#there will be trigger warnings at the beginning of chapters if needed
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thebarneschronicles · 3 months ago
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Closer To Home III
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Word Count: 8.9k
Synopsis: Snowed in with Bucky Barnes, you find comfort in playful banter, lingering touches, and the quiet intimacy of a morning spent wrapped in each other. But beneath the teasing smiles and warmth of shared laughter, something deeper stirs—something neither of you are ready to name. When a visit to his empty apartment reveals just how much he still struggles to believe he deserves more, your carefully guarded feelings come crashing down. And as walls crumble, as confessions slip through the cracks, Bucky begins to understand: maybe, just maybe, he was always meant to find home in you.
Trigger Warnings: Smut (duh); A lot of dirty talk; Discussions of Hydra & their experiments; Emotional breakdowns; Angst, banter, and all the feels.
Closer To Home Masterlist
Author’s Note: I can’t tell you how much I love writing these two. This chapter has it all: smut, banter, angst, and a whole lot of feelings bubbling to the surface. Things are shifting between them, and I have a feeling neither of them are ready for what comes next… Let me know what you think—I love hearing your thoughts! B xx
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When you woke the next morning, the first thing you noticed was the soreness. It was everywhere—radiating from the stickiness still lingering between your thighs, stretching to your hips, and even tingling faintly in your shoulders. It wasn’t unpleasant, though; it was the kind of ache that came from being touched, held, and claimed in ways you hadn’t realized you craved. It was a reminder of how thoroughly Bucky had made you his.
The second thing you noticed was a dawning realization—this was going to be a problem. Not just the sex with Bucky Barnes, though that alone was a problem worth having. It was everything about him.
Sleeping with Bucky Barnes. Waking up with Bucky Barnes. Breathing the same air as Bucky Barnes.
It was as if your body and mind had conspired in perfect unison, conditioning you in a single night to crave him in a way that felt intoxicating. The realization hit you like a jolt —he wasn’t just someone you wanted. He was someone you needed. Somewhere along the way, he had slipped past your defenses, carved out a space in your heart so large it felt as if it had always been his to claim.
He’d stirred feelings in you that you couldn’t yet name, sensations so profound they defied words. But beyond the fire he lit in your veins, there was something far more disarming—he made you feel safe. Truly, deeply safe in a way you hadn’t ever felt with anyone.
With his arm draped over you and the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breathing beneath your cheek, your body had surrendered in a way it never had before. Tension melted from your muscles, your mind quieted, and you slept. Not just sleep—rest. The kind that seeped into your bones, filling the cracks of exhaustion.
The third thing you noticed was that Bucky was already awake. His hand traced slow, idle patterns on your back. His gaze was fixed on something on the ceiling, his expression unreadable in the soft, muted light filtering through your frost-dusted window.
Your legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets, your body half-sprawled over his chest. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him like this, but he didn’t seem to mind—if anything, the way his thumb brushed absentmindedly against the line of your spine told you he didn’t want you to move.
The chill in the room was undeniable, the frosty patterns snaking along the glass a stark reminder of the bitter cold outside. Yet none of it touched you. His warmth, it was overwhelming in a way that stole the breath from your lungs and left you dizzy. Every inch of you seemed to respond, like a live wire humming with his presence. Your thoughts, your senses, your very being seemed to narrow until all that remained was him—Bucky. He was all you could feel, all you could think about, all you could want.
You didn’t want to break the fragile peace of this moment. But the heaviness in your chest, the sheer weight of your feelings, made you sigh softly as you shifted, propping yourself up just enough to meet his gaze.
His eyes flicked down, catching yours, a faint, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Morning, doll,” he murmured, voice low and scratchy, rough in a way that made your insides twist deliciously.
Your heart squeezed painfully at the sound, the sight of him. The depth of your feelings was already too much, inexplicable tears prickling at your eyes as you studied him.
“Shh,” you mumbled, pressing your fingers lightly to his lips. His stubble grazed your fingertips as you trailed them down, and you couldn’t resist scratching the roughness of his jaw. Leaning down, you nuzzled against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his skin. You heard the way his breath caught at the touch, the subtle hitch that made a small, satisfied smile bloom on your lips. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze again. “Let me just… watch you for a bit.”
“That’s creepy,” he said, laughing softly, the sound rumbling beneath you as his fingers found your waist and pinched playfully.
“It’s romantic,” you countered, wriggling against him with a huff. Your fingers wandered over his temple, brushing his hair back and smoothing your thumb over the arc of his brow. “You look so different in the morning.”
His brows furrowed, a small frown forming that made you grin. “Different how?”
“Don’t worry, Buck,” you said softly, leaning forward to nuzzle his cheek, savoring the faint scratch of stubble. “You’re still just as handsome as when you’re trying to scare people off.”
That earned you a laugh, a real one, and you basked in the sound. It distracted him from the truth you weren’t ready to admit—that in this moment, he looked… almost at peace.
You weren’t sure if it was just this morning, or if it was something that happened often when he let himself stay still. But here, tangled in the sheets, with his body pressed to yours, he seemed lighter somehow. Like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him, like the ghosts of his past weren’t pressing into his shoulders. For once, it felt like he wasn’t fighting so hard to hold himself together. He was just here, fully present, almost entirely yours.
Reaching over him, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand to check the time. Barely 8 a.m. The storm that had been picking up since last night wasn’t letting up. The forecast confirmed it, showing a steady fall of snow predicted over the next few days. Your teeth caught your bottom lip as concern crept across your face.
“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, pulling you back down to rest fully against him. His hand brushed through your hair, tucking the strands behind your ear.
“The storm,” you said, turning the phone toward him. “It’s getting worse. Supposed to dump a few inches—everything’ll probably shut down for a bit.”
“A few inches, huh?” His lips twitched, and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes that immediately had you narrowing yours.
Your jaw dropped. “Did you just make a dick joke?”
Bucky smirked, his hand sliding to your hip. “What? You walked straight into that one, doll.”
“James Buchanan Barnes,” you huffed, pushing yourself upright to straddle him, tugging the sheets up to cover your bare chest. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “I actually had it in you, darling.”
“Oh my god!” you burst out, laughing so hard you had to cover your mouth with your hand. “You have sex once and now you’re cracking dick jokes? What happened to my brooding soldier?”
“Maybe you fucked it out of me,” he replied, deadpan, though his eyes gleamed with pure amusement.
“Bucky!”
A dramatic groan escaped you as you buried your face in your hands, the warmth of Bucky’s body beneath you sending an undeniable thrill up your spine. His low chuckle rumbled through his chest, and you felt it everywhere, the sound curling around you like a vice. Even as you tried to maintain your composure, peeking at him through your fingers, you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips.
“I think I liked you better when you were all grumpy and broody,” you teased, though the way your voice wavered with a poorly hidden laugh betrayed you. “Maybe you’ve been hanging around Sam too much.”
His reaction was immediate—his head dropped back to the pillow, a deep, exaggerated sigh escaping him. His jaw tightened, eyes rolling as though he’d just been betrayed in the worst way. “Please, don’t talk about Sam while you’re sitting naked on top of me.”
Your laughter bubbled up, full and unrestrained. You gave his shoulders a playful squeeze, feeling the tension there, the way he was trying—failing—not to react to the feel of your soft thighs against his hips, the way you hovered over his bare stomach.
“Did I just kill the mood?” you asked, mischief lacing your words as you pushed back and rolled your hips experimentally.
Bucky’s hands twitched at your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes dragged back to you, a dangerous glint flashing beneath the lazy sweep of his lashes.
“You did,” he admitted, but his voice had gone rougher, lower—betraying him completely.
“Mm.” You hummed, playful, challenging. “You sure?”
With deliberate slowness, you let the sheets fall away, leaving yourself bare under the soft light. His gaze followed the movement, his lips parting slightly as his eyes darkened, locked onto the bare curve of your breasts like he couldn’t decide whether to admire or devour.
His hands slid up your ribcage, strong and reverent, until they cupped your breasts with a kind of aching intent. He hadn’t looked away, hadn’t even blinked.
“Eyes up here, soldier,” you murmured, covering his hands with yours. 
His gaze locked with yours, a flicker of defiance sparking in his blue eyes. “Can you blame me?” he rasped, his voice rougher now as his thumbs brushed against your skin.
You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, though the corner of your mouth twitched in amusement. “Hmm, I guess I’ll allow it. For now.”
“For now,” he echoed, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands slid back down to your waist, his grip firm. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad about that Sam comment.”
“Really hard, huh?” you teased, leaning down just enough so your lips were a whisper away from his. “Careful, Buck. You’re starting to sound downright cheerful this morning. People might start to think you’re going soft.”
“Soft?” In one swift motion, Bucky sat up, his arms wrapping around your back to pull you flush against him. The sudden movement made you gasp as your hands flew to his shoulders for balance and he lined you up to where you could feel his cock, the length pressing against your bare folds with unrelenting, delicious pressure. “Nothing soft about me…”
The playful banter faded, replaced by an electric tension that filled the air between you. He tugged at the sheets until they pooled at your hips, and you felt the weight of his gaze as it slowly traveled down your body. His eyes caught on the faint marks he’d left on your skin the night before.
Every curve, every detail seemed to captivate him, and he finally settled where your bare cunt hovered just above him, his cock twitching in response.
“Fuck, doll,” Bucky breathed. His hands, guided by yours, bracketed your hips with a tenderness that betrayed the hunger in his eyes. 
“Yes, James?” you replied, your tone teasing but softened with affection as you shifted against him, just enough to feel the glide of his cock between your already wet slit. 
“You gonna ride me?” His voice was thick with longing, but his gaze was steady, not demanding, just full of raw, unfiltered want.
You tilted your head, a playful smile curling at your lips. “Are you asking, or telling me?”
His thumbs traced slow, lazy circles on your skin, the weight of his gaze never leaving your face. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he murmured, the words dripping with something more than just permission.
“And if I do?” you interrupted, voice barely a whisper as you leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.
His hands slid up your sides, pulling you a fraction closer. “Then I can already tell it’ll be my favorite thing in the world…” 
The heat in his voice made your pulse quicken. Brushing a soft kiss along his jaw, taking your time, you savored the closeness before you whispered, “Good answer, Sergeant Barnes.”
A groan escaped his lips when your hand slid between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance. The sound sent a thrill through you, and you couldn't help but let out a soft laugh, shifting your hips slowly, teasing his tip. His grip tightened instinctively, his cock twitching in response to the playful movement.
When you finally pressed down, sinking onto him, you both gasped. The sensitivity from the night before and the lingering haze of sleep made everything feel heightened, more intense. As you took him inch by inch, you searched for his eyes, only to find them closed, the look on his face completely blissed out.
There was no frown, no furrowed brow—just the soft, unguarded pleasure that made his features seem almost tender. It was the first time you’d seen him so completely relaxed, so free of the tension that usually weighed on him. The quiet vulnerability was almost as intoxicating as the physical connection between you, and you let the moment stretch, savoring every inch of the way he filled you.
“Can you lay back for me, baby?” you whispered, your voice thick with want, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his bottom lip before pulling back just enough to watch his reaction. "Please?"
His breath was uneven, his lips still parted from where you'd stolen his next words. You saw it—the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his fingers tightened against your skin like he needed the anchor, the way his thighs locked as if ready to push up, to meet you, to regain control. He wanted to guide this, to lead where the two of you went, to hold onto the illusion of dominance.
You shook your head slowly, smoothing your hands up the rigid planes of his chest, applying just the slightest pressure. "Let me," you coaxed, barely above a whisper. "Let me take care of you."
Bucky’s jaw clenched. His hands, strong and capable, held fast to your back, his fingers digging in like he wasn’t sure how to let go.
“Hey,” you soothed, cupping his jaw with both hands, your thumbs stroking the stubble-dusted skin. "Do you trust me?"
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "It’s not that, I—” He hesitated, his gaze flickering over your face like he was searching for something, anything to latch onto. “We can do it together."
The words hung between you, weighted with meaning and the unspoken fears of a man who had spent too much of his life being used, controlled, forced into submission. You weren’t asking for that. You would never ask for that.
“I want to do this for you," you said softly, shifting slightly in his lap, watching how his lashes fluttered when you did. Bucky blinked, then, slowly, he nodded. 
Relief washed over you, warm and heady, as you urged him down, your hands pressing firmly against his chest until his back met the mattress. His fingers dragged down your spine before settling against your hips, a silent plea for something to hold onto.
You rolled forward deliberately, watching the way his body responded to you, how his jaw clenched and his stomach tensed, how his hands flexed against your thighs as if struggling with the instinct to take control. You knew it was difficult for him to relinquish power, to simply be and let you guide him, but you wanted to show him—prove to him—that with you, he could.
“How do you like it?” you murmured, leaning forward. You shifted your hips, adjusting the rhythm, the angle, teasing a reaction from him. "Tell me, baby."
Bucky swallowed hard, his grip tightening briefly before he forced himself to relax, hands falling idle at his sides. “Shit, doll, just like t-that,” he rasped, his voice rough with restraint.
Guiding his hands to your body, settling one at your hip, the other on the small of your back. “Hold onto me,” you whispered. 
His fingers twitched, then slid lower, gripping the soft flesh of your ass, possessive, grounding. The intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. He was holding on, just like you asked, but now you could feel it—the way he was fighting himself, the way he was trying to let go without completely losing himself.
“That’s it,” you praised, breath hitching as you rode him, slow, deliberate, making sure he felt every inch of your walls as you glided up and down, tip to base. "Don't let go. Hold onto me while I ride your pretty cock."
Bucky groaned, his hands digging into your flesh, the possessive touch making your own movements falter for a moment. He could break you if he wanted to. He could flip you over, take control, make you beg instead. But he didn't. “Look at me,” you pleaded, your voice thick. Your hands framed his face, trembling slightly as your fingers brushed the stubble along his jaw. “Come on, James. I need you to see this. Look at how good we are together… how perfect we fit.”
He resisted for a heartbeat, his lashes fluttering, before giving in to the pull of your voice. Slowly, his eyes opened, heavy-lidded and smoldering, the blue now darkened with need. Those eyes drank you in, devouring every curve, every sway of your body above him. He took in the way your skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat, the way you moved, as though his body had been carved to match yours.
“Fuck…” The word spilled from his lips like a prayer, barely more than a shuddered exhale. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath more ragged than the last. “I’ll… shit, I’ll cum if you keep this up. Can’t believe how well you take me.”
A breathless laugh escaped you, shaky but teasing, despite the heat pooling low in your belly. “Maybe that’s because I was made for you,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with intent.
The effect was immediate. His jaw tightened, his thighs flexed beneath you, and you felt him throb inside you, his reaction sending sparks through your own body. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your movements now, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“You like that, don’t you?” you teased again, though your voice wavered, betraying how much control you were starting to lose. “The thought of having my body made just for yours?”
Bucky groaned, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows. The muscles in his neck strained, and the sound he made was somewhere between pain and pleasure. “Don’t say shit like that,” he ground out, his fingers sliding up to spread across your lower back. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
His hand trailed lower, his thumb brushing over your clit with just enough pressure to make you gasp, your body jolting involuntarily. “James…” you whispered in warning, your voice breaking on the syllable, and your hand shot out to brace against the mattress beside his head, desperate for some semblance of balance.
“You hear that?” His voice was husky, his tone laced with awe and hunger as his thumb traced slow, devastating circles. “I can hear how wet you are for me. Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”
His words sent a fresh wave of heat washing over you, your stomach tightening. But even as your body betrayed you, you shook your head stubbornly, refusing to let him win so easily. “S-Stop,” you stammered, though your resolve was already crumbling.  
“I’m serious, James,” you protested, leaning forward until your chest brushed against his. The shift made him press impossibly deeper inside you, and the both of you let out simultaneous groans, your eyes rolling back rolled your eyes at the sensation. “This is for you,” you managed, though the words were barely audible over the sound of your erratic breathing.
“For us,” he corrected, his voice strained and rough.
Lips grazing the shell of his ear, each word trembling with intimacy and raw emotion, your voice softened, dropping to a tone meant only for him. “I want you to have whatever you need from me. Anything that makes you feel good. Do you understand?”
The silence between you stretched taut, broken only by the ragged pull of his breath. His hands, large and steady, now trembled slightly where they held you, as though he was warring with the weight of your words. And then, like a dam breaking, he gave in. His face buried itself in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing fevered, desperate kisses along your skin—, whispered agreements to surrender, to let go, to take what you offered so willingly.
Then, low and hoarse, his voice broke through the haze. “Can you—fuck—can you pick up the pace?” It was him, asking for what he wanted for once, and the need behind it made it feel like a plea. “Just like that,” he praised, his breath hitching as you moved faster, your body gliding up and down his shaft. “A bit quicker, good girl.”
The words hit you like a physical force, leaving you trembling. You obeyed instinctively, riding him harder, faster, and with more abandon, each movement drawing a new sound from his throat, each one unraveling you further.
“Keep going, love,” he urged, and your nails dug into his bicep, leaving crescents in his skin as your body burned hotter at the sound of the endearment. Love. That word. The way he said it, so casual yet so loaded, made your heart skip a beat. He needed to stop calling you that before you completely lost it.
“You’re so warm, so slick…” His voice was wrecked now, each word strung together. “Barely had any trouble taking me, didn’t you?”
You couldn’t hold the moan that escaped your lips, muffled only by your mouth finding his shoulder as pleasure threatened to overwhelm you. You felt him twitch inside you, and the knowledge of how close he was only drove you harder, desperate to tip him over the edge.
“Bucky, fuck,” you gasped, your voice breaking as tears prickled at the corners of your eyes. The effort of holding back, of teetering so close to release without falling, was too much. “I need you to cum,” you cried, your voice raw with desperation.
If he didn’t—if you didn’t—you knew you’d lose yourself, unravel completely under the weight of this unbearable tension. You couldn’t bear the thought of him holding back, couldn’t stand another moment without the relief you both so desperately needed.
His hands gripped you tighter, his nails biting into your skin as his control finally snapped. His hips thrust up to meet yours, hard and deliberate, and his voice came out in a broken groan. “Keep going, don’t stop—please.”
The “please” broke you, shattered whatever thread of composure you’d been clinging to. You cried out, your body moving frantically now, chasing the release. When it finally came, when his body tensed and you felt the warmth of him spill inside you, you fell with him, a tangle of limbs and gasping breaths and whispered names.
For a moment, the world stilled. All that existed was the way he held you, his hands splayed wide across your back, anchoring you to him as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. His lips pressed soft, lazy kisses against your hair, his breathing still uneven.
“You must be a dream…” he murmured at last, his voice laced with awe, as though the thought had just escaped without permission. “I don’t even think I could create something as good as this…”
Your heart clenched at his confession, the weight of his words stealing the breath from your lungs. Tears welled at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over as you closed them tightly, desperate to keep your composure. The emotions crashing over you were too immense, too raw to be captured by words.
Instead, you leaned into him, pressing closer, letting the curve of your body against his speak for you. It was effortless, the way you fit together, like two halves of the same whole finally finding their place. His arms tightened around you in response, pulling you closer, as though he needed the connection as much as you did—maybe more.
The rhythmic sound of his breathing began to slow, each exhale softer than the last. You stayed there, suspended in the quiet, the world outside fading to nothing. Before the knot in your throat could fully unravel, before you could even whisper the words you felt so deeply, he was asleep. –
Bucky was still fast asleep when you slipped out of bed, his breathing deep and steady in the quiet of the room. Your legs ached in that delicious, lingering way that made you flush just thinking about the night before… and this morning. Your hair was a tangled mess, the kind only a long, hot shower could fix.
The water was scalding against your skin, steam curling around you in thick clouds. When you stepped out, you took your time applying moisturizer—something you did every morning, but today, you lingered a little longer, smoothing your hands over your skin with a care that felt indulgent. It wasn’t lost on you that you were paying extra attention, almost as if… as if you wanted to feel soft under his touch again.
God, you were in trouble.
By the time you finished drying your hair, the apartment was still blanketed in the rare hush of a snowstorm, the city outside subdued under layers of white. Even the usual hum of traffic and sirens seemed to have been swallowed up by, leaving you in an unusual sort of peace.
You met your own gaze in the fogged-up mirror, and for a moment, you barely recognized yourself. Your eyes were bright, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the shower—or maybe something else entirely—and there was a smile you couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how hard you tried. It was kind of ridiculous, how easily you had fallen into this thing with Bucky. How completely and utterly infatuated you’d become in such a short time.
But honestly, could you blame yourself? The man was… dreamy, for lack of a better word.
Shaking your head at your own reflection, you reached for the henley you’d stolen from the floor, the fabric soft and worn against your fingers. It still smelled like him and slipping it over your head felt like wrapping yourself in his warmth. You paired it with a fresh set of panties and some thick socks, padding out into the living room in search of something to fill the sudden hunger gnawing at you.
Somehow, you found yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients with more enthusiasm than you expected. Maybe it was the restless energy still buzzing in your veins from the morning’s activities. Maybe it was the cold, the way it made you crave something warm and hearty.
Or maybe—if you were being honest with yourself—it had everything to do with the man currently sleeping soundly in your bed, his presence lingering in every corner of the apartment, wrapping around you like an invisible thread.
The soft sizzle of eggs in the pan and the low hum of the kettle were the only sounds breaking the peaceful quiet. The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee curled through the air. You smiled to yourself as you moved through the kitchen, arranging a spread that was far more elaborate than necessary—fluffy pancakes, perfectly crisp bacon, fresh fruit sliced with more care than anyone really needed.
Maybe it was the coziness of the morning, the lingering heat of the shower still clinging to your skin, or maybe it was the memory of last night—the way Bucky’s hands had explored, the way his lips had left traces of him all over you—that had you feeling so... content. Settled.
And that thought alone sent a flicker of unease through your chest.
Because contentment was dangerous. It was heavy with expectations and unspoken promises, and you weren’t entirely sure how much Bucky was willing to give you—how far he’d let you in before pushing you away. He’d given up control for a few minutes, but what if that was his line?
The thought of that conversation—the one where you'd have to define whatever this was—loomed over you like a dark cloud. Sooner or later, it would have to happen. And you weren’t looking forward to facing whatever truths might come out of it.
Your knife hesitated mid-slice through a ripe strawberry, lost in the swirl of your thoughts, when the soft creak of the bedroom door pulled you back to reality. You turned, and there he was.
Bucky stood in the doorway, shirtless, clad only in his dark briefs, his broad frame filling the space with an effortless kind of dominance. Sleep still clung to him in the tousle of his hair, the crease of the pillow on his cheek, and the soft squint of his eyes as he blinked at you.
“So that’s where my shirt’s gone,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep, rough in that way that sent a shiver down your spine.
A grin tugged at your lips as you grabbed a mug from the counter, pouring him a cup of coffee. “Do you mind?” you asked sheepishly, holding the mug out as he padded across the kitchen, slumping against the island with a lazy sort of grace. “I can give it back, I have plenty o—”
“You keep it,” Bucky interrupted, his lips curling faintly as he took the coffee from your hands. His eyes flickered over you, slow and appreciative, the oversized henley hanging off your frame in a way that had his jaw tightening just slightly. “Looks better on you anyway.”
You opened your mouth to reply, but he reached out, his vibranium arm wrapping around your waist with ease, tugging you closer until your front was flush against his. The coolness of his metal fingers pressed against the small of your back, holding you there, while his other hand brought the coffee to his lips for a sip.
You sighed, arms looping around his bare torso as you nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, you felt his grip tighten, his thumb stroking absentmindedly over your hip in a way that made your stomach flip.
“If you keep manhandling me like this,” you murmured against his skin, lips grazing his neck as you trailed soft kisses along his shoulder, “we’re never getting out of this apartment.”
Bucky hummed, a low, satisfied sound deep in his chest, and you felt his smirk against your hair.
“Exactly my plan, darling.”
You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest as you squeezed yourself closer, your cheek resting against the warmth of his skin. You let yourself admire him, tracing the strong lines of muscle beneath smooth skin, your fingers ghosting over the battle scars that told stories you’d never fully know. Each one was a reminder of the life he’d lived before you, the wars he’d fought—both the ones the world knew about and the ones you suspected still haunted him in the quiet moments.
God, he was so Bucky. It was almost too much—the way he filled the space around you, the way he was. The thought made your chest ache.
“As much as I’d love that,” you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, your lips brushing against his collarbone, “we need to get you some clothes.”
Bucky’s lips twitched, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild offense. “Don’t you have enough to steal?”
“Not even close.” You grinned, and his head dipped slightly, shaking with a soft huff of laughter.
His blue eyes studied you, something lazy and dangerous behind them. “What do we need clothes for, exactly?”
“For you.” Your fingers splayed against his ribs, enjoying the way he tensed slightly beneath your touch. “To stay here. I can wash these for you,” you gestured vaguely to his current state of undress, “but I doubt you want to spend the whole week in jeans and a leather jacket.”
“A week?” His brows lifted, the tease obvious in his voice, making your heart stumble.
Before you could think of a clever response, he drained the last of his coffee, the mug settling onto the counter with a soft clink. Then his hands—one warm, one cool—cupped your cheeks, holding you in place. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, his touch featherlight but commanding all the same.
“Are you keeping me hostage, my love?”
The words hit you like a sucker punch, the unexpected weight of them stealing the air from your lungs. My love. It wasn’t the first time he’d used a pet name, but this one—this one was new. It felt different. It held weight. Promise.
Your lips parted on instinct, a small, sharp inhale betraying you. His gaze locked you in place, left you rooted to the spot, utterly helpless under the sheer gravity of him. Your eyes searched his, wide and pleading, silently begging him to kiss you. To put you out of your misery.
Bucky’s lips curled, just barely, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And he did—of course he did. Because he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, teasingly close but not enough.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmured against your lips.
Your fingers curled into his sides. “And whose fault is that?”
“Yours. Definitely yours.”
You closed the distance between you with a desperation that felt all-consuming, your lips crashing against his like an addict chasing their next fix—eager, hungry, completely and utterly lost in the way he tasted. 
Your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, nails biting softly into his skin as your nose bumped his in your search for more. “What are you doing to me?” you whined, voice breathless and aching, chasing his lips even as he tilted your head, guiding you deeper into him.
He let you have him, let you take your fill, and it was a long, dizzying minute before you could even think about pulling away. When you did, your forehead rested against his  chin.
“What were you saying, doll?” Bucky murmured against your mouth, his grip firm at the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair in a way that made your knees weak.
“Clothes,” you managed to say, gulping down air and pushing lightly against his chest. “We need to get you clothes.”
His lips curved at the corners, and he didn’t loosen his hold. “For what?” he drawled, pulling you closer when you tried—half-heartedly—to create distance, his bare chest radiating warmth against your own.
“For you to stay here.” You bit your lip, trying to fight the way your body naturally leaned into him. “The city’s shutting down, Bucky. We’re all working from home for the next few days. There’ll be no missions.”
He hummed, the vibration of it rumbling against your skin, completely unconcerned. “Didn’t you get the text?” you added, hoping some logic would break through the haze clouding both your minds.
“Haven’t had time to look at my phone,” he confessed, his lips brushing along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your neck, each kiss melting your resolve a little more.
You groaned, tugging lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck, though there was no real force behind it—no real will to stop him. “Bucky, come on,” you pleaded, though your head lolled back of its own accord, giving him even more space to continue his assault.
“I made you food,” you gasped, trying to ground yourself.
“You did,” he murmured, his mouth moving lower, a smile evident in his voice.
“I made you coffee.”
“You did,” he echoed, his vibranium hand slipping under the hem of his stolen shirt, cool against the heat of your skin.
“I made you pancakes—” Your words cut off with a sharp gasp as his tongue flicked over the sensitive spot just below your jaw, and your toes curled against the cold kitchen floor. A shiver shot down your spine, leaving you trembling in his hold. “Fuck. Okay, okay, we need to stop.”
Bucky hummed again, nipping playfully at your skin, and you felt the smirk forming against your throat. “Do we, though?”
You groaned, half in frustration, half in bliss. “Yes,” you insisted, even as your hands betrayed you, gripping his biceps tightly. “Before the food gets cold.”
He sighed dramatically, finally pulling back enough to meet your eyes, his face so unfairly handsome it almost had you giving in all over again. “Fine,” he grumbled, but the mischief in his eyes told you this wasn’t over.
You rolled your eyes, pushing at his chest and trying—failing—not to smile. “Go put some pants on, Barnes.”
Breakfast passed with only minor interruptions—most of them your fault. You couldn’t resist stealing a kiss when a smudge of syrup clung to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, and he had grumbled something about “food theft” while pulling you into another kiss that tasted like maple and coffee. It was slow, sweet, and enough to make you forget the cold world outside for a moment.
But reality crept back in, and soon he was leaving you in the kitchen, disappearing into the bathroom with a parting kiss to your temple. The sound of the shower running filled the space, leaving you alone with your thoughts—the worst possible company, if you were being honest.
By the time he stepped out, fresh and dressed in yesterday’s clothes, you had already decided you weren’t going to let him face the snow alone.
“Stay here, doll,” he’d said, tugging on his jacket. “It’s freezing out.”
“I’m coming with you,” you shot back, folding your arms in defiance.
Bucky sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was preparing for a battle he knew he’d lose. “I’ll be quick.”
“No.” 
He huffed, shaking his head. “You’re not coming with me,” Bucky said firmly as he pulled his jacket on, his tone brooking no argument. “It’s freezing out there, and the sidewalks are a mess. It’s not safe.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his stubbornness with your own. “if it’s safe for you, then it’s safe for me. You’re not facing that alone. Not a chance.”
“Doll—”
“I’m coming, and that’s final.”
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The walk to his place, a few blocks away, was brutal. Snow crunched underfoot as the two of you trudged through the white-covered streets, your gloved hand slipping into his halfway through the walk. He didn’t say anything, but his grip tightened around yours. When you finally reached his building, your breath came out in small clouds, your cheeks and nose tingling from the cold. You followed him up the stairs to his apartment, still catching your breath as he unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Stepping inside, you were struck by how little had changed since the first time you’d been there—a fleeting late-night visit to drop off mission files. The same barebones setup greeted you: a modest TV, a makeshift bed on the floor with neatly folded blankets, a stack of plates drying on the counter, a chair. The bedroom door was ajar, offering a glimpse of a near-empty space that seemed more like a glorified storage space than a place to rest. The place wasn’t just bare; it was lifeless.
Bucky dropped his keys onto the counter, glancing at you before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “There’s some drinks in the fridge if you want anything,” he murmured, his lips lingering against your skin for a second too long. “I’ll just grab some things.”
You nodded absentmindedly, your eyes sweeping across the barren room. The walls were empty, a pale expanse of nothingness, save for a few nicks and scratches that told stories no one had been invited to hear. The furniture—minimal and purely functional—felt more like it belonged in a holding cell than in someone’s home. A tangle of emotions tightened in your chest, a dull ache that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with him.
It wasn’t just the absence of warmth, the lack of personal touches, or the refusal to claim this space as his own that hurt. It was what all of it represented. Bucky didn’t think he deserved any of it—not the cozy clutter of a home, not the comfort of a safe space, not the smallest token of belonging… not the comfort of you. That unyielding part of him, buried so deep it seemed untouchable, still whispered lies born of decades of torment. Lies that told him he was unworthy, that he was irredeemable, that the horrors he endured were somehow his burden to bear forever.
You knew better. You’d read the files. You’d combed through the blood-soaked history of the Winter Soldier, every mission meticulously documented, every coup orchestrated, every life taken with cold precision. You’d seen the names of dictators he’d helped rise to power and the innocents whose lives were stolen in the process. But those files didn’t just tell the story of what he’d done; they told the story of what had been done to him.
You knew about the experiments, the torture, the relentless breaking and rebuilding of a man until there was nothing left but a weapon. You knew about the years he spent frozen, locked in an icy limbo while the world turned without him. His friends and family grew older, grieved him, moved on. He had been robbed not only of his agency but of his life—again and again, piece by piece, memory by memory.
And yet, standing here in this hollow space that he refused to call a home, you felt the weight of it all pressing on your chest. It wasn’t just the sadness of what he had endured but the injustice of what he continued to carry. It broke your heart in ways you couldn’t articulate, shattered it all over again every time you caught a glimpse of this man—so lost, so burdened—who couldn’t see the good you saw in him.
The sound escaped before you could stop it—a raw, choked sob that ripped free from your chest, surprising even you. It was as if all the care and grief and pain you had been holding inside had suddenly coalesced into that single, involuntary noise. Your throat felt impossibly tight, like those damned files had transformed into invisible fists, squeezing the air from your lungs. Grief welled up for the man Bucky could have been, for the life he might have lived if fate had been kinder, and it crushed you.
You clapped a trembling hand over your mouth, desperate to smother the sound, but it was too late. He was there, moving faster than you could compose yourself, his presence a solid, grounding warmth behind you. His hands hovered just above your shoulders, hesitant but close enough.
“What happened?” His voice was soft but taut, worry stretching every word thin.
You shook your head quickly, trying to pull yourself together as your free hand swiped at the fat tears trailing down your cheeks. “I’m fine,” you lied, your voice cracking. “Really, I’m okay. You should—go back to packing.” You managed a shaky, watery smile, blinking furiously against the torrent threatening to spill again. “Do you need help with anything?”
But then you saw his face. The worry etched into his features, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start. It was too much.
Whatever fragile grip you’d managed to find shattered in an instant. Your face crumpled, your chest heaving with a heartbroken sob that tore through the room. Your hands shot up instinctively, covering your face as though you could hide the sheer weight of your emotions from him.
“No, no, no,” you stammered through the tears, shaking your head. This wasn’t his burden to bear. Not after everything he’d already endured. Not when the weight of his past was already crushing him. He didn’t need your pain, your hurt for him, added to his. He didn’t deserve that.
Bucky didn’t move away. He didn’t retreat to the safety of distance or let the awkwardness of your emotions push him back. Instead, he stepped closer, his hands finally landing on your shoulders, firm and grounding. “Hey,” he said softly, the word more of an anchor than a question. “What’s going on?”
You shook your head again, your fingers clutching your face as though you could physically hold yourself together. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for you to see this. I just—” Your voice broke, and you sucked in a shuddering breath. 
“Why shouldn’t I see it?” He frowned, thumb brushing against the skin of your neck, the gesture so gentle it urged a new wave of tears, making you reach out to grip his jacket, the cold from the outside still lingering on the fabric. “Because you don’t need this,” you hiccupped, swallowing down another wracking sob. “You know I know... everything", your voice broke then and your hands tightened into fists, pulling him closer still. "I know what they did to you, everything, every time they broke you and built you up again, I know, and I-- it's not pity, I promise you it's not. I just... I l-- care. I care about you so much and you're so good, Bucky. I can't believe you've gone through all of that and you're still so good." He opened his mouth to respond, his lips twitching into a small, humorless smile. “Maybe I’m not,” he said, trying to laugh, trying to disarm you with that wry, self-deprecating edge you hated. 
You practically climbed him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a grip so tight it would’ve choked any other man. But not him. Not your Bucky. “Don’t joke about this,” you pleaded, shaking your head against him, standing on your tiptoes and using every ounce of your strength and weight to pull him down toward you. Your lips pressed wet, frantic kisses to his temple, his cheek, his nose, and finally his lips, your tears soaking into his skin. “Don’t you dare joke about this.” His breath hitched, a tremor you felt more than saw, and his hands faltered as they lifted to your back. They hovered there, caught in a limbo of indecision, as though he couldn’t decide if it was best to hold you closer or push you away. 
“I’m so sorry. You don’t need this—me falling apart on you. Not after everything you’ve carried, Bucky. More than anyone ever should. And now I’m here, breaking... and you shouldn’t have to deal with that, too.”
“Stop,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, a quiet strength anchoring you in a way only he could. His hands pressed to your back with gentle insistence, grounding you, pulling you back from the edge. “Kinda nice to have someone grieve for me, you know?” His lips quirked in the faintest, almost disbelieving curve—a smile too fragile to hold. “I’ve felt like it’s just been me. Alone. For so long. After Steve—” His voice broke, a hitch that was barely audible but cracked through the air between you. “After Steve, I didn’t think anyone would ever… care. Not like that. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend. I love the guy. But I’ve always wondered if that’s the only kind of care I’d ever get from people. Like it’s more duty than choice.”
His confession twisted the knife of emotion deeper. A fresh wave of sobs welled up, breaking free as the raw vulnerability of his words settled into the hollow places inside you, making you ache for him in ways that felt almost unbearable.
“No,” you whispered fiercely, your head shaking against his. “It’s not duty. It’s not obligation. I care about you because of who you are, Bucky. Not who you were, not what you’ve been through, not because you need saving or because I feel sorry for you. It’s because you’re good. Whether you believe it or not, you are so good.”
His lips parted, an objection forming on his tongue, but you surged forward, pulling him into a kiss that silenced everything else. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was desperate. It was a kiss that carried the weight of everything you couldn’t yet say aloud. Grief. Hope. Love. A promise that he wasn’t alone and never would be, not because someone felt they had to be there, but because they chose to.
He froze, stunned for a breathless moment, before surrendering. His hands slid down from your back to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. He held you like you were the only steady thing in a world that kept tilting and shifting beneath his feet.
When you finally pulled back, tears streaked your cheeks, unchecked and raw, and his thumb brushed against your jawline, wiping them away. His eyes searched yours, filled with an unspoken vulnerability. “I…” he started, but the words died in his throat.
You wanted to ask him to tell you everything that churned behind those stormy blue eyes. You wanted to dive headfirst into the hurricane of his thoughts, to feel the raw chaos of the emotions he kept so carefully hidden. You longed to strip away the armor he wore, piece by piece, until there was nothing left between you but the fragile truth of him.
More than anything, you wanted to carve out a home in the spaces where others had turned away. You wanted to fill the voids they left behind, to prove that for you, there was no “something better.” There never could be. Because this—he—was everything.
Instead, for his sake—and maybe a little for yours—you forced a shaky laugh and tried to lighten the mood. “This is why you need a bed in here,” you joked weakly, your voice cracking under emotions you couldn’t quite suppress.
His lips twitched, and the faintest hint of a smile broke through the storm. “Because crying and having sex is a great idea?” His tone carried a teasing edge, but you could hear his quiet relief.
You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, hiccupping through your tears. “Have you never heard of tears of pleasure?”
His brow furrowed, the expression so unguarded and boyish that it tugged something deep inside you. “...No?”
“Guess you haven’t tried hard enough, then,” you quipped, your voice lighter but still trembling. Vulnerability lingered just beneath the surface, too close to keep hidden.
He shook his head, exhaling a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t believe you’re joking right now.”
He tilted your chin up with his thumbs then, fingers buried on the back of your hair and his lips found yours. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t careful. His hands slipped and framed your face as if he could hold all of you in his palms, as if he was trying to tell you what he couldn’t say. And when you clung to him, your arms around his neck, your fingers threading through his hair, it felt like trying to tether yourself to something real in a world that kept slipping away.
Then his hands slid to your thighs, gripping firmly, and before you knew it, he lifted you with an ease that made your head swim. Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively and you felt his strength beneath your fingers.
“If I don’t joke,” you murmured against his lips, your voice trembling with your confession, “I’m gonna say a lot of things I shouldn’t.”
His steps faltered, and he paused, holding you there, his forehead brushing yours. “Like what?” he asked, a dangerous invitation.
“You don’t want to know,” you whispered, shaking your head. You kissed him again, feverish and desperate, trying to drown the words that threatened to spill out—the words that had been clawing at your throat for weeks. “Not yet. God, not yet.”
He resumed, carrying you toward the makeshift bed of blankets. He knelt with you, settling you down as gently as if you were made of glass. His eyes bore into yours, a storm of curiosity and hesitation swirling within them.
“But what if I do?” His voice was barely above a whisper. The steel blue pinned you in place, raw and searching, like he was trying to unearth the pieces of you you’d been holding tightly to your chest.
“Bucky, don’t,” you choked out as tears spilled anew. “I’m scared enough already. I’ve shown you too much—I’ve said way too much.” You let out a shaky laugh, more bitter than amused. “I’m terrified you’ll run out that door the second I look away. Don’t make me say it. Please don’t.”
His grip tightened, his forehead falling against yours as his weight settled between your legs, making you inhale sharply at the sensation. His breath ghosted against your lips, steady and grounding, as his voice came soft but resolute. “What do you need, then? Tell me, doll.”
“Just kiss me,” you pleaded, fingers dragging over the stubble on his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, eyes searching his like you couldn’t decide where to look, how to touch. “Keep my mouth shut, will you?” Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist. “Do it until I forget my name.”
He let out a breath and you saw the glassiness in his eyes, your own emotion reflected on his as he turned to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “As long as you don’t forget mine,”  his voice soft and reverent, as though the thought of you forgetting him was too much to bear. Leaning down until all of his weight was on yours, his tongue slipped into your mouth with a possessive stroke that sent heat pooling in your center. 
“I could never,” you breathed, words mumbled, arching up when his hand found its way under your shirt to find soft, warm skin. “I could never forget you, James.”
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alygator77 · 8 months ago
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.ೃ࿐motherhood and matrimony I ch 6 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪
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ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader
ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.
ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, smut, fluff, some angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, triggers of prior domestic abuse (physical intimidation, emotional manipulation, from naoya) » 【note, this chapter contains explicit sexual content (dry humping, grinding)】
ꨄ words: 14.4k
ꨄ a/n. hello my lovelies!! :) life has been a roller coaster to say the least, but i'm so excited to share this chapter with ya'll. i'll see you at the bottom with my thoughts ♡
ꨄ taglist: open (ao3)
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ch 6 // drenched in truth
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The gala was a night that promised perfection, elegance and ease…but the storm on the horizon had other plans for you.
As murmurs of conversation hum throughout the grand ballroom, it’s easy to forget the world outside—that is, until you hear the first distant rumble of thunder.
Before you know it, the once clear starry evening, slowly gives way to ominous clouds gathering the horizon, with the first raindrops of the evening arriving barely noticed beneath the layers of music and chatter—tapping against the expansive windows like an impatient guest requesting entry.
But the gentle taps soon evolve into a steady, insistent drumming, making the rain’s presence impossible to ignore as the water streams down the glass windows in rivulets—distorting the view outside and making the world beyond seem distant and blurred.
It’s getting late…
You subtly glance down at your phone to check the time, and as the screen illuminates, a picture of you and Haru at the park flashes across the display. What a bright and sunny memory—completely different from the now impossible to ignore presence of this unforgiving rain.
As the storm outside grows, your thoughts immediately shift to Haru. Is she okay?
The last time there was such a storm, Haru had been terrified of the thunder—each crack making her small frame shake, eyes filled with tears and voice trembling as she whispered mama, seeking comfort in your embrace.
Is the nanny capable of soothing her?
The sudden concern that she might be scared and inconsolable gnaws at you, making it hard to focus on anything else as you navigate the crowd, exchanging pleasantries with people whose names you’ll forget by morning.
The opulence of the gala, the sparkling chandeliers, the elegant music—it all feels suffocating, a gilded cage keeping you from where you truly need to be. Home. That’s where you should be, holding Haru close, comforting her through the storm, not trapped in this endless sea of strangers and small talk.
You glance at Satoru beside you—a picture of calm, hand resting in his pocket as he engages in light-hearted conversation with a group of guests, smiling and laughing. It’s all so natural, so effortless as their chatter seems to exist in a world far removed from the storm—both outside and within you.
As you stand there, nodding along to the conversation without truly listening, your eyes begin to drift across the room and you notice a few other couples discreetly making their way towards the exit, coats draped over their arms—if only you could do the same.
You find yourself fidgeting with the hem of your dress—you really want to go home.
Glancing up at Satoru again, you wait for a brief lull in his conversation where the chatter dies down just enough for you to discreetly speak to him without interrupting.
Once the opportunity arises with the laughter fading and the conversation shifting to another topic, you seize your moment. Leaning in close to Satoru, your shoulder brushes against his arm as you softly whisper under your breath.
“Hey… it’s getting late and with this storm, maybe we should think about heading out soon?”
Your words are careful, quiet, meant to blend into the background noise of the gala so that no one else notices your request, and Satoru’s gaze flickers to you, his expression softening as he takes in your concern. But then he sighs quietly, his hand gently brushing against your arm, a small gesture of reassurance.
“I know,” he murmurs, “but there’s just one more obligation I have to fulfill for the event—a quick thank-you speech to the sponsors. I promise, we’ll leave right after that.”
He begins to turn back to the conversation, the group’s voices already beginning to rise again, but just as he starts to pull away, a low rumble of thunder reverberates through the room, and your gaze instinctively flickers to the windows, where the rain beats against the glass with increasing ferocity, the relentless sheets of water streaking down like tears.
Without thinking, your hand reaches out, lightly touching Satoru’s arm—a small, almost hesitant gesture. As your fingers brush against the fabric of his sleeve, your subtle plea for his attention makes him pause and turn back towards you, concern flickering in his eyes.
“Satoru…I’m really worried about Haru,” you confess, keeping your voice low to avoid drawing the attention of those around you. “She hates storms… she’s terrified of thunder.”
Before you can say more, he shifts slightly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you gently into his side. You are met immediately with the warmth of his body, the subtle scent of his cologne and the steady rhythm of his breath. His hand moves in slow, comforting motions up and down your arm, as if trying to transfer some of his calm to you.
He tilts his chin down towards you and he speaks in a low gentle murmur, meant only for you.
“Haru has the nanny. She’s safe. I’ll make sure she’s okay, and this won’t take long—I’ll be quick, I promise.”
His words, paired with the comforting rhythm of his hand, are meant to ease your worries, to reassure you that everything will be alright, but for some reason they land with a dull thud in your chest.
You know Haru has the nanny…but you can’t shake the feeling that it might not be enough for her. You’ve been Haru’s rock throughout everything—Naoya was never there for her, and she hasn’t had anyone else.
“I know, but…” you glance towards the windows again as another rumble of thunder reverberates through the room. “Haru gets so scared. Last time, she cried for hours and couldn’t sleep without me.”
Satoru’s eyes flicker between you and the group of guests nearby, a momentary glance that betrays the tug-of-war happening within him.
“I get it. I do,” his tone is still gentle but with an edge of urgency now. His eyes lock onto yours, pleading for understanding even as they flit once more to the gathering around you. “This is important, though. I made a commitment to be here, and it’s crucial that I see it through. But I’ll make it quick, I promise. We’ll leave as soon as I’m done, and we’ll be home before you know it.”
A mix of frustration and helplessness begin to bubble through you as you watch his gaze. There is a sense of sincerity, yet it feels divided—part of him here with you, with another part already back in the spotlight, where the murmurs of the gala grow louder.
You know he’s committed to the cause, that his presence here holds weight—it’s not that you don’t understand—it’s just that… does that really matter right now when Haru might need you?
“Alright…” you say reluctantly, the word heavy on your tongue. “Just… don’t take too long, please.”
ꨄ︎
Perhaps this storm isn’t just weather—it’s a harbinger.
Your attention shifts between watching Satoru on stage, giving his speech to the sponsors, to the large windows lining the ballroom. Outside the once vibrant red carpet is now a sodden strip of fabric, abandoned to the elements.
The storm has worsened, intensifying with each passing minute, and with it, your sense of dread. Your fingers tap idly against the polished surface of the round dinner table as the wind howls like it wants to be let in, the rain lashing against the glass with a ferocity that seems malevolent.
You try to focus on Satoru’s words, but a movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention. A man, tall and imposing with raven hair, weaves his way through the crowd, his presence almost too casual for an event like this. He’s dressed well enough to blend in, but there’s something about him—something in the way he carries himself, the scar upon his lips—he feels out of place.
He's somewhat…intimidating—like a predator stalking its prey.
Once the man approaches your table, you stiffen slightly, instinctively pulling your shawl tighter around your shoulders. He’s close now, close enough that you can make out the sharpness in his features, the cold glint in his eyes.
But…why is there an air of familiarity about him? You can’t quite place it. He stops just short of your chair, a smile curling his lips, though is doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks—and he doesn’t wait for your answer before pulling out the chair beside you.
Caught off guard, you nod slowly.
“Sure…”
Settling into the seat with a casual ease there's a small, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. A subtle tension radiates from him as his gaze flickers to you.
“Enjoying the event?” he asks, voice smooth, almost too smooth, like oil on water.
Great. This is really not what you need right now. It’s hard enough playing your part when you have Satoru’s support, but now, you’re by yourself. What if you slip up and say something wrong?
Unease bubbles inside you, making it difficult to muster more than a faint smile upon your lips.
“Yes, it’s been lovely,” you nod politely.
“Mm… quite the storm out there though,” he comments. “But then again, a little chaos never hurt anyone, right?”
His tone sends a cool shiver down your spine. This guy gives you the creeps, but you force a polite smile, unsure of what to make of him.
“I suppose not…”
He leans back in his chair, his gaze shifting to Satoru on stage before flicking back to you.
“You must be proud, seeing him up there,” he remarks. “It’s not every day you get to stand beside someone so… influential.”
His words, though innocuous on the surface, feel laden with meaning—like there’s something he’s not saying, something he’s implying, and you feel a chill that has nothing to do with the storm outside.
Who is this man, and why does he seem so familiar?
He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“It’s important to keep an eye on those you care about, wouldn’t you agree? Sometimes… things aren’t always as they seem.”
The statement hangs in the air, heavy with implication, but before you can respond, he straightens up, his gaze flickering to the stage again where Satoru is now wrapping up his speech. The unsettling smile returns to his face—a smile that carries a shadow passing over his expression.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” he stands from the chair. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” and he turns on his heel, disappearing back into the crowd as quickly as he appeared.
But the chill he leaves behind lingers, gnawing at the edges of your mind.
Weird…what a creep.
You shake off the lingering sense of unease as Satoru beings to step down from the podium, exchanging pleasantries and goodbyes with a few lingering guests.
His eyes flicker to you, and then towards the window, catching a glimpse of lightning as it illuminates the darkened sky, and for just a second, you notice a shift in his expression as he takes in the worsening weather.
Excusing himself from the crowd, Satoru steps to the side discreetly with practiced ease and pulls out his phone. You watch as he dials, his back turned slightly from the attendees, and although you can’t hear his words, you know what he’s doing—a rush of relief washes over you as you realize he’s calling the driver to come pick you up.
