#tw: power dynamics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

specialgradefckr · 4 months ago

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here, kitty, kitty!

tw: dubcon/noncon, hybrid au, reader is literally a pet, loss of bodily autonomy, examination kink, slight medical play, genital piercings, possession

So, Satoru wants to get a cat hybrid.

Suguru supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Satoru's never hidden his porn history or anything. He's constantly suggesting they find a third, while instantly rejecting all suggestions.

A diva like him couldn't have sex with just anyone. And for Suguru himself, well, he preferred to have a certain level of... control in a relationship.

Which suited Satoru fine, most of the time, and Suguru was willing to concede on the rare occasion.

But Suguru doesn't have cat ears, a tail, and a pussy, and he can even admit that he misses the fairer sex sometimes, too.

They've been together so long, know each other so well. Familiarity breeding boredom, maybe. They're happy together, but Satoru wants more.

He's also incredibly needy, exactly the type of child who would beg mommy and daddy for a pet kitty.

That's also the type of child cats tend to despise. But no matter how many times he tries to explain it - "It's not that simple, Satoru" "A pet is a serious commitment, you know" - Satoru, much like a whining child, just doesn't listen.

And, well, Suguru is getting tired of telling him.

So that's how they end up here - with you.

A beautiful thing. All curled up in the corner of your stall - cage, really. Your ears twitch at the noise, and you look up, wide-eyed and anxious in a way that tugs his heartstrings.

It's truly a pity that you're at a place like this.

The interior is well-decorated, clean, with lush carpets and furnishings. The interior of your cage has a soft-looking blanket bunched up in it, and plush bedding in the back.

But there's no mistaking its purpose. In the background, there are moans, whimpers, and the occasional sob.

Throughout the wide room, a few pets were being taken out, paraded for potential owners. Poked and prodded and played with.

You, like all the others, are completely naked.

These hybrids are for sex.

Suguru had almost wanted to leave right away, but Satoru had been so excited, dragging him in by the hand. "Just look! We only have to look!"

After the assistant, a tall, well-dressed blonde man, guides them to the cat section, he's starting to think this isn't Satoru's first time here.

And that's when they'd found you, the sorry thing that you are.

Something trickles down his spine at the thought that you'll be seen by others, sold off, used for sex at your owner's discretion.

"Ooooh, I love this one!" Satoru sounds excited. "Can we take a closer look?"

Nodding, the assistant unlatches your cage. You look out, carefully, with big wide eyes, and the assistant waves you out, but you don't move.

He goes in with a leather lead, latching it to your collar, tugging until you finally crawl out, ears tilted back as your tail curls around your body.

Suguru accepts the lead in one hand as the man steps out for a moment.

The assistant reappears pushing a cart of what looks like medical instruments. Tongue depressors, stethoscopes... lubricant.

"All our pets are virgins. You aren't permitted to have sex but you're free to examine them however you like."

Suguru stands there, silent and shocked while Satoru gleefully agrees.

With a tap of his hand to your back, the assistant guides you to lean forwards, chest pressed against the floor, ass up, right in the middle of the shop in front of them.

Your tail sways gently, curling around Satoru's hand when he grasps at it, delighted, running his hand through it and down the length of your body.

"She soooo cute! Look at her pretty tail. And that ass." He whistles, smacking you on the flank.

Suguru watches your whole body flinch at the contact, but you stiffen up, staying in position. He feels a weird, light flip in his belly. This sort of thing was crazy to begin with... but wouldn't it be better to adopt you than leave you here?

He can't even see your face, meet your eyes. Something inside him screams to comfort you; gather your smaller figure up tightly in his arms and squeeze.

"It'll be all right," Suguru finds himself saying, effortlessly smooth as he approaches you. Gently petting the side of your head, watching the ear on that side tilt to accommodate him. Cute.

Well. He supposes he's a cat person, too.

Satoru is still cooing and groping over your admittedly fine body. Suguru can't help but notice how you stiffen under Satoru's wandering touch, but lean into his gentle pets.

He kneels by your head so he can scratch behind your ear, catching the side of your pretty face.

You reward his efforts with a slight, barely noticeable purr - one that goes away when you gasp, face flushing.

That'd be Satoru.

"See, look at her getting wet already! I bet she looks real good taking dick." Satoru says with a giggle as he reaches your pussy, giving your clit a little rub and teasing your entrance.

The employee, straight-faced, gestures towards the instruments beside him.

"As I said, our pets are kept as virgins until they're sold, so you can't have sex with them. But any other form of examination is permitted, including penetrative ones."

Satoru gives him that terrible, impish grin. "C'mon Suguru. We should check she's in good health before we get her."

"Who said we're getting her?" Suguru shoots back, stroking tenderly over your head, down your back, in soothing motions.

There's a sparkle in Satoru's eyes; he knows Suguru isn't willing to leave this shelter without you.

Those terrible, wicked, beautiful eyes glance over the instruments, mouth splitting into a grin as he fixes his gaze on one of them.

Pulling out the speculum, Satoru slinks towards your backside. Tracing lines over your folds, fondling your clit with purpose.

"See! Soooo wet," He coos, positioning the speculum at your entrance.

Suguru pulls away from you to sit next to Satoru, "Be careful. That's not a toy."

"I know, I know!"

Satoru's tone isn't exactly reassuring to you. Still, you can't do anything but hold yourself up, your ass and cunt bare and exposed to them as the cool metal slides in.

Just the feeling of it spreading you open has you whimpering, tail curling around your thigh.

Suguru's hand comes to rest at the base of your tail, near your back, petting down it in a gliding motion.

"There's a good girl, hm," His voice has a heady satisfaction to it, fingers curling around your tail, "Just hold still for us, don't be afraid. We won't hurt you."

You can't help your reaction, keening under his soothing, affectionate tone. A little whine escapes you as the cool metal slides deeper in, and Suguru makes an effort to reach down and pet your head again.

"Yeah!" Satoru chirps. "See, it's not so bad!"

Somehow, this, too, fails to reassure you. However, one of his hands sneaks around to rub over your clit, until you're dripping, clenching around the metal instrument.

"Good kitty," Suguru murmurs, and you find a shameful, low rumble building in your belly.

Satoru notices, though, "She likes it!" - to your horror, he slides the speculum all the way in, and starts spreading it - you - wide open.

"Here, Suguru, don't you want a look?" Satoru says, spreading you one-handed. His other hand rubs just close enough to your clit to keep the arousal lit.

"Hm..." Suguru hums.

But Satoru knows him - knows that this is as close to a yes as he can bring himself to admit to an idea he hadn't suggested himself.

You're so cute, too, he can't help but stroke your pretty little folds, all soft and wet for him. Even as he gapes your cunt wide, it's drooling all over his fingers. You're a natural. So perfect~

"Just look!" Excitement shoots through his chest, "You can see inside... that's her cervix, right?"

He does see it, they both do, that tender, reddened roundness at the end of your pretty little passageway. Walls straining against the speculum, a tight little hole winking at them at the very end.

Like a prize. Like an invitation.

It stirs a terrible, primal heat in Suguru's loins. Seeing so deep inside you. So far. You've almost certainly never even seen this part of yourself... it's only for him. For him and Satoru.

For them to see right now. And later, feel it kissing their dicks, hot and wet as you get filled up with their cum...

"God," Satoru says out loud, "I just want to take her here and now, you know? This cute cunt would look so nice all swollen and dripping with cum, yeah? Right, Su-gu-ru~?"

It's so painfully obvious by now; Satoru had already scouted you in this shelter. He'd picked you out on purpose.

Somehow, he's not even upset. But he can't just say that. Even if he's already itching to have you home, with his name on your collar and your leash in his hands, to play with...

"She looks... healthy." Suguru says, glancing at the employee.

The assistant nods shortly. "As you can see, she has a very strong pelvic floor, and she's in prime breeding condition. Our pets are kept in perfect health."

A pause. "Is she in fit to go home today?" Suguru asks, ignoring how Satoru nearly cheers at the statement.

"All of our pets are. If they weren't completely healthy, they wouldn't be on display. We take their care very seriously here."

Suguru nods again, and the assistant leaves to retrieve the final adoption papers.

Satoru pulls the speculum out, and Suguru takes a moment to press his body into your thigh, supporting you, petting over you.

"You were so good for us," He cooes, "Don't be scared. There's a good girl," Suguru hums as your tail slides against him, "You're coming home with us, now. Aren't you excited?"

There's a terrible relief that pours through you at the words good girl, at the gentleness with which those large hands guide you to a much more comfortable position, sitting at his feet.

You press yourself against his lower legs, looking up at him shyly, feeling a purr glow through your chest as Suguru smiles down at you.

He's so nice. The other man is lecherous, a bit scary, but it'll be okay as long as this nice man is here, right?

It seems almost finished, as the employee returns - but the white-haired man, the extra pretty one, raises a brow at an option on the paperwork.

"Clit piercings?" Satoru's voice seems extra excited, "Is that an option? Instead of the microchip?"

Piercing? You stiffen at the word. To say you didn't like pain would be a dramatic understatement. Just the thought of some needle near your flesh, a hole that won't heal...

Suguru's hand comes down onto your head, running through your hair, brushing all the thoughts away as you lean into his touch.

It's hard not to crave the warmth, the gentleness. You're only a hybrid, after all, bred for companionship and affection.

The employee pauses for a moment sighing, "It's not an option for all pets. It's a clitoral hood piercing, which can house a micro-sized, state of the art gps tracker. The issue is, it requires some delicate handling. You would have to keep her still, and ideally, keep her clit hard, so it's easier to avoid."

Satoru pulls you up into his arms, like you're no lighter than a switch - you yelp, but he just laughs.

He sits back onto a chair, holding you in his lap and spreading your legs. With one hand, larger than your whole pussy, he spreads your lips open, revealing your cunt.

Your feverish eyes look for Suguru, who approaches from the side, squirming in Satrou's lap anxiously.

Those dark eyes run over you, and for once, the look on the handsome, dark-haired man's face makes you shiver.

"That should be easy. You've been playing around it all this time, haven't you, Satoru?" Suguru's tone is half-accusatory, but Satoru only laughs.

It's easy for you to follow the line of his sight to between your legs, right at the crest of your clit, where Satoru's long, clever fingers stroke heavy circles around it.

"Just hold her like that" The assistant states, pulling out a piercing gun, "This will only take a moment."

"Look at her cute little clit!" Satoru snickers, "Gonna look so pretty with the piercing over it. Plus, if she ever gets lost, we'll find her right away!"

You can feel his body better now, pressed up as you are against him. His chest is solid, muscled, and he's wiry but lean behind you as he holds you easily in his grip, locking his legs inside yours.

Your ears tuck down as you squirm nervously, but Satoru's grip holds you tightly in place. The tip of your tail swishes as it winds against Satrou's leg as it presses into yours.

Suguru sits down next to you, one arm wrapping around your back and up over your chest. He presses his cheek to your poor quivering ear, nuzzling into it.

"Mmmh, don't be scared," He hums lowly, a noise like involuntarily relaxes you, "It'll be over quick."

His voice changes, deepening, hardening, and it's like it's coming from someone else entirely when he says - "Satoru. Keep her on the edge, make her cum when it goes in."

A whine escapes you. Goes in? You don't want this.

The assistant's gloved hands nears you as he gets on his knees, sharp eyes darting at your exposed sex, pulling the strange, unfamiliar tool right up to your most vulnerable place.

You whimper, and Suguru kisses your ear, folding it against your head, "Shhh, shhh. Don't be scared. You feel good now, doesn't it?" He says in a voice like honey.

Satoru's fingers dance over your folds. The strokes get shorter and shorter, the bud of your clit swelling up with pleasure and sensitivity alike. Gut churning with arousal, dripping from you, and a rapidly growing anxiety.

"I don't," You say, but your head is already spinning, "I don't, don't, wanna, I don't wanna, please..."

Leaning forward, Suguru tucks some hair behind his ear, showing you his own gauge piercings.

"I have one too, see?" He hums, "Yours will be much smaller, just a little one. It'll barely hurt."

You stare in confusion, tearing up as your own ears flick nervously. He has one too? But this is between your legs!

"No, no no no, please no," You plead with him, "I don't want it, please-"

"Shhhh." Suguru's hand darts up to your mouth, fingers pressing down on your tongue, "Yes you do. You'll love it so much once you have it, don't worry."

He feels silly for trying to explain. That won't calm you down now.

It makes sense that you can't understand. You're just a sweet little kitty, as much as you look like a human, and this is all just scary and uncomfortable for you.

You're a cat hybrid, a domesticated creature. Pets don't have to think about what's best for themselves; their owners do that for them.

He feels your rough tongue squirming against his fingers, drool pooling around them.

It makes him lick his own lips. His pants are tight. He wouldn't be surprised if Satoru hadn't already -

"Hnngh... yeah, kitty, you'll love it," Satoru pants, grinding up against your ass, making you whimper even more.

Suguru lays another heavy kiss on your ear, "Shh, shh. Hold still, kitty, you can do that, can't you?"

In the midst of all the pleasure, the quickening strokes that have your core clenching in anticipation. The fingers in your mouth, the iron grip on your hips, your legs, holding you in place, the bodies against you; Suguru's soft voice is your anchor in a sea of overstimulation.

But all you can do is warble, fangs teething against his skin, just barely not breaking through. You tremble at the effort, gnawing at his knuckles, wrapping your lips around his fingers.

"You're so sweet," He croons, "So good for me. There's a good kitty."

His fingertip draws down along your tongue, triggering your reflexes to suckle at it.

"There you go, nice and ready," Suguru coos, stroking your head, "Keep her close, Satoru."

With one large hand on your hip, holding you steady, Satoru starts rubbing your clit in sharper, fierce circles, coaxing it to stiffen and peek out further.

The assistant tugs back the delicate skin over your clit, all dripping and swollen. He gives it a quick wipe as he pulls the piercing gun in, making you panic even further.

Suguru pets and kisses as you, squeezing at the tension in your shoulder and your neck, while Satoru rubs just beneath your clit, in hard presses that send pleasure shooting through you.

"Feels good, right?" Satoru pants in your other ear, pinning your hips tightly against him and his throbbing erection, "I'm gonna make you feel even better real soon, kitty."

You sniffle helplessly in his lap, clit throbbing as his fingers work your sensitive nub. It sends you closer and closer to release, a tightening coil of anxiety and pleasure curling in your core.

"Hold still," Suguru murmurs softly, "Be good."

And you try; you try to be good and hold still for Suguru, who pets you and strokes you and says nice things to you. But it's so hard. Every fiber of your being wants to flinch away, and the constant stimulation against your clit is nearly blinding, burning hot arousal searing through you.

You're half-trembling with terror. Heart racing as you stare at the piercing gun sliding into place over your wet, exposed cunt.

"You're being so brave," Suguru whispers, "Such a brave little kitty. Just a little longer."

With a final click, the employee pierces you, sending a sharp jolt of pain through you. You shriek at the sensation, and would have jumped if it weren't for Satoru's iron grasp around you.

But Satoru keeps rubbing, your sensitive bud throbbing with both the effects of his touch, and the pain of the piercing now settled in place just over your clit.

It's all too much, the swell of pleasure building in your core until the pain only adds to the intensity. The dam bursts forth, and you choke on Suguru's fingers as you tense up, breathless, all discomfort melting away in the airy bliss of your climax.

"See," Satoru purrs, arms moving to wrap around your chest and hold you close, "Told you I'd make you feel good."

"That wasn't so bad, was it, kitty?" Suguru lays a kiss against your heated cheek, pulling his saliva-slick fingers out of your mouth so you can pant in the aftermath of your release.

"Look, Suguru~!" Satoru grins, cheeks red, as he taps at your new piercing, "It's so cute!"

Suguru straight up smacks his hand away, muttering some admonishment you don't catch; dimly, you register a wetness against your ass, at the front of his pants.

Panting, sweat-soaked, you slump forward as soon as Satoru's grip on you loosens - but it only tightens right up again, drawing a confused mewl from you as Satoru tugs you up to carry in his arms.

There's more kisses to your head, your ears, your burning hot cheeks. A buzz between your legs so sharp you can't even tell if it hurts or feels good, so you settle for whining whenever you're jostled.

"Be careful with her, Satoru."

"I am, I am - aren't you gonna do the paperwork? I think she needs a little aftercare."

You slump helplessly against Satoru's chest, ears flicking to pick up conversations you're too tired to pay attention to. Tail swaying underneath you, slung over one of Satoru's arms.

"Don't start monopolizing her already. We can do that together once we get home."

"I'm the one who wanted her in the first place!" Satoru whines.

Suguru rolls his eyes, "So you admit you went here without me and picked her out first?"

"But you like her, though," Satoru says, giggling, shifting you carefully in his arms to better support your head.

He looks down at you, curled up in his arms, with a satisfied smile, as the paperwork is signed and they're about to leave.

Aren't you just the cutest little kitty he ever did see?

He just knew Suguru would love you. He's playing it cool, but Satoru knows he can't wait to get you home to dote on you, set up rules and routines. He's probably salivating at the thought.

A pet just for them. Docile and sensitive and fuckable, a loving companion to come home to every day, a toy for them to use together or apart.

Satoru tucks your head against the crook of his neck.

He can't wait to break you in.

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sutorus · 2 years ago

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THE GRUDGE PROFESSOR!GETO for KINKTOBER 2023!

DESCRIPTION: everybody loves professor geto, and judging by the thousands of viewers you get on every live, a lot of people love you, too. but you and professor geto hate each other. you’ve had enough of his humiliation rituals, and decide to do something about it.

PAIRING: mean professor!geto x student!reader

WC: 5.3k i am an unstoppable beast

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. fem reader, afab reader, teacher/student dynamic! adult age gap! (reader is in college, unspecified age), sw/camgirl!reader (don’t like don’t read! no shaming 😤), strong language, dirty talk, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, darling), reader calling geto "sir", unprotected relations, creampie, afab reader and terms

A/N: this switches between povs a lot so i hope that’s okay or at least readable lol! also i set out to write him so much meaner but he’s just kind of a simp... enjoy?

reblogs are very much appreciated i'll uwu for u :pleading eyes emoji:

it is said that those who cannot do, teach.

geto suguru could have done many things. he had the brains, the muscles, the features, the traits. the ambition to succeed in any field he desired. satoru says in a world ruled by the strong there is no place for humility.

but humility is not why suguru became a teacher. neither is ineptitude. no, he’d become a teacher because it was the right thing to do.

to use his gifts to help shape new generations, help unlock potentials long dorment and buried deep under years of a lackluster schooling system. geto suguru prided himself, above all, in being a righteous man.

but japan’s most upstanding citizen for 28 years in a row held a shameful secret. a secret in the shape of you.

he saw the darkest sides of himself on your face (eyebrows scrunched, eyes shut tightly, jaw slack as you—), your voice (higher in pitch with desperate moans that sound almost scared on the brink of your—), your body (taut and plump in all the right places, glistening with sweat, bouncing up and down on a—).

when you walked into his classroom that fateful day, the world tilted on its axis. his first thought was, fuck, then, it can’t be, then, most embarrassing of all, i’ll finally find out what she smells like.

(he did, when you went up to his desk to hand over your test. a whiff of vanilla, argon oil shampoo. too sweet, too youthful. and he’d watched you leave, tennis skirt flowing like a water lily, dick already chubby in his pants.)

it was slowly starting to consume him.

the first time you spoke in class, he knew he hadn’t been mistaken. it was really you. the cute, slutty girl he’d been milking his cock to for the better part of a year.

god, when you finally said his name. you would never in your wildest dreams think that he’d been imagining those words coming out of your mouth, of him coming out of your mouth, dripping out of you, all over you—

he was losing it. this was not like him. this was never supposed to happen, and he has to put an end to it.

everybody knew of geto suguru, the prodigy professor. already getting a phd despite not even being 30, handling the administrative slack for the department while managing office hours every day of the week, promoting student events, helping organize spirit weeks and charity drives.

everything he did, he did for others. those not as capable as him — which was most people. in other words, it was really, really hard to hate him.

but you damn well managed to.

and to think you were excited to take his class. everybody told you to run, not walk, to sign up for his twentieth-century Japanese philosophy chair.

“oh, professor geto is just the best,” they’d said. “he makes it sound so interesting and engaging, he gives the most life changing assignments, he really cares about us.”

bullshit.

the first time you stepped into that classroom, suspiciously full for a philosophy class, you felt a shift in the air almost immediately.

and sure enough, professor geto suguru was eyeing you down like he’d just seen a ghost. it made you self conscious, like he’d taken one look at you and decided right then and there you were too dumb for the class.

it made your blood boil. sure, you stood out a little bit from the actual philosophy majors, but that doesn’t mean he gets to judge you. he literally doesn’t know you!

but fine, first impressions are tricky like that. for all you knew, you could’ve been misjudging him right there.

however, with each passing day, you grew more and more assured in your suspicions.

you knew the man had it out for you, always calling on you to answer when he knew you weren’t paying attention, never grading your papers above a B even though you did everything right, somehow managing to fucking avoid you during his excessive office hours.

his looks were almost the most infuriating part of it.

his beautiful face constantly set in that nonchalant look, his big veiny hands always gesticulating, his huge fucking arms straining the fabric of those dress shirts, his ear gauges and man bun contrasting the prim and proper image the rest of him conveyed.

under different circumstances, he’d make your mouth water. under different circumstances, you’d imagine him going down on you all night long, singing praise about how good you taste and how tight you are.

but in this timeline, you absolutely loathed him. and he loathed you too. why? you didn’t know.

but you knew for a fact that it was personal.

“i don’t care,” megumi said around a mouthful of meatball, cutting your monologue short. “i’m not doing it.”

you sigh, melting into your chair. “megumi. please. i am literally begging you, i just need some hard evidence so i can go report his ass.”

he eyes you curiously. “report him for what?”

“i don’t know. bullying? sexism? whatever the hell his problem is,” you pick at your food, huffing in annoyance.

“you’re overthinking it,” megumi replies, dismissively.

“okay, how about this,” you lean forward, putting an elbow on the table. “if you write the assignment for me, i’ll get your dog that expensive halloween costume you’ve been wanting.”

megumi lifts an eyebrow.

“you need to get one for each,” he says simply.

you grin. “deal.”

suguru really does give it his all to make your life with him a living hell. pulls out all the stops, years of friendship with gojo satoru paying off as he comes up with ploy after ploy to get you to drop his class.

it feels bad, being mean to you. but for the hidden, twisted parts of him, it feels delicious.

watching you huff and puff, all hot and bothered when he corrects your answers on the spot. watching you nibble on your pen at the increasingly difficult exams he hands out. letting himself wonder if you missed a stream this week because you were too busy cramming for a make up test.

he knows he’s pushing you to your limit, and even if there’s some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing you so agitated at his hands when it’s usually the other way around, he doesn’t enjoy upsetting you.

the problem is, suguru knows it’s either he gets his shit together or he continues tormenting you, and, well.

the spirit is willing but the flesh is so, so weak.

he knows it’s getting worse, too, because he’s not infatuated by you only when you’re undressing on his screen, or all dolled up in class.

when you tie your hair up in a ponytail, when you suck on a hangnail, when you lick your thumb to erase a smudge on your paper… all of it drives him wild.

he can’t teach with a permanent half chub anymore. this has to end, one way or another.

you sit down in front of your computer, adjusting the camera before turning it on. soon, viewers start trickling in, little dings notifying you of their messages.

you smile, waving at the screen.

“hi everyone! i know i’m a little bit late today, i hope you can forgive me…” your eyes scan the chat, giggling at the compliments. “‘you look tired, sad face’, ah. i’m sorry. i guess i’ve been a little stressed lately.”

your robe falls over your shoulder as you readjust your position. a few donations come in, accompanied by supportive messages.

“you guys are so nice. it’s not a big deal, it’s just this dude giving me a hard time at college.”

you absentmindedly trace your collarbones, reading what your viewers are saying.

“you’ll kill him for me? that’s so sweet,” you joke. “nah, it’s not a student. it’s a professor. exactly, ynlover444, a grown ass man picking on me!”

you sigh deeply, allowing your body to finally unwind and relax on your chair. you prop a knee up against the armrest, giving your viewers a little peek in between your legs. you’re wearing one of your favorite sets, trying to get in the mood after the week you’ve had.

“ugh, sometimes i wish i could just…” you suck in a breath, clenching your hand into a fist before releasing it. “sit on his face and get him to shut up, you know?”

you laugh at the countless me firsts that flood the chat, bringing a finger to your lip.

“anyway! enough about that horrible man,” you reach beside you to grab a box your viewers know all too well by now. “let’s get to the fun stuff, shall we?”

as always, satoru is no help.

“why don’t you just fuck her?” he asks, eyebrows arching above his sunglasses. “ya gotta just fuck her.”

suguru clears his throat before taking a drag of his cigarette. “i’m not fucking a student.”

satoru shrugs. “everybody does it. besides, you basically already do.”

suguru wonders, not for the first time, why he ever told his friend about his situation. about your streams, that he’d stumbled upon randomly and innocently and had gotten instantly hooked, about you barging into his classroom like an angel at hell’s gates, about you you you you, everything about you.

