#Day 9: Interrogation

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Split sketches in blue, red, and greyscale of Alexandra Blighe and Eliot Spencer from The Bucket Job interrogation scene from Leverage Redemption. Both are seen in profile, with Bligh at the top left and Eliot at the bottom right, with blood on his temple and lip starkly contrasting with the blue-grey elsewhere in the image. End ID]

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Day 9: Interrogation

Just fun drawing the interrogation scene from the bucket job (I love the lighting and colouring in that scene so much).

[serickswrites]

Penny For Your Thoughts

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture, defiant whumpee

"If you just answer my questions, Whumpee, this can all stop." Whumper said for the fifth time that day. They leaned on the bat they had been threatening Whumpee with for the last hour.

Whumpee stared up at Whumper, unable to shift too much to really glare at Whumper. They were restrained at the wrist, chest, and ankles in the low chair and they could only crane their neck so far. "I keep telling you the same thing, Whumper," Whumpee smirked, their bruised and swollen lips pulling painfully tight. "I can do this all night."

Whumper raised the bat, rage contorting their features horrifically. "So can I." And they brought the bat down on Whumpee's knee.

Tags: @wollemi-whump

[girlfictions]

something i’ve been thinking about lately is like. growing up muslim right after 9/11 is something i’d never really reflected on much because it was all i’d ever known — at 5, my friend’s mum didn’t let her invite me to her birthday party because i was the only brown girl in our class, at 12, my classmates would joke about my family being part of isis, at 16, my dad was interrogated by american airport security for hours — and it always stung and it always hurt but it was just the way things were because the western world hated muslims. but i don’t think i’ve ever fully comprehended the extent to which we were hated until now.

palestine is being turned into a mass graveyard. every single day there are new photos of the atrocities being carried out against them and videos of them pleading for help and still those who can actually intervene turn a blind eye. israel is claiming to only be targeting hamas “terrorists” while bombing a refugee camp. israeli police raided and assaulted a non-zionist jewish neighbourhood. israeli soldiers are posting tiktoks of them torturing captured palestinians. this is not a complicated issue and it never has been. ethnic cleansing is being committed right in front of us. and yet the western world leaders refuse to call for a ceasefire.

and while zionist organisations accuse pro-palestine demonstrations of anti-semitism, while zionist celebrities insist that they’re afraid to leave their mansions in los angeles, a six year old muslim boy was stabbed to death and his mother wounded in the same attack in chicago. a muslim doctor was murdered while sitting outside her apartment complex in texas. hundreds of peaceful protesters have been arrested (many of whom have been jewish). despite what zionists want you to believe, this is not a jewish/muslim conflict. i have so much love and gratitude to my brave jewish brothers and sisters all over the world who are condemning israel for their actions.

ultimately, israel have been granted impunity by the west. they have slaughtered thousands upon thousands of innocent palestinians. they have bombed hospitals and schools indiscriminately. they have used white phosphorus, violating the geneva convention. they have completely eradicated nearly 900 bloodlines. how many more need to be wiped out? how many more children need to be buried underneath the rubble? how many more doctors need to be confronted with the bodies of their own family members? how many more journalists need to detail the horrific acts of violence they are witnessing? what more can be done to the palestinian people that has not been done already?

i truly believe that palestine will be free one day. i believe the palestinian people will receive the justice they finally deserve. but what breaks my heart is how much they have suffered and will continue to suffer before they are deemed worthy of help. and it would be to all of our detriment if we ignored how much of a factor palestine being a predominantly muslim state has played into the way the world has reacted to their genocide.

[gilverrwrites]

I love imaging Dick, Tim, and Damian sneaking around trying to meet Jasons new gf because they just wanna be involved in his life and they know if they they leave it to Jay they wont meet her u til they're married with kids 😭

AND ‘omg us meeting Jason’s siblings when’

AN: Ngl I love this idea too, its so shitty of them but they have the best of intentions.

Damian

A boy no older than 14 with eyes that pierce the soul was not what you'd expected to find on Jason's couch the very first time he'd left you alone there. Jason had to dip out unexpectedly early, and had promised you run of the place until he got back so you'd slept in as long as you could and were on your way to make breakfast when you're greeted by the hell-child.

Once your initial fright wears off you realise you recognize him from a photo Jay had showed you which makes you feel slightly more at ease.

“Good morning? Damian right?” You offer as you pass him, be-lining for the coffee machine, you're gonna need caffeine if you're meeting any member of Jay's family for the first time. “Can I get you anything?”

“Alfred says it's unbecoming to sleep past 9.” Besides the initial glare he'd graced you with as you emerged from the bedroom, he doesn't even look up at you, his eyes glued to the pages of a book. Like brother like brother, you guess.

“Oh, well. Good thing Alfreds not here then.” You add a small laugh, trying to inject some humour to the situation. Damian does not respond in kind. “Is that a no? I think there's some chocolate cereal around here somewhere.”

“What do you do for work that allows you to be in my brother's home in the middle of the day?”

Jeez this kid is no-nonsense. “Or I could make pancakes, I make really good pancakes.”

“And tell me what exactly are your intentions with my baby brother?” Baby?

“I think there's some chocolate chips around here somewhere. Jason says you like chocolate. Chocolate pancakes?”

“Do you always avoid questions?”

“Are you always so intense?”

He slams the book closed and you nearly jump on the spot. He finally looks at you, really looks at you and as you stare back his features begin to soften slightly.

“I’ll have a coffee.”

You're certain from the sly look on his face that he's probably not allowed coffee. He certainly doesn't need any. But screw it, he's not your kid and if it gets him to like a little, you'll take the risk.

So you pour two coffees and join him on the couch. His questions do not cease until Jason returns about an hour later. He couldn't care less about the coffee, but he does care about Damian breaking in to interrogate his partner and immediately kicks Damian out.

Dick

Dick finds out about your existence from one of Damian’s letters, and he's subtle but pushy about meeting you. Not that you're aware. He keeps ‘dropping by’ Jason's apartment ‘just to see his lil brother’, no other reason but is told to get lost or downright ignored anytime you're there, until he decides to cut out the middle man and turn up at your home instead.

“Let me tell you, you are a hard person to get a hold of.” He informs as he invites himself through your front door.

“Um, hello Dick?” As you stare at his lush hair and sculpted abs you wonder what Alfred feeds these boys.

“Yep! I can't stay so I’ve gotta make this quick.” he gestures for you to come closer, speaking in a playful, conspiratorial whisper. “Jay doesn't know I'm here.”

That would be why he can't stay, Jason is due at your door any minute now.

“But you two seem to be getting pretty serious and I think it's important that we all get to know each other. You following?”

You nod, and he gives you the perkiest, most genuine smile. That or he has that exact look practised to a T. From what Jay tells you, either is possible.

“So, Barbara and I, that's my wife” You nod once more, you're aware of Barbara also. “have booked a table at Casa Gotica for Thursday night. We need you to get Jason there without letting on that it's a double date.”

“I don’t know.” you finally give your nodding head a break. “Jay and I don’t lie to each other.”

“Right. I can't begrudge that. Very glad to hear he's picked an honest one.” He takes a moment to straighten his thoughts, but his moment is cut short but the echo of Jason’s combat boots approaching your door. Dick’s eyes rapidly scan the room for a secondary exit before he settles on an open window. “Don't think of it as lying, think of it as omitting the truth. Whatever you have to do just be there for 6.30. Oh, and it's great to meet you!”

“You too.”

“Thursday, 6.30!”

Before you can agree he’s gone, presumably scaling the side of your building as Jay steps inside.

Tim

Tim was actually the first to be aware of you and your relationship with his brother, however, the very real possibility of being gutted by Jason for snooping in his personal life was too high for him to make a move.

But you seeking him out is a different story; or rather, you being the first to say hi when you bump into each other in line at the grocery store is different. It would be rude not to respond to your attempts at initiating a conversation.

“Hello, hi, are you Tim? You don't know me but I’m Jasons partner. Its so great to meet you.”

“I know who you are.” He states rather ominously, eyes darting around behind you. “Is he here?”

“No, but he's picking me up after.” His shoulders visibly ease.

“Cool cool cool.” He’s suddenly much more personable. “So, I hear you're into…”

That chatting doesn't dry or lul at all as the queue dwindles and both buy your groceries. He waits with you until you get confirmation from Jay that he's on his way. He's easily the chillest sibling you've met thus far.

When Jason arrives he gets out of the car to open the boot and passenger door for you as always, but not before he thrusts his phone in your face. “Where is he?”

Displayed on the screen is a selfie of Tim with you in the background, you absolutely do not remember it being taken.

[letterboxdd]

Seeing a lot of weird takes on Bix and I think what people need to realise is that not all people are cut out to be soldiers. You can be a part of the Rebellion but not actively participate on missions.

Bix is a mechanic. A mechanic living a somewhat normal life - apart from selling illegal parts to Luthen - on Ferrix. Then everything changes. She’s beaten and sees her boyfriend shot and killed right in front of her eyes - because of her, because he tried to save her. Then she’s left to sit and stare at his dead body until Paak and Wil helps her get away. After that, there’s the capture, interrogation, torture. She is brave, she is strong, she doesn’t tell them what they want at first. But eventually she breaks.

The torture is horrifying. You can see how much it changes her, she is so out of it, she is broken, when Cassian rescues her she even tries to stay saying ”No, they’ll get angry.”

A year later we find her on Mina-Rau and we see that she still suffers from nightmares. During the day she looks somewhat content, doing her job as a mechanic on a peaceful planet, the moment with Wil and Bela is sweet and shows us that. But the threat of the Imperial ship brings that fear back immediately.

Then she is brutally attacked, almost raped, and ends up killing her attacker with a hammer and shooting an imperial. This is the first time we ever see Bix kill someone. Then she loses another friend, Brasso.

One year later, things are very different. No longer peacefully hiding out on some planet, she has joined Cassian to go on missions for Luthen. One thing remains the same: She still has nightmares.

What’s interesting about this nightmare compared to the first one is that in the one on Mina-Rau, Dr. Gorst comes after her, standing over her, removing her blanket, the one thing she had for comfort when she was captured on Ferrix.

In the nightmare on Coruscant, there’s Dr. Gorst and a dead soldier who Bix feels guilty over because we learn later that Cassian killed the soldier because he saw Bix’s face.

But in this dream, the way Dr. Gorst is talking to her, it’s not really as if he is an enemy to Bix. It’s almost as if Bix sees herself on the same level as Dr. Gorst.

She’s a killer now and she’s not handling it well.

We see Bix taking drugs in order to sleep. She can’t stop seeing the dead soldier’s face. When Cassian is away on Ghorman, the place becomes a mess. When Luthen visits she says ”I’m not loving Coruscant”, and you can tell she feels boxed in. When Cassian returns and asks how she’s doing, she dodges the question.

Luthen sends them on the mission to kill Dr. Gorst and she gets her revenge. We see her smile when she walks away, the Bix is back.

Jump to arc 7-9, Bix and Cassian are living on Yavin. This is definitely the most healthy that Bix has ever looked since before her captivity on Ferrix. They have a cozy home, they live among people who are fighting for the Rebellion, the one thing she has left except for Cassian. And oh, do we find out how strongly she believes in the Rebellion here. Much more so than Cassian who is struggling and wanting to leave.

Here is where I see people wanting Bix to go to Ghorman and kill Dedra. After all the things listed above, I think it’s quite clear that she’s not a soldier. In the end, Bix is a mechanic, she is brave and she is strong, she’s a fighter and a survivor but she’s not a soldier. I think I can draw a parallell to Mon Mothma’s character here and state for the record that women can be fierce and strong and interesting characters without being ruthless killers.

And while I’m sure I would have enjoyed seeing Bix killing Dedra if that’s the way they went with her character, I do actually like that they went this way with Bix. After everything she has been through and all the dealing with her trauma, I find it more interesting that she doesn’t go down that path but instead went with a more healthy path. Besides, we have other female characters for the ruthless soldier type of roles - such as Vel and Cinta.

Now for the ending. Bix makes the most selfless, difficult, cruel sacrifice. Leaving Cassian - the one who she has leaned on during her recovery, the one she can not even remember not knowing, the love of her life - behind for the sake of the Rebellion.

This is Bix’s choice.

In the chaos that’s been following them, with the danger that’s been surrounding them, it’s quite clear Cassian has taken the lead. This can be shown in the scene at the end of S2x09 where he says he wants to leave and I quote ”We’ll leave before it gets too complicated.”. He didn’t ask what she wanted, it was merely ”I’ll talk to Draven tomorrow.”

I’m not at all looking down at Cassian as a character, I love him as much as I love Bix, I’m merely stating the facts here.

Then Bix makes her own choice. It is a cruel one, very much so, because she makes the choice for them, for him, and leaves him without saying goodbye in person.

It’s not fair to him.

But it is a selfless act, all for the of the sake of the Rebellion. Bix believed that he had an important part to play in the Rebellion (and we know that she was right).

That is a very interesting story arc to me. She made her choice. And along the way, she realised that she was no soldier like Cassian and instead she found her own path. And had we gone down the soldier path, the only way to write her out before Rogue One would have been to kill her off and I am glad we didn’t get that for Bix after everything that she has been through.

Sure, it would have been interesting to see what else Bix did on Yavin but there are a lot of storylines and too little screentime. I’d like to believe she did work as a mechanic for the Rebellion there, doing what she’s best at. Knowing Bix, I’m sure she wouldn’t just sit in the house all day and wait for Cassian, some people seem to believe that if you’re not a fighter for the Rebellion then you’re simply a housewife.

Besides, even if she would have became a housewife, if that’s what she became content with after all her trauma, then good for her.

But I doubt that’s what she became. What I love about this show is that they don’t need to spell it all out for you. Her skills as a mechanic are also very useful to the Rebellion, every single person and their contribution matters.

In conclusion, not everyone are cut out to be soldiers but that does not diminish their character.

[deadsetobsessions]

Sea Cryptic! Danny- pt. 10

[Pt.1] [Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4] [Pt.5] [Pt.6] [Pt.7] [Pt.8] [Pt.9]

“This you?”

Danny glanced at the stone tablet in Spoiler’s hands and groaned, Phantom form flickering with embarrassment as his face got even more neon green. It was indeed him.

——

The first Atlantean and Ghost King encounter went something like this:

Imagine Danny, sleep deprived. Easy enough. Now, imagine Danny, trying to corral a ghost that had a penchant for sea life.

“Alabastor, I swear to Ancients, if you don’t get back here, I’m gonna make you into ghost sea-food boil!” Danny yelled as he chased Alabastor through the ghost zone. The crustacean shaped ghost cackled, skittering along the Zone.

"Make me, Phantom! You have not seen the might of the sea!"

"That's it, soup-time, crabby!"

Danny dove after Alabastor, chasing him face first into a temporal portal and right into the sea.

"BEHOLD!" Alabastor rumbled, claws raised and sea churning around him. Danny flew at him, noticing the screaming people below. He quickly raised a dome of clear ice to protect their entire city before returning his attention back to the giant crustacean. The distraction cost him, as Alabastor blasted him with a beam of his power. "THE MIGHT OF THE SEA!"

"SOUP!" Danny bellowed back, Alabastor's power forcing him into a giant crab form, aside from, hilariously, his head. Danny, always quick to adapt, slammed a massive claw straight into one of Alabastor's eyes and popped open the Fenton Thermos with a feral grin. In but moments, Danny manages to soup Alabastor but not before slamming him down onto the unbreakable ice Danny had just made.

Carefully turning by skittering sideways, he unmelted his ice.

"Sorry about that," he said sheepishly to the gawking civilians below.

"Suh-ree? What is suh-ree?" A brave woman asked.

"Oh," Danny uttered as he realized that he should probably switch languages. His giant crab body and small itty bitty human head swayed in an unsure motion. "Sorry means "my apologies." I had not meant to involve you. I am Phantom."

"It is alright... thank you for protecting us... God Phantom?"

He grimaced. "Not a god."

"King, then." She stepped forward. "May I ask of the ice?"

——

Spoiler, sensing weakness like the Riddler to a riddle, leaned in. "Did you know they have a traditional dance to honor the god that gave them the unbreakable ice that protects Atlantis to this day? It goes like this," Spoiler stepped back and did the dance, complete with exaggerated arm movements and, embarrassingly, the scuttle walk Crab!Danny was forced to learn with his new crab form.

"We shall never speak of this again," Danny huffed.

"But King Phantom, the God of Eternal Ice and Protection, how could we not celebrate your iciness?" Spoiler simpered, Black Bat not too far away and shaking with laughter. The purple donning vigilante did the scuttle dance once more, picking up bottles as she went a small circle around one of Bludhaven's rock beaches.

Danny scowled and plucked the tablet away from her, hair flowing an a more agitated direction. His jumpsuit burned brighter. "Why are you two menaces in Bludhaven? I thought your territory was in Gotham."

"Nightwing asked for back up and we were in the area." Spoiler, blessedly, stopped the walk to answer him. "By the way, are you and Danny dating?"

"Pardon?" He asked, insulted but highly amused.

"Oh, you know, he has your number, and you only ever talk to him outside of us, and how you guys have a high level of communication." Spoiler said leadingly.

Oh, Danny knew what this was about now. He found out their identities and now these two are interrogating him because he liked them best. They thought they were so clever. Well, they clearly haven't gotten to know Danny at all if they thought he was going to make good decisions.

Danny tilted his head, making sure his face gets as eerie as possible, shadows elongating and eyes burning just that much brighter. The neon green of his face shone even brighter against the suddenly dark landscape of the place. Black Bat stood up, laughter seizing immediately. Spoiler tensed.

"I have a riddle for you. You are good at those, are you not?"

Spoiler blinked but gamely said, "Bring it."

"What do these things have in common? An arguing couple, papers on a stranger's desk, and Star City's robbers."

"..." Spoiler slipped into her solving mode. "Stolen goods. Stolen hearts?" She guessed.

"No. The answer is that they're all none of your business," Danny snarled. His form flickered. "Keep your questing away from Danny- Daniel, vigilante. Your duty is to protect your city and help her," Danny swept an arm out. "Stick to that instead of inserting yourself into places you are not wanted."

Then, with a toss of an ecto-crossed recorder that held the verbal report he'd promised Nightwing towards Black Bat, Danny blinked out of the visible spectrum and flew above the two.

"... Shit, I think I pissed him off."

Black Bat nodded. "He was defensive."

"Yeah... did you hear that slip? Oh, they are so dating."

Danny grinned. He couldn't wait for Tim to interrogate him soon.

——

"You're kidding."

Danny shook his head, maniacal grin still on his face hours later. He'd taken the liberty to call his best friends before classes started for the day.

Tucker groaned. "Danny, I can't believe you're messing with Batman. Why are you like this."

"Look, I need your help."

"Oh no, keep me out of your dumbass plans, Fenton," Sam pointed at him through the screen, immaculately painted black nails threatening.

"Okay, if you go along with my plan, I'll give you Dr. Isley's number."

"Deal," Sam said immediately, changing her tune at a drop of a hat. Or, at a drop of a number.

"What about me?" Tucker asked, offended. "I deserve compensation for my work too, dammit!"

"I'll give you Tim Drake's number and persuade him to let you have a crack at Wayne Industry's tech basement."

"Deal, what are we doing?"

Danny's grin spread even wider. "We're dating. And, you two? You're Phantom's exes. Tucker, you say good stuff about me. Sam? You make up terrible things about me. But we're all dating each other and I'm dating Phantom on the side."

"I hate you," Sam deadpanned. "But fine, it's not that hard. I've got tons of embarrassing stories about Phantom. You better get me that number, Danny, because you know Dr. Isley was my gay awakening."

"For Tim Drake, I'd be willing to puff up your ego." Tucker said solemnly.

"Perfect. I'm cleaning his brother of ectoplasm today. so expect a call later! Love you guys!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, boyfriend." Sam clicked off the call.

"Think Tim Drake would be interested in a date?" Tucker asked Danny.

"Nah, I think he's got his heart on Benard."

"Damn," Tucker sighed. "Guess I'll have to mend my broken heart with the tools of a state-of-the-art lab, right, Danny?"

"Yep, see ya!" Danny hung up. Today was going to be a good day.

[2n4il]

Day 9: Role Reversal (Jade Overblot AU)

(cont. under "read more")

I didn't want to do school role reversal or species swap……. so I thought what could lead Jade to overblot? ✴️ Story so far: Azul becomes self conscious of his crush on jade and cuts him off Jade gets no word - no closure, just pure rejection

He tries his best to find out - have a reason at all So by obsessively interrogating others / investigating (maybe even trying it on Azul) Jade pushes his UM to the brink Also bonus sketch of Azul confronting him for the full "role reversal":

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (Masterlist)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Subgenders: Omega! Reader, Beta! Yoongi, Alpha! Namjoon, Alpha! Jimin, Alpha! Taehyung, Alpha! Hoseok, Omega! Jungkook, Omega! Seokjin

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers, Angst with a happy ending, Hurt and Comfort,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 80k so far

—  Warnings: Violence, Blood, Murder, sexual and physical abuse, PTSD, themes of healing, suspense, mute character's, depictions of eating disorders, healing, hospitals, epilepsy, assassins, spyies,

Before you read:

This is the second version of this story, it's better, edited and longer. But if you want to read the first (near complete) version of this story you can read it on tumblr here, or on Ao3 here. there's like a million words of it lol.

not everything is tagged in this version. there is quite a bit of triggering content. i go into much more greater detail about the m/c and the abuse that she suffered at the hands of Geumjae in this version. if there is anything that doesn't get a tag and you feel it needs it, please don't hesitate to tell me!

This version is a lot longer than V1, and because of that the chapters don't line up, chapters 1-13 cover chapters 1-4.

While there are only a few things that have been taken out/restructured, but yoongi and the m/c get a dedicated slow burn love story in this now. i've also added 60k to what we did have so please give this tons of love!

i will not be reblogging these parts nearly as much as the others, because i want there to be less crowdedness on my feed. i will try my hardest to respond to comments if there are any this time around.

~-~

Prologue: Omens

Summary: you watch your husband murder someone, and try not to make it worse

Part 1: The Beta

Summary: Seokjin meets Yoongi when he's at his lowest.

Part 2: The Funeral

Summary: The death of a king pin makes the whole picture come crumbling down. In 120 days, Yoongi will decide who rules the criminal empire.

Part 3: The Alpha

Summary: Seokjin meets Namjoon when things are finally getting good, will the introduction of an alpha disrupt his and yoongi's little pack?

Part 4: Of Violent Dogs

Summary: Kim Namjoon will kill. That is a fact that you can count on.

Part 5: The Pups

Summary: Namjoon meets Jungkook in the Emergency room. "he's sick Joonie, and you can't make him better." that doesn't mean he's not going to try.

