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saintobio · 2 months ago

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THE COLONEL'S SAINT.

in wartime, there are no saints. only broken souls, like yours and his, both scarred by battles fought in a world that has forgotten mercy. but perhaps peace was simply never meant for everyone. perhaps it only ever comes at a cost—freedom paid for by the ruin of another.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. heavy angst, smut, historical au, 18+

➤ tags. colonel!caleb, nurse!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, wartime, unrequited love, profanity, violence, explicit smut, depression, PTSD, recollection of extremely traumatic events, references to past sexual assault (not from caleb), obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, injuries, blood, killings, morally gray dynamics, grief, death. themes contain material that are heavy and disturbing—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 9.8k wc. divider by thecutestgrotto. all i can say is i enjoyed writing this au so much :)) reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

➤ previous. 001 the colonel’s keeper | colonel caleb playlist

“I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m here now. I’ve killed every single one of ‘em for you,” he said in a tone so affectionate you almost wondered if it was a dream. “I’ll take you home. No one’s gonna touch you ever again.”

The irony, however, presented itself the moment Caleb touched you. Because rather than feeling a sense of relief in his own way of apologizing, a deep, all-consuming dread wrapped around your bones instead.

Because this wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a return to a different kind of prison.

Your battered body trembled in his grip as his presence, something you once ached for, now loomed over you like a final, cruel joke. You thought being here—being dragged through hell, used, and discarded—was the worst fate imaginable.

But, no.

The true horror was returning to Caleb.

Because you knew now. You finally understood. There was no future for you. Not in his arms. Not in this world. And the look in his eyes, that dangerous, unhinged gleam that he would never let you go. Not now. Not ever.

So before he could react, before he could drag you back into the nightmare of his possessive grasp, your trembling fingers wrapped around his gun.

His own gun. His own weapon.

For the first time, his cold, calculating gaze faltered, widening in shock as you tore it from his holster with the last of your strength. “Y/N—”

The barrel was already pressed to your temple.

…

But you couldn’t pull the trigger.

You thought you could. You had rehearsed it in your mind over and over again—how the metal would feel in your hands, how your fingers would squeeze the trigger with defiance instead of hesitation. In the fantasy, it was clean. Controlled. Almost poetic as you would have told him he deserved to be left by the women he loved.

Reality wasn’t like that, however.

Because the moment Caleb dropped to his knees before you, his face contorted into something grotesque, something desperate, something inhuman, and you froze. Not out of fear. Not exactly. It was something deeper. You lay there, your heart thudding like a drum as your trembling fingers closed around his gun. You could still feel the warmth of his hand on the grip, still smell the gunpowder and oil. The heavy weight of the weapon wasn’t just from the metal, it was the amount of men he killed with it. With an obsession for power and control.

In another life, maybe you did it.

In another life, you imagined yourself pulling the trigger without flinching. In another life, maybe you were brave enough—or broken enough—to leave like that. To end the story on your own terms.

But in this one?

You couldn’t. God, you just couldn’t. You were a coward. And when Caleb whispered your name—his voice cracked, soft, pleading. It shattered the illusion completely. “Don’t do this, baby,” he begged. “I’m taking you home.”

And you didn’t run. You didn’t scream. You didn’t even look away. You just let him. You let him take your hand, let him lift you to your feet as if your bones hadn’t turned to ash. You let him wrap his coat around your shoulders and murmur something unintelligible against your hair, his breath warm, his touch careful.

“I’ll protect you, Y/N.”

You didn’t believe him, of course. But you let him.

You let Caleb bring you back to the base—not because you forgave him, not because you trusted him, and certainly not because you still loved him, but because you were done fighting. Because your body moved without you, like something detached from soul and will. You weren’t a woman anymore. Not in that moment.

You were something to be carried. Something to be watched and managed and contained. You were no longer a person. You were property of a war, of a man worse than the devil.

And still, you walked beside him.

Because sometimes survival doesn’t feel like victory.

Sometimes, it just feels like surrender.

Back at base, the atmosphere was more chilling than you remembered. Or maybe you were just too far gone to feel warmth. Maybe you’d become so detached, so hollowed out, that even warmth refused to settle in your bones anymore. The world moved around you like normal. People walked, spoke, ate, lived—but you? You couldn’t feel a part of it. You were merely a presence.

Yet, everyone stared. They always did. In passing, in the corridors, during drills, in the infirmary. Some in pity, others with quiet contempt. A few just looked because they could. Because even bruised and broken, you were a spectacle. Like you always were.

“Has she gone crazy?” “Is it the PTSD kicking in?”

You didn’t meet their eyes. You stopped meeting even your own in the mirror. And as the days passed, Caleb didn’t leave your side. He was always hovering, always watching you in silence, always studying the catatonic expression on your face as you moved with listless effort. Perhaps he was watching you out of guilt, or perhaps out of something sinister. Did he enjoy the look of desolation in your eyes? Did he think he’d won this war, now that you no longer fought him?

The whispers followed you even into the mess hall, the one place people pretended to be too busy to gossip. Except now, they didn’t pretend at all. Not when it was you sitting there, quietly picking at your food like a prisoner fed only to stay alive. Today’s rationed meals were stale bread and bland starchy soup—a probable reason why they’d rather channel their energy towards you than their food.

“She brought it on herself.”

“Should’ve stayed in her place.”

“He only wants her because she reminds him of the wife.”

The spoon in your hand paused midair, with your eyes fixed on the dull metal surface, seeing your reflection warped and small in the curve. You set it down slowly, and let out a short, broken laugh. There was nothing funny, of course. But for you, the humor was in the hell you returned to. Did they think the worst had already happened? They were wrong. The worst was this. Coming back. Living.

And while in your hysteria, silence suddenly filled the hall. A strange stillness swept through like a cold wind, and you didn’t even need to look to know why. As boots stomped across the tiled floor, you already knew what caused the sudden silence within the slate grey walls.

Caleb, stern as ever.

Surely, he never came here before. High-ranking officers often ate in private rooms or their quarters, never with the rest of the unit and the civilians. But here he was now, his commanding presence turning heads and stiffening spines. No one dared look your way anymore. Not when he was near.

And as for him, he approached you slowly like how he would to a skittish animal. Yet you kept your gaze on your tray, eyes glazed over, expression unreadable. The frenzied smile left your face the moment he was near. It was as if he didn’t exist.

He stood there for a moment. Then, to everyone’s quiet horror, he sat beside you. No, he lowered himself beside you, crouching so his face was nearly level with yours.

“What are you doing eating here?” he asked softly. “You know the food’s better in my quarters.”

You didn’t answer. You never really spoke to him. You hadn’t even opened your mouth to say anything at all since the day he ‘rescued’ you, and simply because words had abandoned you. Everything had. And the odd part about this was the fact that Caleb was openly speaking to you like this. Because before everything fell apart, he never acknowledged you in public. Not once did he show everyone that you were someone he cared for. So, what cruel actor was crouching down next to you now?

You stared forward like he wasn’t even there.

And you could hear him sigh, at least before his voice dropped even lower, gentle enough that only you could hear it. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured. “Let me nurse you back to health. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. Just stop tuning me out.”

And still, you said nothing.

Because what could you want from a man who said he wanted you, but only knew how to possess? From a world where the only safety you were offered came in the shape of your captor’s hands, life was absolutely brutal. You sat in silence, surrounded by soldiers, nurses, and civilians who couldn’t even look at you anymore. And yet, the only person who truly saw you—saw the hollow, broken wreck you’d become—was the very man who helped destroy you.

Night flight was always the quietest kind of hell.

The sky was an endless stretch before him, a black void littered with stars he no longer believed in. Inside the cockpit of the FY-29, the most advanced multirole fighter in their fleet, the world shrank down to the hum of electronics and the flickering glow of digital readouts. HUD projection blinked green against his helmet visor. Altitude holding steady. Speed: Mach 1.4. Engine thrust calibrated to optimal efficiency.

“Colonel, enemy radar ping detected. Recon drone at ten o’clock, altitude three hundred feet below,” came the voice in his comms.

“Visual confirmed,” Caleb replied flatly, adjusting his yoke with one hand. “Engage radar dampeners. Veer five degrees north. Let the bastard scan a ghost trail.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sharp tilt of the aircraft rolled the horizon sideways. Caleb barely noticed.

He’d done this too many times—cutting through foreign airspace like a silent reaper, completely invisible in the dark. His hands moved with muscle memory, flipping switches, adjusting trajectory. But his mind…

His mind drifted.

To you.

To the way your voice once sounded when you still spoke to him with warmth. The way your eyes used to light up when he returned from missions. Now, they were empty. Now, they didn’t even flinch when he entered the room.

Guilt had lodged itself into the pit of his stomach and made a home there. He told himself he had brought you back to protect you. He told himself you needed someone to hold you up. But lately, he couldn’t tell who was holding whom hostage.

You had begged him once, asked him to love you, asked him to forget about his dead wife and just be with you. Now, with the way you were acting, it felt as though he was no better than the monsters who took you.

The truth was—he knew he had made a grave miscalculation. He never truly meant for the punishment to go that far. It had been anger, impulse, the heat of a moment he should’ve controlled. He should’ve gone to the frontlines sooner. He should’ve been there before the enemy got to you… before they shattered the sanctity of your body and stole the softness that once defined you.

Goddamn it.

A flicker on the monitor snapped him back. One of the secondary comms flashed: High Priority Incoming – Ground Squad Gamma 4. He tapped it.

“Colonel,” came the crackling report, “we’ve captured a batch of civilians—all women, army wives. Enemy ranks. Found hiding in one of the ravaged villages, just outside Sector 11. Orders?”

Caleb didn’t answer at first.

Instead, his jaw clenched. He closed his eyes briefly, long enough to picture your face contorted in sleep; how you cried out some nights from dreams you never remembered, or maybe remembered too well. How sometimes you whispered “Please don’t touch me,” to a room that was empty but for him. How you devastatingly screamed, “No more! No more!” as the memories of traumatizing hands touching you over and over, flooded back to you in a form of a nightmare.

His voice, when it came, was cold steel.

“Do what you want with them,” he said in full conviction. “Leave none behind.”

There was a pause on the other end. Hesitation.

“Sir…?” the voice wavered.

“You heard me,” was Caleb’s firm response. “Whatever they did to ours—we’ll repay it in kind.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation. He cut the channel, flipped the frequency, and angled the jet into descent mode.

Everything you do is morally justified during war, Caleb.

Lights flickered overhead as he walked through the empty corridor of the officers wing, the soles of his boots bouncing too loud against concrete. He didn’t bother knocking the second he arrived at his quarters, seeing that his room was dark, and you lay curled under the thin blanket, hair stuck to your face from cold sweat. Seeing you like that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

And then the screaming started.

You thrashed—kicking off the sheet, twisting against invisible restraints. Your cries weren’t words but whimpers, pleading, raw sounds from your throat like you were being torn apart all over again. Caleb froze in the doorway. For a second, his legs wouldn’t move. The war inside his chest, the storm he unleashed with just a single order—it all paled in comparison to the agony carved into your sleep. When he finally stepped forward, his hand twitched as it reached out.

“Hey,” he whispered, kneeling beside you. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re not there anymore.”

You didn’t wake, and neither did you calm. You just screamed harder, fingers digging into the mattress like it was the only thing keeping you shackled to this world. Caleb embraced you in his arms like a fragile object he was protecting, but nothing comforted you at this point. Not his storm-violet eyes nor his saintly face.

Even when he wiped your sweat, brought you tea, and sat in silence.

And perhaps, he finally understood. The reason for your silence hadn’t been just the trauma. It wasn’t just the violence or the bruises or the way your voice cracked when you said nothing at all. No, it was simpler than that. More human. It was because he had never actually said sorry.

Sure, he remembered whispering it in a shattered breath when he pulled you out of the enemy’s grasp—covered in bruises, half-alive, delirious. But that wasn’t the kind of apology you needed. That had been panic. Guilt. A bandage over a wound that needed surgery. And you, you deserved something slower, softer, and more honest. Something earned.

And so he found himself sitting at the edge of your bed now, studying the glazed look in your eyes. You weren’t with him. You were locked somewhere far inside yourself, behind doors he had helped bolt shut.

“You feel hot,” Caleb murmured as he reached for your forehead, calloused fingers brushing your clammy skin with an unexpected tenderness. “Should I call one of the nurses? They can wipe you down with a cold towel.”

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have allowed anyone near you. His protectiveness knew no bounds, especially not after what happened. But tonight, he understood. You didn’t want his touch. Maybe you couldn’t bear it. Maybe the thought of his skin on yours only reminded you of everything you had survived.

So he offered space, even if it killed him.

But you didn’t respond. You just quietly rose from the bed like a graceful ghost. Your bare feet padded across the cold floor, not a sound made with every step. The moonlight slashed across your face as you entered the bathroom, and then you undressed slowly, wordlessly, under its silver glow.

He knew better than to follow. But he still did. Only to make sure you were safe. Only to watch over you, because watching was all he could do now. From the doorway, he saw your silhouette curled under the cascade of water. You weren’t washing. You were scrubbing. Frantically. Desperately. Your fingernails dug into your own skin as you scrubbed, over and over, rubbing raw the places where their hands had once been. You weren’t trying to get clean. You were trying to disappear. As if your skin still remembered the hands that touched you. As if water could erase what the world had done to you.

You sobbed without sound, and that was somehow worse. Because your pain had learned to stay quiet.

Without thinking, Caleb stepped inside. His boots soaked instantly, and the water darkened the fabric of his uniform in seconds, but he didn’t care. He grabbed a towel from the rack and walked toward you slowly.

“Y/N,” he said quietly. “You’re going to make yourself bleed.”

You didn’t flinch when he wrapped it around you. You kept scrubbing even when he gently pulled you into his arms and let yourself cry like someone who had run out of ways to survive.

He just held you in silence. In stillness. And in that moment, something in his gentleness made you snap. Your hands shook violently and your voice cracked into a shriek. “You m-monster!” you sobbed, your throat raw from disuse and despair. It was the first time you spoke to him again since… “Y-You animal!”

“Y/N—”

“You let me—” your voice choked on grief. “You let them do that to me! You left me! And now you act like y-you… like you care—?”

Caleb took every word, every blow, and let it tear through him. He didn’t know how to fix something so broken. It was like a shattered glass that can never be repaired. The cracks would always show, no matter how hard he tried to put them all back together.

You collapsed against him, the towel sliding loose. “Why n-now?” you whispered, tears flooding your eyes. “Why are you pretending like I still matter? Isn’t this w-what you wanted?”

“I’m not pretending,” he said hoarsely, barely able to speak past the guilt in his throat. “And no, I didn’t want this, Y/N. I didn’t.”

You shook your head violently, water flinging from your hair. “No. No, I’m dead, Caleb. You won. This is what you wanted me to become—someone who’s been passed around like a rag. I’ll never be like your wife!”

While he held his breath, you must have expected him to deny it. To recoil. To offer some hollow line about how you were still you and that he didn’t care about his dead wife anymore. Instead, Caleb wrapped your body again with the towel, tighter this time around, before he carried you out of the bathroom.

“I still grieve for her every day,” he said. “But I’m not leaving you again.”

You shut your eyes and refused to meet his again. His words seemingly have no effect on you anymore.

I should’ve gone sooner, he thought to himself. I should’ve lowered my pride and reached you faster. I should’ve said sorry when it still mattered.

“I can’t take back what happened,” Caleb said, chest rising and falling raggedly. “But if there’s a version of hell where I can stay with you, then I’ll take it. I’ll live there. With you.”

He would learn how to love you gently, if you’d let him.

