#who just wanted to curl up except i needed to move the shirt!

[girliemattitude]

— - The stomach flu - — Dad! Matt & Mom!reader - —

The house had that heavy, hushed feeling that came in waves of sickness.My three year old Cody was curled up in my lap in our bed, his little body burning with fever, sweat dampening his hairline. He was pale, except for his cheeks which were flushed a deep pink, and his tiny lips were dry from throwing up earlier, twice. He hadn’t said much since this morning, just the occasional soft whimper or whine, and the heartbreaking way he’d whispered “Mommy…” right before falling back asleep on my chest.

I held him tight, one arm around him and the other brushing slowly up and down his back, trying to soothe him even as my own body ached from a complete lack of rest. We’d barely slept the past two nights.

On the floor of our bedroom, Emerie sat cross legged, a blanket beneath her and her favorite collection of dolls, crayons, and tiny animal figurines scattered all around her like a personal kingdom. She was humming softly to herself, one hand busy making a little giraffe talk to a bear about a tea party.

Three days ago, she’d been the one in this bed,feverish, miserable, clinging to me through the worst of the stomach flu. It had started one night out of nowhere. One minute she was fine, the next, she was crying because her tummy hurt and then she threw up all over her bunny pajamas. The flu had knocked her out cold for two full days, and she missed school all week.

She was finally better today. Her color had come back, her appetite returned, and her energy was, quite honestly, suspiciously back to normal. But she liked playing up the drama. She loved staying home, being near us. And she knew if she said she still didn’t feel great, there was a good chance we’d cave and let her skip one more day.

And now… Cody had it.

Matt hadn’t wanted to leave me alone today. I could still hear his voice this morning before he left, low and full of guilt as he buttoned his shirt at the foot of our bed.

“I don’t feel right going,” he’d said, glancing between me and Cody, already sick and sweaty on my chest. “You’re running on fumes, babe. Let me cancel. They’ll understand.”

“You can’t miss this meeting, Matt,” I had told him, gently. “You’ve pushed it twice already. Go, just… come back as soon as you can.”

He’d looked torn. “Promise me you’ll text if you need anything. Anything.”

“I promise.”

He’d kissed my forehead, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Cody’s hair. “Feel better, little man.”

Now, hours later, I heard the front door creak open downstairs. I didn’t have the energy to call out, but Emerie didn’t need prompting she heard it and bolted from her spot on the floor like a firecracker.

“Daddy!” she squealed, the thud of her feet racing down the hallway.

I smiled a little despite the exhaustion. Moments later, I heard Matt’s soft grunt as he caught her in his arms, followed by his warm laugh.

“Well, hey! Someone’s feeling better,” he teased as he lifted her.

“I mean…” she sighed dramatically, arms around his neck. “I’m not that okay. I think I probably need one more day at home.”

Matt laughed, his voice still tinged with that weary fondness he always had when she pulled her little tricks. “You’re full of it,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “But we’ll see what your mom says.”

When they entered the bedroom, his eyes immediately went to me and to Cody, who was still curled up tightly against my chest, sweaty and pale. Matt’s entire face shifted. The smile faded, and concern took over.

“Hey, baby,” he said softly, coming to my side. “How’s our little guy?”

Cody stirred at the sound of Matt’s voice, eyelids fluttering. He turned just enough to glance up at his dad, his expression small and tired and a little sad but he didn’t move. He just sighed and pressed closer into me.

I kept my hand gently stroking his back. “He’s not doing great,” I said quietly, my voice scratchy from hours of not talking. “Fever’s been holding steady. He hasn’t kept much down. Just wants to be held.”

Matt frowned, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside me. He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers across Cody’s cheek. “Poor little guy,” he whispered. Then he looked at me, eyes full of concern. “And you? You look dead on your feet. Have you even eaten today?”

I shook my head, gently. “He hasn’t let me put him down for more than a few minutes. I was going to grab something after his nap, but… it’s been a long nap.”

Matt sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “God, I shouldn’t have gone in today. I hated leaving you like that.”

“You had to,” I said softly. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

Emerie plopped herself back down on the floor and resumed playing like nothing had happened. Matt glanced at her, then leaned in closer to me, his thigh brushing against mine, his voice dropping.

“Let me take him. Just for a little while. You need to eat. Shower. Breathe.”

But as soon as he reached to take Cody from my arms, Cody whimpered a tired, sad little cry and clung tighter to me, pressing his flushed cheek into my shoulder.

“Okay, okay,” Matt murmured, hands up in surrender, eyes soft. “He wants his mama. I get it.”

I gave a small, tired smile. “He’ll let you hold him later, once the meds kicks in again.”

Matt sighed, settling back beside me, close enough that I could lean into his shoulder. His warmth, the weight of him beside me, grounded me in a way nothing else could right now.

“He’s going to be okay,” he said gently, wrapping an arm around my back. “You both are. But I swear, the second he’s asleep, I’m making you food. Real food. Something hot.”

“And what if I just pass out the second he does?”

“Then I’ll feed you in your sleep,” he said with a tired grin. “Don’t test me.”

I leaned into him, Cody snug between us, his soft breaths slowing again as he drifted back to sleep.

Matt’s hand now resting gently on Cody’s back, fingers tracing slow circles. Cody didn’t even stir just nestled closer like he was absorbing the warmth of both of us. His skin was still too hot, but his breathing was even, and for now, he was resting. That’s all I could ask for.

From the floor, we heard a small sigh.

I looked down and saw Emerie sitting still, her toys forgotten, her fingers twisting the hem of her pajama top in her lap. Her bottom lip stuck out just a little, and her eyes were glued to her brother. She looked thoughtful… and guilty. Matt noticed too.

“What’s up, sweetheart?” he asked, voice soft.

She didn’t answer right away. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Finally, in a small voice, so quiet I barely caught it she whispered, “It’s my fault Cody’s sick.”

I sat up a little, surprised. “What?”

“I made him sick,” she said again, louder this time, eyes glassy now. “Because I was sick first. And I didn’t mean to, but I kissed him goodnight when I had the throw-ups and now he has the throw-ups and he looks really sick and it’s my fault.”

She suddenly burst into tears, covering her face with both hands.

Matt was off the bed in a second, kneeling in front of her, his hands gently cupping her little arms.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart,look at me,” he said softly, wiping a tear from her cheek. “It’s not your fault, okay?” “But I-”

“No. Listen.” He looked her right in the eyes, his voice so gentle but firm. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Being sick isn’t anyone’s fault, okay? Germs are sneaky. They hide on everything, doorknobs, cups, toys. You could’ve washed your hands a hundred times and still shared them by accident. It just happens.”

I reached a hand toward her and she crawled up into my lap, careful not to disturb Cody. She buried her face in my side and wrapped her little arms around my waist.

“Baby,” I murmured, stroking her soft curls, “you didn’t hurt him. You love your brother. That’s why you kissed him goodnight, right?” She nodded silently, still sniffling into my shirt.

“That love is a good thing. He knows you didn’t mean to get him sick. You didn’t do anything bad. And when he feels better, he’s gonna want a million more goodnight kisses from you.” Matt smiled softly, brushing her hair back from her face. “And he’s gonna be okay, Em. You got through it, and he will too. He’s just as tough as his big sister.”

Emerie sniffled again, then peeked up at him. “Are you sure?”

“I promise.” She looked at Cody again, his face calm now, his mouth slightly open as he breathed, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks.

“Can I draw him a picture?” she asked, voice trembling but hopeful.

I smiled. “I think that’s a beautiful idea.”

Matt stood and ruffled her hair gently. “Why don’t you bring your crayons in here, and we’ll make him a whole get-well card.”

She scrambled off the bed with new purpose, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand as she gathered her markers and paper. I could still see the sadness lingering in her, but the guilt was slowly fading now replaced with a little bit of that proud big sister energy she wore so well.

I turned my head just enough to kiss Matt’s jaw, Cody breathing steadily between us, Emerie drawing at the foot of the bed. And even in the haze of fevers and fatigue, of crayons and sickness and soft apologies, I felt a little piece of peace settle in my chest.

[Dividers by the lovely @bernardsbendystraws 💗]

[myadagoat22]

BAT AND SUPERFAMILY OUTING PART5

Warning: word count 3000+, SMUT, fluff, and honestly Bruce is warning

The house was its usual Saturday chaos.

“Where’s my hoodie? The one with the Superman logo!” Duke called, half-dressed and standing in the hallway like the world was ending.

“It’s in the laundry room where you left it,” Jon said, already fully dressed and trying to look like he had it all together—except his socks didn’t match.

Clark, always patient, crouched beside Duke to help with his sneakers. “You sure you want the Superman one?” he asked with a grin. “Might get us kicked out for showing off.”

Duke rolled his eyes. “Dad.”

Jon laughed. “He’s not wrong though.”

Meanwhile, in the master bedroom, Bruce was buttoning up his dark shirt while watching Y/N try to wrangle her hair into something photogenic. “You know,” he murmured, stepping behind her, “if you wear that lip gloss again, I’m not going to make it to Top Golf without getting us banned for public indecency.”

Y/N smirked in the mirror. “Promises, promises.”

Behind them, Stephanie passed by the doorway, phone in hand. “Can we not flirt within six feet of me? This is a family outing, not a CW drama.”

Jason walked past after her, still half-asleep. “What’s a Top Golf?” he mumbled.

Connor shouted from downstairs, “It’s like golf but with food. And chaos.”

Damien appeared in full black, of course. “If there’s not a leaderboard, what’s the point?”

Tim, carrying a backpack that probably had at least one book and three snacks, muttered, “This is why we never go anywhere on time.”

At Top Golf

By the time they got there, the energy was buzzing.

Clark was helping Jon adjust his swing. “Elbows loose. You're hitting like you’re fighting Doomsday, not a golf ball.”

“I am fighting a golf ball,” Jon said. “It’s winning.”

Bruce stood behind Y/N, hand lightly on her waist as he guided her stance. “You’re aiming too far right,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. “Let me fix that.”

She gave him a side-eye but didn’t move away. “This better not be another excuse to grab my waist.”

“Can’t it be both?”

Meanwhile, Duke and Connor are arguing about the aim while Damien tries to calculate the wind speed with his phone. Dick was texting Starfire, laughing quietly, while Stephanie recorded a TikTok with Jason photobombing in the back.

Tim, surprisingly good at this, hit the ball with ease and immediately went back to his book.

“Dad!” Jon yelled, pointing to Bruce. “He just kissed Mom on the cheek after she missed the shot!”

Clark, lining up his own swing, smirked. “That’s her reward system.”

Y/N added, “I only get kisses if I’m terrible at golf?”

“You get more if you're great at it,” Bruce said.

Clark added, “And if you beat me, we’re getting ice cream and back massages.”

“Just back massages?” y/n asked with a smirk.

“God, I want to take you both to that VIP booth,” Bruce said with heart eyes.

Clark replied “You need dinner before dessert”

Ride Home

The ride home was sleepy, full of chatter and low music. Damien was reading something on his phone. Stephanie had her headphones in. Dick and Connor were laughing at some inside joke. Jason had passed out, again.

Duke leaned against Clark’s shoulder in the backseat, still buzzing from the day. “That was fun.”

“I told you,” Clark said softly, carding a hand through his curls. “Sometimes it’s good to take a break.”

Jon, riding shotgun, looked back at them. “Can we do it again next weekend?”

Bruce glanced at Y/N, who smiled. “We’ll see if your homework’s done.”

“Lame.”

“Necessary,” she replied.

As the SUV pulled into the driveway, Bruce put the car in park and glanced over at Y/N. “You looked good out there.”

“Yeah?” she teased. “You like watching me miss shots?”

Clark leaned in from the back. “He just liked having a reason to keep his hand on your waist all night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Like you didn’t wrap your arms around me every time I needed help with my swing.”

Bruce hummed low in his throat. “I might need help with something later tonight…”

Clark just smiled. “Only if I get to go first.”

Y/N looked between them, amused, flattered, and maybe a little flushed. “Boys, we just got home. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Goodnights & Glances

Back at home, the house dimmed and quieted like it was finally exhaling. The chaos of Top Golf was replaced by the hush of bedtime routines and sleepy footsteps padding across wood floors.

Dick was perched on his bed, legs crossed and grinning down at his phone. [Text to Starfire] Dick: Had fun today. Wish you were here. Call me tomorrow. He sent it with a soft smile, then clicked his lamp off and curled into bed, content.

Across the hall, Stephanie was going through her extensive skincare routine, brushing her hair in rhythmic strokes, music low on her Bluetooth speaker. “Glow-up starts at bedtime,” she whispered to herself like a mantra. She winked at her reflection before turning off the light.

Jason? Already out cold. He’d faceplanted into bed fully dressed, Top Golf wristband still on. A small snore escaped him as he sprawled starfish-style across the mattress.

Tim was in bed, propped up on pillows with a book in one hand and a highlighter in the other. Occasionally, he’d underline something, the glow from his reading lamp painting soft shadows on his face. Focused. Peaceful. Probably hours from sleep.

Connor had kicked off his shoes and flopped on his bed, YouTube playing on his phone as he scrolled half-watching some random science channel. “Huh,” he murmured, learning how volcanoes worked. “Cool.”

Damien, to no one’s surprise, was already asleep. He had gone to bed straight after his post-dinner chess game with Tim, tucked in military-style and absolutely motionless like sleep was a mission he refused to fail.

Down the hall, Jon and Duke were finally knocked out too—curled up under Star Wars sheets, empty water cups on their nightstands, remnants of the sugar rush now just gentle breathing. Duke muttered something about “laser tag rematch,” and Jon snored softly in reply.

In the Living Room

Clark was sprawled on the couch, legs outstretched, sipping what was left of his wine. Bruce leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Y/N move through the room as she tidied up abandoned sweaters and dropped socks—every movement was calm, intimate like it belonged only in this hour of the night.

“Kids are finally down,” she said, voice soft and satisfied.

Bruce smirked. “I thought Duke was going to start climbing the walls at one point.”

Clark chuckled. “He tried to wrestle me and Jon during teeth-brushing.”

Y/N smiled and plopped between them on the couch, drawing her knees up. “I love them. But man... bedtime feels like a boss level.”

Clark’s arm slipped around her shoulders, pulling her close. “You handled it like a champ.”

Bruce moved to sit on her other side, his hand finding hers. “We make a good team.”

The air warmed a little—not because of the wine, not because of the hour—but because they all knew what this was. Quiet. Safe. The kind of peace that comes after noise and love and effort.

Y/N leaned her head against Bruce’s shoulder, fingers brushing Clark’s thigh. “I really love nights like this.”

Bruce hummed, leaning down to kiss her temple.

Clark kissed her other cheek. “It’s only 10:45. The night’s still young.”

She turned her head, glancing between the two of them, a small, knowing smile creeping across her lips.

And somewhere down the hall, one of the kids snored like a freight train.

The Real fun

Bruce closed the door softly behind him, a predatory glint in his dark eyes as he turned to face his lovers. "Alone at last," he purred, reaching out to pull Y/N into his arms. His lips claimed hers in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to taste her.

She melted against him, hands fisting in his tailored shirt as he dominated her mouth. Clark pressed up behind her, big hands smoothing over her curves possessively. "Hey there, beautiful," he rumbled, nuzzling into her neck. "Did you have fun today?"

"Mmmm, not as much fun as I'm about to have now," Y/N moaned, grinding her ass back against his prominent bulge. Bruce chuckled, fingers slipping under her shirt to tease the sensitive skin of her stomach.

"Greedy little slut," he taunted playfully. "Always so eager for our cocks." He cupped her breasts, thumbs stroking over her nipples through the thin fabric of her bra. They pebbled instantly, aching for his touch.

Clark reached around to undo her jeans, shoving them down her thighs along with her panties. Cool air hit her heated flesh, making her shiver. "Fuck, she's already so wet," he groaned, fingers delving between her slick folds.

"Let's get these clothes off her," Bruce commanded. They worked in tandem to strip her bare, leaving her exposed and wanting between their hard bodies. Her husband knelt before her, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her mound.

"So pretty," he breathed against her skin. "All pink and swollen for us." He lapped at her slit, tongue circling her clit. She whimpered, threading her fingers through his hair.

Bruce rose to claim her mouth again, plunging his tongue between her lips so she could taste herself on him. His hands roamed her body as Clark moved behind her, grinding his erection against the cleft of her ass.

"Look at you, so desperate for our dicks," Bruce growled approvingly. "Bend her over the bed, Clark. Let's give her what she needs."

Clark obeyed eagerly, bending Y/N at the waist and exposing her dripping cunt to Bruce's hungry gaze. "Gonna fuck this sweet pussy so good," he promised, giving her ass a sharp smack. She yelped at the sting, feeling herself grow even wetter.

Bruce knelt behind her, large hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Keep those legs spread for me, slut," he ordered. "Gonna ruin you on my cock."

He notched the thick head at her entrance, rubbing it through her folds. She moaned, trying to push back onto him. But he held her steady, teasing her mercilessly.

"Please Bruce," she whined desperately. "I need it."

"Since you asked so nicely," he smirked. With one hard thrust, he sheathes himself to the hilt, her cunt stretching obscenely around his girth. She cried out at the sudden invasion, nails scrabbling at the sheets.

"That's it, take it," he snarled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. He set a brutal pace, pounding into her with deep, driving thrusts that made her tits bounce.

Clark took advantage of her open mouth, shoving his fingers inside to fuck her throat. She gagged around them, tears leaking from her eyes. He just grinned down at her, tweaking her nipples roughly.

"Our little cumslut, so eager to be used," he taunted. "Bruce is going to fill this pussy up so good."

"Fuck, she's so tight," Bruce grits out, pistoning his hips faster. "Gonna pump her full of my seed, breed this needy cunt."

"Yes, please!" Y/N wailed, pleasure overwhelming her. Her thighs began to tremble, walls fluttering around Bruce's plundering cock.

"That's it, cum on my dick," he growled, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave marks. "Squirt all over me like a good little whore."

Her orgasm crashed over her then, back bowing as she screamed. Bruce snarled, slamming into her one last time before emptying himself deep inside her spasming pussy. She could feel his hot cum painting her insides, marking her as his.

Clark pulled his fingers from her mouth, replacing them with his thick cock. She sucked him down greedily, still twitching through the aftershocks. He fucked her face hard and fast, using her mouth like a cheap fleshlight.

"Gonna cum down your throat," he grunted, balls tightening. "Swallow it all like a good girl."

With a guttural moan, he spills himself on her tongue. She gulps it down, licking him clean when he's finished. He pets her hair approvingly.

"There's my perfect little cocksleeve," he praises. "So good for us."

Bruce pulls out of her still fluttering pussy with a wet squelch, come dribbling down her thighs. He gives her ass a parting smack before sprawling on the bed.

"Come here, you insatiable whore," he beckons, cock already starting to stir again at the sight of her debauched and dripping with their seed. "We're just getting started."

Clark chuckles darkly, dragging her up the bed to straddle Bruce's lap. "That's right baby, we're going to ruin you for anyone else," he promises, positioning his own rehardened cock at her messy entrance. "Now ride us like the filthy little cock addict you are."

Bruce's eyes darken with lust as he watches Y/N ride Clark's cock, her full tits bouncing hypnotically with each thrust. He reaches out to squeeze the heavy globes, thumbs flicking over the stiff peaks.

"Fuck, look at you, taking him so deep," he groans appreciatively. "Our little cumslut, always so eager for dick."

Clark smirks down at her, hands gripping her hips bruisingly tight. "She's fucking insatiable," he agrees, slamming up into her hard enough to rock her. "Can't get enough of our cocks."

Bruce leans in to capture her lips in a filthy kiss, tongue delving into her mouth to taste himself on her. "I'm going to wreck this tight little ass next," he promises darkly when he pulls back. "Stretch you out on my fat cock until you're screaming for mercy."

She moans wantonly at the threat, clenching around Clark's pistoning length. He grunts, fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

"C'mon slut, cum on my dick," he snarls, angling his hips to hit that magic spot inside her with every thrust. "Milk me dry with this greedy cunt."

Bruce moves behind Clark then, pressing against his back and reaching around to stroke his own cock in time with Clark's deep thrusts into Y/N's pussy. "Look at how good you fuck her," he praises, nipping at Clark's ear. "Such a dirty slut for our cocks."

Clark shudders, head falling back onto Bruce's shoulder. Bruce takes advantage, licking and sucking at the column of his throat. "Wanna taste you," he rumbles, voice rough with need. "Wanna suck your dick until you flood my mouth with cum."

Clark makes a strangled noise, hips stuttering. "Fuck yes," he groans, voice strained. "Want your filthy mouth on me."

Bruce smirks, giving his neck one last hard suck before dropping to his knees behind him. He grabs Clark's ass, spreading the firm cheeks to expose his tight pink hole.

"Gonna eat this ass until you're begging for my cock," he promises darkly, leaning in to drag the flat of his tongue over the furled muscle. Clark jerks, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.

"Oh fuck," he moans, fingers fisting in the bedding. "Just like that."

Bruce chuckles, blowing a cool stream of air over the wet skin. He laps at the quivering hole with broad strokes of his tongue, saliva dripping down to the pool at Clark's balls. The lewd sounds of his mouth working fill the room, punctuated by Clark's increasingly desperate moans.

"Please Bruce," he begs shamelessly, trying to push back onto the insistent tongue. "More, I need more."

Bruce obliges, sealing his lips around the tight ring of muscle and sucking hard. Clark howls, thighs trembling as he fights the urge to cum from the intense sensation. She can feel him pulsing inside her, so close to the edge.

"That's it, open up for me," Bruce coaxes, tongue spearing into Clark's hot, clenching hole. He fucks into him with filthy slurps and groans, spits dripping down his chin.

"Gonna wreck this ass," he growls when he finally pulls back, leaving Clark gaping and twitching. He rises to his knees, lining his thick cock up with Clark's slick hole.

"Beg for it," he demands, rubbing the broad head over the fluttering muscle. "Beg me to split you open on my dick."

Clark whimpers, head thrashing on the pillow. "Please Bruce," he sobs, trying to push back onto the tempting length. "Please fuck me, I need it so bad. Need you to ruin me."

Bruce smirks, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Since you asked so nicely." With one brutal thrust, he sheathes himself to the hilt in Clark's ass, making him scream.

"Fuck yes," he snarls, setting a punishing pace. The bed creaks beneath them as he pounds into Clark's willing body. She can feel every powerful snap of his hips through the thick wall of Clark's cock still buried inside her.

Clark is mindless with pleasure, head thrown back and eyes rolling wildly in his head. He claws at the sheets, babbling brokenly as Bruce fucks him into oblivion.

"Take it slut," Bruce growls, one hand wrapping around Clark's throat possessively. "Gonna fill this ass with my cum."

"Please," Clark chokes out, voice hoarse from screaming. "Cum in me, mark me."

Bruce snarls, hips stuttering as his orgasm overtakes him. He slams into Clark one last time before stilling, buried to the hilt in his spasming hole. Clark keens high in his throat, his cock jerking inside Y/N as he's flooded with heat.

She comes with a ragged cry, pussy clamping down on Clark like a vice. He moans brokenly as she milks him for every last drop, hips grinding into her as he fills her up.

When it's over, Bruce pulls out of Clark's messy hole with a wet pop. He reaches down to scoop some of the pearly fluid leaking out of Clark's used hole, pushing it past his stretched rim. "Look how well you took my cock," he croons approvingly, gathering more come and feeding it to Clark. "Such a good little slut for us."

Clark licks his lips submissively, eyes glazed with pleasure. "Thank you," he slurs, still floating on his high. "I'm yours."

Bruce pets his hair tenderly, the other hand reaching around to stroke Y/N's sensitive clit. She whimpers, still so sensitive from her multiple orgasms.

"There's my good girl," he praises, fingers circling the swollen nub lightly. "Took both our cocks so well."

Clark nuzzles into Y/N's neck, peppering the sweat-slick skin with soft kisses. "So perfect for us," he agrees hoarsely. "Our filthy little cumslut."

She moans weakly, hips twitching as Bruce continues his relentless teasing. She's not sure she has another orgasm in her after that mind-blowing session, but her body doesn't seem to care.

"Gonna make you cum again," Bruce promises darkly, adding a second finger to rub mercilessly at her G-spot. "Gonna have you squirting all over Clark's cock like a good little slut."

She mewls brokenly as he works her towards another peak, thighs beginning to quiver. Clark licks and sucks at her breasts, rolling the stiff peaks between his teeth until she's writhing.

When her third climax hits, it's almost painful in its intensity. She screams hoarsely as liquid gushes from her cunt, soaking Clark's softening cock and balls. They moan at the sensation, continuing to stroke her quivering body as she rides out the aftershocks.

When it's over, she collapses against the bed in a boneless heap, completely spent. Bruce and Clark arrange themselves around her, strong arms and legs twining together to cage her in their heat.

"Rest now, sweetheart," Bruce murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "We'll take care of you."

She hums contentedly, nuzzling into Clark's chest as he brushes damp hair back from her sweaty face. In this moment, surrounded by their love and their scent, she's never felt more complete.

[aparticularbandit]

Someone decided to help me with my tailoring project.

[eowynstwin]

i’m drooling at ur older bf price (not much else to say except when/if u ever have more thots abt him please share 🙏)

previous

You curl in on yourself after sex, sometimes. It’s a pattern Price has noticed—you’ll finish, then he will, and in the humid moments after, the shutters in your eyes will close. You won’t meet his gaze.

He’s only asked once about it, and it had been so clear that the question disturbed you that he hadn’t pressed. You’d tell him, he reasoned, when you were ready—

(And he could nudge you in that direction in the meanwhile.)

The sink is put back together, cabinet door closed. Your sundress is wrapped and twisted around your midsection, naked breasts wet with his saliva and compressed against his chest as you lay panting on top of him. His shirt is in some far-off corner, thrown aside, and his jeans are around his knees.

“That was nice,” he murmurs in your ear, kissing your hair. He makes a home for his fingertips between your shoulder blades, walking the trail of your spine, up and down, slow as a tide.

“Mm-hm,” you say, out at sea. Far away.

He can’t deny that it disappoints him. But it isn’t about him, and he shouldn’t make it so. Even if it is about him, it isn’t actually about him—it’s about something else that has attached itself to him. Things are like that more often than not—deeper, older problems with hooks, the barbed kind that sink in and cling and won’t come out of their own accord.

So he keeps kissing your hair, and he keeps stroking your back. His softened cock hasn’t slipped from you yet, and he makes no move to dislodge it. You nestle closer to him; shift your body over his, a little, just for the feeling of it. He waits for the sigh—the long, steady breath you take after the act, after you’ve found yourself again in wherever it is you go after moments like this.

“This is probably weird to talk about after sex,” you say, and Price’s ears perk up.

“Nothing weird between us, dove,” he encourages. “What’s on your mind?”

You play with his chest hair a little, twirling it around with the manicured ends of your nails. (A manicure he happily paid for.)

“You’re the first man who’s ever given a damn about me,” you mumble into his neck.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says honestly. He kisses you again, because he wants to, and because he wants it to comfort you.

“You don’t make me feel stupid for not being able to do stuff on my own,” you continue. “My step—my mom’s husband. He used to make fun of me for, for getting confused about changing my car’s oil. Or he’d get annoyed at me. Or I’d need him to change my tires because I can’t do it on my own, and I’d call him for help, and he wouldn’t pick up the phone.”

“He sounds like a piece of work,” Price comments.

A younger version of himself would have offered to beat the shit out of the asshole. That self’s anger on your behalf sits radioactive in his chest even now—corrosive, roiling, righteous fury, ready to carve your name on whatever offal is left over after Price gets through with him.

But that would be for his own ego, not for you. That has no place here.

“Do you know—” and your voice breaks a little, “do you know how bad it feels when a man who’s supposed to look out for you treats you like you’re an idiot? Like you’re not smart enough to be worth helping?”

“Some,” he says. “It’s an awful feeling. I wish you didn’t know how it felt, dove. I’m sorry.”

He feels something warm and wet drip onto his chest, and your shoulders begin to shake.

It’s not the full-body, wracking cry of catharsis. Just an episode of something longer, something tired. A problem dealt with, over and over again—a wound that reopens sometimes, if it’s pulled the wrong way.

Price gathers you closer, wraps his arms around you tighter. He cups the back of your neck with one hand and murmurs “shhh” into your hair, soothing and quiet, squeezing you against him.

“I’m okay,” you say, a little watery. “Really, I am.”

“I know you are,” he says.

He tilts your face toward his, and kisses the center of your forehead. You meet his eyes with your own, wide and glistening with your tears.

“I’m always gonna help you, dove,” he promises, catching one that falls with the edge of his thumb. “And you can always ask.”

-

No I don’t have daddy issues why do you ask

[foxtrology]

unchained melody (7)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 14.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut, mentions of suicide.

Harry woke up without an alarm. No noise. Just instinct.

His eyes opened to the slow hum of night, the villa wrapped in silence except for the rhythmic pulse of her breath against his ribs. She was still asleep—curled around him like always, one leg slung over his hip, hand resting on his stomach like they’d grown roots there.

He blinked once. Then looked over to the clock.

11:32 PM.

The article had dropped. Thirty-two minutes ago. Or so he thought.

What he didn’t know—what no one had told him—was that Carrie Roth had gone rogue. That the article had been published early. That he had already lost the fight. That her face, her body, the weight of mystery surrounding her name and all the blanks the internet was now trying to fill had been dissected and distributed and devoured long before Harry ever opened his eyes.

