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dollgxtz · 6 days

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His Watchful Eye Pt. 6

Word Count: 15.k...(oops)

Tags: yandere!sylus, sylus x fem!reader, dubcon, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding, comfort sex, cunnilingus, overstimulation if you squint, mentions of murder, nightmares, manipulation, pet names like, kitten, sweetie, honey, tw for panic attacks, rape flashbacks, xavier appears

Taglist: @ngh-ch-choso-ahhhh, @eliasxchocolate, @nozomiaj, @xmiisuki, @sylus-kitten, @its-regretti , @m0onlustre , @ve1vet-cake, @letgobro, @starkeysslvt, @yarafic, @prince-nikko, @leiaglmela @connorsui, @iluvmewwwww75, @biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer, @mysssticc, @babygirl-panda19, @someone-somewheres-stuff, @zaynesjasmine1, @honnylemontea, @altariasu, @the-slytherin-poet, @sorryimakira, @pearlymel, @emidpsandia , @angel-jupiter, @hwangintakswifey,

AN: Hi everyone! This is also on A03! Please someone stop me, how the hell did I manage to squeeze in like 4k extra words than last time??? Anyways, enjoy the meal, I definitely have missed writing smut with yan!sylus and reader :3. Also a gentle reminder that reader has no specific skin tone! I just use images that I think represent the chapter well, you can imagine her however you’d like ^^

"I'll make it all disappear," Sylus murmured, his voice low and hypnotic, penetrating the darkest recesses of your fractured psyche. It was as if he possessed the power to reach inside your mind and vaporize the painful memories that clung to you like shackles. "You want to feel so good you won't think about him again?"

Read Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt. 5

The car roars down the empty road, its tires devouring the distance between freedom and your inevitable return to captivity. Luke sits at the wheel, his face completely hidden behind the bird shaped mask. You can’t see his eyes, can’t gauge anything from the way he’s holding himself—just the silent, unyielding presence of the man steering you back to your prison.

You wonder how he sees out of that thing.

Kieran sits beside him, his mask just the same, his fingers tapping a light, almost carefree rhythm on the dashboard as he finishes humming a cheery tune. His face, too, is entirely concealed, leaving you with nothing to hold onto—no eyes to search for clues, no expressions to read.

In the rearview mirror, you sense Kieran shift his head to look at you but can't entirely tell, his hidden gaze offers you nothing. The silence stretches on, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the steady, deliberate breaths of Sylus against your neck, the heat of his body keeping you trapped in more ways than one.

Sylus holds you tight, as if the moment he loosens his grip, you’ll dissolve into the darkness beyond the windows. His large hands are splayed possessively across your thighs, pinning you in place on his lap. Each minute that ticks by in this confined space feels like a countdown to something you can’t define, but the feeling of impending dread settles deep in your bones.

Your mind is a storm, thoughts swirling in an endless, chaotic loop. The gunshot that ended Reese’s life thunders in your head, over and over, refusing to let you go. You can still see it so clearly—the way his body slumped to the floor, lifeless, his eyes wide with the shock of it all.

It feels like it’s eating you alive.

This is your fault.

Yes, Reese was a monster. He’d kidnapped you, lied to you, dragged you into a nightmare you never deserved. But even now, that part of you—the part that still clung to honor, to a sense of right and wrong, the part of an honorable deep space hunter—hated what had happened. You hated yourself for it. He should have been locked away, brought to justice, not gunned down like that.

Your chest tightens. Why didn’t you stop it? You could have, couldn’t you? You didn’t have to let your anger take over, didn’t have to spit those words at him, didn't have to tell him to go to hell. If you hadn’t done that, Sylus wouldn’t have killed him right? The weight of it presses down on you, like you’re suffocating under the guilt.

You can feel it in your bones—the sharp sting of your failure, the way you let your emotions run wild. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to be the reason a person died, no matter how twisted or evil they were. You were supposed to be better than that.

But you weren’t.

And now Reese’s blood is on your hands.

The guilt coils tighter around your chest. You can almost taste the bitterness of it on your tongue, a relentless reminder of how you failed. Maybe if you had just kept your mouth shut. Maybe if you had found some way, any way, to de-escalate the situation, he’d still be alive. You wouldn't have to carry the weight of his death.

But you didn’t. And now it’s too late.

This is your fault.

You feel tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you quickly suck in a breath, forcing them back. You can’t let them fall—not here, not now. You can’t let Sylus see the storm raging inside you. If he sees you faltering, sees your weakness, he’ll think he’s won.

You sense his eyes on you, watching, studying, but thankfully, he says nothing. His grip around you tightens slightly, as if he’s aware of the cracks forming in your resolve, but for once, he stays silent, leaving you alone with the war you’re fighting within yourself.

Instead of crying, you shift, turning your head to focus on the window. The dark tint makes it difficult to see clearly, but not impossible. You can just make out the blurred outlines of buildings as they whip past, vague shadows in the distance.

How much longer would this take? How far had you come?

You think back to the agonizing walk that had led you to the convenience store—the endless hours of trudging through unfamiliar streets, hoping for an escape. Time had lost all meaning then, just like it had now.

Lost in your thoughts, you feel your body betraying you, your exhaustion creeping in. You start to drift off against your will, feeling the heaviness pulling at your eyelids as you sink further into Sylus’s lap. You fight it, not wanting to rest your head on his chest, fearing what you might wake up to. But it’s been days since you’ve had proper rest, and the pull of sleep is relentless.

Minutes stretch into eternity, and despite your best efforts, your body begins to give in. You’re teetering on the edge of unconsciousness when suddenly, Sylus’s gruff voice cuts through the silence, startling you awake.

“Luke, tell the chefs to have dinner ready in an hour. Kieran, cancel my meeting with the general.”

Luke and Kieran both nod silently, their masked faces giving nothing away, and just as you’re trying to make sense of the words, the car abruptly comes to a stop.

“Yes, boss!” the twins respond with a clipped tones, as if this exchange is routine.

Everything happens so quickly. The moment the car parks, Luke and Kieran scramble out of their seats with swift, practiced efficiency. The sound of the doors opening and shutting echoes in the quiet night. Sylus shifts beneath you, opening his door, and you awkwardly slide off his lap, trying to maintain some semblance of balance as he exits the vehicle. You watch through strained, weary eyes as he steps out, his figure towering over the open car door. Then, he stretches out his hand toward you.

You hesitate.

The gesture, though outwardly polite, is anything but friendly. It’s not an offer—it’s a command, an unspoken reminder of your captivity. The world seems to close in around you, the air growing thicker, and your heart begins to pound in your chest. Your mind races, but there’s nowhere to run.

“If you’re thinking about driving off,” Sylus says with a low chuckle, leaning down to peer into the car, “Luke’s already got the keys, kitten.”

You can’t help but shoot him a sharp glare. You’d thought about running, yes, but not now—not when escape was utterly impossible. The moment passes quickly, and you open your mouth, wanting to explain yourself, to insist you weren’t planning anything. But the words stick in your throat, useless.

Instead, you shut your mouth, swallowing your frustration, and glare at him in defiance. Wordlessly, you reach out and take his hand. His grip is firm, possessive, as he helps you out of the car. Carefully, you step onto the ground, your heart still racing, knowing you’re walking back into your cage.

You glance around as Sylus pulls you forward, your hand still trapped in his. The sight of the mansion looms ahead, its grand, imposing silhouette becoming clearer with each step. Tall iron gates and bird statues loom in front of you, a place that might have been beautiful if it weren’t for the dread curling deep in your chest.

The mansion is more than just a building; it’s a cage, one that now feels even more suffocating as Sylus forces you to walk beside him, hand in hand like you’re something precious. But you know better. This is control, a quiet but undeniable display of power.

With each step toward the front door, the walls of the world seem to close in tighter, and your heart races faster. The echoes of your own footsteps blend with the eerie silence of the night, the only sound that reminds you how very trapped you are in this place—never truly alone, but never free either.

As you walk toward the towering front doors, your eyes drift upward, almost unconsciously, to Sylus. His appearance has always been striking—red eyes that seem to glow with a mix of malice and amusement, and white hair with subtle gray undertones, catching the faint light of the mansion. His angular features, so sharp and perfectly controlled, show signs of wear now. You can see the tension in his brow, the tiredness in the slight creases around his eyes—things you hadn’t noticed before. It makes you wonder how much stress your escape had caused him. How much had he sacrificed in the time you were gone? Had he been frantic, furious?

As if sensing your gaze, Sylus turns his head slightly, catching you in the act of studying him. A smirk plays across his lips, and his crimson eyes flicker with amusement. "What’s the matter? Falling in love?" His voice is a low drawl, teasing, but there’s something predatory in it—like he’s already enjoying this little game.

Heat rises to your face, a mixture of irritation and something else you refuse to name. You look away quickly, forcing yourself to focus on anything but him. His taunts are the last thing you want to entertain, especially when your mind is still spinning with the weight of what lies ahead. Still, the words linger, taunting you as much as his smirk did.

Finally, the massive front doors loom before you, framed by the same wrought iron and heavy stone that always made the mansion feel more like a fortress. Sylus stops, standing tall beside you, his hand still gripping yours as if to remind you that escape, or even defiance, is out of the question.

He gestures toward a small panel embedded into the wall near the door. "Lean down," he orders, the edge of his voice soft yet commanding, "in front of the scanner."

Confused, you glance between him and the scanner, unsure of what he’s planning. You hesitate, but his unblinking red gaze locks onto you, expectant, leaving you little choice. Slowly, you lean forward, lowering yourself until your eyes are aligned with the scanner. A soft beep fills the air, followed by a click as the door unlocks.

You straighten, startled, staring at the door in disbelief. "Wait," you stammer, turning to Sylus. "Aren’t you trying to prevent me from escaping?"

A deep, rumbling laugh escapes him, and he shakes his head, the white strands of his hair shifting slightly as he leans in closer, his red eyes flashing with amusement. "Your eyes," he says with a grin, "can only get you into this place." He leans in further, his breath warm against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Not out."

His words settle heavily in your chest, and a knot of dread tightens in your stomach. Your eyes—the very thing that could open doors here—were also the key to locking you in. Any hope you might have had, any fleeting thought of escape, is crushed in that moment. The world seems to warp, the walls of the mansion now looming around you like a trap. A cage disguised as opulence.

Why had he even bothered with something like that? The thought gnaws at you as you stand at the threshold of the mansion. Did he seriously think you would ever want to come back inside? The idea seems absurd. You were his captive, forced into this nightmare. There was no version of this where you willingly returned.

But as you glance back at him, his smirk still lingering on his face, you wonder if that’s exactly what he wants. He’s a man who thrives on control, on bending people to his will, and the thought that he might relish the idea of making you come back to this place, on your own terms, sends a shiver down your spine. Would he leave you out there in that desolate city, waiting, desperate, only to watch you break down and crawl back inside? The idea feels like a twisted game only he could design—where escape was impossible not just because of physical barriers, but because he'd burrowed deep into your mind.

You shake your head, trying to push the thought away, but the question lingers, settling like a weight in your chest. Did he think that, over time, you’d surrender? That this grand mansion, this cage, would eventually become a place you’d walk into willingly?

Sylus catches your hesitation, his red eyes glinting in the low light. “Strange, isn’t it?” he muses, his voice smooth and casual, as if he could read the questions racing through your mind. “A key that only lets you in. But maybe someday…you'll want to use it.”

His words hang in the air, and you can feel your pulse quicken, anger mixing with the uncertainty swirling inside you. He can’t seriously believe that, can he? That one day you’d walk back into this place of your own accord?

The very thought of it makes your stomach turn. You can’t imagine a future where you wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to stay away from here. Yet, there’s an unsettling confidence in the way he says it, a certainty that leaves you with more questions than answers.

“As if I would ever, prick,” you spat, your voice sharp and defiant.

Sylus laughs, his amusement rolling off him in deep waves, rich and unhurried. His red eyes gleam, locking onto yours with a look that holds something deeper than mere satisfaction. There’s affection there—twisted, yes, but genuine.

“Ah, there she is,” he murmurs, his grin widening. “I was starting to wonder if the N109 Zone had fully broken you.” His grip tightens, not painfully, but firm and reassuring, as he leads you into the grand mansion. To him, this was always meant to be your home, even if you couldn't see it yet.

You grimace at his words, irritation bubbling up inside you, making your heart race. This was still a game to him—a challenge, but not one born of cruelty. No, he found your defiance amusing, like a kitten batting at the hand that feeds it. He loved it, even.

You silently curse him under your breath as he leads you deeper into the grand house, your feet moving mechanically while your mind fights to keep up. The familiar sights come back into view, flooding your senses like a slow wave of nausea. The glossy black tile beneath your feet, the dark, lavish décor that loomed from every corner—it was all the same, just as cold and suffocating as you remembered.

Your eyes flick to the kitchen entryway, a place that had once offered a glimmer of hope, a chance to escape. You remember fleeing into it, heart racing, desperate to get away from all of this, only to be dragged back into Sylus’s grip. The memory gnaws at you, bringing a fresh wave of bitterness.

It makes you sick.

Every inch of this place, every dark aesthetic, seemed designed to remind you of your captivity. This was a cage, no matter how opulent or luxurious it appeared on the surface. And the worst part was the weight of his hand around yours—the possessiveness of his grip, the unspoken reminder that escape, no matter how hard you tried, was out of reach right now.

Sylus gently guides you toward the stairs, his grip still firm, giving you no room to hesitate. You feel your heart pounding in your chest as your feet start moving up the dark, winding staircase. Every step feels heavier than the last, your pulse thrumming in your ears as memories flood back—memories of when you had fled, heart racing, legs burning, desperate to escape this place. You’d made it down these very stairs once before, only to have freedom ripped away from you.

Now, you were being forced back up, step by agonizing step, into the room you had fought so hard to leave behind.

With every step upward, your resolve starts to crumble. The closer you get to that door, the more you feel the weight of your captivity settling in again, suffocating you. The darkened hallways, the oppressive silence—it all presses down on you, reminding you that no matter how much you fight, this is where you’ll always end up. Trapped.

You hesitate when you finally reach the door to the bedroom. The sight of it makes your stomach twist, your feet glued to the floor as a wave of dread washes over you. Everything in your body screams not to go inside, not to let yourself be locked in that room again. To run, to fight.

But Sylus is right behind you, close enough that you can feel his presence, his breath warm and steady, almost unnervingly calm. His grip on your hand softens, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your skin, as if to soothe your frayed nerves. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice gentle but laced with that unsettling authority. “Go on, sweetie.”

The way he says it is almost tender, but it only deepens the knot of anxiety in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s real kindness or just another layer of control. That soft, coaxing tone… it unnerves you more than his laughter, more than his taunts.

Despite every fiber of your being wanting to resist, you find yourself moving, stepping forward under the weight of his quiet insistence. You cross the threshold into the room, your body betraying you even as your mind screams to stop. The door clicks shut behind you with an almost imperceptible finality, and just like that, the familiar four dark walls of your prison close in around you once more.

You fight back the tears burning at the edges of your eyes as you step further into the room. The familiar surroundings feel like a punch to the gut—the large, imposing bed where Sylus had forced himself on you many many times, leaving behind scars you hadn’t realized had cut so deep. The leather couch in the center of the room, cold and impersonal, where you’d sat, waiting for the next wave of control to sweep over your life.

It’s too much.

For a moment, your knees threaten to buckle beneath you, the weight of it all pressing down with crushing force. The memories—dark, suffocating—swirl around you, making it hard to breathe. You almost crumble right there, unable to withstand the flood of emotions, of trauma that suddenly feels too close to the surface.

But before you can collapse, Sylus is there, his hand wrapping around your arm, guiding you away from the room and into the bathroom. His touch is firm but oddly gentle, a contrast that makes you even more uneasy. He’s pulling you toward the tiled space, and your mind races, trying to understand what’s happening as he begins to carefully, methodically, lift up your shirt to undress you.

“No,” you whisper, your voice trembling, barely audible over the sound of your own racing heartbeat. Your body goes stiff, your hands gripping the fabric of your shirt as if holding onto it could somehow protect you. “No,” you repeat, a little louder this time, your voice shaky and uneven. The tremors wrack your body, panic rising in your chest.

Sylus looks at you with something akin to worry, his touch slowing, but not stopping. He doesn’t force you, but his actions continue with a sense of inevitability, as though he believes this is just part of taking care of you, of ensuring you’re where you belong.

"I'm not going to do anything to you now, you just need a shower, sweetie."

But your mind is somewhere else entirely.

Flashes of memory assault you—dim lights, the scent of damp stone, and the overpowering fear of when you were in that basement. The man who had tried to force himself on you, who had pressed you against the bed with a hunger that still made your skin crawl. Your breath hitches as you remember his hands, his twisted smile. The terror, the helplessness—it's all too real, crashing down on you like a tidal wave.

You hadn’t realized just how deeply the trauma had sunk into you. Not until this moment, with Sylus standing in front of you, touching your clothes, his touch too familiar, too close to the horror you’d endured. You had been holding your emotions back but you couldn't now.

You flinch, your body recoiling instinctively as the memories close in around you. Your voice cracks, barely holding back the sob building in your throat. “Please…don’t.”

Sylus’s hands pause, and for the first time that entire day, you see it,—hesitation flickering across his sharp features. His red eyes, usually so calculating and cold, soften just enough for you to notice. His grip loosens, his fingers no longer working to take off your clothes but instead resting lightly on your shoulders, as if afraid of causing more harm.

“Be still,” he says again, his voice quiet and strangely tender. “I’m just trying to help you.”

But his words barely register. The panic has already set in, tightening around your chest like a vice. Your breathing grows shallow, quick—too quick. Your thoughts scatter, your heartbeat hammering so hard it feels like your ribcage might shatter under the pressure. The room spins around you, and suddenly you’re not here anymore. You’re back in the basement, cold stone beneath your feet, that man’s hands on your skin, forcing you against the wall. Forcing you on the bed.

You gasp for air, but each breath comes in ragged, uneven bursts. Your vision blurs, and your knees wobble beneath you. It’s happening all over again. The helplessness, the terror. It’s like your body has been pulled back into that moment, and no matter how much you try to claw your way out, you can’t.

Sylus moves swiftly, pulling you into his arms before you can collapse. His embrace is strong and grounding, his chest solid against your trembling form. “Breathe, sweetie” he whispers, his voice low, soothing, as if trying to coax you back from the edge of your panic. His hand rubs slow circles on your back, the gentle rhythm fighting against the chaos inside you. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

But you can’t. The air won’t come. Your breaths are sharp and shallow, your body on the verge of shutting down as you feel the world slipping away. You struggle, pushing weakly at him, but his arms only tighten around you, holding you firmly in place, anchoring you.

“Shhh, shhh…” His voice drops even lower, soft and almost tender. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

The warmth of his body presses against yours, his presence somehow steadying the storm inside you. You eventually cling to him, not because you want to, but because it’s the only thing that keeps you from spiraling into complete panic. His hand continues to stroke your back in slow, measured motions, and though your heart still pounds in your chest, his touch starts to break through the suffocating fog.

“I’ll turn around, okay?” he says gently, as if sensing the root of your fear. “You can undress yourself. I won’t watch.”

There’s something in his tone—something that feels honest, reassuring, like he’s not just saying the words to control you but because he wants you to feel safe. You weakly nod, barely, but he catches it. He loosens his grip and takes a slow step back, raising his hands in surrender, his red eyes locked onto yours.

“I’ll give you some time. You don’t have to rush.”

With a careful turn, he faces away from you, his broad back filling the room but no longer imposing. His actions aren’t threatening; they’re deliberate, giving you the space he knows you need.

Your breathing slows and you blink back tears, but your body still trembles. You wipe the remaining tears from your eyes with a shaky hand, glancing around the bathroom as the panic begins to ebb. And then you notice it—something is different.

The bathtub is gone.

It had been there before, you remember. A large, ornate tub that had taken up the corner of the bathroom, a symbol of something luxurious in this prison of yours. But now, it’s nowhere to be seen. Your brows knit together in confusion as you stare at the empty space.

“Where’s the tub?” you ask, your voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Sylus doesn’t turn around, but his response is quick and calm, as if he expected the question. “I had it removed,” he says softly, his voice strangely careful, almost cautious. “I didn’t want you to drown yourself again.”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and unexpected. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as the weight of what he’s saying sinks in. He thought…no, he knew. He knew how deep the darkness inside you could go, how close you’d come to actually dying. He’d taken precautions—not just to keep you here, but to keep you alive.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the empty space where the bathtub used to be, and the reality sinks in—there’s truly no escape. Not from this place, not from Sylus, and not from the relentless grip of your own mind. He’s stripped you of every option, every avenue, until there’s nothing left but this.

Nothing left but him.

The exhaustion presses down on you, heavier than ever before. With slow, mechanical movements, you step into the shower, your limbs feeling distant, as if they don’t belong to you anymore. The warm water hits your skin, but it does nothing to ease the weight in your chest. You close your eyes, hoping that the steady stream of water can drown out the chaos inside your head—the panic, the hopelessness, the memories.

But they cling to you, stubborn and unyielding.

Images flash behind your closed eyelids—memories of that basement, the cold stone walls pressing in, the terror that gripped you when the man came too close, his hands reaching, his breath sour. You press your hands against the tiled wall, your body shaking as you fight the memories back, but they keep coming, like waves crashing over you, dragging you under.

And then there’s Reese.

You can’t stop seeing it—the moment his body hit the floor, the sound of the fatal gunshot echoing in your mind like a haunting refrain. His face, twisted in shock and pain. Your fault. The words circle in your mind like a dark mantra, mixing with the trauma of that basement. It’s all tangled together, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t make it stop.

"Go to hell, Reese."

The water cascades down your back, but it doesn’t wash away the guilt. It doesn’t drown out the horror. The images of blood and brain matter sliding down concrete walls.

You press your forehead against the cold tile, letting the water soak through your hair as you fight the rising tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm you. You want to believe that there’s a way out, some form of freedom—maybe not from this mansion, but at least from the grip of your own mind. But right now, standing under the relentless stream of water, you know that freedom is further away than ever.

No matter how much you fight it, you’re trapped. Inside this house. Inside yourself.

And the worst part? Sylus knows it.

You feel the tears begin to well up, hot and uncontainable, spilling over before you even realize you’ve let them go. They mix with the water, disappearing beneath the steady stream of the shower, unseen, unclaimed by anyone but you. For the first time in what feels like forever, no one is watching. Not even Sylus.

You let the sobs come quietly, your body trembling as the tears fall, merging with the warm cascade. It’s a strange relief, knowing that in this moment, he isn’t witnessing your breaking point. Sylus had made it clear—your pain, your misery, your tears, they all belonged to him.

But right now, this moment is yours.

As the tears fall silently, you press your forehead against the cool tile, letting yourself cry in a way you hadn’t allowed before. The sobs are shaky, barely audible over the sound of the water, but they are real, raw, and they are yours alone. The stream washes them away before they have the chance to leave a trace, like they never existed at all.

Even as your heart aches and the trauma still weighs you down, there’s a strange comfort in the tears that go unnoticed. For just these few minutes, you aren’t his broken thing to fix or keep. You’re just a person, trying to survive, trying to breathe.

And even though the water doesn’t drown out all the pain or the memories, it gives you enough space to let the emotions pour out—if only for a little while.

Xavier’s breath came in shallow bursts as he navigated the empty streets of Linkon City, the familiar hum of his hunter’s watch glowing faintly on his wrist. His blue eyes flicked between the road and the holographic screen hovering just above the watch face. The blue light illuminated his face, highlighting the sharp focus in his eyes. The signal from the phone booth was still there, blinking steadily. That was his main lead—the last place you’d been before everything went silent.

His mind replayed the sound of your voice from the call, every word etched into his memory. Kidnapped. You hadn’t said much, but the panic in your tone had been unmistakable. The moment the call cut, something in him snapped. There was no hesitation, no second thought—he had left almost immediately, speeding through the city, your trembling words echoing in his head.

"Yeah, his name is S—"

Your words echoed in Xavier's mind, over and over, like a haunting refrain. You hadn’t been able to finish your sentence before the call had abruptly cut out, leaving him with nothing but that single, meaningless syllable. S. It replayed in his head as the car sped forward, finally breaking free from the limits of Linkon City and onto the dark, winding road that would lead him toward the N109 Zone.

He had tried to call back the second the line went dead, his hands trembling as he frantically redialed the number, but it was no use. The call wouldn’t connect. Maybe you had run out of money for the payphone. Maybe something far worse had happened.

The not knowing gnawed at him.

Who was S? The question had burned in his mind from the moment you said it. A name. It had to be a name. But just that one letter wasn’t enough to figure out who this person was, let alone why they had taken you. He cursed under his breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter as the dark road stretched out before him.

Whoever S was, they were dangerous enough to bring you to the N109 Zone. That part made his blood run cold. This place wasn’t just desolate—it was the kind of area that most people in the city pretended didn’t even exist. It was lawless, forgotten. A place where the desperate went to disappear, where the city’s darkness festered beneath the surface and on top of it, darkness everywhere you turn.

But why there? What did this S want with you? And why take you so far from the city?

He replayed the phone call in his mind again, your voice shaky but steady as you’d tried to tell him what had happened. The fear had been there, simmering just beneath your words, but you had clearly fought to stay calm.

Xavier’s heart pounded harder with every mile. There was something else that bothered him, something gnawing at the edges of his mind. Why had you been targeted? You were strong, capable—smart. One of the best deep space hunters around. You wouldn’t have let yourself be taken easily. That meant whoever S was, he’d planned this, thought it through, and knew how to get to you. That thought made Xavier’s stomach twist. This wasn’t random. It was calculated.

The car hit a bump in the road, jolting him back to the present, but his mind still raced. He needed to find you, needed to get to you before this S—whoever he was—did something unforgivable. He couldn’t stand the thought of you being out there, scared and alone, waiting for help that felt too far away.

He glanced at the holographic display on his hunter’s watch again, watching as the faint signal pulsed from the N109 Zone. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was the best lead he had. That phone booth, that single clue you’d left him before the call ended, was his only connection to you now.

Who are you, S? The question echoed in his mind as he pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the car roaring down the empty highway.

He didn’t know what awaited him in the N109 Zone, but he knew one thing for sure: he was prepared to fight like hell for you.

After what felt like an eternity, buildings whipping past him, Xavier finally pulled up to the phone booth, his heart hammering in his chest. The headlights illuminated the cracked pavement and the battered glass of the booth, standing alone at the edge of the desolate lot like a ghost from another time. But of course, you weren’t there. The booth was empty. You were nowhere to be found.

Xavier’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he sat there for a moment, staring at the empty phone booth. His mind raced, thoughts tangled in frustration and fear. You had told him you would call back—you had said you were going to that strange man’s house, and then you’d come back to tell him what it looked like. But now, standing there in the middle of the N109 Zone, it felt like that plan had shattered into a thousand pieces.

He stepped out of the car, the cold air hitting him like a slap to the face as he approached the booth. His eyes scanned the area, up and down, looking for any sign of you. But there was nothing. Just silence. The eerie kind that made his stomach twist with unease.

The booth was run-down, even worse up close. He stared at it, his thoughts flickering between panic and regret. Should he wait for you to come back, as you said you would? Or had something already gone terribly wrong? Every second that passed felt like a ticking clock, time slipping away, leaving him more uncertain than ever.

He leaned against the booth, raking a hand through his hair, trying to decide. You had been so determined—so sure you could handle this. You’d said you were going to check out this strange man’s house, get some rest, and then return. But the thought of you going there alone, to that man—whoever he was—made him sick.

I should’ve told you not to go with him.

The regret hit him hard, twisting deep in his chest. He should’ve been more forceful, should’ve stopped you. The second you’d mentioned this man, this stranger who had somehow convinced you to follow him, alarm bells had gone off in his head. He had sensed something wasn’t right. Why hadn’t he told you to stay away? Why hadn’t he made sure you didn’t go?

But you were strong, capable—you had always been stubborn, determined to handle things on your own. And he had trusted you to do that. But now…now you were missing. And he was standing in an empty lot with no idea where you were or who had taken you.

Xavier clenched his fists, staring at the phone booth as if willing it to give him answers. The last place you had been. He thought about turning around, driving through the N109 Zone, checking every corner, every building. But the reality of how vast and dangerous this area was made him hesitate. He didn’t even know who to look for. S. The mysterious man whose name had been cut off by the phone’s disconnect. That wasn’t enough.

Xavier’s stomach growled, pulling him from the fog of his frantic thoughts. He hadn’t eaten properly in hours, and the adrenaline that had been fueling him was finally wearing thin. He gritted his teeth, the pang of hunger a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since he’d stopped moving. He didn’t want to waste time, but he knew he needed to eat, to think straight.

Reluctantly, he climbed back into the car and started driving, scanning the streets of the N109 Zone for anything that looked remotely functional. This part of the city was basically wasteland—most of the buildings were crumbling, their windows broken, and the streets were nearly empty. He almost decided to give up before spotting a flicker of neon in the distance.

It was a convenience store—small, dingy, and barely lit—but it was open. The cracked neon sign buzzed weakly, casting a dull glow over the entrance. It didn’t look promising, but it was all he had. He pulled up, the car’s tires crunching over the broken pavement as he parked.

Xavier stepped out, his eyes narrowing as he approached the entrance. The store looked as worn out as the rest of the area, its windows covered in grime and dust, but the lights inside told him it was still in business. He pushed the door open, the warmth of the store enveloping him.

The place reeked of stale air and something faintly metallic. Shelves lined the narrow aisles, most of them half-stocked but there was variety. Xavier grabbed a few snacks—whatever looked edible—and made his way to the counter, where a grimy man with disheveled hair and yellowed teeth sat behind the register, staring at him with a disinterested scowl.

“Do you take gold?” Xavier asked, pulling out a small pouch from his pocket. It wasn’t unusual for places outside Linkon City to not take gold, as a lot of places were still living in the past. Couldn't hurt to ask though.

The man behind the counter laughed, a rough, guttural sound that made Xavier’s skin crawl. “Gold, huh? Figures. You Linkcunt folks just keep coming in here actin’ like it’s worth more than it is.” He leaned forward, eyeing Xavier with something between amusement and suspicion.

"No, we don't take it."

Xavier pocketed the small pouch, unsurprised by the man's harsh words, “You said Linkon folks? Who else from the city has been here?” His tone was casual, but his heart skipped a beat. Maybe someone else had seen you?

"Linkcunt," the man corrected with a sneer. The man’s eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly. “Why, you looking for someone?” He eyed Xavier and leaned back in his chair, his voice taking on an edge of curiosity.

Xavier pressed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Maybe. Just wondering who else might’ve been through here recently.”

The man scratched his stubbled chin, considering. “Well, there was this disheveled-looking girl who came through a little while ago. Had a lot of attitude, that one. Demanding help. Swiped some snacks and shit when I wasn’t looking. Took off before I could do anything about it.” He shrugged, clearly not too bothered by the theft. “But that’s basically all I know.”

Xavier’s heart stopped. A disheveled girl… Could it have been you?

His pulse quickened, the pieces clicking together. You must have come through here before disappearing. The man didn’t seem to know much more, but this was a sign. You had been close—you had been right here.

“What’d she look like?” Xavier asked, trying not to sound too eager.

The man waved a hand lazily. “Didn't look that closely to be honest. Bitch looked like hell, though. Clothes all messed up, like she’d been through something. But she was quick—didn’t stick around long enough for me to really notice much else. Don’t know where she went after that. Just up and vanished with my stock”

Xavier nodded, feeling a surge of both hope and frustration. You’d been here, that much was clear. But now you were gone again, slipping through his fingers like a ghost.

"You really shouldn't talk about women like that".

He paid for the snacks with some dollar bills he kept in his car for out of city trips, and turned to leave, leaving the disgruntled cashier. His mind already racing to figure out where you could’ve gone from here.

Xavier’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped back outside, the cold night air hitting him like a wall. You’d been here. Not long ago, from the sound of it. He could almost picture it—your disheveled form rushing through the aisles, grabbing whatever you could before vanishing into the shadows again. You were close, too close to give up now. But where had you gone?

He clenched his jaw, glancing around the empty streets. There were too many directions, too many places you could have disappeared to. The N109 Zone was vast, a labyrinth of forgotten corners and abandoned buildings, and there was no telling where you might have run off to next.

His mind raced, trying to make sense of the little he knew. You had come here to get food, maybe out of desperation—running on fear and adrenaline. And then, like the man said, you were gone. No tracks, no sign of where you’d been taken.

Xavier pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing over the faded image of a sleek pair of boots. It was the same pamphlet the shoe store clerk had given him earlier, and now, it seemed like his only other lead. A shoe store… It might seem like a stretch, but he had learned to follow even the smallest clues. If he couldn’t figure out where you had gone, maybe he could figure out more about the man who had taken you. And starting with something as small as his shoes might just be the break he needed.

He studied the pamphlet again, his eyes narrowing as he recalled his brief conversation with the clerk. The shoes had been expensive, high-end—definitely not something most people in the N109 Zone would be wearing.

But S wasn’t like most people, was he?

Xavier’s mind spun as he hurriedly typed the address from the pamphlet into his hunter’s watch, the holographic screen glowing softly as it processed the information. The watch pinged, highlighting the location of the store in the city. It wasn’t far, but it was a place he wouldn’t have expected someone from the N109 Zone to frequent.

If S was wearing those shoes, it meant he had money—or at least access to it. That was something Xavier could work with. People like that left trails, even in places where they thought they could stay hidden.

He started the car again, his pulse quickening as the watch projected the route onto the windshield. The shoe store was his next stop, and if he was lucky, he could get more information about who S really was. Maybe someone there had seen him, or better yet, could point him in the direction of where he lived or did business.

As the car sped toward the heart of the city, Xavier’s determination sharpened. He was getting closer to answers—closer to finding you. If he could learn more about this mysterious man, this “S,” then maybe, just maybe, he could figure out where you were being held.

As Xavier sped through the dark, crumbling streets of the N109 Zone, the world outside his car blurred into a mix of shadows and faint streetlights. His mind was focused on finding you, piecing together the next step in his search. Then, out of nowhere, a piercing scream shattered the stillness.

His foot slammed on the brake, the car lurching to a stop as his heart raced. The sound of the scream echoed through the desolate streets, raw and desperate. He scanned the area frantically, searching for the source of the cry for help. Then he saw her—a woman stumbling into the dim light from a broken streetlamp, clutching her side, her face twisted in pain.

“Help! Please, help me!” she gasped, her voice cracking with panic as she looked directly at him, her body collapsing onto the cracked pavement.

Xavier’s hunter instincts kicked in immediately. He couldn’t just leave someone like that. He shoved the car door open and rushed toward her, his eyes darting around, looking for any potential danger. The streets of the N109 Zone were unpredictable, but he couldn't just ignore someone in need.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone urgent but calm as he knelt down beside her.

The woman’s breathing was shallow, her face pale and contorted with pain. She clutched her ribs, wincing with every breath. “I don’t know,” she whimpered, “I was attacked. I need help… please…” Her eyes were wild with fear, darting between Xavier and the shadows beyond, as if expecting someone—or something—to come after her at any moment.

Xavier’s heart pounded, his mind racing. “I’ll get you some help,” he assured her, reaching for his phone. But as he fumbled for it, he felt a shift—something wasn’t right.

The woman’s eyes flicked over his shoulder, her panic momentarily replaced by something colder, more calculating. Before he could react, a blur of movement rushed behind him.

A sharp clink. The keys.

Xavier’s blood ran cold as he spun around, just in time to see a man slip past him, keys glinting in his hand. The stranger, quick and agile, darted toward Xavier’s car, jumping into the driver’s seat. How did I not see this coming? The realization hit him like a punch to the gut—this was a setup.

“Hey!” Xavier yelled, lunging forward, his heart hammering in his chest. But it was too late.

The woman, now standing tall with no trace of pain or injury, smirked at him, her expression smug and mocking. “Thanks for the ride, city boy,” she sneered, her voice dripping with satisfaction as she ran toward the passenger side of the car. She moved easily now, as if the earlier fear and desperation had been nothing but an act. It had been.

Xavier’s mind raced as he sprinted toward the car, but the engine roared to life before he could even get close. The man in the driver’s seat gunned the accelerator, the tires screeching against the pavement as the car sped away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

His heart sank as he watched the taillights disappear into the darkness, the weight of the situation crashing down on him. His car. His keys. Everything—gone in an instant. And with it, any chance of quickly finding you.

He'd have to walk on foot.

The steam from the shower still clung to your skin as you stepped out, your mind swirling in a haze of exhaustion and hunger. Your stomach growled loudly, reminding you just how long it had been since you last ate. The hot water had done little to wash away the weight of everything pressing down on you—the memories, the fear—but it had, at least, cleaned the grime from your body. You were left feeling raw and exposed, unsure of what was coming next.

You opened the glass door of the shower and grabbed a towel laying on the counter, wrapping it around yourself quickly before exiting.

You saw Sylus had elected to lean against the doorframe when you stepped out, and he turned around to face you. His eyes, those sharp, red eyes, softened when they met yours. "The chef has prepared food for you," he said, his voice gentle. The tenderness in his tone felt unnerving, like everything else with him, but the thought of food was too tempting to resist.

But before you could respond, he gestured to a set of neatly prepared shopping bags laid on his bed outside the bathroom. “I want you to open these first. Consider them gifts I had planned for you… before you ran off.” The edge in his words lingered, but his expression remained neutral. You vaguely remembered him clipping your nails while you were in the bathtub, a pile of shopping bags at his feet.

Ah, you had forgotten all about those. You wrapped the towel around yourself tighter, a knot of discomfort forming in your stomach.

You hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached the bed, your hands trembling slightly as you began to take out the "gifts". The first bag contained delicate pieces of underwear—soft, lace, and undeniably expensive. You swallowed hard, feeling a wave of unease crawl up your spine.

“Gifts for me? Or for you to see on me?” you muttered, unable to hide the malice in your voice, the bitterness slipping out.

Sylus’s lips quirked into a small, amused smile, his red eyes flickering with that familiar, unsettling glint. "Why not both?," he replied softly, the weight of his gaze lingering on you as though he found your defiance amusing.

These weren’t just clothes; they were symbols of his control, of how he saw you. Like you were his little doll to dress up. Still, you nodded hesitantly, accepting the garments with quiet reluctance.

Beneath the underwear were more practical clothes—soft, comfortable tops, leggings, and dresses. Each piece was chosen carefully, and despite yourself, you appreciated the effort, if only because you were desperate for something to wear to avoid Sylus's lingering gaze on your damp body. You chose a simple, slightly loose white dress, letting it fall over your damp skin. Then slipped on one of the many underwear he had bought for you. Sylus watched you quietly, a small smile playing on his lips as he waited for you to finish.

“You might've lost a few pounds from stress, once you start eating more, it’ll fit better,” he said casually, his tone matter-of-fact as though he hadn’t just casually referenced your weakened state. The words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of how long you'll be trapped here. Then, with a surprising softness, he added, “You look beautiful nonetheless, honey.”

“Honey.” A new pet name.

Surprisingly, instead of making you grimace like his usual endearments, it sends an unwelcome heat crawling across your face. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to react, but the flush is unmistakable. Against your will, your gaze drops, and you look away from him, the sudden surge of embarrassment catching you off guard.

Sylus notices, of course. His smile deepens slightly, a quiet satisfaction flickering in his eyes as if he can sense the effect his words have on you. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his gaze on you—steady, watchful—his presence filling the room in an unnerving way that makes it harder to breathe.

He extended his hand toward you, the gesture oddly tender and yet impossible to trust. You hesitated, unsure if taking it would solidify his power over you further or if refusing would draw out something worse. But you take it, residing to the fact that you didn't have much choice.

He moved toward the door, your hand held in his grip. “Come,” he said. “The food is waiting.”

Your stomach growled again, and despite the tension between you and him, you found yourself trailing after him, your body driven by the gnawing hunger you couldn’t ignore. As you stepped into the dining hall, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of freshly prepared food hit you like a wave.

The table was filled with an extravagant feast. Platters of roasted meats sat alongside bowls of vibrant vegetables, glistening under the kitchen lights. There were thick, tender cuts of lamb, still steaming from the oven, their edges crisp and golden. Roasted chicken, its skin perfectly browned and seasoned with herbs, sat atop a bed of caramelized onions and garlic. Beside them, a platter of seared duck breast, cooked to perfection, its fat rendered into a rich, savory glaze.

On another side of the table were bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, rich and buttery, their surface dusted with flecks of chives. A dish of roasted root vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and beets—was arranged in a beautiful display, their edges crisp and caramelized, drizzled with a balsamic glaze. There was a vibrant salad of mixed greens, tossed with fresh pomegranate seeds, crumbled goat cheese, and candied walnuts, the dressing a light, tangy vinaigrette that made your mouth water.

A basket of freshly baked bread sat in the center of the table, the rolls warm and soft, their golden crusts begging to be torn apart. Small bowls of whipped butter, infused with honey and herbs, accompanied them, the scent sweet and savory.

But it didn’t stop there. Desserts, too, were laid out, tempting you even further. A decadent chocolate tart with a glossy ganache topping, dusted with powdered sugar and fresh raspberries, sat next to a platter of delicate fruit tarts, their centers brimming with custard and topped with glistening berries. A tower of macarons in various pastel shades—lavender, pistachio, rose—completed the lavish display.

Sylus pulled out a chair for you, his smile widening as he watched your eyes dart from one dish to the next. "Well don't just stare, sit down".

The sight and smell overwhelmed you, and for a moment, you felt like a prisoner presented with a royal meal, knowing full well the chains still bound you. But hunger gnawed at your insides, and no matter how conflicted you were, your body screamed for sustenance as you sat.

"Eat," Sylus urged, taking a seat across from you. His eyes never left yours, watching, waiting for your reaction.

Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for a piece of bread, the warmth of it soothing in your palm. You tore it open, the soft dough yielding beneath your fingers, and dipped it into the whipped honey butter, taking a small bite. The flavors burst in your mouth, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh of relief.

The food was perfect—too perfect. And as you took another bite, you couldn’t help but wonder: was this all part of the game too? Or was it simply nourishment after the storm?

Sylus leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you as you ate, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak, just watched you in that unsettling, familiar way—like he was always studying you, always thinking, always planning. His silence, for once, was almost a relief, allowing you to focus on the food and ignore his presence as much as possible.

You couldn’t help it. The hunger gnawed at you, and the feast before you was impossible to resist. The flavors were rich, the textures comforting, and before you realized it, you had cleared almost four plates. Each bite had momentarily dulled the chaos in your mind, letting you push aside the fear, the memories, and the discomfort that still lingered in your chest.

Sylus didn’t comment as you reached for more, nor did he interrupt. He seemed content to let you eat in peace, his eyes never leaving you but his lips remaining closed. It wasn’t until you finally pushed the last plate away, feeling the fullness settle in your stomach, that the silence between you felt heavier.

The weight of exhaustion began to settle over you. The warmth from the food and the sheer relief of being full left you feeling heavy, your eyelids growing heavier by the minute. You hadn’t realized just how tired you were until that moment. Your body felt like it had finally reached its limit.

Sylus stood up, breaking the silence. His movements were smooth and deliberate as he pushed his chair back, his gaze never leaving you. “You must be tired,” he said softly, the same unnerving tenderness in his voice as before. “It’s time for bed.”

You tensed slightly at his words, but your body, worn down by hunger and stress, didn’t have the strength to protest. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, afraid of what might come out if you did. There was no point in resisting, not tonight.

Sylus moved toward you, his hand extending again as if offering comfort. You hesitated, looking at his outstretched hand, but you didn’t have the energy to reject him. You let him guide you, his touch gentle yet firm as he led you toward the bedroom you were dreading your return to.

You don’t remember when exactly you slipped into unconsciousness, but the world had faded into nothing after Sylus lifted you into the bed. His arms were unexpectedly gentle, cradling you with a kind of care that felt entirely out of place. You were vaguely aware of him pulling the blankets up around you, tucking you in, but then everything went dark. The exhaustion you had been fighting all day finally consumed you, and you sank into the deepest sleep you’d felt in what seemed like forever.

There was comfort in the darkness, the kind of peace that only comes with complete surrender to sleep. No fear, no panic, just the void. You floated there, cradled in warmth. But soon, the darkness gave way to a dream, vivid and consuming.

Xavier appeared first, stepping out of the shadows of your mind. His familiar figure brought an immediate sense of relief. His ashy blonde hair fell into his face, and his striking blue eyes bore into you with the same warmth and intensity that always made your heart flutter. There he was, just as you remembered—strong, dependable, and safe. He reached out, his hand extending toward you, and without hesitation, you moved toward him.

The moment your hand met his, your heart melted, the overwhelming sense of security flooding through you. For the first time in what felt like ages, you felt safe. You felt home.

But something changed.

Xavier’s gaze, once filled with affection and care, shifted. His eyes darkened, turning cold, distant. The warmth you’d found in his presence quickly evaporated, replaced by something harsh and unfamiliar. His lips curled downward, a shadow crossing his face, and his grip on your hand tightened. The shift was sudden, the dream warping around you like a twisted reflection of reality.

"Why did you want him dead?" His voice cut through the dream, sharp and cold, the softness you’d expected from him nowhere to be found.

You blinked, confusion gripping you as his words sank in. “Huh?” Your face faltered, your heart pounding in your chest. His cold stare drilled into you, and you could feel something inside you cracking under its weight. What was happening?

"You're the reason Reese is dead," Xavier said, his words landing like a punch to the gut. His voice, usually so steady, so comforting, was now filled with anger, with accusation. His grip on your hand turned painful, his fingers digging into your skin with an almost crushing force.

“No...” Your voice wavered, barely able to push the word out as your mind reeled. “That wasn’t my fault, it was Sy—” You tried to explain, to say anything to stop the blame from settling on your shoulders. But the words caught in your throat, and you couldn’t finish. You couldn’t get them out.

His face twisted, contorting with anger and something that looked like disappointment. His blue eyes, once a source of warmth, were now filled with icy judgment, the coldness sinking into your skin like knives. His grip tightened further, pain shooting through your hand, but no matter how hard you tried to pull away, you couldn’t escape.

The dream around you blurred, the edges of reality warping and distorting. The ground beneath you seemed to shift, unsteady, while Xavier's figure loomed larger, his presence suffocating. The weight of his blame pressed down on your chest like a stone, suffocating you, filling your lungs with an overwhelming sense of guilt.

You tried to explain again, your voice strangled by the intensity of the moment, but Xavier wasn’t listening. His hand was like a vice, his fingers digging into your skin as his gaze pinned you in place. His words repeated in your mind, echoing louder and louder—“You're the reason he’s dead.”

Xavier's face began to twist, distorting into something grotesque, something no longer human. His once gentle features morphed and stretched unnaturally, his blue eyes darkening into hollow, accusing pits. His grip on your hand became unbearable, crushing the bones in your fingers as his form continued to change, shifting from the man you loved into a nightmare. The warmth that had briefly comforted you was gone, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling cold.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to pull away, but the force holding you was relentless. You stared in horror as Xavier’s form became unrecognizable, his skin taking on a gray, cracked texture, his mouth elongating into a grimace filled with sharp teeth. His eyes, now nothing more than deep, empty voids, bore into you with a hatred that sent shivers down your spine.

“You’re a murderer,” the figure spat, its voice now a low, guttural growl that echoed in your ears, far louder than it should have been. “Murderer.” The word hit you like a physical blow, making your entire body tense as you tried to make sense of what was happening.

“No…” you whispered, your voice trembling as you desperately tried to defend yourself. “It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t—”

“You have blood on your hands!” the figure roared, its voice shaking the world around you. Xavier’s face continued to twist and contort, veins bulging from his neck, his body looming over you like a towering monster. “You told him to die!”

The words echoed again and again, crashing into you with the force of a tidal wave. The weight of guilt slammed into your chest, almost knocking the wind out of you as the grotesque version of Xavier leaned in closer. His voice became more vicious, more unforgiving. “You let him die, and now the blood is on your hands!”

You looked down, and your breath caught in your throat. Blood. It was everywhere—on your hands, dripping from your fingers, pooling at your feet. Panic surged through you, your heart racing as you tried to wipe it away, but no matter how hard you scrubbed, the blood only seemed to multiply, staining your skin, your clothes, everything around you.

“You’ll never wash it off!” the figure screamed, its voice shaking with rage. “Never!” It grabbed your shoulders, shaking you violently as it continued to scream. “You’re a murderer!

You struggled, trying to pull free, but the figure’s grip was unbreakable. The dream spiraled into chaos, the world around you collapsing into darkness as the screams filled the air, overwhelming your senses. The blood seemed to rise like a tide, crawling up your arms, soaking through your skin. You gasped for air, but it was suffocating, the guilt swallowing you whole.

“Murderer!” the figure roared again, louder this time, shaking you until your vision blurred. “Murderer! Murderer!"

Tears streamed down your face as you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the accusations wouldn’t stop. The guilt, the blood, the rage—it was all around you, suffocating you, crushing you.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the figure stopped. It stood over you, silent now, but its eyes—those hollow, accusing voids—were locked onto you. “You can never escape what you’ve done,” it whispered, the venom in its voice chilling you to the core.

You shot up in bed, heart hammering in your chest, a scream tearing through your throat before you even knew what was happening. The sheets clung to your sweat-soaked skin as you gasped for breath, the nightmare still gripping you in its suffocating hold. Your hands shook violently, fingers instinctively rubbing at your palms, expecting to see the blood, the thick, crimson stain that had haunted you moments before.

But there was no blood.

The room was dark, dimly lit by a lamp settled on the nightstand. Sylus sat beside you, awake, casually reading a book. His red eyes glanced up from the pages, calm and steady, showing no sign of surprise at your sudden outburst.

“You’re okay,” Sylus said softly, his voice low but steady. He closed the book, setting it aside as he reached out, pulling you closer, into his arms with a gentle grip. The warmth of his body on yours was meant to be comforting, but the lingering terror from the dream made his touch feel heavier, suffocating.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the echoes of the nightmare still gripping you. The blood, the screams, the weight of guilt—it all felt so real, too real to shake off. Your hands trembled in your lap, still trying to rub away the invisible stain that wouldn’t leave.

“Shhh,” Sylus soothed, his voice soft as he stroked your back with deliberate calmness. “It was just a nightmare, kitten.”

But his words barely penetrated the thick fog of panic swirling in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady your breathing, but the image of Xavier’s cold, accusing gaze still lingered in the corners of your thoughts, leaving an ache in your chest that refused to fade.

Sylus’s gaze never wavered from you. He was patient, his grip around you getting stronger as you fought to regain control, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern, though it was impossible to tell how much of it was real. He watched you wordlessly, waiting patiently for your breathing to slow as he rubbed your back in soothing motions.

And you did, eventually. Slowly, your heartbeat began to slow, the cold sweat drying on your skin as the nightmare finally started to loosen its grip. You were still shaken, but reality was settling back in.

Sylus smiled, his eyes softening slightly. “Good girl,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You feel better?"

"It's not my fault..." you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper as tears began streaming down your face, hot and unstoppable. The weight of the nightmare still pressed against your chest, the guilt wrapping itself around your heart. "Reese... I told him to die, kinda. But you killed him!"

Your words trembled in the air, and for a moment, the room felt suffocatingly silent. Sylus’s arm stilled on your back, his red eyes watching you closely. His face remained calm, unreadable, but something flickered behind his gaze—curiosity, perhaps, or even amusement. He began rubbing your back again.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low and steady as he spoke. “I killed him because he took what was mine,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t pull the trigger, I did. Don’t fool yourself, sweetie.” His fingers gently wiped away the tears falling down your cheeks, lingering on your skin a second longer than necessary.

“His fate was sealed the moment he touched you. You’re not responsible for his death.”

Your heart ached, the confusion and guilt twisting inside you. The memory of Reese's lifeless body, the sound of the gunshot, played over and over in your mind. You knew that Sylus had been the one to end it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that your words, your anger, had driven the final nail in the coffin.

"But I—" you started, your voice cracking, but Sylus shushed you gently, pressing a finger to your lips.

“Don’t burden yourself,” he whispered, his voice soothing but firm. “Reese was a pest, and pests are dealt with. It wasn’t your fault. You said what you needed to say in the moment” His eyes softened, his gaze almost affectionate. “And now, you’re here—with me. Safe.”

"Am I?" you sobbed, the weight of your emotions crashing down on you all at once. The tears came faster, and with them, the memory of that night—the night Sylus had taken everything into his own hands, literally. The sharp pain, the feeling of your skin being sliced open as he calmly removed your birth control implant, resurfaced in vivid detail. The raw fear that had gripped you then returned now, surging like a wave you couldn't hold back.

"At least Reese never hurt me," you choked out between sobs, your voice trembling, barely holding together. "You, on the other hand..."

Your hand instinctively went to your arm, tracing the faint scar left behind from when Sylus had decided, without a second thought, that he would control every part of you—inside and out. The scar was still there, but it wasn’t just on your skin. The memory of that violation ran deeper than any wound that could heal.

Sylus’s expression didn’t shift at your words. His calm gaze remained fixed on you, though there was a slight narrowing of his eyes. His hand paused in its comforting motions, hovering just inches from you, as if calculating how to respond.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, his voice calm, controlled, almost dismissive. "Everything I’ve done has been for you. For us. Why are you crying over a man that handed you and countless others over for crack?"

The flood of emotions broke through all at once at his words.

"Because-because he wasn't supposed to die. Hunters aren't the reason people die, we save people...he could've went to jail he wasn't supposed to-"

You crumpled, sobs wracking your body as the weight of everything—of all you had endured—became too much to bear. Memories you had tried to suppress, to bury deep within you, rose to the surface like dark waves crashing against fragile walls.

The man from the basement. His hands grabbing you, the smell of his breath, the sheer terror that had paralyzed you as he tried to force himself on you. You had fought, screamed, but the memory was still there, etched into your mind like a brand that would never fade. The nightmare you had just woken from had only served to rip open the scars you had so desperately tried to heal.

Your words came out in broken fragments, incoherent between sobs. "That other man…he tried… I couldn’t— I couldn’t stop him…" Your voice cracked, your chest heaving as you babbled through the memories, the trauma wrapping itself around you like a suffocating shroud. "He—he wouldn’t stop… I couldn’t breathe, I was so scared…"

You weren’t even sure Sylus was listening. You couldn’t look at him. Everything blurred together, your mind overwhelmed by the pain, the helplessness, the feeling of being trapped again in that moment. You curled in on yourself, trembling as the sobs became uncontrollable, the terror of that night suffocating you all over again.

Then you felt it—Sylus’s hand, soft and deliberate, gently cradling your cheek. He leaned in, his voice softening into something almost unbearably tender, a tone you never thought he was capable of.

"Poor thing, you're such a mess," he murmured.

His eyes lingered on you with a mix of pity and affection, as though you were something fragile, something cherished. It was as if watching you unravel before him caused his heart to ache.

“I can help you forget,” he whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears with slow, careful strokes. “Let me take the pain away, kitten. You don’t have to carry it anymore.”

His words were soothing, like a lullaby coaxing you away from the edge of your breakdown. His touch was uncharacteristically soft, his presence surrounding you like a cocoon, making it harder to pull yourself out of the depths of your despair. For a brief moment, the way he looked at you—like he truly cared—made you falter.

You hesitate at his words. The rational part of your mind urged you to turn away, not to respond. To pull yourself from his embrace and fight him. But the other part, muddled by trauma, drove you to stay. To seek comfort, any comfort, even in his arms.

From your captor of all people.

“Yes…” you whimpered, blinking away tears. You didn’t know why you answered that way—your mind screamed at you to stop—but you found yourself reaching out, your fingers clutching the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer.

Anything. Anything to make this pain stop.

His lips crashed against yours before you could even register what was happening, consuming you in a kiss so passionate it bordered on painful. All rational thought evaporated as his tongue plundered the recesses of your mouth, stroking along your palate and tangling with your own tongue in a sensual dance as old as time itself.

You were consumed, caught in the storm of his touch, unable to think beyond the overwhelming need to escape the agony of your memories—even if only for a moment.

Your hands flew to his face of their own accord, fingers threading through his hair as you clung to him like a drowning woman gasping for air. You kissed him back with a fervor born of desperation, pouring all your pent-up anguish and trauma into the hungry clash of lips and teeth. The two of you panted against each other, like animals ready to tear each other to shreds.

Some distant part of you screamed that this was mistake, that doing this with him willingly was certainly wrong. He had kidnapped you after all. Stolen you. But it was drowned out by the pounding of your heart, the ache of need pulsing between your thighs. His hands slid under your dress, calloused palms skimming over hypersensitive flesh, and you arched into his touch with a whimper.

"Sylus..." you whined, already feeling the desperate ache reach your core.

"I know, kitten. Patience, we just started" he said, amusement adorning his face.

His lips found yours again, hot and demanding, silencing any lingering protests. You melted into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. The taste of him was intoxicating, a heady mix of desire and danger that left you craving more. His fingers find the hem of your underwear, wasting no time to remove the obstacle from your wet depths.

Your whole body trembled as Sylus's lips blazed a path down your body, trailing molten kisses along the column of your throat. Each brush of his mouth against your sensitive skin sent electricity singing through your veins, igniting another fiery ache between your thighs. When he nudged aside the fabric of your dress to nuzzle the slick flesh of your cunt, you let out a strangled moan, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you.

The tip of his nose grazed your swollen bud, and your back arched off the bed, every nerve ending sparking with raw pleasure. "Nnnngh…" you whimpered, hips bucking instinctively toward his teasing touch.

Sylus's deep, resonant chuckle rumbled through you, vibrating against your core in a way that made your toes curl. "So responsive," he murmured, his warm breath ghosting over your dripping folds. "Tell me, kitten-were you this wet for him? Did he make you shiver and moan like this when he touched you?"

He grips your thighs almost possessively, waiting for your answer.

His words were like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head, plunging you back into reality. Shame crashed over you in nauseating waves, your arousal doused by the realization of how easily Sylus manipulated your body. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut, fists clenching in the bedding.

"No," you choked out, voice brittle. "Never. He never touched me like this…Sylus, please…" The plea was torn from your throat, part desperation, part disgust. You felt filthy, tainted by your own traitorous reactions to Sylus's sensual assault on your most intimate parts.

But despite the revulsion roiling in your gut, your body still yearned for more.

"Its hard to say no when you beg me like that," he said, seemingly satisfied with your answer, began trailing a hot, wet streak against your folds. A gasp punches through your throat, eyes fluttering as you try not to lose all control. The mere feeling of his tongue was sending your brain into frenzies. But it wasn't enough. Wasn't enough to block the pain.

"Sylus, ple-mmph!”

You grip the bedsheets even tighter when he tenderly cuts off your plea with a moan against your clit, his tongue beginning to spread the entrance of your lips apart feverishly. Your breathing gets rapid when you feel something hot breaking past the entrance, deeper and deeper into your walls. Sylus's tongue delved deeper, stroking along your inner walls with devastating skill.

"You don't have to hold the bedsheets." he says, withdrawing momentarily from your depths. He wordlessly guides your hands to the top of his head, and before you can say anything, he's back licking up and down your folds, eventually making his way back in completely. The immediate shockwaves of pleasure make you grip his hair basically against your will, and you tearfully hold his hair as you neared an orgasm.

The pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo as Sylus's tongue relentlessly stroked your inner walls, each slick thrust driving you higher toward the brink of climax. Broken moans spilled from your lips, intermingling with his hungry growls of appreciation. Tears streamed down your face as your hips rocked shamelessly against his mouth, silently begging for the oblivion that hovered just out of reach.

Sylus's strong hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted upon your aching cunt. He seemed enraptured, almost worshipful in his attentions, lavishing your most intimate places with devoted licks and sucks. He ate you out like a starved man. Like he craved you.

Like he missed you.

Occasionally his nose would rub against your clit again and again, a delicious friction that made you sob with the intensity of it all.

When his lips finally closed around your swollen clit and sucked hard, you nearly vaulted off the bed, a strangled scream tearing from your throat.

"Mhgn! Sylus! Please, I can't…it's too much!"

But he didn't let up, his talented tongue circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with ruthless precision. Your vision whited out as you finally reached heaven, wave after wave of ecstasy crashing over you until you thought you might drown in it. Your walls clamped down on his invading tongue, pulsing with the force of your release, unwittingly calling out Sylus's name as you did so.

Finally, blessedly, Sylus withdrew. You melted in the sheets, finally letting go of his hair, boneless and shuddering in the aftermath. Tears streaked your face, but for once, they weren't because Sylus had hurt you. He had done quite the opposite actually.

Taking in the sight of you sprawled before him, flushed and panting, your body trembling. With a wicked smirk, he trailed a hand along your trembling thigh, drawing a shuddering moan from your throat. Evidence of your orgasm coated his mouth, and you watch as he licks the remaining from his lips.

"Tired already?" he teased, quite enjoying the way your body tensed under his touch. "For a hunter I expected you to have more stamina."

The haze of post-orgasmic bliss dissipated as quickly as it had descended, harsh reality crashing back in with brutal clarity. Tears pricked your eyes as the weight of your shame threatened to crush you. You had begged him for it, eagerly spread your legs for your kidnapper as if y'all were lovers. What was wrong with you?

"I..." you trail off, vision blurring with tears once more. What were you going to say? What could you say?

Sylus trailed lazy kisses along your jaw, seeming to sense your internal turmoil within your head. His lips rubbed against your sensitive skin, sending unwanted sparks of pleasure skittering through your nerves.

"If you're still able to think," he murmured against your throat, "then I clearly haven't kept my promise of helping you forget." His nimble fingers worked at his belt buckle.

The leather strap slid free of the loops with a hiss, dropping forgotten to the floor. Soon after, you felt the straps of your dress slip past your shoulders, past your waist, and eventually off your body completely. Sylus's gaze raked over you, lovingly and hungry, devouring the flush on your skin, the swell of your heaving breasts. You felt bare under his scrutiny, stripped of all defenses.

"And here I thought I was doing such a good job of distracting you," he purred, palming himself through his jeans. The rigid line of his erection strained against the faded denim, an obscene bulge that made your mouth go dry. You watched as he began taking his shirt off from over his head, his chiseled stomach and chest coming into view.

"Please..." you whimpered, the word torn from your throat as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. Your body trembled, caught between the whirlwind of conflicting emotions roiling within you. Revulsion. Lust. Desperation. Self-loathing. You don't even know what you're asking for.

Sylus's expression softened as he gazed down at you, his thumb brushing away the moisture collecting on your lashes. It was uncharacteristic of you to beg for anything other than freedom. It was pulling at his heart and making him feel weak. "Shhh, it's alright sweetie," he soothed, his voice a low murmur. "I'm keeping my promise. Don't think, just focus on me."

Slowly, reverently, he lowered his mouth to yours in a kiss that stole your breath and shattered your reservations. His lips moved over yours with aching tenderness, sipping at your parted lips as if savoring the sweetest nectar. The press of his body against yours was solid, reassuring, anchoring you in the whirlwind of sensation.

His tongue slipped past your defenses to stroke the sensitive flesh within, each languid thrust a silent promise of the ecstasy to come. One large hand cradled your face, angling your head to deepen the kiss, while the other smoothed soothing circles on the small of your back.

When he pulls back, eyes staring down at you, it feels like he's staring into the depths of your soul. His eye begins to glow dangerously, and you begin to feel your mind start to spin and the room start to grow hazy. Voices begin pouring into your ears.

Devour him.

He's right there.

Grab him!

But just as quickly as they started, they stopped. You lay there shocked, unable to process what just happened.

"Your mind says a lot more than your mouth does, kitten" he chuckles, and you can only blink confusingly at him as he begins unzipping his pants. He stands up momentarily to remove his pants and you watch as his cock finally spring free. You feel a gush of arousal as you watch it throb, precum slightly leaking at the tip.

"W-what?" you ask, one half of your brain focusing on his raging erection and the other half wondering why the hell your mind felt like it was splitting in half just a second ago.

But you have no time to ponder such questions as Sylus begins to tower above you once more, grabbing your legs and spreading them apart. You squeal at the sudden touch and shiver when his tip rubs against the slit of your opening. His face is twisted with pleasure and his lips are parted, as if he's restraining every part of himself not to push everything into you at once.

"Slow...please" you beg, your hips involuntarily pushing down on the head of his tip when it greets your opening.

"You want me to go slow, yet your hips are lifting off the bed like you can't wait to have me buried inside you," Sylus teased, his voice a low, wicked murmur. He enjoys the way your face twists in annoyance.

"So greedy, aren't you kitten?"

"I'm not trying t-mmph!"

You words lodge into your throat as you feel the head of his tip pierce your hole. You gasped, back arching as you stretched impossibly around him. A painful stretch causes you to groan and try to pull away, but Sylus puts a hand on your stomach, holding you down and ceasing all resistance.

"Be still, hah, it wont hurt for long". Sylus lips are parted as he lets out his own breathless groan, his senses being overwhelmed with you as he sinks deeper and deeper.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Sylus groaned, his eyes squeezing shut as he fought for control. He eased forward slowly, inch by excruciating inch, letting you adjust to his substantial size. Your velvety walls resisted initially, clamping down around him like a vice.

Sylus paused, buried to the hilt inside you, his pelvis flush against yours. "Breathe, kitten," he instructed, his voice strained with the effort of holding still. "Try to relax okay?."

You tried to relax, to focus on the pleasant pressure building deep in your core instead of the dull ache in your stretched flesh. Gradually, you yielded, your muscles unclenching as Sylus began to move.

"Good girl," he managed through clenched teeth, withdrawing until just the tip remained before sliding back in with agonizing deliberateness. Over and over, he set a torturously slow rhythm, savoring every drag of your fluttering walls along his rigid cock.

Soon, the sting gave way to blossoming pleasure, radiating outward from where you were joined. You found yourself meeting his measured thrusts, your hips rocking up to take him deeper, chasing that euphoric friction. Sylus's pace quickened marginally, his self-control fraying at the edges. The slap of flesh against flesh echoed obscenely in the room, a filthy symphony that drowned out your labored breaths and muffled whimpers.

Each deliberate thrust carried you further from the pit of anguish threatening to swallow you whole. The exquisite drag of Sylus's thick cock along your sensitive walls obliterated every coherent thought, leaving only the raw, visceral pleasure of the moment. Higher and higher you climbed, chasing the blissful oblivion he promised, until the first warnings of an impending climax rippled through your trembling form.

Sylus shifted his angle slightly, and stars exploded behind your eyelids as he grazed a spot deep inside that made your toes curl. A strangled moan tore from your throat, lost in the slick slide of bodies and the heady musk of arousal perfuming the air.

"That's it, sweetie," Sylus coo'd, his voice low and rough with lust. "Let go. Think about the one making you feel good right now. Think about me. Only me."

His words shivered through you, igniting something primal and needy. Your hips bucked up to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, harder, faster. Your mind snapped and went blank. You were drowning in sensation, drowning in him, and you never wanted to surface. Never wanted to think about reality ever again.

"You're so cute like this," Sylus purred, punctuating each word with a savage grind of his pelvis against yours. "Brain empty and filled with too much cock to think. Should just keep you like this..."

His filthy praise melted your reservations, stoking the desperate frenzy consuming your body and mind. Nothing else mattered beyond the slick slide of flesh and the heady perfume of sex saturating the air. In this moment, Sylus owned you wholly, a willing slave to his lust. All you could do was surrender, drowning in the exquisite agony of your impending release.

The coil of tension in your core tightened with each passing second, your impending climax hovering just out of reach. Sylus sensed your mounting desperation, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release.

"You're so close," he growled, his rhythm growing erratic as he chased his own completion. "I can feel you tightening up, greedy little thing."

"Go ahead, cum. Let me hear your pretty sounds."

The lewd demand shattered your composure, catapulting you into heaven and you practically screamed his name. Pleasure crashed through you like a tsunami, obliterating every coherent thought. All you knew was the pulsing ache in your core, the rhythmic throb of Sylus's cock buried deep, prolonging your climax until you couldn't take the sensations anymore and almost begged him to stop thrusting.

“Sylus…” you whimper weakly.

Your vision grew blurry as you teetered into overstimulation, your walls clamping down on Sylus's pistoning length like a vise. Thankfully, he was at his own end. You hear a guttural groan of your name in your ear, and then felt the hot splash of his seed painting your insides soon after. His thrusting completely stopped, and the both of you lay there, panting and unmoving.

It was only when you felt his warm seed spilling out onto the bed that you snapped back into reality.

"Did you-"

“Yes, I did it inside,” Sylus murmured, his voice calm, almost too calm. “Where else would it go?”

Before you could even process his words and sit up, he was on you, pinning your arms down to the bed with a swift, ruthless precision, as if anticipating your next move. The weight of him was suffocating, leaving you no room to escape. Panic surged through you, your body instinctively twisting and writhing beneath him, but it was useless. You were trapped.

“After your little escape," he continued, voice laced with playful amusement, "I’ve realized I need to put in more effort. Taming you isn’t as easy as I thought...a baby should be a nice, heavy, leash for you"

“Sylus… please,” you stammer, your heart pounding in your chest. Desperation claws at you as the gravity of his words sinks in. “We don’t need to do this. Not like this. Please, let’s solve this without a child?—I’ll do anything you want. I won’t try to run again, I swear.”

Tears blurred your vision as you begged, the words tumbling out in a frantic rush, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear. But Sylus just smiled, that soft, chilling smile that made your stomach drop. He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, his hand disappearing beneath the bed.

“I know you won’t be running away again. In fact…”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, terror coiling tighter with every passing second. What was he doing? What was he reaching for? You searched your mind desperately, trying to think of anything, anything at all that might change his mind, but you knew better. Sylus was relentless. He hadn’t forgotten your attempts to resist, and now he was only more determined.

And then you felt it—the cold, unforgiving touch of metal snapping around your ankle.

Your eyes flew wide open, your pulse spiking as you looked down in horror. An ankle chain. You were shackled.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. "No...is this..?"

“Anything I want, you say?” Sylus's voice oozed with satisfaction, a smile creeping across his lips as he leaned in closer. The warmth of his breath contrasted sharply with the cold metal now binding you in place.

“Then make us a baby, sweetie,” he purred, his fingers tracing lightly down your arm. “That’s what I want most right now.”

The weight of his words settled like ice in your chest. A shiver coursed through your body, your mind racing, searching for some way out, but the chain around your ankle clinked softly with every tiny movement, a reminder of how trapped you really were.

“It’s long enough to reach everything in here, including the toilet and shower,” Sylus said, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he leaned down to press a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek.

You shuddered beneath him, your tears finally spilling over as the full weight of your situation crashed down on you. “Is this… my punishment for running?” you whispered, your voice fragile and trembling, as if the question itself might break you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place. “No, it’s not a punishment,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. “It’s a necessity, honey.”

His words hung heavy in the air, sealing your fate as surely as the chain around your ankle.

Tears broke free, pouring down your face in uncontrollable waves as the reality of it all crushed you. You sobbed openly, your body shaking under the weight of it, and yet there was nothing you could do. Sylus leaned down, his presence overwhelming, his hand softly brushing the side of your tear-streaked face. His voice was low, almost soothing, as if he believed he was offering comfort instead of twisting the knife deeper.

“The faster you accept this,” he whispered, stroking your hair gently, “the easier it’ll be for you. Accept your place by my side and have my baby.”

"I'll take care of both of you, I promise."

His words only made the knot in your throat tighten further. You hated him. You hated him with every fiber of your being, but worst of all, you hated yourself. Hated the fact that you had once given yourself to him willingly, that you had let the devil himself have your body in a moment of weakness, as if you hadn’t known exactly what he was capable of.

The shame of it burned through you, deeper than any chain ever could. How had you fallen so far? How had you ever let him touch you, let him inside your body, your mind—your soul? The answer twisted cruelly in your gut.

But even despite all the burning hatred you had for him in this moment, another unknown feeling sprouted. One that ached and felt almost unbearable to think about. A longing. Festering within the walls of your strained heart and mind. You refused to acknowledge it though, choosing to drown in the sorrow of your new situation.

Sylus shifted beside you, wrapping his arms around you as if you were lovers instead of captor and captive. His warmth pressed against your skin, a twisted parody of intimacy, and you lay there, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. You felt his breathing slow beside you, felt his presence still as he settled in comfortably at your side. But you were miles away, staring into the abyss above, where there was no escape, no solace.

Only the cold, bitter truth. You had let the devil in, and now, there was no way out.

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lady-ashfade · 3 months

Text

A Son For A Son

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Deamons Bastard!Reader x Yan!Team black. Pt.2

╰･ﾟ✧☽ first fic here.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ summary: the queen has given a order, and craving revenge you expect.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ words: 1k

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: blood & gore, murder and death, reader killing, reader being her father, uncanon events, poison, I just needed to make this.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ DONT READ IF YOU WANNA BE SPOILED: reader does in fact kill aemond in this and idk if you are happy about it, I want his head to take to my queen.

“I want Aemond Targaryen.” she stood before the council covered in dirt and who knows what.

It had been two weeks since the letter about the death of Lucaerys had arrived and you all had been the worst for it. and ever since she searched and searched for a sign of truth, desperate to be wrong. that her sweet boy was alive. you knew he was dead and you wanted everyone to pay for taking luke. you wanted aemond targaryen to pay. you took anger out on the ones you could, or roamed the sky’s to get your mind off of things. you would not act without her orders.

The resemblance you shared to daemon was close and terrifying for your foes. just as you had the idea to fulfill her wishes, your father did too.

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” the sound of your voice made his shoulders fall and a smirk appear on his face, one you couldn’t see. a dark cloak draped over his shoulders and matched the same one across your frame. “but I have a better one.”

“No.” you glare at the back of his head. again denied something worth your talents.

“You can’t tell me what do to this time father.” standing your ground as his eyes turn around, a look he uses when he’s serious. and for him it was like looking into a mirror, you carved blood just like he did and loved getting to spill it. even for no reason at all.

“I have waited around for a task, and she has said she wants Aemond. I mourn the loss of my brother too, and you can not keep me from whatever it is that you think you’re protecting me from.”

Hundreds of men died at the end of your blade at night as you slip throughout the shadows. you were a slayer, a assassin who followed your own roles but loved coin and the game. a story to tell children to make them weep and fear the dark. so how could he still think you are not ready.

“I have let you do what you needed, patrol the blockade against my wishes. or fly alone when our enemies wait to make us weaker” he lectures, “and I will not let them take you.” for a moment you saw a regular father begging for his daughter to stay safe. you aren’t just a daughter now but a soldier in war.

“I would never let them take me,” you step closer and give him a smug look, “I am your daughter after all.”

Instead of going himself, daemon sends you, for the head of the copycat prince.

the castle gates are easy to slip passed with the help of a guard who shares your hatred for the hightowers. and many times, you slip into the keep without getting caught.

“Something told me you’d be here,” his eye glanced at you amused from the cough as his fingertips spin a coin. “It’s as if the gods made me stay here.” aemond unfolded his legs and leaned forward on his knees. many years you hated the way he spoke to you like a interest of his to be claimed like his bitch dragon.

