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hughesmybaby · 11 months ago

Note

Can you write something about Jacaerys velaryon x targaryen wife reader

Where she gives birth to a baby that looks like jace and it bothered alicent but they don't care? :3

Saving Face (Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!Reader)

(a/n): i’m sorry this request took over a year but my, what a great idea! i hope you like it

word count: 3.0k

summary: with what was supposed to be a happy moment in the new chapter of your family with jacaerys, only wounds linger when your mother is unhappy with your child's appearance.

warnings: slight angst, family tensions, complicated family relationships, implied incest (the targaryen way), not alicent hightower friendly

request status: OPEN

The joy of his newborn child is nearly eclipsed by the fear that his beloved would be called to face the same humiliation his mother endured upon his birth.

Even in distress, his beautiful wife still looked otherworldly silver hair spun in gold, and with her pale lavender eyes, he would not have that ginger sucker of joy to rob him from this life changing celebration. His relief that his beloved survived the precarious birth, worried about her lithe frame and the prostration it weighed on her during the pregnancy.

His little boy, his beloved son, a fragment of the other half of soul and his own. He is perfect, with his ten little toes and fingers, and he is all his.

Jacaerys is thankful his mother was in the birthing room with him and his wife, breaking protocol (as always) to be with the mother as she went into labour. Without her, he thinks he would’ve been hysterical and lost his mind without her guiding hand and comforting presence in seeing Y/N in distress.

“Where is my mother?” Y/N cradles the babe to her breast, as he suckled in his mother’s warmth and he feels his heart drop to his stomach as her face contorted in disappointment.

The child yearned for nourishment, and the midwives guided the young mother so she could feed the child with her milk.

The Dowager Queen remained unyielding even as her step-daughter arose as Queen, and she was still given some privileges even with her dispute with his mother. The marriage of Jacaerys and Y/N, her youngest daughter, was made as a desperate attempt to patch the two sides together and make peace as his mother sat on the Iron Throne.

Her mother attended the wedding, wearing a dark muted forest green that still appeared obsidian in certain angles, but the flame patterns could not be missed on her gown.

A mockery indeed as if she did not accept his mother’s ascendance to the throne and wanted her small rebellions in forms of cloth, he would not grant her the satisfaction of his reaction, for the sake of the realm and his wife, her daughter. It would be too scandalous to do so.

When his beloved was called abed, all pretense of dignity and calm collapsed underneath him. Whatever confident front he had broke apart as fear consumed him, sweat dripping from his forehead, hands shaking, heart beating wildly as he realized his wife was to cross the barrier between life and death to birth their child.

Seeing Y/N’s clean white robes stained the bed in scarlet as she quickens and the pain increases as the babe nears reminds him of the chills whenever he walks the path from the princess’ chambers to the queen’s, the same path forged in blood when his mother then Princess Rhaenyra, the crown princess and heir to the Throne, had to face the humiliation called upon by her stepmother, now Queen Dowager Alicent.

His blood boils when he sees the auburn former queen walk that path meekly nowadays on her way to see her daughter, as if it was all an act when she had pulled rank and caused so much suffering to his beloved mother. Jacaerys fears his wife, now the Princess of Dragonstone will have to walk those same halls, perform the same walk of shame and mummery with all the courtiers of the Keep to bear witness.

There is no possibility he will allow her to endure the same, he would bring fire and blood to all of Westeros shall she have to face that, yet it brings him relief when he reminds himself that woman is no longer Queen but his mother is, Queen of her own right and first of her name, and yet all the same, that woman is also his mother-in-law, mother to his darling. And grandmother to the child that shares his blood.

Jacaerys never left the side of his wife even when her birth continued onto the hour of the wolf, his hands intertwined with her own, assuring kisses on her temple and cheek and encouraging her when she would cry she wanted to relent. Across from him stood his mother, whose locks resembled her half sister and his wife, an experienced mother who has felt such joy and such sorrow too, with a maternal comfort gained with experience.

He would not allow a woman filled with hate to the brim in her heart to rob him of the joys of fatherhood and the relief of his wife safe and sound after such birth to their babe. Jace felt relief like no other when he began to see the dark haired head of the child crowning, and the guttural, final scream she exerted as the child exited her womb.

Jacaerys comforted and whispered assurances of gratitude and encouragement to his lady wife, that she be reminded how grateful he was of her efforts to grow their family, of her devotion and love for him, and fulfilling her duty with nothing but grace, peppering kisses all over her flushed face.

As he caressed the fine hair of his child much like own while he fed from his mother’s breast, his elated expression dropped as if in a chilling reminder when she asked for her mother. As despicable as that woman was, he could not deny her wishes if it brought her reprieve. Jace smiled and promised her that she would be coming and has been informed of the birth of her new grandchild.

When Y/N was beyond earshot, he approached the young midwife with a hardened gait, grinding through his teeth. “If the Dowager Queen wishes to see the prince, she will make her way here herself. She can walk, can she not?!"

While his wife was preoccupied and in isolation during the last few months of the pregnancy, Jace had made efforts to convince his mother to move the Lady Alicent to the second floor below the palace where the current royal family lived. “To remind her of what she’s done to us and may feel the pain we have endured.” He told Queen Rhaenyra, who was hesitant but accepted afterwards.

Jacaerys marched his way outside the ornate doors where his wife and their babe rested, raising his chin and standing with his chest puffed out, a cold indifferent expression, back straightened and fists clenched white as his wife’s mother made her way up the stairs with difficulty.

In the years since her queenship, the then young queen had begun to develop striking pain all over her body, especially down her spine and legs no matter what the maesters or foreign healers would advise. Jacaerys thought it was fitting for when he would make his mother walk up with him and his newborn siblings, bleeding across the hallways and staircases due to the green queen’s attempt to humiliate them.

Perhaps he is his mother’s son, as diplomatic, gracious, intelligent and cunning as he may be, grudges linger.

He could hear a pin drop as the auburn haired woman nearly stumbled down the final stairs and tripped over her gown, with a few septas rushing over to assist her but he showed no commiseration.

The doors swung open as Alicent limped towards her daughter’s bedside, slightly softening in consolation her daughter was safe in childbirth and the child was kicking like a goat.

“Praise the Mother, my girl.” She brushed her blood-smeared fingers over her silver hair shakily, whispering. He did not miss the glimpse of disappointment when she noticed the dark brown hair of the child, even when the boy had her pale lavender eyes.

Alicent cleared her throat, avoiding the gaze of those around her. “I see that the prince strongly resembles his father.”

Jacaerys’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, instinctively reaching towards the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword. “Is that supposed to be a problem, Dowager?” He stomped forward, hovering above his wife and child.

“Not at all, my prince. He is a handsome boy-”

Queen Rhaenyra noticed the tension beginning to develop and interrupted with a smile. “She means no ill, Jacaerys. Merely an observation.”

“An observation?! She wished to have us named as bastards to replace you as heir with one of her spawns and humiliate you.” He raised his voice, accusatory at his mother’s former adversary, and he could feel Lucerys next to him, pulling him away to calm him.

His wife Y/N, exhausted and delirious from the birth, began to grow pale and overwhelmed from the commotion around her, just as her babe broke out in tears and wailed. The Queen ordered everyone but Jacaerys to exit the room and give the family their space. The door shut with a thunderous thud.

…

Hours later, the midwives finished cleaning up the afterbirth, bathed and cleaned the lady and the child before they both fell asleep in new linen sheets and fed.

Jacaerys never left his young family’s side, despondent he had lost his cool, distressing his family during a vulnerable moment, turning what should have been a celebration into an altercation.

He cringed as he could only imagine what the murmurs and whispers about his behaviour and the events that followed with his wife’s mother would share about him. He had brought this upon himself and his family.

AS Y/N began waking from her first rest since the labours, he turned to her as soon as he could hear her rise from her sheets, reaching for her hands in his.

“I have failed you, wife. I should have protected you but I have only raised in anger over old wounds and created altercations when I should have.” Jacaerys felt his tears brim, cheeks red with ignominy and shame.

Her eyes fluttered awake, still weary from the long delivery but visibly more rested already. She shook her head in understanding with an enervated sigh.

“I understand your relationship with my mother has been tense, for what she had done to Her Grace and your family. But I can assure her she has changed, if she is not with me, she is on the knees at the Sept begging for forgiveness and giving alms-”

“She looked at our son the same way she used to look at me and my brothers as children, when she would use her tongue to call us bastards! I fear she will do the same to you and the boy. What good will alms do if she still wishes to see me and our son six feet under ground for the colour of our hair!?” Jacaerys exclaimed, lips quivering in fear as he felt tears brim in his eyes.

Y/N brought their son closer to her arms, only comforted by the sight of her child and her beloved.

“I will handle her, trust me. She thinks I do not pay attention to these things, but I do.” She reaches her free hand to his, unmoving to not wake the babe and squeezes his larger palms into her own.

Jacaerys sniffles, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “I do not wish to drive you apart from your mother, my love. I only worry about you and our family’s safety, and the throne. That you and our son may not suffer on my behalf.”

Their son had just begun to fall asleep in her arms, and she began bouncing him instinctively, quickly gaining the ropes of what it took to be a good mother. Jacaerys knew she would be nothing like her own mother, eagerly learning from his mother Queen Rhaenyra, speaking with other royal and noble mothers and even listening to wet nurses and nannies on how to rear children best.

“Are you sure you can handle this conversation? Would you like me outside or in the room with you?” He asks with uncertainty, not entirely confident with his wife even with her own mother.

The wife of the heir to the Iron Throne and Princess of Dragonstone nods fiercely. “You forget I am a dragon too. We do not bow to these snakes that suck from their prey.”

…

In the overmorrow on the first day of spring, Y/N had just put her son in his cradle, handcrafted in limestone and marble with seahorses and dragons, lined with sheets of silk with pearls and aquamarines, befitting the future King, and the scion of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon.

She hummed as she watched him sleep, having gone through feeding him herself to the surprise of the wet nurses she had followed through, unlike most royalty. She swore she would leave nursing and care to others if she had no other choice.

Underneath sat the hearth of the magenta and mauve swirled dragon egg surrounded by pieces of coal, emitting whirls of smoke that signified the life alive in those eggs. The egg was special as it was the first from her young ride, a nervous flighty thing who only managed to hatch when she found out she was expecting herself, rarely only having one dragon when most on Dragonstone laid many.

As she hums old Valyrian nursery hymns from the crypts of ancient Valyrian text retrieved from the tombs of the Keep’s libraries, she recognizes the steps of her mother without a glimpse.

In her jade hued robes, Lady Alicent was quaint yet undaunted to remind the court of her former standing as once the queen who ruled these halls. A black veil hid part of her auburn hair that turned to flames in certain lighting.

Her mother grimaces with a smile that does not reach her eyes, but relief is painted all over her being. “You are well, daughter? I presume so is the babe.”

Y/N curtly interrupts her. “The babe is your grandson, my child when I am your flesh and blood, mother. Most importantly, he is the future heir to the throne, second in line to my husband.”

Alicent frantically fidgets with her fingers, tugging at her old emerald rings in consternation.

“Of course, yes. His name, Aemon, is fitting for a future monarch.” She could hear the strain in her mother’s words, laced with lies. All her life she had learned those sealed with malice and deceit.

“You forget yourself, mother. My husband and my children are of the blood of the dragon, as do I. You do not understand the ways of the dragon, in your jealousy of wanting to unseat my sister and put Aegon on the throne. Your attempts to disgrace and dispossess my future husband and his brothers has brought the Stranger hanging over mine and my own son’s head!” Y/N chides in betrayal, voice tinged with disbelief her mother would do such a thing.

“Y/N-”

“I could not believe you, mother, that you still harbour such ill will after many years. My marriage with Jacaerys should have buried whatever disagreements you may have had with Queen Rhaenyra, but you value imbuing hate and division on this house more than choosing the peace and stability of this kingdom!”

“Your husband and your son are unbecoming of what Targaryen princes are supposed to look like-” The Dowager attempted to reason, but was impeded as her daughter held an imposing hand towards her.

“Unbecoming? Have you not glimpsed into a mirror? You are nothing of what a Targaryen queen should be, a mere second son’s daughter who brought nothing of value to the throne, and only sought discord to advance her family. Who replaced the Targaryen tapestries with ones of the Seven in hopes of bringing your radicalism to the rest of the kingdom!”

Guards barge in the doors of the babe’s nursery, their armour and swords clattering loudly in the quiet hall.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Y/N coldly turns away from her mother, even as she frowned the same way she would. “By order of the Princess of Dragonstone with the seal of approval of the Prince of Dragonstone and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,

I order your arrest for treason, and insubordination not only for your past grievances but your efforts to call my son a bastard. You will be stripped of your privileges of Queen Dowager, and turned into a septa who will serve the Seven for all her days.”

The former queen is astonished, struggling among the grips of the soldiers who surround her. “Daughter, you are mistaken, please do not do this to me. For all I have sacrificed for this realm and for your father, you must understand why I am the way I am.” She pleaded on her knees, hands clasped as she cried for mercy.

“No, you have served your ambitions and my late grandsire’s treacherous longing for power and the throne, that you would put the Hightower banners and replace Targaryen customs with the Seven and southern ways, that you would tear the kingdom apart for it. I have given you too many chances, forgiving you and turning the cheek in hopes you have accepted it and at least been happy for me, but I am a fool. I am not as forgiving as my father was to your digressions!”

Y/N paced slowly around her mother, sorrow on her face, but no regret or forgiveness.

“You are lucky I will not be putting you in a cell, because for better or for worse, you are still the mother who birthed me. But you would understand, there is nothing a mother would do to grant protection to her children.”

The princess dazed into the window, grasping onto the rails as she heard her mother being dragged out the halls and stripped of her royal ordinances. She could feel herself biting into her nails nervously after years of no longer doing so.

Jacaerys sauntered carefully, approaching his wife with comfort, rubbing her shoulders and bringing her into his arms, looking down at their son as he slept.

“Was I not too cruel, Jace?” She whimpered, weeping into his arms as she was devastated at whether treating her own kin in such a way was a fatal mistake.

He rests his chin on the top of her head before pressing kisses on her temple. “I understand why this troubles you, wife. As abominable and misguided she was, you still are her blood, her daughter.”

She glimpsed at her son, cooing at him as he quietly sleeps. “As a mother, I want to be nothing like her. My son will never be safe while she is around.”

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electricgg · 2 months ago

Text

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 1: I Could Be The Eye Of The Storm

Masterlist Chapter 1 (Here!) / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 /

It has been said that when a person is on the verge of death, their brain shows various memories of their life for seven minutes. Seven minutes of beautiful, happy memories that marked your life.

From the moment you gave the wailing, shocking cry as the cold air of the outside world hit your wrinkly, red skin, fresh out of the womb, until the very last few moments, you keep on fighting to keep air down your lungs, and your heart slowly stops pumping blood into your veins.

A way of welcoming the end of your life peacefully, if you can see it that way.

Most people become cynical when it comes to the end of the cycle of life. Either for loss of faith or not wanting to think about what comes after it.

It’s probably because of fear.

No, it’s definitely because of fear.

Everyone is afraid of what happens when you cross to the other side. That’s a fact. A human fact.

That’s why the seven minutes are such a comforting idea. Seeing all the good things you have lived before going away into a black abyss of uncertainty.

A last ray of warm light.

(Y/N) Wayne doesn’t get her seven minutes.

Well, not her own seven minutes.

From the moment her body sank to the bottom of the water, Wayne knew her seven minutes would not be of warm, happy memories.

They would be of dark, cold hallways. Empty chairs on her birthday table. Short excuses and empty apologies for any type of tournament they didn’t assist. Cold shoulders and annoyed stares whenever she spoke or made ‘dumb’ questions.

Her dad’s empty silence. Dick’s soft avoidance. Jason’s burning anger. Tim’s sharp cut-offs. Damian’s freezing hatred.

Perhaps Death would allow her to have Alfred’s warming smiles and compassion. Maybe even the sweet melody of her mother’s humming voice as she laid on that small bed in the asylum.

Instead, she gets seven minutes of a complete acid trip.

A small town with overly nice people.

A woman and a man who are completely in love with one another. A house that changes from black and white to color, the furniture changing with the decades.

Two babies, twins, a girl and a boy.

The rush of the wind against her skin as she runs in a complete sugar rush with a man with silver hair and then the woman saying ‘if she was to break the sound barrier, she would take her brother with her’.

A huge fight with blows of red and purple and guns ending in with a warm family hug with the twins, a scarlet witch, and an android with a soul.

A good night scene, the woman kissing each of them on the forehead before turning the lights off.

The boy crawling into the girl’s bed and both of them holding to each other tightly as their world crumbles around them in a red dome.

‘Good night,---’

‘Good night, Billy.’

That name gets stuck in her brain as life slips away from her lungs. It echoes in a gentle, childish voice as it grows farther and farther away. Just like the air bubbles escaping from her mouth and nose.

‘A twin,’ a final thought muses.

‘I always wanted a twin.’

‘Please, let me have that life next time.’

‘Please, let it be–’

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Billy!”

Those are the words (Y/N) Maximoff tried to say as her mouth graggled and vomited all the water from inside her lungs once she fought to remain afloat in the deep, dark water. The left side of her head throbbed like hell, making her dizzy and tired while swimming in a puppy-like style on her right side to finally reach the edge of the nasty pool she woke up in.

Climbing it was another gigantic chore, but she refused to remain on the murky (read as definitely contaminated) water any longer.

Coughing up her guts and wheezing for air while drenched in nasty water and bleeding wound on the head was so going to the ‘Situations I Never Wish To Repeat Ever in My Life’ list.

It would be the only one on it, but with the way things are looking at the moment, she is pretty sure that list is only going to keep growing.

She lay on her right side once she no longer felt like she was choking. Or maybe because her adrenaline finally crashed and her strength just gave up.

Taking deep breaths, the situation began to sink in.

She was supposed to be dead. Gone. Kaput!

Or at least that’s what she thought. All that she remembers is Billy.

Half of her, never too far away. Always together. It’s how it is supposed to be.

Billy is not here. She is alone.

Alone. Cold. Wet. Hurt.

Did she mention being wet? She hates being wet. She hates how heavy it makes her clothes (a uniform, from what she could see?). She hates how cold it makes her skin. She hates how it reminds her of the empty floating space she was held in before Billy brought her back.

Took him long enough! Billy knows how much she hates empty dark places.

With a groan, she sits up on the cold concrete, her wet figure leaving an imprint of water forming her silhouette as if it were a murder scene. All that was left was the white tape, the thought of it making her snort.

She came to regret it once the wound on her head gave a sharp ping of pain, almost as if her body was punishing her for thinking such morbid things.

Wincing as her hand went up to touch where the wound was throbbing. The groan that was about to come out turned into a rough cough once her fingers came up bloody.

Her fingertips rubbed the clogged blood between them, eyes moving from them to look around her.

It was an abandoned place. By the looks of it, back in its former glory, it would have been a public pool. The sun chairs were all broken, rusted, and twisted in ways that left the tubes looking like some abstract sculpture. Some umbrellas were scattered around; either closed, open, or broken in various degrees.

The pool was still filled with water, if you call it that. It was a deep green that switched between brown and black depending on which angle you looked from.

A wired fence surrounded the place, some noticeable holes that indicated people would sneak in to do graffiti, drink or smoke if the clear signs on the walls and scattered around the floor weren’t enough.

A wave of nausea came over her as she looked back againg at the pool. She scattered on her knees as quick as possible to empty her stomach once again on a overgrown bush by the fence.

She clung to the fence, finally gathering the strength to stand up on her feet. Shivers went down her spine at the feeling of her socks squashing water on her pretty much ruined school shoes. Her head hanged for a few moments, head ringing from all that transpired in the last few minutes.

Billy. She needed to find Billy.

He has all the answers. She was a hundred percent sure he was the one that put her here. Not sure why he left her on her own and hurt and drowning in a pool that pretty much looks like the dark plague made in a liquid, but he would explain. He has an answer for everything. Always. And he will probably know where M–...

Her head suddenly went blank. As if it where a clean slate that left her in a dazed state. Once it was over, a groan of pain was heard from her, a splitting headache forming behind her eye balls.

…Wait. What was she thinking?

…

Billy. She has to find Billy.

She clung to that name, scrunching down a hole on the fence big enough for her to slip out. A few loose wires scraping against her uniform and legs. One even managed to snag at her skirt once she stood up fully on the other side.

Grumbling under her breath, taking the now broken cloth and finishing ripping it off.

‘Now she has an improvised bandage!’ A very animated thought came to her mind making her smile pleasantly.

Thankfully, the blood stopped flowing a while back so wiping the residue wasn’t that bad. She was a little bit hesitant to use it as bandage due to it being soaked with the water of the pool but she had no other choice.

Either get an infection or walk around looking like a murder victim.

“Infection it is,” she muttered while moving her hair away from her left temple and wrapping the cloth around her head.

She probably looked like Rambo if he was a pathetic wet child.

“Now, which way should I go?” she wondered out loud as she looked around the alley way. The building walls were too tall to see beyond them, and the sky was already turning pretty dark.

Walking carefully as she used the bricked wall as support, the next thing that came to view was a busy street.

People going from side to side, not even giving a spare glance at others. Some on their phones scrolling or on calls. Others simply walking while staring at a destination but never at another person. Men, women, kids, teens, of all ages.

Nobody spared a glance at her.

Which is honestly the best scenario from her point of view. No time to delay on her search.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a gruff voice asked from her side.

Busted!

She moved her head to the side to look at the man. Tall, a bit round but more like a dad bod. Greying brown hair on the sides along with a mustache. Old fashioned glasses and a thick coat with a insignia on the left side.

A police insignia.

‘Stand down!’ ‘Handle the military, I’ll be right back!’ ‘Nice tricks.’ ‘Like yours too’-

Voices scattered around her head in flashes. She didn’t see who were saying them, only blurry silhouettes of color moving around before she was brought back to the present moment.

She took a step back. The man frowned. Not in anger but it looked like worry.

His gaze moved over her, checking her until he reached her face. Then he looked almost shocked for a moment.

Or was I something else?

“Wayne? What are you doing all the way down here? And alone?” He began tossing questions as he took another step closer and grasping her shoulder gently but firmly.

‘So it was a worried expression, got it.’

“What happened? You’re soaked to the bone!” He took off his coat and wrapped it around her. It was way bigger on her but she couldn’t complain over the warmth it brought her. She hadn’t realized how cold she actually was.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it, dear girl. But you haven’t answered my question, Wayne.” His voice turned a bit firm.

Damn. What was she supposed to say? And who the hell was Wayne?!

“Um, I don’t remember?” She lifted her shoulders with an awkward smile.

Best thing to do when you get caught by the police is too always act dumb. Or pretend amnesia. Which isn’t that far away from the truth, but hey, A win is win!

The man frowned, rubbing his temples as his glasses knocked up to his head with a sigh. An exasperated one. Then he took a deep breath and began to move her by the shoulders and start walking.

“You obviously got a wound on the head, so it could be a concussion. I’m driving you to the station so the Doc can check on you, alright?”

He asks as if she had a choice, which she clearly didn’t.

But, she let him walk her to the patrol car. Weighing her options, this was the better choice. Her main plan was asking around for Billy and maybe even climbing into the ceiling of a building and yell for him…

She wasn’t the best at planning. Sue her.

Now, she has better options. At the police station, she could get a change of clothes (maybe even get a quick shower if she begs?), get her wound checked out and also find information on where Billy is. All of that before they find out she is not whoever this Wayne person is.

Three birds in one shot! (Hopefully four birds. She stinks like a sewer rat.)

“Can I sound the alarm?!” She asks as soon as both of them get in the car.

He looks a bit startled at the sudden excitement. Even a bit off putting. But he just shakes his head with a quiet laugh and shows her the switch.

“Just wait until we get to-“

The alarm started blasting at full volume along with manical squealing.

•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•═•

“Yes, thank you so much for the call. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

The old phone clicks the end of the call, a moment of silence interrupted with a sigh from Alfred as he walks away to gather his coat and keys of the car. He is grateful the call came in just as he finished seasoning the dinner for the night.

The boys are grown enough to know where the utensils and plates are to serve themselves. He doesn’t know how long this would take and traffic in Gotham is a living nightmare.

But before leaving, he made a quick detour through the manor. His destination; the master’s office. He had to be informed about this.

Even if it has been years since he actually made an effort for Lady (Y/N).

The young lady of the house has always been deemed as a quiet presence by the members of the family. Keeping her thoughts and opinions to herself. Polite and well mannered. Willing to do any type of chore if it meant having at least someone to notice her.

A greeting word, a gentle touch or even a warm hug. But all of that were for nothing.

She wasn't deemed loud enough amongst her peers to matter.

But to Alfred, she was the loudest presence to ever set foot in the Wayne Manor. It was almost sad how deaf the rest of the family was when it came to (Y/N).

Three sharp knocks on the door were enough for Master Bruce to let him enter the office. The curtains were already closed, almost giving a dark atmosphere if it weren't for the warm light lamps on his desk and by the corners of the room.

Master Bruce didn't even lift his head from the documents he was revewing.

"Is something wrong, Alfred?" his deep tired voice rumbling in the air as he switched documents. Sounds of papers being moved around made Alfred frown for a second.

Always a messy man when it comes to papers, that's why he does everything in that blasted computer in the cave.

"Yes, Master Wayne," he cleared his throat before continuing.

"Dinner is ready but hasn't been served. The young masters can serve themselves while I go to the police station to pick up the young mistress."

Silence.

"...The police station?"

His tone remained the same. As if talking about the weather. It irked Alfred how his master didn't seem to react accordingly to the situation.

"Yes. Chief Gordon was the one to call. Said he found Lady (Y/N) wandering around by herself by Grant Park. Completely drenched and out of it. He mentioned she was getting checked by their doctor in case she got a concussion."

Master Bruce took a few moments to finally lift his gaze from the papers. Alfred had spent many years besides Bruce, but sometimes he couldn't place what his masters nonverbal actions meant.

Just like right now.

"...Bring her. I'll talk to her later." his gaze turned down once again.

Alfred nodded and left the office without another word until her reached the car. Once he closed the driver's door, he let out a very deep and exhausted sigh.

He could feel the disappointment flowing up inside. It felt almost like failure. Failure for not being able to drag Bruce by the ear and make him drive to the station. For not having the audacity to scream at him for how he acts towards his own flesh and blood.

Anger at himself for not being able to do more for his young mistress.

As Alfred began to drive through the gates of the manor, he took notice of how the sky had turned already dark.

But what stood out was the quick flash of green and silver striking in between the black clouds. It was gone in just a second, the loud rumbling of thunder almost making the car windows shake.

He couldn't help but feel like it was omen.

Good or bad, that was to be determined.

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Author's note: First chapter done! Please reblog and like. Do let me know what you guys think of it and what theories come up to mind with all the hints I left around the chapter! Hopefully, next chapter will be up next sunday if college doesn't kick my ass lol. Lots of love! GG✨

Bonus Memes:

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soaps-mohawk · 8 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 38: Shattered

Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,520 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying

A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.

Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts.

John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. It’s bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light.

He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isn’t broken, there’s no bodies, no one that shouldn’t be in there.

“You’re okay.” Christine soothes you as you sob. “It was just a nightmare.”

The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you.

Nightmare.

The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in John’s stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You won’t want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them.

His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how he’s feeling. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. He’s trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you.

He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that.

Maybe someone was, but not in reality.

What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures?

A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest.

He’s crying.

He didn’t even realize the tears had started flowing.

He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. He’s supposed to be the strong one, he’s supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them.