He would speak with actions now: the soft blankets, the untouched side of the bed he never crossed, the way he learned the names of every nurse you trusted, the way he installed new locks on your door so you would feel safe again, the way he trained the soldiers himself—brutally—so no one would ever think of hurting you again.

And when he wasn’t looking, when you were too tired to keep your eyes open, he would sit at your bedside every night and whisper a prayer. Not for redemption.

But for your peace.

A YEAR AGO — INFIRMARY

“This might sting a little, sir.”

A gentle furrow settled between your brows as you dabbed at Caleb’s shoulder, cleaning the angry gash that sliced through his skin. He sat still, shirt peeled halfway down, and his jaw tense, but not from pain. He wasn’t even looking at the wound. His gaze, all of it, was fixed on you like he was considering a thought.

Your hand paused.

“…What?” you asked, a nervous laugh escaping.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “You’re just… very good at what you do.”

You smiled faintly. “You say that every time you come in here half-dead.”

“I like repeating things that are true.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were warm. He saw that, too. You tried to turn your back to his shoulder, resuming your task, or rather, to hide the heat that suffused your cheeks. “Do you ever get tired of coming back here wounded?” you asked. “I know you're high-ranking and invincible and all, but maybe don't catch bullets with your body next time.”

He chuckled. “But didn’t you say you wanted to see me a lot?”

“Well…” You looked away, blushing. He knew about your silly little crush on him, that’s for sure. “Not in this way, sir.”

There was a long pause. Comfortable, almost. So comfortable that you could almost hear Caleb’s breathing. And then, like it had been on his mind the whole time, he asked, “Do you want to move in with me?”

Your hand froze again, gauze hovering just above the wound. “…I’m sorry?”

He turned slightly to face you, wincing only a little. His voice was calmer than you expected. “It’s cold in my quarters. Too quiet. And I keep thinking how I’d rather have you there.”

You stared at him, stunned. You knew what he wanted. You knew why he asked for it.

“You barely know me,” you whispered, heart racing in your chest.

“I know enough,” Caleb replied, eyes searching yours. “I know you care more than most people do. I know you’re smart, and patient, and you smell like peppermint and laundry soap.”

Your lips parted, caught between surprise and disbelief.

“And I know,” he added, softer, “that I feel a lot less lonely when I’m around you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Tense, but not in fear. And when your eyes flickered to his lips, just for a second, he noticed. He took that as a sign to lean in slowly. Like a man trained to read danger, but still willing to take the risk. His hand, still rough and bloodied, hovered at your cheek, asking without words.

You didn’t stop him.

The kiss was soft and hesitant at first. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as his lips pressed gently to yours and moved with perfect sync. For a moment, you forgot the war. Forgot who he was and what you were. You just remembered what it felt like to be wanted.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead to yours before pecking your lips once more.

“I’ll look forward to your answer, Nurse Y/N,” Caleb whispered through your lips. “You’ll live a more comfortable life if you’re with me.”

INT. CALEB’S PRIVATE QUARTERS – NIGHT

The storm outside was brewing with anger, but it didn’t reflect in the way he kissed you.

He was right, sleeping in the private quarters was much better than the bunkers, but that wasn’t the main prize. It was him, Caleb, the man you offered your heart and yourself to, knowing full well that he wanted you just the same.

“Mmh—Caleb!”

The room only carried the flicker of an old lamp forming shadows over military-issued sheets and disheveled clothes strewn across the floor. Your bodies were tangled in the warmth of each other, breathless, bare. Caleb had you laying sideways, and him positioned at your back, lifting your leg so he could get better access. His skin was slick with sweat, his hand moving to squeeze your mound, anchoring you close like he couldn’t stand a single inch of distance.

It wasn’t rushed this time. Neither desperate.

He moved with reverence. As if he wanted to memorize the exact shape of your body, the slope of your waist, the sound you made when his member hit your sweetest spot. And you, you let yourself melt into him, allowing him to fill you in for as many times as you both wanted, so long as you still had the strength.

“Caleb,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair.

His grip tightened on your hip. This time, he was increasing his pace. Ramming into you sideways might be his new favorite thing, because whenever he was near, he would usually go for the traditional missionary. Not this time, however.

“Fuck. You’re so tight for me, baby.” And just when you were at the peak of your pleasure, he suddenly whispered another woman’s name.

His wife’s name.

You froze.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did—and just kept kissing your neck, as if saying her name didn’t gut the room into silence.

You didn’t say anything. Not that night.

Even when it was over. You cuddled deeper into his chest, heart twisting, the back of your throat stinging. Maybe he didn’t mean it. Maybe he wasn’t even fully awake. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself his body was warm, his arms wrapped around you, his breath even and calm—and that should be enough.

You told yourself you were alive, and she wasn’t.

INT. CALEB’S PRIVATE QUARTERS – AFTERNOON

Supper was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat across from Caleb at the small table he rarely ever used—usually preferring to eat on the go, or not at all. But tonight, he had insisted you two start dining together so you didn’t have to leave the room. The portions were modest: military rations dressed up with a little too much seasoning, but it was so much better than MRE, or even the ones served at the mess hall. And you could ask for seconds if you wanted to.

Yet, no matter how abundant your table was, the silence was what was making you full. Your fork scraped softly against the plate, wondering why Caleb wasn’t eating much. He was just pushing food around with the edge of his fork, his eyebrows furrowed after what appeared to be a terrible day in the skies.

You cut into the silence with the question that had been gnawing at you since dawn. “Do you think you’ll ever remarry?”

Caleb’s body stiffened. His fork stilled mid-motion. His features were blank, but something behind his eyes tightened, like he wasn’t sure he had heard you right that he even had to repeat it. “Remarry?”

You nodded, keeping your tone as casual as possible, though your hand trembled just slightly where it gripped the stem of the water glass. “I mean, the war can’t last forever. Things might calm down someday. You’re still young. Still capable of—”

“Stop.” He cut you off, voice low and firm.

You swallowed. “It’s just a question, darling.”

“No, it’s not,” he muttered, dropping his fork with a quiet clatter. “You’re tryin’ to make me say something I’m not ready to say.”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” you replied, your voice soft. “I just want to know where I stand.”

His expression hardened, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Don’t turn this into some kind of—what, a proposal? A plea for commitment? Because if that’s what this is—”

“No, Caleb… I just,” you paused, looking away and exhaling through your nose. “I don’t want to feel like I’m competing with a dead person.”

Silence.

He didn’t like it. Your words, how callously you called his wife a dead person. The sharpness of his eyes seemed to have considered ways of killing you. But Caleb stood abruptly, and his chair scraped back with an ugly screech.

“Lost my appetite.” He didn’t look at you as he said it. He just turned, grabbed his coat from the hook near the door, and walked out—quiet, controlled steps, like if he didn’t leave now, he might say something he couldn’t take back. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth and don’t talk about this bullshit with me ever again.”

You were staring at the ceiling again.

Stiff sheets under your back. The sharp antiseptic sting of alcohol soaked into gauze. Somewhere far off, a nurse was whispering instructions—Claire. You recognized her voice all too well.

She never liked you before. She loathed you even more now.

“She’s acting like some kind of war princess,” she scoffed not even a meter away. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s carrying every disease known to man. After what she’s been through? God, Colonel should’ve left her to rot.”

You didn’t react. You simply shut your eyes, allowing her words to come and go without making an impact. Empathy was a luxury no one could afford in wartime, and you’d long stopped expecting it from anyone, least of all her.

“She lost a lot of blood. The glass… it was lodged deep—”

“She’s lucky she didn’t hit an artery. If she wants to kill herself, at least do it right.”

Lucky.

You almost laughed.

Because it wasn’t your first time trying.

They thought Caleb had it all figured out. They thought that locking you away in his quarters, removing every shard of metal, every sliver of risk, every ounce of danger would be enough to keep you alive. You were a silent prisoner under the guise of protection. Doors locked from the outside. Soldiers who shadowed your every step when you were allowed to walk beyond four walls. They even took your combs, your mirror, your goddamn belt—anything that could snap or slice or wrap around your throat.

They watched you like you were sacred.

But no one realized that glass, when cracked the right way, could become a weapon, too.

It had started with something so small, during the time when Caleb had to leave base for a few days. It was from a small picture frame that had Caleb’s formal military photo inside. During an intense, heavy bombing outside, you were alone, unsupervised for the first time in days. The entire base shook with a violent thud, and the picture frame fell on the floor. You tried to pick it up and aimed to put it back.

Only to see that the glass had shattered.

And you had just… stared. At the jagged edge sticking out of the frame. At the glittering fragments on the floor.

You didn’t hesitate.

You grabbed a shard like it was salvation, and before your brain could catch up, your arm was already bleeding. The kind of bleeding you don’t come back from if you were left alone long enough. You slumped against the wall. Felt the warmth of it leaking down your skin, soaking into your lap. You welcomed the numbness, the strong smell of iron gushing out of your open wound.

But someone found you too soon.

You remembered the soldier’s face as he stumbled into the room—young, horrified, hands shaking as he shouted for help. “She’s cut—fuck, she’s bleeding bad! Get the medics! Get the fucking medics—!”

Now, back in the present, one of the guards paced at the edge of your hospital bed, too afraid to look you in the eye. “The Colonel might kill us for letting it happen. For not watching you close enough.”

You blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, lips cracked.

“Then he should kill himself, too,” you whispered.

The room fell silent. You turned your head slightly toward the door—the new one they’d installed. Reinforced. Bulletproof. No cracks this time. Just a clear view of the world you weren’t allowed to be part of anymore.

“We can’t reach Colonel Caleb—he’s at the outposts, but he’ll be back soon,” was the last thing you heard from him before the medicine took over. “As for what happened to you in enemy territory, miss… don’t worry about it. The Colonel made sure to return the favor.”

Caleb stepped into the room, the heavy door creaking as it closed behind him. His footsteps were deliberate, yet silent, as he made his way toward the bed where you sat, eyes cast downward and clearly avoiding his gaze. The silence between you two was suffocating, so much so that he forgot he had ears for a second.

He didn’t say anything at first. His gaze swept across the room, lingering on the bandages wrapped around your arm to look at the remnants of your self-inflicted wounds that he had heard about during the day. His jaw tightened, but he remained silent, studying the way the white bandages were stained with a deep red. Finally, eventually, his voice cut through the thick air. “When are you going to stop hurting yourself?”

Your heart clenched, and without lifting your eyes to meet his, you muttered, “When you die.”

The grudge had been simmering inside you for so long. Now, spoken aloud, you couldn’t look at him. You didn’t want to see the effect it had on him. But you also couldn’t stop yourself from continuing.

“Every time you’re out there, I pray…” you paused, closing your eyes. “I pray that a bullet finds its way to you or that your jet crashes somewhere far from here.”

Even if it was the darkest part of your soul that had spoken, it felt true. The thought of him gone, of being free from the torment, it made your chest ache and flutter at the same time.

Caleb’s lips, on the other hand, pressed into a hard line. His gaze narrowed ever so slightly, though the pain in his eyes was undeniable. He didn’t speak right away. His hand moved toward the bandage on your arm, fingers brushing over the rough cloth. “You really want me dead?”

“I do.” You met his gaze then, your eyes bloodshot, heart raw. “I want you dead and forgotten.”

Strangely, Caleb’s fingers lingered on your skin, a tender touch that felt out of place given everything that had happened between you. His thumb brushed over your bandaged arm, then gently cupped your face, tilting your chin up so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. The distance between you two felt like a chasm, a vast emptiness, and yet, somehow, his touch still grounded you. It made your heart race, and you hated it.

“You hate me that much?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer to him. You closed your eyes, and for a good minute, it was almost peaceful. The quiet of the room, the warmth of his hand on your skin. But then you remembered the things he had done, the way he’d broken you down and built you up again, only to crush you once more. You pulled away slightly, but Caleb wouldn’t let you. He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ve killed everyone who touched you. And will continue to do so for as long as I’m alive.”

You didn’t say anything. The words were stuck in your throat, the ones that you really wanted to say. The ones that would’ve made it easier to break away, to cut the ties that had bound you together for so long.

But out of everything he could have done, he chose to kiss you. Not like the first time. Not passionate or filled with fire. This kiss was different. It was filled with regret, with longing, with all the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say. It was slow, gentle, like he was afraid to break you even more than he already had.

When he pulled away, his eyes were filled with something more than guilt. “I’m sorry,” Caleb whispered, but the words didn’t fix anything. Nothing could. Even if your tears were falling freely now. You didn’t even know what you were crying for—him, or the person you used to be. The one you had lost along the way. Still, he wrapped his arms around you, pressing you to his chest like you were something fragile he wanted to protect, even if he’d been the one to break you. You could feel the slow, steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. At least, until he pulled away, tucked the blankets around you with care, and planted a soft kiss to your forehead.

“I have business in the morning,” he murmured, like you were a wife he needed to give an update to. “I might not come home for a few days.”

When he said he wouldn’t be home for a few days, you welcomed it as a small mercy. A pocket of peace. Because his absence was like hell quieting down, as if the demon retreated to its shadows. And yet, despite the relief, you couldn’t help but feel a strange unease curling in your stomach. A gut feeling whispering that maybe he was up to something far more than he let on.

And just as you suspected, the muffled sound of soldiers’ voices filtered through the door carried everything you ought to know. Their words were barely distinguishable as they spoke in low tones. But something—an instinct, maybe—had your heart racing, and you could swear you caught bits and pieces of their conversation.

“The medical convoy has been rerouted. New order,” one of them said, his voice hoarse. “No explanation. A few nurses, including one named Claire..."

The fragments of the conversation hit you like a punch to the gut. Then and there, every muscle in your body tensed. Claire. Claire was one of the nurses that had been tormenting you ever since you had been back at the base. And then there was Caleb whose orders were law. It all clicked into place.

You could feel the edges of your mind unraveling as the pieces fell together. Caleb wasn’t just holding you hostage here. He was controlling everything. Manipulating the people around you like pieces on a chessboard. The convoy rerouting wasn’t some minor shift—it was a move. A dangerous one. And you weren’t sure if you were ready to know what it meant, but you had to.

Swallowing down the nausea rising in your throat, you took a deep breath and turned toward the guards outside your door. You didn’t have time to waste. Whatever Caleb was planning, whatever he thought he was going to do, you had to stop him.

“I want to see Caleb,” you demanded sharply, a command that left no room for argument. The guards didn’t even flinch. They just stood there, their backs rigid, as if they were expecting you to say something like that.

“You know we can’t do that, miss,” one of them said. “Orders.”

“Then, I’ll tell you what,” you snapped, narrowing your eyes, “I’ll tell him that you touched me. I’ll tell him that you hurt me, and forced yourself into me.”

The look in their eyes was one of pure terror and scandal. It was as if you just sentenced them to death. One of them even shifted uncomfortably, but neither of them moved toward you. They were afraid—afraid of Caleb and everything that had to do with him. But you knew something they didn’t. They were afraid of losing their position, of Caleb’s wrath, but you? You had nothing left to lose.

“He had ordered to burn a traitor alive once,” you threatened, your voice dangerously calm now. “And had the remains be fed to the dogs.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other. You could see the way their eyes flickered, like they were torn between their orders and the realization that you meant what you said. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the taller of the two guards stepped forward.

“Fine,” he hissed, the words practically escaping his lips against his will. “But if this gets out of hand, it’s on you.”

You didn’t care. You were past caring about the consequences.

They led you down the dimly lit corridors, their footsteps echoing ominously as you moved deeper into the compound. You could feel it, the sickening feeling of being trapped, and for the first time since everything had gone to hell, you felt a spark of clarity. This was your chance to stop him, to put a stop to whatever Caleb was planning.