Finally.
The thought of being on your way home, of holding Haru close and reassuring her, makes the wait almost unbearable.
Satoru’s conversation is brief, but you watch it with growing anticipation, and once he slips his phone back into his pocket, he meets your gaze from across the room again.
Wait…there is something in his expression…an unease that wasn’t there before. Concern.
He weaves through the crowd with purposeful strides, and your heart sinks—it slowly becomes more apparent that something isn’t right, and the chatter in the ballroom grows quiet as guests murmur about the worsening weather.
Once Satoru reaches you, he doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he pulls out the seat beside you, flipping it around so that the back of the chair presses against his chest as he sits, arms folded across the top of it. The movement is casual in appearance, but the way his fingers tighten around the wood, his knuckles whitening just slightly, betrays the calm facade he’s trying to maintain.
“So…” he leans in a little closer, voice low, almost reluctant. “We’ve got a bit of a situation.”
“What’s wrong?” anxiety builds inside you.
He hesitates, just for a moment, his eyes flicking to the side as if searching for the right words, before meeting your gaze head-on.
“There’s been an accident on the main road leading out of the city… it’s caused a major blockage, and with all this rain, the roads are practically flooded. My driver’s stuck on the other side and won’t be able to reach us for hours… maybe not until morning.”
Oh, you see red.
The storm outside suddenly feels like a mirror to the one brewing inside you—fierce, relentless, and impossible to contain.
If only you had left sooner, if only Satoru hadn’t insisted on staying for that last part of the gala—if only he had understood the urgency you felt—you wouldn’t be in this mess.
And now, Haru is alone at home, frightened and vulnerable, and you’re stuck here, trapped by circumstances beyond your control.
The thought makes your blood boil.
“So, what do we do?” The words escape your lips with a sharpness that even you didn’t anticipate, cutting through the air like a knife.
Satoru’s eyes widen and he runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of uncertainty flickering across his usually composed demeanor. His eyes shift away from you, scanning the room as if searching for a solution hidden in the lavish surroundings.
“…let me figure this out. Wait here,” he murmurs as he pushes back his chair and stands.
Watching his tall frame cut through the crowd, suddenly the sound of the rain beating against the glass now seems almost accusatory—a relentless reminder of this absurd situation you are now stuck in.
This night suddenly feels like it’s teetering on the edge of disaster—the thin veneer of control slipping from you with each passing second. But there are faces around you, and although they blur into a sea of indifference and hallow chatters, you are acutely aware that people are still watching.
You take a deep breath attempting to calm your frustration. There must be something Satoru can do. He has money and power—there must be some sort of solution he can find to this. Haru needs you.
Suddenly, you catch sight of Satoru weaving his way back towards you, his stride purposeful and his expression carrying a hint of relief. For a brief moment, hope flutters in your chest—perhaps he’s found a way out of this mess.
When he reaches you, he shoves his hands into his pockets, leans in slightly and speaks with a sense of accomplishment.
“So… good news. I spoke with the event coordinator. Given the circumstances, the hotel has offered us one of their VIP suites for the night. It’s just upstairs, fully equipped with everything we need until the roads clear up.”
Yeah…that’s not the solution you wanted.
A suite? He wants you to stay overnight? When Haru is at home, probably terrified, clinging to her blankets with wide, tear-filled eyes? Does he really think that’s what you wanted to hear?
“That’s considerate of them, but what about Haru?”
The words escape your lips before you can temper them, clipped and laced with the sharp edge of your rising aggravation. As they slice through the air, the flicker of surprise that crosses Satoru’s face is immediate.
Fuck.
You’re still in public, at this stupid gala. You have to stay composed; you can’t afford to lose control—not here.
Your eyes scan the room for any prying eyes, anyone who might have caught the slight outburst. It doesn’t seem like anyone noticed… thankfully. The last thing you need is for your moment of panic to become another piece of gossip for the night.
Taking a long deep breath, you attempt to regain some semblance of composure, but as you lower your voice, the tension still coils tight in your words.
“She’s back home, we can’t just leave her alone.”
“But she’s not alone,” he counters, tone firm but gentle. “Haru’s in good hands with the nanny, she’s safe. I’ll make sure everything is handled. I’ll compensate the nanny for staying overnight with Haru.”
He is clearly not on the same page as you—he doesn’t understand. Safe? Maybe. But comforted? No. Compensation won’t calm Haru’s fears; money can’t replace the warmth and reassurance of her mother’s arms when she’s trembling in fear.
But you can’t say that here—you don’t trust yourself to soften the words, not with the eyes of the gala on you, prying, ready to dissect any sign of discord between you and Satoru. So instead, you grasp for something, anything—another solution, another way out of this mess.
“Isn’t there something else we can do? Another route we can take?” you press, the desperation seeping through despite your efforts to keep it contained.
Satoru’s shoulders tense ever so slightly, a subtle shift that only someone who knows him as well as you do would notice. There is a flicker of frustration in his eyes as they narrow, and you watch him take a moment to briefly weigh his words.
“Y/n this is the best solution I can come up with,” there’s an undercurrent of firmness that brooks no argument. “It’s not safe for us to leave right now. The roads are flooded, and I can’t risk us getting caught out there.”
For a moment, the two of you are locked in a silent standoff, each of you grappling with the weight of the situation, the reality pressing down like the storm outside. He’s right—you know he is—but that doesn’t make the situation any easier to swallow. The knowledge sits heavy in your chest, a bitter pill that refuses to go down smoothly.
Why couldn’t Satoru just listen to you when you suggested you leave early?
The thought fuels your frustration simmering just beneath the surface. You should have been more persistent. But now, here you are, trapped in this gilded cage while your daughter is home, scared and needing you.
Satoru exhales softly, the tension in his shoulders easing and the hard edges of his demeanor softening just slightly as he steps closer to you—he’s trying to bridge the growing chasm between you.
His hand reaches out, and you want to pull back, but you are in public, you can’t. There’s a softness in his touch, a quiet desperation to connect, but you can feel the gap widening under the weight of everything left unsaid.
He tilts his head, caressing your hand as his gaze searches yours.
“It’s just one night,” he murmurs, and there’s a tenderness there, an unspoken plea for you to understand, to see that he’s trying to make the best of a bad situation. But to you, the words feel hollow, like they’re echoing in a void that’s too vast to bridge with simple reassurances. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning before Haru even wakes up.”
But will she be okay?
The question burns in your throat but you keep it to yourself—it wouldn’t come out nice anyway.
You are trapped—trapped by the storm, trapped by this situation, trapped by the need to maintain this perfect, unblemished image for everyone around you.
So instead, you force a tight-lipped smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. It’s the best you can manage, a fragile mask to hide the storm inside.
“Guess we don’t have a choice….”
“I know…we’ll get through this though. Just one night,” he echoes, as if saying it again will make it more true, but the repetition feels like an empty promise.
You nod, the motion stiff and reluctant.
“I understand,” the words taste like ash. “Let’s go upstairs then,” you rise from your seat, not waiting for him to respond.
ꨄ︎
As the elevator doors slide open with a quiet ding, you step inside with clipped precision, your movements sharp and purposeful. The elevator is empty—thank God.
The last thing you need right now is to plaster on a fake smile and pretend that everything is fine when you’re anything but. You don’t have the energy to pretend—not in front of strangers, and certainly not in front of Satoru.
You barely acknowledge him as he steps in behind you, your focus narrowing on the glowing buttons as you swiftly press the number for your floor. Once the door closes with a soft thud, instinctively, you gravitate to the far side of the elevator, creating as much distance between you and Satoru as the small space allows.
There’s a brief pause as Satoru hesitates, his eyes flickering over to you before he pulls out his phone, and the soft glow of the screen casts a muted light over his features, highlighting the tension in his brow.
As the elevator hums quietly, beginning its ascent, you catch sight of Satoru dialing the nanny’s number from the corner of your eye, lifting the phone to his ear.
“Hey, listen… there’s been a situation with the roads—they’re flooded, and we won’t be able to make it back tonight. Can you stay with Haru until morning?”
He pauses, listening intently to the nanny’s response, and although you can’t make out her words, you see the way Satoru's brow furrows, the lines of tension etching themselves deeper into his features.
The muffled sound of the nanny’s voice filters through the phone, indistinct and far away—until another sound reaches your ears, clear and unmistakable.
Haru.
Her small, trembling voice carries through the phone, quivering with fear as she calls for you, confirming the gnawing dread that had been eating away at you all night. You were right, of course, but there’s no satisfaction in that—not when your daughter is scared and crying for you, and you’re trapped miles away, helpless to do anything about it.
Satoru’s jaw tightens. “Haru’s okay, right?” tone softer now, almost hesitant.
There’s a pause, a heavy silence that stretches out as Satoru listens, and you watch as something in his posture shifts—his shoulders slump ever so slightly, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but enough to tell you that the news isn’t good. He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling quietly.
“Tell her that her Mama will be home in the morning… and I’ll make sure everything’s okay. Just... stay with her, please.”
Slipping his phone back into his pocket, Satoru fixes his gaze on the floor, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to meet your eyes. He offers no words of comfort, no apology. And you, in turn, make no effort to break the silence either.
Maybe it’s for the best—because right now, the storm raging inside you is just as fierce as the one outside, and you’re not sure you can contain it much longer. The lid holding down your frustration is teetering dangerously on the edge, threatening to spill over, and as the pressure builds, your emotions coil tight like a spring ready to snap.
If you open your mouth now, the floodgates will burst.
So, you’ll wait—you’ll discuss this with Satoru when you’re more level-headed. Right now, all you want to do is crawl into bed—away from Satoru, away from this night, away from everything that feels so suffocatingly wrong.
The silence stretches on, thick and unbearable, and once the elevator finally reaches your floor with a soft chime, without a word, you step out, your heels clicking against the polished floor, with Satoru following a step behind—silent and distant, the space between you feeling wider than ever.
ꨄ︎
The moment you step into the VIP suite, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer size of the room—it’s more like a luxurious apartment than a mere hotel room. The high ceilings are adorned with intricate chandeliers, rich furnishings and artwork that probably costs more than what your entire apartment had cost.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city below, and there is a beautiful patio overlooking the city with the lights twinkling against the stormy backdrop, but instead of feeling awe, it’s only a reminder of how trapped you are.
In the common room, a plush, oversized sofa commands the space, flanked by elegant armchairs and a coffee table that looks more like a piece of art than something meant for everyday use. You set your purse and shawl down on the polished surface and begin to explore the room.
Your gaze wanders to a nearby dining area, where a table is set for two, the fine china and crystal glasses gleaming under the soft light. Beyond that, a sleek bar catches your eye, stocked with an assortment of premium spirits. At the center, a bottle of champagne chills in a gleaming silver bucket, waiting to be uncorked—a celebration you’re far from feeling.
Curious, you open the first door you come across, but it’s just a closet. Moving onto the next, you’re half-expecting to find a bedroom, but instead, the door reveals a marble-clad bathroom, which is more of a private spa than anything else, with a deep soaking tub and a rain shower that beckons with promises of relaxation.
Finally, you reach the last door, and as you push it open, your breath catches in your throat. The bedroom is vast, with high ceilings and draped curtains, but amidst all the space, the luxury, the sheer grandeur…
There is only one bed.
It’s massive, adorned in rich, inviting linens that seem to promise the best sleep of your life. The headboard is a work of art, appearing as if it was carved by hand, its craftsmanship impeccable. But despite all its luxury, one glaring fact stands out—it’s a single bed.
A bed meant for two.
You stop in your tracks, staring at the bed in disbelief. Your mind races, trying to make sense of the situation. Did you miss a door? Could there be another bedroom somewhere in the suite?
Without thinking, you begin to backtrack, your footsteps hurried and purposeful. You retrace your steps through the suite, opening doors you’ve already been through, peering inside with a growing sense of urgency.
The bathroom—no, just the spa-like marble bath and rain shower. The closet—no, just storage. The living area—no, just the oversized sofa and elegant chairs. The dining area—no, just the table set for two and the sleek bar.
Where’s the other bedroom? There has to be another one, right? How can a suite this big, only have one bed?
Is this a cruel joke? A final twist of the knife in an already unbearable night? Is the universe pushing you further out of your comfort zone, testing the limits of your patience, your composure, and your control?
Your movements grow more frantic as you circle back, convinced you must have overlooked something, anything. But there’s nothing else. It’s just that one, luxurious bed, waiting for the two of you.
Scanning the suite one last time, you notice Satoru sitting nonchalantly on the plush couch, leaning back with one arm draped casually over the back of the sofa. He loosens his tie as he tilts his head, watching you with a mixture of confusion and mild amusement.
“What are you looking for?”
You stop dead in your tracks, your breath hitching as you stare at him in disbelief.
“There’s only one bed.”
Perhaps vocalizing the absurdity of this precarious situation might somehow conjure a second bed out of thin air.
Oh, you wish.
Satoru blinks and raises an eyebrow. Without a word, he slowly rises from the couch and walks towards the bedroom. Once he steps inside, he takes in the sight of the massive bed and the luxurious linens—staring at it for a moment as the situation sits in.
Then, he turns to you, with an exaggerated shrug.
“Huh. Looks like the hotel’s playing matchmaker tonight.”
You narrow your eyes at him, not speaking, letting the flicker of annoyance smolder into a flame. The corners of your mouth tighten, and your arms cross defensively over your chest.
Satoru matches your silence, watching you with an unreadable expression, and then he shrugs again, the movement casual, almost dismissive.
“What?” carrying a note of faux innocence. “They probably figured we wouldn’t mind getting cozy. We are husband and wife, after all. Of course they wouldn’t think we’d need separate beds.”
He’s not making this any better for you right now…
You shake your head, rubbing your eyes in exasperation as if trying to rub away the absurdity of the situation. It’s all too much—the storm, the delay, the night that refuses to end. You can feel the weight of it pressing down on you, and each word from Satoru just seems to add another layer to the frustration.
“Wow…this is unbelievable,” you huff.
“Mm, you know what they say, nothing like sharing a bed to break the tension,” Satoru quips, plopping down at the edge of the bed as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He bounces slightly, testing the mattress, and glances up at you with a glint in his eye. “Well, I suppose this is where we’re supposed to start arguing over who gets the left side?”
Is he serious right now?
You can hardly believe it—the casualness of his demeanor, the way he seems completely unconcerned about the reality of this situation. It is almost infuriating.
“This is not happening…I am not sharing a bed with you,” you say, more to yourself than to him, a whispered mix of disbelief and determination. You cross your arms tightly over your chest.
But Satoru just leans back on his hands, completely unbothered, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. Tilting his head slightly, he flashes you an easy grin.
“Hey, it could be worse,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, patting the space beside him. “At least it’s a king-size. I mean, we could practically build a wall down the middle if you want.”
You stare at him, incredulous.
How can he be so flippant about this? So completely unconcerned, so utterly unaffected by everything that’s happened tonight?
Every word that comes out of his mouth further makes your patience slip through your fingers.
“…are you serious right now?” there is a tremble in your voice as you attempt to keep your frustration in check, but it’s a losing battle.
“Yup,” he shrugs, completely unfazed. “Looks like it’s just you, me, and this king-sized dilemma.”
Wow. You’re standing in the middle of a situation that has gone from bad to worse, and he’s making jokes? The disbelief turns into something hotter, something sharper, as you feel the last remnants of your composure start to crumble.
“Are you kidding me, Satoru?” you snap and the frustration you’ve been holding back all night finally spills over. “You are absolutely unbelievable. This isn’t funny! None of this is fucking funny! We’re stuck here, and you’re making jokes?”
The playful smirk that had been dancing on Satoru's lips vanishes instantly, replaced by a look of irritation. He leans forward, fixing you with a hard stare, and the lightheartedness drains from his posture as his elbows rest on his knees.
“Oh, okay, I’m sorry,” he retorts, a sharp edge to his voice. “Y’know, I was just trying to lighten the mood. Didn’t realize you were going to blow up at me for trying to make the best out of a bad situation.”
“Lighten the mood?” you echo, your voice rising in disbelief. “Do you really think that’s what I need right now?”
A scoff escapes your lips as all your frustration bubbles to the surface. The weight of everything finally presses down on you, and his indifference feels like a slap in the face.
You can’t even look at him right now.
With a dismissive shake of your head, you turn away, briskly stepping towards the living room.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” you mutter under your breath, the words more to yourself than to him, but loud enough that you know he can hear.
“What don’t I get?” Satoru challenges, his voice growing sharper as he pushes off the bed and follows after you. His footsteps are clipped as he closes the distance between you, not willing to let the conversation drop. “What don’t I get, y/n? Tell me.”
You whirl around to face him, your heart pounding in your chest, the tension crackling like electricity.
“Satoru—Haru needs me, and we’re stuck here, miles away, in some fancy hotel suite. But you don’t even care.”
The accusation slips out and you can no longer hide the mix of anger and hurt that laces your voice. Satoru’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as he tries to rein in his own frustration.
“You think I don’t care?” his voice is sharp, insistent, almost incredulous as he steps closer. “You think I’m not worried about Haru too? y/n we literally had this conversation in the limo earlier. Jesus, just because I don’t show my emotions like you it doesn’t mean I don’t care. I hate this situation just as much as you do, but it’s not like I can control the weather or the roads!”
The intensity of his words strikes you, but the anger simmering beneath your skin refuses to let you back down.
“Yeah, well, if you really cared, we would have left as soon as the storm started, like I wanted! Then we wouldn’t even be in this situation!” your trembling voice increases an octave and you throw your hands up in exasperation. “But no—you had to stay for that last part of the gala, didn’t you?”
Satoru’s reaction is immediate. He runs a hand through his hair, the movement rough and frustrated while a bitter laugh escapes his lips, one that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes flash with something darker as he glares at you.
“Oh, so now it’s my fault that we’re stuck here? Because I stayed for the speech? I had obligations, y/n! I couldn’t just leave!”
“Obligations?” the word drips with sarcasm as it leaves your lips, your voice thick with disbelief and a touch of something more, something wounded. You narrow your eyes and the anger within flares hotter as you shoot a glare back at him. “We could’ve left earlier, but instead you just had to be the perfect ‘Satoru Gojo.’ Your precious image, your obligations—everything always comes first, doesn’t it?”
A flash of anger sparks within the depths of Satoru’s eyes, and his voice drops lower, more measured, with an edge that makes your heart jump.
“You knew what you were signing up for,” the words are clipped and his tone is cold and biting. “I told you there would be expectations, that there would be obligations that came with this agreement. Don’t act like this is some surprise to you.”
His words hit their mark, the truth in them sinking in like a stone dropping into a deep well. The realization settles over you, heavy and cold.
Oh…this truly is just a business arrangement, nothing more.
This is…what you agreed to…isn’t it?
For a brief moment, you had almost forgotten that this marriage—this life you’ve been trying to build—wasn’t real. It was never based on love or trust or any of the things you’d once dreamed of. It has always been a contract, an arrangement, and you were just another piece in the game he was playing.
You feel the sharp, unmistakable sting of hurt, a wound that cuts deeper than you anticipated. And with that hurt comes regret—regret for allowing yourself to believe, even for a second, that he might be willing to take a leap of faith for you, for Haru.
You should have known better.
He’s Satoru Gojo, after all, the man who holds his obligations and his image above everything else. The man who never allows himself to be vulnerable, to be anything other than perfect in the eyes of the world.
“So that’s it, then?” the words slip out with a quiet tremor, your voice breaking slightly under the crushing weight of your emotions “You’ll always put your commitments first, no matter what? No matter how it affects us? No matter how it affects Haru?”
For the briefest of moments, Satoru’s expression softens, a flicker of regret passing through his eyes, as if he’s momentarily aware of the pain his words have caused.
You can feel the tears burning at the back of your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let them fall. You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words have cut you, how deeply the reminder of your place in his life stings.
Instead, you draw in a shaky breath, steeling yourself, and forcing your voice to steady. It takes every ounce of strength you have to keep your composure, to keep from breaking in front of him.
“It’s always about your image…isn’t it?” you whisper, the words barely audible, but they carry the weight of your realization, heavy and bitter. “I thought… maybe just once, you’d be willing to choose something else. Someone else. Guess I was wrong.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, thick with the tension that has built up between you. Satoru opens his mouth to respond, his expression shifting as if he’s searching for the right words, but you’ve already had enough. The frustration, the anger, the hurt—it’s all too much, too overwhelming, and honestly, you don’t think you can take the weight of his inevitable rejection right now.
Before he can say anything, before he can shatter whatever fragile composure you have left, you turn on your heel and stride towards the suite’s balcony.
ꨄ︎
The moment you step out onto the balcony, the cold night air wraps around you, but you welcome its icy embrace, and as the heavy door slides shut behind you with a dull thud, it seals off any lingering warmth from the hotel suite, leaving you alone with the elements.
The balcony, partially sheltered by a gazebo, offers little protection from the fierce wind driving the rain sideways. But as the droplets hit your skin, cold and sharp, you don’t flinch. Instead, you let the rain wash over you, soaking into your dress and chilling you to the bone, as if the cold might somehow numb the emotional turmoil raging inside you.
Gripping the railing, you stare out at the city below, the wind whipping around you, tugging at your dress as the storm batters you from all sides. But the physical discomfort barely registers—it's nothing compared to the storm brewing within. Because now, the anger that had fueled your argument with Satoru begins to ebb, giving way to a deep, aching sadness that you can no longer hold back.
You sink down onto one of the chairs, ignoring the fact that the cushion is already soaked through. The wet fabric clings to your skin as you huddle there, pulling your knees up to your chest, and as you take in the downpour, you allow the rain to mingle with the tears that finally begin to slip down your cheeks.
If only the howling wind was loud enough to drown the thoughts swirling in your mind.
But it’s not.
The first thing you hear is Naoya’s words, echoing in your ears. His cruel taunts, sharp and insidious, have haunted you ever since your encounter at the coffee shop—a seed of doubt planted deep within you.
And now, those seeds have taken root, growing in the shadows of your heart, feeding off your insecurities until they’ve become impossible to ignore. Maybe he was right all along… you don’t belong beside Satoru. This life you agreed to—this carefully crafted facade—it has always been a deal, nothing more. A deal struck for reasons that now seem distant and blurred.
And then there’s Satoru.
The man you’ve grown closer to, despite everything. The man who, on occasion, looks at you with a softness that seems almost out of place, a trust that makes your heart ache under the weight of your own secrets… and your own growing feelings. But tonight, you saw the bitter reality of who he truly is—a reality that you’ve always known, yet somehow tried to push aside. It’s a reality that places duty and obligation above all else, that keeps his heart locked away behind walls you know you’ll never breach.
You understand it, you really do. But understanding doesn’t make it any easier to bear. It doesn’t make the hurt go away.
You think about Haru—your sweet, innocent child, who’s at home right now, likely scared and alone, flinching with every crash of thunder.
The thought of her, small and frightened, tugs at your heart, and the guilt twists inside you, sharper than any blade. It cuts through your defenses until all that remains is the raw, unrelenting pain of a mother’s worry, a mother’s fear. You should be there with her, holding her close, whispering reassurances that everything is going to be okay, that the storm will pass.
But you’re not.
You’re here, drenched on a balcony, struggling to hold yourself together while everything around you falls apart. And that reality—knowing you’ve left her to face the storm alone—makes the tears fall harder now.
They stream down your face, mixing with the rain, until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. The sobs come, wracking your body with their intensity, as you bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with the force of your grief.
It’s all too much—the pressure, the expectations, the lies, the fear.
And then there’s the love.
The love that’s beginning to bloom for Satoru, despite the circumstances…and it only makes it more complicated, more painful. It’s a love that you know you shouldn’t feel, that you’re terrified to acknowledge—and it wraps itself around your heart like a thorny vine, beautiful yet painful, tightening its grip with every passing day.
And your worries never end—the contract, the obligations, the appearances you have to maintain. This agreement that had once seemed so clear, so necessary, but now feels like a chain around your neck, binding you to a life that’s growing more and more suffocating by the day.
You didn’t sign up for this, not really.
You didn’t sign up for the way your heart had started to beat in sync with Satoru’s, for the way his touch lingers on your skin long after he’s gone, or the way his voice is capable of soothing the deepest parts of your soul.
But here you are—trapped, ensnared by duty and honor, by a love that’s growing despite the walls you’ve tried to build around it. A love for a man who might never fully understand the depth of the sacrifice you’re making.
A man who will never love you back the way you wish he would, or put you first.
You continue to cry as the storm proceeds to rage against you, both inside and out—but you hope that maybe this rain will wash away some of the pain, some of the doubts, some of the fear.
Ah… but you know better. Because once this storm passes, the reality of your situation will still be there, waiting for you.
The contract, the expectations, the life you’ve chosen, and the choices you must make—none of it will disappear, no matter how much you wish it could. And despite how much you long to rid yourself of this burden, the love you’re beginning to feel for Satoru…that too, will remain, complicating everything in ways you’re not sure you’re ready to face.
The sound of the sliding door opening barely registers in your mind, lost in the cacophony of the storm as you remain huddled on the chair, lost in your thoughts. You don’t look up, not even when you sense his presence behind you—the presence of that familiar warmth, one that has the potential to cut through the cold that’s seeped into your bones.
Why is he here? You can’t bear it.
He stands there for a moment, silently taking in the sight of you curled up on the chair, small and vulnerable against the fury of the storm, and then, with a resolve that seems almost fragile, he steps forward.
The rain immediately begins to soak through his clothes, just as it did yours, and slowly, he kneels beside you, his movements careful, almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid that any sudden motion might shatter what little composure you have left.
“y/n,” he says softly, voice almost lost in the storm, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
You can’t bring yourself to respond—the words are trapped in your throat, tangled in the rush of emotions his apology stirs within you. Confusion, sorrow, a desperate yearning for things to be different—they all swirl within you, too intense, too raw to process.
The pain is overwhelming, and right now, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. You’re terrified of what you might see in his eyes. What would you feel if you looked at him now?
You’re too scared to find out.
Satoru seems to sense your hesitation, your fear. His hand reaches out, and you feel the gentle pressure of his fingers on your shoulder, tentative and light, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But you don’t. There’s a warmth in his touch, something that defies the cold rain soaking through both of you—a warmth that, despite everything, makes you want to lean into it, to draw strength from it.
“y/n, please…” his voice drops quieter, almost pleading. “Look at me.”
His request hangs in the air, and for a moment, you feel as if time has stopped.
Why is this so hard? Why can’t you accept that this is nothing more than a contract, an arrangement born out of necessity rather than love?
His touch fills you with a bittersweetness that is almost unbearable—a longing that you know is not realistic, that you know you shouldn’t entertain. But the plea in his voice, the vulnerability you hear in those simple words, chips away at your resolve.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, you lift your tear-streaked face to meet his gaze. The rain has flattened his usually neat hair against his forehead, and his clothes are drenched, clinging to him, but it’s his eyes that hold you captive. Because once your eyes finally connect, the world around you seems to fade into the background, the storm reduced to a distant hum.
His usually composed, confident expression is different now—eyes, softened by regret, vulnerability, and that same softness that has been tearing you apart since the moment he became deeply intertwined in your life.
It's that same softness you’ve tried to ignore, that you’ve convinced yourself was nothing more than an illusion, but that still holds an undeniable power over you.
“I’m sorry…” he repeats, voice trembling with an underlying thickness, as if he’s struggling to keep his emotions in check. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I never wanted to make you feel like Haru doesn’t matter to me, like you don’t matter.”
Your head shakes almost involuntarily, tears continuing to fall, mingling with the rain. Denial wraps around your heart like a protective shield, reminding you that this man doesn’t love you, that you cannot—will not—get your hopes up. You’ve been down this road before, and you know better than to believe in things that aren’t real.
But Satoru’s eyes soften even more as he reads the pain in your expression, and without a word, his other hand comes up to cup your cheek. His touch is warm against your cold, rain-soaked skin, and he gently brushes away the tears that mingle with the rain on your face—a touch so tender that it almost breaks you all over again.
“I really fucked up tonight…” he sighs, his breath hitching slightly as the words escape him. “I’m so sorry for that. Please… let me make things right.”
You can feel the conflict within you, your heart warring with your mind, urging you to push him away, to protect yourself from the pain that seems inevitable. You can’t afford to give yourself hope—not when the risk of being shattered again looms so large, so close.
“Look… I’m really not good at this. I’m not used to… letting people in,” he admits, his voice faltering slightly as he grapples with his own vulnerability and inadequacy. “But with you, I want to try. That’s why…”
He pauses, taking a deep breath, the sound shaky as he gathers the courage to say what’s weighing on his heart.
“I need you to know that everything I said during the interview tonight… it wasn’t just for show. I wasn’t saying what I thought people wanted to hear.”
Your breath catches at his words and your heart pounds furiously within your chest. The weight of his words and the sincerity in his eyes makes it impossible to look away.
“Those were my real feelings, y/n. When they asked me what drew me to you… I meant every word.”
Your body begins to tremble, a shuddering wave of emotion crashing over you like the relentless storm around you, threatening to pull you under. The tears begin welling up again and you feel yourself unraveling at the seams.
“Don’t do this, Satoru,” you plead, voice cracking with the weight of your fear. You bring your hands up instinctively, as if to shield yourself from the intensity of his words, to create some distance between you. “Don’t say these things… I can’t… I can’t handle being hurt again.”
For a moment, Satoru hesitates, his eyes searching yours, but then, with a gentle yet determined motion, he takes your trembling hands into his own and the warmth of his touch seeps into your cold skin. Slowly, he lowers your hands onto your lap, his grip firm but tender.
“No, let me say this,” he insists, his voice steadying, becoming more resolute, though it’s still laced with a gentleness. “You deserve to hear it. You deserve to know how I really feel.”
His thumb begins to stroke the back of your hand and his gaze softens as he searches your face. There is an earnest tenderness within the depths of his expression, and it makes your heart ache.
“You’ve brought something into my life that I didn’t even know I was missing,” Satoru continues, “You’ve made me feel… grounded, in a way that I’ve never felt before.”
There is a raw honesty in his eyes, one that begins to erode the walls you’ve built around your heart. You feel your resolve crumbling, piece by piece, as his words chip away at the fear and doubt that has kept you from fully opening up to him.
“I’m not perfect,” his voice wavers slightly and his hand tightens around yours, seeking reassurance even as he offers it. “Far from it… but you’ve made me realize that’s okay. And now, because of you, I want to do better, to be better… not just for you, but for Haru too. And for myself.”
What is he saying?
Your breath hitches, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips as you process his words.
“I’m… confused,” you whisper, your mind racing to catch up with your heart. “Isn’t this… just a contract?”
“Yeah…well…” a wry smile tugs at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remain serious. “Guess I broke the clause, huh? So much for no emotional entanglements…”
Your breath catches again, this time in realization.
Wait… he feels the same way? This is really happening?
The realization hits you like a wave—the truth of it crashing over you, leaving you breathless, and you can’t stop the fresh surge of tears from falling down your face.
Satoru’s brow furrows with worry, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features as he watches you cry. Leaning in closer, he rests his forehead gently against yours. His eyes search yours, desperate for some kind of response, some kind of reassurance that his words have reached you, that he hasn’t misread the situation.
“Please… don’t cry,” he whispers with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. He closes his eyes, breath warm as it fans across your face, and his hand, still holding yours, gives a gentle squeeze, as if to remind you that he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere.
“I… I want to believe you, Satoru,” you manage, voice trembling with the weight of your fears and doubts. “Believe everything you’re saying, but I’m so scared. What if I’m not enough? I don’t think I could survive that kind of heartbreak again…”
Satoru’s eyes open slowly, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
“You are enough, y/n. You’ve always been enough.”
There is a firmness in his resolve, as if he’s trying to engrave the words into your very being.
His free hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away another tear that had escaped.
“And honestly… I’m scared too.” His voice drops even lower, almost a whisper now. “Trust is something I’ve never given lightly. But with you… I want to trust. I need to trust. And… I need you to trust me too.”
Trust—there’s that word again.
It lingers in the air between you, heavy with meaning, with all the complexities and the promises it holds.
Trust—It’s such a simple word, yet it carries the weight of a thousand unsaid things, a thousand fears, a thousand hopes. It’s the foundation of everything, isn’t it? The one thing you’ve always struggled with, the one thing that has kept you from fully letting go, from fully giving yourself to him—or to anyone, for that matter.
Trust—It’s what you’ve been afraid to place in someone else’s hands, for fear that they might not handle it with care. And why would they? After everything you’ve been through, after all the disappointments, the betrayals, the moments when you’ve been left to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart, why would you ever trust again?
But… maybe trust isn’t about being certain, about knowing for sure that everything will turn out alright. Maybe… it’s about taking that leap of faith, about being willing to risk the hurt because the potential for something real, something meaningful, is worth it.
You look at him, really look at him—his usually confident demeanor is stripped away, leaving only the man beneath, exposed and uncertain, yet somehow more real than you’ve ever seen him.
This is… Satoru.
In that moment, something shifts within you.
Ah… perhaps trust isn’t something you just give; it’s something you build, together, piece by piece, moment by moment. And maybe… as terrifying as it is, you’re ready to start building that with him.
The realization hits you like a warm rush, spreading through your chest and making your heart ache in a way that’s both painful and beautiful. You want to tell him, to find the words that will let him know that you want this too. But the emotions are too overwhelming, too all-consuming, and you find yourself at a loss, unable to articulate the flood of feelings coursing through you.
So instead, you do the only thing you can—you decide to show him.
Your hands move on their own, driven by an urgency you can’t contain. Grasping the collar of his shirt, your fingers curl into the wet fabric, pulling him closer with a force that leaves no room for hesitation. The distance between you disappears in one desperate, crashing motion as you bring your lips to his.
It’s a fierce kiss, filled with a force that’s as much an admission as it is an apology—an admission of your own feelings, of the vulnerabilities you’ve tried so hard to hide, and an apology for every moment you’ve tried to protect yourself by pushing him away.
The intensity of your need is met by Satoru’s immediate response, his arms wrapping around you with a fervency that matches the storm raging around you, pulling you flush against him as if he’s afraid you might slip away.
The rain soaks through your clothes, but all you can focus on is the heat of his skin, the way his mouth moves against yours with a need that’s as insistent as it is consuming. You swallow the low, desperate moan that escapes from him, the sound vibrating through you, sending a shiver down your spine.
God, you wanted this.
His tongue grazes your lower lip, seeking entry, and without hesitation, you part your lips for him, allowing him to deepen the kiss even further, kissing you as though you’re the very air he needs to breathe. Once his tongue meets yours, the sensation is electric, sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body.
God, he wanted this.
He’s losing himself in the kiss, like he’s been holding back for far too long, and now that he’s tasted you, he can’t get enough. And you let him, wrapping your legs around him and allowing him to lift you up with ease as you thread your fingers through his damp hair. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter, as he carries you toward the balcony door, sure and driven by a need that can no longer be contained.
With a swift motion, he presses you against the glass door. The cold rain continues to hammer down, but you’re barely aware of it—there is a fire that seems to burn hotter with every second your lips remain locked, and you are lost in the sensation of his hands gripping into the plush of your thighs, holding you firmly in place.
“Satoru…” you gasp between kisses, and the sound of your breathless voice drives him further into the depths of his desire.
“Fuck… could get used to hearing you say m’ name like that,” he groans, mouth dropping to your neck, lips tracing the line of your jaw before pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against your throat.
You arch your back and tilt your head, allowing him access, but the sudden sensation of his hips pressing against your core causes a whimper to escape your lips.
Fuck. You now realize just how much he wanted this. The hardness pressed against you is unmistakable and that alone heightens your own desire, making a tingling heat begin to pool in between your legs.
Your hands slide down his back, nails digging slightly into his skin beneath the wet fabric of his shirt, and you press your hips forward, seeking more of that friction, and he responds with a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest as he begins to grind against you.
“Fucking hell…” he rasps, voice thick with desperation, “you have no idea,” he whimpers, breath hitching as his lips brush against your ear, “no fucking idea…” he grinds harder, with renewed intensity, “how much I’ve wanted this…” his eyes flutter shut, lost in the sensation, “how much I want you…”
Every nerve ignites as an intense heat courses through you.
Fuck. This is bad. This is really bad.
You’re losing any trace of reasoning; you’re lacking any semblance of control. How can you think straight when he talks to you like that? When he touches you like this?
You can’t. It’s impossible.
This is moving really fast, and every coherent thought is slipping away, replaced by the overwhelming need for him, the need to feel every inch of him against you, inside you. You’re losing yourself in the way his body moves against yours, in the way his voice trembles with need.
“Satoru… I—” you start, but the words catch in your throat, choked off by that delicious sensation of him shifting his hips, pressing harder against you in just that right spot. “I can’t… fuck. I can’t think when you’re like this…”
“Don’t think,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just feel… let me take care of you…”
And then he’s kissing you again, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that makes your head spin. Oh, fuck it, you don’t care. You don’t care about anything else in this moment.
In one swift motion, without breaking the kiss, he carries you away from the rain, and into the warmth of the suite. His steps are quick and determined until he reaches the bedroom, and once he sets you down your feet barely touch the floor before his hands are on you again.
The urgency in his touch is undeniable, frantic as his hands begin to work at the wet fabric of your dress, peeling it away with determination.
Oh god, this is really moving fast.
The realization hits you like a wave, but it’s quickly drowned out by the sight of him shrugging off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor. And once you catch sight of his toned muscles, the way they flex beneath his skin, how can you think straight?
You can’t.
Your hands move instinctively, reaching for him, running over his chest, savoring the warmth, the strength beneath your fingertips, and his hands are equally on you, exploring your body with a reverence while his mouth moves against yours with fervor.
“You’re so fucking pretty, so beautiful…” he breaks the kiss, “I can’t get enough of you…” and then his mouth is on yours again, desperate and hungry, leaving you breathless.
He guides you towards the bed, and once the back of your knees hit the edge of it, he gives you a gentle but insistent push. His body follows and once the mattress dips slightly under your combined weight, you’re suddenly hyperaware of everything—the way his hands are sliding down your sides, the way his lips are tracing a path from your collarbone to the swell of your breasts, the way he settles between your legs.
This is moving way…way too fast.
You need a moment to think, but your mind is constantly drowned out by the feel of his body against yours.
“Satoru…” you murmur against his lips, “Please I—” But before you can finish, he’s kissing you again, his mouth claiming yours with a fierceness that makes your heart skip a beat.
Your breath hitches as he begins to rock his hips against your clothed core, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through you while you gasp into his mouth. Before you realize what you’re doing, your legs are wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deepening the connection between you.
Damnit, that delicious friction is all-consuming, and you can’t stop yourself from arching into him.
“Ever since that night at the gala…” he murmurs against your skin, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck, “After we kissed, I haven’t been able to think about anything else… anyone else… just you.”
His words send a shiver down your spine. Fucking hell, he’s not making this easy. The way his breath hitches as he presses kisses along your collarbone, it’s clear he’s barely holding on to his own control. And you? You’re already starting to lose yours.
Fuck, he will ruin you.
“All I could think about was how it felt to kiss you… how much I wanted to do it again… how much I wanted more…” his breath hot against your skin as his hands grip your hips, pulling you even closer.
“I can’t… I need… oh god…” the words slip out, a desperate plea mixed with a moan as the sensation of him rolling his length against that sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs becomes almost unbearable.
Fuck… the pleasure is so intense, so overwhelming, that your vision blurs, your world narrowing to nothing but the feel of him, the heat of his body, the way he’s moving against you.
You’re seeing stars.
“What is it?” he whispers against the shell of your ear, and oh he sounds so fucking undone by you, as if he’s on the verge of losing control. “Tell me… tell me what you need baby.”
His words are like gasoline on the fire burning inside you. Damnit, you need him. But you also need time to process everything that is happening. As much as you want to give in, as much as your body is screaming for more of him, a tiny voice in the back of your mind is telling you to slow down, to think.
There is still so much that has been left unsaid…things you need to get off your chest.
“Satoru…” you whisper, your voice shaky as you thread your fingers through his hair, gently pulling him back just enough to look into his eyes. His gaze is intense, dark with desire, and it takes every ounce of your self-control not to lose yourself in it. “Can we… can we take it slow?”
His body stills, and for a moment, the intensity in his eyes softens. He’s still breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, but he nods slowly, as if he’s trying to rein in his own overwhelming need.
He leans in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, his hands sliding from your hips to cradle your face gently. The kiss is different now, less urgent but still filled with an undeniable passion that leaves you breathless. It’s a slow burn, a simmering heat that makes your skin tingle as his lips move tenderly against yours, savoring every moment.
The kiss tapers off naturally, his lips lingering on yours as if he’s reluctant to let go. When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t move far, his nose brushing against yours in a tender nuzzle that makes you smile.
“Yeah… okay…” he breathes out, voice rough and tinged with longing. “We can slow down… whatever you need…”
His fingers trace the line of your jaw, moving to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch light, almost reverent.
“Sorry it’s just…” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your lower lip before leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Each kiss is gentle. He pulls back slightly, his lips ghosting over yours as he whispers, “You don’t know what you do to me…”
Your heart swells at his words, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “I think I’m starting to figure it out,” you softly chuckle.
Satoru mirrors your smile and lets out a soft laugh.
“Well... it’s about damn time you caught on.”
He plops down beside you, pulling you into his arms with an ease that makes your heart flutter. as if being this close to you is the most natural thing in the world. He buries his face into the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, a content hum leaving his lips as he wraps himself around you, tangling his legs with yours and pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against you.
“Was starting to think I’d have to spell it out for you,” he murmurs, breath fanning your skin, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
A light and airy laugh escapes your lips as you become engrossed in his warmth.
 “Well, I mean... you’ve always been a bit of a mystery,” you tease, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of his hand where it rests against your stomach.
“Hmm, a mystery, huh?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, sending a ripple of warmth through you. “Maybe… but I think you’ve always had the key, even if you didn’t know it.”
You turn slightly in his arms, bringing a hand up to gently run your fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers like silk as you gaze into his eyes. Your heart swells at the way he leans into your touch, as if he savors each trace of you, and there’s a tenderness in the way his eyes hold yours.
And then, his lips curl into a wry smile, mischief dancing in his eyes.
“Mm… told you you’d fall for my charm. Though I will say, you were a tough one to crack.”
You try to fight the smile threatening to break free as a warmth spreads across your face. It’s crazy to think this man was once the bane of your very existence.
“Tch…you have a way of growing on people, y’know that?” The grin on his face widens at your admission, making the heat in your own face intensify. You huff, rolling your eyes as you nudge him lightly with your elbow. “You’re like a persistent, overly confident weed.”
Satoru laughs. “A weed, huh? That’s a new one,” he sounds mock-offended, though his smirk tells you he’s anything but. His hand shifts, trailing up and down your arm tenderly as his fingers lightly brush your skin. “Mmm let's see…I think I’m more like a rare, exotic flower.”
“Oh please,” you scoff, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re more like those persistent kind of weeds that pops up in the cracks of the sidewalk, no matter how many times you try to get rid of them.”
“Persistent, huh? Well I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” his tone softens as his hand trails down your arm, the warmth of his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake until his fingers find yours, threading them together as he interlocks your hands in a gentle, but secure grasp.
“Guess I’ll just have to keep growing on you until you can’t imagine your life without me,” he murmurs—thumb gently stroking the back of your hand—and your breath hitches at the sincerity in his words.
Satoru treats you like a treasure, something to be cherished and protected.
How did you get so lucky?
He’s everything Naoya isn’t—everything you’ve ever wanted but were too afraid to hope for.
But even as the realization crosses your mind, a pang of guilt twists in your chest. You’ve been keeping something from him, something important, something that could change everything. Naoya’s scheme, his attempts to ruin Satoru’s reputation… it’s been eating away at you, gnawing at your conscience every time Satoru looks at you with those warm, trusting eyes.
But the thought terrifies you—what if it changes everything? What if it drives a wedge between you?
You need to tell him. He deserves to know.
No secrets.
You can’t keep hiding the truth. Not if you want to move forward, not if you want to build something real with him.
“Hey,” you begin softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you pull back slightly to look into his eyes. The tenderness in his gaze gives you the strength to continue. “There’s something I need to tell you… something important.”
Satoru’s expression shifts immediately from the seriousness of your tone, his brow knitting together in concern as his eyes dim.
“What is it?”
Oh fuck. This is it. No backing down now.
You take a deep breath, and though your heart pounds in your chest, Satoru’s gentle grip tightens on your hand, offering you the silent support to continue.
“It’s about Naoya…” you begin, voice trembling slightly as you hesitantly hold his gaze.
The tension in Satoru's face is subtle but unmistakable. You briefly catch sight of his jaw tightening, a muscle jumping beneath the skin at the mere mention of Naoya’s name. Swallowing hard, your throat constricts with effort as you struggle to find the right words.
“There’s… something I’ve been keeping from you… and I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I was scared. I didn’t know what to do.”
Satoru’s eyes widen just a fraction, his brows drawing together slightly in concern, but he remains silent—he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t demand an explanation. Instead, he watches you intently, his gaze locked onto yours, a silent encouragement to continue.
But that intensity in his focus only makes your heart pound harder in your chest, each beat a drum of anxiety.
Here goes nothing.
“He’s been… blackmailing me,” you confess, eyes falling to the side, unable to hold his gaze. “He’s trying to ruin your reputation, to drag your name through the mud…and if I don’t do what he says…”
The words die on your lips as you trail off.
Fuck this is overwhelming.
This entire night has been a rollercoaster, and you’re reaching the breaking point of your own emotional endurance. You expect Satoru to say something, but the silence that follows is deafening.
Each beat of your heart is like a hammer in your chest, and your mind is racing with a thousand different fears.
Is he angry? Is he waiting for you to look at him? Is this it? Is this the moment everything falls apart?
Summoning every ounce of courage you have left, you will yourself to look up, to meet Satoru’s eyes. And yes, there’s anger simmering in the depths of his gaze, a dangerous edge to it, but there’s something else too—something softer.
“What will happen if you don’t do what he says?” he asks, voice gentle yet firm. His thumb brushes soothing circles on the back of your hand with a tenderness, urging you to continue. “What exactly is he threatening you with?”
You take a deep, shaky breath, feeling the lump in your throat swell as you struggle to push the words out.
“He’s trying to take Haru away from me… he’s threatening to file for full custody if I don’t cooperate.”
The impact of your words is immediate—Satoru’s entire demeanor changing in an instant.
His expression hardens, the fury in his eyes flaring to life, unmistakable and searing, and his entire body tenses beside you. A shiver rakes down your spine when you hear the low and dangerous promise slip through his lips.  
“He’s going to regret this.”
Before you can even process his words, he pulls you onto his chest, wrapping his arms around you with a fierce protectiveness that catches you off guard. It is almost startling how the gentle way he holds you is juxtaposed with the anger simmering just beneath the surface, and as his fingers begin to thread through your hair while he cradles you close to him, you feel he is shielding you from the very world that threatens to tear you apart.
“He’s not taking Haru from you,” Satoru vows, voice unwavering, a promise etched in steel. “Not over my dead body.”
Ah…the conviction in his voice—the words you needed to hear—it is your breaking point. Finally, everything crashes down on you. The fear, the guilt, the overwhelming relief that you’re no longer carrying this burden alone—it all hits you at once, and you can’t hold back the quiet sob that escapes your lips.
Satoru tightens his hold on you, one hand gently stroking your hair, the other trailing up and down your trembling frame as he whispers reassurances.
“Hey, it’s okay… we’re going to get through this.”
His heartbeat is a steady and comforting rhythm beneath your ear. You nod weakly as a shaky breath escapes your lips, the sound muffled against his chest, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering for a moment.
“When did this all begin?” he whispers, fingers gently massaging your scalp.
“Two days ago…” you murmur, “right before you agreed to watch Haru for me.”
There’s a moment of silence, a brief pause as Satoru processes your words. You feel the subtle hitch in his breath, the soft exhale that follows as he tries to contain the emotions swirling inside him. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and your heart drops at his expression.
“y/n…” he breathes out, low and thick with emotion as his jaw clenches with tension. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
The ache in your chest is unbearable, and the tears begin to prick at your eyes again. Unable to face the underlying look of his own disappointment, you instinctively look away.
“I was scared and confused… I didn’t think you felt the same way about me,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “And I kept thinking about our contract…about your condition…”
Satoru’s body softens underneath you as he gently tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, and what you find there isn’t disappointment, but understanding—a deep, unwavering understanding that cuts through your doubts like a beacon of light in the darkness.
“y/n, there is no contract when it comes to how I feel about you,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing away a lingering tear that slipped down your cheek. “That contract… it was just a piece of paper. Besides, it’s void now because I broke the clause.” His lips curve into a soft, reassuring smile. “What I feel for you… it’s real. And it’s not something that can be defined by a contract.”
His words are like a balm to your wounded heart, soothing the fear that had been gnawing at you.
Why did you doubt him so much? Is it because this is a love you have only hoped for? But now it’s real—it’s yours.
A shaky exhale escapes your lips as you rest your forehead against his.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I should have told you sooner.”
“Shh, it’s okay,” Satoru soothes, his hands moving up to cradle your face. “I understand why you were scared. But we’re in this together, okay? Naoya’s not going to win.”
His hands gently tilt your face upwards, and before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. His lips move slowly, languidly against yours, savoring the moment, and you melt into the kiss, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your fingertips.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours once more, and you linger there in the aftermath, letting the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, the closeness between you wrapping around you like a cocoon. A content sigh escapes your lips as the tension from everything slowly ebbs away, and you lower yourself onto his chest as Satoru’s fingers gently trail up and down your back.
Finally, everything has been laid bare. No secrets. Just the two of you, connected in a way that feels unbreakable.
But then, Satoru shifts slightly beneath you, “You’re shivering,” he murmurs, voice laced with concern as his hand moves to gently rub your arm, trying to warm you up. “We were out in the rain for too long…”
You hadn’t even noticed—your focus had been so consumed by everything else. Now that the adrenaline of the moment has begun to fade, you realize how cold you are, and how you’re both still in your underwear. The chill from the rain has started to seep into your bones.
“You should take a warm bath, get comfortable,” Satoru suggests, loving but insistent as he brushes a few stray strands of wet hair away from your face, tucking them gently behind your ear. “It’s been a long day, and we have to wake up early to get home to Haru. You can go first. Go on, I’ll wait for you here.”
