak body fighting itself. all his four hands encased one of yours as he listens to your staggering breaths that slowly becomes more faint than the last.

for the first time, no matter how tainted his hands were of from the numerous people he murdered in cold blood, sukuna finds himself praying; not for salvation or forgiveness but for your suffering to be placed onto him instead.

he has just found happiness with you, and in you, had just started to learn how to love someone so much that all his wicked ways were something he wished he never did. he had been stupid and arrogant – too arrogant. he was sure the heaven and whole generations of people he killed were now laughing at him drowning in his own misery. how the tables have turned on him and humbled him.

“kuna..” your barely audible voice mades him lean closer to your face, one of his large hands coming up to caress your face delicately.

“human. save your energy” sukuna scolds but his tone was not demanding by any means. it was desperate, desperate for just one more second of you.

a faint smile ghosts your almost now deathly pale face “it's not your fault.” you manage to cough out through staggering breaths.

sukuna's world might as well stop. it was his fault, everything was his fault. from the moment he caught a whiff of your sweet sweet blood to when he looked at you as nothing but prey to the moment when you became the sole reason for his existence, it was all his doing. he has taken you and tangled you amidst the string of despair.

his head shakes in denial, no words coming out of both his two mouths. so much to say, so many ways to say it but nothing.

but you know, the four pupils staring at you take the form of hearts, and that tells you everything. it could be just an illusion you'd heard people speak of on the verge of death but it's enough for you.

your sweet blood slowly looses its essence as you close your eyes, the last light inside you leisurely fading away.

“oi human” sukuna calls but there was no response.

“answer me” a plea.

still no answer as your hand slowly goes limp in his own. there was silence and nothing. so much of nothing that was unfamiliar in the otherwise air of curiousity that always surrounded you.

“human.” sukuna's voice wavers as his hands come to cup your too peaceful face. he searches for any signs of life but he finds none. before he knew it, a drop of water landed on your clueless yet beautiful features, then another and another.

the monster was crying. not just crying – he wept.

his entire body shakes as he lets out his pain, holding onto you desperately as if that would bring you back.

“human” he dries away his own tears on your face and brushes away the hair that dared hide even a portion of it.

“you're not a curse. you have never been. you were my blessing, my salvation. you are the best thing that have ever happened to me. you cleared my skies and showed me how it was to love… and be loved.”

sukuna trembled in grief at your loss. the king of curses– reduced to a man in love.

perhaps he wasn't the cannibal here. perhaps you were the one who slowly teared him apart and consumed his very being– merging yourself into his core without him even realising it.

but one thing he knows for sure is that if he were to do it again, he'd let himself be devoured entirely by you. over and over again. to be loved is to be consumed and he's offering himself to you, flesh and bones on a silver platter.

“until next time, my love.” he leans in and places a fragile kiss onto your forehead and that's the first and last time he has a taste of you.

with the last drop of your blood running dry and the absence of the warmth that made you, you; sukuna finds his answer – the reason why your blood tasted so sweet was because he was made to crave it. something he could quench his thirst with but never getting the chance to do so; a punishment perfectly fit for him.

“your deal. i shall agree to it on a condition” sukuna glowers at kamo who only smirks with an ‘i told you so’ written all over his face. sukuna would have slashed him to bits if it weren't for the agreement he agreed to take up on.

“i shall trade my soul to become a curse only if i get reincarnated exactly a thousand years from now” sukuna proposes, no, commands. it is said that a soul is reincarnated only once every thousand years and he wants to make sure he finds you in the next lifetime. maybe then, he'll have enough time with you and if he's lucky enough, be able to love you without bounds.

“that could be arranged” kamo quirks his head in a way sukuna despises. “but she'll have no memory of you. you're proceeding with this knowledge, yes?”

sukuna only narrows his eyes and ignores his question “that is not all. erase her existence from the minds of everyone besides me. generations hence, no one shall know who she is. her name shall be removed from every mouth that speaks of my reign.”

kamo smiles lazily “your soul is not worth that much sukuna”. the man strolls freely in the room, not minding the looming presence of the king of curses. “however, a binding vow could be arranged.”

great. another binding vow. but if that means he'll meet you in a thousand years time, he'll vow as many times as required.

“the grounds of the vow is as follows: you shall be reincarnated only if there appears a vessel suitable to withstand you.” kamo proposes. “your fingers will be cut and hidden in vast areas across the world and you shall only succeed in full reincarnation if you find them and consume them, all while being suppressed by the vessel.”

sukuna frowns and kamo only laughs “do you agree to the vow knowing all the risk it carries?”

conditions and regulations were a pain but nothing could stop a man desperate enough to give up his soul twice. “very well” sukuna agrees.

and that is how the heian era and sukuna's legacy came to an end; sealing himself – and the memories of you only he carries with him – into his twenty fingers, each of which turned into cursed objects scattered far and wide like pieces of puzzle waiting until the time comes for it to fit itself together again.

[suguae]

Haunted

part one - part two

જ synopsis. After months of longing and uncertainty, you reunite with your ex-boyfriend Toji and his son Megumi at a nearby diner, where the warmth of their presence fills you with hope for a fresh start and a renewed sense of family.

જ pairings. T. Fushiguro x Fem! Reader

જ a/n. You thought I'd give you guys the silent treatment for month again, probably. But I'm back and I'm going to try my best to upload normal again, keyword TRY.

Six months had passed since the last echo of Toji's voice had graced your ears, each day stretching into an eternity of longing and uncertainty. The memory of his deep, resonant tone lingered like a gentle caress against your skin, stirring a tempest of emotions within you. As you navigated the labyrinth of your thoughts, one question loomed larger than all the rest: was Toji doing okay?

Was he still grieving over his dead wife, or had he begun to heal? And if so, was he ready to love you anew, to embark on a journey of rediscovery and redemption together?

The piercing ring of the phone shattered the fragile sanctuary of your thoughts, jolting you back to the stark reality of the present moment. Your heart quickened its pace as you glanced towards the source of the sound, the glow of the screen casting an eerie illumination in the dimness of your tiny apartment.

Toji's name flashed boldly on the display, a beacon of light cutting through the darkness of the night. A surge of emotions welled up within you—surprise, anticipation, and a tinge of apprehension—all swirling together in a tumultuous whirlwind.

It felt like a sign, as if he had heard the silent echoes of your thoughts reverberating through the ether. Could it be mere coincidence, or something more? The very idea sent shivers down your spine, igniting a flicker of hope within the depths of your soul.

With trembling fingers, you reached out to answer the call, the weight of uncertainty heavy upon you. Was this the moment you had been waiting for, the chance to bridge the chasm that had separated you two for so long? 

You brought the phone to your ear, the anticipation hung thick in the air, each heartbeat echoing the rhythm of your longing. You couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, fate had finally decided to intervene.

Thoughts of Megumi danced on the periphery of your consciousness. Were you guys finally ready to confront the demons of your past and embrace the promise of a brighter future?

The word slipped from your lips like a fragile prayer, carrying with it the weight of all the unspoken hopes and fears that had lingered between you two for so long. "Hello?" you repeated, the sound hanging heavy in the air, waiting for Toji's response to break the silence.

For a moment, there was nothing but the steady thrum of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. And then, finally, a soft exhale on the other end of the line, the faint rustle of movement as Toji gathered his thoughts.

"Hey," his voice came, soft and tentative, yet infused with a warmth that washed over you like a gentle wave. The sound of it sent a shiver down your spine.

you held your breath, waiting for him to continue, the anticipation mounting with each passing second. And then, with a quiet resolve, you spoke again.

"It's been a while," you said, the understatement hanging heavy between the two, a testament to the distance that had grown between you both in the wake of your shared pain. "How have you been?"

The question lingered in the air, pregnant with meaning, a silent plea for honesty and vulnerability in the face of the uncertain future. And as you waited for Toji's response, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, this conversation was the first step towards healing the wounds that had long divided you both.

Toji's words hung in the air like a delicate melody, each syllable carrying with it the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. "I miss everything about you," he confessed, his voice soft yet filled with a longing that echoed in the depths of your soul. The vulnerability in his words was palpable, a raw honesty that stirred something deep within you.

As his plea washed over you, you felt a flood of emotions surge to the surface—love, longing, and a flicker of hope amidst the shadows of your past. The ache of separation had carved a chasm between you, but in that moment, his words bridged the gap with an unspoken promise of reconciliation and renewal.

"I need to see you," he implored, the urgency in his tone resonating with the echoes of your own heart's desires. The longing in his voice tugged at the strings of your soul, igniting a spark of courage within you.

With a steady resolve, you met his plea with a whisper of your own, "I need to see you too." The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of all that had been left unsaid, yet brimming with the potential of what could be.

Toji's insistence reverberated through the phone, his words a fervent plea for connection and reunion. "We can meet up, somewhere… anywhere, baby, just tell me," he urged, the desperation in his voice pulling at the strings of your heart. The prospect of seeing him again, of bridging the chasm that had separated you for so long, filled you with a heady mix of anticipation and apprehension.

And then, as if a beacon had been lit in the darkness, he spoke his name—Megumi. Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of him, a rush of emotions flooding your senses. He wasn't your child, not biologically at least, but the bond you shared transcended bloodlines. From the moment you had met him, he had nestled his way into the deepest recesses of your heart, filling a void you never knew existed.

The thought of seeing Megumi again, of wrapping him in your arms and showering him with the love he deserved, sent a surge of warmth coursing through your veins. He was a constant presence in your thoughts, a beacon of light in the darkness that had enveloped your life.

"Yes," you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, "Yes, let's meet." The words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation and the promise of a reunion long overdue. And as you made plans to come together once more, you couldn't help but feel a sense of peace settle over you—a quiet reassurance that, no matter what the future held, you would face it together, as a family.

During the aftermath of the breakup, you found yourself spiraling into a dark abyss of self-destructive behavior. Drinking became a crutch, a futile attempt to numb the ache that gnawed at your soul. Overworking became a distraction, a way to bury yourself in tasks and responsibilities to avoid facing the gaping void left by Toji's absence. And as the days stretched into weeks and months, the toll of neglecting your own well-being became painfully apparent.

It was all too easy to place blame on Toji, to cast him as the villain in the narrative of your shared pain. But deep down, you knew the truth—it wasn't his fault, not entirely. You had chosen to entangle yourself with a widower, knowing full well the complexities and challenges that came with loving someone who was still grieving.

Yet despite the turmoil raging within you, a glimmer of clarity began to emerge amidst the chaos. The realization that no amount of self-destructive behavior could mend the shattered pieces of your heart, nor could it bridge the chasm that had grown between you and Toji.

Slowly but surely, the bad habits began to wane, replaced by a newfound determination to confront the unresolved issues head-on. You stopped reaching for the bottle as a temporary salve for your pain, recognizing that true healing could only come from within. You eased up on the relentless pursuit of productivity, learning to prioritize self-care and introspection over the relentless pursuit of perfection.

It wasn't an easy journey, fraught with setbacks and moments of doubt. But with each passing day, you grew stronger, more resilient in the face of adversity. And as you looked back on the tumultuous path that had led you to this moment, you realized that the key to finding peace lay not in blaming others, but in taking ownership of your own happiness and well-being.

As the agreed-upon time approached, a sense of anticipation and nervous energy coursed through your veins. The prospect of seeing Toji again after months apart filled you with a heady mix of emotions—hope, uncertainty, and a tinge of excitement. The void that had loomed large in your heart in his absence now seemed poised to be filled, if only for a fleeting moment.

You arrived at the nearby diner with a fluttering heart and a whirlwind of thoughts swirling in your mind. The familiar sights and sounds of the cozy establishment offered a sense of comfort amidst the uncertainty that lay ahead. The soft glow of the lights, the gentle hum of conversation, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloped you like a warm embrace.

As you stepped inside, you scanned the room anxiously, searching for Toji's familiar figure amidst the sea of faces. And then, there he was, sitting at a corner table, his gaze locked on yours as if he had been waiting for you all along.

Sitting next to Toji was the little toddler, his bright eyes sparkling with excitement at your appearance. You couldn't help but smile as you caught his gaze, feeling a warmth spread through you at the sight of him. Megumi reached out eagerly towards you, his tiny hand outstretched in silent invitation.

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[kinascum]

MOONLIT - C. STURNIOLO

SUMMARY: Y/N experiences a night of intense passion and dominance with her partner Chris, who pushes her boundaries in a moonlit suite overlooking a bustling boardwalk.

CONTENTS: smut (unprotected piv, degradation, ass slapping, face slapping, humiliation, mean!Chris, head, face fucking, exhibitionism, mocking, dumbification, praise, cum eating, creampie, this matches my freak), water talk? If you're scared of boats and cruises or big bodies of water? I guess?

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

PROOF READ AND REQUEST BY: @baileysturns

You stand at the window of the balcony of the suite Chris got for the both of you as you watch the bustling boardwalk below. The shining moon casts a cool glow over the water, creating a serene backdrop to the chaotic dance of dark colors. Your heart thumps in your chest, a silent drumline to the anticipation building within you.

Suddenly, a hand clamps over your mouth, and a powerful body presses against you from behind. It's Chris, his breath hot and demanding against your ear. "You like the view, ma?" he whispers, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. You nod, your hands and chest pressed flush against the windoI'mand your eyes wide, as he chuckles darkly. "Good, because I'm about to give you a show of your own."

He spins you around, your pulse racing as his eyes bore into yours. His grip on your wrists is firm, guiding you to lean on the glass. Your heart skips a beat as you feel the cool feeling of the night breeze against your stomach. When Chris had said on the way to the pier how he'd have his way with you, you never thought he'd go so far... not that you were complaining though.

"And you're going to be so loud for me, aren't you?" he taunts, his tone a mix of mockery and excitement. You whimper, unable to form words as his free hand roams over your body, gripping your ass with a possessive squeeze. "I can't wait to hear you beg for me," he continues, his breath fanning over your neck.

"You're going to behave, right?" he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. He pushes your sundress up, exposing your bare skin to the cool night air. His touch is rough, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Everyone down there will know I'm fucking my sweet angel stupid." He chuckles, the sound sending a thrill of fear and arousal through you.

The sound of the boardwalk's distant noises mingles with the rush of blood in your ears as you feel his erection pressing against you. He slaps your ass, the sound echoing faintly. "Bet you've lovefucked with an audience before," he says, his voice a sneer. "you're so lucky its late, most of them are back in their rooms"

Without waiting for a response, he rips your panties aside and thrusts into you, the suddenness stealing your breath. You can't grasp, your eyes watering, but he's unforgiving, pumping into you with a ferocity that leaves you trembling. His hand clamps tighter over your mouth, muffling your cries. "That's it," he says, his voice a sinister purr. "Take it all for me"

You can feel every inch of him, his thickness stretching you, filling you completely. His strokes are deep, each one sending shockwaves of pleasure and pain through your body. His other hand is a vice on your hip, guiding your movements, forcing you to take his punishing rhythm. You moan against his palm, the sound strangled and desperate.

"So loud," he says, his voice dripping with amusement. "You want them to hear how you're getting fucked dumb on my cock?" He slaps your ass again, the sound ringing out in the quiet night. "Let them all know how much you love this. Maybe they'll get jealous." His hips slam into you, the force pushing you into the railing. The cold glass bites into your cheek, but you can't help the whimpers that escape.

"Sounds like you're begging," he murmurs, his tone mocking. "Can't even get a sentence out, huh baby?" He pulls out almost completely before slamming back in, making you cry out. The sound is muffled by his hand, but he knows you're close.

You push back against him, your body desperately seeking release. Each slap of skin against skin is a symphony of desire and degradation. Your moans grow louder, your body responding to his rough touch despite your mind's protests. He's right; you do love it. The idea of being displayed for all to see, used by him, makes you wetter.

"Look at you," he says, his voice full of disdainful glee. "my dumb little slut" He slaps your ass again, the sting mixing with the pleasure building inside you. "You're doing so good for me, aren't you?"

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you and stealing your breath. You moan into his hand, the sound desperate and needy. He laughs, the sound cruel and triumphant. "There you go," he says, his hips moving faster now. "squeezing me so tight baby."

He doesn't stop, even as your body shakes with the aftershocks of pleasure. He continues to fuck you, his hand still over your mouth, his grip on your hip bruising. You know he's getting off on your humiliation, on the power he holds over you in this moment. And as much as you hate to admit it, you're getting off on it too.

The world narrows to the two of you, the sound of your muffled moans and the slap of flesh on flesh. His thrusts grow erratic, his breathing ragged. "I'm going to fill you up," he says, his voice strained. "And you're going to take it."

You can feel him swell inside you, his grip tightening. His movements become frenzied, his mocking tone replaced by grunts of effort. And then, with a final, brutal thrust, he does. You feel the warmth of his release, the proof of his dominance, and a strange sense of satisfaction fills you.

He pulls out, and for a moment, you're left trembling, your body still quivering from the intensity of the experience. He leans in, his breath hot on your neck. "Good girl," he whispers, his voice a dark caress. "You did so well, mama."

The praise sends a shiver down your spine, the sweetness of it a stark contrast to the harshness of his earlier words. He slowly releases your wrists, and you stand there, panting, trying to regain your composure. "Now," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "turn around and look at me."

You obey, your legs shaking as you face him. His eyes are blazing with lust and satisfaction, his smirk wicked. "You liked that, baby?" he asks, and there's no point in lying. You nod, your cheeks flushing with both arousal and embarrassment.

"Good," he says, tucking his now-softening cock back into his pants. "Because we're not done yet." He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "There's so much more I want to do to you, right here, with everyone watching." His eyes gleam with a malicious excitement that sends a shiver down your spine.

He pulls you upright and turns you to face him, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your breasts. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and you can't help but gasp. "Look how pretty you are," he says, his voice a taunt. "They're all watching, aren't they?" He squeezes, his grip tight enough to make you whimper. "I bet they wish they could touch you like whipped."

He kisses you, his mouth harsh and possessive. His tongue invades your mouth, mimicking the way he just invaded your body. You try to push him away, but he's too strong, too overwhelming.

"Is that all you've got?" he asks, his voice mocking. "You're going to have to do better than that if you want me to stop." He releases your breasts and grips your hips, pulling you closer. "Beg for it," he says, his eyes dark. "Beg me to give you a break, and maybe I will."

You moan into his mouth, your body betraying you. You hate how much you want this, how much you crave his touch despite the humiliation. He chuckles, his eyes lighting up at the sound. "That's it," he whispers, his voice a low rumble.

He kisses you again, his hand sliding down to cup your ass. He squeezes, his fingers digging into your flesh. "You're going to scream my name when I make you cum over and over again," he says, his voice a promise. "And they'll all know who you belong to."

He pulls away, leaving you panting and desperate. "Get on your knees," he commands, his voice a whipped crack. You hesitate for a moment, but the look in his eyes tells you there's no room for disobedience. You sink to the ground, your knees hitting the cool floor.

He undoes his pants, his cock springing free. It's already hard again, a testament to his insatiable lust. "Open your mouth," he says, his voice a growl. You do as you're told, and he pushes into you, his hand on the back of your head. "That's right," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Take it all."

You feel his hand in your hair, guiding your movements, forcing you to take him deeper. You can taste the salt on his skin, the scent of your arousal mingling with the ocean air. His hips rock back and forth, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. "Look at you," he says, his voice filled with disdain. "Sucking me off like a good little slut."

The words make you want to gag, but you can't deny the thrill they send through you. You suck harder, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock. He groans, his grip tightening. "You're going to swallow every drop," he says, his voice a threat. "And you're going to thank me for it."

You feel his hand tighten in your hair, his movements becoming more erratic. "That's it," he says, his voice strained with pleasure. "That's my good little girl." You want to scream at his words, to push him away and reclaim your dignity, but the sound that escapes your mouth is a muffled moan. He chuckles darkly, the vibration of his laughter traveling down his shaft and into your throat. "Look at you," he says, his voice a sneer. "You're loving every second of this, aren't you?"

He pulls out, and before you can protest, he slaps you across the face with his cock. The salty taste of your own arousal mingles with the sting of his slap. "Keep your mouth open," he orders, his voice firm. "You're going to swallow everything I give you."

You whimper, your eyes watering, but you do as you're told. He slides back in, his grip on your hair not relenting. "there you go" he says, his voice a mix of praise and mockery. "Suck me like you mean it." You try to push him away, but his grip is too strong. You can feel the eyes of the unseen crowd on you, watching, judging.

He starts to fuck your mouth in earnest now, his hips pistoning as he uses you for his own pleasure. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, but you can't stop. You're lost in the humiliation, the feeling of being used and enjoyed by him. His grunts grow louder, his breathing more ragged. "You're going to make me cum," he says, his voice filled with disdain. "And when I do, you're going to swallow it all."

As he reaches his climax, you can feel his cock pulse in your mouth. You gag, but he doesn't stop, his hand pushing your head down to ensure you take every drop. He cums, and you do as you're told, swallowing with a sense of defeat. "Look at me," he commands, and you do, tears streaming down your face.

He smirks, a look of pure triumph in his eyes. "Good girl," he says, his voice a mocking praise. "You're learning so quickly." He wipes his cock clean with the back of your hair before zipping up his pants. "Now, let's go back inside," he says, his tone casual. "We've got a whole night ahead of us."

Your knees are weak as you stand, your mouth still open, tasting him. He takes your hand, pulling you to your feet. "You're mine tonight," he says, his voice a low growl. "And everyone on this ship will know it."

The cool night air does nothing to calm the fire in your cheeks as he leads you back into the suite. You can still feel the sting of his hand, the echo of his voice in your mind. But as you look into his eyes, you know that despite the humiliation, despite the pain, you want more. You want to see just how far he'll take you, just how much you can take before you break.

tags! @sturnstvs @gxldenlush @immattsslut @slut4chriss @stasiesturn @jetaimevous @solarsturniolo @watercolorskyy @thedarkqueenofavalon @meowira @secretagentspy @shadowthesim

[stevie-petey]

episode three: the monster and the superhero

“Breaking and entering into the school to retrieve confidential and extremely personal files.” You wince. It’s as bad as it sounds. Tapping Dustin’s shoulder, you break him away from the walkie. “Wait, we won’t need my files, right?” Steve eyes you up and down, shrugging indifferently. “Well–” Hitting his chest, he sputters at you. “Why do you keep doing that?” “You’re not reading my files, Harrington.”

Summary: you and steve can never have a normal conversation, dustin threatens nasa, eddie sadly eats his cereal because youre mean to him, youre once again nancys biggest fan, dustin and steve have an awkward heart to heart, and you and max become felons together and trauma bond (again) !

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, mentions of blood, trauma lol

Words: 13.5k

Before you swing in: hi hi hi !! so so so sorry for the wait. this chapter was a pain to write and i was so busy with school and work :( promise updates will become more regular soon. i was just simply in the trenches for a hot few weeks. things in the story are heatin up, so get ready gamers. anyways, enjoy !!

–

It’s quiet in Steve’s car. 

Streetlights glow faintly, lighting the way home. The windows are down; the thick late spring air fills the car with the bittersweet scent of honeysuckles in bloom. In the dim of the car lies Steve’s faint outline as he drives. His hands rest against the steering wheel, his chest rises slowly as he inhales all the fear that settles inside the car. 

No one speaks. The tension is suffocating you. 

In the backseat resides Robin with Dustin and Max. The oldest sits in the middle, her fingers drum nervously against the head of your seat. Dustin stares out the window, he hasn’t looked at you ever since promising Eddie you’d be back for him tomorrow. He hadn’t wanted to leave him, he begged you to let him stay in the boathouse, but you wouldn’t let him. 

Max stares out the other window. Her eyes are closed, she’s pretending to be asleep. You’ve come to learn what she looks like when she pretends. Her nose pinches slightly, her eyes can never stay still enough to convince you she’s asleep. It’s what she does whenever she doesn’t want to face your questions, your concerns and your fears. 

Tension builds in the back of your skull, a dull throb rings within your ears. Exhaustion washes over you, fear pierces her nails into your skin. You can’t get Eddie’s terrified eyes out of your head. The way his voice trembled, the sticky blood on his fingernails from the skin he picked at. 

If they’re back again, we need to know.

Vecna’s curse.

The static Eddie felt, Chrissy’s trance-like state. Her bones, the morbid angles they snapped. Barbara Holland, daughter and best friend. Bob Newby, superhero. Billy Hargrove, dearly missed son. Jim Hopper, renown chief and beloved father. 

You’re the best of them, kid.

If the gate really has opened once again… Thick molasses grief coats your tongue and fills your mouth with remorse. There has been so much loss, so many funerals you’ve had to attend. Too many bodies buried without answers, without closure. 

Over and over again. 

“We’re here, Robin.” The gravel of Steve’s voice cuts through the endless dread. He parks the car in front of her driveway, the lights are off inside and you know that Robin is afraid of the dark.

“Need me to walk you in?” You ask her, quiet, but unyielding with all the love you have for her. 

She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. I’m brave, aren't I always brave?”

“The bravest,” Steve smiles at her, soft and unbroken. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

“I’ll… I’ll try.” Her facade slips, the fear that grips everyone tightens its hold. How could anyone sleep at a time like this? She shakes her head again, her smile returns, albeit forced, tired. Then she messily crawls over Dustin to exit the car, ignoring his cries of annoyance and pain when her elbow catches his ribs. “Sorry, little Henderson!”

“I don’t even let Steve call me that–”

“Too late, I’ve already decided to call you little Henderson,” Robin climbs out the car, lands with a soft thud on the pavement. She shuts the door with a glint in her eyes before poking her head through your passenger window. “Hey, uh. Y/N?” Her voice drops low, her eyes skirt to Steve, whose cool gaze meets her weary one. Robin clears her throat, you nod your head at her with slight concern. You know that she knows about your argument with Steve. He adores her, what he doesn’t confide in you, he confides in her. Knowing that Robin means well, you soften your voice. “Yeah?”

Robin hesitates, caught between her two favorite people in the entire world. Steve sees her hesitancy and sighs, turning away to provide some semblance of privacy. Relieved, Robin ducks her head down and whispers into your ear, “Talk to him.”

She’s gone before you can exhale. 

Steve starts the car again after Robin has safely made it inside her home. Max and Dustin are quiet in the backseat. As Steve drives, his fingers absentmindedly play with the frayed edges of his leather bracelet. It had been a gift from you, the word constants etched into the material. 

Constants. You were Steve’s constant, he was yours. Through everything you’ve been through together, all the heartbreak suffered in order to fall into one another, he’s the constant within your life. 

Now you’re afraid that you’re losing him. 

There’s still so much Steve doesn’t know. There are stories about your father that you still need to tell him about. Words Jonathan told you last night, the dangerous what if he brought into your life. You’re terrified of how Steve will react, he’s always been so trusting of you and Jonathan even after knowing the history you share. 

And yet Steve also doesn’t know that the future you see involves him, that he’s in it with as much certainty as the sky is blue; you just don’t know how to tell him this, how to articulate the abandonment that sits heavy within your chest that prohibits you from getting what you want in the end.

You have to talk to him. Steve deserves to know everything, all he’s ever asked of you is to be honest with him. 

The broken lamppost in front of Max’s trailer greets you. Steve slows the car, puts it into park. His eyes find hers in the rearview mirror. “This is you, Mayfield.”

