Stellar Behavior Part 4

Stellar Behavior 💜 Part 4

“Justice just never sleeps.”

PAIRING: Officer!Yoongi x Mafia (f)reader

SUMMARY: Yoongi makes a decision and gives up on the nicotine gum.

WORD COUNT: 6.8k

GENRE: Gangster AU, Law AU, enemies to lovers, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: corruption, explosions, fire, blood, threats, arguing, handjob, blowjob, riding

A.N. It's so hard to pick a favorite part, but I think this one might be it... Again, infinite thank yous to @moonleeai for helping me around the clock and being an incredible beta! Enjoy 🔥🔥

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Yoongi sighed as he made his way inside his office, dismissing his secretary when she tried to pass him a pile of files waiting for his review. It was the end of another exhausting Friday, and although he appreciated her commitment, she should have long gone home to her family instead of wasting time on this.

Closing the door behind him, he started a sequence of ceremonial steps: he took off his coat and hung it up, loosened his tie, grabbed more nicotine gum from his drawer, and then sat down, chewing it with a long sigh. The wall behind him had his many decorations, including the latest that landed him there.

Working with you was seamless and smooth, and justice was swiftly served. Not only was he able to recover the agent’s body and bring him home with honors, but the dismantling of the whole operation was a huge success. It gave him honors, medals, a ceremony with Seoul’s Mayor, and lastly, a promotion he didn’t even want. 

He heaved a deep breath; he couldn’t say he loved being Superintendent General. He preferred to be hands-on with the cases he and his team worked on, but he had moved too far up: he made decisions, but was too high in rank to see any of them carried out. He had more responsibilities and dreadful meetings that were more about competition between police agencies and politics than what actually mattered. And so for months, he’d been tolerating the bullcrap from all ends — from fellow Superintendent Generals and their chiefs from all over the country, including his boss, politicians, and Senior Superintendents complaining about the workload and the lack of resources as if he wasn’t in that position himself just months prior. It was exhausting and slow, and he kept asking himself what was the point.

But just like any other night, his ritual wasn’t complete if he didn’t open his locked drawer and pulled out a file with your name. Despite being frustrated and sometimes disgusted by the people in positions of power with so little consideration for the workforce or the people they served, there was nothing he could do. Instead, every night, he stared at your file and asked himself what he should do.

That night was engraved into his brain: you made a deal, he relapsed and asked you to let him eat you out, then proceeded to get so lost in you, that he didn’t even recognize himself. But then, you left him alone in your office, and that was when he saw those files.

He had managed to take photos of a few of them before leaving and had since printed them and worked on them. So he knew what they contained – details of money laundering. They depicted monumental amounts, to the likes that he was surprised even existed, but maybe he was just too naive. There were mostly coded names on those files, so he knew you were handling it for others and not just for yourself. It probably ran much deeper than a few bars or the drugs you were now distributing, safely, like you promised.

And that was the issue, wasn’t it? He groaned with himself, settling his face inside his hands. He used to see things as black and white, but the more time passed, the more he realized there was no such thing. Politicians, among other officials, ran the show, and he knew things were happening behind closed doors. You were as bad if not worse than the people you had helped him put away, but you kept your word: you gave him evidence to exonerate Officer Jimin, an alternative to bring the Klysa conglomerate down without ruining the lives of thousands of people, and gave him the address where he could find the agent’s body, not to mention crucial names that once picked, dismantled the net of dealers quite nicely.

So why was he after you? Were you the lesser evil? Were those exceptions to your usual criminal and selfish deeds? Or were you just deceiving him by pretending to play nice?

He didn’t know how you knew so much, but now he knew you laundered money, and he had evidence. Evidence he couldn’t use without disclosing how close he had gotten to you and risking discrediting himself. Evidence that could get him a warrant, even under heavy scrutiny. He could try to bring you down, even if it meant letting his career implode. His former self would have, but now he was hesitating, convincing himself every night that he should pursue this. If those documents existed, then his instincts about you were right all along and other evidence was out there, too. It was just business; you would throw him under the bus if it suited you, too. Right?

He heaved a deep breath and closed the file, deciding to bring it home and muse over it there this time around. The office was empty, and it was a lonesome way until he reached his car in the underground parking lot. He hated not seeing the liveliness of a police station anymore, but that was where he was now.

His phone rang through the car speakers as he drove, and he picked it up at the second beep, “What’s wrong?”

Something had to be for Officer Jung to call him at 1 AM.

“Remember the one you wanted me to keep an eye on?” 

Yoongi hummed as he maneuvered the car at an intersection; he was lucky with every detective and officer he had had the pleasure of working with.

“Just got the code for an explosion and fire at a restaurant downtown that she owns. First responders are on their way. Apparently, she was in the building.”

“Which one?”

His grip stiffened around the steering wheel and in seconds, he was doing a U-turn under the streetlights. There was little on his mind as he drove way past the speed limit, cutting corners and passing cars to get there as quickly as he could.

He stopped his car next to the police barricade and got out with a shudder down his spine. Una mordidita was famous around those parts; it was the best Mexican restaurant, and it was always booked. The building itself was dedicated to the concept, and he knew the different floors could host multiple types of events. 

Yet now, it wasn’t the center of influencer buzz or a ballroom dancing event, but of chaos. Firefighters were trying to get the flames under control as even the red neon sign above the building got charred by the smoke escaping the windows. The white walls were losing their shine, and the wood decorations giving it a more Latin-American vibe had surely seen better days.

The chaos of shouts, siren lights, and people wanting to see what was happening didn’t disturb him; he had worked through similar occurrences, so he understood the professionals’ logic through the disorder. What got him running towards the Firefighter Captain handling the occurrence was something else entirely.

He smacked the Captain’s shoulder and didn’t even let him recover from the shock of seeing Yoongi there. “Is everyone out?”

The Captain regained his bearings swiftly, “Working on it.”

Yoongi knew better than to overstep, but he was unsettled. He turned to the entrance of the restaurant, where people were running down the stairs, accompanied by firefighters. He didn’t recognize a single one, and so he turned to the captain again with a stiffness in his shoulders, “You need to—”

A loud female voice shouted, and he spun to look again. The Captain’s frown was entirely lost on Yoongi when he saw you almost being dragged out of the restaurant and down the stairs by two firefighters. His feet instantly took him to you, finally allowing him to hear what you were saying.

“Un-fucking-believable!! You let it spread to the third floor?! What the fuck are you all doing?! Let me go and do your job!!”

He met you at the bottom of the stairs, noticing your bruises, cuts, and blood dripping down your temple. Your embroidery anglaise white dress fit your curves in what would have been a dreamy view if it wasn’t stained with black and red spots, letting see how you had scrapped your knees too. You were busy trying to get the firefighters to get their hands off, but they couldn’t let you go until you calmed down.

You were frantic, so you only noticed Yoongi when his hands settled on your shoulders and he spun you to face him. Your voice finally vanished as your eyes widened; finally, he could see you were shaken up under all that fierceness.

“Are you hurt?”

His tone was firm, to the point, but you squirmed, “I have to—”

“Are you hurt?” He repeated, not letting you get away.

“I’m fine!”

You tried to turn around, but he didn’t let you. He wrapped an arm around you, signaling the firefighters that he had you, then dragged you away. You squirmed and hit his chest, clawing at his arm and demanding he set you free, but he ignored you.

You thought you’d gouge his eyes out in frustration, but suddenly, he forced you to sit on a street bench across the street. He kneeled before you, but your eyes flew beyond him to the restaurant. The fire, the smoke, the people, the firefighters, and even the wreck at the back that you couldn’t see from there. The explosion had been in the kitchen, surely. You knew before any reports because that’s where you’d do it if you wanted to send a message. Easily passable as an accident, but strong enough to cause all that chaos. You ground your teeth, vexed to your core, and sprang back up. The more those idiots wasted time with—

“Sit down.”

Yoongi’s tone was incontestable as he grabbed your arms and forced you back down, and this time you faced him. He was like an apparition, crouched in front of you with his dark hair, sharp eyes, and composed demeanor that always rattled you so much. He was a sight for sore eyes, and it confused you.

“How are you here?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Did you know about this?!” You asked furiously, your anger fueled by the possibility.

But he was impassive, “Are you hurt?”

“Answer the question!”

“You’re in shock, and I need you to calm down.”

“I am fucking calm!” You roared in his face, almost jumping away. “My restaurant just fucking exploded and is on fire, don’t you fucking talk down to me!”

“I know, so calm down.”

His monotone voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

“I’m fucking calm! I need—”

He gripped your wrist and raised it before your eyes, and you jolted; your fist was shaking.

The anxiety crept up on you, and you sobbed under your breath, instantly looking at him in confusion. You were angry, ready to blow on everyone and everything, but suddenly you wanted to cry. Your fear had stayed at bay, but was ambushing you now.

You gripped his coat as you teared up, mouth opening and closing, but nothing came out. You sucked anxious breaths as you looked around, conflicted between crying and telling him it was all so frightening, and getting up and making everyone work hard to save your business.

Your thoughts must have been clear in your eyes because he held you back, grounding you with enough space to let you breathe and process.

“I know. It’s a lot. I promise everyone is handling it, but you are more important.” He spoke calmly, but not condescendingly, and it only made you shake harder. “Tell me: does anything hurt?”

You pulled in a deep breath and frowned, then shook your head. A small explosion behind him drew your eyes, but he guided your chin gently so you’d face him again.

“I’m going to touch you, and you’re going to tell me if it hurts.”

You were ready to cuss him out, but as soon as he released you, you grabbed onto him desperately. There was nothing in his dark eyes as he looked up again, yet you were so embarrassed you could have died. You didn’t want to hold onto him for dear life like that, but it was stronger than you. Your lips trembled, and you suppressed your cry, unable to explain or control what was happening to you, but he had you.

He leaned into you, tugging you in with his elbows on each side of your legs, “I know, I’m here.”

