summary - professor Y/Nâs life is unravelingâone glass of wine, one fake smile, one cheating husband at a time. The last thing she needs is her top student getting too close. But Satoru Gojo isnât like the others. He sees the cracks. He watches every shift in her voice. And after the career fair, he knows her weakness: her silence.
Heâs not going to stop. Not when sheâs married. Not when sheâs hurting. And definitely not when she looks like she needs to be ruined.
professor reader x yandere! college student gojo ; pt 2 ; pt 3 ; pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7
He watches. He waits. And when she breaks, heâll be thereâon his knees or on top of her, it doesnât matter. So long as sheâs his.
The classroom is quiet now. Chalk dust lingers in the stale afternoon light, and the ticking of the wall clock pulses like a countdown. Your hands are still trembling beneath your desk, but you make no move to still them.
You havenât slept much.
Not since you found the messages.
Not since Hiromi started coming home with perfume on his collar that wasnât yours.
He says it meant nothing.
He says it only happened once.
He says heâs sorry.
But the image is burned into the backs of your eyelidsâhis voice soft, pleading, the weight of your childrenâs laughter echoing down the hall while your heart shattered in the kitchen.
Your marriage is bleeding at the seams.
Hiromiâs been doting latelyâtoo doting. Flowers on your desk. Coffee brought to the department. Voicemails at all hours with soft-spoken promises of counseling and change. But it all feels like a performance. Or worse, a punishment. Because even when someone begs for forgiveness, they rarely consider the part where youâre still bleeding.
And divorce?
Not in your family.
Not with your children involved.
Your mother called it selfish. Your father called it a phase.
Your in-laws are praying it away like some storm thatâll pass.
So here you areâProfessor Y/N. Doctorate in philosophy, lectures on moral ethics and the illusion of truth.
And yet⊠somehow, youâre the one lying every day.
Smiling through the burn.
Nodding like your wedding ring isnât an iron shackle.
You havenât told your students. Of course not. You keep your private life sealed behind tempered glass. But that doesnât stop him from noticing.
Gojo Satoru.
Top of the class. Too smart. Too pretty. Too focused on you.
Heâs always watching.
Asking personal questions under the guise of intellectual curiosity.
Staring a little too long when you grade his papers with red ink.
Lingering after lecturesâjust him, and that stupid cocky grin, and those ice-blue eyes like he sees something no one else does.
You should shut it down.
You should remind him of your title. Your boundaries. Your marriage.
But lately, even you forget youâre still married.
Because Hiromiâs presence has grown so heavy, so absent, so cold.
And Satoru?
He makes you feel like a woman again. Like someone worthy of being wanted. Desired. Seen.
And maybe thatâs why youâre staring at your reflection in the office mirror now, adjusting the neckline of your blouse like it matters. Like someone might notice.
You jump when thereâs a soft knock on the door.
Three knocks.
Slow.
Measured.
You already know who it is.
Gojo doesnât make appointments.
He doesnât ask to see you.
He just shows up.
Like clockwork.
Like fate.
Like heâs been waiting for your world to fall apartâso he can crawl into the cracks and make a home out of your ruin.
The knock came, but he didnât wait for permission.
The door cracked open slowly, deliberately, as if he already knew you wouldnât say no.
âAfternoon, Professor.â
His voice was like velvet twisted around something sharp. Light, teasingâjust bordering disrespect. But charming enough to make you pause before reprimanding him.
Gojo Satoru stepped in like he owned the place.
Like your office hours were created just for him.
And maybe they were. At least, thatâs the illusion he liked to project.
He wore that same smug grin. White dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Thin silver chain visible just above his collarbones. He didnât sit across from your desk. No. He leaned against the windowsill instead, hands in his pockets like a student waiting to be praised.
âI graded your midterm,â you said, keeping your tone even. âHighest in the class. Congratulations.â
He tilted his head. âMm⊠Iâm guessing not surprised?â
You sighed. âIâd be more surprised if you actually started following the assignment guidelines for once.â
That earned you a low chuckle. âBut then I wouldnât stand out.â
You didnât smileâbut something in your chest shifted. You gestured toward the chair across from you. âSit.â
Instead, he moved.
Not to the chair.
But toward your bookshelf.
And then to your side table.
And thenâŠ
To the framed photo on your desk.
His fingers brushed against it like it was dust he meant to wipe away.
âCute kids,â he murmured, gaze lingering. âThis your family?â
You inhaled. âYes. Thatâs private.â
His head tilted again. âDidnât mean to pry.â
âBut you are.â
âOnly a little.â He picked up the photo, flipping it in his hand, eyes drifting across the image like he was looking for something buried beneath the surface. âYou never mentioned you had a husband.â
You pressed your lips together. âItâs not relevant to your coursework.â
He set the photo down gently, almost too gently. Like it was fragile. Like you were.
âBut you used to talk about him,â he said.
That made your spine stiffen.
He looked up at you slowly, the grin fading. âIn the first few weeks of class. You mentioned him in passing once or twice. âMy husband always saysââ or âWe had this ridiculous thing happen over the weekendâââ He watched you closely. âYou donât do that anymore.â
A pause. Heavy. Charged.
Your throat tightened. âMr. Gojo. Your grade is exceptional. You donât need to be here unless you have a real academic concern.â
He smiled againâthis time smaller, meaner. âMaybe I just like talking to you.â
âThatâs not appropriate.â
âNeither is being married and miserable.â
Your heart stopped.
And then stuttered violently back to life.
His eyes were unreadableâicy and burning all at once.
You stood, sharply. âIâm ending this conversation now. I suggest youââ
âDonât worry, Professor,â he interrupted, rising slowly to his full height. âIâm just observant. Thatâs all.â
He moved toward the door. Hand on the knob.
But just before stepping out, he turned his head slightly, just enough to let his voice slither back to you like silk and smoke.
âFor what itâs worth⊠heâs an idiot.â
Click.
The door shut behind him.
And you were left alone in your office. Breath shallow. Fingers clenched around the photo frame.
The glass was cold.
But your skin was burning.
The sound of the kids laughing in the backseat shouldâve made you smile.
But today, it just hurt.
âMom! He wonât give me the charger!â
âBecause itâs mine!â
âIs not!â
âIs too!â
You exhaled slowly, turning down the radio. âGuys. Relax. Weâre home in five. Both of you cool it or no iPads tonight.â
A chorus of groans. A stomp. A whine. Typical chaos.
But even in the noise, your mind wasnât fully here.
You were still in that office.
Still watching Gojoâs fingers brush against the family photo like he wanted to smudge himself into it.
Still hearing his voiceâheâs an idiotâplaying in your head like a song you didnât ask to remember.
You blinked back into the present just as your car turned onto the familiar street.
Same houses. Same maple trees. Same stupid driveway you used to love pulling into.
But now?
Now you felt your chest tighten at the sight of the car parked out front.
Hiromiâs car.
You rolled your eyes. âOf course.â
He was home early again.
You pulled in behind him, parked, and braced yourself.
The moment the engine shut off, your kids exploded from the backseat like soda cans under pressure.
âRace you inside!â
âWait for me!â
âDonât slam theââ SLAM.
Too late.
You grabbed your bag and moved slowly toward the front door, giving yourself a few seconds. A breath. A reset. Anything to soften your expression before you stepped inside.
The smell of pasta sauce hit you first. Tomato, garlic, overcompensating.
âHey.â
His voice came from the kitchen.
You pasted on the smile. Thin. Brittle. âHi. Youâre home early.â
âYeah.â Hiromi wiped his hands on a towel, stepping around the counter. âSlow day. A couple cases hit back-to-back this morning, but I cleared the worst of them. Burned out, honestly.â
You nodded absently. âMhm. Sounds exhausting.â
There was a pause as he studied your faceâsearching for something. Recognition? Warmth?
You gave him none.
âI made dinner,â he added, as if that mattered. âFigured we could all eat together.â
You heard the kids arguing about math problems in the dining room, paper rustling, pencils tapping.
âSounds good,â you said flatly, dropping your bag by the stairs. You turned to walk past him.
âY/NâŠâ
Your name came softly.
Too softly.
You stopped mid-step.
âIâIâve been thinking,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes downcast. âAbout us. About⊠what I did.â
You swallowed.
Not here. Not now.
âHiromi.â
âI know Iâve said sorry. But I need you to know I meant it. I wasnât myself. I was stressed, Iââ
âStop.â
Your voice cracked like a whip.
He blinked. âWhat?â
You turned to him slowly. Calm. Cold. Controlled.
âThe kids are in the next room.â
A beat of silence.
And then he nodded. The air grew thick with unsaid things.
âThey think youâre sick,â you said quietly. âThatâs what I told them. Daddyâs very, very sick.â
Hiromiâs jaw clenched. His eyes shone with somethingâguilt, maybe. Regret. But you didnât care. Not anymore.
Because no amount of âI love yousâ could erase the lipstick on his collar.
The texts from someone named âMarie.â
The way your children had cried the night you locked the bedroom door behind you.
You walked past him, brushing his shoulder without meaning to, like a ghost brushing against a memory.
âIâm going to change,â you said.
And you climbed the stairs with the weight of a thousand unspoken arguments pressing between your ribs.
It was nearly midnight.
The house was quiet nowâsave for the hum of the dishwasher downstairs and the occasional creak of the pipes adjusting to the night.
You sat cross-legged on your bed, pajama shorts brushing against cool sheets, an oversized tee slipping off one shoulder. A half-drained glass of merlot rested beside your laptop, the edge of the glass smudged with a faint lipstick print.
Your legs were sore. Your head heavier than usual.
Still, you scrolled.
Assignments.
One after the other.
Feedback. Grading. More red ink. Your eyes burned from screen glare, but your fingers kept moving. Mechanical. Mindless. You were on autopilot these daysâjust enough energy to function, never enough to feel.
Until his name appeared.
Gojo, Satoru.
Creative Writing Submission.
You paused.
Just for a second.
Then clicked.
It opened slowly, like a secret.
The first line hit you like warm water on cold skin:
âThereâs something beautiful about a woman who forgets sheâs being watched.â
Your stomach fluttered.
You shifted slightly, brushing your knee with the edge of your blanket.
âNot the kind of beauty you can capture on film. Not the type to be acknowledged in polite conversation. But the raw, unraveling kind. The quiet panic of restraint. The soft violence of silence.â
You blinked.
Reread the sentence.
Was this⊠about you?
No.
No, it couldnât be.
You scrolled further. The prose bled intimacyâlush, poetic, and haunting. His writing wrapped around you like a whisper down the back of your neck. Soft. Unsettling. Deliciously inappropriate.
âI wonder if she knows how easy it is to love her. How unbearable it is to see her smile at people who donât deserve it. How maddening it is to be invisible when youâd burn the world just to hear her say your name like it means something.â
Your hand curled into a fist on your lap.
Heat bloomed low in your stomach. You hated that.
You hated that you felt seen.
You slammed the laptop shut.
âNot today,â you muttered to yourself.
You stood up, the floor cool beneath your feet. Quietly, you padded across the room, tugging the chain from your neck, undoing the clasps of your earrings, unhooking the small bracelet your daughter had gifted you for Motherâs Day.
And then, finally, you slid your wedding ring off.
No ceremony.
No hesitation.
Just⊠quiet.
It clinked softly against the marble countertop.
You stared at it for a moment. Silver. Hollow. Still.
Another day done.
Another boundary blurred.
Another secret you didnât want to name.
You climbed into bed and turned off the lamp, darkness swallowing you whole.
But even with your eyes closed, those words stayed.
Burning.
Etching.
Tattooing themselves somewhere deep inside.
â
THE NEXT DAYâŠÂ
The clock above the whiteboard ticked quietly, each second dragging its heels through your lecture like wet footsteps on tile.
You stood at the front of the room, voice steadyâmeasuredâbut your hands betrayed you. One of them rested at your side while the other twisted your wedding ring round and round your finger. Over. And over. And over.
A tic.
A nervous tell.
You hoped no one noticed.
âRemember,â you said, scanning the room, âyour creative writing assignment is due tomorrow. The topic should blend academic theory with emotional reflectionâthink applied philosophy meets narrative voice.â
A few heads nodded. Some scribbled it down. One girl yawned into her sleeve.
And Gojo Satoru?
Front row. Elbow on the desk. Chin in his hand. That grin again. Always that grinâlike he knew the punchline to a joke no one else had heard yet.
He raised a hand lazily. âProfessor, do you want us to make it personal or just convincing?â
A few students laughed.
You didnât.
You gave a small smile, cool and unreadable. âThat depends. Are those things mutually exclusive?â
The class murmured in responseâsome amused, others intrigued.
Gojoâs grin widened. âNot for me.â
You moved on. You had to. âThis is your final creative component before your comparative analysis. Treat it with care. I expect authenticity, not performance.â
The bell rang shortly after, and the room stirred with motionâzippers, rustling papers, the creak of backpacks hoisted onto shoulders.
You exhaled, brushing your thumb once more across the edge of your ring.
Thenâ
The door creaked open again.
âDelivery for Professor L/N?â
A young man with a university lanyard held a bouquet. Bold reds, soft creams, white accents. Delicate and dramatic all at once.
You blinked, startled. âOhâuhâyes, thatâs me.â
Whispers flared instantly among the students still gathering their things. You stepped forward, taking the bouquet and tugging the little envelope from the plastic pick tucked inside.
âStill trying. Love, Hiromi.â
Your lips parted slightly in the shape of a sigh.
âThank you,â you said softly, not to the sender, but the delivery boyâthen set the flowers on your desk like they weighed too much.
Gojo hadnât moved.
He stood now, bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. Everyone else was halfway out the door. He remained still.
âDidnât seem like they were the right flowers,â he said finally, voice laced with observation, not judgment. âToo loud. Not your style.â
You arched a brow. âExcuse me?â
He stepped closer.
âJust saying,â he murmured, tilting his head. âYou looked like you wanted to throw them in the trash.â
âI didnât,â you lied, fingers gripping the edge of your desk.
âYou sighed.â
His voice dropped an octave. âYouâve been fidgeting with that ring all class. You barely made eye contact today.â
You met his eyes sharply then. Instinct. Challenge.
But you held it too long.
And he noticed.
He smiled slowly. âRough morning?â
âIâm fine,â you said quickly. Too quickly.
He studied you for a beat longer, then gave a slow, exaggerated nod. âRight. Totally fine. Nothing says âfineâ like gripping your own hand so tight it turns white.â
You stepped back, drawing a professional line in the sand. âYouâre crossing boundaries again.â
âBut Iâm curious, Professor,â he said, voice honey-slick and dangerous. âIsnât that the whole point of learning? Getting close enough to understand what youâre not supposed to?â
Your breath caughtâbarelyâbut you managed to swallow it down.
âOffice hours are over,â you said softly. Firmly. âI suggest you enjoy your afternoon.â
He tilted his head, gaze dragging across your face like it was a text to be deciphered.
Then, finally, he stepped back.
âSee you tomorrow, Professor.â
The door clicked shut behind him.
You stood there, surrounded by flowers that didnât move you, and words that did.
And even though he was goneâŠ
His eyes stayed.
Gojo Satoruâs POV
There she was.
Again.
Like fate just kept handing her to him.
A hoodie. No makeup. Hair pulled back. Sneakers scuffed. She looked realer like this. Softer. Less like the professor behind the desk and more like the woman she probably forgot how to be. The kind of woman who bought granola bars in bulk and snapped softly at her kids in the snack aisle like she was just barely holding the day together.
Gojo leaned on the cart, watching her from behind the cereal display. He didnât stalk her. Not really.
Not today.
It was luck.
Or coincidence.
Or maybe something better.
He wasnât even supposed to be hereâGeto sent him out with a list of nonsense he couldâve Instacarted, but now Gojo was grateful for the dumb errand. Flour, garlic, shallotsânone of it mattered anymore.
Not when she was here.
She didnât see him yet. Too busy keeping her kids from turning aisle seven into a WWE arena.
âI said one snack, not five.â
Her tone was sharp but loving. Exhausted but clear.
He couldâve listened to her scold someone all day. The power in her voice made his stomach ache.
He slipped into the aisle like smoke, pretending to scan the spice rack.
She turned and froze.
He grinned.
âFancy seeing you here, Professor.â
Her brows lifted. âMr. Gojo?â
Her voice held a surprised laugh, light and confused, as her eyes darted toward her sonsâboth currently comparing cartoon gummies like it was life or death.
âI promise Iâm not stalking you,â he said smoothly. âJust here for Geto. Heâs the domestic one. Sends me on errands when heâs elbow-deep in some sauce that takes four hours and three types of cheese.â
She smirked faintly. Her arms were crossed over her chest, cart full of juice boxes and a box of wine tucked in the corner. Her hair was falling out of its tie. There was something so achingly human about her in this light.
âGeto, though,â he continued, âhe made this ginger soy soba thing last week that literally cured my hangover.â
âYouâre not supposed to tell your professor you were hungover.â
He leaned in conspiratorially. âBut youâre my professor. Makes it kind of special, doesnât it?â
She shook her headâgentle dismissalâbut the color in her cheeks betrayed her. It wasnât embarrassment.
It was warmth.
Before she could speak again, two boys thundered back down the aisle.
âMom! Can we get these? Please?â
The younger one stared up at Gojo like heâd just realized there was a giant standing beside his mother.
Gojo smiled down. âHey, little man.â
The older boy narrowed his eyes. âWhoâs that?â
You crouched between them, fixing their cart placement and adjusting the snacks in your arms. âHeâs one of my students. Say hi, and letâs keep it moving.â
âHi,â they mumbled, unimpressed.
You stood, brushing your hand down your side. âThanks for the grocery talk, Gojo. Iâll see you in class.â
You turned to go, pushing the cart away. Your kids were already racing toward the frozen section.
But Gojo didnât move.
He watched you walk offâquiet, thoughtful, predatory in the most beautiful sense.
And just as your figure curved around the corner, he muttered under his breath:
ââŠIâd make a great stepfather.â
The overhead music switched to something mindless. A pop song about summer.
Gojo smiled to himself, then picked up the box of salt he didnât need, tossed it in the cart, and made a mental note:
The boys like fruit snacks.
She prefers dry red wine.
She doesnât wear her ring on the weekends.
All useful things to remember.
After allâŠ
Love is in the details.
And he was taking notes.
The house was dim, quiet againâjust the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft rustle of paper bags being unpacked.
Y/N moved around the kitchen with tired hands, slipping fruit into the bowl, sorting snacks into drawers, and placing boxed juice in the lower fridge shelf where little hands could reach. Her sons were finally asleep upstairs, their room a mess of Legos, blankets, and quiet breathing.
She paused as she unwrapped a package of cherry tomatoes, catching sight of herself in the microwaveâs reflection.
The same sweatshirt from her grocery run. Her wedding ring still on.
For now.
The sound of keys unlocking the front door made her shoulders tense. She didnât need to look to know who it was.
Hiromi entered like he belonged here.
Like nothing had changed.
Like he wasnât the reason she drank wine in the kitchen after midnight.
âHey,â he said casually, loosening his tie and tossing his bag by the door. âLate deposition ran over.â
She didnât respond. Just reached for the corkscrew.
âDinnerâs in the fridge,â she said flatly, popping the cork from the wine bottle with one hand. The red poured smoothly into her glass. âLeftovers from yesterday. You can warm it up.â
He exhaled slowly, pulling off his blazer. âY/N, can we talk?â
âNo,â she said immediately, turning her back to him and taking a long sip of wine.
His voice tightened. âMy parents think we should try counseling.â
She paused, the glass still at her lips.
When she turned, her face was blankâbut her eyes were sharp enough to cut.
âCounseling?â she repeated bitterly. âYour parents think we should talk to a stranger about your dick being somewhere it wasnât supposed to be?â
Hiromi winced. âDonât do that.â
âNo, Hiromi,â she snapped, placing the glass down too hard on the counter. âDonât you do that. Donât walk into this house like you havenât detonated everything we built. Donât talk to me about counseling like I didnât already look up divorce lawyers six weeks ago.â
Silence.
She stepped closer, voice low and vicious. âYouâre lucky I didnât throw the papers in your face first.â
His jaw tightened. âI made a mistakeââ
âYou cheated on me.â
âIâve said Iâm sorryââ
âI donât care if you wrote it in the fucking sky.â
âIâm still here, arenât I?â he snapped, stepping toward her. âIâm trying. For us. For our family.â
She scoffed. âNoâyouâre performing. Youâre playing house and hoping I forget what you did.â
âYou think I donât hate myself for it?â
âNo,â she said, voice suddenly quieterâicier. âI think you hate the consequences.â
They stared at each other. The overhead light flickered slightly. The fridge clicked off.
And just like that, her body shifted.
She turned.
Walked away.
âIâm done talking,â she muttered.
âY/Nââ
âSleep on the couch.â
She disappeared down the hallway, her glass of wine still in hand.
The bedroom door closed with a gentle clickâbut the silence afterward was louder than any slammed door ever could be.
Hiromi stood in the kitchen, the untouched leftovers cold behind him. The scent of wine still hung in the air.
And in her bedroom?
Y/N sat at the edge of the bed, staring into the deep red swirl in her glass.
Her phone buzzed.
A new email.
From: Satoru Gojo
Subject: Tonightâs Assignment â Extra Notes
Her heart skipped.
She didnât open it.
Not yet.
But the ring on her finger suddenly felt suffocating.
The wine sat untouched now.
Y/Nâs fingers hovered above the keyboard, heart thudding too loudly in her ears for the stillness of the room. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face, casting shadows across the tired lines beneath her eyes. The subject line was innocuous enough. Plain. Academic.
âTonightâs Assignment â Extra Notesâ
From: Gojo Satoru
But Gojo didnât do anything plain.
She clicked it.
Professor,
Thank you for todayâs lecture. I found the topic of âauthenticity vs. performanceâ particularly fascinating. Iâve been thinking a lot about which version of ourselves we choose to show people⊠and which version they fall in love with.
I attached my revised draft. I took your advice to make it more personal.
Hope youâre not grading too late. You deserve a break. A real one.
Sincerely,
Satoru
The file glared up at her from the bottom of the email.
CreativeAssignment_Revised_Gojo.docx
She didnât click it.
Not right away.
Instead, she stared at that one sentence:
ââŠwhich version they fall in love with.â
Y/N let her fingers slowly fall from the keyboard. Her breath felt tight in her chestâlike the room was closing in just a little. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way Hiromiâs voice still echoed behind her ribs like a bruise that hadnât faded.
Or maybe it was Gojo.
The way he looked at her like he saw straight through the layers. Like he wanted to peel them backâslowly. Carefully. Obsessively.
She clicked the document.
And as the first few lines appeared on the screen⊠her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
A flush. A skip in her pulse.
His words werenât just personal.
They were intimate.
Possessive.
Crafted with the kind of hunger a student should never direct toward their professor. But it wasnât crude. Noâit was worse. It was thoughtful. Every sentence a thread of temptation pulling tighter and tighter.
You should stop reading, she told herself.
But she didnât.
And when she finally closed the laptopâfingers shaking, wine untouched, the ring burning on her finger againâshe didnât feel disgusted.
She felt wanted.
And that scared her more than anything.
â
The classroom had cleared out, leaving behind the faint scent of coffee, ink, and the low hum of the projector cooling down. Y/N stacked a few stray papers, organizing them into a neat pile, when she noticed someone hadnât left yet.
Gojo.
Leaning against the front-row desk, arms crossed, bag slung lazily over his shoulder, he looked like he had all the time in the world.
âProfessor,â he started, his tone lighter than air, âdo you know anything about the internship program for pre-law students?â
You glanced up, arching a brow. âThinking of becoming a lawyer, Gojo?â
âMaybe,â he said with a grin, though something in his tone hinted at sincerity. âFigured I should explore my options. Canât rely on just being devastatingly good-looking forever, right?â
You almost laughed. Almost. âWell, itâs a rigorous route. The school partners with a few law firms to give students hands-on experience. Itâs⊠interesting.â
âInteresting, huh?â He tilted his head. âDo you know any of the firms?â
You hesitated for a moment, then answered without thinking, âMy husbandâs firm actually has a partnership.â
The word husband slipped out like it didnât belong to you anymore.
Gojo didnât miss the subtle change in your tone, the way the word fell flat. âYour husband, huh?â His grin softened, almost wicked. âLucky guy. I mean, must be nice to come home to you after a long day of winning cases.â
Your throat tightened. âSomething like that.â
He leaned forward just slightly, enough to feel intrusive without touching you. âYou donât sound like you mean it.â
You froze, caught off guard by his bluntness. âExcuse me?â
âYou just⊠donât talk about him like you used to. Not that Iâm keeping track or anything,â he said with a sly smirk, âbut when you first mentioned him in class, there was this⊠light in your voice. Now? It sounds like youâre talking about a stranger who lives in your house.â
The words hit too close to home.
You forced a boundary back into place, straightening your posture. âGojo, I think youâre reading too much into my personal life. Letâs focus on your career goals.â
He watched you for a long moment, and though his grin remained, his eyes burned with something quieter. Darker.
âFine,â he said lightly, âbut you know, if I were him, I wouldnât give you a reason to talk about me like that.â
You ignored the shiver that ran down your spine, picking up your pen to end the conversation. âThereâs a career fair on campus tomorrow. Go to it. Theyâll have more information on internships and networking opportunities. Itâs worth your time.â
Gojoâs grin widened, but he nodded. âA fair, huh? Guess Iâll have to impress someone else tomorrow then.â
You rolled your eyes. âClass dismissed, Gojo.â
But as he walked out, he glanced over his shoulder, gaze lingering just long enough to make your chest feel tight.
The kitchen smelled like butter and burnt garlic.
Hiromi was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan with too much focusâlike if he just seasoned it right, it would fix everything between them.
Y/N sat at the kitchen island, watching him with tired eyes, glass of water cradled in her hand instead of the wine she really wanted.
The boys were upstairs finishing homework. It was the only reason she was still here. The only reason she hadnât left the moment he said, âDinner for two?â like they werenât strangers sharing a last name.
âSoâŠâ Hiromi began, not looking at her, âyou have the career fair tomorrow, right?â
âMhm,â she replied absently, picking at a hangnail.
âI might stop by. Shake a few hands, give the school something polished to look at. PR stuff, you know.â
She looked up at that. âYou think showing up for a few hours fixes anything?â
His brow twitched, jaw flexing as he turned the burner down. âItâs not about fixing things. Itâs about supporting what matters.â
You. The kids. My marriage.
He didnât say any of itâbut she could hear it in the silence.
Y/N offered a tight-lipped smile. âRight.â
She didnât argue.
Not because she agreed.
Because the boys were just upstairs, and their laughter still echoed too sweetly in her chest to spoil it.
Dinner was plated. They ate in silence, minus a few harmless observations about the boysâ math assignments and the weather. He asked if she wanted to watch something afterward.
She said she had papers to grade.
Another lie.
âž»
Later that night, Y/N lay on her side in bed. Alone.
The sheets were cold, but her skin was flushed.
Her eyes scanned the dark ceiling, blinking slowly. Trying to forget. Trying to feel something.
But it wasnât Hiromiâs arms she imagined around her.
It was Gojoâs voice she heardâlow and teasing in her ear.
âIf I were him, I wouldnât give you a reason to talk about me like that.â
She clenched the blanket tighter.
Her mind betrayed her.
She pictured him again. Gojo. In the same room. Standing at the foot of her bed, eyes molten, mouth curled into that dangerous smile.
The thought hit her like a spark.
She blinked hard, heart thudding as if sheâd been caught doing something forbiddenâeven in her own head.
âNo,â she whispered, rolling onto her back.
But her body didnât listen.
The warmth didnât leave.
And long after her eyes closed, long after her body finally drifted into sleepâŠ
It was still him.
Not her husband.
Just the student who looked at her like she was the only thing he wanted in the world.
-
CAREER FAIR
The mirror didnât lie.
You looked composed. Crisp blazer. Pencil skirt. Neutral lipstick. Hair pulled back neatly. Every detail carefully curated, like you were dressing for an image you were still trying to protect.
The professional.
The professor.
The wife.
But underneath it?
Cracks.
Hairline fractures in your resolve that even concealer couldnât cover. You hadnât slept wellâGojoâs words had made a home in your head last night, curling into your dreams like silk and smoke.
You told yourself today was about the students.
Not about him.
You buttoned the final clasp on your blouse with a sigh and grabbed your badge, tossing it over your neck as you stepped into the hallway. Hiromi had already left. A polite post-it on the coffee pot said âSee you there.â You didnât reply.
The campus auditorium buzzed with ambition. Booths lined both walls. Banners boasting firm names, foundations, fellowships. Students filtered in like a current, all nerves and suits and hopeful smiles.
You adjusted the clipboard in your hand, trying to focus.
And thenâ
He walked in.
Effortlessly late. Unapologetically confident.
Satoru Gojo.
You saw him before he saw youâbut somehow, it still felt like he knew youâd be looking.
He wasnât in a suit, not really. Slim black slacks, fitted turtleneck, long coat slung over his arm. A silver watch gleamed on his wrist like he wore it for your eyes alone.
And when his gaze met yours across the roomâ
He smirked.
Like he knew.
Like he always knew.
Your breath caught.
He started walking toward you, slow and smooth, weaving through booths and students like he didnât belong to any of them.
And the worst part?
You didnât move.
You didnât stop looking.
Gojoâs POV
She looked like a fucking dream. Lips soft. Eyes sharp even from across the room. Professional, yesâbut fragile around the edges, like one wrong word would crack her open.
Gojo licked his bottom lip slowly as he watched her watching him.
She looked like she wanted to run.
But didnât.
That was always his favorite part.
He reached her like gravity had pulled him there.
âProfessor,â he greeted, voice lower than necessary, letting the sound sit between them. âDidnât think Iâd see you so early.â
Her throat bobbed. âYou clean up well.â
Gojo tilted his head. âYou noticed.â
Her eyes flicked away. Boundary. Defense.
But she couldnât hold it longânot when his presence pressed like heat against her skin.
He didnât touch her. He didnât have to. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her thumb brushed absently over her wedding ring like it didnât belong.
âBig turnout,â he said casually. âShould be a productive day.â
âFor students who take it seriously,â she said.
âIâm serious about a lot of things,â he replied smoothly, voice darkening just enough.
Her lips partedâthen closed again. As if her body answered before her mind caught up.
Gojo leaned in ever so slightly, just close enough to make her heartbeat spike. He saw it. Felt it.
âYou look beautiful, by the way. In case no one told you.â
Her eyes snapped to his, sharp as glass.
âBe careful, Satoru,â she warned.
God, he loved the sound of his name on her tongue.
He smiledâslow, unbothered, electric.
âAlways.â
But even as she turned away to check another studentâs progress, Gojo stayed rooted in place, eyes never leaving her silhouette.
He wasnât here for the internships.
He wasnât here for the firms.
He was here for her.
And sooner or laterâŠ
Sheâd be his.
The career fair was a success on paper.
Professional suits. Smiling students. Polished booths and clean banners.
Catered hors d'oeuvres. Complimentary champagne flutes gliding through the air on silver trays.
Y/N had been keeping to herself. Mingling. Advising. Floating.
And sipping.
Glass after glass.
She wasnât counting until glass four. Now she was on her seventh.
It dulled everything. The buzz of conversation, the ache behind her eyes, the simmering knot in her stomach that tightened the moment she saw her.
Hiromiâs secretary.
The secretary.
The same one whose texts she had found. Whose name was saved in his phone as âMinako (Work)â. The one who once brought âextra filesâ over to the house on a Sunday in a fitted pencil skirt and too much perfume.
She was standing just a few booths away, chatting politely with a group of students, wearing the same firm badge as Hiromi. Pretty. Poised. Harmless-looking.
Y/Nâs fingers clenched the stem of her champagne glass.
The moment they made eye contact, her breath hitched.
He wasnât smiling this time.
He was watching.
Tracking.
Reading every inch of her like he could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. The hurt she was trying to drown in bubbles.
And when Hiromi finally stopped beside her, placing a hand on her lower back like he still had the rightâ
Gojo moved.
He slid into their space effortlessly, plucking a flute from a tray and sipping without breaking eye contact.
âNice turnout tonight,â he said coolly.
Hiromi blinked. âYouâre one of the students?â
âYes, sir.â Gojo offered a lazy grin. âSatoru Gojo. Professor L/Nâs class.â
Hiromi extended a hand, always the politician. âHiromi. Good to meet you.â
They shook, but neither looked away.
Gojoâs smile was polite. Too polite. His grip lingered just long enough to be felt.
âYouâre with the law firm?â he asked.
âIâm one of the partners.â
âAh.â Gojoâs head tilted slightly. âMakes sense.â
Y/N shifted uncomfortably, her head swimming.
âIâve heard a lot about you,â Gojo added, voice velvet-lined but sharp.
Hiromi smiled back, but it didnât reach his eyes. âAll good things, I hope.â
Gojo sipped his drink again, his gaze flicking to Y/Nâlingering. âThat depends on whoâs talking.â
Y/N swallowed hard.
Hiromi tensed.
âExcuse me,â she cut in, stepping between them. âSatoruâwhy donât you check out the foundation table? Theyâre looking for applications.â
Gojoâs gaze dropped to her mouth. Then to the deep blush in her cheeks. Then to her glassâempty again.
âIâm good,â he murmured. âBesides⊠I prefer to observe.â
He turned without another word, disappearing into the crowd.
Hiromi stepped closer. âIs that kid obsessed with you?â
Y/N didnât respond.
She lifted the glass again.
Empty.
âExcuse me,â she said, barely holding composure, âI need some air.â
And just like that, she walked offâheels clicking across marble, champagne bubbling in her blood, shame and heat crawling up her spine.
But behind her?
Two men.
One with a ring he didnât deserve.
And one with a smile he shouldnât wear like a promise.
The night had quieted.
The clinking glasses, the soft hum of ambition, the low buzz of background musicâfaded.
The champagne haze lingered in her bloodstream, but clarity struck like a cold slap the moment she walked through the front door.
The career fair was over.
And so was her patience.
She kicked off her heels in the dark hallway, dropped her bag with a thud, and made her way into the kitchen where Hiromi stood at the sink, rinsing out his thermos like nothing happened.
Like he didnât just bring her into Y/Nâs world like it was casual. Harmless.
âWas it worth it?â she asked, voice low and sharp.
He looked up, blinking. âWhat?â
âYou really brought her,â she said, stepping into the room, arms folded across her chest. âTo my event. Where I work. Where I teach.â
Hiromiâs jaw clenched. âMinako is my assistant. She came with the firm.â
âDonât insult me.â
âIt wasnât my call,â he said, suddenly tired. âItâs not like I asked for her specificallyââ
âBut you knew sheâd be there,â she cut in. âYou knew. And you still showed up with her. You let her walk around my space, smiling at my students, like weâre just a normal couple with a stable life and no one hiding skeletons in their phones.â
His silence was louder than any apology couldâve been.
She stepped closer, voice trembling nowânot from fear, but fury held in too long.
âI watched her standing there like everything was fine. Like I wasnât the woman whose home she walked into while she was fucking her boss behind his wifeâs back.â
Hiromi flinched. âY/NâŠâ
âAnd donât you dare tell me you didnât know what that would do to me.â
His hands tightened on the edge of the sink. âIâm trying to fix thisââ
âYouâre not tryingâyouâre performing,â she snapped. âDinner. Post-it notes. Empty apologies. And now what? You want credit for showing up to an event you tainted the second you walked in the door?â
Hiromi stepped toward her, exasperated. âYouâve been drinking. Letâs talk about this when youâve cooled downââ
âNo.â
The word stopped him cold.
She was shaking nowâbut it wasnât weakness. It was restraint.
âIâve been cooling down for months, Hiromi. Iâve been swallowing my rage, faking smiles in front of the kids, pushing down how it feels to be married to someone I donât recognize anymore. And tonight? Watching her follow you around like a shadow?â Her eyes narrowed. âThat was the moment I realized something.â
He stared at her. Waiting.
âIâm not angry anymore,â she said.
âIâm disgusted.â
The words hit harder than she expected. The silence after them stretched like a knifeâs edge between them.
She turned.
And without waiting for his response, she walked away.
He watched her leave.
Not just the fair. The moment.
The shift.
The unraveling.
She left her lipstick on the rim of her seventh glass and her dignity somewhere in the silence between âThatâs my husbandâs firmâ and that womanâs smile.
And Gojo saw it all.
Every twitch of her mouth. Every swallow of pride. Every moment she held her body still like a bomb that knew exactly when it planned to go off.
And when she stormed out of the fair, blazer slightly askew, heat in her cheeks, fire in her eyes?
God, he wanted to follow her home.
Not to fuck her.
Not yet.
But to watch her.
To see how she moved through her house in silence. To see how long it took her to rip that ring off. To hear the fight he knew would follow. He wanted to hear her scream at that man. Her husband.
That man didnât deserve her anger.
He didnât deserve anything.
Gojo had stood just behind one of the booths as it all unfolded. The stiff greetings. The tight smiles. The way her body reacted to that womanâs voice like a cold hand down her spine.
It made him hard.
Not just physically. Obsessively.
Emotionally.
Primally.
He wanted to be the one she snapped at.
The one she broke down in front of.
The one she let go with.
Because she held everything so tightly. All her pain. Her strength. Her silence. And Gojo?
He would make her unravel.
He wanted to watch her cry and bite back her pride. He wanted to drag every breathy moan from her throat until she forgot the sound of her husbandâs name. Until the only name that lived between her lips was his.
âSatoru.â
He could already hear it.
He pictured her in her bed, aloneâjust like sheâd been every night lately. Sheets tangled around her thighs. One hand clutched in the fabric. The other between her legs. Eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted, and no one to admit it to.
Heâd be in her thoughts tonight.
Not Hiromi.
Not anyone else.
Him.
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at her contact page. He hadnât messaged her tonightânot yet.
He wanted her to think about him first. Crave him.
But he knew she would. She already did.
Gojo leaned back against his headboard, palming himself slowly through his slacks, eyes heavy-lidded, pulse drumming in his throat.
He imagined her voiceâ
Shaky. Tired. Needy.
Heâd be gentle at first. Slow. Patient. Worshipping. But the moment she said his name like she meant it, like she finally brokeâheâd ruin her.
He'd take his time teaching her how to forget the man in the other room.
The one who never truly saw her.
The one who let her go without even realizing it.
And when she shattered?
When she moaned into his mouth, nails in his back, ringless hand clenching his hair?
Heâd whisper against her earâ
âYou were always mine.â
CLICK HERE FOR PART 2
-
part 2 ??? i wanna write some boombayahh, i was gonna do it today..but universal studios had me exhausted. anywaysss lmk... i gottt some more ideasss for this... byeee
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yandere ! prince gojo x mermaid reader x yandere ! siren choso pt 4
"you know, i'm getting really tired of my little mermaid running run me..."
summary ; in a world split between sea and land, a forbidden rescue binds a human prince to a defiant mermaid princess. prince gojo tears through oceans in a frenzy to claim the mysterious woman who saved him, while princess y/n is chained to an arranged marriage with the sadistic king choso of the abyssal reach. caught between a predator above and a predator below, her rebellion sparks a dangerous obsession that could drown kingdoms in lust and blood.
cws: obsession, violence, threats, possessive behavior, political manipulation, implied blood/gore, dangerous romance, power imbalance, sexual tension.
playlist
previous pt
the ocean groaned with the weight of a storm that had not yet touched the surface. in the black court, choso sat slumped upon his throne of coral and bone, his body no longer his own. scales crept up his arm, black and sharp like obsidian, curling over his chest and shoulderâeach patch of hardened flesh a testament to loss, to the gaping wound left by his vanished queen. the more the scales spread, the more of him the sea devoured, dragging him further from the man he had once been.
his eyes glowed faintly, wild, ringed with sleepless red.
yuji, his most loyal aid, approached carefully. the young siren clutched a crystal orb carved from the heart of the deepest trench. its surface shimmered with trapped currents, colors spiraling like storms beneath glass. bowing, yuji lifted it high with both hands.
âmy king,â he murmured, âthe crystal calls for you.â
chosoâs trident scraped against the stone as he let it fall aside with a low clang. his long fingers, scaled and clawed, reached for the orb. he set it at the centerpiece of his throne, the cavern falling into silence, the only sound the hiss of his breath and the mournful hum of the sea outside.
he stared into the orb until his reflection warped, until it was no longer his face he saw but shadows of the past, and of her.
then, without hesitation, he took up the ritual blade.
the knife was jagged, carved from a leviathanâs tooth. with one swift slice, he opened his palm, dark blood welling thick and slow, blacker than the water itself. the droplets hissed against the orb, and the sphere began to glow with an otherworldly pulse.
his hand, slick with his own lifeblood, pressed firmly against the crystal.
his lips parted, trembling, and in the abyssal tongueâan ancient language forbidden to all but kings and widowersâhe whispered your name.
the syllables were drowned in sorrow, each one heavy enough to crush the sea around him.
his eyes fell closed as the current rose, as the orb lit the chamber in a stormy glow. the sea itself seemed to answer, shifting, stirring, listening.
ây/nâŠâ his voice cracked, low and guttural. âmy queen⊠my heart.â
and with each repetition, the scales on his chest seemed to shimmer darker, spreading like a curse.
the crystal pulsed onceâthen bloomed with color.
chosoâs breath caught as the swirling water inside shaped itself into vision. there you were, bathed in moonlight, kneeling at the edge of a river. across from you shimmered a mermaidâher scales glimmering like pearls, her hair cascading like liquid silver. the sight made the throne room tremble.
the voices echoed through the orb, soft at first, then piercing, as if they were whispered directly into his ears.
âyou carry the sea in your blood,â the mermaid told you, her tone warm, knowing. âhe does not know⊠she is a mermaid.â
chosoâs grip on the orb tightened until his claws threatened to crack it. his lips curled back, baring his teeth. âhe does not know,â he repeated, a low growl, his voice breaking into a hiss. âshe is mine.â
the vision shifted suddenly, violentlyâlike the sea slamming a ship beneath the waves. the image of the river disappeared, and instead, he saw you.
asleep.
your body curled delicately on silken sheets, hair sprawled across the pillow, your lips parted in soft breaths. innocence radiated from you, untouched, unaware of the eyes upon you.
chosoâs body trembled. the scales along his arm glistened as he leaned forward, dragging his claws against the orbâs surface. and thenâhe was there. or so it seemed. his reflection spilled into the vision, until his shadow loomed at the side of your bed.
he reached, his scaled hand pressing to your cheek. wet. cold. the touch lingered, traced, worshipped.
his lips brushed your temple though you did not stir.
âyou knowâŠâ his voice bled into a whisper, sweet and venomous, low enough to vibrate the crystal, âiâm getting really tired of my little mermaid running from me.â
the orbâs glow flared with each beat of his pulse, his black blood seeping deeper into its veins. it trembled violently on the pedestal, as if resisting him, as if the seas themselves knew this ritual should never have been awakened. but choso did not stop.
his claws dug into the crystalâs surface until the tips shrieked across it, leaving faint lines, cracks blooming outward like spiderwebs. his breathing grew raggedâhungry. inside, your image shifted again. you stirred in your sleep, a small, unconscious motion, lips parting with a sigh as you turned onto your side. the sheets slipped lower, baring the soft slope of your shoulder to the pale light spilling through your window.
chosoâs chest heaved. the scales spreading over him rippled with heat, and his pupils dilated wide, swallowing the whites of his eyes. he pressed his forehead to the orb, as though pressing it to you. âso fragile,â he whispered, voice trembling between reverence and rage. âso close. so far.â
a jagged crack split across the orb, a thin line of light leaking out like the first fracture in a dam.
chosoâs lips curled into something feral. he slid his scaled palm down the surface, following the outline of your cheek within, tracing it with the tenderness of a lover and the violence of a predator.
âmy little mermaidâŠâ his voice broke, hoarse with yearning, âyou donât understand. i hear you. i feel you. every ripple of your heart against the water finds me.â
the orb convulsed, images within spiralingâyour face, your voice, your laughter with the river mermaidâuntil finally it fixated on you asleep again, glowing with impossible softness.
his voice dropped to a whisper, husky, almost prayer-like, as his teeth bared in a smile that was anything but holy:
âand i will never let you run again.â
the orb shattered.
black shards rained across the throne, scattering like pieces of a broken star. seawater burst outward, flooding the chamber floor with a violent surge, carrying the echo of your name in its tide.
choso remained unmoved on his throne, his body drenched, his hand bleeding freely, scales gleaming dark. he closed his fist over the bloodied remnants of the crystal, raised it to his lips, and dragged his tongue slowly over his palm.
the taste of iron. the taste of you.
you jolted upright, lungs straining for air, your nightdress clinging damp against your skin. your heart slammed against your ribs so violently you thought it might break free, and your vision swam red as if blood still clouded your eyes.
his voice lingered in your skullâlow, dark, salt-bitten. youâre already mine.
you stumbled out of bed, bare feet smacking against the polished floor, and tore the balcony doors open. the night air rushed in, cold and sharp, but the sea below churned deceptively calm under the starlight. not a single ripple betrayed him. not a single shadow gave him away.
you gripped the stone railing until your knuckles whitened. âit was just a dream,â you whispered to yourself, though your pulse betrayed youâracing, frantic, hunted.
but when you backed away, your spine collided with something solid. not stone. not shadow.
a wall of warmth.
âare you okay, y/n?â
his voiceâgojoâs voiceâsmooth and startling, cut through your haze. you spun, breath caught in your throat, staring up at him with eyes still burning.
you swallowed hard, forcing a smile, forcing the lie. âyes⊠iâm alright. i just had a bad dream.â
he tilted his head, watching you carefully, his pale eyes too sharp to be fooled yet too gentle to call you out. instead, he stepped closer, arms enveloping you. his embrace was broad, unshakable, the kind that dared you to feel safe even when you knew you shouldnât.
then, with a suddenness that left your stomach lurching, he lifted you. your gasp broke into the night as he spun you in his arms, a playful twirl against the edge of your fear.
âwell,â he murmured lowly, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, âif youâd like, you can sleep with me. iâm sure iâll keep the bad dreams away.â
his kiss was featherlight, warm, groundingâyet you flinched, body tensing against him. because even with his lips on your skin, chosoâs voice still echoed in the back of your skull.
mine.
and no amount of sunlight, no amount of gojoâs warmth, could make the dream feel less real.
