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iamquiantrelle · 4 months ago

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 4) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.

The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.

Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.

The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.

You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.

The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.

Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.

You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.

Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.

"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.

The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.

Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.

"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."

"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."

The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.

"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.

"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"

"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."

"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."

"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"

"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.

Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.

He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.

"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.

The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.

"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.

Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."

"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.

"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."

"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."

"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."

This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.

Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.

"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.

You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."

Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."

You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.

"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."

"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.

Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.

For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.

The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.

A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."

Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.

Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.

The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.

You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.

Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.

The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.

You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.

And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.

*****************************************************

Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.

"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."

"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."

"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."

You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.

"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."

"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.

"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."

"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."

"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."

Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."

Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."

You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"

"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."

"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."

"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."

"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.

"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."

"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."

A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."

"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."

As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.

Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.

Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.

"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"

"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"

"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."

The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."

You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.

The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.

You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.

A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.

Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"

"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.

He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.

"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.

"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."

Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."

"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.

"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."

"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.

A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."

You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."

"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."

You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.

"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."

"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.

"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."

Honeymoon.

The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.

Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"

"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.

The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.

You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.

Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."

"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.

He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."

"Okay."

Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.

You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.

Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.

More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.

The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.

*******************************************************

The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.

Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.

You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.

Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.

It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.

Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.

Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.

Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.

You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.

Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.

You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.

The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.

You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.

Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—

"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.

"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.

Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."

You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."

"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.

"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."

Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."

"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."

"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."

"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."

You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."

Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."

The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.

"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.

"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."

"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"

"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."

"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.

Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."

"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."

"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."

"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."

"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.

Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."

"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."

The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.

"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."

"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."

"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."

"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."

The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.

"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.

Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."

"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."

Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."

"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."

"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.

"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."

It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.

"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.

"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."

The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.

"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."

You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."

As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.

*******************************************************

Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.

The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.

Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.

The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."

Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.

The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.

You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.

One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.

Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.

"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."

You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.

"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."

Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.

"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."

You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.

"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."

Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."

He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."

"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."

"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."

The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.

"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."

Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.

"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."

You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."

Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."

The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.

As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.

The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.

He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.

"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."

Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.

You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.

You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.

He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.

"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."

Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.

"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.

"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.

"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"

Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."

"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.

"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."

"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."

"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."

The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.

"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"

You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."

"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."

The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.

"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."

That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."

Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."

"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.

Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.

For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.

"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.

"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.

"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."

The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."

"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.

Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.

"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."

The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.

"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.

Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.

Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.

*************************************************

Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.

You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.

You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.

"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.

Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.

"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.

"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"

Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.

Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."

You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."

You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.

"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.

You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.

"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.

Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.

You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.

Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.

The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.

The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.

"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.

"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.

Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.

You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.

"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."

The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.

"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."

You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.

"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.

"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."

The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.

"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.

His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."

"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."

The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.

"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."

His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."

His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.

"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."

His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."

As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.

You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.

"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.

The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.

"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."

The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.

"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."

The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.

"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."

The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.

"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.

Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.

Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.

Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.

You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.

Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.

Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."

You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.

"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.

"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.

"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.

"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"

Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"

"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."

Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."

"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."

Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"

"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."

Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.

"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."

"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."

"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."

The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"

Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."

The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."

The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.

"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."

Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."

The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.

You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.

Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.

He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.

"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."

You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.

"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."

"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."

Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."

You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.

Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.

"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."

That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."

Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."

"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."

"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."

The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.

"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"

That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."

The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.

"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.

Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."

That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.

"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."

Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."

As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.

Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.

You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.

At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.

Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.

The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.

****************************************************

Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.

The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.

"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."

The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.

Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.

Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.

"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."

"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."

Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."

"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."

Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."

The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."

"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."

The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.

"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."

"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."

Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."

The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.

"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."

Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."

The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.

The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.

"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."

"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."

"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."

"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."

Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.

"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."

"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."

Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."

The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.

"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."

"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."

You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."

Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."

"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."

The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.

"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"

The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."

Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."

"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."

The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.

"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."

The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.

"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."

The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.

As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.

"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."

The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.

The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.

His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.

"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"

The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.

"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."

Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."

The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.

"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."

Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.

"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."

The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.

"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."

"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."

The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.

"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."

The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.

"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.

"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"

The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.

"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."

The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.

"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."

"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.

The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.

Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.

"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.

"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."

Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."

The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.

"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."

The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.

"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."

The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.

"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."

"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."

The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.

"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."

"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."

You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.

"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."

"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."

"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."

Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."

The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.

"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."

Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.

"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."

Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."

As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.

"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."

"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."

This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.

"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."

"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.

Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."

As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.

The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.

"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."

The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.

"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."

"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."

He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."

"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.

The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.

"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."

"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."

Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."

The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.

"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.

"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."

You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.

"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."

"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.

Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."

The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.

"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.

Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."

His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.

"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."

The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.

"I'm sorry," you said simply.

Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."

Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.

"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.

Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."

The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.

When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.

"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."

"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."

Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.

"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."

Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.

You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.

The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.

Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.

Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.

.............tbd

#quainwritings #blood oath #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton #mob!boss lewis hamilton #mob!lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x black reader

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ngestwo · 16 days ago

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⊹₊⋆Starlight (Vil Schoenheit x GN reader)

im hving a vil brainrot rn,,, (honestly not so proud of the title and hopefully i didnt do anything wrong w the book 5 scenes agshdg), the yandere is a squint

The Pomefiore housewarden stands regally on one of the balconies of Night Raven College, looking down on the view below him. That magicless student, all carefree and smiling, with the two Heartslabyul students and the fiery creature in their hold. Sharp lilac orbs following that figure's movements. Vil didn't understand it at first. Their name gracefully bounced off from one tongue to another, until it reached the members of his very own dormitory one day. Apparently, this magicless student who stays in that rundown building has captured the many hearts of the housewardens and members from not one or two but four dormitories. How peculiar. He didn't know there was this rising star in the academy that was slowly rivaling him. But he didn't mind it. So what? This 'prefect' that everyone calls them is nothing but a magicless spudling. There is no way they could take his spot, right? That is, until he actually saw them in person.

Their eyes shine like a pool of stars swirl within them, cheeks dusted with blush. Ah, and that smile that could melt anyone in their direction. There is something behind those eyes that reflects sincerity and warmth. Even their messy hair gave them a certain charm. His eyes follow their figure as they run, following a feline creature. Not even a glance at him. Vil could only stand still as he watched the prefect passing by. At that moment, he understood, but he didn't let his feelings overtake him. He just can't lose his composure, not in front of everyone; he won't. But he can't help but wonder, is that star so dazzling that everything else is just mere glitter in their eyes? Was he really that unnoticeable to them?

‧₊˚✩彡

After that pivotal day, Vil dedicated himself to improving his appearance. Rising earlier than usual at 4 a.m., he removed the mask he wore while sleeping and promptly washed his face. He then engaged in a 40-minute invigorating yoga session, slightly increasing the intensity for the day. Following this, he took a 15-minute run around the dormitory, all while the sun had yet to rise. After showering and applying his elaborate skincare routine, Vil carefully selected from his collection of luxurious beauty products to accentuate his features further. The Pomefiore queen undertook all these efforts with a singular goal in mind: to impress that magicless human.

Though the Queen of Poisons preferred to remain subtle. After all, he is an actor, accustomed to being the center of attention rather than the one admiring others. As he puts it, Vil wanted to maintain a "good distance." He observed the prefect from afar—whether from distant tables in the cafeteria, as he strolled past outside their classroom, or, in this particular situation, from the balconies above while the prefect and their companions leisurely lingered below. Still not giving him the attention, the queen was definitely not pleased with his plan not going as planned. Luckily for him, the SDC is just around the corner.

‧₊˚✩彡

As part of the NRC team's preparation for the competition, the group temporarily resided at the Ramshackle dorm. Although the building's condition was far from ideal, it offered an excellent opportunity to bond with the magicless human. Throughout practices and during breaks, Vil revels in the presence of the prefect, where his poise and professionalism (or rather, strictness) are magnified tenfold. Within closer distance, he observed that the magicless human's influence was undeniable to the group's dynamics, and even the most reluctant members found themselves inspired to push their limits. Each member is eager to show them the dance moves or singing technique they learned. Of course, to the talented actor himself, this shouldn't count as a competition, for he was the most skilled among all. Though he couldn't help but still crave the prefect's warmth just for him.

One night, Vil came down to the first floor due to his sudden thirst. Although the other members had already retired to their rooms, he observed that the kitchen lights were still glowing. It turned out that the prefect was by the sink, washing the last of the dishes. The Pomefiore Queen recognized that it was just the two of them bathed in the moonlight of the kitchen. When the prefect glanced back, they noticed the housewarden, slightly taken aback, aware of his strict rules about staying up late.

"Vil, sorry, I didn't realize there were still remaining dishes in the sink, so I just took matters into my own hands to clean them before going to bed." The prefect gave him a sheepish smile. Vil just hums.

"Must be one of the potatoes. Don't worry, prefect, I myself just happen to be craving water at this hour. It's still not too late to go to sleep as long as you go up right after." Vil walked to one of the cabinets on the side looking for a glass. Noticing the empty cabinet, the prefect decided to assist the housewarden.

"Oh, let me help. I usually put all of the utensils in the cabinet right above the sink after cleaning." Retrieving a glass from the cabinet, they filled it with water from the nearby dispenser and handed it to Vil. The queen graciously accepted the glass and expressed his gratitude. As he sipped the water, the prefect took the opportunity to carefully study his facial features. The others were indeed correct; the leader of Pomefiore was undeniably the fairest of them all. They just haven't had the opportunity to properly look at him with all the rollercoaster ride they had to endure with the previous dorms. When Vil caught the prefect's gaze, they quickly realized that their lingering stare might be perceived as quite impolite.

"I'm sorry, I just can't help but notice how beautiful you are, Vil. Every day you work hard to be the best of yourself, I think that's inspiring in itself. Your dedication and passion truly set you apart." The prefect warmly smiled at the housewarden as he stayed still. Eyes boring into the prefect’s, not knowing what to say.

“But please don’t be too hard on yourself, either. After all, it’s the continuous progress that truly matters, right? It’s wonderful to witness your journey and growth. I’m sure even your younger self is proud of where you are now.” The two remained silent for a moment as the queen absorbed the prefect’s words. Noticing the pause, the prefect became aware of their own overzealousness and felt a wave of panic about their rambling.

“Oh my goodness, I apologize for talking so much! Sometimes I get overly excited and lose track.” Little did Vil realize, the prefect’s enthusiastic outpouring stemmed from the unspoken understanding they shared about the world they had entered, despite being an outsider. The prefect was aware of Vil's struggles even before entering Twisted Wonderland, though this is something that he doesn’t need to know, at least yet. Still in contemplation, he was processing their words, striving to encompass it all. This was everything he had longed for, especially coming from the very person he had been vying for. It wasn’t the moonlight that had brighten his night, but the star right in front of him. All the warmth, the attentiveness, and the compliments—it was more than enough. Vil wanted more of it, and he was ready to embrace that desire fully.

#yes i made my mc hot so what #i just want my yuu to be this bad bitch everyone is in love with #even the pomefiore queen falls for them :p #the hot mc saga continues #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #pomefiore #yandere twisted wonderland #vil schoenheit x reader #vil x reader #yandere twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader

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me-kume · 26 days ago

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"Dad? Where do babies come from?" | Sukuna Ryomen answers a difficult question from a child.

A rare day off.

One of those fleeting moments when your little family actually gathers in your spacious apartment, the hum of the TV melting into the background of childish laughter. For some, it’s routine. For you, it’s a luxury.

Sukuna, as life would have it, is often away—always caught in business or battles you’re not even supposed to know about. And when he is home, he’s so goddamn exhausted he barely drags himself into bed before the 4 a.m. alarm shatters what little restless sleep he managed to catch.

Your son barely sees his father, so on days like these, the little whirlwind sticks to him like glue—babbling non-stop, proudly showing off his new toys one by one.

“Daddy? Where do babies come from?”

The question hit you like a slap.

The one question you’d been dreading, and worst of all—your son didn’t ask you. He asked Sukuna.

God help us all. Out of everyone on Earth, your three-year-old had chosen the worst possible person to satisfy his innocent curiosity. Because your husband—of course—wouldn’t even pretend to sugarcoat the answer. You could already feel the horror rising in your chest, bracing yourself for a response with zero mention of cabbage patches or storks.

Peeking nervously through the doorway into the living room, you spotted your rosy-cheeked toddler perched on his father’s lap, rearranging little towers of colorful building blocks—blissfully unaware that he’d just awakened something ancient and dangerous.

“Teacher said storks bring babies,” the boy mumbled, absently tossing a few plastic bricks onto the rug.

“Stork? What bullshit.” Sukuna scoffed, then leaned in slightly. “Listen up, Teletubby—babies happen when a man and a woman love each other very much. So much, in fact, that the man gives the woman a tiny piece of himself. It’s called a sperm cell.”

You couldn’t see your husband’s face, but you knew he was grinning. Smug. So damn pleased with himself. He knew you’d wanted to delay this conversation for a few more years—maybe let the internet do its job later. And of course, he knew you were listening. His voice was loud and clear despite the child sitting right in his lap.

“Spuh…spum… sperm?” your son tried, lips pursed in concentration. The word was big, clunky, and clearly a challenge—but if Daddy said it seriously, then it must be important.

“Exactly,” Sukuna said with a nod. “And inside the woman, there’s a special place—like a tiny house—where her own little piece lives. That’s called an egg cell.”

The boy stared at his father like he was absorbing the mysteries of the universe, jaw slightly slack. Sukuna didn’t rush him. He just leaned back into the velvet sofa, satisfied. This was it—this was why Ryomen Sukuna had ever agreed to become a father in the first place: to tell the truth, raw and unfiltered, and to watch your ever-calm face twitch in barely contained panic.

“Like… a dragon in a cave?” the child asked.

“Close enough. When the sperm and the egg meet inside that little house—bam!—magic happens. They come together and start growing a baby. First it’s tiny, like a pea. Then bigger and bigger… and nine months later, it comes out. Usually through a special passage in the mom.”

He shot a look over his shoulder, that playful, devilish smile on full display. Oh, he was loving every second of this.

You should’ve stopped him sooner. Should’ve seen this coming. But Sukuna is stubborn—unyielding as granite. No amount of arguing would change the way he does things. You married a force of nature, and now you’re stuck weathering the storm.

“Kuna… maybe tone it down a little? He’s just a baby,” you sighed, slinging a kitchen towel over your shoulder and easing onto the sofa beside them. You scooped your son into your arms. “Don’t listen to him, sweetheart. Your daddy doesn’t know how to control his mouth.”

“Vagina,” Sukuna cut in, fingers laced behind his head. “Call things what they are. Kid or not, it’s basic biology. He’s going to learn it online anyway. I’m not lying to my own son.”

He reached out and ruffled the boy’s soft hair even more. “Your mom’s just a scaredy-cat. There’s no stork. Just the raw power of life.”

Your toddler squirmed on your lap, now completely disinterested in his abandoned plastic tower. The blocks scattered across the carpet, mixing with the rest of the toys that practically blanketed your apartment.

“Mama… does it hurt? When the baby comes out?”

You didn’t even have time to open your mouth.

“It hurts,” Sukuna answered for you. “It’s like getting punched in the liver. Hard. But see—women are strong. And your mom is the strongest. You were such a big baby, I’m still amazed.”

“Like father, like son,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you gently lowered the boy to the floor. Then you fixed your husband with that look—the one that would have had Yuji running for cover. But Sukuna? Unbothered as always. That’s what you got. No one forced you to marry him. You chose him—now deal with it.

“We’ll talk later. And you, sweetheart, go clean up all your toys before your dad and I break our legs tripping over them.”

“Lah-boo-boo, Mommy!”

“Yes, yes. Go on now.”

Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing, after all. Your husband’s brutal honesty brought just as much clarity as it did chaos. Childhood doesn’t last forever, and sex ed was always going to be a thing in your household with a kid this curious.

But God as your witness—you would be the one to talk to him about sex someday. Because Sukuna? He’d serve up the whole Kama Sutra on a silver plate if you let him.

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for-your-modesty-dude · 2 months ago

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Reentry

Part 2

A/N: I'm back bitches. Life has been so insane. Like I said in my previous post, I have a 9-5 job and a small business that I'm trying to grow. I just did a 4 weekend Renaissance Faire run, and while that was great, it was also absolutely insane and exhausting. I did nothing but work and restock and try not to make myself sick from overexertion. BUT here we are :) and here's part of that fic I was asking for interest about. I have more parts planned if you're interested, so let me know if you'd like to see more of this world. Love you allllll! - Hy <3

p.s. please tell me if you want to be added to my taglist!

Summary: While you're working one morning, a new face comes in to get coffee - a face you soon recognize as the guy your friends have been talking about since you moved to Hawkins. He becomes a part of your routine very quickly - and you can't help but feel a fondness to this stranger-turning-friend. Maybe you can help him in this new phase of his life.

Warnings: Mentions of drugs and doing time.

Word Count: ~2k

Even after years of owning your own coffee shop, the one thing you never quite got used to were the early morning hours. You often scheduled yourself for opening shifts, to give your staff breaks and to make sure you were there for the opening of the coffee shop and then later, the bookstore. Two birds, one stone, you supposed. You opened up like usual, your two employees for that morning joining at their appropriate times. Around 7 a.m., things really started to pick up, so you took orders with one of the other girls. When the rush died down, you stayed at the register and let her go on her break. The man who approached you next in line had wild brown curls only managed by the loose bun he had them tied up in, and he wore a worn black leather jacket, ripped black jeans that might have fit him properly in the past, but fell loosely on his figure now, and a concert tee from a show you’d gone to in Indie a few years back.

“Hi!” You chirped, “what can I get for you?”

He looked at you, almost spooked, before shaking it off and looking back at the menu, clearly new here.

“Can I, uh - just get a…” he squinted as if he wasn’t reading it right, “paladin’s brew?”

“You read that right,” you promised with a soft giggle. “Yes, absolutely. Name?”

He hesitated a moment, mouth opening and closing like he was nervous to tell you. Before he could, you put the pieces together: hair, metal band tee, leather jacket. “Eddie! You’re Eddie! Right?” His eyes widened, once again spooked.

“Um… yeah. I’m - Eddie, yeah,” he looked around as if to check if anyone else had overheard, but the place was pretty empty for the moment. You couldn’t know it, but he was freaked out that maybe his reputation had continued to spread even in his absence. “Eddie the-”

“The DM, right? We have mutual friends. They speak so highly of you, seriously!”

He was taken aback by the way you spoke to him and about him, and was suddenly very curious. “You’re the girl Gareth told me about, uh…” he snapped his fingers as he tried to remember your name, and got it right on his first try. “Hard to forget,” he added. That made you smile, and you pointed at the pastry display.

“Pick something, please,” you insisted with a smile, and he hesitated before choosing one of the stuffed cookies. “This one’s on the house. As a welcome home gift. Did you wanna pick out a book, too? I don’t imagine you got to read any recent releases.”

He started to protest the kindness, not wanting to cause a fuss, but you stood firm.

“Are you sure your boss is cool with you doing this for me?” He worried.

“I assure you, the boss would want you to choose a book for yourself,” you promised, a tad amused, and he eventually gave in, sheepish. You finished up his coffee and bagged his now-warmed cookie, and walked around the counter to walk him into the bookstore, unlocking the door that connected the two shops.

