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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

Hello! I've read your soap and price fics and you are amazing!!!

I had an idea for a fic for Ghost. The reader would be Soaps slightly older sister who isnt like Johnny at all. Im thinking she either picks up soap from base after an op or from the bar. I'll leave alot of this up to you but i just wanna see Soaps Sister meeting Ghost!!

Brother's Coworker

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Soap's Sister!Reader

SYNOPSIS: In the dim illumination of the streetlights, Ghost lays eyes on a woman leaning against the body of a vintage Hillman Imp.

WORDCOUNT: 4.2k

WARNINGS: Little bit of angst, but mostly fluff and pre-relationship pining, loads of sibling banter, conflicting emotions, etc.

A/N: Finally able to use my sibling experiences for a fic lmfao, enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The woman was leaning against the body of a vintage Hillman Imp, the custom color a deep forest green along the sides and a cream white coating the upper third. Ghost stared at her as the rest of the men filed out of the bar one after the other—Johnny and Gaz being especially loud. He blinks slowly, hands inside his blackened pockets.

Across the way, your ears perk slowly at the sound of rapturous shouts, but you only continue to look down the sidewalk at the long illuminations of street lamps and the glints of broken bottles on the ground. Over your chest, your hands shift in their hold on your biceps, your thin jacket crinkling. Light dances in your irises.

“Oi, is that who I think it is?!” Familiar Scottish drawl brings a smirk to your face, and you turn slowly to huff, snapping out of your silent thoughts.

“Who else would it be, ya bloody git,” your voice carries, but it lacks the sheer volume of your brother’s; the great boom that reminds you of the bombs he’d used to make out of your mother’s hair spray bottles.

Never a dull day in your childhood home, really.

“‘Bout gave me a heart attack, not answerin’ my calls like that!” Johnny laughs loudly, obviously drunk, and stumbles over merrily. You’re taken into a chest-breaking hug in mere moments, leaving you squirming with a deep grunt. “Should have your head, MacTavish.” You manage to squeak out, “Put me the fuck down, you horror. And what in the hell have you done to your hair?!”

“Oh, my dear sister.” Your brother lets you go as the three other men slink over, amused with the scene but some momentarily confused by the sudden introduction. Gaz laughs, and the Captain huffs a chuckle before fixing the position of his beanie on his head.

Ghost, as always, chooses to watch like a looming shadow above the rest.

Johnny puts a hand to his chest, the other remaining on your shoulder, “You wound me. Such cruelty stuck in your black soul; I say now, mother was always right—”

You smack the side of his head and Johnny grunts.

“Ow!” He yells, glaring at you. “What the fuck?!”

“Open your mouth again and I’ll wring you out, you arse. You know I will.” Grumbling, the Scot rubs the side of his head as you raise a brow at him. The stare-off lasts for a decent bit, and before the rest of the group knows what’s going on, the two of you are embracing each other once more; laughing loudly.

Ghost’s eyebrows pull in slowly.

“Ah, it’s good to be back!” Johnny chuckles, holding you close as you pat his back.

“Of course, I’d find my kid brother at a damn pub on his first day home.” Taking a step away from the hulk of a boy, you brush down your shirt and jacket with a scoff. Looking up, you come to face the remaining men with an exasperated look. “He’s full of shite half the time, y’know, now. Can’t imagine what he puts you all through.”

“Bloody hell, Soap, you were holding out on us,” Gaz chuckles loudly, sticking out a hand for you to shake while he glances at the mohawked Scot who looks giddy despite being insulted by who’s very obviously his older sister. “Never knew you had siblings, Mate.” You take the man’s hand as he smiles brightly at you.

“Kyle.” He says, and you beam back, “But Gaz’ll do just fine.”

“A pleasure,” your voice carries to John who you raise a brow at teasingly. “Well, look who the Reaper’s yet to drag down…Good to see you again, Captain.”

Price shakes his head, a smirk peeling his lips as Gaz steps back.

“Still on that land of yours, then, Love?” The brunette asks gruffly, leaning back on his heels for a moment while you sag your side into Johnny’s arm. Your brother scoffs and loops his limb over the bridge of your shoulders as you nod.

“You know it. Proper quiet when the neighbors aren’t up to a ruckus racin’ down the streets. Christ, those kids are devils—worse than Johnny and I when we were young.”

“Now that’s hard to believe, eh?” The man beside you laughs through his slurred words and you roll your eyes.

Chuckling in return, you blink, spying on the intent black figure behind everyone else. Piercing brown eyes dig past flesh like a scalpel while you tilt your head to the side, interest alighting behind your skull. He doesn’t move or even greet you, just looks over you and then turns his attention to the street like a roaming bear would; hell, he certainly could be a bear with how big he was. Bigger than Johnny, even.

This stranger wears a large brown leather jacket, the hood of his underclothes pulled up to cover most of the pale skin that would otherwise be visible. The long swish of light lashes captures you as you study the way he blinks slowly across the road. On his chin and on the top of his forehead, the fabric of a skeletal-painted balaclava shrouds him. Cargo pants and large black combat boots sit on his feet.

He stands like a statue.

“Who’s this then?” You call easily, and those eyes travel back to you even as the head doesn’t. It’s strange the way you seem to brush aside the blatant intimidation he exudes simply by standing.

“Ah,” John grunts, chuckling, before stepping to the side. “Simon, introduce yourself.”

A low voice lowly wafts after a moment to silence, Manchester accent spearing you in the ears with its rough make-up, “Ghost.”

You blink over at the Captain, but he just shakes his head and you move on. Johnny chuckles and whispers to you, “Don’t mind ‘em, Lt’s a bit rough around the edges.”

Plastering on a polite smile, your chin moves in a nod, “Pleasure to meet you, Ghost. Good to know the other two who look after Johnny out there.” The man beside you feels his face burn, free hand going to itch at his neck.

Ghost grunts and shrugs off the veiled praise, large muscles stiff.

“You’re actin’ like I’m not the one savin’ their skins half the time,” Gaz interjects on the Scot’s point.

“Is that what you call it?” You share an amused glance at John.

Though, your eyes always sway back to Ghost, or Simon, depending on who you ask. He listens to the chatter, obviously, but he seems much more content to only stay with his hands inside of his pockets and study the street for...what exactly? The beast wasn’t shy, no, just…silent. If you didn’t know better you’d call him aggressively casual with the way his shoulders sit.

Stance relaxed but the underlying threat was palpable on the wind. Like a wolf rubbing his cheeks on the ancient trees of his territory. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ - it seems his very DNA states that.

Brown eyes suddenly lock with your own as if snapping into place and before you can release a squeak of alarm, you swiftly dart your gaze away back to the arguing Sergeants; face burning.

Christ, how long had you been staring at him?

“Alright, you two, ease off it!” Trying to distract yourself, you wave a hand. “You’re both too drunk to be gettin’ into street fights at this hour. Johnny, into the car ya fool.”

Your brother slashes you with a grin.

“Fuckin’ finally, a decent bed!” It was tradition to give Johnny the spare room when he was back home—proper meals.

“You’re callin’ mother, y’know.” You unlock your car and motion to the passenger seat with a frown. “I dinnae care if you’re trapped for hours—give the woman a rest of all her worrying.”

“You heard the woman, Sergeant,” John forces the gravel out of his throat, rubbing at his beard. Something hits your chest as your brother opens his door as you stand in the cold. You glance at each man in turn; eyebrows pulling in with thought.

“Ah, what the hell,” your voice huffs out. Ghost watches you closely, blinking as he lifts a hand to itch at his neck from under his hood. The leather jacket crumples with tiny shifts of worn-out material.

“Don’t suppose you boys need any good beds to rest your heads on for the night?” Wiggling your keys, you pat the top of your Hillman as you slide to the driver's side. Johnny slinks inside his own and chuckles as he closes the barrier with a careful thunk.

“Hospitality finally leakin’ in?”

“Next time I hit ya,” you send him a bland look, “I’ll aim for the neck.” Fake flinching towards him, the man squeaks and snaps quickly back into the car door as you snicker lively.

“Beast!” Johnny exclaims. You roll your eyes and shimmy down the window behind him, calling out as the rest share glances.

“Get in if you’re comin’ over! If not all the food I made yesterday’ll go to waste!” That seemed to get Gaz into the back, with only Price and Simon left behind.

Brown meets blue and John’s beard pulls back with a smirk. He clears his throat, “Well, I’m not one to spit in her face.” The Captain walks over and grunts as he bends down.

Ghost sighs under his breath and follows, impartial as to where this night is going. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, no doubt. The hard and unforgiving beds on base were the only things he could rest on now save the ground. And food? He could go without food for days.

Though, being Johnny’s sister bought you some favor, trust wasn’t something that Simon gave around freely. But the car you drove was nice, and the company of his Task Force was easy to basque in until they shipped out again.

Simon sits down on the refurbished seat and softly closes the door behind him. Dead-eyed, he stares at Johnny’s headrest as you glance at him from the rearview mirror—seeing his shoulder dig into the glass of the window.

You shove down a joke and hum. “Good, then, it’ll free my fridge at the very least.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Gaz offers as you start up the engine, “it’s awfully nice of you to do this for us.”

“Ah,” Simon hears you dismiss as he turns to stare out of the window; so often feeling his gaze drawn back to you as a leaf attached to a tree might act. “Don’t worry your head about it. I like the company.”

“Aye, just how she is,” Johnny says earnestly. “Was always the one to let me over with my pals when the football games were over—’cept we were usually covered in mud.”

“I’m still finding grass in my rugs, Johnny Boy,” you mumble, focusing on the road as a slight squeaking emanates from the front of the car. Simon picks up on it easily, not preoccupied with speaking. He glances at you but mentions nothing beyond a shuffling of his thighs.

Outside the land slides past in shades of verdant green and gray as the town falls away.

He was confused, rightly. You’d seen his standoffish nature but had chosen to extend hospitality as the old Greeks did just off a growl of his name. But maybe it was just because he was your brother’s coworker.

Simon grunts to himself and rubs at his wrist. Throughout the ride, the two of you would glance at each other and try to forget that you had; when the long driveway of a large secluded home expands out above the car, Gaz whistles lowly.

“Bloody hell, Ma’am,” he states and John chuckles. You easily smile and roll your eyes.

“Trust me, it was more work than it was worth.” Ghost’s attention is slightly peaked.

“You worked on it?” His tone implies he doesn’t care, but his eyes gore into the mirror to lock with your own. Blinking in surprise, even the others seem to be taken aback by the man's lack of venom in his speech.

Ghost wasn’t afraid to speak his mind when he needed to, but he didn’t do mindless chatter. Your eyes cycle between the driveway and the masked Brit before you clear your throat. Johnny glances at you with a raised brow, slight confusion in his brows.

“Mostly—left the nasty bits to people more knowledgeable than I am, but I did most of the grunt work, eh?” Simon hums as the car pulls to a stop inside the garage, eyes not leaving the back of your head.

Your neck bristles at the sensation of unrelenting contact, but the burning that joins it is telltale. Licking your lips you twist the keys out and quickly shuffle out of the door to dispel the electricity in the air.

“Alright,” you say, “out. All of ya…Johnny, you’ll be helping me with the bedding.”

A groan is cut by an unimpressed glare. “...Yes, Ma’am.”

You huff and smirk.

“Trainin’ him well I see,” teasing John as they all file out of the car, he shakes his head at the two of you as Simon scoffs. Gaz openly laughs as Soap’s offended look grows.