 âshall we eat? i have a boat ride prepared for us,â gojo said warmly, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. you nodded, forcing your lips into a soft curve, and almost instantly the maids came bustling inâeager hands reaching to dress you, drape you, polish you until you shone like a bride already promised.
gojo lingered only long enough to steal another glance at you before striding from the chamber, his long robes trailing behind him. his footsteps carried him down the corridor to his study, where a firm knock echoed against the polished door.
âenter,â he called without hesitation.
geto slipped inside, head bowed just enough to honor formality, but his dark eyes sharp. he waited until the doors closed with a click before speaking.
âsire⊠if i must.â
gojo looked up, raising a brow. âmust what?â
âmust speak plainly.â getoâs voice was steady, his arms folding across his chest. âthat girl is not ordinary. she came out of thin air. iâve spoken to every residence along the shoreânone of them know her. not a name, not a sighting, nothing.â
gojo exhaled through his nose, clearly uninterested in playing detective. âgetoââ
âno,â geto cut in, his tone dropping, more forceful. âsomething is wrong here. something does not feel right. she healed you with a potion. and only merfolk could craft a remedy as potent as that.â
the word merfolk hung heavy in the air, unspoken danger curling around it.
gojoâs jaw tightened. he turned, running a hand down the front of his uniform as he prepared his military suit, gold fastenings glinting in the candlelight. his tone was calm, but iron lay beneath it.
âshe told me she used to live among them,â he said evenly. âperhaps she has knowledge of their ways. perhaps she could even serve as an aid when we launch our attack on the abyssal reach.â he paused, adjusting his collar, eyes flashing dangerously. âthat woman saved me, geto. there is no doubt about it. nowââ he smoothed down the lapel of his jacket, voice cutting sharperâ âare you done wasting my time?â
the silence stretched.
getoâs mouth pressed into a thin line. he reached into his sleeve and produced a scroll, the wax seal marked with warnings of old. he extended it with both hands, gaze unreadable.
âdonât say i didnât warn you, your majesty,â he said softly.
gojo took the scroll, his fingers brushing the seal, but his eyes never left getoâs face.
for a flicker of a moment, it was not the loyalty of advisor and king that hung between themâ
but the cold certainty of hunter and hunted.
the dining hall was sunlit, awash in pale gold through the tall windows. you entered quietly, skirts rustling, the pink silk of your dress catching the light with every step. the white bow tied neatly at your back swayed like a ribboned secret, and when gojo lifted his head to see you, his entire face softened.
he smiledâgenuine, boyish, the kind of smile that could disarm an armyâand his hand reached instinctively for yours as you sat beside him.
âi wish my mother were alive to see how beautiful you look,â he murmured.
your lips curved faintly, sadness swimming beneath the sweetness of his words. âshe would have been proud,â you whispered, even though youâd never known her, never known his mother. his grief brushed yours like two ghosts meeting in the space between you.
breakfast passed in quiet ceremony, silver forks against porcelain, the murmur of servants stepping in and out. it might have been peaceful, if not for the shadow lingering behind the walls.
maki appeared then, her presence sharp as drawn steel. she bowed quickly before speaking.
âsire, the ship has been prepared.â
your brows knit together as you glanced between them. âship?â you echoed, head tilting. âi thought⊠we were going on a boat.â
gojo only smiled, boyish charm twisting into something more mysterious. he squeezed your hand once more, his lips brushing across your knuckles.
âwe are,â he said, âbut not a simple one. today we retrieve an old, ancient pearl hidden near the abyssal rivers. a ship is needed for this.â
you blinked. âa pearl?â
his grin widened, pride flickering in his pale eyes. âfor your ring, of course.â
the words hung heavy, like a promise, like chains wrapped in velvet.
gojo stood, chair scraping against the floor, his tall figure radiant in the morning light. you rose as well, ready to follow, but before you could step, makiâs hand darted out, firm around your wrist.
you froze.
her eyes were fierce, her grip iron. she leaned close, her voice low enough to keep from echoing beyond the gilded walls.
âchild,â she hissed, âyou must not reveal yourself. for if you do⊠your death will be gruesome.â
the weight of her warning sent a chill through your spine.
maki released you just as quickly, her fingers sliding away as if nothing had happened. she bowed to gojo, who hadnât noticed the exchange, then swept out of the hall as though her message had been nothing but the brush of air.
you stood rooted to the spot, heart thudding.
âcome,â gojo called, already several steps ahead, light catching in his white hair like a halo.
your lips parted, but no words came. makiâs whisper was still curling in your mind.
once this ride is finished⊠you must meet me by the library.
and so you followed, caught between the warmth of gojoâs smile and the cold coil of prophecy snaring around your throat.
the ship ride was calm at firstâeerily so. the ocean stretched endlessly, the sky washed in muted gray, and the only noise was the rhythm of oars cutting into the water and the calls of shipmen barking orders across the deck.
you tried to steady yourself, crouching to toss a ball of knotted rope for the great hound that lumbered by your side. the beast, all teeth and muscle, bounded after it with surprising eagerness. his heavy paws thudded against the wooden planks, his tail lashing with delight. for a moment, it almost felt safe. almost.
but when the game ended and your breath steadied, you drifted to the front of the ship. your fingers curled against the railing as you leaned forward, staring at the endless sheet of blue.
then you saw them.
in the distance, jagged black spires broke from the sea like a crown of thorns. your heart sank into your stomach. a chill slid down your spine when you caught sight of shadows darting beneath the wavesâslick tails slicing the water before disappearing again.
âsirens ahead!â a sailor bellowed.
panic rippled across the deck. men scrambled, shoving earplugs deep into their ears, faces pale with practiced fear.
you gripped the railing tighter, leaning closer despite yourself.
the water frothed.
and then they rose.
womenâif you could call them thatâsurfaced in eerie unison, hair slick and glistening, pale throats stained with blood. their mouths curled into sharp smiles, crimson still dripping down their chins.
âthe princeâŠâ one sang, her voice high and sweet, cloying as honey. ââŠis here.â
another joined, her melody twining around the first like a serpent. then another. and another. a chorus of voices so haunting it made your chest tighten, urging your body to move toward them, to lean farther, to fall.
your knuckles whitened on the railing.
but before you could slip, gojoâs arm wrapped tight around your waist. he yanked you back hard against him, his chest solid against your trembling frame.
âyou cannot be so close,â he hissed, his voice sharper than youâd ever heard it.
without another word, he tore his bow from his back. his pale hair whipped in the sea wind as he nocked an arrow, drew it taut, and aimed down at the black waters.
the sirensâ song only swelled.
the first arrow flew.
the water screamed.
 the arrows whistled through the air, slicing down into the water with sharp cracks. one siren shrieked, her body writhing before slipping back under the surface in a swirl of red foam. the others hissed, their voices breaking from harmony into discord, rage boiling through their songs.
you staggered back against the mast, your ears ringingânot from the noise of steel or men, but from something deeper. something that burned inside your chest.
the song wasnât just music. it was inside of you.
your veins thrummed with it, each note clawing through your blood, demanding you answer, demanding you remember. your nails dug into your palms as a sharp pain bloomed behind your eyes.
thenâclearer than any human tongueâcame a voice that struck like lightning.
âtraitor.â
your head snapped up, eyes wide. one of the sirens broke through the waves, her skin gleaming with scales like wet obsidian, her mouth stretched too wide. her eyesâdark and fathomlessâlocked on you.
âyou dare side with him?â she screeched in the abyssal tongue, the words lashing into your bones like barbed wire. âsister of the seaâliar. deserter. filth.â
your stomach lurched. the world spun. the words werenât foreign. they werenât strange. you understood them. and they tore into you like knives, exposing a truth you couldnât keep buried.
you stumbled forward, clutching your chest, gasping as though the very air refused to fill your lungs.
gojo caught your arm instantly, his grip firm, protective. âwhat is it?â he demanded, though his eyes never left the sea, another arrow already drawn.
but you couldnât answer him. not when the sirenâs song bent around your ribs, suffocating.
the voices of the others followedâchaotic, furious, all blending together.
âtraitorââ
âreturnââ
âthe abyss remembersââ
âblood for blood!â
you crumpled to your knees, covering your ears though it did nothing to silence them. the connection ran deeper than flesh. deeper than memory. it was the bond of blood and salt, of scales and bone.
âstop itâplease stopââ you whispered, though you werenât sure if you were begging the sirens or yourself.
above you, gojoâs voice cut through the madness, sharp as his arrows. âdo not listen. they cannot touch you here.â
but you knew better.
they already had.
the world blurred as their song wrapped around you like a tide, tugging, pulling, coaxing you closer. your knees scraped against the wooden deck as you crawled forward, body trembling, every nerve alight with the sirensâ call. the salt-heavy wind whipped your hair into your face, but you didnât feel it. you didnât feel anything except the oceanâs summons.
the edge of the ship rose to meet you, and without hesitation, you leaned forward, fingers grasping for the air just beyond, as if you belonged in the depths.
ây/n!â gojoâs voice cracked like thunder. the sharp twang of his bowstring ceased. no more arrows. no more fight. he lunged instead, his boots pounding across the planks.
just as your bare foot slipped against the railing, strong hands seized your ankle. he yanked you back hard, slamming your body against the deck. the shock rattled you awake, eyes widening, lungs heaving as though you had been drowning already.
âwhat the hell are you doing?!â gojo snarled, face pale, breath ragged, his hands refusing to let go of you even as you thrashed. âthey almost had youââ
but you werenât listening.
because your gazeâyour soulâhad already locked onto one of them.
not like the others, not shrieking in a frenzy or gnashing bloodied teeth. this one lingered. unmoving. waiting.
his eyesâamber, sharp, strangeâburned up through the waves like fire beneath glass.
you froze. your lips parted on instinct, the words spilling from you in a tongue that was not taught, not remembered, but inherited.
âmove.â
the command rippled across the surface like a shudder through the sea itself.
in an instant, the chorus shattered. every sirenâs head snapped toward you, their mouths snapping shut. then, like fish scattering from a predator, they vanished beneath the waves, leaving only silence and the sound of your ragged breath.
only one remained.
the water lapped against the hull, dark and endlessâand there, lurking just below the surface, a shadow lingered. scales glinting like knives, his form too broad, too still to be mistaken.
yuji.
the male siren.
the others fled because you told them to. but him?
he stayed.
he watched.
and the connection between you throbbed with a heat far too close to recognition.
the ship groaned as it slowed, anchors grinding into the riverbed below. smoke and mist thickened the air, curling around the sails like ghostly hands, the abyssal river stretching out before youâdark, endless, and hungry.
gojoâs grip was iron on your arm as he yanked you back against him, his chest heaving as though he had fought off the devil himself. his pale hair was damp with sweat, his bow still clutched in one hand, and his eyesânormally so light, so teasingâwere wide and unblinking, filled with something youâd never seen in him before. fear.
he grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. âare you insane?â he hissed, voice breaking with both rage and panic. his thumb dug into your jawline as if to anchor you to reality. âdo you have any idea what you just did? you could have died!â
your throat closed. trembling, you shook your head, voice small, cracked. âiâm sorry⊠i didnât know i could be⊠tempted like that.â the lie stung your tongue, but it spilled so easily, cloaked by the way your body still shook from the sirensâ pull.
gojoâs nostrils flared, disbelief and worry twisting together. then, without warning, his arms wrapped around you, crushing you to his chest. âyou cannot scare me like that,â he growled into your hair, his breath hot, uneven. âif you do againâiâll have no choice but to lock you up.â
the threat was raw, unyielding, and yetâgentle hands smoothed down your spine, and the press of his lips against your forehead burned like both punishment and vow.
around you, the shipmen began to move, preparing to disembark. the heavy thud of boots echoed on the planks, orders barked as they lowered ropes and gear into the black waters. still, you stood frozen in his hold, gulping down the thick smoke as your pulse rattled against your ribs.
his touch was suffocating, his words branding you, and yetâyou found yourself melting into it, letting his warmth mask the truth you dared not speak.
because even as you clung to gojo, even as you fell into his touch, you could still feel eyes watching from the water below.
yuji had not left.
he lingered, unseen, his presence pulsing at the edge of your mind like the tide, waiting.
the ropes creaked as the men lowered smaller boats toward the abyssal waters, their voices swallowed by the fog that pressed in on all sides. the river reeked of salt and something coppery, and though no siren song hummed in the air, unease crawled over every skin.
gojoâs hand never left your waist, his body a shield in front of yours as he gave sharp orders to the crew. but thenâa splash, sudden and violent, broke the silence.
âsireâ!â one of the shipmen cried, too late.
a shape shot from beneath the waters, faster than any human eye could follow. scales flashing, claws catching the wood of the railingâyuji. his dark hair plastered to his face, his gills flaring with hunger, his eyes wild with bloodlust.
with a guttural snarl, he lungedâdragging gojo down with inhuman strength. the princeâs body slammed against the edge, bow clattering uselessly to the deck as the siren tried to pull him into the riverâs black maw.
âyour blood will stain the river!â yuji roared, voice a distorted blend of water and song, sharp enough to rattle the ears of every man aboard.
âno!â the word ripped from your throat before you could stop it. instinct overtook reasonâyou surged forward, your bare feet pounding the soaked deck.
gojoâs body was halfway over the railing, his knuckles white as he fought against yujiâs grip. the water churned with unnatural force, waves climbing the hull as though eager to devour him.
you threw yourself forward, grabbing hold of his arm. âhold on!â
yujiâs gaze snapped to you, his claws tightening. for a fraction of a second his expression shiftedânot fury, but recognition. his pupils dilated, and his lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.
âtraitor,â he hissed in the forbidden tongue, the word slithering into your bones. âprotecting him? when you know who he is?â
the language thrummed through you like fire, threatening to expose you. you flinched, but you held fast, dragging at gojo with every shred of strength you had.
âlet him go!â you shouted, voice cracking.
and in that momentâwithout glowing fins, without revealing your scales, without singing a single noteâyou did something dangerous.
you pushed back, eyes locking on yujiâs, letting your will clash with his.
his fingers twitched. he faltered, as if struck, his grip loosening just enough. gojo tore free, stumbling back into your arms. the deck exploded into chaosâmen rushing forward, weapons drawn, ropes swinging, arrows notched. but yuji only lingered for a breath longer, his gaze locked on you, his smile sharp with promise.
then, with a hiss, he let the river swallow him once more.
you clung to gojoâs chest, his heart hammering as he cupped the back of your head. his voice was ragged, furious. âare you out of your mind? you couldâve gone over with me!â
but you werenât listening.
because even through the smoke, through the shouting, you could still feel yujiâs voice coiled like a serpent in your mind:
âyou canât hide from what you are forever.â
the deck was in chaosâmen barking orders, ropes being hauled, arrows still dripping seawater. gojoâs bow lay abandoned at his feet, but his grip on you was the only thing that mattered. his hands shook as he cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so hard it almost hurt.
âyou donât move again without me,â he hissed, eyes blazing. his breath was ragged, wet strands of silver hair clinging to his cheek. âdo you understand me? you stay exactly where i tell you, or i swearââ his voice cracked, something frantic bleeding through his anger. âiâll tie you to the damn mast if i have to.â
you blinked up at him, trembling. âiââ
âno excuses.â his thumb pressed against your lips, silencing you. âi almost lost you. do you get that? lost you.â he dragged you closer, so near that his forehead pressed against yours. âi canât⊠i wonât let that happen. not to you.â
the shipmen pretended not to hear, but you could feel their stolen glances, the unease lingering like fog.
âfrom this moment on,â gojo continued, his voice lower, harsher, âyou donât go near the railings, you donât wander the deck, you donât breathe without me knowing.â his hands slid down to your waist, caging you against him, possessive to the point of suffocation. âyouâre mine to protect. mine to keep.â
he kissed your forehead, rough and desperate, as if sealing the vow into your skin.
then, snapping his head toward the men, he barked: âtriple the watch. no one takes their eyes off her. if she so much as leans over the side, you drag her back.â
you froze, the heat of his words sinking in. trapped between his arms and the crewâs silence, you swallowed hard, your heart poundingânot just from fear of yujiâs parting words, but from the way gojoâs grip promised something even more dangerous than the sirens.
the river swallowed their ship in heavy smoke, but the pearl was retrieved with almost insulting ease. no grand battle, no catastropheâjust a few lower sirens hissing from the depths, quickly dispatched by gojoâs arrows and the steel of his men. their blood slicked the surface in faint ribbons, vanishing beneath the black water.
the real battle was in the silence that followed.
you sat curled in the corner of the deck, your head resting against the beast they called a dog. its chest rose and fell steadily, the deep rumble of its breathing a comfort against your ribs. your eyes stayed fixed on the floorboards, the world around you muffled, distant.
gojo stood apart. hands on the railing, hair catching the fog, his body was still but his mind was anything but. he had seen itâthe way you leaned too far, the way your gaze had gone glassy, the way the sea had almost stolen you. not once. twice.
his chest ached with it. guilt. fear. obsession all bleeding into one.
he turned his head slightly, eyes dragging to where you sat tucked into the animalâs fur. you looked small like that. fragile. and he hated itâhated that heâd let you be touched by danger, hated that his own men saw you stumble toward the water like a child enchanted.
never again.
gojoâs jaw clenched as he slid a hand over the bow slung at his back. the pearl was safe. the kingdom would rejoice. but none of that mattered. the only thing that mattered sat a few feet away, shivering against a beast for warmth when it shouldâve been against him.
heâd keep you safe. even if he had to lock you away in the highest tower, even if you hated him for itâheâd rather your hatred than your absence.
as the ship groaned against the current, his eyes never left you.
not now. not ever.
the palace glittered that evening, but you hardly noticed. gojo had excused himself, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leaving in haste to meet with one of his closest aides. the pearl was to be refined, polished, set into a ring worthy of you. his excitement had been boyish, disarming. but when the doors shut behind him, a chill swept the corridors.
you wandered, restless, until your steps drew you to the library.
the doors creaked as you pushed them open, and your breath caught. rows upon rows of books towered into shadow, ladders leaning against carved shelves, candlelight licking at their spines. it smelled of parchment, ink, and something olderâsalt and iron, like the sea.
your fingers grazed along the edge of a table as you entered, eyes wide, heart fluttering at the thought of a place like this hidden in stone walls.
maki sat in a small study alcove, posture sharp, expression unreadable as her eyes lifted to you.
âyou really did love him,â she said softly.
your body stilled, throat tightening. âh-how do you know?â you whispered, terrifiedâhalf expecting your legs to melt away, your secret to betray you here of all places. but nothing changed. no tail. no scales. only silence, thick and heavy.
makiâs gaze flicked to your arm. âyour arm bore an ancient flower. one only merfolk carry. it blooms in those chosen by the godsâprincesses, blessed with power greater than the tides themselves. you used it⊠to save someone you loved.â
your breath hitched, memory flashing hot behind your eyes.
she leaned forward, sliding a worn book across the table toward you. its cover was bound in deep blue leather, etched with symbols that seemed to shift like currents.
âyour mother,â maki said, voice quieter now, almost reverent. âshe was one of the most powerful mermaids to ever live. sharp, clever, and strong. she carried the godsâ blessing in her blood. as do you.â
your fingers trembled as they hovered over the book. âthen why⊠why canât i remember? why does it feel like iâm only pieces?â
makiâs jaw tightened, her eyes shadowed. âbecause you made a deal.â
the word hissed between you like a curse.
she leaned back, folding her arms, voice steady but low. âa deal with the warlock siren. the god of curses himself. sukuna.â
the name thrummed in your chest like a wound reopening.
your fingers hovered over the blue-bound book, the symbols pulsing faintly like veins of light beneath the leather. but already, even as you stared, your mind felt hazyâlike water rushing over stone, erasing edges.
you pressed your palms to your temples. âi⊠i donât remember. there was something i promised. i know i did. i made a deal with himââ your voice cracked, whispering the name you feared, âwith the god of curses.â
makiâs chair scraped sharply against the floor as she stood, eyes flashing. âdonât you dare forget,â she snapped, voice slicing through the quiet. âif you forget what you promised him, youâll betray yourself. and the moment you betray yourselfââ she stepped closer, lowering her tone into a deadly whisper, âyou will reveal what you are. and when that happens, the prince will not hesitate. he will kill you without remorse.â
you trembled, throat dry, the truth lodging like glass behind your ribs.
âw-why are you helping me?â you managed, voice hoarse.
makiâs eyes softened, just for a moment. she glanced down at her hands, flexing them as if remembering something once hers. âbecause i was like you,â she said. âi was born of the river. a mermaid of its winding veins. but i chose wrong. i trusted getoâthe dark priest who served as advisor long before gojoâs reign. he offered me freedom, a life above the water. i took it. he transformed me into this.â she gestured bitterly to her human body. âa body of bone and flesh, but never whole. i canât go back.â
her eyes met yours again, sharp but full of something heavier than pity. âso iâll keep your secret. but only if you swearâto protect him. the prince is more fragile than he looks. his parentsâŠâ she trailed, then sighed, voice dimming. âthey were the only shield he had. not from enemies beyond the walls, but from the one enemy closest to him.â
âwhat do you mean?â you asked, your pulse loud in your ears.
makiâs gaze grew distant, almost reverent, as though speaking of something half-sacred and half-terrifying.
âwhen gojo was a boy, he wasnât like other children. his eyes⊠the six eyes, they called them. a gift from the heavens, but cursed in equal measure. they saw too much. power bled out of him without restraint, splitting the air, crushing walls, bending the very sea around him. it terrified the court. terrified his parents. but they were kind, and they were wise. they swore to protect himâby hiding him from himself.â
her voice grew hushed, as though afraid the walls themselves would listen.
âbut nothing hidden stays hidden forever. word of a child with limitless power spread. and it reached the ears of the abyssal king. a tyrant of the deep, older than stone, whose crown was forged from drowned stars. he wanted that power. wanted to chain it, wield it.â
you leaned forward, breath caught. âwhat happened?â
makiâs jaw tightened. âhe came for the boy. stormed the palace with his armies, the sea itself trembling in his wake. gojoâs parents foughtâbravely, fiercely. but they were only human. they bought enough time to spirit the boy away, to seal his awakening once more. but they paid the price. the abyssal king killed them before their sonâs eyes.â
a chill rippled down your spine. you could almost see itâwhite halls collapsing, waves blackening with blood, a child screaming in the wreckage of his family.
makiâs gaze pinned you, firm and unyielding. âthat is why you must protect him. because the one who threatens him most is not the abyssal king, nor the sirens, nor even sukuna. it is himself. the power inside him is bound now, but if it ever shatters free againâŠâ
she closed the book with a snap, the sound echoing like a coffin lid.
ââŠno cage in heaven or hell will hold him. and no oneânot even youâwill survive him.â
you dismissed yourself with a bow of your head, clutching the book as though it might shield you. maki didnât stop youâshe only watched as you slipped from the library, her silence heavier than any words.
your chambers felt colder when you entered, the hush of the palace pressing against your skin. you slid down the door, the wood hard against your back as you pressed the book tight to your chest, your breath shaky, uneven.
closing your eyes, you let the thought comeâthe one you always wished for in moments like this. mother⊠if you were here, what would you tell me?
you remembered her voice like the seaâs lull, remembered her stories of stars and foam, of gods who whispered through currents. but all of it was slipping, trickling out of your mind like sand through your fingers. the more you tried to hold onto her words, the more they scattered.
you opened your eyes to the room. the mirror caught your reflection in fragmentsâthe pale shape of you against the gold-threaded curtains, the book pressed against your ribs like a wound.
and then the ache came.
the man you lovedâthe one you had stared at from the seaâs shadow, your heart thrumming every time his laughter rang over the deckâwas the same man who had been raised to hate your kind. to hunt you. to tear your people from the water until their songs turned to screams.
gojo satoru. the curse and the light.
you pressed your forehead to your knees, trembling, whispering into the silence: how can i love someone who would see my family dead? how can love make me risk my soul?
because that was the strange thing about it, wasnât it? love made no sense. love made you climb from waves into fire, knowing you might burn.
you lifted your head, staring at the mirror until your eyes blurred. your voice cracked, breaking into the empty room:
âif i were exposed to him⊠if he knew the truth⊠what would happen to me?â
your hand went slack, the book slipping onto the floor with a thud.
your lips parted on a softer whisper now, a confession not meant for any ears, mortal or god:
âmy soul⊠who would it belong to again?â
the ceiling loomed above you, the shadows long and sharp. your reflection swam in the glass, distorted by tears.
your chest tightened. something pulsed in your skull, sharp, then gone.
you clawed at the fabric over your heart.
ââŠi cannot remember,â you rasped. your own voice sounded far away.
you looked at yourself in the mirror one last timeâyour eyes, wide and wet, lips trembling.
âi cannot remember⊠again.â
the night felt heavy, pressing against your skin like the sea when itâs too still. no matter how you shifted beneath your sheets, no sleep came. only the echo of makiâs words, the ache in your chest, and the lingering whisper you couldnât remember.
finally, barefoot and restless, you slipped from your room. the marble floor was cold beneath your steps as you padded through the dim corridors, clutching your pink gown close to you. you didnât even know where you were going until you found yourself before his door.
you hesitatedâjust a breath, just long enough to wonder if this was madnessâbefore your knuckles tapped softly against the wood.
the door opened, and there he was.
gojo stood bare of his shift, his white hair falling loosely into his eyes. but it was his gaze that stopped youâthose startling, endless blue eyes, locking on to yours like theyâd been waiting.
âis everything okay?â he asked, his voice low, careful.
you tilted your head up, lips parting, but all you managed was a whisper:
âi cannot sleep.â
his expression softened, though his jaw tensed, like your tears pulled at something deep and dangerous inside of him. before you could say more, his arm slid around you, strong and sure, pulling you into his room. the door closed behind you with a soft click.
his scent wrapped around youâwarm, sharp, undeniably himâas he lifted you with ease, setting you down on the silken sheets of his bed. his thumb brushed against your cheek, chasing a tear before it could fall.
âwhatâs wrong?â he asked again, softer now, as though your answer might break him.
your hands trembled in your lap. you looked up at him, the words tearing themselves free.
âi want to be with you.â
he froze. then, slowly, a low chuckle escaped his throatâdark, but sweet, laced with disbelief and something more. his shoulders dipped, and he sank down onto his knees before you.
the prince of the realm, kneeling at your feet.
he took your hands in his, holding them like they were relics, brushing his lips over your knuckles. his gaze never left yours, his smile achingly soft, though his grip on you was firm.
âyou already are, y/n,â he murmured, reverence in his tone. âin fact, we are to be wedded next month.â
his hands slid up, slow, purposeful, resting on your thighs now. his thumbs stroked lightly against the fabric of your gown, a quiet claim in every touch.
his head tilted, lips brushing close to your knees, his blue eyes glinting up at you with hunger and devotion tangled into one.
âyou belong to me already.â
his thumbs pressed firmer into your thighs, tracing small circles that left your skin tingling beneath the thin gown. he didnât move quickly, didnât rushâhe only looked at you, studied the tremble in your lips, the way your breath came shallow.
âsay it again,â he whispered, leaning closer, his hair brushing against your knees. his voice was desperate, stripped of the prince, stripped of the heirâjust a man who needed to hear you.
âi want to be with you,â you repeated, your words quivering, and his jaw clenched like it wasnât enough.
he dragged himself higher, his chest pressing between your knees, his breath ghosting over your stomach. his hands framed your waist now, holding you steady, as though afraid youâd slip away even here, in his bed.
âdo you have any idea what that does to me?â his voice cracked with quiet intensity. âto hear you say you want me. gods, y/n⊠iâve been waiting for you to need me like this.â
you swallowed, your hands rising tentatively, brushing against his jaw. his stubble was rough against your fingertips, but he leaned into your touch like a starving man, his eyes fluttering closed.
âlook at me,â he urged, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again. his hands slid beneath the hem of your gown, resting on the bare skin of your hips now, warm and reverent. âi need to know itâs real. i need to see it in your eyes. because if i lose youââ his breath hitched, almost unsteadyââi wonât survive it.â
you whispered his name, soft and shaky, and that was enough to undo him.
gojo pressed his forehead to your stomach, his grip tightening as though anchoring himself. when he looked up again, his blue eyes were glassy with raw hunger and something deeperâlove so consuming it bordered on madness.
âthen show me,â he breathed. âshow me youâre mine as much as iâm yours.â
he guided you back into the pillows, his lips trailing up your thighs, your waist, your chestâslow, worshipful, every kiss a vow. he wasnât afraid of how much he wanted you; he wanted you to feel it, to drown in it, until there was no part of you untouched by him.
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Summary:
Y/N only wanted Choso to love her back. So, heartbroken and desperate, she makes a wish for him to love her more than anything in the world. At first, it feels like a dream â he finally sees her, wants her, needs her. But Chosoâs love quickly becomes something darker, deeper, and impossible to escape. Y/N wished to be loved. She never wished to be free.
â§Ë° â ïž c/w ˰⧠this series contains dark yandere themes â obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk âĄ
Across the street, beneath the broken streetlight, Choso stood completely still.
The rain had thinned into a mist, delicate and silver, catching in the weak glow above him. It softened the world around his body until he looked like something half-real, something the night had dreamed up and placed there just to see what she would do. His dark hair hung loose around his face, damp at the ends, framing the pale sharpness of his cheeks. Shadows cut across his eyes, hiding them from her, but Y/N could feel his gaze anyway.
She felt it on her skin. On her throat. On the place where her pulse had started to panic. He was smiling.
Not much. Not wide. Not with teeth. Just enough for her to see the slight curve of his mouth from where she stood frozen on the sidewalk, her phone clutched so tightly in her hand that her fingers had gone numb.
It was Choso.
Of course it was Choso.
The same black jacket. The same broad shoulders. The same tired posture she could recognize from half a block away. The same man who had looked at her beneath a streetlight less than an hour ago and told her, gently, devastatingly, that he could not love her the way she wanted him to.
Only now he was here.
Waiting.
Watching.
Smiling.
Y/Nâs breath came back in a sharp, painful inhale.
No.
No, no, no.
This was not happening.
The wish could not have worked.
Her mind grabbed onto that thought with desperate force, holding it so tightly it almost hurt. It was impossible. Ridiculous. A stupid local legend. A tree in an old park with ribbons tied to its branches. Heartbroken girls probably went there all the time and cried dramatic things into the dark. That did not mean the universe listened. That did not mean something under the bark of an ancient willow had heard her ugly little prayer and decided to answer.
It was coincidence.
It had to be.
Choso had followed her because he felt guilty. That was all. He had seen her run off crying and decided, too late, that maybe letting her walk home alone was cruel. Maybe he had taken a different street. Maybe he had called until she ignored him enough times to make him worry. Maybe he had come looking for her because that was the kind of thing Choso did.
He cared.
He always cared.
Just not enough.
A shiver crawled down her spine.
Because that thought did not feel true anymore.
Choso stepped away from the streetlight.
Slowly.
Y/Nâs stomach tightened.
The light above him flickered once, buzzing weakly before dimming again, and for a second his body disappeared into shadow. Only the outline of him remained, tall and still and moving toward her with unhurried certainty. His footsteps were quiet against the wet pavement. Too quiet. The city continued around them in distant little piecesâcars rushing through puddles, sirens whining somewhere far off, the low electric hum of buildings breathing in the darkâbut around Choso, everything felt muted.
As if the night was making room for him.
Y/N did not move.
She wanted to. Her body screamed at her to step back, to cross the street, to turn around and walk home like this was normal, like her hands were not trembling, like her heart was not beating so hard she could feel it behind her teeth.
But she stayed there. Rooted. Like the willow had followed her out of the park and wrapped its thin, invisible roots around her ankles.
Choso crossed the empty street without looking both ways.
A car turned the corner too fast, headlights sweeping over his body in a sudden wash of white. For one brief second, Y/N saw him clearly.
His pale skin shone almost unnaturally in the moonlight, cold and beautiful, rain clinging to his lashes and cheekbones. His expression was soft. That was what made it worse. There was no anger there. No panic. No wildness she could name. Just tenderness, stretched thin over something deeper. Something watching from underneath.
Then the headlights passed. His face slipped back into shadow. Y/Nâs mouth went dry. He was closer now. Only a few steps away.
Close enough for her to see the slow rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to smell rain on his clothes. Close enough to remember what his voice sounded like when he had said her name earlier, heavy with warning, heavy with regret.
Now he said it again. âY/N.â
Her name came out quiet. Almost affectionate. Almost hungry. She swallowed. âChoso.â
His eyes lowered briefly to the phone in her hand. Then back to her face. âYou didnât text me,â he said. Y/Nâs fingers tightened around the device.
The words should have sounded normal. They were normal. He always asked her to text when she got home. That was their routine, their soft little almost-intimacy, the thing that made her feel cared for and pathetic all at once.
But tonight, the sentence landed differently. Not like concern. Like accusation. âYou didnât text me that you got home safe,â he continued.
The mist drifted between them. Y/N forced herself to breathe. âI know.â Choso tilted his head slightly. The movement was small, but it made her skin prickle. âWhat are you doing here?â
She glanced past him, toward the dark mouth of the street leading away from the park. Her apartment was not far. She could still leave. She could tell him she was tired. She could laugh this off. She could pretend she had not stood in front of a cursed tree and asked for him to need her so badly that nothing else mattered.
âI justâŠâ Her voice caught.
Choso waited.
Patiently.
Too patiently.
Y/N tucked her phone into her coat pocket, mostly so he would stop looking at it. âI needed to take a walk.â His eyes did not leave her.
âAt night?â
âI needed air.â
âThe park is closed.â
Her pulse jumped and she looked at him. Something about his face remained unreadable in the dark. His brows were relaxed. His mouth still had that faint softness to it. But his stare had sharpened, fixing on her with a focus that felt too intense to be natural.
âHow did you know I was in the park?â she asked. For the first time, Chosoâs smile faded. Only slightly. âI saw you come out.â Her stomach turned.
âYou followed me?â
âNo.â
He answered too quickly.
Then, softer, âI came to find you.â
Those should have been different things but they did not feel different. Y/N took a small step back without thinking and Choso noticed.
His eyes dropped to her feet. Then rose again, slowly, as if tracking every inch of distance she had tried to create.
âAre you waiting for someone?â he asked. The question chilled her more than the rain.
âWhat?â
âAre you waiting for someone?â he repeated.
His voice stayed gentle. That was the horrible part. He did not sound jealous. He did not sound angry. He sounded genuinely curious, like there was an answer he needed from her before deciding what the night would become.
Y/N shook her head. âNo.â
âThen why didnât you go home?â
âI told you. I needed space.â
Choso went still.
The word seemed to settle between them.
Space.
Something moved across his expression, so fast she almost missed it. A flicker. A tightening near his mouth. A shadow passing behind his eyes. The kind of reaction someone had when you touched a bruise they had not told you about.
He repeated it softly. âSpace.â
Y/Nâs fingers curled inside her coat sleeves. The way he said it made the word sound strange. Not like distance. Not like breathing room. Like an insult. Like a threat. Like something alive he wanted to crush in his hands.
âYes,â she said carefully. âSpace.â
Choso looked down for a moment. Rain dripped from a strand of his hair onto his cheek, trailing slowly like a tear. He did not wipe it away.
When he looked back up, his eyes were clearer. Darker. âFrom me?â Y/Nâs heart stumbled.
âChosoâŠâ
âDid you need space from me?â
She wanted to lie. Everything in her wanted to lie, because honesty had already ruined enough tonight. Honesty had put her beneath a streetlight, begging without begging. Honesty had led her into Willow Park. Honesty had made her tie a red scarf around a branch and pour the ugliest parts of her heart into the dirt.
But Choso was staring at her like he would know. Like the truth had already crawled out of her mouth and into his hands. âI needed space from what happened,â she said.
His gaze softened. âWhat happened?â Y/N stared at him.
For a second, the fear slipped, replaced by disbelief so sharp it almost made her laugh. âWhat happened?â she repeated. âYou rejected me.â Chosoâs face changed.
Pain. Confusion. Something darker. âI hurt you,â he said. It was not a question. Y/N looked away. âItâs fine.â
âNo, it isnât.â
His voice dropped.
âI hurt you.â
The way he said it made her chest tighten. Not with hope. Not exactly. Something about the weight of his guilt felt too heavy, like it had grown teeth. He looked at her as if her pain had become physical to him, as if he could see it hanging off her body in bloody strips.
Y/N shook her head. âIâm not doing this right now.â She turned slightly, ready to leave.
Choso moved.
Not fast.
Not aggressively.
But enough.
One step forward.
Y/N froze.
He had not touched her. He had not blocked her fully. But his body had shifted into the space between her and the sidewalk home, and suddenly the street felt much narrower than before. âY/N,â he said again.
Her name was softer this time but too soft. She slowly looked back at him. Chosoâs head was bowed, the upper half of his face shadowed, but his mouth was visible. That small, almost tender curve had returned.
Then he asked, âDo you like me?â The question slipped into the night with the quiet precision of a knife. Y/Nâs entire body went cold. It was such a childish question. So simple. So almost sweet.
Do you like me? As if he did not know. As if she had not torn herself open in front of him earlier. As if she had not looked at him with her heart sitting plainly in her hands. As if every breath she took around him did not already answer that question.
She stared at him, barely able to speak. âWhat?â
Choso stepped closer.
Just one step.
âDo you like me?â
Y/Nâs throat tightened.
The air smelled like rain and asphalt and something faintly green underneath it. Something damp. Something earthy. Like Willow Park had not let her leave after all.
âWhy are you asking me that?â
âBecause I want to hear you say it.â
The answer came immediately. Y/Nâs pulse jumped too high. Choso lifted his head, and the light finally caught his eyes. They were the same eyes she knew. Dark. Tired. Beautiful in the saddest way.
But something in them had shifted.
Before, Choso always looked at her like he was holding himself back. Like wanting anything too much was dangerous. Like she stood on one side of a locked door and he had swallowed the key out of guilt.
Now there was no door, no guilt, no restraint, just focus. A terrible, intimate focus that made Y/N feel as if every secret want inside her had been exposed beneath his gaze.
âIâŠâ She swallowed hard. âYou already know.â
âI want to hear it.â His voice was quiet, but there was something underneath it now.
A pull. A command disguised as a plea. Y/N hated that part of her still responded to it.
She hated that even afraid, even cold, even with her mind screaming that something was wrong, her heart still tripped over itself at the idea that Choso wanted something from her.
A confession.
Proof.
Permission.
She looked at the ground. âYes.â
Choso did not move.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, then opened them again.
âYes, Choso. I like you.â
The silence that followed was immediate.
Deep.
The kind of silence that made every sound after it feel forbidden.
Choso inhaled slowly.
His shoulders rose with it, then fell.
For one strange second, he looked relieved. Not happy. Relieved, like something inside him that had been suffering for years had finally been given air. Then he smiled again. And this time, Y/Nâs blood ran cold.
Because it was beautiful. Because it was wrong. Because Choso almost never smiled, and when he did, it was faint, reluctant, half-buried under sadness. But this smile came easily. Too easily. It spread over his face with a softness that did not belong to the moment, did not belong to the man who had rejected her less than an hour ago.
He stepped fully out of the shadows.
Moonlight washed over him.
He looked like himself. He looked exactly like himself.
That was the most horrifying part.
There were no black veins crawling beneath his skin. No unnatural glow in his eyes. No monstrous thing standing where Choso should have been. It was just himâpale, damp, quiet Choso, with rain clinging to his lashes and tenderness painted across his mouth.
But Y/N knew.
Something was different.
She felt it the way animals felt storms before they arrived. In her bones. In the soft, vulnerable places of her body. In the old instinct that told prey when a predator had stopped pretending.
Choso looked at her like he had never seen her before. No. Worse. Like he had finally seen her exactly right.
âI like you too,â he said. Y/Nâs breath caught. The words should have saved her. They were the words she had wanted for so long that she had imagined them in a hundred different ways. In a hallway. In his apartment. Over dinner. In the middle of a fight. Whispered against her mouth. Said softly with his hands shaking as he finally let himself have her.
She had wanted those words so badly they had become embarrassing.
Pathetic.
Sacred.
But now that he had said them, they did not feel like a dream.
They felt like the first lock clicking shut.
Y/N forced herself to laugh, but it came out weak. âThatâs not funny.â
âIâm not joking.â
âYou literally told me earlier that you couldnât love me the way I wanted you to.â
Chosoâs expression flickered.
For a moment, he looked almost confused, like the memory belonged to someone else.
Then his brows knit together.
âI was wrong.â
Y/N stared at him.
âYou were wrong?â
âYes.â
His answer was too calm.
Too simple.
Like rejecting her had been a minor mistake. Like he had taken a wrong turn on the way home and corrected himself. Like the man who stood under the streetlight earlier, full of guilt and distance and restraint, had been peeled away from the inside and replaced by someone who knew only one thing.
Her.
Choso stepped closer again. Y/N stepped back. This time, he stopped immediately. His eyes dropped to the space between them. A soft frown tugged at his mouth. âDonât do that,â he said.
It was barely above a whisper. Y/Nâs heart slammed against her ribs. âDo what?â
âMove away from me.â Her skin prickled.
âChosoâŠâ
âI donât like it.â
The words were simple. Almost gentle. And that made them so much worse. Y/N stared at him, her breath shallow now. âYouâre scaring me.â The moment she said it, something broke across his face.
Not anger. Hurt. So sudden and raw it almost made her feel guilty. Almost. âIâm scaring you?â His voice sounded wounded. Y/N took a careful breath. âYouâre acting strange.â
âI came to find you because you were alone.â
âYou came to find me because I didnât text you.â
âBecause I was worried.â
âYouâre never like this.â
Chosoâs eyes darkened.
âMaybe I should have been.â
The words slid into her chest and stayed there.
Y/N did not know what to say.
The rain misted around them, catching in his hair, on his face, along the collar of his jacket. His attention never wavered. That was what made her want to crawl out of her own skin. Choso had always looked away first. Always. He would glance down, turn his head, let silence save him from feeling too much.
Now he looked at her like blinking was a sacrifice.
âI couldnât stop thinking about you,â he said.
Y/Nâs lips parted.
âAfter you walked away,â he continued, his voice low and steady, âI tried to go home. I got halfway there.â
He swallowed.
His gaze moved over her face slowly, almost reverently.
âAnd then I couldnât breathe.â
Y/N went still.
Chosoâs brows drew together, like he was trying to understand it himself. âI kept thinking about you walking alone. Crying because of me. I kept thinking about someone else finding you before I did.â
The last words were quieter.
Darker.
Y/Nâs stomach turned.
âSomeone else?â
His eyes lifted back to hers.
âWere you waiting for someone?â
âNo⊠you asked me this already.â
âDid you want me to think you were?â
âWhat? No.â
âDid you want me to follow you?â
âNo.â She says her hands starting to shake nervously. He stared at her.
For a second, his expression was unreadable.
Then he smiled faintly.
âI would have.â
The words were so soft she almost did not hear them.
But she did.
And once she did, she could not unhear them.
Y/N took another step back.
This time, Choso did not tell her not to.
He only watched.
The disappointment in his eyes was almost unbearable. Too heavy. Too intimate. Like her distance had physically injured him.
âYou should go home,â Y/N whispered.
Choso tilted his head. âWith you?â
âNo.â The word came out too fast. His face fell. Y/N immediately felt horrible, which made her feel even more afraid. âI mean⊠Iâm tired. I need to be alone.â
âSpace,â he said again. This time, the word sounded colder. Y/Nâs mouth went dry.
âYes.â
Choso looked past her toward the park gate. For one second, his gaze lingered there. Y/Nâs blood turned to ice. Had he seen?
Had he seen her tie the scarf? Had he heard her wish? Had he stood somewhere in the dark while she cried into the willow and asked for him to love her more than anything on earth?
No.
No, impossible.
He could not have.
He looked back at her.
âWhat did you do in there?â
Y/N stopped breathing.
The question was quiet.
Too quiet.
âI told you,â she said. âI took a walk.â
âIn the closed park.â
âYesâŠagain.â
âAlone.â
âYes.â
âCrying.â
Her throat tightened.
He had seen.
Or he knew.
Somehow, he knew.
Y/N forced her voice to stay steady. âI had a bad night.â
Chosoâs expression softened again.
A terrible softness.
âI know.â
She hated the way he said it.
Like he knew more than he should.
Like he had felt it.
Like her grief had reached into his chest from across the city and squeezed until he came running.
âI can make it better,â he said. Y/N shook her head. âYou donât have to.â
âI want to.â
âThat doesnât mean you can.â His eyes lowered to her mouth. Just for a second. Then back up.
âI can try.â The words should have been sweet. They would have been sweet yesterday.
Yesterday, Y/N would have gone home and replayed that sentence until sunrise. She would have pressed it between the pages of her heart like a flower and convinced herself it meant something. She would have wanted him closer.
But tonight, beneath the moon and the broken streetlight, with the willowâs whisper still crawling at the edges of her mind, Chosoâs tenderness felt like a hand around her throat.
Not squeezing.
Not yet.
Just resting there.
Waiting to see if she would let it.
âI need to go,â she said.
Choso nodded slowly.
But he did not move.
Y/Nâs body tightened.
âChoso.â
âIâll walk you.â
âNo.â
His jaw tensed.
There it was again. That tiny fracture in his expression. That flash of something not quite him. Then it vanished.
âWhy not?â
âBecause I said no.â
The silence after that was sharp.
Y/N had never spoken to him like that before. Not really. She had been sad with him, honest with him, frustrated in careful little doses. But she had never put a wall in front of him and forced him to see it. Choso stared at her. Then, slowly, he nodded.
âOkay.â
Relief rushed through her so quickly her knees almost weakened. âOkay,â she repeated.
He stepped aside. Just enough. Y/N moved past him carefully, every nerve in her body awake. She could feel him beside her as she passed. Not touching. Not blocking. Just there. His warmth cut through the cold air, and for one awful second, she wanted to lean into it.
Then his voice stopped her.
âI do, you know.â
Y/N froze. Her back was to him. She should have kept walking. She did not. âWhat?â
Chosoâs voice came from behind her, low and intimate.
âLike you.â
Y/N closed her eyes.
A tear slipped down her cheek, hot despite the cold.
âChoso, please donât.â
âI like the way you look at me,â he said.
âI like the way you pretend you donât wait for my messages.â
Y/Nâs eyes opened.
âI like when you get quiet because youâre afraid you said too much. I like when you talk too fast because youâre nervous. I like when you laugh at your own jokes before anyone else does.â
He paused. His voice softened further. âI like that you remember things I forget telling you.â Y/N turned around slowly. Choso stood exactly where she had left him, moonlight cutting his face in half.
