#character that he Wanted to write in the end... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

erwinsvow · 2 days ago

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𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: when andrew opens the backseat of the car, you're looking up at him with wet eyes and tied hands, silent and compliant just like he knew you would be. and even though this definitely isn't one of his best ideas, staring down at you, he thinks it's definitely not his worst either.

word count: 19k

tags: kidnapping! probably out of character for pope but i tried. heavy stockholm syndrome, being eaten out in the forest after being chased through said forest. mentions of masturbation and pope watches (1) one time, cameras/monitoring without consent, daydreams of thigh riding because duh, mating press/breeding/creampie, things from the show that didn't make sense aren't included. yippee! :)

note: shea 'sweden' erwinsvow strikes again.

andrew thinks that their plan had been incredibly solid.

they were supposed to be in and out—deran in a nice suit, disguised as a potential parent looking for a good school for his kids. if anyone asked, he had two of them, four and six, and his partner was home with them since their youngest was sick right now, otherwise he would have brought the whole family.

he distracted the people outside with questions while andrew and the others were supposed to make quick work of the principal’s office. at first when the job was pitched, it sounded stupid. why would the principal of some fancy private school have money stored away in his office from their stupid fundraisers and open-house? but a little deep diving had revealed that the principal was skimming from the top, and the leftover money and anything else they could use as leverage against him was probably in that office somewhere. if there was a safe, they might take the whole thing with them.

and that led to another can of worms—how do they get out with the safe? getting in was the easy part. deran and baz and andrew dressed in nice clothes blending in, craig pretending to be a caterer with the event, j waiting in a construction truck down the road. but getting out, let alone with a safe, would be difficult. they had to look at blueprints, smuggled from the town hall through a contact they didn’t even want to use.

andrew didn’t know what to think of the whole thing. it felt like too much work for an undetermined reward, though the others didn’t seem to agree with him. they kept saying it would be worth it and outnumbered, feeling as though despite what he said they wouldn’t agree with him, he complied.

the blueprints revealed an out through an adjacent room—they didn’t know who was occupying until they went in to canvas after hours, pretending to check the smoke detectors. andrew stood in front of the closed door, staring at a cute, childish sign printed in loopy writing: school nurse.

but there was a window large enough for any safe they encountered and just a wall of plaster separating the two. they wouldn’t even need any heavy machinery to get through the walls and out the window to the car. the open house was scheduled for a saturday, meaning the school nurse, who ever it was, wouldn’t be there.

so all in all, a solid plan from what information they had gathered. saturday morning, andrew put on a long-sleeved button up shirt and an uncomfortable tie and walked into the school.

(playing pretend was more fun than he would like to admit. a stranger came up to him and asked him how old his daughters were and he actually laughed. “how do you know i have daughters?” he had asked, and the stranger had looked at him, laughing in reply. “you look the type,” and then andrew had to tear his mind away from the thought for the next hour, trying to forget the momentary joy the sentence had brought him. he looked the type. and then he said he had twin daughters, about to start first grade, and the lie felt sweet on his tongue.)

it’s always the jobs where everything’s going according to plan. those are the ones where something always ends up going wrong because it’s when you least expect it. that’s what had led to his arrest—and he was extra mindful now, trying in his head to think of all the ways this could go wrong.

they had made it inside the school. snuck into the nurse’s office—a cutely decorated place with lollipops and crackers in big jars and fun colors strewn throughout. the desk is against the wall they’re carving up and there’s cute decorations on it. a vase with fresh flowers. a mug with cartoon characters on it. there’s a huge poster in the shape of a tooth and then bright letters above it spelling out lost tooth club. there’s dozens of names written on and under the poster, a basket of toys and stickers.

baz is about to start swinging right in the middle of another bulletin board, prettily decorated with hours of work. the letters had been cut by hand, little paper flowers glued together individually. it said spread kindness, not germs in large yellow letters.

“d-don’t ruin the poster. go next to it.” he doesn’t know why he said it. they were already robbing a school, it’s not like the punishment would be worse because he left a poster untouched. but it felt wrong to demolish the nurse’s office and destroy her hard work.

they get a hole big enough in the wall, even find the safe and get it out into the nurse’s office to the open window. everything according to plan. everything going as best as it could.

and then the door swings open and you walk in.

you take two, maybe three steps before stopping in your tracks and staring at the scene in front of you with wide, unblinking eyes.

“oh. oh, i-” they’re not wearing ski masks this time, not worried about it since there wasn’t any cameras in the two offices. and now you’ve seen their faces.

“grab her, pope!” he hears from baz, and without thinking twice about it, he does. a huge hand goes over your mouth, silencing you, and the other around your two wrists. it’s easy to subdue you, and you thrash up against him but it’s over quickly.

andrew keeps them pinned down while baz runs over with rope for your hands and then he’s taking you outside through the window, to the truck, and despite how badly he feels about it, he holds you tight and tells you not to scream. while they load up the safe and hop into the truck he keeps his hand still tight across your mouth. your eyes are filled with fear, huge and watery and your body trembles like a shaking, frightened animal.

andrew leans in, unsure of why he’s even doing it, and whispers as quiet as he can without the others hearing you.

“i promise i won’t hurt you.”

a drive later, they pull up to the house, though they really should have taken you somewhere else. as carefully as they can without prying eyes from the neighbors, he carries you out and they put you in andrew’s bedroom, and then they lock the door from the outside.

you come to a little bit later, unsure of when you had passed out. the entire thing feels like a bad dream—a nightmare after watching one of your shows too late before bed, but when you blink open your eyes and stare around the room, you realize this not a nightmare.

this is so much worse.

your wrists are bound to the bedframe with thick rope, made of fibers that dig into your skin and leave it raw and scorched underneath. you stop fighting against it to preserve your strength and stare around the room.

plain painted walls and a navy blue comforter under your body. you’re in the room of one of these men who took you—you can tell that much, despite how barren the room is.

you’d think it was a guest room if you didn’t know any better. but there’s folded laundry at the foot of the bed and a half-open closet where you can see button up shirts hanging neatly. there’s nothing else to identify where you even are, though you’re sure it can’t be too far from the school.

you don’t know what to do now. for all your smarts and the crazy shows you love so much and using logic to help you through other situations, you have no idea what to do right now. there’s no way to escape the rope and no way to figure out where you are.

fuck. no one at school even knew you were there, or someone might have noticed you were missing. but it’s an open house for the next school year and the last day of classes was the previous week. you’re out for the summer, meaning no one there would notice your absence.

you didn’t know many of the teachers at the school. the secretaries you passed on the way to your little nurse’s office every day were polite, but not much more than that. the principal only ever came to speak to you if he needed to speak with the student you were with.

and your friends, well—

you don’t think many of them would notice if you went missing. fuck. you should have never cancelled plans so many times. you should have put in more effort to going to mixers and staying in touch when school ended and done all the things that normal people do because now—

you hear people talking from outside, sounding a little far away but still clear, like they’re raising their voices, and the ones inside your head die down immediately.

if you shut your eyes to try and pay attention to it, you can make sense of the conversation taking place, though your head is pounding and it’s hard to focus.

“she didn’t see anything,” you hear a man argue, and then he’s interrupted by second person.

“she saw our faces, man. that’s risking too much-”

“we need to take care of this,” a woman says, and then there’s a pause.

and outside, with his mind still on the promise he made you, andrew stares at smurf, as she finishes her sentence.

“you need to take care of this, andrew.”

it was a screwed up job to begin with. they should have never done it—no matter the fact that there’s almost twice what their jobs normally make sitting in the safe next to them right now. that money is about to become blood money. and as always, andrew has to do the dirty work.

“i didn’t even want to do this job. and you’re-you’re going to make me fix this-”

“andrew,” smurf says, and it feels final with the tone she uses. the tone of, of course you’re going to fix this. as if the burden doesn’t weigh on his shoulders with every step he takes. doesn’t plague his mind within every single thought. like these responsibilities that he has to handle and take care of aren’t the very reason he can’t sleep at night.

deran and craig looked checked out—staring at him like they don’t already know the answer. baz look at him expectantly and it’s so easy for him to do so. he gets to go home each night to a wife that loves him and a daughter that adores him and gets to put his head against his pillow and hold his wife with unmarred, clean hands because andrew will take care of it.

he looks up at smurf and he knows what will happen if he resists. if he says no to this, she might do something to you herself, and your blood will still he on his hands.

“okay." andrew says, and that’s that.

“alright. wait until it’s darker outside-”

“i know what to do.”

and inside the bedroom, dread creeps in slowly into your body until it consumes you entirely. you process the words—that andrew, whoever he is, whichever one he is, will take of it. take care of you.

you almost want to laugh with how incredibly unreal this is. getting kidnapped is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you in your short life and now it’s going to be the reason that you die.

dead, just like that, over a robbery at a goddamn private school. dead, waiting for the executioner to come get you from his bedroom while they talk about your life over their table like it’s nothing but lunch-time conversation.

you thought adrenaline was supposed to make you near superhuman, make you do something, figure out how to get out of here and run for your life. nothing’s coming to mind just yet, though, as you stay frozen on the bed and wait to hear if the people who took you say anything else.

the door opens suddenly and you flinch—you hadn’t heard any footsteps and he caught you by surprise.

this must be andrew, which means he’s the same one who covered your mouth and took you to begin with. he opens the door and stares at you, keeping eye contact as he shuts the door behind him and comes in closer. you should stare back, try to convince him (and yourself) that you’re not afraid of him, but you’re not that girl.

you look away the second he takes a step closer to the bed. andrew doesn’t stop, coming in closer until he’s sitting at the edge. you scramble to sit up, bringing your knees in closer to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller and get away from him all at once. it’s a hot day and you’re in a thin dress that comes down to right above your knees—and the fabric slides up as you scramble.

you were supposed to go pack up whatever you needed from your office and then stop to get a coffee from your favorite shop near the school and read the book that’s currently sitting on your desk at work—if it was still there. you don’t know what they did to the room after andrew took you to the truck.

your day was supposed to be for you, for once. an iced drink and the romance-comedy you read in your free time between little kids who didn’t feel good and lunch at a local place to celebrate another school year coming to an end.

and now you’re about to walk to your death, refusing to make eye contact with the man who’s going to be killing you.

as morbid as the thought is, you wonder how he’ll do it. he said he wouldn’t hurt you but the decision sounded pretty final out there, at least it did to you. something painless, hopefully?

you’ve watched enough shows to know all the ways but your mind runs empty. you finally move your gaze back to andrew in the corner of the bed, sitting and staring at you. you can see his shoulders rise with every deep breath, can hear the sharp exhale from his nose after each one. you want to say something. you think you should plead for your life.

but the way andrew’s looking at you, you almost believe what he said to you in the truck. i promise i won’t hurt you.

how could he have promised you such a thing?

when he finally speaks up, it begins to make sense, you think. that, or you’re not nearly as smart as you thought you were.

“i have to take you away from here.”

“i-i heard you. outside. you promised-”

“i’m not going to hurt you. just-just, when i take you out there, pretend to be scared.”

“what?”

“p-pretend to be scared. hit me and-and fight. i’m gonna tape your mouth.”

“what? no-”

“just listen to me,” he says, and it comes out differently from the other words he’s said to you. it’s final and stern, and the way his hazel eyes stare into yours, you really believe him, as incredulous as the thought is. “i’ll get you out of here. just listen to me. i’m not killing you. i’m not killing anyone.”

his sentences sound as though he’s trying to convince himself, rather than you, and you have to physically shove the thought aside before you burst into tears from how scared you are. but andrew, for everything you can tell, is being honest with you.

you’re halfway decent, you’d like to think, at telling when people are lying. students come into your nurse’s office every single day trying to lie to you, trying to avoid a certain peer or a certain class or assignment, filling your ears with lies about aching stomachs and pounding heads.

you’ve got your own ways of telling truths from lies, and andrew, with his never-ending eye contact and firm words, is telling the truth.

at least you hope he is.

“o-okay. okay, i will.”

you do try your best to put on the show—pounding on andrew’s back, crying out against the duct tape he puts over your mouth—and have to remind yourself it’s not really a performance. you’re just as terrified as you were an hour ago but something inside you twists and turns at andrew’s sincere-sounding words. you don’t look at any of the others there, don’t try to meet their eyes because they might see that you’re not really as scared as you should be.

he puts you in the bed of the truck under a black cover, and you stare up at him with real fear. even if you weren’t claustrophobic, the enclosed area induced anxiety in you from the moment you figured out what he was doing. you think this might be it—your only chance to make a run for it, if you could wrangle out of andrew’s incredibly strong grip, if you could keep your balance with your tied ankles.

and then he looks down at you and shakes his head slightly, so slightly that the movement is almost undetectable. there’s eyes on him—of this you’re sure—and he still tries to remind you that he won’t hurt you when he feels your body tense up under his hands.

you kick your feet without much energy behind it and let andrew push you into the bed of the truck. he gets in and starts driving, and then a few minutes later, he pulls over.

you blink up at him stupidly when he helps you out, thinking that he’s letting you go just a few miles from his home. you try to speak but there’s still duct tape over your mouth. andrew gives you his hand to help you sit up and then opens the backseat door of his truck for you, helps you inside, and then keeps driving.

and against every greater instinct you have or have been taught, you sit in the back quietly and let him drive you wherever he’s taking you, stupidly assuming it’s to safety.

you hope he’s taking you to safety.

no, you think—still a little stupidly—you know he’s taking you to safety.

andrew drives you for what feels like forever. wherever he’s taken you, it’s far from the house you were at and far from the school, meaning it is also far from your tiny apartment. you watch the sunset from the back seat and wonder who, if anyone, would even notice you’re missing this early.

your rent and bills are on auto-pay. the sweet, older lady who lives alone next to you forgets her own name sometimes. and staring at the back of andrew’s head—dark brown curls that glow auburn when the golden sun hits them—you realize there’s really no way out of this.

through, it is.

it’s dark when the car finally slows down on an empty dirt road. you don’t recognize any of the scenery, but andrew drives through the terrain like he’s well acquainted with it, avoiding bumps and ditches easily. when he stops the car, you sit up a little straighter in the back.

you should be thankful he didn’t keep you in the bed of the truck the entire time, thankful that he let you realize you’re about two hours from home. thankful that he hasn’t hurt you yet, just like he had promised.

your wrists and ankles ache. every muscle in your body is screaming at you from the adrenaline rush that did absolutely nothing to help you get out of this situation. and though a smarter girl might try to knock andrew out and run through the woods until you found someone to help you, you’re beginning to realize you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are.

everything in you is telling you to trust him and listen to his instructions and make him keep his promise by not giving him any reasons to hurt you.

he turns the car off, takes a deep breath, and then opens his door to get out. then he opens your door and stares down at you.

this is just like a scene from one of your crime shows. you can’t believe that’s the thought in your head right now, but it’s the only thing coming to mind. the specifics of the show merge into all the others, but you remember something about making eye contact and trying to humanize yourself so the kidnapper remembers you’re a person and not just an object.

so you need to look into his eyes. and you think that’s easy enough, that you can do it and that he’ll realize how obscenely wrong this entire situation is and let you go home tonight.

you flick your eyes up to meet his. you knew he was already staring at you but it’s somehow so much worse than you could have imagined. he’s not just looking, his eyes are boring into your soul. he doesn’t look away or blink, just keeps his gaze focused while staying completely silent. you’ve never been good at eye contact or being particularly demanding or combative, but you think this is an emergency and surely, you can manage for now.

you last all of two seconds before looking away.

you focus on the ropes on your wrist and how irritated the skin underneath looks and you let andrew figure out whatever it is he needs to figure out in silence, save for your breaths.

“c’mon,” he says after some time. “inside. come on.”

he gives you his hands to help you up—you guess at the very least, at least he’s chivalrous—and then he holds you by the rope to guide you. he’s not even pulling very hard on it but the force is enough to make sure you don’t go running and screaming in the opposite direction.

you realize you should have tried to take in the exterior of the cabin as soon as you walk inside, something else that your shows should have taught you, but you’re too busy being pulled around by andrew like a ragdoll. he brings you inside and then flips light switches.

the place is, for a kidnapper’s secondary location, quite nice. it looks like it was decorated a few decades ago—entire place shrouded in gingham and floral prints with vintage looking light fixtures and bookshelves with dust bunnies. you can’t imagine he picked these things out himself, especially not when you remember how bare-bones his bedroom was.

this place is much nicer. homey and dusty and quiet, you conclude after looking around. andrew doesn’t tell you to sit so much as he puts you down in a love seat and leaves you there, tied and taped up, waiting for him to come back. he walks into another room, which you can only assume is the kitchen, and then comes back.

“oh. i-i’m sorry,” he says and your eyes shoot up to him, unsure of why he’s apologizing. he gets closer and lifts his hand and you flinch, before his fingers go to the duct tape covering your mouth. you wince while he pulls it off, slowly and then faster, like he’s trying to get it over with faster, and you can’t help the tears that well up and slip down while he does it. you thought in vain that it might feel like a bandaid. it didn’t.

andrew apologizes again and you try to tell him it’s fine, but it doesn’t come out. your mouth is dry and you realize you haven’t had any water since you got taken at the school, so it comes out in a choked fragment of a sentence.

you finally find the courage to look up at him with wet, blinking eyes.

“can i have water?” it comes out as a whisper, and andrew doesn’t say anything, just rushes back to the kitchen and comes back out with a half-filled glass. he almost hands it to you before realizing your hands are still tied and then he brings it to your mouth, tilting the glass so you can drink it. he doesn’t do it too quickly, making sure you don’t choke on it, but a droplet still runs down the side of your mouth. when he takes the cup away you stare up at him.

he almost lifts his hand to wipe away the water. his fingers twitch over the empty glass.

“how long do i have to stay here?”

andrew pauses like he’s thinking about the answer. the truth, of course, is that he doesn’t know how long you have to stay. the answer to your question is that you’ll stay as long as he wants.

“i don’t know. as long as it takes.”

“as long as what takes?”

“the bedroom is over here. come on.”

andrew, for all you have learned about him, remains very chivalrous. it’s been two days, and you keep track with a piece of scrap paper in the room he keeps you in. he brought you in here and kept you tied up while he made sure all the windows in the house couldn’t be opened anymore and did something to the door too, you’re sure, though you didn’t actually get to see it.

he probably didn’t have to go through all that trouble. you conclude after forty-eight hours that you have terrible survival skills and are closer to being a perfect victim, a thought that makes your stomach turn. but you are, really. you haven’t once tried to fight him, save for the time he told you to, and the thought of escaping is a miniscule idea buried in the very back of your head.

you eat what he makes—though you are getting very tired of dry sandwiches and sugary cereal—and drink the water he gives you.

you think he’s testing you. and you have never, ever been one to fail a test. you comply with his instructions even when it’s incredibly embarrassing, like when he asks you how he should respond when you get texts and calls to your cell-phone. with your face burning you tell him there’s probably not going to be any of those to worry about, and he stares at you while you evade his eye contact.

(if you had just looked, you would have recognized the way he’s staring at you. it’s different than the others. like he’s just unlocked a new piece of you with this information. it’s good that you didn’t, though. it makes him want to keep you all the more.)

andrew hasn’t been obvious enough with his absence that the others have noticed—yet. he needs to go back to oceanside and stay there, and this two hour drive he’s been doing for days isn’t exactly helping him. the first night he’d driven back at three in the morning, after you’d fallen asleep and he’d made sure everything was locked until he came back in the morning, and he’d had to deal with smurf, awake and waiting for him, waiting for the proof that he had taken care of it. taken care of you.

the day after, baz stops him when he’s on his way out, to come back to see you, to tell him about a new plan he had for a job.

he realizes that the closer they get to a new job, the less he’d be able to come to the cabin. it seems there’s only one obvious solution—letting you leave the bedroom you’ve been confined to when he’s not there with you. so far he’d let you into the living room while he’s there, and the two of you sit in silence. (that silence is better than any conversation he’s had with his family in the last month, but you don’t need to know that.)

and the only way to make sure you’re alright in the cabin when he’s not there is to physically watch you and be sure of it, which means the real solution to andrew’s problem is cameras.

he installs them while you’re asleep. it’s only been a few days and you don’t make much noise as it is but when he hears the soft snoring, he knows you’re out. one in the living room and another in the kitchen, and a final one outside the cabin. the man at the store had explained it had motion sensors and would alert his phone if animals or people were outside. at the time, it seemed like a perfectly good idea.

the man at the store had said something else too, something about how this is the best safety system and it’s what he uses at home to keep his family safe and he would recommend it for andrew’s wife and kids too. and maybe the assumption that he was doing all of this for your protection got to his head a little too quickly.

he’s been down that road before, but he still installs them all the same.

he lets you out of the room and tells you he’ll be back in a few days and that there’s food in the fridge and you can move around the house if you’d like. you look at him like you’re surprised, with less fear than he anticipated, and nod. and then you tell him quietly, so quiet he can barely hear it—thank you.

(you wait for a reaction, but you don’t get one. he takes another heavy breath and then leaves, closing the door behind him and then locking it how he always does, leaving you alone again. and somehow, it feels so much worse to be alone.)

andrew drives for a few minutes before he gives into the urge of checking the camera’s footage. he sees you padding carefully through the living room, stopping at the bookshelf and reading all the titles.

he checks it again throughout the day, even though he really shouldn’t. he runs the risk of someone seeing it over his shoulder and you have become something he really, really doesn’t want to share with his brothers.

he doesn’t know how to do this. it’s not like he’s ever kidnapped someone before. he didn’t have any time to think it through, to make a plan, to gather supplies. he’s here in oceanside—maybe he should stop by your apartment. he has your phone and your purse and that should be enough to determine your address, and he can figure out how to get inside. maybe he should bring you some of your belongings, so you don’t feel as…

andrew doesn’t know what word he can use there. he doesn’t know what you’re feeling. frightened, he supposes. maybe it won’t make you feel as frightened if you had some of your things with you. he could bring you puzzles and books and the types of things that girls need with them—little bottles of expensive products and sweet smelling perfumes and whatever else you’d like. if it would make you more comfortable, he’d bring it.

fuck. and clothes—he needs to bring you clothes. you’ve been wearing the same dress the entire time and he hasn’t brought you anything to change into. if he goes to your home, he can bring some of your clothes.