He looked around when he walked in, entranced by the decor and sheer amount of books. He hadn’t seen something like this in almost five years. He hadn’t even told his friends he’d gotten out this morning, having wanted a moment to himself before everyone undoubtedly would make a big deal of him being home. After the constant vigilance of a prison, the idea of being alone was something that attracted him very much, so when you closed the door to the bookstore behind you both, he looked at you, puzzled.

“Not open to the public yet,” you shrugged with a smile, “but you’re welcome to browse all you want. I’ll be right here.”

You grabbed a book from behind the register and took a seat on a plush couch, opening up your book to read while he got to take in the place himself. You let him wander away through the shelves, occasionally looking up at him curiously. He was prettier than you’d imagined. Your friends didn’t have very many photos of him, and the ones they did were from high school. Sure, you’d imagined he’d still be pretty, but not nearly this pretty. He caught you watching him at one point, and flashed you a sheepish but grateful kind of smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back before burying your nose in your book again to hide the shame of being caught staring.It took him about fifteen minutes of perusing before he peeked out at you from behind a shelf. “Shit, am I keeping you from your job?” He asked, concerned, and you just shook your head.

“Nah, take your time. I have all the time in the world. Trust me. There’s so much to look through, please don’t rush. Find a good book, or a couple.” Your nose scrunched a little when you smiled at him, and he noticed, and it made him smile.

He nodded, and went back to his search. It was another twenty minutes before he came back over quietly, holding two books. “I can’t choose between these two. Choose for me?”

He showed you his options, and you pursed your lips as you considered, “I think you should take both.”

“But-”

“I insist,” you smiled at him, grabbing a cloth tote back from the register area, and opening it for him. “Take ‘em both. Don’t worry about it.”

The way he looked at you made it all worth it. He put the books into the bag gingerly and took it, holding it close like it was something precious. His cookie was eaten and his coffee cup empty, so you extended a hand for his trash. “And a refill for the road?”

“No, I can’t put you out like that,” he shook his head. “I really can’t.”

You bumped his hip with yours gently, “consider it a welcome home. Just don’t make it a habit of having to come home from prison, yeah?” You tried to make a joke, and for a moment feared it fell awfully flat, but then you heard his warm laughter, and that made you smile really big.

“I- yeah. Okay, I can agree to those terms,” his eyes crinkled with his smile, and you led him back into the cafe before refilling his coffee and sliding it across the counter. “Thank you,” he told you simply. “For everything. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you at the next movie night I’m told we apparently have,” he gave a face that showed he had no idea what the current hangout habits were. You just giggled and waved.

“Yeah, Eddie. I’ll see you there. Come by anytime.”

…….........................................

It didn’t take that long for you to see Eddie again. In fact, instead of waiting to see him when you saw your friends, you barely had to wait at all. Two days later, he showed up in the morning, for another cup of coffee. He looked sleepier this time, still in his leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a band t-shirt, though this time it was a band you’d heard of but weren’t super familiar with. When he saw you, he smiled, eyes lighting up a bit, with the warmth of recognition gleaming in them. “Hi. I couldn’t stop thinking about that coffee, so… I’m back,” he told you, and you couldn’t help your beaming smile back.

“So are you getting the same as last time? Or do you wanna try something new?”

He chewed on his lip as he considered it, and let out a hum. “I think… um… maybe something new. Five years of repetition is enough,” he nodded decisively, and it made you smile.

“Something new. Well, if you liked the Paladin brew, I think you’ll really like the Salty Bard. It uses the same base espresso, but it’s got a salted caramel twist to it,” you told him, already getting everything ready to make him his drink.

He agreed with an intrigued look, and you prepared his drink while trying to make conversation - who he’d seen so far, how his return to real life was treating him. You learned that he’d only really seen his band and Dustin, but that he figured they’d want to throw him some kind of homecoming soon. You kept quiet, but you had heard rumors of a homecoming dinner party yourself, when Dustin had stopped by the day prior to borrow a book you’d promised him.

When he had his drink in hand, you also handed Eddie a new pastry to try. You’d allowed him to pay for his coffee, so he started to pull out his wallet and you refused. You had something of a silent battle of wills staring contest, but you did ultimately win, and he sipped gratefully at his coffee while snacking on the muffin top you’d given him. You were going to take your break to chat with him, but as the foot traffic in the shop increased, so did his discomfort, until he excused himself to go about his day. You noticed, but didn’t comment.

Eddie’s visits became something regular. Two weeks into his being home, you’d seen him every other day, almost like clockwork. It was like he knew when the shop was slow, because he only ever appeared when it wasn’t busy. Until the one Saturday he arrived, looking disheveled. He had on his usual leather jacket, faded blue jeans, and a black band hoodie, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket. You quickly hopped behind the register to take his order before the group of teens waiting in line, but thankfully they were too distracted chatting with one another to really notice.

Eddie’s curls were falling out of his bun, but he made no move to fix the hairdo, just sighing when he got to the register. He’d tried all of the coffee options, so he was starting to make his way through the teas now. “Surprise me?” He requested softly, and you couldn’t help but smile and comply.

“You look frazzled,” you said, not unkindly, as you tried to make conversation while making his drink.

He let out an amused huff and sighed. “That obvious?”

“You’re here when there are people around, for one,” you point out with a smile, “and your bun is coming loose. I’m no detective, but I can sense a change in pattern when I see one.” He stuffed a dollar in the tip jar, and nodded silently. You didn’t push, just waiting as you prepared his drink. It was a beat before he finally spoke up.

“I have a job interview later, bartending at a place nearby. The only place willing to interview me. And I’m trying not to lose my shit about it. Cause I can only couch surf for so long, you know?” He pulled his hair tie out and ran a hand through his messy curls, before pulling them up again, neater this time. “People aren’t exactly lining up to hire a convict.”

Your heart tugged at the insinuation that he was somehow less than, and you pursed your lips. “Why don’t you interview here? We’re hiring openers.”

He looked back up at you curiously, like you were suggesting something entirely insane. “You sure the boss would want me around paying customers? Half this town still thinks I’m some kinda drug dealing cult leader. Is that who your boss wants making coffees and taking orders?”

“A reformed drug dealing cult leader, that’s how you sell it,” you teased, to which he cracked a smile. “Besides, I promise, the powers that be here? They don’t care about your reputation or what people think of you. If you’re interested in interviewing… just let me know. We can schedule something.” You slid his drink to him and he raised it in quiet thanks.

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll think about it. I’ll definitely think about it. Thank you,” he offered you a soft sort of smile, before heading out the door.

Tags: @am0iur @ali-r3n @hellmastereddie @ziggeddie @nojamsonmytoast @seedlingghost @loveu2themoonandsaturn @aliceheart247 @littlemissholy @daydreampending @justalotoffanfiction @midnightdragonzero @iyskgd @girlwedontcare

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cottonlemonade · 9 months ago

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Payback

word count: 932 || avg. reading time: 4 mins.

pairing: university AU!Kyoutani x chubby!Reader

genre: fluffy-ish spice, established relationship

warnings: mdni, very suggestive

request: fluffy spice, 2.16 a.m. with boyfriend Kyoutani

It was very late and Kyoutani jumped a little when he heard the soft taps of your elaborate knock routine on his door. To be fair there was little need for secrecy. Mostly because his friend in the adjacent room was still playing games, evident by the occasional cursing he could clearly hear through the wall.

Earlier today on impulse Kyoutani had suggested you should come over to stay with him after finishing up at the library so you wouldn‘t have to go the whole way back to your dorm on the other side of campus. It was all in the name of safety, obviously, and only slightly motivated by the thought of having your warm body next to him in bed.

The previously mentioned friend very intentionally eavesdropped on this conversation and he had not let Kyoutani go before a lot of hollering and an equal amount of suggestive comments. But when the permanently scowling ace, who had driven away any potential roommate with his less than sunny predisposition, didn‘t reply to any of it, his friend had loudly concluded that Kyoutani was probably not a very good lover anyway and so he shouldn‘t assume that anything spicy would happen.

Your boyfriend frowned when he smelled the familiar scent of your shampoo as he opened the door to let you in.

“I thought ya were gonna come straight over.“ He couldn‘t suppress the pout in his voice. If you would have told him he would have walked you back to your dorm.

You smiled and stood on your tiptoes to wrap your arms around his neck when the door closed behind you.

“I know, I‘m sorry. But I had to get my Pyjamas, and a quick shower was too tempting and- are you mad?“

“Tch... no.“

“You sure?“

He was very glad that the darkness of his room masked the blush on his cheeks that usually appeared whenever you got affectionate with him - so, all the time.

His hands came to rest on your waist, giving your generous love handles a gentle squeeze when he finally returned your kisses. To be honest, he was fully intending to just have you tightly wrapped in his arms all night but the softness of your lips, the tantalizing smell of magnolia, and your body pressed against his all gave him a different idea. Still kissing you, he walked backward until he hit the bed. You pulled away and in the faint glow of the lanterns outside in the courtyard, he could see you smile and search his eyes in silent question.

He replied by sitting down at the foot of his bed, pulling you on top of him to straddle his lap. With fanned-out fingers, he held tight onto your pudgy thighs while you cupped his face to continue the kiss. With a quiet sigh, you brushed your tongue along his bottom lip and he readily opened his mouth for you. Once again you broke away but only to take off your shirt and toss it somewhere into a corner. His breathing stop for a moment.

You had to give him credit that he kept his eyes fixed on your face even with your breasts right in front of him, although his hands were a different matter entirely.

He leaned in to kiss you again, pulling you closer with every increasingly desperate noise. Sure enough, his breathing soon became shallower, his movements needier, grabbing you harder than before to get more friction between you. He ran his lips over your neck, letting one hand wander up your back to hold you in place while he dipped lower again, marking every bit of skin on your breasts he could reach.

You pushed him down onto the bed, careful not to lose contact while you made your way up to the headboard, shimmying out of your sweats. You were lying on your side now, enjoying the effect you had on your boyfriend. Your fingertips traced the veins in his arms and you sighed in contentment at the kisses he set on your shoulder and neck.

Considerably out of breath you decided to tease him and turned your back to him. Your delighted giggles told him it was safe to move in close and it wasn’t long before you felt him push against you. Smiling privately, you ground against him, pretending you were just shifting for comfort. But Kyoutani wasn’t having it. His large cold hands grabbed the inside of your thigh and lifted your leg to lay over his own, leaving you very exposed and very aware of what he was planning.

At first, his hand only ghosted over you, testing the waters to see if you would object. When you didn’t, he applied a bit more pressure, circling his thumb with alternating force against you. You didn’t even have time to get impatient. Kyoutani kissed and nibbled at your neck when he pushed your panties aside to pay you back for your teasing. He touched you for what felt like hours, slowing when he felt you were close and adding his second hand to play with your nipples to drive you insane.

No more cursing was coming from the room next door. When Kyoutani finally decided to let you cum, you put a hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds, not wanting to alert the entire floor to what was happening, but he, overcome by lust, defiance and what could only be classified as temporary insanity, pulled your hand away and murmured “Let him hear you.” while he smirked against your skin.

a/n: thank you to the anon who requested this prompt! No worries, you did it perfectly! ^^ I hope you enjoyed it 🌟

for requests see here

#sunnys university #kyoutani x chubby reader #kyotani x chubby reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #chubby reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x curvy reader #haikyuu smut #kyotani smut #haikyuu kyotani #kyotani x reader #kentaro kyotani #kyoutani kentarou #haikyuu kyoutani #haikyuu x plus size reader #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you

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byhuenii · 2 months ago

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Mr & Mrs Barnes

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis Two elite assassins. One explosive marriage. They were both assigned to kill each other—then accidentally fell in love. Now, years later, the truth comes out, bullets fly, and their home life turns into a war zone.

Word Count 10.9k

Themes + Warnings Enemies to lovers (to enemies.. to lovers, AGAIN) , Domesticity & Violence , Secrets & Betrayal , Intense violence , Suggestive content , Strong language , Sexual Tenison , 'I Love Yous' through violence , Mature themes , Toxic Relationship Dynamics (initially) , Blood , Weapons & Explosives , Hand to Hand combat

— Mr & Mrs Barnes "‘Til death do us part’ wasn’t supposed to be a mission objective.

M. List | Request (open)

The house on Hemlock Street was pristine.

Too pristine.

The grass never dared to grow out of line. The paint on the shutters hadn’t chipped once in five years. The mailbox was stainless steel, polished daily by some unseen force. It was a neighborhood built for appearances. Safe. Sterile.

The neighborhood was suspiciously perfect. White picket fences, pastel-colored mailboxes, and neighbors who waved like they practiced it in the mirror. Someone’s kid was learning to ride a bike. Someone else was grilling at 10 a.m.

The kind of place where nothing bad ever happened.

Which made it perfect for hiding two of the deadliest people on earth.

The house was cozy, two stories, too many windows. The grass was always freshly cut. The cat always had full bowls. There was always coffee. It was, on the surface, the picture of domestic bliss.

Underneath, it was landmines in every room.

Inside, the kitchen smelled like fresh coffee and deception.

You stood barefoot on the cold tile, staring out the window while pretending to stir your mug. The spoon clinked too softly to distract from the war in your chest.

Behind you, the TV murmured the morning news. A weatherman warned about showers rolling in later this afternoon. You already knew. You had checked the Doppler at 4 a.m. when your nerves wouldn’t let you sleep.

The creak of a chair. A soft thud. A book being closed.

“Coffee smells good today,” Bucky said, voice smooth, casual, like his hands weren’t trained to kill in forty-seven different ways.

You didn’t turn around.

“Used the good beans,” you said instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

You could feel his smile.

He strolled into the kitchen in gray sweatpants and a black shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. His metal arm was bare, glinting in the morning sun. His hair was messy from sleep—or maybe a restless night. Either way, he looked effortlessly beautiful.

Which made this harder.

He came up behind you. Pressed a kiss to your cheek. His lips lingered a beat too long, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

You didn’t react. You couldn’t. If you did, you’d crack.

He passed you his empty mug.

You filled it, handed it back. His fingers brushed yours.

Too warm.

Too familiar.

You both sat at the breakfast table like any married couple would. Two people who loved each other once. Maybe still did. Maybe never stopped.

Alpine, your white cat, sat on the windowsill watching you both with judgmental, ancient eyes. She blinked slowly. As if she knew.

And maybe she did.

The white cat purred with unbothered approval, like she ran the house. You weren’t convinced she didn’t.

“You make this with the good beans or the emergency ones?” Bucky asked without looking up.

You didn’t smile, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you’re going to annoy me today.”

He huffed a soft laugh, dog-eared the page, and sat up. “Well now I have to annoy you. That’s the law.”

He stood, crossed the kitchen like he’d been doing it for years (because he had), and kissed your cheek in passing. It was warm. Familiar. Safe.

It made your chest ache.

Because routine was how people like you got killed.

You poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to him. His hand brushed yours—calloused, warm, steady.

“You’ve got that look,” he said, leaning against the counter.

“What look?”

“The one that usually ends in someone needing a lawyer.”

You gave him nothing but a long, unreadable blink. He grinned.

“Are you flirting with me?” you asked.

“I’m married,” he said, mock-scandalized. “Happily.”

You let yourself smile then. Just for a second. He still looked at you like you hung the damn stars.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

SIX YEARS AGO

Atlantic City.

Thunder rolled overhead, but the boardwalk glittered.

The first time you saw him, he was leaning against a hot dog cart, soaking wet, grinning like he had no business being that gorgeous. His shirt clung to his chest. A toothpick hung between his lips.

He was watching you. He’d been watching you from across the ring toss game.

Not subtly. Not politely.

You sauntered past him, boots clicking, umbrella untouched.

Sharp jaw. Leather jacket. Glove on one hand. Blue eyes like a storm at sea.

You didn’t know his name yet, but you knew the way he looked at you.

Like a dare.

He followed.

At the shooting game, he stepped beside you just as you raised your plastic rifle. A row of tin ducks spun in circles.

“You any good?” he asked.

“The best,” you said.

“I’m a better shot than you,” you said, cocking the air rifle one-handed.

He smirked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He beat you.

Not by much—but enough to win the oversized teddy bear.

It was hideous. Blue and lopsided. One of its eyes was crooked.

He held it out to you like it was a bouquet of flowers.

You took it. Smiling for real that time.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“James,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky.”

“Try not to fall in love with me,” you warned.

“No promises, doll.”

PRESENT DAY

You sat across from him at the breakfast table, Alpine curled on the third chair like a smug little supervisor.

“You got any showings today?” he asked.

“Two. Midtown and Brooklyn Heights.”

“Sounds romantic.”

You smiled thinly. “They’ll hate each other within a year.”

He chuckled. “You’re such an optimist, sweetheart.”

“What about you?” you asked, voice smooth. “Got a client?”

“Mm. Just checking security systems today. Corporate stuff.”

More lies.

He didn’t even blink when he said it.

Neither did you.

He sipped his coffee. “Take the umbrella. Looks like rain.”

You nodded. “What about you? Anything exciting?”

“Just a few follow-ups. Same old.”

Another lie.

Another smile.

You wondered if he noticed the way your hand tightened around the mug. You wondered if he noticed you’d noticed that he hadn’t worn his wedding ring the past two nights.

You wondered how long it had been fake.

The screen of your second phone buzzed in your pocket.

You excused yourself to the upstairs bathroom. Locked the door. Sat on the edge of the tub.

The encrypted message loaded.

Your fingers trembled.

TARGET: BARNES, JAMES BUCHANAN.

STATUS: ACTIVE ELIMINATION.

TIMESTAMP: 48 HOURS.

METHOD: QUIET. PERSONAL.

Your mouth went dry.

You stared.

You blinked.

You read it again.

You’d killed dozens. You’d buried names and burned identities. But you’d never been asked to kill him.

Your husband.

Your partner.

The man who knew every freckle on your skin, who held you when you had nightmares, who made you pancakes shaped like hearts when you were mad at him.

Your mission.

Your… what? Your heart? Your lie?

You stared into the mirror and didn’t recognize the look in your own eyes.

And now you had to kill him.

Or die first.

You stepped back downstairs. He was washing dishes. Humming something. The cat brushed against his leg.

His phone—his second phone—was gone from the counter now.

You looked at him.

He looked back.

He smiled.

You smiled, too.

“Love you,” he said.

You nodded.

“Love you more.”

The morning light was golden.

The cat purred.

The house was quiet.

You went to change. To arm yourself beneath your clothes. He did the same.

You were both pretending not to know the other was planning to kill you in 48 hours.

Two agents. Two weapons. One shared bed.

The mission clock had already started ticking.

Marriage was complicated like that.

7:03 P.M. — THE DINNER TABLE

You used to love Thursday nights.

Slow jazz playing softly. Roast in the oven. The scent of rosemary drifting between you. Bucky reaching for your hand across the table with his thumb brushing your ring, the one he slipped on your finger under Italian moonlight.

But tonight?

The roast is dry. The knife is missing from the drawer. And he hasn’t looked you in the eye once since sitting down.

The tension between you crackles like an electric wire sparking in water.