His expression was calm. Too calm for the words coming out of his mouth.
âI like that you get jealous and try to hide it,â he said. âI like that you want more from me than I know how to give. I like that you looked hurt tonight because it meant you cared enough to be hurt.â
Y/N felt sick.Not because the words were cruel. Because they were everything she had wanted.
Twisted into something that made her want to run. âStop,â she whispered. Chosoâs eyes softened. âI donât want to.â A chill moved through her.
The wind picked up behind him, rustling the trees beyond the park gate. For a second, Y/N swore she heard ribbons fluttering.
Hundreds of them. Whispering. Choso took one slow step toward her. âYou asked me earlier,â he said, âwhy I cared if you got home.â
Y/N could not move. His gaze pinned her in place. âI care because I donât like not knowing where you are.â
Another step.
âI care because when youâre away from me, something feels wrong.â
Another.
âI care because I think Iâve been trying not to want you for so long that I forgot what wanting you was supposed to feel like.â
He was close again.
Too close.
His face was no longer hidden now. She could see every detail. The rain on his skin. The faint shadows beneath his eyes. The parted softness of his mouth. The impossible tenderness in his gaze.
And beneath it allâ
The wrongness.
Quiet.
Patient.
Blooming.
He looked down at her like she was something holy. Like something doomed. âI like you,â he whispered. His eyes drifted over her face with slow, devotional focus. Then he smiled. âI think I like you more than anything.â
Y/Nâs heart stopped.
The words slammed into her with such force she almost stumbled.
More than anything. Her own voice echoed in her skull.
I wish Choso loved me more than anything on this earth.
The street tilted beneath her. No. No, she had not said love. He had said like.
That was different.
It was different.
It had to be different.
Chosoâs smile deepened, but his eyes stayed sad.
âI should have said it earlier,â he murmured. âI donât know why I didnât.â
Y/N stared at him in horror.
Because she knew why.
She knew exactly why.
Because before tonight, he had not felt this.
Before tonight, Choso had been guarded and distant and painfully careful with her heart. Before tonight, he had cared in small ways, quiet ways, ways that hurt because they were never enough. Before tonight, he had been able to let her walk away.
And now⊠Now he looked like letting her go might kill him.
Y/N backed away. This time, Choso did not follow. But his eyes did. They stayed on her with a devotion so intense it felt physical, wrapping around her ribs, pressing between them, making it harder to breathe.
âIâm going home,â she said, voice shaking. Choso nodded. âText me when you get there.â Y/N almost laughed.
It came out as a broken little sound. âOkay.â
âI mean it.â
âI know.â
âNo.â His voice sharpened just enough to make her freeze. Then softened instantly. âI mean it, Y/N.â Her fingers trembled at her side.
âYou need to tell me when youâre safe.â
She nodded once.
Quickly.
Then turned and walked away. Every step felt wrong. Too loud. Too slow.
Too exposed. She could feel him watching her back, and this time there was no comfort in it. No secret thrill. No pathetic little warmth blooming in her chest because Choso cared enough to make sure she got home.
Now his gaze followed her like a shadow with hands. Y/N did not run. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But she forced herself to walk calmly down the sidewalk, past shuttered storefronts and parked cars slick with rain, past the puddles reflecting yellow light in broken pieces. She did not look back.
Not once. Even when she felt him still there. Even when the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Even when her phone buzzed in her pocket before she had made it half a block. She stopped beneath a dark awning. Slowly, she pulled it out.
A message from Choso.
Youâre walking too fast.
Y/Nâs blood went cold.
Her head snapped up.
The street behind her was empty.
No Choso.
No figure under the streetlight.
No footsteps.
Nothing.
Only rain.
Her phone buzzed again.
Be careful. The sidewalk is uneven near the corner.
Y/N looked ahead.
Near the corner, the pavement cracked upward beside a tree root.
She lifted her eyes slowly. Across the street, reflected in the dark window of a closed shop, she saw him.
Not clearly.
Just a shape.
Tall.
Still.
Watching from somewhere the glass could see but she could not. Y/Nâs mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her phone buzzed one last time.
I donât want anything to happen to you.
She stared at the message until the letters blurred. Then, from somewhere behind her, soft as a prayer and close enough to raise goosebumps along her neck, Chosoâs voice whispered into the rain.
âI love you so much.â
âââââââââââââââ
Y/N did not remember unlocking her front door.
One second, she was standing under the awning with rain crawling cold down the back of her neck, staring at Chosoâs message until the words blurred into something that no longer looked like language. The next, she was inside her house, the door slammed shut behind her, the lock turned, the chain dragged into place with trembling fingers.
For a long moment, she did not move.
She stood in the narrow entryway with her back pressed against the door, her breath coming too fast, too shallow, too sharp to count as breathing. The house was dark except for the faint amber glow of the hallway nightlight plugged into the wall near the kitchen. It cast long, weak shadows over the floorboards, stretching the furniture into strange shapes that seemed to lean toward her when she blinked.
Her phone was still in her hand.
The screen had gone black.
Y/N stared at her own reflection in it.
Wide eyes. Damp hair. Lips parted. Face pale with a kind of fear she did not know how to name.
Then the phone buzzed.
She screamed.
It slipped from her hand and clattered against the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet house. Y/N slapped both hands over her mouth, heart slamming so violently that for one terrifying second, she thought she might actually be sick.
She looked down.
The screen lit up against the floorboards.
Choso: Are you inside?
Y/Nâs body went cold.
Her fingers shook as she crouched and picked up the phone, staring at the message like it might change if she looked at it long enough. She swallowed once. Twice. Her throat felt too tight.
Yes, she typed.
Then deleted it.
Then typed again.
Iâm home.
She hit send before she could overthink it, before she could ask him how he knew, before she could demand where he was, before she could admit to herself that some part of her was afraid he was close enough to see the porch light spilling through the curtains.
The message delivered instantly.
Three dots appeared.
Y/N stopped breathing.
Then:
Choso: Good.
Nothing else.
Just that.
Good.
It should have calmed her.
It did not.
Y/N locked her phone and set it facedown on the small table by the door as if putting it there could make the night stop touching her. Her hands were still trembling. Her skin felt too tight over her bones. The house around her was familiar in all the ways that should have made her feel safe: the old couch with the blanket thrown messily over one arm, the shoes by the door, the family photos on the hallway wall, the faint smell of lavender cleaner her mother always used.
Her mother.
Y/Nâs eyes flicked toward the empty living room.
Right.
Her mom was gone this week. Some overnight business trip several towns over, something about training, meetings, hotel breakfast, and calling when she could. Y/N had barely listened when she told her. At the time, being alone had sounded peaceful. Private. Normal.
Now the silence felt enormous.
Now the house felt like it had too many corners.
She took a breath, held it, then let it out slowly.
âYouâre fine,â she whispered to herself.
Her voice sounded small.
She hated that.
âYouâre home. The door is locked. Youâre fine.â
The words did not settle. They floated uselessly around her, thin and breakable, unable to cover the image of Choso under that broken streetlight. The way he had smiled. The way he had asked if she liked him. The way his voice had wrapped around those words.
I think I like you more than anything.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.
No.
No, she was not doing this.
She was not going to spiral in the hallway at midnight because of a tree, because of a wish, because Choso had suddenly decided to act strange after rejecting her. There had to be an explanation. There had to be something reasonable underneath all of this. People changed their minds. People got guilty. People said things they did not mean when emotions were high.
The willow had not done anything.
It was a tree.
Just a tree.
Y/N forced herself to move.
She walked through the house turning on lights as she went, refusing to look too long at any window. The rain outside began to fall harder, tapping against the glass with quick little fingers. By the time she reached the bathroom, the soft mist from earlier had become a steady downpour, drumming against the roof, rushing through the gutters, hissing over the street outside.
The sound should have been soothing.
Instead, it made everything feel hidden.
Like the world beyond the walls had disappeared.
Y/N shut the bathroom door behind her and locked it.
Then she stared at the lock.
A tiny, flimsy twist of metal.
Useless, really.
She turned away quickly before her thoughts could finish.
The bathroom light was too bright, making her reflection look harsh and exhausted in the mirror. Her makeup had smudged beneath her eyes. Rainwater clung to her hair and made the ends curl against her neck. She looked like a girl who had been crying in the dark. She looked like someone who had asked for something terrible without understanding the cost.
Her stomach twisted.
She undressed quickly, dropping her damp clothes into a pile near the sink. For one awful second, as she peeled off her shirt, she got the sudden, crawling sensation that something was watching her from behind the mirror.
Not someone.
Something.
She froze.
The bathroom hummed quietly around her. The vent. The light. The pipes in the wall. Rain striking the small frosted window above the tub.
Nothing moved.
Y/N swallowed and looked at her reflection.
Her own eyes stared back.
Just her.
Only her.
âStop,â she muttered.
She turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it.
Steam bloomed fast, clouding the mirror, softening the room until the edges disappeared. Y/N stepped beneath the spray and let the water hit her face, her shoulders, her chest, trying to scrub the night out of her skin. She washed her hair even though she had no energy for it. She rubbed soap over her arms until her skin flushed. She stood there too long, head bowed, hands braced against the shower wall as the water pounded over her.
But no matter how hot the shower got, she could still feel the cold.
The cold of the park.
The cold of Chosoâs gaze.
The cold of that last message.
I donât want anything to happen to you.
Her eyes snapped open.
For half a second, she could have sworn she heard something outside the bathroom door.
A soft sound.
A shift.
Like weight settling on old wood.
Y/N turned quickly, heart lurching.
Water streamed down her face, blurring her vision. The shower curtain hung still. Beyond it, the bathroom glowed bright and empty.
She listened.
The rain hammered harder.
The house creaked.
Nothing else.
Old house, she told herself.
Just an old house.
Still, she finished quickly after that.
When she turned the shower off, the sudden absence of water was almost violent.
The bathroom fell into a silence so thick it made her ears ring.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water fell from the showerhead into the tub.
Y/N stood there, wet and shivering despite the steam, listening to the sound of her own breathing.
Then the floor creaked.
Not in the bathroom.
Outside it.
Her whole body stiffened.
The sound had come from the hallway.
One slow wooden groan, like someone shifting their weight from one foot to the other.
Y/N stared at the closed door.
Her towel hung on the rack just beyond the shower. She reached for it without taking her eyes off the door, wrapping it around herself with clumsy hands. Her heart began to climb again, each beat harder than the last.
âMom?â she called.
Her voice cracked on the single word.
No answer.
Of course there was no answer.
Her mother was out of town.
Y/N waited.
The rain beat against the roof.
The pipes ticked softly in the walls.
The hallway stayed quiet.
She hated herself for it, but she grabbed her phone from the counter and checked the time.
12:03 AM.
âDamn it,â she whispered.
She had work in the morning.
A normal thought. A boring thought. A human thought.
Somehow, it nearly made her cry.
Because tomorrow still existed. That was the strange, cruel thing. No matter what had happened beneath the willow, no matter how Choso had looked at her beneath the streetlight, the world still expected her to wake up, get dressed, show up, smile at people, answer questions, act like she was not slowly coming apart from the inside.
Y/N dried off fast, pulled on pajama shorts and an oversized shirt, and twisted her damp hair into a loose bun. She brushed her teeth with the bathroom door open because somehow open felt better than closed now, even though every second she expected to see a shape standing in the hallway.
There was nothing.
Only the dim hallway.
The shadow of the banister.
The family photos staring from the wall.
Y/N walked to her bedroom with the light on her phone shining ahead of her like a weapon.
Her room looked exactly as she had left it. Bed unmade. Laundry chair piled high. Books and lip gloss scattered across her desk. A half-empty water bottle on the nightstand. The familiar mess should have comforted her.
Instead, her eyes went straight to the window.
The blinds were open.
Not all the way. Just enough that a thin gap showed the rain-dark glass beyond them.
Y/N stopped in the doorway.
Had she left them like that?
She stared at the gap.
The window reflected her room back at her in dim, warped layers: the bed, the dresser, her own pale shape standing frozen near the door. Beyond the reflection was only darkness, slick with rain.
Still, the feeling returned.
That crawling sensation.
That awful, intimate certainty of being seen.
Y/N crossed the room quickly and yanked the blinds shut. The plastic slats clattered together, too loud, too frantic. She twisted the wand until they closed completely, then pulled the curtains over them too.
Only then did she breathe.
The house answered with another creak.
This time from downstairs.
Y/N turned around sharply.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No voice.
No movement.
Just wood settling. Rain swelling. Her pulse roaring in her ears.
She went to her bedroom door and looked into the hallway. The light from the bathroom spilled across the floor, cutting the darkness in half. At the far end, the stairs descended into shadow.
Her throat tightened.
âHello?â she called.
The house did not answer.
Y/N shut her bedroom door.
Then she locked it.
Then, after a second, she pushed her desk chair beneath the handle.
It was ridiculous.
It was childish.
It made her feel better for exactly three seconds.
She turned off the overhead light, then immediately turned on the lamp beside her bed because the dark rushed in too quickly. The room became soft and amber, shadows pooling in the corners, rain sliding down the window behind the curtains in endless streams.
Y/N climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chest.
Her phone sat beside her pillow.
She did not want to look at it.
She looked anyway.
No new messages.
That should have relieved her.
It did not.
She opened the thread with Choso before she could stop herself.
Youâre walking too fast.
Be careful. The sidewalk is uneven near the corner.
I donât want anything to happen to you.
Y/N stared at the messages until her vision blurred.
How had he known?
How had he known about the sidewalk?
How had he been behind her and ahead of her and nowhere at all?
She clicked the phone off and shoved it under her pillow.
The willowâs ribbons shivering though there had been no wind.
His smile.
His question.
Do you like me?
His voice behind her in the rain.
I love you so much.
Y/N turned onto her side and squeezed her eyes shut.
The words would not leave her alone.
They should have been beautiful.
They should have felt like every late-night fantasy finally crawling into the real world. For so long she had wanted Choso to love her openly, desperately, without hiding behind guilt and distance. She had wanted him to want her badly enough to fight himself for it.
But there was a difference, she was beginning to realize, between being wanted and being hunted.
The thought made her eyes open.
The room sat quiet around her.
Rain threw shadows against the curtains.
The lamp buzzed faintly.
Somewhere in the walls, the old house gave a soft, tired groan.
Y/N watched the bedroom door.
The chair remained wedged beneath the handle.
Safe.
She was safe.
She repeated it until the words became dull and meaningless.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged her under.
Not gently.
It took her in pieces. Her thoughts loosened first, then her body grew heavy, then the sounds of the room stretched and warped into dreams. Rain became whispering. Floorboards became breathing. Somewhere between waking and sleep, she thought she heard her phone buzz beneath the pillow, but her hand was too heavy to reach for it.
Then everything went dark.
For a while, she slept.
Not peacefully.
She drifted through shallow, uneasy dreams of pale ribbons wrapped around wrists, of a willow tree growing through her bedroom floor, of Choso standing at the foot of her bed with rain dripping from his hair onto the carpet. In the dream, he did not speak. He only watched her with that sad, terrible smile.
When Y/N woke, it was sudden.
Her eyes snapped open into the dark.
For a moment, she did not know why.
The room was almost black now. The lamp was off.
Y/Nâs breath caught.
She did not remember turning it off.
Rain still battered the window, harder than before, the storm grown violent while she slept. The curtains moved slightly with the draft. Shadows trembled over the walls. Her room felt colder than it should have.
She blinked slowly.
Her eyes struggled to adjust.
The digital clock on her nightstand glowed red.
3:00 AM.
Y/N stared at the numbers, sleep-thick and confused.
Three in the morning.
The worst hour.
The hour every strange sound became a warning.
She shifted under the covers and realized her mouth was dry, her skin prickling with sweat beneath her pajama shirt. For a second, she thought the anxiety had simply woken her. A nightmare. That was all.
Then she heard it.
A soft sound.
Inside the room.
Y/N went still.
Not the rain.
Not the house settling.
Something else.
A slow, faint drag.
Like fabric brushing against fabric.
Her eyes moved carefully toward the foot of the bed.
Darkness gathered there, thick and shapeless.
Nothing.
She held her breath.
The sound came again.
Closer this time.
A barely-there shift near the corner where her laundry chair sat piled with clothes.
Y/Nâs heart began to pound.
She wanted to sit up.
She wanted to turn on the lamp.
She wanted to scream.
But sleep still clung to her body like wet hands, weighing down her limbs, blurring the edges of fear until she could not tell if she was awake or still dreaming.
Her eyelids fluttered.
Open.
Closed.
Open again.
The corner of the room seemed darker than the rest.
Y/N swallowed, throat clicking softly.
âMom?â she whispered.
Nothing answered.
Her eyes slipped shut again against her will.
No.
Stay awake.
Stay awake.
Something creaked near the door.
Y/N forced her eyes open.
The chair was still beneath the handle.
The door was closed.
But the handle looked different.
Lower.
No.
That did not make sense.
She blinked harder.
The chair was still there.
The handle was fine.
She was tired. Half-asleep. Panicking over shadows.
That was all.
Then came another sound.
Soft.
Slow.
A breath.
Not hers.
Y/Nâs body went rigid.
The room seemed to hold still with her.
Her eyes moved toward the side of the bed.
The darkness beside her nightstand was empty.
At least, she thought it was.
Her vision swam.
The clock glowed red.
3:01 AM.
Her phone lay near her pillow now.
Not beneath it.
Y/N stared at it, confused.
Had she pulled it out in her sleep?
The screen was dark.
Then it lit up.
No buzz.
No sound.
Just light.
A notification appeared.
Choso: Youâre awake.
Y/Nâs lungs stopped working.
Her fingers twitched under the blanket.
She did not touch the phone.
She could not.
The screen dimmed.
Then lit again.
Choso: Go back to sleep.
Y/N stared at the message, every nerve in her body screaming.
Outside, thunder rolled low and long over the roof.
The room flashed white for half a second.
In that half second, she saw the shape by the closet.
Tall.
Still.
Facing her.
Then darkness swallowed it again.
Y/Nâs eyes flew wide.
A sound tried to leave her throat, but it came out small and broken, barely more than air.
No.
No.
No.
Her body refused to move.
The shadows near the closet were empty now.
Maybe they had always been empty.
Maybe the lightning had made the laundry chair look taller. Maybe the coat hanging over the back had become shoulders. Maybe fear was building monsters out of cotton and darkness.
Her eyes burned from staring.
The rain pounded.
Her phone glowed again.
Choso: You looked scared.
A tear slipped silently into her hairline.
Y/Nâs breathing hitched.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
This was not real.
It could not be real.
She was asleep. She had to be asleep. Maybe she was still beneath the willow, maybe none of this had happened, maybe she had collapsed in the park and dreamed the whole thing while rain soaked through her clothes.
The mattress shifted.
Barely.
Just enough.
Y/Nâs eyes snapped open.
Her body went ice cold.
For a second, she felt it clearly.
Weight.
Not on top of her.
Not beside her.
But near the edge of the bed.
Like someone had sat down very carefully.
The blanket tightened across her legs.
Y/N did not breathe.
The room was black.
The clock read 3:02 AM.
Her eyelids began to flutter again, panic and exhaustion warring inside her body. She wanted to stay awake. She had to stay awake. But the fear was so huge, so impossible, that her mind tried to protect itself by slipping away from it.
The last thing she felt before sleep dragged her under again was warmth near her ankle.
Fingers, maybe.
Or a dream of fingers.
A touch so light it could have been imagined.
Then a voice in the dark, soft as rain against glass.
âIâm here.â
Y/N tried to wake herself up.
She tried to scream.
But sleep swallowed her whole.
And somewhere very close, someone whispered like a promise, like a prayer, like a curse answered too well:
(yandere! choso x reader, psychological thriller/romance series)
f.a: @/xhealer_
summary ; in which after a terrible accident you lost all of your memories. when you lose them you wake up in the hospital.. where a handsome man awaits for you claiming to be your husband.
previous chapter
â§Ë° â ïž c/w ˰⧠this series contains dark yandere themes â obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk âĄ
The gym smells like sweat and metal but ttâs quiet now almost too quiet for how loud his head is. Chosoâs fists slam into the heavy bag again. And again. And again. Each hit lands harder than the last, the chain above rattling with the force of it. His knuckles sting through the wraps, shoulders burning, lungs pulling in sharp breaths that donât feel like enough.
He doesnât stop. Because if he stops, heâll think. And if he thinksâ Heâll hear it.
Youâre losing her.
The voice isnât real. But itâs there. Low. Persistent. Crawling in the back of his mind like something that wonât die. His jaw tightens. âSheâs fine,â he mutters under his breath, stepping back before driving his fist forward again. âSheâs better with me.â The bag swings violently.
âShe was spiraling.â Another hit.
âShe was going to hurt herself.â Another. âI fixed it.â The words come out sharper now, almost defensive. Like heâs arguing with something invisible.
Because he is. You drugged her. His fist stops mid-air but just for a second. His chest rises and falls heavily. His eyes flicker then harden. âI stabilized her,â he corrects, voice low. Controlled. âThereâs a difference.â
He rolls his shoulders, pacing once in front of the bag. Sweat drips down his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His thoughts donât slow. They just reorganize. âShe doesnât know whatâs good for her right now,â he continues under his breath. âSheâs confused. Emotional. Thatâs not her fault.â
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. âBut it means she needs someone who does know.â Someone steady. Someone who wonât leave. Someone who wonât let her run back to things that broke her.
His jaw flexes. âI'm not the problem.â The words sound almost final, like a conclusion heâs reached a thousand times before. Behind him, the gym door opens.
âChoso.â
He doesnât turn immediately. âYeah,â he calls back, grabbing a towel and dragging it across his face. âCoach wants you. Managementâs here.â
That makes him pause. Now he turns. Two men stand near the entrance, dressed sharper than anyone else in the room. One of them gestures toward the back office. âNow,â he adds.
Choso exhales once, steadying himself. Finally, work. The perfect distraction.Â
Focus. Something he can control. He tosses the towel over his shoulder and follows them. As he enters the office, it feels smaller than usual. Too many people. Too much tension in the air.
His coach stands against the wall, arms crossed. His manager is at the desk, phone in hand, pacing once before stopping when Choso walks in. âThere he is,â the manager says.
There was no small talk, no buildup. Choso already knows what was going to happen. He can feel it. The room is too tight. Too expectant. âWhatâs going on?â he asks anyway. The manager glances at the others, then back at him.
âItâs official.â Chosoâs expression doesnât change. But his pulse does. âThey signed it this morning,â the coach adds. âNo more rumors.â The manager steps forward, voice dropping slightly. âYouâre fighting Toji Fushiguro.â
Silence. It hits like a dull impact to the chest. Not explosive. Not shocking. Just⊠heavy. Choso doesnât react right away.
He just stares, processing. Toji. The name alone is enough to pull something dark up from deep in his chest.
Older.
Bigger.
Established.
The man who already has everything Choso is clawing toward. The man whoâHis jaw tightens.
âDate?â Choso asks flatly. âSix weeks.â
âThatâs quick.â
âThatâs the point,â the manager says. âMomentum. This fight? This is your launch.â He steps closer. âIf you win this, youâre not just another prospect anymore. Youâre the guy.â
The room feels smaller and the air thicker. âYou beat him,â the coach adds, âyou skip years of grinding. You go straight to the top.â Chosoâs mind doesnât go to the rankings.
Or the money. Or the fame. It goes somewhere else. To a girl in a white dress standing in a garden. To red roses blooming too fast. To a house that now belongs entirely to him. To a past that still isnât fully buried. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
Toji Fushiguro. The name sits in his chest like something unfinished. Like something that was never properly taken from him. Until now. He exhales slowly.
Then nods once. âIâll take it.â Thereâs no hesitation in his voice. No doubt. Just quiet certainty. The manager grins. âGood. Because this is the one.â Choso doesnât smile back. Because this isnât just a fight. Not to him.
This is something else entirely. Something personal. Something thatâs been building long before contracts were signed. Long before cameras got involved.
Long before anyone else even knew there was something to fight over. His gaze drops briefly to the floor. Then lifts again. Sharp. Focused.
Unforgiving. Six weeks. Thatâs all itâll take. To finally put something in the ground and make sure it stays there this time.
A few weeks pass quietly. Way too quietly and the argument about the attic never comes up again. Neither does the hospital paperwork.
Choso becomes softer after that night. More attentive. More present. He remembers little things now â the way you like your tea, the blankets you prefer when you sleep, how headaches make you sensitive to bright lights. He kisses your forehead constantly, like reassurance has become instinct for him.
And somehow⊠That almost makes it worse. Because your doubts never fully disappear. They just settle lower. Quieter. Like something sleeping beneath your ribs. You still catch yourself watching him sometimes.
Studying him when he isnât looking. Wondering whether the gentleness is real⊠or practiced. But then he smiles at you. Touches your waist absentmindedly. Looks at you like youâre the center of gravity itself. And your chest aches all over again. Because despite everythingâYou love him.
Or at least⊠you think you do.
Tonight, Yuji invited both of you over for dinner.
Yuji loved to cook.
You learned that almost immediately.
He moved through the kitchen with bright, chaotic confidence, sleeves pushed up, apron tied crooked around his waist, talking over the sound of sizzling pans like the whole house belonged to his voice. He tasted sauces from wooden spoons, argued with Eso about seasoning, laughed when Kechizu quietly stole something from the cutting board, and somehow managed to make the whole thing feel warm.
Too warm.
Too normal.
By the time everyone sat down, the table was full. Steam rose from bowls and plates, rich smells of garlic, ginger, rice, and roasted meat curling through the air. Yuji sat across from you, grinning proudly as everyone started eating. Eso leaned back in his chair with his arms folded, pretending not to be impressed. Kechizu ate quietly beside him, occasionally nodding when Yuji asked if something tasted good.
Choso sat beside you.
Close.
His knee brushed yours beneath the table. His hand rested on the back of your chair, not touching you exactly, but close enough that you felt the weight of him there. Present. Protective. Watching.
âSo,â Yuji said, pointing his fork toward you with a playful smile, âwhat do you think?â
You blinked. âOf the food?â
âYeah. Be honest. I can take criticism.â
âYou cannot,â Eso muttered.
Yuji shot him a look. âI can.â
You smiled faintly, glancing down at your plate. âItâs really good.â
Yujiâs face lit up. âSee? She has taste.â
Chosoâs thumb brushed once against the back of your chair. âShe likes lighter flavors,â he said calmly. âNothing too spicy right now. Strong spices trigger her nausea sometimes.â
Yujiâs expression softened. âOh. Got it. I can make something different next time.â
You opened your mouth, ready to say it was fine, that you could answer for yourself, but Choso had already reached for your glass of water and nudged it closer.
âSheâs okay,â he said. âShe just has to be careful.â
The conversation moved on, but only barely.
Eso studied you from across the table, his sharp gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to read something beneath your skin. âHowâs recovery been?â
Your fork paused halfway to your mouth.
Choso answered before you could.
âBetter,â he said. âStill has headaches. Some confusion when she pushes too hard, but sheâs improving.â
You swallowed.
Kechizu glanced at you, voice softer than the others. âDo you remember anything yet?â
Your stomach tightened.
Chosoâs hand finally settled against your thigh beneath the table. Gentle. Still. A warning disguised as comfort.
âFragments,â he replied. âNothing stable enough to trust.â
The words made your chest pinch.
Nothing stable enough to trust. You looked down at your plate, suddenly aware of everyoneâs eyes near you, around you, on you, but somehow not fully with you. The questions were being asked in your direction, but Choso stood between you and the answers like a locked door.
Yuji noticed. At first, you thought he didnât. He was smiling, still bright, still trying to keep dinner easy. But his eyes shifted between you and Choso once. Twice. Then his grin turned awkward around the edges.
âSo⊠did you like baseball before?â Yuji asked you directly. âOr was that your first game?â You inhaled. âI thinkââ
âShe didnât go much,â Choso said. âCrowds were never really her thing.â Yujiâs smile faltered. You felt your face grow warm. Esoâs gaze sharpened. Kechizu stopped eating for a second.
The room didnât go silent exactly, but something changed. The air around the table tightened, invisible but undeniable. You could still hear forks touching plates, the hum of the refrigerator, the soft clink of ice shifting in someoneâs glass. But all of it felt far away now.
Yuji let out a small laugh, trying to make it sound harmless. âDamn, Choso,â he said lightly. âWhy donât you let your wife talk?â The words were meant as a joke.
Everyone could tell. But they landed wrong. Choso went very still beside you. Not visibly angry. Not embarrassed. Just still in that particular way he had, like every part of him had gone quiet at once. His hand remained on your thigh, but his fingers stopped moving.
Your stomach dropped. Yujiâs smile twitched, like he realized too late that he had stepped on something buried. âI just mean,â Yuji added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, âI wanna get to know her too, you know?â
You forced yourself to smile. âItâs okay,â you said softly. But your voice sounded small. Too small. Choso turned his head slightly toward you, his expression gentle, almost painfully so. âYou okay?â
There it was of course. That question. Always soft. Always careful. Always asked like the answer had already been decided. You nodded, though your chest felt tight. âYeah. I just⊠I need to use the bathroom.â
His eyes searched yours. For one terrifying second, you thought he might offer to walk you there. Instead, he nodded. âDown the hall,â Yuji said quickly, pointing. âSecond door on the left.â
âThank you,â you murmured. You stood carefully, pushing your chair back. Chosoâs hand slipped away from your leg, but you still felt the ghost of it there as you stepped away from the table.
No one spoke as you walked down the hall. Not until you were far enough away. Then, behind you, Yujiâs voice dropped lower.
âI didnât mean anything by it.â You didnât hear Chosoâs reply. You reached the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it with trembling fingers. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at your reflection.
Your face looked calm. Almost normal. But your heart was pounding.
You gripped the edge of the sink, breathing slowly, trying to steady yourself. Trying to convince yourself that nothing had happened. That Yuji was joking. That Choso was just protective. That you were still recovering, still fragile, still easy to overwhelm.
But the words kept replaying. Why donât you let your wife talk? Your throat tightened. Because for the first time, someone else had said it out loud. And now that they hadâ You couldnât unhear it.
You take a few minutes to collect yourself.
You run cold water over your hands until your fingers stop trembling. You press your palms against the sink, staring at your reflection with the kind of focus that feels almost desperate. Your face looks normal. A little pale, maybe. Your eyes too wide. But normal enough that no one at the table would know how hard your heart is beating.
You inhale slowly. Then exhale.
Youâre fine.
The words donât feel true, but you say them to yourself anyway.
When you unlock the bathroom door and step back into the hall, the noise from the dining room reaches you in muffled wavesâYujiâs laugh, Esoâs dry voice, the low clink of glass against wood. You pause in the darkened hallway, letting your eyes adjust. The warm light from the dining room spills across the floor in a golden rectangle, but Chosoâs seat is empty.
Your brows furrow. Before you can take another step, hands slide around your waist from behind. Your body freezes. The touch is familiar. Warm and firm, itâs Choso.
âYou okay?â he murmurs close to your ear.
Your breath catches before you can stop it. For a split second, the hallway feels too narrow, the air too thin. His chest is against your back, steady and solid, his hands resting at your stomach like heâs holding you together from the outside.
You nod quickly. âYeah. Iâm okay.â
He doesnât move right away.
âYou were gone for a while.â
âI just needed a second,â you say softly.
His thumbs move once, slow and soothing, over the fabric at your waist. âYuji talks too much.â
You let out a small laugh, but it sounds weak even to you. âHeâs sweet.â Choso is silent for a beat too long. Then he presses a kiss to the side of your head. âCome on.â
He guides you back toward the table with his hand at your lower back, gentle enough to look caring, constant enough that you feel it with every step. When you return, Yuji immediately brightens, either relieved or determined to force the mood back into something cheerful.
âThere she is,â he says, standing from his chair. âOkay, good. Perfect timing.â You sit back down beside Choso. This time, his chair feels even closer than before. Your knee brushes his under the table, and he doesnât shift away.
Yuji disappears into the kitchen and returns with a bottle of champagne tucked proudly against his chest. Eso raises a brow. âYou had that this whole time?â
âObviously,â Yuji says, grinning as he starts peeling the foil. âWeâre celebrating.â Kechizu looks up from his plate. âCelebrating what?â
Yuji points the bottle toward Choso. âHis first huge headlined fight.â
The room erupts into warmth again. Eso gives a low whistle. Kechizu smiles. Yuji shakes the bottle slightly before Eso snaps at him not to spray it all over the food. Choso only exhales through his nose, looking almost annoyed by the attention, but you can see itâthe pride tucked carefully beneath his restraint.
Your lips part. âA headlined fight?â you ask. Choso turns to you. Something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Not surprise exactly. More like he forgot you didnât know.
âIt was finalized recently,â he says. You blink, then force a smile. âThatâs amazing.â
And it is. Or it should be. Your husband is being celebrated. His brothers are proud. Yuji is practically glowing as he wrestles the cork free with far too much enthusiasm.
You should feel only happiness. But something small and cold settles beneath your ribs. Why didnât he tell you?
The cork pops. Yuji cheers too loudly, pouring champagne into glasses while Eso mutters about him being dramatic. He fills yours only halfway after Choso gives him a look.
âSo,â Eso says, leaning back in his chair, eyes on Choso. âWho are you fighting?â
Yuji answers before Choso can.
âToji Fushiguro.â
The name strikes you like a hand around your throat.
Toji.
Fushiguro.
Everything goes cold. For a second, the dining room disappears. Rain. A porch light. A black car. A hand extended toward you. A manâs chest beneath your cheek while you sobbed hard enough to break. A bar. Glasses. His voice saying he couldnât keep doing this.
A school hallway. Girls laughing. Megumiâs dad. Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass. The champagne bubbles quietly inside it.
You donât breathe. The name keeps echoing.
Fushiguro.
Your spine prickles. Your stomach twists. Something deep inside you stirs awake, not fully formed, not clear enough to understandâbut powerful enough to hurt. Unfortunately, your husband notices.
Of course he does. Chosoâs gaze shifts to you slowly. Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a slight turn of his head. A quiet narrowing of his eyes. His hand slides under the table and rests over your knee.
Still.
Heavy.
Grounding.
Claiming.
âY/n are you sure, your okay?â he asks.
The table quiets just enough. Yuji looks between you both, confused. Esoâs eyes sharpen. Kechizu lowers his gaze to his plate like he can feel the tension even if he doesnât understand it.
You force yourself to nod.
âYeah,â you say, but your voice comes out too thin. âJust⊠surprised.â Chosoâs thumb presses once against your knee.
âWhy?â he asks softly. The question is gentle. The room hears concern. You hear the warning beneath it. You swallow, gripping the glass tighter. âI donât know. The name just sounded familiar.â Choso doesnât blink.
Yuji, oblivious and eager, leans forward. âOh, yeah, heâs kind of a big deal. Older fighter. Crazy strong. Used to be connected to some school programs too, I think. Boxing clinics, mentoring stuffââ
âYuji,â Choso says.
One word. Quiet. Yuji stops immediately. The silence after it is awful.
You stare down at your glass, the bubbles rising and bursting one by one, your reflection warped in the pale gold surface.
Toji Fushiguro. The mysterious man finally has a name. And judging by the way Chosoâs hand tightens slightly over your knee, he knows exactly what that name just did to you.
The kind of silence that crawls into the space between two people and sits there, heavy and breathing. Choso keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw set so tightly the muscle jumps once near his cheek. You sit beside him, hands folded in your lap, staring through the windshield as streetlights streak across the glass in thin gold lines.
Neither of you mentions the name. Toji Fushiguro. But it sits in the car anyway.
You can feel it pressed against your throat. You can feel it in the way Choso hasnât touched your knee since you left Yujiâs house. He hasnât asked if youâre okay again. He hasnât explained why the name made the room go cold.
And you donât ask. Not yet. By the time the car turns onto your street, your stomach feels tight from holding too much in. The house comes into view, dark and still behind its neat front lawn. But then your attention shifts.
Red and blue lights flash against the windows next door.
Cop cars.
Two of them parked outside the neighborâs house. Your brows pull together as Choso slows the car and parks in your driveway. The engine cuts off, leaving only the distant crackle of police radios and the low murmur of voices drifting through the night.
âWhatâs going on?â you ask quietly.
Choso doesnât answer right away.
He gets out first, moving around the car with that controlled calm that always makes him look like he belongs in every situation, even the ones he shouldnât. You step out after him, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself, eyes fixed on the house next door.
A police officer starts walking toward you.
âMaâam, do you liveââ
Before he can finish, Choso steps slightly in front of you.
âOfficer,â he says.
The copâs expression changes instantly. Recognition. He reaches out, and Choso shakes his hand with a familiarity that makes something cold slide down your spine.
âChoso,â the officer says. âSorry to bother you this late.â
You look between them. They know each other. Not casually, either. Not the way neighbors might recognize a local officer. Thereâs comfort there. Ease. The officerâs gaze flicks briefly to you, but Choso turns his head before the man can speak again.
âGo inside,â he tells you.
Your lips part.
âI canââ
âInside,â he repeats, softer this time, but thereâs no room in it.
You swallow your irritation, nod once, and walk toward the front door. Every step feels like obedience wearing the costume of safety. You can feel Choso watching your back until you enter the house and close the door behind you.
But you donât walk away. You stand near the window, hidden slightly behind the curtain, watching.
Choso and the officer speak in low voices. You canât hear the words. Just fragments of posture. Chosoâs arms crossed. The officer nodding. Another cop near the neighborâs porch shining a flashlight through the front window.
The old womanâs house looks empty. Too empty. No movement behind the curtains. No porch light. No shape in the garden. Eventually, you pull away from the window.
Your skin feels cold.
Upstairs, you move through your nighttime routine like your body is doing it without you. Wash face. Brush teeth. Change into pajamas. Pull your hair back. The actions are familiar enough now, but your mind is elsewhere.
Toji Fushiguro.
The neighbor. The attic. The missing folder. The missing woman. The pills. You open the bathroom cabinet and reach for your medication.
The bottles sit in a neat row, labels turned forward, organized too perfectly. You pick up the one Choso usually hands you in the morning and at night. Your thumb brushes over the label.
For the first time, you actually read it. The name is unfamiliar. So is the dosage. Your stomach tightens. You twist the cap open and shake the pills into your palm. They look the same as always. Small. Ordinary. Harmless.
But your body goes still. Something in the back of your mind rises upânot a memory, not a voice, just instinct.
Donât. Your fingers curl slightly around the pills. You stare at them for a long moment, heart beginning to pound.
The bathroom door is open. The hallway beyond it is quiet. Choso is still outside. You lift the glass of water from the sink and bring the pills toward your mouth. Then you stop.
Slowly, carefully, you tip your head back as if swallowing. But the pills stay hidden in your palm. You drink the water. You lower the glass. Then you turn, kneel, and drop the pills into the toilet.
They hit the water soundlessly. For a second, you just stare at them. Then you flush. The sound roars too loudly in the small bathroom. Your heart hammers as the water spins, taking the pills down with it. You stand quickly, wiping your damp palms on your pajama pants just as the front door opens downstairs.
Choso is back. You close the medicine bottle and put it exactly where it was. By the time he enters the bedroom, youâre sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to look tired instead of terrified.
He pauses in the doorway. His eyes move over you once. Your face. Your hands. The nightstand. The bathroom behind you. Then he steps inside. âYou took your meds?â he asks. You nod.
âYeah.â The lie leaves your mouth more easily than you expect. His gaze lingers for one second too long before he accepts it. You pull the blankets back slowly. âWhat happened next door?â
Choso exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck. âHer daughter filed a missing persons report.â Your body goes very still.
âThe neighbor?â you ask. He nods. âApparently no oneâs seen her in weeks.â Weeks. The word lands like a stone dropped into deep water. You think of the drawn curtains. The empty garden. The roses blooming red and full under the summer sun. You force your face to stay neutral.
âThatâs⊠unfortunate,â you say softly.
Choso watches you. You donât look away. After a moment, he nods. âYeah.â
He changes for bed without saying much else. You climb under the covers and turn onto your side, facing away from him. The mattress dips behind you when he joins you, his presence warm and close but not touching.
For the first time, that distance feels like relief.
You stare into the dark, breathing evenly, pretending sleep is already pulling you under. But your mind is wide awake. Tomorrow morning, you think. Bloodwork. Youâll get bloodwork done. Quietly. Without telling him. Youâll write down the names on the bottles before he notices.
Youâll find out what youâve been taking.
Youâll find out whatâs inside your body.
Behind you, Choso shifts slightly. His hand settles near your hip over the blanket, not gripping. Just resting there. Like heâs making sure youâre still where he left you. You close your eyes. And for the first time in weeks, you donât let yourself lean into him. You count your breaths instead.
One.
Two.
Three.
And somewhere outside, through the bedroom window, red and blue lights continue flashing over the neighborâs empty house.
The hospital smells exactly the way you remember.
Sterile. Cold. Too clean.
The second the automatic doors slide open, nausea crawls up your throat. It isnât strong enough to make you sick, but it lingers there, bitter and familiar, pressing against the back of your tongue like your body recognizes this place before your mind does.
You keep your head down as you walk to the front desk.
No Choso.
No hand at your back.
No voice telling you to slow down.
Just you.
Your phone is off in your purse, the screen black, silent, unreachable. You turned it off before leaving the house, your fingers trembling as you held the power button down. A small act. A simple act. But it felt like rebellion.
If he checked your location, he would see nothing. That thought scares you. But it also makes your spine straighten.
The nurse at the desk smiles politely when you tell her youâre here for bloodwork. She asks for your name, confirms your date of birth, gives you a clipboard. Everything is routine. Normal. Nobody stops you. Nobody asks where your husband is.
For the first time in weeks, the world does not require Chosoâs permission to let you move through it.
You sit in the waiting area, bouncing your knee, trying not to breathe too deeply. The smell of antiseptic keeps dragging pieces of memory loose from the back of your mind.
White ceiling.
Bandages.
Chosoâs hand wrapped around yours.
His voice saying, Youâre safe.
Your stomach turns. Then another flash. Rain. Grass. Blood.
Not enough to understand.
Enough to know something is wrong.
When they call your name, you stand too quickly and almost expect dizziness to knock you sideways. But it doesnât. Your balance holds. Your head feels clearer than it has in days.
You think of the pills dissolving in the toilet last night. Your heart begins to pound.
The blood draw is quick. A rubber band around your arm. A pinch. Dark red filling the tube. You watch it with a strange fascination, as if the truth might already be visible inside the glass.
The nurse presses cotton to your skin afterward and wraps it with tape.
âWhen will the results come back?â you ask.
âUsually within two to three business days,â she says. âYou should be able to view them through the patient portal once theyâre processed.â
You nod slowly. âThank you.â
She smiles. âOf course. Take care of yourself.â
The words follow you out. Take care of yourself. Not let him take care of you.
Not ask your husband.
You. Outside, the air feels different. Fresh. Warm. Alive. You stand on the sidewalk for a moment, letting sunlight touch your face, letting the city move around you without swallowing you whole.
For once, your head doesnât split open. For once, your body doesnât feel buried under fog. You decide to walk home.
It takes longer, but you donât mind. Your legs feel stronger today. The rhythm of your steps steadies you. Storefronts pass. Cars hum. People walk dogs, drink coffee, argue into phones. Life keeps moving, indifferent and loud.
And you feel almost part of it.
By the time your street comes into view, your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks. Not healed. Not safe. But awake. Then you see the driveway. Your steps slow. Chosoâs car is there.
Parked perfectly. Waiting. Your pulse stutters. He was supposed to be at training.
You stop at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the car as if it might move on its own. The windows are dark. The house is still. The curtains are drawn halfway, just like they always are.
Your mouth goes dry. Maybe practice ended early. Maybe he came back for something. Maybe he knows.
Your fingers tighten around the strap of your purse, feeling the dead weight of your phone inside. Still off. Still hidden. Still evidence of a choice you made without him.
You force yourself forward.
The path to the front door feels longer than usual. Each step sounds too loud. Your hand reaches for the handle, but you pause before touching it, listening.
Nothing. No voices. No movement. Just the house. Quiet.
Waiting. You wrap your fingers around the handle and turn it slowly. The door opens. Cool air spills out. You step inside, heart climbing into your throat, and close the door behind you.
Choso is pacing when you step inside.
Back and forth. Back and forth. One hand gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles have gone pale, the other dragging through his hair like heâs been doing it for a while. The second the door clicks shut behind you, his head snaps up.
For one brief moment, relief breaks across his face so openly that it almost hurts to look at.
Then it hardens.
âWhere were you?â
His voice is quiet, but not calm. Not really. Thereâs something strained underneath it, something stretched thin enough to cut.
You close the door slowly behind you, keeping your movements gentle. Careful. You know that look now. You know the shape of panic when he tries to dress it up as concern.
âI went to the hospital,â you say.
His whole body stills.
The silence after that feels sharp.
âThe hospital,â he repeats.
You nod, slipping your purse off your shoulder and setting it on the table like nothing is wrong. Like your heart isnât pounding. Like your phone isnât still dead and dark inside your bag on purpose.
âMy phone died,â you add quickly, before he can ask. âI didnât notice until I was already there.â
His eyes flick to your purse. Then back to your face.
âWhy didnât you wait for me?â
You swallow, forcing yourself not to look away. âThe doctorâs office called after you left. They said they wanted me to come in for bloodwork. Just to make sure my levels are okay because of the dizziness and nausea.â
The lie sits between you.
Clean.
Simple.
Almost believable.
If Choso can keep secrets, you think, then fine. So can you.
His jaw tightens. âThey called you?â
âMhm.â You nod again, softer this time. âThey said it was routine.â
He studies you.
Too long.
His gaze moves over your face, your mouth, your posture. He notices everything, and you feel him noticing the differences before you even know what they are. You are standing straighter today. Your eyes are clearer. Your voice doesnât tremble the way it used to. Thereâs color in your cheeks that wasnât there weeks ago.
You look more awake.
And Choso sees it.
Thatâs what scares him.
âYou shouldâve told me,â he says.
âI know.â
You step closer before he can retreat further into suspicion. You let your shoulders soften, let your expression fold into apology. Itâs almost frightening how easy it is to become what he needs.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper. âI didnât mean to scare you.â
His face shifts.
Just slightly.
There.
You see the exact moment the anger loses its footing.
You step closer again.