Your frightened eyes showed him enough to anticipate the moment you let go of him to throw your arms around his neck and squeeze tightly. He could barely breathe, but it was secondary; he embraced you slowly, afraid to hurt you. The adrenaline running through your system changed the way you perceived pain, and he’d never risk harming you. Still, you needed to feel safe, so he held you as hard as he could safely. 

You were shaking, maybe even crying, but rightfully in his arms. Despite the chaos behind him, that was all that mattered.

He waited until you pulled away, sniffling and pulling your long hair back, embarrassed to face him. It told him the first part was over, and that now you’d be able to talk.

“We need to get you checked.”

“No,” you dismissed easily. “I only trust my people, anyway.”

He swallowed his exasperation and tried again, “But at a hospital—”

“No, just take me home.” You got up and faced the mess before you with a hard expression, catching him off guard. He got on his feet quickly, ready to try to convince you to go to the hospital anyway, but you looked at him again, “My people can meet me there, and I have calls to make.”

He observed you, clearly not convinced, but you stood your ground. You didn’t want to ask nor admit you needed him right now to feel safe and be able to look that problem in the eye. You’d soon be yourself again, and that moment of weakness was unforgivable, even more so in front of him. But as you faced him and waited for his response, you closed your fists and tried not to wobble on your heels or cry again. You had a reputation to uphold, people to manage, retaliation to prepare, and maybe your knees hurt a little bit.

“Alright.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist and directed you slowly in another direction, away from it all. In other circumstances, you could have thought about the potential danger of going with him, but you dismissed those thoughts. Yoongi was your cop, even if you hadn’t seen him in months. He was there for you, and there was no judgment in his eyes.

You sat on the shotgun seat of his car and looked at your lap. The time it took him to circle the car was enough for you to chastise yourself for being so gullible.

He sat down next to you and got ready to drive, and you didn’t hesitate to ask, “Did you know about this?”

“About what?”

“About their plan.”

He glanced at you, then got the car moving, “I was driving home when I was notified of what happened and drove straight here.”

You closed your trembling hands over your lap again, uncomfortable with how relieved his words made you. Your eyes settled on the rearview mirror, where all the chaos was being left behind, and you sighed. You couldn’t let that shake you; it was just a place, a business, one of countless others. It didn’t matter that you were there, that it happened so close you were deaf from your right ear, that you could have died, that it was way too close for comfort.

He reached to grab your hand, and you looked at him again. You didn’t know what to call this or how to interpret it, but he was there. Yoongi was right there.

His perfume was all around you, and with the lull of the car, the nightly traffic, and his hand in yours, you managed to close your eyes, work through the adrenaline, and doze off.

You opened your eyes when he squeezed your hand, meeting the gate of your private property in Hannam-dong. His window was down, and your housekeeper was asking who he was.

“It’s me, Sooyong,” you raised your voice just enough.

The gate instantly opened, and you stretched lazily. You weren’t shaking anymore, and your judgment wasn’t clouded either. All in all, those thirty minutes had managed to calm you down. Of course, your knees stung, your head fucking hurt, and you would feel your left side for days since you fell on it during the explosion. But fuck, if you weren’t ready to get down to business ASAP.

You told Yoongi where to go so he could park inside your garage, then left the car swiftly before it was even off. You didn’t wait for him to follow you inside, but knew he would; instead, you handed your coat to Sooyong, nodded at your two security guards, and bent down to greet your two lovely Dobermans: Archer and Gunner.

“The medic will be here shortly, and I already asked for a preliminary report of the damage.”

Sooyong was looking at Yoongi with suspicion, but you ignored it, “Get me a phone, I need to contact Hoon Yeong.”

Your butler bowed and obeyed instantly, but Yoongi wasn’t able to think about what he was hearing. The two big goons didn’t follow Sooyong, and your dogs had turned to Yoongi the second you stopped petting them.

In another circumstance, Yoongi could have felt intimidated or at least uncomfortable by the whole situation, but not tonight. You were still bleeding, slept only ten minutes in the car, and were now getting worked up instead of resting.

So he spoke up, “You need to get checked before anything else.”

It didn’t matter that your men looked ready to beat him up or that your dogs were sniffing him too close for comfort. You glanced at him, “I’m fine.”

Then you turned and left, disappearing further inside the house.

He didn’t hesitate to follow after you, ready to insist on you taking this seriously, but he wasn’t able to. You dismissed your guards with a wave before they could grab Yoongi to drag him out, and were already pressing a phone to your ear.

He looked around your big living room, its white couches, carpets, fancy glass chandeliers falling from elevated ceilings, and matching walls adorned with expensive art. You didn’t just live lavishly; you displayed it, too.

You sat on a couch while you spoke with a hand covering your eyes, and Yoongi moved quickly to dim the lights. You were stubborn, but he wouldn’t make things harder for you.

He waited while you talked, disliking the observant butler in the corner of the room. Yes, Yoongi was listening to everything you said, but you could have easily told him to leave. So instead, he kept your two dogs busy with him and quiet while you made one call after another, holding nothing back.

“Secure all locations, increase the bouncers working tonight, and do random checks. Send someone to La Mordidita to account for all our staff, and Thoma to make a sweep before the firefighters start snooping around. I want to know what can be recovered and who the fuck dared to pull this shit off.”

“And? And the product? The insurance? Yes, indeed. Don’t move it, don’t do anything. Keep me posted.”

“Talk to me, Ulan,” you sighed, fatigued from handling multiple people. “I want to know how the fuck does anyone even plan this, and I don’t hear about it.”

You were pacing around with each call; whatever you were learning was not helping you settle. The medic arrived and asked you to sit to work on your wounds, but you were restless. You were trying to figure out who did it, and it was clear to him by the way you started shouting that your people knew and that something had failed.

The medic tried cleaning your temple wound, mentioning a concussion, but in your temper, you slapped her hand away. That was the moment Yoongi decided to intervene; he got up, waved the medic away, and took over.

You were ready to slap his hand away, too, but froze when your eyes met his. His expression was hard, saying without as much as an eyelash bat that you needed to hang up. 

You huffed your annoyance and quickly redirected your anger, “If you know, then get me something. Those bastards found out about it somehow. Get me the mole, and something that will hurt them just as badly. Weren’t they importing weapons illegally to sell to both North and South? Get me something!”

You ended the call and threw your phone to the other end of the couch.

“The fucking audacity,” you spit between gritted teeth, glaring at Yoongi. He worked fast on the wound on the side of your head, but it still stung.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes, it fucking hurts!”

You exploded and instantly saw the glint in his eyes. Why did he look so dazzling, taunting you like that? He did not react to your outburst whatsoever, so you rolled your eyes.

He started cleaning the cuts on your palms. “Why would they attack your restaurant?”

You gritted your teeth and waved everyone else out of the room, adding a command that guided your darling puppies to their big pillows in the corner of the room. You were annoyed with absolutely everything, and even more with the answer about to fall from your lips, “Because they knew I would go there to secure important goods.”

“Was this personal?”

You smirked bitterly, “Had to be.”

“What were the goods?”

“The product we got last time. Some of it, anyway.”

“How did they find out?”

“A mole, for certain. I moved everything across multiple locations and only disclosed today that a fraction would go to this restaurant for distribution. So unless they can read my fucking mind, they had to learn it from a fucking mole.”

“They could have just followed you if they knew you’d go personally.”

You paused and then chuckled while he prepared the gauze to clean the wounds on your knees. “But they could have attacked any of the venues I was in before, and they didn’t. They had to know what was in this one was worth destroying.” He nodded quietly, seemingly focused on getting your knees clean of debris. You hated the silence and almost growled, “But they have no fucking idea who they’re messing with.”

“No, they don’t.”

His answer was so serene, that it accentuated the silence that echoed the room. He got rid of the bloodied and dirty gauze, looking you over as though he was evaluating if anything else needed pressing attention, and it hit you. “You’re still here.”

He looked at you, “Do you know who did this?”

There was a shift in his tone that made you shudder, “The Russians.”

“Where would it hurt them?”

“Their warehouse downtown.”

“Their boss?”

“Prokhor Evgeni.”

“Where is he?”

“The Evgeni Sports Center in Heungin-dong.”

Yoongi nodded and got up, leaving the same way he got there, and you were dumbfounded.

“Wait!” You got up, and he stopped to look at you. “What are you going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

Some could say that was an abuse of power, but it was too easy.

He realized, as he drove under a sky barely blemished by the rising sun, that when the force wanted to, shit got done in a flash. They said, ‘Where there is a will, there is a way’, and he was in the unique position to have both.

He stopped in a no-parking zone in front of the Evgeni Sports Center in Heungin-dong and made his way lazily up the stairs of the entrance. The big thugs outside didn’t phase him as he asked to speak with Prokhor Evgeni. His tone was dry and blasé, and the men’s reactions were to laugh and joke about it being almost 6 AM. The center was closed to people like him.

“Nothing is ever closed to people like me,” he found himself answering, unmoving.

He saw commotion behind the thugs, where he imagined the security booth was, and instantly relaxed. People like him didn’t have to show identification, his face was enough. He glanced at his watch as he waited, ignoring the quips of the two men, who were increasingly dumbfounded by the situation.

He understood; he would have been stupefied as well. After all, even Superintendent Generals would have security if they wanted to confront the head of a mafia at 6 AM. But as it turned out, Yoongi was feeling beside himself. It was time to start using who he was to get shit done, instead of hiding and praying someone like you could give out a hand. Not this time; it was his turn.

One of the bouncers couldn’t read the room and made a move to touch him, and Yoongi’s eyebrow almost twitched. He just needed one touch to arrest him and get a warrant. Would that be an abuse of power as well?

Fortunately for the small fry, someone from the back called out his name and reprimanded him swiftly in Russian. It was enough for Yoongi to assume everyone was on the same page, and follow when said man — a big, wide fellow with small eyeglasses — waved at him to follow.