But none of that existed in this room. Not yet.

For now, there was just the weight of her sleeping on his chest. Her skin warm. Her hair curled like ink along his collarbone. He hadn’t moved in hours. Hadn’t needed to.

She made stillness feel like something sacred.

Harry slid his hand gently down her spine. Stopped at her waist. Let it rest there. Then, careful not to wake her, he reached over and grabbed her phone and his—both forgotten on the floor, one tangled in the strap of her tote.

He didn’t read the article. Didn’t read the comments. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t need to. Whatever was written didn’t matter.

He knew what came next—lawsuits, statements, narrative control. Danny would have already started calling the legal team and would be on the phone with every editor he had dirt on.

Harry simply slipped both phones into her bag. Out of sight. Away from them. Just for the night.

Then, quietly, he grabbed the landline off the nightstand and called down to the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he murmured, voice low enough not to disturb her. “For two. Whatever’s ready. Wine too.”

He hung up. Laid back. Wrapped his arm around her again.

And let the weight of the day start to bleed in—slow, like dusk.

The knock was too loud. Too sharp. Too sudden. It startled her awake. She gasped softly against his chest, eyes blinking open with a confused sound in her throat. Harry moved instantly—lifting his head, tightening his hold on her like instinct.

The knock came again. He exhaled, already annoyed.

“Stay,” he whispered, brushing his lips over her hair.

He got up in one motion, pulling on the first shirt he found—still rumpled from the afternoon. When he opened the door, the poor villa staff member barely got a word out before Harry’s expression did the talking.

The tray was delivered. The door shut behind him. No thank you. No smile.

When he turned back, she was sitting up in bed, sheets pulled over her chest, hair wild, lips parted.

She blinked slowly. “Was that—?”

“Dinner,” he said. “For us.”

“What time is it?” she mumbled, voice thick.

He checked his watch. “Almost midnight.”

Her brows lifted. “You ordered dinner at midnight?”

“You were asleep. I figured we might want something. Or wine.”

Her lips curled. “You’re not real.”

“I am,” he said, already walking the tray over. “Unfortunately.”

She scooted up against the headboard as he set the tray down on the edge of the bed. There were two covered plates, a bottle of wine already uncorked, and two small glasses.

She reached for one. “You're mad at the poor guy who brought this?”

“He knocked like it was urgent.”

She smirked. “You’re an asshole.”

“You like it.”

She didn’t deny it. They ate in bed. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee.

There was pasta—still warm, tossed in olive oil, garlic, and shaved parmesan. A bowl of roasted vegetables. Bread they didn’t ask for but devoured. The wine was deep red, smooth and heady, and the glasses were barely half-full before she started to feel it.

For a while, they didn’t talk. Just passed bites back and forth. Shared a fork. Ate slowly, deliberately. Letting the quiet sit between them like something earned.

Eventually, she glanced at him.

“You okay?”

Harry looked over. “I am now.”

She didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, she reached for the wine again. Poured them both another splash. Then turned her body to face him more fully—her bare legs tucked under her, his t-shirt hanging off one shoulder like it was made for it.

She studied him.

“You are quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

He looked down at his glass. Then set it aside. She didn’t speak. Just waited.

And finally—he let it out. Slowly. Like a confession. Since Lucy.

“My mother died when I was seventeen.”

She blinked. Sat straighter. “Harry…”

He shook his head once, like it wasn’t something he wanted sympathy for.

“She was young.”

The room held still.

“She used to sing while she cooked,” he continued. “Even if it was just eggs. She never remembered the words, always made them up. My sister would be right by her side too.”

She stayed silent.

He glanced at her. “I didn’t go back to the house after the funeral. Not once. Haven’t been in it in thirty-five years.”

“Why not?”

He took a breath. “Because she was the only thing in it that made it feel like home. After that…it was just walls.”

She reached out. Touched his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“She would’ve liked you,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “I would’ve liked her.”

Harry looked at her. Really looked.

Then reached for her hand. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed her knuckles once. Gently.

“You never talk about your family,” he said quietly.

And just like that—the air shifted. She pulled her hand back, slowly. And for a moment, he thought she wouldn’t say anything.

But then—

“My brother died too,” she said softly.

Harry froze.

Her voice didn’t waver. But her eyes did.

“He killed himself when we were twenty.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, looking down at her lap.

“I haven’t told anyone in years.”

He didn’t interrupt.

She looked up at him. “I know you saw the tattoo. The T.”

He nodded once.

Her voice was steadier now. “It’s for Teddy. He was my twin.”

That stopped him. Cold.

He stared at her. “Twin?”

She nodded. Harry sat back slightly, absorbing it.

“You never told me.”

“I don’t talk about him.”

She didn’t elaborate. And Harry didn’t ask. But it lingered between them now—something heavy and sacred.

She tucked her legs under her. “We were born five minutes apart. He was the loud one. The reckless one.”

Harry watched her. Waited.

“He died on a Tuesday,” she added, voice quieter now. “I still hate Tuesdays.”

Harry reached for her hand again. This time, she let him take it.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“I’m glad I do now.”

She didn’t smile. But her fingers curled around his. And that said more than anything else.

They finished eating slowly. The plates were pushed to the side. The wine was nearly gone. The night curled in around them—quiet and forgiving.

She laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers still tangled with his. He pressed a kiss to her temple. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was for more than just dinner.

It was for still being here. For not asking more than she could give. For holding the truth gently, like it was something delicate and worth keeping. Harry squeezed her hand once. And they stayed like that—

Long into the night. Not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

But knowing this—

For now, they still had each other. And sometimes, that was enough. But only for the night.

Because the morning arrived with a fist. A very loud, very manicured fist.

It slammed against the villa door just after eight, shattering the silence with a rhythm more fitting for the police than a houseguest.

“Harry! Open this fucking door right now—what the hell did you do?!”

They both jolted upright in bed.

She blinked, disoriented, Harry’s arm still around her waist, breath still warm on her neck. His face was unreadable, but his grip on her tightened instinctively.

Outside the door, Livia screamed again.

“Do you think you can just kill the Wi-Fi like this is a monastery? I have work! I have a fucking following!”

Harry didn’t move.

She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself, hair mussed, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Did she say...Wi-Fi?”

Harry ran a hand down his face. “I had it cut last night.”

She stared. “You what?”

“Just for today.”

“For what reason?”

His jaw ticked.

She blinked. “Wait—is this about the article?”

Before he could answer, Livia banged again, full dramatic rage now.

“I was filming a sponsored review for a blush that melts! I’ve been trying to upload it for hours! I already sent the invoice! This is fucking sabotage.”

Harry swung his legs off the bed. Didn’t bother replying. Didn’t bother dressing either—just pulled on yesterday’s slacks and stalked across the room with the terrifying calm of a man who had throttled Wall Street brokers for fun and been thanked for it.

She wrapped the sheet tighter, following him with her eyes as he opened the door with one swift pull.

Livia stood there, barefoot in kitten heels, her white robe slipping dramatically off one shoulder, a silk headscarf tied haphazardly atop her head like a fashionable war widow, phone clutched in her hands.

Her face fell the second she saw who else was in the room. “Oh,” she said flatly, eyes cutting to her.

She offered a tight smile from the bed, tugging the sheet higher. She knew this open fucking bedroom would cause her problems. 

Harry didn’t react. “You’ve had Wi-Fi your entire life. You’ll survive twelve hours.”

Livia’s voice dropped to a hiss. “We are not in the Hamptons, Harry. We’re in the Tuscan countryside. It takes six weeks to get high-speed here. And I have deliverables.”

He didn’t blink. “Cry about it.”

Livia blinked. “You—did you seriously just say that to me?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “Do you want me to say it again slower?”

She took a half-step forward, daring. “I swear to God, if this is about Lucy—”

The air changed. She stopped. His expression darkened—not with anger, but with something colder. More lethal.

“I’d choose your next sentence very, very carefully.”

The hallway went still. Livia blinked.

Then, like any decent survivor, turned on her heel and muttered, “Fucking tyrant.”

Harry closed the door slowly. Locked it. Turned.

She was staring at him from the bed, wide-eyed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly more human again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was...horrifyingly hot.”

That got a tiny smile out of him.

He didn’t leave the room that morning. Not for breakfast. Not for emails. Not even for the 10:00 a.m. meeting Danny had arranged with three investors who had flown in from Zurich.

Danny called twice. Harry didn’t answer. She watched him from the armchair in the corner—barefoot, hair pulled into a bun, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, a mug of lemon tea balanced on her knee.

“You’re skipping the meeting?” she asked eventually.

“Yes.”

“Won’t they be mad?”

“They’ll get over it.”

“Will Danny?”

Harry sipped his espresso. “Danny’s already got a lot of shit on his plate.”

That made her laugh.

Harry sat at the edge of the bed, one ankle propped over his knee, flipping through a leather notebook, pen tucked behind his ear like he was sketching out the next version of the world.

He looked completely at ease. Except for the muscle in his jaw.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

He looked up. “Do I not look okay?”

“You look like you’re playing chess with people’s lives in your head.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Do you know what was in the article?” she asked quietly.

“I didn’t read it.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Not interested in anyones narrative.”

He paused. She nodded slowly. But something still itched at the edge of her ribs.

“Will everything be okay?” she asked, barely audible.

Harry looked at her. And for the first time, the cool, coiled stillness broke.

“Yes. Don't worry,” he said. “Danny’s already got people watching the blogs. The subreddits. The gossip accounts. If anything comes up, we kill it before it spreads.”

She swallowed. “But what if it's not?”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped in front of her and knelt, one hand resting on her knee.

“Then I'll burn them down.”

She searched his face. And found something terrifying there. Not fear. Not hesitation. Conviction. The kind that doesn’t flinch.

“You’d burn them down?” she whispered.

His voice didn’t change.

“I’d do anything for you.”

She believed him. And that terrified her more than the article ever could.

Meanwhile, in the converted office across the villa, Danny was having the worst morning of his career. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t moved from his desk in hours.

The Wi-Fi Harry cut had taken down two printers, a backup router, and a $15,000 digital projector that Lorenzo was now threatening to return to France in protest.

He was fielding calls from six continents. Allegra was ghosting him. And two junior employees had locked themselves in a bathroom over rumors that “Castillo was spiraling.”

He’d already flown out three more team members overnight—Sadie from PR, Robyn from legal, and a fixer named Ben who used to work for Russian oligarchs and didn’t blink.

When Lorenzo asked if Harry was canceling the investor lunch, Danny responded by slamming a folder down and saying, “If Harry wants to picnic in hell today, we’re all going with him.” Nobody asked again.

Back in the villa suite, her and Harry were still in bed. It was noon.

She was braiding a section of her hair absentmindedly, the balcony doors cracked open behind her. The breeze drifted in soft and slow, carrying the scent of rosemary, dust, and something vaguely citrus.

Harry laid beside her. Watching her like he was memorizing every movement.

She looked at him. “You really didn’t read it?”

He shook his head. “The only story that matters is the one we write.”

“That’s a nice line.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a decision.”

She chewed her lip. Then shifted closer.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then laid her head on his chest.

“If you ever find out something about me…something I couldn’t say out loud yet… would you still look at me the way you do now?”

His hand moved through her hair.

Slow. Gentle.

“I already know I don’t deserve you.”

She looked up, startled. But he wasn’t finished.

“So whatever it is—whatever you’re afraid of—it doesn’t change what I feel.”

She stared at him. Long and quiet.

Then whispered,

“I believe you.”

And she did.

Even if her chest still burned. Even if the truth still lived behind her ribs like a locked room. Even if the wolves were circling. Because right now? He was here. And the rest of the world could wait.

The hours bled. Through stone. Through linen. Through the brush of her fingers along the lip of a ceramic mug.

She had stayed curled beside him as long as she could bear it. Skin warm. Sheet tangled around her hips like an afterthought. There was honey in the air. And rosemary. And something sour just beneath it—the scent of stillness going stale.

She needed to move.

She didn’t say it out loud at first. Just sat up. Pulled her hair away from her neck. Walked barefoot across the room to where the windows overlooked the orchard, the gravel path, the ache of quiet that clung to the hills like fog.

He was still in bed. Watching her.

She didn’t turn around. Just said, softly, “I can’t stay in here all day.”

A beat passed.

“You said we’d stay in,” he murmured, voice frayed by sleep.

“I know,” she said. “But I feel like I’m losing track of time.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “Please.”

She turned. And found him already watching her. It was the please that did it. The shower was brief. Not for lack of effort.

Harry, as always, was a saboteur in disguise. She caught the glint in his eye the moment the water hit her collarbone. The slow, deliberate way he pressed her against the tile. His mouth dragged along her shoulder like he was writing something. His hand ghosted down her stomach.

“Don’t,” she whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t what?” he asked, too innocent.

“You’re going to distract me.”

He kissed her ribs.

“You always say that.”

“And you always prove me right.”

His tongue moved lower. She grabbed his face with both hands.

“Harry,” she said, laughing now. “Stop trying to ruin the day.”

“I’m improving it.”

She stepped out of the water.

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re wet.”

“I’m leaving you in here.”

He sighed like a man deprived of oxygen. “Fine.”

They dressed quietly.

She wore a cotton sundress with tiny pearl buttons down the front and a pair of old sandals. Her hair was damp and half-tucked into a scarf she found in her bag. He wore black again—short-sleeved linen, slacks rolled slightly at the ankle, sunglasses tucked into his collar like punctuation.

She didn’t ask if he was nervous about being seen. He didn’t ask if she still felt like running. They didn’t have to.

The car into town was old. Beige leather, sticky in the heat. The driver didn’t speak except to nod once when Harry gave him the name of the town. Not the one they had went to the other day with Francesca and Luca. Not the one with influencers and Aperol spritzes and rented designer bags.

The one past it. Where the hills stopped being curated and the people stopped pretending. She leaned her head on the window.

Harry laced their fingers together without looking. She exhaled.

“I need something stupid today,” she said.

He turned to her. “Like what?”

“A book I’ll never finish. A dress I can’t afford. A bag of lemon candy that hurts my teeth.”

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The village was empty in the way only real places are—half-shuttered shops with peeling signs, a church bell that rang too loud for no one in particular, a woman sweeping her doorway like she’d been doing it for decades.

No one looked at them. Not once.

They slipped into a bookstore that smelled like thyme and printer ink.

The owner didn’t speak English, but smiled kindly when she held up a copy of La Noia and asked, brokenly, if he had it in English. He did. He pulled it from a low shelf, dusted it off with the sleeve of his cardigan, and handed it over like it was a secret.

Harry watched her leaf through it with that quiet reverence she saved for real things. Books. Cats. Tiny ceramic bowls that held nothing but dust and memory.

They left with three books. One for her. One Harry picked out without telling her. One she grabbed last-minute because the cover reminded her of her brother. He paid for all of them in cash.

The next stop was a boutique tucked into a stone alleyway—no name, no mannequins, just a beaded curtain and the smell of vanilla. Inside, it was chaos.

Lace and linen and buttons made of bone. Dresses that looked like they’d belonged to Italian actresses in the seventies. Shelves lined with scarves dyed the color of bruises and citrus rinds. Jewelry tangled in bowls.

She held up a pair of vintage sunglasses. “Do I look like I sell weed to college students?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“I like that for me.”

“You’d ruin them in a week.”

She handed them to him anyway. “Good. Then they’ll have character.”

She tried on two dresses. Bought neither. Harry bought her both when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed only when they were halfway down the street and he handed her a wrapped bundle.

She paused. “I said I didn’t want them.”

“You lied.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t say anything else. But he was smiling.

They passed a café with blue umbrellas and tiny espresso cups. He bought her a lemon granita and a slice of almond cake.

She ate both with her feet up on his lap, a paperback open across her knees, his hand resting low on her thigh like it had always belonged there.

No one took a photo. No one whispered. No one called her anything at all. He felt invisible. And for the first time in days, that was a relief.

They walked back to the car slowly. No rush. No panic. She had a bag of marzipan in one hand. His fingers in the other.

The afternoon had turned amber. The kind of light that only exists when you’re not trying to capture it.

Back at the villa, the gravel was still warm underfoot. They slipped inside without speaking. Up the stairs. Down the hall. The quiet was golden.

Until—

“Harry.”

They both stopped.

Lorenzo.

Standing in the corridor like a painting. Hair too perfect. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he spent more time in mirrors than the markets.

Harry’s hand clenched slightly. Lorenzo smiled.

“We’re having a farewell dinner tonight,” he said. “My yacht. Final celebration before your flight.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Lorenzo’s gaze flicked to her. Then back to Harry.

“Should be intimate,” he added. “Just the core group. Paolo. Francesca. Luca. Livia. Me.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’ll pass,” Harry said flatly.

Lorenzo didn’t blink. “That wasn’t a question.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. Her stomach turned.

She could feel it happening—the shift. The slow, deliberate slide toward something ancient. Pride. Power. That edge of violence that lived in quiet men who had too much to lose.

She stepped forward. Touched Harry’s hand. Took it in hers. Looked up at Lorenzo with a smile so practiced it hurt.

“We’ll be there,” she said softly.

Lorenzo tilted his head. “Wonderful.”

He turned. Walked away.

Harry didn’t move. She didn’t let go. He looked down at her, the edge still sharp behind his eyes.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s just dinner.”

“It’s a performance.”

“So perform.”

A pause. Then he exhaled through his nose.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured.

She tilted her head. “Do what?”

“I should be the one protecting you.”

She smiled. “Harry, I can protect you and thats okay.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then pulled her in. Pressed his forehead to hers.

And in that breathless second between silence and surrender, she knew—

He would do anything for her. Even smile at men he hated. Even go to dinner with ghosts. Even pretend. If it meant she stayed.

They walked the rest of the hallway in silence. Her hand still in his. His body still braced for a fight that had not yet arrived.

But by the time they reached the room, it was already beginning to dissolve. The heat of it. The tension. The echo of Lorenzo’s voice. All of it started to fade the second he opened the door for her, and she stepped back into the space that had briefly felt like a sanctuary.

She let go of his hand only to set her bags down gently on the bed. A scarf slipped out—burnt orange with blue stitching at the edge. Harry caught it before it hit the floor and folded it over the back of the chair.

She toed off her sandals. Turned to him.

“Help me unpack?”

He nodded. Wordless. Of course.

It took longer than it needed to. She did it slowly—like if she stretched each act out long enough, the rest of the evening might somehow never arrive.

She took each thing out of the bags one at a time, smoothing the tissue paper between her fingers, holding things up to the fading light like they might tell her something.

Harry stood behind her, occasionally reaching for the things she handed him—books, scarves, a delicate linen blouse she’d claimed was “too sheer to wear in public,” which of course meant she’d already imagined wearing it the next morning.

He folded everything with surprising precision. Sharp creases. Quiet attention.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured.

“Military school,” he said, without looking up. “You learn fast when your roommate’s a sadist.”

She laughed softly. Set a small paper-wrapped box on the dresser.

He glanced over.

“What’s that?”

She shrugged. “Jewelry. Kind of. I think it was meant to be a choker but it’s made of beads and string and I just liked how it felt in my hands.”

Harry said nothing. Just watched her unwrap it—slowly, delicately, like the beads might break if she breathed too hard.

She held it out.

“Put it on me?”

He took it. Stepped behind her. Lifted her hair. Fastened the string with a quiet gentleness that made her chest ache.

His hands lingered at the base of her neck afterward. Then dropped.

She didn’t turn around. But she reached for his hand. Held it for a second. Then let go.

They sat together on the edge of the bed for a while after that.

Just the long slope of light across the stone floor, the breeze curling through the half-open windows, the sound of forks clinking faintly downstairs where staff had begun prepping for the night.

She rested her head on his shoulder. And for a little while, they didn’t talk. Eventually, he kissed the top of her hair.

And said, “We should get ready.”

The getting ready was not hurried. It was careful. Quiet.

Intimate in a way that had everything to do with knowing someone’s rhythm well enough to match it.

She went first—starting with her hair, standing at the small vanity table with a round mirror and a glass tray filled with little hotel bottles that all smelled faintly of lemon and woodsmoke. She brushed slowly. Methodically. Let her hair fall naturally, then twisted it up in a loose, soft knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with two pins and one of the new scarves.

Harry sat behind her on the bed, silently buttoning his shirt—black again, always, the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, the collar slightly open. No jacket tonight. No tie. Just quiet confidence and careful rage tucked beneath the surface.

She glanced at him in the mirror. He looked at her reflection. Neither of them smiled. But something passed between them. Something warm. Unspoken.

She turned back to the vanity and touched her fingers to the edge of her mouth. Then leaned forward and pressed on a little lip color—nothing bold. Just enough to look like she’d been kissed recently.

She stood. Slipped into the dress she’d picked out that morning in town. The one she told him was “too much” for a dinner but bought anyway. A pale mauve silk that fell low at the back and clung just enough to make her feel like a poem instead of a person. She hadn’t worn a bra. Didn’t need to.

Harry looked up. His hands stilled. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He stood. Crossed the room. Touched the strap of the dress like it might fall off if he didn’t anchor it.

“You’re not real,” he said under his breath.

She smiled. “Neither are you.”

He kissed her shoulder. Then stepped back.

She helped him with his cuffs. Folded each one slowly, smoothing the fabric. Buttoned them without looking up.

“You hate him, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

“Lorenzo?”

She nodded.

“I don’t hate him,” Harry said. “I hate what he represents.”

“Which is?”

“Everything I thought I had to become.”

She met his eyes. Didn’t speak. But she squeezed his wrist, gently. He kissed her forehead. They finished dressing in silence.

He found her shoes under the bed. Slid them on for her, one by one. Then stood and straightened his collar, checking her once more.

“You ready?”

He exhaled.

“No.”

He knew it would be sort of a long drive. The closest Marina to them was about an hour away.

All because Lorenzo wanted to throw a send off dinner for him on a yacht. He knew the man did it on purpose. 

“Too late.”

The villa was quiet when they opened the door. The hallway still. The lights warm and low.

Their steps echoed softly against the stone floors as they made their way down toward the main entrance.

Neither of them spoke. She adjusted the strap of her dress once. Harry reached over and fixed it for her before she could.

They were both beautiful. Both calm. Both armed. And neither of them had any idea what they were walking into.

The car Lorenzo sent them was sleek. Black. Clean in that sterilized, soulless way that suggested it was used for too many things—contract signings, last-minute getaways, discreet apologies to mistresses and board members alike.

The driver didn’t speak at first. Just nodded.

They pulled away from the villa in silence. Gravel cracking under the tires. A distant bird scattering somewhere behind the orchard. The roads twisted softly, curling through dusk. Golden hour was gone now.

Everything outside the window had turned that particular shade of blue that felt like the bottom of a swimming pool—hollow, glassy, waiting to hold something heavy.

She had one hand resting on her thigh. Harry’s was on top of it. Not moving. Just there. Like a claim.

She was staring out the window, watching vineyards fall away like memory, when the driver suddenly said—

“You’re her, huh?”

She turned. Harry did not.

The man cleared his throat. “I mean. Sorry. I just—uh. I saw your face earlier. On—on Twitter. Or X. Or—what is it now? Is it still Twitter? I feel like I should call it Twitter but everyone keeps saying X, but that just feels like a fake porn site—”

Harry looked up slowly.

The driver swallowed. “I mean, it’s none of my business, obviously. Just—my cousin in Palermo sent me a screenshot. You’re all over it. Every social media platform actually.”

He was talking too fast now. Trying to recover. Mumbling something about hashtags and name-blind profiles and how “the internet doesn’t sleep” before trailing off entirely.

She had gone still beside Harry. But he hadn’t moved his hand.

She turned her head. Met his eyes. Worried. Quiet. Not panicked. Just quietly terrified.

He looked at her for a long second.

Then, calm as ever, murmured, “You’re safe.”

She nodded once. Didn’t believe it. But needed to hear it.

What she didn’t know—what Harry hadn’t told her, at least not yet—was that while she was in the dressing room two hours ago, trying on a second dress she’d claimed she hated but couldn’t stop looking at, his phone had buzzed in his lap with a call from Danny.

Harry had stepped outside. Shut the boutique's door behind him. And listened.

Danny had been quick.

“Legal’s drafting the suit. We’re going after Carrie for invasion, misrepresentation, defamation—if we can tie in Lorenzo and Livia, we will.”

Harry didn’t interrupt.

Danny continued, “I also pulled Sofia, Ben, and Claudine. Had them flown in early this morning. Sofia’s already doing back-end wipe work. Scrubbing keywords. Dox block protocols. She’s working with two Reddit mods who owe her favors.”

Harry had only said two words,

“Make it clean.”

And Danny had replied,

“We’re trying.”

They reached the marina about an hour later. 

It was quieter than expected. The kind of quiet that made your skin feel too thin.

The sky was dark now. Bruised purple bleeding into navy. The water held the moonlight like a mirror with fingerprints.

Lorenzo’s yacht was docked at the far end. Lit up. Grand. Excessive in a way only old money could justify. The kind of boat people threw parties on just to get photographed walking off of it.

The driver parked. Didn’t say anything this time.

Harry got out first. Opened her door before she could reach for the handle. Offered his hand. She took it.

And the moment their fingers locked, she felt something strange—something subtle and electric and undeniable.

Like the gravity around him had shifted. Protective. Sharp. She didn’t let go.

They walked the length of the dock in silence.

The water lapped softly at the pylons. Distant music drifted from the yacht—something ambient, expensive, designed not to offend or invite too much thought.

They climbed the short flight of stairs onto the deck. And were immediately surprised. They weren’t late. For once.

Livia and Paolo weren't here yet.

Francesca was the first to spot them. She broke into a grin so genuine it made something loosen in her chest.

“There she is,” she said, crossing the deck in sandals and linen like a dream. “I’ve missed you. Were you avoiding me?”

The girl smiles. “Only because you’re too pretty.”

Francesca laughed. Pulled her in for a hug. Held her longer than expected. She let herself sink into it.

When they pulled apart, Francesca smiled again—gentler now. “You look... really good.”

She opened her mouth to thank her.

But then—

“Harry.”

Luca.

Crossing the deck with a glass of scotch in one hand and a suspiciously sincere expression on his face.

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded once.

Luca grinned. “Still the friendliest man I know.”

Harry said nothing. But his hand stayed on the small of her back.

Francesca looks at her. Her voice softened, slightly. “The way he looks at you, you know.”

Harry’s jaw flexed.

She smiled anyway. “Trust me I know.”

The two girls giggle making their men smile.

Then came Lorenzo. And Marcella. The hosts. Gilded. Chilled. Radiating civility like a fog.

Lorenzo offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You made it.”

Harry’s silence was a weapon. Marcella kissed both their cheeks with an efficiency that felt like surgery.

“So lovely,” she said, air-light, to no one in particular.

Then turned to Harry. “You’re glowing.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Marcella laughed. He didn’t.

They drifted away. Two ghosts in designer linen. The moment they were gone, she turned to Harry.

“Are we...in a play?”

He smirked. “You’re the lead.”

“And you?”

“Supporting role. Best in show.”

“Villain?”

“Obviously.”

She laced their fingers again.

And even in the low light, in the quiet tension of the yacht deck, in the heat of eyes that watched them like they were both flame and fuel—

Harry looked only at her. Like she was the anchor. Like she was the point. And if the world decided to burn that night—

He’d burn it back. With both hands. And her name on his lips.

They didn’t know what was coming. But they were ready for each other. And sometimes, that was enough. Even when it wouldn’t be.

The deck had been transformed.

Somehow, beneath the twilight and the soft groan of waves brushing the yacht’s hull, it looked almost… charming. Tables set in a crescent curve beneath low-strung lights. Linens crisp. Napkins folded like something ceremonial. A long, slender floral arrangement that looked like someone had plucked it from the edge of a dream and fastened it into a centerpiece with gold wire. The chairs were padded, heavy, far too luxurious for sea air.

And the food—

Well, the food hadn’t even arrived yet, but already, the air smelled like butter and salt and whatever it was rich people paid chefs to do with fish and patience.

She sat beside Harry, as always. Not across. Always beside. His hand rested on his thigh, and hers found it without thinking.

There were only eight seats. They were six. So far. And by some small miracle—some twist of fate or calculation—they had not been the last to arrive.

Francesca was already sipping from a wine glass like it was part of her anatomy. Luca had leaned back already annoyed at something Lorenzo had said. Marcella looked like a woman who had never let her face register inconvenience, and Lorenzo had adopted that particular brand of smirk worn only by men whose mistakes were always cleaned up by assistants.

But everyone was…calm.

The tension Harry had expected—the whispers, the glances, the brittle edge of politeness laced with too much curiosity—had not arrived.

Not yet.

The table hummed with that early-dinner politeness. Low voices. Faint laughter. The clink of a fork against an appetizer plate. Her glass was full of something pale and gold that she couldn’t pronounce, and Harry’s was untouched.

He looked around the table with slow, calculated precision.

Nobody mentioned the article. Nobody even looked at her like her face had been on social media all morning.

He leaned closer, voice low. “See? I told you.”

She nodded once. Still unsure. But grateful.

The chef emerged as the sun dipped fully below the waterline. French. Forty, maybe. Hair too perfect to be accidental.

He spoke with his hands. Described the first course like it was a poem about inheritance and garlic.

“Tonight, we begin with a courgette blossom stuffed with a delicate lemon-infused ricotta, resting on a green garlic velouté and finished with a saffron oil.”

The table applauded. Softly.

Francesca clapped once and said, “God, I missed food that tastes like money.”

