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alygator77 · 4 months ago

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motherhood and matrimony

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, smut, masturbation, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, fluff, little angst, mentions of death (satoru's father).

a/n. tysm for another follower milestone! as a thank you, here are some ceo! satoru headcanons for my ongoing fic motherhood and matrimony. this can kinda be considered as a teaser for those that haven't read the series. for those that have read the fic, this fleshes out the circumstances between satoru and reader a bit more, giving us a bit of insight from satoru's POV (and showing how down bad he is, hehe.)

ceo! satoru, who walks into meetings ten minutes late, just to prove he can. he never rushes—the clock bends for him, so does the room. postures straighten, laptops shift, conversations hush—eyes flicking away like they weren’t just whispering about the latest tabloid headline with his name in bold.

he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting—never does. because he’s used to the attention. the scrutiny. the weight of being watched.

whatever… he never asked for this. he’s the heir of gojo corp, he just has to exist… right?

ceo! satoru, who doesn't read half the reports placed in front of him—rolling his eyes during company briefings, doodling dicks into the margins of billion-yen contracts. he slouches in a chair that cost more than most people’s rent—twirling a pen, daring someone to scold him. it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father.

“take this seriously satoru. you need to grow up. have you found a wife yet?”

the pressure of his legacy comes dressed in politeness, in tightly-wound ties and family dinners that feel more like interviews. it’s never ‘what do you want?’ only ‘what will you become?’

people think he’s lazy. arrogant. detached.

eh… maybe they aren’t wrong?

and yet, for all his mockery, he still shows up. still puts on the suit. still plays the part with a half-smile and his middle finger tucked just behind his back. because maybe, if he doesn’t take it seriously, it can’t hurt him the way it was always meant to.

ceo! satoru, who keeps people at arm's length, especially women. they whisper his name like a prize—because everyone wants something from him: money, attention, his title, a seat at the table. so? he gives them nothing—flirting without intent, touching without feeling, fucking without consequence.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. and gojo satoru? he’s tired of being collateral.

so, he stays perfect on paper—sharp in the spotlight, hollow behind closed doors. if he gives them nothing, then there’s nothing to take.

untouchable, unbothered, and lonelier than he’ll ever admit.

ceo! satoru, who notices you the moment you don’t notice him. you’re new—his father’s latest hire. just another name slipped into a calendar invite he didn’t read, another title he forgot before the ink dried. nothing remarkable. not at first glance. you keep to yourself, all neutral tones and clean lines. head down, posture straight, buried in your work like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

boring, uptight.

that’s his original impression of you.

until he makes some offhand comment in a meeting—low, careless, designed to make the room laugh. but this time, you glance up, meeting his eyes with a scowl.

“...are you finished?” you mumble. cold. quiet. unamused.

the fuck?

it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father. and yet here you are—desk-bound and barely blinking—making him feel like he’s overstayed his welcome—in his own kingdom, mind you.

oh. he’s gonna give you hell.

ceo! satoru, who makes it his personal mission to get under your skin. so, he starts dropping by your office more often. for no real reason—papers he could’ve emailed, questions he already knows the answers to.

“hey miss secretary,” he drawls, dragging the words like velvet across glass. “miss me?”

he pushes. you push back. he reroutes your calendar and you reroute his meetings. he leaves three unsigned forms on your desk just to watch you chase him down the hallway with your heels clicking like gunfire.

“try doing your job sometime,” you hiss.

satoru lives for the moments you slip. he’s used to women shrinking beneath his name. you don’t shrink—you scowl. and it’s addicting. because all that politeness you wear in front of his father is paper-thin around him, and your patience is stretched tight over something sharper.

ceo! satoru, who notices you’ve been late three times this week. not by much—seven minutes, ten at most. but still, late. unusual for someone like you.

you—who normally arrives fifteen minutes early. you—who color-codes schedules and double-checks logistics like it’s second nature. you—who never lets a single thread unravel.

“this company runs on discipline, not excuses,” his father lectures you. “apologies sir… my babysitter has a habit of running late.”

and just like that, the room changes.

ceo! satoru, who said nothing at the time—just watched. you’re a single mom? he’s thinking about the way you never mentioned a child. the way you never once asked for accommodations. the way you kept your head down and your performance sharp, even when your personal life clearly wasn’t giving you much room to breathe. and for the first time, he wonders if he’s been looking at you all wrong.

because it’s easy to call someone uptight until you realize they’re holding the world together with both hands and no help.

you square your shoulders, taking his father’s lecture like you were used to it. why did it seem like you had practice with swallowing apologies you didn’t owe? that doesn’t sit well with him…

ceo! satoru, who didn’t see it coming. not really. one moment his father is mid-sentence, gesturing over untouched steak and quarterly projections. the next, there’s a tremor in his voice—a hand that doesn’t settle, a breath that doesn’t finish. silver clattering to the floor. staff rushing in. panic rising in the air like heat.

he doesn’t remember the walk to the ambulance, only the stillness of his own father’s body.

ceo! satoru, who knows the answer before the doctor speaks. it’s in the look. the way the nurse steps back. the way no one can meet his gaze.

“it was a heart attack… i’m sorry. he didn’t make it.”

he nods. once. what is he supposed to do—to feel? he doesn’t know what to mourn. the father he feared? the man he resented? the stranger who lived down the hall of his own childhood? the man who spent his entire life, trying to mold him—now undone by something even he couldn’t control.

there was no grand ending. no dramatic farewell. just silence.

and satoru—left with all the noise that came after.

ceo! satoru, who stares down at the stipulation in his father’s will like it’s a ghost. and honestly? maybe it is. maybe this is how his father haunts him—not with memories, but with demands.

to inherit full control of gojo corp and the family estate, satoru must be married. with a child. within one year.

he blinks once, then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. of course. of course the man who never trusted him in life wouldn’t trust him in death. control, even from the grave—his father’s final move, final manipulation.

ceo! satoru, who isn’t prepared when it’s you who offers a solution. no dramatics, no buildup—just a simple, “let’s get married.” it takes him a full breath to process it. a fake marriage. a clean deal. a contract that helps you both.

you—already a mother, already the picture-perfect illusion his father wanted him to build. you—who has everything the will demands, and nothing he’s ever had to pretend to want. for a moment, he’s stunned into silence. because you’re not offering him love, you’re offering him freedom.

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t trust easily, but maybe he trusts you? because you’ve never wanted anything from him, never asked for his attention. you’re practical. smart. tired in the same way he is (he’s just better at hiding it).

and sure, maybe what you’re offering isn’t customary. no emotional attachments, no strings. just terms, signatures and survival. it’s not what his father would have wanted. but fuck it, that’s the point.

ceo! satoru, who is not prepared for the way you kiss him at a public event. he tells himself it was just the heat of the moment, knowing you only kissed him to play your role. he tries to conveniently ignore the way your lips part first, slipping your tongue in, sighing against his mouth, leaning into him like you’re his—like he fucking owns you.

but… this is just a charade, marriage of convenience—nothing more. shit. then why the fuck is he rock hard remembering the taste of you?

ceo! satoru, who only meant to jerk off to you once—just to get it out of his system, okay?! clearly that’s all he needs right? he lasts maybe five minutes before he’s groaning your name, hips lifting as he’s spilling cum all over his abs, shuddering as he fucks his own fist thinking about you.

there. that’s it. out of his system—no more, right? (wrong)

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that it happens again, or that it happens easier. it doesn’t take much now—just the sight of you leaning over the dining table in a robe, a bare leg bent, hair tangled from sleep. the curve of your neck when you tilt your head. the flash of skin when you reach for something too high.

what the fuck is wrong with him?!

you’re not even doing anything. not really. you’re just there—folded into his space like you belong there. moving barefoot through his estate in oversized sweaters and quiet hums, curling up on the couch without a clue what you’re doing to him.

ceo! satoru, who’s never felt this out of control. not in boardrooms. not in interviews. not even in the middle of his father’s most ruthless lectures. but with you? with you, it’s all unraveling—you’re like gravity.

and now it’s routine—fucking his hand to the thought of you, slipping into his bedroom, pants pushed down, fist tight around his twitching cock, muttering curses into his palm to keep from moaning too loud, because you’re always asleep in the room next door.

it’s just stress relief, he tells himself. a coping mechanism. a release.

taking care of a kid is harder than he expected. the pressure’s always building as ceo of gojo corp. and you—you’re always close. always soft. always there.

ceo! satoru, who imagines you on your knees, in his office, tucked under his desk like a dirty secret. he’s slapping his dick gently against your cheek, rubbing his precum all over your pretty little mouth, encouraging you to part your lips before feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

schlick. schlick. schlick.

his filthy faps echo off the bedroom walls—sprawled out on expensive sheets, cock flushed and leaking down his knuckles as his wrist works faster, panting, groaning, lost in the addicting image of you.

“s-shit—fuck—” he breathes, head tilting back, hips rocking forward. “j-just like that… so good f’me, baby… so fuckin’ good—”

your muffled moans would sound so cute, gagging around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you blink up at him, teary and beautiful. he’d stroke your hair back, whispering praise, thrusting lazily down your throat.

“fuuuck—look at you, so pretty—s-shit…” he’s fraying at the edges, nearly breaking as his strokes grow faster, messier. “p-please—fuck, need it—need your mouth, please… just wanna—nngh…”

ceo! satoru, who fantasizes about cuming across your tongue—your eyes fluttering closed as he tells you to swallow. and you’d swallow it all, wouldn’t you? looking up at him with ruined lips, cum streaking your chin, smiling all coy with those pouty lips he dreams about every night.

“fuckfuckfuck—” his voice cracks, stomach tensing, cock jerking in his hand. “‘m gonna cum— ‘m gonna—fuck—" he gasps, hips lifting off the edge of the bed as his orgasm crashes through him like a tidal wave.

and it wrecks him.

cum spills over his fist in hot, desperate spurts, leaking between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, painting his abs, his shirt, his thighs in thick creamy streaks.

“g-god… yes… f-fuck, baby… f’you, all f’you…” he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as your name slips from his lips, over and over again like a prayer.

ceo! satoru, who lies there afterward, sweating and spent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what the fuck he’s doing. you’re not actually his—you were never meant to be. sure, you’re his wife, but only on paper, nothing more. so… why do the lines keep blurring? thinning. you’re already under his skin. already in his sheets. in his head. on your fucking knees every time he closes his eyes.

and it’s not just lust anymore.

it’s the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. the way you talk to your daughter in that soft, maternal tone, tugging at something deep in his chest. the gojo estate used to feel like a museum. all cold marble and high ceilings, every corner echoing with the absence of something warm. he never realized how empty it felt until you started filling it. slowly. quietly. without trying.

now there’s a pink toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. a collection of tiny socks and hair ties on the entryway table. a soft giggle in the morning light and the scent of syrup in the kitchen air.

your daughter’s toys spill out across the living room rug. your coat hangs next to his in the foyer. your voice carries down the hall like it belongs here.

he wants you like a home he never thought he deserved.

and... that’s the most terrifying part of all.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. if he gives you everything—his time, his trust, the bruised, aching thing in his chest he swore no one could touch—what would you do? would you break him?

a/n. awww... for those that have read the fic it was fun to go back to the start of this story to see how far this pair has come 🥹 i figured ceo deserved his own headcanon, i love my pookie. chapter 10 is in the works. if you enjoyed this teaser consider checking out this fics full masterlist here! i will also be reopening this taglist.

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

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weaving-queen · 2 years ago

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Remember this people of Rotomblr, never perform a service of any kind before being paid.

#I was recently reminded of this fact when someone tried to trick my daughter into writing something for free #scams aren't always the intention but nevertheless conduct your transactions carefully and safely #work should be paid for #pokeblogging #pokemon roleplay #roleplay #pokemon irl #real pokemon

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solxamber · 5 months ago

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Giving Them Chocolates on Valentine's Day with: Octavinelle

Go here for other dorms

Azul Ashengrotto

You approach Azul in the Mostro Lounge, your heart pounding against your ribs. He’s behind the counter, meticulously checking over inventory, looking as polished and composed as ever.

At least, until he notices the neatly wrapped heart-shaped box in your hands.

His sharp eyes narrow slightly in suspicion. “What’s this?” he asks, adjusting his glasses as he peers at the chocolates like they might explode.

You blink. “It’s chocolate.”

“I can see that,” he says, ever the businessman. “What I mean is—why?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Typical Azul. Always thinking there’s some hidden clause, some kind of catch. You hold out the box a little more insistently. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day. And because I like you.”

The effect is instantaneous.

Azul’s expression shatters. His carefully maintained composure cracks like glass. His fingers twitch where they rest on the counter, and for the first time, he seems completely, utterly lost.

“You…” He blinks rapidly, his voice quieter now. “You like me?”

You tilt your head, watching his face turn a shade of pink you didn’t even know he was capable of. “Yeah. I thought that was obvious.”