Yoongi went up the elevator with the guy in silence, evaluating if anything still needed to be done to wrap this up, but it was just that. And a phone call.

He ignored everything he saw as he walked the corridors, from the men passing him to the gambling hastily hidden by the doors continuously closing in his wake. Finally, he arrived at the office of the big boss, judging by the cigars, wide flat screens showing multiple sports simultaneously, and the big foreigner man with much more white hair than he would have guessed, sitting behind a desk.

“I couldn’t believe it when they told me,” Prokhor Evgeni laughed before the amusement dropped from his face. “But here you are. You must be lost,” he bit the cigar in his mouth, unable to hide his discomfort.

Yoongi stretched his shoulders a little bit and, on cue, his phone rang. He picked it up, “Got it.” 

He put his phone back inside his pocket, looking at Prokhor as if waiting for him to say something, which only annoyed the old thug further.

Yoongi looked around as if he had all the time in the world, “I’ll wait for you to be put in the loop.”

Prokhor smacked his hands on the desk, getting up with a shout that never came out because his phone rang as well. He sat back down, cursing under his breath, and picked it up. His gaze was venomous as he heard the caller, unable to stop Yoongi when he reached for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter lying on the desk.

The mob boss’ cheeks were getting redder and redder, yet Yoongi was unfazed as he lit a cigarette and took a drag that numbed his senses. He almost groaned then, holding it in for such a long time he lost track. How had he ever stayed away?

Prokhor yelled what were probably obscenities before slamming the phone on the desk, but before he could talk, Yoongi breathed, “Justice just never sleeps.” The smoke exited his parted lips slowly, and the mob boss stilled, starting to understand the situation. “We were lucky too,” he smirked, taking another drag. “Your kids still had the same materials used in the explosives in their car. Otherwise, I don’t know. We might have required a warrant to search for more potentially harmful materials. Say in the warehouse downtown where they were found lounging around smoking weed when they were arrested.”

Yoongi suppressed a smirk as he put the cigarette between his lips, and the mob boss was so red he was about to explode. He knew the kids weren’t found near his warehouse, so the implication was clear.

“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?!”

He hissed, but Yoongi only kept smoking placidly, “Just try to poke your head out again.”

In a flash, pure anger became bewilderment in the giant’s blue eyes, “No way.” Yoongi didn’t even blink, so Prokhor scoffed, “Bitch really has the Superintendent General on a leash?”

Yoongi threw the cigarette on the garish carpet, “I like it quiet.”

He turned to leave, but Prokhor got up in a fury again, “I have people too! People who can bite your head off!”

Yoongi turned but kept walking backward, opening his arms in a momentary invitation, before leaving that place without as much as a hair out of place.

It was interesting to consider that Prokhor’s threats could hold true, but Yoongi didn’t feel minimally affected. He got inside his car to drive home and reevaluated his thought process. He and the Firefighter’s Captain had a long history, the Mayor called him for favors, and the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency still operated under his direct scrutiny. It was why puzzling the evidence from the restaurant fire had been so easy, especially given that Thoma had conveniently left the place ready for them. Yoongi assumed; he saw a man in the shadows, between the mess, and minutes later, a firefighter had found something. Interesting how explosions in rich parts of town were such a priority for the city; the division of arson investigation could take years to build a case, but tonight, a couple of hours sufficed. The Mayor saw to that as soon as Yoongi called. And the media would love that swift action, earning everyone brownie points for reelection.

Yoongi parked as he scoffed to himself; he was playing a dangerous game. He eyed his house, wondering if he should feel wary about anything happening to him, but he brushed it off. And if it did? He did what he had to do, and he’d sleep like a rock, knowing he had taken care of everything so you could finally sleep your concussion off.

He got inside his house with the first rays of morning, thanking the universe it was Saturday. But he sighed and didn’t throw his jacket too far, only on the nearest couch, before making his way to the kitchen. He would probably still work—

Something cut the corner at the same time as him but from the kitchen, and his reflex was to pull out his gun instantly, taking a step back. You were tranquil, despite the gun barrel on your face, and his eyes widened in disbelief, “Jesus fuck!”

He could barely believe it was you, with no bandages on your head and now wearing a black dress instead of white, but he still put the gun down. Or would have, but you shoved it away first, then grabbed his head to kiss him.

Instantly, he put the pistol down on a nearby counter, just in time before you pushed him back. He hit a cabinet glass door with your strength and immediately caught you when you threw yourself in his arms, frantically kissing him as if there wouldn’t be a tomorrow.

His initial shock didn’t last when your taste and perfume assured him it was you, and with you, insanity was to be expected. He had nothing against you being in his house, kissing him, or coming to him in general.

But he still tried to hold you back gently so he could ask, “Shouldn’t you— be in bed— resting?”

He spoke between your hungry lips, whenever you gave him a split second, and you laughed, “Take me to bed, then.”

Your sly smile died in a small yelp when he bent down to pick you up in his arms. You held onto him silently while he carried you upstairs to his bedroom, and his ego couldn’t have been more inflated after that whole crazy night. What got him wasn’t that he managed to calm you down, met your dogs, or solved your problem by showing some mob boss how big his cock was, no. What got him hard in a split second was that little yelp and your silence as he carried you effortlessly. He might have had an office job, but he still took the time to go to the gym every day, and fuck if it wasn’t worth it.

When he put you down over the bed, he thought you’d actually want to sleep after such an exhausting night, but he should have known better. You got on your knees on the bed before he could open his mouth and started unbuttoning his shirt. His expression must have given away his thoughts because you didn’t stop, but you didn’t push him either. You waited for a clear indication that you could touch him, but didn’t hesitate to get him naked, opening every button. Then, when you pulled the shirt back over his shoulders, he grabbed your head to kiss you.

Your reaction was instant, rushing to get rid of the shirt and unbuckle his belt as he consumed your mouth eagerly. It was hard not getting distracted, especially by the way he easily pulled on your hair to keep you on your toes, but it only served to melt you. Even when he did it with a level of gentleness, careful about your injuries; something that could easily trigger you and turn you off, but tonight made you so eager to be with him, that you didn’t recognize yourself.

You moaned inside his mouth when he sucked your tongue, dizzy from the blood rushing everywhere all at once. Fortunately, you had made your way inside his pants and could anchor yourself to his cock.

It only made you groan harder as you pumped him; he couldn’t get harder than that, and your wet core would be the perfect match.

His consuming kiss along with his soft touches could have gotten you to settle and let him decide where to take this, but you knew what you wanted and your limits. You needed Yoongi like air to breathe, but you were on painkillers and exhausted. You shouldn’t have driven there in that condition, but couldn’t stop yourself. So, you pushed through his addictive, wild kisses and pulled his pants and underwear down, hinting at him to strip fully.

He did so in a heartbeat, falling over you so quickly you didn’t see it coming. Accommodating him over you between your parted legs was everything you wanted, so you sighed into his returning mouth, clawing at his back so he’d come closer. His lips soon made a detour to your neck, and you were overrun by shivers, almost pleading his name with how much you were dying to feel him.

But as he made his way down to your chest, you pushed through your cloudy, horny judgment. You pushed him by the shoulders and got on top of him, straddling him easily. His head fell over the pillow, dark hair contrasting with the white as his equally dark eyes observed you. They were glistening, hungry, but the hands on your hips were patient, and controlled. Min Yoongi wanted to ravish you, but for you, he’d give you the lead. You almost teased him about it, but there was no time to waste.

You had never seen him naked, so you weren’t shy about looking; quickly, but still. You touched every scar you could see — on his left shoulder, under his ribs, on the side of his waist, wondering how he had gotten injured and if it had hurt. Your lips followed suit, lingering over his skin while you sniffed his scent on your way to an untamed delicacy.

You only nuzzled him for a second before starting to lick his balls greedily, and he groaned, “You don’t have to.”

You smirked, laughing with yourself — as if you’d miss the opportunity. “I want to.”

It would be wrong to say you drove across town in that state to give head to Min Yoongi, but it was close to the truth. In your plans, you spent more time working him up — kissing him, dry humping, maybe even twisting those pretty nipples — before reaching his balls and preparing him to give you cum all night long.

But the fucking concussion and pain and tiredness or whatever. It irritated you, your knees hurt, and your head was spinning, and not necessarily from his luscious scent or your insane lust. So, unfortunately, you had to cut to the chase.

Just licking the tip of his dick wasn’t enough; not for you, and not for him. You wanted the thick mushroom tip between your lips, and the guttural groan he let out once you sucked broke the dam for you.

You licked and drooled all over him, bobbing your head to get him further and further inside you with greed that bordered on obsession. The more your jaw slacked, and his taste flooded your mouth, the more you needed to feel him pressing, invading, reaching inside you. His groans matched your moans, his fists around the sheets mimicked your hands holding his hips, and the desperation of his hips, moving to match your head falling on him, almost fulfilled your need.

Until you realized that wouldn’t do. Your wet cunt was throbbing slick, desperate with your need, and you were selfish. You wanted him to bust his nut down your throat, but fuck; you wanted to ride him more.

The drool that fell all over his hard, red shaft was almost embarrassing, but you didn’t waste time licking it. You got off him to slide your underwear off, your eyes never abandoning his, and so you didn’t miss him looking at you with a glint of despair in his eyes.

“I think I wouldn’t have lasted five more seconds.”

You grinned at his confession and got back on him, throwing your dress around so you could align him with your slit, “Good.” You felt the tip of his cock, and so did he, because he gripped your hips as if to stop you. “You better hold it.”

His dark eyes showed a hint of torture, but you were not sympathetic. You pressed yourself down on him, rolling your hips to get him coated in you, forcibly stretching you, making you keen so ecstatically, that you threw your head back. If his thick cock tucked inside you wasn’t enough, then the groans out of his mouth, with gritted teeth and a frown, in deep concentration, would take the cake. You rolled your hips further, slowly in wide movements, seeing every line in his face contorting or twitching under your sweet torture, his strength slowly leaving him as he fought tooth and nail not to come so soon. 

