Noobs' Creed

The room was dim, lit only by a few scattered candles that flickered against the dark wooden walls of Freed’s private quarters in the Fairy Tail guildhall. The air smelled faintly of old books, ozone, and the lingering trace of his cologne—something crisp and expensive that always made your head spin. Each candle threw soft, dancing shadows across the shelves of ancient tomes, runes occasionally glinting in the flicker, the effect eerie and intimate but just restrained enough to keep your nerves on edge. Every corner of this room felt sacred, like a temple built for one purpose: you.

You were already trembling when he finished the last rune, the tension in your muscles electric, your breath coming in shaky little gasps as magic crackled faintly in the air.

Freed Justine stood at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his teal hair falling perfectly into place even now. Those sharp green eyes studied you like you were a particularly fascinating spell he was about to perfect—his gaze patient, clinical, but brimming with something darker. Hunger. Anticipation. Love.

“Absolute Obedience,” he murmured, tracing the glowing symbol in the air with one elegant finger. The rune flared, then sank into your skin just above your collarbone. Not painful—just warm. Possessive. Claiming.

You tried to move your wrists. Couldn’t. They were pinned gently but inescapably above your head by invisible bindings. Your ankles were next, spread and locked to the corners of the bed by more of his enchantments. You were completely exposed to him, dressed only in the thin black silk blindfold he’d tied with deliberate care. The silk smelled faintly of him. Every thread a reminder.

“Good girl,” he said softly, voice low and velvet, like ink poured over satin. “You asked for this. Begged for it, actually. Remember?”

You whimpered softly behind the gag he’d enchanted into existence—a soft sphere of runes that let you make sound but no words. Just pretty, desperate noises for him to enjoy. You nodded frantically, hair brushing the pillow.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and steady. “Let’s see how long you last before you’re sobbing my name.”

The first toy was cold—glass, enchanted to vibrate at whatever frequency he desired. He dragged it slowly up the inside of your thigh, watching you jerk against the restraints. He didn’t go fast. Freed was never hasty. He relished control, precision. When he pressed it against your clit without warning, the runes flared again.

“Pleasure Amplification: Level Three.”

Your back arched off the bed as the sensation tripled instantly. It was too much, too fast—your hips bucked helplessly, but the bindings held firm. He circled the toy slowly, maddeningly, never giving you the pressure you needed. Only teasing.

“Level Five.”

A broken cry tore from your throat. Your thighs shook, muscles straining against his magic. Tears were already soaking the blindfold. You gasped and trembled as the toy traced unhurried spirals around your most sensitive nerves, each touch somehow more intense than the last.

Freed hummed approvingly, sliding the toy inside you in one smooth motion, watching the way your body clenched around it. Another rune glowed at your throat, pale pink.

“Delayed Release.”

You felt the orgasm building, white-hot and inevitable—and then it stopped. Frozen. Trapped just beneath your skin. You thrashed, sobbing in frustration, but he only chuckled darkly and added a second toy: a small vibrating plug he eased into your ass with careful, slick fingers. He took his time, murmuring praise as he stretched you open, easing the plug in with perfect, maddening patience.

“Overstimulation Protocol,” he whispered, like he was casting the most sacred spell of his life.

Both toys kicked into life at once, merciless and unrelenting. You gasped, your back arching as the assault of sensation hit all at once, shuddering through your core in relentless waves. The glass one inside you pulsed in waves, the plug buzzed in counter-rhythm, and the runes on your skin lit up like stars—amplifying every sensation until your entire body felt like one raw, exposed nerve. He watched, fascinated, as you bucked and sobbed, limbs trembling, your cunt fluttering helplessly around the toy.

You lost track of time. Of how many times he brought you to the edge and yanked you back. Of how many times he leaned down to lick the tears from your cheeks and praise you in that sinful voice. You could hear him, always, in that calm, unhurried tone: “That’s it, take it, look how perfect you are, crying for me like this.”

“Look at you,” he breathed, finally removing the gag with a flick of his fingers. “My perfect little canvas. So wet you’ve ruined the sheets. So beautifully broken for me.”

“Please—Freed—please let me—”

He kissed you, slow and deep, swallowing your pleas. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip, slick with his kiss.

“Come,” he commanded simply.

The Delayed Release rune shattered.

You screamed as the orgasm tore through you—violent, endless, amplified beyond anything human. Your whole body convulsed, pussy clenching around the toy still vibrating inside you, ass squeezing the plug, every muscle locked in blinding ecstasy. He didn’t stop the toys. If anything, he turned them up. He whispered another spell, and they began to alternate speeds, rhythms, a torment of sensation that kept your body on fire.

You came again, harder this time, body jerking as you sobbed his name like a prayer—high, broken, worshipful. You heard yourself babbling, begging, the words barely intelligible between gasps and cries.

And again.

And again.

Until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess, begging incoherently for mercy, for more, for him. Your voice was cracked, raw from screaming. Your body drenched in sweat, slick, juices soaking the sheets beneath you. You felt yourself unraveling, breaking open beneath his magic and his love.

Only then did he dismiss the runes with a lazy wave. The toys went still. The bindings dissolved. The blindfold slipped away.

Freed gathered you into his arms instantly, cradling you against his chest like you were something priceless. His fingers carded gently through your sweat-damp hair, and he pressed a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, then your mouth, tender and lingering.

“Shh, darling. I’ve got you. You did so well—so perfect for me.”

He kissed your temple, then brushed his lips over each eyelid, pausing to gently nuzzle the wet trails your tears had left behind. A warm cloth appeared—summoned by another quiet rune—and he cleaned you with careful, reverent strokes, murmuring praise the entire time. Every inch of your skin received his touch. Every part of you was cared for.

When he was done, he pulled the thick blanket over both of you and tucked you against his side, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. He held you close, fingers still stroking your spine in soothing little arcs.

You were still shaking with aftershocks, but he held you tighter, one arm curled possessively around your waist.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair, voice stripped of every trace of the cool, commanding mage and left only raw. “Thank you for trusting me with that. With you.”

You managed a weak, blissful smile against his skin. Your voice was barely a breath.

“Love you more,” you mumbled, already drifting.

Freed’s arms tightened possessively, and he pressed one last kiss to the top of your head.

“Never,” he said softly. “Not possible.”

And in the quiet, with the candles burning low and his fingers tracing lazy runes of protection across your back, you fell asleep—safe, cherished, and utterly his. The runes he etched glowed faintly even as you slipped into dreams, forming a barrier of warmth and magic around the bed. You never felt more secure.

The air in the apartment still crackled with the aftermath of the fight. A wine glass lay in glittering shards across the hardwood floor, the deep red stain bleeding into the grain like an accusation. The furniture was disordered: a chair skewed sideways, a throw pillow discarded like an afterthought. One of the curtains fluttered slightly, disturbed from earlier when you stormed past it. The space, usually immaculate, now bore the scars of the fury you'd both unleashed.

You stood on one side of the wreckage, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight your nails left crescents in your palms. Viraj was on the other, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, dark eyes blazing with that dangerous mix of fury and want he never quite managed to hide from you. His breathing was controlled, but the tension rippling off him betrayed the war inside his chest.

"You think you can just scream at me and walk away?" His voice was low, lethal, each word edged with the kind of anger that had always ignited you both. Not loud—but sharp enough to slice through the room like a knife.

"I’m not the one who threw the fucking glass, Viraj," you snapped, every word vibrating with adrenaline.

He took one step forward, glass crunching under his shoe. "You pushed me."

"And you loved it."

A muscle ticked in his cheek. The silence stretched, vicious and electric. Neither of you blinked. Neither of you ever did. It was always like this. The way you burned together, like flint and steel. Like war and lust.

Then he moved.

Two strides and he was on you, hands slamming against the wall on either side of your head, caging you in. His mouth crashed into yours like punishment—teeth scraping, biting down on your lower lip hard enough to bruise. You tasted blood—sharp, metallic—and it only fueled the fire raging beneath your skin. You kissed him back just as brutally, your nails raking down the back of his neck, drawing a guttural sound from his throat that vibrated against your tongue.

His thigh shoved between yours, forcing your legs apart, the rough denim of his jeans grinding against the thin fabric of your panties. You hated how soaked you already were. Hated that he could feel it. Loved that he could feel it.

"Still think you’re right?" he growled against your mouth, one hand dropping to fist your hair, yanking your head back so he could attack your throat. His teeth sank into the soft spot beneath your jaw—hard. A claiming bite that would bloom purple by morning. His free hand gripped your waist, fingers digging in with bruising pressure.

"Fuck you," you hissed, but your hips rolled shamelessly against his thigh, chasing friction, every nerve ending screaming for more.

"That’s the plan."

He spun you, slamming your front against the wall. Your palms hit plaster; his body pinned you there, heat and muscle and barely-leashed violence. You heard the clink of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, then the rip of lace as he tore your panties clean off. No patience. No gentleness. Just the primal urgency of two people too full of rage and need to care who broke first. Just the raw, filthy need that always rose from the ashes of your worst fights.

His hand cracked across your ass—sharp, stinging—and you cried out, pushing back into him like the greedy thing you were. His palm smoothed over the sting a moment later, lingering on the curve of your ass.

"Say it," he snarled, fisting himself and dragging the thick head of his cock through your slick folds. Teasing. Denying. "Tell me you want this. Tell me how badly you want me to ruin you."

You bit down on your lip until it bled, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

He thrust in to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

The air punched out of your lungs. He was merciless—hips snapping forward, each thrust slamming you into the wall, the framed photo beside you rattling with the force. His hand snaked around to your throat, fingers collaring you, squeezing just enough to make your head spin.

"Say it, Y/N," he demanded again, breath hot against your ear. "Say you’re mine."

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel him splitting you open, owning every inch of you with punishing strokes that made your legs shake. Every drag of his cock lit you up like fire.

"Never," you gasped, and clenched around him deliberately.