Harry didn’t react. She just smiled around her wineglass.

The course arrived. Delicate. Precise. The kind of dish that made her feel like she should sit up straighter just to deserve it.

The fork was cold in her hand. But Harry’s hand stayed warm against her thigh.

And for a moment—a full, uninterrupted moment—it felt like maybe it would be fine. Maybe they could laugh. Maybe the wine would dull the edge. Maybe the wolves had gone quiet.

And then—

Footsteps. Hushed talking. A door opening somewhere on the upper deck.

Francesca glanced up.

“Ah,” she said. “The devils arrive.”

Livia. And Paolo. Late. By design.

Livia was wearing red. Her heels were high enough to be violent. Her makeup was severe in the way only expensive things could be. She looked like a warning.

Paolo, by contrast, looked like he’d been woken up from a nap and handed a blazer. They descended onto the deck like they owned the ship.

And immediately—

She felt it. That thing.nThat look. Livia’s eyes found her like it had been practiced.

A flick up and down. A tilt of the head. A curl of the mouth that wasn’t a smile—it was a warning.

Harry’s posture changed immediately. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But something about his silence sharpened. Like he was measuring windspeed.

Paolo clapped Luca's shoulder. Made a joke in Italian that only Lorenzo laughed at. Livia kissed both of Marcella’s cheeks, air only.

Francesca sipped her wine harder.

And then—

Livia made her way around the table. Slow. Like a lion circling the last guest at a garden party.

When she reached them, she didn’t greet Harry first. She turned to her.

Smiled. And said,

“Well. You clean up nice.”

She blinked.

Managed a polite, “Thanks.”

Livia’s gaze lingered a beat too long.

Then turned to Harry.

“Harry,” she said, like she was tasting the name.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

Livia smiled wider. And sat across from them. Just far enough to seem unbothered. Just close enough to catch her eye every time she looked down at her fork.

The second course hadn’t even been served yet. And already, she felt her stomach shrink.

The chef returned. Oblivious. Radiating joy.

“The second course,” he said proudly, “is a handmade crab agnolotti in a shellfish bisque, garnished with fennel pollen and a whisper of citrus zest.”

She tried to listen. Tried to be polite. Tried to breathe.

But across the table—

Livia was watching her. Not speaking. Not smirking. Just watching. Like she knew something. Like she was waiting.

Harry noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t move. But he reached under the table. Took her hand. Squeezed.

She looked at him. He didn’t look back. His jaw was tight. His mouth set. But he held her hand like a promise.

And even though Livia was still staring still. Still.

Still sitting there in her red dress like a warning wrapped in perfume—

Harry made sure her hand never left his. Not once. Because she was the only reason he’d shown up tonight.

And he’d burn this yacht to the waterline if anyone touched her. Even with a look. Especially then.

As dinner dragged on beneath the strings of warm light and the low hum of the sea, Livia’s silence began to thicken. Not the kind that suggested grace or boredom. The kind that held heat. Calculated. Manufactured. Edging toward combustion.

She didn’t speak. She barely touched her food. But her eyes—

They stayed fixed. Not on the conversation. Not on Lorenzo’s inane commentary about French vintners or Marcella's Cannes Festival experiences.

On her.

Livia watched her like she was decoding something. Studying a painting she didn’t understand but deeply hated. Her gaze moved over her bare shoulders, the scarf tucked into her hair, the way Harry’s hand stayed anchored on her thigh like it lived there.

She felt it. The scrutiny.

The weight of being seen not as a person, but a project. A theory. A problem.

Harry felt it too.

His hand never left hers. But she noticed the change—his fingers tightening slightly. The occasional glance across the table like a warning. The way he reached for his wine glass only to set it back down, untouched.

He was bracing. And she didn’t know for what.

Until Livia finally spoke.

“We almost didn’t make it back in time,” she said breezily, adjusting the strap of her dress like she hadn’t just been sitting in loaded silence for an hour.

The table went still.

Francesca lifted a brow. “Where were you?”

“Portofino,” Livia answered. “Had to post something. You know how it is. Deadlines.”

Marcella made a sound that might’ve been agreement.

“I had to get the posts up somehow,” Livia continued, sipping her wine like it didn’t taste like venom. “Someone decided to turn his villa into a monastery.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’ll survive.”

Livia smiled at him. “Will I? Because I had to drive three hours just to get a connection. It’s barbaric, really. The Tuscan countryside is beautiful, but I’m not trying to be digitally off-grid in the middle of a media cycle.”

Francesca cut in lightly. “What media cycle?”

Livia turned. Too quickly. Too eagerly.

She smiled. Not kindly.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?”

Her voice was honeyed and fake.

“I passed a newsstand in Portofino.”

Her fingers tapped the base of her wine glass.

“And imagine my surprise when I saw Harry’s face staring back at me.”

Livia's eyes flicked to her.

“And hers.”

The table went quiet.

Francesca’s smile dimmed. Luca stopped mid-cut into his steak. Paolo looked like he was pretending not to listen.

Harry didn’t move. But she felt his hand flex against her thigh.

Livia leaned forward slightly.

“You know it's crazy,”

Harry’s voice was ice. “Drop it.”

“But I mean—” she continued, sweet and sharp, “it’s a stunning photo. Really. I see why you wanted it buried. You look…” Her eyes scanned the girl again. “Domestic.”

Francesca shifted in her seat. “Livia.”

Livia waved her off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just…interesting.”

She sipped her wine again.

“Especially when the article says no one knows her last name. No one can find where she’s from. Or what she does. Or what she’s done.”

Harry set his wine glass down. Hard. The sound echoed.

“I said,” he repeated, voice steady, lethal, “drop it.”

Livia smiled again. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughing faintly, “you’ve always been so dramatic when you’re hiding something.”

And then—

She reached into her purse. Pulled out her phone. Her thumb moved with practiced ease. And she held it up. Face lit up by the screen.

“This,” she said, turning it so the whole table could see, “is why I’m curious.”

The screen showed a headline. Grainy. Dated. But clear.

Daughter & Wife of Convicted Fraudster Vanishes After Twin Brother’s Suicide.

It felt like the world dropped out from under the table. She went still.

Francesca inhaled sharply.

Harry’s hand froze.

Livia swiped. Another image. A courtroom.

Two women seated together—her and her mother.

Her expression was blank in the photo. Empty-eyed. Holding herself together in a dress that didn’t quite fit. A ghost caught on film.

Swipe. A photo of a memorial. Flowers. A framed picture of a boy who looked like her. Same eyes. Same mouth. A candle burned in front of it.

Swipe. The article open again.

Livia’s voice was quiet now. Laced with acid.

“She’s not just a nobody. She’s a disgrace.”

Her words cut through the air like glass.

“She’s not mysterious. She’s a cover story. Her family bankrupted entire counties. North Carolina, South Carolina—ring a bell? Her dad’s in prison for life. Her brother couldn’t handle the fallout, so he fucking shot himself. Her mother? Oh, she left to Europe, leaving behind her only living child. And now she’s here, dressed like an Italian heiress, trying to what? Reclaim the crown?”

She turned the phone back around. Smiled cruelly.

“She’s a gold digger. She doesn’t want you, Harry. She wants her old life back.”

And just like that—

The room detonated.

Harry stood. Fast. Violent. Chair screeching back.

She flinched.

The table went dead quiet.

Livia blinked. Harry didn’t say a word. He reached across the table. Snatched the phone from her hand.

And, without a breath—

Threw it. Hard. Over the railing.

It sailed clean into the dark water. A distant splash. Livia gasped.

Harry turned to her—his.

Took her hand. Didn’t look at anyone else. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. He just pulled her up from the table and walked.

Fast. Sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back.

Francesca and Luca called after them. But Harry didn’t stop.

He held her hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. They reached the stairs. The dock. The cool night air hit them like a slap.

She tried to speak once—tried to say his name. But he didn’t respond. Not yet. He was moving too fast. Like if he slowed down, something would shatter.

At the end of the dock, a row of cars idled quietly. Drivers waiting, smoking, checking their phones. Harry found theirs in seconds. The driver startled when he saw him.

Harry opened the door. She slipped inside without a word. He followed. The doors shut. The silence hit like a bell.

The driver turned, cautious. “Would you like…music?”

Harry nodded once.

“Low.”

The man reached for the dial. Turned the volume up just enough to mask the breathless tension. Soft classical music filled the space.

But it didn’t help. Because inside the car, she wasn’t breathing right.

And Harry? Harry hadn’t said a word since the table.

She stared straight ahead, fingers clenched in her lap, the scar from her past bleeding through the fabric of her dress, visible now in ways it never had been.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. But her throat burned. And Harry still hadn’t looked at her.

Still hadn’t said anything. Still hadn’t touched her. She tried again. Quiet.

“Harry.”

Nothing.

She turned her head. He was staring out the window. Jaw clenched. Eyes distant. Like he was trying to kill something in his mind.

She shrank back against the seat. The hour felt like ten. The mountains passed them in slow shadows. The vineyard fences blurred. The stars outside sparkled like they didn’t know what had happened.

When they reached the villa, the driver pulled into the gravel driveway and didn’t speak.

Harry got out first. Came around to her door. Opened it like he always did. But he didn’t meet her eyes. He just offered his hand.

She hesitated. Then took it.

Because it was habit now. Because it was muscle memory. Because it still meant something.

But her chest was splintering. Because Harry hadn’t looked at her. Not really. And she didn’t know if it was because he was protecting her—

Or because now he saw her the way the world did. Like a headline. A scandal. A past that couldn’t be washed away.

They walked into the villa without a word. The door shut behind them.

And the silence returned. Worse now. Thicker. Unspoken.

And she—

She stood in the middle of the room like she didn’t know where to go. Like she didn’t know if she still belonged.

Harry stood at the window. Hands on the sill. Looking out. Like he needed to calm the storm in his chest before he came near her.

She watched his back rise and fall. Once. Twice.

Then whispered.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

So she said it again. Stronger. More desperate.

“Harry. I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

Still, no response. And it broke something in her.

She turned. Walked to the bed. Sat down slowly. Face in her hands.

The shame crawled up her spine like fire. She didn’t know if he hated her now. Didn’t know if he regretted everything. Didn’t know if the silence was grief or fury or both.

But she couldn’t take it anymore.

So she whispered, “Say something.”

And finally—

Finally—

He turned. Crossed the room in three strides. Knelt in front of her. Hands on her knees.

Eyes searching hers like a lifeline.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said hoarsely, “because I didn’t know how to say I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Tears down her cheeks.

“What?”

He reached up. Touched her face.

“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve burned that story to the ground before it ever saw print. I should’ve never let you walk into that dinner.”

Her lip trembled. He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to hers.

Breathed in like she was oxygen.

“I don’t care about your past,” he said. “I care that you had to live it alone.”

She broke. Right there. In his hands. Tears slid down her cheeks silently. No sobs. Just a collapse.

He wrapped his arms around her. Pulled her onto his lap. Held her like something sacred.

Like she wasn’t broken. Like she was his. And when he kissed her hair, he whispered it again.

“I’m sorry.”

Over. And over. And over.

Until the silence softened. Until her hands clutched his shirt and wouldn’t let go. Until her breath steadied. Until he knew—

She still believed him. Even now. Especially now

Harry didn’t know how long she cried in his arms. But eventually—inevitably—she wore herself out.

Her breath slowed. Her grip on his shirt loosened. The weight of everything—the article, the shame, the dinner, the past she never asked for—tugged her under like sleep was the only mercy the night had left to give.

She fell asleep in his lap. Her face still pressed to his shoulder, lashes damp, fingers curled like a child’s against his ribs. He didn’t move for a long time. Just held her. Let the room breathe again. Let the storm pass through him too.

Then, as gently as possible, he shifted. Lifted her carefully—arms beneath her knees and shoulders like she weighed nothing. She stirred for a second, murmured something against his chest, then went quiet again.

Harry laid her softly on the bed.

Paused. Looked at her for a long moment.

Then he reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. Unfastened it slowly.

Pulled the silk down her body with reverence, like it was something holy. Like she was something holy. And she was. Even now, even like this—her hair clinging to her cheek, her eyes red from crying, her chest still heaving with the remnants of grief—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He dressed her in one of his shirts. The soft black one with sleeves too long for her arms. And a pair of drawstring sweats she always claimed were too big but wore anyway when she was cold.

Then he tucked her in. Folded the blankets up to her chin. Brushed her hair off her face. Kissed her cheek.

And when he pulled back, his throat ached. Because you could still tell she’d been crying. Even in sleep. Even with the room quiet again. Even with her tucked safe beneath layers and love and silence.

He stood there for a long time. Staring at her. Hands on his hips. Head bowed. Then he turned. Slipped out of the room.

The hallway was still. The air sharp with Tuscan night.

He didn’t knock on Danny’s door. Just opened it.

Danny was still awake. Still at the desk. Still surrounded by printouts and screens and glowing things that wouldn’t stop blinking. He looked up the second Harry walked in, eyes bloodshot, tie loosened, jaw tight.

“I was about to come find you,” Danny said. “Livia’s phone is at the bottom of the sea and Lorenzo’s been calling since they docked.”

Harry didn’t respond. He stepped inside. Shut the door behind him. Then stood there. For a beat. Two.

And finally, quietly—

“She’s not who they say she is.”

Danny blinked. “Okay.”

Harry stepped closer. Ran a hand down his face. Exhaled.

“She’s not a gold digger. She’s not after anything. She’s…she’s not trying to be anything other than someone who survived.”

Danny leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

Harry stared at the floor. “Her father was a fraud. The worst kind. Bankrupted counties. Destroyed families. Her brother—” he stopped, jaw clenched, then shook his head. “Her brother didn’t make it.”

Danny didn’t speak.

“And her mother?” Harry added. “Vanished. Moved to Europe. Left her with nothing. Not even a phone call.”

Danny’s face softened.

“She was twenty,” Harry said. “Barely twenty. All that chaos, all that press—people stalking her, blaming her, speculating. She left the country. Changed her name. Disappeared. She’s been rebuilding ever since.”

He paused. Looked up.

“I didn’t know until tonight.”

Danny nodded once. Still silent.

Harry walked to the desk. Put his hands flat on the surface.

“I’m canceling the deal.”

Danny blinked. “What—?”

“All of them,” Harry said. “Lorenzo. Paolo. Anyone else tied to this. Anyone who sat at that table and let her be humiliated.”

Danny exhaled.

“You sure?”

Harry looked at him. “They don’t respect me. And they sure as hell don’t respect her.”

Danny leaned back in his chair. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll shut it down. Pull the paperwork. Call legal.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’ll handle everything,” Danny added, voice quieter now.

Harry looked at him. Grateful.

Then he stepped back. One hand on the doorknob.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “As soon as she wakes up.”

Danny blinked. “New York?”

Harry nodded. “She needs to be home. Somewhere she can breathe.”

Danny was already typing. “I’ll have the jet ready.”

Harry lingered in the doorway for a second longer. Then left.

Back in the suite, the room was still dim. She hadn’t moved. The covers hadn’t shifted. Her hand was curled near her face, one wrist poking out from the sleeve of his shirt.

He moved slowly. Quietly. Started to pack. Not for the first time. But with a different kind of focus now.

He folded her things one at a time. Smoothed the fabric. Laid them in her suitcase with more care than he’d shown in any boardroom or billion-dollar negotiation. Every scarf. Every book. The dresses he bought her. The choker made of beads and string. Her sandals. Her sunglasses. Her hair pins.

He packed it all. Because she wouldn’t have thought to do it. Because she was still bleeding somewhere inside. Because she was asleep and exhausted and hurting and he loved her so much it ached.

He zipped the suitcase shut gently. Set it by the door.

Then packed his. Less carefully. More rough. He didn't care about his things as much as he cared about hers. He didn’t need much. Just whatever he needed to get her back safely.

When both suitcases were lined up by the door, he paused. Stared at them. His and hers. Side by side. Like they belonged to people who’d been married for ten years. Like this was just another business trip. Another morning. Another moment.

But it wasn’t. This was something else. This was a line in the sand. And he was choosing her. He was choosing her past. Her future. Her name. The shame she had to manage alone. Her silence. All of it.

Harry turned. Looked back at her. Still asleep. Still soft. Still his. And in that moment, something settled inside him. Something final.

She could’ve told him she was a storm. A wreck. A ruin. He still would’ve chosen her. Every time.

Her shame was his shame. He would defend her. Even if she killed somebody. No matter what the world said.

He crossed the room. Turned off the last lamp. Slipped into bed beside her. Didn’t wake her. Just slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close again.

She shifted slightly. Exhaled. Settled against his chest like gravity knew him.

And Harry—

Harry closed his eyes. Held her. And waited for morning. Because soon, they were going home.

It was still dark when she stirred.

No sunlight yet—just the blue of early morning crawling through the windows, brushing the stone floor like a whisper. Outside, the hills slept. The air was thick with silence, the kind that only exists just before dawn, when even the birds hesitate to speak.

Harry hadn’t slept much. He’d laid there, holding her, counting her breaths, his thumb brushing slowly over her ribs like the motion alone might protect her. He’d watched the hours crawl past on the little travel clock near the bed.

3:17. 4:09. 5:01.

He didn’t mind. So when her body tensed in his arms—barely a flinch, just the subtle stiffening of shoulders and the catch of breath—he noticed instantly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pressed his lips to her hair and held her tighter. Not enough to trap. Just enough to anchor.

She didn’t open her eyes. But he felt it—the dread blooming beneath her ribs, the way her breathing changed. Not panic. Not fear exactly.

Just pain. Old. Familiar. Worn thin like a favorite shirt.

And then, softly—his voice still rough with sleep, or maybe something gentler—

“Hey.”

She didn’t answer. So he tried again, this time brushing his thumb along her arm, soothing.

“It’s just me.”

A pause.

Then, “You’re safe.”

She shifted slightly. Tucked her face into his chest.

Her voice, when it came, was hoarse. Small. “What time is it?”

He glanced toward the window. “Still early.”

Another pause.

Then—barely audible—

“Did it really happen?”

Harry exhaled.

And nodded against her temple. “Yeah.”

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

She just curled tighter into him, like the confirmation settled something—like she’d needed someone to say it out loud, to mark it real. To make it something they could move past.

He pulled the blankets higher over her shoulder.

Pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“We’re leaving,” he said softly. “In a little bit.”

She didn’t ask where. Didn’t ask why. But he told her anyway.

“Back to New York. Jet’s ready. Packed your things.”

That got a tiny flicker of something—a shift in her body. A breath caught between resistance and relief.

“I don’t want you doing all of this,” she said quietly.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You don’t get a say.”

Her brows knit.

“I’m taking care of you,” he said. “Because I want to. Because I love you. And because you deserve someone who does it without being asked.”

He loves her. He said he fucking loves her.

She blinked. Soft. Unsure.

He ran a hand down her side, slow. Reassuring. Then he said it—what had been pressing into the base of his throat since last night.

“I don’t care about your past.”

She looked up at him then. Really looked.

Harry’s expression didn’t waver.

“I care that you had to go through it alone,” he said. “I care that no one protected you. That no one stood up for you. That people looked at you and saw the story instead of the person.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him, heart cracking open again—but slower this time. Less violent. Just a soft, slow unraveling in the face of something so rare it felt sacred.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix me,” she whispered.

Harry’s hand moved up to her cheek. “I’m not fixing you. I’m loving you.”

She swallowed hard. And that—somehow—hurt more than anything else.

“People don’t usually stay once they know.”

“I’m not people.”

He said it simply.

Firmly.

Like it was fact.

She blinked, lips parting slightly.

He tilted his head.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom.”

A beat passed. She blinked slowly.

Shrugged once. “She’s… she was traditional.”

Harry waited.

“She believed in casseroles and church and southern charm. Makeup on before eight. Hair done for the grocery store.”

He smirked faintly. “A real debutante?”

“Almost.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “She loved my dad. In the old way. Cooked for him. Stayed small so he could feel big. When he went down, she didn’t know how to stand on her own. So she left. Said she had nothing left to give.”

Harry didn’t speak. Just watched her.

“She wasn’t cruel,” she added softly. “She just didn’t know how to stay.”

He brushed her cheekbone with his knuckle.

“You stayed,” he said.

She looked up.

“And that’s why I’m here.”

That silenced her. For a long, quiet second.

Then—

She whispered, “I’m scared.”

Harry shook his head once.

“You don't have to be.” he said.

Then he leaned in.

Pressed his lips to her forehead.

And added, “I got you.”

They laid there a little longer.

Curled together in that fragile pre-dawn quiet, the world outside just beginning to stretch awake. When she finally pulled back and sat up, Harry was already moving—grabbing the hoodie he’d left out for her, slipping it over her shoulders before she could protest.

“I can dress myself,” she mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. “I know. I just like doing it.”

She rolled her eyes. But let him. Because she could tell. He needed to.

They didn’t talk much as they got ready.

She brushed her teeth slowly. Tied her hair up. Didn’t look in the mirror for too long. Harry moved around the room quietly, efficiently—double checking their bags then zipping them back up, folding a scarf he had forgotten she’d draped over a chair, making sure everything was in place.

He wouldn’t let her carry anything. Not even her tote.

When she reached for it, he shook his head. “No.”

“I can handle a tote.”

He didn’t respond. Just took it gently from her hands, added it to his shoulder. She didn’t argue after that.

Because the look in his eyes wasn’t about control. It was about care. He was holding the weight for both of them because he could. Because he wanted to.

Because after everything, she was still the only thing that mattered.

They left before the sun crested the horizon.

The villa was still half-asleep. Staff lights dimmed. The air thick with rosemary and earth and silence. Gravel crunched under their feet as they walked to the car, her sandals quiet, his steps deliberate.

Danny was already outside. Waiting in a hoodie and slacks, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

He looked up when he saw them. Gave Harry a nod.

“You’re set,” he said. “Jet’s prepped. Flight plan filed. Pilot’s already on deck.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

Danny looked at her then. Something gentler in his expression.

“If you ever need someone to scream into a void with,” he said, “I’ve got access to a few very satisfying voids.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks, Danny.”

“I’ll stay back,” he added. “Wrap things up. Pull the plug on the deal. Handle any fallout.”

“You sure?” Harry asked.

Danny nodded once. “They don’t deserve the win. And you’ve got more important things to do.”

Harry clapped him once on the shoulder. Then opened the car door for her. She slid in slowly.

Looked out the window as Harry said a few more words to Danny—quiet, brief. Then he grabbed the suitcases. Loaded them into the back without fanfare. Climbed in beside her.

The driver pulled away without a word. The hills fell behind them. And the world turned pale. The sun hadn’t risen yet. But the sky was warming. That soft, tender blue that lives only between night and day.

She reached for Harry’s hand. Found it already waiting. Their fingers laced. She closed her eyes. And breathed.

Because they were going home. Together.

The word felt heavier now. Heavier than suitcases. Heavier than shame. Heavier than every whisper that tried to reduce her to headlines.

They boarded the jet without a word.

Harry helped her up the narrow staircase, his hand at the small of her back, quiet and unwavering. The stewardess greeted them softly—eyes down, voice respectful—as if she could feel the exhaustion radiating off their bodies like heat.

“We’ll be taking off in fifteen,” The stewardess said. “Can I get you anything before we do?”

“Breakfast,” Harry said, without looking away from her. “For two. And something sweet.”

The woman nodded. “Of course.”

They moved down the corridor, past the leather seats and polished wood and too-perfect lighting. The hum of money was everywhere—but quieter here. Like the jet knew not to interrupt.

When they reached the back, Harry paused.

His hand curled around the gold handle of the last door.

“I’ve never used this room,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “This room. Never had a reason.”

Then he opened the door. The bedroom was dimly lit. Soft grey walls. A wide bed draped in dark linen. A window near the headboard framed the sky like a painting still in progress.

He let her walk in first. And when she turned to face him— hair messy, still wearing his hoodie and sweats, no bra underneath, eyes red-rimmed but defiant—he saw her.

All of her. Everything she’d tried to bury under silence and shame.

And he wanted her. Not to distract. Not to possess. But to worship. To remind her she was still flesh and hunger and fire—not just a story someone else tried to write.

Harry shut the door. Locked it. Then crossed the room like gravity had lost its patience.

“Take it off,” he said, voice low, rough.

She looked up, breath catching. “What?”

He stepped closer. Fingers already curling beneath the hem of the hoodie. “I want to see you.”

Her heart thudded. Loud. Chaotic. But she lifted her arms.

Let him pull the sweatshirt up, over her head, exposing her bare chest beneath—soft and real and vulnerable in a way that made his throat ache.

He let the hoodie drop to the floor. Ran his hands down her arms slowly. Palms flat. Reverent.

Then he kissed her. Not gently. Not sweetly. He kissed her like he had something to prove. Like he was starving. Like if he didn’t taste her right now he might never breathe again.

She moaned into his mouth. Clutched his shirt. Dragged him closer.

His hands were everywhere. On her back. Her hips. Her ass. Gripping. Claiming.

He walked her back toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Without breaking anything at all except the air between them.

She hit the mattress with a gasp, and he followed—hovering over her, already pushing the sweats down her hips.

“Harry—”

“Lift.”

She did.

He peeled them off, slow and brutal, along with her underwear. Just skin and heat and the ache between her thighs that had been building for days.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

She spread her legs a little. Just enough. His gaze darkened.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, pulled her to the edge, and buried his face between her thighs like he was trying to erase everything the world had ever said about her.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

She gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting.

His tongue was filthy. Obsessive. He licked her like he owned her. Like he could solve her. Deep, slow drags that had her legs shaking, her mouth falling open, her body arching off the bed.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please don’t fucking stop.”

He didn’t. He kept going until she came. Hard. Loud. Her thighs trembling around his face, her hands clawing the sheets, her voice breaking on his name like a prayer turned pornographic.

He didn’t even pull away. Licked her through it. Tasted her like he’d waited his whole life for this exact moment.

And when she finally collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, sweat on her lip—he stood.

Unbuckled his belt. Undid his pants. And pulled his cock out—already hard, already leaking, already furious.

He stroked it once. Twice. Then climbed over her.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want it.”

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He pushed in hard.

One thrust. Deep. All the way. She cried out. Clutched his back. He didn’t stop.

Fucked her deep and slow. Then harder. Faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the cabin, obscene and beautiful and raw. She wrapped her legs around him, dragged him in deeper, begged for more.

“Fuck me, Harry. Please.”

“I am, baby,” he panted. “I fucking am.”

He kissed her like he couldn’t stand to be separate. Fucked her like she was his salvation. Every thrust was a promise. Every groan a declaration.

She came again. This time around his cock. Tight. Shaking. Screaming. And he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over. Fucked her from behind. One hand in her hair. The other gripping her hip like a threat. She gasped. Moaned. Took it all.

“Yours,” she kept saying. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

Harry lost it. Pulled out. Turned her back over.

Finished between her legs. On her stomach. Chest. Neck. Painted her in it. Marked her. Owned her.

Then collapsed beside her, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She smiled. Pulled his hand to her mouth. Kissed each finger.

“I love you too.”

The plane hadn’t even taken off yet. But they were already flying.

She laid sprawled against the sheets, hair wild, skin flushed, his breath still soft against her shoulder. The air was thick with them—salt, sweat, sex. That slow, sacred stillness that only came after being devoured and loved in the same breath.

She was half-asleep, cheek turned toward him, lips parted in that way that made his chest ache.

Harry didn’t move at first. Just looked at her. Let himself have the moment. Then, slowly, he sat up.

The room was dim, still gently humming with the lull of ascent. The window behind them glowed faintly with dawn—high above the clouds now, the sky soft and endless and blue.

He reached for the towel folded on the bench at the end of the bed. Not hotel standard—his own. Cashmere. Embroidered. Unused.

He wet it under the small sink in the en-suite, came back, and carefully cleaned her up. She barely stirred, just hummed faintly when the cool cloth passed over her thighs.

“There we go,” he murmured, brushing hair off her cheek. “All clean.”

She blinked once. A lazy, satisfied kind of blink.

He kissed her temple. Then stood, walking to the small built-in drawer beneath the bed. There was a sweater in there he’d forgotten about. Still neatly folded. Still faintly smelling of lavender and something long buried.

He paused. Fingers hovering. Then pulled it out.

A dark navy pullover. Soft. French. Lucy had bought it for him in Marseille—one of the last things she’d given him before the end. They’d fought on the flight home, he remembered. Screaming match over something stupid. She’d told him he was incapable of love. He’d thrown the sweater into this drawer the same night, not even bothering to take it out of the packaging.

He stared at it now. Then exhaled. And walked it back to the bed.

She’s not Lucy, he murmured to himself.

He gently slipped it over her arms. Over her head. Let the soft wool fall around her thighs like armor. Then found his boxers on the floor and tugged them gently up her legs, dressing her like she was a painting he needed to protect from the world.

She stirred faintly.

Eyes half-lidded. “You dressing me again?”

Harry smirked. “Better than leaving you cold.”

She smiled, drowsy and soft.

Then—knock knock. Sharp. Delicate.

Harry turned. The stewardess.

He moved quickly to the door, opening it just enough to keep the bedroom’s warmth from escaping.

“Breakfast,” she said politely, balancing a tray.

Harry nodded, took it from her silently, then shut the door with a finality that left no room for conversation.

He carried the tray to the bed and set it down gently. She was already sitting up, hair a mess, legs tucked beneath the sweater, blinking like she wasn’t quite sure where she was.

Harry handed her a fork.

“French toast,” he said. “Fruit. Coffee. Some kind of lemon tart.”