“Quiet day?” he asks, voice too smooth.

You nod. “You?”

He hesitates. “Nothing worth remembering.”

Lie.

You force a smile. “Shame. Seems like we’re both having a lot of those lately.”

His jaw flexes. The fork twirls in his fingers, but he’s not eating.

Neither are you.

Your hand inches under the table. To the handle of your chair. To the spot where you’ve taped a hidden blade.

You see it in his eyes, that flicker of guilt he’s too late to hide.

You both know.

You’re each other’s next mark.

The fork clinks against his plate. The silence screams.

The last moment of normality dies in that breath.

The candle flickers.

You drop your fork.

He stands.

In unison—

You both move.

OPERATION: NEUTRALIZE

The air explodes with movement.

The dinner chair crashes behind you as you sprint down the hallway, breathing fast. Your hand slides under the table where you’d hidden a pistol. You flip the kitchen switch—lights off. Shadows become allies.

Bucky ducks behind the couch, pulls a throwing knife from the flower vase. His eyes scan the corners. He’s muttering under his breath:

“Goddamn it, why her…”

You lunge left, knock the chair down behind you, and roll into the hallway. He moves right, flipping the table, plates shattering. A bullet sings past your shoulder.

You don’t think. You react.

You vault over the back of the couch, kick the lamp out of your path, and grab the pistol from the emergency stash under the floorboard.

He’s on your six.

You fire backward—glass explodes, the vase you hated finally shatters.

He ducks behind the kitchen island. “YOU’RE SHOOTING AT ME?!”

“You shot FIRST!”

“That was the WALL!”

“I LIVE HERE TOO, BUCKY!”

FOUR WEEKS EARLIER

The phone call came in during your anniversary dinner.

You were wearing that black dress—the one he said made his brain melt. He had a sparkler candle jammed into your favorite cheesecake.

And then your handler called. Code Black.

You stepped into the hallway.

“Target identified: Codename Winter. Double-agent. Eliminate upon confirmation.”

You’d frozen. You’d laughed. “He’s not a double-agent. He’s my husband.”

Silence.

Then:

“Which is why they sent you.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

And two days later, you intercepted a message on his burner.

"Subject: Widow. Classified intel breach. Authority cleared to terminate."

He got the same order.

7:12 P.M. — PRESENT

You tear down the hallway. A bullet rips past your temple.

Bucky shouts, “You DON’T have to run!”

“You DON’T get to gaslight me while SHOOTING AT ME!”

You crash through the back door, sprint to the car, dive into the driver’s seat. Tires screech. The windshield cracks—

Gunshot.

The bullet tears through the glass an inch from your head.

You slam the brakes.

Outside, Bucky stands in the middle of the road. Gun lowered.

Horrified.

“DOLL!” he shouts. “Baby, my love—I didn’t mean to hit you—!”

You climb out of the sunroof, furious, face wild. “YOU ASSHOLE!”

He flinches. “Please—just LISTEN—!”

You stalk toward him. “You SHOT at my HEAD!”

“I MISSED!”

“ON PURPOSE?!”

His mouth opens. Closes.

You SCREAM.

Then—

You get in the car.

You floor the gas.

You run him over.

The car jerks. Bucky’s body rolls up and over the hood, landing hard on the roof.

Not fatally—but enough to knock him up and over the hood. He groans, flailing, and lands on the roof of the moving car, gripping the sides like a rodeo stuntman.

“DOLL WAIT—!” he groans, fists pounding the metal.

You draw your pistol, aim straight at the roof.

“Call me 'doll' one more time and I SWEAR—!”

BLAM.

You shoot twice through the roof.

He howls, clutching the roof rails. “I’M TRYING TO APOLOGIZE!”

“You TRIED TO KILL ME.”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO! IT WASN’T ON PURPOSE!”

BLAM. He punches the side window, shattering it, glass flying into the wind.

You’re yelling. Swerving. Cursing.

He’s crawling halfway into the passenger seat, panting.

“I didn’t know it was YOU,” he shouts through the cracked glass. “It’s not my fault! This is—!”

You veer hard.

He grabs the steering wheel.

The car jerks violently.

“Get OFF, you metal-armed gaslighting son of a—!”

“Let me explain,” he says. “Please—”

You veer the car off the road.

“What are you doing—?”

You yank the door open, throw yourself out onto the gravel shoulder. Your elbow hits hard. You roll. Dust in your mouth.

Behind you—

The car flies off the cliff.

The car—now missing a driver—goes airborne.

Bucky’s still in it.

It launches off the cliff’s edge in slow motion.

Your heart stutters.

The vehicle flips mid-air. Sparks ignite.

It explodes.

Glass. Metal. A blue fireball.

Bucky.

Gone.

You lie on your back, breathing hard.

Alone.

—

It’s raining. Hard.

Rain falls in sheets. Flashlights sweep through your living room. A private cleanup team in black balaclavas tears apart the place—ripping files, smashing hard drives, vacuuming the house like it’s infected.

Glass crunches under your boots. Ripped furniture. Dismantled picture frames.

You make it to the bedroom.

You lean against the wall in silence, blank. Hollow.

The wedding photo on the mantle cracks under a boot. You look away.

One man is in the bedroom now. He opens drawers, rips out bedsheets, slams down a pillow. The closet’s ransacked.

One of them opens the closet. Another grabs a bag.

The last one reaches for the teddy bear.

The one he won you.

That stupid, fluffy bear with a bowtie and mismatched eyes. From a county fair. From a time before kill orders and betrayal.

“Put it down,” you say. Cold.

The agent looks at you.

“I SAID—put it down.”

“I’ll handle this room.”

The men leave. Wordlessly.

You collapse on the ruined bed, bear in your arms.

Bullet holes in the comforter. Ash in your hair.

You hold the bear tight, like it’s a limb of the past you can’t cut off.

Your eyes drift to the old TV you kept in the bedroom. And then the screen flickers to life.

A static crackle. Then—

A wedding video.

Bucky spinning you under fairy lights. Your laughter. His hand on your waist. His smile—so rare, so soft.

You stare at the screen.

Breath shaking. Jaw clenched.

You can’t look away.

You don’t know if you want to kill him or run to him.

But you do know one thing:

This isn’t over.

—

The industrial-grade door hissed open. Bucky staggered in, soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, dried blood staining his temple. His metal arm twitched with residual static.

Steve stepped forward instinctively. “Jesus, Buck…”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, but the bruise on his jaw begged to differ. Bucky stumbled inside, his shirt torn and blood soaking through the sleeve of his Henley. His left eye was swollen. His knuckles scraped raw.

Sam was seated at the table, halfway through polishing a pistol. “You look like you got hit by a freight train.”

“Close. A Cadillac.”

He tossed a burnt USB onto the table. His voice was flat, brittle. “She’s the mission. I was hers.”

Steve’s face paled. “You mean—Y/N?”

Bucky nodded once.

Bucky nodded once. “They sent us to kill each other. We walked into it blind.”

Sam blinked. “Your wife?”

“You’re saying they—both your agencies—set you up?”

“They set us against each other. You know what that means?”

Sam straightened, suddenly serious. “Means they want one of you dead. No survivors. No witnesses.”

Bucky sat heavily, the weight of years behind his eyes. “I couldn’t shoot her. Even when she had me in her sights. I couldn’t fucking do it.”

Steve exchanged a quiet look with Sam. Then pulled up a chair. “We’ll figure this out.”

—

The place was already in its final moments. Shredded files, purged drives, shredded identities.

You moved through the burning paper like a ghost, face unreadable.

Natasha stood in the middle of your office, watching you wipe the last computer.

“You look like shit,” she said.

You didn’t even blink. “Thanks.”

Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you torch file after file. “He showed up here this morning.”

“I know.”

“He didn’t shoot.”

“I know.”

“He was stalling. He was trying to talk.”

You finally looked at her, and your voice cracked. “He was here to kill me.”

Natasha stepped forward. “No. He was here because he didn’t want to.”

You paused. Just for a second. Then shook your head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You hesitated,” she said softly. “When you had the shot, back on the ridge. You hesitated.”

“I aimed for the engine, not his head,” you muttered.

Natasha didn’t smile. “You think the people who gave that order are gonna care?”

Silence.

Then: “Zip-lines are rigged?”

You nodded. “We move in 60.”

You turned away, fighting the tremble in your chest.

“You hesitated,” Nat added softly. “You never hesitate.”

—

“Sir, I’m sorry, you can’t just walk in here—”

Bucky marched down the hallway, ignoring the terrified assistant behind him, hoodie pulled low, his voice steady.

“Ma’am, he just walked in—!”

“I’m not here to fight,” he said to the surveillance camera. “Just talk.”

You watched from the shadows, lips pressed into a thin line, already moving toward the escape gear.

“I don’t want a war,” Bucky called into the hallway. “I just want you.”

You whispered into the mic. “He’s here.”

“Should we terminate?” someone asked.

“No,” you said. “We go silent.”

Bucky’s voice filled the hallway. “Y/N—doll—I know you’re watching.”

You slipped on the harness.

“Doll, listen—”

You turned to the window, hooked your harness, looked back one last time.

“Fuck, doll!!”

You gave him a tight smirk and leapt.

“ASSHOLE!” your voice echoed through the wind as you vanished across the sky.

Bucky bolted to the window too late.

Sam’s voice crackled in his earpiece: “Well, that went well.”

—

He ripped apart the house with surgical precision. Not in rage—but desperation.

“She left something behind,” he muttered.

Sam held up a baby photo album. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Click. The drawer popped open.

Inside: a drive. Disguised beneath fake birth certificates and a keychain with your initials.

“You’re telling me she had a hidden drive under a drawer labeled ‘baby photos’?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised.

Bucky dropped it onto the table. “She knew I’d find it.”

“Can you crack it?” Bucky asked.

Sam smirked. “Does Alpine shed on every black sweater you own?”

Steve’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “There’s encrypted files, agency records, asset profiles. This isn’t just your marriage.”

Sam leaned closer. “This is every asset she’s protected… or been ordered to eliminate.”

Bucky’s face hardened. “She’s not just a weapon. They turned her into one.”

“She still hesitated,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky glanced at him.

“She didn’t want to kill you,” Steve added.

Bucky said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes far away.

He paused on one image—Bucky in a café. You watching from a rooftop. A sniper rifle in your hands… but your finger not on the trigger.

The unfinished skyscraper creaked under the weight of its own silence.

You sat in the food van with Natasha and your ops team. Cameras everywhere. Blueprints open on the dash.

“There,” one of your ops whispered. “He's infiltrating. Vest, clipboard. Real subtle.”

Nat crossed her arms. “Does he think we’re stupid?”

You picked up the mic. “James Buchanan Barnes. Get out of the elevator.”

His voice came in low. “Nice to hear my full name again, sweetheart.”

You chewed on your bottom lip “Bucky. Get out.”

His voice crackled back, smug. “You always did like telling me what to do.”

“I will drop it.”

“I know.”

“It’s unstable.”

“So am I.”

Nat’s head dropped. “God. He’s flirting again.”

“I will kill you,” you warned.

“Then why are your hands shaking?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds before I drop it.”

“Come on, sweetheart—”

“It’s leaking coolant. Dual-cable’s fried. If it doesn’t collapse, I will collapse it.”

“Still bossy.”

“You think I’m bluffing?” you hissed.

“You’re not bluffing,” he said softly. “That’s what scares me.”

Silence.

You didn’t answer.

He looked up at the camera, exhaustion and defiance swimming in his expression.

“I love you. Still. Even now.”

Then, he sighed.

“Alright. I’m done. I give up. If you really want me gone… do it.”

You hesitated.

He looked up at the camera. “I love you. I still fucking love you.”

You choked back the ache.

“Goodbye, honey,” you whispered.

Then someone hit the button.

The elevator plummeted.

You screamed.

“WHAT THE FUCK—WHO PRESSED THAT?!”

“You said goodbye—”

“NOT LIKE THAT, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS—!”

You tore out of the van. Sprinting. Boots slamming concrete. Air thick in your lungs.

Your heart punched against your ribs. You couldn’t breathe.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please don’t be dead…”

Twisted steel. Smoke. Shattered concrete.

You hit your knees.

“HE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE IN THERE!”

Natasha’s hand found your back. You shoved it off.

“What the hell did you do?!”

“You said goodbye!”

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO PRESS IT—”

Then the camera feed flickered. Another shaft. Another elevator. A man pulling off a helmet, lips twitching in a smirk.

Another elevator shaft.

Movement.

The screen flickered—Bucky, whole, peeling off a hard hat.

“Still got it,” he muttered.

Back in the van, Natasha smiled. “Well… someone’s still stupid in love.”

—

It was stupid to come here.

You told yourself that with every step along the rain-slicked cobblestone street. The mist wasn’t gentle—it was thick, oppressive, clinging to your skin like guilt. The umbrella you carried dangled uselessly by your side. You were soaked to the bone, yet you hardly noticed. Your pulse was too loud.

Your feet led you here before your head caught up.

La Trattoria di Marco.

The little restaurant tucked between a flower shop and a used bookstore. Italian bistro, low lighting, red-checkered tablecloths. Too quaint for a world of lies. But this was the place. The place where Bucky proposed, where your marriage began with candlelight and real promises.

You sat at the same table.

Corner booth. Under the stained-glass window of a faceless saint.

Your fingers twisted Alpine’s engraved name tag on your keychain. The metal bit into your skin. You welcomed it. Pain was easier than remembering.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A memory? A ghost? Closure? But as you stared down at the untouched breadbasket, something in your chest ached.

You told yourself he was dead. You wanted him to be dead. But your heart—the traitor—refused to believe it.

That’s when the waiter approached.

“Wine, ma’am?”

The voice hit your ears like a blade. Low. Familiar.

You froze.

Slowly, you looked up.

Bucky.

Dressed in black, towel slung over his shoulder, hair slicked back. His blue eyes held mischief. Pain. Relief.

You were on your feet in a heartbeat.

“You son of a—”

He caught your wrist before your slap landed. “Easy, sweetheart. Let’s not make a scene.”

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You asshole. I dropped an elevator on you.”

“Missed the real one by a floor and a half.” He smirked. “Better luck next time.”

“I oughta put a bullet in your damn skull.”

“You already tried that.”

Your hand trembled. You couldn’t hide it fast enough.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said quietly.

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to see my wife.”

“I’m not your wife.”

He looked at you like that meant nothing. “Funny. You wore the ring until a week ago.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. “How would you—?”

“Camera. In the dresser lamp. Bedroom. You really should sweep better.”

You stared at him.

“You were spying on me?”

“Call it... checking in.”

“Checking in?! After you tried to kill me?”

“You tried to kill me first.”

“Bucky, I swear—”

“Dance with me.”

The words knocked the wind out of you.

You blinked. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

You laughed. “You don’t dance.”

His eyes crinkled. “Apparently I do a lot of things you don’t know about.”

The restaurant’s live trio started playing something slow. Old Sinatra, maybe. The violin hummed beneath your skin.

You hesitated.

But then your feet moved.

He took your hand—warm, calloused. The other slid to your waist. Your breath caught. The last time you danced was your fifth anniversary. He’d held you close that night, swayed to no music in your living room. He’d kissed your forehead and whispered that he couldn’t live without you.

You hadn’t realized how true that was until you pulled the trigger.

“This feels familiar,” he whispered.

“This feels fake.”

His jaw clenched.

You stared up at him. “Everything we built—it’s crumbling.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “Our marriage was real. Maybe the missions were lies. But us? You were my truth. You still are.”

“You felt just enough to track me?”

“I felt enough to hesitate. That’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

You turned your face away. His hand tightened on your waist. He was warm. Too warm. You didn’t want to feel it.

“Why are you really here?” you whispered.

He leaned in close, mouth brushing your ear. “Because I still love you, and I’d rather die in your arms than kill you with my own hands.”

You inhaled sharply.

And then you slipped the bomb into the lining of his blazer.

Quick. Seamless. You’d practiced a hundred times. Not on him. But still—muscle memory didn’t falter.

He pulled back. Didn’t notice.

You smiled sadly. “Don’t follow me.”

“I always follow you.”

You stepped back.

The bomb beeped once.

His fingers reached into his blazer. Froze.

His face changed.

“Shit—” he hissed. “You—”

“I warned you.”

He yanked the device free. “CLEAR THE RESTAURANT!” he bellowed.

People screamed. Ducked under tables. He sprinted out the front door, jacket flaring.

You followed at a distance. From the shadows.

He hurled the bomb into a nearby mailbox.

BOOM.

Glass rained from the streetlamps. Car alarms wailed.

You ducked, heart thudding.

When you looked up—he was gone.

—

It started with a race

You were behind the wheel of your car, tires screeching, wind howling through the open window. The rain slicked the pavement as your eyes narrowed on the glowing headlights in your rearview mirror. Him.

Rubber screamed against asphalt as your car fishtailed around the corner, Alpine’s crate strapped in the back with the soft clink of her collar the only sound over your ragged breathing. In the rearview mirror—headlights. Close. Too close.

Bucky.

You gritted your teeth, shifted gears.

He wasn’t getting there first.

Not tonight.

The moment you saw your shared home glowing like a beacon at the end of the darkened road, you gripped the wheel tighter. He was catching up, engine snarling like a beast behind you.

You floored it.

And then—you rammed him.

You swerved left, slammed on the gas, and rammed into his car just as the house came into view.

CRASH.

Metal collided. His car spun, back tires jumping the curb, the front scraping into the hedges and dying right there. Bucky hit the brakes, smoke curling from the hood.

Inside the Camaro, he cursed.

“Shit! Doll!”

You peeled into the driveway, screeching to a halt.

He stormed out of the wreckage, slamming the door behind him.

You were already out and running, a blur of soaked clothes and fury. You sprinted to the front door, locking it behind you. All the windows. The basement hatch. The back exit. Locked. Secured.

“Baby, don’t do this,” he yelled. “We can talk—”

The deadbolt clicked.

Your black dress—once elegant—now felt like soaked velvet, heavy and constricting as you moved through the shadows of the house. You kicked off your heels the second you crossed the threshold. You needed grip. Traction. Stability.

Somehow, your body knew before your mind did. Knew he wouldn’t just run. Knew he’d follow you back here. To your home. Your battlefield.

The lock clicked behind you.

You dropped your coat. The hardwood floor groaned beneath your steps as you swept the living room with your pistol drawn.

And somewhere outside—

He wouldn’t find a way in.

Except he always did.

He tried the front door. Locked.

Tried the back patio. Locked.

Basement access? Locked.

“She locked me out of my own goddamn house,” he muttered, equal parts impressed and annoyed.

Bucky circled the house like a predator in the rain, tugging on door handles, eyes scanning for weakness. His boots sloshed in the mud as he made his way to the basement. Locked. Then—

Then he looked up.

Second-story window. Slight crack. Curtain fluttering like a tease.

Crack.

He climbed the side of the house, nimble as ever, gripping the drainpipe until he reached the upstairs window. With a grunt, he elbowed it open and slid inside like a shadow.

His feet hit the hardwood floor silently.

Then his hand opened a wall panel. Inside: one of his pistols, hidden since the first year of marriage.

You were already stalking the hall.

Barefoot. Silent. Glock in hand.

