#may update if I think of anything else | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hatethysinner · 1 month ago

Text

ᴍᴀɴ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴄᴇ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: He loved you too much to share. So he took everything else. Your friends, your family, your freedom, all slowly melted away. Now it's just him, the house, and you. And he promises that's all you'll ever need.

ᴡᴄ: 15.2k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. i loved and hated every second of writing this but i just NEEDED to get it out of my system. while i don't think i particularly delved into anything dd:dne (PLEASE MIND THE WARNINGS AND DNI IF DARK FICS AREN'T YOUR CUP OF TEA <3), i definitely channeled my most unhinged ao3 reads for this. this'll probably be the only time i write a full fic of dark!remmick, but if this really blows up i may actually consider doing more. as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too ❤️. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: unapologetically dark fic(!!!), exposition dump, obsession, murder, body disposal, vampirism, biting, blood, bloodplay, dark!remmick on steroids, lovebombing, manipulation, isolation, toxic relationship (somewhat established), emotionally/mentally abusive behavior (!!!), threats of violence, codepency, lowkey unreliable narrator, extremely dubious consent (!!!), noncon (!!!), heavily abused power imbalance, dom!remmick, sub!reader, reader is going through it, remmick loves tormenting her, angst, praise kink, light degradation kink, breeding kink, proper use of a gold chain during sex, babytrapping (!!!), p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dacryphilia, biting, sadism, monsterfucking, religious mentions, loss of virginity, no happy ending, divider usage, written on demon time

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

And finally, you let yourself go.

1K notes · View notes

cinnamorollcrybaby · 10 months ago

Text

Doting

Tags: jjk men as dads, tooth-rotting fluff, comfort drabbles

Synopsis: How the JJK men treat you while pregnant (spoiler warning- they dote on you.)

An: This is my formal apology for writing Nanami angst on the “Baby’s first words” post 😔 it will never happen again (can we stop with the death threats now?)

SATORU • SUGURU • TOJI • SUKUNA • NANAMI

SATORU

Oh, your loving husband is all over you while you’re pregnant. He genuinely has such a cute fascination with all the changes your body is going through. He seriously thinks you’re so strong for carrying his heir.

He loves rubbing your bump. In fact, he will always be touching it in some form or fashion while you two are together. When he’s away on missions, he has you send him pictures and updates on your pregnancy as if anything major has changed in a couple of days.

You best believe he is ready to indulge you on your every craving, no matter how strange. It’s three a.m and you’re crying because you need that specific brand of chicken wings and a can of whip cream? He’s heading to the store immediately to fetch whatever you tell him to.

He genuinely worries about being a good dad. Many nights he lays his head on your bump and talks to you about how teaching didn’t come naturally to him. He wasn’t born knowing how to meet people where they’re at. He use to expect people to be able to meet him on his level. He worries that he may inadvertently put a lot of pressure on his kid, and that’s the last thing he wants due to how he was raised. He just wants his kid to be a kid.

He’s the best, most loving and compassionate dad to your baby, more than you could ever hope for. Even if teaching didn’t come to him naturally, being a father did.

SUGURU

He’s such a “sit down and let me do it for you” while you’re pregnant. He cooks, cleans, works, and tends to you completely throughout your pregnancy.

Suguru gets hyper fixated on your health during pregnancy. He only feeds you the yummiest and healthiest foods while you’re pregnant. He encourages for you to sit on the yoga ball and do (very) light exercises. He just wants the best for you and his baby.

Whenever I said he tends to you, I genuinely mean he tends to you. He’ll gently brush your hair at night time, rub your back when your belly is becoming heavy to carry around, serve your breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed, carries around emesis bags and breath mints for if you get morning sickness while you two are out.

This man is the king of enforcing your boundaries to people when they don’t listen. That really annoying family member that insists on being there for the birth even though you’ve already explained to them that you want this to be an experience for just you and Geto? Yeah, he’s made it very clear to them that they will not be at the birth if they want to be in your kid’s life.

He is absolutely not afraid to hurt feelings if it means his wife and future child are safe and cared for. He really don’t give a fuck who anyone else is. You and his child are first priority.

TOJI

Toji is definitely the type to express his love and devotion for you in other ways than the most conventional methods.

He is so incredibly gentle while you’re pregnant. He doesn’t rile you up as much or play fight with you anymore. He constantly reminds himself that you’re carrying another life inside you and that you have enough on your plate.

This man… whew does he love seeing you pregnant. Toji’s the type of man to feel so feral when he looks at you heavily pregnant with his kid.

He adores your body. He’ll rub lotion all over you and oils to help your skin accommodate to the stretch of carrying a kid. He massages your body and absolutely worships it while he’s rubbing the lotion and oil on you.

Your breasts are sore? He’ll gently massage them until they feel better. Your back hurts? He’d be the type to lift your bump up and take the weight off you for as long as you ask him to so you can feel relaxed for a few minutes.

And look this is probably TMI but like, if you got a clogged milk duct due to breastfeeding, Toji would unfortunately be the type of man to fix that issue with his mouth. i’m sorry but he would.

Final thing is, you better believe that he doesn’t allow anyone to get too close to you. He is so unbelievably protective over you while you’re pregnant. If he could, he’d lock you up at home to prevent anyone from getting close to you.

SUKUNA

On the outside, he acts very nonchalant and unbothered by your pregnancy. On the inside, he is constantly plagued by the thought that your body may not be able to carry his heir. The thought of losing you or his child haunts him.

He will secretly observe and take notes on your body and how it is changing. If he catches you expressing any sort of short windedness, he will immediately send you off to bed rest. Though, you’re usually able to convince him to take you off of it by the next day.

The only servant he trusts to tend to you is Uraume. No one else in his court is allowed to be anywhere near you unless he gives specific instructions. Still, he hates leaving you in the care of Uraume. He trusts them, but he wants to be the one to take care of you.

He loves holding your body close to him at night. All four arms are wrapped around you and holding you closely. Since he doesn’t need much sleep, he will stay awake rubbing on your tummy all night long. One time, he felt the baby moving in your stomach while you were asleep. He was so intrigued that he woke you up and told you to “make them do it again”.

Now, he will randomly approach you at any given time while you’re heavily pregnant and hold his hand out so he can feel his baby moving around inside of you. It soothes his worry.

During birth, Sukuna was a complete mess. The amount of blood lost during birth fucking terrified him. He was panicking and yelling at anyone to do something to save you, even while everyone was assuring him that you’re okay and this was natural.

After 9 long excruciating months of extreme worry and constant fear, he finally feels peace when he’s cradling a newborn in his arm and a sleeping wife in the other arm. All of his hard work to protect you paid off he thinks.

NANAMI

Oh, to be pregnant by the king of domestic love himself.

Nanami is the type of man to immediately start working on a nursery for you as soon as you reveal to him that you’re pregnant. He immediately changes the guest bedroom into a nursery that you design for your little baby.

He reads up on all the parenting books and articles. He’s constantly compiling things to either do or to not do during pregnancy and even while raising a kid.

Like Geto, he tends to your every need. He is a total house husband all while working 40 hours a week. When he’s at work, he is constantly calling and texting you to make sure that you’re okay and taking care of yourself, but let’s be fr he literally did everything for you before he even left for work (meal prepped for you, set out your clothes for you, put out all your self care items in case you want to bathe).

When you express concerns of your body getting bigger to him, he does everything in his power to show you that he loves and respects your body for creating life. He literally cherishes and worships your body for hours if you let him.

Like Toji, Nanami is protective over you. He constantly has an arm around you if you two are in public, and he watches everyone who dares to get close to you like a hawk. If he gets a bad vibe about anyone, he’s immediately stepping in front of you and taking over the conversation.

Nanami is the best partner to have during birth. His reading of articles during your pregnancy really paid off. He is supportive without being overbearing. He listens to your needs and tends to you without question. Constant praise and encouragement while you’re giving birth. The moment he gets to snuggle with you and the baby is the moment he realizes that he cultivated the life of his dreams. He has the family he always wanted.

3K notes · View notes

16wolke11 · 2 months ago

Text

Actual Girlfriend - Lando Norris

A/N Okay, okay you guys convinced me to post it! I am not hating on any the drivers girlfriends/friends/situationships or whatever, and this shot was written before the GP on Sunday, just updated slightly (:

WORDS: 2529 _____

I knew what I had signed up for when I started dating Lando Norris. Late-night calls due to different time zones, meeting in secret, and trying to stay out of the media's focus. He is a public figure and I am just about to graduate from university. Keeping our relationship private felt safe at first, romantic like in a novel, but the downside came around quicker than I thought it would.

Monaco was the downfall. The weekend, I couldn’t even attend if I wanted to. My final exam was coming up in the following week, and as much as I wanted to be there for Lando, I needed to sit this race out. Lando was understanding, even encouraging me to stay home and ace my exams, but the distance hurt deep down in my chest.

Lando made the effort to keep in touch with me. He texted me in the morning, between the sessions, and I tried to reply to him and keep things light, but it felt harder and harder with every short message or blurry picture he sent over.

Good morning, Love. Quali is today. Wish me luck?

I smile softly at his message, him acting like I might forget how important today is and I can only think about that smile on his lips when he asks for some luck.

Stay out of the barriers (:

It feels cold-hearted even to me, but I can’t bring myself to write anything else. My chest feels hollow, and I am unable to display the affection he deserves, but I hope all of this will fade when we are back together.

By the time qualifying came around, social media was buzzing. Usually, I try to keep myself away from gossip pages, but some pictures draw me to them. There is Magui, laughing in the paddock with some friends, even spotted with Lando’s parents and my heart sinks. The pictures aren’t overly confirming, but they bring on even more speculations. Fans are picturing things with the crumbs they collected over the last months.

Oh god, Magui is with McLaren!

They are so soft launching.

This is a hard launch for their standards.

May I present to you Lando “Magui is just my friend” Norris.

Guess the rumours were true for once.

Every comment feels like a knife being dragged over my heart. I know that it is just fan theories, Lando being the one loving me, but it still gnaws at me. This is what comes with dating someone famous: rumours and everything I should keep my distance from. But as much as I want to ignore it, every time I open any social media, it gets worse.

The algorithm is laughing at me while showing me more pictures of Magui around the paddock. Being in the team hospitality, lingering around Lando’s crew and even more pictures with Cisca and Adam. I stare at the last picture for a whole minute before locking my phone, throwing it face down on my bed.

I didn’t say anything to Lando, not wanting to seem jealous, insecure or clingy. But the ache is real, and it doesn’t fade during the day. It doesn’t fade when Lando gets pole, breaking the lap record in Monaco and even though a smile comes to my lips while seeing him celebrate, it doesn’t soothe anything.

That night, my phone lights up, a FaceTime call from Lando and I answer it, managing to put half a smile on my face.

“Hey there stranger.” Lando greets me, grinning widely, but his eyes are tired. Curls still damp from the shower, and it looks like he is ready to drop onto his bed and sleep until the race is about to start tomorrow.

“Look at you, breaking records and snatching pole.” I tease him, feeling genuinely happy, no matter how much my heart aches.

“You should be here.” Lando says, not accusing me of something, just simple honesty. “It's not the same without you.” He adds and it doesn’t help the aching feeling in my chest.

“You have company.” I say, tilting my head slightly, trying to indicate his parents being around him all the time, but it comes out way too bitter. Lando’s smile drops and my stomach twists, knowing he can sense my discomfort through the phone. There is a pause, dreading and long enough to sting.

“She is just around because of mutual friends and stuff. You still know that.” Lando speaks up quickly, before a sigh leaves his lips. “Right?” His eyes scan my face, like he is trying to figure out through the screen if I am serious or not.

“Yeah.” I just hum and we look at each other for a moment.

“I miss you.” Lando whispers and I hate it even more that I can’t be with him. That this dam exam has to be this week and not when there is no upcoming race weekend. But I worked so hard for this degree, and I will finish it. After that, I can go to more races, hopefully, being right by Lando’s side.

“I miss you too.” I admit, I feel the urge to explain something to him. “It just feels so hard this weekend, Lando. Seeing and reading all of this. It makes me feel like a dirty secret.” I feel bad for my feelings and know I shouldn’t be, but the pressure on my shoulders does get less with telling Lando.

“You’re not a secret.” Lando rubs the back of his neck. “You are mine and I like to keep you safe.” My heart flutters softly. Lando always had a protective side. When it comes to his family and when it comes to me. No harm through the media and the fans, especially after what happened with his previous girlfriend and every girl he just looked at for a little too long.

“Just…just do well tomorrow, okay?” I whisper, not wanting to keep this topic any longer. We will have to speak about it again, but not now. I don’t want to pull his attention away from his race and Lando’s face softened.

“For you? Always.” Then he grins softly, and everything feels like it's going to be okay. We hung up not long after, the screen going black again, drenching me in silence.

I wake up early on race day, even though I don’t want to. Having way too much time now to cover before the race starts. Revising for my exam doesn’t help, wandering around in the apartment makes waiting even worse and even though I usually don’t even watch it, I put on the prerace coverage, hoping it will help me to be distracted. Celebrities walk over the grind, Monaco shining in all its glory and then the race is about to start.

Part of me doesn’t even want to watch the race, but in the end, I didn’t move from the TV or shut it off. Curled up on the couch, cameras showing the grid for the last time, before the lights go out. Just in the first corner, I fear the race is over for Lando when he locks up, but manages to keep his car safe. My heartbeat is way too quick, but slowly the nerves die down.

Monaco isn’t the most exciting race when it comes to overtakes, but every little mistake can cost the people on the grid everything. Lando drives around with ease and with every lap nearing the end, lets a proud feeling rise in my chest. He is going to nail it.

The day would be great if it weren’t for two sentences from the TV commentators that stick with me.

“And there is Lando Norris' girlfriend.”

“Lando Norris' parents and his partner.”

All the happiness that was building up falls apart when Magui is displayed on the screens and the commentators are calling her Lando’s girlfriend. It feels like betrayal and tears rise to my eyes. I don’t even want to cry, but it seems to be the only thing that soothes the ache in my chest.

Lando wins the Monaco Grand Prix for the first time, and I cheer at the screen, softly, not as loudly as I usually would. I feel broken, but still full of pride, with a mixture of disbelief and joy. He did it.

The camera follows him when he jumps out of the car, when he is hugged and kissed by his parents. Loving to see them so affectionate, but still, heart-aching about what happened. The podium ceremony went by like a blur and I can’t bring myself to turn off the TV, just staring at it, until my phone buzzes.

It's Lando.

Please watch the post-race interviews.

I sigh, eyes focusing back on the screen, making the sound a bit louder, when Lando appears on the screen, still grinning widely. Curls damp by sweat and champagne, but he bubbles with happiness.

“Hi Lando, congrats on the race win here in Monaco.” Nathalie Pinkham starts, sounding like a proud mother while speaking to Lando.

“Thank you, Natalie.”

Then they talk about the race, making me zone out, until I hear one particular question.

“Is there anyone particular whom you would like to thank?” Lando pauses for a moment, eyes flickering to the side to his PR, before he starts to answer.

“I want to thank so many people.” He laughs softly and starts his list. „My parents, I love you; they gave everything for me, and they are the reason I am where I am.” It's sweet to see Lando’s love for his parents, and not just because of the cameras, but also in private.

“McLaren, my team and everyone believing in me.” Lando continues and then he hesitates, like he has to think about his next answer.

“Well, and of course, thank you to my love, who unfortunately couldn’t be here today, but supports me every second, no matter where she is.” My heart stops, before softly fluttering at his words. Without saying much, Lando just revealed that Magui is, in fact, not his girlfriend. I need to blink a few times, reminding me that this is reality.

“She probably screamed at the TV for a bit today.” Lando laughs and I snort softly. Usually, I do scream at the TV for a bit, but it wasn’t so bad today.

“Your girlfriend couldn’t attend today’s race?” Natalie asks after a short pause, like she had to sort her head, probably thinking the same as everyone else. Lando is taken, but not to whom everyone thinks he is.

“No, she is busy with preparations for her final exam at university next week and being at the racetrack isn’t exactly the perfect environment for learning for something so important. So, we decided she will sit this one out to ace her exam.” Lando explains willingly and for the first time this weekend, I feel warm again. A few happy tears slip down my cheeks because now it feels like everything is going to be okay again.

By now, my social media is flooded with pictures from Lando’s win. Him being hugged by his parents, cheering with the team, and celebrating with Oscar and Charles on the podium. It is like the grey clouds have been blown away by celebrations, showing the happy sun again. And I do come by one of the gossip pages again, slightly hesitating to click on the comments, but open them anyway.

Lando is silencing all the rumours about Magui by dropping an even bigger bomb.

He seems to be so in love!

If I was his girlfriend, I would be so pissed at the TV commentators right now.

A bit later, my phone buzzed again with an incoming call from Lando. and I take it without hesitating.

“Hi.”

Lando’s face fills up the screen, eyes still sparkling with happiness, hair messy and him still in his race suit. I can hear the music nearby, cheery voices and people in the background.

“Hey.” Lando says, voice tired in the best kind of way.

“Hi.” I say again, quieter this time. “You did it.”

Lando just grins, “We did it”, making me frown. This is his big moment, his big win.

“I didn’t do anything?”

“That's not true.” Lando’s gaze is soft on me and even though there are celebrations for him, his attention is fully on me.

“You were the one driving 300km/h. You are the one who won Monaco.” I remind him that it was all his effort. Steering precisely around the track, not crashing, not losing his nerves.

“And I was only able to do it because of you.” Lando hums, and just when I want to protest, he continues. “You think our late-night calls didn’t help me sleep? That your texts before quail don’t help to clear my head?” I doubt that I have that much of an effect on him, but if it makes him feel better, I believe him.

“I watched everything, couldn’t move.” I admit how my eyes were drawn to the TV, not willing to let any bit slip by without my attention.

“I felt you.” Lando promises, “I mean my engineer was yelling at me to stay focused, but it was your voice telling me not to crash over and over again.”