“Your— Your knees—”

You smirked, oblivious about your bandaged knees at that moment. “Shut up, just let me ride you.”

His nails pierced your skin at the hips around your garter, and you moaned approvingly. Just looking at him, the blood rushed to your cheeks, the temperature rising immediately in a heatwave through your body. Every grunt of his was fuel; you couldn’t stop moving, dragging his thick cock across your walls so it could disappear deep inside you and torture him some more. And you, because the more he resisted, the more you wanted it, and the more it got to you too.

You knew you’d come pathetically quick but didn’t imagine it would be this fast. The pleasure burning through you was so overwhelming and undeniable, that soon you were riding him hungrily, not to torture him, but to come with him. He noticed it somehow because he started helping you, meeting you with short thrusts upwards that set your body on fire. You wanted him so fucking bad that leaning over his chest to kiss him before you came became your final act, and you crashed.

Your mouth pressed to his with a shaky moan from deep inside your chest, and he held the back of your head, keeping you in place. He fucked you through your orgasm, your throbbing so intense around him, it took him seconds to spill inside you; to groan into your mouth as he pressed you down, burying his cock as deep as he could.

Feeling him coming was such a delight, you grinned. The silence was cut by your chuckle seconds later, and even when he bit your cheek, you didn’t come down from cloud nine.

houndtooth [6]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

There should be blood.  

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.  

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.  

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.  

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.  

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.  

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.  

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.  

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.  

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.  

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.  

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.  

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”  

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.  

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands. 

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”  

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.” 

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”  

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.  

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.  

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.  

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.  

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.  

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.  

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.  

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.  

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.  

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.  

“Ready to see your husband?”  

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.  

But it has never made him feel so sick.  

So nauseated.   

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;  

You’re just a girl.  

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try. 

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty. 

Christ. Pathetic.  

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.  

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.  

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.  

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.  

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.  

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.  

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.  

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.  

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.  

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.  

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.  

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”  

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.  

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”  

Fuck off, captain.  

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.  

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.  

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev. 

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.  

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.  

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared. 

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.  

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.  

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.  

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.  

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them? 

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.  

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.  

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?  

Cleverer than he thought.  

Do you love him? 

You know that face.  

That lour.  

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.  

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.  

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.  

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.  

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.  

“Xерня.”  Bullshit.  

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.  

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.  

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.  

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you. 

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.  

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.  

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”  

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her? 

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”  

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.  

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.  

Your heart drops like steel.  

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen. 

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.  

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.  

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”  

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.  

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”  

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”  

“You’d be surprised.”  

Click.  

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.  

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.  

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck. 

“London. When.”  

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”  

Click.  

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet. 

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.  

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”  

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”  

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”  

Click.  

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.  

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still  

Click.  

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”  

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”  

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.  

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”  

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.  

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.  

Click.  

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.  

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.  

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”  

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.  

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.  

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–” 

Bang. 

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.  

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.  

Behind him, your hunter.  

Gun raised. Still smoking.  

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.  

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.  

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.  

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”  

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.  

“Just had to.” 

Ok, question, fem! forced marriage au - how would Rafe react/feel if she brought up ANYTHING about separating, weather that’s flat out divorce or doing it in secret - happy to the public but living in diff spaces/diff lives/maybe even having affairs(?)

Tied bonds || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: don't mind me going off slightly in the beginning when its talking about the legality side of it, i was literally studying trusts and estates law a couple days ago lol

Warnings: angst galore!

Word count: 2,801

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The heavy oak doors of the estate’s study shut behind you with a quiet but resolute thud, isolating you from the rest of the world. The room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, exudes both the security and suffocation of wealth. The scent of polished mahogany and aged leather permeates the air, a sensory reminder of the legacy you're bound to uphold and the responsibilities weighing on your shoulders.

The dim light from the tall windows casts long shadows across the room, making it feel as though the walls themselves are closing in, urging you to act before time runs out. You sit across from your lawyer at the broad mahogany desk. He’s a man in his 50s, with silver-threaded hair and sharp, calculating eyes. His demeanour exudes quiet authority, the kind of calm that comes from handling the complex finances of wealthy families like yours for decades.

A briefcase sits open beside him, documents meticulously laid out in front of you. These aren’t just numbers and figures on a page—they represent your children’s future, your security, and the small corner of independence you’re desperately trying to carve out for yourself. “Now, given the scale of your family’s assets,” your lawyer begins, his voice smooth and professional, “it’s prudent to separate certain accounts. Some in your name, some under irrevocable trusts for the children. This will not only shield them from potential claims but also provide financial protection in the event of....unforeseen circumstances—marital or otherwise.”

You glance down at the papers, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. This was necessary, you remind yourself. You need some semblance of independence, some safeguard for your children. With Rafe’s unpredictable behaviour and the constant pressure from both families, you can’t afford to let everything slip from your control. Your lawyer pulls out another document, sliding it across the desk.

“We’re talking about setting up separate trusts for each of your children. These funds will be distributed to them upon reaching a certain age—18 or 21, depending on your preference. In the meantime, control of the trust can be vested in you alone, ensuring that no one else has access to or influence over these assets, including your husband.”

“And what about Rafe’s side of the family?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. “Would they have any legal claim?” The lawyer shakes his head firmly. “No. Not if everything is properly structured. The trusts would be irrevocable, meaning no one—not even your husband—could alter them once established. His family would have no legal right to interfere, regardless of any financial entanglements between the two of you.”

You take a breath, the enormity of it all settling in. This is exactly what you wanted—an impenetrable safeguard. A plan that ensures your children’s future remains under your control, untouched by the unpredictable tides of Rafe’s influence or the demands of your family. “Thank you,” you respond softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the document, the weight of your decision pressing heavily on your chest. “I want everything arranged quietly,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of your decision.

“No one else needs to know about this… especially my husband.” The lawyer gives a small, understanding nod. “Discretion is key, as always.” You sign where indicated, feeling a mixture of relief and unease as you watch your name inked onto the page. This is the right thing to do, you remind yourself. For your children, for their future. Yet as you rise from the desk and collect your things, a sense of foreboding lingers.

The heavy oak doors creak open as you step out, and the estate feels impossibly vast around you. Despite the careful planning, you can’t shake the feeling that keeping this from Rafe will lead to complications far greater than you anticipate. With every step you take, the sinking feeling grows. You only hope Rafe doesn’t find out before you’re ready to tell him.

~

The moment you step through the front door of your home, the tension in the air is palpable. You pause, your coat still in hand, as your eyes land on Rafe. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost relaxed posture, but the intensity in his gaze betrays any notion of calm. His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, calculating, probing.

"You have a nice little meeting today?" His voice is cold, deceptively casual. But you can hear the edge in it—the suspicion lurking beneath the surface. Your heart skips a beat, anxiety pooling in your chest. Of course, he knows. Rafe always knows. You hang your coat on the rack, avoiding his gaze, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. "I had a few things to take care of. Where are the children?"

You answer nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from any confrontation. "With Astoria, they wanted to play with their cousins," Rafe answers, his gaze sharp as he pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming as always. "Answer my question," His tone hardens, suspicion fully creeping into his voice now. "I know you met with your lawyer. What are you up to?"

Your pulse quickens as you hold Rafe’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He’s already jumping to conclusions, constructing a narrative that fits his fears. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but the reality of it still unsettles you, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. "It’s nothing that concerns you," you respond, keeping your tone as even as possible, despite the way your nerves fray under his scrutiny. "Just some family matters."

Rafe scoffs, the sound harsh and filled with disbelief. His jaw clenches as he steps even closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you, blocking any hope of retreat. His presence is overbearing, the heat of his anger palpable in the air between you. "Family matters?" His voice is dripping with accusation, dark and biting. "Don’t play games with me. I heard enough to know this wasn’t just about your parents or your siblings."

His words cut deeper as his tone drops, low and dangerous. "You’re setting up trust funds. Inheritance management. Without telling me. What the hell are you planning?" His words slam into you, twisting your stomach in knots. His paranoia, the sharpness of his accusations, stings in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for. Of course, you knew he’d react like this, but hearing it out loud—his anger, his distrust—it’s worse than you imagined. You steady your breath, trying to keep your composure.

"It’s for the children, Rafe," you say, your voice soft but firm, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "I want to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what happens. That’s all this is." But even as you say it, you can see the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the doubt still gnawing at him, twisting this simple act of protection into something more sinister in his mind.

Rafe glares at you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face for the slightest hint of deception. His presence feels overwhelming as he steps even closer, the space between you disappearing in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moves down deliberately, resting on the swell of your belly where your third child grows. His touch, firm and possessive, sends a chill through you.

"You don’t trust me with that?" His voice is low, almost a growl, laced with an edge of disbelief and wounded pride. "You think I wouldn’t look out for my own kids?" His words sting, but it's the subtle accusation in his tone that cuts deeper, as if he can’t comprehend why you would feel the need to act independently. Your frustration bubbles to the surface despite your best efforts to remain calm, your emotions swirling between anger and exhaustion.

"That’s not what this is about," you snap, your voice sharp as the tension between you flares. You're trying to hold it together, but the weight of his misunderstanding—of him always assuming the worst—pushes you to the brink. "I’m doing this to protect them. To protect us. You can’t control everything, Rafe." For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanishes quickly, replaced by his usual defensiveness. He steps closer, his voice lowering, cold and accusatory.

"You’re doing all of this behind my back," he growls. "And I’m supposed to believe it’s just for the kids? You don’t set up secret meetings with lawyers for something as simple as trust funds. It looks more like you’re preparing for something else. Like maybe you’re planning to escape this all." His breath is hot against your ear now, the venom in his words unmistakable. "Is that it? Are you getting ready to leave me?"