He cursed—vicious, reverent—and fucked you harder, the sound of skin on skin echoing with the distant tinkle of broken glass underfoot. His other hand shoved under your shirt, pushing your bra up to palm your breast, pinching your nipple until you sobbed. The wall scraped against your belly with every thrust. You were lost, helpless in the onslaught.

"This is what you need, isn't it?" he growled. "This is why you pick fights with me. Because you want me like this. Because you want to be fucked like this."

You whimpered, no strength left to lie.

You came first, shattering around him with a cry you couldn’t hold back, walls fluttering, milking him. Your vision went white at the edges. Only then did he let himself break—hips stuttering, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a ragged groan that sounded like your name and surrender all at once.

He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried in you, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, both of you trembling in the wreckage.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time fractured like the glass beneath your feet, glittering and jagged, impossible to piece back together.

Eventually, his arms slid around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He held you there, breathing hard, his heart pounding against your spine. His lips brushed the bite mark he’d left on your throat—soft now, almost apologetic.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, voice raw, his arms tightening.

You turned in his arms, cupped his bruised mouth, and kissed him slow and deep and forgiving. His hand cradled the back of your head, holding you to him like you were something fragile. Something rare.

"I’m sorry too," you murmured against his lips.

You stayed like that a while longer. Neither of you moved. The room was still a mess—evidence of the storm. The glass stayed shattered on the floor, a mirror of what you both refused to fix—dangerous, beautiful, and untouched.

You’d been testing him all night.

Viraj Dobriyal didn’t like being tested.

It started innocently enough: a lingering touch on his thigh under the dinner table, a too-slow smile when he told you to behave, the way you let your dress ride just high enough when you crossed your legs. Little rebellions. Each one drew a flicker of something darker behind his controlled hazel eyes, a tightening of his jaw, the subtle flex of his fingers around the stem of his wine glass like he was already imagining them around your throat. You saw it in the way he leaned back and just watched you talk to other guests, in the cruel flicker of his smile whenever you glanced his way.

By the time the door to his penthouse clicked shut behind you, the air felt charged, electric. Ready to burn.

He said nothing at first, just loosened his tie with slow, deliberate precision, eyes never leaving yours, and let the silence stretch until it was its own kind of torment. Every second was another reminder that you'd stirred something dangerous in him—and he meant to make you pay for it.

"Bedroom," he said finally, voice low, almost soft. A trap disguised as velvet.

You went. Heart hammering, every step louder than the last.

The lights were dim when you stepped inside, city glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off glass and steel like an urban altar. You barely had time to catch your breath before you sensed him behind you, heat radiating from his body like a brand. Then his hand was at the back of your neck—thumb stroking once, deceptively gentle—before he steered you toward the bed.

"Strip."

One word. A command carved in iron.

You obeyed, fingers trembling only slightly as you peeled the dress from your skin and let it pool at your feet. No bra tonight. You’d planned that particular provocation hours ago, heart racing as you imagined his reaction.

His gaze raked over you like fire. Approval and punishment all at once.

From the nightstand he produced silk rope the color of midnight. Your pulse stuttered, breath catching as heat pooled low in your belly.

"Hands," he ordered.

You lifted them without thinking. He bound your wrists in front of you—efficient, practiced loops that looked almost elegant but held like iron. When he was satisfied, he hooked a finger through the knot and tugged you forward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress.

"On the bed. On your back."

You crawled up, the rope forcing your arms together above your head as you lay down. He followed, kneeling between your thighs, still fully dressed. The contrast made you feel filthy in the best way—naked, bound, and burning while he looked like sin in a tailored shirt and cufflinks.

He leaned over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other trailing a single fingertip from your collarbone to the hollow between your breasts. Slow. Teasing. Possessive.

"You’ve been bratty tonight, Y/N," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Pushing. Needing to see how far you can take it before I snap."

His teeth grazed your earlobe, sharp enough to make you gasp.

"I don’t snap," he continued, voice dropping to something lethal. "I take. And you’re going to give me every fucking thing I want tonight."

His hand slid lower, parting your thighs with humiliating ease. You were already soaked—he hummed, pleased and cruel, when his fingers found the evidence.

"Look at you. Dripping for me before I’ve even started."

Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling hard. Your back arched off the bed, a broken sound escaping your throat. He fucked you with cold, deliberate precision, every motion slow but devastating, like a blade drawn across nerves—dragging you higher while denying any solid ground.

"Stay still," he growled. "Or I stop."

You forced yourself flat, wrists straining against the rope, every muscle trembling with the effort. He watched your struggle with satisfaction, eyes locked on your face, drinking in every whimper, every flutter of your lashes.

"Please—" you whispered.

"Please what?" He crooked his fingers again, brushing that spot that made your vision spark. "Use your words, jaan. Tell me exactly what you need from me."

"I need you inside me. Please, Viraj—I need to feel you."

He withdrew his hand entirely. You cried out at the loss, the ache unbearable.

"Beg properly."

He unbuttoned his shirt with maddening calm, shrugging it off to reveal the hard lines of muscle you wanted to bite. Belt next. The sound of leather sliding free made you clench around nothing. He took his time, as though teaching you patience by denial.

He looped the belt once around his fist, then leaned down until his mouth hovered over yours. Then he flipped you—effortless, brutal—until you were on your stomach, bound wrists pulled taut above your head. He tied the rope to the headboard in one smooth motion, stretching you out, helpless, exposed.

You felt him behind you, the blunt heat of him dragging through your slick folds once, twice—teasing. You sobbed, hips twitching back toward him, shameless.

"Viraj—please…"

He thrust in to the hilt in one stroke.

The cry that tore from you was raw, half-sob, half-relief. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm that had the headboard knocking against the wall. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the high ceilings, mingling with your broken cries and the creak of the bedframe, the rhythm of your bodies as raw and urgent as the pulse hammering in your ears. One hand fisted in your hair, arching your back; the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.

"Mine," he snarled against your shoulder, teeth scraping skin. "This cunt, these sounds, every tremor—fucking mine."

You shattered around him on the next thrust, clenching so hard he groaned your name like a prayer and a curse. He didn’t slow. If anything, he fucked you harder through it, dragging the orgasm out until you were sobbing into the sheets, oversensitive and still greedy for more.

When he finally followed, it was with a guttural sound, hips flush against yours, spilling deep as he held you pinned and trembling beneath him.

You stayed like that for a while—panting, trembling, bodies still locked together. Eventually he eased out of you, murmuring soft things under his breath—low, reassuring words that poured warmth into your bones, grounding you after the storm he'd pulled from your body, words that didn’t quite register but soothed like balm.

Then gentle fingers unraveled the rope, massaging feeling back into your wrists. He pulled you into his chest, lips brushing the marks he’d left—tender now, reverent. One arm wrapped firmly around your waist, the other caressing the curve of your spine.

"You okay, jaan?" he whispered, voice rough but soft.

You managed a nod, boneless and blissed-out as you melted into him.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Good. Because next time you decide to test me at dinner..."

His hand slid possessively down your spine.

The rain hammers down in relentless sheets, soaking through your thin jacket as you stumble away from the dimly lit party inside the old mansion. Every drop feels like a slap to the skin. Your hair clings to your forehead, and your shoes slip against the muddy gravel, making each step treacherous. Your heart races—not just from the argument, but from him. Viraj Dobriyal. That infuriating, magnetic man who's been chasing you all night with his dark eyes, that smug, knowing smile, and the kind of confidence that wraps around your throat like a velvet leash.

You don’t get far. The garden path is slick, treacherous beneath your heels. Lightning flashes, illuminating the iron gate ahead, but before you reach it, a strong hand clamps around your wrist. In an instant, you’re yanked backward, stumbling into the rough stone of the gazebo. The impact steals your breath, and then he’s there: Viraj, all sharp lines and heat, looming over you like a storm in human form—feral and unstoppable, his presence crashing into your senses with the same force and inevitability as thunder splitting the sky. His white shirt is soaked, clinging to every defined muscle, half the buttons undone from your earlier tussle. Rainwater traces down his angular jaw, his black hair a tousled mess that somehow makes him look even more dangerous, more untouchable.

"If you run again," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, laced with that dark possessiveness that makes your breath hitch, "I'll just drag you back inside."

His body pins you against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding boldly up your thigh beneath your soaked skirt. The cold of the stone behind you clashes with the heat of his touch, sending a shiver rocketing up your spine. You gasp—not from fear, not from protest, but from the sheer need that floods you the moment he touches bare skin. You've been dancing around this fire for weeks, orbiting each other like two stars fated to collide.

"Viraj—" you try, your voice trembling, but it dissolves beneath the onslaught of his mouth. His lips crash into yours, hungry, punishing, devouring. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting of whiskey and rain and something wild. He presses harder, his erection firm against your hip even through the barrier of his soaked slacks.

"You think you can tease me all night and just walk away?" he snarls against your lips, his teeth nipping your bottom lip, hard enough to sting. You whimper, body arching toward him. His free hand yanks your jacket open, the buttons snapping and scattering like dice on stone. He palms your breast over your lace bra, fingers rough, thumb circling your nipple until it peaks under his touch. "You're mine tonight, Y/N. Say it."

You gasp again, this time louder, as his mouth drops to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark that will bloom purple by morning. The rain pours around you, but your world narrows to the heat of him, the insistent press of his hand as it dips under your panties.

"So fucking wet already," he mutters against your throat. "Not just from the rain. You’ve been aching for me. Admit it."

You nod helplessly, every muscle tense with anticipation. He strokes your clit with practiced precision, his fingers coated in your slick. Then, without warning, two fingers slide inside you. You cry out, legs trembling, back hitting the stone as you struggle to stay upright under the intensity of his touch.

"Viraj... please..."

"Please what? Use your words, jaan" He curls his fingers inside you, finding that spot that makes your knees buckle, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. "Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want it," you breathe, barely able to form words. "I want your cock. I want you to fuck me. Hard."