You nod, reluctantly pulling away from the warmth of his embrace as you make your way to the bathroom.
The hot water feels like a balm against your chilled skin, and you take your time, letting the warmth seep into your bones and soothe the lingering tension in your muscles. It’s a quiet, reflective moment—an opportunity to process everything that’s happened. As the steam rises around you, you feel the weight of the day slowly lift from your shoulders.
After finishing your bath, you slip into the comfortable pajamas the hotel provided and find yourself wrapped up cozily under the blankets in the bed, waiting for Satoru as he takes his turn getting cleaned up next. The room is quiet—the rain outside has finally settled down as the once insistent pattering is now reduced to a soft, comforting drum against the window. You let your eyes drift closed for a moment, savoring the tranquility and the subtle scent of Satoru that lingers on the pillow beside you.
Tonight, has been exhausting—so much has happened, and it’s a lot to take in.
When Satoru finally emerges from the bathroom, he is dressed in the comfortable hotel linens, hair slightly damp and tousled. He flashes you a tender smile, one that makes your heart skip a beat, and you can’t help but smile back, warmth spreading through you.
But instead of joining you in the bed as you would expect, you watch with growing curiosity as he makes his way towards the closet. Propping yourself up on your elbow, you tilt your head slightly, your brows knitting together in confusion.
“What are you doing?” you observe him gather extra blankets and pillows, tucking them under his arm.
Satoru glances over his shoulder, offering you a small, almost apologetic smile.
“I’m, uh… gonna sleep on the couch tonight,” he says casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You blink, taken aback by his words, and a frown tugs at your lips.
“Why? You don’t have to do that. The bed’s big enough for both of us.”
He hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully.
“Y/n,” he begins, low and rough, “Believe me, I really want to,” he lets out a sigh and scratches the back of his head. “You have… too much of an effect on me. I meant it when I said we could take things slow, but if I’m lying next to you, I don’t know if I can control myself.”
His admission sends a warm flush to your face, your heart skipping a beat at the honesty in his words. You see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s struggling to do what he thinks is right, even though it’s clearly not what he wants.
“Satoru…” you begin, your voice softening as you start to sit up, but he shakes his head gently, cutting you off before you can say more.
“If you want to take it slow, it’s probably for the best I give us some space to figure things out without making it harder than it already is.”
Damnit, he is too cute for his own good.
For a moment, you’re tempted to tell him to stay, to ignore the rules you’ve set for yourself, to just give in to the pull between you. The warmth of his presence, the comfort of his touch—it’s all so inviting. But you can also see how much he’s trying to do right by you, to honor your wishes, even if it means sacrificing what he wants.
“Okay,” you say softly, your teeth gently grazing your bottom lip as you consider your next words, “but just know that although I want to go slow, it doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t mind… doing things with you.”
Satoru lets out a groan, closing his eyes briefly as if battling with himself.
“You’re not making this easy, you know that?”
“Mm… never said I would,” you challenge, a playful glint flickering in your eyes as a crooked grin tugs at your lips.
He chuckles, tinged with both amusement and exasperation.
“I swear you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly, but the smile that accompanies his words is soft, filled with affection.
The two of you share a quiet laugh, soft and intimate, like a shared secret. As the laughter fades, a comfortable silence settles over you both. His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. The intensity in his eyes, the way they darken with something deeper, makes your breath hitch.
“Goodnight, Satoru,” you murmur as you settle yourself back into the pillows.
“Goodnight, y/n,” his smile widens as his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he turns to leave the room. “If you need anything,” he adds, pausing at the door, “you know where to find me.”
As the door softly clicks shut behind him, you’re left alone in the dimly lit room—left to your thoughts.
Tomorrow holds so much for the both of you—decisions to be made, obstacles to overcome, and a new chapter in your lives to navigate together.
For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel alone. The burden isn’t yours to carry anymore. The thought brings a sense of peace, a calm that wraps around you as you pull the blankets closer, cocooning yourself in their warmth.
There’s still so much left unresolved, and the threat of Naoya looms large. But tonight, as you drift off to sleep, all you can think about is the way Satoru looked at you, the promise in his eyes that you’ll face whatever comes next together.
And somehow, that alone makes everything seem a little less daunting.
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a/n. hi hi, thank you all so much for your kind words with this fic and for sticking around. this chapter was a lot for me to write, and i really kept second guessing it tbh. i think bc it's such a pivotal point in the story and it's pretty emotional, so i really wanna thank my lovely beta readers for helping me 💕 (@strychnynegirl & @gojoslefttoenail) hmm... who is this mysterious man that approached y/n at the gala? 🤔 i wonder if you guys can take a guess based on the description 😉 also of COURSE there is only ✨one bed✨ how can there NOT be? 🤭 i had a lot of fun writing their steamy kiss 😩 as much as i wanted them to do more i also wanna reiterate how much the slow burn in this story means to me. idk, with everything going on in y/n's life it didn't feel right for her to be like "cool lets fuck." especially since she still needed to tell satoru the truth, plus she is a mom with a kid and has been through a really shitty relationship. trust isn't something that just POOF appears yk? thanks for all your kind words and for reading!! school has been picking up for me, so again my updates will likely be longer in between. love you all 🥹 -aly 💕 → onto the next chapter ꨄ
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neverforpickles · 2 years ago
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as a reader, i can easily tell wattpad writers that just moved up to ao3 because they do not take risks. their writing has either one of these: unnecessary a/n in the end of paragraphs or *tw* in the middle of fuckin nowhere that just ruins the flow even though the expected events are already listed on the tags
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youreverydayfangirl · 7 months ago
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READY FOR IT
pairing: max verstappen x singer reader
summary: the one where she's adjusted to a new life, she begins to let out her feelings and she meets someone new
warning: none i think this is a pretty cute chapter, maybe alchohol
a/n: another post omg?????
face claim: sabrina carpenter
f1 masterlist
main masterilst
series masterlist
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f1gossip has posted
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liked by 120, 384 others
f1gossip Rumour has it that World Champion Max Verstappen and girlfriend Kelly Piquet have called it quits. The pair was last seen in Febuary earlier this year but an inside source reports they've been broken up since December. Thoughts?
user1 FINALLY
user2 not sure if this is really shocking to anyone
user3 NONONO THEY CANT BE
-> user4 get a life
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y/nsprivate has posted
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liked by keekslikestospamm, thatoneartgirlalex and 23 others
y/nsprivate nothing just hot girl shit
tagged: livbereallydumb, itssabrinaaa
keekslikestospammmm livbereallydumb looking like a queen tbh
-> livbereallydumb don't you know it
thatoneartgirlalex whos the girl in the first slide?
-> livbereallydumb think its y/nsprivate not sure tho
-> y/nsprivate STAWP IT
leosfather i better be seeing you tomorrow
-> y/nsprivate TRUST QUEEN I'LL BE THERE
thatonefrenchguy FINALLY ON THE PRIVATE
-> y/nsprivate you better be grateful and also ill remove you if you get too annoying
-> thatonefrenchguy MEANNNN
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"Y/n. Hurry up please." Y/n rolled her eyes slightly at the persistence of her best friend who had literally just finished getting ready.
"I'm coming," Y/n replied, rolling her eyes with a grin. Tonight was Charles' 27th birthday, and they were all headed out to celebrate. When Y/n finally stepped out, Alex gave a low whistle.
"Wow, Y/n, you look amazing," she said, looking her up and down.
"Yeah, yeah," Y/n replied with a playful smile. "Where's the birthday boy? He can't be running late on his own night."
"Later than you are, which is ironic since he calls me the diva," Alex laughed, wrapping her arms around Y/n.
When Charles finally finished getting ready to go, the trio made their way to the car and headed to the small club Charles had booked for the night. As they drove, Y/n felt a quiet sense of peace settle over her, as if everything in her life might just be okay from here on out.
Arriving at the club, Y/n was greeted by a wave of familiar faces, triggering a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. Many of the people here were mutual friends she hadn’t seen since the breakup with Lando. They hadn’t necessarily taken sides, but after the split, they had drifted out of her life. She politely greeted a few, already dreading the day ahead.
As she made her way to get a drink Y/n bumped into someone, "Oh sorry I- Carlos." She said, suddenly feeling a very strong sense of uncomfort around herself. Whilst her and Carlos were very close during her relationship with Lando, Carlos picked his side and seemed to hate Y/n for it.
"Y/n," he replied sharply, his accent thick with a drunken edge. "How have you been?"
"Fine, thanks," she answered, keeping her tone polite. Before he could continue Charles appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around both of them. Whether he knew it or not, he relived the tension and Y/n was grateful for the interruption.
At the sight of his drunk friend, a huge smile spread across Carlos' face, and the two fell into more animated conversation. Y/n found her thoughts drifting. After saying she needed some air, Y/n slipped away and made her way to the balcony, leaning against the railing.
She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the soft click of the door opening.
"Oh, sorry... I didn’t realize anyone was out here," an awkward voice said, breaking the quiet. Y/n turned, a bit startled, and found herself face to face with someone she vaguely recognized but had barely spoken to, Max.
God, he’s gorgeous. It was the first thought that popped into her mind. His green eyes caught the light with a slight glitter, and a small, warm smile curved his lips. If looks could kill, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm. He was effortlessly handsome, too handsome, in fact.
As they shared a brief, almost charged silence, Y/n couldn’t help but wonder if he had a girlfriend, or how many hearts he’d broken along the way. Max cleared his throat, shifting his weight a little.
"Y/n," he greeted, straightening his back. She returned his smile, small but genuine. "You look great."
A small smile spread across her face, "Um thanks, you too."
"How’s Gizmo?" Max asked with a soft smile, moving to stand closer to her. Suddenly, any lingering awkwardness between them melted away.
"Um hes good." Y/n said, perking up at the mention of her cat. Something about that simple question made Y/n feel more comforted in his presence. Most people would ask how was she doing or ask about her music. But Max seemed more interested in the little things, who she was.
They slipped into an easy rhythm of conversation, eventually settling down on the balcony with their backs against the wall, the quiet hum of the party inside fading into background noise.
"So," Max began, a faint curiosity in his eyes, "are you seeing anyone at the moment?" His tone was casual, but there was something unguarded about the question that made her laugh.
"After everything that’s happened? Do you think anyone would want to date me?" she replied with a playful smile, although her tone held something else.
Max’s gaze softened. "Why wouldn’t they? You’re stunning, and you’ve got the personality to match."
"Haven't you heard what they’ve been calling me?" She tilted her head, a hint of disbelief in her voice.
"I don’t make a habit of listening to the media," he said, shrugging. "I’d rather form my own perspective." His words were calm, but there was something unwavering in the way he looked at her, something that made her heart stumble in her chest.
She glanced away, her cheeks warming. "I don’t know how true that is," she mumbled, a bit embarrassed.
Max leaned a little closer, his gaze never leaving her face. "Oh, come on. I bet you’ve stolen a lot of hearts."
The way he was looking at her, intensely, with a hint of admiration, made her feel as if she needed to break eye contact, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to.
Just as she was about to respond, the door opened, and Kika’s voice floated over. "Y/n! Come on, come dance!"
Y/n smiled, nodding in acknowledgment. "Just a minute," she called back, then turned to Max. "I guess I’ll see you around?"
Max’s eyes sparkled, and he gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Trust me, you will."
A few shots later Y/n found herself looking for a place to sit and gather herself for a minute. As she turned around the room she noticed him sitting on a barstool and made her way over to him.
"Not enjoying yourself?" She asked him and he instantly perked up at her voice. Something that he internally scolded him self for, don't make yourself seem desperate Max.
"No, I am," he replied, smiling, "just not a heavy drinker." He turned on the stool to face her fully, his posture relaxing as he settled into their conversation.
Suddenly, a familiar song came blaring through the speakers, "I love this song!" Y/n exclaimed, her eyes bright with excitement. Before she could say anything else, Max held out a hand, a playful smile on his lips.
"May I have this dance?" he asked, the formality in his tone nearly too gentlemanly for the club setting.
She gave him a soft smile and slid her hand into his. "Lead the way."
They wove through the crowd and onto the dance floor, where the music enveloped them. As they moved together, Max leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. "You know, you never answered my question. Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No."
___________________
y/nsprivate has posted
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liked by keekslikestospamm, thatoneartgirlalex and 23 others
y/nsprivate CHA CHAS BIRTHDAY I LOVE YOU BITCHHHHH
tagged: leosfather
leosfather the sister i never had
-> y/nsprivate pascale loves me more tho so...
-> leosfather here i thought you were being nice
-> y/nsprivate NEVERRR
thatoneartgirlalex meeting your wife through your boyfriend>>>
-> y/nsprivate exactly how it happened
keekslikestospammm you and max were looking VERY comfortable last night 👀
-> thatoneartgirlalex WHATTT
-> leosfather SPILL THE DEETS NOW
-> y/thatoneartgirlalex we're coming over now
-> leosfather im bringing champagne
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thatoneartgirlalex has posted
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liked by y/nsprivate, leosfather and 43 others
thatoneartgirlalex you best believe the tea was spilt
tagged: y/nsprivate
y/nsprivate 👀👀
-> thatoneartgirlalex 🤐🤐
leosfather charles erasure 💔
-> y/nsprivate as it should be tbh
jimmyandsassysdad can i know the tea?
-> y/nsprivate what are you doing here?
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charles to max
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y/n and max
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Unknown has been changed to Max
________________
i think this is pretty long but idk
any ways heres another part for you guys ;)
_________________
@lyannesworld
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hollyhomburg · 4 months ago
Text
Prey Animals (Masterlist)
—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader
—  Subgenders: Omega! Reader, Beta! Yoongi, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Jimin, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Hoseok, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin
—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt and Comfort,
—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.
—  Words: 80k so far
—  Warnings: Violence, Blood, Murder, sexual and physical abuse, PTSD, themes of healing, suspense, mute character's, depictions of eating disorders, healing, hospitals, epilepsy, assassins, spyies,
Before you read:
This is the second version of this story, it's better, edited and longer. But if you want to read the first (near complete) version of this story you can read it on tumblr here, or on Ao3 here. there's like a million words of it lol.
not everything is tagged in this version. there is quite a bit of triggering content. i go into much more greater detail about the m/c and the abuse that she suffered at the hands of Geumjae in this version. if there is anything that doesn't get a tag and you feel it needs it, please don't hesitate to tell me!
This version is a lot longer than V1, and because of that the chapters don't line up, chapters 1-13 cover chapters 1-4.
While there are only a few things that have been taken out/restructured, but yoongi and the m/c get a dedicated slow burn love story in this now. i've also added 60k to what we did have so please give this tons of love!
i will not be reblogging these parts nearly as much as the others, because i want there to be less crowdedness on my feed. i will try my hardest to respond to comments if there are any this time around.
~-~
Prologue: Omens
Summary: you watch your husband murder someone, and try not to make it worse
Part 1: The Beta
Summary: Seokjin meets Yoongi when he's at his lowest.
Part 2: The Funeral
Summary: The death of a king pin makes the whole picture come crumbling down. In 120 days, Yoongi will decide who rules the criminal empire.
Part 3: The Alpha
Summary: Seokjin meets Namjoon when things are finally getting good, will the introduction of an alpha disrupt his and yoongi's little pack?
Part 4: Of Violent Dogs
Summary: Kim Namjoon will kill. That is a fact that you can count on.
Part 5: The Pups
Summary: Namjoon meets Jungkook in the Emergency room. "he's sick Joonie, and you can't make him better." that doesn't mean he's not going to try.
Part 6: Prey Animals
Summary: A death and A dinner party (a woman that yoongi can't take his eyes off of.)
Part 7: Hoseok
Summary: Yoongi brings home a stray, but luckily he's going to stay. (Yoongi won't, Yoongi is going to leave)
Part 8: Just Not her
Summary: Yoongi cannot decide if he trusts you or not. After being followed, he interrogates you to figure out your motives.
Part 9: Ribbons
Summary: A dinner at the Moon house prompt Yoongi to get closer and closer to you. But how close can he get before he pricks his finger?
Part 10: Junk Drawers and Daydreams
Summary: Yoongi just wants to figure you out. Just that. He promises.
Part 11: Warm Monsters
Summary: Yoongi's attraction gets harder to ignore, as does your suffering.
Part 12: The After
Summary: In Yoongi's absence the pack sort of falls apart.
Part 13: Bruises and Butterflies
Summary: One life doesn't equal seven.
~-~
Commonly asked questions:
Why the different name? because i thought it would be confusing to have two series's by the same name on the same page
Why are you editing this story? because i want to put it up for physical purchase either on amazon (ew i know) or some other alternative, the beginning of the story had always bugged me because it was not paced the same as the rest of it.
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ariestrxsh · 3 months ago
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dealer!chris x dealer!reader
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💸 content warning: smut/suggestive, dry humping, mentions of hard drugs and guns, enemies to lovers, slow burn
💸 summary: you and chris celebrate with a joint on the beach after selling all your product
there will be several parts to this story, and they will contain sex, drugs, violence, use of weapons, and a lot of things that could be triggering if you've ever been apart of the drug world or loved someone with an addiction. i don't mean to glorify drug use, selling, or anything like that, but i wanted this story to be realistic, so it does appear like a somewhat "glamorous" lifestyle to chris and the reader in the first few parts. i want to make it very clear that when you get involved in the drug world in real life, you usually end up in one of two places: the ground or prison.
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WHEN SPARKS FLY
chapters: | intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
You and Chris had successfully moved all your product in three days, a personal record for you with twelve kilos. The two of you stood in your living room, staring into the duffle bag full of cash sitting on your coffee table after the final sale.
"Holy shit, ma," Chris whispered, staring wide-eyed at the several stacks of hundreds before his gaze flicked up to you. "I know. It never gets old," you mumbled, picking up a stack of cash and holding it to your nose. You deeply inhaled, your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head. You were so infatuated with everything about money. It was almost like being reunited with an old lover every time you made it all back.
You couldn't deny that you wouldn't have been able to do it without Chris. He'd spent more hours with you, bagging up product and helping you move it than he'd spent sleeping the past three days. You admired his charming demeanor and his strong work ethic, you knew he could make you a lot of profit, and you wanted to keep him happy.
You started separating out the cash, putting your portion in one pile and Chris' in another. Once you'd finished divvying it up, you motioned towards the pile of money nearest Chris. "Here. Here's your cut."
"Ma.." Chris started to say. "What?" You asked without looking up at him. "You gave me half," Chris quietly answered, wondering if it was a mistake. "You do good work, Chris. I want to keep doing business with you. You deserve half," you told him, your gaze still fixed on the money in front or you.
"Oh, my god, ma!" Chris exclaimed, his face lighting up as he wrapped his arms around you. "I don't do shit like this often, so don't get used to it," you replied, not reciprocating his hug, but it was hard for you to conceal your grin with Chris beaming with excitement.
"Thank you, ma. I can't believe you already gave me a raise. We should go celebrate!" Chris declared. "And do what?" You inquired, giving him a perplexed look, worried that he was going to suggest a crowded place with loud music.
"I was thinking of something low-key. Let's go smoke a joint on the beach or something. I mean, you don't have to smoke, but the offer's open, and it is a special occasion," Chris rambled. You contemplated it for a moment. After all, why not celebrate? The two of you were making more money than you ever had in your life, and it was just the beginning. Plus, it was a chance to bond with your business partner.
"I'll get us home safe. Take the night off. Leave your gun at home," Chris said, looking into your eyes. "Chris, what if something bad happens? What if I need it?" You wondered with an urgency in your voice. "You've got me. If anyone messes with you, I'll protect you," Chris told you, taking a step closer to you and looking you in the eye.
The way he said it made you feel safe, like he really meant it. It was at that moment that you decided maybe you could trust him. Maybe you had to. Maybe you'd already let him in too much. After a few minutes of deliberation and a few more convincing words from Chris, you agreed. "Fine," you responded after taking a deep breath.
You weren't typically the spontaneous type, but there was something about Chris that brought out that side of you, and in some ways, you liked that. The two of you drove out to the beach, listening to Chris' favorite Arctic Monkeys album on the way there.
Tonight, you weren't a dealer. You weren't a hustler, and you weren't on guard. You were just a human being. Now, the two of you were side-by-side on the shore under a blanket of stars as the sound of the waves crashing echoed in your ears, enjoying the simple pleasures life had to offer.
You kicked off your shoes, feeling the sand beneath your feet. You hesitantly glanced down at the cherry and the smoke that slowly drifted into the air as Chris passed you the joint. "C'mon, ma. It'll be fun. Let loose for a bit," Chris urged you.
You didn't like to feel out of control. You knew getting high could be dangerous for you. You couldn't let your guard down. You couldn't let yourself slip up, admit your growing feelings for Chris, and possibly ruin your business relationship with him.
All the possibilities of all the bad things that could happen if you let yourself fully relax ran through your mind, and for a second, you thought, so what? "Fine," you sighed, taking it from him.
You held it up to your lips, the smoke stinging your lungs as you took a slow, long drag before exhaling with a cough. The dopamine flooded your system immediately, leaving you with a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was nice to have a night off from being a dealer and instead finding yourself on the other end as a consumer. It was nice to let go of the rigidity of your lifestyle and finally get to just be.
You took another puff, allowing yourself to sink into the sensation. You gave Chris back his weed. "How do you feel?" He wondered. "I feel high," you murmured, a smile spreading across your lips and your eyelids growing heavy. He grinned back at you, admiring how cute you looked in the moonlight, the light breeze gently catching your hair.
Chris pulled from the joint, inhaling smoke into his lungs. The two of you sat quietly for a few minutes, enjoying each other's company and listening to the soothing sound of the ocean's tide being pulled by the full moon that illuminated everything around you.
"Daisy broke up with me last night," Chris quietly chimed in, breaking the silence between you. "Oh, shit. Chris. I'm so sorry. What happened?" You replied in a soft, sympathetic voice. "What always happens, ma," Chris answered you, his gaze fixed on his ring that he was fiddling with.
"I didn't mean to make you tell her before you were ready," you leaned over and placed a reassuring hand on his back, feeling somewhat guilty for their relationship ending. "It's alright, ma. You were right. She was going to leave anyway. I should have told her sooner. It's for the best," Chris said in a solemn tone before taking another hit.
You didn't know what to say, and so you didn't say anything, fearing you'd make it worse if you opened your mouth in your current state of mind. You just sat next to him quietly, passing the joint back and forth, gently running your fingernails in a repetitive pattern up and down his back. He relaxed into your soothing touch.
"Ma, that feels so good," he said in a soft voice. A quiet whimper escaped his lips, and his eyes fluttered shut as you continued to caress him. You inched a bit closer to him and rested your head against his.
There was a small, sick part of him that was relieved. He could indulge in his late night fantasies about you and let his gaze linger on you without feeling guilty about it.
The two of you glanced up at each other simultaneously, and for a moment, the sexual tension between the two of you was undeniable. The look you each gave each other of burning desire didn't need words to be expressed and understood. A silent agreement was made.
Without thinking through what you were about to do, you just followed where temptation led you. You shifted, swinging your leg around Chris and straddling him. You stared deeply into his blue eyes, placing a hand on either side of his face as he sat quietly, gazing at you as his heart began to thrum in his chest. Your nose brushed against his as you leaned in, and the two of you each hesitated for a second, acknowledging that once you opened this door, it couldn't be closed.
You savored the moment before the kiss, the anticipation, and the way Chris' warm, shallow breath felt against your lips right before giving in. Not a single force on Earth could interfere with the magnetic pull, drawing the two of you together.
The kiss was tender at first, your soft lip grazing his, and it slowly grew deeper and more passionate as your tongue slipped into his mouth. Your trembling hands traveled to his chest as you stabilized yourself.
You could feel his hardening cock pressing against the front of your jeans, and you just couldn't help yourself. You found yourself rolling your hips forward and shifting your weight onto his lap, earning a sensual moan from Chris that vibrated against your lips.
You continued grinding against his bulge, and Chris' curious hands found their way to your waist, the half-smoked joint still wedged between two of his fingers. He guided your hips as you continued your movements, the added pressure feeling incredible every time his hard cock rubbed up against the seam of your jeans, stimulating your swollen clit.
You shuddered at the sensation, melting into the boy beneath you that you hadn't been able to keep your mind off of. You loved the feeling of kissing him, his pillow-soft lips, his velvet-like tongue, and the soft hums he elicited as you practically rode him with your clothes on.
"Can't resist me, can you, ma?" Chris rasped in a low voice as he pulled away from the kiss, reaching up to caress your cheek with his free hand. You firmly grabbed his wrist and started gently suckling on the tips of his fingers. "Oh, shit," he whispered, watching your mouth as you slid down to his knuckles, feeling the cool metal of his rings against your lips.
You could feel his cock jerk underneath you as you repeated this motion, alternating between a few of his long, slender digits, pressing your body weight against his dick. He loved every second of it. "Good girl," he quietly praised you as he imagined you sucking on something else. His words sent an electric surge straight to your clit, and you could feel the wetness between your legs that was likely seeping through your clothing by now.
Chris felt the heat from the joint as it widdled down towards the end of the paper, but he was too wrapped in you to care if it burned him. You brought your behavior to a stop, a wave of embarrassment overcoming you as you reflected on how impulsively you'd acted and how pathetic you probably looked humping Chris like a dog in heat after just a few puffs of weed.
"Fuck!" You exclaimed after pulling Chris' finger out from behind your lips and climbing off of his lap. "I don't know why I just did that," you muttered, completely humiiated as you retreated back to your spot in the sand. Chris stayed put for a moment, looking at you wide-eyed with his hard cock straining against his pants.
"Fuck, ma. I don't know why you stopped," Chris whispered, still processing what had just happened. "That was so inappropriate of me. I am so sorry," you mumbled with your face hiding in your hands.
"Why? Because I've been single for less than twenty-four hours or because you're kind of my boss?" Chris chuckled after taking a final hit of the joint and putting it out in the sand. You laughed with your embarrassed expression still buried in your palms.
"Either way, ma. I really liked it," Chris replied, nudging you in the arm as a smile spread across his lips. You picked your head up to finally look at him, face flushed and finding it rather hard to maintain eye contact. You wanted to kiss him again, but it felt like the moment had passed, and you were still embarrassed about how you'd thrown yourself at him.
Suddenly, you felt violently high, your heart beating in your ears and your head pounding. "I don't feel very good," you mumbled under your breath. "Here, give me your keys. Let's get you home," Chris said, springing into action once he recognized that you were most likely greening out.
He picked you up and carried you across the beach back to the car as you incoherently babbled about how sorry you were for crossing the line. He hushed you and assured you that you didn't have anything to apologize for.
He helped you into the car, and as soon as he got into the driver seat, you were softly snoring with your head resting against the window. Chris kept the music at a low volume and drove carefully as to not wake you. Once he pulled into your driveway, you began to stir. He reached over and caressed the back of your hand with his thumb.
"We're here, ma," he softly told you. "Here? Where?" You asked, still feeling heavily intoxicated. "Your house, ma," Chris giggled, shutting off the car and getting out so that he could help you into your place.
"Chris, that was so nice. You didn't have to take me home," you grumbled to him as he guided you through your front door. "You're right. I should have left you stoned on the beach by yourself," he laughed, knowing that of course he had to take you home, and just because he knew he had to, didn't mean that it was an inconvenience at all.
Chris carried you up your stairs and set you down softly on your bed. "Goodnight, ma. I hope you get some rest. I'm sorry for pressuring you into smoking," he said, shaking his head and feeling guilty for the state you were in.
"I chose to smoke, Chris. You couldn't pressure me into anything if you wanted to," you mumbled, slipping out of your jeans until you were in just a t-shirt and your underwear. Chris diverted his gaze as you started to undress, and he made his way towards your bedroom door to give you privacy.
"Where are you going?" You asked him as he started to close the door behind him. "I'll just walk to Dais -" he started to say, but then he remembered that walking to Daisy's wasn't an option anymore. "I'll just call an Uber, ma. Don't worry about me."
"Chris," you whined, reaching for him like a toddler asking to be picked up as you laid helplessly on your bed. "What is it, ma?" Chris asked, poking his head back into your bedroom. "What if you stayed the night here?" You wondered. "I mean, yeah, sure. If you're offering. I wouldn't mind crashing on your couch. It would save me a trip," he responded.
"No. I want you to sleep right here," you mumbled, patting the empty side of the bed beside you with a playful smile on your face. Chris raised an eyebrow, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. He could already tell what you were about to say next based on your body language.
"Please, Chris. I want you to fuck me," you begged him, biting your lip. "Ma, you're really messed up. I can't take advantage of that," Chris responded, taking a seat beside you on your bed and choosing his words carefully because he didn't want you to think he was uninterested. He just didn't want your first time to happen under these circumstances.
"Please. I need you," you replied, your voice saturated with lust as you started to take off your panties. "Woah! Hey," Chris exclaimed, stopping you from slipping them off. "Not like this, ma. If you still want to when you're sober, we can, but not when you can barely stand on your own. I'll lay in bed with you if all we're doing is sleeping."
"Okay. We can just sleep. I just want you here next to me," you whined, clutching your pillow in your arms and pulling it into your chest. "Alright, ma. But no funny business. Let's get you some pants," Chris replied, picking up a pair of sweatpants off of your floor and tossing them to you.
You slipped them on and curled up under your blanket. Chris crawled into bed beside you after shutting off your light. He pulled you close and kissed you on the forehead. "Night, ma," Chris whispered before closing his eyes. A few minutes later, he heard the sound of your soft snoring as you drifted off to sleep beside him.
When he was certain you were out, he slipped out of your sheets, snuck downstairs, and made his way out the door. As he waited out front for his uber, lighting up a joint, he smiled to himself, reflecting on the night and how boldly you'd climbed onto his lap and started making out with him.
He hoped that you were developing feelings for him the same way he was for you and that it wasn't just a purely lustful gesture earlier, but he couldn't be sure. Hell, he couldn't even be sure that you'd remember any of it in the morning, which was part of the reason he didn't want to be in your bed when you woke up.
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deliciousangelfestival · 8 months ago
Text
The Imperfect Couple - 3
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Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader
Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.
Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.
A/N: Steve Rogers is older than Bucky here.
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist
Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻
By the way, I publish my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
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You arrived at the new apartment, feeling a small sense of relief for finally being under a different roof than Caroline’s. The thought of enduring the same torture as before made your skin crawl.
As you settled in, you broke the silence. “Your mom offered the attorney to us.” You remembered how you had insisted the divorce attorney make it as quick and painless as possible. “Why didn’t you finalize it?”
Bucky’s gaze remained steady. “Not once did I think you were actually going to leave me.”
“There’s no marriage between us,” you shot back, your voice sharp. “If you’d finalized it, you could’ve easily married a woman your mother approved of.”
Flashback Start
You recalled every time Caroline mentioned another woman’s name as if they were more suited for Bucky. “You know, Rachel just graduated summa cum laude from Harvard in social politics,” she had said at the rehearsal dinner.
Then, on your wedding day, as you and Bucky sat together, trying to enjoy the celebration, Caroline approached, holding hands with a stunning woman. “Bucky, look who’s here? Katherine just arrived from London.”
Caroline’s voice dripped with approval. “Both of them went to the same law school.”
You clenched the fork in your hand so hard you thought it might snap.
Why the hell was she introducing another woman to you on your wedding night?
Did she expect you and Bucky to have a threesome with Katherine?
From that moment, you knew your place—an outsider who didn’t come from the pedigree Caroline so desperately wanted for her son.
When you finally left the house, you remembered her raising her champagne glass with a smirk. “I always knew you weren’t the one.”
Flashback End
“They need someone with a spotless record,” Bucky said, breaking you from your thoughts.
You stood there, your emotions a mix of anger and disbelief.
“I’m not making excuses for you. I know the old me wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t be the man you could rely on,” he admitted, his voice thick with regret.
He looked at you with a desperation that caught you off guard. “You could poison my drink, stab me in my sleep. I wouldn’t fight it. I’d let you.”
His eyes, usually so confident and composed, were now filled with a deep, pained sincerity. The weight of his guilt seemed to crush him, and the shadows of remorse darkened his features. His hands trembled slightly, betraying the calm facade he tried to maintain.
Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your chest. How could he say that so casually? What kind of twisted love was this?
“That’s how much I need you,” he confessed, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You’re using me,” you accused, your voice shaking with a mix of fury and sadness.
Bucky didn’t deny it. “Like I said, it’s a business relationship. But I’ve trusted you from the beginning. Put my faith in you.”
He reached out, taking your hands in his, holding them together like a prayer. “And I hope we can work together. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to work in the White House.””
🌸🌸🌸🌸
The following day, you met Steve, the future Presidential candidate. He greeted you warmly, his genuine smile easing some of the tension you felt. You’d met Steve and his wife, Peggy, a few times before—honest people who never treated you like you didn’t belong. Steve had even defended you whenever Caroline or others looked down on you for not being in the same league as them.
"I’m so glad you’re here," Steve said, clasping your hand. "When did you arrive?"
You chuckled softly. "Well, when three Secret Service agents showed up at my door, who was I to say no?"
Steve chuckled too, though there was a hint of awkwardness in his eyes. He tilted his head slightly. "Let’s talk."
You walked together, the air thick with unspoken words. "I know it’s difficult for you to be here. I owe you big time," Steve began sincerely. He had witnessed your marriage crumble, and despite his and Peggy’s best efforts to support you and Bucky, things had fallen apart.
You sighed. "What confuses me is, why me? He could’ve chosen another woman, someone way more qualified."
Steve leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "To be honest, I think you’re the best option. He probably won’t show it, but Bucky was happy when he heard you were coming."
You scoffed, glancing over at Bucky, who was watching the two of you from a distance. "Impossible."
As you scanned the room, you spotted someone familiar—your brother, Tim. Excusing yourself from Steve, you made your way over to him.
"I’m glad you’re here," Tim said, his voice filled with warmth, though his eyes carried a weight of their own.
You narrowed your eyes at him. "I can’t believe you. You knew what I went through, and yet you’re working with him? You sucked up to him."
"Look at me," Tim said firmly.
You glanced down at him, seeing the determination in his gaze.
"Who’s going to hire a disabled person like me?" Tim who seated on his wheelchair, his voice wavered slightly as he spoke. He had been born with both legs, but when bone cancer struck his left leg, the doctors recommended amputation to stop it from spreading. That surgery had shattered his dreams of becoming a professional tennis player.
"It was James who offered me a job," he emphasized, "with a high salary."
Tim continued, "You can keep your anger, but face it, Y/N—they won’t pay the bills. For people like me, I need more money to survive in this world."
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Bucky appeared beside you.
"Hi, Tim."
"Hey," Tim replied.
"I'm going to steal your sister for a bit." Bucky turned to you. "Our next schedule is couple’s therapy," he said, his voice calm but authoritative, cutting the conversation short.
You hated this part. The thought of attending therapy with Bucky made your stomach twist with unease. You shot Tim one last look, a mixture of concern and frustration in your eyes, before following Bucky out of the room.
🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸
As you and Bucky sat across from Aiden, the therapist, the atmosphere was thick with unresolved tension. The room was simple yet comfortable, with soft, neutral tones that were supposed to be calming but did little to ease the storm of emotions swirling within you. You could feel the weight of Bucky's presence beside you, a familiar heaviness that both comforted and suffocated you.
Aiden leaned forward, his expression neutral but attentive. "So, what are you feeling right now?"
You hesitated for a moment before speaking, your voice laced with frustration and exhaustion. "I don’t think I have the courage to live another day in his family. His mother is the devil spawn. Even seeing her shadow triggers me." The words spilled out of you, raw and unfiltered, a reflection of the years of pain and resentment you'd kept bottled up.
Aiden nodded, his gaze shifting to Bucky. "And what about you, Mr. Barnes?"
Bucky's eyes remained fixed on a spot on the floor, his voice steady but lacking its usual conviction. "I didn’t think that way. As long as we stick together, we can get through everything." There was a hint of desperation in his tone, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you.
You turned to look at him, disbelief and anger simmering beneath your calm facade. "From the beginning, we should’ve never gotten married. You only focus on yourself, never bothering to look behind you. Me, trying my best to fit into your circles."
Your voice wavered, the painful truth of your words cutting through the silence like a knife. You had always known you were out of his league—young and innocent, believing that love could conquer all.
But you had been wrong, and the reality of that mistake was too much to bear.
His mother’s voice echoed in your mind, the countless times she’d told you that you weren’t good enough, that you didn’t deserve him.
"Your mother was right. I don’t deserve you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Bucky’s expression tightened, his guilt etched into every line of his face. "I’m sorry. I really am sorry." His voice cracked, the weight of his regret finally breaking through.
He had never wanted this—to see you hurt, to see you broken because of him and his family. But the damage was done, and the guilt gnawed at him, relentless and unforgiving.
Aiden observed the exchange, his eyes narrowing slightly as he spoke. "I see that you’re the victim here, ma’am. And your former mother-in-law is the main reason why." He glanced at Bucky, his voice firm. "Mr. Barnes, your mother hurt her deeply, and now you must do everything in your power to make amends."
Bucky nodded, his voice thick with emotion. "I will. I'll do anything to erase the hurt you’ve received from her." The sincerity in his voice was palpable, but it was clear that the guilt weighed heavily on him. He had failed to protect you, to shield you from his mother’s venom, and that failure haunted him.
Aiden’s voice softened, but there was a steely resolve in his words. "Use this pain, both of you. Let it fuel you to confront Caroline, to reclaim your strength. Don’t let her win. Turn this pain into power."
As you sat there, the enormity of the situation began to sink in. You had been through so much, and the path ahead was uncertain. You had expected to loathe the couple’s therapy, but surprisingly, it turned out to be a beneficial experience.
🌸🌸🌸🌸
After the couple's therapy, the silence between you and Bucky was palpable, each of you grappling with the raw emotions that had surfaced.
The therapy had stripped away your filters, leaving you both exposed—your anger and frustration flowing freely. Bucky remained stoic, absorbing your harsh words with an almost resigned patience.
Returning to the Barnes household, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The room was filled with Bucky’s family: his parents, Julius and Caroline; his brother, Shawn, who struggled with cocaine and felt diminished by his inability to meet Caroline’s lofty expectations; and Hazel, Bucky’s sister and Nate’s mother.
Hazel, having felt overshadowed as the spare child, had chosen a career in fashion to escape the constant comparison to Bucky, who was seen as the golden child.
You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Shawn and Hazel, both of whom shared your misery under Caroline’s disdain. But that sympathy was tempered by their enjoyment of watching you suffer, thanks to their mother’s contempt.
Greg, a family friend, was the bearer of the news that the whole family would attend the upcoming convention event.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” you said firmly, your tone clipped.
“Why… why?” Greg asked, confused.
Caroline rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Here we go.”
Bucky tried to interject, “Don’t…”
You cut him off with a steely gaze. “After that consultation, you still want to continue this?”
Caroline's eyes narrowed. “I knew we couldn’t trust her.”
Shawn chuckled, and Hazel remained indifferent.
“Quiet,” Julius commanded, his voice brooking no argument. The room fell silent.
With a sense of finality, you approached Caroline. “You’re so jealous of me,” you said, your voice dripping with disdain.
Caroline’s eyes widened, a mixture of anger and shock. “What are you talking about?”
“Because you know I’m going to get what you can’t have,” you smirked, savoring the moment. “Being the wife of the Vice President.”
“You bitch,” Caroline spat, something snapped inside her. Deep down, you were right—she was jealous of you. You were younger, smarter, and luckier. It was her dream to be in your position, but now it seemed like she had paved the way for you instead. What’s worse, you didn’t fit her criteria at all. She felt you didn’t deserve this.
Without warning, Caroline lunged at you, grabbing your hair. The two of you were soon locked in a fierce struggle, yanking each other’s hair and grappling with a fury that left no room for remorse. The physical confrontation was liberating, an outlet for all the anger you had been holding back.
You felt no fear and no guilt towards the seventy-year-old woman. At last, you could release all the anger you had been holding in.
Waiting for karma takes too long, and you can’t expect God to do all the work. So you took this chance to give her a lesson she won’t forget.
“Stop! STOP!” Bucky and Julius’s voices cut through the chaos as they tried to separate you. Shawn and Hazel, their faces a mix of curiosity and apathy, slowly backed away from the scene.
It was a struggle to pry you apart; Caroline, in her rage, was more unruly and disheveled compared to your own controlled fury.
“Hufft,” you adjusted your disheveled dress and hair, glaring at Caroline with a fierce, triumphant look. “You know what? I hope your son wins, so I can rub my new position right in your face.”
Caroline’s expression was one of shock and fury, her face a portrait of someone who had been dealt a blow she wasn’t prepared for. Her eyes were wild with a mixture of anger and disbelief.
“You’re absolutely right,” you looked at Bucky, your voice steady. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to live in the White House.”
Caroline’s gritted her teeth.
“If the world wants to see us as a happily married couple,” you said with a cold smile, “I’ll give them the most blissful marriage they’ve ever seen. It’ll be the kind of marriage everyone talks about when they mention a perfect union.”
Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise at your cold declaration. For a moment, he was stunned, but as he processed your words, admiration and pride flickered across his face. He straightened, a hint of a smile forming, clearly impressed by your bold resolve and newfound strength.
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ijustwannabecool · 27 days ago
Text
The Wrong Letter
Lewis Hamilton x Reader
Summary... A letter never meant to be read by Lewis Hamilton finds its way into his hands. What starts as a simple reply turns into an unlikely bond—one filled with letters, honesty, heartbreak, and healing. In a world where the wrong address led to the right person, what happens when pen meets paper, and two broken hearts begin to write a new ending?
Trigger Warnings: emotional manipulation, mental/emotional abuse (past), themes of abandonment and healing, language, grief, vulnerability, slow-burn romance, miscommunication A/N: I hope you enjoy it! I wrote it with lots of love for you guys. Enjoy it. Feedback is always welcome! Comment, repost, and like. Have a beautiful day!
THE WRONG LETTER
The Letter That Wasn’t Supposed to Be Sent
The flat is still.
There’s no dramatic thunderstorm, no flickering lights. Just the hush of twilight seeping through the windows and the low hum of your record player crackling out some melancholy tune you can’t remember the name of. You’re not sad, not really. Just tired.
Exhaustion lives in your bones now.
Not the kind sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs around long after someone has convinced you you’re too much and somehow not enough all at once.
You’re in your favorite hoodie—the soft, oversized one that smells faintly of lavender and school paint—and you’re sitting on the floor with a pen in your hand and a letter you’re not supposed to be writing.
It started as a thought. Then a sentence. Now it’s three pages in and your hand won’t stop moving.
You didn’t plan this. You were cleaning out the drawer next to your bed, the one filled with tangled chargers and expired coupons and that old blue stationery you forgot you even owned. Something about the blank page pulled at you. Like a dare.
You told yourself it was just a writing exercise. Closure. Nothing more. But now the ink is dry on your fingers, and the page in front of you reads like a confession.
Dear You, I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this. It’s not like you’ll ever read it. Which is probably for the best.
You don’t deserve this version of me—the one that stayed soft, even after you tried to strip her down to splinters. You were always good with words. Always knew how to rearrange a sentence so it sounded like care instead of control. Love instead of leverage.
I used to think your silences were deep. Now I know they were empty.
Still, part of me misses you. Or maybe I miss who I thought you were. The you I built in my head. The one who laughed when I danced barefoot in the kitchen and kissed my shoulder when I fell asleep during movies.
But that version of you never existed, did he?
No, the real you gave compliments like currency. Affection in measured doses. Love as a prize to be earned. And I tried. God, I tried.
I folded myself smaller. Smiled quieter. Disappeared gently. And still—you left.
So I guess this is me saying goodbye to a ghost. I’m letting go of you. Of the echo of you. Of the space you used to take up in my head. You won’t read this. But I need to say it anyway. I’m done writing stories where you’re the hero. — Me
You fold the letter carefully. You don’t know why. You could rip it up. Burn it. Drop it in the bin. But instead, you slide it into the envelope and write out the name almost instinctively.
M. Hamilton
312 Grafton Way London NW1
You stare at it. You don't even know if he still lives there. Then you frown. No—wait.
You flip the envelope back over. You wrote it wrong.
It says:
L. Hamilton
213 Grafton Lane London NW1
You groan. “Of course,” you mutter. “Because nothing in this chapter can be simple.” You set the letter aside, swearing you won’t send it.
But the next morning, in a fog of Monday autopilot, you grab a handful of outgoing post—bills, a birthday card, and the letter—and drop them all in the red postbox outside your building.
It’s only as the flap closes behind them that your stomach sinks. “Shit.”
A Week Later — Monaco
He notices the envelope right away.
It’s the only one without a stamp, as if someone hand-delivered it, even though it came through the normal post. It’s pale blue and slightly wrinkled. The handwriting is neat, but unsure—like someone who learned to write letters in a hurry and never stopped.
L. Hamilton
He sighs.
Another fan letter, maybe. Or someone asking for money. Or advice. Or a favor he can’t give.
Still, something about it makes him pause.
He’s been restless lately.
Ferrari is new, and so far, it feels like trying to start over in a language he only half understands. Everyone wants a piece of him. A statement. A smile. A legacy.
And all he wants—quietly, stubbornly—is something real. So he opens the envelope. And reads. Once.
Then twice.
Then again—slower.
By the third read, he’s no longer just reading. He’s feeling.
The words dig beneath his ribs.
It’s not meant for him. Obviously. He’s never said any of these things to anyone. And yet—he recognizes the ache in every line.
The loneliness. The exhaustion. The delicate way she holds her own pain like it might spill if she’s not careful.
He stares at the letter for a long time. Then he folds it neatly and places it on the table.
He makes a cup of tea. Takes a shower. Paces the room. Plays part of a jazz album he’s never finished.
And still—he’s thinking about her. The woman who wrote to the wrong Hamilton. And made him feel more seen than anyone had in months.
He stares at the letter again the next morning.
He’d left it on the edge of his desk, tucked just under a book he hadn’t had the attention span to read. He told himself he wasn’t going to pick it up again.
But he did.
Twice.
And now—again.
He rereads the opening line: “I don’t know what I’m hoping to get out of this.”
Same.
Lewis exhales sharply and runs a hand down his face. He’s still in his sweats, hair barely tied back, a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand.
The world outside his window is bright and red and fast. But in here, it’s quiet.
Too quiet.
He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him something real without asking for something in return.
And this stranger—this accidental letter writer—didn’t even mean to.
She gave him honesty on accident. Gave him something that wasn’t for him, but somehow still fit him like a second skin.
She’d sent a goodbye, but it felt like a beginning. He hated how much he wanted to know more.
Was she okay now? Did she still make tea and leave the light on? Did she feel better after writing that letter, or worse?
He folds it again. Then pulls a fresh page from the drawer. Stares at it. Pen hovering. Waits. Then, finally, slowly, begins to write.
Dear Me, I read your letter three times before I let myself breathe.
It wasn’t meant for me—I know that. You probably wanted it to disappear. Or maybe just exist long enough to stop hurting. Either way, it landed here. With me.
And I don’t know what to do with that, except... write back.
I’ve been trying to remember the last time someone told me the truth without dressing it up first. Without asking for anything. Without spinning it for their own satisfaction.
You didn’t do that.
You just wrote.
And in doing that, you made me feel a little less like I’m walking through the world alone.
I won’t pretend I know your story, not really. But I know what it’s like to question yourself so deeply that you start to think your own reflection might be lying.
If you don’t mind—if it’s not too strange—I’d like to keep writing.
Not to fix you. Not to fix me. Just... to talk. I’ll go by L.
If you write back, I’ll know it’s okay. If not—I’ll still be grateful I got to read the first letter.
—L
He folds it carefully, slips it into a fresh white envelope, and handwrites the return address on the back.
Just an initial.
Nothing else.
No fame. No clues.
Just words.
He hesitates before sealing it.
He could throw it away.
He probably should.
But instead, he walks down to the private courier drop he trusts more than the usual post and hands it off without saying a word.
The next day, he checks his mailbox five times. Even though he knows better.
Back in London – Three Days Later
You find it wedged between an ASOS return and a flyer for a takeaway you swear you’ve blocked a hundred times.
It’s stark white. No stamp. No sender. No clue. Except the handwriting. Your heart skips. You open it slowly. Hands shaking. Breath caught. And when you finish reading, you sit on the floor in your hallway and cry.
Not because you’re sad. But because, for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t try to fix you. They just stayed.
You write back that night. Just one line:
Dear L, I don’t know what this is either, but I think I’d like to find out.
It becomes a ritual.
You come home from school, kick off your shoes, toss your keys in the bowl by the door—and check the mail.
Every day. Like a teenager with a crush and a fountain pen addiction. Most days there’s nothing. But some days— There’s him.
Letter #2
Dear L,
I didn’t expect a response. Honestly, I expected the letter to get lost, or burned, or laughed at over brunch. I didn’t think it would matter.
And yet... here we are. I’m not great at this kind of thing. Feelings. Trust. Vulnerability. Capital-L Letters. But there’s something about your reply that didn’t scare me. Maybe it’s because you didn’t try to solve anything.
You just witnessed. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.
Tell me something unimportant. Tell me what you had for breakfast or the last thing that made you laugh. Tell me what your voice sounds like when you’re tired.
I think I’d like to know. — Me P.S. You said you go by L. Can I go by Y/I? Seems fair.
Letter #3
Dear Y/I, Okay. Something unimportant:
I had granola with almond milk this morning. Mostly because it was the only thing left in the fridge and I was too lazy to do a shop.
I forgot how much I hate almond milk.
As for laughing—yesterday I walked into a glass door while texting. My assistant pretended not to see it but I know he did.
My tired voice? It’s apparently lower than usual. Scratchy. My mum says I sound like a hungover jazz singer.
(...That’s probably too much information.)
This is already more personal than 90% of the interviews I’ve done in the last year.
And I think that says something.
Still writing, —L
P.S. Yes. Y/I fits you.
It keeps going.
Little things. Honest things. You start opening up without realizing you’re doing it.
You tell him about your favorite mug—the chipped one with a sunflower on the side. About the boy in your class who named his left shoe Kevin and insists it has a twin named Steve. About your best friend who makes you playlists with titles like “Songs to Emotionally Shatter You During Grocery Shopping.”