Part 6: Prey Animals

Summary: A death and A dinner party (a woman that yoongi can't take his eyes off of.)

Part 7: Hoseok

Summary: Yoongi brings home a stray, but luckily he's going to stay. (Yoongi won't, Yoongi is going to leave)

Part 8: Just Not her

Summary: Yoongi cannot decide if he trusts you or not. After being followed, he interrogates you to figure out your motives.

Part 9: Ribbons

Summary: A dinner at the Moon house prompt Yoongi to get closer and closer to you. But how close can he get before he pricks his finger?

Part 10: Junk Drawers and Daydreams

Summary: Yoongi just wants to figure you out. Just that. He promises.

Part 11: Warm Monsters

Summary: Yoongi's attraction gets harder to ignore, as does your suffering.

Part 12: The After

Summary: In Yoongi's absence the pack sort of falls apart.

Part 13: Bruises and Butterflies

Summary: One life doesn't equal seven.

~-~

Commonly asked questions:

Why the different name? because i thought it would be confusing to have two series's by the same name on the same page

Why are you editing this story? because i want to put it up for physical purchase either on amazon (ew i know) or some other alternative, the beginning of the story had always bugged me because it was not paced the same as the rest of it.

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 9) • iamquaintrelle

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

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main @peaceiswonderful @scorpiobleue @deeziee @krystiana @maximofflove @palefacestudentlove @justagirlwho-believes13 @fadedintime @theoriginalgirll

# wc: long af...

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

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The small stone church sat nestled against the Scottish hillside, its weathered exterior standing strong against centuries of Highland winds. Inside, the air held the comforting scent of old wood and candle wax, the morning sunlight filtering through stained glass windows to cast colorful patterns across worn pews. You'd been surprised when Lewis suggested attending the Sunday mass, even more surprised when he explained it was partly tradition, partly practical.

"Small communities notice who doesn't show up," he'd said that morning, his hands gentle as he helped zip up your dress. "Besides, Carmen likes to go when she's here. Says it reminds her of simpler times."

Now you sat beside him in the third row, Carmen on your other side, Paolo a few seats away with some of his security team scattered strategically throughout the small congregation. Lewis's thigh pressed warmly against yours, his hand occasionally brushing yours in a gesture that seemed both casual and deliberate.

The familiarity of the ritual brought memories flooding back—Sunday mornings in the Ricci household, your father insisting on attendance regardless of what business had transpired the night before. Your sisters fidgeting beside you, your mother's quiet grace as she guided you all through the service.

Your phone vibrated softly in your purse. Glancing down discreetly, you saw Sophia's name on the screen for the third time that morning. Your sisters had been calling with increasing frequency over the past few days, their patience wearing thin with your continued absence and vague explanations.

Lewis noticed, his hand covering yours briefly as he leaned close. "Everything okay?" he whispered, his breath warm against your ear.

"Sophia again," you whispered back. "They're getting impatient."

His thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of comfort that now felt as natural as breathing. "Soon," he promised quietly. "Once we've confirmed De Garza's involvement and secured the channels, it'll be safer for them to visit."

The older woman in front of you turned slightly, giving you both a reproachful look for talking during the service. Lewis responded with a charming smile that had her expression softening immediately before she turned back around.

"Works every time," he murmured, amusement dancing in his eyes.

You bit back a smile, squeezing his hand in silent reprimand that held no real censure. This playful side of Lewis was still new, still surprising, but increasingly common in the quiet moments you shared.

The past week since the interrogation had brought subtle but significant shifts between you. More casual touches, longer kisses, conversations that stretched late into the night as you both gradually revealed more of yourselves beyond strategic facades. Nothing had progressed beyond intense make-out sessions, Lewis still maintaining that careful restraint, but the tension between you was building toward something inevitable.

After mass ended, you stood in the small churchyard, sunshine warming your face as Lewis spoke with the priest. Carmen had wandered off to an old grave marker, her expression suggesting personal connection rather than casual interest.

"Your husband seems different," Paolo said, appearing beside you with his typical quiet stealth. "Less... mechanical than when I first met him."

"He's not what I expected," you admitted, watching as Lewis laughed at something the priest said, the sound carrying across the churchyard. "Not at all."

"And you?" Paolo asked, his gaze shrewd as he studied your face. "You're different too, you know. More relaxed. More yourself."

"Am I?" The observation surprised you, though you knew it shouldn't have.

Paolo nodded, his expression softening with genuine affection. "You were always so careful, so controlled around your father. Always trying to prove yourself worthy of the Ricci name." He gestured subtly toward Lewis. "But with him, you don't seem to feel you need to prove anything."

The insight landed with unexpected impact. Paolo was right—somewhere between Geneva and Scotland, you'd stopped performing and started simply being. The realization was both unsettling and freeing.

"Don't look so surprised," Paolo said with a small smile. "It's a good thing."

Before you could respond, Lewis was walking back toward you, his eyes finding yours with that now-familiar warmth that still made your heart skip.

"Ready to head back?" he asked, his hand finding the small of your back in a gesture that had become habitual. "Jensen called. We have a visitor arriving in about an hour."

"Anyone I know?" Paolo asked.

"Miles," Lewis replied, his expression shifting toward something that looked almost like amusement. "Apparently he has information that couldn't be shared electronically."

"Who's Miles?" you asked as you walked toward the waiting SUV.

"An old friend," Lewis said, helping you into the vehicle. "We served together in the British Army. He's been running intel operations in South America for the past few months."

"And is he as cheerful as you are?" you asked teasingly.

Lewis's laugh was unexpected and rich. "Miles is my polar opposite," he admitted, settling beside you as Paolo took the seat across from you. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."

The drive back to the estate was quick, the conversation shifting to more immediate concerns about De Garza's surveillance and the ongoing monitoring of Suarez's movements. Lewis's hand rested on your knee, his thumb absently stroking back and forth in a gesture so natural he probably wasn't even aware he was doing it.

As you pulled through the estate gates, you noticed an unfamiliar motorcycle parked near the front entrance—sleek, black, and obviously expensive.

"Looks like Miles beat us here," Lewis observed, his expression shifting toward something lighter than his usual tactical focus. "Always did hate waiting."

Inside, you found Jensen directing two security team members with tense precision while Naomi stood near the library entrance, her expression unusually flustered as she spoke with a tall man whose back was to you.

As you approached, the man turned, revealing one of the most striking individuals you'd ever seen. Tall and lean, with warm brown skin covered in intricate tattoos that extended up his neck and onto his closely-shaved head, he exuded a charismatic energy that immediately filled the space around him. His wide smile revealed perfect white teeth as his eyes—bright and mischievous—landed on Lewis.

"About bloody time!" he exclaimed in a London accent much stronger than Lewis's. "Left me here charming your pretty security expert all by myself."

Lewis shook his head, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "Miles Chamley-Watson," he said by way of introduction. "Former Sergeant, current pain in my ass, and occasionally useful intelligence operative."

"Your flattery never fails to touch my heart, Hamilton," Miles replied, dramatically placing a hand over his chest before turning his attention to you. His expression shifted to genuine warmth as he extended his hand. "And you must be the new Mrs. Hamilton. Much prettier than this grumpy bastard deserves."

You took his offered hand, surprised when he bent to kiss your knuckles with exaggerated gallantry. "Nice to meet you, Miles."

"The pleasure is entirely mine," he assured you, straightening to his impressive height. "When Lewis told me he'd gotten married, I thought he was having me on. The man's been married to his work for so long I assumed they'd filed the paperwork years ago."

Lewis moved closer to you, his hand settling at the small of your back. "If you're done flirting with my wife, perhaps we could discuss why you're here?"

"Always business," Miles sighed, winking at you before his expression shifted toward something more serious. "But you're right. We should talk privately."

"The office," Lewis suggested, guiding you with gentle pressure against your back. "Naomi, Jensen, you'll want to hear this too."

As your small group moved toward Lewis's office, you noted the way Miles fell into step beside Naomi, his body language suggesting more than casual interest as he leaned down to say something that made her cheeks warm.

"Does he flirt with everyone?" you asked Lewis quietly.

"Only those with a pulse," Lewis replied dryly, though there was clear affection beneath the sarcasm. "But don't let the charm fool you. He's one of the best intelligence operatives I've ever worked with. Sees connections others miss."

Inside the office, Miles sprawled in one of the leather chairs with casual grace that contrasted sharply with Lewis's precise movements as he took his seat behind the desk. You settled beside Lewis while Jensen and Naomi positioned themselves near the door, Paolo choosing to remain standing by the window.

"So," Miles began, his playful demeanor giving way to focused professionalism that reminded you this was no ordinary friend, "I've been tracking Suarez's South American connections for the past three months. Mostly routine monitoring until last week, when there was a significant uptick in encrypted communications between Miami and a previously dormant channel in Bogotá."

"Timing corresponds with the extraction attempt," Jensen noted.

Miles nodded. "Exactly. Whatever happened here triggered increased activity across all his networks. But here's where it gets interesting." He leaned forward, his expression intensifying. "The communication patterns don't match Suarez's usual protocols. They're more sophisticated, more carefully structured. Almost like—"

"Someone else is calling the shots," Lewis finished, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Or at least influencing them," Miles agreed. "I've analyzed Suarez's operational patterns for years. The man's impulsive, reactive, prone to emotional decisions when his ego's involved. These new movements are different—strategic, patient, methodical."

You felt Lewis tense beside you, his mind clearly racing through implications. "A new advisor? Someone bringing more discipline to his organization?"

"Possibly," Miles acknowledged. "But there's more. I've been tracking financial movements associated with these new communication patterns. The money trail leads back to a series of shell companies that share structural similarities with ones we've encountered before."

"Where?" Lewis asked, his voice sharpening with focus.

Miles's eyes met his directly. "Eastern Europe. Specifically, entities formerly connected to the Petrov network."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. You remembered the dinner in Geneva, the thinly veiled threats from the scarred Russian with cold eyes who had looked at you like you were a commodity to be acquired.

"Aleksei," Lewis said, the name carrying weight beyond its syllables.

"That would explain the increased sophistication," Jensen observed. "Petrov's organization has always operated with more strategic discipline than Suarez's."

"A partnership?" Paolo suggested from his position by the window. "Petrov providing tactical expertise, Suarez providing local resources?"

"More likely Petrov manipulating Suarez to serve his own agenda," Lewis replied, his hand finding yours beneath the desk, fingers intertwining in a gesture that felt both protective and seeking calmness. "The question is what he gains from this arrangement."

"Revenge," you said, the realization forming with sudden clarity. "You said you shot his brother in Kiev. What better revenge than using Suarez's obsession with me to get to you?"

Lewis's grip tightened on your hand, his expression darkening. "Aleksei's always played the long game," he acknowledged. "And he holds grudges indefinitely."

"There's something else," Miles said, his usually animated face now solemn. "We've intercepted fragments suggesting they're setting up some kind of trap. Using someone close to you as bait."

Your blood ran cold. "My sisters?"

"No specific names in what we've recovered," Miles replied. "Just references to 'family connection' and 'irresistible leverage.'"

"My father," you said with growing certainty. "They know I'd come if they threatened him."

Lewis's jaw tightened, his thumb stroking soothingly across your knuckles despite the tension radiating from him. "We need to warn Salvatore," he said to Paolo. "Increase his security without alerting De Garza that we suspect him."

Paolo nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll have my most trusted men move into position. People De Garza doesn't know, who won't raise suspicion."

"There's one more complication," Naomi spoke up, her voice hesitant as she exchanged a glance with Jensen. "I've been running additional analysis on our internal communications, trying to identify the source of our operational leaks."

"And?" Lewis prompted when she hesitated.

"The evidence points to multiple access points within our systems," she continued. "Not just external penetration, but internal redirection. Someone with high-level clearance has been subtly altering security protocols, creating vulnerabilities that wouldn't be obvious without deep analysis."

The tension in the room thickened as everyone processed what this meant.

"I still need names, Naomi," Lewis said, his voice carrying that controlled intensity that reminded you of the interrogation room. "Not suspicions, not possibilities. Concrete evidence."

"I'm still isolating the specific access patterns," she replied. "The intrusions were sophisticated, designed to conceal their source. But I'm close."

Miles leaned forward, his usual playfulness entirely gone. "I can help with that analysis," he offered. "Fresh eyes might spot patterns you've been too close to see."

Lewis nodded, decision made. "Work together. Priority one. I want to know who's been compromising our security before they can do any more damage." His gaze shifted to Jensen. "Double our protective details, particularly around my wife. No one comes or goes without direct authorization from me personally."

"Already implementing those protocols," Jensen confirmed, his expression professionally blank.

"Paolo," Lewis continued, "coordinate with your team regarding Salvatore's security. We need to warn him without tipping our hand to De Garza."

"I'll handle it personally," Paolo assured him, already moving toward the door.

As the meeting broke up, Lewis's hand remained firmly clasped around yours, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin as the others filed out. Miles was the last to leave, pausing at the door to look back at you both.

"Try not to look so worried, lovely," he said to you with a gentle smile that transformed his tattooed face. "Your husband may be a brooding pain in the arse, but he's the most effective operator I've ever known. If anyone can untangle this mess, it's Lewis."

After he closed the door behind him, you turned to find Lewis watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"He's right," you said quietly. "About you being effective. And a brooding pain in the ass."

The unexpected joke broke some of the tension, a small smile tugging at the corner of Lewis's mouth. "I prefer 'strategically focused,'" he corrected, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "Are you okay?"

The simple question carried layers of concern beyond its surface inquiry. "I'm worried about my father," you admitted. "And my sisters. If Suarez and Petrov are really working together..."

"We'll protect them," Lewis promised, his thumb brushing softly across your cheekbone. "All of them. Suarez won't get near your family, babygirl. I promise."

The endearment slipped out naturally, but in the quiet of his office rather than the privacy of your bedroom, it carried different weight. Something shifted in Lewis's expression as he realized what he'd said, but he didn't retract or apologize—just watched your reaction with careful attention.

"Babygirl," you repeated, warmth spreading through your chest at the tenderness in the term despite the circumstances.

Lewis's expression softened slightly. "It really does suit you," he said simply. "Though I should probably save it for private moments."

"I don't mind," you admitted, surprising yourself with the truth of it. From anyone else, such an endearment might have felt patronizing, but from Lewis, it felt like a gesture of genuine affection rather than condescension.

His smile warmed, becoming more genuine as his thumb continued its gentle path along your cheekbone. "Noted," he said softly before his expression shifted back toward tactical focus. "We should join the others. There's a lot to coordinate if we're going to stay ahead of whatever Suarez and Petrov are planning."

A thought struck you suddenly. "Wait. Before we go back—my sisters. I need to call them on the secure line. They've been trying to reach me all morning."

Lewis considered this for a moment. "You're right. It's best to speak with them directly rather than letting them grow more concerned."

"Thank you," you said, genuinely appreciative of his understanding.

"Family matters," Lewis replied simply. "I'll have Miles and Naomi continue their analysis while you make your call."

In the communications hub, you settled into one of the secure stations, programming in the number with practiced ease. The system connected after a few rings, Sophia's voice filling the room with familiar impatience.

"Finally! I was about to send a search party," she exclaimed without preamble.

Despite everything, you smiled. Sophia had never been one for subtlety or patience. "Sorry for the radio silence. Things have been... complicated."

"Complicated how?" Maria's voice joined in—they must have you on speaker. "Papa's been weird. More security everywhere, Paolo's gone MIA, and no one will give us straight answers about when we can visit."

"Yeah, I'm starting to think your new husband is keeping you prisoner," Sophia added, only half-joking. "Is he? Cough twice if you need rescue."

You laughed despite the tension. "I'm fine, I promise. Lewis isn't keeping me prisoner. The security situation is just... delicate right now."

"Delicate," Sophia repeated, skepticism dripping from the word. "That's exactly what Papa said. Which means something serious is happening that no one wants to tell us about."

She was right, of course. Sophia had always been unnervingly perceptive, seeing through the careful veneers that adults constructed around dangerous truths.

"Look," you said, shifting to a more serious tone. "I can't discuss specifics over the phone, even on a secure line. But I need you both to be extra careful right now. Stay close to Papa's security team, don't go anywhere alone, and if anyone—anyone—approaches you claiming to be sent by me or Lewis, verify through proper channels first."

A beat of silence followed your warning.

"Holy shit," Maria finally said. "It's that bad?"

"It's... complicated," you repeated, not wanting to frighten them but needing them to understand the gravity of the situation.

"Suarez," Sophia said suddenly, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "This is about him, isn't it? I heard Vinny talking to someone about him after dinner."

Your stomach tightened. Sometimes Sophia's perception was more curse than blessing. "I can't confirm or deny anything right now. Just promise me you'll both be extra vigilant."

"We will," Maria assured you, sounding older than her years. "But when are we going to see you? It's been weeks."

"Soon," you promised, though you knew it might be longer than any of you wanted. "As soon as it's safe. Lewis is working on it."

"So you're really okay?" Sophia pressed. "Not just saying that to keep us from worrying?"

"I'm really okay," you confirmed, realizing with mild surprise that it was true despite the circumstances. "Better than okay, actually. Lewis is... he's not what I expected."

"Good 'not what you expected' or bad 'not what you expected'?" Sophia asked, curiosity replacing concern in her voice.

"Good," you admitted, warmth coloring your voice despite yourself. "Really good, actually."

"Ohhh," Sophia teased, immediately picking up on your tone. "So it's like that, huh? The ice queen has melted for the British crime lord?"

"Shut up," you muttered, feeling your cheeks warm.

Maria laughed, the sound lightening the mood. "Leave her alone, Soph. She deserves some happiness after being traded like a baseball card."

"Fine, fine," Sophia conceded. "But when we finally get to visit, I expect all the juicy details."

"In your dreams," you replied, but you were smiling.

As the call wound down with promises to stay safe and check in regularly, you felt both relieved and concerned. Talking to your sisters had grounded you, reminded you of what was at stake beyond strategic considerations. But it also underscored the dangers facing everyone you cared about—dangers that seemed to be multiplying rather than diminishing.

You found Lewis in the main communications area, deep in conversation with Miles and Naomi. All three looked up as you approached, their expressions suggesting significant developments.

"How are your sisters?" Lewis asked, his attention shifting fully to you despite the obvious tension in the room.

"Worried but okay," you replied. "Sophia's more perceptive than is probably good for her—she's already connecting dots we'd rather she didn't."

Lewis nodded, unsurprised. "Based on what you've told me about her, I'm not shocked. She'll need to be carefully briefed when the time comes."

"What's happening here?" you asked, noting the intensity in their expressions. "You look like you've found something."

Miles and Naomi were deep in conversation over a terminal, their expressions focused as they analyzed data streams flickering across multiple screens. They looked up as you entered, Miles's usual playfulness temporarily replaced by professional intensity.

"We've been making progress on tracking the security breach," he informed Lewis, keeping his voice low. "The intrusions are all coming from credentials associated with the security division—someone on Jensen's team is using their access to feed information outside."

"Do we have any leads on who specifically might be responsible?" Lewis asked, slipping seamlessly back into operational mode though his hand remained firmly clasped with yours.

"Working on it," Naomi replied, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "Whoever it is, they're covering their tracks well—multiple bounces through different countries, server hops between legitimate and shadow networks. But there's a pattern emerging that suggests the final landing point for the stolen information is in Miami."

"Suarez," you said, the confirmation settling heavily despite being expected.

"Most likely," Miles nodded grimly. "And there's more. We've identified regular financial transfers into an offshore account linked to someone in the security division—small amounts, different sources, but adding up to significant sums over the past six months."

Lewis's expression darkened, the betrayal clearly cutting deep despite his controlled exterior. "How long has this been happening?"

"Based on the pattern of transfers, it looks like it started about eight months ago," Naomi said, pulling up a timeline on one of the screens. "Relatively minor intelligence at first—shipping schedules, personnel movements, nothing critical to operations. But the content and frequency escalated significantly about one month ago."

"Around the time our marriage was being negotiated," you observed, the timing unlikely to be coincidental.

Lewis nodded, his jaw tightening. "Suarez saw an opportunity in the alliance between our families. He turned someone inside our security division to get information on our combined operations."

"And now they're using that information to set a trap," Miles added, pulling up what appeared to be fragments of intercepted communications. "These messages were exchanged between someone using security division credentials and an unknown contact in Miami yesterday. They reference 'the package being ready for delivery' and 'bait being placed' at a location outside London."

Your blood ran cold. "They're trying to lure me out, using someone I care about as leverage."

"My assessment as well," Lewis agreed, his tone grim but controlled. "Which means we need to move quickly to secure your family while appearing to be unaware of the recent information leaks within our security team."

"What's the play?" Miles asked, his expression serious as he looked to Lewis for direction.

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his mind clearly working through multiple scenarios and contingencies. When he spoke, his voice carried that calm certainty that somehow always inspired confidence despite the dire circumstances.

"We implement a double-blind," he decided. "Let whoever the mole is believe they're successfully feeding Suarez information about our movements while actually operating on a completely different timeline. Meanwhile, we position our own teams to intercept whatever trap they're setting."

"And use their own strategy against them," you added, understanding flowing naturally. "Make them think their plan is working while actually leading them into our counter-trap."

Lewis's eyes met yours, something like approval warming his expression despite the tension of the moment. "Exactly. We let them believe they're controlling the game, when in fact we're several moves ahead."

"What about the mole in the security team?" Naomi asked, the practical question hanging heavy in the air. "Do we confront them directly once we identify exactly who it is?"

"Not immediately," Lewis replied, his expression hardening briefly. "For now, we continue operating as if nothing is wrong. That gives us operational advantage to feed selective information through them."

"And when the time comes?" Miles asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Lewis's eyes took on that cold focus you'd witnessed during the interrogation. "When the time comes, they'll understand exactly what happens to those who betray my trust."

The simple statement carried deadly certainty without requiring graphic elaboration. Lewis didn't need theatrical threats to convey lethal intention—his mere tone was sufficient.

"We'll need to coordinate with Paolo regarding your father's security," Lewis continued, his focus shifting immediately to practical matters.

"And my sisters?" you asked, concern for their safety foremost in your mind after your earlier conversation.

Lewis's expression shifted as he began outlining a plan. "We should arrange for extraction. Bring them to—"

"No," you interrupted, surprising both Lewis and yourself with the firmness in your tone. "That's not going to work."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly, his expression shifting toward that careful control he maintained during disagreements. "Extraction is the safest option given the circumstances. We can secure them in a location that—"

"My sisters won't respond well to being pulled from their lives without explanation," you countered, crossing your arms over your chest in a posture that felt defensive even to yourself. "And extraction would tell everyone that something's wrong."

Lewis's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Their safety takes priority over maintaining appearances."