“that won’t fix anything.”

satoru clicks his tongue, swirling his soda inside the can.

“poor, naive suguru. did you not just tell me about what she said on her stream?" and yes, regrettably, suguru had told him. "it’ll fix everything.”

suguru doesn’t even let himself consider it, except he does.

at this point it’s no secret that he’s thought about being inside you, but now that you’re here it’s just too real and too risky and completely fucking wrong.

it goes against the entire life he’s built for himself.

he’s lost. he wants you so fucking bad, wants you close, wants you so far away, wants to ravage you and never have to see you again.

it’s fight or flight. if he got you alone, it could go either way, he realizes that.

suguru wonders what part of him will win by the end of all of this.

your heels clack on the linoleum floor of the hallway as you approach professor geto’s classroom, megumi’s graded paper clutched tightly against your chest.

the thing about megumi is that he's a star student. he’s never gotten anything below an A on any of his essays, makes the dean’s list every year, tutors his seniors. so the big, bright B- on the page tells you everything you need to know.

damn right it’s personal.

you don’t even bother knocking, slamming the door open while still trying to contain your indignation.

geto is sitting at his desk, piles of papers sprawled on top. he has his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and a surprised look on his face that would be cute if you didn’t want to slap it right off.

he says your last name like he’d been expecting you all his life.

“to what do i owe the pleasure?”

your jaw clenches as you take a few loud steps towards him. you slam megumi’s paper down on his desk, leaning over.

“professor geto, i demand an explanation. a real one, this time.”

the man takes a deep breath, lips twisting disapprovingly. he smoothes the paper over.

“as i already explained in my notes right here, the structure is fine, but i couldn’t help but miss a more in-depth analysis of the four nodal concerns of philosophy that we talked about in class, such as—“

“no,” you interrupt. “just no. you know you’re bullshitting me and i’m sick of it. this paper deserved an A!”

“miss—“

“what’s your problem with me?” you spit out. your eyes finally meet and there’s nothing in geto’s that could answer your question. your chest is heaving, lips wobbling and hands shaking, trying to contain your anger.

geto clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “like i said, your paper could’ve used a bit more—“

“no it fucking couldn’t have, because it’s not my fucking paper, it’s fushiguro’s fucking paper and the only reason you gave it a B is because i was the one who handed it in!”

he sits up, straightening his posture.

geto sounds austere when he asks, “do you realize how much trouble this could be for both of you if i reported it?”

you can’t believe this man. he’s been picking on you the entire semester and when you finally confront him about it this is what he chooses to focus on.

“are you fucking kidding me?” that earns you a stern look from him, eyebrow raising taller than that fucking high horse he sits on. “professor geto. what did i ever do to you?”

there must be something earnest in your voice because geto sighs, getting up from his chair.

he walks until he’s standing in front of you, leaning against his desk and crossing his feet.

“do i bother you?” is all he says. it surprises you.

you jut your chin out. “as a matter of fact, you do.”

the man hums.

“i bet that’s really difficult for you,” he speaks like he’s sympathetic, like he understands. he sounds almost sheepish when he says, “i bet sometimes you wish i would just shut up.”

you blink rapidly. “no, it’s not like that. it might shock you but i genuinely do enjoy your class, it’s just that—“

“or maybe you wish you could shut me up,” he continues, ignoring you. “maybe going as far as to say that you could… sit on my face to get me to shut up.”

your mouth goes dry.

before your brain can fully process the shift in the atmosphere or the fact that your professor is maybe possibly hitting on you, you realize where those words are coming from.

it’s what you said. about him. on stream. right before fucking yourself on your hot pink dildo.

you can’t speak, can barely even look in his general direction.

you had really thought things couldn’t get any worse. had barged into his office with nothing to lose, almost hoping he would cordially invite you to remove yourself from his class permanently.

but now? now you have no idea what’s going to happen to you.

“i…” you start, the words dying in your throat. geto chuckles, crossing his fat fucking muscly arms across his chest.

he says your name, low and syrupy. “is it true? you’d like to?”

you can feel your face flush hot in embarrassment, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, wishing desperately that you’d never walked into his classroom.

you have half the mind to apologize to him, right now.

“it’s just a figure of speech,” you try. geto clicks his tongue.

“what a shame.”

your wide eyes shoot up and meet his. “w-what?”

he smiles sweetly.

“it’s a peace offering. you can take it, or we can forget you ever said anything,” and isn’t he just so slimey, actually, when he’s the one who brought it up. he had said it, and now…

now you can finally allow yourself to look at him.

those delicious, broad shoulders, the ever-present bored look, the stubborn fringe that falls out of his bun.

you could so easily forget what you came here for.

“so, like, a truce?” you ask, taking a daring step forward. geto nods, uncrossing his arms. “and you stop treating me like i’m fucking dumb?”

he tilts his head. “i think you’re a very smart young lady. determined. entrepreneurial…”

“geto—“

“professor geto,” he corrects you, hands reaching out to graze your hips. “you’re intelligent. i just like to push my students.”

you both know that’s a lie, but it’s okay, because now you know exactly why you got under his skin and it makes your own burn.

you run a hand down the line of buttons on the front of his shirt, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“then… push me, professor.”

it’s so incredibly lame, the porn line you hit him with, but to your surprise it works, a low groan rumbling deep in geto’s chest.

he swiftly closes the distance between the two of you, grabbing both sides of your face and crashing your lips together.

it’s ravenous, the way geto dips his tongue inside when you gasp in surprise. you moan against his mouth, slipping a leg in between his two.

he’s half hard already when he rubs up against your thigh.

geto picks you up with ease and sets you down on his desk, and it’s so fucking cliché, the papers crinkling under your weight, the pens clattering to the floor. but it turns you on beyond belief.

you share a few open mouthed kisses, an exchange of tongue and moans and hot breaths between your lips.

if you were honest with yourself, you'd admit that you've fantasized about it before. a silly idea, at first, something you'd just blurted out mid-stream.

but that little seed had been planted, and when you got yourself off that night, you might've imagined for a moment that it was your mean professor's cock squeezed tight inside you, making you come undone.

geto slips his hands under your skirt, grabbing your ass and pulling you closer to him. you line up your crotch with his, moving your hips in tight little circles that make the both of you groan.

his fingers are tugging your underwear down, down, the soft patch sticking to your gooey cunt. he lets the soaked fabric dangle from your ankle, grazing the back of his knuckles on your core.

“mmm, fuck,” geto breaks the kiss, swallowing. his pretty lips are flushed and shiny, parted around his panted breaths. “you always get this wet or am i special?”

he’s smirking, the bastard, leaning back in to kiss your neck.

god, you smell so good, like lotion and perfume and sunshine and sin.

“shouldn’t you know?” you sneak your fingers up into his bun, pushing your chest against him. he works his lips expertly on your skin, using just the right amount of teeth, of pressure.

geto hums against your neck, kissing a line up to your jaw. he snakes a hand under your skirt, thumb pressing down hard to rub on your clit, two fingers slipping inside.

you immediately clench, a soft, drawn out mewl leaving your lips.

the slide of his fingers against your walls send a chill down your spine, filling you up so perfectly. you feel the thin skin at your opening stretch around him, burning at the friction as his fingers plunge in and out of you.

“god, look at that,” he rests his forehead on your shoulder and pulls the hem of your skirt up. “do you hear that, baby? so fucking wet for me.”

you whine, hands cupping his jaw so you can kiss him again.

“please…” you mumble against his lips. “more…”

you wonder how much of what you can say he's heard before, which exact words have left your lips and sent him over the edge. it makes you self conscious, oddly, like he can see right through you.

not-so-kindly ignoring your request, geto removes his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth.

you watch as his eyelids flutter in pleasure, a hum rumbling low in his throat.

he looks so good like this, just edible.

you pull him in for a kiss before he can, relishing in the surprised little noise he lets out. your knees are wobbling, feet dangling from your seat as you taste yourself on his tongue.

he swallows your moan hungrily, forearms trembling with the need to hold back.

geto knows this is wrong, so wrong on so many levels, puts both your positions in jeopardy, it makes him feel perverted and primal and so fucking alive.

he’s been watching you fuck yourself on those silly toys for god knows how long now, knows every spot that makes your hips buck, knows exactly how to make you cream like a debased slut around a cock.

it should feel unfair, how easy it’s going to be for him to make you cum, only if it weren’t for the fact that your mere presence is enough to get him hard as fucking diamonds.

“tastes good, huh?” he whispers, thumb caressing your chin. you nod, smiling devilishly.

“tastes better on your tongue, prof.”

geto groans low like a starved animal, holding your throat in his hand with a loose grip. he’s overwhelmed, that much shows, not knowing what to do with you or where to start. but there’s one thing he’s sure of.

he presses one last kiss to your spit-slick lips before dropping to his knees.

you can hardly believe it. sulky, big bad bully professor geto suguru on his knees for you. you prop a foot up on his desk, your sole skidding on a piece of paper.

“scoot closer, please,” he asks, cordial even like this. you bring your ass to the edge of the desk, your dripping pussy hovering over his face.

he looks so good under you, hair already disheveled, a delicious tent in his tailored pants.

you tuck the hem of your skirt into the waistline so you can watch as he sucks your clit into his mouth, moaning like he’s fucking relieved.

you throw your head back, fingers buried in his silky hair as geto’s fingers find their way back inside.

he fucks them in and out of you lazily, pushing out strings of slick. geto slurps it all up, spreading your wetness all over your clit and sucking it back in his mouth.

god, his cock is straining in his pants but he doesn’t dare touch it, can’t until he’s inside you. you taste like fucking heaven, like all his fantasies, like he always knew you would.

you’re whining softly, bucking your hips into his face almost shyly, as to disrupt his pace.

you sound so much better in person, although he can’t wait to have you moaning into his ear without needing the headphones.

“god, this perfect pussy,” geto mumbles into you, his breathing labored. he runs a thumb all over your cunt, gliding it over your soaked lips. “been dreaming about it for so long.”

“yeah?” you ask. “tell me. tell me how you stroke your cock to me every night.”

and every night might be overselling it. geto is a busy man.

but your words do make him realize that no girl he’s had since he found your stream has satisfied him quite like you do. your flirty smile, your moans, the way they sometimes turn into uncontained giggles as you stuff your pretty cunt with a dildo.

so he tells you, blush spreading across his cheeks.

“fuck, i do,” he tongues your clit, tracing lazy circles. “i do. just look what you do to me.“

and there it is, that cheeky, slutty giggle, directed at something he said this time.

he takes his fingers out, spreading your opening with both thumbs as he licks you all over.

geto gulps, tongue dipping inside of you, sucking your clit into his mouth, sliding down to your entrance, every clench of your pussy pushing out more and more slick for him. no one's ever eaten you out as thoroughly as this.

“oh, fuck, sir,” it slips out casually, the way it would were you talking to any other professor. but given the circumstances, you revel in the deep moan geto buries into your cunt.

you trap your lips between your teeth to keep anything else from tumbling out, but it’s useless.

“please, sir, i’m so close—so close just keep doing that, yeah just like that—“

“fuck,” he mumbles, pulling away to suck in a desperate breath. then, “fuck,” sultrier, right into your core.

you grind against his face, finding purchase in his hair as a final few flicks of his tongue push you right into the crest of a mind-numbing orgasm.

it’s so good, so much better than when you're alone. the friction so perfect, his long, thick fingers plugging you up last minute to viciously fuck into you.

“god…,” you breathe out, legs trembling as he runs his hands up your thighs.

his chin is glistening, bubbles of spit and cum gathering in the corner of his mouth. he looks so good like this, like he was meant to please you and nothing else.

geto feels like a fucking teenager, so goddamn close to busting in his pants at the sight of you. his dick hurts, balls tight and the head throbbing where it’s tucked into his underwear.

“please, sweetheart,” he can’t hold himself back any longer, slick fingers already undoing his belt.

you get to work on his zipper, pulling his pants down along with his underwear and damn.

you figured he was big. he was a tall man, broad shoulders, shoes the size of a yacht, and the bulge in his trousers was a pretty good indication. but it couldn’t have prepared you for the sheer size of him.

longer than it is thick, cleanly shaven, pretty veins and ridges and standing angry red in attention. god, you want it inside you.

he notices you looking.

“do you need more prep? i can—“

“no, fuck no, suguru, need it inside me now,” you wrap a hand around him and he hisses, caging you in with his arms on the desk.

he huffs out a laugh, blowing the fringe framing his face. “what happened to sir?”

you kiss down his jaw, squeezing right below his tip.

“sorry, sir,” you say against his ear. “are you going to punish me for my slip up?”

geto groans, pulling on your hair hard and making you face him.

“take your shirt off for me,” he instructs, and you obey, maneuvering around his tight grip on the back of your head.

his spirit is so unbreakable.

here you are, teasing him, coaxing him to rough you up, push you around, relieve both your frustrations properly once and for all, but he’s just so… adoring, and hungry, and just so irrevocably into you, and you find out that’s so much better.

geto relents his hold on you to unclasp your bra, cupping your breasts and sucking a nipple into his mouth. you whine, caressing his hair.

“so fucking perfect,” he massages your tits, looking mesmerized.

“yeah? they haven’t gotten old to you yet?”

he laughs, so cute, and you can barely remember that just hours ago you hated the sight of him. you stroke his cock up and down, squeezing harder at the tip trying to milk all that delicious pre he’s been wasting on the inside of his boxers.

“no, f-fuck—never gonna get old,” he pushes your boobs against each other, imagining his cock sliding in between them, his balls nestled underneath, his load blown all over your pretty face—

fuck, he’s gonna cum if he keeps going like this.

he rips your hand away from him, ignoring your knowing smirk and pushing his tongue into your mouth.

“i’m gonna fuck you now, okay, sweetheart?” you moan, nodding, shimmying your hips so he can have the perfect angle.

a big hand clasps your thigh to wrap your leg around his hips as his tip pokes around your entrance.

you’re whining in anticipation, clenching around nothing, nails clawing his clothed back.

when he slips in, it feels like coming home. you’re like warm honey around him, cunt pushing him out but clinging to him at the same time, with every stroke. it’s fucking maddening.

“ahh, g-god, sir, ‘s too big—“ you swallow around the lump in your throat, feeling the tip of his cock in your guts.

he’s huffing, concentrated, bullying his cock into you inch by inch with shallow thrusts until he finally bottoms out.

“fuuuuck, angel,” he grips your waist with both hands, like he could just fuck you up and down his length if he wanted to. “took me so well, look at that.”

you do, dropping your heavy head to look at where you’re connected. you clench around him and he whines, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in.

the metal legs of the desk skid on the floor, papers and pens raining down to the floor as geto starts roughly plunging in and out of you.

you let out little ah, ah, ahs in time with his strokes, the ache deep in your stomach finally starting to fade.

“f-fuck, you’re gonna—topple us over, suguru, go easy—“

“can’t,” he chokes out, wheezing as he pushes his cock in as far as it can go.

he gives shallow little thrusts, his length straining the fine skin at your entrance so good, hitting a spot inside you over and over that makes your head spin.

your fingers twist into the back of his shirt, pulling him in to whine right into his ear.

he’s so big, stretching you out so thin that you feel every ridge and vein, can feel both your heartbeats inside your cunt.

“ohhhhh fuck, fuck sir, please please touch me—“

he grabs your ass before you can even finish your sentence and presses you flush against his hips.

geto’s tip is kissing your cervix now, his balls sticky and creamy against your ass, your clit grinding against his pubic bone as his thrusts violently shake the both of you.

“fuck, wanna do it so fucking loud but i can’t, we can’t, what if someone walks in—“

you moan wantonly at his words, expecting to be chided, but geto seems to love it despite his worries because his cock kicks deliciously inside of you.

“look how loud you’re being, listen to yourself,” he grunts out, the belt pooled around his feet clanging with every stroke, the absolutely lewd squelches from your pussy resonating in the entire classroom.

you two sound so good together, better than you’ve ever had, better than he could’ve ever imagined.

“so loud, so wet on this cock,” he spits out, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead. “do those toys make you feel this good? this full? answer me.”

“hahh, n-no, no one but you,” you can’t think straight, head thrown back in pleasure and eyes squeezed shut. “only you, sir.”

geto whines like he’s aching, pounding into you mercilessly and making a mess under the two of you.

“fuck yeah, that’s right. i’m making you feel good, baby?”

“mm-hm,” you mumble, tongue lolling out. geto's going so hard now, has you pressed up so tight against him, body caging you in, fucking every breath and thought right out of you. “close.”

“yeah?” he speeds up his effort slightly, and you’re sure he’s going to have desk-edge shaped bruises on his thighs tomorrow. “gonna cum on my cock? cream all over me?”

you let out a long, drawn out whine, tits bouncing up and down with the force of geto’s thrusts.

“let me see your face when you cum, darling,” he cups the back of your neck, breathing hard through his nose. “keep your eyes on me. that’s right, sweetie, so good, you’re doing so good.”

you preen at the praise, feeling suddenly self conscious with the man's laser focus attention on you.

you coo out little noises, growing in desperation, holding onto his biceps for dear life as his hips piston in and out of you.

your pull him into you closer and rub your clit against him, grinding helplessly as your orgasm creeps closer and closer.

the moment you open your eyes and meet his hungry ones, you’re cumming. your walls spasm around him, making the glide of his dick impossibly wetter with your release.

geto chokes on a sound, his cock hostage of your pussy’s vice-like grip as your greedy cunt milks him for all he's got.

“f-fuck, baby, look so pretty when you cum, always look so fucking sexy so fucking perfect that you’re gonna make me bust, i’m gonna cum for you god gonna cum inside, gonna blow my load all deep inside this pussy—“

it’s the most desperate he’s ever sounded, speaking through clenched teeth and a soaked mouth. you moan in return, letting him use you.

he slams his forehead down your shoulder when he thrusts once, twice, three times and cums, his balls drawing up so tight that it hurts. he fucks it into you with shallow thrusts, panting, almost wheezing in pleasure.

it feels like it lasts forever, his orgasm. like all of the blood in his body goes straight to his balls to push out the thickest, most satisfying nut of his life into the prettiest girl he's ever seen.

you feel it fill you up so good, hear it, too, squelching and sticking to both of you.

geto’s body slumps against yours and you stay like that for a while, catching your breaths. there’s cum sliding out of you, down his balls, onto some poor student’s essay you have your ass on top of.

when he pulls out of you, he takes a beat to watch it spill out of you some more, his face and chest red, his smile groggy.

“god, this,” geto has to fight the urge to say thank you for letting him fuck your brains out. he swallows.

“yeah,” you blink away the haze, feeling sore and fucked out. “this.”

“…is probably going to happen again, right?”

he knows it shouldn’t. he knows it will.

maybe both parts of geto can learn to coexist.

you grin, touching the tip of your tongue to his lips.

“well, i still haven’t made good on that promise of sitting on your face, have i?”

the next morning, in class, the students erupt in happiness at the news that professor geto had an accident that ended up ruining most of last week’s graded papers he had in his possession.

so he decided to give everyone an A for their troubles.

and finally, finally, there was peace in the world.

12K notes · View notes

twistedheartsclub · 17 days ago

Text

Kryptonite Dark Superman X Reader

Content Warnings: Noncon, sexual coercion, drugging, paralysis, obsessive behavior, captivity, delusional fixation, emotional manipulation, breeding kink, forced intimacy, psychological horror, somatic helplessness, grooming.

This was taken down a while ago, but I’m reposting it for the new movie :) I’ll be working on a new story soon, but if you’re looking for a good recommendation in the meantime, check out @oh-for-fic-sake "Breeding A Human" 4-part series it's one of my favorites

"You save the world, and they call you a hero—but the second you want something for yourself, suddenly you're a monster? No. You've earned this. Take what's yours."

Y/N hated mornings.

The world always felt too sharp at this hour. Too loud. Too fast. She moved through it like she was wading underwater—quiet, pale, delicate fingers clutching a paper coffee cup like it was a lifeline.

She kept her eyes down. That helped.

At twenty years old, Y/N looked younger. Small-framed, with trembling hands and a shy voice that most people talked over. Her professors forgot her name sometimes. The barista at the café asked if she was skipping high school.

She didn't argue. She never did.

That morning, the wind had flipped her skirt three times before she made it across the street. Her coffee was lukewarm. She hadn't slept. But she was almost safe—just one more block before she could disappear into the library and fold herself into a quiet corner.

And then she hit someone.

Hard.

The cup flew from her hands.

Hot coffee splashed across the front of a pristine white dress shirt.

Her heart dropped.

"Oh my god—oh my god, I—I'm so sorry," she gasped, stumbling back, already reaching into her bag with shaky fingers. "Please—I'll pay for it, I promise—I didn't mean—"

The shirt was tailored. Crisp. The kind of shirt that cost more than her rent. It clung wetly to a broad chest, revealing the sharp lines of muscle beneath.

She didn't even dare look at his face.

"I can't afford this," she whispered, voice cracking.

A soft chuckle answered her.

"It's alright," a deep voice said—smooth, warm, almost amused. "Really. No harm done."

She finally looked up.

Blue eyes. Strong jaw. A gentle smile. He looked like the kind of man who didn't get bumped into. The kind who should've been surrounded by people in suits, not walking alone.

He held out a handkerchief. "Here. You're shaking."

Y/N flinched as she took it.

He noticed that. And he loved it.

Clark Kent had caught bullets with less impact than that little stumble.

But she had touched him.

Her soft fingers had brushed his chest. Her coffee had burned him—not in pain, but in presence. He'd felt it.

Her fear made something primitive shift behind his calm smile.

She didn't know who he was. She hadn't gasped, or stared, or blushed in awe.

She was just... scared.

And sweet.

And apologetic enough to cry over a shirt.

Perfect.

He leaned down, letting his voice soften just enough.

"What's your name?"

"Y-Y/N..."

He savored it. Let it echo behind his eyes.

"Well, Y/N," he said gently, "I'm Clark. And I think this is the best thing that's happened to me all week."

Her brows pulled together, confused. "But I ruined your shirt..."

He smiled wider. "Then you owe me coffee sometime."

Y/N tucked the handkerchief into her tote like it was sacred, her fingers still trembling from the moment. "I—I'll wash it and return it to you. I mean, it's the least I can do..."

Clark smiled, all gentle warmth and patience. "You really don't have to."

"No, I want to," she said quickly, cheeks flushing. "I'll bring it back. I promise."

He could see her better now—how her cardigan sleeves swallowed her hands, how the strap of her tote bag had worn down the shoulder seam of her dress. A modest outfit, plain and soft, nothing flashy.

But it suited her.

So modest. So sweet. So unaware.

He thought she was adorable.

And he wanted her.

Clark tilted his head slightly, like he was still trying to place her, but really he was memorizing everything—her lashes, the slope of her neck, the way her breathing fluttered too fast.

He could already see it: the two of them sitting in a quiet apartment. Her in a cotton nightgown, pouring tea. No more skirts for the wind to grab. No more shaky hands. Just silence. Obedience. Belonging.

He wanted to touch her cheek.

Instead, he stepped back. Gave her space.

"Next time, let me buy you a coffee," he said.

She nodded quickly, like she wanted to escape.

"Okay. I—I should go."

He watched her walk away.

Then he walked in the opposite direction. Toward the Daily Planet.

Later that morning

Clark adjusted his tie in the elevator mirror, rolling his shoulders like a man who had slept well. The coffee stain had spread across the left side of his shirt, still visible beneath his blazer.

He could've changed in a blink. But he didn't.

He wanted to wear the reminder.

In the newsroom, someone whistled as he passed.

"Damn, Clark—Starbucks fight back this morning?" one of the interns joked, pointing at his chest.

A few chuckles followed.

Clark paused. Smiled faintly.

"Something like that," he said calmly.

But in his mind, he was pinning the intern against the wall, heat building behind his eyes.

You're lucky I don't burn through your skull.

Another smile. Softer now. He took a seat at his desk and opened his laptop, pulling up the city's security feeds like it was nothing.

He had something better to do.

He was looking for her.

That night, Y/N stood over the sink with her sleeves rolled up, gently soaking the handkerchief in warm water.

It was soft. Expensive. The initials "CK" were embroidered in one corner in fine thread.

She touched the stitching with her thumb.

He'd been so kind. Gentle, even. His voice still echoed in her mind—calm, patient, nothing like the men who usually shouted over her or dismissed her completely. She could still feel his hand on hers when he gave it to her.

It made her stomach flutter.

Don't overthink it, she told herself. He was just being polite.

But still, she rinsed the handkerchief twice and laid it carefully on a towel to dry, smoothing out every wrinkle like it was holy.

The next day, she returned to the coffee shop.

Part of her hoped he wouldn't be there.

Part of her hoped he would.

She almost dropped the folded handkerchief when she saw him sitting by the window, looking out like he'd just been enjoying the sunshine. A simple black sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and reading glasses resting low on his nose. He looked... softer this time. Still handsome. Still out of place.

But not threatening.