The guards led you into the central area of the base, a sterile, almost mechanical hall, and you could see the tension in their faces as they approached the place where their colonel was. In the shadows of a hangar they thought no one would check, Caleb stood with his pistol raised, and the muzzle? It was pointed directly at Claire’s quivering skull.

She was on her knees, sobbing, shaking, the usual scorn from her lips long gone. “Colonel, I never meant it, please—I didn’t mean it! I won’t be n-near her ever again!”

“Do I shoot you in the mouth instead?” For Caleb, it wasn’t a question. It was mockery wrapped in death, even though his face remained cold and terrifyingly composed. “You certainly had a lot to say before. But has anyone ever told you that I’d kill every single soul that dared insult my woman?”

Even though Claire had never treated you with decency, never once acknowledged you as anything but filth—the issue wasn’t about defending her. It was about stopping Caleb before he added another life to his ledger. Not for you. Not because of you. You’d already seen too much blood spilled in your name.

You couldn’t bear to be the reason again.

And you were tired of bleeding for a man who only knew how to destroy.

So you ran. You ignored the pain screaming through your body, ignored the way your knees buckled with every step. You ran until you were standing between his gun and its target. “Caleb.” Your voice cracked. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flicked to you, and for the first time in weeks, he looked startled. “Why are you here? Go back to your room,” he ordered, sternly. “I don’t want you interfering with this.”

“No more killing!” you shouted, your voice louder than you thought you still possessed. “Not for me. Not because of me!”

“I’m doing this for you,” he said flatly. As if it were a universal truth. As if murder could be dressed up as love. “These people will never respect you, not until I give them all a lesson.”

You laughed. Respect? How ironic of him to say.

But you weren’t listening anymore. You were done with being his puppet. You were done with the pain, the manipulation, and the suffocating control he had over everything in your life. “I don’t want your protection. I don’t want anything from you anymore!” you spat. “I’m done chasing your love. I’m disgusted with you and things you’ve done! They’re not love, Caleb. Do us all a favor and go to hell!”

For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he faltered. He stood in the crossroads of his own making: one path paved in control and power, and the other, threatened by the woman who once shivered under his icy stare.

And to everyone’s surprise, he lowered the gun.

Just as you asked.

Everyone knew and could feel that the war was winding down. Slowly, like an old machine losing steam. Gunfire no longer echoed through the mountains. Missives came in with fewer red marks. Still and all, the air around Caleb remained tense, as if he was standing at the eye of a storm.

You hadn’t seen much of him in recent weeks. At least, not as much as he let you. He came and went in silence, never bothering you or speaking to you since the day you asked him to go to hell. But the good outcome from that last interaction led to no more outbursts in the days that followed, no heated arguments. Just long hours spent in the shadows of the base, pouring over confidential papers, taking hushed calls with unnamed officials, signing things he didn’t let you see.

What you didn’t know was that he had spent the last few weeks building you a way out.

An escape plan masked as a gift: forged new identity papers with your maiden name, a secluded property far from the wreckage of war, monthly financial deposits that would keep you fed for decades, and official documents that ensured no one, not even the government, could drag you back into this life.

He was sealing off every door behind you. Quietly, meticulously.

And you? You were doing your best to pretend you still belonged to the world of the living.

You volunteered at the children’s infirmary more often. Spent time folding clean sheets and organizing medicine cabinets just to feel useful. You didn’t talk much. You weren’t trying to heal—you were just trying not to rot.

That night, you were in your shared quarters, folding the same shirt three times over just to get the sleeves right, when the door creaked open. You didn’t bother turning around. Caleb had been in and out, never staying long. Most days he’d never even greet you. Some days, he would come home and take a shower, slipping into his side of the bed without a word, his back turned to you as he tried to get a wink of sleep. There wasn’t even any eye contact to be shared.

But this time was different.

Although he still didn’t say anything. He walked in, closed the door behind him with a soft click, let you feel his presence before you saw him. He was closing the distance, sure. But what surprised you was how he wrapped his arms around you from behind. Tightly. With his face buried in your shoulder. You froze at first as his embrace was firm, almost desperate. One hand gripped your waist, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he was anchoring himself. His breath was warm against your neck, but his voice never came.

“Let me go,” you murmured, not moving.

“Just five minutes,” he whispered at last. “Just… stay still. That’s all I ask.”

You did. Your fingers uncurled from the fabric in your hand, and for once, you let your body rest against his without resistance, while he held you like a man trying to memorize the shape of something he could never return to. Time stretched between you like a slow heartbeat. An extremely, dangerously slow heartbeat.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t let go entirely. He just placed a kiss on your cheek. No explanation. No apology.

“I’ll make it right, Y/N,” he simply said, holding your face with a gentle hand and running his thumb across your cheek. His stare was earnest as he looked into your eyes. “I’ll make sure you never have to think of me again.”

And just as quietly as he came, he turned and left the room. You knew something in your chest tightened, the way it does when you sense someone saying goodbye without actually saying the words. But you didn’t run after him. You stood there for a long time after the door closed… wondering what, exactly, he was leaving behind. And what you were about to lose.

Caleb had always preferred solitude during these moments before a mission—just him, the whirr of his jet’s engines, and the distant thrum of his thoughts. And tonight, a rare calm and quiet night, was exactly what he wanted. The sky was unusually clear for wartime. There were no anti-air guns firing in the distance, no buzz of enemy drones, just the cold serenity of the atmosphere wrapping around him, welcoming him.

He sat in the cockpit, surrounded by the soft blue glow of the control panel. His gloved fingers adjusted the dials with precision, movements rehearsed a thousand times over. Everything was ready. Everything had been planned.

And yet, his thoughts couldn’t stay present. They drifted, inevitably, to you. You had been on his mind constantly, every minute of every day. The hatred in your eyes when you told him to go to hell, when you told him you wanted him dead. He couldn’t blame you. After all, he had stolen your peace, your happiness, and maybe even your will to live.

The comms in his ear cut him from his trance. “Specter-01, this is base command,” came a low voice. “Caleb, what’s your heading? You’re a few degrees off course.”

He tapped a switch, cleared his throat. “Still en route. Just adjusting for wind drift.”

There was a pause before the voice returned—Gideon. One of the few people Caleb could stand to have at his side. Loyal to a fault. And too sharp for his own good. “Don’t bullshit me, Colonel. You’re not following protocol.” There was tension in his voice now, the kind that could only come from fear. “This isn’t like you.”

Caleb exhaled slowly, the breath fogging inside his helmet. “I’m fine, Gideon,” he replied, voice calm, almost detached. “Just needed some air. That’s all.”

“But you're flying into a dead zone. No support, no backup, no exit route. If something goes wrong—”

“I know,” he cut in softly.

Another long silence stretched between them.

“...Don’t do this.”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to the radar, the blinking dots, the calculated trajectory. Everything had been mapped out—every lie, every angle, every detail to make it look accidental. So that no one would question. So that no one would stop you from moving on.

“Take care of ‘em, Gideon,” he said at last, and his voice made it clear—this wasn’t just a briefing anymore. “Take care of the team. And… her. Make sure she gets what I left behind. All of it.”

“Caleb—” Gideon’s voice was sharper this time. “Caleb, don’t do this. You pull that throttle one more degree and you’re not coming back. You hear me?”

Caleb didn’t respond immediately.

He stared ahead, the horizon fading into black. Then he glanced down at the radar, his destination marked in red, blinking faintly like a dying heartbeat. His fingers danced across the console with quiet certainty. There was no trembling now. Only resolve.

He flicked the comms one last time, the channel still open to Gideon.

“This is Colonel Caleb Xia,” he began, voice steady, almost ceremonial. “Serial Number X-02. Former DAA Fighter Pilot. 5th Skyborne Division. Head of Tactical Recon. Shadow Commander of the Ninth Flight. Loyal son of the war.”

While Gideon was holding his breath on the other line, Caleb exhaled on his.

“Signing off.”

“Wait—Caleb, don’t you fucking dare—!”

Then he switched the comms off.

Silence flooded the cockpit again, but it was a cruel relief. The kind that felt like surrender. He gripped the joystick and pushed the throttle forward, feeling the jet surge under his hands. The roar of the engines was deafening now. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, the familiar vibrations of the jet beneath him felt oddly soothing. The plane climbed higher, slicing through clouds like paper. The city below looked small now, insignificant—like all the things he used to care about. A dot among dots. A place where people still hoped, still dreamed.

And you were somewhere down there. Breathing. Alive.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he could picture your face one last time. As if he could imprint it onto whatever eternity waited for him. Then, his fingers hovered over the control panel, the slightest tremor in them now. He entered the override, veered sharply, and… the jet dipped lower.

There would be no mayday. No beacon.

Just one last act of penance.

With a faint smile—equal parts grief and relief—Caleb let go.

1 MONTH AFTER

The somber grey clouds had a mission today. Not stormy, not weeping—just still. And heavy.

Unlike the usual stark white uniform you donned as a war nurse, you stood in an all-black attire before a modest grave now, staring at the name etched into the headstone that was so clean it could’ve been carved yesterday.

(MC) Xia

Beloved Wife. Devoted Friend. A Soul That Endured the War.

A month had passed since the ceasefire, since the war gasped its last violent breath, since the tower’s red lights blinked for the last time. They no longer raised the war ensign, and instead, replaced it with a regular flag. It was a month full of hope, of joy, of good news. A month of normalcy. Of peace.

It had also been a month since Caleb’s jet spiraled off the radar, only to never land again.

You were in his quarters when the news arrived—delivered not with ceremony, but in a voice worn thin by grief. It was his closest friend Gideon who told you, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, aged more by sorrow than war. Caleb’s jet had gone down, he said. It was too late to save him. His jet turned into a comet over the mountains, and that was the last anyone saw of him. They told you the wreckage was scattered beyond recognition. That there were no remains to bury. No bones to hold the ceremony over, not even fragments for a grave. Only soot, swallowed by wind, vanishing like vapor.

At first, there was no reaction. Just silence. An unbearable stillness. You stood motionless, eyes dazed, like everything was just a part of a cruel dream. Isn’t this what I wanted? you asked yourself, again and again, trying to summon a feeling—relief, peace, something. But nothing came. Not even the tears.

Instead, your legs gave out. You collapsed to the floor with trembling hands and an aching heart, but remained dry-eyed for most of it. Grief had not yet found its shape. It simply throbbed inside your chest, like something inside you shattered so loud you thought the world could hear it.

Moving on didn’t come easily, either. A month may have passed, but it wasn’t enough. It was too soon, too early to even expect yourself to be fine again. And how could you begin to accept death, when it had left no trace behind?

So, you came here instead. To her grave. To return him to her.

Caleb’s first love. His wife. The woman who haunted the corners of his mind like a fading photograph and whose memory bled into everything you had shared with him. This was the only place that felt honest. The only place where both your griefs could sit side by side without judgement.

The wind danced with the soft rustling of leaves as you stood still beneath the shadow of a tree, the kind that had lived through more seasons than any of the soldiers buried here ever would. The grave in front of you was well-cared for, and the flowers beside it were fresh—carefully arranged lilies and white chrysanthemums, the ones Caleb always said reminded him of peace. Maybe he brought them. Surely, he did. Your hand rested gently on the headstone, fingers tracing the grooves of her name as if they were familiar and sacred.

“Please take care of him.” You spoke softly, too softly as if she was one with the wind. “I’m sure he’s with you now. That’s where he always belonged.” Glancing down, you blinked past the sting behind your eyes. “I used to wonder why he never looked at me the same. Why he always held me like I was glass but never gold. But I understand now. You were his home. And when you died, he lost the only map he ever followed.”

A small, bitter smile flickered across your lips.

“He loved you. So fiercely. So painfully.” A pause, only for you to swallow the weakness forcing its way up your throat. “If only you had survived the war… he wouldn’t have turned into what he became. I was just the aftermath. I was the damage. But still, I hope you can forgive him. And I hope you can forgive me, too.”

As you took a deep, cathartic exhale, footsteps broke the silence behind you.

“Still raining,” said Dr. Zayne, holding the umbrella over your head. You let the drizzle kiss your cheeks like tears from the sky. “She was our childhood,” he added quietly. “Mine and Caleb’s.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t on good terms with him,” he admitted. “I loved her, too. But I set it aside because I wanted to be happy for them.”

You finally looked up at him. His expression was solemn as he reached into his coat.

“Before he left… he asked me to give you this.”

A letter. Plain. Folded like an airplane. Your name written in his unmistakable, sharp script. You took it with trembling hands.

Zayne didn’t say more. He simply nodded at the grave, and then at you. “We should go. The roads are closing soon.”

You nodded, lips parting but no words falling. The letter simply grew heavier in your hands, and your fingers itched to open them. You knew this wasn’t closure exactly.

But it was something close enough to carry forward.

To my sweetest girl, If you’re reading this, I probably don’t exist anymore. I don’t know what state you’ll be in when this reaches your hands—if you’ll cry, if you’ll laugh, or if you’ll crumple this letter and curse my name like I deserve. I don’t expect forgiveness. I never did. But I need you to know what I’ve done. Not to earn your love, but to settle a debt that I created the moment I took your life and bent it into something unrecognizable. Inside the envelope I left with my friend, Zayne, you’ll find everything you need to start over. A full civilian identity under your maiden name—clean records, a background, even a fabricated work history. There’s a house registered to that name in a quiet part of the world where no one will know you, where the war won’t reach, and neither will I. I’ve transferred assets to accounts only accessible by you and under your new credentials. The funds should last you a lifetime, or maybe two. You’ll find documents for land ownership, health coverage, and immunity against any wartime tribunal trying to drag your name through the dirt. You won’t owe anyone anything. Not even me. It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough. There is no currency in the world that can pay back the things I did to you—directly or by consequence. But this… this is the only form of apology I know how to give. My death is not redemption. But I know it’s your freedom. You once told me you prayed for the war to end and for me to vanish with it. So here I am, granting your prayer. A little too late. A little too broken. But still yours, in whatever way this bitter world will allow. I don’t want you to mourn me. I just want you to live. Live like the girl who smiled before she met me. Live like the woman I watched patch bullet wounds and hold broken men together with shaking hands. And if you ever look up to the sky and wonder where I went, I hope the stars lie to you. I hope they tell you I made it somewhere better. That way, you won’t carry the burden of my passing. Only the start of your beginning. Don’t look back. Don’t come searching for ghosts. Just go. And never stop going. Yours in another life, Caleb

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x y/n #caleb xia #xia yizhou x reader #xia yizhou x you #caleb angst #caleb smut #caleb fanfic #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader

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wandaslovey · 6 months ago

Text

ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ; ᴀ ᴋɪɴᴋʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴇᴡ

➺ dom!wandanat x sub!fem!reader

word count ~ 5.3k

authors note: part two is here!! let me just say, thank you all SO so much for all the love you gave me for part one 🫶🏻. there’s a little treat for y’all at the end 🤭 comment to be added to the tag list! this is not proofread.

authors note: for part three, i’m probably going to do a time skip where the contract has been signed and their relationship has begun. don’t worry though, it will still be in the beginning stages!

content warning(s): legal age gap, dom/sub dynamics, in-depth discussions about bdsm and bdsm contracts, kissing, brief mentions of masturbation

venturing is inevitable: masterlist

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you pop in your wireless earbuds, scrolling on your phone to one of your comfort playlists. it was saturday and you were currently in a taxi on your way to the maximoff-romanoff household. it felt so surreal being in this situation. the more you thought about it, the more nervous you felt, so you opted for listening to some music to calm your nerves.

they’d texted you their address the day before, and you were surprised to find out they lived outside the city in the suburbs. not just any suburbs though—the rich suburbs. scarsdale to be more specific. it was just over 20 miles out of manhattan, so the drive usually took between 30-40 minutes, depending on traffic.

you found yourself feeling grateful that mrs. romanoff texted you early in the morning, telling you she insisted they cover the cost of the taxi as when you glance up at the meter halfway through the drive, it was already almost $100.

you’d thought a lot about your coffee “date” with the two married lawyers. you’d taken it upon yourself to do some of your own research on google the afternoon after returning home, but you quickly regretted it as all the images of people tied in uncomfortable positions frightened you. it didn’t help that the majority of the websites listed first were amateurs who didn’t truly understand bdsm dynamics or relationships—but you didn’t know that yet.

there was something else that made you uncomfortable. well, rather something that made you feel shamefully hot in a way you weren’t familiar with. you think back to a few days ago at the coffee shop, noticing all the little ways both mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff gently asserted dominance: they both waited outside, the door was held open for you, they ordered and paid for you, mrs. maximoff guided you gently through the shop, mrs. romanoff hailed you a cab and they both saw you off.. it was all in the little things. all those little things which were carefully calculated and amounted to you feeling safe—cared for. you never imagined you would notice, let alone care for someone to take charge in that way, but you did. you couldn’t begin to imagine all the others things that were typically encapsulated within a dominant. things you were sure both mrs.romanoff and her wife possessed. how far did their dominating desire go? was there anything they didn’t like to have control of?

the cab driver turns down their street, slowing down after passing the first 3 well-spaced out houses and you look out the window to see what you assume to be their home. their house had a clean, modern vibe with some bold design elements. the exterior was wrapped in crisp white paneling, which contrasted against the deep black roof and window frames. the windows were framed with sleek black trim, giving the house a more modern/contemporary feel. the front porch had a few steps leading up to the door, and above it, there’s a simple black square awning that extends out, adding a cool architectural touch. it gave the entrance a little extra character while still keeping things minimal. to the side, there’s a driveway that leads to the garage, and the front featured a circular driveway that made for an easy and elegant arrival or departure. the layout felt both functional and stylish, and modern yet still welcoming.

it’s mrs. maximoff that comes out of the house to greet you. she was dressed in a simple black long-sleeved button up with some white wide leg jeans. her hair was up, twisted in a messy knot that still managed to look elegant. she looked beautiful.

she quickly makes her way over to the taxi driver, handing him a wad of cash without batting an eye. you couldn’t see for sure, but it looked like more than the actual fee that was meant to be paid.