The dismissive tone—however mild—triggered an unexpected flash of irritation. All the tension and fear of the day suddenly converged, making you push back harder than the situation warranted.

"You don't know my sisters or New York," you said, your voice sharper than intended. "This isn't about appearances. It's about strategic positioning. They're safer in familiar territory surrounded by people loyal to my family."

Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression carefully neutral though something darkened in his eyes. "I understand your concern, but my priority is minimizing potential exposure. Controlled environments are easier to secure."

"And I understand security protocols," you shot back, frustration building at what felt like dismissal of your perspective. "But I know my family's territory better than you do. New York is our ground, not Suarez's. Every corner, every restaurant, every street vendor in certain neighborhoods reports to my father."

The reasonable argument wasn't what bothered Lewis—you could see that in his expression. It was your tone, the sudden shift from partnership to confrontation that had created the tension now crackling between you.

"This isn't about territorial knowledge," Lewis said, his voice dropping to that lower register that somehow commanded attention without raising volume. "It's about controlling variables in a volatile situation. Your emotional connection to your sisters is affecting your tactical assessment."

That did it. The suggestion that you were being emotional rather than strategic pushed you fully into defiance.

"Don't patronize me," you warned, fully aware you were being unreasonable but unable to stop yourself. "I'm not making an emotional decision. I'm offering strategic insight about territory you don't know as well as I do."

Lewis's eyes narrowed slightly, something dangerous and controlled flickering in their depths. "I'm not patronizing you, babygirl. I'm trying to keep your family alive while we deal with multiple security threats."

The endearment in this context—spoken with that calm authority rather than affection—sent an unexpected shiver down your spine that you tried to ignore.

"Don't call me that when you're trying to manage me," you snapped, though part of you thrilled at the way his eyes darkened at your defiance.

"I'm not managing you," he replied, his control evident in every measured word. "I'm having a tactical discussion that you're turning into something else entirely. But I'm not going to engage with this."

His refusal to be drawn into an argument somehow irritated you more than any direct confrontation would have. "Fine," you said shortly. "Whatever you think is best, Mr. Hamilton."

The formal address was deliberately provocative, and Lewis's mouth curved into a smile that held no warmth, just dangerous focus as he recognized the attempt to goad him.

"Now you're just being difficult," he said, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. "This conversation isn't productive when you're in this mood. Perhaps we should revisit it when we can discuss strategy rather than battle for control."

Before you could form a response that wasn't completely and childishly defensive, Paolo entered the room, pausing briefly as he registered the charged atmosphere.

"Everything alright?" he asked, glancing between you and Lewis.

"We're discussing extraction options for my sisters," you said, grateful for the interruption despite the lingering frustration.

Paolo's timing couldn't have been better. "Fuck no," he said, moving further into the room. "Extracting the girls would signal to everyone that something's wrong. Plus, they're safer in New York, surrounded by people they've known their entire lives. The Ricci family has deep roots there—cousins, aunts, uncles, family friends who would die before letting anything happen to Salvatore's daughters."

"See?" you remarked, gesturing to your uncle with a sense of smugness.

Lewis raised one eyebrow in reply, though some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders momentarily.

"And if something were to happen," Paolo continued, "it would be better to play this on home ground, where we know every corner, every escape route, every safe house."

Lewis nodded slowly, acknowledging the logic, his eyes briefly meeting yours with something that might have been an apology. "But that still leaves us with the problem of how to protect them from De Garza's influence within your father's organization."

"We use Sophia," you suggested, your voice deliberately calmer as you refocused on the strategic problem. "She already suspects something's wrong. If we brief her—carefully—she can keep an eye on everything while maintaining the appearance of normal routine."

"She's certainly observant enough," Paolo agreed with a hint of pride. "Nothing gets past that girl."

Lewis still looked hesitant, though his expression had warmed slightly as the tension between you eased. "It's risky to involve her directly."

"Less risky than trying to extract them," you countered, your tone reasonable now rather than confrontational. "That would tip our hand immediately. This way, we maintain the element of surprise while ensuring they're protected by an entire network of people loyal to my father."

Lewis studied your face for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Alright. We'll secure communications with Sophia, brief her with only what she absolutely needs to know, and establish emergency protocols if anything happens."

"I can handle that," Paolo offered. "The girls trust me, and I can speak with them in ways that won't raise suspicion if anyone's listening."

"Good," Lewis agreed. "Meanwhile, we continue trying to identify exactly who in our organization has been feeding information to Suarez."

He was interrupted by the soft chime of his phone. Glancing down, his expression shifted subtly as he read the message.

"What is it?" you asked, your earlier frustration briefly forgotten as you recognized the change in his demeanor.

"Claire," he replied, his tone carrying a new edge of tension. "She's detected unusual activity in our financial networks—systematic probing of our digital banking infrastructure, someone testing for vulnerabilities."

"Connected to the betrayal in our security team?" Miles asked, immediately alert.

"Possibly," Lewis acknowledged, his mind visibly processing this new development. "Or it could be Petrov's influence—he's always had sophisticated cyber capabilities that Suarez lacked."

"Another front opening in their offensive," you noted, the strategy becoming clearer.

Lewis's eyes met yours, recognition passing between you—the shared understanding of tactical thinking that continued to bridge your different backgrounds and the momentary disagreement that had flared between you.

"We need to warn Claire without alerting whoever the mole is," he said, decision crystallizing. "Miles, secure a channel to London. Naomi, continue your analysis to identify exactly who in the security team has been accessing our systems. I want names as soon as possible."

After the meeting concluded, you found yourself alone for a moment as the others dispersed to their assignments. Leaning against the wall in a quiet corner of the communications hub, you felt a creeping sense of embarrassment at your earlier behavior. What exactly had you been trying to accomplish? Arguing so forcefully over the extraction plan hadn't been entirely about strategy, and you knew it.

Moving to a window overlooking the estate grounds, you tried to sort through your conflicted emotions. Fear was certainly part of it—fear for your father, your sisters, even for Lewis himself as threats closed in from multiple directions. But there was something else too, something you weren't quite ready to examine too closely.

The way Lewis had handled your outburst—calm, controlled, refusing to engage with your provocations while maintaining clear boundaries—had affected you in unexpected ways. Not just the embarrassment of being called out for childish behavior, but a deeper response to his quiet authority, his unwavering certainty.

He wasn't your father, with his theatrical displays of dominance and expectation of unquestioning obedience. Lewis's approach was entirely different—respecting your agency while maintaining his position, creating space for your perspective without allowing emotional reactions to derail necessary action.

It was... attractive, in a way you hadn't anticipated. The realization sent heat crawling up your neck, memory of his darkened eyes and low voice when he'd called you "babygirl" during your disagreement making your stomach flip all over again.

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

By the time dinner was ready, you'd had sufficient time to process both your overreaction and Lewis's measured response. When you entered the dining room, conversation paused briefly as all eyes turned toward you. Miles recovered first, his wide smile breaking any potential awkwardness.

"There she is!" he exclaimed with characteristic enthusiasm. "I was just telling Lewis about that time when he had to pretend to be a Russian arms dealer for three days straight. Never seen a man look so uncomfortable in my life."

Lewis met your eyes across the room, his expression warming slightly though his posture remained reserved. "Miles believes that embarrassing stories from my past qualify as dinner conversation," he said dryly.

"They absolutely do," you replied, moving to take your seat beside him. "I'd love to hear more about this."

As Miles launched into an increasingly outrageous tale of operational mishaps and Lewis's apparently spectacular failure at maintaining a convincing Russian accent, you felt Lewis's hand settle on your knee beneath the table—a silent acknowledgment of your presence and the tension from earlier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured when Miles paused to refill his wine glass, the words meant only for Lewis. "I overreacted earlier."

His fingers squeezed gently. "We'll talk later," he replied quietly, his expression softening further despite the lingering seriousness in his eyes.

Dinner proceeded with surprising normality given the circumstances—Miles dominating the conversation with animated stories, Naomi occasionally contributing technical details, Carmen watching it all with quiet amusement while Paolo maintained his usual watchful presence.

After dinner concluded, Lewis guided you toward the library with a gentle hand at the small of your back, the familiar gesture speaking volumes about his willingness to move past your earlier confrontation.

Inside, with the door closed behind you, he turned to face you directly. "I meant what I said during the meeting," he began without preamble. "Your insight about your sisters is good, and Paolo simply confirmed what you already knew."

"But I didn't present it well," you acknowledged, embarrassment returning as you remembered your behavior. "I was being difficult because I was scared. That wasn't about strategy."

Lewis's expression softened further, his hand coming up to cup your face with gentle certainty. "Fear is a reasonable response to the situation," he said. "Multiple threats, uncertain loyalties, people you care about at risk. I'd be concerned if you weren't afraid."

The understanding in his voice made your throat tighten unexpectedly. "I'm not used to someone seeing through me so easily," you admitted. "It's... unsettling."

"For what it's worth," Lewis replied, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with familiar tenderness, "you see through me just as clearly. It works both ways."

The observation landed with surprising impact—the recognition that your growing ability to read Lewis's carefully controlled expressions, to understand the meaning behind his measured words, represented a vulnerability for him as well.

"I really am sorry about how I reacted," you said, leaning slightly into his touch. "You didn't deserve that."

"No," he agreed, though his expression held amusement rather than censure. "But I understand it. And I'd rather you express your fears directly, even awkwardly, than hide them."

The distinction felt important—Lewis valuing genuine emotion, even when uncomfortable, above the calculated façades you'd both been trained to maintain.

"So we're okay?" you asked, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your palm.

Lewis's smile was slow and warm, transforming his usually serious face. "We're okay, babygirl," he confirmed, the endearment now carrying only affection. "Though I have to admit, that flash of defiance was..." He paused, something darkening in his eyes that sent heat curling through your stomach. "Interesting."

"Interesting?" you repeated, your voice slightly breathless as his hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.

"Mmm," he hummed, the sound low and amused. "Very interesting."

"Oh," you whispered, but the word barely made it out before his mouth was on yours.

This kiss wasn’t like the ones before. It wasn’t coaxing or exploratory—it was consuming. His lips parted yours with ease, tongue sweeping in to taste you like he’d waited hours for this moment, like it had been building and blistering beneath the surface. You let out a soft, involuntary moan, fingers flexing against the solid planes of his shoulders, holding tight as he backed you against the nearest wall without breaking contact.

There was heat now, real heat—his tongue tangling with yours in slow, deliberate strokes, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth before soothing the bite with another kiss, sloppier this time, more desperate. One of his hands slid around your waist and anchored low on your back, drawing you flush against the hard lines of his body while the other cradled your neck, thumb stroking behind your ear in contrast to the urgency of his mouth.

When he finally broke the kiss, it was only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, then lower—to the side of your neck, where he sucked gently and then harder, lips and tongue dragging against your pulse point like he needed to leave a mark. Your breath hitched, nails digging into his shirt, and he chuckled softly against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction.

His forehead eventually found yours, both of you breathing heavier, caught somewhere between adrenaline and hunger.

"You keep looking at me like that," he said, voice low and teasing, the kind of rasp that made your toes curl, "and I’ll forget all about trying to take things slow."

You swallowed, tried to school your features, but failed. Your fingers were still curled in the fabric of his shirt, his warmth bleeding into your palms. "Maybe I don't want to take things slow anymore."

That did it.

His mouth was back on yours instantly, this time with no restraint. Tongue sliding past your lips in a kiss that was deeper, wetter, filthier. Like he was tasting every bit of you he hadn’t yet. His hands roamed lower, gripping your hips like he owned them, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your sweater dress as if he could memorize the feel of you through it. Your moan slipped between you, caught on his lips and swallowed whole.

Whatever was happening here…it wasn’t just about lust. It was release. Connection. A question you both were answering without words—one kiss, one touch, one breath at a time.

But you knew better. There were too many moving parts, too much at stake. The threat of betrayal hung like fog—thick and choking—across both Lewis’s operation and your father’s. Every conversation now felt like a test. Every silence, a risk.

And still, all you could think about was the way he’d handled your argument.

He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t snapped. Just looked at you with that maddening patience, that deep reserve of control that somehow made you feel more exposed than if he’d yelled. It lingered now, in the quiet space between his hand on your back and the lingering heat of his mouth still ghosting over yours.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, your hips shifted against his, and he exhaled roughly, reluctantly pulling back a fraction.

"We really should get back," he murmured, though he didn’t move. "It’s a long night. All hands on deck."

You nodded, though your body betraying the agreement your mouth hadn’t even made. His hands lingered at your waist, firm but unsure.

"I know," you whispered, brushing your lips over his again. "But this has been building all week."

Lewis hesitated. His jaw flexed, eyes dark. "We shouldn’t."

"But you want to," you countered, voice low and almost teasing now. "And I need this. Just a little moment."

His eyes closed briefly, like he was trying to shut the door on his own restraint. "You’re a brat, you know that?"

You smiled. “You like it.”

A pause. Then he tugged you to him, guiding you until your legs brushed against the edge of the leather couch in the shadowed corner of the library.

"Just a taste," he said, voice rough. "You have to earn the rest."

"Earn?" you echoed, nose wrinkling, a spark of defiance blooming in your chest. "Seriously?"

Lewis said nothing—just gave a small shake of his head, then gently pushed you onto the couch, stepping between your knees like a decision had been made long before you even spoke. His presence swallowed the space around you, heavy and warm.

"I give you an inch," he said quietly, mouth brushing your temple, "and you take the whole damn rope."

Your body moved before your mind caught up—knees parting slightly, spine arching just enough to close the distance between you. An offering. A dare. Maybe both.

Lewis’s hands paused, fingers flexing against your skin like he needed to anchor himself. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to reel you in or keep you right on the edge.

"You always push," he murmured, gaze flicking up to meet yours. "Even when you know better."

You swallowed, defiant in the silence that stretched between you. But he could see it—the unraveling just beneath your skin. The need. The way you were coiled tight from the week’s worth of restraint, from half-finished arguments and touches that never went far enough.

"Maybe I want to see how far I can go," you said, the words barely audible.

Lewis huffed something like a laugh. Not amused—impressed. Maybe even a little dangerous.

"Careful," he said, hands sliding higher now, one settling at your waist while the other curved around your jaw, tilting your head up until your eyes met. "You’re not ready for how far I’ll take you."

That flicker of fear—that thrill—lit behind your ribs. You didn’t move. Didn’t look away.

"I’m not scared of you," you whispered.

His smile was faint. Not sweet. "No," he agreed. "But you should be."

And then his mouth was back on yours—no warning this time, no softness, just a firm, consuming kiss that stole every breath from your lungs. His grip tightened as your hips shifted, chasing friction, chasing him. You felt the way he tried to hold back and failed, the way his fingers dug in just a little harder when your teeth grazed his bottom lip.

"Still think I’m taking the whole rope?" you breathed, between kisses.

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you—like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you again or drag you over his lap and teach you a lesson you wouldn’t forget.

"Not yet," he said, voice holding a certain edge. "But you’re getting damn close."

The shift between you was subtle but unmistakable. No more jokes. No more circling the inevitable. There was something settled in Lewis’s eyes now—firm, quiet, laced with heat that made your heart race faster than your breath could catch.

Without a word, he guided your thighs even further apart, the drag of his palms steady and sure. When his hands stilled at your knees, his gaze flicked up. Not asking. Informing.

"Lift up for me," he said, low and even.

You did, instinctively, letting him bunch your dress around your waist with deliberate care. No rush. No frenzy. Just the same calm, focused intensity he brought to every part of his life—including this.

"I’ve let you get away with a lot today," he murmured. "Pouting. Testing me. Acting like I won’t handle you."

Your underwear slipped down your legs with slow precision. He didn’t tear them off. He didn’t growl or groan. Just bent down to kiss the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then settled back on his haunches, eyes fixed on you like a problem he was already solving.

"You want control so bad," he said, fingers parting your pussy lips gently. "That’s the only reason you act up. You don’t know what to do when someone doesn’t give it to you."

A flick of his tongue—soft and unhurried—sent a ripple through your whole body. You gasped, hips shifting upward. He placed a hand on your stomach. Not to stop you. Just a reminder: he was here. He was in charge.

"But I know you now," he continued, voice muffled, mouth moving in tandem with the slow rhythm his fingers was building. "I know how badly you want to let go."

The pace didn’t change. It didn’t need to. It was devastating.

"Don’t nod," he said, voice firmer now, breaking only long enough to press another kiss to your inner thigh. "Say it."

"Yes," you breathed, eyes shuttering close. "Yes, Lewis."

His hum of approval was soft, but it carried weight—like he’d just gotten confirmation of something he already knew. His fingers continued, slow and deep, curling just right.

You didn’t need to look at him to know he was watching you. You felt it in the way he moved. Calculated. Attentive. Always aware.

"You want me to take care of you?" he asked quietly, almost like he was asking if you wanted a glass of water, not unraveling you from the inside out.

"Yes."

"You want to be good for me?"

You swallowed, the heat between your legs eclipsed only by the rush behind your ribs. "I do."

"That’s what I need," he said, fingers picking up their pace just slightly and causing you to moan. "Not perfection. Not performance. Just your honesty."

Your legs trembled around his shoulders.

"I’ll give you everything you need," he said, thumb brushing over your clit now, his mouth returning to the mess he was making. "But only if you let me. Only if you trust me."

Another moan was his answer. So was the way your body clenched around his fingers, desperate and unguarded. He stayed with you, unrelenting, until you shattered—eyes widening, body arching, breath broken, a sob of his name falling from your lips like confession.

And even then, he didn’t move right away. He just stayed there, holding you in place, his mouth soft again as he whispered against your skin, "That’s my girl."

Lewis leaned back as his touch slowed, and he gathered the evidence of your release as if he were collecting a sacred token. His fingers, still glistening with your warmth, moved to your lips. In a low, commanding tone that brooked no refusal, he said, "Open your mouth and lick my fingers clean."

You obeyed without hesitation, parting your lips as his fingers pressed gently against them. The act was both intimate and dominant—a silent, fervent exchange that spoke of promises and power. When he finally withdrew his hand, he fixed you with an intense, searching gaze. "You understand now, babygirl?"

You nodded, your eyes soft with a mixture of need and submission. He shook his head slightly in disapproval, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he murmured, "Words, please."

"Yes," you whispered, voice trembling with the heat of the moment and the weight of everything unspoken between you.

"Good," he replied, his tone a mixture of satisfaction and expectation. "I’m so happy we understand each other, but you still have to earn the rest." His words hung in the air like a challenge—a promise that what he reserved wasn’t given lightly.

At that moment, your gaze dropped, and you became acutely aware of the hard line of his arousal visible through the fabric of his slacks. Your lips parted in anticipation as the charged silence enveloped you both, a silent dare that said everything without a single word.

Lewis's fingers trailed along your jawline, his touch deliberately light. "Patience," he murmured, his voice carrying that controlled edge that sent shivers down your spine. "Some things are worth waiting for."

With a level of self-restraint that was both impressive and maddening, he stepped back, putting a small but significant distance between your bodies. The loss of his warmth was almost physical, leaving you unsteady despite your best efforts to appear composed.

"We have work to do," he said, his voice returning to its usual measured tone though his eyes still burned with something dangerous and promising as he handed you your underwear.

You nodded, trying to gather your scattered thoughts, and took the underwear from him before pulling it back on. "Right. Work."

Lewis's mouth curved into that rare genuine smile, transforming his severe features. "Don't worry, babygirl," he said softly, watching you closely as you then fixed your dress. "We'll continue this... conversation... when the timing is right."

As he moved to the library's door, he paused, glancing back at you with an intensity that made your heart race all over again. "And when we do, I promise it will be worth the wait."

The statement wasn't just confidence—it was absolute certainty. No matter what came next, one thing was certain: your strategic marriage had evolved into something neither of you had anticipated, but both were now fully invested in exploring. The endgame remained uncertain, but the journey there promised to be anything but boring.

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

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 16

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8 || PART 9 || PART 10 || PART 11 || PART 1 || PART 13 || PART 14 || PART 15

Aside from bathroom breaks, Eddie doesn’t leave his room for two days. Friday bleeds into Saturday, bleeds into Sunday, and Eddie wallows in it. Wayne knows him well enough to not bother him, but Wayne also knows him well enough to barge into Eddie’s room Sunday morning without even knocking.

“Up, boy,” he says gruffly, turning Eddie’s overhead light on. “Your eggs are getting cold.”

Eddie groans, and tries to roll over to bury his face back into his pillow, but Wayne grabs him by the ankle and yanks until he goes tumbling out of the bed.

“Wayne!”

“I ain’t asking,” Wayne says, storming out of Eddie’s room without closing the door.

As is his right, Eddie whines and rolls around on his floor for a minute until he can finally find the will to get up. Clearly knowing that it would take Eddie a minute, Wayne’s just plating eggs and potatoes as Eddie walks into the kitchen, still clothed in only his boxers and the same shirt he’d been wearing when Carver’d kicked his ass on Thursday.

They settle across from each other at their dingy table, Wayne letting him get a few bites of breakfast in him before the interrogation he knows is coming begins.

“What happened?” Wayne asks, pushing his own plate away so he can focus on staring Eddie down.

Eddie swallows his bite of potatoes, throat suddenly dry. But, he wants to tell someone, he wants to tell Wayne, who, no matter how Eddie fucks up, is always in his corner.

“I’ve been getting these letters,” Eddie starts, using his fork to play with his food so he doesn’t have to meet his Uncle’s eyes as the whole sordid tale comes out.

He tells it like he experienced it: thinking it was a joke at first before getting wrapped up in the letters, finding out it was Chrissy, trying to connect the living, breathing girl to the words on the page.

And then, Harrington, strong and sure as he defended him from Carver, taking care of his wounds in the aftermath, lying to him for months until he couldn't get away with it anymore.

Wayne just listens without interruption while Eddie talks about Jeff’s betrayal, the fear in Chrissy’s eyes, the defeated slope of Harrington’s back as he’d walked out the door, going god knows where with his car still at the quarry where he’d left it.

When Eddie’s finally done, Wayne hums and pulls his now-cold food back in front of him, picks up his fork and starts to eat. Eddie watches him, gobsmacked.

“Wayne?” Eddie asks, moving his hand up and down in front of his Uncle’s eyes, checking to see if the old man can even still see him. “That’s all you’re going to say? Hmm, and then back to breakfast?”

Eddie scowls as he forks another potato into his mouth, chewing as he continues his tirade. “Where are your wise words, old man? Why the hell’d you even make me get up if this is all I was going to get?”

Wayne hums again, clearly just to piss Eddie off, then finally answers, “you needed to eat.”

Eddie stares at him, mouth hanging open half-masticated potatoes on full display for anyone to see. Not that anyone’s going to because Wayne’s gone back to polishing off his breakfast.

“That’s it?” Eddie demands, throwing his fork down in a huff.