“It’s okay.”

Kyle.

His sweet Kyle.

How he’s been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. That’s what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team.

What a failure he is.

He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyle’s soft scent seeps into his senses. He’s projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing.

They’ve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain they’ve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they weren’t cutting each other off so willingly.

“We can’t do this anymore.” He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. “Cutting each other off. It’s not helping anything.” He doesn’t move from where he’s tucked against Kyle’s chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half.

How he’s missed this.

“It’s not doing any good for any of us.” Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny.

“Especially not our omega.” Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds.

“We may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.” John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. “Doing nothing isn’t good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isn’t going to help anyone.”

“I full-heartedly agree.”

John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the room, hadn’t sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that don’t look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door.

“Sorry.” The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. “Thought you would have noticed.”

John clears his throat. “How is she?”

“Settled again.” Christine says, moving over to the chair.

“How long has she been having nightmares?” Kyle asks.

“Since that first day in the med center in Dallas.” She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. “I’d almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.”

“Is there anything that can be done to help?” John asks.

“For these kinds of nightmares? Not really.” Christine folds her hands in her lap. “Her brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, it’s likely the nightmares will continue.”

“Is there anything we can do to help her feel safe?” Kyle says.

Christine’s lips purse as she looks between the four of them. “I’m not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. She’s not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.”

All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadn’t even thought about that. Well, at least he hadn’t. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own.

That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldn’t face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier.

He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha.

Despite Christine’s reassurances, John can’t help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He can’t fight the demons in your head, though, and he’s always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can.

He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but it’s his fault. It’s his fault she’s the one there with you. It’s his fault you’re suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs.

It doesn’t matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. He’s not sure how much his heart can take.

He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage.

That’s something he’s been trying not to think about.

They can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he knows you’ll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually they’ll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually they’ll have to go back. Eventually they’ll have to make that decision of what comes next.

He’s going to delay that as much as he possibly can.

They can’t go back while Shepherd is still out there. They can’t trust that anywhere is safe while he’s still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger.

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take again.

But what comes next?

What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while they’re away again? Not to them, but to you?

Could they leave you alone again?

Those are thoughts for another day when they’re inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs.

They have time.

He has to make sure you’re okay first.

You’re not okay.

You’re so very far from okay.

The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room.

There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.

It’s one of the rare times you’ve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that you’ve had a nightmare. They’ll all come running. All of them.

You hate it.

You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they can’t. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything?

They left you.

They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. That’s what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because that’s what they do.

You’re not them.

You don’t want to be like them.

Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first.

Fuck them.

The only thing keeping you here is the fact you’re bonded to them. That, and you’re an omega. You’d get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, you’d get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection.

Or worse.

You’d get picked up by someone else.

Graves. Shepherd.

If you’re lucky, they’d kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You won’t care anymore. You’ll be dead.

You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until you’re leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isn’t quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like you’re swallowing glass.

You still haven’t spoken to them, though.

You can hardly stand to look at them.

Fuck them.

Just the thought of them makes you want to scream.

Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. ‘It’s all part of the process.’ The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. It’s all normal. It’s all part of the process. It’s all necessary. You won’t get better holding it all in. You won’t get better numbing yourself. You won’t get better if you don’t allow yourself to feel everything.

You hate it.

Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? It’s not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them.

It makes you want to scream.

Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You don’t want any of them near. You don’t want to have to see them again.

Fuck them.

You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You won’t go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They don’t need to know you’re not sleeping at night. They won’t care. They don’t care. None of them do.

Fuck. Them.

You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. It’s probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or it’s back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. You’ll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. It’s not safe, it’s not happy. There’s nothing good about that place anymore.

It’s just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there.

You were tortured there.

It wasn’t a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you.

Dr. Keller cares.

It’s her job to care.

Still, you can’t hate her entirely. She’s the only one that understands. She’s the only one that can help. She’s the only one that’s been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. She’s the only one you can forgive.

She’s the only one you want to forgive.

Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world.

You should have been their world.

They couldn’t put you first. They wouldn’t put you first. They didn’t want to put you first.

They won’t change. They can’t change. There’s no hope for change.

You’ll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that you’re happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first?

The pain begins to burn in your chest again. It’s hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. It’s a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass.

You thought you were dying the first time.

You could only be so lucky.

The bond.

It’s trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it can’t.

Maybe because deep down you don’t want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that they’re finally going to put you first.

‘Maybe’ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain.

Fuck yourself.

Fuck your omega.

Fuck your pack.

Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more.

Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.

Fuck Kate for choosing you.

Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass.

Fuck them all.

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side.

Fuck. Them. All.

You don’t want him here.

He does it now, usually in the mornings.

You hate it.

You like it. It’s nice. He’s the only one making an effort.

He never says anything, surprisingly enough. It’s silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He won’t sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain.

You don’t want to.

So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. It’s so far away still, yet it’s right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it.

The sea.

They brought you to the sea.

John remembered. He did it for you.

The thought has something stirring in your chest, and it’s not pain or anger.

You hate it.

Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Keller’s shoulders, yet you need her.

You’re not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you.

You don’t want them.

Fuck, you desperately need them.

Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You can’t cry. You can’t let him know how close you are to breaking down. You can’t.

You can’t reach out.

You can’t take his hand.

How desperately you want to.

You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Keller’s soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch.

“Ready to go inside now?” She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You don’t say anything, don’t react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. “You’re getting cold.”

Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie.

Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness.

Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but it’s still nice to have it in case you get tired.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

It’s the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. You’ve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. You’ve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You don’t feel like an omega anymore.

You don’t feel like anything anymore.

You’re fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omega’s mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You don’t want your instincts. You don’t want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever.

That will certainly make things easier.

But will it make things better?

No. Probably not.

It’ll make things worse.

But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, you’ll risk it. You’d take numbness over anything right now.

How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted.

Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing?

What you wouldn’t give for all of them to disappear right now.

How badly it would destroy you.

“She’s at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he can’t deny how necessary her presence has been. She’s the only one you tolerate, the only one you’ll let close. Without her you’d probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You won’t let them close, yet you need them close.

You’re going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally.

He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing.

He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it.

“Johnny’s the one actually trying.” Simon says, staring across at her. She doesn’t shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. “You should talk to him.”

“While I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually she’s going to need an alpha.” Christine says.

“She needs her alpha.” He argues.

“She doesn’t want her alpha.” Christine counters. “He’s going to be the last she lets close, but she’s going to need some kind of stability.”

“I can’t give her that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. She’s infuriating, yet he can’t be mad at her. Not completely. The good she’s doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. She’s right. He knows it deep down, but he can’t. He can’t do that, he can’t put you through that. He’s already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. That’s enough for him. It’s up to John now.

John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, it’s no one else’s job to fix it.

“Maybe both.” Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. “It’s not my job to fix this.”

He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He can’t stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost.

He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head.

That’s a long jog.

If something happens while he’s away, he won’t get back in time. It’ll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasn’t there to help, because he wasn’t there to fight.

It’s a ridiculous thought. There’s three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldn’t make it past the door. He can see it now, Price’s alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. He’d probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not again.

Still, he can’t shake that fear. If he can’t sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he can’t.

To the beach and back, then.

She’s like an angel.

The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is.

The Garrick beauty is genetic.

Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You don’t feel worthy of looking upon her.

“Kyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.” She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. “Can’t, I should say. You haven’t been with them long, huh.”

“About nine months.” You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. It’s not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever.

“Such a short amount of time to go through so much.” She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You don’t know how much she knows, though it’s still fairly obvious you’ve been through hell. That you’re still going through hell. “Christine told me a bit about what happened. I don’t blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?”

You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. You’d leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though you’ve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you don’t mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting.

“So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?” She says, settling in the chair. It’s cool outside, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it one bit.

You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? You’re drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do.

“I like to read.” You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed.

“Oh? What do you like to read?” She asks.

What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books?

“Oh, I read anything, as long as it’s interesting.” Is that the truth? You’re not quite sure.

“I see, I see. Well, there’s quite the collection on those shelves inside. I’m a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.” She grins at you. “We could do a little book club, if you’d like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.”

You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you.

You want to do it.

You want to spend time with someone who isn’t your pack, who isn’t Dr. Keller.

“Okay.” You say, still staring at her in awe.

“I could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if you’re not up to seeing anyone.” She continues, and you’re not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if she’s coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger.

“Would...would that be too much?” You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more.

“Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I live and work in Exeter, so I’m not too terribly far away.”

You’re not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isn’t even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now?

“What do you do for work?” You ask, realizing you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time.

“I’m a finance lawyer.” She says. “Mum used to say ‘you love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.’” She laughs. “So I did.”

“You must make a lot of money.” You say. You don’t know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US.

“I make enough to be comfortable.” She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. “Seriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. I’m more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.”

You’re not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that you’ve been missing.

You’re smiling.

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You haven’t felt like smiling in so long you’re certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. It’s not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but it’s a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long.

She’s funny too.

Stinky men.

They are that.

Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement.

You’re half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but it’s only Dr. Keller.

“How are things going?” She asks, stepping up beside you.

“Good.” Ashley says. “We’re planning a book club.”

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. “I think that would be fantastic.”

“You’re welcome to join in if you’d like,” Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile.

You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered.

Oh.

Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered.

Oh.

“You could join us if you want.” You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller.

She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. “If that’s what you’d like.”

You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, you’re not tired of her existence yet. She’s the only one whose existence in the house doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, you’d be here alone with her.

That’s not possible. You know it’s not.

“A thing for just us girls.” Ashley says. “On the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.”

“I think that would be fantastic.” Dr. Keller says. “A nice little distraction.”

“A nice break from those stinky men.” You say.

Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter.

Another smile tugs at your lips.

You don’t want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasn’t moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like he’s not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesn’t. You want him to.

You don’t say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when you’re trying not to. He’s like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be.

“I didn’t want to try to rush into this.” He finally says, knowing you’re not going to say anything. You won’t greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here.

Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. It’s becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable.

You hate it.

“But I just wanted you to know that we’re all feeling the weight of what we did, I’m feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.”

He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you won’t forgive him. He’s probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better.

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that you’re the one setting the boundaries. If you don’t want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you don’t want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.”

“That would be ideal.” You say, breaking the silence you’ve held for days. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology.

It shocks him to stillness and silence.

The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Where’s the big, tough alpha? Where’s the strong protector? Where’s the person that’s supposed to take care of you and care about you?

He never existed.

He left you behind.

He never cared.

Anger begins to bubble within you.

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice shaking. “I never meant for this to happen-”

“You think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?” You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. “You left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!” You’re shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop.

They’re all listening.

It’s not like you’re giving them much of a choice not to.

Fuck them.

“I know,” He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you.

“Do you? Do you know?” Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you can’t stop. Not now. It’s all coming out and there’s no stopping it. “You. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. I’ve always been second. I’ve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!”

You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. You’ll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too.

“I asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, you’d leave in a heartbeat.” The tears are falling, streaming down your face. “Was that a lie?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation?

“Was that a lie?” You shout, making him jump.

His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt.

“Answer me.” You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it.

“I didn’t intend for it to be.” He says quietly.

“You didn’t intend for it to be.” You say, bitterness coating your tone. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldn’t let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? ‘The job always comes first,’ even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.” You swallow the sob threatening to come up. “I want to hear you say it.”

He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasn’t moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue.

“Say it!” You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. You’re surprised you’re not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels.

“I lied.” He says, swallowing thickly. “I lied to you and I couldn’t keep my promise. And I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you don’t deserve to apologize. You don’t deserve the chance at forgiveness. You’re a shitty alpha and you always have been!”

You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. There’s a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all.

“I don’t know what I expected, though.” You let out a sardonic laugh. “You military men are all the same. It’s always about the job and the image and the ‘greater good’ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. You’re just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.”

The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until it’s choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

“You left me.” You grit out, your hands starting to shake. “You left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didn’t care, you never cared about me!” You storm over to him. “Fuck you!” You scream, hitting his chest. “I fucking hate you!” You shove him back, sending him stumbling. “Get out!” You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. “Get out! I never want to see you again!”

He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it.

The bond.

You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all.

The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You don’t care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until you’re laying down on your back on the hardwood. It’s cold against your skin but you don’t care. You can’t care anymore.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

John stares at the wood in shock. The slam of the door still echoes in his ears as he stands there, frozen. He knew the chance of a negative reaction was high, but something like that? Something to that magnitude?

Your words cut into him like a knife, searing his skin and leaving blisters behind.

Hands push him out of the way. He stumbles to the side, his brain still catching up to his body.

“Sweetie, I need you to open the door.”

The words are muffled from the ringing in his ears, the ringing of your screams as you cursed his very being.

Liar.

His legs are shaking as he turns, his body moving automatically towards the door. The other three members of his pack are frozen, watching him as he crosses the living room, as he wraps his fingers around the handle of the sliding glass door, as he pushes it open just wide enough to slip through.

The thud of it closing feels like a seal being stamped. He’s cut himself off, fraying that bond forever.

Your words still ring in his head as he stands in the middle of the porch numbly.

Liar.

He is a liar. He made a lot of promises that he couldn’t keep, promises that he broke because of his decisions. He should have made you feel comfortable enough to reveal those cameras right away. He should have gotten you off base as soon as you revealed them. He should have never trusted Shepherd, or even Kate in that moment. He should have fought harder, he should have sent you away from base as soon as he made that decision to leave.

So many things he should have done differently.

You can’t change the past.

Liar.

He left you when you needed him most. He proved time and time again that he’d always choose the job over you, no matter what he promised. You’re not a soldier. No matter how much he tried to prepare you, train you, you’d never be able to fight like them.

Not without taking drastic measures.

He saw the blood. He saw the bodies. He saw the proof of an omega pushed too far, an omega forced into its primordial state.

You did it because they left you.

You did it because you thought the abandoned you.

Those words ring out the loudest in his mind. Above all the others those words linger, replaying over and over again.

‘You let me be tortured.’

Christ.

He runs a hand over his face, the realization shocking him as a cold chill settles under his skin. There’s a weight dropping in his stomach, threatening to sink him straight through the planks of the porch and into the ground below.

You think they left you.

He turns on his heel, shocked to find Simon standing behind him. He can’t read his face, hidden behind the mask that hasn’t come off since they arrived at the cottage. He doesn’t need to see his face to read the giant alpha. He’s known Simon long enough to be able to read him just based on his body language.

He’s angry, frustrated. John half expects him to start yelling too, but that’s never been Simon’s style. He only gets loud when he needs to. Instead he’ll stew and glare and darken the room with his rage. The target of his anger will feel it and know, and that’s almost worse than if he’d express that anger through words.

Despite the cold chill of Simon’s stare, John’s mind is reeling too much to care. It all makes sense now. Your distance, your turmoil, your own anger.

“She thinks we left her.” The words come tumbling out before he can stop them.

“We did.” Simon says, the words short and sharp.

“No, no,” John shakes his head. “She thinks we left her with Graves.”

Simon shifts on his feet, the planks of the porch creaking under his weight.

“Of course Graves would fuck with her head, make her feel like she had been abandoned. It was never about following orders for him. He would have tortured her no matter what.” Anger burns hot in John, at himself, at Graves. Of course you’d assume the worst, of course you’d believe Graves because he was playing on your own doubts.

They left you so easily at the barracks, of course they’d leave you to be tortured.

“She’ll never believe you.” Simon says. The squaring of his shoulders has deflated a bit.

“No, she won’t.” John shifts on his feet, staring straight at Simon. “But I’m not going to be the one to tell her.”

Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, you’re burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary.

She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. She’d put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll.

It was necessary, but at what cost?

If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You can’t handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress.

She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate.

But how?

How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She can’t give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer.

You need someone, and it can’t be her.

If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. It’ll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight you’ve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing.

You need someone.

An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. It’s hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. It’s risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable that’s going to happen if she doesn’t try. It’s a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win.

She can’t help you, but maybe she has someone who can.

She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She won’t be gone long.

She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts you’ll be moving much while she’s away.

Just in case.

One can never be too careful.

She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. She’s intruding on the safe space they’ve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. They’ll forgive her.

The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If she’s wrong, she’ll have some explaining to do before she’s ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps he’ll agree. You won’t see him, but maybe...just maybe...

She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out.

“Johnny, I need your help.”

She just hopes you don’t hate her too much later.

NEXT ->

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #task force 141 x reader #poly 141 x reader #John price x reader #captain price x reader #Kyle Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Ghost x reader #John mactavish x reader #soap x reader #alpha/beta/Omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

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potatobugxo · 4 months ago

Note

Hello <3 I see your requests for Poppy Playtime are open. May I request Yarnaby being somehow turned into a possible reluctant ally by The Player? ( Personally, It sounds better to describe it in that way rather than Yarnaby being tamed. ) I haven't gone through all of Chapter 4 but this lil(?) guy captured my heart since his teaser!! I'd imagined The Player would have to be very strategic and crossed their fingers for dear luck in their pursuit of convincing Yarnaby enough to not hunt them.

Thank you! 🎀

sure thing!

warnings: brief mentions of abuse

pairing: platonic!ally!yarnaby x player!reader

-when you traverse through the prison portion of the factory and encounter yarnaby, the rainbow-maned lion proceeds to hunt you down under the doctor's orders

-you avoid him at all costs at first, the thought of being torn to shreds by the lion-like toy scared you to no end

-until you had a thought, a rather risky one. maybe you could get yarnaby on your side

-yarnaby has been psychologically tortured to follow the doctor's orders, to hunt and to kill, so breaking down the feral barrier of the toy may prove difficult, but did you have any other choice?

-you couldn't kill him, you felt too bad for him to do that. if there was a soul trapped behind those large black eyes, then you had to reach it, for both your sake and for his

-so when he is hunting you through the lower depths of the playtime prison, you grow tired of playing cat and mouse and decide to take your chances with the beastly toy

-you boldly jump in front of yarnaby, splaying your arms out as if trying to make yourself look bigger than him. he lets out a startled growl, his face opening to reveal his multiple sets of teeth

-"whoa, whoa, there! I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. But *he* will."

-yarnaby swipes at you with his claws and you jump away with a yelp

-"just hold on! we can help each other out! I know there's someone in there, you're not just a monster like the doctor says you are. We can get out of this place together, what do you say?"

-the small bit of consciousness yarnaby has left settles him down, tilting his head as if heeding your words.

-he sits like a little cat as you reach your hand out toward him. you're still partially terrified, but he was just a big toy animal after all, and maybe he could be swayed over with a pat like any other dog or cat (maybe)

-to your surprise, yarnaby lets you pet him, and you stroke your palm over his rainbow mane of yarn

-"there we go. see? we can be friends! you won't have to be trapped down here anymore. I'll help you find a way out."

-yarnaby lets out a noise, and then lowers his head to your level. maybe whoever was in there was listening after all.

#poppy playtime #poppy playtime x reader #yarnaby #yarnaby x reader #hcs

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ittybittyfanblog · 24 days ago

Text

Error 404: Spin-off

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. Update: Sylus went ahead and got himself mortalized (That's it, that's the plot). Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, slight crack (literally. lmao, you’ll see), FLUFF! A/N: Finally starting the spin-off! Hello again 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 I’ve got a rough outline for the flow and a few key chapters mapped out, but I’m keeping it flexible for the most part. This isn’t gonna be a full structured story, so think more like vignettes of their life, w/ some world-building here and there (laying some groundwork for future chapters hehe). Come thru if you wanna see what error!Sylus and our lil player are up to post-reality jump 🙂‍↕️🙏🏼 Also: no posting schedule! I’m treating this like a chill side project I can pick up whenever, so not every part’s gonna be lengthy/that polished hehe. Mostly short snippets, unless the chapter calls for a longer one. (P.S. Just send a DM if you want to be taken off the taglist lol. I just assumed you guys would still want to follow along, but no pressure at all if you don’t! 💕)

(main series) - Pt 1

You keep waiting to wake up.

For the sound of your phone alarm to blare somewhere beneath the covers, forcing you to fish it out at seven-thirty-something in the morning. For this absolutely wonderful, absolute mindfuck of a dream, to end—and for the real world to set in.

For another uneventful day to begin, the way it usually does after a short reprieve from the hustle and the bustle of life.

From behind the bathroom door, the sound of the shower cuts off.

You scramble to open the cupboard overhead, grabbing the pepper shaker from the first shelf. You do four rotations over the half-cooked omelette before flipping it over with a rubber spatula, trying not to lose your cool. Or what’s left of it.

Three days. It’s been three days since it dawned on you that Sylus has actually managed to cross the threshold – through a tiny, impossible fissure in the fabric of reality – just to get to this dimension. Your dimension.

Three days since you locked eyes with the other half of your soul from across a room, no screen separating the two of you for once. No physical barrier to stop him from catching you as you ran toward him past the counter, just as twilight kissed the sky goodnight, sobbing at the first touch of his skin—electric against yours. The taste of his lips, the bittersweet notes of extant longing and pure bliss blooming on your tongue as he captured your mouth in his; the two of you lost in each other, uncaring of anything beyond that precious, shared moment.

And three days for your mind to finally catch up to the sheer impossibility of it all.

As far as your Sundays go, you’d say this one takes the cake.

He’s been staying in a modest little rental just a couple of blocks away from you. Nothing extravagant – just a transient house he’s leased for the week. Not that you’ve technically been inside to know; he only pointed it out once, the single-storey residential from across the main street, as the two of you were heading back home—your home. To your little studio apartment.

Him. Sylus. In your condo. You can’t even begin to wrap your head around it.

You know that he’d just arrived in town two days before that fateful encounter at the bistro. That he’d already done his research to know exactly where you were going to be during that hour, and that he’s been here, on Earth, for quite some time now. Even before meeting you.

But past this knowledge, you haven’t actually covered much of anything, really. Just this little awkward dancing around you’ve been doing since you’ve been together.

And you know you should ask, probe, have him break down the hows of his existence to you, a clearer timeline of exactly when he popped into this world, what he’s been up to in all the time he’s been here… and why he’s even waited so long to come to you directly.

You’re painfully aware that it’s just you who’s keeping yourself from getting the answers you want. You’re the one making this harder than it needs to be. You can’t help it.

There’s no manual to tell you how to deal with your emotions when your virtual lover appears in front of you, in the flesh, miraculously defying all laws of physics in the process. No handbook telling you what to do next when something you’ve been wishing for every night before going to bed – for the past two years – actually manifests into being.

Someone you’ve always longed for, staked deep within the confines of your heart, but never truly imagined the consequences of until your wishful thinking bled into reality.

And now he’s here.

All things considered, you think you’ve done an okay job at acting like everything’s normal. Mostly. Probably.

(You haven’t.)

The day after he showed up at your proverbial doorstep, you almost couldn’t believe everything that had transpired a mere twenty hours ago was even real. That maybe your brain had just gotten creative enough to invent a Hallmark-worthy scene to win you a one-way trip to your therapist—and that, maybe, you’d conjured him up simply because you missed him and you’re so down bad, your mind decided to start playing tricks on you.

...which nearly had your soul catapulting out of your body at the sight of the—extremely corporeal, extremely attractive—raven-haired (!) man moving through your kitchen the first morning he stayed over, wearing a black V-neck and a pair of grey sweatpants, ambling barefoot like he already knew the place by heart.

You suppose he does, you allow cautiously, an odd sort of warmth blooming in your chest at the thought. Of course he would.

Still. It didn’t erase the surrealness of seeing Sylus, the Sylus—mortal, perfect, wonderfully alive—brewing you a cup of coffee at nine in the morning, your brain failing to fully comprehend the image of his towering figure working your faulty, secondhand De’Longhi like a pro.

"Are you," he started, eyes zooming in on the spot between your thumb and forefinger, mouth twitching like he's trying not to laugh, "pinching yourself?"

You had quickly withdrawn your hand, schooling your face into a poor attempt at nonchalance as you reached for the steaming blue mug he was holding out to you. "...No."

You can't help but hover around him, like some weird satellite desperate for orbit. You find yourself sneaking glances every five seconds—and more often than not, he meets your gaze with a wayward look of his own.

He never calls you out on it; he just gives you an infuriatingly impish smirk that sends your heart into overdrive, making you feel younger than you are.

You’re still stewing over the events of the past few days, absentmindedly worrying whether the eggs needed more salt, when you hear the bathroom door open.

You whip your head around, and all systems crash to a stop.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

He’s standing there—all six-foot-five of pure, lean muscle, like sin sculpted out of marble and left to walk your unvacuumed parquet wood floor without so much as a care for the cluttered little living space he’s in, looking completely at ease. Fresh from the shower, steam rising lazily from every inch of bare skin laid out in front of you, and it’s like The Neuron™ in your brain activates. The towel slung low across his hips leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, reducing your thoughts monosyllabic, like some half-evolved primate ready for mating season or whatever. Hot man. Hot man shirtless. Involuntarily, your eyes track a stray rivulet sliding down; right where the faintest suggestion of a happy trail (!!!) begins and ends… and you’re gone. Lost in some kind of trance.

Utterly hypnotised, you watch as it soaks into the edge of the borrowed sage green terry cotton, faintly wondering if what’s beneath it could soak you the same way, shit—

A strangled noise slips past your lips.

It’s terrible. You sound like a dying cow. Hot man’s fault. Bad.

A snort breaks you out of your shameless ogling.

Your head jerks up like you’ve been caught red-handed doing something you're not supposed to, guiltily meeting his eyes. You see Sylus already watching you wryly, the heavy drag of his half-lidded stare rooting you in place.

Your face starts to flush red with embarrassment, heat climbing all the way up to your ears.

He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe; arms crossed loosely over his chest, completely relaxed, and clearly getting a kick out of whatever expression you’ve got at the moment. His gaze doesn't waver, stuck on you like glue, drinking in every flustered reaction with quiet amusement.

You swallow nervously. His eyes flicker down, tracing the movement of your throat, and his lips tug up into a semblance of a smile.

Fuuuuck.

"You already started on breakfast without me, sweetie?" He tuts in mock-disapproval. "I told you it’d take me less than twenty minutes to shower."

You don’t manage much in response, just a dumb, garbled, "mhm, s’okay."

You're completely blanked out at this point—bluescreen dead if you will—except for one panicked thought flashing through your brain: Holy shit, he's practically naked. Sylus Qin from Love and Deepspace is practically naked in my house.

Then, not long after, a chorus of, “oh my god oh my god oh my god” starts looping in your head, overriding what little composure you had left like some raunchy PSA warning you about the dangerous rise of moisture down south.

Sylus cocks his head slightly, sending you a sly, knowing look—one that says he knows exactly what's going on in that overstimulated little brain of yours.

Slowly, he pushes himself off and saunters closer to where you are, taking his time crossing the distance with easy, measured steps. As if he’s in no rush at all to get to you. As if he’s merely curious whether you’ll combust just from him shortening the proximity between your bodies.

(You think you just might.)

And when he’s standing barely a few inches away – close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him – Sylus leans down, effectively trapping you between the counter and the solid wall of his chest. Between granite and sinew.

You lose all capacity to speak.

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out a hand to shut off the burner stove behind you with an easy flick of his wrist, the brief brush of his arm sending a shiver down your spine. Then, with maddening tenderness, he pinches your cheek between two fingers—his thumb caressing the spot right after.

In a voice filled with faux sympathy, he coos, “What’s got you all distracted, poppet?”

He’s teasing. You know he’s teasing.

He’s done nothing but tease you with his devastatingly good looks, his overwhelming presence, and syrupy words spoken so sinfully in that low cadence of his voice, ever since he arrived. And, oh, you’re not sure whether to scream or kiss the smug look off his face silly.