Every creak of the house spoke his name.

He crept down the hallway, opened the drawer in the hallway credenza, retrieving one of the secret handguns stashed behind an old photo of Alpine.

He stalked the hallway, every muscle coiled. Photo in hand—glass frame tilted just enough to catch a reflection.

He saw you.

On the staircase.

Gun drawn.

Too late.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The wall beside his head exploded in a spray of plaster.

"You still alive, baby?" you called, voice honeyed venom.

He didn’t answer—just slid his pistol from his thigh holster and crept forward.

He caught a glimpse of your reflection in the broken glass of the hallway mirror.

That damn black dress.

He swallowed hard.

This was going to hurt.

Bucky smirked. Faked a groan. Dropped the gun. tossing the photo frame down.

“Barely,” he drawled, raising his weapon and returning fire.

Then—bam! He rolled, scooped up the weapon, fired. Missed.

You fired back.

The wall exploded beside him.

You tumbled down the stairs, landing hard but nimble. He dove over the railing after you.

Then chaos erupted.

The house turned into a battlefield.

You were a blur—knocking over chairs, flipping the couch, sliding across the floor and shooting. Bucky ducked behind the dining room table as wood splintered around him.

A vase shattered.

"I liked this vase!" you shouted, shooting at him again.

“It was hideous!” he barked.

“I picked it out!”

“No shit! That explains a lot!”

A bullet skimmed the couch. He flipped the coffee table. You rolled behind the bookshelf, slamming a new clip into your pistol.

You tackled him.

You didn’t wait.

You charged him first.

Your shoulder hit his gut like a battering ram. He grunted, grabbed your waist, and you both slammed through the pantry door, wooden slats snapping around you.

You used the momentum—pushed off the shelves, wrapped your legs around his neck, flipped him to the ground.

He grunted as his back hit the tiles.

You went for his throat.

He blocked.

You punched him across the jaw.

He slammed your shoulder into the fridge.

You both groaned.

You were straddling him, his hands gripping your thighs as you tried to throttle him. His head snapped forward, hitting yours with a sickening crack. You rolled off him, stunned for a breath.

“Still fight like a ballerina,” he coughed.

You spit blood and smiled. “And you still fight like a brick wall.”

He caught you mid-leap, your legs wrapping around his waist. He spun, slammed into a bookshelf. It collapsed in a shower of novels and ceramic cats. Alpine hissed and darted under the bed upstairs.

You hit him across the jaw.

He headbutted you.

You elbowed him in the ribs.

He grunted, “You’re getting stronger.”

You growled. “You’re getting slower.”

He shoved you back, and you both drew your guns—again. Panting. Bloody. Bruised. Eyeing each other across the ruined living room.

Guns raised.

Still. Trembling.

Breaths hitched.

"After everything..." you whispered, voice trembling, "...are you really gonna shoot me?"

His hand didn’t shake. His heart did.

The fight bled into the kitchen.

He lunged again—this time fists only.

No guns. No knives. Just rage.

Your fist crashed into his ribs.

He kneed your thigh.

You slammed him into the kitchen island, the granite countertop denting slightly from the impact.

He grabbed the hanging rack and kicked off the wall, spinning mid-air and slamming into you with his full weight.

You skidded back—heels scraping. Your dress tore at the thigh.

You didn’t care.

“You love this dress,” you gasped, ducking a punch.

“Not when you’re wearing it to kill me.”

“Then you shouldn’t have let me pick the music.”

“What?”

CRASH.

You shoved him into the stereo. Sinatra died mid-note.

“Nice move,” he muttered, wiping blood from his nose. “Didn’t think you still had it in you.”

“Oh, honey,” you growled, cracking your neck, “you have no idea what I still have in me.”

You ducked behind the island, gun raised. Bucky was behind the fridge. His gun clicked empty. He tossed it aside, picked up a steak knife, and flung it at you.

Thud. Into the cabinet beside your head.

It missed. You ducked, pissed.

“You missed! You never miss!”

“I’ve had a long day!” he snapped.

You darted behind the pillar. He yanked open the oven, ripped the gas pipe loose, setting it on the counter.

You popped up and unloaded a round at the stove

You raised your gun.

You shot the pipe.

BOOM.

The gas ignited, the pressure throwing you into the far wall. You slid down with a pained grunt.

He came through the fire again—smoke curling around him like war paint.

His coat was gone. Shirt open. Hair wild. Breathing hard.

No more bullets.

Hand-to-hand.

“You wanna go, sweetheart?” he growled, rolling up his sleeves.

He beckoned.

“Come on, honey.”

His fingers flexed. His voice dipped low, sultry. Taunting.

“Bring it in.” He smirked. “Come to daddy.”

You didn’t hesitate, You grabbed a cast iron skillet and smacked it across his face.

He grunted, stumbled, recovered—grabbed your arm—twisted—flipped you.

You landed on your feet, swept his legs.

He dropped.

You wrapped the curtain cord around his neck, yanked hard, using it to pull him into your knee.

WHAM.

He flew back—into the glass display cabinet.

Glass shattered like snow around him.

You flipped your hair, smirking.

“Who’s your daddy now?” you hissed.

He spit blood. Laughed. “That was hot.”

He blinked. Dazed. “Still me, sweetheart.”

You ran for the gun near the sink. He moved faster. Kicked it across the room.

You both lunged—colliding.

He flipped you. You reversed. He pinned you. You straddled him, fists flying. He blocked, grabbed your wrists, flipped you beneath him. Fists. Elbows. Grunts. Growls. Pure chaos.

You were straddling him—again. But this time, it was breathless. Desperate.

Your fists connected with his chest. His stomach. His jaw.

He grabbed your waist, flipped you beneath him.

Now his hips pressed down. Your bodies flush.

Your breath caught.

He hesitated.

So did you.

Then you both grabbed for each other’s throats.

“I hate you,” you gasped.

“Liar.”

“I should kill you.”

“Then do it.”

It was messy.

Bloody.

Kinetic.

His tie was gone. Your shirt was half-ripped. His lip was bleeding. Your eyes were glassy.

He pinned you to the wall. You punched him in the ribs. He spun you, slammed you against the fridge.

You clawed at his shoulder. He grabbed your face.

You both backed up.

Breathing heavy.

Sweat dripping.

Hair clinging to your skin.

Both guns were there. One beneath the shattered coffee table. One kicked near the sink.

You both dove for them.

You stood, facing each other, guns drawn.

Pointed.

Locked.

Both of you, silent.

Just the sound of the ceiling fan turning over your heavy breath.

He looked at you—really looked. Bloody. Broken. Still in love.

You weren’t much better—blood on your temple, your dress slashed up the side, shoulder dislocated, heart shattered.

And still you aimed.

“After everything…” your voice cracked. “Are you really gonna shoot me?”

He looked at you—bleeding, trembling, still so fucking beautiful.

And he dropped his gun.

Just like that.

“I can’t do it,” he breathed. His eyes tired, soft.

You didn’t lower yours.

“Just… make it fast,” he murmured.

“Don’t you dare say that,” you whispered.

“I don’t care anymore,” he said. “If it’s not you… it’s no one.”

He raised his hands. “You want it? It’s yours.”

You gritted your teeth. Shaking. Heart thudding against your ribs. Tears stung your eyes.

“Put it back up,” you whispered. “Don’t do this.”

His voice was raw. “Do it, doll. End it. You win.”

“No,” you said, voice trembling, “No, you don’t get to make me kill you.”

He took a step closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I still love you,” he whispered.

And then, without warning—

He kissed you.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was raw.

Desperate.

It was brutal.

Teeth clashing, blood mingling, mouths fighting like the rest of them hadn’t already.

You dropped the gun.

Your fingers curled in his hair. He pulled you tighter, tighter still—like letting go would kill him faster than any bullet.

His hands grabbed your hips. Your hands cradled his bloody face. He groaned into your mouth like it hurt to want you this bad.

It did.

Your legs wrapped around his hips as he stumbled back into the cabinets.

He kissed you like it was oxygen. Like you were the only real thing left in a collapsing world.

You broke away, gasping. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“I don’t care.”

“I still might kill you.”

“Get in line.”

He kissed you again.

Longer.

Deeper.

You pulled back, panting.

“Why now?” you whispered. “Why this?”

“Because if we’re going to destroy each other,” he said softly, forehead resting against yours, “I want to remember how it felt to love you.”

You leaned in again.

Kissed him.

This time slower.

This time real.

The kitchen still smoked. The lights flickered. The whole house reeked of destruction.

But for one moment—

There was only you and him.

And the silence between gunshots.

His lips were rough—split from your punch, bleeding into your mouth.

You tasted iron, tasted smoke.

But you didn’t stop.

He bit your bottom lip. You pulled his hair. He slammed your back into the counter and you yanked him closer by the open shirt hanging off his shoulders.

Clothes were torn in the scuffle, and now they barely hung on at all.

Your black dress clung to you in soaked strips, one strap snapped, thigh high slit now a slash to your hip. Your bare leg curled around his waist instinctively.

He groaned into your mouth as your hips met his again, needy and hard and undeniably real.

You had both nearly killed each other.

And now?

You were devouring each other.

His hands gripped your thighs with bruising force. You hissed and bit his neck. He laughed, pained and breathless.

“You wanna kill me or fuck me?” he growled into your ear, voice ragged.

You raked your nails down his back. “I haven’t decided.”

“Decide quick, sweetheart,” he grunted, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, grinding into you. “Because I’m running out of patience.”

You rolled your hips defiantly, teeth bared. “Then do something about it.”

And he did.

The kitchen table shattered.

You were on top of it—on top of him—lips crashing again, tongues colliding like a battlefield. One hand in his hair, the other dragging along his chest, over the bruises you’d put there yourself.

He hissed. Then moaned.

His hand slid up your thigh, warm and trembling, gripping the muscle like he needed to anchor himself to you.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His lip was split. His eye purpling. His cheek was red from your slap. Blood ran from the cut above his brow.

You were a fucking masterpiece.

And so was he.

“You look like hell,” you whispered, brushing his bloody mouth with your thumb.

“You look like heaven.”

Then he pulled you back down and kissed you again, harder this time—less desperation, more hunger. You melted into it, hips grinding against his like you were still fighting him, like the only language you had was dominance and surrender.

He tasted like sweat and salt and a thousand regrets.

You tasted like rage and lipstick and lightning.

Your hands moved up his chest, under his shirt, nails scraping the muscle beneath. He gasped, bit your shoulder in retaliation. You arched into him, letting out a ragged breath that sounded too close to a sob.

This wasn’t just a kiss.

It was a reckoning.

You flipped him.

Straddling him again on the broken kitchen floor, knees on either side of his hips, your dress hiked to your waist. His hands roamed your back, clawing at the damp fabric, at your bare skin underneath.

You pulled him up by the collar, forcing him nose to nose with you. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

His hands gripped your waist.

“Good,” he breathed, “I don’t want your forgiveness.”

You kissed him again—messy, teeth knocking, blood smearing your cheek. Your lips slipped along his jaw, down to his throat. He was hot and throbbing under you, panting your name like it was a prayer and a curse.

Your hips rolled, and he choked out a groan, burying his face into your neck.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You make me insane.”

“You always were, sweetheart.”

You shoved him down, kissed him harder.

He laughed into your mouth, gasping, voice strained and low:

“God, I missed you.”

Eventually—eventually—your lips slowed.

The kiss gentled.

The blood stayed.

But your mouths moved slower. Like the adrenaline was wearing off. Like your limbs suddenly felt heavy, broken, real.

You collapsed against him, breath hitching against his throat.

He cradled the back of your head. His fingers traced circles on your spine, even as they shook.

He held you.

Not as a lover. Not as an enemy.

Just as someone who needed you to stay alive long enough to kiss him again.

The silence after war always felt louder than the explosions.

You lay there, your bare back against the cool hardwood, the remnants of your home scattered around you — shattered vases, bullet-ridden walls, furniture upended like a battlefield’s ruins. Your chest rose and fell. Bucky’s did too, inches away. Blood smeared across his jaw. Your thigh stung where he clipped you. His cheek was still red from the pan you’d swung.

But the look in his eyes?

Soft. Tired. Real.

His knuckles grazed yours, tentative.

"You still breathing, doll?" he rasped.

You turned your head to face him. "Barely."

A beat of silence.

“I liked that vase,” you said softly.

He chuckled. “It was hideous.”

Your lip curled, busted but amused. “Still liked it.”

He turned to look at the ceiling, voice barely above a whisper. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”

“I had the chance,” you whispered back. “A hundred times.”

His blue eyes flicked to yours. “So did I.”

And there it was.

Not an apology. Not forgiveness.

A mutual surrender.

You reached out, fingers brushing his bloodied collar. “We should’ve talked more.”

“We were busy trying to kill each other.”

Your brow knit. “No… we were busy trying not to.”

He rolled to his side, lips ghosting the shell of your ear. “I’m tired of trying.”

“So stop,” you whispered.

You stumbled into what was left of your bedroom. The curtains were half torn, the bed frame cracked, bullet holes sprayed across the walls — and yet, it was the softest place in the world.

Bucky stood in the doorway, watching you carefully.

Your black dress was ripped at the hem, one strap barely hanging on, dried blood streaked down your arm. His white shirt was torn down the middle, chest slick with sweat and grime. His dog tags dangled, still clinking softly when he moved.

You said nothing as you turned your back to him, pulling the rest of your dress down.

Bucky swallowed hard. “You sure?”

You nodded, not looking back. “I just want to feel something that doesn’t hurt.”

He stepped forward slowly, hands skimming your waist, lips brushing your spine. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t angry.

It was real.

The kind of love that claws its way through violence and still begs to be held.

The kind of love that knows you can destroy each other and still chooses not to.

You made love like you fought — breathless, bruised, desperate, honest.

When it was over, the weight of him against your back was the only thing grounding you. Your fingers laced over his. He kissed the nape of your neck like a man praying.

The sun filtered through cracked blinds. Smoke still hung in the air. You were curled in the sheets, tucked against Bucky’s chest.

You watched him sleep.

Your husband. Your enemy. Your only home.

His lips moved slightly in sleep. “...doll…”

You smiled despite yourself, brushing hair from his forehead.

He stirred, eyes blinking open. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you whispered back.

“How long we got?”

You checked the broken clock on the nightstand. “Less than an hour.”

His henley hung loose on your frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal the scratches and bruises decorating your arms. It was warm, comforting—the first thing that felt like home in hours.

When you came back out, Bucky’s blue eyes softened.

“Much better,” he said.

You smirked. “Careful. You might be turning into a regular gentleman.”

He grinned, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “Only for you.”

He sighed. “That’s something, at least.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

And you knew — there was no going back.

“Let’s burn it down,” you said. “Everything. The agencies. The lies.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He sat up, pulling on what was left of his pants and his harness. You slipped into your gear, throwing your coat over your now-patched dress. Gun holstered. Knife tucked into your boot.

You stood in the doorway together, backs to the wreckage of your home. Your life.

“You ready, Mrs. Barnes?” he asked.

You kissed him once — quick, firm, real.

“Let’s finish this.”

You didn’t even make it to the car.

Bucky opened the front door—

CRACK—BOOM!

Gunfire exploded from the treeline.

You both dove behind the doorway, guns out.

Bucky cursed. “They’re early. Thought we had till noon.”

“They lied,” you hissed.

He grinned. “Guess we had that in common.”

You peered out, three SUVs unloading armed agents in black. One of them? Your handler. The other? His.

“I see them,” you whispered. “They brought the cavalry.”

“They forgot we’re the damn apocalypse.”

You took his hand.

And you ran straight into hell.

—

The bullets were louder than your heartbeat — almost. Smoke choked the sky, your porch was in flames, and three government black-ops teams were closing in like sharks that smelled blood.

You didn’t make it far before the second wave hit.

Your feet slid on shattered glass as you dodged another round of gunfire, the hem of your ripped black dress snagging on what remained of the hallway arch. The house groaned under pressure, smoke curling through the vents. The walls were bleeding from bullet wounds.

Bucky was back-to-back with you, both of you panting, guns raised.

“Upstairs?” he asked.

You peeked down the hallway — two agents already down, three more flooding in.

“Too late,” you said. “We hold the line here.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Like old times.”

Your eyes flicked to his busted lip, the blood dripping from his temple, the open shirt that barely clung to him. You cocked your gun. “Except I’m in heels and a HENLEY.”

His eyes darkened. “You always did have flair, sweetheart.”

You grabbed the curtain, yanked it down, and whipped it around the neck of an incoming agent, dragging him forward into your elbow. He crumpled.

Bucky shot another through the knee, then body-slammed him into the broken piano in the foyer.

“I liked that piano!” you shouted.

“I hated that piano!”

You ducked a punch, swung around, used your heel to stab a man in the thigh, and then kicked him down the staircase.

Bucky grunted beside you. “Jesus, remind me to never forget our anniversary again.”

The front door exploded off its hinges. Another squad rushed in.

You were down to your last clip. Bucky had one knife left.

You looked at each other, drenched in sweat, covered in soot and blood, backs pressed against either side of the living room wall.

His chest heaved. “How many?”

You wiped blood off your brow. “Five. Plus one with a rocket launcher.”

He exhaled. “You take the rocket guy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re giving me the harder target?”

He smirked. “You’re the better shot.”

Your lips twitched. “Damn right.”

Then — in unison — you moved.

Bucky leapt over the coffee table, catching a man mid-strike and slamming him into the TV stand. You ran straight for the guy with the launcher, dove under his shot, rolled behind the couch, then came up and fired one clean shot between his eyes.

“Nice shot!” Bucky called.

“Nice ass!” you fired back.

“Thanks, it’s genetic!”

You grabbed a shattered picture frame, flung the glass into the next man’s eyes, kicked him in the chest, and slammed his head into the floor.

Bucky ducked behind a wall. You followed him, the world still shaking.

He grabbed your face. “We have to go. Now.”

You kissed him hard, short and fast. “Go.”

“The back door!”

“I told you not to use real hardwood in the damn walls!. We’re way too flammable for this!”

You landed hard on the neighbor’s yard, Bucky sprinting beside you

“I told you the Johnsons were spies!” you huffed, dodging a shot.

“They bake a suspiciously good banana bread!” he called back.

“THEY JUST TRIED TO MURDER US, BUCKY.”

He grinned, wild-eyed. “Still better than your lasagna!”

You decked him mid-run. “NOW you wanna die?!”

—

You launched yourself into the car first, passenger seat.

Bucky yanked the driver’s door open — and you both shouted at the same time:

“I’M DRIVING!”

You glared. “You just got shot twice.”

“And you drive like a war crime!”

You slammed your hand on the dash. “Move over!”

“Fine!” he grunted, climbing across the seat as you floored it — tires squealing, rearview mirror cracking from a bullet. “You scratch the paint, I swear to God—”

“BUCKY THERE IS NO PAINT LEFT!”

Behind you, the house exploded in a cinematic mushroom cloud of debris and gas fire. The concussive blast launched the car forward with a boom that rattled your bones.

Bucky turned around to shoot out the back window. “That better have killed the mold in the basement!”

You took a hard left, gun tucked into the steering wheel. “You said you’d clean that six months ago!”

“I was busy being secretly married to a hitwoman!”