“Then the gods agree you’ll die tonight.”

aemond waited for this moment to finally fight you. he wanted to win and keep you forever as a trophy, a wife who was like him and everyone feared without a doubt. he wasn’t a fool, you are a skilled killer and he needed to bring his all. and some skills stayed in the dark.

a slice in his chest, in his leg and cheek aren’t as bad as he thought when he had you pinned down onto the table. the cold feeling of metal as his hands wrapped around your throat was refreshing. you didn’t try and fight back as he took your breath because the fight was won as soon as it started.

And he should have known you couldn’t be this sloppy.

curling lips up into a devil’s smirk, looking into his eye he feels himself weakened and his grip loosen. the power of letting a man win and wiping all power from beneath their feet was riveting and a hobby. Aemond leaned back and placed his weight onto the couch while trying to keep composure. “You honestly think i wouldn’t have a plan? Make my own rules?” you raise a brow and rub the sore skin of your neck, inching closer while standing up yourself.

“Silent reaper is the name they whisper about me, come in quickly without notice. I always kill my enemies without them awake, but you,” you point and lean down as his eyes become bloodshot, “I want to feel the most pain. And I will enjoy it.” within a few minutes his body starts to leak its own blood. he was quickly taken to death of course, you couldn’t hear his pleads but you’ll satisfy with his death.

guards fall silent when they watch you walk through the halls they don’t even announce your name. white locks lace your fingers and the weight of his head was little and you look like your father with the proud eyes of what you did. the sounds of your footsteps cause the council to glance over but stay with shock. non of them expected to see that and much less out of no where. though, your father seemed pleased and chuckled at the sight.

“The head of Prince Aemond Targaryen, your Grace.” Walking past Jace you set the bloody head on the table as people gawk and flinch. “the poison was my idea, hope you don’t mind.” a second later you yawn of exhaustion and boredom. you look at rhaenrya as her eyes glossed with the revenge you took for her.

“If you’ll excuse me, the ride back was tiring and I wish to get back to my book.” bowing down you flash a “polite” smile and walk away to your chambers with pride and a hand rested on your blade. with everyone wondering what else you would do for the queen,

Your mother.

#team black #house of the dragon x reader #yandere house of the dragon #house of the dragon #yandere house of the dragon x reader #daemon targeryen x reader #rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #yandere rhaenyra targaryen #dead dove do not eat

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minniesmutt · 2 months

Note

“If you turn your back on me again, you better be bending over.” rockstar x rockstar gf

Could i request it with chan?

☾ ━━━ PAIRING: BANG CHAN X READER ☾ ━━━ PROMPT: 32 “If you turn your back on me again, you better be bending over.” ☾ ━━━ CONTENT: ROCKSTAR! CHAN, ROCKSTAR GF!READER, ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP, BRAT! READER, FINGERING, DOM!CHAN, UNPROTECTED SEX, CHOKING, SPANKING, ORGASM DENIAL, CREAMPIE ☾ ━━━ WC: 0.6K ☾ ━━━ 18+ work!! minors and ageless/blank blogs DNI! you will be blocked, put an indicator on your blog somewhere that you are 18+ before interacting with this work/blog

“Y/n!” Chan yelled as he chased his girlfriend down the back of the venue.

She completely ignored him. Not wanting to hear much of him at the moment after she watched his entire set. The crowd thrusting things on stage for him and his band and almost themselves a couple times and her boyfriend said nothing.

Some fans had some meet and greet passes for the band which was normal. Y/n stood with staff till it was over. Boiling in how many women attempted to flirt — some even kiss the cheek of — her boyfriend. He kindly turned it down at first but soon he just stopped and took the photos. Immediately after the last of the fans left she left towards the back with Chan hot on her tail

“Go to one of your other girlfriends!”

“Baby,” Chan managed to get in front of her and stop her, “Fan service is part of my job. You know this.”

“Since when is letting fans kiss you part of your job?”

“I’m sorry. I should have stopped everyone of them but just repeating myself was getting tiring.”

“Whatever,” Y/n rolled her eyes and pushed past her boyfriend

Chan knew she could get jealous. He’s known since they got together. He’s never minded much, he always knew how to remind her he was hers.

“Baby girl,” Chan grabbed her waist and turned her around just for him to spin out of his grip. “If you turn your back on me again, you better be bending over.”

Y/n stopped and looked at him, “Bend me over yourself.”

That’s all Chan needed to drag her to the nearest bathroom and lock the door behind them. Quickly bending her over the sink and pushing her bottoms down along with her panties. Keeping a hand on the back of her neck as he licked his fingers then ran them between her folds.

Y/n watched him in the mirror trying to push herself up and turn around. All her actions stopped as his fingers pushed into her. Moaning as he stretched her open. “There's my girl. Just needed a couple fingers in her.”

“Barely feel them,” Y/n lied, just to rile him up.

Y/n whined as he grabbed the front of her neck, pulling her back to him. “What was that baby girl?”

“Barely feel them,” Y/n repeated.

Chan hummed and bent her back over the sink. Pinning her against the surface as his fingers slid out of her. She heard rustling and metal clinking behind her. A moment later she felt his tip spreading her slick and his precum. Moaning as he pushed in behind her. Watching her jaw drop in the mirror.

“Feel that baby?” Chan asked

“No,” Y/n stammered

Chan hummed behind her. He gave her a few seconds before he started moving. Not saying to start slow and opting to fuck the attitude out of her as quick as possible. Watching her facade visually fall apart in the mirror even though she was still denying it verbally.

“Fuck,” Y/n moaned

“Wanna keep lying to me baby?”

“No,” Y/n moaned. “Feels good.”

“Yeah. The only girl I fuck like this. Only girl I fuck.”

“Wanna cum,” Y/n moaned

“Not tonight baby. Bad girls don't get rewards,” Chan said

“Ch—“ Y/n paused as he spanked her ass.

“Start listening and maybe I’ll let you cum when we get back to the hotel.”

“‘M sorry,”

Chan laughed behind her as his pace picked up. Drilling himself into her as his orgasm built up. Feeling her walls pulse around him and get tighter with each thrust before he finally let go. Pushing himself deep in her as filled her.

Y/n whined under him as he painted her insides. Trying to fuck her self back on him to no avail. Her boyfriend pulled out after a few moments. Pulling her up and kissing her cheek, “I love you. No one else.”

“Love you too,” Y/n hummed

“Wanna go back to the hotel room?”

“Please.”

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little-lynx · 2 years

Text

EVERLARK OUTFITS: THE VICTORY TOUR

This part of “Catching Fire” is done (finally) so I put it all together;) DISTRICT 11, THE SQUARE

I go to my compartment and let the prep team do my hair and makeup. Cinna comes in with a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. I think how much Peeta will like the color. <…> As the train is pulling into the District 11 station, Cinna puts the finishing touches on my outfit, switching my orange hairband for one of metallic gold and securing the mockingjay pin I wore in the arena to my dress. <…> I can hear the anthem beginning outside in the square. Someone clips a microphone on me. Peeta takes my left hand. // Catching Fire, ch. 4

I think this dress should be a little semi-official so I choose cape sleeve sheath midi dress. It’s perfect for autumn (and they have early autumn weather there in 11th). The hair is just plain + gold hairband = girlish innocent look like the one after the games (this tactics they choose for the Tour). Plus I wanted to draw Katniss with her natural straight hair because i draw her with her braid usually ;) And again nothing about Peeta’s outfit. You know I feel like Portia 😅 because I have to choose how to dress Peeta. I’m not complaining through. So it is black suit with golden buttons (matching Katniss’s hairband and pin), thin soft orange sweater and black leather shoes.

DISTRICT 11, THE DINNER

A pale pink strapless dress brushes my shoes. My hair is pinned back from my face and falling down my back in a shower of ringlets. Cinna comes up behind me and arranges a shimmering silver wrap around my shoulders. He catches my eye in the mirror. “Like it?” “It's beautiful. As always,” I say. “Let's see how it looks with a smile,” he says gently. // Catching Fire, ch.5

DISTRICT 7

Jackson has devised a game called «Real or Not Real» to help Peeta. He mentions something he thinks happened, and they tell him if it’s true or imagined, usually followed by a brief explanation. <...> But since Peeta’s greatest confusion centers around me—and not everything can be explained simply—our exchanges are painful and loaded, even though we touch on only the most superficial of details. The color of my dress in 7. My preference for cheese buns. The name of our math teacher when we were little. Reconstructing his memory of me is excruciating. Perhaps it isn’t even possible after what Snow did to him. But it does feel right to help him try. // Mockingjay, ch. 19

So we have only one sentence in “Mockingjay” about this outfit. And still I decided to draw it because I have a theory (head canon?) about it. I think Peeta remembers the color of her dress because it was special night for him (a lot of kisses and attempts to sneak away from everyone and maybe it felt very real at times) and also because she had two braids and the dress was red. RED is the color ❤️. / Peeta has dark red + black + a little bit gold which is also sexy color combination.

DISTRICT 5 I volunteer to take Annie back to my house in 12, where Cinna left a variety of evening clothes in a big storage closet downstairs. All of the wedding gowns he designed for me went back to the Capitol, but there are some dresses I wore on the Victory Tour. <…> Annie wears a green silk dress I wore in 5, Finnick one of Peeta’s suits that they altered— the clothes are striking. <…> As surely as the embroidery stitches in Annie’s gown were done by Cinna’s hand, the frosted flowers on the cake were done by Peeta’s. // Mockingjay, ch. 16

Katniss: green silk dress + wavy sleeves + sea waves embroidery / Peeta: ivory dress shirt + knitted green waistcoat with sea waves embroidery + tweed suit

DISTRICT 2

Girl talk. That thing I've always been so bad at. Opinions on clothes, hair, makeup. So I lie. “Yeah, he's been helping me design my own clothing line. You should see what he can do with velvet.” Velvet. The only fabric. I could think of off the top of my head. “I have. On your tour. That strapless number you wore in District Two? The deep blue one with the diamonds? So gorgeous I wanted to reach through the screen and tear it right off your back,” says Johanna. // Catching Fire, Chapter 15

This description gave me strong “Anastasia” feels 😅. So I loosely based Katniss dress on Anastasia’s ballet evening gown. For Peeta I chose tuxedo jacket similar to Salvatore Ferragamo design for FF 12/13. Neo classic, purple velvet, shiny shoes. Also I decided to include a cane, both to help Peeta to have some rest during all this Tour activities and as an accessory.

DISTRICT 12

When we reach the mayor's house, I only have time to give Madge a quick hug before Effie hustles me off to the third floor to get ready. After I'm prepped and dressed in a full-length silver gown, I've still got an hour to kill before the dinner, so I slip off to find her. <…> She [Madge] saw my reflection behind her and smiled. “Look at you. Like you came right off the streets of the Capitol.” // Catching Fire, ch.6

When I started drawing this one I just felt that I need to make it look very “Capitol”. So I added some feathers. A LOT of sparkling feathers, haha. Also there are some “moon and stars” accessories in Katniss’ hair because this silver gown gives me moonlight vibes. For Peeta I came up with classic suit but made him wear it casually.

#yes I redraw some of them #old ones looked bad #ugh #the hunger games #hunger games fanart #everlark #everlark fanart #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #katniss and peeta #thg fanart #lynx hunger games #lynx thg outfits #victory tour #catching fire #catching fire fanart

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

Text

All In 12

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: I'm tryna rotate as much as possible.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Her name is Margot. She’s talkative but kind. She guides you through everything with patience. Tells you when to close your eyes and look up, how to hold your head, when to pucker your lips. She even explains exactly what she’s doing and why she’s doing it. Despite her demeanour, you still feel utterly stupid. Rather, you feel inadequate.

Another woman shows up shortly after, as a brush traces the line of your cheek. She introduces herself as Darla, she has a whole rack of dresses lined up for you. Another inward cringe threatens to compress your lungs.

As Darla presents you with options, you find it hard to breathe. It’s all so overwhelming, especially as a third woman, Erica, appears to do your hair, and a fourth, Nia, to tend to your nails. You could faint as you’re pushed, pulled, and prodded from all sides.

“I like the red,” Margot suggests as you hem and haw.

The dresses are all nice but you don’t even know what you’re picking it for. Honestly, none of them suit you. Too much skin for your liking. Not that that stays much; your comfort is jeans and baggy tees.

Erika hums, “what about the teal, lovey? I do think you’d look marvelous with those cutouts.”

“Yes, it is a pretty colour. You have the complexion for it,” Darla remarks.

They’re all so nice but there’s something pitying in their voices. You feel like a child. You don’t belong here. You especially don’t belong with Bucky, apparently, he knows that too. Why else would he have these women plucking and picking at you?

Margot finishes and brings you a mirror. As you see yourself, you blanch. It’s not bad. In fact, she’s done better than you could ever manage but you don’t look like yourself. You don’t feel like yourself. If he wants you to be someone else, you don’t think you can do that.

You feel yourself shrinking. Your shoulders slump and you wilt, stuttering but unable to say a word. Margot touches your shoulder.

“What is it? Hon, have I done something wrong?”

“No, no,” you croak and bring your hands to your throat, “it’s nice. Really nice but... I need some air.”

“Of course, Darl, Nia,” she shoos away the stylist pinning your hair, “let her up.”

The women back off and the fourth watches you from the rack, still holding a sparkly black get-up. You search the room and swiftly head for the door. You let yourself into the hall, fanning yourself with your half-done acrylics. You’re happy at least they aren’t long.

You pace back and forth, watching your feet pass over the pattern of the hotel carpet. You can run. You could just leave right now. The thought only makes your stomach hurt. No, you can’t. Not after he’s gone to all this trouble. You’d hate to seem ungrateful.

You continue your incessant laps back and forth outside the door. You hear footfalls from around the corner and pause. You should go back in before someone sees you. You grab the handle. Shoot, it’s locked. You wiggle it as a shadow appears at the end of the hall. You gulp and peer down.

It’s him. You lean on the door and face Bucky. He wears a dark blue jacket over a black shirt and black pants. There’s patterning sewn into his jacket, subtle spirals all around. His dark hair his combed back to the ends flip out behind his ears and his dark beard glints with silver strands, a patch more obvious on his chin. He’s strikingly handsome. So much so, you can’t understand why you’re there.

His brows form a vee as he nears and he tilts his head, a tick in his cheek, “what’s going on, doll?”

“Um, just... locked out,” you turn the handle again to emphasize your point.

“No, what’s....” he looks at you and gestures up and down with his hand, “no, this won’t do.”

You blink and pout. After all that and you’re not good enough. He raps on the door with his knuckles and there’s some scuffing from inside before Margot opens it. She steps back to let you in and greets Bucky by name.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he urges you ahead of him, his hand firmly around your arm, “it’s too much. She doesn’t need all this. I told you, just a little enhancement. I don’t want her looking like a Barbie.”

“Sorry, sir, it’s... standard.”

“Doll,” he stops you with him as he plants himself near the racks of dresses. The women watch him anxiously. “What do you think? The make up; you like it?”

You peer around and stare at Margot. She worked so hard and it isn’t that it’s bad work. She made you look gorgeous but you just don’t like all the layers. You slant your mouth one way then the other.

“Be honest,” he insists.

“I... It’s pretty but a bit... heavy?” You eke out.

“I agree,” he lets you go, “I appreciate the hard work, Marg, but I want to see her natural beauty shining. And these dresses...” he turns, “these aren’t right. I said light. I said... Mm, no. Doll, what’s your favourite colour?”

He faces you as you stand in shock. You feel horrible that he’s reproaching them like this. They’ve done all this for you and he’s just going down a list of everything wrong.

“Erm, purple, I guess but--”

“Darla, get her something purple. Lavender? Lilac?” He looks at you for confirmation and you just nod. You won’t correct him. “Erica, finish her hair, something a bit less... stuffy. Margot, clean her face up. Nia, the nails are looking good.” He turns to you and takes you by the shoulders, “and you, all you gotta do is be your cute little self, alright?”

You gulp and nod. You don’t know what to say. He saves you from a response as he brings his hand up under your chin. He leans in to kiss you and your cheeks flame at the awareness of your audience. He pulls back and caresses your cheek before parts completely.

He checks his watch, “don’t got all night.”

He marches off, leaving you dumbfounded. He’s like a hurricane, coming in and blowing everything out of sorts. You look around guiltily.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Margot assures with a smile, “come, let’s get you fixed up, dahling.”

She beckons you over and sits you back down. You give your hand back to Nia to finish the manicure as Erica once more goes to work on your hair. You stare at the wall and let out a nervous sigh.

“That’s cute,” Margot says, “the way he looks at you.”

“Hm, yeah,” Erica agrees, “he definitely has the eyes for ya.”

You close your eyes as Margot gently wipes away the make up with a cool cloth from a package. You shrug, trying not to move too much, “he’s nice. He... did all this. Just for me. I... I didn’t ask for it. I’m sorry he didn’t like it.”

“No, baby,” Nia says, “this isn’t about us. It’s about you. What do you like?”

You open your eyes again and frown. That’s a good question. You lower your gaze to your lap and exhale heavily.

“I’m figuring it out,” you murmur, “I don’t... I don’t get out much.”

“Oh, this must be so exciting for you,” Erica trills, “oh, how fun.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,” Nia adds, “don’t be nervous. Just enjoy yourself.”

“Can’t be that hard,” Margot clucks, “on a handsome man’s arm, pretty as a bow,” she cleans her brushes as she talks, “it’ll be a great night. I’m thinking...” she peruses her chest of makeup, “natural tones. A dewy look. Natural, subtle.”

“Okay, uh, yeah,” you agree, “that sounds nice.”

“Hmmph,” Erica hums, “she’s a sweetie, isn’t she, ladies?”

“Nicer than the last one,” Nia cackles.

You stiffen and shift in the chair. You look at the nail tech then Margot as she compares a tube to your face and shakes her head. You push your lip against your teeth and let it flick out.

“Last one?” You whisper.

The women share a look and smile, “well, Mr. Barnes is notorious. Surely, you know.”

“Oh,” you think of the headlines you scrolled through online, “well, yes, I know. I guess... I didn’t catch what you meant.”

“Enjoy it. I’m sure you’ll get a few pretty baubles out of it,” Nia says, “and some memories to long for when you’re old like us.”

“Old,” Margot scoffs, “speak for yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I know. I’m just... another girl.”

“Oh, dahling,” Margot intones, “but he seems really fond of you, doesn’t he? Maybe he’ll keep ya around a bit longer, eh?”

You just sit there. You knew better than to believe it was anything but the obvious but it’s still a hard pill to swallow. You stare blindly ahead as Margot remoisturizes your skin.

“Didn’t mean to upset you,” Margot says.

“I’m not, I just...” you swallow, “I’m nervous.”

“Mm, nervous? Well, I think that’s what the bar is for. Erica, fetch some of that rose. She needs a glass, Stat.”

Your mouth opens to protest but you think better of it. You’ve already caused them enough trouble. You thank them instead and try not to let your shame burn through. They know why you’re there and they’ve left no doubt in you of the same.

“Make sure to pour me some too,” Margot chirps.

🃏

You stop after one glass. It makes your inside bubbly and eases the tension just enough that you’re not jittering. You feel better but still not certain.

The women confirm your fears. This isn’t going to last. It’s not like you didn’t expect as much but hearing it is all the more real. You’re going to have to come up with yet another lie to tell. This one will hurt the most because it will be at least halfway true; you’re still a loser.

You’ll try to take their advice. You’ll enjoy this night; this once in a lifetime experience. You don’t think you’ll ever be in a casino again in your life. They’re not for you. All of this is just above you. It’s better suited to someone like your sister. You can’t help but wonder why it isn’t Roxie here.

The clock ticks. Well, not truly. The digital numbers count down the minutes as you linger in the suite alone. The gaggle of women left only a few minutes ago but not without a promise that you’re happy. You are, at least with all they did for you.

You approach the mirror, almost shying away from your own reflection. You look nice. You might even call yourself pretty. Your eyes look more brilliant with the subtle lining and the precisely coated lashes; not too heavy. And your lips, shiny but natural, your cheeks dewy with a hint of colour to them.

And the dress. Lavender satin with crystals embedded in the fabric, lines of smaller ones interconnecting the larger stones. You turn and check your figure. You look grown up. It’s ridiculous to think but you do. The heels help, not too high but enough to define your legs.

You turn and tear your gaze away from the mirror. You don’t want to be vain. Besides, you probably don’t look that good. You just look better than usual. The comparison is enough to skew your perception.

As you teeter on the heels, waiting, for what, you don’t exactly know. You can surmise what it will all lead to. What he intends. You can’t deny it any longer. A man doesn’t do all this for altruistic mean and even you aren’t that pitiful. Well, you hope not.

A knock at the door trips you up. Your heart lurches. You’re not ready. But it’s getting late and you know it’s inevitable. You can’t move or speak. You just stare towards the door.

You hear it open. You blink a Bucky’s shadow appears on the carpet and he strides into your sight. Your eyes meet his and his blue irises sparkle as he sees you. He stops and put his hand to his chest. His forehead lines and he bites his lip.

“Wow, doll,” he rasps breathily and slowly steps forward, “you look...”

You press your hands to your sides and give a toothy expression, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. Sweat speckles along your neck as his gaze bores into you. You’re even more self-conscious as he closes in.

“I don’t know,” you murmur.

“What don’t you know?” He asks as he reaches for you and takes your hand. He draws you near, “huh? Look at you, doll.” He purrs, “you look spectacular.” His other hand grazes down your side and he squeezes your hip as he holds you at arm’s length and ogles you, “mm, damn. You wanna know what I know?”

You peer up at him from beneath your lashes, “what?”

“That you are the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. I’m a lucky man to have you walking the floor with me tonight,” he drops your hand and frames your other hip, drawing you to him, “I have half a mind to keep you up in this room.”

You choke. Your lower lip trembles and you shake your head, “that’s nice but...” you look away.

“But? You don’t believe me, doll? You think I’d lie?” He challenges.

“N-no, I didn’t say—but--- before---” you sputter and put your hands on his forearms, “there were others and they were prettier.”

“Doll, don’t worry about before. This is now. You aren’t them and I’m telling you, you are beautiful,” he trails his hand up and nudges your chin. You look at him again, your cheeks shaking as you try to smile. “Here.”

He takes your hand, his eyes clinging to yours as he watches you. You can’t look away. Not this time. He leads your hand up his jacket and slips it beneath. He presses it to his chest. You feel the taut muscle beneath and something else.

“You got my heart racing, doll,” he growls. “That ain’t a lie.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #casino au #all in #he's a charmer isn't he #marvel #winter soldier #avengers #mcu #captain america

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skzdarlings · 21 days

Text

bodyguard: the first guard | part six | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: the usual general content guide warnings for this stories including violence and abuse. explicit sexual content in this chapter: dom!chan, sub!reader, kinky play-fighting in a sexual scenario, hitting, smacking, chasing, pinned down, choking, taunting dirty talk, very rough play overall. content warnings: this chapter is very, very INTENSE on the violence front. graphic depictions of drowning, both voluntary and forced. explicit description of torture both physical and psychological, violence, fighting, drowning, choking, explosions.

chapter word count: 20,500 words.

enjoy <3

B E F O R E

Everything goes wrong.

Felix should have known better than to rely on the enemy. He is dependable in no regard except self preservation and even that only extends insofar as the most cowardly course of action.

It was supposed to be a fight. Felix did everything the way he was supposed to, everything according to plan, the way a proper soldier does. Felix always follows through. Felix always completes his mission.

He played both sides. He worked Miroh into a frenzy, suspicious of betrayals transpiring right under his nose in his own house. He made the enemy think he stood a chance attacking Miroh, that he could knock him right off the playing board and claim all his assets in one fell swoop.

Felix forgot the enemy was such a coward. He was supposed to storm in here with an army, the way that Miroh does. They were supposed to find Miroh’s regiment in chaos, everyone turned against each other thanks to his subterfuge and instigation.

Miroh and his daughter are at each other’s throats. The other soldiers take sides. What should be a unified front in a run-of-the-mill acquisition mission turns into a self-sabotage as Miroh’s own team starts fighting each other.

Miroh fights his daughter. Felix knows, despite everything, there is a part of her that still loves, fears, or respects her father. She doesn’t fight like she should.

Chris, however, does. When Miroh knocks his daughter down, Chris attacks him. Felix doesn’t worry because he knows Chris can win the fight and, besides, they are going to be rescued soon. At that moment, everything is going according to plan. Whether Miroh lives or dies is irrelevant. Whether Felix lives or dies is irrelevant. This is about Chris. And Miroh doesn’t stand a chance against Chris, not with the full force of his fury unleashed like this.

Miroh’s daughter just watches, stunned by how fast everything happened.

She looks around like she expects to find answers in this dilapidated warehouse. Her eyes land on Felix who has been standing to the side since the fight began. Her eyes narrow as she looks at him, really looks at him, seeing what no one else sees.

He swallows and braces his body for a fight. She is a mirror of him as she stands, taking the exact same fighting stance.

“You told him I botched the operation,” she says. “Why, Felix?”

“Because you did,” he answers simply.

“I thought you were friends with Chan,” she says. “Why would you compromise us like this?”

“Because I’m friends with Chan,” he answers with that same even steadiness, a calm that he absolutely does not feel inside. But he is good with faces, blinking with innocence. He tries to compel her to look away, to forget about him, that he is too young or too stupid or too innocent to really comprehend what’s happening.

She doesn’t fall for it. She sees right through the mask and glares at him.

He anticipates her swing, catching her punch when she hurls it at him. They scrape back and forth but they are perfectly, frustratingly, evenly matched.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” she snaps.

She comes at him with even more fury. Felix fights but his attention splits, glancing back at Miroh and Chris. Miroh is calling for back-up on one of his devices, but he never stops fighting. Miroh is a soldier, first and foremost. Whatever else Felix thinks of him, that much is true and always has been. Miroh is not scared of fight. Miroh will jump right into the fray. Miroh will get his hands dirty.

The enemy is not like that.

It was supposed to be a fight. He was supposed to storm in here with a contingency and fight the only broken house of Miroh. In the chaos of that confrontation, Felix was going to escape with Chris.

But the enemy never shows his face. He plants a bomb. He detonates it at a distance.

The warehouse is blown to pieces. Half those fighting soldiers die on the spot and Felix is blasted backwards. It renders him unconsciousness, though he doesn’t know how long he’s out. Not long, he thinks, when he wakes to sunlight pouring in through a gap, ripped in the warehouse wall. It was almost dawn when the fight began. A new day is starting.

He pushes himself upright. He is covered in dust and gravel. He coughs and sputters, getting on his hands and knees and crawling through debris and rubble. He moves towards the light. When he does, he sees Miroh’s daughter. She is not far away, but she is trapped underneath something. Pieces of the wall blew forward and there is a concrete block laying across her body. She is alive somehow, tucked into a divot in the floorboards, but she is trapped.

Felix, panicked, frantic, guilty, looks around for Chan as he stumbles towards her.

He never reaches her. Someone grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backwards. He sprawls onto his back. A shadow blocks the sunlight. It’s one of the enemy’s bodyguards.

“The boss says you did a good job,” the man says. More of the enemy’s men are infiltrating the place. They don’t fight or pay any attention to the bodies. They go right for the promised merchandise.

Felix still can’t see Chris. Miroh’s daughter is still trapped. Everyone else is dead.

“I – I—” Felix starts, but dust is cloying in his throat and he just ends up coughing. He is dizzy, his ears ringing horribly. The world shifts in a kaleidoscope of vomit-inducing colours as someone drags him to his feet.

“Come on,” the man says. “The boss wants to see you. He says he has a job.”

It is the last thing Felix hears before the sunlight is on his face, overwhelming him, and he passes out in the heat.

P R E S E N T D A Y

“Don’t kill him.”

Those are your first words to Chan. You know him by the way his body braces itself after the shock has worn off. Chan may not be the inhuman soldier you mistakenly believed, but he might be something even more dangerous. Where his raw emotions meet his long-engrained instincts and deadly capabilities, fatality will ensue.

You cannot afford that reaction. You are here to save Changbin. Changbin was taken because he defected, because he moved against Miroh, because he decided that you were more important than maintaining structure and keeping orders. Changbin turning, you changing, Miroh falling: it all started the night the enemy died. It all started because of something that began even longer ago.

This all started with Felix.

“I thought he was already dead,” Chan says. His voice sounds steady but you see the tension in his form. He is wracked with adrenaline.

“Me too,” you say.

“Oh, you’re talking?” Felix says, looking at you.

You suppose he saw the reports of your death. He must have been just as surprised to see you behind the mask. Lack of expectation made him blind to recognition.

This is likely why he has not recognized Chan yet. The fact Chan is still wearing the mask does not help, his face mostly covered, disguise foolproof to an unsuspecting witness - even despite the heated slash of his unmistakable eyes boring into Felix.

But It has been many years. And Felix thinks Chan is dead.

With that thought, you say, “I guess we’re both ghosts.”

Felix looks at Chan only briefly, seeing nothing but a soldier in a familiar uniform. He gives your regulation combat gear a similar once-over. His brow furrows as he scrutinizes you.

You almost forgot this kid had such a sweet face. Freckled and wide-eyed, you can see why so many people underestimated him time and time again.

Lee Felix is everything Miroh wanted to achieve with his program. Maybe it is not surprising that the collapse of two major antagonists circle back to him.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

He meets your gaze.

“The same as you, I think.” He hesitates, then continues, “I’ve been following reports. When I saw what was happening, I looked for the closest base and just… I decided to help things along.”

Despite how innocently he explains himself, you do not question his capabilities. You will not make the same mistake as so many others and underestimate him. You know what Felix is capable of doing. His only flaw is too much time away from Miroh’s operation, thus a lack of understanding for its inner workings. He cannot do what you and Chan can do, but it is the closest anyone could come.

That is not your question.

“Why would you care?” you ask. Somehow, Felix escaped from everything. He might as well be a real ghost for all that his reappearance in this fight is incomprehensible.

“Because.” His defensiveness softens just a little as his mind goes somewhere else, far away from the violent chrome prison of Miroh. “Because,” he says, gentler, “I want to find a place to… to rest. To be home. And I can’t do that, knowing what’s still out there. I need to help fix it.” He looks you over again, but it is different than his earlier judgemental regard. Still scrutinizing, but thoughtful, as he tilts his head and really considers you. “What I helped make,” he says. “I don’t think I can go really home until I do something about it.”

In the space of a breath, Chan draws a handgun. He is so fast that you don’t even see where it was holstered.

“Why do you think you should have any of that?” Chan says, punctuating with a threatening downward push of the gun. “Give me one reason not to shoot you. Seriously. Just one.” By his venomous tone, it is obvious no reason will be good enough.

You put a hand on his shoulder. He tries to shrug it off but you hold firm.

“Hold your fire,” you say, maintaining your cool outwardly despite the panic inside.

During the exchange between you and Chan, Felix gets one hand free. He bites the tip of his glove and yanks it off with his teeth.

Chan is quick to react, seizing him by the wrist like he expects Felix to attack him with one hand. Chan is fixated with such a single-minded determination that he does not see what you see, what Felix was actually trying to show you.

A ring around his marriage finger, simple and unadorned.

After a suspended beat of silence, Chan looks down. He sees the ring too. Most of his face is covered but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes, something like a slash across his brow. He reels back as if a bomb detonated. Instinct puts the gun back into his palm, the barrel at his adversary, but it shakes just short of imperceptibly. You are not sure if the uncharacteristic tremor is inner conflict or pure rage.

“This is my one reason,” Felix says calmly. “This is my reason for everything.”

Even though you still don’t have all the answers, seeing that ring turns the world right-side up. Of course Felix turned on the enemy, not out of ambition or cruelty, but love. The thread of it runs through every action committed in the last few months, something you could not see despite its prevalence beneath the surface of your life. None of this is happening because of the rivalry of two greedy monsters and the chaos they sowed. It’s happening because of everything that somehow thrived in spite of it.

So much makes sense now, looking at him, at that ring. You think of the security footage being scrubbed after everyone died. Felix was always good with computers and he probably worked well with the enemy’s high tech systems – certainly well enough to wipe them entirely. It gave him time to run off with the other half of that wedding band. You suspect the enemy’s daughter wears the other ring.

Chan is staring at that ring like he wants to burn it, like he wants to cut the whole hand right off.

Tentative, testing, you ask, “Did you kill them?”

Felix ignores Chan. He looks at you, his brow furrowing with confusion.

“Who? Miroh’s agents?” he asks. “Most of them are already running off and—”

“Not them, not here, not tonight,” you say. “The enemy. His men. His daughter. Did you kill them to get away to do – whatever it is you’re doing?”

He swallows. Your suspicions are confirmed when you see the flicker of anxiety in his eyes. It is obvious to you that he is lying when he says, “Yes, I killed them. The enemy. His family. His men. They’re all dead.”

“Not all of them,” Chan says. His frustration returns and he digs the gun at Felix. “I’m looking at one.”

“Stop it,” you say sharply. “I need him to answer me.”

Felix is understandably stressed with an unknown hostile threatening him. He overlaps with you, snapping, “Seriously, mate, I’m co-operating, what more do you want?”

“I want to kill him,” Chan says with an exhale. Though he is looking at Felix, you feel like he is seeing so much more than the moment as it unfolds. The amount of emotion in his voice is uncharacteristic for him on a job. He is compromised by years of pent-up feelings, bursting inside him. “I want to blow his fucking brains across this warehouse,” Chan says, putting the barrel right in Felix’s face.

He is so fast and deliberate. You are worried he will act before you can even think to prevent it. Panicked instinct makes you blurt, “Chan! Stop it!”

At the same time, Felix grabs the gun and uses the element of surprise to overpower Chan, just enough to safely yank the gun to the side.

Either the shouting or the grabbing triggers Chan’s finger because the gun goes off. It fires directly at the ground and kicks back so violently that it skitters across the floor like an animal.

The piercing howl of the gun leaves a ringing silence in the aftermath.

The reverberation of Chan’s name seems deliver the fatal blow, landing with far more violence.

Felix is breathing hard, adrenaline coursing from the attempted shot. He stares at nothing particular, just catching his breath – chasing and catching, then stalling, stopping. He holds it.

He slowly turns his gaze onto Chan. He looks at him like he is seeing him for the first time, eyes meeting the dark line of anger that stare above the mask.

Felix’s entire face smooths out, softens, with recognition.

“Chris,” he says, not much louder than a breath, somehow as piercing as the gunshot.

Chan responds by choking him, a big gloved hand snapping out and seizing his neck, so fast and powerful it is a wonder he does not snap it on impact.

“Don’t say my name,” Chan says, “you backstabbing—”

You drop onto your knees, grabbing Chan by the arm. He doesn’t relent even a little. You know you can’t budge him with anything but words, so you say, “Chan. Stop. I’m serious. Please.”

With an exhale, Chan loosens his grip, just enough for Felix to cough.

Felix’s eyes are watery, his voice strained when he says, “Changbin told me you were dead. I thought the enemy—”

“The enemy?” Chan asks. “You mean your employer? Your ally? What enemy? Aren’t we your enemy, Felix?”

“No,” you answer firmly, interrupting a dazed Felix. “Miroh was his enemy,” you say. “Just like Miroh was our enemy. Now let him go.”

Chan clearly does not want to obey. Release comes in increments, just a slack of the hand before he finally huffs and withdraws. He swings back and stands. He does not look down again, staring forward like a soldier in formation.

Felix rolls onto his side in a wheezing fit. Chan must have hit him at a sensitive juncture – likely on purpose – because it takes him several gasping attempts to breathe again.

When his shoulders stop heaving, you grab him, not violently like Chan but nonetheless aggressive. It is enough to get his attention, his watery eyes turning up to you.

He looks so young. You and Chan are only a few years older. Do you look that young? You certainly don’t feel it, burdened with lifetimes, known and unknown.

Then again, his eyes seem to show a similar burden within. The band on his finger tells a story beyond what you know of the runaway soldier.

“You have questions,” you say. “So do I. Maybe together we can both finally get some answers.”

Felix looks over his shoulder. Chan does not look down to meet his eye. After a moment of staring without reciprocation, Felix nods curtly and looks at you.

Felix holds out his hand to shake. He winces in pain as he digs out his voice.

“Agreed.”

You need to get away from the facility. It has been undermined but not shutdown. You would not have targeted such a big base and you’re the true key to bringing down most of these operations. Your classification was high so you can navigate with ease despite the removal of your logins and security clearance. Chan’s classification was just as high if not higher, though very different. Together, there are results.

Your attacks are carefully and meticulously planned breakdowns, accounting for every bone in the finger of the hand throwing a punch. Felix’s attack was more like throwing an emotional swing at an adversary when their head is turned. It is something that seems like a good idea until the head swings back around.

You retreat.

The tension between Felix and Chan is palpable. You ran many jobs against the enemy and, even a distance, you knew Felix to retain a professional demeanour. Around Chan, he becomes a little kid again. You almost see your own reflection in Felix as you also become someone else around Chan.

That includes a streak of newfound empathy. You would usually disregard feelings, especially on a job, but that is not so easy anymore.

You stop Chan outside the car, gripping his bicep while Felix climbs in the backseat.

“You need to relax,” you say.

Chan has not removed the mask yet. You can only imagine the intensity of his expression without it. Even with half his face hidden, his expression is burning. That heat touches you, a twining flicker of a flame. It is brief but it scorches somewhere deep as he looks at you with all that fire.

The heat is doused with his ice cold voice. “Felix is the reason this happened,” he says.