Azul makes a sound. You’re not sure if it’s a laugh or a quiet gasp of disbelief. Either way, he clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He exhales sharply, adjusts his glasses again—completely unnecessarily—and shifts his weight like he’s trying to ground himself. Then, as if desperately grasping onto something familiar, he clears his throat and straightens up, the businessman in him taking over.

“Well,” he says, smoothing a hand over his coat, “in that case, it would be highly inappropriate of me not to offer you a proper date.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Oh?”

Azul nods, trying so hard to appear composed despite his ears still burning red. “Mostro Lounge serves only the finest cuisine. Allow me to treat you to dinner tonight. Naturally, I’ll cover all expenses.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re really making a date sound like a business transaction.”

Azul scowls immediately, crossing his arms as he actively fights for his dignity. “That’s not—! I just meant that it would be—! Ugh.” He sighs, pressing his fingers against his temple before looking at you again, this time softer.

“…I’d like to take you to dinner,” he amends, quieter now. “Because I like you too.”

Your chest warms.

Now you’re the one who feels a little breathless, your heart stuttering at the rare sincerity in his voice.

You smile. “Then I’d love to go.”

Azul exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath this whole time. He nods, then quickly busies himself with setting out a reserved sign for the best table in the lounge—as if planning everything right this second will keep him from combusting.

You watch him, amused, and so, so fond.

For all his smooth talk and confidence, he’s just as flustered as you are.

Jade Leech

You really should have prepared for this better.

Jade Leech was not the kind of person you could just walk up to, hand over chocolates, and expect a normal reaction. You knew that. And yet, here you were, clutching a heart-shaped box like it was a live grenade, stumbling through your words as his ever-present, knowing smile grew sharper with every passing second.

“So, um,” you start, regretting every life choice that led to this moment. “I—I made these for you. Because it’s, uh, Valentine’s Day. And also because I—uh—”

You stop.

Jade is watching you way too intently, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he waits so, so patiently for you to finish your sentence.

You take a steadying breath and just force it out. “Because I like you.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he hums, soft and thoughtful, as he takes the chocolates from your hands—his fingers brushing against yours, just barely. Then, without warning, he leans in.

Way too close.

Your breath catches.

Jade tilts his head, studying you like he’s greatly enjoying the way your face is rapidly heating up. “How interesting,” he murmurs, his voice low and far too entertained. “You’re quite adorable when you’re nervous.”

Your stomach flips.

Jade watches your reaction for a moment longer—dragging this out on purpose, the menace—before finally pulling back. And even then, not by much.

His smile softens, and there’s something almost warm beneath the teasing glint in his eyes. “I accept,” he says simply.

It takes your brain a full three seconds to catch up. “Wait—you—”

“I like you too,” he continues, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink, still thoroughly disoriented, and Jade laughs quietly, clearly enjoying himself. “Shall I take you to dinner tonight?” he muses, tapping the box lightly. “It would only be fair, since you’ve already given me such a lovely gift.”

Your heart is fighting for its life.

“…Yeah,” you manage. “That sounds nice.”

Jade grins. “Perfect.”

And just like that, you know you’ve fallen right into his trap.

Floyd Leech

You’re pretty sure you’re about to die.

Because the second Floyd spots the chocolates in your hands, his entire mood plummets.

One moment, he’s just existing—normal Floyd behavior, a little lazy, a little restless. And the next? Oh. Oh no.

His grin disappears. His eyes darken. His whole posture shifts, and suddenly, he looks one wrong move away from squashing the nearest person to death.

“…Whatcha got there, Shrimpy?” His voice is low, slow, and dangerous, like a predator catching the scent of something it doesn’t like.

Your fight-or-flight instincts scream at you to run.

But you don’t.

You force yourself to stay put, lifting the chocolates a little higher in a silent please don’t kill me gesture.

“…They’re for you,” you manage.

Instant. Mood. Whiplash.

Floyd blinks. And then—all at once—he’s grinning again.

“Ehhh? Really?!” His entire demeanor flips so fast it gives you whiplash. Suddenly, he’s giggling, practically bouncing as he snatches the chocolates from your hands and leans in so, so close.

No personal space. Not even a little.

It’s our space now.

Floyd hums, inspecting the box like he’s debating whether to eat the chocolates first or eat you. “Y’know,” he drawls, tilting his head, “if these were for someone else, I probably would’ve squeezed ‘em real, real hard.”

Your stomach drops. “I—uh—”

“But they’re for me!” he interrupts, all teeth and delight, pressing the chocolates against his chest like a prized possession. “So it’s fine~!”

You exhale, shaky. “Great. Love that.”

Floyd chuckles, and before you can react, his arms are around you. Tight. Secure. Warm. He leans in close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin.

“Mmm… you’re mine now, though.”

Your heart short-circuits.

Floyd giggles again, sing-song and sweet, but his grip is firm, unyielding. “Forever n’ ever, right, Shrimpy?”

You swallow hard, helplessly flustered. “…Yeah.”

His eyes glint with satisfaction.

“Good,” he purrs, and somehow, you just know—

You’re not gonna regret this. (probably)

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

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missarchive · 7 months ago

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american jesus ☆

spencer reid

part one part two part three part four

summary; What starts as a seemingly innocent exchange quickly escalates into a game of trust, control, and desire. Spencer offers you more than just financial stability; he gives you attention, adoration, and a connection so intimate it leaves you breathless. From whispered words over the phone to moments of vulnerability, he knows exactly how to unravel you, guiding you to discover sides of yourself you never knew existed.

But with every dollar he deposits into your account and every command that leaves his lips, the boundaries between professionalism and pleasure blur. As you dive deeper into this intoxicating arrangement, you can’t help but wonder: are you just another outlet for his control, or has this brilliant man fallen for you just as deeply as you’ve begun to fall for him?

cw; +18 minors dni, masturbation (f), hints at masturbation (m), nudes, spencer calls reader "little girl" once, phone sex, sugar baby/daddy dynamics, inexperienced reader, pleasure dom spencer, fingering, dirty talk

an; this is the first part in my new series! as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. P.s. this is written with jesus reid in mind <3 xoxo

The idea had been absurd from the beginning—a drunken suggestion tossed out during a late-night study break, your friend’s cheeks flushed from the cheap wine you’d both been sipping.

“You should totally do it,” she’d said, her voice a mix of mischief and daring as she scrolled through her phone. “It’s not like you have to… do anything. Just talk. Flirt a little. Get someone to pay for your coffee—or your rent. What’s the harm?”

You’d laughed it off then, brushing aside her suggestion with a half-hearted joke about the kind of people who used those sites. But now, with your landlord’s polite but insistent emails piling up, along with the crushing weight of tuition bills and credit card debt, her words didn’t seem so laughable.

Desperation, you’d learned, had a way of reshaping your boundaries.

So, against every instinct that told you to slam the laptop shut and find another way, you clicked the link she’d jokingly sent that night.

The homepage was a garish blend of pink and gold, its polished glamour doing little to mask the transactional nature of it all. The tagline—"Where connections are made"—was a cruel euphemism for what this really was: a marketplace. A place where companionship, or at least the illusion of it, had a price tag.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time before you finally typed in a username: laceandliterature.

The flood of messages came almost instantly.

@ hungandrich; Hey, beautiful 😘

@ olderseekingyounger; I can show you the world 🌍💎

@ MrNaughty4U; $5k a week to be my princess. No strings attached 💵

It was overwhelming, a cascade of propositions ranging from saccharine to predatory. Some were masked in politeness, others made no effort to conceal their intentions. Your stomach churned as you skimmed through them, the realisation sinking in that you were just another product on a shelf.

And then, just as you were about to close the browser and pretend this had never happened, a new message pinged.

It was short, direct—refreshingly so:

[new chat from: @ thefourthdoctor]

@ thefourthdoctor; Intriguing profile. Shall we talk?

No emojis, no extravagant promises. Just a simple, confident statement.

You hesitated, your heart racing as you clicked on the profile. The picture was blurry, as if taken in haste, but it revealed enough: dark, wavy hair that framed sharp, intelligent eyes behind a pair of glasses. His bio was sparse but intriguing, mentioning books, travel, and a keen interest in "meaningful conversations."

Something about it—about him—felt different. Not just the lack of overtly transactional language, but the quiet assurance in his words.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

This was a bad idea. You knew it was a bad idea. But against your better judgment, you typed out a response.

@ laceandliterature; I suppose that depends on what you want to talk about.

The reply came almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting.

@ thefourthdoctor; Anything but the obvious.

The words were simple, but the subtext was unmistakable: he wasn’t here for what everyone else seemed to want. Or maybe he was just better at hiding it. No sleazy innuendos. No dick pics. No hollow promises of private jets or weekend getaways. Not even the tired clichés of "Hey, gorgeous" or “What’s your body count?”—just a question.

It was startling in its simplicity, almost disarming. And for that exact reason, it made you pause. The absence of the usual vulgarity felt almost like a trick, a trap designed to lure you into a false sense of security. You had learned the hard way to be cautious online. Yet, despite yourself, you couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard as you glanced at his username again.

A click brought up his profile, your curiosity outweighing your skepticism. The photo was blurry, clearly taken without much thought to lighting or angles. It wasn’t like the polished, professional headshots some of the other profiles sported. Still, you could make out the basics: slightly messy, long curly dark hair, intelligent eyes framed by glasses, and an awkward sort of handsomeness that felt... real.

The bio was brief—almost frustratingly so.

"Bibliophile. Traveler. Interested in meaningful conversations and unconventional connections."

It lacked the arrogance and ostentation of the others you’d scrolled past, the ones who listed their wealth or their penchant for “petite brunettes.” Instead, it was vague, yet oddly specific in its sincerity.

Your chest tightened, a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity tugging at you. Was this calculated, or was it simply honest? And why did it feel more dangerous than the others?

Still, you typed.

Your heartbeat quickened as you debated your next move. The smart thing would be to leave it at that, maybe even block him. After all, you weren’t here for emotional entanglements. This was supposed to be transactional—a simple trade: your time and charm for their money and attention. A means to an end.

Yet, against your better judgment, you stayed.

@ laceandliterature; The obvious is easier to avoid than you think, but meaningful conversations? That’s a tall order here.

There was a long pause, long enough that you started to wonder if you’d misjudged him. But then, the reply came:

@ thefourthdoctor; It depends on who you’re talking to.

You stared at the screen, the simplicity of his words sending a ripple of unease through you. There was no bravado, no performance. He was direct, confident, and—most dangerously—intriguing.

The seconds stretched into minutes as you debated what to say next. This was different from the other messages. He wasn’t dangling wealth in front of you like a shiny object or trying to buy your interest with empty promises.

And yet, the very absence of those things made you wonder what he wanted. Because he wanted something—everyone on this site did. That was the nature of it.

@ laceandliterature; Okay. What do you want to talk about?

His reply was immediate, as if he’d been waiting for you to ask:

@ thefourthdoctor; Tell me what brought you here.

The question hit like a dart, sharp and precise. Your stomach tightened as you read it again, the blunt honesty of it stripping away the thin veil you’d been hiding behind. No one had asked that before—not like this.

Most of the messages you’d received had operated on unspoken rules: you pretend this is normal, and they pretend they’re just being generous. But this man wasn’t pretending. He was asking you to be real in a space built on pretense.

And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you felt compelled to answer.

Your fingers trembled slightly over the keyboard. What could you even say? The truth? That you were drowning under the weight of your bills, your student loans, your own stubborn pride? That desperation had led you here, to a website where relationships had price tags and intimacy was commodified?

But what stopped you wasn’t the shame of your situation—it was him. The way he asked, as if the answer mattered. As if you mattered.

The tension in your chest twisted tighter as you typed.

@ laceandliterature; The same thing that brings everyone here, I suppose. Necessity.

You hit send before you could overthink it, before you could soften the edges of the truth. The reply came quickly.

@ thefourthdoctor; Necessity takes many forms. Which is yours?

You stared at the screen, his words pulling something loose inside you. This wasn’t idle curiosity. He was pushing you, peeling back the layers you hadn’t even realized you were wearing. And damn it, you wanted to push back.

@ laceandliterature; Does it matter?

You wrote, the edge in your tone slipping into the words.

The pause before his reply was longer this time, long enough to make you wonder if you’d misstepped. But then it came, and it was nothing you expected.

@ thefourthdoctor; It matters if you want it to.

The simplicity of his words sent a jolt through you, more potent than any overture of wealth or charm could have been. There was no condescension, no judgment. Just quiet, unnerving confidence.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. These conversations were supposed to be easy—shallow exchanges where you could slip into a version of yourself that didn’t feel the weight of real life pressing down on her. But with him, there was no slipping into anything.

He wasn’t letting you.

@ laceandliterature; What about you?

You typed, throwing the question back at him, daring him to offer you the same vulnerability he was asking of you.

@ laceandliterature; Why are you here?

His reply was immediate, almost as if he’d been expecting the question.

@ thefourthdoctor; Curiosity.