She blinked. “You ordered sweets?”

“I figured you deserved something sweet.”

That made her smile. They ate on the bed. Quiet. Close.

The toast was still warm, and the butter melted into the corners just right. She made a small sound when she took a bite of the lemon tart, the kind of sound that made his blood stir again.

He just watched her. Coffee in hand. Silent. Soft.

Her head eventually dropped to his shoulder. She sighed once. And passed out. Harry didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just sat there while her weight settled against him again, her breath even and deep, the hem of his sweater rising and falling with every exhale.

She was exhausted. Of course she was. She’d cried herself sick. Been exposed. Stripped bare in front of people who didn’t deserve her name in their mouths. Then fucked like a fever broke loose inside her.

He carefully slid her down onto the pillows, adjusted the blankets around her, then sat on the edge of the bed again—watching the sky change outside the window.

Halfway back to New York, his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then again.

Danny.

He declined the call. Not interested.

She was still asleep. Still curled in the sweater he’d forgotten he ever owned. One hand beneath her cheek. One leg tangled in the blankets.

Then—buzz. Text.

Danny: Call me. Urgent.

Harry frowned. Another buzz.

Danny: Her mother is here.

Danny: Screaming at staff. Security is trying to calm her down.

His body went still. Another buzz.

Danny: She showed up at the villa screaming. Wants to see her daughter. She said she saw the article.

Harry stared at the screen. Another text.

Danny: I told them not to let her in. She’s calling your name now. Saying she “just wants to talk.”

Another.

Danny: Harry, what do I do?

Harry stood. Carefully. Walked across the cabin. Set the phone down. Ran a hand through his hair.

Her mother. Her fucking mother.

He’d just listened to her talk about that woman like a ghost—someone who left. Someone who couldn’t love her out loud. And now she wanted to show up like it was convenient? Like her daughter hadn’t built a life from nothing?

Harry clenched his fists.

Everyone always came crawling back when there was something to gain. Exposure. Fame.

A second chance to rewrite their name into someone else's headline.

He walked back to the bed. Looked at her. Still sleeping. Still unaware. Still wrapped in a sweater she didn’t know the history of.

His chest burned. He grabbed his phone again. Typed.

Harry: Keep her out. I don’t care how loud she gets. She doesn’t go near the villa. She doesn’t see staff. She doesn’t speak to anyone.

Another buzz.

Danny: Understood.

Harry stood at the window. Watched the sky darken slightly as they shifted time zones. His jaw set. Because there was no version of this where he let that woman hurt her again. Not now. Not ever.

He turned. Looked back at the bed. She stirred again. Brow furrowed faintly. The way people do when dreams start to turn.

He walked back over.nSat down beside her. Smoothed a hand through her hair.

And whispered, just barely—

“I’ve got you.”

Because she was his now. And anyone who wanted to get to her—

Would have to go through him first.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, it was early morning in Cape Cod.

The light outside was muted, soft and winter-pale, filtering through the gauzy kitchen curtains with the kind of stillness that came before the wind. The house smelled faintly of salt and last night’s red wine, a half-empty bottle still perched on the edge of the farmhouse table like a leftover guest overstaying its welcome.

Lucy had been awake for hours. Not out of restlessness—but purpose.

Her phone had started buzzing at 5:42 AM. Her friend Chloe, the kind who always found drama before the tabloids did, had sent her a flood of texts with screenshots and breathless voice notes. Chloe didn’t even say good morning.

Chloe: Is this his girl? The one from the article? Because HOLY SHIT...Lucy! Her dad BANKRUPTED SO MANY PEOPLE.

Lucy sat upright in bed before the last text came through.

By six, she was in a robe and socks, laptop open, tea gone cold, eyes bloodshot. The article was everywhere.

Carrie Roth’s expose had detonated overnight. Comments flooded in faster than anyone could moderate. Twitter. Reddit. Instagram. Facebook mom groups. Even Pinterest threads had gotten hold of it. People were sharing old court documents. Yearbook photos. Deep-cut gossip from towns Lucy didn’t even know existed. But one name kept being repeated.

Harry Castillo’s new girlfriend.

And beneath it—

Lucy’s name. Because of course. Because people loved a narrative. Because somehow, Lucy had become the woman he left. The one who "couldn’t hold his attention."

And the new girl? The one with a scandalous past and a messy family? She’d become a headline. A warning. A fascination.

But what made Lucy’s stomach turn was the girl’s past. It was everywhere. Lucy scrolled. And kept scrolling. Until the comments began to turn.

The hate wasn’t just about her anymore. People were dragging Harry now. For being with her. For keeping her hidden. For falling in love with the kind of story that made people feel better about their own.

Lucy leaned back in her chair. Eyes heavy. Jaw tight.

The ocean outside was calm. The wind hadn’t picked up yet. The sky was still a pale bruise.

And then—

John stirred.

From the other room, Lucy heard the soft creak of floorboards as he walked into the kitchen. The sound of the cabinet door opening. The click of the kettle.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. John yawned, scratched his chest, and reached for a chipped ceramic mug. Still shirtless, still half-asleep, still painfully unaware.

Lucy stood. “I left my sweater in the bedroom.”

He nodded absently, watching the water start to boil.

When she disappeared down the hall, he looked around—glancing at her laptop only to check the time.

And that’s when he saw it. The image on the screen. The girl. The lobby. The headline.

He froze. Brows furrowing. Not at Harry. Not at the headline.

At her. The girl in the photo. The girl now being dragged by the entire internet.

When Lucy came back, sweater in hand, John didn’t look at her right away. Just pointed toward the screen with a slow, distracted gesture.

“I know her.”

Lucy blinked. “What?”

He finally turned to face her. “The girl. In the photo.”

Lucy frowned. Repeated herself again. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I actually know her.”

Lucy’s spine straightened. “From where?”

John set the mug down.

“I used to work her family’s events.”

Lucy blinked. “What events?”

“Down in South Carolina,” John said, pulling out a chair. “Back when I was just starting out. You know I picked up catering gigs before I moved to Brooklyn.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You served food at parties.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And her family, they threw a lot of them. Fundraisers. Galas. Birthday parties that probably cost more than our rent. She was always there, running around barefoot with a lemonade or hiding from the cameras. She hated being the center of attention.”

Lucy stared at him.

“I didn’t recognize her at first,” he admitted. “But seeing this photo again… yeah. That’s her. I used to help her sneak leftovers into her room because her mom was obsessed with diets. Sweet girl.”

Lucy’s mouth tightened.

“And after everything happened?” he went on. “She disappeared. Everyone thought she left the country. But she didn’t. She showed up in New York. Looking for work.”

He looked at Lucy then. “She reached out to me. Found me through a friend. Said she remembered I was working in restaurants. Needed a job. I helped her get hired at the same spot I was serving at.”

Lucy’s face went cold.

“She was a wreck, Luce. Quiet. Barely ate. Flinched when people raised their voices. But she worked harder than anyone.”

Lucy didn’t speak. Just crossed her arms slowly.

“And when she started getting noticed—when people started looking at her again—it wasn’t because she was chasing it,” John said. “It was because she couldn’t hide anymore.”

Lucy’s lips parted. Then closed again. John turned back to the kettle.

“I hope she makes it to the wedding,” he said simply.

The words struck her like a slap. Lucy blinked.

“I hope she’s okay,” John added. “I hope he takes care of her.”

Lucy didn’t answer. Just stood there, frozen in the doorway, holding onto the sleeves of her sweater like they were reins. She stared at his back.

Then said, flatly—

“You’ve always had a soft spot for stray dogs.”

John paused. Then turned around. His face wasn’t kind anymore. It was steady. And disappointed.

“She was just a kid,” he said. “A kid who lost everything.”

Lucy flinched. And John didn’t soften.

“She didn’t choose what happened to her family. She survived it. There’s a difference.”

Lucy turned away.

John exhaled, voice quieter now.

“Not everyone has parents who can pay half their mortgage, Luce.”

Silence. Lucy walked to the window. Stared out. She didn’t say anything else. Because what could she say?

That the girl Harry had chosen was someone John used to pity? That she couldn’t stand the idea of her being loved by a man who’d once called Lucy his home? That somewhere—buried beneath all the rage and insecurity—she was afraid Harry had found someone real?

Someone soft and haunted and full of the kind of truth Lucy had never had to carry? She didn’t say it.

She just stared out the window. While John sipped his coffee.

And the world, outside, kept burning.

─────

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue @ennvsco @vickie5446 @stormseyer

[deansbeer]

BITE YOUR TONGUE OR USE IT BETTER.

꒰ . ⋮ minors do not interact .ᐟ ֹ ꒱

༝༚༝༚ synopsis. a heated argument quickly ends up in a fight for dominance in bed.

༝༚༝༚ warning(s). smut | mild angst | arguing | fem!reader | rough sex | make-up sex | dom!jason | switch dynamics | light choking | spanking | oral (fem!receiving) | cowgirl position | dirty talk | possessiveness | praising | degradation | jealousy.

༝༚༝༚ kari notes. i NEED him viscerally & i know i previously announced that i was taking a writing break 👀 but i'm making an exception for jason hehehehe u can also thank bree for being the inspo behind the idea <3

it starts with something small — it always does.

a passing comment. a bitter tone. one look too long at someone else. and then it's wildfire.

you're yelling, he's yelling louder. the walls of the apartment echo with the sharp slap of words neither of you really mean but throw anyway, like knives meant to miss but still cut too deep.

"you think i don't notice?" jason's voice is hoarse from the way it's been rising for the past fifteen minutes. "the way you play it off like i don't matter the second someone else gives you attention?"

you scoff, arms crossed, standing your ground in the kitchen, your chest heaving with frustration. "oh, fuck you, jason. you're the one who disappears for days without a text and then gets mad when i talk to someone else."

"i'm out risking my ass to make this city better—"

"and i'm supposed to just sit here and wait? maybe light a candle and pray you'll actually come home in one piece?"

his jaw tightens, blue eyes blazing, chest rising and falling with quick, angry breaths. "don't twist this. you know i care. you know i fuckin' love you."

"then stop acting like i'm the enemy," you snap, voice cracking under the weight of it all.

there's a beat of silence. a long one. your eyes lock with his, and the air between you could spark if it tried. you're both breathing hard, adrenaline still pulsing, and then—

he moves. and he's quick.

his hand curls around the back of your neck, pulling you in, lips crashing into yours with a fury that steals the breath from your lungs. it's not gentle — it's claiming. demanding. your fingers fist in his shirt before you even realize what's happening, your anger bleeding into desire so fast it makes your head spin.

"you drive me fuckin' crazy," he growls against your mouth, backing you into the wall. "always got a smart ass mouth. always testing me."

"maybe you like the idea of being tested," you breathe, tugging his shirt up, fingers dragging across his pudgy stomach. "you keep showing up for it."

he growls, low and rough, grabbing your thighs and lifting you with ease. your legs wrap around his waist, caged between his body and the wall, and you gasp as he grinds against you, already hard through the fabric of his jeans.

"you gonna continue being so mouthy?" he hisses against your neck, biting just hard enough to make you whimper. "or you want me to shut you up?"

"try me," you taunt, breathless, already soaked for him.

he carries you to the bedroom like he's got something to prove. maybe he does. throws you down onto the bed, pulls your shirt over your head, strips you down in seconds. his hands are rough, greedy, claiming every inch of your skin like it belongs to him.

joke's on him. it does.

he drops to his knees between your thighs, spreading them wide with a look that could bring you to your knees if you weren't already trembling. jason doesn't waste time, just dives in like he's a man starving, tongue licking a stripe up your slit before his lips wrap around your clit.

you cry out, hips bucking, and he grips your thighs tighter, holding you down.

"that's it," he mutters against your pussy, voice dark and wrecked. "take it. fuckin' take it, baby girl."

your fingers tangle in his dark hair, tugging, and he groans like he likes it — like the pain only spurs him on. he eats you until your hips are trembling, until you're gasping his name like a prayer and pushing at his shoulders, too sensitive to take more.

"jason—please—need you inside me."

he pulls back, lips shiny, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s just finished a meal. "yeah, you do. pussy's soakin' the damn sheets. so fuckin' desperate for my cock, aren't you?"

you glare at him, flushed and breathless. "you're one to talk."

he climbs over you, dragging his cock against your inner thigh, hot and heavy. "you want control so bad, huh, baby?" he murmurs, hand wrapping around your throat, thumb brushing your jaw. "you'll get it. but not yet."

then he's inside you. one deep, punishing thrust, and your whole body arches, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he stretches you full. his hand tightens at your throat just enough to make your pulse race harder.

"fuck, you're tight," he groans, hips slamming into you. "always so fuckin' tight for me."

you moan, nails dragging down his back, and he hisses, grinding deeper, chasing the spot that makes your toes curl.

he fucks you like he's trying to erase the fight, like he's trying to remind you who you belong to. every thrust is rough, precise, his mouth dragging along your throat, your shoulder, biting and kissing the skin like he needs to mark you.

"fuckin' mine," he growls into your ear. "say it."

"yours," you gasp, legs wrapped tight around his waist. "all yours, jay. always."

he groans, the sound deep and raw, and kisses you like he means to ruin you. and you want him to.

you flip him before you even realize what you're doing — legs slipping around him, pushing him back, riding the wave of heat and fury and need. his eyes darken as you slide down onto him, slow and deliberate.

"oh, fuck," he mutters, hands gripping your hips. "you think you're in control now, huh?"

"i don't think," you whisper, rolling your hips so slow he trembles. "i know."

you ride him hard, fast, chasing your own high with reckless abandon. his hands grip you tight, dragging you down harder, matching your rhythm until the room’s filled with the sound of skin on skin, your moans tangled with his gasps.

"look at you," he groans, eyes locked on where your bodies meet. "bouncin' on my cock like you need it to breathe."

you lean in, kiss him messy, filthy, all teeth and tongue.

"maybe i do."

his cock twitches inside you and you feel him getting close, but you don't stop. you fuck him through it, chasing your own orgasm, using his body like it was made for you. only you.

"gonna cum," he growls, thrusting up to meet you. "you better cum with me, baby girl."

you nod, breath hitching as your body tightens, pleasure coiling until it snaps, and you cry out his name as you fall apart, clenching around him like a vice.

he follows with a broken groan, hips jerking, spilling deep inside you as he holds you down, buried to the hilt.

you collapse against him, both of you shaking, panting, sweat-slicked and utterly wrecked.

his arms wrap around you, holding you close even as he's still inside you. his lips press against your temple, his voice rough but soft now.

"still mad at me?" he murmurs.

you laugh, breathless, nuzzling into his neck. "yeah."

he huffs, fingers tracing lazy circles along your spine. "next time we fight, can we skip to the part where you ride me like that?"

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. "not a fucking chance."

he chuckles, kisses your hair, and pulls you closer.

"figured."

and even though the fight still lingers in the air, tangled in the sheets and the bruises you both left behind, so does something else, something steady and real.

him.

you.

and the fire that always brings you back together.

@ deansbeer is tagging you .ᐟ @titsout4jackles @daylighted @jensenacklesballsack @h8aaz @bluestrd @ultravi0lence14 @blue-d @bluemerakis @stereotypicalbarbie @funkycoloured @fuckedupfate ╱ wanna be added? join my taglist <3

[deepspacedarling]

A Quiet Night In

CW: Cunnilingus (eating her out), fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, pure smut

AN: I’ve decided to make a fanfiction for all the different five star cards I have/like. I don’t have Love Syndrome but the idea of you snoozing with Xavier morphed into this so I hope you guys like it. (banner by @littlestgamer)

Xavier x Reader

It was a quiet night in when you’d suggested watching some tv. Xavier hadn’t really cared one way or another so you put your favorite show on. He settled down beside you as you tucked the blanket against your body.

His gaze slowly moves from the show over to your body. You looked so soft and sweet tucked under the blanket. His eyes comb the imprint of your legs under the soft cover. Shifting, Xavier grabs the edge of the blanket and slips underneath.

“Xavier?” You say.

“Keep watching the show. You wanted to see what happened next.” He says, his voice muffled by the blankets.

You bite your lip staring at the lump under the blanket that was crawling over you. Xavier’s hands slowly begin to move up your legs to your barely clothed thighs, spreading them.

Since you’d decided on a lazy night in, you’d only worn your panties and an oversized t-shirt. You whimper as you feel, rather than see, Xavier pull your panties to the side.

His hot breath fans over your pussy. His hands grab both of your thighs and spread them further. “The show.” He reminds you.

You turn back to the show but you’re not taking it in. You’re too busy focusing on the way his tongue slowly licks a stripe up your pussy.

You don’t know who groans louder him or you. Xavier’s always enjoyed eating you out and now is not an exception.

He laps at your entrance feeling your pussy slowly grow more and more wet the more he plays with you.

Two fingers spread your folds and he licks from your entrance all the way to your clit. His tongue flickers the sensitive bud playfully as he enjoys himself.

You gasp. You grab the blanket with a shaky hand and toss it off of your body.

Xavier lays between your thighs, the bottom half of his face obscured by your mound. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. The heat under the blanket left his panting but now he seems to be panting for a different reason.

Xavier’s blue doe eyes look up at you, illuminated in the lazy glow of the tv. They’re half lidded, already drunk on the taste of you. He lets them flutter closed completely as he buried his face back between your thighs.

Your fingers curl into his hair and you moan.

His tongue reaches inside of you, slippery and curling to find just the right spot. When it can’t, he buries two fingers into you. The sharp squishing sound of your juices and his mouth leaves your cheeks feeling hot but it only seems to spur him on.

He curls his fingers and you cry out. You can already feel how close you are and from the way he frantically drums against your sweet spot, Xavier knows too.

When you cum on his tongue, he groans happily. Your body goes taut like a bow string before collapsing into the cushions.

Xavier swallowed everything he can before adjusting you thighs and pull you further toward his mouth. He licks a new stripe up your pussy.

“Xavier, wait. I just came.” You groan.

He ignores you. His mind is fully on the way your pussy is clenching around his tongue at the moment. He wishes he could bury his face deeper between your thighs but, alas, he can’t. He’ll settle for tongue fucking you until you cry instead.

You cry out as his lips seal around your clit and he sucks, hard. That hand in his hair pulls and he growls.

He plays with your clit in long harsh sucks. He can pull an orgasm out of you like this. He just needs to…

You scream again as your orgasm sneaks up on you. Your legs tremble and he squeezes them harder. He doesn’t stop sucking even as your hips buck.

It’s too soon. You just came and you can already feel your body trying to do it again. You shake and thrash but Xavier doesn’t let up. Despite your fighting, you haven't once told him to stop.

When your third orgasm hits you a minute after the second, you’re so sensitive that the tears finally come.

Your pussy is gushing and Xavier pops off of your clit to lap up everything he can. He slips his tongue into your hole just because he can and swirls it around to feel the way you shiver.

He could stay like this forever if you let him. He’d go down on you until he grew gills.

“Xavier, no more.” You whine. Your body is so sensitive now.

He pulls away, looking at your shiny pussy in the tv’s glow. He rubs his thumb against your clit.

“Be good for me.” He says. There no demand in them. Not really. It’s a simple fact he’d like you to observe. You’re his so you’re going to be good for him. It’s just a universal truth.

You whimper and he goes back to work. He presses his fingers into your wet hole, burying them to the hilt. He could fuck you now but he doesn’t want to. Sometimes it’s more fun to watch you fall apart.

He pulls his fingers back and thrusts them into you with stunning precision. You scream as he hits your vapor over and over again.

Your legs are shaking. Your body feels like it’s on fire. You’ve never felt so good before. You stare at the ceiling trying to stay sane.

Xavier sees what you’re doing and immediately pinches your clit.

You cum so hard everything goes dark for a second. When you blink, Xavier is leaned over you. His head is against your chest and he’s flipping through channels on the tv.

You reach out a shaky hand and comb it through his hair. He gives you a sleepy happy hum.

You both doze, sated, to the sound of a tv broadcaster’s commentary.

Requests are Open!

[shouyuus]

could i request car mechanic!vi and fem!reader hcs and little moments of their daily life now that they’re officially dating? 🤭🤭 you write vi so wellll nghghhh 😫

sfw fluffy hcs for car mechanic!vi au bulletpoints bc im in that mood today

breakfast is always a long, drawn out thing -- almost ritualistic, bc "breakfast is the most important meal of the day, sweets! c'mon, you oughtta know that." and you take turns making it, either for each other or for whoever else is in the house that day (sometimes vander, sometimes silco will drop by for coffee, sometimes powder and ekko will stay the night, in which case ekko almost always makes breakfast, bc powder's very particular about her pancakes)

you can't rmbr the last time you sat in a chair proper bc vi's always pulling you into her lap (except at the dinner table, where she tries to show a TAD more decorum, esp if you're having dinner at your place instead of hers, but even then, she'd pull her chair close to yours, just so she can press her leg against yours or reach out to put a palm on your thigh)

on the days that you're not together, you definitely text vi a bit more -- she's got her hands full of repairs, and your biggest worry on the daily is what you wanna make for dinner that day, and if you need to drop by the grocery store before you head over to vi's

the first time you try to teach vi how to use chopsticks, you end up just plopped in her lap, feeding her off your plate bc she claims that "it's easier this way" and that she can "watch your technique better from up close" although it's so stupidly obvious that she's not looking at your hands bc she can't keep her eyes off your lips and how you can't stop giggling when you twist around to feed her

on the lazy summer nights when all the work has been done and all the stuff that can still be done can wait till tomorrow, vi takes you up the hill behind the city, to her favorite little outlook, tucked into the side of a backroad that no one except the true locals know about -- from there, you can see the entire city spread out beneath you, sprawling net, cast in light and shattered stars. "i used to hate this place... just a little, cause i thought i'd never get out of it," she tells you. "and now?" you ask. "now... i kinda love it... it's my home and... well, it gave me you, didn't it?"

vi thanks the heavens that you only live a few streets over, and that it takes her about 5 minutes on her bike to get between your houses (even though, yeah, you do technically live on the rich side of town, just across the train tracks), bc sometimes, 5 minutes is just about as long as she can wait before she starts to feel fidgety about the thought of seeing you again

the nights she spends at yours are always fun -- your bed's more than big enough for the pair of you to sprawl out on; you'd flick through channels on tv till something catches your eye, or carry as many snacks as either of you can up and post up for a movie marathon. it'd always end up with one of you lying against the other, your body curled between her legs or the other way around

sometimes she falls asleep against you, and you'd let the entire movie play before trying to slip out from behind her to turn off the lights. she always wakes up when you move, and she always grumbles and tries to pull you back; you always laugh and promise her that you'll be right back, to which she'd always pout but it morphs into a smile as she watches you patter around the room in a big t-shirt, turning off the lights and clearing the snacks off the bed before climbing back into her arms

she always keeps her hand tucked around your hip whenever the two of you go out anywhere, or she's got her hand pushed into the back pocket of your jeans or shorts or whatever the hell else; she claims its just bc she wants you close; you both know that it's also bc she wants zero questions as to who you belong to when you're walking down the street

when her hair gets long in the back, she lets you braid it and in it up with cute lil clips bc she likes the way it makes you smile

she almost loses it a little when she wakes up one day at yours and finds that you've put out an extra cup for her, and bought her a new toothbrush to use; it's then that she realizes she's already left like a quarter of her wardrobe here and that your parents no longer even look up when she comes downstairs in the morning, bedhead and all, to greet them, and that they've somehow always already made coffee for her, just the way she likes

"hey prett girl, can i ask you something?" "yeah, sure." "what... do you think about moving in together?" "hm? oh --" "not like right this moment or anything but --" "i'd love to. i mean, it does get a little complicated splitting time between my place and yours." "oh... that was -- i thought you'd be a bit more..." vi swallows, trailing off. you cock your head and fix her with a look, "a bit more what? hesitant? i mean... we're basically together all the time now anyway. it'd just make things easier, right? and --" a blush flushes into your cheeks as you look away, clearing your throat, "it'd -- it'd be nice not to have to be so q-quiet, sometimes."

vi nearly blacks out at your words; and yeah, so what if she starts looking at places that exact afternoon?

[nikixkoo]

𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 4.2k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], unprotected sex, make out, kind of public display, jungkook’s a bit (a lot) possessive, and lots of teasing.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 this is my first time writing, but i hope u enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed doing it. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind if something isn’t right written! lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

She’s everything he hates to love. He’s everything she pretends not to need.

summary: In the world of wealth, secrets, and perfectly polished lies, you walk through the marble halls of the most prestigious university in the country like you own the place, because you practically do. Heiress of an empire. Flawless reputation. Everyone wants you. Everyone fears you.

Except him.

The only one who’s never looked at you like you were fragile. The only one who sees through the diamonds, the designer, the perfectly curated mask. Your favorite person, your first secret, and your biggest weakness.

You push his buttons. He tests your limits. You make him jealous on purpose. He pulls you into his bed like it’s nothing.

It’s not official. It’s not healthy.

But it’s yours.

The sun hits the field like a spotlight, casting golden light over expensive turf and even more expensive egos. Cleats scrape, whistles blow, and the boys of Rutherford’s lacrosse team move like they’re auditioning for the front page of some legacy magazine. At the center of it all, Jeon Jungkook.

Fast, lethal, and disgustingly good at everything. He runs drills like a general, yelling commands, barking orders, and still managing to look like a god dipped in sweat. The kind of boy that makes good grades and bad decisions.

Today’s practice? Open to the public.

Translation? It’s a flex. A show. A power move.

And of course, you’re there. You’re always there. Not for the game. Not for the sport. But for him.

You sit front row, sunglasses on, designer outfit hugging you like sin, legs crossed like a weapon.

You know he can see you. You know he wants to look. And he doesn’t, not once, until he scores the final shot, whips his helmet off, sweat in his hair, and finally lets his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t look away when he meets your eyes. He drags that gaze down your legs, up your figure, and settles on your mouth, like he’s remembering the last time he had you underneath him, begging. The way you moaned his name with your lip gloss smudged and your voice wrecked.

The crowd starts to thin after the final whistle, mostly girls pretending not to stare, and boys pretending not to envy.

You stay seated. You know he’ll come to you.

The crowd is gone, and Jungkook walks out of the changing rooms like he’s got the whole world in his back pocket.

Still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, gym bag slung low over his shoulder. He’s in his uniform pants, but the top is gone, replaced by a thin black t-shirt that clings to his chest in all the ways that make you want to bite something.

He sees you. And he doesn’t look away this time.

He slows as he reaches you, shadow falling over your seat. You’re still sitting like the spoiled goddess you are, legs crossed, lip gloss fresh, phone in hand like you weren’t just watching him like a movie you’ve seen a hundred times and still crave.

You don’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

Jungkook snorts. “Didn’t know I had a timer.”

“You always do.” You finally glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You just pretend you don’t hear it ticking.”

There’s a pause. A beat of quiet so thick it feels heavy. His eyes roam your face like he’s searching for something, maybe your limit, maybe your weakness. But the truth is, you both know the answer already.

“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Only when I know you’ll push back.”

The tension coils in the air, charged and dangerous.

“You wore that outfit for me?”

“You scored that goal for me?”

Touché.

He steps closer. Just a little. Close enough that your knees could brush if you shifted, but you don’t. Neither of you moves. You’re locked in that perfect space where tension thrives, just shy of something unforgivable.

“People are starting to talk,” he says quietly.

You hum. “They’ve always talked. They just don’t know what to say now.”

His gaze drops to your lips again. “They think you’re mine.”

You arch a brow. “Aren’t I?”

A beat passes. He doesn’t answer.

And maybe that’s your favorite thing about him, that he never says the things he feels. Not out loud. He says them in stares. In clenched fists. In the way he only kisses you when no one’s watching.

You stand, finally. And the shift is magnetic. Now you’re the one in his space. You fix the collar of his shirt like it bothers you, like touching him doesn’t set fire to your veins.

“Walk me to my car?” you ask sweetly, even though it’s not really a question.

He doesn’t respond. Just steps aside and lets you lead the way, like always.

You don’t talk.

Not until you’re leaning against the door, and he’s standing too close, eyes flickering from your lips to your neck to the space between you that’s already melting.

“You’re exhausting,” he mutters.

“And yet,” you smile, “you keep coming back.”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, mouth ghosting over your ear.

“I should let someone else deal with your attitude.”

You grin, unbothered. “You won’t.”

Tic tac, tic tac. He doesn’t answer.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your lips move at the same pace as his, the tip of your tongue touching the piercing of his lower lip every time it enters his mouth, causing chills to run through your body.

It doesn’t last long. It never does when it’s this heated. He pulls away like he hates himself for it, and you fix your lipstick like nothing happened.

His breath is still warm on your lips, and his hand is still wrapped around your waist like he forgot how to let go. His gaze is locked on you. Dark, unreadable, burning.

You smirk, like none of it fazes you. Like your knees didn’t almost give out thirty seconds ago.

“Missed me?” you murmur.

Jungkook exhales a sharp breath. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “And you like it.”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, just a second, his eyes flicker like he might kiss you again.

But instead, he drops his hand from your waist and takes a single step back, like space is the only thing keeping him sane.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he mutters.

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.

“This game you play,” he goes on, voice low and dangerous. “Showing up, looking like that. Acting like I’m just some guy you can tease whenever you’re bored.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he cuts you off. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You cross your arms, chin raised. “And what if I do?”

He laughs under his breath, bitter. “Then you’re more cruel than I thought.”

You take a step toward him. “And you’re more obsessed than you pretend to be.”