You all enter the house as you direct them to the kitchen after they’ve taken off their boots and hung their jackets. “It’s all in the fridge, heat what you want, and don’t bother fightin�� Johnny if he takes too much. Tell me and I’ll make him sleep in the back near the chickens.” Your voice tells them as you pat your brother on the shoulder.

Johnny grumbles and kisses the top of your head. “You’re horrible to me,” He jokes but his eyes shimmer with affection. As you leave to get a head start on the rooms, you smile and call out to him.

“That’s my job!”

Backing out into the hallway, you leave with a deep well of happiness in you. You don’t even realize that the party had only contained three men instead of four until you’re in the linen closet and a shadow suddenly blacks out the light from the bulbs. Jumping slightly, your head swivels as you carry very many sheets and pillowcases in your grip.

“Oh,” you mumble through cotton, smile growing as the flip in your stomach does, “Ghost! Done eating already?”

The man is still and silent as he glances from your face to the sheets. Without a word, he halves the load and steals them as your jaw loosens in shock.

“Johnny’s outside callin’ your mum.” Ghost turns and walks out, but waits for you in the hallway to be directed.

You push down the tightness to your throat and see the man’s feet shift on the hardwood. He looks funny, such a big man carrying bed sheets. His actions make your heart speed up. Brown eyes blink at you like a cat.

“Well,” you chuckle, “always was one to get out of housework.” Trying a smidge more, you shift past him and turn off the light. “His barracks room dirty?”

“Pigsty.” Simon blandly states, walking slightly behind you. Your pace slows so you can stay beside him. He side-eyes you but says nothing.

Leaning in slightly, you quip as Ghost tenses, “Can’t say I’m surprised. The man’s used to me bailin’ him out.” Chuckling, you go into the first bedroom and put everything on the bed.

Simon grabs the pillows and starts to dress them quickly and efficiently.

“But thank you,” you say, and the Brit pauses to look up at you, something swirling in his murky gaze. Earnestly, you tilt your head with a smile. “Ya can go back and eat more if you want. No need to help—you’re a guest.”

“Not hungry,” is all he answers, and gets back to work. You watch for a moment, perplexed, but not at all about to deny the assistance. A genuine grin twitches your lips.

“Johnny writes about you, y’know,” your fingers pull at the fabric and you chuckle as Ghost’s incredulous look turns to you—face hidden but confusion is obviously seen. “Says he looks up to you quite a bit; something about Mexico.”

Your face dips slightly, and Simon’s body stills. Along the pillow, his grip carefully tightens. He can’t find it in himself to walk out of the door and stand outside even if he knows he should.

“I really can’t imagine what it’s like,” you mutter, shaking your head. Gazing at him, you study his wound muscles and secret flesh like a tapestry—wondering if he hides himself because of the safe anonymity or a sense of numb fear.

He wouldn’t admit to either, you know. But something about Simon had captured your attention and now you had a face, or just a body really, to put to the written name like a puzzle piece.

You take a long breath, “But you’ll never know how grateful I am.”

By the way his chest stops moving and his body goes frozen, you think you hit something inside of him; the minute widening of his eyelids like pedals opening in the light. Simon peers at your expression, his eyes sliding from one point to another.

Like he can’t really pinpoint what you want.

Ironic really, because you didn’t want anything.

“Don’t thank me,” is what he settles on, moving back to the pillow as if your words hadn’t stabbed him. “Johnny knows what he’s doing.”

Your small snort enters the air above the sliding sheets. “There’s no argument there.” A sigh echoes as you finish up, putting your hands on your hips. Across the bed, you two stare as Simon tosses down the pillows. The remainder of the sheets sit on the end of the bed.

The man’s eyes narrow on you, and he clenches his jaw under his balaclava.

“The only thing that I do know is that every time my brother comes back he smiles less than he did before.” You side-eye him seriously as you move. “I can only guess what all of it does to the others who don’t have anyone else to go back to.”

Simon’s breath halts in his chest before he finds the means to take down a slow inhale. Brown eyes glare intently, jaw tight, but it’s not the fire that gets to you…it’s the lack thereof.

Ghost doesn’t like this feeling, and your candidness was something he hadn’t expected.

“So,” you drawl, “I’m thanking you for giving him someone to joke around with—a distraction,” a teasing smirk, “no matter how blunt.”

“I just told you—”

“Well, I don’t bloody care, do I?” Huffing, you smirk and tip your head back before snatching the rest of the sheets. “C’mon, we have three more rooms.”

Simon watches you leave and tries to fight the rampage in his chest; the merciless slam of his heart to his ribcage. What had you done to him? A hand comes up and rubs into the bridge of his nose, fingers heavy and tight.

What in the hell was going on?

Growling under his breath, Ghost stalks out of the room only to see your back disappear into the next. In the hallway, he takes a long inhale and closes his eyes to steady himself.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man grunts. The tension in his shoulders was plainly visible.

For the remainder of the room, Ghost would send you tight glances as he worked but didn’t utter another peep. You had taken his voice, or what little left of it there was.

In many ways, you were like your loudmouth brother—your snark and your stubbornness. But you were different too.

He feels his eyes trail down your form slowly from time to time. Capable; hardy. Simon blinked away and grunted under his breath aggressively.

When everyone was done with their food and Johnny had come back in from his call to his mother, with a soft smile on his face, you knew it was time for bed.

“Alright,” you strut into the kitchen with Ghost on your heels—his large arms crossed over his chest as he caught Soap's intense stare. The Lieutenant's brow raises, but Johnny only frowns in conspiracy before he looks over to you and itches at his chin. “Beds are made. You can all thank Simon for that, seein’ as Johnny used our mother as an excuse yet again.”

“And she was very pleased to hear from me!” Your brother points to you.

“She’s our mother,” you deadpan, “It’s her job to be, ya arse-face.”

The boys all follow you down the halls as you point to the rooms. Gaz shakes your hand again and gives you a tiny hug in thanks while John pats your shoulder and calls a soft, “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

Both close their doors and you hear the large sighs through the wood. You have to wonder when they’d had a good bed to sleep on and a good meal. Last was your brother and Ghost, the latter of which kisses your head and hugs you tightly.

“It’s good to see you, truly. Been missing you, little Hen. Thanks for lettin’ me over all the time when I’m home.” You melt and grip his shirt.

“You’ll always have a place here, you know that. One call away…Now go to sleep. You smell like a pub.” He lightly chuckles against you. With a bond this tight, the two of you never had to say that you loved each other—it was just known.

Johnny squeezes you one last time before pulling away and slinking into his room, giving an unrecognizable glance to Ghost on his way in before the barrier slips into place with a quiet thunk of wood. The two of you look at and stare for a moment.

“Lucky you,” your voice is quiet but easy to hear, “you get the room with a view of the field.”

“Color me surprised,” he mutters, not looking enthusiastic. Against the tone, the look makes your mouth jerk in a laugh, and you cover your lips after a moment.

Simon’s eyes unconsciously soften.

You wave a hand, chest light, “Let’s go then, you brute.”

“Brute?” Simon grumbles, “Gettin’ familiar?”

“Please,” you shake your head and walk to the last door in this section of the house. “You all became familiar the second we met.”

The man rolls his eyes but has his smirk hidden as you open the door for him. He tilts his head in thanks and strolls inside.

You hum, crossing your arms ahead of you and leaning on the doorframe as he looks around, “Don’t think too much over it… The baseline is, you’ll always have a bed here if you need it.”

Ghost slips out, “What are you? Bloody boarding house?” The swelling in his chest made his words harsher than intended, but you just smile cheekily at him as eyes lock.

“Hell’s bells, if you want ta’ get me a business card just go ahead and print ‘em off already. I’ve no problem with it.” He stares and you laugh, shrugging. “Makes me feel good.”

Splaying your hands, you back out.

“I know you probably won’t sleep,” Simon pauses, feeling caught but not showing it. “Libraries down the hall—if you smoke, use the back door. Kitchen is free game.”

“Why?” He asks and you blink, confused.

“Well, why not?” Simon glares.

“You shouldn’t trust people like that.” A loud laugh echoes and makes the man annoyed with you.

“Simon,” you say, and he finds himself hanging on every word that falls from your lips in the moonlight. “Not everyone is out to get you. If you’re friends of Johnny’s, then you’re friends of mine. That boy can sniff a cheat faster than a hound can find a hare.” Perhaps it was the way his shoulders went back at that, or how his brows loosened, but you finish off with a soft explanation. “You’re safe under this roof.”

You wondered, not for that last time that night, if he’d ever been told that. From how his balaclava moved with a sharp jerk of his jaw, you assumed never. It made your lungs hurt.

With a few more seconds of quiet gazing you nod and move back.

“Goodnight, Simon.” You leave him staring at the door as you close it—eyes boring into the grain so harshly they might catch fire.

Ghost doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but his ears twitch at the echo of running water and soundless footsteps. He should leave, he tells himself; this is dangerous, a voice hisses. It’s not safe here, how could it be? There were no guards—no weapons. If someone were to sneak in there wouldn’t be an alarm.

A secluded home. Nothing around.

Then why had your words seeped into him?

“You’re safe under this roof.” Simon closes his eyes harshly.

—

In the morning once everyone’s gone back to the base, you admit you don’t know if you’ll see Simon again; you probably won’t. But you find that you can live with that. The memory of his loosening tension is all you need to feel special in your own right. Those brown eyes that, if but for a moment, had bled so effortlessly feelings of something other than blood and death.

As you sigh a dreamy chuckle to yourself, you get ready for the day before heading to your Hillman. The silent drive to work joins with the strange mix of weight and levitation to your chest. But halfway into town, it hits you.

Silent.

There is an obvious lack of squeaking from under the hood of your car as you slide along the countryside.

The smile doesn’t leave your face for weeks.

TAGS:

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timkontheunsure · 8 months ago

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What Blitz regrets

Interestingly most of Blitz's memories are more accurate with people's expressions than Stolas' in all 2 u.

Here's how he remembers the fire.

He see the imp lady and Cash bookit passed him. Then the pink horse cuts across him.

Then him seeing Fizz and trying to direct help to him.

Next is him trying to get to his Muma

Then we get the aftermath of the fire. (Screaming face made of flame).

Cash grabbing Blitz by his freshly buried wrist to hold him in place to hit him. Immediately blaming him for an accident. His mom just died and his dad did this.

Then blocking access to Fizz, shoving Blitz away. Before lying that he never visited, and that Blitz deliberately set the fire, isolating and scapegoating Blitz.

Moving on to Ozzie's which is large part of his film of his regrets and envys.

Fizz hating him on sight.

And Verosika too.

oh but he missed Stolas getting up to try to defend him from her.

Blitz also focuses on his putting his hand away from Stolas trying to comfort him

Though you can see Stolas miss reads his expression right before. When Ozzie showed his daughter hating him, and had people side with his abuser because she was 'cheated on'.

Stolas being sad when the only thing they have is Stolas wanting to fuck him.

They are both forced on this bit. That they don't have a relationship where they talk and cuddle, because it wasn't a real date. He made sure of that.

(never say never Mr too much Imp to simp)

Stolas giving him the crystal and asking him to stay. Definitely shows the crystal is huge sore point for him.

(Edit Blitz doesn't even see the grimoire in him memory think cute-little-fly pointed this out)

Stolas was more focused on how surprised Blitz was.