You gasped. “You did not just throw that in my face!”

He reloaded. “I’m bleeding out, sweetheart. I’m allowed some pettiness.”

—

The black SUVs weren’t giving up.

One swerved up beside you, goons leaning out with rifles.

Bucky climbed halfway out the window, shirt open, vest half-ripped, bleeding and smirking like a man who lived for this exact brand of chaos.

“Don’t you dare fall off that roof!” you shouted.

He winked. “I fall for you every day, baby.”

“You fall like a damn liability, James!”

Bucky flipped one guy off, shot another square in the shoulder, and kicked the third through the windshield of their own van.

The SUV skidded off the road, flipped, and exploded behind you.

“God, I missed our morning drives,” he said, climbing back in, panting.

You reached over and wiped blood from his lip. “You look awful.”

He grinned. “So do you.”

“Thanks.”

After twenty minutes of evasive maneuvers, two flipped SUVs, a narrowly-avoided helicopter missile, and a lot of blood on the steering wheel, you finally found a back road and swerved into the woods to catch your breath.

Smoke rose behind you.

Bucky looked at you in the front seat, his chest heaving.

“…Okay,” you said, hands on the wheel, “rapid-fire confession round. Go.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We might die. Spill something.”

“…I lied about the cat.”

You squinted. “What cat?”

“I said I found him on the street, but I actually stole him from a Hydra base.”

Your jaw dropped. “You gave me a war criminal cat?!”

He held up a finger. “He was very cute.”

You pointed at him. “You’re a menace.”

His turn. “Your confession.”

You sighed. “I planted a tracker in your vibranium arm the second month we got married.”

He looked betrayed. “That’s where that itch came from?!”

“You kept disappearing without telling me!”

“I was going on missions!”

“I thought you were cheating!”

“I was murdering people!”

You both paused.

Then you nodded. “Okay, fair.”

—

You're both panting in the passenger seats, blood-slicked, bruised, but adrenaline-high. The entire windshield is cracked. Your pulse is wild.

The silence is thick. The kind that buzzes in your teeth.

He looks over at you, his eyes roaming your body — blood streaked over your thighs, your chest rising and falling.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I should be asking you,” you replied. “Your face looks like hell.”

He leaned in, voice low. “Still pretty enough to kiss?”

You don’t answer. You grab him by the collar and crash your mouth into his, dragging him over the center console.

It’s violent, hungry, desperate — teeth clashing, tongues tangling, your hand fisting in his hair as his slide under your thigh.

He groans into your mouth. “God, I missed this.”

“I missed you,” you growl, biting his lip.

His hand cups the back of your neck, keeping you there, like if he lets go for a second, you’ll disappear again. Your noses brush. Your breaths mingle. He tastes like ash and blood and every dream you never thought you’d get back.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers against your lips.

You rest your forehead against his. “You never did.”

A grenade clinks nearby.

You both freeze.

Bucky grabs it. “Shit. Shit.”

You yank open the door. “Out!”

The grenade detonates just as you leap from the car — it flips into the air, crashing down in flames.

You land on top of Bucky, bodies tangled, chest to chest, panting. He cradles your head before you hit the ground. You both lie there for a second.

Your breathless laugh bubbles up.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I landed on your knife,” you groan.

“Yeah,” he smirks, “that’s not my knife.”

You smack his shoulder. “You pig.”

“Married a pig, sweetheart.”

You grin. “And I’d do it again.”

Explosions bloomed behind you — the final fiery death of your home, collapsing in a glorious inferno that lit the night sky.

“That’s our cue to run,” you said with a grim smile.

Bucky reached over, slapping your arm. “We’re still alive. That’s what counts.”

You glanced at him, breath catching. “And I guess... still lying to each other.”

He raised a brow. “Like what?”

You laughed despite the tension. “That you never told me about the second bullet.”

His smile was small, sheepish. “Okay, maybe I was hiding a few things.”

“And I never told you how I almost left that night.”

His eyes softened. “Guess we’re full of surprises.”

You looked at Bucky. Bruised, bleeding, exhausted.

Still here.

Still yours.

(You've got mail!) i'm so made i had to cut so much of this out, so basically i don't write any of this on tumblr. I write it on google docs. this fic was basically almost 11k words. And the last HALF the good fluffy part of this fic had to be cut because tumblr wont allow more than 1,000 blocks or whatever it is called. I DONT KNOW HOW YALL DO 15-12K WORDS CAUSE MINE BARELY LETS ME GO PAST 10K. im so sad now, i wanted this be out before my trip since i wont have my laptop to do the colored text. BUT NOW IM MAD AND FRUSTATED. if you want the ending ending lmk </3

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky barns imagine #bucky fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #james buchanan barnes #w.riting ‹𝟹 ‎scripts #i need him so bad #james bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #mcu x reader #bucky x you #james barnes #mcu x f!reader #bucky barnes #james barnes x you #james barnes x reader

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yoiisa · 2 months ago

Note

HEEELLAURRR

can I request headcanon bllk boys anyone of your choice including sae 🙏🏻 with wifey reader during post pantrum depression since no one writes about it 😔 and it’s the boys just helping her out here and there??

ofc!!, I’ll do sae, bachira, isagi, and kunigami

all characters aged up (20+)! Tags: TW for depression, anxiety, self-loathing language, and feelings of inadequacy. Reader is struggling w depression in this fic, so proceed with caution for sure! major angst (argument between couple in Isagi's) with tiny doses of fluff throughout, hurt with only a tiny bit of comfort (except for kuni and maybe isagi)

if you ever find yourself struggling with ppd please call 1-800-944-4773 or visit postpartum.net i have so much respect for mothers out there, but please remember that the best mothers take care of themselves as well as their babies!! you got this babe, and with that let's get on to the fic

➜ at first, having a baby with sae itoshi was fine. everything was going smoothly- well, as smoothly as having a newborn could ➜ still, there was always that nagging feeling in the back of your mind that festered in you. it was dark and cold and rose like bile in your throat that you had to swallow down ➜ the monotony of every day settling in on you was only feeding the dread inside of you. waking at the ass crack of dawn for a diaper change or to feed, and then running around all day caring for your daughter's every whim and desire ➜ sae helped where he could, but obviously there were some tasks only you could accomplish, and it was driving you to a brink ➜ eventually, he had to leave to go to Spain for some work, and you swore up and down that you could handle him being gone for a couple weeks. he was reluctant to leave you alone, but duty called after all, so he left ➜ and suddenly, that darkness consumed all of you and it was too much. you just . . . snapped

Sae knew leaving you alone was a bad idea. He'd seen the ways you'd been tiring yourself out, running after Yuki, and without him around, he worried seriously for your health. Nonetheless, you'd insisted that he go to Spain for his work, instead of just trying to handle it all from Japan itself. "I'll be fine, you don't need to worry," you insist, you're head on his chest. "She's been at home for 4 months now, I've gotten our routine down to a science by now." Sae played with your hair, twirling the locks around his fingers as he hummed, "Okay. I'll go then." As he was leaving, he made sure you promised him that if anything happened, anything at all, that you would immediately call him and tell him. You'd just waved him off, which did absolutely nothing to quell the dread in his stomach about leaving. He knows you don't notice how attentive he really is to you, but he notices everything about you. He worships the smallest details that make you who you are, that make you his wife. With that in mind, it's so incredibly frustrating when you think he doesn't notice how your smile doesn't reach your eyes anymore, or how your skin has become dry because you haven't been drinking enough water. It's 2:41 A.M. when he gets the call. It's been a week since he'd left for Spain. He peels his mask off and blinks blearily at his phone, which vibrates along his hotel's night stand. It should be around 9 where you are right now, which is pretty early for you to be calling him . . . unless something happened. Sae instantly sits up alert, his heart racing as he answers and puts his phone to his ear, "Hello? Y/N, what's wrong?" You're silent for a moment, which allows him to hear Yuki screaming her lungs out in the background of the call. Finally, you croak, "Help. Please, she won't stop crying. She's been up since 1 in the morning, and I . . . I don't know what to do." Sae's breath hitches. "I'm coming home." He can tell the guilt is eating you alive as you whisper his name, but he doesn't care. He cuts off any protests you might have with a, "My girls need me. I'm coming home. I'll get on the next available flight. I'll see you soon. I love you." His heart shatters as you don't return the affection, instead just sobbing into the microphone, "I'm sorry."

➜ part of the reason bachira meguru fell for you was because of your smile ➜ you exuded happiness and joy with every step you took and he was drawn to that aura like a moth to a flame ➜ but after having your baby, bachira noticed that the glow you had once was drained from you like a sponge. you traded in your glowing eyes for dark circles and your frown seemed perpetual ➜ worse yet, he noticed how rarely you smiled at your son ➜ at the beginning, when things weren't as bad, you would offer up the occasionally tiny smile, but you'd become so distant from the boy as of late. you'd become distant from him as well ➜ and he hates it. he did what he could to try and pull you back to his side, to get him to tell him what's wrong, but nothing was working, and it was starting to make him feel in over his head as well ➜ he cracks eventually and calls his mom, completely lost on how to help you navigate your depression

It all happens in a blur. One minute, Bachira is walking into your son's nursery to put some laundry away and the next minute, his entire world tilts as you whisper, "I don't love him." You're standing over Kaede's crib, just staring down at the little swaddled thing. Your husband is at your side in an instant, his hands squeezing your arms as he's begging for an explanation. You practically fall into his chest, your legs weak as you fall to the floor. You're not crying or anything, it's like your body's too weak for even that. All you can manage is the quietest, "I don't . . . feel how I'm supposed to when I look at him. I don't know what's happening." Bachira and you stay curled up together on the floor for a while, until Kaede starts crying. You tense in his arms as the shrill sound pierces your ears. Bachira shoots up from the floor and tends to your son, leaving you lying there as helplessness washes over him. Once you've gone to bed later that night, he instantly is on the phone with his mom. "I don't know, is something wrong with her? Should I be scared for Kaede? I don't want him to get hurt," Bachira sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I don't think Y/N will hurt him," Yu sighs on the other end of the line. "She's probably just overwhelmed right now. A lot of women go through this when they first have their kids. We get told a lot that motherhood is this wonderful thing, but a lot of times, the amount of work it takes is exhausting and is completely glossed over. The stress of it all can cause new moms to get really bad depression. It can make you want to give up on everything sometimes." Bachira bites at the skin around his nails before asking meekly, "Did you want to give up on me?" "No," Yu replies fondly, recalling the days of Bachira's infancy. "Believe it or not, you weren't a fussy baby at all. It made being a single mother easier at first, but when you got older, well, you know." Bachira nods as Yu continues, "Why don't I come over for the next week or so? I can help Y/N take care of Kaede, and the two of you can also get some alone time, if I take Kaede off your hands for a while." "Seriously? You don't mind?" Yu shakes her head, her smile widening. "It'd be my pleasure. I'll also talk with Y/N as well. Hopefully she'll feel a bit better. I knew someone who had post partum depression . . . I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

➜ isagi yoichi hates feeling powerless more than anything in the world ➜ it's part of the reason he was able to adapt so well in the world of soccer after all. he encounters all kinds of players on the field, and he needs to be flexible with himself in order to make sure he doesn't sink underneath all the talent ➜ but babies are different. they don't operate on logic or patterns or anything like that. they feel everything in excruciating levels and the same can be said for depression ➜ when isagi notices that something's up with you too, in addition to the learning curve of having a newborn son around, he also gets thrown in way in over his head ➜ the two of you begin to have arguments a lot as a result. he is upset because the entire pregnancy, you'd been raving about how you couldn't wait to have a kid, and now? now all of that was gone ➜ after a particularly explosive fight, he finally sees the pain you're going through as well, best believe he'll do whatever he can to make sure you get the help you need ➜ after all, he can't do this by himself

"Yoichi please-" "I just don't understand," Isagi groans, kneeling in front of you. His hands are on your knees and his face is bowed. "I . . . I thought we agreed that this is what we wanted? Why are you backing out now that Ryuji's already here?!" "Who said I was backing out?" you ask incredulously. "Haven't I been doing everything I can? I've been feeding him, changing him, comforting him when he cries. I haven't showered in a week for fucks sake!" "And you look a million miles away throughout it all! You have this face- this horrible distant expression! I just don't understand, didn't you want this?" You slip up and shout, "Who would want this?!" and Isagi flinches back. The two of you stare at one another in horror, before your husband's face contorts to something between grief and anger. "The hell does that mean?" he growls and you lose it. You start bawling and screaming, "Who wants a life confined to just this?! To sore breasts and shit stains and hair pulling and the crying- he won't stop fucking crying! I can't make him stop, you can't make him stop! I don't know what to do!" You fall onto the floor, your hands stabilizing yourself on Isagi's shoulders as you continue to wail. "I want to be there with him! I want to hold my son and be happy to be a mother, but I just can't. Everything feels so big when I hold him, and I feel so small. I hate myself for it! I see other mother's and feel horrible, like why can't I just be them?! It . . . I hate myself so much. I'm horrible. I'm so horrible." Isagi's heart shatters as you cry and he instantly wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his lap. You tuck your face into his neck and inhale, breathing him in in a way you haven't done since long before Ryuji was born. You stay like that for a while before you croak, "You need to leave me." "What?" Isagi blanches. "I'm not cut out for this whole motherhood thing. I'm so scared one day, I'll do something terrible to Ryu. Something that'll hurt him. I'm not safe to be around. You need to leave me." Isagi stills, his heart pounding a mile a minute. Finally he manages, "I'm taking you to a doctor tomorrow. A psychiatrist at the hospital hopefully. Ryuji will go to my parent's house for a while until we can figure out what to do next." Before you can protest anything, he kisses your forehead. "And that step will not be to leave you. Not in a million years, so you can just forget about that."

➜ kunigami rensuke would quite frankly be the best person at helping you deal with your depression ➜ he knows the intensity of depression, and what it can do to people, especially when they are feeling isolated and alone. he did go through the wild card program after all ➜ he thinks back to how he was during his wild card training and the nel, and to know you're experiencing that kinda intense depression right now pains him beyond the telling ➜ ultimately, he just stays by your side no matter what. if you need space from your daughter, he's quick to help you get some quiet. if you need a shoulder to cry on, he'll hold you for as long as he can, letting your tears soak his shirt without a word of complaint ➜ after all, you've given him the gift of your daughter, so the least he can do is take care of her mother, and his wife, as well

You're sitting up in bed, your eyes closed and a cup of tea in your hands. It's only half drunk and starting to cool, but the cup is still warm enough to keep your hands from freezing, so you hold tight. Eventually, Kunigami steps into the bedroom, a soft smile on his face as he sees you. He walks up to you and sits beside you, his head resting on your lap. "Is Sakura asleep?" You ask, petting his orange hair. He hums in confirmation and peeks up at you through his lashes. You take note of the dark circles under his eyes and you look away, guilt eating at you. "I'm sorry," you whisper, and he tilts his head. "For what?" You purse your lips before sighing. You set the tea off to the side and close your eyes. "For making you do all the work. I wish I . . . I was a better mom and wife." He shoots up, immediately his hands going to your cheeks, brushing away imaginary tears. "Hey, hey none of that. You're an excellent mother, and a wonderful wife. Why on earth would you think otherwise?" "Because you've taken all the hard jobs like putting her to sleep and changing her-" "Because you've already done more than enough for her and for me. You keep her alive- hell you gave her life- and you continue to do other things around the house, like cooking amazing food for me. I couldn't ask for anything more, truly." You lean into his hands. A tear leaks from your eyes as you ask, "Really, Ren?" Kunigami nods and presses his forehead against yours. "Just keep doing what you're doing. If I need help, I'll ask, and if you need help, ask. I don't ever want you to feel like you're not doing enough or that you're alone. You're not, you never will be, not while I'm here." You sob, and he kisses you through it, his lips soft against yours. For the first time in months, you feel like you can properly relax.

a/n: this is prob gonna get a tad bit personal, but i just wanna reiterate how much love and respect I hold for mothers out there. all of the women in my fam have problems with their reproductive health, and it's likely that I will too when I'm older. Despite this, they've never been anything but incredibly mothers and role models and I love my mom, my aunts, and my grandma dearly

i also want to be a mom when I'm older and I encourage everyone who also wants this to do some serious research into what pregnancy/motherhood entails. it's rough out here for us girls and no one is gonna support us the way we will ourselves, and part of that means being educated on our bodies, despite the lack of proper research done with them a lot of times

anyways, rant over. love y'all and stay safe to all the mamas out there!

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rafesbabygirlx · 10 months ago

Text

A Lot of Time has Passed | Part 4

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Season 4 Rafe x Maybank reader

Summary: Beginning at the time jump, the Pogues seemingly succeeded at something, Rafe is struggling with making amends and being a better person. JJs sister left the island after returning from South America. Returning after 18 months with a secret.

Not proofread

Word count: 6k

Warnings: MDNI mentions of abortion (no procedure done), quick smut but a little more romantic

Other than that none- Rafe and Maybank are just super sweet with each other.

You wake up around 5 a.m., a habit you picked up in a desperate attempt to carve out a few precious moments of solitude before V wakes up. This early morning routine has become a sacred ritual for you; a chance to sip your coffee in peace and gather your thoughts. As you stir beneath the soft sheets, you momentarily forget that you’re wrapped in Rafe’s strong arms, a warmth that both comforts and constrains you. The gentle shift in your position seems to awaken him, and with a groggy voice, he murmurs, “Good morning. What the hell time is it?”

You glance at the clock, the numbers flickering softly in the dim light. “It’s 5 a.m., welcome to parenthood,” you reply with a teasing smirk. “No more sleeping until 2 in the afternoon, like we used to do during those nights of coke and tequila.” A wave of nostalgia washes over you, the memory of carefree days filled with reckless abandon now contrast against the responsibilities of parenthood.

Sitting upright, you feel the cool air against your skin, the bed sheets clinging to your torso as neither of you had the energy to bother getting fully dressed again. You turn to face Rafe, taking in his tousled hair and the hint of a sleepy smile on his face. “Do you want to get anything off your chest?” you ask, your voice gentle but probing.

Rafe sits up alongside you, and the sight of his biceps flexing as he pulls himself into an upright position sends a small thrill through you. You watch him closely, admiring the way he carries both strength and tenderness. “That thing your brother said last night…” he begins cautiously, lacing his fingers through yours, the warmth of his palm grounding you. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had… you know. But why didn’t you?”

The question about an abortion that didn’t even happen hangs in the air between you, heavy with unspoken tensions and emotions. You forced him and you to forget about it last night but it was impossible to not bring it up after the storm between the two of you settled. You know the weight of your brother’s words, how they lingered long after the night had ended. The tension in Rafe’s voice hints at his own concerns, but there’s also a sense of trust woven into his question. He wants to understand—not just the choices you make, but the person you are becoming, too.

You take a deep breath, the morning light creeping in through the window, casting a soft glow around the room. “It’s complicated,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t just about me answering my brother. It was about what kind of person I want to be. What kind of parent I want to be.”

Rafe nods, tightening his grip on your hand as if to draw you closer to him, as if that simple act could somehow provide clarity. “I get that,” he replies, his eyes searching yours for understanding. “It’s just that sometimes, I wonder how we got here. From those crazy nights to this… to our life now. It’s a lot.”