That gets him.

He looks at you like he wants to say something, something real. Something that would make this whole fake, undefined thing very real, very fast. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear.

“I could ruin every guy who looks at you the wrong way,” he whispers. “And the worst part? You’d love it.”

You swallow hard.

He’s right. You would.

But you can’t let him have the last word, not today.

So you turn your head slowly, lips ghosting over his, your voice just as quiet, “You won’t do it, though. Because you don’t want people to know you care.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t.”

You smile. “Then why haven’t you left?”

A beat. He doesn’t answer.

He just watches you walk around the car, heels clicking like a countdown. Before you slide into the driver’s seat, you glance at him one last time.

“See you around.” You echo sweetly.

Then you shut the door and drive off, leaving him standing there. Alone, silent, and very, very messed up.

Your dorm is a war zone.

Shoes tossed across the floor. Perfume clouds lingering in the air. The faint bass of the party already vibrating through the walls from four floors down. And in the middle of the mess, you.

Dressed in baby pink, your favorite color. Tight, tiny, and just shy of dangerous. Glossy lips. Winged liner. Hair perfectly undone.

You look like heartbreak with a trust fund.

“I swear to God,” Val says, flopping onto your bed, “if Jungkook shows up with that skank again—”

“Valeria,” Mar warns from the bathroom, “we’re not calling her that.”

You grab your earrings, smirking. “We are if she shows up in that tacky rhinestone top again.”

Val snorts. “Queen behavior.”

Mar pops her head out, mascara wand in hand. “Are you even gonna talk to him tonight?”

You pause.

“No.”

The silence is loud.

Val lets out a dramatic sigh. “You two are exhausting. Just admit you’re in love, make out against the nearest wall, and let the rest of us live.”

You grab your purse, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” Mar mutters. “With benefits and unresolved trauma.”

You flip them both off with a perfectly manicured hand and head for the door.

The party is already on fire by the time you step in.

Music pulsing. Air thick with perfume, sweat, and secrets. Someone’s spilled tequila on the marble floor. There’s a fight brewing in the kitchen. And all of it fades the moment you see him.

Jungkook.

Center of the room like he owns it.

Black tee hugging his body like sin. Tattooed hand lazily holding a drink. And a girl, that girl, clinging to him like she’s got the right.

She laughs too loudly. Leans in too close. Touches his chest like she’s not two seconds away from being buried alive.

You freeze. Smile cracking.

Valeria steps beside you, looking bored. “Oh. He brought that one.”

Mar sips her drink. “Didn’t she throw up at the Halloween party?”

You glare. “Why the fuck is she touching him?”

Val raises a brow. “Better question, why do you care?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy watching.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s pretending he hasn’t.

Because that’s what he does, right?

Pushes. Pulls. Drives you crazy, then reels you back in.

You down half your drink in one go. You don’t storm off. That’s for girls who lose.

You walk. Chin high, back straight, smile razor-sharp.

He wants to play games? You wrote the damn rulebook.

And right on cue, there he is—Kim Jisung, legacy boy, wine-stained lips, and a crush on you so big he’d probably kill Jungkook for just breathing near you. You find him by the bar, bored and beautiful.

“Dance with me,” you purr into his ear.

He doesn’t hesitate.

You don’t look back, but you know Jungkook’s watching. And that’s the point.

The music gets louder. Lights blur. Jisung’s hand slides a little too low. His breath is a little too close.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not the one you’re thinking about.

Not the one you want.

He finds you in the hallway, half-drunk on power and tequila.

“You think he can touch you like I do?” Jungkook’s voice is low, dark, dangerous. “You think he knows what you like?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t get to play the victim, princess. Not after the way you looked at me all night. Like you wanted me to lose it.”

You tilt your head, lips curved. “Did you?”

He’s in front of you in a second. Hand against the wall next to your head. His scent all over you, soap, sweat and sin. His eyes drop to your lips.

“You don’t want him,” he says.

You hum. “Maybe I do.”

He grits his teeth. “Liar.”

“You’re not my boyfriend, Jungkook.”

His smile is slow. Infuriating. “No. But I’m the one who fucks you so good you forget your name.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it, how your fingers twitch, how your lips part.

And he leans in even closer, brushing his mouth over yours but not kissing you.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “Push that bratty attitude right out of you.”

You clench your jaw. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because you want me to,” he says, cruel and sweet. “And I like watching you beg.”

His body cages yours, eyes dark, jaw tense.

“You’re playing with fire,” you murmur, tilting your head, lashes fluttering like you’re not completely wrecked by the way he’s looking at you.

Jungkook’s breath is heavy. Controlled. But you know him. You know what’s under all that control. And it’s dangerous.

“You think you’re the only one who knows how to play?” His voice is low, lethal. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?”

“Maybe I wanted you to see.” You smirk, brushing your fingers over his chest. “Maybe I wanted you pissed off.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Congratulations, princess,” he growls. “You got what you wanted.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Tension so sharp it could slice you both open.

His hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying across silk and skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet, no, he’s crueler than that.

“I should leave you standing here,” he whispers. “Let you think about what you’ve done.”

Your breath catches, again.

“But I won’t.”

Because the thing is, Jungkook doesn’t do restraint where you’re concerned. Not when you look at him like that. Not when your lips are swollen from teasing, from smirking, from wanting.

He presses you back against the wall, one hand on your throat—not tight, just there. A warning.

“You want me angry?” he murmurs. “Then take it. Feel it.”

And finally, finally, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth, heat, and too many nights pretending you’re just friends.

You tug at his shirt. The hallway is too public. Too risky. Too perfect.

But just as it starts to blur, right when you think he’s going to lose it completely, he pulls away.

“I hope he saw that.”

And then he walks off. Leaving you against the wall. Pissed, panting, and ruined.

2:37 AM. You slam the door shut behind you.

Not loud enough to wake your roommates. Just loud enough to feel it. To feel something.

Your heels hit the floor first, followed by your jacket, then your body. Flat onto the designer duvet you bought out of boredom last fall.

Everything feels too much. Your skin still burns where he touched you. Your lips still tingle like they’re waiting for more.

And your heart? That traitorous thing is pounding like it doesn’t know the difference between lust and loathing anymore.

You press your fingers to your mouth, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed you. No, he devoured you.

Like you were his punishment and his reward all at once.

And the worst part?

You let him. You loved it.

You told yourself you had the upper hand. That he’d be the one crawling back.

But now you’re the one lying on your bed, thinking about his hands, his voice, the way he said:

“I hope he saw that.”

God. He’s so annoying. So cocky. So hot when he’s mad.

You roll over, burying your face in your pillow.

You shouldn’t have gone with that guy. You shouldn’t have cared about Jungkook being with that girl.

But you did. You do.

And now you’re here, lying in your palace of silk and envy, trying to convince yourself this isn’t getting out of hand.

You’re not in love. You’re just obsessed. Right?

Right?

Your phone buzzes from the floor where you carelessly tossed it earlier.

You ignore it for a second, maybe out of pride. Maybe because you already know who it is.

But when it buzzes again, you glance over.

koo ♡ [2:47 AM]:

still thinking about me?

You blink.

Another message lands before you even finish rolling your eyes.

koo ♡ [2:48 AM]:

didn’t know you were into public displays. should’ve kissed you harder.

And then, as if he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your chest:

koo ♡ [2:49 AM]:

sweet dreams, princess.

You stare at the screen. Heart hammering. Skin flushed.

Pillow no longer enough to hide your grin, or your frustration.

God, you hate him. You want him. You hate that you want him.

You type something. Delete it. Type again.

You [2:52 AM]:

u’re so full of yourself.

His reply is instant.

koo ♡ [2:53 AM]:

🤥 you weren’t complaining when i had you against the wall.

You let out a strangled laugh, biting your lip so hard it stings.

He’s cocky. He’s smug. He’s impossible.

And he wins.

Because now you’re wide awake, cheeks hot, thighs pressed together, and you know—

This isn’t over. Not even close.

Saturday nights used to be chaos.

Drinks. Laughter. Parties you’d barely remember and dresses you’d only wear once.

But tonight?

Silence.

Your friends are out with their boyfriends—tragic, really. You stayed behind under the guise of needing rest, but mostly because you couldn’t stand the thought of pretending to care about some mediocre couple’s anniversary dinner.

Now it’s just you.

Satin robe. Hair up. Music low.

A glass of red wine you’re not even sipping anymore.

You’re sprawled across your bed, legs bare, mind racing with thoughts you shouldn’t have… of him.

Then, you hear three soft knocks. Your stomach flips.

You don’t need to check. You know it’s him. Of course it’s him.

You open the door, and there he is. Jeon Jungkook, dressed like a sin you’d commit twice, hoodie half-zipped, jaw sharp enough to hurt, that same smug glint in his eyes like he already knows you’ll let him in.

You lean against the frame. “Didn’t know we had plans tonight.”

He shrugs, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“Maybe I was busy.” You close the door behind him.

He turns to face you, eyes raking over your robe, your bare legs, the curve of your smirk.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want, Jungkook?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you. Like he’s trying to decide if he wants to tease you or ruin you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says finally. “Figured you might need company.”

“You figured wrong.”

He smirks. “That so? You always answer the door in lingerie when you’re not interested?”

You don’t respond.

You just turn and walk back to your bed, knowing he’s watching your every move.

He follows, he always does. The tension stretches, electric and maddening.

“You look comfortable,” he says, eyes still glued to your legs.

You tilt your head. “You look needy.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning back like he owns the room. “I am.”

You hate how that makes your heart race. Hate how your thighs clench. Hate how this game always ends the same.

But you love it, too. The way he looks at you like he’s starving. The way he speaks like he’s daring you to lose control first.

“You should leave,” you whisper.

He leans forward slowly, voice like smoke. “You should make me.”

His voice is low, cocky, soaked in heat. You should slam the door in his face. You should tell him to fuck off.

But your thighs press together. And you don’t move.

Jungkook steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly how this ends. His eyes drop to your robe, the slip of skin peeking out, the hint of lace beneath. You don’t bother hiding it. You know what he came for.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You say nothing.

You just tug at the tie of your robe, slow and calculated, and let it fall open an inch, enough to show the soft dip of your waist, the lace of your panties, the fact that there’s not a bra in sight.

His jaw flexes.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Then he’s on you.

The kiss is instant, hot and brutal, mouths colliding like magnets. His hands grab your waist, your ass, your everything, like he doesn’t know where to start. You let the robe slide off your shoulders, pooling onto the floor in a puddle of satin and sin.

He groans against your lips, breaking the kiss just to stare.

“Turn around,” he says, voice wrecked already.

You smirk, walking slowly to the bed, hips swaying, his eyes glued to every step.

You don’t even hear him undress, just the soft shuffle of fabric, the sound of his belt hitting the floor, the low curse under his breath when you bend over the edge of the bed.

He’s behind you a second later.

You feel him. Warm, solid, hard. His hands smooth over your hips, your thighs, spreading you open with a possessive grip.

“You like teasing me, huh?” he mutters, his voice thick, lips brushing your ear. “Walking around like that. Knowing I’d show up.”

You grind back against him just enough to make his breath hitch. “You always show up.”

His laugh is low, dark. “Because I know what this pussy tastes like.”

Then he drops to his knees.

You feel his mouth first. Warm, wet, and filthy. Dragging his tongue from your entrance up to your clit, slow and deliberate. You gasp, thighs trembling, fingers clenching the sheets.

He moans like he’s savoring every drop of you, his tongue lapping and sucking until you’re squirming, until your knees feel weak and your back arches without permission.

And then his fingers—two, thick and perfect, sliding inside you with ease. Curling just right. Pushing every button you forgot existed.

“Fuck, Jungkook…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs into your cunt. “Say my name.”

You do. Over and over.

Your moans fill the room, echoing off the walls like a song he knows by heart. You grind into his face, desperate, needy, shameless.

But he pulls back before you can finish.

You whimper, lifting your head to look back at him.

He wipes his mouth with his thumb, eyes dark with something dangerous. “You’re gonna take me so fucking well, baby.”

He strokes himself once, then twice, before grabbing your hips and lining up behind you.

“A spoiled little brat like you?” he groans, pushing inside, inch by inch. “You were made to be ruined.”

And god, he does.

He sinks in slow, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every inch of him stretching you open. And you do. Every fucking inch. Your hands grip the sheets, head falling forward as your mouth drops open in a soundless gasp.

“God, Jungkook…”

He groans, hips flush against your ass now, buried to the hilt. His hands grip your waist like he owns it, like he owns you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, dragging out slowly just to slam back in, making your legs jolt. “Missed this pussy.”

You can barely breathe.

He fucks you like he’s angry. Like you owe him. Like every roll of his hips is payback for every smirk, every tease, every time you walked past him like you didn’t need him.

Your body shakes with every thrust, skin clapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene sounds of sex and low curses.

“You wanna act like you don’t care?” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips. “Like I don’t fuck you better than anyone ever could?”

You cry out when he hits that spot, the one he always finds, like your body was made for him.

“You gonna walk away from me again?” he growls, voice wrecked, fucking into you harder now, unforgiving. “Let some other guy touch what’s mine?”

“N-no, fuck—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. You just shake your head, moaning, melting, unraveling under every filthy word, every punishing thrust.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, low in your ear now, his chest slick against your back. “Say it.”

You choke on a moan. “I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours—”

He groans like he’s losing control, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, pulling your back to his chest. The angle makes you whimper, makes your toes curl, your eyes roll back.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding deeper, slower. “That’s how you beg without saying a word.”

You’re close.

So fucking close you’re shaking, nails clawing at the sheets, your body clenching around him so tight he swears under his breath.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough, hand tightening on your throat just enough. “Be a good fucking girl and cum.”

And you do.

It hits you like a wave, loud, violent and blinding. Your legs tremble, your whole body shaking as the orgasm rips through you, soaking his cock, your moans turning shameless and broken.

“Fuck,” he grunts, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Take it—”

He throbs inside you, spilling deep, pulling your body back against his as he groans your name into your skin. His thrusts slow, messy, drawn-out until he’s spent and breathless.

Silence follows.

Just the sound of your panting, your bodies tangled, your skin flushed and marked.

And then his lips brush your shoulder.

“Still think I should’ve left?”

You laugh weakly, voice ruined. “Shut up.”

He pulls out slowly, and you wince, sensitive. You collapse on the bed, and he follows, arm thrown lazily over your waist, breathing steadying.

And in the quiet, with your body still buzzing and his cum dripping between your thighs, you hate how safe it feels.

How much you want him to stay.

How much he already knows he will.

Part 2? Probably yes.

[meadowfics]

cherry cola

oldersistersboyfriend!thanos x f!reader

nothing felt as sweet as your older sister's boyfriend

warnings: MDNI!! smut! 18+. pinv unprotected, oral (thanos receiving), very vulgar dialogue, cheating, praise kink, degradation, squirting, comparisons, breeding kink. this fic is foul but who said thanos had morals anyways

you’re standing in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge the only sound cutting through the late-night stillness. moonlight spills through the window, casting soft shadows across the tiles. it is midnight, and your oversized long-sleeve top hangs loose, brushing the tops of your thighs, the red gingham cheeky shorts barely peeking out from under it. 

you’re not expecting anyone tonight since your sister’s asleep upstairs, and thanos, her boyfriend, is crashing on the couch since they got into an argument earlier. 

the thing is that you've felt his eyes on you for months now. thanos or su-bong, as your sister calls him…has this way of lingering when you’re around. the rapper’s gaze sticks to you like humidity, heavy and undeniable. 

it’s wrong, you know it is. 

you’ve always found him magnetic with his purple hair catching light like some kind of neon dream, those colorful nails tapping against whatever he’s holding, always drawing your attention. 

when your sister claimed him, you buried that spark deep, told yourself it was nothing. it is just a fleeting thought except it never really went away.

the floor creaks behind you, and you freeze, fingers curled around the handle of the fridge door. you don’t need to turn to know it’s him. the air shifts, thickens, like the moment before a storm breaks. you hear his slow, deliberate steps, the faint jingle of the chain he always wears brushing against his belt. 

you turn, and there he is, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. thano’s lips curl into something halfway between a smirk and a challenge.

“couldn’t sleep?” his voice is low, rough, like he’s been awake too long. the man’s eyes dip, taking in your bare legs, the way the shirt slips off one shoulder. 

you feel exposed, but you don’t move to cover yourself.

“just thirsty,” you say, keeping your tone even, though your pulse betrays you, hammering in your throat. you grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, anything to keep your hands busy. 

he doesn’t move, just watches, his nails…bright purple and blue tonight…glinting under the dim kitchen light.

“you look good,” he says, and it’s so casual, so blatant, it almost knocks the breath out of you. 

“s’ that your boyfriend’s shirt?”

you laugh, short and sharp. 

“no boyfriend.” you take a sip of a cherry cola soda, the glass cold against your lips, “you know that.”

thano’s smirk widens, and he steps closer, just enough that you can smell the faint cedar of his cologne, mixed with something sharper, like smoke. 

“yeah, i know.” his voice drops lower, conspiratorial, “i bet you got guys lined up, though looking like that.”

you roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck, “don’t start, thanos.”

“su-bong,” he corrects, mocking, like he knows the name doesn’t suit him. he’s closer now, close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead. 

“what? i’m just saying. you’re making it real hard to act right, walking around like that.”

your stomach twists, a mix of guilt and something darker, something that makes your thighs press together under the hem of your shirt. 

“my sister’s upstairs,” you say, but it sounds weak, like you’re trying to convince yourself.

he tilts his head, eyes narrowing, like he’s sizing you up. 

“she’s out cold. you know how she sleeps.” he pauses, letting the words hang. 

“besides, you’ve been looking at me too. don’t lie now.”

you swallow, caught. you want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong, but the truth sits heavy between you. you’ve noticed him…how his hands move when he talks, how his laugh feels like it could unravel you. 

you’ve tried not to, but it’s there, undeniable, every time he’s around.

“you’re an asshole,” you mutter, setting the glass of soda down harder than you mean to. the sound echoes in the quiet.

he laughs, low and throaty, and steps closer still, until he’s right in front of you, his boots brushing the tiles by your bare feet. 

“maybe. but you like it.” his hand lifts, slow, deliberate, and he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin. you flinch, but you don’t pull away. 

“always have, haven’t you?”

your breath hitches, and you hate how obvious it is, how he can probably hear it. 

“you’re with her,” you say, but it’s barely a whisper now, more plea than protest.

“and yet here you are,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your jaw, tilting your face up so you’re forced to meet his eyes. they’re dark, hungry, and you feel like you’re drowning in them. 

“you’re not stopping me.”

you should. 

you know you should but his touch is electric, and that spark you buried is roaring to life, burning through every rational thought. he leans in, close enough that his breath fans over your lips, and you’re trembling, caught between wanting to push him away and wanting to close the gap.

“tell me to stop,” he says, but it’s not a request…it’s a dare. 

su-bong’s hand slides down, resting at the curve of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse, “say it, and i’ll walk away right now.”

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. your silence is louder than any words could be.

thano’s lips crash into yours, and it’s not gentle. it’s raw, desperate, like he’s been holding back as long as you have. you kiss him back, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as guilt claws at the edges of your mind. 

the man’s tongue slides against yours, and you moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his heat. he tastes like mint and some type of cherry medicine, and you’re already lost in it.

he pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead pressed to yours. 

“fuck, you’re sweet,” he growls, voice thick with want, “i‘ve been thinking about this too long.”

the rapper’s hands are everywhere…sliding under your shirt, gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. you can feel him, hard and straining against his joggers, and it sends a jolt through you, straight to your core. 

you’re wet already, embarrassingly so, and he hasn’t even touched you there yet.

“thanos,” you gasp, as his mouth moves to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. your sister’s face flashes in your mind, and you try to pull back, but his grip tightens, keeping you close.

“don’t,” he says, teeth grazing your skin. 

“don’t fucking think about her. think about me.” his hand slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, and you whimper, legs shaking. 

“shit, haha.. you’re soaked. you want this as bad as i do!”

he’s right, and you hate it. you hate how much you want him, how your body’s betraying you, arching into his touch. he pushes your shorts aside, fingers finding you bare, and he groans, low and filthy. 

“no panties? you’re killing me.”

thano’s fingers slide through your slickness, teasing, circling your clit just enough to make you buck against him. 

“look at you,” he says, voice dripping with condescension, “such a good little slut, dripping for me.” the word hits you like a slap, but it only makes you want him more, and he knows it.

he pulls his hand away, and you whine at the loss, but then he’s undoing the tie on his joggers, the sound of his pants dropping is loud in the quiet kitchen. 

“on your knees,” he says, and it’s not a request. you hesitate, just for a second, and he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him, “now.”

you sink to the floor, the tiles cold against your skin. he’s already freeing himself, and when you see him…thick, hard, leaking at the tip…your mouth waters despite yourself. you shouldn’t want this and shouldn’t want him, but you do. 

you lean forward, licking the head, tasting salt and heat, and he hisses, fingers tangling in your hair.

“fuck, that’s it,” he groans, guiding you closer, “suck me like you’ve been wanting to.”

you take him deeper, lips stretching around him, tongue swirling as you work him. he’s vocal, muttering curses, praising you in that rough, vulgar way that makes your thighs clench. 

“good girl,” he says, thrusting shallowly into your mouth. 

“you’re so fucking good fuck you are better than her, you know that?”

the comparison stings, but it also sends a twisted thrill through you. you moan around him, and he laughs, dark and cruel. 

“you like that, huh? knowing you’re better? shit, your mouth’s perfect.”

he’s rougher now, fucking your throat, and you let him, tears pricking your eyes as you gag but don’t pull away. you want to please him, want to hear more of that praise, even if it’s laced with venom. 

when he pulls out, your lips are swollen, spit dripping down your chin, and he looks at you like you’re a masterpiece.

“up,” he says, yanking you to your feet. he spins you around, bending you over the counter, and you brace yourself, palms flat against the cool surface. he doesn’t bother pulling your shorts down since he just shoves them aside, lining himself up. 

“you ready for me?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, just pushes in, slow and deep.

you cry out, the stretch almost too much, but it feels so good, so right, that you can’t stop the way your hips rock back against him. he’s relentless, setting a brutal pace, one hand gripping your hip, the other reaching around to rub your clit. 

“fuck, your pussy’s so soaked,” he growls, “so much better than hers. fuck! you’re fucking made for me.”

the words are wrong, so wrong, but they light you up, make you clench around him. he feels it, and he laughs, slapping your ass hard enough to sting.

 “you love that, don’t you? love being my dirty little whore.”

“yes,” you gasp, too far gone to care, “please, thanos—”

“its su-bong to you,” he snaps, but there’s a grin in his voice. he slaps you again, harder, and you moan, loud enough that you’re scared it’ll wake her. 

he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, just keeps fucking you like he owns you.

“gonna fill you up,” he says, and his thrusts get sloppier, more desperate. 

“‘m gonna breed this perfect pussy, make you mine. you want that, don’t you?”

you nod, frantic, tears streaming down your face as the pleasure builds, overwhelming. 

“yes, yes, please—”

he groans, loud and guttural, and you feel him spill inside you, hot and endless. 

fortunately, thanos keeps going. he slams into you with a punishing rhythm, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body as he pushes himself to overstimualtion, building a pressure so intense it feels like you’re about to break. 

you’re gripping the counter, knuckles turning lighter than your skin tone, trying to hold back the overwhelming surge you feel coming, your thighs trembling as you fight to keep it together. 

he notices, his eyes narrowing as he catches the way you’re clenching around his cock, trying to stifle what’s inevitable. 

“don’t fucking do that,” he growls, voice rough with command, “let it fucking go.” his colorful nails dig into your hips, grounding you as he angles deeper, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you can’t hold it anymore.

with one more brutal thrust, you shatter, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you squirt, the release gushing hot and wild, soaking his dick as he keeps moving, slick and relentless. it doesn’t stop there since it gets on the kitchen floor, pooling on the tiles in a glistening mess that catches the refrigerator light.

your legs shake, barely holding you up as the intensity leaves you gasping, your body still pulsing around him while he groans, clearly reveling in the chaos you’ve made, his cock drenched in you, the evidence of how good he is dripping everywhere.

he stays with your for a few minutes after, buried deep, catching his breath. you sister could’ve walked down and seen everything but she did not. when thanos finally pulls out, you feel the mess of him dripping down your thighs.

su-bong turns you around, kisses you again, softer this time, but still possessive. 

“you’re mine now,” he says, and it’s not a question.

you don’t answer but as he walks away, leaving you trembling against the counter, you know he’s right.

masterlist

[eml0tz]

Pretty kitty 🐾

a/n: okay.. so.. I haven’t posted in forever and now I’ve changed who I write for…. So now I’m obsessed with Logan thank you!! And now not a lot of people at writing for him, so I’ve decided to take a stand and write for him, my writing is probably very shit say what you want. AND PLEASE GIVE ME IDEAS AGHHH

I’m not reading it until I’m horny because I wrote this whole thing then it wouldnt let me save it then I had to restart the app AND IT GOT RID OF IT SO IM SORRY BUT I CANT

WARNINGS: belly bulge, breeding kink, reader didn’t consent verbally but she wants it! Humiliation? I guess not rlly lmk if I miss anything

SMUT UNDER CUT

When Wade invited Logan to live in a cramped apartment with the knowledge of Althea, Wade and now him and a dog living there it seemed to be too much and too small for him, but when Wade mentioned ‘pet sitting’ he thought I would be the ugly dog wade decided to bring back with him.

That was until he saw you curled up in a ball on the couch, Wade had told him about you, that you were a cat mutant and that you had instincts like him, Logan already knew wade didn’t need to tell him.

But what Logan didn’t know was the instincts just made you more cat-like, like Logan’s made him violent, confused or even feral, but no, you were playful, curious, sneaky, more of a night owl, and non verbal.

Today was a day where wade had ‘forced’ Logan to ‘pet-sit’ you.

He was sitting on the couch his arm over the back of it as he channel surfed, he started to wonder where you had scrambled off to, and since wade had told him that your instincts were at max today

He clicked his tongue as he let out a low whistle

“Pss, kitty” he called for you in his gravelly voice as he quirked an eyebrow looking around the apartment

He heard a few crashes as you ran around the apartment scaring the dog on the way he let out a low chuckled watching you darted around before jumping up onto the couch next to him.

He saw what wade was talking about how you could see what state you were in, your pupils were dilated basically pitch black except for the sliver of iris around the edge

“Hey kitty” he said as he chuckled lowly

You mewled sitting in his lap rubbing your head against his chest, he ran his hand down your back, you arched into his touch causing him to chuckle lowly

Just before he realised, a sweet smell hit him as-well as your dark eyes as your silky tail swaying in the air

Heat.

He wasn’t mad, hell no, he was glad, he was happy that he wasnt the only one with these urges and he was happy that he was the one who could help you, he might have a soft spot for you but he wouldn’t admit it

“Hey, kitty? Are you in.. heat?” He hesitantly asked, cautious of how you may act if he knew

You mewled rubbing your head against his as your tail swayed

He watched you as he thought

“Would you like me to help you bub?” He asked, he was already worked up by your sweet smell his boner rubbing against his jeans

You mewled loudly pawing at his chest as your tail swayed quicker

He chuckled as he removed his throbbing cock out of his jeans and boxers

You stared at him, his tip red and angry as his cock spat out pre cum from the slit, it was girthy and long

He smirked slightly as he helped remove your shirt and panties in one go you lifted your hips to help him

He held your hips moving you to hover over his cock, he stared at your glistening pussy as he lined himself up to your entrance.

Logan let out a sharp exhale as you sunk your tight pussy onto his cock, you moaned loudly squirming on his lap

He groaned lowly at her movements, he didn’t catch something in the corner of his eye as you moved, your lower stomach showed how big he was, his cock was basically bulging out of your lower abdomen, before you could do anything he pushed against the bulge as he set a brutal pace up into your pussy

You moaned loudly as you pushed your hips down onto his, he let out a low moan as you moved

It was rough, raw, intense, and passionate, two animals fucking like it was the end of the world

Although your loud moan interrupted you both of your from your pleasure, he understood why you were so loud when he felt your wet pussy flutter around him, he held onto your hips pulling you back down onto his cock your pussy spasming around him before she gushed around him

She collapsed onto him hearing her juices splash onto Logan, the couch and the wooden floor

You both moaned as you panted holding onto Logan as you trembled from your high, the sounds of your loud, quick breaths drowned out the noise of wade coming home

Logan moaned pulling your hips down onto his as he thrusted up filling your sweet pussy with his cum, his cock throbbing as he spurted his release into your hole

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Wade..

[dearest-nell]

morning person

s. harrington x reader, 2.8k

summary: a snapshot into the morning routine of steve harrington, now that the two of you have moved in together includes: established steve x reader, domestic fluff, steve is a busybody. warnings: literally none except i am still incapable of proofreading properly

a/n: honestly if anyone has any requests i would love to hear them, or just want to chat about this show that has ruined my life, because i'm spiralling into obsession over here.

People who complain about mornings have obviously never spent one waking up beside Steve Harrington, this you’re sure of. Because if they had, then they would know there was nothing in the world so deliciously saccharine than that drowsy, softened look on his face as he blinks the sleep away from mingling eyelashes, his lips curving upwards into a dreamy sort of smile. This isn’t even the first time he has awoken this morning. 