âI know how much you worry,â you continue, voice soft and careful. âI know youâre only trying to keep me safe.â
Choso exhales through his nose, but his eyes remain sharp. âYour phone was off.â
âI know,â you say again. âThat was stupid. I shouldâve charged it.â
You hate how natural the words sound. How easily they slip out. How well you know where to press.
You reach for his hand.
He lets you.
His fingers are warm, tense, curled like heâs trying not to grip too hard. You lift his hand gently between both of yours and rub your thumb across his knuckles. The same way he does to you. Slow. Grounding. Reassuring.
His eyes drop to the gesture.
âI didnât want to make your day harder,â you say, looking up at him. âYou have so much going on. Training. The fight. Your brothers. Me.â
His expression flickers at that.
You step closer until thereâs barely any space left.
âYouâve been carrying everything,â you say softly. âAnd I donât say thank you enough.â
Chosoâs throat moves as he swallows.
The suspicion doesnât leave completely, but it shifts. It loosens around the edges, softened by praise, by devotion, by the sound of you making him necessary.
You can almost feel how badly he wants to believe you.
So you give him more.
âYouâre the reason Iâm still standing,â you whisper. âI know that.â
His eyes darken.
Not with anger this time.
With hunger.
Not physical, not only. Something deeper. Something starved.
âYou donât have to say that,â he murmurs.
âI want to.â
Your hand rises slowly to his chest. His heart is beating hard beneath your palm, faster than you expected. He was scared. Really scared.
Good, some quiet part of you thinks.
Then you bury that thought so deep it canât show on your face.
âI donât know what Iâd do without you,â you say.
And thatâs the line that does it.
His shoulders drop by a fraction. His fingers slide around your wrist, holding you there against him, anchoring your touch to his body like he needs proof that youâre still choosing to stand close.
âYou scared me,â he says, voice low.
âI know.â
âYou canât disappear like that.â
âI wonât.â
He searches your face again, but this time youâre ready for it. You make yourself look open. Tired. Loving. A little guilty. Everything he expects. Everything that makes sense.
He lifts his hand and cups your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye. âYou look different.â
Your stomach tightens.
âDifferent how?â
âI donât know.â His eyes narrow faintly, not cruel, just unsettled. âClearer.â
You force a small, fragile smile. âMaybe thatâs good.â
âMaybe.â
The word is quiet, but it isnât agreement.
You lean into his palm before he can keep thinking. You close your eyes as if his touch steadies you, as if he is still the safest thing in the room.
âI felt better after the walk,â you say. âFresh air helped.â
He watches you.
âYou walked home?â
You nod carefully. âJust wanted to clear my head.â
His jaw tightens again, but before he can turn that into another reprimand, you shift closer and wrap your arms around his waist.
It works. He goes still.
Then his arms come around you. Firm. Protective. Possessive.
You press your face into his chest, breathing him in like you need him. Like you are relieved to be home. Like you did not spend the morning getting blood drawn because you are afraid of what heâs been putting inside your body.
âIâm here,â you murmur against him. âI came back.â
His hold tightens. For a second, neither of you moves.
The house is silent around you. Too silent. But this time, you donât let it swallow you. You let him believe he has. You let him cradle the back of your head, let him kiss your hair, let him calm himself down with the weight of you in his arms.
âI donât like not knowing where you are,â he says.
âI know.â
âYouâre still healing.â
âI know.â
âYou need me.â
You pause.
Just long enough to feel the room hold its breath.
Then you tilt your face up toward him, eyes soft, voice gentle enough to make it sound like truth.
âI do.â
His expression almost breaks. Almost. There is something devastating in the way he looks at you then. Like those two words are the only prayer he has ever needed answered. He bends and kisses your forehead.
Slow. Lingering.
âYou should rest,â he whispers. You nod. But as he guides you toward the stairs, his hand steady at your back, you keep your face calm. You keep your breathing even. You keep your body soft against his.
And inside, quietly, carefully, something in you stands upright. Because for the first time, you understand the shape of the game. Choso knows how to make you doubt yourself. But now you know how to make him believe you still do.
(yandere! choso x Reader, psychological thriller/romance series)
summary ; in which after a terrible accident you lost all of your memories. when you lose them you wake up in the hospital.. where a handsome man awaits for you claiming to be your husband.
â§Ë° â ïž c/w ˰⧠this series contains dark yandere themes â obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, captivity, stalking, blood play, and identity corruption. expect dubcon, breeding kink, rough intimacy, praise/degradation, and explicit sexual content. also includes violence, emotional coercion, and toxic romance. read at your own risk ⥠(one shot posted on tumblr, series will be on wattpad! follow @yanderslutt)
Graduation day was supposed to be about freedom, but for him it was the opposite. It was the day he chained himself to you. Everyone else was celebrating, but Choso barely noticed the noise, the shouts, the caps thrown in the air. He only saw you. Standing beneath the tall cherry blossom tree, pink petals falling in your hair, you looked untouchable. Sacred. His.
You laughed, asking him to take a picture with you, and when you leaned into him for the shot, your shoulder brushing his arm, he nearly stopped breathing. The camera flashed, capturing a moment youâd forget by tomorrow, but he wouldnât. No, he couldnât. That single photo was proof. A contract. A vow.
When you ran off to join your friends, he didnât follow. He stayed, staring up at the blossoms until the field emptied and silence pressed in around him. Slowly, carefully, he plucked a petal from the place your head had been, tucking it into his pocket like a relic. His fingers brushed the bark where you leaned, tracing the exact spot as if he could burn your shape into his memory.
This is where you belong. With me. Always with me.
The world would try to scatter you away like the drifting petals, but he decided long ago... heâd collect every piece of you before that happened. No matter how long it took.
The hallway was nearly empty, the last echoes of graduation fading away. Your locker clanged open one final time as you searched for the forgotten book inside, the scent of dust and cherry blossoms still lingering in the air. When you shut the door, he was there.
Choso.
He stood too close, eyes fixed on you with a stillness that felt unnatural, like heâd been standing there for hours just to catch you. In his hands was a bouquet â wildflowers, half-wilted, clutched too tightly as though he didnât know his own strength. The petals were crushed at the edges, but it didnât matter. To him, they were perfect, because they were for you.
âI wanted you to have these,â he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. His gaze never wavered. âA graduation gift. For.. you.â The words hung heavy, sticky in the air. You laughed it off nervously, unsure if you heard him right, but he didnât smile back. His face was unreadable, except for the sharp glint in his eyesâpossessive, hungry, unblinking.
When you reached for the bouquet, his fingers brushed yours and lingered too long, curling almost like he wanted to catch your hand and never let go.
You smiled softly as you accepted the bouquet, the petals trembling in your hands. âThank you, Choso⊠thatâs really sweet.â Your voice was gentle, casual, but the way his dark eyes followed every twitch of your lips made it feel heavier, binding. He opened his mouth, words balancing on the edge of confessionâI love you. Youâre mine. You always have been. "Y/n.. I...I need to tell you something."
But then you gasped.
A familiar pair of hands slid around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against a tall body that smelled of sweat, smoke, and something dangerous. Toji Fushiguro. His deep chuckle vibrated against your spine as he looked down at the flowers Choso had given you, amusement curling his lips.
âWell, well⊠whoâs this punk?â Toji tilted his head lazily, eyes cutting into Choso like knives. The older man stood effortlessly dominant, his hand resting far too possessively on your hip, thumb brushing the fabric of your gown like he was reminding Choso that heâd already claimed you.
Choso felt his heart stop. The world dimmed, leaving only the sight of Tojiâs hand on you. Older. Bigger. Already graduated. A man who had what Choso wantedâwhat Choso needed. His fists trembled at his sides, nails biting into his palms. All the words he wanted to give you turned to ash on his tongue.
You shifted, caught between their stares, your cheeks warming in embarrassment. To you, it was just an awkward overlap of your boyfriend and your friend. But to Choso, it was worse than betrayalâit was theft. You didnât even realize you were being stolen right in front of him. And in that moment, as Toji smirked and tightened his hold on you, Choso made a silent vow under the hollow bloom of cherry blossoms: If I canât have you now, Iâll wait. Iâll watch. Iâll take you back when the time is right. You wonât belong to him forever. Youâll be mine. No more words were exchanged. Toji rolled his eyes, grabbing your hand walking you out of the school leaving Choso alone with his thoughts.
Chosoâs gaze dropped to the floor, but the world tilted violently, spinning out of control. His chest heaved, vision blurring as hot tears stung his eyes. The bouquet you held blurred in his sight, pink petals swimming with red. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitenedâand then he snapped. BANG. The lockers shuddered as his fist slammed into them with bone-breaking force, the echo ringing down the empty hallway like a gunshot. Steel groaned beneath his rage, a dent caving in where his skin split wide open. Blood smeared across the metal, sliding down in thick, sticky trails. He didnât flinch. He didnât stop.
He hit it again. Harder. Until the sound of flesh tearing and bone grinding cut through the silence. The bouquet slipped from your hands, petals scattering across the blood-streaked floor as Chosoâs voice cracked out in a strangled cry.
Then, he dropped.
On his knees, he collapsed to the tile, shoulders shaking violently. Blood poured from his ruined fist, dripping onto the petals like a grotesque imitation of ink staining paper. His breath came in sharp, guttural gasps, a broken animal sound that crawled up your spine. His head tilted back slowly, eyes glassy with tears, face smeared with streaks of blood where heâd dragged his trembling hands up into his hair.
âBut you belong to me...,â he rasped, voice raw, unhinged. His head snapped toward Toji with a smile that didnât reach his eyesâwide, cracked, terrifying. "You belong to me.."
The hallway seemed to close in, suffocating, as Choso rocked on the ground in his own blood and tears, mumbling feverish promises to himself. His stare locked on youâhungry, desperate, terrifyingâas he pressed his bloodied palm to his chest like he was swearing an oath with every heartbeat.
âYouâll see,â he whispered, voice breaking into a laugh that was half-sob, half-scream. âYouâll see. Youâll always be mine. Even if I have to burn the whole world to prove it.â
-
Two years later . . . .
Two years had turned Choso into something unrecognizable. The boy who once broke down in a blood-soaked hallway had hardened into a predator. Heâd carved discipline into his body, fists wrapped in the calluses of endless boxing sessions, every strike thrown with one image in his head: Tojiâs face, the smug smirk that haunted him, the hand that once held you. He swore heâd reach that levelâno, surpass it. And now, he had.
But he didnât go looking for Toji. No, Toji didnât matter anymore. You did. You hadnât seen him since graduation day. He made sure of that. He vanished from your world, shadows at the edge of your life, training in silence, watching from a distance, waiting until the timing was right. Because patience was power, and obsession demanded precision.
And tonight, the timing was perfect. The bar lights buzzed weakly overhead, a sad yellow glow pooling across your slouched figure. Toji had left youâdumped you without care, discarding you like nothing. Choso knew. Heâd been waiting for this moment, watching the pieces fall into place. And now, here you were: alone, broken, fingertips tapping absently against a glass you hadnât even finished.
He watched from across the street first, leaning against the shadows, his chest swelling with twisted satisfaction. You looked small in that booth, vulnerable in a way that made his blood rush hot with possession. This was what he had trained forânot for Toji, not for revenge, but for you.
Choso stepped into the bar, the scent of sweat and alcohol mixing with the copper memory of blood in his mind. The moment he walked in, his eyes locked on youânothing else mattered. His stride was deliberate, his body filling the room with quiet danger, with a presence you couldnât ignore even if you wanted to.
Tonight, he thought, his lips curling into a slow, obsessive smile. Tonight, youâd finally understand what heâd been trying to tell you under that cherry blossom tree. You were always meant to be his. And now, you would beâforever.
The night air was cool against your skin, sharp with the faint scent of rain as you walked the cracked pavement back to your house. Your tears hadnât fully dried; you wiped them with the back of your sleeve, trying to shake off the weight in your chest. Tojiâs words still echoed in your skull, cruel and final, but at least home wasnât far. Just a few blocks. Just a few minutes alone with your thoughts. But you werenât alone.
Every few steps, the hairs on your neck prickled. The quiet of the street pressed down too heavy, too still. You slowed once, glancing behind youânothing but the empty hum of streetlights and the flutter of a stray newspaper caught in the wind. You told yourself you were imagining it, that weird feeling settling like a stone in your stomach. So you pressed on, clutching your bag tighter, until finally, mercifully, your house came into view.
Inside, you locked the door with shaky fingers, the metal bolt clicking into place like a fragile promise of safety. The familiar space wrapped around you, dimly lit and cluttered with the quiet chaos of your life. You exhaled, shoulders sagging as you tossed your bag and jacket onto the couch. The silence felt heavy but safe, and you let yourself believeâfor a secondâthat the feeling outside had been nothing.
But he was already there. Somewhere in the dark corners of your home, Choso lingered like a shadow given flesh. He had followed at a distance, patient, silent, and when you slid the lock into place, he smiled to himself. Locks didnât matter. Distance didnât matter. Not anymore.
He could hear you movingâsoft steps across the floor, the faint shuffle of fabric as you wiped your face, the small broken sigh you didnât think anyone could hear. He drank it in, every sound, every vulnerability. Two years of waiting, of training, of restraining himself had all been for this exact moment. You thought you were safe. But tonight? Tonight, Choso would finally take back what was his.
The lock clicked, your bag hit the couch, and for a moment you thought the worst was behind you. But the silence wasnât comforting. It pressed against your ears, thick, unnatural. You rubbed your face and muttered something to yourself, your own voice almost foreign in the stillness.
From the kitchen came a creak.
You froze. Heart slamming once, twice. You told yourself it was the pipes, or the old wood settling. But when you walked past, the lights were offâlike they had been. And the chair you swore youâd tucked neatly under the table this morning now sat slightly pushed out.
You shook your head and kept moving, trying to ignore the growing chill in your chest. You slipped off your shoes, padded toward your bedroom. Another sound followed. A faint scrape. Like something brushing across the floor behind you.
You spun around. Nothing. Still, the feeling crawled up your spine. Someone was here. You bolted to your room, shut the door, and leaned against it. Deep breaths. Just nerves. Just the echo of Tojiâs rejection rattling in your skull. You locked the door, convincing yourself it would be enough. You turned toward the mirrorâ
And there, faint, in the condensation where youâd forgotten to wipe it this morning, was a message scrawled in shaky lines of your own breath: M I N E.
Your lungs locked. Before you could scream, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then off. You were drowning in black. From somewhere in the dark house, low and guttural, came a laugh. Not loud, not forced. Just⊠patient. âI told you,â a voice whispered through the walls, close and far all at once. âTonight is the beginning.â
Your hands shook as you fumbled for your phone, the dim glow of the screen the only light left in your room. You swallowed hard, fingers hovering over a friendâs contact when a notification popped up before you could type.
Unknown Number: Donât lock me out, sweetheart.
Your breath caught. A chill raced through your veins as you stared at the message. Another ping followed, the vibration rattling in your palm.
Unknown Number: Iâve been waiting two years for this.
Your pulse hammered so hard it felt like your ribs would snap. You dropped the phone onto the bed, hands clamping over your mouth as if silence alone could make you invisible. Thenâ thud. A heavy sound from the living room. Something falling. You crept to the door, ear pressed to the wood. The faint creak of floorboards. A low hum. Like someone was⊠humming a tune to themselves.
Petals. That thought tore through you as the sound of something scattering across the floor reached your ears. You cracked the door open just an inch, just enough to see down the hall. Pink cherry blossom petalsâfresh, impossibleâstreaked the carpet like a trail leading back to the front door.
The door you locked. You backed away, chest tightening, trying to convince yourself you were dreaming, that exhaustion had twisted the world into something unreal. But then your phone buzzed again. Against your better judgment, you looked.
Unknown Number: Donât cry. It ruins your pretty face. You know I hate when you cry.
Tears slipped anyway, hot and silent, as another sound filled the house. A slow, deliberate knock on your bedroom door. Tap⊠tap⊠tap. Not hurried. Not desperate. Patient. âOpen up for your husband,â a voice rasped softly from the other side, trembling with a twisted kind of excitement. âItâs time you finally came home.â
The knock faded into silence, but silence was worse. Silence meant he was waiting. Listening. You backed up until your legs hit the bedframe, your chest rising and falling so fast you thought youâd suffocate. Thenâ click. Every light in the house cut at once, plunging everything into suffocating black. Your phone screen glared too bright in the dark, and you killed it quickly, terrified he could see the glow from beneath the door.
Then came the footsteps. Slow. Measured. Circling the hallway. His shoes dragging deliberately against the floorboards. Every pass made your breath hitch tighter. Sometimes they stopped right outside your doorâso close you swore you could hear him inhale, like he was breathing you in. Then they would retreat again, padding toward the living room, only to circle back.
Heâs playing with me. Desperation clawed at you. You slid to the window, fumbling with the latch. Your fingers slipped from sweat, nails scraping until finally, finally the lock gave way. You shoved it open, the cool night air washing over you like a fleeting salvation.
One leg outâthen buzz. Your phone vibrated violently in your hand. Against your better judgment, you glanced at the screen.
Unknown Number: Where are you going, baby?
Your blood turned to ice. You twisted aroundâtap. A soft knock against the glass. You hadnât even heard him move, but now a handprint smeared across the outside of the window, fresh and bloody, the palm pressed firm against the glass right where your face was. You screamed, slamming the window shut, tripping back across the room. You bolted for the door, wrenching it openâempty hallway. The lights flickered once, twice, then died again.
âRun,â his voice echoed low, distorted by the dark. Not angry. Not rushed. Amused. You stumbled down the hall, bare feet slapping against the floor. Every shadow seemed to shift, every corner a trap. You reached the front door, clawing at the locksâwhen suddenly you froze. The cherry blossom petals. They were gone.
Instead, a single trail of red streaks led from the door, dripping across the floor, pooling in the shape of a heart. And at the center of it sat the crushed bouquet heâd given you two years ago, shriveled and blackened with time, bound with a ribbon stained dark. You turned, chest heaving, and there he was.
Choso stood at the end of the hall, shirt half-unbuttoned, fists wrapped in the stained tape of a boxer, blood still dripping from his knuckles. His eyes were wild, fever-bright, locked on you like a predator that had finally cornered its prey.
âI told you,â he rasped, taking one slow step forward, then another, the sound of his boots echoing through the house. A smile curved sharp and trembling across his face. âTwo years I waited. Two years I tore myself apart. For this. For you.â
Your body moved before your mind didâpure survival. You shoved past him, shoulder colliding with the wall as you bolted down the hall, the sound of your panicked breaths echoing louder than your footsteps. You threw open the back door, the cool night air flooding your lungs as you sprinted barefoot into the grass.
The forest loomed just a few strides ahead. If you could just reach the tree line, maybeâ
CRACK.
White light exploded behind your eyes. Pain seared through your skull as the world spun violently, grass rushing up to meet your face. Your body hit the ground hard, a muffled cry breaking from your throat before everything bled into disorienting silence.
Behind you, Choso stood over your limp form, chest heaving, the metal bat sliding from his bloodied knuckles onto the grass with a dull thud. His face twistedânot in rage, but in something far worse: relief.
He dropped to his knees beside you, fingers trembling as he brushed a strand of hair from your face. Blood trickled from your temple, staining the petals that clung to your skin. His lips parted in a shuddering breath as his eyes softened, trembling between devotion and madness.
âYou almost left me again,â he whispered, voice cracking as he cradled your face. âBut not this time. Never again.â
Thenâhe reached into his pocket. A phone.
He dialed with steady fingers, forcing the tremor from his hands, and when the line clicked, his voice changed. Softer. Higher. Panicked.
âH-Hello? 911? Pleaseââ his tone cracked, feigning desperation, mirroring the terrified cadence heâd used years ago the first time he let you slip away. âMy wifeâsheâs hurt! She fellâoh God, thereâs so much bloodâplease, please hurry!â
His hand smeared your blood across his cheek as he rocked back and forth, clutching you tighter, his false panic bleeding into a chilling smile youâd never see.
Because tonight, no matter what anyone else believed, he wasnât just saving you.
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(warnings: yandere, other stuff??? i rlly wanna make this a longshot but i dont have time rn so short blurb it is;-;)
Post Apocalypse AU with Gojo, Geto, Sukuna, and Choso all reluctantly working together in a settlement.
The dynamic is so interesting cuz on paper it should not workâŠ.yet it does??? Choso is gathering food and equipment. Sukuna is the weapons expert and is usually the one leading the raids on other settlements. Geto is the pseudo-leader and mostly holds things together. Gojo also helps in with raids and whatever else.
They aren't a found family at all. Choso barely speaks and acts more animal than human somedays. Sukuna mostly keeps to himself. Gojo and Geto are the ones who act the most friendly towards one another but everyone is constantly on edge. Peace on the settlement is nothing more than a fragile truce, but it works. On the settlement, everyone earns their keep.
And then you come along, stumbling in the sand, desperate for any type of relief from the blistering hot sun. Sukuna and Gojo are the ones who find you. They haul you on their truck with barely a fight before rushing back to the settlement. Geto and Choso expect them to come back with more supplies and food, but they are far more pleased when they discover you in the truck.
It's been awhile since any of the men have touched something soft. They all thought whatever softness the world had left had blown away in the airy desert wind, but you proved them wrong.
Choso falls first. Being with you reminds him of those green summer days before the downfall of humanity, back when he was a good big brother and loved his family. You're his family now, and he'd shred everything who comes between the two of you.
Sukuna will never admit it, but he'll sit by your cot when youre asleep. He'll keep vigil, paranoid something may take you away when the others aren't watching. Somedays, you being here really feels like a dream and he doesn't ever want to wake up.
Suguru acts the most normal. He converses with you and laughs with you. He makes himself seem the most safe. He doesn't want to stir any turmoil within the settlement, but it would be nice if you preferred him over the others.
Satoru is the least overbearing, but that doesn't say much. He never had much faith in god, but after they found you, only good things have happened. things are finally turning up in his miserable life. he calls you his lucky star, though you never discover how serious he means it.
For years, they just survived, but now they're finally living.
Meanwhile, you are so grateful the men found you when they did. You truly are. No amount of thanking them will ever be enough repayment. Still, you can never find yourself truly comfortable in the settlement. The way they stare at you is always so intense, like they're daring you to run, just so they'd have the excuse to chase you. Anytime you even mention leaving, one of the men are quick to change topics.
You aren't an idiot. You see the changes they're making here. Choso keeps building the surrounding fences higher and higher, like hes trying to keep something in. Satoru keeps installing more locks and bolts. You caught Sukuna smuggling in a ragged nursery book a while back. There's something in Suguru's room that eerily resembles a bassinet.
On the settlement, everyone earns their keep.
It wont be long before they expect you to earn yours.
Pairing: Soft!Dark Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Fic Summary: A relaxing getaway in the woods may become your permanent home when you catch the eye of a lumberjack.
Part 2 | Series Masterlist | Part 4
Chapter Summary: Tension is thick with you and Bucky as you two have lunch together.
Chapter Word Count: Over 4.2k
Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, bits of MCU canon, grumpy x sunshine trope, invasive behavior, bits of insecurity, sexual tension, kissing, reader ignores red flags like she's colorblind, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.
A/N: Next part of our lumberjack is here! â€ïž Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Since Bucky already unpacked the food, you helped set everything on a couple of plates. He said he was starving, and you didn't want to keep him waiting. You also didnât know what kind of plans he had for the rest of the day. He could eat what you brought and send you on your way if he wished.
âThis really does look delicious,â he commented, helping you carry everything to the dining room. âEspecially the cookies.â
âI hope you like them,â you smiled, setting your plate on one end of the table. âOh, thanks,â you added when he pulled the chair out for you.
âDid your ex not pull your chair out for you?â he asked, a hint of bitterness coming out when he said âexâ, but you may have been projecting.
You also swore you felt his fingers brush your shoulders when you sat down, but the touch faded immediately. âWhy do you ask?â
âYou just seem surprised that I did that,â he replied, taking his own seat across the table.
âOh. Well. He did it from time to time,â you said. Some considered it to be an outdated gesture, but you always thought it was sweet. Your ex did it at the beginning of the relationship, but that quickly faded. That shouldâve been a sign that it wasnât meant to last. No one should ever stop trying or caring in a relationship. âItâs nice that you do that.â
âTime to time. What kind of boyfriend is that?â he muttered like he hadn't heard the last thing you said, taking a large bite of his food. âA lot of men today donât know how to treat a woman. Bet he never took you dancing or dressed up for you either.â
Your eyebrows shot up. The bitterness surprised you, but it didnât upset you. There was no reason to defend your ex, and Bucky came from a different time. You were sure he treated women well and they likely felt lucky to date him.
âNo, he didnât really dress up for me or take me out dancing,â you confirmed. The more you thought about it, the more you wondered why you settled. Was it what you thought you deserved? âWhich is fine since he wasn't really a good dancer.â
âI'm a good dancer,â he blurted out before he cleared his throat. âAt least, I used to be.â
âIâll bet you still are,â you smiled softly. He didn't quite smile back, but there was a tug in the corner of his mouth. It did break your heart a little to wonder when he last danced with someone he cared about. To be fair, you knew nothing about his dating history. It couldâve been years ago or recent. âThough most dancing today is justâŠâ
âGrinding,â he finished for you, licking a bit of the food from his lips.
You swallowed your bite hard, proud of yourself for not choking. Picturing Bucky grinding wasnât the best thing to do while eating. âWow, did you make this table?â you asked. A change of topic was good, and if he caught on he didnât call you out on it. Plus he mentioned that he made some of his own furniture. That was a safe and natural topic to discuss.
âI did,â he answered, running a hand along the table top. âOne of the first things I made.â
âItâs gorgeous,â you smiled. He really had a talent, and he could probably sell furniture if he really wanted to.
âThanks,â he smiled gently. âNot just for the compliment, but coming over. It'sâŠâ He tapped a finger on the table. âItâs really nice having company.â
You glanced around. There was a bench on both sides of the table instead of chairs, and it was easy for you to imagine his friends and members of the Avengers gathered around for a nice meal. But how often did that happen?
âIâm not much company,â you said before remembering he didnât like you self-depracting. âBut thanks for inviting me over. That was nice of you to do that.â
He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes locked deeply with yours. What was it about his stare that made you want to duck your head? Was it because he seemed to look right through you? âI think youâre great company,â he said, bringing a small smile to your face. âIn fact, I think you should stay here with me.â
You blinked a few times. âI should⊠stay? You want me to stay here?â you asked. Exactly how long did he want you to stay?
âYeah, after lunch. We can hang out for a bit longer and talk. Maybe play a game,â he suggested, finishing the food on his plate before he grabbed a cookie. âUnless you have somewhere else to be or have other plans?â
âI donât really have anywhere to be,â you said. It wasn't like you had any plans either. Any excuse you came up with would've sounded lame if you tried. Spending more time there before you went back to your cabin wouldn't be so bad. âWhat games do you have?â
Bucky didn't answer since he bit into the cookie. With a groan he watched you watching him as he devoured the treat, making sure to eat up every single morsel. He licked his fingers and lips clean once he finished and you had to press your legs together, which did nothing to relieve the sudden heat there.
If that was how he ate a cookie, how did he eat⊠No, it wasn't good to let your mind wander.
âY-You like them?â you asked, your voice breathier than normal.
âLike them? Do you have any idea how delicious your cookies are?â he rasped, the muscles rippling in his right arm as he helped himself to another. âSo fucking sweet. Could just eat you up.â
The wave of heat flowed up to your neck. âIâm sorry?â you asked.
âCould just eat them up,â he replied.
âOh, right.â Of course, he was talking about the cookies, and you hadn't heard him correctly.
âI went years without dessert,â he said almost more to himself than you, but he continued to stare when he finished his second. âDidnât realize how much I missed it until I didnât have it.â
Your heart went out to him. If you ever wanted a treat, you had the privilege to buy one or get the ingredients to make them yourself. He didnât have either option and that wasnât by choice. What he had to endure, at least the information you were privy to, you wouldnât wish upon your worst enemy.
âYouâre more than welcome to eat the entire plate if youâd like,â you offered, chewing your lip as you thought more about it. âAnd, you know, if thereâs something youâd really like or if you have a favorite treat or dessert, maybe I can bake it for you?â
âYouâd do that?â He looked touched before his cheek twitched. âEven after I was an ass to you and you already made lunch for me once?â
âWell, you werenât a complete ass to me and this lunch was for both of us,â you teased a little. âAnd I really donât mind. I like to cook and bake.â
âYet you do data entry,â he deadpanned.
You shrugged. âData entry is a job that helps me pay my bills, and thatâs why I do it. Nothing more.â
âSo, you wouldnât miss it if you ever had the chance to quit?â he asked curiously.
âI mean, I might miss it if I donât have something else lined up, but it isnât exactly a dream job. I donât know if I actually have a dream job, but I could never be a professional baker or cook because those are things I love to do, and I want to keep enjoying them without pressure added to them,â you said. You respected people who went for their dreams, but you felt like doing those hobbies as a job would somehow taint them for yourself. Doing them for fun and spoiling those close to you made you happier.
âThat makes sense. You want to keep the purity of it,â he said. You had to agree with that. âYou know, I did offer to let you use my kitchen while youâre in the area. Maybe you can bake for me here or we can bake something together.â
Lunch and meeting his cat. Playing games. Baking together. Bucky mustâve been desperate for the company if he wanted you to hang out with him. What other explanation was there? âThat would be nice,â you smiled. Using his kitchen would be amazing.
âBut we can figure out what to make together later. You asked about games.â He licked his fingers again with a hum and you almost looked away. âI have a deck of cards, or I have stuff like checkers, chess, or Scrabble.â
Plenty of games for two. âIâm fine withâŠâ you stopped talking when fur brushed against your leg, making you giggle. âHey, Alpine.â
Bucky smiled softly. âAl, let her be.â
âOh, sheâs fine,â you smiled, reaching down to pet her. She was a sweet cat. âIs she strictly an indoor cat or does she ever go on walks or anything with you?â
âI carry her or put her in my coat if we venture away from the house. Not because I think sheâll run off, but because of some of the other animals in the woods. I don't want her to get hurt or worse.â
âThat makes sense.â Your heart ached at the thought of something taking Alpine away, but it warmed at the image of the burly man carrying her around in his coat. âYou said you came out to the woods with her. Did it take her a bit to get used to the place?â
He nodded. âIt was a little bit of an adjustment, but she loved it once she got used to it,â he said, resting back in his chair and observing you as you ate. âI don't think sheâd ever want to go back to the city since she loves this place so much. She has everything she needs here.â
Something flickered in his eyes and you weren't sure why his tone sounded strange. It was almost as if he was trying to convince you and himself that she loved it there. âWell, as long as sheâs happy and you're happy and the place feels like home, thatâs what matters, right?â
âRight,â he whispered.
âThough I imagine it must get a little lonely since you're so far from the city,â you commented, wishing you hadn't said so. He wanted to get away after the rough mission he experienced and didnât need you commenting on his possible loneliness.
âIt can be,â he said, leaning his arms on the table and gazing at you. âBut it isnât so lonely right now.â
âNo, it isnât,â you said, the conversation you had with Kenna popping up in your mind. Maybe he was lonely and you were, too, and he was still shirtless and he could make you forget that loneliness for a short while and help with your sexual frustration and⊠something was stopping you from going there. âI guess it's too bad I won't be around after a couple of weeks,â you smiled sadly.
Bucky frowned and abruptly stood up from his chair. âIâm getting another drink,â he said, his voice a quiet rumble. âYou want one?â
You frowned a little, too, when you saw his eye twitch. Did your comment somehow upset him? âSure, thanks,â you replied, watching him grab both glasses and walk out with heavy steps.
You sighed once he was out of sight. For a second you wanted to believe that Bucky was giving you an opening, but you didnât take it. But what if you hit on him in return and flirting with you wasnât his intention at all? How awkward would that be if he turned you down or told you to leave? Youâd have to hide out in your cabin for the rest of your trip.
If Kenna were there sheâd tell you to get out of your head.
Alpine brought your attention to her with a small purr, brushing against your leg again. âYou really like it out here, huh?â you asked, giving her another pet. âI can see why. Itâs beautiful, peaceful. Don't have to worry about noisy neighbors and traffic and crowds.â You paused and giggled. âBut I guess you never had to worry about traffic and crowds. Only Bucky did.â
âNot anymore.â
You jolted when Bucky set your drink down. You hadnât heard him come back in. At least he wasn't frowning anymore. âSorry. I was just-â
âItâs fine. I talk to her, too,â he said, nodding to your plate. âYou haven't finished your food.â
âOh, I think I was just caught up in our conversation,â you said, going back to eating.
Instead of taking his seat at the head of the table he took a seat on the bench to your left. Alpine hopped in his lap and he rubbed her head, but he kept his eyes on you. âThe bowl of stew you had yesterday was a small helping, too. Do you not eat enough?â
You coughed when you took your next bite and his hand went to your back since he was close enough. His hand was huge. Warm. Why were you thinking about that? âI eat plenty,â you defended yourself after you took a drink. He didn't remove his hand. âThree meals a day and snacks in between.â
âSorry. That was rude of me to ask that way,â he said, slowly pulling his hand away. âJust making sure you're taken care of since youâre out here all by yourself.â
âIt's okay.â The question surprised you, but you weren't at all angry or put off. It was actually kind of sweet that your well-being mattered. âBut you donât have to worry about me. Unless it involves chopping firewood, I can take care of myself.â
He raised an eyebrow like he didnât quite believe you. âI know all about taking care of myself, but itâs tough some days having to go it alone,â he said, watching meticulously as you worked on finishing up your plate. âYou shouldn't have to.â
Your well-being wasn't Buckyâs responsibility as flattering as it was that he cared. But the fact that a virtual stranger cared more about your safety or if you ate enough more than some who knew you for ages hurt. It shouldnât matter, but it did. And once your getaway was over, youâd be back in the city and back to your routine and Bucky would be back to his routine, too.
âIt is tough some days,â you agreed. That was why you wanted to have a good and caring partner to lean on so you could ask for help if and when you needed it. What you got instead was a cheater, but you were better off. âYou shouldn't have to go it alone either. No one should,â you said, deflecting a bit so you didnât focus on your thoughts and feelings.
Bucky sitting so close and watching you made it hard to think properly. Taking your next breath didn't feel natural either. The short time you spent together hadn't accustomed you to his lingering stares or being the center of his attention. It was a lot. Not bad, just a lot.
He hummed once you ate your last bite and took your plate for you. âWe can play in the den.â
âYou have a den, too?â
âYeah. I almost thought the place was too big for me, but I like the space. Also has perfect lighting when I read,â he said.
âThatâs really nice,â you smiled. It was also the perfect amount since he eventually wanted to have a family. âMy apartment has this little nook where I curl up with a pillow and blanket when I read.â
âA reading nook,â he said, glancing behind him. âThatâs not a bad idea.â
âEveryone should be comfortable while theyâre reading,â you said, Alpine hot on your tail as Bucky led you to the den.
It wasnât as large as the living room, but still spacious and it had the perfect small table for you two to sit and play a game. âHow do you feel about Scrabble?â he asked.
âIâm semi-confident in my skills,â you said, tucking your legs beneath you when you sat down. âDo Sam and Steve like to play games?â
âThey donât mind them, but these games have been sitting here collecting dust,â he replied, bringing the game out. âNow I finally have a partner to play with.â
Your brows furrowed. You assumed one of his friends would play a game with him if they stopped by, but maybe they did other activities. âWell, I hope Iâm a worthy opponent.â
âIâm sure you are, but Iâm pretty good myself,â he said without a hint of bragging. âWinner picks the next game,â he added, more like a statement than a suggestion.
âOh,â you said. He assumed you were staying for more than one game. You couldnât exactly blame him since you confirmed you had no plans. âYeah, okay. Winner picks the next game.â
He smiled triumphantly. âYouâre not a sore loser, are you?â
âNo,â you giggled, helping him set up the board. His fingers brushed yours when he handed you the letter pieces, tingles shooting down your spine. It was sad how starved you felt for some affection, and it felt selfish to indulge. But was it selfish when he was single and so were you? âAre you?â
âI try not to be,â he said, taking a seat to your left again instead of across from you. âEither way itâs a win though.â
âYeah? Howâs that?â
âBecause even if I donât win this game, weâre still going to play another and thereâs a chance Iâll win that.â
You tried not to smile. âThatâs a good way to look at it.â
âI imagine thatâs how you look at things,â he said, tilting his head. âA little bit brighter than most.â
You froze. Kenna said something similar yesterday. âIâm sorry, what did you say you did after you left yesterday?â you asked curiously.
âSpent most of the day and evening inside. It was uneventful. Why?â
âNo reason,â you smiled. There was no way he was by your cabin after he left yesterday. No possible way. It was silly to even think that for a moment.
âYou asked for a reason,â he said. âWhy?â
âWell, I was chatting with a friend just outside of the cabin yesterday and I thought-â
âYou thought what? That I was hanging around and eavesdropping?â he asked, your eyes rounding at the bite in his tone. It was reminiscent of when he discovered you attempting to chop firewood.
âNo!â Why had you opened your mouth? âI just heard a couple of noises like branches snapping, but it was probably an animal or something. I donât really know the surroundings here.â
He nodded after a moment. âThere are animals in the woods, so itâs good to be on guard if youâre sitting outside. One of the reasons I have a security system is so I can see all angles outside of the place,â he said, his shoulders relaxing. âSorry if I sounded upset. I justâŠâ His jaw clenched. âI thought this was going well, but youâre scared of me just like everyone else.â
Your face fell and his apology didnât make the guilt you felt go away. If anything, you felt worse. Things were going well, and you blew it. âNo, Iâm sorry, and Iâm not scared of you, Bucky.â
âYouâre not?â he asked, his eyes boring into yours.
âIâm not,â you answered. You had no reason to be scared. If he wanted to hurt you or do anything else, he wouldâve done so already. âBut if you want me to go-â
He grabbed your wrist before you could move. âStay,â he whispered, sliding his hand down to grip yours. It was a strong grip, but it didnât hurt.
âYou want me to stay?â you asked. A gorgeous hero wanted to spend time with you. He really was as desperate for your company as you were for his. But it had to be because you were the only person nearby, right?
âYeah.â He nodded to the table. âI mean, we already went through the trouble of setting up the game,â he said, his voice lighter.
You smiled a little. It was a good sign that he wasnât kicking you out. âYou did,â you agreed, not pulling your hand away. It felt nice.
âAnd maybe the overall winner can pick dinner instead of another game. Could be something simple. I have plenty of stuff here to make.â
âDinner? Wait, Iâm staying for dinner?â you asked, confused. He hadnât mentioned anything about dinner tonight. âI thought I was heading back to the cabin after a couple of games.â
âWhy would you do that? I thought we were having fun,â he said, tilting his head. âWhat, youâd rather eat alone?â
âOh, I am having fun, and I donât want to eat alone.â It has been a fun afternoon so far. It continued to surprise you that he wanted you around. âYou sure you donât mind? Itâll be dark after dinner, and I wouldnât want you-â
âI donât mind walking you back if itâs dark. Iâd prefer that, actually.â
âOkay,â you smiled. Dinner would be nice. âAnd I want you to remember what you said earlier because when I win so you canât act grumpy.â
âYou think I'm grumpy?â he teased, complete with a grumpy stare.
âFrom the short time Iâve known you, you do give off grumpy vibes,â you teased back, the tension fading away.
âIâm an old man. I think Iâve earned my right to be grumpy,â he said, carefully looking over his letters.
âWell, you donât look like an old man,â you said. Not with the way he was built. âYou look really good,â you added, feeling the need to do so.
His thumb moved along your hand and you werenât sure if he was doing it intentionally or not. âGlad you like what you see,â he said in a low voice, his eyes flickering to yours.
Before you could concentrate on the heat spreading in your body, he went back to the letters and carefully placed his tiles on the board. The room remained silent when he set the last tile down and you tried not to react when you read the word. It was almost impossible not to, especially with how he kept rubbing his thumb along your hand.
QUIVER
âQuiver.â You swallowed a little. âSo, thatâs 18 points. I guess I have my work cut out for me, huh?â
Your eyes stayed on the board when he moved a little closer, feeling the warmth that rolled off his body. He wasnât lying when he said he ran warm. âI guess so,â he murmured.
Clearing your throat, you tried to concentrate on choosing a decent word. You couldnât think of anything spectacular, and you were blaming that on Bucky since he was so close. You felt his eyes on you, too, and you dared to sneak another glance at him. He looked like he was two seconds away from devouring you. And you wanted him to.
âFuck it,â you whispered, leaning in and pressing your lips against his.
It wasnât a passionate kiss or anything over the top. Just a soft, chaste kiss to test the waters, to break the tension that you were certain at this point both of you felt. He didnât kiss you back since you pulled away before he could, but he leaned forward like he was chasing your lips. And he refused to let you look away when he opened his eyes, cupping your cheek and silently demanding that you stare back at him.
If he looked like he wanted to devour you beforeâŠ
âIâm sorry,â you whispered, your heart racing when he brought his metal hand to your face, too.
âIâm not,â he whispered back, slowly leaning in.
A flash of lightning nearby illuminated the woods outside the window followed by a roll of thunder that made you jump back before he could kiss you, your heart racing again as the sudden sound of raindrops followed. âItâs raining?â you asked. You didnât know it was going to storm today.
âYeah,â he said. He didnât seem to care at all since he was too busy staring at your mouth. âSupposed to rain through the rest of the afternoon and part of the evening, so itâs a good thing youâre here with me.â
âOh. Yeah,â you said. There was no way youâd make it back to the cabin without getting caught in the storm, but that was the last thing on your mind when his thumb moved over your lips.
âWhatâs wrong? Were you scared Iâd kick you out? Make you get all wet?â he rumbled, your breath hitching when he slid one hand to the back of your neck. âYou donât need to go outside to get wet for me.â
âBucky,â you gasped.
His lips skimmed yours before he pulled away. âBut why donât we try to finish our game?â he suggested, your mouth falling open. âWeâll see who breaks first.â
Moving fast! Our poor girl. To be fair, this was meant to be a romantic vacation for her, and I'd ignore the red flags if a shirtless Bucky was paying attention to me. So, which one is going to break first? What do we think will happen next? Love and thanks for reading! â€ïž
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: âsweets, sugar, little dollâ
a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!
word count: 11.4k
main masterlist || đš art's moodboard event
synopsis:
After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.
Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.
You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ânatural adventurers.â In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns againstâand that was splitting up.
From there, the trip spiraled.
You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.
Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.
There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.
Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You werenât alone out here after all.
The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.
Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for helpâor better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.
That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.
As you got closer, you took in the land.
Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on topâpresumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.
Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.
âHey! Who the hell are you?â
You spun around.
A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.
His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.
âU-um,â you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. âI mean no harm, sir. Iâm just here toââ
âGet the fuck off my property,â he growled.
He dropped the logsâbut kept a firm grip on the axeâas he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.
Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?
Just when you thought youâd finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.
You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.
âSir, please!â you winced, trying to stand your ground. âIâm lost. I⊠I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and Iââ
âI donât believe you,â he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of armâs reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. âTake it off.â
â⊠Excuse me?â
âRemove your backpack,â the man clarified harshly. âIf you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goinâ through your stuff.â
With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldnât help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.
He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency suppliesâa flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuffâ a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.
âSee?â you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. âI told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lostââ
âHands up,â he instructed, stepping toward you. âIâm goinâ to pat you down.â
You blinked. âPat me down?â you repeated in disbelief. âFor whatâ!â
Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didnât stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.
To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.
ââŠWhatâs yours?â you then asked.
He ignored you.
Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further downâto your hips, and then between your legs.
Once the man was satisfied that you werenât a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.
âBucky.â
âBucky,â you repeated softly. âGreat. Well, now that weâve got all thisâŠâ you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, âsorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?â
He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.
âW-wait, okayâno phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?â
âNo ride,â was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.
What?
No ride?
You couldnât tell if this man was telling the truthâor if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didnât have time nor energy to play around.
That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.
âIâm sorry, you donât have a functioning phone and you donât own a vehicle?â you questioned in disbelief. âThen how do you get around?â
You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.
âEverythinâ I need is right here,â he grumbled. âCatch my own food. Build my own house. Donât need to rely on anybody else.â
Your heart started to race as panic settled in.
âDo you know where the nearest town is?â you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. âMaybe I can get there before sundownââ
Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.
âNot a good idea,â he mumbled. âLooks like a storm is cominâ.â
The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny dayâbut with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasnât low.
Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.
âCan you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster Iâll get out of your hair.â You pressed.
He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.
âTo the south,â he pointed behind you. âGo straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, youâll get caught up in the storm âfore you even make it to the street.â
You looked in the direction he was pointingâall you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.
âThank you, sir,â you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.
As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.
âIâm tellinâ you, lady, sânot a good idea to leave now,â he warned. âThere are some dangerous animals out thereâand the storm ainât goinâ to do you any favors.â
You didnât listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.
For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.
The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.
Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.
A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The âlight trickleâ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.
The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldnât see more than ten feet in any direction.
You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.
Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.
Then, a low snarl crept up behind youâand that sure as hell didnât come from the wind.
Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasnât a coyoteâno, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.
âOh⊠my god,â you breathed to yourself.
Your heart was beating so fast you couldnât hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.
And thatâs exactly what you did.
The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.
Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.
Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.
A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.
In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.
You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.
A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolfâs head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.
You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.
âYou idiot!â he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. âWhat did I tell you!?â
Bucky.
Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Buckyâs leg.
He let out a pained yell. âAh, fuck!â
It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Buckyâs grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolfâs neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.
With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolfâs neck, right behind the jaw.
The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.
The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.
He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolfâsâangry and grim.
âI told you, stupid girl,â he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. âI fuckinâ told you.â
All of it happened in a blur.
One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Buckyâs cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Buckyâs hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.
When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.
âHey!â you gasped, your voice cracking. âWhat are you doingâ?â
âI donât need you to remove my jacket for me,â you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.
Buckyâs brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabinâwater dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.
âListen, girl,â he hissed impatiently. âI just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettinâ you into my home, about to offer you my damn showerâand this is what you say to me?â
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.
Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. âYouâre bleeding,â you pointed out. âYou need to take care of that wound, or itâll get infected.â
Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.
âBathroomâs down the hall, make a left,â he gruffed, already turning his back on you. âAnd donât take too longâI need to use it after you.â
Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.
The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personalâno photos, no decorâaside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.
As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.
Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small roomâcertainly big enough to fit another person.
âYou found it?â Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.
âYeahâI did. Thanks!â you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.
After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.
You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.
âJesus!â you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. âKnock much?â
Bucky didnât enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.
In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabricâ a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.
âNot used to company,â he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. ââSides, Iâm not interestinâ in lookinâ.â
He didnât wait for a âthank youâ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.
Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.
With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didnât smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabinâ pine, and woodsmoke.
Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.
âThanks for letting me use your shower,â you spoke up, catching his attention.
Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.
âDo you need help?â you offered again. âI can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.â
Bucky didnât look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.
âNo need,â he said roughly, his voice strained.
It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.
You frowned. âAre you sureââ
âI told you and Iâll keep tellinâ you,â he grunted through the pain, âI donât need your help, girl.â
Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.
You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jumpâan involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Buckyâs throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.
âBucky?â you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. âAre you okay?â
There was no answer.
You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admitâand standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.
âBucky, Iâm coming in,â you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.
You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.
So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.
Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tubânaked, of course.
His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didnât wanderâyou didnât care to look.
Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.
Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolfâs claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.
âJesus,â you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. âBucky, this looks like itâs already getting infected.â
Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning upâthe heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolfâs claws.
âYouâre overheating!â
Buckyâs eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.
â...Tired,â he croaked.
Your frown deepened. âStay right there. Donât move,â you commanded, though it was obvious he wasnât going anywhere.
Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Buckyâs vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.
Just my luck, huh?
He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm brokeâand he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.
Damn. He was a fucking idiot.
You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.
You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. âThis is going to sting. Just try to breathe.â
As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Buckyâs body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.
Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.
He wasnât used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.
That was the whole point of being out here.
But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.
It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadnât felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.
Buckyâs breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.
âThere,â you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.
You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didnât come.
He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like thisâbut as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didnât really care.
Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. âIâll let you be. When the storm clears up, Iâll be out of your hairâfor real this time.â
Just as you turned for the door, Buckyâs hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.
âTake the bed tonight,â he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. âIâll sleep on the couch.â
You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?
âSorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,â you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. âBesides, you need proper rest to heal up. Iâll take the couch.â
Buckyâs hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.
With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.
âFine,â he grumbled.
He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.
By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.
He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.
To his surprise, the skin wasnât burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.
There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind⊠that maybe he shouldâve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.
When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.
His jaw tightened.
A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadnât felt in years and didnât care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.
All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.
He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.
He froze.
Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the waterâs edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.
As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basketâ likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berriesâand he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.
By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.
Bucky let out a breath he hadnât realized he was holding.
He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.
âThought you said you were leavinâ,â he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.
You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were brightâclear of the panic from the night before.
âOh!â you smiled at the sight of him. âYouâre still alive!â You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. âI caught you some fishâyou eat fish, right?â
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. âMore of a red meat kind of guy.â
âWell... fish is good for you,â you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. âAnd Iâm going to fix you up some breakfast.â
Buckyâs brow furrowed as you reached him. âDonât waste your effort,â he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. âI like my breakfast done a certain way.â
You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. âYou should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.â
âI donât need you playing house,â Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. âIâve been feedinâ myself since before you were born. Put those down, Iâll do it.â
You didnât even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. âSit. Down. Bucky.â
He opened his mouth to snap backâto tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in chargeâbut the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldnât survive a night without his intervention.
He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsingâ a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldnât have been standing anyway.
From his seat, he watched you move.
âNot only can I catch fish,â you said, getting to work, âbut I can also cook it well.â
The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more⊠domestic.
You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.
He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his spaceâwearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fedâhit him harder than he expected.
âChrist,â he cursed under his breath.
For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.
He liked seeing thisâa beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.
He liked the idea of having someone to protect.
Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasnât just for the fish.
âYouâre gonna burn âem,â he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. âPan needs more grease.â
âIâve got it, Bucky,â you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. âStop worrying that old head of yours.â
âOld?â Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.
You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.
âYou know,â you began, tone light and teasing, âin my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.â
You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.
The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.
âCrapâ!â
Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.
In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.
âCareful, sweets,â he rumbled into a protective growl.
You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but carefulâthe touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.
âBuckyâŠâ you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. âAre⊠are you okay?â
You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.
âI⊠just donât want you hurtinâ yourself,â he said slowly, his voice thick and low. âThatâs all.â
Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thickâand you werenât entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.
By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.
âWhereâs the cutlery?â you asked, turning to him.
He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.
âYour hands are the cutlery,â he said flatly.
You didnât think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.
You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didnât even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.
You swore he didnât look away from you once.
Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.
All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.
You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.
Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But itâll do.
âI suppose I should take my leave after this,â you announced mid chew. âThank you for everythingââ
âYou shouldnât,â Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. âThere might be another storm tonight.â
Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.
Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.
Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.
âWell, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the betterââ
âGood luck with that,â he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. âThe mud and the terrain from yesterdayâs mess will only slow you down. Youâll be lucky to make it a mile before youâre stuck again.â
He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. âBest you wait âtil tomorrow.â
You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.
But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrainâif you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldnât be anyone to save you a second time.
You were completely oblivious to the way Buckyâs eyes traced your body. You didnât notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roofâpermanently in his sights.
âI⊠I guess youâre right,â you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. âI donât think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, Iâd just be a liability.â
Bucky didnât smileâthat would have been too obviousâbut the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
âSmart girl,â he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. âNo sense in chancing it. The woods donât give second chances twice in a row.â
âIâll just⊠stay out of your way, then,â you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. âI can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?â
Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.
âIâll take care of the heavy liftinâ,â he explained. âYou can help me clean the place a bitâor catch some more fish for dinner.â
âYou liked my fish?â you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. âGuess you were right,â he gruffed. âYou can cook, sugar.â
Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.
âOkay,â you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. âAnything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really donât know how to repay you.â
A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.
He liked this.
Noâhe loved this.
âLook at you, doinâ the dishes,â he noted with a nod toward the sink. âThatâs already doinâ more than enough.â
He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something moreâto press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.
âIâll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,â he said, already turning toward the door. âJust stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Donât want you gettinâ hurt or lost again, little doll.â
The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you werenât going anywhere.
For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.
Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.
Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the laborâ but his eyes never left you.
When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.
âCareful, sweets.â
âMind your step. Canât concentrate on my own work if youâre stumblinâ all over the place, little doll.â
âI saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit downâlet me check your leg.â
You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.
You didnât want to call him suffocatingâhe was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterdayâbut the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.
As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasnât a single cloud in the sky.
You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.
There was no storm.
And it was too late to start the trek to town now.
You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.
âHey, Bucky?â you called out.
He didnât look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didnât answer, you tried again, firmer this time.
âBucky. Thereâs no storm like you said there would be.â
Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. âI guess not.â
A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.
âItâs good that you stayed,â he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. âItâs better beinâ safe than sorry. You should know that by nowââspecially after yesterday, sugar.â
Your frown only deepened, and Buckyâs jaw tightened. He clearly wasnât pleased by how eager you were to leave him.
âI know,â you sighed, looking toward the dark window. âItâs just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.â
âIf you had left earlier, you wouldnât have made me that delicious breakfast for savinâ your life,â Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. âYou should sleep in the bed tonight.â
âWhat?â You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. âNo. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for youââ
âNo one takes the couch,â he cut you off like a command. âWe both share the bed tonight. Thereâs plenty of space.â
You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.
The thought of sharing a bed with himâthis hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. âI donât think thatâs a good idea,â you pointed out softly. âIâm perfectly fine on the couch, really.â
âIf youâre gonna trek tomorrow morning, youâll need all the sleep you can get.â
He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.
âCome on,â he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. âIâve got a set of clothes you can change into.â
With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.
âHere.â
âAnd the pants?â you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.
âAll Iâve got are sweatpants thatâd be way too damn big for you,â he said, shoving the drawer shut. âUnless you want to sleep in jeans?â
You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all dayâstained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.
âIâll just wear these again,â you decided.
Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.
âNo. Those are dirty,â he gruffed. âThe shirtâs big enough to be a night dress. Youâll be fine.â
His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasnât a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.
After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.
The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasnât sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.
He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.
You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.
You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.
To him, this was exactly where you belonged.
âIâm sorry you couldnât leave today,â he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. âI was just lookinâ out for you.â
You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Buckyâs heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.
He could get used to waking up to this every morning.
âItâs okay,â you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. âBetter safe than sorry, right?â
âExactly right, sugar.â
From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadnât taken long to notice just how⊠blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.
Unreadable and unwavering.
You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. âHowâs your leg?â
âStill hurts,â he mumbled lowly. âBut Iâm feelinâ a lot better lyinâ next to a pretty girl.â
So much for breaking the tension.
His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.
You hadnât pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldnât tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.
Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.
âY-youâre ridiculous,â you stammered, breathless.
Buckyâs large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.
âFor tellinâ the truth?â he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.
You couldnât move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.
You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.
âPretty,â he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.
His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.
When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than beforeâpupils blown wide.
âSo goddamn pretty.â
âIâŠâ you started, not quite sure what to say, ât-thank you.â
There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Buckyâs hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.
âYou know, beinâ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,â Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. âThings a man like me thought heâd never have.â
âLike what?â you breathed.
âA family,â he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. âIâve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectinâ their cubs, birds tendinâ to their nests. Itâs the most natural, beautiful thing there isâthat kind of connection. I just know havinâ somethinâ special like that... itâd finally bring me peace.â
You werenât entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.
âI hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.â
Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.
âFeels like I already have, little doll.â
Bucky didnât give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.
He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like himâstarved and isolated for decadesâcould possess.
It wasnât gentle at all. It was more like a claim.
His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadnât shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetimeâlike a man who was dying for the touch of another person.
You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.
Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.
âBucky,â you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. âWe... we shouldnât. This is... Iâm supposed to be leaving tomorrow.â
Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.
âTomorrowâs a long way off, sugar,â he buzzed against your skin.
âBucky, pleaseââ
You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.
Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.
A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. âFuck, baby,â he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. âMâso hard. It hurts.â
Bucky began to rock himselfâslow and shallowâagainst the soft heat of your leg. You couldnât help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.
âJust... we can fuck tonightâand you can forget all âbout me tomorrow,â he pleaded, his voice wrecked. âYou can leave as early as you wantâbut please, darlinâ. I need this.â He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. âItâs been so long.â
He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.
â⊠No panties?â
Your face burned with embarrassment. âI⊠didnât want to re-wear the ones I had on,â you explained, your voice small. âTheyâre dirty.â
You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of himâripe and ready for the taking.
You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Buckyâs eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.
Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull backâmostly out of shynessâbut his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.
âBucky, waitâ!â
But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.
He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your earsâvulgar and completely shameless.
You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a manâs mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.
âOh god,â you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.
Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.
He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.
He was devouring you.
He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.
Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.
âTaste sâfucking good,â he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. âOnly makinâ it harder for me to let you go.â
He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest movedâ every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.
He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his handâwhich you already thought was massiveâcould barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.
Buckyâs jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.
Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell himâthe salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.
âYouâre drippinâ all over my sheets, sugar,â Bucky grunted. âMakinâ a reaaal mess.â
âBucky,â you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. âI donât think you⊠I donât think itâll fitââ
âNo?â he cut you off.
He didnât let you finishâhe didnât need toâbut he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.
âI donât care,â he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. âMâgonna make it fit.â
Your body tensed as you felt the head of Buckyâs cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldnât be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.
Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.
He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.
âOpen âem up, sugar,â he rumbled the command. âI want you lookinâ at me for this.â
As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.
âOhâfuck, Bucky!â you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.
A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.
You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.
You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Buckyâs balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.
When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.
âWhere the hell do you think youâre goinâ?â he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. âYou arenât goinâ anywhere. I told you, darlinââIâm makinâ it fit.â
With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.
Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.
âHaaahâ!â you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. âB-Buckââ
Buckyâs entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadnât felt in years.
He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cockâthe one you claimed was too large to fitâwas sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.
He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.
âChrist,â he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. âYouâre takinâ me so well, little dollâŠâ
When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.
He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.
âGod⊠feels sâmuch better than my hand,â he grumbled to himself.
âBuckyâŠâ you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. âFeels good, donât stop.â
Bucky was hypnotized.
He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.
And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.
His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harderâright through the bedframe and against the floorboards.
Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.
He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.
âBuckyâitâs too much, ah!â you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.
That didnât help him at all.
âOhâfuck, sweets!â he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. âFuckâyouâre askinâ for it now.â
The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearlyâyou, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.
Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.
âMine,â he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.
Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.
To breed.
Breed. BreedâŠ
âYouâre stayinâ right here, sugar. Mâgonna fill you up so full, you wonât even remember how to walk out that door.â
His words were purely possessive. If you didnât know any better, you would think it was just dirty talkâand god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.
âFuuck, Bucky,â you whined, âd-donât stopâŠ! Iâm gonna cumââ
Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didnât just want tonight; he wanted years.
He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woodsâhe wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.
Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Buckyâs cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulseâand at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.
âIâm gonna breed you,â he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.
His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. âGonna give you everythinâ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.â
Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.
âH-huhâŠ?â you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. âW-what was thatâ?â
One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeperâmaking the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.
âOh my godâ!â
âDonât you worry your pretty head âbout it,â he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. âMâjust tellinâ you how itâs gonna be. Iâm gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you wonât ever remember what itâs like to be without it.â
He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.
âYouâre gonna stay right here,â he reminded you darkly. âNothinâ but my shirts on your back so I donât have to waste time undressinâ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, Iâm gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and Iâm gonna remind you who you belong to.â
The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.
âIâm gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,â he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. âUntil youâre waddlinâ around this cabin carryinâ my name... carryinâ my blood. Youâre never leavinâ, understand? Youâre mine to breed.â
When you didnât answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.
âUnderstand, sweets?â
âY-yes,â was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. âNever leaving⊠fill meâŠâ
You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.
âYeah?â he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right hereâright beneath him. âYou gonna make me a daddy?â
His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfectâa pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.
Buckyâs entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinchâit sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.
A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.
His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.
âFuckâbabyâ!â he choked out, voice strained and cracking.
He didnât pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.
He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.
âThere⊠fuck,â he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. âPuttinâ a baby in there right nowâyou feel it, donât you? You feel how much I'm givinâ you?â
You couldnât bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.
All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.
Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.
âThereâs the storm, baby,â he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.
âI told you. You arenât goinâ anywhere.â
sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me đ„ once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!
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Warnings:Â this fic could include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
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Character: mob!baker!Steve Rogers, reader with arthritis
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Youâre distracted as you get to the front of the line. You feel bad to have caused all that drama. You can sense the woman who came in with Devin glancing at you as you roll up to the counter, turning the wheels to get close. You didnât even think of what you wanted.
âUm. May I get⊠a strawberry turnover, please?â You ask, too edgy to read the menu.
âOf course. Anything else?â The cashier asks. You know her. She works at the grocery too. Or did.
âNo thanks. I appreciate it.â You take out your change purse.
âDonât charge her,â the owner calls through as he brings out a tray of pastries and slides it into the display. âComped.â
âThank you,â you eke out. You put a tip in the jar instead.
âIf you want to find a table, we can bring it to you.â He offers.
âOh, itâsâŠâ you swallow. âOkay.â
You donât want to draw any more attention. You look around and find a table by the window. You stare at the chair. The wooden seat wonât be good for your tailbone.
You let go of your walker and grab the chair. Itâs heavier than you expect. You drag it and it scrapes on the floor loudly. You keep your head down, straining to lift the feet off the wood.
âI got you,â a voice grits and someone approaches. Itâs him. Steve. The owner.
âSorry I⊠donât want my walker to be in the way.â You let go as he takes the chair and moves it to another table.
âAll good,â he assures you.
You roll your walker around and grip the handles as you sit, locking the brakes. You nod and thank him under your breath. You canât look at him. Youâre too embarrassed. You shouldâve got the pastry to go.
âIf you need anything else, let them know at the counter.â He says.
âYouâre too nice,â you stare at the table.
He leaves and you fidget restlessly. Youâre used to the sideways glances and kids pointing, asking loudly whatâs wrong with you. Youâre too young to be like this. You know that, they really donât need to remind you.
You move your purse onto the table and take out your little notebook. You go over the grocery list you made before you left your place. Shoot, you didnât write down oats. You used the last ones this morning.
Steps approach and the scent of freshly warmed pastry kisses your nose. You look up as Steve sets down a scalloped saucer with a gooey turnover drizzled in lacy icing. You smile and close your notebook.
âOh, thanks. Thatâs sweet.â You murmur. âIt smells⊠looks delicious.â
âNot a problem. Youâll let me know if itâs too sweet.â He says.
âUm, Iâm sure itâs good.â You frame the dish with your fingers. âThank you.â
âEnjoy.â He claps his hands together and backs up.
You shrink down and examine the dessert. You peel apart the warm pastry and nibble on it. You get some of the filling on the next bite and your cheeks pinch. Itâs better than the danishes you get on clearance at the shop.
You eat slowly as you dare to look around. You always liked baking but it was hard for you to stand too long in the kitchen. You always kept to quick and easy meals. Anything you could leave in the rice cooker or just boil water to add. Sandwiches and soup were the best.
You hold up your sticky finger and lick your lips. You sit up as you sense someone coming close. Itâs Steve. Again. He puts down some napkins.
âThank you,â you say.
"How did you like it?" He asks.
"It was good."
He sets down something else. The paper bag crinkles as a peak of crust shows through the little plastic window in the bag.
âSaw it on your list,â he says. âSourdough. But if you prefer ryeâŠâ
âThatâs⊠too much. I couldnât.â You wipe your fingers, your hand shaking a moment. âReally, Iâm on my way to the grocery shop.â
âOne less thing on your list.â He insists. âReally, I donât mind.â
You crumple up the napkin and sit back on the walker. You zip up your purse and hang it on the handle. You push yourself to your feet and release the brakes.
âI do. I appreciate the turnover but thatâs already too much. Iâm okay.â You assure him. âIt was nice of you to step in earlier but⊠thank you. Just thank you.â
You slide your walker out from behind the table and reach for the plate and napkin. He swipes it up first. âIâll take care of it.â He says.
You thank him one last time. You angle around and make your way across the bakery. As you near the door, he brushes by you and gets there first. He holds the door open.
You brace yourself as you let the wheels off the ledge. As you pass, he reaches to put the loaf on the seat of your walker. You gasp as you step down and pause. You look at him.
âI said no.â You insist.
âTake it.â He insists. âMy treat.â
You stare at him. Even if he wasnât standing on the ledge, heâd be huge. You wilt and purse your lips.
âThank you.â Once again.
You continue outside and donât look back. Youâre embarrassed. It might be all in your head. Maybe no one really noticed the whole episode but it wonât be easy to forget. This is why you hate going out. Even in a small town like this, or maybe because itâs a small town, people judge.
Warnings:Â this fic will include dark content and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 4thâs fic!
Charles Blackwood + âDonât you realise how much I want you?â (Regency AU)
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.đ
Countess Drayfort, nee Locke, now Blackwood, reclines against her pillows as you enter with a tray. You bring the porcelain tea set right to her bedside as she soothes herself with a painted fan. Her once rosy cheeks are pallid. You wonder if at least age has broken through or if this is a summer ague come to fester.
"Kathleen put some African ginger in the tea. She says it will help, my lady." You pour a cup and add some sugar as she prefers.
"She thinks of everything," Lady Drayfort preens softly. She accepts the cup but you notice the tremor as she struggles to balance even that weight on her own.
"And some berries and whey. It shouldn't be too heavy on your stomach, lady."
"Mm, I am not of body to eat," her lips downturn and the lines around her mouth and eyes deepen. Despite the decades behind her, she never truly looked or acted as though she knew them.
"You should try, lady. You need your strength."
"I've got it still. Never fret for me, dear. You are too kind to me." She thinks of reaching dorfyou but thinks better of it as the cup teeters. "Hm, have you seen my husband?"
"He was off early this morning, my lady."
"As ever he is. Busy of mind and body. In many ways." She smiles and leans back on the pillows. "When he returns, please let him know I am not fit to receive him." She goes quiet and peers into the depths of the porcelain cup. "I should hate for him to see me as such.â
âYes, my lady.â You acquiesce with a gentle nod. âWould you like a cold cloth?â
âPlease, go and tend your duties. I should hate to keep you.â She says.
âI will be back to look in on you,â you promise as you back away.
âYou are always so sweet, ma petite.â She hums, the little name sheâs called you since you were brought onto service as a girl.
âLady,â you smile and curtsey.
You leave her with worry in your heart. You will call for the physician and bear her chagrin. She is ever stubborn but youâve never seen her in this state, not even when her first husband died. She was ever lively, riding a saddle with ease and laughing over cards as she told bawdy jokes that would make men in their clubs blush.
You send Lionel in his cart to bring back Doctor Reginault. You go down to help the cook, Kathleen, but she waves you off as she does any gnat or rodent in her kitchen. You resign yourself to dusting shelves already touched with feather.
The physician arrives and you bring him up to Lady Drayfort. You leave him in the corridor as you go to warn her but find her unconscious with tea staining the high collar of her sleeping gown. She is breathing but pale.
You retrieve Dr. Reginault and he bends over her to feel her neck and forehead. He tuts as he opens his bag and searches out a vial.
âIt is a summer sickness, I believe. Two centuries ago the like ran rampant in the cities. Not often out in the greenlands.â He advises. âHave her take these drops with her tea when she wakes. Sleep is most important. Rouse her in an hour or so. If you have citrus, have her eat some.â
âYes, doctor.â You clasp your hands anxiously.
âDo not worry for the lady. The countess is a strong one.â He assures as he packs up his bag. âBe here with her.â
âYes, doctor.â You repeat.
He goes and you sigh. You have a dreadful feeling for your mistress. You watch through the window as Lionel drives the physician out and you stare off into the sinking horizon. Some time later, hooves approach.
Lord Blackwood returns on his sable mount. He sits proudly upon her as he canters through the gate. His page meets him and takes away the beast as the master of the estate dusts off his trousers.
Though the countess bid you not to say it, you cannot keep a secret from her own husband. You go down to the kitchens and request a fresh tray of tea with lemon, and any citrus that might be in the stores. As Kathleen works on the task, you hear Lord Blackwood enter.
You go out to see him pull off his riding gloves. His eyes gleam at you. You bend your knees and neck reverently.
âMy lord, Percy is around. Shall I fetch himââ
âI sent Percy off on an errand already,â Blackwood interrupts. âCome, you will tend to my jacket.â
You hesitate then go to him. He turns his back to you and extends his arms. You help him shrug off his embroidered jacket. It was one of the many gifts the countess rained on him.
âI will have claret in my office,â he commands as he hands you his gloves and hat.
You step aside as he strides past you. You wait until he is up the stairs before you scurry to store his things away. You return to the kitchen. The water is still boiling. You fill a decanter with claret and set it on a tray with a crystal glass.
You climb to the second floor and approach the lordâs office. The door is ajar in expectation. You stand at the threshold.
âMy lord, you claret.â You announce.
âIn, shut the door.â He demands as he pulls free his ascot.
You obey, setting the tray on his desk and going to the door. As you go to close it from the outside, he stops you.
âYou must pour it.â He says.
âYes, my lord. Apologies.â
You enter once more and close the door. You cross to him and pour a glass of the clear liquor. You set the decanter down and replace the gold cap.
âMy lord. The doctor came to see the countess today.â You say.
He looks at you with a crinkle around his eyes. âOh? Well, she is rather ahead in years. I suppose they are good acquaintances.â
âShe is not well, my lord.â
âSurely, the doctor did more for her than I could.â He takes the glass and sips from it, watching you over the brim.
âYes, my lord. Forgive me if I was overbearing.â You back away. âI must tend to her teaââ
âYou tend to me.â He insists and drinks deeper. âAnd Iâve not dismissed you.â
You pause and dip your head. âForgive me. I was not meaningââ
âYou are shy.â He remarks.
âMy lord, I only mean to attend my dutyââ
âEvasive, I sense it. When I am around, you elude me.â He intones.
âNo, my lord. I serve the countess.â
âYou serve the household, of which I am master now.â He retorts. âYou serve my wife but you also serve me.â
âYes, my lord, you are true. I was not being defiantââ
âNo, only⊠cautious.â He stands and rounds the desk. âFor you sense it too.â
You chafe and clasp your wrist tight, unsure. âMy lord?â
He crowds you, looming over you, his hand creeping up your sleeve. You lean away and he grips your arm to keep you from retreat. You gasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes twinkle as his cheeks dimple around his smirk.
âDonât you realise how much I want you?â He whispers and leans in. âYou donât truly believe I want the decrepit widow?â
âMy lord,â you gulp.
He grabs your other arm.
âLet her sleep. She will be better tomorrow when the serum has fled her veins.â He purrs, his lips brushing your hairline. âAnd tonight, it will only be us.â
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Warnings: dark and possessive Yoongi, kidnapping, captivity
Masterlist
After that night, Yoongi stopped touching her almost entirely.
No casual hands against her waist while passing in the hallway.
No brushing hair away from her face.
No absentminded fingers against the small of her back guiding her through rooms.
Nothing.
The distance should have relieved her.
Instead, the absence became noticeable everywhere.
Especially because Yoongi still looked at her the same way.
That terrifyingly focused attention never changed.
If anything, it grew worse.
Like he was constantly thinking.
Calculating.
Monitoring himself as carefully as he monitored her.
And she realized something slowly over the following weeks:
Yoongi was afraid of himself.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not because he thought he would hurt her physically.
Because he knew exactly how deeply obsessed heâd become.
Knew how fragile his self-control actually was beneath all the calmness.
So now he compensated by tightening control elsewhere.
More cameras appeared around the property.
The guards rotated more frequently.
The gates required multiple access codes now.
And every single male employee disappeared from the mansion completely.
At first she didnât even notice.
Then one morning she looked around the breakfast table and realized every staff member in the house was female.
Every maid.
Every cook.
Every assistant.
Every cleaner.
She laughed in disbelief.
âYou cannot be serious.â
Yoongi looked up from his coffee.
âWhat?â
âYou replaced every male employee.â
He continued stirring sugar slowly into his cup.
âYes.â
âBecause of what? Jealousy?â
âPartially.â
The honesty stunned her every single time.
âYoongi, thatâs insane.â
âNo,â he said calmly. âItâs preventative.â
She stared at him.
âYou hear yourself, right?â
âI donât want strange men around you.â
âThey werenât strange men! They were employees.â
Yoongi finally looked at her properly then.
Dark eyes steady.
Sharp.
âThey looked at you too much.â
Heat crawled unpleasantly up her neck.
âWhat?â
âThe cook especially.â
The bluntness caught her off guard completely.
âYouâre imagining things.â
âIâm not.â
His expression hardened slightly.
âThey knew you were vulnerable.â
âIâm not vulnerable.â
âYou are here.â
âYou donât get to decide whoâs dangerous to me.â
âYes,â Yoongi said softly. âI do.â
The conversation ended there.
Like most conversations with him did.
Not because he shouted her down.
Because once Yoongi decided something, it became immovable.
Absolute.
The psychological exhaustion started affecting her more around the second month.
Not acceptance.
Not affection.
Just exhaustion.
Living in a constant state of fear and anger took energy she eventually no longer had.
Especially because Yoongi remained relentlessly consistent.
He never hit her.
Never screamed at her.
Never retaliated when she lashed out emotionally.
He simply endured her hatred with horrifying patience while continuing to care for her anyway.
And slowly that consistency began wearing cracks into her anger.
Not because she forgave him.
Because human beings werenât built to sustain that level of emotional intensity forever.
One night she woke from a nightmare screaming and gasping hard enough to make herself dizzy.
For several confused seconds, she thought she was back home.
Then reality returned all at once.
The room.
The house.
Him.
Panic surged immediately through her chest.
Before she could fully calm herself, the bedroom door opened.
Yoongi stepped inside instantly, hair messy from sleep, concern obvious across his face.
âYou okay?â
She stared at him silently, still breathing hard.
Of course he heard.
Of course he came.
Yoongi moved closer carefully.
âYou were crying.â
âIâm fine.â
It was obviously a lie.
He sat slowly on the edge of the bed, keeping distance between them.
Not touching.
Never touching unless invited now.
âWhat was the dream about?â
âYou.â
The answer slipped out before she could stop it.
Pain flickered across his expression immediately.
Still, he stayed calm.
âWhat happened in it?â
âYou wouldnât let me leave.â
Silence settled heavily between them.
Then he said quietly:
âThatâs not a dream.â
Something about the honesty shattered her composure unexpectedly.
Tears burned suddenly behind her eyes again.
âI hate this,â she whispered.
Yoongi looked down at his hands for a long moment before answering.
âI know.â
âYou ruined my life.â
Another pause.
Then:
âI know.â
God.
Why did he always do that?
Why did he never defend himself properly?
She wanted him to justify it. Argue back. Give her something clean to fight against.
Instead he accepted every accusation while still refusing to let her go.
It was maddening.
âI donât understand you,â she said shakily.
Yoongiâs jaw tightened faintly.
âThat makes two of us.â
She wiped angrily at her face.
âI donât even know why you want me this much.â
That made him go very still.
For a second, she thought maybe he wouldnât answer.
Then finally:
âBecause you saw me correctly.â
The room felt heavier immediately.
She frowned slightly. âWhat does that even mean?â
Yoongi hesitated.
Like he was deciding whether to say anything at all.
âEveryone else,â he said finally, âsees pieces of me.â
A pause.
His fingers flexed once against his own palm.
âThe idol. The producer. The celebrity. The version they need.â
He exhaled quietly through his nose.
âNo one really listens past that.â
Her expression shifted slightly. âThatâs not true.â
âIt is,â he said simply.
That made her go quiet.
Yoongiâs gaze lowered briefly.
âTelling people youâre tired gets old. After a while they stop hearing it.â
Silence stretched.
âBut you didnât.â
That landed differently.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
âThat fansign conversation?â he continued quietly. âYou didnât treat me like something to consume. You actually understood things Iâve never explained out loud.â
He glanced at her then.
Not intense.
Just direct.
âYou listened like it mattered.â
She swallowed.
His eyes finally lifted to hers again.
âIt felt like finding oxygen after years underwater.â
The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch slightly.
There it was again.
That unbearable sincerity.
Not manipulation.
Not performance.
Real feeling.
Raw enough to make her uncomfortable.
âI didnât know what to do after that,â Yoongi admitted softly. âI tried thinking rationally about it. Tried giving you space.â A humorless smile flickered briefly across his mouth. âDidnât work.â
She stared at him silently.
Because for the first time since being taken, he sounded tired of himself too.
âI knew I was becoming obsessed,â he said. âIâm not stupid.â
âThen why didnât you stop?â
The question hung heavily between them.
Yoongi answered immediately.
âBecause I didnât want to.â
The honesty stole the air from her lungs.
No excuses.
No denial.
Just truth.
âI couldâve let you leave Korea,â he continued quietly. âI couldâve convinced myself texting was enough. But eventually you wouldâve moved on.â His gaze sharpened slightly. âAnd I couldnât tolerate that outcome.â
The terrifying part was how logically he framed it.
Like he had genuinely evaluated every possibility before deciding this one was preferable.
âYou say that like itâs reasonable.â
âNo,â Yoongi corrected softly. âI say it because itâs true.â
Silence stretched between them again.
Then finally she asked the question sheâd secretly wondered for weeks.
âDo you ever feel guilty?â
His expression changed immediately.
Not defensive.
Worse.
Sad.
âAll the time.â
The answer stunned her.
âThen whyââ
âBecause guilt isnât stronger than my feelings for you.â
His voice stayed calm.
Certain.
âAnd if I let guilt decide things,â he added quietly, âI would lose you.â
Something painful twisted unexpectedly in her chest.
Because she believed him completely.
Yoongi stood slowly from the bed then.
âIâll leave you alone now.â
He turned toward the door before she spoke again suddenly.
ââŠWait.â
He stopped instantly.
The single word affected him visibly.
She noticed that too.
Her throat tightened slightly.
âIâŠâ God, why was this difficult? âCan you just stay until I fall asleep?â
Yoongi went completely still.
For one terrifying second, she thought maybe sheâd made a mistake.
Then he answered softly:
âOf course.â
He sat back down carefully beside the bed, keeping the same respectful distance as before.
Neither spoke again.
But long after her breathing finally evened into sleep, Yoongi remained awake beside her, staring quietly into the dark with something dangerously close to happiness settling inside his chest.
I seriously need to start reading more fics đ but I do have a few.
Nemesis recs pt. 1
love lockdown by @personasintro â this deserves a special place on this list because, without it, I probably wouldn't be here writing today. The lack of updates inspired me to come up with my own version of zombie apocalypse Yoongi đ, and without that, none of my stories would probably exist. I'm still waiting for an update!!!
basic needs & self fulfillment needs by @gggukniverse â also still waiting for an update đ This is genuinely one of the best smut fics I've read so far that I keep coming back to
hot & bothered by @ktownshizzle â I don't read this type of stories often, but it was really sweet <3
snowball series by @werezmastarbucks â the one that inspired me to write my own psycho stalker!
moon dreams by @kikiskook â freaky, but surprisingly sweet in the end. I actually reread it a few days ago
Word Count: 5,885 // angst (toxic relationship, friends to lovers, yandere behavior, possessiveness, jealousy, mention of physical harm, mention of neglect), smut (rough sex/slight dub-con, fingering, omorashi, asphyxiation, forced creampie), no fluff
Childhood friend!Taehyung X Childhood friend!Reader
Summary: You and Taehyung were inseparable once. When you come back to your hometown after three years, fate pulls you back to him. And this time, Taehyung wonât ever keep his eyes off of you.Â
Summary: Reader is a ballerina who has a personal stake in politics for the working class. Having come up from poor roots, she hasn't forgotten the struggle of the working class and uses her spare time and influence to try to push agendas for them. Her efforts catch the eye of Tommy Shelby. And once he sees her dance, he is eager to preserve that beauty for himself.
âWe arenât going to go back right now?â you questioned nervously when Ada announced that she would still like to take you to the restaurant.
âIt would be suspicious if I said I was taking you to lunch and you didnât eat,â Ada pointed out, standing up and snatching her bag off the floor. âPlus, maybe itâll make Tommy less angry if you bring him back a sandwich or something.â
Polly snorted at that. âStill be quick about it. Donât drag it out too long.â
âYouâre not coming?â Ada asked, pausing.
âNo,â Polly shook her head, âGot company comingâŠâ
There was a glint in her eye.
âThe painter?â Ada questioned. Polly only finished off her drink, not saying a word. Ada exhaled and looked over at you. âGuess itâs just the two of us then.â
<><><>
Thomas closed the car door behind him, going up the drive to the front door. Johnny stopped outside the car, lighting up a cigarette and staring off over the grounds.
Upon entering the house, Thomas found the entrance hall empty. He slammed the door behind him, trying to catch someoneâs attention. One of the maids walked in to greet him, keeping her head down, which he thought was odd. He pulled his cap off, holding it out to her and she took it. His eyes followed her as she also took his coat from him and went to hang both in the coat closet.
âI assume dinner is on schedule?â he asked, breaking the awkward silence.
âYes, sir,â she answered, her back to him. âElsie got a fine cut from the butcher and sheâs working on cooking it with Sandra.â
Thomas noticed the tenseness in her frame and he faced her fully.
âHowâs Y/N? Eat breakfast and lunch?â he questioned. âOr is she sulking?â
Maisie turned around, her face drained of color. Timidly, she said, âI know she ate breakfast, Mr. Shelby. Elsie brought it to her earlier in the morning. Plate was empty when I retrieved it before tea.â
âDidnât want lunch?â
Maisie looked panicked, not answering him.
Annoyed at the beating around the bush, Thomas demanded, âWhat?â
Maisie shifted uncomfortably, hands clasped tightly in front of her. âUm. Miss Ada came aroundâŠâ Thomasâ expression hardened, not liking where this admittance was heading already. âRound 11:30 or so, sir. Made Miss go with her to lunch.â Maisie gulped, her voice even quieter when she said, âTheyâre not back yet. So⊠I donât know if she had lunch, sir.â
Thomas was eerily quiet, eyes piercing her. Maisie averted her eyes, hands wringing slightly. Stalking to her, Thomas remained silent. When he stopped in front of her with purpose, she flinched.
Sucking his teeth, he asked slowly, âYou are telling me that my sister came, someone unlocked Y/Nâs door â Iâm assuming that someone is you since Elsie was gone â and allowed her to waltz out of here unattended? Am I hearing correctly?â
Maisie looked too scared to speak.
âAnswer me!â Thomas said sharply.
âY-yes.â
Thomas rose his eyebrows, scoffing in disbelief, before exploding, âFUCK!â
Maisie winced away from him. âIâm sorry, Mr. Shelby. I couldnâtâ tell Miss Ada noâ"
âFuck!â Thomas roared again, turning around, fists clenched. His chest rose and fell rapidly, staring at nothing, jaw ticking.
He whipped back around, getting in her face. âWhere did they go? Answer me!â
âIââ she started to say but the front door banged open and Johnny rushed into the foyer.
He looked quickly between the two, confusion evident. âTom, I heard shoutingââ
âTELL. ME. Where she went!â Thomas shouted at Maisie, ignoring Johnny.
Tears welled up in the corners of Maisieâs eyes and Johnny tried to intervene again, louder this time, âTom, youâre scaring the girl. What is going on?â
Thomas was not relenting his looming, eyes wild, waiting for her to answer.
âMr. Shelby, she said â Miss Ada â that she was going to her favorite place,â Maisie blubbered. âI-I assume thatâs in Birââ
âSo, not only did you let her leave,â Thomas snarled. âYou have no fucking idea where they went?â
Maisieâs lip warbled, hunched in on herself.
âUn-fucking-believable,â Thomas spat, pulling away from her.
âTom,â Johnny said firmly. âWhatâs going on?â
Thomas exhaled slowly, trembling, trying to keep himself under control. After a few moments, he said, âAda came to take Y/N on a trip to have lunch. When I explicitly said she was to stay in her room. All fucking day.â
Johnny cleared his throat, âWell, Tom, itâs just Ada.â Thomas shot him a glare and Johnny pointed out, âSheâs probably trying to bond with Y/N. And the poor girl,â meaning Maisie when he gestured at her, âCanât tell Ada no. Wouldnât be proper.â
âWhy is everyone making excuses?â Thomas asked himself more than anything, giving a scornful laugh.
He stopped the moment he heard a car approaching outside. And did not wait for anyone else before storming out towards the front door. Tossing the door open, he found Ada parking.
<><><>
âHeâs home,â you told Ada nervously.
âWell, so are you,â Ada said confidently. âAnd with his favorite sandwich.â
The front door of the mansion flew open, and you turned your head away quickly to look back at Ada as she parked the car.
âOf course he doesnât look happy though,â Ada said, less confidence in her voice, sneaking a look over towards the direction of the front door. âSmile, like I told you a joke. Follow me.â
She moved to get out of the car, and you did the same, clutching the bag of food as if it was going to protect you.
When you laid eyes on him, he was almost to you, jaw set and eyes ablaze. His charge slowed as Ada said, âOh Tommy, you should have seen it. This calf escaped off its pasture down the road and the farmerâs hands trying to corral it off the road was hilarious. Iâve never seen a cow move that fast. When did you get back?â
Thomasâ eyes were moving between the two of you, looking immensely distrustful. He was calculating, that much you could see. You did your best to keep a calm expression on your face.
Ada looked at him expectantly when he did not answer. âYou alright?â
âAbout 15 minutes ago,â he finally answered.
âHmm, almost perfect timing,â Ada commented lightly. âTook Y/N to Birmingham. Out to lunch. And sheâs so sweet. Asked what you liked most and we got it for you.â
You took the cue and held out the bag to him.
Thomas looked down at the bag before taking it from you. He peeked inside and you said, âShould still be a little chill.â
He was silent again, staring into the bag and your hope that this would placate him was beginning to dwindle.
That is until he looked back up and smiled tightly, âThanks, love. Iâm sure itâll be fine.â He held out his hand, and you took it. His grip was tight, latching on and you hid a wince. âWell, Ada, thank you for bringing her back. Iâm sure it was a fun outing.â
âDid you think I was gonna leave her on the street?â Ada snorted. She held up a finger and then said, âI did bring some port to go with dinner.â
She went back to the car to fetch it.
Thomas said tightly, âIâm not sure the staff prepared enough food for more than the two of us.â
âWell, good thing Y/N brought you that,â Ada said over her shoulder as she leaned into the backseat to grab the bag. Thomas licked his lips angrily and shot you a look. You reactively shrugged as Ada came back over. âIâm sure youâd be happy to share your portion with me. I am the youngest after all.â
âRight,â Thomas muttered, turning and pulling you with him.
You did not miss the way Ada watched him tug you along.
<><><>
âSo, what was so important in London today?â Ada asked, bringing her spoon of soup up to her lips.
âHad some bill to look over in person the Torys wrote. Edited it. But, I was recruiting,â Thomas answered and she cocked her head in curiosity. âNeeded a new assistant in the office at work. Actually, went to Y/Nâs friend, Henry, to offer the job.â
You almost dropped your spoon. Ada to her credit, kept her face neutral.
âH-Henry?â you stammered. âHeâs not got office experience.â
âHeâs got stage-hand experience. That's a lot of management,â Thomas returned. He ashed his cigarette before taking a drag. âAnd being as he doesnât care much for politics, itâs perfect because he wonât babble to reporters or the other side of the aisle. Plus, with him recovering from his accident, he needs something less strenuous than dancing and heavy lifting of equipment, right?â
Your mind was racing, trying to figure out Thomasâ angle. Was he trying to make it up to you that he had beaten the life out of Henry?
Shrugging when you realized you had not answered, you said, âI mean, I⊠suppose?â
âThought it was the nice thing to do. You care about him so much,â Thomas returned, eyes locked on you. âSo troubled when he was hurt.â
No, you did not think it was an attempt to make amends with his words and the way he was looking at you.
âI was,â you admitted. âHe didnât deserve it.â
Thomasâ smile did not meet his eyes. âWell, the government pays better than the theater too.â
âKind of you Tommy,â Ada cut in. Thomas turned his attention to her, and she took another spoonful of soup. After swallowing, she added, âSurely you need to go back and train him on how to do things though? You didnât just throw him to the wolves.â
You saw the wheels turning in her head already, how to get him back out of the house. She was as clever as Thomas was.
âThere is another assistant to help him along. But Iâm sure Iâll need to train him to do things the way I like them,â Thomas responded and you tensed. He looked back at you and said, âI also stopped by your landlord. Paid the rent but let them know we would be moving your things out within the next month. Weâll need to make a trip to go through your things.â
You opened your mouth to argue but remembered you were playing the long game.
âRight,â you said instead compliantly. âOf course.â
Thomas' eyes did glisten with amusement this time when he smiled at you.
Warnings: Dark-ish!Billy (just the tiniest bit tho), Virgin!Reader, Dub-Con, P in V, Hate Fucking (kinda but not really lol i tried), Fingering, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Mentions of a gun shot graze, Talk of tying up/restraining/bondage, Slight Dirty Talk, Rough Touches (he grabs her face & throat), Use of the word âdrawersâ instead of panties cause I'm cringey like that lol
Word Count: 3.5K
A/N: Dedicated to my anon who sent in this ask and put the thought of hate fucking in my head. I tried, hun lol. Didn't turn out how I thought it would and it's not my best work, but it did help me get out of my writing slump a bit sooooo i hope you enjoy it.
A/N 2: Please accept this supposed to be drabble that turned into basically a fic length thing as compensation for not having Godless Part 2 out yet. Hoping to finish it up within the next couple of weeks đ€đ»
Summary: Jesse's younger sister is a pretty problem for Billy.
Heâs so pissed at you.Â
Jesseâs little sister once again trying to prove herself useful, trying to prove that sheâs âone of the boysâ, but doing nothing except getting in the way and causing trouble.Â
It was supposed to be a quick job. Theyâve rustled cattle together enough to have their system down pat, everyone in their gang playing their part perfectly so that they can be in and out of their targetâs territory in the shortest amount of time. Very rarely do they get caught in the act now - and if they do, theyâre good enough to never suffer losses.Â
But when thereâs a sweet-voiced, overly driven Miss suddenly among their operation when thereâs not supposed to be, things can go wrong.Â
You must have followed them, just far enough behind that they didnât see you during their final look around before starting their run. One minute, everything was fine. None of the ranch ownerâs cowboys were in sight and the cattle were proving to be easy to corral, not a single one of them choosing to go rogue and trying to push out of the herd.Â
And then the next minute, you were there. You were wearing a dress when they left, a pretty little thing that Billy thought made the color of your eyes pop. Itâs not your normal outfit, but you own it now courtesy of Jesse who was tired of hearing you nag about how much you wanted to come with them, how âhelpfulâ you could be if he just gave you a chance, and told you that if you wanted to be helpful you would run down to the local liquor store and make sure he had something to drink when they got back.Â
You had switched out of the dress and back into your shirt and overalls, the shoes on your feet traded for riding boots instead of those dainty lace up ones. The hat that sat on your head covered your hair and the first thing that Billy notices when you ride up next to him is how tightly your hands are gripping the reins.Â
The sight of you there catches him off guard and his gallop turns into a canter as he stares at you with wide eyes.
âHey!â Jesse shouts from a little farther out. âWhat the hell do you think youâre doinâ here?â
âI deserve to be here just as much as any of you,â You reply, head held high as you glare back at your brother.Â
âHell no! Get your ass ouââÂ
The bullet whizzes past his head, cutting through the air with a near deadly precision. Everyone ducks, heads snapping to where the bullet came from as the sound of the gunshot rings in their ears. Thereâs a couple of the ranch ownerâs cowboys standing at the top of the hill, firing shot after shot towards the gang and the compromised cattle. Another bullet just barely avoids digging itself into Billyâs arm, the hot lead grazing against his upper arm and tearing through his shirt. Your eyes are wide when Billy shouts in pain, your own yell echoing his as he instinctively clutches his arm.Â
He can see in your face that youâre terrified. You donât know what to do. Youâre going to get hurt if he doesnât do something.Â
Without thinking, Billy jerks his horse towards yours, forcefully nudging your own horse in the direction of the nearby treeline while he pulls out his gun with his uninjured arm to help return fire. The gang scatters, most of the cattle is already out past the property line and able to be herded during the commotion. The gunshots continue but no one else gets hit, and the group hollers the entire way back to the house, adrenaline pumping from just the taste of a bit of dangerous contact.Â
You stay silent the entire ride back home. So does Billy. And so does Jesse.