Stolas walking away from him as Blitz yells that he'll apologise to everyone else. But never him. If he hadn't said the previous 'fuck you' making Stolas think he gave him a fake reason for blowing up at him, Stolas would have understood.

Stolas singing the line "I don't think you ment to hurt me, because I don't think it meant a thing at all to you"

Oof that must have hurt.

"This whole thing we had going... I'm- I mean you're a fucking prince. How could you ever actually care for an imp... Me? How could anybody". Oh he regrets not believing Stolas cared for him.

And regrets missing his chance to comfort Stolas. (Blitz failed a QTE).

But ok big big difference here! Blitz has definitely misunderstood. Stolas' isn't crying.

He's edited out what a mess Stolas was here. Like he's forgotten how drunk he was..

And Stolas kissing the twunk is a (near) perfect match... Oh that got seared into his brain didn't it.

(Edit: Blitz made Stolas eyes a little open, like they are when they kiss. Cus Stolas needs to see him Lost_Romantique pointed this out).

Pure envy

Blitz so badly want that kind of romantic relationship

Barbie telling him he's ruined her life, and she never wants to see him again. (Just going to sob in a corner here).

And Loona. Both times are fights about being really family.

Loona: Oh, what does it matter?! You're not my real dad! I was almost eighteen!

Blitzo: It still counts!

Loona: Well, it shouldn't! I didn't need you then, asshole! I don't, now

Blitz needs to be needed by the people he loves. Otherwise he thinks they're leave him

Blitzo: Oh, Loona, my sweet baby girl! I'm so sorry, I'll never replace you no matter what you--

Looks like he still worried that she hasn't really forgiven him for saying he's replace her.

Blitz isn't just talking about Stolas here. He thinks if he's bankrupted IMP Milli, Moxxie and Loona will all leave him too. Spirals to rock bottom in this one.

So glad Millie could help pull him out.

#helluva boss #stolitz #blitz x stolas #helluva boss spoilers #Struggling not to hit the picture limit again #Ghostfuckers playing snap

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riddlemelater · 20 days ago

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Last Call - M.R (Part 2)

masterlist | nav | part 1

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

warnings: alcohol use/dependency, mentions of war, death, depiction of injury/blood, dark themes, post-war vibes, implied trauma. etc.

w.c: 3.8k

summary: Mattheo Riddle was sharp, charming, and haunted. Now he’s just a shadow at the bar—drunk, quiet, unraveling. You don’t know why you care. Maybe it’s who he used to be. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he doesn’t expect kindness anymore. But one things certain: you won't turn your back on him, not like the rest of the world already has.

a/n: SURPRISE! Turns out I'm too excited to hold back. Thank you to all you lovely people who've reblogged and left your comments on part 1. I hope you're all ready to lock in... <3

feedback, reblogs, likes + comments are so greatly appreciated <3

"Say, Albion?" you asked curiously, eyes fixed on the far corner of the pub where a familiar group of elderly wizards sat. "Who's the one over there with the bushy brows? What's his name again?" Your head nodded over in their direction.

"Old Silas?" Albion huffed, glancing between the group and you as he dried a glass. You nodded as his eyes narrowed in thought, watching the man for a moment as if trying to place him.

"Silas Wimbly's his name. A Ravenclaw, if I remember correctly. Bit of a toff, came from old money. Parent's spoiled him rotten too, always sent him these massive parcels of sweets— And it was the good stuff, mind you. Liquorice Wands, Pepper Imps. You name it, old Silas had it." Albion shook his head dismissively, scratching at his chin. "Why d'ya ask, love?"

You shrugged, feigning disinterest. "No reason. Just curious s'all."

Albion's eyes settled on you, watching as you wiped over the bar for the third time in ten minutes. Pretending not to feel his gaze burning between your shoulder blades as you worked.

`'Hang on a minute. This isn't about that Riddle lad again—is it?" He asked in an accusatory voice. "I told you before not to go getting mixed up with him." His arms folded across his chest disapprovingly, head canting to the side as you avoided his gaze.

Albion was giving you his sternest Dad look. The older man had taken on a sort of father role when you'd first started here. With no children of his own, the pub was all he had, and as old age was beginning to catch up with him, he'd had no choice but to hire someone else. It'd just so happened that you, freshly out of Hogwarts, a year late due to the war, had been job hunting at the time.

He'd agreed to take you on, temporarily, until you worked out what was next and he'd found someone to train up to take his place. But that had never really happened, and instead, he'd trained you as his assistant of sorts. The plan had never been to stay long, but it seemed that life had other plans for you both. You didn't want to go back into education, and Albion didn't want to find someone new. It was as simple as that.

But now the look Albion was giving you worked all too well, and you sighed and let go of the rag you'd been cleaning with, turning to look at him guiltily.

"I just can't stop thinking about him. It's been three weeks Albs, what if—"

Albion shook his head fiercely, a hand gripping onto your shoulder to steady you. He bent slightly to meet your eyes, and as he did, that familiar pressure began to coil in your chest—guilt and worry rising fast, impossible to swallow.

"What if he's perfectly alright, hmm? Did you think of that?" He said softly, "Listen, I won't pretend I'm fond of the boy, Salazar forgive me. But you're the only family I've got, kid. If it really means that much to you, I'll ask around— Alright?"

Your eyes met his, noting the crooked smile and warm look on his face. Gratitude began to swell in your eyes and you surged forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders thankfully.

"Thank you Albion," you murmured quietly into his shoulder, squeezing tightly. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

Albion chuckled, wrapping an arm around you and patting your back gently. Your cheeks warmed slightly as you pulled away from him, and he fixed you with a serious look once more.

"Look, you don't get far in my line of work without knowing where to ask." he said, and a smile spread across your lips. "I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best. And in the mean time, you just worry about pouring pints." He patted your arm encouragingly and winked.

You nodded feeling like a weight had been lifted from you. As if just knowing that you were doing something, anything, to find out where Mattheo had disappeared to, magically made things better.

The days trickled by, slow and uneventful. You were antsy, constantly fumbling for a task to distract you. You were showing up even earlier than normal, and you didn't leave till Albion himself was heading upstairs to his flat above the pub.

You didn’t ask for updates, mostly because you were too afraid of what he might say. But every time the bell above the door chimed, some part of you still hoped it would be him. Mattheo. Bleary-eyed, mumbling some half-arsed excuse, dark curls a mess from wherever he'd vanished to.

But it never was. And you were beginning to worry once more.

It was nearly a week later, just after last call, when Albion finally said your name the way someone does when they don’t want to be heard. There was a scarce few customers in, mostly nursing dregs of Dragon Barrel Brandy or Odgen's Firewhiskey. Quiet enough that no one would bat an eyelid at a hushed conversation.

You glanced up from the taps, anxious and expectant. But his expression was already answer enough.

"I asked everywhere I could think to ask,” he said, voice low, reluctant. “Nothing. No one's seen him." Albion frowned, placing a hand on your arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to let you down but it's like he's gone off the grid."

You swallowed, staring down at the bar blankly. "It's okay." you nodded, "Thanks for trying anyway, Albs."

Your voice wavered slightly, Albion didn't mention it, but you knew he heard it too. He'd just sighed wearily, the way old men do, and tried to soothe you quietly.

"He'll turn up, love. Try not to worry. Probably just had to get out of London for a bit, a change of scenery. Merlin knows this time of year is hard on us all. Him especially." Albion spoke gently, but you barely even registered his words. You just nodded, agreed with him despite knowing that your mind was already made up— You had to find out for yourself.

"I think I'll head early tonight, if that's alright with you? Try and get some rest." You murmured, wiping a hand across your tired face, "I'll be back in for my shift tomorrow, I can come in early if you need me."

Albion agreed, though clearly reluctant to let you out of his sight, "Alright love, you take as long as you need. I'll sort this lot myself." he said, throwing a glance over to the customers still sat with their near empty drinks.

"Thanks Albs, I really appreciate it." You replied, already untying your apron and turning to hang it on its peg. "See you tomorrow." you added, grasping your wand from beneath the bar and pocketing it.

Before Albion could say another word you'd already called a quick goodbye to the few regulars still left, and left the pub without another word.

You shivered, pulling your coat tighter as you walked along the street. Your mind was in overdrive, thoughts swirling around in your head like smoke. Mattheo had to be somewhere, you reasoned, in half a mind to turn up outside his flat unannounced. You would’ve already, if only you knew where he bloody lived. But you didn’t—and Albion knew even less about him than you did.

Someone had to know where he was.

Your mind flitted to his friends, to Theodore or Blaise, hell you were even considering writing to Draco Malfoy for information on his whereabouts. The only thing that stopped you was that you didn't have his address either, and you were certain the Magical Law Enforcement department wouldn't be best pleased with you wasting one of their top Auror's time with a suspected missing persons case.

That, and, you weren't so sure many people at the Ministry would consider Mattheo Riddle to be deserving of any official MLE resources.

There was one person you could ask, though, and it seemed your feet had already led you there against your better judgment. Your gaze flitted up towards the sign, which hung limply outside the dark pub, swinging gently in the breeze. Straightening your jacket once more, you slid a hand inside your pocket, pulling your wand out and slipping it up your sleeve.

Just in case.

It was risky, you knew it was, but you were desperate. And it seemed that no one could give you the answers you were looking for. So, seeking them out yourself was the next best option. A couple staggered out just as you approached, laughing too loudly, the smell of smoke clinging to their cloaks. One of them paused to eye you curiously, and you glanced away quickly, fingers tightening on your wand. Once they passed, you exhaled a deep breath, pushing open the door to the Leaky Cauldron and stepping inside.

Unlike Albion's pub, the Leaky Cauldron was still busy. Packed with witches and wizards, and all sorts of magical creatures— goblins, hags, vampires. You tried not to pay anyone attention, nodding politely towards Tom, the barkeep, as you brushed through the crowd and headed to the back door.

It had been a few months since you'd ventured into Diagon Alley, but as you tapped the brick, three up and two across from the rubbish bin, with the tip of your wand, you felt the same rush of nostalgia. Recalling the first time you'd ever come here, fondly.

The street unfolded before you in a familiar dance of moving bricks and old magic. Revealing shop fronts and cobbled streets, you'd spent the majority of your teenage years wandering in awe. But it didn’t feel like it used to. Back then, Diagon Alley had shimmered with promise. Now, under the haze of doubt and nightfall, it felt like a ghost of what it had been. Still alive. Just different.

During the war, many of the shops had been destroyed in Death Eater raids, including Olivanders wand shop. Though rebuilt to look like it once had, you could tell it was different now. Subtle details sticking out like sore thumbs, signs that had once been charmingly weathered and flaked, now sparkled bright and pristine. Like everyone was desperate to forget the way they'd been splintered and marred by pure evil.

It felt clinical now, off-puttingly so. But you weren't here to pick out every minor discrepancy you spotted; you were here for answers.

Summoning up the courage, you began to walk, ignoring the way your heart raced in protest. Albion would kill you himself if he knew what you were doing, but he didn't need to know. You'd be quick, in and out, no distractions.

You swallowed down a nervous breath as you spotted the sign for Knockturn Alley. Oddly enough, it was the most normal thing about Diagon Alley now, untouched by the raids, the paintwork was still as flaky and dull as you remembered it. Glancing up and down the street, you checked for familiar faces, just in case someone spotted you heading down into the heart of dodgy schemes and lingering dark magic.