I laugh softly, remembering that I told him that before the qualification, “Sounds like something I would say.” Lando hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering around and I tilt my head to the side, waiting for him to speak up.

“And I meant everything I said in that interview. Keeping you private was safe, but at this point, it hurt you more than it protected you.” I blink slowly, trying to keep the tears back this time, but one still rolls down my cheek. My heart, which has been aching the whole weekend, feels like it is being hugged by Lando’s words, making the harsh cuts heal bit by bit.

“I love you.” I whisper with my whole heart and Lando’s smile gets just a bit brighter.

“Says that again.” He mutters and I gladly follow.

“I love you.”

Lando sighs, “Oh, I love you too.” We look at each other for a moment, both faces filled with adoration and happiness.

“Are you going to get any sleep tonight?” I ask him, already doubting it. He won Monaco, many of the drivers live here and partying after Monaco is kind of mandatory.

“Probably not, too many people want to drag me to a club.” Lando says, hand gesturing around and I can only imagine how many people want to party with him tonight.

“Are you going?”

“Forcefully,” Lando grins, “But I show my face and then sneak away again, back to the hotel.” He explains, making me tilt my head to the side.

“To do what?”

“Call you again, talk till the sun rises.” His soft voice, his words, the love in his eyes make all the pain go away. Cause in the in the in I am the one he loves with his whole heart. And just like that, the distance between us doesn’t feel so wide anymore.

#f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 one shot #f1 fluff #lando norris fic #lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #hurt/comfort #f1 hurt/comfort #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader #lando norris fluff

895 notes · View notes

dcxdpdabbles · 13 days ago

Note

Wowza! You've been on a spree! Been loving all the content! Was wondering if you have any plans for Mr. Flavor? Mr. Flavor has become my favorite, and the latest update really cemented that for me. If not any ideas for core clusters? Either way may the Narwhal of inspiration continues to grace your presence!

Danny finds that his second kidnapping isn't as bad as the first. For one thing, Hoddie doesn't keep him locked up in one room. There are no chains, and he has a spacious bathroom and bedroom. They even provided him with a kitchen to cook his own meals, which is equipped with a lab, and is also available to him for his experimental pursuits or dietary needs whenever he chooses.

He's made about five carts of sodas- a dozen of each of these flavors- and he had the safety stored away to go sell on Monday at Anthony's Pasta.

On the other hand, Hoddie has assigned him two guards who are meant to stop Danny from "doing something stupid," such as eating his experimental flavors, jumping off the roof, or doing anything fun like holding his breath until he passes out. His guards had permission to spray him with a spray bottle, as if he were an untrained cat, should he attempt anything.

The worst part about all that was how well the spray bottle works. Hoddie had pulled it on him as a joke-or Danny thinks it was a joke-but the second the water touched his skin, his entire body withered in disgust.

He wound up on the ground, covering his face with his hands and thrashing around, muffling his screams with his palms. Hoddie had sprung into action, checking the bottle content and barking out orders to his men to get a medic, while carefully holding him down to stop his thrashing. There was a brief period when Hoddie thought he sprayed him with something else, but in the end, they were all able to confirm that it was just water, and that Danny just didn't like it.

Now the two guards, a couple of barely legal adults (nineteen years old, he thinks. A pair of newbies to whatever group Hoddie had going on), were stationed at his side, fiddling with the spray bottles like they were wielding weapons. Not that they lacked weapons.

Guns, Danny could see, were clipped to their belts, but he was far more fearful of the white bottles than seeing if being shot multiple times could get Phantom. The spray only made him feel discomfort, and not a hint of a ghost in return for the feeling.

"Don't even think about it," Snapped the redheaded man, whom Danny mentally titled Ginger.

"What's he doing now?" Sighed the other one with the long braid. Since the braid reached his mid-back and looked rather elegant in its silky black shine, Danny bestowed him the name Silk.

Ginger grabs Danny around his mid-drift, letting him off the crates he had been stacking to try to reach the window. It wasn't hard to see that he was in a basement, but the only exit was the stairway that Silk and Ginger stood on guard at, and the small window.

He dangles in Ginger's arms, miffed by how easily the slightly older boy can lift him. Danny has always been smaller than his peers, but it wasn't fair when he weighed like a box of air, too.

"I wasn't even doing anything," He grumbles as Ginger carries him to the couch to practically throw him into the cushions. Danny crosses his arms, scowling at the coffee table. Its surface is covered with various notes and test tubes for his latest flavor experiment, as well as some kind of toy that Hoddie called Kinetic Sand.

Hoddie gave him a bucket and some farm-shaped molds for "enrichment" while the house breaker went to do whatever the hell he was doing to keep Danny safe.

Danny hated how much he enjoyed sticking his hands in it.

"Look, kid, we know it's not fun to wait for Boss to do his thing, but we have to be patient in life." Started Silk, sounding far too much like a tired Jazz back when their parents were first beginning to let her babysit him for a few hours while they ran to the store. Danny doesn't remember how, but the chicken had come to life that day, and she had to fight it off with a broom. Good times.

"I'm not a kid. I'm seventeen."

"Practically a baby," Silk agrees with a nod, causing Ginger to snort.

Ice gathered on the back of Danny's knuckles. "What did you say?"

Silk raises his spray bottle, holding it in both his hands like he were aiming a gun. It's pointed right at Danny's face, between his eyes, and Silk's fingers rest on the trigger, ready to take the shot. "Be cool, kid."

Alarmed, Phantom's small ice vanishes, and Danny goes very still, holding up his arms. He licks his dry lips, eyeing the small hole that rests inside the tip of the spray. "I'm cool! We're cool! Everyone is cool! No need for violence, you know?"

Ginger hums, "Not if we all behave."

He comes up behind Silk, twirling his bottle so Danny can hear the horrid sound of the water sliding side to side in it. His heart dropped in his stomach. Carefully, telegraphing his every moment, Danny lowers himself to the floor, reaching for the sand and the cow mold. Silk's eyes narrow before he, too, lowers his hands.

"Glad we understand each other."

"I'd rather you shoot me," Danny mutters, piling purple fake sand- it feels artificial somehow, or maybe it was natural in this world dimension- into the mold, patting it down.

"I rather not piss off Boss. That's a man you don't want to cross."

"A Man." Danny lowers his voice, referencing an old TV commercial from home, "A manly man who mans his way through the manly woods of manhood."

Ginger and Silk shared an odd look between them before Ginger reached up and rubbed at his eyes. "You ain't right in the head, boyo."

"Oh yeah? Well, you're attractive! Leave some women for the rest of us." Danny hisses, pointing an accusing finger at Ginger. The man's face turned as red as his ruby locks while Silk snickered after a moment of confusion.

"I-"

Whatever Ginger was going to say is cut off by a loud crash. The three whip around to find the basement window had been smashed in. On the ground is broken glass, shimmering in the sunlight of freedom.

Oh, and there was also a silver cylinder, letting out a thick cloud of black smoke. The cloud of smoke fills the room at an almost inspiring speed, as it leaks out of its vessel, causing the cylinder to spin in circles from the force of its escape.

"Shit! We're under attack!" Silk cries, leaping to his feet. "

The door at the top of the stairway is kicked open, and three other cylinders go flying, landing at Danny's feet. His eyes widen, realizing that one is smaller than the rest, and he can only conclude it's a bomb.

"Gernande!" Danny cries joyfully, throwing his body on top of it. "I call dibs!"

"No!" Ginger screams, nearly smothered by the smoke that now covers the room in a deep darkness. "Kid! "

Dany spreads as much of himself as he can on it, counting the seconds before a soft boom goes under his stomach and a brief but intense bright light blooms around him, like an added chalk outline. He waits for a few seconds, but when nothing else happens, he sighs, standing up. "False alarm, it was just a flash bomb-"

"You son of bitches! You killed him!" Ginger yells from the direction of the bathroom, which was clear across the room, and Silk lets out a choking snarl from a different part of the room, but just as far away. Did they move? It would make sense to get away from the smoke and the potential grenade-

Bam!

Danny jerks backwards, letting out a gasp as his chest suddenly burns in agony. A hand shakily goes up to cup around the pain, only to realize his shirt is wet, and he doesn't remember getting sprayed. "Wha-"

Bam bam bam!

Danny's knees go out, and he's crumbling to the ground, a savage scream ripped from his throat, as suddenly his stomach, his right arm, and his shoulder are nothing but pain. His yell echoes through the room, overlapping the sound of something sharp being thrown through the air and fists hitting skin. He thinks he hears Silk cry out, but he can't make heads or tails of what's happening, too busy choking on his blood.

He shakes on the ground, doing everything he can to drag himself across the floor. Phantom has not stirred from inside him, nor has that part of himself sent out ice to seal the wounds. Not even his healing factor has started to numb the worst of the pain.

He has been shot as a very human Danny, and now, he may suffer the consequences of being human.

"No! No, no, no, no, not again." A voice sobs near Danny's head, before someone pushes him onto his back, pressing their hands over his wounds. Danny groans in pain.

"Hang on, kid. Hang on.!" Danny squints through unfocused eyes, looking into the face of a panicked man in a blue and black mask. His lip is bitten through and his odd costume of spandex is covered in Danny's blood. He must have passed out or something, because the smoke is gone, leaving a clear view of a basement torn apart, as if a wild boar had smashed through everything.

Hoddie stands over the stranger's shoulder, his hood down and his weird metal face covering the only thing keeping his face out of sight as he yanks bandages out of his many pant pockets.

A little further away, he can make out Silk with his head turned away in shame and Ginger weeping openly. Another two people are there: a kid in a hoodie and a sword, barking commands into a phone, while the one with an X across his chest stares back at Danny in mute horror.

He can't see his eyes through the mask, but Danny bets there are tears in them. There is a moment where he flounces out of his body, every sound slowed and muffled like he's not really part of the scene anymore. Danny can only hear his own heartbeat, slowing down, as the world starts to fade.

Danny almost gives in to the calming nothing before a sharp snap happens around his heart, near his core, and his healing factor boots online. The pain in his stomach lessens, and even the pain under the Blue Man's frantic hands that are trying to put pressure on his chest wound.

All of it, is getting attention from his healing factor at a speed he's missed. Phantom....he's so close. Danny is all but touching him.

It's enough to yank him back into his body's awareness, which can all be summarized to ow currently.

He giggles, accidentally causing a few spots of blood to land on Blue Man's face. "Deja vu...Am I right?....first the car....then the gun shot....and then comes a baby in a baby carriage."

"Don't talk! Save your strength!" The masked man chokes

Danny smiles, "I'm dying....."

"No." The voice is so choked up it sounds like gravel now. Danny can barely understand him. His body is starting to turn cold...like ice was racing through Danny's veins freezing him from he inside out.

"My... soda...."

"It's alright." Hoddie shushed him, grabbing his hand and holding it tight. His other hand went through Danny's hair in a comforting manner. "You're soda is safe. It's alright."

"I'm....dying..."Danny repeats his smile, stretching wider as the world starts to rapidly fade. His healing factor is still active beneath his skin, but it's not moving fast enough. It was almost a bee trying desperately to pollinate a flower bed before a flood crashed into the garden.

Hoodie's breath catches, sounding odd in his voice modifier, but he responds evenly. "It's alright. You're going to be alright. We're going to have some of your pumpkin pie flavor soda after this, yeah?"

"Re...all...y?" Danny coughs

"Yeah, kid, it 's going to taste delicious," Hoddie whispers comfrotingly. The hand in Danny's hair goes slower, almost as if it were trying to make him sleep. "The best damn thing I ever drink"

"What...ab...out....the other...on..e"

"All of them. If it's a Mr.Flavor soda, it's going to be the best drink to ever be created."

"Thank....you....for say...ing...th..a..t" Danny feels himself slip away entirely as the light in his eyes dims, and he goes slack.

_____________________________________________________

Nightwing feels the moment the boy dies, more than he sees it, and he can't do anything but let out a wail. Red Hood stops canning his fingers through the boy's dark locks to gently lower his eyelids close.

The boy's face, seventeen but still too young-looking, that most thought he was lying about his age, as he had always suspected the tiny thing to be closer to fourteen, looks gentle, almost sweet in its stillness. As if he merely fell asleep, were it not for the trail of blood running down his chin and on his clothes.

It was an accident. Nigwing, Robin, and Red Robin didn't know that the two men with the kid making threats were talking about a water spray or that they worked for Red Hood.

Red Hood and his two new gang members weren't aware that the Bats were searching for a meta who had just escaped a kidnapping and a hospital that same day. They just thought the kid got away from a meta trafficking ring that tracked them down to a safe house.

In the confusion, the two fired their guns in the direction of the intruders, unaware that the kid was standing in the middle. No one knows whose bullets landed, but no one really cares.

Red Hood gathers Nightwing into his arms, knowing the man needed his comfort now.

In the hollow silence that is only interrupted by Nightwings' cries, the six males are left staying at the body of Gotham's oddest little soda maker, who arrived without warning to Gotham and left it just as fast.

Five minutes go by before Robin takes a step towards. "We should call emergency services."

"I-"

Whatever Nightwing was going to say is cut off by two bright rings of light that burst to life around Mr. Flavor's corpse. They spread over the body, transforming it, until bright neon green eyes snap open and Mr. Flavor's voice rings through the shock silence.

"I live! Ma ha ha ha ha!"

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Mr. Flavor #TW: Gun shot #tw: major character death #Guess who's back? Back again #part 7 #Danny is just handing Dick goodie bags of turama #See Jason this is why you answer the family group chat #Ginger and Silk don't have gang names yet #Danny is a hissing cat Jason picked up #Jason has comforted far too many people in their final moments #It's part of the life in crime alley

500 notes · View notes

sonicboomseason3 · 1 year ago

Text

a brief recap of what has been going on with the sonic movieverse in the past several months:

paramount has come out in public support of israel

keanu reeves, a man who has publicly rubbed elbows with none other than benjamin netanyahu, reportedly gets cast as shadow for the upcoming third movie

james marsden, the guy who plays tom, got exposed as having written a letter of support for a convicted pedophile

there's fucking??? zionist propaganda in the knuckles series???

kind of connected to the last point but adam pally, the guy who plays wade, is evidently pro-israel too

this is a complete and utter joke.

EDIT AS OF 4/30/24: if people see this version of the post, i'd really appreciate it if you reblog it instead of the other versions, as it's the most updated one with all the information that i want included. thank you :]

you know, it's been a few days since i've made this post, and some of you (not most) are staying determined in defending/justifying/giving the benefit of the doubt to keanu for that photo with netanyahu, whether it's because "it was a decade ago," "him being civil to someone he ran into at a party one time doesn't mean anything," "he's probably just silent because his pr managers won't allow him to speak up," etc. i've made my thoughts on the matter quite clear by directly responding to these people, but at this point, i'm tired of both seeing them in my notes and repeating myself, so take this as my final word on the issue.

i can't help it if you don't think the photo with netanyahu is damning, and i'm done engaging with everyone going out of their way to tell me that. i obviously disagree, especially after finding out that 1. the host of the party, arnon milchan, is a former israeli spy who has a history of developing israel's nuclear program and promoting apartheid in south africa (information that had broken out a few months prior to the party and thus would've been fresh news around the time keanu chose to attend) and 2. keanu has been caught hanging around at least two other weirdos, but if you don't find any of that to be cause for reasonable concern, then there really is nothing else i can say afaik.

with all that said, i'm beginning to realize how strange it is that these people's first instinct when seeing this post is to start debating about keanu's political stances without ever acknowledging any of the other bullet points. you guys realize that this isn't just about him, right? i know tumblr reading comprehension is known for being piss-poor, but like… you realize that i was trying to make a point of how there are MULTIPLE terrible things that have broken out about the people and company involved in the sonic movies, right? and yet, a lot of the people leaping to speak on keanu's behalf in my notes are completely ignoring the parts where i bring up paramount, pally, etc. all in favor of zeroing in on the singular point about keanu and making bad faith assumptions about me for holding him accountable. really makes one wonder where your priorities lie if, in a post that talks about so many other things, me accusing an a-list celebrity with, according to google, a net worth of almost $400 million is where you draw the line and apparently the only thing worth your acknowledgment.

ultimately, what i'm trying to say is that the intention of this post was just to gather up everything that i had been hearing for the past several months and put it all together in one place. there were a bunch of people who didn't know about at least one of the bullet points before seeing this post, and i'm glad that i could help inform them, that was what i was hoping to do! but as for the keanu thing, i've said pretty much all i can say for now, and i don't want to derail the original post even more than i may have already. unless something new comes up, i'm done talking about him.

#sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sonic movie #.sbs3 #yeah no i WILL be annoying about this #because what the fuck

5K notes · View notes

grandline-fics · 1 year ago

Text

Terms of Endearment

DESCRIPTION: You call them by a term of endearment without realising

WARNINGS: none that come to mind.

CHARACTERS: Law, Kid, Shanks, Marco, Zoro | Ace, Sabo, Luffy

WORDS: 2,943

A/N: I decided to use Zoro as the final character. Since he and Ace tied in the poll, I might make a second one of these and use Ace and any others people may want.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

MASTERLIST

———————

LAW

He knew it was irrational to be jealous of an inanimate object. Law knew that it’d be childish to use his Devil Fruit to take it out of your hands and claim your attention for himself. While he had enough restraint to not do that, the temptation to do so was still there. His eyes zeroed in on the book in your hand. He glowered and wondered if it was really that good, did it really deserve such intense, rapt attention that you were giving it. Your eyes were alight as you took in the words, your fingers already tucked behind the next page and ready to turn it as quickly as possible. Law watched you carefully, almost praying for your expression to turn to one of sudden boredom but it didn’t come.

He supposed he was to blame this time, a lot of this was new to him. While your relationship had only turned to a romantic one recently, you’d both been close for a lot longer. Long enough for you both to be able to spend time together while doing entirely separate things. You only pulled your book out because he had medical charts to look over and update. Law made a mental note to try a bit harder from now on to make the time you had together one of quality.