A growl tears from his throat. In one fluid motion, he spins you around, pressing your front to the freezing stone, your skirt shoved up around your hips. You hear the metallic clink of his belt, the sound of his zipper being lowered. Then he's behind you, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance.

"Beg for it," he growls. Rain pelts the gazebo roof like war drums.

"Please, Viraj," you sob, trembling with need. "Please, just fuck me already. I need it. I need you."

He drives in with a brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You scream, the stretch of him exquisite, overwhelming. He fills you completely, perfectly. His hips slam into yours, the rhythm immediately punishing. The gazebo creaks under the force of his thrusts. Each powerful drive sends wet slaps reverberating through the storm-drenched space, your bodies colliding in a frenzy that mirrors the chaos of the rain all around you.

"So tight," he groans, voice strained. One hand fists your hair, yanking your head back so he can growl into your ear. The other claws into your hip, anchoring you as he pounds deeper, angling to hit your G-spot again and again.

"Fuck, fuck, oh my god," you cry, nails digging into the stone wall as the orgasm barrels through you. "I'm coming, Viraj—I'm coming!"

"That's right," he snarls. "Come for me. Come on my cock like the good girl you are."

He reaches around to rub your clit, relentless. You break with a scream, your walls clenching violently around him, your entire body shuddering in his arms.

He grunts behind you, slamming in one final time as he spills deep inside you with a low, guttural roar. His hips stutter, his breath hot on your neck as he pulses within you.

Silence falls, save for the drumbeat of rain and your mingled panting. Slowly, carefully, he pulls out, turning you in his arms. He kisses you then—not like before, not rough or wild, but with a gentleness that borders on reverence, worshipful in its intensity. His hand cups your cheek as if you might vanish.

"No more running, Y/N," he whispers.

You nod, lips brushing his. "Never again."

You woke suddenly, breath catching in your throat as the echo of the nightmare clung stubbornly to your mind. For a few disoriented seconds, you weren’t sure where you were — the darkness felt heavy, unfamiliar, and your heart hammered against your ribs like it was trying to escape. Sweat clung to your skin, the kind that comes from dreams too vivid to be dismissed. You pressed a trembling hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing.

Then came the warmth.

A steady heartbeat beneath your cheek. The faint rise and fall of a chest. A low hum weaving through the silence — so soft, so steady, it almost didn’t seem real. The melody was quiet and wordless, a fragment of something old and soothing. You blinked, vision slowly adjusting to the dim light seeping through the curtains, and that’s when you realized whose arms held you.

Viraj.

His embrace was firm yet gentle, a quiet paradox — strength restrained for your sake. One arm cradled your shoulders, the other wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you to the world. His thumb moved in small, slow circles against your back, each motion deliberate, as if tracing away the remnants of your fear. You could feel the rhythm of his breath near your temple — slow, calm, and steady — pulling you back from the nightmare’s edge.

“Bad dream?” he murmured, voice husky from sleep. The vibration of his words rumbled softly against your skin.

You hesitated, then nodded without lifting your head. You could almost hear his faint sigh — not impatient, just thoughtful. He didn’t press for details. He never did. Instead, his fingers slid gently through your hair before resting at the base of your neck. The motion was rhythmic, grounding. You found yourself matching your breath to his without realizing it.

“It’s gone now,” he whispered, the edge of sleep still clinging to his tone. “You’re here. You’re fine.”

The words were simple, but his voice carried the kind of certainty that pulled you in like gravity. He always spoke like that — measured, controlled — yet now there was something softer underneath, a tenderness rarely seen. The nightmare’s shadow began to fade, replaced by the steady reassurance of his presence.

He began humming again, his voice low and velvety, the vibration resonating softly through your cheek where it rested against his chest. The same tune as before — not perfect, a little rough, a little offbeat — but the way it filled the quiet made it feel like the safest sound in the world. You could feel the hum through his chest, its rhythm thrumming against your ear like a heartbeat in melody. You didn’t recognize the song, but something about it felt personal, as if it belonged only to moments like this.

For a man like Viraj, gentleness revealed itself in quiet gestures that asked for nothing in return. His entire being seemed to shift when you were near, the sharp edges dulled by the weight of his care. The silence between hums said more than words ever could.

You tilted your head slightly, enough to look at him. His eyes were open, half-lidded and softened by the low light. He looked different like this — stripped of his usual composure, no mask, no restraint. Just Viraj, raw and human, his protective instincts replacing his pride.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you whispered.

He shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “You didn’t.” His thumb brushed over your wrist again, tracing lazy circles as if to prove you still existed — still safe. “Go back to sleep.”

“I might dream again,” you admitted softly.

His reply came immediately, firm but gentle. “Then I’ll wake you again.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh. “You’ll get tired of that.”

“Never,” he said simply.

Something about the way he said it — without hesitation, without pretense — made your chest tighten. You closed your eyes, resting fully against him now. His hum returned, low and slow, the kind that filled every empty space in the room until even the dark felt harmless.

He shifted slightly, tightening his hold around you, and the patter of rain outside became a lullaby of its own, blending with his voice. The rhythm of it all — the rain, the hum, the heartbeat — felt like a promise of calm. His breath tickled your forehead, warm and steady, and before long, your heartbeat began to match his.

“You’re safe,” he murmured again, quieter this time, as though speaking to your dreams instead of you.

And you believed him — fully, utterly.

When sleep claimed you once more, it was without the sharp edges of fear. It was softer this time, cradled by the weight of his arms and the quiet strength that only he could offer. Even as your consciousness drifted, you could still feel the hum through your bones, that gentle, steady rhythm of protection.

Hours later, when the morning light spilled into the room, you woke again — to the same heartbeat beneath your ear and his arm still resting around you. You didn’t need to look to know he hadn’t moved. His breathing was slow, peaceful — like he’d guarded your dreams all night.

You smiled against his chest, a small sound escaping you — something between relief and fond disbelief. “You really did hum me back to sleep, didn’t you?” you whispered.

Viraj stirred slightly, his voice muffled by sleep. “You’re imagining things.”

You laughed quietly. “Sure I am.”

He didn’t respond, but you felt the faintest press of his lips against your hair — a gesture too soft to be an accident.

It started with one copy — the faint smell of tea still lingering in the air, your laughter echoing softly in his mind as he tucked that memory away. The evening light had painted the room in muted gold, and somewhere in that quiet warmth, something small yet lasting took root.

You had mentioned the book in passing — a fleeting comment over tea, your fingers tracing the rim of the cup as you spoke about how much the story meant to you. You didn’t notice the way Viraj’s eyes flickered with interest, the faint tilt of his head as he listened. To you, it was just a casual moment — a shared quiet between sips of tea and the fading afternoon light. To him, it was something else entirely — a detail to remember, a softness to protect.

He didn’t say much at the time, just nodded with that unreadable half-smile that always made it hard to tell what he was thinking. You thought the moment had passed, like most small conversations between the two of you — ephemeral, harmless. But Viraj Dobriyal wasn’t one to forget. He catalogued things quietly and meticulously — the way you liked your tea, the way you always lost your pens, and now, the name of a book that made your eyes light up.

Weeks later, when you walked into his study, the first thing you noticed was the faint scent of leather and paper. You paused at the doorway, taking in the quiet order of the room — the neat desk, the low light, the whisper of pages turning somewhere in the distance.

Then you saw them — not one, but several copies of your favorite book. The shelf had changed since the last time you were there. A full row was dedicated to it now. Different editions. Different covers. Some leather-bound and sleek, others soft, creased, and faded from time. Some were clearly secondhand, the edges worn and the pages yellowed, while others gleamed with that new-book crispness. It was as if the story had multiplied — living in every possible form.

He was sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled up, a pen poised above his open journal. When he noticed your wide eyes, he didn’t flinch. He simply looked up, his gaze steady and calm, as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“They had different versions,” he said, voice level, as though that explained everything.

You blinked, half amused, half speechless. “Viraj, you bought… all of them?”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, the corners of his lips twitching in that almost-smile that was neither apology nor confession. “Just in case one gets damaged,” he said softly.

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to find the right words. “You know that’s not how books work, right?”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, dark and thoughtful. “On the contrary,” he murmured. “If something is worth keeping, it’s worth protecting.”

The air between you tightened, like the hush before rain. He had said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, yet the meaning lingered. You crossed the room slowly, your fingers brushing along the spines. Each edition was a little different — a new texture, a new color, a new language of love hidden between bindings. Some covers gleamed gold under the lamplight; others bore faint fingerprints, perhaps from previous owners. Every single one had been touched, chosen, preserved by him.

You trailed your hand along the shelf, feeling the stories under your fingertips. “You really did this,” you whispered, half to yourself.

He said nothing — just watched. His expression softened, and for a brief moment, the stoic mask cracked. There was pride there, yes, but also something far gentler — affection disguised as practicality.

“Books last a long time,” he thought, fingers tracing the spine of one copy, wondering if anything else he touched could ever endure the same way. Then, aloud, he added, “Longer than most people do.”

You looked back at him, heart tightening. He had said it so casually, but you understood the sentiment beneath it — the unspoken fear of losing, of forgetting, of impermanence. You smiled faintly, unable to help yourself. “Maybe. But some people are worth keeping too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy in the best way — filled with words neither of you knew how to say. You walked closer, until you stood beside his chair. He looked up at you then, eyes meeting yours with that quiet intensity that made time slow down.

“I didn’t know you were sentimental,” you teased gently.

His lips curved just slightly. “I’m not,” he said, though the evidence surrounded you both.

You rolled your eyes, chuckling softly. “Sure, Mr. ‘Every Edition.’”

That earned a quiet laugh from him — rare and real. He reached up, his fingers brushing yours briefly as you held one of the books. The touch was fleeting but deliberate, sending a small current through you.

“For someone who doesn’t say much,” you murmured, voice low, “you really do know how to say things.”

Viraj tilted his head slightly, studying you as though memorizing the moment. “Some things are better shown,” he said.