Steve Harrington is a morning person – an early riser, a dawn greeter, a restless child on christmas day. His body clock is set as the sun begins to kiss the horizon, his eyes blinking open into a dark, cool bedroom. New. This bedroom is new. He is still getting used to it, this apartment, a dingy one bedroom located just a few blocks from the rougher side of town. It’s a far cry from the mansion he used to live in, small and outdated and a little worse for wear, if he were to say so himself, but it’s home. It’s home because it’s his, and it’s home because it’s yours. You rent it together, bills strung haphazardly from paychecks of jobs you’d both rather live without. Steve doesn’t mind that he still works at the video store, not when it lights up the lamp on his bedside, or cooks the pasta on your shitty gas top that flickers every so often. He needs to call the service guy, now that he thinks about it, but it’s too early to matter. 

He can feel the heat of your body pressed in beside him, curled in on yourself, face buried into the pillow now folding creases into your skin, shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You have never been a morning person, he learned rather early on. You’re delirious, and grumpy, and still so beautiful despite the glare in your eyes when he used to wake you, and now, he knows to let you sleep. His impatience to rouse you, to kiss you and touch you is an urge he’s learned to swallow, so he pauses for a moment simply to stare, to smile to himself at the way you mumble in your dreams. 

He has the time, he thinks, considering it’s still dark out, and his shift at the store is not due for half a morning away, so he lets himself linger, tucked into the warmth of bedsheets as he works up the courage to leave it. He knows he needs to, that he’ll feel better if he does, that the routine always pays off even if it means parting from you. The air will be chilly outside, but he needs the cold to clear his head. His morning run is his time, after all. It gives him the solitude to consider, to plan, to unwind. 

He slips from the bed, careful footsteps walking a still unfamiliar path through the bedroom, boxes stacked against a near wall still unpacked from the move. His sneakers are in the wardrobe, well placed for a quick pick up, though he hasn’t accounted for his discarded shirt rippled right in his path. He trips, stumbling slightly, cursing himself as the thud that resounds as heavy feet meet the floorboards. He turns with a cringe, hearing you stir, though you do not rise as you wriggle deeper into yellow linens, disappearing beneath the comforter. 

He’s quick to dress, not wanting to risk another incident and the wrath of your disturbed sleep, slipping out into the living room to tie his shoes, still half asleep and blinking blearily. Despite its flaws, he likes this apartment more than he thought possible. There’s a passthrough between the kitchen and the living room that lets him talk to you as he cooks, you hanging over the bench to smile at him, pressing kisses into his shoulder when he dares to come too close. There’s a strange nook that sits in the wall by the door, one that now holds your keys and bumble bee umbrella, though neither of you are too sure why it was built in the first place. There’s a flat expanse outside the bathroom window that you want to build a flower box into, though Steve is yet to determine how, since neither of you are particularly good at D.I.Y. He loves this second hand couch Eddie found on the curb, loves the strange, abstract art piece Will designed for you both as a housewarming, loves the ceramic clown that Robin stole from an overpriced giftshop to hide in one of your moving boxes, now settled in the bookshelf beside an array of half read novels between you. 

He’s building a life here with you, and Steve is trying his best to remind himself of it every chance he get. There will be Christmases spent in these walls, games night drinks spilled on this carpet, and so many I love you kisses pressed to smiling cheeks beside that front door – he hardly knows how to contain the excitement for it all, even as he ties his laces. 

The morning is colder than he expected, but Steve has never been one to check the weather even now, even after he caught a cold from a raining run one morning, taking himself straight to work rather than home to you to shower. He figure’s he’ll wing it, deal with the consequences as they come, and enjoy the way you dote on him as he whines and groans in his flu like delirium days later. Cold, but not raining, he knows he’ll be fine this time. 

He’s been planning out this new jogging route as he goes, still learning the maps and turns of each new lane. He’d never been to this part of town much before the move, but he’s starting to acclimate one run at a time. It’s not too far from Hawkins, after all. It still feels like a familiar place, but it’s closer to the community college to save you the travel time. Steve’s a visual learner, after all. It gives him the roadmap that he’ll need to plan out his week. He’s taking himself the long way just to jot down the layout; the farmers market, the hardware store, the cafe with the good coffee. He waves to the people he passes by, few and far between, trying to appear friendly. He doesn’t know yet the culture of this community, but he’s eager to make a good impression. He recognises the old man who runs the news agency, stops to chat as they talk about the community centre. Steve’s agreed to volunteer for the refurbishment, he’s hoping it’ll help you both settle in, and you’ve promised to bake up your best batch of pastries to feed the hungry husbands as they work. Steve’s not yet a husband, but he’s planning on changing that in due time. 

The sun mingling with the clouds by the time he departs again, his pace quickening through midtown suburbia to take him home. The paperboy is tossing rolls at the doors, barely breaking on his bike as he passes house after house. Steve moves onto the road to avoid any collisions, shaking his head as the teen wheels off past a corner. He hasn’t even thought about his week yet, he realises, and his pace drops in consideration. There’s a stocktake coming up at work that will take more energy than he has to give, his parents are due over for dinner later in the week (he’s hoping they’ll cancel), and Robin has booked him tickets to some kind of gig that he’s certain he’ll hate. He mentally notes the checklist – things to buy, things to do, things to clean – now able to see his lot clearly without the buzz of a busy world around him. His days run smoother this way, alone, soles beating against the pavement. It starts him on the right foot. 

He’s out of breath when he arrives back on your block, panting heavily without the grace of a water bottle. He knows he should have brought one, but there’s no point stewing on it now. His thighs ache as he climbs the staircase, three flights of stairs his least favourite part of coming home. He can’t imagine hauling groceries up this stairwell is going to be an enjoyable weekly endeavour, but for the price of rent, he’s willing to make the effort, even with a slightly busted knee. 

He’s a little louder than he wants to be as he eases open the lock, slipping into a slightly brighter apartment than when he left. He doesn’t think you’re awake, but he takes pause to slow himself down, turning into the kitchen instead of the bedroom. Steve clicks on the faucet, hanging his head below the tap to let the cool water run directly into his mouth. He lacks grace as he guzzles down half a litre, droplets trickling down his cheeks and chin into unclean dishes from the night before. There’s urgency, he decides, in this drink. No type for a cup, no time to pause. He pulls away gasping, wiping a cupful of water across his sweat slicken face, unable to suck enough breath into his lungs. He leans back against the benchtop, eyes pressed skyward to focus on slowing himself down, letting his heart rate drop back to a blissful pace. 

He knows he should shower, but more than anything, he’s aching to get back between the sheets with you. It’s funny how he still misses you when you’re not within reach, even for an hour, even when he knows you’re still wrapped up tight in the comforts of his bed. It feels wrong to love a person this much, like he shouldn’t be made to feel so much, so deeply, every passing minute of every passing day. But he does. He knows he’s not the first to feel such a love, but he thinks he might be the only one regardless, because no one else has you. He thinks it’s strange that everyone in the world isn’t aching to be by your side, that hearts all over the town aren’t skipping beats at the wideness of your smile, the curve of your shoulder, the tickle of your laugh. This love must be special, then, because how else can he be the only one so enamoured by you. 

He forces himself into the shower, the water not yet warm even as he sinks his head beneath the stuttering stream. The pipes are old, though a cold shower bothers him far less than it bothers you. He’ll be out quicker this way. He is less thorough in his cleaning than he thinks he ought to be, scrubbing furiously at his body with the loofah you bought him, scraping sweat and red streaks into a now fading tan. He’s seeing the sun less these days in the dead of autumn, but he’ll make it up later. Right now, all he is focused on is climbing back into his bed, his skin stained with a citrus scent embedded into the new soap you had bought. It’s not his usual brand, but he thinks he likes the change anyways. It reminds him of summer picnics with you, fingers digging into orange peels, juices dribbling down his fingers until he tears out slices one by one. The scent lingers, filled with your orange flavoured kisses and sun streaked highlights burning into his mind, and yes, he thinks, the change isn’t so bad. 

He shuts off the tap, yanking his towel from the rack to pat himself dry, hair shaking out like a puppy dog with rambunctious excitement to be on his way. He doesn’t bother to redress, dropping the towel to the floor without focus, padding back towards your bedroom. You’re exactly how he left you, though a little more illuminated in the morning light. You’ve wiggled out of the blanket again, one foot kicked out to the side to regulate your body temperature, one hand reaching out towards his side of the bed. You reach for him in your sleep sometimes, and he hates the idea of not being there for you when you do. 

He clambers into bed his eagerness betraying his stealth, expert hands lifting your arm up for him to slide under, hanging it securely over his waist as he settles into the warm dip of the mattress. Your body responds instinctively, rolling into him with a groan, still not quite awake, though he can tell you’re not so far off. He runs fingers through your hair, trying to stave off your inevitable waking for as long as he can manage. Your alarm isn’t due for another hour, and he wants every second before that  spent just like this.

He doesn’t mean to fall back asleep, but sleep takes him anyways, his eyes blinking shut under the hypnotic pattern of your breathing beside him. He’ll wake up again groggier now, but there is nothing to be done to change it. He tugs you in closer, rougher in his sleep, his neediness permeating his unconscious mind until you’re pressed square against him. The movement spurs you awake, slowly and unintentionally, though it takes you a moment to understand why. 

There he is, your man, your darling boy, mouth hanging open with quiet, rumbling snores, arms wrapped around you in a protective lock. He’s never looked more beautiful, even with your eyes out of focus, one closed and pressed into the fabric of your pillowcase. You can smell the soap, feel the softness of his now cleansed skin beneath your curious fingertips, and you know he’s already been out of bed. He tries his best not to fall back asleep, but your smile curves wider to be blessed to see it. There’s a jealousy in you, after all, that he gets to watch you sleep so often. Times like these are rare, when you awaken first, and you’re greedy in your enjoyment of them. You’d take a picture if you thought you could reach the camera, but the moment would spoil, you were sure. You commit it to memory instead, every dip and curve and freckle and hair burned into your head until it’s all you can see. You want his face to be a fading image that blinks to life behind every close of your eyes, an after image repeating itself well into the day when you’re far away from him. 

He is so lovely, and you are so in love. 

The alarm breaks the two of you out of your reverie, your body jolting at the surprise of it. Steve is slower to start this time, groaning a drunken sort of sound as you slam your hand down on the rattling clock. His arm tightens around you, dragging you until your body is half wedged under his own, your giggles drowning out into muffled chuckles as your face burrows into the crook of his neck. 

“I fell back asleep.” He mutters, closing his eyes with a sigh. 

“I know.” You coo back, adjusting the curve of your back to a more comfortable position, tangling legs between his own until you’re thoroughly wrapped. 

“You sound awake.” He mumbles back, squeezing at your waist with unmasked affection. “Were you up?” 

“Yeah.” It’s an airy sort of confession, made to match the tender strokes of fingers reaching to scrape lovingly at his scalp. “Just watchin’ you sleep.” 

“Perv.” He teases, kissing at your hair, mouth hungry and missing your skin entirely. He lights up as you giggle, his head lifting with heavy blinks to gaze down at you, hair pressed upwards into a lopsided mess. You do your best to pat it down for him. “You like what you see?” 

You crook your head to the side, focusing your gaze in a tender expression. “Something like that.” His brow arches curiously, leaving you to laugh again. “I love you, you moron.” 

His smile widens, head dropping to nuzzle his nose roughly into your cheek, lips catching on your jaw every so often with exaggerated noises of enthusiasm. “Love you too, baby.” 

There is silence for a minute, nothing but his lips dragging affection across the planes of your cheek, his hands wandering underneath the fold of your bedshirt to press fingertips into fading stretch marks across your hips. You’re worried he’ll fall asleep again, and you know you don’t have the heart today to wake him a second time. 

“You want breakfast? I can make jam on toast?” 

He hums a happy sound, though does nothing to release his grip on you. “Yeah, okay. Gonna have to escape me, though. Can’t make my arm move.” 

He pretends to try and shuffle his grip, putting on a little show with a pout when his hold does not dislodge. You roll your eyes, brushing the pad of your thumb against his brow bone. 

“Five more minutes, then.” 

Steve was back asleep within three.

[yungistiny]

camgirl ═ chapter eight

[ S. Mingi ]

chapter eight: say it back

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summary: mingi just really needs some cash and he was told all he had to do was hold a camera. simple enough. he just didn’t anticipate the type of content he’d be helping to create

warning: emo mingi, stoner mingi, switch mingi, switch reader, mingi is hung, creampie, unprotected sex, choking, spanking, masturbation, rough sex, degradation, size kink, spitting, deep throating, possessive mingi/reader, public sex, mentions of domestic abuse

pairing: mingi x afab/reader

genre: smut, angst, drama, romance

word count: 2.5k

chapter seven

chapter nine coming soon

masterlist

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It was storming. Y/N could hear the thunder rumbling outside and the black curtain on the window in Mingi’s room was left open, the lights from the city night life giving a luminous glow into the room, rain blurring the glass.

She knew it had to be really late, the time on her phone when she checked it after hearing San and Wooyoung stumbling in through the hall a little while ago was already after 2:00 am. The two lovers across the hall in the bedroom over had grown quiet just before the storm began.

Mingi was passed out, curled up behind her, arm snug around her waist, face buried into her hair as he slept. Y/N couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t said it back.

“I love you.”

She had been playing his little slip up over and over again in her head. Love. Y/N knew she loved him, there was no use denying it, but it was like the words got caught on her tongue.

Y/N reached an arm out once again for her phone that she had shoved under the pillow her head lay on. 4:37 am. She was so tired, the jet lag beating her ass, but her mind was so awake she knew there was no way she was going to be able to sleep anytime soon.

She slowly moved Mingi’s arm off of her, quietly getting out of the bed, the oversized black Calvin Klein shirt of Mingi’s y/n had on almost reached her knees. She tiptoed towards the door, using her phone for light and freezing at the creak it made when she opened it.

Y/N wasn’t sneaking out or anything, she was really thirsty and needed to pee and just didn’t want to wake up her sleeping boyfriend.

A light and noise was already coming from the kitchen. San was up, rummaging through the fridge and y/n had to congratulate her best friend for landing the beautiful man in front of her. San was only wearing a pair of gray sweats, hair disheveled and no shirt.

“AHHH!” San jumped, almost dropping the cold bottle of water in his hands. “You scared me.” He was holding a hand on chest over his heart.

“Sorry.” Y/N bit her lip not to giggle at him. San was a buff guy, intimidating to most, but he was actually just a big softie. “Toss me one of those waters, please?”

San grabbed her a bottle, handing it to her and both sipping the cold drink in a comfortable silence. The storm outside seeming to only grow stronger as the wind harshly blew the rain against the windows in the living room. Both San and y/n cats were curled up together on the couch, Gladiolus not panicking during a storm for a change.

“He told me he loved me.”

San almost choked on his water. He spluttered a little, staring at his best friend’s girlfriend and he must of looked crazy by the way y/n was staring at him like he was. “Mingi did?”

Y/N gave him a look that clearly stated, obviously, who else? San shook his head, kind of in disbelief that Mingi actually said it. “It’s just…. He’s never said that to anyone he’s been with before.”

“He’s never….” Y/N didn’t get it. How had Mingi never been in love? How could anyone not fall in love with him? It just didn’t make sense. “he’s really never been in love?” What made her the exception? “I didn’t say it back.” She felt guilty, like something was wrong with her not being able to.

She loved him, she knows she does. She’s accepted it, but y/n ex did so much damage it was like saying the words out loud was impossible. Afraid that after she said them then, Mingi too would flip a switch like her ex had.

San didn’t say a word, just quietly listening, letting y/n pour everything out. It seemed she’s been bottling a lot of it up. “My ex boyfriend was abusive.” Y/N voice sounded so small that San could barely recognize it as hers. “He liked to play the part, mask himself as perfect until I told him I loved him….”

San knew he wasn’t going to like where this was going. Not with the way y/n now had her arms wrapped around herself, eyes cast down. “It started with him being controlling. Telling me I can’t wear clothes that reveal too much. Not liking if I were out late. If I didn’t call him. At one point he convinced himself I was cheating on him with Wooyoung…”

She paused as a loud clap of thunder felt as if it could be felt rumbling the apartment. “I kept telling him I wasn’t…. one night he brought it up again and I was so tired of hearing it that I snapped…”

San clenched his jaw, he already knew what she was going to say and he was certain that if he ever met y/n ex, he’d beat the shit out of him. “He hit you?”

Y/N didn’t answer him for a long pause. But the silence was answer enough for San. “It’s not that he’d hit me and then apologize… he’d hit me and degrade me then pretend like it didn’t happen the next day.”

“It was hard to escape him when he’s my stepmother’s godson.” Y/N moved to a different city just to get away from all of it. All of them. Him. It’s one of the main reasons why she was pissed her stepmother showed up uninvited.

“Y/N,” San moved to pull her into a hug when he noticed the tears start to escape her watery eyes. He could feel them wet his skin as she began to cry. “Mingi would never hurt you.”

Y/N hated herself for breaking down, another win for her ex, still making her cry even when they were no longer together. “I do.” Her voice was shaky, letting out a shattered breath. “Mingi, I do.” San didn’t need her to say it. She loved Mingi, she just been traumatized by her ex so bad that she no longer trusted to say it anymore.

Y/N pulled back away from him, wiping at her eyes when shuffling in the hall sounded. San peeked around the corner, Mingi was half ass asleep, stumbling into the bathroom. “Mingi’s awake.”

Shit. Y/N didn’t want him to see her eyes red and a little puffy from crying. Maybe it was time she let him know? He did something he’s never done apparently, let himself love her. She couldn’t say it back and he deserved to know why.

“San,” Y/N stopped before leaving, giving him a small, thankful smile. “thank you, for listening.” He gave her a smile back, his pretty dimples on display. “Anytime.”

Y/N just made it to Mingi’s bedroom door when the man himself walked back out of the bathroom. He blinked at her, lips a little swollen and pouty from sleep. “Are you crying?” Shit. Was it because of him? Was it his little slip up? Mingi had no control over those three words leaving him.

“Did I do something?” Now it was his voice that sounded small, vulnerable, as he followed y/n back inside his darkened room. “Was it what I said earlier?” Mingi reached towards the lamp on his nightstand, flicking it on and illuminating his room in a dim glow.

“What?” Y/N met his gaze, nervous and a little scared. “No.” She moved towards him, reaching up to place her hand on the back of his neck, the other reaching to softly run through his short hair. “I need to tell you something.”

“You’re not pregnant, are you?” Mingi blurted, heart feeling like it could sink to the bottom of his ass. She was on the pill though, those things are like… 99.99% effective, right? “What? FUCK NO!” Y/N exclaimed, her own heart feeling as if it would plummet at the thought of being pregnant.

Mingi listened. His face was expressionless, his emotions were everywhere. Most of it was anger. He felt a new kind of protectiveness overcome him as well, knowing that if he ever saw y/n ex, he’d probably kill him and Mingi was not an aggressive person. He also knew Wooyoung would help him hide the body.

“I can’t say it back yet but….” Y/N pulled herself up onto her tippy toes, hands both placed on the nape of Mingi’s neck. “I do.” She could almost meet his gaze like this, almost. She couldn’t get the words to leave her at the moment so…. she’d show him instead. “I want to make love to you.”

He looked at her, his eyes so soft, so fucking in love with her. “I love you.” And he said it again. He’d keep saying it. Keep reminding her until she was no longer afraid to say it herself. He’d say it until she was ready. Until she realized he’d never hurt her. He wasn’t her piece of shit ex.

Mingi really wanted to beat his ass. He would settle for making sure y/n felt how much he loved her. Whatever she wanted, Mingi would give her. She had him wrapped around her perfectly manicured black polished finger.

When he kissed her, y/n could feel those three words stuck on her tongue again. She wanted to tell him when he wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him as close as he could like he was afraid she’d disappear.

Y/N wanted control, pulling back to trail her lips down his jaw, to his neck as she lightly pushed Mingi down onto his bed. He watched her take her time with dark eyes, pupils blown and heart pounding as she kissed her way up his abdomen, taking her time on his chest.

“You know…” y/n nipped at one of his nipples. “you’d look so fucking good with these pierced.” She darted her tongue out, gliding it over the same bud before moving to the other one. Mingi moaned, reaching to gently grip her chin, bringing her mouth to his own. “Don’t tempt me.” He practically growled.

Y/N let him kiss her until Mingi had to pull back to breathe. Both their lips were swollen, y/n trailing back down his body, situating herself on her knees at the edge of the bed between his legs. Her hands pulled at the waistband of his black pajama pants, sliding them off him, Mingi helping her.

“Would this be a bad time to tell you…” y/n wrapped her hand around him, stroking his hardening length and holding his gaze. “you have to come with me to my dad’s birthday party next week?”

“Wha… fuck!” Mingi didn’t have time to register what she said fully before she was gagging on him, his dick all the way hard now as she took her time, bobbing her head up and down, taking a moment to suck just his tip before swallowing his entire length again.

Mingi’s hands gripped the blanket and sheets under him, deep moans echoing along with the lewd noises of y/n slowly sucking her way all the way back up his length, thunder muffling them as it boomed outside amidst the storm.

Fuck! He was gonna cum, he could feel it in the way his stomach started to tighten and his dick began twitching as y/n sucked his tip vigorously until he was whimpering, pulling his length all the way back into her mouth as he finally came. She didn’t stop swallowing, sucking or gagging until Mingi started practically whining from overstimulation.

Y/N pulled back, yanking Mingi’s shirt she was wearing off, tossing it next to his discarded pajama pants after wiping the spit and slight mess on her face away with it. She’d wash it for him.

Mingi was panting, sprawled out on his bed sideways, legs hanging over the side as y/n crawled up his body, straddling him, the only thing keeping her from sinking his dick inside her being the black panties she had on. Mingi instinctively reached to grab at her hips, the feel of her clothed cunt pressing against his sensitive dick after already coming had Mingi once again whimpering.

Y/N could feel him already growing hard again against her as she leaned down to kiss him, his moans muffling against her lips, hands tightening on her hips. Mingi needed her, the slow pace of her kissing him and the wetness pooling on her panties, rubbing against him, was driving him crazy. “Baby… please…” he would have flipped her, took control, but she wanted control and he wouldn’t dare take it from her. “I need you.”

Y/N decided to tease him just a little more as she once again trailed kisses down his body, stopping to cat lick at his tip where his dick was already hard again, swiping her tongue to clean the precum off. She liked to hear his moans, to see him come undone, become a complete mess because of her.

Mingi’s moan rumbled in his chest when y/n pulled her panties off, climbing back on top of him, hand gripping his aching dick and guiding him so she could sink down his entire length. “Fuck.. I…” the words got stuck again as Mingi stretched her, filling her.

“Baby, please move…” Mingi was begging. Y/N leaned forward, rocking her hips, setting a slow pace that allowed her to fill every inch, every vein of her boyfriend’s dick buried inside her.

Mingi slid his hands from her waist to her ass, both hands gripping firmly as she continued to slowly ride him. He took advantage the way y/n was leaning towards him, both her hands at each side of his head, body stretched, walls of her pussy clenching him. Mingi leaned his head forward, head burying between her breasts. His voice was deep, raspy and whimpering. “I…” his grip on her ass tightened when y/n picked up the pace.

Y/N could feel her orgasm ready to overcome her, finding it hard to keep up the pace on top of him, tiring but needing to reach that euphoric high, wanted Mingi to come with her. “Mingi…. I need you to…” She didn’t need to finish, he knew what she needed.

Mingi moved his hands from her ass to wrap his arms around her, sitting up, holding her against him as he took over control. His knees bent, pushing y/n up and giving him level to thrust up into her, pace fast, pounding. Both of them were a mess, y/n wrapping her own arms around him, hands gripping at his hair, pulling his head back so she could see him. “Tell me.”

She was gonna cum, her walls were clenching Mingi, convulsing against his dick practically drilling into her now, hitting her g spot, once, twice, and it hit her. Y/N came with a cry of his name, forehead against his own as Mingi’s movements grew sloppy, legs shaking as his second orgasm slammed him.

“I love you.” He told her exactly what she wanted to hear, cum feeling her full. Y/N collapsed on top of him, Mingi staring up at the ceiling as he ran his hands up and down her back. The storm outside seemed never ending, keeping them locked inside together. Where they belonged.

Together.

Mingi was still buried inside her, y/n cockwarming him now as they both calmed down, heartbeats settling into a matching tethered rhythm.

Then, Mingi remembered something.

“Did you say I have to meet your dad?”

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tag list: @straycat420 @dejatiny @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @hannahlilibet411 @dawn-iscozy @winxmia @milkfromacow @pearltinyy @wooyoungsbrat @seonghwasslytherin @vsereniasstuff @chicksmoothie @maddycline @remi-young

[swtsupernatural]

S.W || ANGEL BY MY SIDE

Sam Winchester x Fem!Angel!Reader

Content Warning blood, mentions of death, sam fighting for bodily autonomy, religious themes & talk of heaven, reader being shorter than Sam

Summary Angst, hurt-/comfort for Sam, slow burn i think - Sam was supposed to die tonight. At least, that's what his guardian angel told him after she saved him from death.

W.C. 2.4k words

Playlist: ♫ Kiss of Life - Sade, Telephone - daste., Salvatore - Lana Del Rey

A.N. first sam fic ! this came to me sunday night, been thinking alot about spn angels lately. enjoy! - claire

It had been a long fucking day for Sam Winchester. Not only was the demon he found in Manhattan trying to summon more, but they were working with a large pack of them and an even larger pack of vampires that lurked in Vermont’s lush forests. The two creatures had teamed up, and as a result Sam was surrounded in a poorly lit dirt road in the forest, moonlight shining on his knife. He couldn’t see or hear Dean, and he knew Castiel was busy with extremely pressing ‘angel matters’ as he put it. He had vamps and demons circling him, and Dean had the stupid demon knife. Or, he did when Sam had seen him a few minutes ago. Now, he had no clue who had their hands on it. His brain was twisting as he desperately tried to wring out ideas of escape from his head like a sponge. He was trapped. Fuck. A demon sprung, holding a large, saw-edged knife slicing his forearm making him tense. A measly cut never stopped him, and he twisted the demon’s neck, shoving the body to the side as another few came behind him. Twisting and trying desperately to gank two at once, Sam missed the others on his right, one stabbing Sam deep in his lower abdomen.

Significantly outnumbered, Sam tried to keep his thoughts collected. But it was difficult with five vamps and six demons on his ass, and the blood slowly staining his shirt, the agonizing pain making him want to double over. The demons suddenly pounced on him simultaneously. He managed to injure one of them, but the rest kept their grip on his arms, legs, neck, and torso tight. One of the taller vamps sauntered over to him, her lips curling into a smile. 

“You’re gonna taste so sweet, boy. I can already tell…” She pulled his hair back roughly, her painted fingers tight on his long hair. She exposed his neck, and Sam had never thrashed more than he had in that moment. It seemed like all he had done in his adult life was fight for his bodily autonomy. He felt numb — of course this would be how he died. The second he felt her lips on his skin, he felt and heard something he never had.

A loud whoosh, the hands and arms restricting him gone, and a swift change in the chipping air all in less than a second. He was in the motel. His motel he and Dean were staying at in some small town in Vermont.

But…there was still a single hand on his shoulder. However, it was gentle. Too gentle. He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours; a woman. You couldn’t have been much older than him. But you weren't really a woman. He drew his gun from his belt, effectively pushing from you, making space between you two. 

“Who the hell are you?” He was assuming you were an angel. He didn’t know of many other creatures or beings that could move him so effectively and so fast. He was also thinking how everything in this world came with a price. You weren't saving his life to do him a favor or to be nice. That wasn’t how this ever worked. Except; there you stood, your hands tentatively coming up in a gesture of surrender. 

“Sam. I’m very glad you are okay.” You stated your name, a small smile on your lips. Still, he held his gun up directly at your face.

“So much for a thanks, I guess. I’m your guardian angel, Sam. There’s no need for hostility.” Sam faulted, just a bit, but you took a single step towards him and he was back in his rock-solid stance.

“I’m sure. What do you want?” 

“Well, I’d like to heal that cut in your stomach. It’s quite deep.”

He scoffed, “Why? So I can owe you? So I can be in your debt?”

You were silent for a moment, your eyes widening a bit. “Castiel never told you? Sam, certain angels…we are assigned to humans to watch over them. We are permitted to help you, prevent you from death if it is not your time, and only if we are not spotted. We cannot be seen, or…well, in simple terms, we’ll be kicked out of Heaven.” 

“You…you’re my guardian angel? Seriously?” He mulled over you, his eyes squinting in suspicion. “How come we’re talking, then, if I’m never supposed to see you?”

Rolling your eyes suddenly that same whoosh came, only a lot quieter. You had his gun in your hand, pulling the mag out, throwing the piece in one direction and the gun elsewhere in the motel where neither of you could reach it.

“You were going to die. You were supposed to die. That was your time, Sam. I defected to save you. I’d like a ‘thank you’ at the very least.”

Sam breathed quickly through his nose deciding what to do. Your eyes were so genuine. He’d only ever seen that look from one other angel, Cas.

“I…thank you.” You nodded, and he saw realization in your eyes. It was raw and undoubtedly heavy on your being. You nodded. 

“I’m going to put my fingers on your temple and you will feel much better, understand?” You looked at him; from his shaggy hair to his dirty boots, and back up again. “It will be easier if you sit down. You’re much taller than I thought.”

Sam let out a small huff of laughter, sitting on the bed.