You don’t tell him about Marcus yet. But it’s there. Between the lines. In the way you talk about softness like it’s borrowed, not owned.
He picks up on it. Of course he does.
Letter #5
Dear Y/I,
I think we forget how brave softness is.
Everyone wants to be strong. Loud. Unbothered. But you—
You write like someone who’s still learning to trust her own voice, and I think that’s the bravest kind of loud there is.
Today I went for a run at sunrise. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t sleep. Something about the silence felt heavy. Then the sun cracked through the sky like it was begging to be noticed. I thought of your letter. The one where you said mornings make you feel both holy and hollow. I took a picture. It’s nothing special. But I wanted you to see what I saw when I thought of you. —L
(Polaroid attached: A sunrise over a quiet bay, light spilling gold over rooftops. In the corner of the frame, a coffee cup and one bare foot.)
You hold the photo to your chest like it might disappear.
You don’t know what this is.
But you know it’s becoming something you need.
You write back the same night.
Letter #6
Dear L,
It feels strange, how much I look forward to your letters. Like I’m building a home inside a mailbox.
I’ve started writing you in my head when things happen—like today, when one of the kids sneezed so hard he fell off his chair. Or when I saw a pigeon aggressively fighting a croissant on my lunch break.
I wanted to tell you.
And I don’t even know your face.
But I know your mind. Your voice. Your stillness.
So I’m sending you something too.
It’s small. But it made me think of you.
— Y/I
(Polaroid attached: A blurry photo of her windowsill at night, soft fairy lights glowing, a cup of tea, and a stack of letters—his letters—tied with ribbon.)
And just like that, the distance between you starts to shrink. Not in miles. But in silence.
You tell him about Marcus in your next letter. Not the full story. Not yet. But enough.
Enough for Lewis to fold the page twice before reading it again, slower. Like her words might bleed if he moved too fast.
Letter #12
Dear L,
I thought about deleting this letter.
I still might.
But if I don’t tell you this now, I never will.
There was someone.
He made me feel like love was a job interview. Like I had to be the right combination of soft and sexy and small in order to be kept.
He didn’t hit me. He didn’t scream.
But he rewrote the world in a way that only made sense when he was in it. And when he left, I realized I hadn’t heard my own voice in months. I’m still trying to find it again. Sometimes I think I only speak in whispers now.
But you hear me. Thank you for that. — Y/I
He sits with the letter for a long time. Long enough for the sky outside his window to shift from gold to gray.
He traces the edge of the paper. Imagines her, somewhere miles away, hunched over a desk or a kitchen table, writing these words. Brave and trembling.
He wants to say everything. Wants to fix it.
But knows he can’t. So instead—he writes her back.
Letter #13
Dear Y/I,
I don’t know if this will help, but...
You don’t speak in whispers anymore.
Not to me.
Your letters fill the room when I open them. Your voice has a weight I can feel in my chest. It lingers.
And I know we said this is just letters. Just words.
But when you trust someone with your story—even a part of it— That’s not nothing.
You’re not nothing.
I hope you never forget that
—L
And from that point forward— The letters change. They become a place to land.
Sometimes soft.
Sometimes raw.
Always honest.
Letter #15
Dear L,
I can’t believe how much I look forward to this. To you.
To the moment I get to peel open an envelope and see your words.
You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.
Between class sessions. In the quiet moments before sleep. In the sun through my window and the smell of clean sheets.
It scares me, how much I care. I don’t even know what you look like. But I know your mind. And your heart.
And I think... that’s more important.
— Y/I
Letter #16
Dear Y/I,
There’s this little alleyway near where I’m staying. It’s nothing—just old bricks, chipped paint, the hum of a neon sign in a language I don’t speak.
But it reminded me of your last letter. The part about “between spaces.”
I took a photo. It’s not good. I almost didn’t send it.
But then I thought—maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.
Maybe it just has to be honest.
Like us.
—L
(Polaroid: A quiet alleyway at dusk, soft yellow light spilling onto cobblestones. A bicycle leans against the wall. There's no one in sight.)
You hold it for a long time. Wonder what he was thinking when he took it.
And realize— You want to ask him. Not through a letter. Not weeks later. But face to face. And that, more than anything, terrifies you.
You don’t set an alarm anymore.
Your internal clock is tuned to the sound of birds and buses and the small clatter of the kettle boiling in the flat next door.
You stretch quietly in bed, blink up at the ceiling, and smile at the faint sunlight creeping through the curtains.
It’s a Tuesday. That means circle time, two back-to-back art projects, and a high chance of glitter in your bra by noon.
You slip on a loose sweater and jeans, twist your hair up, and grab the sunflower mug you once mentioned in a letter. It’s chipped, but perfect. Familiar.
You sip your tea as you stare at the little wooden box on your kitchen shelf.
It holds his letters now.
You don’t read one this morning. You want to save it for later—like dessert.
Your day unfolds the way it always does.
You greet your students with that voice you reserve for them—bright, warm, steady.
You kneel beside Sophie, who’s crying because her banana touched her yogurt.
You high-five Theo for remembering to say “please.”
You tape two shoelaces and one broken crayon back together.
At lunch, your coworker Ana plops beside you on the bench outside.
“Big weekend plans?” she asks, unwrapping her sandwich.
You shrug. “Not really.”
“Still writing to mystery man?” she grins.
You fight the smile. “Maybe.”
“God, you’re such a romantic.”
“No,” you say softly. “I think I’m just... hopeful.”
She gives you a look but lets it go.
The school day ends.
You wave goodbye to the last kid and lock your classroom door. The janitor hums as he sweeps the hall.
And when you walk home—your steps are a little quicker.
Because you know. You know. You fumble your keys, heart skipping.
You open the mailbox. And there it is. White envelope. Familiar handwriting. Just your first initial on the front.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, tea steeping on the table, fingers trembling as you open the letter.
Inside?
A note.
And a photo.
Dear Y/I,
It’s been a week of motion. Too many cities, too many suitcases.
But I found a little moment of stillness.
I thought you might like it.
You feel like stillness, sometimes.
Like breath.
More soon.
—L
(Polaroid: A single red flower growing out of cracked pavement, light hitting it just right.)
You press the photo to your chest. And smile.
He wakes up in yet another hotel.
He has to blink twice to remember where he is. Barcelona. This week,
it’s Barcelona.
The light is soft, filtered through gauzy curtains, and the air smells faintly like salt and rubber and espresso from the street below. He can hear the hum of traffic already—low, constant, like a heartbeat.
He groans, presses a palm to his face, and drags himself out of bed. There’s a media briefing in forty-five minutes.
Another debrief after that.
Then sim work.
Then setup.
Then dinner with someone he doesn’t really know.
He pulls on a hoodie and sweats, ties his braids back messily, and pads barefoot to the table by the window.
There, tucked neatly under his notebook, is her letter. He’d brought it with him.
Always does now.
Wherever he goes.
Just in case.
He unfolds it like something sacred and reads the last paragraph again.
“You’ve started to live in the in-between spaces of my day.”
He smiles.
And exhales.
The paddock is chaos.
People. Cameras. Logistics. Language.
He answers questions without really hearing them. Shakes hands. Nods. Smiles.
He does the dance.
But his mind keeps drifting back to the letter.
Back to her.
To the way she described the way the rain sounded on her roof. Or the way her students pronounced “spaghetti” like “buhgetti.”
He tucks a small Polaroid camera into his jacket pocket before heading out to do the track walk.
He takes photos quietly.
A puddle reflecting the clouds. A half-eaten orange on a bright red barrier. The back of someone’s helmet with a quote in Italian sharpied on the side: “Chi trova un amico, trova un tesoro.” (He who finds a friend, finds treasure.)
He frames the shot. Clicks.
And hears a voice behind him.
“Since when do you take artsy photos, man?”
He jumps slightly, turning.
It’s Charles.
His teammate. Friendly. Sharp. Always watching.
“Oh,” Lewis says quickly, tucking the photo into his pocket. “Just something for a... project.”
Charles raises an eyebrow. “A project?”
“Yeah. Personal one.”
Charles squints at him. Then shrugs. “Alright. You just looked like you were thinking hard about it.”
“I was,” Lewis admits, softer this time.
Then, without thinking, he adds:
“She writes about things like this. Ordinary stuff that feels... alive.”
Charles tilts his head. “She?”
Lewis clears his throat. “Just someone I talk to.”
Charles smirks. “You getting poetic on me?”
“Maybe,” he mutters, walking away. “Mind your business.”
But he’s smiling.
Because that’s what she does to him.
Makes the world feel quiet again.
Even here.
That night, after hours of meetings and late-night workouts, he finally gets a moment alone.
He sits on the edge of his bed, pulls out his worn journal, and slides one of the new Polaroids inside a letter he started days ago.
Dear Y/I,
Today was loud.
The kind of loud that follows you even after the noise stops.
But I saw something that made me think of one of your old letters—the one about how beauty is just borrowed stillness.
I think you’re right.
This isn’t much.
But it made me feel quiet.
And when I feel quiet, I think of you.
—L
(Polaroid: A reflection of clouds in a puddle shaped like a heart, partially stepped on, still beautiful.)
He seals the envelope and sets it by the door. It’ll go out in the morning. And when he gets home— Her words will be waiting.
He already knows exactly where he’s going to sit to read them.
The letters start arriving more often. No longer once a week. Now it’s every few days. Sometimes back-to-back. Sometimes overlapping. And they’re longer. Richer. Almost too much to hold in your hands.
Letter #28
Dear Y/I,
I don’t know what this is anymore.
And I don’t mean that in a bad way.
It’s just—somewhere along the way, I stopped writing to pass the time and started writing to remember who I am.
I don’t tell most people anything real. I give them smiles. Headlines. “Doing great, thanks.” But you ask me questions I don’t even realize I’ve been dying to answer. Like what my laugh sounds like when I’m tired. Or what I’d do if the world stopped spinning for a day.
(For the record, I’d sit in the sun and read your letters.) Sometimes I wish I could just... show up. Knock on your door. Ask you what kind of tea you’re making and sit in your quiet for a while. But I won’t do that.
Because part of what makes this feel real is that it’s not built on appearances or performance. It’s just us. Words. Trust.
Still yours,
—L
You read that letter three times.
Then again the next morning.
You walk through your day differently now. More alert.
More tender.
You find yourself watching the sky at red lights. Running your fingers along brick walls. Laughing longer at things that make you feel known.
Letter #29
Dear L,
You said you don’t know what this is anymore.
I don’t either.
But I know what it’s not.
It’s not nothing.
And sometimes I catch myself saying things like, “My friend said—” and I mean you.
Or when I see something beautiful, I reach for my camera, then stop, because I remember...
You already saw it.
You live in these spaces I didn’t even know I’d left unlocked.
And that scares me.
But it also makes me feel whole.
— Y/I
P.S. If you ever did knock on my door... I’d make chamomile. And I’d let you sit in the silence for as long as you needed.
Letter #30
Dear Y/I,
This week I was back somewhere familiar. A city I’ve been to a hundred times, for work.
I passed this bakery that smelled like cinnamon and woodsmoke, and I remembered something you once wrote—about how you used to bake on Sundays with your mum, just to fill the flat with warmth.
So I bought a pastry I didn’t even want. Just because it made me feel close to you. There were cameras, like always.
But I kept thinking—what would it feel like to walk here with you, no one watching? 
To just be a man next to a woman he respects.
Not a name.
Not a brand.
Just L.
(Almost slipped there. Guess I’m tired.)
— Still just L
You reread that paragraph.
“There were cameras, like always.” “Almost slipped there.”
Your heart kicks up. You don’t Google him.
You could.
But you don’t.
Because whatever this is—it’s enough.
And you trust him.
Letter #31
Dear L,
When I was with Marcus, I used to write things and hide them. Little notes to myself. Things I was afraid to say out loud.
“I am not difficult.” “I deserve to be chosen.” “I am allowed to take up space.”
I found them again last week.
And I cried.
Not because I felt that way again. But because I don’t anymore.
You didn’t fix me.
But you reminded me that I wasn’t broken to begin with.
You don’t know my face. My laugh. The shape I take up in a room.
And still—you see me.
More clearly than anyone else has.
— Y/I
He reads that letter after a long flight. Eyes burning.
The hotel is too cold. The hallway echoing. His muscles sore.
But none of it matters.
Because she just told him the one thing he’s been terrified to believe:
That he matters without being anyone else.
That she wants him, not the idea of him.
That she’s ready.
And just like that—
He knows.
It’s almost time to tell her who he is.
It was raining the day you wrote the draft.
Not the romantic kind of rain. Not the soft pitter-patter you loved with a mug of tea.
This was the kind of rain that felt mean.
That made the sky feel heavy and mean and too much.
It had been a rough week. The school was understaffed. A parent yelled at you for enforcing a food allergy rule. Your period came early. You felt bloated and stupid and small.
You were already crying before you picked up the pen.
And you shouldn't have written it.
But you did.
Not to him.
Just... to yourself.
A letter that bled frustration. Fear. That creeping anxiety that whispered what if he’s only being kind? What if you’re building a fantasy out of figments and metaphors?
You wrote:
Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words. If I’m just a soft place for you to land until you’re ready to walk again. If I’m falling alone, and you’re just watching.
You folded it.
Slid it into your drawer.
You didn’t sign it.
Didn’t intend to send it.
You wrote a new letter the next day. A good one. A hopeful one. You slipped a photo of your favorite bookstore at twilight into the envelope and dropped it in the post.
You didn’t realize... that you’d picked up the wrong page.
Four days later — Monaco
He gets home late.
The race weekend was long. Brutal. Not his best.
He drops his suitcase, toes off his shoes, and heads straight to the table.
Her letter is there. Waiting.
He smiles before he even opens it.
But the smile fades.
Line by line.
Word by word.
He reads the first sentence.
And stops.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just good with words...”
It feels like a slap.
Like being called a liar by the only person who doesn’t see him as one. He stares at the page, willing it to turn into something else.
A joke.
A mistake.
A test.
But it’s just... her.
Questioning all of it.
All of him.
And he—
He doesn’t know what to do.
He doesn't reply.
Not right away.
Not at all.
He wants to write something. Anything.
But the words won’t come.
Because the truth is—he was afraid. That he was falling harder. That he was hoping for something real. That she might only be in love with the idea of him, not the messy, exhausted man who sits in hotel rooms and wonders if he's worth any of it.
So he doesn’t write.
He disappears.
A Week Later
You feel it before you know it.
The silence.
It’s louder than any rejection you’ve ever heard.
You check the mailbox obsessively. Refresh your phone, even though you’ve never texted. Wait for something. Anything.
And then it comes.
One envelope.
No letter inside.
Just a photo.
A paper airplane.
Caught mid-fall, fluttering toward a storm-gray pavement.
And on the back, written in familiar handwriting:
I didn’t know I was disposable.
You sink to the floor.
The kind of cry you can’t make pretty. The kind with hiccups and shaking hands and a voice that sounds foreign when you whisper, “No... no no no...”
Because it wasn’t meant for him.
That letter—
That damn letter—
Was a ghost you were trying to exorcise. Not a truth you meant to send.
You run to your drawer, flipping through everything.
And there it is.
The real one.
The one he was supposed to read. The one that said:
You make me believe in softness again. You make me want to be brave. You feel like coming home.
You crumble it in your hands, then press it flat again.
Too late.
You whisper to the empty room, your heart breaking into pieces:
“Please come back.”
Days pass.
Then a week.
Then two.
You don’t write.
Not because you don’t want to.
But because you don’t know how. What do you even say?
“That letter wasn’t meant for you”?
“I was scared and hormonal and bleeding and sad”?
“You’re the only thing that’s felt real in months, and I ruined it with my doubt”?
You sit by your window, tracing the rim of your mug with a trembling finger.
You haven’t opened the box of his letters since the paper airplane arrived.
But tonight—
You do.
You take them out. One by one. Lay them across your floor like constellations.
And then...
You write.
Letter #32
Dear L,
I sent you the wrong letter.
That’s the truth.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally.
It wasn’t supposed to be you.
That page... it was something I wrote on a bad day. A page of fear. A draft I buried under better things.
But I sent it.
And I know how it must’ve sounded.
Like I didn’t believe you. Like I doubted all of this.
But I didn’t. I don’t.
I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you.
I’ve never felt seen the way I do when I read your words.
You gave me my voice back.
And I used it to hurt you. Even if I didn’t mean to.
I understand if that’s unforgivable.
But if by some miracle you’re still reading—please know this:
You are not disposable.
You never were.
You are everything.
And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.
Come back. — Y/I
You don’t send it.
Not right away.
You fold it.
Place it inside the box. And wait.
Meanwhile — Three weeks later, Monaco
He’s still carrying her last photo in his pocket. Even now.
Even though it hurts.
He’s been quiet too long.
Long enough that his friends have stopped asking.
Long enough that he’s almost convinced himself it was just a phase. A beautiful mirage.
But then—
He finds her real letter.
Not on purpose.
It’s tucked inside a notebook. One he’d left on the plane. One his assistant brought back and casually dropped on his desk.
He flips it open.
And there it is.
The handwriting.
His heart stops.
He reads it. He rereads it. His hands start to shake.
And in that moment, he realizes— She didn’t leave him.
She was trying to tell him the truth. He just didn’t listen.
And that—
That’s what finally breaks him.
He doesn’t write back this time. He needs time to think.
The sun is sharp over the circuit. The sky, clean and cruelly blue. Perfect for photos. Perfect for a podium.
Lewis Hamilton stands with champagne running down his fire suit and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
The crowd is screaming. His team is cheering. His name echoes off the grandstands like something holy.
And yet— He feels like a ghost inside his own body.
He won.
But it feels empty.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
“Radio check,” Marc says through his headset as Lewis climbs into the car.
“Copy,” Lewis replies, voice flat.“Loud and clear.”
He hears Marc hesitate. “You good?”
Lewis adjusts his gloves. “Yeah.”
He’s not.
He hasn’t been for a while.
It’s been almost two months since her last letter.
Or rather, since his last letter.
The one he didn’t send.
He’s still reading her last one. Still keeping it folded in the inner pocket of his backpack like a bruise.
Back in the garage, everyone’s buzzing. There’s tension in the air. Good tension. Energy. Hope.
They’ve got a shot at pole.
Maybe more.
Lewis leans against a wall, sipping on an electrolyte pouch, pretending to scroll through data on the iPad in his lap.
His assistant, Natalie, walks up quietly. “You’ve been off today.”
He doesn’t look up. “I’m here.”
“That’s not the same as being present.”
He finally lifts his eyes.
She softens. “Still thinking about her?”
He swallows. Doesn’t answer.
“You know,” she says carefully, “you could always just reach out. Not with a letter. Just... talk to her.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. It never was. If she wanted to hear from me, she would’ve written back.”
Natalie stares at him for a second. Then says quietly, “Maybe she’s waiting for you, too.”
He looks away.
RACE DAY
The car feels good.
Better than it has in weeks.
Lap after lap, he pushes harder. Lighter. Freer.
Maybe it's adrenaline.
Or maybe it’s because for once, he stops trying to outrun the ache and lets it sit in the passenger seat with him.
He takes the win.
First place.
Everyone’s shouting, hugging, throwing their arms around him like he just saved the world.
And maybe he did.
But it’s not the world he wants to save.
That night, he sits in his hotel room, champagne unopened on the dresser, still in his race suit pants and a hoodie.
And he stares at a blank page. Then he starts to write.
Dear Y/I,
It’s been 52 days since I heard from you. I’ve counted every single one.
And for the first 20, I told myself I deserved the silence.
Because I was a coward.
Because I didn’t ask if that letter was a mistake. I didn’t trust you the way I should’ve.
But if I’m being honest? I
stopped writing because I was scared.
I didn’t want to fall for someone who didn’t exist outside of pages and polaroids.
I didn’t want to be seen so completely and still be left behind.
But you didn’t leave me.
I left you.
And I’m sorry.
I should’ve known better.
I should’ve asked.
I should’ve told you the truth.
I started writing this at 2am. Then rewrote it at 3. I’ve cried twice. Walked away once. But every time I try to give up—your words come back. You told me once I made you believe in softness again. You made me believe in real.
You asked once what my favorite part of the day was. It’s not the win. It’s not the champagne. It’s the moment I walk through my door, drop my bag, and see your letter waiting on the table. Even now. I still check. Even when I know it won’t be there.
I miss the way you see the world. I miss the way you write about rain like it’s a friend. The way you call yourself a mess but write with so much clarity it could split stars.
I miss you.
Not the idea. Not the version I created in my head. 
You.
Whatever name you wear.
Whatever face you have.
You are already mine in every way that matters.
I got something.
A tattoo.
I wasn’t going to tell you. But it’s the only thing that’s made me feel brave in weeks.
You wrote once: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”
I had those words etched into my skin. Because that’s what this has been.
A becoming.
And I want you to see it.
If you never write back, I’ll understand.
But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants to meet—
I’m ready.
I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know how you laugh and whether you still leave the bathroom light on.
I want all of it.
Not in fragments.
Not in metaphors.
You.
Please let me come home.
—L
(Polaroid enclosed: A close-up of his forearm. In clean, delicate lettering—I’m not broken. I’m becoming. Just below it, faint ink smudges. A fresh tattoo. His skin raw. Real.)
You wake up with paint on your hands.
Dried glitter on your temple.
Your hair is in a lopsided braid you forgot to take out the night before.
It’s been 51 days since your last letter.
52 since you heard from him.
You stopped checking the mailbox after the fourth week.
You told yourself it was over. That it was a chapter you needed to leave behind.
But still—when you brush your teeth, you glance toward the door. Still—when you pass the postbox, your heart skips.
You still miss him.
And it’s quieter now, the grief. But it never left.
8:02 AM — Your Classroom
“Miss Y/N! Look! Look what I made!”
You blink back into the moment and crouch down beside Ava, who is proudly holding a collage of cotton balls and sequins.
“It’s stunning,” you say, voice catching.
“It's a cloud!” she beams. “But a magic cloud. It cries glitter.”
You smile, and feel your throat close.
You used to write like that.
10:14 AM — Playground Duty
You and Ana walk the perimeter of the small playground while the kids scream joyfully into the wind.
Ana nudges you gently. “You good?”
You nod. “Fine.”
“Liar.”
You sigh. “It’s just... I miss someone I never met.”
Ana stays quiet.
Then: “Maybe they’re missing you too.”
12:45 PM — Staff Room
You’re eating cold pasta out of a Tupperware when the receptionist walks in.
“Delivery for you.”
You frown. “Here?”
She shrugs. “Postmarked from Monaco.”
Your heart stops.
You take the envelope like it’s a live wire.
It’s heavy. Dense.
Your name is written in careful, familiar handwriting.
Just your initial.
Your hands shake.
You excuse yourself. Walk down the hall. Sit on the floor beside the storage closet. And read.
Ten pages.
Ten pages that rip you open and stitch you back together in the same breath.
The moment you unfold the photo—his arm, the tattoo, your words etched into him—you break.
Tears fall silently.
You clutch the pages to your chest.
You whisper, “You didn’t leave.”
And for the first time in 52 days—
You let yourself hope.
6:04 PM — Your Flat
You sit at your kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, tea cooling beside you. You’ve read the letter five more times.
Your hands are still shaking.
You grab your best pen.
A blank page. And write.
Dear L, You said you didn’t know what this is anymore.
I think I do.
It’s real.
It’s two people finding each other in the most impossible, tender way.
It’s the ache in my chest when I check the mailbox.
It’s the way my fingers tremble when I write your name.
It’s the way I stopped being afraid of my own voice.
Because you heard it.
And then you answered.
You said you want to hear my voice.
You said you want to see my face.
So let’s.
Let’s stop hiding behind paper.
Let’s meet.
Let’s begin.
You’re not the only one who’s becoming. I am too.
And I think we’re meant to do it together.
— Y/I
P.S. I kept every letter. Even the hard ones. Even the ones I read in the dark. They were never just words. They were you.
(A Polaroid enclosed: Her favorite mug, steaming. His first letter curled at the edges. A blurred tear on the page. And in the background, a tiny sticky note on the wall. It says: “Come back.”)
Two Weeks After Y/N’s Reply
You don’t expect a response this fast.
But it arrives four days after your letter—postmarked Monaco. The envelope is heavier than usual.
You hold it for a long moment before opening it. You already know it’s him.
Letter #33
Dear Y/I,
I’ve been staring at this blank page for hours.
I’ve written a hundred versions of this and deleted every one.
But then I remembered something you said in one of your first letters—“Just be honest. We’ve both had enough lies.”
So here’s the truth:
I want to see you.
I want to hear your voice for real. I want to laugh with you without waiting two weeks for your reply. I want to hand you a cup of tea and see what your eyes do when you smile.
I want to meet you too.
And I think we’re ready.
So here’s the plan—if you’re still in London, I know a small bookstore tucked between a florist and a laundromat on Oakwell Street. Quiet. Forgotten. Perfect.
Saturday. 11AM.
There’s a little reading bench near the back window. I’ll sit there.
I’ll be wearing a black hoodie. Jeans. My favorite shoes—white with the red stripes on the sides. You said you liked stories that felt “lived in.” These shoes are just that.
If you’re still sure—wear the sunflower necklace. The one you said you forgot to take off for a week because it felt like protection.
That way... I’ll know it’s you.
And if you don’t come—
I’ll sit there for an hour.
I won’t be angry. Or sad. Just grateful I got to know you at all.
But if you do come—
Then maybe this story isn’t finished yet. —L
P.S. I’m scared too. That’s how I know it matters.
You press the letter to your chest.
Then you cry. Then you laugh. Then you read it again.
You don’t even hesitate.
The Night Before
You can’t sleep.
You try. God, you try.
You make tea. Breathe deep. Re-read every letter in the box.
Your mind won’t stop.
What if he’s not what you imagined?
What if you’re not?
What if it’s perfect?
You finally fall asleep around 3AM.
You wake at 6.
Put on your softest jeans. The green sweater that makes you feel like a walking hug. And the necklace.
The one with the tiny sunflower charm, warm from your skin.
Meanwhile — Monaco
Lewis stares out the window of the private jet.
His hands are shaking.
He’s held the last Polaroid from Y/N so many times it’s starting to curl at the corners. Her favorite mug. The first letter. The sticky note that said, “Come back.”
He’s still wearing his hoodie. Black. Comfortable. Familiar.
The tattoo is healing.
He touches it absently as he looks down at London coming into view. There’s a folded note in his pocket.
It’s not for her.
It’s for him.
Just four words:
"Be who she knows.”
Back to Present – The Bookstore
You arrive at 10:44 AM. Fifteen minutes early.
You don’t go inside right away—you pace. Breathe. Pace again. Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the sunflower charm around your neck.
You check your reflection in the bookshop window.
You look the same.
But you’re not.
Not since him.
Not since the letters.
The bell above the door jingles once as you finally step inside. The smell of old paper and sandalwood hits you like a memory you didn’t know you had. Warm. Safe.
You make your way to the back, to the little reading bench.
You sit.
And wait.
11:08 AM
He’s standing outside the shop.
His heart is a percussion instrument.
He walks past once.
Then again.
He almost turns back.
But then he sees it—
Through the window.
You.
Your hand resting gently on your knee, thumb brushing the chain around your neck.
And he knows.
The bell rings.
You look up. And the moment your eyes meet— It’s like
something tectonic shifts.
Your mouth parts just slightly.
He’s real.
More real than you ever imagined.
He stands just inside the doorway. Hood pulled down. Hands in his pockets. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed slightly up—and you see the edge of the tattoo.
His lips lift, soft and unsure.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” you whisper, standing.
Neither of you moves.
Then—he laughs once.
Nervously.
“This is weird, right?” he says.
“The weirdest,” you say, breathless.
He glances at your necklace.
“You wore it.”
“You told me to.”
He smiles wider. “You always did follow instructions better than I did.”
You laugh. It’s shaky. Full of disbelief.
You look him over. Slowly. Not because of who he is—but because of who he’s been. To you.
“I don’t know what I expected,” you admit, voice soft.
“Disappointed?” he teases gently.
You shake your head, eyes misty. “You’re... you.”
He steps forward. Hesitates. “Can I... hug you?”
You nod.
And when his arms wrap around you, the whole world exhales.
You sit across from each other in the corner of the shop, tea cups untouched.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
You’re trying to breathe normally.
“Do I look how you imagined?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
Your heart drops slightly.
“You’re... more.” he finishes.
You smile. “That was a save.”
“No. That was the truth.” He runs a hand through his hair.
“You know what’s wild?”
“What?”
“I was terrified. Of this. Of us. I kept thinking... maybe it was only magic on paper.”
“And now?”
He looks at you.
Really looks.
“You’re better than magic.”
Your throat catches.
“I almost didn’t come,” you admit.
He blinks. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to ruin what we had. What if I showed up and you were just—some guy?”
He nods slowly. “And what if I showed up and you weren’t her?”
You both sit in that quiet for a long moment.
“I still write to you,” he says suddenly. “In my notes app. On napkins. The back of boarding passes. It’s like... I can’t not.”
You grin. “Me too. I started a journal. Every entry begins with ‘Dear L.’”
You both laugh. It’s small. Intimate. Familiar.
Then you grow serious again.
“This... is real,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Yeah. It is.”
You look down. “So what now?”
He reaches across the table. Takes your hand.
“Now we start again. Just not with letters this time.”
You glance toward the little wooden box of staff recommendations beside you and say, “Maybe just one more.”
He grins.
“I’ll write the first line.”
EPILOGUE – THE LETTERS NEVER STOPPED
The flat is quiet.
Golden hour spills across the countertops, and you’re wearing one of his old hoodies. You’re barefoot, sleepy, peaceful. He’s packing for a short trip. A two-day sponsor event, nothing major.
But the house always feels different when he’s gone.
He walks past you, brushes a kiss across your temple, and says, “Check the coffee tin before I leave.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
He shrugs. Smiles. “Just trust me.”
You wait until he’s busy shoving socks into his bag, then pad into the kitchen, pop open the tin...
...and there it is.
A folded note.
His handwriting.
You already know what it is.
Dear You, I don’t write you as often anymore.
Mostly because I get to tell you now.
But this morning I woke up to your hand on my chest and your leg tangled over mine, and all I could think was—
God, I get to love her like this. Still. Always. So this is just a little reminder. Of who we were.
And who we still are.
You’re the beginning. You’re the becoming. You’re the entire story.
And I’ll write you forever.
— Me
You’re still smiling when he walks back in and sees you holding it.
He grins. “Told you to check the tin.”
You don’t say anything.
You just wrap your arms around his waist and whisper into his chest, “Write me again tomorrow.”
Later That Week
It’s raining.
You’re clearing out an old drawer, not really looking for anything.
And you find it.
Tucked in a notebook.
No envelope.
No note.
A Polaroid.
Blurry. Dim. A hotel room.
A letter on a table.
Lewis, caught mid-breath, back bent, hand frozen over a blank page.
You flip it over.
Two words.
“I waited.”
And this time—your tears fall without ache. Because now?
He’s here.
THE END.
THEIR POLAROID SCRAPBOOK
1. His First Polaroid
Sunrise over a bay. A cup of coffee in frame. One bare foot tucked beneath the window. → Back reads: "You said mornings feel holy and hollow. I finally understand."
2. Hers
A blurry photo of fairy lights, a cup of tea, and his letters stacked on her desk. → Back reads: "They keep me warm."
3. His – From Somewhere Quiet
A cobbled alleyway. Yellow neon glow. A bike leaning on the wall. Empty but alive.
→ No words. Just breath.
4. Hers – First Bookstore Mention
A tiny corner of her favorite bookshop. Golden light pooling at her feet. → Back reads: "Someday, I hope you’ll sit here with me."
5. His – The Near Reveal
A pastry on a napkin. A crowd in the background. Sunglasses beside the plate. → Back reads: "Felt close to you today."
6. Hers – Come Back
Her sunflower mug. His first letter. A sticky note on the wall. → Note says: "Come back."
7. His – The Tattoo
Close-up of his arm. Fresh ink. Red around the phrase: “I’m not broken. I’m becoming.”
→ No caption. Just the truth.
8. The Final Polaroid (Never Sent) Lewis in a hotel room. Your letter on the table. His hand paused over a blank page. → Back reads: “I waited.”
194 notes · View notes
winterarmyy · 2 years ago
Text
Welcome Home... Soldat? | Part II
That time when Bucky accidentally relapsed into the Winter Soldier.
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Navigation: Part I || Part II* || Part III (end) || Extra
Words: 4.2k++ (of fluff and filth)
Pairing: winter soldier!bucky x female!reader
Warnings: 18+ content, smut, no minors allowed, nsfw, dub con, fingering, pussyjob, thighjob, soldat being manipulative yet maintains to be so loving at the same time, another round of google translated russian, filthy praises, soldat just want to make you feel good, wet & messy everywhere, loud & whiny soldat, and at the end of the day, despite the manipulation, the soldat just want take care of you.
A/N: omfg 1k++ notes from the previous chapter?! i didn't think this would get so much attention that it had, tbh. Like wtf. What did I do to deserve this 😭 Thank you so much for your support! I can't even begin to tell you guys how much joy y'all bring me. So, I decided write more of our soft soldat for all of us cause let's be honest, we need him so bad. It's gonna be 3 part mini series. I hope you enjoy!
Read my other works here: Masterlist
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The darkness in his sight seemed permenant, at least until it transitioned into a dim-litted scenery. He recognized softness of the bed, and the blank white color of the ceiling.
He was in his room.
But, when he realized the emptiness of his bed, it was as if a force jolted through his body, yanking his lying figure into a sitting position. The dead silent was broken by the sound of his gasping breaths, followed closely by the beats of his pounding heart.
"Родная (darling)?" His voice shivered in his shaky breath.
When the silent replied his call, cold sweat drenched the roots of his hair. He almost jumped into a defensive position when the door of the walk-in wardrobe seemingly opened on its own.
But to his relief, her voice broke the silence, "Soldat?" Y/N peeped out her head when she heard his voice but the moment she saw the panic in his blue eyes, she quickly made her way towards him.
As soon as she was standing near enough, the soldat pulled her into a crushing hug, rubbing his face into her stomach a relief washed over him. Y/N ran her hands through his hair as she coaxed, "I'm here, I'm here."
He hummed in reply, "You're here." He repeated as a sigh escaped his lips.
Y/N didn't know why she expected that Bucky would be back after their "sleepover" but it was a shock for her when she woke up that morning with several tender kisses on her face by the soldat, who was very much still present.
"So, you're saying he's is not the winter soldier?" Sam cocked his head to the side as he tried to wrap up the overwhelming information thrown by Shuri.
The woman rolled her eyes, "No, I didn't say that. I said, he is not fully relapsed into the winter soldier." She reclarified.
"How was this possible? I thought he was gone?" Y/N asked as her worried gaze glanced over Bucky's unmoving figure in the examination pod.
Shuri sighed as she approached her, they watched Bucky's peaceful features resting through the glass, "We only remove the trigger that were attached to a switch to activating the winter soldier from Bucky; the soldat was never gone."
Y/N's eyebrows creased as the wakandan continued to explain, "It's like removing the toggle from a light switch; you can't turn it on just like that. But if, let say we use a toothpick to poke through the hole and trigger the switch, then..."
Steve intercepted her words before she could finish, "...then it'll be turned on." The woman nodded, "Precisely."
"That does not explain why Bucky is partially... not himself." Tony quickly probed as he casually threw a red M&M's into his mouth.
Steve paced back and forth in the room as he tried to replay the day of the incident, "Maybe it has to do something in that Hydra base that we raided. Bucky did look troubled on the jet home, then when we arrived he suddenly went berserk, looking for something; well... someone". He stopped as he threw a knowing look to Y/N.
"Yeah, why he is suddenly acting lovey dovey with y/n if the soldier was triggered? I don't get it." Sam crossed his arms against his chest as he questioned.
A smile almost cracked on Shuri's lips when they mentioned that, "This is just a hypothesis; but I reckoned that Bucky knew that the soldier is slowly taking over his mind and he didn't want to let himself vulnerable, exposed for people to give him orders."
Shuri leaned her back towards the table as she continued, "So instead, he latched himself on something else, to act as his mission. Some kind of desire that's buried as deep as where his winter soldier persona was concealed."
"So, you're saying that grumpy old man's deepest, darkest desire is to suffocate y/n with kisses and cuddles?" Tony quirked his eyebrow as he chewed on the sweet chocolate snack; there was certainly sarcasm in his voice.
Y/N intictively took the nearest object within her reach, which turns out to be a thick manual book, and struck Tony on his arms. The man repulsed with a confused frown on his forehead, mouthing a soundless, "What?"
Y/N mouthed back, "Shut up!" while Sam chuckled amusingly at the silent banter between them.
Ignoring the back and forth between Y/N and Tony, Shuri answered, "Well, those urges are derived by a certain key emotion, which I'm sure put you that genius title of yours into a good use, then you should've known the answer already."
"Love." Steve's revelation cuts through before Tony could throw his banter at Shuri, "He loves y/n." He repeated his words as if all of this made absolute sense.
Which only made Y/N stop on her tracks, "He loves me?" she questioned herself but everyone in the lab can practically see the confusion on her face.
Shuri agreed to Steve's deduction, "Yes, perhaps. I supposed that is why he is protective over her and like he said, wanted to suffocate her with kisses and cuddles." Shuri pointed at Tony as she return his sarcasm.
"Wait wait wait." Y/N held her hands forward as she stepped in the middle of the conversation, "Why are we casually agreeing to that as if it's normal? I mean, I know I'm not a genius but that is absolutely ridiculous. Bucky doesn't love me, as a friend maybe, yeah, but not like that." She couldn't help but to blush as she recalled the way the soldat hands and lips mapped on her skin.
"Yes, you are absolutely not a genius, especially when you are one of the two idiots who's in love with each other." Tony casually laid out the fact as everybody in the lab nodded in agreement, including Steve who she thought would back her up.
Y/N shook her head in denial and revert the conversation back to its original destination, "So, how do we get Bucky back?"
Shuri opened the terminal screen as she watched the progress of her observation, "Well, we're still figuring that out." Y/N's shoulders slumped in defeat.
"But what I can say is, it is best to let him stick with y/n for now." Shuri concluded.
They took the whole day running tests on the soldat, which he obediently cooperate as long as Y/N was there to hold his hand.
Between resting for breakfast, lunch and snack break; the soldat spend his time to be forced to put to sleep and out of it through out the day.
Right after dinner, and the final test run, he was just left to sleep off the rest of the night and Y/N finally had time to prep herself to sleep, when she heard Bucky's voice from the bed.
"Just finished showering. Hope you don't mind me wearing your shirt, they kinda lock me in here." Y/N frowned when she thought back on how the team managed to bring most of her things over but then forgot to pack her signature iron man pyjamas.
A fond smile curved on the soldat's lips as his gaze raked over her small body wrapped in his baggy shirt, which fell right at the middle of her naked thighs.
Y/N swore that there saw a flash of Bucky in his gleaming eyes. Or maybe she was just being delusional at this point.
She let him pulled her by the hand as he slowly brought her towards him. In no time, he had them both on the comfy matteress with soldat's back propped up against the headboard, while his arms found their place around Y/N's waist, cocooning her in between his legs.
It amazes her to think how comfortable she was, being this intimately close to him; when Bucky would've been too cautious to even approach her platonically.
So she decided rather than being constantly hesitant around the soldat, she thought that she might as well just enjoy the moment as it presented itself.
Y/N's exploring eyes stopped to the side of the bed when she saw a book next to the night lamp. She reached her hand as she leaned closer.
"Prince Caspian." She whispered to herself as her fingertips grazed across the title, "The Chronicles of Narnia, huh?"
It makes sense that Bucky would be interested to read this series, knowing his quirky yet undying brag about having the experience of reading The Hobbit back when it first came out.
Y/N couldn't help but to smile to herself, especially when her train of thoughts stopped at those memories of him.
She lifted the book towards the soldat, "What do you think, Soldat? Want me to read it to you?" She asked as the soldat rested his chin on her shoulder, peering at the deep blue, hard covered book.
He briefly hummed before replying, "Yes, please." The soldat loved the idea of being able to hear more of his darling's beautiful voice. It was his favourite thing in the whole world. Well, one of the things but surely all them were involving her.
Y/N settled herself as she leaned back against his sturdy chest. One of her legs were bent up towards her chest while the other was lazily thrown over his, spreading them as far as they could go.
The soldat placed light kisses on the back of her head all the way to the side of her neck, relishing at how soft her skin was and how good she smelled. The quiet of the room only enhanced the presence of her calming voice, luring him to close his eyes as he drowned himself the melody of it.
Minutes gone by and it was passing the half hour mark.
It wasn't that the soldat find the story boring or her voice drowsying, but he was feeling rather needy, almost greedy, to have more of Y/N to the point that he got slightly distracted.
She had been such a darling to him ever since he came home; fed him, letting him touch her, kiss her, pamper her, held her hand during those long lab tests, having her in his arms through the night and against his nightmare, and making him feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.
And yet, she didn't get anything in return.
His darling deserved to feel good and he wanted to give it to her so badly that he was getting distracted from the story that she was passionately reading for him.
Soldat's hands carefully explored her body, from the side of her waist then slowly down to her naked thighs. Too engrossed with the plot, she almost instinctively opened her legs wider for him. Though she never intended to do so, her actions surely were quite sinful.
He used the opportunity to glide his metal hand deeper into her inner thighs, lightly caressing up higher towards where her thighs meet, until the tip of it brushed over her core.
Now that's when she realized the situation, her head shoot up to face him. The book in her hand almost thrown to the side as she reached to grab his, gripping it tightly as she tried to pull him away.
Failing to stop him, she whispered "W-what are you doing?" She stuttered as she felt his fingers slide across her clothed pussy.
Soldat looked down at the smaller, "Wanna make you feel good, мое Родная (my darling)" he innocently whispered back as his dangerous fingers provoked her.
When her silence remained, the soldat lifted the corner of his eyebrow in curiosity. Was she hesitating? He sees it as an opportunity to coax her to his will.
He cooed softly when he explained, "You deserve it, darling. Deserve it so much. Please, let me?" He sounded so desperate when he begs like that.
It feels like her whole body was burning, his touch were igniting flames wherever he drags his fingers. She knew it was wrong to feel like this, but she couldn't help it.
Oh, how his fingers works wonders even with the thin fabric were blocking his access.
Y/N bit her lower lip as she looked down to her thighs. The way she was grabbing onto his hands as he moved around; it looked like she was guiding him to touch her more.
The soldat knew she was close to be tempted to submit, "I promise it'll feel good. So good." he almost growled in her ears as he saw patch of the dampness started to appear on the center her panties.
"Don't." she whispered quietly, but that only made the soldat to futher seduce her as he add more pressure on his middle finger.
She hesitated for a while before she slurred "D-don't stop." her head thrown back into his neck, finally giving in to his promise of pleasure.
Lust took over the soldat, "Gonna make you feel so good, Родная (darling). Promise gonna treat your pretty pussy right. Make her cum so hard." He whispered lovingly as his breath sends shivers down her spine.
The soldat groaned, dropping his head to her neck to press open mouthed kisses on her untainted skin as he slipped his hand into her panties.
"Already wet for me?" He chuckled, biting his lip before his long finger slid between her folds.
"Hmmm." she tried to suppressed her voice as his finger moved up and down so deliciously.
"Of course," He said with a smile. He went on to tease her sensitive clit with slow, torturous circles, which force her to close her eyes, biting down on her lip to suppress a shrill moan.
"Родная (darling)," the soldat cooed. "You can scream as loud as you want. Let me hear those pretty noises, yeah?"
Y/N thought to reply but her own breath hitches when that one finger that has been circling her hole finally dips in, proceeding to spread her open for more.
She moaned louder this time, "Soldat..." The movement was completely involuntary; when her hand latch on to hold his wrist as her thighs try to squeeze shut at the feeling of him pressing another finger into her wet stretching cunt.
But, of course he was quick to spread her legs back open, preventing her to shy away.
"p-please soldat, ahh." She mewled, scratching the metal of his arm.
The soldat nibbled on the shape of her ears as he hushed, "There, there darling. Open up for me." His two long, metal fingers thrusts and rubs the inside of her pulsating pussy, occasionally scissoring her cunt as he took her right hand into his fleshed one; intertwining her fingers with his.
Her other hand scrambled to dug into his thigh as she arched her back, grinding her hips down against his metal hand. The soldat smirked proudly at her reaction, moving his fingers a little faster, a little rougher. Just enough to make her whine and move against him in search of more stimulation.
She cried out as his thumb circled her clit, "Ahhh fuck" she moaned shamelessly, while his eyes followed each jerk of her body as if he was memorizing it all.
"Hmm, you're so wet, Родная (darling). So warm too." The soldat hissed as he felt his hand were soaking by the minute. The muffled sound of his thrusts against her wet heat filled the room.
He looked down to her hidden pussy; his hand covered by the panties she was wearing, "Look down baby, open your eyes and look down." he lured her with low groan.
Completely loss in bliss, she complied without asking any question. Both the soldat and Y/N was looking at the same sight, the same shape of his hand clinging tight to the fabric, barely hidden under the thin layer of her panties, moving up and down; in and out of her pussy.
Somehow, watching the way it moves made her closer to her orgasm.
In one swift move, the soldat lifted her slightly to pull the barrier off by the waistband. An animalistic groan rumbled from deep within his chest, when he was completely revealed to the sinful sight of her naked pussy.
So wet and full with his fingers.
The soldat teasingly entered a third finger into her, stretching her out so good that she felt tears prick her eyes. Y/N's head snapped forward along with a buck of her hips. "S-soldat,, ahhhh" Her whines grew louder than before and she felt the flame in her stomach growing yet it wasn’t enough.
"Look at you. Look how well you're taking me. My darling is such a good girl, isn't she?" The soldat sounds sickeningly sweet when he murmured in her ears.
He pressed his thumb harder against her swollen clit, rubbing hard and fast circles as he pumped his fingers knuckle deep in and out of her cunt, causing her to gasp from the sensation.
He twisted and curled his fingers around to find that delicious spot inside of her, giving that delicious friction as he fucked her open. The noises coming from her pussy were so lewd, so crude and it only spurred him on.
"Sounds so perfect, Родная (darling). These pretty noises from your lips up here." The soldat murmured as he kissed the corner of her lips, "and down here." his fingers pumped faster, curling over and over again, creating the lewd squelching sounds of her juices leaking out.
Almost seeing stars, Y/N moaned desperately, "Cummin',, so good, 'm cumming." Oh, how sweet does her moans sounded in the soldat's ears.
"Already, Родная (darling)?" he groaned as he felt her hole pulsated, "But you need more, little one." He persuaded her edge a little more; but with the way he was fucking into her weeping pussy, she certainly wasn't able handle it anymore.
She whined needily as she shook her head, "Wanna cum now, please soldat ohh god please please please." She begged deliriously.
The soldat hummed as he worked his fingers up her hole, "Oh darling, you don't need to beg for it. You're so precious, I'd give you anything." He mumbled against her cheek as he kisses her, "Now, cum for me. Let me see you wet my bed, Родная (darling). Go on, cum."
All words die in the back of her throat when a he cooed at her. She threw her head back as a squeak of whine dies in her mouth; eyes squeezing shut, her body tensing as the soldat makes sure that she rides out the high for as long as she should.
"That's it darling, cum for your soldat. give it to me,, aahhh" He motioned, forming an 'O' with his mouth as she clamp down on his fingers; with his wide eyes looking down at her exposed pussy. Her orgasm gushed and flowed out onto his hand, dripping on the sheet as she quietly cry out in pleasure.
"So pretty," he praised, as his fingers kept pumping slowly in and out of her pussy, "So gorgeous, cumming so hard for me," he grunts in her ears as her high begins to settle.
He pull out his fingers, leaving her feeling empty for the sudden lost of touch. But that didn't last long when he proposed something else.
"One more time Родная (darling), with me." He moaned he sunk his metal hand into his pants and pull out his aching cock. The soldat tugs himself in his palm, rubbing the wetness on his hand around his length before settling it between her throbbing cunt.
Y/N didn't manage to let our her protest when he intercepted her, "Won't put it in, darling. Just..." his words linger as he squeezed her plush thighs together, engulfing his warm cock between them, "...wanna snuggle in between your thighs, Куколка (little one)."
"So keep them pressed together, okay?" the brunnete coaxed as his hands took a hold on her,  "Will you do that for me?" The soldat asked sweetly.
She gave a small nod of affirmation, looking down at where the soldat's hands squishing both side of her thighs. The feeling of his length throbbing, wet with her slick, had her squeezing her thighs together more.
"That's my sweet girl. Promise you, it'll feel so good, darling." He let out a pleasurable groan as his hips jerked all the way forward, his skin meeting the back of her thighs while the head of his cock was peeking out from the other side.
With a squeeze of her hips in his hands, that will definitely leave bruises afterwards, he started to grind her into him. Back and forth, for the few experimental thrusts. And the moment her pretty little moans started to spill, he knew she needed more.
"More?" he moaned lowly, rocking his hips mindlessly.
Y/N limped back against his chest, whimpering sweetly for him as her needy little cunt drools messily all over her thighs and his cock; effortlessly making the thrust of his length between her thighs even easier.
If she was already so sensitve from him fingers before, now it's just oversimulating for her, "Hmm,, s-soldat,, that feels s-so good," she slurred, eyes rolling back.
"Yeah?" he gloated as he grunts, "Are you gonna cum again, darling? Come on, sweet one, I want to feel it." The soldat almost whimpered as he felt the thudding beat of her cunt on the stroke of his cock.
Y/N simply nodded, mouth falling open. His cock works over her sweet little pussy, nudging the sensitive bundle of nerve as he urged her to orgasm alongside his own.
He watched the way she drag her nails into the flesh of his thighs, "There she is, come on. Let it out, darling. That's it. Hmmm." His chest rumbled a deep groan. It was such a turned on for the soldat, to see the sight of him humping her legs faster until her slick finally wetting her thighs and his cock, making a mess everywhere.
Even if she has reached her high, his thrusts didn't flatter as his own orgasm was still at the edge. "Ahh,, darling,, please-- c-can't stop,," The upperside of his cock harshly rubbed between her sloppy folds, the feeling of the creamy mess between her thighs, making him fucked her faster.