He looked up and smiled the second he saw her. Like he'd been waiting.

"You came," he said warmly.

"I brought this," she said, holding out the cloth. "I washed it. I'm sorry again."

Clark took it gently, brushing her fingers in the exchange. "Thank you. You didn't have to go through the trouble."

"I said I would." She shifted awkwardly. "I try not to go back on my word."

He tilted his head. "That's rare."

There was a pause. Then she moved to leave—but he spoke again.

"Would you... stay? Just for a little bit? I'd like to talk more."

She hesitated. "I—don't usually do this."

"Just friends," he promised.

Something in his eyes told her he meant it. Or maybe she wanted to believe he did.

She sat across from him. Sipped the drink he ordered for her without asking—exactly the way she liked it. She never told him how.

They talked for almost an hour. It was easy.

Too easy.

"I'm 26," Clark said casually when she asked. A lie. He didn't blink when he told it.

If he'd said 32, her smile would've dimmed. He could feel that in her. She was the kind of girl who saw age as distance, not power.

"What about you?"

"I'm twenty," she said, laughing shyly. "I feel younger sometimes, though. I don't know. I guess I just live differently."

"How so?"

"Well..." She twisted the paper sleeve of her cup. "I'm studying Early Childhood Development. Part-time job at the library. It's nothing exciting. And every Saturday I volunteer at my church. We pass out food and hygiene bags to the homeless. It was something my parents did. A tradition."

He listened. Watched her lips move. Studied the way her eyes glowed a little when she talked about helping people. Her voice was so soft.

She continued, "Sometimes I miss a Saturday. I'm human, after all. But I always feel guilty."

Clark leaned in slightly, like she was telling him a secret.

"You're a good person," he said. And he meant it. Too good.

He imagined her passing out warm meals to the broken and unworthy, smiling at strangers. She belonged in a home, not the streets. Tucked away. Safe. Protected.

His.

"Do you live alone?" he asked, smoothly.

Y/N blinked. "Um... no. Roommate. She's never home though."

Clark smiled again.

Even better.

Saturday came with a chill in the air.

Y/N wore a long cardigan over her modest church dress, sleeves pushed to her elbows as she passed out paper bags filled with bottled water, granola bars, and travel-sized shampoo. A soft smile stayed on her lips, even when the line grew long.

She didn't do it for recognition. She did it because she couldn't not.

"God bless you," she whispered to a man missing a shoe. "Stay warm today, okay?"

He nodded and moved on.

She turned, reaching for the next bag—and froze.

Clark was standing at the end of the line.

No—not in line, exactly. He wasn't taking anything. He was talking to one of the older volunteers, helping carry crates. Wearing jeans and a dark jacket, sleeves rolled up again. Like he belonged here.

Y/N blinked, unsure.

He caught her gaze and smiled.

"Hey," he said, walking over. "Fancy seeing you here."

She smiled back, though confused. "I didn't know you volunteered..."

"I don't. Not officially." He scratched the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. "One of my friends—he's going through a rough time. I usually help him out, but he told me about this place, said you all were kind here. Thought I'd tag along."

He nodded toward the older man beside him, sitting quietly on the church steps. A weathered face. Clean clothes. Not fake. Clark must've actually found someone.

Y/N's heart softened.

"That's... really sweet of you."

He shrugged. "Just trying to help, you know?"

She offered him a spare bag. "Then help me pass these out."

He took it with a smile and stood beside her for the next hour.

He was careful. Polite. Never touched her. But every time their fingers got close, he felt that little pull again—the trembling in her hands, the small way she glanced up and then down again.

He wanted to tuck her behind him and growl at anyone who dared look too long.

Instead, he passed out granola bars.

After church, the sun was setting.

Y/N stood outside the gates, checking her bus app with a sigh. Delay. Again.

Clark approached, hands in his pockets.

"Need a ride?"

"Oh—no, thank you. I'm fine."

"It's really no trouble."

"I don't want to bother you—"

"You're not."

She hesitated. Looked up at him. His eyes were warm. Not insistent. Just... steady.

Still, she shifted. "I'm not used to accepting rides from men I barely know."

Clark smiled softly. "You know my name. I know yours. You've seen me spend the afternoon handing out food to people in need. I even wore the same jacket twice. That has to earn me some points, right?"

She laughed. "Okay... fine. Just this once."

He opened the passenger door for her like a gentleman.

Inside the car, she kept her hands folded in her lap.

Clark drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh, glancing at her now and then.

She didn't notice how he was memorizing every turn.

Her building. Her floor. The exact window that probably faced her bedroom.

When he dropped her off, she thanked him. "Really. I appreciate it."

"Of course," he said, pausing just a beat too long. "Maybe next time I'll bring my friend again. Or... maybe we could grab dinner after?"

Her smile wavered, just for a moment.

"Friends?" she said softly.

Clark nodded. "Friends."

But in his head, he whispered, Liar.

He drops her off at the curb, trying not to look disgusted—but he fails. His jaw clenches as his eyes drift over the crumbling stairwell, the cracked brick walls, the flickering hallway light barely visible from outside.

She gives a small, embarrassed smile. "Thanks for the ride, Clark."

He nods like a gentleman. Like he's not burning to follow her inside. "Anytime."

She turns and climbs the stairs. He doesn't move—not physically. But his vision sharpens, pierces the building with inhuman precision. He watches her steps until she disappears behind the faded green door. Third floor. Unit 3B.

He memorizes the rusted numbers.

Later—somewhere high above Earth, mid-mission with the Justice League...

Clark lands hard, fists cracking pavement, the villain subdued beneath him. Batman grunts an approval. Wonder Woman offers a nod.

He should feel satisfied.

Instead, he glances toward the horizon, eyes unfocused, mind drifting to a tiny apartment in Metropolis. To the girl who smells like honey and soap. The one who calls him "Clark" like it means nothing.

"You're distracted," Green Lantern mutters, floating beside him.

Clark doesn't answer.

"Don't tell me it's a girl," Flash chimes in, zipping to their side. "You? Mister Tall, Dark, and Broody? Crushing?"

Clark gives him a slow, warning look.

"Oh my god, it is a girl," Flash laughs. "What's her name? Is she a reporter too? Wait—she doesn't know you're you, does she?"

Clark stays silent.

Batman raises an eyebrow. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Clark sighs, voice low. "I'm... rusty."

They all smirk.

Wonder Woman, ever the diplomat, offers, "Try flowers. And don't stalk her, Clark."

The comment hits a nerve. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"I don't stalk her," he lies.

That night...

He floats just outside her third-story window, hovering in the shadows where no human eye could spot him. The curtains are thin—cheap fabric that does nothing to hide her silhouette. He sees everything.

The moment her clothes hit the floor, he stops breathing.

She steps into the shower, head tilted back, water cascading over her soft skin. He watches the curves of her body, the way her fingers trail over her arms, her chest, her stomach. He memorizes every detail like scripture.

Perfect. So perfect.

He imagines her round with his child—barefoot, belly swollen, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. She wouldn't have to worry about rent. She wouldn't have to work. She could stay home and carry his legacy, over and over again.

A soft sound escapes his throat. He adjusts himself beneath the suit, then flies away before he does something reckless.

But not for long.

The next day...

She's walking back from class, arms full of textbooks, when he's suddenly there—Clark, standing awkwardly in front of her building with something clutched in his hands.

"Oh!" she startles, almost dropping her books. "Clark? What are you doing here?"

He holds out a box. Not flowers. Not chocolates.

It's a plush stuffed bear... holding a small baby bottle.

"I saw this and thought of you," he says.

She laughs nervously. "Uh... that's sweet. I guess?"

"You'd be a good mother," he says too quickly.

Her smile falters.

There's a beat of silence.

He softens his voice, adding, "Sorry. I meant—you're nurturing. Gentle. That's rare."

"Right," she says, hugging her books tighter. "Well... thanks. I should go."

He watches her walk away. Doesn't follow.

Not yet.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days. Three hundred thirty-six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred sixty minutes.

That's how long he forced himself to stay away.

He buried himself in world-saving—fires, earthquakes, hostage situations. His face was on headlines again. "Superman: Humanity's Light."

But none of it meant anything.

Not when he could still see her, soaked and soft in that shower. Not when he remembered the way her smile had faltered, how her eyes had darted away. He'd scared her. He knew it.

So he let her breathe.

Until now.

Metropolis. Early afternoon.

He's seated at an outdoor café with coworkers from the Daily Planet, pushing a fork around his plate when he hears it—her laugh.

He turns.

There she is. Just across the street. Beautiful. Free.

Hair down, makeup soft but purposeful, a sundress he's never seen before hugging her in all the right places. She's glowing.

And she's not alone.

A man sits across from her, leaning in too close, grinning. Their conversation is quiet, intimate. Her giggle rings out again. Her hand touches the man's arm.

Clark's vision sharpens. He picks up every word.

"Stop it, you're gonna make me blush."

"That's the goal. I've been trying all week."

"You're such a flirt."

His girl. Blushing for someone else.

His jaw tightens. Fork bends in his grip. He drops it.

Fifteen minutes later.

She walks toward the restroom inside, alone.

He's already waiting.

Leaning casually against the wall by the bathroom corridor, he steps into her path just as she turns the corner.

"Hey," he says, voice smooth and neutral.

She startles, then exhales. "Clark... hi. Wow, it's been a while."

"Yeah," he says. "I've been busy."

Her eyes flicker to the dining area behind them. She's clearly debating whether to return. He steps just slightly closer.

"You look..." his eyes drop slowly, drinking her in, "...beautiful."

She gives a polite smile. "Thanks."

"You seem happy," he adds, quieter now. "I'm glad."

"Thanks, I—"

"Would you maybe want to get dinner sometime?" he interrupts. "Just as friends, of course."

She hesitates. "Clark, I don't know..."

"No pressure," he says gently, hands raised in mock surrender. "I just miss talking to you. You were easy to be around. Kind."

A pause.

She nods once. "Okay. Just as friends."

His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"I'll text you," he says. "And... again, you look beautiful today. Really."

He steps aside to let her pass.

But as she walks by, she feels it—that brief, unshakable tension in the air. Like something invisible and powerful is wrapped tight around her waist.

She doesn't turn back.

Y/N's thoughts...

She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, hands gripping the sink.

What was that?

Clark had always been sweet—quiet, charming in his awkwardness. But there was something different just now. Something heavier in the way he looked at her. Like she belonged to him. Like he was remembering every inch of her skin under that thin sundress.

She shivers.

Maybe you imagined it.

Maybe he's just lonely.

Maybe you were too mean last time...

But agreeing to dinner? She regrets it the moment the word left her mouth.

Still, part of her—some soft, guilt-ridden part—wants to believe the best. Wants to believe "just friends" means exactly that.

She reapplies her lip gloss and walks back out.

But her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Later that evening... in the Watchtower meeting chamber

The Justice League is mid-briefing—strategic talk, cross-border villain activity, a weapons shipment intercepted over the Atlantic. Everyone's focused. Everyone but him.

Superman sits rigid in his chair, jaw tight, barely engaging.

After the meeting, Batman lingers. So does Wonder Woman. Flash lounges with a protein bar, half-listening.

"You've been distracted," Diana says first. "Worse than usual."

Clark exhales through his nose. "It's personal."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess—the girl."

Flash chuckles. "He's in deep, huh?"

Clark doesn't respond at first. Then, low: "She's... different. Pure. Gentle. She doesn't see me as Superman. She doesn't worship or fear me. She just... exists. And I want to be near her."

"Want?" Batman repeats. "Or need?"

"I've tried giving her space," Clark mutters. "It's not enough."

Diana folds her arms. "Clark. You need to be very careful. The moment you cross her boundaries, it's not love—it's control."

"She's seeing someone else," he adds, almost to himself.

Flash blinks. "Dude. Then back off. You're Superman. There are literally billions of women—"

"I don't want billions."

"Clark." Diana's voice is gentle, but firm. "You cannot take something she's not offering. You know that."

"I'm not taking anything," he snaps.

A tense silence.

Bruce watches him. Cold, analytical. "You need to ask yourself something," he says slowly. "If she said no to everything—no dinner, no contact, no future—would you actually let her go?"

Clark's jaw flexes.

No one speaks.

Then he rises. "Thanks for the talk."

And he leaves.

The dinner is... nice.

At first.

He chose the restaurant carefully—private, intimate, with low lighting and a single candle flickering between them. She wore a soft blue dress, nothing revealing, but he still hasn't stopped staring. Her lip gloss is a little smudged. He likes that. It makes her look kissed.

He hasn't touched his food. Just watched her.

She notices. Smiles nervously. "You're quiet."

"I'm enjoying the view," he replies.

She blushes, flattered, looking down at her plate.

Then the server returns with a bottle of red wine.

"Would you like a glass?" the waiter asks.

Before he can answer for her, she shakes her head gently. "No thank you. I don't really drink."

Clark smiles, but it's tight. "You don't?"

"Nope. Never have."

"A good girl," he says softly, eyes lingering on her lips. "Of course."

She doesn't know how to respond, so she cuts her chicken. The silence stretches.

Midway through the meal...

He folds his napkin slowly, watching her bite into a piece of bread like it's a sin.

"You seemed happy the other day," he says, tone light but his eyes... sharp. "At lunch. That man made you laugh."

She freezes for half a second, then forces a smile. "Oh... you saw that?"

"Hard to miss," he says. "You looked... different. All dressed up. Was that a date?"

She shrugs, blushing. "Not really. I mean—we've gone out a few times, but it's nothing serious."

"Hmm." He leans forward. "What does he do?"

"Why?"

Clark's voice is still calm, but it cuts sharper now. "Just curious."

She fidgets. "He works for a nonprofit. Overseas work mostly. Humanitarian stuff."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-one," she says. "Just a year older than me."

Clark's jaw clenches. He forces a sip of wine, his hand wrapped so tightly around the stem that it creaks faintly.

"Sounds like a good man," he says, though the compliment tastes like poison. "Useful. Productive. Morally sound."

She smiles, a little confused by his tone. "Yeah, he's sweet."

Clark nods slowly.

But inside, he's seething.

She's blushing over him.

She wore that dress for him.

And now she's sitting across from Clark like nothing's wrong—like he didn't see her laughing, touching another man's arm, giving away pieces of herself that belong to him.

But he doesn't overstep. Not yet.

Instead, he softens his voice again. "You deserve someone kind. Someone who sees all that goodness in you and doesn't try to take more than you're willing to give."

She exhales, relieved. "Thank you, Clark."

He smiles back.

But under the table... his fists are clenched.

The rest of the dinner bleeds with tension.

Clark keeps smiling, but it's the kind of smile that doesn't belong in a nice restaurant. The kind that belongs in confessionals or nightmares.

He asks more questions. Too many.

"Have you slept with him?"

Her fork pauses mid-air. "Clark..."

"It's just a question."

Her eyes soften. "No. I haven't. That's personal, though."

"Of course," he murmurs. "I'm sorry. It's just... hard not to care."

She offers a smile, awkward but still gentle. "You don't have to worry about me."

He doesn't respond. Because that's not true. He has to worry. It's in his blood now.

He watches her lips wrap around the straw in her water glass, imagines replacing it with something else. Something warmer. Thicker.

By the time they leave, the night air feels charged. Dangerous.

He insists on driving her home.

She declines—twice. He insists a third time, already holding the car door open. What can she say?

The drive is quiet. His knuckles are pale on the steering wheel.

When they pull up to her apartment, she fumbles with her bag. "You really don't have to walk me up. It's okay."

But he's already out of the car, already at her door before she can protest again.

She sighs and lets him follow.

The walk to her door is short, but he stretches it.

She laughs nervously when they reach the third floor. "See? Still standing. No monsters tonight."

He doesn't laugh.

Just watches her as she turns to unlock her door.

His hand finds her waist.

She stills.

"Clark... really, you don't—"

But he's already touching her. Just a light pressure at first, right where her ribs taper into softness. His thumb brushes slow circles into her side.

She feels it—his body closer now, towering, warm.

He's thinking.

What if I just took her? Right now. Right here.

What if I bent her over that hideous little orange loveseat she loves so much?

Pulled her panties down. Pushed inside. Didn't stop until she was sobbing.

He could see it—her gasping, fingers clawing at the cushions, whispering "please" between her cries, her voice breaking when she finally moaned his name.

He bets she cries sweetly. She'd beg for mercy. She'd tremble when she came.

His cock twitches. His hand tightens.

So tight.

She gasps.

"Clark—your hand..."

He blinks.

Sees his own fingers digging into her waist.

Sees her wide eyes.

She's trying to pull away.

His stomach flips.

"Shit," he breathes, stepping back immediately, both hands raised. "I'm so sorry. I—I didn't mean—"

Her arm is already curling around her body, protective.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he says, voice softer now, almost broken. "You just... you smell like vanilla. I got lost."

He steps forward slowly, and before she can stop him, he leans in and presses a kiss to her cheek.

His lips linger.

Too long.

"Goodnight," he whispers. "Lock your door, okay?"

She nods, shaken.

When the door finally clicks shut behind her, he stands there. Staring.

That couch.

That body.

That breathy little gasp.

He won't survive much longer.

Y/N's Apartment

The door locks with a heavy click, and she immediately turns the deadbolt. Then the chain. Then checks it twice.

She leans back against the door, chest rising and falling too fast.

What just happened?

Clark had always been kind. Gentle. Protective, even. But tonight... there'd been something else. Something darker underneath that warm smile.

The way his hand gripped me... the look in his eyes...

She runs her fingers over the spot on her waist where his hand had pressed. It's already turning red.

Her skin crawls.

And yet...

She tells herself it was probably a misunderstanding. Maybe he's just lonely. Maybe he was just being too familiar.

But then why did it feel like he was thinking something... filthy?

She shakes the thought away and walks toward her bathroom.

Routine will help.

Wash face. Brush teeth. Pajamas. Lights off.

But even beneath the covers, her body feels exposed. Watched.

She tells herself she's imagining it.

She doesn't know... she's not wrong.

High above, floating in the clouds...

He hovers like a shadow, silent in the cold wind, the stars above him dim compared to the heat burning in his chest.

Below, her bedroom light flickers off.

He can see through the walls, through the sheets. Her body curled up. Soft. Fragile. Perfect.

His cock is already hard, straining painfully against his suit.

He wraps a fist around himself, low growl in his throat.

Her lips. Her moans. Her tight little pussy—

He strokes faster.

She'd be so wet for me. Scared. Crying. But soaking.

He grits his teeth, muscles tensing, imagining bending her over her bed. Pushing inside her warm, trembling body as she begs him to stop—but clutches the sheets when he doesn't.

His eyes roll back.

He's cumming.

In the sky.

For her.

His breath comes in harsh, uneven gasps as thick spurts coat his hand, the stars above uncaring, the world oblivious.

He doesn't feel shame.

Only hunger.

Only need.

She will be mine.

Over the next week, she keeps running into him.

At the market.

Outside her building.

Near campus.

At the coffee shop on 4th she never told him she liked.

Always a coincidence. Always with that sweet, casual smile like he just happened to be in the area.

At first, she believed it.

Now?

She checks behind her shoulder more often. Keeps her eyes down when walking. Starts using side entrances and changing her schedule—anything to avoid the tall, too-perfect man with the kind voice and the dark, unreadable eyes.

But Clark notices.

He watches it all—her routine, her routes, her panic.

And still... she keeps going out with him.

The man from lunch. The one with the good job and kind smile. The one who holds her hand gently like she's made of glass.

Clark knows everything about him now—name, age, where he works, what kind of toothpaste he uses, the cologne he sprays on his neck before every date with his girl.

Each time Clark sees them together, something cracks deeper in his chest.

She laughs for him.

She dresses up for him.

She doesn't know she's supposed to be his.

Then one night...

He finds them again—eating on a park bench, her laughter dancing in the breeze. He lands silently on a nearby rooftop, hiding in the shadows. The wind carries their voices straight to him.

They're finishing milkshakes. Her cheeks are pink from the cold. His hand rests casually near hers.

Then, the man leans closer, eyes gentle. "Can I ask you something kind of personal?"

She looks up. "Sure."

"How far have you... you know. Gone with someone before?"

She laughs nervously. "Oh—um. I've never really... done anything."

"Nothing?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

She shakes her head. "Never had sex. Not even a first kiss."

The man blinks. Then, softly: "Wow. That's... rare."

She shrugs, embarrassed. "I just haven't felt ready. I want it to mean something."

There's a pause.

"I respect that," he says sincerely. "I think it's beautiful."

He brushes her knuckles with his. She looks down, flustered.

Clark's fists clench so hard the cement beneath him cracks.

Her first kiss? Her first time?

He wants to take them?

No.

NO.

Those firsts belong to him—to the one who's protected her, studied her, watched her sleep.

She's his. Every breath, every inch, every moan. Her first. Her last. Her always.

That man down there—he doesn't deserve her innocence. He doesn't know what to do with it. He'll ruin it, waste it, soil what was meant for someone greater.

Clark's vision flashes red, a low growl building in his chest.

Later that week—back in the Watchtower.

The hallways are quiet. Most of the team has returned to their cities, their people. Clark stays behind. He tells them it's because he needs solitude. Time to think.

But in truth, he can't go back yet. Not until he's sure he won't rip that man's heart out for daring to touch what's his.

He stands alone near the observation window, staring down at Earth—at Metropolis. He can see her apartment building from here. Room 3B. She's asleep. One arm above her head. Cheek pressed to her pillow.

He can almost feel her warmth through the glass.

"Pretty view," a voice says behind him.

Clark doesn't turn. He knows who it is.

Martian Manhunter. One of the few who can match Clark in both power and silence. He's older, quieter. Wiser in some ways. Darker in others.

"You're troubled," J'onn says.

Clark's jaw tightens. "I'm in control."

"That wasn't the question."

A pause.

Clark's voice lowers. "There's someone I care about."

"Then tell her."

"She doesn't want me."

J'onn moves beside him, his red eyes glowing faintly as he follows Clark's gaze. "Then let her go."

"I can't," Clark whispers. "I've tried. I've tried. But she's everywhere. And now she's giving herself to him."

A long silence. J'onn considers his next words carefully.

Then, softly:

"You save the world, Clark. Every day. You bleed for it. You burn for it. And people think it's a sin for you to want something back?"

Clark turns to look at him, breath caught in his chest.

"Maybe you're not wrong to want her," J'onn continues. "You see something pure. Something soft. And you want to protect it. What's wrong with that?"

"She doesn't want me," Clark says again, quieter.

J'onn tilts his head. "She doesn't know what you really are. None of them do. They see the cape, not the man underneath. The man who's never taken. Who's always given."

Clark swallows hard.

"You've suffered for them," J'onn says. "And she's the one thing you want. Maybe... maybe you deserve that. Maybe it's not evil to reach for what the world has denied you."

Clark's eyes close. Her laugh echoes in his memory. Her body. Her innocence.

Her untouched lips.

"I would keep her safe," he says softly. "I would worship her. She would never suffer."

J'onn nods. "Then don't let the world make you feel like a monster for needing something that belongs to you."

Clark says nothing.

But something inside him shifts.

The last thread of restraint... starts to unravel.

It starts with a knock.

Late morning. Soft sun. A quiet day.

Y/N opens her apartment door in a T-shirt and leggings, hair messy from sleep and tea in her hand—only to find him standing there.

Clark Kent. That familiar gentle smile. Blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Harmless... right?

Her heart skips. "Clark?"

"Hey," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish. "Sorry to show up unannounced. I didn't want to text."

She blinks. "How would you have texted me?"

He smiles again, too casually. "Oh... Zadie gave me your number a while back. I thought I'd deleted it."

She doesn't remember giving it out. Doesn't remember Zadie even meeting him.

He quickly changes the subject before she can dwell. "I was actually wondering if you'd be up for a little day trip? Just to get away for a few hours. There's this spot I love—about an hour out. The views are amazing this time of year."

She hesitates, clutching her mug a little tighter. "Like... now?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Nothing serious. Just a drive. Fresh air. We'll be back before dinner."

"You don't have work?"

He shrugs. "I've saved enough people this week."

She laughs a little, unsure, but not wanting to be rude.

"And I figured..." he adds, softer now, "we haven't really had the chance to talk. Not since I made you uncomfortable. I wanted to... reset. As friends."

Her heart softens.

Always so sweet. Always so apologetic.

"...Okay," she says. "Just a few hours, though."

The drive is beautiful.

Trees blur past. The highway is nearly empty. The radio hums low. Clark's hands stay steady on the wheel, and for a while, it feels normal. Even peaceful.

They stop at a scenic overlook. He insists on taking her photo. She blushes. Laughs.

For a moment... it's easy to forget.

Until the sky changes.

Dark clouds roll in out of nowhere.

On the drive back, the car sputters.

She's mid-sentence when it happens—the lurch. The engine cough. The smooth hum of motion replaced with a sickening silence.

Clark frowns. "Damn. That's not right..."

He tries the ignition. Nothing.

"No way," she mutters. "That timing is..."

He opens his door. "Hold on. I'll check it out."