You frowned at the screen, the single word both frustrating and enticing. It was vague but deliberate, leaving just enough room for interpretation to keep you hooked.

@ laceandliterature; Curiosity about what?

The next message sent a shiver through you:

@ thefourthdoctor; You.

Your breath caught. One word, and yet it felt like he’d reached through the screen, pulling you closer, tethering you to him in a way that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

You hesitated, the heat rising in your cheeks as you considered how to respond. This wasn’t the typical transactional banter you’d anticipated when you signed up. He wasn’t offering money or promises of luxury. He wasn’t trying to seduce you with extravagance. Instead, he was drawing you in with something far more dangerous: attention.

And the worst part? You wanted it.

@ laceandliterature; Careful. That kind of curiosity can be expensive.

This time, the pause felt deliberate, a beat of silence meant to let your words settle. When his reply came, it was sharp, confident, and devastatingly effective.

@ thefourthdoctor; I don’t mind paying for what I value. Isn’t that what this is about, anyway?

Your breath hitched, the implications of his words hitting you like a shockwave. This wasn’t flirtation—it was a proposition. But not the kind you’d grown to expect on this site. He wasn’t offering to buy your time or affection outright; he was telling you that he saw something in you worth pursuing.

And that made him infinitely more dangerous.

Your heart raced as you stared at the screen, torn between the instinct to pull back and the magnetic pull of his presence. This wasn’t just about money anymore. This was about control, power, the careful dance of who would give and who would take.

You sat frozen, his last message glowing on the screen like an unspoken dare.

"I don’t mind paying for what I value."

The words reverberated through you, sharp and calculated, leaving no room for misinterpretation. This wasn’t a line meant to charm or impress. It was a statement of intent—a declaration of control.

And it was working.

Your chest tightened as you typed, your fingers moving before your brain caught up.

@ laceandliterature; Value is subjective.

The moment you hit send, you regretted it. It felt flippant, like you were trying to undermine the weight of his words. But maybe that was exactly what you needed to do—to wrest back some semblance of control in this conversation that was starting to feel far too intimate.

The reply came after a pause that felt excruciatingly long:

@ thefourthdoctor; It is. But I’m a man who knows how to discern.

Your throat tightened, the confidence in his words striking a chord deep within you. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was setting the rules. And despite yourself, you found it maddeningly enticing.

@ laceandliterature; Discernment is rare here.

You replied, leaning into the dynamic, testing the boundaries of this strange connection.

His next message came faster this time, as if he’d been waiting for you to lean in:

@ thefourthdoctor; So is honesty. Tell me, how rare are you?

Your breath hitched, your cheeks flushing as you stared at the question. It wasn’t what you expected—not here, not from someone you’d never met. And yet, it was the kind of question you couldn’t dismiss with a coy quip or vague answer.

@ laceandliterature; Enough to know my worth.

You typed, surprising even yourself with the boldness of your response.

His reply came swiftly.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. Then you’ll understand why I won’t insult you with empty offers. Tell me what you want.

Your pulse quickened. There it was—the shift you’d been waiting for, the moment the conversation turned from hypothetical to concrete. But this was different from the others. He wasn’t throwing numbers at you, wasn’t dangling luxury in front of you like bait. He was putting the power in your hands, asking you to decide the terms.

It was intoxicating. And terrifying.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind. What did you want? Money was the obvious answer—wasn’t it? That was why you were here in the first place. But now, with him, it didn’t feel so simple.

@ laceandliterature; That depends… What are you offering?

The pause before his response was agonizing, each second stretching longer than the last. And then it came:

@ thefourthdoctor; Time. Money. Attention. Answers, if you’re brave enough to ask the right questions.

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. He wasn’t offering material things, at least not yet. He was offering something far more valuable—and far more dangerous.

You swallowed hard, your palms damp as you considered your next move. He’d shifted the power dynamic yet again, pulling you deeper into a game you weren’t entirely sure you knew how to play.

@ laceandliterature; And what do you want in return?

The question leaving you more vulnerable than you cared to admit.

His response was immediate, his words a quiet, commanding echo in your mind:

@ thefourthdoctor; Exactly what you’re willing to give me.

The simplicity of his answer hit you harder than any declaration of wealth or desire could have. It wasn’t just about money or power or control—it was about you. Your choices, your limits, your willingness to engage in this careful, intoxicating dance.

And that realisation sent a shiver down your spine.

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your pulse thrumming in your ears. You could walk away now. Close the laptop, block his profile, and pretend this never happened. But the truth was, you didn’t want to.

Because for the first time since you’d joined this site, you felt seen. Not as an object, not as a commodity, but as a person.

His words clung to you, each syllable daring you to define what you were prepared to offer. He was turning the mirror back on you, forcing you to confront not just the situation but yourself.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t playing by the rules you expected, and that made him unpredictable. Dangerous. But it also made him irresistible.

@ laceandliterature; That’s a clever way of saying nothing. Ambiguity suits you.

The reply came quickly, almost as if he’d anticipated your deflection.

@ thefourthdoctor; Clarity can be earned, if you’re willing to play the game.

Your breath hitched. There it was again—that quiet, assured confidence that pulled you in despite every warning bell ringing in your head. He wasn’t offering platitudes or empty promises. He was offering a challenge, one that was as maddening as it was magnetic.

@ laceandliterature; And what game is that?

The pause before his answer felt deliberate, a calculated silence that only heightened your anticipation. When his message finally appeared, it sent a shiver through you:

@ laceandliterature; The one we’re already playing. You just haven’t realised it yet.

Your pulse quickened, your palms damp as you stared at the screen. He was toying with you, but not in the way you’d experienced before. This wasn’t about cheap thrills or transparent power plays. This was about control—subtle, seductive, and entirely in his hands.

@ laceandliterature; I don’t recall agreeing to any rules.

The sharpness of your words masking the unease curling in your chest.

His reply was swift, the confidence in his words cutting through the haze of your thoughts:

@ thefourthdoctor; You didn’t have to. You agreed the moment you responded.

The audacity of his statement left you momentarily breathless. He was right, of course, and that infuriated you. But it also thrilled you in a way you couldn��t quite explain.

@ laceandliterature; You’re awfully sure of yourself

You shot back, your fingers trembling as you hit send. The response came almost immediately.

@ thefourthdoctor; Confidence is the privilege of knowing what you want. Do you?

Your chest tightened, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t expected. What did you want? It was supposed to be simple—a means to an end, a way to solve your financial problems without complicating your life. But now, with him, it felt far from simple.

You hesitated, your mind racing. This wasn’t like the other conversations you’d had on this site. He wasn’t just offering money or gifts; he was offering an exchange of a different kind. One that blurred the lines between power and vulnerability, control and surrender.

@ laceandliterature; I think you already know the answer.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. Then we’re getting somewhere.

You exhaled sharply, the tension in your chest both exhilarating and suffocating. He had you cornered, and he knew it. But the worst part? You didn’t want to leave.

@ laceandliterature; And where exactly is that?

The question both a challenge and a plea. His response sent a chill down your spine.

@ thefourthdoctor; Where we figure out if you’re ready to trust me.

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and inescapable. Trust. It was a loaded word, especially here, in a space where every interaction felt transactional. But with him, it didn’t feel like a demand—it felt like an invitation.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as you typed your response:

@ laceandliterature; Trust is earned, Doctor. How do you plan on earning mine?

The pause before his reply was excruciating, every second stretching longer than the last. And then, finally, his message appeared.

@ thefourthdoctor; Patience. Honesty. And just enough mystery to keep you coming back.

Your breath caught, the sheer confidence of his words leaving you momentarily speechless. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was rewriting the rules, pulling you deeper into his orbit with every word.

And despite the warning bells ringing in your head, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more.

@ laceandliterature; Then I suppose we’ll see how well you play.

@ thefourthdoctor; We already are.

The message lingered on the screen, a challenge and a promise all at once. And as you stared at it, your heart racing and your mind spinning, one thing became clear:

Here’s the continuation, intensifying the emotional and psychological stakes, as well as the power dynamics:

You could feel it in the way your heart raced, in the way your mind struggled to pull together coherent thoughts. It was maddening. Dangerous. And yet, some part of you craved the thrill of it.

@ laceandliterature; What makes you so sure of that?

@ thefourthdoctor; Because you’re still here.

Your lips parted in a soft exhale, the truth in his words sending a shiver down your spine. He was right—you were still here, still engaged, still drawn to him in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

@ laceandliterature; Maybe I’m just curious.

His response was immediate, his confidence unshaken.

@ thefourthdoctor; Curiosity is the first step to surrender. And you’re closer than you think.

Your pulse quickened, his words striking a nerve you hadn’t realized was exposed. Surrender. The word hung there, heavy and intoxicating, pulling you deeper into his web.

@ laceandliterature; Surrender isn’t in my vocabulary.

The sharpness of your reply more for your benefit than his.

@ thefourthdoctor; That’s because no one’s ever taught you how to do it properly.

The breath left your lungs in a quiet rush, your body betraying you with a thrill that raced down your spine. He wasn’t just confident—he was audacious, pushing boundaries you didn’t even know you had.

@ laceandliterature; And you think you’re the one to teach me?

@ thefourthdoctor; I know I am.

Your throat tightened, his certainty pulling you further into the undertow. There was no pretence with him, no fumbling for the right words to impress or seduce. He spoke with a quiet authority that was impossible to ignore—and even harder to resist.

@ laceandliterature; You’re awfully sure of yourself, Doctor.

You wrote, the name a deliberate choice, a way to remind yourself that he was still just a man on the other side of a screen.

But his next message stripped away any illusion of simplicity.

@ thefourthdoctor; Confidence is earned. You’ll see.

The promise in his words sent your mind reeling, the tension in your chest building with every passing second. He wasn’t offering wealth or gifts or superficial praise. He was offering himself—his attention, his intellect, his dominance—and it was unlike anything you’d ever encountered.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair as you tried to steady your breathing. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was a collision of wills, a power struggle where the stakes felt dangerously personal.

@ laceandliterature; And if I decide to stop playing?

His reply came slower this time, each word calculated, precise.

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll let you go. But we both know you won’t.

Your breath caught, the quiet confidence in his message leaving you stunned. He wasn’t trying to trap you—he was daring you to walk away. And that made him even more dangerous.

@ laceandliterature; You seem very sure of my choices

@ thefourthdoctor; I’m sure of your curiosity. And that’s enough.

You stared at the screen, your heart pounding, your mind spinning. He was right—you were curious. About him, about this, about where it could lead. And that curiosity was already pulling you deeper, binding you to him in a way that felt both thrilling and terrifying.

And as you sat there, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, one thought echoed in your mind:

You weren’t just playing his game anymore.

You were losing.

His words were a masterstroke, the kind of deliberate confidence that didn’t demand submission but invited it, coaxed it out of you with unsettling precision. He wasn’t forcing you into anything. He didn’t have to.

You were leaning in all on your own.

@ laceandliterature; Curiosity is dangerous.

The words meant as both a warning and a defense. You weren’t sure if you were telling him or reminding yourself.

His reply came almost instantly, as if he’d anticipated your hesitation.

@ thefourthdoctor; It can be, in the wrong hands. But I think you know by now—I don’t intend to hurt you.

Your chest tightened, the unexpected gentleness in his response catching you off guard. It wasn’t a dismissal of your fears; it was an acknowledgment, a reassurance that felt disarmingly genuine.

@ laceandliterature; What do you intend to do, then?

The pause before his reply was deliberate, stretching just long enough to heighten the tension without breaking it.

@ thefourthdoctor; Challenge you. Teach you. Protect you, if you let me.

Your breath hitched, his words striking a chord deep within you. The power in his offer wasn’t in its force but in its certainty, its quiet promise of control without cruelty, dominance without destruction.

@ laceandliterature; That’s a tall order.

@ thefourthdoctor; I’ve never been afraid of a challenge.

The simplicity of his answer left you momentarily stunned. He wasn’t boasting, wasn’t trying to impress you. He was stating a fact, one that resonated with an authority you couldn’t ignore.

@ laceandliterature; And what do you get out of this?

@ thefourthdoctor; The pleasure of watching you grow. The satisfaction of knowing you’re safe. And maybe, if you’re willing, a connection worth more than either of us expected.

Your chest tightened, his words threading through the cracks in your defences with startling ease. He wasn’t just offering a transaction; he was offering something far deeper, something that terrified and intrigued you in equal measure.

@ laceandliterature; You make it sound so simple.

@ thefourthdoctor; It can be, if you trust me. But I won’t rush you. This is your choice.

Your breath caught, the weight of his words settling over you. He wasn’t demanding anything from you, wasn’t using manipulation or coercion. He was giving you the space to decide, to choose whether to step into the unknown or retreat to the safety of your walls.

@ laceandliterature; What if I don’t know how to trust someone like you?

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll show you how, baby. Step by step. But only if you’re willing.

The kindness in his words was a stark contrast to the intensity of his presence, a reminder that his control wasn’t about overpowering you—it was about guiding you, supporting you, meeting you where you were and pulling you gently forward.