You moved swiftly, back straight and wand clutched tightly up your sleeve. Prepared for anything— and anyone— you might encounter. The difference between Diagon and Knockturn was noticeable immediately; the cobbles underfoot became filthy and uneven, feet stumbling as you grew used to the terrain.

"Lost are we, dear?" A voice called out in a croaky voice. "I could help you find what you're looking for, you know."

Your head turned slightly, and you came face to face with an old woman, or at least, what you thought was a woman. Considering she looked exactly like the hags described in your old school textbooks.

Her face was covered in warts, teeth jagged and yellow, and she was hunched over against the wall as if unable to stand without support. Your eyes scanned over her briefly, taking in the long, spindly fingers that twisted together menacingly, her dirt-covered, splintered nails made you want to gag.

"I'm fine on my own, thanks." You hissed confidently, despite feeling very out of your depth, and swept past, continuing down further into the darkened streets.

She called after you faintly, and your face soured as you forced yourself to keep walking, keeping your eyes focused on finding what you were looking for. As you ventured further, you began to realise why you'd been so heavily warned to avoid Knockturn as a child.

Each figure you passed seemed to get worse and worse as you walked further, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling up in apprehension.

Your eyes scanned across the shop fronts, skin crawling as you spotted a shop named Arachne’s Attic selling giant, black spiders all tangled in a vast web in the window display. The shop next door, aptly named The Shrunken Shrine, held large glass cabinets filled with shrunken heads and skulls, as well as various paraphernalia which could only be associated with dark magic.

You grimaced and hurried on, spotting Borgin & Burkes, the shop which had allowed Death Eaters to infiltrate Hogwarts in your sixth year, thanks to the efforts of one— now reformed, Ministry Auror— Draco Malfoy, and the vanishing cabinet in the Room of Requirement.

The discomfort of Knockturn was enough to put you off ever returning again, containing yourself as you passed yet another shop, named, rather tamely, Still Life. Selling taxidermies of two-headed ravens and what looked suspiciously like Grindylow Skeletons.

Still, you walked further. Finally, you reached the street where you knew the illegal vendors liked to set up shop. You'd recalled the Weasley twins talking about it once, having managed to wrangle it out of Mundungus Fletcher at some point in an attempt to procure some ingredients for their Skiving Snackboxes.

Your chest heaved a little as you thought of Fred— his ill-timed jokes and contagious smirk that had everyone laughing. Yet another person who'd died in the name of peace, that thought only spurred you on, though. Mattheo was still missing, as far as you were concerned, and you'd already come so far.

Wordlessly, you scanned a few of the vendors; a young witch with black teeth selling human fingernails, another selling jewellery you were certain was either cursed or stolen. Or both.

Until finally you spotted him, sitting on an old soap box with his goods stocked messily inside an open suitcase. Mick Tolliver looked exactly like the kind of man who traded secrets for sickles and would never think twice about it.

He sat slouched behind a warped, half-collapsed stall that seemed to have grown out of the alley itself, the wooden frame rotted and sagging under the weight of cursed trinkets and unlabelled jars. The tarp hanging from the roof of the stall was threadbare and looked more like old clothes, sewn together to create a makeshift canopy.

His clothes were greasy too, and like the stall, had many patches of mismatched material sewn over holes, like he'd tried to preserve them for as long as possible. He had the posture of someone who'd once been taller, but he was thin, sullen even, as if he'd lost a lot of weight quickly and his body hadn't been able to stay upright.

A wiry beard hung from his chin in uneven tufts, stained yellow near his mouth from years of smoking, and it was evident by the smell that lingered around him, he wasn't fond of washing either. His eyes, though— his eyes were sharp. Beady and watchful, flickering over you like one of his cursed items, he was already tallying a price for.

"Lookin' for something specific, sweetheart?" he drawled, voice low and oily, "Or has something caught your fancy?" He grinned, and you wished he hadn't. His teeth were yellow, and even from a distance, you could see bits of food stuck in them.

You raised an eyebrow and scoffed, face soured with disgust, but determined not to leave his stall without information.

"I can assure you nothing I'm seeing takes my fancy." You retorted sharply, hand grasping onto your wand tightly, still hidden up your sleeve and at the ready in case he tried anything.

His grin dropped, and his eyes dragged up and down your body. You felt sick just looking at him.

"What're you doing down here then, my sweets. Not exactly Knockturn material, are you?" He drawled, straightening up ever so slightly. His beady eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, "You an Auror? ‘Cause I swear everything I’m sellin’ is legit this time!"

You ignored the pet name and the blatant lie about his stock, despite how much you wanted to hex him into the middle of next week.

"I was looking for information, actually." You cleared your throat, stepping closer, "Heard you're an expert in that kind of thing, stuff not everyone knows."

His sickening grin returned once more, and he relaxed, a chuckle escaping him like you'd just told a joke. Your face remained serious, focused. Grimacing slightly as his laughter turned into coughs, his hand dipped into his pocket to produce an even filthier rag that he coughed into.

"Well, well, well, lovely... then you've come to the right place," he wheezed, suddenly intrigued, "what 'dya wanna know? It'll cost you, though, mind."

Your lips parted, ready to ask him what exactly he knew about Mattheo when his fist thumped down on the makeshift counter of his stall, eyes narrowed once more.

"Ah-ah-ah. Cough up, first. Then you get your answers," he demanded sharply. "Too many people givin' me the run around, not paying up when I tell them what they want to know. Company policy, you see." he grinned, sleazy and pleased with himself.

You sighed, reaching into your pocket with your free hand, then slapped five galleons down onto his table. But before he could reach out and take the gold coins, you grasped them tightly in your hand.

“Ah-ah-ah. Information first,” you said coolly, tightening your grip on the coins. “Gotta check if what you know’s worth it. Personal policy, you see.”

You weren't sure where the sudden bravery came from, calling the shots in Knockturn Alley was hardly what you'd expected when you'd wandered in. However, you were desperate, and this place had your skin crawling from the moment you entered.

He laughed once more, coughed a few times too, then sat back against the wall. "Now... I like you," he rasped, wagging a filthy finger in your face. "So what are you after? Cheating boyfriend? Some bloke not answering your owl? I can be real convincing, for the right price."

Your head shook, "Mattheo Riddle. What do you know about him?" You questioned directly.

Immediately, Tolliver's face paled— his sleaziness cut dead as his finger dropped limply. He no longer had that seedy look about him, instead, it was replaced by something else. Fear.

"Don't know nuffin about nuffin." He answered quickly, arms folding over. "And anyone who says otherwise is a bleedin' liar."

Your head tilted, eyes narrowed. You knew he was lying; no one became that defensive if they had nothing to hide.

"Come on now, Mick. I know you know something," you pressed, reaching into your pocket once more, "I'll make it worth it," you added another three galleons next to the pile.

That seemed to entice him slightly. His head twisted as his eyes flickered between you and the money, like he was on the fence. Sighing frustratedly, you reached down into your pocket and pulled out another two galleons, slamming them down for effect.

That seemed to do the trick.

"Alright, fine!" he grunted, leaning forward and sparing a glance up and down the street, "s'long as you don't tell anyone, I told ya."

"Deal. Now what do you know?"

He nodded again and glanced around, like he was trying to reassure himself.

"He's not dead, not like the rumours are sayin'." He whispered, "But he needed to disappear for a bit. Get away from it all."

Your pulse thudded quicker, "Disappear? Why?"

Mick scratched at his beard nervously, leaning closer again like the shadows might be listening. “All I know is, he was involved with something dark. Not just Knockturn-deep—worse. Real old stuff. Ancient magic. Blood debts. Curses that don’t leave a mark.”

You chewed your lip, a million thoughts racing in your mind. You'd read about Blood Magic before, briefly, whilst studying for your Ancient Ruins N.E.W.T.S. It was ancient magic, belonging to another world, long before this one. Before Hogwarts for sure, and even older than wand magic itself. Whatever it was, you knew it was serious.

You frowned, "Blood Magic? I thought that stuff had died out years ago. Way back in Merlin's time?"

He shook his head grimly, "There are some kinds of magic that don't go away, no matter how hard you try." He shifted again, glanced around at the other vendors and shivered. "Word is, he’s got people after him now. Not Aurors. No. Not even hit wizards. People who don’t show up on any bloody registry, if you catch my drift."

You blinked, a cold sensation trickling up your spine. "Well, where is he now?" You questioned, your nerves shot and begging to show. You pushed the feeling down again.

"I dunno. But if I were him, I'd be long gone. Somewhere far away and heavily warded. Keep them away for as long as I could."

His eyes narrowed, the greasy grin flickering back. “You close to him, sweetheart? Because if you are… You might want to stay out of it. Fellas like that? They don’t come back clean, that's for sure.”

Summoning your last ounce of courage, you shook your head, "Concerned party is all."

Tolliver hummed skeptically, as if he didn't quite believe you. And you didn't blame him, you hardly believed yourself.

"How'd you know all this, then?" you questioned, shooting your own skittish glance up and down the street, like suddenly you could feel the weight of more eyes fixed on you. Watching.

Mick only smirked smugly, crooked and not at all comforting like Albion's smile. "Ah, now that'd be telling, wouldn't it?"

One of his bony hands reached out to grasp at the galleons, instinctively, you pulled back, watching him bundle them away inside a ragged, cloth bag. He hummed to himself as he did it, tucking them away in an inside pocket in the lining of his coat.

"You didn't hear none of this from me." He spoke, standing hurriedly and closing over the suitcase that held his merchandise. "Word of warning, sweets. If he's alive, and you go sniffin' around... they'll come for you, too. Best give up on him now, your boyfriend's neck-deep in something no one crawls out of alive."

Before you could say another word, he disapparated with a loud crack that made you flinch. Mick Tolliver was gone, leaving you alone to stare at the ruined stall—and his warning lingering in the air.

©️riddlemelater. 2025.

#last call m.r #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle fanfic #my writing #post war harry potter #harry potter au #riddlemelater

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ch33z3grits · 24 days ago

Text

Crimson Obsessions | A Terry Richmond Series

pairing: Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond x Justine Skye as Camille DeWaterson

warnings: 18+ mdni, dark romance, obsessiveness/possessiveness, mentions of cheating, mentions of BDSM themes, mentions of mental breakdowns, mentions of violence, angst, manipulation, AAVE, mentions of kidnapping

word count: 9,369

glossary:

Indulgences: human beings that vampires deem romantically and sexually desirable

The Veil: the dark magic that enhances supernaturals’ ability to manipulate the human world

Imps: demon-like supernaturals that can easily pass as human

a/n: hi everyone!! this chapter, I really wanted to lean in to dark, psycho!Terry teehee 😁I just feel like I haven't really touched on him that well. so hopefully this part does that lololol. ALSO, that little teaser of aaron with the tongue kiss (iykyk), MY GOD! 😫😫😫😫 It don't make any sense for that man to have me in this much of a chokehold. Anywho, enjoy! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

Terry's song: Come Live With Me Angel-Marvin Gaye | Camille's song: Not Allowed-TV Girl

Pt. Eleven

Terry

Terry had told himself it would be enough to satisfy him. At least for now. A few months of dating Camille, just long enough to make it acceptable to ask for her hand in marriage by human standards. He had hoped that wearing the title of “boyfriend” would somehow suppress the dark obsession he carefully masked. But as his eyes landed on the vampire-human couple who glided into Red Rum, glowing with the warmth of effortless intimacy, resentment began to swirl inside of him.