Finally he sat back in his seat and rubbed his eyes, letting them relax from pouring over the extensive pages now neatly piled on his desk. Slowly he stood and walked to the sofa you were perched on, unmoving and seemingly unaware he was approaching. Law tried to bite back his jealousy once more, wondering how annoyed you’d be if he ‘accidentally’ sent that blasted book out into the depths of the ocean.

When he sat down in the space beside you, he smiled softly when you leant back so you were against his side. One of your hands dropped to rest on his arm that was around your waist, your fingers lightly making soothing patterns against his tattooed skin. Law supposed this did count as quality time since it meant he could relax with you in a way he couldn’t with anyone else. He allowed himself the time to settle further against the cushion and press his lips against the back of your head. “Don’t forget you and Bepo are on duty tonight.” He reminded you, still having to act as your Captain when necessary.

“Yes, love.” Your answer was light and casual that he didn’t realise what you’d said at first. Then it echoed in his head ‘love.’ His eyes widened and he peered at the back of your head. There was no way he misheard that. You’d called him love, not Law, not Captain. Love. There was no mistaking the way his heart skipped a beat in reaction. It sounded so right, so effortless the way you said it and he found himself wanting to hear it again. It was also clear that from your lack of reaction, you hadn’t realised what you’d called him because you were partially distracted. Law smirked and for a moment reconsidered his earlier distaste. Perhaps your book wasn’t so bad after all.

KID

Kid didn’t want to admit it but he was powerless against you. He was stubborn and hotheaded and did what he wanted even if someone had sound logic to convince him whatever he had planned wasn’t wise. If anything if someone did attempt that nonsense with him, he’d be even more extreme with his conviction to do as he wanted and would even think of a way to make his actions even more outlandish and dangerous. Even Killer had a hard time keeping the captain in a somewhat mature state of mind. You however were a different story. Anything you wanted, it was yours all you had to do was ask.

Kid just never knew how to let you know that was the dynamic between you both. He was never afraid to speak his mind, if anything he yelled it to ensure everyone knew his thoughts. Yet he seemed to bite his tongue from confessing how he truly felt with you. He’d much rather have you beside him every day and enjoy the playful teasing and jokes than make things real and risk you not seeing him that way. Killer had told him one night to just confess already and trust that you felt the same. Kid had rolled his eyes and promptly kept his feelings buried in his chest. It was better, they were safer there than spoken out loud and unable to take them back.

He walked into the kitchen one evening to see you and Killer preparing the crew’s dinner. You looked over at the sound of his naturally heavy steps coming closer and smiled in greeting to see him stop in the doorway. “Here to help, Captain?” You asked, already knowing the answer before it came. Your smile grew when Kid let out a loud laugh and made a show of folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorframe.

“Not unless you want me to poison the crew.” He smirked.

“You’d nurse us back to health if you did infect us though, right?” You joked before looking back to the food you were meant to keep an eye on instead of getting distracted by your handsome Captain. You had to keep reminding yourself to behave and actually respect the chain of command. To let yourself imagine he may genuinely feel the same as you did would only lead to heartbreak in the long run but still you flirted and teased him whenever you could. You supposed you were just a glutton for punishment. You slowed in stirring the food and looked around for the seasonings only to see the small jar on the counter near Kid.

“Could you pass me that?” You asked nodding your head at what you needed. Kid followed your gaze and immediately pushed himself away from his comfortable position to lift the tiny item. He stepped forward and passed the seasoning into your waiting hand, hating and loving how the brief moment of his fingers skimming against yours brought him such a burst of joy. “Thank you, darling.” You smiled, turning back to the stove. While you hadn’t noticed what you’d said Killer did and he stopped cutting the vegetables to look Kid who was frozen in place, his eyes wide and cheeks turning the same bright red as his hair.

Darling? The fuck did you mean darling?! Kid’s mind was short-circuiting as he scrambled to gather his wits together and make sense of it all. Had you called him that subconsciously because was it possible that you felt for him too? God he hoped so because getting to hear you call him something so sweet again would be perfect.

SHANKS

One of the great things about sailing with an Emperor of the sea like Shanks was the fact that there were many islands under his protection. Any time you landed at one for a visit or even for the excuse of resting from a long stretch of sailing, the locals welcomed you all so warmly that it turned into one big celebration. None of you needed to worry about night watches, chores or other duties and could just sit back and enjoy the peace until Shanks decided he wanted to get back on the waters again.

As a crew, you were all used to just passing out and sleeping wherever you were at that time and waking up with aches from the uncomfortable positions you’d all ended up. However the town you were staying in was large enough to provide some rooms for you all in one of their inns. Some of you still needed to double up but the beds were extremely comfortable and who were you all to refuse such generosity? One night when the drinking and partying was only just beginning you slowly rose from your seat with a stifled yawn and forced yourself to finish your drink. Shanks was first to notice your movements. “Going for another round of drinks already?” he asked, coming across casual but he knew you weren’t yourself.

“Nah, I’m turning in early.” You announced, playfully flipping off the crew when they started to boo you for being boring. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blame Beck, alright. I haven’t slept the last two nights. Goodnight.” You gave no further explanation and disappeared up the staircase to claim a room to sleep in. Shanks looked towards his righthand man with a small scowl. He hoped you hadn’t implied what he thought. Beckman could sense his Captain’s silent interrogation and waved away his worries. “Calm down Cap, you know I’d never make a move on them. It’s just been bad luck we’ve had a share a room together and I snore…apparently.” He explained with a shrug and long drink of his ale.

Shanks had accepted the answer, knowing Beck would never lie to him. Yet as innocent as it all was, he couldn’t ignore the way he’d felt sick at the thought of you being with another of the crew. While nothing had exactly happened between you both, it was painfully obvious that there was something there. A playful dance you both engaged in without making an actual step forward into committing and admitting you’d had feelings. Roughly Shanks rubbed his eyes, now wasn’t the time to be thinking on such things, not with alcohol in his system and you not being there to talk to like the adults you were.

The rest of the night had helped to take his mind off things but it was all undone by the time he entered the room he’d been staying in the entire stay and saw you sleeping soundly in his bed. He was the only one in the crew that didn’t have to share his room with anyone else so why were you here? He approached the bed and shook your arm, watching your eyes crack open and he immediately felt guilty. You really did look exhausted. “Why’re you in my bed?” He asked, trying not to laugh as your eyes slipped closed again.

“Furthest room…no snoring. Please honey, lemme sleep.” Your voice was thick with sleep and your breathing was growing deeper again. Shanks might have appeared calm but that was the first time you’d ever called him something like that and as far as he knew you’d never called anyone else on the crew something similar. That all but cemented his decision that things needed to be talked about when you were both awake and rested enough to deal with things. Finally he let out a sigh and climbed into what would be his side of the bed while keeping respectable space between you both. “Fine, only because it’s you.”

MARCO

Your relationship with the ship’s doctor was a fairly new one. You had both known each other long enough to know the general likes and dislikes and the atmosphere on the Moby Dick among the crew was always one of familial harmony so there was never any uncomfortable tension. You were both content to just take things easy and enjoy things as they developed naturally without needed to force things into a certain timeframe. Marco’s personality being so relaxed and carefree was infectious in general and it was no different in your relationship.

Marco stood from his desk and stretched, ready to find you and enjoy the rest of the day with you now that all pressing tasks he’d needed to complete for the day was done. He was just about to leave when Izou entered to talk about organising a banquet for Ace’s birthday. As the two were discussing everything you appeared and smiled at them both before entering the room.

“Babe, did you see my-” Anything else that came out of your mouth was unfortunately drowned out by the increased heart rate in Marco’s ears. Instead he could only watch as you were busy looking for whatever it was that you’d lost. Marco would have considered himself steady and able to handle most situations but hearing you call him babe for the first time had certainly thrown him and you seemed oblivious to the fact that you’d done so. The only person who truly reacted was Izou, his laugh snapping Marco out of his trance and catching your attention too. “Babe, huh? Didn’t realise things were so serious with you two. Maybe we could plan the wedding too.” Izou teased.

“What are you talking about now?” You asked with a small smile. You were used to Izou’s teasing like a brother figure would but sometimes he just didn’t make sense. When Izou saw that you weren’t aware of your subconscious slip-up he grinned wider.

“You called Marco, babe.” He explained. You rolled your eyes and let out an amused laugh. As far as jokes went, it wasn’t the worst one he’d told you but he could do better. Suddenly you became concerned when Izou’s smug grin wasn’t slipping and you had to think. What had you said to Marco when you entered the room? Slowly you pulled your gaze to your boyfriend and he nodded. “Well looks like you two lovebirds need some alone time.” Izou all but sang as he left, no doubt hurrying off to tell Ace and the others about Marco’s new nickname.

“So…” You cleared your throat nervously and gave a small laugh. “Want to forget that happened? I swear I didn’t realise I’d even called you that.” The last thing you wanted was to make Marco think you were forcing him to a point he wasn’t ready for. Thankfully his broad smile was enough to make you relax, his naturally warm aura soothing your brief worries before they had a chance to escalate. Marco stepped closer to you, settling a hand on your waist. “Well even if you stop now, I bet all the others will start. Honestly I’d much rather hear it from your lips. Can I hear you say it again?”

ZORO

Zoro kept a firm hold on your shoulder as you stumbled, trying to twist weakly out of his grip. Any other instance he would release you if his touch made you uncomfortable but this was a completely different situation. After defeating a group of lackeys, one managed to make one last attack before falling unconscious. You’d been quick enough to intercept whatever it was he threw towards you and Zoro but when it was destroyed it still released a cloud of strange smelling gas. Zoro had been a safe enough distance but you weren’t so lucky.

At first you’d insisted you were fine but after walking a few paces your balance started to sway and your mind was beginning to cloud. Zoro became concerned by the glazed look in your eyes as you tried one more time to pull out of his unwavering hold, glaring at him. “Jus’ let me go! I don’t know you.”

His eyes widened at your declaration, not only because you sounded so dazed and confused. It was not like your usual bright and familiar way of speaking that made him happy to hear but it was also because hearing you say you didn’t know him filled him with more concern than he was willing to admit. He needed to find Chopper quickly to treat whatever it was you’d been hit with. For now he had to try and keep you calm and prove you were safe with him. “Course you know me. We’re crew-mates, remember? It’s Zoro.”

Abruptly you stopped and bumped into his chest, lifting your head to stare at him, trying to force yourself to focus on his face. Your hand reached out and clumsily gripped his face, tugging him forward enough for you to see his features better. Zoro could see your pupils were blown wide, whatever had been in that vial was some sort of hallucinogenic and he hoped that that was all it was. It could be better dealt with than a poison. Not that seeing you so wary and untrusting of him was any better. Your suspicion didn’t subside when you finally let go of his face and shook your head.

“You’re not Zoro.” You finally declared, trying once more to get away from him. This time you succeeded only enough to make it a couple of steps but without him there to keep you stable you fell forward. If Zoro hadn’t been there you would have landed face first into the pavement but he caught you swiftly around the waist and lifted you to settle you over his shoulder, deciding that this way of carrying you was the best option. “Definitely not Zoro.” You weakly grumbled into his back as he began walking again.

“Oh yeah, why’re you so sure of that?” He asked, deciding to at least play along.

“You’re too grumpy…” You explained and added as you fell unconscious. “Zoro’s grumpy but he’s a sweetheart. My sweetheart.” Immediately the back of his neck heated and he froze in place but he couldn’t say or do anything else because thankfully Chopper, Usopp and Nami appeared to regroup and find Luffy. Zoro quickly explained to Chopper that you’d been hit by something but offered no further details.

“Did you get hit too, Zoro? You’re looking really red.” Chopper asked in concern. Quickly Zoro cleared his throat and shrugged as he laid you on the ground so Chopper could treat you.

“Uh yeah, might have been. Don’t worry about it though.”

3K notes · View notes

sowerpatch · 21 days ago

Text

terms of play [chapter 7 - in transition]

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige and Azzi said it was over.

Boundaries drawn, feelings shelved, rules in place. But with every game, every glance, every unexpected moment off the court, the line gets harder to hold. They agreed to stop, but how long can they mean it? Word count: 5,577 Author's note: first, I'd like to thank everyone for reading this fic. i'm overwhelmed but very happy with the comments, messages, and reactions. i didn't know a lot are reading this nonsense, but thank you! second (and you may not want to hear this), i may not update for a couple of weeks. i am going on a trip so i'm not sure i'll be able to do so. i hope you'll still want to read this if it's not frequently update until third week of july. third (if you're also reading my other on-going), unfolded will be updated but i also apologize it will not be that frequent due to the same reason above. thanks for supporting and reading my works.

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. May 2025.

The sky outside her windows had settled into its noon haze, but Azzi hadn’t looked up from her desk in hours. Her monitor cast a soft glow across the dark wood, spreadsheets opened and minimized in equal measure. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, scrolling through a document she had already reviewed twice that morning.

The knock on her door was brief. Nika stepped in without waiting for permission, balancing a takeout bag and two bottled teas in her hands.

“I know you didn’t eat again,” Nika said as she shut the door behind her. “And I’m not letting you call a candy bar lunch.”

Azzi sat back in her chair, one brow lifting. “You’re persistent.”

“I work for a woman who hasn’t taken a real lunch break in ten days,” Nika replied, placing the food down. “Persistent is the bare minimum.”

Azzi didn’t argue. She slid the papers to the side and reached for the tea, unscrewing the cap but not drinking yet. Across the desk, Nika opened the takeout containers with practiced ease.

“How is your WNBA team?” Nika asked without looking up. “Season started last week.”

Azzi didn’t flinch, though the pause before her answer was longer than usual. “Lisa’s handling things,” she said. “It’s her role as general manager, and she’s doing it well. I step in only if I'm needed.”

Nika glanced up, reading more than what was said. “Good for her but that’s not the same as you supporting them.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?” Nika didn’t soften her tone. “All deadlines are in. Contracts are locked through next quarter. We’re ahead of schedule with every major client. Even your advisory meeting next week was rescheduled by you.”

Azzi set the tea down, untouched.

“You’re not too busy to show your face at a home game, Azzi. And neither the team nor the city thinks you’re invisible. So if this is about being busy, I don’t buy it.”

Azzi held her posture, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window. But the pause spoke more than anything else.

Nika watched her for another beat before easing back into her chair, unpacking a fork from its wrapper.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “But don’t pretend like this is just scheduling. You’re not fooling anyone.”

The room stretched between them, filled with paper, food, and the weight of everything unspoken.

Azzi finally reached for the container, though she still hadn’t eaten a bite. Her voice stayed level, careful. “Lisa knows what she’s doing.”

“Sure,” Nika said, spearing a piece of grilled chicken. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t still look for you.”

- Valkyries Headquarters, San Francisco. May 2025.

Practice was nearly over, but Paige hadn’t slowed once. She moved through the drills like they were personal, like every missed shot meant something more than just another rep. Her jersey clung to her back, soaked through from the effort. While the rest of the team eased off, she kept pressing.

“Okay, Paige, you trying to earn Finals MVP in practice?” Kate called, grabbing a towel from the bench.

Paige gave a quick laugh. “Just keeping sharp.”

Kiki, lounging near the sideline with her water bottle, chimed in without lifting her head. “If this is about Rookie of the Year, relax. I’m not trying to take it from you.”

“I just want to do well. Don’t want to let the team down.”

Kate tossed her towel over her shoulder and walked past. “You’re not. We’ve got your back. So maybe stop trying to bleed for every drill.”

Paige nodded, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look toward the locker room when the others started filing out. She stayed at the three-point line, adjusted her stance, and kept shooting.

The gym thinned out, noise fading as bodies left the floor. Lights still buzzed overhead. The sound of the ball hitting the rim echoed louder in the emptying space.

One more shot. Then another. She moved like she could outwork the ache settling deep in her chest.

Barclays Center, Brooklyn. June 2025.

The arena buzzed with rising energy. Lights swept across the court, catching on polished shoes and tailored jackets. Courtside filled with the usual rotation of executives, celebrities, and carefully groomed donors.

Azzi sat quietly among them, legs crossed, her posture composed. Ines sat on one side, Tony on the other. Neither drew attention.

Three nights earlier, New York liberty owner, Clara Wu had attended the foundation’s gallery fundraiser uptown.

Toward the end of the event, in the space between polite farewells and final handshakes, Clara had asked if Azzi would be attending the Liberty vs Valkyries game. It hadn’t sounded like pressure, but Azzi understood the subtext. Clara rarely asked for anything directly.

Azzi had smiled and said yes. She didn’t want to appear distant or detached, not while her team was in town, not so early in the season. By the next morning, Ines had secured the only tickets still available.

Courtside, unfortunately.

Across the floor, the Valkyries were already deep in warmups, moving through drills with controlled intensity.

Paige stayed near the top of the arc, locked into rhythm, her eyes focused straight ahead. If she noticed Azzi’s presence, she didn’t show it. The game had turned brutal in rhythm and pace.

The Liberty held a five-point lead, and the crowd rode every possession like a wave, roaring with each defensive stop and every made shot. Bodies hit the floor more often now. Elbows flared. Timeouts were used sparingly.

Paige moved with urgency. Her focus locked on the ball like nothing else existed. Sweat clung to her temples, her movements crisp and tight, no motion wasted.

When a tipped pass ricocheted off a defender’s arm and spun wildly toward the sideline, she didn’t hesitate.

She dove.

The hardwood scraped beneath her as she slid forward, arms reaching, hands wrapping around the ball just before it could bounce out of bounds. But her momentum kept going. Her body skidded past the line, straight toward the courtside seats.

She crashed at Azzi’s feet, shoulder brushing against her legs before she caught herself.

“Shit—sorry,” Paige breathed, looking up. Her voice came low and rushed, all heat and adrenaline.

Azzi’s eyes met Paige’s, calm and unreadable.

For a second, the noise in the arena blurred behind them.