She watches from inside, arms crossed, as he peers under the hood. He mutters something about a broken belt—something technical. Something she doesn't understand.

When he slides back into the driver's seat, his expression is calm but serious. "We're not getting back tonight."

"What?"

"It's not safe to drive with this issue. Not in this weather."

As if on cue, the sky opens up—rain hammering the windshield.

She jumps slightly.

"There's a lodge a few miles down," he says gently. "Cabins. I've stayed there before after late rescues. We'll get a room, wait out the storm, and drive back in the morning."

She looks out the window, biting her lip.

"You said it was a day trip."

"I know," he says softly. "But this is out of my control. I'd never lie to you."

Her instincts twinge.

But he's Clark.

Kind. Patient. Strong.

And what's the alternative—stranded in the woods? Calling a stranger to come pick her up in a storm?

"...Okay," she says, hesitant. "But separate rooms."

"Of course."

He smiles.

But she doesn't see the way his jaw flexes, or how his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.

He's already decided.

They're not going home.

The lodge is cozy. Too cozy.

Warm lighting. A crackling fireplace. The air smells like cedar and something faintly sweet—cookies maybe, or cinnamon. It should feel safe.

It doesn't.

Y/N stands beside the check-in desk while Clark handles the room. His voice is calm, polite. The clerk offers a key and an apologetic smile.

"Only one left," she says. "Storm filled us right up."

Clark turns to Y/N, sighs softly. "I asked for two. I really did."

She forces a smile. "It's fine. Just one night."

He gives a charming nod. "I'll take the couch."

The room is small.

A single bed. A small couch. One window streaked with rain. The sound of thunder rolls softly in the background.

They both head to the bathroom to towel off—soaked from the dash through the storm.

Her sweater clings to her skin. Cold, wet, suffocating.

She disappears into the bathroom and changes into a hotel robe. Her bra was digging into her shoulders, and the wet lace had turned itchy. She peels it off and sighs in relief.

She keeps her panties on.

No need to be that exposed.

When she walks out of the bathroom, Clark glances up from the edge of the bed.

His eyes pause.

Just for a second.

She shifts awkwardly under his gaze, arms crossing over her chest. But it's too late. He's already seen them—her nipples pressing against the thin robe, still damp from the rain.

His throat bobs.

"I'll, um... see if they have spare clothes or pajamas," she says quickly, heading toward the door.

"No need," he says too fast. "You look... comfortable."

Her breath hitches.

She returns ten minutes later with nothing.

"No luck," she mutters.

She feels his eyes on her as she closes the door. He's taken off his shirt—draped it over a chair to dry—and she freezes.

She's seen Clark before, but never like this.

His chest is broad, carved, bronzed. Not bulky—but perfect. Like marble under skin. His stomach ripples with abs she didn't know he had.

He doesn't look like a man.

He looks like a weapon.

How had she not noticed before?

He sees her staring. Smirks. "Something wrong?"

"No," she says quickly. "You just... hide all that well."

His laugh is low. "Guess I'm full of secrets."

She sits at the edge of the bed, legs curled under her. The robe slips slightly. She adjusts it, conscious of how exposed her thighs are.

Clark is still watching her.

They'd agreed on dinner and a movie.

Simple. Casual. Something light to take the edge off the strange day.

Clark was in the shower, steam seeping out beneath the bathroom door. Y/N sat on the bed in her robe, still slightly damp, legs tucked beneath her. The fireplace glowed softly. Rain drummed against the window.

A knock came at the door. Room service.

She opened it, startled but composed, and found a young man holding a tray with covered plates and a bottle of sparkling cider.

"Dinner delivery," he said cheerfully.

"Thanks." She smiled. "Um... Clark said his wallet was on the dresser?"

"Yep, just the tip is fine."

She turned, found the wallet, pulled out a few bills. As she handed them over, the server gave a knowing smirk.

"Romantic spot," he said. "You guys celebrating something?"

She laughed awkwardly. "No, just... stuck. Weather."

He winked. "Nice excuse to cuddle up."

When the door shut, she exhaled. Then moved to place the wallet back on the dresser.

But something caught her eye.

A government-issued ID tucked just behind the cash. Not his driver's license—this one was older-looking. The name read: Kal-El.

Her brows furrowed.

Underneath it: Alias – Clark Kent.

Birth Year: 1902.

Age: 123.

She froze.

No.

That can't be real.

She unfolded the card completely.

Issued: 2022. Official stamp. No joke.

He told me he was 26. She remembered it clearly. The soft laugh when he said it. The exact number. Twenty-six. She'd believed him.

Her heartbeat picked up.

The bathroom door opened.

Steam spilled into the room. Clark stepped out in only a towel, water glistening on his chest, his hair slicked back. His abs rippled beneath the soft lodge lighting. He looked... inhuman. Untouchable.

She stood stiffly beside the dresser, holding the card.

His smile faltered. "Something wrong?"

She swallowed. "This says you were born in 1902."

He went still.

Then: "Ah."

He took a slow step forward, completely composed. "That's not what it looks like."

"You told me you were twenty-six."

"I am," he said softly. "That card... it's a formality. For certain systems. They put down a symbolic date."

She blinked, backing up half a step. "Symbolic?"

"Yes. For documentation. It's complicated."

"You lied."

"No," he said quickly. "I simplified. You would've run if I said otherwise. And I didn't want that."

"You're saying you're over a hundred years old?"

"Not in the way you think."

"What does that even mean, Clark?"

His eyes darkened slightly, but his voice stayed gentle. "I'm not like most people. I don't age the same way. I don't get sick. I don't break down."

She quivered.

He saw it.

He took another step closer.

"You're scared."

She nodded once.

"You don't have to be," he said, reaching out slowly. "I would never hurt you."

She flinched as his fingers brushed her arm.

"I told you the truth that mattered," he whispered. "Who I am around you. How I feel. That hasn't changed."

Her throat tightened. "Why wouldn't you just tell me?"

"Because people don't get it. They hear something like this and they run. They don't look at me and see a man. They see something wrong. And I didn't want you to see me that way."

She stepped back again, robe shifting slightly across her thighs. "But you are something else. You're not just... Clark."

His smile sharpened.

"No. I'm not."

She gasped softly.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured. "You still want me. I can feel it."

"I—I don't..."

"You do," he said again, gently but firmly. "You're just overwhelmed. But you do."

He reached up and tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear.

"I've waited long enough," he whispered. "And you're already mine."

Her hand trembled as she clutched the ID.

"I—I need some air," she whispered, backing toward the door.

But she stumbled over the edge of the rug.

Clark caught her by the arm, then slowly—almost tenderly—took her face in his hand. His touch was warm, strong, unmovable. His thumb brushed her cheek, pushing a few stray hairs away from her eyes.

"You're shaking," he murmured. "You don't need to be afraid of me."

Her breath hitched. "What are you?"

He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate.

His voice lowered into something darker. Hungrier.

"Superman."

Silence.

She blinked.

Then laughed—a short, sharp, disbelieving sound.

"No... no, that's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

She stared at him, lips parting, eyes wide with disbelief. "That's... that's not possible."

But he didn't deny it.

He just looked down at her with that same calm intensity.

"I could peel this roof off like a can," he said softly. "I could hear your heartbeat from a thousand miles away. I could fly you to the moon and back in under ten minutes. I could burn this entire forest to ash before you blink."

Her knees buckled, but his hand kept her upright.

"I didn't tell you because I wanted you to love Clark. Not the symbol. Not the cape. Just the man."

Tears welled in her eyes.

"You're not a man," she whispered. "You're a monster."

His eyes darkened.

A beat passed. His grip on her jaw didn't tighten... but it didn't soften either.

Then—smiling—he let her go.

He turned casually toward the table where the food sat waiting under silver domes.

"Well," he said cheerfully, "before this gets any more dramatic, let's eat."

She didn't move.

He looked over his shoulder. "Come on, sweetheart. You'll feel better after dinner."

When she still didn't budge, he walked to the side table and opened the bottle of sparkling cider.

"You like this brand," he said, pouring her a glass. "I remember from that brunch you went to. The one with your sister."

She flinched.

He carried the glass back to her and held it out.

"It'll help calm your nerves."

Her lip trembled. "I don't want it."

He cocked his head. "I wasn't asking."

She hesitated. Then, heart pounding, she took the glass.

"Good girl," he said, kissing the top of her head.

They sat.

He served her food with patience and precision, setting her plate just right, cutting her meat like a gentleman. She didn't eat much. He didn't care.

Halfway through the meal, her arms began to feel heavy.

Her vision blurred at the edges.

The fork slipped from her fingers.

"Wha—"

Clark looked up calmly from his plate.

"You'll be okay," he said, voice low. "It's just something to help you relax. You've been so tense."

She tried to speak, but her tongue wouldn't move right.

"You'll still feel everything," he added, brushing her hair behind her ear again. "You just won't be able to run."

He stood.

Came to her side.

Kneeling.

Face level with hers, he whispered:

"Now we can finally be honest with each other."

She could still feel everything.

That was the worst part.

Her eyes blinked slowly, but the rest of her body wouldn't move. Her arms felt like sandbags. Her legs wouldn't respond. Even her lips, parted slightly, couldn't form words.

Only her fingers twitched.

Tiny, desperate movements.

And Clark saw them. He knelt in front of her, brushing his thumb over her cheek like a lover.

"There we go," he murmured, voice soft, reverent. "You're still in there."

He kissed her temple.

"I didn't want it to be like this," he said, gently pushing strands of hair from her face. "But you forced my hand, sweetheart. You were pulling away. Running. I can't let that happen."

She screamed inside. Every nerve fired in silent panic, but her mouth stayed slack. Her body still.

Trapped. A prisoner inside her own skin.

"I was patient," he whispered. "I let you laugh with him. I let you pretend you had a choice."

He stood slowly, towering over her now.

"I gave you space. Time. Respect. And what did I get in return?" His voice hardened. "Avoided. Lied to. Looked at like I'm something to fear."

He untucked the towel from around his waist.

Her eyes widened.

Oh God.

He was massive. Inhuman. Thick, hard, pulsing—more than she could have imagined. Her stomach turned with fear.

"I'm not ashamed," he said, watching her eyes. "You were born for me. Every soft inch of you, every breath in those perfect lungs... you belong to me."

He leaned down, lifted her with devastating care—like she was fragile glass—carrying her to the bed. Her head flopped against his chest. Her breathing shallow. Fast.

Her body still wouldn't move.

But her mind was screaming.

"No tears yet," he whispered. "You're being brave. That's good."

He laid her gently on the mattress, adjusting her limbs, smoothing the robe around her like he was tucking her in for a dream.

Then, slowly, he untied the robe.

Slipped it off her shoulders.

She felt the cold air first.

Then his gaze.

His large hands cupped her breasts, warm and possessive. He ran his thumbs over her nipples, watching them harden despite the chill, despite the fear etched in her still eyes.

"Perfect," he whispered. "So full. So soft."

He leaned down, licked one slowly, then bit gently. Her breath hitched.

"Still with me," he muttered, pleased.

His mouth trailed lower, down her stomach, his tongue leaving wet lines along her skin.

She wanted to curl into herself. To disappear.

But her limbs refused her.

He knelt between her legs.

Pushed them open.

She felt the air kiss her thighs.

Felt the shame of being exposed—paralyzed, helpless, terrified.

Clark stared at her for a long time, his eyes glazed with hunger.

"You're not ready yet," he murmured.

He spat on her.

The slick heat of it landed where she wished he'd never touch.

Then his head dipped

Clark's POV

Her scent was everything he imagined—sweet, clean, untouched. His hands gripped her thighs gently, spreading them open like the pages of a sacred text. She didn't fight. Couldn't.

Her body trembled faintly beneath him, chest rising with shallow, frightened breaths.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

He leaned in, tongue dragging slowly through the soft folds of her pussy. Even dry, she tasted divine. Pure. Holy. He groaned low in his throat, possessive heat washing over him as he buried his face deeper.

"This is mine," he murmured against her, lips brushing her heat. "Every inch."

She was tense at first, frozen with fear, but he didn't stop. His tongue worked rhythmically, expertly—lapping, circling, tasting. He could feel the smallest changes. Her thighs twitching. Her shallow gasp. Her body responding to him despite her mind screaming no.

It made his cock ache.

He could smell her hormones. Her cycle was at its peak. He knew it. Her body was ready. Ripe. Fertile.

The timing was divine.

She quivered.

A breath escaped her lips—barely audible.

Then her body spasmed lightly in his grip.

A small, broken climax. Silent. Unwanted. Unstoppable.

A single tear slid from the corner of her eye.

He pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes shining.

"See?" he whispered, climbing up her body. "Even now... your body calls to mine."

He leaned in and kissed her.

Softly. Almost reverently.

Her lips didn't respond, but that didn't matter. She belonged to him now.

"I'll be your first," he whispered against her mouth. "Your only. Forever."

He sat back on his heels and wrapped one hand around his cock—hard, thick, pulsing, aching to claim her. He stroked it slowly, gaze never leaving her helpless form.

Then he reached down.

Spread her legs wider.

Positioned himself at her entrance.

"Relax, sweetheart," he whispered darkly. "Let me worship you properly."

Clark's POV

He slid into her slowly, groaning at the tight, warm resistance that welcomed him like a reward. She was impossibly soft, every inch of her wrapping around him like her body already knew who he was—what he was.

He buried himself fully, pausing to feel her pulse around him.

"My sweet girl," he whispered, voice shaking with need. "You were made for me."

He began to move—long, deep thrusts, slow at first, savoring her heat. Her body rocked with each motion, limp but trembling. Her lashes fluttered, her breath catching every time he bottomed out.

His hands explored her—fingers kneading her breasts, his mouth dragging across her skin. He bit gently, then harder, marking her. Her neck. Her chest. Her shoulder.

"You're mine now," he breathed. "Inside and out."

He hooked one leg over his shoulder. Then the other. His pace grew faster, rougher. The bed creaked beneath them.

Her arms were still limp. Her mouth barely moved.

But her eyes—those wide, wet eyes—never left him.

He kissed her again, tongue parting her lips, swallowing her stillness like it was affection.

"Can you feel it?" he whispered against her cheek. "Your womb opening for me? Begging to be filled?"

His thrusts became frantic.

He closed his eyes. Let his head fall back.

Images burned behind his lids—her belly round with his child, her curled beside him in bed, calling him husband, lover, daddy.

"You'll be so good pregnant," he growled. "You'll glow. Everyone will know you belong to me."

With a broken, possessive groan, he pushed deep—deeper—and came hard inside her, spilling himself into her warmth.

He held there, breathing ragged, cock twitching with the last pulses of release.

He didn't move.

Instead, he lowered himself, pressed his forehead to hers, and whispered:

"Perfect. So perfect."

He brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his hand.

"I deserve this," he murmured. "I've given so much. And now... now I have you."

He stayed inside her, unmoving, soaking in the heat of her body like it was sunlight.

She was his now.

And he wasn't letting go.

He moved slowly. Reverently.

After everything, after he'd filled her with his release and whispered how perfect she was, Clark didn't rush away. He stayed inside her until he softened, humming quietly against her skin, still stroking her hair.

Then—finally—he pulled out.

She felt the warmth of him spill down her thighs.

"Messy," he murmured with a little smile. "I'll clean you up, sweetheart."

He lifted her like she weighed nothing, carried her to the bathroom, and laid her gently on a towel. Her body was still limp, but her fingers twitched now—barely noticeable unless someone was looking for it.

Clark noticed.

He smiled like a proud husband watching his wife stir from a deep sleep.

"You're doing so well," he whispered.

He knelt, soaked a warm cloth, and began to clean her. He was gentle. Too gentle. Like she hadn't just been used, marked, claimed. Like he hadn't just taken something sacred and turned it into something his.

He wiped her thighs slowly, his fingers lingering over her swollen folds. He dragged a fingertip through the mix of his cum and her juices, pushing just a little.

Then, he whispered:

"I should leave it in... Let it settle. Let it take."

His finger hovered at her entrance, teasing.

"But no," he said after a moment. "Not yet. I want your first pregnancy to be special. I want you to know it's happening."

He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh.

Back in bed.

He curled around her, her limp form pressed into the cradle of his chest. One arm draped over her waist. His head nestled beside hers.

She could feel her limbs returning. Pins and needles in her toes. The faintest muscle flickers in her thighs.

Her chest rose and fell on its own again.

And her heart? It pounded like thunder.

Clark whispered into her ear, calm, content.

"I think a little farmhouse would be nice," he said, stroking her hair. "Something quiet. Maybe out in Kansas again."

"You'll cook. I'll build things. We'll have a big garden. Chickens. I'll get up early, bring you coffee in bed."

He kissed the back of her neck.

"You'll keep the house clean. Keep me fed. And when the kids come... I think we'll start with three."

Her breath hitched.

Tears pooled.

"You'll be such a beautiful mother. Soft and full. Always glowing. Always ready when I come home."

Her body started to tremble—just slightly.

He didn't notice.

He was still dreaming out loud.

"I'll build a nursery next to our bedroom. You'll rock them to sleep while I rub your feet. You'll always wear those soft little dresses I like. No makeup. Just you."

Her tears fell freely now.

Hot. Silent.

Her fingers curled—just a little.

Clark sighed contentedly and pulled her tighter.

That's when she felt it.

Hard. Pressed against her thigh.

Growing.

Again.

He nuzzled her cheek and whispered:

"See? You were made for this."

She closed her eyes.

And wept.

#yandere #dark fantasy #fantasy #tw noncon #x reader #sfw noncom #dark romance #power dynamics #age g4p #breeding k1nk #superman #dark superman #twistedheartsclub

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writingwithcolor · 5 months ago

Text

Vietnam War Era Latine Queer Romance

@theparadigmshifts asks:

Hi, thank you for the work you do! I had a question about my story - one of my main characters, who's Latino, works on his friend's family's dairy farm in Texas in the 70s. The friend is white, and it's a small farm with about 50 cows, so it's only him, his friend, and his friend's father, plus some seasonal workers. The character and his friend end up falling in love, and I want to make sure I don't play into stereotypes here. The character is not poor, but he is hardworking. He's also gay. There are a couple of other things at play - his friend offers him the job in the first place because it's set during the Vietnam war, and if you worked on a farm you could possibly get a draft deferment. He could get more money working for his father, but he ends up staying on because he really enjoys the work. I do want to be careful with any sort of power dynamic here as well, though - he and his friend both work for his friend's father, but obviously, one is the son and one is hired.

I’m not sure what your question is (#rubberstampapproved), but here are some thoughts on the premise.

Latino man does farm labor to avoid war

This sounds like a great story, and I think you’ve steered clear of playing into stereotypes. Let’s explore what you shared:

Farm labor as an excuse to avoid Vietnam is a very compelling reason to volunteer to work on a farm, regardless of how hard the work is!

It sets up a valid motivation for the Latino-doing-hard-labor trope that otherwise is commonly unintentionally deployed and perpetuates negative stereotypes.

Also, when the Latino MC chooses to stay on, emphasizing his sense of agency and the things he enjoys about the work can mitigate some of that manual labor trope as well.

The setting of Texas and having a mix of people around them like the seasonal workers and locals allows a good range of potential foils, and offers many opportunities to explore those power dynamics you mentioned.

Consider cultural and gender dynamics

Additionally, consider cultural and gender dynamics around masculinity: If you’re writing queer characters in Texas in the 70’s, especially Latino queer characters, there will be more to be mindful of. I served in the Marines and my father and uncles have worked in different trades; the culture of masculinity around “hard labor jobs” like the military, trades, farm work, etc tends to trend towards straight passing “tough” appearances for better or worse.

It’s also worth noting that queer people can be, and often are, straight passing and thriving in these spaces - even if they do not announce it.

You may also want to consider Machismo culture, and how queer Latinos in spaces that center and celebrate straight-passing masculinity have to navigate that. Additionally, much of Latino culture is also heavily rooted in Catholicism from Spanish colonization, so that reinforces a culture of anti-queerness. These things may or may not factor into the MC’s relationship or development, but they are culturally significant enough to mention.

Regardless of your focus, I think this is a fantastic setting and story premise and I’d love to hear back about the finished work. You did a great job setting up a story with lots of space for nuance and depth. Good luck!

Melanie 🌻

[Note: this rubber stamp ask was submitted before the Masterpost rules took effect in 2023. We have chosen to publish it to prime our readers on Latine topics and tropes.]

#Latino #Latino man #Latine #latino stereotypes #Hard working latino #Hard working mexican #lgbtqia #power dynamics #asks #war #war tw

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faeriemi · 3 months ago

Text

SOMETHIN’ UNHOLY.

Trigger/Content Warnings (TWS)

Blood / Biting / Vampire Feeding Rough sex / Light choking / Forceful dynamics Possessive / Obsessive language

They said vampires never cross a threshold uninvited.

And there was one.

And he’d been comin’ to your doorstep every night.

Didn’t speak at first. Just stood there on the porch like he was waitin’ for a storm that never came — one hand resting on the post, the other hangin’ loose at his side.

You didn’t know what to do the first night you saw him.

Just opened the door and stared.

He looked up. Eyes too dark to be human, too hungry to be kind.

“Evenin’,” he drawled, voice low and dry like old wood. “Didn’t mean to startle.”

You should’ve shut the door right then.

But you didn’t.

You swallowed, heart beatin’ like a trapped bird. “You’re not from around here.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, with the faintest curve to his lips. “Just passin’ through.”

He never passed through. Not really.

After that, he came again.

And again.

Always at the edge of night. Always just standin’ there. Always asking how your day was, sometimes tell you the weather before it happened like he could feel it comin’ in his bones. But he never stepped past that line. Never asked to come in.

It drove you near mad.

Because you didn’t understand why you waited every night.

Why your hands itched to pull open the door. Why your heart fluttered every time you heard those boot steps on your porch, slow and deliberate like he wasn’t in no rush to see you but couldn’t stay away either.

Your mama would’ve called him a curse.

Your preacher would’ve called him a demon.

But the way he looked at you… like you were somethin’ fragile he didn’t wanna break — or maybe wanted to break real slow, made you wonder what it felt like to be damned by his hands.

One night, when the moon was bloated and heavy, you asked him what he was doin’ out here.

He looked at you for a long time, real quiet.

“Watchin’,” he said.

“Watchin’ what?” you asked.

He took a breath that didn’t sound like he needed it. “Somethin’ soft in a place full of rot.”

Your stomach twisted.

“That sounds like poetry.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, real serious. “That sounds like hunger.”

You could feel it every time his eyes landed on you — like you’d been peeled open and left bare in front of a man who’d forgotten what mercy looked like. But he never reached for you. Never crossed the step.

You started dreamin’ of him.

Standing in your doorway. Hands bloody, eyes, dark. Smilin’ like a man who’d do unspeakable things if only you’d say please.

You woke up wet between the thighs more than once. Heart hammerin’. Cheeks hot.

You’d slide your hand beneath the covers, whisperin’ his name like a prayer and a curse.

Remmick.

But still, he waited.

Night after night.

Never touched you.

Never moved.

Only watched.

Only wanted.

And you, poor thing. You started to wonder how long a woman could stand at the edge of her own ruin before she invited it in.

The night he crossed the threshold, the air changed.

Like the land itself held its breath.

You didn’t know why you opened the door. Maybe it was the way the sky hung low and red like it’d bled dry. Or maybe it was how your body ached — not just between your thighs, but deeper — the kind of ache that no prayer could soothe.

You heard him before you saw him. That slow, familiar drag of boots on wood. And your hand was already at the doorknob.

You opened it.

And there he was.

Hair slicked back, shirt unbuttoned just low enough to see the top of his chest — like he knew what he was doing.

But his eyes… his eyes looked hungry.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he said, voice rough like a match being struck.

You leaned against the frame, trying to ignore the way your knees damn near buckled just from the sound of him.

“You always knock like the devil’s waitin’ on permission?” you asked, voice breathy.

He tilted his head, slow and dangerous.

“I don’t come where I ain’t welcome. That’d be rude.”

You swallowed hard. Your pulse hammered.

“I never said you were welcome.”

He smiled then — slow and wicked. “Then why you keep openin’ the door?”

You stepped back.

Just enough.

Just wide enough.

The invitation didn’t come from your lips. It came from the silence. From the way your eyes lingered on him. From the space you gave.

And Remmick stepped over the step.

Like a wolf crossin’ into the chicken coop.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

You could smell the dark on him. Bourbon. Smoke. Blood. That strange clean scent of river water and death. He walked toward you slow — like he had all the time in the world.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He stopped inches from you, towering, his hands still at his sides.

“You afraid of me?” he asked.

You lied.

“No.”

He leaned down, his mouth brushing your ear.

“You should be.”

His hand came up, gentle as anything, brushing your jaw.

Then his thumb dragged along your lower lip.

You gasped, just barely — and that did it. That broke the leash.

He grabbed your face with both hands, slammed his mouth down on yours with a low growl like he’d been holdin’ back for years. It wasn’t tender. It was ravenous — all tongue and teeth and need. His lips were cold, but the heat between your legs went white hot.

He kissed like a man starvin’.