(every time he’s come to the cabin so far, every time he’s opened the door, he waits in the foyer. he hears your footsteps padding up to the bedroom door, sees your shadow underneath it, like you’re making sure you didn’t imagine the noise. and when he goes over and unlocks it, you’re waiting for him in your sundress on the bed and the thought makes him so distracted he has to pull himself away from it. he has to close the door shut in his mind because if he doesn’t, he’s going to get so hard he can’t think anymore. and suddenly his mind fills in the blanks and he decides if he goes to your closet, he’ll only bring you dresses back.)

when andrew checks the video feed again, he’s noticed that you showered. he can tell from your wet hair, and for the first time, you’re not in the dress you were wearing when he took you. you’re in a plain shirt, one that’s too big on you. cotton and black.

one of his shirts. it’s from the dresser in the bedroom, he knows, since it’s only a one-bedroom home. the room he’s been keeping you in was supposed to be his room, and the drawers are filled with the clothes he’d brought there.

you’re wearing his clothes. and suddenly the thought of going to your apartment goes to hell. he’ll keep you in his clothes for as long as he can, until you say something or ask for something. (he knows you won’t. he’s figuring he knows an awful lot about you in a handful of days. that can’t be a coincidence, can it?)

and then craig says something about how he’s never seen andrew on his phone this much and you got some porn on there or something? and he shoves the device into his pocket and tries to remove you from his thoughts.

tries and fails, that is.

andrew gets a stinging scrape on his upper arm trying to get out of the job. he wasn’t actively thinking about you but he knows somehow he was distracted because of you, because he couldn’t put you out of his mind for thirty seconds longer, wondering if you were still awake on the couch or back in the bedroom and if you’d eaten and if you were maybe, just maybe, waiting up for him.

he ignores the others telling him that he needs to get his arm fixed and he suffers through another hour at smurf’s, eating dessert that tastes like nothing, and then he gets in his truck and pulls out his phone.

and you’ve fallen asleep on the couch. he sighs, part relief mixed with something else. his arm seems to hurt less, he thinks. and then andrew drives two hours to go back home to you.

you wake up when the door opens. first your eyes flutter open, and then you turn your head to make sure it’s andrew—though the chance of it being someone else are nonexistent. then another thought, for a split second, racing through your body and mind like a strike of lightning.

you hope it’s never anyone but andrew opening that door.

you’re distracted from the thought when andrew groans, and you hear a pitter patter noise that sounds suspiciously like rain—but it’s not raining. when you lift yourself up in the dark, andrew’s leaning against the doorframe, raising his other hand to turn the switch on, and when the bulb flickers and light fills the cabin, you see it. blood, lots of it.

your instinct is to get on your feet right away, to usher andrew to the couch where you had fallen asleep and help him take his shirt off so you can see the wound clearly.

you don’t panic, something you’ve gotten good at in your field. panicking makes the little kids even more frightened, so you’ve mastered the art of staying calm while assessing the situation. quick movements—your feet bring you to the bathroom for clean towels and hot water like you’ve lived here forever.

you wash the wound carefully, pleased that it’s only skin-deep and that the bleeding should stop with some prolonged pressure. you sigh a breath of relief, holding the towel to his arm tightly, and then you realize you and andrew haven’t spoken a word this entire time.

you have to say something. you’re supposed to keep the patient distracted, get their mind off of their injury so they don’t subconsciously make it worse. you’ve always been good with your students, rambling about a new movie or what flavor lollipop they’ll pick on their way out and anything else that comes to mind.

but staring at andrew, realizing that you’ve forced yourself not to panic but feeling the dread still seep in, you realize you have nothing to say. you’re so thankful his wound isn’t too bad and logically, you compute, while his hazel eyes stare at you and you stare at his arm (a huge, thick bicep with veins that pulse under your touch), that it must be because if something happened to him, no one would ever find you.

that has to be it. there’s no other reason why you should feel like this—and you can’t even describe what this is, you just know that it’s there, a pale glowing ball of thank god he’s okay hovering in the pit of your stomach, making you almost nauseous with how relieved you are. no other reason.

you pull away the towel and the bleeding has stopped. you sigh again, reaching for another towel to wipe the wound clean and turning to meet andrew’s eyes, which are already on you, to ask him if he has a first aid kit. but he speaks first.

“thank you.” two words, said quietly, staring into the depths of your soul and not blinking once. you want to say something to make him smile but you don’t know how to do that. (yet.)

“of-of course. first aid kit? i need a bandage. to wrap your arm.”

“it’s under the sink. i can get it.”

“no, no,” you insist, letting go of andrew’s arm. your hand still feels warm where you were gripping him and his blood is all over your fingers. you dart off in the right direction and come back with the box, opening it up and seeing what you can use.

you wrap it around his arm carefully, apologizing when you press against him in a way that makes him wince.

“you should buy some more bandages like this. the waterproof kind. when you can. and i-i can change the dressing for you,” you ramble, unsure of how to make andrew feel better, if you can at all. he might be more upset that you’re still talking and not shutting up, and still—

he brings his other hand around and clasps it around your wrist. he’s holding on tightly but it doesn’t hurt. that’s not his intention right now. you looked into his eyes when you felt his touch but that was a mistake. blinking quickly, you try to move your gaze anywhere but the man in front of you.

“can you look at me?” you can’t help it, it’s like your body has this urge to just listen to him, to comply, to try and please him with your deference. as painful as it is, you stare into his hazel eyes for what seems like ages. they’re mostly green but the brown is so much more apparent from this close to him. the realization is so stunning you almost feel like you’ve been zapped with an electric current—andrew has beautiful eyes. “thank you.”

“oh. i-” you pause yourself before you say something that doesn’t make any sense. “of course. y-you saved my life. it’s the least i can do.”

and that realization is equally disorienting, like a bomb has been dropped between you two. he might have taken you and brought you here and kept you locked up but he did save you. from almost certain death.

andrew doesn’t say anything, even if he’s thinking something. he stares and when you try to look away again, he lets go of the hand on your wrist and brings it to the side of your face instead. he tilts your head towards him until you’ve locked eyes again.

you think your heart is going to fall out of your chest with how fast it’s beating.

“stop looking away.” his words come out quietly.

andrew is so close to you, that almost by nature of instinct, your eyes flutter shut. you don’t know what exactly you’re expecting, and something inside of your brain screams at you, reminding you how incredibly stupid you’re being.

but then andrew brings you closer to him with his hand warm on your cheek and your lips brush his for a second, maybe two, and they’re soft just like you imagined, and then—

you two jump apart as his phone goes off. you don’t know how far back you jerked, but andrew lets go of your face immediately. he stands up to answer it, reminds you to be quiet by putting a finger in front of his lips.

"what is it, baz?"

you tiptoe back to the room and close the door as quietly as you can. and then you bury your head into the pillow.

stupid. stupid. stupid. kissing—or almost kissing, or whatever the hell that was—your captor. you seriously cannot descend into a further level of stupidity. as if your life was some badly written mafia romance, the kind you should be overindulging in right now instead of being locked up in a cabin with a complete stranger and then trying to kiss said stranger.

(do not, you’re forced to remind yourself over and over again, do not think about his green eyes and his soft lips and the way he held your face tenderly. do not. do not.)

a little while later, you hear andrew’s voice quiet down and his footsteps come to your door. he stands outside and your heart picks up wondering if he’ll knock or come back in to finish what he started, but it settles into a dull thudding rhythm again once he walks away. then the unmistakable sound of the front door, his truck starting, and tires on the dirt road that leads to this place.

you don’t know why you let your expectations get carried away for a moment there. andrew’s not going to give you some grand, dramatic kiss or knock and give you a romantic speech from the other side of the door. that’s not him, you know that much at least. the crime television series are merging with the romantic books in your head and creating a perfect storm to cloud your senses.

maybe it’s a good thing. maybe it’s a coping mechanism, or something. you’ll figure it out in therapy if andrew ever lets you go.

you open the door and go back to where you were sleeping on the couch. it’s comfortable, and it’d be perfect to curl up and watch a movie in, if there was a television around. you miss your laptop and post-work routine a little bit more than you have the entire time so far.

you want to get back under the blanket but you still feel flushed from the kiss, if you could even call it that. the almost, maybe-it-happened kiss. you lay on top of the blanket and stare at the ceiling and feel your heartbeat in your ears.

fuck. you really shouldn’t. but resisting it—especially when your eyes shut and you recall how andrew’s skin felt against yours, how it felt to be so close to him that you could see all his freckles, how he looked at you and made you look at him—takes every ounce of strength in your body.

and you’re really, really not that strong.

you lift up the shirt you’ve been wearing today, the one that’s undoubtedly his from the familiar detergent and the size of it, and your fingers find their familiar pattern themselves.

you trace little circles on your clit and keep your eyes closed tightly, like opening it and seeing what the hell you’re doing might chase away the orgasm that’s getting closer and closer. instead there’s other images—andrew’s arm tensing under your touch. the veins that go all the way down to his forearm. other places he might have veins like that.

then it’s something else—the fact that he almost kissed you. what it could have led to, what it means for you. the fact that he wants you, that maybe he’s wanted you all along. that maybe that’s why he took you.

your orgasm hits you like a brick at that very thought. you ride yourself through it like you’ve always done, covering your mouth even though you don’t have neighbors here, sweaty and out of breath and satisfied but not entirely. like you know what it could have been like, that there’s someone who could have made it better in ways that you can’t even piece together right now.

you groan into the cushion, loudly, frustrated with yourself. it’s one thing to develop a lite version of stockholm syndrome but it’s another entirely to finish to the thought of the man. especially when you can’t remember the last time you had a feeling like this towards anyone.

it’s just so stupid. you can’t get over it. you’re so stupid. the feeling of clarity washes over you but you still don’t completely understand it. you don’t know what it is about him. maybe you just want to be wanted—that has to be it. how else can you justify what you just did to the thought of your kidnapper?

you lay back on the cushion and curl up under the blanket and with that thought haunting you, you fall asleep.

and half-way to oceanside, andrew watches the feed for the living room and clenches his fist around the steering wheel.

andrew comes back the next day, and you two don’t talk about anything, just like usual. you’re making yourself lunch when he opens the door and you look his way briefly, before heading back to make him a plate too. you try to justify it internally—he made you meals not so long ago. granted, you were tied up with rope at the time, but still, he could have let you starve and he didn’t.

it turns into a little habit. you’ve never particularly loved cooking but one of the dusty bookshelves in the house had a cookbook that you’ve been stealing recipes from. it’s just something to keep you a little busy and if you’re going to improve any of your skills, it might as well be this one.

it’ll still be useful to you when you leave. if you get to leave.

you’re not entirely sure but you think andrew likes having you there as a personal cook. he washes the dishes and cleans the kitchen without complaint, and he forces you out of there, not letting you help. it’s sweet, you think, watching him from the living room with whatever book you’re reading now.

there’s other things too—he’s brought you books. you’re not sure from where, but you read them all the same, laughing internally when you think about if it’d be impolite to ask him for a dvd player or something.

you change the dressing on his wound each day, and it’s healing well so far. it’s been maybe four or five days since he got hurt—since you almost, maybe kissed him and then definitely, certainly orgasmed on his couch—and you feel…confused, for lack of a better word.

you feel like you’re in a routine like how a couple who’s getting used to living with each other is—first tip toeing around, and then gaining comfort and ease, until finally, it feels normal.

this can’t be right—how routine it feels to make andrew lunch, even when you’re not sure if he’ll be back in time. to flip through a cookbook wondering what recipe he might like. to smile at him when he brings you another book since he somehow knows you’ve gone through most of the shelf already.

the days melt into each other—but you had expected that. you think asking andrew about an update in the whole letting you go free thing might upset him, and you still really, really want to avoid that.

so you remain confused and turbulent and fighting an internal dilemma between two sides of you. one that just wants to give in and stop thinking so hard about this and the other that thinks you should be scared for your life and stop pretending that this is anything besides what it really is—stockholm syndrome changing your brain chemistry and making you think that you’re going to be just fine.

while the two sides are duking it out, you and andrew continue the routine—or maybe it’s a charade, one side argues—like usual. you think it’s been two weeks of being cooped up in this house when he brings you a magazine.

“can you circle what you need?”

you look up at him. he’s sort of trained you into the eye contact thing, and though you can’t withstand much of his intense staring, you’ve gotten marginally better at it. (you’re sure he’ll like that, that it must please him that you don’t always look away. and then you remind yourself where you are and your head begins to hurt.)

“yes. sure. thank you,” you say, opening up the catalog. there’s a section for clothes and another for beauty and skincare, and as stupid as it is, you still circle some of the makeup you like. and some of the stuff that you always deemed too expensive to buy, because if andrew’s paying, you might as well get to try it out. you justify it all—doing such elaborate mental gymnastics that you think you’d medal gold at this point.

but that’s what you have to do, right? you ponder the thought as you hand andrew back the circled pages, with him telling you he’ll get the stuff as soon as he can. that new clothes and skincare might make you, at the very least, feel like a person. help you not lose all of your identity as you merge into this persona for andrew—personal chef and nurse and someone he almost, maybe kisses.

and there’s other things too. when you wake up, he’s always hovering somewhere near you, as though he’d been watching you sleep. you guess there’s nothing inherently wrong with that—it sort of makes butterflies flutter around your stomach, since the idea that he likes to pass time by looking at you is very overwhelming—but you keep reminding yourself to stay rational.

it’s hard to ground yourself but you need to keep it up—even though more often than not, thoughts of andrew, even when he’s not there with you, plague you, like you’re some teenager with a crush.

it’s because you know, know deep down in your bones that some part of andrew likes some part of you. that you do, indeed, have a soft spot for your kidnapper, built from making lunches and conversations without words. that you ignore your instincts so much you’re not sure you can even call it an instinct anymore, because your newfound impulses just want to do whatever you can to please andrew, even when he doesn’t express it through words, just through eye contacts and barely there touches.

the realization makes you want to throw up. there’s not enough justification in the world for this, it doesn’t matter if he said he wouldn’t hurt you or he makes sure you’re safe here.

it’s been more than two weeks now. he could have let you go. but then again, he could have done a lot of things.

you’re finishing making lunch when you notice it—that the door seems slightly ajar, like he’d forgotten one of the locks or something. maybe he had on the second trip out to get the groceries for you so you could start cooking. he used to make sure you were in the bedroom, locked inside, when he opened and closed the door. but he hadn’t done that in a few days.

because he trusted that you wouldn’t run.

if the door is open, you could try to get outside while andrew is washing the dishes and cleaning up after the two of you eat. but it’s probably not—he’s much more careful than that.

but still, sitting at the tiny round dining table across from him, you can barely eat a few bites, heart racing at the idea. it’s stupid—the idea of running away. where would you even go? you don’t know the terrain, don't know where you are. you don’t even wear shoes in the house, prancing around barefoot in one of the new dresses andrew brought for you like some sort of twisted housewife.

once it got dark, you’d be in real trouble, with whatever wildlife is out here and how far away the main road is, if there was even other cars on it to begin with. you can’t remember much from the drive over here and you curse to yourself.

“something wrong?” andrew asks, and you blink at him dumbly.

“no, nothing. i-i-” quick. think of something. before he gets worried. “i just didn’t like this recipe as much as i thought i would. not my best work.”

you try to laugh it off, even though your words sound stupid. andrew stares at you until your smiles melts away and you take a tiny bite.

“it tastes good to me,” he says, and you feel your heart fall. your idea seems further and further away.

like always, andrew takes the dishes to the kitchen and when you hear the sink turn on, you leave your spot on the table and go to the living room. but instead of taking a seat on the creaky couch and opening your book, you tiptoe to the door.

your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears, trembling hand reaching for the doorknob.

and for the first time, it twists and gives way to the door opening.

you are stupid, you conclude, for thinking about running away from this, from him. but you can’t get over the circumstances that led you here—his crazy family, the fact that he was partaking in a robbery of your goddamn school, that he had no issues with taking you to begin with.

and despite the part of you that thinks you could really, really get used to this—or the harrowing reality of the fact that you already have—you step outside and start running.

but andrew has become somewhat of a bloodhound when it comes to you. he waits for the telltale signs that he always hears when he’s the kitchen—the groan of the sofa cushions as you sit down and get comfortable, the rustle of your book opening, the flap of the blanket as you spread it over your legs.

he knows because he’s always greeted with that same sight every time he comes out into the living room, one he’s become well acquainted with and has been the source of a rare piece of happiness for the last several days.

it takes him a few minutes to realize he didn’t hear it. another few to wonder if you went to the bedroom—but he didn’t hear any doors open or close. and it takes him about thirty seconds to realize his mistake with leaving the door unlocked because he was worried about the groceries in the back—specifically a pint of melted ice cream he brought here for you.

the dish clatters into the sink and he races out to the living room. andrew’s never been a religious man but he prays then, quietly to himself, just for a split second. hoping that you’re just curled up on the couch quietly, that when he turns the corner, you’ll still be there.

his heart skips a beat when he realizes that you’re not. then he walks through the open door with an understanding that he won’t stop running until he finds you.

hindsight really is twenty-twenty.

you ran for maybe ten or fifteen minutes before realizing that this was a huge mistake—one that you can’t just repair with an apology and a sincere smile. just a while ago this felt like your only chance to get freedom and get as much distance between you and the kidnapper you’re half in love with—another realization that strikes you like something akin to a knife in the stomach.

you keep running, bare feet getting achy already from the cold, hard dirt and rocks. you wonder if andrew’s noticed yet or if he’s still standing in the kitchen. he’s going to be so disappointed. and all this time, you’ve been trying so hard to avoid that very thing. all your effort was for nothing—it’s not like he’ll forgive you for this.

you’ve gotten so far that you don’t recognize anything, and with your muscles burning, you slow down. you can’t stop for long—you don’t know where the nearest road is, and it might be an hour of running before you get there.

you try to catch your breath and get back up to keep going, when a thought crosses your mind.

what are you really scared of? because it can’t be staying with andrew—he’s done nothing but take care of you. it can’t be that he’ll hurt you, because he’s already had the chance to do so a thousand times and he’s never once taken it.

if anything, he’s protecting you from the rest of his family. putting himself on the line by hiding you instead of just doing the easy thing and killing you, dumping your body somewhere where no one will ever find it and letting the school report you missing in three months when you don’t show up for the first day of class.

you think you know what you’re scared of right now—being stuck in these woods when it’s dark out, alone and trapped, with the possibility that if you run too far, andrew might not be able to find you.

if he even tried to find you. he might not care now that you broke his trust by running away. he might let you stay stuck out here until the forces of nature get to you, if you’ve gone too far.

you collapse down against a tree, that thought making your knees weak as you fully process it. and then you wait.

and a few minutes later, you hear the stomps—even they sound angry—getting closer and closer, and you look up to find andrew, like always, staring at you. he looks flushed and though his expression hardly ever changes around you, remaining consistently unphased, you can tell he’s upset with you.

you two have never needed many words to communicate.

“i’m sorry,” you say quietly, before he can say anything, if he even will.

you’re not sure it goes from here—you’d thought about the other side of your original plan, running to the nearest road and flagging someone down and whatever else you thought adrenaline would allow you to do. you think your subconscious was trying to protect you from thinking about andrew being angry at you and dragging you back to the cabin by your hair.

weakly, you think it’s what you deserve for running away in the first place.

and andrew wonders why you stopped running, his mind running in circles around the fact that you had your perfect chance to escape and you took it, and you still stopped. you don’t look too hurt—though there’s scratches on your bare feet and ankles from the branches and twigs. you hadn’t even thought to put your shoes on. that’s how badly you wanted to get away from him.

and can he really blame you? he couldn’t have expected you to willingly stay just because you’re gentle when you clean his wound and you two share meals like husband and wife. it’s a fantasy concocted from being in the cabin with you for too long—and he firmly reminds himself of that right now, staring down at you.

but the way you look at him, watery eyes and an expression like you don’t even understand your own actions, makes resisting the fantasy so hard. he thinks it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

he crouches down to be at eye-level with you, your back still perched against the trunk of the tree. you draw your knees in towards your chest and he watches as the fabric of your dress moves with the motion, revealing more bare skin to him.

“why-why’d you do that?”

“i’m sorry, andrew-”

“i haven’t hurt you. i kept my promise.”

“i know, i-i-”

“you’ve been good so far.”

“i’m sorry,” you say again, and with that one, fat tears drip down your cheeks. you are sorry—if only you had a way to convince him of it. or to go back in time and not do any of this, if only to save you both the pain of this conversation.

“why? i want an answer.” firm and final and said in a tone that you had never heard from andrew so far.

“i…i guess i needed to know if you’d come after me or not.” it comes out as a shuddery breath of words. it’s only partially the truth—but it’s the most you can confess to right now.

maybe some part of you knew it would happen like this. the truth is that you’re scared of how andrew might feel about you and you’re even more scared of what you feel towards him.

“of course i would,” he says and you shut your eyes, taking a shaky breath. you feel andrew’s hands on your knees, warm and tense and his grip tight like you might scamper off again. “i would-" he cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. do anything for you. i would do anything for you.

“d-don’t say that-”

“why not?”

when you open your eyes, andrew’s already looking at you, with an intensity you’ve seen one other night—the time you helped him when he was hurt, the night of the kiss. you don’t have an answer for him.