“Well, you don’t seem very tall for a guardian angel.” You squint your eyes at him, a look of unshaken power in them that startled Sam to his core. He knew what angels were capable of. You could have killed him and everyone in the motel in seconds. Yet, from someone else’s perspective, you were a hell of a lot shorter than him, and just looked like a regular young woman. 

“My true form is larger than the size of this building, Sam. I know that you know what I am capable of. Even if I may not look like it.”

Sam nodded in an apologetic way, your cold fingers on his temple immediately putting him at ease. Cas had healed him a couple times before but it had felt nowhere as heavily as this. He could feel his wounds closing before he could register what was happening — even the widespread blood stain on his shirt dissipating. He let out a long sigh he didn’t know he was holding, his shoulder slumping forward. He truly felt better than he had in years.

“Thank you. And I’m very aware of what angels can do…though I’ve never met a guardian one.”

You nodded, your face quite close to his. He smiled gently. Cas was never great with personal space either. Yet, Sam always found it funny when the angel would appear a mere foot from his older brother. Now, the last thing on his mind was humor. He would never admit that your presence was intoxicatingly calming. 

“We possess stronger healing powers and sturdier wings than typical angels. Not that it matters much now.” The sorrow in your eyes made guilt settle uncomfortably in Sam’s stomach.

“Why did you save me? I’m not exactly the poster boy for virtue or dignity.”

“I’m aware. But you must understand I’ve been watching you your whole life, Sam. I perfectly believe you deserve another chance on Earth.” Sam gazed into your eyes, trying to find what he could not understand. His father, Dean, Bobby…they had all known and loved him for so long. But they’d never expressed it like you were right now — and he'd never even met you. He had met defected angels before, fallen ones too. They would lose their wings. They would lose their grace. They were as old as the beginning of time, and would sacrifice it all for a single human. 

“But why? You flew me here, but I’m guessing your wings aren't doing too good right now, Angel.”

You stared deeply at his features. You’d seen Sam, watch him grow up before your eyes from the day he was born. But your visions of him were never as clear as they were now. His eyes were a solemn swirl of blues and greens, the inner ring a twirling hazel. The lines on his face told you of his laughter, his light forehead lines telling you of his worries, the short hairs littering his jaw telling you he’d been up for nights focusing on the hunt that was supposed to have ended his life.

“Because I thought…” you looked at a stained part of the unappealing carpet on the floor, your eyes glazing over a bit, “I thought that some of the angels were abusing their power over humans, over hunters. I had been on earth a few times and stupidly got your disease of emotions.” Sam chuckled softly despite the situation, hoping you would feel a tad better. But he knew you didn’t. How could you?

“I felt sympathy for humans. There were unjust things happening everyday, people's lives ending at their wrong time. I thought you were worth saving because–well, maybe it's time angel’s be kind instead of unforgiving.” Sam listened to every word spilling from your lips. You had been very short and to the point with him earlier. You really had begun feeling human emotion, if even a little. 

“And I thought that maybe you’d help me. Help me adjust, at least. I have seen the ways you and your brother act. I know it is selfish of me, but you are close with my closest friend and brother, Castiel.” You took a pause, eyes averting from Sam’s sincere face.

“I have seen you do it for humans and creatures and being alike, Sam. I thought maybe if I was kind to you, you could be kind to me, too.”

Sam stared at you in awe, his jaw slightly open. He honestly wasn’t sure what to say. Of course he would like to help you, but how? You were an angel for God’s sake. Maybe Cas was capable of giving you what you really needed to adjust, to be an angel without your wings, but he’d try. He’d fight like hell to try for you. You saved his life. It dawned on him that he was meant to be dead. He’d likely be in hell at this very moment if you hadn’t intervened. You truly were an angel sent from Heaven for him. 

“Of course I’ll help you, Y/N. You saved my life. I’m not done fighting yet and I’ll try everything I can, as a human at least, to support you.” You smiled. Your eyes were watering and you confusingly blinked at a wet drop falling from your right eye. “What is…” Sam reached a large hand to your cheek, rubbing the tear away. 

“Tears. You’re tearing up. Nearly crying, it happens when you…experience intense emotions, sometimes. Usually they are sad ones, but I’m guessing yours aren't.”

“No. I think I am happy. Maybe…anticipatory?” Your stomach was in knots, but you didn’t think you were sick. Castiel had explained it as…excitement. Sam smiled at your words. 

“Why is everything I say to you funny, Sam?”

Sam shook his head, still smiling as he brought a hand to your shoulder, “Not everything, you’re just…amusing.” You nodded after a moment as if agreeing with him. You knew you weren't accustomed to human culture or customs, you felt out of place every time you were on Earth. Nevertheless; now it was your home. 

“I find you very amusing. And you can be funny, but only when you are not being stubborn.”

“You really have seen me my whole life.”

“But I like that about you. You have such complex emotions.”

“Yea, I do…” Sam trailed off, the twisting in his stomach intensifying as he looked at your lips briefly. “Can I…” he leaned in closer, but not too close. He didn’t want to crowd your space, but you just looked so heavenly sitting next to him on his bed, your lovely hair framing your soft, glowing face. You tilted your head the way Cas did when he was confused about something human-like.

“Can you what, Sam?”

Fuck, your voice was so pretty. “Nevermind,” he leaned back slightly, getting up to call Dean to find out what happened to him before you grabbed his arm pulling him into a tight hug. 

“Thank you, Sam.”

“You realize you shouldn't be thanking me, right?”

“I know. But I also know humans can be very cruel and you’ve shown me a lot of kindness. I wasn't sure it was still possible in your world. Oh, and Dean is alright. I asked Castiel to help him as I did you.” Sam kissed your forehead, and it felt like it lit on fire. Your cheeks were warm, and you weren't sure if you were ill, or what was happening to your very human vessel.

“Sam, are you sick?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Why d’you ask?”

“You just made my skin hot, and my stomach feels weird.” Sam froze, his lips coming into a smirk, “Did I?” He tested the waters, lacing his fingers over your arm, and you stared up at him, your cheeks pink and your mouth slightly open. 

You pulled him down on the bed, holding his face with your hands. “Yes.” You stated matter-of-factly.

He smiled, sliding his hands over your cheek. “You gonna do anything about that?” Sam spoke in your ear lowly and you turned your head, his hair tickling your face and leaving goosebumps on your arms.

“I don’t know what to do.” He curled further into your face, leaning closer to your ear, his mouth on the edge.

“It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything, Angel.” 

You nodded, but opted for leaning up and placing a kiss on his forehead too.

“I think I need to teach you about other human stuff before we uh…do that.” You nodded, still leaning on Sam, when a thought came to your head. 

“Hey, Sam?” He gazed over your face, listening attentively to your sweet voice.

“I still have my grace and powers. But, since I’m not a real angel anymore…do you think I can try things like ice cream and taste the real flavor?” He threw his head back, laughing boyishly. 

“Yea, yea, I can buy you ice cream, Angel.”

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

what if

Darry was trying to sleep. It had been a long ass day and he needed to get up early in the morning. The windows were open, blowing a warm breeze over him. The house was calm. It should have been so easy to sleep.

Something kept him awake. Since becoming a guardian to his brothers, sometimes he got this feeling in his gut that something was about to happen. He felt it when Pony came home late that night and when Soda approached him to tell him he wanted to drop out. It was this sixth sense he had for his boys. That was what he felt that night.

So he stayed lying there, waiting for something to happen. He was about to give up with his bedroom door creaked open. 

He knew who it was immediately. No one in the gang would have come into his bedroom without knocking, except for his brothers. And he would have heard Ponyboy hesitating in the hallway on the creaky floorboards before coming in. So it had to be Soda.

Darry rolled over and sat up just as Soda perched on the edge of the bed, curling his legs up. His little brother was wearing a truly hideous t-shirt he probably stole from Steve and his hair was all askew as though he’d been running his fingers through it. But the biggest tell was how he kept chewing on his bottom lip. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Darry asked, his voice a little deeper than usual from disuse. 

Soda shrugged, but moved into Darry’s space and tucked his legs under the blankets. A long conversation then. With Pony, he tended to need a lot of build up before admitting what was wrong. With Soda, he would just jump right into it, but it would take longer for Darry to get him calmed down and comforted.

It didn’t surprise him when Soda swallowed thickly and said, “Darry, I can’t do what you do.” His voice had a waiver of emotion to it. 

“What are you talking about, Pepsi?” Darry asked, mind racing as he tried to figure out what was wrong. Soda was an emotional person, but this seemed different. This was heavier than his usual caliber. This reminded Darry too much of how Soda was after their parents died. 

He threw himself into taking care of Pony, but when he was alone, there was a heavy aura around him. Darry felt that same thing now. There was a solemnity to Soda that Darry almost never saw, it worried him a lot. A lot more than Darry would ever admit.

Soda sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, he leaned a little heavier against Darry. “Everything you do for me and Pony and the boys. But if you’re not here, then-then it has to be me and I know I couldn’t do it and I’d just fall apart.”

As he talked, Soda’s voice got thicker and thicker with tears until Darry brought his little brother into a tight hug. Soda clung to him tight. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Darry told him. Where could this idea have come from? It was ridiculous, the notion that Darry would ever leave his brothers or his gang. 

“You don’t know that,” Soda said, his voice pitifully soft. “We didn’t think mom and dad would leave.”

So that’s what it was about. He’d talked to Pony about the same thing after one of his nightmares. After losing their parents so suddenly, anxiety of abrupt loss plagues the three boys. Darry couldn’t help but feel the same, he worried every time one of his brothers came home late.

Darry’s eyes fell closed and he tried to hold Soda even tighter. “I know, honey.” 

“You could get hurt at work or a car accident or-”

Darry hushed him and ran a hand over Soda’s head. He just hugged his brother for a moment while thinking of what to say. He couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t going to happen, he couldn’t promise his brother that he would always be there.

“I don’t want you to worry about any of that,” Darry told him. “But, I get why you do and I hate that it’s something we need to worry about.” 

Soda pulled back, “Will you tell me what I should do? Dar, I’m going to be lost if you’re not here.”

Darry could hear the tears getting thick in Soda’s voice so he cut in quickly to reassure him. “I’ll tell you what, I will put something together for you that if…if the worst happens, it should make it easier.” 

When their parents died, Darry wished he had an instruction manual on what to do. He had to figure out where all of the bills were supposed to go, how to pay them, how to get custody of his brothers, and had to plan their funeral. The thought of Soda being in that position made Darry’s stomach turn.

“But,” Darry squeezed his hand, “but I ain’t letting you look at it. I don’t want you worrying any more than you already do, okay?”

Soda nodded. He hugged Darry again. 

“And while we’re talkin’ about that kind of serious stuff…” Darry sighed. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say for a while.” Soda lifted his head up, and looked at Darry in confusion. “I never apologized to you for how I dealt with mom and dad.” Soda started to shake his head, but Darry cut him off. “No, I threw myself into trying to keep everything together with the house and custody. You stepped up with helping Pony and I wasn’t there for either of you the way I should have been. I’m sorry.”

Soda threw himself back against Darry and all but tackled him into a hug. “We were all grieving and if you hadn’t done that, who knows where we would be.” 

Darry kissed Soda’s head, “Don’t mean I’m not sorry. You did so much for Pony and I wish I’d done the same for you.”

Soda hugged Darry so tight, Darry worried he might crack one of his ribs. But he didn’t mind. 

The two of them sat there for a long moment. Darry found himself missing when the two of them were younger and sharing a bedroom. Soda would jump onto his bed in the middle of the night and wake him up just to tell him about whatever weird dream he had. Half the time, Soda ended up asleep on the foot of Darry’s bed. 

He wished so much that they didn’t have to grow up so fast, any of them.

“You should get back to Pony,” Darry said after a while. “He’s going to wake up and come stompin’ in here, looking for you.” 

Soda chuckled, “I love you, Dar.” 

“Love you too,” Darry replied. He gave his brother a light shove towards the door. He couldn’t resist adding, “It’s going to be okay, Pepsi. I promise.”

Soda smiled, “Thanks.” 

And as he disappeared into the hallway, Darry laid back down with a sigh. That had been something he wanted to say for the longest time and Soda’s forgiveness…it meant the world to him. 

[mintyys-blog]

NO WHERE TO RUN— mob! bucky barnes x single mom! reader

WARNINGS: injury, character death, blood, mafia, guns.

The night air was thick with the scent of rain and blood. You weren’t sure which one belonged to you.

Your breath came in short, panicked bursts as you tightened your hold on Alex, his small body curled against your chest, blissfully unaware of the danger that chased you through the city streets. He was still sleeping, the rise and fall of his tiny chest the only thing keeping you grounded.

You could still hear the gunshots echoing in your ears, the shouts of men hunting you like prey. The safe house your late husband had left you? Compromised. Every other contact who owed him a favor? Silent, too afraid to take your call. You had nothing, no one.

Except for him.

Bucky Barnes.

You’d only ever known him as an associate of your husband—a man whose name alone struck fear into the worst kind of people. You remembered the way your husband spoke of him in quiet tones, not as a man, but as a force. One that could kill without blinking. One that could protect just as easily.

And right now, you needed protection.

Your car barely made it to the iron gates of his estate before the engine sputtered its last breath. You winced as you moved, the sharp throb in your wrist reminding you of your injuries. A broken wrist? A head wound? It didn’t matter. You didn’t have time to assess the damage.

You stumbled to the front door, rain soaking through your clothes as you pounded against the heavy wood.

Nothing.

Fear twisted in your gut. What if he wasn’t here? What if he sent you away?

You tried again, your good hand slamming into the door. “Bucky!” your voice cracked, desperation lacing every syllable. “Please—I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Silence.

Then, the sound of a lock sliding open. The door swung inward, revealing him.

Bucky Barnes stood in the dim light, clad in dark sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt, a gun loose in his grip. His sharp blue eyes flickered between your face, your injuries, and the sleeping boy in your arms.

Something in his expression shifted.

He didn’t ask why you were here. Didn’t demand an explanation.

Instead, he stepped aside. “Get in.”

The warmth of Bucky’s house was suffocating compared to the cold rain outside. It took everything in you not to collapse the second you stepped over the threshold.

Your legs felt weak, your head pounding from the injury you hadn’t had time to assess. But Alex—Alex came first.

Bucky shut the door behind you, locking it with swift, practiced movements. He set the gun on a nearby table but didn’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re hurt.” His voice was low, unreadable.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, though the sting of your wrist said otherwise.

Bucky exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. Up close, he looked just as tired as you felt—like he hadn’t had a peaceful night’s rest in years. His jaw tightened as his gaze flickered back to Alex, still fast asleep in your arms.

“You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

You swallowed hard, adjusting Alex’s weight against you. “They found us. I don’t know how, but they did.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. He didn’t have to ask who they were.

You let out a shaky breath. “I had a safe house. It’s gone. I tried calling everyone—no one would help me.” You hesitated, your throat tightening. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Come on.”

You blinked. “What?”

He motioned for you to follow him. “The kid needs a bed. You need to sit before you fall over.”

Your legs nearly buckled at the mere suggestion. Wordlessly, you followed him down a long hallway, the lavish house eerily silent. He led you to a bedroom—one that looked untouched, as if no one had stayed in it for years.

“You’ll be safe here.” Bucky reached for the covers, pulling them back. “Lay him down.”

You hesitated. Alex had been through so much upheaval already—you didn’t want him waking up in another unfamiliar place. But your arms trembled from holding him for so long, and your body screamed for rest.

Gently, you laid him down, brushing damp curls from his forehead. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake, his tiny fingers curling into the blanket.

You let out a slow breath, relief washing over you.

Bucky was still watching.

He noticed the way your shoulders sagged, the exhaustion in your movements. He muttered something under his breath before disappearing into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a first aid kit.

“Sit,” he ordered.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the look he shot you silenced you instantly. With a quiet sigh, you sat on the edge of the bed.

Bucky crouched in front of you, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle as he inspected your wrist. His brows furrowed. “It’s not broken, but it’s sprained pretty bad.”

He reached for a bandage, wrapping your wrist with practiced efficiency. “And your head?”

You grimaced. “I don’t know. Feels like I got hit with a damn brick.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh—almost amused—before sobering. He tilted your chin up, his fingers grazing your temple. His touch was cool against your feverish skin, and for a brief moment, you forgot how dangerous this man was.

His blue eyes flickered to yours. “You’ll live.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thanks.”

Bucky stood, tossing the first aid supplies back into the kit. “Get some sleep.”

Your stomach twisted. “Bucky—”

“I’m handling it,” he said firmly. “Whoever did this, whoever came after you—I’ll take care of it.”

You stared at him, uncertain. “Why?”

Bucky held your gaze. “Because your husband may be dead, but his enemies aren’t.” He glanced at Alex, still sleeping peacefully. “And now, they’re yours.”

A chill ran down your spine. You already knew that. But hearing it aloud made it real.

Bucky turned for the door, pausing only once. “No one’s gonna touch you or the kid. Not while you’re here.”

Then, without another word, he left.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady sound of Alex’s breathing beside you. The unfamiliar silence of Bucky’s house pressed in around you—too different from the cramped safe house you had called home for the past few months.

Your body ached, exhaustion weighing you down, but your mind refused to rest. The last twenty-four hours replayed like a cruel movie reel behind your eyes. The shattering of glass. The pounding of boots against the floor. The gunshots.

You had barely gotten Alex out in time.

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through you. If you hadn’t left when you did… You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the thought away.

Instead, your mind drifted to Bucky. He hadn’t hesitated to let you in. Even after months—years—of nothing but small talk and distant pleasantries, he had taken one look at you, seen your son in your arms, and made his decision.

It didn’t make sense.

Bucky Barnes was many things, but charitable wasn’t one of them. He was dangerous, ruthless—your husband had made that clear. A man you don’t cross unless you have a death wish.

And yet, he had let you into his home. Promised you protection.

You exhaled slowly, turning your head to look at Alex. He was curled beneath the blankets, his little hand gripping the fabric in his sleep.

Whatever Bucky’s reasons, you had no choice but to trust him.

For Alex’s sake and your sanity.

The scent of coffee pulled you from sleep the next morning.

You blinked groggily, pushing yourself upright, wincing at the stiffness in your muscles. Sunlight streamed through the partially drawn curtains, bathing the room in soft gold.

Alex stirred beside you, his tiny body stretching with a whimper before his eyes fluttered open.

“Mommy?” His voice was small, confused.

You forced a tired smile, brushing curls from his forehead. “Hey, baby. It’s okay. We’re safe.”

He rubbed his eyes with tiny fists, looking around the unfamiliar room before pressing his face into your side. You held him close, whispering reassurances, your heart aching at the fear still lingering in his little body.

A knock at the door made you tense. Bucky’s voice followed, low and firm. “You up?” You swallowed, glancing down at Alex before answering. “Yeah.”

The door creaked open, and Bucky stepped inside. His presence filled the space immediately—broad shoulders, sharp blue eyes taking in the two of you. He was dressed differently now, dark jeans and a fitted black shirt, his holster visible beneath his jacket. His gaze flickered to Alex, who peeked up at him shyly.

Bucky hesitated, then glanced back at you. “Breakfast is ready.” You blinked. That was… unexpected.

Still, you nodded. “We’ll be right there.” Bucky lingered for a moment before nodding and disappearing down the hall.

You released a slow breath, running a hand over your face. This was real. You were here, under Bucky Barnes’ roof, relying on him for protection.

And whether you liked it or not, this was your life now. For however long it lasted.

The kitchen was quiet when you entered, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon filling the air.

Bucky was already seated at the large, dark wood table, his eyes never leaving the newspaper spread out before him. The sound of Alex’s small footsteps had him glancing up, and for a split second, his gaze softened as he looked at the boy.

Alex immediately rushed to the table, his small legs carrying him toward the food, oblivious to the tension that hung in the air.

“Can I have some?” Alex’s voice was hesitant, but his wide eyes never left the plate of eggs and bacon.

Bucky’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Sure, kid. Sit down.”

Alex clambered onto the chair, still clutching your hand for a moment before letting go to grab a fork.

You stood near the counter, watching the scene unfold. There was something strange about this moment—something that felt surreal. Bucky, the man who had built his reputation in blood and fear, now offering a simple breakfast to a little boy who barely understood the weight of the world.

You glanced at Bucky, but his attention was on Alex now, pouring him a glass of juice, making sure he had enough food.

It made your stomach tighten, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d imagined the whole thing—if this was all some strange dream.

Bucky’s voice cut through your thoughts. “You look like you could use a coffee.”

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Bucky rose to his feet, moving to the counter, and then handed you a cup of coffee without a word. You could feel his eyes on you as you accepted it, and for a brief moment, the weight of his gaze made your breath catch.

“Any plans today?” he asked after a beat, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed.

You shook your head, taking a careful sip of the coffee. “No. I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”

There was a pause before Bucky spoke again, this time his tone more guarded. “You should stay out of sight. Let me handle things.”

You met his gaze, the words hanging heavy between you. “Handle what, exactly?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately, his eyes flickering over to Alex before focusing back on you. The unspoken words seemed to hang in the air, too heavy to ignore.

“I’ll deal with the people coming for you,” he said finally, his voice flat but edged with something colder. “I’ve got things covered.”

The sharpness in his tone took you by surprise. Something inside you tightened, a mix of irritation and confusion rising. “I don’t need you to handle me, Bucky.” You couldn’t keep the edge from creeping into your voice. “I’m not some damsel in distress.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a brief moment, you saw something dark flash in them. His jaw clenched, but his voice stayed even. “It’s not about that.”

You placed the coffee cup on the counter, your gaze hardening. “Then what is it about?”

Bucky’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and he looked away for a moment, clearly wrestling with something. “You’re not the only one who’s got enemies.” His voice was softer now, almost pained. “You’re in my world now. Whether you want to be or not.”

You could feel the weight of those words settle between you, each syllable heavy with meaning. He was right, in a way. But that didn’t mean you had to like it.

Alex, sensing the tension in the air, suddenly spoke up, his innocent voice cutting through the silence. “Can I have more juice?”

The moment was broken, but the tension lingered. You both looked at him, your minds momentarily distracted from the unspoken conflict. Bucky’s expression softened again, just as quickly as it had hardened. “Yeah, sure, kid. I’ll get you more.”

You watched him move across the room, the sharp lines of his body still unreadable, his every movement deliberate. Despite his softening demeanor with Alex, something dark lingered in his eyes—a reminder that he was still Bucky Barnes, the man whose name alone could silence rooms.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore. The truth was, you were at his mercy. And somewhere deep down, you weren’t sure if that scared you more than the men hunting you.

Later that evening, when Alex was tucked into bed, Bucky remained in the kitchen, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty coffee cup, lost in thought. You stood at the door for a long moment, watching him, feeling the weight of the day settle on your shoulders. The quiet was too loud, the silence between you two stretching thin, reminding you of everything you couldn’t say.

You had snapped at him earlier—something in you just broke when he’d spoken like that. But now, in the stillness of the house, you realized that maybe he hadn’t been wrong.

You needed to apologize.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the door to the kitchen.

Bucky didn’t look up immediately, his attention still fixed on the cup in his hand. His silence made your pulse quicken, but you stepped inside, a quiet apology forming in the pit of your stomach.

“I—” You swallowed, feeling the weight of your own words. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

Bucky set his cup down, finally meeting your gaze. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—some tension in his jaw, a flicker of something that hadn’t been there before.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “You’ve got a lot to deal with.”

You shook your head, taking a hesitant step closer. “That’s not an excuse.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“I’m just… I don’t know what I’m doing,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair. You felt utterly vulnerable in that moment, like you were laid bare in front of him, and it made the ground beneath your feet unsteady. “I’ve got my son to protect, and I’ve never had to rely on anyone like this. Like you.” You trailed off, feeling the weight of the admission.

The air between you both felt thick, and Bucky didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, but it wasn’t harsh—just… expectant.

You forced yourself to keep speaking, even though your throat was closing in on you. “It’s just… I’ve never been in this kind of situation before. My husband handled everything. He always kept us safe.” The words came out quieter than you’d intended, and you hated the way your heart thudded painfully at the mention of him.

For a brief moment, Bucky’s eyes softened, though there was still that distance between you—something unspoken, unresolved. He didn’t seem to push further, which gave you the space you needed to say more, even though it felt like pulling apart pieces of yourself you weren’t ready to show.

“He kept us safe,” you said again, this time barely above a whisper. “And now… he’s gone.”

The pain in your chest tightened, and you felt your throat constricting, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. The tears you’d been holding back threatened to spill, but you blinked them away, shaking your head. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

You couldn’t stop it any longer—the raw emotion slipped out, your breath hitching with the weight of it all. You didn’t know what you were more afraid of: the fact that your life was no longer in your control, or that Bucky was the only person who seemed to see through all of it.

There was a long silence, and for a moment, you thought he might say something, anything, to break it. Instead, he simply stepped closer, the space between you shrinking in a way that made you feel exposed, but not unsafe.

Bucky didn’t speak right away, but the subtle shift in his demeanor—something softer in his eyes—told you he understood more than you thought. He finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “I don’t expect you to trust me overnight, or for you to be okay with all of this.” His eyes flickered briefly to your hands, clenched into fists at your sides. “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and serious.

You nodded, taking a shaky breath. “I know.”

But even as you nodded, there was a part of you that wanted to pull away, to run from this—from him—because the more you relied on him, the more you feared what it meant. You were already in too deep.

Bucky stepped back just a little, giving you the space you needed, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was no pity in his eyes—just a strange understanding.

“I get it,” he said simply. “You’ve been through hell. And I’m not going anywhere. But you don’t have to apologize for that.”

The warmth in his words settled over you like a blanket, comforting in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or how long you would be here. But in that moment, you allowed yourself a brief glimpse of hope—just long enough to believe, maybe, that this strange partnership with Bucky Barnes could be the only thing that kept you both from falling apart.

The quiet between you and Bucky lingered, comfortable yet tinged with the weight of unspoken things. The rawness of the conversation hung in the air like smoke, dissipating only when Alex’s voice called out from the hallway.

“Mommy?”

You jumped, heart leaping at the sound of his small voice. Bucky’s eyes flickered to the door, his expression softening at the mention of your son.

“I’ll check on him,” you muttered, stepping away from Bucky. You hadn’t realized how much you needed the distraction.

But before you could reach the door, Bucky’s voice stopped you.

“Hey,” he said, quieter than before. When you turned, he met your gaze, his eyes steady, almost earnest. “You don’t have to go through this alone. I meant what I said.”

Your throat tightened at his words, and you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. The emotions from earlier were still raw, but there was something in Bucky’s voice—something reassuring—that made you feel like, for once, you weren’t being forced to carry it all by yourself.

You took another breath, forcing your shoulders to relax before you opened the door.

Alex was standing in the doorway of his room, clutching his blanket, his wide eyes filled with concern. He looked so small in that moment, his little face drawn with confusion and worry.

“Mommy, I had a bad dream,” he whispered, holding out his arms to you.

You knelt down to his level, pulling him into your arms and pressing him close. The familiar warmth of his body soothed you, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

“I’m here, baby. I’m right here,” you whispered, kissing his forehead. He sniffled, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we? Is this home?”

You hesitated. For all the comfort Bucky’s house offered, it wasn’t home. But you didn’t want to break his fragile sense of security, so instead, you simply nodded.

“For now, it is.” Alex nodded back, accepting your words as if they were the truth. “Okay.”

You stood with him in your arms, glancing back over your shoulder at Bucky, who had followed you quietly into the hallway. His gaze was distant, but there was something soft in the way he looked at Alex. Maybe it was the protector in him, or maybe it was the understanding of how fragile the situation was.

“I’ll stay with you, okay, buddy?” you said, gently rocking Alex as you walked toward the living room.

Alex laid his head against your shoulder, his breathing slowing as he started to drift back to sleep. You carefully settled onto the couch, arranging him in your lap, and began to stroke his hair in slow, soothing motions.

Bucky stood in the doorway of the living room, his expression unreadable again. But when he spoke, there was no harshness, no distance. Just a quiet authority that felt strangely reassuring. “I’ve got this. You don’t need to worry about him.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes, and for the first time since you had arrived at his home, you saw the faintest flicker of something deeper—something not quite protective, but not entirely cold either. Bucky Barnes wasn’t a man used to offering comfort, yet somehow, he had given you just enough of it tonight.

“I trust you,” you said quietly, almost without thinking. Bucky didn’t respond right away. Instead, he simply nodded and turned, disappearing back into the hallway, leaving you alone with Alex.

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you settled into the quiet of the house. It felt almost like a dream—the kind where everything was out of your control, but somehow, you found yourself believing in the possibility of a new beginning.

But you couldn’t forget the danger, the enemies still after you. You couldn’t forget the world that lurked just beyond these walls, the world that could swallow everything whole if you weren’t careful. And yet, here, in Bucky’s house, you felt an almost inexplicable sense of safety.

Maybe you weren’t ready to let your guard down completely. But for tonight, you let yourself believe—just for a moment—that this fragile promise of protection could hold. Tomorrow, you would face whatever came next. But tonight, you let yourself rest.

The tension in the house seemed to thicken with each passing day, but tonight, it felt different. There was an electricity in the air that you couldn’t quite place. Something was coming.

You had been trying to settle into some semblance of normalcy, your daily routine now revolving around keeping Alex safe, keeping yourself safe. Bucky had been doing the same, moving through his days with a calm authority, managing his affairs with the quiet, practiced efficiency of someone used to walking on the edge.

But tonight, you could feel the change. You could feel the weight of eyes on you—like something had shifted, and the calm was about to break.

It started with a knock on the door.