You’re so bad at being subtle. You always have been, especially when it comes to him. And you know you can’t hide anything from Sylus – from the smallest flicker of microexpression on your face, down to the shortness of your breath. Both of you know this. Both of you painfully aware of the effect he has on you.

And just as much, you know he’s been holding himself back—that no matter how flirtatious he gets, he’s still keeping enough control to pull away whenever you start to get too overwhelmed.

Despite his provocations, Sylus never pushes. He waits, patiently. Giving you the space to volley back if you want to. And if you don’t, he backs off in a second, with the same effortless ease he uses to tease you. Leaving you room to breathe again.

Rinse, repeat.

It’s almost as if you two are playing a game with poorly drawn rules. You don’t know who’s winning.

The little spell breaks when you feel a disgruntled meow against your shin; it's immediately followed by a cat headbutting you, twice in succession, with a surprising amount of aggression.

"Not used to sharing your mother, are you?" Sylus sighs, pulling back from where he’d been caging you in—his movements slow, reluctant.

A warning hiss rises from below. He raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back to a safer distance, just out of swiping range.

"Yes, yes. You win,” he grumbles in acquiescence at the testy feline, a comically put-upon look on his face. “For now.”

You pull your eyes away from his bicep—look, you're just a girl, okay—to blink down at the temperamental little creature who’s now self-appointed himself as your personal foot guard.

He’s making some vague, cryptic noises, something between a purr and a growl, while keeping his eyes locked firmly on Sylus’ leg.

"He–um, he might just be hungry," you manage to mutter. A quick glance at the food bowl says otherwise. "...or not."

Sylus huffs under his breath, a low sound, equal parts understanding and mildly affronted. He tilts his head – eyes narrowing at the untouched kibble, then to the small furry menace claiming your feet like a jilted lover.

Unfortunately, Maru’s reception to the new person has been... less than cordial.

From the moment Sylus walked in the apartment, Maru had hissed at him as if to say: There is no reason for a Man to be here, before darting beneath the coffee table – tail lashing with all the theatrics of a petulant child. The churlish product of a mother who's been single for far too long, that he’s decided he’s the only boy she’ll ever need.

It strikes you as a little odd. He never usually gets antsy around guests, and you'd even thought he and Sylus got along—or at least, back when the man in question was confined to mere pixels on screen.

Maybe you shouldn’t have counted on that.

Sylus, to his credit, hasn't once tried to close the distance or force a peace treaty. Amused, definitely; the way his eyes glint whenever Maru glares at him could almost qualify as charmed. But since stepping into your home, he’s been mindful about giving the creature a wide berth, moving with the quiet understanding that respect here is sacrosanct, something to be earned. That he’s the one imposing, and the truce between him and the (true) man of the house is a fragile, delicate thing.

You honestly haven’t decided if Maru’s behaviour is because he’s protective... or just pissed that someone else is hogging your attention.

"It’s alright, sweetie," Sylus—your son’s chosen rival—soothed you reassuringly; his hand rubbing a slow, comforting circle over the small of your back when he caught the slightly crestfallen look on your face. "He’s just feeling territorial about his space right now. Give it some time."

“I’ll get dressed,” Sylus murmurs. “Don’t start on the coffee without me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then another between your brows; the casual, freely-given affection leaves you warm and gooey inside. He turns toward your vanity, where his black duffel bag rests on the small plastic saddle chair.

You watch his retreating figure for a few seconds—long enough for him to glance back over his shoulder, one brow lifted in lazy inquiry. And the look is so familiar; so painfully reminiscent of the one he gives you in-game, right after you’d deliver a ‘slap’ to his ass, that it knocks you a little off-kilter.

… Which might explain why you don’t react fast enough when his eyes flash with mischief, and he casually undoes the knot of his towel.

The fabric drops.

You catch a glimpse—more than a glimpse, hello—of the perkiest butt you’ve ever seen in your life, and you spin around so fast you slam your elbow into something undoubtedly solid in the process.

A half-pained, half-mortified wheeze escapes your throat.

"Careful," he calls out to you—and though amusement colors his voice, there's a real thread of worry beneath it, enough to make you want to slam your head against the counter for some inexplicable reason. "Don’t feel the need to grant me modesty on my behalf, kitten."

"Kitten’s about to kill herself," you lament with a whine.

It earns you an unimpressed scoff.

“I just got here, my love,” he deadpans without missing a beat. “Daddy’s gonna have to ask you to hold on a little longer.”

You choke on nothing but air. Critical system failure.

Buffering… buffering… buffering…

You inhale sharply.

"Okay, pause," you beg, a slightly hysterical edge to your tone as you claw your way back from a full-blown breakdown. In an attempt to divert the topic, “D’you–uh, do you want anything on your eggs? I’ve got ketchup, hot sauce... barbecue sauce..."

"A proper chef now, are you?" And oh, the next thing you know, he’s right behind you again. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your shirt.

He smells faintly like your body wash, like Dove nourishing coconut and your calendula shampoo, a heady mix of something sweet and herbal.

The thought of him—of the both of you—smelling the same, actually makes you feel giddy.

What a stupidly trivial, novel thing to find joy in.

Snap the fuck out of it, it’s just soap, you chide to yourself.

You don’t even notice you’re trembling until Sylus curls a large hand around yours; steadying the shaky fingers reaching for the bottle of Cholula on the condiment tray, while his other hand gently cradles your hurt elbow.

Your breath hitches when he presses a kiss to your temple.

"Oh, sweetie," he murmurs, and it’s the way he says it—low and unbearably fond—that loosens some of the tension on your shoulders. "You’ve wound yourself up."

"I'm good," you mumble, though your voice betrays you, thinner than you mean it to sound.

"It's just me," he says, his tone as gentle as the breeze slipping through the open window, ruffling the choppy bangs that frame your face. "Nothing so different from how it’s always been, hmm?"

And you know he’s right. It's just him. Just Sylus. Your Sylus. No different from the one from two years ago.

"I know," you sigh, finally turning to face him, having to crane your neck slightly to meet his eyes.

His expression is softer now, the type of softness reserved solely for you, something that never fails to make you ache. The teasing is gone, tucked away for the time being.

"I just need a little time to wrap my head around this," you admit, voice quieter now. "Is that... is that okay?"

The greys of his eyes melt into something silvery, moonlit—impossibly tender.

In one smooth motion, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter and steps between your legs, closing what little space remains between you. You yelp in surprise, but before you can react, he’s already leaning in, stealing a kiss from your lips. Just a quick one, like he couldn’t help himself, like he needed a taste to hold him over. He chuckles when he sees your wide-eyed look.

"Of course, my love," he says, voice wrought with promise—in love with the way your lips part, bitten pink and unsure, as he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. "We’ll go as slow as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need." Forever, as what you two have.

…

For over a year, you’ve learned how to enjoy the small things alone. And you did—enjoy it, you mean. Once, almost a lifetime ago, you took for granted the quiet joys of a slower life. But you learned to take it day by day. One hour at a time, minute after minute.

It made room for reflection, and it moulded you into something stronger, and softer, all at once.

But this—with him—brings you back to another time. A sweeter time; the dog-day summer of your life.

The morning hums with a kind of quiet normalcy you’ve grown accustomed to. You’re used to the sunlight spilling through the linen curtains, lining the floor with streaks of honey-gold, soft as a happy memory. Used to the noise of the outside world bleeding through the walls, a constant presence you’ve long since accepted as a permanent fixture in this tiny apartment, like a second heartbeat.

He’s right, in a way.

This isn’t so different from the mornings you once shared with the same man—back when he wore a different face and led an extraordinarily polarized life, completely at odds with yours. The ones spent laughing into a screen, your fingers ghosting across glass, desperate to grasp something you never could.

That life feels like it belonged to someone else now. Someone lonelier.

So, no. Maybe not quite the same – maybe not even close.

–

You finally allow yourself to give in; to sink into the warmth of him, folding yourself smaller in his embrace like a tired bird nestling into a safer sky, your heart fluttering wild and restless against your ribs. Too big for your body, too full to contain. Here – tangled together in this sliver of morning light – everything that has hurt you feels small in comparison. You were never alone to begin with. But with Sylus in your arms, the world feels brighter than you ever remembered it could be.

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited @magnoliaswriteatsunset

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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velvetvisionsaurora · 6 days ago

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Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

‼️NSFW Announcement‼️ This is the only announcement on a chapter I’ll be doing, so if you’re under 18 do not attempt to read from this chapter on. I do not go very mild when I write smut, this is the tamest I’ll be going so if you don’t like it and don’t want it don’t continue. I don’t let you know when smut starts and ends so read with caution. I also know knotting is a big part in a/b/o lore, however I’m not a big fan of it. I mention it, I acknowledge that it’s a thing and respect it but I don’t go into detail. My characters in this don’t wrap it up, it’s not good irl. Always wrap it up! Enjoy💜

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 9: Breaking Point

The week following the pool incident had been a study in escalating tension. Whatever barriers had been holding the members back seemed to have crumbled completely after Hongjoong's public kiss, leaving you navigating a minefield of heated glances, lingering touches, and barely concealed desire from seven different alphas.

Your body felt like it was on fire constantly now. Even with your scent blockers firmly in place, your omega seemed to be responding to their collective alpha attention in ways that left you restless, overheated, and aching for something you couldn't quite name. Sleep had become nearly impossible, your dreams filled with phantom scents and touches that left you waking up disoriented and wanting.

Wooyoung and San had become your constant shadows, their natural affectionate natures now amplified to an almost overwhelming degree. Gone were the casual touches—replaced by deliberate cuddling sessions that left your skin tingling and your heart racing.

"You look tired, Tulip," San had observed just that morning, settling beside you on the couch where you'd been reviewing schedules. Without asking permission, he'd pulled you against his side, his arm wrapping around you with possessive comfort. "Rest for a bit."

The warmth of his body against yours, the steady rhythm of his breathing, should have been soothing. Instead, it had sent electric currents through your nervous system, your omega practically purring at the alpha contact while your rational mind struggled to maintain professional boundaries.

Wooyoung had appeared moments later, as if summoned by some invisible signal, settling on your other side and casually draping his legs across yours. "Group cuddle session?" he'd suggested with that mischievous smile, though his eyes held a heat that had nothing to do with playfulness.

"I'm supposed to be working," you'd protested weakly, even as your body had instinctively relaxed between them.

"Work can wait," Wooyoung had murmured, his fingers beginning to play with strands of your hair. "Taking care of our Tulip is more important."

The possessive "our" had sent a shiver down your spine that both alphas had definitely noticed, judging by their satisfied expressions.

Mingi and Yunho had taken a different approach, but no less effective in driving you to distraction. Every interaction seemed to involve some excuse for physical contact—Mingi's hand on the small of your back as he guided you through doorways, Yunho's fingers brushing yours for just a moment too long when passing you documents.

"You've got an eyelash," Yunho had said yesterday, appearing beside your desk with that bright smile that never failed to make your heart skip. Before you could protest, his thumb had gently brushed against your cheek, the touch so tender it had made your breath catch.

"There," he'd murmured, showing you the non-existent eyelash on his finger. "Make a wish."

The intimacy of the moment, the way his eyes had lingered on your face, had left you speechless and flustered in a way that had clearly pleased him immensely.

Even Jongho and Yeosang, typically the most reserved of the group, had begun showing their interest in ways that surprised you. Jongho had started bringing you small gifts—your favorite coffee in the morning, a book he thought you'd enjoy, a small potted plant for your desk. Each offering came with minimal explanation but maximum impact, his dark eyes studying your reaction with quiet intensity.

Yeosang's approach was more subtle but perhaps more devastating. He'd begun engaging you in deeper conversations, his perceptive observations and thoughtful questions creating an intimacy that was purely intellectual but no less affecting. Yesterday, he'd spent an hour discussing a book you'd both read, his quiet voice and insightful commentary drawing you into a bubble of connection that had felt almost as intimate as physical touch.

"You have a beautiful mind," he'd said as you'd wrapped up the conversation, the simple compliment delivered with such sincerity that it had stayed with you for hours.

And then there was Hongjoong. The leader had become bold in a way that left you constantly on edge, stealing moments whenever you found yourselves alone. A kiss pressed against your temple as he'd leaned over to check something on your computer. His lips brushing your knuckles when you'd handed him a document. Yesterday, he'd cornered you in the supply closet, pressing you against the wall for a kiss that had left you breathless and wanting more.

"I can't stop thinking about the pool," he'd murmured against your lips, his hands framing your face with reverent care. "About how you felt in my arms."

The memory alone was enough to make heat pool low in your belly, your omega responding to his alpha presence with an intensity that sometimes frightened you.

But it was Seonghwa's behavior that confused you most. The eldest member seemed to be the only one maintaining his distance, though you often caught him watching you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. There was warmth in his gaze, certainly, and something that might have been longing, but he kept himself carefully apart from the increasingly bold advances of his packmates.

The contradiction was maddening. You found yourself craving his touch, his attention, in a way that seemed disproportionate to his reserved behavior. Sometimes you caught him looking at you with such intensity that your skin would flush, but he never acted on whatever he was feeling, maintaining that friendly but professional distance that left you wondering if you were imagining the heat in his gaze.

Your omega was becoming increasingly agitated by the mixed signals, by the constant state of arousal without resolution. Your scent blocker felt like both a necessity and a prison—protecting your secret while preventing you from fully experiencing the alpha pheromones that your body was clearly craving.

You'd started having moments where you seriously considered removing the blocker, just to see what would happen. The thought terrified and thrilled you in equal measure. What would it be like to smell Hongjoong's scent?!Wooyoung's ? San's? How would they react to your own scent of jasmine and vanilla?

But fear always won out. Fear of changing the dynamic irrevocably, of complicating your professional relationship, of facing the reality of what you all seemed to be building toward.

---

Tonight, that careful balance finally shattered.

You'd retreated to the guesthouse early, claiming exhaustion from the day's packed schedule. In reality, you'd reached your limit for alpha attention without resolution, your body feeling like a live wire from the constant state of arousal their touches and glances induced.

You'd taken a cold shower, hoping to calm your overheated system, but even that hadn't helped. Now you sat on your bed in just a oversized t-shirt and shorts, your skin still feeling too sensitive, too aware. Every nerve ending seemed attuned to the main house across the garden, to the eight alphas who had somehow become the center of your universe.

The sharp knock on your door made you jump, your heart immediately racing. It was nearly ten PM—late for casual visits, but you'd learned that normal rules didn't seem to apply to your relationship with the members anymore.

"Come in," you called, expecting perhaps Hongjoong with another stolen moment, or maybe Seonghwa checking on your wellbeing with his characteristic concern.

Instead, Wooyoung burst through the door with the barely contained energy of someone who'd reached his breaking point. His hair was disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it, his eyes bright with something between desperation and determination.

"I can't do this anymore," he announced without preamble, his voice rough with emotion. "I can't pretend that what's happening between us is normal. I can't keep playing these games where we touch and flirt and dance around what we all know is true."

You stood slowly from the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you took in his appearance. There was something wild about him tonight, something unleashed that sent both thrill and alarm through your system.

"Wooyoung," you began carefully, "what are you—"

"I'm talking about this," he interrupted, gesturing between you with frustrated energy. "About the way you look at me, at all of us. About the way your pulse races when I touch you. About the way you practically melted into Hongjoong in that pool."

Heat flooded your cheeks at his words, at the accuracy of his observations. "I don't know what you—"

"Don't," he said firmly, taking a step closer. "Don't pretend you don't feel it. Don't lie to me, to yourself, about what's happening here." His voice dropped to that register that always made your omega sit up and take notice. "I see how you watch us, Tulip. I see how you respond to our touch. And I know you want this as much as we do."

Your breath caught in your throat as he moved closer, the space between you shrinking with each step. "Wooyoung, we can't—this is complicated—"

"Why?" he demanded, stopping just inches away from you. "Because you work for us? Because there are eight of us? Because it doesn't fit into neat little boxes that society approves of?"

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the golden flecks starting to appear in his eyes as his alpha nature responded to the charged atmosphere between you. Your own omega was practically vibrating with need, with the desire to close the distance between you, consequences be damned.

"Because I'm not who you think I am," you whispered, the admission slipping out before you could stop it.

Wooyoung's expression softened slightly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Then tell me who you are. Tell me what you're hiding. Tell me why you think it matters more than this."

His thumb brushed across your lower lip, and you couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped at the contact. The sound seemed to break whatever restraint he'd been clinging to.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and then his lips were on yours.

The kiss was everything you'd been craving and more—desperate, passionate, claiming. His hands tangled in your hair as he pulled you closer, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that matched your own. You melted into him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kissed him back with equal fervor.

This wasn't the playful, teasing Wooyoung you'd grown accustomed to. This was pure alpha, pure need, pure desire finally unleashed.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes were fully golden, the alpha glow unmistakable in the dim lighting of your bedroom.

"There," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction and desire. "No more pretending. No more games. Now tell me you don't feel it too."

Looking into his transformed eyes, feeling the way your body hummed with rightness at his touch, you realized that your carefully constructed walls had finally crumbled completely. There was no going back from this moment, no returning to the professional distance you'd tried so hard to maintain.

"I feel it," you whispered, the admission both terrifying and liberating. "I feel all of it. With all of you."

Wooyoung's smile was triumphant and tender as he laid you down. His breathing hard above you, radiating energy and satisfaction, but the hunger in his gaze said he was far from done.

He pulled back just enough to drag his shirt off, tossing it somewhere into the darkness, before returning to you—his bare chest warm against your skin. His hands settled at your hips and he tugged at the waistband of your shorts; there was no pretense of patience, just a raw urgency as he peeled them away, taking your underwear with them.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, eyes devouring every newly revealed inch, heat and reverence warring there. “Wish I could breathe you in—wish I could drown in your scent—” He cut himself off, frustration flaring, but his hands were sure as he spread your legs, kneeling between them. “Guess I’ll just have to taste you instead.”

Then his mouth was on you. The first slow drag of his tongue from your entrance up to your clit was deliberate—so, so deliberate—and your hips tried to jerk from the bed in answer. Wooyoung growled, low in his throat, holding you down as his tongue circled, flicked, lapped, learning your responses by sound and the tremors in your thighs.

The world narrowed to sensation: the heat of his tongue, the tease of his lips, his hair against your inner thighs, rough and ticklish. He was messy about it—no smooth choreography, just hunger and intent, making up for everything he couldn’t sense with pure appetite. You whimpered his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for anything to ground you.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, humming at your cry, then licked deeper—his tongue broad and hot, relentless—until there was only the build and build of pleasure, white-hot and unbearable. You were loud now, uncaring, every cry a thank you and a plea.

He only stopped when your thighs trembled against his cheeks, when you pleaded, broken-voiced, “Wooyoung, please—please, I need—I need—”

He growled “Let go. Now Tulip.”

You shattered with a cry, your whole body shaking.

When you finally catch your breath, body limp and aglow from Wooyoung’s unrestrained attention, you prop yourself on your elbows to look down at him. His hair is wild, lips slick and red, eyes smoky with pride and adoration—a little bit wrecked and loving it. The sight ignites something bold inside you.

Without breaking eye contact, you reach for him, fingers curling into his hair to bring him up, capturing his lips in a hungry, grateful kiss. You taste yourself on him and he moans into your mouth as if he’s never wanted anything more. You pull him close, rolling so you’re on top, knees bracketing his hips.

He laughs softly, surprised and delighted, letting his head sink back into the pillows. “Oh?” His hands settle on your thighs, stroking them encouragingly. “You wanna take over, Tulip?”

You smile, feeling a thrill at the way his voice—husky and playful—wraps around you. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I want you like this.”

He bites his lower lip, a flush creeping up his throat as he looks at you spread over him. “Whatever you want, I’m yours tonight,” he whispers. “Show me what my Tulip wants.”

Your heart thuds, but the words make you bold. You drag your palms slowly down his torso, watching him gasp and arch into you, sensitive and eager for more.

You shift, settling between his legs, and slide your hands down until you’re hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants. Wooyoung lifts his hips with a helpless little sound. “Take ‘em off,” he pleads, needy but so gentle. “I want to feel you—your hands, your mouth, whatever you want to give. Please, baby.”

You oblige, slowly, teasing him with little grazes of your nails as you drag the fabric away. His cock is heavy and flushed, impossibly hard, and your mouth waters at the sight. The urge to please him, to unravel him as thoroughly as he did you, takes over.

You wrap your hand around him, just enough to make him hiss, then look up through your lashes. “Tell me what you like, Wooyoung.”

He groans, his head tipping back, eyes dark gold with want. “Touch me—just like that. A little tighter, ah—yeah, that’s good—I love the way your hands feel on me.” He cards his fingers through your hair, not pushing, just anchoring.

You stroke him, noting every twitch, every whispered curse. He’s unguarded with you, rolling his hips into your hand, whispering encouragements: “You—fuck, you’re so pretty like this. You look so good between my legs, Tulip. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You lean down, brushing the head of his cock with your lips, then your tongue, just a soft swirl. He shivers, his hand tightening in your hair. “God, yes—just like that, baby…take your time. Don’t rush. I just want to feel you.”

You tease him, kitten-licks at first, loving the way he gasps—so responsive, so vocal for you. You trace the vein along the underside, stroke him with your tongue, taking him in slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him on your lips.

Wooyoung’s voice becomes your guide, a constant thread of affirmation. “That’s it, yeah…ah, you’re driving me fucking crazy. You look incredible—don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

You work your mouth and hand together, building a rhythm, watching his face for every clue—he’s a mess for you, eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading at his brow, chest heaving with every ragged breath. You hum around him, and he bucks his hips, barely holding back.

Suddenly, urgency overtakes him. “Wait—wait—slow down, I don’t wanna come yet, not so fast—” He pulls your hair gently, guiding you off him, then dragging you up for a breathless kiss. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind,” he pants, nuzzling into your neck, “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect. I wanna last, I wanna remember every second with you.”

You giggle against his throat, giddy with power and affection, and grind your hips gently against his thigh. Wooyoung moans, hands sliding down to squeeze your waist, his cock pressed between you, slippery and aching. You reach down, stroking him again.

You sink back down, taking him in hand and mouth once more, working him with careful, practiced flicks, all the while basking in his praise. “Yeah—fuck, yeah, you’re so good, Tulip…your mouth—your hands—can’t believe you’re doing this for me, letting me have you like this.”

When he starts to grow restless, hips flexing, you stroke him a little harder, licking the sensitive spot just beneath the tip. His breath stutters, his hand a tangle in your hair.

“Close—so close—baby, you gonna let me?” His words are a shudder, trembling with vulnerability and hope. “Gonna let me come for you? Want you to see, want you to know it’s you—only you—”

You hum your ‘yes’ and don’t let up, watching him unravel, pushed to the edge by just your mouth, your hand, and the knowledge that he’s yours to wreck, to comfort, to love. He groans your name—a long, strangled sound—and spills in your mouth and over your fingers, hips jerking upward.

He’s shaking in the aftermath, loose and glowing and utterly undone. You swallow, then crawl up to kiss his flushed cheek, his jaw, his lips. Wooyoung gathers you into his arms, pulling you close as if he never wants to let go.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers, brushing stray hair from your forehead, thumb stroking your cheek. “Thank you. I could do this forever with you. I want to.”

He kisses you soft and deep, then lets his hand drift, stroking your back, grounding you both. In the quiet that follows, his voice makes you feel cherished, safe, and wanted—exactly as you are.

Next>>

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haveyouseenthisskeleton · 10 months ago

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Exhausted, Papyrus fell on his knees in the dust. It was covering everything in the room, from the floor to the ceiling. The main door was gone, like most of the windows. Thankfully, no monster tried to enter the balcony, too high. Papyrus crawled to pick up the door, still in one piece by some miracle, and put it in its place. The hinges were gone with a part of the wall, but he forced it to hold by nailing it with some planks that held the windows closed and was now on the floor.

He picked up his phone, hidden deep in his armor. His hands were still shaking with the adrenaline. Sans left about twenty messages, asking if he was fine, then warning him Frisk was gone, then asking him again if he was alright, more and more distressed as the hours went by.

Papyrus simply sent: "Alive. Frisk here." before walking to the kitchen to make sure the child was fine. Several bullets ricocheted against the closet door, but it faced the brunt efficiently. He cleared the chairs out of the way and opened the door, maybe too brutally.

Frisk screamed out of terror and threw themselves in the back of the cabinet. They curled up on themselves, hands on the head, sobbing uncontrollably. They were shaking as well.

Papyrus flinched. He saw himself at five years old, in the same position, as Sans was screaming and fighting for their lives in the living room. This was not a world to grow up. No child should ever be born in this hellish place. Bitter, he felt his soul squeezed painfully. It was his fault. He should have brought the child back to the Ruins. Frisk shouldn't have assisted to any of this.

The skeleton kneeled at their level. He never had been really talented to comfort people.

"Frisk? It's over, they're gone. You can come out."

He leaned a hand towards the human. Frisk kicked it away and tried to get as far as they could from him in the closet. Papyrus tried to stay neutral, but his face betrayed for a few seconds how much it hurt him. He didn't want Frisk to be scared of him. Not after everything they went through to protect them.

The skeleton looked around for a second and noticed a hole in the closet door. Small, but enough for a child to witness everything that happened outside. Frisk saw him slaughter attackers and end monsters on the floor without mercy. Papyrus felt guilty. He gave the child some space and sat in front of the closet, unsure what to do.

No Weakness, Chapter 3.

_______________________________________

Hello, hello!

I commissioned this masterpiece to @seirindono, a French (yeah, team French!) illustrator who works on a multi AU universe called The Missing Scarf, which is a banger. Really cool comic with lots of great characters that you really want to read. Go read it!

I wasn't sure on which fic I wanted a drawing at first, but since we already got one for Horrortale: Rotten Apple (thanks again Zeragii, love you), why not No Weakness?

It's a post-pacific Underfell fic where instead of breaking the Barrier, Sans refused Frisk to fight Asgore and brought them back in safety to Toriel. Now Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, Mettaton, Toriel and Sans are hiding the child away, trying not to get killed.

The story however is about Undyne and Papyrus' friendship. After Papyrus surprises Undyne kissing Asgore, he is promoted to general of the Royal Guard. Except Papyrus knows something is really wrong here, since that role was obviously supposed to Undyne's. But the more he tries to understand, the more people try to dissuade him from learning more. All the hints lead to Asgore, but how to reach the monarch without getting himself killed, and by extension, those he cares the most about? Between his duty and his friendship, Papyrus will have to make a choice.

I asked for one of my favorite parts ever, which is the moment Frisk realizes how things really work in Underfell, after witnessing Papyrus committing carnage right after he got promoted to General. It's tradition :D

Anyway, if you want to read the story, it's right here. I'm on summer break right now, but new chapters are coming soon!

Thanks again to Seirindono for their amazing work, I love it so much <3 Really great artist, don't hesitate to commission them! They're really nice and pays great attention to details. It was really cool collaborating with you <3

Go send them some love!

#undertale au #underfell #underfell papyrus #undertale #uf papyrus #no weakness #uf frisk #underfell frisk #underfell fic #underfell fanfic #undertale ask blog #undertale headcanons #papyrus #underfell art #seirindono

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vunblr · 4 months ago

Text

Toy Soldier (part 6)

Bit by bit, torn apart. We never win, but the battle wages on for toy soldiers.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Smut. Canon-Typical Violence. Dark Content: Sexual Assault Wounds (Bucky). Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Mentions and depictions of Non-Con (both characters as victims).