Wayne sighs, like Eddie’s the one being unreasonable here and finally puts his fork down to meet his nephew’s eyes.

“Finish your breakfast, and we can talk.”

Eddie whines, but dutifully scarfs down his plate, never breaking eye contact with his uncle, like they’re in a stand-off. And in a way, they are.

Once done, Eddie tosses his fork across the room into the sink just to prove a point, leans across the table and glares at Wayne. Because he’s an asshole, Wayne takes another sip of his coffee, maintaining eye contact, before finally opening his mouth to speak.

“You like this boy?” Wayne asks.

Eddie sputters and stalls out. “You—I—what?” Eddie asks, fisting his hands into his greasy hair.

“It ain’t an unreasonable question,” he replies. “You’re talking about the kid like he’s a knight in one of those little games you like so much.”

“I—no I wasn’t!” Eddie cries, cheeks burning at the implication.

“Mmmhmm,” Wayne replies, eyebrow raised as he drinks more of his coffee like what he’s saying is of no importance at all.

“Wayne,” Eddie says, leaning over the table to clutch at his shoulders, ribs protesting at the pull. “I’m not gay.”

And that, out of everything, is what gets Wayne to put his mug back down and take Eddie seriously. “You ain’t?” Wayne asks, eyebrow raised. Eddie shakes his head, eyes wide. “You sure? There’s an awful lot of men in leather on your walls.”

Eddie squawks, sinking painfully back into his seat. “That’s Metallica.”

Wayne squints at him. “Is that one of them code words y’all use to stay safe?”

Eddie stands up, chair screeching against the linoleum floor. “It’s a band, Wayne!” Eddie cries, at a loss for what the fuck is happening. “I’m not gay!”

Wayne looks up at him, both eyebrows raised enough to scrunch up his forehead, wrinkling his mostly-bald head. “Well, alright then.”

Eddie stares at him, brain buzzing with even more questions than he’d had before. How long had Wayne thought he was gay? Why? What did he do?

Was he really okay with it?

Eddie turns on his heel and marches out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom without another word. He slams the door and collapses onto his bed, gut squirming with all the thoughts churning in his head.

*** 

Chrissy isn’t surprised when Eddie doesn’t come to school on Monday; she is surprised when Steve does. He’s got bags under his eyes and Robin Buckley super-glued to his side, but he’s still there.

She can’t help the way she runs into his arms, leaving Jeff behind without thought. Steve catches her—he always does, pushing his hands beneath his letterman jacket to grab at her waist and pull her in. They sway there in the middle of the hallway, all their classmates jeering around them.

Chrissy doesn’t care; she’s spent the entire weekend thinking about the crushed look in his eyes as he walked out of the Munson trailer without a backwards glance

“You’re okay?” she asks, face pressed into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

He runs his hand up and down her back as he responds, “I will be.”

She pulls back to smile up at him and reaches up to brush a floppier-than-usual lock of hair behind his ear. “Walk me to class?”

He links their elbows, and does just that, Jeff and Robin falling into line behind them, Robin prattling on about some movie marathon her and Steve had had at her house over the weekend. 

Chrissy’s just glad he wasn’t alone.

Steve sighs, shoulders slumping as he says, “I’m sorry, Chris,” he says, not looking her way. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into my mess.”

She stops abruptly enough that Robin stumbles into them and bounces back, cutting off her stream of words mid-babble to squawk at them. Chrissy doesn’t acknowledge her, too busy standing on her tippy toes so she can grab Steve’s shoulders and yank him down to her level.

“You listen to me, Steve Harrington,” she demands, looking into his big, bewildered eyes. “Your mess is my mess, okay?”

He’s still just staring at her, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, so she digs her nails in hard and says, “forever,” with as much finality as she can muster.

He keeps staring at her, looking like he’s about ready to burst into tears in the middle of the hallway. Finally, he says, “come over tonight?” more a demand than a question.

She drops her grip on him and nods, content.

Chrissy doesn’t ask questions when Steve leads her over to Robin in the cafeteria. It’s easy to take that last, final step into social suicide with him at her side. 

They fall into their usual routine that night—they watch trashy TV neither would admit to liking to another living soul, and paint each other’s nails.

The lack of letter writing sits like a dead body between them.

“He won’t tell anyone,” Chrissy says, tightening her grip on his hand when he jerks. Chrissy keeps carefully painting his nails, her favorite pink, not looking up at his face. The color suits him—it’s not fair, but everything does. “He promised.”

Steve doesn’t ask for clarification, they both know who she’s talking about. “You believe him?”

She thinks about that torn, guilty look on Eddie’s face and replies, “I do.”

She finishes his pinkie and settles his hand down on her own knee to dry, knowing from previous experience that if she gives it back, he’ll ruin all her work running his hand through his hair.

“That’s good,” he mutters, looking down at his own hand, tilted so far forward that even when she looks up, his hair’s flopped too far into his face to see his eyes. “It still hurts.”

Chrissy sighs. She’d seen this coming all those months ago when she’d helped pen the first letter. Had seen the writing on the wall like it was she herself that was writing it. But, she’d helped him anyway, hoping to salvage his safety, if not his dignity.

She can only hope she has.

“I know,” she replies, biting her lip against apologies he won’t accept. “But, we’re in this together, okay?”

Steve’s fingers twitch on her leg, but he doesn’t pull away. “Even with you and Jeff?”

“You figured that out, huh?” she asks, and that’s what finally gets him to look up at her with a raised brow, making her laugh.

“I mean, you told me you were going to ask him out,” he starts, before leering over at her. “And you two aren’t exactly subtle.”

“Tell that to Eddie,” she replies, wanting to swallow the name back down once it comes out of her mouth, but it’s too late—it’s already been said.

Steve smiles wryly as he says, “well, he’s not exactly the most observant, is he?”

He has her there. Steve himself, no matter how hard he tried, wasn’t subtle with his affections: the compliments, the stuttering over his words, the blushing. But none of it had done more than make Eddie give Steve suspicious looks, like there was some sort of game he wasn’t in on.

There was, but even without knowing he was playing, he’d still beaten Steve.

“No, he’s really not.”

Steve hums, picking up his hand to check if it’s dry before moving onto painting her nails. He picks his favorite yellow for her, even though he knows it washes her out. She holds out her hand and doesn’t complain.

“I really like him,” Steve says, quietly enough that it’s barely audible over the murmur of voices coming from the TV.

“I know,” she whispers, watching the flickering sadness on his face by the illumination of the Harrington’s big television screen. “I love you. You know that, right?”

He pauses in painting her nails to meet her eyes, smiling for real now. “I know,” he says, stroking the skin on her wrist with the free fingers not holding the nail polish applicator. “And you know what? This was all worth it if I got you out of it.”

And then he just goes back to painting her nails like that wasn’t the most romantic thing anyone has ever said. Eddie Munson can fuck himself; Chrissy’s going to be buried in Steve’s letterman jacket and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

*** 

Eddie doesn’t go to school on Monday. He’s too busy rereading the secret admirer notes—the notes Steve Harrington left him—like if he reads them in the right order, it’ll all snap together in his brain in a way that makes fucking sense.

And it does, sort of. It’s like sorting out a bunch of puzzle pieces after finally knowing what the shape of the puzzle even is. Some parts of the letters just jump out of the page, the longer he looks. In the end, he processes this the way he processes everything: he makes a list.

   Proof that Steve Harrington is my Secret Admirer:

   1. I’m not trying to bully you.

   2. I wish I was brave enough to tell you. Brave like you.

   3. I know you don’t like them, but I like sports.

   4. My favorite color is yellow, like the sun, and sunflowers, and all those happy, bright colors.

   5. But my eyes? They’re brown, but nowhere near as pretty as yours.

   6. I tried playing the piano again, and I’m a little rusty.

   7. Do you hate all of them, or just the bullies?

   8.   You laughed, but it wasn’t your real laugh like when Mr. Danver accidentally said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism’.

A jock afraid of Eddie labeling them as a bully? Check. Favorite color, the same one Steve Harrington had painted his nails all those weeks ago? Check. Rich enough to have a piano that’s just not played? Check. But the most damning part of all: Chrissy was never in Mr. Danver’s class with him last year, but Harrington was. And Chrissy? Her eyes are bright, translucent blue.

The longer he looks at those two incriminating bits of evidence, the stupider he feels. It was never her, and from the looks of it, they hadn’t put much effort into pretending it was. It was always Harrington from that first, forever-lost letter that they’d stuffed in his locker.

And the longer he pours over the letters, the less he can picture Chrissy sprawled on her bed, writing each letter with a shy flourish before spraying it with a puff of her favored scent. No. It’s Harrington, frowning down at the page because words have never come easy to him; it’s Harrington sleeping with Eddie’s letter placed gently beneath his pillow; it’s Harrington who’d made Eddie smile like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

And now that he thinks about it, wasn’t it Harrington whose eye he kept catching from across the cafeteria? Harrington who’d stutter over his words around Eddie, but still told him he was a good storyteller?

Harrington who wanted to go to his show. Chrissy hadn’t even remembered Corroded Coffin’s name. 

Harrington had–of course he had. 

And he can picture that, too now. Harrington in the crowd in his stupid polo with his bright yellow nail polish, sticking out like a sore thumb in the gruff crowd at the Hideout, beautiful brown eyes trained solely on Eddie.

He can still feel the way his pulse had ratcheted up when they were in the bathroom, Harrington between his spread thighs, palms warm against his tender ribs, sucking all the oxygen out of Eddie’s lungs with how close he was.

It’s too much.

“Hello?” Jeff’s mom sounds curt over the phone, already fed up with Eddie calling before he’s even said anything. Eddie doesn’t care; he can’t when he needs Jeff this badly.

“Can I talk to Jeff?” he cries out, hand shaking around the receiver as he listens to her grumble, but she still shouts for her son to come pick up the goddamn phone. 

“Hello?”

Eddie should wait until he’s sure Jeff’s mom is no longer in hearing vicinity, but he can’t, too wound up tight to keep from blurting out, “am I gay?”

There’s a moment of silence that Eddie can barely breathe through before Jeff says, “uhh, Eddie?” in such a bewildered voice that Eddie sort of wants to punch him.

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” he says, words spilling out over each other. “And I’m sorry about what I said, and you’re sorry that you kept secrets from me—we can do that later, Jeff!”

“Uh, oka—”

“Now, am I gay?” he’s panting by the time he’s done, not having taken a single breath during his tirade. He’s waiting for Jeff’s confirmation or denial, but all that comes down the line is his quiet breathing. “Jeff?”

“Uh, shit, we’re doing this? Okay.” Eddie can almost picture the fed-up palm Jeff’s rubbing against his face, as if it’s somehow Eddie’s fault that Jeff is taking so long explaining the squirmy nebulous feeling in Eddie’s gut. “I don’t know man, why do you think you’re gay?”

Then, Eddie does what he should have done all along, and spills everything to Jeff, from the first letter all the way up to Steve Harrington’s bitchy little speech in the quarry as he put himself bodily between Eddie and Jason Carver.

“—and then he kneeled between my knees like that’s a normal, straight guy thing to do and just like, put his hands in my shirt!” Eddie whines, long since having settled onto the cold linoleum of his kitchen floor. “I mean, what the hell?”

“I think you’re forgetting one important fact, dude: Steve’s not straight.”

“Which brings me back to my question!” Eddie replies, trying for breezy and landing on whiny. “Am I gay?”

Jeff hums down the line like he’s really thinking about it this time. “Well, when he was touching you,” he starts, like that already doesn’t have Eddie’s face flaming, “what did you feel?”

Eddie puts himself back into that moment, thighs splayed pressed open by the heavy weight of Harrington’s body, Harrington’s big, warm hands running over his skin, his worried golden brown eyes roving over Eddie’s face.

“I felt like I was on fire,” Eddie whispers, feeling that same heat now pooling lower in his gut.

“…in a good way?” Jeff asks.

Eddie’s brain goes static, full of too much to differentiate good from bad, if that’s a distinction that ever existed at all. Eddie makes a questioning noise in his throat, knees twitching restlessly where they’re crossed in front of him.

“Okay, okay, uhh—hmm,” Jeff hums across the line. “Did you want to move closer or away?”

Eddie closes his eyes and thinks, imagining that trapped, warm, overwhelming feeling of being caged in by Harrington’s body. “Both?”

Jeff hmms again, clearly trying to think it through. Eddie can’t blame him—this is the most confused he’s been in his entire life, and Jeff doesn’t even have an all-access pass to his brain to try to pick answers out of–not that it’s currently doing Eddie much good.

“Do you want to try kissing a guy?” Jeff asks. “I’d do it, if it was for you, dude.”

Eddie’s nose wrinkles, lips puckering in disgust, “ew, you’re like my brother.”

Jeff laughs at him and replies, “so you don’t want to, not because I’m a guy, but because we’re like brothers? Sounds pretty gay, dude.”

“Oh.”

Jeff doesn’t say anything; he’s always been good at sensing when Eddie just needs a minute to think. But this time, he doesn’t think a minute will cut it, so he continues with a, “hey Jeff?”

“Hmm?”

“I really did mean it, you know.” He squeezes the phone tighter against the side of his face, like that will help his sincerity ring down the line. “I am sorry, and we should talk about it, but I can’t yet.”

Jeff still doesn’t reply, but his breathing is steady and sure down the line, settling Eddie’s anxious heart down to a little flutter.

“Is that okay?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, dude,” Jeff replies gruffly. “So, you’ll still call me?”

Eddie smiles. He’s missed Jeff, is the thing. They’ve been so distant lately, and no matter how well Eddie and Gareth get along, he’s no Jeff. “Or accost you at school, whichever comes first.”

That makes Jeff laugh; Eddie lets the sound warm him. “Okay, but I’m serious about the kissing thing!” Jeff replies, “Come over and I can plant one right on y—”

Eddie hangs up on his friend, feeling more himself than he has in days. No matter what happens, he has Jeff.

PART 17

[wosospacegirl]

Stuck with you - part 9

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: y/n's sulking, Kika disappeared from training, Alexia's noisy, and Vicky's really bad at signalling with her hands.

Word count: 4.8k

a/n: Sorry it took so long to update. The last few weeks were hard, but not harder than Y/n and Kika's relationship, so let's go.

..

Y/n woke up the next day.. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and for exactly thirteen seconds, she didn't remember what had happened the other day with Kika.

It was the best 13 seconds of her life.

She went down to have breakfast, but god forbid they had a normal, casual breakfast in the Putellas household;

Y/n was stabbing eggs, a frown on her face, remembering Kika's words over and over again.

Across the table, Olga and Alexia were staring at her, not saying anything, just staring pitifully at her.

She hated it, of course. It mmade her feel vulnerable, and it wasn't even 7 am yet.

"What?" she snapped, glaring up from her plate. "Why are you both looking at me like that?"

Olga reached over to squeeze her hand gently. "Cariño, please. Just tell us what happened."

"Nothing happened," Y/n said, pulling her hand back and grabbing her juice, as if the glass could shield her away from Olga's interrogation.

"Eso no es justo," Alexia huffed, taking a bite out of an apple.

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "What's not fair?"

Alexia leaned forward, her mouth full. "We always tell you about our relationship, when we argue…when we make amends, it's just fair that you do the same with us and tell us what happened at the book club!"

Y/n lifted her eyebrow. Alexia was never this much interested in her personal life in general, she would only ever intrude in Y/n's business if it was impacting her physically; normally, she would just leave the emotional part for Olga to deal with.

So for her to almost beg to know what happened between Y/n and Kika only meant one thing: it was eating her alive. Curiosity got the best of Alexia Putellas.

"You lie! You guys never tell me anything," Y/n said, waving her fork at them. "You two are, like… weirdly secretive… You went on a date last week and didn't even tell me! I was worried that someone had kidnapped the two of you for money!"

"Okay, now you are being dramatic," Alexia said. "We didn't tell you because we just didn't think it would be a big deal, not because we wanted to keep it a secret."

"I called the police," Y/n said flatly.

"I know," Alexia replied stoically. "I remember the police lights."

"Forget the police," Olga said, waving her hand. "That does not make us secretive, we just had a… communication lapse."

"I still don't know when your anniversary is!" Y/n said. "And I've been living with you two before you got engaged, don't you think that's a bit weird?"

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Our anniversary is on October 31st."

Y/n tilted her head, confusion on her face. "Halloween? Who asks somebody to marry them on Halloween?"

"Alexia does," Olga murmured, spreading butter on her bread. "Ever the romantic."

"Oh, come on, Olga," Alexia turned to her wife, a slight pout on her face. "You said yes!"

Olga ignored Alexia, turning her attention back to Y/n, her voice soft. "Nena, we're just worried. You've been off since yesterday."

"It looks like you're more nosy than actually worried," Y/n said, deadpan.

"Well… maybe a little," Olga admitted, shrugging. "But can you blame us? You haven't dated anyone since Laura, and that didn't end up well. We just wanna make sure you don't get hurt again."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I haven't dated anyone and I'm not even close to that with Kika, so you don't need to–" she made quotation marks with her fingers, "–worry about me."

"Well, I would say you two are almost dating," Olga corrected, holding up a finger. "She came to have dinner here a few months ago, you guys talked, you bought her books, you two went on a date, that's practically dating."

"We're not dating," Y/n said firmly. She really couldn't keep having this conversation, not when she knew Kika had no interest in her. "Nothing happened yesterday. And I don't want to talk about it."

Olga opened her mouth, probably to push again, but Alexia beat her to it; her arms were crossed, her eyes narrowed in that same determined way Y/n had come to know.

"I'm going to find out," her captain said. "Even if you don't tell me… I'll get Kika to spill it, she's too nice not to."

"I think that's some sort of abuse of power," Y/n groaned, letting her head fall down against the table.

"It might be… it might not," Alexia said, chin up. "Who would know?"

"I need new guardians," Y/n murmured.

"Oh, come on, you love us," Olga said cheerfully. "Plus, we're kind of the only ones you got, so…"

"That's comforting," Y/n said, eyes back to her plate. She had barely eaten anything.

She thought about threatening Alexia: if she tried to pry information about the date with Kika, Y/n would never speak to her again. 

But deep down, Y/n knew it wouldn’t matter.

When Alexia wanted to know something, she would go to hell to find it. God forbid La reina not know something about her teammates, or else, about her kind-of-adopted-sister…?

…

Monday

The next day, Y/n noticed Kika wasn't at training.

At first, she felt a wave of sadness, which she guessed was how her body physiologically reacted to the absence of Kika, but then her conscious mind reminded her of everything that had happened at the book club, and then she convinced herself that Kika being gone for the day was probably for the best.

Her ego was still too bruised to face Kika right now. If she was being honest, she didn't know when she would feel ready to see Kika again. It would be too much of a reminder that she wasn't wanted in the way she envisioned herself to be.

The whole "I've only invited you so you wouldn't feel alone" hit her deep in her chest, hurting her in a way she didn't allow Kika to.

That's why she didn't let people get too close. It hurt.

Vicky and Salma, blissfully unaware of the tension, cornered Y/n in the locker room after practice once everyone else had already made their way to the pitch.

"So…" Vicky wiggled her eyebrows playfully. "Tell us everything. Did you hold hands?"

"Did you kiss?" Salma asked, way too casually for Y/n's liking, as if it was her right to know what happened.

Y/n rolled her eyes, trying to wriggle out of the circle they had her in.

She wasn't in the mood to entertain their teasing or to remember everything once again. Olga and Alexia were annoying enough at home, she didn't need that at training as well.

"Just… not now, girls," Y/n said in a low voice.

The tone in her voice surprised even her. It was soft, not the usual grumpy way she had grown accustomed to. It wasn't a bark. She was tired… sad. She wished people around her would understand that and just leave her be.

Vicky and Salma exchanged a knowing glance before the realisation hit them. They had stepped over a boundary. 

"Oh," Vicky said, tone shifting as she caught on. "Uhn, maybe it didn't go well, then…"

Y/n didn't answer; she just got her boots and left for the pitch. The ball wasn't going to ask her to make a podcast about her failed date.

The rest of the day, Y/n didn't see Kika. Although when she was on her way to the bathroom, she heard a conversation between Esmee and Alexia. She didn't stop to listen or anything, it just happened that the laces to her boots untied at the same time.

She bent down and listened through the corner of the wall.

"She's not coming?" Alexia asked. Y/n could picture her face, mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised. "I heard Romeu saying something like that, but when I asked, he told me he couldn't say… Is it private?"

"Yeah," Esmee told her, in a voice that sounded like she didn't want to have this conversation. "She's not feeling good."

"What's wrong with her?" Alexia asked.

"Uhm, well–"

"Is it the flu? I can take her to the hospital if she wants, Olga can make some soup and bring it to her house or–"

"No, it's not the flu," Esmee replied. "She's just not feeling well… emotionally."

"Oh," Alexia said in a knowing tone. "Do you know if it’s because of what happened in the park? I'm not sure if Kika told you about that?”

Oh, for god's sake. Alexia was going out of her way to find out about her date. 

She was even interrogating poor Esmee, who had no idea of what happe–

"Yes."

Yes?

"I don't know much about it," Esmee continued. "She just told me she messed something up and that she wanted to give Y/n some space."

Y/n must have gasped, because Alexia’s face appeared around the corner immediately, uncovering Y/n's hiding spot.

"Y/n?" Alexia said, eyes squinting. "What are you doing on the floor?"

Y/n froze, but her brain tried to come up with something, anything, that wouldn’t make her seem like an idiot.

"Hm, just tying my boots," she said. "So I don't fall and… hurt my face, you know?"

Alexia didn't answer. Instead, she turned around and said goodbye to Esmee, who had a confused expression on her face, but also didn't say anything. Then she helped Y/n off the floor. 

The two walked to the locker room in silence. Alexia opened the door, checking that they were alone, before she made Y/n sit on one of the benches.

Y/n rolled her eyes. 

Not the bench talk again.

"What happened?" Alexia asked seriously, her arms crossed tight on her torso. "And what did Esmee mean about Kika wanting to give you space? Did you two fight? Can you fight in a book club?"

Y/n dragged her hands down her face. "Alexia, if you keep pressing on this, I swear to god, the vein in my head is gonna burst."

Alexia leaned over, touching Y/n's forehead. "It does look a little weird. You should check it out."

Y/n pushed Alexia's hand from her face as she got up from the bench, walking to her cubby. "Just… let me deal with this."

They didn't share a word as they left the training centre, but Alexia kept sighing, as if it was oh so inconvenient that Y/n hadn't shared what happened with her.

Y/n ignored her, as always. 

She spent the drive home thinking about Esmee and how she knew about the park, about her and Kika's date–how Kika had told her.

Had Kika told her everything? Had Kika told Esmee what she told Y/n? About the whole wanting to hang out with her because she didn't want Y/n to be left out?