Then the whistle blew. Paige scrambled up, tossed the ball to a teammate, and jogged back onto the court.

Azzi didn’t look away right away. The faint trace of contact lingered in her skin. But her face gave nothing back.

- Team bus on the way to the airport, New York. June 2025.

The internet had caught fire.

Clips of Paige diving out of bounds and crashing at Azzi’s feet spread across every platform.

Slow-motion edits looped the way Paige looked up at her, the brief glance that passed between them, the stillness of Azzi’s expression.

Screenshots froze the frame at just the right second, turning a routine hustle play into something cinematic.

Fans called it poetic. Dramatic. Predictable in the way only stories you couldn’t write better in fiction tended to be.

“This is gay history,”

“She literally landed at her feet. You cannot make this shit up.”

“It’s giving princess and her knight,” another caption declared beneath a still of Paige on the floor, Azzi seated above her, untouched, statuesque.

#ValkyriesCourtship alongside #PrincessAndTheHooper trended before the fourth quarter highlights even aired.

Even sports media picked it up. A panel segment ran on afternoon television, showing side-by-side clips with commentary that couldn’t resist the subtext.

ESPN headlined it “better than anything on Netflix.”

Paige had seen enough of it by the time she reached the team bus. Her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing, but she left it face down on the bench.

Kiki had sent her the clip with three crying emojis and “Oscar-worthy fall.”

Kate pulled up another edit as she sat beside Paige, this one layered with a ballad and a dramatic fade to black.

“You good?”

“It was just a save.”

“Sure. You threw yourself at the sideline like a knight charging into battle and landed at Miss Fudd's feet like you meant to bow.”

Paige adjusted her hoodie without answering.

Behind them, Kiki laughed.

“She’s blushing.”

She didn’t turn around. If she was, she wasn’t giving them the satisfaction.

The Venetian Resort, Las Vegas. June 2025.

Las Azzi stared at her calendar, one hand pressed to her temple, the other resting over her laptop’s trackpad. The confirmation email sat open in front of her, clear as day.

She leaned back slowly in her chair, eyes narrowing.

There was no way this wasn’t deliberate.

The Valkyries were playing the Aces. In Las Vegas. Tonight. And somehow, despite the number of ways she had tried to avoid repeating last week’s coincidence, here she was again. Same city. Same schedule. Same team.

She remembered Nika casually handing off the file three days ago. Something about a last-minute scheduling conflict, how the developers were pushing for face time, how it made sense for Azzi to take. At the time, it hadn’t sounded strange.

Now it did. Another email which held two tickets to the game had found its way to Azzi. Right.

It wouldn’t look good if she didn’t show up to the game. Not when people knew she was in the city.

If Nika and Ines had planned this, they weren’t going to admit it. But Azzi knew them both too well.

She should have seen this coming.

Michelob ULTRA Arena, Las Vegas. June 2025.

The game was tight. The Aces pushed in transition, fast and aggressive, but the Valkyries kept pace, sharp in their switches and relentless on the glass. The score stayed close, every possession carrying weight.

Azzi sat still through it all. Close enough to feel the vibrations under her heels. She didn’t react. Didn’t lean in. Just watched.

Paige was everywhere. Fighting through screens, calling switches, sinking shots like she was burning through something no one else could see. She didn’t slow down. She didn’t ease up.

When she hit a three just outside the arc, her eyes searched briefly beyond the baseline.

Azzi met the look.

The moment was brief. The game pressed forward.

The Venetian Resort, Las Vegas. June 2025.

The machine clinked quietly as Paige pressed the button again. Lights blinked. Nothing hit. She reached into the cup and slid another coin in.

The Valkyries had pulled off the win. A tight, scrappy six-point finish that left the Aces frustrated and the bench breathing hard.

Paige had smiled when she needed to. Nodded during the interviews. Let her teammates pull her into the photo. But once it was done, she slipped out early and didn’t look back.

She found herself now hunched at a forgotten corner of the casino floor, staring through the slot machine like it owed her an answer she couldn't phrase.

A pause behind her, then Azzi’s voice.

“You know I’m not paying you to lose your money on a stupid machine.” Paige slid in another coin and pressed the button, not bothering to turn around. The reels spun and missed again.

“I know you’re ignoring me,” Azzi continued. “And I deserve that. But I wanted to say congratulations. You were great tonight.”

Paige’s eyes stayed on the machine. “Hm, ‘s that all?” Azzi wanted to say more. To sit down, to explain, to ask for something she hadn’t figured out how to name yet.

She stood there for a moment, unsure if she should say more or walk away. The noise around them was constant—machines whirring, voices rising and falling, the usual chaos of a casino floor. It wasn’t the right place for this type of conversation. “Yes. Have a good night, Paige.”

Azzi moved through the casino without looking back, weaving past clusters of tourists and cocktail servers until she reached the elevators.

One had just arrived. She stepped inside, pressed her floor, and leaned back against the wall as the doors began to close.

A hand shot through at the last second.

The doors jerked open.

Paige stood there, a little breathless, eyes steady. She stepped in without asking and let the doors slide shut behind her.

“D'you already have dinner?”

Azzi shook her head.

Paige glanced at the buttons, then back at her.

“Wanna order room service with me?” -

The coffee table was a mess of wrappers and half-crumpled napkins. Paige leaned back into the couch, one leg tucked under the other, working through the last of the fries like it was a timed competition.

Azzi watched from the armchair, equal parts fascinated and horrified.

She had offered a quiet space for their impromptu dinner since Kiki was already asleep in Paige's room.

Paige had inhaled three burgers in under fifteen minutes and was now making quick work of the fries without so much as a breath.

Azzi reached for her untouched sandwich, glanced at it, then looked back at Paige.

“Do you want mine too?”

Paige didn’t even pause. “What is it?”

“That was sarcasm.”

“You’re gonna need to be more specific if food’s involved.”

Azzi shook her head, sinking deeper into the chair. “I’m genuinely alarmed.”

“You’ve seen me play,” Paige said through a mouthful of fries. “How is this surprising?”

“You didn’t unhinge your jaw during the game.”

Paige grinned, tossed a fry in the air, and caught it with her mouth.

Azzi sighed and reached for the water bottle on the table but didn’t drink. Her gaze lingered on Paige, still working through the fries like nothing in the world could distract her.

“You’ve been playing really well lately,” she said. “The last few games especially.”

Paige slowed her chewing just a little. “Oh.”

Azzi smiled.

“I mean, thanks. I didn’t know you were watching.”

There was a pause. Azzi could have let it pass, could have deflected or changed the subject, but the quiet between them felt too close to something real to lie through.

“I haven’t missed a game,” she said. “Even if I’m not there, I watch. Every one of them.”

Paige blinked, then looked down, a trace of pink blooming along her cheeks as she reached for another fry she clearly didn’t need.

Sitting with her hands loosely clasped in her lap, Azzi’s eyes fixed on the untouched sandwich beside her. The weight between them had been there the whole night, carefully unspoken, but now it pressed harder, closer. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “For what happened. For how it happened. It wasn’t fair to you. If I could take it back... I would.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She wiped her hands clean with a napkin, taking her time, then leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees.

“I don’t regret kissing and making out with you that night,” she said.

Azzi finally looked at her.

“I only regret putting you in a position. You were already carrying too much, and I pushed you when I should’ve backed off. That’s on me.” Her voice dropped. “I’m sorry for that.”

Azzi shook her head slowly, the words already forming before Paige could say anything more. “No. Paige, I was the one who kissed you.”

“And I kissed you back.”

Azzi looked away, lips pressed together for a moment before she spoke again.

“I let my emotions get the best of me. That night... I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“That’s exactly my regret,” Paige leaned back slightly, eyes holding firm. “I didn’t stop to think what you were going through. I shouldn’t have let it go that far when I knew you weren’t steady.” She stood up abruptly. “God! Azzi, you just had to deal with your brother that night and all I could think was myself and my stupid ego.” Azzi’s brow lifted, disbelief flickering across her face.

“You’ve really been carrying this like it’s on you?”

"Well...”

Azzi motioned to the couch. “Sit down.”

Paige hesitated but did as she was told, settling into the cushion with a quiet breath.

“Listen,” Azzi started, her tone even but not cold. “I don’t know why you’re blaming yourself, but don’t. And if it makes you feel better, I appreciate your thoughts about me. It’s been a long time since anyone’s cared enough to think about what I’m feeling.”

She paused, eyes fixed forward.

“But I’m not going to lie. We’re re-opening something we shouldn’t cross again.”

Paige sat still, her body tight, listening.

“We started on the wrong path, Paige. And if we keep walking it, it’s going to lead both of us somewhere we won’t come back from. Whatever this was, we can’t keep going. There’s too much at stake. Not just for me. For you too.”

Paige kept her gaze on the floor, jaw tight. The words weren’t new. Not really. She had imagined this conversation too many times—Azzi choosing control over closeness, reason over feeling. But now that it was happening, the actual weight of it pressed in deeper than she expected.

She had been holding on to guilt, turning it over in her head like a stone she thought she could smooth down if she just kept at it long enough. But hearing Azzi say it out loud, the finality of her tone, made it clear that nothing she’d been carrying would change the ending.

Still, it stung.

It stung to be told they had started on the wrong path when it had been the only one that felt right.

She nodded slowly, barely.

“Okay,” she said, though it didn’t feel like one.

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. May 2025.

The Valkyries were rolling. Eleven wins, three losses. The best start of any expansion team in league history. Their chemistry was sharp, execution cleaner with every game, and the league had started paying attention.

Paige was a headline regular now. Her stats held weight, her plays made highlight reels, and the noise around her name had shifted from hopeful to certain. Rookie of the Year wasn’t just possible—it was probable.

All-Star voting opened with her name already at the top of the ballots.

She felt it, the momentum. The lift of it. Practices ran smoother, her body felt lighter, even the travel days didn’t drag.

But that talk in Las Vegas hadn’t left her.

Azzi hadn’t shown up to a game since. Not once. Not even for the home stands.

The gym had emptied out over an hour ago, but Paige was still there, catching her own rebounds, the steady rhythm of the ball echoing through the quiet space. Her body moved on instinct—one dribble, two, rise, release. Net. Repeat.

She wasn’t tired. Not enough to stop.

The sound of the door clicking open didn’t pull her attention right away. Only when footsteps drew closer did she finally glance toward the baseline.

Azzi stood just inside, arms crossed, the faintest trace of something amused in her voice.

“Practice ended a while ago. If you’re staying this long, I should start charging you gym maintenance.”

Paige caught the ball and held it. Her breathing slowed as she turned to face the person living rent free in her head for the past couple of months.

She let the ball rest against her hip, then spun it slowly in one hand.

“I don’t want to slack,” she said. “We’re on a five-game win streak. Last thing I need is my boss getting mad I’m not putting it all out there.”

She looked up, a flicker of something teasing behind her eyes.

“Last I heard, she never misses watching our games.”

Azzi scoffed, stepping forward without hesitation. She plucked the ball from Paige’s hand like it belonged to her. “You really think flattery’s going to make me overlook the fact that you’re hogging the gym?”

Paige grinned and walked backward toward the free throw line, holding out her hand, shrugging. “If I said I was staying late to honor the legacy of the franchise, would that make it better?”

Azzi turned the ball slowly in her hands. “It might make it worse.”

Paige laughed, stepping back with a bounce in her step. “I’m just trying to keep the lights on. You know, making sure your multi-million dollar floor space stays in good use.”

“I should charge you rent.”

“Add it to my contract,” Paige said, motioning toward the court. “Tell you what. You make one shot, I’ll clear out.”

Azzi tilted her head. “You think I’m just going to embarrass myself for your amusement?”

“I think you’re dying to see if you can make one,” Paige said, voice low and teasing. “Come on. You’re standing on the floor of your own team’s gym, and you’ve never even taken a shot?”

Azzi stared at her for a long second, then shook her head and let out a sigh.

“You’re relentless.”

Paige grinned and walked toward the free throw line, tossing the ball up and catching it. “One shot. I promise I won’t tell the world. Unless it’s perfect.”

Azzi followed her slowly, arms folded.

“This is ridiculous.”

“This is team bonding.”

“You’re not my team.”

“I’m your headache. Close enough.”

Azzi let out a breath, finally taking the ball back. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when this ruins my reputation.”

Paige stepped in, already adjusting her grip. “If anything, this is gonna make it better.” Azzi stared at the hoop like it was challenging her. She adjusted her grip on the ball, stepped awkwardly toward the free throw line, and squared her shoulders like she had watched athletes do a hundred times from the sidelines.

She launched.

It left her fingers too flat, spinning awkwardly in the air before clanking off the front rim and bouncing back with a dull thud.

Paige bit her lip, then broke into a jog to chase it down before it rolled out of bounds.

“That was…” She paused, dribbling the ball once. “A very brave attempt.”

Azzi crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it.”

“I’m not.” Paige grinned. “I’m saying you’re clearly an expert at hitting the exact part of the rim that guarantees it won’t go in.”

She walked the ball back, but instead of handing it over, she stopped in front of Azzi and held it with one hand. Her voice dropped, softer this time, and something in her face shifted.

“Let me show you.”

Azzi hesitated, watching her closely. There was no mocking now. Paige’s grin had settled into something quieter. Not serious, but careful. Like she was trying not to move too quickly through a moment that meant more than it should.

She nodded once.

Paige stepped closer, placing the ball in Azzi’s hands again, but this time kept hers there too. She adjusted Azzi’s grip gently, her thumbs brushing over Azzi’s knuckles.

“Right here. Let your shooting hand sit under the ball. Other hand just helps guide it.”

Azzi didn’t look at the hoop. She looked at Paige. Their hands were tangled around the ball, Paige’s fingers warm and steady. Close enough to feel her breath when she spoke again.

“You don’t need to force it. Let it roll off your fingers. It’s about rhythm. Trust.”

Azzi swallowed hard.

“Trust the shot?”

Paige’s eyes met hers. “Trust yourself.”

The gym felt too quiet. Just the creak of sneakers on polished wood and the low hum of lights above. Paige stepped behind her, setting her palms lightly on Azzi’s elbows, guiding them into position.

“Bend your knees a little. Keep your elbow under the ball.”

Azzi followed. The motion was stiff, but she listened.

Paige leaned in, voice at her ear. “Now lift it slow. Let it go at the top.”

Azzi raised her arms and released. The ball floated, not perfect, but cleaner. It hit the backboard and bounced toward the rim before falling away.

Better.

Azzi turned to look at her, something flickering in her eyes. Not frustration. Something else. A heat she didn’t name.

“That was almost good,” Paige said.

“Almost?”

“I think you need another lesson.”

- Paige’s apartment, Oakland. June 2025.

The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of Paige’s phone. She was sprawled on the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched toward the armrest. Her hair was damp from a shower, and there was a half-finished protein shake on the coffee table.

Her thumbs tapped quickly.

Paige: You looked good last night. Paige: But I still think your hair looked better during draft night.

She attached a photo.

It was Azzi, polished and poised, walking into a real estate conference. Hair pulled back in a sleek twist, dressed in a charcoal pantsuit that made her look every inch the power executive Twitter loved to obsess over.

Azzi: Where did you get this?

Paige answered before the read receipt even registered.

Paige: Internet. You’re famous, remember?

Azzi exhaled through her nose, typing slowly.

Azzi: Are you stalking me now?

Paige: Maybe. Paige: Just enough to form an opinion about your hairstyles.

Azzi: And here I thought you were too busy chasing Rookie of the Year.

Paige: I multitask.

Azzi sat up straighter in bed, the corners of her mouth betraying the start of a smile.

Azzi: You really liked my hair that night?

Paige: I like a lot of things when it comes to you. Paige: Want a list?

Azzi hesitated.

Azzi: I’m scared of that list.

Paige: You should be. It’s long.

Azzi: Paige.

Paige: Azzi.

Azzi: I thought we weren’t doing this.

Paige: You texted back. Paige: So maybe you’re doing it too.

There was a pause. Paige watched the typing bubble appear and disappear three times. Then finally:

Azzi: Goodnight, Paige.

Paige stared at it. Then sent one more message without thinking.

Paige: I still like your hair better down.

She set her phone down beside her, the softest grin tugging at her mouth as she leaned back into the couch.

While Azzi lay still in the dark, phone on her chest, heartbeat louder than it should be. She didn’t reply again. But she didn’t stop reading it either.

Rocco's Cafe, San Francisco. June 2025.

The clink of glass against ceramic filled the space between them. Afternoon light poured through the tall windows of the restaurant, the kind of place Nika always picked—unassuming, elegant, with an outdoor view that cost more than it looked. Azzi sat across from her, shoulders relaxed, her phone turned face down for once.

Nika stirred her espresso, eyes flicking to the plate Azzi had barely touched.

“Westlake signed,” she said. “The rezoning permits came in yesterday.”

Azzi nodded, lifting her glass. “Good. I want the contractors briefed by Friday. We’ll reroute phase three if they can’t break ground in time.”

“They will.” Nika took a sip, then leaned back in her chair. “What about the Dallas project? Still holding?”

Azzi glanced past her toward the window. “We’re waiting on final numbers. But I’m not rushing that one. The board will push if I give them a reason.”

A beat passed, comfortable and slow. Nika tilted her head, her voice quieter.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine?”

“You’re more than fine.”

Azzi looked at her confused.

Nika smiled, sharp but kind. “You’ve been smiling. Laughing. You even left the office before seven last week.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, daring Nika to continue.

“You’re glowing.”

She shook her head, but her mouth twitched like it wanted to smile.

“And forgive me, but I have a feeling Jake’s not the reason.”

Nika lifted her cup with a knowing tilt, like she was letting Azzi keep her secret while quietly reminding her it wasn’t all that well hidden.

- San Francisco International Airport, San Francisco. June 2025.

Azzi reread the message from the Valkyries’ training staff, the words sharp in their precision.

Concussion protocol.

Paige had been pulled from practice following a hit during the game against Indiana two nights ago.