Like you were water in a desert he’d been wanderin’ a hundred years.

His hands roamed your body, rough and urgent — pushin’ you back into the wall. One hand gripped your throat, just enough to make your breath catch.

“You gonna let me ruin you, pretty girl?” he whispered against your mouth.

You whimpered, breathless. “Please.”

He groaned — low and filthy.

“I’m gonna take my time,” he rasped. “You hear me? Gonna learn every sound you make. Gonna have you cryin’ on my cock before the night’s through.”

Your knees damn near gave out.

He dragged your dress up — slow, reverent — his mouth trailing down your neck, tongue licking over your pulse like he was deciding where he’d bite. You gasped when he pressed his hand between your legs.

Already soaked.

“Mmm,” he grinned against your skin. “You this wet just from kissin’ me?”

You whimpered. “I been wet every damn night you showed up on that porch.”

He growled — actually growled — and dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Hold onto somethin’, baby.”

He spread your thighs and licked you like he’d been born for it. Long, slow strokes that had your head slammin’ back against the wall. His mouth was obscene — the way he moaned into you, tongue fuckin’ deep, then flickin’ your clit until you were cryin’ out his name, hands tangled in his hair.

You came hard, thighs trembling around his face.

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t even pause.

“Another one,” he muttered. “Give me another. Gonna have you soaked before I even put it in.”

When he finally stood, your legs were limp.

He grabbed you by the hips, spun you toward the table. Bent you over, dress hiked, chest flat to the wood. His cock — thick, hard, already leaking — rubbed between your cheeks.

“You ready for it, baby?” he asked, breath hot against your ear. “Ready for me to split you open?”

You nodded, desperate.

“Use your words,” he snarled. “I want permission.”

You gasped, trembling. “Fuck me, I want it. I want you.”

That was it.

He shoved in slow, inch by slow, stretching you deep, both of you groaning from the pressure. You’d never felt so full in your life. Never been fucked like you were the only thing in the world worth destroying.

He didn’t move at first. Just leaned over your back, kissing your neck, whisperin’ filth in your ear.

“You’re mine now, you understand me?” he said, voice ragged. “You opened that door. Invited the devil in.”

Then he started movin’.

Hard.

Relentless.

Hands gripping your hips, slammin’ into you over and over, the sound of skin slapping, your moans, his name fallin’ from your lips like a hymn.

He wrapped a hand in your hair, yanked your head back. His fangs grazed your neck.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you belong to me.”

You were too far gone. “I’m yours, I’m fuckin’ yours—”

Then he bit.

And you screamed — pleasure, pain, all of it tangled until your whole body shook.

He kept fuckin’ you through it, and when he came, it was with a broken moan of your name, buried so deep inside you it felt like forever.

When he pulled out, blood still warm on your throat, your legs buckled.

He caught you. Lifted you like you weighed nothin’.

Carried you to your bed.

And curled up beside you like the world outside had ended.

You woke up with his scent all over you.

Whiskey, blood, and something older. Like old wood and grave dirt. Like sin baked into the bones of the land.

The room was still dark — moonlight crawling through the cracked shutters, cutting silver across the floorboards. Remmick lay beside you, one arm slung across your bare waist. His fingers twitchin’ like he was dreamin’. Or maybe fightin’ the urge to touch you again.

Your thighs ached. Your neck throbbed.

You reached up, fingertips ghostin’ over the bite mark. Two neat punctures, swollen, tender. The skin around it was hot, like it was burnin’ beneath the surface.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

You only remembered the way he moaned your name when he came inside you, the bite, the heat, the darkness that swallowed you whole.

And now…

Now you felt different.

Like something had curled up inside you and opened its eyes.

“You’re burnin’,” Remmick muttered behind you. His voice was thick, like honey left out in the sun.

You turned, and he was already lookin’ at you.

Eyes heavy-lidded, glowin’ faint in the moonlight.

“You bit me,” you whispered, throat dry.

He didn’t flinch. Just stared. Silent. Watchin’.

“I had to,” he said finally. “You were comin’ so hard, I lost it.”

Your stomach flipped.

“vampires need permission.”

His eyes darkened.

“And you screamed my name, begged me, said you were mine. Sounded like permission to me, darlin’.”

Your face burned. Your thighs clenched. The room felt hot.

You sat up, dizzy. Your skin prickled like a fever.

And Remmick’s nostrils flared.

His hand darted out, catching your wrist before you could stand. Not hard — not rough — but firm.

“Wait.”

You looked down at him, heart thundering.

“What’s wrong with me?” you whispered.

He licked his lips slow, eyes dragging down your naked body like he was trying to control himself.

“The bite’s settlin’ in.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, low and rough, “your body’s reactin’. You’re sensitive. Hot. Needy.”

You tried to pull back, but he growled — growled — and yanked you into his lap.

“You need it again, don’t you?” he whispered against your mouth. “Feel like you’re burnin’ from the inside out, like nothin’ll put out that fire but me.”

You shivered.

“Remmick—”

“You want it rough this time?” he murmured, thumb brushing your nipple. “You want me to fuck the ache outta you? You want to ride it out on my cock ‘til your voice is gone?”

Your breath caught.

“Say it.”

“I—I want it,” you gasped. “I want you. Rough. Now.”

That’s all he needed.

He flipped you onto your back so fast your head spun.

“Keep your fuckin’ legs open,” he growled, crawling over you like a beast. “You’re mine now, girl. You understand that?”

You nodded frantically, eyes wide, heat slick between your thighs.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours, Remmick. I’m fuckin’ yours.”

He hissed, actually hissed — like it lit somethin’ inside him. He shoved your thighs apart, didn’t even line himself up , just thrust deep, and you cried out, nails diggin’ into his back.

He didn’t give you time to adjust.

Didn’t whisper pretty things.

He fucked you — all rough grunts and filthy praise, slamming into you so hard the headboard cracked against the wall.

“Listen to that,” he growled, breath hot against your ear. “That’s your pussy talkin’ to me, so damn wet, clenchin’ like she knows who owns her.”

You were babbling, words half-lost, cryin’ out every time he hit that spot inside you that made your vision go white.

His mouth moved down to your neck again — teeth brushin’ over the healing bite.

“You want me to bite again?”

You moaned. “Yes—yes—fuck—please—”

“Greedy little thing,” he whispered. “Didn’t take long, did it? You already want more.”

His fangs sank in — not deep, just enough — and you came violently, screaming his name as your whole body convulsed beneath him.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t let you come down.

He flipped you over, pressed your chest to the mattress, and dragged you back onto his cock.

“You belong to me now,” he hissed into your ear. “Body, blood, soul. You feel that, don’t you?”

You nodded, tears streaming, drool on the pillow, mouth open in a soundless scream as he fucked you through another orgasm.

“You’re changin’,” he whispered. “And I like it.”

By the time he was done, you couldn’t move.

Could barely think.

He gathered you up in his arms, pressed kisses along your shoulder, and tucked you close against his chest.

“Gonna take care of you now,” he said softly. “You earned it.”

But in the quiet…

You felt it.

The burn still lingered.

Not just between your thighs, but in your blood. In your chest.

Like a spark had caught fire and started spreadin’.

And Remmick?

He was watching.

Smirking.

Knowing exactly what he’d done to you.

#southern gothic #vampire reader #historical fiction #sinners #remmick #roughfuck #bite marks #tw blood #claiming #praise kink go brrrr #implied breeding kink #power dynamics #first post #smut #hehe :3

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emiradursun · 2 years ago

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( closed starter for: @axel-mathis ) location: the office

It had been a busy day of work for the both of them and while the two usually were done working at a decent time, they both stayed a little longer in the night to finish things up. Closing her laptop and running her fingers through her hair with a sigh, she got up from her desk to walk into Axel's office. "Hey," she said softly, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile. "Want me to order takeout or are you thinking you'll be finished soon?"

#axel convo #( emira x axel )#tw: age difference #tw: power dynamics

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threepandas · 1 year ago

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Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

#threepandas #yandere #yandere otome #yancore #yanblr #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere otome isekai #bad end hidden heir au #i always wanted to explore this dynamic #i have the power therefor you HAVE to let me serve you #isekai #adopted reader #isekai reader #yandere duke #tw sex assault #nothing happened #but Reader-chan is freaked out by being changed while unconscious #tw drugging

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emiradursun · 6 months ago

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Emira chuckled to Axel's words again, smiling down at his drunk, cute self. "As wonderful as being in my underwear and cooking for you sounds, I'd rather be in my comfortable pajamas that still gets you.." she paused teasingly with a smirk, "excited" she finished with a wink. Right as she turned to leave, she felt him take her hand and pull her down for another kiss and she smiled against his lips, of course kissing him back. "Mm, I'll never say no to one more," she responded, brushing her lips against his after the kiss before pulling away. "I'll be right back, handsome."

She made her way upstairs to change into her pajamas that was a matching set of pants and a more fitted t-shirt that of course showed off her cleavage. She came back down and pulled her hair up into a messy bun as she made her way into the kitchen. "How does a grilled cheese sound, baby?" @axel-mathis

Axel's thumb brushed gently over her hip, as he looked up at her. He loved simply being around her. He didn't need much more than that. "Why even bother going upstairs? Just change right here." He said, his hand moving down to her thigh. "I'm happy with whatever we have. What sounds good to you, beautiful?" He carefully grabbed her hand as she turned to leave. "One more." He said as he pulled her down for another kiss. Axel loved kissing her, loved showering her with affection, and just loved spending as much time as he could with her.

#axel convo #( emira x axel )#tw: age gap #tw: power dynamics #pls ignore her on her phone lol

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inkempressz · 6 months ago

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Yandere older cowboy x reader

The desert wind whispered through the cracked boards of the ranch house, carrying the scent of hay and the distant growl of coyotes. The old cowboy sat on the porch, his broad shoulders hunched over a battered flask, his weathered hands clenching it like a lifeline. His face, rough and shadowed by years of sun and hardship, was a mask to most—but when you looked at him, it softened into something sacred. Something dangerous.

You were the boss’s child—soft-spoken, delicate as a petal, with eyes that seemed untouched by the cruelty of the world. He had watched you grow from a curious kid chasing chickens to someone with an easy smile and a heart too pure for a place as harsh as this. He watched you more than he should.

Your father had hired him because no one else could keep the ranch in check. He was as wild as the stallions he broke, as relentless as the sun that scorched the earth. Yet, when your sweet voice called to him, asking about the horses or offering him lemonade with trembling hands, something inside him twisted, black and possessive.

He told himself it was protection. The world was cruel, after all. People were cruel. They’d see your kindness, your innocence, and they’d tear it to pieces. He wouldn’t let them. Not the ranch hands who leered at you when they thought no one was looking, not the drifters who passed through town with eyes like predators. And not your father, who worked you too hard, made you carry burdens you weren’t meant to bear.

Late at night, when the ranch was quiet, he sat in his darkened room, staring at the moonlit photograph he’d taken of you at the last harvest festival. You’d never know he’d snapped it, nor how many times he’d traced the curve of your smile with his calloused thumb. The thought of you trusting him, leaning on him, made his chest ache with a need he didn’t know how to control.

You trusted him too much. You smiled at him like he was a gentle giant instead of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You told him about your dreams—of leaving the ranch, seeing the cities you’d only read about in books. Each word cut deeper than the last because he knew the world wasn’t meant for you. It would ruin you.

No, you belonged here. With him.

It was a quiet evening when you found the stray kitten by the barn, its mewling cries drawing you away from the house. He had followed you, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt, though you didn’t hear him at first. When you finally turned, holding the trembling creature in your hands, you smiled at him like you always did.

“I think he’s scared,” you said softly, your voice like honey in the cool night air.

He didn’t respond. His eyes locked on yours, the warmth of your trust glowing like a lantern in the dark. You trusted him so much you didn’t even flinch when his massive hand reached out to stroke the kitten. But he didn’t touch the animal. Instead, his fingers brushed against yours, rough and calloused, dwarfing your delicate hand.

“You’re too good for this world,” he finally said, his voice low and hoarse.

You laughed, a sound so light and naive it made his stomach churn. “That’s not true.”

But it was true. Too good. Too soft. You needed someone strong to keep you safe. Someone like him.

The kitten wriggled free, darting into the shadows, but he didn’t move to chase it. His hand lingered, gripping yours now, a shade too tight. Your smile faltered, a flicker of unease in your bright eyes.

“You should head inside,” he said, his voice calm, though his grip didn’t loosen. “It’s getting dark.”

You nodded, your trust outweighing your instinct, and as you turned to walk away, he stayed rooted in place, watching your retreating figure.

You didn’t see the storm behind his eyes.

You never would—until it was too late.

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twistedheartsclub · 4 months ago

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Dark King A Dark Romance Male x Female Reader PT1

⚠️ Trigger Warning (TW): This story contains dark themes that include psychological manipulation, coercion, dubious consent (dubcon), non-consensual sexual situations (noncon), possessive behavior, and kidnapping in later chapters. Please note: Part One of this story does not contain these elements and focuses on character introductions, emotional tension, and slow-burn development. These sensitive topics are introduced gradually and are part of a fictional narrative intended for mature audiences. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please prioritize your mental and emotional well-being.

The Romano estate was too quiet.

Y/N adjusted her blazer, smoothed down her skirt, and stared up at the wrought-iron gates that looked more like they belonged to a fortress than a family home. Twisting, thorned vines crawled up the stone pillars on either side, their shadows curling like fingers in the early afternoon sun. The guard at the booth barely looked at her as he waved her through, his sharp eyes darting to the back of her car as if expecting it to explode.

She swallowed and drove forward.

She hadn't wanted this job. She'd stared at the Romano name on the inquiry email for a full five minutes before even opening it. A big name. A dangerous name. The kind of name whispered behind hands and buried in gossip, tangled up in words like “untouchable” and “blood money.”

But two years of scraping by as a wedding planner in a city that chewed up dreams and spit out bones meant she couldn’t afford to be picky. And maybe, just maybe, if she pulled this off—if she gave Celia Romano the perfect fairytale wedding—it would change everything.

Her nerves didn’t care about the potential. They crawled beneath her skin like ants.

The driveway twisted through perfectly manicured grounds, but it didn’t feel like a garden. It felt like a warning. Like she was being watched. And when the mansion came into view, it wasn’t some romantic villa—it was sleek and brutal, stone and glass and steel, like a wolf dressed in silk.

A man in a dark suit opened her car door before she’d even unbuckled. Silent. Professional. Terrifying.

“Miss Y/N L/N?” he asked, voice clipped.

She nodded, mouth dry. “Yes.”

“Follow me.”

Inside, the mansion was colder than she expected. All marble floors and high ceilings, gilded mirrors, fresh lilies that couldn’t quite mask the scent of gunpowder and leather. Opulence pressed in on all sides, but so did something else—danger in a tailored suit.

And then she saw him.

He stepped out from the shadows of a wide, columned hallway like he belonged there—like the house had been built around him. Matteo Romano. She recognized him instantly from the research she’d done the night before, the grainy newspaper shots that never quite captured the full weight of him.

He was taller in person, broad-shouldered with the kind of presence that bent the air around him. His suit was charcoal, his shirt black, no tie. Everything about him was understated, yet lethal—like a knife wrapped in velvet.

And those eyes—god, those eyes. A smoldering, iron-gray stare that pinned her in place like a butterfly under glass.

“So,” he said, voice smooth and low, “you’re the girl planning my sister’s wedding.”

Y/N lifted her chin, despite the way her stomach twisted. “Woman. And yes, I am.”

One dark brow ticked upward. Not amusement, not quite. Interest, maybe. Or curiosity—like he was watching a stray cat wander into a lion’s den, wondering if it would fight or flee.

He moved closer, slow and deliberate. “You didn’t want this job.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

Y/N swallowed. “I didn’t think I’d be the right fit. But your sister was insistent.”

“She was,” he agreed, gaze dragging over her face like a touch. “Celia likes… shiny things. Pretty things. She must’ve seen something she liked.”

His words were simple, but the way he said them wasn’t. There was a weight behind every syllable, as if each word was a hook meant to lodge deep and pull.

Y/N refused to look away. “I’m not a thing, Mr. Romano.”

“Matteo,” he corrected. “And I never said you were. But let’s be honest, Y/N. You’re standing in the center of a viper’s nest in five-inch heels and pretending you don’t feel the fangs.”

“I’m here to do a job. Nothing more.”

He smiled, slow and dark and absolutely without warmth.

“We’ll see.”

“Come, let’s sit,” Celia said, looping her arm through Y/N’s as if they were old friends instead of strangers from very different worlds.

She was beautiful—effortlessly so. Delicate features, wide brown eyes, long dark hair pulled back in a silk ribbon that matched the blush of her designer dress. She practically glowed, the golden youngest of the Romano children, and she moved through the marble halls like she owned the sun.

Y/N let herself be led into what looked like a sitting room but felt more like a museum. Velvet cushions. Heavy tapestries. Portraits of dead men with eyes that seemed to follow you. Everything was curated, gilded, expensive.

Celia flopped onto a tufted sofa with an easy smile. “Tea or wine?”

“Tea, thank you,” Y/N said, smoothing her skirt as she sat on the edge of the opposite cushion. “We should go over some basics before we get into design—budget, guest list, location. I like to get the skeleton in place before we start dressing it up.”

Celia grinned. “You’re serious. I like that.”

“I try to be,” Y/N said, pulling out her planner. “Weddings are like symphonies. A lot of moving pieces. If one part is off, the whole thing—”

“Crashes in fire and flames,” said a voice from the doorway, dry and rich like aged wine. “God help us, another metaphor girl.”

Y/N stood quickly, her breath catching.

A woman entered the room in a cloud of perfume and pearls. Her dress was immaculate. Hair swept into a flawless chignon, eyes sharp enough to cut stone. Older, elegant, terrifying. This had to be Viviana Romano, Celia’s mother.

Behind her shuffled another woman—stooped slightly, skin papery, hair pure white. But her eyes… those eyes were sharper than the mother’s. The grandmother. The matriarch.

Celia rose, kissing each on the cheek. “Mama. Nonna. This is Y/N L/N, our planner.”

“Planner,” the grandmother echoed, eyeing Y/N like a hawk might a field mouse. “Skinny. Too young. Why did we hire a girl?”

Y/N forced a smile. “Thank you for having me. I assure you, I’m qualified.”

Viviana stepped closer, examining her like she was a piece of artwork that might be a forgery. “You’ve done high society before?”

“Yes. A few events in Manhattan and a destination wedding in Florence. Small budgets, but high-end vision. I specialize in creating elegance without waste.”

“Waste,” the grandmother said with a snort. “Weddings are waste. But they make men spend money, and that is always amusing.”

“Nonna,” Celia warned gently.

Y/N kept her smile in place. “I believe weddings are statements. Not just about love, but legacy. A family’s image. Their name.”

At that, Viviana’s interest piqued. “You understand legacy?”

“I do,” Y/N said, voice steady. “And how fragile it can be in the wrong hands.”

Silence fell.

Celia’s eyes danced with quiet admiration.

The grandmother smiled, just barely. “Hm. Not as soft as she looks.”

Viviana hummed. “We’ll see. Sit, then. Let’s talk about the wedding. Matteo says you’re professional. I want to know if he’s right.”

Y/N sat again, spine straight, pen poised. “Of course.”

But even as she started her questions—flowers, colors, catering—the weight of three generations of Romanos pressing in on her made every word feel like walking across a tightrope. One wrong move, one crack in her voice, and she’d fall.

Still, she didn’t come this far to be afraid of sharp women with old money and sharper eyes.

She just had to survive the planning.

And Matteo.

God help her—especially Matteo.

The family had eventually dispersed—Viviana off to a charity meeting, Nonna to her garden, and with the room cleared of its frost, Celia had pulled Y/N into a sunlit parlor tucked at the back of the house. It was cozier than the others, with warm wood bookshelves, velvet pillows in soft rose and gold, and a faint smell of cinnamon and old paper. A forgotten corner of the Romano estate.

Sanctuary.

Celia was barefoot now, her heels discarded by the door, legs curled under her on a tufted chair as she sipped herbal tea. She’d softened, the tension from earlier fading with every minute away from her mother’s judging gaze.

“I like this room,” Y/N said, running her fingers along the edge of a worn side table. “It doesn’t feel like the rest of the house.”

“It isn’t,” Celia said with a smile. “It was my father’s mother’s room. No one comes in here but me.” She leaned forward, chin in her hand. “Okay, now that you’ve survived the she-wolves, tell me everything.”

Y/N blinked. “Everything?”

“About you,” Celia said, grinning. “You’re not some uptight planner like I expected. You’ve got a bite. I want to know what you’re doing in this mess.”

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not that interesting.”

“I doubt that.”

She hesitated a moment, then sighed and sat on the arm of the couch. “Alright. I’ve been doing this for two years. I started in Manhattan, assisting a nightmare planner who believed crying was weakness and coffee was currency. Eventually I branched off, made my own little company.”

“And your boyfriend?” Celia asked slyly.

Y/N flushed immediately. “How do you know I—?”

“You blushed when my brother looked at you.”

“Oh my god,” Y/N groaned, hiding her face. “That’s not because of—Matteo—it’s just—he’s intimidating, and the way he looks at people feels like he’s reading their last will and testament.”

Celia laughed, delighted. “So you do have someone.”

Y/N smiled despite herself, cheeks still warm. “Yeah. We’ve been together for a year now. We live separately—he’s a little older. Travels a lot for work, so we do what we can.”

“What does he do?”

Y/N hesitated, picking at a thread on her skirt. “Something with logistics. Imports, I think. I never ask too many questions when it comes to his work—it’s not shady or anything, just… dull. He’s sweet. Stable.”

“Safe,” Celia said softly.

Y/N looked up. “Yeah. Safe.”

Celia stared out the window for a moment, her fingers tightening slightly around her teacup. “My fiancé isn’t.”

Y/N blinked. “You don’t love him?”

“No,” Celia said simply. “I don’t even know if I like him.”

The silence stretched.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said gently. “Is it arranged?”

Celia nodded. “Not in the way you’re probably thinking. It’s... strategic. He’s from a family that benefits ours. Keeps peace, solidifies business. My father promised me when I was seventeen. I’ve met him a few times. He’s polite. Handsome. Dangerous, in that quiet way men like him are.”

“Do you get a choice?” Y/N asked.

“Not really. But I pretend I do.” Celia offered a small, tired smile. “Mama says it’s my duty. Matteo… he tries to protect me. But he’s part of it too. He knows what this marriage means for the family.”

Y/N felt something tighten in her chest. She didn’t know Celia well—this was only their first real conversation—but there was something heartbreakingly human in the way she said it, like she’d already accepted her life was not her own.

“You still get to have your day, though,” Y/N said softly. “And I’ll make it beautiful. For you. Not just them.”

Celia’s smile warmed, this time real and glowing. “I knew I liked you.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a while after that. Two women from opposite worlds, sitting in a room full of ghosts.

Y/N's apartment smelled like garlic, rosemary, and freshly baked bread.

The tiny dining table was crowded with mismatched plates, wine glasses half-full of red, and candles flickering against the soft hum of music playing from her phone. Her heels were off, hair down, and for the first time all day, her shoulders weren’t trying to touch her ears.

“Okay,” said Jade, stabbing a fork into a roasted potato. “You went to the Romano estate and lived to tell the tale. Spill.”

“I’m not gossiping,” Y/N warned, pouring another splash of wine into her glass. “It was a professional meeting.”

“Yeah, and I wear Chanel to the gym,” Maya snorted, popping a grape tomato into her mouth. “Come on, Y/N. Give us something.”

Y/N laughed, leaning back against the cushions. “It was... intense. The house is like a fortress. There are guards. Real ones. With actual guns. Matteo Romano—he’s the brother—he showed up out of nowhere like he was summoned by shadows or something.”

“Oh my god,” Jade breathed. “Is he hot?”

Y/N covered her face. “I’m not answering that.”

“Oh, he is,” Maya cackled. “She’s blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You totally are.” Jade topped off her wine. “What’d he say? Was he mean? Did he try to test you?”

Y/N sighed. “He’s... sharp. Cold. But not unkind, if that makes sense. He just watches people like he’s figuring out what they’re worth.”

“Like a mob boss would,” Maya added. “You’re literally planning a wedding for mafia royalty.”

“They’re not openly mafia,” Y/N said quickly, lowering her voice.

“They don’t have to be,” Jade teased. “Their aura screams blood and black card.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled. “Celia—the bride—is sweet. She’s young. Kind of lonely, I think. Her mother and grandmother were…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Strong. A little terrifying.”

“And you, my darling,” Jade said, raising her glass, “handled it like the badass you are.”

They clinked glasses and sipped. The conversation drifted, wine loosening their shoulders and smoothing the edges of the day.

“So,” Maya said after a while, eyes narrowing with playful intent, “how’s your man?”

Y/N smirked, lips still on her glass. “Still sweet. Still boring.”

“Hey, boring can be good,” Jade grinned. “My man cooked for me last night and folded the laundry. Boring is sexy.”