@ laceandliterature; And if I’m not?

@ thefourthdoctor; Then I’ll let you go. But I don’t think you want me to.

The truth in his words hit you like a jolt, your heart racing as you stared at the screen. He was right—you didn’t want to let him go. You didn’t want to retreat into the safety of solitude, not when he was offering something so intoxicatingly rare.

@ laceandliterature; You’re very sure of yourself

@ thefourthdoctor; I’m sure of you. And I’m willing to wait until you are too.

The words lingered on the screen, a challenge and a reassurance all at once. He wasn’t just pulling you into his world—he was offering to walk beside you, to guide you through the uncharted territory of trust and surrender.

And as you stared at his message, your pulse thrumming in your ears, one thing became abundantly clear. You wanted to see where this could lead.

Your fingers trembled as you typed your reply.

@ laceandliterature; I don’t know where this is going.

His response came swiftly, his dominance tempered by kindness:

@ thefourthdoctor; Then let me be the one to show you. One step at a time.

When the evening settled and the quiet of your room enveloped you, you found yourself sitting on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone. His last message still lingered there:

"Then let me be the one to show you. One step at a time."

Trust. The word had seemed so monumental when he’d said it, and now it felt even heavier in the quiet intimacy of your room.

Your eyes wandered to the package on your desk, the one that had arrived just days ago. The lingerie you’d bought with the money he’d sent—not something you’d ever imagined doing, much less showing anyone. But his insistence had stayed with you.

"This is for you," he’d written. "Because you deserve to feel special."

You’d laughed at the time, unsure how to process the sincerity in his words. But now, with the soft lace spread out in front of you, you felt the weight of his kindness.

On impulse, you slipped it on, the delicate fabric hugging your body in a way that felt both indulgent and empowering. It wasn’t something you’d ever have bought for yourself, but now, wearing it, you understood the quiet confidence it offered.

You caught your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks flushing as you adjusted the straps. The blush-colored lace was intricate and feminine, the perfect balance of modesty and allure. You hesitated, biting your lip as your phone buzzed in your hand.

Finally, you snapped a photo—nothing overly revealing, just the curve of your body hinted at in the soft light, the lace framing your figure. It felt daring, intimate, and, most of all, you felt like his.

With a shaky breath, you typed a caption for the image.

@ laceandliterature; Thank you. I thought you should see where your funds are going.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, your heart racing as the message left your screen.

@ thefourthdoctor; You’re so beautiful, my little angel.

Your breath caught at the simplicity of his words. There was no embellishment, no flourish—just a quiet, sincere acknowledgment that made your chest tighten.

Another message followed, slower this time, as if he’d chosen each word carefully.

@ thefourthdoctor; Thank you for trusting me with this. How does it make you feel?

His question sent a ripple of warmth through you. He wasn’t just admiring you; he cared about how you felt, ensuring that this moment wasn’t just for him.

@ laceandliterature; It feels… different. In a good way.

The dots danced on the screen before his next message appeared.

@ thefourthdoctor; Good. That’s exactly how it should feel. You deserve to feel confident and cared for.

You smiled despite yourself, the warmth of his words cutting through the lingering nerves. He had a way of making you feel seen, like every action, every choice you made mattered to him.

@ laceandliterature; I wasn’t sure about sending it, I’ve never done anything like that before.

You admitted, your honesty surprising even you.

@ thefourthdoctor; You don’t need to worry. You’re safe with me. Always.

The reassurance in his words settled something deep inside you. He wasn’t just saying it—he meant it, every word carrying the weight of his sincerity.

Before you could respond, your phone vibrated in your hand, his name lighting up the screen. You hadn't expected him to call so soon, but the smile that spread across your face at the sight of his name felt entirely natural.

Your throat pinched, the air suddenly feeling all too warm. Neither of you had ever initiated a call before, what would he sound like? Deciding to push your nerves to the side, you answer the call.

"I was thinking you might not pick up for a moment there," his voice was low and smooth, a hint of amusement dancing through his words. "I hope you know this isn’t just about the photo. It’s about you. What you need, what you want. If you’re ever unsure, tell me. I’ll always listen."

"I guess I just couldn’t help myself," you teased, a slight blush creeping up your cheeks at the memory of how vulnerable you'd felt.

"Yeah? Am I living up to the expectation?" he murmured, and you could hear the laughter in his voice. It wasn’t a mocking sort of amusement, just a quiet acknowledgment that you both knew where this conversation was heading. And that, he hoped, neither one of you would shy away from it.

You laughed, a softness you'd never known you were capable of settling into your chest. There had been something so unexpectedly freeing about the experience—about wearing it made you flush with warmth.

“You could say that…”

“What were you hoping for, when you sent me that photo?”

The thought sent an immediate ache through your body, the suggestion of his touch, of the things he might do to you, sending a wave of desire through you. Your mind raced with images of “him” above you, of his hands pinning your wrists to the bed as he thrust into you. The thought was enough to make you flush, the ache of need between your legs becoming almost unbearable.

"Nothing.” You couldn’t even pretend to feign nonchalance when his words had been so unflinchingly honest, when the promise of what lay ahead was so tantalisingly clear.

"I’ll make it easier for you, then. What are you thinking about right now?" he said bluntly, his words sending a rush of heat through your entire body. There was nothing ambiguous or hesitant about his command; he wanted this, and he expected you to do it. "Tell me what you want, angel. I can give you that."

You twist the fabric hem of the lingerie around your fingers nervously, chewing at the dry skin on the edge of your lips. “I- I don’t know how to do this.”

He chuckles softly, voice still full of kindness. “Then you don’t have to do anything, let me do all the work, baby.”

You’re quiet for a moment, pondering your options. Before nodding to yourself, deciding you’d have to let go of your nerves for the time being if you wanted this to continue.

“Okay.” You whisper, almost inaudibly. He wouldn’t have been able to hear it if he’d not been paying such close attention.

You took a deep breath, feeling a surge of boldness. "I... I've always had this fantasy of being guided by a man... someone who knows what he wants and can show me new pleasures. I’ve never had that chance before… I was hoping maybe that could be you."

"Oh, angel, you have no idea how much I want to fulfil those desires," He purred. "I can be your guide, your teacher, and your lover all in one."

His words sent a jolt of electricity through your body, and you felt your core tighten with anticipation. "I... I think I'd like that very much."

"I want you to relax and get comfortable for me, can you do that, baby?. Dim the lights, light a candle, whatever you need to do."

Obeying his instructions, you lit a scented candle, filling the room with a soft, flickering glow and a hint of vanilla. You kicked off your shoes and slid under the covers, your heart pounding in your chest.

"That's it, sweet girl," He whispered. "Now, I want you to imagine my hands on your body, caressing your skin, exploring every inch of you. Feel my touch, soft and gentle, as I trace your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts."

As you listened, you closed your eyes, visualising his strong, masculine hands on your body. You imagined his fingers brushing against your sensitive nipples, causing them to harden in response. Soft whimpers escaping your lips as you reach up to cup your breasts, mimicking his touch.

"That's right, angel," he encouraged. "Touch yourself for me. Feel how soft you are, how sweet.”

Your fingers obeyed, teasing your nipples, rolling and tugging at the sensitive peaks. You arched your back, pressing your breasts into your palms, and let out a soft cry of pleasure.

"Do you like that, little girl?" He asked, his voice thick with desire. "I wish you could see what you do to me."

"Yes, Doctor," you breathed, your voice heavy with arousal. “It feels so good."

"Now, slide your hand down your stomach, past your navel, and into the heat between your thighs," he instructed, his voice a seductive command. "Feel how wet you are for me, how your body responds to my words."

Your hand trembled as you obeyed, slipping beneath the covers and finding your way to your core. Your fingers brushed against your wet folds, and you gasped at the sensation.

"Oh, god, baby. You're so wet, aren’t you? I can hear it," He growled. "Rub your fingers along your pussy, coat them with your sweetness.”

You did as he said, moaning as your fingers slipped into your tight cunt. You were so wet, so ready, and the sensation of filling yourself sent waves of pleasure through your body. Taking the phone down your body, you hold it in front of your dripping pussy. Your microphone picking up on the sounds as your fingers slip through your folds.

"What a noisy fucking pussy, that's it, that's my girl," he encouraged. "Fuck yourself with your fingers, slowly at first, imagine it's my cock inside you, claiming your tight little cunt."

Your fingers moved in and out, your pace increasing as your pleasure spiralled. You imagined Spencer's thick, hard length filling you, his powerful body driving into yours.

"Yeah, fuck yourself for me," he urged. "Let go, angel girl. Come for me, and let me hear your sweet cries."

Your fingers worked frantically, your body on the brink of ecstasy. His words, his deep, commanding voice, pushed you over the edge. With a cry of release, you climaxed, your body trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you.

"Oh, my sweet girl," he whispered, whispering soft praise over the phone, his voice filled with satisfaction. "That sounded like a lot, hm? You still with me, beautiful?."

"I know that wasn’t easy for you, but it was beautiful to hear." His voice was soft, filled with sincerity.

You lay there, breathless and sated, your body still humming with pleasure. "Y-yeah, m still here. Thank you."

"You did so good, such a well behaved girl. Check your phone for me, baby. Look what you did to me."

You froze for a moment, your mind struggling to process exactly what you were looking at. And then it registered—the smooth skin of his stomach, the slight curve of his hip. A moment later, you saw it; his cock, flushed pink tip, half-hard and resting against his stomach. A small pool of cum rested near his belly button.. You flushed all over at the thought, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the photo. There was something so undeniably intimate about the image; something that spoke to the fact that he'd been pleasuring himself while thinking of you.

With a final, breathless goodbye, you end the call. Your heart is still racing, your body tingling with the lingering aftershocks of pleasure. His voice still echoes in your ears, warm and commanding, and the weight of his presence seems to fill the room even though he's no longer on the line. You lean back against the soft cushions on your bed, eyes fluttering closed, letting the soft glow of the lamp wash over you.

You let out a slow exhale, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with the buzz still pulsing beneath your skin. There’s something thrilling, intoxicating about the way he’s able to draw you out, make you vulnerable and yet so sure of yourself all at once. But the moment feels almost too surreal, too indulgent, and you try to calm your racing thoughts when a ping breaks through the haze of your afterglow.

You glance down at your phone, blinking at the notification that has just popped up.

$500 has been deposited into your account.

-for my pretty girl

Your breath catches in your throat as your fingers instinctively swipe open the message. You freeze, your eyes scanning the details with a quickness that betrays your curiosity.

"Doctor Reid," it reads, alongside the substantial amount.

For a moment, time seems to stop, your gaze fixed on the screen as your pulse quickens once more. The money sits there, cool and impersonal, yet its presence is anything but. It’s a gesture—one that feels undeniably generous, but also loaded with unspoken meaning. This isn’t just a transaction. This is him, and everything that came with the promise of his control, his attention, his care.

You’ve known that he was willing to give, but this—this feels different. The amount is so much more than what you’d expected. What did he mean by it? What does he expect now?

You glance at the digits one more time, the weight of his name anchoring the moment. It feels strange to see it. So he was a doctor.

A tight knot forms in your chest, mixing nerves with something else—something like desire, maybe even gratitude. You bite your lip, unsure how to feel. It was just a phone call, just a moment of shared vulnerability between you. Yet the fact that he’s followed through with this kind of gesture makes everything feel so much more real, so much more complicated.

With a heavy sigh, you set your phone down and run your fingers through your hair, your mind racing as you try to reconcile the thrill of the moment with the heavy responsibility that now feels like it’s creeping in.

At least now you had his name, Doctor Reid.

next part

#missarchive #spencer reid x reader #bau x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds

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wildestdreamsblog · 1 month ago

Text

My Love, let me go

Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Reader (Idol AU)

Summary: Breaking up with him during his military service was, initially, a good idea...until you found out that someone like him just wouldn't let go. (One shot)

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, , If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: An effect of my brainrot (also have u see taehyung??? That in itself is an explanation enough) ✨

While the whole country and perhaps, even the whole world, waited in anticipation for June 10, 2025, you gnawed your lips in worry.

While the entire country screamed purple with his face splattered everywhere you looked, your heart was beating with anxiety for his return.

While people have been swarming in the country for his comeback, you wanted nothing but to leave.

If you could, you would have escaped the country by now. In fact, it was not from the lack of trying. You had planned months ahead; your luggage and plane tickets were all ready to go. Your leave was already planned in your work. Your itinerary for the whole month away from South Korea was planned, budget executed down to the single won. You were ready.

You knew you were ready.

However, what you failed to account was him.

You should have known, though, that you couldn’t outplan a manipulator such as Kim Taehyung.

Everything that could go wrong that day did go wrong.

First, your airline emailed you with an apology—your flight had been rescheduled to next week due to a sudden technical issue. You clenched your jaw, told yourself it was fine. You’d just leave the city instead. Maybe escape to the countryside.