“hey, you,” her greeting paired with what seemed to be her signature smile made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. she seemed genuinely happy to see you again, and for that you felt delighted. you were equally as excited to see her again, even if the circumstances were a bit nerve wracking.

you return her greeting with a small hello, feeling a little flustered when she looks you over in a not-so secretive way.

“look at you…

you know, you really didn’t have to get all dressed up for us,” she grins blithely before leading the way back through the circular drive to the front door.

“this? oh i sort of just threw it on… should i have chosen something else?” you ask shyly as you keep pace with her, walking right by her side.

you’d chosen to wear a rose taupe ruched mini dress with white high tops, and you did not in fact ‘just throw it on.’ it was the 5th outfit you’d tried on before deciding that was what you’d wear.

“i’m messing with you, dragotsennaya veshch. you look very beautiful,” she appraises you and you feel yourself blush at the attention. you remember the nickname from the last time she called you that, but you still had no idea what it meant.

she steps in front, reaching to open the door for you before you both step inside. you marvel at the interior, which was just as beautiful as the outside, however it was less bright. there were more dark tones in here mimicking that of the office at their law firm.

“wow…you guys have a beautiful home,” you muse, admiring the high ceiling in the entry way and the minimal decor.

“well, thank you. follow me.” she speaks warmly, stepping ahead of you to lead you through the house. you find yourself looking around as she walks in front of you, noticing that there weren’t very many personal touches, but they were there if you looked hard enough. in a way, their house almost look like a museum—free of dust and exceptionally organized.

she leads you into a huge open room which appeared to be a cozy living space and just a little past that, the kitchen. there were black pendant lights dangling from the ceiling above the island, which had a black and white marble countertop. you see mrs. romanoff with her back to you, pouring herself a glass of filtered water.

“natasha, our guest is here,” she announces, placing a hand on your back and gently nudging you forward closer to the counter top. natasha turns, an easy smile gracing her features.

even with just a brief glimpse, you couldn’t help but observe how she seemed to be much more at ease in her home. her usual more stiff posture relaxed and the air around her felt a little lighter than normal.

“hi there, pretty girl,” she looks you over, just as her wife did, only she does it even more obviously. “wearing another cute outfit i see,” she murmurs, but it seems like the observation was mostly meant for herself as her eyes continue skimming your figure.

“i thought the same thing! i told her she didn’t have to dress up for us,” mrs. maximoff chuckles, her wife joining in. for that moment, it was as if they were talking about you like weren’t even there, which brought back a now familiar feeling of being small in their presence.

you shrug, ducking your head forward so your hair falls into your face, covering your blush. you hear mrs. romanoff set her glass on the countertop before she rounds the kitchen island, walking until she was standing right next to you. you watch her through your peripheral vision until she’s close enough that you half turn to face her. her hand comes up to gently lift your chin, her finger curling underneath it.

“hey, we’re just teasing you. don’t hide your face from me.” her voice was gentle yet you could sense that she was being serious about you trying to hide your bashfulness from her. you nod your head very slowly, now captivated with her closeness and the air of dominance she carried over with her.

“good. i’d hate to miss seeing these cheeks blush. it’s very cute,” she adds, making your cheeks flame even hotter. she smiles at that, immediately noticing the difference in shade.

“wanda, look at her,” she muses and your eyes dart from hers to mrs. maximoff who steps over to her wife’s side, appraising your pink cheeks with a smile of her own.

“da—dragotsennaya veshch. i told you the name suits her perfectly,” mrs. romanoff hums at her wife’s comment. they both gaze at you, desire and sinful admiration gleaming behind their impossibly green eyes. you fight the urge to suck on your bottom lip, figuring it would only give them more fuel to embarrass you.

you were about to ruin their little moment and ask what name it was that wanda kept referring to you as, but mrs. romanoff suddenly drops her hand, the both of them stepping back away from you.

“do you want some water, (y/n)? are you thirsty?” mrs. romanoff asks, already rounding the counter to the cupboard to retrieve a glass.

“yeah sure,” you nod politely, reaching to grab the glass from her once she’s filled it with water. you take a swig, regardless of not actually being thirsty.

“here, come sit,” mrs. maximoff puts a hand on your elbow, guiding you into the living room area which was just a step down from the kitchen. there was a large sofa towards the center, facing a whole glass wall which stretched across the large open room and overlooked their beautiful backyard. it was so green; many trees, bushes and grass to marvel at.

mrs. maximoff sits on the couch, patting the spot next to her. you sit down, your glass in hand, which she gently takes from you and sets in a cup holder to your right. as she reaches over you, even for the brief moment, you smell a trace of her perfume which smelled something like pears, fig leaves and sandalwood. it was heavenly and somehow seemed to fit her perfectly.

“so, how was the rest of your week? how were your classes?” she asks, propping her elbow on the back couch cushion and resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. something about having her full attention on you in such close proximity made your heart stutter.

“it was good! i only go in person 3 days a week and the rest is online. the homework load was about a medium for this week, so i wasn’t too overwhelmed or anything.” as you speak, mrs. romanoff enters the living room, sitting next to her wife on the couch. she crosses her legs, leaning close to her wife so she can see you just as well.

“what does a ‘medium’ homework load look like to you?” mrs. romanoff asks with a smirk. she must’ve remembered what you’d said at the interview about loving homework.

you sigh amusedly, giving wanda a quick glance to see a touch of a knowing smile on her face. you two were fellow academic lovers it seemed like.

“2 short essays, 3 discussion boards and 1 little worksheet thing.. no big deal,” you giggle softly when mrs. romanoff rolls her eyes at your response.

“right - okay,” she mutters though there’s an affectionate smile curling at her lips.

there was a small bout of silence which was comfortable given the light-hearted tone of the conversation, but that didn’t last very long.

“so, have you thought any more about our conversation at the coffee shop?” mrs. romanoff asks. your tummy does a flip flop at the change in subject, but you knew this was ultimately what you were here for.

“a-a little yeah,” you say, not offering anything else just yet. you look down at your lap, your hands playing with the hem of your dress ending several inches above your knee.

“anything you’d like to share?” mrs. romanoff presses, her features etched with amused interest. she loved the way you instantly became more shy with the new topic of conversation.

“uhm.. well i found some stuff on the internet.. more pictures and some examples of the..um..contracts you mentioned,” you pause, your eyes flickering up from your lap to mrs. maximoff’s face and then her wife’s. mrs. maximoff nods encouragingly, wanting you to continue.

“the contracts largely consisted of rules? is that accurate—like something you guys want from me?” you ask slowly, fighting the urge to bury yourself in a hole and hide. you could feel your skin crawling from how out of your element you felt.

“yes, our contract would have rules. we only have a few set rules for each submissive, but the others we come up with will be personalized just for you once we begin our..relationship,” mrs. maximoff tucks some hair behind your ear, her hand resting just above your knee, trying to be reassuring.

you swallow, gathering up the courage to ask your new follow-up question. “what sort of rules?” your mind thinks back to the many drafted up contracts on the internet, wondering if any of the rules you saw there were ones they’d want for you.

“before we answer that—how do you feel about rules? just thinking about it right now, how would you feel if there were rules we asked you to follow?” mrs. romanoff asks, leaning forward as she rests her elbows on her blue-jean clad thighs. you ponder her question, playing out a scenario in your mind. you remember one “sample” rule you saw online: ‘always greet your dominant kneeling by the door upon their arrival.’ that one was more extreme. you thought of two others: no touching yourself without permission and always address your dominant by their honorific. those ones made your cheeks flush red again, a deep blush gracing your features that couldn’t be ignored.

“look at that blush.. now you have to tell us what you’re thinking,” mrs. maximoff gently nudges you with her shoulder, giving your thigh a little squeeze.

you clear your throat, your fingers drawing imaginary patters on the thigh mrs. maximoff wasn’t holding. “i was just remembering some of the rules..” you reply vaguely. mrs. maximoff hums, sounding unsatisfied with your concise answer. she gently lifts your chin as her wife did earlier, her pointer finger curled under your jaw and her thumb holding your chin in place.

“hey, listen to me. if talking about this truly makes you uncomfortable, we can stop right now. we don’t have to do this if it’s not something you want,” you look into her green eyes, reading the gentleness and sincerity there. your eyes flicker over to mrs. romanoff who had a similar expression, and she nodded at her wife, drawing your attention back to mrs. maximoff.

you hold eye contact with her for a few seconds, finding great comfort in the tenderness held in her green orbs. “that’s not what i want,” you manage to speak, pausing for a second to gather your thoughts. “i’m just not used to talking so openly about this kind of stuff…or having this much attention,” you admit softly, wanting to look down but wanda’s fingers hold you firmly in place.

“you don’t have to be so embarrassed, honey, though it is really cute. still.. this is a safe space. you can ask or tell us anything,” mrs. romanoff reaches her hand across her wife and affectionately traces down your nose, smiling as she does so.

“you think it’s cute?” you blurt the question aloud without really thinking to stop yourself. mrs. romanoff grins wider, a gleam twinkling in her eye.

“it is. i don’t know if i’ve ever met somebody so innocent. it’s equally as cute as it is sexy.” you smile shyly at her words, looking back from her to her wife. mrs. maximoff smiles, her eyes flicking down to your lip which you coyly sucked into your mouth. she uses her thumb to pull your lip free from your teeth, tsking gently as she does so. your breath hitches at the action which both mrs. maximoff and mrs. romanoff notice but don’t comment on.

“how about this, why don’t we start somewhere else? how about you tell us why you didn’t say no right away when we posed the question the other day?” mrs. maximoff asks. you don’t have to think about her question long before you have an answer.

“i guess i was just intrigued.. i mean i guess the thought of being able to submit in some ways is..appealing to me?” you say it as a question, unsure you’re using the correct words to communicate your feelings.

“that’s a good start, detka. tell us more along those lines. what about it appeals to you?” mrs. romanoff encourages you.

you inhale slowly, looking off to the side as you think of how to expand upon your answer. “i think similar to other people, i would like a space or time where i don’t have to have control over all aspects of my life. kinda like…like i want to be able to shut my mind off sometimes - if that makes sense?” you half shrug your shoulder, looking between the two women to see if it looks like they understood your explanation.

“that makes perfect sense, sweetheart. that’s exactly what submission does. when you turn yourself over to your dominant, there’s a sense of freedom that comes with it. knowing that there’s someone you trust that is going to take control and steer you in a certain direction—and you don’t have to think or worry about anything.” mrs. maximoff’s explanation was very appealing to you. you think back on moments when life was really stressful and realize how much more doable those moments would have been had you been able to silence your mind for a little bit.

“that does sound really nice,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but both of the lawyers noticed. the two of them chuckle softly at your admission, thoroughly entertained by your cuteness.

mrs. romanoff and mrs. maximoff continue educating you on the many beauties of being a submissive. they’d told you it wasn’t just about the sex, in fact, the sex was never really as good if the dynamic wasn’t always held firmly in place in other aspects of life as well. you listen intently to their words, becoming more and more intrigued by the idea of signing a contract with them by the minute.

“(y/n)?” mrs. romanoff asks after a little bit of her and her wife talking at you.

“hmm?” you look at her curiously, her tone making you slightly nervous to hear her question.

“what was it earlier that had you so embarrassed? something about some rules you found online?” you swallow thickly, remembering the two rules that made you blush so deeply. up until this point, the three of you had all managed not to make this conversation so much about the sexual aspects of bdsm, but rather more the dynamics. your answering the question would change that.

“well…there was one about always addressing your dominant using their honorific and then, um.. well the other said..” you trail off, pressing your lips together as you bounce your leg a bit anxiously.

“it said what, dragotsennaya veshch? come on, i can see it on the tip of your tongue,” mrs. romanoff encourages, a devious smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

“nottotouchyourselfwithoutpermission,” you mumble quickly, the beginning of a blush coloring the apples of your cheeks.

“ah, what was that?” mrs. romanoff makes a show of cupping her ear and tilting her head to show you she was listening, that same wicked smile still plastered on her face. she’d heard exactly what you said.

“natalia, bud' s ney milym,” mrs. maximoff says in what sounds like a gentle scolding tone.

mrs. romanoff just laughs, reaching over and cupping your jaw with one hand. “i can’t help it, look at her!” you pout at what you now knew was her teasing.

“it really is hard not to tease you when you look like that..” mrs. maximoff murmurs in her wife’s defense, tapping your nose as she has her own more subtle version of a wicked smile.

“i can’t help it! when you guys talk to me like that, i have to blush!” you explain, a little exasperated.

“like what?? like you’re the most adorable thing ever? i could eat you up (y/n), i swear to the gods,” mrs. romanoff grins at her own words, seemingly high on the current air in the room which was very light and fuzzy. mrs. maximoff chuckles, purposely squeezing what she guessed would be a sensitive part of your thigh to get you to join in their light laughter. you shake off the ticklish sensation, stubbornly pressing your lips in a firm line as to not smile as they were openly teasing you without mercy.

“not funny..” you mutter, making a show of crossing your arms over your chest and pouting cutely.

“you’re right - we’re getting off topic. so, back to the rule about not touching yourself…” mrs. romanoff starts, her tone teasing.

“okay! we can go back to teasing me again,” you say a little too loudly, feeling less embarrassed about the topic now, but still a little nervous.

“sorry little girl, you’re not gonna wiggle your way out of this one for a third time,” mrs. maximoff pokes your side before reaching down and casually lifting your legs to drape across both her and her wife’s lap. the sudden change of sitting position and new physical contact made your tummy flutter, your attention suddenly fully locked in on the two of them.