But the second your feet are back on the ground, youâre in trouble.Â
Jesse lays into you.
âWhat the hell did you think you were doinâ?â
âI just wanted to help!â
âYeah? Some help you were. You distracted us! You could have gotten us all killed,â
âThem shootinâ at you had nothinâ to do with me! I deserved to be there!â
Billy sits on the top post of the paddock fence as he presses a clean cloth against the graze on his arm, watching you both as you tear at each other's throats. Heâs glaring at you too, bright blue eyes piercing into the side of your face as you scream at your brother. He watches as the tears fall from your pretty eyes, twin streams cascading down your cheeks as your hands fly around you in frustration.Â
A Pretty Problem. Thatâs what you are.Â
Youâre a problem when youâre shooting. Your aim is always off, missing targets by an inch and somehow never able to fix yourself enough to hit them the next time. Itâs a problem how you ask him for help, your back pressing against his chest and he guides you to adjust your position. Those are the only times your bullets hit the standing cans. When he steps back and you try again, youâre back to missing, and Billy just refrains from rolling his eyes even as his body feels like itâs been touched with a live wire just from the smallest bit of contact with you. Â
Youâre a problem when theyâre drinking, a bottle in your hand as you try your best to match their intake. The others would leave you on the floor, stepping over you when you inevitably drop from too much alcohol. Itâs Billy that picks you up, wrapping his arm around your waist and carrying you to your bed.Â
Youâre a problem when youâre laying there, sprawled out along the sheets somewhere between sleep and forcing yourself to stay awake. The way you look up at him is a problem, eyes glassy and half-lidded as you mumble a soft âthanks, Billy,â. He knows heâs not a good person, no matter how hard he tries convince himself he is, but fuck - he deserves some extra points for the self restraint he has to leave you there like that.Â
Youâre a problem when youâre being a brat. The constant butting into conversations, volunteering for jobs and then throwing fits when youâre turned down. Youâve taken to pleading with him for support, asking him to speak on your behalf just to make your brother and the other men see sense.Â
âYouâre the youngest,â You say, and your eyes are wide and nearly watering as you beg. âThatâs why they call you The Kid. Doesnât that bother you? Imagine how I feel!â
And how can you even ask him to do that? You canât even shoot right on your own. Ainât no way heâs speaking up for you so you can go on dangerous jobs and get killed.Â
No.Â
You fight just as harshly as Jesse does, spewing out insults and arguing your points until youâre both blue in the face. Neither of you notice when Billy jumps off the fence and heads into the house. You make him so angry - so naive and so willing to put yourself in danger just to try to prove yourself. Jesse is right. You could have gotten them all killed today with your little stunt. If you hadnât been there, then their attention wouldnât have been divided. Maybe he or Jesse could have seen the cowboys up on the hill a few seconds earlier and gotten out of there without even so much as a graze. In this world, every second is important and being distracted for even a moment can cost you your life.Â
Heâs still stewing when you follow him into the house only a few minutes later. Your eyes are rimmed red, lips puffy from where youâve clearly been biting them. Bad girl, he thinks as he glares at them. Itâs a nervous habit you have and heâs constantly telling you to stop. The sight of your teeth biting into your bottom lip always makes him go crazy. It should be his teeth digging into it instead.Â
âWhat?â He mumbles gruffly.
âAre you okay?â
âGot grazed by a bullet,â He says, his eyes never leaving yours even as he hooks a thumb under one of his suspenders and pulls it off his shoulder. âYou think Iâm okay?â
He watches you as you watch him pull the other one off too, your eyes following the fallen straps as they hang around his waist. They follow his hands back up as he undoes the buttons on his shirt, one after the other after the other until the thin material separates in the middle and he can push it off his shoulders.Â
His skin feels hot under your intense gaze, and the darker more primal part of his brain wishes you would follow his lead. Undo your own suspenders, unbutton your shirt but make it slow - tease him a little bit cause thatâs what you are.
A tease and a brat. And he should treat you like one.Â
Instead, youâre stepping up to him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Your fingers trace just below the thankfully shallow wound of the graze. âYou should let me wrap this for you. So it doesnât get infected,â
âYou shouldnât have been there,â He says in return, and his anger flares as he watches you roll your eyes.Â
âGod, Billy. Come on. Didnât I get enough of this from Jesse?â
âYou could have- hey!â Billyâs hand snaps out to grip your jaw, stopping you in your tracks as you turn to walk away from him. He holds you still, forcing your face to stay turned towards him as he growls. âYou could have been killed today with your little stunt. You had no place there,â
Your hands clamp around his wrist trying to pry his hand off of your face and your words are determined despite the small flicker of fear present in your eyes. âI deserve to be there just as much as any of you,âÂ
âOh yeah? Is that why I had to save you today?â
âYou nudged me in a direction I was already goinâ to pull my horse in. I wouldnât call that savinâ,â
He pushes forward, making you shuffle back even as his hand stays firm around your chin. Your back hits the opposite wall, a pretty gasp falling from your lips from the rough movement.
âBrat,â Billy hisses as he presses his body against yours, pinning you to the wall. âYouâre a troublemaker. I should tie you to your bed, keep you there - bound and out of harmâs way.â
Your breathing hitches at his words and he can feel the way your fingers clamp tighter around his wrist, those big wide eyes that torment him in his dreams staring up at him.Â
âBilly,â You whisper, but he just continues his thought.Â
âIâll take care of you,â He says, voice low and quiet between the two of you but it somehow sounds deafening in the silence of the house. âKeep you fed and safe. Give you a nice blanket to keep you comfortable while you wait for me to get home.â
Billyâs hand releases your chin, calloused palms sliding down your jaw and wrapping around your throat. He can feel how you swallow thickly under his hold.Â
âAnd you can take care of me in return,â He continues, his words almost a growl in your face as his warm breath fans across your skin. âAs a reward for keeping you out of trouble.â
Even with only centimeters apart, he can barely hear you as you whisper. âReward you how?â
And fuck, if you knew all the dirty things that play in his mind at nightâŠ
âOn your knees,â He says, the hand not currently wrapped around your throat reaches up to flick off the suspender strap around your shoulder. It falls around your waist much like his did just minutes before. âOn your back.â The other suspender falls like its twin.Â
The sound of your heavy breathing echoes in his ears. His eyes drop to your parted lips and heâs sure that his pupils are just as large as yours are. His breathing stops in anticipation despite the fact that it's him who leans in, closing the distance between the two of you as he presses his lips against yours for the first time.Â
He wants to be embarrassed by the sound he makes when he tastes you, so soft and sweet and somehow so much better than he ever imagined. Your breathing shudders when his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, but it cuts off in a soft gasp when he presses in again to kiss you harder. Need curls tightly in his gut, anger burning through his veins at you for making him feel this way.Â
So on edge all the time, so unhinged. So desperate.Â
The hand around your throat tightens a bit and the little squeak you let out in response has him swelling in his trousers.
âTroublemakers like you need to be put in their place,â He says, voice raw and gravely with lust. âYou wanna be a big girl and ride horses all day on dangerous trips?â His nose bumps against yours, lips just barely brushing against your own as he speaks. âYou can ride me instead.â
His hand leaves your throat to pull at the button on your overalls, and your own hands grip onto the tight muscles of his biceps.Â
âBilly, wait,â You say, hand moving down to cover his as he pops open the buttons, but he grabs your chin in his hold again.Â
Wait? Wait? You want him to fucking wait? No, youâve already made him wait long enough.Â
âShut up!â He growls. âIâve heard enough from you.â
His other hand manages to push down your overalls and they fall to the ground, pooling around your ankles. You whimper as his hand slides across your belly, his long fingers tracing over your soft skin as they travel down and down until they slip under the thin material of your drawers.Â
âGood girls do what theyâre told,â He whispers, breathing hot and heavy as he presses his mouth against your cheek, and you can feel the stubble thatâs started to grow back already on his jaw scratch at your face. âIâll have to teach you better.â
You gasp when his fingers first touch you, the gentle caress of his fingertips on your clit that has you jumping against the wall but unable to go anywhere with how he has you pinned. He groans against your cheek when he feels how wet you are already, soaking into the pads of his fingers as he circles the bundle of nerves between your thighs.Â
âBilly,â You moan, and he kisses you harshly, cutting off the rest of your sentence if there even was more because he canât bear the thought of you trying to get him to stop again.
No waiting. No stopping. Youâre his.Â
âJust be a good girl for me, okay?â
His fingers slide through your wetness, trailing slowly over your slit as his arm pushes deeper into your drawers. The tip of his finger nudges at your entrance, rubbing and teasing against your dripping hole for a moment before pushing inside you, and fuck - you feel so tight around him already. Your pussy clenches around his finger as he moves it inside of you, sweet cries ripping from your throat when he adds another, stretching you more as he curls his fingers against your slick walls.Â
He muffles your moans with his lips, and he canât help but push his hips against you, pressing the thick bulge in his pants against your thigh for some relief.Â
Damn you, he thinks. Damn you and your driven attitude, bad shooting, sweet demeanor, and pretty face. Jesse could kill him for this. Jesse would, and he would deserve it. But this is your fault. Your. Fault. You tempted him like this. Threw him off his game and destroyed his self control just by being you and he hates you for it.Â
Your moans are a constant now, turning into desperate whines of âBilly, please! Oh, god, please!â as he watches you greedily hump his hand. Heâs throbbing in his pants, cock pulsing with need and heavy as he presses harder against your thigh. Heâs not going to last long - not with the way you look right now and the way he knows you're going to feel wrapped around his cock just from how you feel clamping around his fingers right now.Â
Youâre not going to last much longer either, and his fingers thrust inside you faster, thumb rolling over your clit as he pushes you closer and closer towards that edge.
Come on, pretty girl. Be good for me.
Heâs never touched you this way before, but itâs like he knows your body inside and out already. The look on your face tells him youâre about to cum, and he wants to see it - wants to see it so badly to see if it matches the same look you have when he makes you cum in his dreams - but he wants to make you suffer. Just a little bit more. Like you make him suffer.Â
The cry of protest you make when he pulls his hand away is beautiful, as is the way your eyes widen when he brings the soaked digits to his mouth, sucking your taste from them and fuuuuckkk you taste so good. Of course, you taste this good.Â
He kisses you again, sliding his tongue inside your mouth against yours just to make you taste yourself too as he undoes the buttons on his own pants. The restricting material is gone in seconds along with both of your underwear. His hand grips your hip, squeezing the flesh between his fingers before dragging his hand along the curve of your ass and down the back of your thigh.
In one swift movement, he has your leg hooked around his hip and his cock positioned at your entrance.Â
âWait,â You whimper, looking up at him with those beautiful big eyes of yours. âIâve neverââ
âIâll take care of you,â He says, slowly pushing himself forward. The clench of your pussy as he works his cock inside you feels like heaven, slick walls squeezing him tight as he fills you up.Â
Your arms wrap tightly around his neck as he sinks in, face digging into his neck to muffle your soft cry. A pang of guilt shoots through him at your pain. He doesnât want you hurt. Youâre a brat and a troublemaker, but heâs only ever wanted to keep you safe. But the more primal part of his brain keens at the idea.Â
Itâs your first time. Heâs your first. Youâre his. Only his.
His good girl.
His pretty problem.
He wants to fuck you hard, wants his hips snapping against yours so hard they leave bruises. Wants you crying against his mouth, moans and whimpers so uncontrollable that your brother and the rest of the gang hears them from outside from how loud youâre being. Heâs not going to last long, he was right about that. His hips move slowly against yours, cock dragging against your walls as he pulls out until just the tip is left buried in your cunt.Â
Your small whines of pain quickly turn into pleasure as he rocks into you, your warmth hugging his cock so tightly he thinks you might be trying to keep him buried inside you forever. He fucks you faster, pressing you harder against the wall as he claims your lips again. His fingers find the sensitive nub between your legs, rough fingertips circling your clit relentlessly until your panting against his mouth. He greedily swallows your squeal when you cum around him, cunt forming a tight and unforgiving blissful prison around his cock as you drench him and his fingers.Â
He moans with you, hips stuttering and inconsistent as your orgasm triggers his. He holds your face against his, his other hand clutching your hip as he holds you still, not letting you run away from him even if you try as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls white.
Itâs quiet in the room as you both come down from your high, just the sounds of panting as you both try to catch your breath. He should pull out. Anyone could just walk in at any moment and catch you, but he grits his teeth at the thought of having to move away from you. Heâd die happily inside you if he could. So, he takes another moment, letting himself revel in the feel of your still pulsing walls around his length as he lays his forehead against yours.
âYouâre goinâ to keep being my good girl, right?â He says softly into the space between you. âStay out of trouble?â
And despite the exhausted look on your face, when your eyes meet his, all he sees is that strong-willed defiance.
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Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Billy, Virgin!Reader, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, P in V, Corruption Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Masturbation, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Seduction, Emotional Manipulation, Religion and Religious Beliefs, Explicit talk of gunshot wounds, blood, and the bullet's removal, Mention of physical abuse/child abuse (not from Billy), Childhood Trauma, Mention of alcoholism, Moral/Religious conflict within one's self, My bad Spanish, Nun breaking her vows, Probably too quick of a healing process to be fucking someone but I'm not a doctor so đ€·đ»ââïž, Using the word "drawers/undergarments" instead of "panties" which is kinda cringe to me but I wanted to be somewhat accurate, Fear/Trauma of Failure
**Warnings updated as fic continues.
Word Count: 20.6K
A/N: As always, you should know that I appreciate y'all sticking with me as I release this fic at a snail's pace. I hope the content makes up for the wait đ§Ą
Summary: When Billy stumbles into your clinic, hurt and in desperate need of care and refuge, you don't hesitate to help him. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps He has brought him into your life to help heal the parts of him that the cruelness of the world has soiled and broken. You are a healer by trade, both of the physical body and of faith. If this is to be God's mission for you, then it shall be done. How could you have possibly known that the young man who begged for help that fateful night would turn out to be the devil himself?
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Translations:
De nuevo - Again/Restart/Start New
Grita - Scream
Thereâs nothing morally wrong with Billy rubbing your back while you sleep.Â
Itâs innocent - a wholesome act that stems from him trying to be helpful and comforting to your pain like any kind person should be. Like a motherâs touch trying to calm her distressed child or a fellow healer trying to soothe an ill patient. Heâs a good man like that. So it shouldnât be a surprise when the first morning after sleeping in the bed, your sleep clouded mind now free from the misery and a little bit more free from guilt, that you realize that it was not Godâs healing touch caressing your aching back, but instead Billyâs own calloused hand.Â
In the moment between sleep and reality when the veil between the two is so thin it's almost impossible to tell what's real and what's not, the hand on your back gave you rest and soothed your tight muscles and aching joints. The energy flowing from the contact seemed almost holy, comforting in a way that you associate with His touch. And while itâs not hard to see Him within Billy, and while itâs not inappropriate for Billy to touch you in that way and offer you this comfort, the idea still makes a part of you uncomfortable.Â
Youâre not quite sure how to explain it. You understand it in a way - the way you felt when you woke up throughout the night with parts of your body pressed up against Billyâs. His warmth against your side or his hand curled gently around your wrist, subconsciously seeking affection from the only other person sharing the bed. There was even a point where you woke to find your cheek resting on his forearm, a few drops of drool evidenced on his skin from how long you had been laying like that. You jerked your head away as fast as you could, one of your hands frantically wiping away the wetness from Billyâs skin before all but shoving his arm back onto his own side of the bed. He woke from the unintentional rough treatment but didnât say anything - just readjusted and fell back asleep.
You had managed a solid few hours of sleep between that final incident and the morningâs first light. When you woke again, the guilt of what you had just done - innocent and necessary or not - hit you full force. Billy rubbing your back is not sinful. Billy comforting you in a moment of need is not sinful. Even sharing a bed out of necessity can be argued as not sinful (although your brain keeps telling you it is, over and over again like an incessant loop with no end in sight).Â
But the way you wake up face to face with him, inches apart and so close you can feel his breath on your nose - this⊠this is not okay. The way he lets out a grunt as he wakes, blue eyes now as dark as a storm in the low light of the morning only made darker by his exploded pupils. The way he looks at you from beneath hooded lids, a small smirk pulling at his mouth as he lets out a sleep-gruff âMorninâ,â.Â
The way your heart races in that moment as if entranced by the sight itself - thatâs not okay. Thatâs not godly.Â
It feels sinful.Â
âExcuse me,â You say quickly. âI need to use the pot.âÂ
Your words were quick, rushed together in a sudden rush of panic, but your escape out of the bed is not as quick. Your spine twinges as you roll, much too fast for the tender pain still clawing at your back.Â
âCareful,â Billy scolds, fully awake now as he reaches a hand out towards you. You push it away, gently this time even though your instincts are yelling at you to smack it away. You already did that yesterday, you canât do it again. Someone who is meant to be a voice for the Lord should have better self control than that.Â
âIâm fine,â You mumble, gritting your teeth as you push yourself to stand. You head over to the pot sitting in the corner of the room and slowly bend to grab it.Â
Youâre fine, you tell yourself as you head out of the bedroom for some privacy.Â
Youâre fine, you will as you hold back tears from how much it hurts to squat over the pot and youâre thankful that you only have to pee this time.
Please let me be fine, you pray as you wipe yourself clean. Youâll have to empty the pot at some point today, but you canât bring yourself to try to do it now.
But youâre not fine. Youâre in pain, back still screaming in agony despite sleeping on the bed last night and you donât have to pray for Godâs wisdom to see the next few days He has in store for you.Â
When you trudge back to Billyâs side, it's with a dejected spirit.Â
âDo you need the bedpan?â You ask, quietly.Â
âNo,âÂ
Billy gives you a pointed look and you take it for what it is: a demand.
So you sit back down next to him and will yourself to not wallow in your own self-pity like you want to. God would not want you to waste your energy on such negativity.Â
You barely get out of bed for anything the whole day. Some instances are inevitable, food and relieving yourselves when the need arises canât be helped. But the need to be moving around eats at you. The feeling of needing to be busy, of needing to be useful even when thereâs truly nothing pressing to be done makes you feel like there are bugs under your skin. You donât want to be cooped up in bed all day again. Mankind wasnât meant to be stagnant. Yesterday was hard enough already and now youâre being made to stay put again. You know yourself, know how much you crave to be on the move - on the go, never wanting to stay still for too long. You need to do something, be helpful in some way. Being forced to sit and stay like a dog is the last thing you want to do. But Billy has made his stance clear on what he thinks you should do.
âYou stay in bed and heal, and I will too.âÂ
Like yesterday, the âif you donâtâŠâ still remains unspoken, but the message is still received loud and clear.Â
You make absolutely sure to tell him that threatening and giving a nun an ultimatum is not very godly or very good manners in general, and you swear his eyes almost got stuck in the back of his head with how hard he rolls them.Â
You make sure to also tell him that rolling his eyes at a nun is not very kind either.
So you both stay in the bed.Â
The isolation and pure boredom quickly takes its toll. Billy decides to use the time to sleep, head turned to the side on his pillow with his mouth open as he breathes slow, deep breaths of oxygen into his lungs.Â
He looks so peaceful, thick eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and it once again strikes you how young he truly is. Heâs been through so much horror and loss and it hurts to think that, even though it would be horrible for anyone to go through what heâs went through, how much more awful it feels to know that not too long ago he was just a boy himself - innocent and in need of protection and guidance and instead was cast aside like he was worth nothing.
He needs to be on when heâs awake. Guarded and observant, ready for danger at a moment's notice - the trials and tribulations of a wanted man. But here, in sleep, he looks the most at peace as youâve ever seen him in the short time youâve known him. And when he looks like this, innocent and soft as his dark hair falls over his forehead, you find it hard to believe that this is the same man who is wanted for the murder of no less than five men. Possibly more if the rumors are to be believed.Â
Itâs fine. This is fine. Let him have his peace and serenity while cooped up in this cabin and all but chained to this bed. At least one of you is finding peace because itâs certainly not you. Your thoughts race, brain screaming at you to get up and do something. Maybe you could - Billy wouldnât even know if you got up.Â
No. You canât. That would be a lie. You promised you would stay in bed and you make sure to keep your promises.Â
You use the time to pray instead, filling the hours of silence with whispered prayer to steady yourself and clear your racing mind. When Billy wakes, the movement of his body as he shifts to sit up and lean against the headboard distracts you enough to open your eyes, watching carefully as he maneuvers himself and paying special attention to make sure heâs not pulling on his injury. But you donât stop praying, lips forming the shapes of the holy words as he settles himself beside you.Â
He doesnât interrupt. Never utters a word. His hands clasp in his lap as they mirror your own, sitting in silence and not quite acting like heâs trying to pray with you, but giving you the respect and space you deserve while you do.Â
Your praying doesnât stop as you offer a hand out to him. Itâs not traditional practice to hold another personâs hand during prayer. Youâve even heard it said that doing so can be seen as distracting and should be discouraged if it takes away focus from the Lordâs prayer. But youâve often found that physical touch can bring people together - a physical bond between Godâs children to solidify the spiritual bond that everyone hopes to achieve with He Himself.Â
Well, perhaps not Billy. Not yet anyway. But he still takes your hand when you offer it to him, his fingers curling around yours as they both lay between you on the bed.Â
You pray until your stomachs growl and even then you make sure to thank Him for providing your next meal.Â
The next day gives you more of the same as the day before.Â
Itâs a tiny bit better, although not as noticeable as you would hope. You keep trying to think about it, mulling over what Godâs plan could possibly be for rendering you practically helpless when youâre meant to be healing someone else. You canât figure it out - youâre not meant to. Itâs He and He alone who can know what His plan truly is and if you were meant to know, you would. But the lack of stimulation makes you keep on trying to figure it out, thinking and thinking and thinking and hoping that if you can just figure out why, then maybe youâll heal quicker and be back on your feet like you want to be.Â
You have to force yourself to stop, the words sinner and doubtful creeping into your mind and curling around your heart with an icy grip when you realize just how much youâve let yourself fester on it. The Good Lord has a plan and thatâs all you need to know. All this thinking and trying to work it out is making it seem like you doubt Him. Doubt Him and the plans He has in store for you.Â
Shame on you, you scold yourself.Â
Please forgive my sin, Lord. I trust You.Â
Sister Catherine wouldnât have doubted. She wouldnât have wasted a single second on pitying herself. Sister Ann would have prayed her worries away, talking directly to God instead of trying to think around Him.Â
What is happening to you? This isnât like you. It shouldnât be like you.
You shuffle down the bed as carefully as you can, laying out on your side with your back towards Billy. If he noticed the tears running down your cheeks before you turned away, he doesnât say anything. But after a few minutes of silence, his large calloused hand comes up to rub soothingly at your back.
It feels good, calming and healing like it did that first night. So, despite the part of your brain thatâs still telling you this is wrong, you allow it anyway in the hopes that it truly is Godâs loving and forgiving touch coming through Billyâs capable hands.Â
Billyâs wound is healing surprisingly fast. From your experience, wounds like his would take months to heal properly enough for him to move around with little worry, and even then one would still have to watch the injury site for a little while longer just to be sure. But Billyâs is mending much quicker than you would have anticipated, especially considering the significant amount of trauma the bullet caused to his side.Â
âThe Lord is good, Billy. Heâs looking out for you,â You tell him as you redress his wound. Youâve checked it already, double and then triple checking that he hadnât torn anything in his noble yet incredibly stupid attempts at being a helpful gentleman while you yourself were in duress. He hadnât, thank the Lord. Godâs protection may be mighty, but it doesnât frequently cover carelessness. You dress it carefully, making sure to keep it clean as you recover the trauma site with a fresh cloth. âIâd say only a few more weeks and youâll be well enough to ride again.â
Billy scoffs at your words, irritation evident in the sour twist of his face. âThere ainât no god up there lookinâ out for me. Sâall me.â
You ignore his jab and focus on taping the cloth securely to his skin.Â
âWell, youâre healing up mighty quick. Surely this is a blessing.â You toss the leftover material back in your bag. Thereâs still enough left to change it again for one last time. Perhaps Sister Ann will think to send some along with Sam for his next delivery in a few days, so you can have it just in case. âMaybe He is with you after all, hm?â
âIf you say so, Sister,â
Heâs upset again, a lethal combination of the frustration thatâs aimed at your insistence that God is with him despite him wanting nothing to do Him, and the fact that you are once again on your feet despite his insistence that you stay put. You can also tell that heâs starting to get antsy from being restrained to bed rest for so long. He hasnât vocalized this particular frustration yet, but you can sympathize with the way he stretches his long limbs a little more than necessary, clearly fighting the urge to throw his legs over the side of the bed and move around like he really wants to.Â
A part of you wishes to console him. You donât like to see him upset. Heâs getting better, recovering fast and you can easily see him healing up and ready to be on the move much quicker than he ever should be. He should be happy about that - not frowning with his dark brows furrowed in barely concealed agitation.Â
But you donât say anything. Just finish up the bandage refresh, taping it to his skin to keep it secure and letting Billy rebutton his shirt while you return your bag to the main room before dutifully returning to your place at his side as promised.Â
Billy stays in the bed as long as you stay in the bed. Heâs calmed down a bit now, frown smoothing out as he watches you work on the blanket for the clinic. He makes himself useful and continues to hold your yarn for you as you work. The yarn balls youâve brought are almost all completely used up and youâre not quite sure what youâre going to do when theyâre gone.Â
âIâve been wanting to ask you,â You say suddenly, half just to distract yourself and half out of pure uncontained curiosity. âAbout that night.â
âWhich night?â Billy asks, but you donât have to look at him to know that he knows exactly what youâre talking about.Â
âThe night you came to the clinic,â You say anyway. âBut⊠before it.â
Your hands have stopped their movements, knitting needles and the rest of your project resting between your fingers in your lap. Now you do look at him, eyes boring curiously into the side of his face. His stubble is getting a little long, maybe Joe has a razor here that Billy can borrow.Â
He doesnât look back at you though, instead keeping his gaze down to wear heâs playing with the tail end of the yarn that heâs purposefully kept out when rerolling the yarn ball. âWhat about it?â
âWhat happened? How did-â Your question trails off as your eyes drop to where his wound is as if you could see it through the covering of both his shirt and the bandage. âHow did it happen?â
To your shock, Billy smirks. âWell, I didnât know nuns liked to gossip. I reckon that wouldnât be considered too god-like,â
You scoff at his playful words and lightly push his shoulder. âYou hush. Itâs not gossip if it's your own story.âÂ
âSure itâs not,â He chuckles.Â
You hum, one eyebrow raised as you quietly hold your stance in the face of his smugness, but the smile pulling at your lips surely ruins the look and maybe itâs a good thing he still hasnât looked at you yet.Â
âAlright,â You relent. âThen as one of the Lordâs faithful servants, I am giving us the permission to⊠gossip.â
âI donât think it can work like that,â
Suddenly, another understanding springs at the forefront of your mind. âOh. Do you not wanna tell me?â
Foolish woman! Practically forcing him to tell you something heâs clearly not comfortable with telling. You are no priest and you have no right to demand to hear his sins or confession.Â
âNo, itâs notââ
âYou donât have to tell me,â You rush to say. Guilt claws at you at the thought of you making him feel obligated to tell you about his trauma just because you want to know. Because you're curious. Because you want to gossip. âIâm sorry I asked. Itâs not my placeââ
âHey,â He says, and now he is looking at you, clear blue eyes haloed with intensity as he grips your shoulder. âSâokay. I want to tell you.â Thereâs a beat, and then a thankfully sincere, âI trust you.â
You nod. âYou can, Billy. You can trust me, I promise,â
Billyâs quiet for a moment but his eyes never leave yours. Eyes that look a little wetter now than usual as they stare back at you, and you feel like those eyes are trying to tell you more in this moment than any of his words ever could.Â
Finally, he speaks. âI want to tell you. But it wasnât my finest moment,â
You think maybe it's better if you stay silent, so you do.Â
âI had a friend by the name of Pete Maxwell. You know him?â
You nod, adding in a brief, âOf him. A rancher. Decently wealthy.âÂ
Apparently not wealthy enough to ever donate to the clinic, you think bitterly, and then immediately berate yourself for thinking something so judgemental of someone youâve never met before.Â
âYeah,â Billy says. âThat night, I was at his ranch. He said I could stay for a few days until I figure out where to go next. I canât stay in New Mexico anymore, theyâre huntinâ me and theyâre not gonna stop until they hang me.â
The thought of seeing Billy hanging from the end of a rope feels like thereâs a hand squeezing uncomfortably around your heart. Youâve seen swinging bodies before - poor souls who, despite their transgressions, didnât deserve the harsh judgment of ending their time here on Earth before the Lord called them home Himself. It makes you sick, thinking of all the people whose time had been cut short solely because someone else believes that just because they are powerful enough to end someoneâs life also means they should.Â
âI never wanted to kill anyone,â Billy insists, and you wonder if he can read your thoughts in your eyes. âYou know that. I never want to hurt anyone. Anythinâ I did was to protect myself from the people that wanted to hurt me or someone I cared about. Please, Sister, I swear.â
Your hand finds the curve of Billyâs cheek. âI know, Billy. I know,â
He lets out a shaky breath, but you can tell how relieved he is at your reassurance.Â
âI heard voices that night. Quiet talkinâ. Not quite whispering but more hushed. I still recognized Peteâs voice just fine, but the other,â He trails off, shaking his head as if in disbelief. âHow could I not have recognized him? From all the nights we all used to spend crammed in that small hideaway talkinâ about everythinâ and nothinâ, how could I not have recognized Patâs voice?â
You can hear the pain in his voice, and you think that this was one of those pivotal moments. Something that seems so insignificant but turned out to have such important consequences. You know all too well how those moments stick with you.Â
âBut I thought I was safe with friends. I shouldâve known better. Iâm never safe. Not really. I walked down the hall and looked in Peteâs room. It was dark and I didnât recognize who he was talkinâ to. They didnât know I was there until I spoke and asked who it was.âÂ
His hand twitches towards his hip and you know heâs reflexively feeling for where his gun should be.Â
âIâm the fastest gunslinger in the territory,â He tells you. âI made sure I am so that no one can ever get the upper hand on me ever again. I shouldâve had my hand on my gun that day. I shouldâve been ready. But I hesitated. Garrett knows me, he didnât hesitate. Iâve fought my whole life just tryinâ to do the right thing and live a normal peaceful life, and I let my guard down for one minute - one minute of hesitation thinkinâ that I shouldâve been safe - and it almost got me killed.â His hand moves from his hip to cover the healing wound on his side. âHeâs usually a better shot than that. He must have been caught off guard too.â
âAnd then what happened?â You press. Pete Maxwellâs ranch is close to the clinic, but it's still a ways away if you're traveling on foot. The idea of BIlly walking the entire way to the clinic with an injury as substantial as his and making it is nothing short of a miracle.
âI ran. Thereâs an alcove in one of the spare rooms on the first floor. I ran down the stairs, stumbled down the stairs, and hid in there until Garrett passed and then I snuck out the back. My horse was tied in the barn and they chased me to the river just outside of town. So I sent my horse on her way and hid behind a big rock as they chased after her.âÂ
âYou rode a horse with a gunshot wound and then walked yourself the rest of the way to the clinic?â You asked, stunned.
âYes, maâam,â
Incredible. âMy word! The Lord hath blessed you that day, Billy, for surely you should have died on that journey! You were knocking on deathâs door when you stumbled in and I had no idea if it was even possible to save you. The fact that you made it to the clinic at all is a miracle.â
âYou can listen to that and still say thatâs a âblessinââ?â
His tone has soured a bit again, face twisted in irritation, but you lean forward and take both of his hands in yours.Â
âYour instincts saved you, Billy,â You say. âDespite all that you may not believe, believe that. Sheriff Garrett would have killed you if anything happened any differently than it did. He could have shot you in the head or in the chest, and if he had, you and I would not be sitting here having this conversation. I wouldnât have met you.â
Thankfully, his expression softens. âAnd I wouldnât have met you,â
The corner of your mouth curls up in a soft smile. âSee? Small blessings.â
âDoes it scare you?â Billy asks suddenly. âTo be here. With me.â
The smile dissipates. âNo. No, of course not. Why would I be scared?â
âIâve killed people. A lot of people. Iâm dangerous,â
âNo,â You say, fingers squeezing tightly around his hands in reassurance. âYou never wanted to kill anyone. You said it yourself. What you were forced to do to survive doesnât define you. Itâs what you do in moments of peace that do, and despite what the law says, Godâs law is stronger. Give to the poor, help those in need, love each other and treat one another as you would want to be treated, and youâve done all that, Billy. Iâve heard it. Your brother and sisters see it. They see how youâve protected them, they see your kindness,â His blue eyes bore into yours as you speak. âGod sees it, and I do too.â
The look in his eyes as he stares at you tells you that he wants to believe your words, but his words come out bitter. âEveryone sees it, but Iâm still being hunted,â
âI know it's hard. I know it's unfair. But please, Billy, please, have faith that God has a plan for you. He has brought us together for a reason,â You say, ardently. âI believe that.â
He considers you for a long while, the doubt still clear as day in his vivid stare, but it feels like progress that he doesnât say anything against your words. Maybe heâs finally starting to believe, just a little.Â
âI have your gun and hat, by the way,â You tell him, pulling your hands from his. They run down the front of your tunic to smooth it down before returning to your knitting needles. âTheyâre with my bag.â
You donât know why you felt the need to tell him that right now. He wonât be needing them for at least another few weeks. At least you hope he wonât. The odds of Sheriff Garrett and his men finding you out here and surprising you both on your brotherâs doorstep are slim, but nothing is ever completely certain. Maybe it's the thought of him losing everything - friends he thought he could trust, his horse, all his belongings. He almost lost his life. If you can comfort him for a moment and show that he hasnât truly lost everything, even if it's just his gun and hat, you will.Â
âThanks,â He replies, quietly.Â
You think heâs happy to hear it, but he suddenly seems much more interested in continuing to play with the loose end of your yarn.Â
Four nights of sleeping on the bed are doing wonders for your back, and although it's not as immediate as you had originally hoped, the improvement is clear. Itâs not 100% yet, certain movements or even too much movement in general still makes some pain rear its ugly head, but itâs nowhere near as bad as it was before. You think you should be in the clear in the next day or so. Which is nice to think about because this feeling and the physical limitations that come with it are getting old.Â
Like you, a particularly nasty part of your brain supplies, but you quickly tramp it down because first of all - how rude. And second of all, how dare you think of something so natural and beautiful in such a negative and self-degrading way? The Lord granted us mortality, the blessing of being able to experience life in all forms and watch as the world around you grows with you. Death is a consequence of original sin, but in it the Lord granted us salvation despite the punishment. Life is not forever on Earth, but our souls will live forever in His kingdom, and despite the actions that brought us here, we are blessed with the ability to watch the world and its people grow and change around us while our bodies, too, grow and change.Â
The aches in your muscles are signs of well use as well as general aging. The cracking joints you experience from time to time are just the bodyâs normal wear and tear of being well loved. Self-degradation comes from the Devil - his temptation to be ungrateful for the things God has granted us rearing up in the form of nasty words and thoughts leading to insecurity. We are all made in His perfect image, aging aches and pains included.Â
You havenât slept through the night since before you got here, the stress of the situation having you waking up during the night from dreams of Sheriff Garrett breaking down your brotherâs front door and putting a bullet through Billyâs forehead instead of just his side this time, and then the pain from your back taking its toll on any restful sleep you could have hoped to have. But when you wake up on the fourth morning in the bed, it's to the pleasant shock of finally sleeping through the night once again. The sunâs already shining through the bedroom window, your skin greedily soaking up the warm rays as you stretch out more along the sheets. You hadnât woken up once during the night from any pain or discomfort, sleeping deeply enough that you know that you dreamt, but whatever it was is long forgotten.Â
You stretch again, using the additional space to sprawl all the way out as you bask in the rare moment of stillness. The content moment crashes around you when you realize you have a bit too much space for you to take up and your eyes fly open to see that Billyâs side of the bed is empty. Your hand automatically darts out to touch the empty space beside you as if they donât actually believe what your eyes are seeing. He is supposed to be bedridden. Unmoving. Still. Recovering. And instead heâs gone - the sheets warm to your touch from the sun but still cooler without any remnants of his body heat left.Â
Noise comes from the kitchen, a small clatter of metal on metal that sounds like someone scraping down a pot and you jerk up, instantly awake and intent on running in the kitchen and finding out just what Billy thinks heâs doing out of bed. A sharp pain in your back halts your movements and your rare moment of serenity is gone in an instant. Words of blasphemy have never been a regular part of your vocabulary, just the rare ones slipping out in small bouts of rebellion in your youth and even those were few and far between. Your mother used to wash your mouth out with soap if she ever heard it, less for the sake of discipline and more for the sake of teaching you to never say them on the chance your father were to hear it. His discipline would have been far more unpleasant than a mouthful of soap. You havenât spoken a single blasphemous word since taking your vows.
The pain in your back brings you mighty close though.Â
âBilly!â You call through the pain, teeth gritted together as your hands come to cradle your back.Â
âGimme a minute, Sister,â He calls back, and this time you hear the more gentle and higher pitched clink of silverware.Â
âBilly, what are you doing?â You will not give him a minute. Your second attempt at sitting up is more successful this time and youâve just gotten on your feet when he enters the room.
Heâs carrying two bowls in his hands, piled generously with what looks like still steaming hot oatmeal. He clicks his tongue at you when he sees you, brows furrowing in concern and disappointment as if you are the one currently being unreasonable right now by being out of bed.Â
âI made us breakfast,â He says.Â
He places one of the bowls on the bedside table and uses his free hand to pull your pillow up so it leans against the headboard. You slap his hand away when he tries to nudge you back down against it, jaw dropped in shock at his audacity.Â
âYou are in no position to be making breakfast,â You say, scandalized. âYou are in no position to be standing on your feet. You should be in bed. Healing. Not cooking and lifting potentially heavy pots and possibly injuring yourself more.â
âSâokay,â He says, gently, voice soft as if trying to calm a wild animal. âMâfine. Youâre hurt and were sleepinâ so good and Iâm able, so I did.â
âIf you pulled your stitchesââ
He lifts the hem of his shirt up to reveal the bandage on his side, thankfully still clean and not a drop of blood seeping through the white.Â
âI didnât. I was careful. I lifted you and nothinâ happened. If I could do that without them tearinâ then I can cook us up a meal,â He drops his shirt back down and tries to nudge you back down on the bed again, and this time you fall back willingly. He places the bowl of oatmeal into your hands and the heat from the bowl warms your fingers. âMâstrong, I promise. Now can you please try the oatmeal? Itâs real good, my Ma taught me how to make it.â
âCome sit on the bed where you should be and Iâll try it,â You tell him with a stern raise of your eyebrow. He concedes with a small smirk, clearly satisfied with himself.Â
When heâs settled next to you, his own bowl placed between his hands on his lap, he levels you with an expectant stare and it's only then that you take your first bite. You hum approvingly at the taste, the subtle flavor of cinnamon and something a little sweeter undercoating the oats.Â
âYour Ma had good taste,â You compliment, and Billy beams at you in happiness.Â
The good news of his recovery comes at a cost, and however much you try to urge him to stay in the bed to recover, he makes it incredibly clear that he is becoming much too restless to stay in it all day.Â
And suddenly, it feels like youâre looking in a mirror.Â
Billyâs push back sounds familiar to you, your own words of protest from the past few days being spat back in your face as he argues that he is well enough to stand and walk around for a little bit each day. Perhaps this is your punishment for how difficult you were during your own need for recovery.Â
âI canât just sit around all day,â
You said it to him when he tried to urge you to rest and now heâs throwing those same words back at you, daring you to be a hypocrite in the face of your own words. Â
âBilly, you are recovering from a gunshot wound. Do you have any idea how serious this could become if you put too much stress on it too soon and it becomes infected?â
âItâs not gonna get infected. You care for it good enough and you said that I was healinâ up fast.â
âThe possibility of tearingââ
âWhat about if you hurt your back again, huh? What then? You ainât gonna do me any good if you keep hurtinâ yourself.â
âOh, you are stubborn! The Bible says âa stubborn fool considers his own way the right one, but a person who listens to advice is wiseâ. Why canât you listen to my professional advice?â
âNever said I was wise. Iâll be stubborn if it's gonna keep you safe. But really, whoâs being the stubborn one here?â
Ouch.
You know the Lord is testing you.Â
Thatâs what this whole thing is - a test of your loyalty and strength in the face of hardships you never thought you would have to deal with.Â
Just like you, it seems that Billy is an active man - a doer who would rather be productive and helpful than sitting on his behind all day long and accept being cared for.Â
You appreciate this type of man. The type of man who makes himself useful in all aspects of life and doesn't expect to be doted on by his women just because he âworked hardâ all day and âdeserves to relaxâ when he gets home. Youâve seen first hand how a womanâs role in life doesnât have set business hours. From the moment she wakes up in the morning, sheâs doing her duties, caring for her husband or father and doing whatever she has to do to make his life easier.
Clean the home.
Make the meals.
Care for the children.
Tend to all his needs.
And when he gets home after work, from doing what he thinks is the most important job of all of âprovidingâ for his family, he kicks his feet up as she places a glass of whiskey in his hand. The woman handles the rest as she always does and receives no thanks in return for her efforts.Â
The sting of the past rears its ugly head whenever you think about it. You remember how the second your father walked through the door, whether he had been at work or already out in a saloon plying himself full of drink, your mother would be ready with a glass of the finest liquor your family could afford in hand for him. You remember how he never did anything to help with the household - never any heavy lifting, never any cleaning, never any cooking. He never even hugged his children.Â
Your mother did it all.Â
The tax of being a woman is often much higher than you think youâre willing to pay, and you often wonder if this is what the Lord truly meant when he said âWives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord.â
So while you are mostly grateful that Billy is not like a grand majority of the men youâve met, you think itâs inconvenient for this particular moment.Â
âFine,â You begrudgingly allow, crossing your arms over your chest. âBut if I think youâre overdoing it and tell you to sit down, I expect you to listen.â
âYes, maâam,â He says with a pleased smirk as he tips an invisible hat at you.Â
Oh, Lord. Give me strength.Â
You allow him to stay out of bed for portions of the day under the condition that the tasks he does are light work and in no way any kind of danger to his still healing wound. He helps you in the kitchen, observing while you chop vegetables and put together hearty meals for the two of you with the supplies that Sam was gracious enough to provide for you both in his crate. Heâs attentive to your needs - taking the dirty dishes from you and cleaning them right away in the heated water basin next to the stove while you cook, shaking his head stubbornly when you try to tell him to leave it. Heâs offered to go out and collect more water for you from the stream out front when you need it, but you draw the line there, not wanting him to risk injuring himself more by picking up a heavy pot. He hands you things before you have to ask; already handing you a clean knife when you reach for the potatoes or using the spare kitchen rag to wipe the splattered mess clean that erupts from the pot as you stir. Heâs a handy helper, an asset in the kitchen and around the rest of the cabin too when you let him.Â
It feels nice to have a helper - domestic in a way you havenât had in a long time. Your fellow Sisters help you out every day, but it's different. They have their own jobs to tend to and you have yours. Help is expected but only when it's truly needed, otherwise you are on your own as you fulfill your given duties.
But when you were still living at home, before your world came crashing down on you, you and your mother would cook meals together. She would do a majority of the cooking but you would stand beside her and help her with whatever she needed. And in the spaces where she didnât need anything, you would listen to her sing as she cooked, singing along with her and dancing in the small kitchen space. You were never quite as happy anywhere else as you were when in that small bubble of calm domesticity with her.
You want to ask Billy if he had those moments with his Ma in the kitchen too when he was growing up, but youâre too scared of breaking the calm that you canât bring yourself to ask.Â
You thought your childhood might have been the end of it. The constant struggle and all-consuming fear you suffered day in and day out at the hands of your alcoholic father is something you would never wish on anyone. Youâve tried to justify it before - or not justify it but rather reason that you should consider yourself lucky, in a way. Thereâs always someone that has it worse off than you. Always someone who suffers more, is more fearful, has it harder and with more obstacles to overcome with not even a steep staircase in sight to help them over it.Â
You think Billy is one of those people. A poor soul lost amongst a battering sea of hurdles and tragedy that crash into him without mercy like waves during a storm. Orphaned at the age of fifteen, not even his brother alive anymore to keep him company in a cruel world that favors money over human life and dignity.Â
But, the truth is, you canât compare them. Two very different circumstances each with their own obstacles and lessons to learn, and you think itâs doing the Lord an injustice to try to push off your own tests as ânot as badâ in the face of anotherâs. Yours are for you and you alone.Â
You should know that the Lord is never done with His teachings.
When growing up in that house, you used to watch your father with careful eyes. It was important to keep tabs on him - the state he was in (drunk or absolutely under-the-table drunk), his current mood based on how much drink he had consumed thus far into the day, and who he was looking at through those drink clouded eyes. You would go back and forth with your prayers, subconsciously or consciously asking God to keep his gaze from looking back into yours only to take it back and pray that it does. Because if his eyes werenât on you, that means they were either on your mother or brother, and hearing their cries and screams for mercy always hurt more than the pain your fatherâs attention brought.Â
But moreso, you would watch him so you could know what you didnât want.
Before taking your vows, you would pray every night for God to send you someone wonderful. Someone kind and caring with a strong and protective disposition but that would never ever ever lay a hand on you in anything other than pure love and adoration. Maybe he would be handsome - tall or short, green eyes or brown, fair-headed or with hair as black as the night, it didnât matter. As long as he loved you and cared for you like a good husband should, you would take the blessing.Â
You hadnât thought about that in a long time. That path for you is no longer an option and you thought you had made peace with that, knowing that you had been blessed with a better path than you could have ever hoped for when you were younger. But it hits you hard when you realize that you may not be as at peace with it as you thought.