You chuckle softly at the contrast, the laughter carrying with it a weight of fondness. “It is a lot,” you agree, glancing down at your interlaced fingers. He continues, “But I wouldn’t change it for anything. You, me, V... we’re building something together, even if it's not always easy. Even if some days will feel more chaotic than others. It’s only been a day but I know it.”

Rafe’s eyes soften, and in that moment, you both realize that despite the exhaustion that comes with parenting and the burdens of the past, you are now in this together. The world beyond your bedroom may be demanding, but here, in the quiet sanctuary you’ve created, there’s an unspoken promise that binds you—one built on love, understanding, and a shared commitment to navigate this unpredictable journey together.

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts as the weight of your emotions presses down on you. Finally, you begin to speak again, the words tumbling out like a confession long overdue. “I don’t know,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I kept promising myself that I would reach out. I really wanted to, especially when I first left. I still wanted you to know but I couldn’t bring myself to call you. It felt so urgent back then, like if I could just put everything behind me, I might finally find peace. I wasn’t lying when I said that if I thought you didn’t want me, then you wouldn’t want her either. But I realized I was just trying to convince myself to feel better about not telling you.”

You take a moment, your gaze focused on Rafe’s hand, which is resting on your knee underneath the blanket. It serves as a silent point of connection—a tether to the complicated feelings swirling in your heart. “I wanted to forget about you and just move on. I thought it would be easier that way. But by the time I believed I had the strength to do it, it was too far in the pregnancy anyways. I didn’t even realize. Those first few weeks were such a blur. I found myself clinging to good memories with you instead of letting them go. And, strangely enough, I didn’t want to forget you. She’s my little reminder of you and the good in you, the person I always believed you could be.”

You look up, locking eyes with Rafe, who is intently focused on you. His gaze is unwavering, and you can feel the heat of his stare seeping into you, igniting a storm of unresolved feelings. You look back down as tears begin to well up in your eyes, spilling over and landing on both of your hands. “I can be good,” he says softly, determination lacing his words. “For both of you. I swear, I can be that person.”

With a sudden movement, he pulls you into a tight embrace, enveloping you in a warmth that feels both comforting and overwhelming. His lips brush against your temple, planting gentle kisses moving towards your mouth that send shivers down your spine. “What? Rafe, no… that’s not what I meant…” you stammer, but before you can even finish the sentence, he leans in and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is electric, stirring up emotions you thought you had buried—a mix of longing, fear, and undeniable connection. It feels like a lifeline thrown into the chaotic sea of your heart, and in that moment, everything else fades away. It was deep and passionate unlike the hungry ones from last night.

You knew that Rafe had built a life with Sofia since you’d been gone, a life that, although distant from yours, still resonated with echoes of your shared past. The reality of their relationship weighed heavily on you, and you couldn't deny the guilt curling in the pit of your stomach. It was a familiar feeling, one that stirred up memories both sweet and bitter. Last night, as you lay tangled in each other’s arms, felt like an inevitable culmination of the years spent together—years where you both played with fire, never quite willing to step away from its warmth. No matter how challenging things got, no matter the stark differences between your worlds, you had always been each other's exceptions.

Now, as Rafe's lips lingered on yours, a torrent of remorse washed over you, clashing violently with the sparks igniting in your chest. How could you let this happen? Memories of Sofia came rushing in, darkening the intimate moment with heavy shades of regret. She had always treated you with kindness, her sweet disposition refreshing amidst the chaos of work and life. A gentle smile here, a supportive word there—she was the kind of person who made the world feel just a little brighter. Plus, the fact that she lived close, about three-quarters of a mile down from you made it all the more complicated. It wasn’t just her proximity; it was the palpable intertwining of lives that made this situation feel even more convoluted.

You truly didn’t want to disrupt Rafe’s life like this. The last thing you wanted was to be the storm that tore apart the fragile peace he had finally found. You had admired him from afar during your time apart, hopeful for his happiness even if it meant living without him. A part of you had always wished him well, and now, here you were—teetering on the edge of an emotional cliff, grappling with the depths of your feelings for him while knowing full well the consequences.

“Rafe,” you finally murmur, breaking away from the spell of his kiss, your voice barely a whisper. The warmth of his embrace still lingered, but the weight of reality crashed back into focus. “What are we doing?”

His brow furrows, confusion mingling with concern in his eyes. You can see he wants to say something profound, something that would bridge the gap between your hearts and your histories, but the moment stretches painfully, leaving only an unspoken tension hovering between you. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself against the rising tide of emotions. “What about Sofia?”

Rafe’s expression shifts, and for a fleeting moment, you see the conflict in his gaze. It mirrors your own, a mixture of desire and dread—the push and pull of what you both truly want against what is right. “I… I’m not sure,” he admits, his voice filled with an honesty that cuts deep. “But I can’t pretend these feelings don’t exist. They’ve always been there for you. It was always supposed to be me and you.”

You nod slowly, your heart pounding. As much as you yearned for this connection, a part of you knew it came at a cost. And with every passing moment, that cost began to feel heavier, a weight you were both now grappling to understand.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, Rafe grabs you by the waist, pulling you onto him with an intensity that takes your breath away. His lips crash against yours once more, igniting a fire that you thought you could contain. It’s deep and full of raw lust, an electric connection that sets every nerve in your body alight. Against all reason, you melt into him, surrendering to the familiar heat that radiates from his touch, instinctively kissing back with a passion that feels both exhilarating and terrifying.

Every kiss pulls you deeper into the moment, flooding your senses with the realization of what you’ve longed for—what you’ve both longed for. You can feel him hardening beneath you, a palpable reminder of the desire simmering just beneath the surface. As you start to clench around nothing, a rush of eagerness sweeps through you, and you become instantly soaked with anticipation and longing, a primal need coursing through your veins.

With a shaky breath, you lift yourself slightly, allowing the heat of the moment to guide you. Your hands move instinctively to hold him, feeling the warmth radiating from his body. You align him carefully, your heart racing with every pulse of adrenaline. The world outside fades completely as you focus on this singular moment, the intimate connection that binds you both together. The vulnerability of it all feels exhilarating, as if the two of you are suspended in time, connected in a way that transcends all the complexities surrounding you.

“Are you sure?” Rafe breathes, his voice a mixture of longing and caution. His eyes search yours, filled with desire but also a hint of desire to keep things right, to ensure he isn’t crossing a line.

You nod, affirmation pouring from your soul. The weight of your past hangs in the air, but in this moment, none of that matters. You can’t deny how desperately you crave this connection, how drawn you are to him despite everything—the desire eclipsing the doubts swirling in your mind. “Yes,” you whisper, urgency lacing your voice, “I need this.”

With that shared understanding, the tension melts into action, and you guide him closer, heart racing as you feel the warmth of him against you, ready to break free of the confines that have held you both back for too long. The world outside disappears, leaving just Rafe, you, and the intoxicating pull between you that refuses to be ignored.

You slowly sink onto him, each tantalizing inch igniting a wave of sensation that sends a loud gasp escaping your lips. The fullness of him fills you, and the feeling is overwhelming in the best way possible. You want to feel every inch of him, every moment oh him stretching you out feels like an eternity, and god, does it feel good. A rush of warmth surges through you as he fills you up, feeding a craving you’ve kept buried for far too long.

Your fingers instinctively grip the back of his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you’re afraid to lose this moment, this connection. The world outside your little haven dissolves, leaving only the two of you, caught in a blissful embrace that is both electrifying and tender. As you finally reach the bottom, you both stop, the heat between you simmering as you stare deeply into each other’s eyes.

Heavy breaths mingle in the air, a mix of exhilaration and wonder as you take in the fullness of this moment—the warmth radiating from his body, the way his eyes search yours, filled with an intensity that makes your heart race. You can feel the weight of him inside you, a beautiful reminder of the bond you share, both thrilling and grounding.

The silence wraps around you like a soft blanket, charged with the pulse of your connected bodies and racing hearts. You see the flicker of vulnerability in Rafe’s gaze, mirroring the swirl of emotions within you. The moment feels sacred as you both navigate this new territory, each aware of the potential consequences but unwilling to let fear overshadow the undeniable pull you share.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he breathes, breaking the stillness, his voice thick with emotion. The impossibility of the moment laces his words, and you nod, your heart swelling at the truth buried within them.

“I think this feels right,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. You lean in closer, your foreheads touching lightly, finding solace in each other’s warmth. The world beyond your bubble may be complicated, but here and now, in this moment, everything feels perfectly aligned.

With every heartbeat, you grow more aware of how deeply intertwined your lives have become, how this connection, born from a mixture of love, longing, and undeniable chemistry, feels like coming home. You close your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the bliss of it all, drinking in the moment, ready to embrace whatever comes next.

You begin to bounce on him, the sensation taking you by surprise as pleasure courses through your body in waves. It’s been far too long since you’ve felt anything like this, at this angle, and it feels unreal—every movement sending shockwaves of ecstasy radiating through you. The world outside your intimate bubble fades away completely, leaving only the rhythm of your bodies intertwined in perfect harmony.

Rafe’s hands grip your waist tightly, guiding you with a tenderness that contrasts to the primal energy of the moment. He helps you lift up and down, his motions strong and sure, as he knows exactly how to heighten the pleasure you’re both experiencing. He knows your body well. But still allowing you to maintain control. With each rise and fall, a chorus of moans spills from your lips, unrestrained and raw, mingling with the deep grunts of approval that escape him. The sound reverberates in your ears, igniting a fire deep within you that you didn’t know had been smoldering.

Every thrust brings you closer to that edge, the sensation intense and blissful. You can feel the heat pooling in your core as you ride him, your body responding instinctively to the rhythm, craving more. This connection—this union of flesh and desire—feels powerful, liberating in a way that makes your heart soar even as the weight of guilt lingers at the edges of your mind.

“You’re beautiful,” Rafe breathes, his voice rough with desire, drawing you deeper into the moment. The way he looks at you, filled with admiration and intense longing, drives you wild. You meet his gaze, every ounce of vulnerability laid bare, and you can’t help but smile through your moans. Not bothering to hear something in return. He can tell how lost you are off him. Eyes are rolling back and you can’t close your mouth from the pleasure.

The tempo builds, the air thick with heat and the intoxicating scent of desire. You can feel his strength beneath you, every muscle tensed as he assists your every movement, supporting you, urging you on. Lost in each other, you surrender completely to the ecstasy enveloping you, letting go of every worry that has plagued you. “That’s it baby, ride me just like that. You know how I love it.”

It’s just the two of you, bodies moving in unison, caught in a whirlwind of passion, trapped in a moment that feels infinite. You lose yourself in the sheer pleasure of it all, the ultimate expression of connection that you both so desperately craved. Nothing else matters but the way he fills you, the way your bodies fit together, and the pure ecstasy of this forbidden reunion.

You start to feel the telltale signs of your impending release, the tension building within you like a coiled spring. The pleasure is overwhelming, and you realize you no longer have the strength to keep bouncing. Instead, you wrap your arms around Rafe, seeking the comfort of his embrace. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, grounding yourself in the moment despite the chaos of emotions swirling around you.

Your instinct prompts you to bite down gently on his skin, a playful attempt to muffle the sounds that threaten to escape your lips, desperate to contain your pleasure in the heat of the moment. The taste of him only fuels the fire inside you, igniting a deeper need that sends shivers down your spine.

Rafe understands right away. He senses your shift, the way your body begins to respond in a different rhythm. Leaning back slightly, he gives you the support you need, anchoring himself against the bed. His hands still grip your waist, strong yet gentle, as he takes control of the pace. You feel him shift, and then he thrusts up into you from below, driving you deeper into that sweet, sweet spot within you.

The sensation is electrifying. He fills you completely, poking your cervix with every push of his cock. With every thrust, the world outside dissolves, leaving only the two of you lost in the throes of bliss. You feel your body tighten around him, every muscle engaged as you surrender to the rhythm he sets. Those thrusts, deep and deliberate, send shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, sending more shivers racing down your spine. The way he moves, the way he looks up at you with those intense, darkened eyes—everything about this moment seems to coalesce into something transcendent.

“Y-you too,” you manage to gasp out, your voice laced with desire. “You feel so good Rafe…”

He responds with another deep thrust, and you can’t help but moan louder, “Rafe… I’m so close.”

You can feel it building relentlessly, the pressure mounting as every thrust drives you further into the sweet abyss. You cling to him, seeking that ever-elusive release, feeling as if the two of you are in sync, almost like you were made for this.

You can’t contain the moans that finally spill from your lips, muffled slightly against his neck but no less passionate. Rafe responds in kind, the low growls of pleasure reverberating through his chest only fanning the flames of your desire. You know it won’t be long now—every movement, every breath, every shared glance contributing to the rising tide that promises to overwhelm you both. He’s kissing your chest, neck to the top of your breasts.

“Just let go,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble, urging you on as he continues to fill you deeply, the connection tightening around you like a fragile thread ready to snap. The warmth spreads, and you succumb willingly, ready to embrace the ecstasy that awaits.

You shoot him a heated glance, your heart pounding in tandem with your body. “I need you… needed to feel you like this,” you breathe, clinging to him as pleasure spirals higher. His thumb drops down to your clit rubbing in circles with great pressure.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper urgently, leaning closer, your breath mingling with his. “I’m right there. Just a little more…”

Rafe responds with a growl of approval, the connection tightening around you like a fragile thread ready to snap. You embrace the ecstasy that awaits, ready to lose yourself completely in the bliss that you’ve both ignited. He grips your hips harder, definitely bruising them and thrusting harder.

“Ugh, Rafe, fuck,” you gasp, feeling the unmistakable wave of pleasure cresting within you. “I’m so close too, baby. Let go now.” His groan resonates in your ear, vibrating through your entire body, and that sound is all you need to send you spiraling over the edge. Yet even in that bliss, he doesn’t stop chasing his own high, each thrust sending you further into a blissful haze.

“Please, in me… I need to feel you,” you manage to plead, urgency lacing your words. You’re shaking as you hold onto him. Rafe responds with a series of powerful, deliberate thrusts, each one pushing himself closer to the brink. Then, with a final, deep thrust, you feel him release, filling you to the brim with his hot liquid. His body collapses beneath you. You follow him down, your forehead resting gently against his, both of you gasping for breath, trying to come back to reality.

You brush the tip of your nose against his, a playful connection that elicits a soft smile amidst the heated passion. With sweat glistening on both your bodies, you look into his eyes, searching for the reassurance only he can provide.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” he whispers, cupping your cheeks in his hands before kissing you deeply. When he pulls back, his gaze is intense, and he says, “God, you’re a dream come true. Truly, I’ve dreamed of having you back in my life every night since you left.”

You can’t help but feel the sting of tears gather in your eyes. The highs of your passionate encounter mingle with the flood of emotions rushing back in, a bittersweet reminder of everything that’s come before and what will happen as a result of this.

“No, no, no, don’t cry,” Rafe murmurs, panic flickering across his features. “I’m going to figure this all out. Please, put your trust in me. You and me, baby—all the way. I swear. Don’t worry about anyone else.”

His words wash over you like a calming wave, and you look back up at him, nodding with a small smile that betrays the whirlwind of thoughts churning within. Emotions aside, this is everything you’ve ever wanted with Rafe, and you know how much it means for V, too. You want to make up for the time you caused her to lose with him and embrace the future full of possibility.

Rafe leans in, kissing you again. You both smile into the kisses, the connection palpable.

Eventually, you get off him, wrapping a blanket around yourself as he pulls on his boxers. In a hushed quiet, you sneak into the bathroom, turning on the shower before you pull him in behind you. The warm water cascades over you, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. You wrap your arms around him, finding solace in his presence. He rubs gentle circles on your back and kisses the top of your head, both of you savoring the calm of the moment. You stand like that for a while, simply enjoying the feeling of being together, before finally washing up and stepping out.

Holding hands, you head back to your room, and as you pass the kitchen, you freeze in place upon seeing JJ. The tension hangs heavy in the air as neither of you speaks, simply staring at one another. It’s JJ who breaks the silence, his voice somewhat hesitant. “Hey, uh, can we talk for a sec?”

You look up at Rafe. He nods quickly, encouraging you silently, before you turn back to JJ, who is already walking closer to you. He completely ignores Rafe’s presence, focusing instead on you.

“What’s up?” you ask, folding your arms defensively. JJ shrugs and pulls you in for a hug, his expression earnest. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea what I said until I sobered up a bit and Kie yelled at me. I didn’t mean it. I could never mean it. I love the hell outta that little girl.”

“I know you didn’t, J. But it doesn’t change the fact that it hurt.” You step back, meeting his gaze, his frown tugging at your heartstrings.

“J, it’s okay—really, I swear. I could never hate you.” With a small smile, you extend your pinky out, waiting for him to wrap his around it. A pinky promise. It’s a gesture you both shared since childhood, a way of keeping each other safe from the turbulent lives you had to navigate. Keeping you both safe from Luke’s outburst. He finally meets your finger, and you pull him back into another hug.

“Love you, J.”

“Love you too, sis,” he replies, his voice warm as he pulls back.

You walk back into your room, where Rafe is already dressed, the sunlight streaming in through the windows. It’s 6:30 AM now—later than you intended for V to wake up. You quickly dress, and together, Rafe and you head to get her up.

“Hi, sleepy baby, time to get up,” Rafe says gently, rubbing her back. Almost immediately, V awakens with her signature huge smile. She reaches up for Rafe, and he scoops her up effortlessly, showering her cheeks with playful kisses. She giggles, trying to push him away in her adorable way, and your heart swells as you watch them together by the doorway.

You direct Rafe to her suitcase, and while he picks out an outfit, you head to the kitchen to make her breakfast. To your surprise, everyone is already awake, gathered around the kitchen table, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

As you enter, they all stare at you, and Cleo raises an eyebrow with a smirk. “So, did you have a fun night?”

“Yes, since you’re so curious,” you respond, a playful smirk forming on your lips. "Everything was just perfect.” You glance at Rafe, who catches your eye as he walks in, a small grin spreading across his face, and just like that, you can’t help but smile in return, ready to face whatever this day brings together. He keeps his distance from the people he know despises him.

“Don’t worry, we all heard just how perfect it was,” Pope quips under his breath, a teasing smirk gracing his lips. JJ dramatically pretends to gag, while Kie shivers in mock disgust, rolling her eyes as if she can’t bear to hear another word about it. You can’t help but laugh at their antics, their playful teasing only adding warmth to the already cozy morning atmosphere.

With a slight chill hanging in the air, you realize it’s a cooler morning than you expected. You decide to pack up V's breakfast, carefully loading it into a small basket. You grab a few pieces of fresh fruit for yourself and Rafe, wanting to share something light and cheerful to match the serene surroundings. You hand Rafe the basket.

“One second!” you exclaim, rushing back into V's room to grab her warm socks and a little sweater, knowing how much she loves being snug when the mornings get chilly. After all, there’s nothing quite like coziness by the water.

Once you’re all set, you, Rafe, and V head out to the dock, the crisp morning air invigorating. The sun peeks over the horizon, casting golden hues across the water, making it shimmer beautifully. As you settle down on the dock, Rafe sits with V in his lap, his arm wrapped around her, and you feel a rush of affection as the three of you share this moment together.