His accusation hits you hard, knocking the air from your lungs. The vulnerability behind it cuts deeper than you expected. It’s not just anger simmering in his voice—there’s fear too, buried beneath the suspicion, fear of losing control, of you slipping away. His jaw tightens, but his hand remains firmly pressed against the swell of your stomach, as if anchoring himself to you, to the life you’re carrying.

“And have our children without their father?” His voice is sharp, but there’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface—hurt, uncertainty. His eyes search yours, almost pleading. You blink, stunned by the weight of his question. “Rafe…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, incredulity lacing your words as you try to make sense of what he’s implying. “I’m not leaving you.”

The tension in the room feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in. You take a breath, steadying yourself, as you step closer, your gaze softening despite the frustration swirling inside you. "This isn’t about that,” you say gently, trying to reach him through the haze of his suspicions. “But I need some control over my life, Rafe. Some protection.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you press on. “I’m not just here to be controlled or managed. I need to know that I’m not just a piece in this game.”

You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy with unspoken fears, and for a brief moment, the façade of his strength cracks. The fear of losing control, of losing you, is palpable, and it clings to the space between you like a storm cloud ready to burst. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. "Control. Protection," he mutters under his breath, his movements sharp and agitated. "You think I’m the threat here? You think I wouldn’t protect you? Protect our family?"

You shake your head, stepping back slightly, trying to maintain some distance from the intensity of his emotions. "I never said that," you say, your voice softer now, trying to calm him. "But this is something I need to do. For me. For them." For a long moment, the two of you stand there, locked in a silent standoff. His breathing is heavy, and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts into something else—something more conflicted. He turns away from you, pacing a few steps before running his hands through his hair again.

"This isn’t how marriages are supposed to work," Rafe mutters, more to himself than to you. The words cut deep, piercing through the fragile layer of calm you’ve been clinging to. It’s a painful reminder of what your marriage has become—what it’s always been. The expectations, the compromises, the strain. This life… it’s not what either of you envisioned. You feel the urge to retort, to let loose the frustrations that have built up over the years, but you bite your tongue. Now isn’t the time for that argument.

"I know," you whisper, though you’re not sure if he hears you. The admission feels hollow in the tense silence that follows, the weight of your reality pressing down on both of you. The room feels unbearably heavy, the air thick with unsaid words. Rafe exhales, his broad shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as though some of the fire inside him has been extinguished. He turns his back to you, the physical distance a reflection of the emotional chasm that has been growing between you both.

For a brief moment, you consider stepping closer, reaching out, bridging that gap—but the weight of your decision, of everything you’ve been trying to secure for yourself and the children, holds you back. It’s a boundary you can’t afford to cross right now. "You should’ve told me," he finally says, his voice quieter, but still taut with lingering tension. There’s hurt there, beneath the anger, beneath his instinct to control everything around him.

Your throat tightens at his words, the soft accusation lingering in the space between you. "I didn’t want this to turn into a fight," you admit, your own voice subdued, drained from the confrontation. The fatigue in your bones echoes in your tone. "I just needed to make sure everything was in place. For the kids, for their future." You pause, the weight of your decisions settling on your chest. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you."

Rafe turns back to face you, his expression a mixture of frustration, hurt, and something more vulnerable—something he rarely lets show. "It feels like you were," he mutters, the edge of accusation still present, though softer now. His blue eyes search yours, looking for answers, reassurance, something to ease the fear behind his suspicion. You hold his gaze, trying to convey the truth behind your words. "I need to feel like I have some control, Rafe," you say gently, your voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness.

"Our lives… they’re not easy. And I know you want to protect us, but I need to protect them too. In my own way." Your heart beats heavily in your chest, each word an attempt to bridge the gap between you, a gap that seems to widen with every conflict. Rafe’s gaze lingers on you, the tension between you both crackling in the air. You take a tentative step forward, closing the physical distance between you, hoping it will ease the emotional one. Just as you stop inches from him, his expression softens slightly.

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm yet tender, and before you can say anything, he brings it up to his lips. The moment feels suspended in time as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. It’s a gesture so gentle, so unlike the earlier confrontation, that it catches you off guard. The vulnerability in his eyes flickers, almost as if he’s silently asking for forgiveness or offering an unspoken truce.

You feel your heart ache, the gesture disarming you in a way his words couldn’t. It’s as though this kiss is his way of telling you that, despite his anger, despite his suspicions, there’s something deeper binding you together—a love neither of you can deny, even in moments like this. “I’m not the enemy, Y/n,” he repeats softly, his voice rough but sincere, the earlier accusation tempered by this quiet moment.

His lips linger on your skin for just a second longer before he lowers your hand, though he doesn’t let go. You swallow hard, your chest tight with emotion, your voice a whisper as you respond. "I know you're not." The air between you feels different now—quieter, softer, though still tinged with the weight of everything unresolved. For that fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of you are in sync again, even if just barely.

Rafe’s hand remains wrapped around yours, and though the tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, it’s no longer suffocating. The kiss to your knuckles feels like a promise, fragile but meaningful. As he finally lets go and turns away, you watch him disappear down the hallway, the memory of his lips on your skin lingering long after he's gone. The weight of your choices still presses down on you, but somehow, in that brief exchange, it feels a little lighter.

You know this isn’t over. Rafe’s suspicions won’t vanish overnight, and your need for autonomy remains unresolved. But for now, the confrontation is over. The weight of your decisions, the strain on your already fragile relationship, presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You did the right thing, you remind yourself. This is about protecting your children, about securing a future for them. For now, all you can do is hope that, in time, he’ll come to understand why you did this. Why you needed to.

Stellar Behavior 💜 Part 2

“I may consider an alternative with less social catastrophe... If I’m adequately compensated. I was left wanting last time…”

PAIRING: Officer!Yoongi x Mafia (f)reader

SUMMARY: The time has come for you to collect your favor, but Yoongi is not going to make it easy.

WORD COUNT: 7.3k

GENRE: Gangster AU, Law AU, enemies to lovers, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: corruption, power dynamics, slight degradation, sexual favors, hate sex, switching, semi-public sex, unprotected sex

A.N. If this part had a title, it would be hate sex. Very hot, explicit hate sex 🔥Let me know if you agree 😏 Again, infinite thank yous to @moonleeai and @downbad4yoongi for working through my crazy and being incredible! Enjoy 🔥🔥

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Yoongi pulled on the collar of his shirt as the car took a particularly sharp turn. The sirens were on and the officer driving the car was a bit on edge, so he couldn’t help his scowl. He never liked parades, much less a row of police cars racing to interfere with a petty theft at a charity gala. But the Mayor had insisted the newly appointed Senior Superintendent should look into the matter immediately, so there he was.

He looked outside, the streetlights passing in a blur under his inattentive eyes. He actually didn’t think he’d be able to save Officer Jimin a couple of months back, let alone get a promotion as a result, but here he was. And the night that changed everything still burned in the back of his mind.

He was furious when he left the Aether that night. He remembered storming out with a mix of emotions bubbling like lava inside his chest and slamming the door of his car closed. Despite himself, he drove home in a flash, recklessly letting the heat get to his head. 

It was all your fault that he couldn't get on top of whatever it was that he was feeling. Why was his head filled with images of you? Why he couldn't look at the road? Why he could barely hear another car honking in annoyance when he almost crashed as he turned onto his street?

All he could see was you, with your shiny hair falling over your shoulders, framing a cunning smile trying to hide behind a drink. Your pink cheeks heated him up, and no amount of deep breaths calmed him. He stormed inside his house with your long legs filling his mind as they wrapped around him, and all the way to his bedroom, you haunted him. He pulled his clothes off in a hurry, needing to get the lewd wet sounds of his mouth on your core off his mind, but it was difficult. No matter how fast he rushed, he could still hear himself sucking on your delicious cunt which muffled his own grunts beneath your obscene moans. He was so hard it hurt.

He just needed you out of his system, but as he raised his hand to turn on the shower, he froze. He took a deep breath, and another, then groaned. His eyelids closed before he could stop himself from licking his lips and fingers, letting your faint scent pull a low, deep groan from his throat. He could still feel your hand in his hair, and he needed to live it out. You had kicked him out of the Aether, saying you were done, but this was his house.

He got on the bed and grabbed his hard dick in his hand, closing his fingers around the head before letting himself melt into the soft sheets. Just your scent and taste were enough, and he fisted himself greedily. Fast; he needed you out of his system, so he raced for the peak. It was pathetic how quickly he was spurting white ropes of cum across his chest with nothing but the memory of his face buried in your cunt.

He thought that was what he needed, but ten minutes later he was not calmer or softer. In fact, he wondered if he made it worse by indulging in his dark fantasies, but soon he decided that no one needed to know.

I heard the missus left cause you couldn’t get it up, but won’t you look at that— I guess she just didn’t know how to play. Or maybe you like this. Like not having a choice, to be in danger, to be forced to do something reprehensible.

I have a choice.

Then choose.

His nostrils flared, but he didn't stop jerking off to the thought of you. What you said annoyed him, and he still had no clue why he was rock hard despite it, but there was no point in stopping. He was fucking ready to explode, lick and fuck every inch and hole of yours, and yet here he fucking was, alone on his bed.

He edged himself to the thought of you, reveling in the control he had over his pleasure and yours. It didn't matter to him that his ex complained; he had figured he just didn't want to have sex. Why would he when all she did was complain? He worked too much, he was never home, blah blah blah. Why would he want to be home when all she did was nag and whine? When she left and they divorced, he didn't feel any compulsion to search for sex, so he assumed that it was just what it was.

Months after meeting you, he still didn't know what it was about you. Why was he so inexplicably hard and turned on and ready to fuck your brains out, and so fucking pissed when you dismissed him and left him high and dry? To the point he had to jerk off to the thought of you, only to be disgusted with himself for feeling that way about someone so morally bankrupt. For not getting himself under control.