You smiled. “And yet, somehow, you still manage to do both.”

When you turned back to the shelf, your fingers lingered over the familiar title one last time. Each copy felt like a quiet promise — that in his own strange, structured way, he’d kept a piece of you close. The gesture wasn’t about the book at all. It was about you — your laughter, your stories, your existence in his carefully guarded world.

When you looked at him again, the lamplight caught the edge of his profile — eyes steady, breath quiet, and a faint scent of paper and coffee lingering between you like a memory waiting to settle. His gaze remained on you — quiet, careful, unguarded for once. And in that soft, wordless moment, surrounded by pages and ink and the faint scent of him, you realized something simple and profound:

This wasn’t just his way of protecting what you loved.

The clock ticked softly in the background, the only sound filling the dimly lit living room as the TV hummed quietly, blending into the gentle rhythm of the night. You had stopped paying attention long ago, your eyelids heavy and your body sinking deeper into the cushions. The blanket barely covered your legs, and the faint orange glow from the corner lamp painted everything in a slow, golden haze. The warmth of the room, the quiet hum of the world outside — it all conspired to lull you into sleep.

Viraj sat beside you, posture rigid but thoughts elsewhere, wondering why he felt calmer here than anywhere else. The steady rhythm of your breathing tugged at his attention, breaking through his attempts to focus on the paperwork scattered across the coffee table. Every few moments, his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward you — the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way a stray lock of hair brushed against your cheek. You had fallen asleep mid-conversation, your voice trailing into sleepy murmurs before giving way to silence. He had told you to go to bed hours ago. You hadn’t listened.

He sighed quietly and set the papers aside, leaning back against the couch. The air between you carried a fragile calm, the kind that felt too delicate to last. His gaze softened as it lingered on your face — the faint crease between your brows, the way your hand loosely gripped the blanket as though anchoring yourself to something familiar. Even in sleep, you looked so stubbornly alive. And though he would never admit it aloud, the thought eased something deep within him.

Slowly, he stood. The motion was soundless and deliberate, as though afraid to disturb the peace. His jacket lay draped over the armrest, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the leather — sharp yet comforting. He hesitated for a moment before picking it up, fingers brushing over the smooth surface, then leaned down and laid it carefully across your shoulders.

The moment it touched your skin, you stirred, murmuring something half-formed. His hand froze midair — and then he heard it. His name. Barely a whisper, tangled in your sleep. Something twisted deep inside him, an emotion he didn’t recognize — or perhaps one he had long refused to. His throat tightened, and a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, though you couldn’t hear him. His voice carried a softness he rarely allowed himself — something fragile, almost human.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your cheek for a heartbeat too long. You didn’t wake, only leaned slightly toward the warmth of his touch. That simple, unconscious gesture nearly undid him. He drew his hand back quickly, standing there a moment longer, caught between the instinct to stay and the discipline to leave.

For a man like Viraj — always sharp, always in control — gentleness was dangerous. It exposed him in ways he didn’t know how to guard against. But watching you now, curled beneath his jacket, your breathing slow and steady, he found himself surrendering to that danger. Maybe, just this once, he could allow it.

He turned off the TV, the sudden silence amplifying the soft rhythm of your breath. The lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the room, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined what it would be like if nights like this weren’t so rare — if peace didn’t always feel borrowed.

“You’ll catch a cold if I let you stay like that,” he muttered under his breath, though his own actions betrayed him. The words were rough, but his tone was anything but. With one last glance — one he allowed himself to linger in — he turned and walked away. But even as he did, the faintest smile played on his lips, quiet and unguarded.

As he disappeared down the hallway, the soft echo of his footsteps faded into the hush of the night. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the scent of coffee and warmth still clinging to him like a memory he didn’t want to lose.

The room was calm — soft light, lavender diffuser, and gentle background music setting a suspiciously serene tone. You sat beside Viraj Dobriyal, legs crossed, clutching your tote bag like a lifeline. He looked wildly out of place — crisp black shirt, jaw clenched, posture perfect, eyes scanning the minimalist decor like he was calculating possible escape routes.

The therapist adjusted her glasses, a practiced calm settling over her face as she offered a patient smile, equal parts empathy and curiosity. “So, Viraj, what brings you here today?”

Viraj leaned back, arms crossed, exuding the confidence of a man who thought therapy was a waste of time but came anyway because you made him. “She said I need therapy.” He jerked his head toward you like you were his legal representative.

You sighed. “Because you threatened to install GPS trackers in my shoes, Viraj.”

He blinked. “For safety.”

The therapist tilted her head, pen poised. “That sounds… concerning. Do you often feel the need to monitor your partner’s activities?”

Viraj frowned. “Monitor? No. Observe. There’s a difference.”

You muttered, “Yeah, one’s the FBI, the other’s stalking.”

He turned his head slowly. “They’re efficient.”

You rubbed your temples. “This is exactly why we’re here.”

The therapist chuckled softly, jotting something down. “Alright, Viraj, let’s start small. Do you think you might be… a little possessive?”

Viraj tilted his head like he was being asked to solve a crime. “A little? Define ‘little.’”

You exhaled dramatically. “You glared at my phone because a male coworker texted me about printer ink.”

He raised a brow. “Why was he texting you about ink?”

“Because I handle supplies, Viraj.”

He frowned. “Still sounds suspicious.”

The therapist smiled patiently. “And when you feel jealous or protective, what do you usually do?”

Viraj tapped his chin. “Usually? I check the situation. Then I… make adjustments.”

You side-eyed him. “Adjustments like deleting my coworkers from social media?”

He looked unbothered. “They were unnecessary variables.”

You gasped. “They were people!”

“Temporary ones,” he replied coolly.

The therapist’s pen froze mid-note. “Okay… let’s explore that mindset.”

Viraj smirked. “Oh, we’re exploring now?”

You groaned. “He thinks therapy is a game show.”

The therapist smiled again. “Viraj, let’s imagine this — when you feel possessive, what might be a healthier reaction?”

Viraj blinked. “More possessive?”

You threw your hands in the air. “Oh my god, he’s learning nothing.”

The therapist’s tone softened. “Less possessive, Viraj. Try less.”

He looked like she’d just asked him to stop breathing. “That sounds… unnatural.”

You whispered, “So is bugging my car.”

His head snapped toward you. “It was for protection.”

“Protection from what, exactly?”

He hesitated. “Squirrels.”

You blinked. “You’re insane.”

“Persistent,” he corrected.

The session had quickly devolved into playful chaos, every question turning into a debate or accidental confession. Trying to reclaim control, the therapist cleared her throat. “Maybe we should talk about trust.”

Viraj nodded seriously. “I trust her. I just don’t trust the rest of the planet.”

You scoffed. “The planet includes the barista, the mailman, and my co-workers.”

“Exactly,” he said without hesitation.

The therapist scribbled more notes. “Alright. Next time you feel that urge to control, try grounding yourself — deep breaths, maybe journaling.”

Viraj frowned deeply. “You want me to… write about my feelings?”

“Yes,” she said kindly.

He paused, visibly horrified. “Can I type them instead?”

You smirked. “Therapy notes, not surveillance reports.”

He glared at you. “Mocking my progress isn’t productive.”

“Neither is hacking my Gmail,” you shot back.

The therapist blinked, caught mid-note. “...You hacked her Gmail?”

Viraj looked offended. “It’s called checking in.”

You groaned. “You were cross-referencing timestamps, Viraj.”

He shrugged. “Accountability is love.”

The therapist exhaled slowly. “Okay, maybe we should work on boundaries next session.”

Viraj brightened. “Oh, I love boundaries.”

You groaned. “He loves setting them, not respecting them.”

The therapist chuckled. “Then that’s a great place to start.”

Twenty minutes later, after several deep breaths (mostly yours) and countless failed attempts to redirect Viraj’s monologues about “protective loyalty,” the therapist decided to lighten the mood with a quick mindfulness exercise.

Viraj sat up straight. “Will it help me read people better?”

You glared. “It’s not interrogation training, Sherlock.”

She smiled patiently. “We’re just breathing, Viraj. In… and out.”

He stared. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated, then inhaled sharply — so sharply it sounded like he was preparing for a police raid. “Out,” she prompted. He exhaled like he was blowing dust off evidence.

You whispered, “You’re terrifying the air itself.”

He opened one eye. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“Yes,” you and the therapist said in unison.

When the session finally wound down, Viraj leaned forward. “So… when do I get the certificate?”

The therapist blinked. “Certificate?”

“For being cured.”

She smiled kindly. “Therapy isn’t about being cured, Viraj. It’s about self-awareness.”

He nodded seriously. “So no certificate.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Unbelievable.”

He smirked and turned to you. “See? She agrees with me. I’m improving.”

You gave him a long, tired look. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned closer, grin widening. “And yet, you’re still here.”

The therapist closed her notebook with a satisfied smile. “We’ll stop here for today. Next week, we’ll discuss respecting boundaries.”

Viraj perked up. “Can I make a PowerPoint?”

You groaned loudly. “God help me.”

The therapist laughed softly. “If it helps him reflect, why not?”

Viraj smiled proudly, already pulling out his phone. “Title: ‘Trust Issues and Tactical Defense.’”

You exhaled dramatically. “You’re not supposed to weaponize therapy.”

He grinned. “You say weaponize, I say optimize.”

You could only shake your head as the therapist stifled another laugh. It was going to be a long, exhausting, and utterly hilarious road to emotional growth — but with Viraj Dobriyal, even therapy sessions turned into psychological sitcoms.

You walked out hand in hand, trading a silent look that said therapy might be working — just not in the way the therapist intended. The scent of lavender trailed behind. For once, you were grateful he couldn’t track your thoughts.

You had one rule when it came to Viraj Dobriyal: never leave him unsupervised around sharp objects, power tools, or kitchen appliances. That rule existed for a reason.