“would you have a problem with that rule?” mrs. maximoff asks, the tone in the air quickly changing again.

“uhm..well i-“ you clear your throat, running your hand nervously through your hair. “is that one of your set rules?” you feel mrs. maximoff’s fingers begin to lightly trace a small line up and down your thigh. she and mrs. romanoff both looked so in their element and you were just here—a clueless little thing.

“yes, it is,” mrs. maximoff responds. you swallow thickly again, a dull ache beginning to settle in your lower tummy. just the thought alone was beginning to make your body heat up. what did they do if their submissive did touch themselves?

“oh…what would you do if your submissive broke that rule?” you ask curiously, unable to keep that question to yourself.

mrs. romanoff looks at her wife and you could see a brief silent conversation happening with their eyes. they both turn their attention back to you before mrs. romanoff speaks up.

“there are a few punishments we would most likely choose from: a spanking, edging or overstimulation. the punishment our submissive would receive would depend on who is delivering the punishment and also what the submissive is okay with and work within her limits.” she explains it so casually, but you find her words anything but casual. you were surprised that the thought of being spanked made you shamefully hot. it was starting to seem like they were awakening something in you you didn’t know existed.

“edging..? is that like an orgasm denial thing?” you ask the clarifying question, both of their ease and openness on the topic beginning to rub off on you a bit. it really did feel like a safe space.

“mhmm, that’s exactly right,” mrs. romanoff nods her head, giving you an encouraging smile.

“so…why that rule?” as you ask your question, the short lines mrs. maximoff was drawing on your leg turn to intricate circles. she seemed to be doing it absentmindedly.

mrs. romanoff purses her lips, her eyes gleaming with desire. “because, detka. if you agree to be our submissive, your pleasure will belong to us. every sound you make, every twitch, every thought we want to be apart of—to possess and control.” her facial expression turns a little harder as she speaks, an air of dominance surrounding the three of you like a little bubble. you feel your mouth go dry, your legs unconsciously pressing together at her words.

“are you alright, sweetheart?” mrs. maximoff asks, noticing your cheeks flush and your legs press together as they still lay across her and her wife’s lap. she knows exactly why you’re suddenly more restless, but she can’t help but tease you a bit with it.

“mhmm, i’m fine,” you squeak, your voice cracking which you try to cover up by clearing your throat. your mind scrambles to think of another question—anything to get the intense attention off of you, even for a moment.

“what do your submissives call you?” you ask, hoping their answer wouldn’t make your panties any wetter than they were already becoming.

mrs. maximoff raises a hand to the side of your face, curling some hair behind your ear as she simply replies, “mommy—they address me as mommy.” she then reaches blindly to the side, cupping under mrs. romanoff’s chin. “and they call natasha, daddy.”

you hear your own breathing hitch, their honorifics taking you back a bit. somehow, they encapsulated those names perfectly but hearing mrs. maximoff say them out loud was a different thing. you picture yourself addressing them as such, and you feel your panties becoming wetter. you mentally slap yourself. you needed to get a grip otherwise you were going to start dripping onto your thigh.

“you like that, don’t you, krasivaya devushka?” mrs. romanoff asks in a low voice, her eyes drinking in your thighs which were now noticeably pressed firmly together.

where your mouth once felt dry, it was now watering. your lips part as you exhale breathily. you look from mrs. romanoff to mrs. maximoff who was now leaning closer to you, glancing at your lips. you lick them subconsciously, leaning closer to her. you feel her hand come to cradle the back of your head, her other hand cupping under your jaw, gripping it more firmly than you’d expect. your breath is shaky as your heart begins to pound in your ears, the smell from mrs. maximoff filling your nose as she leans even closer to you until your faces are merely inches apart.

“do you want this, dragotsennaya veshch?” her voice is seductive and slow as she enunciates her words. her green eyes were hooded, her lips looking so very tempting.

you nod your head, not taking your eyes off of her lips. you see a hint of a smile there as she closes the small gap, her lips parting slightly before she presses them against yours. her lips tasted faintly of grapefruit and you instantly want more of it.

your arms reach up to wrap around her neck as she kisses you slowly but deeply. she hums into your mouth, one of her hands sliding down your arm to your hip and gripping there firmly. so caught up in the sensations of her lips on yours and her hands touching you so expertly, you let out a small whimper. mrs. maximoff gives your hip a squeeze after hearing that, her tongue tracing your bottom lip. just as you part your lips to give her access to your mouth, she pulls away, a pleased smirk on her face.

“a little eager, are we?” she chuckles and it’s only after her comment that you realize in the midst of your kiss, you’ve curled your legs up in her lap, your arms wrapping tightly around her as you cling to her body.

you loosen your hold, feeling a little shy at having so easily gotten carried away. “m’sorry,” you mumble, your legs stretching back out so they’re sprawled across mrs. romanoff’s legs again.

“oh sweetheart, you don’t have to apologize. it’s very cute,” she coos at the end of her sentence, her finger coming up to delicately trace your bottom lip. you look at her, your soft eyes full of wonder and adoration.

“i want to do this,” you announce, looking between mrs. maximoff and mrs. romanoff who had begun stroking your legs as they rest on her thighs.

they both chuckle softly at your pronouncement, finding your sudden enthusiasm amusing.

“patience, pretty girl. there’s still some things we need to discuss before we have you sign the contract,” mrs. romanoff says before continuing, “i think we’ve explored enough for today. why don’t we send you a copy of our contract, you can review it,,and then when we get together next—if you still want to—you can sign it.” she suggests and you readily agree, knowing how badly you already want to see them again and how anxiously eager you are to continue exploring this new world.

you decide to see each other again tomorrow, which was at mrs. maximoff’s suggestion, but they both seemed equally eager to spend more time with you.

they order you an uber, insisting on paying the fee. mrs. romanoff got all stern when you’d said you really didn’t expect them to pay and she told you that was nonsense and that she didn’t want to hear you say another word about them covering costs of things for you.

as they walk you to the door, you say your goodbye’s, excited at the prospect of seeing them tomorrow. you make your way over to the uber parked in the circular driveway, mrs. maximoff lingering the doorway as mrs. romanoff walks you to the car. just before you reach for the door handle, you turn to say something to her and gasp softly when you realize she’s standing very close to you. you could sense a switch had flipped in her—the one that causes her to exude so much more dominant energy.

your posture becomes less dignified, your bottom lip sucked into your mouth as you glance up at her. she leans down close to you, her finger tilting your chin up.

“don’t touch yourself tonight,” she says firmly, her eyes locking in on yours.

“wh-what?” you breath out, feeling a little disoriented with her closeness and the energy she was exuding.

“you heard me—i know you’ll want to. regardless of the contract not being signed, i don’t want you to pleasure yourself. do you understand?” her voice is sinfully sexy as she commands you in a way no one ever has before.

your cheeks blush as you glance from the front door where mrs. maximoff was still standing and then back to her wife. you slowly nod your head, swallowing harshly as your neck was still extended from your chin being lifted up.

“good girl,” she praises, closing the gap and placing a peck on your unsuspecting lips. she releases your face, stepping back and opening the door for you as if nothing had happened. you climb inside in a daze, your eyes fogged over as your mind feels a little fuzzy.

“see you tomorrow, (y/n),” she drags your name out in a slight teasing tone before shutting the door, the car driving off as you’re left sitting there stunned.

there was no way you weren’t going to sign that contract.

——————————

tag list: @poppyshuman @xenaizogie @ashadash0904 @kittnii @hayeeonn @gh0sstss @beggingonmykneesforher @natashalover3000 @msvenablesbitch @ihartnat @leesromanova @alwaysgoodnight @lowlifejuliett @azaleavolkova @caramelcat123-blog @daretodream1307-blog @ctrlaltedits @sweetmissnothing @gecko1 @karmasgxrl @marvelwomenarehot0 @elle161989 @waaayoutofline @snazzysprig @simpforlizzie @just4natasha @rosekjsses @moon3thereal @reginassecretlover @flyleaffreak @vanessashands @tigerlillyruiz @noturlondonboy @remuslupinschocolat3 @ssasa-romanoff @eccaterina1 @wandanatskitten @chiar4anna @womenarehotsstuff @luvforbills @tatesarchivee @mackenziemonday13 @reginassweetheart @sxlfishbrokenheart @wandanatbabybear @hapuchika

#venturing is inevitable: series #vii #wandanat #wandanat x reader #wandanat smut #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #natasha romanoff x you #mommy!wanda #daddy!nat

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aashi-heartfilia · 2 years ago

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The hypocrisy of Jinshi and MaoMao

*light novel spoilers*

I just love how hypocritical MaoMao's nature is. She yells at Jinshi for being a 'Masochist' and yet we see that she's no different. Now, by definition Masochist is a person who drives sexual gratification from their own pain and humiliation, plus it relates to Jinshi's tendency to do self harm (like burning his skin with a brand)

And what is MaoMao's most favourite thing in this world?

POISON

She literally takes pleasure in consuming it and no one can convince me otherwise. Plus she uses dangerous plants and animals and snakes whatnot in the name of her so-called experiments. Her dad may call her a 'mad Scientist' but that is a direct indication of self harm.

And she calls Jinshi a Masochist.

I mean, think about it! The amount of anxiety she gives to Jinshi! She came prepared with a vomit inducing medicine but even she had no idea whether it would work or not. She was just hoping it would work in the salt chapter.

And the same goes for her hand, on which she has conducted countless experiments. One flower even burned her skin and its marks never left her skin. She said it was all for her hobby. What kind of weird hobby is that? Maybe, our little adorable mad scientist is just like that.

One brands his own skin, while the other takes heavenly pleasure in consuming poison.

So my point is, Jinshi and MaoMao are not that different as one might think they are and that's why their dynamic works so well.

Let's look at the excerpts from volume 5:

She didn’t know how long they sat that way. All she knew was that Jinshi was looking down at her with a faintly triumphant expression, as if he saw that the breath had reached every corner of her body now. He wiped away the tears that had sprung to her eyes as she struggled to breathe. It was then that Maomao felt a flash of intense anger. “I said that if you were going to kill me, you should do it with poison,” she told him. “I refuse to let you poison yourself,” Jinshi said, his fingers tracing her lips. “You can’t pretend you didn’t know that you were one of the candidates. As much as I’m sure you’d like to.” He wasn’t done, either: “Who was that man, anyway? I’m sure you’re not a dancer.” So he had been watching them! “I was just paying for my drink,” Maomao said. “It didn’t cost much.” She tried to look away, but with his hand on her head, she really couldn’t.

Jinshi just choked her and yet he refuses to let MaoMao poison herself. A lot of people misinterpret this scene, and don't like it all that much, saying it was just fanservice stuff but this is how I see it: Jinshi wasn't trying to kill MaoMao, he was just trying to make MaoMao submit to him for once (even if the way he did it was very wrong, but guess he's kinky like that). MaoMao is actively trying to harm herself and Jinshi loves MaoMao a lot, he cannot just let her kill herself.

It was more about him trying to exert his dominance in their weirdish - complicated relationship and that also backfires on him as we see in the next volume that MaoMao escapes Jinshi's grasps using Pairin's techniques.

And then they both continue to avoid each other in the entire next volume! Because they both realised that they have crossed boundaries.

They both are hypocrites.

And they both refuse to accept their feelings.

In one of the later volumes, she gives Jinshi a piece of her mind on how he should tell her everything clearly, unequivocally, what he feels, and he literally declares that "he will make her his wife", which is nice and all but look at the wording MaoMao used here....

Excerpts from LN Vol 7, chapter 19 called "A man and a woman play the game"

"You’re forever telling me I need to use my words, Master Jinshi, but are you in any position to criticize? Everything you say to me, everything you do, it’s like it’s calculated to save you from ever having to actually say what you mean! To make me figure it all out! You know, you remind me of someone. You act exactly like a man who used to come by our brothel all the time. He was in love with one of the girls, but he would never just come out and say it. He thought it should be obvious from the way he acted. He was so sure he had a good thing going with this woman that he never sent her so much as a letter. I remember how forlorn he looked when someone else swooped in and snatched her away! He kept coming to the brothel after that—to get drunk and whine to the ladies. Well, in my opinion, he could have avoided all that heartbreak if he’d told the woman how he felt. Clearly, unequivocally, so that she knew where they stood. It was the least he could have done!”

Everything came out in a torrent. She felt like she’d said it all in one breath. It was strange, she thought, to hear so many words come out of her own mouth. She was mystified. Jinshi was no less startled, but the shock soon left his face, replaced by something else. He got up off the bed and stared down at Maomao.

Shit. Now I’ve done it. She’d given him a piece of her mind, and he was about to give her one back.

“So I should be clear, should I? Unequivocal? I should say what I mean? If I did, would you actually listen to me? Is that what you’re telling me? I’m going to hold you to that! Right this minute. I’ll say it all. Don’t plug your ears—listen to me!” He grabbed her hands as she was in the process of trying to put her fingers in her ears. He took a breath. He was looking at Maomao, but somehow he seemed almost embarrassed. Finally he managed, “Now listen to me, y—I mean, Maomao! Listen close! I am going to make you my wife!”

It's one heck of a chapter and I suggest you give it a go! The title of the chapter says "A man and a woman play the game" as if to emphasize the very fact that both Jinshi and MaoMao are playing the game.

Jinshi has never confessed his true feelings before this chapter and only implied that he wanted to make MaoMao his wife.

The implications were heavy though on Jinshi's part, and as smart as MaoMao is, anyone would have guessed that MaoMao was one of the candidates for Jinshi's consort. Even the clothes she received (the ones she wore to the banquet) were also provided by Jinshi along with the hairpin. It is never stated outright but seeing as the hairpin was from Jinshi, the clothes are also implied to be the same.

More or less she's always deliberately ignoring the possibility of having anything to do with him, that is more than professional. Some may call it denial, I call it dense. Maybe, to some extent, she herself is not aware of her feelings because she never lets herself feel anything.

Even Suiren pointed it out pretty early in the manga, that maybe it's MaoMao's way of being reserved. We need to keep in mind that MaoMao is an unreliable narrator and it's more of what she does, rather than what she says that makes a difference.

Even in the chapter that I have quoted above, she had every reason to leave Jinshi, she wasn't working for him after all. But she stayed to make tea for him, even after the fact that she had a long day too. She was almost just as exhausted as Jinshi and yet she was there preparing medicinal tea, so that he could get a better sleep.

Maybe she herself is yet to realise just how deep her feelings run. Till vol 12 she seems to have accepted them, but she still is yet to acknowledge their depth. Maybe it's because of her childhood.

It's not a traumatic backstory but MaoMao had a sad childhood nonetheless....

She was raised by her grand uncle and her real father was eccentric, who scared her. Her mother must also appear to be kind of demonic to her, since she was desperate enough to cut MaoMao's Pinky finger and send it to Lahan. So it's safe to say that MaoMao never received proper parental affection. And adding to the fact that, a brothel is not exactly an ideal place for raising a child.... especially when the birth of MaoMao was the one thing that brought the brothel to its knees...even if being born wasn't her choice.

Plus MaoMao stated it herself that when she was a baby, no one would come to sooth her until their work was finished, implying that even if MaoMao and her brothel sisters are close, they are not that close. A mother's love is different and she never received it. No one can love you more than your mother and MaoMao was deprived of that. She soon realised that no one was coming. Life is hard and she has no choice but to face it!

So, she got interested in poison.

Maybe she doesn't love herself or her life as much as she says / pretends she does. She's always like "yeah, I would very much like my head to be with my body" and "if I stay low profile maybe I can survive here" etc but maybe deep down that's not the case. Maybe that's why she loves poison so much. The implications are crazy.