Azzi had watched that game from a bar in Dallas, her tablet propped up between half-finished cocktails and development briefs. The meeting with local contractors had stretched past dinner.

Her flight home today was late and quiet, and somewhere over the Rockies, exhaustion claimed her.

The message hadn’t registered until she was standing outside Terminal 2, luggage beside her, the San Francisco air cutting through her blazer. She scrolled absently while waiting for the car.

Another text sat beneath the first.

Let us know if you’d like to see the medical report.

She didn’t reply right away. Headlights pulled up. The town car stopped cleanly at the curb.

She typed her reply.

Not necessary.

Tony stepped out, moved to the trunk. Azzi got in without a word. The door closed with a soft click, and the city hummed low around them.

She stared straight ahead. Thinking. More thinking. “Tony, we’re making a detour.”

- Paige’s apartment, Oakland. June 2025.

Paige blinked, hard, like it would help make sense of the shape in front of her.

Azzi stood at the doorway, calm as ever, hair tucked neatly behind one ear, as if she belonged there. She hadn’t called. Hadn’t messaged.

And now Azzi was stepping inside like she hadn’t just knocked a minute ago, like being let in meant she belonged there.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “You know, knocking doesn’t mean you get to just walk in like it’s your office.”

Azzi took two more steps in, ignoring the comment entirely.

“You’re in concussion protocol,” she said. “I got the update this morning.”

“I—what? Wait, how do you even—” Paige closed the door slowly. “You’re not even on the medical distribution list.”

“I don’t need to be.”

“Okay. Cool. Great. Love the vague billionaire surveillance energy,” Paige muttered. “That’s definitely what every injured rookie wants.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “I didn’t hack into anything, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Paige snorted. “You didn’t have to. One look from you and half the staff probably tripped over themselves to send an update.”

“I asked, they answered.”

“Right. Because that’s totally normal. Just your average team owner flying across the country to check on a player with a bump to the head.”

“I’m not your average team owner,” Azzi’s gaze didn’t waver. “And it wasn’t just a bump.”

Paige’s breath hitched before she could hide it.

She tried to mask it with sarcasm. “So what now? Are you here to run your own tests? Gonna flash a penlight in my eyes, ask me who the president is?”

"Would you answer if I did?”

“Depends,” Paige said, voice lower now. “Are you gonna tell me why you really came?”

Azzi didn’t look away. “Does it matter?”

“It does if you want to keep pretending this is just about basketball.”

“Paige.” “Azzi.”

Azzi exhaled, slow and tired. “I was worried.”

Paige stepped closer, the tension in her shoulders softening as she reached out and cupped Azzi’s face with both hands.

“I’m fine,” she said gently. “You don’t have to worry.”

Azzi didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on Paige, and before she realized it, she was leaning into the warmth of that touch, drawn by something quieter than reason.

Paige moved in without rushing, her hands sliding down until they rested on Azzi’s waist. She pulled her in, carefully, like she didn’t want to spook her. Their bodies met in a slow, steady hold.

Azzi let herself be held.

“Didn’t we agree we need to stop this?” Azzi’s voice was soft, but the weight behind it settled between them.

"I only agreed half-heartedly.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and gave her a light smack on the arm. Paige caught her wrist before she could pull away, grinning.

“Let’s just have this night, please.” Paige said, voice lowered to something more honest. “We don’t have to do anything. I miss you.”

There was a pause, then a quiet mumble from Azzi. “I miss you too.”

Paige wrapped her in a hug, slow but firm, the kind that said more than words could carry. She held Azzi tightly, grounding herself in the contact, in the relief of having her this close again.

“How was your flight?” she asked after a moment, still not letting go.

Azzi answered once they finally pulled back, their fingers laced. “Long. Delayed twice. I hated every second.”

“Stay the night,” Paige said without thinking.

Azzi blinked. Her body stilled. “Paige—”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Paige added quickly. “We both need rest. That’s all. Just... don’t leave.”

Azzi hesitated for only a beat, then reached for her phone. She typed out a message to Tony to go home without her.

Paige disappeared for a moment and came back with a folded UConn sweatshirt and matching joggers. “You’ll look better in these than I ever did.”

Azzi gave her a look, took the clothes, and changed in the bathroom. When she emerged, the room was dim, Paige already under the covers.

She climbed in, the air between them thick with hesitation. They left a small space between their bodies, but not for long.

“Come here, ma,” Paige said, voice almost teasing.

Azzi didn’t bother pretending. She folded into Paige’s side, resting her head on her shoulder.

“I’m only doing this because of your concussion protocol,” she murmured.

Paige laughed, the sound low and grateful. “If it means I get to have you like this, I’ll bang my head every day.”

Azzi let out a quiet laugh of her own, her breath brushing against Paige’s neck.

Paige pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you for coming. And for checking on me.” “We’re so bad at stopping this.”

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #terms of play series

323 notes · View notes

sorryimananti-romantic · 4 months ago

Text

The Leaders | Chapter VI

"maybe a place where light and darkness meet, the choice between truth and lies is mine."

masterlist

ot8!ateez x f!reader, mafia au

chapter warnings: drinking, illegal businesses, mentions of violence, war/military and weapons, mention of drug(s), mc is confused as fawk but is vibing with whatever is going on, we finally meet the asshole father, hongjoong shows that he can be an asshole too, cue tears, seonghwa takes that chance to up his game (look idk how else to do warnings) (i may have missed sth)

chapter wc: 13.8k

chapter synopsis: the crescents share updates, deciding to dig deeper into the unknown identity of the anonymous funder. yeosang reveals that the rv spies are protecting you from a threat that is not secretary park and the anxiety of that unknown threat weighs on you heavily. yunho hints at the nature of the crescents’ relationship and you decide to take some time to think about it. The bosses finally tell you about their drug project and hongjoong asks you to accompany them to edenary as their partner, where they will be making a new deal. you confront secretary park there, but the night ends in tears, especially when you conflict with the boss. the underboss is there to make you feel better.

prev chapter recap: you are supposed to meet assemblyman wi with hongjoong. seonghwa tries his best to calm you while hongjoong gifts you an infinity clasp bracelet which only confuses you further. when you meet the assemblyman, hongjoong admits that he’s trying to make you ‘a leader’. you successfully make assemblyman wi agree to investigate secretary park with the keyword of ‘strictland’. while you relax with san, yeosang has a meeting with wendy and learns that the rv spies are protecting you from threats that they refuse to reveal– the real threat is not secretary park. worried, yeosang decides to call a meeting with the boys without your knowledge. you practise shooting with the warehouse boys and you learn that yunho has actually placed bets on how you won’t be able to shoot a single target. agitated, you cheat a little and have the warehouse boys win the bet. you also ask them to look into their anonymous funders as you learn more about the weapons project. finally, you confront yunho who teases you to no end but takes you to a place from his childhood to show you how he learned to aim. the night takes an unexpected, intimate turn.

You once heard about the butterfly effect. It was fascinating to hear how the most infinitesimal flutter of their wings could end up creating a ripple of change through time itself– unimaginable and irreversible change.

Sometimes, you would trace back the events of your life to understand which flutter of a pair of wings, or which pebble thrown in the lake led you to where you were today, at Room no. 1 at the Crescent Bar with all of the boys around you– probably a consequence of a series of small and insignificant decisions coupled with some big decisions.

It was surreal how you went from an observer of the Crescents to being a part of the Crescents yourself.You never thought their little actions would make your heart move so much and never did you imagine that they would create their space in your heart in such a short period of time. Instead of sneaking peeks from the office window, you sat among them and noticed that your presence didn’t change anything.

Your presence didn’t make them wary and you found the nature of their conversations remained the same as without you. They were including you in their discussion and making you feel comfortable with the little things- asking for your opinion as if it mattered (yes, they insisted it did but it was still hard to believe so), pouring wine for you, putting food in your plate, and even–

Even paying attention to the little details– the slight raise of your brow whenever you didn’t fully agree with something, the curling of your fingers as you picked on your skin when all eyes were trained on you, the exchange of glances with San when you both found something funny, the pointed look towards Yeosang when Hongjoong would play boss with you, the pointed look in Hongjoong’s direction when he would point out a discrepancy in your argument.

The way your eyes naturally fixed on Seonghwa whenever you needed assurance, which was kind of funny because this man was mainly the reason you were here right now. The way you would avoid Yunho’s eyes when his fingers would intertwine with yours with a promising squeeze in hopes of providing some sort of comfort or agreement. The masking of your laughter when Jongho shared a cheesy joke and the partnering with Wooyoung whenever you had something funny to add to the argument since your sense of humour matched with his the most. And finally, the way you would look towards Mingi for help whenever you felt like you were being driven into a corner by any one of them.

You were the most relieved to realise that your presence didn’t change their dynamics, yet, there was an inevitable change in their interactions so they could be attentive towards you, and you to them. You fitted right in. It was not a missing piece of the puzzle, rather, the puzzle itself changed to accommodate you. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Luna? Are you alright?”

It was both Yunho’s voice and his comforting squeeze of hand that brought you out of a trance and you blinked, appreciating the call.

“Oh, I’m perfectly alright. Just zoned out for a moment.”

You were alright. Your heart felt full at the sight of the boys chatting and eating, Seonghwa scooping some more rice for you and nudging you with his hand on your shoulder, pointing at the food. “I make sure everyone eats.”

“I finished two bowls, Sir.”

“Well, this one is still full,” he said. “Eat.”

“Yes, Sir,” you mocked, downing a drink, not oblivious to the snickers from the boys who overheard this little interaction. You sent a glare in their direction before giving in and begrudgingly taking a bite. You couldn’t disobey the underboss and expect to get away with it.

“Alright, if we’re all done eating and fooling around,” Hongjoong called after a few moments, grabbing everyone’s attention. “General Wi called to let me know that he thinks we’re right to suspect Secretary Park. He sent his men to tail Park Sunghoon and they got ambushed and barely made it out alive.”

Jongho grunted at the news, brows scrunching in thought. “Could Sunghoon be acting on his own, though?”

Hongjoong looked towards you for an answer and you shook your head. “I’m not sure if anything has changed in the past couple of years, but our father never allowed him to stray too far. He’s always had him on a leash, you could say. Might be part of the reason why Sunghoon rebels so much.”

“Right,” Hongjoong nodded. “General Wi did find something odd. He used his connections to find out if Secretary Park has been out of the country recently, and discovered that he’s been frequenting Halaland for a considerable amount of time now.”

“He could have some other dealing going on in Halaland?” San wondered, always giving anyone the benefit of doubt. “We should look into that.”

“Or if he’s visiting Strictland,” Mingi began. “He can’t simply go to Strictland from Eden. That would be too obvious. You need a permit to visit Strictland from Eden but if I’m recalling correctly, you can visit Strictland without a permit if you’re a Hala local. He could have easily tagged with some locals then.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t simply go to Strictland from here if he was involved in something illegal,” you agreed with Mingi. “He can go to extreme lengths to hide something he doesn’t want the world to know about.”

The boys had a feeling that you were referring to yourself too and they exchanged glances. Yeosang was the first to speak. “We can check if he’s had any reason to go to Halaland first before we assume that he’s up to something in Strictland. Are we still in contact with Suho’s gang?”

“It’s been radio silence for a while but I’ll make a call or send a message– I can’t promise a positive response,” Jongho said and you wondered if being half-Hala ever earned him some benefits. Was he really friendly with the gang based in Halaland? “We didn’t really end things on a good note.”

“It’s fine, we can look for some other means too,” Seonghwa suggested. “Maybe the RV spies.”

“The RV spies?” You repeated, the name foreign on your lips. “Who are they?”

“A spy network of women,” Seonghwa was smiling and you thought there was a secret concealed within his words. “You remember Winter? She’s one of them. They’re really good at disguise and have dirt on literally every person in Eden– even the common man.”

You let that sink in. Seonghwa had a meeting with Winter the other day and the sight of her rocked a familiar yet distant memory in your head. You were positive you had come across her in Edenary. So she was a spy?

“If they’re that extensive and meticulous, they would know a lot about me, right? Maybe things that even I don’t know about.”

“Yeah, we considered contacting them when we were looking into your background,” Yunho admitted and you made a face, making him laugh a bit. “We never got to that, though. We had other sources.”

“Kihyun?” You asked and he nodded in confirmation.

“And Hongjoong was quick enough to figure it out himself,” Seonghwa added, amused as he recalled that night.

“Yeah, well, it was very obvious. Your father may have done a good job hiding you but you didn’t really do a good job hiding yourself,” he commented.

“Well, I wasn’t really hiding myself,” you lied and he caught that, raising a brow in challenge. “More like… delaying the inevitable.”

The boys laughed at that, Jongho filling everyone’s glasses again and you all cheered before drinking.

“Oh, one last thing,” Mingi began, having just recalled his recent findings. “We officially know the identity of all of our anonymous funders save for one.”

“And you’ve tried everything?” Hongjoong asked and when Mingi nodded, he settled back in thought.

“How old is the source?”

“September 1966,” Mingi said and the room fell silent as everyone tried to recall the events from four years ago.

You remembered that time well. “I came back to Eden from Wonderland on 14th August, 1966.”

“And President Han Hyojoo was assassinated on 17th August,” Wooyoung scratched his chin. “There were a lot of protests and things were bad for a while– even in September. Right?”

“Yes,” Yunho took a deep breath. “I think it was in September when the Siren Rebel Party laid its foundations. They feared martial law would be imposed on Eden, but President Lee won the elections– he was a favourite at that time.”

“Pity votes,” Wooyoung huffed, folding his arms. “I never liked that man. His smile scares me.”

While some of them burst into laughter, teasing Wooyoung’s unwarranted dislike for the President of Eden, Seonghwa noticed how you fell silent. “What are you thinking?”

“Why was President Han assassinated?” You wondered. “I mean, yeah, she obviously had enemies, but wasn’t she from a long line of politicians? She wasn’t the first female president either. Didn’t she contribute a lot to rebuild Eden?”

“She did,” Hongjoong said, “alongside President Son until his term was over, and then she won the elections yet kept a strong partnership with President Son. They were quite a pair.”

“And Lee Jinwook was basically a nobody even while he was a politician until his wife got killed,” Wooyoung said. “Then he started collecting pity votes.”

“I think Wooyoung has got some personal beef with President Lee,” Jongho laughed. “He’s always after him.”

“You would be too if you look closely,” Wooyoung wasn’t having any of it. “We all know that he only won because of his late wife, and now he thinks he’s something.”

“Well, Eden has been stable in his administration so far, and we’re almost nearing the end of his term,” Yeosang tried. “He doesn’t really have enemies.”

“Isn’t that odd?” You narrowed your eyes. “If President Lee claims to be continuing his wife’s legacy, and his wife got killed because someone had a problem with how things ran, wouldn’t they get rid of him too?”

“That… is a good point,” San shifted uncomfortably.

“What is the difference between President Lee’s administration and President Han’s?” You asked, looking around. “He can’t be running things exactly the same way, right?”

“It’s mostly the same, with a few changes,” Seonghwa said. “Attempts to try to improve the relation with Halaland, which shouldn’t be odd because we can’t be at the risk of war all the time. More contributions to the healthcare system and that we can owe that to Secretary Park, and then… a few personnel and administration changes. President Son retired from politics altogether– there was some tension between them.”

You bit your lips in thought. You really needed to refresh your history because something was gnawing at your mind; a connection that was present and felt an arm’s reach away but you couldn’t grab it.

“Do you think it’s got anything to do with our anonymous source?” Hongjoong asked. “I don’t want you wasting time on what-ifs. If you’re sure there’s a connection, then we can investigate.”

You nodded, making a mental note to talk to Seonghwa about this later. You might be shooting an arrow in the dark but you could never be too sure. “I just think the timing is odd. President Lee wouldn’t need to make sure there are enough weapons in Eden illegally. So it’s got to be someone who was sure President Lee would not be doing enough for Eden’s defence.”

Mingi agreed, “They think the President is still not doing enough considering how we receive our paychecks regularly.”

“Alright, let’s assume there is a connection but don’t let it narrow the focus of your investigation,” Hongjoong concluded and he started giving instructions around the table. The meeting was over and you would all be separating ways now.

“Do you have a moment before you leave?” Yeosang asked when you were picking up your belongings, the warehouse boys just having shared farewell hugs with you. There was still a smile on your face from when Wooyoung kissed your cheek and looked pointedly at Yunho– you weren’t sure if Wooyoung was aware that you and Yunho had crossed some boundaries, but it was still amusing to watch Yunho roll his eyes and scoff before leaving. Wooyoung said they would be having dinner at BB Trippin soon and you were also invited.

“Sure. I was only going to go home,” you said and followed him to his office. You dumped your things on his desk as if you still belonged there– perhaps, you did. The office looked more unorganised than usual with empty glasses lining the table, a few bottles in the corner and documents strewn everywhere.

“Have you been drinking?” You asked. Yeosang was a drinker, but he was never untidy.

“Ah, yes,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I can explain the mess– I was looking into a few things recently and uh…”

“And Luna is not here anymore to clean up after you?” You finished for him. “No new bookkeeper?”

“I’m the bookkeeper now,” he said in all seriousness and you passed him a warning look. “Alright, I’m considering Jeonghan for the post.”

“Jeonghan would make you do all the work while he naps or fools around,” you pointed out but you both knew you were joking– he was really clever and you were considering suggesting him to Yeosang anyway. “So, what’s this about?”

Yeosang waited until you settled down and then he took a seat in front of you across the desk. He was watching you in thought and you let him have a moment to sort his thoughts out.

“I worry about your safety, Luna,” he started. “And it’s why I want you to be honest during our conversation. I know you have your own secrets but I really need to confirm a few things so we know what we’re dealing with.”

“Okay,” you nodded, narrowing your eyes in suspicion and confusion.

“The boys do not know that I’m having this conversation with you because we agreed not to tell you, for now,” he told you and you blinked in surprise. They told each other everything. “But after this meeting, I think we should talk. And if you wish so, our conversation can remain between us unless we feel that we should let them know for safety reasons.”