So you booked a train ticket.

Your card got declined.

You blinked at the error message in disbelief. Moments later, your bank sent you a polite notification informing you that due to a “suspicious transaction,” your card had been frozen pending a thorough investigation.

Fine. You’d drive, then.

Except, of course, your car wouldn't start.

You stared at the motionless vehicle in your driveway, a bitter laugh escaping your lips.

Perfect.

Kim Taehyung: 1. You: 0.

And he hadn’t even arrived yet.

You didn’t have access to your money. You couldn’t use your car. You couldn’t even go to the place you already paid for. You were sadly, for all intents purposes, helpless and stuck.

The freedom you felt since he enlisted was slipping through your fingers by second, the weakened hold he had on you that you fought so desperately to loosen was starting to tighten again. You could feel it in your chest, your throat closing up like it always did when you sensed him near.

He hadn’t done anything directly yet…and the last time you spoke to him was when you went to visit him in his camp to end things. It had taken everything in you to face him, to stand in front of that beautiful, dangerous man and tell him you were walking away. It had taken too much of you to look into his dark and beautiful eyes to tell him that you and him were over.

But even now, you wondered—was it really courage? Or just convenience?

Because the truth was, you waited. You waited until he was safely behind gates and schedules, too far away to reach you, too confined by uniform and duty to chase after you and tear your resolve to pieces like he always did.

You ended things when you knew he couldn’t stop you.

And somehow, that made it worse. Because if there’s one thing you knew about Kim Taehyung, it’s that he never lost. Not really.

Worst of all, he never intended to lose you.

You had stood there, heart pounding, words trembling out of your mouth like fragile glass, fully expecting a reaction. Anger, disbelief, maybe even pain.

But he laughed.

He laughed like you had just told the most ridiculous joke in the world.

Head thrown back, shoulders shaking, lips stretched in that maddeningly beautiful smirk—he laughed so hard that soldiers and officers turned to stare. He laughed for too long until he uttered the words that still haunted you to this day.

Love, we will never be over.

You walked away that day, blocked his number, changed your address and never looked back.

Well, until now.

But that had been more than a year ago, you told yourself. A whole enlistment cycle. A whole lifetime, almost. He was a superstar—the superstar. There was no way he was still holding onto that, right?

Right?

And yet, deep down, under the logic and self-reassurance, under the layers of “he’s moved on” and “you’re safe now,” a familiar chill coiled in your spine.

Because if there was one thing you’d learned from loving him—it was that Kim Taehyung never forgot.

Looking back, there was no way for you to know that someone so well-loved by the public like him could be so…ruthless. So possessive. So traditional.

There was no way you could have known. The world adored him. He was beloved—a walking contradiction of mystery and warmth, always poised with that elegant ease, always smiling like the world had never bruised him. With his slow, thoughtful words and strange little quirks, Taehyung disarmed everyone, and you were no exception.

If only you weren’t swayed by his charming smile, or of how strange he was in the most beautiful way, then maybe you wouldn’t be hiding right now. Yes, you were terrified of him, but it wasn’t because you thought he would physically hurt you.

No.

You were scared of him because of how intense he loved you.

He loved you too deeply that there was no way it would ever be normal. He loved you too deeply that there was no more room for you in the us that he imagined.

Back then, he wanted to know everything—every detail of your day. What you ate. What time you slept. Whether your coworker was a man or woman. And when knowing wasn't enough, he wanted control. Where you went. Who you were with. Why you didn’t text back fast enough. Why your voice sounded tired. Why you were smiling in a photo someone else took.

At first, you made excuses. You called it passion. You called it longing. You rationalized that someone as big as he was basically could not have a simple relationship. That someone like Taehyung, someone so famous and busy, was just desperate to hold on to something real. That you were that something.

But even when you saw him almost every weekend, despite both of your demanding jobs, it was never enough. He was never satisfied with moments. He wanted all of you. He wanted to consume you. He wanted control.

Where you went. Who you were with. Why you didn’t text back fast enough. Why your voice sounded tired. Why you posted that story without tagging him. Why you looked so happy in someone else’s photo.

He said it was because he missed you. Because loving you from a distance was unbearable.

And you believed him.

He wanted you by his side, always— Wanted you on every tour, in every city, behind every curtain.

He wanted to be the only person you needed. And every night, he wanted to consume you—body, mind, time, and soul.

He asked you to quit your job so you could always be with him.

Said it so calmly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because, as he told you, he was the man. He should be taking care of you. His woman should not have to lift a finger to live. “Whatever you want,” he said, “it’s yours.”

But you never wanted to give up your independence. He never understood that despite the endless explanations you gave him.

You had seen what that looked like. You saw how dependent your mother was to your father, and you didn’t want that from you. You never wanted to ask a man for anything.

Taehyung quite literally hated how you couldn’t be with him in each tour or how you couldn’t live with him. In turn, you hated how he couldn’t just let go. You hated how he could not accept that you needed to be independent despite loving him.

You were too tired of it all that at one point, you told him that it was best for you two to see other people. And he just stared at you, eyes dark and wide with disbelief. Then he laughed. Not loud, not cruel. Quiet. Frightening, to which he answered why you needed anyone when you had him.

He said that maybe it was best to remove those people from your life.

Perhaps, asking him to breakup was the wrong thing to say.

Back then, you thought that that was the end, that you signifying your discontent with the relationship would mean it was over between the two of you.

You should have known that there was no leaving Taehyung.

If he couldn’t control you, he would control the situation. He was good at it, you surmised, shaping how other people see him.

He was good at playing the victim.

He was good at manipulating people into thinking that his love was normal and that he couldn’t live without you. He played it too well that you even villainized yourself when he got hospitalized.

They said he collapsed. Said he hadn’t eaten. Said he had broken down.

Fans were worried, news of his health took the social media in storm.

Park Jimin had shown up at your door, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. He shoved past you without asking and stood in your living room like he owned the place.

“I didn’t know you were like this,” he said bitterly. “He only ever loved you. And what did you do?”

“You left him.” His voice shook. “How can you be so cruel?”

You had no answer. Because somehow, Taehyung had made even you question yourself.

Had it really been that bad? Hadn’t he always just loved you… deeply?

You came back. Of course you did.

But after that, he was even worse.

And now, here you were, uncertain of whether the events that just transpired were back luck or someone who was pulling the strings.

Despite that, your paranoia lessened as days went by.

It was like what happened the day of his discharge were just fluke because what followed was silence. News of him meeting his friends and even attending Hoseok’s concert were all over the social media. He was out there living his best life. It seemed like he was living well, it seemed like he had forgotten about you. There was even no attempt to contact you.

Maybe, the military life changed his outlook for the better.

Maybe the enlistment and rigorous life squashed the darkness and obsessive need in his hear.

Maybe you were overthinking.

But dear, how wrong you were.

It was a little over a week later when it happened—when everything began to unravel.

You were running late one night, dinner with colleagues stretching longer than expected. The car ride home was quiet, and all you could think about was how good it would feel to collapse into bed. You’d had one too many drinks, just enough to fumble with your keys at the door. They slipped from your hand, clattering to the floor.

You bent down to retrieve them—only for the door to slowly creak open on its own in the silence of the night.

Your blood ran cold.

Your gaze dropped to the bare feet inside your apartment, and slowly, it trailed upward—over the hem of cuffed jeans, up the muscular thighs that haunted too many of your memories. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart hammering in panic. You didn’t want to look. You didn’t need to.

Because you already knew.

But you didn’t have to wait for confirmation. Kim Taehyung crouched in front of you, his expression unreadable as he picked up the keys from the floor and held them out to you.

He held them out to you with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Looking for these?” he asked, voice low, calm, like he hadn’t just broken into your apartment. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be here.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your heart thundered against your ribs, panic clawing its way up as you stared at him—his face as achingly beautiful as ever, but his presence colder than the air-conditioned hallway behind you. You tried to speak, tried to find the words that could explain your fear, your confusion, your boundaries—but nothing came.

He tilted his head, studying you, then stood up to his full height. “You look tired,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “You shouldn't drink so much. It's not safe. What if something happened to you? You should have called me. You know I would have picked you up”

You flinched away from his touch, finally finding the strength to take a step back. “Taehyung,” you whispered, “what are you doing here? H-how did you find me?”

“Love, please don’t be mad,” his deep voice implored you as he reached for your hand, his grip, though it didn’t hurt, was tight. It was clear that you were not going anywhere. His unbridled strength was new to you. Taehyung had always been strong, but this was different.

He pulled you inside your apartment as though it was his, as though he had every right to be there himself. As soon as you stepped over the threshold, you noted the smell of homecooked meals. Your eyes went to your dining table where dinner was set, coupled with candles.

“W-why are you here? How did you find me?!” asked him, pulling your hand away as he closed the door gently. He leaned against the door, body relaxed, but his eyes never left you. And you just knew—if he didn’t want you to leave, you wouldn’t.

“You know…” he began, his voice almost wistful. “I tried to stay away. You hurt me when you left me, did you know that?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“When you came to the base to break up with me, I was devastated,” he continued, stepping closer. “I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I kept thinking…why? Why would you say those things? I knew you were only pushing me away because of the eighteen months we had to be apart. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?” His voice dropped to a whisper, lips curving upward in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You were scared I’d forget you. You wanted to see if I’d chase you.”

You took another step back, but your spine hit the edge of the console table behind you.

“I tried,” he repeated, softer now. “I tried to respect your decision. To give you space. But I couldn’t stay away from you.”

His smile was almost self-deprecating. “Isn’t it pathetic that I could only stay away for a week?”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides as your body began to shake not from fear alone, but fury. Fury at him. At yourself. At the twisted, beautiful thing that love had turned into. You shook your head. “I didn’t try to break up with you, Taehyung,” you said through gritted teeth, voice rising despite your best efforts. “We broke up. I changed my number. I left my company. I moved apartments. I changed everything just so you wouldn’t be able to find me. We are over.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, he tilted his head to the side. Something shifted in his expression—not anger, not sadness, but something worse. Amusement. A quiet, terrifying confidence.

You watched his muscles tense beneath the stretch of his black shirt, fabric clinging to the lean power he’d carved into himself over the past eighteen months. He looked different. Sharper. Bigger. A version of him that didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room—or to cage someone in it.

“You don’t really think I didn’t know where you were all this time… do you?” he asked, tone light, almost teasing. “Come on, darling. You know me better than that.”

Your blood turned to ice.

“You know I’d go crazy if I didn’t know where you are,” he continued, his smile softening as if this were some kind of confession, not an admission of obsession. “You know that.”

And just like that, the bottom fell out from under you.

The months of peace you thought you had—the freedom you clung to like a lifeline—all of it shattered in an instant. The new phone, the job, the address, the carefully orchestrated distance... none of it had ever mattered.

Because he had known.

He had always known.

And the freedom you had fought so hard for?

It had only ever been an illusion.

Your breath hitched. You felt it the cold seep of dread slipping into your bones, anchoring you in place as he stepped just a little closer.

“You didn’t really think you could disappear from me, did you?” he asked softly, brushing his fingers along your arm like he was soothing a frightened animal. “Don’t worry. I’m here now.”

if I write another story for when the member gets out of military, who would you want it to be?

#bts fic #yandere bts #bts yandere #yandere kim taehyung #kim taehyung x you #kim taehyung fic #kim taehyung x reader #kim taehyung x y/n

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fairlyabookie · 4 months ago

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the things you do that got them head over heels (pt. 2)

Part 1 here! feat. second years (I severely underestimated how many second years in the roster, so I'm splitting this up into parts!)

Azul - matching his wavelength

Azul’s mind works fast, and boy, does he work fast. The minute he gets working, no one can break his concentration. Many would question him, adding to the fuel of irritation just as he was about on a streak. Either people were on board or they’d have to get out of the way. One of the other, no one could stop him from going forward with his antics.

You, on the other hand, catch on fast; asking him the right questions, listening thoughtfully to his explanation, and lastly, understanding his intentions. His heart soared as you lay out your thoughts, your opinions, a refreshing perspective against the same old song of doubt and affirmations.

What he really needed from this endeavor was someone who could challenge him and take his opinion into account if they ever became so unkindly to his target audience - besides, he had to be more ethical with how he ran things in business. Commodifying individuals was ugly, but he had to hear them out at least. Once you had finished your train of thought, Azul couldn’t help but send a smile to your direction, already writing down a summary of your explanation on a sheet of paper.

“Thank you, [Reader], I shall consider your proposal.”

Ruggie - food

A simple platter of food, from a home-cooked meal or a to-go meal from Mostro Lounge, was enough to capture Ruggie’s heart - he’d accept with no hesitation, already scarfing it down the minute he saw the item. Sure, he’d have a whole carton of donuts, but nothing beats a delicious meal, one that was nutritiously filling for him, enough to satiate him, for the day, enough to leave a smile on his face.