And to break MaoMao's shell, Jinshi has no choice but to be a bit more forceful at times? At least that's how I interpret that choking scene. Jinshi was angry at MaoMao because she deliberately suggested him to marry consort Rishu and danced with Rikuson.

Even if Jinshi never said it outright, he was giving hints the entire time.

But well the tables turned and MaoMao topped him instead, lol (vol 7) and later we even see that our little stray cat has accepted Jinshi and she's ready to be in a relationship with him (vol 12).

Plus she is intrigued by the process of birth (she wants to eat her baby's placenta, it's kind of uggghhh.... but anyways, that MaoMao we're talking about, she's just weird that way)

Maybe not after too long she'll realise that if she has to give birth, she can only have it with Jinshi and no one else.

~Sunshine

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ddarker-dreams · 3 months ago

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If you’ve seen mydei….holy crap i mean look at the dude ?-!/!!2:!2&₱: but yandere mydei😦😦😦😦…

👁 PERCEIVING !!!!!!!!

yandere mydei's is more calculating than most give him credit for, he takes great care in not scaring you away. he knows his reputation proceeds him, and while he won't act like someone he isn't to be more palatable, he's mindful of his conduct. understandably, you're cautious the first few times your paths cross. he'll make wry comments about your surroundings, and it isn't until you feel the weight of his stare that it clicks he's talking to you.

he'd aim to make your dynamic a playful one. he gives you a hard time and is quick to point out your shortcomings, doing so in a surprisingly constructive manner. he has a good eye for potential. if you overlook the intense aura he exudes, he's not that bad to have around. it's only when he makes his intent on pursuing you known that issues arise.

his tenacity is frightening to behold. once he's decided to have you, there are no laws in the universe he'd be unwilling to defy to have his way. there's so little in this world he can call his own. his throne, kingdom, and subjects, they can feel like abstract concepts eons away. he will prove himself worthy, whether you want him to or not. who is foolish enough to champion your cause and challenge him? if you're hellbent on resisting his designs, he'll allow it, so long as you can fight your way out. the cost of freedom must be paid in the shedding of royal blood.

#i'm still playing around with how i want to characterize him ... thinkin emoji..#yandere mydei x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #concepts #answered #Anonymous

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crapeaucrapeau · 3 months ago

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Something I've really come to appreciate in ME1 is how all three Council members are consistently and coherently characterized during what little interactions we have with them, and especially how they are different shades of pragmatism.

Now this is interesting because when you delineate characters through foil dynamics, you usually give them contrasting traits : a pragmatic character would be contrasted with an idealistic one. Yet since we're talking politicians, idealism is unlikely. What do we get instead ?

Valern's pragmatism is very much all about short-term efficiency : getting the mission done is the only thing that counts. Results are the only things that counts. He's a textbook example of what a cynical pragmatist might be depicted as ; which is perhaps why Esheel, in a Renegade!Timeline ME3, seems to have nothing but contempt for him.

Sparatus' pragmatism, on the other hand, always manifests itself as caution. Did you take this in consideration ? Do you have proof to back up what you claim ? Can you stop being a maverick for two seconds ? Can you conclusively demonstrate to me that you took every other possibility into account and that you did, in fact, make the best available decision ? It's pragmatism but focused on the long term, on not jeopardizing the future for the sake of the present. Strategy instead of tactics.

And as for Tevos, she usually has the last word, always mediating the reactions of her co-Councilors and the Council's responses as a whole. The feeling you get is that her pragmatism is all about flexibility and compromise : what's done is done, what's most important is that we agree on a mutually beneficial course of action. She juggles egos, unruffles feathers and calms everyone down so that they can move forward.

This is very nice because, in a sense, each of them is a perfect vanilla representation of their respective governments, in keeping with ME1's heavy worldbuilding duties : Tevos is very much the compromising centrist asari are supposed to be, favoring people working together (at practically any cost) over what they're working for ; Valern is all about the short-term mentality of the salarians, and the certainty any problem they cause can be fixed no matter what, in a never-ending parade of problems whose resolution cause other problems ; and Sparatus is risk-averse and perhaps the most conservative of the three, in that he is very afraid of any significant change upsetting the status quo, always calculating how this or that decision might change the grand strategic stage of the galaxy.

#mass effect #citadel council #tevos #sparatus #valern #Can you tell this is my afternoon off ?#mass effect 1 #asari republics #salarian union #turian hierarchy

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4kingz · 2 months ago

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hoodie nsfw headcanons warnings : 18+ mdni, rough sex, psychological domination, manipulation, voyeurism, detached affection, power play, objectification (viewer/subject dynamic), mind games

Quiet, Calculating, and Ruthless Hoodie doesn’t need to speak. His dominance is quiet, creeping into the air around you like a thick fog that you can’t escape. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t make a fuss—he just exists with a presence that demands compliance. It’s more than physical control; it’s mental. He owns your thoughts before he owns your body, and he’ll twist your mind before he ever gets to your skin.

Everything is a test When you’re with Hoodie, nothing happens by accident. Every word he says, every glance he gives, is a test. A measure. A way of seeing how far he can push you before you break, and how much control he can assert over your every reaction. When he touches you, it’s deliberate—not just to make you feel good, but to see how much you’ll give. How eager you are to please. And when you do, when you start responding to him? That’s when the real game starts. He doesn’t just get off on your pleasure—he gets off on your compliance. It’s about watching you fight the urge to give in, knowing that when you do, he’ll have you completely.

The silence is suffocating Hoodie’s quiet. When you’re with him, there’s no soft whispers or reassuring murmurs. The silence wraps around you, thick and oppressive, making every movement feel deliberate. His stillness is almost more powerful than anything he could say. When he does speak? It’s not to comfort you. It’s to issue a command, or maybe a quiet threat. You never know if the next word from his lips will make you feel safe or make you wish you were anywhere but here. He doesn’t give you mercy. And that silence? It’s a weapon. Every time he makes you wait, makes you anticipate, it’s like he’s drawing out your compliance, his patience pushing you to the brink of desperation. You want him to say something, anything, just to break the silence. But he doesn’t. He watches you squirm, measuring your reaction, making sure you understand that you’re at his mercy.

He owns your fear Hoodie doesn’t need to touch you to control you. He owns your fear. The quiet, looming tension he creates is just as powerful as any physical touch. His presence is always there—a heavy weight that presses down on you, reminding you that he’s in charge. That no matter how much you try to fight back, you’re still under his control. His gaze, those cold, dead eyes, follow you. He doesn’t need to speak, doesn’t need to threaten. Just the way he looks at you, as if he’s dissecting you, judging your every move. You’re not even sure when you start to crave it—his control, his power over you. But at some point, you do. You’ll start to respond to him without thinking, moving as if you’re an extension of his will. He won’t push you to that point all at once. It’s slow, methodical, like everything else he does. And when you realize you’ve become nothing more than a tool for his pleasure and his control? That’s when he’ll really own you.

Punishment is a lesson, not a game Hoodie’s punishments aren’t quick or vicious—they’re drawn out, methodical. He’s not here to teach you to be “good” in the way a brat tamer would. No, for him, it’s about showing you just how easy things could be if you’d just listen. Every moment of delay, every painful second, is designed to make you understand that your disobedience is costing you.

When he punishes you, it’s not about making you squirm for his pleasure (though that’s certainly part of it). It’s about showing you the consequences of not falling in line. And every time you fight him, every time you try to resist, he drags it out even longer, reminding you just how good you could’ve had it if you’d simply obeyed.

You’re his favorite subject. Hoodie’s the type to record everything, and you? You’re his most prized footage. He’s not just a voyeur—he’s a collector. He likes to capture every moment. The way your body reacts to his touch, your breath hitching when he teases you, the way your eyes flutter when you get close to the edge. He’ll pull out his phone, camera rolling, and just watch. You’re not sure if he’s doing it for himself or if he’s just obsessed with knowing exactly how you break.

He’ll ruin you—and then act like he didn’t. You’ll be wrecked, gasping, trembling... and he’ll just tilt his head, hum thoughtfully, and wipe his fingers on your shirt like it’s nothing. He won’t comfort you, but he’ll tuck you in. He won’t kiss you, but he’ll feed you water like you’re too stupid to hold the cup yourself. He cares—but not in a way you recognize. He’s not cold, just distant. And that distance? It’s intentional. That’s how he keeps you coming back.

#creepypasta fanfiction #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta smut #brian thomas #brian thomas x you #brian thomas smut #hoodie #hoodie x you #hoodie x reader #hoodie smut #creepypasta imagine #headcanons #smut headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta #creepypasta fandom

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vilonnie · 2 years ago

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[Transcript of screenshots from Persona 5 Royal.

Akechi: Welcome home.

Ren (Ignoring the dialogue options “Why’re you here?” and silence): Honey, I’m home.

End transcript]

I need to know what goes on inside akechi’s head on the evening of october 24th.

like. look at it from his perspective. he comes to leblanc early. he has his priorities straight: he’s going to play some mind games, really get under joker’s skin.

(bear with me while I get serious about a profoundly unserious conversation)

he’s staking his claim on enemy territory. he’s sitting patiently, waiting for akiren to walk through the door. surely, it will intimidate his rival to know that he’s made himself at home in his living space. look how close he managed to slip without akiren noticing! he even went so far as to strike up a conversation with his odd barista caretaker. akechi would drop some quick political jargon here, reference some continental philosopher’s name there— all in the name of making akiren look totally incompetent.

really, joker should be terrified. he should feel violated, even. akechi would! hence:

look— he’s so self satisfied! yes, he totally won this round!

🚨 BUZZER NOISE! 🚨

see, akechi is playing 4D chess. so is akiren! but they’re using drastically different playbooks. we know this because goro akechi procedes to get hit with the following:

I know you as the player don’t need to select that dialogue option (I could go on about the implications of that, but other posts have already said it better). but you can! and I, for one, do.

not to get too deep on what is obviously a joke post, but I think this offers some insight into those little rants that akechi goes on sometimes. you know what I’m talking about— “oh, you’re so special, so interesting, it’s like we were fated to meet each other!”

yes— they were basically fated to meet each other, but that’s not the point.

as silly as it sounds, the fact that dialogue options like this exist proves the oft-stated fact that akiren is the antithesis to akechi’s thesis.

akechi plans his interactions with akiren down to a tee, and still, akiren manages to throw akechi off his rhythm! every. single. time. nobody else does this.

part of this is because akiren sees his interactions with akechi for what they’re worth. it’s all a gamble, a chess match. akechi appreciates that akiren is an equal player in their game. he respects that. it takes intelligence to see a bluff for what it is, and to call it. flirtatiously, too!

that respect is what makes their relationship so compelling. it holds true whether you read what they have as love, hate, obsession, or, hell, even all of the above! you know it isn’t indifference, because that doesn’t make any sense coming from either of them.

call me crazy (I certainly deserve it) but if akiren responds “honey, I’m home” to akechi, he hears another message loud and clear: I see what you tried to do here, I’m calling you on it, and you don’t scare me. you’ve made your move, and I’m going to undo it with flair, because I’m joker, and you love it.

and when you look at it like that, it makes sense why little things might set off akechi’s thoroughly-stated appreciation of akiren. they aren’t “little” to him at all. I’m sure he doesn’t wax poetic just to fuel akiren’s ego, anyway. that isn’t quite his style.

and hey! even if akiren didn’t mean to communicate all of that (he totally did though), it doesn’t make the sentiment any less real to akechi! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. the guy has issues. let him plot the downfall of his enemies (real and perceived) in peace <3

#FINALLY YOU GET IT #I feel like rens agency in their stupid dumbass 4d chess mind games is always underplayed by fans who want him to be #defanged and innocent. but he is literally such a fucking Menace (affectionate. complementary)#the consistent instances of joker messing with akechi make it obvious that he’s not only been aware that Akechi is trying to use him from #the start but has also been responding in kind and eagerly playing their game I have been saying this!!!!!!#1) the glasseskechi scene 2) ‘come here often’ etc 3) go go Goro San (I hate this one tbh) and!!!!!!#4) are you familiar with gunplay detective?#WHY DOES NOBODY TALK ABOUT ARE U FAMILIAR WITH GUNPLAY DETECTIVE THAT IS THE MOST AUDACIOUS HINT AT JOKERS HAND…….#it also seems to be how joker copes with having his trust betrayed and his life threatened btw. by leaning into his competitive side and #sense of responsibility he makes the danger all part of the game between the two of them so he can smugly focus on coming out the winner and #being proud of his friends. he is SITTING THERE SMIRKING as someone who was a friend tries to violently devalue his life. issues!!!!!!!!!#*steam pop up voice* This Will Cause Problems In The Future #because they WERE friends. btw. whole premise of that dynamic is that they’re both playacting at friendship but they’re both distrustful and #have ulterior motives and yet they end up developing an understanding of each other and I would argue legitimately becoming friends without #meaning to and without akechi even being able to acknowledge it until it’s too late bcause of his sunk cost vengeance #it’s just thematically important that ren be able to extend compassion and understanding to akechi.#two sides same coin IM a calculating bastard too!!!!!!!!! fuck you #oh god too many tags sorry sorry sorry

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spidermiguell · 2 months ago

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For pain is what I yearn for. — Feyd Rautha (18+)

—fem!reader x feyd rautha harkonnen

—synopsis: You were sent to interrogate him, not touch him. But Feyd-Rautha was never meant to stay chained—he got under your skin, into your blood, and made you break every rule you swore by. Now he’s free, bruised and grinning, and you’re the one left exposed when the doors open. It wasn’t supposed to get this intimate. And it’s going to cost you everything.

—warnings: power imbalances, dubious consent, manipulation, explicit sexual content, physical violence, emotional violence, blood, injury, psychological tension, coercion themes, non-traditional power dynamics, emotional degradation, Stockholm Syndrome undertones

—songs recs while reading: creep — radiohead + where is my mind — pixies

It had been twelve days since the fall of the Harkonnen stronghold on Arrakis. Twelve days since the blood-soaked sands bore witness to the defeat of one of the most feared names in the Imperium. The Atreides emerged from the chaos victorious—scarred, battered, but standing. And among the prisoners taken from the wreckage was the infamous Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen: heir to the throne of Giedi Prime, sadist, killer, war-trained spectacle of brutality. A man raised on violence like it was scripture. Many had called for his execution. Public. Swift. Cleansing. But Paul Atreides had stayed the blade. “Let him rot,” the Duke said. “Let him be studied. Understood. He’s more useful alive.”

That’s where you came in.

Not a soldier, not a torturer. You were sharp where others were brutal—trained in observation, rhetoric, psychological warfare. You’d spent your life learning how to make people talk without touching them. So when they handed you Feyd, it wasn’t with weapons. It was with silence. Patience. Intellect.

And he hated that.

He was used to screams and fire, to proving himself with fists and blood. But you offered none of that. Just cold eyes and measured words. You treated him like a subject. Like a thing to be understood. And maybe that’s why he smiled at you like that. Like a dog shown a new kind of cruelty. Or maybe… something worse.

The first time you entered his cell to fully talk to him and not just watch him with others in silence, he didn’t even look up.

He sat on the edge of the cot, wrists bound in a high-security restraint that pulsed faintly red against his skin. The room was dim, lit only by a single glowglobe embedded in the ceiling, casting sharp lines across his face. He looked younger than you expected—more sculpted than monstrous. But the moment he glanced at you, you understood why the others avoided him. That gaze was sharp. Not just watchful—but calculating. Cold and amused all at once, like he already knew what kind of person you were and was just waiting for you to prove it.