It occurred to him later that he was mad about not knowing if he'd be able to save Officer Jimin, but those doubts didn't last long. He woke up in the morning after meeting you to the sound of the doorbell, naked on his sheets with dried cum everywhere. Because whoever it was kept persistently pressing the bell, he grabbed a robe and made his way down, only to find no one. Yet, on his front door mat was a big envelope, and in it, something that immediately jolted him to hurry and get dressed.

It was a dashcam from a car that was parked near the incident and caught everything perfectly: another man had shot Officer Junghee, then shoved the gun into Jimin's hands, who ignored him to try and help his partner. The camera's serial number was valid; the car was also filmed parking there earlier that day, so in a matter of hours, Officer Jimin was exonerated of all charges, just like promised.

Yoongi was ecstatic, as was his team, yet as they celebrated, his mind kept reminding him who he should thank. He knew there would be a price, but in his memory, you were a sweet tease, ready to drive him crazy and fuck him in every way his mind came up with. The disgust that haunted him with every fantasy angered him, but did little to cool him. 

To curb the insanity of his thoughts, he looked up your record and found nothing. Distance and discipline worked wonders to remind himself, eventually, that it didn't matter how attracted he was to you or how many times he fucked you in his mind. You were the worst kind of criminal — the one that led others to commit the crimes for you. You were a despicable person, and you'd ask for something equally so in exchange for saving an innocent. He needed to stay sharp.

He was pulled out of his reverie when the car stopped before the charmingly decorated venue where most of the city’s echelon had gathered to attend a charity ball. A police agent at the scene waved him over to enter the building, and he didn’t waste any time. It frustrated him that he was there just to show face when he had better things to do, but even that evaporated quickly in the face of who was expecting him.

He scoffed and chuckled bitterly when he entered a backroom to meet the complainant, only to be met with you. You were the embodiment of an angel, with bloodshot eyes releasing tears that didn't make a dent on your perfect makeup. Your long blue dress was elegant, covering your generous figure chastely while you cried about being a victim.

“I can't believe this happened at a charity event!”

Yoongi didn't react, the show wasn't for him; it was for the event organizer, who was trying to avoid a scandal, “I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding!” She suddenly noticed him and the officer beside him, and her face lit up like a Christmas tree, “The Senior Superintendent is here, as promised!”

Your eyes finally turned to him, and the corners of your mouth twitched. You had noticed him entering the backroom, but now you could officially address him.

Between the organizer trying to flaunt the idea of the force protecting the good people of Seoul and you offering resistance to the idea that your purse wasn't long gone, he didn't know what drained his patience more. Finally, he decided it was you because surely this was all a ruse and you either wanted to make him look like a fool or to finally name your price.

“I'm sure the Senior Superintendent brought enough Officers to sweep the place from top to bottom—”

“Maybe we should retrace my steps,” you interrupted crudely, getting up from the long velvet chaise to fix your eyes on him.

He instantly understood what you wanted, and despite not agreeing with all the bullshit, he wanted to get it over with.

“I shall accompany you,” he agreed before following after you when you briskly walked away.

He managed to wave to the nearby officers to stay there and work the ground while your heels tapped across the marble floor. The hallway in front of you was decorated with astonishing sculptures, the likes that Yoongi had never seen, but he didn’t have time to wonder about the magnanimous hotel the gala was taking place in.

You were walking like you owned the place, and it made him grind his teeth as he followed you. How could anyone believe your made-up story? To them, you were a tycoon, owning many restaurants, clubs, and other businesses, so how come your security had let your purse be taken?

He knew better, of course; you were a criminal who led one of the most powerful organizations in the city. No one would be stupid enough to come close, and so he scoffed. This situation was ridiculous.

“Just a bit further,” you voiced.

“Shouldn't we be going to the entrance?”

His monotone voice made no impression as you reached the end of another corridor, where two men were standing. You extended your arm, receiving your purse promptly from one of them before the other opened the door for you. Yoongi simply followed you into the foyer, decorated like an elegant waiting room. Yet you still didn't stop and made your way to another door.

He followed you into what was the most luxurious bathroom he had ever seen. Everything was marble, the chandeliers were antiques, and there was even a corner where people could sit down and use the many toiletries and cosmetics available.

“My, following a lady into the bathroom?”

Your mocking tone made his eyebrow twitch, “I'll wait outside.”

“Nonsense,” you simply said before turning to the mirror to make sure your makeup was perfect. 

You twisted your nose at some invisible detail while he waited. He absolutely detested the perfect curve of your back and ass as you leaned forward, and even more the way your hair fell gracefully around you. You were beautiful and wasting everyone's time.

“Now,” you voiced, turning to him. “I'm glad you could take a moment from your busy schedule to help me with my little problem.”

“You clearly have no problem,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. “So lets get to business.”

“My, Chief,” you brought your hand to your chest as though you were hurt. “Did the promotion get to your head?” He raised an eyebrow, and you chuckled and stepped toward him, “Didn't think you'd be that affected by power.”

“I'm not,” he bit between his teeth, eying you attentively while you circled him and reached for the items on the counter behind him.

“Good, good,” you said dismissively, then circled back towards the mirror. “Then you're still the man who isn't afraid to beg and keeps his word.”

Your tone was a bit colder as you leaned toward the mirror to apply a dark red shade of lipstick, and he frowned. It was hard to follow your thoughts, but it didn't matter. He needed to know what you wanted so he could try to finally lock you up for being a criminal mastermind.

“I am, so what is it that you want?”

“I heard your office was looking into the Klysa conglomerate for suspected fraud,” you started, batting your eyelashes as if you had just remembered it. “I need them out of the game.”

“So?” He asked dryly, sharp eyes unfazed by the request.

“So, I have a little something to help you nail them for good,” you reached inside your purse, then pulled his hand to you and placed the flash drive in his palm. “Just put the contents of this drive in any of their computers during your search and—”

“That’s illegal,” he interrupted, leaving his open palm with the USB stick on it.

“So?” Your tone was mocking as you raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not going to do that.”

You hummed and tapped your chin pensively. “Hmmm, but you are. You owe me, and you don’t want to be on my naughty list, right?” You grinned, raising a finger to touch his chin, but he dodged it with gritted teeth. He hated that you had something on him, and the heat climbing up his spine only aggravated him further. “Besides, they are committing crimes. It’s high time they got caught, don’t you think?”

“If there’s an ongoing investigation, then you can wait for—”

“Can’t wait,” you dismissed sharply, your eyes becoming narrow. “They have too many fingers in too many pies, and all it takes is one scandal for it all to come crashing down.”

“All?”

“All,” you repeated with a smirk.

“I can’t do that.” Your features hardened, and he hurried to say, “It’s a big conglomerate; thousands will lose their job. Families depend on these jobs, it would cause a social catastrophe.”

“Are you getting sentimental, Chief?”

“These things need to be done carefully,” he continued, ignoring your quip. “My department is investigating them, so with time—”

You huffed a deep breath and rolled your eyes, clearly displeased, and he held his tongue. Part of him was revolting at the hypocrisy of using the justice system to get rid of competition for crimes you probably indulged in as well, but he decided to stay quiet. Maybe that would be the easiest way to catch you — to see what kind of things you had on others and how you acted.

“I may consider an alternative with less social catastrophe,” you grimaced. “If I’m adequately compensated.” He raised an eyebrow as you grabbed the flash drive still in his hand and reached to put it inside his pants pocket. “I was left wanting last time…”

The way his spine tensed and his Adam's apple bobbed was difficult to hide, “You mean…”

You hummed, your hand playing with the edge of his pocket, “I’d hate to be left wanting this time.”

Your low, wanton voice gave him goosebumps, but he cleared his throat, “What’s the alternative?”

“That depends,” you smirked, sneaking your hand into his pocket. “Do we have a deal?”

“What is the alternative?”

His tone was dry, yet you chuckled as your fingers brushed his thigh through the fabric, “Are you going to leave me hanging?”

“I asked you a question.”

“So did I,” you said slowly, looking down. You licked your lips slowly at the view, then grinned and faced him again, “A tent is not an answer, Chief.”

He moved so fast you barely saw it as you blinked; in a split second, your wrist was in his hand, yanked out of his pocket. “I’m waiting.”

“So am I,” you grinned, facing him unabashedly. “I want to hear those pretty lips saying you’ll sit down on that couch and pull your hard cock out for me to use in exchange for the livelihood of all those tiny, insignificant people.” You had a sly smile as you spoke, nearing to nuzzle him, and the way he despised you flashed across his face. His grip tightened to keep you away, and you chuckled, “Thinking of using those handcuffs of yours?”

“You don’t know me,” he grumbled, low in his chest, and you smiled widely.

“I know you’re hard,” you shrugged as though you had already won. You licked your lips, “Is it the thrill again? Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about—”

He pulled you closer to growl something, but something thin and sharp pressed to his belly, and his breath was caught. 

He looked down as you smirked widely, “No knife this time, this is all you, Chief. At attention,” you dragged your acrylic nail up his stomach slowly, and his eyes followed it, holding your other wrist tightly still. “Must be difficult denying how hard and horny you get from dealing with someone like me, but we don’t have time to waste,” you sighed, biting your lip as you raised your hand to his hair, but stopped before you touched him. 

He tilted his head to get the tension off his neck, subtly looking away to catch a breather. You were putting him in a tight spot again, and this time it was even worse; he should know better.

You straightened up to look him in the eyes, “So the deal. Instead of raiding the whole conglomerate, I’ll give you the address of a hidden gambling house run by a higher-up. That, plus the flash drive, should be enough to dismantle those bastards slowly. Gotta give people the time to come and work for me instead, right?” 

You grinned slyly, unable to read what he was thinking because he didn’t know it himself. You had a good alternative that meant not ruining thousands of lives instantly, and that was all he needed to hear. Right?