“can i prove it to you?” andrew’s words make a shiver run through your body. you stare at him, finally not looking away for once, wondering how different things will be after this.

you think you’re fine with it. and then you feel andrew guiding you—instructing you to lay your body down flat in the grass. his hands are like ropes holding you in place, exactly as he wants you—and when he spreads your legs wide and lowers his head between your thighs, your own head hits the soil with a thud.

your eyes shut with anticipation, though andrew doesn’t move for what feels like ages. like he’s observing and taking it all in—which is somehow even more shameful. how wet you are from a few words and touches, how ready you are for him. but he’s going to show you and you think all you should do—all you can do, with how dizzy you feel from it—is lay back and take what he gives you.

his words run through your head like a loop—you’ve been good so far. and thinking about those words, when andrew presses the flat of his tongue against your leaking cunt, all the way up to your throbbing clit, you let out a moan closer to a scream, and you can, since no one can hear you for miles around.

he seems incredibly encouraged by that—speeding up his pace, lapping up everything you give him.

you don’t know when your fingers got wrapped up in andrew’s hair, but they do, and you pull hard when he slips one finger, then two inside of you. you feel it—the knot tensing in your stomach, feeling andrew’s thick fingers spread you open, feeling his tongue against your pussy and lavishing attention on your clit.

you can’t believe you thought your stupid fingers would compare to the real thing—you were wrong, again. nothing you could have thought of could compare to andrew’s hot mouth on you, his huge hand holding you down while the other thrusts fingers in and out of you.

and it’s this realization that tips you over the edge—that even when you tried to run away from this, you’re still back in andrew’s arms, like a star that can’t escape its orbit.

you finish in andrew’s tight grip, your entire body spasming and shaking as it courses through you—hot and wet and sending lava through your arteries and veins. andrew doesn’t stop until your body is limp and you have to try and push yourself away from him—using what little energy you have left in an unsuccessful attempt to do so.

and then he pulls the skirt of your dress down, picks you up in his arms, and carries you back to the cabin. you feel wetness—your wetness—on his fingers where he holds you and how warm his chest is against your cheek, and you fall asleep somewhere on the walk back.

when you wake up, you’re in the familiar bed, tucked under the covers. andrew is asleep next to you on top of the sheets.

two days later, andrew has to leave for a job. it almost hurts more now that you’ve gotten to experience a slightly different side of things. you think you’ve gotten used to waking up beside him and going to sleep next to him.

but on the other hand, him leaving does have its perks. he hasn’t touched you like that since you were in the woods with him, and as much as you love playing house with andrew, you’re so pent up that you think you could touch yourself all day and it still wouldn’t get rid of it. the burning, sticky ache inside you that wants andrew all the time—that wants him to pin you down and do whatever he’s been harboring thoughts about this whole time.

memories of his single hand being enough to hold down your entire thrashing body in the woods is enough to make all the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. so you make yourself cum until you can’t anymore (that’s your limit—you don’t think andrew would have a limit for you, though, and you’re sure you’ll find out soon enough) and carry on your little routine and wait for him to come back home to you.

it feels like a certain weight has been lifted from your shoulders, you think, with how easy everything feels now. like you don’t have to fight a battle in your head over every encounter, like you don’t have to justify every emotion. you’re here, and you have andrew, and you’re going to appreciate what you and him have because you know it’s something special.

maybe it’s a little delusional, too, but you’ve been here almost three weeks without seeing another person and you’ve been tepidly awaiting some sort of punishment for running away and it hasn’t come yet. every time you think you know what andrew is going to do, you find yourself completely mistaken.

andrew does come home—and times like this, you really wish you had some way to communicate with him. a satellite phone or a carrier pigeon or something to tell him you’ve gotten your period and there’s nothing in this house that you can substitute like you’ve done with all your other needs.

he has the usual groceries and a box of brownie mix for dessert because ice cream doesn’t last the drive back here. and then he hands you another bag that you accept with a quizzical look on your face, since normally you two put everything away together.

and inside is a box of pads and a box of tampons. you look straight up at him and blink.

“how did you know?”

“know what?”

“that i got my period. you weren’t even here-”

“it’ll be a month soon and you haven’t said anything yet. i just assumed.”

“you assumed?”

“i have a-i had a sister. i know things.”

“oh.” the realization that andrew is a complete stranger startles you for a moment, like it hasn’t in a while. you felt like you knew so much about him from your interactions that you forgot the two of you haven’t ever really talked about his life or your life or anything beyond the four walls of this cabin. “i’m sorry.”

and a little bit later, while you mix the brownie batter and add butter, not oil and milk, not water, you ask andrew questions about his sister and listen as he answers quietly. the way he looks at you after a certain question makes you think no one's ever taken the time to ask him these things before, and that makes your heart hurt in a way you can't really understand.

and then you sit beside him on the couch and read your book aloud while he listens, and you think maybe you don't need to understand everything.

andrew thinks you’re getting antsy when you have to be at the cabin alone without him. he wasn’t completely sure, but you’ve started asking when he’s leaving and when he’ll be back almost every time. he thinks maybe he’s just not to used to someone asking, or rather someone wanting him to stay, but now you do, and he doesn’t have a real answer for you.

that’s because the answer is dependent on his brothers and smurf and it changes daily based on if he can avoid their suspicion and the glances they exchange with each other when he says he’ll be busy again. and unsure of how much longer he can keep it up, worried that anything he does might reveal your existence to them, he needs to stay away from you for longer chunks of time, as hard as that thought is for him to swallow.

he doesn’t want to. maybe he never has, now that he has something to come home to, something waiting for him half-asleep on the couch and leaving plates of dinner in the oven and something that takes him by the hand and brings him to the bedroom to sleep next to each other.

the solution comes to him when lena is telling him about a girl at school who got a kitten for her birthday, and if he’d help her convince baz to let her get one too.

he doesn’t know how to explain that baz is never going to agree to that, when he goes to the shelter, he thinks that if he ever gets to introduce you to lena, she can play with the one he’s about to get you.

the worker at the shelter shows him the kittens, playful and hyperactive and running around in their pen. the woman there starts explaining what each of the little kittens are like, identifying them by their collars, but he doesn’t hear half of it.

there’s a little orange one that’s quiet, tucked away and not as energetic as the others. he thinks that’d be perfect for you—to have a calm kitten dozing off in your lap while you read or follow you around the kitchen. and when he picks it up, it barely takes up the size of his hand. yes, he thinks, this is exactly what you need.

the worker has him fill out papers and tells him the different things he needs to buy—though he knows some of it already—and asks him if the little kitten is for him.

“no. no she's for my girl-my girlfriend.” she harps on about how sweet that is and that he’s being a great boyfriend, and andrew swallows uncomfortably.

it didn’t feel like a lie.

when he comes home that day, he finds you, like always, waiting for him. he thinks stupidly that he should have gotten a basket or a ribbon or something, to make the kitten feel more like a gift for you, but it slipped his mind while he was trying to fight off intrusive thoughts about your reaction.

and it’s everything he thought it would be.

as soon as you hear the quiet mewing, you stand up, the blanket that always covers your legs falling to the ground.

you rush over to him, your body pressed close against him and fingers brushing as you pet the nape of the kitten’s neck.

“oh my god. oh my god-” he’s never heard you sound so excited—and your tone is nearly intoxicating for him. he wonders what else he can do to get you to stay this happy forever.

“she's for you.”

“oh my god. andrew. she's so cute. hi,” you coo at her in a voice that only gets more excited when he helps the kitten into your arms. and then you beam your bright smile up at andrew and he momentarily gets all the wind knocked from his lungs. “what should we name her?”

we. like this cat is both of yours—yours and his. it’s the things like that—the ways you subconsciously reveal that you think of him as yours, that everything you two is together. that this kitten is for the both of you. and andrew thinks if this is how you’d react to everything, there’s nothing he could ever deny you.

he watches you play with the kitten for a while before he has to leave—not entirely sure how to break it to you that he’ll be gone for longer than usual this time. maybe you’ll stay so occupied you won’t notice it. you use one of the toys he brought, a little rod with a toy fish on a string, and drag it across the floor while the kitten chases it. and then you accumulate enough cuteness aggression that you bring her in for a hug and laugh while she curls up against you.

(and andrew, who thinks he’s never had a thought like this before, wonders briefly what you’d look like with a baby in your arms.)

you’re sad when he says that he has to leave but at the very least, he knows you’ll be occupied. he thinks he did the right thing, and then he knows he did the right thing, when you scoop up the kitten and bring her to the door to say goodbye to andrew with you. then you turn your head to give andrew a kiss on his cheek and thank him again and he drives to oceanside wondering why he didn’t think of this sooner.

you wrangle the kitten for the better part of two days before andrew comes back.

he’d told you it would take longer but every passing minute that he’s not home with you or driving towards you makes him antsy. makes his skin hum and vibrate with anticipation of when he can leave. by now, the others must have noticed that something’s going on, though if they have, no one says anything. he doesn’t know if it’s from a lack of concern or out of fear for his answer, but either way, he’s glad they haven’t.

they don’t need to know about you. that’s why all of this has felt so perfect to andrew so far—because his family isn’t around to taint it and ruin it. to scare you off or hurt you and all the other things that would happen if they realized you were still alive.

and though you and him don’t talk about much, there’s an understanding between the two of you, one that’s only been strengthened since the day when you had run away and stopped so he could find you. that maybe, as twisted as all of this was, it was meant to happen. that you two were meant to find each other.

it’s a heavy thought for the drive back to the cabin. it weighs over him like a storm cloud—the battle of trying to recognize if he’d done the right thing by bringing you here or not. maybe he should have let you go the day after smurf and his brothers had stopped bringing you up, once they thought you were dealt with.

but when he opens the door to the cabin, you’re curled up with the cat, asleep on the couch just like he had envisioned. what’s more is the overwhelming notion of the fact that you had fallen asleep there waiting for him, like you always do.

you feel you’ve almost been trained to wake up to the sound of the door closing. when you open your eyes, still heavy with sleep, andrew’s perched on the couch next to you, petting the kitten lying to you.

“i didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says quietly. you sigh, a surprisingly sweet noise that comes to him like a melody.

“that’s okay,” you sit up, yawning and stretching. “i don’t want to sleep if you’re here.”

and he doesn’t know what to do when you say things like that—because really, what is he supposed to say? your words have an almost otherworldly effect on him when he processes what they mean.

that you want to wake up when he comes back home. that you don’t want to miss a moment of time with him. that you want him there with you.

the last one hits him the hardest.

andrew stares in silence while you stretch your arms and then bring the kitten back into your hands, cuddling against her and nuzzling your face against hers. the kitten had looked comically small in his palm but perfectly at home in yours.

“did you pick a name?”

“maybe. i wasn’t sure what you’d like,” you say, meeting his eyes for longer than you usually do—something you’ve been working on. the two of you stay like that for a while, glancing between yourselves and the kitten mewling and traipsing around the space between you and andrew.

“you should pick. she’s for you.” you smile at andrew when he says that, and for some reason, all of this just feels so much more domestic than it ever has before. his hand turns into a fist at his side because it is overwhelming—incredibly so. he wants to lay down next to you and watch you play with the kitten and tell him every thought in your head and fall asleep to the sound of you talking.

but he can’t do any of that, and he can’t tell you, either. so he attempts a small smile back at you and you tell him you think you like the name wren.

“it was in one of the books,” you say, though you’re lying through your teeth.

“wren?”

“what? what’s wrong with it?” “n-nothing. i just thought… i don’t know. it’s not really a cat name, is it?”

“what? you want me to call her mrs. whiskers?”

he laughs when you say that, and so you laugh too. surprisingly calm, and the rest of the world forgotten for a few minutes. andrew doesn’t understand such a human name for the kitten, but it’s yours. he think he’d let you do whatever you want if you keep laughing and smiling with him.

you get up to make lunch, and andrew and wren both follow you into the kitchen, and the hours of the day pass by quickly when andrew’s there with you. since you learned about his sister, you like to ask him questions, and though he was hesitant at first—you’re not entirely sure why—he’s begun asking you questions too, about when you’d become a school nurse and if you liked it and the book you’re reading this week.

andrew avoids personal questions. the fear of reminding you of the life you left behind, or snapping you back to the reality of how you’re stuck here with him frightens him too much to ask. but you ask him questions—lots of them, all about his life and his family and how long they’ve been doing these jobs.

you get sad, he can tell since you’re bad at hiding your emotion and they paint over your face immediately, when he tells you about how long he’s been doing this. about stolen gas station wallets and the people smurf always had over and how every day was about him trying to protect his siblings.

you get sad even to the point of tears, something he can’t understand. you don’t know him enough to cry over him, do you? or is this just what you’re like—crying over your kidnapper’s childhood stories, curling up next to andrew on the couch with the kitten between you two, holding his hand and pleading with him to stay the night.

is this what you’re like? or is this what he’s made you into?

you fall asleep somewhere between the answer to another question you’ve asked him and the cat’s soft snores next to you. it’s easier once you’re asleep—to gaze over you and not have to hold back the smile that takes over him. you’re so trusting it almost frustrates him.

he picks you up gently, carrying you back to the bedroom. the cat wakes up from the movement and meows at him, but all she does is follow andrew as he carries you and jump onto the bed when he sets you down. while unfolding the blanket to cover you, a piece of paper falls out and lands on the ground near his feet.

you and wren are both sound asleep now. he should go back to the living room—sleep there or leave, but the idea of you waking up alone makes him feel miserable inside. or rather, another day of waking up without you.

he opens the paper—there’s names written in pen all over. at the top is andrew in your pretty handwriting, with different letters crossed out. and then underneath are all different names using the same couple of letters.

warden

wander

dawn with a maybe???

rand

red

then raw, crossed out several times and a big no written next to it. and then finally, wren, circled and with several exclamations following it.

oh. so that’s why you named the kitten wren. he stares at you asleep next to her, having brought an arm across her, even in your sleep, like you were trying to keep her close to you.

oh.

wren—using the letters of his name. emotions surge through andrew like they haven’t in a long time. the sad, pathetic yearning turning into something he doesn’t think he’s felt before—the urge to make you happy because you make him so happy, without even trying to.

and though he knows he should get in the car and drive back to oceanside before anyone can bother asking where he is, the urge to stay with you is stronger than the rational logic of leaving. so, he gets into bed next to you and wren.

andrew doesn’t sleep much, though it’s hard to fight sleep when he can hear your gentle breathing. and it’s really, really hard to fight sleep when your arm makes its way across his chest, the warmth burning through his shirt.

he does fall asleep—maybe the best he’s slept in years. and when he wakes up to the sunlight, you’re curled up against his side, the cat somewhere at your feet, holding onto him like you’re worried he’ll leave.

thoughts plague him about how you don’t even know if he’s really there, that sometimes he leaves when you’re asleep and you wake up alone more often than you wake up to him. you’ve been knocked out since last night, at least he thinks, because if you had gotten up he would have noticed.

but andrew watches you hold onto his arm, your face smushed against his chest as you take sleepy breaths and snore softly, legs tangled together, and he has to think it’s happening for a reason.

groggily, he wonders if you’ve been sent just to test his willpower. memories flood him quickly—when you had touched yourself after he kissed you, what he’d done to you out in the woods after he’d caught you (or rather, caught up to you—because you had stopped. you had waited for him.)

he thinks he just ignores his morning wood on most days but it’s especially hard when your soft skin is pressed against him and he can see miles of it exposed since you kicked away the covers. the little noises you make as you get comfortable and stay nestled against him don’t help either—and just when he questions what exactly you might be dreaming about, his phone goes off.

fuck. stupid fucking phone—he needs to make it not so loud or destroy the thing entirely. he reaches over to the night stand to grab it but the damage is already done, your eyes jump open from the terrible alarm and you take about half a second to realize how close you are to andrew. you meet his eyes and then he answers his phone and you unpeel yourself from his side, if a bit begrudgingly.

andrew stares at you while you stare at wren, hoping she stays quiet so the person on the other line can’t hear her. you take heavy breaths and andrew notices that you look flushed and warm, and you keep moving around, changing your position as if you can’t get comfortable. squirming, even.

which leads him back to his original question—what the hell were you dreaming about? he gets lost in the possible answers and makes baz repeat himself three times before he answers. in an attempt to get him to hang up, andrew agrees with whatever he says and you sit patiently, taking wren into your arms so she doesn’t make any noises for attention. she still mews quietly a few times and you pick her up, taking her into the living room as carefully as you can

“is that a cat? where are you?” baz asks on the other line and andrew hangs up without saying goodbye.

he walks into the living room and you stand up once you see him, leaving wren on the couch.

“i’m so sorry. i didn’t think she’d-” “that’s okay. i-i have to go.”

you sigh and your shoulders drop, your hopeful expression changing into one of disappointment before his very eyes. maybe he’s never hated anything as much as how you’re looking at him right now.

“already?” the words make andrew’s knees feel weak.

“i don’t have a choice. i…” he trails off, wondering how to finish the sentence, how to articulate the thought.

how to sum up the fact that he would stay here, with you, all day if he could. that watching you cook and curl up in the sun and play with the kitten that you refer to as ours is enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. that whenever the day comes that you get to leave this place, he will never forget about you—not your sweet smile or your sincere expressions or how earnestly you look at him when you don’t want him to go.

but he doesn’t know how to tell you any of that.

“i’m sorry,” he finishes quietly. and like always, you smile at him.

“it’s okay. we’ll just miss you.” you turn to look at wren and then look back, and somehow, though you must think this every single time, andrew’s stare feels different than usual.

like there’s so much swimming around in his mind that he’s not telling you. he doesn’t say it back, that he’ll miss you both too. instead he walks up closer to you, and you hold in a breath, unsure of what’s coming, before he leans in and gives you a kiss on the forehead. you feel every muscle in your body relax when his lips press to your skin, eyes fluttering shut.

he murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like be good, and then you nod in response quickly.

and then he’s gone again.

you crawl back into bed, the motivation to make breakfast or do much of anything long gone.

not to mention that one of his stupid brothers—you know their names but you didn’t know which one had called, though it was probably baz since he always interrupted everything—had woken you up from the best dream you’d had since you’d been stuck here. your thighs feel sticky and your entire body squirms with the realization that if you had stayed dreaming any longer, you probably would have started rubbing yourself against andrew in your sleep.

and as embarrassing as that thought it is, it’s equally intoxicating to wonder what he would have done about it.

in the dream you had been riding his thigh—your own thighs splayed out wide against him, and in the dream andrew had been watching you, like he always does. except this time you know it was different, like you could see the lust behind the hazel, like he was using all of his self control to not do more.

would the real andrew do the same? after so many close calls and whatever the hell that was in the woods and the two of you being so close together in the same bed yet so incredibly far? you don’t know the answer, though you think you’re about ready to find out.

it’s not very fair—he kisses your head like he’s your husband or something, and then leaves you pent up and yearning for more like he’s nothing but your captor. he hasn’t even touched you in a way that could be deemed as inappropriate since the woods and you’re left to believe that maybe he just doesn’t want to cross that line.

you don’t know andrew’s rules when it comes to you, though it seems like he’ll break them if he’s pushed to it.

that’s what you’re thinking when you fold a pillow—the one andrew slept on—in half and mount it as if it could possibly compare to your dream and what andrew’s thigh or arm might feel like in reality. but you still try, lifting up your (his) shirt and letting your hips move against the cold pillow, grabbing your tits and teasing your nipples, wondering if this is what andrew would do. you think he would get sick of the teasing and finally bend you over, but then you think he wouldn’t do that until you’ve finished already. he’s too generous for that.

and though the thought of andrew and his generosity with you, in bed, one day, is enough to normally tip you over the edge, something inside of you just won’t let you finish. you hump the pillow for what seems like ages, but you don’t get any closer to finishing.

maybe it’s just because your body knows what it feels like when andrew’s the one making you cum, and it won’t settle for your pathetic excuse of an orgasm anymore.

so with burning, aching thighs and an entirely unsatisfied feeling in your chest, you collapse against the bed and sigh. when you look over on andrew’s side of the bed, you just get a sense of longing that fills your entire body.

wren cries out and you see her sitting in the doorway, eyes focused on you, her own way of asking for your attention.

“okay, okay, i’m coming,” you say, before getting up. you walk over and pick her up and she doesn’t stop staring or blink once. “just like your dad, huh?”

on the drive back to you on the following day, andrew thinks long and hard about what baz said to him.

it started as an innocent conversation—baz brought up the cat again, saying how lena’s been asking for one and he wants to make sure andrew’s not gonna surprise her with it. with a blank stare, andrew told him that he must be imagining things because he wasn’t near a cat.

then the conversation had shifted—about his absences and how he’s been gone all the time and no one’s seen him at smurf’s or his place or anywhere else.

baz’s words linger in his head on the drive. where’ve you been going, man? is this about that girl? we’re sorry you had to take care of it but we didn’t have any options, pope. is that what this is about?

it’s as if it’s impossible for them to understand that everything in his life is about you now—centered around you. he finally made a decision for himself, for once, not just blindly following along with whatever smurf wanted.

it’s so easy for the rest of them to think that whatever’s wrong with him is about you—when they don’t even know you. not like he does—not in the way that andrew’s gotten to know you over the last weeks.

your gentleness, even to your kidnapper. your sweet smiles that keep him going through each day. how memories of his hours with you stay in his head for long after he drives away from the cabin.

that for the time he stays there with you, there’s nothing wrong with him, there’s nothing to fix, nothing broken that you haven’t already seen. he’s just andrew to you—nothing more. you say his name without burdens or expectations. you want him to stay longer. you run away and then sit down and wait for him to find you. he gives you a cat as a goddamn distraction and you name the thing after him and dote on it.

but for everything you do for him, and the way you make him feel, he can’t keep you here. maybe he knew all along this was a temporary thing, that it was just to hide you away until his family well and truly believed that you were dealt with and taken care of. that you were never meant to stay with him, to be his. the idea now seems ridiculous—a sweet girl like you, so compliant even when he’s been holding you hostage.

but even you had to give into your instinct, the one that told you to flee when you saw the open door. how can he blame you? that should have been your natural reaction from the first hour you’ve been in the cabin.

briefly, he thinks he can’t blame you for any of it. the fault is all his—and he’ll start rectifying it now. if baz was wondering about his absences and if it has anything to do with you, then smurf must be too. before long, all of them would be. and then it wouldn’t take long to figure out he’s kept you hidden this whole time, and then they’ll really hurt you, and he can’t have that.

he pulls onto the dirt road that leads to the cabin and drives down it slowly, like he knows whatever you two had has to come to an end today.

andrew rests his head against the steering wheel, hand a little shaky.

it’s for you, he reminds himself. he can do it because it’s for you, for your safety, for your life. there’s no future for you cooped up here all alone while he abandons you every other day. just a deplorable fantasy from a man who has always been alone about to be alone again.

you’ll be happier once you’ve left this place—he’ll take you to your apartment and give you cash so you can leave and start over wherever you’d like. that’s the plan right now—get you home to get your belongings, and figure out what you’ll tell your job and how to get you as far away from oceanside as he can.

it means in a few hours, he’ll be telling you goodbye for the last time.

he opens the door, and like always, you’re waiting for him. wren follows you around as you make your way to the door to greet him, beaming up at him like you have been. you linger as though you want to do something else—maybe you want to kiss him, or pull him into a hug, but you don’t.

you stare up at him while he stares at you, until you finally speak up.