“Alright,” you shifted uncomfortably. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Are you sure your father is the only one who means to harm you?”

Oh.

“I mean… Sunghoon might?” you suggested. “He’s always been after me for different reasons. Sibling rivalry, if you can call it that.”

“Yeah, but if Secretary Park is after you and Sunghoon is aware of it, then he wouldn’t need to interfere, right?” Yeosang said and you shrugged in agreement. “Can you think of any other person who might be after you? Anyone who might have a grudge against you? Anyone from Eden or Wonderland?”

“Did something happen?” You asked again, your voice laced with worry.

“Nothing, but we got a tip recently. The RV spies didn’t reveal who they meant, but they were sure that Secretary Park is not the real threat that you should be worrying about.”

Cold washed over you as his words registered, a montage of your life flashing through your eyes in an attempt to recall any falling out you’ve had with someone who was not your family, or any time you might have intentionally or unintentionally caused harm to someone or said something unkind.

“I… can’t think of anything, Yeosang,” you looked at him and he immediately moved to hold your hands in his, squeezing them reassuringly to ease the despair in your voice. “Why would someone be after me? My father has a reason, even though it’s not justifiable, but why would someone else be?”

He only shrugged in response. He had no answer either and from what he knew, you had lived a pretty secluded life.

“Could it be Assemblyman General Wi? I might have rubbed off on him the wrong way–”

“I don’t think they meant him. They didn’t say anything explicitly but… you must understand that RV spies are assassins. Usually, they are employed to get rid of a person or an organisation. But for the first time, I’m hearing that they’re protecting someone.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” He cocked his head and you exhaled in disbelief. “They think whatever information you have is valuable enough that they have to make sure that it’s not in the wrong hands. I think if they haven’t killed you yet, that means they’re okay with you sharing that information with us.”

“Very helpful, Yeosang,” you muttered and he stifled a smile.

“They’re protecting you,” he chastised, squeezing your hands softly for good measure. “Whoever you are or whatever you’ve heard while you were in Edenary is worth enough that the most notorious spies and assassins are trying to protect you. And they think they’ll be doomed if you get hurt.”

“That can’t be true,” you wrenched your hands away from Yeosang, shaking your head furiously. “I’ve told you everything that I’ve heard.”

“And I believe you,” Yeosang responded cautiously. “I just want you to think again, yeah? You don’t have to worry– you’re safe. You can take your time and think if there was something that was odd and didn’t make sense back then. It might make sense now. Your time in Edenary, in Wonderland and when you came back… I know it’s overwhelming but can you do that for me?”

You nodded absently, getting up and clutching your bag in one hand, about to leave when Yeosang stepped in front of you and gave you a disapproving look.

“Don’t let it get to your head, Luna,” he placed his hands on the dip of your shoulders, locking eyes with you. “You’ll be okay.”

“Why do the rest don’t know about this meeting, Yeosang?” You asked, unable to keep the scepticism from your tone. “Do they still not trust me after all I’ve done for them? After all I’ve given them?”

Yeosang shook his head. “They trust you, and we all mutually agreed to try to get the RV spies to talk or look into it ourselves, because we didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he admitted. “We knew you’d take it to heart. They don’t like to see you anxious.”

“What do they care if I’m anxious or not?”

“I thought you knew by now, Luna, that we care. All of us do.”

“Then why did you tell me now?” You asked, barely a whisper.

“Because I’ve known you longer than they have,” he smiled. “And I know that if you’re aware of this, you might be less cross with us than if you find out later. I owe you one, remember?”

He was making up to you for getting you involved with them– for assigning you bookkeeping without telling you the consequences of that job. You avoided his gaze as you smiled but you felt guilty for snapping at him.

The boys really just wanted to make sure that you were at peace. They would rather inconvenience themselves to find out the answers than have you restless.

Yeosang hooked his finger under your chin, making you look at him and you both dissolved into chuckles as you tried to pull away from him. You quickly gave up and let him bring you in for a hug, his arms wrapping around you securely and his steady voice assuring you that you would be okay, that you had nothing to worry about. That they would keep you safe. You buried your nose in the crook of his neck, taking deep breaths and he kissed the top of your head.

When you drew away, his hands slid down your arms to hold your hands and he noticed the cuff bracelet on your wrist, lips curling into a smile as he recognised it.

“Do you always wear it?”

“Yeah,” you raised your arm to look at the silver bracelet. It looked like he was aware that Hongjoong had given it to you, and now that you knew that Yeosang had feelings for you that were not entirely platonic, it was strange to see not a hint of jealousy or envy on his face. Instead, his eyes gleamed and you poked his chest.

“You’re weird, Yeosang.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” he scoffed, watching the bracelet on your wrist for just a moment longer before he looked at you. “Let me know if you feel like it’s too much, okay?”

“Which part?”

Yeosang had a faint smile on his lips as he tucked your hair back and caressed your cheeks in the process. “Whichever part feels too much?”

“I don’t understand when you all are going to stop trying to talk to me in circles and say something,” you almost cried out. “That part is too much.”

“Is there something you’ve been wanting to hear?” Yeosang cocked his head, amused. “Or… did something happen? Something you’d like to tell me about?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Is there something you’d like me to tell you?”

“Hmm… let’s see,” he trailed his finger down your temple, his thumb subtly swiping at your bottom lip, perhaps an indication that he did know. “I’m just wondering if you found the answer to the question you asked me last time.”

“What question?” You asked softly, feigning innocence as you curled your fingers around his hand that rested on your cheek. “Why don’t you remind me again?”

Yeosang only chuckled, knowing very well that perhaps, you were done playing games with them– or at least him. He drew back, raising his hands in defeat.

“Maybe when you’re ready to answer it.”

“Yeosang,” you warned. “You’re all in this together, aren’t you? At least some of you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” He raised a brow in challenge, opening the door for you. “Have a good evening, Luna.”

The rain continued to pour without a break for the remainder of the week and more. The sun would rarely come out but when it did, it would be heavily concealed by clouds and just offer a sheen of glimmer on the wet pavements and roads of Sector 1. The days remained bleak, a reflection or perhaps a fuel for your gloominess.

Although nothing significant happened after your conversation with Yeosang a few days ago, it still weighed heavily upon your heart. The shift in your mood didn’t go unnoticed by your colleagues Eunha and Jihoon, though they didn’t comment on your lack of contribution to conversations and how your smile didn’t meet your eyes anymore. They had a feeling that if they probed, you wouldn’t offer anything in return.

They didn’t need to either, for there were plenty of people worrying about you. Yunho, for instance, who was quick to realise something was up and confronted you the other night when you were in his office finishing up a report.

You tried to avoid the question by dismissing the change in your energy as exhaustion but he wasn’t having any of it. You figured you were obvious, especially in front of him. It was hard to look at him without wanting to open up your heart to him, especially when his presence was so welcoming.

“Won’t you talk to me about it?” He pleaded in a mellow voice and an even softer gaze, his eyes rounding and brows scrunching.

There. Your weakness.

“Yunho. You can’t look at me like that,” you tossed the pen on the table between you and slumped back, folding your arms as you softly admonished. “This won’t work on me anymore.”

“What?”

“Those eyes of yours,” you said and he choked on his laughter. He proceeded to loosen his tie, the top button of his shirt conveniently unbuttoned already. Strands of hair messily fell over his forehead and you had to physically restrain the urge to run your hands through his soft hair.

“I’d say it’s working,” he smiled almost victoriously, leaning forward. “Can you really not talk about it?”

You pressed your lips tightly in consideration before you finally gave in. You were only human, after all. “Yeosang told me about how the RV spies are protecting me from some threat that is not my father.”

Yunho whistled in realisation. Of course that was bothering you. “I knew he was going to tell you.”

“I expected you would tell me.”

“Well, I was the one who insisted that we don’t tell you yet for exactly this reason,” he looked at you pointedly and you hid your face behind your hands, guilty. “You’re all worried now. Anyways, I wouldn’t believe anything they say right away without verification, though they’re a pretty reliable source.”

You uncovered your face. “Don’t tell the rest that I know, okay?”

Yunho laughed softly but agreed. “So? Any thoughts about who might be interested in you?”

“I wouldn’t be in this state if I had it figured out,” you almost cried out. “I have been very low-profile until I started working here in the office. I can’t think of anyone who would want to get rid of me– for what? For the information I possess? What information exactly, because what I have right now only threatens Secretary Park… unless…”

“Unless Secretary Park’s secret is someone else’s secret too?” Yunho finished for you and you nodded. “Do you recall who exactly was the person your father was discussing the Strictland matter with?”

“I only caught a glimpse and I didn’t recognise him– I must have seen him for the first time,” you said.

“Do you think you could recognise him if you see him again?”

“Maybe?” You wrapped your arms around yourself. “If they’re trying so hard to hide it, and if the person who’s after me must be someone my father has partnered with on the Strictland matter, It must mean whatever is happening in Strictland is actually taking place… right?”

Yunho didn’t need to answer that– he was sure that if you were not hiding anything else from them, this might be it.

“We’re taking care of it, okay? You really don’t have to worry about it– or if you have to worry, don’t think about it too much. You don’t have any answers yet, and that’s okay.”

You offered him a weak smile and got up to place the compiled folder on his desk. When you were about to go back to sit across from him, he patted the space next to him instead.

“Come here.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach at the way his voice sounded like a command. You could resist, but his gaze was incredibly pulling so you settled next to him, keeping a respectful distance between your bodies.

“Is that all you’ve been worrying about?”

“Well… obviously not,” you shot him a look but when his fingers curled around your hand, you didn’t snatch it away. “I don’t know what you want from me, Yunho.”

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he started but you shook your head.

“You’ve talked to Yeosang, haven’t you?” You asked and he didn’t respond, searching your eyes. “And he’s talked to you. You all talk to each other. You’re all far too close with each other. I’m noticing that recently.”

“Really?” He said in an almost mocking tone. “And what other observations has our little secretary made?”

“Yunho,” you called in a warning tone. “I’m not trying to judge you or probe into whatever it is that is going on between you guys. But I am beginning to understand that you’re all a team and everyone knows everything about each other.”

“And?”

“And…” you sighed, looking at your joined hands and sliding your thumb across his skin. “I don’t know.”

“What do you want from us?” Yunho asked softly.

There it was. Us. It was never a ‘me’. It was always an ‘us’.

“What do you mean by ‘us’?” You raised a brow.

“Are you sure you’re ready to hear that answer?”

Oh, fuck him. He was literally steering the conversation in the same direction that Yeosang had.

“Well, you can stop confusing me for once and talk,” you snatched your hand away this time.

“How can I talk when I don’t know what you want from me, or from Yeosang?” Yunho raised a brow,a teasing smile plastered on his face. “We kissed. You like Yeosang.”

“I like you too,” you added and immediately regretted it when you saw his grin grow wider. “Does it not bother you? That I like him and you both?”

Yunho only smiled and looked down, trying to form a response but failing to because this was a confession–

And this meant that Seonghwa really was right about you. He was one meticulous bastard.

“Does it bother you?” Yunho asked, and you finally realised that this was the question you should be asking yourself.

Does it bother you that you like Yeosang and Yunho? Does it bother you that you were attracted to San and that one soft look from Seonghwa made you feel like you could soar into the skies? Does it bother you that the Captain– Hongjoong– meant so much to you that the bracelet he gave you was becoming an anchor for you to remind you that you were safe, protected, and perhaps, wanted?

Could any of it be the beginning of something beautiful and unknown, or had you finally lost your mind?

“Don’t get lost in there,” Yunho scooted closer, planting a kiss on your temple and remaining close. “Just do me a favour and figure out your feelings about us first, will you? I can’t explain anything until you’re sure that… that you want us like we want you.”

“What does that mean?” You asked, stomach twisting into knots though your heart raced in anticipation.

Yunho wasn’t going to answer that, but he could help ease your confusion a little. “It’s okay if you choose one of us, or none of us. We will respect your decisions. But… you can also choose more of us. We don’t mind.”

Suddenly, everything started to make a little more sense– the subtle glances the boys would exchange among themselves when you were in the room. The way Seonghwa always looked like he knew something about you that even you didn’t. The way Yunho must have known Yeosang liked you before he kissed you and still told him– and the way Yeosang knew Yunho had kissed you and wanted to hear it from your mouth. The way he looked at your bracelet knowingly– was it a marker that you were theirs now?

Oh, and how San was almost flirting with you as of recently. The thing Wooyoung had said about you not just being their secretary, but a part of their inner circle– just what did being a part of their inner circle entailed? And the way Mingi and Jongho were so welcoming and friendly towards you– while they had not done anything to make you feel like they had crossed some platonic boundary, you were suddenly reading too much into everything.

“Does it overwhelm you?”

“Of course it does,” you admitted but when you didn’t flinch away from him, he took that as a positive sign. “I need time.”

“Of course. You have all the time in the world. There really is no rush,” he brushed the pad of his thumb along your cheek in soft, slow caresses.

“And I want you to stop swaying my feelings.”

Yunho’s head dipped down in silent surrender to guilt, though the smirk creeping on his face threatened to give him away. “I’m sorry but I can’t resist that. Not until you give me a solid rejection.”

“Ah, let’s end it then–”

“Hey!” He placed his hand over your mouth to keep you from finishing the sentence and you burst into giggles, even more so when you tried pushing him away, but before you knew it, he was almost on top of you with a finger on his mouth shushing you, his hand on your mouth dampening your laugh until you stopped, realising the tangled position that you were in and feeling warmth course through your entire body– warmth that made you shiver as if you were cold instead.

“Quiet, okay?” Yunho whispered and you nodded, eyes wide. “And don’t reject me right now.”

He pulled his hand away, rubbing the smear of the lipstick at the corner of your mouth when he discovered it, his lips parting in concentration and when he was done, he looked into your eyes to find them laden with–

Desire. It had to be desire. If your eyes weren’t indication enough, the way your breath quickened was.

Yunho licked his lips instinctively, his breath getting heavier with want and you wondered if he really wanted you as badly as you wanted him. Ignoring that you both had agreed to give you some space, you pushed yourself upwards just a bit, crowding his personal space and his breath hitched when he found you inches away.

It was electrifying to know that someone wanted you back for once and when you looked at him pleadingly, he crashed his lips on yours, making you fall right back on the couch. You looped your arms around his neck and kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, arching into him and he caught your body in an embrace with one arm around your back and the other cradling the back of your neck.

While your kiss at the park had been passionate, this one was putting it to shame– he poked his tongue inside your mouth at the first opportunity, deepening the kiss and then angled his face to kiss you better. His hand travelled down to your waist and a suggestive squeeze elicited a moan from your mouth which he was quick to swallow with a kiss. When you finally drew back for breath, he rested his forehead against yours for just a moment before proceeding to trail kisses down your cheek, along your jaw and then downwards, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Yunho,” you softly whispered, relishing the feeling of his warm breath against your skin, running your fingers through his hair lovingly. He hummed against your neck, resting his lips on the juncture of your neck, realising that perhaps… he should have waited. You both should have waited.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t end this on a good note. He looked up at you with an understanding smile, washing away all your worries. And then he peppered kisses all over your face, eliciting a shy smile. With a final few pecks to your lips, he nodded in satisfaction.

“Yeah, I’ll give you your space.”

You laughed darkly, shaking your head. Patting his chest twice, you got out of his embrace which was a struggle in every sense.

“Maybe we should start including Seonghwa in our meetings too so we don’t end up making out each time we’re alone.”

“Oh, he would enjoy that,” Yunho commented and you raised a brow but he only shook his head, ending the conversation.

It was electrifying to know that someone wanted you back. And not just someone…

But someone else too, and perhaps more.

Despite your recent interactions with the boys, the looming threat over your head came to be the reason that your mood turned as bleak as the evenings of Eden. Yunho asked you if it was something he did but you assured him that you were more worried about figuring out who was after you and how it was tied to Strictland.

Seonghwa, of course, also noticed the shift in your mood. He was aware of everything that had gone down the past few days and he wondered if now was a good time to tell you about the recent deal they were preparing to offer to a certain business figure– the deal that would originally have been Secretary Park’s. Hongjoong insisted that now was the only time and since the new contender was from Wonderland, your opinion might prove to be valuable again.

“Luna?” He called, having been watching you for a few moments. You had been staring out through the window for the past few minutes and his voice almost made you jump. “Is everything okay?”

“Yep. Just… admiring the weather,” you pointed outside, the clouds rumbling with comical timing.

“Brilliant weather, innit?” Seonghwa chuckled. “Can you join us for our meeting?”

“Of course,” you answered, beginning to wrap up the files on the table. “I’ll join you in a few moments.”

When you entered the boss’ room, Hongjoong and Seonghwa were already in the middle of a discussion seated across from each other on the sofas. You took a seat next to Seonghwa.

“We have a business contender regarding our drug approval,” Seonghwa began. “The one that we almost signed with Secretary Park.”

“Oh, that’s… great news?” You looked between them, unsure if it was good news since you had little to no knowledge about the drug they intended to get approved. It was still a secret known only amongst the bosses and a selected few employees.. “Who is it?”

“Madame Tiffany Hwang– she is a respectable business figure in Wonderland. Have you heard about her?” Hongjoong asked.

“She’s the owner of quite a few businesses,” you recalled, having seen the face in the newspaper of Wonderland quite a lot during your time there. “I don’t really remember which ones but her most notable endeavour has to be SNSD, the tech company. She’s the CEO, I believe?”

“That’s right,” Hongjoong passed you a file which contained information on Madame Tiffany’s business and a little background check. She was a Wonderland citizen who was going to be visiting Eden to expand her business and possibly do a collaboration with a tech company here. “She visited Edenary a few months ago. We acquainted ourselves and she showed interest in investing in other businesses. I think she’ll take up our offer.”

“Why?” You wondered out loud. “From what I know, she’s a very well-established figure in the business world. What would she be gaining from investing in your pharmaceutical business?”