Your smile suddenly vanished, and you pulled your wrist close to your chest, forcing him to fall into you a little bit as he held onto you, “But only if I get what I want.”

He eyed you, and you stood at a standstill. He should hate this, explode at you for trying to coerce him, for being a horrible person who didn’t think of the consequences of your petty requests, or how they’d affect the livelihoods of so many people. Yet, instead, he was starting to burn. Something hot was licking at the back of his neck as he strained it, trying to soothe the tension again. His muscles were tightening, ready to jump at a moment's notice; meanwhile, his mind struggled. No, he didn’t want this. You were using him for sex and to handle competition; it was nasty business. It was a way to subdue him and corrupt what he represented. You were vile, and—

“I don’t have all day,” you reminded him, and he blinked. 

You were infuriating, petulant, narcissistic, and he hated that he was even considering it. 

You pulled your wrist out of his hand and gave him a cold look, “Never mind—”

He was on his way to the couch before he realized it. He sat on it, facing you, and you stood still, waiting. Looking at you, he had a moment of lucidity, and his shoulders relaxed. He unzipped his pants as he weighed the consequences of going against you — the head of a powerful criminal organization that would work against him, framing his personnel or himself. His career would surely not reach far, and you’d get what you wanted, one way or another. 

His eyes were still fixed on yours as he pulled his hard dick out, not bothering to even stroke it. He was as hard as can be, so he presented it to you just like you wanted, and just like he wanted. His chest burned as you stepped slowly towards him, and he admitted that of all the ways you had to get what you wanted, he much preferred you used him to get there.

You stopped in front of him, threw your purse on the couch, then kneeled on the floor with so much grace he held his breath. The way you had ensnared him without even touching him should scare him, but he was totally in it.

“Say it,” you demanded, only looking down once before facing him again.

“Use me,” his gruff voice revealed his darkest desire before he could stop himself, but he recognized then that he wouldn’t.

As you got up to your feet and pushed him back so you could straddle him, he acknowledged that he wanted everything. He shouldn’t, but he had no morals at that moment. He didn't care about anyone’s record, crimes, lives, or careers; he cared about nothing. You were on his lap, grasping the hair at the back of his head, forcing him to reveal his neck to you so you could bite, and the groan that came out said it all. He dared to frame your waist above him, and you sighed on his neck, pressing yourself to him. Already, there wasn’t much that could get him to stop, but now he guessed there was nothing. Even if someone dared to interrupt, officer or otherwise, he’d never stop, not before he was inside you, and surely not when he was.

No, he hummed, palming your curves freely as you nibbled on his neck and found your way under his shirt. He’d get his dick inside you and show you all the ways he’d been dreaming of fucking you ever since you last met. Only then, when you had been fucked so thoroughly you’d walk funny, would he bite the head off of whoever dared to interrupt you two.

Hypothetically.

For now, he didn’t have to worry because no one was about to interfere with what you both wanted. Your nails had scratched him to the point he had to grip your flesh in retaliation, or maybe as an incentive. You moved on to bite his ear and the skin right under it, and the way your hips swayed over him drove him insane. No amount of grinding should make him feel this good, and he refused to blow without turning you into a mess first.

His hands on your hips helped you grind your covered cunt harder against his bare dick, and he could tell you liked it because you started moaning quietly. It was a low, dragged sound, almost as if you wanted to hide it, and it riled him up. He wanted you to fall apart, and you wouldn’t be able to stop it.

You surely noticed how keen he was, but your hips kept moving faster. The friction of your underwear on his shaft was burning, but he didn’t care. You were grabbing onto him so tight, your nails were sinking into his scalp and shoulders. You wanted to use him, and he’d show you just how easily you crumbled instead.

But he didn’t expect you to suddenly straighten up and reach between your bodies. He looked at your expression, knitted eyebrows and peeping tongue while you focused, and then he felt it. You rolled your hips a bit, and your eyelashes fluttered at the same time he swallowed a groan and sank his nails into the skin of your hips.

Fuck.

You were holding his dick to your slit, coating him in your slick with every hump of your hips, and he could feel everything. How wet you were, sliding eagerly, especially around your entrance. He tried pushing up to get in, but you didn’t let him, licking your lips spread with a mischievous smile. You were playing with him, and your teasing made him snap his hips, trying to bypass you, but you moved with him, chuckling sensually. His mind was fried then; there was nothing that could ever come close to how delicious you were. How deviant, teasing, wrong, and yet the obsession he didn’t know he could have. 

Was that what it was?

You interrupted his thoughts when you aligned him with you and sank down on him. Your desperate whimper as you did washed his brain clean; all he could do was stare at you with a slack jaw as you indulged in a push and pull, letting his girth stretch you again and again. It was torture, but he enjoyed seeing all your little reactions. The way you bit your lip, panting a little harder with the effort of getting him deeper inside you, fighting your eyes from closing so you could see it happening. He glanced too, but the image of his cock disappearing between your folds, hugged so tightly between your walls, was too risky. He preferred to look at you, pick up on the tells of your pleasure. He particularly liked it when you settled down fully, biting your lip as he poked you inside, tucked to the hilt.

You were hesitant to move, still throbbing around him, so he took your hips and moved them gently. Your reaction was instantaneous, throwing your head back and letting him direct your pleasure as he pleased. It burned inside his chest to see you so vulnerable on his cock, knowing he could do to you whatever he wanted, but he didn’t want to rush things. He absorbed the way you breathed, and your lips twitched with every roll as he guided you. His hands trailed your ass and hips, eager to feel and brand every inch of your flesh, when he noticed the garter in the same place as last time with a knife tucked in it.

He touched the handle, and you chuckled, opening your eyes to look at him, “Scared?”

“No,” he rasped, focused entirely on you, even as his fingers trailed the garter. “You?”

You smiled and leaned into him, “Fuck no.”

He closed his eyes because he thought you’d kiss him, but you only held him tighter and glued your cheeks together. You started rolling your hips faster and panting and moaning into his ear, and he kept his eyes closed. You were using him to get off, and you sounded and felt so fucking divine doing it. He had to fight not to burst too early. Fuck, were you having fun, grinding your clit on him every time the tip of his cock hit that special spot inside you that had you keening. 

He was so focused that he noticed every detail, from the subtle change in the angle of your hips, to the way you pressed your cheek to the side of his face the more you lost control. Eventually, one of your hands moved from his shoulder to the straps of your dress, and then you straightened back up. You were flushed and breathing in quiet moans, showing such a sensual and vulnerable side of you, he was devastated. Still, when you pulled down the dress and revealed your chest, his legs became weak under your swaying hips.

Fuck, how was it that you were so beautiful? Perfectly round breasts trembling gently with every move of yours on his length, searching for pleasure, and he knew he couldn’t remember his own name even if you asked.

Your hand grabbed onto his hair and brought him close, and his mouth instantly latched onto a nipple. You jolted, groaning through clenched teeth, and he fought the urge to press down on your hips harder. He wanted to fuck you so hard, to let go, but at least he had a consolation prize. He licked and teased your perky nipples, brushing the one free from his mouth in tandem, and your reaction was priceless. Hearing you and feeling your nails, he knew he could have pumped you full of cum then, but it was a delight to wait. To notice how urgent your ride became, not just grinding on him but letting your weight fall on him to help his cock reach deep, all while desperately urging him to torture your nipples and tits between his teeth.

He wasn’t surprised when you started shaking despite pressing your legs and arms even harder around him, but he had to think of something else not to come. You moaned and cried while your pleasure came crashing down on you, and on him as well, rhythmically squeezing him inside your tight walls, and it was a lot. It was perfect, fulfilling even though he didn’t even finish, but he stayed resolute while he helped you fuck yourself on him and draw your orgasm out. You said you wanted to use him, and he hoped that included more than just that ride.

You stilled, and he stayed with his face buried in your chest. He kept massaging your ass and hips over him, careful not to force you to move while he licked and nibbled on your sensitive flesh. Just your chest heaving to his face while he inhaled your scent could have thrown his control off, but he waited. Patiently, without ever stopping his touches and kisses.

Eventually, you recovered and pulled on his hair so he’d let go of your abused nipple. You nuzzled his warm forehead before getting back on your feet and walking away from him. He kept his eyes trained on you, and you seemed to wobble a little on your legs, raking your fingers through your long hair until you stopped in front of a mirror. He looked down, noticing how you had left his cock not only glistening, but creamed with your cum, and he shook his head. In that short silence, he thought first that he fucking loved it and wanted you on his dick again, and then he couldn’t take it. This time, he’d grab himself and finish it, regardless of—

“Come here,” you rasped quietly, eyeing him through the mirror. His ears perked up as he looked at you, but he wasn’t sure of what you said. You placed your hands on the edges of the sink, “Come fuck me, Yoongi.”

For a second, he thought he ignited. Like a match to gasoline, your voice sparked and combusted his very blood to the point his synapses stopped working. Then, he got up and approached you slowly. Now that you had asked, there was no rush. It felt inevitable the way he was about to touch you and feel you, like the crash of a wave to the shore, and taming the urge was part of the torture.

He could see the same feeling in your eyes, trained on him through the mirror as he made his way to you, glistening. You were unnaturally still, as if you knew not to move to keep that tension going, and it felt powerful. You weren’t running your mouth, grabbing him, or rushing him. No, you were quite literally still in the position you wanted him to fuck you in and patiently waiting for the treat you knew was coming.

He stopped behind you, looking down at the curve of your body as you arched your back slightly before raising his eyes to the mirror. Not only did your expression give away your desire, with flushed cheeks and your lip tucked gently between your teeth, but your position was vulnerable. You swayed on your legs as though to lure him to come closer, and he did, gluing his crotch to your ass.