“Mine bought me bath salts,” Maya said dreamily. “And then ran the bath. Naked.”

“Okay,” Y/N groaned with a laugh. “Too much.”

Jade pointed at her. “But your guy? He still doing the import-export thing?”

“Yeah. He’s been in Texas for a week. Work trip. I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

“Do you miss him?”

Y/N hesitated. “Yeah. I do.”

The words felt true—but light. Like she was reaching for a sweater that no longer fit quite right. Her boyfriend was kind, thoughtful, consistent. But sometimes when she closed her eyes, she saw Matteo Romano’s storm-gray stare and felt like someone had opened a window in her chest and let the cold wind in.

“He’s good to me,” she added, more firmly.

“That’s what matters,” Jade said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “He makes you feel safe.”

Y/N smiled and nodded, taking another sip of wine. But her stomach turned a little—not in dread, but in confusion.

Safe.

Was that enough?

The Romano dining room was as grand as it was suffocating.

Thick velvet curtains muted the night beyond the windows, candlelight flickering across crystal and bone china. The long table was set to perfection, but no amount of gold trim or hand-stitched linen could mask the tension hanging in the air like smoke.

“Her guest list is ridiculous,” Viviana snapped, swirling her wine. “She wants influencers. Influencers, Matteo. I won’t have our name associated with women who take selfies in backless dresses and call it branding.”

“She’s young,” Matteo replied, voice calm but clipped. “Let her be young. She’ll only have this wedding once.”

“Don’t be naive,” Nonna said, her voice brittle but strong. “If she marries a man she doesn’t love, she’ll survive the wedding, not remember it. She’s not built for our world. She’s too soft.”

“She’s a Romano,” Matteo said, gaze fixed ahead. “She’ll learn.”

Across from him, Celia picked at her salad in silence, her lashes low, pretending not to listen. But he could tell she heard every word—he always knew when his baby sister was hurting, no matter how carefully she masked it.

Viviana sighed sharply. “And that planner she chose. The girl. She’s too young. Too modern. Too plain. We should’ve hired someone seasoned. I don’t trust these independent types—they make decisions based on aesthetic instead of legacy.”

Matteo’s jaw ticked. “Her name is Y/N L/N.”

His mother looked at him, surprised. “You remember her name?”

“I remember everyone’s name.”

Nonna smirked from the head of the table. “She had a spark, that one. Stood up straight even while we tried to gut her. I like her spine.”

“She wore sensible heels,” Celia murmured.

Matteo looked at her. “That’s how she’s survived this long.”

Viviana raised a brow. “You’re defending her?”

“I’m stating facts,” he replied coolly. “She didn’t flinch in a room that most men would’ve folded in. That’s useful.”

He didn’t mention the way her voice had stayed calm under pressure, or the quiet precision of her answers, or the tiny tremble in her fingers that she fought so hard to hide. He didn’t mention the way she’d looked him in the eye—looked, not stared, not simpered—and corrected him.

That had stuck with him. Not like an obsession, not like hunger.

More like a puzzle left half-finished on a table. Something you noticed again and again without meaning to.

“She has a boyfriend,” Celia said suddenly.

That earned a flicker of attention from him. “Does she.”

Celia nodded. “They’ve been together a year. Doesn’t live with him.”

Viviana waved a hand dismissively. “She’s too focused on work. She’ll be married to her career by thirty.”

“That kind of woman doesn’t stay long in this world,” Nonna said, sipping her wine. “They either get eaten, or they become something else.”

Matteo didn’t respond. He reached for his glass, his expression unreadable.

His thoughts weren’t on the wedding anymore. Or the fiancé they’d chosen for Celia. Or the complaints echoing off the crystal.

Instead, they lingered—irritatingly—on a flash of quiet defiance, a sharp tongue in a soft mouth, and a planner who didn’t want to be here… but came anyway.

He wasn’t interested. Not really.

But he’d noticed her.

And in Matteo Romano’s world, that was the beginning of everything.

The second visit to the Romano estate was less terrifying—but only slightly.

Y/N had worn soft beige slacks and a cream blouse this time. Practical. Neat. Safe. Her hair was pinned back with gold clips, her planner tucked tightly beneath one arm as she followed a familiar path to the drawing room where Celia waited.

The door opened before she could knock.

“Y/N!” Celia greeted with a warm smile, hands clasped in excitement. “Come in—we’ve already started without you.”

Inside, sunlight streamed through the tall windows. The table was scattered with samples—lace swatches, invitation mockups, and color palette charts. Celia sat cross-legged on a velvet chaise, cheeks pink with enthusiasm, while Viviana and Nonna flanked the table like two marble sentinels, wine glasses untouched but ever present.

“We were debating florals,” Viviana said sharply. “Celia wants peonies.”

“They’re romantic,” Celia argued.

“They’re overpriced and wilt too fast,” Nonna muttered. “Like some husbands.”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Peonies can be used in moderation. Maybe blended with ranunculus and garden roses for durability.”

Viviana arched a brow, but said nothing, merely gesturing for her to sit.

Y/N sank into the cushion beside Celia, laying out her planner and flipping to her sketches. She was mid-sentence—something about table arrangements—when a loud shriek rang through the hallway beyond the open door.

A moment later, two tiny whirlwinds of energy tore into the room.

“Nico!” Celia shouted in warning, too late.

The twins—identical boys with dark curls and matching button-downs—darted past the table, one of them skidding on the marble with socked feet. His little body wobbled, arms flailing, dangerously close to crashing into a glass vase.

Y/N moved on instinct.

She lunged, catching the boy before he could fall. He landed safely against her chest, breathless and blinking, his tiny hands fisting in her blouse.

“Whoa there,” she murmured, her voice soft. “You alright, little guy?”

The boy blinked, stunned for a moment—then grinned. “You’re pretty.”

Celia groaned into her hands. “God, Nico, no flirting.”

Y/N laughed, kneeling with the boy still tucked against her, brushing his curls gently back. “How old are you?”

“Five and three-quarters,” he said proudly. “I’m older than Leo by four minutes!”

His twin, Leo, hovered near the doorway with wide eyes, until Y/N held out her hand and smiled. “You can come too.”

He hesitated, then sprinted across the room and launched himself into her lap.

Viviana made a noise of disapproval, but Nonna only sipped her wine. “You’re good with children.”

“They’re just small people,” Y/N said, bouncing one on each knee. “They just want to be seen.”

Neither woman responded, but their silence was thoughtful.

And that’s when he walked in.

Matteo.

The air shifted instantly.

His footsteps were quiet, but his presence filled the room like thunderclouds rolling in over calm skies. His eyes flicked to the twins, then to Y/N, who hadn’t noticed him yet—her face soft with a tender smile, her body curled protectively around the boys like she’d done it a hundred times.

One of the twins tugged on her sleeve. “Can you come play later?”

“Maybe,” she said gently. “If it’s okay with your family.”

The moment lingered—too long, too still.

Then Y/N looked up.

Her eyes found Matteo’s.

Something passed between them. Not heat. Not tension.

Something quieter. Deeper.

Recognition.

She blinked, straightened a little, gently setting the twins down. “Mr. Romano.”

“Matteo,” he corrected automatically.

Viviana rose, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. “They barged in like wild animals. Celia lets them run like strays.”

“They’re children,” Matteo said, his gaze still on Y/N. “They need freedom. And structure.”

Nonna made a low sound of approval. “The girl has both.”

Y/N rose, smoothing her slacks. “They’re sweet. Just curious.”

Matteo stepped closer now, slow, deliberate. He wasn’t watching her the way he had last time—testing her. This was different.

He’d seen something.

Something he didn’t understand yet.

“Celia,” he said without looking away, “let’s move the meeting to the library. Give them more space.”

Celia nodded, but her gaze darted from her brother to Y/N and back again, a spark of interest igniting behind her lashes.

The moment passed.

But Matteo felt it press into the edges of his mind, lingering long after the twins had gone.

She had held them like she’d been born to. Like she belonged in the center of something warm and real.

It wasn’t important.

It shouldn’t matter.

But now, he’d seen her that way.

And Matteo Romano never forgot what he’d seen.

The Romano gardens stretched beyond the back terrace like a secret realm—walled in with towering cypress trees, rose-covered trellises, and gravel paths that led nowhere in particular. Birds chirped lazily in the early afternoon sun, and the air carried the scent of lemon balm and thyme.

Celia had slipped out first, sandals in one hand, hair tumbling over her shoulders. Y/N followed with two tall glasses of ice-cold lemon water, grateful for the excuse to take a break from lace samples and logistics.

They sank onto a shaded bench beneath a wide olive tree, the stone warm beneath their legs, the twins’ laughter echoing faintly from somewhere deeper in the garden.

“They really love you,” Celia said, smiling behind her glass.

“They’re adorable,” Y/N replied. “Wild, but adorable. Who do they belong to?”

“My cousin Enzo’s boys,” Celia said. “He’s one of our older cousins—married young, had twins by accident, got terrified and grew up fast. His wife’s lovely. Quiet. They live on the property, but far enough to pretend they don’t.”

“That sounds… ideal, honestly.”

Celia laughed, a soft sound. “It is. They keep their heads down. Enzo’s smart like that.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks and watching bees dart from flower to flower.

“You’re different from what I expected,” Celia said, finally.

“How so?”

“I don’t know. You’re not… scared. Or fake. Most people who come through here are either terrified of my family or trying to impress them.”

Y/N tilted her glass thoughtfully. “I guess I’m just too tired for either.”

Celia’s smile widened. “I like you. You make this whole thing feel less… hollow.”

Y/N glanced over. “Do you ever get to leave?”

Celia blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you ever just… go out? To dinner, or dancing? Coffee with friends?”

“I go to charity events,” Celia said dryly. “And galas. Does that count?”

“Nope.”

Celia sighed. “Then no. Not really. Matteo doesn’t like it.”

“Matteo?” Y/N raised a brow. “Your mom doesn’t like it either, but you didn’t mention her.”

Celia looked down at her glass. “Matteo’s opinion matters more. If he says no, it’s no. He’s not cruel, he’s just… protective. Controlling. He thinks keeping me here keeps me safe.”

Y/N was quiet for a long moment, then reached out and nudged her knee gently. “What if I stole you for a night?”

Celia’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Just you and me. No guards. No designer gowns. We’ll go to this place I love—tiny Greek place near my apartment. We’ll eat too much garlic, drink house wine, and make fun of bad wedding DJs. Maybe even dance a little.”

Celia’s eyes lit up with something like wonder. “You’d do that?”

Y/N shrugged with a smile. “Only if you say yes.”

Celia looked away, biting her lip. “Matteo would hate it.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

Celia let out a breathless laugh. “God, you really are trouble.”

“I’m actually very well-behaved,” Y/N said, grinning. “But maybe you need a little trouble.”

Their laughter blended with the wind in the trees, sweet and light—two women stealing a sliver of freedom from a world that demanded they stay in their boxes.

Neither of them saw the figure watching from the terrace—still as stone, unreadable as ever.

Matteo Romano.

He didn’t hear the conversation.

But he saw the way Celia smiled.

The way Y/N leaned toward her, easy and warm, like a summer breeze through a sealed room.

And something cold stirred in his chest—not jealousy. Not yet.

But the quiet, unfamiliar ache of possession.

The little Greek place was tucked between a closed flower shop and an old bookstore that smelled like dust and poetry. Inside, the air was warm and humming with quiet music, and the walls were lined with faded black-and-white photos of Athens. There were only six tables, each covered with mismatched linens and flickering tealights in small glass cups.

They sat near the window, tucked into a corner, half a carafe of house wine between them and plates of lamb skewers, feta, olives, and crispy lemon potatoes spread like a feast.

Celia had pulled her hair into a braid and worn jeans with a fitted cardigan—simple, casual, a soft rebellion in itself. She looked lighter here. Brighter. Like her laugh had been waiting years to be let out.

“This is so good,” she moaned, stealing another wedge of pita. “Why does everything at home taste like it was cooked under threat?”

Y/N laughed, refilling her glass. “Because it probably was.”

“I can’t believe we actually got away with this,” Celia whispered, eyes gleaming.

“I told you—low profile, casual, nothing flashy. We’re just two normal girls out for dinner.”

“I haven’t been a normal girl in years,” Celia said, swirling her wine. “Do you know how many of my firsts were... choreographed?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Like what?”

“My first kiss? At a garden party. My date was the son of a diplomat. Our mothers basically pushed us into a rose bush and gave us ten minutes.” Celia made a face. “He tasted like champagne and fear.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s tragic.”

“What about yours?”

Y/N grinned, tucking her legs under the booth seat. “Seventh grade. Behind the theater building. He had braces and called me the wrong name right after.”

Celia laughed so hard she nearly choked on her wine. “No!”

“Yes! I was too embarrassed to correct him.”

“Oh god, we’re pathetic.”

“Speak for yourself,” Y/N said with a mock huff. “I’m a very romantic person now. I light candles. I make dinner. I am extremely kissable.”

Celia raised her glass. “To being extremely kissable.”

They clinked and sipped again, warm and loose from the wine, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“How old are you, by the way?” Y/N asked. “You never told me.”

“Twenty-six,” Celia said. “What about you?”

“Same.”

Celia smiled. “That explains it. You feel like someone I would’ve been friends with in another life. One where my family didn’t control every detail of my existence.”

“You still can be,” Y/N said softly.

There was a pause, a shift in the air.

Then Celia reached forward and stole another olive. “Okay. Crushes. Who was your first?”

“Oh, easy,” Y/N said. “My fourth-grade art teacher. He had a ponytail and wore leather bracelets. Total hippie. I was convinced he was secretly a prince.”

Celia giggled. “Mine was my cousin’s friend Luca. He used to come over and play piano. I’d sit on the stairs and pretend I wasn’t watching.”

“Did Matteo know?”

Celia rolled her eyes. “Matteo knows everything. He told me Luca was a degenerate gambler and forbade me from being in the same room with him.”

Y/N laughed. “Wow. Subtle.”

“He’s always been like that,” Celia said, her smile fading just a little. “He means well, but… his idea of love is protection. Control. He doesn’t understand softness. He respects it, I think. But he doesn’t trust it.”

Y/N stirred her drink slowly, considering that.

“He watched me when I caught Nico,” she said quietly.

Celia looked at her. “I figured.”

“It wasn’t like he was angry. Just… seeing something new.”

“That’s probably true,” Celia said, her tone unreadable. “Matteo doesn’t notice most people. But when he does…” She trailed off.

Y/N looked up. “What?”

“He never forgets them.”

The music was old and loud, thumping through the worn floorboards of the little backroom bar Y/N had promised would be “low-key.”

It wasn’t packed, but it was alive—warm bodies moving in time, a rainbow of lights flashing across upturned faces and bare shoulders. The air was thick with laughter and cheap perfume, and the whole world felt far away from marble floors and legacy-stained bloodlines.

Y/N and Celia were laughing breathlessly, hips swaying, arms linked as they danced near the edge of the floor. The wine had softened their movements, made everything feel lighter. Like being young again—normal.

Celia’s braid swung behind her as she spun. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“I told you,” Y/N said, grinning. “We’re magic when we’re out together.”

“I feel… free.”

Y/N was about to respond when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. A man—mid-thirties, too polished for a place like this. Slicked-back hair. Designer watch. Something sharp behind his smile.

He was watching Celia.

Y/N stiffened as he approached.

“Ladies,” he said smoothly. “Mind if I cut in?”

Celia faltered, smile fading. “I’m fine, thank you—”

“I wasn’t asking you, princess.”

Y/N stepped in front of her without thinking. “Back off.”

The man’s eyes flicked to her, condescending. “Easy. Just trying to be friendly.”

“She said no.”

Something in her tone changed the air between them.

The man leaned in just enough for Y/N to catch the glint of something under his jacket—metal. Not a wallet. Not a phone.

A gun.

“You don’t know who you’re talking to, sweetheart,” he murmured, too low for the music to carry.

“Actually,” Y/N said, steady now, “I really don’t care.”

He smirked—and reached for Celia’s arm.

Y/N moved.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t graceful. But it was fast. Her fist connected with the side of his face, snapping his head sideways with a sickening crack. He stumbled, clutching his jaw, eyes wild with shock.

Celia gasped. “Y/N!”

“Run!” Y/N shouted, grabbing her hand.

They pushed through the crowd, Y/N shoving shoulders and spilled drinks out of their way. Adrenaline burned through her veins as they burst through the exit door and into the cold night air.

And slammed straight into him.

Matteo.

He was waiting beside a black car, arms crossed, jaw clenched, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

The sight of him brought everything to a screeching halt.

Celia froze, wide-eyed. “Matteo—”

“Get in the car,” he said, voice low and venomous. His eyes never left Y/N.

She stood her ground, chest heaving, blood still buzzing in her ears. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“I said—” he took one step forward, towering over her “—get in the car.”

Celia obeyed without another word, slipping into the back seat.

That left Y/N and Matteo alone in the street, steam rising from sewer grates, music still thudding behind the closed door.

“You followed us,” Y/N said, voice shaking—but not from fear. “How long were you watching?”

Matteo’s stare was unrelenting. “Long enough to see you break his jaw.”

“Good,” she snapped. “Because he grabbed her.”

His silence was colder than anger.

“You think I can’t protect her?” she asked, stepping closer, fire in her veins.

“I think you don’t understand what kind of people come sniffing around my family. Or what it costs to draw their attention.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

They stood in the silence of the city’s edge—her chest rising, his fists clenching.

Then, something in his expression cracked. Just a little.

“You could’ve been killed,” he said, softer. Not gentle—but raw.

Y/N swallowed. “So could she.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Matteo opened the car door.

“Get in.”

She hesitated—just long enough to make him twitch—then climbed in beside Celia.

The door slammed behind her, the locks clicking into place like a seal.

And for the first time since he’d met her, Matteo Romano didn’t know what to do with what he felt.

The Romano estate was silent when the car pulled through the gates.

Too silent.

Y/N stepped out before Matteo could open her door, jaw set, hands still scraped and trembling from the punch and the panic. Celia trailed after her, quieter now, her earlier glow faded into a shadow. Matteo said nothing, his footsteps hard on the marble as he stormed ahead.

They followed him into the sitting room. The lights were too bright, the room too cold. A maid tried to speak—but one look from Matteo and she vanished.

The door slammed shut behind them.

And then, he turned.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

His voice was thunder—quiet and shaking with the kind of anger that didn’t explode, but burned.

Celia flinched. “Matteo, please—”

“No,” he snapped. “You lied. You snuck out. You went into the city without protection. Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if I hadn’t been there?”

“We were fine,” Y/N cut in, stepping forward. “Until someone tried to grab her. That was the only threat. And I handled it.”

“You?” Matteo laughed once, bitter. “You think you can protect her?”

“I did.”

“You threw a punch in a back-alley bar, and that’s your definition of protection?”

“Matteo—”

“No, Celia!” he barked, spinning toward his sister. “You risked everything. You knew this marriage is the only thing keeping peace right now. You jeopardized—”

“I don’t care!”

The words ripped from her throat—louder than either Y/N or Matteo had ever heard her speak.

And just like that, the room fell still.

Celia stood in the center of the marble floor, her braid slipping loose, eyes shining with sudden, overwhelming tears.

“I don’t care about the deal, or the family, or the name!” she cried. “I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want a life that feels like a cage dressed in diamonds.”

Matteo’s mouth parted, but no words came.

“Do you think I don’t know what this marriage is?” she whispered, voice breaking. “Do you think I don’t see how it’s all just business—just another transaction with my life?”

Y/N stepped beside her, instinct taking over. Her hand slipped around Celia’s waist, guiding her gently to the couch. She pulled her close, smoothing her hair, pressing her cheek against her temple.

“It’s okay,” Y/N murmured. “Let it out.”

Celia shook against her, sobbing now—ugly and raw and far too big for such a soft girl.

Matteo stood frozen, hands at his sides, his breath shallow. He looked like a man watching his whole world crack open and realizing he didn’t know how to hold the pieces.

“You never asked me if I wanted it,” Celia whispered. “You just assumed I’d go along because it’s what’s best for you.”

“It’s not about me,” Matteo said hoarsely.

“Yes, it is,” she said, lifting her head from Y/N’s shoulder, tear-streaked and trembling. “You want control. You want to protect me, but only on your terms. You don’t trust me to know what I want.”

Y/N’s arm stayed tight around her.

And slowly, slowly, Matteo’s walls began to show their cracks.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said. “You don’t know what kind of people we’re dealing with—”

“I don’t want to,” Celia whispered.

Silence again.

Y/N looked up, meeting Matteo’s eyes across the room.

He wasn’t furious anymore.

He just looked tired.

And beneath the fury, the pride, the family name—he looked like a man who had no idea how to love someone without turning it into armor.

The echoes of Celia’s sobs still lingered in the marble halls by the time she’d slipped upstairs to her room, wrapped in Y/N’s soft words and a promise of tomorrow.

Now it was just Y/N and Matteo.

The house was silent around them—too grand, too hollow. Only the low flicker of firelight from the drawing room offered any warmth, casting golden shadows over the cold edges of the night.

Matteo stood near the fireplace, arms folded across his chest. No longer furious—but unreadable. A man made of stone and pressure and things he didn’t know how to say.

Y/N sat on the edge of the leather armchair, spine straight, fingers curled around the armrest like a tether.

“You love her,” she said softly.

Matteo looked up, eyes dark and distant. “Of course I do.”

“But you’re loving her in a way that’s killing her.”

His jaw tensed. “I’m keeping her alive.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. “And what kind of life is she supposed to have, Matteo? One where she’s passed from father to brother to husband like a bargaining chip?”

“She was born into this.”

“She’s still allowed to want more.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared into the fire like it might offer him answers he didn’t already own.

Y/N leaned forward, voice firm but gentle. “If you want this marriage to work—if you really believe it’s necessary—then her fiancé needs to actually be there. He needs to show up. Talk to her. Listen. Learn her favorite color. Ask how she takes her tea. That’s all a girl wants, Matteo. To be seen. To be respected.”

His gaze slowly slid toward her, something shifting behind those storm-gray eyes.

“Respect,” he murmured, like it was a foreign word.

Y/N nodded. “Understanding. Kindness. A little effort.”

They sat in that silence for a while, the fire popping gently between them. The distance narrowed—not just in space, but in something deeper. Something neither of them had asked for but now felt the edges of with startling clarity.

Matteo stepped closer.

She didn’t move.

“You fought for her tonight,” he said, voice low. “Risked your safety without hesitation.”

“She’s not a soldier, Matteo,” Y/N said, meeting his gaze. “She needs someone who won’t make her fight for every ounce of freedom.”

He studied her face, and it wasn’t the usual calculating stare. It was... quieter. More personal. As if seeing her in a new light unsettled him more than any threat ever could.

“You’re dangerous,” he said finally.

Y/N gave a soft smile. “Because I said what no one else will?”

“No,” he murmured. “Because you make me want to listen.”

His hand brushed against her arm.

The tension coiled between them like wire pulled tight, drawn together by something that neither of them could name. His gaze dropped to her lips. The firelight flickered across his features, softer now, less iron and more man.

He leaned in.

And so did she.

Their breaths mingled, close enough for heat to pass, for shadows to tremble—

But Y/N pulled back, slow and deliberate, her lips parting with a soft exhale.

“I need to go home,” she whispered.

He blinked once, like he’d forgotten there was a world beyond this room.

Y/N stood, smoothing her blouse, heart thudding.

“You’ll walk me out?” she asked.

Matteo nodded once, but didn’t speak.

As they reached the door, she glanced back at him. “Think about what I said. She needs someone who chooses her.”

And with that, she slipped out into the night, leaving behind only her perfume, her warmth, and a man who had never been left wanting.

Until now.

Sunlight spilled through the windows of Y/N’s apartment, casting soft golden lines across her hardwood floors. The scent of coffee drifted from the kitchen, and somewhere, a playlist of gentle jazz crackled softly from her phone.

She stood in front of the mirror in a soft robe, towel-dried hair curling at the ends, fingers brushing mascara onto her lashes. Her skin still hummed faintly from last night’s adrenaline—her hand sore, her heart unsettled.

She didn’t want to think about Matteo. Or his eyes. Or how close their mouths had been.

A knock at the door startled her from the thought.

She glanced at the clock—8:03 a.m.

Another knock. This time gentler. Familiar.

She padded to the door and peeked through the peephole.

And smiled.

Elias.

She opened the door and was immediately greeted by the smell of warm cinnamon and the sight of her boyfriend standing there—tall, dark blond hair tousled from sleep, dressed in a gray hoodie and black jeans, with a bouquet of sunflowers and wildflowers in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Elias said with a grin. “I brought bribes.”

Y/N’s heart softened. “You got back last night?”

“Late. Didn’t want to wake you,” he said, leaning in to press a soft, warm kiss to her lips. “But I missed you.”

She kissed him back, smiling against his mouth. “I missed you too.”

He handed her the bouquet. “Your favorites.”

She inhaled them deeply. “You remembered.”

“I always do.”