“Thanks,” Max responds quietly. She goes to open the car door, but you turn in your seat and stop her. 

“Hey, look at me.” Your tone leaves no room for arguments. She listens, her blue eyes meeting your gaze. For a moment you see Billy’s eyes reflecting within hers. It’s only for a brief second, it ends before you can even realize what’s happened. Startled, you momentarily choke on your words. “I–”

Max raises an eyebrow at you. You’ve been acting strange all night, she doesn’t understand why. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Her words couldn’t be more ironic, more painful to hear. “I-I’m sorry.” Billy is dead, he’s gone. You shake your head, try to get his eyes out of your head. “Just… promise me you’ll call if anything happens, please?”

You know that Max isn’t in any danger, she’s safe at home with her mother, but across the street resides yellow caution tape and boarded up windows. Eddie’s trailer is across from Max’s, the proximity makes you uncomfortable. It’s an eerie feeling, Chrissy died here last night. 

Max seems to understand your concern, and she allows herself to nod. She doesn’t want to fight you, not tonight. “I will, promise.”

Squeezing her hand, you leave Max with a soft reminder to get some sleep. She smiles, a hidden joke between the two of you. Both of you know that there will be no sleeping tonight. 

Once she’s gone, it’s just you, Steve, and Dustin remaining in the car. Tension creeps slowly upon the three of you. Dustin’s never ending annoyance towards you clashes with all the unspoken words left floating between you and Steve. 

Dustin coughs awkwardly. Steve’s fingers tap anxiously on the steering wheel. You keep your head down, your fingers pick at the skin between your nails. The ten minute drive from Max’s house to yours is unbearably long. Stuck at one of Hawkins’ only stop lights, Dustin can’t take the silence any longer.

“Well, this is awkward.” He says to no one in particular. “Lots of tension tonight, huh?”

Neither you nor Steve laugh, and Dustin rests his head against the seat in defeat. He understands why you and him aren’t talking, he’s still angry with you for holding a knife to Eddie’s neck. What he doesn’t understand, however, is why there seems to be so much distance between you and Steve tonight.

Normally you’d be all over one another by now. The two of you can never keep your hands off of each other. As much as Dustin hates it, he’s grown used to the way your hands are always intertwined with Steve’s. Whenever he’s in the car with you guys, your hand always rests against Steve’s arm as he drives. At red lights Steve will always turn to you, pulled in by your smile. 

Except tonight Dustin doesn’t think he’s seen Steve look at you once during the drive home. Your hand rests softly at your side, balled into a small fist. There’s a coldness between the two of you, one Dustin is ashamed to admit that he hadn’t noticed before. 

Then he remembers last night. He’d been too lost in his anger towards you to recognize the tears in your voice. He hadn’t even stopped to consider that you wanted a code blue for any other reason besides lecturing him. His stomach twists with guilt at his own selfish actions. 

Something happened between you and Steve, and you had needed your brother last night. But he had abandoned you, denied the code blue you’d needed so desperately. 

When Steve’s car pulls into your driveway, Dustin runs out as soon as the vehicle stops. He’s frantic to escape his guilt, to escape the chasm that surrounds you and Steve. Slamming the door, he shouts, “Talk to each other!” Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Good luck, Steve!”

The slam of the door echoes into the night. 

It’s just you and Steve, now. 

The air stills between you, reminiscent of the night you drove him home from the Halloween party. A year has passed since then, it’s been so long since Steve’s presence made you feel anything other than peace. The strings that have always followed you constrict against your throat. 

“We need to talk,” Steve says, but at the same time you say, “We need to talk about Jonathan.”

The words come tumbling out of your mouth, slipping through the grooves of your teeth before you can stop them. They’d been building within you all day, fizzling to the surface. And now they spill out into the silence of Steve’s car. 

His head turns to you, the street lights illuminate the shock and confusion on his handsome face. It pinches with bewilderment, he doesn’t understand. He had been ready to apologize to you, despite still not being able to comprehend how you don’t see a future with him. Steve doesn’t want to fight with you anymore, he was ready to just forgive and forget and hold your hand without the weight of guilt behind it.

Steve had been ready to salvage your relationship, and now you want to talk about Jonathan?

“Jonathan?” Shamefully, his voice cracks. He feels like a helpless little kid again, his stomach twists with the foreboding nausea that something bad is about to happen. “Why… why do you want to talk about him?”

The raw frailty on Steve’s face almost kills you. He’s drawing into himself again, preparing for the final blow that will decimate him and everything he knows.

You take a deep breath. This won’t be easy, nothing you’ve ever had to do has been easy. But Steve deserves to know. To hide something from him feels foreign, to lie to him feels like a betrayal. 

“Jonathan, he–” Your voice shakes almost as violently as your hands do. Steve is looking at you but you can’t bear to face him just yet. “He called me last night, after our… after our fight.”

“What did he say, Y/N?” Steve knows, even before you tell him, where this is going. The light in your eyes whenever you talk about Jonathan is gone. His name doesn’t grace your face with a smile. Instead, the grimace of guilt replaces it. Steve’s stomach twists into tighter knots. It’s happening again.

Inhaling, you close your eyes and try to commit to memory the before. How Steve looked at you with such adoration before tonight. How his soft hands, laced with trust, felt against your skin before tonight. His open gaze, one filled with vulnerability, stared into you before tonight. 

Opening your eyes, you exhale. Nothing will ever be the same again. “Jonathan asked me if I ever wondered if… if we made a mistake. Him and I.”

“A mistake?” Steve’s jaw tightens. 

“I think-I think he was asking me if I ever… thought about what could’ve happened between us. If somehow,” you swallow, the words cement in your mouth. “If-if somehow we made a mistake, choosing you and Nancy.”

Steve is quiet. The muscles in his body pull tightly together. He fills with venom, anger and jealousy and hurt; so much hurt. “And you think he’s right.”

It isn’t phrased as a question. 

Immediately your body turns to his. “No! God, no,” your hands search for any expanse of his skin you can find. Steve doesn’t lean into you, he doesn’t react to your touch. Panic overwhelms you, suddenly all you can do is talk and plead and beg. “Steve, I don’t think Jonathan even knew what he was saying, okay? H-he was high, and he’s been so lonely and-and he kept saying things were easy between me and him but-but that’s not how love is supposed to work and I know he’s just scared. He’s scared and he’s never been so alone before and I think-he’s just lost, okay? He’s lost and–” 

“Why are you telling me this, Y/N?” The hardness in Steve’s voice cuts into you, stings your skin. He isn’t screaming, not like he did last night, but you almost wish he were. The way his voice is leveled, cold and hard, scares you even more. 

“Would you rather I didn’t?” You’re helpless against his anger, you know he has every right to be, but you don’t know how to fix this.

Steve laughs bitterly. “I’d rather you not make shitty excuses for the asshole.”

“I’m not making excuses for him, I just wanted you to understand–”

“You are!” His voice raises slightly, almost imperceptibly so, but you hear it anyways. Steve’s chest rises and falls quickly. His hands fly wildly everywhere, he doesn’t know what to do, either. Then, almost as quickly as the anger surfaced, insecurity replaces it. “Is… Jonathan why you don’t see a future with me?”

Your fingers tighten around his wrist, almost as if you’re afraid he’ll slip between your fingers any second now. “I do see a future with you–”

“Pretty fucking hard to believe when you’re wearing the goddamn necklace he got you.” The words drip with acid. They’re hissed out with a jaw clenched so tightly you’re afraid he’ll somehow hurt himself.

The words startle you, catch you off guard. Your hand slips from Steve’s wrist. He’s never once insinuated any jealousy regarding you and Jonathan. He’s always been so trusting of you two together, he’s always been kind towards him. He always knew that he could never touch what you guys have, and yet his gaze now flickers cruelly to the bee pendant that rests against your neck. 

What Steve has said hurts you, deeper than he ever intended to. He knows how you love, how deeply you care for others. It’s who you are. Regardless of the hurt he may be feeling right now, it doesn’t give him the right to throw this crucial part of you back in your face. 

“I’m made of pieces of everyone I’ve ever loved, Steve. You know this.” The bee pendant rests against your skin as heavily as the charm bracelet does. 

And Steve does know that you’re made of pieces of everyone in your life. It’s what he loves the most about you. His eyes follow where your fingers reside, skimming the silver chain that encases your wrist. He hadn’t meant to say what he did, the words had slipped out before he could stop them. 

“Y/N…” Your name is spoken as an apology, it’s all Steve can manage in his shame. 

But the moment is ruined, you’re exhausted and all you want to do is go home. 

You shake your head at Steve, try to hide the tears in your eyes. He sees them anyways. “Can I leave, please?”

The way you ask so delicately to escape breaks Steve. Something in his chest shatters, his mouth fills with the taste of a broken promise. You don’t need his permission, he hates that you feel that you do. 

“Yeah,” his voice is softer than it’s been all night, but it’s too late. He knows this. Swallowing, all Steve can do is be gentle with you. “Yeah, of course you can leave, angel.”

Angel.

You nod at him; if you try to speak you’re afraid you’ll break before him. 

No other words are spoken between you. Steve watches as you leave. 

– 

The next morning you sit hunched over a mug of coffee, more exhausted than ever before. You haven’t slept properly in days now. Dustin finds you with dark circles under your eyes and a pathetic bowl of cereal before you. From the dazed look in your eyes, he knows you haven’t noticed his arrival, and he awkwardly clears his throat to get your attention.

“So, uh.” He scratches the back of his neck, your eyes are slow to look up at him. Pointing to your coffee, Dustin raises his eyebrows. “Rough night, I take it?”

You nod, too tired to say anything else. The cereal goes uneaten. Dustin doesn’t think your coffee is even warm anymore, he hadn’t heard you wake up this morning. He’s worried that you never even went to bed last night. You’re pale, sickly so, and Dustin hates that he hadn’t noticed the signs sooner. 

“Hey,” he pulls a chair beside you, sits down with a playful shove to your shoulder. He’s your brother, it’s his job to take care of you just as much as it’s yours to take care of him. It’s how the two of you have always been. 

For Dustin’s entire life you’ve looked after him, kissing his scraped knees and warding off monsters hidden underneath his bed. When your father left, the depression your mother fell into afterwards left Dustin clinging onto you. You were all he had left. 

Dustin leans against you, he used to do this when he was a little kid and could still fit between your arms. Resting his head against yours, shoulders pressed together, the angle is awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s safe. “Is it too late to have that code blue?”

It’s a peace offering, an extension of an apology, and you can’t help but smile at your brother. Hand finding his mess of curls, you ruffle his hair and laugh softly. “Yeah, guess we can have a code blue now.”

“Good, you know I always love to shit talk Steve.” Dustin says with humor. You both know he admires the boy.

“Language,” you remind him as you always do. Dustin knocks his head against yours in response and the two of you break into laughter; laughing with your brother again feels good.

In between sips of cold coffee and bites of soggy cereal, you tell Dustin about Steve. You explain the original argument a few nights ago, how he didn’t understand why you wouldn’t want him to follow you to New York. 

“It’s what mom did with dad,” Dustin says, looking down at the table. 

You nod at him, you knew he’d understand better than anyone. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Does he know what happened with dad?”

“No, and I know I should explain what he did, but there’s–” You cut yourself off. Dustin would kill Jonathan with his bare hands if he found out about the phone call. Even though it technically goes against the rules of a code blue, you can’t tell Dustin about Jonathan. Not yet, at least. Clearing your throat, you continue. “There’s… other things that have prevented me from explaining dad to Steve.”

Dustin narrows his eyes. “Other things?”

“Other things,” you look pointedly at him, standing your ground about not elaborating. He denied your original code blue. You’re allowed to lie this one time. “And now Steve thinks that I don’t see a future with him.”

“Well then he’s an idiot.” Your brother scoffs. Anyone with eyes can see how much you fawn over Steve. Dustin has watched you fall for him for years now. “You’re practically ready to marry the guy.”

Taking a bite of cereal, you grimace slightly. “Okay, marriage is a little much–”

“Tell that to mom, she’s already started planning the wedding.” 

Of course she has. She wouldn’t be Claudia Henderson if she wasn’t already planning the names of her grandchildren from Steve. 

The bite of cereal turns into cement, your heartbeat pounds against your throat. With everything going on with Steve, the hurt the two of you have brought down upon the other, you’re not even sure there will be a wedding at the rate things are going. 

As the days go on, you can feel Steve slipping away from you more and more.

Dustin must sense that the subject is hurting you, so he stands from his seat and claps his hands together. “Alright, I feel like we’ve covered our bases for a code blue. Checked all the boxes, felt the feelings needed to be felt.”

“I don’t like the feelings being felt,” you mumble, shoving your bowl away. You’re still drawn into yourself, pale and frail and unlike the lively girl your brother has come to miss. He knows things have been difficult between the two of you, a strain that can’t quite be loosened. 

Dustin falters, his bravado fades. He sighs again and his hand settles against your shoulder. He looks at you with sincerity, his expression softens. “Look, you and Steve will figure things out. You guys always do.”

And he truly believes this. Steve loves you with such a ferocity that rivals your love for him. Dustin can’t imagine a world in which you’re no longer with Steve, where he’s let go of you and allowed you to walk away. 

Except Dustin doesn’t know how to express this to you, but you can understand him anyways. Placing your hand over his, you squeeze it. “Thanks, Dustin.”

He smiles back at you and the code blue is over. The moment lingers for only a second longer before he frowns and sits back down next to you. “Do you think Eddie will be okay?”

And there it is. Eddie fucking Munson again. 

Shoving down your annoyance, you force yourself to focus on the situation from last night. As hurt as you are that Dustin wants to talk about Eddie right now, you can understand why he would. Chrissy died in front of him, he’s being accused of murder. 

You’re just being childish, easily irritated from lack of sleep and the stress of it all. 

“I don’t know, I mean…the cops will be looking for him.” With ease you fall back into strategizing, putting the situation above your own thoughts and feelings. Your mind spins with everything you need to do, trying to come up with whatever you can do to help. “If we have any shot of protecting him, we need to figure out what they know.”

Dustin nods, following along. “Cerebro can tap into the Hawkins PD system, we can easily get intel from there.”

“It terrifies me that Cerebro can hack into our town’s police system.”

“Be grateful I stopped there, Suzie wouldn’t let me use it to tap into NASA.”

You learn two things after using Cerebro to gather information. 

One, the radio is far too powerful to reside in your fourteen year old brother’s hands. He’s able to access the PD system with incredible ease, almost as if he’s done so before. It’d be impressive if you didn’t know the horrors that went on inside the kid’s head.

Two, Eddie is well and truly fucked. 

He’s the main suspect. They think he’s killed Chrissy and have every man in the force scouring Hawkins to find him. Her death was gruesome, you understand the manhunt that unfolds. Dustin, however, nearly loses his mind when he hears chief Powell instructing his men to search Eddie’s neighborhood for the teen. 

“We have to go warn him,” Dustin scrambles to his feet, the chair almost toppling over in his haste. “We need to leave, now.”

There isn’t time to argue, Dustin is already ringing Steve’s number. Either he’s already forgotten about your argument with the teen, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Regardless, the thought of seeing Steve again so soon after last night makes your stomach churn. You want to stop Dustin, make up some excuse to him about why you can’t help Eddie, but you know it wouldn’t matter. Your brother would only beg you to come, your worry for him would force you to listen. 

All you can do is drop your head into your hands and sigh.

– 

It was your idea to stop and get Eddie food. 

Steve had arrived at your house within minutes. Dustin immediately went for the passenger seat, which was more than okay with you, and Steve had mumbled a soft “hello” to the two of you. His greeting went ignored by you, still trying to find your breath around him, and Dustin, who promptly demanded that Steve pick up Robin and Max before returning to the boathouse. 

Halfway to Max’s, the silence in the car was thickening rapidly, so you offhandedly suggested stopping at the local grocery store to get Eddie some food and water. You figured he would appreciate the small act of kindness, especially considering the grime news you’d be delivering to him soon. That, and it’d give you an excuse to leave Steve’s car for a few moments and steady your breathing. 

The boathouse isn’t nearly as creepy in the daylight, but still you make sure your knives are in your pocket before approaching it. Robin walks beside you, helping you and Dustin carry the groceries, while Max and Steve walk silently behind. 

“Think we got him enough?” Robin asks, holding up one of the grocery bags. “I mean, don’t stoners eat a lot? Munchies or whatever?”

Rolling your eyes, you undo one of the buttons on your sweater, allowing the crisp spring air to soak your body. The sun is too warm to be worrying about whatever stoners eat. “If he complains, then he can starve.” 

“Cat’s got claws today,” Robin nudges you with her arm. Turning to make sure Steve is far enough away so he doesn’t overhear, she lowers her voice. “Guessing the talk didn’t go well last night?”

“Oh, it was just peachy,” you grit out through a forced smile. “But we have to focus on harboring a murder suspect right now.” Because nothing in your life can ever be simple. If you aren’t hunting monsters, you’re protecting the town. If you aren’t protecting the town, you’re fighting alternate dimensions.

Robin opens her mouth to say something, but Dustin shoulders past her and bursts through the boathouse doors, ending your conversation. “Delivery service!” 

Eddie nearly has a heart attack at the abrupt entrance. He jumps out of his skin and clutches at his chest after letting out a very unmanly yelp. The reaction is almost enough to brighten your foul mood, momentarily forgetting that Steve stands behind you. 

“Someone’s jumpy,” you sidestep your brother and walk over towards the table. Setting the groceries down, you begin to unload them. “We got you some food, but please don’t eat it all at once. I really don’t want to spend any more money on you.”

“Thanks…?” Eddie slowly approaches you, both relieved for the food and offended you seem so begrudged to have gotten it for him in the first place. From his few interactions with you since last night, he’s coming to learn that you’re far from the girl who showed him such selfless kindness all those years ago.

Eddie doesn’t think you even remember what you did for him. He had been at such a low point in his life, one failed exam away from dropping out of high school and disappointing his uncle, until you appeared. It’d been your sophomore year, Eddie’s failed one, and you had given him your pencil.

The action had been small, meniscal, yet it saved Eddie’s life. He hadn’t brought his own pencil for some stupid English exam. He’d been too nervous for it that he had forgotten his, and Mrs. Greer, the teacher who couldn’t have cared less whether or not Eddie died, threatened to fail him. 

The threat sank deep into his bones, freezing his intestines with dread. Eddie had promised his uncle he’d try harder in school, that he’d graduate, and yet he couldn't do something as simple as bringing a pencil to an exam. Close to tears, embarrassed and overwhelmed, Eddie almost hadn’t registered your softly whispered voice.

“Here,” you tapped his shoulder. Eddie remembers turning around, surprised you were even talking to him, and he remembers the immediate relief that sagged his bones when he saw the pencil extended in offering. He had nodded curtly at you before frantically rushing to begin the exam. He’d already wasted five minutes, he couldn’t afford any more. 

It would only be later that Eddie learned you willingly failed the exam because you’d given him your only pencil, just so he wouldn’t fail. In the end, he passed. It was the first exam Eddie had passed in a long, long time; his uncle had been so proud of him that he bought him his electric guitar.

Eddie never thanked you for that. 

And now you stand in front of him, once again extending your arm out to him with yet another offering, but your eyes are cold. Your body is tense around Eddie’s, he doesn’t miss the wide berth you seem to always give him. 

“Thanks,” he says to you again, clearing his throat uncomfortably. He accepts the box of cereal you offer him and he wills himself to smile. “I, uh. Appreciate it. I’d offer to pay you back, but…”

“You’re wanted for murder.” You finish for Eddie. 

He drops his head. “Yeah, it kinda ruins a person’s life, ya know?”

“I don’t, actually. Never been accused of killing someone.”

Eddie blinks at you. He doesn’t know what to do with the disdain you display towards him. “Right.” He looks at Dustin for help, silently begging the kid to step in before you gut him with your knives.

“Okay, why don’t you crack open that box of honey combs while we all gather around for a fun story time!” Dustin sets down the remaining groceries and ushers everyone to spread around the boathouse. 

“‘Storytime’?” Eddie asks him, looking around in confusion. 

“Y/N and Dustin did some detective work,” Robin offers him, trying to make her voice sound as cheery as possible. “They-uh. Well they found-I mean,” she doesn’t know how to break the news to Eddie, she feels awful for the guy. Deflating, she mumbles, “They’re definitely good detectives.”

Eddie only looks more confused by this, and Dustin sits down awkwardly on a stool next to you. “So, we got, uh. Some good news and some bad news.”

You snort at your brother. Steve stands next to you, his body angled away from you so that your skin doesn’t touch. The distance is small enough to go unnoticed by anyone, yet it’s a chasm that your stomach drops into. “That’s really how you’re gonna break it to him?” 

“What are you guys breaking to me?” Eddie asks, eyes wide.

Dustin hits your leg and gets the teen’s attention. “Ignore her, look at me, alright? Now, how do you prefer it? Good or bad first?”

“Bad news first, always.” Eddie doesn’t even think about his answer, he responds immediately while shoving cereal into his mouth. 

“The bad news is that you’re pretty fucked.” You inform him, arms crossed over your chest. There’s no easy way to lessen the blow of what you overhead from Hawkins PD. The news is bad, it’s all bad. 

Dustin snaps his head towards you, “Y/N!”

“I’m not going to lie to the guy or sugarcoat things!” 

“Would you just let me handle it–”

“Dustin,” Eddie hasn’t moved from his seat. His hand remains in the cereal box, his voice jagged and defeated. He’s tired. He just wants to go home. “Just say it.”

Your brother’s shoulders drop, the anger in his eyes extinguished. “We… We tapped into the Hawkins PD dispatch with our Cerebro, and they’re definitely looking for you.”

“Chief Powell thinks you killed Chrissy.” Unable to look at Eddie, your eyes trace the ground. As much as you hate him, you can’t help but feel awful for the hand he’s been dealt. No one will possibly believe he’s innocent. “He ordered all his men to track you down before word gets out that you’re the prime suspect.”

“Which leads us to the good news: your name hasn’t gone public yet.” Robin continues for you, her own expression pitying. “But if Y/N and Dustin could find out about you during breakfast, then it’s a matter of time before others do, too.”

“And once that gets out,” you shake your head, you know how cruel a small town like Hawkins can be. “There’s going to be a lot of angry people who know your name.”

Eddie clenches his jaw. You can see tears forming in his eyes; you’re not sure if they’re from frustration or fear. He inhales sharply, licks his lips in disdain. “Hunt the freak, right?”

It’s the way he says it, with so much despair and venom in his voice. The look of resignation on Eddie’s face breaks your heart. He knows his odds, he’s been tormented and abused his entire life by the people in Hawkins. You’ve heard all the stories. The exile he faced because of how he looked, who he would hang out with, the music he listened to and the drugs he smoked. 

Eddie Munson, the freak. The moment the town finds out he’s wanted for murder, you’re afraid he’ll never come out of it alive. 

The ice-hot contempt you feel for him begins to melt. He’s only a year or two older than you, still just a scared kid with no place to call home anymore. Despite the protests of your body, you step towards Eddie and place a hand on his shoulder. Your hand is tense, your fingers scratch on the rough material of his denim jacket, but he seems to calm at the touch. 

“Hey, we’ll protect the freak, alright?” You mean what you tell him, your hand warms his skin. Whatever history you have with Eddie, good or bad, it doesn’t matter right now. He needs you, he’s lost and alone. 

Eddie looks up at you, your kindness startles him slightly, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his eyes find yours. They’re brown, almost doe-eyed, with a vulnerability within them so intense that it leaves a lump in your throat. 

“We won’t let anything happen to you, Eddie.” Dustin’s voice cuts through, reminding you of where you are. Stumbling slightly, you remove your hand and walk back over to Steve, who gives you an odd, confused look. You ignore him. “We have to find Vecna, kill him, and prove your innocence.” 

“That’s all, Dustin?” Eddie mocks, he doesn’t stand a chance and he knows it.

Dustin draws into himself, uncertain, before letting out a feeble response. You allow yourself to smile, enjoying his wallowing. You understand where Eddie is coming from. “It is a lot that we have to do in order to clear his name.”

“Okay, I know that everything Dustin is saying sounds totally delusional, but we’ve actually been through this before.” Robin tries to reassure him. She’s leaning against a doorframe, she’s trying her best not to let her own uncertainty show. 

“We’ve been here before,” you say with slight bitterness. “You’d be surprised how many times we’ve almost died.”

Robin laughs nervously. “Well, mine was more human-flesh-based, theirs was more smoke-related. I didn’t necessarily almost die, but Y/N has some pretty sick scars on her body and Steve has been concussed more times than he’s had girlfriends–”

“Get to the point, Robin.” Steve finally speaks up, no hint of amusement in his voice. His hand rests besides yours, his fingers ache to curl against your skin. You’re wearing a soft blue sweater, tucked into your skirt, and your eyes shine against the spring cold. He doesn’t want to be here right now.

“Right. The bottom line is, collectively, I really feel we got this.”

Unable to bear the itch in his skin to touch you, Steve brings his hand to his face and rubs at his jaw to distract himself. “Except we usually rely on this girl who has superpowers, but-uh. Those went bye-bye, so–”

“And she’s in California, hundreds of miles from here.” You add on, picking at your nails. The topic makes you uncomfortable. With California comes the reminder of Jonathan.

Robin points at you and Steve. “Both good points, so I guess you could say we’re more in the-in the…?”

“Brainstorming phase.” Max supplies, which Steve snaps his fingers in agreement and Dustin hums thoughtfully. 

“There’s-uh. There’s nothing to worry about!” Your brother says unconvincingly, voice high pitched and full of lies. 

Eddie stares at everyone around him, studying the collective mess that he somehow must place all his trust in. None of you can give him a straight answer about what will happen next, and as you listen to Steve and Dustin try again to make sense of what’s going on, you recognize how hopeless it all sounds. 

“We may not sound like much,” you interrupt the boys, trying again to ease the hopelessness Eddie must be feeling. “But we’re kind of your only option right now–”

The distant wailing of sirens drown out your words, loud and piercing. The sound sets everyone into a panic. Robin instructs Dustin to cover Eddie with a tarp while you, Max, and Steve run towards the window. Squished together, you watch as multiple cop cars fly down the street with an ambulance following them; your breath catches. 

The last time you saw this many cop cars speeding through Hawkins, they had been a dead body in the quarry. It had been Will’s body, lifeless and pale. You had watched as his body was pulled from the water, you held Lucas and Dustin as they cried.

Only this time Will is in California, far away from danger. The onslaught of cars can only mean one thing. 

“I think…” Your mouth fills with syrupy dread, coating your tongue with grief. Breathing becomes difficult. You hope, more than anything, that you’re wrong. “I think someone else died.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Steve grabs his keys and instructs everyone to get into his car. He doesn't ask any questions, he doesn’t question how you know. Dustin quickly tells Eddie to stay in the boathouse while you leave. 

Your eyes squeeze shut as Steve drives, your hand clutches the seat in terror. Every second that passes, your body becomes heavier and heavier from dread. Steve’s knuckles are white against the steering wheel. Robin can’t look at you, Max and Dustin don’t say a word.