You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t need to. He knew who you were. The Atreides shadow sent to interrogate him—only you weren’t using chains or drugs or blades. Just words. And maybe that offended him more than pain ever could.

“Another silent one,” he muttered, voice low, amused. “You people really know how to drag out the inevitable.”

You ignored him. He watched you with a tilt of his head, like a predator in temporary captivity, studying the hand that held the key to the cage.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

He smiled. A slow, curling thing that didn’t touch his eyes.

“you know my name. You’ve been coming to observe me with the other Atreides freaks for the past 12 days. Glad you’re finally speaking though”

A pause.

You didn’t answer. You just stared. That always unnerved people eventually.

But not him.

No, he leaned into it.

“You’re not going to get what you want from me,” he said, voice lilting like he was reciting a joke only he found funny. “Not with patience. Not with politeness. If you want answers, you’ll have to dig. Hurt me. Break me.”

He grinned.

“Please. Try.”

There it was.

That glint in his eyes when he said hurt me. Not taunting, not bluffing, but longing. You knew that look. You’d seen it before in broken men trying to reclaim control through pain. But in him, it wasn’t weakness. It was power. A weapon he’d learned to wield before he could read.

And in that moment, something inside you shifted.

You didn’t pity him. You didn’t fear him.

You understood him.

And that was so much worse.

Because now you couldn’t unsee it. That hunger behind his words. The way he leaned into cruelty not as a tactic, but as comfort. Like pain…his or someone else’s, was the only language he’d ever been taught to speak. You weren’t sure if that made him more dangerous, or just more tragic. But it made him harder to hate. And that… that was the most dangerous thing of all.

You didn’t move from where you stood, didn’t let your breath falter or your spine ease, but inside, something shifted. Just slightly. Like a hairline fracture in glass—small, invisible, but growing. He felt it. Somehow, he felt it.

“There,” he said, voice low and pleased, almost reverent. “You feel it too. Don’t you?”

Your eyes met his, unflinching.

“What I feel is irrelevant,” you said calmly.

“Mmm.” He leaned forward, slow, as if savoring the space between you. “That’s not a denial.”

You didn’t rise to it. You refused. Letting him rile you was exactly what he wanted—feeding the fire he burned inside. He was waiting for you to break. Waiting for your hands to tremble, for your voice to crack. You gave him nothing.

But his smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“You’re very good at pretending,” he said. “But you’re not hollow. You burn. I can feel it from here.”

You kept your face blank, but the truth of it prickled at the back of your neck. You were burning. Not with fear, but with the slow, grinding frustration of being studied like you were the subject. He was flipping the dynamic, piece by piece, and you were letting him.

“You think you know me,” you said, voice like ice. “You don’t.”

“Not yet,” he echoed, his smile turning razor-sharp. “But you’re so fun to peel apart.”

There was a moment—too long to be comfortable—where neither of you spoke. His breathing had steadied. His posture loose, familiar, like he was settling into something. And the silence between you no longer belonged to you. He had taken it, claimed it like territory.

You needed to take it back.

“You’ve never known anyone who didn’t hit back, have you?” you asked, stepping forward just slightly—just enough to shift the air. “Anyone who didn’t play your game?”

He blinked, just once. That was the tell. A flicker.

“Is that what you are?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Something else?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because deep down, you weren’t entirely sure. Not anymore.

And that terrified you.

Feyd tilted his head with that same, infuriating, almost crazy look in his eyes—like he was watching something beautiful unfold. Something inevitable.

“You think they sent you here to tame me,” he said, voice like heat dragging over skin.

“But you didn’t come to clip the monster’s wings. You came to see if he’d recognize something in you.”

You clenched your jaw. Hard. The tension bloomed in your chest and settled behind your teeth, bitter and slow. Don’t react. Don’t give him that.

You stepped back, cold air rushing in to fill the space he’d taken in your lungs. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“You’re not special,” you blurted out, far too loudly for your liking. “You’re just another twisted little tyrant who thinks manipulation makes him interesting.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the hollowness in them. Like a shield you knew had already cracked.

He laughed. Quiet, indulgent.

“You’re adorable when you lie to yourself.”

Your control, once unshakable, pristine, rippled.

He shifted on the cot, the chains tugging as he leaned forward.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Say what you really want to say. No one’s watching. No command, no eyes behind glass. Just you. And me.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t know what you wanted to say.

But because you did.

And when you moved, it was sharp. Unthinking.

Your hand grabbed the front of his collar and dragged him forward, yanking him off balance until his knees slammed against the edge of the chains that held him back. He barely reacted—eyes wide, breath caught, lips parting in something too close to wonder.

“Is this what you want?” you snapped, voice low and dangerous. “To be broken open? To be punished?”

He stared at you like you’d answered a prayer.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. Finally.”

You shoved him back hard—back against the wall, his breath knocked out in a short, stunned laugh—but he was grinning, grinning like he’d won, even in chains.

“Hurt me,” he breathed. “Make it mean something.”

And you almost did.

Your hand trembled where it fisted in his shirt. Your other curled at your side, aching to strike. To burn. And for a split second, you saw yourself doing it—saw the violence, the release. Saw the understanding in his eyes turn to devotion.

And god help you, you wanted it.

Because you didn’t want to save him.

You wanted to ruin him.

And the scariest part?

He wanted it too.

You should’ve let go.

You knew you should’ve let go.

But he was laughing under his breath, low and breathless, like every second of your fury was a gift he’d been starving for. And somehow, his chains didn’t make him look powerless. They made him look offered. Like he was giving himself to you in the only way he knew how.

“Come on,” he rasped, breath warm against your cheek. “You can do better than that.”

You shoved him again, harder this time. His back hit the wall with a dull, satisfying thud. The way his eyes fluttered shut—fuck…he loved it.

“You like this?” you spat. “Being thrown around like trash?”

“No,” he whispered, eyes opening again—dark, fevered, locked on yours. “I like that you’re the one doing it.”

The sound you made was half fury, half disbelief. Your fingers twisted tighter in the front of his shirt. You raised your hand—open at first—but when he didn’t flinch, when he tilted his head slightly like he wanted it, the shape of it changed. You struck him.

A slap. Sharp. Loud in the stone chamber.

His head snapped to the side.

A breathless laugh escaped him—wrecked and giddy.

“God,” he groaned. “Do it again.”

And you did. You weren’t thinking anymore. You were feeling. Letting the weight of everything he’d said, everything he was, crash through your carefully built walls. You hit him again, and again—until your palm burned, until his cheek bloomed with red. He groaned through one of them, head lolling back against the wall, lips parted.

And that was the moment it shifted.

Not just violence. Not just power.

Something else burned in the air between you.

Your chest heaved. His too. Your hands fisted in his collar, dragging him close, and for the first time, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you—mouth swollen, cheek flushed, chain links clinking softly as he moved.

And he smiled.

But not cruelly. Not mockingly. It was… soft. Filthy. Grateful.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how it sounded on his tongue—like worship. Like reverence. Like he meant it.

“You don’t get to—” you started, but the words tangled in heat and breath.

His lips brushed yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of one. The possibility of one.

“You could do anything to me,” he murmured. “And I’d let you. I’d fucking thank you.”

And you hated him. You hated him. But your body betrayed you—every nerve lit up, your grip didn’t loosen, and your mouth stayed far too close to his.

“You’re putrid,” you whispered.

“And you’re still holding me,” he breathed.

And you were.

Fingers curled into him like he was yours.

And he was still smiling.

That same, unbearable, feral smile—like you were divine, like every word you spat and every bruise you left was love to him. You wanted to wipe it off his face. So you did.

You shoved him back against the stone so hard the cot behind him scraped against the floor. His head hit the wall, but he didn’t flinch. He only looked up at you, breathless, chest rising and falling beneath the wrinkled fabric of his shirt.

“You hit like you’re scared of liking it.”

That snapped something in you. Again.

You struck him once more—this time with your whole body behind it. Not just a slap—impact. The kind that echoed through your bones. The kind you weren’t supposed to like either.

He groaned. This time not with mockery, but something deeper. Darker. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing past his bruised cheekbone. He was drunk on this. On you.

“Again,” he begged.

Your hand fisted in his shirt and dragged him forward—and when he fell into you, you didn’t push him back. Not this time. You shoved him against your body, against your heat, your fury, your restraint finally gone.

He gasped softly, like he hadn’t expected that part. Like pain, he understood—but this? This closeness? It rocked him.

“You're sick,” you whispered, voice thick and low. “You get off on being hurt. On me hurting you.”

“Yes,” he breathed into your throat. “Only you.”

Your grip tightened, forcing his head back so you could look at him—really look. His lip was split, cheek flushed from your palm, and he looked ruined. Beautiful. Like art dragged through ash.

And still, still. He leaned into your touch.

“I could kill you,” you said.

“Then kill me,” he whispered. “But do it like this.”

And then—your lips were on his.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was a collision—teeth, heat, breath. His chains rattled as he surged forward into you, mouth hungry, answering yours with bruising need. You bit his lip harder than necessary and he moaned into it, pulling you closer with every inch of movement he was allowed.

You hated how much you wanted him.

How good it felt to ruin something already so beautifully broken.

His hands, still bound, brushed your hips—begging without words. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t stop yourself. Your body pressed into his, heat against heat, and the friction made you both gasp.

“Say it,” he growled against your mouth.

“Say what?”

“That you want this. That you want me.”

You pushed your forehead to his, panting.

“I want to break you.”

You heard the sound before you understood it— groaning under pressure, warping like clay. You froze.

Then, snap.

One link shattered. Then another.

You looked down just in time to see the chain unravel from his wrist like it had never belonged there. It hit the ground with a hollow clatter. The second followed without ceremony.

It was so easy. Too easy.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when your eyes snapped back up, Feyd was already watching you—head tilted, hands free, fingers flexing slowly like he was remembering what they were really for.

“Huh,” he murmured, inspecting his palm. “Almost forgot what it feels like not to be restrained.”

His voice was too casual. Too slow. You didn’t trust it.

You took a step back, instinct pulling at your spine. But he moved too—one step, then another, smooth and unhurried, like a predator circling something it knew wouldn’t get away.

“You…could’ve done that anytime” you breathed.

He grinned, and there was nothing sweet in it.

“Of course I could’ve.”

Your pulse jumped. Your hand brushed your hip like it might find a weapon there. It didn’t.

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted to see how far you’d go thinking I couldn’t touch you,” he said, taking another step forward. “I wanted to see what you'd do with a monster in chains. If you'd flinch. Or if you'd play.”

He was closer now.

You could smell the heat on his skin, the sharp tang of metal and blood still clinging to him. His fingers reached for your chin—but didn’t touch. Just hovered, maddeningly close, enough to make your breath catch.

“You surprised me,” he said. “You took control.”

His tone dipped—low, rough. The kind that slithered into your stomach and coiled there.

“And now?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Now,” he said, finally touching your jaw, thumb tracing just beneath your lower lip, “I’m wondering what happens when the monster decides to play back.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Because his hand wasn’t rough—it was glorifying. Like he still worshipped you. But now you knew he didn’t have to. He wasn’t kneeling anymore. He was choosing to touch you this gently.

And it made your skin burn.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Do you want to run?”

You didn’t answer.

“No?” His smile widened against your neck. “Good. I’d hate to chase you. Unless you wanted that too.”

A chill danced down your spine.

You hated the way your body responded.

but deep down, you knew you loved it.

Unexpectedly, before you could even think or speak, Feyd moved viciously.

One moment he was smiling—lips split, blood on his teeth like a kiss he hadn't finished tasting—and the next, your back collided with the wall. The impact rattled your bones, but the gasp that escaped you wasn’t fear.

It was thrill.

Feyd didn’t hold you like a prisoner. He didn’t have to. His hands bracketed your head, palms flat against the stone, arms tense and caging—but you felt the restraint in it. The pullback. The control.

He could crush you.

But he didn’t.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You scoffed. “Not from fear.”

“No,” he breathed. “You like this. Being wanted like this. Being seen.”

He leaned in slowly, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw, and you hated how much your body betrayed you. Heat curled low in your stomach. He could feel it. He always could.

“I spent days chained for you,” he said. “Let you examine me. Let you pretend you were in charge.”

Your hand shot up before you even thought about it—crack. His face snapped to the side, blood spattering onto his cheek. His breath hitched.

He turned back to you, lip split wide, grinning.

You hit him again.

Harder.

His head thudded back against the stone, and this time, when he looked at you, something darker lit his eyes. Something holy

“Keep going,” he rasped. “Don’t stop now.”

“i fucking hate you; you piece of shit.”

He did nothing but laugh.

You shoved him back, but he let it happen again—let his body go limp just long enough for you to feel like you were winning.

Then he surged forward, grabbing you, and kissed you so hard your teeth clashed. His mouth was blood and heat and brutal want. You clawed at him, fingernails raking down his back, dragging skin. He hissed, gasped, moaned into your mouth.

“I should tear you apart, tell the Duke what an animal you are.” you breathed against his lips.

“Then what’s stopping you?” he whispered back, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Do it. Ruin me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Too late.”

He reached for your hand, brought it to the side of his neck, pressed it there—your palm over his pulse.

“Take it,” he said. “Take all of me.”

Your fingers stayed at his throat, your palm pressed over that racing pulse—and something in you couldn’t help it.

You crashed into him like violence made flesh.

Mouths colliding. Blood mixing. Nothing soft left in you. Or him. He groaned into your kiss, the sound ragged, needy, as his hands finally touched you without caution. They gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you against him like he wanted to carve your shape into his body and keep it there.

You clawed at his back, dragged your nails down the muscle and bone, tearing open old scabs. He hissed loudly, but it wasn’t pain. It was pleasure. Your lips tore apart just long enough to see the red streaks you’d left on his skin, and the way he smiled through it made your breath catch.

“You like that?” you spat.

He laughed psychopathically.

“I’m a whore for it.”

Then his hands were everywhere. Sliding beneath your clothes, tugging at them with frantic purpose. You gripped his shoulders and kissed down his throat like you wanted to taste where your hand had once threatened him. He arched into it, chest heaving, grinding up against you without shame.

“You’re mine,” you whispered.

“I’ve always been yours, your animal,” he groaned, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to mark.

You slammed him back against the wall this time, the stone cracking behind his spine. He moaned like it was a blessing. Like you were ripping him apart in all the ways he’d ever wanted.

Clothes tore.

Fabric ripped.

Skin met skin with no room left between.

You shoved his shirt down his arms, raking your hands across his chest, and when your nails found the deep ridges of scars and fresh welts, he shuddered. His head dropped to your shoulder, and you heard him whisper, almost broken:

“Only you. Only you make me feel it.”

And still, he let you lead.

Even with his strength, his fire, his bloody mouth and brute hands—he let you choose how rough, how fast, how much.

But you didn’t hold back.

You bit him, shoved him, slammed him harder until he was panting beneath you, his knees threatening to give out, his hands clawing at your back like he was begging without saying it.

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and glassy.

“I yearn for you,” he gasped. “I dream about you breaking me.”

Right there against the cold stone, with blood drying on his lip and your name gasped against his throat like a prayer, you made sure to break him. Snap him. Throw him around like your toy.

Feyd was already gasping—eyes blown wide, skin slick and bruised beneath your hands—but he never told you to slow down. Never asked for mercy. He only watched you like you were holy fire, and he was desperate to burn.

You dragged him to the floor, hard, and he took it with a snicker—grinning even as his back hit the cold flooring of the cell, arms splayed, his bare back bleeding from your scratches beneath him. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from war. Maybe he had.

You straddled him without hesitation, knees braced on either side of his hips, and his hands flew to your thighs—but didn’t push. Didn’t grab.

Waited.

Even now, he waited for your permission.

And you gave it to him—with your entire fucking body.