She stepped aside and let him in. He dropped his bag on the counter and started pulling out breakfast—flaky croissants, egg sandwiches, a small tub of her favorite honey Greek yogurt, and two bottles of fresh orange juice.

“Okay,” she said, impressed. “You really missed me.”

“I figured you’d need fuel. Heard through the grapevine you’re planning a wedding for a mob princess.”

Y/N blinked. “Where’d you hear that?”

He smiled over his shoulder. “A little bird. I pay attention.”

“Too much attention.”

He shrugged playfully. “I worry. You’re the softest tough girl I know.”

She leaned against the counter, watching him. He looked so calm. Steady. The kind of man who folded her laundry, made playlists for road trips, rubbed her feet when she had long days. The kind of man you marry when you want peace.

And yet…

Last night still burned beneath her skin like a brand.

“How was Texas?” she asked, pouring juice into two glasses.

“Boring,” he said, pulling her close with one arm. “Long meetings. Long drives. Nothing half as interesting as what you’re wrapped up in.”

She leaned into him, resting her cheek against his chest. “I punched someone last night.”

Elias pulled back slightly, brows raised. “You?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not—I swear.” He cupped her face, eyes filled with admiration. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Want me to go beat them up for you?”

She laughed, really laughed, and buried her face against his neck. “No, I already did a good enough job.”

They stood like that for a moment—wrapped in warmth, familiarity, and affection.

But even as she held him…

Matteo's voice haunted the edges of her mind. You’re dangerous. You make me want to listen.

Y/N closed her eyes.

She was safe here.

So why did she feel like she was only half-awake?

The Romano estate was already vibrating with tension by the time the morning sun cleared the hills.

Voices echoed off the marble.

“You promised me he’d cooperate!” “That man has no spine!” “His father would’ve handled this already—” “You think I care what his father would’ve done? He’s not marrying his father—”

Matteo stood at the head of the long dining table, jaw tight, shoulders tense beneath his crisp black shirt. His younger brother, Rico, paced across the room like a caged dog—wiry, sharp-featured, eyes flaring with frustration.

“He didn’t even call after what happened last night,” Rico barked. “Celia could’ve been hurt—hell, Y/N hit someone, and that guy still thinks he can treat this marriage like a goddamn brunch date!”

“He was never worthy,” Nonna snapped from her seat. “His blood’s thin. No teeth.”

Viviana stood beside her, arms folded, voice sharp and clear. “But we need this alliance. Matteo, fix it.”

Matteo didn’t move. “I told you this would happen. He doesn’t respect her because he doesn’t know her. He sees her as a favor—not a future.”

“So change that,” Viviana snapped.

“Or end it,” Nonna growled.

The room surged with shouting again—Rico cursing, Viviana hurling accusations, Nonna raising her cane and slamming it against the floor like a gavel.

Matteo stood still through it all. Not indifferent—just waiting.

Listening.

Calculating.

Then the bell rang.

Three short chimes.

Silence dropped like a stone.

Rico rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”

“Let the chaos in,” Viviana muttered.

The butler moved toward the door, but Celia was already flying down the stairs.

Y/N stood in the entryway, the morning light soft on her face, her coat draped neatly over one arm, a hand-wrapped in gauze and tape from last night’s chaos.

“Hey,” she said, a little breathless. “Sorry I’m—”

“You’re here!” Celia squealed, launching into her arms with the kind of joy that shattered the stale air in the house like glass.

Y/N hugged her tightly, blinking in surprise. “You okay?”

“I am now,” Celia whispered, her voice pressed to her shoulder. “Come. Come upstairs. I don’t want to see anyone else right now.”

She grabbed Y/N’s hand—careful not to touch the bruised one—and practically dragged her up the staircase.

Matteo turned to watch them go.

Y/N didn’t look back.

But he noticed everything.

The way her wrapped hand rested against the banister. The way Celia leaned into her, trusting her like she hadn’t trusted anyone since their mother stopped tucking her in. The way her presence, quiet and graceful, sucked the fury from the room without saying a word.

“She makes her feel safe,” Nonna said quietly, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

Matteo didn’t reply.

He didn’t have to.

Upstairs…

Celia’s room was nothing like the rest of the Romano estate.

Where the halls were stone and sharp edges, her space was full of softness—canopied bed draped in white gauze, floral wallpaper worn at the corners, books piled on the windowsill like she’d started ten and finished none. It still felt like a girl’s room. A girl who’d tried to grow up before she was ready.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed while Celia rifled through a drawer for a tin of ointment.

“Let me see your hand.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N said, but held it out anyway.

Celia winced at the sight. “It’s so swollen.”

“You should’ve seen the guy.”

They both laughed, the tension from the night before melting under the sunlight and the scent of lavender from a nearby candle.

“I’m serious,” Celia said as she gently applied the balm. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Y/N replied softly. “But I wanted to.”

There was a pause—quiet and meaningful.

“I meant what I said last night,” Celia whispered. “You make me feel like I’m allowed to want things.”

Y/N smiled. “You are.”

“And I do. I want more than this house. More than business and bloodlines. I want a real life.”

“Then let’s plan it,” Y/N said suddenly.

Celia blinked. “What?”

“You’re a bride. And for once, let’s plan a wedding you actually want. A dream one. Just for you. No guests. No alliances. Just… what you’d choose if the world didn’t belong to your last name.”

Celia’s eyes sparkled, wide with wonder. “Can we?”

“We already are,” Y/N grinned. “You just haven’t told anyone yet.”

Downstairs…

Matteo sat alone in the study, the fire low and crackling, the scent of ash curling into his collar.

A small folder lay open on the desk.

Photos. Reports. A timeline.

Celia’s fiancé, Emilio Mariani—fifth son of a lesser crime family. Titled. Protected. Lazy.

Weak.

Matteo’s eyes trailed over a photo of Emilio at a rooftop bar—surrounded by women. Not Celia. Never Celia.

Another image: his car parked outside a strip club. A charge to a hotel not registered under his name.

The final straw: a police report. Altered. Buried. A bar fight, three years ago. Another man took the fall. Matteo hadn’t known about it—until now.

“I trusted him,” Matteo muttered to no one. “I sat at a table with his father. Took his hand like it meant something.”

His fists clenched.

Then, footsteps.

Rico entered, shutting the door behind him. “You’ve decided?”

Matteo nodded once. “He’s done.”

“What about the alliance?”

“We’ll build another.”

Rico hesitated. “And Celia?”

“She’ll be protected.”

A pause.

“And the planner?”

Matteo didn’t look up. “What about her?”

“She’s… involved now. Whether you like it or not.”

Matteo stared into the fire for a long moment.

“She’s a problem,” he said finally.

Rico smirked. “Then why do you look at her like that?”

Matteo didn’t answer.

But his jaw tightened.

Because deep down, he already knew the truth.

She wasn’t a problem.

She was a threat.

And he was already planning how to keep her close enough to control—

Or never let go.

At the Mariani Estate…

The air was stiff with cigar smoke and ego.

The Mariani patriarch sat behind a polished oak desk, flanked by his two sons: Emilio, lounging in his seat like the spoiled heir he was, and Luca, the younger—clean-cut, thirty-seven at most, dark-haired and watchful with sharp, calculating eyes.

Matteo and Rico stood across from them, both in tailored black, radiating a kind of cold pressure that turned the office into a crucible.

“You embarrassed my family,” Matteo said calmly. “You humiliated my sister.”

Emilio scoffed, tipping back in his chair. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Rico moved first.

One second, Emilio was talking. The next, he was on the ground, blood spilling from his nose, his chair overturned behind him.

“You don’t speak her name again,” Rico hissed, standing over him.

“Enough,” the elder Mariani barked, rising to his feet. “You come into my home, throwing fists like animals—”

“Your son put hands on a Romano woman,” Matteo said, still steady. “Do you think I’d let that pass? She’s not available. She’s sacred.”

“And what would you have me do?” the old man snapped. “Cut him off? Apologize like a dog?”

“I don’t want apologies,” Matteo said. “I want something better.”

A beat of silence.

The elder Mariani sighed and glanced toward Luca.

“This one,” he said, gesturing. “Luca. My second son. He’s not like his brother. He studied in Rome. Quiet. Clever. Disciplined. He could make a woman like your sister feel safe… and respected.”

Matteo’s gaze shifted to Luca.

And Luca, to his credit, didn’t look away.

“I would take it seriously,” Luca said. “And I would court her, not collect her.”

Matteo gave a single nod.

“One meeting,” he said. “She chooses.”

And with that, the terms were set.

Back at the Romano Estate…

Celia twirled in front of the mirror, holding up a swatch of chiffon like it was already stitched into a gown. “Do you think Luca would like something off the shoulder? Or is that too much?”

Y/N smiled from the bed, legs tucked beneath her. “You haven’t even met him yet.”

“I know,” Celia said, breathless with hope. “But Matteo agreed to the meeting. That’s something.”

“I’ll be here if you want backup.”

Celia turned, eyes soft. “You’ve already done more than anyone ever has.”

They hugged tight at the top of the stairs before Y/N slipped out, her heels quiet on the marble.

At her apartment…

The warmth of the day still lingered in the air when Y/N stepped inside, unwrapped her bandaged hand, and curled up on the couch.

Her phone buzzed.

Elias.

She smiled softly, thumb hovering over the answer button for a moment before picking up.

“Hey, babe.”

“Hey, gorgeous,” Elias said, voice warm and relaxed. “How’s your hand?”

“Better. Still sore.”

“I hate that you got hurt.”

“I don’t.”

A beat of silence. “You wanna do dinner tonight? I was thinking your place—I’ll bring wine. Cook.”

Y/N hesitated. Then smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

They chatted a little longer—about the Romano estate, Celia’s nerves, Elias’ meetings—before hanging up.

But even as she changed into something soft and started setting the table, her thoughts drifted.

To firelight. To a man who called her dangerous like it was holy. To a kiss that hadn’t happened—and still lingered.

And the strange ache of having everything she thought she wanted…

And wondering if she was already losing interest.

Two weddings.

Two lives.

Two entirely different kinds of chaos.

Y/N moved between them like a storm with a clipboard—balancing floral orders, finalizing menus, fielding last-minute seating chart disasters. Her new client was a high-strung heiress who needed everything now, and Celia’s wedding—still months away—remained wrapped in tension and centuries-old expectations.

She was exhausted.

But she was moving. Always moving.

Her weekdays were meetings and mockups. Her weekends were for herself—wine nights with Jade and Maya, rooftop brunches, dancing until her cheeks ached from laughing. And most nights, Elias was waiting—at her apartment with takeout, or at his place with wine and slow jazz playing low on the speakers.

He was steady.

Warm hands. Soft kisses. Gentle promises.

“I love seeing you like this,” he said one night, stirring pasta on her stove. “Busy. Happy. Glowing.”

She smiled, leaned against him, and kissed his shoulder.

But in the back of her mind, there was always a flicker of something else. A hallway. A wrapped hand. Firelight. And gray eyes watching her like she was something rare.

She didn’t speak of Matteo.

Not even to herself.

Celia and Y/N still met—quiet moments between meetings, dress fittings, and floral discussions. But they were shorter now. Softer. Less laughter, more glances over their shoulders.

Her mother and grandmother hadn’t forgotten the escape.

Neither had Matteo.

Still, Celia kept her head high, and when she finally agreed to the meeting with Luca, she did so with a grace Y/N hadn’t seen in her before.

And Luca… was nothing like Emilio.

He was kind. Thoughtful. He listened when Celia spoke. He asked her what she wanted, and meant it. He brought her books instead of jewelry. Asked her questions instead of offering compliments.

After their second meeting, Celia pulled Y/N aside in the garden.

“He’s… good,” she said, cheeks flushed. “And I think he actually wants me.”

Y/N squeezed her hand, smiling. “Then maybe this can be your story. Not theirs.”

Celia nodded slowly, eyes distant. “I hope so.”

In the greenhouse...

Celia walked beside Luca through the Romano estate gardens, the glass panels overhead dripping with condensation from the late spring heat. She wore pale yellow, hair loosely braided, eyes bright.

Luca kept his hands in his pockets, respectfully distant—but attentive.

“You like roses,” he said.

“I like wildflowers,” she corrected. “Roses are too... expected. Too manicured. But I like them best when they’re a little overgrown. Imperfect.”

He smiled, quietly charmed. “Then I’ll have to bring you some that refuse to behave.”

She laughed. Not the polite kind. The real kind.

When they stopped by the marble bench beneath the lemon tree, she finally said, “Why are you really agreeing to this?”

“Because your brother offered me a life built on loyalty and legacy,” he said. “But you… you’re something else entirely. You’re a choice I’d be proud to make.”

She looked down, blushing. “That’s the right answer.”

In Matteo’s private study...

“I don’t care if she blushes when he talks to her,” Matteo said flatly. “I want to know if he can handle pressure.”

Rico leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “He’s not like Emilio. That much is clear.”

“I need more than not Emilio. I need stable. Calculated. Humble—but with teeth.”

“He’s all of that.”

Matteo’s gaze flicked to the surveillance photo on his desk—Luca holding the greenhouse door for Celia. Not touching. Not hovering. Just present. A steady figure in the frame.

“I want a background run done again,” Matteo said. “Anything buried, I want it dug up. If he hurts her, there won’t be time to fix it.”

Rico gave a knowing smile. “You’re not used to men treating her right.”

Matteo didn’t smile back.

“I’m not used to anyone loving her the way she deserves.”

At Y/N’s apartment...

The kitchen smelled like roasted garlic and rosemary, the candles were lit, the wine poured.

Elias sat across from her at the table, sleeves rolled, collar undone. He looked like something out of a cozy film: handsome, tired, reliable.

And yet…

Y/N couldn’t shake the quiet tension between them. The distance.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she said.

Elias paused mid-bite. “Just tired. Work’s been nonstop.”

“You’ve said that a lot.”

He looked up at her.

For a beat, his expression softened—but then it twisted, slightly defensive. “Do you think I’m lying?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I just… I don’t know. Something feels off.”

He pushed his plate aside and leaned on his elbows. “Maybe it’s not me that’s changed.”

She blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I see the way you talk about your clients,” he said. “You light up when you mention that girl—Celia. Or when you talk about her brother.”

Her breath caught.

“You don’t say anything,” he added. “But it’s there. In the way you talk around him. Or avoid his name altogether.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I’ve been good to you,” Elias said softly. “I’ve loved you quiet, steady. I’ve never tried to own you. But sometimes it feels like you’re somewhere else.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

And that terrified her.

She reached for his hand anyway. “Let’s not do this tonight.”

He nodded.

But even as they finished their wine and sat together on the couch, something between them had shifted.

Not broken.

Just… bent.

And things that bend under too much pressure don’t always snap.

Sometimes they just stop fitting

The warehouse had been dusty, humid, and completely unfit for the kind of elegant, last-minute wedding transformation Y/N had promised.

But she never backed down from a challenge.

She’d been moving crates, climbing ladders, helping hang strings of lights and vintage drapes herself—half because she didn’t trust the new assistant, and half because she needed the distraction.

She didn’t see the broken step.

Didn’t hear the crack until she was on the ground.

By the time she limped out of the rental van and up the steps to her apartment, the adrenaline had faded into a dull, throbbing ache up her ankle and into her hip. Her palms were scraped again. Her nails were chipped. Her dress was wrinkled and dusty.

But worse than the physical pain was the silence.

Elias hadn’t texted back.

Not last night. Not this morning. Not after she told him she was working late and sore and needed to hear his voice.

He’d left two days ago for another "work trip"—only this time, there had been no soft goodbye, no airport kisses, no “I'll miss you.” Just a single-word reply:

"Safe travels."

And since then… nothing.

Not even read receipts.

He’d never done this before. Not even when they fought. Not even when they were new and messy.

Y/N sat on her couch, still in her work clothes, her ankle wrapped in ice and her phone sitting useless in her lap. She stared at it like it might light up if she just wanted hard enough.

It didn’t.

And that’s when the knock came.

Three firm taps.

She rose slowly, wincing, one bare foot dragging behind her as she crossed to the door.

She opened it—

—and her breath caught.

Matteo stood there.

In black slacks and a slate-gray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hair slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times. There was something restless in his posture, like he wasn’t used to waiting on the threshold of anything.

His eyes scanned her instantly.

The limp.

The bandages.

The redness around her eyes.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came.

He filled the silence.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m—fine,” she said too quickly, clutching the doorframe.

His eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

She gave a bitter little smile. “Well. Apparently I am.”

Silence crackled between them.

Matteo's gaze dropped to her hands, then to the shadows beneath her eyes. His expression shifted—not pity. Not concern.

Just… awareness. Of the hurt. Of the cracks.

“I didn’t come here to cause more problems,” he said quietly.

She laughed once—short, brittle. “You didn’t have to. You are the problem.”

He didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t move.

“I just needed to see you.”

“Why?”

Another silence.

“You looked tired. At the estate last week. Different.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s what you came here for? To tell me I looked tired?”

Matteo stepped closer, crossing the invisible line of the threshold, and she didn’t stop him.

“I came because I knew something was wrong,” he said.

“And what exactly are you going to do about it?” she asked, her voice hoarse now. “Fix me like one of your family problems?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “Because you’re not a problem. Not to me.”

Her eyes filled, hot and sudden, and she hated it—hated the way the tears burned without permission. Hated that it was him here, in this moment, while the man who was supposed to be hers vanished behind silence.

She looked away.

“I’m so tired of feeling like a placeholder.”

“You’re not.”

She swallowed. “Then why does it feel like no one ever stays?”

Matteo’s hand rose—hesitated—then touched her cheek, warm and slow.

“I’m still here.”

And god help her…

She leaned into him.

Not because it was right.

Not because it was safe.

But because it was real.

For the first time in days, it was real.

Y/N didn’t know why she said it.

Maybe it was the ache in her ankle. Maybe it was the weight of being alone. Maybe it was the way Matteo touched her face like she wasn’t a battlefield—but a secret he wanted to keep.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

Matteo didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her for a long, silent second. Then he nodded.

Inside, the air was warm. The apartment smelled like old flowers, burnt garlic, and something else—something restless.

He followed her in, quiet as a storm. She limped back toward the couch and sank into the cushions, hissing as her ankle flared with pain.

Matteo crouched in front of her.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

“Let me see.”

She gave in.

His hands were warm, careful, steady. He unwrapped the ice pack, adjusted the bandage, and checked the bruising with the kind of gentleness that made her heart throb.

“You should’ve gone to urgent care,” he said softly.

“I didn’t want to go alone.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

He looked up. Met her eyes.

And stayed there.

“I’m not good at this,” she said, voice breaking. “Holding everything together. Pretending I’m not falling apart. Elias… he hasn’t called. He’s never gone this long without calling. Even when we were fighting. And I don’t even know why it hurts this much, because he’s probably just busy, and—”

Her voice cracked.

Matteo didn’t interrupt.

He just listened.

His hand was still wrapped lightly around her ankle, his thumb tracing one soft, slow circle against the edge of the bandage.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” he murmured. “You’ve been pretending since the day we met. Smiling when you wanted to scream. Apologizing when you wanted to run.”

She inhaled sharply.

His hand slid from her ankle to her knee. Not forward. Not greedy. Just… there.

And it felt like too much.

Too much silence.

Too much truth.

Too much him.

“You drive me crazy,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was slow and heavy, a dam breaking. Months of tension. Words unsaid. Moments missed. Her hands curled into his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer as his lips moved over hers like he meant it. Like he needed it.

He leaned over her, guiding her back against the cushions. His hand slid beneath her shirt, brushing her waist, her ribs, just under her bra—a slow, reverent touch that made her arch into him.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed against her neck.

She didn’t.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his body half-over hers, one hand sliding over the soft curve of her breast, thumb grazing her through the lace. She gasped into his mouth, fingers in his hair now.

She didn’t want to think.

She didn’t want to feel anything except this.

And then—

RING.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, screen lighting up.

Elias.

The name might as well have been a gunshot.

Y/N froze.

Matteo stilled against her.

She reached blindly, snatching the phone and sitting up. His hand slipped away from her body like it burned him.

Her chest rose and fell, lips swollen, eyes glassy.

“I need to take this,” she whispered.

He stood slowly. Backed away. Silent. His jaw clenched, gaze unreadable.

She answered the call.

Her voice was soft.

Too soft.

“Hi…”

And Matteo walked out without a word.

Y/N held the phone to her ear with fingers that still trembled. Her heart hadn’t settled. Her lips still tingled. The taste of Matteo was still in her mouth, and Elias’ name was glowing on the screen.

“Hi,” she said softly, voice barely steady.

“Hey…” Elias’ voice was breathless, like he’d just stepped out of a meeting. “God—I’m so sorry.”

Y/N closed her eyes.

“I’ve been a mess. I know I’ve been distant. I just—work’s been swallowing me whole. And I took it out on you, and that’s not fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

She stared at the floor, her toes still curled against the carpet where Matteo had stood. Where he’d knelt. Touched. Tasted.

“I was just scared,” Elias continued. “Scared that you were slipping away and I was watching it happen without being able to stop it.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “You’re not losing me.”

Not yet.

He let out a soft laugh—relieved, grateful. “I just… I miss you. I’ll be grounded for a while after this next trip. No more travel. No more late nights. I want us to get back to where we were.”

She forced a smile that he couldn’t see. “That sounds good.”

They talked a few more minutes—about safe flights, rescheduled dinners, quiet plans.

She didn’t tell him what had just happened.

She didn’t tell him about the hands under her shirt. The mouth on her neck. The fire still curling low in her stomach.

When they hung up, she was alone again.

Except she wasn’t.

Matteo’s cologne lingered in the air—dark and musky, laced with amber and something sinful. It clung to the cushions. Her skin. Her soul.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Across the city…

Matteo stood in the dark, shirt half-unbuttoned, jaw tight, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand.

He hadn’t gone home.

He couldn’t.

The memory of her was carved into his hands, his mouth, his blood.

The way she’d pulled him in—hungry, aching—and the way she’d whispered “I need to take this” like it didn’t just shatter something deep inside him.

Elias.

That name had felt like betrayal. Not because he didn’t know. Not because he thought she owed him something.

But because she hadn’t pushed him away until after she’d let him touch her like she belonged to him.

She’d wanted it.

He’d felt it in the way her body arched under his. The way her hands fisted in his hair like she’d been starving for this. For him.

And yet—she’d chosen someone else.

For now.

He tossed back the whiskey, jaw tight, throat burning.

But he wasn’t letting her go.

Not yet.

Not when he knew how she looked when she wanted him.

Not when he knew what her silence tasted like.

Not when she smelled like regret and his name.

The Next Morning…

Sunlight cut through the blinds.

Y/N stood at her mirror, face pale, eyes heavy. She smoothed on concealer like it might cover up the guilt. The confusion.

Behind her, the bedsheets were still rumpled. Her phone buzzed with a good morning text from Elias, sweet and simple.

And beneath it…

One missed call.

From an unknown number.

But she knew who it was.

She didn’t delete it.

She didn’t answer, either.

The Romano estate buzzed with quiet activity—staff moving chairs for an afternoon tasting, Celia fluttering between dress swatches and menu updates, Luca chatting politely with Viviana by the windows.

Y/N moved through it all like a ghost in silk.

Poised. Graceful. Smiling softly when appropriate.

And carefully, deliberately—never looking at him.

Matteo stood near the library doors, watching her from beneath lowered lashes. He’d said nothing when she arrived. Hadn’t spoken when she passed within arm’s reach. But his gaze tracked her like a lion in tall grass—silent, lethal.

And she knew it.

She felt it burn between her shoulder blades.

So she smiled at Celia. Asked the chef if they could try something less creamy for the starter. Complimented Nonna’s earrings. Took notes like her hands didn’t remember the way he’d touched her.

Kind. Professional. Untouchable.

Cruel.

Later.

The house had quieted. Most of the family disappeared after lunch. Celia had gone upstairs with Luca. Y/N gathered her files, intent on leaving quickly.

Too late.

She turned down the hallway—and he was there.

Blocking her path.

“Excuse me,” she said softly.

He didn’t move.

“Matteo,” she said.

Still.

Then—“You’re ignoring me.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “I’m working.”

“You think this is going away because you’re polite about it?”

She met his eyes. Steady. Sad. Trying to be firm.

“We’re going to pretend it never happened,” she said. “Because it shouldn’t have.”

He took a step forward.

“No.”

Her spine stiffened. “You don’t get to decide how I carry what happened.”

“I carried it all night.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“You let me touch you,” he said, voice low and rough. “You whispered for more.”

Her eyes flashed, but her voice stayed quiet. “And then I stopped. You want credit for not pushing past that?”

Matteo’s hand shot out—not hurting, but firm—gripping her wrist. Possessive. His fingers curled over the bandage like he owned the bruise beneath.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want it,” he growled. “Don’t insult me like that.”

Y/N stared up at him, heart pounding.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” she whispered. “I said it shouldn’t have happened.”

His breath caught. Just for a moment.

But he didn’t let go.

“You’re mine,” he said. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

Y/N’s lips parted. She hated the heat that rose in her cheeks. The way his grip sent sparks to her spine. The way part of her wanted to lean back in and let the world burn.