The white blanket draped over a body is what you see first. A horde of police surround it, there are lights flashing everywhere. People crowd behind a barricade, necks straining to get a look at the body on the ground. 

Then you see who the cops are talking to, and your heart drops. 

“Nancy,” you breathe out, already opening Steve’s door before he can even park the car. Something terrible has happened. Nancy stands in front of the officers, her arms crossed against her chest as if to calm herself down. She’s never looked so weak, she needs you.

Standing outside the car, the others join you. Steve has parked as close as he can to the crime scene, no one moves. Nancy releases a shaky breath when her eyes find yours. Raising her hand, she waves at you, unsure, and you wave back. She smiles, timid but genuine, and a pit forms in your stomach.

You haven’t told Nancy about Jonathan. 

Steve looks away from her, gaze turning towards you, and he’s thinking the same thing. 

– 

Nancy guides everyone to a park bench at the trailer park. She doesn’t say anything as you all walk, her eyes are exhausted. The police hadn’t wanted her to leave just yet, they had more questions for her, but you’d quickly spoke with the men to let her go. 

Sitting around the table, a bitter cold creeps into the air. The sun is out yet winter still lingers. Nancy sits across from you with Robin and Max next to her. You’re with the boys, Steve pushes his weight against you while Dustin sits stiffly beside you. 

Seeing Nancy’s sunken cheeks and glass eyes, you reach across the table and grab her hand. “What happened, Nance?”

Tears well in her eyes and for once she doesn’t wipe them away. Nancy’s hand twitches in yours, she doesn’t hold onto you like you do her. She’s grieving, you’ve come to learn all the signs of someone who has lost a friend. “It-it’s Fred.”

She explains what they’d been doing, investigating Chrissy’s death at the trailer park. Guilt laces her words, she didn’t think anything would happen to Fred. He’s always been sweet to her, his crush obvious to you but unknown to her. A shiver runs through you; Fred was smart, he was nice to you whenever you spent your days in the yearbook room. 

He didn’t deserve to die. Neither did Chrissy. 

“That makes two deaths in two days,” you say out loud, voicing what everyone else is thinking. Death is common in Hawkins, an inevitability of what lies underneath it, but there’s never been such gruesome deaths so close together. “It’s happening again.”

“What’s happening again?” Nancy shakes her head. “I-I don’t understand, you guys already know what’s causing all of this?”

“We have a working theory, but it’s… not great.” Dustin slouches down, he isn’t sure how much he can explain to the girl with all that he still doesn’t know. “We think it’s connected to Chrissy’s death, something killed her in Eddie’s trailer. He told us she had gone into some sort of trance before her bones snapped and her eyes exploded..”

Nancy grimaces at the gory imagery and you squeeze her hand again. “I’m sorry about Fred.”

She gives you a tight smile before turning to your brother. “A trance? Like El? You aren’t… do you really think this has something to do with–”

“The Upside Down.” You and Max say at the same time.

“‘It’s happening again’,” Nancy echoes your words from moments ago. She understands, now. “So this-this thing that killed Fred and Chrissy is from the Upside Down?”

Steve nods at her and Dustin sighs heavily. “We think he attacks with a spell, or maybe even a curse.”

“But we don’t know if he’s under the Mind Flayer’s control,” you point out. “For all we know, he could just be someone with El’s powers. We know the lab tested on other kids, right?”

Max looks up at you and her face twists with apprehension. “I don’t know, something feels different about this, it’s almost like it’s something new. I don’t think it’s anyone like El.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Nancy mumbles.

“No, I think Max is right. Something feels off about all of this.” Your arms draw together, it’s impossibly cold for late March. The chill has set into your bones. 

Nancy nods at you, but there’s something else on her mind. “But Fred and Chrissy also don’t make sense. I mean, why them?”

“Maybe they were just in the wrong place? They were both at the game.” Dustin offers, and you shiver again.

Billy had been in the wrong place, too. It’s how the Mind Flayer got him. He’d just been unlucky and alone.

“And the trailer park,” Max adds.

Steve’s eyes widen slightly, he shifts against you and unconsciously moves you closer to him. “We’re at the trailer park, should we… maybe not be here?”

The wind picks up and a crow cries overhead. The barren grass rustles as shadows fall against it. Your spine prickles with nerves. Steve is right to be worried. There’s something eerie about the trailer park, the caution tape that guards Eddie’s door is still too fresh. 

You wrap your sweater tighter to your body, cold with unease. Nancy’s eyes flicker around the park as the wind rustles the leaves. “Fred started acting weird the second we got here.”

Robin asks what she means, and when Nancy begins to explain how scared and on edge Fred had been, a dull throb slowly creeps up the base of your neck. The sensation builds until it’s a roar of nerve endings exploding against your temple, and you wince in pain.

Steve’s fingers skim the crest of your wrist. “Hey,” he’s lowered his voice so the others can’t hear, he knows you never like to worry others. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” the concern in Steve’s eyes burns you. He hasn’t spoken to you all day, but still his skin warms yours and he wants to make sure you’re safe. Comfortable. Okay. Even with the anger between you and all the unspoken half-truths, he still cares about you. 

You want to tell him that you haven’t slept in days, that the nightmares are back and that they’re worse than ever before. You want to rest your head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. It’s the only way you’ve been able to keep the migraines at bay. 

But you don’t tell Steve any of this. Instead, you lie through your teeth. “I’m fine,” you reassure him again. There isn’t time for you not to be okay. Two people have died already, your migraines can wait. 

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He knows you, he knows how you are and how much you push down for the sake of others, but before he can press you further, Robin interrupts. “Hey, lovebirds, we’re trying to solve a murder case here.”

“I’m listening,” you roll your eyes at her, skin flushing a bit with embarrassment. “Anyways, what if Fred and Chrissy saw something that made them go catatonic? I think we should be focusing on the trace-like state more, it’s a trauma response.”

“What, so they’re insane asylum patients?” Dustin asks with slight displeasure. “I mean, I guess that makes sense. But Vecna can cast spells, at least in DnD. I don’t think they just ‘saw’ something.” 

Steve scratches his nose. “If I saw some freaky wizard monster, I would mention it to someone.”

“Would you, though?” You don’t mean for the question to come off as condescending, and you quickly try to alleviate the offended look on the teen’s face. “What I mean is, who would you go to about something like that?”

“I… I think I know who they’d go to.” Max stares down at the table, her eyebrows furrowed together. She’s deep in thought, remembering something. “I saw Chrissy leaving Ms. Kelly’s office. If you saw a monster, you wouldn’t go to the police.”

“They’d never believe you,” you bear your weight against the table. Nostalgia wraps around you at the memory of how scared you’d been to tell Hopper about El, the years it took for you to trust him. “That’s why I never went to Hopper when I first found El.”

Max nods, she’s relieved you get where she’s going with this. “Exactly, but you might go to your–”

“Shrink.” Robin finishes, sending you an apologetic smile for the offensive language against the profession you hope to one day go into. “No offense, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes, feeling defensive. “Again with calling Ms. Kelly a shrink. She’s not a shrink, she’s actually really nice.”

“You sound like you know her personally.” Dustin narrows his eyes at you. Nothing goes unnoticed by him. 

All eyes turn to you, and you sink down in embarrassment. “I’ve… had a few meetings with her.”

Simultaneously both Steve and Dustin widen their eyes. They hadn’t known you were seeing Ms. Kelly. Nancy looks at you curiously, Robin bites her lip, and Max nods solemnly. It’s a large range of reactions, one that makes you anxious to deal with. “Can everyone stop staring at me, please?”

Steve lets out a quick breath and runs a hand through his hair. “You didn’t tell me you were seeing the school’s guidance counselor, Y/N.”

“She didn’t tell me, either.” Dustin mumbles bitterly. You’ve never hidden anything from him before. He wonders, distantly, when you started to.

“I didn’t want to worry you guys, it really isn’t a big deal.” When both boys bristle at this, you hold your hand up to silence them. “No, I don’t want to hear it. It’s not like I was seeing Ms. Kelly for anything serious, okay? She’s the guidance counselor, so I just. You know. Needed some guidance.”

It’s a horrible lie, you know that no one believes you, but they take pity on you and move on. Originally you really were seeing Ms. Kelly for college admissions help, but after a few sessions you slowly started opening up to her about the sleepless nights. The image of Billy’s lifeless body. Max’s screams. 

Nancy clears her throat and changes the topic. She comes up with what to do next, creating a plan to ask Ms. Kelly what she knows, and you sit silently. You’re relieved the attention is finally off of you. Within minutes a plan is formed: you and Max will talk to Ms. Kelly to try and get more information.

Steve agrees to drive to the house. As you’re walking to his passenger side door, he notices that Nancy isn’t following. Instead, she’s going to her own car. “Hey, Nance. Where’re you going?”

Nancy turns around, a guilty but determined look on her face. Her eyes land on you, knowing you’ll be the hardest to convince of her plan. “There’s just-there’s something I want to check on first.”

Predictably, your shoulders tense and your eyes ignite with worry. “Please don’t make me remind you that there are people dying right now. You can’t seriously think it’s safe to be on your own.”

“I can protect myself, Y/N.” Nancy reminds you gently, understanding your concern but knowing it isn’t needed.

“You care to share with the rest of us?” Dustin calls over to the two of you.

“I don’t want to waste your time,” Nancy shoves her hands into her jean jacket. “It’s… a real shot in the dark.”

You frown at this. “If it’s something you think is worth looking into, then it isn’t a shot in the dark. You’ve always been right.”

Nancy blushes at your words, but Steve silently fumes beside you. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you guys out of your mind? No way is Nancy flying solo with Vecna on the loose.”

“I never said that she should fly solo,” you say slowly, not at all liking how he’s twisting your words. You had been complimenting Nancy’s intelligence, restoring her faith back into her work. You don’t understand where this protectiveness from Steve is coming from. “I know it’s too dangerous, that’s why I was going to suggest–”

“You’re right. It’s too dangerous. Bottom line. She needs someone to-Christ.” Steve isn’t listening. He’s too caught up in his head as tosses his keys to Robin, who only barely manages to catch them. “Here, Y/N and I will stick with Nance.”

You cross your arms and glare at him. “I’m sorry?”

Steve doesn’t look at you, he’s too busy staring at Nancy, and for a brief second you truly believe that there’s something soft in his gaze when he looks at her. They’re friends, you know this. There’s a history between them that rivals your history with Jonathan. Nancy was Steve’s first love, and now he loves you, and you try desperately to shake the insecurity that you feel. 

If you’re being completely honest, you’re not even sure why you’re suddenly thinking all of this. You’ve never been insecure, at least not in your relationship with Steve. During the almost year you’ve been with him, there’ve been times girls have flirted with him or old flings that have tried to vie for his attention. But through it all your trust in him never wavered, you knew that at the end of the day it was your bed he was crawling into. 

And yet there’s a voice in the back of your head telling you that the way Steve is looking at Nancy right now is different; it’s how he looks at you. The voice is darker, more cruel. It’s one you don’t recognize, and yet you do. 

Steve seems to come back to himself and turns to you. “Robin can go with the kids to the shrink. Max can talk to her alone, it’s no big deal.”

Robin holds the keys away from her as if they’re poisoned. “I don’t think you want me driving your car.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have a license.”

Steve shakes his head with impatience. “Why don’t you have a license?”

“I’m poor,” Robin shrugs, and you laugh slightly. 

Max raises her hand. “I can drive.”

“No!” You and Steve exclaim at the same time, both of you getting war flashbacks to when Max had driven you after Billy had knocked you guys unconscious. It’d been a rough night and waking up to a thirteen year old driving a sports car definitely hadn't helped. 

“Please,” you look at Max with genuine longing. “Never, ever drive me ever again.”

“Literally anyone but you–” Steve sees Dustin make a face, offering himself to drive, and the older teen snaps his fingers at him in annoyance. “No chance.”

You shake your head as well. No way in hell are you allowing the kid to drive either. “Absolutely not, Dustin. You couldn’t even drive a golf cart properly.”

“I did a decent job!”

“I still think you’re the one who gave Steve his third concussion with your horrible braking.”

“We were being chased by evil Russians!” 

Robin steps between you and your brother, holding her hands up. “Alright, this is stupid.” She grabs Dustin’s walkie from his backpack and marches to Nancy while handing Steve his keys. “Us ladies, sans Y/N, will stick together. Unless Steve thinks we need him to protect us?”

She raises her eyebrows, challenging the teen, and you watch him. He shuffles nervously, ducks his head down. Steve is guilty and ashamed and embarrassed. Your stomach clenches. 

“He knows better than to doubt you guys,” you step in for him, saving him. “Right, Steve?”

Nancy laughs at the look of fear on his face and Robin smirks. Satisfied, they turn around and start to head towards Nancy’s car. You wish them luck as they leave, tell them to be safe. They wave back at you, and although you wish you could join them, you know that Max will want you by her side while she talks to Ms. Kelly. 

Once the girls are gone, you hit Steve’s chest. “Nice one, buddy.”

He lets out a pained huff, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows he had it coming. With a sigh he follows you back to his car and gets into the driver’s seat. Dustin stares at him through the rearview mirror with a shit eating grin on his face. Tired, Steve glares at him. “Not a word.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Dustin defends himself.

“No, but you were going to, and-hey,” Steve turns in his seat and glares even more at your brother. “Did you make sure to wipe your feet?”

“Yes,” Dustin says at the same time as you and Max say, “No.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and starts the car angrily. His movements are jerky and uncontrolled. “Always the goddamn babysitter!” He exclaims, resentment marring his face.

You jump slightly at his raised voice. He hates being sidelined, you know this. Similar to you, all Steve ever wants to do is help. He does whatever he can, he tries harder than anyone. It’s what you first fell for, back when Steve originally crashed into your life. 

It’s because of his kindness and devotion to others that you reach for Steve’s hand. His skin is cold, goosebumps raise at your touch, but you interlock your fingers through his and slowly, piece by piece, Steve relaxes. 

He’s missed your touch. You’ve missed his, too.

– 

Ms. Kelly, to her credit, tries to mask her surprise when she sees you and Max standing at her door. “Oh, hello, girls.”

“Hi,” you smile kindly at the woman. “We really hate to bother you over spring break, but do you possibly have a minute to talk?”

“With the two of you?” Ms. Kelly knew that you and Max were both grieving Billy, but she hadn’t known that you knew each other. “Y/N, I’m sure you’re aware that this is highly unusual to request.”

You wince. “Yeah, I’m definitely aware that this is a pretty strange thing to ask. It’s just that I was the one who convinced Max to start seeing you in the first place, and now that I’m also seeing you, we figured we could… talk to you together?”

It’s a horrible excuse. The lie is vague and too transparent to believe. Neither you or Max had a lot of time to come up with a convincing cover story during the drive here. 

“I don’t know,” Ms. Kelly’s face strains with contemplation. 

Max softens her eyes and does her best to look small, pleading. “Please?”

You try to appear troubled as well, though it isn’t hard. Your headache hasn’t left. The pounding in your head has only intensified since leaving the trailer park. Ms. Kelly’s gaze flits between you and Max, reading for any signs of lying or ill-will, before her resolve crumbles.

“Oh, alright.” She opens her door wider, ushers the two of you inside. “Come in.”

Steve and Dustin watch as you disappear inside the house. They’ve parked across the street, opting to be the lookout in case anything happens. You spare one last glance over your shoulder, eyes meeting Steve’s, before Ms. Kelly closes the door. 

“Okay, they’re in.” Steve states the obvious, slightly unsettled to be stuck in the car while you’re inside.

“I’m missing collarbones, not eyes.” Dustin snorts. He expects Steve to say something snarky in response, but then he notices that the teen is still staring longingly out the window, tracing Ms. Kelly’s door. He looks pathetic, waiting for you, and Dustin sighs. “So… we gonna talk about it?”

Steve’s eyes linger on the doorway, a far off look on his face. When he realizes that Dustin has spoken, he turns to him slowly. “Huh? Sorry, talk about what?”

“Your temporary insanity earlier today when you basically threw yourself at Nance? In front of my sister?” 

“Okay, first of all, that’s not what happened.”

Dustin glares at Steve, defensive over you. “Oh, really? I’m pretty sure it did, there were a lot of witnesses. Y/N included.”

“What are you implying, little Henderson?” Steve rubs his face, too tired for the kid’s mind games. He knows he was being weird earlier with Nancy, but he would never do that to you. Ever. He had simply been overwhelmed and confused and feeling a multitude of things that he still isn’t ready to face.

“I’m not implying anything,” Dustin puts his hands up. “All I’m saying is that I know you and Y/N have been fighting lately and that for some stupid reason, you’re doubting your relationship.”

Steve throws his head back against the seat. Of course you told Dustin about last night. “Look, I’m not-I’m not doubting our relationship, alright? I mean, I love her, man. So, so much. We just… things have been hard, lately. Really fucking hard.”

He isn’t sure how much you’ve told your brother. He doesn’t think you’d tell him about Jonathan, at least not until you know yourself whatever the hell he’d been trying to tell you the other night. 

Dustin doesn’t say anything for a few moments. He stares past Steve, his eyes almost seem to glaze over. “It’s because she’s leaving, isn’t it?”

All the air in Steve’s lungs gets knocked out of him. “Yes,” he breathes out. His mouth is dry. He swallows, his tongue feels too thick for his mouth. “Sometimes it feels like she’s, I don’t know, like she’s outgrown me? I-I know it’s stupid, but she’s going so far for college and I’m stuck in Hawkins like some fucking moron and she-she didn’t want me going with her.” 

“Did you know that I cried when she got into NYU?” Dustin asks him, a hurt smile on his face. When Steve shakes his head, the boy inhales deeply. “Yeah, cried like a baby the whole night. I mean, I knew she applied, I knew she’d get in, but… you’re right. She is going pretty far. I’ve never,” he wipes at his eyes quickly, embarrassed that he’s crying. “I’ve never had to spend a single day without my sister.”

Steve stares at your brother, finally beginning to understand the distance between the two of you. For weeks now it’s all you’ve complained about to Steve. How much you resented Eddie for being Dustin’s new favorite person, how much you miss singing with him in the kitchen while you baked. But now here Dustin is, teary eyed, explaining to Steve just how scared he is to be without his sister. “It feels like she’s leaving you, too.”

“Yeah,” Dustin wipes his eyes again, nodding. “Yeah, sometimes it feels like she can’t wait to get out of this town.”

“Even though we’ll still be here,” Steve says solemnly. 

It’s quiet again. A few birds sing in the tree above them. You and Max haven’t returned, yet. After a while, Dustin turns to Steve. “She doesn’t mean it, you know.”

“Who?”

“Y/N,” the boy clarifies, and Steve’s heart skips a beat. “She doesn’t mean it when she says she doesn’t want you going with her to New York. She’s just… she’s scared, and she knows that it isn’t what you really want. Nothing gets past her, it’s really annoying.”

Steve scoffs a bit, fondness running through him. Dustin’s right. Nothing ever gets past you, you notice and see everything. But then he thinks about what your brother has said, the fear he hadn’t known about. “Why would she be scared?” 

Dustin stiffens in his seat, his gaze once again blurs. He twists his hands anxiously, fixes his hat. The atmosphere shifts, Steve can see that he’s uncomfortable now. He’s about to tell Dustin that he doesn’t have to answer, but the kid does anyways. “Our parents, they-um. Met in college.”

Steve sits up as well. You and Dustin never talk about your parents, at least not about your father. Steve can’t remember the last time you’ve even mentioned him. He thinks maybe the man had called you once, during Christmas. 

“They got married right before graduation. Our mom had been pregnant with Y/N, they got hitched and in their marital bliss, our dad somehow convinced our mom to leave Indiana. She grew up here, but our dad was from Virginia and he insisted that she move there.”

Bitter. Dustin is bitter.

“Everything was fine, I guess. I liked Virginia. Y/N did, too. But our mom was lonely, anyone could see that. We lived in a pretty small town, our dad was basically a goddamn Kennedy there. Everyone adored him, but our mom… things were different for her. She was always in his shadow, but Y/N and I were too young to notice for a long time.”

Steve swallows. “And then… the divorce?” 

“The stupid fucking divorce.” Dustin spits out. “It wasn’t a surprise, but somehow we still felt blindsided. One day our dad was charming, cracking jokes with everyone and playing the guitar with us, then the next he just-he snapped. Became bitter, mean. Y/N idolized him, but when our parents started fighting every night and our mom cried over some woman named Carry… I lost my sister, for a while.”

“She told me,” Steve whispers, remembering the rawness in your voice the night you confessed to him that you were once cruel. “I had to remind her that she came back, in the end.”

The corners of Dustin’s mouth turn upwards slightly. “Yeah, she came back.” But then his expression darkens, his mood sours. “Our mother almost didn’t, though. After having to move back to Hawkins with barely any money to support us, it basically destroyed her. She had lost all her friends by that point, her own parents died while we lived in Virginia.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve’s throat constricts. He hadn’t known any of this. He feels like such an asshole now for assuming the worst in you. For allowing his own insecurities to blind him. “I-I didn’t know about any of that.” 

“Yeah, well.” Dustin shrugs. “Now you do. And you need to know that Y/N is being her usual selfless self because of our mom and what happened to her. She doesn't want that happening to you, dipshit.”

Steve exhales through his nose, his head is swimming with so many more questions, so many apologies he wishes he could say. Instead, he stares out the window, waiting for you to return. 

–

“So, what would you girls like to discuss with me?” The clock on Ms. Kelly’s walk ticks ominously behind her. She’s seated you and Max in her basement den. You can tell by the stack of books and messy desk that she uses the area as her makeshift office. 

Max slouches against her seat. “Oh, it’s nothing too serious, we were just–”

“I’m worried about Max.” You interrupt the girl, not daring to look at her.

Ms. Kelly raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I think with all the murders happening, it might be affecting her.” It isn’t necessarily a lie. You have been worried about Max and her behavior. Especially these last few weeks. “It might be resurfacing some… memories.”

Max tries to argue, but Ms. Kelly holds her hand up. “You’ve both experienced trauma, Y/N. She lost her brother while you held his dying body.”

A lump forms in your throat, your lungs feel cold. 

The woman turns to Max, now. “And when you keep your feelings in, your pain, bottled up the way you do, it doesn’t take much to trigger them again. I can see why Y/N may be worried.”

Max doesn’t meet Ms. Kelly’s eyes. She swallows heavily and looks down at her hands. “Yeah, I know.”

“You know you can always talk to me, Max.” You say softly, wanting desperately to reach out to her. But you’re afraid it’ll only drive her further away.

She frowns at you. “Like how you talk to Dustin, or even to Steve?”

Her accusation cuts deeply. You hadn’t known that she was paying attention to you. That your disguised “I’m fine’s” weren’t convincing her. Max must know this, because she lowers her eyes again and mumbles a quiet apology. 

Ms. Kelly notices the tension and leans between the two of you. “Do you think you’re ready to talk more about that night?”

Max’s eyes gloss over briefly, her face distorts with discomfort. An onslaught of memories overtakes her, just as they overtake you. The echoes of her screams for her brother replay in your mind over and over again. The squelch of Billy’s blood trickles down your spine. You were right next to her when it happened. The blood still stains your clothes from that night at Starcourt. 

“I live next door to where it happened.” Max changes the subject, her voice returning. When Ms. Kelly asks for more clarification, she continues. “Next to where Chrissy was murdered. The cops asked me a bunch of questions. Did they talk to you?”

The woman sits up, apprehensive. She hadn’t been expecting to talk about this. You sit there quietly, head still pounding from earlier as Max takes over. She interrogates Ms. Kelly, who does her best to dodge every question, and suddenly the warmth in the room becomes unbearable. 

“Excuse me,” you stand up, hand clutching your stomach. Nausea swirls within you. You feel faint, the pounding has increased and sweat trickles down your neck. Both Max and Ms. Kelly look at you in concern, but you ignore them.

Blindly you stumble towards the kitchen you remember seeing when you arrived. Too nauseous and overwhelmed to care about niceties, you dig through Ms. Kelly’s cupboards until you find a cup. After filling it with water, the icey coolness of the liquid settles uneasily in your stomach. You lean over the sink, hands clutching the edge. Everything in your body feels unsteady.

Max comes up the stairs and finds you breathing heavily. “You’re not going to hurl, are you?”

“Trying really hard not to right now,” you breathe through your nose, out through your mouth. “Thanks for the concern.”

No response comes. Instead, footsteps walk up behind you. You hear metal clanking against glass, and when you turn around, you find Max holding up a pair of keys. She smirks, flashing you the white keyring attached to them labeled, “office”.

Your eyes bulge out of your head. “No, we are not stealing–” 

Except Max grabs your arm and practically flings you out the front door. She shoves you, urging you to start running towards Steve’s car, and all you can do is stumble over your feet and follow after her. When you make it back to the car, panting from the exertion and thrill, Steve and Dustin turn to you with wide eyes. 

“What’d she say?” Your brother asks, noting your frazzled appearance. 

“Nothing, just drive.” Max dismisses. 

“I just became a felon.”

The girl rolls her eyes at you. “Personal property theft isn’t a felony.”

“Jesus,” Steve does a double take, baffled by this entire conversation. “What the hell did you guys do in there?”

“Steve, drive!” Max shouts at him. 

The tires of the car squeal against the pavement as Steve steps on the gas. He steadies the car, a wild look in his eyes. “Where are we even going?”

“The school,” Max holds up the keys she stole.

Dustin looks at her incredulously. “Are those–”

“The keys to Ms. Kelly’s office? Yeah.” You nod grimly. “I told you, I’m now a felon.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic–”

A voice comes through Cerebro, cutting Max off. “Dustin? It’s Lucas. Do you copy?”

Relief washes over you hearing Lucas’ voice. Between tracking down Eddie and dealing with interrogating school guidance counselors, you’d also been slowly worrying yourself to death over the boy. It’s unusual for him to be quiet for so long, and with all the murders now occurring… You’d been terrified. 

“Lucas? Where the hell have you been?” Demands Dustin.

“Just listen, are you guys looking for Eddie?”

You and Steve share an uncertain look. Why would Lucas be radioing about him? How much does he know?

Your brother tells Lucas that you’ve found Eddie and tells him where he is, that he’s safe. Immediately, the boy responds, “You guys know he killed Chrissy, right?”

Predictably, Dustin doesn’t take this very well. “That’s bullshit, Eddie tried to save Chrissy.”

Lucas presses further, not believing what he’s hearing. Max snatches the radio from Dustin, tired of all the vague responses. “Lucas, you’re so behind it’s ridiculous, okay?”

“Technically we still haven’t elaborated on the whole Eddie thing,” you point out, which she glares at you for. 

“Y/N?” Lucas asks, surprised to hear you’re with them.

You grab the walkie. “Hey, how’s your day been?”

“Awful,” he responds bluntly while Steve snorts at your question. “Why are you guys so sure Eddie didn’t–”

“Just meet us at school. We’ll explain later.” Max instructs, leaning over the car’s console. 

“I can’t,” fear leaks through Lucas’ voice. You sit up now, looking at Steve again. He hears it, too. “I think some real bad shit’s about to go down.”

You feel your heartbeat pick up. “Lucas, what does that mean? Are you okay, where are you?”