The soldat whined needily into her neck as he drag her tightness back and forth. "So good, don't wanna stop." he squirmed as his voice hitched into a needy whimper, letting his head fall back to the headboard, his disheveled hair hanging by his face, some of it sticking onto his sweaty skin.
The room echoed with the several sinful sounds; his whimpers, her mewls, their skins slapping, the bed creaking, the wetness squelching.
It was such a dream for the soldat, especially when her folds spread around his fat cock every time he rolled his hips forward. The sight was beyond compelling, addictive to a certain extend.
"S-soldat,, please i'm,,hmmm,, sensitive." She can feel how thighs burned from the friction, and her slit abused with pleasure.
The soldat leaned into her until his hot breath blew across her neck, "Just a little more, Родная (darling)? Please? Wanna cum around your soft thighs, between your pretty pussy. You'll let me, right sweet one? You'll let me make a mess all over you? Paint you with my cum. You'll look so gorgeous, Родная (darling)"
His filthy thoughts started to spill out uncontrollably, as his body trembled in pure pleasure. His heaving chest rested on her small back when he whimpered, almost forcing her on her knees, pushing her down the mattress.
He wanted that so bad.
Just fuck her thighs and folds while she's on all fours, abusing her body for his pleasure and maybe slot the tip of his cock inside that tight cunt just before he cum, give that greedy little cunt a taste of his load, but he rather than that the soldat hold back on his thought, because truthfully he very much wanted to make a mess all over her right now.
His mouth sucking on her neck, leaving another one of his mark on her skin; one of many between those shades of purples and reds.
"Cumming for you, darling." He moaned loudly, eyes locked between her thighs, as his leaking cockhead occasionally peeks out. "Have so much cum for you,, gonna cream all over these thighs" He groaned, clenching his teeth as his cock throbs.
She clenched tighter as a unexpected orgasm were coming fast, letting out a desperate squeal as she reach her high. He growled at the feeling of her gushing pussy, fucking their orgasm into a higher level ecstacy.
The rolls of his hips were flattering into a slower and and sensual tempo, as both of them watched his cock; the way it pulsed and throbbed wildly, before white spurts of his hot cum started gushing from the little slit.
The soldat trembled through his orgasm, mouth falling open as he moaned lewdly at the sight of her skin being painted by his seemingly endless amount of cum.
Y/N panted heavily as her lips hanged open; failed words just at the tips of her tongue, unable to be formed properly. It didn't take long for the drowsiness to cloud her eyes, caused by the aftershock of the pleasure.
"There, there." The soldat cooed breathlessly in her ear, "So pretty, darling." Pampering the mark on her skin with gentle kisses, "So good for me." He mumbled as he languidly thrusts his cock, stroking the sides of her thighs, memorizing the sight of their wet mess.
Her body felt so good and satisfied, and the lid of her eyes slowly flutter into a longer close. She didn't hear much of his praises as he as laid her down, especially when his voice going in and out of her ears, as she was fighting through the temptation of slumber.
But, her body absolutely remembered how soft his touches on her skin, and the warm of the wet cloth swiping on the burn of her inner thighs, carefully over her swollen cunt.
"Love you, my precious darling." She couldn't make up what he was whispering under his breath. But she remembered the soldat pulling her close to his chest as he laid her on top of him, and the sweet kiss on her forehead before complete darkness engulf her sight.
"Your soldat loves you so much."
<< Part I || Part III >>
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ch33z3grits · 2 months ago
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Crimson Obsessions | A Terry Richmond Vampire Series
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pairing: Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond x Justine Skye as Camille DeWaterson
warnings: 18+ mdni, smut (bondage, p in v, dacryphilia if you squint, DDLG, edging, breath play, female masturbation), graphic violence (description of murder), domestic violence (verbal abuse, physical abuse), possessiveness/obsessiveness, mentions of blood, HEAVY angst
word count: 10,723
a/n: hi!! so sorry for the late submission this week, I should be back on track to post on Fridays going forward. TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter will have scenes of graphic violence and domestic violence. I will put asterisks (*) at the beginning and end of scenes that some may find disturbing. Summaries of those scenes will be available at the end of the chapter for those who choose to skip.
a/n pt. 2: idk, I'm over writing summaries at the beginning of the chapters. but if y'all prefer them, please let me know! Enjoy :)
Camille's song: Baby Boy-Beyonce ft. Sean Paul | Terry's song: House of Balloons/Glass Table Girls-The Weeknd
Pt. Six
Camille
Camille’s breath hitched as she stood frozen in the doorway. She had walked into her office and found herself utterly speechless. Even though he was out of the office today, Terry had called her moments ago.
“I know it's not one of our rotation days,” Terry had said, a playful note in his tone, “but I want you to stop by your office when you get the chance today.”
Confused, she had furrowed her brow. “Is there something you need me to do?” she had asked, curiosity tinged with a hint of concern.
Terry had laughed softly on the other end, the sound making her lean into the phone even more with a soft smile. “No ma’am, just a little surprise I want you to see.”
He hadn’t given her the chance to question him further, quickly ending the call and leaving her with nothing but anticipation that pulled her toward her office.
And now, she stood there, admiring the unexpected surprise. Her private space had been transformed.
Baby blue and gold balloons floated lazily in the air, some of them bouncing gently against the walls while others hung from the ceiling like clouds. Streamers in similar shades cascaded from every corner. On her desk were four cupcakes, each one delicately frosted, their sugary beauty making them almost too perfect to touch. Next to them, a vibrant bouquet of lilies stood proudly, further adding to the thoughtfulness behind it all.
But what really stopped her was the gold banner draped behind her desk, its letters spelling out Happy Birthday in elegant, bold font. It wasn’t just the decorations or the carefully placed gifts that left her breathless, it was the fact that she felt so seen. It was the thought of someone so special to her, going out of their way to make her feel appreciated.
That morning had begun with an unwelcome jolt from sleep, courtesy of a relentlessly eager Aston. His excitement was palpable, as though he couldn’t wait to see the look on her face, and he made sure he was there to witness it firsthand. Gifts were carefully arranged at the foot of their bed. A dozen shopping bags, each one bearing the logos of high-end brands, lined up like trophies.
She had sat up, trying to mask her grogginess, her eyes scanning the luxury items. Aston had a certain smug satisfaction in his demeanor, as if he expected her to be overwhelmed with gratitude at the sight of the designer items he had chosen for her. Each bags’ contents were extravagant. A sleek black Chanel bag. A pair of pristine white Louboutin heels. Three carefully selected Ralph Lauren dresses. A collection of luxury perfumes and elegant sunglasses followed, each one a symbol of exclusivity. And a delicate lingerie set from a French brand she’d never heard of. It was exquisite, but in a way that felt more about display than desire.
All of it was beautiful. But as Camille lifted each item from its bag, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Each piece was a status symbol. Something to show the world that she was with a man who could lavish her with items meant to impress others. None of them reflected her own tastes. Aston looked down on her love for brands like Le Labo, Aesop, or Anthropologie, so they were never included in his gift-giving. The gifts he showered her with always had his preferences written all over them, as if to remind her, and everyone else, that she existed to be a trophy. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful or bratty. He had worked hard to buy her these things. But the nagging disappointment lingered. She just wished, for once, that he would see the real her when he picked out something for her.
Despite the early rise and the hollow feeling the gifts left behind, Camille’s day brightened from the messages that came through later in the morning. Sweet voice notes from her siblings and heartfelt texts from her mother warmed her heart. Their words were a comfort, a reminder that she was loved. She smiled as she read each message. The thought of the distance between them did feel bittersweet, however.
And although Kali promised to treat her to dinner, she couldn’t make time for that evening due to her late night shift at the NICU. And Aston, absorbed in a pro bono case that had consumed much of his time lately, would be working late as well. Thursday nights had ran over later than usual, and though he insisted it was important, Camille couldn’t help but feel like there was more behind it. But she refused to dwell on it too long. Instead, she accepted the loneliness she believed she would feel for the rest of her 30th birthday. But as she walked through her office at that moment, she felt comforted by the presence of someone who she loved. 
Ever since her fainting spell a few weeks ago, something inside Camille had shifted, and she allowed herself to face the truth. The feelings she tried to ignore, the emotions she brushed aside, had risen to the surface. She was in love with Terry.
There was an almost magnetic pull toward him, one that she couldn’t seem to escape. Every time he entered a room, her eyes followed him. When he spoke, his words seemed to drown out everything else and held her attention like no one else’s. And when his penetrating gaze met hers, her heart would stumble, then race, and then stumble again.
She had no intentions of pursuing these feelings. She knew better. On her end, there was too much at stake, too many layers of complication already woven into her life. Her loyalty to Aston and her commitment to her relationship was unshakeable. On Terry’s end, she understood he could have anyone he wanted. While her boss was sweet and humble beyond words, she could see that he was extremely influential in Houston, maybe in the country.
His accolades and clients demonstrated that the world was practically at his feet. Someone like that wouldn’t settle for her. He probably had dozens of high value women throwing themselves at him. She didn’t stand a chance. So, Camille had come to terms with the fact that her heart belonged to someone she could never have, and she accepted that with a strange mixture of pain and peace.
But there was something freeing about being honest with herself. A clarity that allowed her to focus on her professionalism with even more intention. She could acknowledge her feelings without acting on them, without letting them cloud her judgment. And for the first time, she understood how much she had been missing: the raw, aching beauty of love, the kind that made her feel giddy and alive in ways she hadn’t felt in years. In a way, her love for Terry had become a quiet treat, a secret pleasure that she could hold onto, one that gave her the space to feel without any expectations of reciprocity.
It also gave her the opportunity to savor the moment before her life became completely consumed by being Mrs. Aston McCoy. She couldn’t ignore the growing distance between her and Aston, a gap that seemed to widen with each passing year. The passion they once had was a distant memory, and Camille knew they would never find their way back to it. Because of that, she didn’t judge herself for the love she carried for Terry. And she could bear it because, deep down, she knew it wouldn’t last. Terry would be out of her life in less than a year, and after that, she would return to her world with Aston, for better or worse.
For now, though, she allowed herself this one thing, this secret love. It was a fleeting moment, a brief chapter in the book of her life, but it was enough to make her feel something real again. And that was something she would cherish.
She began to approach her desk, her fingers reaching for the gold envelope wedged between the cupcakes and flowers, her name scribbled across. But just as she picked it up, the clack of heels approaching caught her attention. 
“Wow,” a snarky voice rang out from behind her. Camille immediately closed her eyes, recognizing the voice with a sinking feeling in her chest. She let out a quiet sigh before turning on her heel, forcing herself to face Stephanie. The other woman leaned against the doorway of her office, her gaze sweeping over the room with open disdain. “How sweet of Terry to celebrate you so… impressively. Even in his absence.”
Camille’s jaw tightened, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek, unsure of how to respond. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, but she kept them still, willing herself not to react.
Stephanie’s eyes finally settled on her, a knowing gleam in them as she crossed her arms. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought he was your fiancé, not Aston.”
A sudden wave of dread washed over Camille.
“Excuse me,” Camille managed to say, her voice tight, anxiety curling in her chest. Stephanie simply narrowed her eyes and crossed the room, closing the distance between them in slow, deliberate steps.
“I don’t know what kind of hold you have over him,” Stephanie said, her voice lowering, dripping with malice, “but you should probably stop being so friendly with Terry. You wouldn’t want your colleagues to start assuming you’re... fraternizing.”
Camille swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry and her pulse pounding in her ears. She held Stephanie’s gaze, forcing herself to stay calm. “And why would my colleagues ever come to that conclusion?”
Stephanie's lips curled into a wicked smile. “Who knows? Someone might start spreading rumors,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet. “Suggestions about exchanged looks, late nights in the office, or other behaviors that border inappropriate. And then that someone would let other people’s imaginations wander.”
Stephanie’s smile never wavered as she stepped even closer. “You wouldn’t want that, would you? I mean, Terry’s reputation would go unscathed, sure. But you? You would lose your job. Maybe even Aston too.”
Camille stiffened in response. Her mind raced, desperate to find a counter-threat that would shake Stephanie’s confidence, but nothing came to her. She forced a calmness into her voice, her gaze unwavering. “And what would I have to do to keep that someone satisfied?”
Stephanie’s smile stretched, turning into a triumphant smirk. “Simple,” Stephanie purred, leaning in just slightly. “Just keep Terry at arm's length. Make him feel that whatever this little budding friendship you two have is nothing to you. His investment in you takes away his attention from much more important people in his life.”
Camille snorted, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. She can’t be serious right now, Camille thought, the disbelief simmering just beneath the surface.
“And who would those people be?” she asked coolly, her voice smooth, despite her inner turmoil.
Stephanie blinked at her. Then, in an almost mocking tone, she replied, “His girlfriend, silly. Who else would that someone be?”
Camille’s heart skipped a beat, her blood running cold. Stephanie was Terry’s girlfriend? Aston had been right all along? Stephanie’s smile widened, a cruel glint in her eyes. Without another word, she turned on her heel to leave, but then paused, glancing back over her shoulder with a look that sent a shiver down Camille’s spine.
“Remember,” she said, the sweet professionalism dropping away, replaced with something far more venomous, “someone is always watching.”
Then, with a smirk, she reached out, her sharp nail slicing through the air to puncture the nearest balloon. The sudden pop made Camille jump, the silence following suffocating.
As Stephanie walked out of the door, Camille stayed in place, her mind reeling from the encounter. She had to find a way to protect herself from Stephanie’s threats, because she knew that no matter how hard she tried, Stephanie would never be satisfied. 
So for the rest of the work day, she hid in Aston’s office, wondering how to keep her job and engagement safe from Stephanie’s claws.
Aston's Song: Money Trees-Kendrick Lamar
Aston
Aston sat at the lavish poker table in the center of Terry’s grand penthouse apartment, excitement and envy swelling in his chest. For the past three Thursdays, he'd been making his way to Terry Richmond’s apartment, hoping to try his luck at poker. And his attempts have been nothing but fruitful so far. Each time, he walked away with more money than he made in a year. Bigger winnings than he thought possible, big enough to keep him coming back for more. And God knows he needed to keep coming back.
Aston McCoy, one of the heirs to the McCoy oil fortune, was living on the edge of financial irrelevance. He wasn’t poor like the average middle-class American. But among the elite circles he moved in, he was a charity case. And it was all because his father, the great Texas oil giant, couldn’t let go of his conservative values for one minute. Or his need to expand his wealth through marital agreements. 
To access the full $10 million of his inheritance, Aston had a contractual agreement with his father. He had to marry the daughter of whichever business partner he deemed to be the most advantageous. For the first 19 years of Aston’s life, he moved through life unconcerned with an arranged marriage. He was wild, spent money without a care in the world, and felt that his status was secured. But that all changed when his father struck a deal with Colin DeWaterson Sr. The tacky businessman turned refinery owner was desperate to attach himself to an established oil family. So desperate, he had practically sold his soul, and his daughter’s soul, to guarantee such a union.
He had fallen deep into debt with the McCoy family. And the only thing that would satisfy that debt was a marriage that joined the families together. So, at the tender ages of 19 and 17, Aston and Camille were groomed to become husband and wife.
Aston didn't have any particular objections to Camille. She was attractive, intelligent, well-mannered, and came from a respectable family. Everything on paper suggested they’d be a good match. But she failed to elicit any real love from him. He was still young, wealthy, and determined to enjoy life on his own terms. Throughout the early months of their relationship, Aston continued to sleep with other women, assuming that Camille, being just as aware of the nature of their arrangement, would do the same.
However, about eight or nine months into their relationship, Camille discovered his infidelity. The blow was devastating for her, and Aston finally realized that, unlike him, she had been taking their engagement seriously all along. What followed was even more disastrous for Aston: Camille ended their relationship. His father, furious that Aston had jeopardized such a valuable business deal, reacted swiftly and harshly, cutting him off financially.
Gone were the carefree weekends spent partying with his frat brothers. He was evicted from his lavish off-campus housing and his prized sports car was repossessed. Aston was left to scrape by on his own, but he wasn’t ready to give up the lifestyle to which he’d grown accustomed. For months, he begged Camille to take him back, apologizing profusely, but she remained firm, refusing to forgive him.
It wasn’t until three months later, after his father had personally intervened and approached DeWaterson again to smooth things over, that Camille reluctantly agreed to reconcile with him. However, the terms had changed. Aston no longer had the limitless financial freedom he once enjoyed. His father, ashamed of his reckless behavior, set stricter boundaries on his access to his inheritance, and Aston found himself learning the hard way that his wealth was no longer a guarantee, but a privilege to be earned.
The McCoy estate was worth over $90 million, but Aston was left with a measly $300,000 in liquid cash. An amount that would seem like a fortune to most, but was barely enough to keep him afloat in the high-stakes world he dabbled in. To his peers, the money he had was insignificant. It wasn’t nearly enough to maintain the lavish lifestyle he needed to keep up appearances, to keep his friends interested in him. It wasn’t enough to avoid being seen as a loser.
And that was why the poker games, with their promise of quick cash, felt like a godsend. And he didn’t care if he had to swindle some random black guys out of their money. It probably came from selling drugs or fighting pitbulls anyway. It didn’t matter. The kind of money they had, Aston thought, deserved to be in the hands of someone more respectable. Someone who knew how to actually benefit society.
But even as Aston looked forward to those Thursday nights, the thrill of the game, the rush of winning, there was always a bitterness that lingered. A sharp sting in his chest that he couldn’t ignore.
Terry’s lifestyle reminded him of everything he didn’t have. Everything that was always just out of reach.
Terry lived in one of the most expensive and exclusive complexes in the city. The kind of place most people could only dream of. A sleek, modern building with underground parking, a 24-hour doorman, and a concierge who could cater to every whim. But it was Terry’s penthouse that really struck a chord with Aston. Aston could still picture the first time he stepped inside. The crisp, woody scent, the marble floors, the gleaming surfaces. A housekeeper had greeted him at the door, offering a glass of whiskey with a polite smile, taking his coat with practiced hands.
Aston had stepped further inside, the grandeur nearly knocking him off his feet. His eyes had been wide with awe as he took in the soaring ceilings, at least twenty feet high, the opulent space stretching out in all directions. Massive windows stretched the length of the walls, allowing the city’s skyline to pour into the room, like an endless sea of lights and steel. Every corner of the penthouse screamed wealth, sophistication, and power. It was the kind of place people worked their entire lives to get, and still, most would never achieve.
For a brief moment, standing there in that extravagant space, Aston had felt like an outsider. The kind of outsider who might never be able to belong in that world again. And that alienation made Aston’s blood boil, on top of other things.
Terry was a constant annoyance, one that he couldn’t escape, even when he wasn’t around. It wasn’t just the work he did or the cases he handled so flawlessly, it was the way everyone around him adored him. His fellow associates couldn’t praise him enough. Conversations about Terry seemed to seep into every corner of the office. In the break room, in the firm’s kitchen, even in the elevator, it was the same. His colleagues gushed about how incredible Terry was, how lucky the firm was to have him. Everywhere Aston turned, someone had their head up Terry’s ass. And Aston couldn’t shake the feeling that Camille was softening toward him, too.
Aston could sense it, the subtle shift in her demeanor when Terry was around. She was never the same since she found out about his infidelity, Aston knew that. He knew that she would never trust him like she once did, and she definitely wouldn’t love him again. He had come to terms with that, especially since he didn’t love her either. But seeing her respond to Terry with such warmth, with such a quiet affection... it made him jealous. It bruised his pride in ways he hadn’t expected. His ego, already a fragile thing, felt the sting of it every time she looked at Terry like that, her attention completely consumed by him.
But the real sting, the one that gnawed at Aston every day, was seeing how Stephanie fawned over Terry. Stephanie was the most beautiful woman Aston had ever laid eyes on. Her thick, crimson-red hair framed her face like a fiery halo, and her emerald-green eyes held a depth that always seemed to pull him in. Her skin was always kissed by the sun, like she spent every day at the beach. She wasn’t just attractive, she was gorgeous. And she knew it.
Every step she took exuded confidence, and it was as if she knew every pair of eyes in the room was following her. Even though she was just a secretary at Watkins and Grant, she commanded the room in a way that few others could. All the men, including Aston, were tripping over themselves to earn just a moment of her attention. But she didn’t care. She played with them like toys, tossing them aside when they didn’t meet her expectations, moving on to the next.
Aston had spent months trying to win her attention, just to end up frustrated and empty-handed. He tried to be what she wanted, but it was never enough. She had seemed intrigued at first, but when he failed to meet her material demands, her interest quickly disappeared. She moved on as if he were nothing more than another passing distraction. At the time, he’d been disappointed, but now, in retrospect, he couldn’t help but think that maybe it was for the best. Camille might have noticed if things had gone further. 
But what truly hurt was watching Stephanie latch onto Terry like a moth to a flame. The way she practically devoured him with her eyes every time he walked into the room, the way she was always the first to offer help, to show interest. And Terry? He didn’t even seem to notice. He was indifferent to her, completely unaware of the power he held over her. It was the ultimate insult, and Aston could do nothing but watch as Stephanie melted under Terry's indifference, while he couldn’t even keep her attention without buying her expensive bags and shoes. 
So, Austin approached the poker table with one goal: to take everything he could from Terry and his friends. Make them feel as small as he felt.
He glanced around the table, smirking to himself as he took note of the faces he’d become familiar with the past few games. There was Terry of course, glancing at his cards without a care in the world, as if he hadn’t lost over $200,000 in the last two games. Then there was his doctor friend, Elijah, who was always light and jovial despite also losing a substantial amount of money. The other four looked much more stressed, which made sense. They didn’t have affluent jobs like the others. Jabari and Tariq said they were club bouncers, Devon was a firefighter, and Ray worked at an Amazon warehouse. But, to have the funds to participate in the games, Aston was sure that they were involved in something illegal. 
But Aston couldn’t care about that right now. He was winning, he could feel it. The night’s been his, every hand, every bluff, every raise. He’d been untouchable. One more hand, one more victory, and he would walk away with enough money to scale back on his cases at the firm. So he bet everything on this last hand. Everything in his bank account and the $820,000 he got from the past two Thursdays and the previous hands. Once he won, he would be able to go home and do something nice for Camille. It was her birthday after all.
He stared at the cards, the flush staring back at him with promise. Everyone else was nervous and sweating or completely indifferent, but he could see it in their eyes. They knew it was over. And Aston felt invincible.
The cards turned. Aston didn’t even bother to look, immediately dragging all of the chips on the table toward him. Until Terry cleared his throat. Aston’s head snapped towards him, confused. Terry just gave him a light smile, nodding to his cards. Aston followed his glance. His heart dropped to his ass as he looked at the cards. A royal flush.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
No, this couldn’t be happening! 
Aston’s gaze snapped back to Terry, his mind racing in disbelief. His chest tightened as he tried to process what had just happened. Terry’s face was unreadable, but the grins that spread across the other players’ faces couldn’t have been more telling. It was as if they had all conspired in some quiet, shared joke that he was the last one to catch onto.
Aston’s lips twitched into a chuckle, but it came out more nervous than amused. He scanned the table, taking in the wide smiles and knowing glances. An anxious snort escaped his nose, his irritation bubbling up as he forced another laugh, trying to play it off. “Alright, guys. Nice try,” he said, his voice tight. “I’ve been winning every game, but now, all of a sudden, I lose when I bet everything?” He scooped up the chips as though he could brush away the growing tension.
But as his fingers closed around the chips, Jabari, who sat to his right, placed a firm hand over his. It was a subtle gesture, almost casual, but it was enough to send a jolt of annoyance through Aston. Jabari’s touch was a quiet warning, one that didn’t sit well with him.
Aston’s glare locked onto him, his brow furrowing. “Seriously, this is too much money to joke about,” he spat, his voice a mixture of frustration and confusion. “I know you cheated to get a cheap laugh, but it's not funny anymore.”
His words fell flat in the charged air. Aston leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking from face to face, searching for some sign that this was just a game, a joke he was missing. But all he saw were those same smug smiles.
“Aston,” Terry called out, bringing Aston’s attention back to him. His strangely colored eyes flickered with something Aston couldn’t comprehend. “You lost. That’s all there is to it.” Aston began to vigorously shake his head. There’s no way he lost. They had to have rigged it somehow, he thought to himself, growing more agitated by the second.
“No…there’s no way. I’ve been winning every hand since I joined. Every. Single. Fucking. One!,” Aston shot back. Terry’s eyebrow raised, but Aston continued to rant. “You sons of bitches might have done something to the deck, but I didn’t fucking lose!”
Jabari leaned a bit closer to him. “Aye man, there’s no need to get loud. Just accept the loss and move the fuck on–” 
Aston jumped from his seat, unable to contain his anger any longer. “This is bullshit!” He yelled as he looked at everyone around the table. But he didn’t like the reactions he saw. No one looked the least bit surprised by his outburst. Gone was the indifference in Terry and Elijah. Gone was the nervousness in the others. Instead, they just looked at him with a strange mix of amusement and irritation.
“Aston, this little tantrum is entertaining and all. But just go ahead and accept the loss so we can all go home,” Terry said softly. The others remained eerily quiet, but Aston couldn’t give a fuck. He was not about to give everything to his name to Terry and his friends of all fucking people.
“Fuck you, Terry!” He shouted, throwing on his jacket. “I didn’t fucking lose. You all are just fucking cheaters. And I’m not going to pay any of you shit. I’m not going to be fucking hustled!” He continued to yell. Terry’s relaxed demeanor disappeared as everyone else at the table stood, chuckling as they walked away from the table. Aston watched as they stood in different corners or the exit, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. He warily looked back to Terry.
“You really think I’m gonna let you walk out of here? And you owe me over $800,000?” Terry scoffed. Aston stared at him for a moment, sweat beginning to collect by his hairline. I need to get out of here, he thought as he resumed collecting his stuff. 
“If you think I’m afraid of you, think again Terry. At the end of the day, you’re probably nothing but some shady drug dealer. And I’ll gladly report this to the police,” Aston scoffed, pulling out his phone, ready to call 911. Terry’s loud laugh cut through the air, sending a chill down his spine.
Just as Aston’s fingers pressed ‘9,’  a cloth bag was thrown over his head from behind him. Blinded and disoriented, he dropped his phone as he clawed at the scratchy fabric blocking his sight. But he only struggled for a moment. A sharp, heavy blow to the back of his head sent a burst of pain through his head as he crumpled to the floor and everything went black.
Aston woke up, his head feeling as though it had been split open and his mouth tasted metallic. He blinked, wincing at the sharp pain at the back of his head, trying to process his surroundings. He realized he was in the trunk of a car, arms, hands, and legs bound and his mouth gagged. Panic consumed him as his eyes tried to adjust to the darkness of the small space. He had no idea how long he had been in there and no sense of when the car would stop. He groaned, leaning his head against whatever surface he could. But he immediately regretted it after as the car rolled over something like a pothole, sending his head slamming into the rough of the trunk.
Stars moved behind his eyes, artificially lighting up the dark space. Before he could even blink them away, the car braked suddenly, making the car come to a stop. His panic spiked, waiting for any sign of movement. 
The trunk of the car popped open, bringing in a rush of light. The brightness magnified the splitting pain of his head, making him whimper and shut his eyes. A pair of hands grabbed him from the trunk with unnatural ease before dropping him on the pavement below. His pained “fuck” was muffled by the rag in his mouth. He was grabbed once more, the mysterious figure carrying him effortlessly, as if he was a piece of luggage. They walked into a warehouse of some sort, which seemed to be in a deserted area.
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No one would hear me scream, he thought, his heart dropping. No one would even know I’m here.
He was dropped once again, but this time, he was at the feet of a large figure. He craned his neck to get a good look at them. 
It was Terry, an unamused look on his face, menacing beyond words. Aston shrank from his gaze, moving his eyes to the person who brought him inside. Jabari stood silently from a short distance, his arms crossed. The other poker players didn’t seem to be present. But as he laid at his feet, Aston understood that Terry was running the show. Jabari was just reinforcement.
His attention returned to Terry as he used his booted foot to push him onto his back. He crouched down, pulling the rag from his mouth, his expression never faltering. Aston gasped, the absence of the rage making him notice how dry his mouth was. He winced as he flexed his mouth, dried blood at the corners of his lips cracking the skin.
I need to find a way out of this, he thought, refusing to meet Terry’s eyes. I can get an emergency loan from dad, agree to pay it off within the year. Yeah, I can–
“Fucking look at me,” Terry breathed over him, his tone way too calm for his liking. Aston froze, his gaze snapping to Terry’s, but the moment he locked eyes with him, he instinctively recoiled, pulling his head back as his breath caught in his throat. Yes, it was Terry, but not the Terry he knew. This Terry was something else, something unrecognizable.
Terry’s eyes were now a deep, menacing red, dark and rich like fresh blood. Aston’s pulse quickened, his senses screaming that something was wrong, that this wasn’t just a shift in appearance, but something far darker. Terry’s lips pulled back in a cruel sneer, revealing canines that had lengthened beyond what was natural. The sharp tips of his teeth jutted out menacingly, almost piercing the skin of his bottom lip. This wasn't just Terry, it was a version of him that was far more monstrous and it gripped Aston’s very soul.
“Terry, what… what–” he stammered as the eyes watched him with a predatory glint. “Look, I’ll get you your money by tonight. No explanation needed. W-we can discuss this like gentlemen.” 
Terry just smiled, leaning back as he shook his head. Suddenly, subtle pleas and cries began to approach them from behind. Aston went to roll to face the direction where the sound was coming from. He was stopped by Terry placing a heavy foot on him, keeping him on his back.
The cries grew louder, amplifying Aston’s terror. He was sure that he would have a heart attack the way his chest thundered.
“Terrence, please. I didn’t mean to run them off! I know Crimson has a reputation to uphold, but those girls just got a bit spooked. I just got a little excited!” An unfamiliar voice filled the space next to Aston. His eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to make sense of the words the new voice was saying. 
Without lifting his foot from Aston’s chest, Terry grabbed a stammering man who must’ve been brought in by Jabari. He draped an arm around him as he made him stand in front of Aston. Tears and snot poured down the man’s face, his distress making Aston’s stomach twist even more.
*
“Aston, this is Cole. Cole is going to help me demonstrate what I do to people who fuck with my money,” Terry spoke calmly as he gripped the back of the man’s neck. 
Terry’s hand twitched unnaturally, and in an instant, his nails began to elongate, sharpening into jagged claws before Aston’s very eyes. They gleamed with a menacing sharpness that made Aston’s blood run cold. He tried to twist away, desperate to escape the horror unfolding before him, but Terry’s foot remained planted firmly in place, an immovable force keeping Aston exactly where he was. The pressure of it anchored him down, making it impossible to break free.
Terry’s gaze flickered back to Cole, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. Then, in a blur, his other clawed hand wrapped around the front of the man’s neck, squeezing it dangerously hard. Then, with a flourish, Terry yanked his hand, effectively tearing the man’s throat out. Aston let out a blood curdling scream as blood and tissue splattered onto his face and chest, the sounds of flesh ripping echoing in his mind. Terry remained unphased as he dropped the man’s flailing body next to Aston, pressing his boot further into his chest, forcing him to shut up. Disgust and horror made Aston turn his head, spitting up everything that was in his stomach. He trembled as he turned back to Terry, who brought himself closer to his face, his red eyes seeming to darken. He wiped the bloodied hand he used to kill Cole on the jacket Aston was wearing, making him flinch.
*
The warehouse was unnervingly silent, the only sound being Aston’s ragged sobs that echoed off the cold concrete walls. The sound of his anguish reverberated through the space, but Terry stood unfazed, a deep, resigned sigh escaping his lips as he rolled his eyes.
His once haunting, blood-red gaze slowly shifted to the unnatural blue-green they usually were. His nails began to retract and shrink back into their human form. And his fangs that protruded like daggers, shrank back into his gums. It was almost like watching an illusion dissolve.
Terry’s gaze lingered on Aston, his expression a mix of indifference and distaste. The fearsome being now looked… ordinary.
Aston’s sobs grew more frantic, his chest heaving with each shaky breath as he squeezed his eyes shut. There was no escaping this. He wasn’t getting out of this alive. His thoughts spiraled, each one more hopeless than the last.
Though he wasn’t particularly religious, Aston found himself murmuring a silent prayer, his voice barely more than a whisper. It wasn’t for salvation, it was a plea for mercy. He whispered to no one in particular, hoping that Terry would be merciful, that whatever came next would be quick and final. Aston swallowed hard, his body trembling, as he waited for the inevitable, hoping against hope that it would come swiftly.
Terry began to mockingly shush him, lifting his foot from his chest and moving to crouch down next to him, gripping Aston’s face in his cleaner hand, carefully avoiding the residual puke on his chin. 
“Now… I think you finally understand who you’re dealing with, right?” Terry's voice was a low, ominous murmur, his piercing gaze fixed on Aston with unnerving intensity.
Aston nodded frantically, desperate to avoid Terry’s gaze. Terry’s lips curled into a satisfied hum. He tilted his head slightly, his expression of pure, cold detachment being replaced by a small, unnerving smile.
“Good,” Terry purred, his voice dripping with malice. His next words seethed out with barely contained fury. “Because I want my fucking money.” Terry leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing as he spoke again, his voice dropping even lower, laced with venom.
“But before that, I need you to part ways with what I want the most,” Terry continued, his smile never faltering. “This whole scheme? It was about much more than money.” His words dripped with dark amusement as he watched Aston’s face falter, Terry’s words slowly sinking in. “I didn’t even want your money to begin with. I have plenty of that on my own. But you’ve been disrespecting me ever since I came to the firm, which I find unacceptable. So now, I have to have everything you have. The money is... nice, I suppose. But it’s not my priority.”
Terry leaned in, closing the space between them with deliberate slowness. His breath ghosted across Aston’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. The words he whispered were smooth and velvety.
“You have someone... much more valuable to me.”
Aston’s face scrunched in confusion, his mind racing to understand what was being said. His heart thudded in his chest as the cryptic words twisted in his mind. And then it hit him. The realization crashed into him, freezing him in place. His blood ran cold as the horror settled over him like ice water.
Camille.
The name ran through his head, making his pulse quicken even more. The room seemed to tilt, his world suddenly spinning. He didn’t love Camille in a romantic sense. But she was still his friend, someone he had shared the last thirteen years of his life with. They had been through too much together to be torn apart by some… money-hungry beast. They had been companions in their shared pursuit of belonging, trapped in a world where power and influence shaped everything.
But beyond all of that, she was good. Pure. Kind-hearted. He felt the need to protect her surge through him. She couldn’t fall into the hands of a monster like Terry. Not when he was capable of doing anything to get what he wanted. A wave of nausea swept over him. But instead of cowering, Aston looked Terry in the eyes, showing that this was where he drew the line. 
“You stay the fuck away from her,” Aston snarled, a burst of courage running through him. Terry just chuckled. 
“Don’t worry, Camille will be well taken care of, well-cherished, and well-fucked,” Terry laughed sinisterly. But his voice returned serious. “But, I need you out of the way. But it has to be subtle. So, if you follow my instructions, I’ll be merciful. But if you try to fuck me over,” he spoke, pulling him up slightly by his collar. “I will make you suffer in every way imaginable.”
Aston sniffled. He couldn’t let him get away with this, but he needed to be smart. He wouldn’t be able to help Camille from the other side of the grave. So he needed to remain in Terry’s good graces until he had a solid plan to navigate the situation. 
“What do you need me to do then?” He gulped as Terry hummed thoughtfully, watching him intensely. 
“We’ll see what works best as we go along. But, your first task will be breaking up with Camille. The little thing loves to stick to her morals, which I admire. But it makes her a bit inaccessible at the moment,” Terry began with a nonchalant shrug. 
Aston’s mind seemed to stutter as he processed everything that was said. No, no, he couldn’t let Camille deal with this predator alone. He needed to buy some time.
“I can break up with her, but her hands will still be tied by the contract,” Aston stated, hoping he was giving him new information. Terry’s jaw clenched but he looked intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Camille and I have a contractual agreement. The marriage prevents her family from losing everything. Sure, she’ll be covered by you, I’m assuming, but if her family loses everything, their houses, their assets, she’ll be devastated. And her father has placed so much pressure on her to be their savior. If the marriage doesn’t go through, she has no way of preventing them from falling into poverty,” he stammered. 
Terry looked genuinely surprised by the revelation. He released his grip on Aston’s collar, making his head fall back into the hard floor. He groaned, white-hot pain throbbing from the site of impact.
Terry rubbed his chin, his eyes flickering to Jabari, who remained silent and unmoving during this entire exchange. He brought his eyes back to Aston, making him hold his breath.
“Huh, I knew that this engagement was arranged, but I had no idea there was a contract involved…” he whispered to himself, more so than Aston. But his eyes came back into focus.
“Alright,” Terry’s grin returned to his face. “You obviously have valuable knowledge of the situation.” Aston released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 
“But,” Terry growled, fangs once again appearing from the corner of his lips. “I still want you to end the relationship, sooner rather than later. So once I figure this contract shit out, it better be the first thing you do. For your sake at least.” Aston gave a curt nod. He had no intention of breaking up with Camille when the time came, but he just needed to do what he could to get back home.
Terry rose from his haunches, fully standing over him. 
“Jabari will make sure that any injuries you got from tonight will heal fully before you get home. It’s a drink we make, but it’ll be mixed with a lot of alcohol so you don’t have to remember anything but the most important details of the night. You’ll also need to wash up and freshen your clothes. Once all that’s settled, he’ll make sure to drop you by your apartment.” Again, Aston nodded furiously, just wanting to move on from this moment in time so he could figure out how to protect himself and Camille.
“And, just so we’re clear,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You tell anyone about any of this, especially Camille, I will kill every family member you have in front of you, slowly and brutally, until no one’s left. Then I’ll kill you too.”
With that, Terry stepped over his body to walk out of the warehouse as Jabari lifted him from the floor.
Camille
Camille couldn’t help but pull at the satin restraints expertly tied around her wrists as she writhed with agonizing pleasure. Through a haze of tears, Camille looked up at the hypnotic blue eyes of her captor as he gazed down at her, silently pleading for him to have some mercy on her. But Terry just smirked down at her, his strong thighs keeping her legs pried open as he slowly pulled in and out of her, his length brushing past a spot that made her vision blur with each stroke. 
“Baby…,” her voice barely above a whisper. He hummed, grabbing her leg to place a feathery soft kiss on her ankle. Her toes curled in response and her pussy quivered around him, pulling a satisfied groan from his throat.
“What is it, princess?” he teased before dragging his tongue across her Achilles. “Tell Daddy what you want so I can do it for you. Pussy too good to not let you have what you want.” Camille’s lips quivered as she tried to form words, the delicious pressure in her core too intense for her to think. Her lover placed a few more kisses on her calf, his strokes slowly coming to a stop. Camille’s body throbbed at the absence of his movement, stuck at just the edge of her climax. 
“No, no…no, Terry pleaseeee,” she whined, her hands pulling at the restraints that kept her tied to the bed. She could feel her orgasm retreating with every passing second.
“That’s not my name right now, baby girl,” He purred. He reached down between her legs, his calloused thumb, ever so slowly, circling her bundle of nerves. A chorus of pathetic moans escaped her lips at the friction. “Come on, princess. Just use your words. Tell me what you need.” 
Instead of answering, Camille furrowed her brows in frustration, moving her hips to meet his in an attempt to find some relief. Terry growled, gripping her thighs to hold her still. 
“Uh-uhn. Don’t be a greedy little brat. I already made you cum twice. But now I want you to beg,” his chest rumbled. Camille took a deep breath, finding the strength to voice her desires.
“P-please, Daddy. Please don’t stop,” she whispered. Terry chuckled, nearly pulling out of her completely, before slamming his full length back into her. Camille’s eyes rolled back as his girth stuffed her, nearly knocking the wind right out of her. Terry lowered his body down to hers until his lips were next to her ear, his weight locking her in place. “I can’t hear you, my love,” he mumbled, placing a teasing, sloppy kiss on her neck. 
“Please, Daddy I can’t take it! Just fucking fuck me!” she shouted, a sob shaking her body. Terry laughed, licking a tear from her cheek. “As you wish, baby girl.”
He leaned back, his large hand wrapping around her neck as he plunged in and out of her at the perfect pace. Camille’s back arched off the bed as he fucked the last bit of thoughts out of her head. The light squeeze on her neck. The way he hit her spot. The deep groans and moans tumbling past his lips. It was all too much for her. She couldn’t tell if the man was sending her straight to heaven or dragging her down to hell.
“You’re so pretty when I fuck you like this. All tied up. Begging with those tears rolling down your face. Pure fucking perfection. Of course I have to keep you all to myself,” he chuckled, the hand around her neck going to caress her tear-stained cheek. “Which is why, before I let you cum, we need to get an understanding.” Camille’s pussy clenched in response to his rough, almost animalistic tone. 
“Tell me you will leave McCoy,” he growled, staring down at her, his pace never faltering. Camille’s eyes widened. How could he demand that of her? 
He scoffed at her hesitation, bringing his hand back to her neck. “Camille,” his tone full of warning. “Stop fucking playing with me. He could never fuck you this good. Only I make you this damn delirious. Only me.” Camille bit her lip, feeling a familiar pressure in her stomach. She was almost there…so so clos–
“Camille!” Terry growled. 
“I’m yours, only yours Terry!” Camille screamed, her orgasm crashing over her. Stars and fireworks flashed in her vision as her legs shook uncontrollably. “I’ll always be yours!”
He chuckled darkly, licking his lips. “That’s right, Mrs. Richmond.”
Camille jolted awake, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Her chest heaved as she scanned the room, the light from the nearby buildings and billboards bathing it in a faint red glow. 
It must be late, she thought, trying to distract from the wetness between her legs and the heat radiating off her body. She turned to Aston's side of the bed, searching for comfort. But his side of the mattress was as empty and cold as it was hours ago.
Confused, she reached for her phone on the nightstand, unlocking it. The screen lit up, and her eyes darted to the time. 11:49.
Where could he be at this hour? The thought spun in her mind urgently. Is he okay?
Aston's pro-bono work had always kept him late, but it was rare for him to be gone past 9:00 PM. She’d become accustomed to his late nights, but this felt different. A knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. She dialed his number, her pulse quickening with each ringing tone. One, two... then a click switched to a voicemail prompt. 
Where is he?
She didn’t hesitate to type out a text, her fingers moving almost automatically. Is everything ok? It’s pretty late.
She hit send, then waited, watching the “delivered” before it flipped to “read.” Her chest tightened as the seconds ticked by. No response came. 
A hollow feeling settled deep inside her as she locked her phone, placing it back on the nightstand with a resigned sigh. Her shoulders slumped forward, the emptiness of the room closing in on her. She couldn’t stop the feelings that flooded in, unloved... unimportant. Her mind spiraled. What else could he be doing right now? The question echoed in her mind, but no answer came. Tears threatened to spill, stinging the corners of her eyes. She closed them tightly, biting her lip as a soft sniffle escaped her. Maybe Kali had been right all along. Aston had never truly changed. But what was she supposed to do with that truth? What could she possibly do now?
She needed to distract herself. Do something to keep the hurt from boiling over. The throb in her pussy began to gnaw at her more and her eyes landed on the nightstand. She reached into the drawer, fishing her hand around until she brushed against the silicon of her rose toy. Rolling onto her back, she switched on the toy and stuck it between her legs. As she positioned it perfectly over her clit, she rolled her head back, letting her imagination run wild as her mind shifted from her sorrows and focused on the sensations.
She could see the scenes clearly, as if she were dreaming again. Strong arms wrapping around her. Thick lips parting to stick a dominating tongue into her mouth. Hands pulling on her hair. Loving kisses pressed against her collarbone. 
Just a bit more, she thought as her orgasm approached. Then, she’ll be able to lull herself back to sleep. It didn't take long for the wave to crash over her, a name unconsciously slipping past her lips. “Oh, Terr-”
Camille was cut off by the apartment front door slamming open. She screamed, tossing the toy away from her in surprise. 
“Fuck! Fuck, Fuck, FUCK!” Aston’s screaming reverberated off the wall. Camille quickly sat up, pulling her robe around her trembling body. She stumbled out of the room, gasping as she entered the living area. Aston was a storm, a whirlwind of fury. His movements were erratic as he thrashed at anything within reach. His fists pounded into the walls, leaving deep, jagged dents, while shards of glass crunched beneath his feet, scattered across the floor from glasses he was throwing. A barstool lay overturned, its legs splintered. He screamed again. Camille’s breath hitched in her throat, terror clawing at her chest. His eyes snapped to her, pausing his rampage. His chest heaved as he ran a hand through his hair as he looked around at the damage he caused. He started to stumble toward hers, his steps uncoordinated. She recoiled in fright, pressing herself against the wall. But then she caught a whiff of him. He smelled like he fell out of a whiskey bottle. 
She froze. He had been drinking. Aston never drank. 
“Millie… baby. I’m sorry, i-if I woke you–”
“Aston… What the hell is going on?” Camille’s voice cracked.
“Nothing, baby, nothing. We just need to talk,” Aston panted, struggling to catch his breath. His chest heaved and he collapsed onto one of the barstools, his hands shaking. “You have to quit working for Terry. Probably quit working for the firm altogether.”
“What?!” Camille’s voice shot up, disbelief flooding her. “Why? Why would I do that?!”
Aston sneered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Wow, you can’t even think about it? Can’t even consider it? As my future wife, I thought you’d have more respect for me.” His eyes were filled with frustration, but Camille only felt more lost.
“You’re seriously angry at me because I don’t want to quit my job?” Camille’s voice quivered, her heart pounding as the fear inside of her slowly became anger. “Do you hear yourself right now?” Her mind raced from the absurdity of it all.
Aston threw his hands up, eyes rolling in dramatic frustration. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Camille? Do you think I’m just saying this for fun?!” His voice cracked as he yelled, amplifying the chaos between them.
Camille blinked rapidly as hot, silent tears spilled down her cheeks. She couldn’t even tell if they were from fear or from anger. All she could hear clearly was her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. “Aston,” she whispered, her voice barely steady. “I’m not having this conversation with you unless you calm down.”
Aston’s expression faltered, his anger momentarily replaced by something softer. Exhaustion, maybe, or regret. But it didn’t last. He stumbled toward the sectional a few feet away, sinking into the couch, his hands buried in his hair as he sniffled, the tension still coiled in his body. “Baby, I can’t tell you what happened tonight, okay?” His voice cracked. “Just… just know that Terry is fucking dangerous. He’s fucking evil. And I can’t, I can’t let you be around him, alright?”
“What do you mean you can’t tell me what happened?!” Camille shot back, her voice cracking in frustration. She moved closer to him, careful not to step on the broken glass scattered on the floor. “You come in here, drunk as hell and wrecking our home. You scare me half to death. And now you’re telling me to stay away from my boss for some unknown reason? Or is it just your jealousy?!” The words exploded from her before she could stop them, her anger raw and untamed. But as soon as she said them, her eyes closed momentarily with regret, knowing that her words were unnecessary.
**
Aston’s head snapped up, his eyes filled with hurt and something much darker. The venom in his gaze sent a chill down her spine. He glared at her, his voice lowering to a dangerous edge. “You think you know everything, don’t you? You think Terry’s better than me? Of course you do. You look at him as if he hung the moon,” His words hung in the air, cold and accusing.
She gasped, feeling as though she was one in the wrong and not him. “Aston,” she whispered, her throat tight. “You’re talking crazy. Terry isn’t better than you. Is this still about him making partner—”
“No, you fucking bitch!” Aston shouted, cutting her off, making Camille flinch. “It’s not about that, Camille! Why can’t you just listen to me?!” His eyes burned with anger, and in a split second, he shot up from the couch, his body towering over hers as he advanced. Camille’s chest tightened with panic as she instinctively stepped back.
Aston followed her, relentless. “That guy is out to get me, Camille. And you have no idea how much danger you’re in. That’s all I can say. Tomorrow, you will put in your two weeks’ notice. And then I'm putting you on a plane to somewhere safe,” he demanded, his voice low and deadly.
Camille’s breath hitched in her throat. Despite the fear that gripped her, she would not let Aston take one of the last things that made her happy away from her. She shook her head defiantly. “I will do no such thing,” she whispered.
His anger felt thick and suffocating as it surrounded them. Aston's face twisted in frustration as he stared at her, his fists clenched at his sides. The room was silent except for the harsh sound of their breathing. But then, he walked closer to her, attempting to close the gap between them. Camille retreated until she felt her back hit the wall of their living room.
He slammed his hands on both sides of her head, leaning in close enough for her to smell the alcohol on his breath. “You ungrateful bitch!” Camille, terrified, tried to move away from him. But his hands moved to grip her forearms, with enough force that she was sure he left bruises. “You are fucking quitting tomorrow! Do you fucking hear me?!” He jerked her body harder than he intended, slamming her into the wall behind her, leaving a dent. She cried out in pain, falling to the floor as he dropped her. He looked down at her with horror.
“Millie… baby,” Aston's voice trembled as he reached out for her, his hand shaking in the air, desperate to touch her.
“Don’t. Touch me!” Camille sobbed, her voice cracking. Aston flinched as though she had slapped him, his face contorting with shock and hurt. He froze in place, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, as she stumbled back to a standing position, using the wall for support to keep her upright. The tears flowed freely, but she couldn’t stop moving. She had to get away. She had to get somewhere. Anywhere but here.
**
Her legs barely held her up as she wobbled toward their bedroom, but just as her hand reached the doorframe, Aston appeared in front of her, blocking her path. 
“Baby, please… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it! Please, I swear, I didn’t mean it,” his voice desperate. He reached for her again, but she shoved past him with all the strength she had left.
She headed straight for the closet, her hands moving frantically as she yanked clothes off the hangers, shoving them into an overnight bag. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t even think straight as she stuffed her shoes and jewelry in without care. 
Aston followed her, his voice pleading, but she couldn’t hear him anymore. His words were drowned out by the deafening roar of her own heartbeat. Tears blurred her vision as she moved through the motions, grabbing her toothbrush, her contact lenses, her makeup case. She refused to stop. 
When she finally turned to face him, Aston was on his knees, his face streaked with tears and snot, his chest heaving with sobs that shook him to his core. His gaze locked with hers, desperation and agony showing.