You come back to yourself, blinking to clarity. You furrow your brow.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“This. All of this,” he hisses. You can hear his heavy breathing muffled in the mask. “He sold you out to Miroh. He’s the reason—”

His voice cracks. A memory of him flickers through your mind, cast over him like a projection, those desperate eyes and that muted cry. You glance back at Felix who is waiting patiently in the car. His face is downturned, dark hair falling over his eyes. He twists the ring around and around his finger. When he looks up, that projection flickers over him too, an image of him in his teenage years, with round cheeks and shaggy hair, staring with the intensity of someone who has already seen too much. He does not look apologetic and he does not look happy; he is just there.

You blink back to the present, looking down at the dirt beneath your feet, feeling the nighttime breeze on your face.

Truthfully, this revelation does not come as a shock. Your deduction was made in the rolling tension, looking between them, recalling the timeline of events. Even if Felix was not outright responsible, you suspected he was implicated on some level. It is the only way to explain Chan’s strong feelings for his betrayal.

Maybe it should fill you with a similarly righteous fury, but it does not. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what you lost. Maybe it’s because you can only picture an indifference in Felix. Maybe it’s because of that ring on his finger, of everything that has happened recently. You are not suffering the same visceral hatred as Chan, lost in his past.

Now, Felix is alive, having escaped the clutches of the enemy, a man like Miroh, doing it for someone he cares about. Now, he has willingly returned to right his wrongs, whatever he perceives them to be.

Now, you cannot find it in your heart to hate him. So much of that is because of the complicated man in front of you. Chan has worked his way past your barriers in a few short days that feel like lifetimes. It has given you a heart to follow.

You wish things were easier, but wishing will not manifest another reality. You can only touch him like a person, one to one, heart to heart, hold his angry gaze until it softens just a bit, and say, “I know.”

He exhales. A lot of that anger tangles up with his grief.

“We were kids,” you continue before he can interject. “We all made difficult decisions in impossible circumstances that not even a reasonable adult could navigate. He wouldn’t have traded one enemy for another if it was truly self-serving.”

This still does not register with any significance to Chan. His eyes are slitted and angry.

“I don’t blame him for what happened,” you say in a firmer voice. “And I don’t blame you.”

That hits him and it hits him hard. His body braces and his eyes widen, jolting like he was electrocuted.

“If you can’t trust him,” you say, tone gentler, “then trust me.”

Chan does not answer, only exhales again, dramatically with a droop of his shoulders. He opens the passenger door and gets in. Felix stares at him but Chan stares ahead. The mask stays on.

You take a breath to steady yourself then take the driver’s seat. You set your destination further out of town, tucked away in some farmland you passed on your travels.

When you leave the district, Felix gets alert. His eyes are big in your rearview mirror as the highway lights flash golden over him. You recall last seeing him at a distance, his hair a golden blonde, returned now to a natural darkness. You think about how much you have changed in days and wonder how much he changed in years. It makes you sympathetic to those wide eyes and the anxious twisting of his ring.

“I don’t want to leave too far from town,” he says, meeting your gaze in the rearview mirror.

“You’ll go wherever we take you,” Chan says.

“I have to get home,” Felix replies.

“It’s dangerous to be running missions on your own,” you say before a fight begins. “Don’t you think?”

“I knew I could handle myself,” Felix says. “And they were just… they were right there. I couldn’t do nothing. Not when—” He looks at Chan and his voice drops even lower, like it hurts to speak. “You blame me,” Felix says. He sounds resigned already, like he expected this all along, that even as a ghost Chan would despise him. “I’m the reason they captured you,” Felix says. “Because I failed. All these years, I tried – I waited – I –“

“Don’t talk to me,” Chan says. “If it was up to me, you’d be dead.”

Felix just nods.

“So you’ve gone civilian for real?” you ask, steering the conversation. “You think that’s where you belong?”

It’s not an empty question. You do not have time to consider what will happen after you rescue Changbin and take down the operation, but a civilian life has not crossed your mind. Fighting back-to-back with Chan makes you feel like your life’s purpose is realized, especially now that it is in the employ of your own heart and not Miroh’s greed. You cannot fathom the life course that Felix, of all people, has chosen.

“I know exactly where I belong,” he says. “I belong with her.”

Chan turns his head, just a bit, clearly listening. It makes Felix speak even more earnestly, incapable of lying under that attention.

“When I – when I was kid,” Felix says. “I – I guess I sorta idolized anyone I could. I was – broken. I needed something whole to hold.”

Chan turns away and Felix looks down, down at his ring like it is telling a story to him.

“It wasn’t like that with her,” Felix says. “She, uh, she actually hated me.” He laughs, the sound of genuine humour piercing through the tension in the car like a lightning bolt. “She was, uh, she was – she was broken too, I guess. We were different, but… we were the same. I never made her an idol like that. She was – she was just a girl.” He looks out the dark window. His voice is a little lower. “It became love anyway,” he says. “I – I never wanted that before.” He looks towards Chan again, a more frantic edge returned to his voice as he says, “If I knew then, what I know now, about everything, about – about how to be a person, I – I would have done things differently.”

There is a long moment of silence. The car hums and the highway lights roll over and over.

Chan finally says, “It’s too late for that now.”

It is undoubtedly not the reply that Felix wants to hear, but it is a reply, and that is enough to make Felix release a held breath.

When you reach your destination, tucked away from the chaotic world, Chan promptly leaves. Felix steps out of the car but doesn’t follow, taking the hint as Chan stalks towards a distant treeline and melts into the darkness with a practiced ease.

Felix turns as you approach.

“What happened after I left?” he asks. He looks over his shoulder but Chan is either gone or impossible to see. “From the outside I couldn’t – I didn’t know – all I could do was – wait and—”

You let him stutter for a minute, to see what words will he find. You are surprised when he looks between you and the trees and makes a gesture.

“Are you and him…?” he asks.

Internally, you are surprised and it makes your heart skip. Externally, you maintain a stoic demeanour.

Blinking, you ask, “Why?”

That seems to answer the question without answering. Felix nods, a repeated bobbing of the head. He swallows before speaking again.

“I – I want to know that he’s okay,” he says.

That might fracture your stoic regard.

“Was it for him?” you ask.

“I thought I could save him,” he says, and laughs without humour. “I was stupid about it.”

“It’s not stupid to want to save a friend,” you say, that stoicism undoubtedly splintered. You sigh. “You just have to understand that Chan has been through something that we can’t really understand. I know Changbin told you he was dead. That wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“It was that bad?” Felix asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer, shaking his head. He runs his fingers through his hair, movements jittery and anxious. “Of course it was.” He is then struck with a flicker of awareness. He looks at you very directly, tilts his head at a questioning, curious angle. “Where is Changbin?” he asks, looking upset in a different way, marked with anger.

You recall the mission with Changbin and the enemy’s daughter. At the time, everything was an attempt to draw the enemy away from a rare offensive strike as he tried to move in on Miroh’s territory. You were behind the scenes of it, sending Changbin after the daughter, luring away the enemy and also luring Felix back to Miroh. It might have worked if Felix was not determined to rescue the girl. He slipped through Miroh’s fingers a second time.

At the time, you were confused like everyone else. Felix’s motivations were befuddling at the very best. No one knew why he left. Now you know he left for Chan, no doubt striking a dangerous deal with the enemy to rescue him, a foolish bargain that would have seen like a life preserver to a drowning little boy. You are certain that after a time, Felix would have been smart enough to realize it. So the only thing more perplexing than why he left, is why he stayed.

The ring on his finger answers that question.

“Does she know you’re out here?” you ask.

The question captures his full attention, forgetting his previous query. He stares back at you. He looks like a predatory creature with his hackles raised, bristled and stiff and alert.

“Yes,” he finally says. “She didn’t like it. But yes.”

“Smart girl,” you say. “Makes sense… considering who her father was.”

As fast as Chan pulled that gun, Felix is in your space, every inch on guard.

“Leave her alone,” he says, all that boyishness gone in a flash. Though you do not doubt his honesty in some ways, you know Felix is good with faces. Under his mask is a soldier, bodyguard, and now it seems lover, and you are not which will be more dangerous.

You raise your hand in surrender.

“You want to know what happened to Chris,” you say, placating. “Miroh took him. That man—” You also look towards the treeline, seeing nothing in the pitch. “That man is someone different now.”

Felix looks there too. You think the sadness in his face is genuine.

“What happened to the enemy?” you ask. The events of that night have haunted you. It is the reason you are here today. “Did you take him out on your own?”

“No,” Felix says, slowly facing you again. “No. It was no one important to the enemy.”

You stare at him with obvious disapproval for such a vague answer.

“It wasn’t an enemy,” he clarifies. “It was a friend. Her friend. He came back for her as soon as he could and he helped us get away. He was just a civilian. Not a soldier, not an enemy. He just did it for a friend.”

You fall silent as you recall the dream where a weight is lifted off your chest, where you can breathe after so long caged, of Changbin peering down at you with all that concern.

“Why’d you turn against your father?” Felix asks.

Heart thumping, you say, “For a friend.”

Some of the tension leaves him, his stiff posture slackening. His face is flush with recognition.

“You don’t know where Changbin is, do you?” he asks. “That’s why you’re out here.”

The heaviness of his tone makes you pause. You let yourself linger in a momentary what-if, if you learned all this sooner and did something to help all of you, but that thought leads nowhere helpful. It has happened. Like Felix, you cannot change the choices you made when you did not know better, when you were surviving in impossible circumstances. You are doing something now.

You let your honest emotion show when you say, “I think he was waiting.”

“For what?”

For me, you think. “For things to change,” you say. “And now they have.”

“Now they have,” Felix echoes.

You think you understand him. Not like Chan, not like Changbin. You look at Felix and see someone still struggling with himself, lost and grappling for answers. He is quiet under the immensity of the night sky, the range of feelings inside him just as vast.

“I’m looking for him,” you say. “All this – it’s because of him. He gave himself up to save me. I’m going to get him back. I’m going to bring an end to all of this. It will never happen to anyone again.”

Felix straightens, once more on guard, but he is not antagonistic. He is on your side of the fight and you believe he finally sees that.

“Do you know anything about him? Anything at all?” you ask. Felix got a better look at the military base before it went to ground. Maybe his perspective will offer some insight beyond what you gleaned from the research facilities. “I don’t know where my father put him,” you say. “But I know he’s out there. I know he’s still in Miroh’s web.”

“What makes you think he’s still alive?” Felix asks, brow furrowed.

“What made you think Chan was alive?” you retort.

“Okay,” Felix says, chastened. “I did release some prisoners at the base, but Changbin wasn’t there. I would’ve recognized him this time.” His earlier anger towards Changbin seems to dissipate. He regards you with eyes that look more than a little guilty. “I thought he died with the others, you know,” Felix says. “I didn’t – I thought this whole time—”

“Trust me,” you say, with a humourless laugh. “You don’t need to tell me about the past confusing you.”

Felix takes the empathy at face value, nodding. He idly adjusts a hip holster while talking, gaze elsewhere, moving through his recollection.

“I only really talked to one of the prisoners, yeah,” Felix says. “They were all in bad shape but he wasn’t thinking clearly. When I got them out, he thought I was there for him. He thought he was being sent back somewhere ‘worse.’”

“Worse?” you say, with a drop in your gut. You have firsthand knowledge of the kind of torture that Miroh is willing to enact on its allies, never mind its enemies, so you can only begin to imagine. It may lead you to Changbin after all, now that he is classified as a turned asset and enemy to Miroh. “Worse how?”

“I don’t really know,” Felix says. “He just said he didn’t wanna go back to the white room. It didn’t mean anything to me. Does it to you?”

It shouldn’t mean anything. White room is a vague description that could describe any plain interior at any site. It sounds like the empty ramblings of a traumatized prisoner, disjointed thoughts that could describe any facility on any base.

And yet –

When Felix says those words, in that context, that way, with all that uncertainty and pain in his eyes – you see a flash in the back of your mind. You let yourself drift towards it. It is not screaming cold like other memories, memories that send you hurtling through the dark. It’s quiet. Empty. You see an impossibly bright white room. There are no windows or doors, at least none that you can perceive. It’s the opposite of the Cell, of those tunnels, of that well. It’s not endless black. It’s a shock of white.

It’s nothing. How can nothing feel like something?

“Do you know it?” Felix asks.

You shake your head, the brightness dimming as the real world and the dark night settle around you.

“No,” you say. The little twinge behind your eyes starts to pound. “Maybe.”

There is a beat of silence between you, enough confessions made to the dark to satisfy for now. It has been a long night.

Felix sighs, his long exhale feathering the hair over his forehead. He turns to the trees, looks across the farmland, then up at the too big sky.

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Felix says.

There is a bone deep sadness to Felix, all in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. And that is just what he is letting you see.

“It’s complicated,” you say in lieu of anything more comforting.

You understand that Chan blames Felix for what happened in the past. At the same time, you don’t think that is where Chan’s problem truly lies. You remember his words at the motel; not wishing you were someone else, but wishing he was. He can accept you have changed, but he cannot accept that he has too. Whether it was against his will, to survive, to keep you alive, he had to become someone else. It must make him as alien to himself as your elusive past is to you presently.

You have all made mistakes in desperation. And now Felix is here, the past gone, a ring on his finger and a future ahead. Chan does not have that. He wants to be the boy who did no wrong and protected everyone. But through his mistakes, your mistakes, Felix’s mistakes, he can’t be anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.

Felix gets to go home because it’s ahead. Chan can’t do that because it’s behind him. Maybe he does hate Felix for the part he played, but you know he hates himself and his own circumstances more.

“Can you – can you –” Felix stammers. “Can you just – tell him please – that I’m sorry for how it went down.”

“He knows, Felix,” you say, believing it honestly. You have come to know Chan. You believe that beneath all the pain and resentment, he knows it all comes down to Miroh.

Felix nods. He lingers in that thought for a moment, casting his eyes towards the sky. His shoulders fall.

“This isn’t over yet, is it,” he says, more an observation than question.

“Not quite,” you say.

“If you—” Felix looks at you again, dark eyes earnest. “If you need help... Find me. Seriously. I want this to be over for good.”

You accept his proffered hand and shake. When you try to withdraw, he holds on.

“I’m sorry to you too,” he says. “I don’t know what happened after I left, but…”

You wish it was as easy as blaming Felix. If this was about one foolish boy and one childish mistake, then everything would be so easy to fix. But you know better. You squeeze his hand and nod, reflecting his emotions like a mirror.

“I know who my enemies are,” you say.

He nods and finally drops your hand. Another moment passes, the night breeze blowing between you, then Felix says it is time for him to go.

“I know where we are,” he says, looking across the deserted farmland. His eyes settle on some distant fields, sloping into a distant wood. He looks at you again and nods. “I think it’s for the best I get myself back. Good luck.”

He has only taken a few steps when you ask, “How will I find you again?”

He looks at you. For a second, there is a flicker of a friendly soul, life in his eyes as they crinkle with a smile.

“Hmm, if you are who I think you are,” he says, “you’ll figure it out.”

You take that as a confirmation of trust if nothing else, that he turns his back and walks away without fear you will pursue him with any reactive violence. When he has crossed over the border of the property, disappearing down a path, you turn the opposite way to where Chan vanished. With a sigh, you seek him out.

Of course the impossible man chose the absolute creepiest part of the property to sequester himself. It is difficult to see, even for you, as you pick up your feet to avoid tripping over spindly roots. You realize the overgrown trees are a former orchard, though the fruit is long since rotted, the thick branches bare.

“Chan,” you say, an edge to your voice. “Chan, he’s gone.”

Something cracks behind you. You turn, mouth open with a remark that flitters into breath because he isn’t there. Not even a moonlit silhouette interrupts the darkness.

You turn back around and almost jump right out of your skin. Chan is standing there, stanced like he has been waiting for hours. You thump him on the shoulder, cursing.

“Sorry,” he says, more automatic than sincere.

He is still wearing the mask, still braced with so much tension. You are standing close, close enough that if you were a target he would already have a hand around your neck. You think of the number of people over the years, subject to that exact moment; the number of times he would have stood there, just like this, appearing out of the shadows and striking.

You think of how he got there. You think of why he stayed.

“Are we going?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. That exact expression was the first one he really gave you, the first hint he was more than Miroh’s soldier.

Maybe you have a heart now, or something like it, but it is still woefully inadequate when it comes to function. You do not know how to express the mess of feelings inside you. There is no instant healing for the years suffered between you, but you wish you could make him understand that you are not afraid, that you mean it when you say you choose this Bang Chan, not in spite of everything but because of it.

“He wanted to save you,” you say. Before he can form a retort, you continue, “I know you didn’t ask him to save you. You didn’t ask him to make any bargains. But he wanted to do it, not unlike what you did for me.”

“That’s different,” he says quickly. It sounds almost like a huff, like a punch in the gut.

“I know how it feels, to be both you and Felix,” you say. “To not like or understand yourself. Do you think I don’t understand? Do you think I’m scared of you in the mask?”

His shoulders lower and he looks at you, lifetimes of emotion in his eyes.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” he says. “You never have been. That’s what terrifies me.”

“Chan—”

“I can’t lose you again,” he says, walking right up to you, an inch from your face, yet so propelled by adrenaline that he seems unaware of his own proximity and desperation. “I can’t,” he says. “Seeing Felix, it – it freaked me out, okay? It put me back there again. For years, I – I felt like if I could – if I could get back at him – for betraying my friendship – it would somehow undo it – it would be like it didn’t happen – I don’t—”

He seems to remember his mask all at once, abruptly reaching up to rip it off. His arm swings down to his side, mask loose in his fingers. The sudden reveal of his whole face makes your breath catch, as if you haven’t been staring at him for days, as if he hasn’t engrained himself in your consciousness like he never left.

You stare at each other, hardly any space between you. His voice is heavy, his shoulders slumped, like gravity is pulling him straight down past the earth, like it’s a fight just to stand there.

“I don’t want those things to have happened to us,” he finally says.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I’m so scared of fucking this up,” he says, with a hiccup of a laugh, arms hanging limp in a helpless slouch. “So fucking scared something is going to happen. If not Felix, then – then anything – then—”

You place a hand on his chest, palm above his racing heart. His breath catches, adrenaline still coursing.

“Well.” You smirk and it feels more natural than a smile. It helps you dig your honest feelings out of your chest, buried so deep, sifting through your fingers like sand until you seize your beating heart and feel it come to life. “We might be a couple of disasters,” you say, “but we’re here, together, in spite of it all. We’ll figure it out eventually.”

You trail your hand down his chest, past his side, fingers loosely tracing the top of the mask. You hold his gaze the entire time.

“You found me once, didn’t you?” you say. “I trust you to do it again.”

“I didn’t,” he says, laughter walking the edge of a cry. “I should have. But you were the one who spoke to me in that van. You were the one who asked for help. You were the one that found me. I didn’t do anything but follow.”

“Is it too much to ask you to continue to do that?” you ask. “At least a little longer?”

He leans towards you, almost like he is falling, that gravitational pull leading straight to you.

“Always,” he says. “I go wherever you go, remember?”

He said that before, that first night when he comforted you. He says it now with a laugh, though it comes up like it pains him, an ache in his chest.

You think he might have sworn that promise a long time ago.

“I want you,” you say firmly. “Not the little boy you were, not just Miroh’s creation, but all of this, all of you. I want your anger and I want your fear. I want the only guard who could fight me in that ring. I want the only agent who was able to chase me down.” You hold his gaze even when the intensity makes you sweat, uncharacteristically nervous with a twist in your gut that is so much more than lust or camaraderie. “I need the only person I could have ever asked for help.”

He exhales through his nose, then smiles a weak smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks, shakes his head, laughs dryly. His exhale is shaky. “Because… honestly, baby…” The pet name rolls thoughtlessly off his tongue, natural in his honesty. He looks at you without any masks, eyes soft where they meet yours, jaw clenched with some baser instinct. “Because I – I’m really fucking angry.”

“Good,” you say. “So am I.”

You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you the way Chan does. Your father saw a soldier, your subordinates saw a commander, Felix saw a complicated ally, and Changbin saw a lost friend. When Chan looks at you, it feels like he sees all of you at once, every layer down to the bone, and that should be terrifying. That much exposure should make a soldier run for cover, layer on every piece of armour you can get your shaking hands on.

For some reason, he looks at you, and you just want to strip that armour off, piece by careful piece, and see what you will find in the reflection of his gaze.

You think he feels the same. It’s all you want, and it’s all so much, and you let yourself feel every tingling reverberation of that passion before you step away.

“Come on,” you say. “This fight is far from over.”

You anticipate his next move but your breath catches anyway.

Chan pulls you back, straight into his arms. The mask hits the ground with a clatter as he grabs you by the neck, a gloved hand cupped carefully around your jaw. He drags you into him and kisses you even more deeply than that last teasing kiss. This kiss does not merely say, I don’t want to be your friend. It does not merely say, I want to be more.

It says, I want to be everything.

And he hands everything over, and you take it, and you give everything back with your hand buried in his hair and your mouth open against his.

With a thousand more questions to ask and a mission to complete, but with information and honesty and hope – the fight ahead does not seem so daunting.

You look at Chan in the passenger seat. He is sprawled out, stripped down to a compression shirt that is far less bulky than the protective combat layers. It should make him appear smaller, but his presence continues to fill every space he occupies. Even where he does not literally touch, you feel him.

He idly turns the mask over in his hands. His eyes are ahead, over the dashboard, focussed on some distant point. He has sweat through some of his hair product so his dark hair falls to frame his face a little more. He pushes some of it back and you have to remind yourself to look at the road and not his hands, the corded veins when he flexes and moves his fingers, or his lips when he takes in a breath, or his thighs when he slouches and lets his knee fall against the console.

Failing your mission because of a car accident would be a little preposterous, so you clear your throat and look ahead. You feel him glance at you, but you refrain from looking back.

“Can I ask you something?” you ask, using the excuse of concentration to avoid eye contact.

“Yeah?”

“Promise to tell the truth?”

“You know I will,” he replies.

He knows the question will not be too serious. You agreed to discuss the mission parameters when settled at the new hotel. You explained that Felix gave you information but it needs dissection.

So he must expect the halfway teasing lilt when you ask, “Is there a part of you – even a small part –that feels, hmm, a little shallow satisfaction that you wound up with Miroh’s daughter on your side despite everything he tried?”

Your phrasing is a little convoluted but he sees right through it, brow quirking up.

“Uh-huh… Is that what you’re really asking me?” He looks dramatically contemplative as he throws your teasing back at you. “Or did you mean – Do I feel like I got back at the bad guy by fucking his little girl?”

“I’m not little,” is your flustered retort.

His laugh is a breathy snort. You feel him look at you again. When he does not elaborate, you surrender to your desire and glance his way.

His tongue is poking into his cheek, his eyes narrowed but not with frustration, just a combination of scrutiny and amusement at whatever he finds.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” He sits back again, leans his head on the headrest, smirking to himself. “It’s just… that’s not the first you’ve asked me that question. Why are you asking me now?”

“Why did I ask you then?” you blurt. You are asking him now because you are trying to goad him into opening up on some of those darker or angrier feelings. Was it for a similar reason you asked before? It gives you a sudden tether to that past version of you, still a stranger, but maybe not so different.

“Then,” he says. He loses some of that jovial edge, looking a little more serious as he falls into recollection. He rubs the back of his neck.

“You can tell me,” you say when he lingers on his thought, words so clearly perched on the tip of his tongue. “Really.”

You are expecting any number of dramatics. You are not expecting him to giggle.

“You fell for me first,” he says.

“No, I didn’t,” you reply automatically. You have no idea if it is true or not, but you instinctively balk at the suggestion. Even though your intimacy with Chan feels so unique, no doubt propelled by that complicated history, you still only know yourself as someone pragmatic and distant. You cannot picture yourself at any age stumbling head-over-heels for some boy, even one with dimples like that.

“Ohh no, you definitely did,” he says. “Sorry, but you were allll over me—”

You thump him on the chest. It’s a good solid thwack in the middle of his giggles.

“Hey, hey!” he says. “You asked.”

“You’re lying.”

“Now, now, come on. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I regret asking.”

“It can’t be that hard to believe,” he says, tapping his chin with exaggerated pensiveness. “I thiiiink… and correct me if I’m wrong… but I’m preeetty sure it was you who came onto me this time around too…”

“That – I –” You laugh at your own stammer, so startled that you can’t help but break.

He giggles some more, a tittering heeheehee that seems very incongruous in his black uniform with a combat mask on his knee.

When the laughter softens, he sighs a little. He looks at that mask, absently runs his thumb along the frame.

“It was a fair question, at the time,” he says. “I think you knew how I felt. How at first it wasn’t – it wasn’t really serious for me. Not like that. I was a bit distracted with, you know, life sucking.”

“Fair enough,” you say, snorting in amusement at describing the child soldiership special-ops program as simply life sucking. Diluting the power and dramatics is oddly cathartic, the laughter leaving a pleasant warmth in your chest. It makes you brave enough to ask, “What changed?”

He looks at you, maybe gauging your wellbeing. You both know the reconfiguration reports warn that too much sudden recollection can trigger a breakdown. But there is a separation here, the girl in your past just a story on his tongue, even if you do like the way he says her name.

“Uh, actually, it was seeing you with Changbin,” he finally says. His posture gets defensive with his vulnerability, an arm slung across his chest. He idly scratches his shoulder while he talks. “You were friends. Really friends. I didn’t – I didn’t really know how you managed to be friends, to be honest. I never – I mean.”

He huffs like he is frustrated with his own inarticulateness. You wait, eyes on the road, taking some of the pressure off. He eventually sighs.

“The first program,” he says. “All those kids – I only knew them for a bit, then they were all gone. It was just me. Then they brought in the next group. I think a part of me was always waiting for the day something would happen to them too. How can you really learn to care about people if you know everyone is just gonna be taken away from you?”

He picks up the mask again. He looks at it while speaking.

“The other part of me wanted to care,” he says. “Really fucking badly. I don’t know what it was, though. The trauma, my reputation, something about me, but I—” He puts the mask down, looks out over the dashboard. “Even before I put this on, before I made that deal with Miroh – I didn’t really belong. People respected me, kinda, I guess, or were scared of me. Yeah, lots of people have been scared of me. And maybe it was actually easy to become that guy, maybe it was in me all the time. Because even back then, it was like I always separate from everyone else. I still am. It’s like – it’s like there’s just this glass wall around me. Sometimes there’d be moments, people, like with Felix for a while, where they’d look at me and I’d look right through it and forget it was there. Then the light would hit the glass and I’d remember I was different. Separate. Alone.”

He pauses but it doesn’t feel like he is waiting for an interjection. Truthfully, you don’t know what to say.

“You and Changbin,” he says, punctuating by smacking the mask against his thigh. “You guys were different, yeah. Didn’t matter what they tried to do you. You stuck together. You – you had it just as bad as me because you were Miroh’s daughter but you never let it – never let him – never let any of them tell you who you are. And I just remember one day, I was looking at you. Really looking. You were with Changbin and you were patching him up after a fight. You were both beat to hell and back but you were laughing together and I – I just thought—”

His voice gets softer, like the words are too fragile to speak.

“I thought,” he says, “I would give anything to have you look at me like that too.”

His words leave a stunned silence in their wake. He eventually tries to deflect the tension with a laugh, smiling at you, but with a smile that does not reach his eyes.

After the words have washed over you and after the jumbled mess of confusion that is your consciousness sifting through it, you say, “Glass coffin.”

“Excuse me?” he asks.

“Sorry.” You shake your head. “Just – that’s how I’ve felt. Buried alive in a glass coffin. Not myself, not who I was a month ago, not the girl I can’t remember. What you said made me think of it. I – I understand you. I’ve been—” Your breath catches unexpectedly. “I’ve been very alone for a long time. I – I don’t think I noticed, somehow. Not until Changbin was gone. Not until you were here.”

The car gets a little darker as you leave the highway, streams of endless light replaced with the occasional streetlamp. The darkness makes the honesty flow a little easier.

“Is that weird?” you ask, your own voice soft and unfamiliar to your ears. “For it to hurt more after it already happened?”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he says. “Then again, I’m just as insane as you are.”

You almost choke on your laughter, so abrupt in the midst of seriousness. He laughs too.

“That’s true,” you tease. “Why the hell am I asking you?”

“Because you’re insane, remember?” He makes a tsk sound, shaking his head, all playful. “Wow, now she’s forgetting things that happened just a minute ago.”

“You’re awful,” you say, but laugh nonetheless.

“Seriously, though,” he says. “I get it. I get you.”

There is a beat of silence as the conversation settles around you. You breathe a little lighter.

Then Chan says, “Also, yeah, it is kinda hot to bang the boss’s daughter.”

“Bang Chan.” You smack his chest again, a little harder, but he just giggles like a naughty schoolboy and swats your hand away. “Seriously?” Your voice breaks as you try and fail to restrain laughter. “That comment? After all that?”

“Hey, don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, ya know?”

“Bang the boss’s daughter,” you grumble with faux-irritation. “You and Felix have that in common, you know.”

“Fucking you?! Jesus, what the hell did I miss when I walked away?” He looks at his bare wrist as if checking a watch. “You weren’t there long. He’s a bit quick off the mark, eh?”

You thump his stupid chest again while he chokes on his maniacal laughter.

“Going after the boss’s daughter,” you clarify.

That breaks some of his giggles, face twisting up with his surprise. His mouth opens and closes as he looks for words, mind going a mile a minute while he computes this revelation. He finally says, “Wait… what?”

“The ring on his finger?”

“Yeah but – the enemy’s daughter? Felix? And after giving me a hard time for going after you and oh my god, serves him fucking right, I really am going to kill that little—”

His threats sound a little more light-hearted, at least you think. It is tinged with some truthfulness, but at least it’s all out in the open this time.

“I’m trying to imagine that story,” you say, steering the conversation to the side. “I can’t imagine us in that scenario. I don’t think I would’ve been waltzing around with a mopey bodyguard in any world.”

“I wouldn’t be mopey.” He amends, “I wouldn’t be that mopey.” Then he thinks about it a moment longer, eyes on the road but mind farther away. “Yeah, you’re too much of a fighter,” he says. “I would’ve had my hands full trying to keep you on the sidelines.”

“You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

You are teasing him but he does not retaliate. He nods with utmost seriousness.

“You’re right,” he says. “I mean, look at everything they did to you, and you still chose to be you. I think no matter what world we were in, you would find your way back into the fight, and I would follow you.”

You know he fully believes every word or he would not say it. You can’t find a decent answer. You doubt there is one.

“It kinda freaks me out,” you say. You strum your fingers because your hands are getting clammy on the wheel.

“Freaks you out?” Chan asks, looking at your hands then your face.

“I’ve always been very… restrained. At least as far as I can remember. I don’t let people in. With you—” You look at each other across the car. “It’s like I don’t have to try to let you in. You’re already there.” You look back at the road, releasing a shuddering breath. “It makes it easy to feel things I usually wouldn’t, or to do things I usually wouldn’t do.”

You think about that first clumsy kiss, how badly the need consumed you when you never cared about kissing before. You think about everything you are feeling right now, looking at him, sprawled in the passenger seat.

“I’m not used to trusting people this way,” you say.

He puts a hand on your knee. It is a comforting touch.

“It’s not quite a joke that I’m a little insane,” you continue. “I’m in pieces up there. I know that. I also know that when we’re together, it feels—”

You cut yourself off. There is no word to describe it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway. “It does. I know.”

The conversation reaches its soft conclusion just in time. You have reached your destination.

This city is a veritable concrete jungle. You can only go so far off the beaten path, so this place is more of a hotel than a motel. The building is configured in a towering horseshoe, wrapping around the small parking lot where you and Chan sit in a quiet car. You stare up at the building, most windows dark with the late hour. You have some time before dawn.

“Are you tired?” you ask.

His hand is still on your leg. You sit very straight when it moves, gliding inward, curving around your inner thigh. His gaze rests there until you look at him, then his eyes flick up to yours. He holds the eye contact as his pinky brushes the fly of your uniform pants.

“No,” he says. “I’m not tired. The opposite, really.”

“Still feel like a fight?” you ask, voice a little breathier.

“Maybe,” he says, dimple appearing with his smile. “What did you have in mind?”

You slam Chan onto his back in the middle of the training mat.

The hotel has a small gym, though it is closed after hours. The building has minimal security and no one on patrol. It is easy enough to rework the security camera so it plays a loop of a previous ten-minute interval, making the room look empty to anyone who deigns to double-check. It is on the underground level, below all the rooms, so it won’t wake anyone up.

Daylight is hours away. You have plenty of time to tire out that relentless adrenaline.

“Not bad,” Chan says, letting his head drop back. He laughs which is not the usual response from an opponent on their back. Of course, he is not a usual opponent and he never has been.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, grinning at you with far too much cheek. Teasingly patronizing, he says, “Ya get in a little more practice, buddy, and you’ll almost be as good as me.”

You shove him down again. He goes without a fight, just a little oof, giggling as he lands on his back again. You move from straddling his legs to hovering above his abdomen, knees planted on either side of him.

“You’re holding back,” you say.

“Yeah, ‘course I am,” he answers simply.

There is a little tussle between your hands as he tries to grab your waist and you shoo at him. He gets past in the end, gripping your hips and moving you like you are weightless. Even your clenching muscles do little to stop him, a startled breath spilling out of your lips as he moves you a little lower. Now his hips are between your thighs and it is easy for him to bring your body down while he rolls up.

You are in your compression shirts and bulky combat pants. It means his hands feel hot on your waist, the touch immediate through the thin material, but there is a substantial layer between your lower halves.

You still feel him, half-hard since you dragged him out of the car with a sparkle in your eye. You both know where this is heading, speaking in that silent conversation you mastered in just a few short days. He just needs to smile a particular smile and something inside you sparks.

You lean forward, planting your palms on the floor. It puts a slope in your spine, his hands feeling the curve of your hips as his playful gaze darkens, shadowed in the concentration of his brow. You bring yourself down just enough to touch, the material of your pants crinkling where you press together, but nonetheless feeling him against you as you slowly drag your body along his.

“What if…” you say, your gazes locked, “I don’t hold back?”

His eyes roam your face. He puts his tongue in his cheek, looking thoughtful with the quirk of his eyebrow. After a thoroughly studious moment, he meets your gaze again.

“You’d be at a disadvantage,” he says. “I’ve seen you fight without holding back. I know all your tricks.”

“What? In the ring?” you ask. “I wasn’t at full strength then.”

“No,” he says, voice a little lower. “Before that. We’ve fought before. I promise, you came at me with everything.”

You can tell from his face that the memory is not so pleasant. No, not at all. Yet he is very preoccupied with the pleasure around him right now, the tantalizing taste of it, your body in his hands, your face so close to his. You keep looking at his mouth and he keeps looking at yours.

“Everything,” you say. “I see.” Your brush your nose against his and it is so sickeningly sweet that it shocks him more than a smack. His eyes get wide and you get the upper hand, grabbing his wrists and pinning them beside his head. “And did I win that fight?” you ask.

His hips rear up. With a sharp buck, he moves you, gets his hands free. In a spin too fast to compute, and a flail of muscles you can’t hope to overpower, you end up on your back.

Chan pins you down, hips still between your thighs, both your wrists clasped in one of his hands. He pushes them above your head and holds them there, then he swoops down so his mouth floats just above yours.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I think,” you say, remarkably coherent considering the proximity of his mouth, “that last time we truly fought, we probably didn’t have a choice.” You wrap your legs around his waist and he lets go of your wrists. You put your hands on his shoulders. “This time, we do. And this time—” You snap up, knocking heads, startling him. “I’m asking you not to hold back.”

In his surprised distraction, you roll out from under him then spring to your feet.

“This time, you have a choice,” you finish.

He turns onto his back, sitting with one knee curled up to his chest, the other leg stretched in front of him. It is a casual pose, looking to all the world like a normal young man for just a second as he sits and lounges and considers you.

Then he stands. He holds your gaze captive in his own, his eyes a slash of heated determination.

“You sure that’s what you want?” he asks.

“You know it is,” you say without hesitation. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“All right,” he says, lip quirking into a half-smirk before he wipes his face to a stern neutrality. “Let’s fight.”

You circle each other, measuring, walking the perimeter of the square mat.

“Don’t underestimate me,” you taunt. “Believe me, bigger men have tried.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, shrugging one shoulder in a casual stretch. “I watched you shoot your daddy off a roof. It would be stupid to think like him, no?”

You are not expecting him to take the bait so unflinchingly. It makes your heart skip beats, adrenaline already spiking before the fight has even begun.

Chan still looks nonchalant, like he is waiting for a conversation rather than an altercation.

He is like you. A part of him is always braced for a fight. It’s never really over. You can’t control it.

You can control this. You can hand yourself over, willingly, safely, and for the first time he can let this scene play out the way he wants.

He strikes first, anticipating you are too smart to make the first move. His primary feints are predictable, the initial throws little more than empty threats. He is not holding back on defense, effortlessly dodging your retaliation, but his offense is still restrained.

You get him behind the knee. Your arms lock and you swing around, footwork frantic in its quick shuffle across the mat. You manage to get your hands around his neck as you sweep a leg out from under him. He barely stops his descent, twisted at an awkward angle.

“I told you,” you say, panting, your breath fluttering through his hair. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” he says.

He pulls himself out of the vulnerable position with a degree of strength that only the First Guard could possess. He turns you with a single-handed yank, then his whole arm is around your neck and your back is trapped against his front. He drops onto his knees and takes you with him, letting you struggle to no avail in his one-armed hold. His other hand comes up to your face with an almost tenderness, fingers brushing your forehead, knuckles sweeping your cheek.

“But I know you’re not,” he says. “You’re as crazy as me, right?”

He pushes forward, lays down with you pinned under him. His arm is still around your neck, bicep at your throat, his hips rocking into yours with blatant suggestion.

His lips brush your ear. It makes every part of you get tight with anticipation, even your eyes squeezing closed, your throat cloying, breath catching.