Summary: She had been the tool Hydra used to keep him operational; he, the weapon manipulated by their tendrils to execute their ambitions. Years after breaking free, fate Sam Wilson brings them together once more. Now, they must navigate the challenges of forging a connection beyond the twisted dynamic that once bound them in the past.

Word Count: 6.7k

Previous Chapter

She barely had time to think before he leaned into the kiss, parting his lips beneath hers in a slow, instinctive movement. Then his hands moved, one curling around her waist, the other pressing firmly against her back, pulling her closer. A low, almost reluctant sound rumbled in his throat, something like relief, or need.

Accepting his invitation, she brushed the tip of her tongue along his upper lip before slowly exploring his mouth. His grip on her tightened, his fingers pressing into her flesh as if trying to merge with her warmth, with her. Another sound tore from his throat, raw and wanting, and-

The sharp crackle of his still-active comm shattered the moment.

"Hey, I don’t want to rush you, but are you two still alive?"

The Team Leader’s voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

Bucky moved before she could react. In an instant, she found herself yanked behind him, his body acting as a solid barrier between her and whatever threat his mind had conjured. His movements were sharp, and precise, and his free hand went straight for a weapon in the tray.

“Bucky,” she said sharply, grabbing his wrist before he could fully grasp the scorpion. She cursed fluently in three languages at that stupid man. Sam must have told him to back off, but clearly, he wasn’t keen on taking suggestions in the field.

Bucky’s breathing was heavy and erratic, and his eyes flicked wildly around the room, assessing, calculating, preparing. His entire body was coiled tight, primed for attack.

“Bucky,” she tried again, softer this time.

Nothing.

She swallowed hard, then made a careful decision. Slowly, she stepped in front of him, deliberately placing a hand over his forearm, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

“It’s just Smith, the Team Leader,” she murmured, squeezing him lightly.

A flicker of hesitation. A sharp inhale. His pupils were still blown, his pulse hammering beneath her fingers.

“Just Smith,” she repeated, firmer now. Her free hand slid up, resting against his chest, over his pounding heart. “We’re safe.”

A tense beat stretched between them before his shoulders finally slumped, just slightly, and his hand fell limp at his side. He exhaled sharply, blinking as if surfacing from deep water.

Her hands remained on him as she tilted her head, searching for his gaze. “You with me?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked at her -really looked at her- and she saw it: the moment the fog began to lift, the moment recognition dawned in his expression.

“…Yeah,” he rasped. “I’m with you.”

She let out a slow breath, relief washing over her. “Good.”

“…We should go,” he muttered, with his voice still rough around the edges, as he turned to pick up his clothes and gear.

“Yeah,” she agreed, stepping back. “Let’s go.”

------

Sam was seated a few rows back, speaking quietly with one of the pilots. He caught sight of her approach and tipped his head toward the seat across from him.

“You good?” he asked, scanning her face with a mix of concern and curiosity.

She hesitated before nodding. “Yeah. Just... exhausted.”

His gaze flicked past her, toward Bucky. “And him?”

She followed his line of sight. “He’s here. Mostly.” A pause. “Thank you, by the way. For keeping the others from barging in.”

Sam gave a slow nod. “Didn’t like it, but I trusted you. Figured if anyone could handle him, it was you.”

A beat of silence stretched between them before she spoke again. “I need to talk to Smith.”

Sam’s expression hardened slightly, but he jerked his chin toward the back of the cabin. “He’s over there.”

------

Smith looked up as she approached, setting down the field report he’d been reviewing. “I assume you’re here to yell at me,” he said dryly.

She crossed her arms. “Tempting.”

A smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Look, I had to check in. I didn’t know what was going on in there.”

“You did know. Sam told you to back off.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I was responsible for everyone out there. I wasn’t about to let two of our strongest assets disappear in the middle of a mission.”

She clenched her jaw but forced herself to let out a slow breath. Fighting about it wouldn’t change anything now.

“I don’t need to remind you,” she said, voice measured, “that when it comes to Bucky, sudden noises and comm interruptions can cost lives. He was barely holding on.”

Smith’s expression sobered. “Noted.”

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.” With that, she turned and walked away.

-----

Bucky hadn’t moved.

She hesitated for a moment before lowering herself into the seat beside him. He didn’t react, still staring at the metal wall as if it held answers he was trying to decipher.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “It would be good if you eat something.”

No response.

She reached into the bag of supplies a medic had left nearby and pulled out a protein bar. “Just a little, your metabolism must be eating you out.” she coaxed gently, placing it in front of him. “You don’t have to finish it. Just a bite.”

His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move to take it.

She exhaled, then leaned her head slightly against his shoulder. “Bucky.”

A long silence stretched between them before finally, his hand lifted.

Not to push her away.

Not to retreat.

But to pick up the bar.

She smiled, just barely. “That’s it.”

-----

The rest of the flight she tried to sleep, to be able to heal or stabilize the wounded at some point. She managed a few restless hours, but every time she stirred awake, she caught a familiar weight on her: Bucky’s gaze, steady, unrelenting, and... disapproving.

She let it pass, starting to check on the crew. When she finally finished tending to the last injured agent, she returned to her seat, exhaling as she pressed her head against the wall. He was still looking at her.

“What is it?” she murmured, cracking one eye open.

He said nothing, just kept watching her, with his unreadable expression.

She sighed, shifting slightly. “You’ve been doing the staring thing,” she tried to joke. “And I think you broke your own record.”

Still, he said nothing.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you mad at me?”

That seemed to snap him out of it. His head turned sharply toward her, and his expression twisted into disbelief. “Why would I be mad at you?”

She shrugged, rubbing at her temple. “You’ve been looking at me like you are.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. “I don’t like it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “Don’t like what?”

He gestured vaguely toward her, the frustration evident in his voice. “This. You’re tired, and they’re using you to-”

“They are not them, Bucky,” she cut in, firmly but not harshly. “And they’re not using me. I’m doing my job. These people are comrades.”

His fingers curled against his knee, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered.

“Then what is the point?” she asked gently.

And that was when it all came spilling out.

He wasn’t used to this, saying things out loud, admitting what was eating at him instead of burying it.

“…You’re drained,” he finally said. “You barely slept. You pushed yourself past your limit again. You think that’s just doing your job?”

She sighed, tilting her head back against the wall. “Bucky-”

“I’ve seen them do this before,” he cut in. “I’ve seen them push you, wring you out ‘til you had nothing left.” His throat bobbed, and his next words were edged. “It’s too fucking familiar.”

Her chest tightened at the weight behind his words. He wasn’t just talking about now. He was talking about then, about the way Hydra had kept her on her feet, forced her to fix and mend, and never stop, not unless they said so.

And now, even if this was different, even if she chose to do this, all he could see was her being used up all over again.

“I get it,” she murmured after a moment. “I do. But this isn’t the same.”

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head.

She reached out before she could overthink it, resting a hand lightly on his forearm. His vibranium fingers twitched beneath her touch.

“Bucky, this is my choice.”

His gaze flicked to her then, searching, studying.

“Yeah?” he muttered, and something raw cracked in his voice. “And what happens when you push too far?

Her fingers tensed slightly against his arm, but she didn’t look away. “Then I rest. Like anyone else.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Like hell you do.”

She smiled tiredly, squeezing his arm again just once before pulling back. “Then you’ll just have to remind me.”

He sighed, looking away, but he didn’t argue.

Didn’t tell her she was wrong.

-----

She knew he was tired, still on high alert, still wounded, still not entirely himself. That shitty protein bar wouldn’t do anything to keep his body going, and she wasn’t about to let him keep running on fumes.

But telling him to take care of himself never worked, at least, not when it came from concern for him. He’d brush it off, deflect, and act like his body could run on sheer willpower alone.

So, she decided to try something different.

If Bucky wouldn’t rest for his own sake, maybe he would for hers.

She shifted in her seat, letting her posture sag just enough to look drained, tucking her hands into her lap. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, just a little unsteady.

“Bucky…” she hesitated, glancing at him with the softest crease between her brows. “I feel kind of… lightheaded,” she murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

Bucky’s head snapped toward her again, scanning her face with his sharp gaze, flexing his hands like he was resisting the urge to reach out. “Did you eat enough?” His voice was gruff, edged with concern.

“I did,” she assured him, rubbing her temple for effect. “It’s just… I burned a lot back there, and now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, I feel so tired.” She blinked slowly, letting her lashes flutter as if she could barely keep them open. “I think I just need to lie down for a bit.”

Bucky frowned. “Go. I’ll keep watch.”

She chewed her lip, shaking her head. “I don’t want to go alone.”

His brows drew together, that conflicted look crossing his face again.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, shifting closer, barely touching his arm. “I’d just feel safer if you were there. Just to rest. Please?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, looking toward the back of the plane. The cargo area had enough space to stretch out, to be out of sight from the others.

She hesitated, then dropped her gaze, playing up the weariness. “Forget it, I shouldn’t have asked-”

“Come on.” His voice was low, resigned.

He stood, already making his way toward the back. She followed, biting back a victorious smile.

When they reached the far end of the cargo bay, she crouched down and tugged at a stack of coarse military blankets folded near the supply crates. Unfolding them, she spread them out on the floor behind a cluster of ammo crates, creating a makeshift resting spot.

Bucky watched her, with his arms crossed and his unreadable expression. “You planning on sleeping on the floor?”

She flopped down onto the blankets with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve slept in worse places, and there aren’t many options.” she murmured, stretching out. Then, tilting her head up at him, she added softly, “I’d rather not do it alone, though.”

His jaw twitched. His eyes flicked from her to the crates, then back again, like he was assessing whether this was really necessary.

“You did say you’d keep watch,” she reminded him, scooting back slightly to make space. “You can do that just as well from down here.”

For a beat, he didn’t move.

Then, with a sigh of resignation, he knelt down beside her. She barely contained her smile as he stretched out stiffly, moving awkwardly like he didn’t quite know how to do this.

She turned onto her side facing him, resting her head against her arm. The coarse blanket beneath them did little to cushion the hard cargo floor, but she didn’t care. He was still here, still lying down beside her, and that was enough.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Bucky made a sound in response -gruff, low- but the steady hum of the plane drowned out the words. She wanted to ask him to repeat it, but another idea took hold instead. Something bold, something she hoped would keep him still, keep him resting.

She hesitated, then, carefully, she tried. “Can I hold your hand? Just- just until I fall asleep.”

His eyes cracked open at that, flicking to her face, searching. She could see the hesitation there, the gears turning in his brain.

For a moment, she thought he might refuse.

Then, with a sigh, he shifted slightly, unfurling his vibranium hand from where it rested against his chest. Wordlessly, he extended it toward her, palm up, an offering.

She took it carefully, threading her fingers through his, feeling the cool metal against her skin. He let out a slow breath and closed his hand, in a gentle but firm grasp.

“Better?” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the plane.

She smiled faintly, brushing her thumb over the intricate grooves of the plating. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Much better.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling of the cargo hold, listening to the rhythm of her breathing as it evened out into sleep. Her fingers were still tangled with his, like she knew he wasn’t quite ready to be let go of yet.

He wasn’t.

She had played him. He knew it. She had manipulated him into lying down, into resting, into staying still when every part of him screamed to keep moving. And damn it, it had worked.

A small, bitter smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve been the one looking after her. After everything she had been through today, she was the one who needed to be taken care of, not him.

But she had flipped it on him, turned it around, and made herself the reason he was lying here instead of pacing, sharpening a knife, or picking apart everything that had gone wrong. It was a trick, a clever one, and the worst part was that he hadn’t minded.

Because deep down, despite the constant, gnawing instinct to stay on guard, to keep watch, there was a part of him that had wanted this. That had wanted an excuse to stop.

Also, he wanted to bask in this.

His gaze dropped to their joined hands, fingers loosely tangled together. Intimacy was something he had lost long ago, something that had been twisted and stolen from him in ways he still couldn’t fully unravel. And yet, here she was, offering it freely. Not demanding, not expecting, just… holding on.

He knew they’d have to talk when they got back. About what happened to him, about the way he had slipped, about-

His eyes flicked to her lips.

About that.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he forced himself to look away. He couldn’t lie to himself. Deep down, he wanted more. More than the comfort of her hand in his, more than the reassurance of her company. The raw violence that had overtaken him when he saw her in danger, the way his entire body had zeroed in on keeping her safe… it wasn’t just duty, instinct, or even friendship. It was something else entirely, something tangled in the mess of their shared past, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.

Because he was so fucking messed up.

And so was she.

Everything about them was tangled in pain and history, in things that shouldn’t have been, in things that were forced upon them. He had no right to want this, to want her. Not after everything. Not after what Hydra made them to each other.

But… she had kissed him.

And when he asked for more, she had given it to him without hesitation.

Bucky swallowed hard, shutting his eyes.

It didn’t matter. Not now. They were exhausted, battered, and raw, and nothing good came from picking apart things like this at 30,000 feet in the air in a crappy military plane full of prying eyes.

-----

At some point, he drifted. The adrenaline, the stress, the wounds, it all took a toll on his body. Lying close to her and sensing the warmth of her body beside him, his brain finally shut down. His breathing evened out, and his muscles uncoiled ever so slightly.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out when something stirred him awake, a slow, soothing warmth against his ribs, pulling him from the depths of much-needed rest. His body tensed instinctively, as his mind tried to assess the unfamiliar sensation.

He shifted slightly, furrowing his brow, and then he registered it. Her hands.

Beneath his henley, pressed against bare skin, the warmth of her palms sent a ripple of sensation through his body, not unwelcomed, but startling. His sluggish mind took a second too long to catch up, as the dull ache in his side faded under the touch of something familiar.

“What are you doing?” he heard himself ask, with a rough voice from sleep.

She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even open her eyes. Just huffed a small breath, still working gently. “I’m not taking advantage of you, if that’s your concern,” she quipped sleepily.

His jaw tightened, caught somewhere between exasperation and something else he wasn’t ready to name.

You’re depleted,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t be wasting-”

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupted, voice thick with exhaustion but firm. “You were still bleeding. I couldn’t ignore it.”

Bucky sighed, pressing back his head against the coarse blanket beneath him. He should argue. Should tell her to stop, to save her strength, to let him deal with it.

But the warmth of her touch was so soothing, pulling the ache from his body in a way no amount of rest ever could. And, selfishly, he didn’t want her to stop.

So instead, he huffed quietly and muttered, “Stubborn woman.”

She hummed, barely awake, slowing her hands as the last traces of her power sealed his wound. “Look who is talking” she murmured, finally letting her palm rest against his side.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He didn’t dare move, not yet. ----

When they landed, it was agreed that debriefings would start in 24 hours, giving the team some slack to rest and recover. She glanced at Bucky and saw how the exhaustion weighed on his features, how the tension still lingered in his frame, she knew what she have to do.

She bit her lip, unsure how to bring it up. She wanted to check on him, to make sure he’d be okay. But she also -selfishly- didn’t want to be alone after everything. So before she could overthink it, she just blurted out, “Do you wanna come home?”

He snapped his head toward her, fixing his tired gaze on hers. “What?”

“I asked if you want to come to my house,” she repeated, forcing her voice to stay light, and casual, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You know, the couch is really cozy, better than the floor you sleep on.” She tried for a teasing smile, though her heart was hammering. “I can make us something to eat. Or order in if you’d rather. Then we rest.”

She paused, watching him carefully, and then added, “I can bake you cookies if you like.”

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, looking down, considering. After a moment, he met her gaze again. “I missed your cookies.”

“So?” she half-smiled, tilting her head in encouragement.

He exhaled through his nose like he was debating something internally. Then, with a small, reluctant nod, he accepted.

The thing was, going back to his empty apartment didn’t appeal to him. Not after everything. And beyond that, there was still this lingering urge to check on her, to be near, to make sure she was okay. He didn’t know how to deal with it, didn’t know what to do with what swirled inside him. The fact that she offered, that she wanted him there, made things easier.

“Great!” she said, as she turned, rummaging into one of the crates of equipment. He watched as she pulled out a white t-shirt, a pair of blue sweatpants, and -he blinked- a pair of boxers. She stuffed them into her bag without hesitation.

His brows furrowed slightly. “What-”

She cut him off, waving a hand at his tac gear. “What? You’re entitled to use this, you know? And certainly, you won’t be walking around my house in all that.” She gestured at the reinforced pants, the combat vest, and the weapons still strapped to him.

Bucky scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “You don't think that museum piece of a couch you have can handle it?”

She smirked, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “Nope.”

Then, with a teasing glint in her eye, she added, “And certainly not my nose. You are showering the second we cross the door.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head again. “Yeah, well, you don’t smell like roses either.”

She gasped in mock offense, nudging his arm as they started walking. “Excuse you?”

Something in his chest loosened at the way she spoke to him like none of the events of the past few days had changed anything. Like they could still be… this.

Whatever this was.

-----

The second they stepped inside her home, the scent of lavender and something else he could never quite place hit him. It was subtle, woven into the very air, clinging to the blankets draped over the couch, the cushions she always tucked into the corners, the soft fabrics and wooden surfaces that made up her space.

Strangely, it smelled like… home.

His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly and the tension in his muscles eased, as his body finally registered how utterly drained he was. He had spent so many years in places that smelled sterile, and metallic, like gun oil and blood. Places where he didn’t belong.

But here… here was different.

She dropped her bag near the entrance, stretching her arms over her head with a satisfied sigh. “Alright, Sergeant, shower. Now.”

He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, but didn’t argue. She was right. He needed it. Probably more than he’d ever admit.

As he toed off his boots, she was already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll find something for us to eat,” she called over her shoulder. “Go get yourself human again.”

He lingered for a second longer, sweeping his gaze over the familiar space, the way the low lighting softened the cozy room… how her presence filled every corner. Then, he grabbed the spare clothes she had packed for him and headed toward the bathroom.

Maybe, just for tonight, he could let himself settle a little. Just a little.

-----

She was stirring the pot when she heard the soft, almost hesitant steps behind her, on the wooden floor. She didn’t turn, but she could feel him there, lingering in the doorway, freshly showered, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to his skin.

“Enjoyed the bath?” she asked, keeping her attention on the simmering food.

A low hum was his only response at first, but then he stepped further into the kitchen.

She turned to face him, slightly curving her lips. “I got a mission for you,” she declared, holding up the wooden spoon. “Watch this while I shower.”

His brows furrowed slightly. Then he glanced between her and the pot, warily. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. What if I mess it up?” he asked, eyeing the bubbling mixture with suspicion. “What if it burns? What if-”

“It’s chicken and rice, Bucky, not rocket science,” she interrupted, amused but patient. “You just need to stir it twice every five minutes. That’s all.”

He still didn’t look convinced. He hovered his fingers uncertainly before wrapping around the spoon, as if expecting it to fight back.

She smirked. “You look like I just asked you to disarm a bomb.”

“Feels like it,” he muttered.

“It’s the twenty-first century,” she stepped past him. “Men cook too, you know.”

He let out a slow breath, slightly adjusting his grip on the spoon. “Two times every five minutes?”

She grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

----

Steam curled around her, as the warm water cascaded over her tense shoulders, but it did little to ease the knot of guilt lodged deep in her chest. She braced her hands against the cool tile, letting the spray hit the back of her neck as her thoughts assaulted her.

Bucky had regressed. Hydra had buried that part of him so deep that even now, after years of freedom, it still lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the right trigger. And she… she had been that trigger.

Her stomach twisted. He had gotten hurt because of her. And not just physically. She needed to talk to him about that. To make him understand that he didn’t have to go to such extremes for her. That she didn’t want him to. She wasn’t his mission. She was his friend.

But then, there was the kiss.

She pressed her forehead against the tile, squeezing her eyes shut as heat flooded her cheeks. It had been hesitant, cautious, born of raw feelings and lingering adrenaline. But it had happened. And then… he had asked for more.

What now?

Did he regret it? Had it been just a momentary lapse, a fragile thing that couldn’t survive outside the chaos of the mission? Maybe he wanted to forget it happened. Maybe he needed to. To go back to the easy understanding they had before, without the weight of something new tilting the fragile balance between them.

She exhaled sharply. If that was the case, she wouldn’t push. The last thing she wanted was to make things harder for him.

But if it wasn’t…

------

When she stepped out of the shower, warm and comfortable in her old pajamas, she felt a little steadier. The decision was made, after dinner. She would talk to him then.

Padding into the kitchen, she found him exactly where she’d left him, standing by the stove, arms crossed, watching the pot like it might betray him at any moment.

She smirked, walking past him to grab a couple of plates. “Hey, look at that,” she teased. “The kitchen isn’t on fire. You did great.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head as he stepped aside to let her take over. “Yeah, well… wouldn’t have bet on it.”

She chuckled, ladling generous portions of food onto their plates. He grabbed the cutlery and followed her to the table, helping her set things up without a word. When they finally sat down to eat, the silence was still present. Not precisely uncomfortable, but thick with something unspoken.

That silence, however, was soon broken. Not by words, but by the low, involuntary groans Bucky let out as he ate.

She raised a brow, pausing mid-bite to watch him. He had already finished his first serving and was now working through his second, using a piece of bread to push food onto his fork with a single-minded focus.

She tried not to smile. At least he was eating. That was something.

When his plate was scraped clean, he sat back with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his stomach before eyeing the pot.

“Go ahead,” she said, amused, before he could ask.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He stood up, and refilled his plate again, and she shook her head fondly as she tore off a piece of bread for herself.

-----

Once they had eaten, Bucky insisted on doing the dishes. She tried to argue, but he had already started gathering the plates, giving her a look that didn’t leave room for discussion.

“Go,” he muttered, turning on the sink. “You cooked.”

She huffed but didn’t push it, retreating to the living room instead. She pulled the couch into its bed form, laying out a pillow and blanket, making sure it was as comfortable as possible.

By the time he was finished, drying his hands on a towel, the couch was ready, and she was perched on the edge, idly picking at the blanket with her fingers.

“Can we… talk a little?” she asked, looking up at him.

Bucky froze for half a second before exhaling through his nose, tossing the towel onto the counter. He knew this was coming. He just hadn’t expected it to be this soon.

Still, he nodded, making his way over. He sat beside her, careful with the space between them, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “We can talk.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, and then she took a breath.

“I just... I wanted to check in.” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “After everything that happened.”

His jaw tightened. He knew what she meant.

The mission. The regression. The way he had snapped, the way Soldat had surfaced so easily, like slipping into an old coat. And-

His gaze flicked to her lips before he caught himself, dragging his focus away, fixing it on the coffee table instead.

The kiss.

He hadn’t let himself think about it. Not really. Because if he did, he’d have to face it, that it hadn’t just been the heat of the moment, that something deep inside him had wanted it. That even now, sitting here with her, part of him wanted to reach out, feel the warmth of her skin under his fingers again.

She looked at him, then down, biting her lower lip. “I don’t know how to start, so I’ll just…” She waved her hand vaguely, exhaling. “How long has it been since Poland? Six months?”

“Seven,” he corrected.

“Seven,” she repeated, nodding slowly. She hesitated for a second, then turned to look at him fully. “Reconnecting with you, getting to know you -the real you- has been good. More than good.”

He kept his gaze on the floor, hands clasped together, listening.

“We have this… friendship-” She saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly at the word, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. But she pressed on. “After everything we went through, you get me. And I think I get you. That’s why I know I can talk freely to you.”

She paused, searching his face. His expression was carefully blank, but his fingers twitched where they rested on his knees, a tell she had come to recognize.

“I’ve noticed that lately, you have been more... protective of me.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened again, but he said nothing. His features hardened. He wasn’t going to deny it, not when they both knew it was true.

“Like overreacting when I go to little missions-”

“I don’t overreact,” he interrupted gruffly, and for once, looked at her.

She gave him a pointed look. “Bucky, you tried to influence my superiors into not sending me to that drug trafficker affair last month.” He tensed further, curling his fingers into loose fists. “You think I wouldn’t know?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked away.

“How do you even know about my assignments?” she pressed. Still, nothing.

She let out a slow breath, shaking her head. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Buck. I-”

“You are my doll, alright?” he cut her off suddenly, with roughed voice, almost desperate. He shook his head as if frustrated with himself. “I know it’s messed up. I know we don’t-” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “But I can’t help it. The idea of you getting hurt again… I would lock you here in this apartment if it were up to me.”

She blinked, trying to process the weight of his admission. He wasn’t just being protective. This wasn’t about simple concern. It was something deeper, something tangled in decades of fear and loss. “But it’s not up to you,” she said gently, but firmly. “I know you’re scared-”

“I’m not scared,” he snapped, then immediately exhaled roughly, rubbing his temples. “I just… I can’t do nothing. Not when it’s you.”

“And that takes us to what happened the last few days,” she carried on.

His gaze flickered away. He shifted slightly where he sat, curling his fingers around the edge of the couch like he could brace for whatever she was about to say next.

“You shut me out, Bucky” she continued, “then you-”

“I’m sorry to be a burden,” he interrupted suddenly, working his throat around the words. “It’s not my intention to fuck up your life.” He sounded so lost, so small.

“Burden?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “What- What do you think this conversation is about, Bucky?” She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch his eyes, but he kept them stubbornly averted. “Let me finish.”

He tensed but didn’t argue.

“I was so scared to lose you there,” she admitted, “The guilt I felt for what happened to you, because you put me first, because you don’t think about yourself… like you don’t matter at all.”

His breath shuddered slightly at her words, and his fingers twitched against his knee, a telltale sign of unease. When she reached out, taking his hand in hers, he stiffened, but didn’t pull away.

“Bucky, you matter.” She squeezed his fingers, urging him to hear her. “You always mattered.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His gaze remained locked somewhere past her shoulder, like looking at her would make it worse. His vibranium fingers flexed beneath her touch, clenching once before settling.

“I don’t-” he started, before shaking his head. “I don’t know how to be that. To be… something that matters.”

“Look at me, Bucky.”

He hesitated, tensing his jaw, but she waited patiently until his tired blue eyes finally met hers.

“What you feel, that protectiveness…” She swallowed, gathering the courage to lay it all bare. “I feel it too. I want only good things for you. I need you to understand that.”

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing through it, but he remained silent.

She exhaled, pressing forward. “If something ever happened to you, and on top of that, because of me-” Her voice caught, and she shook her head. “I would be devastated, Buck.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “So don’t ask me not to care. Because I do. And I always will.”

His throat bobbed again. He looked at her -really looked at her- but still, he didn’t speak.

“You ended up regressing there, Bucky.” She lifted a hand, cupping his cheek, brushing her thumb over the sharp line of his cheekbone. “I was so scared to lose you.”

His jaw tightened beneath her touch, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into her warmth, before catching himself. When he opened them again, there was something hollow in his gaze, something distant.

“You didn’t lose me,” he muttered without conviction.

She swallowed. “Didn’t I?”

His fingers twitched under her hand.

“It was you, but it wasn’t,” she continued, “What if you could never return?”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came. When they did, his voice was almost automatic. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s not about being sorry, Bucky.” Her palm remained on his cheek. He still hadn’t pulled away. “It’s about... trying to prioritize yourself. If not for you, then for me.”

His throat worked around a response, but nothing came. Instead, he just stared at her, like she was offering him something he wasn’t sure he had the right to hold.

"Finally..." She took a breath. "We have to talk about... what happened, what we-”

Bucky tensed just slightly, but she felt it. His fingers curled against his thigh, and his gaze flickered away again.

She took another breath. “What we did,” she clarified gently. “What it meant.”

His jaw clenched. He nodded once, like he had expected this conversation but still wasn’t ready for it.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” she continued, softer now. “But I also don’t want to assume… anything.”