“Sinclair!” A voice shouts, before the radio cuts into static. 

“Lucas? Lucas!” Max shouts into the walkie, but he doesn’t respond. She sounds scared, it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in her voice in months.

You’re no better. You sit in the passenger seat, numb. The voice, you recognized it. You’d know Jason Carver’s voice anywhere. Everything clicks; you remember how Lucas was supposed to go to the party after the basketball game. Chrissy had been Jason’s girlfriend before she was brutally killed. The cops would’ve questioned him, they would’ve told him how her body had been found in Eddie’s trailer. 

Eddie Munson, the town freak everyone hates. 

“What shit could Lucas get into?” Dustin questions, annoyance twinged with worry for his friend. 

You try to steady your breathing, nausea returning. You almost don’t recognize the sound of your own voice. “It’s Jason. He’s-he’s angry.”

The words settle in the car, linger in the air, before they crash heavily upon the four of you. The realization dawns on everyone, the inevitability of what will happen next is an unbearable weight.

Steve steps even harder on the gas. He knows the basketball team, how cruel teen boys can be. 

– 

Every time you’ve snuck into one of Hawkins’ schools, it’s never led to anything good. The first two times had been in the middle school for Will. Neither time involved very pleasant memories. This year you’re sneaking into the high school in order to violate your classmates’ privacy and read their deepest, darkest secrets.

“This feels wrong,” you huff under your breath, barely keeping up with Steve and the others as they run through the hallway. “I’d hate it if anyone read my file.”

“Would you rather risk anyone else dying?” Max responds, giving you a pointed look.

You frown but don’t say anything, figuring she’s right. As much as you hate to do this, it’s objectively the lesser of two evils. You’ll apologize to the students after this is done. If they question why you’ve baked them brownies, you’ll simply lie and say you had extra laying around. 

“Dustin, do you copy?” Robin’s voice carries over the radio. Your heart skips a beat hearing her, you’ve missed her today. After your brother responds, she starts to explain what she and Nancy found. “So, Nancy’s a genius.”

“What else is new?” You say, and Robin laughs.

“My thoughts exactly, pretty girl.” She clears her throat. “Anyways, Vecna’s first victims date back all the way to 1959. Her shot in the dark was a bull’s-eye.”

The new information startles you. Vecna first started killing in 1959? Why didn’t you hear anything about it until now, and why didn’t El sense him before?

Dustin looks equally unsettled by the news. “Okay, that’s totally bonkers, but we can’t really talk right now.”

“What are you doing?”

“Breaking and entering into the school to retrieve confidential and extremely personal files.”

You wince. It’s as bad as it sounds. Tapping Dustin’s shoulder, you break him away from the walkie. “Wait, we won’t need my files, right?”

Steve eyes you up and down, shrugging indifferently. “Well–” Hitting his chest, he sputters at you. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“You’re not reading my files, Harrington.”

Meanwhile, Dustin urges Robin and Nancy to meet you guys at the school. By the time their conversation wraps up, Max has unlocked the office door. She heads straight towards the drawers, long familiar with the layout; you follow after her.

Steve and Dustin look around while you and Max dig through the files. They mumble something about Watergate, but you can barely hear them over the rush of blood in your eardrums. Max’s fingers rest on a specific file. The name printed on it makes you feel sick.

Fred Benson.

“Holy shit,” she exhales, grabbing it.

“Found it?” Dustin stands next to you now, neck peering down. 

You struggle to breathe. “We didn’t just find Chrissy’s file.”

Dustin tilts his head, he doesn’t understand, and Max holds the file up. “Fred was seeing Ms. Kelly too.”

Steve and Dustin freeze. You can practically see their heartbeats still. The air in the room goes stale. Their eyes linger on you, they wish they couldn’t piece it together. Chrissy and Fred were seeing Ms. Kelly up until their deaths. You and Max have been seeing her, too. It’s one hell of a coincidence. 

But that’s all this is. A horrible, awful coincidence. 

“Y/N…” Steve breathes out, but you shake your head at him.

“Please,” your lip trembles. Not here, not now. He can’t look away from you, but you can’t bear to look at him. Instead, you grab the remaining files and hand them to Max. “We need to go through them. All of them.”

Dustin sits at the desk, Steve’s hand rests on the small of your back as you lean over Max to read the files. He shines a flashlight for the two of you, Chrissy’s file is the first one you read. The image of her once vibrant and alive smile stares back at you. There’s a column of writing to the left of her photo, the handwriting is neat, orderly, and it catches your attention.

“Are those…?”

“Symptoms.” Max softly answers, eyes skimming down the list.

Past trauma.

Terrible migraines.

Difficulty sleeping.

Headaches.

Max’s entire body tenses, her muscles pull taut against you. Your own body shakes, the tremors misalign your bones. Slowly, she looks up at you. Her eyes silently beg you to tell her that you’ve gotten it all wrong. Max’s blue eyes plead with you to tell her that none of this is real.

“Steve,” your voice catches, unable to inhale. “Can we see Fred’s file?”

He softly agrees, handing you the file immediately. You take it from him. The paper trembles in your unsteady grasp. Laying them down, you open the file and Fred’s photo burns you. Next to it is a list of symptoms.

They’re the same as Chrissy’s. 

They’re the same as yours. 

The headaches. Sleepless nights. The trauma you’ve been through, the nightmares that will never truly go away. Everything you’ve experienced within the last week. 

Nosebleeds is starred, and for a moment your heartbeat settles. You haven’t had a nosebleed since you were five. It isn’t one of your symptoms; it can all still be a coincidence.

“This-this can’t be right.” You don’t know if you say this to reassure Max or yourself, but when you look down at her, you know. She has a far off look in her eyes. She doesn’t react to what you’ve just said. 

It’s only then that you remember her nosebleed from earlier this week; it hadn’t been a coincidence. 

“Max?” You shake her shoulders, tears already in your eyes. You know better than to be so naive, so blindly ignorant. You should’ve known better. You should’ve known that something was wrong.

Dustin and Steve try to wake Max, but she’s already left her body. She’s unresponsive, lost in whatever trance she’s in. 

“Y/N, what’s happening?” Steve demands, fear in his own voice.

You’re hysterical, screaming and sobbing for Max to wake up. Her body is so small against yours, she’s frail and weak and her skin has never looked so translucent. Over and over you shake her, your palms rest against her cheeks and you cry.

You’ve come to know what fear is. How it can blind a person, leave them stricken with such raw anguish. Fear takes whatever air is left inside you and it poisons it with sulfur and leaves you choking. 

The day Will went missing, the only air left in your body had been blood. 

When inside the tunnels defending your little brother from monsters, the air in your body had been carbon. 

Starcourt mall and the fireworks that exploded over Billy’s dangling and bloodied body left only just enough air in your lungs to scream.

But this fear, seeing Max unresponsive to your pleas, this fear doesn’t spare you any air. 

Gasping and choking, you’re a wreck. “Max!”

Faintly you can feel Steve’s hands on you, or maybe they’re Dustin’s. Someone grabs you, pulls you away, but all you can do is scream.

It all makes sense now, Nancy’s question from earlier rings in your ears. You know why Chrissy and Fred were targeted. Why Ms. Kelly was somehow the center of it all.

The symptoms they experienced prior, the same ones that plague you and Max. You know what it is.

Venca’s curse.

-

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[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 2) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @simplyyalika @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @ggaslyp1 @henneseyhoe @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @iamryanl @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Your father's study was prepared for the occasion, the good whiskey displayed on the sideboard, legal documents arranged with careful precision on his desk. Uncle Paolo stood by the window, while your mother sat in one of the leather chairs, her posture perfect as always.

Hamilton—Lewis—crossed the threshold with the confidence of a man entering territory that was already half his. The shift in power dynamics was subtle but unmistakable. This was no longer an audition but a partnership being formalized.

"Mr. Hamilton," your father greeted him, extending his hand. "I trust my daughter has addressed her... concerns?"

"She has," Lewis replied, his tone revealing nothing of your private conversation. "We've reached an understanding."

Your father's eyes flickered to you for confirmation. You nodded once, maintaining the composed expression expected of a Ricci daughter in business situations.

"Excellent," your father said, gesturing to the seats arranged before his desk. "Then we can proceed with finalizing the arrangements."

As Lewis sat beside you, you noticed the careful distance he maintained—close enough to indicate unity but not so close as to suggest possession. Every movement calculated for the message it would send.

"Before we begin," Lewis said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet room, "I'd like to clarify something."

Your father's eyebrow raised slightly. "Yes?"

"In our preliminary discussions, we covered the business aspects of this alliance thoroughly," Lewis began, his tone measured. "But I want to be clear that my marriage to your daughter represents more than just a merger of operations. It's a commitment I take seriously, beyond the strategic advantages."

The statement caught everyone by surprise—most of all you. This hadn't been part of your conversation in the garden.

"Of course," your father replied, clearly unsure where this was heading. "Family is... important."

"Precisely," Lewis agreed. "Which is why I'd like to properly acknowledge the personal aspect of this arrangement, not just the business side."

Before anyone could respond, he turned to face you directly, reaching into his jacket pocket to withdraw a small velvet box. Your breath caught as he rose from his chair and, in a move that seemed completely at odds with his controlled persona, lowered himself to one knee before you.

The room went absolutely silent. This was wildly off-script for a mafia arrangement marriage.

"What the fuck," Uncle Paolo muttered under his breath, voicing what everyone was thinking.

Lewis ignored him completely, his dark eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made the rest of the room seem to fade away.

"I know this arrangement began as strategy," he said, his voice pitched for your ears despite the audience. "But I believe in doing things properly. So..." He opened the box, revealing a ring that made your mother gasp audibly.

The diamond was enormous—emerald cut, flanked by smaller stones set in what appeared to be platinum. Not gaudy despite its size, but undeniably spectacular and obviously worth a small fortune.

"Will you marry me?" Lewis asked, the formality of the question almost absurd given the circumstances, yet somehow perfect in its traditionalism.

For a moment, you couldn't speak, caught off guard by this unexpected adherence to normal courtship rituals. This man who dealt in guns and laundered money was following a script from an entirely different world—one where proposals meant choices and rings symbolized love rather than ownership.

"Yes," you finally managed, aware of your family watching this performance with varying degrees of shock and approval.

Lewis's expression remained controlled, but something flickered in his eyes—satisfaction, perhaps, or something warmer. He removed the ring from its velvet nest and took your left hand, sliding the diamond onto your finger with careful precision. It was slightly loose, but not enough to fall off.

"We'll have it sized properly," he murmured as he rose to his feet, still holding your hand.

Your father cleared his throat loudly, clearly thrown by the deviation from protocol but unwilling to object to something that, while unconventional, only strengthened the alliance.

"Well," he said, reaching for the whiskey. "I believe a toast is in order."

As your father poured drinks, you studied the ring on your finger—the weight of it, the way it caught the light. No one had expected this gesture, least of all you. Mafia arrangements were usually handled with legal documents and handshakes, not proposals and engagement rings.

"To family," your father offered once everyone held a glass. "And new alliances."

"To family," the room echoed, though your mother's eyes remained fixed on you, a question in their depths that you couldn't quite decipher.

Lewis's glass touched yours with a delicate clink. "To new beginnings," he added quietly, for your ears only.

The formal discussion that followed was almost anticlimactic after the surprise proposal. Details of the wedding were confirmed—three weeks from now, a small ceremony at the family's private chapel followed by a reception that would serve as both celebration and strategic networking opportunity. You would leave for London the following day, with most of your belongings shipped ahead.

Throughout the discussion, you remained acutely aware of the ring on your finger, its unfamiliar weight a constant reminder of the bargain you'd struck. Lewis occasionally glanced at your hand, something like satisfaction crossing his features when he noted you adjusting to the feel of it.

"There's one more thing," your father said as the meeting concluded. "A small dinner tomorrow night. Family only, to formally introduce you and officially announce the engagement."

You'd almost forgotten about your sisters in the whirlwind of negotiations. Sophia would be thrilled—she'd been fascinated by the mysterious British suitor from the start. Maria and Gabriella, at twenty-two and nineteen respectively, would have their own opinions, no doubt.

"Of course," Lewis agreed smoothly. "I look forward to meeting the rest of the family."

As if on cue, there was a commotion outside the study door—hushed giggles and shushing sounds that could only be your sisters attempting to eavesdrop. Your father's expression darkened.

"Girls!" he called sharply. "Either come in properly or go to your rooms!"

After a moment of whispered debate, the door opened to reveal all three of your sisters, attempting and failing to look innocent.

"We just wanted to meet him," Sophia explained, her eyes immediately going to Lewis with undisguised curiosity. "Since he's going to be our brother-in-law and everything."

Your father sighed deeply, but your mother smiled indulgently. "Come in then, but behave yourselves."

Lewis rose as they entered, that perfect British politeness on display. "Lewis Hamilton," he introduced himself, extending his hand to each sister in turn.

"I'm Sophia," your youngest sister said, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. "Did you really just propose? With a ring and everything? That's so not how these things usually go."

"Sophia," your father warned, but Lewis just smiled—a real one that transformed his severe features.

"Some traditions are worth maintaining," he replied, "even in unconventional circumstances."

"It's beautiful," Maria said, eyeing your ring with clear envy. "Harry Winston?"

"Custom design," Lewis corrected. "Though they did source the center stone."

Gabriella, always the most reserved of your sisters, studied Lewis with careful assessment. "You're better looking than the others," she noted.

"Gabriella!" your mother admonished, though you caught the hint of amusement in her tone.

"Just stating facts," Gabriella shrugged. "Though the tattoos are unexpected."

Lewis's lips twitched slightly. "I find that unexpected can be advantageous in my line of work."

"What exactly is your line of work?" Sophia asked bluntly. "Besides the obvious."

"Sophia!" your father snapped. "That's enough."

"It's alright," Lewis assured him. "Curiosity is natural." He turned to your sister. "Import-export, primarily. Specialized logistics. Investment in emerging technologies. Various legitimate enterprises that support other... interests."

"Guns and money," Sophia translated with a grin. "Got it."

Despite the tension, you found yourself fighting a smile. Trust Sophia to cut through the euphemisms directly to the point.

"Among other things," Lewis agreed, unbothered by her directness. "Your sister and I were just discussing her interest in digital currencies and their applications."

The easy way he included you in the conversation, referencing your ideas rather than talking around you, didn't go unnoticed by your sisters. Maria's eyebrows rose slightly, while Gabriella's assessment shifted from skeptical to cautiously approving.

"Well, we just wanted to say congratulations," Maria said, her eyes moving between you and Lewis as if trying to make sense of the pairing. "And to see what all the fuss was about."

"The fuss?" Lewis inquired.

"Papa's been locked in meetings for days," Sophia explained. "Uncle Paolo kept saying the British guy was trouble, but Mama said you were exactly what the family needed."

You shot your mother a questioning look. She hadn't shared that particular opinion with you.

"Perhaps we can continue this conversation tomorrow at dinner," your father interjected, his patience clearly wearing thin. "When everyone has had time to prepare appropriate topics of discussion."

The dismissal was clear. Your sisters offered final congratulations—Sophia hugging you impulsively while whispering "Holy shit, he's hot" in your ear—before filing out of the study, already whispering among themselves.

"You'll have to forgive their enthusiasm," your mother said once they'd gone. "This is the first engagement in the family."

"No forgiveness necessary," Lewis assured her. "Family dynamics are important to understand."

The meeting concluded shortly after, with handshakes for the men and a formal kiss on each cheek for your mother. When Lewis turned to you, there was a moment of uncertainty—what was the appropriate farewell for a newly engaged couple in this bizarre circumstance?

He solved the dilemma by taking your hand and raising it to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles just above the ring. "Until tomorrow," he said, his eyes holding yours with that same intense focus that made everything else seem to recede.

"Tomorrow," you echoed, finding your voice less steady than you'd like.

As Marco escorted Lewis out, your family turned to you with varying expressions—your father's satisfaction, your mother's cautious approval, Uncle Paolo's lingering skepticism.

"Well," your father said, returning to his desk. "That's settled then."

But nothing felt settled. If anything, Lewis Hamilton's unexpected proposal and the weight of the ring on your finger only underscored how uncharted this territory was. You'd agreed to marry a man who remained largely a mystery, whose calculated control occasionally revealed glimpses of something more complicated beneath.

"May I be excused?" you asked, suddenly needing space to process everything that had happened.

Your father waved his permission, already turning to other business now that your future was secured. Your mother squeezed your hand as you passed, her eyes communicating a mixture of sympathy and encouragement.

"We'll talk later," she promised quietly. "There's more to prepare than just a wedding."

You nodded, grateful for her understanding, and made your way upstairs to the sanctuary of your room. As soon as the door closed behind you, you leaned against it, finally allowing the mask of composure to drop.

"Holy fuck," you whispered to the empty room, staring at the diamond glittering on your finger.

Three weeks. In three weeks you would be Mrs. Lewis Hamilton, relocating to London and beginning a life bound to a man you barely knew beyond his business reputation and the careful image he projected.

A soft knock interrupted your thoughts. You opened the door to find all three of your sisters crowded in the hallway, barely containing their excitement.

"Spill everything," Sophia demanded, pushing past you into the room. "And I mean everything."

Maria and Gabriella followed, closing the door behind them. All pretense of decorum vanished as they gathered on your bed like you were teenagers again, sharing secrets after lights out.

"Is he always that intense?" Maria asked, her eyes wide. "The way he looks at you is... a lot."

"And that ring," Gabriella added. "Let me see it properly."

You extended your hand, allowing them to examine the diamond that now marked you as claimed. "It's a bit loose," you said, trying to sound nonchalant about the small fortune on your finger.

"We can fix that tomorrow," Maria said dismissively. "But seriously, what's he like when Papa's not around? Is he always so... controlled?"

You thought about your dinner conversation, the brief glimpses of genuine personality beneath his disciplined exterior. "Mostly," you admitted. "But there's more to him than just the business façade."

"Obviously," Sophia grinned. "Those tattoos aren't exactly old-school mafia style. And did you see his hands? Those are not just paper-pushing hands."

"Sophia!" Gabriella scolded, though she looked equally curious. "But really, are you okay with all this? It's happening so fast."

The question was surprisingly sincere. Despite the teasing and excitement, your sisters were genuinely concerned about your feelings. It was touching, though you weren't sure how to answer.

"I'm... adjusting," you said finally. "He's not what I expected."

"Better or worse?" Maria pressed.

You considered this carefully. "Different. He sees me as more than just a connection to Papa. He actually listened when I talked about business ideas."

"Wow," Gabriella said, only half-joking. "The bar is literally on the floor."

You couldn't help laughing at that. "True. But compared to Lorenzo Bianchi or Raúl Suarez? Lewis is practically a feminist."

"Sexy accent too," Sophia added with a smirk. "And that mouth... bet he knows how to use it."

"Oh my god, stop," you groaned, shoving her playfully. "I'm still processing the fact that I'll be married in three weeks. I haven't gotten to... that part yet."

But of course you had thought about it. The physical aspects of marriage to Lewis Hamilton were impossible to ignore, especially after your frank discussion in the garden. His preference for control, his emphasis on clear boundaries and communication... it was both intimidating and intriguing in ways you weren't ready to examine too closely.

"Are you scared?" Maria asked more seriously, picking up on your discomfort.

"Not exactly," you replied honestly. "I'm... curious. Cautious. This isn't how I imagined my life would go, but given the options..."

"He seems to actually respect you," Gabriella observed. "That's more than most arrangements offer."

It was a sobering reminder of the reality you all faced as Ricci daughters. Eventually, each of your sisters would likely face a similar negotiation, their futures decided by the family's strategic needs rather than their own desires.

"At least he's hot," Sophia repeated, breaking the tension. "And rich. And not a complete asshole, which is basically winning the mafia husband lottery."

You couldn't help smiling at her determined optimism. "I guess we'll see."

"Promise you'll tell us everything," Maria insisted. "Once you're in London. What it's like, who his people are, what he's like when no one's watching."

"And what he's like in bed," Sophia added with a wicked grin. "I want details."

"Absolutely not," you laughed, throwing a pillow at her. "Some things are going to remain private, thank you very much."

As your sisters continued their teasing interrogation, you found yourself genuinely smiling for the first time since this whole process began. Despite the strangeness of your situation, their normalcy grounded you, reminded you that not everything would change with your marriage.

Later, alone again, you twisted the ring on your finger, watching how the diamond caught the light from different angles. The gesture had been unexpected—performative, certainly, but also strangely genuine in its execution. Lewis continued to defy easy categorization, remaining a puzzle you couldn't quite solve.

In three weeks, you'd be his wife. In three weeks and one day, you'd be in London, beginning a new life far from everything familiar. The thought should have terrified you, but instead you felt a strange, cautious anticipation building beneath the anxiety.

This wasn't the future you'd imagined for yourself, but perhaps it wasn't the prison sentence you'd feared either. Perhaps, just perhaps, Lewis Hamilton represented something you'd never dared hope for in your position: a partnership that might, in time, evolve into something genuine.

It was a dangerous hope, but as you drifted toward sleep, the weight of the ring a constant reminder on your finger, you allowed yourself to indulge in it, just for tonight.

***********************************************************

The next evening arrived with the heightened security that had become standard at the estate. Additional men patrolled the perimeter, their weapons no longer discreetly concealed but worn openly—a clear message to anyone considering interference. Your father wasn't taking chances with tonight's family dinner, not with the official announcement of your engagement making its way through the appropriate channels.

"The Bianchis have been unusually quiet today," your father commented as you helped your mother review the dinner arrangements. "Paolo's contacts say they're planning something."

"Lorenzo wouldn't be stupid enough to make a move against us directly," your mother replied, her tone calm though her eyes betrayed concern. "Not with our alliances."

"Young men with wounded pride make stupid decisions every day," your father countered. "Double the security at the gates. And make sure the girls stay inside until Hamilton arrives."

You'd been half-listening to this exchange while adjusting a flower arrangement, but the mention of potential danger sharpened your attention. "Has there been a specific threat?"

Your father hesitated, then apparently decided you deserved to know. "Lorenzo Bianchi has been making noise in certain circles. Saying Hamilton stole what was rightfully his. That the engagement is an insult to the Sicilian families."

"I'm not property to be stolen," you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice.

"Of course not, cara," your father agreed, though his tone suggested this was merely semantics. "But perception matters in our world. The Bianchi family feels slighted. The Cuban cartel has expressed similar... disappointment."

"Raúl Suarez sent another message this morning," your mother added quietly. "Your father thought it best not to show you."

A chill ran through you at the mention of Suarez. While Lorenzo Bianchi was volatile and potentially dangerous, Raúl Suarez's reputation for calculated cruelty made him the more concerning threat.

"What kind of message?" you pressed.

Your parents exchanged a look before your father sighed. "A photograph. Of you. From yesterday, in the garden with Hamilton."

The implication settled heavily in your stomach. Someone had been watching your private conversation with Lewis, close enough to photograph it despite the estate's security measures.

"Have you told Hamilton?" you asked, wondering how your fiancé—the word still felt strange even in your thoughts—would respond to this surveillance.

"His people have been informed," your father confirmed. "They're coordinating with our security team."

The doorbell interrupted further discussion. Marco's voice came through on the intercom: "Mr. Hamilton has arrived, sir."

"Perfect timing," your mother said, her social mask sliding seamlessly back into place. "Let's not allow these concerns to overshadow tonight's celebration."

You followed your parents to the foyer, where Lewis was handing his coat to a waiting staff member. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with a deep burgundy tie that somehow complemented the subtle geometric patterns of the tattoos visible at his wrists and neck. His hair was freshly done, the braids impeccable, the faded sides precisely lined.

His eyes found yours immediately, that focused intensity now familiar though no less powerful. "Ms. Ricci," he greeted you formally, then added with the ghost of a smile, "Or should I say fiancée?"

"Either works for now," you replied, extending your hand.

Instead of the expected handshake, he drew you slightly closer, leaning in to brush a kiss against your cheek—a calculated gesture for your parents' benefit, establishing the appearance of growing intimacy without overstepping bounds. The brief contact sent an unexpected warmth through you.

"You look lovely," he said, his eyes making a quick but appreciative assessment of your burgundy dress—a coincidental match to his tie that wouldn't go unnoticed by your observant family.

"Thank you," you replied, suddenly aware of the diamond still glittering on your finger. You'd had it adjusted that morning, a jeweler summoned to the house to ensure it wouldn't slip off. "Shall we join the others? My sisters have been talking about nothing else all day."

As if on cue, Sophia appeared at the top of the stairs, having clearly been waiting for Lewis's arrival. She descended with Maria and Gabriella following more sedately, all three dressed with careful attention to detail.

"Mr. Hamilton," Sophia greeted him with barely contained excitement. "Welcome to family dinner."

"Please, call me Lewis," he replied smoothly. "We're to be family, after all."

The simple statement seemed to delight your sisters, who exchanged meaningful glances as you all moved toward the formal dining room. Your mother had arranged the seating strategically—you and Lewis side by side, with your parents at the ends of the table and your sisters across from you.

Dinner began with the expected formalities, staff serving the first course while your father made pointed small talk about neutral topics. Only when the main course arrived and the servants had withdrawn did the conversation shift to more relevant matters.

"We've received confirmation from Father Donato," your father announced. "The chapel is prepared for three weeks from Saturday. Your mother has arranged for the necessary adjustments to the timeline."

You nodded, aware that "necessary adjustments" meant significant strings pulled and substantial donations made to ensure the church would accommodate a wedding on such short notice.

"I've taken the liberty of making certain arrangements as well," Lewis added, his attention moving smoothly between your parents. "Security protocols for the event itself, transportation details for our departure, preparations at the London residence."

"Our departure?" you questioned, noting the possessive pronoun.

Lewis turned to you, something almost apologetic crossing his features. "I should have mentioned—I've had to adjust the timeline slightly. Business in Geneva requires my attention immediately after the wedding. I thought we might combine necessity with pleasure. Switzerland in autumn is quite beautiful."

The casual revelation that your honeymoon destination had been decided without your input shouldn't have surprised you, yet somehow it did. Perhaps Lewis had noticed your reaction, because he added, "Unless you have other preferences? This is certainly negotiable."

The qualification—that simple acknowledgment of your right to an opinion—was so unexpected that it momentarily disarmed your irritation.

"Switzerland is fine," you conceded. "Though I would appreciate being included in these decisions going forward."

A flash of something that might have been approval crossed his face. "Of course. My apologies for the oversight."

Your father looked vaguely surprised at this exchange—at both your boldness in questioning the arrangement and Lewis's easy acceptance of your point. Traditional men in your world rarely bothered with such consultations.

"Speaking of arrangements," your mother interjected smoothly, "have you given thought to where you'll ultimately settle? London initially, you mentioned, but longer term?"

"I maintain residences in several locations," Lewis replied. "London serves as primary base for now, but I've recently acquired property in New York as well. I thought perhaps splitting time between the two might be ideal, given family connections."

This was news to you—another detail decided without your input, though the consideration for your family ties was unexpected and not unwelcome.

"New York would be perfect," Sophia chimed in. "Then we could visit all the time!"

"That's rather the point," Lewis agreed, his tone warming slightly when addressing your youngest sister. "Family connections should be maintained."