“You’re not like most people anymore,” he asks. “Daddy’s girl prefers a monster, doesn’t she?”

His free hand works its way between your body and the mat, tugging at your pants with more dexterity than his brute strength would suggest. He gets the waistband low on your hips, gets the zipper all the way down, and fits his hand inside.

Your hips buck instinctively, at first away, then giving into his palm when he grinds it against you through your underthings.

“Hmmph,” he says, a bit of a laugh, finding you wet through the fabric. “That was easy, huh?”

You do have a strategy, despite what he thinks, hoping to lure him into letting his guard down when he shifts focus.

Unfortunately, that is easier said than done. You are used to disregarding your body’s cries, but that is when it screams in pain. As it turns out, pleasure is harder to ignore.

When he touches you, even with a barrier in the way, it is like something primal speaks to something raw and needy inside you. You see stars, either from his grip, the tightly pinned position, or the way it doesn’t even matter there is fabric between you and his fingers because it is so wet that it feels like he is touching you directly – and it feels so good that you want to bury your face in the mat and forget about everything else.

“You’re not seriously trying to make me come,” you say, voice rough if not still taunting. “How is that a plan?”

“That’s not the plan,” he says, but he doesn’t stop rubbing torturous circles, doesn’t do anything when you shudder under him. “The plan is to fuck you, right here, right now.” He presses his hips into yours, makes sure you can feel the weight of his promise. “And I’m not stopping until all these little noises turn into you finally begging for my mercy.”

“Oh,” you gasp, thoughtlessly, not thinking straight on the cusp of an orgasm. “Fuck.”

“Say that one more time?” he says. “What do you want me to do?”

He kisses the back of your neck. It’s worth a thousand words.

“Fuck,” you say, though it comes out like a squeak. All that pleasure crests with his kiss, chaste and short as it is. You throb against his fingers, that aching desire lingering even after he takes his hand back.

You just barely seize control of your faculties when he lets go, leaving you sprawled facedown so he can kneel behind you. He has your pants worked partway down your backside when you manage to throw an elbow back. True to your words, you don’t hold back, winding him long enough to work yourself free.

You don’t get far. You are back on your feet for only seconds before he is on you. He lets you get a few jabs in, then his hand is around your throat and he is walking you backwards into the wall.

Even so, he holds up a hand, cupping your head so it doesn’t hit the wall with any force.

“You wanted to fight,” he says, keeping that grip on your throat as he turns you around, your palms and cheeks to the wall. He drops his other hand, working your pants the rest of the way down your thighs. “You lost,” he says. “Now be a good girl, bend over and take it. I know you can.”

It is hard to think when he starts fucking you. Your mind often drifted during sex, even good sex, thinking about the next act or even what you would be doing later. Despite your life being even more complicated now, you can’t think about anything else when he is inside you.

You can’t do anything about your mind, but your body is a different story, as it seems to open for him in a way you did not know was possible. You don’t think anyone else ever held your throat so right, ever kept such a secure hold, ever felt so good draped over you while finding somewhere inside you that made your whole body sing.

“Chan,” you whisper, voice already shot.

“Mm,” is his grunt of a reply.

His pants are unzipped, slung slow, but not as low as yours so the material is rough against your bare skin. You feel hot. I is a relief when his hands start to gather your tight shirt and lift.

You let him, though it means he pulls out for a second, getting his balance as you adjust.

You take the opportunity and get away, even though you are more than half-naked with your upper layers removed and your pants partially down. You yank them back up, panting as you cross the room.

He laughs, tugging up his own pants again. His tongue is basically hanging out of his mouth, but he is not short of breath. He runs his hands through his hair as he crosses the mat, every inch of him confident and determined.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

His swings are taunting, you realize, faking when he is going to grab you, making it impossible to tell when he will.

“You think you can get away that easy?” he asks.

It breaks the scene a little, or maybe makes it better, but you smile just a bit. It is genuine, but it doesn’t distract him for long. You get one good punch before he is dragging you both to the ground again. He puts you on your back with a breathless shove, straddles your waist and grips both your hands in one of his.

“Ah-uh-uh,” he says, grabbing your jaw with the other hand. It stops your squirming, his thumb circling your lips. He taps your cheek with the suggestion of a slap, just enough your heart kicks faster even while everything else gets softer. “That’s better,” he says. “Very good. I got you. Who needs a daddy like that when you got me?”

“Jesus,” you say, with a small helpless laugh. “I don’t think we have time to unpack all that.”

He laughs too. He halts himself by jabbing his tongue into his cheek while he shakes his head at you.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he says. It feels like his hands are everywhere, waking every nerve as he skims your waist and front. He cups the curve of your chest, tormenting you, far too swiftly pushing all your most sensitive buttons.

You are squirming again, bucking under him while he moves his mouth over you, lips and teeth and tongue, marking his path. He goes lower, then flips you in a quick manoeuvre, your clothes just as quickly lowered. His mouth is on you from behind, then his fingers, so much of his hand, up on knee behind you with his arm flexing in each downward thrust.

“You’re not even trying,” he says. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

You make a sound, halfway between a grunt and a moan. Resisting him is not easy but it has nothing to do with his strength and everything to do with your resolve. You want his hands and mouth and everything else, want to lay there like that while he takes you apart and puts you back together again. You want to remove all your armour.

He gets you off with his hand, works you open so thoroughly that when he lets go, you are left clenching and trembling with need for more. He gets the rest of your clothes off, takes a second to remove his shirt. In that second, you get on shaking legs.

You already know you won’t get far. Even when you throw your head back, knocking into his, you expect him to recalibrate faster. He is behind you, shirtless and hot and hungry, his pants low, every muscle throbbing and aching with the same exertion as yours.

“Not so fast,” he says.

He turns you to face him and picks you up like it’s nothing. He lines you up with the precision of an unfaltering marksman and gets back inside you by bringing your body down onto his cock. The swiftness and ungiving strength is a surprise in itself, a yelp squeaking its way past your lips as he fucks you in his arms, in the air, using nothing else for support.

With no other leverage, you can only cling to him, just him, filling the space of this room with everything he is, filling all those empty places inside you and making you feel fully satisfied for the first time that you can remember.

He gets on his knees after a bit, not so much from tired muscles as sheer desire, wanting you in a better position so he can really fuck you. On your back then side then front, his arm across your shoulder blades as he holds you down and drives into you with all those pent-up feelings.

His hand is on the nape of your neck when he comes, not pressing or squeezing, just holding you there. He doesn’t hold back in the pursuit of pleasure, lets himself feel it all, makes a sound you want to always remember as he drapes himself over your back.

The world is quiet in the comedown, just the sound of heavy breathing. A little laughter when he kisses your neck.

You are not sure if your aches and pains are from the earlier confrontation or from that exchange, and that makes everything hurt less, subsumed in the memory of something better, those bad feelings strangled by the good.

You get back to the room and shower. You keep your hands off each other long enough to get clean, but no longer than that. When you are back in the bed, supposedly to sleep, he is back on top of you and you are pulling him into you. It’s different than downstairs, but also the same, you and him, whatever that means or will mean. He says your name while he fucks you, slower and so deliberate with every breath and bite and kiss.

He lets you roll him over, put him on his back, lets you sit on top of him and take control for precious moments. He doesn’t last long like that, staring up at you, bare face screwed up with pleasure and desire. His lips form the shape of your name even when he can’t find his voice anymore.

“Please,” he finally speaks again. You’re not sure what he’s really begging for, but you give him what you have and it must be enough for now.

He sits upright before he comes, wraps his arms all the way around you and holds you tight while rocking up into you.

“Please,” he says again, eyes closed, leaning his face into your hands when you run your fingers through his hair. He is already sweating again, his face hot under your hands. You hold the back of his neck, keep him pressed against you, his face against your shoulder.

“It’s okay,” you say on an exhale. “I got you.”

A shiver moves down his spine. He rears up hard, digs his fingers into you with a possessive need, and comes with your name on his lips.

It is tempting to sleep through the day, but every second of every minute is imperative. As each day passes, there are less hours until Changbin is potentially relocated or put through experimental testing far more grueling than what has so far been described. An overslept morning could be the difference between finding your friend or not.

Despite a lingering soreness – not all of it strictly unpleasant – you climb out of bed to dress for the day. Chan stirs when you do, like always, though he allows himself a moment of uncharacteristic lethargy. He groans when you open the curtains and the sunlight slashes across his sleepy, squinting eyes.

“Rise and shine,” you say. “We have a lot of reading to do.”

The heavy research element of strategizing is hardly ever glamourized the way a good right cross can be. That is probably fair. It is far less exciting to sit around a table for hours, a pot of coffee between you, skimming line after line.

“I want to go back over everything from before,” you say, to a bleary-eyed Chan who has only had a few sips of coffee and still looks like he has one foot in slumber. He really looks so different when scrubbed clean, face so soft and open. His curly hair is a bit of a mop, a messy tendril falling over his forehead as he leans down to look at some text. His flannel is buttoned askew and you have to resist reaching out and fixing it.

“Are we looking for something in particular?” he asks. “You said Felix mentioned a prisoner.”

“Mm,” you say, already diving into research. Some of it is physical paperwork that you pilfered but most of it is stored on your stolen tablets. You rifle through papers and scroll at the same time.

“And what is that?” he prompts. He shoves a coffee cup at you for good measure.

You sit straighter to take a sip.

“Right,” you say. “I just have this feeling in my gut. I’ve had it since last night. Really unsettled and uneasy. It doesn’t feel like general anxiety or anticipation, not like bracing for a fight. It feels like – it feels like it does when I remember things, small things, in confusing fragments.”

He straightens at that. You have not told him much about the dreams. He knows that you have nightmares, obviously, as he is the one tending to you when you inevitably wake from them. You have not spoken the details aloud, though. Some of those images are horrendous. Speaking them makes it tangible in a whole new horrifying way. To compound it, articulating the jumbled fragments conjured by your subconscious is a trying endeavour, to say the very fucking least.

“Just…” You take a breath, shake your head. “Just look for any mentions of a white room.”

“A white room?” he repeats. “That might be a little vague, don’t you think? Lots of labs and rooms are white and kinda sterile?”

You are not entirely sure if the picture in your head is a true memory or a fabrication, perhaps one exacerbated by some similar but buried recollection. You just know that picture is vivid, terrifyingly evocative. You can see it so clearly. That room is beyond sterile; it is washed completely white. It is a bone scraped clean. Not a scrap of humanity clings to the surface.

Your perspective revolves around the room. You are in the middle of it. No windows, no visible doors. No way in or out. It feels like absolutely nothing came before it, and nothing more could come after it. It is the opposite the Cell which was a pitch black torture room. Confined, endless in its depth. This is huge and blinding white brightness. It makes the dark feel like a comfort.

You slip so far into that white expanse, you forget where you are. For a second, you are there, like you never left. It’s all you see.

“Whoa, whoa—” Chan’s voice yanks you firmly back to reality.

You realize only then that you are tearing up, one lone tear escaping down your cheek. You have no idea why you would be crying. The pain does not come from somewhere you can pinpoint. It’s a hollow ache, like an echo of someone else’s pain.

Chan is poised to stand, tense where he sits across the table. He looks at you with justified concern.

You wipe your tear quickly, shake your head and take command of your body again. You sit straighter, shuffle some papers and clear your throat.

“The white room,” you say. “Or any white room that stands out as peculiar. Felix said a prisoner was there, presumably semi-recently because he was still shaken from it. He described it as worse – worse than the holding cell at the military base. It makes me think it could be something worth looking into. If it’s worse than the usual holding cells, and if it required so much clearance that neither of us have heard of it, then it might be somewhere that Miroh held higher risk enemy prisoners. Changbin fits that description.”

Chan releases a breath of his own.

“It’s a good enough lead for me,” he says. “Better than the big fat nothing otherwise.”

Though his words are confident, he still looks at you warily. You don’t completely blame him. You would be equally startled if he began crying for no seeming reason.

“It’s fine,” you say, as reassuringly as possible.

“You were crying,” he says, tone a bit dry.

“I just…” You shake your head. “I just don’t want to make this about me right this second. This is about Changbin. It has to be about him.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “White room. Research. Changbin. Got it.”

You get to work with minimal interruption after that, stopping only to get some food then continue.

Before, you were looking for descriptions that fit Seo Changbin specifically. Prisoner transport, asset delivery, any movement between bases and facilities. Now you are just looking for a room, anything that matches the description. From there, you analyze its recent activity to see if it fits the timeline.

One mention seems to fit the bill. The description of the white room is vague but the closest match so far. The recent incident also matches the story that Felix gave you. It describes a prisoner who was recently held, some low level gangster who ran jobs for Miroh but tried to sell information to some competitors and was subsequently brought to heel. Records show he was recently relocated. He was removed from the white room because a higher priority asset needed storing.

The timeline works. Changbin would be a priority above anything or anyone else, a unique soldier and the biggest danger to the operation. It makes sense he would be a held in a bunker so secret that not even two top clearance agents like you and Chan would know about it.

This went all the way up to Miroh.

“Definitely the best lead we’ve had in a while,” Chan says, scanning the document in front of him. “Explains why there’s no trace of him at the places that would usually make sense.”

“Yeah,” you say, an edge of frustration to your tone. “The only problem is where the fuck is this place.”

You can picture it in your mind, but it is just a blank room. It could be in any building in any city.

Even though you have tracked and traced every mention of this elusive room, its precise location has not been disclosed or even hinted in any document. Its vague existence is referenced here and there, and even then only in the most classified briefings. Wherever the intel is hiding, it’s even higher classification. The kind of thing that Miroh would have overseen personally, like the First Guard’s operations.

“This secret could’ve died with my father,” you say. You picture his broken body in a heap at the base of a building with his name on it. You picture Changbin in a similar heap and it makes your stomach turn.

“There’s people keeping these logs,” Chan reasons. “They’re clearly still working. If we can figure out who they are, then maybe—”

“And how long is that gonna take without my father’s clearance?” you ask, letting that frustration burst out of you. It feels like he is back, like he never really left, your father lurking around every corner and putting obstacles in your path. Every step forward, he yanks you back.

You thought you ran off his map but maybe you have been confined in a single room this entire time.

“We’re back to square one,” you say. “He is the only one who had all the answers.”

“It’s still a good start,” Chan says, trying to sound more comforting than argumentative.

“What if we don’t get the information in time?” you ask. “Or spend all this time chasing it and it isn’t even the right place? Or it is the right place but he isn’t in it at all. And then he gets moved anyway and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Chan says for the second time today.

It has grown marginally easier to temper your most volatile emotions, corralling them like you would an animal. It is still uncomfortable, this out of control feeling, watching that animal ran rampant with no clue how to truly tame it for good. It is unpredictable at the best of times.

“All right,” Chan says.

He goes to the sink at the little kitchenette while you prop your aching head in your hand. He pours some water into a glass and brings it to you. He kneels down, pats your knee consolingly while handing you the water.

You take the glass, cool in your palm. Your waking thoughts and half-reminiscences float in a swirling vision in the blaring expanse of your mind.

You put the drink down.

You have been skirting the edges of one report. Since learning the reconfiguration was about you and not Chan, you have not really touched the files. In some ways, you hardly need to revise them, as the evocative images are still so clear. Some of that might be your own memories, peeling off the walls of your mind in broken scraps.

You have not returned to the file. Not until now.

You do what you should done when the instinct first struck. There is a connection between you and this room and there is no use denying it. Maybe you can use it for something good instead of just more hurt.

Chan looks at you with continued concern, still on one knee in front of you. You skim the reconfiguration report, looking for the description of a white room, ignoring everything else.

Unsurprisingly, you find it. It is such an innocuous description, noted in the footnotes. You would have skipped right past it when reading the first time. It is the kind of thing anyone would skip over if they were not looking for it.

It appears you were brought to the white room – which they call the downtime room – after the major reconfiguration tactics were administered. It was used as a resting place, or a holding cell, or something. Somewhere quiet and empty where you were left to rot, consciousness no doubt seeping out of your ears.

You would have already been out of your mind. The transport route would not have registered to you.

So you would be willing to bet they did not try to obfuscate or hide it from you. Not in that state.

“Maybe we do know someone,” you say, “who knows where the room is.”

You look down at Chan, his eyes still full of concern. It is shadowed with the crease of his brow, obvious confusion taking over his face.

“Who?” he asks.

Your heart is racing, and maybe breaking, because you don’t want to see that face filled with pain again.

“Me,” you say.

It takes a second to land. He blinks at you then shakes his head, smiles like he is laughing at himself for misunderstanding. He looks up at you, hopefully.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “You think you know where it is?”

“In a way,” you say. You glance at the text, finding it hard to hold his gaze. “They brought me there when it was over. According to the reconfiguration notes, I’ve been there a few times over the years, during the sessions where they, uh, fixed me again.”

You try to laugh but nothing is funny anymore. Chan slowly stands and your gaze lifts to him. He doesn’t look away from you for a second.

“I don’t really follow,” he says, but you think he does.

“I think it’s in my buried memories,” you clarify, once and for all. “If I can access them, maybe I can find out for sure. Maybe we can find the room. Maybe we can find Changbin.”

“Okaaay…” He finally turns away. He paces a little, crosses the kitchenette. He rakes his fingers through his messy hair. “Okay,” he says again, does a little jump and shakes out his limbs like he is warming himself up for something intense. He looks at you, finally. “Um, look, not that I don’t want you to get your memories back, I mean – sure. Great. You know? But, uh, how exactly do you intend to do that?”

That is the crux of it. That is why your stomach is turning over itself, your heart splitting. That is why Chan is looking at you like that, braced for the absolute worst even though you haven’t said any of it out loud.

“The report says that too much recollection at once can trigger a breakdown,” you start.

“Okay,” he interrupts. “Breakdowns are not good, though. You know that, right? Like, I don’t have to explain how you having a massive breakdown would be a very bad thing?”

“Maybe,” you say. “Maybe not.”

“M-maybe not?” he repeats, eyes wide. He comes back to the table and sits down. He grabs your hand that is loosely resting over the report. “Baby,” he says. “I told you before, hurting yourself won’t save him.”

“This is not the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. You let him squeeze your hand again, a silent pleading in that mute conversation you exchange with your eyes.

You try to smile. It still doesn’t come easily. You wonder if it ever really did.

“In my dreams, there’s a lot of cold water,” you say. “I feel like I’m lost in a current, getting thrown every which way. I see flashes of memories. They don’t feel like me anymore, but I’m in the middle of them, like if I just reach out my hand I can grab them and put them back inside me.”

You look at that cold glass of water. You extract your hand from Chan’s grip and gently wrap your fingers around the glass.

“I get them sometimes even when I’m not sleeping,” you continue. “I know it’s all in there. And I know it all started because of Changbin. He smashed through that glass, Chan, and now it’s all pouring out and taking me with it. I can’t just swim back and seal myself inside again. Maybe the way out is through.”

“What exactly do you want to do?” he asks.

“I want to put my mind back there,” you say. “I want to feel everything I have been running from. All the bad. All the anger. All the fear. I don’t know if it will work. Maybe nothing will happen and I won’t remember a thing. Maybe it will get worse and I’ll forget even more.” He winces at that, his shoulders dropping. You let go of the glass and touch him. “But there’s a difference this time,” you say. “I’m doing this by choice. I’m doing this with you. I trust you with everything that I am.”

“And what exactly,” he says even slower, “do you want me to do?”

“I can’t exactly drown myself,” you say.

He gets quickly to his feet and turns away, rubbing his face. You stand as well, your chair scraping across the hotel room floor.

“Drown,” Chan says, seemingly talking to the air because he doesn’t look at you. “Drown,” he repeats. “You want me to – you want me to drown you. Drown you?”

He spins around to face you, expression contorted with horror, hurt, and anger.

“How can you—” he says. “How can I—”

You step around the table and approach him slowly. He doesn’t balk or push you away, though he is breathing heavily. His skin is warm, even through his flannel when you lay a hand on his chest. You guide him a little closer.

“Like last night,” you say. “It’s different, Chan. It’s you. It’s me.”

“This is insane,” he says. “What if it doesn’t work, like you said? What if you get worse? What if—”

“I’m not leaving him behind,” you say. You picture Changbin on that roof, clasping your hand. That scarred palm is resting on Chan now. You turn it over and look at it, his eyes straying there too. “I don’t know what happened before,” you say. “I don’t know what will happen in the future. But right now, my friend is sitting somewhere and he thinks he’s alone. But he’s not. I’m not. You’re not.” Your voice gets shaky. Those tears come back, pouring from somewhere buried inside you, cold and rough as it comes out of you. “This is my choice,” you say. “I want to do this. I’m not scared.”

“I know,” he says. He releases a breath and drops forward. He wraps his arms around you and presses his forehead to yours. “That’s why you terrify me.”

You laugh through your tears, wrapping your arms around him too.

“I’m insane,” you say. “Might as well use it to our advantage.”

“You’re lucky I’m insane too,” he says.

He speaks with a lighter voice. When you withdraw, his face screws up with sadness and he pulls you back.

“Just – a little longer,” he says, cupping the back of your head and putting it on his shoulder. You can’t see his face like that and you think that’s the point, knowing he’s crying just by the way his chest rises and falls. “Just – just a second,” he says. “Please.”

Oh, maybe that was his pleading last night. Just a little longer.

“Okay,” you say. You hug him tightly. The back of his stolen shirt crinkles in your hands. You have nothing to your name, but you have each other, and you hold on tight for as long as you possibly can.

You get ice from the hotel machine, bucket after bucket dumped in the bathtub. Chan starts running cold water while you strip down to your underclothes and a t-shirt. You sit on the bed, listening to the water in the other room, closing your eyes and fighting to recall all those fragments. They are all sharp to the touch, jagged edges, truly like shattered glass. If you touch the memory at the wrong angle, it makes you bleed with an agonizing pain.

Your hands are already shaking. You put them between your knees, trying to steady to them. You look at the sunlight coming through the window. You remind yourself this is not like those dank, dark rooms. This is not Miroh. Everything has changed.

The water stops running. Chan appears in the main room again. He looks as wan and sick as you feel, but he nods resolutely, sharp as a salute.

“Ready when you are,” he says.

You stand and follow him into the bathroom. The tub is filled to the brim with ice cold water. It looks nothing like that dark and dirty well in the facility, but a chill moves down your spine nonetheless. You see that well, remember peering down in the darkness. It looked like it never ended. You can see the bottom of the tub through the ice.

Just like last night, you told Chan, reminding him of every chase and fight between you. You put yourself very literally in his hands, just like you are doing now. It was a recreation of real danger, just like now. But it was safe, and you were fine, just like now, just like you will be.

He drags the footstool from the chair in the main room, places it beside the tub. He sits there, one hand swirling around in the water to get used to it. You can see him shiver.

You stand over him, looking down at the water, at his hand moving around and around. He looks up at you.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says.

“I know,” you say. You reach down and touch the water too. It is so cold that it burns. You are built to withstand extremities, so this will not have the same lasting damage that it would on a regular person, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt the same way.

You straighten. Your fingers tingle, dripping cold.

“I’m going to try and fight you,” you remind him. “It’s just instinct. You have to keep me down there, take me right to the edge, as far as you possibly can, then bring me back up. You have the timer ready?”

He is going to push you to the limit, again and again, replicating the drowning torture in a hope it will tap into the part of your brain that correlates those memories with that feeling. He is to do it within a certain timeframe or until you pass out, whichever happens first. After that, you will take a few hours to recuperate. If it doesn’t work, you will try one more time later tonight. After that, you have to consider it a failure because he isn’t doing it a third time. You agreed.

He nods a bit too emphatically now, clearly wracked with nerves. He stripped down to a sleeveless shirt so you wouldn’t be grabbing the flannel sleeve when you inevitably start to fight back. It will be the body’s response to attempted drowning. It’s why you can’t do this to yourself. It’s why no one else could possibly do it to you, because you would overpower them.

Besides, there is no one you trust like Chan. You put a hand on his shoulder and remind him of that fact.

“I trust you,” you say. “Whatever happens—”

“Don’t say goodbye to me,” he says, his eyes lowered, gaze far away.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. You are utterly rapt, looking down at him, at where he wanders deep into his thoughts. He pulls himself out eventually and lifts his head, gazes up at you.

“You said goodbye once before,” he says. “You’re not doing it again. You’re going to come back to me, okay? In – in any condition.” He sucks in several jagged breaths as he visibly tears up, words escaping on a gasping stutter. “I – I – I don’t care if you never get better, yeah?” he says. “I don’t care if we’re messy and dealing with this for the rest of our lives. Just come back to me, okay? Just – just promise you’ll come back.”

You pull him against you, let him bury his face against your middle while he breathes hard. He holds you for another long moment then composes himself, surfacing with a deep, heaving breath. He shakes his head then nods towards the tub.

“All right,” he says. “I got you. Always.”

“I know,” you say. You touch his face, tilt it up to look at you. “Thank you, Chan. Chris. Everyone you are. For everything you’ve done.”

“You know, you’re actually the only one who refused to call me Chris,” he says, laughing through his tears. “I think you just did it to annoy me.”

“I am pretty annoying,” you say, gesturing the tub.

“Definitely not the time for jokes,” he says, but laughs a little anyway.

You pat his cheek, give him one last watery smile, then you step into the tub.

Even that first descent is a mind-numbing shock. Inch by inch you submerse yourself, feeling like you are sinking into a tub filled with all those sharp, jagged edges of glass. You look down, panicking for half a second because the water is swirling red and pink. It makes no sense but you must be literally bleeding.

Then the image splinters and you realize you are not bleeding, not now. You are remembering a different motel tub – your blood swirling in a pool at your feet moments before Chan walked in and scooped you up, carrying you to safety.

He is still here now. He says your name. He says, “Easy. You’re okay. You’re safe, all right?”

You nod, closing your eyes. You listen to his voice. Maybe it is the sound, or maybe the physical pain, but a rush of tears are already rising to your eyes. They stab as ferociously, pouring down your face. It feels so hot compared to the water of the tub, almost like a stream of blood.

“It’s okay,” Chan is saying. “I’m going to grab you now, okay?”

You nod, eyes still screwed shut. His hand comes around your neck, just a gentle grip at first, letting you get used to it. You have felt that touch a few times now. It sends a familiar spark of heat shooting through you. You remember your name on his gasping lips, remember his mouth open on yours. You remember that dream of a kiss, warmer, hotter, more loving than anything you had ever encountered before. Your first real kiss. You see it for a moment, see him, younger, looking at you with hopeful anticipation as your eyes flutter open.

“Chan,” you say.

“It’s me,” he says, tightening his grip on your neck. “I got you. I’m right here. I’ll count you in, then it’s up to you. But I have you, all right? You’re safe.”

Your eyes are closed, but you still see him, young and smiling softly. His hand is on your face, warm where your tears fall.

“Three,” he says. “Two. One.”

It crashes over your head, a torrent of freezing water. You scream in the darkness, flailing desperately, but the well is narrow and you only succeed in bruising yourself when you try to splay your limbs out.

The darkness is not a void, not pure pitch, but cast with a pearly, luminescent sheen. It starts to swirl into a dizzying mess the longer you are down there. Then it starts to fade, true darkness creeping in at the corners.

You are yanked out abruptly. There is light, hot and sickly yellow, burning on your ice cold skin.

“Stop,” Chan is saying, crying, a blubbering mess that makes him sounds ten years younger. He is already young. He’s barely past eighteen. “Please,” he says. “This is my fault, don’t—”

You open your eyes to look at him. It feels like peeling skin off iced metal, your eyelids fighting every inch of the way. But you manage, barely, looking at him through the water dripping off your forehead.

He is prostrate on the floor, completely horizontal, a short chain around his neck clipped to a hook on the ground. He can’t even turn his head. He can only stare ahead at you, staring back at him.

There is something around your neck too. It keeps you in a strangled state even though you are out of the water. The vice tightens when you aren’t floating, so you don’t really get a proper breath of air. In fact, you’re not sure if it’s worse in or out of the water.

You don’t have much time to think about it, because you are plunged back in, the sound of his shouting disappearing in the blurring whirl of bubbling water.

You are yanked back out, and you are grown, in a hotel bathtub, gasping and clawing at the feeling around your neck. You get a breath, only just, then you are back underwater.

You see Chan again, grown, in that hotel gym last night. You feel him, hot and heavy, holding you tight against his body. You roll out from under him, jump to your feet. He laughs and smiles, you smile back, and you run at each other. You raise your fist to throw a punch you know he can deflect—

Except he doesn’t. The punch lands and it lands hard. He falls onto his back and there is no training mat to soften the impact. He smashes down onto a concrete floor and you just watch. There is a sickening crack, and it objectively grosses you out, watching him cry out in pain. But you don’t feel anything, do you? No. You just know you have to fight him. You just know he is everything that is causing you pain. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. He’s the reason you’re here. He’s the reason everything feels like ice.

“Stop,” he says, pushing himself up despite the blood slipping down his face. It isn’t the first hit. You’ve already broken his nose. You’re not sure if his face is red because of you or because he won’t stop crying, as if this isn’t all his fault. “You don’t want to do this,” he says. “You don’t want to hurt me. You don’t, you can’t—”

You run at him again and he finally defends himself. He doesn’t attack, but he blocks shot after shot, letting you move around the fighting space. It looks like a cage, or a prison. Someone is watching on the other side.

“With a daddy like that—” Chan teases, and you laugh on the hotel mat.

You don’t land on a mat. You land on the floor when Chan sweeps too hard and knocks you down. He panics, immediately drops down beside you to check that you are all right. You slam your fist between his eyes.

“She’ll kill you if I ask,” your father says, circling the iron bars, watching Chan as he backs up like he is watching a wild animal. You might as well be, running on pure instinct, watching with predatory eyes as he backs right up to the bars.

Your father stands behind him.

“You will, won’t you?” Miroh asks you. “If I put you on a mission right now. You’d do exactly what I say. You’d even hurt him.”

“This isn’t you,” Chan says, ignoring him, looking at you, though nothing is gazing back. He says your name and it might as well be a made-up word for all that it is meaningless.

You’re Miroh’s daughter. Nothing else matters.

“I’d fight back if I were you,” Miroh says, patting Chan on the head before simply striding away. Over his shoulder, he says, “It’s you or her. The choice is yours.”

You run straight at Chan. His eyes get wide and he throws his hand out to stop you.

It catches you around the neck and you are drawn out of the water. Hot yellow lights, hotel gold, then back under again.

You are swinging back, throwing a punch, but you’re not fighting Chan. It’s someone in a mask, his face fully covered. You push and kick and punch, going around and around in circles, a perfect match like you were built exactly the same way by exactly the same person.

Felix takes off the mask and disappears over the balcony railing. You chase him and he swings back up, kicking off your mask. It clatters across the metal walkway. You tackle him and you both fall off the balcony edge.

You land on your back. Felix is on top of you, reeling back his arm. You dodge the punch, rolling out from under him. You are both younger, both in the black uniform of Miroh.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. “Felix, it didn’t have to be this way. I could’ve helped you. I’m on your side.”

“I can’t afford sides,” he says, shaking his head rapidly. “I need to get out of here. Chris needs to get out of here. If you care about him—”

“You don’t know the first thing about that,” you snap.

Your emotions make you clumsy. Felix easily catches your flying fist and twists it around. Your whole body follows, then the ground is rushing up to meet you.

There is blackness all around you, whether your eyes are opened or closed. You jump when a hand reaches through the dark. You reach out too, trace your fingers over a familiar brow, down a cheek, his jaw, his neck.

“Chan?” you say.

“I’m here,” he says, wiping your tears, comforting you. “I’m always here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Then his hand is gone. His face disappears. You swing your hand through the shadows and scream his name but he isn’t there anymore.

You’re completely alone in the darkness.

An earth-shattering eruption shudders all around you, blowing through the black with a burst of grey fog. When it settles, you are in a warehouse, the wooden ceiling partially obliterated from the explosion. You are trapped under rubble, only alive because you managed to fall in a slight dip so the concrete block across your body is not fully crushing you.

It will, though. You can’t breathe. Your chest is being compressed and you are dizzy, your ears ringing, and you can’t hope to budge the concrete block at this vantage. Even though you are stronger than other normal eighteen year olds, you are not fully superhuman. Maybe Chan could move it, but Chan is gone. Your father’s men grabbed him. That was the last thing you saw before the explosion.

Maybe he’s getting away, you think. Maybe they’re all getting away.

Even while dreaming it, you know it isn’t true. It was stupid to think you could take on your father. The inevitable reckoning found you. It’s all over. You didn’t save anyone. Not even yourself. You’re going to die like you lived, trapped under the rubble of your father’s fortune, all alone in quiet pain.

“Hey!”

You hear a voice at a distance. It only just barely pierces the ringing in your ears so you aren’t sure how close it really is.

“It’s me,” the voice says. “I’m coming!”

You can’t keep your eyes open. You can’t breathe like this and your body is getting colder and colder. You feel a presence even though you can’t see who it is, your eyes too heavy, the block on your chest heavier and heavier still.

“Wake up,” says the voice. “Hey, wake up. Please. Please wake up.”

It feels almost impossible, like pushing that weight off your chest, but you peel your eyes open slowly. There is dust in your eyes and in the air, the grey smoke of the explosion still puffing around you. Your eyes water to clear the worst of it.

Through the dust, smoke, and tears, you see Changbin, all his sharp, young features, swallowed up in his black uniform. The blast must have shot some debris his way because he’s bleeding, a thin streak of blood on his forehead, a line of red spilling down his cheek.

He ignores it completely, leaning down, tapping your cheek some more.

“It’s me,” he says. “Hold on. Keep your eyes open. Don’t go. I promise I’ll get you out.”

“Changbin,” you croak. You watch as he sits back, frantically measuring the concrete block with his darting eyes. When he grabs a corner, you rapidly shake your head. “Stop,” you say. “Stop, you can’t move it.”

“I can,” he says. He tries to laugh, somehow manages to joke at a time like this and says, “I’m the strongest and best looking one here, princess. Don’t insult me.”

“Changbin, it’s too heavy,” you say. The force of it is bearing down on you more and more, all your father’s greedy hopes shoving you further and further into the ground.

It’s going to kill you. It was always going to kill you.

But it doesn’t have to kill him.

“Changbin, go,” you say.

He is leaning against the block, lining up like he intends to shove the whole thing with his shoulder. His head whips down to look at you, his face twisted up with disgust.

“No,” he says firmly.

“Changbin,” you say just as firmly, because the block doesn’t budge. It was never going to budge. “Changbin, look.” You nod towards a light where the explosion ripped through the wall, where the enemy’s men came pouring in and ran right past you. “You can go,” you say. “For good. It’s a way out. They’ll just think you’re dead. They’ll leave you behind, that’s the rule, that’s what they do. You can get away. Just leave me. It’s fine. This is your only chance. Go. Go now.”

He pauses for a second. He looks over his shoulder at where Miroh’s men are still scrambling, then he looks towards that light. He knows you’re right. He knows that if he gets up now and runs, they won’t catch him. They’ll leave him for dead. He can get away once and for all.

He stares towards that light for a long moment. Then he looks down at you. He changes position, wraps an arm over the block and puts his weight against the side.

“No,” he says again. “I’m not leaving here without you.”

He pushes the block. It scrapes the ground, pushes you a little deeper. For a second, it hurts so much worse, then he gets his shoulder under it and takes the brunt of the weight. With another grunting heave, he straightens out and shoves it off you completely. It makes a horrible screeching sound as it moves across the floor, but you’re free.

You can breathe all at once, sucking in a huge lungful of air. Changbin leans over you, gathers you up into his arms and pulls you into a sitting position.

“You’re so stupid,” you say, choking on a sob. “I hate you.”

“I know,” he says, wiping the tears and dust off your face. “Love you too.”

“Stand back, soldier,” one of your father’s men appears, stepping out of the smoke like a monster. He multiplies, more of your father’s back-up arriving one by one. They circle you and Changbin.

You nod at your friend. There is no winning this fight. Not today. Not like this.

Relenting, Changbin steps back. One of the men grab him and push him to the side, redirecting him away. He is promptly forgotten in his supposed insignificance. The rest of them keep a circle around you.

Your father crosses through that circle. He looks down at you. You remember seeing emotion in his eyes, once, enough that he could be furious, enough that he could be hateful. Now there is nothing. He looks at you like he would look at a pebble in his shoe. Disappointing but mostly inconvenient.

“Take her,” he says.

Someone grabs you by the neck. You are pulled to your feet, faster, higher. You get a glimpse of Chan behind your father, face beaten bloody, limp body held up by another guard.

“Chan!” You try and move towards him but the grip on your neck tightens.

You can’t scream in the circle of that vice. Whatever sound you want to make disappears in the ice as you are plunged back under water. You open your eyes in the cold, look through the darkness until there is light, until everything is whiteness all around you. No windows, no doors. Beyond sterile. Cold. Empty. Nothing before or after.

Then you are pulled back up. You realize the white walls were the sides of the hotel bathtub. You suck in a desperate, shuddering gasp of a breath. It goes right down to the depth of your lungs, pulls you up from the inside out.

Chan says your name.

You open your eyes and see hotel bathtub faucet. Chan’s hands are on your arms rather than your neck as he hoists you out of the water. Like that first night, he bundles you in a towel. He says your name again, touches the side of your cold and clammy face.

It takes you a minute to find his face, his real face, living and warm and right now.

He stares down at you with his familiar dark eyes, breathing hard like he was the one exerting himself.

“You were right,” you say in a hoarse voice. Despite everything, a laugh bursts out of you. It hurts, it hurts like burning ice, but then it feels so much better.

“About what?” he asks.

“I did always call you Chan,” you say.