He had been at Jabari's celebration for hours at this point. He had several drinks and numerous pints of blood flowing through his system, making him drunk in more ways than one. The blunt in his hand heightened everything too. But once his best friend walked in with his wife, Terry’s mind seemed to immediately clear. And for all of the wrong reasons.

He couldn’t focus on the chaos of pleasure unfolding around him. The music pounded through the walls of the club. Shots were knocked back, cocktails were spilled, blood dripped lazily out of vampires’ mouths, bodies moved and writhed and fucked under sensuous red lights. Every corner of Red Rum throbbed with decadence and danger as a few of Texas’ most notable supernatural beings celebrated Jabari’s accomplishments. It wasn’t just an after party; it was much more than that. A celebration of a vampire who had clawed his way up the ruthless hierarchy. A fledgling turned into a made man. Most turned vampires never made it beyond the lower levels of status. They were doomed to lives that were all too ordinary and far too long.

But Jabari was different. Ambitious. Clever. Ruthless enough to survive, and charming enough to be rewarded. Red Rum was buzzing for him tonight. Vampires, humans, and the rare magical beings lucky enough to mingle in such exclusive circles all tangled together. Pleasure was currency here, and everyone was trying to spend it.

But even during the celebration of a prince, a king could attract plenty of attention. Dozens of women–vampire, human, fae, and a few with unknown origins–drifted toward Terry like moths to flame. A year ago, he would’ve indulged in every one of them, gladly. But now, he dismissed them all with the same lazy flick of his hand, not even bothering to look at them. None of them could hold a candle to Camille. Not in his eyes.

Instead, Terry’s gaze twitched, just a flicker, as he tracked Elijah and his human wife, Dolores, gliding effortlessly through the sea of bodies. It was as if gravity itself bent to their presence, parting the crowd around them in quiet reverence. They didn’t flinch at the chaos that surged and throbbed through Red Rum, didn’t even seem to register it. Their focus was entirely on each other, as if the music, the bloodlust, the writhing pleasure-seekers meant nothing.

There was something mesmerizing about them… about how freely they existed in each other’s orbit. Dolores didn’t tense at the flash of fangs from a nearby vampire or shrink away in horror from a threesome unfolding in their path. Her gaze remained steady, her presence remained unshaken. And Elijah wasn’t the slightest bit tempted by what was going on around him. Not by the sensual games, the lust-drenched offers whispered in his ear, or the intoxicating scent of blood in the air. His instincts were no match for his love for Dolores. Around them, the club pulsed with sin and celebration. But they floated through it, untouched. Unbothered. Unbreakable.

And although Terry sat at the highest point in the den with his favorite indica and sativa blend burning in his hand, surrounded by the best liquor and food Houston had to offer, he couldn’t help the sharp, deep, twisting pang of jealousy in his chest. It wasn’t just an ache, it was envy. He wanted what they had. Full, complete honesty and love that wasn’t confined to just the human world and was much deeper than “boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He wanted Camille to know his truth. All of it. Not the “human” version of him that he so carefully crafted so she could fall under his influence. He wanted her to know the full weight of who and what he was. He wanted to show her his world without apology. And more than that, he wanted her to stay. To be comfortable in the dark alongside him. To belong there, not as a guest, not as a hostage, but as his willing equal.

He wanted more than the flimsy boundaries of an exclusive relationship. That label felt juvenile as fuck. He was too damn grown for that. Boyfriend didn’t speak to the depth of what he felt for Camille, nor to the hunger he had to claim her in a way that was sacred, permanent, and recognized by every realm, mortal and supernatural.

Marriage held a different weight. It wasn’t just a title; it was a tether. Marriage meant building something together, laying roots in the same soil. It meant a shared home, and a bed that belonged to no one else but them. It meant he could provide for her fully, not just with gifts or gestures, but with stability, protection, and devotion.

Marriage meant she would be his in a way no one else ever could be, and he, hers. It wasn’t about possession; it was about meant access. Not just to their bodies, but to their secrets, to their fears, to the dreams they spoke about in the dark. It was permanence. And it was the only thing that felt big enough to hold what he felt for her.

If they were married, if Camille were his in that irrevocable, sacred way, he could’ve ended the night in a much more satisfactory way: slipping into their home and finding her there, tangled in their sheets, her scent and warmth clinging to the air.

He imagined it so clearly it hurt. The slight smile that would tug at her lips when he kissed her awake, tipsy from too many drinks. She’d protest in that sleepy, soft voice he adored, annoyed at the interruption but already folding into his touch. She would gasp and moan softly as he pumped her full of dick and filled her with his cum, leaving her worn out from multiple orgasms that would lull her back to sleep. And to make up for interrupting her dreams, he’d rise early and bring her breakfast in bed. Then he’d whisk her away for a lazy morning shopping, her hand tucked into his arm as he spoiled her without apology.

But no. Terry would be returning to an empty and silent apartment. Returning to a cold bed. And the worst part? She wasn’t far. Just across the street. Close enough to feel like a cruel tease, but still out of reach. Still not his in the way he craved. Not yet.

But Terry clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe through the jealousy as his friend and his wife climbed the stairs to Terry’s section. Elijah had earned the love he shared with Dolores. He had fought for it, sacrificed for it, and nurtured it into something rare and beautiful. Terry had no right to resent him for that.

Besides, Terry needed him. Desperately. The slow, measured path he had chosen, waiting for the perfect moment, the socially acceptable time to reveal himself fully to Camille, was starting to feel like a trap. A dangerous one. Playing nice with time, with restraint, was becoming unbearable. Worse, it was reckless. Every moment he delayed, the darker parts of himself stirred restlessly, taunting him to feed from her or let his mask slip. All of that put Camille in danger and their bond in jeopardy.

He needed to act. Fast.

Terry’s grin curled across his face as he pushed off the balcony and made his way toward Elijah and Dolores, who had just appeared at the top of the grand staircase that overlooked Red Rum’s crimson-lit den. Terry chuckled under his breath, the sound buried in his throat, as he considered how humans might interpret the sight of them. Elijah and Dolores’ bond slowed her aging significantly, but she still aged.

Elijah, eternally frozen in the prime of his life, looked every bit like he was in early thirties.

Dolores, on the other hand, bore the graceful marks of time. She didn’t look anywhere near her actual ninety-eight years, but she could easily pass for someone in her early fifties. Dignified, striking, with silver threads beginning to weave through her dark hair, and laugh lines that only deepened her allure.

To the unknowing eye, the age gap must’ve looked amusing, maybe even scandalous. A man in his thirties with a woman who could be old enough to be his mother? It would’ve confused the casual observer. Terry smirked. Shit, I’m trying to get just like them, he thought.

“Damn,” Terry said with a crooked grin, eyes glinting under the club’s deep red lighting. “Didn’t think y’all’s old asses would actually show up to the after party.” He snickered as he reached out, dapping Elijah up and then pulling Dolores into a warm, respectful side hug. “Glad y’all could make it.”

Elijah laughed, the sound barely audible over the bass rattling the walls. “Aye man, we just needed a quick nap between the Veil ceremony and all this madness. We ain’t that damn old.”

Dolores gave Terry a playful side-eye, her smile sly as she looked around, finally lifting her head from Elijah’s shoulder like she was waking from a dream. “My, my, Terry,” she said with mock surprise, her voice laced with amusement. “You sure know how to throw a party.”

Terry’s grin widened, pride settling in his chest as he watched her take in the scene. Red Rum was alive tonight, and even though it wasn't his club, Terry had made sure of that.

“Appreciate that, D,” he said, voice smooth and laid-back. “After all these years in the club game, I gotta keep raising the bar. Can’t let the scene get stale, y’know?”

Dolores nodded, clearly impressed, while Elijah scanned the room with a watchful calm.

“Yeah, man, you keep this up and you’ll never leave the top,” Elijah chuckled, glancing around at the packed club. But his voice dipped a little lower, the amusement thinning. “But I know that look in your eye. What’s going on with you?”

Terry exhaled slowly through his nose, cursing himself for momentarily forgetting how well Elijah could read people.

“Actually…” Terry began, eyes flicking briefly to Dolores before settling back on Elijah, “...I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute. Got some things I need to run by you.”

Dolores caught the look immediately. Terry’s polite, pointed side glance said more than words. She rolled her eyes with a small smirk and tilted her head knowingly. “Mmm. One of those talks, huh? You want me to vanish like a good little human?”

Terry laughed under his breath, grinning. “Not forever. Just long enough for him to talk me off the edge.”

Dolores sighed with mock drama and spun on her heel, already heading toward the food spread. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave y’all to your spooky little heart-to-hearts.” She pointed with her chin toward the towering meat and seafood display near Terry’s VIP table. “I saw coal-roasted oysters. If y’all are gonna whisper and plot, I’m at least gonna get something to eat.”

Elijah called after her, grinning. “Grab me a plate too, baby!”

Dolores didn’t break stride. “You better be lucky I love you,” she tossed back, her voice floating through the thumping music like a kiss on the wind.

Terry shook his head, watching their banter with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Man,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, “that thing y’all got? That’s what I want. What I need.”

Elijah’s smile faded and brows furrowed as he turned to face him more fully. “What you talking about? You got that. You secured Camille without shit getting out of hand. Did something happen?”

“Nah,” Terry said, guiding them both toward a quieter corner of the section, away from the flashing lights and curious ears. “Nothing like that. It’s just… I’m losing patience. With the whole waiting game. It’s messing with my head. Got me on edge.”

Elijah’s expression shifted, his usual calm giving way to something more serious. He tilted his head slightly, reading between the lines. “Wait… are you talking about the cravings?”

Terry didn’t answer right away. He just looked away, jaw tight, the silence saying everything Elijah needed to know.

Elijah gave a slow, measured nod, eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned against the wall, tapping into his medical persona, scanning Terry like he was trying to diagnose him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured this was coming. Ever since you fed from her that one time… it was only a matter of time. Once you get a taste of your Indulgence, it changes you. It’s like a drug. Eventually, they’re the only thing you want. You can push it down and fight it. Maybe take a break away from her. Somewhere tropical and remote, reconnect with your control–”

“That’s the thing,” Terry cut in, voice sharp. “I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

Elijah froze, blinking once. Terry stepped closer, eyes burning as his voice dropped an octave.

“I’m tired of pretending like I can keep this act up. Tired of acting like this little plan I made is enough to keep the hunger in check. It’s not. I don’t want to keep holding back.” His voice dropped, thick with something dark and unrepentant. “I want all of it and I want it now. Her. The blood. The bond.”

I want to have my cake and eat her too, Terry thought.

He knew how it sounded. Knew it was twisted. But denial had never been his game. He always gave into hedonism. And pretending otherwise? That was starting to feel like an unnecessary burden.Elijah straightened slowly, jaw tightening as he searched Terry’s face for some flicker of restraint. “Terry…” he started, voice careful, deliberate. “You don’t want to fuck this up. Camille loves you, no doubt. But fear? Fear can twist love into something unrecognizable. You reveal too much too soon, you risk losing her for good.”

“Exactly,” Terry said, voice syrupy with something that almost sounded like amusement, but there was no humor in his eyes. “So help me out, bruh. What should I do? Because this waiting shit?” He shook his head, smiling like a madman. “That shit ain’t an option anymore.”

And why the fuck should it be?