“The upper hand,” Hongjoong smirked and you looked at Seonghwa who nodded. “The drug we aim to launch is one already known amongst the elite class of the continent– we’re talking Halaland, Wonderland and Utopia among other countries. I suppose she’ll be gaining power, at the very least.”

“Can you tell me more about this drug?” You asked.

Hongjoong looked at Seonghwa and the underboss nodded, leaning forwards and speaking in a low volume. “That drug… It's called silver light. We discovered its existence during the war when one of our soldiers came across a batch accidentally. We started using it as a numbing drug during medical emergencies– it seemed to work better than the painkillers we had in reserve so we kept it for the extreme cases.”

“After the war ended,” Hongjoong added, “I did a little digging in. I found out that the batch we used up was meant for the highest ranking military. They rarely fought at the scene so I wondered why they would need such a drug, but then I realised it wasn’t a medicine– not yet. It was just a drug that was consumed for pleasure.”

“So while people laid their lives for this land,” Seonghwa sighed deeply in conclusion, “the elites kept such a medically beneficial drug for entertainment purposes.”

“Oh my god,” you were thoroughly surprised at their revelation. “That’s… ridiculous. I served as a medical assistant for about two years in the war but I never heard of such a drug.”

“No one in Eden is aware of its existence save for the elites who consume this drug for pleasure,” Hongjoong told you. “It’s an opioid based drug so it is banned not only in Eden but the entire continent. The only way we get our hands on this drug is through underground channels. You bet that once we make it public that we’re trying to launch it into the market for medical purposes, the elites will do anything to stop us.”

“Does anyone else know about this yet? Secretary Park?” You asked.

“No, but he must suspect something considering that he’s from Edenary and is himself a pharmaceutical company owner,” Seonghwa answered. “It would be strange if he’s aware of its existence and hasn’t tried to launch it or, well, use it in one way or another.”

You nodded slowly. “Are you sure Madame Tiffany will be the right person for the deal?”

“That’s why you’re here,” Hongjoong resigned back, crossing his legs, a faint smirk on his lips. “We’ll be the judge of that, and if you have any connections in Wonderland who could do you a favour and conduct another background check on her… that would be much appreciated.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” you confirmed. You were familiar with your aunt’s gang and could probably ring them for this.

“We’re short on time though. Madame Tiffany is arriving in Edenary in a week. Her schedule is going to be packed so we can’t say if she’ll visit Sector 1. We should be prepared to make a visit to Edenary, and if it looks like she’s the right investor, we will prepare to make arrangements and receive her here.”

You made an impressed face at Seonghwa. “Looks like you’re getting busier soon.”

“We are getting busy,” Seonghwa smiled deviously. “What do you think about joining us on our visit to Edenary?”

“Me? Edenary?” You gaped at him. The air in the room suddenly felt too cold despite the nervous sweats now oozing out of your body. “But…”

“I think it’s about time you stopped hiding in the shadows,” Hongjoong said, clasping his hands together. “Secretary Park will be there, as well as a lot of politicians and business people. You might recognise most of them, and from what I know, a lot of people might recognise you too.”

“Secretary Park,” you muttered. “Are you sure about this?”

“I think it’s a good opportunity to let him know that you’re no longer afraid of him,” Seonghwa mused.

“And an even better opportunity to find out who really wants to get me,” you said, referring to the information you learned from Yeosang and the men exchanged glances. “I’m aware. It has to be someone from Edenary since they only took action after I got involved with your company. If it was a local, they had plenty of opportunities to get rid of me.”

“Right…” Hongjoong shrugged in acceptance. “So? Are you willing to accompany us as our secretary? Are you willing to announce to the world that you are a part of our inner circle? Because your visit to Edenary will be changing a lot of things, Luna.”

You straightened, feeling a surge of confidence boost through you. If the bosses of the Crescents were willing to trust you, you were not going to let them down. “It’s a good opportunity to tie up loose ends,” you said. “I need to have a talk with my father. It’s long overdue.”

“Perfect,” Hongjoong clapped. “We leave in two days. Wipe that grim look off your face, Luna. Show them what you’re made of.”

It felt surreal to enter the capital of Eden through the Sector 1 gate, the diamond-shaped carvings on the gates bisecting as the metal frame opened with a loud creak, true to its old age. The eight gates around Edenary that opened to the eight sectors– or rather, enclosed the capital of Eden within its confines– were as old as Eden itself. Each gate was colossal and identical in its built but with a unique carving on it that was representative of its sector.

Since Sector 1 was known for Maddox and Co., the famous luxury jewellery shop that was established by the royals of Eden who were big fans of diamonds, the gate had diamond shaped carvings on it to honour the memory of the shop’s origin. It truly was a magnificent sight and it was your first time seeing the gate so you couldn’t help but peek through the window as you crossed the invisible line that indicated your entry into the capital.

It was just as fascinating to enter Edenary as an outsider from Sector 1, of all the sectors. Any person belonging to the upper class usually resided in Sector 2 if not in Edenary. Sector 2, situated in the western region of Eden, was home to the monarchy once and had the Royal Palace in its heart. The Royal Palace was now a government office, sort of an unofficial parliament house after the monarchy was abolished. Sector 2 could have been your home if your life had taken a different course of events.

If the other passengers in the car noticed your enthusiasm, they didn’t comment on it. Seonghwa, however, could not hold back the light chuckle when you turned in your seat to watch the gates close from the rear window. The leather seats of Hongjoong’s Bentley car suddenly felt too hot– or perhaps, it was the embarrassment seeping into the seats through your body.

“What?” You retorted, your lips curling into a pout in embarrassment as you tried to match the gaze of the underboss who was seated on your left, clad in a classic tweed suit. “It’s my first time seeing the Sector 1 gate.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Seonghwa raised his hands in surrender, an amused smile plastered on his face. Hongjoong, who was seated in the front, spared you both a glance from his half-nap and let out his signature scoff.

“Seonghwa had a worse reaction when we first saw the gate. He’s probably reminiscing, let him be,” the boss said and Taeyong, the boss’ bodyguard and designated driver of sorts, laughed in agreement.

“He wanted to take a moment to admire, which meant the moment could last half an hour, so I had to physically restrain him,” Taeyong recalled. “He was salty with me for two whole days.”

“I wasn’t,” Seonghwa muttered and you were once again surprised by the almost childish banter that ensued. It really was a rare sight to have the boss and the underboss of the Crescent Company quibbling, and even better that their crew members like Taeyong were on almost casual terms with the Crescents. You were suddenly reminded of Jaemin, the young informant who everyone at the office adored.

The Crescents truly were different and so human, and you wished they did more to mend their reputation.

You resorted to watching out of the window while the men chatted. The bare deciduous trees that bordered the highway started to thin as you drew closer to the heart of the capital, revealing more familiar sights of civilization– farmhouses, shops, and warehouses. Before you knew it, you were in the middle of the town where most of the offices and government buildings were located and where the elites of Eden resided.

You quietly let the dreary, almost lifeless colours of Edenary imprint on your eyes, making silent notes of what changed since the past few years that you stepped in Edenary, which was not much. Just less nature and more artificial spaces. The people sauntering in the streets still looked as pompous as ever, dressed to the max, too absorbed in the newspaper in their hand or occupied with the pet they were walking.

“The Eden Dome,” Hongjoong’s caught your attention, prompting you to tilt your head to look at the building through the front– the magnificent presidential office with a washed out cerulean blue dome in the middle. The dome along with the accents of gold on the building seemed to be the only colour in Edenary.

Or at least, that’s what it felt like to you. The Eden Dome was President Lee’s office. Your father’s workplace.

The road curved around the domed building and opened to Eden Square, a large fountain in the middle marking the heart of the capital. You steered towards the left to the residential area where you would be staying in an apartment owned by Hongjoong. One of his crew members, Jaehyun, was a resident there along with a young guard who went by the name ‘Ten’. They were supposedly in charge of handling the Crescents’ Edenary affairs (and spying).

As the car came to a halt in front of one of the many apartment buildings, you could almost see yourself as Park y/n, the daughter of a businessman running an errand for her father, scrambling through the streets with documents in her hands, the hat on her head threatening to fall off with the wind. You were almost back to being the twenty-one year old who did anything and everything to earn at least one phrase of acknowledgment from her father.

Oh, how you wished your father would look past your birth status and see that you, too, were capable of great things. Things that even his son wasn’t capable of. He could have given you one chance, and everything would have been different–

“Luna?”

It was your boss’ voice that reminded you that you were no longer related to Secretary Park. That you were almost his rival now. Seven years wasn’t a short amount of time and things would never go back to what they were before.

You shivered involuntarily and nodded to let the boss know that you were okay before grabbing your things and following the men inside the building.

Somehow, your heart raced with anticipation– not to meet perhaps the most famous businesswoman in the continent, or to finally be a part of the Edenary crowd, but to see the unfiltered rage behind your father’s eyes when he would see you standing with the leaders of the most extensive underground organisation of Eden.

You missed Yunho.

Or rather, his warning about the Edenary crowd echoed in your head. You once mentioned to him that you kind of missed the feeling of being an Edenary citizen and how you always wanted to attend one of the business parties that your father was always talking about. He had initially found it amusing and you wondered why, but his words were starting to make sense now. He was right to believe that the Edenary crowd was overwhelming and that they watched every move you made as if they were vultures, waiting for a chance to grab a bite.

It was suffocating, and you almost wished you were back at the office or having late night snacks with your roommate Wendy.

It was ultimately Seonghwa’s presence in the room, constant and reassuring, that calmed you. He would catch your eye and exchange a subtle nod, or smile in a way that was only meant for your eyes. Whenever he would pass by you, he would pat your cheek or squeeze your shoulder, silently praising you for your performance here. After all, everyone in the building tonight was a performer, masking their schemes and presenting a carefully crafted facade.

While Seonghwa’s presence in your peripheral vision calmed you, it was Hongjoong who kept you grounded and focused. You were Hongjoong’s partner tonight. Before your arrival here when you were getting ready for the event, Hongjoong had knocked on your door and entered with a satisfied smile when he found you standing straight and proud in front of the mirror, practising your posture.

“I was half-sure you’d be moping in a corner but Seonghwa was right. You look lovely.”

You consciously tugged at the silk fabric of your black dress, thanking him and looking back at your reflection. You decided that you did not have to be from Edenary to look like you belonged here– Hongjoong was proof of that. Dressed in a fancy black suit with a sequined jacket, he looked nothing short of elegant. As he stood behind you, looking at your form in the mirror, you wondered if your outfits were matching on purpose– not just you and Hongjoong, but Seonghwa as well, in his own black sequined suit. Your elbow-length gloves matched them perfectly. Even though it might be a calculative move, it felt intimate.

“I have another something for you,” Hongjoong started and you turned to him, giving him a warning look which he ignored.

“I can afford my own dresses and jewellery, Sir,” you told him, already having argued about how the ‘company’ paid for your dress tonight, but he only continued to wave the small package in his hand and you reluctantly took it, opening the box inside to find a pearl necklace.

“Kim Hongjoong,” you called his full name for the first time out loud, making him chuckle deeply. “Tell me you rented this.”

“I got it for you,” he corrected.

“But… it’s Maddox and Co.,” you almost cried, knowing how valuable it must have been. “You can’t keep giving me things like this.”

“And who says I can’t?” He raised a brow. “I always get something for the boys. I can get things for you too.”

When you only responded with another glare, he let out a dismissive huff and proceeded to pick the necklace from the box, beckoning you to turn. Hesitantly, you did and swept your curls up so he could put the necklace on for you. When he was done fastening it, he placed his hands on your shoulders, admiring how the pearl sat between your collarbones.

You could not complain– it was absolutely magnificent.

“It matches your ring,” he said with a wicked grin and you scoffed in disbelief. He got you that necklace not only to match with your ring, but to let Secretary Park know that the ring wasn’t the only valuable thing in your possession anymore. Somehow, that did nothing to ease your nerves, though when Hongjoong squeezed your bare shoulders, you smiled in acceptance. You could wear this tonight.

“Remember to stand tall just like this,” Hongjoong said before letting go. “And stay by my side. You’re not a bookkeeper or a secretary tonight– or even anymore. You’re just Luna of The Crescent Company, got it? You’ll make a name for yourself tonight.”

“I don’t understand why you’re allowing me to,” you told him. It was the simple truth, a question that nagged you time and time again.

“Because darling,” Hongjoong stepped closer, almost whispering in your ear now, maintaining eye contact through the mirror. “You’re my weapon now. I’ll proudly wield you. Just like I am your shield and you’ll use me when you need protection.”

A weapon and a shield. What a pair you made. And oh, he acted like your shield alright. While introducing you to the guests at the party, he didn’t let anyone question your position in the company or your status. You were just Luna of The Crescent Company– someone important enough to have made it here. They could wonder all they want.

“Here he comes,” Hongjoong leaned forward to whisper in your ear while you were sipping on your drink, distracted by the familiar faces in the crowd, though hardly anyone recognised you.

You were at Mr. Jang’s residence, the co-owner of Eden News. He was a pretty influential person in Eden and it was always an advantage to be in his good graces. Hongjoong’s announcement made you think that he meant the host himself was here.

Except when you turned and followed the direction of his gaze, you frowned in confusion as you tried to locate the host but instead, found someone else entirely.

Secretary Park Byung Eun. Your father.

He seemed to be just as startled to see you, his gaze briefly sliding past before his attention snapped back. HIs face fell pale when he realised that your partner tonight was none other than Kim Hongjoong of The Crescent Company.

He, of course, pretended to be unfazed as he approached you, pretending as if he intended to greet Hongjoong. He could not act as if he hadn’t seen the pair of you now. Hongjoong rested his hand on your back, lightly caressing it in both reassurance and warning and you took a deep breath, the pearls around your neck suddenly feeling heavier than the fur scarf that was draped on your shoulders.

“Colonel Kim,” Secretary Park’s voice almost echoed inside your head. “Been a while.”

It had been a long time since you heard the man’s voice. You physically restrained yourself from reacting, though your resolve was starting to crumble.

“It has,” Hongjoong’s grin was giving him away. “I see you’ve met Seonghwa?”

“Always a gentleman,” your father nodded, not meeting your eyes. Even though you were right in front of him, he was pretending he could not see you.

It had always been like this. He still looked the same– clean shaven face, droopy lids and wavy hair. Perhaps, he looked a little older than the last time you saw him which was about three years ago, but he was still the same man and it irked you so much–

“Meet Luna,” Hongjoong said and your father finally met your eyes. “My partner.”

You looked at Hongjoong in surprise– partner? Perhaps, your father was just as shocked, the frown deepening on his face as he tried to grasp what Hongjoong meant by the term ‘partner’.

Hongjoong only smiled casually, his hand moving to rest on the side of your waist and your father made an impressed face.

“Partner… I see,” he looked at you, scanning your face. “Didn’t realise you were interested in business… Luna.”

A warning. Hongjoong must have sensed that, because he answered for you. “Sometimes, we don’t see what’s right in front of our eyes, isn’t that right, Mr. Park?”

When Secretary Park raised a brow, Hongjoong looked down with a laugh. “I mean… she was right in front of me for a while. It just took me a long time to figure out how valuable a partner she makes.”

“Right,” Secretary Park sighed in resignation. “But sometimes, we think too highly of someone. Sometimes, we even think too highly of ourselves, eh?”

It was the same phrase you’d heard so many times. Yet… hearing it now felt like as much of a stab as it did when you were younger.

“You must think very highly of me then,” you scoffed, unable to hold back the distaste in your tone. “I trust you got a message, recently?”

The message was the warning that Yunho had sent through his men to Secretary Park. He was not to mess with you or any of them again. Truly, your father must think highly of you if he wanted to eliminate you, right?

“Received,” he said with a fake smile before shifting his attention to the boss. “So, Colonel Kim. Who do you plan to use as bait tonight? A certain major general turned assemblyman has been sniffing in places he shouldn’t be. I trust you’ve got nothing to do with it?”

Hongjoong raised his hands in mock surrender. “I wouldn’t know anything. I tend to keep away from politics as much as I can,” he smoothly lied– he was both behind it and a bit too interested in politics recently. “I can look into it for you? If that’s what you’d like?”

“No need,” he raised his glass in toast. “Thank you very much.”

“Ah,” you huffed. “Must be something you want to keep under the covers.”

“Wouldn't you know all about that,” he narrowed his eyes. You only tightened your smile in response.

“We’re only here to get acquainted with Madame Tiffany, just like everyone else,” Hongjoong interrupted, breaking the war of glares.

“Oh, so that’s who your new business partner is going to be?” Secretary Park asked.

“If we’re lucky to make a deal, sure,” Hongjoong shrugged. “As a businessman yourself, you must know that it’s a trial and error process of meeting potential partners. It’s a shame our deal fell through.”

“Truly,” Secretary Park scoffed. “Madame Tiffany, huh? I really hope you shake hands with her then.”

While the smirk he passed you went unnoticed by Hongjoong, you recognised that expression very well. This certain curl of his lips indicated that he knew more than he let on– that he was winning and you were going to meet defeat in the worst way. You felt the hair on the back of your neck rise in warning, especially when he himself offered to introduce you both to Madame Tiffany.

You reluctantly followed the boss, Seonghwa joining you on your way to the main hall and asking if you were alright. You shrugged it off because now was not the time, though you wish you could warn the bosses that something was amiss.

You spotted Madame Tiffany, in all her glory, in the middle of the room with all eyes on her even though she was deep in a conversation with someone. Everyone seemed to be waiting to catch her attention, and truly, she looked every bit like the rumours you had heard– beautiful in her pale pink dress, elegant and strong in the way she carried herself with her confident smile and straight shoulder, naturally exuding a subtle air of power.

But you could not get the look in your father’s eyes out of your head. You had requested a background check on Madame Tiffany through Madame Cha, your aunt. As a Wonderland local, she must know if Madame Tiffany was all that she appeared to be. If there really wasn’t anything more to her and she was just a businesswoman looking to expand her empire, that would be ideal.