“well, i made lunch. let me go get it ready for you,” but when you turn, he grabs onto your arm. you spin back to face him again with a confused expression. “andrew?”

“i-i have to get you out of here.”

“andrew?” you question again, voice a little shaky. “what do you mean?”

“my family. they’re…noticing. i’m gone all the time and no one-no one’s reported you missing. i need to get you out of town. maybe another state.”

“andrew-”

“i’ll drive you back to your apartment. you-you can take whatever you need from there. and here too, uh, wren’s stuff,” he looks around, trying to see what else you had even brought here. and then he realizes it was never the things, it was you, that always made this place feel like home. your presence and the blanket that told him you were reading on the couch and the pulled curtains and the smell of something you baked in the air. “i can get you new papers, if you want. you can go wherever. i can figure out how to get you there, but-”

“you’re not coming with me, are you?” the way you say it, the expression on your face, it’s enough to make whatever resolve is still standing in him crumble.

“i can’t. it-it’s for your own safety. you have to get away from here. if i stay you’ll just get hurt-”

“that’s not true,” you plead, realizing sadly that this is the most you and andrew have spoken to each other about something that didn't start as a question. your conversations have never needed so many words. “you kept me safe all this time-”

“i can’t, anymore. if they find out that you’re here-”

“they won’t,” you say, getting closer and bringing your hands to his chest, pressing them flat against him like you have to remind yourself he’s still there. you keep looking at him, not breaking the eye contact like you always do, though it feels like andrew’s gaze is burning holes through you.

“they will. they always do. they’ll hurt you.”

“no, andrew, please-”

“we need to go. we have to get the things you need and leave-” andrew tries to move away from your grip, but you follow him, hands on his shoulders, standing in front of him again to block him from doing anything else. “i-i don’t understand. why? why don’t you want to leave? this isn’t a life. i-i’m keeping you from your life.”

“you’re not keeping me from anything. i-i like being here with you-”

“no, no, you don’t. that’s not right. i-i should have never brought you here.”

“you saved my life, andrew,” you say softly, blinking up at him with teary eyes. you hadn’t realized when you’d started crying.

“i’m gonna get you killed if i-”

without thinking anymore about it, realizing that andrew might very well be as serious as you’ve ever seen him, you lean in to bring your lips to his. you kiss andrew with all the emotions floating around your brain—hurt and fear and want and need all merging into one.

your arms wrap around his neck and you hold him in the kiss as best as you can, feeling his grip tighten around your waist as you two don’t let go of each other. andrew kisses you with a fury, like he’s just realizing what’s been waiting for him all this time.

your back ends up pushed against a wall gently—and even then, andrew keeps his hands on your waist and uses them as a barrier against the surface so you don’t get hurt.

with swollen, aching lips and weak knees and feeling his tongue prod into your mouth, you think you’d be stupid to ever walk away from this.

when you pull away to breathe, andrew’s mouth goes to your neck, littering kisses up the column until he gets to your jawline. you finish your sentence in a broken daze, the thought half forgotten already-

“you would never let me get hurt,” you whisper, taking his face into your hands and forcing the two of you to stare at each other. he takes it in—your wet eyelashes and puffy lips and how you look with desire spelled all across your face—because of him.

you lean in for another kiss, only pulling away to keep telling him everything he’s done for you. you feel it against your thigh—his hardness pressing into you, proof that he wants you, the proof you’ve been wanting all along.

(though, you think stupidly, dazed by andrew’s hot touch and how tightly he holds you, going against everything he’s been telling you since he came back home to you—a home that you are not, in any way, ready to give up or hand back without at least something of a fight—you can figure out how to convince him.)

and then andrew moans against your lips and you forget everything you’ve been thinking. you pull at his shirt, wanting it off, eager and with every limb shaking from anticipation. you’ve wanted this for so long you can’t even remember to remind yourself it’s andrew—the man who took you and brought you here, offering to set you free, and you’re trying to convince him not to, like a puppy who doesn’t want to go back to the shelter.

because isn’t that what all of this is, in the end? you can try to fight it as much as you want, but until you met andrew, until you became something that belonged to him, someone that he gets to come home to every day and someone that asks you questions and listens to the answers and does things for no other reason than he thought it would make you happy, what really were you?

you were alone, and you didn’t have anybody. and now you have andrew, and you think it’s worth fighting for.

you’d been joking to yourself about stockholm syndrome lite, but you’re pretty convinced you’ve got the deluxe version now. though when andrew picks you up, your legs wrapping around his automatically, feeling his hardness press against your wet, clothed cunt, it’s easy to forget about everything else.

andrew brings you into the bedroom and lays you down. you stare at him while you take heavy breaths and try to not pass out from sheer excitement that the thing you’ve been fantasizing about is finally happening. it seems silly, but you want to remember this forever. andrew pulls his shirt off, hovering over you, and you take a hand and press it against his bare skin, traveling up his chest and to his arms and then his forearms.

your fingertips dig in before running over the veins you’re seeing the full length of for the first time, and above you, andrew closes his eyes and shudders at your touch.

you bookmark it for later—that he enjoys the feeling of his veins being traced, and focus instead on andrew, meeting his eyes again.

he stares at you differently this time—hungry, like all the words you’ve been saying are enough to convince him, finally, that this is a good idea. that this is right.

you’re half a housewife already, anyways. this is the least you deserve, though you stay quiet, letting andrew decide what he wants to do to you.

he leans in for another kiss, sweet and gentle, and your body melts into the bed. his hands roam your body, sliding the fabric of your dress up until he can pull it off of you. you lift your arms and head so he can do it easily—not even remotely concerned that you’re naked in front of him now. your hands go to his belt, but he puts his own over yours, taking over. he undoes his belt and pulls it out of the loops, while you stare at him from your position, chewing on your lip and seeing how andrew’s eyes focus on your heaving chest.

and then, unsure if you have even a moment’s more of patience in you, you pull andrew into another kiss and wrap your arms around his neck and legs around his waist to keep him there.

“inside, please, andrew, inside,” you whine like a demanding, spoiled child, though you haven’t asked andrew for anything all this time. you think he just brings it out in you.

he murmurs something against your neck while he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses there, something like be patient.

when you feel his fingers brush over your bare, leaking cunt, your entire body tenses up before melting back into the bed. one rough finger rubs against your clit and you seize up, squealing because you haven’t felt his hands on you in what feels like forever. he continues the motion, rubbing circles while you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, and then just when you’ve lost all sense of what words mean, he pushes a huge finger inside of you.

“andrew, yes, yes, yes,” you moan, realizing just like in the woods, that you don’t have to be quiet here. you cry out his name when he pushes another one in, plunging the pair in and out of you.

“have to get you ready,” he says, focused like he’s on a mission, not getting strayed by your incessant begging to just put it inside already. he scissors his fingers and keeps rubbing your clit with his thumb and it feels so good that you almost don’t want to give in—you want to stay like this forever, as long as he’ll let you.

that it feels so good, fulfilling every fantasy you’ve had about him—that he’s a giver and he’s generous and he wouldn’t dream about cumming until you have first. that’s just your andrew, you guess.

when he leans in close to your ear and whispers it to you—can you be good for me? can you cum for me?—that’s when your orgasm hits you without any control behind it. you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted—the white-hot feeling washing over you from head to toe, your cunt squeezing around his fingers. you’re so wet that you must have left a puddle on the sheets, entire body spasming and shaking until andrew slows down his motions.

he pulls out his fingers and your eyes flutter shut, entire body exhausted—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. when you blink them open, feeling andrew’s weight on top of you, you catch the ending glimpses of it—him licking your juices from his fingers, enjoying it. like he’s missed the taste of you.

your eyes flutter shut again quickly.

you pant out words that don’t really make sense—just a request, in as few words as you can manage. inside. andrew. please.

and he’s nothing if not generous to you. he always listens. you hear andrew’s deep breaths as he positions himself on top of you, taking your legs onto his shoulder as if it’s nothing for him to fold you however he wants. the thought makes you more and more lightheaded.

you bring your hands to his arms to hold on, feeling them pulse under your touch. you think it’ll be impossible to keep you away from him, now that you’re getting a taste of everything you’ve been dreaming about. momentarily, as you feel andrew’s thick head line up with your wet entrance, you think that you’ll never let him leave you. that you don't want him to leave, ever. and if this is how you have to convince him to stay, you’ll do so happily.

and then andrew runs his tip over your cunt, bumping it against your clit and making your body spasm while he collects your wetness, and you forget what you were thinking again.

he’s so big—every part of him is big, so you should have seen it coming, but it still takes you by surprise. the sheer thickness prodding against your hole makes you dig your fingers into his arm, thinking later that you’ll have to apologize for the marks you’re leaving on him.

andrew uses one hand to guide himself inside, and leans in to kiss you while he does so. and when he pushes inside, sheathing himself fully, resting there while he lets you adjust, you cry out against his lips.

“i know. i know,” he breathes against your mouth, pulling out slightly and making you squeal again. “just relax. you’re-you’re taking it.”

you think it’s meant to reassure you, to remind you that you’re doing good, but it comes out in the form of a groan, like andrew’s realizing just how tight and pent up you really are. he tells you the words like there’s no choice in the matter—that you’re taking all of him whether you can handle it or not.

the thought is enough to make your head thud against the pillow and your eyes roll all the way back.

“please, andrew,” you whine, leaning in for another kiss. “please-”

not entirely sure what you’re begging for, he complies, like always. he pulls out slowly, and then slams back inside of you, almost as if he can’t control himself.

and really, he can’t. he’s cum to you so many times, spilled over his hand in the truck and in the shower, imagining this very moment. he’ll be surprised if he lasts any longer, the urge to fill you up getting stronger and stronger with each passing minute.

he keeps going—picking up a brutal pace that brings you further and further away from being level-headed with each thrust.

you blink open your wet eyes, unsure of when you’d closed them or when you’d started crying, staring at your ankles in the air before focusing on andrew. he’s always been handsome but seeing him like this—flushed and sweaty, curls damp against his forehead, his expression twisted up in pleasure—and the realization that for once, you’re making him feel good is almost enough to tip you over the edge.

you want to look into his eyes, almost laughing internally at how much you’ve changed from not even being able to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds to asking for it while you’re stuffed full of him, but he’s looking somewhere else.

his eyes are locked on your cunt—where the two of you meet and where you’re swallowing him inside like you were made for him.

maybe, andrew thinks in a lust-blown haze, maybe you were.

he keeps battering inside of you, hitting a spot somewhere deep inside that you’re not entirely sure had existed. the second orgasm washes over you and leaves you completely feeble—muscles screaming at you as the lightning courses through every nerve. your cunt squeezes and tightens around him, and he groans with pleasure, a noise you want to hold onto forever.

but andrew keeps you in place, even when your eyes shut again. maybe you had passed out, though the thought isn’t exactly surprising. when you open your eyes again, andrew is still going, each grunt getting louder and louder. your fluttering cunt pushes him closer to the edge, and you lock your legs around him.

when andrew looks at you, you meet his eyes.

“please, andrew, i want it inside,” you plead, and he knows he’s fucked—that he’s never been able to say no to you and he can’t start now.

inside, it is. the thoughts plague him as his hips stutter—that this could very well be the moment he’s getting you pregnant. the fact that you’re begging for it, and that there’s no knowing how long you’ve wanted this.have you imagined it too? wanting andrew so badly—wanting a family with him, a life with him? half a housewife, half a captive. you’re so much more now, though, something he can’t put words to.

his. all he needs to know is that you’re his.

“please,” you cry again, leaning up for a kiss. andrew presses his lips against yours while the pace slows down and his moans get louder. “keep me forever, andrew.”

it’s all he can take—burying his head into your neck while he groans against your skin, giving you every ounce he has. the warmth of his cum fills you up until you can feel it leaking onto the sheets, making a mess of your thighs when andrew finally pulls out.

he lays next to you, catching his breath and hoping you can catch yours too.

the reality of everything—his family back home and if they figure out that you’re still alive and what’ll happen if they find out he lied rushes through him, though he wishes he could fight it off to enjoy this for a moment longer.

you’re warm and flushed against him, bringing your head to his chest and leaning there. you two stay silent, though it’s not unusual.

outside of the doors of this cabin, the real world, with questions that he doesn’t have answers to, awaits. but inside is his own personal paradise, complete with you—fucked out and sleepy and with nothing to worry about if he can help it. you’ve been right all along—he’s kept you safe so far, and there’s nothing and no one that can stop him from taking care of you and protecting you. how a husband protects his wife, he thinks.

“andrew?” you ask quietly, throat sore and entire body exhausted. he looks at you, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

“yes?”

“does this mean you’ll keep me?”

♡ thanks for reading!

#who else cheered! me! i hope everyone likes this!! <3 #nervy but here goes nothing #andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #pope cody #pope cody x reader #tw kidnapping

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ask-the-rag-dolly · 16 hours ago

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ragatha is NOT abstracting* and i will bury myself six foot under that hill

* well , i don't think she'll FULLY abstract . _____

i know this may be shocking coming from Me , the ragatha angst enjoyer , who made an entire au where she's having a bad day 24/7 . i truly , do not believe that ragatha's going to get killed off . just . hear me out . sit down on this chair .

it's not even that she's my favorite character and i don't want her to die . the opposite , actually , i eat ragatha abstraction fanfics up . my problems are more ... well , it lies more on the writing .

first of all , let's remember what tadc is for a second ; it's a tonally hopeful show with messages about community and not being truly alone . even in episode 5 , where ragatha Goes Through It , it has a glimmer of hope through jax — where he finds a friend in pomni .

it's why i truly believe she'll have some form of positive development , because if Jax , the character that gooseworx said who's Most deserved to be stuck in the circus , can be happy ... then why couldn't ragatha ?

also . i Love assholes with repressed trauma as much as the next guy , but it'll be weird to make the guy who's been antagonistic to most of the cast thus far find more happiness than ..... the clearly-traumatized woman ...........

when you write a story with mentally ill characters and a hopeful message ... what does it say when you kill off one of them ? what does it say to the audience that relates to that character ? here's a hint — stuff that i would find IFFY to put in your show .

obviously , you can do literally anything as a writer , but picture this ; imagine setting up a character like ragatha . someone who has gone through abuse and a lot of trauma . desperate for a community to the point she grasps for any scraps of validation she gets . you put her in a show where every character find some form of hope in the situation they're in . she has shown herself to harbor some form of self-loathing .

by that point , you should see my problem with killing her off . once more : if she dies , what does it say to the audience who relates to that character ?

and now for my next question — what would it add to the show ? what message does it send and how does it add to the theme ? because ... any of the answers to those questions i can think of are NOT good answers considering the last paragraphs .

" it'll show that people truly cares even when you're gone " we'll have episode 2 again , but this time at the cost of a character we've gotten to know for the last five episodes . it'll make ragatha's time in the show a Total Waste . like cool , all she's been set up for the last five episodes is to Die ...

i sure do hope we don't have another dead character who tells the same message of people caring about you when you're gone and also had an entire funeral scene which will make all of this build-up so redundant — oh wait his name is kaufmo .

at that point you could just remove her and put kaufmo in her place , because it's just the Same Message being told . it'll be impactful to see a main character dying ... if that character isn't going to essentially make all of their scenes redundant in hindsight .

" it'll give the cast character development " but not ragatha ?? i will be real with you i will be so Mad if ragatha gets killed off as a catalyst for jax to have an epiphany or character development . like genuinely that would make me instantly drop the show , do Not get me started .

even then , the thing that's going on with ragatha thus far is her thinking nobody cares for her despite that it's the Opposite . by giving the other characters development instead of her in Her Own Arc is Terrible Writing and i'm not going to budge on that .

" it'll mark a tonal shift " an answer i'm slightly okay with , but let's take the above paragraphs again — it'll be iffy nonetheless . do i Love the idea of an unsatisfying character arc where it suddenly ends , therefore breaking the formula that's been set since the beginning ? yes ! would i love it in this specific case considering the context of the show and its themes ? very much Not !

i know these arguments are more of an opinionated , ' think of how that'll work into the story ' rather than actual proof , but when it comes to making predictions , the tadc fandom doesn't really stop and think about how it adds to a character or story beyond It'll Be Shocking . for this theory specifically , i can't see a Good narrative reason to kill off ragatha without stepping on at least one land mine . as someone familiar with writing stories with mentally ill characters — it'll get Weird quick !

do i accept that there could be a Tiny possibility that ragatha Does abstract ? absolutely . i do trust gooseworx's ability as a writer enough to Maybe make this sting less when it actually does happen , but i'll very much criticize it .

so ! i don't think she Wouldn't abstract 100% though . because by this point it's inevitable that she'll sink into the darkness in some way . keep in mind that Barely Anything goes right for this girl . i don't think she'll die , but a very public mental breakdown is inevitable . at most , i see a fake-out abstraction . you know . one where she gets pulled out of it at the last second . just to scare the fans .

personally , do you know what would be more impactful than a death ? a character that fully believes she'll die alone and unloved being proven Wrong . episode 5 has shown how the other characters Care for her . imagine her spiraling and thinking that nobody cares if she abstracts , only to realize that there are people by her side . shit that would actually make me cry , i'm not gonna lie .

she will get a BIG group hug and she'll cry and i would also cry and we crew and we crode and i don't know maybe i'll be wrong Shrugs let's see this post age like milk LOL

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc ragatha #[ ooc ]#[ ESSAY WARNING ]#tadc spoilers

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cbeargyu · 2 days ago

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跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

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chamisulgrape · 2 days ago

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THE SUMMER I TURNED PRETTY 𖤐 [trailer]

One summer. 4 boys. Follow Y/N as she navigates her first heartbreak, first love, friendship and forbidden romance. (Or, before parting ways, y/n and her sister decide to have one last summer together. With her best friend since diapers, her sister's boyfriend, her sister's boyfriend's brother, and your best friend's older brother--the boy she's been in love with since forever, there's really no way this could go wrong. Right?)

ᢉ𐭩 acts i | acts ii | release date: tbd (soon)

word count → trailer wc: 741 | full fic: tbd starring → heeseung lee as the sister's boyfriend, jongseong park as heeseung lee's younger brother, sunghoon park as the first love and jake's older brother, and jaeyun sim as childhood best friend, side characters from other groups tags → tsitp au, slice of life (ish), love squares, trope galore, smut, angst, jealousy, some fluff, rivalry, sexual tension, yearning/pining (always) rating → 18+ a/n → i've been wanting to write this since the first season came out but never got around to it, so what better time than now! i had a wip i was working on as well, and decided instead of the og idea it'd be perfect to start this one! i know many people are waiting for parts of my other works, but this has been rotting inside my brain for so long hehe.. so excited to write this one :3 cr. to yanalee for the hyungline picture! taglist → open! pls send ask or reply to be added to the taglist for this (if u r not alrdy on my perm taglist) fic playlist here! | back to my masterlist

♪ 'cause i took so much time to reset my life, but in just one look, i'm back, now all i remember is what we had nobody, nobody, nobody compares to you somebody, somebody please help me get over you

Every summer since you can remember, there’s been a tradition.

It started with your family’s beach house, somewhere a couple hours away. Every summer, your family and your mom’s best friend’s family stayed there together, making memories—a tradition your mom and her best friend didn’t want to die out.

For the first couple of years, it was just you, your sister—Yunjin, your best friend Jake, and his older brother. You can’t even remember meeting Jake. Your parents are best friends which made you two best friends automatically, so in hindsight, you’ve been friends since birth.

Jake was born first, a fact he makes sure to hold over you at any given moment, but it doesn’t really make a difference. “Thirty seconds doesn’t mean anything!” You’d say. “I came out first, suck it!” He’d reply.

Jake is also Yunjin’s best friend, obviously, but deep down, Jake was your best friend first. You guys are closer, anyways, ever since Yunjin and H—pause. We’ll get to this later.

Anyways, there was a point in your life where you absolutely hated Yunjin. It’s a rite of passage to sisterhood, you think. You hate each other until you don’t, and then it brings you closer together. You don’t really remember how or when it started, all you remember is that’s just how it was. Maybe it was the fact that she was way more popular than you and had too many friends that weren’t you, but you were also eight and she was nine, so it must’ve been something stupid and petty.

You can’t even remember why, but you both laugh about it from time to time.

Even so, you, Yunjin, and Jake were always stuck together like glue. You spent almost every waking moment together. From being sisters and best friends to being seatmates at school, all of your memories are painted with Yunjin and Jake right beside you. Their parents used to even joke about Jake and Yunjin getting married and growing old together. Yunjin would roll her eyes, Jake would laugh, and Jake’s older brother would tease them without end.

Ah, Jake’s older brother. How could you forget to mention him?

Sunghoon Park is… you don’t think there are enough words to describe him. Although ninety-nine-percent of your memories were made with Yunjin and Jake, the one-percent that will always stand out the most to you are the ones you’ve made with Sunghoon.

During the small period of time that you drifted from Yunjin out of spite and pettiness, you found yourself finding solstice in Sunghoon. You’d always thought that Sunghoon was the coolest person you’d ever met. Jake thought Sunghoon was a huge loser, but you felt like you saw through the whole cold-hearted, chic vibe he tried to give off.

That was all crushed the day you realized that the adoration you felt was actually a big, huge crush.

You liked Sunghoon years before you even knew what a crush was, only realizing it two years into middle school. You remember it like it was yesterday: a hot summer day, Sunghoon smiling at you a certain way while passing you a glass of crisp, ice water, and the feeling that erupted like an explosive damn volcano in your stomach.

You finally understood what your classmates were saying when they talked about crushes and butterflies.

From then on, the four of them were as follows: you and Yunjin, your older sister. Jake, yours and Yunjin’s childhood best friend. And Sunghoon, Jake’s untouchable, cool older brother who you will forever be in love with.