“Millie, please,” he begged, his voice hoarse, almost broken. “Please don’t go. I swear I didn’t mean it… I’ll do anything… just… please.”
She looked down at him, her heart aching, and for a moment, she wondered if she should stay. If he was really apologetic. He does seem sorry, she thought. But I can’t stay. The pain at the back of her head flared again, sharper this time, and she fought to keep herself steady. The thought of his hands on her, his rage, the way he just tore everything apart… it was too much.
She stepped past him, deciding not to take the risk. She pulled her robe tighter around herself. She didn’t look at him again, stepping into her house slippers and making her way toward the door.
“Millie… please, Millie!” Aston’s voice cracked behind her, but she wouldn’t look back. She couldn’t afford to.
She opened the front door, her hand shaking as she pulled her phone from her robe’s pocket. She needed to get away, go somewhere she could breathe and process how her world just fell apart.
She nearly fumbled her phone as she dialed Kali’s number, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. It rang twice before her friend’s voice came through.
“Cammieeee! Hey birthday girl!” Kali’s voice chirped cheerfully, but Camille could hear the shift in her friend’s tone as she sobbed into the phone, her voice cracking in a way she never allowed Kali to hear before. “Kali, I’m so sorry to call and ask so late. But can I please stay the night? Please.”
The moment Kali heard her desperation, her voice softened, concern bleeding through. “Oh my God, Camille… absolutely! I’ll get everything ready for you. Don’t worry, it's not a problem at all!”
“Thank you,” Camille sniffled, the words barely escaping her as she wiped away the last of her tears. She hung up the phone abruptly, barely even hearing the final words Kali had spoken as she stepped into the elevator.
Terry
Terry stood before the altar in his bedroom, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the walls. He stared as the flames danced, tall, vibrant tongues of orange, red, and pink that swirled and shifted with a powerful potency. His love spell was working. Every flicker of the flame seemed to confirm it, she was in love with him and ached to be his. 
His gaze lingered on the sacred space until a sudden vibration from his pocket broke his focus. His fingers twitched as he reached down, wondering who could possibly be texting him this late. He hoped it wasn’t Jabari telling him he ran into any problems.
He glanced at his phone screen, expecting a mundane message. But, the number was unfamiliar. A stranger. Curiosity mixed with unease as the message popped up:
Terry. I know what you want. And I want to help you get it.
His brow furrowed. The words were too cryptic for his comfort. He stared at the screen for a long moment, wanting to delete the message altogether. He wasn’t in the mood for any bullshit. But a voice in his head urged him to engage. Shaking his head, Terry quickly typed out a response:
Who the hell is this?
He waited, and soon enough, the chat bubble appeared, followed by a cryptic reply:
A friend. Someone on your side.
Terry’s patience was thinning. He didn’t have time for this. Impatiently, he typed:
Tell me what this is about or stop playing on my phone.
Just as he was about to toss his phone back in his pocket and re-focus on the altar, the response appeared startlingly quick:
Camille. You want her to be yours, right?
Terry’s heart skipped a beat, his blood turning to ice. His fingers froze over the screen as a cold sweat broke out across his brow. Before he could type another message, another response came:
We should meet up. Come here tomorrow night @7.
A location pin was sent before the chat went completely silent. Terry took a labored breath. This could be trouble. After a long pause, Terry shoved his phone back into his pocket. He would go to this meeting, see who this person was. If they were a threat, he would deal with them swiftly. But if they wanted to support him, he would gladly accept the help.
*: Terry murders a man in front of Aston
**: Aston hurts Camille, prompting her to leave their apartment
--------------
@nayaesworld @slvt4her @writingsbytee @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @kaylaahisthebestest- @theogbadbitch @wabi-sabi1090 @hotgyalaroad @nubiagurllll @lovedlover @dimepiece09 @lavaniiii @simplyzeeka @susanhill @next-bex-bet @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @ranikyani @loveschrisbrown20 @daddyslittlevillain @blackchickinthedesert @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @hello-therree @solunaseira @hotebonynearby @key05marie @moebuttta @winorlosetogether @nohatingpplbczhtingpplr @alexinmotion @queencb2462 @kismet83 @bruleecream
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jungkoode · 11 days ago
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ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS
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➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)
➔ MOODBOARD
➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.
➔ DATE POSTED: May 01, 2025.
➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.
➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).
➔ CONTENT in this chapter: first sight, obsessive observation, ballet practice scene, initial fixation development, mirror dynamics, ritual beginnings, sensory fixation, internal monologue, self-loathing, self-discipline, cleanliness obsession, OCD, asocial/antisocial behaviors.
➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS
➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.9k
➔ A/N: Before we even begin, let me say this loud and clear: This story explores dark themes, toxic dynamics, and morally fucked behavior. If that’s not your vibe or you’re in a vulnerable place right now, please prioritize your mental health and click out. I have a trigger warning + author intro linked above in pink—read it before diving in. Know what you’re getting into. Once you scroll past this note, you’re responsible for engaging thoughtfully. This is not an endorsement of anything. This story is an exploration, not a statement of belief. Don’t absorb it at face value. Think critically. Or log off. Either works. Okay now that the serious voice is out of the way—WELCOME TO ASW. Yes. We’re doing this. Yes, Taehyung. No, I don’t know why either. He just… is. This fic has been rotting in my brain like a cursed wine cellar, and he fit the flavor of psychological mess I needed. It’s the velvet-soaked, morally gray, low-light, mid-cigarette kinda vibe. And you’re invited. This isn’t a longform fic like Fuck Me Up—it’s a series, a slower, tighter pace, same chaos engine running under the hood (hi, it’s me, Kiki Nation). If you’ve read my stuff before: buckle in. If you’re new: …I swear I’ve written fluff before. Maybe. No but seriously, if you like character-driven, trauma-informed, unhinged-but-meticulous messes with literary undertones, welcome. You’ve found your swamp. Also. I beg you to listen to the ASW playlist I linked. It’s essential. Think: Paris—but not “Emily in Paris.” More like the kind of Paris where you haven’t slept in three days and your eyeliner’s smudged and some man with secrets is staring at you across a neon-lit dive bar while Edith Piaf plays from a busted speaker. That Paris.
See you on the other side. You’ve been warned.
➔ SERIES : NEXT
KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER
PLAYLIST
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Worthless.
The word sits in Taehyung's skull like a rotting tooth.
Not painful anymore—just there, decayed into the bone, a permanent fixture. Worthless. His mother's voice, twenty-something years later, still echoing.
Sometimes he imagines cutting into his brain, finding where that word lives, and scrubbing it clean. But nothing ever gets clean enough.
Paris is outside—pavement slicked with cold, the breath of a morning rain barely dried. In here, the air is flat. 
Fluorescent. 
Everything smells faintly of mop water and dying batteries. 
He exists behind the counter, with his wrists tucked close, thumbnail grinding against the seam where the plastic laminate splits. It’s not a conscious movement. The itch just collects there—under his skin, inside his jaw, everywhere his mother’s voice ever landed. 
(worthless)
The shelf by the door coughs out its contents: a can rolls, then a bottle, another bottle, a clatter that jars the pulse behind his eye. Sticky leaks on the tiles. No one looks at him—customer, manager, pink-haired girl behind the second register sketching with a dried-out pen. He’s the quiet one. The shadow. The clean-up.
He counts the droplets on the ground. One. Two. The stain widens. Beer and cola. A chemical amber, eating its way along the grout. His fingers twitch for the cheap blue rag balled up under the till. Sticky spots, dirty dots, broken thoughts. Three. Four. Five. It’s spreading. Marcel’s voice always comes before the panic does.
“Kid! Clean that shit up, come on! Clients don’t have all day.”
He sees the world in surfaces and stains. Every footprint etched in last night’s grime. Chewing gum slicked flat under a boot near the cooler. The way someone’s fingernails left half-moons in the tape over the torn cereal box. Small atrocities. He is intimately acquainted with the way filth lingers—in the cracks, yes, but also in his chest, in the language of his own hands.
He moves without thinking: rag in hand, knees bending. The bottle neck is sticky. His palm leaves a ghost on the glass—oily, ugly. 
(dirty, dirty, dirtydirtydirt)
He swears he can hear her voice; the echo that raised him sharper than any cradle song. 
He wipes too hard, more circles than necessary, like there is any chance of making the world new.
One. Two. Three. Seven. Seven. Seven again. If the number is right, the feeling dulls. 
Nothing makes it right. 
The rag soaks up sugar, cheap wheat, that thin acrid scent that reminds him of old men on metro benches. The stickiness clings to his fingers, seeping past skin and nail, as if he’s absorbing the world’s waste molecule by molecule. 
If he had a choice, he’d bleach the whole city. Himself first.
Someone steps around him—he feels the shadow before the person—a grunt, a grumble in French about the mess, about incompetence. He shrinks into the crouch. Tries to take up less space. 
Sometimes, he wonders what it would take to be truly invisible. 
Sometimes, he thinks he’s halfway there already.
(worthless) 
He doesn’t know when the word started looping. Was it, really, at two years old? Maybe three. Maybe four, when he dropped a bowl and she made him hold the shards, blood trailing into the grout as proof of his clumsiness. 
‘If you were worth anything, you’d be clean. You’d be careful. You’d be quiet and good and wanted.’
He’s quiet. He’s careful. He’s so good at disappearing he startles himself when Marcel barks his name—the only time he hears it, sandpapered into a reprimand. 
Sometimes the sound of it makes him nauseous.
He presses the rag into the floor. Bleach sting in the back of his throat. Nails scrub until knuckles ache, the line between diligent and desperate lost years ago. He likes this better than standing—the way knees grind bone against bone, the ache that says he’s solid, present, here. 
It almost feels like penance.
He glances up—Sophie sketches him again, glancing once, twice, pausing on the curl of his neck. He will become a line in her notebook, a story she tells at parties, a tragic fixture in the background of her real life. He hates that he has thoughts about being observed. If anyone really saw, they’d peel back layers until nothing was left but the word. 
(worthless)
The store’s radio coughs static. Some old pop song limping its way through a broken speaker. The world blurs at the edges—what is Paris, if not concrete and piss and distant sunlight, leaking slowly across linoleum? He wishes the tiles here would just dissolve. 
Wishes his skin would too.
He wrings the rag out in the bucket, watches beer foam swirl with grime down the cheap plastic drain. His hands are pink, raw, stained with the same feeling that never quite leaves. His fingertips burn. Sometimes they bleed. That’s good. 
Pain is clean. Pain is honest.
Marcel doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look at him. Sophie tucks her drawing away, eyes flickering elsewhere. Taehyung straightens, wipes his palms on his trousers, and returns to the counter. He exists to erase.
Counting in his head—seven steps to the end of the aisle. Seven minutes until the shift ends. Seven letters in the nine his mother wrote under his skin:
Worthless.
Sometimes he thinks it’s the only word he’ll ever earn.
And outside, the city is gray. Inside, he is nothing. Inside, he is clean.
(For a moment. For seven counts. That’s all.)
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The water makes patterns like fractured light.
His shift ends like they always do—uneventful, almost unregistered in the library of his mind. 
Paris is set in a brooding mood, rain stalking down the windows carelessly. Taehyung watches each droplet make its slow descent, leaving dirty trails on the glass he'd scrubbed this morning. 
Seven hours ago. The bleach has worn off. Everything wears off eventually.
He'll have to clean the windows before going home. Marcel doesn't really care. Clean windows mean cleaner space. Cleaner space is good for Marcel's business. Or its reputation at least. Not that Taehyung cares about reputation or lack thereof, he just needs to quiet down the bubbling pressure that builds in his chest when the water droplets remove the bleach he's injected into the glass this morning.
The streak marks form constellations he doesn't know the names of. Names have never mattered much to him. Except when they belong to ghosts.
(worthlessworthlessworthless)
The register drawer sticks when he pulls it, a metallic scrape that makes his molars ache. He counts the bills by sevens—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. Again. The rhythm is comforting, like a metronome he can set his pulse to. His fingers leave no prints on the paper. He's careful about that. So careful.
Sophie comes by his counter, as she usually does at this time. Her hair is wet at the ends, dripping onto her shoulders. The moisture makes him twitch. He knows the pattern, knows how her hand raises to pat him in the shoulder, so he moves. Just lightly. A shift to the left. His body tilting away from contact like a plant bending from shadow.
She notices. She always notices. But she never says anything about it.
"Marcel left early," she says, tapping her pen against her lower lip. "Something about his daughter's recital. You know how he gets about that little prodigy of his."
Taehyung doesn't respond. He doesn't know what it's like to have a father proud enough to leave work early. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone watch you with anything but disappointment.
Sophie sighs into the silence. The sound scrapes against his eardrums. He counts the register one more time, even though the numbers are perfect. They're always perfect. He makes sure of it.
"You should really come to the dinner tonight. Would do some good for you to socialize," she says with a grin that shows too many teeth. 
Her lipstick is smudged at the corner. Imperfect. He wants to hand her a tissue but his hands stay where they are, counting, ordering, fixing what isn't broken.
He doesn't blame her for trying. He doesn't blame her for the invitation that comes every Friday, the same words in slightly different arrangements. He doesn't blame her for not understanding that socializing feels like drowning with an audience.
Taehyung doesn't respond, simply nods. He's learned the minimum requirements for human interaction. Nod. Blink. Breathe. Exist without being noticed.
She sighs, signals two fingers over her forehead as she exits the store, all while saying, "Don't stay too late, and close before you leave!"
Taehyung didn't need the reminder. He always checks seven times before he leaves, that the door is closed. 
Sophie knows. He knows she knows. He still doesn't say a word, just nods. Then, Sophie is gone.
Solitude, at last. 
Empty store, peace restored.
His fingers move to the cloth under the register. It's damp from earlier, beer and soda and whatever else the world tracked in. He should get a fresh one. Clean things with clean tools. His mother taught him that, at least, between the lessons about worthlessness.
The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the glass. The windows will need extra attention. He can already feel the itch building under his skin, the need to make everything spotless before he leaves. Before he walks through the rain and into his apartment, where everything is already clean but never clean enough.
He moves methodically. Counts each step. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. The mop bucket rattles as he pulls it from the back room. Water sloshes against plastic sides. He measures the bleach precisely. One cap. Two caps. The smell burns his nostrils, familiar and comforting. It smells like absolution.
The store is empty now. Just him and the endless task of erasing evidence that anyone was ever here. He likes it this way. Prefers it. People leave messes. People notice things. People try to touch his shoulder and invite him to dinners where he would have to speak and be seen and remembered.
No one remembers the person who cleans up after them. That's the beauty of it.
The mop makes wet streaks across the floor. He counts each stroke. Seven in one direction. Seven in the other. The pattern matters. The rhythm matters. If he gets it wrong, something terrible might happen. He doesn't know what. He just knows the fear tastes like metal at the back of his throat.
The windows come last. He saves them because they're the worst. Because they connect inside to outside. Because they're never truly clean, no matter how hard he scrubs.
He sprays the glass, watches the solution drip down in rivulets that mirror the rain on the other side. Seven sprays. Seven wipes. Seven circles clockwise, seven counterclockwise. The ritual matters. The counting matters.
When he's done, the store gleams under the harsh lights. No evidence that anyone has been here. No evidence that he exists at all, except in the absence of dirt.
Then, a sound.
 It comes from behind the door nobody opens.
Not the storeroom where Marcel keeps the cigarettes he thinks no one knows about, not the employee bathroom with its perpetually damp floor—the other one. The abandoned space where even Marcel refuses to go.
Taehyung freezes mid-wipe, cloth suspended against glass. The sound isn't loud. Just different. A disruption in the pattern of silence he's grown accustomed to.
He finishes the seventh circle, completing the ritual. Can't leave it unfinished. Bad things happen when rituals break. His mother taught him that—one of the few lessons that wasn't delivered with a slap or that word.
(worthless)
The sound comes again. Not a crash or a thud, but something lighter. A scrape, perhaps. The shuffle of something being moved after years of stillness.
His bleach bottle is nearly empty. The level has dropped below the label, and the thought of finishing his cleaning without it makes his chest cave inward. The supply closet—the forbidden one—holds what he needs. Marcel put the cleaning supplies there because no one else wants them. Because Taehyung is the only one who uses them. Because Marcel knows he'll go, no matter how much it terrifies him.
The handle feels wrong under his palm. Not cold or hot, but somehow both. The metal leaves an impression on his skin that he'll need to scrub away later. Seven times. With soap that smells like nothing.
The door creaks—not dramatically like in films, but with the quiet protest of hinges that have forgotten their purpose. The smell hits him first: dust and mildew, ancient paper, and something underneath it all that reminds him of childhood. 
Not his childhood—someone else's. Someone who was allowed to be happy.
Taehyung doesn't step fully inside. He hovers at the threshold, one foot in darkness, one in light. Liminal. The word appears in his head unbidden. He knows it from somewhere. A book, maybe. Something he read in the quiet hours when sleep refused to come.
The bleach is stacked against the far wall. Seven bottles. Always seven. Marcel orders them in sevens now without being asked. It's the only kindness Taehyung has ever noticed from the man.
He'll have to cross the room to get there. Step fully into the space that feels wrong. 
His skin prickles with contamination.
One step. The floor creaks.
Two. Dust motes dance in what little light filters through a grimy window.
Three. His breathing shallows.
Four. The sound comes again, clearer now. Not from this room, but beyond it.
Five. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to count on fingers but knowing better. Counting out loud is for children. Counting visibly is for the insane.
Six. He sees the wall isn't solid. There's glass embedded in it, cloudy with years of neglect.
Seven. He stops, right where he needs to be. The bottles wait, patient as saints.
He crouches, careful not to let his knees touch the floor. It's filthy here. Beyond salvaging. The kind of dirty that lives in the bones of a place, too deep for even bleach to reach. He imagines gutting the room—tearing out floorboards, scraping walls down to bare structure, burning it all and starting fresh. The fantasy calms him enough to grab a bottle.
That's when the melody starts.
Piano notes, distant but clear. A practice scale, then something more complex. The music doesn't filter through the wall—it seems to emerge from it, as if the plaster itself remembers a tune.
Taehyung stands, bottle clutched to his chest. His eyes find the glass panel naturally, drawn by the sound. It's a mirror, he realizes. Or it was meant to be. Years of grime have turned it into a cloudy barrier between this space and whatever lies beyond.
Curiosity is dangerous. His mother taught him that too. But the music pulls at something in him—a thread he didn't know was loose.
He approaches the glass, steps measured in sevens. The closer he gets, the clearer the sound becomes. Not just piano now. There's movement.
Without thinking, he raises his free hand—the one not clutching bleach like a lifeline—and wipes a small circle in the grime. The action is so automatic, so ingrained, that he doesn't register the contamination until it's done. 
His palm is gray with dust. He'll need to wash it. Scrub it. Make it clean again.
But then he sees through the cleared space, and everything else falls away.
The room beyond isn't abandoned. It's alive with light—not the harsh fluorescence of the convenience store, but something softer. Golden. The floors are wood, worn but cared for. Barres line the walls. A practice room.
And in its center, a figure moves.
You don’t dance to the piano. 
You are the music. 
(worthyworthyworthy)
Your body creates shapes he doesn't have names for. Arcs and lines that make his breath catch.
Taehyung doesn't know ballet. Doesn't know dance at all. But he knows beauty when he sees it. Knows holiness. Recognizes glory.
The glass, he realizes, isn't just dirty. It's one-way. A mirror on your side, a window on his. You can't see him watching. Don’t know you’re being witnessed.
The knowledge makes him feel profane. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be seeing this. It's too intimate, too sacred for someone like him.
(worthless)
But he can't look away.
Your hair is pulled back, severe and perfect. No strand out of place. Your leotard (is that the word? he thinks it might be) clings to a form that seems impossible—all angles and curves existing together in defiance of what bodies should be able to do.
When you turn, your face catches light. Features like a doll. But your gaze is nothing like that. Eyes focused on nothing but your reflection. On perfection. On control.
You are everything he is not.
Clean. 
Worthy.
Then, a series of turns that make his head spin just watching. You’re counting, he realizes. Your lips move slightly with each rotation. One, two, three... he can't tell how high you go. Can't follow the complexity of it.
The bleach bottle is cold against his chest. His palm still dirty. His breath fogging the small clear spot he's made in the glass.
He should leave. Should run. Should take his bleach and go back to his world of sticky floors and meaningless tasks. Should never come back here again.
But even as he thinks it, he knows he will. Knows that he'll return tomorrow, like he has to now. And the day after. And every day the store is open. Just to stand in this filthy room he can't bear to be in. Just to watch you move like water, like air.
Like everything pure in a world of contamination.
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goal: 150 notes.
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taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw
© jungkoode 2025.
no reposts, translations, or adaptations
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fangswbenefits · 1 year ago
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The Arrangement (12) - In the Beginning
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Chapter summary: Astarion meets up with Ava and it triggers something deep within him.
Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav
Warnings: 18+. Astarion's POV. Mention of masturbation. Dissociative episode. Bloodlust.
Word count: 4.8k
Series Masterlist . Ao3
He should have known this would happen eventually. 
His love affair with the sun had reached an unavoidable end. Yet again. Luck had seldom ever been on his side, so this shouldn’t sting this much.
But it did.
His eyes darted to the half-moon window high up above through which scorching shafts of sunlight tore and lit up the dingy cellar.
Revulsion stirred within him and the flares of anger threatened to consume him whole.
The very same sun rays in which he had bathed for weeks were now a sore reminder of his true and inescapable nature.
He titled his head back against the wooden crate, his eyes fluttering shut in defeat as he sat on the cold floor.
Astarion had served his purpose and was now cast to live in the shadows once more, bound to his hunger and to all the inconveniences of being a vampire spawn.
The pain of being scorched by the sunlight had been revived in his mind after weeks of freely strolling around the Sword Coast in some impromptu quest to save Baldur’s Gate whilst having to deal with an inconvenient wriggling dweller inside his head.
But all the physical pain of being burnt mercilessly paled in comparison when his ears picked up approaching footsteps.
He knew who they belonged to.
The sound was carved into his mind like a dagger that wouldn’t budge.
You.
He winced as the squeaky door was pushed open. 
“Astarion?”
He gritted his teeth, silently praying you’d simply walk away and leave him to his misery. 
But his prayers had never been answered before, and that wasn’t about to change now, least of all when it concerned you.
In truth, he doubted any God above would be able to keep you from plaguing his thoughts.
“Astarion, I know you’re in here.”
Then leave.
He remained silent, eyes fluttered shut and an urge to be swallowed whole by the ground below.
Light and careful footsteps drew near and only came to a halt as a swift rush of air indicated to him that you were crouched in front of him.
Shit.
“Hello,” you said and he could hear the warm smile in your voice.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and he was sure that if he had a beating heart, it would most likely skip a few beats. Instead, he felt his stomach lurch as hunger simmered dangerously.
Your kind eyes met his and he craved nothing more than to have you be gone. 
From all the afflictions he was yet again a slave to, you were by far the most painful one.
“Did you come here to mock me?” he spat, the poisonous words leaving his mouth before he could hold back.
Your eyes widened slightly. “Mock you? Astarion–”
But he cut you off like a knife through flesh. “Spare me – I saw the way they laughed as my skin crumbled to ashes. So if you’ve come here to have your share, you can just leave.”
He was being unfair and he didn’t need your wavering smile as proof.
After all your travels together and his unrequited feelings towards you, he couldn’t fight his arrogance from surfacing.
But you never gave up on him – through deceit and manipulation, you were unmoving and relentless in your loyalty to him.
“I’ll have you know that I scolded all of them for doing so,” you said firmly. “It was uncalled for, especially after everything we’ve been through together.”
His jaw clenched harder and his eyes narrowed. 
Oh, he couldn’t stand it. That look on your face – pity. It immediately triggered a visceral reaction deep within him, and when he saw you reach out to him with your hand, he flinched away and recoiled against the crate behind him. 
“Don’t touch me.”
Your hand immediately stilled before dropping to your knee, and he saw a glint of sadness cross your eyes.
It wasn’t disgust or anger that caused him to utter such words.
He just knew your touch would ruin him and that he’d allow it.
“We can find a way to solve this,” you tried again with newfound determination. “We will find a way.”
He scoffed, averting his gaze.
Unfortunately, the laws of the worlds didn’t bend to the whims of lesser beings without compromise. 
And he soon realised what really bothered him was how vulnerable he felt – how exposed and weak he surely looked in your eyes.
Pathetic.
Useless.
Tainted.
Broken.
“Do you trust me?” 
He remained silent.
“Do you?”
Your insistence gnawed at his nerves, causing him to lock eyes with you again. 
“It goes beyond trust, darling. If walking in the sun again – or curing vampirism altogether – were that easy, I would not be here in the first place.”
Even through his snarky remark, you found a way to hold a smile and it immediately disarmed him. “Astarion, if there is anything our travels together have taught me is that we're quite good at turning the impossible into possible,” you said with conviction. “If there is a way to help you, we will find it.”
In another lifetime, he would have called you a foolish human who uttered big words without knowing their meaning.
But in this one, he did know you didn't extend promises lightly.
And if there was a sliver of hope he could cling to, he'd take it, especially now that Cazador was no longer around to compel him otherwise.
“Well, who's ‘we’, exactly?” he asked, easing himself against the crate.
Your face lightened up. “You and me, of course.”
The two of you. Just the two of you?
Oh, he liked the sound of that. Very, very much. 
His jaw slacked as hope kindled inside him, soaring dangerously high.
“Well, and Wyll – he's offered to help.”
Said hope plummeted back to the ground, shattering.
He scowled with a click of his tongue. “Did he, now? How chivalrous of him.”
You nodded. “I'm sure the others will come around, too.”
Astarion supposed this was a decent prospect, but almost grimaced when you extended your hand to him.
“Deal?”
He wanted to believe your relationship with him surpassed a mere friendship value, but he had grown tired of hoping for more.
Still, he would greedily take anything you would offer him.
Whether it was an indication that you craved more than friendship, or a simple handshake.
As such, he took your hand in his, revelling in the familiar warmth. “We have a deal, darling.”
Once he entered The Blushing Mermaid, it was evident that the presence of six Flaming Fists was not welcome at all.
Bork immediately asked for only two to stay inside as they were beginning to frighten the clientele.
But, much to his convenience, he immediately found who he was looking for, sitting in the furthermost corner of the lounge area.
Ava.
The plan was simple: try to get a confession from her – if applicable – but they would still be bringing her in for questioning as Rob Sorel, her lover, awaited her with Wyll.
A measured smile spread across her face as she noticed the fists behind him.
He slithered to her table with determined steps, aware that there was a possibility that this conversation would lead nowhere.
He slowly took the seat across from her, casually placing his twin daggers on the chipped table.
Ava's eyes dropped momentarily before meeting his again. “Oh, Astarion. Offering a silent warning with poison-coated blades? You needn't do that with me.”
Astarion's lips twitched upwards in silence.
He knew this dance better than most. He could read others quite efficiently when it came to sudden shifts in body language, and he had noticed Ava sitting straighter and her saccharine smile wavering all of a sudden.
And he had her right where he wanted her.
“You can't be too careful. Isn't that what some say?” he said, absentmindedly drumming his fingers along the handle of one dagger.
She took a sip from her cup before tilting it. “I'd order one for you, but I know this isn't your drink of choice – unless you brought her along for a sip, that is.”
Her taunt was enough to set him ablaze and the tip of his blade was immediately carved into the wooden table, earning a jolt from her.
“You do not get to goad me with her,” he snarled, gripping the handle so fiercely he might snap it in half. “She is off limits and you were delusional to even think you could bring her into this without consequences.”
Suddenly, her face twisted into a hard scowl and whatever traces of sweetness vanished. “I would not do anything with her without talking to you first.”
“You still offered her a deal, thereby roping her into something she is not to be a part of,” he retorted. “Her blood is off limits. She is off limits.”
Ava leaned back with a roll of her eyes. “Is this a case of you not wanting to share? Not even if that could be beneficial to you?”
His grip loosened slightly as his brows furrowed. “What is your point?”
She took another sip. “Her blood mixed with yours could be beneficial to my experiment and, thus, to you and even that massive horde of spawn in the Underdark.”
Of course Ava would want to play her cards right to keep him around.
It was a temptimg prospect, and he would never consider it at your expense.
He was no fool and you were no bargaining chip.
“I could never ask that of her. She stays out of this.”
She forced a yawn. “Have you forgotten your arrangement with her? Her blood for your good behaviour? Or does all sense of reason rush to your cock when you feed on her?”
Ava's words slashed through the air and he was momentarily taken aback.
The nature of your arrangement with him was vastly different. It wasn’t as simple as him being kept in line like some obedient pup. He could have turned the offer away and live exclusively off boars and deers – much to his horror.
The difference was… well, you.
Your unwillingness to let him go.
Your blood.
Your insistence on helping him keep his mind clear by allowing him to freely feed on the blood of a thinking creature.
And not just any thinking creature.
You.
His first.
The only blood he craved to the point of madness.
“Though, I can tell you haven't fed in a couple of days,” she went on with a dramatic pout. “A lover's quarrel, hmm?”
Oh, she was vicious.
This was the same woman who had shared a bed with him to ease him coming to terms with intimacy. For the most part, her simply being naked by his side hadn't helped much, but it seemed enough, and he was desperate to overcome the prison that his mind had become.
However, this was also the same woman who slayed her kin without hesitation.
She could go from being as kind and sweet to holding a stake to his chest.
Astarion felt a sense of dread wash over him as he realised he had greatly underestimated her.
Now, he needed to tread lightly.
The blade sunk deeper into the table as he leaned closer. “You wanted her blood in exchange for information.”
“Yet it is a far less selfish bargain than your arrangement with her, is it not?”
He ignored tar taunt. “Who is after me?”
“I do not know yet.”
He gritted his teeth. “Lies.”
Ava's face softened and he watched her slip into her usual overly sweet demeanour. “Astarion, we can be here all night hurling accusations and witty remarks at each other,” she said with a sigh. “Or we can approach this in a more sensitive manner.”
He didn't budge. “Who is after me?”
“I do not know who is after you,” she said. “Someone is, but I have yet to find out who.”
There was something in her tone that felt disingenuous. Almost as if she hadn't expected him to press her on this.
“Or there is no one at all besides you,” he said casually.
Her eyes widened slightly. “Me? And what would I gain from doing such a thing? Your blood is an integral part of this experiment. Locking you up in a prison cell would prove to be a nuisance.”
His patience was wearing thin.
“Darling, I've been around long enough to know people lie – you are a pristine liar, but a liar nonetheless.
In truth, he was merely bluffing in an attempt to spot any cracks in her story. He needed anything he could get from her.
And a part of him still hoped this was all a misunderstanding.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I can see what you are trying to do and it won't work.”
He thought as much. Still, he had to give it a try.
“What about Waterdeep?”
For the first time that night, Ava looked genuinely dumbfounded. “What about it?”
“No casual killings over there, hmm? In the past hours – accidental ones, perhaps?” he pressed.
She frowned deeply in response. “What are you accusing me of, exactly?”
“Someone was murdered and I am simply trying to rule you out as a suspect,” he said, feigning concern. 
“You overestimate my reach outside Baldur's Gate.”
He scoffed. “But not the reach of a certain patriar who so happens to be your lover.”
Ava's lips parted but she didn't utter a word.
“Rob Sorel has dealings in Waterdeep and knows which strings to pull to order a murder.”
She was visibly agitated, but he couldn't tell the cause. Was it the mention of a patriar? Or was he simply nearing the truth?
“Who was killed?”
It was all pointless.
A shame.
He merely turned in his seat and motioned for the two Fists at the door. Both immediately approached with the Mage Slayer right behind.
By this point, Astarion wasn't sure if Ava was even involved in this at all, but he couldn't take any risks. She would be taken in for questioning regardless of his judgement.
“Astarion?”
The room was immediately plunged into silence as multiple heads turned to watch the scene. From behind the counter he spotted Bork shaking his head in clear disapproval, visibly displeased with the ordeal.
“Astarion? What are you doing?”
His eyes met hers as he sheathed his daggers. “The right thing.”
He was known to do that from time to time, even against his better judgement.
She rushed to her feet, clawing at her dress in search of her own dagger. “Astarion!”
He could hear the rising panic in her voice, and he silently watched as the mage cast Hold Person on her before she could so much as blink.
She was instantly left petrified in place as the violet sign on the floor caged her in.
Gasps echoed around him and the two Fists promptly rushed to her side.
“We'll handle it from here,” one of them told him.
There was a part of him that vaguely wondered if this was the correct approach. 
A part of him that hoped for Ava not to be involved in any of it.
And then, from across the room, he saw you.
He blinked twice, thinking his eyes betrayed him, but there you were, standing by the door with a Fist at your side, staring back into his crimson eyes.
And it was as if he had been mentally slapped.
Ava had dared to involve you.
You.
And it had been his fault.
The unruly and dense crowd in the room wasn't enough to contain him from darting hurriedly to meet you.
Annoyance hit him first and it was woven into his words once he was in front of you, gripping your forearm. “Why are you here? I told you to let me handle this.”
You immediately yanked free with narrowed eyes. “I wasn't trying to interfere. But this idiot,” you said, pointing to the Fist who merely shrugged, “pushed me inside and – wait! How did it go with her?”
Astarion caught hold of your shoulders, pulling you to the side as Ava was carried away through the door.
As soon as it closed behind them, the fanfare commenced once more in between heated whispers and glares from those around the two of you.
“Marvellous as you can see,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “She didn't confess to anything, and I had limited time.”
You pushed the door open once again and he promptly followed you outside, until he felt a hard shove from someone's hand.
“Move, spawn.”
He glanced over his shoulder only to see a frowning Fist right behind.
“We are not cattle to be ordered around,” he spat, adjusting his vest. “Honestly, Wyll ought to have you all stand trial for severe lack of manners.”
“It's Duke Ravengard to you,” the Fist growled, hand on the hilt of his sword.
Astarion clicked his tongue humorously. “It's Wyll to me and Duke Ravengard to you, Fist.”
Before tensions could escalate any further, you were already tugging at his sleeve, and dragging him across the wooden pier.
Just as the Fist opened his mouth, a myriad of clashing and banging sounds were heard from inside and he turned to open the door.
Probably a tavern brawl.
What fun!
Seconds later, the armoured man was toppled to the ground as the door burst open with people yelling profanities and slinging fists at each other.
“I'll kill ya! WHERE IS MY CHICKEN, YOU OAF?” a drunkard missing most of his teeth yelled, holding a frying pan in his hand.
“YOU ATE IT, YOU IMBECILE!” said another, stepping on the fallen Fist and nearly losing his balance.
Behind them, Astarion spotted several items being tossed whilst Bork's voice begged for order.
He almost clicked his tongue.
Tavern brawls were too much fun and he always adored adding fuel to the fire by standing on the side and instigating these drunkard fools.
But a quick glance at you and he could tell you wouldn't approve of such activity, so he remained at your side.
The other two Fists that were standing guard nearby, clumsily rushed to the entrance.
“Go call for backup!”
The youngest nodded and nearly bumped into Astarion as he tried to keep his helmet steady.
“Oh! Do not leave! Do not move!”
Astarion immediately raised both hands innocently. “Wouldn't dream of it.”
“Right. Thank you!”
Idiot.
Surprisingly, you hadn't let go of his sleeve and your hand moved to his wrist, pulling him to cross the road until you reached the metal balustrade that allowed a privileged view over the Grey Harbour Docks.
It was far away from the chaos that had erupted, but not quite far that would potentially get you into trouble.
Although… “Maybe we should leave.”
Astarion arched an eyebrow at you. “And going against the voice of authority?”
Your face dropped and he fought the urge to pinch your cheek teasingly.
You were so easy to rile up.
“You scheming little delinquent, you,” he said with a devious smile and a chuckle. “I'm all for acts of rebellion, but we ought to stay nearby this time.”
“Do you think we should go help them out?” you asked, glancing over at the rising commotion nearby.
The two of you exchanged looks before shrugging.
“No. They can fend for themselves,” you said, leaning over the fence, eyes set on the lulling sea that spread vastly into the distance.
“Actually, they're quite incompetent, but I don't feel like creasing my shirt,” he said with an annoyed click of his tongue, inspecting his sleeves as he joined you. “Let them fight off the drunkards. We get to collect the scattered coins on the floor afterwards.”
You shot him a curious look. “You do that?”
“Well, obviously? I put the gold to good use, at least.”
“Embroidery?”
That tugged a genuine smile from him and he caught himself staring at you under the moonlight.
Gods.
He would never tire of admiring your beauty and how it was almost embarrassingly too easy for him to get lost in your eyes.
It also didn't help that he hadn't fed in a few days.
Bloodlust clouded his mind and made his insides turn.
It was the soft sound of your voice that snapped him from his thoughts. “What now? I mean… Ava.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, they are to interrogate Rob Sorel and see how both their stories hold up.”
You heaved a deep sigh. “So we wait.”
“We wait.”
Astarion had grown used to the silence that would often settle around the two of you. It wasn’t an uncomfortable one. It was the kind that he had never experienced before.
He wasn't sure there was a name for it, but he knew the feeling attached to it all too well.
The silhouette of passing ships on the horizon, dancing along the calm waters added to the overall soothing atmosphere.
He could stay a while longer like this.
With you.
His eyes eventually darted to the side and he nearly jolted when your head turned to him, as if you had felt his burning gaze.
“You can feed on me once we get home.”
He wanted that.
He needed it.
He craved it.
But… “I can do without your blood for a while longer, darling.”
A white lie.
He could feel his mind spotting and blanking at times already, especially when near you. Maybe he had gotten too addicted to feeding on you to the point his body could no longer go extended periods of time without blood.
Your blood.
And as much as he appreciated your offer, he needed to withstand his hunger.
Ava's words echoed in his mind and he almost felt repulsed from having allowed himself to be so dependent on you and putting you through it in the first place.
“Are you alright?” you asked, visibly worried.
“Yes – of course, darling,” he forced a smile to curl his lips.
Your hand came to rest on his forearm. “Astarion, you can feed on me. I mean it.”
His eyes dropped to your neck, the symmetrical puncture wounds still visible from when he had last bitten you.
Hunger swelled to the point of agony and he could almost smell your blood and feel it coursing through your hand.
You gave him a reassuring nod, which only made it harder for him to resist the urge to give in.
“I should go hunt, actually,” he eventually managed to say and his words felt like ash in his mouth.
You chuckled slightly, squeezing his arm. “You'd probably have to bring a Fist with you.”
He grimaced, but appreciated your attempt at diffusing the tension. “They would end up being the ones hunted by some beast in the woods, and I would have to step in and save the godsdamned idiot.”
Your eyes widened and then you laughed.
Hard.
And it was the most comforting sound he had ever heard in a long while.
It was enough to steer the bloodlust away and he laughed with you.
“It reminds me of the first time you fed on me,” you said, wiping off the teardrops that had formed in the corners of your eyes from laughing. “Remember? When you drifted off into the woods to hunt for something more ‘filing’?”
Oh.
Shit.
His smile wavered and you immediately caught on to the sudden shift.
“What?”
He thought he had told you what truly happened that night….
…. he hadn't?
“Well… I…” his words failed him and as he pondered how he should approach the topic.
Concern suddenly splattered across your face. “What is it? 
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I didn't exactly go hunting,” he said with a tense chuckle.
You remained silent, waiting for him to go on.
“I just had to get away from you… to… uhm, well – take care of a little problem that stirred whilst I fed on you, if you catch my meaning.”
He allowed the implication to dangle from his words, and it wasn't a particularly subtle one.
And then your eyes widened once more in sudden realisation.
“Oh… it makes sense,” you said all flustered, withdrawing your hand from his arm. “You did say my blood feels really good.”
‘Good’ was an unfair understatement.
It always felt divine.
“Don't misunderstand,” he quickly added. “It was totally out of my control. I was quite surprised when I realised just how…” hard he had gotten.
“Just how…?”
“Just how much your blood affected me.”
He could remember it clearly in his head.
How desperate he was to slip into the woods and find a secluded place so he could see just how much of a mess his trousers were.
He could feel it, obviously, but he wouldn't know the extent of the ‘'damage’ until he undid his trousers.
“Did you… get…. really hard?” you drawled out in a hushed tone as if scared someone other than him might overhear you.
Astarion figured this was the last topic he expected to be addressing given that the background noise consisted of screams and threats and loud noises and glass smashing.
Hardly the right ambience.
“Yes.”
He could almost remember the feel of the bark of the tree digging into his back as he hurriedly undid the lacing at the front until he was able to free his cock.
“And what did you do?”
Were these merely questions that stemmed from curiosity or were you trying to stir something else…?
“Well…” he started, “you can't expect me to reveal such things aloud.”
He watched you swallow hard as you nodded. “You can say in my ear, then? If you want to, of course,” you quickly added.
You were too adorable and he was in dire need of a distraction from his bloodlust.
This would suffice.
He leaned closer, and pressed a kiss to your heated cheek before his lips grazed the shell of your ear.
“I had to take care of it.”
You shuddered.
His cock had never been as hard and as thick before he had fed on you. It had made him utterly speechless to see all the precum dripping from the tip.
He had been almost too scared to even touch it.
But when he did….
The groan that had erupted from his throat had been too difficult to rein in. His cock had felt warm and it had throbbed from your blood coursing through it, giving it a faint pink tint to it.
“In the woods?” you asked, gripping the railing with both hands.
“Yes.”
He could hear the faint beating of your heart increasing. “What if someone had run into you?”
His cock twitched.
Innocent, little pup…
“Why, darling… did you want to run into me,” he lowered his voice as his lips brushed against your ear, "and witness my despair as I touched myself?”
You gasped.
Despair didn't quite cover it. 
He couldn’t remember a time when he had ever felt like he'd implode lest he reached climax.
It was a novelty and he had felt… alive. 
He had heard of how delectable the blood of thinking creatures could be, but he had never anticipated this feeling of fullness and how addictive it could be.
“It was so warm… from your blood, sweetheart,” he purred, feeling himself getting carried away.
You bit your quivering lip before replying, “Did it feel good?”
Maybe too carried away.
And when you shuddered again under his faint touch, it was as if he had been slapped back into another plane of existence.
He suddenly straightened himself and blinked.
What was he doing?
His abrupt change in demeanour was enough to earn a reaction from you, and he could see lust in your half-hooded eyes as you stared at him in confusion.
And just like a tidal wave that one couldn't hold back, he felt disgust and revulsion lacing themselves into a powerful mixture that caused him to take a step back.
His mind was flooded with Ava's accusatory words and the memories of him seducing you for his own benefit.
“Astarion?”
Your voice was miles away and he couldn't even bring himself to blink anymore.
The nauseating feeling was heightened by the fact that he had a very inconvenient erection strained against his trousers, begging for attention.
“Astarion… what is it?” 
Your voice seemed even more distant than before, as if he had been plunged into a well and couldn't get out.
Why couldn't he get out?
Why was his cock so hard, but his mind so repulsed by it?
And the impending feeling of dread began to slowly overtake him like storm clouds rolling over the mountains, bent on flooding the land below.
And when it began to rain in his mind, it poured.
He needed to get away.
He needed to get away from you.
You tried reaching out to him with your hand, but he flinched away. “Don't touch me!”
And he could see it in your eyes.
Pity.
Again.
“I – I must go.”
And he didn't look back.
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TBC
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novascharms · 3 months ago
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teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe
reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.
word count — 2.0 chapter index — prev. chap. -  next chap. masterlist
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seventeen sunday, february 23rd
"n-no, i d-don't know how it h-happened," you stammer between sobs, tears streaming down your cheeks like a relentless downpour, the streaks hot and unyielding against your skin. for the past ten minutes, they'd fallen nonstop, blurring your vision as you sat cross-legged on your bed, your laptop perched on your thighs. hazel’s face filled the screen, her soft, concerned expression a stark contrast to your crumbling composure.
"we’ll email him—no, we’ll go to him. we’ll talk to him and figure this out. it has to be a misunderstanding," hazel insists, her voice firm but laced with care. she always has that resolve, that unwavering determination that usually lifts your spirits. but this time, no amount of her optimism seems to reach you.
you stare at the screen, at the damning grade glaring back at you from your latest ap physics test on thermodynamics. it feels like the numbers are mocking you, each digit searing itself into your brain. you knew you’d been shaky on the topic, fumbling over concepts and equations in class, but you hadn’t expected this. it’s the worst grade you’ve ever received, and the voice in your head—the cruel, unrelenting one—begins its assault. failure. waste of space. people go to war, and you can’t even handle a high school physics test? really?
the thought slices through you, and more tears spill over, unstoppable, as you bury your face in your trembling hands. "i did all the extra credit—everything. and this is still the best i can do," you choke out, your voice muffled but desperate, the words breaking into gasps. the tissue box sits beside you, but it might as well be miles away. what was the point? it wasn’t like you’d stop crying anytime soon.
hazel leans closer to her camera, her brows furrowed as if sheer willpower could cross the digital divide and pull you out of this pit. "okay, but there’s still the end-of-year finals. we’re gonna make sure you ace those, okay? you’ll pick this up, i know you can."
"i’d have to get more than a 95 to bring me back up," you whimper, your voice trembling like a fragile thread threatening to snap. "and physics… it’s not my strongest class. i don’t think i can do it." your throat tightens painfully, your breath catching as another sob shakes through you. your eyes sting, raw from the endless stream of tears, and the hopelessness pressing down on you feels as though it might consume you whole.
your door swings open without warning, the creak of the hinges snapping you out of your spiral for a brief moment. your head shoots up to see rafe stepping inside. his movements halt mid-step as his eyes take in the scene before him—your tear-streaked face, red-rimmed eyes, and trembling frame hunched over your laptop. concern floods his expression instantly.
"hey, hey," he says softly, crossing the room with quick strides. "what happened?"
his voice, warm and familiar, triggers something deep inside you, and the dam bursts all over again. your bottom lip quivers uncontrollably, and before you can stop it, you're sobbing like a heartbroken child. "i’m a failure," you manage to choke out, the words garbled through the hitching of your breath and the sting of fresh tears.
"rafe, can you please tell her she is not a failure," hazel’s voice cuts sharply through the speaker of your laptop. she sounds insistent but exasperated, her words carrying the weight of someone who’s been trying to convince you otherwise for far too long.
rafe is by your side in an instant, dropping to the bed next to you, his hands already reaching for you. "you are not a failure," he says firmly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours, a mixture of worry and tenderness in their depths. "come here. what happened?" his arms wrap around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. you can’t bring yourself to explain; you don’t want to explain. all you want is to stay right here, buried in his embrace, hidden from the shame eating you alive.
"she—"
"don’t tell him!" you cut hazel off abruptly, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. the thought of hearing her recount it aloud makes your stomach churn. once the words leave this safe little bubble, the weight of their reality would only crush you further.
rafe presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head, the gesture so tender it momentarily dulls the ache in your chest. "you don’t have to tell me," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "is there anything i can do to make it better? anything you need?" his hand glides along your back in slow, comforting strokes, and you melt into him, pressing your face deeper into his chest like you could disappear entirely.
"a gun," you mutter through your tears.
"y/n!" hazel’s scolding voice carries through the laptop, though you can hear the faint amusement laced in her tone. even so, you were at least ninety-nine percent serious.
rafe’s soft laugh rumbles in his chest as he presses another kiss into your hair. "did you get a bad grade?" he guesses quietly, and the simple question, said so gently, sends a fresh wave of tears spilling from your eyes. you nod against him, unable to meet his gaze as the shame washes over you again.
"i’m a failure," you whisper again, the words shaking as they leave your lips. the sobs rack your body, and rafe carefully pulls you back, gently lifting your chin so you’re face-to-face. his eyes search yours, unwavering.
"look at me," he says softly but firmly. you sniffle, hesitant, but you do. his hands cup your damp cheeks, his thumbs brushing away your tears as he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. "you are not a failure," he whispers, his voice steady, grounding.
you shake your head weakly, denying his words, but he doesn’t let you. "no," he says again, more resolute this time. "you are not a failure. one bad grade doesn’t define you—you hear me? it doesn’t even come close to defining you." his words are calm but unyielding, and they break through the haze of despair, just barely.
"you’re the smartest girl in every room," he continues, his voice a quiet, steady rhythm that grounds you as you try to catch your breath. "you work harder than anyone i know, and you’re carrying so much on your shoulders—more than anyone should. it’s okay to stumble. it’s okay not to be perfect all the time. a bad grade doesn’t erase everything you’ve accomplished. it doesn’t make you less worthy or capable. i’m proud of you. you know that, right?"
you nod slowly, his words a balm to the ache in your chest. he wipes away the last of your tears with the pads of his thumbs, his gaze never leaving yours. "you’re going to crush those finals, okay? you’ve got this. no one is more capable than you." he pulls you back into his arms, this time tucking your head into the crook of his neck, his warmth cocooning you like a safe harbor.
his lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "in a couple of years, no one’s going to care about a physics class because they’ll all be too busy calling you madam president."
the words catch you off guard, pulling a soft, broken laugh from your lips. the corners of your mouth twitch into a faint smile, the first one of the day, and though it’s small, it feels like a victory.
"y/n, i’m gonna let you go, okay? i’ll see you tomorrow at school," hazel says softly, her voice cutting through the haze of your emotions. you shift slightly, easing out of rafe’s arms as you glance at the screen. if she hadn’t figured out your secret before, she definitely knew now. but as her smile brightens and she offers a playful thumbs-up, you realize you’re okay with it. more than okay. her approval is written all over her face, warm and reassuring.
"okay, i love you," you whisper, giving her a small wave. hazel shoots you one last encouraging grin before disconnecting the call, leaving the screen dark.
"she’s the one who told you not to get close to me, huh?" rafe’s voice is calm, but there’s a quiet weight behind it that makes you freeze mid-step. you turn back to him slowly, your eyes meeting his, and press your lips together before giving a hesitant nod. "how’d you know?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
his lips press into a thin line as he exhales, his gaze briefly dropping before finding yours again. "just the way she looked at me just then… like i was a ticking time bomb," he murmurs, shrugging lightly. "she doesn’t trust me. it’s written all over her face. i just… pieced it together." the casualness in his tone doesn’t quite mask the hurt flickering in his eyes.
your heart aches at the sight of him, so open and vulnerable in a way few ever get to see. you offer him a soft, apologetic smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "she means well, but don’t worry," you whisper, stepping closer and brushing a tender kiss to the tip of his nose. the way his eyes soften at the gesture makes your chest tighten.