You froze, instinctively pulling Alex closer to you as you heard the sound. It was too quiet—too deliberate—too calculated. The knock came again, a firm, steady rap that made your blood run cold.

Bucky had been in the study, his presence somewhere in the depths of the house, but you knew—you knew—he’d heard it too.

You didn’t need to look to know he was already in motion, the sound of his boots thumping lightly on the hardwood floor as he moved toward the door.

You stayed in the living room, with Alex in your arms, your breath shallow. The tension in the house had reached a breaking point.

Bucky didn’t hesitate when he opened the door.

The men on the other side were unmistakable—an all-too-familiar presence you had hoped never to encounter again. Their suits were sharp, their expressions cold, and their posture spoke of a deep, dangerous familiarity with the world of violence they inhabited.

The man in the front, the one with the scar that ran down his jaw, was the first to speak. His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it. “Bucky Barnes,” he said, as though testing the name, letting it roll off his tongue with a hint of challenge.

Bucky didn’t flinch. His jaw was tight, his stance unwavering. “What do you want?”

The man smirked, stepping forward with the kind of casual confidence that spoke of a dangerous familiarity with confrontation. “We were just wondering when you were going to address the elephant in the room, Barnes. You’ve got a guest, and she’s not exactly keeping a low profile.”

You could hear the insult hanging in the air, like a blade just waiting to drop.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained controlled. “I told you before, you stay away from her.”

The man chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. “She’s not your responsibility, Bucky. She’s just another casualty of your little world. And soon enough, she’ll learn that.” He stepped even closer, his presence menacing. “You can’t protect her forever.”

The atmosphere shifted immediately. The weight of his words sank in, and you felt the tension in the room grow even thicker. This wasn’t just a conversation. This was a warning.

“I don’t need you here,” Bucky said, his voice low, hard, like a warning itself.

The scarred man tilted his head, his smile growing wider. “You sure? Because I’m thinking we should have a chat. You, me, and your little guest inside.” His gaze flickered to the side, locking on you, and you felt the chill run through you.

Your grip on Alex tightened, and your stomach twisted. The threat was real. They weren’t just here to talk—they were here to make a point.

Before you could react, Bucky stepped forward, blocking the doorway completely, his body rigid with tension. “Get off my property.”

The man’s expression faltered for just a moment—surprise, maybe, at Bucky’s firm refusal—but it quickly turned to something darker. “You don’t want to do this, Barnes.” His voice lowered, turning to a deadly whisper. “You really don’t.”

You could hear the underlying threat in his words, the unspoken violence that lingered in the air. It was as though the world outside had finally caught up with you—and now, Bucky was standing between you and the chaos.

But Bucky didn’t budge. “Get off my property.”

The scarred man’s eyes flashed with anger, but before he could take another step, another voice cut through the tension.

“Did you miss the part where I said, no one is welcome?”

Bucky’s voice was cold, low—a warning that echoed in the room. He shifted slightly, his hand brushing the edge of the door. His posture was subtle but unwavering, ready to act, as though he could end this right then and there.

The men outside exchanged glances, and for a moment, you thought they might back down.

But then, the scarred man gave a subtle nod, and the tension snapped like a wire stretched too tight.

“You’ll regret this, Barnes.” The man’s voice was venomous. “And you know where to find us when she inevitably disappoints you.”

With one last dangerous look, they turned and walked off the porch, their retreat slow and deliberate. Their footsteps faded into the night, but the feeling of their presence lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Bucky stood still for a long moment after the door shut. His expression was unreadable, but you could see the muscles in his jaw flexing, the way his hands clenched by his sides. His gaze was sharp, distant, as if he was already calculating his next move.

You didn’t know what had just happened, but you knew one thing: things were escalating.

And you were right in the center of it.

Bucky finally turned to you, his eyes softening just slightly as he met your gaze. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, though your heart was pounding. It had been too close—too real. The fear bubbled up again, sharp and biting. You had no idea how much longer you could rely on Bucky, or if you could even trust him.

The silence in the house was suffocating after the men had left, and though they were gone, you could still feel the weight of their presence lingering in the air. Your pulse was still racing from the encounter, and Alex stirred restlessly in your arms, likely sensing the shift in the atmosphere. His little face, still partially buried in your chest, looked up at you with wide, confused eyes.

“Mommy?” His voice was small, filled with the innocence that hadn’t yet learned the weight of the world you were trying to shield him from.

You ran a hand through his hair, trying to offer the semblance of normalcy. “It’s okay, baby,” you whispered, forcing a calmness into your tone even though your heart was hammering in your chest.

But the moment you heard Bucky’s boots thud against the hardwood floor, you knew the quiet was about to break.

He appeared in the living room doorway, his expression carefully neutral, but his body tense, like a coiled spring ready to snap. His eyes immediately sought out you and Alex. For a brief moment, there was something almost protective in the way he looked at you both, but it quickly disappeared behind his usual steely facade.

“Everything okay?” he asked, though you knew the question was more of a check than a concern for the state of things.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to nod. “They’re gone,” you said, your voice betraying the uncertainty you still felt. “But they made it clear—they won’t stop.”

Bucky didn’t respond immediately, just studied you for a moment before walking further into the room. His eyes flickered to Alex, who was now clinging to you, sensing the change in the atmosphere.

“Listen,” Bucky said, his voice quieter now, but with a sharp edge that made it clear the situation wasn’t over. “They’re testing me, testing us. But they won’t get through me. They won’t touch you or him.”

His words were firm, but there was something unsettling about them too. The threat was very real, and you knew that Bucky wasn’t someone who made empty promises. He had a reputation for dealing with things in his own way—and it was never pretty.

You glanced down at Alex, who had finally settled, but the unease still clung to you like a second skin. “How long can you keep this up, Bucky?” you asked, the question slipping from your lips before you could stop it. You didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to seem weak or dependent. But the thought of your son caught in the crossfire was a fear you couldn’t ignore any longer.

Bucky looked at you with those sharp blue eyes of his, the ones that saw everything and nothing at the same time. His expression softened for just a moment, but it was gone before you could fully process it.

“I’ll protect you for as long as it takes,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “No one is going to hurt you. No one is going to hurt him.”

But the words didn’t comfort you the way they should have. They felt more like a promise wrapped in a threat, like a trap you were being lured into without even realizing it.

You didn’t want to feel like a liability, like you were a weakness that Bucky had to protect. But the reality of the situation was unavoidable.

Before you could respond, there was a sudden noise—a car engine revving outside. Then the unmistakable sound of tires screeching against asphalt. Your heart lurched in your chest.

Bucky’s eyes darted to the window before he stood, his body taut with readiness. “Stay here,” he instructed, his voice sharp.

You didn’t have time to protest. He was already moving, heading for the door with that same calculated grace that made it clear he was no stranger to danger. As he disappeared into the night, you took a deep breath and pulled Alex closer to you, praying that this wasn’t going to be the night everything fell apart.

Minutes passed. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as you waited for any sign, any noise to tell you that Bucky was okay. You couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the sensation of the world closing in around you.

Then you heard it. The sharp crack of gunfire in the distance.

Your breath hitched, and Alex flinched in your arms.

“No, no, no…” you muttered under your breath, clutching him tightly.

You heard footsteps then—closer, faster. Your pulse raced in time with the rhythm of your own terror. The door slammed open, and Bucky was standing in the doorway, blood staining his shirt but his face still hard, still determined.

“They’re getting bolder,” he growled, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He wasn’t fazed by the sight of the blood—if anything, it only seemed to fuel his anger.

“What happened?” you asked, rising to your feet despite your legs feeling weak beneath you. Alex was still in your arms, his small hands gripping your shirt. You could feel his heart thundering just as much as yours.

Bucky took a slow, measured breath, looking over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. “They tried to hit me. Not just me… you.”

You stared at him in shock, the weight of his words crashing down on you. “What do you mean, me?”

“They’re escalating,” Bucky muttered, his voice colder than ever. “They won’t stop until they’ve broken me, broken you—broken all of us.”

His words were chilling, and the air in the room thickened with the weight of them. You had been living in this world of danger for days now, but it hadn’t truly felt real until now.

Bucky stood tall, his eyes still sharp, though they betrayed the rage simmering beneath the surface. “I’ll end this. But I need to know you’re ready. I need you to be strong.”

You met his gaze, feeling the cold weight of responsibility pressing against your chest. This wasn’t just about you anymore. It wasn’t just about your son. The stakes were higher, and Bucky was right—if you were going to make it out of this alive, you needed to be prepared to fight.

You nodded, swallowing the knot in your throat. “I’m ready.”

For the first time since you had entered Bucky’s world, you felt the full brunt of the storm on the horizon. Things were changing, escalating, and there would be no more hiding from the danger that had followed you here.

The tension in the house was suffocating. Every second felt stretched to its breaking point, and while Alex slept soundly, curled up on the couch beside you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Something big.

Bucky had retreated into his study shortly after the altercation with the men who had tried to break in. The house was quiet, but it was the kind of quiet that screamed impending danger. Bucky was making plans, preparing his men for what was about to come. His words had been clear earlier—this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

But that was all he had told you. Everything else was left in the dark, locked away behind the walls of his world that you were now a part of. And it made you restless.

You were so used to being in control of your own life, making your own decisions. But here, in Bucky’s house, everything had shifted. You had no idea what was happening around you, and Bucky had made sure of that. He didn’t want you to know, not because he didn’t trust you, but because he wanted to protect you. He wanted to keep you from seeing the darker side of the life that had already claimed your husband.

You could feel the distance between you and Bucky growing. It wasn’t that he was shutting you out—it was more that he was trying to shield you, to keep you from the ugly truth that his world was built on. And you hated it.

The door to the study opened suddenly, and Bucky stepped into the living room. His expression was unreadable, his movements controlled. He’d been making phone calls, organizing, strategizing—but when his eyes landed on you, there was a flicker of something else—something soft, something almost protective.

He paused in the doorway for a moment, studying you as if he were weighing whether or not to let you in on whatever was coming next. But then he shook his head slightly and walked toward you, a determined look in his eyes. He needed to keep you in the dark. The less you knew, the safer you’d be.

“You should get some rest,” he said, his voice low and steady, as if everything was fine. “I’m going to need you to be strong for what’s coming.”

You raised an eyebrow, not sure if you should be relieved or frustrated by his words. Strong? You wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but you already knew. It wasn’t about you being strong emotionally—it was about you surviving what was coming. And you weren’t sure if you could.

“I’m fine,” you replied, your tone sharp. “I’m not a child, Bucky.”

He softened slightly at that, but it wasn’t enough to break through the walls he had put up. “I know you’re strong,” he said quietly, his gaze flickering over you and then to Alex, who was curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding around him. “But I need to keep you out of it. You don’t need to see any of it.”

You could feel the frustration building inside you. Why couldn’t you know? Why was Bucky keeping you in the dark like this? You were the one who was in danger now, and you had a right to know what was happening, to understand the full picture.

“Why won’t you let me in?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. He didn’t want to answer your question. He couldn’t, because if he told you the truth, there would be no going back. He couldn’t risk pulling you deeper into the mess that had been your late husband’s life. The people after you weren’t just looking to make a statement. They were looking to destroy everything that Bucky had built. Including you.

“You don’t need to know everything,” he said, his voice calm, but there was an edge to it now. “Not yet.”

Your heart ached at the way he was treating you like you were fragile, like you couldn’t handle the truth. But you understood, in some way, why he was doing it. He wanted to keep your innocence intact. He didn’t want you to have to face the things he had seen. The things that had turned him into the man he was.

Bucky had seen enough bloodshed, enough pain, to last several lifetimes. He didn’t want that for you. He didn’t want you to feel the weight of the violence that had haunted him for so long. He wanted to protect you. And the only way to do that was to keep you in the dark, to keep you away from the danger that had been set in motion the moment your husband had been murdered.

He crouched down in front of you, his eyes softening as they met yours. “I know this isn’t easy,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper. “But I need you to trust me. I’m doing everything I can to protect you.”

You swallowed, your anger bubbling up again, but you held it back. For Alex. For your son. You couldn’t afford to make a scene, not when Bucky was doing everything in his power to keep you safe.

“I trust you,” you finally said, though the words felt heavy in your mouth. They felt like a lie. How could you trust him when you didn’t even know what was happening around you?

But the look in Bucky’s eyes told you everything you needed to know. He wasn’t going to tell you. He wasn’t going to pull you into this world of blood and betrayal, even if it meant keeping you in the dark forever.

For a moment, there was a silence between you, thick with unspoken words. Then Bucky stood up, brushing his hands together, as if to shake off the weight of the conversation.

“I’ll check on Alex,” he said, his voice back to its usual steady tone. “Get some rest. It’s going to be a long night.”

He left you standing there, alone with your thoughts, the room growing heavier as the minutes ticked by.

How long could you stay in the dark? How long before Bucky would have to let you see the truth?

The question lingered in your mind, unanswered. And as you looked over at Alex, you realized you would have to wait until Bucky was ready to tell you what was really going on. Until then, you could only trust him… even if that trust felt like a fragile thing, teetering on the edge of uncertainty.

The night was still, almost suffocating in its silence, as Bucky stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by his men. The weight of what was to come was heavy in the air, a tension that was both palpable and dangerous. Outside, the world seemed unaware of the storm that was brewing on the horizon. But inside the walls of Bucky’s home, everyone knew.

Bucky’s phone had been buzzing constantly in the last few hours—alerts, messages, calls. His men were positioned around the perimeter, and he’d been in contact with Steve and his other allies. The call had come through early this morning, but now, as the final preparations were underway, the stakes were higher than ever.

They were coming for you. And they weren’t going to stop until they had you.

Bucky had refused to tell you anything. He couldn’t. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because he wanted to protect the fragile life he had built around you. He wanted you to remain untouched by the horrors of his world, even though you were already inextricably tied to it. The fact that you were still alive meant more than anything to him.

But now, as Bucky prepared to face the enemies who had been hunting you for weeks, you realized something.

You weren’t going to sit idly by any longer.

Alex was asleep, and the house was quieter now. But it wasn’t a peaceful quiet—it was the kind that heralded a storm, one that you weren’t sure you could weather.

The door to the study creaked open behind you, and you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Bucky’s presence filled the room like a shadow, his energy dark, powerful, and cold.

“You can’t keep me in the dark forever,” you said, your voice shaking only slightly, but the resolve in it was unmistakable. You had been watching him for days—preparing, planning, organizing—and now, you knew it was time to face the truth.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His silence was heavy as he stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing on you as though he were calculating something. You could see the internal struggle in him, the push and pull of wanting to protect you, but also knowing that you were already a part of this world. A world you couldn’t escape.

“It’s not safe for you to know everything,” he said finally, his voice low and controlled. His eyes locked with yours, and for the first time, you saw something flicker in them—a desperation, a rawness. “This war… it’s bigger than you realize.”

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking deep. But you weren’t afraid. Not anymore.

“I don’t care,” you replied, your voice steady now, each word deliberate. “I want to know. I need to know, Bucky.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his gaze piercing. For a moment, it was as though the world around you vanished. You were standing in the eye of the storm, and it was all coming for you.

“They’re coming,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might give it more power than it already had. “They’ve been waiting. They think they can use you against me, use you to break me. But I won’t let them.”

You took a step forward, defiance in your eyes. “I’m not afraid.”

Bucky’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm. His touch was warm, but the grip that followed was firm—protective, as if he was trying to hold you in place, to keep you safe from everything that was about to happen.

“You should be,” he muttered under his breath, though it was more to himself than to you.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a distant noise. The low growl of engines, the metallic scrape of weapons being drawn. The war had begun. And you could feel it in your bones.

“They’re here,” Bucky growled, his voice a warning, a promise, and a threat all wrapped in one.

Within seconds, the house was in motion. Bucky barked orders to his men, and chaos erupted. The sound of boots pounding on the floors, voices shouting, doors slamming shut as they locked down the perimeter—it was as if the walls themselves were vibrating with the impending violence.

Bucky turned to face you, his eyes filled with determination. “Stay here,” he commanded, his voice low, unyielding. “Do not leave this room.”

But you couldn’t stay behind. Not now.

You grabbed Alex’s small hand, your heart racing, as you whispered, “Stay close.”

Without another word, you moved, stepping away from Bucky’s watchful eyes, toward the stairwell, the hallway. You were moving almost instinctively now, drawn to the sounds of conflict that were growing louder, closer. You didn’t know how you would survive what was coming, but you knew one thing: you weren’t going to be a passive spectator in this war.

Bucky’s men were already in position, taking out anyone who had the audacity to cross the threshold of Bucky’s carefully built empire. He was ready to fight back—prepared to destroy anyone who threatened the life he had started to build with you and Alex.

But it was bigger than that.

As the first shot rang out from the outside, echoing through the empty hallways of the mansion, you knew this wouldn’t be over in a single night. The war was only just beginning. And Bucky was leading the charge.

You could hear Bucky’s voice barking orders as the first wave of enemies collided with his men outside. He wasn’t just fighting for survival anymore. This was personal.

He wasn’t just defending you. He was fighting for his world—his life.

And you were a part of it now.

The war outside raged on, a cacophony of gunshots, screams, and the relentless thud of boots stomping across the mansion. Bucky had made sure you were safe, hiding in a small back room with Alex, but the tension between you was undeniable. You had insisted on staying by his side, on fighting this alongside him, but Bucky had other plans.

“Stay here,” he ordered again, his voice hard as steel. “I need to know you’re safe.”

Before you could protest, he was gone, slipping out of the room with a look of determination on his face, the door closing with a quiet click. You stood there, fuming with frustration, hands clenched into fists at your sides. This was your fight, too.

You turned to Alex, whose wide eyes were filled with confusion and fear. You pulled him into your arms, doing your best to soothe him, rocking him gently, trying to make him feel safe.

But you knew, deep down, that no one was really safe. Not now. Not here.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway outside the room. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as the door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, silhouetted by the dim light filtering through the cracks in the curtains.

The man’s face was partially obscured by a mask, but the glint of a weapon in his hand made it clear that he was a threat. You immediately stood, instinctively pulling Alex closer to you, your heart pounding as fear coursed through your veins.

The man grinned as he stepped closer, his boots silent on the floor, his eyes locked on Alex. “You’re coming with me,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

“No!” You snapped, pushing Alex behind you protectively, your hands trembling but defiant. “Stay away from my son!”

The man ignored you, his hand shooting out to grab Alex. But Alex wasn’t going to go down that easily.

In a burst of unexpected bravery, your little boy sank his teeth into the man’s hand, biting down hard, his small body squirming with all the strength he could muster. The man’s yell of pain was short-lived, but it was enough to push him into a blind rage.

He swiped at Alex, knocking him backward into the wall with a sickening thud. The sound of Alex’s cry ripped through you like a knife, and in that moment, everything else faded away. You felt your heart shatter, and something inside you snapped.

“Alex!” you screamed, rushing to him in a frantic blur, your hands trembling as you gathered him up into your arms. His cries were deafening, tears streaming down his face as he whimpered in pain.

Your fury exploded in an instant. Your vision narrowed, the world tilting as adrenaline flooded your body. You didn’t even think as you rushed at the man, all of your fear and desperation for your son turning into pure, unrelenting rage.

With a guttural shout, you shoved the man back, using every ounce of strength you had left. Your hands grabbed onto his shoulders and with a ferocity you didn’t know you had, you pushed him toward the railing.

He stumbled, trying to catch himself, but you were already too far gone. With a scream of fury, you shoved him harder. He lost his balance, arms flailing as he fell backward. There was a sickening thud as he crashed onto the floor below, unconscious and crumpled, completely out of the fight.

The house fell into a heavy silence, and for a moment, you stood there, panting, your chest heaving with the remnants of your fury. The only sound that filled your ears was the soft, broken sobs of Alex in your arms.

You dropped to your knees beside him, cradling him tightly against your chest. His tears soaked your shirt, his tiny hands gripping at you as though he were afraid you might disappear, too. You shushed him gently, rocking him back and forth.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you tried to calm him. “Mommy’s here. You’re safe now.”

Alex’s sobs slowly started to quiet, his body going slack in your arms as he buried his face into your chest, exhausted from the shock of it all.

You kissed his head, your own tears blurring your vision as you held him tight, the weight of the moment crashing down on you. You didn’t know how much longer this war would last, how much more you could endure. But in that moment, with Alex finally calm in your arms, you knew one thing: you would protect him. No matter what.

And you weren’t going to let anyone—no matter how powerful they were—take that away from you.

But then, a sudden noise from the hallway snapped you back to reality. The front door had been kicked open, and the heavy footsteps of men filled the house again. They weren’t done.

You stood, clutching Alex close to you, your breath ragged as the fight for survival wasn’t over. Not yet. Bucky wasn’t here. You were alone. And you had no idea how you would get through this.

But you would. For Alex, you would.

You wiped your tears away, set your jaw, and prepared for whatever came next.

And now, you were in it—no longer hidden behind Bucky’s protective walls, but standing right in the middle of the fight.

The house trembled as the attackers outside began their final push. Every second felt like an eternity as you held Alex close, trying to steady your breathing. The adrenaline was still coursing through you, but it wasn’t enough to mask the overwhelming fear that clawed at your chest. The house had never felt so fragile, so exposed. The walls that Bucky had carefully built around you now felt like they were closing in.

You glanced down at Alex, his small body curled against yours, his breathing still shallow but calming. He had stopped crying for now, exhausted from the ordeal. But you could feel the tremors running through him, the fear he still couldn’t fully process. You would have given anything to take that fear away, to return to the days when he could sleep soundly, without nightmares or danger.

You had to keep moving. There was no time to waste.

Slowly, you stood up, keeping Alex securely against you, your hands still trembling. The sounds from the hallway grew louder, closer. You didn’t know how many of them there were, but it didn’t matter. You would do whatever it took to protect your son.

Your footsteps were quiet, deliberate, as you moved toward the staircase. Every instinct screamed at you to hide, to retreat, but you couldn’t. Not anymore. You couldn’t hide from this. You had already lost too much.

As you reached the top of the stairs, you paused, peering around the corner. The lights from the streetlamps outside cast long shadows through the windows, revealing figures moving below. The man you’d knocked down earlier was still on the ground, but there were others—too many others.

You didn’t know where Bucky was or how close the danger was, but you couldn’t waste time waiting. You had to move. For Alex’s sake, you couldn’t hesitate.

But as you turned to look for an escape route, a sharp voice cut through the tense silence.

“Drop the kid.”

You froze. A figure emerged from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. A gun was held tightly in his hand, aimed directly at you. The mask covering his face did nothing to hide the malevolent aura surrounding him. This wasn’t just some random thug. This was someone with a purpose.

“No,” you said, your voice low but steady. “I won’t.”

The man smiled, the motion unsettling and cold. “You don’t have a choice.”

He took a step forward, and that’s when you made your move.

You didn’t even think about it—you acted purely on instinct. With one hand, you held Alex closer to you, protecting him as best as you could. With the other, you grabbed the nearest object—a heavy vase from the hallway table—and threw it with all the strength you had. It shattered on the floor, distracting the man for just a split second.

In that moment of vulnerability, you bolted. You ran as fast as you could, hearing the man’s boots slamming against the floor behind you, but you didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

Every step was a battle. Your mind was racing, calculating the safest path, looking for an exit, anything that might get you out of this nightmare.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you reached the end of the hall, but just as you were about to turn the corner to the main staircase, you heard another set of footsteps—closer, heavier.

Panic flared in your chest as you realized you were being cornered.

Alex whimpered against you, sensing the danger as you turned sharply, running down a narrow hallway toward the back door. It was a gamble, but it was your only chance.

You reached the door, yanking at the handle, but it didn’t open. The lock was still engaged. You cursed under your breath as the footsteps grew louder behind you.

“Mommy, no,” Alex whispered, clutching your neck tightly.

You spun around, desperate. You could hear the footsteps now, the sound of them growing closer. The man was almost there.

Then, as if on cue, the door swung open with a sudden force, the lock giving way.

You didn’t hesitate. You ran into the yard, your breath ragged, legs burning as you pushed yourself harder. The cool night air hit your face, but it did nothing to cool the terror rising in your chest. You had no plan, no backup. You were on your own.

As you neared the back gate, you heard shouts from behind, the thudding of boots drawing nearer.

“Stop her!”

But you weren’t stopping.

You pushed through the gate and into the alleyway, glancing back only once to see if anyone was following. You didn’t see anyone, but you couldn’t afford to be caught. You moved quickly, your mind a whirl of thoughts, trying to figure out where to go.

Your options were limited. You couldn’t go to Bucky’s usual places. It wasn’t safe anymore. Not with everyone after you.

Suddenly, the sound of an engine revving in the distance caught your attention. You spun around, and to your surprise, there was a car pulling up. A familiar face was behind the wheel.

Steve Rogers.

You didn’t have to think twice. You ran toward the car, Alex still tightly pressed against you.

“Get in,” Steve shouted as he rolled down the window. “We don’t have much time.”

Without a second thought, you climbed in, placing Alex in the back seat before slamming the door behind you. Steve floored the gas pedal, and the car sped off, tires screeching against the pavement.

As you looked back toward the mansion, a dark sense of dread settled in. You knew this wasn’t over. It was just beginning. But for now, you were alive. And that was something.

Steve glanced over at you, his expression hard, but his eyes full of understanding. “Bucky sent me. He’s got your back. We’ll keep you safe.”

For the first time in days, you allowed yourself a small breath of relief. But deep down, you knew the fight wasn’t over yet.

The night was eerily quiet as the car sped toward the safehouse. Steve’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror occasionally, scanning the empty road, making sure no one was tailing them. Alex had fallen asleep in the back seat, exhausted from the chaos and fear of the past few hours. The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on you, but at least you were safe—for now.

You couldn’t help but think of Bucky. You hadn’t seen him since you’d run, and the fear for his safety gnawed at you. You hadn’t been able to stay with him, hadn’t been able to fight beside him, and you hated yourself for it. You knew he would have wanted you to stay hidden, but you weren’t the kind of person who could sit idly by, not when your family was in danger.

But you couldn’t deny the relief that rushed over you now that you were away from immediate danger. Your heart still raced in your chest, and your hands were cold, but the worst was over… or so you hoped.

The car skidded to a halt in front of the safehouse, and Steve killed the engine. “Stay here with Alex,” he instructed, his voice firm, but there was a softness in his eyes. “I’ll get Bucky. He needs to know you’re okay.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. You had so much to say, so many emotions swirling inside you, but for now, you just needed to breathe.

Minutes later, the sound of footsteps echoed in the quiet night. You recognized the rhythmic pace of Bucky’s boots before you even saw him. Your heart leapt in your chest as the door to the safehouse swung open, and there he was—alive, unharmed, and looking as determined as ever.

The moment you saw him, the dam inside you broke.

You didn’t think. You didn’t even hesitate. You rushed into his arms, your chest heaving as you pressed yourself against him. His arms wrapped around you immediately, pulling you close, holding you like you were the one thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the weight of everything finally started to sink in. You had been so terrified—terrified that you might never see him again, terrified that you might lose him like you’d lost your husband.

Bucky’s grip tightened, his hand stroking your hair gently as he whispered in return, “I’m fine. I’m here.”

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw something there that made your heart flutter—a softness, a tenderness that you hadn’t realized he had been hiding. It was a rare moment between the two of you, when the walls came down, and everything else faded away.

Steve, ever the observant one, leaned against the doorframe with a knowing smirk on his face, arms crossed over his chest. He glanced at the two of you and cleared his throat, giving you both a moment.

“Guess that’s my cue to get out of here,” Steve said with a wink, pushing himself off the doorframe. He gave Bucky a nod. “You’re good now, man. We’ll be in touch.”

Bucky didn’t take his eyes off you as he nodded in acknowledgment. “Thanks, Steve. You’ve done enough.”

Steve’s smirk widened, and with a final glance at the two of you, he left, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

And then it was just you and Bucky. The world outside had disappeared—no more gunshots, no more enemies, just the two of you standing in the quiet aftermath of a battle you had barely survived.

Bucky took a deep breath, his hands brushing against yours as you stepped closer to him. The air between you thickened, tension building like a storm about to break.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice rough, the words laced with emotion that he rarely showed. “I should’ve kept you safe. I should’ve kept you out of all of this.”

You shook your head, reaching up to cup his face, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath your fingertips. “You did keep me safe. You kept us safe. And I—I couldn’t sit back and do nothing while you fought. I couldn’t just—”

Before you could finish, Bucky’s lips crashed into yours, the kiss deep and urgent. It was everything—everything you had been holding back, everything you hadn’t said, everything you had been afraid to feel. His hands cupped your face, pulling you closer as if to make sure you were real, as if he hadn’t believed until now that you were really here.

You responded just as fiercely, your heart hammering against your chest as the pent-up emotions spilled over, releasing in that single moment.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, Bucky rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in short bursts.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered, his words raw and honest, stripped of all the walls he usually put up. “I thought I could just keep you safe, keep you out of all this, but… it’s not that simple. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, not again. I’m not leaving you.”

You felt the same—a warmth flooding your chest as you pressed your palm over his heart, feeling the rapid beat beneath your touch.

“I don’t want you to leave either,” you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m scared, Bucky. But I don’t want to be scared anymore. Not if we’re in this together.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes locking with yours, filled with determination. “We are in this together. And I won’t let anything come between us.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, holding each other, the world outside forgotten. It didn’t matter what had happened or what was still to come. All that mattered was the quiet, steadfast promise you had made to each other.

Together.