There are no secrets too big or small between you, Jake and Yunjin, but this feeling is something that you wanted to keep to yourself. A small, curious and self-indulgent garden of flowers in your heart that you wanted to tend to alone for once.

You had thought that this was just a harmless infatuation. You never planned to actually do anything about it in fear of rejection and losing Jake, but from spending time with Sunghoon in your younger years to growing up beside the Park siblings, you had been hopelessly falling in love.

Looking back now, you wish you had fallen in love with anyone else. Either way, anything would’ve hurt less than this.

Wait, you haven’t even gotten to the rest of the story yet. Well, buckle in, because there’s two more boys you haven’t mentioned yet and a whole summer ahead of you—and it’s going to be one hell of a ride.

#chamisulgrape #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #enhypen imagines #enhypen scenarios #enhypen hyungline #sunghoon x reader #jake x reader #jay x reader #heeseung x reader #enhypen fanfic

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hungrydata · 1 day ago

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Ok so, ik I'm busy, but I can't NOT talk about the new episode. So...

SPOILER WARNING FOR EPISODE 5 OF THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS

I won't write an essay now, but holy gosh moly. This episode was great. And I hate that it ends with a cliffhanger. But it makes sense since Goose said that eps 5&6 were focused on both Jax & Ragatha, so they are very likely tied together (hopefully we don't have to wait another 6 months, but you also can't rush art of course)

I also don't want to break down the episode, there are people who can do that way better than me. I just wanna talk about some fun stuff.

First of all, I tried my best to figure out what everbody's saying here (Only Jax is subtitled in english, however the other two are as well in other languages, so I used them if I had difficulties with what they're saying):

everything I am not 100% sure about or was roughly translated via the different language subtitles, is written in brackets

JAX: I very much did not enjoy that one in the slightest. If we ever do anything even close to that again, I'm getting violent, and I'm going to kill Ragatha.

GANGLE: Uh... I... don't really think it [brought out the best in me], even if it [was the cause of my mask].

RAGATHA: Oh, I really do not think [I was that innocent at] that time, I [did release] (?) some things I normally never say.

I know that some of this is not accurate or something is missing, but it's really difficult to understand what Ragatha and Gangle are saying. Therefore if you know anything, help is very much appreciated!

_______________________________________________

Now I wanna talk about rather obscure stuff. Like Kinger being right handed. I never posted anything about it, but I discussed with my friend about what each circus member's dominant hand was (bc I was bored, can you blame me?) and while I still think that the animators just use whatever looks good and can bring the message across the best (like Gangle sometimes drawing with her left hand and with her right hand, based on what perspective we view her, or how basically most characters use their left and right hand for difficult tasks equally, just so that the viewers can see it better, and it's probably easier to animate as well if you don't have to think about it)

Anyways, Kinger is right handed confirmed to me. (Jax is left handed, tho I need to rewatch all episodes and shorts on Glitch's channel to get more information about that, same with the other chars, tho I'm 98% convinced that both Jax and Gangle are left handed, tho that might just be delusion idk)

Btw the Anime and Intermission section were beautiful. Now we know why it took so long, but it was definitely worth it.

Also RIBBUN AND MAID DRESS HALLELUJAH!

ngl this looks funny

I feel like the shippers are going crazy with this one, especially people who ship Funnybunny (and the Bunnydoll Nation is either in shambles or enjoy it as much as the time Ragatha got deep fried.)

As a Ribbun enjoyer, I am definitely eating the toxic crumbs up like Jax did eat Gangle. Also thank you Goose for giving us so many great catchphrases that I am going to use from now on.

Also, THE LORE. And why can I genuinely relate so much with Jax. Why. Idk how to feel about this. And he actually cares let's gooo!

And I gotta say. Love the beef between Jax and Ragatha, and I also like the friendship between Jax and Pomni that slowly but surely develops. I also like the detail that here, Pomni votes against the maid dress. I could imagine that she just thinks it's childish, but it's also a sign that she knows Jax would hate it and wouldn't want to stir chaos.

ALSO HE SAID THE LINE HE SAID THE LINE!

You detached it yourself, idiot.

Welp I'm outta pictures to post here. There's alot more like Jax having a friend that looks like a frog, and Goose mentioned in one post that the person that abstracted before Kaufmo was called Ribbit (yk, like the sound a frog makes). I thinke there's likely a connection. And considering that Pomni was supposed to be a frog first, maybe that's how Jax and Pomni also will become closer friends. Can't wait for the next episode

And knowing what Goose said, it's not gonna be a wholesome one. After all, even tho 5&6 are split between Ragatha and Jax, this was still the Ragatha episode, and the next one will be "more centered" around Jax. I'm scared.

Also as much as it pains me, I think Gangle will be the one to abstract. The fact that she didn't have an evil doppelganger and with the teaser of her symbol loading, it's too much of a coincidence to not happen. Pls don't Gangle you're my baby ;;-;;.

(so much so to "not an essay" lmao. "Not an essay" my ass)

Also. DaY 172 bc yes

#the amazing digital circus #tadc episode 5 #tadc #tadc episode 5 spoiler #tadc spoilers #tadc spoiler #tadc theory #pomni #jax #ragatha #kinger #gangle #zooble #ribbun #funnybunny #bunnydoll #i won't tag every character x character here now I already wasted too much time writing this

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kaysfanficcorner · 3 days ago

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The Camgirl and the Millionaire, Part 1

Pairing: Harry Castillo x Camgirl Reader

Summary: What are you going to tell him when he asks about your job again? Lie. That's what.

Author's Note: Hello and welcome to my Harry Castillo story. This unicorn gutted me last weekend with that horn of his and I haven't been able to scrub him from my mind. I needed a little break from Din and his Earthling and Harry was just what the doctor ordered! So please enjoy this fun exercise in the meantime. I'd like to thank my crazy best friends for their encouragement and @whocaresstillthelouvre for inspiring me to want to write a camgirl story with her Din Djarin AU Fifteen (Go read it if you haven't). Harry was giving Richard Gere in Pretty Woman at times and so I found myself struck with inspiration to write a sex worker character. So the inspo here is certainly drawing from Pretty Woman, Anora, and Fifteen but with my own spin on things. This will be a liar revealed story with some angst, so be warned! I'm a big baby about angsty fics usually so we'll see how this goes.

Warnings: Reader is a sex worker/camgirl; Reader is thick/curvy but with minimal physical descriptions; Reader smokes weed; Harry desperately wants to fall in love; Lying is stressful and bad; Cursing; No smut yet, but there is a reference to Cam's sessions; Mild descriptions of sex toys in use; Again, reader is a sex worker so this story is going to be riddled with smut.

Minors DNI, strictly 18+ as always

Ao3

*****

Harry Castillo was fairly certain he was incapable of love. Even after what Lucy said the night she dumped him, he wasn't sure that was truly in the cards for him. God he felt so fucking silly and childish for wanting it so fucking bad. Harry was certain that he thought about love more than he assumed most men his age in his line of work do. Certainly more than he ever expected to as a young man.

He'd wanted to propose to Lucy because she was the closest he's ever come to what he supposed the possibility of it feels like. Creeping up on 50 with his parents breathing down his neck about how he was far too old to be playing the debonair millionaire bachelor routine anymore felt like enough of a reason to wed her. He respected her, he felt like he could trust her, and he definitely enjoyed fucking her. But she'd been right when she said he didn't love her. He didn't, not in that way he felt so foolish for dreaming about. Something was missing with her, and he supposed that was it.

Perhaps, had that final encounter in his kitchen ended differently, he could have eventually felt it with her. But he wasn't sure if that was even true or just more wishful thinking. So, disappointed as he was, Harry knew it was probably for the best not to allow Lucy to waste her life on wishful thinking.

He's dated large handfuls of women and he's sure he's never once felt it. Women from good families and backgrounds, as well as some women with some not so great credentials. All shapes and sizes. Good choices and some not so good ones in his younger days.

But he's never felt that fluttering feeling that gets deep in his chest when he's all by himself indulging in his guiltiest of pleasures; a film with some good romance in it. When Billy Crystal is giving his big speech to Meg Ryan at the end of When Harry Met Sally , and Harry Castillo sits there drinking wine and fighting back tears, there's this swelling ache of wanting deep inside of him. No one's ever made him feel that .

Harry saw that feeling on Lucy's face when the ex-boyfriend interrupted them at the wedding, and again the night Harry accompanied her to her ex-boyfriend's play. Try as Lucy wanted to deny it to herself, the two of them were still very much in love. He heard they'd run to the courthouse and gotten married shortly after his and Lucy's breakup, and that was when he had his assistant return the engagement ring.

A few dates with women from Adore were enough to turn him off of their services very quickly, and he canceled that account after only one month.

Matchmaking, surgeries, expensive dates? How much money was it going to cost him to find someone to share his life with? Poor people fall in love all the time. Constantly. In New York City it's everywhere. People are sickeningly sweet and publicly showing the world that they are it for each other even when they have nothing else. The public displays of emotion have always baffled him, much as he would like to know what compels a person to act like that without a care of who sees.

Perhaps that really is the key, and he's been looking at this all wrong. Lucy said that she was the type to fight in the middle of the street, and then she went and married the guy whom Harry assumes that little anecdote had been about. What does passion like that feel like with another person?

Harry Castillo is a man who has everything in the world a man could ever want. But he doesn't have that. And until he met you, he was certain he never would.

*****

“Stop everything and get your nicest fucking outfit together! Chop! Chop! We've got somewhere to be!” Vanessa, your roommate of eight years and your ride or die comes bursting into your bedroom as you lay across the bed with a book out in front of you. Her tan skin and dark hair are a contrast to the light pink silky dress she's wearing. The frock is far more elegant than things she usually wears to go out, similar to the dress Carrie wore to the prom. She's got her hair up in a tasteful bun with a few locks framing her face, and the nicest jewelry she owns.

Eyes narrowing at your friend, you take in her appearance for a long moment knowing full well that she's once again up to no good. “What are you talking about? We definitely do not have plans. It's my night off and I was finally getting to the good smut in this romance novel. This and takeout sushi are the only things on my agenda for tonight, thank you very much.”

Vanessa scoffs, coming over to the bed to slam the book shut and read the title. She gives no fucks about making you lose your place or pinching your finger, and you glare at her as she giggles and looks back at you. “Do you want to lay in bed and fantasize about some vampire prince all night or do you want to come with me to a super fancy charity event for the Puerto Rican youth centers around the city?”

Eyebrows raising, your interest is certainly piqued. “What charity event? You're not charitable and usually you have to donate to these causes to get into these events.”

“This one is at work,” Vanessa clarifies. She works as a waitress at a prestigious restaurant and events venue. The kind of place you could have never afforded on your own before your career shift and you're certainly not well-to-do enough to get invited to kinds of high-end events that take place there. Vanessa has seen some of the most important people in New York at this job.

Your line of work allows for a very comfortable lifestyle, but life in New York is still expensive and there are corners of this city not meant for people of your social stature. Vanessa's work is most certainly one of those places.

“If you picked up an extra shift, I'm not going to come work it with you if that's what you're asking. I'm doing just fine with money these days if you haven't noticed.” As you say this, you sit up finally and lean over to grab the bong and lighter off your nightstand. Flicking the green bic, you take a decent size pull and enjoy the sound of the water bubbling before blowing it out and sitting it back down.

“Yes, yes. The little internet goth slut routine is finally paying off. Good for you,” Vanessa says with a roll of the eyes. She still hasn't given up on her dream of stage acting like you did a few years ago, but she would never truly shame you for your line of work. You know she’s kidding.

You moved to New York after dropping out of college to chase your dreams. A few years of rejections and a crappy play here or there got old after a while. It slowly became apparent to you that you moved to New York not to chase some dream of being creative in the way that your friend did. You moved to New York to chase after the dream of a very specific high-end lifestyle. A lifestyle which allows for the nicest luxuries life has to offer, and that requires much more money than that of a bartender and struggling stage actress. Now you find that acting behind a camera is more your thing.

Only you tend to do it with little to no clothes on... and most of the time with a toy stuffed in one or both of your holes as you act out whatever depravity your clients are paying you for. The more depraved the more they pay.

You're an online sex worker, though very few people actually know this about you besides Vanessa.

In order to hide your identity you've created a character and a look which, truthfully, doesn't betray who you really are all that much. The market for slightly chunky, vaguely goth girls in the world of online sex is very high. You were already both of those things to begin with, so with some wigs and some drastic makeup, you easily make yourself into someone else when the camera is rolling in the spare room you've turned into your studio. You pay more of the rent to use the extra room, and the investment proved to be well worth it in the end. You've got yourself a nice little empire going, and you're making more money than you've ever had in your life. So much money it's shocking every time you check your bank account.

You used to think that the ultimate dream was to find yourself a rich husband, but learning to take what you want out of life without someone else giving it to you has changed your perspective on the matter entirely. If you meet a man you intend to marry, you want that marriage to be based solely on love. A rich husband wouldn't hurt, of course, but then again what little girl from a poor family in a shitty small town doesn't dream of a Cinderella story all her own? The love of your life could be on the verge of poverty or have the highest salary in Manhattan. So long as he loves you, respects you, and doesn't care that you made your fortune helping lonely, desperate men and women to achieve orgasm starting at $300 a session… Sometimes up to twenty five sessions a week.

And you are so hopelessly and desperately craving real love in the way that your clients crave real sex. It's the one thing you feel you don't have now that you find you aren't wanting for anything else.

$400 haircut? No problem. $500 coat you just had to have and couldn't possibly live without? It's yours. And damn does it look good on you. A weekend trip to Italy just for pasta and wine? Why the hell not?

But the one thing you really crave in the middle of the night is to be held by someone who loves everything about you, good and bad. Someone you can't help but love back.

“Dude, fuck off. I swear I'm going to just go without you since you're not even listening to me. High ass bitch,” Vanessa says with a disappointed huff, but just as she turns to leave your room she stops in the threshold and turns her head to throw a devilish smirk over her shoulder. “I guess I was wrong about you wanting to see our mutual favorite musician perform a super secret private charity concert. Oh well. I guess I'll have to let you know if he's really that hot in person since you're going to stay home and read .”

That pulls your attention from your stoned thoughts, and your eyes widen. “Wait, Van! What are you fucking saying? Are you fucking with me right now?”

“I dunno, are you going to listen to your best friend or not?”

“Yes, bitch! I'm sorry. Tell me!”

“Well you know I'm seeing Charles now,” Vanessa starts, and you can't help but roll your eyes. Charles is the only thing Vanessa has talked about for the last four months. He's British, he’s hot, and he owns the events venue side of the business. They've been seeing each other in secret, so as not to give the appearance of favoritism. If you had to guess, he'll be proposing by Christmas with how in love they seem to be.

You're only a little jealous.

“How could I forget Charles ,” you say his name in a deep, sexy voice. One you use for work all the time.

“ Ew , don't do that,” Vanessa cringes with a scrunched nose. Then she shakes her head, glaring at you playfully. “Anyway, jerk , Charles informed me this morning who the secret guest at the charity event is going to be. When I lost my mind and told him how much we love this person, Charles told me he would sneak me and you in if we promise to keep a low profile and behave ourselves. He made someone switch shifts with me just so we can do this! God, he really is the best boyfriend, isn't he?”

So much for the appearances of favoritism. He's definitely going to propose. But that's irrelevant, as you scramble to get up to your feet and move for your closet to find one of your best dresses. Ignoring Vanessa's gushing over Charles, you ask, “You can't be seriously talking about who I think you're talking about. Can you?! ”

*****

Harry Castillo finds himself bored to tears at yet another hoity-toity charity event. This one is for the Puerto Rican youth centers that are in dire need of renovations and staffing. Being the richest man in Manhattan with a Latin American family background, it's fairly expected that Harry both donate to and attend events like this when it is something that benefits the Hispanic community. The cause itself does mean something to him personally, but that doesn't mean he finds these kinds of events to be terribly interesting. It's always the same, and once one's been to twenty of these things it gets incredibly old. He’s been to countless of them since he was a young man.

The only difference tonight is that the guests are speaking Spanish more than he would hear at this sort of event and the food is culturally influenced. Though it warms him a little to have things feel less stuffy in that way, Harry's still bored out of his mind.

After rubbing elbows with uninteresting people he doesn't really care for and making enough of an appearance, Harry feels on the verge of leaving before the concert even starts. There have been rumors whispered throughout the elegant venue all evening about who is to perform, but even the anticipation of a surprise musical guest isn't enough to make Harry want to stay.

No, not until he accidentally bumps into the shoulder of a woman in her mid thirties waiting to order a drink at the open bar. He was figuring one more before calling for his driver, and he hadn't seen you standing there a moment ago.

“Excuse me, miss, that was my fault.” Harry apologizes, jaw dropping a little as you turn to look up at him through thick lashes.

When your eyes really cast over his face, they widen in a comically cute look of shock. Harry's a little beside himself as he takes in your face. It's beautiful, strikingly so. You're a little thicker than the girl who stands behind you in a plain pink dress, filling out your own tight, form fitting wine-red dress with curves he could get lost in. The garment looks expensive, more so than the pink dress. The pink dress is silky, whereas Harry's certain that the red dress is the real thing. It's got spaghetti straps, and a scooped neckline showing off impressive cleavage. You've paired it with black jewelry and black heels. Perfect hair in a well styled bun, but with pieces falling in your face. Tastefully simple makeup to bring out your eyes, and an air about you that says you do well for yourself. The friend looks a little out of place at an event like this, pretty as the other girl is with similar hair and makeup. The beauty in red, though, you look like you're right where you belong. But he's sure he's never seen you around before. He'd remember that face.

“That's okay, you barely bumped into me.” You say to him with a sweet smile, bowing your head a little in thanks. You seem like a nice girl to him at that moment, and he briefly thinks back to when he told Lucy he just wants a nice girl, and that he didn't care about credentials on a checklist. If you're nice, that also means you definitely don't run with this crowd very often. Perhaps you aren't so stuck up as the rest of the women here. It certainly comes off that way when you smile so sweetly up at him like that. He’s much taller than you are. Thank Christ for that stupid fucking surgery.

“I've never noticed you at one of these charity concerts before. I'm Harry,” he says, extending a hand. You look down at it briefly as if you haven't shaken a hand in a long while, eyebrows raising slightly as your rouged lips part. Again, your expression is so cute that Harry's a little beside himself, stomach lurching as you slowly slip a slender hand into his much larger one. He'd purposefully offered her his left hand so that he can see if you're wearing a wedding ring or not. There's a black ring on the middle finger... a bat? Oddly enough? He looks back at you and notices that your earrings also appear to be black bats, dangling upside down with their wings crossed in slumber. Interesting choices.

You introduce herself, shaking his hand twice before letting it drop. Harry just lets it hang there dumbly for a moment as you add, “And you've never seen me at one of these because this is my first time at one. My friend Vanessa here dragged me.”

“She won't be acting like such a professional party pooper in a little bit.” The other girl, Vanessa, says confidently with a bit of an accent to her speech pattern. He's certain she's a Spanish speaker, but not the one he suddenly finds himself interested in. He can't place the origins of your accent quite yet.

“Ohhh, so you're a professional party pooper? I was just about to ask what you do for a living.” Harry says, flashing his best teasing, but charming smile at you. He worries that he shouldn't have teased you so quickly after meeting you, though, when a look of mild panic washes over your face.

*****

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck do I say?

Your eyes meet the deep brown ones of the attractive man who suddenly approached you at this event that you originally didn't even want to come to, and nervousness floods your system for a brief moment. This man is painfully handsome. So much so that his face is enough to throw you off your game for a good couple of seconds. Then you feel Vanessa pinch your ass, and you sober up enough to quip back with something.

“Oh I'm number one in the business.” You say with a little bit of a giggle, hoping to deflect back to him for a moment as you add, “What about you? What do you do for a living?”

“I run a financial firm my mother started. Nothing exciting.”

“A woman-founded company! That is so exciting!”

“Yeah,” he fake sighs, shaking his head, “but unfortunately for her she had two sons. Her dream of a woman owned company was shattered when I had to take over.”

You nod thoughtfully. “Oh, bummer . Like a reverse kingdom where the king wants sons. I'm sure that gave you a complex growing up.”

Harry grins, flashing perfect white teeth. Lord have mercy on your soul when he does that. “Oh most certainly,” he says, laughing, “but I just drink about it. Do you want one?”

Also grinning, you agree, “Sure, I'll take a vodka soda with a splash of grenadine and lime.”

“So you are sweet, then,” Harry says with a raised brow, grin morphing into a confident smirk.

Your pulse quickens at the flirtation. “When I wanna be,” you flirt back, “I did only ask for a splash after all.”

“I'm gonna go find Charlie before the concert starts, can I leave you here?” Vanessa asks from somewhere behind you. You don't even turn around, nodding as you look up into the brown eyes that have a complete hold over you. She'll understand that you're not trying to be rude. This man is simply too beautiful to tear your gaze from him.

“Yeah, I'll be fine,” you say, watching him as he nods a goodbye to Vanessa and then finishes making his way up to the bar. He slides in next to you and orders your drink, then a Manhattan for himself. As he leans against the bar, you're truly taking in his appearance. About six feet tall, clearly wealthy, and clearly at least ten years older than you. His hair is a wavy dark brown, likely curly when left natural. But tonight he styled it with what is surely an expensive product. There isn't much gray on his head, but there are little patches of it nestled in the neatly kept short facial hair on his chin. His dark mustache adds such an extra layer of sex appeal to his appearance. It's obvious that he works out and eats well. He's got beautiful tan skin, and his hands look big and strong sticking out of the sleeves of his finely tailored black suit. Ironically, his tie and pocket square match your dress almost perfectly.

Thank Christ you went with this one. You truly feel your best in this thing. The first splurge for your closet after you started making serious money from your cam sessions. You'd never spent over two hundred dollars on a single piece of clothing before, and the feeling of trying it on at the high end boutique you bought it from and actually walking out with it was elating. There was no turning back after that. Vanessa had called you materialistic. You'd told her that life is too short not to be.

What are you going to tell him when he asks about your job again?