Then you collapse in his arms, your eyes closing. A torrent of memories come flooding back.

#bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan smut #bang chan x you #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut #chan x you #stray kids x you #skz x you

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wosoluver · 3 months

Note

Can I please do a Request for Obi called Jealously?

Reader has been in love with Lena for a while and it’s no secret with countless advances being made and Lena shooting all of them down. Though this all changes when a new player joins the team and gets very close to reader. But why should it matter Lena doesn’t see Reader like that or does she?

Jealousy

Part 1 - next

Lena Oberdorf x reader

Lena Oberdorf Masterlist

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

"Can you do my hair, the usual?" asked Lena.

"For you, always." you answered as she sat in the bench in front of your locker. You were all getting ready for the day's match.

Parting her hair to get started, your face twisted in concentration. You were the most dedicated person she knew. No matter what for.

"You have the softest hair." you said absentmindedly. Taking in the smell of her cherry blossom shampoo you loved so much.

She admired you with puppy eyes, as you secured the bun with the last bobby pin.

By now you were used to doing the hairstyle for her, but she never got used to the feeling that would install in her stomach as she stared at every freckle or blemish on your face, or how your eyes always had a sparkle to them.

"All done. Go check if you like it." as you finished up, and she got up to look at it in the mirror.

As you turned around to put the hair products away you saw Lea shake her head with a smirk on her face.

was it that obvious?

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

to everyone else it was.

"I'll pick you up at seven."

"To go where?" you asked confused.

"Dinner at Syd's."

"Almost forgot about that. Well, I can drive myself."

"Yeah, but wouldn't you prefer I drive us there?" Said Lena frowning.

And you only agreed with her. Of course you did. You didn't want to seem so dependent on her. Even though everyone knew you were dependent on each other.

When she texted you she was outside, you were quick to get out and into the passenger seat.

"Hey." she said, placing her hand on the back of your headrest, looking over her shoulder to reverse.

You watched her with attentive eyes. When you thought she couldn't get hotter, you were proven wrong.

"Stop staring at me like that!" she said with a small laugh.

"Sorry, just checking for some new gray hairs on your head. They seem to multiply every time I check." you said trying to turn the conversation in a different direction.

"You said the other day I'd look cute as a granny!"

"I did." immediately earning a small smile from her. "But I wasn't counting on you having gray hair by 30." you added.

And she quickly made a fake offended face.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

Dinner was nice. You were seated in between Giulia and Obi. At first it was Klara who was sat there, but Lena insisted for them to switch, so she could be the one to sit by you.

Conversations were exchanged freely between all, sometimes about serious stuff, sometimes making jokes at each other. Lena was always the first one up when it came to poking fun at her friends.

"You'll die alone if you keep that up!" said Syd to her friend.

"Aw don't be so mean! It's nothing to stress about. If nothing works out, we'll marry each other." you said trying to defend Lena.

"We made that agreement when we were ten! It's not like it's still valid." she was quick to add. Meaning harm or not, that had taken back not only you but the whole friend group. You immediately removed your hand from her thigh, your smile fading, and the alcohol leaving your body.

Of course you had made advances before, and she would always end up turning them down, despite acting the exact opposite of that, and giving you mixed signals.

It's like she pretended to herself, there was nothing there.

You felt embarrassed. But you decided to just shake it off and grab another drink.

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

"What the fuck was that?" asked Lea while she, and a couple of the girls, cleaned up the kitchen, so they could gossip a little over what went down, few minutes prior.

"I have no idea."

"I don't get it.

Why does she keep acting like Y/N is a lovesick woman pursuing someone that doesn't feel the same?

She's the one who can't stand an hour away from her!"

"Did you see her earlier? 'wouldn't you prefer I drive us there'," she said imitating her friend's voice. "Girl can barely function without Y/N."

"What if she doesn't realize it?"

"How?! She acts like she's the only person in the world, just to turn around and reject the poor girl."

"Either she is clueless emotionally or she's leading her on out of fun."

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

"Good morning, everyone!" you said coming into the locker room to get ready for training. Everyone greeted you while finishing whatever they were doing.

"Hey!" said Ana, one of the new players you had become friends with. "Can you help me with my hair?"

"Yes. Let me put everything down." you did. And you hadn't even noticed, Obi's arrival. After that you only grabbed your boots and your water and left for the field, almost late.

Lena had a hard expression on. Your fingers should lace around her strands and her strands only.

Your voice was always her favorite thing in the mornings, followed by coffee.

The slight decrease of attention, stung like a hundred bees had driven into her chest, reaching to her heart.

And everyone noticed, exchanging looks before joining in outside.

"Everyone divide in trios for the drills." said one of the trainers.

You immediately stuck by Ana knowing she still hadn't made many friends yet.

It was always the worst to be the last to be picked out.

So you made sure that didn't happen to her. At least not in the first couple of weeks.

Lena was quick to follow behind you, not wanting to potentially be called up for any other group.

after training

"You'll do great! We needed someone with your skills here." you said to the girl.

"Thank you, really."

"You know what? I can take you to the spot with the best açai bowls in town! Lena and I usually go there after trainings. You can join us, right?" you said turning to Obi.

"Yeah, yeah sure." she answered with the best worse smile she could manage.

She was hating this whole interaction. But she was not about to leave you alone, with her teammate rival, in her favorite food place.

That would feel like a double loss.

Arriving there, you went straight to your usual spot by the window, so you could enjoy the sunlight.

Usually Lena would sit opposite from you, in the shade, while you enjoyed the warm.

It always brought a smile to her face to watch you sunbathe.

Like a flower savoring the first sun ray of spring after a long winter.

So she shouldn't have felt so bothered by Ana sitting next to you. Right?

She was about to get up, to order both of your usuals, but you beat her to it.

"It's okay, I'll order so I can help Ana too."

Once more it was as if fire was coming out of her nostrils and steam coming out of her ears.

Was she even allowed to feel this way? After all she had been the one to make sure to keep as, just friends.

And you were probably just being friendly, to the girl, who knew nothing in this new country.

But she had never dealt with this. With jealousy.

It's been just the two of you for so long, she had stopped considering other people as threats.

Threats to an inexistent relationship with you, that she had successfully kept that way, with foolish actions.

"It'll be right out." you said snapping her out of her thoughts, placing the water bottle she usually had in front of her while sitting down.

"Where's Ana?"

"She went to the restroom. Are you okay? Did you get hurt during training?"

"What? No, I'm fine."

"You're quiet and honestly you have a bitch face on." you said managing to get a sweet laugh out of her.

And before she could elaborate, you were once again joined by your friend.

After having some light conversation and finishing up your snacks you all headed out.

"Thanks for the invitation and the ride guys!" said Ana getting out of the car.

"No problem, see you tomorrow!" "bye" you and Lena said at the same time.

You turn the engine back on.

"She reminds me a lot of what it was like when I first got here. It can get pretty lonely, hopefully she settles in nicely." you said paying attention on the road, the tables turning and she was now the one staring at you.

Mind wondering off.

What a woman you were.

Why? Why were you always so kind and mindful about others?

Ana was welcomed by everyone in the team, and everyone tried to interact with her.

But you went beyond, as you always did. You tried to make her feel like she was included in everything, you tried to befriend her and actually cared enough to invite her out and show her places.

And why? Why was she so stupid, about how she felt. About how you felt. Constantly turning down every opportunity presented at her.

It felt right and wrong to be jealous over you. Wrong, because you were doing the right thing, it's who you were. And it wouldn't be normal if you didn't do everything in your power to help someone else out.

But if felt absolutely right to feel overzealous, after all, you were quite the catch, and she wasn't doing much to prevent others from sweeping you off your feet.

And the regret hit her like a tsunami of emotions.

"We're here, Obi." you snapped her out of her thoughts. Unlocking the door.

"Uhm, see you tomorrow." she said getting out.

"Yep."

──✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧──

Thank you for your request! 🩷

What do you think it's Lena's next step here? tell me in the comments.

like and share!

#woso x reader #lena oberdorf #lena oberdorf x reader

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berry-potchy · 1 year

Text

Indulge Me

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x f!reader Rating: Explicit (18+ only please) Word Count: 7,072 Summary: You're a Spiderwoman who has ended up pinned underneath Miguel O'Hara in his lab one too many times. You're not sure what you are to him or what to call your relationship. And that would've been fine until your neediness kicked in and made you catch feelings. Surely, Miguel taking you to his room for the first time means something right? In which your lack of understanding of Spanish and denial of the hints Miguel drops are keeping you from realizing you already have what you want. Tags/warnings: pwp, p in v sex, rough sex, praise + light degradation, multiple orgasms and overstimulation, face sitting/riding, breeding kink, soft dom!Miguel, needy reader, recording, mirror sex adjacent, implied chubby reader, undefined relationship but soft feelings sprinkled in there as a treat, no use of y/n so lots of Spanish nicknames to make up for it, reader does not understand Spanish, brief sexy use of spider webs A/N: this is quite literally just a self-indulgent fic with most of my favorite Miguel x reader flavors. Not beta read but I hope you still enjoy it! (Translations are the end!)

Also on AO3

Edit: turns out some parts got messed up while I was posting here on Tumblr D: it's fine on AO3 though which is weird because I copied from this post instead of my doc because this has the correct spacing. Everything should be fixed now.

•🕷️────✧˖°˖🕸️˖°˖✧────🕷️•

Miguel has you standing in front of him between his parted legs as he sits on the edge of his bed. Even in this position, you were barely any much taller than him, only needing to tilt your head a bit to meet his red eyes. He looks at you from your face, down to the swell of your breast where his eyes are joined by a taloned finger on its journey downwards. You can’t help but let out a soft sigh as the sharp talon cuts through your spandex suit, fully exposing your soft chest to the cold air of his quarters. He would argue that the stretchy translucent mesh with a spiderweb lace design on your chest area didn’t do shit to cover the fullness of your tits anyway so he didn't understand why you even bothered with it. It was for style obviously but riling up Miguel O’Hara was a great bonus. You let out a shaky breath as he continued further down until he stopped right below your navel.

“Que linda,” he says in that low sexy voice of his, very different from the usual grumpy tone he uses to chastise you. He snakes his arms around your hips, bringing you closer to him and his hands find your plush bottom, giving them a rough squeeze. You are getting so worked up by how much attention you are getting from your usually sulky boss. Your heaving chest is right in front of Miguel’s face and his lustful gaze almost feels like it is burning you. The heat spreads from your chest downwards until it pools in the pit of your stomach and between your legs.

“You ruined my suit,” you pout, not really that upset about it. You think it was hot honestly but you just want to tease him “Am I supposed to go on missions with my whole chest out now? Walk around the HQ flashing everyone?”

“Of course not,” he says, rolling his eyes. He continues to take in your figure, hands gently kneading soft flesh on your sides “I’m making you a new suit. Should be done very soon. It'll be the same design but it will offer far more protection than this flimsy thing.”

“Making me a suit just like yours? What so you can control it hm? Deactivate it whenever you want to fuck me?” You laugh, wiping the imaginary tear in your eye until you realize Miguel is silent and looks like he’s been caught red-handed. You lightly slap him on his arm, flustered. “You’re a pervert, you know that?”

Instead of answering you, he brings his head forward to close his lips on a clothed nipple, his tongue flicking the sensitive erect bud. Your mouth opens as you let out a soft gasp at the sensation and you can feel the corner of Miguel’s lips twitch into a slight smirk. He teases your nipple alternating between flicking it with the tip of his tongue and giving it an audible suck. He pulls away for a split second only to give the same attention to your other nipple. You weave your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to your tits. Your other hand is holding onto his shoulder for support as you urge him to keep going with your whimpers. His hands haven’t stopped exploring your body. His wide hands warm against your hips, ass, thighs, everywhere he can touch, squeezing your softness, committing every curve to memory.

“Migueeeel,” you whine, rubbing your thighs together to try to relieve the ache between your legs. You appreciate the attention to your nipples but your cunt was throbbing with need. You are so close to ripping the rest of your suit and panties off because the way the fabric is sticking to your wet pussy is becoming too uncomfortable.

“Miguel what, muñeca?” He pulls away, licking his lips. Those red eyes are now looking straight into yours and you feel yourself shiver. You try to look away but Miguel grabs your chin to keep you facing him. “Eyes on me. What do you want? Use your words.”

“Please,” your cheeks burn in embarrassment but Miguel just raised an eyebrow at you, unamused. “Stop teasing please.”

“Ah I see okay,” he says, taking his hands off you before standing up and walking to his closet.

“W-wait what are you doing?” you almost trip on your feet, knees feeling weak, as you chase after him. You grab his arm, tugging at it to get his attention as you pathetically look up at him.

“You said stop teasing so I’m getting you a shirt so you can go back to your world and get some rest,” he says as he looks through the neatly folded shirts in his closet. He’s stalling, pretending he was trying to choose one but he’s messing with you. There is no way he would let you go home tonight without getting at least a couple of orgasms wrung out of you. You aren’t leaving until he made sure you were stuffed full and dripping with his cum. You aren’t leaving tonight. Period. He knew you were too far gone with lust to figure that out yourself.

“Miggy, that’s not what I meant please,” you sob, pressing your body against him. Just the thought of being left unsatisfied was painful. “Please, Miggy, I need your mouth. And your cock please”

He finally looks at you and pulls you closer to him by your waist. You run your hands along his still clothed chest, feeling his heart beating with yours. You look up at him with glassy eyes, begging him to finish what he started. He coos at how desperate you were for release.

“You want my mouth and my cock?” he hums, still teasing. He easily lifts you up with one arm supporting your ass to carry you back to his bed. He’s carried you multiple times before but it never ceases to amaze you how he does it so effortlessly. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, hips bucking trying to get some friction against your still unfortunately clothed cunt. “Where do you want them, muñeca? You have to be more specific. Which one do you want first?”

“On my pussy, please. I need your mouth on my pussy. Miggy, I wanna cum on your face” you sobbed against his neck “And then- and then I want you to fuck me. I want you to fill me up with your cock. Only you can fill me up so good, Miggy. I need it.”

“Good girl,” he whispers right next to your ear, making you shudder “Now, was that so hard to do? Was it hard to tell me what you wanted?”

“Yes!” you bite his shoulder and you feel satisfaction when you hear him break character and snort. He shakes his head, smiling fondly while he sets you down on the bed.

"Qué voy a hacer contigo?" he brings his lips to your temple to whisper more softly "Qué haría sin ti?"

Your heart skips a beat at the gentleness of his tone. You’re not sure what he said but the genuine affection is evident. Intimate moments like this with Miguel are slowly becoming more and more frequent and you decide that you don’t mind it. You even crave it now. A satisfied sigh leaves your lips as you lean further toward him.

He pulls away but the fond look on his face doesn’t waver. He slaps your thigh, making the soft fat jiggle just how he likes it, as he moves to get settled in his bed.

“Put those lovely hips and thighs to use and ride my face, conejita.” He lies down, anticipating, patting his chest to encourage you to sit down.

You didn't need to be told twice. You rip off the rest of your suit, your heated skin meeting the cold air of his room making your nipples pebble painfully. You quickly take off your panties and toss them aside with your ruined suit. You squeal as you scramble to get on top of him. You position yourself on top of his waiting mouth, straddling his face but just hovering over his face, hands on the headboard to keep yourself steady. The smell of your arousal is almost too much for Miguel to bear at this proximity. The urge to lock you in his room for the next few days and not let you out until you’re thoroughly fucked and bred is getting hard to ignore. His fangs extend as his animalistic urges surface, yearning to bite you and mark you as his.

“Are you trying to tease me now? How can you ride my face if you don’t sit?” Miguel’s tone is deeper than it was just a second ago. There’s a certain roughness to it, a growl in his voice that makes your hole clench around nothing. He grips your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, waiting for you to sit down or he’ll make you. He’s trying to be patient, turning his head a little to mouth at the fat of your inner thigh. He licks a stray trail of your slick up your thigh, stopping just a breath away from where you both want his mouth to be. You feel him sigh, savoring your taste like he just drank the finest nectar, a promise of what’s to come.

“But Miguel–” you yelp when he suddenly pulls you down by your thighs and you immediately feel his tongue lapping at your aching cunt, his nose bumping deliciously against your swollen clit. He wasn’t going to hear your excuses. The only things he wants to hear coming out of your pretty lips are your moans and whines for more. The way Miguel is sucking and devouring your wetness so eagerly makes your head spin and your grip on the headboard tighten to steady yourself for a moment. He teases your hole, licking around the small opening before plunging in as far as he can, feeling you clench around his tongue. He grows impatient at your lack of movement and starts rocking you back and forth on his face by himself. He flattens his tongue for you to grind your pretty folds onto.

“Miggy, feels so good,” you whine, bending over to look at him from under you. He’s so pretty like this, forehead scrunched up from how focused he is eating you out, and when you get a peak of his nose and his cheeks, they’re shiny from being soaked by a combination of your wetness and his own spit. You take one of your shaking hands off the headboard to brush the hair away from Miguel’s forehead only for him to guide your hand into a fist, grabbing his hair, urging you to use it as leverage to ride his face harder. And who are you to say no to that?

You move your hips to try to match the pace he set for you, your thighs burn but you pay it no mind. Not when you feel that familiar delicious knot forming in your core. Your head lolls to the side and your eyes screwed shut as you immerse in the pleasure, grinding your cunt harder on Miguel’s tongue, nose, chin, anywhere you can get some friction, getting desperate to reach your orgasm.

“‘M gonna cum, Miggy. Gonn’ cum on your face” you whimper. You take your hand off the headboard and bring it to your tits, squeezing them, pinching at rubbing circles on your pebbled nipples. Miguel doesn’t stop lapping hungrily at your pussy, shaking his head from side to side as much as your grip on his hair allows. He groans as he watches in awe as you chase your own pleasure.

So close.

You’re so close you swear you can almost taste it.

Miguel could tell from how your hips stuttered and your pace growing frantic, rougher. He gives your clit another suck and that finally pushes you over the edge.

You feel the sweet release consume you like wildfire, your body tensing, back arching, toes curling. You can’t even hear yourself scream Miguel’s name, curling into yourself as he continues to suck on your oversensitive, pulsating clit. His hands held your shaking thighs steady, not letting you close them. It’s all too much.

“Miggyyy,” you sob pathetically, pawing at his head and his grip on you. You finally manage to pry an eye open only to see him watching you intently “Too much. I can’t-”

He doesn’t stop. He continues to lick stripes at your puffy folds and flick the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue albeit slower this time. He takes one of his hands away from your thigh and plunges two of his thick fingers knuckle deep inside your needy hole. He manages to find your sweet cushiony spot and puts enough pressure on it to make you see stars. That burning hot coil is back just mere seconds after your climax and if you could think at that moment, you’d think it’s unfair how he seems to know your body too well, knows just where to touch to make you unravel.

He adds another finger into your cunt, stretching you out for his cock, curling them inside you, and hitting your sweet spot over and over again. You know that it’s not enough, that it’s nothing compared to what’s coming for you. No matter how much prep you do it's going to be a tight fit and you can’t wait to be stretched to your limits once more. You stop fighting him, needing to chase after your orgasm, grinding your clit again on his tongue as he pumps his fingers in and out of your slutty hole.

Soon enough, you feel your second orgasm wash over you. You spill over his face, making a mess on his pillows and bedsheets. Your limbs go numb and this time you can’t even form words, just sobbing, babbling nonsense as your body shakes on top of Miguel. You would’ve fallen over if it wasn't for Miguel supporting your back with his free hand. You frantically tap his hand as you hiccup a pathetic “no more.”

Miguel relents and lets you catch your breath for a second. He kisses your puffy cunt one more time before moving you to lie on your back on the bed. He lifts your head to turn over the soiled pillow and fluff it up before getting you settled comfortably. You watch as he catches the dripping wetness from his chin with his equally soaked fingers and sticks them into his mouth, eyes rolling back and moaning at your sweet taste. You feel your cunt throb at the lewd action and you can’t help but let out a needy whimper from the back of your throat. It’s so unfair how much he affects you.

“Ay, pobrecita,” he coos at your flushed face with fat tears running down your cheeks as he nudges your legs apart with his knee and settles between your parted legs. “too much for mi conejita to handle? I know you can take more. Your pussy is so slutty, isn’t she? So needy. I doubt two orgasms is enough.”

He cups your face with one hand, thumb wiping away a tear on your cheek, his other hand brushing your hair away from your face, knowing how much you hate the feeling of it sticking to your skin. Your lower lip is jutting out in an adorable pout that he can’t help but kiss, catching your lip between his teeth. You scrunch up your nose and push his face away as you try to steady your breath.

You can see his naked chest rise and fall faster than usual, his mouth open to catch his own breath. You didn’t even notice when he disabled his suit but your eyes are thankful as you drink in the sight of his warm brown skin, stretching across the expanse of his unfairly defined body. He looks like he was sculpted by the gods themselves, taking extra care to give him the most perfect proportions. How lucky are you to see this masterpiece up close? It would be a sin to not enjoy the view.

Your eyes trail down from his strong broad shoulders to his massive tits, and even further down to see his cock standing up proudly against his navel, the head dripping beads of precum and smearing it against his abs. Pride blooms in your chest as you realize that he’s just as affected as you are.

Your throat suddenly feels so empty. You lick your lips as you tear your eyes off his cock to look up at his face only to find his hungry gaze meeting yours. His eyes glint with danger as he takes in the sight of you in your post-orgasm haze, seemingly plotting his next move.

You didn’t have to wait long because, of course, he can’t keep his hands away from you.

He moves closer, making you spread your legs further. His hands grab at the back of your thighs to push them towards your torso, your knees almost touching your chest. Your dripping cunt twitches as it’s exposed to the cold air. Your hole clenching on nothing, begging to be filled.

“Que rico. Podría acostumbrarme a esto,” he says, his voice deep and rough with lust as his hands rub up and down your thighs, squeezing, feeling you. He drinks up the sight of you, so bare and exposed, all for him to take. “I could watch you like this all day. Maybe take a video of you right now so I can watch your pretty cunt pulsing, crying for me, anytime I want. Or…”

He takes his cock in one hand, running his thumb on the swollen tip to spread the beads of precum around, pumping his shaft with a few languid strokes. You yelp when he slaps his thick, heavy cock against your puffy folds.

“I could tie you up like this and keep you here for my own pleasure.” He starts moving his hips at a torturously slow pace, sliding his length along your wet folds, getting it lubricated by your own slick. He brings his hands back to your thighs and pushes them even further until you’re practically folded in half. “Keep you here to breed. Fill you up with so much cum and you’ll stay like this so it will surely take, yeah?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Miggy” you hiss as the tip of his cock keeps bumping into your throbbing clit “What’s stopping you from doing so huh? You have your web and your little surveillance bots. Put them to good use.”

“Of course, you’d love that, my pretty little slut,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he lines up the tip of his cock with your hole. Your eyelids flutter as you hold your breath in anticipation, waiting for that delicious stretch of being filled by his massive cock.

“Eyes on me, cariño,” he commands and you obey, looking up at him from under your lashes “That’s it, good girl.”

He starts to slowly press his cock into your greedy hole. Inch by inch, he sinks in, knocking the air out of your lungs. Midway, maybe, you can’t tell, there’s just so much of him, you start to feel a little faint, your shoulders tense and your mouth stuck hanging open. You feel so full of him, almost like he’s going to split you apart.

“Breathe for me,” he coos as he slowly presses more of him into you, filling you up more than what should be possible. He drapes your legs over his shoulders, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs as he uses his now free hands to cradle your face. You suck in a breath as he instructed and try to even out your breathing. “There you go. Keep breathing. Relax for me. Thaaat’s it. My sweet girl. So good for me.”

You preen at his words, warmth flooding your chest and going straight down to your pussy. His hands stay on your cheeks, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin as he pushes the last few inches in. You put your hands on top of his as you lean into his touch. He starts to grind his hips slowly, gently, getting you used to his size. The coarse dark curls at the base of his cock tickle your sensitive clit and the head of his cock softly probing at your cervix makes you roll your eyes back and whimper from the fullness.

“Eres tan hermosa. No sabes lo que me haces, cariño,” he leans in to capture your lips into a deep kiss. Soft and gentle until both of you wanted more. One of his hands finds the back of your neck to tilt your head as he pleases as he tries to devour you. His tongue licks into your mouth and his fangs graze your lips with every movement. You hum against his lips as you feel him start to pull his hips back, letting his dick slide halfway out before snapping his hips forward to plunge himself back inside, his balls lewdly smacking against your ass. And he keeps doing it over, and over again making you moan oh so wantonly.

“Estás tan rica. Estás hecha para mí, mi amor,” he whispers against your lips. The breathlessness and the hint of desperation for release in his voice make you shiver. His pace picks up, thrusts growing rougher with it. The wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you and skin slapping against skin echo around his room. The only other sounds you can hear are your combined sounds of pleasure, calling out each other’s names.

You pull on the hand that Miguel has on your cheek to lace your fingers together, his large hand easily dwarfing yours, his talons folded back to not hurt you. Your other hand slips between your bodies, travelling downwards to feel where you two are connected. There’s a deep rumble coming from Miguel’s chest and he presses your sweaty foreheads together, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. Your tight heat is milking his cock so perfectly and at this rate, he’s not going to last long.

“Miggy,” you whine, keeping your eyes on his. His irises seem a little more brown as he looks at you so tenderly, making you feel like you are going to melt into a puddle of goo. He brings your joined hands to his lips to kiss your knuckles and you think you really just might turn into goo.

His thrusts get messier and more frantic You feel the familiar coil building up in your stomach. You lift your hand from between your legs to press firmly against the area below your navel and the sensation is electrifying. You can feel his cock pistoning in and out of you from where you are touching. You can feel him rearranging your insides, molding your pussy to accommodate him and only him, ruining you for anyone else.

“Mi niña hermosa, mi niña linda. Mía. Toda mía.” he moans into your ear, almost whiney and you know he’s near the edge. He starts peppering kisses on your neck, licking, sucking, grazing the sensitive skin with his fangs but not sinking them in yet. He takes the hand you aren’t holding to rest on your hand on your lower stomach. His thumb reaches further down to stroke your clit earning him a shaky whine from you.

“Cum for me again, hermosa,” he lifts his head to look at your flushed face. You’re sure you look like a mess but to him, you’re more beautiful than the brightest twinkling stars on a clear night sky. “Let me see your pretty face when you cum.”

And with that, you’re gone, pushed over the edge, screaming his name, squirting clear liquid up to his chest. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, your hold on his hand tightens, and your legs on his shoulders shake and flail from another intense orgasm. There’s ringing in your ears but you faintly hear him cooing at you, whispering sweet words you can’t quite understand.

Miguel is still fucking into you with messy, frantic thrusts and ragged breaths but it doesn’t take long for him to follow, not when your velvety walls are pulsing, contracting on his dick. He puts a large hand on the space beside your head for support, his claws tearing through the pillowcase, as he drives his hips into yours a few more times before spilling inside you with a deep growl. He paints your insides with his cum as he rides his high with a few more shallow thrusts. You clench around him trying to squeeze as much cum out of him with your tight hole and he whimpers your name.

Both of you pant in unison, trying to catch your breath after that life-altering orgasm together. You turn your head to the side to kiss the inside of Miguel's wrist next to your head. Miguel doesn’t want to move. Everything is too perfect at that moment. You’re perfect.

But he has more plans for you tonight.

He takes your legs off his shoulders to wrap around his waist as he adjusts the both of you so he can lay down comfortably on top of you, putting most of his weight on his elbows on the bed. His dick still plugged in your hole, keeping his seed inside and refusing to part with your tight heat.

“Miggy,” you softly call him, looking at his relaxed face resting on your shoulder, eyes closed.

“Hm?”

“... pull out.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Fine, but only because I want to,” he grumbles, clearly not wanting to pull out. He gets on his knees again so he can at least watch your sloppy hole fluttering as he slowly pulls out. A thick milky ring of your combined fluid sits at the base of his cock. His eyes darken as he sees your cunt trying to clench at air and his cum starts to drip out of you. He can’t have that. He collects the trail of cum with his fingers so he can stuff them back inside of you.

“Miggy, come back here,” you pull at his hand and when he doesn’t budge, you add “You can just cum inside me more later. I need cuddles.”

That gets him to leave your fucked out hole alone. For now. Miguel kisses your stomach up to the valley between your breasts to your neck and lingers on your lips. He goes back to his earlier position on top of you. You drape your arms around his neck as you hum in contentment against the kiss. He smiles and moves to mouth at your sensitive neck, planting soft kisses, licking and sucking as he moans and pants in your ear.

“Miggy, I’m sleepy now,” you turn to look at him. You know what he’s doing. You know that he’s trying to turn you on again. And it’s working.

“You can do one more, mami. One more for me,” he says. He’s almost pouting, almost begging “You said I can cum in you again.”

“I didn’t mean right away. I just came three times already” you whined wrapping your arms around his broad chest. you want to feel him close.

“Mmm, you can cum four times. Maybe more because you’re such a needy little whore,” he murmurs into your neck, not stopping his ministrations. “My cum slut who loves being bred. We’re not going to end the night without your tummy full of cum I promise you that, cariño.”

You roll your eyes at him but you don't push him away and instead start playing with the short curly hairs at the back of his neck, ignoring the way your pussy shivered at his perverted words. You find comfort in his warmth and weight on top of you. You inhale his familiar deep masculine scent and it almost lulls you to sleep until you feel something wet and hard poking at your thigh.

“How are you hard again?” you say in disbelief as you look down and sure enough, Miguel’s dick is erect and ready to go for another round.

“It’s been a while since we had sex and my hand could only do so much to make up for your absence, cariño,” he huffs as gets up on his knees to turn you over and slap your ass. The sound of his palm meeting the sticky wet skin of your ass is undeniably lewd. “And what about needing to get you pregnant does not make sense to you? Get on your hands and knees for me. That baby is not gonna make itself.”

You plant your knees on the mattress and present your ass to him but you don't bother to lift your upper body from the bed. You keep your face down against the softness of his pillows. You didn't want him to see the giddy smile on your face from hearing that he hasn't slept with anyone else. His cum starts dripping out of your hole, coating your clit with creamy white and Miguel almost cums again on the spot.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” His large hands grab at your ass, kneading them. His thumbs spread your puffy lips apart so he can watch your cunt try to keep his cum inside. You groan as you force your arms to lift you up. “There’s my good girl.”

He smacks your ass which earned him a yelp from you. His lips curl up as he watches the flesh of your ass jiggle from the impact.

“Get on with it,” you whine, wiggling your ass to entice him to move faster. For someone who wanted to stop at the third round, you sure are impatient to be filled again.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he chuckles as he guides his cock back inside your wet heat. “There you go, mami. Back where it belongs.”

You moan loudly as you feel him grinding his hips, driving his dick as deep as he can reach inside you. Your eyes flutter close, as you savor the stretch of your hole around his fat cock once more. You couldn’t agree more with his words.

You hear Miguel from behind you input a command on a device. It beeps obnoxiously like it’s mocking you. It’s the last thing you want to hear while he is balls deep inside you, his girthy cock stretching you deliciously and filling you up so good. You think to yourself what was so important that Miguel can't put his gizmo down and enjoy the feeling of your warm, tight pussy on his dick? Right after insisting you can go for one more round?

You are about to snap at him for being ungrateful until a hologram appears in front of you. It shows a live video feed of his very own bed and a clear view of your fully naked self on your hands and knees getting ur insides rearranged by your boss. Your hair is a mess and your makeup is all smudged from how he made you cry from all the begging and overstimulation earlier. And he looks so big compared to you, having to bend low to align his hips with yours. You didn't even notice the recording devices planted around the room until now from how your brain was so fogged by lust. There seem to be at least three around the room from different angles. Well, it turns out he wasn’t just bluffing when he said he could record you earlier.

You wonder if he always had those set up. You haven’t really been to his room before. The few “encounters” you had with Miguel happened in his laboratory on his silly little platform, both of you too consumed by lust to think about moving to a more private area. It’s rather unlikely that they’re for actual safety reasons when they all just record the same area. You entertain the idea that him taking you to his room tonight is not just a spur-of-the-moment thing, that he might have all of this set up for tonight for when he has you writhing in pleasure on his bed. How thoughtful, you think. It makes you clench around his dick.

"You really are a pervert," you quip to annoy him. Clearly, the urge to mess with him hasn’t been thoroughly fucked out of you yet. You didn't even get to laugh at your own childish remark when Miguel abruptly starts thrusting his hips without warning, harder this time, dragging out a surprised whimper from you. His tip is bullying your cervix, testing the line between pleasure and pain but you love it. Your eyes meet Miguel's intense red glare on the screen.

"You're still talking," he tuts, his head shaking like he's some kind of pet owner trying to reprimand a disobedient pet "Let me fix that, cariño.”

He brings his large calloused hands back on you – where they belong, you think to yourself, echoing Miguel’s words. His left hand is firm on the flesh of your waist, you are sure they are going to bruise once he’s done with you. His other hand fondles your breasts, the sharp talons on his fingertips lightly grazing your soft skin. You know that when you look at yourself in the mirror tomorrow morning you’d look like you barely got away from being mauled by a feral beast, evidence of how Miguel O'Hara had his way with you and how you enjoyed every single second of it.

You cry out his name, chanting it like a prayer. He’s so deep inside you that you can almost feel him in your chest, his thrusts fucking the air out of your lungs.

“Miggy, Mi…. Mig– ah, ah Mi– haaaa –guel ahhh”

Your eyes roll back at the continuous assault on your sweet spot and your cervix with every deep thrust. High-pitched whines come out of your throat as your arms give out from under you, making you fall face-first on the soft mattress. It all feels so good but overwhelming. You think you’re going to pass out.

“Que rico, mami,” he pulls your hair so you can face the screens. “Look at yourself. Beautiful. Taking my cock so well. Don’t worry. I have this all recorded if you’re too cock drunk to watch yourself now, cariño.”

You can't say anything back. You try really hard to come up with something but the only word that comes out of your mouth is “please” over and over again becoming progressively needier each time. He wraps his arm around your waist to pull you closer to him, his chest flushed against your back, allowing him to rock you back against his forceful thrusts.

“Gonn’ make sure I put a baby in you tonight, cariño,” he growls in your ear. “I can’t wait to see your tummy swell in a few months. You’ll look divine, I won't be able to take my hands off you even more.”

His eyes are back to a glowing red as they meet yours that are glazed over by tears and lust. His hand tightens his hold on your hair making you tilt your head further, exposing more of your neck for him to suck bruises on. Your tits are bouncing freely at his aggressive pace. Coupled with the high-pitched moans coming out of your mouth, it’s all so pornographic. It makes you feel like liquid fire is running through your veins and pooling into your stomach.

“You’re gonna cum for me? Let go. Come on. cum for me, mami,”Miguel grunts in your ear, his hand on your hair letting go so he can greedily grab at your tits. “I wanna feel your cunt pulsing on my cock. Can you do that for me? Of course, you can. Going to milk me dry.”

And just like that, you throw your head back on his shoulder, eyes screwing shut as another wave of orgasm crashes down on you. Miguel follows closely, filling you up with more cum that drips down your thighs and on the bedsheets. Your body slumps back against his, too tired to keep yourself upright. You don’t even have the energy to open your eyes, content with feeling Miguel’s warm body against yours.

“I got you,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and moving you to lie down on the bed. You hum in contentment, letting him care for your tired body. He bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead before he pulls away. You miss his touch already.

A beeping sound lets you know that he turned off the monitors. You feel him taking the soiled bedsheets, getting up from the bed to get fresh ones. You have half the mind to reach out to him and tell him he can clean up later so you can cuddle now. Your mouth, however, doesn’t want to move so instead you groan as you blindly reach your hands out.

Miguel chuckles at your antics, walking back with fresh sheets and a damp towel to wipe off the sticky mess from your body. He sits next to you on the bed and brings the towel to your tear-stained cheeks, gently dabbing the area around your eyes to get rid of the messed up traces of mascara and eyeliner. You take your hand to rest on your chest trying to calm your wildly beating heart.

The comfortable silence, unfortunately, doesn’t last long. You hear the unmistakable voice of Lyla cut through the air.

“Heeeey, bossman! Heeeey, girlie!” she drawls and your eyes snap open as you snatch the sheet from Miguel’s hands to cover yourself.

“Ay, coño! I thought I said no alerts tonight,” Miguel looks pissed, rubbing his face in frustration before moving to turn off his watch. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Wait, wait! Sorry to interrupt the big night, Miguel, but it’s an emergency. Trust me you’ll want to fix this now,” Lyla raises her hands in surrender before Miguel presses a button. She turns to you, looking apologetic and asking for help “Then you can go back to babymaking, right, dollface?”

“I–” you flush, choking on your own words. You begrudgingly turn to Miguel, your lower lip caught in between your teeth. You lower your eyes as an ugly feeling crawls up your chest.

“It sounds important. You should go,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak up any louder. “I’d say I can be back up but I can hardly move so you’re on your own, big guy.”

Miguel sighs and gets up, telling Lyla to send him the information and that it better be worth his time.

You are already sexually satisfied and tired – that’s what four orgasms could do to you – but you are a little upset and sulky that Miguel has to be called in for work right now. Stupid anomaly or whatever it is. It’s probably important and a universe out there might be in grave danger. But you can't help feeling like shit about it though.

You like how soft Miguel gets when he cleans you up after sex. You like it when he picks up your tired form and whispers soft words to you in Spanish. Plus, you were looking forward to cuddles. What’s the use of having sex in his room on his bed if not to cuddle afterward and wake up next to each other the next day? And then, suddenly, in the early morning light, realize that you’ve been madly in love with each other all along. Okay, you are more than just a little upset.