He didn’t do all this to sit on his hands and play the perfect human boyfriend. He didn’t slink into her workplace, fuck Stephanie’s desperate ass, pull her too-perfect fiancé into an outrageous gambling debt, have her apartment torched, or dangle her parents over their hotel balcony in the middle of the night to play fucking patty cake.

Elijah exhaled slow and deep, dragging a hand down his face as he looked away. Terry watched him, knowing full well Elijah wasn’t the type to argue when someone’s mind was already made up. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to guide the fallout.

“You really sure about this?” Elijah asked at last, meeting Terry’s gaze with a steady, searching look. “You don’t got a few more months left in you? Not even a little patience?”

Terry didn’t blink. “I��ve never been more sure of anything.”

Elijah rubbed the back of his neck, visibly torn, jaw working through the hesitation. “Alright,” he muttered. “Then you better listen close. All of what I’m about to say. This isn’t a move you can finesse your way out of if it goes left.”

Terry nodded once, resolute.

Elijah sighed again, slower this time, the sound seeming to drag from the part of him that had been here before. “You gotta ease her in, Terry. Slow. She needs to see pieces of you, pieces of our world. Not all at once. Don’t drown her in the truth. Let her wade in on her own.”

Terry raised a brow, skeptical. “Like?”

Elijah leaned in slightly, voice lower now, more serious. “You start letting the cracks show, just enough to catch her attention. Start doing things people shouldn’t be able to do. Pick up something too heavy without thinking. Move too fast, then play it off. Go days without sleep or food. Let her start wondering. Let the impossible wrap around the edges of what she knows. Make her question. But keep it beautiful. Mysterious. Not monstrous.”

Terry let out a soft, dry chuckle. “That’s poetic as hell, bruh. But it don’t sound like I’d get that far any faster.”

Elijah didn’t return the laugh. “It will be fast. Just not the kind of fast you would like. You let her investigate. Let her choose to follow the thread. She can’t do that if she’s terrified outta her mind.”Terry’s eyes darkened slightly. “And when do I actually tell her? Like, say it?”

Elijah’s voice dropped, flat and certain. “When she asks. And trust me, she will ask. When the questions stack up and the world stops making sense, she’ll turn to you. That’s when you tell her. But keep it gentle. Truth without too much horror.”

Terry tilted his head, arms crossing. “So, a slow leak instead of a flood.”

“Exactly,” Elijah nodded. “She’s smart. Let her build the picture herself. It’s less terrifying when she feels like she’s discovering the truth, like she still has power. Not like she’s walking into a trap.”

A silence settled between them, heavy and contemplative. Then Terry spoke, quieter this time. “And if she runs?”

The words barely left him before the weight of them hit. His jaw flexed hard, a flicker of something primal twisting in his chest. The thought of Camille leaving clawed at his insides like broken glass.Elijah didn’t flinch. “Then you let her,” he said, voice even, eyes steady. “That’s the part they don’t tell you about love, especially our kind. It only works if it’s chosen. Freely. You can have her heart, or you can own her fear. But you can’t have both.”

Terry swallowed hard, fighting the war raging inside him. The part that wanted to protect her, keep her safe, cherished. And the part that wanted to consume her completely, to sink into her like a predator claiming prey.

He nodded slowly, chest tight. “Alright.”

Elijah clapped a solid hand on his shoulder. “Good. Just… don’t let the hunger speak louder than your heart, man. That’s when you stop being someone she can love.”

Terry didn’t respond. He just thought. And he kept thinking as he and Elijah walked back toward the VIP section, the noise of the club swallowing them whole. Laughter, food, and liquor flowed freely again as the group welcomed them back. Even as they laughed watching Jabari stumble blackout drunk across the ground floor, celebrating like he’d won the world, Terry remained in thought.

Wondering if he could truly follow Elijah’s advice.

Camille

Camille groaned softly as the shrill cry of her alarm pierced the early morning silence. Her hand fumbled across the nightstand, eventually landing on the glowing screen of her phone. 6:30 a.m. The numbers glared back at her, nearly two hours earlier than her usual wake-up time. She squinted at the display, wanting it to be wrong, then let out a long, resigned sigh.

Still buried beneath the cocoon of warm sheets, she stretched sluggishly, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. A dull throb pulsed behind her eyes, the inevitable aftermath of a lunchtime cocktail turning into three, followed by an impromptu wine session with her sister. The decision had seemed harmless, even fun, at the time. Now, it felt like a mistake soaked in regret and Sauvignon Blanc.

Muttering a curse under her breath, she tossed aside the blankets and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet, sending a jolt up her spine that did little to shake her grogginess. She padded toward the bathroom. Her morning routine blurred into a series of automatic motions, brushing her teeth, taking a quick shower, smoothing out her boho braids. No time to dwell. Lorenzo would be downstairs in thirty minutes, punctual as always. She needed to be ready.

As much as Camille longed to crawl back beneath the comfort of her covers, to lose herself in the softness and forget the day ahead, she couldn’t afford it. Not today. Not when there was still so much she didn’t know, so much she needed to uncover. Aston was still missing, and she wasn’t the kind of person who could walk away from something like that. Not when the man she had once planned to marry had vanished without a trace.

She had been investigating since the day after the gala. The story people told themselves, that Aston had snapped, had some kind of breakdown, never sat right with her. He wasn’t perfect. Far from it. But he wasn’t unstable. He didn’t have a history of mental illness, no whispered stories of rehab stints or secret addictions. Something had happened. And whatever it was, Camille couldn’t stop herself from needing to know.

What hurt the most was the silence she kept around her search. No one knew. Not Kali, not Chloe, and definitely not Terry. Her new boyfriend didn’t have the slightest idea that every week, without fail, Camille carved out a day to continue looking for her ex. She had no idea how Terry would react if he found out. Would he be angry? Hurt? Would he understand that this wasn’t about love anymore, but about decency? About loyalty?

So she kept it quiet. And every week, she followed the same solemn ritual. She drove herself to the fringes of Houston, visiting rehab centers, emergency rooms, and psychiatric hospitals within a fifty-mile radius. Anywhere a lost man might land if the world had swallowed him whole. She watched faces in waiting rooms and quietly asked receptionists questions that were always met with the same head-shake or polite deferral. So far, all she had were leads that dissolved into nothing. No one matching Aston’s description, no admissions, no incidents, no threads she could follow that didn’t fray apart in her hands.

But she refused to give up. Even if they would never be lovers again, she couldn’t just pretend he hadn’t existed. Couldn’t accept that someone she had once shared a life with could disappear so completely, so quietly, and no one would care enough to look.

This weekend would be no different. Despite her sister borrowing her car, Camille had already planned the trip: Magnolia Oaks, a private in-patient psychiatric facility tucked twenty miles north of the city. She only wished her mode of transportation was more anonymous. An Uber Black would’ve been appealing, but the idea of sitting next to a stranger for that long made her skin crawl. So, instead, she had asked Lorenzo for the favor. She just hoped he wouldn’t ask too many questions. And she really hoped he wouldn’t go back to Terry about this.As Camille tugged on her shoes, the sharp buzz of her phone cut through the quiet of her apartment. She glanced at the screen, seeing that she had a text from Lorenzo, letting her know he was outside and already had the GPS pulled up to go to Magnolia Oaks.

Perfect, she thought, a flicker of relief settling over her nerves. She stood and crossed the room to the mirror, giving herself one final once-over. She slipped some sunglasses on, a final barrier between herself and the morning she didn’t want to face, then stepped out into the hallway.

The elevator ride down was uneventful, the soft hum of descending machinery filling the silence. The lobby, all glass and polished marble, echoed faintly with the distant clack of her heels. It was a normal morning on the surface, but Camille couldn’t shake the strange weight pressing against her chest. Something about the air felt... off. Like the day held something she wasn’t expecting. Still, she forced the unease down, sealed it behind her resolve. She had made up her mind.

Outside, the black Suburban waited at the curb. Lorenzo stood beside it, already stepping forward as he spotted her. He smiled warmly and gave a short wave before opening the rear door with a flourish. “Good morning, Ms. Camille,” he greeted, his voice bright and full of cheer. “I hope you had sweet dreams.”

Camille’s smile faltered for a heartbeat, and she cringed slightly at the oddly intimate comment. But she recovered quickly, slipping into her well-worn role. “Good morning, Lorenzo. How are you? I hope Terry didn’t keep you waiting too long last night.”

Lorenzo chuckled and shifted the door open wider, his expression laced with amusement. “I wish I could say he didn’t, but I don’t mind. Boss had a great time last night. I’m sure it was a night he won’t forget anytime soon.” He drew out the word ‘great’ with a knowing smile, like he was replaying some private joke.

Camille’s brow furrowed as she slid into her seat, her curiosity flaring. What does that mean? She turned slightly, ready to press for more, but Lorenzo had already closed the door and was moving briskly around the vehicle. By the time she heard the front door click shut, the moment felt like it had passed.

As the engine purred to life and the Suburban rolled away from the curb, Camille considered bringing it up again, demanding clarity, but something stopped her. Don’t poke at it. The last thing she needed was to stir up something that might find its way back to Terry.

So instead, she leaned back against the seat, folded her hands in her lap, and stared out the window. Still, that uneasy feeling lingered, quiet but persistent. Like the day was waiting for her to let her guard down.

The hum of the road filled the Suburban’s cabin as the city slowly gave way to open stretches of highway. Buildings fell away behind them, replaced by sprawling parking lots, weathered billboards, and wide patches of green that blurred under the pale morning light. The ride had been quiet for nearly twenty minutes, save for the steady rhythm of tires on pavement and the low murmur of the radio playing some mellow jazz station Lorenzo always seemed to favor.

Camille sat with her arms loosely folded, her gaze fixed on the landscape beyond the tinted window. Fog clung to the low hills in the distance, the kind that never quite burns off until late morning. She tapped a fingernail idly against her thigh, lost in thought, until Lorenzo’s voice broke through the stillness.

“So,” he began casually, a bit too loud against the hush of the car, “this place must be pretty special if you’re leaving at the crack of dawn to get there.”

Camille flinched slightly. Not visibly, but enough to feel the tension ripple through her chest. There was that tone again. Friendly, yes. But laced with something more pointed than usual. She forced a polite smile and pushed the unease down.

“Oh no,” she replied with a soft giggle, practiced and airy. “Nothing special, really. I just have a packed day ahead with my sister, so I wanted to get this little errand out of the way early.”

Lorenzo nodded, keeping his eyes on the road, but his lips curled into a smirk she caught in the rearview mirror.

“That’s sweet,” he said, tone smooth, almost too smooth. “At least you’re being productive. Maybe once the boss recovers from his crazy night, he can do the same.”

Camille blinked, her expression tightening behind her sunglasses. What the hell? she thought, shifting slightly in her seat. His comments are weirder than usual today.

She glanced toward the rearview mirror again, catching another glimpse of Lorenzo’s face. He looked calm, unfazed. But something in his voice carried a knowing edge, like he was toying with the boundaries of casual conversation and dipping into something more personal.

Outside, the suburbs gave way to back roads lined with thickets of trees and aging gas stations that hadn’t been updated in a decade. Long drives had always been a bit meditative for Camille, a stretch of quiet time where she could think clearly, away from the chaos of her life. But today, the stillness felt different. Stiff. Unsettling.