Lie. That's what.

*****

#harry castillo #pedro pascal #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo fic #harry castillo smut #materialists #harry castillo x female reader #harry castillo x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character x reader #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fluff

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irisintheafterglow · 1 day ago

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couldn't make it any harder

summary: being in love with dick grayson sucks. dick grayson being in love with you? possibly worse.

cw/tags: reformed playboy!dick grayson, childhood best friends to lovers, angst/fluff with happy ending, reader fell first but he is down BAD, explicit language, absolutely terrible communication on both sides

note: SHOUTOUT DICK GRAYSON FOR GETTING ME THROUGH MY WRITER'S BLOCK RAHHHH also i forgot how much i like writing angst, like even though it pains me to read it is sooooo fun to write angry characters lol. again this was supposed to be shorter but hey at least it's not big ol' one-shot 1k words it's 100 way from being that though

hope you like it :) hello dc enjoyers :) hello dick grayson enjoyers :)

"people like you don't fall for people like me."

there's a pause and everything is still except for the steady rain coming down in sheets. it's the furthest thing from a romantic moment, yet he still looks just as beautiful all the same. the water makes dick's suit glisten, the lightning blue bird in the middle of his chest catching glimmers of flickering streetlight. he looks like a symbol. he looks like a god. and there you were, without an umbrella, something between frustration and pure grief driving your words.

"you don't know that," he replies roughly. it would sting less if you had cursed his entire bloodline for generations to come. "you can't say that." you scoff.

"oh, can't i?" the muscle in his jaw tightens; you want to punch it. why he was angry, you had no idea, but the red in your vision was practically scarlet. "we've known each other our entire lives, grayson. you tell me how many times i've settled for whatever piece of shit comes my way because i've learned my lesson. i've fallen for people like you, however perfect and charming they are, and i know for a fact that they never fall back."

the bouquet of flowers that he'd kept in his fridge all day to bring you after patrol lies forgotten on the sidewalk. it'd been like this since you'd broken up with your last boyfriend four months ago, and your best friend began filling the void that your ex left behind. you didn't start thinking too much of it until dick started looking at you with too much care, a tenderness in his eyes that was setting off every alarm bell in your mind. suddenly, the constant excuses to see you, buy you dinner, clean up your apartment, and all the other times he simply appeared by your side made sense. you finally realize he was pitying you while you were sitting at your kitchen table, watching black clouds roll over the starless sky, and rushing out the door to get some air. he'd caught you walking aimlessly on an empty street, landing in front of you with a dramatic flourish that quickly deflated when he saw the way you were glowering at him.

"really? who, then?" he doesn't raise his voice but he does step close enough to almost be chest-to-chest, emboldened. he was the greatest detective in the city, for fuck's sake, and he's used his skills for his entire life to remember every little detail about you. dick knows everything, down to your shoe size and favorite pair of sheets, so it'd be a new experience for him to learn about one of your crushes that he hadn't already figured out. "what self-righteous, talk-of-the-town playboy did you fall for that made you think you deserve anything less than everything i want to give--"

oh.

the realization hits him right in the abdomen, sharp and present as a bullet.

it's him. he is the reason you think he'd never love you anymore than as a friend.

he can't tell if the moisture on your face is mostly rain or tears; the look on your face is worse than a punch to the stomach. your bottom lip trembles as you look up, close your eyes, and take a breath. yet, when you finally fill in the empty space in the argument, your voice is still helplessly shaky.

"i've been in love with you for my whole life, dick," you sniffle. "i've seen the way people fall at your feet, how you make them seem special and then move on like they were less than the dirt under your boots. you can't blame me for hitting the panic button when god forbid you start making me feel special." the rain starts to lighten. his fingers twitch at his sides, unsure of whether to wipe your tears or take your hands.

"i'm sorry," he murmurs, slowly raising his hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the fresh wave of emotions falling down your face. the world must be ending, you think to yourself. dick grayson is apologizing to you. "i'm sorry i ever made you think i was pitying you."

"do you actually pity me?"

"of course not," he answers without hesitation, his expression hardening into determination. you can't see his eyes behind the whites of his domino mask, but you can feel the intensity of his stare. "everything that i've done for you--been willing to do for you--has been because you deserve it." something softens in your face, your anger replaced by a sad, resolved smile.

"that doesn't change the fact that i've become another notch in your belt." his eyebrows furrow.

"how so?"

"you can add me to that list in your phone of people who fall for you that you don't love back." he shakes his head.

"i can't."

"why not?"

"because i was under the impression that people like you don't fall for people like me," he breathes, his face dipping closer to yours. you allow both of his hands to gently hold your face. "but for the first time, i'm glad to be wrong." before you could reply, his mouth is on yours, slowly, reverently. he kisses you like a promise, his hands slipping to tighten on your hips as if you'd fall through his hands if he let go. "i love you," he whispers in between breaths, over and over and over again. "i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you."

above, the stars finally begin to twinkle.

star divider by @enchanthings :)

#dick grayson x reader #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x y/n #nightwing x reader #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n #dc x you #dc x reader #dc x y/n

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riricatria · 1 day ago

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Helloo~

"Moments of Weakness" as in the reader taking L's left and right by being uncooperative with the yanderes. This idea was cooking up in my mind for a long time, and then I got heavily inspired by @thehatboxwitch for the post, specifically this one. I ate that up, such a good piece, mwah (づ ̄ ³ ̄)づ

The Amphoreus men and Jiaoqiu? Yes, I know, odd combo. I was done with the first three but then I got an insane inspo surge to write for the fox man as well, and thus this piece was born. I haven't really written short-form content ever, so this is like a test run for me. Let me know if you vibe with it!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Characters include: Mydei, Anaxa, Phainon and Jiaoqiu

CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Yandere content (ALTHOUGH this is not on the heavy end of the spectrum. It's kind of fluffy), cisfem!Reader, unwanted touching, manipulation, the JQ one has periods and a vague mention of sexual stuff (but nothing explicit).

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post.

˗ˏˋ ★ Mydei

You wake up on the cold, hard floor of your room in the high tower of Castrum Kremnos. Judging from the limited view you have of the sky through the window, the time must be somewhere between midnight and the early hours of the morning.

You’ve barely been able to get any sleep at all, truth to be told. The piece of clothing you gathered into a ball hardly served as a substitute for a pillow, and your neck has gone painfully stiff from the odd position you have rested in. Your back aches, and a faint rash has formed on one of your shoulders where it has been pressed against the coarse ground.

You prop yourself up on your elbows. In the darkness, you’re only able to make out the silhouette of the man lying on the bed. Mydei’s back is turned to you, and his body steadily heaves up and down in the rhythm of his breathing. He seems to be fast asleep.

The soft, plump mattress has never looked as tempting as it does now. Your shared comforter is partially hanging off the side of the bed, drooping just out of your reach.

In hindsight, the obstinacy you demonstrated earlier tonight by demanding to sleep on the floor was beyond ridiculous. Mydei let you know that then, telling you how childish you were being, but your pride got the best of you. Though, as you recall his harsh words and the dour clicks of his tongue, you’re still of the opinion that your reaction was at least somewhat justified.

You rub your hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm yourself up. Not having been granted the luxury of a blanket on the floor, your extremities have gone cold and numb. Shivers of nightly fatigue rake your skin. You huff to yourself.

Mydei’s form stirs. He lets out a rough exhale before turning over on the bed to face you. His piercing gaze fixates on your pitiful form.

”Stubborn woman”, he derides you in a groggy voice, propping his head up to rest it against his palm. ”You prefer to suffer rather than swallow your pride?”

”Shut up”, you answer with equal spite.

”Get in the bed and rest your night peacefully”, he then commands, sweeping his fingers over the empty spot next to him.

”I said shut up, Mydei.”

You fluff up your make-shift pillow and settle back down on the ground, turning your back to the man. Despite the way the reddened patch on your shoulder aches, you simply tug your sleeve over it and call it a day.

Mydei scoffs at you before rolling back over. You silently celebrate the small win, but you can’t deny the way your fatigue-struck mind weeps when you peek at him and come to find that he has pulled the comforter further away from you. The action is deliberate on his end, no doubt, and you can’t help but clench your teeth in bitterness.

You’re so tired. You’re so fucking tired, but there’s no way you’re going to let him have what he wants. Mydei truly excels at bringing out your mean side: Pleasing him is the last thing you want to do, and if that comes at the cost of sleeping on the ground, so be it. You settle your head on the clump of cloth and close your eyes.

But there’s no chance you’re going to get any sleep as you are. The truth is quite apparent, and it stings, but the sheer exhaustion you feel is dulling out the little wrath that remains in your being.

Not even a minute after, you slowly push yourself off the floor, careful not to make any sound. Not that you actually succeed in the latter — Mydei could probably even hear your heartbeat from where he’s lying if he tried hard enough — but it’s more for your own sake than his, anyway.

Judging from how he has gone back to resting, he’s probably weary enough not to get mean. You cautiously rise on your toes to peek over him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but you’re unable to determine if his eyes are open or not.

The mattress dips as you set your weight on it. You stifle a sigh of relief as you finally get to bury your head in the thick cushions, to pull the covers over your freezing form and soon allow yourself to drift into a deep slumber. Though, a wrench is thrown in your plans as you’re only able to get the comforter halfway across your body: The thing is stuck under Mydei’s broad back.

He doesn’t move an inch as you wordlessly tug on the blanket. It’s quite obvious that he’s being difficult on purpose, that he wants to make his point as much as you want to make yours, and damn is it getting to you.

”Mydei”, you hiss out his name.

He doesn’t react. If you didn’t know better, you would think that he has fallen asleep again, but taking the context into account, you’re a hair’s breadth away from snapping at him.

”Mydei!” you repeat a little louder, smacking your hand against the pillows, right next to his head. No response.

”Mydei, for fuck’s sake-!”

Your sentence is cut short as the man suddenly lunges at you, catching you completely off guard. The strained yelp you let out is muffled by his bare chest as he pulls your body flush against his. In a split second, his arms wrap around your back, effectively trapping you in place.

His skin is searing hot against yours. The hem of your shirt is dragged up as he plants the palm of his hand on your upper back. For good measure, he swings one of his legs over yours to keep you still. All of it happens in a single moment, and he doesn’t grant you the time to do anything about it.

You consider protesting. There’s no escaping Mydei’s squeeze; his hold is much too tight, but he might give up the fight if you put up enough resistance. You could scratch at him, you could start screeching at the bottom of your lungs, and eventually, he would be bound to become irritated enough to let you sleep on your own.

But the warmth. The heat that emanates from his form is nearly blissful. It seeps into your frigid limbs, lulling your sleep-deprived mind into the comfort that is his protective embrace. Your body turns against you.

You allow your shoulders to fall lax. Slowly, your hands pull back from where they were shoving against Mydei’s ribs mere moments ago. In response to your new-found obedience, he strokes his thumb along the curve of your shoulder blade, further encouraging you to relax against him. He lets out a content exhale against the crown of your head.

In the back of your mind, your ego is sobbing at the loss of yet another battle against your captor. Nevertheless, you let yourself sink into the comfort of the bed, deciding to save the fight for when the morning arrives.

˗ˏˋ ★ Phainon

There’s something off about his usual smile today. The way he’s looking at you from where he leans against the wall with his arms leisurely crossed, there’s something off. His gaze is fixed directly on you, keenly following your every movement as if he’s expecting something of you.

”... What?” you ask him, peering at his form, though your words come out as more of a comment than a question.

”Hm?” he tilts his head to the side with a tad bit too much excitement in his expression. ”What’s up?”

Your brows knit together. Doubting his sincerity, you’re almost scared to turn your back to him as you scan the room with your eyes. Although, after a quick look, nothing too obvious seems to have changed: You let your gaze wander over the couch, the bed, the door, the-

”Phainon, what happened to the chairs?” you point at the vacant spot under the table.

”Ah, those!” Phainon pushes himself off the wall and walks over to the bed, sitting down with one leg propped atop the other. ”I put them in the kitchen.”

You squint your eyes at the man.

”And why would you do that?” you gesture at the now empty floor.

”Mm, no reason.”

Phainon shrugs in a rather innocent manner, but the smile on his features tells an entirely different story. So, you continue scrutinizing your surroundings, carefully looking over each and every piece of furniture until your eyes land on the nightstand beside the bed.

”The book?” you turn your attention back to the man. ”Where did you put the book?”

”Oh, I put it up there”, Phainon responds, nudging his head towards the bookshelf beside the door.

You follow his gaze all the way up the highest ledge on the shelf, and there, you spot the familiar piece of Okheman literature you’ve been invested in for the past couple of days. As you put the puzzle pieces together, Phainon’s scheme becomes quite apparent to you.

”... Really?” you ask him, spreading your arms in disbelief.

”Hey, don’t be like that”, Phainon gives you a sympathetic look. ”Do you need help reaching it?”

You let your hands fall back to your sides. Then, you close your eyes and take in a deep breath to calm the exasperation that threatens to boil over inside you. Instead of lashing out, you silently make your way over to the shelf and pick out a random piece.

”I’m good, thanks”, you tell Phainon in a dry tone.

”Oh, alright”, he gives you a smile in response. ”Let me know if you change your mind.”

You roll your eyes at him. Making your way over to the couch, you plop down on the cushions and open the book on the first page.

It’s in a completely foreign language. You don’t understand a single word plastered on the paper, but it’s much too late to put the thing back on the shelf now. Even without looking, you know that Phainon’s attention is on you, and you don’t dare to even glance at him to make sure in case he gets any ideas. You wonder what Aeon you have angered to have been granted such rotten luck when it comes to standing your ground: It seems that no matter what you do, he always gets his way.

You don’t even know if you’re holding the book the right way up. The symbols are all squiggly, and you don’t have as much as an educated guess on what the text is about. A sigh makes it past your lips. If there’s anything positive to be found in the situation, though, it’s that most likely, Phainon is none the wiser about it. Why he even has a book like this in his home, you don’t have the slightest clue. Moreover, he doesn’t seem like the type to read in his free time, either, so the chances of him recognizing the cover are quite low — at least you hope so.

You make the mistake of peeking at him. Sure enough, the couple of bright blue eyes are eagerly observing you from where the guy is sitting on the sheets. His gaze doesn’t fail to meet yours for a brief moment just as you turn your head away.

Time has never moved at such a slow speed. The seconds drag on and on as you pretend to be invested in the intelligible story in your hands. You let your eyes travel over the rows of characters as if you were actually reading, but you can’t help the way your attention strays to the sight of your original novel sitting at the top shelf, far out of your reach. With each moment passing, the little patience you have left drains out of your body until you have none left.

You smack the book down on the couch with a huff. Phainon visibly perks up, and you can almost imagine a fluffy tail wagging wildly against his back.

”I changed my mind”, you speak out, standing up from your spot and walking over to the shelf. ”Help me get the book.”

”Sure thing”, Phainon is quick to rush to your side. ”I thought Kremnoan poems might not be to your taste, heh.”

You bite the inside of your lip and pray to whatever deity is watching over you that the blush isn’t visible on your cheeks.

”This one, right?” Phainon rises on his toes to pick the familiar hardcover from the top ledge before handing it to you. ”There you go. What do we say?”

”I’m not gonna thank you for that”, you snap at him, snatching the thing off his hand and pulling it to your chest.

”Too much?” Phainon answers the show of defiance with a smile. ”Heh, you’re so cute.”

You flinch a little as his hand lands on the top of your head, ruffling your hair until it resembles a bird’s nest. His touch then trails lower to your cheek where he strokes his knuckles along the bone.

”My pretty thing”, he sighs with contentment.

˗ˏˋ ★ Anaxa

Never in your life have you had to fight this hard to stay awake. Not once, at any point, have you been this determined not to let your lashes fall shut as you listen to Anaxa yap on and on about some academic discovery he made a year or two ago. Truth to be told, you haven’t been listening to a single word, and you don’t have the faintest idea on what he’s going on about.

Your train of thought is so sluggish that you’re barely aware of your surroundings, and your head is throbbing hot. In contrast, the rest of your body is shivering, practically trembling from the cold. It doesn’t seem to be the room, though: Anaxa doesn’t appear to be the least bit bothered by the temperature, having stripped himself of the cloak he usually wears. You would like nothing more than to burrow under the blankets on your shared bed and sleep for the next three days.

But you have to stay awake. He promised that if you were to stay up until 10, the two of you could go for a quick walk in the Grove. He hasn’t ”had time” to take you outside in nearly a week now, and you’re not about to miss a chance like this. Being trapped in a small space and forced to endure the man’s presence is a challenge in a league of its own, and if you were a person of any weaker resolve, you would’ve gone insane ages ago.

”— and that would be the reason why”, he concludes.

The last two minutes of his monologue could as well have been spoken to a wall. It’s difficult to concentrate on his words through the haze that drowns out your senses. Your muscles ache terribly, and your entire body is drenched in clammy sweat. You feel so miserable that the thought of giving up the fight seems almost euphoric, but you’re not about to back down now that you’re mere moments away from the clock striking the next hour. The victory is so close that you can almost feel the fresh, crisp outside air on your skin. It’s only a few more minutes away; a few more minutes of holding out against falling off your chair.

Anaxa’s hand enters your field of view where you’ve been blankly staring at the table for the past half an hour. He taps his index finger against the wood to catch your attention, and it takes you a good few seconds to even register the action. You raise your gaze, slowly blinking a couple of times before your eyes land on his form.

”Can we go now...?” you ask him. As desperately as you’re trying to hide it, your voice tells on your fatigue as you speak.

”We agreed on 10 PM, did we not?” Anaxa tilts his head to the side, towards the clock on the wall.

You don’t have the energy to talk back to him. He’s so infuriatingly punctual when it comes to just about anything that you wonder how the pink-haired priestess is able to stand his company for more than a minute. You only give him a half-hearted, joyless smile in response before going back to staring. He sighs.

Anaxa’s chair creaks as he stands up, walking out of your sight. You pull your knees up on your seat, pressing yourself into a little ball in order to preserve the little warmth you have left in your body. You don’t dare to close your eyes even for a moment in case the fatigue were to catch up with you. Instead, you remain in your spot, as still as a statue and barely conscious.

A cold hand comes to touch your shoulder from behind. You’re much too slow to turn around before your vision is obscured as he reaches for your face. Gently, he gathers your hair off your forehead and presses his fingers against your heated skin.

”How long were you planning on keeping this facade of yours up?” he then asks, his hand moving a little lower in favour of checking both sides of your cheeks as well.

You don’t respond to him. Instead, you only let out a quiet sigh.

It’s obvious; you’re running a sky-high fever. There’s no way of getting around it — the best remedy to a sickness such as this is rest — however, your desire to go outside is much greater than any flu you have caught.

”I’m feeling okay”, you lie through your teeth, bending forward in order to rid yourself of his touch.

”Preposterous”, Anaxa comments in his usual, stark tone of voice. Not paying mind to how you’re clearly trying to withdraw from him, he moves the collar of your shirt aside in favour of pressing his hand against the back of your neck, feeling for the temperature. ”One such as you ought to know better than this, no?”

”I can wait until 10”, you insist.

”Is that so?”

He pulls away from you. You follow him with your eyes, watching as he makes his way to the door in quick strides.

”Well, then”, he beckons you towards him with his fingers. ”Let’s be on our way.”

You grasp the back of your chair with both hands, summoning up the strength to see the endeavour through. Your entire body trembles as you begin pushing yourself off the seat.

Anaxa observes with curious eyes as you manage to balance yourself on your wobbly legs. For a moment, he can see the way your face lights up at the success, but your joy is short-lived: He merely quirks his brow when one of your knees gives out, and you topple down on the floor a mere meter away from the table.

He lets out a mix of a huff and a laugh. You’re quick to scramble back up, trying your absolute best to find your footing, but the sight of him is spinning, and your limbs have gone numb. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for you to slump back down on the ground, defeated.

You don’t do as much as raise your head when you hear the clack of his heels approaching you. Instead, you only listen to your own, rapid heartbeat rushing in your ears as Anaxa crouches down beside you and sets his hand on your waist. Carefully, he helps your limp form off the ground and snakes his arm under your own.

”The walk shall have to wait, it seems”, he says, failing to do a very good job at concealing his glee.

”But you-, you promised that we could...”, you protest, wearily turning your head towards the clock on the wall. It’s a minute past 10.

”Do you truly think you’re in any state to even entertain that idea?” Anaxa scoffs at your words. ”Go on, then.”

He loosens his hold on you, and you immediately reel to the side. Just to make his point even more clear, he lets you attempt to find your balance, but it’s a futile effort. You end up clinging to his shoulder for dear life. A mocking chuckle slips out of his mouth.

”I thought as much”, he says.

You really want to bite back, to go through with the plan, to go walk a single circle around the house even if it lands you in the bed for the next month. You need to, for once, prove him wrong, but alas, it seems that he has won this round. You swallow down the lump in your throat.

”Help me”, you whisper out, hanging your head low.

”This once”, he responds.

˗ˏˋ ★ Jiaoqiu

You’re balled up on the bathroom floor, clutching your arms around your stomach. Beads of sweat adorn your forehead, and despite your efforts, you’re hardly able to control the rhythm of your breathing. The time of the month has rolled around yet again, and for the past two hours, you’ve been battling perhaps the worst period cramps of your entire life.

You’re aware that if you so wished, the relief to the pain would be a single question away. Jiaoqiu is just on the other side of the door, working on some herbs or something, you’re not really sure. Considering his Foxian blood, he most likely knows of what’s going on, but the damned man won’t do anything about it, of course. Not unless you walk up to him yourself and ask for his help, anyway.

Another cramp takes over. You stifle a groan and lean forward, planting your forehead against the cold floor tiles. In the awkward position, you rock your body back and forth until the pain diminishes to a little less excruciating level.

It’s quite obvious that you can’t go on much longer like this. As much as you detest the idea of leaning on your captor for help, he’s the only one who can aid you. You wonder if he has hidden the painkillers from you for this exact purpose: The man is as sly as, well, a fox, and no trick is too cheap for him when it comes to getting you where he wants you. He’s beyond unfair.