The conversation continued in this vein, discussing logistics and plans with occasional input from your sisters, who seemed determined to extract as many details as possible about their future brother-in-law. Lewis answered their questions with surprising patience, revealing carefully selected personal details that gave the impression of openness while actually disclosing very little of substance.

It was a masterful performance, you realized—giving everyone exactly what they needed to feel comfortable with the arrangement while maintaining the essential privacy that seemed central to his nature.

The sound of your father's phone interrupted dessert. He frowned at the screen before excusing himself abruptly. Uncle Paolo, who had been largely silent throughout dinner, followed him out, a significant look passing between them.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table until your mother stepped in with practiced grace. "Perhaps we should move to the sitting room for coffee."

As you all stood to relocate, Lewis placed a light hand at the small of your back, leaning close to murmur, "Something's happening. Your father's security detail just doubled outside."

The observation confirmed what you'd already suspected—Lewis missed nothing, not even the subtle shift in the guards visible through the dining room windows.

In the sitting room, the pretense of normal family dinner continued, though tension had crept into the atmosphere. Your mother directed conversation with determined brightness, while your sisters picked up on the change but followed her lead.

When your father finally returned twenty minutes later, his expression was carefully neutral, but the tightness around his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

"Apologies for the interruption," he said smoothly. "Business matters."

"Anything that concerns our arrangements?" Lewis asked directly, cutting through the pretense.

Your father assessed him for a moment before apparently deciding transparency was the better approach. "The Bianchi family has made their position clear regarding our alliance. Lorenzo is particularly... vocal about his disappointment."

"Vocal how?" you pressed, tired of being shielded from information that directly concerned you.

"He's made certain threats," your father admitted reluctantly. "Nothing we can't handle."

"Specifically?" Lewis's tone had shifted subtly, the polite dinner guest replaced by the calculating strategist.

Your father hesitated, glancing at your sisters. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately."

"If it concerns the safety of this family, everyone should be aware," Lewis countered, surprising you with his inclusion of your sisters in matters your father typically shielded them from. "Informed caution is always preferable to ignorant vulnerability."

It was precisely the right approach to take with your father, appealing to his strategic mind rather than challenging his authority directly. After a moment's consideration, he nodded.

"Lorenzo Bianchi was seen meeting with Raúl Suarez this afternoon," he revealed. "An unusual alliance, given their territories rarely overlap. Their combined resources could present... complications."

"They're working together because they both got rejected," Sophia translated bluntly. "Wounded male ego is a dangerous thing."

"Sophia," your mother warned, though not sharply.

"She's not wrong," Lewis said, earning a surprised look from everyone. "Pride is often more dangerous than practical concerns. Men like Bianchi and Suarez define themselves by what they can acquire and control. Being denied something they wanted—" his eyes flickered briefly to you, "—represents more than just a failed business move. It's a personal slight they feel compelled to address."

"What exactly have they threatened?" you asked, returning to the central issue.

Your father's jaw tightened. "Disruption of the wedding. Potential interference with certain business operations. Vague but pointed references to making Hamilton 'regret' his expansion into their territory."

"Standard intimidation tactics," Lewis assessed, seemingly unconcerned. "Though the alliance between them is worth noting."

"We've increased security accordingly," your father assured him. "Both here and at the chapel. All arrangements will proceed as planned."

Lewis nodded, but something in his posture had changed—a subtle shift from relaxed dinner companion to the dangerous man whose reputation had preceded him. "I appreciate the information. I'll make some adjustments to my own security protocols as well."

The conversation gradually returned to safer topics, but the undercurrent of tension remained. Your sisters, to their credit, adapted quickly, maintaining the appearance of a normal family dinner while processing the potential threat.

As the evening drew to a close, Lewis caught your eye. "Perhaps a moment alone before I leave? There are some details about London I'd like to discuss."

Your father nodded permission without hesitation—a small but significant indicator of how fully he'd accepted Lewis's place in the family hierarchy already. You led the way to the small library off the main hall, a room private enough for conversation but public enough to maintain propriety.

Once the door closed behind you, Lewis's demeanor shifted again, the social mask dropping away to reveal focused intensity. "Your father is downplaying the threat," he said without preamble. "Bianchi and Suarez together represent a significant concern."

"I gathered that," you replied, appreciating his directness. "How worried should I be?"

"Concerned, but not frightened," he assessed carefully. "My security team is... exceptionally thorough. But I'd prefer to take additional precautions where you're concerned."

"What kind of precautions?"

"I'd like to station two of my people here at the estate until the wedding," he said. "Working alongside your father's security but with specific responsibility for your safety."

The request was unusual—essentially asking to place his men inside your father's territory, a level of trust rarely extended even in alliances. "My father won't like that."

"Your father will agree when I explain my reasoning," Lewis countered with quiet confidence. "These aren't ordinary bodyguards. They're specialists in certain types of threats."

Something in his tone made you wonder exactly what kind of "specialists" he employed, but you decided not to press for details you might prefer not to know.

"There's something else," he continued. "The threats against me are to be expected. I've dealt with similar situations before. But I won't allow you to become collateral damage in what is essentially a business conflict."

"I'm hardly helpless," you reminded him. "I've grown up in this world."

"I'm well aware," he acknowledged. "But Bianchi and Suarez are unpredictable together, feeding each other's grievances. The wedding creates a vulnerability they may try to exploit."

"Are you suggesting we change the plans?" The thought of delaying sent an unexpected pang of disappointment through you.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm suggesting we accelerate them."

"Accelerate? How?"

"Move the legal paperwork forward immediately. Complete the civil ceremony this week, quietly. The church wedding can proceed as planned for appearances and family tradition, but the legal binding would already be in place."

The proposal caught you off guard. "You want to marry me twice? Once in secret and once for show?"

"I want to establish the legal framework of our union before Bianchi and Suarez have time to formulate a significant response," Lewis clarified. "A practical precaution, nothing more."

But it wasn't nothing, and you both knew it. Legally binding yourself to Lewis days from now rather than weeks represented a significant acceleration of what was already a rushed timeline.

"This isn't just about security," you observed, studying his expression carefully. "You're staking your claim more firmly. Making it harder for them to interfere."

Something like respect flickered in his eyes at your assessment. "Yes. From a strategic perspective, it's more difficult to prevent a marriage than to dissolve one that's already occurred. Particularly given the families involved."

It was ruthlessly practical, exactly the kind of strategic thinking that had apparently built Lewis's empire from nothing. You considered the proposal from all angles, weighing the protection it offered against the reduced timeline for mental preparation.

"And if I asked for more time instead? If I wanted to slow this down rather than speed it up?"

It was a test, and you both knew it—a direct challenge to his repeated assertions about respecting your choices.

Lewis considered you for a long moment, that intense focus making you feel like the only person in his universe. "Then we would find alternative security solutions," he finally said. "I meant what I said about consent being essential to our arrangement. I won't force an acceleration if you're genuinely opposed."

The sincerity in his voice seemed real, though with a man as controlled as Lewis Hamilton, it was difficult to be certain of anything.

"Let me think about it," you decided. "I'll give you an answer tomorrow."

He nodded, accepting this without argument. "Fair enough." He glanced at his watch. "I should go. I have a video conference with associates in Tokyo in an hour."

As you walked him back to the foyer where Marco waited to escort him out, you were acutely aware of the additional security personnel now visible throughout the house. Your father wasn't taking the Bianchi-Suarez threat lightly, despite his reassurances.

At the door, Lewis surprised you by taking both your hands in his, an unexpectedly intimate gesture for a man who maintained such careful physical boundaries.

"Think carefully about the accelerated timeline," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "But please understand it comes from practical concern, not a desire to rush you into something you're not ready for."

You nodded, oddly touched by his consideration despite the clinical framing. "I understand. I'll call you tomorrow."

He hesitated, then leaned in to brush another kiss against your cheek, closer to the corner of your mouth than before—still appropriate for observers but with a hint of something more personal.

"Goodnight," he murmured against your skin before pulling away, the brief warmth of his breath sending an involuntary shiver through you.

"Goodnight... Lewis," you replied, the use of his first name still feeling strangely intimate.

You watched from the doorway as he walked to his car, the streetlights illuminating his tall figure. Just as he reached the vehicle, another car slowly passed the house—a black sedan with tinted windows that lingered just long enough to make its surveillance obvious.

Lewis noted it without reacting visibly, his posture relaxed despite the clear provocation. Only when the sedan finally moved on did he enter his own car, nodding once in your direction before pulling away from the curb.

Marco closed the door firmly, engaging additional security locks. "Bianchi's men," he confirmed, noticing your questioning look. "They've been driving past every hour since noon."

"Just watching? Or should we be concerned about more?"

Marco's expression was grim. "With the Bianchis, watching is just the beginning. They want us to know they're out there. It's what they're planning that we can't see that worries me."

You nodded, processing this as you headed back toward the family rooms. The weight of the ring on your finger felt heavier now, a symbol not just of your engagement but of the target it potentially placed on your back.

Lewis's suggestion of accelerating the timeline suddenly seemed less like possessiveness and more like practical protection. If Bianchi and Suarez were already making such public displays of their displeasure, what might they attempt as the wedding approached?

In your room, you removed the ring to prepare for bed, placing it carefully in the velvet box Lewis had presented it in. As you closed the lid, you noticed something you'd missed before—a small card tucked into the lid's lining.

Curious, you removed it, finding just three words written in precise handwriting:

Your choice matters.

The simple message struck deeper than any flowery sentiment could have. In your world, choice was rarely offered, particularly to daughters. Yet here was Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and controlling in so many ways, explicitly acknowledging your agency in this arrangement.

As you prepared for sleep, your mind turned over the accelerated timeline he'd proposed. Marriage within days rather than weeks. Becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife in truth before the public ceremony even took place.

The practical advantages were clear. The legal protection would be immediately established. The alliance would be harder to disrupt. Your safety would be more definitively secured.

But beneath those rational calculations, something else nagged at you—a realization that part of you wanted to say yes for reasons that had nothing to do with security protocols or strategic advantages. Part of you was curious about what life with Lewis would actually be like, outside the formal negotiations and family performances.

That curiosity was dangerous, potentially clouding your judgment with emotional considerations when clear-headed assessment was essential. Yet as you drifted toward sleep, the memory of his brief kiss against your cheek lingered.

Tomorrow you would give him your answer about accelerating the timeline. Tomorrow you would take another step toward the future that had been arranged for you, yet somehow still felt like a choice you were actively making.

For better or worse, Lewis Hamilton was becoming more than just a strategic alliance. The question that followed you into dreams was whether that evolution represented an unexpected opportunity or a vulnerability you couldn't afford.

"Pull!"

The clay pigeon arced through the late afternoon sky, a bright orange disk against endless blue. You tracked it with practiced precision, the Beretta 686 Silver Pigeon an extension of your arm more than a separate object. Breath in, focus, slight lead—

The shotgun kicked against your shoulder as you squeezed the trigger. The target shattered, orange fragments raining down over the manicured back lawn of the estate.

"Nice shot," Uncle Paolo commented from where he lounged in a nearby garden chair, nursing a tumbler of scotch despite the early hour. "Though your follow-through needs work."

You lowered the gun, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Uncle Paolo had opinions about everything, especially activities traditionally reserved for the men of the family. That you could consistently outshoot both him and your father was a fact carefully unacknowledged at family gatherings.

"Again," you instructed the groundskeeper manning the trap. He nodded, loading another clay pigeon into the machine.

Skeet shooting had been your release valve since your father first taught you at fourteen—ostensibly for self-defense, though you'd recognized even then that it was really his way of bonding with a daughter when he'd expected a son. The rhythm of it calmed you, the focus required pushing all other thoughts temporarily aside.

Today, you needed that mental quiet more than usual. Three days had passed since Lewis had proposed accelerating your marriage timeline. Three days of weighing options, considering implications, delaying the decision he'd requested "tomorrow."

"Pull!"

Another target, another clean shot. Your shoulder was starting to ache pleasantly, the kind of discomfort that grounded you in your physical body when your mind threatened to spiral.

"Your fiancé called again this morning," Uncle Paolo mentioned casually, ice clinking in his glass. "Your father thinks you're being rude, making him wait for an answer."

You broke open the shotgun, ejecting the spent shells with perhaps more force than necessary. "My fiancé can learn a little patience."

"Not a quality men in our world typically cultivate," your uncle observed, a hint of warning in his tone. "Especially not men like Hamilton."

You began reloading, the familiar motions practiced and smooth. "If Lewis wants a docile wife who jumps at his every instruction, he's got the wrong Ricci daughter."

Uncle Paolo smiled thinly, though his eyes remained serious. "Testing boundaries already? The marriage contract isn't even signed."

"Just establishing the framework of the relationship," you replied, using the same clinical language Lewis favored. "Making sure expectations are aligned."

Your uncle's laugh was genuine this time. "You sound like him. All that strategic bullshit disguising what's really a power play."

You raised the shotgun again, settling it against your shoulder. "It's not a power play to want time to consider a major life decision."

"Perhaps not," he conceded. "But three days of silence sends a message of its own. And messages can be misinterpreted."

The warning was clear—you were potentially offending your future husband, a dangerous man to disappoint. The fact that your father had sent Uncle Paolo to deliver this reminder rather than speaking to you himself indicated his growing impatience as well.

"Pull!"

This shot went wide, the clay pigeon continuing its arc unharmed before disappearing into the trees at the edge of the property. You swore under your breath.

"Loss of focus," Uncle Paolo observed unnecessarily. "The very thing shooting is supposed to help with."

You lowered the gun, suddenly tired of both the activity and the conversation. "I'll call him today."

"Good girl," your uncle said, the patronizing praise making your teeth clench. "The sooner this arrangement is formalized, the better. Bianchi's men have expanded their surveillance. Three cars rotating shifts now."

This was news to you. "Has there been any direct contact?"

"Nothing actionable." Uncle Paolo drained his scotch. "Just watching, waiting. Building their nerve, maybe."

"Or gathering intelligence for something more significant," you suggested, breaking down the shotgun and placing it carefully in its case. "Which actually supports taking more time, not less. We don't want to appear reactive."

Your uncle's expression hardened slightly. "This isn't a negotiation strategy. It's a security concern. Hamilton's right to want to accelerate."

"Then let him make that case directly," you replied, snapping the gun case closed with finality. "Instead of sending family members to pressure me."

"He's been trying," Uncle Paolo pointed out. "You're the one dodging his calls."

He had you there. You had been avoiding Lewis—not out of uncertainty about your answer but because of what that answer would mean. Saying yes to the accelerated timeline would eliminate the buffer you'd been counting on, the brief window of remaining independence before your life changed irrevocably.

"I'll call him," you repeated more firmly. "Today."

Uncle Paolo nodded, apparently satisfied with extracting this commitment. "Good. He'll be at Vesuvio tonight. Private room in the back, eight o'clock. Your father thought a neutral location might be preferable for the discussion."

The fact that this meeting had already been arranged without your knowledge or input made your blood boil, but you kept your expression neutral. "How considerate of everyone to plan my schedule."

"This is bigger than your pride," your uncle said, rising from his chair. "The Bianchi situation is escalating. Raúl Suarez has been making inquiries about your daily movements. This isn't a game."

The mention of Suarez sent an involuntary chill through you. While Lorenzo Bianchi was dangerous in the hotheaded way of entitled men accustomed to getting what they wanted, Suarez's particular brand of calculated cruelty was something else entirely.

"Fine. Vesuvio at eight." You signaled to the groundskeeper that you were finished, handing him the gun case to return to the secure room in the east wing. "Is Antonio driving?"

"Hamilton's sending a car," your uncle replied. "His people have better countermeasures for potential trackers."

The implication that you might be followed was sobering. Perhaps everyone's concern wasn't just about rushing you into marriage but genuine worry about your safety.

"I should get ready then," you said, although it was barely past noon. "Apparently I have a date."

Your room had become something of a sanctuary over the past few days—the one place where the weight of expectations temporarily lifted. You'd spent hours here contemplating your rapidly approaching future, turning the engagement ring on your finger as if it might reveal new insights with each rotation.

The decision about accelerating the timeline wasn't really about the timing itself. It was about acknowledging the reality that this was happening. That in a matter of weeks—or perhaps days—you would be bound permanently to Lewis Hamilton. No more theoretical discussions or hypothetical scenarios. The actual, irreversible step of becoming his wife.

You sat at your vanity, staring at your reflection as if it might offer guidance. The woman looking back at you seemed collected, composed, every inch the mafia princess raised to navigate treacherous waters. Only you knew the doubts swirling beneath that carefully maintained exterior.

A knock at your door interrupted this unproductive self-examination. "Come in," you called, expecting one of your sisters.

Instead, your mother entered, closing the door softly behind her. Her expression was reserved, but her eyes held concern.

"Your uncle said you've agreed to meet with Lewis tonight," she began without preamble.

"Was I supposed to refuse?" you asked dryly. "Apparently it's already arranged."

Your mother sighed, coming to sit on the edge of your bed. "The men can be... presumptuous. But in this case, there are legitimate concerns driving their urgency."

"So I've been told. Repeatedly." You swiveled to face her directly. "Is it really that serious? Or is everyone just impatient to seal the deal before I change my mind?"

"It's serious," your mother confirmed, her usual diplomatic filter notably absent. "Lorenzo Bianchi is unstable at the best of times. Combined with Suarez's resources and contacts..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "There have been specific threats. Against both you and Lewis."

This was more detail than anyone had shared previously. "What kind of threats?"

"The kind your father doesn't want you to know about." She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. "But which I think you deserve to hear, given that it's your life at stake."

The unusual directness from your normally circumspect mother sent a fresh wave of unease through you. "Tell me."

"Suarez has put out feelers to certain professionals. The kind who specialize in making accidents happen." Her eyes met yours steadily. "And Bianchi has been explicitly vocal about ensuring Hamilton doesn't get to 'claim' you before they can intervene."

The crude implication was clear, sending a surge of both fear and fury through you. The idea that these men viewed you as territory to be claimed, a prize to be stolen before a competitor could secure you, was infuriating—but not surprising.

"Hamilton's security concerns are valid," your mother continued. "The accelerated timeline isn't just a power play. It's a practical response to an immediate threat."

You absorbed this, turning the additional context over in your mind. "Why didn't Lewis just tell me this directly? Why the vague references to 'security concerns' without specifics?"

"Perhaps he was trying to spare you the more disturbing details," your mother suggested. "Or perhaps he assumed your father would share the full picture."

"Men," you muttered in exasperation. "Always deciding what information women can handle."

A small smile touched your mother's lips. "A universal trait, regardless of cultural background or criminal connections."

You couldn't help returning her smile briefly before sobering. "So you think I should agree to the accelerated timeline."

"I think you should have all the relevant information before deciding," she corrected. "Including the fact that these threats are credible and immediate."

You nodded, appreciating her approach even as the reality of the situation settled heavily on your shoulders. "Thank you for telling me."

"There's something else," your mother added, a hint of hesitation in her voice. "Something about Lewis that might influence your decision."

Your attention sharpened. "What about him?"

"I have a friend in London. Someone connected but removed enough from direct operations to speak freely." She paused. "She says Hamilton is feared, certainly, but also respected in a way unusual for our world. He keeps his word. Honors agreements. Protects his people."

"That matches his reputation here," you acknowledged, uncertain of her point.

"The unusual part," your mother continued, "is how he treats women in his organization. They hold actual positions of authority. Make decisions. Control territory." Her eyes held yours meaningfully. "This isn't common, as you well know."

Indeed you did. Most mafia organizations, including your father's, kept women firmly in supportive roles—wives, daughters, sisters who influenced from the shadows but never held official power.

"You're saying he might actually mean it when he talks about partnership," you translated. "Not just as a negotiating tactic."

"I'm saying it's possible," your mother clarified. "Which is more than can be said for most men in his position."

The information settled alongside everything else you knew about Lewis Hamilton—the controlled exterior, the glimpses of genuine consideration, the note hidden in the ring box. Your choice matters.

"I appreciate the insight," you said finally. "It helps."

Your mother rose gracefully, smoothing her skirt. "Vesuvio at eight, then? I'll help you select something appropriate."

You nodded, mind already racing ahead to the conversation with Lewis. "Something that doesn't look like I'm trying too hard, but still makes an impression."

"The forest green Valentino," your mother suggested immediately. "Authority without aggression. And it brings out your eyes."

Trust your mother to have the perfect strategic wardrobe selection already in mind. "Green it is."

As she turned to leave, you called after her: "Mama?"

She paused, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Are you worried? About all of this?" The question was more vulnerable than you typically allowed yourself to be, even with her.

Your mother considered this carefully before answering. "I worry about the threats, yes. But about your marriage to Lewis?" She shook her head slightly. "No. I think you may have drawn the better hand than any of us expected."

With that cryptic assessment, she left you to prepare for the evening ahead—an evening that would likely determine the exact timeline of your transformation from Ricci daughter to Hamilton wife.

**********************************************

Vesuvio sat nestled in the heart of Little Italy, a restaurant that had served as neutral ground for business discussions for three generations. Your father had been bringing you here since childhood, a strategic choice to ensure the owners and staff recognized you as under Ricci protection. Everyone from the valet to the maître d' greeted you by name as Lewis's sleek black car deposited you at the entrance precisely at eight.

The driver—a silent, watchful man who'd introduced himself only as Kai—escorted you inside with the hypervigilance of someone expecting trouble. His eyes continuously scanned your surroundings, one hand always near the slight bulge under his impeccably tailored jacket.

"Mr. Hamilton is already seated," the maître d' informed you, leading the way toward the private rooms in the back. "Security protocols have been observed."

You nodded your understanding. In establishments like Vesuvio, "security protocols" meant the room had been swept for listening devices, the staff vetted, and arrangements made to ensure privacy for whatever business was being conducted.

Kai remained at your side until you reached the private dining room, where he performed a final visual assessment before stepping aside to let you enter. "I'll be right outside, Ms. Ricci," he stated quietly. "Should you need anything."

The formality of the security arrangements added weight to what your mother had shared about the seriousness of the current threats. This wasn't just standard protection; this was the heightened vigilance of people expecting genuine danger.

The private dining room was intimate but not cramped, a single table set for two with the understated elegance Vesuvio was known for. Lewis rose as you entered, his expression revealing nothing of whatever thoughts might be circulating behind those dark, assessing eyes.

"Thank you for coming," he said, his British accent somehow more pronounced in the Italian restaurant setting. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

"I was," you admitted frankly, seeing no point in pretending otherwise. "I needed time to think."

Something like approval flickered across his features at your honesty. "Fair enough. Though a text saying as much would have been appreciated."

You accepted this mild rebuke with a nod as he pulled out your chair. "You're right. That was inconsiderate."

He settled across from you, his tailored charcoal suit emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. The restaurant lighting softened the severe lines of his face, caught the subtle gleam of his nose piercings, highlighted the tattoos visible at his wrists and neck.

"You look lovely," he observed, his eyes taking in the forest green dress with quiet appreciation. "That color suits you."

"Thank you." You placed your napkin in your lap, using the small ritual to gather your thoughts. "I understand the threats have escalated."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly. "Your father shared the details?"

"My mother did." You met his gaze directly. "She thought I deserved to know exactly what we're facing, given that it's my life at risk alongside yours."

He nodded, something like respect crossing his features. "She's right. I should have been more explicit about the nature of the threats rather than couching them in vague security concerns."

The straightforward acknowledgment caught you off guard. Men in your world rarely admitted to miscalculations so directly.

"Bianchi and Suarez make an unusual but potentially dangerous alliance," Lewis continued, signaling to the waiter who had appeared discreetly at the door. "Wine?"

"Please." You welcomed the brief interruption as the waiter approached with a bottle of red already selected and opened for breathing.

Once your glasses were filled and you were alone again, Lewis continued. "Bianchi brings volatility and foot soldiers. Suarez contributes calculation and specific expertise. Together, they present a more significant threat than either would alone."

"My mother mentioned professionals. Specialists in accidents."

Lewis's expression hardened slightly. "Yes. Suarez has connections to certain contractors who specialize in eliminating problems while maintaining plausible deniability." He took a measured sip of wine. "Not particularly creative, but effective when employed correctly."

The clinical assessment of potential assassination methods should have been terrifying, but you'd grown up in this world. Threats were evaluated based on credibility and approach, not emotional impact.

"And Bianchi's explicit threats regarding claiming me before you can?" You kept your tone even despite the fury the concept ignited.

Something dangerous flashed in Lewis's eyes—a glimpse of the capacity for violence that underpinned his controlled exterior. "Bianchi's specific comments don't bear repeating. But they've been noted and will be addressed appropriately."

The quiet certainty in his voice left little doubt about the eventual fate of Lorenzo Bianchi should he continue down his current path.

"So the accelerated timeline..." you began.

"Is a practical response to an immediate threat," Lewis confirmed. "Not an attempt to rush you, though I understand it might feel that way."

You considered this, turning your wine glass slowly between your fingers. "The legal marriage now, church ceremony as planned."

"Yes. The paperwork can be handled quietly, without announcement. The formal wedding proceeds on schedule, maintaining appearances while the legal protections are already in place."

"And those protections matter how, exactly?" you asked, though you had suspicions. "Beyond the symbolic joining of families."

Lewis's gaze was direct, unflinching. "As my wife, you'd fall under certain specific legal and operational protections that fiancée status doesn't provide. International travel becomes simpler. Security protocols more comprehensive. And—" he paused briefly, "—Bianchi and Suarez would be sending a message to the entire underworld by targeting a Hamilton rather than just a Ricci daughter. The calculation changes."

The strategic assessment made perfect sense, fitting with everything you knew about how power worked in your world. Marriage wasn't just about family alliances; it was about territory, protection, claiming.

"There's something else," Lewis added, his tone shifting slightly. "Something I should have emphasized in our initial discussion."

You waited, curious about what additional factor he might introduce.

"This acceleration changes nothing about our other agreements," he stated firmly. "The discussion of boundaries, expectations, your involvement in operations—all of that remains as we discussed. This is purely a security measure, not an attempt to alter the fundamental framework we've established."

The reassurance was unexpectedly important to you, addressing concerns you hadn't fully articulated even to yourself.

"I've been thinking about your request," you said finally. "Considering the implications from multiple angles."

"And your conclusion?" Lewis asked, his composure perfect though you sensed tension beneath the surface.

You met his gaze steadily. "I'll agree to the accelerated timeline, with two conditions."

If he was surprised by the negotiation attempt, he didn't show it. "Go on."

"First, complete transparency going forward. No more filtered information or vague references to security concerns. If there are threats, I want to know exactly what they are and how they're being addressed."

Lewis nodded without hesitation. "Agreed. And the second condition?"

You took a breath, formulating the request that had been taking shape in your mind over the past three days. "I want your commitment that once we're married, I'll have a formal role in the organization. Not just informal input or consulting on specific projects. Actual authority in areas where I can contribute meaningfully."

This request was significantly more substantial than the first, challenging traditional structures in a way that could potentially create complications with both your father and Lewis's existing operation.

Lewis studied you with that intense focus that made everything else seem to recede. "You understand this would represent a significant departure from how things are typically structured."

"I do," you confirmed. "But you've already departed from tradition in multiple ways. This would be consistent with the partnership approach you've referenced in our discussions."