His fingers flexed, and his shoulders tensed. When he finally met her gaze, his voice was hesitant. “…What do you want it to mean?”

She took a slow breath. “A moment ago, you said you feel like I’m your doll.” Her fingers curled slightly against his. “I want that, Bucky.” She swallowed, holding his gaze. “I’d love to be your doll.”

Bucky just stared, with his unreadable expression. Like he couldn’t quite process the words, like they didn’t make sense coming from her. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He shook his head slightly, knitting his brows together in something between disbelief and hesitation.

“You… You don’t mean that,” he muttered.

She squeezed his hand. “I do, Bucky. I want that. I want you.”

For so long, he had buried this need, convinced himself that what he felt -the pull, the protectiveness, the want- was one-sided. A fractured, messed-up thing formed between them in Hydra’s wreckage, and it was a cross he had to bear alone. He had convinced himself that friendship and companionship were all he’d ever get from her, and he had tried to be at peace with that.

Almost.

She hesitated. His expression remained unreadable, and the silence stretched longer than she could bear. He was processing -she knew that- but the longer he went without speaking, the more uncertainty clawed its way up her throat.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand, curling her fingers into her lap as she lowered her gaze. “Just-” she exhaled shakily, forcing a small, strained smile. “I’m sorry. I thought when you said I was your doll… you meant it differently. If it was just an endearment, something between friends… if I misread it, we can still-”

“Say it again,” he whispered.

His voice was rough, almost hoarse, like he wasn’t sure if he had any right to ask but needed to hear it anyway. Like he couldn’t believe that what she was offering -what she was giving him- was real.

“That I…” She swallowed. “I’d love to be your doll.” Then, softer, almost a whisper. “If you’ll have me.”

Bucky blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. Slowly, almost timidly, he lifted his hand, brushing his fingers against her cheek. His touch was light, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, like he wasn’t sure if she would disappear if he pressed too hard.

Then, the smallest smile tugged at his lips, barely there, uncertain, but real. His gaze flickered downward, lingering on her lips for a breath too long before he met her eyes again.

“…Can I kiss you properly?” His voice was rough at the edges, like he was afraid to ask, afraid of the answer.

She exhaled softly, warmth blooming in her chest as she leaned into his touch. “Yes. You can kiss me properly,” whatever that meant.

For a moment, he didn’t move, just stared at her like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. That she was real. That this was allowed.

Then, slowly, he leaned in.

His fingers traced a tentative path along her jaw, brushing his nose against hers before he finally closed the distance.

The kiss was different from their first, deeper, warmer. This wasn’t about grounding or reassurance. He kissed her like he was trying to map her, like he was trying to savor every second of it in case it was taken away from him.

And she let him, curling her fingers against his shoulders as she leaned in.

Then, he let himself sink into it, and for the first time in a long, long while, he allowed himself to want.

Next Chapter

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Dividers by @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x female reader #winter soldier fanfiction

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softaestluv · 3 months ago

Text

Guard Dogs

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Neighbor! Reader

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, & Pt. 5 (final part!)

This chapter will contain smut! 18+ content!

Tags: Smut, Cunnilingus, oral, vaginal fingering, creampie

Summary: You were a proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy. Ghost only looked to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar. Even if Riley wanted more.

Ghost used to believe he favored winter more than summer, despised sweltering days when sweat trickled from his mask. Gathered wet pools in his collarbone, dried sticky on his skin. At least during winter he could blame the cold in his home on the weather rather than the loneliness.

But now he isn’t entirely sure, not when he knows your warmth, makes the cold almost tenfold without you.

He decides it may just be when it brings you to his doorstep, rainstorm rumbling behind your standing figure. He lets you in despite running away from your home less than a week ago. Doesn’t let his pretty bird stand in the storm for long.

“My power went out, it’s dark and cold over there,” You explain, swiping your tongue over bitten dry lips, “Is it okay if I stay here until morning? I didn’t know where else to go.”

His girl was scared was she? Came to him for rescue.

Almost snickers at the irony, came to his home, the same walls he only felt alone and frigid in. Yet you stand at his doorstep, seeking refuge like he could provide you with the same warmth and comfort your home does, that you do.

So, he sets a kettle of tea for the both of you. Joining him quietly in the kitchen, leaning against the opposite side of the counter he is. He keeps his eyes on the stove, doesn’t exactly plan to fill the awkward tension with anything more than the boiling water. Small talk wasn’t his strong-suit, and he definitely didn’t want an explanation from you.

Why would he need one? The two of you were nothing but neighbors, friends if that.

However, the silence seems to bother you; he knows it does when you speak up, “How are you?”

“Been fine,” He huffs, handing a steaming cup of tea to you.

And because he doesn’t want to know how you and your new boyfriend have been he doesn’t ask.

“That’s good, I’m glad,” Give him a tight smile in return.

The room becomes silent again, the sound of both of you drinking tea fill the kitchen. Even after the both of you are done drinking, no words are said, gazes avoided as the light tapping of your fingernails against the glass replaces the slurping, loud even between the pitter of the rain outside.

“Don’t you get it?” You finally ask, laughing remorsefully under your breath, continue once he tilts his head at you, “It’s you.”

He still doesn’t understand what you mean, brows furrowing together under his mask.

You sigh, “There’s no one else, I don’t have a boyfriend. I was talking about you, Simon.”

“What are you talking ‘bout?”

“You’re who I have waiting for me at home. You’re who I want to spend time with. Who I want to come home to. Well I don’t mean it like you’re sitting waiting around for me, it’s just,” You begin to ramble, trying to explain your emotions while your face warms, turns the pretty pink he has grown to love.

The rest of your words don’t matter to him, his balaclava is forgotten on the floor, insignificant. A stupid barrier between him and his bird. Breaks the distance between the two of you in two quick strides. Has you hoisted on his kitchen counter in a second, lips stamped to yours. Your words swallowed down between his lips, dissolved into a muffled yelp.

It’s intense, cups his palms around your jaw so tightly you can’t even think about pulling away from him, but you kiss back with the same intensity. Makes his head spin at the sheer way you reciprocate, doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed like this before. Like your life depends on it. As if you intended to take the breathe from his lungs, trying to portray your emotions through your lips.

The past months poured out of his chest and into your pretty mouth, but your own desires fill his chest, leave him impossibly warm and full. The pain of just looking, watching for so long without being able to touch or taste had him digging shallow indents into your skin, didn’t want to let go. Though you don’t seem to mind his strong hold, only cling to him in turn, curling your arms around his neck. Trying to pull him closer as if your proximity wasn’t nearly enough.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He rasps against your lips, hot air blowing over your cheeks.

“Thought I was making it pretty clear,” You chuckle lightly, “Figured you didn’t want me like that.”

“Are you kidding me?” Simon says, “You don’t get it.”

Presses his lips against yours again, even if he has more he wants to say. Doesn’t exactly know how to balance pouring his heart out to you and sealing your mouths as one. So, he tries to do both, breathing hushed words between kisses.

“Thought it was too good to be true. You don’t get it,” He repeats, because, really, he thinks you don’t understand.

Don’t understand that he thinks you’re too good for him. That it doesn’t make any sense that someone like you would want someone like him. Broken and damaged when you were anything but.

Accepted what you were willing to give him without pressing for more, even if he wanted to fuse himself with every dimple and blemish on your body. He almost doesn’t believe it. It’s not what he deserves, some educated man should be in his spot. A man that isn’t tainted in filth and blood.

A better man.

And yet, you kiss him like he is the only who deserves you. Look up at him like he hung the fucking stars. He would— if he could, string them bright and twinkly above your pretty head.

Doesn’t think you truly understood how much his fingertips ached everytime he forced them to clench onto something other than your soft body. How hard he had to dig his teeth into his knuckles when he climbed into bed after he shared dinner with you. Stomach still full, pretty voice still ringing in his ears, cock heavy in his palms.

“You’re all I wanted,” He confesses, “Wanted to come home to you every day.”

Don’t understand that he never wanted anything more.

“And what if I did have a boyfriend?” You ask, “Would you just let me go that easily?”

Can’t help the way he holds you a little tighter. Something possessive burns in his throat now that he knows the taste of your lips.

“Don’t wanna think ‘bout that. Doesn’t matter anymore. I have you now, don’t I?” He grunts against your neck, breath warm on your skin, “Riley and I were yours, always. Tried to show you that.”

Your next words— if you can call them that, are nothing more than breathless quakes. Make his cock throb painfully in his pants; you’ve been nothing, but sensible, sophisticated, but now you sound so frail, impatient.

“Show me then, Simon.”

The way your gaze sharpens is cue enough for him, doesn’t need to be told twice. Won’t miss another opportunity or wait another second to make you his. He wasn’t exactly eloquent, couldn’t express what he wanted with his words. Opts to use his roughened hands the only way he knows how.

Takes your plump thighs into his hold because as much as he’d like to bend you over his kitchen counter, lap at your pussy like all the endless pies you’ve made him, he’d much rather prove he could satisfy you in his bedroom. Fuck you wet and sticky into his mattress.

It’s a mess of limbs, stumbling down the hall as you plea his lips not to leave yours for more than a second. He almost stops at his couch, bumping clumsy into it on his venture, but he decides splitting you in two over the arm would be for another day.

The kiss turns lewd as he carries you, smacking lips messily, saliva sloppily smeared against tongues and roofs of mouths, teeth knocking together. Though it doesn’t deter you, only slot your lips against his more earnestly. Barely manages to drop you onto his bed before you’re pawing at him to join you.

Yanks your clothes off like they personally offended him, feet and arms getting stuck in the tangles of clothes. His own follow soon at your sweet request, both of you stripped to your underwear.

It’s almost impossible to keep his hands on just one part of your body. Probably spends entirely too long palming your round breasts, pinching your pert nipples, kneads the doughy meat of your sides and hips. Large hands everywhere and nowhere at once, like he needed to touch every inch of your body, wasn’t enough until he did. Hypnotized by the way your supple flesh spills between his fingers, how you arch into his touch with breathy whines.

It’s overwhelming being able to touch you however he pleases after holding back for so long. Makes his touch that much more firm, calloused and scarred fingers scratching your smooth skin. Can’t fucking decide what he wants to do first because he wants to do all of it.

But when he descends between your body, peeling your underwear off so you lay bare for him, and his eyes land on your pussy, soaked and pretty for him, he loses all reason.

He spreads your thighs wide, must be hovering close, feel his hot breath on your wet cunt because you whimper a quiet ‘oh Simon, please.’

And because he can’t deny his girl of anything, especially when you ask so sweetly, his tongue swipes between your folds, dragging slowly to your clit. Something carnal washes over him as he repeats the motions like he’s pussy-drunk, intoxicated by the pretty noises you let slip past your lips.

Surprises himself when he groans deep and beastly against your sensitive flesh. Hadn’t even realized he had been making noises between each wet lap and harsh suck. Too inebriated by your arousal, melting on his tongue smoother than any plate you’ve placed in front of him.

Spreads your glistening cunt open between his thumbs, burying your face into the pillows from the way he openly examines you. Breaking you down and peeling you apart under his intense stare. He doesn’t mind too much, not when he drags a finger between your folds, dipping the full length into you. Causes you to snap your head forward, give him such a pretty moan when he plunges a second finger in. Spongy walls popping around his thick digits, slowly works you stretched and opened. Until he could comfortably burrow to the knuckle with each stroke.

Deliberately kept it slow, drawing out each glide so only his fingertips remained. Took his time breaking through your wet entrance, enjoyed the desperate little mewls you released above him too much to give you anything more. Strong and deft hands bring his pure girl ecstasy, gentle despite the way he’s used them to hurt others.

Wasn’t pleased until your thighs began to tremble either side of his head, hoists them on his shoulders to settle them. Smushed his face against the fat of your thigh, decorated the skin in his lips and teeth.

“More, more mmph— Simon, please.”

Can’t hide the smile that breaks across his lips, pressed teeth to your thigh from the way you whimpered his name. Sounded so pretty coming from your lips, begged so sweetly for him. He rewards you, wraps the cushion of his lips around your swollen clit and smothers his tongue over the bead in calculated strokes.

Your hips buck away from his stimulation, loud cry muffled against the sheets when he suctions the bead. A firm arm bands around your waist, holds you down to take it, wouldn’t let you escape his grasp that easy. Doesn’t stop until you finish on his tongue and around his fingers, hiccuping on your breaths as you stiffen. Your palm wrapped tightly around his wrist on your hip, dig indents into his flesh as he works you steady through it. Slick gathering in his palm and between his knuckles.

He rests between your thighs a little longer, not quite trying to overstimulate you, but rather staining your taste in his throat. Both of you basking in your orgasm.

When he crawls on top of you, you blink lazily at him, half-lidded and dilated. Swipe your thumb across his chin to wipe your collected slick off. He doesn’t let you move far, chases after your thumb and sucks it clean, makes you inhale a sharp breath through your teeth. Kisses the pad gently when he’s done, trails soft pecks down your palm and arm, over your shoulder to your chin. Stops when he reaches your lips, taking your chin between his index finger and thumb.

“Wanted to know how you tasted for so long,” He murmurs, lips brushing against yours with each word.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck, scratching at the short blonde hair, “Thought about you every night after dinner. Kept hoping you would just eat me instead.”

Simon’s eyes flutter, exhaling through his nose like a bull, “Was so hard to keep my hands to myself, you know that, sweetheart? Especially when you look like this.”

Emphasizes his words by squishing the plush of your hips, “Couldn’t stand thinking you were in some other blokes bed.”

Hooks his hand under your knee, pushing it higher slightly, adjusting his own hips between your legs. You’re soft and pliant, just how he imagined his girl would be, let him bend you how he sees fit.

“But you weren’t, were you?” He hums, “Just perfect and proper for me like always, huh?”

Nudges the bulb of his cockhead along your swollen folds, catching on your welcoming entrance.

You nod your head weakly, “Yes, Simon, only you.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck as he pushes forward. Puffy walls splitting open for him, stretch for his girth, slick aiding in the glide. Feels you dig your fingers into his shoulders, hears your breaths stutter in your throat. Purrs gentle praises into your ear to ease the thick stretch.

His pretty bird was such a good girl, wasn’t she? You can take it, knows you can.

Bottoms out in your pussy, gives you a minute to adjust before you’re slurring pleas against his neck. ‘Oh, Simon, s-so big. Feel so good, oh fuc- please move? Please, Simon?’

So he does, can’t hold back when you sound like that. Give you anything you ask for.

Grinds his hips shallow and slow, makes a steady pace of it. Tangles your legs around his hips, locking them at his back, keeps the two of you pressed together. Broad chest smashed against your smaller one, impossible to move far from your aching cunt. His strokes are languid, gentle. Softer than he’s used to, but he doesn’t intend to fuck the sensation away with hurried and inept thrusts.

He wants to remember how every ridge in your pussy feels, memorize and store each shuddered breath and strained moan you give him. Needs you to feel cherished, the way your warmth has made him feel for months. Wants you to feel each inch of him, molding your walls into his shape until it’s all you ever knew.

You seem to agree, only squeeze your legs tighter around him as if to keep him tucked to your cervix. Though it’s not like he could even imagine pulling away from your searing flesh, plans to keep himself buried inside your pussy for as long as he can.

It’s intimate, almost too tender, but not nearly enough at the same time. As if the way you cling desperately to him, keep him pressed skin to skin doesn’t appease your ache. Like the way his entire shaft finds a home in your pretty cunt isn’t close enough. Decides to intertwine the both of your fingers together, pulls you from his neck so he can rest his forehead against yours.

But your eyes flutter shut, brows furrowing together with each determined stroke. Kiss swollen lips caressing his with each mewl, joins the obscene noises in the room. A mixture of squelches and whined ‘Simon!‘

“What’s t’matter baby?” He coos, wipes the sweat-slicked hair on your temples, “Tell me, huh?”

“Simon, nmmf—oh god. Right there, please right there. Please, don’t stop.” You beg.

He doesn’t.

Fucks you through it, balls sticky with your slick.

“Yeah?” He hums, “Right there, baby? Liked that?”

Your voice cracks over a high-pitched moan, can’t answer with a full sentence when his fat cock plunges deep, rakes against the spongy flesh that has your toes curling and back arching. Watches as you unravel on his length, walls clinging to him after each drag. Mouth slacked when three fingers find your clit. Swipe steady strokes in tandem with his thrusts.

You finished just like that, wrapped around his cock, walls clenching painfully tight, spamming and twitching with each pulse. White froth gathering at the base of his cock.

“That’s it, there we go,” He praises, “My pretty fucking girl.”

Doesn’t even care how he sounds or really, think about the words spilling from his lips.

“So good for me, yeah? She takes me so well,” He continues, talks you through your orgasm, words slurred, “Such a good girl. My sweet girl. Gonna make you all mine.”

You nod frantically babble for him to. Tell him you want nothing more than to be his. And he has every intention to, buries himself to your cervix and paints you as his.

It takes him a moment, bodies still conjoined between your legs even though he went soft long ago. Fingers still intertwined beside your pretty head, basking in your warmth and sweet kisses. Separating is difficult, but the moisture begins to dry tacky on your skin, sticky between your thighs. Becomes uncomfortable, so the two of you take a shower, wash each other clean.

Pride beats his ego when he has to keep an arm around you. Standing under the water, legs numb beneath you. And because you’re too sweet for him, you scratch his scalp while he holds you close. Mollifies under your touch, water drenched kisses shared between quiet giggles.

You return to the bed with him once again. Pulls your bare skin flush against his, tucks your head under his chin, arms banding your hips. Holds you tight through the night, possessive and protective. Doesn’t plan to ever let go. Not when his terribly cold bed melts warm in your presence. Sheets encased in your heat, stinging his fingertips and toes. It’s almost too hot, palms clammy against your pretty skin, but he doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t care that sweat beads at his back when this is the closest his bed has felt like a bed and not a mattress with coiled springs and worn duvets. The most his house has felt like a home instead of four walls of brick and drywall.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, not when he wants to savor the moment for as long as he can, but your warmth lulls his eyes heavy and tired.

When the morning comes, he thinks it might be a sweet dream— a rare occurrence in his mind. But there you lay, fast asleep in his arms still. He can’t keep his hands to himself when he sees you. Meaty paws trace your figure, pushes the blanket low so he could get a pretty view of your smooth skin.

His touch rouses you, shifting in his arms to turn your backside to him. Mumble a groggy morning to him, muffled against his pillows.

You’re even more malleable than last night, lift your leg so sweetly for him when his hand descends between your thighs because he thinks he might be addicted to you. Whimper quietly into the sheets when he slides home, fucks you lazy and slow. Little more than sex, just wants to relish in your warmth.

Gets to experience one of the lazy Sundays he always watched you take from afar, except now he’s participating. Glass barrier nonexistent, not when you’re in his bed, whining his name against his lips.

Shatters it for him, makes his house a home.

The weekend ends too soon, isn’t ready to leave your cocoon quite yet, but you wake up beside him when Monday morning comes. Ask if him and Riley are going to join you on your run.

They do.

He was sure Riley wouldn’t want anything more.

Leaving each other for work proves difficult, almost stays so he could remain in your contented warmth. He doesn’t, bleeds the taste of your lips in his mouth instead.

And when he does return home, he returns to you and Riley. Greet him with a pretty smile just like you always do, place a plate of fresh food in front of him. Eat dinner together, like you two always used to, Riley snuggled on your couch, but now instead of walking across the street, he stays.

Thank you so much for all the likes/reblogs/comments! I’m so happy you guys enjoyed it as much as I have! 🍒💌❤️

Cross posted on my Ao3 here, as well as all my other fics!

Tag list: @ttznlettt @rainschnael @rockinraccoons @crypticenbug @c1garette-nightmares @keepghostly @l3thal-l0lita @terrifiedanimegirl @migueloharacumslut @tine1603 @whoisteona

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missgraylock · 4 days ago

Text

My Ride or Die

Summary: Late one night, you're attacked outside the library—your bag stolen and safety shattered. But someone saw everything. A mysterious stranger steps in to recover what was lost. What begins as a random rescue soon hints at deeper intentions and unexpected connections.

‿‿‿‿

This one-shot is inspired by biker Wonwoo in the Thunder MV (swoon). It's not proof read, and English is not my first language.

I would love to get feedback, so feel free to leave it in the comments!

pairing: non!idol Wonwoo x fem reader genre: romance, slow burn (kinda), smut word count: 5k rating: 18+ minors dni warnings: soft dom! Wonwoo, unprotected sex (don't do this), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pet name (babygirl, beautiful), spanking, hair pulling, possessiveness.

divider by: @cafekitsune

Masterlist

“Hey Y/n, I’m about to leave so you’ll be the last one here, take care of yourself ok?” Your friend Emily patted your back softly.

“Don’t worry,” you stretched your arms groaning “I just have to finish this chapter and then I’m heading home.” You did your best to give her a reassuring smile, even though you’re clearly running out of steam.

“Alright, text me when you’re home,” Emily swung her backpack over her shoulders and headed for the exit, “stay safe!”.

The library was dead silent now, and dusk was quickly settling outside.

After staring at the screen for 10 more minutes, you capitulated. “Aish, I don’t have another word in me” you whispered to yourself, slamming the laptop cover shut and packing your crossbody bag.

You exit the university library only to meet a wall of heavy and humid air. It’s so thick you could’ve cut it with a knife.

The bus stop is gratefully only a short walk down the street, as you can feel your exhaustion setting in. Your mind is buzzing with scientific terms and theories. You’re currently writing an essay about individuals growing up in high-crime environments like organized crime groups, and the barriers they face trying to leave that lifestyle behind. You always found offender rehabilitation fascinating work, and it’s what you’ve set your mind on as your future career.

A loud growl from an engine revving breaks through the dense air, and you barely manage to turn around before you flinch as a motorbike almost hits your sides. You feel a hard tug as the unidentifiable shape of the rider reaches for your bag strap.

“Hey! Get the fuck off of me!” You yell as his bike comes to a short stop on the sidewalk, he’s clearly surprised that you’re not forfeiting your bag that easily. You can’t see his face through the dark visor of his helmet, and he’s pulling frantically and with a force you just can’t match.

You suddenly tumble over hard on your knees as he snatches the entire bag from you, your skin breaking on the rough concrete, skin poking out through your ripped jeans.

You’re quickly trying a different strategy, now pleading. “Please, I need my laptop and my keys!”. He’s already fully back on his bike, revving up. You try to get up, but your knees hurt too much. You’re kneeling in a defeated pose as he disappears down the street.

Your whole body is tense, but you can feel the rush of adrenaline subsiding now. Tears well in your eyes, and you can feel the painful sting of your bloodied knees. Your only consolation is that your phone is still in your jeans back pocket, unschated from the whole ordeal.

You scroll through your contacts, finding Emily. It rings for a couple of seconds.

“Y/n? Are you back home?” She asks you casually.

“Actually uhm, I need a place to stay tonight - and I probably have to call the police”.

—---

Wonwoo’s perspective

Tonight’s heat is taking him by surprise, small droplets of sweat uncomfortable settling underneath the helmet and his leather jacket.

“Just one more job, and I’m done. Forever” he whispers to himself.

Traffic has halted in an unusual evening gridlock down the street, and he’s scouting for opportunities to weave his wave through the lines of cars.

He finds a narrow path along the sidewalk, just wide enough for a motorbike, and elegantly navigates towards it.

His ears suddenly perk up as an engine is revving loudly further down the street, right outside the university grounds.

His eyes follow a small motorbike speeding up, dangerously close to the sidewalk. He gasps as the rider abruptly reaches out towards a lone girl, who seems completely unaware of the danger she’s in.

Wonwoo’s mind is racing. “I need to help her”, but the narrow path ahead is suddenly blocked by a car wavering to the side. He’s trapped.

He quickly straightens his legs to get a bird’s eye view of the rider’s attack against you. He sees that you’re putting up a fight for your bag. “Let go, you’ll get hurt”, he whispers to himself.

As he sees you fall over, he focuses on the rider now with your bag slung over his own shoulder. “Green and yellow. Black helmet”, he loudly notes.

The path ahead finally opens as the thieving rider disappears in the dark. It’s time for Wonwoo to rev his engine now, determined to hunt down the thief.

As he passes your kneeling shape on the sidewalk, he throws you a quick glance. It’s only for a couple of seconds, but he can tell by your expression that you’re devastated.

He soars through the traffic, until yet another gridlock appears. As he tries to get a better view of the vehicles up ahead, he spots a green and yellow bike. It has to be the thief.

Wonwoo weaves through the cars to get closer, but the rider suddenly steers his bike off the street and into an alleyway.

Trying to keep a discreet appearance, Wonwoo slowly guides his large bike to a wall close to the alleyway. He slides his helmet off, quickly ruffling his damp, long hair in an attempt to relieve his overheating body. The maroon leather gloves stay on.

He peeks around the corner into the dark alleyway. Only a couple of meters away, the thief has his back turned against the street, unexpectedly rummaging through several bags on the ground.

“Leave them”, Wonwoo’s voice is deep and assertive. The thief startles and turns around.

“And who the fuck are you?” His voice has an aggressive and desperate tone.

“It doesn’t matter, you’re going to drop the bags and leave before it’s too late” Wonwoo states coolly. The thief is dwarfed by Wonwoo’s height. The alleway is somewhat blocked by his broad back and wide stance. His arms are crossed in front of him, creating a threatening and unrelenting aura.

“The hell I won’t!” The thief suddenly lunges for Wonwoo. With a lightning move, Wonwoo curls his fingers around his neck. He’s thrown to the ground, face planted on the hard concrete below.

“I said, leave before it’s too late”. The thief wriggles against Wonwoo’s tightening grip. He’s clearly struggling to get enough air in his lungs in this position. They stay like this for a moment, but the culprit's body suddenly relaxes.

“Let go of me, I’ll leave the fucking bags. There’s nothing good in there anyway”. Wonwoo loosens his grip, and the thief is fast on his feet, bolting for his green and yellow bike on the sidewalk. Wonwoo sighs, and grabs the bags. He pops the little storage compartment lid on his own bike, storing the bags safely as he makes his way home, the thief long gone with his tail between his legs.

Back home in the somewhat stuffy two-bedroom apartment, Wonwoo empties one of the bags on the kitchen counter. Its contents are three Burt’s Bees lip balms, a set of keys barely visible around a heavy key chain, featuring a small, purple wolf plushie, a tiny frame around what looks like a male celebrity of some sort (Wonwoo snorts at the overly cute peace sign he’s doing), and an assortment of small trinkets and bows tied to the main chain. There’s also a beat up laptop. This isn’t what he’s looking for though. He sticks his hand back into the bag, finding a small compartment closed with a zipper. “There we go”, he says as he’s unzipping it, finding a small card holder inside. He goes through the stack of cards until he sees your SNU student card. A bright and rather cute face lights up the frame. “This must have been taken at the start of the term,” he smiles faintly, “she looks optimistic”. In the box next to your portrait, it says your full name and which department you study at. “Criminology huh,” he says to himself with a huff of amusement. Wonwoo’s got a new mission now.

—---

It’s been a few days since the attack, but you’re determined to not let it ruin your momentum in your undergraduate studies. You’re back at campus, with a replacement laptop safely stored in a backpack you’ve borrowed from Emily. She figured it would be harder to steal that way.

“I can’t believe how useless the police are, are we making a mistake studying criminology?” Emily frowns and chuckles besides you. You don a tight smile, sighing loudly.

“But someone has to make it better?” Your other friend Yon chimes in enthusiastically.