Probably not, Kika wouldn't do that. 

She wouldn't disclose it, right? It was a rather…private thing to talk about, no?

Perhaps Kika only told her vaguely that they went on a date and it didn't work out.

Y/n hoped so, at least.

..

Tuesday 

It was lunchtime. And once again, no sign of Kika.

Esmee, Jana, Vicky, Salma, Sydney and Y/n sat together at the table. The conversation was flowing nicely, but Y/n was quiet, just sharing bits here and there, but not really engaging in any topic.

"And then she said I should be the one to text first," Jana said, her voice filled with frustration. "Which is ridiculous, right? Why would I reach out first after the date if I was the one who invited her?"

"Yes, you're right!" Salma agreed.

"It just seems like she's always waiting for you to do something,” Vicky chimed in, her mouth full of food.

Jana was talking about one of the girls she was going on dates with, but Y/n didn't remember which one it was this time.

The only thing on her mind was a certain Portuguese girl, and how she didn't want anything to do with her.

She had truly believed Kika wanted to spend time with her–wanted to be around her because they clicked. At least Y/n thought they clicked. Obviously, Kika didn't think the same.

That date's only purpose was to remind Y/n why she kept her feelings at arm's length. They hurt. They always hurt. It was so much safer to have nothing, to shut it all out, than to open yourself up and risk being disappointed.

Her spiralling thoughts were snapped away as she felt a hand on her wrist.

"You're gripping the knife too tightly," Esmee said quietly. "Your hand is all red… messing with your circulation."

Y/n blinked, looking down at her hand, realising she really was unconsciously gripping the knife too tightly.

"Oh," she mumbled, "Didn't notice it." She released her grip, holding it properly now.

Vicky leaned forward, pushing her plate out of the way. She rested her elbows on the table.

"Okay," she said, looking at Y/n, "You seriously need to tell us what happened at the park. You've been sulking ever since! We've been giving you space, but… You can't hold it all in."

Y/n flinched at the word. 

Sulking.

It was a pathetic word. She felt pathetic.

"I'm not holding anything in," Y/n told them, eyes on everyone at the table. "This is just who I am, I don't like to talk about feelings."

"But you need to!" Vicky rolled her eyes. "We've had this conversation a dozen times already."

"You know people get sick, right?" Salma chimed in. "Like with real diseases because of suppressed emotions?"

Now it was Y/n's turn to roll her eyes. 

"Suppressed emotions? Please! You guys are talking like I have some sort of PTSD. I just went on a date that was clearly a disaster."

"But why was it a disaster?" Sydney asked. "Did Kika punch a dog or something? I can't really think of her doing something wrong or bad."

Y/n turned to Sydney, her eyebrows raised. "How do you even know what we're talking about? I haven't told you anything about Kika!"

"Vicky told me," she said casually. "Now, are you going to tell us or not? I have physio in like thirty minutes, I don't want to be left hanging."

Y/n ignored Sydney, just giving Vicky a very sharp glance. She really needed to stop sharing her secrets with Vicky. The girl couldn't keep her mouth shut for more than two seconds.

"Did she find out you didn't read the book and got mad?" Salma questioned, drinking her juice. "Because if that's what happened, then it's a very dumb reason."

"Yeah," Vicky agreed vehemently, as if she hadn't just told Y/n's secret crush to another teammate, "That's dyslexiphobia."

"That's not even a word!" Salma said, turning to her.

"And that–" Vicky said, arms crossed, "–is erasing somebody's identity, Salma. We should call it for what it is: dyslexiphobia."

Vicky said the last part aloud, so in a matter of seconds, every player turned to their table, faces filled with confusion as they heard the made-up word falling out of the young girl's mouth.

Y/n's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She looked angrily at Vicky."Can you shut up?!"

Vicky looked around her, realised she was the centre of attention. She looked down at her plate, hands up on her chest in surrender.

"Sorry! I just wanna know what happened!"

"Me too!" Salma said.

"Can you guys stop?" Jana said angrily, putting her fork down. "We should respect Y/n's decision to not say anything!"

Salma rolled her eyes. "Oh, that’s easy for you to say! You already know what happened, that's not fair to the rest of us who were left in the completely dark"

"Yes! I totally agreed," Vicky said, or maybe it was Sydney.

Y/n wasn't sure anymore, since the whole table continued to create assumptions about her date, and it got to a point where all of their voices blended into one another. All of that while they were eating.

Clearly, none of the Barcelona girls were gracious.

Y/n dragged her hands down her face, completely hopeless.

"Maybe Y/n tripped and fell in a very embarrassing way, and Kika got the ick?"

"What if Kika stood Y/n up?"

“Once a bird pooped on my head during a date, maybe the same happened with Y/n ans Kika and they just couldn’t recover.”

"Oh god, you three shut up!" Esmee said while scrolling on her phone. "None of this nonsense happened! Kika told Y/n she wanted to hang out with her because she felt bad and didn't want her to feel left out, that’s why Y/n is upset.”

It was like the entire table went quiet in sY/nc.

Forks paused mid-air. Sentences were left unfinished. Even the chatter of the other tables seemed to hush for a second too long.

Y/n sat frozen, like her brain was struggling to catch up with what Esmee had said.

Y/n knee, Esmee was aware of the date because she overheard that conversation yesterday… she just didn't expect Kika to talk about it in so much detail.

Kika had explained to Esmee how pitiful she felt for Y/n. So much that she called Y/n out on a date because of pure pity.

Great, everybody knew how pathetic she was.

"What did you just say, Esmee?" Salma asked sharply. "What the hell?"

Vicky straightened in her seat, caught between confusion and disbelief. "What did Kika say? Are you serious?”

"That's so bad…" Sydney said, incredulous.

Everybody but Esmee turned their eyes to Y/n, guilt and empathy in their eyes. It was the same kind of look you would give to someone who was absolutely helpless.

Y/n hated that she was that person now, that her friends saw her like that.

Y/n slowly turned her head to Esmee, who was now finally looking up from her phone, realising the weight of what she had just said.

"Esmee, did Kika really tell you that?" Y/n asked, her voice was low, but controlled, as if trying to hold every emotion in.

She still had hope that maybe Kika said that without meaning to. 

That maybe it was just the awkward way she had of expressing herself, but now that she found out that Kika had told Esmee…then it was probably a hundred per cent real.

That Kika really felt nothing, not even some sort of platonic feeling for Y/n.

Esmee's face went pale. Her fingers tensed around her phone. She looked at Y/n, then the others. "Oh. Um… okay," she stammered, "I guess I… probably shouldn't have said that."

Y/n groaned softly, pressing her palms to her face. "Oh god, I hate this whole fucking situation. Why did she even tell you?"

Esmee shrugged, a little defensive, a little unsure. "Hm… because I'm her friend? I guess? Look, I'm not trying to insert myself into whatever's going on between you two, alright? I just–ugh, sorry, I shouldn't have said anything."

Y/n wasn't upset that Esmee knew. She was upset that anyone knew.

She hadn't even told Vicky or Salma what really happened in the park. Not really because it was a secret, but because it was hers.

Because it had been humiliating and vulnerable, and even if Kika hadn't meant to hurt her, she had… and now it felt like the whole thing was a story being passed around behind her back.

Like it wasn't hers anymore.

"Look–she really didn't mean it like that," Esmee said, voice gentle. "She just got nervous, and, honestly, I can't even explain it. Just… talk to her, okay?"

Y/n didn't respond.

She wasn't mad at Kika. Not really. She was just a little disappointed. Feeling like a line had been crossed, even though she hadn't asked Kika not to say anything.

In the end, she also told someone what happened. So in a way, they were even.

Y/n had told Jana. Kika had told Esmee.

The table stayed quiet for a while. An awkward and uncomfortable silence was thick in the air.

Then, Y/n began to eat again, pretending nothing had happened, not saying a word. The others followed her.

Across from her, she noticed how restless Vicky, Salma and Sydney looked, almost as if they were resonating with the urge to ask questions.

She could feel it in them. But every time one of them opened their mouth, Jana shot them a sharp look.

A silent ‘shut up. Not now.’

Y/N didn’t have it in her to speak, but she caught Jana’s eye and gave her the smallest, grateful smile.

Her friends were a little out of touch sometimes, but Y/n would’t change them for anything.

..

Wednesday.

Romeu had decided to do a split training session during the afternoon: midfielders on one end of the pitch, defenders on the other, and forwards in the middle.

Something about improving intra-position dynamics, sharpening communication and developing better passes throughout the whole pitch… It was definitely something important.

Y/n barely heard the explanation or what they were expected to be doing, and judging by the look on Jana's face, she was rather lost as well.

Y/n and Jana were supposed to be working on positioning and defensive transitions, but right now? They were both standing still, unenthusiastically stretching while staring across the pitch.

On the other side, Alexia and Kika were talking.

Yes. Kika had finally come to training after two days of not showing up.

They weren't just talking, though. They were deep in it, heads tilted in that serious conversation kind of way. Their brows were slightly furrowed, arms occasionally gesturing like they were trying to get a point across.

"Oh god," Y/n muttered. "Why does it look like they're talking about something serious?"

"Because they probably are," Jana replied, arms crossed, not even pretending to stretch anymore. "Do you think she's asking about what happened Sunday between you two?"

"No," Y/n said calmly. "I don't think Alexia would get herself and Kika distracted during training just to get some gossip."

Next to Alexia and Kika was Vicky.

She kept glancing back at the two of them and making increasingly unhinged hand gestures.

She pointed at Kika. Then at Y/n. Then she made a motion that looked like either a broken heart or… a butterfly? Y/n wasn't sure.

"What the hell is she trying to say?" Jana asked.

"Okay, okay…" Y/n squinted at Vicky. "She pointed at Kika. That's definitely Kika. Then at me… oh god. Fuck–"

Y/n looked at Jana desperately. "You were right, Jana, Alexia's definitely talking about me and Kika."

"You should go over there and make it stop," Jana said deadpan.

"I'm not going over there." Y/n's stomach twisted. "Kika is probably over-explaining herself right now."

"Then at least tell Vicky to stop signalling like that… she looks like a mad woman. Oh--" Jana nudged her lightly. "Wait, now she's… sliding a finger across her throat? Y/n, I think Alexia is threatening Kika's life."

"Shit, Alexia can just go straight ahead and plan my funeral if she wants to see me die of embarrassment," Y/n mumbled. "Seriously, tío, why does she have to always be in my business?"

"Well…" Jana said, turning her head slightly. "Maybe you should start opening up to her and Olga a bit."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "Not this conversation again."

"I'm right, though!" Jana continued persistently. "They're always there for you, I think it would do you some good to get their perspective about this whole thing."

"It's not like I kept it all a secret," Y/n tried to defend herself. "They know I like Kika, I told them that… hell, I even cried! It was humiliating!"

"If you think crying is humiliating, then you should get back to therapy," Jana said stoically.

"Forget therapy," Y/n tied her hair tighter, for no reason, maybe she hoped that it would keep the blood flowing to her brain better. "Plus, I kind of told Alexia a little bit about what happened at the park."

"Did you tell her, or did you just groan and go to your room?"

Y/n opened her mouth. Closed it. "...I groaned and went to my room."

"Exactly." Jana shook her head. "You are hopeless."

Y/n let out a miserable noise.

"Like… Vicky, signalling with her weird hand signs is better at communicating than you are," Jana said as they watched the young girl continue her attempt at communicating what Alexia and Kika were talking about. "-And that's honestly sad."

Now, Vicky was dramatically miming wiping tears from her cheeks.

"Oh my god," Y/n muttered, dragging her hands down her face. "I'm never leaving this side of the pitch again."

Y/n and Jana were focused again, ready to decode Vicky's latest hand gesture, when suddenly, Alexia turned to Vicky with a sharp look and gave her a light slap on the top of her head.

The slap wasn't hard, but the sound echoed across the field, and Y/n could hear what Alexia said.

"Vicky, stop being an idiot and go away."

Vicky froze, her mouth forming a small pout as she blinked rapidly, clearly caught off guard.

Y/n could see her expression fall, all her elaborate signals crumbling into confusion.

"She's telling her to go away," Y/n muttered under her breath.

"I know, we all heard," Jana snorted. "Damn, Alexia doesn't play around."

Vicky shuffled away from Alexia and Kika's side, her shoulders slumped, and her face in a pout. She moved to stand next to Esmee, still visibly mad.

Y/n couldn't help but smile. Alexia normally would baby Vicky around–a lot– so it was funny to see the contrast with what happened today. 

But that also only meant one thing: Alexia was having a serious conversation with Kika, or else she wouldn't mind Vicky's silliness.

Jana and Y/n still had their eyes glued to Kika, Alexia and Vicky, but it didn't last long.

There was a loud, very deliberate noise right between them.

"Hello, ladies," came a voice that was too cheerful for this moment.

Both Y/n and Jana froze, their eyes wide. It was Romeu. They hadn't even seen him approaching.

"Is there something wrong here?" he asked, his voice filled with mock sweetness.

Y/n and Jana exchanged panicked glances, immediately straightening up.

"No, nothing's wrong!" they both blurted in unison.

Romeu raised an eyebrow, a sly grin on his face. 

"Oh, I thought there was something wrong, because surely my number one defenders aren't just standing around gossiping, right?"

"Uhm, no, of course not, we're trainin,g–"

"I better not catch you two standing still for no reason," Romeu cut in, his tone hardening. "If you're not hurt, then you're supposed to be training. No excuses."

He paused for a moment, scanning the two of them, before his eyes narrowed.

"I don't want to see you standing still on a pitch unless you've got an injury to justify it, got it?"

Y/n and Jana exchanged another look and nodded at their manager. They had no choice.

Quickly, they grabbed a ball and began a series of quick tackle drills to show they were definitely not slacking off.

As they sprinted to position, Y/n shot a glance over at Alexia and Kika, who were still in their conversation, only to catch Alexia's eye for a second.

And then Kika's.

Y/n turned to look away. Less than a second later, she wasn't ready for that.

But still, she could feel Kika's eyes on her back. People often described others’ glances as a burning sensation, but Y/n didn’t feel that. Kika’s watchful eyes felt like a weight.

 Y/n didn't like it. The growing tension between them was not something she had expected to happen.

They couldn't stay like this forever. 

At some point, they would have to talk. Not about the park, necessarily, just…talk. greet each other, say Bon dia.

Ultimately, they were teammates first; they needed to have at least a somewhat professional relationship.

And if Kika didn't like her… well, fine. It wasn't like Y/n hadn't survived without her before.

She had lived almost twenty years perfectly well without Kika's attention or her smiles or the way she made everything feel a little better, brighter.

She could do it again.

At the end of the day, they hadn't even dated, kissed or held hands. It shouldn't hurt this much.

She just hoped, really, really hoped, that whatever this was between them, that Kika didn't see her as some obligation. As someone to pity, to look after out of kindness or guilt.

If Kika didn't like her, that was one thing. But if the only thing she felt for her was some sort of pity? Well… that would be worse.

a/n: hope you guys liked it <3

[hanjisick]

Orders.

genre. mafia au. bodyguard!lee know x fem!reader

desc. your father is an elite, high ranking official in a mafia family. after your first kidnapping, a bodyguard was hired to ensure your safety.

warnings. nsfw. fingering & sex. torture. kidnapping. murder. violence.

wc. 10k

✉️ : this is my first writing after a 9 month hiatus. i apologize for the unannounced break and i will be answering and writing again shortly. enjoy! :)

You sit in a wooden chair, wheezing and thrashing from days of sleep deprivation and torment. Your body aches, wrists bruised and bloody from the ropes, and you almost feel like giving in and spilling Daddy’s secrets— allowing them to kill you and the family.

But you knew better than that. You knew that you'd be saved.

The gunshots and cries for help weren't unexpected from above the dark bunker.

With an ear-piercing creak, the door swings open and the shadow of a man emerges through the doorstep, shoes squeaking with fresh blood underneath.

He doesn’t let out a single word as he kneels to grab your face and examine it. Your attention follows the ring on his finger. An insignia that he is part of the family. You can depend on him.

But still, you wince, sharply inhaling as his fingers aggravate your wounds.

“Don’t get their blood in my wounds, I don’t know what kind of freaks they are,” You grumble, voice husky from days of screaming.

You let him turn your head, retaining eye contact with the floor as you grit your teeth.

“Relax,” he mumbles, “I don’t bite.”

He leans closer to examine your wounds. “You took a lot of hits. How many people are here?”

He draws back as you reply, “Can’t tell you exactly.”

“About four of them grabbed me while I was leaving the house— stupid on their part, no wonder you were here so shortly,” You trail off before catching yourself back on topic.

“But I’ve only seen three different men since I’ve been here. Only to beat me and interrogate me. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to put Daddy at risk.”

“I heard two other unrecognizable voices. That would make nine people in the building that I know of. Of course, there could always be more. How many did you shoot?”

“Six,” he responds before looking down at your scrapes and wounds again.

You feel him caress your cheek once more, his cold skin sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re in bad shape.”

“If there’s more here, we need to get out as soon as possible. We can worry about my wounds as soon as these people aren’t on our ass.”

You struggle in your bounds, the ropes burning your already bloody wrists, “Could you untie me, first?”

“Don’t move.”

You obey his command, halting as he unties the ropes, uncovering the painful burn marks and blisters.

“That fucking hurt,” you rotate your wrists, “I could’ve gotten out without your help eventually, though.” Your voice is rough, breath coming out in harsh, sharp drags.

“Sure, you would’ve.”

You stumble to your feet as he pulls you into him for safety. He reeks of gunpowder and high-dollar cologne— presumably something that Daddy has made sure that he has the money for.

“Stay close to me, when we get to the front, you go out first and then I’ll leave right after.”

You follow the unfamiliar man out of the maze, almost slipping on the floor blanketed in blood.

You adjust to the bright sunlight— and it feels gentle against your damaged skin. It seems like time has stood still while you were captured. “Did Daddy order you a car?”

“Yes,” he answers, “Some men are waiting out front to take us to the closest hospital— which isn’t too far.”

“I’m being hospitalized?” You follow him into the backseat, finally slacking for a moment ontop of the fresh leather.

“It’s not my choice to have you taken to the hospital, it’s the orders.”

“Do I have a statement to tell the nurse?” You look at him in concern.

“Am I supposed to say, ‘Oh, I was kidnapped by Daddy’s enemies! By the way, he’s in the mafia! Who wants to arrest Daddy?’”

“Tell them you fell down the stairs.” His flat tone contrasts your own, remaining unfazed.

“How would that cover up my wrists' burn marks?” You hold up the bloody and bruised dents, “Nobody gets these from falling down the stairs. There's way too much blood— and some of it isn’t even mine.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking over to the burn marks on your wrist and then back to you.

“Then tell them you accidentally burnt yourself while cooking.”

“Are you even listening to me? Are you stupid?”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, not seeming to care about the situation.

“It’s not hard to pay them to be silent.”

“How about I tell them that I was heavily bullied at school and a couple of classmates did this to me? I think that could work.”

You two arrive at the front entrance of the emergency room, he follows behind you, strolling through the automatic door.

“I’m fine, really, I was just beaten by classmates,” You lie through your teeth to the front desk, “My boyfriend took me here to get it checked out.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You comply with the nurses as they check your weight and interview you.

“I don’t have any stab wounds, at least I don’t think so— I don’t remember what they did to me. I was held captive for a few,” Your voice trails off as you wince at a sudden pang.

You glance down at your bleeding side and are unexpectedly whacked with all of the distress that you had been repressing at once.

Your vision starts to fade, face pale as a ghost.

The man rushes over as they carry you to a bed, and he kneels beside you to review your condition. Your body is pale and cold, breathing jagged and rapid.

You hear the whispers of the staff panicking. One nurse checks your pulse, and another elevates your legs.

“I need my blood sugar up,” the first words that come out of your mouth sound weak and painful.

You look over at the man beside you.

You need to lie. But you don’t even know his name.

“Boyfriend,” you determine, “please get me a sugary drink from the vending machine.”

A subtle smirk forms upon his lips, but it vanishes as soon as it appears.

“Fine,” he rises to his feet.

You hiss as the nurses sterilize your wounds, shrieking and thrashing on the mattress at the sting. You try to stay still, but the pain is intolerable.

Footsteps echo and you find the man returning with a chocolate bar, which he holds out to you. He brings it close to your lips and holds the chocolate against your mouth for you to take a bite, “Slowly.”

“I told you to get me a drink,” You disregard his command, biting the chocolate quickly, almost aggressively.

His lips turn up, amused by your action.

The nurses finish stitching up your deep gashes and bandaging your wounds, recommending that you stay the night.

“Pay for the bill with Daddy’s cash and let’s get out of here,” you state coldly, “I need to shower and get all of this blood out of my hair. I don’t want to stay here.”

“As long as you can walk by yourself, we can leave right away.” He replies. The man takes out a wad of bills quickly counts the money and pays for the bill.

You stay speechless until entering the car.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your bodyguard. Your father hired me to look out for you after the kidnapping.”

You nod in acknowledgment. “Will you be staying at the estate with me? Or is it a ‘only when I leave the house’ kind of deal?”

“My primary duty is to protect you from anyone or anything that could harm you, whether that be outside or inside the house. I could go wherever you wish me to follow you, and I will be there.”

“You won’t sleep in bed with me though, right?”

He stays silent for a moment.

“You are correct, I am here to protect, nothing more. I will not sleep next to you. I am merely your bodyguard and take your orders.”

“Good boy,” you grin, “I bet Daddy will pay you very nicely. Why else would you take this job? How much does he give you? Either way, I’m sure you have enough to buy a mansion.”

The bodyguard holds back an eye roll. “I will have more than enough money. Not only that but he also provides me with a home.” He adds with a smirk.

“Good.” You reply.

You fall silent, allowing him to drive, taking in the past few days.

You were never worried about surviving, You understood that Daddy would handle it. But you didn’t expect to be as hurt as you were.

He could’ve saved you sooner.

“When we get home, order the chef to make me something sweet, I deserve a treat,” you state, “I’m going to shower and you are not allowed to enter my bathroom under any circumstance. Even if I’m dying.”

“You would die before letting me enter your bathroom? I get it.” He retorts.

Once you both arrive at the estate, you stumble out of the car. You don’t linger for him.

You’re welcomed by a handful of workers as you enter the home, but ignore them as you make a beeline up the stairs and towards the bedroom.

The door locks behind you and the room is silent. You feel the weariness creep on as your wounds sting. You lean against the door, sliding down.

After a moment of peace, you head towards the shower to comb the dried blood out of your hair.

You scrub your face carefully, avoiding the stitches above your eyebrows.

You wash your body entirely, removing the blood stains with soap, water, and a wash rag. Then you comb out the dried blood.