A hint of something that might have been admiration crossed his features. "You've given this considerable thought."

"Three days' worth," you replied with the ghost of a smile. "Since you're getting an accelerated timeline, it seemed fair to accelerate other aspects of our arrangement as well."

Lewis took a deliberate sip of wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "What specific areas of the operation interest you most?"

The question itself was promising—focusing on implementation rather than rejecting the concept outright. "Financial systems initially. Digital currency integration, legitimate business expansion. Areas where my education and skills align with operational needs."

He nodded slowly, considering. "It would need to be implemented carefully. Your father might resist. Some of my people would certainly question it."

"I'm aware," you acknowledged. "But your reputation suggests you make decisions based on strategic value, not tradition or others' expectations."

Lewis set down his glass, his expression thoughtful. "A formal role would need to be earned through demonstrated competence, not simply granted by virtue of our marriage."

"I wouldn't want it any other way," you assured him. "I'm not asking for a ceremonial title. I want meaningful work with real responsibility."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "In that case, I agree to your second condition as well. With the understanding that you'll need to prove yourself just as anyone else would in my organization."

Relief and a strange excitement flooded through you. You'd been prepared for resistance, negotiation, perhaps even refusal. His straightforward acceptance suggested your mother's information about how Lewis structured his organization might indeed be accurate.

"Then we have an agreement," you said, extending your hand across the table in a deliberately business-like gesture. "The accelerated timeline with my conditions."

Lewis took your hand, his grip firm but not dominating. "Agreed. I'll have a private civil ceremony arranged for tomorrow with the necessary paperwork, if that timing works for you."

The sudden reality of it—marriage in just one day—sent a jolt through you that you hoped didn't show on your face. "That's acceptable."

Lewis held your hand a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles in a gesture that seemed almost unconscious. "Thank you for considering the security concerns seriously. I realize this isn't how most women envision their path to marriage."

The unexpected acknowledgment of the strangeness of your situation caught you off guard. "I stopped expecting a conventional path a long time ago," you replied honestly. "The Ricci name comes with certain realities attached."

"As does the Hamilton name," he said, finally releasing your hand. "Though perhaps together we can reshape some of those realities to better serve our interests."

The sentiment was unexpectedly aligned with your own unspoken hopes—not eliminating the underworld elements entirely, but modernizing, adapting, creating something that allowed for more autonomy than the traditional structures your father maintained.

The waiter appeared again, this time to take your dinner orders. The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the meal progressed—Lewis's London residence where you'd be living initially, the security protocols you'd need to adapt to, practical considerations about what belongings to prioritize for the immediate move versus what could follow later.

Throughout the discussion, you found yourself studying Lewis with new attention—the precise way he cut his food, the careful attention he paid when you were speaking, the subtle shift in his expression when topics moved from business to more personal matters. He remained controlled, certainly, but you were beginning to recognize nuances in that control, variations that conveyed more than his words sometimes did.

"You're watching me quite intently," he observed as dessert was served. "Cataloging observations?"

The accuracy of his assessment made you smile slightly. "Professional habit. Understanding people's patterns helps predict their behavior."

"And what patterns have you observed in me?" The question held genuine curiosity rather than challenge.

You considered how to answer honestly without revealing too much of your own analytical process. "Precision. Consistency. A preference for understated quality over flash. Careful attention to detail, especially regarding security. And..." you paused, deciding whether to voice the last observation.

"And?" he prompted, leaning forward slightly.

"And a tendency to reveal more through small physical cues than through words," you finished. "Your control is impressive, but not absolute."

Something like surprise flickered in his eyes before he masked it. "Most people find me difficult to read."

"I'm not most people," you reminded him. "And I've had considerable practice observing men who prefer not to be read too easily."

"A valuable skill in our world," he acknowledged. "Though potentially uncomfortable for the one being observed."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" you asked, curious about his reaction.

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Not uncomfortable, exactly. Unaccustomed, perhaps. I'm usually the one doing the observing."

The admission felt like a small victory—an acknowledgment that the dynamic between you wasn't entirely one-sided despite the obvious power imbalance inherent in your arrangement.

As the meal concluded and the waiter cleared the last plates, Lewis checked his watch. "We should leave separately. My driver will take you home first, then double back for me once you're safely inside the estate."

The return to security protocols was a stark reminder of the threats hanging over both of you. "The sooner we handle the paperwork, the better," you agreed, your decision now firmly cemented by the evening's discussion.

Lewis nodded, rising to pull out your chair. "I'll call tomorrow with the arrangements. The civil ceremony will be handled discreetly—just the necessary officials, your parents if they wish to attend, my security officer as witness."

The simplicity of the description belied the magnitude of what it represented—your legal binding to Lewis Hamilton, the irrevocable step that would transform you from Ricci daughter to Hamilton wife.

"I'll be ready," you assured him, gathering your clutch as you stood.

In the small space between table and chair, you found yourself closer to Lewis than you'd been before, near enough to catch the subtle scent of his cologne, to notice the precise trimming of his beard, to see the faint scar near his temple partially hidden by his hairline.

His eyes held yours, something shifting in their depths. "May I?" he asked quietly, his intention clear though unspecified.

The request for permission—for a gesture you both knew was largely for appearance's sake—was characteristic of the careful boundaries he maintained. You nodded once, curious despite yourself about what a deliberately initiated touch from Lewis might feel like.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, the contact warm and unexpectedly gentle for someone with his reputation for controlled strength. He leaned in slowly, giving you ample time to pull away if desired, before pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that started soft but deepened slightly when you didn't withdraw.

It was brief—just enough to establish the appearance of genuine affection for any watching eyes—but the controlled precision of it sent an unexpected warmth through you. When he pulled back, his expression revealed nothing of whether the contact had affected him similarly.

"For appearances," he said quietly, though something in his tone suggested there might be more to it than mere performance.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steadier than you'd expected given the sudden acceleration of your pulse. "Maintaining the narrative."

His eyes held yours a moment longer, something unspoken passing between you, before he stepped back to a more appropriate distance. "Kai will escort you to the car. I'll follow in fifteen minutes."

You nodded, professional mask sliding back into place despite the lingering sensation of his lips against yours. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Until tomorrow," he echoed, something like anticipation in his voice. "Mrs. Hamilton."

The name—your future identity—sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the irrevocable change now just two days away.

As Kai escorted you from the restaurant, you were acutely aware of the diamond still glittering on your finger and the phantom pressure of Lewis's kiss still lingering on your lips. For better or worse, you had committed to the accelerated timeline, to becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife in truth before the week was out.

The question that followed you into the waiting car was whether the reality of marriage to such a man would align with the carefully negotiated terms you'd established—or whether the controlled, dangerous person you'd glimpsed beneath the business façade would prove to be something else entirely once you were legally bound.

The car ride home was silent save for the occasional crackle of Kai's radio as he communicated with other security personnel in a code you couldn't quite decipher. His vigilance was both reassuring and unsettling—evidence of how seriously Lewis's organization was taking the threats against you both.

Your mind continued to replay the dinner conversation, particularly the moment when Lewis had agreed to your conditions without the extended negotiation you'd expected. The promise of a formal role in his organization represented more opportunity than your father had ever considered offering, despite your education and demonstrated aptitude for the business side of family operations.

When the car pulled through the estate gates, you noted the increased security presence—additional men patrolling the perimeter, new surveillance equipment installed since you'd left for dinner. Your father was clearly taking the Bianchi-Suarez threat as seriously as Lewis was.

"I'll escort you to the door, Ms. Ricci," Kai said, his first words since leaving the restaurant.

"That's not necessary," you replied automatically. "We're inside the gates."

"Mr. Hamilton's instructions were clear," Kai stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Door to door service."

You recognized the futility of arguing with a man who was simply following orders from his boss. "Fine."

As Kai accompanied you to the front entrance, you noticed his eyes continuously scanning the surroundings, one hand always near his concealed weapon. At the door, he waited until Marco had confirmed your identity through the security camera before finally stepping back.

"Mr. Hamilton will be in touch tomorrow regarding the arrangements," he said formally.

"Thank you, Kai," you replied, finding his serious dedication to your safety oddly endearing despite its restrictiveness. "Please drive safely on your return."

A flicker of surprise crossed his stoic features at your personal concern before he nodded once and returned to the car.

Inside, the house was quiet despite the early hour. You found your father in his study, as expected, going through what appeared to be security reports with Uncle Paolo and two of his capos.

"You're back early," your father observed as you appeared in the doorway. "How was dinner?"

"Productive," you replied, deciding direct was best. "We've agreed to accelerate the timeline. The civil ceremony will be tomorrow, with the church wedding proceeding as planned for appearances."

Your father's expression showed clear approval. "Good. That's the sensible choice given the circumstances." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Any conditions to your agreement?"

Of course he would expect you to have negotiated something in return. "Complete transparency regarding security threats going forward, and a formal role in Hamilton's organization after the marriage."

Uncle Paolo's eyebrows shot up. "A formal role? In what capacity?"

"Financial systems initially. Digital currency integration, legitimate business expansion." You kept your tone matter-of-fact, as if this were a standard arrangement rather than a significant departure from tradition.

Your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with new assessment. "Hamilton agreed to this?"

"He did," you confirmed. "With the understanding that I'll need to prove myself through demonstrated competence, not simply by virtue of being his wife."

A complex series of emotions crossed your father's face—surprise, consideration, and something that might have been reluctant respect. "Interesting. Not how I would structure things, but Hamilton's operation has always been... unconventional."

"Progressive, some might say," you suggested mildly.

Your father snorted. "Progressive is just another word for untested. But it's his organization to run as he sees fit." He waved a hand dismissively. "The important thing is that the timeline is accelerated. The legal protections will be in place sooner."

"Hamilton will handle the paperwork," you informed him. "He'll call tomorrow with the details."

Your father nodded, already turning his attention back to the security reports. "Good. Paolo will coordinate with Hamilton's people on arrangements. Your mother can help you prepare whatever you need for the immediate move."

The dismissal was clear—now that you'd made the "right" decision, your father had more pressing matters to attend to. You turned to leave, then paused.

"Has there been any specific activity from Bianchi or Suarez tonight?" you asked, remembering Lewis's agreement to transparency about threats.

Your father's eyes narrowed at your direct question about business matters. "Nothing beyond the usual surveillance. Why?"

"Just implementing my new transparency agreement," you replied evenly. "Goodnight, Papa."

As you headed upstairs, you heard Uncle Paolo's low mutter: "Hamilton's going to have his hands full with that one."

Your father's response was too quiet to catch, but the low chuckle that followed suggested he wasn't entirely displeased by your assertiveness. Perhaps he recognized that the qualities that made you challenging as a daughter might prove valuable as an asset in a strategic alliance.

In your room, you shed the forest green dress and carefully removed your makeup, mind still processing the evening's developments. Legal marriage tomorrow. London shortly after. A completely new life beginning before you'd fully prepared yourself for the current one to end.

Your phone buzzed with a text as you were wrapping your hair:

Home safely? - Lewis.

The simple inquiry was unexpected. You hesitated before typing back:

Yes. Additional security noted at the estate. All quiet otherwise.

His response came quickly:

Good. Civil ceremony will be ready tomorrow, 2pm. Church wedding in two weeks. Acceptable?

The brisk efficiency was pure Lewis—no wasted words, everything arranged with maximum practicality. You found yourself smiling slightly as you replied:

Acceptable. What should I wear to become Mrs. Hamilton?

A longer pause followed, enough that you thought perhaps he wouldn't respond to the slightly teasing question. Finally:

Whatever makes you feel confident. Though I admit a preference for the green from tonight.

The personal admission—small as it was—felt significant from someone as controlled as Lewis. You were still formulating a response when another text appeared:

My security will collect you at 1:00 tomorrow for the paperwork. I'll see you then. Rest well.

Before you could reply, a final message:

And thank you. For agreeing to the timeline adjustment despite the rush. I recognize it's not ideal.

The acknowledgment of the imposition touched you unexpectedly. You wrote back:

Practical solutions to legitimate threats. Very on-brand for both of us. Goodnight, Lewis.

You set the phone aside, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. There was something both disconcerting and exhilarating about the rapid progression of events—from strategic arrangement to accelerated marriage to the subtle shift in your text exchanges. Something that felt dangerously close to genuine connection forming beneath the calculated exterior of your relationship.

Sleep came easier than you'd expected, your mind finally settling after days of deliberation. The decision was made. The path forward clear, even if the destination remained uncertain.

************************************************

The next day passed in a blur of practical arrangements. Your mother, ever efficient, helped you select and pack the essentials for your immediate relocation to London. Clothing, jewelry, personal items that couldn't be easily replaced—all sorted, cataloged, and prepared for transport.

"Lewis's people will handle the shipping," she explained as you deliberated over which books to include in the initial move. "The rest can follow once you're settled."

There was something surreal about packing your life into carefully labeled boxes, deciding which pieces of yourself were essential and which could wait. Like performing the physical manifestation of the mental sorting you'd been doing since Lewis Hamilton first appeared in your father's study.

At precisely 1:00, Marco announced the arrival of Lewis's security team. Kai was there again, accompanied by a woman you hadn't met before—tall, athletic, close-cropped hair, dark skin, and watchful eyes that missed nothing.

"Ms. Ricci," Kai greeted you formally. "This is Naomi. She'll be your primary security detail after the marriage."

The woman nodded once, her assessment of you professional but not cold. "Ms. Ricci. Mr. Hamilton thought you might prefer a female detail for certain situations. I'll be accompanying you to the paperwork signing today as well."

The consideration was unexpected but welcome—another small indication that Lewis gave thought to details many men in his position would overlook.

Your mother appeared with a garment bag containing the outfit you'd selected for the signing—a cream-colored pantsuit that projected both authority and sophistication.

"I'll see you back here afterward?" she asked, a rare hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"Yes," you assured her. "Just signing today."

She nodded, smoothing your collar in a gesture reminiscent of your childhood. "It's happening quickly," she observed. "Are you ready?"

"Does it matter?" you asked with a small smile to soften the words.

"It always matters," she replied seriously. "Even when we don't have perfect choices."

You hugged her briefly, an unusual display of affection given your family's typically reserved nature. "I'm as ready as I can be," you said honestly. "And Lewis is... not what I expected."

Your mother's smile held a hint of knowing. "The best ones never are."

The car ride into the city was significantly different with Naomi's presence. Where Kai remained stoically silent unless directly addressed, she maintained a professional but conversational approach.

"Mr. Hamilton thought you might have questions about London," she offered as you navigated through midday traffic. "About the residence, security protocols, practical matters."

"Have you worked for Lewis long?" you asked, curious about the inner workings of his organization.

"Five years," she replied. "Since he expanded operations from purely London-based to international."

"And your role is security only, or more than that?"

A slight smile crossed her features. "Officially, personal security. In practice, Mr. Hamilton utilizes people's full skill sets. I handle certain sensitive communications as well."

The implication that Lewis recognized and employed talents beyond traditional role boundaries aligned with what your mother had told you about his organization structure.

"How many women are in leadership positions in his organization?" you asked directly.

If Naomi was surprised by the question, she didn't show it. "Four on the executive team, including the head of legitimate business operations and the chief financial officer. Several more in territorial management positions."

The numbers were unprecedented compared to traditional family structures like your father's, where women wielded influence solely through family connections rather than official positions.

"And how has that been received by the more traditional elements of your world?" you pressed, genuinely curious about the practical implications of such a structure.

"With initial skepticism, then reluctant acceptance as results proved the approach effective," Naomi replied. "Mr. Hamilton is more concerned with capability than convention."

This aligned with your own observations of Lewis—his focus on practical outcomes rather than traditional methods. It was both reassuring and slightly intimidating to consider how your own capabilities might be evaluated once you were officially part of his organization.

The car pulled up to a nondescript office building in Midtown, the kind that housed lawyers, accountants, and other professional services. Naomi exited first, performing a quick security assessment before opening your door.

"Fifteenth floor," she directed, guiding you inside with Kai following closely behind. "Mr. Hamilton is already here with the necessary parties."

The elevator ride was silent, tension building in your chest with each ascending floor. The actual marriage certificate was a formality compared to the agreements already in place between families, but it represented a finality that couldn't be ignored. After today, the legal framework for your binding to Lewis Hamilton would be established. In a couple weeks would simply be the formal execution of what these papers initiated.

When the elevator doors opened, Lewis was waiting in the hallway, his expression revealing nothing of whatever thoughts might be circulating behind those dark, focused eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit that somehow made his tattoos and piercings look deliberately coordinated rather than rebellious.

"You came," he said simply, something like approval in his tone.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" you asked, genuinely curious about his uncertainty.

"I've learned not to take anything for granted," he replied, offering his arm in a formal gesture. "The paperwork is ready. Just the official aspects today—names, declarations, signatures. The legal minimum."

You placed your hand on his arm, the contact sending a small, involuntary thrill through you that you carefully masked. "Let's get it done, then."

The attorney's office was bland and functional, with none of the ceremony typically associated with marriage. A judge waited alongside a court clerk and the attorney who had apparently prepared the documents. Your father was there as well, his presence unexpected but not unwelcome.

"Hamilton thought I should witness," he explained when you raised an eyebrow in question. "Considering the circumstances."

The "circumstances" being the accelerated timeline and security concerns, you assumed. Lewis's inclusion of your father was both respectful of tradition and strategically sound, ensuring the Ricci family felt appropriately acknowledged even in this expedited process.

The actual signing took less than fifteen minutes—forms reviewed, declarations made, signatures applied to the appropriate lines. No vows, no rings exchanged, nothing to suggest this was anything more than a business transaction being finalized.

Yet as the judge pronounced you legally married and you signed your new name for the first time—your Ricci identity legally merged with Hamilton—the weight of the moment settled over you. This was real. Done. Official.

You were now, in the eyes of the law, Mrs. Hamilton.

Lewis's expression remained controlled throughout, though you caught a brief moment of something like satisfaction when the final document was signed. His hand brushed yours as he took the pen, the contact brief but deliberate.

"Congratulations to you both," the judge offered perfunctorily, clearly familiar with these expedited arrangements in your world. "The certificate will be processed immediately given the... special circumstances."

Those "special circumstances" being the substantial payment Lewis had undoubtedly made to expedite what would normally take weeks to process. Money smoothed all paths in your world, including legal ones.

Your father shook Lewis's hand formally, the gesture sealing the alliance that was now legally established between families. "Take care of her," he said, the simple statement carrying layers of meaning in your world.

"She's family now," Lewis replied, the only acknowledgment needed between men who understood that family was protected at all costs.

With the formalities concluded, you found yourself standing in the hallway outside the attorney's office, officially married to a man you'd known for less than a month. The surreal quality of the moment wasn't lost on you.

"Well," you said, uncertain what the appropriate comment might be for such an unusual situation. "That was efficient."

Lewis's mouth quirked slightly. "Efficiency has its place. Though the ceremony will include more of the traditional elements, I promise."

"Will there be cake?" you asked with deliberate lightness, trying to balance the strange tension of the moment. "A marriage isn't official without cake, legal documents notwithstanding."

This time his smile was genuine, transforming his severe features momentarily. "There will be cake," he confirmed. "And whatever other traditions you consider essential."

Your father cleared his throat, breaking the small moment of connection. "The car will take you home to finish your preparations," he said, all business now that the legal aspect was complete. "Hamilton's people have coordinated with Marco on security."

The reminder of the continuing threat cast a shadow over the moment. Despite the legal marriage now established, the danger from Bianchi and Suarez remained until you were safely away from New York and established within Lewis's territory.

"I'll see you soon," Lewis said, his eyes meeting yours with that focused intensity that still caught you off guard. "Next Thursday at ten o'clock."

"Ten o'clock," you confirmed. "Should I bring anything specific?"

"Just yourself," he replied. "Everything else is arranged."

As you left with Naomi and Kai flanking you like protective shadows, you caught your father and Lewis falling into conversation, heads bent together in the particular way of men discussing security matters they deemed too concerning for female ears.

In the elevator, you found yourself staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls, searching for any visible change now that you were officially Lewis Hamilton's wife. The woman looking back appeared unchanged—composed, controlled, every inch the mafia princess you'd been raised to be.

But the legal reality had shifted beneath that unchanged exterior. You were no longer simply a Ricci daughter. You were a Hamilton wife, with all the protections and obligations that entailed.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hamilton?" Naomi asked quietly, the new form of address emphasizing the transformation.

"Fine," you replied automatically, then reconsidered. "Just adjusting to the new reality."

Naomi nodded, understanding in her eyes. "It gets easier. The transition."

You appreciated her attempt at reassurance, though you doubted her experience included arranged marriages to dangerous crime lords. Still, the sentiment was genuine, another indication that Lewis's people functioned differently than the soldiers in your father's organization.

The car ride back to the estate was silent, your mind processing the simple but significant ceremony that had just taken place. No flowers, no music, no witnesses beyond the necessary legal minimum. Just signatures on paper, establishing a bond that would reshape your entire existence.

Next Thursday would bring the more formal ceremony, the church blessing that would make your union official in the eyes of your world. Then London, a new home, a new role, a new life entirely.

You glanced down at your hand, noting the engagement ring still glittering on your finger. Soon it would be joined by a wedding band, another visible symbol of your new status. Another marker of the transition from Ricci to Hamilton.

The weight of it all pressed against your chest—not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but something in between. A recognition of threshold crossed, of possibilities both concerning and intriguing that waited on the other side.

Legally, you were already Mrs. Hamilton. Next Thursday would simply formalize what the law had already established. For better or worse, your fate was now bound to Lewis's—your safety, your future, your identity itself now inextricably linked with his.

The question that followed you back to the estate, that lingered as you prepared for your final night under your father's roof, was whether that binding represented constraint or liberation—a cage more gilded than the one you'd known, or the key to something resembling freedom within the confines of the world you'd been born into.

next week…

Thursday arrived too quickly, sunlight streaming through curtains you'd forgotten to close in your distracted state the night before. For a moment, you lay perfectly still, the weight of the day ahead settling over you like a physical presence. Your wedding day—though legally, you were already married, the certificate signed and filed with clinical efficiency last week.

A soft knock at your door interrupted this moment of quiet contemplation.

"Come in," you called, expecting your mother with last-minute instructions for the day.

Instead, the door burst open to reveal all three of your sisters, already dressed but carrying what appeared to be breakfast trays and—in Sophia's case—a bottle of champagne.

"Wedding day breakfast!" Sophia announced cheerfully, bouncing onto your bed with enough force to make you clutch the covers. "Though technically you're already married, which is weird. But still—tradition!"

Maria followed more sedately, setting down a tray laden with pastries and fruit. "Mama said to let you sleep, but Sophia insisted we do the sister breakfast thing."

"It's your last morning in this house," Gabriella added, her usual reserve softened by the significance of the occasion. "We couldn't let you spend it alone."

The gesture was so unexpectedly thoughtful that you felt a sudden tightness in your throat. For all the complexity of your family dynamics, your sisters had always been your constant—the ones who understood the particular pressures of being Ricci daughters in a world that valued sons.

"Thank you," you managed, sitting up as Sophia began pouring champagne into four juice glasses. "Though isn't nine a.m. a bit early for that?"

"It's a wedding day exception," Sophia declared, handing out the glasses. "And we're having mimosas technically, so it's practically breakfast."

"There's no orange juice in those," Maria pointed out dryly.

"Details," Sophia waved dismissively. "The point is, we're celebrating our sister's last morning of freedom!"

"I was hardly free before," you reminded her, accepting the glass anyway. "Just under a different management structure."

Gabriella snorted at your corporate phrasing. "Always the businesswoman. Even on your wedding day."

"Speaking of business," Maria said, settling cross-legged at the foot of your bed, "are you nervous about the London move? About working in Hamilton's organization?"

The question was typically direct from your most practical sister. "Not nervous, exactly," you replied, considering. "Cautiously optimistic, maybe. His structure is more... progressive than Papa's."

"Women in actual power positions," Sophia nodded, clearly having done her research. "Not just wives and daughters pulling strings behind the scenes."

"You've been investigating," you observed, surprised by her knowledge.

"Of course I have," she replied with an eye roll. "My big sister is marrying into this family. I needed to vet them."

The protectiveness behind the statement touched you unexpectedly. "And your assessment?"

"He's intimidating as all hell," Sophia admitted. "But legitimate from a business perspective. Built everything from scratch, which is impressive. And treats his people well, which is rare in our world."

"She's been obsessively reading everything she could find about him," Gabriella added. "It's been Hamilton this, Hamilton that for days."

"Just gathering intelligence," Sophia defended. "Especially since you've been so tight-lipped about the whole thing."

"There hasn't been much to say," you replied, though the statement wasn't entirely accurate. There had been plenty to process, just little you'd felt ready to share. "It's all happened so quickly."

"Too quickly," Maria murmured, concern evident in her expression. "Are you sure about this? About him?"

The direct question deserved a thoughtful answer. Your sisters were looking at you with varying degrees of worry, their excitement temporarily set aside in favor of genuine concern for your wellbeing.

"I'm as sure as I can be, given the circumstances," you said finally. "Lewis is... not what I expected, in mostly positive ways. He listens when I speak. Respects my intelligence. Agreed to my conditions regarding a formal role in the organization."

"But do you like him?" Sophia pressed, zeroing in on the personal rather than professional aspects. "As a person? As a man?"

The question caught you off guard, forcing you to confront feelings you'd been carefully setting aside in favor of strategic considerations. "I... find him interesting," you admitted carefully. "More complex than he first appears."

"That's not what I asked," Sophia persisted. "The kiss at the restaurant. Did it do anything for you?"

Heat crept up your neck at the memory—the surprisingly gentle press of his lips against yours, the controlled restraint that hinted at something more carefully held in check. "How did you know about that?"

"Javier was working the valet stand," Sophia grinned. "Nothing happens in Little Italy without someone in our circle seeing it."

"So?" Maria prompted, now equally curious. "Was there a spark? Chemistry? Anything to build on beyond the business arrangement?"

You took a sip of champagne, using the moment to gather your thoughts. "There's... something," you acknowledged finally. "I don't know if I'd call it chemistry exactly, but definitely interest. Curiosity, at least."

"Curiosity is a start," Gabriella nodded sagely. "And he's obviously attracted to you."

"How could you possibly know that?" you challenged.

"The way he watches you when he thinks no one's looking," she replied simply. "Like he's trying to solve a particularly complex equation."

"That doesn't sound like attraction," you pointed out. "That sounds like strategic assessment."

"For a man like Hamilton, they might be the same thing," Maria suggested. "He integrates everything into his calculations. Including personal feelings."

The assessment was surprisingly insightful and aligned with your own observations of Lewis's carefully controlled approach to all aspects of his life.

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, your mother's voice calling through: "Girls? The hair and makeup team is here. We need to start preparations."

"Coming, Mama!" Sophia called back, then turned to you with suddenly damp eyes. "I can't believe you're really leaving today."

"I'll visit," you promised, touched by her emotion. "And you'll all come to London soon."

"It won't be the same," she said, throwing her arms around you in an impulsive hug. "But I'm happy for you. Even if it's weird and rushed and scary."