"i think i’ve let myself be a little too influenced by what other people tell me about you," you admit, your fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt. "or how they see you. but that’s on me." you pause, drawing in a steadying breath before continuing, "i know you. i know your heart, your intentions. hazel trusts me—she always has. and she’ll trust me on this too. don’t worry."
his gaze locks onto yours, brimming with that quiet, unshakable hope that always makes your pulse quicken. you can feel the gratitude in the way he looks at you, in the slight curve of his lips as his expression softens. leaning in, his lips brush against yours, feather-light and reverent, a kiss that feels like a promise. "i wasn’t worried," he murmurs, his voice so soft it’s almost drowned out by the thrum of your heartbeat.
the corners of his lips tug upward, playful yet soft. "wanna watch the summer i turned pretty?" he asks casually, but the way his gaze lingers tells you it’s more than just an offer—it’s his way of saying i’m here. your heart squeezes, and you think you finally understand what people mean when they say that to be loved is to be truly known.
"i’m supposed to tutor you," you whisper, your voice still uneven from crying, though quieter now.
he shrugs like it’s nothing, already tugging your laptop closer and pulling up the prime video app. "you’ll tutor me tomorrow," he says easily, his tone light and coaxing. with practiced ease, he shifts the two of you around on the bed, adjusting until you’re both nestled together. the blanket rustles as he pulls it over your legs and tucks it around your waist, a cocoon of warmth. "besides, we left off at that episode where jeremiah and belly kissed, and i refuse to keep living in a world where conrad has to suffer like that without seeing what happens next."
you can’t help it—the giggle bubbles out of you before you can stop it. you settle your head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. "he deserves better," you murmur, your voice soft and drowsy as the episode starts playing on the screen.
as the story unfolds, the room fills with the familiar glow of the laptop and the low hum of dialogue. rafe’s hand trails absentmindedly along your arm, his fingers tracing gentle patterns that ease away the rest of the tension clinging to you. by the time the credits roll, your eyelids are heavy, and exhaustion begins to claim you.
you barely register the feel of the blanket being drawn up higher, tucking snugly around your shoulders. the press of a gentle kiss to your forehead lingers for a moment. his scent, the warmth of his presence, and the rhythmic beat of his heart lull you further into the haze of sleep until the world fades away entirely.
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fr0stf4ll · 3 months ago
Text
A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 11
paring; Azriel x reader
summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.
word count ; 6.7k
Trigger warning; mention of clipping, violence, blood
notes; Hey hey hey, back with this hmm hmm special chapter, surprisingly (or not hehe) I truly enjoyed writing thing one (I'm sorry y/n). Well I'm not going to spoil anything but I hope that you will enjoy that one. Also I had a question because I'm already writing the following chapters, would you rather have a long chapter or two different (with one posted one day and the other the day after) ? Well you guys tell me because i'm struggling a bit haha. See you soon, love you ! (I love soooooo much your comments btw <33333)
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The last day at the palace was filled with bittersweet goodbyes and heartfelt promises. Each healer expressed their gratitude, their voices tinged with emotion as they pledged to stay in touch and continue the work you had all started. Veras, the healer from the Winter Court, clasped your hand firmly, his icy-blue eyes glinting with determination. “Keep pushing forward, Y/N. You always manage to lead us to the right path.”
Even Rordan, the reserved healer from the Autumn Court, offered a rare smile. “We’ll hold up our end of the agreement. Stay safe.”
Amara pulled you into a quick hug, her hazel eyes soft with concern. “Don’t let the weight of it all crush you, Y/N. You’ve got this.”
Lila from the Spring Court, ever vibrant, waved energetically. “Don’t stay away so long this time, alright?”
Lastly, Telyan gave you a steady nod. “The Dawn Court is always open to you. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”
The warmth of their words stayed with you as you made your way back to your room to gather your belongings. The setting sun painted the city in hues of gold and orange, casting long shadows across the polished floors. As you finished packing, you paused by the window, drawn to the breathtaking view of Solterra one last time. The bustling city was beginning to quiet, the glow of its lights preparing to welcome the night.
A soft knock on the door startled you, and Azriel stepped inside, his presence commanding yet quiet. His gaze flickered to you and then to the window, where dark clouds were rolling over the distant horizon. “It looks like the Peregrins’ warning was accurate,” he murmured, his voice low. “The winds will be rough on the usual route.”
You nodded, your eyes lingering on the storm clouds. “It’s going to be a detour by the sea, then. Let’s hope it’s calmer there.”
Azriel joined you by the window, both of you staring at the ominous clouds in silence. The moment felt heavy, but not unpleasant. The bond hummed faintly in the background, but you pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
“Ready to go?” Azriel finally asked.
“Almost,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Let’s head to the entrance.”
The two of you made your way through the palace’s grand corridors to the main entrance, where Thesan was waiting. His warm smile greeted you, and he stepped forward to clasp your hand. “Safe travels, Y/N. I trust you’ll keep us updated.”
“Of course,” you said with a smile. “Thank you for everything, Thesan.”
His gaze flickered to Azriel, and he extended his hand to him as well. “Safe travels to you too, Shadowsinger. And thank you for watching over her.”
Azriel nodded, his expression polite but distant. “It’s my duty.”
With that, the two of you stepped outside, the crisp evening air brushing against your skin. The city stretched out before you, the pale light of the moon casting an ethereal glow over its winding streets and gleaming spires. Azriel turned to you, his gaze steady. “Ready?”
You nodded, though the prospect of being carried by him again made your stomach flutter with nerves. “Ready.”
He scooped you up with practiced ease, his strong arms securing you against his chest. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet reminder of the connection neither of you spoke of. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the sensation of the wind rushing past as Azriel launched into the sky.
The flight was calm despite the warnings, the gentle light of the moon illuminating the path ahead. The vast expanse of the sea shimmered to your left, its waves glinting silver under the celestial glow. Night had fully fallen by the time you broke the silence.
“It’s beautiful out here,” you said softly, your voice carried effortlessly over the wind.
“It is,” Azriel agreed, his tone contemplative. “More than I expected.”
The two of you flew in silence for a while longer, his steady heartbeat under your ear a soothing rhythm. The bond hummed again, but you pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to let it complicate this moment.
When Azriel adjusted his grip slightly, you glanced up at him, catching the faint flicker of a smile on his face as he gazed out over the sea. It was a rare sight, one that made your own lips curve upward despite the tension that had lingered between you.
For now, the world below and the open sky above were enough.
The flight had been calm, serene even, with the moonlight casting its ethereal glow over the endless expanse of the sea below. But just as you were about to comment on how peaceful it was, the first crack of thunder echoed through the sky. The world seemed to shift.
A storm rolled in with a ferocity that took your breath away. The wind howled, whipping rain against your skin in icy sheets, and the sea below churned violently, its waves reaching toward the heavens in jagged crests.
“Azriel...” you began, your voice unsteady as you glanced at him. “Is this—”
And then, everything stopped.
Azriel’s wings, which had been beating powerfully just moments before, froze mid-stroke. The storm itself paused—a thunderclap suspended in the sky, waves frozen mid-crash. Time itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence deafening.
Your heart hammered in your chest as a bone-deep chill swept over you. A presence, ancient and suffocating, made the air feel impossibly heavy. You glanced over Azriel’s shoulder, and your breath caught.
There, in the distance, was a figure—no, a cloud, a mass of shadows and darkness so pure it seemed to absorb all light around it. It wasn’t just death—it was the embodiment of it. The aura it emitted was a promise of annihilation, and your very soul seemed to recoil in its presence.
You wanted to scream, to shake Azriel, to do anything to break whatever spell had gripped the world. But before you could act, you saw something else—arrows. They were suspended in midair, dozens of them, all aimed directly at you and Azriel.
Panic set in. You reached out to Azriel, shaking him desperately. “Azriel! Wake up! Please!” But he remained still, unresponsive, his wings unmoving as though he were a statue.
Your powers surged within you, raw and untamed. You didn’t know how to control them fully, but you didn’t care. A flash of light erupted from your hands, desperate and unrefined, and suddenly, the world roared back to life.
The arrows hurtled toward you with deadly precision, slicing through the air. You barely had time to think. Your hand darted to Azriel’s side, pulling one of his swords free. The blade felt foreign in your hand, but you didn’t hesitate.
You swung with all your might, deflecting the first arrow with a desperate clang that vibrated through your entire arm. The second arrow grazed your shoulder, pain searing as blood blossomed against your skin. The third arrow you managed to divert just inches from Azriel’s wing.
Azriel’s body jolted as time resumed, and his wings beat frantically, his shadows exploding outward in a frenzy. His head whipped around to you, confusion and alarm etched across his face as he took in your disheveled state and the arrows that clattered into the sea below.
“What the—” Azriel began, his instincts kicking in as his shadows swirled defensively around both of you. “What’s happening?”
Azriel’s voice snapped into focus as you both realized the barrage wasn’t over. “Hold on!” he shouted, his wings beating frantically to dodge the incoming arrows. “We need to go down, now!”
You didn’t hesitate, gripping his shoulder to balance yourself as he angled sharply downward, the wind howling past you both. But the next volley of arrows was relentless. Two found their mark, piercing Azriel’s shoulder and causing him to let out a guttural growl of pain. One scraped across your cheek, leaving a sharp sting, before another embedded itself in your shoulder, the force nearly knocking you loose.
The shock of the impact made your body jerk, and you gasped, clutching at Azriel as he faltered in the air. “Y/N!” he called, his voice strained with both pain and desperation, but his hold slipped as your strength gave out.
You fell.
The rush of air around you was deafening, the world spinning wildly as you plummeted. Pain bloomed in your back as three arrows found their mark, their sharp points slicing through muscle and bone. You screamed as your body twisted uncontrollably in freefall. Above, Azriel’s shout of panic was drowned out by the roar of the storm, and you saw him struggling to stabilize himself. An arrow tore through one of his wings, the force sending him spiraling after you.
The sea rushed up to meet you, and the impact stole every ounce of air from your lungs. You plunged deep into the icy water, your body screaming in protest as the salt stung your wounds. The weight of the arrows and the force of the fall left you disoriented, the dark depths pulling at you as you struggled to make sense of up and down.
Forcing your limbs to move, you clawed your way toward the surface, your chest burning with the need for air. You broke through with a gasp, the storm still raging above. Waves crashed violently around you, and the rain made it almost impossible to see.
“Azriel!” you called, your voice hoarse and barely audible over the tempest. A moment later, he surfaced a few feet away, his wings dragging heavily in the water. His face was pale, his expression both pained and frantic as he swam toward you.
“You—are you—” His words were broken by gasps for air, his golden eyes scanning you with a mixture of fear and determination. “Are you okay?”
“Don’t worry about me,” you managed, your voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll survive.” You gestured weakly toward his shoulder and the ragged tear in his wing. “But you—”
“Fucking faebane arrows,” Azriel spat, his tone laced with frustration as he glanced at his injuries. His shadows flickered weakly around him, their usual strength noticeably absent. “They’ve nullified everything. I can’t... I can’t fly.”
Before either of you could say more, a monstrous wave rose behind you, its crest curling ominously as it towered over your heads. “Azriel!” you screamed, the sound ripping from your throat as the wave crashed down with brutal force.
The impact was like being slammed by stone. Water closed over you, spinning you in its unforgiving depths. When you finally surfaced again, coughing and gasping, you were farther from Azriel than before.
“Y/N!” His voice carried over the storm, laced with urgency. He was swimming toward you, his strokes powerful despite his injuries.
You fought to stay afloat, the pain in your back making every movement a struggle. “Azriel!” you called, your voice weak but determined as you tried to close the distance between you.
The storm showed no mercy, the waves tossing you both like rag dolls. When you finally managed to get close enough, you saw the fear etched into Azriel’s face. It mirrored your own.
“We’re not getting out of this,” he said, his voice low and grim as the sea surged between you. “Not like this.”
“We will,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. “We have to.”
But the storm’s ferocity didn’t waver, and the reality of your situation settled like a weight in your chest. With no magic, no wings, and no sign of land in sight, the vast, chaotic ocean seemed determined to claim you both.
The relentless assault of smaller waves battered you both, sapping what little strength you had left. Your muscles burned, and every gasp for air felt heavier than the last. Azriel was barely keeping himself afloat, his wings dragging in the water like dead weights. And then, beyond the churning sea, you saw it: a massive wave rising like a wall of destruction, its shadow swallowing everything in its path.
Azriel followed your gaze, and you saw it in his eyes—the change. It wasn’t just fear of the wave’s size or its inevitability. It was something deeper, rawer. A realization, perhaps, that this might be the end. That you might both die here, together. Or maybe it was something more—a dawning understanding of what you were to him. His mate.
But there was no time to dwell. You reached out, grabbing his hand as tightly as you could, your fingers trembling with exhaustion and urgency. “Azriel,” you said, your voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. “Look at me.”
His gaze snapped to yours, the golden glow of his eyes filled with turmoil. You pulled him closer, your hand clutching his with desperate strength as you pressed your foreheads together.
“Trust me,” you whispered, your breath mingling with his. His shadows flickered weakly around you, their touch almost hesitant, as if they, too, feared what was coming. You closed your eyes and began to recite, the ancient words of power tumbling from your lips like a prayer. The language was old, older than you could comprehend, its cadence resonating with something primal, something greater than yourself.
Azriel’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his touch hesitant but grounding, his thumb brushing lightly against your hair. His wings twitched weakly in the water, but he stayed focused on you, on your voice.
You began to speak, the ancient words spilling from your lips like a song, like a plea. The language was unfamiliar even to you—something buried deep within, rising now in your moment of need.
The words trembled with power, the sound resonating in the air around you, vibrating through your very bones. Azriel held you tighter, his hand now spanning the small of your back, pulling you closer against him as though to shield you from what was coming.
Azriel tried to keep his focus on you, his hands gripping your arms for stability. But the thunderous sound of the approaching wave was deafening, and the force of its presence was palpable, pressing against the air itself. He could feel it nearing, every second stretching unbearably long. His instincts screamed at him to turn, to face the incoming force, but you held him steady, anchoring him with your voice and your touch.
“Don’t look away,” you murmured, your words a promise as your free hand rested against his cheek, grounding him further. The wave loomed over you both now, its height so monstrous it seemed to touch the heavens. Azriel’s eyes darted toward the towering wall of water, and you saw his grip on you tighten—not in fear of the wave, but in fear of losing you.
His shadows curling weakly around both of you in an almost protective embrace. The wave loomed, impossibly large, and for a moment, you thought you’d failed. You could feel Azriel tense, his wings attempting to fold around you both even in their weakened state.
But then, just as the wave began its descent, the power surged through you. The words reached their crescendo, and the light of the moon flared, not as a shield, but as a portal.
A flash—a blinding, all-encompassing glow—and the icy embrace of the storm disappeared. The roar of the wave faded, replaced by silence and stillness. You and Azriel were gone, ripped from the sea’s grasp, leaving only moonlight in your wake.
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The town house was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the chill of the winter night outside. The scent of roasted meat and spices wafted through the air, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The Inner Circle was gathered around the dining table, their laughter and conversation filling the space with a sense of home.
Cassian leaned back in his chair, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand, his brow furrowed as he glanced at Rhysand. “So, when are they coming back?” he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity. “It’s been days now.”
Rhysand, seated at the head of the table with Feyre beside him, swirled his wine thoughtfully before taking a sip. “They should be on their way back to Prythian by now,” he replied, though his tone wasn’t as confident as his words.
Mor, who was perched on the edge of her chair, arched a golden brow. “Should be? What do you mean, should be?”
Rhys sighed, setting his glass down and rubbing a hand over his face. “I haven’t been able to reach Azriel,” he admitted. “His mental shields are still up, and I can’t get a clear sense of where they are.”
Feyre frowned, her fork hovering over her plate. “That’s... unusual for him.”
“It is,” Rhys agreed, his violet eyes flicking to Cassian. “But Azriel is nothing if not careful. They’re likely taking their time or dealing with unforeseen delays. The journey from the Dawn Court isn’t exactly quick.”
Cassian snorted, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Unforeseen delays, huh? I’d bet my wings they’ve found some trouble along the way. Knowing Az, he’s probably brooding about something, and Y/N is too busy trying to keep him in check.”
Mor chuckled softly, though her eyes reflected a glimmer of concern. “I wouldn’t be surprised. That male has a talent for finding trouble—or letting it find him.”
Amren, who had been silent up until now, set her glass down with a deliberate clink. “Trouble or not, Y/N is more than capable of handling herself. From what I’ve seen, she’s sharper than most. If anything, I’d wager Azriel is the one who’ll be struggling to keep up.”
Cassian grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to that. Poor Az, stuck with someone who doesn’t let him get away with his usual brooding nonsense.”
Feyre couldn’t help but smile at the banter, though her fingers brushed against Rhysand’s under the table in silent reassurance. “Still,” she said softly, “I hope they’re okay. It’s been a while since we’ve heard anything.”
Rhys nodded, his gaze distant for a moment before he refocused on the group. “They’re both strong. If anyone can handle the unexpected, it’s Azriel and Y/N.”
Mor leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. “I just hope they’re not killing each other,” she quipped. “Or, you know, that Az hasn’t scared her off with his silent brooding routine.”
Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. “If anyone could out-brood Azriel, it’s probably Y/N.”
The table erupted in laughter, though the undercurrent of concern remained. As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Feyre caught Rhys’s eye, her own filled with a quiet question. Rhysand gave her a small, reassuring smile, though his thoughts lingered on Azriel and Y/N, his mind brushing against the night’s stars as he silently hoped for their safe return.
The lively warmth of the town house was shattered in an instant. Rhysand shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair clattered to the floor behind him. The easy conversation and laughter ceased as he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Everything on the table vanished—a soundless flash of magic clearing plates, glasses, and food from sight.
In the same moment, a deafening crash echoed through the room. From above, two figures fell, slamming into the now-empty table and shattering it into pieces.
Y/N landed first, sprawled atop Azriel, both of them drenched to the bone, seawater pooling around them. Their chests heaved as they struggled for breath, their bodies trembling. Y/N pushed herself off Azriel weakly, staggering to her feet before abruptly doubling over to vomit a mix of seawater and blood onto the floor.
Azriel remained on the ground, gasping but visibly more stable than her. His wings were tense but intact, though blood seeped from arrows embedded in his shoulders and arms. He coughed, spitting water onto the floor as he tried to sit up.
Cassian surged forward, his voice a low growl of concern. “What the hell happened?”
Y/N, barely steady on her feet, turned her head, her voice raw and hoarse as she rasped, “Madja... Call Madja.”
Feyre moved immediately, her face pale but focused. Before she could leave, Y/N weakly caught her hand, murmuring a list of plants she needed. “Feyre... There’s no time. From the garden—fetch what I need to start the healing.”
Feyre nodded without hesitation and bolted out of the room.
Y/N stumbled toward Azriel, her trembling hands faintly glowing with healing magic. But before she could reach him, her knees buckled. Cassian was there in an instant, catching her just before she hit the ground.
“Y/N, stop!” Cassian growled, his voice filled with panic. “You’re worse off than he is.”
“Doesn’t... matter,” she rasped, trying to push him off and weakly reaching toward Azriel. “He needs—”
Cassian held her firmly, his face a mask of alarm. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You’re going to pass out.”
“I’m fine,” she hissed, though her head lolled to the side, her strength draining rapidly.
Azriel, sitting up now, looked over at her with wide, alarmed eyes. “Y/N,” he croaked, his voice breaking. “Stop. Just—stop.”
Mor knelt beside Azriel, carefully inspecting the arrows in his shoulders and arm, while Rhysand stood frozen for a heartbeat, his expression betraying the fear he usually masked so well.
Madja burst into the room moments later, her sharp eyes scanning the chaos. The instant she saw Y/N, her expression hardened. “Mother above,” she murmured, rushing to her.
“Start with him,” Y/N wheezed, gesturing weakly toward Azriel. “I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing,” Madja snapped, kneeling beside her. Her hands moved deftly over Y/N, assessing her condition with a precision that belied her worry. “You’re barely conscious. Don’t even think about giving me orders.”
Azriel, still struggling to his feet, waved Mor away weakly. “I’m fine,” he insisted, his voice strained but steady. His golden eyes locked onto Y/N, and despite the blood trickling down his arm, his focus was entirely on her. “Take care of her.”
Madja glared at him briefly. “Sit. Down,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Amid the chaos, Y/N’s defiant voice broke through. “Azriel... Is he—”
“I’m fine,” Azriel interrupted sharply, his voice firm. “You’re not.”
Madja growled under her breath, barking instructions to Rhysand to reinforce the room’s protective wards and to Feyre, who had just returned with an armful of plants. Cassian held Y/N steady as Madja worked to stabilize her, and Mor hovered close, ensuring that Azriel didn’t try to move too much.
The tension in the room was thick as they fought to manage the injuries and exhaustion. Every glance exchanged between the Inner Circle was filled with unspoken worry, their usual composure shaken.
“You both have a death wish,” Cassian muttered, though his grip on Y/N was firm and protective.
And as Madja’s magic flared to life, it became clear that survival was only the first step in a much longer battle.
Madja knelt beside you, her sharp gaze scanning the damage. Her hands hovered over the arrows lodged in your back, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Go see Azriel,” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”
Madja’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing with irritation. “Shut up, Y/N. You’re losing too much blood, and if you weren’t in this state, I’d slap you for suggesting something so foolish.”
You coughed weakly, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “Just... take the arrows out and put me under the stars. I’ll be fine.”
Madja’s eyes narrowed, her exasperation palpable. “If you die because of that nonsense, I swear I’ll bring you back just to kill you again.”
She began assessing the arrows embedded in your back, her movements precise but brisk. “Can I remove your top?” she asked, her voice softening slightly.
You nodded, the movement weak. “Go ahead.”
As Madja carefully eased the fabric away, the pain lanced through you, but it wasn’t what made you tense. The moment your back was fully exposed, you felt the atmosphere in the room shift. Even without seeing them, you knew Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian had seen the scars. The room seemed to hold its breath as their silence deepened.
Their reactions were palpable—Rhys’s grip on his magic tightened, the faint hum of power crackling in the air. Cassian let out a sharp exhale, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with something much darker. Feyre’s sharp intake of breath carried the weight of her empathy, her hand instinctively reaching for Rhys.
Madja worked quickly, her hands steady as she muttered incantations under her breath to stem the bleeding. You clenched your teeth, the pain threatening to pull you under, but you forced yourself to stay conscious just a moment longer.
“Tell them,” you murmured, your voice slurring slightly. “Tell them what happened.”
Madja’s gaze flickered to yours, her expression unreadable, but she nodded once, her attention returning to her task.
Azriel stood frozen nearby, his shadows writhing in agitation. His face was pale, his usually composed features betraying the turmoil within him. His golden eyes flicked between you and the others, but it was clear that his focus was on you.
When Madja pulled the last arrow free, your body shuddered, and the darkness pressing at the edges of your vision began to consume you.
Madja straightened, brushing a hand across her brow. “She needs to be somewhere she can rest and heal without interruption.” 
After hesitating for only a moment Azriel told her “Let me take her to my room. It’s the closest” 
"You will do no such thing Azriel let me take her” Cassian tried to stop him. 
“No, please, no” with confusion the general let him do so. 
His shadows curled around you protectively as he carefully lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, your body limp against him, your breaths shallow but steady. The sight of you like this sent a pang through his chest, but he buried it, focusing on the task at hand.
As he carried you upstairs, his mind was a storm. The bond that had hummed quietly between you since Solterra now roared with clarity, overwhelming him. You were his mate—and he hadn’t seen it until now. And the sight of you, broken and bleeding, was almost more than he could bear.
When they reached his room, Madja followed close behind, already giving him instructions. “Lay her down gently, and I’ll finish tending to her wounds.”
Azriel placed you carefully on the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. As Madja worked, he lingered nearby, his golden eyes never leaving your face. The scars on your back, the fresh wounds, the exhaustion etched into your features—it was all too much. His shadows coiled around his shoulders, mirroring the storm within him.
When Madja finished stabilizing you, she turned to Azriel, her expression softening for the first time. “She’ll need time to recover, but she’s strong. She’ll pull through.”
Azriel nodded, his throat tightening. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Madja patted his arm gently before gathering her supplies and leaving the room. 
After coming back in the living room of the townhouse, Azriel sat at the edge of the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, wings drooping with exhaustion. His soaked clothing clung to his frame, and blood still oozed from the punctures left by the arrows, though Madja worked quickly to close the wounds.
Rhysand stood near the fireplace, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the tension radiating off him palpable. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.
Azriel’s jaw clenched as he considered his words. “You should ask her,” he finally said, his voice gruff. “Everything was fine. The storm came out of nowhere, but it wasn’t the weather that was the problem.”
Rhys’s violet eyes darkened, his power flickering faintly around him. “Then what was?”
Azriel exhaled sharply, frustration evident. “We were flying. The storm was manageable until...” His golden eyes lifted to Rhys. “Until the arrows came. Y/N moved out of position suddenly—I didn’t understand why at first—but then she was deviating arrows midair. One clipped me, and the next thing I knew, we were falling into the sea.”
Cassian, who had been silently listening, stepped closer. “Arrows?” he repeated, his voice heavy with concern. “You’re saying someone attacked you in the middle of a storm?”
Azriel nodded, his shadows curling tightly around his shoulders. “The attack wasn’t random. Whoever it was... they knew we’d be there.”
Rhys’s face grew even grimmer. “Koshiev.” The name hung in the air like a curse. He glanced at Azriel, his expression unreadable. “Even if you were caught in the crossfire, this attack wasn’t for you, Azriel. It was for her.”
Azriel’s gaze sharpened, and his hands curled into fists. “Why would Koshiev target her? She’s not a warrior. She’s—”
“She’s more than you realize,” Madja interjected, not lifting her eyes from her work. She sealed the wound in Azriel’s shoulder with precise movements, her tone calm but carrying an edge of urgency. “Do you have any idea the influence she has? The help she’s provided?”
Cassian frowned, glancing between them. “We know she’s a gifted healer, but why would that put her in Koshiev’s sights?”
Madja straightened, her hands pausing over her tools. She glanced at Rhys and then back to Azriel. “Over the last century, many of the continent’s most deadly diseases have been stopped in their tracks because of her. She’s discovered cures where others saw none, saved lives on scales most can’t even imagine. To a being like Koshiev, who thrives on death, fear, and chaos, she’s a threat. A formidable one.”
Azriel’s shoulders stiffened, his mind racing. “But that doesn’t explain—”
“It’s not just what she does,” Madja interrupted, her voice softer now. “It’s what she is.”
Rhys’s brows furrowed, his focus narrowing on Madja. “What do you mean? What is she?”
Madja hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the staircase where you rested. “It’s... complicated,” she said carefully. “But suffice it to say, she’s not an ordinary healer. Her connection to the stars, the moon, to the light—it’s something ancient, something powerful. Something that beings like Koshiev despise and fear.”
Azriel sat back, his gaze fixed on Madja as if searching for answers in her words. His mind reeled with the implications, his thoughts a storm of emotions—fear, frustration, and something else he couldn’t quite name.
Rhysand’s expression darkened further, his hands tightening into fists. “If Koshiev sees her as a threat, then we’ll need to protect her. More than we already have.”
“She’s not going to make it easy,” Madja said with a wry smile. “That woman has a will stronger than steel. But for now, she needs rest. And so do you,” she added, fixing Azriel with a pointed look.
Azriel didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts lingered on you, on the weight of what Madja had said, and on the realization that the attack tonight had been meant for you. He rose from the chair, his wings drooping slightly but his stance firm. “She’ll be safe,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a steely determination.
Cassian clapped him on the back, his grip firm. “Damn right she will.”
But even as the conversation shifted, Azriel couldn’t shake the unease that settled deep in his chest—the knowledge that Koshiev’s shadow loomed closer than ever.
Cassian leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly as he stared at the empty space where you had been carried upstairs. His voice broke the silence, low and heavy. “The scars on her back... are they what I think they are?”
Azriel’s jaw tightened, his golden eyes darkening as he glanced away. He didn’t need to hear the answer; he already knew. His shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, betraying the tension he felt.
Madja sighed, her hands stilling over her tools as she met Cassian’s gaze directly. “Yes. She was clipped.”
The weight of her words hung in the air, palpable and suffocating. Rhysand straightened, his violet eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and confusion. “Clipped?” he repeated, his tone sharp. “How? When?”
Madja leaned back in her chair, her expression weary. “It’s a long story, but if you’re asking how it’s possible... it happened when she was young. Very young.” She hesitated, her gaze softening. “I first met Y/N when she was six, maybe seven years old. Her parents had just died in the aftermath of the war. She was left alone, one of the many orphans wandering Prythian at the time.”
Cassian frowned, his grip on his arms tightening. “She’s from Velaris right?”
Madja nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t a kind childhood. She ended up in one of the only orphanages we had here. I... I wanted to adopt her, but I couldn’t.”
Rhysand’s gaze narrowed, his tone gentler now. “Why not?”
Madja exhaled slowly, her hands clasping tightly in her lap. “Because I could barely take care of myself. The war had taken everything from us—our peace, our sleep, our stability. I couldn’t bring a child into that chaos, no matter how much I wanted to. But I could teach her.”
Azriel’s eyes snapped back to her, the flicker of surprise evident despite his stoic expression.
“I taught her to heal,” Madja continued, her voice softer now, tinged with something almost maternal. “She was brilliant at it. Gifted, really. Even as a child, she had this... this innate understanding of life, of how to mend it. Time passed, and she grew stronger. Wiser. By the time she was seventy-two, she was already a better healer than many twice her age.”
Cassian ran a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. “So what happened?”
Madja’s expression darkened, her voice lowering. “She went to Illyria.”
The tension in the room spiked immediately. Azriel’s fists clenched at his sides, and Cassian and Rhysand exchanged wary glances.
“She wanted to visit her parents’ tomb,” Madja said. “To pay her respects. But... it didn’t go as planned. I don’t need to describe the scene to you. You’ve seen what happens to half-Illyrians or even regular Illyrian females who return to those camps.” Her voice broke slightly, but she pressed on. “They clipped her. Left her for dead in the snow.”
Rhysand’s power surged faintly, the lamps flickering as he struggled to contain his fury. “They clipped a healer?” His voice was deadly quiet, his rage barely restrained. “And left her to die?”
Madja nodded, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “She did die.”
Cassian’s breath hitched, and even Azriel stiffened. “What?” Cassian whispered, his voice hoarse. “But—”
“But she came back,” Madja interrupted, her voice steady now. “The Mother brought her back. And with that gift, she was given powers unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Powers tied to the stars, the moon and the sun themselves.”
Azriel’s shadows stilled, his mind racing as he processed the revelation. Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his fury still simmering beneath the surface. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” he demanded.
Madja’s gaze hardened. “Because it wasn’t my story to tell. And it still isn’t. But perhaps now you’ll understand why Koshiev might see her as a threat. She’s not just a healer. She’s a force of life itself, blessed by the mother and that terrifies beings like him.”
Silence fell over the room, the weight of Madja’s words sinking into each of them. Cassian broke it first, his voice quieter now. “And she’s carried all of this... alone?”
Madja’s eyes softened. “Not entirely alone. But yes, for the most part.”
Azriel sat back in his chair, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the injustice you had suffered, awe at the strength it must have taken to survive, and something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to confront.
Rhysand finally spoke, his voice resolute. “Then we protect her. Whatever it takes.”
Madja nodded, her expression resolute. “She’s not one to ask for help. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need it.”
Azriel’s shadows curled around him protectively, his voice low but firm. “She’ll have it.”
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The office was bathed in the dim glow of Velaris’s nightlights, the rhythmic scratch of Rhysand’s pen the only sound as he finished his missive to Thesan. Azriel sat in a chair across from him, his posture rigid but his mind clearly elsewhere. He had bathed and changed into clean clothes in a spare room at the townhouse, but the physical comfort did little to soothe the storm raging within him. His thoughts spun, caught between the weight of your injuries, the attack, and the seismic realization that you were his mate.
His mate.
The words felt heavy and unfamiliar, both a revelation and a burden. You. The healer who had worked tirelessly by his side. The one who had challenged him, comforted him, and stood unwavering even in the face of Koshiev’s deadly arrows.
Rhysand’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but heavy with guilt. “Azriel.”
Azriel lifted his gaze, his expression impassive. Rhys set his pen down, turning his full attention to his brother.
“I was wrong,” Rhysand admitted, his tone raw. “What I said to you before... it was cruel, thoughtless. You’re my brother, and you’ve stood by me through everything. You didn’t deserve that.”
Azriel inclined his head, acknowledging the apology but saying nothing. Rhysand studied him, his regret clear in his eyes. “I know words don’t undo the damage. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to mend what I’ve broken.”
“It’s fine,” Azriel said softly, though his voice lacked conviction. He gave a brief nod, more out of obligation than genuine acceptance. Both of them knew that wounds like these took time to heal, if they ever fully could.
A silence settled between them again, heavier this time. Finally, Azriel broke it, his voice quiet but firm. “She’s my mate.”
Rhysand froze for a beat, then slowly leaned back in his chair. A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips, though it was far from mocking. “I know.”
Azriel frowned, his shadows curling tighter around him. “You knew?” he asked, disbelief lacing his tone.
Rhysand’s smile softened. “It wasn’t hard to see, Az. The way she looks at you... it’s the same way I used to look at Feyre when she had no idea we were bonded. Y/N did an incredible job masking it, I’ll give her that. But I’ve been in her shoes. I know what it looks like.”
Azriel’s frown deepened, his mind racing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rhysand’s gaze turned serious, his voice calm but pointed. “Would it have mattered? Look at how you’ve been with Elain. Do you think Y/N would have told you when she saw you pining for someone else?”
Azriel’s heart clenched, the memory of all those moments with you suddenly taking on a new, painful clarity. Rhysand continued, his tone gentler now. “Why do you think it took me so long with Feyre? I wouldn’t have told her while she was still talking to me about how in love she thought she was with Tamlin. It would have been cruel.”
And then the full weight of it hit Azriel. He had asked you, his mate, for advice about Elain—another woman. You had listened, offered him wisdom, and concealed the pain of your bond so flawlessly that he had never suspected a thing.
A knot of guilt and self-loathing twisted in his chest. He had done a terrible thing.
Azriel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head dropping into his hands. His shadows swirled restlessly around him, mirroring the turmoil within. Rhysand watched him silently for a moment before speaking.
“You didn’t know,” Rhys said softly. “And she never wanted you to feel obligated. But you know now, Az. What you do with that knowledge... that’s up to you.”
Azriel lifted his head, his golden eyes filled with conflict. “I don’t deserve her,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Rhysand.
Rhysand’s gaze softened. “You might not feel like it now. But that’s not for you to decide, is it? It’s hers. Just... don’t wait too long to figure it out. Bonds don’t wait forever.”
Azriel nodded faintly, though the weight of the conversation pressed down on him. The image of you—wounded, determined, and selfless—lingered in his mind, a reminder of the strength and grace you had shown even when it must have cost you everything.
And now, he realized, it was his turn to figure out what came next.
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daydreams-after-dark · 11 months ago
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Free Use Jail Cell, Part 4
MDNI // 18+ content
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 (final) | extra: Police Reports | extra: dinner date with Minho
full master list for additional installments
Police Officer Skz ot8 x female reader
Premise: you're arrested and held for 24 hours by 8 police officers at the local police station / reader has her fantasy play out.
Word Count: ?k (part 4)
Chapter Summary: Officer Jeongin takes you from your cell to do depraved things to you in the station shower.
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Important Trigger Warnings ⬇️⬇️⬇️
Contains CNC, fear play, knife play, blood kink, piss kink (I’ve put the following emojis at the beginning and end of the part containing piss so you can skip if you prefer ‼️⚠️💦 ), oral sex, p in v sex, anal penetration with and object, use of color code safeword system, degradation, no aftercare.
😳😳😳😳
“Get up!” A stern voice penetrates your sleep and you yelp when you feel yourself being dragged by your hair.
“Ahh!” You cry out and open your eyes. You’re met with a sinister smirk and dark eyes. “Wakey wakey.” He hums as your eyes widen in terror. Officer Jeongin. Why does this young man look like a demon? Or a psychopath?
You swallow hard. Your mouth is so dry.
Then without a word, he drags you naked from your cell. “Where are we going? What are you going to do to me?” You squeal desperately, flapping your limbs around.
“You need to piss, and you need to wash that dried cum off you.” He replies matter of fact.
You’re dragged past the main station area where the desks are, and then past the interrogation room where you had been earlier. Your mind flicks back to Detective Minho and Officer Seungmin and your pussy clenches.
Officer Jeongin barges through a door at the end of the hall and pushes you inside. You fall to the floor, your naked body slamming hard against the cold tiles. You immediately curl into a ball. What the actual fuck is happening? What have you got yourself into?
You sneak a look up at the officer as he steps inside the room and pushes the door closed behind him. A thrill courses through you. A mix of terror and arousal. You know this is going to be sexual, forceful, degrading.
Officer Jeongin nods his head to towards the toilet behind you, and you scramble over to it and try to relax enough to relieve yourself, using the moment to look around the bathroom. A urinal on the opposite wall to where you’re seated, a porcelain sink to the left of it either a small mirror attached to the wall above it. To your left is a shower stall with a pale blue shower curtain.
Your eyes drift back to the officer who hasn’t taken his eyes off you. You cough uncomfortably and proceed to finish your business. Once you’re finished you wash your trembling hands at the sink, soaping them and rinsing them before looking up to meet your reflection in the dirty mirror. You’re really here. You’re really living out your ultimate fantasies. You’re really going to get fucked in a filthy bathroom by a deranged, hot, pretend police officer.
At that exact moment Officer Jeongin’s face appears in the reflection behind you. Your eyes widen in fear as he presses a knife against your neck and his body presses against yours. Your stomach is pushed against the cold porcelain of the sink uncomfortably. He has an erection. You can feel it against your back.
“Now listen to me very carefully.” He whispers against your ear, his menacing eyes locking on yours in in the mirror.
“You are going to do exactly as I say. You’re not going to fight me. You’re not going to scream. You’re going to let me do… everything. I. want.” He licks your ear causing goosebumps to form over your entire body.
“Got it?” He smiles brightly with a twinkle in his eye.
You swallow and nod.
“Good. Now get in the fucking shower. You smell too much like a cum slut.”
With the knife still pressed to your neck, Officer Jeongin turns you and pushes you into the shower stall, forcing you to your knees facing him while he flicks on the shower taps. You whimper as the cold water hits you, but you’re thankful that it warms up quickly. You watch as his hands reach for his belt buckle, undoing it and retrieving his cock. Your immediate thought is that he’s going to make you suck it.
“You’re such a filthy little thing… all that dried cum on you.” He clicks his tongue. “So I’m going to treat you like you deserve. Like a pathetic little whore.”
‼️⚠️💦 A stream of piss hits your chest, surprising you and making you flinch.
“Is this what you like, hmm? Like to be treated like filth?” He laughs manically as he continues to urinate on you.
You sob loudly as his urine hits your body and runs down between your breasts. It’s so utterly filthy. The entire scenario makes you feel pathetic. You shouldn’t want to feel this way. Why does it turn you on so much when it’s making you cry? Is it because it’s helping you forget - no, let go - of all the anxieties and emotions you keep inside? Is it because you have always wanted to be degraded in this way? Is it that you just don’t want to think, or do, anymore? ‼️⚠️💦
You’re not given much chance for introspection because Officer Jeongin is pulling you up to your feet as he steps inside the shower fully clothed, save for his cock out.
“Turn around. Against the wall.” He growls, manhandling you with ease. Your cheek is pressed hard into the tiles and the knife is back at your throat. You’re trapped with no way to escape. You whimper, an actual, real feeling of dread seeps through your body. What if he actually hurts you?
Using the arm he is holding the knife with, he holds your body in place with his forearm across your shoulder. His other hand slides the head of his cock up and down through your ass crack.
You close your eyes preparing for when he penetrates you, but voices at the door cause him to pause.
“Not a sound little mouse.” He whispers as the bathroom door opens and two men enter. They can’t see you due to the shower curtain, and as far as they know, it’s just an officer having a shower.
Officer Jeongin releases his cock and unclips something from his belt. A baton, you assume, when you feel cold metal slide through your folds. You eyes ping open and you try to stay as quiet as possible as he pushes the tip of the baton into your ass.
You’re shaking. You want to cry out, push him away, maybe use your safe word. But at the same you want to whimper and push your ass back onto it for more and have him make you take it.
“So I’m assuming Jeongin’s taken her somewhere for some fun.” It sounds like Changbin’s voice.
“Then it’s the Aussies, then we all get one more chance with her.” The second voice adds. It sounds like Officer Han and you want to call out to him. But you also… don’t want to. You’re confused as fuck right now.
Jeongin pushes the object a little further into your ass, and despite your fear and racing heart, your eyes roll back into your head. The stretch, fuck it feels good.
You almost let out a moan when he pulls the baton out slightly and then thrusts it back in harshly. You bite your lip drawing blood, and Jeongin leans in to lick it off. “Shh. Don’t fucking make a sound.” He whispers when the two officers start to laugh uncontrollably about something someone did at lunch.
You nod vigorously, making sure Jeongin knows you aren’t going to make a peep, then he starts to actually fuck you with the baton. You’re fully aware that the blade is so close to your skin that if you make a sudden move, or sound, you risk being cut. Officer Jeongin doesn’t seem the type to be fazed by a little violence or blood. The thought scares you, and you try to run your mind over which boxes you ticked on your application. Did you sign up for knifeplay? Blood kink? Fuck! You don’t even know!
The voices quieten as they eventually exit the bathroom. Leaving you alone with Jeongin.
“Time to tear you to shreds.” He sneers.
“Orange!” You cry out of nowhere, surprising yourself as well as Jeongin.
He lets go of you immediately, pulling the baton from you and turning you around. His entire demeanour shifts to concern and gentleness.
“Tell me what you need.” He says kindly.
You blink rapidly. You don’t even know why you even said it. He wasn’t hurting you. It felt good. But…
“I-I guess I just w-wanted to make sure you’d stop…if I need you to.” You stammer.
That’s it. You just need reassurance that if things went too far he’d honour your wishes. “You play your role so well…that…you seem like an actual psycho.”
He chuckles softly. “It’s okay, y/n. I don’t want to do anything against your will. And, look.” He flips the knife, grabbing it around the blade and squeezing a fist around it. “It’s not even real.” He grins.
How the fuck did you not notice? Upon closer inspection it’s obvious, but his acting made it feel so real.
You sigh, taking in the man in front of you. Drenched with his police uniform sticking to his body. “I want you to keep going.” You declare. “But for fucks sake take these soggy clothes off.”
He tilts his head and the deranged look is back. But this time you trust him entirely and you allow yourself to give in to both the fear and pleasure wholeheartedly.
Jeongin flips the knife again, holding the handle and pointing the tip of the faux blade to the little hollow at the base of your base of your neck. He licks his lips as he drags the knife down your chest, between your breasts, and down your stomach. Your breath hitches as the blade reaches your pubic bone.
“You know,” he whispers as he runs the blade edge between your folds. Your chest heaves, and your hands find purchase on the tiled wall behind you. “I have a real knife, if you want to play with that too?” He locks eyes on you.
“Yes.” You whimper.
“Yes, what?” He leans in and kisses your neck. Fuck! You’re so wet you can feel your slick between your thighs even with the shower still running.
“I want you to fuck me while you hold a real knife to me.” You cannot believe the words that just came out of your mouth. One minute you were frightened and now you’re asking for a real, actual knife - that actually cuts skin!
He looks at you long and hard. Then slips the fake knife in his belt. His fingers grasp another item, and as he pulls it out your eyes bulge. It looks shiny, so very sharp. So real.
“Undress me then get on your knees.” He demands and shuts the water off. You unbutton his shirt, pulling it from him quickly, as he slips off his belt and shoes. Then you remove his trousers as you drop to your knees.
He grips a fistful of your hair into a makeshift ponytail with one hand, his other holds the knife close to your neck.
“Choke on it.” He instructs.
You open your mouth allowing him to thrust into your mouth. He’s rough with his motions, forcing you take all of him repeatedly. You’re starting to shiver from the cold now the water has been shut off, and your making the most obscene choking sounds as your throat is used in such a brutal way. He seems to get more aggressive as tears fall down your cheeks. You feel like a filthy slut. You feel dirty and used.
“You look like you were made to take cocks down your throat.” He pants. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you when you sucked the other officer’s dicks earlier. Ngh…such…a…slut.” He punctuates each word with a hard deep thrust. “Fuck! You’re gonna make me cum.” He hisses.
“Up. Face the wall. Hurry.” He manoeuvres you back into the position you were in earlier, with your tits pressed against the cold tiles and the side of your face smashed against the wall.
He kicks your legs apart and sinks himself into your sloppy, desperate cunt, and fucks you deep and hard without any moment to adjust. But you’re so wet that there’s no resistance.
He’s so long that he hits your cervix hard every single time making you cry out on each impact.
“This is what you want, isn’t it? A cock deep in your cunt. So many cocks have been in here today. I’ve never seen anything like it. Insatiable slut.”
He’s right. So many cocks have been inside you today. And you want more. You want to be fucked over and over by these men.
Jeongin starts to fuck you harder and the knife digs into your neck, cutting the skin slightly. You cry out, but it’s not in pain. It’s in pleasure and when he nicks you again you scream and come hard around the police officer’s cock.
Jeongin laughs manically while he continues to pound into you. “You’re so fucking sick. Coming like that because I made you bleed.” He whispers low against your ear.
He pulls out and you turn and slide your back down the wall, collapsing from the intensity of your release. You feel blood trickle down your skin.
Officer Jeongin hovers over you, and with his thumb swipes the blood from your body and takes it into his mouth. He’s just as sick as you.
He pumps his cock until thick ropes of cum splatter across your face and he growls in satisfaction at his work.
He leans down with one last instruction. “Stay here and count to fifty before you even think about moving.”
Then he’s gone, leaving you in an exhausted heap on the shower floor. You’re covered in cum, blood, tears and a satisfied fuck out feeling buzzing through your body.
…….
A/n: this honestly didn’t turn out as good as I wanted it to, but I really wanted to give you something. I am so sorry if it was a bit rushed, or not as dark as you were expecting. This type of smut is challenging for me to write.
>>> next up… the Aussies 🥰 (spoiler double pen one hole 🤭)
@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itsseohannbin @weareapackofstrays @3rachasdomesticbanana @palindrome969 @xxkissesforchanniexx @chuuchuu1224 @fun-fanfics @wolfennracha @rhonnie23 @jisunglyricist @strayywayy @armystay89 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @mylittleponeypinkrosieposie @kyunchoni @justforreaders @melochacco @scenuniverse @oddracha @ismokeeweed @galaxycatdrawz @jiminssluttyminx @teddy-stay
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meadowfics · 2 months ago
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throwback to the past (part1)
kang dae ho x f!reader
apart of my 'kang family series'
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warnings: this goes to the veryyy beginning of daeho's and your relationship. very long chapter. this chapter contains mentions of death, debt, trauma, neglect, family trauma, the games itself which needs it own trigger warning. this is literally a "throwback to the past" chapter.
I had to split this into two parts
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four and a half years earlier: 
the scent of brewed coffee and exhaustion leaves you as you finally step out of the café, the weight of another endless shift pressing down on your shoulders. 
your uniform clung to your skin, sticky with the smell of espresso and steamed milk, your feet aching from standing for nine hours straight.  
nine hours.  
seven days a week.  
all just to keep your head above water.  
the streets of seoul were alive with the usual nighttime stuff. there are couples walking hand in hand, businessmen heading home after long office hours, students laughing outside convenience stores. 
for them, the city was just the backdrop to their lives. 
for you, it was a cage.  
the neon signs flickered above you, their glow bouncing off the rain-slicked pavement as you tugged your jacket tighter around your body. your fingers ached from scrubbing dishes, your wrists sore from carrying tray after tray of overpriced drinks. 
it wasn’t enough. it was never enough.  
millions of won in debt.  
debt that wasn’t even yours.  
you clenched your jaw, the bitter taste of resentment settling deep in your gut.  
your mother, your own flesh and blood had stolen your name, your identity, and shattered your future before you even had a chance to build one.  
you were barely eighteen when you first found out.  
the calls had started coming…banks, credit companies, loan sharks. at first, you thought it was some mistake, some mix-up in the system. then, the truth unraveled itself in the cruelest way possible.  
your mother, the woman who had spent your entire childhood reminding you how unwanted you were, had been opening credit cards in your name for years.  
when you confronted her, voice shaking with fury, she didn’t even try to deny it.  
“you owe me,” she had said, her expression cold, detached, as if she hadn’t just ruined your life. 