She tried to refocus, telling herself that Lorenzo was just being... Lorenzo. Chatty. A little too familiar, maybe, but ultimately harmless. And yet, with every mile they covered, a low buzz of anxiety thrummed in the back of her mind. Something about the way he said ‘crazy night,’ something about the way he had smirked, she didn’t like it.

Still, she said nothing. She didn’t want to give him anything more to read into. So she looked back out the window, watching the gray morning sky stretch endlessly above the trees, and hoped the next hour would pass in silence.

The drive dragged on, broken only by the occasional sound of the creak of the Suburban’s leather interior or the steady swish of tires on the road. Camille’s nerves hummed just beneath her skin. She watched landmarks flicker past. An abandoned diner with a crumbling neon sign, a lonely strip mall, a sharp turn where the woods grew thick and wild on either side.

Finally, the road curved gently uphill, revealing a long iron gate framed by stone pillars. Beyond it stood Magnolia Oaks Psychiatric Facility, its cream-colored main building nestled quietly amid towering oaks and manicured hedges. A stone fountain trickled water in the circular drive, and the early morning mist still clung to the hedges like breath on glass.

As the Suburban rolled up to the gate, Lorenzo leaned out slightly and pressed the call button. A sharp buzz crackled through the speaker, followed by a clipped voice: “Name and purpose of visit?”

Lorenzo shot a quick glance back at Camille through the rearview mirror. Camille rolled her window down, answering, “Visitor for a patient inquiry.”

There was a pause, then the gate creaked open with a slow groan. The SUV glided forward up the winding drive. Camille’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag. Her heart thudded, not in fear exactly, but in that heavy way it always did when she approached a place like this. Hope and dread, tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

Lorenzo pulled the vehicle up to the front entrance and shifted into park. He turned around, his usual grin softened into something more neutral. “Want me to wait here?” he asked, his voice lower now.

Camille hesitated. She considered asking him to come in with her, just to have someone nearby. But she couldn’t. “Yes, please. It shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.”

Lorenzo gave a small nod, then reached across to open her door. “Alright, Ms. Camille. Be safe.”

She slid out of the car, her sandals landing softly against the stone path. The door shut behind her and the SUV eased away.

Squaring her shoulders, Camille adjusted her bag and walked toward the entrance. The glass doors opened with a mechanical hiss, and a rush of cool, sterile air greeted her. She stepped inside, ready, again, to ask if anyone had seen Aston.

The interior of Magnolia Oaks was bright, clean, and eerily quiet. The walls were painted a soft, calming shade of sage green, punctuated by abstract art and small brass plaques that offered inspirational quotes Camille didn’t bother to read. The floor gleamed beneath her, too polished, almost unnatural. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and lavender air freshener, an odd, sterile kind of comfort.

At the far end of the lobby stood the front desk, a semicircle of light wood and glass manned by an older Hispanic woman in pale blue scrubs and a cardigan, her badge and a small pin of the Cuban flag clipped neatly to her collar. She looked to be in her early fifties, yet there was something elderly about her. Something Camille couldn’t quite place.

Camille walked up, forcing her expression into one of polite confidence.

“Good morning,” she said gently, resting her hands on the edge of the counter. “I’m here to ask about a potential patient. I’ve been checking around a few facilities, and I was hoping you could tell me if someone named Aston McCoy has checked in recently.”

The woman looked up from her computer, her gaze assessing her as if she had seen a ghost. “Are you family?” she asked with a slight accent, fingers poised over her keyboard.

“No,” Camille admitted. “I’m... an old friend. He had an incident a few weeks ago and just vanished. I just want to make sure he’s safe.” She hesitated, then added, “I’m worried he might have come here for help under a different name.”

The receptionist nodded slowly, the lines on her forehead deepening slightly. “Do you have a photo, mija?”

Camille reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, swiping across the screen until she reached a picture of her and Aston at a vineyard just outside Napa. He was smiling, arm wrapped casually around her waist, wind tugging at his collar. She slid her phone across the desk.

The woman took the phone carefully, her eyes scanning it for a few seconds longer than Camille expected. “We don’t usually release patient information unless you’re an authorized contact,” she said carefully, handing the device back, “but I’ll take a look through our recent admissions list. If anyone matching his description has checked in, even under a different name, I’ll see if it flags anything.”

“Thank you,” Camille said softly as she stepped back. The receptionist turned to her computer and began typing. Camille watched the soft clicking of the keys, her pulse quickening with every second. The lobby had grown even quieter, the buzz of fluorescent lights suddenly very noticeable, pressing down on her like static. After a minute or so, the woman frowned slightly, leaning in toward her screen.

Camille took a small step forward. “Did you find something?” The woman hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing under Aston McCoy, or anything matching his physical description. We had a few new admissions this week, but no one who fits. I’m sorry.”

Camille nodded, swallowing a wave of disappointment that was already too familiar. “It’s alright,” she said. “I appreciate you checking. Have a good day.”

She turned and walked back toward the doors, her shoes echoing off the marble floor with every step. The cool air outside hit her like a wall as the doors slid open again, and for a moment she just stood there, staring at the horizon. The morning sun had risen higher, burning off the last of the mist. The brightness made her squint behind her sunglasses, though it did little to warm the cold knot in her chest. Another dead end.

She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to release the tension that had gathered along her spine, then exhaled just as slowly before scanning the wrap-around driveway. The Suburban was parked in the far corner, idling in a patch of shade beneath an old oak tree. Lorenzo was leaning against the passenger side door, arms crossed over his chest, one foot propped casually against the bumper. He straightened as he saw her approaching, opening the back door.

“That was quick,” he said, giving her a glance that didn’t ask questions.

Camille slid into the back seat without answering. Lorenzo closed the door behind her with a soft thud and circled back to the driver’s seat. Once inside, he adjusted the mirror and met her gaze briefly through the glass. “You want me to take the long way back?” he asked. “Grab a coffee or something?”

Camille considered it for a second, then shook her head. “No. Just home, please.” He nodded, respectful. “You got it.”

They pulled out of the driveway in silence before merging onto the quiet, two-lane road that led back to Houston. Camille leaned her head against the cool window, watching the trees blur past in streaks of green and brown.

The landscape gradually shifted as the Suburban rolled on, wide fields and wooded patches giving way to chain restaurants, gas stations, and the slow sprawl of Houston’s outer edges. Traffic thickened just slightly, the hum of passing cars replacing the quiet stillness of the countryside. Camille sat quietly in the back seat, her cheek resting lightly against the window’s cool surface, sunglasses still shielding her eyes from the late-morning sun.

Fatigue crept in like a tide. The early wake-up, the emotional weight of another fruitless search, it all pressed down on her at once. Her muscles loosened, eyelids growing heavy. Her head lolled gently to the side, surrendering to the rhythmic motion of the car. For a moment, she let herself drift, caught in that strange space between waking and dreaming. But just as her body began to yield fully to sleep, something flickered in her peripheral vision.

Bright. Red. Sparkly.

Her brows twitched beneath her sunglasses. She blinked, straightened slightly, and focused her gaze on the object peeking out from beneath the floor mat behind the front passenger seat. It hadn’t been there earlier, or maybe she’d simply been too tired, too preoccupied to notice. But now it practically screamed for her attention, a jarring splash of color in the otherwise sleek black interior.

Curiosity sharpened her focus. She leaned forward, shifting carefully in her seat, angling herself to get a better view. Her fingers reached out hesitantly, brushing over the glinting edge of the thing. It was soft. Fabric. Camille frowned, her fingers gently tugging it free from where it had been half-hidden beneath the mat.

Crimson red, dusted with shimmer, and as sleazy and intimate as it could be. Without a doubt, it was a thong. A used thong. A recently used thong. And one that definitely didn’t belong to her. Camille’s pulse quickened as her hand flicked the garment away from her. Her stomach grew queasy for two reasons. One, she was just holding someone else’s underwear. Absolutely gross. But the nausea bubbling in her stomach and chest had much more to do with what finding those underwear meant.

Terry–the man who had her nose wide open since the beginning of the year, the one who had touched the most bruised parts of her heart so gently–had a great time last night… because he was with someone else.

Camille sat frozen in the backseat, the soft hum of the car feeling suddenly distant, hollow. She had ignored it, the weird, slightly-too-knowing smiles Lorenzo had given her this morning. She’d brushed off his cryptic comments, told herself he was just being friendly, just chatty. Just Lorenzo.

But deep down, she knew. The signs had been there, flickering at the edges of her trust like warning lights. And she, like a naive little girl playing pretend in a grown woman’s life, had closed her eyes to every single one of them.

The realization hit her chest like a punch, slow and bruising. Terry had been with someone else last night. And that someone was bold enough and comfortable enough to leave behind a trail. Someone who didn’t have to wonder if they were being lied to.

Camille swallowed hard, the motion rough and dry, like glass dragging down her throat. Her chest tightened, with anger, embarrassment, and a grief so sharp it felt like it might cut her in half. She felt heat flood her face, mostly from shame. Deep, scalding shame. How stupid had she been? How blind? She believed in the softness of Terry’s voice, the easy charm in his smile. She had let herself fall for every sweet nothing, every forehead kiss, every time he whispered “you’re mine.”

She thought she was safe. That she'd finally found someone who saw her. Chose her. Loved her.

But in reality, Terry had just chosen her to be his fool. A woman who he probably saw as a form of entertainment. Someone to boost his ego. She was the girl who he knew would be wrapped around his finger, willing to do anything to please him.

How could she fall for this? Everything about Terry screamed red flag. Handsome beyond words. Tall, strong, fit. Charming, seductive, all-consuming. A fucking club owner who probably ran into models, influencers, and other beautiful women all the time. In what world is a guy like that ever faithful? Especially to the women like Camille? The women who weren’t the most sexually liberated or weren’t necessarily the life of the party.

Camille pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, her breath fogging the surface in slow, shallow bursts, hot tears streaming silently down her face. She could still see her reflection, blurry and ghost-like, and she hated the look in her own eyes. Wide. Hurt. Humiliated.

She had let herself believe she was finally the exception.

But she was just another woman who got played.

And God, did it make her feel stupid.

She leaned her head back against the seat, blinking fast behind her sunglasses and desperately wiping the tears from her face. She couldn’t let Lorenzo see her like this.

She glanced up toward the front, toward the steady line of Lorenzo’s shoulders. He was still driving, calm, one hand resting loosely on the wheel. Oblivious. Or pretending to be. And to think that she actually thought they were friendly. Obviously not. Not with the way he made those mocking comments earlier. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she let the shame grip her again. But she snapped out of her stump as more tears threatened to fall. She had all the time in the world to cry. Right now she needed answers.

“Hey, Lorenzo,” Camille said, her voice cracking halfway through, betraying more than she wanted it to. She cleared her throat quickly, straightened in her seat, trying to force steadiness into her tone as her gaze lifted to meet his through the rearview mirror.

Lorenzo’s dark eyes flicked up, catching hers. Well, what little they could behind the barrier of her oversized sunglasses.

“How long was Terry out last night?” she asked, her voice softer now but more measured, cloaked in casual curiosity. There was a pause. Subtle, but telling. She watched the faint shift in his posture, how his grip on the steering wheel changed, how his mouth pressed into a thinner line. His eyes darted back to the road.

“I picked him up around five a.m., Ms. Camille.”Camille blinked slowly. Nothing’s open at that time but legs, she thought.

Her heart sank further, but she managed a breathy laugh. “Oh wow, no wonder I haven’t heard from him yet,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her voice. “He must be exhausted.”