You blurt out a hushed curse word as you rise from the ground, hunched over and still holding your abdomen. Taking a peek at the mirror, you come to find that your face has lost its colour, and you look like you haven’t rested in a week. The latter is no wonder, though, since you weren’t able to get much sleep last night due to the present problem.

Being as quiet as you’re able, you press your ear against the door. There isn’t much to be heard on the other side of the wall, but you can make out the faint clinking of dishes touching against each other. Jiaoqiu has been busy conducting the same task the entire morning, and it seems that he’s still occupied with it. Dread brews in your stomach as you consider the possibility that he’ll outright refuse to help you: Considering his personality, it’s not above him, and it wouldn’t be the first time he weaponized matters out of your control.

”Aren’t you making this unnecessarily difficult for yourself?”

Your heart jumps at the sound of his voice from behind the door. How he could have heard you, you don’t know, but then again, his kin is known for their keen ears. Moreover, you realize that there’s no hiding your current condition from him: Your options are either-or, and the responsibility of taking the initiative seems to have landed in your arms.

Yet another cramp strains your body. You clench your teeth and endure the pain, but at the same time, your hand reaches up for the door handle. Deciding that enough is enough, you push yourself out of the bathroom.

”Oh, there you are”, Jiaoqiu comments at the sight of you faltering out of your retreat. He can’t actually see you, of course, but his head still turns towards you as if he did.

”Give me something”, you beg through pursed lips as you fold in half over the threshold. ”Please give me something for this.”

Jiaoqiu’s expression turns into that of compassion, although you can’t say for sure if it’s genuine.

”One moment, please”, he says, setting the mortar and pestle in his hands on the tabletop.

He opens one of the cabinets above the counter and reaches for something in the back. Carefully, he pulls out a small bowl from between a row of bottles. By tilting the dish from side to side, he stirs the concoction until a few darker specks appear on the liquid’s surface. Then, he brings his hand over it, and in a flash, the thing lights up in flames. However, just as quickly, the fire disappears, and he’s left with a cup of steaming hot soup.

”I tried to go easy on the spice”, he says as he fans his fingers over the bowl. ”It’s quite warm, be careful not to burn your tongue.”

He makes his way over to where you’re balled up on the ground. With a gentle touch, he coaxes you to raise your head enough for him to place the dish against your lips before tilting the cup.

It’s good. The rich liquid flows down your throat as you drink it with greed, paying very little mind to how the heat scorches your mouth. He didn’t lie about being mindful of the seasoning — it’s much less spicy than what you’re usually forced to endure — but your taste buds are still left begging for mercy. Nonetheless, you couldn’t care less, and the soup is gone in a matter of seconds.

”It should only take a few minutes to kick in”, Jiaoqiu says as he pulls the now empty bowl away from your lips. ”How are you feeling?”

Bad, terrible, deplorable, godawful, but you don’t tell him that. Instead, you only let out a shaky exhale as you slump back down on the ground.

You feel Jiaoqiu’s fingers creep along the waistline of your bottoms. For a brief, horrific moment, you think he’s about to initiate the carnal, but instead of slipping his hand further down, he lets it rest over your lower abdomen.

”Is it in the middle or more towards one side?” he asks as he tenderly presses his palm against your stomach, warm and pleasant.

”Hey, don’t-, don’t...”, you’re about to start protesting, but the complaint dies on your tongue as the man’s touch dulls down the worst of the ache.

He seems pleased at your compliance, and he rewards you by caressing the back of your head with his free hand. For once, his closeness doesn’t feel completely intolerable.

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hana2750 · 3 days ago

Text

JUJUTSU KAISEN REACTION TO REALIZING HOW MUCH THEY LOVE YOU

Pairing: jujutsu kaisen x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Slight Angst

Word Count: 5,000 words

Warnings: I think there is nothing from my point of view

Disclaimer: this blog is a fanfiction haven, and everything posted here is purely a work of fiction. The characters, settings, and worlds belong to their respective creators unless otherwise stated. No copyright infringement is intended.

Satoru Gojo

Gojo reclines lazily against the headboard of your shared bed, snow-white hair tousled and blindfold pushed up. The soft light from the window bathes him in gold, but his grin—when he speaks of you—is even brighter.

"You know, I used to think love was a waste of time. I mean, c’mon," he chuckles, waving a hand, "when you’re the strongest, what do you need with all that mushy crap?"

You peek up from where you’re curled beside him, raising a brow. "And now?"

"Now," he murmurs, lowering his head so your foreheads touch, "I find myself writing mental love letters at 3 a.m. because I miss you when you're not even gone."

He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear and sighs. "I think the moment I knew? It was when you yelled at me for almost dying. Like, really yelled. You were crying but still throwing hands. No one... cares about Satoru Gojo. Not really. But you? You cared like I was just some idiot boyfriend who forgot to text back. That made me wanna live. For you."

His voice drops to a whisper.

"You made me feel like more than a weapon. Like I could be human. And I guess... that’s love."

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi doesn’t talk about emotions much. But if you catch him sitting quietly, his gaze on you soft, his book unread in his lap—you’ll know he’s thinking about it.

"You’re... persistent," he mutters one day, after you teased him into watching a romance anime with you. "You didn’t give up, even when I pushed you away."

You shift closer, resting your head on his shoulder. "You looked like you needed someone. I wanted to be that."

He nods once, lips twitching. "You were. You are."

"It wasn’t like fireworks, not for me. Loving you felt like building a house with my own hands. Brick by brick. Quiet. Solid. Real."

There’s a rare flicker in his eyes—vulnerability, raw and bare.

"You looked at me like I wasn’t Toji’s son. Like I wasn’t cursed by blood. You saw just... Megumi. And somehow, I started seeing him too."

His hand finds yours and holds it like it’s the anchor to everything good.

"I think that’s how I fell in love. Just... slowly. And now I can’t imagine life without you."

Yuji Itadori

Yuji beams the second you ask. His smile lights up the room like always, and his excitement is contagious.

"I remember the first time I saw you. You were arguing with Gojo about training hours and I swear, I fell right there. You were so fiery. So... alive. I liked that. A lot."

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. "But I didn’t think someone like you would like someone like me. I mean, I’ve got Sukuna living in me. That’s a red flag, right?"

You pout. "I like you because you care so much. Even with everything you carry."

"And you helped me remember that I’m still allowed to have good things. You became my good thing. My best thing."

He grins wider and leans in to kiss your cheek.

"So yeah, our love story? It's about two weirdos who found each other in a cursed world and decided to write something sweet. You’re my happy ending. And I’ll fight to keep it that way."

Kento Nanami

Nanami’s voice is always calm. Even now, recounting something so personal.

"I met you when I had already decided that sorcery wasn’t worth dying for anymore. But you... you reminded me of why people fight. Why they live. You were bold. Kind. Unafraid of telling me when I was wrong—which was surprisingly often."

You chuckle from across the kitchen where you’re making tea, and he watches you like you hung the moon.

"It wasn’t grand. I didn’t fall in love with a bang. It happened in the small things. The way you’d pack me lunch with little notes. How you’d ask if I’d slept. How you never asked me to be anything more than who I was."

He steps forward, taking your hand.

"You made the curse of life feel a little lighter. And for that, I owe you every good part of me I have left."

Suguru Geto

Suguru’s voice is soft, laced with sorrow, even in this imagined peace.

He brushes a finger along your cheekbone, the temple of a cursed world far behind you for the night.

"You knew me before I became this... fractured version of myself. Back then, we were kids who believed we could fix everything. You always saw through my anger. My pain. And you still stayed."

You touch his hand, grounding him. "I stayed because I loved you. I still do."

He smiles bitterly. "Even when I didn’t deserve it."

Then, his voice dips lower. "If I could go back... I’d hold your hand tighter. Kiss you longer. Fight harder to stay in the light with you. Our love story was beautiful—too beautiful for the world we lived in."

He presses a kiss to your forehead, eyes shut.

"And maybe, in another life, it would’ve had a better ending."

Toji Fushiguro

Toji’s love is messy. Bruised hands and bruised hearts. But he looks at you like you're the only softness he's ever known.

"You shoulda run the first time I opened my mouth," he says with a low chuckle. "But you didn’t. You stayed. Even when I told you all the shit I’ve done."

You roll your eyes. "You think that scares me?"

He watches you—silent for a second. Then, quietly, "It should."

You shake your head and cup his jaw, feeling the tension in his muscles. "I love the man you are now. You’re trying. That’s enough for me."

He closes his eyes. "I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you. But if this is what love feels like... then maybe I’ll stop running from it."

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

"Just... don’t leave, okay? You’re the only part of my story I don’t regret."

Ryomen Sukuna

Sukuna’s love isn’t pretty. It’s chaotic. Destructive. But gods, when it comes to you—there’s something different.

"You’re lucky I didn’t rip you in half the first time you mouthed off," he growls, sitting on his throne of bones inside the domain. But there’s a crooked grin on his lips. One you’ve learned to read well.

"And yet..." he mutters, leaning closer, "You’re still here. And worse, I keep letting you stay."

You smirk. "Because you love me."

He laughs—deep and dangerous. "I don’t love. I own." His hand wraps around your waist, pulling you into his lap. “And you? You belong to me.”

But then, his tone softens like a whisper through fire.

"You saw me—not the king, not the curse. Just... me. No one does that and lives."

He cups your face, clawed thumb brushing your cheekbone. "But you didn’t die. You stayed. So maybe this isn’t love, but it’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to it. And I’ll burn the world before I lose it."

Yuta Okkotsu

Yuta’s love is gentle, hesitant—like he’s afraid it’ll disappear.

"I was scared at first," he admits one evening, voice soft against the hum of rain outside. "After Rika... I didn’t think I deserved anything good. Especially not someone like you."

You squeeze his hand from where you lie beside him, tracing the curve of his knuckles. "You never stopped deserving happiness, Yuta. You just forgot how to let it in."

He smiles faintly. “You taught me. You didn’t push. You waited. You were patient. And I started to believe that maybe… maybe this wasn’t a betrayal. That I could love you without letting go of her.”

He turns to look at you fully, eyes shining.

“You never made me choose. You just stayed. And somewhere in the quiet, I fell in love with your kindness. Your strength. Your ability to see the broken in me and not flinch.”

He brings your hand to his lips.

"Our love story? It’s about healing. And I want to spend the rest of my life writing it with you."

Toge Inumaki

Toge doesn't speak much—but with you, he doesn’t need to. You’ve always listened between the silences.

"I remember the first time you figured it out," he says with a rare, fond smile, writing with a marker on your hand. *“Salmon.”*

"You knew I meant ‘yes,’" he says, laughing softly. "And you just smiled like it was the most normal thing in the world."

You smile now too. "Because I knew what you were trying to say. You say more with two words than most people do with full sentences."

He turns toward you, his expression suddenly more serious. "Kelp," he whispers.

Your eyes soften. “Love?”

He nods. His hand trembles slightly when he signs, *‘I was afraid you’d never know. That I couldn’t tell you what you mean to me.’*

You take his hand and rest it against your chest.

"You don’t need words with me, Toge. Your love has always been loud. I heard it every time you held me after a mission. Every time you whispered ‘bonito flakes’ when I was crying. I’ve always known.”

And he smiles—relieved, grateful. Finally understood.

Choso Kamo

Choso stands beside his brother’s grave, fingers laced with yours, eyes unreadable.

“I didn’t know what love felt like. Not really. My purpose was revenge. Vengeance. Protecting what was left.”

He glances at you—so soft, so warm. So *alive*.

“Then you appeared. And for the first time… someone didn’t look at me with fear. You looked at me like I wasn’t a mistake. Like I was worthy of being loved.”

You run your thumb across the back of his hand. “Because you are, Choso.”

He takes a breath. “When I told you about them—about Yuji, and the others—I expected you to walk away. You didn’t.”

His voice falters for a second. Then:

"You mourned with me. Sat with me. Held my anger and grief like it was sacred. And when I was finally ready to smile again... you were already there, waiting."

He pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours.

"Our love story is stitched from sorrow, but you turned it into something beautiful. I never thought I'd get to be someone's ‘home.’ But with you... I finally am."

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reineyelah · 11 hours ago

Text

I just want to say to the people in the comments and anyone really......

In my opinion, this was NOT romantic. Not even a little bit. Kakashi simply isn't the type to have feelings for a minor. Full stop. Affection, sure. Teammate protectiveness, sure. Romantic feelings? No.

I am a massive KakaSaku shipper, but ONLY in an AU where Sasuke/Sakura is ignored and their relationship or flirting or whatever it is starts after she is at least 22. Shipping her with Kakashi before she is AT LEAST 20 is, in my opinion, gross and a mishandling of the characters.

Kakashi is so deeply repressed that he wouldn't even approach acknowledging any feelings even when she is an adult unless SHE showed interest first.

I feel like people who actually ship a minor child and an adult man are actively poisoning a ship that can be beautiful and so much fun to write.

Kakashi is NOT into teenager Sakura. At all. And suggesting otherwise clearly means you have no deeper understanding of his character.

He goes to the ends of the earth to keep his team safe, so where on earth would you even begin to get the idea that he suddenly decides to develop pedophilic feelings towards one of them? That doesn't even remotely make sense.

And if he did, which he never would, but let's just say if he did, he would immediately exile himself from society and become a fucking monk.

It's just gross and deeply harming to me. Especially since AO3, for some alarming psychotic reason, still allows underage fics there. If I were in charge, those would be completely banned across the board for all fandoms.

Sorry, not sorry.

Anyway, come check out all of my adult KakaSaku stories under my AO3 account, hallowedmaiden. I have quite a few WIPs there that are updated pretty regularly.

(By the way, shipping them in Canon during the blank period where Sasuke/Sakura still exists, or in Boruto is fine too, I just deeply deeply despise that she got with Sasuke at all.)

Just wanted to remind the KakaSaku fandom that THIS✨ is canon:

That’s it. That’s the post. Thanks for showing up.

#kakasaku #kakashi fanfic #kakashi hatake #sakura #kakashi x sakura

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vitalverstappen · 2 days ago

Text

Pinky Toes - A. Albon

summary: the A/C is dying, and so is Alex... of cuddle deprivation

pairing: Alex Albon x reader

warnings: none

word count: 676

a/n: in honor of the heat wave that's killing my area right now, I figured I'd write a small blurb

masterlist

Physical touch was both of your love languages. Whether it was sleeping in each other's arms, brushing hands while reaching for the same snack, or simply linking pinkies on crowded sidewalks, there wasn’t a moment where you and Alex weren’t touching.

That is until this heat wave hit.

It wasn’t just hot. It was melting your spine into the furniture hot. The kind of heat where even the thought of another person’s skin made you recoil in self-preservation.

Alex was sprawled dramatically across the couch like a Shakespearean character dying of mild inconvenience. One leg flopped over the armrest, the other hanging off like a towel someone gave up on folding. A fan whirred in the corner doing an utterly useless job. The heat outside mixed with a lackluster A/C unit turned the apartment into a slow cooking oven, and every movement felt like a mistake.

You padded into the living room, hands full with two glasses of ice water. Condensation trailed down your arms as you handed him his.

He took it with reverence, like you’d placed the Holy grail in his sweaty hands. “You’re an angel,” he mumbled, ice clinking against the glass as he took a long sip. “A beautiful, frost covered angel.”

You laughed and sank onto the other end of the couch. The leather suctioned to your skin immediately, and you hissed, shifting around. “This was a mistake.”

“It is a mistake,” Alex said solemnly “You're all the way over there.”

You arched a brow as you took a sip of your water. “It’s like 93 degrees in here.”

“Yeah, and do you know what would make it infinitely better?” he asked, dragging his hand lazily across the couch towards you. “A little quality cuddling time. Human contact. Emotional support through shared suffering.”

You gave him a flat look. “Alex, you’re literally sweating while lying down.”

He blinked. “Which is exactly why I need your moral support.” He patted the small space next to him. “Come here, I promise I’ll only touch you with two limbs at a time.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “That’s already too many limbs.”

Alex let out a long, theatrical sigh, flopping his head back like a man defeated by his own thirst for attention. “I just want to be wrapped in a warm burrito of love and mutual complaints. Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes.” You deadpanned as you wiped the sweat from your forehead. “In this weather, absolutely.”

Silence fell for a moment, save for the low hum of the fan and air conditioning trying their best. Somewhere outside, someone’s dog barked, as if in agreement. You could feel his eyes on you even though you refused to meet them.

Then, quieter this time: “...Just our toes?”

You glanced over. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore, just staring at the ceiling like he’d surrendered to fate.

“Like an affectionate pinky toe nudge?” He continued, a drizzle of hope in his voice.

You stared at him. Then at your glass. Then, with an eye roll so powerful it could’ve generated wind, you extended your foot and pressed it lightly against his.

Alex lit up. A golden retriever in human form, absolutely thrilled.

“Progress,” he whispered proudly

“Don’t push it,” you warned, already regretting the contact as your body heat increased by approximately a million degrees.

But still, neither of you moved.

After a while, after the ice in your glasses melted and the sun began its lazy descent, Alex let out a long, contented sigh. “Okay. I get it now. This is enough.”

And it was. In the middle of a stifling heat wave, when every inch of air felt like soup, and the idea of affection seemed like an act of martyrdom, that tiny, stubborn connection still won. Just one pinky toe against another.

Because Alex wasn’t always easy - he was dramatic, stubborn, and always in need of constant affection - but, even when it was way too hot, it was always worth it.

Even if it was just a pinky-toe nudge.

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fandom-imagines-stories · 1 day ago

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First in Class Part One

Lt. Robert ‘BOB’ Floyd x Reader

Words: 5623

Summary: Your graduation from Top Gun seems like the perfect opportunity to introduce your boyfriend to your father…except they’ve already met.

Notes: I don’t know anything about flying, obviously, but god it was fun to write. So much so, I think want to keep this character arch for other stand alones. Call sign ‘Rebel’ will just always have this backstory and general traits. I just had such a blast and I hope you guys enjoy and look forward to part two!

Bob watched and tried not to hold his breath so long that he passed out, which seemed like a real possibility judging by how lightheaded he was getting. He wasn’t even the one in the plane, but with every impossible maneuver at an impossible speed, his stomach did more and more flips.

“You alright there, Baby on Board?” Hangman patted him hard on the shoulder. “You look a little green.”

“It’s an intense dogfight,” he reasoned.

Phoenix snorted. “It isn’t even real.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t do this when you were in Top Gun.”

“Of course I did,” Bob snapped back, hating the smugness perpetually painting Hangman’s features. Sure, the team of them had gotten close over the last year, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t an asshole. He was just one Bob occasionally liked to have around. This was not one of those occasions. But when Phoenix suggested they all get together to get a preview of the new graduates’ skills, he didn’t really feel like explaining why he was already going to be there.

“Besides, their ranking is already decided,” Rooster added, bringing them all another pack of beer. “This is just a few of them getting permission to show off.”

“They don’t know that,” Phoenix pointed out. “They never tell them when they’ve decided. They like to keep them on edge, the bastards.” She grinned, remembering her nerves from her time in Top Gun.

“Which makes it worse, doesn’t it?” Bob leaned forward on the rail of the boat they were watching from. “A bunch of hot heads getting ready to graduate?”

“Remind me not to take you to any parties,” Hangman snickered.

A roar echoed out above them, drawing their attention back to the two aircraft circling each other like vultures on a kill.

Bob ignored the others and their barrage of critiques and kept his eyes on the plane being pursued.

“Come on, baby,” he muttered. “You can get 'em.” The plane getting closer and closer to the blue waves captured every ounce of his focus. “Come on, baby. Shake them off.”

On the carrier, more were watching the dogfight take place.

“Come on, kid,” Pete said. “You can do this.”

Maverick watched his daughter’s plane pull up at the last second, invert above her opponent, and swing back around to lock on the kill shot. He felt a swell overtake his chest, like he was being pushed under the water they floated on. Pride. That’s what it was. Pride.

Bob clenched his fists around the rail, doing his best to hide his enthusiasm from the others.

“That’s my girl.”

When you took off your helmet and the cool ocean air hit your face, you were beaming. The chaos of the carrier set you at ease. People darted back and forth to check the planes for damages and refuel them for the next round of graduates to test their meddle. But you already knew they wouldn’t beat you. They hadn’t announced rankings, but you knew. You could feel it.

Just like you could feel the presence of the man at the end of the flight deck before you saw him.

Pete Mitchell.

Maverick.

Dad.

You were running across the deck before the other pilot even landed, catapulting yourself into his arms.

Pete laughed, spinning you around with his arms locked around you.

“You said you weren’t going to make it,” you said into his leather jacket.

He set you back down, pushing a sweat-stuck strand of your hair back. Pete shrugged, grin growing. “I lied.”

Your smile matched his. “I think I did it.”

That pride in his chest came up in waves again. “I know you did.”

Your grin turned teasing, and you gave him a playful punch to the arm. “Jealous?”

“Hey, second in class is nothing to scoff at.” He pretended the punch hurt, rubbing the spot where you hit.

“But it’s not first,” you smirked.

He raised a brow. “I’ll remember you said that when I’m thinking about buying you a drink tonight.”

With your opponent, “Saint”, coming in, you knew you had to get back before your superiors chewed your ass.

“Speaking of tonight,” you said, starting to back away, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“Who?”

You said something, but Pete couldn't hear you over the bustle and noise of the flight deck.

“What?”

You said it again, getting further away.

Pete huffed a laugh and asked one more time. “Who am I meeting?”

Finally, he heard your bright laugh over the sound of the planes. “My boyfriend!” You turned and hurried off before he could fully react.

Dumbfounded, Pete Mitchell stared after you, wrapping his mind around the word.

Boyfriend?

By the time you got back to the beach, you were ready for a drink. After long, long weeks of training and dealing with the boys’ club of Saint and his buddies, you’d made it. You’d done what you’ve been working your whole life towards, ever since you were a little kid and you snuck out of your mother’s house to watch the test planes.

Your dad was meeting you at Penny’s, promising that he had a surprise for you. If you were being honest, you thought he was acting weird ever since you mentioned having a boyfriend.

It wasn’t like you’d never dated. You’d had plenty of relationships throughout high school and the Naval Academy, but they hadn’t exactly gone well. You always fell for the hotrod, the arrogant bad boys who promised adventure and excitement. They never delivered on those promises, of course.