He’d offer a portion of food for you, as a means of thanking you for the trouble of getting him food. As an extra, he’d even ask how much you paid for the food and the location of the restaurant so he could pay you back. Yet, you choose not to disclose; watching his micro expressions, from devouring the food to enjoying every morsel of it.

You encourage him to eat more, citing more to come in the future. The second year’s ears pull back, his eyes of glassy gray widening in surprise. He makes a protest, yet your fingers seal his lips shut. A smile lingers on your lips, one of sincerity and unfiltered kindness, a gesture that didn’t merit transaction but the generosity of one’s heart.

“Please enjoy your meal, Ruggie. You deserve it.”

Riddle - a ride with the horses

Riddle noticed you weren’t in the best of spirits, citing a poor performance on an alchemy assessment. From just that, the thought of hitting the books one more time tired you out, and Riddle knew just the thing to lift your spirits: a ride with the horses. Of course, he lets you choose your horse, while he went for Vorpal, the very horse he had been riding with since he became a member of the club.

Soon, the two of you embark on your steads in a grand pasture, the roaring wind teasing your hair in bursts as the horse matches their pace with Vorpal. In replacement of stress, exhilaration courses through your being, stress melting away each passing second. You peer over to Riddle, his gaze fixated upon you, sunshine gleaming into eyes of granite, slivers of gray and purple.

A mask of vulnerability, a disarming smile that left your heart thundering against your chest, even louder than the hooves against the pasture. You muster the courtesy to smile back, averting your gaze to your horse, your pounding heart lost in the chaos of galloping.

“This is refreshing, Riddle! No wonder you enjoy this so much!”

Floyd - fit check

Floyd’s phone chimes, a notification badge lighting up his phone. He doesn’t hesitate to unlock his phone, seeing your text message pop up with a picture. Oh, what did Shrimpy wear today, huh? A toothy smirk graces his lips as he sees your profile.

Standing before the mirror with your phone pointed towards your figure, Floyd had to hold back a wolf whistle - for modesty and professionalism, of course. He looks back and forth, and twice again for good measure, before whipping up a response.

Azul would certainly scold him for not doing his job, but Floyd didn’t care: you looked delicious. With just a sweeping glance over the photo, he could tell of the brands you were wearing, the way you appealingly styled your attire, and the way the colors complimented your skin, oh, would he love to steal your outfit for a day. He sends an extra message, one just to make sure you know you looked good.

“Whoa, you really liked it, huh, Floyd?”

#handle with care #twst x reader #floyd x reader #riddle x reader #azul x reader #twisted wonderland azul #twst azul #azul ashengrotto #floyd leech #ruggie bucchi #twisted wonderland ruggie #riddle rosehearts

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redrose10 · 9 days ago

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Mafia Boss Yoongi x Female Reader

Summary: When your father can't repay a debt to The Min Family, you’re forced to marry Yoongi, the cold, feared son of Min Haneul. But behind his hard exterior, you discover a gentle, protective side—one that just might take you and everyone by surprise.

Warnings: Violence, guns, swearing, arranged marriage, gangs, gambling, smoking, drinking, murder

Word Count For This Chapter: 2,388

Chapter 1

You had been seeing the black SUV parked outside of the restaurant for the last few days. Tinted windows so dark that you couldn’t see inside even with the brightest of lights. But you already knew who was inside.

You knew that it was the most powerful and feared mafia boss in the city if not the entire country.

You also knew why he was there, why he had his men scoping out the place for the last several weeks before he himself decided to make an appearance.

It all had to do with your father. The man who took out a loan from The Min Family three years ago in order to buy the restaurant you were currently working in. The man who took any profit you made from that same restaurant to the casino and gambled it away instead of paying off the debt like he was supposed to do. The same man who disappeared like a coward once he realized he was being watched and left you alone to run the restaurant you never wanted all while you waited for the inevitable end.

It was just before closing time when the door opened for what you hoped would be your last customer for the day.

“Table for two?”, you asked the men who nodded as they followed after you. As you started walking them towards a table in the back you began to feel uneasy. They were way too dressed up in three piece suits to simply be dropping in for some tteokbokki especially in this part of town.

When they reached for the menus in your hands your worst fears were confirmed. Both of their wrists marked with crest of the Min Family, a familiar symbol you’d seen around town for most of your life. The Min’s owned 85% of the businesses including the police force so they had no reason to hide and showed no intention to do so. You did your best to keep your cool as you took the men’s orders and went back to the kitchen to prepare the items.

They were at least very polite to you during their meal with always saying please and thank you and complimenting the food many times. Maybe you had misjudged the situation you secretly hoped as you finally placed the bill down in front of them.

They gave you cash to pay for it and as you were completing the transaction with your back turned you could sense a presence walk up behind you. Seconds later there was a cold metal being pushed against the back of your skull, “Don’t make sound.”, they hissed. The sound of the gun being cocked into place sounded like a bomb going off to you.

“Where is he?”, the man asked.

When you didn’t answer he spun you around to face him, the gun now pushing into your forehead, “The boss wants his money…or a body. Which one do you want it to be?”

“I…I…I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him in months. I swear.”, you cried.

“Not good enough.”, the second guy spoke also taking his own gun out of his back pocket and pointing it at you as well.

In desperation you dropped down to your knees and begged, “Please please believe me. I don’t know where he is. He took any money we had and disappeared. I’ve been trying to find him too. You have to believe me.”

“I guess we’re going with a body then.”, the first man laughed. You squeezed your eyes shut knowing there was no use in begging any more. All you could do is hope that it was quick and painless.

Just as the man stepped in front of you to take the shot the chimes on the front door signaled someone else had entered the building.

“What are you two idiots doing?”, an unfamiliar male voice said.

“Um well what you asked us to do boss.”, one of the men said after clearing his throat.

Your eyes were still squeezed shut, but you could hear footsteps getting closer. Your body began to shiver in fear.

“Open your eyes little one.”, he said when the footsteps finally stopped.

Slowly you cracked them open adjusting to the light. The tears that had been building up were now feeling falling down your cheeks.

Min Haneul, the leader of the Min Family, squatted down in front of you curiously looking you over.

“Are you okay?”, he asked, “They didn’t hurt you did they? I’m sorry about them. They’re still…they still in their training phase.”

You shook your head as the two men began to protest, “Boss you said to get the money or kill them. You can’t be upset with us. We just did what you asked.”, they frantically explained worried for their own safety.

“I said…”, he began in a booming deep voice, “I said to get the money or bring me the body of Ji-Woo. In this family we don’t kill women or children.”, he spat helping you off of the ground.

“S-Sir I promise I don’t know where my father is. I haven’t heard from him in months.”, you sniffled, “Please don’t kill me. Take the restaurant. All of the money in the register is your. Just please don’t kill me.”

“Shhh Y/N, just breathe. I’m not going to kill you.”, he said pulling you into an uncomfortable hug, “I already know where your father is anyways.”

You stepped back in shock as he continued, “This was just a test. Well mostly…”, he glared at the two men for their mix up, “I just wanted to see how submissive you would be. I need a woman like that to marry my son. Someone who will please him at his command. Feed his ego let’s say. I think you will be perfect and we will go through with it after all.”

“I’m sorry what?”, you coughed. First you came within seconds of being killed then he says he knows where your father is and now you are supposedly getting married.

Min Haneul continued, “I’ve made a deal with your father. In exchange for not taking his life he agreed to give your hand in marriage over to my son Min Yoongi.”

“But…but…but.”, you tried to say unable to form a thought. You had heard of the heir to Min empire, but thankfully you had never met. Yoongi was known to be devilishly handsome, but with a cold heart and ruthless demeanor. He was just as if not more feared than his own father.

“It’s time he grows up. I need to make sure that he has an heir before I allow him to fully take over the family business. Since he won’t find a wife for himself I found one for him.”, he said walking away finally giving you space.

“Sorry for giving you such a scare.”, Haneul said grabbing a few bottles of soju from the refrigerator behind the bar, “My people will be in contact with you over the next couple of weeks with more information.”, his men followed him to the front door before he turned and gave you a light nod, “Oh and don’t worry about coming to work tomorrow. I own this restaurant now and no daughter in law of mine will be sweating next to a stove cooking food for strangers. Good night Y/N.”

Haneul was true to his word. Over the next couple of months a lavish wedding was planned. Money was of no concern. You thought it was ridiculous spending that much on things that didn’t mean anything to you, but you didn’t have a choice anyways. You just went along with it and occasionally selected a color or small detail when you were given the choice.

The day of the wedding was the first time that you saw Yoongi in person. According to his father he had been very non compliant about the whole arrangement and refused to participate up until this point.

You had hoped your father would be in attendance especially since you were only doing this because of him, but as you finally got to the alter you accepted that he had once again disappointed you.

Yoongi greeted you stone faced, but took your hand and lead you up to the officiant. It was the first time you saw the deep scar that ran through his right eye. Immediately you wondered what had happened. You saw pictures of him as a child and it wasn’t there, but it didn’t look fresh either. It could have been due to a surgery you thought at first, but then remembered who you were marrying. He was a gangster so there was no telling what had cause it and you feared for what the other person looked like if that was how he walked away.

The ceremony was long and drawn out and unnecessarily dramatic. You couldn’t wait for it to be over with. When it finally came time for the kiss you were shocked when Yoongi actually went through with it. His lips were softer than expected. He tasted like whiskey and he smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, a dangerous combination.

The reception was even more obscene being held on the top floor of the most elite hotel in the country. Armed guards were posted at all entrances and there was even a no fly zone over the area. Haneul had gone all out to ensure the safety of the event and also make a statement at the same time.

You were pranced around the room by him like the trophy wife you agreed to be to his son. You were introduced to celebrities and athletes, politicians, and even a Queen. Women came up to you trying to be your new best friend. Men flirted with you until they saw Yoongi looking their direction making them run off in fear.

You still couldn’t help, but notice that your father was nowhere to be found and every time you tried to question your new father in law he would change the subject. After a while you were so overwhelmed by everything that you stepped out onto the balcony to get some air. Yoongi seemed to have had the same idea as he was already out there lighting up a cigarette.

He looked at you with a cold stare making you turn to go back inside.

“You can come over here.”, he grumbled, “I won’t bite.”

“You sure about that? What about putting a gun to my head? That seems to be how your family shows affection.”, you scoffed.

You knew that you should technically be more scared of Yoongi than anyone else. He had the reputation for it. You knew what he was capable of yet you barely knew him as a person. You never would have spoken in any kind of way like that to his father, but there was just something about Yoongi, something different. Something familiar and almost comforting.

“Depends…don’t piss me off.”, he replied to your earlier question making you nod in agreement, “Noted. Don’t piss off the husband.” For the first time that day you saw the tiniest hint of a smile begin to form on his face.

Yoongi sipped on a glass of whiskey as the two of you silently looked down over the city that his family and now you pretty much owned.

“Do you know where my father is?”, you decided to ask the less scary (to you at least) Min, “I know he’s not a great person, but he wouldn’t miss my wedding.”

“Just let it go Y/N.”, Yoongi replied taking a hit of the cigarette, “For your own good.”

“He’s already dead isn’t he?”, you asked trying to keep your voice strong.

Yoongi being not one for beating around the bush nodded to your question, “He was killed as soon as he signed the contract to agree to this marriage.”

“So I was forced to marry you to save my father’s life and he was killed anyways?”, you asked out loud more to yourself than anyone, “What a sick fucking joke.”

“Yeah tell me about it. I only agreed to this marriage because I was told your father would be spared if I did. Then I was the one sent in there to kill him.”, he scoffed, “Like a sick fucking joke.”

Your stomach turned at his confession. You stared at the man you just married. You knew he didn’t have the best of morals, but hearing him confess to a murder, to the murder of your own father nonetheless, sent a shiver through your body. He said with such ease like it like it was just another day on the job for him. And somehow that still did not fully scare you away.

“Sir, your father wants some photos together.”, the photographer came out and said to the two of you. Yoongi sighed and put out his cigarette against the concrete railing.

“Let’s get it over with.”, he mumbled walking after the man. You tried to follow close behind, but tripped over your dress losing your shoe in the process making you stumble forward slightly.

Yoongi turned around to see what all the commotion was and noticed you struggling to get your shoe back on thanks to the volume of your dress.

“Here let me do it.”, he said kneeling down and helping to slide your shoe on making sure the strap was properly secured around your ankle this time.

You couldn’t help but softly giggle at the situation. He looked up at you still on one knee and with a raised eyebrow, “Is there something funny about this?”

“No no.”, you shook your head, “It’s just that it’s kind of like Cinderella.”

You could tell he wasn’t quite understanding what you were getting at so you explained further, “You know like how she looses her shoe and then the shoe fits and she’s wearing a pretty ball gown and then she marries Prince Charming. We are doing it a little backwards, but you’re kind of like the Prince Charming to my Cinderella.”

Finally understanding your explanation Yoongi stood up with a smile. “Y/N…I’m no Prince Charming.”, he huffed while straightening out his tuxedo, “I’m quite the opposite actually. And the sooner you accept that…the easier this marriage will be for the both of us.”