Once you finish, you dry yourself off and dress in a plain, silk nightdress.

Leaving your bedroom, you turn to look for your guard. He is at the doorway of your room when you walk out. His eyes roam around your body for a brief moment, examining the nightgown.

“Do you require assistance?”

“Did you place an order for something sweet, like I asked?” You peer at his suit, moving in to adjust his tie.

He follows your hand as it moves, eyeing you for a few moments before he utters, “I did, the chef will be bringing it to your room once it’s prepared.”

“Good boy.”

You look up at his face once you are pleased with the positioning. You grimace at his sharp, cold face. The blood was dried, brown, and unpleasing. The man’s hand relaxes on the gun holstered on his hip.

“I order you to come into my bedroom.”

His eyebrows crease. He understands his role as your bodyguard— nonetheless, he doesn’t get a kick out of being ordered around in this tone.

He takes a deep breath. “Your wish is my command.”

The room is massive, a silk-covered canopy bed sits in the center of it. He pays no mind to looking around, concentrating on the job at hand.

“Sit down on my bed,” you demand, steering towards the bathroom and pushing open the double doors.

He obeys your orders without question, crossing his legs, and keeping his hand resting beside his gun.

The bodyguard keeps a close, attentive eye on the doors, supervising the way that you soak a washrag with warm water, squeezing out the excess.

You sit beside him, grabbing his chin and leaning into his face. He tenses.

“Relax, I don’t bite,” you smirk, reiterating his first words from the moment he met you back to him, massaging the dried blood off of his face, “No guard of mine will have a messy appearance.”

You can tell that he feels uneasy, but he can’t reject you. If you wish for him to relax, he will make an effort to relax.

You can’t help but notice his complexion when he isn’t scowling. The apathy melts away as you wipe the dried blood, giving you a new perspective on his appearance.

“You’re handsome,” you state bluntly, “Especially without blood covering your face.”

You toss the rag into the laundry basket carelessly, waiting for a maid to take care of it.

“Thank you.”

“What is your name? You never told me.”

His eyebrows arch slightly at the question.“It’s Minho.”

“I am Y/N,” You reply, holding out your hand to shake his own. His grip is firm and warm.

He keeps a stoic face as he glances at your face and back at your hand, as if he is searching for an ulterior motive behind this handshake.

The food.

The bell rings and the sound of it shatters the stillness of the room. Minho’s head jolts towards the door, hand back on his gun.

He rises instantly, opening it to reveal the maid with a tray of sweet snacks.

He takes it from her. “I will bring it in.”

“What a good boy, Minho,” you praise, clapping your hands together as he sets the tray on your lap.

“I don’t take you for a man who enjoys sweet food much. Do you like sweets?”

“Sometimes.”

You unwrap a piece of high-dollar chocolate, “I command you to open your mouth.”

Minho can’t deny you, it would be disobeying your orders.

He opens his mouth as the chocolate is positioned between his lips.

You relish in the chocolates with Minho and once finished, you set the tray on the floor for a maid to pick up at sunrise.

“I don’t think I mind you being around all that much, Daddy makes good decisions.” You lay down on the mattress.

“Your father does make good decisions.”

His gaze wavered on your face until you drifted off to sleep. Only then did they slowly trail down to your body.

The way your body was built captivated him. Minho was glued to your sleeping form.

He stayed in the room, taking a seat on a chair in the corner to watch you.

He didn’t know how long it had been since you had dozed off, but by the way that the room was now pitch black and noiseless aside from your figure rising and falling, he would imagine that it had been a couple of hours.

“How long are you going to sit there?” Your sleep-filled voice questions him, causing him to snap out of his daze, hand reaching for his gun out of instinct.

“Do you sleep? Are you allowed to sleep?”

“I will only remain in the room as long as you order me to. I do sleep,” He replies, “Now is there anything else you need my assistance with? Or can I return to my duties?”

“So you’re only staying in the room because I ordered you two hours ago?” There’s a tinge of dismay in your voice, but it was masked by sleep, “You can leave if you want, I don’t mind.”

Minho felt a sudden pit in his stomach. You sounded disappointed by his statement.

Your words are perplexing him, and he can’t conclude what you want from him. To stay or to go?

“Should I stay for a bit longer?”

You were already asleep again once he had responded.

You and Minho both wake to a maid opening the blinds and ringing a bell. You groan, stretching your body.

“Miss, let’s get you dressed for today.”

She pulls your nightgown up above your head as Minho’s eyes wander toward your laced underwear.

“What’s on my schedule for today?”

He quickly forces his gaze to look away and stares back at the maid.

“We want you to heal from your injuries, miss,” she answers, “we will start with a nutritious breakfast to encourage recovery, and attend to your injuries, and then you will speak with Daddy about your incident.”

The maid buttons your fitted dress, glancing in Minho’s direction, “Your bodyguard will need to be there for your conversation with Daddy.”

“He will?”

“He needs to tell Daddy what he witnessed from the facility.”

You nod, following her lead down the stairs and towards the breakfast table.

Minho follows suit, remaining at your side the entire time and he watches you eat, staying observant and cautious.

“Are you hungry?”

This question catches Minho off guard.

“No.” He adds in a dull tone— but in actuality, he is starving. He was entrusted to watch over you. He shouldn’t eat on the clock.

“Maid, go order,” You look Minho up and down, “A side of crepes. Blueberry crepes. And two cups of coffee.”

The maid hurries to the kitchen to place the order, and it is brought out a couple of minutes later.

He stares at the crepes being placed on the table, and his belly grumbles. “Thank you.”

The maid carries the mugs of coffee to the table. But it doesn’t take Minho long to catch sight of her cunning smile and the perplexing liquid that the maid slipped into the mugs of coffee.

He stares quietly, calculating his next action.

“Don’t drink it.”

“Why not?”

Minho’s sight narrows as you bring the cup of coffee to your lips.

This time, his tone is warning and direct. “It’s better that you don’t.”

You halt your sip at his harsh command.

The maid pulls out a handgun swiftly after realizing that she has been caught, aiming it at you.

A switch swiftly flips inside of him.

He lunges forward, grabbing the woman’s wrist and twisting the gun to the right, snapping a couple of fingers in the process.

It’s a rapid movement, and he had little time to think before shooting her in the head, watching the life leave her body. His face is apathetic and almost casual.

The maid’s blood spilled onto the floor as the others ran to clean it up.

“He passed the test, we can keep him. A promising guard so far,” Daddy compliments from behind you, “Urgently acting to protect. He knew that she was mindless and weak. He comprehends crises well.”

The older man slips a wad of cash into the breast pocket of Minho’s suit. “Good on protecting her. That was a setup with a stupid maid who was just aching to betray us. You will have the same fate if you are wavered by another team.”

“I think he’s a good boy. He won’t betray me.”

“Y/N, meet me at my office. Guard, follow her.” He swiftly turns away to lead the two of you as you eye Minho.

“You can relax now. No more tests.”

He nods in understanding, heeding silently towards the office.

“Tell me about what you saw at the facility.”

You nod. “Four men had taken me from our garden entrance and used Chloroform to knock me unconscious. I woke up in their van, where my hands and legs were tied. I heard them talking about what they planned to get out of me. They had intentions of murdering me if they got to a week of no answers.”

Minho listens to your explanation with hawk-like eyes, paying close attention to all the details and descriptions.

You clear your throat, running your fingers across your bruised wrist, “I was tied to a chair in their questioning room, and they used forms of torture for me to open up.”

“I was deprived of sleep and beaten if they caught me closing my eyes— trying to get my lack of sleep to cause me to open up about your activities.”

Daddy nodded solemnly, leaning into his chair.

“Waterboarding was their favorite method, but they enjoyed beating me. I assume that was mainly for fun.”

You continued, “Minho appeared and killed a couple of them and saved me, but most are still alive.”

“Still alive? You didn’t find and kill them, bodyguard, why?” Daddy’s intense eyes moved toward Minho, who appeared unbothered.

The fact that he missed a few guys is enough to drive him crazy.

“I had to get her to safety as soon as possible.”

Daddy merely nods. “I will send my men after them. Y/N, did you get any names?”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything about themselves, but I saw a couple of signs of their rival gang.”

“Guard,” he veered towards Minho, “Describe the faces that you saw. I need as much information as possible.”

“They look to be between the ages of 20 to 30, their faces covered in scars. One man had dark skin, and his facial scars were faded. His most notable feature was a slit across his brow. He wore a dark suit. I left him alive but with a bullet in his arm. The other man had a lighter skin tone and his scars were similar to knife wounds. He had gotten away.”

The boss nods.

“Good. I can work with that. Never let my little girl get into trouble like that again, alright?”

The second the words ‘my little girl’ leave his mouth, Minho can’t help but gaze at you. He observes your reactions and motions.

His heart beats by hearing his boss call you that, and his attention is now focused on every single twitch that you make.

“The nurses will be waiting in her bedroom shortly. Be good and do as they say.” He adds, snapping Minho back to him.

“Guard, do not let her go against any of the nurses' rules. She can be convincing. Do not give into it.”

“Yes Sir.”

You roll your eyes, turning away to leave the room.

“Stay safe.” That is the last utterance of the boss before you drag Minho out of the room and towards the bedroom.

“Sit on the bed,” a nurse commands you, and you quickly obey.

She dabs at your abdomen stitches with antiseptic soap and your eyebrows furrow.

“You can’t move around much, got it? No exercising for three weeks until we get these stitches out.”

You agree as she moves on to your wrists, rubbing cream into them, “You’re going to visit us twice a day for six days until the healing is almost complete.”

She yanks a bandage off of your face, causing you to groan in pain. She rubs another ointment on it before substituting it with fresh dressing.

Minho supervises each step that the nurse takes, noticing how she takes care of your body as if it’s her most precious gift.

She turns to Minho, “I need you to make sure that she’s well rested, drinking enough water, and not doing many straining activities. Take her back here once again in the evening, and then we will see her again this time tomorrow morning, got it?”

“Yes, I will take care of her.”

“What about him, nurse?” You eye the small cuts across his face and hands.

She smiles and leans over to you. “He is well trained. Trust me, he’ll survive a few scratches.”

Your eyes narrow. “I order you to treat his wounds to the best of your abilities.”

She sighs. “Yes ma’am.”

She moves towards Minho and checks his wounds, patching the ones that were newly caused. She brushes his face softly with an ointment.

“I don’t like it when my guards don’t keep up a good appearance,” you try to explain away your worry for him, “and being injured will only slow you down when protecting me.”

The man stares straight ahead, listening carefully. “I’m fine. I’ll recover just fine. I don’t need much care as you do.”

“Let her rest now,” the nurse tells Minho, “order the maids to bring her a glass of water and have her sip on it until lunchtime.”

Once she leaves, Minho turns towards you, “I’ll make sure the maids bring you water. You need to stay hydrated”

Once water is on your table, your gaze returns to Minho

“Now, I order you to sit down on my bed with me.”

He examines you with a neutral expression and waits for you to say what you mean, not wishing to assume or take anything wrongly.

“Sit down with me,” you demand again, patting the spot beside you, waiting for him to follow suit.

As soon as you ask him to, Minho does not waver. He sits down beside you, body brushing your own.

You turn to meet his cold expression with intensity. “Do you like your job so far?

Minho is taken off guard by your switch of topic. He stays where he is sitting, but turns his body as well and faces you.

“I enjoy my duties.”

“Good. Because I’m fond of you. You’re handsome, and you are good at your job.”

He stares at you with slight surprise. “Thank you.”

Your hands grab for his, playing with the ring on his finger.

Then, you reach your hands higher, tugging his sleeve up to reveal a cluster of scars littered across his forearm.

“How long have you been in the business?”

“Since I was fourteen. I was trained from a very young age.”

“Have you always been in Daddy’s family?”

“I was loyal to your Daddy from the moment I knew what this life was like. I haven’t had a moment of doubt.”

“Good. That means you won’t leave us, right?”

“I will serve your family until my last breath. You have nothing to fear about that.”

“What a good boy,” you reach to ruffle his hair, landing a swift kiss on his sliced cheek. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

Minho stiffens.

“I order you to take off your jacket. I want to see your body. To see if you’re strong enough to be a good guard.”

Your words are sharp as a knife and they cut deep through his defense system. His jaw clamps and his breathing accelerates.

Minho swallows his breath, nodding his head. His movements are rigid, starting to cautiously peel off his jacket. It takes him a moment to unbutton it, but once his jacket is off, he stays there, waiting.

You slide his jacket to the floor, touching the muscles of his bicep through his button-down. “You’re fit. That’s good.”

Minho yearns for you to keep feeling him. To keep praising him. He swallows. Your words sound like a honey trap to him, and it’s working as intended.

“I order you to take off your tie.”

“Yes.”

That is all that he says, slowly slipping his tie from underneath his collar and tossing it aside.

Unexpectedly, you’re climbing on top of his body. “Take off your button-down.”

He unbuttons his shirt as your eyes sear into his chest. He is now only wearing a black undershirt.

“So many clothes,” you sigh out, groping his bare arms. You run your hands across his biceps, listening to him shudder underneath the touch.

“Take off your undershirt now. I want to see your chest.”

You can feel the heat radiating off him as he shivers. His body is now sensitive, and your hands are making it worse for him.

Your orders are evident, and he hastily lifts off his undershirt, waiting for what is next.

You can see his whole chest with all of its blemishes, with every muscle covered in sweat, exposed for you.

Your hands travel down his chest and abdomen, feeling each ragged scar with your bruised fingers. The delicate contact causes his breath to catch and a soft groan leaves him, fighting to not show that he relishes in your touch.

“Let me kiss you.”

He stares at you for a moment before his eyebrows slightly shift— his way of showing you that he approves of that request.

Minho leans in slightly and closes his eyes, gently placing a timid kiss on your lips.

You smirk against him, pushing him to lie against the bed frame and deepening the kiss. Your hands reach for his dark hair, clasping a handful in your grip.

He kisses you deeply and wraps his arms around you to pull you in closer, offering full control to you. His breath speeds up.

You pull away after a moment, lips brushing against his as you catch your breath, but only for an instant before moving towards his jaw, sucking marks onto his skin.

Minho quivers at your touch, his breathing speeding up once more as you leave red and purple blemishes on his skin. He bites his lip to stop himself from groaning.

Your mouth moves from his jaw to his neck, leaving kisses and hickeys all across him, making sure that he is covered in them.

Your hips grind against him, breathing heavily with anticipation as you make your way to his chest.

Your hands and mouth are touching all of him, and each sensation triggers a reaction that he tries to conceal.

Your lips hover back to his lips, staring at him longingly. “Do I have to command you for you to do anything to me? You don’t have to ask. You have my permission. Do whatever you want.”

You can see his gaze shifting from your eyes to your mouth, to your neck, and then towards your chest.

You swiftly lift yourself off of him to let him remove your dress, leaving your body as bare as his own.

You grasp onto his neck, bringing him in for another deep kiss. Minho remains silent as he kisses you, allowing you to leave him as many marks as you desire.

“What are you thinking, Minho? Speak to me.”

He takes a moment, letting out an unstable breath. “I’m thinking of what you are doing to me. I,” he stammers, “I want to make you feel good.”

“Then do it. Please.”

“I don’t want to harm you,” he breathes out, “you’re injured.”

“The nurses said to not do,” Minho presses his eyes shut as you bring your hips up to meet his, “fuck, anything straining.”

“Remember what Daddy said? I can be convincing.” You sneer as your bodyguard fails to keep his cool composure, but the aching cock pressing into you is giving his true desires away.

You eye his internal struggle between following your orders and his cravings, or the nurse and his boss.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I can go relieve myself in the bathroom.”

“I like being hurt.”

You notice his lip twitch at the comment, and you decide to provoke him further, grinding into him, and set a steady rhythm with your hips.

He groans as his head drops back, tugging onto your hair and trying desperately to control his breath, “Please, Y/N, I just want to take care of you.”

“You can take care of me in another way.”

“I need to follow orders.”

“Then I order you to fuck me.”

His eyes pinch shut as he tries to clear his head and reason with himself.

Perhaps if he were gentle, it would be alright.

But how long could he remain gentle when you were splayed out in front of him, willing to take anything that he gave to you?

He made his decision, gripping your shoulders gently and flipping you, pinning you to the bed, and surveying your face for any discomfort.

When he finds none, he impatiently unclasps his belt, throwing it to the floor along with his dress pants, leaving him in just his boxers.

You hold yourself up by your elbows, thighs pressed together and mouth watering at the man in front of you.

His hands were delicate, although they could easily snap you in half, as he unclasped your bra, leaving your top half bare.

Minho stopped to take in the view for a moment before grabbing at one of your breasts, his mouth attaching to the other.

Your whines were like music to him— something that he wanted to hear more of.

Your back arched in pleasure as he moved one hand down to your thigh, caressing it for a moment before slowly slipping his hand into your panties.

“Try to stay quiet, darling, I don’t want any staff checking on us,” He hushed you with his lips attaching to your own once again, feeling your wetness all over his calloused hands.

His thumb brushed against your clit and you whimpered into his mouth, clenching around nothing.

Minho then plunged two fingers deep inside of you and curled them. He was becoming lost in pleasing you, overlooking his own ache between his legs.

Your thighs shook beneath him, feeling him brush against your g-spot brutally. “Minho please, please just fuck me. I want you inside of me so bad.”

At your request, he slipped his fingers out, feeling your cries against his lips from the loss of friction.

“Yes ma’am.” He pulled away from your lips, replacing them with his now dripping fingers, lapping it up with his tongue.

Next, your ruined panties were yanked off of you, with his boxers soon to come after.

One hand gently relaxes on your hips, cautious to avoid aggravating your injuries as he uses the other to guide himself inside of you, a deep groan followed by your whines.

He gives you a moment to handle the stretch, but you hardly need it, already begging for him to move.

Minho cautiously thrusts, taking in a deep breath and furrowing his eyebrows in concentration. 
This is the ultimate test of patience for him. He needs to be as gentle as possible with you.

Ultimately, he sets a slow pace, hands locating themselves on either side of you, letting out uneven breaths as he tries to control himself from how good you feel around him.

“You really do care, don’t you?” Your hand reaches to cup his face, gazing into his eyes that are hazy with pleasure.

He keeps his response short, too concentrated on the waves of bliss through each thrust, “I do care.”

“Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?”

You study him, watching his adam’s apple move as he swallows deeply, inhaling sharply. He halts his thrusts for a brief instant.

“Both, maybe. I can’t tell.”

That was enough for you to continue, grabbing another handful of his hair and bringing him in for another hungry, deep kiss.

With each deep thrust, Minho’s mind got hazier and hazier, losing himself to pleasure bit by bit. You could feel it by the way his rhythm became rough and desperate, and his pace picked up.

One of his hands left your side, creeping towards your throbbing clit, causing you to let out sobs, all of which he ate up with his mouth against your own.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” He coos, knowing that you’re too lost in bliss to respond.

He takes your whines as a ‘yes’, his thumb rubbing circles faster, coaxing your orgasm out of you.

Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing your eyes closed and letting out a lengthy, drawn-out moan as his pace picked up even further.

“Just like that. You’re so good for me, so, so good, fuck,” he talked you through your orgasm between his thrusts, chasing his own high.

His brows crease, hips stuttering at how good it felt to have you gripping so tightly onto his cock. Finally, he let go, his load spilling inside of you and seeping out.

Both of you took an instant to catch your breath, coming down from your highs.

His hands slowly traced your curves in contentment, paying attention to the way your chest rose and fell.

Finally, he has a justification to gape at your body up close.

From your jawline to your hickey-covered chest, down to your bruised sides and stitches near your abdomen, and— Oh fuck.

Your wounds.

Minho slowly pulls away, feeling a sense of post-nut clarity and fright.

His hand slides away from your body, staring at you with concern.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own anxiety suddenly displayed on your face, “Do you regret it?”

“No! No,” He panics, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?“

Back in reality now, your wounds ache and your head pounds with exhaustion and overexertion.

His mind calculates the solutions to the situation— ways to explain to the nurses, to fix you, to help you feel better.

It was his shortcoming, after all. He let his urges get to him.

“Let’s run you a bath.” He pulls himself up, tugging on his boxers and heading towards the bathroom.

You hear the tap turn on, lying in bed trying to catch your breath. Your breath is harsh from both adrenaline and pain, but you can’t help but feel as though the latter is more of the cause.

You had slept with a small handful of men, primarily Daddy’s men, but none of them were quite like Minho.

He was tough but breakable. He was still kindhearted at his core— something that wasn’t all that common in the business.

You could tell from the way that he ran the bath, bare muscles glistening from sweat, running his hand through the water to make sure that it was the ideal temperature. How concerned he was about your protection, even through his pleasure.

Not many other men that you’ve met throughout your life have been the same way.

You’re quite fond of the man that you have just met.

You hear the water shut off and footsteps coming towards the room. He holds a faint smile as his steps come towards the bed. Your gaze slowly wanders to his physique.

“It’s ready for you.” He says in a slight whisper.

“I order you to pick me up and bring me to the bath.”

He nods at your order, hooking his arms underneath your thighs and back, his strong grip securing you.

You inhale the powerful stench of gunpowder stuck to his skin, finding comfort in your bodyguard’s presence.

“Will you wash my hair?”

Studying his expression, it’s hard to read, but you let him carry you and place you into the water.

‘I do care,’ you recall his words.

‘Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?’ ‘Both, maybe. I can’t tell.’

Perhaps you had feelings for the man, especially while he massaged shampoo into your scalp with tough hands, making sure to rub your temples.

“Have you ever been a bodyguard before?”

When Minho hears your question, he hums while he proceeds to wash you, working on scrubbing the areas where he touched you earlier. “No, you’re the first one I’ve been a bodyguard for.”

“I did things for your father before this. Not as a bodyguard, a more, I guess, dangerous role,” he dismisses the question.

“Is that so?” You fall to silence as he continues to wash you, taking his time and guaranteeing that he gets every part. He hesitates when he washes around your injuries— every stroke and movement of his hands is smooth and temperate.

“Let me relax for a minute alone,” you murmur, “You should put your clothes back on, the maids should be here any moment to take my order for lunch. They won’t find it suspicious that I’m bathing, but they will question why you’re with me.”

Minho nods and pulls away from your body.

He stands up and his feet splash on the wet floor. He takes a double take at your closed eyes.

The way your body floats in the bath is something that catches his attention. You look very pleasing in such a vulnerable position.

He leaves the room, cracking the door to make sure that you are safe.

Minho buttons up his wrinkled shirt, pulling the jacket over it and smoothing it out to ensure that nobody suspects anything.

Minho’s eyes turn to the maid who enters the room with the ring of a bell.

His demeanor is unfazed, a hand on the gun in his pocket once more. He holds eye contact, his stare intense.

He would make sure that there wasn’t another incident.