Maria and Gabriella joined the embrace, creating a tangle of sisterly affection that threatened to undo your carefully maintained composure. These women were your constants, your confidantes, the ones who understood your particular position in a way no one else could.

"I'm going to miss you all so much," you admitted, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability that you'd never show in front of your father or Lewis.

"Enough with the waterworks," Maria said briskly, though her own eyes were suspiciously bright. "We've got a wedding to prepare for. Can't have the bride looking puffy-eyed in the photos."

The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of activity—hair styled, makeup applied, final adjustments made to the dress you'd selected for the church ceremony. Unlike the cream pantsuit from the legal signing, today's outfit was a concession to tradition—an elegant ivory sheath with a lace overlay, modest enough for church but stylish enough to feel like your own choice rather than a costume.

Your mother supervised the preparations with her usual efficiency, ensuring every detail was perfect while simultaneously coordinating with security regarding the transportation arrangements to and from the church.

"Lewis's people will take primary position once you leave the church," she explained as she fastened your grandmother's pearls around your neck—something borrowed, something old all in one. "Until then, our security maintains lead."

The detailed coordination was a stark reminder of the continuing threat from Bianchi and Suarez, a shadow hanging over what should have been a day focused solely on the ceremonial aspects of your union.

"Has there been any specific activity this morning?" you asked, remembering Lewis's agreement to transparency regarding threats.

Your mother hesitated briefly before answering. "Two of Bianchi's cars have been circling the neighborhood. Nothing overt, just... present. Making sure we know they're watching."

The information should have been concerning, but you'd become almost numb to the constant surveillance over the past week. "And Suarez?"

"Quieter. Which in some ways is more worrying." She adjusted the pearls with careful precision. "But the wedding party will have armed escorts front and back. The route has been secured. The ceremony will be brief, the reception even more so."

The stripped-down arrangements were a far cry from the elaborate celebrations typical for families of your standing, but security concerns had necessitated a more streamlined approach. Close family only, minimal external guests, everything condensed into a tight timeline that minimized exposure.

"Lewis sent this for you," your mother added, handing you a small velvet box. "To wear today."

Curious, you opened it to find a delicate diamond bracelet, classic in design but with subtle modern elements that aligned perfectly with your personal taste. A small card accompanied it:

To new beginnings. - L

The simple sentiment combined with the carefully selected jewelry—elegant without being ostentatious, personal without being presumptuous—reflected an attention to detail that continued to surprise you about Lewis. This wasn't a generic gift selected by an assistant but something chosen with your preferences in mind.

"He has good taste," your mother observed, watching as you fastened the bracelet around your wrist. "And pays attention to what would suit you specifically."

"Yes," you agreed quietly. "He does."

A final glance in the mirror confirmed that preparations were complete. The woman reflected back was poised, elegant, every inch the mafia princess about to forge an alliance through marriage. Only you knew the complex mix of emotions churning beneath that composed exterior—anxiety, resignation, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation.

Downstairs, your father waited in the foyer, dressed in his finest suit, his expression an unusual mix of pride and something that might have been regret. He'd never been demonstrative with his emotions, maintaining the stern façade expected of a man in his position, but today there was a softness around his eyes that caught you off guard.

"You look beautiful," he said simply as you descended the stairs. "Every bit a Ricci."

"You mean a Hamilton," you reminded him gently.

"You'll always be a Ricci," he countered, offering his arm with formal precision. "No matter whose name you carry."

The statement was both reassurance and reminder—you would always be connected to your family of birth, always carry their expectations and protection, regardless of your married status.

The journey to the church passed in tense silence, the convoy of vehicles maintaining tight formation through the city streets. Security teams communicated via radio, Marco's voice a constant low murmur from the front seat as he coordinated with other teams along the route.

St. Anthony's loomed ahead, its familiar stone façade a constant in your life from weekly masses to family celebrations and funerals. Today it would witness another milestone—your marriage blessing, the formal acknowledgment of the union already established by law.

As the car pulled to a stop at the church entrance, you took a steadying breath. "Ready?" your father asked, more solicitious than usual.

"As I'll ever be," you replied honestly.

The church interior was dimly lit, candles providing most of the illumination in deference to the security team's preference for controlled environments. No photographers, no videographers, nothing to document the ceremony beyond memory.

Your sisters waited inside, serving as your only attendants, while your mother was already seated in the front pew. The guest list was minimal—close family, a few key capos from your father's organization, no external connections that might complicate security arrangements.

And then you saw Lewis, standing at the altar alongside Father Donato. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and subtle gray tie—formal without being showy, appropriate for the sacred setting while maintaining his distinctive style. His usual ear piercings replaced with more subtle versions in deference to the church environment.

As your father escorted you down the aisle, Lewis's eyes never left yours, that intense focus now familiar though no less powerful for its familiarity. Something shifted in his expression as you approached—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of his usual controlled mask.

The ceremony itself was brief but traditional, Father Donato guiding you through the familiar rhythms of the Catholic marriage rite. You'd been surprised to learn that Lewis was also Catholic, another piece of information you'd gleaned secondhand rather than directly from him.

"I, Lewis, take you to be my wife," he recited, his voice steady and clear in the hushed church. "I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and honor you all the days of my life."

The traditional vows acquired new weight when spoken by someone of Lewis's reputation—a man known for his absolute commitment to his word, for whom promises were not made lightly.

When your turn came, you repeated the familiar phrases with careful precision, aware of the multiple layers of meaning they carried in your particular circumstances. This wasn't just a religious ceremony but the formal sealing of a strategic alliance, the public declaration of what had already been legally established.

The ring Lewis placed on your finger was a simple platinum band that complemented your engagement ring without overshadowing it—again showing his attention to detail and understanding of your preferences for elegant restraint over flashy display.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Father Donato declared finally. "What God has joined together, let no one put asunder."

Lewis leaned in for the traditional kiss, maintaining the appropriate restraint for a church setting while still allowing his hand to rest lightly at your waist—a gesture that felt protective rather than possessive, anchoring rather than restricting.

And then it was done. In the eyes of the church, the law, and your world, you were officially Mrs. Lewis Hamilton.

The small reception that followed was held in the church hall rather than at a separate venue, another concession to security concerns. Limited to just family and a few key associates, it had none of the elaborate celebration typical for weddings in your circle, but the streamlined approach felt appropriate given the circumstances.

Your sisters surrounded you immediately, offering congratulations and cheerful commentary on the ceremony, while Lewis was momentarily engaged with your father and uncle in what appeared to be a serious discussion near the door.

"He couldn't take his eyes off you," Sophia whispered excitedly. "Like, not even for a second during the whole ceremony."

"That's generally where the groom looks during a wedding," you pointed out dryly, though her observation had not escaped your notice.

"It was more than that," Maria insisted. "There was actual emotion there. From a man who looks like he calculates when to blink."

You couldn't help but laugh at the description, accurate as it was to Lewis's usual controlled demeanor. "He's less robotic than he appears initially," you defended. "Just... reserved."

"Well, he looks at you like you're a puzzle he's determined to solve," Gabriella offered. "Which, for a man like him, is probably the highest compliment."

Before you could respond, Lewis appeared at your side, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back—a gesture becoming familiar despite its newness.

"Your father has some business to discuss with the security team," he explained. "We have about thirty minutes before we need to depart."

Your sisters exchanged meaningful glances before making themselves scarce with suspicious synchronicity, leaving you momentarily alone with your new husband in the crowded room.

"You look beautiful," Lewis said quietly, his eyes making a deliberate assessment that sent an unexpected warmth through you. "The dress suits you perfectly."

"Thank you," you replied, gesturing to the bracelet at your wrist. "And thank you for this. It's lovely."

"I'm glad you like it." A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. "I thought it complemented your style without trying to remake it."

The comment revealed more understanding of your personal preferences than you'd realized he possessed. "You seem to know a lot about me," you observed. "While I know relatively little about you beyond your business reputation."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "A valid observation. What would you like to know?"

The direct invitation to ask questions caught you slightly off guard. "I didn't even know you were Catholic until this morning," you admitted. "Something that seems relevant given today's ceremony."

"My mother's influence," he explained. "She's quite devout. Scottish Catholic, very traditional in some ways despite her... unconventional choice in husband."

"Scottish?" you repeated, realizing how little you knew about his background.

"My mother was from Glasgow originally," he confirmed. "My father from Grenada. They met in London in the 80s, caused quite the scandal in both their families at the time."

The revelation that Lewis was also mixed, like you, though with different backgrounds, was unexpected new information. "So you understand the complexity of straddling different cultural identities," you observed.

"To some extent," he acknowledged. "Though my experience was somewhat different from yours. London in the 90s had its own particular challenges for mixed children."

The personal disclosure felt significant coming from someone as private as Lewis. "What else should I know about my new husband?" you asked, genuinely curious now about the man beyond the business facade. "Before we start our life together in London."

Lewis seemed to consider the question carefully. "I'm an early riser. Five a.m. most days. I prefer coffee black, music loud when working alone, silence when concentrating on complex problems. I run daily regardless of weather or schedule. And I have a twelve-year-old English bulldog named Roscoe who doesn't travel much but who you'll meet soon enough."

The litany of personal details delivered in his usual precise manner made you smile despite yourself. "A dog person. I wouldn't have guessed that."

The corner of Lewis's mouth lifted slightly. "Roscoe has been with me through some significant transitions. He's practically part of the security team at this point, though considerably less efficient at patrol duties."

"I look forward to meeting him," you said, surprising yourself with the genuine sentiment.

"He'll be pleased to finally have a proper mummy around the house," Lewis replied, a hint of actual humor warming his tone. "He's been terribly spoiled as an only child."

The casual reference to family dynamics, to a shared household with domestic routines, suddenly made the reality of your situation more concrete than all the legal documents and ceremony combined. You were actually moving into this man's home, becoming part of his daily life, integrating into his existing routines and spaces.

"Are you alright?" Lewis asked, clearly noting the shift in your expression. "You went somewhere else for a moment."

"Just... processing," you admitted. "The reality of all this. Moving to London. Living together. Being married in truth rather than just on paper."

Lewis studied you with that intense focus that still caught you off guard. "It's a significant transition," he acknowledged. "And happening more rapidly than either of us initially planned. If you need time to adjust once we're in London, that can be arranged."

The consideration was unexpected but welcome. "Thank you," you said sincerely. "I may take you up on that."

Marco appeared at the edge of the room, making a subtle hand signal that indicated it was time to depart. Lewis nodded once in acknowledgment before turning back to you.

"The car is ready," he explained. "Security has cleared the route to the airport. The plane is fueled and waiting."

The reminder of your imminent departure sent a fresh wave of anxiety through you. This was really happening—leaving New York, leaving your family, beginning a new life in London as Mrs. Hamilton.

"I should say goodbye to my sisters," you said, suddenly realizing how final this moment was despite promises of visits and calls.

"Of course," Lewis agreed immediately. "Take whatever time you need. Security can adjust."

The consideration—putting your emotional needs above rigid scheduling—was another small indication that Lewis might be more adaptable than his controlled exterior suggested.

Your sisters engulfed you in a group embrace when you found them near the dessert table, Sophia already teary-eyed despite her earlier attempts at maintaining composure.

"Call us the second you land," she insisted, hugging you tightly. "And every day after that until we come visit."

"Which will be soon," Maria added firmly. "Very soon. Whether Hamilton's ready for a house full of Ricci women or not."

"He'll manage," you assured them, fighting your own unexpected emotion. "He has a dog, apparently. Roscoe. If he can handle a spoiled bulldog, he can handle you three."

"A dog?" Sophia perked up immediately. "That's weirdly humanizing. I would have bet money he had, like, a tank of sharks or something suitably villainous."

You couldn't help laughing at the absurd image, the moment of levity cutting through the heaviness of goodbye. "I'll send pictures when I meet him."

Final embraces with your sisters, your mother, even a rare moment of demonstrative affection from your father followed—all under the watchful eyes of security personnel who maintained their vigilance despite the emotional context.

And then it was time. Lewis appeared at your side, offering his arm with formal precision. "Ready?" he asked quietly.

You took a last look at your family gathered together, memorizing their faces in this moment. "Ready," you confirmed, though the word felt inadequate for the magnitude of the transition.

Outside, a sleek black car waited, the convoy of security vehicles arranged in tight formation before and after. Lewis helped you into the backseat before sliding in beside you, his presence solid and strangely reassuring as the door closed with finality.

As the car pulled away from the church, you resisted the urge to look back, instead focusing on the road ahead—both literally and figuratively. For better or worse, your path was now irreversibly linked with Lewis Hamilton's, your future shaped by the alliance formalized today.

"To London," you said quietly, as much to yourself as to him.

Lewis's hand covered yours briefly, a surprisingly gentle gesture from someone with his reputation for controlled strength. "To new beginnings," he replied, echoing the note from the bracelet.

New beginnings indeed—as a wife, as a Hamilton, as a woman stepping into uncharted territory with a dangerous, complex man who continued to reveal unexpected depths beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

************************************************

The airport security protocols were unlike anything you'd experienced before, even with your father's typically thorough arrangements. Lewis's team had effectively taken control of the private terminal, men with hard eyes and visible weapons conducting security sweeps that extended to every individual within proximity of your designated path.

"Is this standard procedure?" you asked Naomi as she escorted you through another checkpoint staffed by stone-faced personnel.

"For Mr. Hamilton, yes," she confirmed. "Though we've elevated measures given the current circumstances."

The "current circumstances" being Bianchi and Suarez's alliance against you both. Your father's world had always contained violence, but Lewis's approach was different—methodical, layered, utilizing technology in ways the traditional families rarely embraced.

Lewis stood ahead, conferring with a tall, severe man you hadn't been introduced to. Their conversation was too low to overhear, but your mother's lessons in reading body language told you everything you needed to know. The tension in Lewis's shoulders, the slight forward tilt of his stance—the threat assessment had escalated.

When you finally boarded the private jet, you found the interior arranged for both luxury and functionality. The main cabin featured comfortable seating that converted for sleeping, while a separate section appeared equipped for secure communications and operational needs.

"We'll be wheels up in ten minutes," Lewis informed you, settling into the seat across from yours. "The flight path has been cleared with priority routing. About seven hours to London."

You nodded, watching as the cabin door sealed. Every aspect of the operation reflected Lewis's personality—efficient, precise, leaving nothing to chance.

As the plane began taxiing, Lewis checked his phone one final time, his expression hardening briefly before wiping clean.

"Problem?" you asked, already recognizing his micro-tells after weeks of careful observation.

He glanced up, seeming to debate how much to share. "One of Bianchi's cars was intercepted near the airport perimeter. Nothing serious, just an attempt at intimidation."

The casual way he dismissed what was likely an armed confrontation was characteristic of your world—violence so normalized it barely warranted mention.

"And Suarez?" you pressed, remembering your mother's comment about his concerning silence.

"No direct activity today," Lewis replied, his tone measured. "But he's mobilized more resources that suggest planning rather than immediate action."

"What kind of resources?" You kept your voice steady despite the implication.

Lewis's gaze was direct, assessing your reaction. "The type we discussed. More specialists in making problems disappear. But their focus appears to be on disrupting business operations rather than personal targeting at this stage."

The plane accelerated down the runway, the powerful engines pushing you back against your seat as you lifted into the air. Within moments, New York was receding beneath you—your home, your family, everything familiar falling away as you ascended toward the cloud layer.

"Second thoughts?" Lewis asked quietly, noting your gaze fixed on the diminishing cityscape.

"Not second thoughts," you clarified, watching the landscape transform into an abstract pattern of lights and shadows. "Just... acknowledging the transition."

Lewis nodded, understanding in his expression. "The first major move is always the most significant. It rewrites your mental map of where 'home' exists."

The observation was unexpectedly insightful, suggesting Lewis had experienced similar transitions himself—perhaps in his rise from whatever circumstances had preceded his current position of power.

Once the plane reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant appeared with refreshments. Lewis requested sparkling water while you opted for white wine, the tension of the day's events finally beginning to ease as the immediate security concerns fell away with each mile between you and New York.

"We should use this time to align on what to expect in London," Lewis suggested as the attendant discreetly withdrew. "The immediate arrangements and security protocols."

"Give me the highlight reel," you requested, taking a sip of wine. "I've had enough briefings for one lifetime this week."

A ghost of a smile touched Lewis's mouth. "We'll land at a private airfield rather than Heathrow. Security transfer to the residence, which has been secured and prepared. Tomorrow will be a buffer day—adjustment, settling in. The day after, orientation to the London operation if you're ready."

"And the security protocols? I assume they'll be similar to New York."

"More comprehensive initially," Lewis acknowledged. "Until we've addressed the Bianchi-Suarez situation more definitively. Naomi will be your primary detail, but the team includes six rotating personnel, all with specialized training."

"That seems excessive," you observed, though not critically.

"Perhaps," Lewis conceded. "But I prefer thoroughness to recovering from preventable errors."

It was a philosophy that had clearly served him well in building his operation from nothing to international significance. The meticulous attention to detail, the preference for over-preparation rather than reaction—these were qualities that aligned with your own approach to complex situations.

"And my role in the organization?" you asked, returning to the condition you'd established for agreeing to the accelerated timeline. "When does that integration begin?"

"As soon as you're ready," Lewis replied without hesitation. "I've arranged initial briefings with our financial team whenever you feel prepared to engage. Claire, our CFO, is particularly interested in your perspective on digital currency applications."

The immediate follow-through on his promise was both surprising and reassuring—evidence that your negotiated condition hadn't been merely a concession to secure your agreement but an actual commitment he intended to honor.

"I'd like to start the day after tomorrow," you decided. "No point playing house when there's actual work to be done."

Lewis nodded, that hint of approval appearing again. "I'll arrange it."

A comfortable silence fell between you, the hum of the engines creating a cocoon of white noise that allowed for reflection. You studied Lewis as he reviewed something on his tablet—the precise movements, the focused attention, the contained energy that seemed to radiate from him even in stillness.

"You're watching me again," he observed without looking up, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"Just trying to figure you out still," you replied with more honesty than you'd intended.

This time he did look up, something like genuine amusement warming his usually guarded expression. "And did your earlier assessment change?"

You considered how to answer, remembering your mother's advice about strategic revelations—show enough insight to establish credibility without revealing the full extent of your observations.

"You're still exactly as controlled as your reputation suggests. Very calibrated."

Lewis set aside his tablet, giving you his full attention. "Most people interpret that calibration as emotional distance."

"Most people aren't trained to read between the lines," you pointed out. "In our world, understanding what isn't being said is often more important than the words themselves."

"Is this a skill your father cultivated in you deliberately, or one you developed out of necessity?" Lewis asked, the question surprisingly personal.

"Both," you admitted. "Though my mother was the one who taught me to read body language, microexpressions. How to gather information from what men don't say as much as what they do."

Lewis nodded, understanding evident in his expression. "Your father underestimates you. It's perhaps his most significant strategic error."

The assessment was both complimentary and slightly unsettling—a reminder that Lewis had been evaluating your family dynamics with the same careful attention you'd been applying to understanding him.

"He sees what he expects to see," you said, loyalty to your father tempering your response despite the accuracy of Lewis's observation. "Daughters are assets to be protected and strategically deployed, not operational partners."

"His loss," Lewis replied simply. "And potentially my gain, if you're as capable as I suspect in the financial arena."

The straightforward acknowledgment of your potential value beyond the family alliance was unexpectedly refreshing after years of having your abilities sidelined or minimized in your father's organization.

The flight attendant reappeared to inquire about dinner preferences, temporarily shifting the conversation to more mundane matters. As the meal was served—surprisingly excellent for airplane food—Lewis steered the discussion toward London itself, gauging your familiarity with the city and noting areas near the residence that might be of interest once security protocols allowed for more freedom of movement.

It was the most normal conversation you'd had with him—practical but not purely business-focused, personal without veering into uncomfortable intimacy. A glimpse, perhaps, of what day-to-day interactions might evolve into once the initial adjustment period passed.

After dinner and you finally changing out of your dress and into something more simple, the flight attendant converted several seats into a sleeping area, complete with privacy screens and surprisingly comfortable bedding. The arrangement created a clear delineation between your space and Lewis's—a respectful acknowledgment that despite your legal marriage, the personal aspects of your relationship remained in early, cautious stages.

"You should get some rest," Lewis suggested as the cabin lights dimmed. "Time change hits hard if you don't sleep on the flight."

"And you?" you asked, noting he had made no move toward his own sleeping area.

"Need to finish reviewing some things first," he replied, gesturing to his tablet. "I'll rest later."

The response was what you'd expected—Lewis Hamilton seemed unlikely to waste productive hours even on a transatlantic flight. His reputation for tireless work ethic was apparently well-earned.

As you settled into the makeshift bed, the events of the past couple of weeks—the legal ceremony, the church wedding, the rushed departure from everything familiar—finally caught up to you. Exhaustion descended like a physical weight, and despite the unfamiliar surroundings, sleep came surprisingly quickly.

You woke some indeterminate time later to the sound of quiet conversation from the rear cabin. Disoriented briefly, it took a moment to remember where you were—on a plane bound for London, married to Lewis Hamilton, leaving behind the only life you'd known for an uncertain future in a new city.

The voices were too low to distinguish words, but one was clearly Lewis's, his measured tones recognizable even in hushed conversation. Something about the tension in his voice suggested the discussion involved significant business rather than routine matters.

Curiosity warred with the etiquette of pretending not to overhear, but your entire upbringing had emphasized the value of information gathered through careful observation. You remained still, controlling your breathing to maintain the appearance of sleep while straining to catch fragments of the conversation.

"...confirmed movement in the eastern territory... necessary response measures... timeline for..."

The phrases were too disconnected for complete understanding, but the general thrust suggested operational issues requiring Lewis's attention—likely the same "resources" Suarez had mobilized that Lewis had mentioned before takeoff.

The conversation concluded shortly after, followed by the sound of someone returning to the main cabin. Through barely-opened eyes, you observed Lewis move to the window, his expression more openly troubled than you'd yet witnessed. For a brief moment, the carefully maintained mask slipped, revealing the weight of whatever concerns now occupied his thoughts.

Then, as if sensing observation, his features reset to the controlled neutrality you'd come to expect. He glanced in your direction, and you closed your eyes fully, maintaining the steady breathing of genuine sleep.

You must have drifted off again despite your intention to remain alert, because the next thing you registered was the gentle announcement that you'd begin descent to London within thirty minutes. Sunlight streamed through the partially opened window shades, indicating morning had arrived during your transatlantic journey.

Lewis was already awake—or perhaps had never actually slept—his appearance somehow immaculate despite the overnight flight. He acknowledged your waking with a simple nod, offering you a cup of coffee prepared exactly as you preferred it—a small but notable detail that suggested he'd been paying attention to your habits just as you'd been observing his.

"Sleep well?" he inquired, his voice carrying that particular early-morning quality that made it slightly deeper than usual.

"Well enough," you replied, accepting the coffee gratefully. "You?"

"I've managed on less," he said, the shadows under his eyes suggesting he'd worked through most of the night rather than utilizing the sleeping arrangements.

As the plane began its descent, London emerged from the morning haze below—a sprawling metropolis that would now be your home for the foreseeable future. The reality of it struck you anew—this wasn't a visit or temporary relocation but your new life, your new base of operations, your new identity as Mrs. Hamilton taking physical form in this unfamiliar city.

"Welcome to London," Lewis said quietly, noting your intense study of the cityscape below. "For what it's worth."

The small acknowledgment of the complicated nature of your arrival—not quite forced, not quite voluntary, somewhere in the ambiguous middle ground of strategic necessity—reflected an awareness of your perspective that you found unexpectedly considerate.

The landing proceeded with the same precise efficiency that characterized all of Lewis's operations. As the plane taxied to a private hangar, you could see the security detail already assembled on the tarmac—a carefully positioned formation designed for maximum protection during the vulnerable moments of transfer from plane to vehicles.

"The security chief will coordinate the transfer," Lewis explained as the plane came to a complete stop. "Naomi will remain with you throughout. I'll be in the lead vehicle."

The separation was clearly strategic rather than personal—dividing high-value targets to reduce vulnerability. It was standard procedure in your world, though rarely employed so systematically in your father's more traditional operation.

As predicted, the transfer from plane to waiting vehicles proceeded with military precision. Naomi remained at your side, her vigilance never wavering despite the controlled environment, while Lewis moved ahead with his security team, all scanning continuously for potential threats.

The convoy of sleek black vehicles pulled away from the private airfield, moving through London streets with the coordinated flow of a unit that had rehearsed this exact scenario multiple times. Through the bulletproof glass, you caught glimpses of the city that would now be your home—historic architecture alongside modern skyscrapers, the distinctive London landmarks you'd seen in photos but never visited in person.

Forty minutes later, the convoy turned through an inconspicuous gate set into a high stone wall, revealing a surprisingly secluded property given its location in central London. The residence itself was an elegant townhouse, its historical façade concealing what you suspected were significant modern security upgrades within.

"Your first impression?" Naomi asked as the car pulled to a stop in a courtyard shielded from street view by strategic landscaping.

"Impressive security integration," you noted, recognizing the subtle indicators of a property that had been fortified without compromising its aesthetic. "Almost invisible unless you know what to look for."

Naomi nodded, approval in her expression. "Mr. Hamilton believes security should be thorough without being obtrusive."

Lewis was waiting as security personnel opened your car door, offering his hand with formal courtesy as you emerged. "Welcome to Belgravia," he said simply. "This will be your primary residence while in London."

The "your" rather than "our" was a subtle but significant choice of words—establishing the space as territory that belonged to you as well, not merely his domain that you were being permitted to occupy. Another small indicator of the partnership approach he'd referenced in your previous discussions.

The interior of the townhouse revealed exactly what you'd expected—historical architectural elements preserved alongside state-of-the-art security and modern amenities. The aesthetic was sophisticated without being showy, the furnishings clearly selected for both function and refined taste rather than ostentatious display.

"Your things arrived yesterday," Lewis informed you as staff appeared to take the minimal luggage you'd brought on the plane. "The primary suite has been prepared, along with an adjoining room set up as your private office, as discussed."

The separate office space had been among your requests during one of your planning conversations—a territory that would be exclusively yours within the shared residence. Lewis's immediate implementation of this preference was another small but meaningful follow-through on his commitments.

"I'll show you the essential areas," he continued, leading you through the main floor with efficient precision. "Security briefing will follow once you've had time to settle in."

The tour was comprehensive but concise—living areas, kitchen, dining room, library, and a surprisingly lovely conservatory at the rear of the property that overlooked a small but immaculately maintained garden. Throughout, staff appeared briefly before dissolving back into the background, each clearly trained to maintain the delicate balance between availability and invisibility that characterized well-run households in your world.

As you ascended to the upper floors, Lewis pointed out his office—a space clearly designed for both business functions and security, with multiple screens and communications equipment visible through the partially open door. "My primary workspace," he explained. "Though I maintain separate offices for different aspects of the operation elsewhere in the city."

The division between residential and operational spaces was more defined than in your father's home, where business frequently spilled into family areas with little regard for boundaries. Lewis's approach seemed more compartmentalized—another reflection of his preference for precise delineation in all aspects of his life.