Miguel notices you pouting and your eyes getting glassy with tears as you try to roll off the bed. He shoots his glowing red web at you, trapping you where you are before going back to readjusting his watch.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, walking back to the bed as he makes sure his suit is all good and ready for the mission. He kneels on the bed to drag you to lie on your back.

“What are you doing? I'm going to take a shower,” you sniffle trying to avoid his eyes “I’ll take care of myself. you should go”

He hums as he takes both your wrists in one hand and forces them above your head to secure them together with his webs.

“Miggy?” you look at him and there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes. He darts his tongue across his lower lip and you feel a shiver run up your spine.

He doesn’t respond. He only keeps looking at you like he’s going to devour you once more. He brings your legs up to the position he had in before, knees to your chest, cunt fully exposed to him. You blush and your heart starts pounding in your chest. He shoots out more of his web, making sure you’re comfortable and your legs are securely tied in that position.

“Good?” he whispers and you nod in response “Words, cariño.”

“Perfect,” you moan, your chest heaving with need. He smiles at you fondly, caressing your cheek with a curled finger, and plants chaste kisses on your temple, your nose, and the corner of your mouth until he reaches your lips. He hums in contentment as he savors the feel of your lips against his. Then, he pulls away reluctantly and puts on his mask. He sets his watch to the right coordinates opening up a portal to wherever the universe needs saving.

“I’ll be back as fast as I can. I’ll make sure that anomaly regrets ever being made for interrupting my plans for our night,” he grumbles and gives you one last kiss through his mask for good luck. “And then it’s going to be all about you for the rest of the night, hm? I promise.”

He walks into the portal backwards so he can look at you until it closes and takes him away. Your heart flutters in your chest, anticipating what’s to come as you feel the webs digging deliciously into your soft flesh.

•🕷️────✧˖°˖🕸️˖°˖✧────🕷️•

Translations:

Que linda - how pretty

muñeca - doll

cariño - dear/darling

Qué voy a hacer contigo? - What am I going to do with you?

Qué haría sin ti? - What am I going to do without you?

conejita - little rabbit

pobrecita - poor thing

que rico - “[you] look good” (literal: tastes good)

Podría acostumbrarme a esto - I could get used to this

Eres tan hermosa. No sabes lo que me haces - You're so beautiful. You don't know what you do to me

Estás tan rica. Estás hecha para mí, mi amor - You feel so good. You were made for me, my love

Mi niña hermosa, mi niña linda. Mía. Toda mía. - My beautiful girl, my sweet girl. Mine. All mine.

mami - mommy (as an endearment for a partner)

coño - pussy

A/N: so many thanks to my friend who helped me with translating and giving me tips on some better Spanish terms to use 🙏

#miguel o’hara smut #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o’hara x you #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara headcanons #potchy-writes #across the spiderverse #miguel o'hara x female reader #chubby reader

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unsuredreamer · 1 month

Text

Savior

Bridget Hearts 🩷 x fem reader

it's so shit I'm so sorry, but i feel like every idea just flees out of my head atm 🥲

"I will destroy you!" Uliana roared, preparing herself to run after Bridget. Eating too many flamingo feathers had its side effects, and it was about time she found out that when someone says 'don't do it' you simply listen.

It enraged you. She was so stupid, yet everyone feared her. How so? You'd never understand why they didn't stand up to her. What would she do? Run after you? It was all she was capable of, after all.

You needed to put a stop to her dumb frantics, so you stepped up with your dagger, holding it close to her neck.

"Oooo, we dont wanna do that, do we?" You grinned, basically threatening her with death. It was exciting, thrilling. Being just a step away from getting rid of someone, having that power over them. Being in a possession of their life thread, having the scissors steady in your hand. It was amusing to you. The goosebump on your skin shows from the rush you felt deep inside.

The dagger you held so close it was pinning her skin, making a slight dent. Her breath on hold. "I suggest you step away from our princess of hearts or you'll make an excellent sushi tonight, darling." You mirrored her peers' shocked expressions. None of them daring to step up to you. You were feared amongst them, being slightly older than the rest of the students, and kind of crazy too. It had its advantages having your twisted history behind.

"Marinated octopus. How does it sound?" Or would you like something last season? Shrimp pasta?" You smiled ominously, pricking the sharp end deeper in her neck, almost making it bleed. You could sense the blade cutting her first skin, making her immediately stumble back.

"You- You're mad!" She managed to yell out, holding her fresh wound before she took her turn, walking away, or should you say, basically running away. Your graceful dagger flew after her pinning itself right beside her head, trimming her friends hair in the process.

"Might be, just a little bit" you giggled, making the blade return to you with a swift wave of your hand. Turning yourself to the other group, you fixed your button-up shirt. Red and Chloe standing in awe at how well mannered you seemed even though you almost committed murder right in front of their eyes. Red thanking you internally for saving her mother. "But aren't we all?" You grinned, your cheshire cat-like smile making everyone around you blush. You were charming, to say the least, although it was not thanks to your name. "Look at that," you pouted, pointing at the shattered plate in front of you. "She wasted such good cupcakes. What a shame"

"Don't worry, Y/n, i think I have enough for everyone!" Bridget smiled brightly. "Thank you for your savior service" She bowed jokingly, giving you one of her famous smiles in return.

"And look at you cupcake, How could anyone not like you?" You waved your hands in the air, making her broken belongings whole again. Holding it our for her. "This plate was too pretty to be broken. Dont let yourself be broken, beautiful, " you winked before dissappearing into thin air. Red and Chloe blinking a couple of times to check if they saw right.

"Woah, who was that? Hot, sexy and amusing?" Red spoke up, getting a glare in return from both Bridget and Chloe. "I'm just saing" the girl threw her arms in the air in a defensive manner.

"That was Y/n. We don't really know much about her" Bridget dreamily explained, holding her beautifully decorated plate close to her chest.

"Only that she's done some horrible stuff. And she's kinda insane" Ella blabbered, rolling the cupcake trolley.

"It was for good!. And she's right, we're all mad here" Bridget butt in, snapping herself out of her daydreams.

" If you can call cutting someone's lim-"

"Ella, they don't have to know that" bridget laughed nervously, taking another plate from her trolley "She's not that bad how they make her out to be-here you go-" The pink haired princess walked around giving out more of her delicious cupcakes. "She is actually so nice-"

"She commits crime at least 3 times a week, and her go-to 'entertaining' hobby is watching people stumble and fall over this tree root" Ella butt in pointing at the object.

"But, she paints me pink roses and brings me many different ingredients for my sweets. Isn't that nice?" Bridget hummed, making red and chloe look at themselves

"Do you think what i think?" Red whispered to her fellow 'friend', the other just nodding her head.

"You know, I think you should ask Bridget out for castlecoming" Red blurted out while walking after/stalking you around the school.

"Yeah? Why is that so?" You giggled, holding a book about baking. You were currently at the library, just trying to make your way to the comfy corner made specifically for residents of the library. Unfortunately, you couldn't use it if you weren't reading a book of some sort. Hence why you took ahold of whatever, with intentions of taking a nap in the place.

"Well, you seem to be liking her, aaaand she seems to be liking you too" You laughed, you loved being in these kinds of situations.

"Well loves, what made you think I like this princess?" You looked up from your book, you let's be real, were not paying attention to. The question made them rethink everything.

"You-She-em" Chloe tried, but nothing made sense

"I guess she's alright" You grinned at their troubled expressions.

Princess of hearts was more than alright. She was everything and nothing at the same time. She was the air you breathed and the hard ground you walked on. She is like the ocean breeze early in the morning, the sunbeams lightly musking your face and the cold water splashing your body. She lit up the whole room with her bright eyes and cute smile. Like a walk through a rainy forest, she made you content and calm. Her delicate and soft features fairly contrast to your strong ones. It made you only more drawn to her.

"Wouldn't you want to take her out?"

"You're very persistent. interesting" you hummed "And why would I do that, Red my love?" You flew up from your comfortable place, spinning around doing flips. Red grimacing at the nickname, Chloe glaring at you "Chill Charming" The snort you let out made chloe burst out one of her own "I will take your mommy to the dance Red. Don't want her turning out evil, do we?"

"How do you-?"

"Well, I might have or have not overheard you twoooo, talking maybee" You flew circling them both, extra dragging your words making them annoyed "Aboouut an evil Queen who likes to behead people, whom also happened to be your mom and she sentenced your mom to death" You grinned spitting it all out in one breath "Crazy little woman"

"So now you know"

"Yeah, that's what I said. Are you deaf darling?" She was ready to jump you but got stopped by Chloe, thankfully. "I'm going, my children. I have to make a proposal for your mom now, do i?"

"Only my mom not hers!"

"Of course!" You laughed, dissappearing in the frame.

"Hello Bridget" You whispered into her ear appearing behind her. Your lips musking her skin. she stopped breathing for a hot second, staring intensively at her notebook. A beautiful yours heart shaped necklace with lots of cards and sweets drawn on the page. Her slender manicured fingers held onto a pencil, touching up some lines. "That is amazingly jaw-dropping." You kept on whispering

"Thank you" She whispered out herself, turning her head to the side. Her lips almost touching yours in the process. Her big brown eyes dropping down to your lips, then back up to your own enchanting ones.

"You know if you want to kiss me, you just have to ask" You leaned closer, bumping your noses together, giving her your biggest grin possible.

"What if i do?" Her sudden confidence made you stumble a bit back, but her quick grip on your collar dragged you in closer "...want to kiss you" she breathed out into your lips. you felt every bone in your body snap.

"Then we might just have to do that" You looked down on her lips, almost closing the blank space between you two if it weren't for the sudden yank of your shirt from the back.

"Please don't do that here" Red grimaced, secretly smirking when she saw you on the ground.

"Party pooper!" You floated up placing yourself between two girls. "Ohh, such a sunshine!" You threw your arm around Ella, the girl too stiff to shrug it off.

"Whatever"

"Sooooo, Ella tell me how's it going with little prince Charming" You grinned against her cheek, she blushed hard at the mention of him

"Did he ask you to the castle coming yet?" Bridget asked excitedly, almost pushing you off the bench.

"He did, but I'm not going. i think i made my point clear-"

"Oh c'monnnn. At least he asked you" Bridget pouted "I wish someone would ask me" the girl dragged, looking down on her drawing, popping her head on her palm. Red looked at you, raising her eyebrows.

"Cupcake" with just a single word everyone was looking at you, not a bit of your confidence faltering away. With a wave of your hand a pink rose appeared, well developed with only a single thorn and two leafs. "Could I take you to castle coming?" you asked in all seriousness, presenting her the rose. Her eyes widened at your gesture.

"Well, there weren't any roses for me, surely," Ella grinned, wiggling her eyebrows at the other girls.

"So what do you say, princess?" She threw her arms around your neck, engulfing you in a tight hug.

"Hell yes! I'd love it, actually. " She smiled widely, giving you a kiss on the cheek. You felt the blood rushing in you. You loved the feeling of her lips on you, her touch. She was so soft, like a pillow. So delicate. It made you want more.

You never thought about the princess of hearts that way. Actuallyy you did, once or twice. But before that, she was always just there. Just someone you'd defend before Uliana and her crew. Someone who did cool card tricks and someone who was so easily prank-able. But you wouldn't dare. She was good-hearted, almost perfect. No one was that pure, and still, here she was, pure as the driven snow. A pretty girl there was no denying. You've never imagined what her touch would feel like if it lingered on you a bit more than a few seconds. Or if she's keeping any secrets, she had to, right?

"You know Bridget, you look absolutely gorgeous" You smiled, not sarcastically, a true genuine smile you haven't done for years. It made her blush for the millionth time this evening.

Your hands were resting on her small waist, hers on your shoulders, making her fingers intertwine on your neck. Slowly swaying your bodies together in the rythm of the music. Not your thing completely, but her presence changed it entirely. It was probably the last song of the night, leaving only a few couples in the ballroom. But you both had such great fun you wouldn't wish on heavens to go home right now. Just being here with her was the right place, and you felt it deep inside.

"Thank you" Was all she made out "Thank you for taking me here" She laid her head on your chest, placing you both even closer.

"No worries. I could do it a million times if it meant getting to spend time with you. My heart" you swayed both of you slowly, the song never ending.

"I loved tonight, I'm glad im here with you. I hope we'll be able to spend more time together" She looked up at you, her big brown eyes staring closely and longingly. Your heart is beating rapidly in your chest. You placed your hand in her hair, grabbing the back of her head.

"Of course we will. I'm making sure of that" Her eyes lit up, brightening the whole room for you. You were absolutely in awe, speechless. She had never looked better. The dim lights only making her singular features pop more. No one will ever look better than her.. At least you won't be looking at them. You've got your only one star, your moon. She was not yours, but she will be. "Can I kiss you?" The sudden question did not startle her in fact she did not mutter a word. A single nod with a smile was all that it took.

You will be her savior forevermore

#descendants #descendants rise of red #fiction #bridget hearts #descendants 4 #chloe charming #red of wonderland #descendants rise of red x reader #descendants x reader #descendants 4 x reader #descendants the rise of red #ruby rose turner #princess bridget #bridget of wonderland #bridget hearts x reader #bridget x reader #queen of hearts

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oreo-creampie · 10 months

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𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: pure intense fluff, kissing, cuddling, squeezing, handsy pouty bastard, insisting you’ve been neglecting him, his is dying and it’s all your fault, how dare you do this to him, he will hold you accountable for your heinous crimes by cuddling you, toji is going soft for you, established relationship

Standing in front of your vanity, slipping your earrings off, sticking them with the rest. Glancing into your vanity mirror when Toji emerges from the bathroom.

Arms crossed over his bare pecs sticking his bottom lip out in his adorable pout. It’s one of your favorite Toji expressions. He huffs, “Finally someone figures where they live.”

He unzips the back of your dress. “You weren’t here!” kissing your shoulder. Slipping it down your body, trailing gentle sloppy kisses down your back. “The house was so empty and cold, I was dying of loneliness little mama.”

Stepping out of your dress, he tossing it into the hamper beside the bedroom door. “Is it even a home without you there?” His warm fingers brushing against your back unclasping your bra, gliding the straps off your shoulders. His touch comforting.

You insist, “Without you this place is just some walls.” Grabbing his hands, kissing his warm palms. Glancing into the mirror, Toji “It’s also not my fault you showed up two days early. Couldn't rush a planned girl’s night for your needy ass.” Turning around sliding your hand over his thick pecs, broad shoulder and into his soft dark hair.

“Im only needy when it comes you to mama. You’re so cruel neglecting me.” Grabbing your ass, lifting you up. Wrapping your legs around his slim waist.

“We aren't leaving for the weekend. Tired of seeing everyone’s ugly ass faces and hearing their annoying ass voices.” He kisses the top of your head. “Just need to spend some time with you mama.” Wrapping his arms around your waist, squeezing your tightly.

Wheezing, “I'm all your’s Teddy Bear!” Your back pops several times. Gasping for sweet air when he loosens his gasp.

“Damn right you are.” Kissing along Toji’s jawline, softly biting his pouty bottom lip, melting into his gentle kiss.“It’s not fair mama I can't squeeze you like I want to.” Carrying you through the hallway, towards the living room. “Get good mama, lemme squeeze you tighter.”

“Nah Teddy Bear that’s a you problem.” Squeezing Toji’s slim waist with your legs, tightening your grasp around Toji’s neck. “I can hug you as tight as I want. Ha-ha-haha!” Ripping you off him and throwing you onto the sofa.

“Imma make it your problem little mama.” Carefully falling on top of you, pinning your body with his weight. Resting his head on your chest. “Hahah! Looks whose trapped now! I’m not letting you go anywhere beautiful.”

Pushing himself up, and leaning in for a kiss. “All mine.” Parting your lips, the gentle hunger of his passionate kiss replacing your need for air. Slipping your fingers through his soft dark hair.

When he pulls away, covering your face with kisses. You grin widelyz “I missed ya so much teddy bear, I’m all your’s for the rest of the week. I’ll make sure you get sick of me.” Giving your forehead another gentle kiss, squeezing your hips.

It’s comforting having his heavy weight pressing you into the bed. His large strong hands on your body making you feel so safe and protected. His gentle kisses and words ensuring you know how cherished you are.

His cheeks turn pink, spreading across the bridge of his nose, coloring the tips of his ears. “I can never get enough of you.” His eyes widen. “Listen to me, ya made me all mushy, gonna have to hold you responsible. Hmm how should I do that.”

Oreo creampie’s m.list

Satoru’s verison!

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

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Can we have a drabble with gaz pinning on K9 handler reader and her giant dog just being like 👁👄👁 everytime

—Him, Her, and the Dog

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [The woes of pining after a woman whose deadly K9 looks like it hates his guts.] ❞

“He doesn’t bite,” you ease out with a smile to the thin-lipped Sergeant from One-Four-One.

“Well, you say that now, Sweetheart,” the man eases out, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “But he’s watchin’ me like I’m a damn piece of meat.”

“It’s just his face, Sergeant Garrick,” your chuckle wafts over the tarmac, tilting your head as the leash lays lax in your hand. Connected to it, the seek and muscled body of Teddy, your MWD, stays still. His black and tan hide shines in the light, hiding deadly muscle underneath. “He’s really not that bad.”

“Then why isn’t he bloody blinking?”

The Belgian Malinois is sitting, tail loose behind him and his tongue lolling—but the man was right, his deep chestnut eyes were utterly unblinking on the tall form of Kyle Garrick. It wasn’t surprising to you—Teddy had that quirk; he watched people. You couldn’t count how many times you’d woken up at night to find him in his kennel staring you down for no other reason than he wanted to.

You smile at the Sergeant as he frowns.

“Would you just come over here?” Garrick raises a brow slowly, arms crossing over his chest. “You said you had to talk to me, remember.”

“Didn’t know we’d have an audience.” The grumble meets your ears.

“Teddy goes where I go,” you remind him, rolling your eyes and taking the incentive to step forward—the animal immediately stuck at your hip and turning his attention up to you as he mirrors your pace.

Gaz sighs, pushing down his slight nerves as you both get closer.

There was no question as to whether he had a little crush on you, a prominent K9 handler; everyone could see the way he watched your form, and eyes don’t lie. He’d tried to ask you out before—a few times—but there had always been your…shadow.

Teddy, short for Teddy Bear.

The dog.

The black and tan missile that could rip throats and was always watching Kyle like he’d personally murdered his bloodline. It was safe to say any propositions of dating had dried on his tongue when the canine locked his unblinking gaze with his.

“There,” you ease out, stopping a few feet away. “That better?”

Gaz chuckles quietly, not looking down at Teddy as the dog’s backside once more hits the ground. “Do you want my honest answer, Ma’am?”

“Will it hurt my feelings?”

“Well, not yours—his,” the Brit quirks a smirk, “maybe.”

You snort and set one of your arms on your hip, the other going to pet Teddy in between his ears. The beast pants and licks at his muzzle, eyes darting up to you before slowly moving back to the Sergeant.

“I think you should pet him, Gaz,” your voice brings him back to the conversation, his eyelids blinking at you.

“Ah,” he laughs, shaking his head, “Negative. I’m fond of my hands.”

“And I’m fond of company when I bring Teddy on walks.” Your sly flirting makes Kyle’s jaw slacken for a moment, eyes slightly widening. “Pet him, and I’ll show you my favorite trail.”

It’s a minute before the man is able to slot his jaw back in place, clearing his throat firmly before his face heats under the skin.

“...That was smooth, Ma’am.” You smirk.

“I was waiting for you to ask, but I guess you needed me to throw you a bone.” Gaz chuckles lowly at the joke, glancing down at Teddy as he itches at his cheek.

“Alright, yeah, yeah, I know.” He bends down to rest on the balls of his feet. “Didn’t think you’d noticed that if I’m bein’ honest.”

“I’m not blind, Garrick.” Teddy stares him down and you click your tongue, Kyle holding out a hand for him to smell. “Nor stupid.”

A wet nose moves out and sniffs, the puffs felt over his skin. Brown eyes glance at you.

“That obvious?”

You smile teasingly. “Incredibly, Sergeant.”

“Shit.” Your laugh meets his ears and his embarrassment overshadows how Teddy shoves his narrow head under Kyle’s hand, panting happily with a wagging tail.

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look-at-the-soul · 5 months

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Every little thing you do - Part 6

Tommy Shelby x reader

Series master list

🥰So another part to this series, thank you so much for all your support and encouragement! It means the world ♥️ and as I take your feedback seriously, I can assure you Tommy will be looking for a housekeeper substitute 🤭

Word count: 3,138

Y/N prayed silently her dress would close, Ada suggested getting it slightly loose at certain places just in case, because overnight, her belly was showing and most of her clothes wouldn’t fit anymore. It was funny because it only looked as if she was bloated but it was enough for a zipper to break.

“You ready?” Polly asked just as she knocked on the door, stepping in right away. As usual, she looked so elegant in her attire.

“Her dress is beautiful Mrs. Gray.” Y/N’s grandma pointed out making Y/N blush, she then turned to Polly. “And you look stunning.”

Polly nodded acknowledging her compliment.

“I can’t believe I’m wearing this gown.” Y/N stated staring at her reflection in the mirror, she looked like a completely different person with her hair up in a simple but elegant hairstyle, make up in just the right places, accenting her features, and the dress fit like a glove. She had never had a dress like this.

“You need something else though.” Her grandma suggested, she looked beautiful in her attire too, the Shelby family were too kind to extend an invitation for her.

Opening her bag, Y/N frowned confused by what she meant, she had everything already.

“Your grandfather gave me these when we got married.” From a velvet pouch, she produced a pair of gorgeous diamond studs.

“I think these will look beautiful.” Polly encouraged, feeling a swept of love by the exchange.

Y/N on the other hand felt lost for words, to some it might be a small detail, but to her, the sentimental value it’s what weighted the most.

“These are meant to be wear on occasions like this, right?” She asked holding one of the earrings for her granddaughter while she hooked the other one.

“Looks like you’re all set then… let’s welcome the guests.” Polly added taking grandma’s purse to help her. “Everything’s going accordingly so far.”

The music filled the big room, people were dancing happily, champagne flowing, staff filling empty cups with booze and plates with appetizers. Y/N felt particularly mesmerized by the chandeliers catching the light beautifully and reflecting all around as if it was dancing as well.

Tommy insisted the party should take place in Arrow House, said it would be a good excuse to do a grand opening, so she immediately got busy to have everything ready. The place oozed luxury everywhere she looked, the most important names in the country RSVP’ed faster than she thought. Never in her wildest dreams she imagined how it would turn out, she spent so much time choosing flowers for the center pieces, napkins colors to go with the tablecloths, tableware as well as the menu, days of hard work paying off finally on this night and for a brief instant, she allowed herself to feel proud because she took care meticulously of everything.

“I’ll be back in a minute, need an ashtray.” Polly announced and took grandma by the arm to chat for a while.

Y/N was taking everything in, still not fully believing it was a reality.

“Johnny, get everyone in the kitchen.” He instructed. “Five minu-“ words got caught up in his throat as he took a double look to his left and found Y/N standing by herself next to the staircase.

Her hair was pinned up, framing her face so it was fully on display instead of hiding, the dress made her look gorgeous but the cherry on top was the glowing emanating from within her heart, pregnancy was suiting her well. He then noticed she opened and closed the handbag nervously.

She wasn’t the same girl that used to run with him a race at an open fiel until they reached the river. He let her win so many times… yet that girl was somehow still in her.

He had never seen her like that before. She was more beautiful than he imagined.

But as soon as the thought entered his mind, Tommy kicked himself mentally. He shouldn’t think of her that way.

“Are you planning to give someone a heart attack?” He joked and took a few long strides to be at her side.

“I’m nervous,” she chuckled, “I’m the one having a heart attack.”

Turning around to face him, she felt her mouth going dry, the blue suit was a fabulous choice. It wasn’t traditional, but when she saw it at the tailor’s shop she knew Tommy had to wear it to the event and since she got a blank cheque, she added it to the account. He was so bloody handsome, but she thought that he looked even more that night. There, with a cocked smile and proud shining in his crystal eyes…

They stood there holding each other’s gazes, the people in the background fading away…

Until Johnny Dogs interrupted them.

“The boys are on their way Tom.” He nodded at Y/N. “Are we going, yeah?”

Tommy gave Y/N another look and she encouraged him with a smile to go.

He started to walk away, but then stopped abruptly and turning around he spoke; “Y/N you did an amazing job, thank you.”

Reaching his expectations was all Y/N wanted to achieve, to make him proud of her work. It was the way she knew in retribution to thank him for every little thing he did.

“And Johnny? Y/N told me she counted the paintings ey?” Tommy turned to give her wink. “So you better tell your kin they can’t steal anything or they’ll have to deal with a very pissed Y/N.”

Y/N gasped, of course she didn’t count the paintings. An evident blush covered her face and neck and she started shaking her head in embarrassment.

“Hey! That’s not true.” She tried to keep her manners, but her mind went back to when they were teenagers and her grandma discovered the two of them sneaking into the kitchen to get a slice of the pie she had baked and Tommy blamed it all on Y/N, the worst part is that her grandma believed him and scolded her granddaughter when it had been Tommy’s idea in the first place.

“Where are they, ey?” Tommy asked impatiently a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“I’m telling you now, we got lost,” announced Arthur. “You really need to do a map, Thomas.”

“Right, boys you’re all here.” Tommy started in a warning tone.

The blinders gathered around him in a circle.

“Tonight it’s a fucking very important day, we’re celebrating the Arrow House grand opening.”

“Yeah, and you said there’d be no bloody uniforms.” Interrupted John.

Tommy shot him a death stare. “Nevertheless… nevertheless, John… despite the bad blood, I’ll have none of it on my carpet.”

They were part of the guest list.

He made a pause and looked around to his men. “Now, for Y/N’s sake, nothing will go wrong. She has worked so fucking hard for everything you see tonight and the Shelby Institute. And if you fuckers do anything to embarrass her, your kin, your cousins, your horses, your fucking kids, you do anything…”

“Tom?” Once more, John interrupted his brother.

“What?”

“What about snow?” Asked Isiah.

John replied something that Tommy couldn’t understand, but he felt his blood start boiling by their silly attitude.

“No, no, no.” He stood in front of the young blinder. “No cocaine.” Then pointing at his face, he repeated; “no cocaine. No sports.” He then moved to point at John. “No telling fortunes. No racing.” Walking back towards Finn, he continued. “No fucking sucking petrol of their fucking cars.”

He hated to admit it out loud, but he was nervous to. He wanted to fit in, he needed to blend in among the richest and more powerful people, to be one of them. To prove everybody that he had been able to claim a stair that was only reserved for those who were born in a crib made of gold.

Meanwhile, upstairs Y/N attended several guests, listening to the stories they were sharing about how much it would mean to them to donate and give back to the community. Some of them, Y/N learned were important politicians who wanted to show a good image to help them gain voters, others members of the aristocracy just wanted to show their wealthy off. Whatever reason they had, Y/N was excited to see some of the cheques they were writing right there for the institution, additional to a monthly donation they promised.

Finding Tommy among the guests, Y/N approached him to ask him if she could save the cheques in his office.

“Can we see this later?” He relief not even sending a glance in her direction, his eyes were fixed like daggers in someone.

As he moved around like a gazelle, about to chase his pry, Y/N noticed a group of women eating him with their eyes, looking him up and down, seizing his frame, biting their lips, probably wondering how would it feel to be with him….

Y/N felt like she was out of place, she shook her head and decided to ask Ada instead where she should keep the documents. She then excused herself for a moment, feeling like the happy bubble had been popped given Tommy’s cold attitude. He was never like this, he had never left her talking alone before, but he had been a bit off the last couple of days.

For some unknown reason.

Perhaps she had been creating a fantasy in her mind, yes he was a good man, but he also had an explosive temper when he wanted to, he snapped at people at the slightest provocation. Why would he treat her differently? Just because a she was pregnant?

A knock on the door disturbed the peace she just found, and without waiting to be asked to come inside, Tommy called her name.

“Y/N you’re needed downstairs.” Tommy informed her, but he knew her too damn well. When Ada told him that Y/N was taking a minute on her own, he knew she wasn’t comfortable about something.

“What happened?” He asked patiently. She shook her head, not wanting to make a scene. “Hey, hey.. come here.”

It was everything, her pregnancy, her nerves, the bloody hormones, mood swings, worry to make everything perfect… him.

“I hope you don’t take personally what happened earlier, I was looking for someone that wasn’t invited.” Tommy explained.

Y/N looked at him tentatively. She walked into the en-suite bathroom to wet a cloth and press it into the back of her neck, careful enough to not get a stain in the dress, he followed her steps and took a seat on the edge of the bathtub. The familiarity and comfort between them was too personal.

“Is this why you’ve been acting distant the last couple of days?”

With a sigh, he nodded. “Yes, I act like this when I’m scared.”

Y/N turned around pondering into his words, giving him time and space to speak on his own terms.

“I need to make sure you’re away from this business. I don’t want you to get involved at all. Do you understand?”

“Tommy what’s happening?” It all made sense to her now, the secret phone calls, the late night drives, his mood.

“The less you know, the better.” He cleared his throat. “Promise me you won’t make something stupid.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, he was the one always making the bad decisions she wanted to say instead.

“You won’t get involved.” He was firm about his statement.

“Only if you promise to be safe.” Y/N retorted.

“I’ll try my best.” A soft smile played on his lips.

She mirrored the smile and followed him outside, to join their guest one more time.

“Mr. Shelby! This is a wonderful party.” Mrs. Lewis praised, she was the wife of a former major, a bit extravagant, she loved to show off. “And a beautiful house.”

“I appreciate your words. But all the credit goes to Y/N.”

“So the old wives tale is real huh? That babies come with a bunch of blessings.” She squinted her eyes happily at Y/N’s baby bump, then looked back at Tommy. “Congratulations! I wish this baby nothing but the best.”

Y/N opened her mouth to correct her, and clarify that Tommy wasn’t the father. But Tommy cut her out.

“Thanks, hopefully you’ll be able to help us with the fundraising.”

“I’ll tell family and friends, you can count on that Mr. Shelby.”

As the woman disappeared, Y/N turned her face around to look at him.

“Let people talk, they’re going to do it anyways.” He stated, then as a waiter passed by, he took a glass of whiskey from the tray. “Rule number two; never reveal the truth when they can barely deal with a half truth.”

“What’s number one?”

“Oh, I’d tell you… but then I’d have to kill you and I’d be kind of sad you know?” He winked at her and elegantly strode towards where the music band was playing to grab the microphone.

“Good evening everyone, thank you for joining us tonight. As some of you may know, the Shelby Foundation Institute will open doors in a couple of weeks, we’re sure with this project we’ll be able to help many many children in need, grant them the education their parents can’t afford and a safe environment to learn and develop the abilities that’ll will help them in a near future.” A round of applauses filled the room and Tommy thanked the guest with a small nod. “Your contribution is highly appreciated, it will allow us to complement and provide everything that’s needed. I can assure you, your money will be well spent and we’re more than open to welcome you any time at the Institution.” His eyes started moving across the room. “Last but not least, I’d like to thank to the responsible of this project, the one who since day one showed a genuine interest and despite the doors that were closed in her face, she never backed down until this was a reality. Y/N thank you for everything you’ve done.” Raising his glass in her direction, he recognized her effort and compromise.

Blushing from getting all the attention towards her momentarily, she started biting her lip.

When Tommy started walking, people over to the side, making something similar to a human wall and leaving a space free for him to walk until he reached Y/N.

“Dance with me?”

The gesture took her by surprise, but soon Tommy’s arm wrapped around her waist and he started swaying to the beat of the music.

“Everything is perfect, thank you for taking care of every little thing.” He admitted with a very rare smile.

Carefully to not make Y/N dizzy, Tommy spun her around, following the music beats.

“Thank you for taking us in.” Y/N replied as a wide smile spread on her lips.

Feeling like nothing she could say or do was enough to thank Tommy. She’d be in debt with him for the rest of her life.

“You’ve nothing to-” he started to say but she cut him off.

“I do, every single time I blink, I feel so grateful to have you in my life.”

Tommy gave her hand a squeeze. “If things were different… wouldn’t you do the same?”

“Yes.” She admitted in a heartbeat.

“Then this better be the last time you thank me.” He raised an eyebrow as a warning, but his eyes remained giving her a gentle look. “I know you’d do the same thing for me.”

One more careful spin and the piece was done. A round of applause filled the room and the background noises brought them back to reality.

“I’ve to go, stay here, stay safe.” Tommy stated. “You know what to do in case something bad happens.”

He had already showed her where to hide in case anyone broke into Arrow House. It wasn’t his favorite outcome, but he had assured her it was for the best of she was prepared. Luckily he hadn’t show her how to use a weapon, but she knew the day might be closer than she thought.

“Tommy…” her heart started hammering her ribcage, she could feel it in her ears too. “Promise me you’ll be safe.”

The look of worry he found in her eyes made him fight the lump in his throat. If something happened to him, what would she do? Who would protect her? Who’d look after her and the baby?

“Will do. This is the last ilegal business, you know I want to make it right.”

Clearing his throat, he looked around finding Arthur giving him a nod, they were ready to go.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He assured her once more.

As a different music started to play, Y/N went on to search for her grandmother.

Meanwhile, downstairs Lizzie was crying and smocking in such a bad shape after having a word with Michael about Angel, she started shouting when she heard what they did to his restaurant, she was fuming.

“Miss Stark can I help you?” Mary asked, smoothing her apron.

“Do you’ve a gun? So I can shoot someone?” Lizzie wiped her nose.

“No ma’am.” Mary took a step closer. “May I ask what happened?”

“The Shelbys blew my boyfriend’s restaurant so he couldn’t come to the party.” She tried to smooth the black mascara under her eyes.

And she started to whine and bent into the maid all she knew about the stupid rivalry between the Shelby’s and the Changretta’s.

Mary ignored Lizzie’s past, she only knew she was her master’s secretary, so she felt naturally bad for the green-eyed woman.

“I don’t get it, Thomas gets to have the little happy family with Y/N and also dictate who am I able to be involved with.”

“But they aren’t a family, the baby isn’t Mr. Shelby’s.” Mary dropped an unexpected bomb.

Lizzie stared at her in disbelief, her jaw dropping.

“Are you sure?”

“The motives of why he keeps her under his protection are unknown to me, but he isn’t the father of that baby.” The housekeeper assured her.

Lizzie nodded automatically, processing the news and thinking how this piece of information changed a lot of things.

“So Y/N is a little slut after all.” She mumbled to herself, planning in her mind a couple of ideas that would tear down that facade of integrity and good morals Y/N carried around like a crown. A woman’s reputation meant much more than anything.

And of course, it didn’t match the wealthy people standards.

Master list

TYSM for reading! Remember your feedback feeds a writer’s soul 🥰✨

Tag list: @lyarr24 @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @datewithgianni @cloudofdisney

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#that’s what Cill said #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x fem!reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby fanfiction #thomas shelby x y/n #peaky blinders fan fiction #peaky blinders imagine

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alexiroflife · 3 months

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'stay with me'

"Across the Earth" Part 3 [finale]: satoru gojo x reader

part 1 | part 2

Synopsis: after having talked with suguru about your relationship with satoru, you find yourself rethinking everything during a night out with the group

to sum it up: suguru suggests you should confess, but you're too scared

WC: 8,997

Ten o’clock eventually rolls around after Satoru spent a good five minutes shouting throughout the house for everyone to get dressed to go to a bar. The thought of drinking or having to deal with one of your friends being intoxicated does not sound very appealing to you at the time, but you figure you shouldn’t argue considering where you currently stand with Satoru.

After your talk with Suguru, you finally managed to get your work done before it was time for you to get dressed. You rummaged through the overnight back that Satoru had apparently taken upon himself to pack for you in search for something to wear when you found the short black dress you had tossed into your luggage on a whim in case you were to happen upon an instance in which you would need to wear it. How Satoru had managed to locate this piece of clothing, you’re not even sure, but you put it on and do your makeup that Satoru also so graciously remembered to pack for you.

You glance in the long mirror by your dresser at your reflection, turning to the side to examine the accentuation of your curves against your dress's stretchy fabric with a sigh. The dress clasps around your thighs and reaches down just above your knees. You admit to yourself that you look good, but your physical appearance does nothing to sway the pit that proceeds to sink into your gut at the thought of Satoru and everything that Suguru said to you.

You’re in the midst of trying to give yourself a pep talk to mentally prepare yourself for the night when you hear Satoru shouting again for you to get a move on, his voice vibrating through the walls of the house. You assume you’re the last to get ready when Satoru doesn’t address anyone else but you.

You trudge down the steps with your hand gliding against the railing, wedges clacking against the stairs until you reach the main hallway and find your friends standing by the door. Shoko’s wearing a cropped silk shirt and a skirt with a cute pin holding up the side of her hair while Suguru, naturally, wears loose and dark pants with a black button up.

But then, of course, there’s Satoru, standing almost as a god before you in a similar shirt to Geto’s only his is a pale light blue with the first few buttons undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows in the same fashion he wears most of his shirts and linen pants.

You immediately look at everyone but him, completely unable to withstand the gorgeous sight of him dressed up and so well.

When you walk over to them, you feel Satoru’s eyes hit you in what has to be less than two seconds, and while you aren’t looking at him, Suguru notices the way his eyes twitch wide and his brows lift ever so slightly as he looks at you, wandering eyes roaming swiftly over your figure before bouncing back upward.

“I’m here now, no need to keep screaming,” you say with a rigid face. You can’t help but let your eyes flicker into Satoru’s direction to catch his gaze for a millisecond before clearing your throat and looking down.

“We can’t take you two out like this,” Suguru groans, referring to you and Ieiri. You both look at him with quirked brows. “We’re gonna be swarmed by thirsty men the second we step outside.”