She could feel Lorenzo glance at her again, but she didn’t look up. Her fingers moved idly across her phone screen, as though checking a notification, but in truth she was steadying her hands, keeping them busy so they wouldn’t tremble.

“Where was he?” she asked, keeping her tone smooth, pleasant. There it was again. A hitch. A shift. Lorenzo’s shoulders tensed for a fraction of a second before settling. “It was this venue near the Four Seasons,” he said casually, but his voice had lost its earlier playfulness. “I think it was called… Red Rum.”

Red Rum. Camille’s stomach twisted. She didn’t know the place, but she was about to find out about it. She tapped her phone screen with slow precision, typing it into her browser.

The red fabric glittered faintly in the corner that she threw it in. Taunting her as the google search loaded.

At the top of the page was a simple listing: Red Rum – Houston’s Most Exclusive Play Place. A thumbnail image of a sleek black-and-red logo sat beside it. On the surface, it seemed like just another trendy club. Polished. Pretentious. Expensive.

But Camille didn’t buy it, not for a second. Her thumb hovered for only a beat before pressing the link. The screen shifted. The homepage began to load. And then, like a slap, it was there:

“Red Rum - Where Sin and Pleasure Lives: Houston’s Premiere BDSM Den.”

Her heart dropped.

The banner stretched across the top of the page in bold red script, superimposed over an image of a darkened lounge bathed in red light, where scantily clad women lounged across velvet furniture and masked patrons sipped cocktails under crystal chandeliers.

Camille stared, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Her pulse thundered in her ears. This wasn’t a nightclub, it was a private adult venue. A sex club.

And Terry had been there.

Until five in the morning.

Camille’s fingers clenched tightly around her phone, the edges biting into her palm as her grip turned rigid. Rage, disbelief, and heartbreak surged in waves, each one crashing harder than the last. Her lips parted, breath trembling, ready to speak, but what would even come out? She didn’t know.A thousand words teetered on the edge of her tongue. Fuck Terry. Fuck whoever he was with last night. Fuck Lorenzo, too, for driving her this morning like nothing was wrong. She wanted to scream, to spit out every furious, wounded thing clawing at the back of her throat.

But before a single syllable could leave her mouth, the shrill sound of a ringtone shattered the tension in the car.

Lorenzo flinched slightly, fumbling for his phone. “Sorry about that, Ms. Camille,” he said quickly, voice almost too eager, like he knew she was ready to lash out, and this was his escape. “I have to take this.”

Before she could respond he reached back and, with one smooth motion, raised the tinted separation barrier between the front and back seats. The pane slid up with a low mechanical hum, severing her from him in a single, calculated gesture.

Camille stared ahead blankly. Her mind spiraled. Thoughts screamed over each other in chaos, but her body didn’t move. She sat still, like she had been turned to stone. She could faintly hear Lorenzo’s voice now, low and muffled through the partition, as he spoke into the phone. And still, she said nothing.

Instead, she tuned him out completely, letting her fury, sadness, and humiliation wrap around her like a suffocating fog. There was only the dull roar in her ears, and the echo of one name burning like fire in her chest:

Terry.

She sighed, heavy and deep, mentally kicking herself for being stupid enough to believe he cared about her. Cared for her. Kicking herself for falling so deeply in love with an obvious fantasy.

Camille’s spiraling thoughts were violently interrupted when the Suburban veered sharply to the right. Tires screeched against the pavement as the vehicle jerked toward the shoulder of the somewhat busy road. Her body jolted sideways against the seatbelt, and her heart lurched into her throat.

“What the–” she gasped, eyes wide as she sat up straighter, scanning their surroundings in alarm. Cars zipped past them, horns blaring in protest as Lorenzo slowed to a sudden, jarring stop beneath the shadow of a bridge.

Before she could demand an explanation, the partition between them hissed downward, revealing Lorenzo’s tense profile.

“Just hold tight, Camille,” he said, his voice clipped, devoid of his usual charm.

Her eyes narrowed. “Lorenzo, what the he–”

“Just sit tight,” he cut in, his voice firm and unnervingly calm. “And look at the new message you’re about to get.”

Without another word, the divider slid back up, sealing her off again.Camille blinked, stunned. “Hey! Hey!” she shouted, her palm slamming against the thick glass. “Whatever game this is, Lorenzo, it’s not funny at all.”

His voice crackled faintly through the barrier. “No game,” he said, and this time his tone was dry, almost bitter. “Just following instructions. You should do the same.”

Her blood ran cold.

A fresh wave of panic surged through her as she scrambled for her phone. Her fingers trembled, fumbling the screen as she tried to enter her passcode, twice entering the wrong one before finally getting it right. Her instinct screamed to call for help. Dial 911. Get out. Run. But before she could even swipe to dial the number, a notification flashed across the screen.

Unknown number: 1 video attachment

She froze.

The thumbnail image showed a familiar scene: her and Terry in a parking lot. Her breath caught in her throat. She had on a pencil skirt and blouse and Terry was in a deep purple polo and black slacks. Those were the same clothes from that day back in March. The day she had randomly fainted, and Terry had taken her to the hospital.

Her brows knit together. A sick feeling stirred low in her gut.

What the hell…?

Curiosity crackled through her fear. For a moment, she forgot about Lorenzo, about the bizarre detour and the sealed barrier. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She tapped play and watched the screen flicker to life.

Stephanie

Stephanie’s fingers trembled uncontrollably as she hovered over the screen, pressing send. The video, the one she had taken months ago to blackmail Terry, was finally released. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest, making it hard to breathe. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. But after getting the frightening warning from her well-paid witch, she thought this would be an appropriate addition to her plan.

Damage control, she told herself.

The call from her bruja, the one she only knew as The High Priestess, had shattered her confidence in continuing with her plan. The witch’s voice had burst through the phone in a frenzy, raw and cracking with fear. Not that vague, poetic dread witches so often draped themselves in, but real, human terror.

“You’re going to get us killed!” the High Priestess had sobbed into the phone, nearly incomprehensible as words came out in trembling breaths. “How could you be so careless, mija?”

Stephanie had tried to hold her ground. But her voice, normally laced with condescension, sarcasm, and veiled threat, wavered beneath the force of the woman’s panic.

“I don’t understand, what are you even talking about?”

“You made a deal with that damn devil man without even understanding what you’re dealing with,” the High Priestess hissed, voice sharp. Stephanie assumed she was referring to Aston’s father, a seemingly normal man who had revealed that he was supernatural over a month ago. “This whole plan, marrying that girl off to keep that man to yourself… did you even know how important she is to him?”

Stephanie snorted, jealousy running through her. “Camille? That bitch is nothing–”

“She is the Indulgence of El Vampiro,” the witch spat, interrupting her. “That man has tied their spirits to each other. He has her protected like a damn fortress. He will kill for her. He will come for you. For all of us.”

That word, Indulgence, hung in the air like an unknown threat. Stephanie didn’t know the full weight of it, but the way the witch said it made her skin crawl.

“I didn’t… I don’t–”

“You didn’t think at all!” the High Priestess screeched. “She walked right into my center this morning, the one where I’m trying to perfect my craft. You know what I saw? Layers and layers of protection woven around her soul. And they weren’t any mortal blessings. She’s wrapped in something ancient. Something blood-bound.”

Stephanie swallowed hard, trying to comprehend how serious this was.

“She’s looking for that gringo you have locked up in that farmhouse, but that’s the least of your concerns, Stephanie.” The witch’s voice dropped. “I felt his signature on her. That’s not just any random, benevolent protection. That’s a declaration. He has spiritually marked her, claiming her as his.”

A brief silence stretched between them, heavy beyond words.

“She’s not just some pawn you can marry off to satisfy whatever agreement you have with that imp,” the High Priestess said coldly. “She’s his. And if you go through with this plan, mija… he will unmake us.”

Stephanie sat frozen in the aftermath of the call, the quiet ringing in her ear more unsettling than the High Priestess’s shrieking panic. No goodbye. No parting words. Just silence.

Her mind raced. She needed advice. Fast. She thought first of Richard McCoy, the charming, cold-blooded demon-in-disguise father of her former coworker. He was as committed to this plan as she was. Maybe even more since he was funding almost everything. He knew how to move forward right?

But the phone rang unanswered. Twice. Three times. And time was not a luxury Stephanie could afford.

So she turned to the only other contact in their dark little network: the minion Richard had recruited over a month ago. Terry’s driver.

She hadn’t expected much from him. He was only a driver after all. Maybe a tip about Terry’s whereabouts when Richard decided to pluck Camille out of Houston. Perhaps some advice on how to lure Terry to the farmhouse. But when the driver picked up, Stephanie realized he would be much more handy than she expected. Especially once she realized Camille was in his backseat.

“What the hell is an Indulgence?” Stephanie demanded the second the call connected, her voice a rasp of fear and frustration.

“Don’t worry,” he said after a moment, his voice low and assured in a way that made her skin crawl. “We will make this happen. She’s with me now. We just need to make her afraid of Terry. Fear severs spiritual ties. Got anything that can do that?”

Stephanie latched onto those words.

Fear severs ties.

If she could just break whatever invisible protection her bruja was talking about, maybe this thing, this whole arrangement could still be salvaged. That’s when she remembered her ace, her final card, her last bullet in the chamber.

The video. The footage she had hidden away like a dirty secret. Of Terry, stripped of his charm, caught in a moment of pure, feral hunger. The kind that would make anyone watching look at him in a new light.

All it took was a gentle nudge, some pressure applied to damn-near-braindead Aston, and Camille’s number was in her hands.

Stephanie had sent it. Just like that.

And now, as she stared at the phone, her screen pulsing with a message: Delivered, a hollow chill settled deep inside her.

She had crossed a line. Not the first. Certainly not the last. But this one felt different. Like she’d finally stepped into territory that no spell or scheme could help her escape from.

She was in far over her head—wading through deals she barely understood, making alliances with creatures whose rules weren’t written in human terms.

She had crossed a line. Not the first. Certainly not the last. But this one felt different. Like she’d finally stepped into territory that no spell or scheme could help her escape from.

She was in far over her head—wading through deals she barely understood, making alliances with creatures whose rules weren’t written in human terms.

And Camille, whom she once saw as a pawn, was quickly becoming a problem. Unpredictable. Protected. Possibly the piece that could lead to a cruel death.

But Stephanie wasn’t the quitting type.

She needed Terry. Biblically. Spiritually. Wholeheartedly. She had bent her soul, her future, her very essence around the promise of what her life could become with her at his side.

She wasn’t about to let some witch’s panic get in the way of that.

a/n pt. 2: welp, as y'all can see, everybody is losing their mind. crashouts coming soon :)

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@nayaesworld @slvt4her @writingsbytee @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @kaylaahisthebestest- @theogbadbitch @wabi-sabi1090 @hotgyalaroad @nubiagurllll @lovedlover @dimepiece09 @lavaniiii @simplyzeeka @susanhill @next-bex-bet @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @ranikyani @daddyslittlevillain @blackchickinthedesert @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @hello-therree @solunaseira @hotebonynearby @key05marie @moebuttta @winorlosetogether @nohatingpplbczhtingpplr @alexinmotion @queencb2462 @kismet83 @bruleecream @playingaymes

#aaron pierre #terry richmond #terry richmond smut #aaron pierre smut #terry richmond fic #rebel ridge #aaron pierre fic #terry richmond x black character #aaron pierre x black!oc

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