Instead, she whispered, “Let me go.”

And—slowly, reluctantly—he did.

She took a shaky step back.

“Don’t follow me,” she said, and walked away with her head high, even if her chest was splintering.

Behind her, Matteo stood in silence, jaw locked, watching her like a man who’d just found something precious…

…and wasn’t ready to lose it.

Y/N sat curled on Jade’s couch, nursing a second glass of red wine, her ankle elevated on a velvet pillow. The living room was cozy—dim fairy lights along the ceiling, music humming low in the background, and pizza boxes scattered like wreckage from an emotional storm.

Maya flopped onto the carpet with a dramatic sigh. “Okay, so… when exactly were you going to tell us you made out with the Don of Darkness?”

Y/N groaned. “I didn’t make out with him.”

“You kissed. You let him feel you up on the couch. That counts.”

Jade raised a brow from her armchair. “He touched you under your shirt, didn’t he?”

Y/N flushed. “Yes. Okay. Yes. But I stopped it.”

“You stopped it after letting it happen,” Maya said, wagging her finger. “That’s not a no. That’s a ‘not yet.’”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “I shouldn’t want him.”

“But you do,” Maya sing-songed. “And he wants you, babe. That man’s stare could set fire to ice.”

“He’s dangerous,” Jade said quietly.

Y/N looked over. “You’ve said that before.”

Jade didn’t smile.

Because she wasn’t teasing.

“I mean it,” she said. “I wasn’t going to say anything but… Elias called me.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Jade hesitated, then sighed. “He’s been shopping for rings.”

Silence.

“He wanted help picking one. Said he’s going to propose after this last work trip.”

The wine glass in Y/N’s hand suddenly felt very heavy.

“Oh.”

“Y/N,” Jade said gently. “He’s planning a life with you. You can’t risk blowing that up over a man like Matteo Romano. You know how this ends.”

Maya frowned. “Okay, but do we know? I mean—what if Matteo’s serious? What if he’s the one she actually wants?”

“That’s not the point,” Jade said. “She needs to choose who she can live with. Not just who makes her pulse race.”

Y/N didn’t say anything.

Because she didn’t know.

Not yet.

Later… Across the City…

The Romano estate hummed with quiet activity. Plans for an upcoming social gathering—charity adjacent, but meant for power networking—were already underway. Matteo sat at the head of the room, fingers steepled, listening to the rundown from Rico and Viviana.

“We’ll invite the DeLucas, the Rosellis, the rest of the big fish,” Viviana said. “And keep the press to a minimum.”

“We should have Celia there,” Rico added. “It’ll solidify the new arrangement with Luca.”

Celia looked up from her tea. “Can I invite someone?”

Viviana arched a brow. “Who?”

“Y/N.”

Matteo’s head snapped up.

“She’s been working herself into the ground,” Celia continued, oblivious. “She deserves a night off. And she knows how to handle a room better than half our PR team.”

Rico smirked. “Would be interesting to see how she handles it. Or who she handles.”

Matteo didn’t speak. But his eyes darkened.

He already knew what he wanted.

And she was already threading herself into his world—

Even as she tried to pretend she wasn’t part of it.

Celia twirled a silver spoon in her tea, her legs curled beneath her on the oversized settee in the Romano conservatory. The sun filtered in through the glass ceiling, warming the lush greenery that surrounded them. It was one of the few places on the estate that felt untouched by politics—just light and leaves and peace.

Y/N sat across from her with a notebook on her lap and a faint frown tugging at her mouth.

“You’re quiet today,” Celia said gently.

Y/N looked up. “I’m just tired.”

“That’s not it,” Celia said, setting her cup down. “You’ve been somewhere else all morning.”

Y/N hesitated. Her fingers stilled on the edge of the paper.

Then she sighed.

“I think Elias is going to propose.”

Celia’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Celia tilted her head. “Isn’t that… good?”

Y/N stared down at her hands. “It should be.”

The words settled like a stone between them.

Celia didn’t rush her. She just sat there, waiting, always more intuitive than she let on.

“I should be happy,” Y/N said softly. “He’s kind. Safe. Good. He’s always been good to me.”

“But?”

Y/N met her eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about someone else.”

Celia didn’t need to ask who.

She looked down into her teacup instead and whispered, “He’s not good for you.”

“I know.”

“But you want him.”

Y/N let out a quiet breath that felt like defeat. “I do.”

Celia reached across the space between them and gently took her hand.

“I know what it’s like,” she said. “To want something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have. To love two things at once and not know which one is your future.”

Y/N’s eyes stung. “What did you do?”

Celia smiled, soft and sad. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

They sat there like that for a while, hand in hand, surrounded by green things and quiet truths neither of them could yet outrun.

Then Celia leaned forward. “Come to the gathering.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“It’s just a social thing—lowkey, wine, people in suits pretending they’re saving the world. Come. Breathe. Wear something pretty.”

Y/N hesitated. “Will… he be there?”

Celia didn’t answer right away.

Then, with a small smile: “Do you want him to be?”

Y/N looked away.

Which was answer enough.

The Romano estate glittered that night.

Candles danced along silver candelabras. Waiters moved like shadows through the crowd, trays balanced with champagne flutes and bite-sized indulgences. String music played softly beneath the hum of conversation and laughter—power disguised as charm.

Y/N stepped into the foyer like a secret unveiled.

She wore a satin dress the color of moonlight—elegant, draped, sleeveless. Her hair curled loosely, falling over her shoulders like silk. Lips soft, eyes lined in shadow. Understated. Breathtaking.

Heads turned.

But she didn’t notice.

Because her heart was beating too loud.

Celia appeared first, radiant in midnight blue, her eyes widening as she saw her. “You look like you just stepped out of a dream,” she breathed, grabbing her hands.

“I feel like I’m going to pass out,” Y/N whispered back.

Celia laughed and tugged her further inside. “You’ll be fine. Come on. You need to meet Luca’s brother, and the DeLucas, and—oh, Luca’s over there, he’ll want to say hi—”

Y/N moved from one introduction to another, each smile more rehearsed than the last. She could feel eyes on her. She always could. But one gaze burned hotter than the rest.

She didn’t need to turn around.

She knew.

And then—

His hand.

Warm, familiar, low on her back.

Her breath caught.

“You’ve made a scene,” Matteo murmured behind her ear.

“I walked in,” she replied, forcing her smile to stay as she nodded at the man in front of her. “That’s not a scene.”

“It is when you look like that.”

Her cheeks flamed.

Celia glanced back, saw them, and gave a look somewhere between amused and concerned—before quietly moving on, slipping into the crowd like the good sister she was.

Y/N turned slightly toward Matteo, keeping her posture poised, her expression polite.

“Leave me alone,” she said beneath her breath.

“I tried.”

“Try harder.”

He stepped closer, his hand still on her back, guiding her gently toward a quiet corner near the window where the flickering candlelight couldn’t quite reach.

“You haven’t answered my calls.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“But you keep showing up.”

“I work here,” she said sharply. “I’m Celia’s planner. That’s all.”

“You didn’t wear that dress for her.”

Y/N’s lips parted.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, her smile cracked. “You don’t get to do this. Not with your hands on me. Not when I’m trying to pretend last week never happened.”

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Then stop pretending.”

Before she could answer, movement across the room caught their attention.

Viviana and Nonna stood by the fireplace, flutes in hand, eyes narrowed in their direction.

“She’s holding herself well,” Viviana murmured, sipping her drink. “Even with him breathing down her neck.”

“She hasn’t cried. Or cowered. Or flinched,” Nonna said with a soft, impressed hum. “She might be perfect for him.”

Viviana raised an elegant brow. “He’d destroy her.”

“Or,” Nonna said, watching Y/N’s spine stay tall as Matteo leaned in, “she’d change him.”

#yandere #dark fantasy #x reader #sfw noncom #tw noncon #fantasy #dark romance #power dynamics #age g4p #breeding k1nk #mafia au #mafia x reader #twistedheartsclub

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ironandglass · 4 months ago

Text

The Descent - Chapter 2 - Reflections

Silco x female reader dark slow burn modern au. Stalker Silco.

A strange man moves into the apartment across from yours, he likes to watch and you start to like him watching. What could go wrong?

<<<Go back to Chapter One

Warnings: stalking, violence, trauma, threats, fear, panic, romanticized toxic behavior, alcohol drinking, toxic relationships, power dynamics, mental health probably, sex mention, swearing, bad editing (notsorry), evil Silco, dark Silco, cold Silco. He’s not gentle and sweet ya feel? No jinx

Chapter two

Reflections

There are few things worse than crying yourself to sleep in your stalker’s bed. Waking up in it while he undresses might be one of them.

Back home, you’re abruptly confronted with everything as you enter the recently repaired front door, closing it behind you. Locking the deadbolt and the slide chain across.

In that moment you wish there were more locks.

Leaning back against the door you feel a pang in your chest that rises up into your throat like a painful stone. You rake your fingers up through your hair, a ragged breath escapes you. Your home was a wreck, the police had left fingerprint dust stuff on walls and moved everything awkwardly. Bringing to reality the stark reminder that someone had broken in, so easily, to your private space and threatened your life.

You take a few deep breaths. Running your fingers through your hair again and again, not even realising you're doing it.

You try to push it all down.

Suddenly gripped by a realisation, you stride across the apartment to pointedly close all the curtains. Silco wasn’t on his balcony, you assumed he had gone to bed. Or maybe he was washing the sheets after your intrusion.

Oh no, how embarrassing, you hadn’t meant to fall asleep in his bed like that. You hadn’t planned on crying your little heart out till you fell into a deep sleep. If you were being honest, that was the best sleep you'd, had in a long time.

You sit on the end of your bed, re-hashing your excruciating awkwardness. So what, the man watched you. You encouraged him by parading around In lingerie. So what if you came hard when you noticed he was watching you fuck somebody in your bed.

You liked it, you like his eyes on you. He called the police for you when you were robbed. He supported you through it, as you cried in his arms. He was actually there for you. He even gave you a place to stay and made you a hot chocolate and sure, it was a little creepy that he knew your name and he said you were his girlfriend but everything else kind of balances that out… right?

You flop back onto the bed, blowing air out of your mouth and letting your legs hang.

Am… I the creep? You start to wonder.

—

That night you dream the door won’t lock.

No matter how many chains you slide across or bolts you twist, it won’t hold.

Someone’s on the other side and you can’t tell if you’re scared… or if you’re hoping it’s him.

—

Over the next few days you wrestle with your behavior, feeling guilty for being rude to the man after violating his privacy. You supposed you had felt entitled to it because he always invaded yours, but… had he? Honestly, all you really needed to do was close the curtains. It was almost less invaded and more invited.

It was impossible to try and justify your behavior by normal morals or logic, because you were both a little twisted. The rules seemed different between you two.

You keep the curtains closed.

—

The police call, requesting you come in and identify a lineup of potential suspects involved in your robbery and even though you'd rather walk slowly over hot coals you agree, because it seems like the correct thing to do. However, a few anxious hours before you’re meant to attend, you get another phone call from the same officer advising that it’s cancelled. “Don’t come in.” They say, no explanation, no reschedule.

At first you’re annoyed at the lack of justice and potentially effort from the police but that is quickly replaced by a huge wave of relief.

—

It’s a little over a week before you start to open the blinds up and see Silco again, because it takes you time to slowly ease back into your confidence.

He gives no indication of annoyance or impatience -you do though. He feels so far away now.

You reflect on his words.

Just you.

The memory of that moment, his warm breath against your ear, feeling it sink gently down your neck.

You desperately want more of whatever that was.

—

Feeling inspired, you decide to thank Silco for helping you somehow. Maybe a gift? A token of appreciation? What do you give a wealthy man to say thank you… on a normal human budget?

Wracking your brain, it takes you a while before you come up with the perfect idea. A small perfume sampler card of your signature scent (sprayed generously in store of course, unwilling to waste your own stock).

Eventually, after visiting a frustrating number of stores, all over the damn city, you find a place that sells his brand of cigarettes, imported, black with a gold ring around the filter.

You press your lips to the perfume sampler card, leaving a stained lipstick kiss and write on the back “Thank you Silco xxx" and sign your name.

You tie the card and cigarette packet together with a luxurious dark red, silk ribbon, matching the deep red shirts he seemed to favor. You beam down proudly at the final product before carefully packing it into a box and mailing it to his unit. -and wait.

—

The wind is so cold your fingers feel numb and clumsy through your thin gloves. You can barely see the footpath carrying a large and awkward parcel home from the nearby post office.

Regretting agreeing to pick it up for your best friend Mia on short notice. You did owe her though, and you know that she would do the same (and more) for you in a heart beat. That thought eases your frustration slightly.

You’re only a few blocks from your front door when you hear an unfamiliar male voice laugh behind you.

“Let me help”

You open your mouth to protest but you feel the weight is lifted off your hands before you have the chance. You step back around the large bulky parcel to get a look at this mysterious helper.

He is wearing the most obnoxiously bright yellow tartan suit you have ever seen in your life. More annoyingly, it looks quite good on his lean muscular frame. He’s covered in tattoos, you see them peeking out at his ankles and wrists, they’re also all across his face, he smirks at you and his shocking pale green eyes throw you off centre momentarily.

“I don’t mean to be rude, drink it in, but it’s fucking freezing, and I‘ve got places to be.”

You shoot him a half smile and gesture forward with your chin, not taking your eyes off him as you both start walking up the street. You, silently and thoughtfully, taking in this unexpected curiosity.

“Seems like you don’t actually have time to help” you press as you walk together.

He huffs a brief laugh and looks at you with an incredulous grin.

“Honestly, you looked like a more independent type so… I was expecting you’d say no.”

It was your turn to now to half feign offence while lowkey being actually offended.

“Here’s fine…-"

"-Finn” he interjects, catching your eye as he lowers the parcel to the ground.

“Thank you Finn” your smile follows him as he stands to his full height. You pointedly do not offer your name, even after he gives you an encouraging look.

“Tch, You’re difficult, … I like that.” He says looking down at you, his gaze seems to deepen with a predatory glint and he cuts a handsome smirk to match it. You hold his gaze, keeping your head high, this man, “Finn” was cocksure, and apparently just obnoxious as his suit.

“See you round, difficult girl.” He gives you a sharks grin as he turns away up the street.

You watch him go, unsure what to think, but also to make sure he doesn't see which building is yours before you pick the parcel up, cross the road and go into your apartment.

—

Reading, on your couch, a small flicker of light out of the corner of your eye lets you know Silco is home and has moved onto the balcony to smoke. Possibly enjoying his small but hopefully meaningful gift.

You turn slightly in his direction to smile warmly at his half lit outline for a moment before turning back to your reading, as one might greet a dear friend.

His presence was a soothing balm, comforting after a long day at work. After some time, you found your thoughts drifting to how you clung to his warmth and how his fingers traced soothing patterns on your back to calm you. His expensive high end apartment with the marble countertop and large bathroom. His smell, his delicious hot chocolate, his warm whisper in your ear.

You absently trace your thumb over your lip. You want more of him, but you’re not sure how, or why or… if you should?

You flick your eyes towards him without turning your head. The curtains are drawn and he has retreated. Your heart sinks at the realization that he’s no longer watching, he’s not with you.

You’re very much alone.

Maybe it would be better to have a normal healthy relationship… or at least let off some steam.

One of your friends, Mia, had been trying to get you to come out to something, anything… you decide in that moment to take her up on it and message her.

YOU: "When are you coming to pick up this massive fucking parcel?"

She replies quickly.

MIA: "Awww are you missing me? Haha I can come grab it tonight! After work, Oooooh also, I have news!"

You pause at that last line, that was never a good sign, it usually meant you were about to be dragged into something.

You walk to the cupboard and pull out two wine glasses and a bottle in preparation. You had to admit though, her schemes were never boring and you catch yourself smiling.

Before you sit down you pull the curtains closed.

—

You don't have to wait long before you hear footsteps at your door, a key fumble in the lock awkwardly for a moment followed by the crash of a heavy keyring falling loudly to the floor and familiar cursing.

You laugh and go to the door, opening it as an act of mercy.

"How have you made it this far in life?" You ask at the grinning woman sheepishly clutching a set of keys covered way too many novelty keyrings.

"There she is!" She says throwing her arms around you enthusiastically giving you a tight squeeze. "My favourite door opening, parcel receiving, goddess!"

You snort a laugh and close the door behind her, locking the dead bolt and slide bolt in place as well as the new extra lock you had installed. Mia glances at you over her shoulder for just one second before doing a little twirl into the room, towards the couch and pulling another bottle of wine out.

"I come bearing tribute!" She says dramatically, bowing as she places it on the table, your traditional festive grounds.

She flings off her large bright coat, tossing it over the back of one of a stool revealing a stylish bright ensemble with large earrings. She always looks amazing.

You pour two glasses of wine before tilting your head to the package.

"So what is it? Besides heavy?" You ask.

She stomps her heels on the ground rapidly in excitement.

"It's my wheel!" She says her eyes lighting up.

"Like... a pottery wheel?" You ask.

"Uh yeah, a pottery wheel! I'm sick of paying for classes like a peasant. I want to be at home with myself in the zone with that stupid song playing. Ohhhhhh myyyy looovvveeee…"

You grin as you take another sip and she shows you photos on her phone of some of the things she has made. Some are bent and awkward but you can see as she progresses through the album her improvement, some of them are starting to look really good.

"Damn, some of these actually look great." You admit smiling.

She falls back on the couch smirking. "I'm full of surprises babe."

"I'm gonna make vessels and talismans, maybe even urns, you know, for dogs or something."

You giggle at the idea, joining her on the couch. It's not long before both of you kick your shoes off and slump into lazy comfort with your feet lined up resting on the coffee table. Talking playfully and laughing a little too loudly, but in the best way.

Suddenly Mia's spine stiffens and she looks at you like she just remembered something scandalous.

"Ooooh that's right, my news!" She exclaims.

"Don't make that face" she chastises you gently, slapping your thigh. "You'll love this!"

Mia wiggles herself forward to lean in closer to you, conspiratorially.

“So, get this—I met this guy. Tall, tattoos, gorgeous in a very bad idea kind of way.”

You try to feign parental concern without smiling. “Oooh nooo.”

“Ooooh yes,” she grins. “He came into the gallery looking like trouble in a yellow suit, asked all the right questions, bought two paintings, and might have invited me to a fancy charity ball.”

You choke on your wine. “Wait—what?”

Mia shrugs, way too casual. “It’s this weekend. Super posh. He said I could bring a friend.” She points at you. “You. Obviously.”

You blink at her. “You want me to go to a rich people gala with a man you just met in a banana suit?”

“He’s hot! And charming! And rich! And it’s for charity. Plus, he already arranged a dress fitting. Free couture, babe. Couture.”

You stare at her, uncertain. Part of you wants to laugh, the other part wants to scream. But Mia’s looking at you with those big, hopeful eyes, practically vibrating with excitement.

“…You in?” she tempts.

You sigh, long and dramatic. “If we end up murdered, it's on you.”

Mia squeals and launches at you with a hug. “We are gonna be iconic! --

Watering your plants on the balcony, you glance up to see Silco’s not there—the large, empty glass windows of his apartment still and silent. The sun is high in the sky, so this isn’t unusual. You usually only saw him from dusk till dawn, maybe only a handful of times in daylight.

Standing barefoot in the bright, natural light, tending to your plants, all of that feels far away. You enjoy this quiet moment with nobody watching, alone, but not lonely.

The smell of damp soil and the weight of the watering can, sloshing gently with your movements, ground you.

You hum a song to yourself as you move from plant to plant, enjoying the warmth.

The espresso machine hisses like a warning, sharp and sudden, not quite drowned out by the ambient music of the cafe.

You'd promised yourself you'd take an actual break but for some reason you were still reading work emails on your company laptop.

You don't notice him until the air shifts, something feels off, like pressure changing before a storm. Then the chair scrapes.

"Relax" he says calmly sitting down opposite you. "I won't stay long" You look up at him, eyes wide in surprise, your mouth half open.

"Silco." You say dumbly, watching as he draws a card out of his pocket and places it in the middle of the table between you.

"Your handwriting is terrible" he says. "But your perfume's better than I expected.”

You stare at the card, then up at him.

"You got it" you exhale.

"I did" he replies, picking the card back up. Your eyes linger as you notice him brushing his thumb gently over it once before tucking it away into the breast pocket of his coat. "And I meant to thank you properly, after all it was a bold gesture."

You freeze, like a deer in the headlights. Flustered and proud and nervous all at once.

He leans in slightly, as if feasting, his eyes watching yours with exquisite precision. Always so intense.

Your lips part slowly to say something.

"-Do you know who I am." His question throws you off completely.

You stumble for a moment, brows furrowing."... I mean sort of? You're my... Neighbour and... I know your name?"

He nods towards your laptop.

"Open a new browser."

You do so, looking up at him.

"Now type in my name."

You raise an eyebrow at this but comply, the five keys clattering gently.

The search loads instantly.

Silco, Zaun Industries CEO wanted for questioning in relation to the disappearance- Industrialist allegedly linked to underground crime- Arson attack- Crime and corruption in- Undercity Kingpin - several bodies found branded with the Eye of Zaun- Politicians revealed to have dealings with- police found no evidence- on and on

Hundreds, no thousands of articles, boardroom photos, headlines, grainy security footage.

All of it, him.

Him.

Your breath falters as you take all of this in. Before slowly looking up at him.

"This is you" you say.

"It is." He says, cold, unapologetic, honest.

"I thought you were just... rich" you admit.

He raises one eyebrow, mildly amused. "I am."

"I mean like, eccentric, quiet, controlling rich... I didn't think-"

"-That I was dangerous?"

You fall silent at this. The words hit like a truck.

He reaches over and takes a sip of your coffee, like it's a test, or a claim.

You search his face, desperately clinging to the man you thought you knew. As if familiarity will ground you.

"Why tell me this?" You ask.

"I don't want you to remain ignorant." He says softly this time.

A moment passes and your mind is racing, trying to make sense of all of this. "So what... Is this a threat?"

"If I were threatening you" he says, eyes meeting yours. "You'd feel it."

You believe him.

Your brows furrow deeper. "So why now? ... Why are you telling me this now?"

He looks at you, considering for a long moment. As though he's deciding if you should know the truth- or something else.

"You sent me a gift." He explains slowly. "You put something of yourself into it, thoughtfully and freely."

A pause.

"And you deserve to know what you gave it to."

You blink at this.

"I didn't know it was like that." You admit.

"I know." He says, eyes flicking back up to yours.

Silco leans back in his chair, relaxed. Calmly assessing your reactions, witnessing your thoughts. He takes another sip of your coffee, setting it down neatly.

You close your laptop screen slowly and rake your fingers through your hair. "I don't know what to do with this." You confess.

"You don't need to do anything." He says pausing. "Not yet." Something about the way he says the last part makes your stomach drop.

You narrow your eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Silco stands and tucks his chair in, the legs scrape softly against the tile.

He adjusts his coat, and taps the breast pocket he had tucked your gift into, looking down at you.

“You handed me a piece of yourself, and I accepted it.”

A smile curls his lips.

“That part of you belongs to me now... and it won't be returned.”

He turns, walking toward the door. Calm, unhurried. No drama. No threat in his stride. “You should’ve known better than to offer something you couldn’t afford to lose.”

Just before the exit, he glances back at you smirking, like he already knows how this ends.

And then he's gone.

"And you deserve to know what you gave it to."

That night you keep the curtains closed, sore eyes staring at the cold glass in front of you. On the screen is yet another news article. The screen is paused on the image of Silco. His face set firm, uncompromising. Two large bodyguards stand either side of him. You blow a loose strand of hair out of your face and allow yourself to relax, sinking into the couch behind you. The muscles in your back easing after hours of tension. For hours now, you had been researching him trying to make it sink in that this is the truth, the reality of your situation. Reading and reading until you can't anymore. You have to accept it, it seems impossible, but this is the man who you let watch, let him see so much of yourself. “That part of you belongs to me now... and it won't be returned.”

The man was so much worse than you could ever imagined. In every way.

Dangerous, powerful, violent and you pranced around in your underwear for him and sent him tokens of affection.

You drop your face into your hands.

But you meant it. The man you knew, before you knew that, he was still the same man. Just ... significantly worse and most likely dangerous to be near.

You sigh deeply. How the fuck did you get yourself so tangled up in this?

And even after everything, why do you still think about how he held you that night. “You should’ve known better than to offer something you couldn’t afford to lose.”

You curl up tightly into a ball, like you can fold yourself away from it all, and you cry. -- Thanks so much for reading Chapter 2! 🔪📖🖤 I have been really enjoying writing this so I hope you dig it! If you're comfy doing so, please let me know what you think! : ) Super curious to know what YOU want to happen? Or what you want to see more of or know more about?

I can promise you, shit is about to get WILD next chapter, I hope you're ready. <3 Iron

PS - If you’d like to be added to the taglist for “The Descent” let me know!✨

>>>Continue on to Chapter three

<<<Go back to Chapter One

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