“Where is Miss Y/N?”

“She is bathing at the moment.”

She nods, walking towards the bathroom and knocking on the door.

You hum, allowing her to enter.

“What would you like for lunch, ma’am?”

“I don’t know, surprise me.”

A few seconds go by as you immerse yourself entirely in the water before rising back to the surface.

“Minho,” you call out, “What would you like?”

You hear the faint sigh that Minho gives as a response back to your question.

“I’ll just have a sandwich or something, whatever you have is fine.” He replies to both you and the maid as she exits the bathroom, fulfilling her duty of reporting your lunch choice.

The bedroom door shuts behind her.

“Minho!” You call out once again, “I order you to take me out of the bath.”

A few seconds pass before you hear Minho’s footsteps come near the bathroom once again. He grabs a towel as you stand, body bare and dripping with water.

His eyes have an intense focus as he reaches out his hand.

Minho pulls you up from the bath wraps the towel around you, making sure to cover all of you, and begins to dry off your hair.

“Minho,” you begin, “Daddy can’t know about what happened. He’d shoot you dead on the spot.”

Minho pauses for a moment, his eyes darting across the floor.

He is silent for a moment. “I won’t reveal anything to him.”

“Good boy,” you cling to the towel covering your body, “Go fetch a maid to dress me. While she does so, I want you to change out of that suit and shower before lunch.”

“Then I’ll go shower now. I’ll be back.”

You hum in agreement, stepping towards your bedroom as a maid rings the bell.

You drop your towel, letting her sift through your drawers to find decent clothing.

She eyes a hickey on your breast, along with the other injuries across your body from the kidnapping.

“Your injuries look agitated, Miss Y/N, are you sure that a bath was the best idea for you?”

“Don’t question me,” you grumble, “I took a bath because I wanted to.”

“Yes, miss.” She pulls the dress above your head smoothes it out, and clasps a necklace behind your neck.

“You’re all set for lunch.”

The moment that you come out of your room, you can feel his presence. He is leaning against the front door of the room with an unreadable expression.

He has another suit on, a fresh one. Minho’s previously muskier, dark scent has been replaced by a new, sweeter fragrance.

“First shower at the estate?” You question, “Our soaps are quite lovely and mild on the skin. You smell wonderful.”

Minho’s lips curl at the compliment, looking you up and down, “Seems that we both are putting our best foot forward.”

You look around to see if anyone is watching before leaning to ruffle his damp hair and leave a kiss on his cheek, taking the man by complete surprise. He makes an effort to regain his composure, but you can see that his cheeks are blushed from the touch.

As soon as you lean in to lock arms, you feel him lean over to you to whisper something.

“I would love to do that with you again.”

You froze in your spot, heat rushing to your thighs.

You must regain your composure, caught off guard by his blunt words, something unlike the ordinary nature of Minho.

He takes a seat across from you, watching every move that the maid makes to be sure that she doesn’t try anything— he has learned his lesson.

“Pressed Italian Picnic Sandwiches and tea,” The maid states, setting the plates on the table.

You scrunch my nose up. “What’s in it?”

“Artisanal prosciutto, aged provolone, and sun-dried tomatoes inside of a crusty ciabatta,” She doesn’t hesitate to list the ingredients, “and a fragrant blend of rare loose-leaf teas with fresh cream and sugar cubes.”

She sets the teapot and cups out, along with a carton of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes.

Minho’s hand rests on his gun, waiting for her to leave before taking a sip of tea.

You follow his action, dumping a couple of cubes into your tea and bringing it to your lips.

I finish my lunch with Minho.

“Let’s go back to my room now. I'm exhausted.”

Minho nods his head and you both finish up the meals quickly.

You both leave the dining area and stroll back to your bedroom.

As soon as you get back into the room, you feel Minho close the door behind you.

You don’t hesitate to climb into bed and lie down.

The guard looks over at you, observing the way that your chest rises and falls as you breathe. He notices every movement that your body is making.

“I command you to lay down with me.” You lean back against the bed, your body still and eyes focused on his unmoving body.

He slips off his shoes silently, slipping into the canopy bed.

You grin, curling at his side, pressing against his body.

His breathing is deep and steady as he struggles to get into a more comfortable position.

Your mind began racing with questions about the mysterious man that you were slowly falling for, burying yourself further into the sheets.

“Minho,” you start slowly, “How did you become tangled with our family?”

Minho stays silent for a few moments and you feel his body shift a little against yours.

“I didn’t have a lot of money or family growing up,” he kept his answer short and simply, “the moment that this job came my way, I took it. The people connected to this business have always stayed on the down low, so this is an easy job to keep."

“Daddy seems to like you,” you grit your teeth.

Minho turns to you on the bed and sits up a little. He looks at you from top to bottom, reading the worry on your face with ease.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“He will kill you on the spot if he finds out. He’s done that to almost every man who has flirted or slept with me.”

You pause for a moment. “God forbid the one he hired as my bodyguard.”

“I am not so easily killed.” The words leave his mouth with a tinge of arrogance.

“I trust you.”

“Good.”

There is stillness between you both for a time, but he breaks it by grabbing your chin and leaning in to kiss you. You soothe into his touch, smiling against his lips briefly before he pulls away.

“I order you to stay here. Like this.”

It’s not difficult for you to drift off to sleep beside him, and as always, Minho pursues your request, keeping a close eye on you. You relax, your breathing slow, and he notes all of the occasional twitches and movements that you make in your sleep.

A couple of hours later, the door is knocked on by a maid.

“Dinner order?”

Minho jolts awake from the knock on the door, a hand swiftly placed on your shoulder to protect you from any threats before turning his head towards the noise.

His voice is full of sleep. “Repeat that?”

As she opens the door, there is a look of inquiry on her face, one that she won’t ask to ensure her job and health.

“Is she asleep?” She questions instead, glancing over at your peaceful figure.

He turns his head towards you to double-check, observing your napping body.

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll advise the chef to prepare her dinner later tonight.”

She gives a sharp nod to the guard and scurries out of the room, quietly shutting the door to not disturb the girl.

Minho’s eyes rest on the door for a moment, fully alert now with a hand resting on his gun.

Eventually, he turns over to you. He has his eyes on you for a few seconds before leaning down to kiss you on the forehead, letting out a small sigh.

You stir at the warm touch, scrunching your face up and stretching your body.

“What time is it?” You ask groggily before burying your head into his neck.

“Dinner is in about half an hour. You hungry?”

“Not really,” you pull yourself up and rub your sleep-filled eyes.

He notices your body shiver as you pull yourself up. Minho lets out a short exhale.

“Did you sleep?”

“A bit.” He doesn’t look away or turn his head as he admires the way you stand and stretch your body, smoothing your dress of its wrinkles.

You walk towards your vanity mirror, plopping down in the chair to readjust your necklace to the center. A few marks on your collarbone catch your eye.

“The nurses will be in shortly.” You grit your teeth. “I hope they don’t notice.”

“They won’t notice.”

His figure can be seen from behind you in the reflection of the mirror. His lips are turned upwards as he watches you fix your appearance.

You pull out a couple of foundations and concealers, working on concealing the marks left from earlier.

“The maids wouldn’t, but the nurses will tell the difference between a hickey and a bruise. Especially since these are fresh.”

Even though you are busy with your makeup and covering up the bruises, Minho’s eyes are never off of you. It is a feeling that you will have to get used to— always having a watchful eye on you.

Once you were satisfied with the coverage, you rose from your seat quickly.

“Get up, we’re going to dinner.”

“So bossy.” He retorts. “What will you have?”

“I want to go out, let’s go somewhere fancy. Daddy will pay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want to go out when you have had a beating just two days ago?”

He asks it like he thinks it’s an absurd idea, almost condescendingly, yet his tone of voice is soft and full of concern for you, causing your stomach to flip inside out.

“I’m tired of staying inside already. This estate is suffocating,” you pull on your slip-on shoes.

“That’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place. I left the house and got kidnapped. That won’t happen with you here.”

“I guess you’re right. We’ll go somewhere nice.”

“Good. I’ll go tell Daddy.” You leave the door open for Minho to come after but don’t wait for him, yet you can tell that he follows behind silently, attending to the way your body moves in the dress as you make your way down the halls.

The door is slightly ajar, so when you knock, it pushes open with a creak, revealing your father inside.

Minho stands behind you like a shadow, his lips pressed into a straight line, gaze locked on your father, keeping his distance from the both of you.

“Come inside,” the older man invites both of them with a welcoming grin, “sit.”

You can sense that your father has something on his mind, which is never a good sign.

“I was going to call you to my office shortly, anyway.” Instantly you assume the worst.

You sit down, taking a seat in front of him. Minho is still standing in the back, his priority on you and your father.

The man looks over at Minho. Their eyes lock for a moment. “Guard, go lock the door. There is a conversation that needs to be had.”

Minho nods and he turns his head, locking the door behind him.

He turns his attention back to you, who is frozen in your seat, breath hitching.

The elite man fiddles with a pen at his desk, clicking it to drown out the tense silence.

The silence in the room seems so heavy that you wonder how neither you nor Minho is feeling sick. Judging by the thick atmosphere between the three of you, it is easy to tell that he isn’t pleased right now.

He fidgets with the pen and you wait for him to finally speak.

“Do you find my daughter to be precious, Guard?” He addresses Minho with a stern voice, finally setting the pen down at his wooden desk with a smack.

“Yes sir,” Minho replies flatly.

“Are you willing to protect her at all costs, even at your life?”

After moments of silence, he answers back confidently. “Yes sir. I am.”

A hand comes to rest at his side, toying loudly with a handgun, which he eventually pulls out of his pocket.

Tears begin to well up in your eyes, yet Minho stays concentrated. There isn’t a single sign of fear on his face. He is unshaken, calm, and collected as if he had been foreseeing this exact scenario.

“Do you know why you were assigned to guard my daughter, Minho?”

“I know the reasons.”

“There was a leak to the rivals from a previous staff member that I had a precious daughter in my life,” He turns towards you, “the one that I had climbed to the top of my career to protect and assure her safety and security.”

He cleared his throat before darting back to Minho, “It took less than a day for her to be taken from my hands and placed in the hands of one of my greatest enemies.”

Minho pays attention to every word that he speaks and clears his throat, waiting for your father to continue.

“I care for my daughter more than anything in the world. Which is why I had appointed the most valuable, honest, and competent man in the family to ensure her protection.”

Minho nods.

“Please don’t kill him, Daddy.”

The boss meets you with cold eyes, disregarding your words to proceed with his lecture. “You are my most prized possession. I would hurt anyone or anything to make sure that not a single person touches you. The men who kidnapped you are all taken care of, wiped out by my command.”

He continues. “I know everything that goes on in your life. Every meal, every kiss, every injury, the staff must report every minor thing that occurs in your day. I have eyes on you at all times, and you’re more than aware of that.”

Your shoulders stiffen. He knew.

“Minho,” his stare is burning into the other man, “I’ll get to the point. Did you sleep with my daughter?”

He doesn’t blink. His body tenses up and his voice remains neutral.

“Yes.”

The boss turns the safety off of his firearm and you dig your head into your hands, unable to observe the scene that is about to unfold.

The gunshot is fired, but the man deliberately aims to the left of Minho, grazing his cheek with the bullet before standing up instantly from his seat. The guard doesn’t react with more than a blink as the blood pools at the cut.

“I trust you, Minho. You are a good man. If there is a single person who I would choose to give my daughter to, it would be you.”

Finally, Minho takes this as a sign to let his guard down for a moment as his shoulders drop, lip quivering slightly. It was evident that there was more emotion that the guard was holding back, especially when he took a moment to look away.

“You have my approval.”

Your eyes widen.

“Take care of my daughter. If you break her heart, I’ll feed your own heart to her for supper.”

“Understood.”

“Take her to dinner,” a wad of cash is pulled out from one of the drawers, “buy her flowers and anything else that she asks for.”

“Yes sir.” He responds, “I’ll make sure that she gets the treatment that she deserves.”

You run to embrace your father, to which he places an arm around you, rubbing your back before pulling away.

“Get yourself dressed more sufficiently, I will have a car ready for you soon.”

Minho follows you out of his office, letting out a breath that he had been holding in once the door was closed.

“Did you hear that?” Do you know what this means?” You beam at the man before grabbing at his cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss.

He lets out a surprised noise, hesitantly wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing back.

When you break the kiss, he stares back at you with the first big smile that you’ve seen from him displayed on his face.

“Let’s get you ready.”

[softtdaisy]

scars become stars / Aaron Hotchner

summary. when Hotch gets tired of hating his body, he calls you, the escort he questioned for his last case, to help him

words count. 2 975

what to expect. mention of Foyet's attack and allusion that it's a SA, mention of his scars, 18+ MDNI oral male receiving

a/n. thank you insomnia i wanted to write this story so bad I got to imagine it all in my head, this is so sad and hot like??? but I'm happy the way it turned out I think so here it is 🩷

Aaron Hotchner series masterlist | criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

“Room 509, 9 p.m.”

Your boss’ messages had always been very simple, almost cryptic. And it got worse after the FBI sent the BAU over for a case. One of the girls was missing, kidnapped by some psycho but thankfully saved by the team.

The past week had just been a reminder that what you were doing was far from being safe, no matter the amount of security measures your boss kept adding. But you also had to be as secret as possible to not get caught one day by one of these -hot- agents.

When you entered the lobby, nobody was there except for the guy at the reception. Not a surprise, it was one of the few hotels in town that was used for…professional meetings.

“He’s here.” Jason—was it Jason? Or maybe John?—said, handing you the key.

The process was always the same. The client arrived before, got the key, and went to the room to wait for you. It gave them a moment to think and leave before you arrived—you couldn’t imagine the number of men who freaked out before even seeing you. And then, it was your moment. Around ten minutes after them.

In the elevator, you played the same game every time. Trying to guess your client's appearance. His age, his ethnicity, his height, and sometimes his kinks when you were in the higher floors.

But tonight, nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

“Agent Hotchner?”

There he was. The man that led the interrogation a few weeks ago. The very same man: dark hair, more messy than the last time, dark grey suit with the jacket resting on the bed, a white shirt underneath, and a navy blue tie with little dots still around his neck. Sitting on the bed, his large hands on his thighs and his head barely up, like he was insecure at your sight. That was the only changing point from your memory.

The agent Hotchner you met was far from being insecure. He was the man in the room. You remembered it perfectly. That type of confidence always did something to you.

“This isn’t a trap,” was the first thing he said. 

And when he finally looked at you, he added, “And you can call me Aaron.”

You laughed, very briefly. “What a reassuring first thing to say.” You sat next to him on the bed. The long coat you were wearing, one that hid the outfit you chose—a short black dress that wouldn’t be embarrassing in case you got a problem—opened on your legs. And you didn’t miss the way Hotch Aaron’s eyes went down on your body. At least, this seemed to confirm this wasn’t a trap and that man was indeed interested in you.

But he stayed in silence. His head was still facing the floor. Still playing with his hands. And he didn’t seem to care that you took this moment of peace to look at him, to analyze him. The mole on his cheek, the few hairs of his beard growing back, the little grey in his hair and beard, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, the dark circles under his eyes. 

You were so close that it felt almost unreal to look at Aaron Hotchner like that. He wasn’t the chief of the BAU right here, right now. He was a client, sure. But admiring him, he was a painting. A, obviously, very sad and broken painting.

“Listen,” you started. You sighed very briefly before bringing one of your hands on his. How little did it look on top of his. Your fingers could almost slip in between his fingers. “As much as I don’t mind being paid for doing nothing, would you like to tell me why we are here? In this room.”

Silence. Again.

Then Aaron got up and started walking in the room. It wasn’t an unusual habit. Most clients, especially when it was their first time, seemed to need this walk to accept what was happening. And well, a walk said a lot about someone. And there you could see the glimpse of the agent you’ve met. No matter how unsure he might be about the situation, his steps were confident. That was a man of power.

Then he turned to you. “Nothing will leave this room.” 

This wasn’t a question. This was an order, you guessed.

You moved your hands up. “Professional secret,” you replied with a smirk. You always found it funny that you were using the same excuse as lawyers, doctors, or therapists. 

Aaron nodded. But he kept his mouth shut, his lips tightened even to not say a thing. And so you got up too and walked to him, slowly. Almost like he was a deer in the headlights. “The moment you and I leave this room, I will forget everything that has happened here.”

You smiled as his eyes followed every movement of yours, from your walk to the way you stopped right in front of him. From the way you opened one single button of your coat to the way your hand moved to his arm. 

“Everything?” he asked.

“Well, almost everything,” you whispered, letting your fingers run all along his arm. “It’s hard to forget about a man like you, Agent Hotchner,” you emphasized in his name. Trying to make him understand that Aaron would stay in this room and only Hotch would stay in your mind after this. 

This seemed to convince him. After a last sigh, you heard him say, “I almost died two years ago.” 

This was clearly not what you expected.

Your hands slowly moved to his tie while he continued. “He stabbed me. Nine times.” You felt every word he said, almost like he was feeling the knife going under his skin again. You only kept one hand on his tie, undoing it, while the other rested on his chest to calm his heart—or at least tried.

“They healed,” he continued, looking at the way your fingers danced around the tissue of his tie. “But they’re still there. And I didn’t think about them much. After my ex-wife died, I couldn’t care less about what these wounds might make me look like.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured while the tie fell on the floor in silence. Everything was very silent with Aaron. Even the little shrug he gave you to say it’s ok. It wasn’t. It won’t ever be. But it wasn’t the point of the night.

“But I went on a date two or three weeks ago.” You ignored the little pinching in your heart at the idea that a woman got to touch that man. Not his wife—you couldn’t be jealous of a wife, especially not a dead wife. But another woman. You shouldn’t even be jealous of a woman, actually. 

“Everything went well until the moment we went to her place. When she kissed me, I knew what was coming. And suddenly, the idea of showing… I can’t show this to anyone.” His voice fell low at the end of his sentence. There was his insecurity.

You undid the first button of his shirt. “What do you want me to do, Aaron?” This was a genuine question. One you had to ask every client. But this one felt…different. He wasn’t looking for a one-night fuck, for a night with a stranger to have fun and change his life. You could clearly see that Aaron needed something more from you. 

Something you weren’t sure you could give him, to be honest.

And when he stayed silent another time, you wondered if he had profiled you through this and knew you weren’t sure about this either. 

“Hey.” You moved your hand to his face, cupping his cheek, while your other hand was caressing the little triangle of skin from his chest you could access. “Again, I can live with being paid for doing nothing. But I refuse to get paid for forcing you to do something. This can stop right now, Aaron, if you…”

“Help me love myself again.” 

If he still sounded insecure, you noticed the little bossy tone in his voice. He asked, Yes. He ordered, somehow. But mostly, he begged for you to do something. 

“Ok,” you simply said when your fingers went down on the next button and the next one. Until you started to see the healed scars on his chest. Until you could actually count them. You had to stop midway, fighting the sickness of imagining what this man went through. You could see how down they were going, where they were leading you.

But that wasn’t the point. You could show Aaron how sad you felt about his body when your mission was to make him feel better.

So you put your thoughts away in a little bubble inside your head. A bubble that won’t explode until later when Aaron won’t be right in front of you.

Something you were used to doing depending on the client. Except this time it wasn’t about your own feelings, but to protect his.

Softly, your lips met the first scar in a gentle kiss that lasted seconds. You gave it another one while your hand was finishing unbuttoning the shirt. Soon you felt the tissue opening, and your fingers had all the space to travel on his skin when your mouth was going down on the second scar.

“It’s a shame this body isn’t loved properly,” you whispered, looking up at Aaron. Your lips were still on the second scars, your fingers drawing invisible shapes on his skin. You saw how his eyes were barely open, just like his mouth. Living the moment, immersing himself in the appreciation you were trying to give him. 

“Hmm” was all he was able to reply. But the way his hand slowly moved to your hair when you went further, meeting another scar. 

You followed the same process the whole way down every scar. Kissing one, caressing the skin around the past one to not hurt him or create an unpleasant feeling but to keep the appreciation alive even without your lips on it.

If Aaron wasn’t speaking, the little moan that kept escaping his mouth was the only approval you needed. And maybe the way his fingers were now tangled in your hair, pulling them from time to time, was a good indicator too.

But then there was only one scar left.

You knew; you counted them.

You knew; you could almost see it.

It was mostly hidden by his pants, and maybe that was the worst part. The story these scars were telling. The placement, the number, the last one. 

In any other situation, you wouldn’t have done that. Not when the client already gave his approval before—and in this case, more than once. But still, on your knees in front of Aaron, with his eyes closed, waiting for the following kiss, you couldn’t just continue like it was nothing.

“Are you still sure?” You asked him, your hand on the buckle of his belt. 

At first, he didn’t answer. He tilted his head back, enough to rest it against the wall. He moved his hand to rest it on yours. You thought he would move it away or maybe help you to unbuckle it. But his thumb caressed your hand.

“You can go on,” he whispered.

So you did. The belt was open, the zip undone, the pants on the floor, and the boxer just barely down so you could access the scars—the more you had to lower it, the more you felt sick.

But again, you didn’t show anything. Instead, your lips fell on the last remaining scars. The one waiting for you. The one that Aaron needed you to heal the most. 

Because it wasn’t much about the scars on his chest. He found them awful and ugly. He hated that they were there. He hated that during the summer, he had to deal with looks on it when he was on holiday with his son. He hated that it was a reminder every single day of what he'd been through.

But this one. He knew why it was there. It wasn’t just a stab. It was more. That son of a bitch told it himself. If Hotch didn’t consider himself a SA survivor, he knew he was checking all the boxes.

When he felt your mouth on the scar, the whole world went silent. Not that there were many sounds. But Aaron could hear everything: the cars outside, the tick-tock of the clock on the wall, even the very low voices of the people in the next room.

Now, he couldn’t hear anything. Anything but the wet noises of your lips on his damaged skin. How, this time, your hands weren’t lost higher on his chest, but you were caressing his back. Your fingers going further and further, bringing his boxers with you as your kisses kept going lower too. 

You knew what you were doing.

He knew what you were saying.

That the scars didn’t destroy the desire you had for him. 

Him, agent Hotchner, the man who led the interrogation in that small room and that gave you an authority kink you didn’t even know you had.

Him, Aaron Hotchner, the man who decided to call an escort—you—to help him.

Him, Aaron, the man who melted under your touches and your kisses.

Your lips stayed on his scar longer than on the other ones while you helped his boxer slide along his long and muscular legs.

But once the coast was clear, your lips went lower too. Kissing his thighs, little by little, until you arrived at his inner thighs. Until your lips had no other choice but to meet his thick cock, waiting for you—for your kisses and your touches too. 

One last look. One. Just one. To be sure. 