You leaned down, lips crashing into his again, messier this time, soaked with blood and spit and teeth. You kissed like you were starving, and he kissed you like it would kill him not to. Your hips ground against his, the friction sharp and perfect, and when you shifted just right, he bucked up with a sound so guttural it vibrated in your bones.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Please. Please!”

You laughed against his mouth.

“Didn’t know the great Feyd-Rautha begged”

“you’re the—fuck—exception” he groaned, clutching at you now, his fingers digging into your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You moved again, hips rolling, slower this time, meaner. And he shook. He was writhing beneath you, but never taking control, never even trying. Just laying there, trembling, undone, letting you use him like he was built for this.

Because maybe he was.

Your hands gripped his wrists and pinned them above his head. He didn’t fight. Didn’t resist. Just looked up at you with glassy eyes, breath catching as your fingers tightened.

“You want it rough?” you whispered.

He nodded.

“Say it.”

he breathed. “I want to feel it for days.”

And you gave it to him.

You rocked against him, body colliding with his in a mess of heat and bruises and blood, the tension in your spine snapping with every grind, every breathless curse between clenched teeth. He arched, back bowing like he wanted to disappear into you, whimpering when your nails raked down his arms, when your teeth grazed his throat.

You bit him, drawing pools of blood from his collarbone.

And he came apart.

His body jerked beneath you, spine taut, his breath ragged as he shattered in your hands—loud, unashamed, eyes locked to yours even through it. Like he wanted you to see him break.

And god, you did.

You followed with a strangled moan, hands gripping his chest, forehead pressed to his as your body convulsed, your orgasm tearing through you like fire. You rode it out together—sweaty, shaking, feral and consumed.

When it was over, you collapsed on top of him, both of you gasping, chests rising and falling in chaotic sync. His arms wrapped around you, gentle now. Almost reverent.

“I let you win,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You smirked against his throat.

“No,” you whispered. “You wanted to lose.”

He chuckled softly, body still twitching beneath yours.

Your limbs were still tangled with his skin. Hot, breath uneven, sweat cooling between every bruise and bite. You should’ve moved. Should’ve said something. Should’ve done anything but lie there like you weren’t already ruined.

Instead, you shifted just far enough to pull away, sitting back on your heels. The air hit your bare skin like a slap, but you didn’t reach for your clothes. Neither did he.

You didn’t dare look at him.

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the stone floor.

Feyd laughed—soft, smug, and fucking dangerous.

“And yet,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just been begging beneath you minutes ago, “you still gave me everything.”

He stood, naked and unbothered, covered in bruises and blood—his own, but not from interrogation. He was supposed to be untouched. That’s how you operated. You made them crack without laying a hand on them. You were better than that. You didn’t let anyone get under your skin, didn’t lose control.

But Feyd? He made you forget that line. He made you forget everything.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, jaw tight, disgust mixing with something deeper—a quiet kind of fear.

“Tell me,” he said, walking toward you slowly, casually, like you were prey that had already surrendered. “How’s it feel… knowing you lost?”

You stood too—too fast—your knees still shaking. His body was inches from yours, radiating heat and something worse: certainty. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.

“You think this means you’ve won?” you spat.

He smirked.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

And you did.

That’s when it hit you.

His body was marked. Blood splattered across his chest, dripping from his lip, a gash at his side. No one would believe this was from the controlled discipline you were known for. It was messy. Wild. Uncontrolled.

And worse? He was still standing. Still smug. Still victorious.

You had let him get to you. You’d broken every rule you ever had—and he was still here, smirking, like nothing had happened.

Oh god.

Anyone who walked in now wouldn’t see an interrogation. They wouldn’t see the stoic, disciplined you—they’d see this.

They’d see him free from the chains, with your marks all over him, like you were the one who had let him win.

“You realize how this looks, don’t you, I mean come on, look at me again darling.” he murmured, leaning in, voice like a secret wrapped in a knife.

“They’re not going to ask what I did to you,” he whispered, smiling. “They’ll ask what you, did to me.”

Footsteps.

Shouts in the corridor.

Closing in.

Feyd didn’t flinch. Just smiled wider, teeth stained black yet mixed with blood.

“You gonna tell them what happened?” he whispered. “Or should I?”

please remember, requests are always open, and feel free to reblog as they are highly appreciated ! <3

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cosysta · 3 days ago

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https://cosysta.com/digital-marketing-services-cost-calculator

#Digital Marketing Services Cost Calculator #dynamic cost calculator #real-time estimates based on user inputs

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patrixjia · 5 months ago

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Velvet Chains (Part I)

Plot Overview:

Y/N Y/L/N is the heir to a powerful mafia empire, but she’s always preferred playing by her own rules. When tensions between her father’s Y/L/N family and the Stray Kids mafia escalate, she finds herself kidnapped by Bang Chan, the unpredictable leader of the rival gang. What starts as a strategic move to shake things up quickly turns into a high-stakes game of power, wit, and dangerous chemistry. Will Y/N outsmart Chan and reclaim control, or will she get swept up in his chaotic world?

Warnings: Mafia!BangChan, Mafia!AU, Violence, Kidnapping, Strong Language, Power Dynamics, Dark Themes, Flirting, Banter, High Tension, Smut(eventually)

PART II, PART III, PART IV, PART V, PART VI, FINAL PART

Author Note:

Hey everyone! So, after posting a poll on Tumblr, the results are in and… Chan won! 🎉 I guess y’all are as intrigued by his unpredictable charm as I am! 😏 So here we are, diving into the world of mafia intrigue with none other than Bang Chan. This story is going to be a wild ride, and I just couldn’t stop writing once I started (you know how it goes, right?). So, get ready for a few parts—yep, this one is going to be a series! 🤩

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I’m enjoying writing it. Expect plenty of tension, power plays, and some spicy moments to come. 😉

As always, please read the tags carefully and make sure this is your cup of tea before continuing!

Hope you all enjoy this as much as I loved writing it. Please feel free to leave your thoughts, comments, and feedback—I’d love to hear from you! 💖

⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆⋆⭒⋆⭒⋆

Part I

The jazz bar wasn’t exactly your style, but you appreciated the quiet. As the only daughter of Victor Y/L/N, the man who controlled the northern sector with an iron fist, finding moments of peace was a rare commodity. Your father had built the Y/L/N empire on a foundation of precision, discipline, and cold, calculated power. For three generations, the Y/L/N mafia had ruled this part of the city, their influence expanding through smuggling, money laundering, and intricate political ties. Everything had been meticulously planned. Every move, every person, every resource—it was all part of the machine.

Victor Y/L/N wasn’t just feared—he was respected. A master strategist who never played by anyone else’s rules. His empire was a fortress, and you’d been raised to understand that you were part of it. You knew the stakes of the game, the cost of failure. You had a front-row seat to everything that happened in the world of organized crime, but instead of becoming the dutiful heir your father expected, you’d learned how to operate outside of his rigid control. You weren’t just another piece in his game of chess—you were the queen, always calculating your next move, never just following orders.

You were his greatest asset—and his greatest frustration.

Victor had raised you to understand power, to see the world in black and white. He taught you how to read people, how to dismantle an opponent without ever lifting a weapon. From the time you could walk, you’d been groomed for leadership. But you weren’t like him.

Victor saw the world as a chessboard, and every person was a piece to be moved or sacrificed. You, however, refused to stay on the board. You wanted freedom, independence. You wanted to be more than a pawn in his endless games of control.

“Emotion is a weakness,” he’d told you countless times. “Empathy will get you killed.”

But you didn’t believe him. You knew that in the right hands, emotion could be a weapon. And while Victor wanted you to be cold and calculating, you had something he didn’t: charisma. People followed your father out of fear. They followed you because they wanted to.

This difference had always been a point of contention between you.

Victor expected blind loyalty and obedience, but you questioned everything. When he ordered you to marry the son of an allied family to strengthen his position, you refused. When he tried to involve you in his dealings with corrupt politicians, you went behind his back to broker your own alliances.

You weren’t defiant for the sake of it—you were strategic. You understood the rules of the game, but you played by your own.

The silence of the bar was unsettling, though, as it contrasted with the world you’d known your entire life. The thrum of power, the constant buzz of danger—it had always been there, but tonight something felt different. The shadows seemed deeper than usual, and even the bartender’s hands shook as he poured your wine.

You glanced at the open notebook on the table in front of you, filled with coded notes about your father’s rivals, including one name that had come up more than any other recently—Bang Chan. You knew the Stray Kids mafia had been a thorn in your father’s side for years, but the tension had reached a boiling point lately. The southern sector had grown too powerful, too unpredictable. And now, it seemed they were coming for you.

The Y/L/N and Stray Kids mafias had been in conflict for years. At first, it was subtle: small skirmishes, intercepted shipments, whispers of betrayal. But as Bang Chan rose to power, the tension escalated into an all-out turf war.

Chan’s rise was meteoric. Where your father relied on tradition and loyalty, Chan built his empire with innovation and ambition. He recruited the best hackers, the most skilled fighters, and the most loyal men, creating a network that outpaced even the most established families. His crew—Stray Kids—was infamous for their unpredictability and efficiency.

Your father hated him, not just because of the territory disputes, but because Chan represented everything Victor despised: a new, disruptive power that didn’t play by the old rules.

You’d never met Bang Chan before, but you’d heard plenty about him. He was ruthless, charismatic, and maddeningly clever. If your father was a chess master, Chan was a wild card, someone who could flip the table and still win.

While the Y/L/N family’s strength lay in its calculated, methodical approach, the Stray Kids mafia relied on innovation and unpredictability.

Your notebook sat open on the table. You didn’t need to be here, but the idea of slipping away from under your father’s watchful eye always gave you a thrill. You lived for moments like this.

Until tonight.

The first thing you noticed was the bartender’s shaky hands as he poured your second glass of wine. Then came the eerie silence—the background chatter fading as patrons disappeared one by one. You leaned back, crossing your legs under the table, and glanced toward the shadowed corners of the room.

“Alright,” you murmured under your breath, reaching for the knife strapped to your thigh. “Let’s play.”

Two figures stepped into the dim light. Han Jisung and Lee Know. You recognized them immediately—not just from reputation, but from the detailed dossiers your father kept on the Stray Kids mafia.

The Stray Kids were brutal, unpredictable, and far more cunning than anyone gave them credit for.

Where your father’s mafia was cold and calculated, theirs was wild and ambitious. It was no wonder your father hated them.

Han and Lee Know approached with an air of casual confidence, but you could tell they weren’t taking any chances. You smiled, a sharp, mocking twist of your lips.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Chan’s errand boys. Did you get lost on the way to the kiddie pool?”

Han snorted, clearly amused. “She’s got jokes. I like her already.”

Lee Know’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and measured. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Y/N.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Oh, honey. You’re adorable if you think either of those options work for me.”

Without warning, you lunged. The knife was in your hand in an instant, its blade glinting in the dim light. Lee Know blocked your strike, his movements quick and calculated, while Han stepped in to restrain your other arm.

“Cute,” Lee Know said, his grip like steel around your wrist. “But not smart.”

You twisted in his grasp, your knee coming up to narrowly miss Han’s side. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just getting started.”

Han laughed, despite himself. “She’s got fire. No wonder Chan’s so interested.”

That gave you pause. “Interested? Let me guess—he couldn’t find anyone else to stroke his ego, so he sent you two?”

Lee Know’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

You laughed, though the sound was more to cover your growing irritation than anything else. “How cute. You think this is going to be easy?”

The two men didn’t answer. They moved quickly, forcefully, but you fought back with every ounce of your strength. You managed to strike one of them in the ribs before they overpowered you and pulled your hands behind your back. It was the usual dance—the struggle, the resistance. But you knew this wasn’t just about you. This was about your father’s empire, and if they were here for you, then it was time to face the consequences of your father’s years of making enemies.

As Lee Know tightened his grip on your wrist, you resisted the urge to lash out. This wasn’t about you—it was about your father. Victor Y/L/N had a way of making enemies, and it seemed Bang Chan had finally grown tired of playing nice. Not that you cared. You’d spent years trying to step out of Victor’s shadow, but his decisions had a way of dragging you back in.

"You do realize this is going to piss off my father,” you said, looking at Han. “Is that the plan, or is Chan just bored?”

Han didn’t seem fazed. “Bored? Nah. This is business, Y/N. Chan’s got a point to prove.”

You scoffed. “And you think kidnapping me will prove it?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Han said, his grin widening. “But it’ll get his message across.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Well, don’t take it personally, boys. I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Lee Know’s grip on your wrist tightened, but you barely noticed. It was the truth, after all. The moment your father found out, all hell would break loose.

The ride to the Stray Kids estate felt like hours, but you knew it was only a matter of time before you’d face Bang Chan. The southern sector and the northern sector had been in a delicate balance for years. Your father kept his enemies close, but Chan had always been an anomaly. He didn’t play by the same rules, and that made him dangerous.

You sat between Han and Lee Know, your hands loosely bound—just tight enough to make a statement but loose enough to mock.

“You know,” you said after a few minutes, breaking the silence, “this is a sloppy move for Chan. Kidnapping me? What’s the play? Ransom? Leverage? Or is he just looking for a date?”

Han snickered. “She’s quick.”

Lee Know didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “We’re not here to answer your questions, Y/N.”

“Of course not,” you replied smoothly. “That would require actual intelligence.”

Han turned to you, grinning. “You’re awfully bold for someone in your position.”

“Bold is just another word for better,” you said, tilting your head toward him. “Speaking of bold, is Chan still pretending he’s running the southern sector with brains, or has he admitted it’s all brawn and luck?”

Lee Know’s hand tightened on his knee, but Han seemed genuinely entertained. “I can’t wait for him to meet you.”

When you arrived at the mansion, Chan was waiting.

The estate was grand, modern, and cold—a stark contrast to the warmth of your father’s domain. The walls seemed to pulse with the quiet hum of power, and you could feel it as you were led inside. Chan was the type of man who demanded respect without saying a word. It was a quiet confidence that bordered on arrogance.

When he turned to face you, you couldn’t help but appreciate the way he commanded the room without a single movement. His gaze locked onto yours, and you stood your ground.

“Well, well,” you said, crossing your arms. “Let me guess. This is about my father. What, did he steal one of your shipments? Break one of your toys? Seems like a petty reason to kidnap me.”

Chan smirked, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Petty? No. Let’s call it… strategic. Your father’s been playing the same tired game for years. He doesn’t realize the board has changed.”

“And you think you’re the one changing it?” you shot back.

“I know I am,” he replied, his tone casual but sharp. “And you, Y/N, are far too smart to pretend otherwise.”

He smiled—a dangerous, predatory curve of his lips—as he walked toward you. “You’ve built quite the reputation for yourself. Smart, strategic, ruthless when you need to be. You’re not your father, though, are you?”

You bristled, stepping forward to meet his gaze head-on. “No, I’m not. I’m better.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Chan tilted his head, his smirk widening. “I see.” He gestured for Lee Know and Han to leave, his eyes never leaving yours. “You can drop the act, Y/N. I didn’t bring you here for ransom.”

“Then what?” you shot back. “You looking for a chess partner? Because I don’t play games I can’t win.”

Chan chuckled, low and dangerous. “Oh, I think you’ll find this game… worth playing.”

You crossed your arms, leaning closer to him. “And what makes you think I won’t burn your whole empire to the ground?”

He leaned in, his voice a soft whisper. “Because you’re too smart to destroy something you’ll want to rule.”

The tension crackled like electricity, but you didn’t flinch. This was a battle of wills, and you weren’t about to lose.

#bang chan #stray kids #skz smut #kpop smut #skz #lee know #han jisung #stray kids mafia #bang chan fanfic #bang chan smut #skz mafia

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