You spread out the breakfast, placing the basket between you, and begin to share the fruit, passing pieces to one another as you talk and laugh. The conversations flow easily, filled with lighthearted banter and playful teasing. You don’t ever remember a time it was like this with Rafe. V is all giggles as Rafe makes silly faces to keep her entertained, her laughter ringing out like music against the gentle lapping of the water.

“Mmmmmmmm!” V declares holding her tummy, taking a bite of her strawberry that dribbles juice down her chin. Rafe snickers, wiping it away with a thumb, and you catch the tender moment, your heart swelling even more as you watch him interact with her.

“Definitely mmmm V. It’s all about the company, right?” you say, nudging Rafe playfully with your elbow.

“Absolutely,” he replies, his eyes meeting yours, warmth radiating from him. “Can’t think of a better way to start the day.”

As you all share the meal, the combination of laughter, the bright morning sun, and the gentle rhythm of the water creates a perfect atmosphere. You close your eyes for a moment, savoring the feeling of contentment enveloping you. You realize how truly grateful you are for this time—this little family—you’ve built with Rafe and V.

You can feel the teasing glances from your friends back at the house, the energy in the air feeling lighter and more hopeful. There’s something about this morning that feels different, like a fresh start waiting to unfold. And as V giggles at one of Rafe’s silly impressions, you can’t help but smile, knowing that whatever challenges may lie ahead, you’ll face them together, stronger than ever.

You gently break the laughter between the two of them, a playful grin forming on your face as you lean in to V. “Hey, V, do you know who this is?” You point at Rafe, who glances at you, a hint of nervousness flickering across his features.

V looks between the two of you, her face bursting into a smile, though the confusion is evident in her big, bright eyes. “That’s daddy, V,” you encourage her, your heart racing a little as you say it.

“Dada!” she giggles loudly, the sound bright and infectious.

“Can you say ‘dada’ again?” you prompt, your excitement bubbling.

“Dada!” V repeats, her voice cheerful and innocent.

“Who’s that?” you ask again, the anticipation building as you hold her gaze.

“DADA!!” V replies with glee, absolutely beaming throwing herself at Rafe.

Rafe’s expression shifts completely, a wave of emotion washing over him. He’s lost in this moment, his heart swelling with disbelief at her words. Although he knows she doesn’t fully understand the weight of what she’s just said, he’s silently praying it sticks. This is the foundation of what he’s always wanted—a connection, a bond with her. His daughter. It triggers something deep within him, echoing the promise he made to you earlier: to be good for her… and for you.

Unable to contain himself, Rafe leans down, tickling V, who erupts in joyful laughter. He pulls her into a tight hug, holding her close. “Dada!” she cries out again, and at that moment, tears start to roll slowly down Rafe’s cheeks.

You notice the tears glistening in his eyes, and without hesitation, you brush your hand gently against the back of his head, moving in closer to him. You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his emotion as V settles comfortably between his legs, completely at ease.

Seeing Rafe in this light is unlike anything you’ve ever imagined. It's a stark contrast to the way he was shaped by his father, and you can see how drastically he’s changed in such a short time. A daughter he’s only known for a day has already given him so much strength to stay on the straight and narrow. His love for her is palpable—pure, unconditional, overwhelming.

“I really like this feeling,” he murmurs to you, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for her.”

You turn to him, meeting his gaze, and without a moment’s thought, you lean in and press a gentle kiss on his lips. The tenderness of the moment wraps around you both, and you share a silent understanding of the depths of what you’re experiencing. This domestic feeling with Rafe is foreign but still feels so natural.

In this moment of warmth and love, you continue to relish every second. It feels like time has stopped, allowing you all to bask in the beauty of this new beginning. You can’t help but feel a sense of hope washing over you, knowing that together, with V at the center of it all, the three of you can build a future that shines with promise.

In the back of Rafe's mind, a deal proposed by Hollis Robinson loomed like a neon sign, beckoning him with promises of substantial financial gain. It was an enticing offer he'd been mulling over for days, stirring up conflicting emotions within him.

He recalled Sofia's hesitation when she first discovered the opportunity, her face etched with concern about the implications of such a choice. What had initially felt like a clear path to a better future now seemed shrouded in moral uncertainty, and Rafe couldn’t help but notice how what he had once envisioned for himself and Sofia was beginning to morph into something meant for you and V. On one hand, the promise of money could provide a sense of security—the kind he wanted desperately to give his daughter. The idea of providing V everything she might need was alluring.

Yet, with every enticing thought of wealth came the heavy weight of its potential consequences. He struggled with the nagging feeling that pursuing that deal could jeopardize what he was beginning to build with you and V, creating an internal conflict that felt almost unbearable. In moments of clarity, he would see how far he’d come and how profoundly he wanted to be better for them both.

But that alluring prospect still tugged at him. Images flashed in his mind of a future where he could give V the best—new clothes, educational opportunities, a safe environment to grow up in. Yet he questioned at what cost it would come. The tug-of-war between the responsibility of being a provider and the darker path that came with Hollis's offer left him feeling unsettled.

He looked down at V, happily nestled between his legs, her laughter ringing like music in the crisp morning air. In that moment, his heart ached with a longing to protect this newfound happiness; every precious moment he shared with you and her felt like a fragile treasure.

Rafe’s gaze drifted toward the water, and uncertainty washed over him. He didn’t want to risk this connection, this fragile happiness he was slowly crafting for you and V. Was the pursuit of money worth potentially losing the life he was starting to build?

He made a silent promise to himself to reflect deeply. Would he be able to resist the allure of Hollis’s deal, or would the desire for security ultimately pull him in? The commitment to be better for his daughter and for you felt stronger than ever, but the specter of temptation still loomed, leaving him unsure of the path he would ultimately take. Instead, for now, he wrapped his arm around you and just enjoyed the moment you’re having.

“I’m gonna figure this out- for all of us. Promise.”

Taglist-

@maybankslover @eringaitskill @luissa266 @lolll505 @dayyzlol @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @calaryssia @leilanizcals @eg-dr3amer3

#drew starkey #drew starkey smut #drew starkey x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #rafe smut #rafe x reader #rafe x pogue #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe imagine #rafe fic #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe x maybank #rafe x y/n

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a-hermit-pining · 3 months ago

Text

The Duke and the Dragon

AN: This is it i'm done posting for today. This might seem ooc but I wanted to portray a younger Sylus here.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Sylus x Non mc male reader

Summary: Sylus is mildly intrigued by the human in his tower. The one who is not the princess.

“How could you mess this up?”

You slam your hand against the stone wall, and immediately regret it.

“You were supposed to take my niece, not me,” you hiss, glaring at the dragon. “Do I look like a princess to you?”

You gesture pointedly at your armor. Burnished. Battle-worn. “Have you even read any of the scrolls in this tower? Or spared a glance at all the portraits we sent?”

With a groan, you drop down onto the cold floor. No wine. Of course not. Your niece was never too fond of it.

Across the room, the dragon, Sylus, furrows his brow like a student being unfairly tested.

Maybe you should’ve gone with a true beast. One that didn’t speak. Didn’t think. But back then, a part-human dragon seemed wiser. Younger than his kind. Untouched by dragon sickness. Still sane enough to protect your niece.

Your advisors had warned you. You hadn’t listened.

Now here you were. Kidnapped. By your own plan. Because apparently Sylus had mistaken you, a duke in ceremonial cape, for the girl you were trying to protect.

“I was told to grab the one in royal clothing,” Sylus says, like that’s the end of it.

“I am quite literally in armor.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What happens when the prince shows up to duel you and finds me instead?”

He doesn’t answer.

The prophecy’s clear: No one leaves the tower until the dragon is defeated.

Sylus is mildly intrigued by the human in his tower. The one who is not the princess.

But he cannot find a fault in that. He quite enjoys speaking to the human, who has a thing for slamming hands on tough surfaces and then refusing help.

Their routine, as it settles:

7:00 a.m. — You wake in a canopy bed far too delicate for your dignity. You mutter daily threats to burn it.

8:00 a.m. — You either cook or terrify the kitchen brownies into doing it. Sylus practices writing while muttering about cursive being a curse.

7:15 a.m. — Sparring in the study. Limited space. Frequent bruises.

Sylus is not gentle. You never ask him to be.

11:00 a.m. — Lessons. You teach him politics. History. Metaphors. He learns faster than he lets on.

12:00 p.m. — Nap time. His decree. So the brownies can cook without being “micromanaged to death,” he claims. (They thank him.)

3:00 p.m. — You bandage his wounds. He pretends he’s fine. You pretend you’re not worried.

2:00 p.m. — A knight arrives. Sylus checks with you before fighting.

“Do we like this one?”

“Not particularly.” He grins.

4:00 p.m. — Letters from the fallen. Some are bitter. Some… oddly romantic. Some come from your niece, now infatuated with her lady-in-waiting and living the sapphic dream in the capital.

5:00 p.m. — Supper. Then stargazing. You fall asleep beside him, shoulder brushing scale. Neither of you mentions it.

8:00 p.m. — Sylus tucks his human into the canopy bed you pretend to hate. You grumble about lace and pillows. He doesn’t argue. You are, he thinks, not for the first time, prettier than any princess.

You weren’t the princess. But Sylus thinks the prophecy got it right anyway.

So he holds back. He fights smarter. But he never wants to lose.

Knights keep coming. And sometimes, princesses. Those are harder.

Because you made him promise, no hurting women.

He doesn’t want to be legendary. He doesn’t want to be feared. He just wants this.

Your voice in the morning. Your sparring insults. Your breath soft against his shoulder when the stars begin to rise.

And he’s afraid. Terribly afraid. That one day, you’ll say it’s time. That he has to lose.

And he will. Because if it’s your voice that asks it, he’ll burn the world to obey.

You walk past him.

Zone N109 hums with static and neon, the air thick with synth fog and incense smoke. You’re halfway to the next stall when a voice, calm, low, maddeningly sure, cuts through the noise.

“Still furrow your brow when you’re about to insult someone.”

You pause and then turn. Slowly.

The man is tall. Broad-shouldered.

You narrow your eyes. “Do I know you?”

He steps closer, hands tucked in his pockets like he’s not shaking on the inside. “Not in this life.”

You blink. “Right.” You start to turn again. “Definitely a creep.”

“You also say that when you’re flustered.”

That stops you. Again. You stare at him. Studying his face. There’s nothing familiar about him… and yet…

There’s something. In the way he watches you with that stupid smug smile. In the way your name hasn’t even been said, and still, he looks like he’s memorized it.

You cross your arms. “Do you flirt with every stranger in a cursed weapons market?”

His smile quirks.

“Only the ones I’d drag to a tower.”

#sylus x reader #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #fluff #male reader #canon divergence #non mc reader #dragon sylus

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svthui · 29 days ago

Text

Like Real People Do

Pairing: Nanami Kento x f!Reader

Synopsis: He was just your kind, taken coworker — until he wasn’t. Now he’s looking at you differently, and hope is harder to ignore.

Genre: Coworker AU, coworkers to lovers, slow-burn romance, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, modern office setting, angst, fluff.

Content Warnings: MDNI; strong language, themes of longing and emotional healing, soft smut. Please read responsibly.

note: fulfilling my fantasy of nanami as a finance bro but not the cringe type of finance bro

PART ONE PART TWO

You never meant to fall for him.

It started the way quiet things often do—gradually, then all at once.

The first time you met Nanami Kento, he handed you a pen.

You were new, barely a week into the job, fumbling with paperwork during a Monday morning meeting, and yours had run out of ink. Without a word, he slid his over. Sleek, clean, no chew marks—of course—and warm from his hand. You tried to give it back afterward, but he only nodded and said, “Keep it. I have another.”

That was it. A nothing moment.

Except it wasn’t.

Because the next day, there was a sticky note on your desk—your name written neatly at the top—with a reminder about a deadline you’d forgotten. Then another one later that week about a change in the agenda for Friday’s client call. He always signed them with his initials. Never a full name. Never anything more.

Just: Please remember to update the numbers on slide 4 before the 10 a.m. review. — K.N.

Polite. Efficient. Thoughtful in the way someone is when they don’t want you to trip over the same cracks they’ve already memorized.

And then came everything else.

The way he’d wait until you arrived before ordering his coffee. The way he'd slide into the seat beside yours during department meetings before anyone else had the chance. How he never forgot how you took your tea. How he walked just a little slower when the two of you left work together—even if he had somewhere else to be.

You told yourself it was just how he was. Polite. Reliable. Considerate. The kind of person who doesn’t raise his voice. Who straightens your stapler when you’re not looking. Who always finishes his reports a full day ahead of deadline. A man carved out of quiet routines and impossible restraint.

It would’ve been easier if he were rude. Or cold. Or distant.

But he wasn’t. He was just… Nanami.

And Nanami had a girlfriend.

You’d known from the beginning. He didn’t talk about her much, but he didn’t have to. The others did. “They’ve been together since high school,” someone had said once. “Real solid couple. She’s in publishing, I think.”

You’d smiled and nodded. And after that, you stopped letting yourself imagine anything too dangerous.

You learned to live in the half-spaces. In the warmth of a borrowed pen. In the comfort of his voice when he called your name across the office. In the quiet, flickering maybes that only existed in your head.

You were just his coworker.

And he was just being kind.

Still, every time you found a note with your name on it in that familiar handwriting, your heart betrayed you.

You never asked for more.

But god, you wanted it.

***

Fridays meant lunch with Utahime and Shoko.

It had become tradition—escaping the sterile glare of fluorescent lights and the endless drone of office chatter for the cozy bistro tucked just across the street. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet, with warm bread, clinking cutlery, and cheap wine that tasted better in good company.

You were halfway through telling Utahime about the disaster of an email thread you’d accidentally replied all to when Shoko paused mid-sip of her wine, eyes flicking toward the front window.

“Well, would you look at that,” she murmured, setting her glass down slowly.

You didn’t have to ask what.

Utahime followed her gaze immediately. “Is that—oh. Yep. That’s Nanami.”

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t turn around.

Shoko’s tone stayed casual, but there was something sharper beneath it. “And that must be the girlfriend.”

“She’s pretty,” Utahime noted, squinting through the sunlight. “Tall. Good skin. They kind of look like one of those couples in the frames at home decor stores.”

You forced a small smile and kept your eyes on your fork.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen them together. Just the first time in a while. Nanami was always discreet about his private life—he didn’t talk about her at work, didn’t show her off, didn’t parade her into the building like some people did. You’d only seen them once before, months ago, when she stopped by briefly to drop something off.

Even then, he hadn’t introduced her around. Just thanked her and returned to his desk.

Still. You remembered the way she’d looked at him.

“She’s classy,” Shoko said, lips curling around a cigarette she wasn’t allowed to light inside. “Looks like someone who reads real books.”

“Stop,” you said, barely above a whisper, stabbing your salad.

They both glanced at you—Utahime with a guilty grimace, Shoko with a softened gaze.

“We’re not saying anything bad,” Utahime added quickly. “We’re just... curious.”

Shoko leaned on her elbow, watching you carefully. “You okay?”

You nodded. Lied. “I don’t care.”

You cared.

Of course you did. But you’d gotten good at pretending.

When you finally allowed yourself to look, it was cautious. Just a glimpse. Nanami was seated by the window, his posture as composed as ever, but he looked... softer. Like this version of him was from some other life. One that had nothing to do with you.

His girlfriend laughed at something he said. He didn’t smile, but you’d seen him enough to know that didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. His eyes were relaxed. Shoulders unburdened. He looked like someone who knew exactly where he belonged.

Your chest ached.

Then, without warning, she stood up.

The three of you went still.

She gathered her coat, said something—something short—and walked out, leaving Nanami alone at the table. He didn’t get up. Just sat there, staring down at his untouched coffee.

“...Huh,” Utahime murmured.

Shoko tilted her head. “That was abrupt.”

“Did they—?”

“No way. That didn’t look like a fight.”

Utahime raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t not look like one either.”

“Maybe they broke up?” Shoko offered, almost too casually.

You froze.

Then pushed your plate away.

“I’m not doing this,” you muttered, standing up and reaching for your bag.

They both blinked.

Utahime reached for your wrist. “Hey—wait. We’re not teasing. We’re just talking.”

You didn’t pull away, but your voice came out more tired than you meant it to. “He’s not mine. He never was. So whatever’s going on—it doesn’t matter.”

But as you turned toward the register, you couldn’t help glancing back.

Nanami was still sitting there.

Still alone.

And for the first time in three years, he looked like someone who wasn’t sure what to do next.

***

The thing about Nanami Kento was—he never changed.

Not in any obvious way.

The Monday after the bistro, he arrived at 8:03 a.m. sharp, just like always. Shirt pressed. Tie knotted cleanly. That same calm, unreadable expression on his face as he stepped into the office with a coffee in one hand and a document folder in the other.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t been left sitting alone in that bistro while his girlfriend walked out the door.

You kept waiting for something—anything—to crack. A wrinkle in his routine. A missed coffee. A distant look. Something subtle you could cling to.

But Nanami remained Nanami.

He still gave you sticky notes with neatly written reminders. Still lent you his pen when yours went missing. Still waited until you arrived to choose his seat in meetings, claiming the spot beside you with his usual quiet presence and a nod that always felt too gentle for the room you were in.

Everything was the same.

And that made it worse.

Because maybe it hadn’t meant anything. Maybe she’d just left for a call, or a meeting, or—god, you didn’t even know. Maybe they hadn’t broken up at all.

Why would they?

They’d been together since high school. That was the kind of thing that lasted. A whole life built on familiarity and comfort and shared years. Not like whatever this was—this strange rhythm you’d built with someone who didn’t even know you watched him like he hung the moon.

“Still brooding about him?” Utahime asked, bumping your shoulder as she passed your desk with her lunch in hand.

You didn’t even look up. “Not brooding.”

“Brooding in silence is brooding,” Shoko chimed in, appearing beside her like a cigarette ghost, coffee in one hand, mischief in her voice. “He looked tired this morning. Maybe he didn’t sleep well. Trouble in paradise?”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.”

Utahime smirked. “But we do know he hasn’t been seeing her lately. She used to come by sometimes, remember? Dropped off lunch once, picked him up after work…”

“Maybe she’s busy,” you muttered, trying to focus on your spreadsheet even as your vision blurred slightly.

“Or maybe,” Shoko drawled, “you finally have a chance.”

You hated how fast your heart responded.

“No,” you said firmly, pushing away from the screen. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me hope for something that doesn’t exist.”

Utahime’s expression softened. “We’re not trying to make it harder for you. But it’s okay to want it. You’ve liked him for—what, three years?”

“Three years and change,” Shoko said helpfully. “Give or take.”

You sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Even if they did break up… he wouldn’t just turn around and—fall into something else. That’s not him. He’s not like that.”

And he wasn’t.

You knew that better than anyone.

He was careful. Measured. Someone who thought ten steps ahead and never made a move he couldn’t live with.

Even if he was newly single—if—he wouldn’t come looking for something soft and messy and untested. Not with you.

So you buried it again.

Like you always did.

Smiled through the ache and let the quiet between you linger, even as the part of you that still hoped curled in on itself a little tighter.