And yet, here you were—sitting on the couch, surrounded by books and a mug of tea—while Viraj shouted from the kitchen, “Don’t come in! It’s a surprise!”

Those words had the same energy as hearing a ticking sound in an action movie. You froze mid-sip, dread pooling in your stomach.

“Viraj,” you warned, “please don’t burn the apartment.”

“I’m cooking dinner, not burning it,” he replied defensively, followed immediately by the sharp hiss of oil meeting a pan that was clearly too hot.

You winced. “That didn’t sound edible.”

“Everything is under control!” he shouted.

Seconds later, the smoke alarm began screaming.

You set your mug down, groaning. “Of course it is.”

When you entered the kitchen, the sight stopped you cold—it looked like a deleted scene from a disaster movie. Flour dusted the counters like snow, a half-open bag of pasta lay defeated on the floor, and a saucepan of something red and suspicious bubbled angrily on the stove while smoke curled toward the ceiling in lazy, villainous spirals.

In the center of it all stood Viraj—shirt sleeves rolled up, apron half-tied, hair in wild disarray—frantically waving a towel at the blaring smoke alarm. His jaw was tight, his patience thinner than the spaghetti he’d massacred.

“Why won’t it stop screaming!?” he growled.

“Because it detects smoke, genius!” you yelled over the shrill beeping.

He turned toward you, eyes wide, looking half-offended, half-panicked. “I was making pasta!”

You blinked, scanning the battlefield. “How does pasta cause a fire?”

He hesitated. “Technically… it was the sauce.”

“Technically?” you repeated, raising a brow.

He sighed. “I might’ve gotten distracted reading the recipe’s emotional backstory.”

You blinked. “You’re telling me you set the kitchen on fire because a food blogger wrote about her grandmother’s tomato garden?”

“It was a touching story!” he argued. “I didn’t realize the sauce was… evolving.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Viraj, it’s not a memoir. It’s instructions.”

He shot you a glare. “You could at least appreciate the effort.”

“I would,” you said dryly, “if my kitchen didn’t look like a crime scene.”

He finally managed to silence the alarm and slumped against the counter, breathing hard. For a moment, the only sound was the faint sizzle of what used to be food.

“Well,” he said finally, wiping his hands on a towel, “dinner’s canceled.”

You crossed your arms. “I can tell.”

He looked up at you with a hopeful half-smile. “Pizza?”

You sighed, caught between exasperation and laughter. “Only if you’re not the one cooking it.”

He smirked. “So you admit you still want dinner with me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“But charming,” he countered smoothly, stepping closer. His hands were still dusted with flour, but his grin was boyishly triumphant.

“Barely,” you muttered, though your lips twitched.

Viraj grabbed his phone, scrolling dramatically. “Fine. I’ll order takeout and tell them to add ‘chef’s touch’ in the notes. It’ll be symbolic.”

You snorted. “You’d still find a way to burn it.”

He pointed the spatula at you like a sword. “You doubt my potential, jaan.”

“I doubt your fire safety skills.”

He chuckled, then wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you gently closer as the kitchen smoke slowly dissipated. “Next time, I’ll prove you wrong.”

You raised a brow. “Next time?”

He winked. “Unless the alarm files a restraining order first.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “You’re a disaster.”

“And yet,” he murmured smugly, “you keep showing up to watch the show.”

“Only because I’m scared you’ll burn the house down,” you teased.

He grinned wider. “Admit it. You find my chaos endearing.”

You looked around the smoke-stained kitchen and deadpanned, “Endearing isn’t the word I’d use.”

Viraj pulled back, feigning offense. “Then what would you call it?”

You smirked. “An insurance liability.”

A brief pause settled between you, a shared silence where the chaos seemed to fade and amusement took over. Then he laughed—a deep, genuine sound that filled the room. With dramatic flair, he raised his phone like a trophy. “Fine. Takeout it is. But next time, I’m making dessert.”

You stared at him in horror. “You mean setting it on fire?”

He grinned devilishly. “Depends on your definition of ‘flambé.’”

You groaned, half amused, half terrified. “You’re never touching my stove again.”

Viraj only winked. “We’ll see about that.”

As the smoke cleared and the chaos settled, you couldn’t help but laugh. Because with Viraj Dobriyal, even dinner disasters turned into something oddly perfect—equal parts chaos, charm, and comedy.

At least he’d stopped threatening the smoke alarm. For now. 🖤

You signed up for yoga because your work was snapping your spine more than stress ever could. You needed serenity—a place to stretch, breathe, and feel like a functioning adult instead of a sleep-deprived workaholic fossil. The brochure promised peace of mind and improved posture. You just wanted to touch your toes without crying.

Then Viraj Dobriyal showed up.

Not because he believed in mindfulness. Not because he wanted to “align his chakras.” Not even because he knew what a chakra was. He came for one reason and one reason only:

Because you mentioned you had yoga on Tuesdays.

The studio was calm—soft flute music, lemon-lavender incense, and those ambient Himalayan salt lamps glowing like bottled enlightenment. Mats lined the polished floor, and your instructor, Mira, glided across the room like she was made of herbal tea and patience. The peace didn’t last long before it was shattered by the sound of the door creaking open—and then Viraj entered, as if on cue, bringing a dark storm into the room’s calm.

He wore black track pants, a black T-shirt, and an aura that screamed I don’t belong here but I dare you to say it. The moment he crossed the threshold, the peaceful music suddenly felt like background noise for a villain’s entrance. Half the class stopped mid-stretch, gawking at him like a jungle predator had wandered into a meditation retreat.

You turned, already dreading the chaos. “Viraj… what are you doing here?”

He raised a brow. “What? I can’t stretch?”

You gawked. “You have never stretched a day in your life. You bend like… like a rusty gate.”

He smirked. “And yet,” he said, aggressively rolling out a mat right beside yours, “here I am. Ready for… Vinyasa.” He pronounced it like it was an enemy nation.

The Class Begins

“Alright everyone, deep breath in,” Mira said softly. “Let’s start with downward dog.”

Viraj froze. His expression was pure confusion and quiet judgment. “Dog?”

You sighed. “Just… follow me.”

He copied you, though the attempt looked more like a haunted triangle than any known yoga pose. His arms trembled. His back protested. His face screamed betrayal.

Mira walked over to correct your posture, placing a light hand on your lower back. You relaxed into it—until you felt Viraj’s glare burn holes through reality itself.

Mira smiled awkwardly. “Just helping her alignment.”

Viraj’s tone could have frozen lava. “Her alignment is fine.”

You hissed under your breath, “This is yoga, not a hostage situation!”

He muttered, “Then why is she touching you?”

“Because that’s literally her job!”

Mira wisely retreated to the other side of the room.

Warrior Pose (A.K.A. Viraj’s Villain Origin Pose)

The class flowed into Warrior II. You exhaled, trying to focus. Mira strolled past again, complimenting a few students.

Then she approached you. “Perfect, Y/N, but bend your front knee just a little more—”

Viraj was at your side instantly. “I can help her.”

Before you could react, his hand settled on your waist, guiding your knee down with a precision that said he’d been waiting for this excuse all class.

Mira blinked, clearly uncertain. “Um… as long as the partner is comfortable…”

“She’s very comfortable,” Viraj replied with too much confidence.

You were not. You wanted to evaporate.

The next forty-five minutes blurred into a hilarious fever dream of chaotic energy and absurd possessiveness:

Viraj correcting your instructor.

Viraj glaring daggers at every man who dared inhale within five feet of you.

Viraj whispering “Perfect form” every time Mira tried to adjust you.

And at one point, Viraj actually moved your mat half an inch closer to his.

At “Tree Pose,” he nearly toppled over trying to show off. You caught him before he crashed into a potted plant. He gave you that sheepish smile that only serial offenders and reformed villains have. “See? Teamwork.”

“Teamwork?” you hissed. “You almost killed the plant!”

By the time the class reached Savasana, the final relaxation pose, Viraj flopped down next to you like a guard dog in low-power mode—still alert enough to glare at anyone who dared to breathe too loudly.

You whispered, “You ruined the whole class.”

He whispered back, “You’re welcome.”

“That’s not what that means!”

He smiled, closing his eyes. “I protected your honor from flexible strangers. You can thank me later.”

You sighed into your mat. “You’re insufferable.”

He smirked without opening his eyes. “And yet, you didn’t tell me to leave.”

You considered it. You really did.

After Class

Your muscles ached, your mind swirled with the echo of Viraj’s relentless energy, and you weren’t sure if you’d found enlightenment or exhaustion.

Mira approached as everyone packed up. “Well, that was… an experience. See you next week?”

You forced a polite smile. “Maybe.”

Viraj nodded like he was signing a security contract. “Yes, she’ll be here. I’ll make sure of it.”

You spun to glare at him. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged, collecting both mats. “Someone has to supervise. Besides,” he groaned, rotating his shoulder, “I think I pulled something sacred.”

You chuckled. “That’s yoga. You’re supposed to feel it.”

“I feel,” he said gravely, “like I’ve been spiritually punished for caring about your wellbeing.”

You crossed your arms. “You came to spy on me, not care for my wellbeing.”

He tilted his head, playful. “Details, details.”

As you stepped outside, the evening air was cool, the streetlights flickering to life. Viraj walked beside you, posture stiff but smug.

“So,” he began, “what’s next? Kickboxing? Tai chi? Goat yoga?”

You groaned. “You’re not coming to any of them.”

He ignored you completely. “Good. I’ll bring my own mat next time. Maybe in red.”

“Viraj.”

“What?”

You stopped walking, glaring up at him. “You cannot threaten people with your eyes during a relaxation session. It defeats the entire purpose!”

He leaned down slightly, grin crooked. “Then maybe they should learn to relax somewhere else.”

You sighed, defeated. “You’re impossible.”

He smiled wider. “And yet you keep inviting me places.”

“I never invited—!”

He interrupted, eyes glinting. “See you next Tuesday, jaan.”

And with that, he strolled ahead, stretching his sore arms like a warrior returning from battle.