The three of you are approaching the sidewalk when you spot a large man in front of you, leaning on a black and silver motorbike. You come to a stop, all three of you taking in sharp breaths at his striking appearance. He’s got a sharp jawline, his hair tousled in waves, perfectly framing his long but beautifully defined features.

His eyes catching yours with an intensity that makes you instantly flustered.

“Y/n?”. Emily clutches her chest dramatically from the sound of his deep voice.

“I- yes?” You stutter, heat rising in your cheeks. “I think I’ve found something that belongs to you”, he doesn’t wait for your response before he pops a lid and reaches for something inside. All three of you stand frozen in awe in front of the handsome stranger.

You cock your head slightly and can see that he’s fishing out your beat up crossbody bag from the compartment. Yon grabs your forearm tightly, her jaw almost fully on the floor now. Wonwoo hands you the bag, with a relaxed and somewhat unreadable expression on his face. You’re stunned. “I can’t believe this! Where did you find it?”, your eyes meet his again. “Just somewhere I parked a couple of blocks from here. It was left on the sidewalk.” Your face turns into a big grin. “I don’t know how to thank you! I don’t think most people would bother returning this to me”. You’re suddenly feeling grateful for the stranger’s kindness. The fact that he’s incredibly attractive doesn’t help. “It’s no big deal, really” he says coolly, reaching for the gloves on his motorbike’s seat. You realize that he’s preparing to leave. Yon starts to tug hard on your sleeve now, and Emily joins in nodding towards you, trying to give you a hint.

As he’s slipping on his gloves, you go for it. “What’s your name by the way?”. He looks up at you now, hesitating slightly. “It’s Wonwoo”, he says after a pause. You swear you could hear Yon do a low whine next to you. You do a sharp intake of air, preparing yourself for what’s to come next. “I really want to pay you back Wonwoo, can I take you for a drink?”. You can tell he’s surprised now. It’s not that common for a woman to ask a man out like this. “I completely understand if it’s weird and you don’t want to, I-” You’re floundering. He suddenly interrupts you, smirking slightly. “Hmm, why not. Hand me your phone” he says assertively. You unlock your phone, and hand it to him. Emily and Yon are positively bouncing at your sides now, barely able to contain their excitement. He slides his gloves back off, and inputs his number, calling it so he also has yours. As he hands your phone back to you, his fingers slide carefully over yours, sending a shiver down your spine. “I’ll be seeing you then, Y/n”, he casually states as he’s pulling his gloves and his helmet back on. “Yeah, see you soon Wonwoo!” You respond way too enthusiastically, earning a giggle from your two friends. You’re all basically swooning as he pulls out on the street, disappearing among the cars ahead.

“Holy shit” Emily finally says. You’re still too stunned to speak. “Y/n, I’m so proud of you, where the hell did that confidence come from?”. All you could do was shake your head, as you exhaled and started to laugh. You were all soon hysterically laughing, cheering on the sidewalk.

—---

You hadn’t had the best luck with men. After a string of disappointments you had decided to decenter it all and just focus on your friends and your studies. Your current feelings therefore surprised you, Wonwoo on your mind 24/7. There was something about his gesture of returning your things to you that spoke so loudly. He’s clearly a selfless guy, doing something like that for a stranger. After such a harrowing experience, his actions healed something in you. You tried telling yourself that you’re nurturing a fantasy about a guy you barely know, but the chemistry between you was undeniable, and the crush was in full swing.

A few days had passed and you hadn’t heard from him, admitting to yourself that it was you who had invited him out, and that you probably should contact him first. You were lying in your bed late at night, overthinking your next step as your phone lit up. He’s calling you. Your pulse suddenly quickens.

“Hi it’s Y/n?”, you answer.

“Hi Y/n, it’s Wonwoo”, he says in a husky voice “is it too late to talk?”. His voice sounds so good, you feel your eyes flutter.

“Not at all, I’m really awake”, you emphasise. “Oh, is there something on your mind?”. Your cheeks heat up at his question.

“Maybe… I’m thinking about someone”, you have a coy tone to your voice now, and it’s very deliberate. There’s a little pause between you.

“Really, tell me about this someone”, he’s playing along.

“Well, he’s quite tall”, you’re nervously twirling a lock of your hair now “and kinda handsome, I guess” Wonwoo snickers lowly.

You’re flirting back and forth for a while, and it’s all so effortless. It’s like you’ve known him for ages. There’s no awkwardness in your flowing conversation. You decide to switch it up before you both get carried away.

“Wonwoo, I feel like it’s a bit unfair that you know more about me than I know about you”. There’s a beat of silence.

“Alright babygirl, ask away”. The nickname throws you for a loop, but you’re set on reeling yourself in and focusing on the task at hand.

“Well, what do you do for work?”, you try to keep your voice steady.

“I collect and deliver stuff”, he doesn’t elaborate further.

“Oh, like for a delivery service?” you ask.

“Yeah, something like that”.

Your instincts tell you that there’s more to the story, but you don’t want to press it - yet. There’s something about his secretive aura that tingles your spider senses, and it just makes you even more fascinated by him. A faint alarm goes off in the back of your mind though. You decide to change the subject, and your conversation flows again, talking about music and movies you both like, and how you’re imagining the future. It feels safe and intimate. You can’t help but feel a bond slowly but surely forming between you. You’ve been talking for hours when you’re suddenly yawning. “You need to rest babygirl, can I come pick you up tomorrow evening?”, he asks.

“Sounds good, do I need to bring something?”, you feel the excitement bubbling in your chest now. “A warm jacket, since you’ll be behind me on the bike”. Your jaw drops, imagining how it’s going to feel to wrap your arms around him as you swerve through traffic. “Alright, see you tomorrow Wonwoo”, you smile. “See you soon beautiful”. As he hangs up, you get to your feet and jump around carefully on your bedroom floor, squealing.

—---

You exit your apartment building excitedly, wearing a skater skirt that ends right above your knees, a loose t-shirt tucked into it and a leather jacket. He’s already waiting for you, leaning against his bike, helmet in hand. He’s wearing long black jeans, a white t-shirt and his signature maroon leather jacket. He’s even more handsome than you remembered, and you bite your lip instinctively. He looks up and smiles as he sees you. As you close in on him, you lean up on your toes and place a quick peck on his cheek. His smile broadens even more.

“I’ve got something for you”, he reaches back and picks up another helmet, slightly smaller than his.

“You’ll need this”. You reach out to take it, but he’s already placing it carefully on your head, making sure it’s secured properly.

“I’m a bit worried about your bare legs, but you’ll just have to tuck them close to mine”, he smirks. You’re almost completely made of jelly now from his words and actions, and you haven’t even left yet.

He puts on his own helmet now, and swings his leg across the seat. You do the same, settling behind him. You make sure to tuck your legs next to his, and you lean forward against his broad back. As your arms reach around his waist and you clasp your fingers at the front, he rolls out on the street.

You drive for what seems like at least an hour, exiting the city and finding smaller roads. It’s silent and intimate between you, as you find yourself relaxing against his body as if you’d done it a hundred times before. There’s suddenly craggy hills surrounding you, as you roll down a narrow path. You can make out what looks like sand and water ahead, as the tangy smell of the ocean hits your senses.

A wide beach opens up ahead, with a few buildings scattered along it.

As you roll up outside one of the larger buildings with a B&B sign outside, Wonwoo stops and sets the motorbike in park.

You lift yourself slowly off of the bike, feeling a stiffness in your limbs after the long ride.

He closes in on you, and lifts the helmet off of your head, doing his own next.

You look around and take in the calm and serene landscape, small waves crashing against the shore. It’s a quiet and warm evening, but the fresh oceanside breeze is a welcome respite from the humid city air.

“This place is so pretty”, you say, as you feel him reaching for your hand.

You close your fingers around his.

“Come, let’s get something to drink”, he says in his usual calm but assertive tone.

You get a couple of non-alcoholic drinks as Wonwoo’s driving, and you find a secluded bench on the porch outside, overlooking the wide and empty beach in front of you. You sit next to each other, your thighs ghosting each other. The drink is refreshing, the temperature is comfortable and it’s still not cold, even though dusk is settling.

Wonwoo wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him lightly.

“Y/n, there’s something you need to know about me”, you look up at him expectedly now. “I want to be completely honest with you, so you can choose to walk away if that’s what you want”. You feel a tinge of anxiety in your chest now.

“Ok, what is it?”. He hesitates for a bit. He explains how he grew up in a broken home, with a mother who was drinking and a father that was gambling. His father made one of the biggest mistakes you can do, as he took out a loan from an infamous gang to cover his gambling debts. When he couldn’t pay back, loan sharks started showing up at his family’s door and the threats escalated.

“I figured I had the solution, so I offered to help them collect and deliver drugs and weapons across the city, in exchange for my father’s debt”. This territory is not unfamiliar for you, but you had never really known anyone involved in these kinds of activities. Maybe you were naive to trust him, but he hadn’t given you any reasons to doubt his values and inner motivations. His circumstances weren't his fault.

His fingers tighten around your shoulder now, pulling you even closer.

“I understand if this is too much for you. I’m almost out now, but I’m fully responsible for what I’ve chosen to involve myself in”.

You look up at him, and your eyes meet tenderly. You can sense sorrow and regret there, buried deep somewhere in him.

“Wonwoo, I can tell who you are. And I still want you just like you are”.

The air between you is thick with emotion, and there’s almost a crackle in the air.

You lean into him, catching his lips in a careful kiss, testing the waters.

He responds immediately, cupping your check with his other hand. He deepens the kiss, both of your eyes fluttering shut from the passion and heat you’re sharing. You can’t help but let out a sigh, the intensity between you igniting a need deep in your body. He notices it, and it just spurs him on.

He suddenly lifts you into his lap, and you wrap an arm around behind his broad shoulder, and the other one across his chest.

The rhythmic sound of waves crashing in the otherwise silent night is hypnotic, while you pull each other even closer.

Wonwoo’s hand slips from your cheek and down towards your thigh, bare under your skirt.

“Can I?” He asks ardently, you whisper yes, and he slides his hand further up your thigh, his fingertips gently scraping your skin. You can feel a heat pooling in your core, as his touches make you increasingly needy.

He stops just shy of your core, and rubs your inner thigh gently. Your kisses have gone from slow and passionate to borderline animalistic now.

He suddenly leans back from you slightly.

“We should stop babygirl, I want to make this better for you”.

You whine slightly at the loss of his lips, but you agree. It’s getting cold and dark outside.

You expect him to lift you off of his lap, but he’s hoisting you up instead, carrying you bridal style.

You can’t stop giggling, as his large frame envelops you and he’s carrying you effortlessly towards the lobby. You can’t help but preen at his strength, nuzzling your nose against his neck and taking in his delicious, masculine scent.

He doesn’t even put you down as he asks for a vacant room, making the clerk rather flustered as he tries to keep a professional tone with the two of you. Wonwoo however seems completely unaffected, clearly a man yet again on a mission.

As soon as you’re in the spacious room, he slides you down to the floor so you’re standing flush against his chest. You’re immediately on his lips again, and the kisses are deep and desperate.

“Can I undress you babygirl?”, you nod, and he slides his hands underneath your t-shirt, lifting it off of you. His eyes trail down to your pink lace bra, your nipples already visibly stiff under the thin fabric.

He draws in a sharp breath.

“God, you look delicious, I’m going to take my sweet time with you,” he leans forward as his lips ghost your ear, “all night”.

You can’t hope but moan at the implications of his words. You marvel at your current situation, lost in the countryside with the hottest man you’ve ever seen, and he’s clearly down bad for you as well.

He reaches around your back unclasping your bra, and throws it carefully behind him. He stops for a beat to fully take in your undressed curves.

“So pretty”, he bites his lower lip as his gaze is fixed on your plump and bare chest.

His hands slide up your sides now, deliberately stroking your hard nipples as he’s softly kissing and sucking a pattern down your neck. You whine slightly as he’s sucking harder on the point where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Just marking you as mine”, he says in a husky voice. He continues to trail kisses down to your breast, creating another small bruise on your soft flesh.

As you pull him closer, you can feel his hard bulge pressing against your belly. It’s unsurprisingly massive.

He wraps his hands around your waist now, and lifts you towards the end of the bed, carefully laying you down on your back against the mattress.

Your face is a light pink flush. You breathe heavily, and you can feel slick pooling in your lacy panties.

Wonwoo stands before you, pulling his t-shirt off to reveal the most chiseled set of abs you’ve ever seen. He catches your lingering gaze, and smirks.

The tension in the room is hot and heavy, and your skin feels like it’s on fire as he crawls towards you. He settles his bulge directly on your core, his elbows on each side of your head.

“Did I tell you that you’re beautiful?”, his lips yet again crashes into yours before you can answer, as you feel the weight of his body on you.

He suddenly sits back, kneeling between your legs. His large hands find purchase on each of your thighs, slowly sliding downwards to your core.

“Can I take care of you babygirl?”

You whimper and nod, and his fingers reach for your drenched panties, pulling them off completely. He wraps your skirt over your belly, fully exposing your slicked up slit.

“Look at the state you’re in, did I do this?” He smirks teasingly at you, but you can only whine needily now.

He puts two fingers close to your wet hole, and slides his fingers slowly upwards your slit. He places his other hand right above your pubic bone, pressing slightly.

You gasp as his fingertips find your clit, putting pressure against it as he starts a circular motion.

“I’m going to play with you all night, having this pretty pussy come for me over and over again”, his dirty words make your eyes roll back as you moan.

He leans further down, and you can feel his hot breath on your inner thighs now.

His tongue swipes your slit as he removes his fingers from your bud, and puts two of them inside you instead. His mouth soon covers your bud, flicking it and sucking with an increasing intensity. You can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut as your body starts to tense up with pleasure.

He starts to slide his fingers in and out of you now, continuing his rhythmic licking and sucking.

“Come for me babygirl, I’m going to fuck you so good after this”, the thought of his big cock sliding in and out of you instead of his fingers finally sends you over your edge. Your toes curl and your body convulses in the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. He keeps the steady rhythm, making sure your orgasm continues for as long as possible. He’s lapping at your juices now, letting out a moan.

“I can’t believe how wet and tight you are. Just so perfect for me.” Even though you just came, you can already feel a neediness building in your core.

As he sits up, he’s reaching to unzip your skirt. You stop him and do it yourself.

“You get those pants off please”, you bite your lip expectedly.

He rises from the bed, unbuckling his belt and pulls down both his jeans and shorts in one go. You inhale sharply as his huge cock slaps against his stomach. It’s hard and slightly red, with a bead of precum on the tip.

He looks at you with a hungry gaze now, and you instinctively crawl backwards on the bed.

He kneels in front of you again, placing his hands on your hips and turns you around in a quick motion. You find yourself with your face against the pillow.

“Open up wide for me now babygirl”, he says as his hands spread your thighs to the side.

You’re trembling with anticipation.

“Wonwoo please”, you whine.

“Please what, beautiful?” you hear from behind you.

“Please, I need your cock in me” you’re begging now, and he snickers.

A loud moan escapes you as you feel his tip against your slit, his large frame heavy against your back.

His lips meet your ear. “You’re going to be a good girl for me and take everything I give you, alright?”. His tip still lingers at your entrance.

“Yes yes! I promise I’ll be good!” you whine, and he’s pushing in now.

You moan as you feel his wide cock stretch you out deliciously. He’s slowly sliding it in and out of you, making sure you adjust to his size without any pain.

“Harder, I need it hard and fast” you cry at him.

He suddenly pulls you up by the hips so you’re on all fours.

His hand reaches for your long locks, pulling you back against him, his cock still placed firmly inside you.

Your back is flush against his chest now, your back arching to make sure he stays in its place.

“Do you know the light system babygirl?”, he whispers in your ear.

“Uhu, I’m really green” you stutter, feeling his hard cock twitch inside you.

“Good”, he leans you forward again, but he keeps a firm grip on your hair.

He suddenly starts slamming in and out of you again. The pace is punishing but not painful. You can’t help but scream in pleasure.

You suddenly feel a sharp sting on your ass, making you scream even louder. He slaps you again, your skin reddening from the abuse.

He lets go of your hair now, snaking his hand down underneath your belly to your bud. He starts massaging it in a determined rhythm.

“Yes, make me cum again Wonwoo”, he moans at your words and applies even more pressure.

You yet again spill over the edge as he coaxes another orgasm from you, leaving you shaking on his cock, the orgasm still lingering.

“I want you to cum in me, please” you’re pleading again.

“You want me to fill up this pretty pussy? Make you completely mine?” He grunts possessively.

“Please, I want to be yours, want your cum dripping out of me”. At your final plea his cock twitches hard and he cums deep in your pussy. You feel load after load of hot, warm cum fill you up in small thrusts. Wonwoo moans as he empties himself in you fully, sweat trickling down his forehead.

He collapses beside you, wrapping an arm around your back. He pulls you close, nuzzling his nose against yours. Both of your eyes close as you exhale from the dwindling intensity. Your bodies feel spent and soft from all the pleasure.

After a while, he opens his eyes.

“Hey, so guess what”, he asks.

You run your fingers through his damp hair, basking in his naked closeness.

“What?”

“You’re my girl now”. You giggle at his words, suddenly feeling emotional as you snuggle closer to your lover.

・❥・

Masterlist

#svt fic #svt x reader #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo smut #svt hard hours #kpop smut #wonwoo x reader #seventeen fic #svthub

341 notes · View notes

nemo-writes · 6 months ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; pushed to your limits, you endure under your mother's ruthless training. but the quiet of night brings an unexpected reunion—and amid raw confessions and unspoken truths, you draw a firm line between your past and present, choosing your new path over the fractures of your old life.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The cold expanse of the stone training chamber greeted you as you stepped through the heavy wooden doors. The air was thick with the hum of residual magic, a constant reminder of the battles fought here before you. Flickering sconces cast elongated shadows that danced mockingly against the dark stone walls, their flames sputtering in anticipation.

Your Mother stood at the center, a sharp, commanding figure whose very presence demanded attention. Her arms crossed over her chest, and her piercing gaze fixed on you with the weight of expectations that could crush lesser souls.

“This will be your life until the ceremony,” she said without preamble, her voice sharp and unwavering, cutting through the heavy air like a blade. “If you fail here, you fail the coven.”

The words struck hard, meant to suffocate any flicker of defiance, but you squared your shoulders, refusing to falter. You stepped forward into the center of the chamber, the hum of magic growing louder with each step.

Training began immediately, and there was no mercy in her approach.

Waves of fire and wind lashed toward you, their force leaving you barely enough time to react. You conjured barriers of shimmering energy to counter her attacks, your hands moving instinctively in intricate patterns, your magic sharp and focused.

“Too slow!” she barked, her voice echoing off the walls as the ground beneath your feet rumbled ominously. Thorned vines erupted from the stone, their sharp tips lashing out with deadly precision. You sidestepped, barely avoiding the onslaught, and summoned a blade of pure energy to sever the attacking tendrils. The effort sent a sharp thrum of power through your bones, but you held steady.

Every spell she cast, every challenge she threw, was designed to break you—to punish you for leaving, for daring to defy her control. Yet you met her assaults with spiteful determination, the simmering rage within you sharpening your focus. Each successful counterstrike was a small victory, a reminder that you were not as fragile as she wished to believe.

“You’ve grown complacent,” she sneered, her tone icy. “The time you wasted outside the coven has softened you!"

Her words were daggers, meant to carve away your resolve, but you gritted your teeth and replied evenly, “And yet I’m still standing.” The flicker of amusement that crossed her face was fleeting, but it didn’t escape your notice.

The grueling session stretched on for hours, testing every ounce of your endurance. By the time she finally called for a halt, your body ached, your clothes were singed and dusted with soot, and sweat clung to your skin. Yet, despite the pain and exhaustion, you remained standing.

“Adequate,” your Mother said, her tone clipped as she assessed you with a critical eye.

You wiped at the sweat on your brow, your expression neutral as you replied, “I’ll do what’s required.”

She nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of your effort, before turning on her heel and striding toward the exit. Her long robes swept behind her as the heavy door swung shut, leaving you alone in the quiet chamber.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe, letting the tension in your shoulders ease as you took in the stillness of the room. The scorched stone and scattered debris bore testament to your struggle, but it wasn’t defeat that lingered in the air—it was resolve.

You straightened, brushing off the grime from your clothes. There was still so much to do, so much to prove, but you would face it all, one step at a time.

. . .

Later that night, as exhaustion weighed heavily on you, Sybil pressed close to your side, her warmth grounding you in ways no magic ever could. You trudged down the hallway, the familiar path to your room offering a small sense of solace.

“Miss, please—wait!” a voice called out behind you, urgent and trembling.

You turned to see Marnie, the young maid who had delivered your clothes days earlier. Her pale face was illuminated by the faint glow of the lantern she held aloft, her chest heaving as though she had been running. She grasped your arm tightly before you could react, her fear palpable.

“There’s no time to explain,” she whispered, her voice strained. “You have to come with me. Now.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the desperation in her wide eyes silenced you. Without waiting for a response, she tugged at your arm, pulling you down a corridor you hadn’t walked in years.

Sybil let out a low growl but followed close, her alert posture mirroring your unease. The flickering lantern light in her grasp guided your way through twisting hallways that grew colder and darker the farther you went. The air grew damp, and the faint scent of earth replaced the sterile stillness of the upper floors.

Marnie led you to a narrow staircase descending into the underground levels of the manor. She hesitated at the threshold, her voice breaking as she urged, “Please. You’ll understand when you see.”

You followed her down the stone steps, the silence broken only by the distant drip of water and the soft scrape of your boots against the floor. The lantern’s light cast eerie shadows on the rough stone walls, making the underground space feel even more oppressive.

At the bottom of the staircase, an older woman stood waiting. Recognition flickered—it was Fiona, a maid from your childhood who had always been kind to you. Her sharp eyes studied you intently, worry etched into her lined face.

“Keep watch,” Fiona instructed the two younger maids at her side. They nodded nervously before scurrying off alongside Marnie, their hurried footsteps fading into the distance.

Fiona motioned for you to follow, leading you into a small, cluttered supply room. The air inside was stale, the shelves lined with long-forgotten supplies.

Then you saw him.

Johnny.

He sat by a small table near the far wall, his long hair held up in a messy ponytail. His once-distinctive mohawk was completely gone. In front of him sat a cup of tea, untouched and forgotten, its faint aroma mingling with the stale air of the room.

You froze in the doorway, your breath catching in your throat as your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, this—him—had never even crossed your mind. The sight of him here, in this place, after everything, left you reeling.

At the sound of your steps faltering, Johnny looked up, his tired eyes meeting yours. In them, you saw everything—pain, regret, longing, and something that looked like desperation. He stood slowly, his movements tentative as though he feared any sudden action might shatter what fragile thread held this moment together.

He murmured your name, his voice rough and low, holding the weight of everything unsaid. He took a hesitant step toward you, his entire being radiating fragility, a vulnerability you had never associated with him. He looked unlike anything you had ever seen before: broken and raw, stripped of the easy charm and boisterous energy that had once defined him.

But before he could take another step, Sybil moved.

The Borzoi stepped in front of you, her white fur bristling as she lowered her head and bared her teeth. A deep, rumbling growl rolled from her chest, reverberating in the small room as her sharp fangs caught the dim light. Her stance was protective and unyielding, her hackles raised as she planted herself firmly between you and the man she had once loved, just as you had.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, his face crumpling as though Sybil’s reaction struck him harder than any blow. For a moment, he stood there, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure whether to raise them in surrender or let them fall in defeat.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The tension in the room was suffocating, the charged silence broken only by the low, menacing growl emanating from Sybil’s throat. And in that moment, all you could do was stare, the weight of the past colliding with the sharp sting of the present, leaving you rooted to the spot.

His fragile appearance fueled the fire rising in your chest. You took a sharp step forward, your voice cracking as it rose.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed, your words laced with equal parts panic and fury.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” you continued, your hands shaking as you gestured toward him. “Coming here—do you even understand what this place is?! You’ve put yourself in danger, Johnny, and for what?! To satisfy some... some whim?!”

Johnny raised his hands in a placating gesture, his face pale and his eyes pleading. “I had to see you. Just once—”

“No!” you snapped, cutting him off. “You had to stay away! Do you think this is a game?! Do you think they won’t find you?! That they won’t—” Your breath hitched as the weight of the situation bore down on you, threatening to overwhelm your already frayed nerves.

He took a hesitant step forward, his hand reaching out toward you. “Lass, please, I—”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” you spat, your voice shaking but firm. His hand fell to his side, his shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. For a moment, he looked as though the world had crumbled beneath him, but you couldn’t afford to feel sympathy—not now, not here.

“Sit down,” you barked, pointing sharply to the chair he had just risen from. “Sit your ass down, Johnny!”

He hesitated, his mouth opening as if to protest, but the look in your eyes brooked no argument. Slowly, he sank back into the chair, his posture defeated, though his blue eyes remained fixed on you, filled with unspoken words.

Your attention snapped to Fiona lingering by the entrance. “You need to leave,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “Go back to your posts. I won’t have you involved in this any further.”

Fiona hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “But, miss—”

“I said go!” you insisted, your voice breaking slightly but your resolve unshaken. “I’ll handle this.”

Fiona’s eyes softened with something like pity or concern, but she nodded reluctantly, the door creaked shut behind her, leaving you alone with Johnny.

You turned back to him, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Johnny’s gaze never wavered from you, his presence simultaneously infuriating and heart-wrenching.

You exhaled heavily, the tension in your shoulders weighing you down as you pulled out a chair and sat across from him. Your legs felt weak, the exhaustion of the day compounding with the whirlwind of emotions his presence had brought. You glanced at Sybil, still poised like a sentinel by your side, her eyes never leaving Johnny.

“Stand down,” you murmured, your tone soft but commanding. She huffed, her tail flicking in irritation, but she obeyed, retreating a step. Even so, her ears remained pricked, and her gaze darted toward the door every so often, her alertness unshaken.

Johnny fidgeted in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. His lips parted, and the words began to spill out in a flood, his brogue thickened by his heightened state. “It was Leah—no, not her—she didn’t mean it, we know that now, but it wasn’t about her, it was about you, lass. The curse, it was a parasite—Alejandro said—and it... it wasn’t meant for us. It was for you.” His voice cracked, his sentences tangling as he struggled to get it all out. “They wanted to isolate you, to—to pull you away, and we—God, we didn’t see it—”

“Stop,” you cut him off sharply, raising a hand. His words faltered, his wide, desperate eyes meeting yours.

With a flick of your wrist, you waved at the cup of tea sitting untouched on the table before him. A faint shimmer of heat rippled over its surface, steam curling lazily upward as you warmed it with a simple spell. “Drink,” you ordered firmly. “No talking. Not until it’s gone.”

He blinked, caught off guard, but you held his gaze with unyielding intensity. Slowly, he reached for the cup, his hands trembling slightly. His first sip was cautious, his lips pursed as the heat hit him, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he settled into a slow, deliberate rhythm, sipping the tea in silence.

The quiet between you was heavy but oddly grounding. You leaned back in your chair, your arms crossed as you watched him. The act of drinking forced him to pause, the heat of the tea slowing him down as he took each sip with care. His breathing evened out gradually, and the wild, frantic energy that had gripped him when you first entered the room began to dissipate.

Sybil shifted beside you, her head resting on her paws but her sharp eyes never leaving Johnny.

When he finally set the empty cup down, he let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world had momentarily lifted. He looked up at you, his eyes clearer but no less filled with emotion. You said nothing, your own expression unreadable as you waited for him to speak.