Aaron was biting his lip so hard you wondered how it wasn’t bleeding already. Made you wonder for how long this man hadn’t been touched.

And maybe that little, very brief pause lasted too long—you thought it was a second, but maybe one second too many for him—but now his two hands were on your hair. And he had a very great pleasure guiding you closer to his cock. Again.

So with this approval, you finally took him in your mouth. And the loud moan that he let out, the loudest since he came in this room, was the confirmation this was all he needed. 

He felt everything: your tongue playing around his veins, his tip hitting the back of your throat, your fingers sinking into his thighs. He felt these things. Yet, everything felt like a distant dream. A fantasy that couldn’t be real.

Yet, when he opened his eyes, there you were. Still on your knees in front of you, your glossy eyes rolling at the pressure he put in your mouth and spit running down your chin. You were real. And you were making him feel real.

As he expected, he didn’t last longer around your lips.

And he was grateful there was a chair right next to him because he would have fallen on the floor in a second. 

It took him a moment to get everything in order in his head. But he looked back at you; you were still there. Sitting on the floor, your arm going on your mouth to get rid of what he left on you. “Thank you,” he muttered with all the sincerity in the world. 

Maybe he wasn’t healed yet, but he truly felt better. Because not once did he see a glimpse of disgust in your eyes when you were on him. And he had seen it in many people, even those who weren’t intimate with him. But not you. 

When you opened your mouth to speak, he expected you to say something like, That’s my job. 

Not “You look beautiful, Aaron.” 

He watched as you got up again simply to do the four steps that separated you from him.

He watched as you sat on his lap and put a hand on his neck to caress the base of his hair. 

“Don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise, ok? These scars, they are there; they won’t leave. And I'm sorry about that. But they don’t make you less of a man.” 

You let a single finger go down each of them, from the first one to the bottom one you gave more attention to.

“And if someone ever makes you feel like they make you less pretty, less…human. Send them to me; I’ve learned a few tricks to protect myself.”

Aaron laughed, bringing a hand to your waist to keep you against him. “Not sure it’s a thing to say to an FBI agent.” 

“Or you can come back,” you added with a smile. “This room will always be open for you.”

He looked at you in silence, the same goddamn silence that kept following him everywhere—hotel room, home, his bedroom. But this time, just to appreciate the view of this beautiful woman, who got to see many people on their knees for her, offering him, out of anybody, to come back. When he didn’t even give you any pleasure. 

“I thought you said you would forget about me when I leave.” 

“I said, I can forget about Aaron if I want to.” You corrected him. “And one of your agents said that the brain is a wonderful tool when it comes to memory.” 

He smiled at this because he remembered Spencer saying that to one of your colleagues who said she needed help to memorize her client. 

“So who knows, maybe I can find a locked drawer for you in case you come back.” 

Tag List: @kiwriteswords @monzabee @raysmayhem-72 @kajjaka @pastelpinkflowerlife (if you want to be in it, ask me and I’ll be happy to add you x)

[persevereforahappyending]

A Legacies Regret |4|

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: You were living in New York with your girlfriend, trying to forget about last year and just enjoy life, but that was easier said than done. (Sequel to A Legacies Secret)

Warnings: None?

Word Count: 2.5k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | A Legacies Secret Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Tara let her head fall back, opting to just glare at the ceiling. After Ghostface attacked, an officer had taken their statements then ordered Tara herself, you, and Sam into the back of a police cruiser. The cop brought all of you to the station and then stuck all three of you in the same interrogation room. Tara wasn’t sure why they needed to be interrogated; they were the ones attacked after all. That was beside the point though because they had been there for hours without anyone coming to check on them, let alone question them.

Tara was sitting in the middle with you on one side of her and Sam on the other side. Sam was in a similar position as her, rolling her head back and forth, trying to not lose her mind as the three of you waited for some cop to come in and tell you how they intend to catch this guy, even though Tara was sure they would fail, no matter what plan they came up with. You on the other hand had your head down your chin resting on your chest with your eyes closed. You had a long night at work, then Tara got herself in trouble and made you come out to search for her, you got barely a few hours of sleep on an uncomfortable couch, then you got attacked by Ghostface, and now you were sitting in a police station.

Tara glanced down at your bandaged arm, you had worse, so much worse, but Tara couldn’t peel her eyes away from the blood already soaking through. The paramedic had offered, strongly encouraged really, that you go to the hospital, but you had denied them. Ghostface hadn’t even been back a full day and you were already hurt. You didn’t even hesitate to knock the shelf over, just to buy Tara and Sam more time to escape, even though your knee was already causing you so much pain.

Tara furrowed her brow as she watched a pained expression cross your face right before you began shifting in your seat. You opened your eyes and readjusted yourself with a grimace. “Are you okay?” Tara asked. She was sure it was a stupid question; Sam said your knee bothered you regularly and you just put a ton of strain on it trying to protect them.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, though it wasn’t very convincing. “Just need rest,” you closed your eyes again. “And ice.” Tara nodded, though she was still unsure. Still, if you said all you needed was rest and ice, then she would make sure to get that for you, as soon as they could get back to the apartment, she would make sure you were comfortable in bed, prop your knee up with all the pillows, and get all the ice, making sure to change it as soon as it seemed like it was melting.

“This Ghostface-” Sam started.

“Don’t,” you instantly cut her off. “Not here,” you flicked your eyes to a corner of the room.

Tara followed your line of sight and saw a camera in the top corner of the room with a little blinking red light. Tara slumped back in her chair, they were already being recorded, not to mention the giant mirror, which was as probably actually two-way glass like in all the movies. She wondered if whoever was in charge was standing behind the mirror, just watching them this whole time. Sam seemed to agree with you because she just nodded and crossed her arms as she slumped back against her own chair.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” a man said, finally entering the room. All three of you looked up and Tara couldn’t help but furrow her brow, the man was Quinn’s father.

“So, our roommates dad just happened to pull our case?” Sam questioned. Tara raised her brow and saw you narrow your eyes at Bailey. It would be one hell of a coincidence if that were the case.

“No, my buddy did,” Bailey explained with a smile, but it did nothing to ease Tara’s suspicion. “But he offered it to me when it involved my daughters’ roommates.”

“Don’t you think that’s a conflict of interest?” You asked. You tilted; you had that look in your eye, the one you got when you were suspicious of someone’s motives.

“I could give it back to him if you want,” Bailey offered, giving another slightly awkward smile.

Tara watched you and Sam share a look. Tara didn’t know whether Bailey being on the case would be helpful or harmful, she knew why the two of you were suspicious, so she’d follow your lead in whatever the two of you decided. If Bailey was involved somehow then part of Tara wanted him nowhere near you and her friends, but another part of her knew the saying of keep your friend close and your enemies closer.

“It’s fine,” Sam finally decided.

“Great,” Bailey said. “Let’s start off with where you were last night?”

“I was at work most of the night,” you answered.

“And I was in therapy,” Sam said.

“Frat party,” Tara added.

“Then Sam and I got home about the same time,” you continued. “And quickly left to find Tara.”

“Which they did,” Tara couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the memory.

“And can others corroborate that?” Bailey asked.

“Yeah, we were with our friends Chad, Mindy, Ethan and Anika,” Sam said.

“I’m sure we made quite the impression to everyone at the party as well,” you added. Tara flicked a glare at you as you silently smiled to yourself, even though she herself also wanted to laugh.

Bailey furrowed his brow and looked at you questioningly. “I might have tased someone,” Sam said. Bailey opened and closed his mouth a few times as if he were surprised by this. Tara wasn’t sure why, he’d met Sam plenty of times, he knew how she was. “Completely warranted,” Sam crossed her arms, clearly feeling no sympathy for tasing Frankie, not that Tara cared about him either.

“Right,” Bailey said slowly. “Moving on, is there anyone you can think of who would want to kill you? Any of you have any enemies you can think of?”

“None who are alive,” Tara said with a shrug.

Bailey’s eyes widened at that. “And enemies?” you asked. “Half the internet,” you gestured with your hand. “Someone started some bullshit about what happened last year and how Sam was secretly behind it,” you rolled your eyes.

Tara couldn’t help but smile when she looked at you. You and Sam might not have been best friends, but you had been sticking up for her since all the Reddit posts came out. You were there and obviously knew the truth about what happened but you were also always one of the first to defend Sam if everyone was out and some stranger tried to say something to her.

“You were the prime suspect last year,” Bailey said, directing his attention to you. “Isn’t that, right?”

“And she was innocent,” Tara snapped, she wouldn’t let someone accuse you again. She never listened to any of the accusations last year and she always defended you, but she could have done more, she wouldn’t let anyone try and think the worst of you.

“Of course,” Bailey smiled; it was clear he was just trying to diffuse the tension though. “Just want to go over all the facts.”

“The facts are, some psycho is trying to kill us for some reason that only makes sense to their fucked-up mind.” Tara crossed her arms and glared across the table at Bailey. She went through this last year, and she wasn’t about to entertain this as anything less this time around.

Bailey opened his mouth to say something else but was interrupted by a knock at the door. “The FBI is here,” an officer said, poking his head in.

“What?” Bailey asked. “Why are they here?”

Bailey grumbled and quickly ran out of the room. Tara looked from her sister to you, and it seemed all of you agreed not to wait around. Tara wasn’t an expert, but she was well aware the police couldn’t hold any of you unless they were charging you and they had nothing to charge you with.

“Let’s go,” Sam mumbled.

Everyone got up and made their way out of the interrogation room. Tara glanced back to make sure you were still there as the three of you made your way through the police station. “Kirby?” Sam asked, stopping as she passed by one of the rooms.

“Sam?” someone asked. When they came out of the room Tara saw it was Kirby Reed, she used to go to school with Sam and was part of the 2011 Ghostface attacks. “Tara,” Kirby nodded at her. Her eyes paused on you, and she tilted her head as she took you in. “You must be Y/N,” she held out her hand. “Kirby Reed.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled but shook Kirby’s hand. “You’re with the FBI?”

Kirby nodded. “I’ve been investigating any and all things related to Ghostface.” You let out a curious hum. “Was already tracking your classmates,” she pointed at Tara. “When I got notified of their murder, then of the attack last night.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “That’s why we’re getting the hell out of town.” Sam turned to walk away without even a goodbye.

“Wait,” Kirby jogged to catch up with Sam. “You can’t leave town.” Sam rolled her eyes and gave Kirby a disbelieving look. Tara still wasn’t fully okay with just abandoning her education and running away but even she couldn’t believe Kirby was telling them to stick around. “This is still an active investigation.” Tara rolled her eyes, even though none of them were being charged they were still being treated like suspects.

“Whatever,” Sam mumbled. She pulled out her phone and Tara held her breath as she waited to see who had messaged Sam. “It’s Mindy.” Tara released the breath, she was sure Chad and Mindy were freaking out, no one had talked to them since they called to warn Sam about Ghostface being back. “She wants us to meet them at the school to go over suspects.”

“Great,” you mumbled. Tara looked back at you and her gaze softened, she knew everyone ganged up on you last year when they were going over suspects. Tara still felt bad at the fact that she insisted on you going to the meet up and then you not only got accused of being a murderer but also got attacked.

Tara wrapped her arms around your waist to try and bring you a little comfort while Sam continued to talk to Kirby. Once Sam agreed that none of you would leave town Kirby allowed all of you to leave. The three of you made your way to the front doors and Tara could already hear the crowd on the others side and see the flashing lights of cameras. She subconsciously curled into your side, and you put your arm around her shoulder in a protective embrace, almost like it was a reflex, before the three of you opened the doors and stepped outside.

Tara was tucked under your arm as the three of you pushed your way out of the police station. It seemed word had definitely gotten out about Ghostface being behind the attacks and now reporters were surrounding the station, screaming questions at the three of you. Tara thought last year was bad, with the amount of people calling every day, all of them trying to get a quote and ask for her side of the story.

Tara could hear her name being called from all directions, but she did as Sam told her and kept her head down and her eyes forward. Despite whatever was going on with you and her she knew you’d always protect her. You were probably still mad at her and yet your grip around her only tightened as the three of you pushed through the crowd.

Tara couldn’t help but release a breath when the three of you finally broke free of the crowd. “Gale Weathers,” a familiar voice from behind said. Even if Tara didn’t know Gale’s voice, she would have known it was her based on the way your entire body froze. “Channel Four.”

Sam was the first to whip around, Tara could hear the scoff, confirming it was in fact Gale behind them. Tara turned around in your arm, making your arm fall from her shoulder down to her waist, you still had yet to turn around though. Tara gently brushed her fingers across your hand and felt you physical relax. You turned your head first, meeting her gaze and she offered you a soft smile and a squeeze of your hand, it’s the only thing she could do to show she was there for you in that moment.

“Ladies,” Gale said with her typical reporter smile. “Do you think you’re the reason Ghostface is here?” she held the mic out for them to answer.

Sam scoffed and threw a punch. Tara didn’t see it coming but clearly Gale did as she easily dodged it and just came back with a chuckle. “Nice try sweety, but I’ve done this dance before.”

Tara didn’t know what got into her because as soon as those words left Gale’s mouth Tara clenched her fist and swung, clocking Gale right in the jaw, she didn’t see that one coming it seemed. “Stay the hell away from us,” Tara said, glaring at the woman.

Tara intertwined her hand with yours and pulled you away. You hadn’t spoken to Gale since Woodsboro, at least you had not truly spoken to her. You didn’t want a relationship with her and Gale didn’t seem interested in trying. Tara followed after Sam, making sure to not let you go, you still hadn’t said anything since getting out of the interrogation room.

Sam hailed a cab and the three of you piled into the taxi, with you getting in first, then Tara, and finally Sam. Sam slammed the door shut and told the man to take them to Blackmore University. Sam rested her arm against the door and propped up her head on her hand. It seemed like Sam was a little in her head at the moment so to try and give her space Tara directed her attention back to you.

“I’m sorry,” Tara whispered. You looked over at her, your eyebrows pinched together in a silent question. “For the punch.”

Your mouth twitched up into a smile and you lifted your intertwined hands and brought them to your mouth, giving her fingers a soft kiss. Tara couldn’t help but smile, she was sure she was blushing at the action. It was something you had done a thousand times but doing it now, when she clearly didn’t deserve your softness, it almost felt like how the two of you used to be.

“That was a good punch,” you said. “Guess you really don’t need my protection.”

Tara frowned at your sad smile. “I’ll always need you,” she whispered back. She gave your hand another squeeze and your smiled brightened a little. Tara knew she there was still a lot the two of you needed to talk about, a lot she needed to apologize for, but she was going to start by being there for you now and reassuring you whenever she had to.

Taglist: @mamas-evil-hag @thatshyboy1998 @btay3115 @idontliketoread2137 @nwestra

@honorarysimp @canyonyodeler @chxrry-lov3 @aceofspades190 @worstendingever

[returnofeternity]

I love love love your writing. Can you do one where reader gets the queen and Nat has to decide whether to continue on with the plan or help reader ? Or something like that

synopsis. you pull the queen card.

pairing: natalie scatorccio x gn!reader

genre: angst. 

wc: 1,256

· · 𖦹 · ·

this is a tough one. but not really. you'd definitely be in on the plan and a bit worried for nat because you know shauna's gonna interrogate the fuck out of you when she finds out nat is missing after the hunt. you weren't, however, in on the rigging that taivan did.

of course, both you and nat were terrified when shauna suggested the hunt in the first place. your safety was the first concern on her mind. she didn't wanna participate in it. she was out. you were out. but no one can change shauna shipman's mind.

she could barely sleep the night before. both due to how nervous she was and because she stayed up half the night comforting your own anxieties about it. she kissed your face and held your body until she felt it relax, leaning over ever so slightly to confirm you were asleep before she used your arm to calm herself down by running her thumb in circles repeatedly. the only thing that her mind could think of was the scenario of you picking the card. she doesn't know how long she lay there, thinking about tomorrow morning's hunt, but when she closes her eyes to rest, she can hear birds chirping.

it seems like she only got a few hours at most.

she wakes up to you shaking her shoulder, already dressed and holding her clothes with a bleak look. both of you are silent as you help her get dressed, and you don't speak until shauna comes around to everyone's huts and tells them it's time.

"good luck." you whisper, leaning in to kiss her. it's hard to pull away. you don't think you want to. both of you give each other small smiles when you pull back, and you nod at her after dusting yourself off. "let's go."

"let's go." she repeats, taking your hand and walking out of the hut alongside you.

you mutter "shit" under your breath as you see the white blanket of snow covering the ground and the huts. you knew it snowed but, fuck, it looks horrible out here.

nat huddles closer to you as you shuffle through the snow and over to where the girls are. you pick up on how van seems to play with the cards nervously. you give her a small smile as you pass, nodding at her as you get in line next to nat, maybe a little too closely for comfort.

hannah's next to you, and you feel a little awkward being beside her after she practically raided your girlfriend's hut the other day.

"sh-should i...?" van blinks rapidly, looking at shauna.

"you can start." she nods at van.

you roll your shoulders back as you look around the circle of your teammates, gulping nervously as all their tense energy wafts toward you.

not lottie though. as you glance at her, there's excitement on her face. almost reminiscent of how she'd look before a big game, smirking at the opponents as you all shook hands with them.

when you look back at nat, you can see misty out of the corner of your eye picking her card.

it's a ten of hearts. she's safe.

you don't miss the way shauna rolls her eyes slightly. it almost makes you break out into a smile.

misty and van switch, and van ends up pulling the 9 of diamonds.

you hold your breath and stand up straighter when misty moves to nat. you begin to pray to anything. to whatever god is up there, to whatever wilderness being is here with you all, to protect nat. let her be safe.

please, please, please, please, you whisper in your head.

you miss the way shauna eyes taissa.

natalie pulls an ace.

your shoulders relax and you smile at nat after she turns to you, and she's also giving you a small smile.

before you can reach for the deck, shauna's shoving her way between you and nat. she stares straight ahead, not looking at anyone.

"shauna, you don't need to take any extra risk. you can go back to your spot." taissa says assertively, but you can detect a bit of panic on her hard stare.

"misty, keep going." shauna bobs her head, moving a piece of hair from her face.

you glare at her and get back in line, watching with a scowl as she picks two of clubs. that was supposed to be your card.

fear settles deep inside your belly, and you can feel tears prickle. your mouth forms a straight line as you try to keep it all in, try to tell yourself that you'll be fine, but you don't quite believe yourself.

when you look at van, it doesn't help ease your worries at all. makes them worse actually. her teary blue eyes make your blood run cold, and a shaky breath escapes you as misty steps in front of you.

you clench your jaw as you pick. you don't even look because deep down you know. you can feel it. you hope and pray that you're wrong, but when you hear natalie's choked breath as you show your card, you know what you picked.

· · 𖦹 · ·

thinking of locking eyes with a very nearly sobbing nat, nodding at her as if to say "it's okay." but you're still fucking terrified. you don't want it. but if it can distract shauna so nat can go out and try for help to get everyone else out of here, you'll do it.

for natalie.

honestly..... i can see her pushing away shauna before she puts jackie's necklace on you. telling you to run while she tries to give you more time by distracting everyone :( you were probably seconds away from running yourself, but it was nat who did it first.

you run as far as you can. muscle memory takes you to where you and nat were supposed to say goodbye before she left, but you reckon it's too dangerous to stay just in case she sticks with the plan. so you keep running. you nearly start crying when you hear the animalistic sounds of the girls whooping and calling after you. but you manage to hide behind a tree long enough to watch mari and akilah run after your 'footprints.'

thinking of nat who gets to you first.

running into her arms and just sobbing as quietly as you can without attracting attention. nat who kisses you and strokes your back while babbling about how she's gonna help you, that she can figure this out.

telling her that you love her so much. telling her that you can do this, that you can juke them out and hide long enough for her to go and get help. she doesn't wanna leave you but seeing you cry and beg for her to go before they see her with you has her heart clenching. you have her convinced.

you kiss her until your lungs hurt.

you tell her that you'll see her on the rescue plane.

nat who watches you run away when you both hear the sounds of the girls getting closer.

nat who's crying so hard she can barely make her way to the secret place where she hid the transmitter.

nat who cries and screams as she tries to get it to work up on the mountain, begging for someone to help you.

nat who doesn't even know that you've been dead for days when she eventually heads back to camp.

[diejager]

Kinktober 2024 masterlist

Welcome to my first Kinktober! I'll try posting something everyday for this event, but I can't promise anything.

REMINDER: A few of these drabbles will be DARK [contains: DUB-CON/NON-CON & RAPE], but there will be drabble-specific warnings. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT - MDNI.

d - dark

Navigation

Day 1 - Pegging (König x fem!reader)

Day 2 - Anal beads (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x gn!reader)

Day 3 - Public sex + orgasm control (Nightwing x fem!reader)

Day 4 - Cockwarming + hickeys (John Price x fem!reader) | d

Day 5 - Double Penetration + Praise/Degredation (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick)

Day 6 - Face sitting + 69 (Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader)

Day 7 - Knife play + gags (Ghostface x fem!reader) | d

Day 8 - Bondage + blindfold (Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader) | d

Day 9 - A/B/O (Alpha!Valeria Garza x omega!reader)

Day 10 - Oral fixation (Rudolfo Parra x gn!reader)

Day 11 - Somnophilia + breath play (Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader)

Day 12 - Hunter/prey + uniform (Red Hood x fem!reader) | d

Day 13 - Sex pollen (Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader) | d

Day 14 - Monsterfucking (The Unknown x fem!reader) | d

Day 15 - glory hole + free use (Cod x fem!reader)

Day 16 - Phone sex + orgasm denial (Ghostface x fem!reader)

Day 17 - Period sex + fluff (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader)

Day 18 - Cock ring + dacryphilia (Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader)

Day 19 - Cock worship + prince albert piercing (Miguel O'Hara x fem!reader)

Day 20 - Threesome + chocolate aphrodisiac (Nikto + Krueger x fem!reader) | d

Day 21 - Glove kink + hair pulling (Nightwing x fem!reader)

Day 22 - Food play + mating press (Konig x fem!reader)

Day 23 - Frottage + stockings (Red Hood x fem!reader)

Day 24 - Mirror sex + dumbification (Alejandro Vargas x fem!reader)

Day 25 - Interrogation role play + aftercare (Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader)

Day 26 - Anonymous sex + formal wear (Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x fem!reader)

Day 27 - Tit/thigh fucking (Micheal Myers x fem!reader) | d

Day 28 - Voyeurism + cuckhold (Ghostface x fem!reader) | d

Day 29 - Shower sex + sloppy kisses (Red Hood x fem!reader)

Day 30 - Edging + brat taming (John Price x fem!reader)

Day 31 - Mommy kink (Valeria Garza x fem!reader)

🎃👻HAPPY HALLOWEEN 👻🎃