You watched him go, half mortified, half amused. Somehow, despite the embarrassment, you couldn’t stop smiling. Because deep down, you knew he’d actually show up next week.

Probably in matching yoga pants.

Darkness hummed before dawn in Mystic Falls, where monsters and hunters bled in equal measure, and trust was rarer than mercy.

It begins with a scream.

You’d heard plenty of them before—they were part of your work. But this one was different. This one came from someone you thought untouchable.

The alley behind the Grill was slick with rain and blood when you found him. Elijah Mikaelson, the ever-composed Original, was slumped against the wall, his once-perfect suit torn and darkened with crimson. His eyes flicked up to you, even as he clutched his side where a white oak dagger had nearly found its mark.

“Y/N,” he rasped, voice steady despite the pain. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You knelt, pressing a hand to his wound before you could think better of it. “And let you bleed out? Tempting, but I still need answers.”

He gave a faint smirk. “How delightfully human of you.”

“And how typically arrogant of you to think I’m helping you out of kindness.”

You hated how close you were. How his breath ghosted against your cheek. How even now, bruised and bloodied, he carried that same damnable composure that made your heart tighten with something dangerously close to respect.

You tore a strip of fabric from your jacket and pressed it to his wound. He winced, and you whispered, almost mockingly, “Who did this to you, Mikaelson?”

His eyes darkened, something old and furious flashing there. “Someone who will regret it.”

Thunder cracked through the night, as if the heavens themselves answered his rage. For a brief moment, you both just stayed there—your hand against his chest, feeling the unnatural heartbeat of a man who had lived a thousand years. You should have walked away. But you didn’t.

The next few days blurred into a strange alliance—filled with sharp arguments and quieter moments where suspicion gave way to uneasy trust. One night, while patching a map together, you teased, “You’re not as insufferable when you’re quiet,” earning a rare smirk from him. The truce began to feel less like tolerance and more like reluctant respect.

You told yourself it was temporary—that you only worked with him to uncover whoever had dared attack an Original. But the more time you spent around him, the less you believed that. Elijah moved like poetry written in blood—controlled, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

You watched him handle ancient texts in the dim light of his study, each gesture precise. His jaw tensed whenever you ran into danger; his voice softened when he spoke your name. And yet, he was infuriating—lecturing on morality and honor, even as he slaughtered without hesitation when provoked.

Another night, while studying the map together, your fingers brushed his. The contact was fleeting, accidental, yet the way his gaze locked with yours made the air electric.

“You should rest,” he said quietly.

“I’ll rest when the bastard who came after you is ash,” you replied.

“Your loyalty is… unexpected.” His tone carried a weight you couldn’t name.

“Don’t mistake it for loyalty. I just want this over with.”

He smiled faintly. “Of course you do.”

By the end of the week, you often caught yourself reflecting on how strange the partnership had become—two enemies moving in rhythm. Between clashes, there were lingering glances, words unspoken, and a dawning sense that something irreversible was happening.

You had saved each other’s lives twice. Once, when a witch ambushed you in the woods—Elijah took the hit meant for you, his hand closing around your wrist as he muttered, “Run.” The second time, you returned the favor, driving a stake into a vampire’s heart before it could pierce his.

He stared afterward, something unspoken burning in his eyes. “You could have let it hurt me.”

“I could have,” you said simply. “But I didn’t.”

A quiet tension grew between you after that—charged, dangerous. You’d catch him looking at you from across the room, expression unreadable. When you finally confronted him, he only said, “I’m trying to decide if you’re my salvation or my ruin.”

“You’re assuming I can’t be both,” you shot back.

The night you finally snapped, the tension between you had stretched thin as a blade. Every glance, every argument, every unspoken word crackled in the air like lightning before a storm. You could feel your pulse in your throat—anger tangled with something dangerously close to longing. The rain outside mirrored the chaos inside the Mikaelson mansion.

“You think you’re better than everyone else,” you hissed, stepping close enough that your breath brushed his collar. “That you’re untouchable. But you’re just a monster dressed in manners.”

He moved faster than you could blink, pinning you against the wall. His breath was warm against your ear. “And you,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous, “are a liar. Because if you truly hated me, you wouldn’t look at me the way you do.”

Your pulse betrayed you. You should have shoved him away. You didn’t.

“Elijah—”

He leaned in, lips almost brushing yours. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I will stop.”

But you couldn’t. The words died on your tongue. You closed the distance instead.

The kiss was fire meeting storm—violent, inevitable. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as though afraid you’d vanish. You tasted blood and rain and centuries of restrained hunger. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours for regret. There was none.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you breathed.

“Then don’t give me a reason to,” he murmured.

The battle erupted without warning, chaos tearing through the night like shattering glass. Heat, smoke, and the metallic scent of blood filled the air, every sound sharp and disorienting. The coven responsible for the attacks had surfaced, and the fight was brutal. Spells cracked, fire licked through the trees, and exhaustion clawed at your bones.

When one of them got the jump on you, Elijah tore through the chaos, ripping the witch away before she could finish her curse.

He caught you as you fell, blood staining his hands again. “Stay with me,” Elijah commanded, voice breaking as he pressed a hand over your wound. “You do not get to die on me, do you hear?”

You smiled weakly. “And here I thought you didn’t care.”

His eyes burned red for a moment before softening into something heartbreakingly human. “I have never cared for anyone more.”

You reached up, brushing his cheek with trembling fingers. “You’re supposed to be the noble one, remember?”

He gave a strangled laugh that wasn’t quite humor. “Then let me be selfish this once.”

Your vision blurred, but you reached for him anyway. The same man you swore you’d never trust. The same monster who had somehow become your home.

“Then don’t let go,” you whispered.

He didn’t.

Later, when the dust settled, he stood at your bedside, his hands still trembling though he’d deny it. “You risked your life for me again,” he said softly.

“I guess I’m a slow learner.”

He smiled, faint and fleeting. “Or perhaps you’ve learned faster than you think.”

“Meaning?”

“That hatred, when tested long enough, becomes something far more binding.”

You looked up at him, exhaustion fading under the weight of what lingered between you. “Then what are we now, Elijah?”

Rain-slicked streets gleamed under fractured streetlamps as you tightened your coat, file clutched in hand. The city had been restless for weeks—break-ins, unexplained disappearances, whispers of something darker threading through the air. And every lead, every witness statement, every camera glitch pointed to one name.

Viraj Dobriyal.

He wasn’t just another suspect. He was meticulous, wealthy, and far too charming for the crimes attached to his name. But there was a pattern, and you could see it—subtle enough to slip through most eyes, deliberate enough to feel like taunting. Every breadcrumb, every coincidence, seemed arranged just for you. And now it was your job to prove it.

The mansion loomed ahead, shadowed against the storm. Its black windows reflected the lightning like eyes blinking in the dark. You entered under the guise of official business, badge flashing, but the walls seemed alive, humming with secrets. Every corridor whispered danger.

In the drawing room, you found him waiting. Crisp suit, hands folded, that calm smile that never seemed to falter. “Detective,” he greeted smoothly, as though you were a guest rather than an investigator. “Out on a stormy night like this? I hope you’re not here to accuse me again.”

You set the file on the table, photographs spilling out—victims, locations, timelines. “Your name keeps showing up,” you said firmly. “Patterns don’t lie. People do.”

Viraj’s gaze swept the photos, then returned to you, sharper now. “Patterns are easy to draw when you want them to exist. But what if the real game is that I want you here? Following me. Obsessing over me.”

His words cut louder than the storm. You steadied your breath, hand brushing the recorder hidden in your coat. His smile grew, as if he already knew.

“Careful, Detective,” Viraj said, leaning forward, his voice velvet over steel. “Chasing monsters can be dangerous. Sometimes, you end up alone in their den.”

Your heart hammered, but you held your ground. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’ll need more than theatrics.”

He chuckled, low and unsettling. “Scare you? No. Fascinate you? Absolutely.”

Later, the interrogation room felt colder than the rain outside. The walls were plain, the table bare, but Viraj sat with quiet composure, hands folded as though he had invited himself there. The photographs lay between you once again, evidence that should have spoken louder than words.

“You were seen near the docks the night of the disappearance,” you pressed. “Witnesses placed your car within two blocks of the warehouse.”

His lips curved slightly. “Two blocks? In this city, that could be a hundred people. Coincidence isn’t a crime.”

You leaned in. “Then why does every lead bring me back to you? Wrong place, wrong time, again and again. You’re either the unluckiest man alive… or exactly who I think you are.”

Viraj tilted his head, amusement flashing in his gaze. “Or perhaps you’re exactly where I want you. Spending your nights thinking about me, your mornings plotting how to catch me. How many hours of sleep have you lost to me?”

The words struck harder than they should. You forced yourself to ignore the chill crawling up your spine. “Deflection won’t save you. We’ll have enough soon. It’s only a matter of time.”

Viraj leaned back, relaxed. “Time. That’s the beauty of it. While you waste it chasing shadows, I use it. And by the time you think you’ve caught me…” His smile sharpened. “…I’m already three steps ahead.”

Your pen tapped against the file. “Eventually, everyone slips,” you said quietly. “And when you do, I’ll be there.”

Viraj’s eyes glinted. “Then we’ll see who’s truly hunting whom.”

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The fluorescent light buzzed above, casting a cold pallor over his face. You studied him the way you studied case files—searching for cracks. But Viraj gave nothing away. His calmness was deliberate, rehearsed, like an actor on stage who knew the ending long before the audience.

“Where were you on the night of the 14th?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Dinner. Alone. I can give you the name of the restaurant, though I’m sure you’ve already checked.”

You had. The reservation existed, the staff remembered him—but the security footage had mysteriously vanished. Another loose thread you couldn’t tie down.

“Every alibi you give me falls apart,” you pressed. “Each one unravels just enough to let you slip through.”