He began to speak, his voice quieter and steadier than before, though tinged with the raw emotion that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He recounted the events that led him here—the unraveling of the pack, the curse that had ensnared them, and how everything had been orchestrated to isolate you. There were details you hadn’t known, fragments of the story that filled in gaps you hadn’t realized existed. He told you about the painstaking journey he had taken to track you down, the guilt that weighed on all of them, and how they were left trying to piece themselves back together in your absence.

You listened, your expression neutral, though your heart churned with a mix of emotions you refused to let surface. The words were significant, the pieces he shared adding clarity to the murky picture of what had happened, but in the end, none of it really mattered. Not now. The past was carved into stone, the choices made and the consequences paid.

Whatever answers he sought from you weren’t ones you could give him—not anymore.

When he finally stopped, silence fell between you, heavy and expectant. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the table, and his blue gaze flicked to yours, searching.

You leaned forward slightly, your hands resting on the table as you fixed Johnny with a firm, steady gaze. The flickering light from the overhead light cast soft shadows across his face, emphasizing the gaunt hollowness that hadn't been there before. He opened his mouth to speak again, but you raised a hand, cutting him off before he could start.

“No,” you said, your voice sharp yet steady. “My turn now.”

He froze, his lips pressing into a thin line as he sat back in his chair, his shoulders tense. His hands fidgeted on the table, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m not coming back,” you began, your tone resolute. “Not to the pack, not to that town, not to the life I left behind. If you can tell Laswell that, she can sell off everything I left. Maybe Farah or Alex will want something—it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Johnny flinched as though you’d struck him, his eyes widening slightly. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered hoarsely. “You can’t mean—”

“I do,” you cut him off again, your voice soft but unyielding. “I’ve made my decision, Johnny. I’m staying here. I’m taking leadership of the coven.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his mouth slightly open as if trying to process what you’d just said. His hands curled into fists, body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“You don’t have to—” he began, his voice rising, but you cut him off with a sharp glare.

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, your voice low but venomous. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t have to do this. You think I’m being forced? That I don’t know what I’m doing?” You leaned closer, your eyes narrowing as your anger flared. “I paid the price to heal Leah.”

Johnny froze, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I paid the price,” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly but no less firm. “Leah—she’s alive, she’s whole, because of me. And maybe that’s for the best after everything.”

His face crumpled, his hands clenching tighter as he leaned forward, his lips parting to say something—anything—but no words came out. The guilt and anguish in his eyes were almost too much to bear, but you didn’t let it break you.

“You’ll relay this to the pack,” you said, your voice softening but still firm. “Tell them I’m staying here. That I’m rebuilding my life, in my way, on my terms. And please...” You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat as you struggled to keep your composure. “Don’t come back. Any of you. My heart has endured too much already, and this—this is the least you can do for me. All of you.”

Johnny’s head dropped. For a moment, he looked utterly defeated, the weight of your words pressing down on him like a physical force.

“I’ll tell them,” he finally murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’ll tell them. But—” His voice broke, and he had to take a moment to steady himself. “You’ll always have us, lass. No matter where you are.”

You said nothing, your expression unreadable as you leaned back in your chair, your hands falling to your lap. Sybil nudged your leg gently as you tried to keep the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes at bay.

Johnny sat there for a long moment, before he finally stood, his movements slow and reluctant. His gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer, as if committing you to memory, before he turned and headed for the door.

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame, his shoulders hunched under the weight of everything left unsaid. Slowly, he turned back to you, his eyes glistening with tears that clung stubbornly to his lashes. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, trembling with emotions he could barely contain.

“Can I... touch you?” he asked, his words cracking under the strain. “Just once. One last time.”

For a moment, you hesitated, your gaze flicking to Sybil, who remained at your side, her head raised and alert. But Johnny stood there, his hands shaking as if even the question itself was too much to bear.

You nodded, a small, reluctant gesture and stood up. “Alright,” you whispered. “But just this once.”

He stepped forward hesitantly, as though afraid you might change your mind, his movements slow and careful. When he reached you, his trembling hand reaching up to touch your face. His fingers were rough but gentle as they traced the curve of your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. He closed his eyes, his breath shuddering as he pressed his forehead briefly against yours.

Then, as if unable to help himself, he dipped his head, burying his nose in the crook of your neck. He brought you snug against himself, one arm wrapped around your waist, and the other cradling the back of your head.

You shivered, the familiar sensation of him so close stirring a wave of emotions you couldn’t quite control. But you didn’t pull away, allowing him this moment, this chance to hold onto what had already been lost.

“Your scent,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I just... I needed to remember. Keep it close.”

You stiffened slightly as he shifted, his lips brushing close to your face, but you pressed a hand lightly against his chest, stopping him. “No,” you said softly, firmly.

He didn’t argue, didn’t try to push further. Instead, he drew back slowly, his tear-filled gaze locking with yours for a final, heart-wrenching moment. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow and gratitude.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit, his steps slow and heavy, as if every movement cost him. You stayed rooted to the spot, watching as he disappeared through the doorway and into the darkened corridors beyond.

When you finally stepped outside to see him off, the sky was painted with the soft hues of the encroaching dawn. Johnny’s figure was barely visible as he disappeared into the edge of the forest, his long hair catching the faint light before he vanished entirely into the shadows.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks, hot and unbidden, as you stood there in the stillness of the morning. Sybil pressed her nose to your hand, a soft, comforting whine escaping her as you wiped your face roughly and turned back to the house.

You didn’t look back again. There was nothing left to see.

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iamquiantrelle · 2 months ago

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 5) • iamquaintrelle

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

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

# wc: long af...

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

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Four days in Geneva had changed things in ways you hadn't anticipated. The pillow barrier that once divided the king-sized bed had been abandoned entirely, not just crossed in sleep but removed by mutual, unspoken agreement. Each morning for the past three days, you'd woken wrapped in Lewis's arms, your head tucked against his chest, legs tangled together in a physical intimacy that would have been unthinkable just a week ago.

More surprising than the position itself was how natural it had begun to feel.

Morning sunlight streamed through the half-open curtains as you gradually surfaced toward consciousness, aware of Lewis's steady heartbeat beneath your ear and the weight of his arm draped across your waist. The solid warmth of him had become familiar now, a presence your body sought even in sleep.

This was new territory for you. You'd never been particularly physically affectionate with previous partners—always maintaining a certain distance, a holdover from growing up in a world where vulnerability equaled weakness. Even during college relationships, you'd kept that careful space between yourself and others, never fully surrendering to the kind of unconscious trust that sleeping entwined required.

Yet here you were, practically clinging to Lewis Hamilton, international arms dealer and strategic husband, as if your body had decided to ignore all the cautions your mind had carefully constructed.

"You're thinking very loudly again," Lewis murmured, his voice morning-rough but unmistakably warm. His fingers traced lazy patterns against your spine, the touch sending pleasant shivers through your body.

"Sorry," you replied, making no move to extract yourself from the embrace despite your awareness of the boundary that had been crossed. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." His fingers continued their gentle exploration of your back, the motion less calculated than simply affectionate. "I've been awake for a while. Just didn't want to disturb you."

The admission held a tenderness that surprised you—Lewis, who approached every minute of his day with purpose, had chosen to remain in bed holding you rather than beginning his usual efficient morning routine.

"Any news from Jensen?" you asked, the question a gentle probe toward business matters without fully breaking the intimate moment.

Lewis's hand paused briefly at the small of your back before resuming its soothing movement. "Bianchi's organization is falling apart," he said, his voice softer than usual. "The power struggle is playing out just like we thought. We don't have to worry about them for a while."

"And Suarez?" The name carried darker implications now that you'd been the specific target of his attempted infiltration.

"Still in Miami," Lewis replied, pulling you a fraction closer to him, his protective instinct showing through. "But he's planning something. Naomi's team caught some messages about him moving resources around."

"Moving them where?" You shifted to look up at Lewis's face, finding his usual composed expression softened by something that looked like genuine concern for you.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Lewis said, his thumb now gently stroking your cheek. "Not toward New York or your father's operations. Not directly toward London either. He's being indirect about it."

"Hiring outside help," you suggested, the strategy familiar from your father's playbook. "Keeping his distance from whatever he's planning."

Lewis nodded, his fingers now playing with a strand of your hair, twirling it gently around his finger. The casual intimacy of the gesture felt natural now, though it would have been unimaginable just days ago.

"The Mueller accounts are almost ready," Lewis continued, his tone warming as he spoke. "The verification went through yesterday while you were talking with your sisters."

The mention of your sisters triggered a pang of emotion. Your conversation with them had been difficult—trying to explain the continuing delay in their London visit without revealing the danger, balancing their frustration against the very real threats that remained.

"I still haven't given them a definite answer," you admitted, guilt coloring your tone. "Sophia wasn't happy."

"Sophia strikes me as someone who knows exactly what she wants," Lewis observed with a small smile that softened his entire face. "And isn't afraid to go after it."

"You have no idea," you agreed, finding yourself smiling despite your worries. "She's already sent three different links to that handbag I promised her, with color preferences ranked in order."

Lewis's chest vibrated with quiet laughter beneath your cheek, the sound warming something deep inside you. "She reminds me of someone else I know," he said, his eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.

"She's going to be a nightmare when she actually enters the family business," you said, affection evident despite the assessment. "My father has no idea what's coming."

"Your father doesn't see how capable the women in his life really are," Lewis replied, his voice gentle but firm. "He's missing out on the strongest assets he has."

The simple acknowledgment felt unexpectedly validating. Lewis had consistently seen you as an equal partner from the beginning, a perspective that stood in stark contrast to your experiences with powerful men throughout your life.

"Speaking of assets," you said, reluctantly shifting toward business matters despite how comfortable you felt in his arms. "Mueller mentioned something about Singapore banks that might help with our digital currency plans."

"Already on it," Lewis confirmed, his hand now stroking slowly up and down your arm. "Claire's team is working on it. I thought you might want to lead the development when we get back to London."

The casual offering of significant responsibility felt remarkably normal now. Lewis had seamlessly integrated you into business discussions, seeking your input on strategic decisions and actually implementing your suggestions. The partnership aspects of your arrangement were developing beyond what either of you had expected.

Much like the personal connection that had you currently wrapped in his arms instead of maintaining careful distance across a divided bed.

"I should check in with Claire today then," you said, finally making the reluctant move to extract yourself from his embrace. "And we have the dinner with Mueller's associate tonight."

Lewis's arms tightened around you for a moment before releasing you, his reluctance visible in his eyes. "Seven o'clock at Domaine de Châteauvieux," he said, his gaze following you as you moved. "Jensen's team has already secured everything."

The casual mention of security measures was another constant in your shared existence—danger never entirely absent despite the momentary comfort of intimate mornings. Suarez remained a threat, his intentions unclear but undoubtedly hostile. The betrayal within Lewis's organization still hadn't been identified, though the suspect list had narrowed considerably.

You slipped from the bed, heading toward the bathroom to prepare for the day. As you reached the doorway, you glanced back to find Lewis watching you with an expression that made your heart skip.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious despite the days of increasing physical closeness.

"You've changed," he said simply, his voice soft. "Since we arrived in Geneva."

The statement carried layers of meaning, prompting you to lean against the doorframe. "In what way?"

Lewis took a moment to respond, his dark eyes warm as they held yours. "You're more relaxed. Less guarded." His lips curved into a soft smile that transformed his usually serious face. "It suits you."

The compliment felt genuine, personal rather than strategic. Another small shift in your evolving relationship.

"The circumstances are different here," you offered, not quite ready to examine how quickly you'd adjusted to physical and emotional closeness with someone who'd been a strategic stranger mere weeks ago. "Away from both our usual territories."

"Neutral ground," Lewis agreed, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced by your explanation. "Freedom to discover new things."

The neutral territory of Geneva had certainly provided space for new discoveries, but that didn't fully explain the startling ease with which you'd begun seeking physical connection with Lewis. The morning cuddles, the casual touches throughout the day, the way you found yourself drifting closer to him even in spaces that allowed for greater distance.

"I should get ready," you said, retreating toward the bathroom rather than examining these unsettling realizations too closely. "Claire's expecting my call by nine."

Lewis nodded, already reaching for his phone on the nightstand, but his eyes lingered on you with unmistakable warmth. "I'll order breakfast while you shower."

The easy domesticity of the exchange struck you as you closed the bathroom door—the casual certainty about shared morning routines that had developed over just a few days together. Like everything between you and Lewis, it had evolved naturally rather than being formally negotiated.

Under the rainfall shower's warm cascade, you allowed yourself to consider what was happening between you more directly. The deepening connection wasn't one-sided—Lewis had been equally participant in the diminishing physical boundaries. His hand finding yours during car rides, his arm around your waist as you entered restaurants, his body curving protectively around yours during sleep.

More tellingly, he'd begun sharing personal thoughts beyond strict business necessity—observations about his childhood in London, memories of his days in the British Army, stories about Roscoe's early training difficulties, even occasional references to his parents that revealed genuine emotion beneath his usual controlled exterior. Small confidences that collectively created a more complete picture of the man behind the strategic façade.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes to find breakfast already arranged on the suite's terrace—fresh pastries, fruit, coffee prepared exactly how you preferred it. Lewis had moved to the outdoor space, phone pressed to his ear as he conducted business.

He glanced up as you approached, his expression immediately softening despite the obviously serious nature of his call. "We'll proceed with the alternative approach then," he said to whoever was on the line. "Keep me updated."

As he ended the call, his attention shifted fully to you—that complete focus that always made you feel like the only person in the world. "Breakfast just arrived. The croissants are still warm."

"Everything okay?" you asked, gesturing toward the phone he'd just set aside.

"Just a small adjustment," he replied with a reassuring smile. "Nothing we need to worry about right now."

You settled into the chair across from him, helping yourself to coffee from the silver pot. "That's refreshingly rare these days."

Lewis's mouth curved into that half-smile that had become increasingly familiar. "We've had quite an eventful honeymoon, haven't we?"

The reference to your cover story carried different weight now than when you'd first arrived in Geneva. The performance for Mueller had begun bleeding into reality in ways neither of you had fully anticipated—shared meals, inside jokes, casual touches that had no strategic audience to justify them.

"Speaking of honeymoons," you said, selecting a perfectly flaky croissant from the basket, "Mueller seemed pretty convinced by our act, considering how quickly the accounts were approved."

"I'm not sure how much of it was an act," Lewis said quietly, his eyes holding yours over the rim of his coffee cup.

The careful phrasing acknowledged both the authentic professional partnership and the more complicated personal connection still evolving between you.

"The real thing is always more convincing," you agreed, matching his careful navigation of increasingly nuanced territory. "People can tell the difference, even if they can't explain why."

Lewis studied you with that focused intensity that had become so familiar. "Geneva has shown me things I didn't expect," he observed, his voice gentle. "Both in business and... personally."

The deliberate acknowledgment of personal development alongside business progress invited a response you weren't entirely prepared to articulate yet. Your heightened awareness of Lewis was undeniable—the morning cuddles only the most obvious manifestation of attraction that had been developing since your first meeting in your father's study.

Your phone buzzed on the table, providing temporary reprieve from navigating increasingly complex emotions. Sophia's name flashed on the screen, accompanied by what you assumed would be another handbag link based on the preview text.

"Your sister has impressive persistence," Lewis observed, nodding toward the notification, a genuine smile warming his face. "Runs in the family, I've noticed."

"Ricci women don't take no for an answer," you confirmed, picking up the phone to scan the message. "We just find alternative approaches to yes."

To your surprise, this wasn't another handbag link but actual substance—a screenshot of social media activity from one of Suarez's Miami associates, showing a check-in at a private airfield with Geneva tagged as destination. The message accompanying it was typically blunt Sophia: Is this the asshole causing your "extended honeymoon"? Vinny left his phone unlocked at dinner. Thought you should know.

You passed the phone to Lewis without comment, watching his expression shift from casual interest to intense focus as he processed the information and its implications.

"When was this posted?" he asked, already reaching for his own phone, though his free hand moved to rest reassuringly on yours.

"According to the timestamp, eight hours ago," you replied, mentally calculating time differences and flight durations. "If he left then, he could be arriving in Geneva within the next two hours."

Lewis was already dialing, his entire demeanor transformed from relaxed breakfast companion to protective husband in seconds. "Jensen, we have potential Suarez movement toward Geneva. I'm forwarding data to your secure channel. Have Naomi verify it and implement Protocol Four immediately."

The swift response was a reminder of the dangerous reality that existed alongside your developing personal connection—threats that hadn't gone away during your time in Geneva.

"Your sister's quite resourceful," Lewis noted as he ended the call, handing your phone back with appreciation in his gaze. "That information wouldn't have reached us through official channels for hours yet, if at all."

"Sophia has always had a talent for getting information she's not supposed to have," you acknowledged with a small smile. "Drives my father crazy but has saved us more than once."

Lewis nodded, his expression thoughtful as he sent a follow-up text. "Family talents often get overlooked when people don't look past traditional roles."

The observation carried layers of meaning beyond its surface application to your sister—acknowledgment of your own capabilities being more fully integrated into operations since your marriage, recognition that Lewis's approach differed from your father's more traditional structures.

"Will this change our plans for tonight?" you asked, practical considerations taking precedence over the more personal conversation that had been developing before Sophia's message interrupted.

"Not visibly," Lewis replied, his hand reaching across the table to cover yours. "Changing established patterns would signal awareness of his approach. Better to maintain expected movements while enhancing security protocols behind the scenes."

The strategic assessment aligned with your own thinking—letting Suarez believe his movements remained undetected would provide tactical advantage if confrontation became necessary. "So dinner proceeds as scheduled."

"With additional countermeasures in place," Lewis confirmed, his phone buzzing with incoming responses from his security team. "Jensen will brief us on the adjusted protocols before we leave."

The conversation had shifted entirely to operational matters, the intimate moment from earlier morning temporarily set aside as more immediate concerns took priority.

"I should still speak with Claire," you said, rising from the table to retrieve your laptop from the bedroom. "Her team can incorporate this new information into the Singapore framework while tracking Suarez's associate's movements."

Lewis nodded approval, already reviewing security feeds Jensen had forwarded to his phone. "Your insight on digital tracking would be extremely valuable given the circumstances."

As you moved toward the bedroom, Lewis's voice stopped you at the terrace threshold. "This changes nothing about us," he said, the intensity in his voice making you turn back to him. "Suarez's movements just accelerate certain security timelines, not personal ones."

The deliberate distinction between operational adjustments and evolving personal connection felt significant—Lewis separating threat response from the intimate connections that had been developing between you. Not using danger as an excuse to either advance or retreat from the gradually shifting nature of your relationship.

"I know," you replied simply, the response acknowledging layers of understanding that didn't require elaborate articulation between you.

His expression softened into that rare genuine smile that transformed his features, making him look younger, more open. The duality no longer seemed contradictory but complementary—different aspects of the increasingly complex man you were coming to know beyond his carefully constructed public persona.

As you retrieved your laptop and prepared for the video call with Claire, your thoughts circled back to the morning's realization about your own changing behavior. The physical closeness, the emotional openness, the integrated personal and professional dimensions developing between you and Lewis—the woman who'd arrived in Geneva with careful emotional barriers and literal pillow division between herself and her strategic husband had been replaced by someone who sought physical connection even in sleep, who found herself reaching for Lewis's hand without conscious decision, whose body recognized his presence across rooms without needing visual confirmation.

Whether that change represented vulnerability or strength remained to be seen. But as you joined the video call with Claire, Lewis's voice providing security updates in the background, you found yourself surprisingly comfortable with uncertainty that would have been intolerable just weeks ago.

Geneva was changing you, as Lewis had observed. The question that would eventually require answer was whether those changes would remain when you returned to London and the more structured reality of your arranged marriage.

For now, the immediate concerns of Suarez's approach and tonight's banking dinner provided convenient distraction from deeper examination of exactly what was developing between you and Lewis beyond the parameters that had initially defined your relationship.

The fact that you'd gone from divided bed to morning cuddles in less than a week, however, suggested that whatever was evolving would likely continue its progression with or without your constant worry about its implications.

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

Domaine de Châteauvieux gleamed against the darkening sky, its stone walls and pristine gardens illuminated by tasteful lighting that enhanced rather than overwhelmed the property's natural beauty. Perched on a hillside overlooking Lake Geneva, the Michelin-starred restaurant represented exactly the kind of discreet luxury that Mueller's circle preferred.

Jensen leaned in as he opened the car door, just enough to murmur, "Mueller's associate is already here. Arrived twenty minutes ago with two security personnel. Private dining room secured as requested."

"Standard approach then," Lewis nodded, his expression revealing nothing of the heightened tension you could feel in his body next to yours. "Keep eyes on everything but stay back unless I signal."

The exchange felt routine, but something in Lewis's tone caught your attention. He wasn't just professionally alert but personally wary in a way you hadn't seen during previous business engagements.

You kept your voice low as you moved toward the entrance, Lewis's hand resting protectively at the small of your back. "Is there something about this associate I should know?"

Lewis's eyes met yours briefly, warm despite the tension, and you could see him deciding how much to share before he answered.

"Aleksei Petrov," he said quietly, his thumb stroking a gentle circle at the small of your back as he spoke. "Former Russian mob enforcer who reinvented himself as a financial consultant after some... disagreements with his previous employers. Our paths crossed in Kiev about five years ago." A pause. "It wasn't pleasant."

"Russian mafia," you said, immediately understanding the implications. Your father had always maintained special contempt for the Bratva, calling them "animals without code" after witnessing their disregard for the unwritten rules that governed interactions between traditional families.

Your hand instinctively checked the slim clutch where your gun rested beneath an innocuous layer of lip gloss and feminine necessities.

"Mueller conveniently left that detail out," you added.

Lewis's expression softened as he looked at you, his hand moving to squeeze yours gently. "He's testing us. Seeing whether the financial advantages outweigh personal histories."

The moment you entered the private dining room confirmed your suspicions. Mueller wasn't present—just a single man seated at the head of the elegantly appointed table, crystal glinting in candlelight as he swirled amber liquid in a heavy tumbler. Two large men in black suits stood against the far wall, their posture communicating security personnel rather than dining companions.

Aleksei Petrov didn't rise as you entered—the deliberate discourtesy establishing a dominance play before conversation even began. Early fifties with silver threading through dark hair cropped military-short, his face bore the distinctive scarring of someone who'd faced violence repeatedly without bothering to seek cosmetic repair. The effect wasn't unattractive so much as deliberately intimidating—a man who wore his history of brutality as a credential rather than concealing it.

Lewis's hand pressed more firmly against your back, a subtle signal of both protection and caution, his body angling slightly to place himself between you and Petrov.

The temperature between the two men seemed to drop several degrees through nothing more than locked gazes—history and hostility requiring no verbal acknowledgment to fill the space between them.

"Hamilton," Petrov finally broke the silence, his voice carrying a thick Russian accent that he made no attempt to soften. "Is surprise to see you still breathing after Kiev."

"Disappointed, Aleksei?" Lewis replied, his tone carrying perfect control despite the obvious provocation. "Your colleagues certainly tried hard enough."

Petrov laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "Was business, not personal. You understand difference?" His eyes shifted to you, gaze traveling your body with deliberate insolence. "Although now, maybe I see reason for my men's failure. Distracted by pretty wife? Is recent acquisition, da?"

One of Petrov's security men stepped forward. "Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, security protocols require inspection before joining Mr. Petrov."

"My wife's purse stays with her," Lewis stated without room for negotiation, his voice calm but with an edge that hadn't been there moments ago. His hand moved to rest at the small of your back again, thumb stroking a small, reassuring circle.

The security man paused, looking to Petrov for instruction. The Russian waved his hand dismissively.

"Is fine. She's woman. Probably just have lipstick in purse," he said with sneering condescension before blowing an exaggerated kiss in your direction. "Maybe later you show me what else you keep in there, beautiful American."

You smiled with practiced social grace that revealed nothing of your thoughts, years of navigating your father's business associates having perfected your ability to mask reaction behind a pleasant facade. The weight of the Glock in your purse provided reassurance that transcended mere symbolic comfort.

Lewis underwent the security man's pat-down with an impassive expression, maintaining eye contact with Petrov throughout as if the procedure were beneath his notice.

"Please, sit," Petrov gestured toward the chairs on either side of the table. "Mueller sends apologies for absence. Unavoidable business emergency requiring personal attention."

"How convenient," Lewis remarked as he pulled out your chair, his fingers briefly brushing against your shoulder in a subtle gesture of support.

Petrov's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Swiss, always so... efficient with time management. One dinner, multiple purposes."

Servers entered with practiced timing, presenting first courses with choreographed precision. Lewis positioned himself between you and Petrov with subtle positioning that established a protective barrier without being overtly obvious.

"Mueller says you seeking expanded banking relationships," Petrov continued once the servers had departed. "Very ambitious, very modern approach to financial arrangements. Not typical for British operators."

"The traditional boundaries are becoming irrelevant in digital markets," Lewis replied. "Strategic positioning matters more than historical territories."

Petrov's eyes narrowed slightly. "Is true. Though some territories still require... traditional methods of negotiation when disputes arise."

"Different markets, different approaches," Lewis said with a casual shrug that seemed to suggest Petrov's methods might be quaintly outdated. "Effectiveness depends on context."

Irritation flashed across Petrov's face before he masked it with false warmth.

"Your wife is very quiet," the Russian observed, turning his attention to you. "In my country, beautiful women speak when men finish business discussions. Very proper arrangement."

You took a deliberate sip of wine before responding, the pause establishing control over timing rather than reaction.

"In my experience," you replied with a pleasant smile that held absolutely no warmth, "the most dangerous people in any room rarely feel compelled to fill silence with unnecessary conversation."

Petrov's eyebrows rose slightly, genuine surprise registering before calculating reassessment replaced it.

"She has teeth, your American wife," he said to Lewis without looking away from you. "Sharp ones. Is interesting choice for man who prefers control in all matters."

"My wife's perspectives on financial systems have proven invaluable to our operations," Lewis replied smoothly, his hand finding yours under the table and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Particularly regarding blockchain integration with traditional banking frameworks."

"Ah yes, the famous American education," Petrov nodded with exaggerated seriousness. "Very expensive, very comprehensive. Though real education happens in streets, not classrooms, da?" His eyes moved deliberately to the scar visible on his cheekbone. "Some lessons leave more permanent reminders than others."

The conversation continued with verbal feints disguised as business discussion but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of threat and counter-threat.

"Mueller believes our banking interests might align despite certain historical... complications," Petrov said as the main course arrived. "Financial systems care nothing for personal histories, only profit potential."

"Banking relationships require trust," Lewis countered, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand beneath the table. "Past actions establish patterns that inform risk calculations."

Petrov laughed, this time with genuine amusement. "Says man who put bullet in my brother's shoulder in Kiev warehouse. Is this establishing pattern, Hamilton?"

Lewis's expression remained controlled, but you felt his hand tighten briefly around yours. "Your brother was holding a Kalashnikov at the time, as I recall. Context matters in pattern analysis."

"Context, yes," Petrov agreed with a dangerous smile. "Like context of beautiful wife alone in foreign city while husband conducts business. Very vulnerable context, especially with Suarez having such specific interest lately."

The direct reference to Suarez—knowledge Petrov shouldn't reasonably possess about current threats unless actively involved—shifted the conversation from abstract sparring to immediate concern.

"You seem remarkably well-informed about matters outside your usual circles," Lewis observed, his tone carrying a dangerous edge though his thumb continued its soothing movement against your hand.

Petrov spread his hands in theatrical innocence. "Information is valuable commodity. I collect many types of valuable things." His gaze shifted to you again. "Beautiful things especially."

Your hand moved closer to your purse with deliberate casualness.