“i carried you for nine months, fed you, clothed you. if you think you’re going to walk away from me without paying me back, you’re delusional.” 
your older sister had watched silently, unmoving, unbothered. she had always been the favorite and the perfect daughter, the one your mother loved.  
you? you had just been a burden.  
now, you were paying for it. literally.  
every paycheck, every tip you earned, every ounce of energy you poured into your job…it all went straight into trying to chip away at the insurmountable mountain of debt tied to your name or to your rent.  
you exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening around the straps of your worn-out bag.  . 
you had nothing. no savings, no home of your own, no future.  
all you had was dae-ho.
dae-ho came into your life completely unexpected. 
you weren’t looking for love. you were barely surviving as it was. between the never-ending shifts at the café, the crushing weight of your mother’s debt, and the deep-seated resentment that lingered long after her death, romance was the last thing on your mind and then he walked in.  
it was a chilly autumn afternoon, the kind where the wind cut through your jacket and left your fingers numb. the café was packed, as usual, filled with students hunched over textbooks, office workers grabbing their mid-day caffeine fix, and the occasional couple lost in soft conversation and then there was him.  
he stood in line, his posture straight, his presence unassuming yet impossible to ignore. daeho’s dark hair was slightly tousled from the wind, his sharp features softened by the dim lighting of the café. the marine’s hair was short at this point in life. however, it was his eyes that caught you off guard. warm, deep brown, filled with something you couldn't quite place.  
when he finally reached the counter, he ordered a simple cappuccino. no fancy flavors, no extra sugar, just straight to the point.  
you barely spared him a glance at first. just another customer. another name to call out when the order was ready. when you slid the cup across the counter, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and that was when you finally looked up.  
daeho’s gaze met yours, steady, unwavering and then he smiled.  
it was small, barely there, but it changed everything for you.  
from that day on, he started stopping by regularly. at first, it was just once or twice a week. somehow, it became every day.  
he always ordered the same thing. a cappuccino. somehow, no matter how busy the café got, you always ended up being the one to make it.  
he never flirted, never made you uncomfortable, never asked for anything more than that one simple drink. however, he always lingered just a little longer, making casual conversation when the rush slowed down.  
you learned that he had just returned to seoul after years in the marines, that he had no real friends here, no family that he was close to since they lived an hour away. he told you little things… how he liked his coffee extra hot, how he wasn’t used to being in one place for too long, how things can never bring him peace.  
somehow, without realizing it, he became the one person you actually looked forward to seeing every day.  
one thing led to another after a shared coffee after your shift. a late-night walk when neither of you could sleep. a moment when his fingers brushed against yours and neither of you pulled away.  
suddenly, you were his and he was yours.  
that was eighteen months ago.  
a year and a half of loving him, of letting him into your world, of clinging to each other in the chaos of your lives.  
you weren’t just broke… you were drowning.  
you were still trapped under the weight of your mother’s choices, and dae-ho had his own debts to pay. the marines hadn’t exactly left him with a comfortable savings account, and whatever money he did have gone straight to surviving.  
you had both been so close to financial ruin, so close to breaking under the pressure of just trying to exist. so, when your mother died, leaving you with nothing but more debt and a hollow, complicated grief, dae-ho had suggested something crazy.  
“move in with me.”  
it wasn’t a romantic proposal, not at first. it was practical. you were struggling to keep up with rent, barely affording the tiny apartment you had been living in alone. dae-ho was in the same boat, and it just made sense.  
so, you said yes. together, you scraped together just enough to afford a tiny, cramped studio apartment in a worn-down building in a part of the city that no one really wanted to live in.  
it was barely big enough for the two of you. the kitchen was the size of a rich person’s walk-in closet, the mattress was just thrown onto the floor instead of a real bed frame, and the bathroom door was barely locked properly.  
the only real problem? you and dae-ho barely saw each other.  
you worked seven days a week at the café, picking up as many extra shifts as possible just to chip away at your debt. he worked long, exhausting hours at a construction site, taking whatever jobs he could find.  
the both of you had to align your schedules perfectly just to spend any time together. both of you made sure to work the same hours…opening shifts, double shifts, closing shifts. 
so that, at the very least, you could come home together.  
every night, without fail, he would finish work thirty minutes before you and every night, without fail, he would walk to your café and wait for you to finish your shift.  
it was the only constant in your life. seeing him standing outside, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn-out jacket, his eyes lighting up the second he saw you step outside.  
he never let you take the subway home alone.  
“not safe,” he would always mutter, shaking his head.  
so, the two of you would ride the train together, standing close, his fingers brushing against yours, his presence keeping you steady in a world that constantly felt like it was slipping through your fingers. your life was hard. exhausting. never-ending. 
at least you had kang dae ho.  
everything felt normal, well…as normal as it could be when you were drowning under the weight of responsibilities that weren’t even yours.  
until that night.  
october 28th, 2024. 
the night that changed your whole life. 
the last hour of your shift felt like every other exhausting day before it. the café was quiet, empty now that the final customers had left, leaving only you and your coworker, jenni, to finish closing. you were behind the counter, counting the registers, mentally preparing yourself for the short subway ride home with daeho.  
the routine was second nature by now. count the cash, balance the drawer, wipe down the machines, lock up, go home. however, tonight, something felt off.  
the numbers on the register screen started blurring together, and a dull pressure built behind your eyes. your hands, which had been moving steadily just moments ago, suddenly felt weak. you tried to shake it off. just exhaustion. just another long shift weighing you down.  
then, your arms trembled.  
your vision swayed.  
your breathing grew shallow.  
the last thing you remembered was the weight of the register slipping from your fingers before the floor came rushing up to meet you.  
everything went black.  
jenni’s panicked voice was the last sound you heard before everything faded.  
when you woke up, the beeping of hospital monitors greeted you first. the fluorescent lights were too bright, the sheets under you too soft from what you were used to, and the sterile scent of antiseptic was clinging to the air.  
you blinked, your throat dry, your limbs heavy, your mind still foggy.  
a doctor stood beside your bed, checking over your chart.  
“you’re awake,” she noted, her tone calm but firm, “how are you feeling?”  
you swallowed hard, your voice raspy, “tired. really, really tired.”  
she nodded, scribbling something down before meeting your gaze, “that’s expected. you were severely dehydrated, and your blood pressure was dangerously low. your body was completely exhausted.”  
you exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling. of course, you were. working seven days a week, barely eating, barely sleeping… your body had been begging for rest for months.  
however, the doctor’s expression shifted slightly.  
“there’s something else,” she continued, her voice careful.  
you turned your head to look at her, your stomach twisting at her tone.  
she hesitated only for a moment before saying the words that would change your life forever.  
“you’re pregnant.”  
you didn’t react.  
you didn’t gasp. didn’t cry. didn’t even flinch. you were too tired for the dramatics. you just blinked at her, your brain struggling to process the words through the thick fog of exhaustion.  
after a few long moments, you exhaled sharply, your voice flat.  
“are you serious?”  
she nodded.  
“yes. we’ll need to do prenatal checkups soon, and you’ll have to stay in the hospital for a few days so we can make sure both you and the baby are stable.”  
you just stared at the ceiling, your body too heavy, your mind too drained to react.  
pregnant.  
you were pregnant.  
meanwhile, across the city, daeho was sitting in a near-empty subway station, waiting for the next train home.  
you hadn’t answered his texts.  
when he arrived at the café, it was locked up tight. no sign of you, no sign of your usual coworkers.  
the man’s stomach churned with unease, but he told himself maybe you had just gotten off early. maybe you were already home, too exhausted to text back.  
however, that pressured feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.  
suddenly, a man in a crisp suit sat down beside him.  
a smooth voice, a practiced smile.  
“hello sir, would you like to play a game?”  
back at the hospital room, everything  was quiet except for the steady beeping of the monitor beside you. it had been a long twelve hours since you had first woken up here, and in that time, everything had changed.  
you were five months pregnant.  
with a girl.  
your daughter.  
the words from the sonogram doctor replayed in your mind, over and over, but the reality still felt distant. its like an echo of something too big, too overwhelming to fully grasp.  
you weren’t happy. not really. not yet. not because you didn’t want her, but because the weight of your life… the debt, the stress, and the constant fight to survive was already unbearable. how were you supposed to raise a child when you could barely take care of yourself?  
what about daeho?  
was he even ready for this?  
he was the only man you had ever truly let in, the only person who had ever seen the real you, the one hidden beneath the exhaustion and the bitterness. he was your safe place, your anchor in the chaos.  
this was something else entirely.  
the sound of the door creaking open pulled you from your thoughts, and before you could even register the movement, warm lips pressed against your forehead.  
“my goodness, y/n,” daeho murmured against your skin, his voice tight with relief, “you scared the shit out of me.”  
you blinked up at him, his face blurry for a second before coming into focus.  
he looked tired, more than usual. daeho’s dark eyes were clouded with worry, his jaw tight like he had been clenching it for hours.  
you offered a small, weak smile, “i’m okay.”  
he pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his hand still resting on your arm, “you weren’t answering my texts. i got to the café, and it was locked up. no one was there. i thought—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head, “i thought something happened to you.”  
something did happen.  
however, neither of you were saying the full truth.  
he wasn’t telling you about the card in his pocket…the one given to him by the man at the subway station. the one that now sat, hidden, against the fabric of his jacket and you weren’t telling him about the life growing inside you.  
instead, you reached for the bottle in his other hand, recognizing the brand immediately.  
your favorite electrolyte drink.  
you raised an eyebrow at him, “you brought me this?”  
he scoffed with a smile, shaking his head, “of course i did. i figured you’d need it.”  
your chest tightened, an ache settling there.  
he always knew what you needed before you even had to ask.  
“thank you,” you whispered.  
he sat beside you on the edge of the hospital bed, watching you as you twisted the cap off and took a slow sip.  
“what happened?” he asked after a moment.  
you sighed, leaning back against the pillows, “i was closing, counting the registers, and then… i don’t know. my arms felt weak, my head was heavy, and the next thing i remember, i was waking up here.”  
his brows furrowed, and you could already see the guilt forming behind his eyes.  
“i should’ve been there,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, “i always come to get you. i should’ve—”  
“daeho,” you cut him off, reaching out to squeeze his hand, “it’s not your fault. stop blaming yourself.”  
your boyfriend’s jaw clenched but he nodded, though you could tell he didn’t fully believe you.  
so much was left unsaid between you both.  
for now, it was enough.  
daeho stayed with you for the next few days, refusing to leave your side unless a nurse or doctor forced him to get food. he held your hand when you fell asleep, ran his fingers through your hair absentmindedly while watching TV on the hospital’s tiny screen, made sure you actually ate your meals.  
he is perfect. he always had been.  
yet, you still didn’t tell him.  
it wasn’t the right time. or maybe you were just scared.  
he had enough stress weighing on his shoulders… his own debts, his endless work shifts, the guilt he carried like it was stitched into his skin. telling him now would only make everything harder.  
so, you kept quiet.  
on the morning of your discharge, daeho had to leave for work just an hour before you were officially released.  
he stood by the hospital bed, dressed in his usual work clothes, his hands resting on his hips as he looked down at you.  
“you sure you’ll be okay getting home by yourself?”  
you smiled softly, nodding, “i will be, i promise.”  
he sighed, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your forehead.  
“don’t do anything,” he murmured, “just rest, okay? i mean it, love.”  
you chuckled, nodding again, “okay.”  
he kissed you one more time before finally pulling away, his fingers brushing against your cheek before he left.  
the moment the door shut behind him, you let out a slow breath, your hand instinctively moving to your lower stomach.  
your baby.  
a little girl.  
a mix of you and daeho.  
for the first time since you heard the news, something shifted inside you… something warm, and something way too real and serious.  
you were going to be a mother.  
an hour later, you stepped out of the hospital, the cool air hitting your skin as you stood just outside the entrance.  
you were about to take your first step toward the subway when a voice stopped you in your tracks.  
“excuse me.”  
you turned.  
a man in a suit stood just a few feet away, his expression calm, unreadable.  
he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, square card.  
then, with a familiar, practiced smile, he extended it toward you.  
“would you like to play a game?”
your brows furrowed, “what?”  
he stepped closer, holding the package out to you, “it’s a simple game. ddakji. if you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won. if i win, i get to slap you.”  
your lips parted slightly at the absurdity of it all. a stranger…an oddly dressed stranger was standing outside a hospital offering you money in exchange for a children's game?  
“no thanks,” you said flatly, turning to walk away.  
“are you sure?” he asked, his voice calm, unbothered, “you could use the money, couldn’t you?”  
your steps faltered.  
something in his tone made your stomach tighten.  
you turned back to him, your expression hard, “what did you just say?”  
he smiled again, unaffected by your glare, “come on. one round. it’ll take less than a minute.”  
you hesitated, glancing down at the package in his hands.  
100,000 won… for a simple game.
your gut told you this was wrong, that nothing in life came this easy, but your exhaustion made you reckless.  
“fine,” you muttered, stepping forward, “one round.”  
the man’s smile widened slightly. he knelt down, setting one piece of folded paper onto the concrete. then, he handed you the other.  
you barely took a moment to analyze it before moving.  
with one swift, forceful motion, you slammed the ddakji down.  
the impact was strong enough that the other piece immediately flipped over, the sound echoing through the quiet hospital entrance.  
you won.  
the man blinked, the smile never leaving his face as he glanced down at the overturned paper.  
“impressive.”  
you straightened, crossing your arms, “where’s my money?”  
without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp 100,000 won bill, handing it to you.  
you snatched it, stuffing it into your pocket, already turning to leave.  
“wait,” he said smoothly, pulling something else from his pocket.  
a simple, cream-colored card.  
you already knew what it was.  
“keep it,” you said firmly, shaking your head, “i’m not interested.”  
the man’s smile didn’t waver, “are you sure? my organization has been keeping an eye on you, y/n.”  
your blood ran cold.  
your entire body went rigid, your pulse pounding in your ears.  
you turned back to him slowly, “wha-what the fuck did you just say?”  
the man’s smile grew ever so slightly.  
“you had a rough childhood, didn’t you?” he mused, tilting his head, “your father abandoned you before you could even form memories of him. your mother resented you for it. favored your now dead sister over you. hated you.”  
your stomach turned violently, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral.  
“and then, of course, she racked up 250 million won in debt—all in your name,” he continued casually, “when she died, all of it fell onto your shoulders.”  
your hands curled into fists.  
“you’ve been working seven days a week to pay it off,” he went on, “but it’s barely made a dent, has it? you work yourself to exhaustion, yet the numbers don’t seem to change.”  
your breath was shallow now, your mind racing.  
“and then there’s the… other… recent development.”  
the salesman’s eyes flickered downward—just for a second.  
your hands instinctively moved to your stomach.  
no.  
you shook your head, taking a shaky step back. 
“there’s no way you-”  
“oh, but we do,” he cut in smoothly, “we know everything about you, y/n. and we also know that you are running out of options.”  
your body trembled, but not from the cold.  
you felt violated, exposed, like you had been stripped bare in front of this stranger.  
he took a step closer, holding the card out once more.  
“you can refuse this now,” he said, “but let’s be honest… where else can you turn?”  
your throat tightened.  
“this is your last hope,” he continued, his voice softer now, as if he were gentle, as if he cared. 
“not just for you, but for your daughter. for your family. if you want to give her a life free from this weight, if you want to finally break free from the chains your mother left you in… then take the card.”  
your pulse pounded in your ears. your mind was screaming at you to run and to turn around and leave, to get as far away from this as possible. however, there was a smaller voice.  
one that whispered the truth you already knew.  
you really don’t have any other options.
your fingers twitched. so slowly and hesitantly, you reached forward and took the card from his hand. it felt heavier than it should have.  
the man smiled, his job done.  
“call the number when you’re ready,” he said simply, before turning and walking away, disappearing into the evening crowd like he had never been there at all.  
you stood frozen for a long moment, the card burning against your fingertips.  
you didn’t want this. you shouldn’t want this.  
your hand trembled as you stuffed the card into your pocket. maybe this was the last chance you had left.
you sat on the edge of the mattress in your tiny studio apartment, staring at the small, cream-colored card resting in your palm. the weight of it felt unnatural, like something that shouldn’t exist, something that shouldn’t be in your hands. it was all you could think about.  
it had been hours since you had gotten home from the hospital, yet your mind refused to let it go. the man’s voice, the knowledge he had about your life…about you…it replayed over and over in your head like a broken record.  
they knew everything.  
your past.  
your debt.  
your pregnancy.  
your fingers curled around the card tightly, your knuckles going white.  
you needed the money. there was no denying that. but the reality of what you were about to do…the idea of stepping into something completely unknown, made your stomach churn.  
before you could spiral any further, your phone rang. daeho.  
you took a breath before answering, “hey, love.”  
“hey sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm but laced with exhaustion. 
“just wanted to check if you got home okay.”  
your chest tightened slightly at how much he cared, at how, despite his own struggles, he always made sure you were okay.  
“yeah,” you murmured, “i got home fine. just been resting.”  
“good,” he sighed, relief evident in his tone, “i–i- i hated leaving you at the hospital like that.”  
you shook your head, even though he couldn’t see you, “it’s okay, daeho. you have work. i get it.”  
a brief silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it never was.  
“you sure you’re okay?” he asked after a moment.  
your fingers twitched against the card.  
“…yeah,” you lied.  
he exhaled softly, “okay. i’ll be home later tonight. just rest, alright?”  
“alright,” you said quietly.  
“good.”  
another pause.  
“i love you,” he murmured.  
your chest ached.  
“i love you too,” you whispered back.  
the call ended.  
you stared at the phone in your hand for a few seconds before glancing down at the card. your thumb brushed over the embossed numbers, your heart pounding as you reached for the phone again.  
before you could second-guess yourself, you dialed.  
the phone rang once.  
twice.  
then, a voice answered.  
"good evening. please state your name and birthdate."  
you hesitated for only a second before responding, your voice steady despite the nerves twisting inside you.  
"y/n l/n. january 1st, 2000."  
there was a pause, the sound of typing on the other end of the line.  
suddenly,  
"your pickup will be on october 31st, at midnight in front of the yongsan family park."  
click.  
the line went dead.  
the same happened to daeho back at his jon.
"...please state your name and birthdate."  
“kang daeho. may 26th, 1989.” 
a pause. 
"your pickup will be on october 31st at midnight, in front of hongik university campus."  
click.
back at your home you swallowed hard, staring down at your phone, at the screen that now displayed the empty call log.  
this was it and this was happening. you slowly lowered the phone, your other hand instinctively moving to your stomach. you weren’t showing much, not yet, not enough for people to notice. but you knew.  
your little girl was growing inside you.  
and this?  
this wasn’t for you anymore, this was for her.  
a few days later, you didn’t remember what had happened. all you woke up to was the sound of loud, almost playful music that jolted you awake.  
your eyes snapped open, your body tensing immediately as unfamiliar noises surrounded you. murmurs, footsteps, the shuffling of fabric…so many sounds at once. you blinked, your vision still adjusting, your mind trying to piece together what was happening.  
nothing made sense. you weren’t in your bed. you weren’t in your apartment.  
instead, you were lying on a stiff mattress, metal bars surrounding you. a bunk bed.  
your heart slammed against your ribs as you sat up quickly, your hands gripping the thin blanket draped over you. the rows upon rows of bunks stretched across the massive room, stacked high and pressed closely together.  
there were people…so many people. hundreds of them, all wearing the same thing.  
a green tracksuit.  
just like yours. 
the number 399 was patched on your chest. 
panic clawed at your throat. where the hell am i?  
your fingers twitched against the fabric of the jacket you were suddenly wearing, your breath coming out in shallow exhales.  this wasn’t a dream. this is real.  
the details started trickling back into your mind like drops of ink staining water. the phone call. the pickup location. the choice you made.  
you had signed up for this but that didn’t make waking up here any less terrifying. your hands moved to your stomach instinctively, fingers pressing against the fabric, as if to reassure yourself that your baby was still there. you took a slow, steadying breath, willing yourself to calm down.  
no one had noticed you yet, thankfully. the room was chaotic…people were moving around, whispering, murmuring in confusion, in fear. some were stretching, others were already getting into arguments. you forced yourself to stay still, your eyes scanning the room, taking everything in.  
there were no windows.  
no clocks.  
no way of knowing what time it was or how long you had been unconscious.  
however, a sudden, sharp noise silenced the murmurs around you. a large metal door at the front of the room slid open with a heavy clang, revealing a group of masked men in bright pink jumpsuits.  
your stomach twisted. you didn’t move from your bunk as they stepped forward, their presence alone enough to make the entire room go eerily quiet.  
one of them, the tallest, stepped to the center of the room.  
“welcome, players.”  
the voice was distorted by the mask, but it carried through the space with authority.  
“you have all been brought here to participate in a series of games. each game presents an opportunity for you to win a substantial cash prize.”  
a ripple of whispers spread through the room.  
“before we begin,” the masked man continued, “you must sign your consent forms.”  
your throat felt dry as you stepped in line. a pen was placed into your hands when you’ve gotten to the front of the line..  
the contract was simple. three rules.  
1. a player is not allowed to stop playing.  
2. a player who refuses to play will be eliminated.  
3. games may be terminated if the majority agrees.  
you swallowed hard, gripping the pen in your fingers.  
there was no turning back now.  
your fingers were steady as you scribbled your name onto the page, your signature bold against the white paper. when the guards collected the forms, you turned on your heel and went straight back to your bunk.  
you needed to stay out of sight. 
the first game would begin soon and you were about to step into a nightmare far worse than you could have ever imagined.
you didn’t know that, though.  
you thought this was just an opportunity. just some strange, elaborate event where desperate people competed in innocent games for money. the contract didn’t seem that serious. at least, not serious enough for alarm. eliminated meant going home, right? a loss, maybe some embarrassment, but nothing permanent.  
so, you followed the others.  
you were positioned in the far back of the line, your steps quiet as the guards led you and the rest of the players toward a sectioned-off area near the large metal doors.  
one by one, the players ahead of you were stepping in front of a camera. the camera flashed.  
a voice instructed them to smile.  
it was… odd.  
again, you thought little of it.  
when it was your turn, you stood in front of the lens, your hair cascading over your shoulders.  
"smile," the voice instructed.  
you hesitated for half a second before offering a light, polite smile.  
the flash went off and just like that, your picture was taken.  
no explanation. no further instructions.  
before you could dwell on it, a guard motioned for you to move forward so you did. you followed the long, winding corridor with the rest of the players, stepping through a series of doors that opened with a loud hiss.  
then—  
you stepped into another world.  
your breath caught slightly at the sight in front of you.  
a field but it was not just any field.  
it was massive, stretching farther than you had expected, with tall green grass and an open sky painted across the walls.  
it looked too real, like a place pulled straight from childhood, from old memories of running barefoot in the summer. the sun wasn’t real, but it looked real. the sky wasn’t real, but it stretched high above you like it was endless.  
your stomach twisted slightly. this was elaborate. way too elaborate for just a series of games. something felt wrong. still, you pushed the feeling down.  
you weren’t here to overthink things. you were here to win. for your daughter. for daeho.  
so, you stood there, your arms resting loosely at your sides, waiting for the game to begin.
the doll was strange.  
however, the man… that man over there…was stranger. 
player 456, a man who has seen some years, started yelling the moment they led everyone onto the field, his voice frantic, panicked, filled with something that wasn’t just fear… it was experience.  
"if you move, you die!" he screamed, eyes wild as he shoved past people, his breath ragged. 
"i’ve played this before! they’ll shoot you if you move on red light!"  
your brows furrowed, a ripple of confusion moving through the crowd.  
what the hell was he talking about?  
some people chuckled nervously, exchanging glances. others muttered that he must have been drunk, maybe high, maybe crazy.  
you weren’t so sure. you’ve seen fear before, his fear didn’t seem like something alcohol could cause. the man’s voice wasn’t slurred, his words weren’t stumbling.  
no, this was something else entirely.  
paranoia, maybe. but not drunk behavior.  
before you could process it any further, the game began. the speakers crackled to life.  
“green light.”  
you hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, moving cautiously just like everyone else.  
you took a few slow, careful steps.  
then, “red light.”  
you froze.  
so did everyone else, things were okay. 
another green light happened, you took a few steps, then red light, you froze.
however, you weren't aware of the hell that was going to break loose. 
the scream and the sound of a buzzing bee. your stomach twisted violently at the sound.  
a loud, piercing scream from a few feet ahead, followed by—  
BOOM!  
a gunshot.  
your breath hitched. your body stiffened.  
what the hell? before you could even process what just happened—  
BOOM!  
another gunshot, then another, and another, and much more.  
your heart pounded painfully in your chest, your blood turning to ice.  
what the fuck is happening?  
your hands curled into fists as your body screamed at you to move, to run, but something in your gut told you not to. your eyes moved, but not your head.  
you barely shifted your gaze toward the source of the noise, trying to see what the hell was going on—  
before blood splattered across your face. someone panicked and sprinted right past you and now, they were dead. the woman’s body crumpled onto the ground just a few feet away, their lifeless eyes frozen open, a hole clean through their skull.  
your breath caught in your throat.  
no? no!? no!!!
your stomach churned violently.  
your mind screamed at you to wake up, to shake off the nightmare, to claw your way out of whatever horrifying fever dream this was but this wasn’t a dream.  
the man kept yelling.  
"don’t move! freeze! don’t fucking move!"  
your fingers twitched. your knees locked. your pulse pounded against your skull.  you didn’t move, not an inch, not a single goddamn inch.  
when the doll's voice rang out again, calmly repeating the rules, something in your chest cracked open.  
eliminated  
eliminated didn’t mean sent home.  
it meant dead. 
the realization hit you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs. you were going to die here… or worse, your daughter was going to die here.  
your vision blurred for half a second before the speakers crackled again.  
“green light.”  
run.  
your body moved before your mind could catch up.  
run. 
your feet hit the ground hard as you propelled yourself forward, dodging fallen bodies, weaving through panicked players.  
run. run. run.  
“red light.”  
you stopped on a dime, your entire body locking up, your breath caught in your throat.  
silence.  
no gunshots.  
you were still alive.   
the seconds stretched on for what felt like an eternity, your entire existence narrowed down to the movement of that monstrous doll, to the moment it turned away again.  
“green light.”  
you ran.  
you ran like your life depended on it because it did. 
step after step, heartbeat after heartbeat, until your foot crossed the finish line.  
you stumbled slightly, panting, your hands instinctively flying to your stomach.  
you made it.  
your fingers pressed against the barely-there bump, your chest heaving, your mind racing.  
she’s okay and you’re okay.
for now.  
you barely noticed when your legs gave out beneath you, the exhaustion catching up to you all at once.  
you sat there, your entire body trembling, your fingers curled over your stomach, trying to ground yourself, trying to remind yourself of the only thing that mattered.  
your daughter and your little girl, your reason to keep going.  
even if this was just the beginning of hell.
after everything and walking back to the dorms, your feet felt heavier than they had ever been.  
it wasn’t just exhaustion, it was the weight of knowing. it is knowing that you had just seen dozens of people die and knowing that this wasn’t a game and knowing that you were trapped here, that you had signed away your life, that there was no easy way out.  
you had made a choice and now, you had to live with it, but god  you wanted to leave.  
you wanted to turn around, to walk in the other direction, to run until your legs gave out but you couldn’t.  
so, you kept walking.  
your eyes drifted toward the man ahead of you…the one who had been screaming before the game started. there were a few people between you and him, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders, the way he walked with something different than everyone else.  
the others were stumbling, still reeling, still whispering in hushed, horrified tones. 456? he wasn’t whispering. he wasn’t looking around in confusion, wasn’t questioning what had just happened because he already knew.  
wait wait wait… he came back to this? 
your stomach twisted at the thought.  
for what?  
what could possibly be worth coming back here for?  
the answer was simple… the money. 
still, your mind raced.  
how had he survived before? what did he know that the rest of you didn’t? how many others here had played before? questions swirled in your mind, but you didn’t have the energy to chase them down.  
you just kept walking, following the others back toward the dorms.  
by the time you made it back, your limbs felt like lead, your breath slow and heavy as you climbed up to your top bunk in the back corner of the room, as far from the others as possible. you didn’t want to be near them, your trust in humans was basically gone.  
you didn’t want to see their fear, their grief, their trembling hands as they processed what had just happened. so, you curled up, pressing your forehead against the cold metal railing, your fingers resting against your stomach. you closed your eyes, trying to block out the world.
only a couple of minutes later the guards entered the room. suddenly, you didn’t have to wonder about the answers anymore because they were about to tell you everything. the moment the guards entered the room, the uneasy murmurs of the surviving players died down to a hushed silence.  
your heartbeat drummed in your ears as you sat up slightly on your top bunk, your eyes locked on the pink-suited figures standing in front of the massive screen at the far end of the dormitory.  
you barely breathed, everyone was waiting. then, the screen above flickered to life, illuminating the room in a dull glow.  
the masked guard in the center stepped forward.  
“congratulations, players,” he announced, his voice distorted through the black mask, “you have all successfully completed the first game.”  
no one said anything.  
no one moved.  
it wasn’t worth congratulating.  
your fingers curled into the fabric of your tracksuit, the metallic taste of fear still lingering on your tongue. the screen changed, showing the bold number 456 in bright ivory.  
the guard continued.  
“as per the rules, players who fail the game are eliminated. with that, the current number of players remaining is—”  
the number on the screen began to decrease.  
quickly.  
400...
378..
you sucked in a sharp breath as it continued to drop.  
the air in the dorm was suffocating, thick with a mix of grief and disbelief.  
you looked around, watching as people’s faces crumpled in horror, as some dropped to their knees, as others turned away, unable to witness the final tally.  
365.
the numbers stopped.  
your stomach twisted violently.  
365.
from 456 to 365 in one game.  
you had just barely made it past the first round, and already, 91 people were dead. 
the guard continued, as if it was nothing.  
“per the rules outlined in your contracts, the prize money will now be distributed accordingly.”  
there was a loud mechanical hum, and everyone’s heads turned up. the massive, glass piggy bank suspended above the room lit up, just as the masked men pressed something into their control panels.  
suddenly, stacks of money dropped into the glass. 
you weren’t sure why, but the sound made you sick. the soft, rhythmic flutter of cash raining down inside the bank filled the silence.  
when it stopped, the glowing numbers below it read:  
₩91,000,000 
you felt sick, this was how they were keeping score. if you did the math correctly, you could walk out with 45.6 billion won if you were the sole winner. however, the chance of winning felt so low right now.
a man in the crowd let out a shaky breath. 
“what the fuck,” he whispered under his breath, his voice cracking.  
you swallowed, your throat dry as the masked man continued.  
“each eliminated player adds 100 million won to the total prize fund,” he explained, “the more players eliminated, the higher the reward. the players that make it through all six games will split up the cash prize money evenly.”  
your hands felt cold. you could see it…the way some people’s eyes flickered to the glowing piggy bank with something a little different from fear. greed.  
some were already starting to rationalize it, you could tell.  
it’s them or me. if people are going to die anyway, at least I’ll be rich. you felt sick.  
the guard wasn’t done.  
“as stated in the rules, players who refuse to participate will be eliminated. however, should the majority of players wish to discontinue the games, all players will be permitted to leave, and the prize money accumulated so far will be divided amongst all of the players.”  
a new image popped up on the screen.  
a yes and no option appeared with two large buttons at the bottom.  
“you will now vote.” the murmurs grew louder.  
people shifted, glancing at one another, exchanging hesitant whispers. the rules had said that the games could end with a majority vote.  that meant there was still a way out.  
your pulse pounded.  
could this really be over? could you really leave? or was this just another game?  
your fingers unconsciously moved to your stomach, pressing against the barely-there bump.  
your daughter.  you had to get out.  
you swallowed hard, watching as more people looked up at the piggy bank and weighing their options. you already knew that some people weren’t going to let this go. some people would stay because for some, the risk was worth it.  
you weren’t sure how you would vote.  
all you knew was that if you left here with nothing, the life waiting for you outside was no better. your life was already drowning in debt, your body was already exhausted from years of survival and now, you had a baby girl to think about.  
the guards began calling people forward, one by one, leading them to the giant two buttons in the center of the room.  
your turn was coming soon, and you had a choice to make.
“player 399.”  
your heart thumped in your chest at the sound of your number being called. your legs felt stiff as you moved through the crowd of players, stepping toward the massive red button in the center of the room. you could feel eyes on you, but you ignored them.  
without hesitation, without a single second of doubt, you pressed X. 
you weren’t going to stay. there was no way in hell you were going to risk your life in this nightmare. the second the red light confirmed your vote, one of the guards handed you a small badge, a symbol marking your decision.  
you took it, pinning it to your tracksuit jacket before turning around and heading straight back to your bunk. you didn’t want to talk to anyone. you didn’t want to hear whatever arguments people would make to stay. you didn’t want to be involved.  
you just wanted to go home.  you climbed back onto your top bunk, exhaling a long, shaky breath as you buried your head into your arms.  
then—  
“player 388.”  
you weren’t paying attention at first, too deep in your own panic, in your own exhaustion. however, when the next player stepped forward, something made you look up.  
something made your body go rigid. 
long black hair, tied into a low ponytail.  
broad shoulders.  
a familiar stance, a familiar way of holding himself.  
your breath caught in your throat.  
no.  
it wasn’t possible. you sat up straighter, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs as you watched him move toward the button.  
your stomach twisted.  
he looks just like daeho. 
gosh does daeho have a twin?
you clenched your fists, shaking your head, telling yourself it wasn’t him…it couldn’t be him.  
he pressed O. 
he voted to stay.  
you swallowed hard, watching him closely as he turned…and the moment his face came into full view, your world stopped.  
your lungs forgot how to breathe and your heart plummeted.  
daeho.
your head spun, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm in your ears.  
he was here.  
he was here!!  
the realization hit you like a freight train.  
what the hell is he doing here?  
you barely registered your own movements as you slid off the bunk, your legs carrying you forward before you even had time to think. your eyes locked onto him, your stomach churning as you watched the exhaustion etched onto his face, the tension in his shoulders, the way his face looked so much thinner than he had just days ago.  
had he even been sleeping? had he been eating? how long has he been here? a large panic surged through you.  
this wasn’t supposed to happen, since daeho wasn’t supposed to be here.  
you were supposed to go home, to find a way to fix this, to crawl your way out of hell and back to him—not meet him here in the middle of it.  
you immediately jumped up from your bunk, walking before stopping right in front of him.  
he was staring at the ground, lost in thought, unaware of your presence…until you spoke.  
“daeho.”  
the man’s entire body went rigid.  
slowly, his head lifted.  
the moment his eyes met yours, something inside him broke.  
daeho’s worst fears came true in an instant. he had been worrying about you from the second he stepped into this place, but he never expected to actually see you here.  
his breath came out shaky, “y/n?”  
your lips trembled, “what the fuck are you doing here?”  
your boyfriend’s mouth opened, then closed, his jaw tightening, “i…i didn’t know—”  
you shook your head, “why the hell did you vote to stay?”  
daeho’s fists clenched at his sides, “because I didn’t know you were here!” his voice cracked slightly, panic laced in his words, “i thought—i thought you were home!”  
your chest tightened, your stomach twisting painfully.  
he thought you were safe.  
he thought he was doing this for you.
your voice was quieter this time, hoarse, “daeho?”  
he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, “for the money. for you.”  
your heart twitched.  
of course.  
of course he did, because that’s the kind of person he was but god he shouldn’t be here.  
suddenly, the thought it hit you.  
the guilt settled into your chest, sharp and suffocating.  
he doesn’t know.  
your lips parted slightly as the truth crashed down on you.  
you never told him about the baby, not about your shared daughter, not about the fact that he wasn’t just risking his life for you anymore…but for the family you were supposed to have.  
your hands trembled.  
“daeho,” you whispered, the weight of it all pressing down on you.  
you had to tell him.  
before you could, the next name was called.  
the next vote was cast, and the countdown continued.  
time was running out.
you stood next to daeho, your body still tense as you both watched the rest of the players step forward one by one, casting their votes.  
more O’s lit up on the screen than X’s, and with each one, your stomach twisted even tighter.  
you wanted out.  
you wanted out so badly but as the final votes were cast, the screen flickered…confirming the final decision.  
your heart sank. 
majority vote: the games will continue. 
a low murmur spread across the room, some players reacting with relief, others with quiet despair.  
you just felt numb. so that was it.  
you weren’t going home, you weren’t getting out, and you were staying.  
you swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly as your mind raced with the realization that there was no escape.  
this was happening.  
you barely registered daeho’s hand as it found yours, his grip warm, firm, reassuring.  
when you turned your head, he was already looking at you, his dark eyes filled with something unreadable. he exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening just slightly around yours.  
“baby, i am so sorry. i wouldn’t have voted to stay if i knew. i’ll keep you safe,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the chaos around you.  
you stared at him, the promise settling deep in your chest.  
you wanted to believe him.  
goodness, you wanted to believe him so badly.  
so, instead of responding, you just leaned into him.  
daeho’s strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his warmth grounding you for just a second. you closed your eyes, letting yourself feel it.  
the exhaustion. the fear. the reality of where you were.  
however, you let yourself only feel daeho for this moment. the man who had spent a year and a half loving you, even when you didn’t know how to love yourself. i mean… daeho is the man who had worked himself to exhaustion for you, he is the man who had voted to stay…not because he wanted to, but because he thought you were back home waiting for him.  
you were so tired and so terrified, but at least he was here…at least you weren’t alone.
the next morning, you woke up beside daeho on the same bed. you didn’t care, you needed some type of content comfort.  
your mind went to the next game, whatever it could possibly be. it was as if the room itself knew that whatever was coming next was about to break even more of you. you had stuck close to daeho. it was the only thing keeping you sane besides the baby in your womb.  
the two of you had moved quickly, forming a group with three others—gi-hun, the man who had warned everyone during red light, green light, jung-bae, his friend who barely spoke, and young-il, a man who looked like he had seen too much in his lifetime.  
five of you.  
it felt safe.  
daeho used his charm and playfulness to make the group while you just trailed behind him. you were quiet, wondering if you could trust these people. 
when all of the players were moved into the next rooms for the next games, you seen a rainbow on the ground in a circle. once the feminine voice spoke about the next games, the six legged pentathlon, you were relieved since you and daeho were in a group of five already. daeho, young-il, jung-bae, gi-un, and you.
at least until she appeared.  
you didn’t notice her at first… not until she was right in front of you, her voice soft, almost drowned out by the low murmurs around you.  
"hi.. um, can i join your group?” 
player 222’s voice was soft, pleading. 
“i’m sorry, but we already–” jung-bae tries to speak.
“please... let me join,” she reaches for her lower stomach, “i'm pregnant."  
everything stopped.  
your breath hitched and your eyes snapped down toward her stomach.  
it was full. round. unmistakable. that woman was full term and she was due at anytime this month.  
your stomach turned violently, an ache spreading through your chest as you swallowed thickly, your mind barely able to process what you were looking at.  
she was so far along, farther than you could even imagine being in a place like this. your hands twitched slightly, your nails pressing into your palms, trying so hard to not reach for your own stomach.  
this wasn't right, neither of you should be here. pregnant women were supposed to be in hospitals, in their homes, surrounded by warmth and safety, not standing in the middle of a death game, begging for a spot in a group so they wouldn’t be left alone to die.  
your throat tightened, and for the first time since stepping into this nightmare, you felt like you were going to be sick. 
gi-hun looked at jung-bae.  
jung-bae looked at young-il.  
then… 
they all looked at you.  
you felt their eyes on you before you even turned to meet them.  
they were asking you, without words, to step down, to give up your spot and to let her take it.  
it was you were the smallest. you couldn’t be offended, you were the only person that knew about your pregnancy, even daeho didn’t. you weren’t showing so nobody could guess.   
your body felt too still, like the weight of the decision had already settled into your bones before you even had time to think about it.  
suddenly daeho spoke up. 
"i’ll go," he said, his voice firm but unreadable, "y/n, you can stay."  
your head snapped toward him.  
no.  
he didn’t understand and he didn’t realize why this was eating at you the way it was, why your fingers were trembling, why your heart felt like it was aching for this stranger in a way you couldn’t explain.  
he didn’t know.  
he had no idea. 
you exhaled sharply, your voice quiet but steady.  
"no."  
daeho frowned, his brows pulling together, "y/n—"  
"i'll go," you interrupted, cutting off whatever protest was about to leave his lips. daeho’s entire body went rigid.  
"y/n, don’t—"  
"make sure she’s protected," you said, and for the first time, your voice shook.  
daeho’s lips parted slightly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.  
he was noticing the way your hands clenched at your sides, noticing the panic in your eyes, the way you looked at this woman as if you understood her pain. as if you had been in her place before. before he could ask, you turned and walked away.  
you had just left your group.  
you had just left him.  
your only protection.  
your only safety, hoping that he could keep the more-developed pregnant woman safe.  
you walked through the growing clusters of players, your stomach twisting violently with each step, your hands trembling as you scanned the faces of strangers, looking for a group…any group…that would take you in.  
your lips parted, a shaky breath escaping as you pressed a hand over your stomach, feeling the soft curve beneath your palm.  
"please let me survive this.”
you were lost in your own thoughts, your mind spiraling with every worst-case scenario possible. the weight of your decisions pressed down on you like an unbearable force, making it hard to breathe. your hands trembled slightly, and your stomach churned, but you forced yourself to keep moving. you needed to find a group. you needed to find safety.  
then, a hand touched your shoulder.  
it was soft, the touch so light you barely felt it at first. it startled you nonetheless, your body jerking slightly as you turned around, expecting to see one of the guards or maybe someone trying to push you out of the way.  
instead, you found yourself looking up at a tall woman.  
player 120. 
the woman’s expression was calm, steady, a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around you. she held herself with quiet confidence, and for a brief moment, you forgot about the panic clawing at your chest.  
during your day here so far, you had heard whispers about her. people had always whispered about what they didn’t understand.  
you weren’t the only one who had overheard the murmurs about how she “used to be a man,” how some of the more conservative players scoffed at her very existence, making crude comments under their breath.  
not you. you didn’t give a damn about that.  
your eyes met hers, and despite the fear coursing through your veins, despite the sheer exhaustion settling into your bones, you gave her a small, hesitant smile…one that was probably more fearful than anything else.  
she returned it with a nod before gesturing to the player beside her…a shorter girl with round cheeks and scared eyes, player 095.  
“do want to team up with us?” she asked, her voice smooth, unwavering.  
your lips parted slightly as if you wanted to say something, wanted to hesitate, but there was no time for second-guessing.  
you nodded.  
it wasn’t because you trusted them and it wasn’t because you felt safe, it was because you had no choice.  
so, you trailed behind them as they moved through the sea of players, looking for more members to complete their team.  
soon, they found them.  
a mother and her son.  
players 007 and 149. 
the mother held her son’s hand so tightly that his fingers had turned white, and his eyes darted around the room as if looking for an escape route that didn’t exist.  
there were five of you now which is the perfect number, but that didn’t ease the suffocating feeling in your chest.  
your hands had started to shake again, your breath unsteady as you sat down with the group.  
you couldn’t stop thinking about the baby inside you. this life—this tiny, innocent life that had no idea what kind of danger it was in. you wanted to protect her, but how could you?  
your fingers twitched as the nausea in your stomach worsened. suddenly, a hand slid over yours, steady, grounding.  
your head snapped up to see player 120 watching you closely, her fingers wrapping around your trembling ones.  
"relax," she murmured, her voice softer now, more reassuring, "it’s okay, we will win."  
nothing about this was okay but for some reason her words helped.  
she held onto your hand for a few more moments, letting you absorb her warmth before finally letting go. then, she offered something you hadn’t expected.   
"my name is cho hyun-ju," she said, giving you a small nod, "what’s yours?"  
you hesitated for only a second before responding.  
"y/n," you said quietly, "y/n l/n."  
you sat on the cool, hard floor of the massive game hall, you felt an eerie sense of detachment from reality. everything around you…the murmurs of players strategizing, the sound of anxious breathing, the soft shuffle of feet as people made last-minute adjustments, felt distant. 
the gunshots from when the first groups lost nearly sent your heart running out of your chest. you are scared, terrified. the sounds of those guns and how loud they were, you found yourself flinching at sounds that seemed a bit too loud.
your mind wasn’t fully present. instead, it wandered, restless and heavy, only half-aware of the discussions happening within your own group. your fingers idly traced over the sleeve of your green tracksuit as your eyes drifted across the room, searching. 
you weren’t looking for just anyone, you were looking for him. it didn’t take long before you found him.  
daeho sat with his group, leaning slightly toward jung-bae, the man who had quickly become his mentor and friend in this nightmare. they spoke in hushed voices, jung-bae’s expression firm, instructive, while daeho listened intently, nodding along. 
you couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you didn’t need to. daeho had always been quick to form connections, to find comfort in people even in the darkest situations. it was one of the things you loved about him, one of the reasons you had fallen for him so deeply.  
it made you think of how you two first met, how he had walked into that small café where you worked, how his effortless charm had wormed its way into your life before you even realized what was happening.  
this wasn’t then. this wasn’t some small, warm café in the city.  
this was hell and daeho was here with you. well, at least in the same room as you. 
you should have been relieved, should have felt safer knowing he was nearby, but instead, a deep, sinking sadness settled in your chest because when his gaze finally met yours, it wasn’t with that usual spark of lightheartedness, the kind he had when he was teasing you or when he pulled you into his arms after a long day.  
it was with quiet understanding and with concern. 
you tore your eyes away before he could read too much into the emotion behind them.  
your gaze fell onto player 222…the pregnant woman who had taken your place in your former group. she sat quietly, cradling the full swell of her stomach, her expression unreadable.  
your throat tightened. your sadness wasn’t jealousy. how could it be? nobody knew about your pregnancy. nobody knew that, like her, you were carrying a child into this nightmare but you weren’t showing. you were still small, still able to move freely without anyone questioning your condition unlike her.  
you swallowed, your hands resting over your stomach for just a second before pulling away quickly, hoping nobody noticed the motion. you weren’t worried about yourself as much as you were worried about her.  
she shouldn’t have been here and you shouldn’t have been here but the world didn’t care about fairness.  
the conversation in your group continued, pulling your attention back to the present. they were discussing the games…deciding which one each of you would play.  
the six-legged pentathlon consisted of five traditional childhood games: Ddakji, Biseokchigi, Gonggi, Paengi Chigi, and Jegi.  
your lips parted slightly, your mind running through the list, the names triggering distant memories. before you even fully processed the decision, you spoke,  
"i’ll play ddakji."  
your voice was steady, confident.  
hyun-ju, who had been leading the discussion, turned to you with an interested tilt of her head.  
"you’re good at it?"  
your fingers flexed slightly as a memory surfaced. you were good at it.  
when you were younger, you had watched the neighborhood kids play, fascinated by the way they slammed the paper tiles onto the ground, flipping their opponents’ pieces with precision.  
as a foreigner, you had been introduced to the game later than most. but that hadn’t stopped you from picking it up quickly…too quickly. within weeks, you had become undefeated, beating the same kids who had taught you the game in the first place.  
it was why you had won against the salesman on your first try.  
the thought made your stomach twist slightly.  
if you had lost that day, if you had hesitated, if the paper had landed just a little differently…you wouldn’t be here but you were. so, you forced the memories away, locking them behind the same mental wall that kept you functioning in this place.  
you looked up at hyun-ju and nodded.  
"yeah," you murmured, "i’m good at it."  
hyun-ju smiled slightly, satisfied with your answer.  
"then it’s settled," she said.  
one by one, the rest of the team chose their games.  
hyun-ju would play jegi, the mother/player 149 would play gonggi, the son chose biseokchigi, and young-mi, the quiet woman who had yet to say much, chose paengi chigi.  
everything is decided, the weight in your chest lifted just slightly.  
the last two groups made it to the finish line on time, so there were no gunshots as you stood up, stretching your stiff limbs. you glanced at hyun-ju beside you, watching as she reached up to pull her long hair into a ponytail. 
the smooth motion, the way she tied it up with effortless ease, made her look ready. you envied that. shaking off the nerves, you turned your head toward daeho’s group.  
you weren’t sure if you expected him to already be watching, but when your eyes landed on him…he was. not just him, all of them.  
jung-bae. young-il. gi-hun. even player 222, the woman who’s name you didn’t know yet. 
all of their eyes held a mixture of emotions… hope, uncertainty, fear. 
when daeho’s gaze met yours this time, it wasn’t just concern, it was something deeper. he wanted to throw up at the idea of seeing you compete for your life but there was nothing either of you could do.  
as you stood in the open space of the massive game hall, waiting for your turn, the weight of everyone’s eyes started to press down on you. you felt the silent judgments. they were boring into your skin, scrutinizing your every move, every breath.  
it wasn’t just you, it was your whole group. you turned your head slightly, noticing the way some players…mostly the stronger, more confident ones…glared at 120 and the mother in your team.  
that’s when it hit you. they thought you were weak. they looked at you all and *expected* you to fail. a group with only one man, a transgender, a young scared woman, a mother, and a foreigner who happened to be pregnant as well. you could almost hear the unspoken assumptions.   
your fingers twitched and anger simmered deep inside you, but you pushed it down.  
let them think that. let them underestimate you because as the games started, something beautiful happened. you all proved them wrong. one by one, each of you stepped up in sync, played your game, and won. 
you saw their faces change. at first, some people laughed, as if watching you all struggle would be entertaining. suddenly, each victory made the room shift and people started to cheer.  
suddenly, it was your turn to play ddakji, third in the lineup.  
you stepped forward, well as much as you can with player 120’s ankle next to yours, inhaling deeply as you held the envelope firmly in your grip. the guards placed your opponent’s piece on the ground.  
you exhaled, focusing, and calculating.  
 you threw.  
the slap of the paper hitting the ground echoed in the cheerful room.  
it took less than a second for the other piece to flip.  
“success” the guard made a circle motion with their arms. 
you barely processed it before the entire room *erupted.*  
all of the players watching cheered, however one voice cut through them all.  
"good job, baby! keep going!"  
daeho. you knew that voice anywhere.  
your heart skipped, but you didn’t turn to look. it wasn’t because you didn’t want to but because you couldn’t afford to get distracted.  
instead, you bit the inside of your cheek to fight off a smile as your group immediately led each other to the next game.  
when your team crossed the finish line with twenty seconds to spare, you let out the biggest breath of relief you had ever taken in your life. it felt like oxygen itself had returned to you. your lungs filled, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your body shaking from the sheer exhaustion of it all but you were alive. 
your hands instinctively rested on your stomach, just for a second, as if to remind yourself…she’s okay, too. as the guards motioned for the winners to exit the hall, you turned, about to follow the others…  but something pulled you back.  
when you looked over your shoulder, your breath hitched.  
daeho was already looking at you since his group hadn’t gone yet.  
they were still waiting for their turn but instead of focusing on that, instead of looking ahead—  
he was looking at you.  
you froze, just for a second, taking him in.  
what if this was the last time? what if this was the last time you’d ever see him alive?  
your heart clenched painfully in your chest.  
your lips parted slightly, and without thinking, you mouthed:  
"i love you." 
across the room, amidst all the noise, amidst all the fear, daeho held your gaze.  
daeho’s lips moved, barely a whisper, but you knew what he said.  
"i love you more."
you lingered, your eyes memorizing his face, as if it was the last time you’d be able to.  
suddenly, you force yourself to turn and you walk back to the dorms.
part two
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