Viraj smiled faintly, tapping a finger against the table. “Or maybe it unravels because you want it to. Perhaps you need me to be guilty. Without me, perhaps you’d have no purpose.”

The suggestion twisted in your gut. You pushed it away. “This isn’t about me.”

“Oh, but it is,” he countered. “It’s always been about us.”

When you finally stepped out into the storm again, your chest felt tight with the weight of the encounter. The city stretched ahead, dark and unwelcoming, rain pooling at the gutters. Neon signs flickered, headlights cut through mist, but nothing felt steady. Somewhere in the shadows, you knew Viraj’s influence lingered. Evidence was mounting, but so was his game.

You replayed every word, every smile, every calculated pause. He wanted you rattled, and he had succeeded. But beneath the unease, there was a spark—a determination not to let him win.

As thunder cracked overhead, one truth became painfully clear: you weren’t just investigating Viraj Dobriyal anymore—you were part of his design. A piece in the cat-and-mouse game he had set long before you arrived.

The storm outside howled like a beast, rattling the glass panes of the Dobriyal mansion. Wind clawed at the shutters as if the night itself wanted to break inside. The power had long since gone, leaving only the faint glow of candles to hold back the dark. Shadows stretched unnaturally, and every creak of the wooden floorboards whispered—you were not alone.

The mansion felt alive, its walls groaning with age, its silence broken only by distant thuds you couldn’t explain. Lightning flared suddenly, flooding the corridor in a white flash. A door at the far end caught your eye—slightly ajar, its frame leaking shadows like smoke. A chill spread across your skin, but curiosity and dread pulled you forward until your hand rested against the cold brass handle. You pushed it open.

The air inside was stale, heavy with dust, old paper, and something sharper—cologne. The storm hissed faintly beyond the walls, but this room had its own atmosphere. Then you saw them.

Photographs. Dozens of them. All of you.

Some candid, some posed, many from angles you didn’t remember anyone being close enough to capture. Your smile at the market. Your walk to class. The moment you tied your shoelace outside your building. Even one you swore had been taken inside your own bedroom. Dust clung to the frames, and when you brushed one, particles drifted down, carrying the acrid tang of old chemicals. Your stomach sank with the truth: someone had been watching you. Closely. For a long time.

Your pulse spiked. Breath unsteady, you reached for the nearest frame, fingertips brushing cool glass. That’s when you felt it—the shift of air. The warmth of a presence.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a low, velvet voice purred from behind you.

Every muscle locked. In the reflection of the photo, you saw him—a tall figure, gaze sharp, unblinking. Viraj Dobriyal.

Slowly, you turned. He stood barely an arm’s length away, candlelight carving harsh lines across his face. His expression hovered between pride and hunger. Outside, thunder rolled, but inside, silence pressed hard against your chest.

Viraj’s lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, stepping closer, his shadow swallowing yours. “But maybe this is exactly where you belong.”

Your voice trembled. “Why do you have these pictures of me?”

His eyes flicked to the wall, then back to you with unsettling intensity. “Because no one sees you the way I do. They glance, they forget. But I notice. Every detail.” His fingers brushed a photograph as though it were sacred. “The way you tilt your head when you’re lost in thought. The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous. Every smile. Every frown.”

You staggered back, but he matched you step for step. “You’ve been following me,” you said, sharper now, fighting the tremor in your chest. “This is insane.”

Viraj chuckled softly, the sound dark and unsettling. “Insane? No. Necessary. The world doesn’t deserve you. They’d crush something so rare. But me? I know how to protect what’s mine.”

Another flash lit the room. Candle flames sputtered, plunging everything into a breath of darkness before flaring back. His eyes gleamed in the flicker, locked on you.

You lunged for the door. But his hand slammed it shut, rattling every frame on the wall. His other hand braced beside your head, pinning you in place. The wall at your back felt colder than ice.

“Running won’t change anything,” he murmured, voice low and dangerously soft. “You were always going to end up here. With me.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m not yours.”

Viraj leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “A storm like this washes everything away. Out there, no one hears a scream. In here…” His hand grazed a photograph—one from your bedroom. “…in here, it’s just us.”

You shoved at him, but his grip was iron, his body immovable. Panic clawed at your chest, while his smile deepened—dark, unreadable.

The storm raged on, rain hammering the windows. But the true danger stood inches away, watching you with unnerving patience, as if he had all the time in the world.

Escape might not be possible tonight.

The bedroom is a converted storage bay. Steel walls dull to a gunmetal sheen surround a single reinforced cot bolted to the floor. Above, a ceiling hook rated for 500 lbs hangs like a dare—installed by some paranoid agent decades ago, never meant for this kind of tension. Helen’s already there when you enter, framed in amber light from an overhead lamp. Her red suit is peeled to the waist, top half hanging loose at her hips like a teasing invitation. Her breasts are bare—smooth, firm, gleaming with a light sheen of sweat that catches the glow like polished bronze. The lower half of the suit clings to her hips like a lover’s grip, stretched tight across thighs thick enough to shatter skulls.

You shut the door behind you. The click echoes like a gunshot.

She crooks a finger, lips curling into a smirk. “Strip.”

You do—boots thudding to the floor, shirt peeled over your head, pants shucked down in a rush. The air feels cold against your skin, but your cock is already hard, heavy, bobbing as you step toward her. Helen’s eyes travel over every inch of you, and the hunger there is molten.

Then her body moves—with the kind of fluid confidence that speaks to both power and precision. Her legs lengthen—smooth, steady, deliberate—as if tugged gently by invisible strings, thighs thickening, stretching apart until her feet plant against opposite walls. Her knees bend, locking her into a perfect, suspended V. The suit rides up, drawn tight between her legs until the slick heat of her pussy glistens at the center, lips slightly parted, inviting. One hand crooks at you again. The other stretches behind her back, looping around until her fingers interlace at her own wrist, forming a self-made restraint.

“Start here,” she purrs, nodding toward the cradle of her thighs. “Be thorough.”

You step in. Her skin radiates heat—not just from arousal, but from the latent superhuman fire thrumming through her. Muscles ripple under your hands as you grip her thighs, thumbs tracing the taut inner curves. You press your cock between them—fuck, the sensation makes your knees buckle. Her skin is velvet stretched over cable, and she squeezes tight, controlling the pressure perfectly. As you begin to thrust, the slick slide of her suit adds friction and heat, your shaft dragging across her wet slit with every pass.

Helen moans, low and guttural, her head tipping back against the wall. Then her arms move again, lengthening in a slow, sinuous loop until they wrap under her thighs and up around her own ankles, folding her in half like a human lock. The motion lifts her hips, pushing her heat higher, making your angle perfect. You rut faster, the slap of skin echoing obscenely in the metal-walled room, pre-cum glistening on her inner thighs.

“Mark me,” she gasps, voice ragged.

You don’t need telling twice. You lean in, mouth opening over the flushed skin of her thigh, and bite—firm, possessive. Her muscles tighten, thighs clamping your cock with sudden force, the jolt of pressure enough to make your vision blur. You growl and bite again, sucking hard, leaving a spreading bruise beneath your teeth. Then another. And another. A constellation of hickeys bloom across her skin, and she shudders with every one, breath hitched and lips parted.

“Enough,” she growls suddenly.

Her legs retract in a blur of motion, body flipping with gymnast precision until she lands on all fours atop the cot. Her suit shimmers where it clings to her ass, now arched high, thighs spread, glistening slit exposed. She looks over her shoulder, eyes glowing with challenge and want.

“Take me.”

You grab her hips, position yourself, and slam in. She’s soaked, molten-hot, gripping you with a slick, pulsing tightness that draws a groan from your chest. Her back arches; her arms stretch forward and up, fingers finding the cot’s steel headboard. But she doesn’t just hold—her limbs continue, stretching until they wrap around the headboard twice, anchoring her body into place, making her whole torso taut and immobile as you hammer into her.

You angle your hips and drive in deeper. The position is ruthless—brutal in depth, each stroke unforgiving, delicious. Your hips snap forward, cock driving in to the hilt, your balls slapping against her clit with each thrust. Her ass jiggles under the force, her thighs quivering, every motion met with her muffled cries and broken moans. You bend over her, lips at her shoulder, and bite—hard. Then her neck. Then her spine. She’s covered in marks, a map of where you’ve been.

“Harder,” she demands, voice wrecked.

You snarl and obey—grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back as your other hand slides beneath to pinch and twist her nipple. Her entire body tenses, her moans rising into screams muffled only by her clenched teeth. The cot groans beneath you, joints straining, the hook overhead rattling with every impact.

You feel her tighten around you—flutter, then clamp, her cunt gripping your cock like a vice. “Close—” she gasps.

Your fingers find her clit, rubbing fast, rough circles. She shatters—her entire body convulsing as her orgasm crashes through her like a breaking wave. She screams, loud and raw, juices pouring down your length, soaking your thighs. The sight, the feel, the sound—it undoes you. With a final thrust, you bury deep, cock throbbing as you come hard, spurting inside her, hips stuttering with every pulse.

You stay locked together for long seconds, panting into the hush. The harsh rhythm between you fades into something quieter, something shared. You feel her breath even out against your chest, her skin warm and damp. A moment ago you were fire and friction—now you're coiled around each other, the silence wrapped in afterglow.

Then, slowly, her arms unwind from the headboard, shrinking back to normal with a gentle pop of joints. She collapses against the cot, bringing you down with her.

You lie together, tangled and trembling. You kiss her neck, her shoulders, every bite and bruise you left now met with a softer press of lips. She hums, satisfied, her body warm against yours.

Then she stretches again—one leg looping around your waist, thigh hooking you close. “Aftercare’s part of the stretch,” she murmurs, voice half-asleep, wholly content.

You grab a towel from the nearby kit, gently wiping her clean. Your fingers massage her thighs, easing tension from overstretched muscle. She sighs, boneless, letting you tend to her.

Blankets come next—tucked around you both. Her body molds to yours, a final shift of limbs and curves until you’re locked together in something far quieter, but no less intense.