It feels like an empty pit in your stomach when you watch him move around next to you in your brotherâs small kitchen, looking up at Billyâs stretching arm as he reaches for one of the extra bowls Joe keeps up high on the top shelf above the stove that you are too short to reach yourself. The realization that, in another life, maybe this could have been your life. The thought makes your heart ache, the wanting of what could have been despite the contentedness of your life now is creeping in unexpectedly and youâre not sure how to feel. But it's there, frozen and immovable in your brain as you look up at him. He grabs the bowl and brings it down for you, looking down at you with a small upward turn of his lips as he hands it to you, and you think - wow, maybe in another life, one in which you hadnât devoted your life to God and His will, maybe Billy could have been someone you could have shared your life with.Â
If there was ever the embodiment of someone you would have hoped and prayed for yourself, Billy would have made a good option. Someone handsome, strong both physically and morally, equally helpful as you are to him and actually wants to be.Â
You take the offered bowl from his hands, sadness encompassing your heart as you mourn for the little girl who prayed so hard for God to send her someone wonderful like him. The Lord works in mysterious ways, that is no secret. Billy is in your life for a reason and everything that youâre feeling now is carefully orchestrated by the Lord. Thereâs a lesson to be learned in this. Perhaps some justice and freedom for your younger self that never got her prayers answered the way she expected to, but instead was blessed with a life path that was so much better.
It takes some time to coddle the little girl still left inside you. But even so, eventually it's time to lift her sadness and stress and desperation up to the Lord so He can finally heal her and replace her suffering with His pure love.Â
New Mexico can be hot, but thankfully not very humid. Heat you can tolerate, but humidity? Forget about it.Â
When your travels had taken you into Louisiana, you considered for a moment that it might be where the Devil himself lived for as hot and humid as it was. The difference between New Mexico and Louisiana was stark - the comfortable heat of New Mexico, even when wearing the multiple coverings of a habit, is nothing compared to the absolute stifling and hard-to-breathe heat of that long week in Louisiana. Some residents there had assured you that it wasnât always as horrific as it was when you asked during the long, long week of your stay. Just a heatwave, they said - and for their sake, you certainly hope so.Â
You havenât had to worry too much about that here. Since youâve moved to New Mexico, thereâs only been one drastic heatwave. And while you had sat in the clinic, sweating profusely under the dark clothes of your habit and a wet washcloth pressed against the back of your neck, you had hoped that it would be the last one you ever had to experience.Â
But the unusual heaviness in the air and the way youâre starting to feel more than a little wet under your armpits tells you that that particular thrown up prayer may have gone unanswered.Â
Itâs much hotter than itâs been in the last few days.Â
The cabin has been a safeguard from any excess heat so far, the well built wooden roof and sturdy walls effectively blocking the sunâs powerful rays and keeping the inside of the cabin a temperature fit for human living. But now it's too hot, too well contained, and the heat feels like it's smacking you in the face every time you turn around.Â
You feel wet under your clothes, the dark layers of your habit doing their job at keeping your entire body covered but doing you no favors in helping you find any relief from the all consuming heat. Billyâs not doing much better either. His dark hair is plastered against his forehead, sweat beading around his hairline, and he looks just as exhausted as you feel. His eyes are closed as he lays back against the pillows and for the first time in the past few days, he doesnât make any effort to try to get out of bed to move around. To be fair though, you donât really make any effort to move around either. Being active uses energy that you most definitely donât have right now - the ridiculous humidity taking away all your will and motivation to do anything other than use a spare piece of paper to fan yourself.
Eventually, it's not enough though.Â
Your clothes are sticking to your skin and you feel more disgusting than you have in a long time.Â
âI need a bath,â You mutter, still fanning your face with the paper. You really do. Some nice cool water sliding along your skin to help cool you down sounds about as close to Heaven as you can get right now. But then it hits you, eyes flying open as your head snaps to look at Billy. âOh gosh, you need a bath!â
Itâs been exactly two weeks less a day that youâve been in hiding at your brotherâs cabin with a wanted criminal and you still havenât offered him a proper opportunity to bathe. Youâve done the bare minimum so far, running a wet cloth across your skin at the end of the day to rid yourself of the dirt and grime before handing it off to Billy to do the same. But itâs been far too long since you had a proper bath. Your last one was the day Billy found his way into the clinic - who knows when was the last time Billy had a proper wash.Â
One of Billyâs eyes crack open at your gasp. âYou sayinâ I stink?â
Heat rises at your cheeks and for a second you think youâve offended him, but the playful smirk that pulls under his sweaty upper lip tells you to relax.
âYes,â You say anyway. âVery much so, in fact.â
Billy lets out an amused huff, his eyes slipping shut again. âHm, so kind of you to say so,â
âWell, itâs a sin to lie,â You take a second to gather your resolve before forcing yourself up. Thank goodness cold water is what you're needing for your refreshing bath, you canât stand the thought of having to run the stove right now to heat it up. âIt should also be a sin with how bad we smell.â
âYou donât smell bad,âÂ
You look at him, strict brow raised. âNow, what did I just say about lying?â
âAinât a lie,ââÂ
He opens his eyes again to look at you and, for some crazy reason, thereâs a seriousness there that youâre not prepared for. You thought maybe he was just being polite, not saying the truth because he thought it might hurt your feelings as a woman. Itâs throwing you a bit with how sincere he looks.
âYou should get undressed,â You tell him in lieu of anything else to say. âIâm going to fetch some water from the stream and bring it back for you.â
âWouldnât it be easier to bathe in the stream?â
Honestly? Yes. Yes it would be. But it's a risk. A small one, but a risk nonetheless. If Garrett and his men showed up unexpectedly, it would be easier to keep them outside and hide BIlly inside than for Billy to try to run and hide in an open field.Â
âInside is the safer option. From both the heat and potential searching eyes,â You slip on your shoes that you keep neatly beside the bed and Billy just continues to watch you. âIs that okay?âÂ
Billy shrugs and places a hand on his side to protect his bandage as he pushes himself off the bed. âSure thing, boss,â
You see Billy start to unbutton his shirt and take that opportunity to leave the room and grab the water basin from the kitchen. The stream is just a short walk from the house and just about as in Joeâs backyard as he could have allowed. It takes just minutes to walk from the front porch all the way to the streamâs edge and youâre beyond thankful that, even though you feel like the Devil himself is breathing down the back of your neck with all this heat and humidity, your back doesnât twinge or pull or ache when you crouch to collect the water. Your hands dip into the stream as you dunk the bucket and the cool water feels heavenly on your hands.Â
When you return back to the cabin, fresh water in hand and grabbing a bar of soap you had borrowed from the clinic on your way back to the bedroom, you return to find that Billy has followed your orders. He stands naked - well, almost naked. Heâs kept his undergarments on, the white cotton that usually extends down towards the knee is still covering his more private parts but has been rolled up to expose a majority of his thighs. The rest of him is bare, on display for your eyes to see, and youâre so ashamed to find yourself looking.Â
You are a woman of God, forever to be celebate and chaste in His honor - but it's becoming clear, especially in these past few weeks, that you are not as far from the Devilâs reach as you had once hoped to be. Temptations of the flesh have never been a problem for you. You had never met anyone who had held your attention enough in your youth to ever entertain such thoughts, and after you had taken your vows the option was off the table altogether, so you had never bothered to ever consider anyone worth the distraction to your mission.Â
The temptation had always been easy to ignore. You may find some people attractive, yes, but nothing ever so tempting that they stopped you in your tracks, unable to take your eyes off them. But Billyâs skin is smooth, broad shoulders with muscles that shift under his skin as he moves. The long curve of his spine. The strong arms that you knew must have been impressive with the easy way he lifted you that night. Youâve seen skin before. Seeing mostly naked bodies at the clinic is part of the job description when dealing with the different amount of injuries youâve seen within your lifetime. But most of those bodies are old - the elderly with their wrinkles and saggy skin where muscles used to be but have now disappeared without use. And if theyâre not old, theyâre bloodied - able bodied people who need you to stitch them up and clean the rest when youâre done.Â
Youâve seen skin before. But not this kind of skin. Never the type that makes your fingers twitch like they want to run along the expanse of it and feels how it feels under your touch andâ
Stop!
âAhem,â You clear your throat from whatever had suddenly gotten in it. You take a bit to clear your head too. Temptation is not a sin. Giving into temptation is the sin. âI have the water,â
âThanks,â
You cross the room, setting the bucket of water down on the bedside table along with the bar of soap. His eyes follow your movements and the guilt from your recent lack of self control has you feeling like heâs burning holes in the side of your head.Â
âBe careful,â You say, running your still damp palms along the front of your tunic. âYouâre healing mighty well but that can all turn south if you're too careless with your movements. Donât rush anything and move slowly when twisting your body to clean. Iâll give you some privacy so just holler if you need me.â
You need to pray. This is going to keep eating at you if you donât, but Billy catches your wrist as you try to walk past him again, halting your escape as you head for the door to the main room.Â
âWait,â He says, softly. âWould you mind helpinâ me? I think I moved a little too much yesterday and now that Iâve stood up, itâs feelinâ kinda sore.â
His hand is pressing against his side again and any awkwardness you were experiencing is clouded by concern.Â
âSore?â You repeat, worriedly. âSore like your stitches ripped open?â
You immediately reach for his bandage, intent on pulling it off and seeing the extent of the damage, but Billy halts your hand before you can.Â
âMâfine,â He whispers. You look up and you realize that youâre suddenly very close to a very unclothed, arguably attractive, man. âItâs just sore.â
Pulling your hand from his, you back up a few paces.Â
Get it together. You need to focus and be strong for Billy. You are meant to help him, both physically and spiritually, and now is no time to be having a moral dilemma of your own. You need to focus and be the person God expects you to be. You can pray for absolution later.Â
You are one of the Lordâs faithful helpers, and Billy is asking for your help right now.
âOf course, Iâll help you,â You nudge his hand away from your wrist, replacing your wrist instead with the bar of soap. âYou go ahead and get started with what you can comfortably reach and Iâll go see if Joe has a blade we can use to clean up your face.â
Billy chuckles. âYou donât like the scruffy look, Sister?
âHah, well, nothing wrong with being a little more clean cut, yes? The baby Jesus might have been born in a barn, but we donât have to look it,â
You wish you could leave the room under the guise of going to look for your brotherâs razor. You need a minute, just one, just to collect yourself and get your thoughts together. But if your brother has one, you know it would be in here, so you turn your back to Billy to give him some semblance of privacy and begin your search. You should feel grateful that you find it so quick, just the first drawer of the small dresser opened and there is it - a clean straight razor, a shaving brush, and a half used soap cake both sitting neatly on top of a mostly still white linen towel. Thereâs the gentle sound of splashing water as Billy begins to clean himself behind you and you pretend to search for another minute before finally collecting your resolve and pull the items from the drawer. You lay them on top of the dresser and unfold the straight razor. It still looks decently sharpened which is good because you have absolutely no brain power or motivation to go looking for something to sharpen it with, and you use the towel to wipe away any dust that could have caught on the blade even while being folded down.Â
With a deep breath, you turn around again. Billy is scrubbing himself with the wet bar of soap. His chest and stomach are cleaned already, the wet soapy residue still visible from where he ran the bar over his skin. His left arm is lifted in the air as he washes under his armpit, the dark hair there making the soap lather up even more than where there is none. His eyes are on you as you turn around but they cut away as he bends over the water bucket, washing away the soap suds from his body.Â
âWill you do my back?â He asks, holding out the soap towards you before adding a quick, âPlease?â
âOf course,â You say, quickly. The selfish part of you wants to say no. Just staring at his back made you feel things you should give life to. You really donât want to put yourself in that position again. But you have no choice. Billyâs needs outweigh your own, so youâll just have to be quick about it.Â
Professional.Â
You set the shaving materials down on the side table next to the water bucket and take the soap from Billyâs outstretched hand, replacing it instead with the linen towel. âHere. Dry yourself off.â
The muscles in his back shift under his skin again as he follows your command and your so close to him like this, with your hand placed up on his shoulder in a halfhearted attempted to steady both him and yourself as you raise the soap bar to his skin, and you realize just how tall he is compared to you. He could easily tower over you and even though youâve never felt short, felt inferior, around people who have been physically taller than you - Billy makes you feel so small right now.Â
You scrub the soap over the skin of his back, trying not to think a single second of thought based around how smooth it is or how well maintained and athletic the muscles look pulling underneath it. Some of the suds run down the length of his spine, following the curve of it all the way down until they soak into the material of his undergarments. You take the towel from him when he offers it to you and you urge him to stand closer to the water bucket so that when you dip your hand into the cool water, cupping some in your palm to help wash off the soap, there wonât be a ton of water clean up left on the floor when youâre done. The water washes his back clean and you catch most of the runoff with the towel pressed against his lower back, preventing it from seeping into his underwear or dripping on the floor.Â
âOkay, back is done,â You tell him as you use the towel to pat his back dry. You squeeze the towel over the water bucket to wring out the excess. âYou should wash your hair too. The cool water will feel nice on your head and keep you cooler longer.â
âWill you do it?â He asks, hand reaching up to press against his bandage again.
You hesitate again, but only for a second. This you shouldnât have any problems with at all. Youâve washed countless heads during your time at the clinic - donât make Billy suffer because of your lack of self control.Â
âSure,â You say, forcing a playful smile. âYou know, Iâve been told these hands are like magic on a scalp. As close to Godâs own miraculous hands as you can get.â
Billy grins, sitting back on the bed as you come to stand in front of him. âNow I reckon thatâs probably right,â
You grab the soap cake and drip the shaving brush in the water to wet it. A few rough circles along the surface of the cake are enough for a decent lather and you motion for Billy to tilt his head up towards you so you can apply the thick shaving soap along his neck and jawline. With careful and out of practice strokes of the brush, the stubble becomes covered by the foam and it's nice that, for as long as heâs been without a proper shave, it seems like he doesnât grow facial hair quite as quick as other men. It makes it easier to cover and when everything is fully topped in a thick layer of shaving soap, you place them to the side and grab the regular soap bar once again and tell Billy to tilt his head down again so you can reach his hair while the shaving lather softens the hair on his face.
Your fingers run through his hair, dragging the soap with them as you card the suds through the dark locks. His hair is still short enough that it doesnât need to be cut just yet, but long enough that your fingers still catch on some snags as they work in the soap. Billyâs head pushes into your touch as your nails scrape against his scalp, a soft groan pulling from his chest as his eyes slip shut.
âYou didnât lie,â He mutters as his lashes flutter against his cheeks.Â
âNuns donât lie,â You respond. âLying is a sin,â
Billy leans his head to the side when you tell him to, leaning over the bucket so you can rinse out his hair, being mindful of not letting the soap get into his eyes. Itâs better to not towel it off. The water might drip a little on the bed and on the floor, but the heat is still stifling under your tunic, sweat beading up on your forehead just under the strap of your veil, and you can already see the relief in Billyâs face from how the water is cooling him down, so you think it's better to let him be more comfortable than trying to keep making clean up easier on yourself.Â
âChin up,â You instruct. The still damp towel lays over your shoulder now as you pick up the straight razor, unfolding it again and gripping it steady in your hand. âItâs been a while since Iâve had to do this, so stay very still for me, okay?â
He grunts in agreement and doesnât move from the position you put him in, sitting as still as a statue as you carefully run the blade of the razor over the side of his jaw. It wonât be the best or closest shave heâs ever had, but it will do for now. He sits while you work, stare on your face as you free his own from the scruff.Â
âYouâre such an angel to be takinâ care of me like this,â He murmurs when you pull the blade away to wipe it clean on the towel.Â
âItâs alright, Billy,â Another methodical swipe of the blade up the side of his neck. âItâs my pleasure to help in any way I can.â
Youâre almost done his face, his neck and left side of his jaw are hair free, and you pull away again to clean the razor, taking another second to wipe the back of your hand against your forehead to catch some runaway sweat.Â
He takes the opportunity to speak again without the presence of the blade against his skin. âYou were right. The water feels good. Especially in my hair,â
âIâm glad,â You say, returning the blade back to his face. âI wouldnât know.â
This time he talks even though the straight razor is pressed directly under his jaw. âYou can take your veil off. I reckon it's just makinâ you hotter,â
Your hand jerks a little at his words and you're shocked to see that somehow your abrupt movement hasnât drawn blood.Â
âNo,â You say maybe a little harsher than necessary. âI canât.â
âI wouldnât tell anyone,â
âNo,â The razor skims his skin a little quicker now. âThat is not an option.â
âSâjust hair. Youâve already seen me naked, touched my hair. Whatâs a little hair?â
âWe are not having this conversation,â You assert.Â
The last swipe of the blade is more rough and unsteady than it should be, but your heart is pounding at his suggestion. How inappropriate. How unacceptable to even suggest that you take off something as meaningful and sacred as your veil and because of what? Because youâre hot? A little warmth is too much to handle for you so you need to abandon your vow of modesty just for a little relief.Â
âClean yourself off,â You tell him, voice clipped as you toss the towel to him. You pick his discarded clothes off the floor and gather them in your arms. âIâm going to wash your clothes in the stream while you finish your bath.â
âWoah,â He says, hand reaching out to grab hold of your upper arm this time. âMâsorry. I didnât mean any harm. Just thought you coulda been a little more comfortable.â
Shame heats over your cheeks and you will yourself to take a breath. You shouldnât be so quick to get upset. Quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger - thatâs what He teaches us. You should know better by now that Billy doesnât mean any harm. Of course, he would just want to be helpful.Â
âI know,â You say, softly. âBilly, Iâm so sorry. I donât know whatâs come over me. Must be the heat making me a little crazy.â
âItâs alright,â
You pull his hand from where itâs curled around your arm and pat his palm in reassurance. âIâm gonna go wash your clothes in the stream and try to cool down myself. The sun will have them dry in no time Iâm sure. You finish up in here and just relax,â
âYouâre not gonna need me?â
âNo, Iâll be fine.Â
Billy nods and moves to sit back on the bed. âIâll just take a nap then,âÂ
âSure! That sounds lovely. Iâll be back in soon,â
Scurrying out of the bedroom and through the front entry way of the cabin, you cradle his clothes to your chest and let the front door slam shut behind you. The heat beats down as you make your way down the porch but for the first full minute that youâre outside, you barely feel it at all. You feel almost cold, like an icy hand is circling around your insides and twisting up your stomach.Â
The isolation here of being restricted with a man in a confined space with no other barriers is getting to you - thatâs all. You need structure again, daily routines and prayer to help get you back on track. Your fellow Sisters are good at helping you maintain the structure you need so that you donât get lost in your thoughts. Each of you have your strengths and your Sisters help you in areas that you lack. But they arenât around now and youâre feeling the effects of not hearing Godâs words fall from their lips when the voice in your own head gets too loud. Itâs okay, itâs not failure. Just because you are far from them now does not mean you are far from the Lord Himself.Â
All is well. Deep breathes.Â
The sunâs rays seep into the black fabric of your habit and the material encases the heat in its fibers like it loves it. You shake your head and decide to not think about it. Wash Billyâs clothes and while theyâre hanging out to dry, you can sink your arms into the cool water of the stream and bathe yourself in it.Â
Youâre sure your brother has a clothesline near the stream you can hang the clothes on.
Your brother doesnât have a clothesline. Of course, he doesnât. Why would he? Why would his absurdly minimalistic way of living help benefit you in any way other than giving you a roof over your head.Â
Stop it, y/n, you scold yourself.Â
What a terribly bitter line of thinking. Itâs not your brotherâs fault. This is his life and the way he chooses to live. Who are you to judge him for anything? Especially considering the path that you yourself have chosen to take. The Lord encourages minimalism, urges all of His children to forsake material items and give them up for the sake of following Him and finding true happiness away from the only brief moments of glee any physical item can grant. Instead of becoming frustrated and pointing the finger, perhaps you should look within and take a page from your brotherâs book. His relationship with God is not what you would consider healthy or strong, but perhaps heâs not as far off as you might have thought.Â
Focus on what you know: youâre tired and a bit irritable, soul a little bruised. Your back pain is nearly almost completely gone now and for that youâre thankful, but the excessive heat and humidity so high you feel like you are having some trouble breathing is ruining what should be a joyous experience. If you thought it was hot inside, then outside feels like an entirely different plane of existence.Â
The water on your skin as you dunk Billyâs clothes in the stream feels wonderful, but the water dries up all too fast leaving your skin feeling tight. You shiver in disgust and the thought of why something can even feel so good and then gross within seconds crosses your mind quicker than you can catch it.Â
The negative line of thinking halts as you scold yourself again.Â
Sister Catherine says there is beauty in everything, you need to remember that.Â
You just need to find the beauty to see Godâs face even in the most trying of times.Â
Youâre tired, but at least youâve been allowed rest. Your back is still a bit sore, but itâs on the mend and through the pain youâve gained a new appreciation for your bodyâs movements and capabilities. Your rolled up sleeve accidentally got soaked during a too careless dunk while trying to scrub Billyâs shirt with the soap, and while it annoys you, you find you donât mind the feeling of the wet clothes against your skin as long as it stays on your arm below the elbow. You have a safe place to stay, away from the dangerous people who are hunting your charge, and despite how hot it is outside, the scenery of your brotherâs cabin along the miles and miles of raw greenery is absolutely breathtaking now that youâre choosing to actually look at it.Â
The expert craftsmanship that Joe accomplished while building this place, the precision and time and patience it took and knowing that he did it himself with no one to help him makes looking at the accomplishment even more special. He chose a beautiful location - somewhere remote with no unwanted visitors but with such beauty in the scenery that surely he must feel more at peace here than anywhere else in the world. A little slice of Heaven here on Earth just for him. The land is abundant, green and full of life and only disrupted by the stream of glittering blue that cuts diagonally along the front of the land, and you know instinctively that Joe chose to face his home this way so he can look out his window or sit on the front porch and watch the water flow while he drinks his morning coffee.Â
You see it - the beauty God is trying to show you.
The peace and the serenity thatâs been evading you the past few days finally hits you like a wave of holy light.Â
When things get hard or tensions get too high at the clinic and things seem like theyâre turning for the worst, Sister Maria likes to invoke a practice that she calls âde nuevoâ.
âIt means âagainâ,â She had told you. âRestart. Do over. Start new. When life gets too hard and there seems to be no end in sight. Grita âde nuevo!â and start again with fresh eyes and an open heart,â
Spanish isnât your forte, but this is a saying that youâre very familiar with and can get behind. The sweltering heat still smacks at your body and you desperately try to cling onto the tranquility that youâve found against the ruthlessly high temperatures.Â
âDe nuevo,â You whisper, and then you start again.
Your brother doesnât have a clothesline, but thatâs okay. The front porch does have a nice chair you can drape the wet clothes off of as well as the bannister around the porch. Theyâll do just fine and get the job done just as a regular clothesline would. You gather the clothes into a ball in your arms. The wet material soaks into the front of your tunic and you grimace at the feeling. The cold water helps to cool you down for a moment, but this time the feeling of your clothes sticking to your chest is a sensation you can go the rest of your life never feeling ever again.Â
You step up on the porch, drop the bundle of clothing on the seat of the rocking chair, and reach up to wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. Just a few more tasks - you just need to lay Billyâs clothes out to dry and then you can bathe and clean your own. As much as you would love to clean the entire garb, you know thatâs not in your immediate future. You donât have a change of clothes and all you brought with you are the clothes on your back. You may be sleeping in the same bed with a man out of necessity, but you refuse to let Billy see you out of your habit.Â
Some rules are just too sacred to break.
No sooner than the first of the laundry is thrown over the back of the rocking chair, the sound of your name reaches your ears.Â
Itâs your first name again. Just your first name, no title to be heard. And in other circumstances you know that this would have to be the moment that you correct him. A one time slip is acceptable within reason, but any more than that is plain disrespectful and even though you stand by the idea that Billy doesnât intend any harm, the matter is still the same.Â
But that line of thinking doesnât matter right now because it's not just that he said your name - itâs how he said it.Â
Your name, called in what you can only assume is a moan of pain.Â
It sounds tense, a pitiful whimper as he tries to call for you and you're immediately concerned about what could be making him sound like that.Â
Possibilities of Billy being hurt or suddenly in so much pain that he canât contain his whimpers of pain anymore flood your mind. What could have possibly happened? You were just with him. Things were fine. He was just fine!
Maybe he tried to get up and twisted his body badly enough that it ripped open his healing scar and stitches. Naughty boy, always trying to stand or move about when he has no business going anywhere. You knew he was pushing himself by moving around too much. He did say it was sore. Or maybe thereâs an infection that youâve somehow missed - something thatâs slipped past your watchful eye and now suddenly itâs rearing its ugly head and causing misery to poor Billyâs still fragile healing state.Â
You drop the pair of pants in your hands back into the pile, wiping the wetness off of your hands and onto your tunic. âBilly?â
Another moan followed by a deeper groan and your concern increases as you push open the front door. You keep your voice as soft and calm as you can. You donât want to startle him and have him jump and hurt his injury more. âBilly?â
This time your name is more like a whisper - like a prayer being spoken between his sounds of pain and agony. Calling out for you to help ease his suffering. Forsaking calmness, your feet scramble across the small entryway and push past the bedroom door.Â
âBilly, are yoââ
Your words are cut off in your throat, swiftly ended by the sharp and scandalized gasp that bursts forth from the sight in front of you.Â
Billyâs not in pain as you had thought.Â
Heâs not doubled over in agony, hands pressing against his side to keep pressure on his wound from whatever trauma you thought he had inflicted on it while you were out cleaning the laundry.Â
Or maybe he is in pain. The angry red tip peeking out from the top of his fist certainly looks like itâs painful.
Heâs⊠touching himself. Naked body, fully naked this time, stretched out on bed with his hand between his legs. His thighs look like theyâre trembling, toned tummy tensing and sucking in slightly as his face twists in response to what heâs doing to himself.Â
Immediately, your face is on fire, heat flooding your cheeks in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature outside and everything to do with the sinful expression of desire on display in front of you. Billy's eyes fly open at the sound of your gasp, bright blue almost black with how dilated his pupils are and the hand thatâs stroking at his length freezes as those eyes lock on yours.Â
âSorry!â You squeak. âIâm sorry! Lord, have mercy. Iâll just- Iâll give you a little time to finish.â
Your hands press to your warm cheeks as you scurry away from the room and back out to the porch. The front door slams shut behind you and you lean back against it, body trembling with an increase of adrenaline. Your fingers dig into your eyes, bright spots popping up in front of the black of your closed eyelids.
Lord, please forgive me for having seen such a private and intimate moment not meant for my eyes. You know it wasnât my intention. Amen.
Your body is shaking and you will yourself to calm down. Itâs normal, you try to remind yourself. Itâs a completely normal and human action you just saw. Itâs just the embarrassment of having interrupted it thatâs making you shake. With a deep breath, you move to pick up another article of laundry. You intend for it to keep you distracted, but, despite how hard you try, you cannot keep your mind from wandering to the man inside.
The one who is probably still trying to⊠finish.Â
The image of him sprawled out on the bed, long fingers wrapped around his length and how hard and flushed and intimidating it looked still bounces around your mind. You try to shake your head, palms pressing hard into your eyes again to try to push the image from your mind. It doesnât work.Â
The way the head of it poked through the circle of his fist with each stroke and how it glistened at the top even in the singular window of the bedroom.Â
How long his body is, lithe but strong as the muscles shifted under his skin.Â
How a few strands of his dark hair still stuck to his forehead from the moisture beading on his skin and how youâre not even sure if it's still from his bath, sweat from the heat, or sweat from⊠other things.
How hazy his eyes looked when he looked at you.Â
Stop it, y/n. Stop it right now.Â
Youâve seen your fair share of male parts in your lifetime. Itâs important to remember that. This is no different. Itâs part of the job description when caring for the sick or elderly. Youâre going to see their private parts and thereâs nothing wrong with that. Itâs not sexual, even if sometimes patients do become aroused from time to time. Itâs completely natural - a bodyâs natural response to stimulation even if that stimulation is not sexual in nature or intention.Â
In this instance, you must admit the sexual intention on Billyâs part. But this is also natural. Thereâs the occasional discourse between some teaching and beliefs about whether or not masturbation is a sin. Some say it is, stating that the overwhelming desire and need to touch oneself comes from a severe lack of self control and temptation from the Devil.
Youâve heard it said that it's a form of sexual immorality. Sex is meant for love between two people with the intention to procreate and bring forth new life with the Lordâs blessing. Itâs not meant to be wasted on a âshameful, quick, and disturbing act of self release with tainted emotions and impure thoughtsâ. You remember those words well, spoken from the thin mouth of a very strict and rather unwelcoming nun you met during your travels before taking your vows. In her eyes, masturbation is dirty - corruption of the body as the Lordâs holy temple by your own hand.Â
Others argue that masturbation itself is not a sin, but rather a necessity and natural act of the nature that God granted us. The act alone is not sinful, but can turn towards sin depending on what the mind conjures up in the throes of that sensation. Pure physical sensation and the emotions that come with touching oneself - that is acceptable and natural. Imagining, watching, or objectifying another of Godâs children, however, is where the Devilâs reach can come and turn an otherwise innocent act into something devastating.Â
Billy wouldnât do that. Heâs a good man, a sweet boy, and you just canât picture him objectifying anyone like that. If he needed a release, then thatâs his business, and you would do well to just wipe it from your mind and move on.Â
But you canât - the images are still dancing around your head without permission, and to your horror you realize that now itâs you of all people being sinful. Again.Â
Our Father, Who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Name,
Thy Kingdom come.
Thy Will be done.
On Earth as it is in Heaven.Â
You pray the entire time you finish laying out the clothes to dry. The constant repetition and chosen words of the prayer help you to clear your mind. You donât even register the heat anymore.Â
Youâve finished Billyâs laundry by the time you actually gather the courage to go back inside the cabin.Â
Youâve also done your own. You hadnât intended to clean the whole thing, just rinse your body and wash the parts of your habit that you could go without for a few minutes to smell and feel a little fresher. But the interaction with Billy has you scrambled and you canât go back in there yet.Â
So, you take your time.Â
You washed your clothes as quickly as you could, not wanting to risk Billy looking out the window and seeing you in just your underclothes. The stream is just far enough from the cabin that you donât think he would see anything in detail if he were to peek out, even less if you keep your back towards the house, but even the thought of him seeing you outside of your uniform makes you uneasy - the insistent litany of no no no no rushing around your head. Itâs probably the quickest bath youâve ever taken, scrubbing your skin raw and tossing glances over your shoulder every few seconds towards the window. You never see Billyâs silhouette in the frame and even though youâre still kind of tense, it does ease some of the tension in your shoulders. Heâs probably still busy anyway, trying to⊠relieve himself.
Sweat and water still bead up at the place where your forehead and hairline meet, the moisture soaking into the headband of your veil and you really want to wash it too. Another glance at the window still shows no visible onlooker, so you take a chance and pull the covering from your head.Â
The sun works on drying your habit as you lay it out on the ground next to you. The cool water slides across your scalp as you wash your hair and it feels so good that you donât even care that itâs sliding down your back and soaking into your thin top. You wash your veil too, paying close attention to scrubbing the band to get rid of any sweat or smell.Â
When youâre done, you grab your clothes from the edge of the stream, cradling them to your chest as you race across the field and back towards the outhouse. You lay your clothes on the grass beside it before darting inside and taking refuge within the small structure.Â
It stinks inside the outhouse, the unpleasant smell of bodily waste, only just muted by the dirt covering it, is not something youâre looking forward to experiencing for any longer than you have to. But it shouldnât take too long for your clothes to fully dry and you could use some alone time to truly gather yourself.Â
The opportunity to stay in Godâs sole presence, just you and Him and no one else in the entire world, feels like a weight being lifted off your shoulders. Youâve been slacking, and it shows heavily in your recent actions and thoughts. You sit on the side of the bench, legs crossed as you lean against the wall and let your words of praise fill the contained space. The cross laced around your neck normally sits safely under the collar of your tunic, but now itâs held reverently between your fingers. It feels warm as your fingers press into the wood - alive and simmering with your Lordâs presence.Â
You press it against your lips as you whisper prayer after prayer against the smooth wood, asking God for His guidance so that His words may once again ring loudly in your ears and fall confidently from your lips as opposed to the damning silence or tempting whisperings of the Devil that youâve been receiving.Â
An hour of prayer might not be much, but itâs enough.
Despite the heat still beating down on you from above, you feel refreshed. There hasnât been any wind or even the slightest hint of a breeze all day long and yet, when you leave the safety of the outhouse, you feel the softest touch of air blowing against your skin. You take it as a good sign, a signal from God that you are on the correct path and headed for healing and wisdom that you have prayed for. Your clothes are dry when you pick them up, dark fabric hot to the touch but you slip them on anyway, one piece after another until youâre back to how you should be. Covered and modest and protected in the uniform of honor that He has granted you.Â
Billyâs clothes are dry too when you reach the front porch and you drape them over your arm. And with a steadying deep breath, you open the door.Â
It occurs to you that you probably should have been more cautious when walking inside the cabin. The bedroom door is still wide open from how you left it earlier and nearly the entire room is on display even from the front door. Maybe you should have come in with your eyes closed, called out his name loud and clear so that you didnât have any more awkward encounters like this afternoon. But things seem to work out in your favor this time because Billy is just sitting on his side of the bed, leg bent at the knee as he plays with what little is left of the knitting yarn. Thankfully, heâs back to wearing his undergarments, so even though heâs still naked (on account of you holding his only clothes in your arms), it's nothing you shouldnât be able to handle.Â
He looks up when he hears you enter, hands stilling on the yarn as his wide eyes stare into yours. Heâs nervous. You can relate.Â
âHereâs your clothes,â You say, resting them neatly on the corner of the bed. âI hope theyâre clean enough.â
âThanks,â He mutters, eyes still locked on your face.Â
You donât want to say anything. You just want to move past the embarrassment and shame on your part and hopefully have him move past the complete disregard of his private time, no matter how accidental. But he doesnât make any kind of move for his clothes, doesnât even move an inch in an attempt to get up - just keeps looking at you and you know youâre going to have to say something.Â
âIâ apologize for walking in on you earlier,â You say. âI thought you might have been in pain and wanted to help butâŠâ You wring your hands together awkwardly in front of you before settling them to cross your chest. âI hope I didnât embarrass you.â
Billy shakes his head. âNo. Thatâs not really somethinâ that embarasses me,â
âGood! It shouldnât. Itâs completely natural for someone toâ to do that. And I should never have walked in on it. So, you have my apologies.â
âSâalright,â
âOkay,â You nod. âGood.â Thank goodness that went easier than expected. âNow, get dressed and Iâll start up some dinner for us.â
âSister, wait,â
You stop midstep, unease fluttering through you, and once again youâre so close to thinking a blasphemous word because no! You thought for a second that you had come out of the conversation potentially unscathed.Â
You rest a hand on the doorframe and turn to look at him over your shoulder. âYes, Billy?â
He stands from the bed, stretching just a little before reaching for the top of his clothes pile. âYou really donât have a problem with what you walked in on? With me, yâknow, touchinâ myself?â
âNo,â You say, sincerely. âOf course not. Men have needs and those are natural and God-given. What you were doing was completely natural for a young man like yourself.â
âAnd what about you?â He asks, buttoning his newly fresh pants at his waist.Â
âWhat about me?â
âWomen have needs too. Do your needs ever get met?â
Your jaw drops. âExcuse me?â
He shrugs on his shirt, completely unfazed. âYour needs. When you feel it. Do they ever get met?â
âI- I donâtââ You stammer, scandalized. Lord, have mercy. Okay, focus. Stay calm. âAll my needs are taken care of by the Lord. He provides me with anything I might ever need. Any desires of⊠flesh are simply tests from time to time, but I wouldnât consider it a need for me.â
Billy hums and finishes on the last button of his shirt. He doesnât believe you, that much is evident in the way he keeps his gaze locked on yours, eyes both indifferent but also somehow so sure, as if he knows something that you donât. You donât wait to see if he has anything else to say on the matter and retreat into the kitchen to begin to fix up dinner.Â
The glow of morningâs light is shining in through the kitchen window, illuminating your workspace in a warm golden hue. You're making a simple breakfast of biscuits and gravy when you feel him come up behind you. The water is still heating on the stove, and youâre still so tired that you feel like you can barely keep your eyes open. Coffee isnât usually your go-to breakfast drink, you like the bitter taste of black tea more than coffee, but you feel like you need a more significant amount of caffeine than usual this morning just to make it through today without falling asleep the next time your butt hits a sitting surface.Â
You donât think Billy would mind if you did. In fact, heâd probably encourage it. But you have a job to do, and youâre not one to slack on your duties, even if Billy is now capable of doing most things by himself.Â
He comes to a stop just a hair behind you, much closer than you anticipated him getting, and the sudden breath at the back of your neck makes you jump.Â
âOw!â You gasp, the jump making your finger graze against the hot metal of the kettle and pain explodes along the burnt digit.Â
Billy coos behind you, arm reaching around you so he can grab your injured hand. He cups your fist in his large hand, thumb urging your hurt finger out of its protective curl so he can see it.
âWhat are you doing?â You ask, head turning to the side so you can see the side of his face as it leans over your shoulder. The free hand on your waist isnât lost on you, but you canât seem to figure out why you arenât moving away either.Â
âShh,â Billy shushes you, lips pursing as he brings your pointed finger closer to them. âJust relax, y/n,â
Your eyes lock onto where his lips stop just an inch away, breath hitching as he blows cold air from between his pursed lips and onto your finger. Your eyelashes flutter at the feeling of the cool air against your burning skin, small shivers wracking your body as his breath slides across your flesh. His head is getting closer and closer with each light blow of air, slowly creeping nearer to your finger until his lips brush against the pad of your finger. Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp as his lips part to take your finger between them, the wet muscle of his tongue dragging soothingly across the injured skin. It laps gently across the sore pad, lips wrapping around the digit as he sucks lightly.Â
When he pulls it from his mouth, the length of your finger from tip to knuckle is glistening with his saliva. The hand on your waist tightens a bit and the clutching hold of it tickles your side.
âWhat are you doing?â You ask again, but your voice comes out weaker this time - more breathy.Â
Billyâs bright blue eyes cut over to you, hooded gaze holding yours as he presses his plush lips to your finger in a small kiss, a smirk pulling at his mouth even against your finger. âTaking care of you,â
You feel like you canât breathe as he raises your hand to press a teasing kiss to the delicate skin of your wrist before trailing downwards. Another kiss to your forearm over the tunicâs sleeve, another to the inside of your elbow and you swear you can almost feel the heat from his lips burning through the thin black material.Â
He brings your arm back down and guides your hand so it rests on his cheek, the stubble along his jaw scratching gently at your palm. His other hand comes up to cup your own cheek, and then your entire vision is taken up by him. Heâs so close, eyes wide and intense as he stares down at you, pupils dilated just like they were when you caught him touching himself, and you can see how thereâs something desperate in his gaze - a longing you canât even begin to understand.
He towers over you like this. Your body is frozen, pliable in his hands and you donât know whatâs happening, donât know why you're letting him this close.
Getting closer. And closer.Â
You watch, helpless as his head leans down towards you, eyes flicking down to your lips before locking back on yours.
You donât even register how your own head tilts up, lips parting slightly in preparation to meet his.
And when they do, itâs bliss.
Billyâs lips move against yours like theyâve been doing it for forever, and your only thought as he tilts your head more and kisses you deeper is yes, this feels right.Â
His touch feels all consuming, your body heating up under your clothing and reacting to his touch as his hands drop to your waist, squeezing the flesh of your hips through your tunic. He grins against your mouth when you squeal.
âYouâre so beautiful,â He whispers. Your chest feels like it might burst from his words.Â
âBilly,â You whimper, whining as his hands slide over your ass, palming it in his big hands as he pulls you even closer. Your hands grip at his biceps, fingers digging into the hard muscle as he urges you to cuddle against him. Your head rests against his chest with your ear over his heart, and the steady thump thump thump of his heartbeat feels safe.
You can feel the wetness already pooling in your drawers when Billyâs hands slide down further, gathering the material of the tunic and bunching it up just over the curve of your ass so your entire backside is on display to his wandering gaze.Â
The feel of his fingers rubbing you through the thin material of your drawers makes you keen, electricity shooting through your body as the pads of his fingers rub lovingly against your clit over the drenched fabric.Â
âSo wet for me,â Billy hums, tapping on the sensitive nub. Your back arches as you press against him harder, fingernails biting into his arms. âSuch a good girl for me, honey.â
You feel like it's too much already, your pussy clenching around nothing as you wordlessly try to grind against Billyâs fingers - get him to touch you more, put them inside maybe. He just laughs at you, a soft but deep chuckle as if he relishes in the absolute mess heâs made of you by barely even touching you.
And then youâre hauled up into his arms, his hands gripping your thighs as your own arms wrap tightly around his neck. Heâs pressed inside you now, thick cock spearing you open as he thrusts relentlessly between your slick walls.Â
The sounds of his moans in your ear make you wetter and he bounces you on him, pounding into you somehow without mercy but with all the love in the world as you hang onto him for dear life. Your own moans canât be helped, a symphony of pleasure bursting from your throat and the room around you is so blurry - so blurry that you canât focus on anything. Your eyes canât focus.Â
And then you look up.Â
The picture of Jesus just above the front door is the only thing thatâs clear, and your stomach drops, eyes locked and frozen in fear as you stare at the picture in horror.Â
Heâs alive - Jesus is alive in the picture, head moving around and eyes looking and seeing everything.Â
Seeing you.Â
And heâs angry.Â
The normally relaxed and serene expression on his face has been replaced by one of fury. His brows pull together, eyes narrowing as he watches Billy claim you, lips pulling up in a snarl when your arms wrap tighter around Billyâs neck in fear. Billy takes your grip as passion and thrusts into you harder, moaning into your ear as your body is flooded with wave after wave of pleasure. But you canât tear your eyes from the picture, canât help but whimper as you stare wide eyed at the angry, holy being who is cutting you down with the immeasurable weight of his judgment.Â
âWAKE UP!â Jesus yells, and his voice is booming in your ears, so loud you think your eardrums might burst. âWAKE UP!â
Your body jerks awake in the same way that it jerks after having a dream where youâre falling off a cliff. The jump is violent, every single muscle in your body is tense and set ready for defense. Your gasp is loud, and you think that if Billy was still asleep he probably would have jerked awake himself from the sheer suddenness and intensity of it.Â
But heâs awake already - already sitting upright on the bed, already staring at you.Â
âAre you okay?â He asks, voice still a bit raspy. You notice that his pupils are blown wide, just like in the dream.
Youâre still panting, still horrified by the dream - the nightmare - that youâve just experienced. Thereâs wetness between your legs, you can feel it. You can feel the pulsing of need between your thighs, your clit still begging to be touched, hole dripping and clenching with the need to be filled. The sensations only add to the horror as tears prickle at your waterlines.Â
Jesus was so angry. Righteous fury burning in his eyes as he stared at you - watching you sin, watching you as you let a man inside your body, desecrating your sacred temple and breaking the vows you made to God.Â
And you let it happen as if all of it meant nothing.Â
Acid rises in your throat, tears spilling over and flowing down your cheeks like twin waterfalls and the quiet sob that rips from your throat canât be helped. It was just a dream, you try to tell yourself. Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.Â
Or a message. A warning.Â
âHey,â Billy says, hand reaching out to comfortingly squeeze your shoulder as he tries to get your attention. You automatically jerk away from his touch, smacking his hand away the moment it touches you. Guilt swirls in your chest at his hurt expression.Â
âAre you okay?â He asks again. âWhatâs wrong?â
âI need to pray,â And his eyes widen even more at your desperate tone. âI need to pray right now.â
You donât give him time to respond as you scramble out of the bed, hightailing it out of the bedroom and falling to your knees in the center of the main room. You pull the rosary from your belt and hold it tightly between your fingers, hands shaking from the panic still coursing through your body.Â
And when you peek over towards the front door, you notice that the spot above the door frame is empty.Â
You canât sleep with Billy in the same bed anymore. Your back is feeling better and considering whatâs happened the last few days, you think maybe it's best to return to your place on the floor, if only to remove any temptation or wandering thoughts you might subconsciously be having. Sam is due to make another trip into the neighboring town today and promised that he would stop by on his way. It would be better if he could see that you are both sleeping in separate spaces like you should be. Sam is a sweetheart - he would never judge you for anything, even less of something that you had to do for your own health and he is the last person that would ever accuse you of doing something inappropriate. But the laws of society and need for modesty should still be followed which means sleeping on the floor again is a must.Â
Billy doesnât like the idea.
âYouâre gonna hurt your back again,â He says as he watches you grab your blanket off the bed. His arms are crossed over his chest, a poorly concealed act to cover his agitation.Â
âI feel fine now,â You reason. âAnd if it does start hurting again-â
âIt will,â
âIf it does, weâll cross that bridge when we come to it,â
âI think youâre makinâ a mistake,
âThen itâs my mistake to make,â
âIs this about yesterday?â
âNo. This isnât up for discussion, Billy. Iâve told you already that I shouldnât ever be sleeping in the same bed with a man. This was out of necessity, not comfort,â
Billy sighs, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling in irritation. âI do think itâs necessary for you to sleep in the bed, y/n,â
âStop,â
The word cuts from your vocal cords like ice. You canât believe it. Again. He did it again!
âWhy did you say my name like that?â You ask. âYouâre dropping my earned title. Thatâs the second time youâve done it.â Third, but you donât want to think about the other time heâs said it. âWhy?â
âJust an accident,â
Just an accident. âItâs disrespectful. And inappropriate,â
Billy hangs his head. âApologies, Sister. Never meant to cause you disrespect,âÂ
âBilly, whatââ
Your words die on your tongue when the sound of galloping hooves tearing against the grass out front catches your attention. Billyâs eyes widen and he quickly moves past you and into the main room. His gun and hat are resting next to your bag against the far wall and he rushes to grab it, checking that the bullets are inside before closing it back up and cocking the hammer, pointing it directly at the front door.Â
âWait!â You shout, one hand darting out to signal to him to stand down as you rush towards the front door. âIt might be Sam!â
You push the door open slowly, trying to peek out and see who it is before it's even fully opened because it's probably Sam, it has to be, because if itâs not - everything youâve worked so hard to prevent is about to crumble down around you in a second. Sheriff Garrett wouldnât hesitate to shoot Billy dead this time. He wouldnât miss. And you have a feeling that he wouldnât hesitate to put down the famous Billy the Kidâs getaway accomplice right down with him either.
The familiar horses and wagon are a blessing to see. Samâs head pokes out from the back of the wagon as he pulls a crate from the fully stocked bed.