"Little Ricci daughter has claws beneath pretty gloves," Petrov observed with disturbing satisfaction. "Is exciting combination—American-Italian fire with British husband's famous control. Mueller was right to find such arrangement... intriguing."

Lewis's grip on your hand tightened slightly, a silent message that manipulation was taking place.

"Perhaps we should clarify exactly what banking arrangements Mueller had in mind," Lewis suggested.

"Is simple proposition," Petrov replied, cutting into his fish. "My clients require certain specialized services for assets acquired through... non-traditional channels. Mueller believes your digital infrastructure provides unique solution to particular challenges these assets present."

"And what does Mueller gain from this introduction?" you asked. "Beyond the usual commission."

Petrov's attention shifted to you again, his assessment carrying a new dimension.

"Smart question from beautiful mouth," he said. "Mueller gains insurance policy—relationship with multiple strong clients creates protection when regulatory environments shift. No one client becomes too important or too dangerous to his operation."

"Diversification as security strategy," you translated.

"Exactly this," Petrov nodded, genuine approval registering in his expression. "Perhaps pretty wife understands business better than expected, Hamilton. Very modern approach for family with such traditional structures. Your father would not approve, I think."

"My father's approaches served their purposes in their time," you replied diplomatically. "Evolution is necessary for survival in the changing environments."

"Evolution, yes," Petrov agreed, leaning forward. "But not all creatures survive such changes. Some become... extinct when environments shift too quickly."

The thinly veiled threat hung between you as servers appeared to clear the main course.

"Mueller's proposition has certain advantages," Lewis acknowledged once the staff had departed, his voice casual though his eyes remained alert. "Though implementation would require careful consideration of security protocols."

"Of course, of course," Petrov waved dismissively. "Security is always concern in our world. But such matters can be addressed once agreement is established." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Unless there are more specific concerns?"

"Standard protocols for new banking relationships," Lewis replied. "Due diligence applies to all potential partners regardless of individual circumstances."

Petrov's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Is wise approach. Though sometimes circumstances require more... immediate decisions. Opportunities emerge quickly in volatile markets."

"We've never found rushed decisions profitable in the long term," you observed.

"Long term," Petrov repeated, something dangerous flickering in his expression. "Admirable perspective for those with luxury of time. Not all operate with such... comfortable timelines."

"We'll consider Mueller's proposition and provide a response through the appropriate channels," Lewis stated diplomatically, his hand now resting warmly on your thigh beneath the table. "Please send our appreciation for his introduction."

"Perhaps direct conversation continues after dinner?" Petrov suggested. "Private discussion between men about certain matters better addressed without feminine presence?"

Before Lewis could respond, you smiled with perfect social grace.

"My husband and I maintain a unified approach to all operational decisions," you stated with calm certainty.

Lewis's hand squeezed your thigh gently in silent approval.

"Is unusual structure in our world," Petrov noted. "Traditional arrangements maintain certain... separations between business and family."

"We find traditional limitations increasingly irrelevant," Lewis replied, his voice warm as his eyes briefly met yours. "Compartmentalization creates vulnerabilities rather than strengths."

"Fascinating perspective," Petrov acknowledged with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Though perhaps risky when threats require certain specialized responses not suitable for shared decision making."

"We've found our combined approach quite effective," Lewis countered, his thumb now tracing small circles on your thigh.

Dessert arrived with impeccable timing—soufflés presented with performative flourish.

"Is shame Mueller could not join this evening," Petrov observed once the servers had departed. "Though perhaps more... productive conversation emerges without his diplomatic presence, da? Direct exchange between potential partners without Swiss neutrality filtering true intentions."

"Transparency has its advantages," Lewis acknowledged.

"Indeed," Petrov agreed, his smile sharpening. "For example, I can say directly that Suarez has offered substantial compensation for certain information regarding your movements in Geneva. Very transparent business proposition with significant profit potential."

Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the provocation, though you felt his body tense beside you. "Transparency works both ways. For example, I can say directly that anyone providing such information would find the consequences significantly outweighing any compensation Suarez might offer."

Petrov laughed with genuine amusement. "Is good to have clear understanding between men of business, yes?"

"Absolutely," you interjected with a pleasant smile. "For instance, I can say directly that my father would consider any action against his daughter—regardless of her current name—as personal rather than business matter. His response to personal matters tends toward the theatrical rather than the surgical."

Calculation flickered across Petrov's face before he masked it with nonchalance.

"Family connections create such complex considerations," he acknowledged.

"Indeed," Lewis agreed, his hand now resting protectively over yours. "Which brings us back to Mueller's proposition regarding banking arrangements."

"You will consider proposal?" Petrov asked.

"We'll evaluate based on risk assessment rather than isolated profit potential," Lewis replied diplomatically. "Our response will be known once the analysis is complete."

Petrov nodded slowly, something like genuine respect filtering through his otherwise calculating demeanor. "Is reasonable approach. Though time factors may influence available options as certain situations develop."

As you prepared to depart, Petrov rose from his seat.

"Was pleasure to meet Hamilton's American wife," he said, his gaze traveling your body with careful intent. "Beauty with intelligence is rare combination in our world. Most men prefer simpler arrangements."

"Most men prefer what they can control rather than what might challenge them," you replied with a pleasant smile.

Amusement flickered across Petrov's features. "She is definitely not simple arrangement, Hamilton. Perhaps more dangerous investment than anticipated?"

"The most valuable assets often come with complexities that make them worth the investment," Lewis responded, his hand sliding to rest at the small of your back, the gesture both protective and possessive.

"Until our paths cross again," Petrov said. "Geneva offers many opportunities for unexpected meetings."

"We look forward to Mueller's insights regarding next steps," Lewis replied.

As you moved toward the exit, Petrov called after you. "Beautiful city, Geneva. Though sometimes dangerous for tourists who misunderstand local customs. Visitors should have.....awareness of surroundings, especially after receiving certain attention from very interested parties."

Only once you were in the car did Lewis's carefully maintained composure shift, his hand reaching for yours and holding it tightly.

"Petrov confirmed his direct connection to Suarez," he stated, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

"He's playing both sides," you said, understanding flowing from years of observing similar power plays in your father's world. "Telling us about Suarez's approach to establish leverage for his own proposition while having plausible deniability."

"Classic Bratva methodology," Lewis nodded, his expression softening as he looked at you. "Create opportunities regardless of the primary conflict's outcome."

"The mention of my father was deliberate as well," you added. "Testing whether Ricci protection still applies despite our marriage."

Lewis's phone buzzed with an incoming message that shifted his expression toward darker focus. He read the text before meeting your questioning gaze, his hand still holding yours.

"Naomi intercepted communication between Petrov and Suarez's Miami operation," he explained, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Confirmation of your presence in Geneva with details regarding security protocols observed during tonight's meeting."

"He's definitely playing both sides," you said.

Lewis's expression carried a controlled intensity, but his eyes were warm with concern as they met yours. "We need to leave tomorrow," he stated, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture that seemed almost unconscious.

You nodded, the gravity of the situation settling over you. The usual undercurrent of tension between you and Lewis had deepened, the stakes now higher than ever. Petrov's game wasn't just dangerous—it was a calculated move to leverage both sides of the conflict, setting the board for his own advantage.

"You're certain about the extraction plan?" you asked, not because you doubted him, but because the weight of the plan demanded thoroughness.

Lewis's eyes softened as they met yours, his free hand coming up to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. "We've got every detail covered. Jensen will make sure the route's clear. By the time we're out, they'll think we're still in the city."

Something passed between you, the quiet understanding that even when you didn't speak, the trust was evident. You were partners in this—and the path forward was always clearer when you were together.

The car hummed through the night, its tires eating up the road as you retraced your steps back to the hotel. Lewis kept his eyes alert, scanning for potential threats in the passing shadows of the city. You knew the routine; your instincts were sharp, always watching, always listening for the smallest change in atmosphere.

"Think Petrov will come after us directly?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Lewis exhaled slowly, his thumb absently stroking the back of your hand. "Not yet. He's too busy positioning himself with Suarez." He paused, his lips twisting into a hint of a smile, dark and knowing. "But he'll be watching, making sure no one else can get a piece of the pie, and we’ll be there to take care of him."

You didn't need to ask how he planned to handle that. The answer was already clear. The same way he always did—swift, methodical, and unforgiving.

The hotel loomed ahead, its imposing architecture a silent testament to the hours of work ahead. You'd need rest for what was coming next. But even as your eyes drifted toward the lobby, a thought lingered.

"Do you think he was surprised?" you asked quietly. "By how we handled him tonight?"

Lewis's smile deepened, a touch of admiration in his expression as his eyes met yours. "He's used to running the show, making the rules. But we played our hand well." His fingers laced with yours more firmly. "We didn't let him dictate the terms."

You felt a shiver run through you, a rush of adrenaline mingling with the satisfaction of having not only survived but taken control in a world where survival was the bare minimum. As the car slowed to a stop, you both exchanged a glance.

"Tomorrow," you said, your voice steady. "We'll be ready."

Lewis gave a sharp nod, his hand gently squeezing yours as he exited the car. The touch was subtle, but it spoke volumes—there was no question of who was in charge here. Not Petrov, not Suarez, and not the impossible circumstances they'd thrown at you. It was you and him, and that was all that mattered in the end.

As you followed him inside, the distant bustle of the city seemed far away, swallowed up by the quiet urgency that now governed your every move. Tomorrow's extraction would test everything. But for now, you were closer to each other than ever—and that alone gave you an edge.

The game was far from over.

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

The weight of last night still hung heavy in the air, but it was the calm before the storm. You'd been through this many times before, but something about the way Lewis moved this morning—his deliberate precision—had you on edge in a way you hadn't expected.

Lewis came over to you, pulling a black bulletproof vest from a duffel bag. "Put this on," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

He handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment too long, the gentle touch at odds with the severity of the situation. Your hands slid into the vest with practiced ease, though the cold weight of it reminded you that danger was always just one misstep away. You didn't need to look at him to know he was watching you closely, his gaze searching your face.

"Ready for today?" His voice was rough from sleep, but his eyes were alert and focused on you. There was concern there, something tender beneath the professional assessment.

You didn't answer right away, keeping your focus on adjusting the vest. You'd always managed to keep your distance from everyone, emotionally and sometimes physically, but with him, that distance was dissolving, and it made everything more complicated.

"You're thinking too loudly again," he said with a half-smile, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek briefly. The gesture was unexpected but comforting.

You met his eyes for a beat longer than you meant to. "I have to. I'm the one about to get shot at," you said dryly.

His expression softened, his thumb brushing gently across your cheekbone. "You don't have to wear that tough mask around me," he added quietly. "It's okay to be scared sometimes."

You felt a shift in your chest, something unfamiliar and warm, but before you could process it, Jensen's voice cut through the moment.

"Lewis, we're ready."

"One minute," he said, eyes still trained on you, his hand sliding down to rest briefly on your shoulder. "Do you have your gun?"

You nodded, your hand instinctively patting the side of your purse, where the gun rested. The simple gesture made you feel grounded, even if everything around you was in chaos. Lewis gave a small nod, his eyes warming with what looked like pride.

He turned to Jensen, but not before his fingers gently squeezed your arm. "All set." Lewis gave you a quick, appraising look, his gaze flicking to the door as Jensen headed out of the bedroom. "Keep your head down. And stay close," he added, his voice dropping to a gentle command.

You nodded, adjusting your grip on your bag and heading out after him. Despite the steady calm in your movements, you knew what came next—the protocol. The operation. This wasn't just any morning. Not anymore.

The suite felt smaller now, the air thicker, as you followed them. Naomi burst in then, urgency in her every movement.

"We need to move. Now." Her words were clipped, sharp with tension.

You didn't need to ask why. You moved swiftly, no hesitation in your movements, the practiced routine taking over as Lewis led the way out of the suite, his hand finding the small of your back to guide you, Jensen close behind, the rest of the security detail following like a shadow.

The corridors of the hotel were eerily quiet as you made your way down. The elevator doors closed behind you with a soft thud, and it felt like everything inside you had tensed. Every sound, every movement felt like it could be the one that gave it away.

You eventually made your way to the waiting car outside and sank into the leather seat. The city continued to move as if nothing were wrong, but you knew better. You could feel the danger circling, waiting.

"Keep your head down," Lewis murmured, his voice low, his hand on your back steady as you obeyed without question, shifting to lie down on your side.

You could feel his gaze on you, constantly scanning for danger, every inch of him alert. Even with your eyes averted, you could sense the tension in his body, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. Even his breath was measured, controlled, like he was holding onto something just below the surface.

"Motherfucker," Jensen muttered suddenly, his voice barely above a growl.

"Son of a bitch," Lewis responded, his voice sharp and low, but you didn't need to ask what had changed. You could feel it—like a storm on the horizon.

You heard the crackling of the radio, the voices sharp and fast. "Blocked the road. Specialist fire. They're coming in hot."

Your hand instinctively moved to your gun in your purse, the safety already off, fingers curling around the grip. It was a reflex now, something you didn't need to think about.

The radio crackled again, and then—gunshots.

The car jerked as the bullets slammed into the bulletproof windows, the impact reverberating through the frame. You felt it, the vibrations of the shots running through the car. Lewis's hand immediately moved to cover your head protectively.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice steady despite the chaos. "The car can take it."

But the tension in the car thickened, the air growing heavier. The gunshots continued, the sound of them clear and sharp. Your heart was pounding in your chest, the steady rhythm of it a stark contrast to the chaos outside.

"Keep your head down," Lewis repeated, his voice low but reassuring. His arm was pressed against yours, his body moving closer as if to shield you from everything that was happening outside.

You obeyed, though every part of you wanted to look, wanted to see what was happening beyond the tinted windows. But you didn't. You trusted him, even when everything felt out of control.

Then, over the radio, you heard it: "Shots fired ahead. They're still blocking us."

The unmistakable sound of gunfire continued, escalating. The tension was almost unbearable, and you could hear it in the way Jensen's voice had changed, now filled with something close to panic.

"Stay low," Jensen muttered, his voice steely as he cocked his gun, the metallic click sharp in the silence. He opened the door of the armored SUV, a quick, practiced move, and before anyone could say another word, he slipped out of the vehicle, vanishing into the chaos outside.

You could hear the distant crackle of his gunfire—a sharp, measured rhythm as he laid down cover fire. You couldn't see it, but you could picture the way he moved, calculating and precise, taking out targets with cold efficiency.

Your eyes flicked up to Lewis, your heart racing in your chest. His breath was steady but loud in the quiet of the backseat, a slow inhale followed by a controlled exhale, like he was bracing himself for something. Something bigger than you could see from your seat.

He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. There was no pretense in his expression—no calm exterior to hide what was happening. Just the rawness of a man who had lived through this too many times to count and still, every time, faced it with determination.

"Babygirl," he said, his voice low but tender, the nickname slipping out naturally. "We have to move."

You didn't need to hear it again. His words hit you in the gut, grounding you in the present moment. Everything had shifted; it wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about making it out, together.

You glanced up fully at him now, really looking at him. The usual calm that he wore so effortlessly was gone, replaced by something more urgent, more human. You could see it now—the weight of the world, the fear buried deep beneath the surface, even if he was doing everything in his power to keep it under control.

"We have to move," he repeated, his hand coming up to briefly cup your cheek. "You understand?"

You nodded once, your throat tight as you fought to keep your composure. You had been through worse. You knew how to handle this. But seeing the shift in him, the way he was looking at you... It made you realize how much this meant, how much he wanted you safe.

"On my count," he said, his eyes narrowing, calculating. "Stay behind me. Shoot only if you need to."

"Okay," you whispered, your voice a little steadier than you felt, your hand curling tighter around the grip of your gun, feeling the cold metal against your palm. You were ready, even if you weren't sure you were ready for what was coming next.

He turned his attention to the door of the SUV, his hand brushing against yours in a silent gesture of reassurance, as though his touch could somehow shield you from everything outside. His jaw was set, a muscle twitching under the skin, but he was ready—focused.

"Three," Lewis whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of Jensen's gunfire. You could feel the tension building, thick and suffocating.

"Two."

You shifted, your hand gripping the seat as you prepared to move, adrenaline surging through you like an electric current.

"One."

The SUV door flew open with a sharp click, and before you could take another breath, you were stepping into the chaos.

Jensen's gunfire rang out again, a flurry of shots keeping the enemy at bay as you followed Lewis, staying close behind him as he led the way. The Geneva street was a battlefield now—flashes of movement, shouting voices, the sharp crack of gunshots cutting through the air like knives.

You quickly moved with him, eyes scanning the area, trying to avoid anything that might put you in the line of fire. Lewis's pace was steady, a calculated march through the chaos as he kept you within his orbit. As you made your way down the street, another black SUV waiting for you came into view. Naomi was already inside, looking ready for whatever was coming next.

This one wasn't blocked. The path was clear, offering a chance for escape.

You slid into the SUV without hesitation, just as another round of shots rang out. Naomi gave you a quick, tense nod as you settled in, before returning some counter gunfire as Jensen slid into the front seat.

"Go," Lewis said, his voice a low command as he climbed in behind you, his arm immediately wrapping around your shoulders. The engine roared to life, the tires screeching as the car surged forward.

"Keep your head down," Lewis instructed, his voice gentle despite the urgency as he guided you lower, his body positioned to shield yours. You didn't hesitate—ducking, pressing your body back into the seat as you felt the car jerk forward, the sound of gunfire still cutting through the air.

You felt Lewis's arm move protectively across your body as the SUV swerved sharply, his body instinctively shielding yours as a bullet cracked the bulletproof glass of the rear window.

"Suarez's men," Jensen reported from the front, his voice clinical despite the chaos. "At least twelve. Heavily armed."

"They were waiting for us," Naomi added, her voice tight as she continued to return fire through her open window. "Someone leaked the extraction route."

Lewis's expression darkened but remained focused. "Secondary protocol," he said to Jensen, who nodded once and took a hard left, the tires squealing against the cobblestone streets of Geneva.

The city blurred around you as the SUV accelerated through narrow streets, each turn more jarring than the last. In the distance, police sirens wailed – complications none of you needed right now in a country famous for its neutrality but notoriously strict with foreigners bringing violence to its soil.

"Stay with me," Lewis murmured, his voice close to your ear, steadying despite the violence surrounding you. His hand squeezed yours briefly – a moment of humanity in the middle of tactical precision that had surprised you from the beginning of your arranged marriage.

Three weeks ago, you would never have imagined yourself in the back of an SUV with Lewis, gunfire raining down as you escaped a coordinated hit in Geneva. Three weeks ago, the careful distance between you had seemed insurmountable. Now, his arm around you felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"Behind us," Naomi warned, her words punctuated by the sharp crack of her returning fire. "Black sedan, two motorcycles."

Lewis's phone buzzed. He checked it one-handed, never releasing his protective hold on you.

"The second team is ready," he said, sliding the phone back into his pocket. "Six minutes to extraction point."

"We don't have six minutes," Jensen replied grimly, taking another hard turn that threw you against Lewis's solid frame.

His arm tightened around you, his other hand coming up to cradle your head against his chest. "Then make it four."

Jensen's mouth set in a grim line as he pressed the accelerator, the engine's roar drowning out everything but the gunfire still pursuing you.

"I need to know you're ready for what comes next," Lewis said to you, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that had nothing to do with the tactical situation. "This changes everything."

You knew exactly what he meant. Until now, your marriage had been evolving in private—the growing connection between you something personal despite its strategic beginnings. But the moment you reached that extraction point, your relationship would become irrevocably entwined with the criminal war unfolding around you.

"I've been ready," you told him, surprised by the steadiness in your voice. "Since the night in our suite."

Something shifted in his expression—the careful control giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable than you'd ever seen from him. For just a moment, the dangerous crime lord disappeared, leaving just the man beneath—the one who'd held you while you slept, the one whose careful touches had become increasingly less about performance and more about genuine connection.

"Petrov told Suarez himself about our location," he told you, his voice low enough that only you could hear, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "This isn't just about business anymore."

The implication was clear. Suarez had made this personal by orchestrating an attack in neutral Switzerland rather than waiting for a more strategic opportunity. The Cuban's obsession with you had escalated beyond strategic interest to something more dangerous.

"We can't go back to the hotel," you realized. "Or anywhere they'd expect."

Lewis nodded, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. "We're going dark. Completely off-grid."

The SUV swerved again as a motorcycle drew alongside, the rider raising a weapon. Without hesitation, Naomi fired through her window, sending the bike skidding across wet cobblestones in a shower of sparks.

"We've got a helicopter," Jensen reported, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "ETA two minutes to extraction point."

Lewis's hand moved to his own weapon—a sleek black Sig Sauer you'd seen him clean methodically each night. The routine had become oddly comforting, like watching him check the locks or his quiet conversations with Mueller's banking team.

"What about our banking arrangement?" you asked, practical concerns surfacing despite the immediate danger.

"Already secured," Lewis replied, his expression softening slightly at your strategic thinking even now. "Claire moved the final protocols into place the moment the first shots were fired. Mueller's accounts are operational regardless of our physical presence."

The efficiency was impressive but not surprising. Lewis Hamilton's operations ran with precision that extended to contingency plans for every possible scenario.

"Three blocks," Jensen called from the front as the SUV careened down a narrow alley, scraping against stone walls on both sides.

Through the windshield, you could see it—an abandoned warehouse by Lake Geneva that must be your extraction point. Dark and seemingly empty, it looked nothing like safety, yet Lewis's posture shifted subtly toward relief.

The SUV skidded to a halt inside the warehouse's loading bay, the massive doors rolling shut behind you almost immediately. Armed figures emerged from the shadows—not enemies but Lewis's own people, moving with practiced efficiency.

"Clear for now," a voice reported—the tall woman with shoulder length hair you recognized from Lewis's secondary security team. "Helicopter's on the roof. We've got perhaps three minutes before they track us here."

Lewis's hand found yours, warm and steady as you slid from the SUV. "Stay close," he said, his fingers intertwining with yours as you moved.

The group moved quickly through the darkened warehouse, ascending metal stairs that echoed with each footfall. Your body buzzed with adrenaline, senses hyperaware of every shadow, every sound. Lewis kept his body slightly in front of yours, protective even as you climbed.

"Your father called," Naomi said as you climbed, her voice professional but carrying an undercurrent of tension. "Three times in the last hour."

You paused mid-step. "He knows?"

"Not specifics," Lewis replied, his hand pressing gently against the small of your back to urge you forward. "But he has sources in Switzerland. He knows something's happening."

The implication hung between you—the complication of your father's potential involvement in what had become an increasingly complex situation. Salvatore Ricci was not a man who remained passive when his family was threatened, regardless of marriage alliances or territorial agreements.

"He'll send people," you said. "Whether we want him to or not."

"I know," Lewis replied, his jaw tight but his eyes soft as they met yours. "We'll deal with that when we're safe."

The rooftop door burst open to reveal a sleek black helicopter, rotors already spinning, creating a wind that whipped your hair around your face. Lewis's arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side as he guided you toward it with urgent purpose.

"Movement on the south perimeter," someone called through the radio clipped to Jensen's vest. "Multiple vehicles."

"Time's up," Jensen reported grimly, gesturing toward the helicopter. "Now or never."

You'd never been in a helicopter before—another first to add to the growing list of experiences since becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife. The interior was utilitarian but well-equipped, headsets hanging ready for communication over the rotor noise.

Lewis helped you strap in before securing himself beside you, his movements gentle despite the urgency. The helicopter lifted with a stomach-dropping lurch just as gunfire erupted from below—too late to stop your escape, but a potent reminder of how close it had been.

Through the window, you watched Geneva fall away beneath you—the city lights reflecting on the lake's dark surface, Mont Blanc visible in the distance, snow-capped and indifferent to the human drama unfolding beneath it. The Swiss city that had been the backdrop for your evolving relationship with Lewis now receded, its elegant neutrality shattered by violence neither of you had invited but both were prepared to navigate.

Lewis handed you a headset, his own already in place, his fingers lingering against yours as he helped you adjust it. "Change of plans," his voice came through clearly despite the rotor noise. "We're not going to London."

"Where then?" you asked, adjusting the microphone.

"Scotland," he replied, his eyes meeting yours with that intensity that still made your stomach flutter despite the dire circumstances. "My mother's family has a property in the Highlands. Off all records, completely secure."

The significance wasn't lost on you. Lewis was taking you to a place connected to his family—a personal refuge rather than just another safe house in his operational network. The distinction mattered, especially now.

"No one knows about it?" you asked.

"Only Claire, for emergency protocols," he confirmed, his hand finding yours in the darkness of the helicopter cabin. "Not even Jensen or Naomi know the exact location."

As if to emphasize the point, both Jensen and Naomi removed their headsets, giving you privacy for this conversation despite the close quarters. Another small gesture that highlighted the evolving trust between you and Lewis.

"How long will we stay there?" Your mind was already calculating implications, necessary adjustments, what this meant for everything from your father's inevitable reaction to the banking arrangements so recently established.

"As long as it takes," Lewis replied, his thumb stroking gentle circles on the back of your hand. "Until we identify the source of the leak and neutralize Suarez."

The clinical phrasing couldn't disguise the reality—people would die before this was resolved. Men like Suarez didn't back down, and Lewis didn't leave threats unaddressed. Blood would flow; the only question was whose.

"And us?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could consider its implications. "What happens with us?"

Something softened in Lewis's expression—that rare vulnerability that had been appearing more frequently since the night you'd crossed the pillow barrier. "That depends on what you want, babygirl."

The endearment sent a familiar warmth through you— especially here, now, with adrenaline still coursing through your system and the world falling away beneath you in more ways than one.

"I want..." you began, then paused, suddenly uncertain how to articulate the complex evolution of feelings that had developed since your arranged marriage. How did you explain that somewhere between strategic alliance and gunfire in Geneva streets, you were slowly starting to see Lewis as more than just a calculated arrangement?

"I want us to figure it out together," you finally said, the honesty feeling both terrifying and right. "Whatever comes next."

His hand tightened around yours, and for just a moment, his carefully controlled expression gave way to something raw and real—a glimpse of the man beneath the dangerous exterior that had drawn you in despite every logical reason to maintain professional distance.

"Together," he agreed, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity. A promise, an acknowledgment, a path forward neither of you had anticipated when signatures formalized your union.

The helicopter banked again, heading north toward Scotland and whatever awaited you there. Behind you, Geneva and its dangers receded—Petrov, Suarez, the traitor in Lewis's organization, the complicated web of alliances and enemies that had defined your existence since childhood.

Ahead lay uncertainty, but also possibility. The strategic marriage that had begun as arrangement had evolved into partnership, and now perhaps something neither of you had names for yet, but both seemed increasingly willing to explore.

Lewis's arm settled around your shoulders, drawing you closer against his solid warmth as the adrenaline began to ebb, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You leaned into him without hesitation, another small indicator of how far you'd come since those early days of careful distance and performative touches.

"Get some rest," he murmured, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "It's a long flight to Scotland."

You nodded, letting your head rest against his shoulder as your eyes grew heavy. For the first time since bullets had started flying, you allowed yourself to acknowledge how close you'd come to losing everything—not just your life, but this unexpected connection that had become increasingly vital.

Lewis's breath was steady against your hair, his arm secure around you as the helicopter carried you away from danger toward an uncertain future. But whatever awaited in Scotland and beyond, you would face it together.

The last thing you registered before sleep claimed you was Lewis pressing another gentle kiss to your temple, not for any watching eyes or strategic purpose, but simply because he wanted to. In your world of calculated movements and strategic considerations, that simple genuineness felt like the most precious thing of all.

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

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