The amber light above casts warm shadows across the steel walls, wrapping your aftermath in gold. “Next mission,” she whispers, mouth brushing your jaw, “we test the ceiling hook.”

You first noticed it walking home late from work—the feeling of being followed. Footsteps that matched your pace. Shadows that stretched too long. Every night it grew worse, until paranoia became your constant companion. The streetlights offered no comfort; each flickering bulb only deepened the unease. You started carrying your keys between your fingers, rehearsing excuses, escape plans, prayers.

When you told Viraj Dobriyal, his expression sharpened instantly. “You should have told me earlier,” he said, voice calm but edged with steel. His eyes lingered on yours, unblinking, as though he already knew more than you’d said. “From now on, you’re not walking anywhere alone.”

And just like that, he appointed himself your protector. He drove you to work, lingered outside your apartment, even insisted on waiting in the café across the street when you met a friend. His presence was steady, his gaze scanning every passerby as if calculating threats. He never seemed distracted; it was as though guarding you had become his sole occupation.

At first, it was a relief. “Thank you, Viraj,” you told him once, gripping your coffee cup a little too tightly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His lips curved in something between a smile and a smirk. “You won’t have to find out.”

But the longer it went on, the more the edges blurred. He always seemed to appear before you called. He knew your schedule without you telling him. You spotted him outside your office lobby before dawn, claiming he couldn’t sleep. Another night, your curtains shifted—and across the street, a figure stood motionless. When you looked again, Viraj was suddenly at your door, insisting he had been “passing by.” His gaze lingered too intently, not protective, but possessive.

One evening, you tried to challenge him.

“You don’t have to watch me all the time.”

He said nothing.

“It feels like I’ve traded one stalker for another.”

Viraj’s expression didn’t change. “Do you really want me gone?” His voice was low, measured, almost dangerous. “If I leave, who’s going to protect you? Do you think whoever’s following you will simply stop?”

You faltered, unable to answer. His intensity pinned you in place until he finally leaned back, exhaling softly. “That’s what I thought.”

That night, a note slid under your door: You looked beautiful today.

Your hands trembled as you reread the words. You had seen no one. You had told no one where you’d be.

Except Viraj.

Sleep evaded you. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind through the window felt like proof someone was near. At 3 a.m., your phone buzzed against the nightstand, the screen’s glow slicing through the dark. Your stomach dropped. A text: Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe. No name. No number you recognized. The vibration still echoed in your bones long after it stopped.

The next morning, he was already waiting, leaning casually against his car, arms folded. “Rough night?” he asked, eyes flicking to the dark circles under yours. When you didn’t reply, he added smoothly, “You’ll be safe with me.”

“Viraj…” your voice cracked. “What if—it was you all along?”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between you. Then his gaze softened—too much, too suddenly—and he opened the car door for you. “If I were your stalker,” he said, voice silky, “you’d already know. Get in.”

You hesitated, scanning his face for cracks, for truth. His eyes gave nothing away, only that unnerving calm that left you doubting your instincts. Around you, the street was empty, the world holding its breath.

And you did get in, because being near him felt like the only defense you had. The leather seat was cool beneath your hands, but the air seemed heavy, suffocating, with his presence filling the space. His fingers brushed yours as he shifted gears, deliberate, steady.

But deep down, the question gnawed at you louder than ever: was he protecting you from the stalker—or had you stepped willingly into the stalker’s arms?

And worse still…

The marble floor is cold against your bare knees, the kind of chill that creeps into the bone and stays there, but it’s nothing compared to the merciless heat of Viraj’s gaze. That stare slices through your composure like a scalpel. The room is almost blinding in its sterility—spotless white walls, gleaming counters, immaculate glass—every inch scrubbed until the scent of antiseptic and power permeates the air. Except for the single flaw: a smear of lipstick, crimson like a sin, marking the rim of a crystal tumbler. Your lipstick. Your mistake.

He walks slow circles around you, measured, deliberate, his loafers striking the marble in precise rhythm, each step a staccato beat. The sound is a countdown, a ritual, each footfall a psychological incision.

“You thought you could leave,” he murmurs, voice a silk shroud over a blade. “You thought you could betray me.”

You struggle to steady your breath. “I was going to the market. That’s all.”

His chuckle is quiet, indulgent. Dangerous. “The market.” He stops behind you, shadow swallowing your frame. His fingers skim the back of your neck, barely there. “With a packed suitcase in the trunk and a train ticket to Delhi in your bra. You disappoint me.”

Your pulse stutters. That ticket had been hidden, buried under silks and lace, in the very back of your lingerie drawer.

He fists your hair and pulls, tilting your head until your neck arches. “Day twenty-eight,” he says into your skin, lips brushing your pulse. “And still you pretend.”

He sinks to his knees in front of you, his hands calm and methodical as he undoes his cufflinks. One. Two. They clink like coins onto the glass coffee table. He rolls his sleeves to his elbows, veins and sinew flexing with quiet menace. Then he slides off his tie—midnight blue, monogrammed V.D.—with the grace of a man unwrapping a gift.

“Hands,” he says.

You hesitate. Hope flickers. He doesn’t repeat himself. He simply waits. There’s something far more terrifying in that restraint than in rage. You lift your wrists.

The silk winds around them, a serpent’s embrace—tight, smooth, final. He knots it and anchors the ends to the coffee table leg, forcing your arms outstretched, presenting you.

“Comfortable?” he asks sweetly.

You meet his eyes with defiance. “Untie me.”

He laughs, brushing your lip with his thumb until your mouth opens. “Still so willful.”

Then he stands, leather whispering as he unbuckles his belt with a quiet snick. The strip comes free, coiling like a whip. You brace. But he doesn’t use it on your skin. Instead, he loops it around your throat, securing it loosely, the buckle kissing your collarbone.

“This?” He tugs the belt gently, drawing your head back. “It reminds you who holds the leash. One tug, and you fall. One yank, and you beg for air. Do you understand?”

He steps back, retrieves something from his blazer pocket, and with a flourish unfolds your escape ticket. The ticket to Delhi. He holds your gaze as he tears it—once, twice, thrice—each rip echoing. The pieces scatter like ashes.

“Creative restraints,” he echoes, smirking. “Wasn’t that your game?”

He vanishes for a moment. You hear the rustle of ice. The clink of a tumbler. When he returns, he holds a single cube in silver tongs, water beads sliding down like sweat. He hovers it just above your collarbone.

The cold drop hits your skin and you shiver violently.

He traces the cube down your chest, over your blouse, soaking it until it turns transparent, silk clinging to your curves like a second skin. Your nipples peak instantly.

“Sensitive,” he says, delighted. “Always so responsive.”

He trades ice for tongue, licking the cold trail with slow, obscene care. Teeth follow, biting just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make the belt at your throat tighten. Warning. His mouth hovers at your ear, breath warm and laced with command. "Still," he murmurs, not just a word but a sentence, a verdict, a collar tightening invisibly around your will.

You freeze, your body straining to obey even as arousal builds. His hands slide up your thighs and tug your skirt to your waist. No panties. His rule. Always.

The air caresses your slick heat and he hums, pleased. Two fingers ghost between your folds. “Wet already? And you were going to leave this behind?”

He withdraws and returns with a ruler—not a paddle, not a whip, just a thin, precise instrument of control. It bends. Snaps.

“Count,” he instructs.

Crack. The first strike lands. “One,” you gasp.

Again. “Two.”

Each hit is clinical, cruelly measured. By five, your thighs tremble. By ten, tears prick your eyes. Still, your hips move forward on instinct, desperate for friction. He notes it, always noting.

“Messy,” he chides. “And greedy.”

The ruler clatters to the floor. Then his fingers are inside you again, sharp and sure, curling until your mouth opens on a sob. His thumb circles your clit. Precise. Devastating.

You’re there—right there—when he stops.

“No!” You buck, helpless.

“You’ll come when I say,” he murmurs.

He opens his trousers and pulls himself free—thick, veined, aching. He strokes himself once, watching your eyes. You freeze, pulse spiking with dread and something darker, deeper. The air grows heavy with silence. You see him grip himself, thick and flushed, each stroke deliberate. A silent threat. You try to steel yourself, mouth parted just slightly, trembling on the edge of resistance and submission. Then he presses the head to your lips.

“Open.”

You obey. He slides in slow. Inch by thick inch until he hits the back of your throat. You choke, bound fingers straining, but he holds the belt steady. Sets a brutal rhythm. Uses you.

Drool drips from your chin. Your eyes water. He pulls out only to flip you over, hauling you by the belt so your face hits the table. Your wrists remain tied, body bent in perfect submission.

He kicks your legs apart.

“Beg.”

You whimper. “Please, Viraj… please… fuck me…”

He doesn’t ask again. Just drives in. One savage thrust. You scream, nails scraping the table. He grunts, fingers clawing your hips, anchoring you as he begins to pound.

The table rocks, its heavy legs groaning against the polished marble, each jolt sending a sharp creak into the room like a metronome syncing to your ragged breath.

You cry out again and again, each thrust deeper, crueler. Every sound you make only spurs him on.

“You thought you could run?” Slam.

“Lie to me?” Slam.

“Leave me?” Slam.

You come with a scream, walls clenching around him, body convulsing. He doesn’t stop, even as you sob. Then he groans, pulling you tight as he spills deep inside.

When he finishes, he exhales hard and slowly withdraws. You collapse forward, twitching.

He loosens the belt with care. Unties your wrists. His hands, once cruel, now soothe the red grooves he left behind.

“Clean up,” he says softly. “We’re going to Paris. I chose the suite myself. Completely sterilized.”

You look down at the shredded ticket.

“I lost,” you whisper.

He kisses your temple like a priest giving last rites. "You never stood a chance, jaan—not with the leash already around your neck and your escape in pieces at my feet."

When the door clicks shut, you remain bent over the table. Sticky, shaking, wrecked.