Secretary Park offered to introduce Hongjoong to Madame Tiffany, which was an unusual move from him. You may not have been to any of the business parties in Edenary when you lived here but you knew that your father was the type of person who would never help another person if they benefited from something. Everything that he did was meaningful and ultimately resulted in the downfall of whoever crossed his path. You often wondered why President Lee kept such a man as his secretary– perhaps, because he needed someone like him as his shield?

And then you were reminded of Hongjoong’s words. You were his weapon, and he was your shield, but you supposed that sometimes, a weapon was used to protect oneself too, just like a shield was used to strike at times.

“Mr. Kim,” Madame Tiffany shook hands with your boss. “I’m glad to have finally met you. I’ve heard so much about your business.”

Hongjoong seemed pleased. “All good things, I hope.”

“Wonderful things,” she smiled. “Especially about your contribution to Eden after the war. It’s truly remarkable.”

“Well, I look forward to our scheduled meeting tomorrow then,” Hongjoong placed a hand on his chest and bowed. “Perhaps, we’ll be able to contribute more to Eden’s wellbeing.”

“It would be an honour,” Madam Tiffany mimicked his greeting and Hongjoong spotted an acquaintance, saying he would be back in a few minutes. As soon as he was out of earshot, you turned to Seonghwa who was watching you carefully.

“What do you think about Madame Tiffany?”

“Seems like you’ve got something on your mind,” Seonghwa said in a low voice, shaking his head. “Not here, though. We’ll talk when we get back.”

You nodded, noticing your father at the end of the hall, beckoning you to join him in an empty room that seemed to be a study. You looked at Seonghwa. “Can I go talk to my father?”

“Of course, love. Are you sure?” He asked, tucking a curl behind your ear. “If you want me to come with you, I can. Or if you don’t want to talk to him, I can let him know–”

“No, I… I should talk. It’s been a while, and there’s a lot I haven’t said to him,” you let out a short, sad laugh. “Not the best time for confrontation but I think he’s up to something. I should do this.”

“You don’t have to,” Seonghwa insisted, holding your hand. “But if you wish to, I won’t stop you.”

You squeezed his hand to let him know that you would be okay. Taking a deep breath, you moved towards the room and went inside, keeping the door ajar just in case.

“Luna, is it now?” Secretary Park asked almost nonchalantly as he circled around the desk in the room before taking a seat.

“Yeah, but you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? Considering how you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“Come on,” he scoffed, sparing you a glance. “Can’t a father check on his daughter every now and then?”

“Sure,” you folded your arms and narrowed your eyes. “If by check, you mean almost killing me and the people around me, sure.”

“Well, I did order you to keep a low profile,” he reminded you. His tone was no longer playful. “But look at you. Couldn’t stay away from the spotlight in Edenary, could you?”

“You ordered me to keep a low profile and then disowned me, in case you forgot. Cut my name off from the family register and all, right? What makes you think you have any control over my life anymore?”

“You’ve always been feisty like that, y/n,” he clicked his tongue. “It could cost you a lot– but it looks like I won’t have to pull any strings now. You will bring the downfall of the company and the gangsters you love so much now.”

“If they’re gangsters, what does that make you?” You narrowed your eyes. “You can’t tell me your hands are any less dirtier than theirs.”

“Y/n,” he called in warning but you shook your head.

“Don’t ever come after me or mine again,” your voice shook as you warned him, the years of anger starting to make their way up to your throat from your gut. “Unless you want to start a war that you can never win.”

Secretary Park scoffed loudly but it soon turned into a fit of mocking laughter and you watched him clutch his stomach as he bent over, wiping his eyes.

“My dear, I wish I could tell you just what you have gotten yourself into,” he sighed, shaking his head in amusement. “But figures. You’ll be finding out soon anyway. You should have never stepped foot where you do not belong.”

Infuriated, you left the room and went straight to the table to down a drink which did nothing to calm the rage coursing through your veins. There was too much going on and you felt the urge to let it all out in the form of a scream or something worse–

“Luna,” Seonghwa’s voice sounded behind you but you didn’t turn, clutching at your glass dangerously hard. He placed a hand on your arm almost cautiously, caressing the bare skin. “Are you okay?”

“Just give me a moment,” you sniffed, looking up and willing the tears to go back inside. “I’ll be fine.”

“We’re leaving soon,” he squeezed your arm but you gently pushed his hand away before you turned to look at him. You saw a hint of hurt in his eyes and you wished you could tell him that you were only pushing him away because you were afraid you would break if he looked at you or touched you with such care.

“I’ll go sit in the car– Taeyong’s outside, right?” You asked and Seonghwa nodded, escorting you outside and waiting until he spotted Taeyong. You shut yourself inside the car and took deep breaths, hoping that by the time you would be back and having a meeting to discuss how to move forward, you would be okay.

But you were very obviously far from okay. The car ride was awfully silent and Hongjoong seemed to have an inkling of your meeting with your father which was why he did not initiate a conversation. When you were back at the empty apartment, the three of you settled in the living room and Hongjoong lit his pipe.

“Any luck with the assemblymen, Seonghwa?”

“Since the elections are near, they’re being cautious,” Seonghwa loosened his tie as he spoke. “But I did get an idea of the political tide. It’s still in President Lee’s favour and there's a high chance he would be re-elected unless a scandal breaks out. But then… his image is too clean. I met General Wi as well. He said something about how he’s losing votes because of the Siren Rebel Party. He’s almost sure one of the rival politicians might be funding them so he can be out of the game– he is the second in lead right now.”

“Yeah, General Wi is desperate now. I’d honestly like to see some change too– President Lee should retire before someone digs up something about him and tarnish his image,” Hongjoong said, taking a long smoke and looking at you. “What do you think, Luna?”

“About?”

“Everything,” he put his pipe away. “What do you have to say about tonight? Do you think Madame Tiffany will make a good business partner?”

“I’m not sure, just like you,” you began and he nodded. “But… it was strange how Secretary Park reacted. He’s never the type of person to be a middleman in a potential deal, yet he was so willing to introduce the two of you. Madame Tiffany and him seem to be acquainted already– which, okay, they’re both business owners. But when I was talking to him in person,” you looked at Seonghwa who urged you to continue. “He said something about how I’ll soon be finding out what I have gotten myself into, and that… I would bring the downfall of the Crescents? I’m not quite sure if he was just saying this to rile me up or if he meant it.”

“Hmm… sounds like empty threats to me.”

“They’re not,” you shook your head. “He always means what he says. And I would like to warn you that when we meet Madame Tiffany tomorrow, keep in mind that they may be acquainted in more ways than they let on. If Madame Tiffany is in cahoots with Secretary Park… that could be the downfall he was talking about.”

“I have a feeling he said all of that just so you could try and stop me from making the deal with Tiffany,” Hongjoong said. Seonghwa hummed in agreement. He could not deny that Hongjoong’s logic made sense too. “We have to entertain this possibility too. We’ve done our background check and everything seems okay, which is why we’re here in the first place.”

“Well, I still haven’t heard from Madame Cha, which means she’s looking into it,” you said determinedly. “She’s got connections with the underground channels in Wonderland and will be able to confirm if Madame Tiffany is good news or not.”

“We might not hear back from your aunt though,” Hongjoong shrugged.

“We will,” you insisted. “And if you rush, you might be doing exactly what Secretary Park wants you to do.”

“Well, you know what I think?” Hongjoong scoffed, leaning forward. “I think you’re letting your emotions regarding your father influence your judgement.”

“We must consider every possibility,” you said through gritted teeth, the emotions you had tried so hard to suppress making their way right back. “And Madame Tiffany is here for a few weeks. We can wait it out before we shake hands with her.”

“And miss a golden opportunity?” Hongjoong tsk-ed.

“Remember that you missed your ‘golden opportunity’ when I warned you about Secretary Park,” you said and Seonghwa cleared his throat, wanting to calm the tension in the room but you and Hongjoong ignored it. “It could have cost you everything.”

“Luna, I’m sorry to burst your bubble but we are an old criminal organisation and we do not need to rely on your imposing opinions to save ourselves. We have other means,” Hongjoong reminded you and you settled back in resignation. “I will consider your words, but the decision is ultimately mine.”

Seonghwa grunted in warning but the damage had been done.

“Right,” you bit your lips, your vision getting blurry. “For a second, you sounded exactly like the person I’ve been running away from. All that talk about being your partner but that’s what my opinions are to you? Imposing?”

Hongjoong realised that he had said too much that he didn’t really mean, or that he should have worded it differently. The vulnerability in your eyes made his stomach curl with regret. He glanced at Seonghwa who looked like he wanted to get up and comfort you but before he could do anything, you muttered that you were retiring for the night and went to your room.

Seonghwa sighed, looking at his partner. “Well done. Impressive way to handle the situation, Joong.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hongjoong angrily sucked the pipe. “I meant it.”

“But you regret it,” Seonghwa was smiling. Hongjoong spared him a glance. “Bad timing. She wasn’t alright after the meeting with her father, I told you.”

“Both sides of the coin, Hwa,” Hongjoong said. “Mine and hers. It’s going to be your decision– I can’t deal with her right now.”

“Yeah, you’re smitten,” Seonghwa laughed. “And you don’t know what to do about it for once. You always make a fool out of yourself when you’re like this.”

Hongjoong looked at Seonghwa angrily but when Seonghwa walked to him and caressed his hand, he calmed down. Hongjoong sighed deeply.

“Has my heart hardened far too much for my own good?”

Seonghwa only shook his head. “I know why this deal means so much to you. But she’s right– we have to be cautious and consider every factor. With this Strictland business, we’re realising that even we do not fully know what’s happening in the underworld, right?”

“She’s a part of the Crescents now,” Hongjoong said. “I’m trying to hone her critical thinking skills. She needs that in order to survive– especially where it concerns Secretary Park.”

“He’s still her only family,” Seonghwa reminded him. “Let’s cut her some slack. I’ll go talk to her, okay?”

When you heard the familiar soft knocks on your door, you wished you had locked the room– you were in no state to be seen, crouching in a corner with tears running down your eyes and your gloves and scarf sprawled on the floor near you. You did not respond to the knocks.

“Luna? Can you please open the door for me?”

You sniffed and took a deep breath. “I’m fine. It’s okay.”

“Please?” He said. “I won’t leave until you do.”

“Lord, give me strength,” you muttered under your breath. “Come in.”

Seonghwa hesitantly opened the door, looking around and finding you in the corner next to the vanity, wiping your eyes. “Good heavens, Luna.”

“I told you I was fine,” you said, laughing at your own comment and he chuckled as he settled down on his knees in front of you. You hid your face in your hands, a fresh stream of tears running down your face. “I’m not crying because of the boss.”

“You can curse at him if you want. It can be our little secret,” Seonghwa said and you shook your head. “Also, you can call him Hongjoong. You don’t always have to address him so formally.”

“Okay, Mr. Park.”

“Seonghwa for you,” he tsk-ed. “Look at me. Come on, talk to me. What happened earlier?”

“I don’t know,” you wiped your eyes, looking at your hands and sighing– your mascara must be smudged everywhere on your face. “I didn’t expect it to be so… anticlimactic, the meeting with my father. All he had to offer was threats and warnings. I don’t understand how he can be so cruel towards me.”

“Was there something else you were expecting from him?” Seonghwa asked softly, caressing your hand.

“Not really, but… at least a ‘good to see you’re well’? But then, he wants me dead so maybe I’ve been stupid to expect that.”

“Oh, dear,” Seonghwa pulled you closer, prompting you to settle on your knees instead of keeping them upright as a barrier between you two. “Tell me you said something he deserved to hear.”

“I did,” you sniffed. “I told him not to come after me or mine ever again unless he wants to start a war he can never win.”

A smirk creeped up the underboss’ lips, sending a stirring of nerves in your stomach. “Me or mine, huh?”

“I had to say something–”

“You did well,” Seonghwa said, cupping your face and wiping your eyes, nodding in acknowledgement. “You did so well, love. And I’m glad you stayed strong. You don’t ever have to break in front of your father anymore. You can break in front of me, in front of any of us but– never him.”

You looked at Seonghwa, truly looked at him. His eyes glinted with a million unsaid things, but even in the dim light of the lamp, you could tell that they held admiration and something like pride. Something you always wished to see in someone’s eyes when they looked at you.

“Why do you cry, love?” He asked, wiping the tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks. You didn’t even realise that you were crying silently now.

“I don’t know,” you told him. “Seonghwa– can I really break in front of you?”

Something unreadable flickered across Seonghwa’s face. “You can. With me, or Hongjoong, or any of us, you can be yourself. We’re here– I’m here for you. You never have to feel alone again.”

You tightened your lips, stifling a sob. Seonghwa only smiled, scooting closer to plant a kiss on your forehead. You let out a shaky breath and then went still as he kissed your cheek.

“Won’t you look at me?”

The deep timbre of his voice sounded inside your skull. You kept your eyes shut and he wiped the remnants of the tears away from your lashes before kissing both your eyelids, his soft lips like feathers of an angel's wing shielding you from everything that hurt you. Your hands tangled in his shirt as he continued to pepper light kisses all over your face, the sound of his breath making your heart flutter uncontrollably. However, he stopped right when he kissed near your mouth, his hands almost shaking as he cradled your jaw and pulled back to gauge your reaction.

“Look at me.”

“I’m scared,” you opened your eyes and your gaze stuck on his plump lips. “I don’t understand why you all want me. I don’t understand why we’re here, like this.”

He only smiled in answer. “Is it too much?”

“That’s the thing,” you scoffed in disbelief. “I don’t think it is.”

Seonghwa sucked in a breath, his grip on your neck tightening just a fraction though you spotted hesitation in his eyes. Before you knew it, you were leaning forwards– or perhaps, he was the one who closed the distance between your lips, instantly leaning into you with a force that had you resigning back against the wall. You tangled your fingers in his soft hair– god, he was a good kisser and he wasn’t letting you breathe for one second.

He broke apart for breath, only to tilt his face and kiss you at a different angle and you moaned into the kiss, unintentionally tugging at the length of his hair that made him bite your lower lip. You couldn’t help but think of the way Yunho had kissed you the last time in the office just as desperately, if not more. Yet with Seonghwa, it felt so different, especially the way he held your face and sucked at your lower lip.

With a peck to his lips, you drew away, almost sobbing again at the way he looked like he needed to kiss you again– he met your eyes, conveying that and you let him kiss you softly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered and he shook his head.

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” you sighed and pursed your lips. “I need to figure out my feelings, Seonghwa. I can’t go around kissing any one of you.”

Seonghwa chuckled. “But you can–”

You shook your head adamantly though his permission made your head spin. “Give me some time.”

Seonghwa exhaled, nodding. “Alright. I can do that.”

A moment passed where the two of you simply stared at each other’s eyes, trying to navigate through the storm of emotions clouding them. You were so close that you could hear his soft breaths and the warmth emanating from his body felt welcoming, almost compelling you to come closer.

“Do you want me?” You asked in a soft whisper and he almost choked on his own breath.

“You can’t just ask that all of a sudden,” he gave you a pained smile. “Are you ready to hear the answer?”

Oh, they were messing with you for sure. There was no way Yeosang and Yunho also had the same thing to say. “There’s no bet going around, is there?”

“We would never do that,” his assertive tone was an answer enough. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Luna, but we… we’re a really tightly-knit group. We value relationships. And you’re a part of our group now, yeah? We don’t want to do anything to jeopardise our relationship with you.”

“And this…” you looked at the small distance between you two. “This won’t jeopardise it?”

“It’s not that complicated, if you’re willing to hear us out,” Seonghwa settled back, playing with the hem of your dress. “We’re just… one. We’re a single unit, if you will. We’ve been through a lot together, and we continue to walk together. You can be a part of that, or you can just continue being our little secretary,” he chuckled and you laughed lightly. “It’s up to you.”

“I’ll… I’m thinking about it, I really am, but most of all, I’m just preparing myself to hear it from one of you,” you admitted and he suddenly looked hopeful. “But you– the boys, all of you. You’re close in more ways than you show it. Am I right?”

He smiled in answer. “Is it obvious?”

“It really isn’t,” you frowned through your smile, wondering if he was admitting it. “Seonghwa… this won’t change us, will it? This won’t doom us, right?”

“It won’t,” he assured you. “And we won’t let it. It can be your salvation if you want it to be, or your doom if you let it be.”

“Geez, thanks for that,” you said.

Your teasing and laughter grew louder, filling the space in the living room where Hongjoong was still present. He gulped down the last of his drink and set the glass on the table with a smile he would never let anyone see.

next chapter

-> apply for the taglist here! (check your privacy setting if the tags don't work)

taglist pt 1:

@lorensonebraincell @sungbeam @waywardstaytiny @lluvia1415 @woohwababes @jjaemasung @fruithoughts @fancypeacepersona @propinquitypsithurism @kyomiingi @ateezswonderland @janetsarttrove @thenopekid @justconniez @daniela-f-uwu @hwasbestlover @vcutparis @missbangtangirl @zaynsfl4m3s @beabatiny @slowitdownmakeitb0uncy @alliethequeen @lavishloving @haowonbins @franbowesax @klllerwaifu @katerade23 @selfishw4ltz @paramedicnerd004 @atzlordz @curse-of-art @meowmeeps @intowxnderland @faeriehwa @staytiny-yaps @ishz @dumplingsyum @bunnychui @kandy108 @chanst1ddies @softsanglix @yongility @sang-09 @sweetinsaniiity @a-teez-4-exo @omgsuperstarg @saintriots @bihwabi @pshwifey @emotionallyanaemic

#if you want to reblog pls reblog the original post where i fixed the warnings dkfhgfjd #ateez x reader #poly ateez x reader #poly ateez #ateez ot8 x reader #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong angst #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa angst #yunho x reader #yunho angst #yunho fluff #yeosang x reader #yeosang angst #ateez ot8 #ateez series #ateez mafia au

450 notes · View notes