#bts #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi #bts fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi x y/n #yoongi angst #bts yoongi #yoongi #yoongi au #bts suga

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grapejuicebrat · 8 days ago

Text

put me in a movie [sugar daddy au]

There were nights when Y/n sat in the bathtub long after the water had gone cold, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes on the ceiling. She’d count the cracks in the paint and pretend they meant something. Every line had a story, a direction, a place it was leading. It helped, somehow—imagining that even broken things had a path.

She was twenty-one and exhausted. Not in the theatrical, college-student way where tiredness came from parties or procrastination, but in a quieter, more insidious sense. The kind of fatigue that came from watching your bank account sit at three digits while your inbox overflowed with late notices and final warnings. The kind of fatigue that came from choosing between paying for groceries or your mother’s heart medication. Every day she felt like she was standing at the edge of a deep pool, staring down, wondering how long she could keep pretending she wasn’t already underwater.

She worked two jobs—one at a used bookstore that smelled like mildew and loneliness, and another as a library assistant on campus, where she mostly shelved books no one read anymore. Her fingers were always stained with ink and dust, her shoes always a little damp from the cracked ceiling in her apartment stairwell. Nothing she did was glamorous. She was tired of calling it character-building. Tired of pretending it was enough.

It was late on a Thursday when the email arrived. She had been sitting on the floor, knees raw against the tile, flipping through the notes for a class she could barely afford to attend. The subject line on the screen stopped her mid-sentence.

“OFFER.”

There was no greeting. No introduction. The message was short. Clean. It read like something written in a single breath and sent without a second thought.

You don’t know me. That’s intentional. Your name was passed to me through someone I trust. I am not searching for love, and I’m not interested in unnecessary attachment. I am, quite frankly, bored. I spend money easily. And recently, I’ve been wondering what it might feel like to spend it on a person, instead of things. I’m offering something simple. Clean. Private. No strings. No false promises. Just a transaction with soft edges. If this is something you understand, reply. If not—delete this, and pretend you never saw it.

There was no name, only a single initial. H.

Y/n didn’t move. She sat there with her knees still folded, the hum of the fridge loud in the silence. Her first instinct was suspicion. Her second was something closer to shame. But beneath both, thick and dark and dangerous, was interest. The kind she didn’t want to name out loud.

She told herself she wouldn’t answer. She let the message sit for a full day. She went to class. Worked. Ate one dry granola bar over twelve hours. And then, at 2:37 a.m., with no makeup, no dignity, and her laptop balanced on her thighs, she typed two words into the reply box.

I understand.

No name. No questions.

She didn’t sleep that night.

The next day, a reply came. An address. A time. A car would be sent. She wasn’t told who he was. There were no attachments. No contracts. Just a message that felt like it had teeth, and silence behind it that pulled like a current.

She almost backed out. But the next night, when the car came—sleek and black and soundless—she stepped inside.

The driver didn’t speak. The seats were too soft. The world outside the window grew more surreal with every mile—graffiti fading into marble, neon signs replaced by warm yellow lights that looked like candle flames behind floor-to-ceiling glass. They were going up, not down. Higher into something. Somewhere money lived.

She hadn’t brought anything. He’d told her not to.

She had showered in the dark. Worn her cleanest dress, the one that clung a little too tightly now, but made her look like she belonged to something expensive. Her heartbeat didn’t settle once. Not even when the elevator doors opened and she stepped into a space that was so quiet, it made her feel like she was being watched by the furniture.

The penthouse wasn’t warm. It was beautiful, but it was a cold kind of beauty. Stone and glass. Dark woods and soft rugs under bare feet. There were no personal touches. No clutter. The space didn’t look lived in. It looked arranged.

He was standing by the window with a drink in his hand, but it took her a moment to see him. He didn’t move when she entered. Just watched. Calm. Unblinking. The kind of stillness that wasn’t about hesitation—it was control.

She knew who he was before he turned fully toward her.

Harry Styles.

Not the man on the stage, the one in glitter and smiles. This version was stripped down to the bone—barefoot, in a black silk shirt, top buttons undone, hair a little messy like he’d run his fingers through it and then stopped halfway. He looked bored, not in the impatient way of a man waiting too long, but in the way of someone who had everything and didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

He didn’t offer a smile. Or a drink. Or his name.

She didn’t speak either.

There was something eerie about the way he looked at her, like he was memorizing her in slow motion. His gaze wasn’t hungry. It was observant. Detached. But there was something else under it, too—like he was looking for proof that she was real, not just another acquisition that would lose its shine after a few weeks.

He gestured toward a chair without words. She sat.

He leaned against the edge of the low table, glass still in hand, and studied her for what felt like hours.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Quiet. The kind of tone that settled behind your ribs and stayed there.

“I’m not here to play games, Y/n.”

And she knew, instantly, that he meant it.

Not just this arrangement. Not just tonight.

But everything.

He wasn’t offering affection. Or comfort. Or care. He wasn’t looking for someone to love or be loved by. He was a man who had spent too long inside rooms that echoed. A man who had gone numb from excess. And now he wanted to spend his money on something human.

He had chosen her.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Y/n let herself want to be chosen.

The quiet stretched, long and heavy, filling the corners of the room like smoke. Y/n kept her spine straight in the chair, her hands resting in her lap the way she’d been taught in some etiquette class years ago that she’d barely passed, more out of luck than skill. It was the only armor she had now. Stillness. Stillness and silence.

Harry hadn’t moved much. He was a study in restraint—one hand on his glass, the other casually tucked into the pocket of his black trousers. His shirt clung to his frame just enough to remind her he was real. The top of his chest, faintly visible beneath the undone buttons, rose and fell like clockwork. Controlled. Everything about him seemed designed to reveal nothing and make you want everything.

She wondered if that was the point.

His voice came again, smooth as a poured drink and just as dangerous.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said, not as a suggestion, but a fact. “In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t. At least not yet.”

She didn’t flinch. She only blinked once and nodded. She was good at not speaking. Good at not taking up space. Good at swallowing whole the ache of being unseen, then pretending it never tasted like anything at all.

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Not a smile—something quieter. Pleased.

He pushed off from the table slowly, the kind of slow that people used when they weren’t rushed by time because they owned it. His feet were silent on the floor as he moved toward her. Not predatory, not looming. Just deliberate.

When he reached her, he didn’t touch her. He didn’t sit. He simply stood in front of her, his eyes scanning her face, then drifting lower. Not hungry. Just… curious. Like she was a question he hadn’t decided how to answer yet.

“I don’t want to own you,” he said, more softly now. “I’m not interested in pretending this is something it’s not. But if we’re going to do this, I expect you to keep your word. To stay quiet. To be clean. To be on time.”

There was no contract, no paper. But the weight of his words was heavier than any ink.

“And in return,” he continued, “you won’t worry about rent. You won’t walk to work in the rain. You won’t think about bills or debt or whatever it is that’s been pulling your shoulders down since you walked in here.”

Her throat felt tight. He was close enough now that she could smell his cologne—earthy, expensive, spiced like something meant for darker hours of the night. Everything about him was designed for the night, she realized. His voice. His silence. His rules.

He reached into his pocket and held out a slim black card. It wasn’t flashy—no bright logos, no embossed name. Just a sleek, matte finish and a thin strip of gold along the side. The kind of card that didn’t have a limit. The kind that didn’t need explanation.

“This is yours,” he said, watching her. “For as long as I want it to be.”

Her fingers didn’t move at first. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else—something older and deeper than fear, maybe. That feeling you get standing on the edge of something high, knowing you might fall, but more afraid of what it might mean if you jumped on purpose.

But she reached out.

Her skin brushed his.

And the second she closed her fingers around the card, everything changed.

The card was warm from his pocket. Y/n hadn’t expected that. She thought it would feel colder—like metal, like warning. But it pulsed slightly in her palm, quiet and expensive, a promise dressed up like permission.

Harry didn’t say anything else. He simply turned away, walking back toward the window like nothing had changed, like she hadn’t just handed over a part of herself without speaking a word. His bare feet made no sound across the stone floor. He moved like someone who was always moving away from something, even when he was standing still.

Y/n sat there for a moment longer, unsure if she was meant to follow or remain, but too proud to ask. The silence in the room was thick with intention. It wasn’t awkward. It was purposeful. Designed. Like everything in here.

When she finally rose to her feet, the card still clutched lightly between her fingers, she felt it again—that shift in her spine, the one that came from being looked at like a sculpture instead of a girl. His gaze slid over her as she walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She stopped at a polite distance. There was no reflection of herself in the glass, only the city far below, lights like scattered bones in the dark.

Harry’s voice, when it came again, was softer. Not gentle, but quieter, like he was speaking to a memory, or maybe to himself.

“I chose you because you looked like you wouldn’t beg.”

Y/n didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on the skyline. Her chest felt strange—tight, then hollow, then tight again.

“I won’t,” she said. Not because she was proud, but because she didn’t know how to anymore.

He took a sip from his glass. The ice had melted.

The moment stretched again. She wondered how many women had stood where she was now. How many had spoken less and meant more. How many had taken his money, his rules, his silence—and still been haunted by the sound of his voice.

She felt like a body being studied, not a person being touched. He hadn’t laid a single finger on her. And yet, she felt marked.

“Do you live alone?” he asked suddenly, eyes still on the glass.

“Yes.”

“Anyone who’ll come looking for you if you don’t go home tonight?”

“No.”

He nodded, slowly, as if that was a relief—not because he planned to keep her, but because it meant fewer questions. Fewer strings.

“I want you to stay,” he said after a moment. “Not for me. For you.”

That surprised her.

“For me?” she asked, turning to look at him. Really look.

He was still beautiful in that clean, unreal way—sharp jawline, half-lidded eyes, hair that fell in disobedient waves. But there was something behind it, too. Something hollowed-out and old. Like he’d lost the ability to be surprised by beauty. Like he was tired of it.

“You don’t rest,” he said simply. “Not the real kind. I can see it in your hands. Your mouth. The way you never let your shoulders drop.”

She wanted to tell him he was wrong. That she didn’t have time to rest. That she didn’t have space. That her rest was never restful, only an ache delayed.

But he was already walking toward a hallway off the main room. He didn’t wait to see if she’d follow.

She did.

The bedroom was large, quiet, shadowed. Nothing too ornate—no gold, no glitter. Just dark walls, smooth floors, and soft bedding that looked untouched. A window open just slightly, letting in the hum of the city below.

He motioned toward the bed without looking at her. Not sexual. Not possessive. Just… direct.

“Lie down.”

Y/n stood there a beat too long, unsure if this was a command or something more complicated. But she obeyed. Carefully. Slowly. She laid down on the side closest to the window, the card still between her fingers, resting it on the bedside table like a talisman she wasn’t ready to let go of completely.

Harry didn’t follow her into the bed. He stayed near the door, watching, silent again. Then, almost absently, he reached out and turned off the light.

Darkness bloomed around her. Not suffocating, but deep.

She waited for his touch. For his breath on her neck. For the weight of a body beside her.

But nothing came.

The door closed with the softest click.

She was alone.

For a long time, Y/n lay there, blinking into the dark, unsure whether what had happened tonight was the beginning of something… or the end of her.

She didn’t expect to sleep. She thought the sheets would be too smooth, the pillows too soft, the room too quiet. That her body would stay alert, eyes wide open in the dark like they always were in unfamiliar places. But something about the way the room held her—dim and still and untouched—let her sink.

Maybe it was the first time in too long she didn’t feel watched by the world.

She drifted in and out. No dreams. Just a thick kind of unconsciousness. Heavy. Deep. She woke once in the middle of the night, unsure what time it was. The room hadn’t changed. But something in it had.

There was a sound.

Soft. Barely there. The creak of a door, the shift of weight on the floorboards. She turned her head, slow and quiet, eyes adjusting.

Harry.

He stood just inside the room. The door was open behind him now, the hallway casting a faint glow against his frame. He wasn’t dressed for sleep—still in the same black silk shirt, though it looked looser now, like he’d unbuttoned another few without noticing. His hair had been pushed back, but it was already falling forward again, curling slightly at the ends.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

She thought maybe he’d just come to look. To remind himself she was real. That he’d actually done this—that she was here, in his bed, under his roof, breathing in the same silence.

Y/n didn’t speak either.

She could feel her own breath now. Slow and full. Her limbs were warm under the sheets, her fingers curled lightly where they rested near her collarbone. She wondered what she looked like to him in that moment—if she seemed fragile, or false, or dangerously calm.

He took a few steps in. Barefoot again, like always. The quiet made it feel like she was watching a dream instead of a man. She didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare blink too fast. She thought if she did, the spell might break.

He stopped at the edge of the bed.

Still, he didn’t touch her.

His voice came then, low and quiet and rougher now—like it had been scraped raw by sleep or thought.

“I thought I wouldn’t care.”

He said it like a confession. Like he wasn’t used to saying things out loud unless they were orders.