The primary suite occupied most of the top floor—a spacious bedroom with adjoining sitting area, a luxurious bathroom featuring both shower and soaking tub that immediately caught your attention, and extensive closet space where you noted your clothing had already been unpacked and organized with meticulous attention to detail.

"The office you requested," Lewis indicated, opening a door to reveal a beautifully appointed workspace clearly designed with your preferences in mind. The desk faced windows overlooking the garden rather than the street—maximizing natural light while minimizing exposure—and the technology appeared to be top-of-the-line without being ostentatious.

"This is... perfect," you acknowledged, genuinely impressed. "How did you know exactly what I'd want?"

"Your mother provided some insight," Lewis explained, noting your surprise. "And I made certain educated guesses based on observation."

The admission that he'd consulted your mother about your preferences was unexpected—another indication of the thoroughness of his approach to integrating you into his life and operations.

"Thank you," you said sincerely. "For the attention to detail. It's appreciated."

Lewis nodded, accepting the gratitude without unnecessary elaboration. "I'll leave you to settle in. Security briefing in an hour, if that timing works for you. Otherwise, we can reschedule for later today."

"An hour is fine," you confirmed, grateful for the opportunity to process your new surroundings without an audience, however considerate that audience might be.

As Lewis turned to leave, you found yourself asking a question that had been forming since you'd entered the residence: "Where do you sleep?"

He paused, something flickering briefly across his features before his expression returned to its usual controlled neutrality. "Adjacent suite, connected through the shared sitting room," he replied, gesturing to a door you hadn't noticed initially. "As discussed regarding appropriate boundaries during the adjustment period."

The arrangement aligned with your previous conversation about the personal aspects of your marriage developing at their own pace separate from the legal and business elements—another commitment Lewis had implemented exactly as agreed rather than attempting to renegotiate once the legal binding was complete.

"Of course," you nodded. "Thank you for clarifying."

Left alone to explore your new space, you found yourself drawn to the windows overlooking the garden below. London stretched beyond—a city you'd visited but never truly known, now your home by virtue of marriage to a man you were still in the early stages of understanding.

The magnitude of the transition settled over you anew—not just physical relocation but the complete reorientation of your identity, your daily existence, your place within the complex world you'd been born into. No longer primarily a Ricci daughter but a Hamilton wife, with all the responsibilities and opportunities that entailed.

A sound from the garden below caught your attention—a distinctive snuffling that could only come from one source. Looking down, you spotted what had to be Roscoe—the English bulldog Lewis had mentioned—waddling importantly across the grass, supervised by a staff member who watched with obvious affection as the dog investigated the perimeter with methodical determination.

The sight of the dog—so normal, so domestic amid the high-security environment and criminal enterprise underpinnings—made you smile despite the weightiness of your thoughts. There was something endearingly incongruous about Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and calculating crime lord, having a beloved bulldog who was clearly treated as family rather than mere pet.

As you turned from the window to begin preparing for the security briefing, your gaze fell on the wedding band now paired with your engagement ring—the visible symbol of the irrevocable step you'd taken. For better or worse, your fate was now bound to Lewis Hamilton's, your future shaped by the alliance formalized through both law and religion.

The question that had followed you from New York remained unanswered: whether that binding represented constraint or opportunity—a more sophisticated cage or a genuine partnership with potential for growth beyond the strategic arrangement that had initiated it.

Only time would reveal which possibility would materialize. For now, you had a security briefing to prepare for, an organization to integrate into, and a new life to begin navigating—one careful step at a time.

..........tbd

[dhoranbolt]

You don't fool me

A/n: two thing- first this took me forever to write, I kept having to go back and scrap ideas 🥹 second, I did not know just how down bad I was for this man until I had to sit down and write this so.

Also friendly reminder- if your age isn't easily accessible on your profile I will not be tagging you! That said if you'd like a tag in future works let me know and I'll add you to the list!

bestie beta reader: @yukios-medic you are really the best ma'am I appreciate you so much 🥹💙💙💙

Pairing: Sukuna x fem!reader, Yuji pining

cw/tw: minors/ageless blogs DNI, all characters aged up, dub-con that becomes enthusiastic consent, unprotected sex, cream pie, fingering, oral sex (female receiving), oral sex (male receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, threats of killing

Word count: 5k (ish)

This wasn't the first time they'd been paired up and sent off to find and kill a curse, but it was the first time Yuji was weary of the whole thing. They were both strong, that wasn't an issue – he'd been on back-to-back missions for weeks and it was starting to take its toll, that was the issue.

Of course, it didn't help that whenever he was around her, Sukuna would become an even bigger pain in the ass (than he already was).

They'd been sent to a long-abandoned warehouse, falling apart as it was, and radiating with cursed energy. Yep, whatever it was they were after was definitely in here.

"Split up to cover more ground?" She suggested as she looked up at him, but he shook his head.

"We can probably exorcize it quicker if we come across it at the same time, we should just stick together for now." It was a simple enough explanation, not a hint of 'I'm pushing my limits just being here with you' or 'it's easier to know you're safe if you're by my side' detectable.

To her, at least. Yuji chooses to ignore the scoff that resonates in his head as they cautiously enter the building. They walk side-by-side down the hallway, ears and eyes analyzing every detail of their surroundings.

"Must be one pain in the ass curse to send the both of us. I can feel the cursed energy everywhere, I just can't tell exactly where the source is." She filled the silence, wringing her hands together nervously.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s out there, but it's all about the same output. We'll just have to watch our backs." Yuji said with a nod.

"Hey, what do you think Nobara did when she found out Gojo canceled movie night to send us after this one? I can see her practically popping a vein." She laughed softly, moving around a stack of boxes to find any sign of their curse.

"Fushiguro is probably wishing it was you that got left behind right about now." Yuji guessed with a small chuckle, suppressing the thought that he might have wished for it, too. A faint gurgle sounded at the opposite end of the hall, cursed energy seeping into every corner of their bodies as it grew closer.

Yuji covered her mouth with his hand, keeping her scream muffled as he tugged her against his chest and pulled them into the shadows.

"Shh, I think I hear something." He murmurs, squinting in the darkness. He doesn't feel the mouth form on his hand, not until her lips are moving against his palm as she makes a noise.

She's gagging; trying to pry Yuji's hand off her face. And he's going to – until Sukuna's voice rings in his head.

'Pull away and I'll bite her tongue off. Try to keep her quiet while she's drowning in her own blood'

Yuji froze as Sukuna cackled, and she still struggled in his grip, now like iron to keep the curse from making good on his threat.

His name was muffled when she frantically tried to call it, but it only left her mouth open that much more for Sukuna to swipe his tongue along the inside.

If they could conceal their own cursed energy for just a second, then it would keep going on its path to the left of them, and probably wouldn't circle back around for a while. Yuji set his jaw, glaring up the hall as he spoke.

"Conceal your energy, then we'll deal with him. One curse at a time." The only confirmation she gave that she heard him was slightly loosening her grip on his arm.

The curse slunk away and Yuji held his breath, waiting to hear any sign of it coming back. When he was sure it wasn’t, he let out a sigh and threw his head back against the wall. Taking a moment to realize the situation they were still in he looked down at her.

He couldn’t see the blush in her cheeks, but he could feel the heat on his fingers. She shifted her body against his, letting out a whimper at the awkward kiss she was still locked in.

Yuji swallowed hard and took a deep breath. This was so not the time to be letting the sounds she was making go straight to his cock.

'You want her so badly, take her.' Sukuna taunted.

"No." Yuji snapped his response, trying to think of a way out of this (and the boner he was starting to sport against her back).

'Fuck her, brat. Or I'll kill her the next time I get the chance, and I'll draw it out while I make you watch.'

Sukuna knew well what he was doing, keeping this conversation in Yuji's head. She had no clue what he was trying to shield her from. Of course he wanted her, but not like this. Not when Sukuna was all but forcing his hand on the matter, not even giving her a choice.

“I said no! Knock it off!” Sukuna just chuckled, and she turned her head to look up at him with worry in her eyes.

'Or perhaps you’d like me to put us both out of commission. Tell me, just how long do you think she’d last against this curse on her own?'

Yuji’s heart dropped to his stomach. There’s no way Sukuna hated her enough to let her die like this, not with the way he found her so entertaining to him. Not with the way he currently had his tongue down the back of her throat- right?

'No, but if it would cause you everlasting turmoil, I’d jump at the chance.'

Could she ever forgive him for doing this? Would Sukuna even drop this after all was said and done?

Yuji was exhausted, and Sukuna knew it too. It was only a matter of time before he could slip out and swap places.

'I could always assist instead. After all, one wrong move and she’s on her own anyways. Go ahead brat, ask me for my help.' He grinned.

“No, last time I let you out you were a dick.” Yuji snapped, but he was running out of options here. How long until that curse realized where they were and turned back around? He could always make a deal with Sukuna, if he would agree to it was another question though.

At the sound of Yuji’s words her body tensed, blood running cold. There was no way Yuji was actually thinking about letting the king of curses out into the wild, especially when he already had her in this position.

'Tic-toc punk ass, this offer isn’t going to last forever.'

“Promise you won’t hurt her first.” Her eyes went wide and she began to struggle in his grasp again, body going hot. Screaming through his palm and Sukuna’s tongue as well as she could manage in protest.

There is no way he’s about to offer his body over to Sukuna right now, and all she could think about were all the previous times he’d spoken to her – though, at her might be a better word. Everything he’d said up to this point, his promises to absolutely wreck her- all came flooding back. Could they really not handle this job any other way than to bring Sukuna into the mix?

'You humans are so predictable, really fucking takes the fun out of everything. I’ll get rid of the curse. Just say you aren’t strong enough, you need a real man to do your dirty work for you.'

“That’s not-”

'Going once…'

“I don’t-”

'Going TWICE...'

“Fine! I need your help, please.” She was hysterical at this point, thrashing in his grip as much as she could, grinding her ass into him harder every time she moved.

'That doesn’t sound like what we agreed to, try again.'

Yuji groaned, thankful he could use that as an excuse to let out some of his frustrations.

“Sukuna please, I’m not strong enough and need a real man to do my dirty work for me.” Yuji bit out, and she stilled at his words, stomach knotting. Any minute now, Sukuna would be breathing down her neck. Months of sexual tension, mostly from his side - would it finally come to a head now? Or would he leave it and just get the job done, let Yuji take back over when it was safe–

A low chuckle rumbled from behind her, and the sound ran straight through her body to her core. She swallowed, realizing the tongue down her throat had finally disappeared.

Sukuna ran a hand up her chest before resting it on her throat.

“Well, well, this is certainly a turn of events, isn’t it?” She whimpered, frozen in place. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

“Sukuna…” She breathed his name warily.

“Surprised to see me? I did tell you I’d have you some day. So, how was I? It’s been a few hundred years. You’ll have to excuse the fact I’m a little rusty.” Sukuna filled the silence, not waiting for an answer.

“You weren’t too bad yourself; I think I even felt you participating at the end. Care for more?” He whispered in her ear, tongue flicking out to lick her lobe. She bit back her moan, clamping her knees together as she gently rocked back into him. He laughed, moving his hands down her body to grip her hips and pull her in closer against him.

“Oh, don’t be shy now, it’s just us. The brat won’t even know, it can be our little secret.”

“I-” She stammered, face hot. So what if she’d gone back to her room at the end of a long day full of Sukuna teasing her, and closed her eyes while chanting his name under the sheets? So what if being the object of the king of curses’ endless teasing was what she used to push her over the edge some nights? That was all by her choice - she was in charge.

Currently having Sukuna’s painfully rock-hard cock prodding her ass while he held her tight against him? She was so clearly not in charge, and to make matters worse? The realization sent her core gushing.

“I can smell you,” he continued, taking in a long breath. And this time she couldn’t bite back her moan.

“Sukuna!” She gasped, feeling the blush run up her ears.

“I think you should really stop being such a cock-tease, woman. No wonder Yuji can’t help but fuck his fist most nights. I bet he can smell you too, he just spares your feelings by not saying anything.” The fog he’d brought with him was starting to clear, and she tried to pry his fingers off of her.

“Stop! You’re lying!” But Sukuna just threw his head back in a cackle.

“I actually don’t care if you believe me, do you want to know why?” He stepped out from behind her so quickly, shoving her back against the wall, it made her head spin. Looking up at his tattooed face and red eyes only solidified how real this situation was for her - and her mouth went dry. He grinned down at her, gripping her chin to hold her in place.

“I’m going to fuck you through this wall. You won’t be able to look at that stupid brat without thinking of me inside you ever again. And he’ll never know because he’s out cold.” Using his free hand, he ripped off her skirt. She cried out, trying to grip his wrist and stop her panties from meeting the same fate.

“Aww, still shy, are we?” He teased as he examined the red lace, running his fingers down to the ever-growing wet spot on them.

“N-No!” Sukuna just chuckled, watching her face morph from flustered to pleasure at his touch.

“And look, you even wore red just for me. How cute of you.” She moaned, closing her eyes. The physical and mental teasing was too much. If he wasn’t going to kill her, she was going to die of embarrassment. He sucked his teeth, hooking his thumb into her mouth and tugging her face.

“Look at me while I touch you, I won’t tell you twice.” He snapped, and her heart thrummed in her chest. It felt so good to finally have him touch her after all this time, she’d forgotten just how dangerous he was in the moment. She nodded sheepishly.

“Good, you listen well for a sorcerer. I don’t believe in praising those beneath me, but I think I’ll make an exception just this once.” He pressed his fingers against her core, watching the way she squirmed under him.

“You’re so wet already and I’ve barely touched you, was my tongue down your throat just what you needed?” Her head was spinning, his hold on her jaw rough, but all she could picture was wrapping her lips around him.

She slid her tongue around his thumb cautiously, watching his reaction for any sign that she’d miss-stepped.

He groaned, smirking down at her as he leaned closer.

“And here you’d have everyone believing you’re too innocent for such filthy things.” Finding the edge of her panties, he pushed them aside, running his fingers through her slick folds. He watched as she moaned, satisfaction settling on his face as the moan grew louder when he pushed a finger inside of her.

“God you’re so tight, there’s no way that brat could stuff his cock in you.” Her walls flexed at his words. Sukuna’s one finger was already so thick, and now her mind was swimming with the thought of having more.

“But don’t worry, you’ll take it from me.” And then she felt a second finger at her entrance, making her eyes open wider. She tried to speak as best she could around the awkward hold he still had her in, but it didn’t matter.

“Suku-na!” She cried out as he forced another finger into her.

“I’d be thanking me if I were you. I’m feeling generous enough to stretch you out before I ram my cock into your stomach.” He offered, grinning as he watched her try and hold herself together.

He didn’t wait for her to adjust to the feeling, why would he? Fucking her open on him was all he could think about while he sat bored on his throne - not that he was admitting it aloud.

So many days, weeks, months, of him wrapped up in her. He knew exactly what she was doing to him, even if she didn’t.

“Was it worth it to parade around like a whore in heat around us?” He asked as he began to slide his fingers in and out of her.

“You know I offered him the chance to have you first. Humans and their virtues though, so fickle. Of course, the brat couldn’t do this.” He pressed his palm against her cunt, and her back arched off the wall as his tongue shot out to flatten on her clit.

Letting go of her chin he wrapped his hand around her neck, giving it a testing squeeze before trailing down to her chest. Groping over her top, and then easily ripping the buttons away.

“Not my clothes!” She protested, but if he heard, he ignored her. Choosing instead to knead her breast as it spilled over her matching bra. Sukuna chuckled, looking back at her.

“The matching set, I’m starting to think you really did wear this just for me. Is that what you do? Under all those clothes you put on, you wear red hoping I’ll catch a glimpse. Hoping I’ll come out to rip it off of you.” He spoke as he rolled her bud roughly between his fingertips.

“God!” She cried out. He was everywhere. Pumping his fingers further inside her walls, tongue abusing her clit-

“I’ll be your god.” He hissed, before leaning down to suck her nipple into his mouth.

She was fast approaching the edge, gasping for air as he shot her towards her peak.

He curled his fingers inside of her, reaching a new angle that sent white hot pleasure shooting through her body.

“Sukuna!” She choked out, reaching up to ball her hands into his top. She was wary of touching him at first, opting to press against the wall instead. But it was all too much. She needed something more to try and ground herself through the first orgasm he was going to rip from her body.

“You gonna cum, little sorcerer?” He hummed around a mouthful of her breast, looking up at her expectantly. She already looked so cute and fucked out for him; grinding into his hand to push him further inside, face flushed as she whimpered his name over, brows pinched up while she looked down to him with a breathless nod.

“Please Sukuna...” If he wasn’t so pent up himself, he might have stopped what he was doing, but edging her would only edge him, and he had no interest in prolonging his own pleasure any more than being stuck in the passenger seat of his vessel already had.

For this encounter, anyways. So, he gave her what she wanted, driving his fingers faster into her cunt, biting down on the nipple currently still in his mouth, while his other hand roughly pinched at the other.

He could feel how close she was. It was getting harder to slide his fingers back into her, and he couldn’t wait to sink into her.

When he didn’t slow down or stop, she took it as permission, though, the tip of the iceberg was so close that even if he had told her no, she wasn’t sure she could have stopped, anyway.

It crashed over her in waves, throwing her against the wall as she cried out his name. Everything was gone - her sight, her hearing, all she could do was ride against his hand, and hope that their grasp on each other was enough to keep her standing through the intensity of it all.

Even when her high started to ebb away, he was still lazily pumping his fingers inside of her. Slowly the world came back to her, heartbeat pounding in her ears, and she whined.

“Aww, is someone sensitive?” He pulled away from her chest with a grin, red eyes glinting as he stared down at her dazed expression. She weakly pushed against his chest, trying to get him to stop while she regained some semblance of normal breathing.

“Sukuna…”

“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?” She swallowed hard, still trying to find her way out of the haze.

“I- thank you...” He pulled his fingers out of her, chuckling at the whimper that left her lips. Raising his hand to his mouth, he kept his eyes on her as he sucked his fingers clean.

“Mmm, I don’t think so.”

“What?” Confusion crossed her face, and he pressed the same two fingers against her parted lips, looking on in admiration as she opened them without question. Sukuna pressed his fingers against her tongue, pulling her mouth open as he did.

“Those red panties you’re wearing will be sufficient.”

“What?” The word left her mouth again, and he raised an eyebrow, dragging his fingers down her tongue and out of her mouth. She stared at him for only a second more before leaning down to slide them off her hips. She looked down to keep from fumbling, but he hooked his finger under her chin, tilting her face back up to him.

“I didn’t say you could look away.” She bit her lip, shimmying awkwardly to slide them down her knees. Stepping one foot out of them at a time, she began to lift them up. He grabbed them from her, large fingers brushing her own as he did.

She moved to stand up again, but he stopped her, shaking his head.

“On second thought, I don’t think one pair of panties is worth a mind-numbing orgasm, do you?” But it wasn’t really a question, not when he was already guiding her to her knees in front of him. The floor below her was cold - a shock that her core, still radiating heat, could feel.

“Be a good girl and open wide,” he said, reaching into his pants to take hold of his neglected cock. Pulling it out, he ran his thumb over the tip, smearing his precum up and down his length.

Sukuna groaned, gritting his teeth. The brat could imagine all he wanted; it would never compare to having her right here in front of him. Small hands braced on his thighs, eyes blown wide as she took in just how fucked she was about to be.

“See something you like?” Her breath hitched as he knocked his fat tip against her bottom lip. She slowly opened her mouth, tongue sliding out and against the underside of his cock. He groaned again, grabbing the back of her head as he forced himself into her mouth.

She dug her nails into his thighs as he did, trying in vain to pull her head back so she could breathe.

“You’re not acting very grateful. Don’t make me fuck your throat, I’ll end up hurting your feelings.” He chuckled. Tears were already welling in her eyes as she choked on what he could fit in her mouth. Slowly, she removed a hand off from his thigh, reaching down to run her fingers through her folds. When she’d gathered enough of her release, she reached back up to pump the rest of him with it.

“How resourceful of you. Makes me want to fuck my cock down your throat all the more.” She moaned around his length, gently rocking him as far as she could take him. Part of her was screaming for air, the other wanted to make him feel just as good as he’d made her feel moments ago. The fog was back, and she blinked the tears away as she looked up at him.

His jaw was tense, one hand still at the back of her head, the other balled in a fist and braced against the wall. Before this she’d only seen him when he was a mouth and one eye, stirring up chaos on Yuji’s cheek. Looking up at him now, though, red eyes trained on her and black markings all over his body - he was breathtaking.

All-powerful and terrifying as hell, considering that he could kill her in an instant, but breathtaking, nonetheless. She let her other hand slide down his leg to rest between her own, pressing her fingers into herself - only to whine in disappointment when it felt nothing like him.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you? I’ve gone hundreds of years without, and you just can’t wait for another.” She breathed hard through her nose, trying to take in as much air as she could before he hit the back of her throat again. Black dots buzzed at the corners of her vision, the sound of her choking on what she could take echoed through the hall.

Her jaw was pried open at a painful angle to accommodate him, and he wasn’t showing any signs of stopping. Her grasp on his cock grew slack, and she wasn’t fighting him every time he knocked his tip just a little further into her mouth. Her own fingers stilled in her aching walls, eyelids fighting to stay open.

Sukuna huffed, sliding his hand around to smack at her cheek.

“Don’t go passing out on me now, I’m not finished with you just yet.” And he pulled out of her mouth with a loud squelch as she gasped for air. The lightheaded feeling slowly dissipated as she looked up at him, tears and spit covering her face.

“You did okay. For now. We’ll revisit that later, get up.” She didn’t have to be told twice, rising on wobbly legs as quickly as she could. The thought occurred to her, that she was practically naked in front of him, while he was still fully clothed. She swallowed hard, trying to wipe away some of the shame along with the tears.

But he didn’t give her much time to wallow in her self-pity, quickly turning her around and pinning her to the cool wall. She shivered at the feeling of his solid body pressed into her back, erection still wet with her spit as it bounced on her bare ass.

“Maybe next time, I’ll let you look at me while I fuck you.” He breathed down her neck, grabbing his length and rubbing it through her folds. She dug her nails into the wall; he barely fit her mouth, there was no way she was ready–

“Relax, I’m not interested in breaking you the first time around. It would ruin the fun in watching you look at me in anticipation every time you’re around.” And he wasn’t wrong. Hell, he was still here, and the anticipation was coursing through her. Taking a slow breath she waited, thankful that the cool wall was enough to ease the heat on her face.

Sukuna gripped her hip and hooked his tip at her entrance before pushing in. She gritted her teeth, moaning at the already over-full feeling. For the situation being what it was, he was fairly gentle as he steadily eased himself through her tight walls with a prolonged hiss. She could only stay pressed against the wall, jaw dropped in a silent moan as he filled her out inch by agonizing inch. Her eyes rolled, body unsure if she should cry out in pleasure or pain.

“God look at you, practically foaming at the mouth. What would your sorcerers say if they caught you like this, hmm?” He groaned, bucking his hips up into hers. Her voice finally caught up to her, and she cried out, nails scraping down the wall as she clawed for anything to keep her grounded.

He didn’t quite fit all the way, but it only turned Sukuna on even more. Of course, he couldn’t fit - but he would. He would break her open on his cock as many times as he needed, until she fit him like a second skin. Until he was the only thing she could think about whenever she tried to seek pleasure elsewhere.

She was playing a game she had no clue about, and Sukuna was going to win. He laughed as he grabbed her hips, pulling out to slam back into her walls. They sucked him in and tried to keep him out all at the same time.

“Sukuna, fuck!” She moaned, reaching behind her to slow him down. He said he wasn’t going to break her, but the rough pace he’d set was literally fucking the air right out of her lungs. Her walls squeezed him tighter, and he moaned.

“Too much for you already, princess? I’m just getting started.” Sukuna grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head.

“Too much, fuck, ‘s too much!”

“I’m not that brat, you’ll take what I give you exactly how I give it to you. Don’t piss me off, I’m in such a giving mood, right now!” He snaked his other hand around her, tongue darting out to swirl around her clit. Sukuna grinned. In an attempt to get away, she only managed to shove herself further onto his cock.

“Sukuna please, I don’t…Please!”

“Short circuiting, and I’m not even close yet. Shall we see just how many times I can make you cry before I’m finally satisfied?” Her mind was melting, she didn’t care anymore. What was she even begging for? Him to stop? Or maybe she was begging him not to stop. She’d never been filled up like this before; even the pain was pleasurable now. All she could do was stand against this wall and take it, anyway. Her body relaxed against him slightly, and he grinned.

“Is there something you want from me, little sorcerer?” She bit her wobbly lip hard, trying to focus on his words.

“I want- I wanna cum.”

“That so?” She nodded with a whimper.

“Beg, and I’ll think about it.” She couldn’t even be bothered with the feelings of shame looming overhead. She wanted one thing, and if begging was all she needed to do to achieve it, well…

“Please I wanna cum.” She whined, hands flexing in his grasp.

“Beg more, you can do better than that.”

“Please Sukuna please I wanna cum, never wanted to cum so bad. Please make me cum on your cock please I-” She was a wailing mess, she didn’t care who heard her pleas, only that he might answer them. His tongue licked at her folds, snaking around his length to tease her from every side.

He rocked her into her second orgasm, reveling in the feeling of her tightening around him as she screamed.

God, he needed to feel it again. The way her walls fluttered around his thickness, trying to close around the strain of taking him. The feeling was maddening, and Sukuna was sure he could pull another one from her immediately, he just needed to pick up the pace as he rammed his cock harder into her.

The wet sound of his second mouth lapping at her, mixed with her moaning variations of his name and ‘fuck don’t stop’ was more than enough to catch the attention of anyone close by, and as absorbed as Sukuna was in this little game, he wouldn’t let his guard down. He was sure she didn’t even remember what they were here for anymore at this point. If the whites of her rolled eyes and the drool currently sliding down the wall where her face was pressed against it were any indication, anyway.

He could feel her whole body start to twitch and tighten, and he knew she was close again. Two orgasms in, and he knew her body so well already. He’d put that knowledge to good use later.

“Go ahead little sorcerer, scream for me.” And she came hard, walls clamping down on him, practically shoving him out while she did. It was enough to send him reeling, too. Hips slamming up into her, he sank his teeth into her shoulder as he finished with a growl. If they weren’t both so wrapped up in each other, they might have realized he growled ‘mine.’ He painted her insides in white hot ropes, stilling when the euphoria finished washing over him.

“If you think that was mind-numbing, just wait until I get ahold of you in my true form.” Sukuna whispered against the shell of her ear.

He pulled out with a groan, watching her whole body quiver as he did.

“Clean yourself up.” She finally looked back at him, brows knit. He ripped the sleeve off his jacket, handing it over to her. When she tried to pull it, his grip tightened, and he looked at her expectantly.

“Thank you…” She said quietly as she cleared her throat.

“Such a good girl for me already, I don’t even have to train you. I’ll be back, be ready to leave when I am.”

“Wait where-”

“There’s still a job to do here, isn’t there? I’ve got a curse to kill.” He smirked as he walked backwards up the hall.

Yuji wouldn’t be awake for a while, plenty of time for Sukuna to hide his prize. One of the many he planned on taking from her, he thought as he twirled the red panties on his finger.

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