Because if he’d been hurting, he never showed it.

And if he was healing—he wasn’t doing it with you.

***

You’d been the last to volunteer.

It wasn’t even volunteering, really—just your manager’s hopeful suggestion that you’d be perfect to organize the upcoming team-building retreat, since you “had such a natural sense of structure” and “got along with everyone.” Which was just corporate-speak for no one hates you and you know how to use Excel.

Nanami had been appointed the finance rep. No surprise there. He was team lead, respected, reliable. The kind of person they trusted with numbers and logistics and, apparently, adult camping trips in the woods.

Which was how you found yourself alone with him in the empty conference room at 7:42 p.m., surrounded by folders, printouts, and three empty coffee cups.

Everyone else had trickled out hours ago. Some had real excuses—children to pick up, appointments, actual lives. Others, like Shoko and Utahime, had just exchanged a look before whispering something about “giving you a chance” and disappearing behind conspicuously loud heels.

You hadn’t minded. It gave you something to focus on.

At least until you realized Nanami was still here.

You glanced up from your laptop, surprised to find him still beside you, flipping through a document with one hand and sipping lukewarm coffee with the other. His jacket had long since been draped over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up.

You blinked at him. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ve got the rest of this handled.”

He looked up slowly. “I know.”

“Really. I can finalize the itinerary and email it tomorrow.”

He tilted his head. “And leave you to carry the entire thing by yourself? I don’t think so.”

You gave a small laugh. “I’ve handled worse.”

Nanami’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should’ve. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes before he looked away.

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home,” he said softly, eyes back on the page. “So it’s fine.”

You stilled.

For a second, you weren’t even sure you’d heard him right.

But the weight of his words settled between you like a dropped stone.

He said it so easily, like it wasn’t meant to mean anything. But it did.

You tried to keep your voice even. “So... you’re not—”

“No,” he said, still not looking at you. “We ended things.”

Silence.

Your heart climbed into your throat and stayed there.

“I’m sorry,” you offered quietly, unsure if you meant it for him or for yourself.

He gave a small shake of his head. “It was mutual. Or maybe overdue.”

Something bitter curled in the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t elaborate. Just leaned back in his chair, arms crossed now, gaze trailing toward the ceiling like he was suddenly very far away.

You didn’t know what to say. You’d imagined a thousand ways this could happen—guessed and wondered and hoped—but now that it had, your chest ached with something heavier than joy.

He’d always seemed so... steady. Anchored. Like his whole life was already mapped out, clean and structured and out of reach.

But now...

Now he looked tired.

Not worn out—just undone. In the quietest way.

And maybe that was why, after a moment, he said softly, “You know, I don’t hate this.”

You blinked. “Hate what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely—at the room, the papers, you. “Working like this. With you.”

A pause.

Then, like it cost him nothing at all: “You make things feel less heavy.”

You stared at him.

He wasn’t looking at you when he said it—he almost never did when things mattered—but the words found their way under your skin anyway, warm and terrible and dangerous.

Because for the first time in three years, it wasn’t just you imagining it.

Something had changed.

And neither of you was pretending it hadn’t.

“Do you want to grab dinner?”

You weren’t expecting the question—not from him, not after that conversation, and definitely not with the clock already pushing past eight.

You looked up from your bag, half-packed and ready to head out. Nanami stood beside the conference room table, sleeves still rolled, his expression unreadable but calm, like he hadn’t just said something quietly devastating thirty minutes ago.

“I… shouldn’t you head home?” you asked, gently.

He shook his head. “I told you. No one’s waiting.”

Right. Right.

Still, your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.

“I’m not asking to make things awkward,” he added, voice lower now. “I just thought… you might want a proper meal. Something not from the office vending machine.”

He was trying to be kind. You knew that. It was how he always was—with you, with everyone. But now that you knew, really knew, that he was newly single… something about that kindness made your chest tighten.

It wasn’t nothing anymore.

Still, you agreed. Quietly. Softly. And tried not to think too hard about what it meant.

***

You ended up at a quiet soba place tucked behind a side street, dimly lit with private booths and warm, steaming bowls that smelled like salt and comfort. It wasn’t far from the office, but far enough that you didn’t recognize anyone.

Still, as you slipped into the booth across from him, you couldn’t stop glancing toward the door.

Nanami noticed. Of course he did.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he said, not accusing, just observant.

You winced. “No—well. Not uncomfortable. Just…”

His eyes stayed on you, steady.

You finally exhaled. “It’s just—what if someone sees us?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re coworkers.”

“Yes, but,” you said, stirring your tea just to give your hands something to do. “People talk. And the breakup—it’s still recent, right? I don’t want it to seem like I’m—taking advantage. Or like you’re… trying to move on too fast.”

That part you didn’t say aloud, especially not with me.

His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

There was a calmness to him, yes, but something else, too. A stillness that wasn’t peace. A kind of weariness that looked like someone learning how to be alone again.

But when he added, “And I’m not trying to move on,” your heart twisted.

Because he didn’t sound sad about it.

Just honest.

He let the silence stretch before continuing, voice softer now, “You know, I haven’t had dinner with someone outside of work in a long time.”

You offered a weak smile. “So this is work?”

“I said outside of work. Not that this is.”

You looked at him then, and found him already looking at you.

There it was again—that shift. That subtle, impossible thing you’d never dared name.

Warmth bloomed in your chest, quickly chased by doubt. You lowered your gaze to your bowl and forced yourself to eat.

Because whatever this was—it couldn’t be real.

Not yet.

Not when he’d only just closed one door.

But god, sitting across from him like this—half-laughing at your mutual hatred for trust fall activities, quietly debating what snacks to bring to the team retreat, and watching the crease between his brows soften every time you said something sarcastic—it was hard not to imagine that maybe, just maybe, something new had already started.

***

Weeks passed, and nothing was said.

Not about that dinner.

Not about the breakup.

Not about the subtle, quiet shift that had begun to stir between the two of you.

But things changed.

Slowly. Gently. Like gravity had tilted just enough to draw you into each other’s orbit.

It started with small things. More shared overtime sessions—planning the logistics for the team-building retreat had turned into long evenings in the empty conference room, laptops open, half-finished coffees cold between you.

Nanami started bringing two drinks instead of one.

“Chamomile,” he’d say, placing the cup beside your hand without looking. “You sleep like shit after black tea.”

You never told him that.

He started waiting for you after meetings, even ones that had nothing to do with your departments. Quietly, without announcement. Just standing beside the elevator or at the end of the hallway, like he’d happened to be there.

You didn’t ask questions.

And when he walked you to the station in the evenings, he never said why. But he always kept pace with you. Always glanced your way when you crossed the street. Always stood between you and the edge of the platform.

It wasn’t anything.

Not officially.

Not out loud.

But it lingered in the way your desks were somehow always side by side in every planning session. In the way your fingers brushed when you passed him the sign-up sheet. In the way he spoke more freely when it was just the two of you—drier humor, a touch more teasing.

Once, you made him laugh. Not the polite kind, but the rare one. Low and warm and real.

You didn’t know what you said. You just knew it stayed with you for days.

Still, you didn’t ask.

You didn’t dare.

Because even now—especially now—he didn’t talk about her.

You didn’t know if it was because it still hurt, or because it didn’t, and maybe that was worse.

But when Utahime leaned over your desk one afternoon and whispered, “Okay, seriously, how are you two not dating?” you flinched like she’d touched a nerve.

Shoko, ever the instigator, just hummed as she blew smoke out the window. “Give it time. He’s not subtle.”

“He’s not obvious either,” you muttered, eyes locked on your inbox.

Utahime rolled her eyes. “He brings you tea and drives you home. If that’s not a confession, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s not a confession if he’s just being nice.”

“You’re the only one who still thinks that,” Shoko said.

You wanted to argue.

But when Nanami showed up a few minutes later to discuss the finalized schedule, he didn’t knock. Just let himself in, eyes sweeping over your desk first, then the others.

And when his gaze found yours, something quiet passed between you. Familiar now. Gentle. A weightless recognition.

He gave a small nod. Just for you.

That was the loudest thing he’d ever said.

***

The retreat had already been teetering on the edge of chaos.

Between missing luggage, broken team flags, and a whiteboard marker war that ended in a minor nosebleed, things were holding together only by your clipboard, your caffeine intake, and Nanami’s deeply intimidating ability to command order with a single glance.

Then Gojo Satoru showed up.

You heard him before you saw him—laughing, loud and smug, and definitely not on the RSVP list.

Nanami froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing toward the hill at the edge of the campgrounds.

And then, “Ohhh~ is that my favorite number-crunching killjoy over there?”

You turned just in time to see the man himself.

Gojo Satoru, CEO of the company, breezed down the slope wearing white linen pants, a graphic tee that said “CEO,” and sunglasses despite the cloud cover. Behind him trailed a poor intern holding three duffel bags, a folding chair, and—for some reason—a karaoke machine.

You blinked.

You heard someone whisper behind you, “No one told me he’d be here.”

Utahime muttered, “Why would he be? He’s the CEO. He doesn’t even go to board meetings.”

“Is this a fever dream?” you whispered.

Shoko lit a cigarette. “You’ll get used to him. Or you won’t. Either way, pray.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why is he here?”

“Team-building, duh!” Gojo beamed as he reached the bottom of the hill. “Come on, Nanamin, I couldn’t let you run this thing without me. What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t show up for my loyal little minions?”

You weren’t sure if he was joking. Actually, you hoped he was joking, because the moment Gojo caught sight of you, he gasped dramatically and pointed.

“Ohhh! You must be her! The her!”

Your blood turned to ice. “I—sorry, what?”

Gojo reached out like he was about to ruffle your hair and—

Smack.

Nanami slapped his hand away.

Effortlessly.

Like it was routine.

You stared.

Everyone stared.

Gojo didn’t even flinch. He just pouted, rubbing the back of his hand like a child. “So violent, Nanamin. Is that any way to treat your boss?”

“You’re barely a boss,” Nanami said, voice flat. “Stop harassing people.”

“I wasn’t harassing,” Gojo whined. “I was being charming. You know, warming up the team spirit.”

Nanami turned to you, calm as ever. “Ignore him. He’ll lose interest if you don’t react.”

You blinked up at him. “You just hit the CEO.”

He shrugged. “He can’t fire me. He’s tried.”

“...What?”

Nanami didn’t elaborate.

Gojo was already dragging someone toward the egg relay, shouting something about “betting stock options on the winning team.”

“Do I even want to know what that was?” you asked, still dazed.

Shoko, behind you, exhaled smoke. “He’s been like that since college.”

Utahime grumbled, “I’m still recovering from the last time he ‘supervised’ a company event. He made everyone take turns doing dramatic readings of our mission statement.”

You looked at Nanami.

He looked tired.

But beneath the exhaustion, there was a flicker of something dry and fond in his expression. Not quite affection, but the kind of weary tolerance you reserve for a very annoying, very beloved childhood friend who refuses to die.

Still. You had a new question now—one that buried itself under your skin and stayed there,

What kind of person could survive Gojo Satoru... and remain this steady?

You weren’t sure.

But you were starting to think you’d like to find out.

The retreat's second day started with a clipboard in your hand, a schedule you believed in, and a hopeful heart.

It ended with your clipboard lost in a mud pit, the schedule on fire (literally), and your heart wondering if it was medically possible to laugh and cry at the same time.

In theory, the afternoon was meant to be simple: a sequence of games and bonding activities. You and Nanami had mapped it all out with military precision. Flag races, blindfold trust walks, cooperative tower-building challenges. Neat. Efficient. Structured.

Then Gojo decided to “join in.”

And everything went to hell.

First, he replaced the color-coded team flags with glitter-drenched capes from his personal stash. “It’s more festive,” he said, moments before one caught on a tree branch and sent an intern into the bushes.

Then he turned the egg relay into a “high-stakes obstacle course” by scattering water balloons mid-track. He refereed it himself—with a foam sword and zero rules.

Nanami stood beside you through it all. At first, stone-faced. Stoic. Clearly calculating how many HR reports Gojo was racking up per minute.

Then Gojo rode a wheelbarrow down the hill yelling “Team Purple rides again!” and crashed into a food table, sending snacks flying like confetti.

Nanami just sighed.

And you—helpless, overwhelmed, standing beside the only other sane person left—couldn’t hold it in anymore.

You started laughing.

It bubbled up, half-horrified and half-hysterical. And once it started, you couldn’t stop.

Nanami looked at you, brows raised. “You’re cracking.”

“I’ve been cracked,” you gasped, holding your stomach. “There’s nothing left to save.”

He blinked once. Then—so subtle you almost missed it—he smiled.

It was real. Small, crooked. The kind of smile that didn’t show up often. It caught in his cheeks, softened his entire face, and made your breath catch mid-laugh.

He looked... warm like this.

Still him. Still calm and reserved. But the edges were gentler now, like something about all of this—this disaster, this absurdity—had let him exhale.

“I take it back,” he said dryly. “You’re terrifying when you’re sleep-deprived.”

You wiped a tear from your eye. “You should see me during the fiscal year-end.”

The games dragged on. No one followed the rules. Someone accidentally locked themselves in the supply shed. Gojo declared himself honorary DJ and blasted early 2000s boyband hits from a portable speaker.

You and Nanami didn’t try to control it anymore.

You gave up. Found shade near the edge of the field and watched the slow unraveling like two prisoners resigned to fate.

He sat beside you on the bench, close but not too close. Just enough that your knees brushed when you shifted.

“Remind me why we did this,” you asked.

“For the sake of employee morale,” he said, deadpan.

You looked at him. “You’re a very convincing liar.”

He gave a tiny shrug. “Well, if it’s any consolation—” He nodded toward the chaos, where Utahime was chasing Gojo with a clipboard and the Red Team was building a fort out of catering trays. “I think they’re having fun.”

You stared. “That’s what you call fun?”

Nanami looked at you again. There was something softer now in his gaze. Less guarded. More like the man who stayed after hours to walk you to the bus station. The one who brought you tea and remembered how you liked your post-its stacked in color order.

“I think you’re doing a good job,” he said simply.

The words hit somewhere low in your chest. A surprise. Quiet, sincere, and terribly dangerous.

“Thanks,” you said, just as quietly. “Wouldn’t survive this without you.”

For a moment, you both just sat there. Not speaking. Letting the noise of chaos hum in the background like a distant storm.

And then—

“NANAMI! I NEED YOU TO JUDGE THE DANCE-OFF!” Gojo shouted from the hill, spinning in a circle with glowsticks he definitely didn’t have ten minutes ago.

Nanami looked up at the sky like he was reconsidering his life choices.

You bit back another laugh. “We could run.”

“Too late. He’s seen us.”

“Maybe if we fake an injury—”

“He’d call an ambulance just to make a scene.”

You sighed. “We’re not getting out of this, are we?”

“No,” Nanami said. Then, quieter: “But at least you’re here.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it.

But his hand brushed against yours when he stood up.

The fire cracked and spit embers into the dark, its glow flickering across tired faces and half-empty beer bottles.

Someone was still singing karaoke. Off-key. Loud. You weren’t sure if it was Shoko or Utahime—they’d both hit their limit an hour ago and were currently slumped together on a picnic blanket, limbs tangled like lazy vines, swaying in time to whatever slow ballad was butchering the night air.

A few other coworkers had passed out near the fire or wandered off toward the cabins.

You stayed.

So did Nanami.

He sat beside you, legs stretched out in front of him, a barely touched bottle in his hand. He hadn’t said much in the last hour. Just listened. Observed. Occasionally made a dry comment that made you snort into your cup.

You didn’t feel drunk. Just warm. Loose. A little sleepy from the fire and the long, ridiculous day.

The world had softened around the edges, like it always did when the sky turned black and the noise settled down and the laughter faded into silence.

“Are you tired?” he asked suddenly.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Nanami hummed. “Neither am I.”

The fire popped again.

From the speaker, a slow song bled into the background. A love song. One of those nostalgic ones that people always sang during retreats or weddings, usually around the time everyone got too sentimental or too drunk.

You looked over at him.

His shoulders were relaxed. Tie loosened. Shirt rumpled. He didn’t look like Nanami from the office—the composed, courteous professional who handed you pens and sat beside you in meetings like he didn’t know you were slowly, painfully, always falling in love with him.

This version was softer.

So you asked before you could stop yourself:

“Were you really okay?”

Nanami turned his head.

You clarified, voice quieter. “After the breakup?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“Yes.”

Just that.

You waited. Said nothing. Let the fire fill the space between you.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke next.

“We were together for a long time. Since high school. First love kind of thing.” His voice was steady. Low. “It stopped feeling right a while ago. We both knew it. We just... didn’t know how to end it.”

You swallowed. “I saw you. That day at the bistro.”

His eyes flicked to yours. Briefly surprised. “You did?”

You nodded. “With Utahime and Shoko. We didn’t mean to pry but—well. They’re nosy.”

That got a small chuckle out of him. He looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. It was a rare thing to see—Nanami flustered. It made your heart ache in a new way.

“I figured someone might’ve seen us,” he said eventually. “We didn’t fight or anything. She just walked out. Said she couldn’t do it anymore. I agreed.”

“That sounds... awful.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t. Not really. It was overdue. No bad blood. I’ll always love her. Just not the way I used to.”

You looked down at your hands.

That part was harder to hear than you expected.

Because always was such a heavy word.

And yet—so was not the way I used to.

You felt something sharp and foolish rise in your chest.

Hope.

It felt wrong.

Because the breakup was still fresh. Because he’d loved someone else for years. Because you were just the woman who sat beside him at meetings, who borrowed his pens and tried too hard not to care when he asked how your weekend was.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you said, meaning it.

He was quiet again.

“I think I wasn’t. For a while. I think I stayed in something because it was familiar. Comfortable.”

You nodded slowly.

“I know how that feels.”

He looked at you again.

And this time, he really looked. His gaze lingered. Held.

The fire cast shadows across his face, golden and soft. His eyes were gentle—tired, still—but open in a way they rarely were.

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat.

“I’m still figuring it out,” he said. “What I want now. What feels right.”

You were afraid to speak. Afraid you’d say the wrong thing. Or say something that would make the hope bloom further, out of control.

“I just don’t want to hurt anyone,” he added, quieter now. “Not again.”

You nodded.

Me neither, you almost said.

Instead: “You won’t.”

Another long pause.

The fire hissed. Someone snored from across the clearing. Crickets hummed in the trees.

And Nanami said your name—softly, like tasting it.

“I think I always enjoyed our time together,” he admitted. “I just never let myself think about it too much.”

You felt the breath catch in your throat.

“But you had someone,” you said. “And I wasn’t going to—”

“I know,” he cut in. Not sharply. Just with understanding. “And I appreciated that. I still do.”

He didn’t touch you.

He didn’t need to.

The air between you was thick with the things that hadn’t been said. All the years of almosts. Of longing. Of polite distance that masked something far more dangerous.

You didn’t ask what this meant.

You didn’t press.

Because if he reached for you now, if he leaned too close, you wouldn’t stop him—and that would feel wrong.

So you stayed still.

Hopeful.

And aching.

Because you were beginning to see it in him too.

And maybe—just maybe—he was beginning to see it in you.

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