Y/n didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t need to.

He looked down at her for a long time, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. Then—finally—he sat down. Not beside her, but in the chair near the window. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. His eyes didn’t leave her face.

“I thought you’d be like the others,” he said, still quiet. “Polished. Practiced. Hungry.”

Y/n swallowed, the sound too loud in her own ears.

“But you looked tired,” he continued. “Not the kind of tired you fake. The kind that never leaves.”

She didn’t speak. She let him fill the silence, unsure what it meant that he was giving her pieces of himself when he hadn’t even asked her favorite color.

“I think I wanted that,” he said. “Someone who wouldn’t try to impress me. Someone who’d take what I gave and leave the rest.”

A pause.

“You’re not what I expected.”

Neither are you, she thought.

Harry leaned back in the chair slowly, one hand raised to brush the back of his neck. The shirt slid farther open, exposing the lines of his collarbone, the soft skin just beneath his throat. He looked… human. Not cold. Not untouchable.

“I don’t sleep much,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“Why?” Her voice was a whisper. It felt wrong to speak louder, like she might wake the room.

His eyes flicked to hers.

“I don’t like the things I dream about.”

Y/n stared at him. The confession came with no elaboration. No apology. And he didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

Because she understood.

There was a kind of closeness that didn’t require touch. And right now, in the hush of the night, something passed between them that was quieter than desire. Deeper than hunger. Lonelier, too.

“I’ll stay quiet,” she said softly, echoing his words from earlier.

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then, without saying another word, he stood. He crossed the room slowly, stepping to the side of the bed where she lay. He didn’t climb under the covers. He didn’t brush her skin.

Instead, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, eyes lowered. One hand reached for hers. Not to hold it—just to rest his fingers gently over her knuckles.

The weight was barely there. But it was real.

And for the rest of the night, they didn’t speak again.

She fell asleep with his hand on hers, the card still lying like a shadow on the bedside table.

The morning came in shades of pale gold.

Sunlight slipped past the curtains in thin ribbons, casting faint lines across the bedsheets and pooling softly on the floor. It was the kind of light that didn’t demand to be noticed—it simply was. Gentle. Patient. The kind that took its time waking a room.

Y/n stirred first.

Her body woke before her mind did, blinking away the fog of sleep like dust shaken from a coat. Her eyes opened to the unfamiliar ceiling—smooth, pale grey, with a barely visible seam that ran through the plaster. There was a hush in the room, one so quiet it made her heart beat louder in her ears.

Then she remembered.

The bed wasn’t hers.

The room wasn’t hers.

But the air was still warm. And the silence wasn’t empty.

She turned her head, slowly, the sheet whispering against her bare shoulder.

Harry was sitting in the same chair as before.

He hadn’t moved much. Just shifted—one leg crossed over the other now, his arms resting loose on the armrests. His head tilted toward her, chin slightly down, mouth soft in a way she hadn’t seen last night.

He was watching her.

Not like a man watching something he owned.

More like a man who had surprised himself. Who didn’t know what came next.

Their eyes met. And something about the stillness held.

He looked different in the light. Less shadowed. Less sculpted. The edges of his face were no longer carved in contrast—they were softer now, almost delicate in places. He had faint creases under his eyes, the kind that only showed up in the morning, when someone had thought too much during the night.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For a long time, they just watched each other—two strangers sharing the kind of quiet that usually took years to earn.

Then, gently, Harry stood.

He moved like the silence had weight, like sound would break something fragile between them. As he crossed the room toward the bed, she sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down to her lap. Her hair fell over her shoulder, unbrushed, undone. She didn’t reach to fix it.

He stopped just in front of her, his eyes flicking across her face like he was trying to read something written there.

“Do you drink coffee?” he asked.

The question startled her.

It wasn’t what she expected. Not from him. Not after last night. Not after the card and the stillness and the invisible lines she’d just started learning how to walk.

But it was the most human thing he could have said.

She nodded once. “Black.”

His mouth curled at one corner. The smallest smile. Barely visible, but real.

“Come downstairs.”

He turned without waiting for her reply.

This time, she followed immediately.

The hallway was longer than she’d noticed before, the walls a deep blue-grey that caught the morning light like stone after rain. There were no paintings. No decorations. Just quiet.

When they reached the kitchen—if it could be called that—Y/n had to stop for a second.

It was unlike anything she’d seen. Sleek and modern, almost surgical. A long marble island stretched across the center, its surface spotless. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline in perfect stillness. The world looked far away. Too far to matter.

Harry moved with precision. He reached for a small silver kettle, filled it without asking, and began to prepare the coffee the way a pianist might prepare their hands before playing—deliberately, patiently. She watched him grind the beans himself. Watched the way his fingers moved. He didn’t speak while he worked. He didn’t offer her a seat, and she didn’t ask for one. She stood across from him at the island, like this was some sort of ritual neither of them wanted to disturb.

When he finally placed the cup in front of her, she was surprised to see he’d remembered. No sugar. No cream.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly.

Harry didn’t answer. He poured a cup for himself and leaned against the counter, watching her over the rim as he took a sip.

They drank in silence.

And somehow, it wasn’t awkward. It was easy. Strange. Like the hush between them had grown roots overnight.

After a few minutes, he set his cup down and spoke without looking at her.

“There’s an account in your name now. Linked to the card. You’ll find it has more than you need.”

Her chest tightened.

He didn’t say how much. Didn’t list rules again. Didn’t remind her of what this arrangement was.

He didn’t have to.

But before she could respond, he added, voice lower now, eyes still on the city beyond the glass:

“I don’t expect you to pretend this is love.”

The words landed hard. But not cruelly.

It was a warning. Maybe even protection.

She stared at him for a long time, then said the only thing that made sense in that moment.

“I know.”

Another silence.

Then, almost too soft to hear:

“But I also don’t think I know what love would look like… if it ever walked in.”

Harry finally looked at her.

And something in his eyes—something older than either of them—shifted.

He didn’t touch her.

But this time, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to.

She finished her coffee slowly.

It was stronger than what she usually drank. More bitter. But smooth. Expensive in a way she couldn’t describe. Not in taste, but in the way it lingered on her tongue like something meant to be remembered.

Harry didn’t push the conversation further. He didn’t explain more about the account, or how this was going to work, or what she owed. He simply drank his own in quiet, watching the skyline like he was looking for something he’d long stopped expecting to find.

Y/n didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t know which ones she was allowed to ask yet.

He finally glanced at the time—an old Cartier on his wrist, sleek and quiet, not flashy—and murmured, more to himself than to her, “I have a meeting at ten.”

She nodded.

He didn’t say you can stay.

He didn’t say you should go.

He just walked toward the hall, then paused near the threshold. His back to her.

“There’s a driver downstairs. He’ll take you wherever you need to go. His name is Emil.”

That was all. No offer to see her out. No smile. But no dismissal either.

She didn’t know why it felt like… a kind of intimacy. The sort that didn’t ask for anything in return.

She waited until he disappeared down the hallway before moving.

The apartment felt even larger now in the daylight. The quiet wasn’t eerie—it was curated. Like every inch of space had been carved to serve its own silence. As she walked back through the main room, she passed the chair he’d sat in the night before. The impression of his body still lived in the cushion.

She hesitated at the side table.

The card was still there.

Black. Heavy. Her name engraved so faintly in gold it almost disappeared in the light. She ran her fingers across the surface once, just to feel it.

Then she picked it up and slipped it into her coat pocket.

She didn’t know what it meant yet—what carrying this would cost her.

But she also knew she couldn’t leave it behind.

The elevator was empty, encased in mirrors. As it slid downward, she caught glimpses of herself from every angle. Her hair slightly messy. Her lips bare. Her eyes… different.

She looked like someone in the middle of something she hadn’t decided was right or wrong yet.

The doors opened to the quiet hum of the building’s private lobby. Emil was already waiting by the car. A black Bentley, sleek and polished like it had never known dirt. He opened the door without a word.

She slid in.

The leather seats felt cool against her legs.

“Where to, miss?” he asked, voice low, respectful.

She blinked. It was the first moment she’d had to think of the outside world since stepping into Harry’s last night.

Her apartment?

School?

Work?

Each option felt suddenly… small. Distant. Like they belonged to someone else.

She cleared her throat. “Home. Please.”

He nodded and pulled away from the curb.

The city blurred past the windows, but she didn’t watch it. She stared down at her hands instead, folded gently in her lap.

Her fingers still remembered the weight of his, from when he’d sat beside her in the dark. Just a touch. A ghost of one.

She wasn’t sure what she was now.

Not a girlfriend. Not a secret. Not a possession, exactly.

But not free, either.

When she reached her apartment, Emil handed her a small envelope along with the keys. No words. Just a look.

Inside, there was a note. Typed. Plain white paper. No letterhead.

“You’ll find the first payment deposited. Use what you need. No calls. No begging. No lies. Keep quiet. — H”

She stood in the doorway of her tiny kitchen, reading it three times before folding it neatly and tucking it into the drawer next to the matches and loose change.

Y/n sat down at her table.

It still smelled faintly of instant noodles and last night’s rain.

The card was warm in her hand again.

And this time…

it didn’t feel strange.

It felt inevitable.

Three days passed.

They didn’t speak.

No messages. No late-night calls. No little check-ins, no emojis, no “thinking of you.”

Harry Styles didn’t do that kind of presence.

Instead, the silence hung like an expensive coat — weighty, deliberate, and somehow still flattering. Y/n didn’t question it. Or maybe she did, once, while brushing her teeth, her eyes catching her reflection mid-thought. But she didn’t say it aloud. She wasn’t owed his attention, and she didn’t pretend to be.

Still, the money was real.

Rent was paid for six months ahead. She opened her fridge and found it full. Her phone—upgraded, quietly. Her tuition? A notice came: “Balance cleared. Pending zero.” No message. No sender.

Just done.

It didn’t feel like sugar.

It felt like… power. Unspoken. Watching.

She went about her days mostly the same: lectures, part-time shifts at the library, nights in bed with her laptop open and unanswered texts from friends blinking like reminders that she hadn’t been herself.

And then, on a Thursday, everything shifted.

She was working at the front desk of the university’s library. It was late—almost closing. The rain outside had turned the windows into mirrors, and most students had already gone. She was restocking returns in the drop bin, earbuds in, half-listening to something soft and instrumental, when the bell above the door chimed.

She didn’t look up right away.

It was probably some last-minute student begging for one more hour of study space or a forgotten charger. She tapped the return key lazily, eyes still on the screen.

“Hi,” said a voice.

Low. Familiar. Real.

She froze.

Not dramatically—but something in her body pulled tight, like a string suddenly caught.

She turned.

He was standing just inside the door.

Harry.

He wasn’t wearing anything like that night—no silk, no black-on-black elegance. He had on a dark wool coat, damp from rain. His curls looked heavier. He wasn’t clean-shaven. And yet he looked more expensive now than he did that first night—like he hadn’t tried at all, and still the air bent around him.

Y/n pulled out one earbud, blinking as if unsure he was real.

“What are you—” her voice cracked. She swallowed. “Why are you here?”

Harry took a step forward.

“I had a meeting near campus. Walked past. Saw the lights.”

She just stared.

“You don’t believe in coincidences,” she said, voice quieter now.

He gave the smallest shrug. “Not usually.”

He walked to the desk, slow and deliberate. Every step felt heavier than it should’ve.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” she said softly, her hands tightening around the edge of the desk.

“Didn’t think I’d want to.”

That made her blink.

His eyes didn’t move from her face. Even in the bright, unflattering overhead lights of a university library, he looked at her like she was art hung wrong. Something too rare to belong here.

“Are you—” she started, but stopped.

“Am I what?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

They stood like that for a moment. Him on one side of the desk. Her on the other. No soft sheets. No low lights. Just reality.

And still, it felt like something was bending between them.

He glanced toward the window, the glass streaked with rain.

“You haven’t used the car,” he said.

She hesitated.

“No.”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Because I like walking.”

He gave her a look, something unreadable but knowing.

Then his voice dropped lower. “You could’ve come back.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than any word.

She looked down. Her hands. Her name badge. Her chipped nail polish.

“I didn’t know if I should,” she admitted.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then, voice like velvet drawn over a blade:

“Next time… don’t wait for permission.”

That hung in the air between them. Soft. Sharp. Inviting. Dangerous.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“Are you going to check out a book?” she asked, almost smiling.

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Should I?”

She shrugged. “It’s a library.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter like he was about to tell her a secret.

“I don’t read fiction.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because I spend enough time pretending,” he said, gaze unmoving.

Her breath caught.

And then—just like that—he stepped back.

Didn’t touch her. Didn’t linger.

But he left something behind.

A folded square of paper on the counter. Blank on the outside.

She waited until he left to open it.

Inside, written in clean, elegant script:

“Come over tomorrow. Midnight. I’ll be awake. — H.”

She read it once.

Then again.

And felt the weight of her own heartbeat in her mouth.

part 2 >>>

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