And then you met Robert.

He was a few years ahead of you in the academy. You’d been having problems with one of your instructors and, in order to not risk getting kicked out, you decided to find someone to tutor you. If your instructor was determined to have a problem with you because of who your father was, then you were determined to come out top of the course. Robert was the best at weapon systems, so you approached him to tutor you.

You were pretty sure he spent the next few months being terrified of you, but the rest, as they say, is history.

Opening the door to Penny’s, the familiar scent of beer and salt water filled your lungs. The jukebox played a Tom Petty song, accompanied by the quiet clanks of pool balls sinking into pockets.

The cheer that followed, you’d recognize anywhere.

“As I live and breathe, Bradshaw,” you said, a grin slowly spreading across your face as you approached the group of people in naval uniforms around the pool table. Bradley Bradshaw was the closest thing you had to an older brother. Hearing your voice, his head snapped up. You stole his pool stick to set it aside and pull him into a hug. “Hey, Ugly Duck.”

He rolled his eyes at your nickname for him.

“I wondered if that was you up there.” Rooster raised a brow. “Cinderella.” Two can play at the name game.

You punched his arm and hugged him again.

Someone cleared their throat behind you.

“Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Roost?” A tall officer with the kind of smirk you always used to fall for leaned on the corner of the table, eyeing you with a confident green-blue gaze. He held out a hand. “Jake Seresin.”

The name clicked in your head. “Hangman.”

“The one and only.” He shook your hand with a firm grip and a flirty grin. Yup. Definitely the kind of guy you used to go for. “So that was you this morning?”

“Y/F/N Y/L/N, but my call is Rebel,” you said. “And yeah. That was just for fun.”

He chuckled. “Looked like it.” Sauntering toward you, he motioned to the bar. “Can I get you something to drink? Our buddy’s up there now getting a round.”

You knew that head of light brown hair anywhere.

“I think I’ll help him carry.” You made sure to give him a final glance over your shoulder before strutting your way to the bar. “Hey there, sailor.”

Bob jumped, almost dropping the five bottles he was trying to pick up.

You giggled. “Want some help?”

“I-I got it,” he said, brows coming together in focus. When he finally looked up at you, his eyes widened, and he almost dropped them again. “Y/N, hey. I thought you were one of the guys messing with me.” A sheepish smile spread across his face. “You were amazing today.”

He was the only one who could make you blush. You didn’t know anyone could be so sincere, so sweet, until you met him.

“Your friend wanted to buy me a drink,” you said.

Bob looked over at Hangman, who was looking over at you. “Oh?” He glanced down. “Yeah. He’s um-”

“A bit of a prick?” You finished, laughing.

Bob snorted. “You could say that.”

You glanced over, finding that everyone was now watching the two of you. “Can you do me a favor?”

Bob’s face snapped back up. “Anything.”

“Put the bottles down, Bobby,” you smirked.

His brows came together again, this time in confusion. It was adorable. He did as you said, setting the beers back on the bar.

Then, you put your hands on either side of his face, and crashed your lips into his.

And while the jukebox switched to Billy Joel’s “Shameless”, the bar went silent for the naval officers around the pool table. You reveled in the moment, but most of all, you just took him in. It’d been weeks since you’d been able to spend any real time with him, and just feeling him there, feeling his lips softly respond to yours, was everything you needed.

“She’s with…” Hangman trailed off, rendered speechless for the first time.

Rooster just whistled. “I didn’t know someone could turn that red.”

Sure enough, when you pulled away, your boyfriend’s cheeks had gone such a shade, he matched the 3 ball. You flashed him a wink, grabbed three of the bottles, and calmly walked back over to the table.

“Which one of these is yours, Hangman?” You asked, handing one to Rooster. Still unable to speak, he just pointed. You gave the opposite to the only other woman at the table and kept the final bottle for yourself, taking a swig. “Not my usual, but not bad.”

“I-um-”

Rooster patted him on the back. “Don’t hurt yourself.” He strung an arm over your shoulder as your still-pink boyfriend trailed behind you with the other two drinks. “It’s easier to just accept her and move on.”

You elbowed him in the side, earning a breathy ‘Oof.’

“Are we playing or not, Ugly Duck?” You circled the table and gathered pool balls. “You and flyboy over here versus me and Robert.”

Rooster and Hangman exchanged a look, overconfidence quickly overcoming the latter’s expression.

Fanboy leaned over to Phoenix. “Who the hell is Robert?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

While you broke, Bob could feel everybody staring at him. Of the group, he was seen as the most secretive. It wasn’t because he kept secrets. He was just… quiet. That, and nobody ever asked if he was seeing anyone. Still, did they have to look that surprised?

He watched you sink two stripes on the first break. Across the table, your sparkling eyes met his, and suddenly, nobody else’s stare mattered. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from grinning like an idiot. You made your way around the table to stand next to him, despite there being better shots on the other side.

You purposely bumped his hip with yours, and he felt himself go red all over again as you leaned down to take the shot.

“So,” Rooster started, brows furrowing, “why did you tell me about-” he motioned to the two of you, “this?”

You shrugged. “Robert and I met when you still weren’t speaking to me. After that, I guess it just never came up.” You gave him a faux-innocent doe-eyed look.

You grew up with Bradley. He was basically your brother. But when everything went down between him and your dad… he cut you off almost entirely. It took years to build up your relationship again. You weren’t still mad about it, of course. But every once in a while, you liked to rub it in that you were the better friend.

Bob cleared his throat. “You two, uh, know each other?”

“Since we were kids,” Rooster answered, nudging you out of the way with his pool cue. “Unfortunately.”

You smacked him with the end of yours.

“Oh, that reminds me,” you said to Bob. “He’s coming tonight.”

“Who?”

“My dad.”

All of the color drained from his face. “T-tonight?”

“Don’t look so scared. He isn’t that bad.” Rooster studied the two of you. His eyes went wide, and a slow, menacing smile spread across his face. “Does he not know?”

“Not know what?” Bob squeaked.

The older officer just snorted. “This should be good.”

Sure enough, on the other side of the bar, the group’s former instructor entered, a large gift bag swinging back and forth by his legs. He flipped his aviators up onto his head, eyes scanning the crowd. You stood on your toes and waved so he could see you over Rooster and Hangman’s shoulders. Bob tried to peek around them, but the crowd was too thick around you for him to get a good look. All he saw was a flash of dark hair topped with golden-shaded sunglasses.

Rooster snickered as he leaned down to sink two pool balls and flip you the bird. You stuck your tongue out at him and snuck back through the swell of people to meet your dad halfway.

Pete spotted you for a second, but lost you again. Penny tended the bar and, as attentive as ever, had a feeling something was about to happen. Between Pete’s confusion and the very nervous-looking young man by the pool table, she wondered what you were up to.

“Dad, over here!” You called, squeezing between two annoyed tourists. “Hey!”

Pete finally found you again and tucked the bag behind his bag to give you a one-armed hug. “Hey, kiddo. Don’t tell me the party started without me.”

“I told you I had someone I wanted you to meet.” You started to lead him back toward the table, but from his position now, he could see the group gathered, and he froze.

“Don’t tell me it’s one of them,” he said, trying to wrap his mind around the odds.

“It isn’t Bradly if that’s what you’re worried about.” You snorted at the idea.

Pete winced, waiting for you to tell him that you’d been seeing the cockiest pilot in the whole group.

“No,” you pointed, “him.”

Bob caught your eye and waved, at least until he saw who was with you. If he was pale before, he was ghostly now, eyes widening to the size of headlights.

“Him?” Pete guffawed. “You’re dating Bob?”

Your head tilted as you looked back at him, still leading your dad to join the others. “Wait, you know Robert?”

The two of you broke through the wall of people.

Hangman choked on his beer.

Rooster howled with laughter, both at his fellow pilots’ expressions and Maverick’s efforts not to look anyone in the eye. You stood in the middle of it all.

You glanced between the two sides, arms crossed. “I don’t get it.”

“Well,” Pete cleared his throat, “Y/N, sweetheart, you didn’t exactly tell me you were dating someone who graduated from Top Gun.”

Bob, who looked ready to lose his lunch, couldn’t manage any full words, so Rooster did it for him.

“I take it she didn’t tell you her dad is one of the most decorated pilots in the Navy.”

Bob did manage to shake his head, unable to look at you or his former instructor, choosing the safety of the green felt tabletop instead. He tried to make it all make sense.

He knew that your mom and dad weren’t together and hadn’t been in a long time. He knew it was partially because of your dad’s job and that she didn’t exactly support you joining the Navy, especially to become a pilot. So much so, she wasn’t even here. You were her only daughter, and she didn’t come to your graduation from an elite program, not that you’d mentioned it. He could tell it was bothering you.

In that moment, however, all he could think about was how he didn’t see it sooner. Well, that and the fact that Maverick was staring him down with a puzzled look, like he was trying to fit two mismatched pieces together.

Bob swallowed hard under the pin of those calculating eyes and tried to wash it down with more beer, which just made it worse. He ended up sputtering through his sip and had to turn away so he didn’t spray foam all over your feet.

“I don’t tell many people because it tends to freak them out.” You sent eye daggers at Rooster while you walked around the table to stand beside Bob. You laid a hand on his shoulder while he got control of his coughing. “If I had known you two knew each other, I would have-”

“It’s-” He wheezed, “fine.”

“So,” Maverick inhaled, “I didn’t mean to interrupt the party. I just wanted to give this to Y/N.” He drew the bag out from behind him and held it out to you.

Keeping a hand on Bob’s arm, you grabbed onto the little twine handles and peeked inside.

“You got fancy paper and everything,” you teased, pulling out blue and white tissue paper. Glancing up at the others, you smirked. “On my tenth birthday, he used the newspaper for wrapping after he’d spilled coffee all over it.”

“Sounds about right,” Rooster said.

When you got passed the paper, the bag fell right out of your hands, and your fingers fell away from your boyfriend’s bicep. You started to shake.

“Y/N?” Bob’s head tilted forward to look into your face, which had gone pale. “You okay?”

You held up the dark leather bomber jacket, reading the embroidered name on the pocket.

Y/F/N/ “Rebel” Y/L/N.

“Dad, this is-” your voice caught in your throat, finding yourself shaky on your feet. You leaned against Bob to keep upright. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” Setting the jacket on the green felt, you threw your arms around your father.

Bob made sure the jacket didn’t fall off the corner and watched the happy moment with the shock of the moment fading into the feeling of seeing that smile on your face.

The rest of the group applauded. Hangman rolled his eyes playfully, but Bob could tell he was just being… well, Hangman.

“Alright, enough ‘Father of the Bride’,” Hangman teased. “Can we get back to our game now? I believe Roost and I here were about to kick the lovebirds out of their nest.”

Bob scowled at him. Well, as much as Bob could scowl. To you, he just looked adorable.

“You ready to put some money where that mouth is, Hangman?” You challenged, breaking away from your dad to put your hand on your hip.

“She did learn from the best,” Maverick added. “Fair warning.”

“If you’re as good a pool player as you are a teacher, I think we’ll be just fine.” A grin spread across Hangman’s face.

“Alright, Confirmed Kills,” you said, letting him know you knew exactly who he was and you didn’t care. “Whoever loses buys the next round-” Before he could scoff, you continued, “and treats everyone to a round of duet karaoke to a song of the winner’s choice.”

You were going to enjoy wiping that cocky smirk off his face. Hangman held out his hand.

“You’ve got a deal,” he winked, “Mini Mav.” Hangman lined up another shot.

Pete watched you settle in with the group, fitting in like you’d all known each other forever. Of course, you and Bradly had known each other since you were kids, but the way you were with the rest of them… it was easy to see that you belonged there.

What he still couldn’t quite figure out was the boyfriend situation.

Bob?

Really?

It wasn’t that he didn’t like him, of course. It just came as a bit of a surprise. Pete had met the guys you’d dated in the past, and they certainly weren’t, well, Bob.

As if the kid could read his mind, he glanced over at Pete.

Bob instantly looked away, trying to focus on you as you hit the Q-Ball. Of course, you were bent over, which meant he was looking at your ass, which of course made him panic even more. The last thing he wanted was for your dad to watch him watching you… in that way… oh God, this was going to be really hard.

The voice in his head, which sounded weirdly like Hangman, made a crude joke.

Bob chugged the rest of his beer before his turn.

The group migrated out of the Hard Deck like a little tipsy flock of geese. Rooster and Hangman had just finished their stunningly bad rendition of ‘It’s Raining Men’ after losing to you and Bob at the pool table. They also each bought a round for the whole group, hence the slight sway to your step as you all climbed down the steps leading to the sand.

Hangman, of course, had decided that everyone needed an encore.

“I’m gonna go out,” he sang, “and let myself get-”

He held out an empty bottle to you like it was a microphone. You rolled your eyes, but just couldn't help but join.

“Absolutely soaking wet!”

Everyone erupted in laughter, and you hooked your arm around Bob’s waist, to which Hangman, Coyote, and Fanboy all made kissy noises.

“Gross!” Rooster whined over them, flashing you a grin. “Get a room, you two!”

“Oh, I plan to,” you shot back. You could practically feel your boyfriend blush. “I’ll see you at the ceremony, yeah?”

Rooster rustled your hair. "Wouldn't miss it, Cinderella.”

“We will be there, Mini Mav,” Hangman said. He glanced over your shoulder, winking.“Take it easy with that one, Baby on Board.”

Bob scoffed, shaking his head as the group shuffled off.

“Oh, ignore him.” You leaned into him, the leather of your jacket smooth against his skin. You mussed his hair and stood on your toes to kiss his cheek. “He’s just jealous.” You wrapped your arms around his middle, tucking your head under his chin. You breathed him in along with the salt of the ocean and the lingering scent of beer. “I missed you.”

Bob enveloped you in his arms, smiling contently against the top of your head. “I missed you, too, baby.” He tensed suddenly, stepping away. You let out a pouty sigh, finding his gaze focused behind you. “Hi, Captain Mitchell.”

“Lt. Reynolds.” Maverick leveled his stare on your boyfriend, feigning seriousness. After he was sure the young man was good and freaked out, he cracked a smile. “Relax, Bob. It’s supposed to be a celebration.”

Bob, in fact, did not relax.

You hugged your dad again for a long while, lowering your voice. “Thank you, Dad. For everything.”

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N.” Pete fought to keep his voice from cracking. He cleared his throat. “You’re, um, you’re mother wanted me to tell you congrats, too.”

Bob watched your shoulders stiffen and your head tilt.

“Sure she did,” you said. Tugging on your sleeves, you put a smile back on your face. “And this is too big, by the way.”

Pete’s face fell. “Really? I could have sworn I-”

“Dad,” you snickered, “I’m messing with you.” You punched his shoulder, glad to be passed the unpleasant topic you’d been avoiding for the last several days. Raising a brow, you added, “You staying with Penny?”

“Don’t give me that look,” he laughed.

“What look?” You shrugged innocently. Reaching back for Bob’s hand, you laced your fingers together. “I’ve been renting her place down by the water.” You looked back at your boyfriend. “I figured we could head back and make some s'mores.”

It was very clear by your tone that you were not talking about marshmallows and chocolate. Bob’s blood surged, rushing by his ears.

He really missed you.

You glanced back at Pete. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Hey, I’m allowed ‘that look’,” Pete said. “And I’ll be by in the morning for a run.”

You groaned. “Really? Do I have to train the morning of my graduation?”

He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “Just be decent by the time I get there, yeah?” He ignored the paternal urge to lecture you about not being stupid- which, of course, he knew would make him a hypocrite.

“Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, Dad.”

“Night, kid.” He started back toward the bar to meet up with his girlfriend- a woman more like your mother than your actual mother since you moved to North Island for the course. Maverick waved back at the two of you. “Goodnight, Bob.” Bob started to say something, but the words just caught in his throat, so he ducked his head instead.

You hooked your arm through his and started along the beach to the quaint property you’d been renting from Penny for the last few months. The moon was high in the sky, shining down on the water in ripples of light. This was your favorite time--when the waves caught reflections of the stars and the moon in every crest and the world was an odd mix of still and alive, peaceful and energetic. There was an electricity to the evening that most people missed, but you always felt it, whether it was in the jukebox at Penny’s or walking along the beach now, head leaning against the shoulder of the man you loved.

“You’re doing that thing,” you said, jutting out your bottom lip in a mock pout.

Bob blinked, like you’d snapped him out of a trance. “What thing?”

“The ‘I’m overwhelmed so I’m going to just stop talking and maybe forget to breathe a little’ thing,” you teased, but your eyes were sincere as you looked up at him, bringing you both to a stop along the sand. “Does it really bother you?” Confusion made his nose crinkle in that really cute way, so you clarified with a snort. “My dad being, well, my dad.”

“Oh. Um. That.” Bob fixed his glasses further up on his nose. He did that when he was nervous, too. “No.” And his voice went up an octave- another tell-tale sign that he was on the verge of a mini Bob Breakdown. “W-why would it bother me?”

You raised a brow.

He exhaled a short sigh. “Okay. Maybe it’s a little weird.”

“Tell you what.” You played with the collar of his shirt. “How about, for tonight, it’s just you and me? No Top Gun. No famous pilot dads or moms who don’t-” You cut off with a sharp breath.

Bob took your hands in his, pulling you forward to kiss your forehead. “I think that sounds great.” Bob wrapped an arm around you, keeping you tucked next to him while you walked across the beach.

And just like that, the constant buzz in your body, the one that had kept you going at Mach 10 for the last few months, settled. You never knew how he did it, but Bob was the only person in the world who could bring you back to earth.

There was something you took pride in knowing when nobody else did- WSO Lt. Robert Floyd was a really good kisser. Whether it was your lips or your neck or another stretch of skin against his lips, every touch was slow and perfect and just enough to make you a little bit crazy. And, at the moment, that was exactly what he was doing.

Bob’s mouth trailed lazily over your collarbone, his arms draped around your waist, hair tussled from the night before, and pressed so close to you it was almost hard to tell whose warm, sweat-dotted skin was whose.

“Morning,” Bob muttered sleepily against you. His lips made their way up to yours, but not before stopping at your jaw, at the little spot behind your ear he knew would make you blush.

The small touch alone was enough to make your body ignite with the memory of everything that you did last night. The two of you had a lot of making up to do and, needless to say, you certainly succeeded.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and gave him a tired smile. “Good morning.”

“Want some coffee?” Bob asked. His hair, usually neat and slicked back, flopped into his face in messy spikes. You pushed it back, letting your fingers glide through his light brown strands.

“You’re a godsend.”

The corners of his lips teased upward. He kissed you again. “I know.” He pulled back, but couldn’t resist just one more kiss. “I love you.”

You almost took him again right there. “I love you, too, Robert.”

He climbed out of bed despite your little huffs of protest and put on some sweats. You started to get up after him, but he stopped you. “I’ll bring it to you. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Breakfast in bed?” You said. “How fancy.”

“Well, I think that the top of Top Gun deserves a little spoiling.”

“We don’t know if I’m first yet.”

“Then call this wishful thinking.” He pointed at you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You gave him a mock salute. “Aye aye, lieutenant."

Bob chuckled, shaking his head, and went out to the kitchen to start the pot of coffee and put bread in the toaster.

A knock at the door barely stirred you from the bed.

“I’ll get it!” Bob called back. “You stay in that bed or I’ll make you.”

“Promises, promises!” You giggled back.

Bob was turned back, looking toward the bedroom where he could just see you grinning at him from the bed, when he opened the front door.

“It’s a little early to be selling something-” He started, immediately cutting himself off when he saw that it was definitely not a salesman at the door.

Maverick cleared his throat. “Good morning, lieutenant."

Bob- who wore a t-shirt to play beach football- stood there in the doorway, shirtless, without his glasses, and his entire body turning the color of a bad sunburn.

It was in that instant that you remembered you were supposed to go for a run with your father. Who was now at the door. With Bob. Who definitely looked like he got laid last night.

“Shit shit shit.” You scrambled to gather your running clothes, almost falling over when you put on your leggings. “I’ll be right there!”

“You better!” Pete yelled back at you. “If you aren’t out in five, I’m showing your boyfriend baby pictures.”

Your mind immediately went to all of the worst ones, and you got dressed a little faster.

“I’m gonna, um-” Bob tried to figure out how to talk again. “I’ll go put a shirt on.”

Maverick stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Good idea.”

Bob shuffled toward the bedroom, getting enough courage to turn back and say, “I do want to see those baby pictures, though.”

Maverick cracked a smile and took a seat on the sofa. “They’re pretty hilarious. She’ll hate it.”

Bob slipped into the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. “I think I just lost five years of my life.”

You couldn’t help but snicker and lay your hands on his very pink cheeks. “You’re adorable.”

“I’m half naked!” He squeaked, trying to keep his voice down, which was just even cuter. “Do you think he knows? Does he think that we…”

“I’d rather not speculate as to what my dad has realized about my sex life, baby.” You pressed a quick kiss to his lips and finished getting dressed. “And yes, he definitely knows.”

Bob groaned and fell face-first back onto the bed. Sitting on the edge beside him, you slipped on your running shoes. Bob rolled over, frowning.

“I’m meeting up with the others to go to the ceremony, so I’ll probably just see you there,” he said.

“That’s fine,” you shrugged. “I’m getting ready with a few of the women in class. We’re helping each other get our hair to stick down, because, believe me, it’s not easy.”

“Don’t I know it?” he teased. “It takes me hours to look this good.”

You reached over and rustled his hair so he yelped. Bob tackled you in revenge, attacking your sides with tickling jabs.

“If you aren’t out in five seconds, I’m coming in there!” Pete yelled. “And believe me, I really don’t want to. One… two… three…”

You opened the door. Behind you, Bob sat ramrod straight on the bed. With an innocent smile, you jogged passed your dad.

“Come on, old man. Let’s see if I can still beat you to the water.”

“I always let you win and you know it.”

The two of you ran out of the small beach house, leaving Bob to catch his breath. He wanted to say he was happy. He admired Maverick more than anyone. That was the problem. He admired Maverick because of a mission Bob had grappled with for months.

How could he tell you he’d left your father to die?

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