“What?!” you and Shoko exclaim as you all start making your way to the door, you, Shoko, and Suguru leading while Satoru trails behind to lock the door after everyone.

“Don’t be mad because (Y/n) and I are hot, Suguru,” Shoko snaps, poking the dark haired man in the shoulder.

“I am mad. I don’t want randoms ruining the night because they don’t know how to coexist with attractive women.”

“You don’t hear us complaining about you and Satoru when girls try to clobber you! Don’t be so sexist.”

“I’m not being sexist, I’m being realistic.”

“Can we all just agree that we’re all hot and attention will follow wherever we go?” you hear Satoru chime in cockily as he locks the door behind him. “No need to compete over it.”

“Who said we were competing? I just said that I don’t want the extra attention,” Suguru responds. You watch as Shoko climbs into the back seat, but you freeze when Suguru follows and sits next to her, leaving the only empty seat to be the front passenger next to the driver, Satoru.

You glare at Suguru out of the side of your eye urgently, and he looks up and around, pretending he doesn’t see. You seethe and swear to yourself that at times, Suguru is even worse than Satoru, which you suppose is why they are such good friends.

You force yourself to suck it up and keep yourself together like an adult. You reach for the car door handle, only to be intercepted by Satoru’s soft hand. His fingers brush yours clumsily, and you jump to look at him when you realize that you two are reaching for the same thing.

The albino man holds your gaze for a moment, watching as you mumble a timid apology instead of barking at him to question what he’s doing so close to you. He doesn’t acknowledge your words when he reaches again to yank the door open and hold it for you stiffly, just as he always does.

You press your lips together, clasping your hands in front of you and slowly stepping into the car. “Thanks,” you mumble, unsure as to why Satoru is still willing to display these gestures of gentlemanliness for you when he is allegedly upset with you, and more importantly, when he’s not goofing around with you and trying to gauge a reaction.

Satoru lingers at the door for a few seconds too long when he shuts it behind you, pressing up to it with both hands before making his way to his seat.

You arrive at your destination after a short drive, clambering out of the vehicle to enter the bar, or at least, what Satoru told you all is a bar. Nevertheless, when you push open the door and make your way inside, you’re greeted by bright lights waving violently through darkness, a crowd of people moving about in the center of the space and dancing wildly. A hightop bar surrounds the outskirts of the room, bartender tending to girls who lean on each other for stability and men who try to hit on said girls. The space is loud, as well, blasting an array of different music genres as the DJ up front nods his head aggressively to the beats.

You and Suguru falter, staring ahead of you in distaste as Satoru smiles for the first time since this morning, or so you believe. “Welcome, you guys,” Satoru beams, gesturing his arms toward the tightly packed enclosure.

“Satoru,” Suguru starts, a dangerous tone in his voice. “What the fuck is this?”

“A bar?” the blue eyed man responds as if the question’s answer is obvious, which it isn’t.

“This is a nightclub,” Shoko yells, shouting over the noise. “Not a bar!”

“Is there really a difference?”

“Oh my god.”

“What’s with the faces? It’ll be fun! Like old times,” Satoru grins, inching further into space. “We go to places like these all the time.”

“Yeah,” Suguru catches up to him to smack the side of his head, and Satoru yelps dramatically. “With a warning.”

“Well yeah sure, suck the fun out of the outing,” Satoru shoves Suguru back, the dark haired man tossing a murderous glare to him over his shoulder.

You shake your head to yourself, truthfully not even angry about the entire ordeal. You’ve spent weeks being angry with Satoru and now that you’re out, you’ve been caught off guard but you can’t say that you have the energy to care any longer. You feel Shoko lock her fingers with yours and tug you, leading you to follow. “We’re gonna go get drinks,” the brown eyed woman announces, the two of you skipping off to push through bodies to reach the alcohol.

“Don’t get kidnapped!” Suguru calls out.

Geto doesn’t miss the way Satoru’s eyes follow you intensely. He scoffs and elbows him in the ribs, Gojo bending over and clutching his upper abdomen. “What the fuck,” he wheezes.

“Get your shit together tonight,” his hazel eyed companion demands, and Satoru’s squinting his eyes up at him over his frames.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna give me a lecture…”

“If you get it together, I won’t have to,” Suguru says.

Satoru rises slowly, face mellowing out into an expression of discomfort. “Is this about what I think it’s about?”

“What else would it be about?”

Satoru frowns. “I told you already, I’m not gonna keep making myself look stupid. If anyone’s gotta fix anything, it’s her.”

“Oh really?” Suguru hums. “You know, Satoru, it’s unhealthy to direct all of the blame to the other person

“Wh- she ghosted me!”

“And you reacted by…?”

Satoru clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, brushing strands of white hair from his line of sight. He glances over the crowd to relocate you and Shoko, watching as the brunette hops up into a stool while you lean against the counter, that damned dress he threw in your bag without thinking lining the curve of your ass as you poke it out subconsciously while pressing against the wood. Satoru thinks he’s going to lose his mind, watching the way your foot crosses over your heel and as men stumble bass by, but not without throwing a glance your way unbeknownst to you.

Why do you have to look fucking edible tonight? Why couldn’t you have just worn sweatpants and a t-shirt and called it a night? Why do you have to look so breathtakingly gorgeous everywhere you go?

“I’d do it again too,” Satoru says to himself though Suguru can hear it loud and clear. “She just needed to be reminded that she cares about us, that’s all.”

Satoru hears Suguru release a long sigh, eyes closing and arms crossing. “You’re completely missing the point. Both of you are,” he repeats, this time to Satoru.

“What? Both of us?” he perks up at the last part of his best friend’s sentence. “What does that mean? Is that coming from whatever you guys talked about earlier? What did she say to you?”

“I’m not doing this,” Suguru stops him while he’s ahead. “I’m going to get wasted. I feel like I’ll need to with however this night is about to go.”

“No fair! I’m the designated driver,” Satoru whines, following closely behind Suguru to make his way through the crowd. “You’re all gonna drink without me?!”

“You’ll be fine, lightweight.”

“Some thanks I get for bringing us all out tonight. You guys suck.”

The guys eventually make their way over to you at the bar and find that Shoko has already ordered the two of you shots. Suguru chuckles at her hastiness and orders one more, leading Satoru to murmur incoherently to himself as he leans his back against the counter and watches you all down the nasty liquor. You all tighten your faces and scrunch your noses simultaneously, slamming the glasses down. “Alright, that was a mistake. I’m done,” you say quickly, rejecting the shot glass and shoving it toward the edge of the counter.

Satoru, from Suguru’s side, peers over him to look at you curiously. You look over at him, relaxing your face to see what he wants from you. “Done already?” he marvels, a question that holds no hint of playfulness to it. You shrug.

“Yeah. The taste of alcohol’s not agreeing with me tonight,” you reply casually, catching Suguru ordering another round with a giggling Shoko out of the corner of your eye. “Looks like I’m playing babysitter instead.”

“That’ll make two of us,” Satoru agrees, and the conversation falls short. You nod to yourself awkwardly, setting your hands on the countertop and looking down. Before Satoru can ponder saying anything more to you, the bartender returns to your section with two more shots for Suguru and Shoko. He’s wearing a small smirk as he sets the glasses down before them, slinging a cloth over his shoulder and leaning forward on his forearm.

“You guys haven’t wasted any time,” he comments, attempting to spark a conversation you assume is for the sake of tips.

Suguru chooses to dissociate, hardly in much of a social mood if it’s not with the friends he has arrived with, leaving Shoko to answer for him. “Party’s gotta start somewhere,” she shrugs, and the bartender grins. Suguru and Satoru exchange knowing, annoyed gazes. Here goes the first one of the night.

“That’s absolutely true,” he nods, turning to look at you. Satoru sees the shift of attention as fast as it occurs, and he already isn’t liking it. “What about you? You don’t wanna party?”

You tighten your lips into a harsh smile, laughing lightly with the shake of your head. “No, no, just looking out for these two.”

“Ah. Then you must be a good friend.”

“Oh, you’d have to ask them,” you point down the line of the three beside you. “I can’t say.”

“Don’t be so humble,” he needles lightly. “I’m sure you’re wonderful.”

“What about me?” All heads turn to Satoru, whose chin is propped up and his glasses are lifted above his head, strained grin on his features. “I’m not drinking either. Do you think I’m wonderful?” he drawls, and you slap your hand over your face.

The bartender laughs with far less energy he had speaking to you, suddenly busying himself with polishing a glass. “I’m sure you are, man,” he says before excusing himself to check on other customers. Shoko bursts into loud laughter once he leaves and Suguru downs his second shot, eager to become numb to everything he’s noticing.

“What? He was trying too hard,” Satoru defends, and you look at him intently, for this is the second time within a day that Satoru has interfered with a man’s interaction with you. You were so mad about it before because he was disrespecting your research partner, but now with this guy you didn’t even want to talk to in the first place, you’re taking a second look at his behavior in a different light.

The word Shoko used earlier flashes through your mind. Territorial.

What the hell did Satoru have to be territorial over when you were his friend?

“That’s his job, Satoru. He’s gonna talk our heads off to get a good tip,” Suguru reasons, wincing at the taste of alcohol fresh on his tongue again.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Satoru says rather brightly.

“God, just order another round already.”

With Shoko and Suguru on their way towards blacking out, you and Satoru remain keenly aware of the things that happen around you. The room grows hot due to the gathering and compaction of sweaty bodies dancing together.

At one point, Shoko drags you into the heat, pulling you by your hands and dancing wildly along with you. You laugh at her tipsy state, moving along with her nonetheless as people bump up against you, hollering with intoxicated joy. You allow yourself to let go for a moment, bringing yourself back to all the late nights you had shared with your friends within this exact kind of environment, screaming with each other for absolutely no reason without a single care in the world.

You recall the times Satoru would drag you to the dance floor with him, making you watch the absurdly ridiculous way he danced that had you kneeling over in laughter, hands gripping his arms as the alcohol within your system made you practically die laughing. You had always missed the way Satoru would look down at you as you laughed with your head bowed, an affectionate grin sweeping over his face as the sound of your amusement inspired his own laughs.

You look back on those memories and find yourself momentarily happy to be here, Ieiri jumping up and down before you as if she’s having the time of her life, spinning around and yelling out the lyrics to a song you didn’t even think she knew.

You’re enjoying yourself, gripping Shoko’s hand as she spins you around in turn, watching her trip slightly over her feet as she manages to do so. She’s always been an energetic drunk, you think to yourself, often matching the chaotic behavior of Satoru.

At the thought of his name, you look around to find him and see that he’s still by the bar with Suguru, seemingly poking fun at his mellow drunken state. The dark haired man blinks slowly, eyes lidded as he tunes out whatever nonsense is being spewed into his ear by Gojo. After you watch the tall man take a video of Suguru and the said twenty one year old smack his phone out of his hand, Satoru’s eyes catch yours when he picks himself up from dropping his phone.

You can feel the air thicken with tension, and suddenly, the chaos around you slows. You don’t understand what brings the two of you to constantly lock eyes, for you can’t even count how many times the two of you have made eye contact throughout this night alone. Satoru seems to watch you in slow motion, both of your smiles sparked by separate occurrences dwindling in the slightest as the concentration of your gazes consume the moment. You can feel your heart ringing in your ears, confusion, desperation, fear, and admiration gripping your body as those ocean blue eyes sink into you from across the room, dominating the hundreds of other presences far closer to you than he is.

You ponder over where all the anger you had just harbored for him went. You’re looking at him now, under the flashing pink and green lights that cross over his majestic features, and you can’t find a thing to be mad at. You haven’t been able to, in fact, since after your conversation with Suguru, or perhaps even before that when Satoru stormed out of your room.

Looking at him now, all you can see is him looking at you, the longing to have you back in his life, the hope that he hasn’t completely ruined his chances of remaining friends with you. Suguru had suggested that Satoru may surprise you if you were to confess to him, and the sentiment has your head reeling. Does he know something that you don’t? Does he understand better the reason as to why his eyes can’t seem to tear themselves off of you? As to how he manages to find you in a sea of people as if you are the only person there?

You’re a mess of confliction and heartache when it comes to comprehending your dynamic with Satoru. You thought you had understood him so well, that he’s a person of privilege who can get whatever he wants without caring how it affects others along the way, that he only stuck by your side for so long because he liked to play with your head and to test your patience. You thought you knew, but there’s a chance that you weren’t paying as much attention to him as you thought you were.

If Satoru didn’t take you seriously, why would he have remembered the foods that you like? If he didn’t take you seriously, why did he always stay the night whenever he heard of you having a rough call with your parents? If he didn’t take you seriously, why did he watch you as though you’re the only individual that exists within his line of sight, within his mind, within his entire universe?

You don’t know what to do anymore. Everything you thought you knew has been completely misconstrued, thrown into question, and you’re finding it difficult to return to the mindset you even had this morning.

You’re under a spell cast by his attention on you until a pair of women brush by him and Suguru, pausing to get their attention by tapping Satoru’s shoulder. Your smile has fallen now and Satoru looks torn, eyes flickering between you and the redhead in front of him who leans up to speak directly into his ear due to the overbearing volume of the atmosphere, Satoru tensing as he forces himself to listen. His stare grows anxious, as though he’s been caught doing something bad. You can see the slight panic hit his face as he throws on a suave facade to respond to the girl, looking subtly weary at the way her hand lingers on his shoulder.

You don’t watch any longer, ripping your eyes away and turning back to Shoko. You don’t want to know, you tell yourself. You don’t want to see, you don’t want to hear anything about what that girl could have been saying to him, leaning in close as her lips brush centimeters away from his ears. You don’t want to think about it, whether the conversation is benign or not, you can’t handle the sight. You can’t handle the still lingering possibility, no- the fear that Satoru would see you as just the same as that girl, grasping for his recognition like the rest of the world.

Therefore, you subconsciously avoid him for the rest of the night, bringing you right back to where you started.

The two of you decide that the night should come to a close when it hits one in the morning, and Suguru can barely stand while Shoko is trying to steal the mic from the DJ. Satoru has to physically remove her from the premises, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. You’re left to help Suguru, telling him to wrap his arm around you to stabilize himself while you lead him to the car. You grunt under his weight, removing your arm from his torso to help ease him into his car seat by holding his arms. He stumbles in ungracefully just as Satoru bends down to lower Shoko down next to him. You and Satoru sit in silence once more as Shoko rambles to herself about god knows what, and Suguru holds his forehead as though he has a headache.

When you make it back, you somehow manage to get the two up the stairs and situated into their own rooms. You huff, out of breath after having to pull Suguru into his room with a glass of water and a trash can beside his bed. You step out into the hall, closing his door gently behind you to hear a struggle a few doors down where Satoru is begging Shoko to go to sleep and by the sounds of it, she’s too busy jumping up and down on her bed. You laugh to yourself at just how different Shoko is from her normally laid back personality after a night out.

You think about turning in to go to sleep, but for the second night in a row, you don’t find yourself tired from the day. You elect to take your shoes off and head out back to the pool, sitting on the side and wading your feet in the cool water. You sigh softly and look down at the small waves that ripple with the sway of your feet, the gentle splosh of liquid filling the night air. At one point, you notice that the commotion upstairs has gone quiet, and you assume that Satoru has finally managed to put Shoko to bed.

You hear heavy footsteps slowly descend the stairs and approach from behind you. You get a feeling of deja vu from the previous night when you turn and find Satoru standing just a few feet away with a look of surprise on his features. You see that he’s taken off his glasses and shoes, likely having come to do exactly what you are doing.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “Sorry, I thought you were in your room,” he says quietly.

You shake your head, looking at the ground then back up to him. “No, not tired.”

“Again, huh?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He hums, unsure of where to look all of a sudden. “Is… Suguru good?”

“Um, yeah he’s fine. He passed out as soon as he hit the bed,” you tell him. “What about Shoko?”

“She’s knocked out, finally,” he says. “She made sure to make it extra difficult for me, though.”

You smile gently. “I heard.”

“I swear that woman is a nightmare when she drinks.”

You appreciate the way Satoru attempts to lighten the conversation, bringing a hint of humor into something you can both laugh at. The lights inside are all out save for a dim lamp in the kitchen and the pool lights that keep the outdoor area illuminated. It grows blatantly quiet, the house still as Satoru stands in the walkway, tired, nervous, unsure.

After a few moments, you hear Satoru clap his hands awkwardly. “I guess I’ll leave you to it then,” he says slowly, and you look up at him with a hint of disappointment. “I can take you back to the city tomorrow morning so you can, you know, get back to work.”

Your lips part, (e/c) eyes glazing over in the soft light as Satoru watches you to see if you have anything more to add, but you unfortunately can’t think of the right thing to say. You don’t want him to leave, but you don’t know what making him stay out here will do for either of you. You’re in such a strange space with him, questioning whether he’s still angry with you and him most likely doing the same. The only thing that’s on your mind now is how bad you’ve let things get solely because of your love for him, and it’s eating you up on the inside knowing that as long as these feelings are bottled up inside you, the likelihood of losing Satoru as a friend for good remains.

Satoru takes your silence as a means to leave and exhales, turning to go back inside. “Good night,” he tells you halfheartedly.

“...Good night.”

Satoru stops suddenly, fists tightening at his sides. You notice that his posture has stiffened even more than it already was as he prevents himself from leaving, and you grow slightly concerned. “Satoru? Are you okay?”

“Is that really all you have to say?” he asks, whipping his head around to look at you. He’s upset again, you can tell, but possibly even more so than he was earlier. He looks angrier, more enraged as his brows furrow harshly and his eyes glow with unreleased emotion. You look at him blankly, put off by his outburst as he awaits something more from you, anything from you.

“...I don’t know what you mean.”

This does not seem to be the right answer, for it only makes him angrier. “How can you not know what I mean? After everything that happened today, you still have nothing to say to me?”

“If you’re looking for an apology about this morning, then I don’t think I did anything wrong…?”

Satoru scoffs and laughs disbelievingly, eyes widening as he stares at you as if to process the words that have come out of your mouth. He courses his hands through his messy hair in stress, astonished by you. “I genuinely don’t know what to do with you, (Y/n),” he chuckles. “It’s not even just about this morning- it’s about everything. Everything that’s led us here.”

“I apologized for trying to stop talking to you, Satoru, what more do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, to say that you care about me?” he throws his hands up. “I mean, do you? Do you even care?”

Your heart clenches at his words, turning to bring your feet out of the water. “Of course I care.”

“Then why do you act like you don’t?”

You stand, sensing the way the conversation takes a turn into intensity. Water drips down your legs from your shins and onto the ground, the air nipping at your damp skin though you can hardly tell. “How could I possibly act like I don’t care about you?”

“Because you choose to be civil with everyone but me, (Y/n)! Suguru, Shoko, your research partner, some bartender- everyone, when I’m the one who's always been here, who’s always cared about you. Me! And you still just-” Satoru sucks in a breath, realizing that he has inched himself further toward you with each passionate stance he takes, face reddening and hands grasping the air for nothing, though what he longs to hold the most stands right before him, appearing as lost as he feels caring for you. He drops his hands to his sides, tightening the muscles in his face.

He’s hurt. He wants you to hear him, to see him, to fight with him over your relationship, but you do nothing, just like always.

Just then, your phone lights up from where it sits by the pool and rings. You jump, startled by the sound and turn to see who is calling you at this time of night. As if the universe couldn’t have hated you any more than it already did, the sight of Aoto’s contact buzzing only solidifies its discontent with you.

You turn back around and watch Satoru’s hardened eyes stare at your phone knowingly, nosing flaring. “Satoru-”

“Forget it,” he spits. “Just fucking forget it.”

“No, Satoru, wait-” you call out. You see him moving away from you, drawing himself back, and your heart drops. You don’t want him to go, you don’t want him to go.

You jump forward and grab his hand tightly, pulling him back over to you with desperation. He looks shocked at first, yet still aggravated when he turns back to look at you. When he sees your hand gripping his firmly, his resolve cracks just a bit.

“Please, I don’t know why he’s calling right now, please,” you beg him, fully aware of how pathetic you sound, but you don’t care. You’ve spent your entire friendship being angry with Satoru, and now you just want to make things right. You want to understand him. You want him to know that everything you did to harm him was to prevent yourself from getting harmed, and while you understand that it’s selfish, it’s what you thought was right. But you don’t think that anymore.

Satoru can feel his body burn from the touch of your hand. He’s so weak for you, he’s known this for a long time, but he can’t stand it. He doesn’t want to look stupid in front of you, he doesn’t want to be ridiculed for caring about you any longer. You’re torturing him, but he can’t pull away. “(Y/n),” he breathes out raggedly, eyes stuck to your conjoined hands. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“What can’t you do?” you whisper, eyes glistening over, the sound of your phone ringing eventually dying off. “I told you I wasn’t gonna do what I did again.”

“Somehow, I just don’t believe you,” he murmurs. “I can see you constantly running from me in your head and I don’t know why. I never will.”

“Please,” your voice betrays you, trembling slightly, and Satoru can not help but melt at the sound.

He’s so weak. You make him so god damn weak.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“What are you sorry for?” the blue eyed man questions, turning into you. “Do you even know why you’re apologizing anymore?”

“Clearly I keep doing something wrong, Satoru, or else you wouldn’t be looking at me like this!” you cry hopelessly. “I know I fucked up before. I know I did, but today we have a whole other issue that I just don’t understand!”

“(Y/n), you’re the one who got angry with me in the first place.”

“Because you keep doing things that mess with my head, and I don't understand where I stand with you!” you say, and Satoru stares at you, aggrieved. “I don’t know how you can’t understand why I was mad! You weren’t in any place to talk to another guy like you’re-” you cut yourself off, but Satoru is too invested now to let you freeze up.

“Like I’m what? Just tell me!” he urges, and you slip your hand from his abruptly.

“I- UGH!” you shout out, rubbing your hands over your face. You pace around, walking in a circle in front of Satoru before settling back to where you were. “Satoru, I compare myself to you all the time. I’m always looking at the difference between where you stand and where I stand.”

The corner of Gojo’s noise twists upward in confusion. “What?” he exhales.

“Everywhere I go, I see you. I see the way people look at you, the way girls try to talk to you, the way you brush them away, all of it.”

Satrou thinks back to that moment at the bar when those girls approached him asking for his social media handle and he refused politely, claiming that he didn’t have one. “What- what the hell does any of that have to do with anything I’m saying right now?”

“I pushed away because I thought you saw and cared about the same differences between us. But I was the one who cared, who was nervous about it,” you confess. “I thought that you were always around, teasing me because you wanted to prove that you can affect anyone, including me.”

Satoru’s shoulders slump. “...You thought I was only friends with you so I could bother you?” he repeats lowly, as if the very words that touch his tongue are too dangerous to be spoken any louder.

“You have to understand, I was raised differently from you.”

“Why the fuck does that matter?” he demands. “Why would I care about anything like that?”

“I don’t know, but that’s what I thought! That’s what I was afraid of.”

“So you just lumped me into the same category that everyone else in the world lumps me in?” he says bitterly. “You saw me as someone who didn’t value our friendship? That’s what you numbed me down to?”

“I didn’t know!”

“How could you not know, (Y/n)? How could you not know that I would do anything for you?” He steps toward you, gathering your shoulders in his hands as he stares directly into your soul. Your lip trembles as you look at him, overwhelmed. “How could you see me as something so much less than how I see you?” his voice dips down, and a lump builds in your throat.

“It wasn’t like that,” you deny. “I was just scared.”

“Scared of what? You’re fucking killing me, here, (Y/n).”

“I was scared of caring about you more than you could care about me,” you tell him gently, voice sliding into a strained whimper. Pools of sapphire blue dart over your features in search of a clearer explanation, a reason as to why you’ve inspired so much pain.

“That’s what I’m scared of,” Satoru emphasizes. “I’m terrified of it. I’m terrified that you’ll just disappear one day without telling me. That’s why I couldn’t handle you ‘taking space,’ that’s why I couldn’t stand the sight of you with your research partner and not with me, that’s why everywhere you end up going, I will pathetically follow because I can not stomach the thought of you pulling completely away,” he pours out, such raw candor capturing his face.

Your heart is thrumming, caught in your eyes and your throat as tears well up into your eyes. You breathe swiftly through your nose, watching as Satoru takes your face in his hands and stares at you as though he can’t catch any air in your presence. “I pushed you away because I couldn’t stomach the thought that you’d deny me the way that you deny everyone who crosses paths with you,” you tell him, mimicking his words.

“Listen to me,” he whispers firmly. “You are the only person in this world that I would never deny. I don’t know how much clearer I can make myself to you.”

A tear breaks past your lashes and rushes down your cheek, your own emotions betraying you. You can’t fight your heartache any longer, not when the man you love is cradling your face in his hands and telling you that he would choose you over anyone who tries to come his way.

He swipes his thumb over your cheek tenderly, smoothing away your tears. “Why are you crying?” he asks delicately and you shrug.

“I just spent the last three years so scared of you not giving a shit about me,” you sigh shakily. “And I behaved accordingly, and now…” you gulp, hands trembling at your sides as Satoru caresses your face softly. “I was angry with you because you were acting possessive over me with Aoto,” you breathe out, a weight lifting from your chest. “I always thought you did things to get a rise out of me, so when you talked to him like you had a reason to be possessive, it got to me. Especially after you came here unannounced.”

Satoru doesn’t speak for a moment, studying the flutter in your lashes that are decorated with pearly tears and the way your nose twitches move when you sniffle, (e/c) eyes soaking in his being. It doesn’t take long before he notices that he’s slightly shaking himself. “Why do you think I'd be possessive over you in the first place?” he poses the question gingerly, brushing a piece of hair from the side of your face.

You glaze at him, torn. “I don’t know,” you mumble and he bows his head in defeat.

“Come on,” he breathes, looking back up at you. “Come on,” he says again, holding you tighter. “Stop making me look dumb.”

“I’m not trying to,” you tell him, truthfully. “Satoru, why did you come here?” you muster up the strength to ask him for the final time.

“You know why,” he responds.

“Tell me.”

His face relaxes, his brows releasing from their pinched state and his lips falling into a neutral stance as he continues to stare at you. “Because I’m in love with you,” he admits, and your head spins. Your pupils expand as a few more tears rush down your face, blurring the image of him that you so desperately yearn to see. He lowers his head to meet your eyes at your level, holding your head still so that you can’t look away. He looks suddenly calm as the confession rushes from him, leading you both beyond the point of no return. “I love you so much that I flew all the way across the earth for you, and I’d do it again.”

You lean into him and shut your eyes, overcome by relief and love and regret all at once. The pads of Satoru’s gentle thumbs proceed to slide under your eyes to gather the mass of your tears, smearing them across your makeup.

“I love you so much that I woke up every morning to text you, that I memorized every single class schedule you had so that I could meet with you when you were done, that I always came over to your dorm when I was free, that when you stopped texting me my heart felt like it was going to shatter into a thousand pieces, that when I heard you were traveling my first instinct was to run after you because I don’t want you to go anywhere without me.”

His words shower over you like golden rays of warm sun, easing around your heart and mending the torment that you had subjected yourself to for months on end. It’s too much, hearing Satoru Gojo list all the things he has done for the sake of love when you’ve been accusing him of being selfish all this time.

“(Y/n),” he says your name like it’s a prayer. “I love you so much that I feel like I’m going to lose my mind any time another guy even speaks to you. I can’t help but be possessive over you for those reasons. I can’t help but want you all to myself, and I know that’s selfish, but if you only see me as someone who doesn’t care, then there’s nothing I can do to change that. And I am sorry for any time I've ever made you feel like you were nothing when you’ve been everything.”

You can’t breathe. You’re completely captured by Satoru, his essence, his being, his confession. Your heart is bursting, your body is shaking, and you have no words to say that could begin to explain all that you are feeling.

Satoru loves you. He’s always loved you, and you had been so blinded by your insecurities that you hadn’t seen everything he has always done to show you that.

You open your eyes to gaze at him, his rosy cheeks and sharp eyes that send shivers down your spine, his perfect lips, and his body towering over you, swallowing you into him. You see him clearly now, and you break.

You reach out and grab his sides, pushing in to connect your lips.

Years of doubt and pent up tension wash away the moment your lips touch, and you can finally think clearly. Satoru’s eyes go wide when he feels you against him, stunned by your boldness and asking himself whether this is real or not. It doesn’t take him long to give in when he processes what is happening, and he tugs you further and returns your kiss, melting into you blissfully.

You think fireworks are going off, sparks flying, and electricity jolting as he digs his fingers into the back of your head, tilting his own to deepen your kiss and glide his glossy lips over yours. You furrow your brows, drifting into his warmth and humming softly as his mouth moves languidly against yours.

His hands move down, clutching at your waist and wrapping you to his chest, seeking to bring you into him with the hopes of conjoining souls. He’s sweet, the way he kisses you, meticulous and passionate, absorbing the taste of you that he’s been longing to obtain for as long as he’s known you. His palms smooth over your curves, familiarizing and feeling over the fabric of your tight dress, every dip in your hips and plush of your backside, smoothing over your body like a man starved.

Satoru groans, parting from you for a split second to tilt his head the other way and kiss you again, even deeper. Your mind goes numb as you wind your arms slowly around his neck, leaning onto your tiptoes to press yourself further against his mouth. The white haired man is quick to comply, tucking his arms under your thighs and hoisting them up and around his torso. You crush down into him from this new angle, hair falling over your faces as his tongue swipes against your lip, begging to gain access to yours. You part your lips eagerly, welcoming the swirl of his wet muscles around your own, moaning softly into his mouth as saliva pools over your lips.

Satoru’s whipped, completely smitten by you and the feeling of your body pressed to his, addicted to the way your dress rises up over your thighs and the outline of your underwear rubs against his pants zipper. He can feel the blood rushing down already, his face down to his chest flustered angrily as he loses himself in you, biting greedily at your lip and sucking in the delicious taste of your mouth.

He’s moving forward subconsciously, palming over the fat of your ass and pushing you further against his crotch, your pretty fingers knitting into his snowy locks and tugging at the roots. God, it’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s dreamed of brought to one moment in time. The two of you repeatedly break away to push back in, mushing damp lips together in supple pecks, and you breathe a proclamation into him as he grows dizzy, the heat of your breath fanning over his swollen lips.

“I love you too,” you whisper so enticingly, so fully, and he’s moaning helplessly into you, grinding his hips up into yours. “I’ve always loved you.”

You can feel him all over you, touching you, kissing you, and you're drunk off of his affections, falling into the sugary taste of his lips and the warmth of his hands smoothing over your bare thighs.

His lips break away to find your neck, licking and biting along your skin. You tilt your chin back, allowing him further access to your throat as his lips swim over it graciously, sucking hungrily at soft patches and dragging the most beautiful noises from your mouth. “Need you,” he hisses into your neck, teeth nipping and tongue smoothing over bruises in his wake. “Stay with me, please,” he begs senselessly. “Please, baby, I need you. I’ll always need you.”

You’re nodding against him, lips falling into an ‘o’ shape as he sucks marks down to your collarbone, tugging at the straps of your dress and pulling them over your shoulder so that he can kiss all over your chest. “I’ll stay,” you promise him. “Need you too, Toru, I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Satoru thinks he’s floating into heaven, now, blessed by your assurance and your reciprocation after having convinced himself that he would never get it. He lifts his head again to reconnect your lips, stepping forward once more only to lose his footing, foot meeting the water instead of the concrete. He parts from you with a smack and you shriek when balance is lost and the two of you are falling into the pool with a SPLASH!

Satoru doesn’t let go of you when you submerge underwater, keeping you close to him when you resurface with a gasp. The two of you breathe harshly, looking around in a stupor. Your arms are still around his neck and legs around his torso, drenched. You look over at his flat hair dripping over his face and you push it away, peeling it from his wet skin to see that he’s already laughing. You gape and whack him on the shoulder, leading him to laugh even louder.

“Satoru!” you cry and he’s giggling, curling his fingers into your skin underwater and leaning into you.

“Sorry,” he laughs, wiping away at his eyes. “I forgot the pool was there.”

“You idiot,” you shake your head, running your fingers over his cheek as he looks at you lovingly, lips stretched into a dopey grin.

“I love you, (Y/n),” he says again, dipping his head to press his lips to your forehead then to the bridge of your nose, and you’re smiling too, stupid off of his adoration.

“I love you,” you tell him and he’s squealing, gripping you tight and squeezing you to him by your waist.

“Tell me again,” he grins, and you roll your eyes.

“I love you, moron.”

“Again.”

“I love you,” you giggle.

“Again, this time with my name.”

“Satoru,” you groan.

“No, you didn’t do it right. Say ‘I love you, Satoru Gojo.’”

“You’re so annoying,” you press against his soaked chest.

“Say it again!” he demands dramatically and you huff.

“Oh my god!” you exclaim. “I love you, Satoru Gojo. Always.”

His cheeks warm, lips moving to peck all over your face. You squeak, gripping his shoulders as he peppers you with loud, obnoxious kisses, leaving you with little space to breathe. “I love you so much,” he mumbles against your cheek. “Almost gave me a heart attack. I thought I was gonna have to kidnap you or something if you kept trying to leave me.”

“You already did kidnap me!”

“And I have no regrets. Sue me,” he beams.

“Of course you don’t,” you exhale. “After all, you followed me to America with no shame. Which I knew you did from the beginning!”

“Duh,” he scoffs. “I’d go anywhere for you.”

You laugh, wrapping your arms back around him and brushing your nose against his. “You’re crazy.”

“When it comes to you, absolutely I am,” he smiles then presses back into you, lips meeting in harmony as he spins you around the water, holding you close and vowing to stay by your side for as long as you let him.

The ping off your phone disrupts the moment once more and you look over, Satoru groaning and ducking his head to your shoulder. “I should probably check that now,” you say, and his grip around you tightens.

“No, don’t,” he pleads. “Pay more attention to me.”

“Just give me a second, drama queen, it could be important,” you say and he pouts.

“Fine,” he grumbles, dragging you over through the water slowly so that you can reach the edge and look at your phone. You quickly read the message that pops up and panic.

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“I forgot to send Aoto the spreadsheet.”

“Fucking finally.”

You and Satoru break away from each other to turn and see Suguru at the foot of the stairs followed by Shoko, wrapped up in a blanket with a miserable look on her face. It’s the following morning, and you and Satoru were up all night talking, kissing, holding each other. You had managed to take a second to send your spreadshirt to Aoto at around three in the morning, and you could only hope that he didn’t mind. At some point, you made your way into the kitchen to sit inside, and Suguru caught Satoru leaning over your seat to kiss you softly at nine in the morning.

“Well, well, well, look who's up,” Satoru announces as the two trudge their way toward the kitchen table where the two of you reside, Shoko immediately plopping down into a seat.

“Not so loud,” the brunette groans.

“So? You two finally kiss and tell?” Suguru raises a brow, moving around to fix a cup of coffee. You catch the way his eyes glance at your marked up neck and he smirks. “Or maybe more than that?”

You puff your cheeks. “Okay know-it-all, we get it, you knew about us all along.”

“To be honest, everyone knew but the two of you,” he says tiredly. “Right, Shoko?”

“Basically,” she confirms in exhaustion. “It sucked watching you two make one mistake after the other because of it.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault (Y/n) decided being in love with me was bad enough to completely kick me out of her life,” Satoru says exaggeratedly and you nudge him.

“Shut up,” you bark, and his eyes gleam as he leans over to wrap you up in his arms and kiss the top of your head.

“That doesn’t bother me anymore though because I know you’re head over heels obsessed with me,” he sings and you roll your eyes, practically suffocated.

“Oh god, this is what we have to deal with now? Fourth wheeling?” Shoko grimaces.

“Maybe it was better when they weren’t talking,” Suguru adds.

“Boo, you guys are just jealous,” Satoru brags. “After all, (Y/n) and I are in love while you two are still single. How sad,” he pouts tauntingly, then turns back to you to land a kiss directly onto your lips. Shoko cringes while Suguru shakes his head humorously.

“Just make sure you guys are quiet whenever you decide to inevitably fuck on every surface in this house,” the dark haired man says.

Satoru cocks a brow, releasing you and standing up straight. “Who says we haven’t already?”

“Alright, enough out of you,” you cut the conversation short, face bursting into flames. “I have to go back into the city this morning anyway so you don’t need to worry about us. Duty calls.”

“Oh yeah, you two are welcome to come with me, but I plan to stay with (Y/n) for the next few days at the AirBnB.”

“You mean you’re leaving us with this big ass house and no car?” Suguru questions and Satoru smiles.

“Yep. You’re welcome!”

Suguru sighs, far too tired and hungover to engage any further with this conversation. “Whatever. I’m going back to bed.”

“Already?! But I haven’t made breakfast yet!”

“I’m too hungover for this and your cooking sucks.”

“No it does not.”

“Yes it does, Satoru, it’s practically inedible. If you’re gonna let anyone cook, let it be (Y/n).”

“Why do I have to do it? I have to go!”

“Geez, Suguru. How much more sexist can you be?”

“What is with you accusing me of being sexist, Shoko?”

“Since you wanted a woman to cook.”

“I asked (Y/n) to cook because she knows how to! You don’t see me asking your ass to make breakfast, do you?”

“Fuck off. Go back to sleep.”

“I was already going to!”

The kitchen fills with overlapping voices as the four of you bicker over absolutely nothing, just like how you used to. You feel your heart warm, surrounded by the people you care about the most and questioning why you ever thought that you would be better off without them.

You look over at Satoru and smile, watching him provoke Suguru with an evil grin. Despite his hastiness to tease and to poke fun, you see now that he does it out of love, and you relish in the abundant memories of Satoru showering his love over you.

By badgering, by clinging, and by crossing the earth to be by your side.

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