âSam!â You shout in relief. âThank the Lord! Itâs so good to see you,â
Behind you, Billy relaxes his stance a bit, lowering his gun down but keeping it cocked and you nod your head at it, wordlessly telling him to replace the hammer and put it down, but he wonât acknowledge you.Â
You push the door all the way open for Sam, scurrying out of the way as he shoulders through with the heavy crate. You strategically keep your body between Sam and Billyâs gun. Youâre confident Billy wouldnât ever shoot Sam, but the worry still lingers for as long as the gun is in his hand and you would never forgive yourself if Sam were to get hurt while trying to help you. The gun isnât out of his hand yet but you relax when you hear the click of the hammer being reset.
Sam sets the crate down on the floor next to the now almost empty first one and turns to you with an adorably charming grin.Â
âSister y/n,â He greets, clasping your hands in his and you return the gesture, squeezing his hands between yours in friendly affection. âItâs good to see you too.â
A loud clatter sounds as Billy tosses his gun back onto the floor, the metal striking roughly against the wooden boards. Sam lets go of your hands to turn his attention to Billy, tipping his hat at him respectfully.Â
âMr. Bonney,â He greets. âI didnât get to properly introduce myself last time we met. Iâm Sam Anderson. Good to see youâre alive and well. Howâs the bullet wound healing up?â
âHealinâ up just fine, Mr. Anderson. I have a great healer,â
âThat you do,â
âSam,â You interject, placing a wary hand on Samâs shoulder. âYou have news for us?â
Sam nods. âYes. Good news in fact. Sheriff Garrett has been relentless in his search. Heâs travelled to most of the neighboring territories in search of Billy but has been given no leads. He intends to search the last few remaining ones but I can tell he already knows you wonât be there. Heâs stated that he thinks you bled out while fleeing and have been made a meal of by some animal,â
âWell, good,â You breathe, looking in relief between Sam and Billy. âThatâs good news indeed.â
Itâs beyond amazing news that Sheriff Garrett is coming to terms with the possibility that Billy bled out before he could find any help. Even if heâs travelling to other territories to question if Billy had come through, the idea that heâs already dead added to the fact that those questioned in the neighboring territories will say no, they hadnât seen Billy come through there, means that it's already even less likely that Sheriff Garrett would show up at your front door. It means that in a short time when all of this is over and Billy is well enough to travel on his own, that you can return back to the clinic without fear of being hunted down yourself. You can return back to your Sisters.Â
âHow are they?â You ask Sam. You donât need to clarify, he knows who youâre asking about.Â
âTheyâre fine. I visit them every time I can to check on âem. I know you would have wanted me to,â You nod in agreement as he continues. âThey miss you. Sister Catherine holds everything together like she always does, but she always makes for all of us to pray together for you. And Billy, of course.â He says, nodding to Billy. âPraying for Billyâs quick recovery and for you to return home safe. Sister Ann is biting the sides of her fingers more than ever now. I stop her whenever I see her doing it, but sheâs bled quite a few times from it already. Sister Maria was out sick for two days after you left. Sick with worry is what Sister Catherine said, but she is up and well now although she does still worry.â
You feel like your heart is breaking as you imagine your fellow Sisters distraught and in pain over worry for you during your absence. It shouldnât be a surprise. All of Godâs creations are our brothers and sisters, but those three women waiting for you at the clinic - worrying for you, praying for you, missing you - those are your sisters. They are your family. And you will do what you have to in order to get back home to them soon.Â
âThank you, Sam,â You say, voice thick with emotion. âPlease continue to look after them for me.â
âI will,â He promises. He reaches out to squeeze your shoulder gently and youâre beyond thankful for the comfort heâs providing.Â
âDo you have to get goinâ soon, Mr. Anderson?â Billy asks. âQuite a ways you have to travel, right? We wouldnât want to hold you up.â
Your hand automatically reaches out to cover Samâs still on your shoulder, keeping it in place. âYou can stay just a little longer, right, Sam? We have some leftover food from breakfast. I can fix you a bowl?â
You donât want Sam to leave just yet. The events of yesterday and this morning, the dream, are still fresh in your head and youâd appreciate it immensely if Sam could stay for just a bit longer to provide a buffer between you and Billy.
To your despair, Sam shakes his head. âI canât. Billyâs right, I should get moving if Iâm gonna make it back to town before dark. Thank you for the offer though, Sister y/n. I know if you cooked it, it must be mighty good.â
Reluctantly, you nod. âIâll walk you out then,â
Billy makes his way back to the bedroom as you walk Sam out. You thank him again for the generous crate of supplies. You saw that there were a few more balls of yarn shoved into the side of it and you wonder if that was Sister Catherineâs doing or if Sam had seen you shove the yarn in your bag before first leaving the clinic and had asked to bring you more.Â
Sam heaves himself back into his seat and grabs the reins. âHow much longer do you think Billy needs before he can head off on his own?â
âJust a couple more. Heâs healing up quick,â
âThatâs good. I have another delivery in 10 days. I can stop by on my way and pick you up? Iâll bring an extra horse that Billy can take along with him on his own when heâs ready,â
Ten days. Another ten days of this. Think about this logically, youâre uncomfortable and a little frazzled but itâs not necessarily all Billyâs fault. Heâs just a man and non-religious one at that. You are bound to clash at some point. But heâs a good person and thereâs still so much work to be done in trying to heal his faith. You can handle ten more days. You will do what you can and return to the clinic knowing that you tried your best whatever the outcome.Â
âSister,â Sam says. âAre you alright?â
You snap out of your daze and nod. âI am,â
Sam looks a little uncomfortable himself, eyes flicking towards the bedroom window. âBilly treating you right? He hasnât hurt you, has he?â
âNo! No, of course not,â You insist. Itâs not a lie - Billy wouldnât ever hurt you. There may be discomfort and a little inappropriateness, but nothing that canât be worked through or forgiven. Billy would never hurt you, youâre sure of it.Â
âAlright,â Sam concedes. âIâll see you soon, Sister. Take care of yourself. God bless,â
âThank you, Sam. God bless!â
You watch as he snaps the reins, offering a sharp yip as he urges the horses forward. It feels nice outside today as you watch him travel over the wide expanse of land, beautiful weather and none of the ridiculous heat that had felt like it was cooking your insides like yesterday. When heâs disappeared over the hill, you return back inside.Â
The yarn this time is a pale yellow instead of the blue you had been working with but you grab it anyway. Perhaps a little color change on the blanket might help turn the current shift between you and Billy around once again for the better.Â
Your room at the convent is small and modest, something that brings you peace in the limited space. Having little things creates more space for the divine and all-consuming power of His Grace - the additional space that would have been otherwise cluttered with needless items or physical luxuries is offered up to Him instead, allowing His presence to wash over the room and fill it with the healing aura of His love.Â
The simple bed is big enough for one, just you as it should be, and God can fill in the areas around you. A small chest hides away in the corner of the room, barely filled with all the personal belongings you have left from life before you took your vows, and the crucifix sits on the wall at perfect eye level so that as you kneel down on the prie-dieu to pray, you can have the reminder of the significance of Jesus nailed to the cross right in front of you just as the cross is nailed to the wall.Â
Itâs here that you kneel now, bare knees digging into the cushioned bottom of the ââprie-dieu while your hands fold together along the wooden shelf at the top. The words of a prayer automatically fall from your lips as your eyes trace the detail of the crucifix without taking them in.Â
The room is your room, a place that youâre intimately familiar with, but the feel of it is wrong. It feels off and like something is missing - the peaceful presence of the Lord is unnervingly absent in this space that should be holy.
Thereâs another presence though, something darker, and the hair stands on the back of your neck as you register the new energy. Something is creeping up behind you, you can feel it - can feel as it comes closer and closer and you want to turn around so badly, want to spin and lock your eyes onto whatever is nearing you and making you feel so unnerved in a place thatâs supposed to be safe. But you canât, your body is frozen in its spot, not listening to your brainâs commands as you scream at it to turn around.Â
Thereâs warm breath on your ear, a hand at your hip and youâre still frozen as the hand balls the material of your tunic, dragging it up until it's over your bottom and pooling around your waist. Another hand finds the curve of your waist and then another caresses your shoulder. Two more hands slide along your front and drag down to grip at the fat of your thighs, trying to pry them further apart, and you can feel the faintest of touches of fingers against your nipple as if the hands touching you now donât need to be concerned with the barrier of clothing you have on to block their advances.Â
Fear courses through you at the touches and you murmur the words of the Lordâs prayer faster. Your eyes are locked on the crucifix, taking in the wooden grain of the cross as it contrasts with the dull metal figure of Jesus hanging in the center and it's the only place you can look. The warm breath is still on your ear, but now it's between your thighs too somehow - searing hot as it fans across your bare folds.Â
Your clasped hands squeeze together harder as something soft and wet slides against your slit, and you gasp when the thing laps over your clit. The murmured prayer is louder now, rushed and panicked as you beg God for guidance and deliverance from whatever monster is attacking you right now. A demon maybe. Perhaps the Devil himself. Your body heats up as the thing digs in deeper, pushing between your folds and dragging against your hole. The tip of it nudges against your entrance, wiggling like it wants to push inside but is just barely holding back before it retreats and slides back up to the top.Â
The heat that fills your body is a terrible combination of pleasure and shame as the demon has its fill of your paralyzed body. The sensation of what it's doing between your thighs is forbidden - you were never meant to experience this, and yet the feel of it makes your eyes water and your hole clench like itâs trying to clench around something else.Â
The thing focuses on your clit, lapping at it and swirling around it and you can feel how your belly tightens with increasing pressure with each lick. You canât think clearly anymore. Your prayer is becoming muddled - coming out in whimpered words, accidental repeated sentences, and interrupted by the desperate whines and moans as your hips unconsciously try to drive down harder on the foreign thing between your thighs.Â
And then suddenly, youâre not in your room at the convent anymore. Youâre in your brotherâs cabin, on his unforgiving floor, and your bleary eyes blink up at the ceiling as they try to adjust to the new environment outside of sleep. The grogginess keeps your brain in a state of confusion, but eventually it registers that something still isnât right.Â
Your dream is over. Youâre awake now.Â
But the slick feeling of something wet and soft between your thighs is still there and your head shoots up to see the scene before you.Â
Your mouth falls open in horror.
Billyâs on his stomach, upper body cradled between your open thighs as his hands curl around each one of them to keep them spread. His mouth is pressed against your core, wetness glistening off his face with each movement as he drags his tongue through your folds.
And you swear when those beautiful blue eyes youâve come to know these past few weeks flick up to stare at you from beneath his dark lashes, you donât see that same kind and caring man just in need of guidance and faith that youâve come to associate them with.Â
Instead, you think you might be looking at the Devil.Â
Taglist: @queenofshinigamis @hidden-poet (Lemme know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist)
Summary: After nearly a year of mystery presents, your gift giver finally reveals himself to be none other then the outlaw Billy-the-kid.
Warnings: Mentions of violence, nonco/dunco, unhealthy behaviours, out of character, Dead dove do not eat.
Word count: 7781
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
part 4 coming soon
You reach Montville late afternoon instead of the early morning promised. You knew it was your fault. Billy would have made it days ago if not for you.Â
You canât ride as long or as fast as he can. The extra weight of you slowed his horse down. But it was too late to turn back. Westfield was long gone, your security with it.Â
While you were in Montville you were Billyâs wife and as such, under his protection. You would worry about the ramifications of it later. Right now a woman, alone, in a foreign town, would only mean trouble. No one would come to the aid of such a woman.Â
Billy finds the town hotel with ease, as if he had been here before. The tall building flooded people in and out of its doors. You hear music and people loudly talking over it.Â
The whole town seemed to be vibrant. Unlike the sleeply, peacefully smalll town of Westfield. Back home everyone was in doors as soon as the sun began to set, here it seemed they only just woke up.
âThis ainât Westfieldâ, Billy spoke your mind, âYou got to be careful here. Donât trust anybody. Anyone who speaks to you is either lying or trying to cheat you. Just stay close okayâ.
You nod to let him know you understood. People watch you as Billyâs slides down to tie his horse to the post before coming back to retrieve you.Â
After he helps you down, he goes to unpack the bags from his horse. You keep your promise under the curious gaze, shadowing him as he moves.Â
You didnât look like the other women here. They wore bright, big dresses and feathers. Showing more skin then what was respectable.Â
It was obvious you were out of place, and the whole town knew.Â
Eager to get a room, you help Billy carry the bags into the front entrance. Not even minding his tight hold on your hand.Â
âExcuse meâ. Billy greets the women behind the podium, âWeâre looking for a room. One with a bathâ.
The womenâs bright red dress mostly covered her. Although her breasts were pushed up nearly over the neckline. She was young, couldnât have been more than five years your senior. No ring was on her finger, and she spoke with careless authority.Â
âThe one with the baths cost extraâ, she states, giving Billy the once over but never paying you any mind.Â
âThatâs okayâ, Billy contends, âItâs our honeymoonâ.Â
She raises a thick, dark eyebrow in response but turns to retrieve a key from behind her.Â
âNo discountsâ, she slaps a key on the counter and points to her left. The open doorway shows the source of the noise. A large crowd outpaced the available table and chairs. People weaved through the space,Â
âWe serve breakfast at seven. Lunch at twelve thirty ,and dinner at six. The girls charge their own rates, although I doubt a married man like you is worried about thatâ.
âNoâ Billy agrees.Â
âTwo pence a nightâ, the women directs.Â
Your jaws drops at the price but Billy lets go of your hand to retrieve his purse.Â
Once the money is exchanged, the woman directs you up the stairs where you were more than happy to follow billy into designated room.Â
A bath tub in the corner is blocked off by a brown, wooden room divider. A double bed is pushed in the corner and neatly made.In the far corner across, a small rectangle table and chair is found, holding a candle stick and a jug of water.Â
A long window up high allows natural light in to the otherwise empty room.Â
You stand stunned at the space you found yourself in. It would be the first bed you ever slept in that wasnât your own.Â
Billy moved comfortably, dropping the bags and disappearing behind the divider.Â
You hear the pipe groan as it retrieves the water. The water splashes quickly in a continuous flow. It was obvious when billy put his hand under it to test the temperature.
He must have found it satisfactory as he reappeared in front of you again. A soft smile greets you but you donât offer one back.Â
âIâll go find a stable for Buddyâ, he tells you. He is back in his signature posture, hand on his holster, hard, stiff Stance with a leg out in front of him.Â
You drop your bag on the floor, reaching to loosen your hat from your head as he speaks,Â
âThen I might go explore. See if I can get information on our friend Henry. I doubt he would still be here but he wouldnât be too farâ.
He moves as if something had kicked him, straightening up his stance, and securing his hat more firmly on his head.Â
âYou should take a bath. Relax. Weâll go down for dinner when I return and weâll have an early nightâ.Â
You nod again, your eyes flying around the room.Â
With his hat on straight, he moves over to you, slowly and cautious, leaning down with clear intent to kiss. You turn your head away but he settles with planting a quick kiss to your cheek, before moving to the door.Â
âOh y/nâ, he stops half way out the door to turn to you, âIf anyone comes to the door act as if you arenât here. If they know a girl is alone in here, they may try and get inâ.
You shiver at the thought. You wanted to shout at him for bring you to such a place, but the words were stuck in your throat. Instead you just nod again in understanding. He takes it and leaves. The key locks you in but you feel oddly grateful for it.Â
You take Billyâs advice and take a long, hot bath. Scrubbing every inch of yourself and washing your hair.Â
It felt good to be done and clean. Billy still wasnât back so you took it upon yourself to begin washing the clothes in the bath water. You debated doing Billyâs but he did share his food and shelter with you. Besides, there was nothing else to do anyway
You wring the clothes out, leaving them to dry across the room when Billy returns.Â
He eyes the drying clothes before he lands on your face with a kind smile.Â
âAre you okay? Did anyone come to the door?â, he asks.Â
âNoâ, you confirm, hanging his wet shirt across the back of the chair.Â
âYou should have had a lie downâ he critiqued, coming over and placing his large hands on your hips, âYouâve been travelling for daysâ.Â
You shove his hands off you, turning around to face him.Â
âAnd whoâs fault is that?â, you bite.Â
Not wanting to be near him, you move away to pull the plug from the bath tub.Â
âIâve got some good newsâ he announces following you over to the tub, âHe got chased out of town here. Sheriff injured him in the fight which means heâs heading to the city. Only place he could go to get the proper careâ.Â
He sits on the edge of the bath tub, next to where you knelt.Â
âFigure we can afford to lose a day or two here. From what I hear, he ainât going anywhere too fastâ.
âWe should keep goingâ, you contend. You needed to keep Billy's mind occupied with his quest. Staying in a place like this would encourage him.Â
âEvery day he will get better. This room is too expensive. I just want to finish this and go homeâ.
Billy reaches out to put a hand on your arm, concern written over his face.
âHey, you let me worry about thatâ.Â
You stand up to brush him off, going back over to the centre of the room.Â
âWeâll stay tonight, and set off tomorrowâ, you demand.Â
âWe need supplies,â he tells you. He stands up to match you once more but remains past the divider.Â
âWe should stay. At least for a day or two. See if we can find out what gun he uses. If he is with anybody. His fighting style, anything. You never know what might be useful in the long runâ.
âWhat if someone kills him before you do? Youâll lose the bounty. All of this would be for nothingâ.
âNoâ, he fights, ânot for nothingâ.
He moves forward slowly, only taking a couple of steps before stopping himself.Â
âIf he dies before I can get to him, weâll figure something else out. Not the only wanted man in the worldâ.
âNoâ, you scoff, âI dare say notâ.
You can tell your words hurt him. Most criminals wear their crime like a badge of honour, but he seems to want to distance himself from Billy-the-kid and just be William. But he is branded now. Billy the kid would grace the name of his tombstone.Â
He takes his hat off his head and throws it to the end of the bed with a sigh.Â
âIâll take a bath if you donât mind. And then we can go get something to eatâ.
Without waiting for answer, he begins to remove his suspenders from his shoulders.
âWhere should I go?â, you ask, watching him as he tends to his bath.Â
âYou have to go somewhere?â, he asks unbuttoning his shirt.Â
âItâs improperâ.Â
âFor a stranger but not for a wifeâ, he contends, âYou can wait in the room while your husband bathesâ.Â
He disappears behind the divider to take the rest of his clothes off. You go to the table and chair in the farthest part of the room and stare at the wall.Â
You hear him as he enters the bath. The sloshing of water as he scrubs himself clean. Imagining him rubbing a wet cloth over his body is almost as worse as actually seeing it. He dunks his head under water, you can hear him as he does it.Â
The steam of the bath floats overhead to you, heating up the room.
He continues to wash, you continue to imagine his movements. A knot forms in your stomach as you get an uncomfortable, needy feeling between your legs. Your face is flush, shame fills your very core. You try and push him out of your mind, slamming your head on the table and throwing your arms over your head to try to block out the noise.Â
He finally finishes not long after. You hear the pull of the plug and the drainage of the water. Still you donât lift your head.Â
You hear bare feet against the hardwood floors. They get louder as he crosses the floor.
âYou alright?â, he questions.
âAre you dressed yet?â.
âAlmostâ.Â
The sound of his belt instilled belief in you but you remained hunched over.
Only when he approaches you and flips your hair back over your shoulder do you raise your head, certain he would be dressed.Â
His suspenders hung at his hips, and his boots remained on the floor but otherwise he was adequately dressed to be viewed.Â
âShall we go eat?â. His fingers linger near your neck, gently grazing the skin.Â
You push off your chair, knocking off his touch and running to the door. You wait for him there as he pulls on his boots and suspenders.Â
You are eager to get out of the room. The uncomfortable feeling remains, you worry he feels it too.Â
If he does he doesnât show it. He is almost sluggish from his day as he moves closer to the door. He takes your hand wordlessly and leads the way to the dining room.Â
It was somehow busier than this morning. The loud shouts fill your ear painfully. As you walk, only a few centimetres separates you and the next person. The band playing helped none.Â
Billy manoeuvres through the crowd up to the bar where he kept you behind him as he spoke to the bartender.
The evidence of the key was enough to secure two bowls of stew, and a bottle of wine. The bartender tells you to sit where you can, although the chances of that are slim.Â
You follow Billy with your bowl in your hands as he scouts the area. Your eyes look at the company. Big, mean looking men. Drunkish women laughing too loudly. Your father would die if he knew you were here. He hated you going to the tavern back home which pales in comparison.Â
Billy turns back to check on you, seeing your distressed face, he tucks the wine bottle under his arm and reaches out his hand.Â
âMaybe we should eat in the roomâ, he suggests.
âNoâ, you whine. You had been stuck there all day. At least down here there was something to look at. Besides eating amongst drying clothes on a wet floor would do nothing to lift your spirts.Â
âHere mate!â The voice boomed but the liquor hung heavy on every syllable.
âHereâ it yelled again demanding Billyâs eyes.Â
An older gentleman with a young girl was in lap called out. His face was red from the drink and his white blouse was wide open so his lady friend could play with his chest hair.Â
You pull back as Billy follows the command of the voice.Â
âHere, my friendâ He tells billy, âYou can have our placeâ
The man squeezes the girl in his arms causing her to playfully squeal against him.Â
âItâs time we went upstairsâ, he spoke into his friend neck.Â
âThank you, sirâ, Billy acknowledges, putting down his bowl and bottle of wine. He then reaches for your bowl of stew and glasses which you let go.Â
The man retreats from the women neck but makes no move to get up.Â
âSister?â, the man guesses.
âWifeâ, Billy quickly corrects, âOn our honeymoonâ.Â
The admission causes the man to laugh wholly and without reservation.
âDid I say something funny?â Billy bickered.Â
You worried the provocation would lead to a fight, but the man puts a hand up in surrender and halts his laughter.
âNo, son, noâ, the man comments, now standing to his feet, âJust rare to see awkward newly weds out this way. You know where to put that thing?â.Â
Billy hand hovers over his gun, the man see it as his eyes roll up from his jest.Â
âI know where to put this thingâ, he warns.Â
âWhoa. Whoaâ, the man laughs, âTake it easy. It was just a joke. My night is just beginning, not endingâ.Â
The man turns to you showing you how bloodshot his eyes were. You wanted to tell Billy the man was too drunk to realise what he was saying, but Billy didnât seem to be in the mood to hear you.Â
âHe always like this?â, the man wobbles forward as he speaks to you, causing Billy to pull you back with his hold on your hand.Â
âDonât talk to herâ, Billy demands. His hand now off his gun, but still close to his belt.Â
âSorryâ, the man mockingly whispered.Â
âDaltonâ, the women behind him protested, pulling on his shoulder.Â
âYou, and your woman, have a nice night nowâ Billy dismisses.Â
He blindly reaches for the hand of his counterpart before he gives a wink to Billy.Â
âI hope you and yours do tooâ, the man gibed.Â
âI ainât his woman. I ainât no ones womanâ, she declared, ripping her hand from her customer to wave it in Billy face.Â
âMy apologies maâamâ Billy offers with a tilt of his hat.Â
âWhat do you mean not my woman? Iâm paying you ainât I? Well that makes you my womanâ.Â
She was grabbed more forcefully by the man and shook violently. She spits at him in return before being smacked down to the ground. You gasp, hands flying to your face in shock.Â
Billy is less surprised by the outcome. He grabs the man by the back of his shirt when he pulls back another punch for the woman and throws him backwards to the ground.Â
The woman is quick to leap to her feet and disappear amongst the crowd. Only a few who had stopped to see the commotion. The rest didnât stop in movement or sound.Â
âLet her go nowâ, Billy demanded.Â
He turns back to you, directing you into the spare chair and pushing your bowl closer. You sit at command but your mouth wouldnât close from shock.
Dalton rises in anger at his ruined night, leaping from the floor up to Billy.Â
âBillyâ, you squeal, pointing to the charging man.Â
He is quick enough to turn but not to stop himself from being tackled to the ground.Â
This commotion drew sight of half the room who whooped and holled as they wrestled each other.Â
A circle formed around them blocking your view. You push to the front certain Billy was facing death. The man was older, bigger, and more viscous. Billy couldnât shoot him even if he could get to his gun. This man was unarmed. Billy would be hung before the night finished. With Buddy in a nearby stable you wouldnât be able to flee fast enough.Â
You try to push your way to the front but as the fight intensified, more men blocked your way. They paid you no mind as you tried to fight to get between them. Their bodies were like bricks, unmovable and unresponsive.
You see one man lose interest, turning away, you rush to take his spot before the men closed in.Â
To your relief Billy was on top, pounding his fist twice into the mans face but then letting go to stand up. His hat laid in the corner next to a mans foot, Billy staggers to go get it. He was breathing heavily from the fight but otherwise seemed to be okay.Â
A slight wince doesnât go unnoticed by you as he bends to snatch his hat up. The man must have got a few good shots to his ribs. You wondered if he would be okay to ride.Â
âYou owe me a woman!â The man shouts over the ever playing music, âGive me a turn on yours and Iâll forget itâ.
The man crawls over to where you stood and reaches for the bottom of your dress, too hurt to rise for a full assault. You pull back but the crowd of bodies would not let you retreat.Â
Billy rushes over like you knew he would, and stomps his boot down on the man's face. The crowd cheers as the man falls back to the crowd. Mumbling odd words that didnât form a sentence nor stop as the blood from his nose runs to his mouth.Â
The crowd embrace Billy as the winner, closing in on him to offer their admiration. You are pushed forward as they do. Billy steps closer to you, pulling you close to his chest and holding out his hand to stop people from getting too close.
The man is taken from the floor to free up the space. You watch as he is dragged out as Billy shuffles back to the table.Â
âAre you alright?â, you can finally ask as the crowd loses interest.Â
He bends down to where you are sat and presses a deep kiss against your lips in response.Â
He sighs as he rises, going back to his side of the table where the man once sat. He throws his hat on the back of the chair and slides into it sluggishly.
You didnât realise how tired he looked but now you can see it so plain.Â
He picks up his spoon bringing a mouthful of stew into his mouth. A man slaps him on his back in passing causing him to spill over the table.Â
Frustrated Billy drops the spoon completely, using his hands to bury his face in.Â
âThis isnât how I wanted this to goâ, he complains, âI am sorryâ.
âItâs not your faultâ you offer. He was protecting the woman. Despite your hate for him, even you saw that.Â
âNone of this is how I wanted things to goâ, he removes his hands from his face to look at you, reaching out across the table for the hand you do not give. Still he leaves there, outstretched and begging for you.Â
âThis wasnât meant to be your honeymoonâ, he says almost apologetically.
âItâs notâ you refute. Billy is your husband in protection only.Â
âYou only get one true oneâ, Billy contends, withdrawing the offering of his hand.Â
âIâll keep that in mindâ, you bite.Â
âDo you have to be soâŠâ, Billy doesnât finish his sentence, reaching for the bottle of wine instead and pouring out a glass.Â
âYesâ you answer. Angry, hot tears dab at your eyes but none fall. âI am away from my father who I didnât get to say goodbye to, I am stuck in foreign place with an outlaw who has ruined my reputation forever. I am tired, hungry, and angry. So angry. Iâve had my whole life mapped out by men who never once asked me what I wantâ.Â
âYouâre rightâ, Billy says softly, avoiding your gaze, âI am sorry things have turned out this way. I donât mean to decide your life, only my part in it. Once I get this money, we can do anything you want toâ, his gaze finds you at his promise, holding you captive as he makes his pledge, âAnything, anywhere, so long as I am with you, I donât mindâ.
His promise softens you. You were unsure how to respond. Only a young boy would make such a pledge, you realise billy the kid is exactly that. A young boy alone in the world. You wonder if thatâs where his need for a wife comes from. Â
âRight now, I just want to eat and go to bedâ, you state, picking up your spoon for a mouthful of stew.Â
Billy nods in agreement, following suit. The talk at the table dies, but you can hear the lost words from the man behind you explaining the alteration moments ago.Â
You hear the shuffling of boots as the man re-enacts the scene, poorly and somewhat drunk.Â
Billy eyes the scene behind you, leaping up out of his chair next to you and holding out a protective hand to stop the man from swaying into you as he talked.Â
The man immediately apologises, stepping away from the table and Billy pushes no further.Â
To your irritation the space is quickly taken up again by someone else. The room was too busy for personal space. The music too loud for any deep conversation to occur so foolishness seeped through the room, loudly and with little care for your distress.Â
âItâs hotâ you complain to Billy as he retakes his seat. The heat from the bodies began to stick to your skin, âAnd loud. Maybe we should go upstairsâ.Â
Billy looks around the room, trying to find a solution to your issue like a good husband should.Â
âI have a better ideaâ, he states picking up the bowls of half-eaten stew, âFollow meâ.Â
You take the bottle of wine off the table as you do. He leads you through the crowd to the back door
He leads you out to the back deck. The cold air felt refreshing after the hot, crowded room. Even the noise dulled behind the closed door. Only faint stomping and laughter over the distant music could be heard. The crickets were louder, welcoming you.Â
âBetter?â Billy asks in genuine question.Â
You nod your head, taking a seat on the cold step to eat your stew. Billy joins you, and for a moment you two share a quiet moment together. The stew was salty and had little meat but after days of travelling it was a fresh, hot meal so you couldnât complain.Â
You finish it quickly, your spoon hitting the bottom before your appetite had finished. Billy noticed, as he always seemed to do.Â
âHereâ, he offers, exchanging your bowl for his.Â
âOh noâ, you politely declined but the bowl was thrust into your hands.Â
You try again to refuse but billy acts as if he doesnât hear you.Â
He places the bowl on the floor beside him, and lays back on the deck, gazing up at the stars above.Â
âArenât you hungry?â, you ask, looking at his red cheek.Â
âYou eatâ he replies, not shifting his gaze.Â
Selfishly you do. Finishing his bowl in less than a minute, and placing your bowl down in the same fashion.Â
âThank youâ, you softly praise.Â
He smiles gently but continues to look up at the sky.Â
From the corner of your eye, you see him gently lift his hand and wave it softly, before tucking it back under his head as a pillow.Â
âDo you want some wine?â He offers, slowly rising up. He stops hearing your no, laying flat back down. Â
A tug on your elbow pulls you back next to billy. His arm cradles you to his chest, holding you close and tight. Your instinct was to struggle out of his hold but his warm was not unwelcomed and your tiredness weighed you down.Â
âWhoâs up there?â You ask him.Â
âHm, everyone. My Ma, my pa, my little brotherâ.Â
âDo you have no one else? No other family?â You pry. You wonder if that fuels his desire to have a wife. To make his own family.Â
âMaybe back in Ireland. But I wouldnât know themâ.
âI couldnât live without my fatherâ you sympathiseÂ
âYes you canâ, your comment irritated Billy who rose up from the cold floor into a sitting position.Â
âI wasnât trying to argue with youâ, you explain. His hold is no longer on you as he folds into a defensive stance.Â
âI am just saying I realise how hard it would be to have no familyâ.
He turns to you, extending out his hand in peace and placing it on your knee.Â
âWell I am not alone anymoreâ, he says.
is this why he is doing this? A forced wife for a desperate man?
Would you play this part? What would happen to you if you didnât? What would your father do to you once he found out?
âI am tiredâ, you state, standing up. Billy follows, taking the bowls and bottle of wine with him.Â
You donât wait, turning back to the crowd indoors. The men cheer as Billy enters into the room.Â
No one blocks you way but crowd you as they spur on Billy.Â
He manages to place the bowls and wine down, to free his hands to place on your waist as you lead the way upstairs.Â
You could have knocked his hands off as you reached the top off the stairs and out of the eye sight of the crowd but you chose not to for the short walk to the door.Â
Billy steps up behind you rather than moving to the side. You felt his broad shoulders rub against you as he unlocked the door.Â
When it open, it gives you space to distance yourself from him. You go about lighting a lamp and sourcing your nightdress from the dried washing.Â
You can feel him watching you as you dart around the room so you try to deliberately avoid eye contact.Â
âYell 'done' when you are dressed for bedâ you ordered him as you disappear behind the divider.
You wait a moment before undressing to ensure billy wouldnât follow you around.Â
Your stiff hands only began their work upon hearing him call âdoneâ followed by the squeak of the bed as he rested in it.Â
Would he expect you to perform wifely duties now that you were out of the forest. He ribs were sore that could prove to be useful if he tried. Although you doubted you would be able to stop him even with that.
With your night dress on, you poke your head out to check to see if he was ready to pounce. Instead, you see him sitting up right on the bed, arms crossed and head lowered to his chest in sleep. It was a long day for Billy, or maybe god was protecting you until your father found you.Â
Either way, you were careful not to wake him. Blowing out the candle and tip toeing to your side of the bed. There was only one blanket and it was too cold to sleep on the floor so you yield to your desire to warm yourself under the sheets.Â
The bed was only small, you could feel Billyâs body heat next to you. There was little space between you, accidentally hitting billy leg as you found your spot. He doesnât wake, which gives you enough security to fall asleep.
You are woken during the night when billy wakes up from his uncomfortable position. His shifting breaks your soft sleep as he lowers himself next to you. His finger twists your hair up out of his face, his nose now brushing against the back of your neck as he snuggles in. The feeling of arms wrapping around you was the last thing you remember before sleep took over.Â
ââââââââââââââââ-
The next morning you wake, alone and late. The sun blinded you as it rose over the window. Billy was gone.
You wonder why he didnât wake you. Where has he gone that he couldnât take you?
Your stomach growls, you hope you didnât miss breakfast.Â
You dress as quick as you can, eager to go downstairs despite your nerves. The rowdy men were sure to still be asleep. It surely would be safe enough to eat breakfast.Â
Billy did not think the same. The door was locked when you tried it. You were to stay where you were until Billy returned.Â
You kicked and screamed at the door before remembering where you were. The people on the other side would not help you without their own gain.Â
You fume as you pack away the clean clothes. Your father would find you shortly and make Billy pay for this treatment.Â
You longed for Westville and your own bed. Familiarity that only the place you were born and raised could bring. You hated being at Billyâs mercy. Under his protection and therefore his will while you waited for this to end.Â
How would your father react when you found out you were married? There must be some sort of law that could undo it due to distress. Something that could get you out of binding your life to him.Â
Would your father kill him to get you out of it? Would you let him really die? You hated Billy for what he has done, but knew there was goodness so deep within him that it overflowed. However, you remind yourself he was the outlaw Billy-the-kid. Maybe he deserved to die. Maybe he would escape death again, and find another girl in the next town.Â
You would cross the bridge of Billyâs punishment when it came. For right now, you need to stay focused.Â
With the washing put away, there was little else to do but stare out the window at passers-by and daydream about going home.Â
The scratch of the key at the door, arose your fury and you stood to face him as he came through the door.Â
âHeyâ, he greeted you, âGood morningâ.
He had been to the shops you summarised from the parcels in his hands. A place he could have brought you.Â
âHow dare youâ you seeth, âDonât you ever lock me in here againâ.
He looked puzzled but apologised anyway, âYou were asleep. I didnât want to wake youâ.Â
âYou locked the door Billy. That was a little more than fear of waking me. Where did you think I was going to go? You know I wouldnât make it back without you. You were trying to intimidate meâ.
âNoâ Billy refutes coming closer, âI told you this isnât Westfield anymore. You need to be careful here. If somebody sees something they want, they just take itâ.
âOhâ, you scoff, âAnd you wouldnât know anything about thatâ.Â
He walks past you angry, going over to the table and dropping his purchases.Â
âI brought you some bread from the bakeryâ, he changes topics, âI thought you might be hungryâ.
He holds out the bag for you to take which you do, tearing into the soft sweet bread instantly.Â
While you ate, he talked. You sat at the bed, picking at your food while he stood over by the window.Â
âI went around town asking about our friend. He has two guns. His main one and one strapped to his ankle. They reconâ he made friends too but I got different answers to how manyâ.
âDo you get more money if you kill them too?â You ask interested.Â
âNo. It would be just murder without a warrant. Maybe self-defence if they raise firstâ.Â
Worried pooled in your stomach. What would you do if billy died? You would never get back to Westfield without him.Â
âItâs not too late to turn back. We could go back to Westfield. I would admit to being marriedâ, you offer.Â
He comes before you, kneeling down and gazing up at you as he spoke.Â
âI am sorry. I didnât mean to worry you. Everything is fine. When we get to Aratula I will figure out a way to lure him outâ.
âHow can you speak so casually about murdering a man?â, you question in disgust.Â
âHardly a man. Murders women and children. Innocent, unarmed men. I will put him down without too much thought or remorseâ.
You nod in support. The world would be a better place without Jackson in it. It would just be better if the murder was not your husband.Â
âI also stopped by the jewellerâ, he announces pulling out a drawstring pouch from his pocket. He lifts your hand and places the gold band on your finger, giving it a kiss to seal it in place. âI was worried it wouldnât fitâ.Â
The ring was comfortably tight on your hand.The weight of it felt foreign. It symbolised ownership but given the circumstances you were grateful for it.
âMrs Bonneyâ, he coons, standing up.Â
âI guess I amâ, you agree.
âLet me wash up and weâll go see if any more townspeople have anything to sayâ.
Billy washes the sweat from his body with a damp cloth while you finish your bread. Gratefully, soon you were out of the room and into the fresh air.Â
It was exciting to explore another town besides your own. You had never been away from home before. Billy remained close as you went from shop to shop questioning people.Â
Most talked freely, telling you everything they knew. Jackson had terrorized the town despite only passing through for a short period of time. Others dismissed you without a word.Â
Late afternoon came quickly, the only real piece of useful information you received is the location Jackson stayed until he was chased from the town. You implore Billy to go see it, curious yourself to see the stay of an outlaw.Â
It was on the outskirts of town, from where you were it would have been longer to walk back to the town centre to collect your horse then to just continue walking so you set off with Billy, chasing the sun as it went down.Â
It was less than what you expected. A rundown stone place with a straw roof. It dulled your excitement looking at it.Â
âA Quick Lookâ, Billy commands, âI donât want to be here longâ.Â
He eyes the place as if he expects someone to jump out from the surrounding rocks and ambush him. He was always cautious, you observed.Â
The place was left in an array. No furniture stood upright, bullet holes cover the surfaces of nearly everything. You are amazed he managed to escape with his life. He suddenly felt much more dangerous.Â
Billy investigated the property. Looking in draws for anything of use. Jackson has left his clothes in the run, but nothing else of use. No clue to a weakness or indication of the sort of gun he used.Â
You see blood on the stone floor. It splatted where he got shot and then dripped on the floor to the back door. You can see it so clearly, you could almost imagine the entire fight in your head.Â
A loud bang shakes you from your head when Billy drops an item to the floor in his search. You jump out of your skin and into his arms in fright. Scolding yourself when you realise you were acting like a little girl who had heard her first ghost story.Â
He catches you instantly, wrapping his arms around you in protection with a soft chuckle.Â
âSorryâ, he apologizes, giving you a squeeze, âLetâs get you out of here, hey?â.
Once you see there is no real danger, you push out of his arms. Straightening your dress to steady yourself.Â
âLet me go pee and then weâll head. Just stay hereâ he commands.Â
You wait for him inside while he follows the blood trail outside. He goes around the side of the house, checking over his shoulder to ensure you didnât follow. Only then does he unscrew the lid of his water bottle, tipping out all but two mouthfuls out.Â
With a sigh, he returns the lid and goes back into the house to collect you.Â
The sun was nearly gone on the walk back but the humidity of the day lingered beyond its welcome.Â
He plans works perfectly when you ask for a drink of water only to receive the last few drops.Â
âIs that it?â You asked him surprised. You hadnât seen him drink once from the canister.Â
âWeâre almost backâ, he confirms, but takes a wrong turn deliberately.Â
Your annoyance at him grew as you travelled back through unrecognised pasture. When you finally did reach town centre your throat burned for a drink and your legs a rest.Â
He leads you back to your hotel bar. It wasnât as busy as the night before. A few seats were spare, and there was no band playing tonight. You could have shouted in joy. Your patience was at an end.Â
Billy leaves you at a table in the corner while he goes to the bar to collect the nights meal and water.Â
On a tray he carried back two plates of roast dinner and large glass bottle that looked too cloudy to be water.Â
He places the meal in front of you without a word and pours out a glass of the liquid. It was not water, you brought it up to your nose for a smell, pulling back when it burnt your nose.Â
âDrink itâ, he says, âIt will rehydrate you. Cowboys drink it all the timeâ.
As thirsty as you were, you believe it. Gaging as goes down bitterly.Â
He pours you another glass. Before you can reject it, he convinces you once more.Â
âWeâre supposed to drink the whole bottle. It helps to replenish our bodiesâ.Â
Seeing no reason not to trust him, you take the next glass sipping it slowly this time.Â
It sat better in your stomach with food. Soaking up the quinsy feeling. It was a strange drink, the more you drank the harder it was to stop. Billy only had a glass or two. He was always so sacrificial, you thought to yourself.Â
Suddenly you found his words very funny. Your mood improved but you found it hard to find the words you wanted to say. You would dance if there was music, but instead you laugh loudly at a story Billy told. You werenât sure what was funny, only that it was.Â
Your hand reaches for the bottle, but Billy catches it as it is risen.Â
âI think weâve had enoughâ, he states, gently lowering it back down.Â
âI thought we were suposeâ to finish the boâttle?â You slur.Â
âYouâre hydrated plenty. Why donât we go up stairsâ, he suggests.Â
You nod enthusiastically. You were tired, but when you rose your legs wobbled and the room began to spin.Â
Billy is quick to your side, gripping your waist as you hold yourself up on his shoulders.Â
âWalked too muchâ, you comment.Â
âHmmâ, he agrees, beginning to assist you forward.Â
The stairs proved difficult. They seemed to move under you, your footing was unsure, and you found it all so funny.Â
âOopâ, you exclaim stumbling forward, testing his hold.Â
âCarefulâ, he warns, âweâre almost thereâ.Â
The door was only ten feet but you somehow managed it in twenty. Billy keeps you up with a hold around your waist as he fiddles to get the door open. You giggle into his arm watching him. Always so serious. He smiles at you in response, giggle himself as he unlocks the door and swings it open.Â
âAlrighty, come on youâ, he shuffles you in, laying you on the bed first before he goes back to lock the door.Â
âYou alright?â He asks you.Â
He sits down beside you on the bed, brushing his hand across your face.Â
âI had fun todayâ, you admit. Playing detective in a new city, gave you a thrill you had never experienced.Â
âYou did?â, he chuckles.Â
You hum back in confirmation. Your eyes closing themselves in tiredness before you forced them back open to look at billy. Only moonlight lit the room, it was just enough to make out your surroundings.
âI am tiredâ, you complain, sitting up to take off your shoes. Billy rises from the bed to assist you in undoing the laces and disregarding the shoes on the floor.Â
âI know babyâ, he acknowledges, âI just want to try something first and then you can go to sleepâ.
He sit back on the end of the bed and gently messages your feet with his hand while he rids himself of his boots, hat and holster with the other.Â
He squeezes at your ankles and cafs, edging slowly back to the middle of the bed and parting your legs under the disguise of a massage.
His hand crawls up your leg as he squeezes, pushing up your skirt to your hips. Even in your drunk state, you attempt to push it down.
âItâs alright babyâ, he tells you, âI donât imagine everyone has ever told you about this beforeâ.
âAbout what?â You question, trying to sit up but Billy pushes you back down by your shoulders.Â
âIâll show you. It feels good. Just lie still and Iâll show youâ.
You feel the strings over your undergarments loosen.
âwhat are you doing?â, you whine. Your head spun, and your lower region ached in desire. You knew you should tell him to stop. It wasnât right. But without your clear head, your lust kept you compliant.Â
âI know what sex isâ, you state, giving his hands a weak shove.Â
He manages to pull them down, leaving you bare. Your hands bunch your dress, covering yourself with weak constituent.
His hand reaches under the bunched fabric, his thumb gently rubs against your Clint in a circular motion. Your hips buck at the sensation.
âI know thatâ he confirmed, âI just donât think anyone ever told you how good it feelsâ.
Good, indeed. Your cunt was warm and wet, giving him no resistance as he moved his fingers. When his spare hand pushed yours away, you gave up too easily, baring yourself to him and his pleasure.Â
âYou donât have to fight it. God intended it to be enjoyableâ, Billy coxes.Â
âYou gotta stay up throughâ, he comments, tapping your face lightly so you would open your eyes.Â
âGood girlâ he praises when you do.Â
He rewards you by going down and placing his mouth against you. His tongue lashes between your folds, eliciting a low moan from your throat. His thumb never stops rubbing against your client, and his warm, hot mouth covers you whole.Â
Knots form and then fall in your stomach as he works, slowing building to completion.
When he raises his head to speak, it disrupts the flow completely.Â
âFeel good, huh angel?â.
You push his head back down, urging him to continue and he does with more passion than before.Â
You come with a yelp, wiggling as he licks you clean greedily.
Despite just laying there, your body heated to the point of sweat. Your head rolled back against your pillow and sleep fought to take control of your body now your high was complete.Â
âHey, no, noâ, he calls coming back to your face. He taps gently against your face.Â
âYou have to stay up okay? Just a moment longerâ, he promises.Â
He hastily takes off his shirt and pants, before attempting to undo your dress without your assistance.
âStay awake darlingâ, he commands, lifting your neck against his shoulder so he could shimmy down your dress. With great effort he gets it off. Shame floods you as it hits the floor.Â
âItâs naturalâ, he soothes, seeing your distressed face, meeting it with a kiss, âHusband and wife are one flesh. Weâre just being one fleshâ.Â
You see him move in the dark, reaching for something in the draw before his hands disappeared into the dark shadows below him.Â
He feel the tip of his cock, poke at your entire before finding the correct hole and shoving it in. You gasp at the pain as it enters without warning, clawing at his back as he slowly adjusts himself in you.Â
âYouâre good. Youâre goodâ, he promises, âIt will go awayâ.Â
The pain does go away and you begin to feel full with him inside of you. Every time he separates his hips to thrust, you almost felt empty.Â
âMy beautiful girlâ, he praises into your ear.Â
âBillyâ you moan half in pleasure and half in disgust.Â
âRight here, darling, now till foreverâ.Â
He kisses you once more. Grunting into your mouth as he picks up pace nearing his end. The pressure helps to build you to the spot where you were able to come with him.   Â
He rests in you keeping you full, as he brushes his fingers against your face. Dragging them all over in a calming fashion. When you lose the fight to keep your eyes open, he pulls himself from you, covering you with the blanket and placing a kiss against your forehead.Â
âGoodnight Mrs Bonneyâ, he whispers, taking his condom off himself and going over to the basin to wash it out for reuse.
How strange, you thought, to sleep as billy- the- kids wife.Â
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