Your eyelids dropped as you groaned, rubbing your ass on his erection, and only the sense of control flooding his veins kept him in check. It felt like a reward to see you eager to have his cock inside you again, and he needed it. It was too sweet, he had to observe and take in every little detail of your surrender now that you couldn’t hide. How you squirmed for more of his touch when he palmed your hips, leaning down to help him grab and pull your long dress to the side so he could reach your bare hips. You stopped breathing when he did, leaning even more as though to offer yourself, then gasped a moan when his hand struck your ass.

Your eyes were closed as he held you to him, sliding his glistening dick between your legs as he pulled you to his chest. You fell back into him, melting as he groped your tits harshly, all while snapping his hips. He observed your reactions, hungrily taking everything you gave him with every brush, pinch, or bite. Especially when you tried to tilt your hips so you could feel him better near your core, and he fought you, pressing you firmly, preventing you from getting his cock. He tortured you in other ways, biting and licking up your neck to your ear while he squeezed and rolled your nipples between his deft fingers, and your desperate moans as you squirmed were priceless.

You reached your breaking point and snapped your eyes open, facing him through the mirror with a frustrated harshness that made him smile while he nuzzled your ear. You were about to revert to demanding what you wanted out of sheer sexual frustration, and he loved it. Still, he thought he had given you enough time to recover, so he reached for the elastic of your underwear and slid it down slowly.

It was enough for you to wiggle it down your legs, which forced his arms to press you back into him, pining you in place, and you gushed. He found out he was handling your frenzy marvelously when he reached to feel you and your slick dripped from your heat. He instantly brought his wet fingers to his mouth, and you watched his reflection suck and lick your arousal and cum as if it was a delicacy, and it made you snap.

You squirmed, “Please.”

He finally matched your urgency; he let go of his fingers with a grunt, then grabbed his dick to align himself with you. He had to push you to arch your back so your cunt was easily in front of him, but then he pressed your hips flush to his and you both groaned. Your toes curled, and your face scrunched as you tried moving on his cock, but his hands were claws on your hips, keeping you still. You felt so fucking amazing around him that he twitched inside you, and you whimpered. It was that little sound that broke the dam and let it all overflow.

He snaked an arm up your chest to grab your neck while the other kept you in place to take every snap of his hips into your ass. He nibbled and licked your neck whenever you’d move close enough, and every moan out of your lips only made him want to coax another one. Harder, faster, you drove him fucking insane. He wanted you to fall apart on his cock, cry with how good he was giving it to you, and it was as if you could read his mind. The more you wiggled, the harder his arms pressed you closer. The louder you whimpered, the more he bit you and obsessed over more cries and curses. The more you moved to meet his thrusts, the harder he fucked you, bruising your skin with his fingers and teeth purely out of sheer desire.

“Fuck,” you cried out. “Who knew… you could… fuck like this?”

Something like a growl came from deep in his throat, and he wrapped your hair around his hand, pressing your stomach to the sink in front of you. His hips slowed while you faced him in the mirror, pinned so still you couldn’t see what his other hand was doing until you felt his fingers on your clit.

You jolted against him, and you could almost see the spark in his eyes. “You’re going to come for me.”

You grinned, “Am I—?”

Your voice derailed with him rubbing you softly, contrasting so much with how hard you needed to feel him, it gave you whiplash.

But you couldn’t be quiet; you bit your lip and gazed at him again through the mirror, “Want me to milk your cock, huh?”

You were almost hiccuping, trying to tease him while he played your clit masterfully; meanwhile, his dark eyes on you didn’t give much away. Were you riling him up? Did he want to fuck you senseless now? You wanted him to lose that upright posture and just fuck you like the animal you knew was lurking under all the fucking decorum, but his stupid long fingers keeping the perfect speed on your clit weren’t giving you any chances. You squirmed, but his grip was steel, and it just made you gush around his perfect cock even more. Fuck, you loved the way he grabbed you, handled you, and imposed a high on you despite your best efforts to go against him.

He was so focused, looking at you while he lulled you in the perfect sway of his hips, stretch of his cock, and rub of his fingers. So you smiled at him, “If I come… Will you let go?” His eyebrow twitched. “Will you go fucking wild and use me instead?”

He moved to nuzzle your neck and didn’t answer you. A part of him thought that was not what he was doing, but another knew exactly what that was. You wanted to use him and subdue him, and he’d show you just how easily the tables turned. Would he let go? Would he fuck you senseless? The answer was yes, and he didn’t consider any of it as using you. If you begged to be fucked and creamed his cock while at it, he’d consider it quite simply a lesson you’d never forget. That you’d hopefully want to repeat.

But he never answered you, only increased the reach of his cock inside you while his fingers rubbed you in a stable rhythm. He swayed his hips to drag his shaft across your walls, and saw how you whimpered and tried writhing, unable to deal with the pleasure being enforced on you. But he had been paying attention, so he never had to answer you. Because you wouldn’t have a choice.

You mewled and moaned, feeling a familiar burn in your core and lower stomach that had you tensing unbelievably. As he kept moving, your legs started trembling, and your fingers gripped the cold porcelain sink. He had you in place, and you were so tucked in tight with nowhere to go. You were safe, though, trying to wiggle the intensity both away and closer, until you opened your eyes. There was something about the way he breathed down your neck, looking at you moaning and panting while your tits shook with each breath that got you on a train, and suddenly, you couldn't move back. The tracks were in front of you, yet so was the cliff, and there was no stopping. You tried regaining control, but it slipped away from you, and before you could voice anything at all, you crashed.

You let your head fall back as your loud moans echoed through the walls, giving him goosebumps while he felt your pleasure deeply. Your nails scratched the sink as you swayed your hips to feel him in a particular way, and he closed his eyes, smelling the intimacy in your hair while you disintegrated. But he only gave himself a moment before chasing his own climax because soon you’d be too sensitive and there was no way in hell he wasn’t going to fuck you like you both craved.

He tried to keep his fingers on your clit to help you, but fucking you faster meant losing sight of that. You didn't mind it because you gripped his forearm and whimpered the overstimulation right before you closed your eyes. Your jaw hung open as he picked up the pace and dug his fingers into your hips to keep you in position, and you saw stars. Every time he shoved his cock in, you held your breath, only for a moan to be pushed out of you right before he pulled out. The same push and pull, again and again, all while his fingers tried to tease your clit. 

You couldn’t come so fast again and you wanted to see his crash, so you pulled his hand to the sink for support and arched your back even more, giving him everything you could to help.

The first hint was the quiet groans, then shaking of his head as if he wanted to shake it off and make it last. But you were squeezing his thick cock, meeting his thrusts, and through your brainless moans, eager and hungrily waiting for the moment he’d pop.

And it was divine. Why did a cop look so fucking good busting his nut inside you? Like you were the only cunt in fucking existence worth sticking his cock into? You knew you were, but still, it gave you such a fucking high, you could barely believe it.

His face scrunched as he grunted and pumped himself empty inside you, and you bit your lip, adoring every second. It was twisted but felt and looked so good you could only think it was a shame there was a party you needed to attend a few rooms away.

He opened his eyes to find you looking at him like he was a snack, and it jolted him awake a little. He looked down at your ass pressed to his crotch and sighed to himself. 

Fuck it. 

He didn’t let any thoughts interrupt the high he was in right now, and only when you moved did he move also so he could help you. He let your hips go gently so you could stand comfortably without pressing into the sink, then reached for paper towels to clean you, but staggered. What was he doing? You were still winded, slowly recovering as his cum trickled down your thighs. His cum. From fucking you—

He put the paper towels in front of you and walked back, grabbing more so he could clean himself up, too. He needed distance; he must have been out of his damned mind to do that.  

The hairs at the back of his neck were standing as the disgust made its way up his neck. He shuddered and threw the scrunched paper vaguely in the direction of a trash can, and only then faced you. You were on the couch with a cigarette in your mouth, smoking placidly. He couldn’t help but bite his lower lip at the sight, and then chastised himself. He should have brought some nicotine gum with him.

“Get me something to write,” you said quietly, before taking a long drag. 

“What?”

You had caught him by surprise, yet you sighed the smoke out with exasperation, “To write the address.”

He frowned at first, what the hell were you on about? But your dry, unbothered look was enough to tell him that you'd soon get up, fix your dress, and go back to your distasteful self. He preferred to have the address. 

Fortunately, he remembered the items behind you on the counter and quickly grabbed something that resembled a pencil. 

You tucked the cigarette between your lips before pulling the eyeliner from his hand. Then, you grabbed his wrist and forcibly pulled his sleeve back. He grunted in annoyance, but you ignored him and scribbled something on his wrist.

Then you let him go and threw the pencil on another couch before leaning back and heaving a seemingly endless drag of smoke in his direction. He raised his eyebrow, unimpressed, and your eyebrows twitched, “Don't go rubbing your wrist too hard, now. Can't risk all those poor souls.”

Your sneer made him roll his eyes, and he didn't answer or acknowledge you. He simply pulled his sleeve to cover your marks carefully and walked out the door.

arranged marriage au reader where her postpartum depression is so bad. where she barley picks at her plate, and when the doctors check in on her , they scold her for not keeping healthy for the baby to feed off her. and it’s to the point where rafe has to leave a trip early bc it’s so bad

You know I'll come || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: incase you didn't read it before, make sure you read my important notice!!!

Warnings: ppd, angst, mention of fainting

Word count: 2,114

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

“Y/n, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” James said with a sympathetic sigh, his gaze fixed on the monitor while you sat on the lounge, your eyes glazed over as you stared blankly at the coffee table. The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of the monitor and the occasional rustle of Anita’s movements as she adjusted the blanket draped over your lap.

“This is the third time you’ve passed out this week. You were lucky Anita was there to catch you before you could have seriously injured yourself.” James exchanged a concerned look with Anita, who stood close by with a worried expression. The gentle, almost maternal way Anita fussed over you spoke volumes about her deep concern.

“You must eat. Your body needs proper nourishment, not just for yourself but for Leo as well.” At the mention of your son, your eyes flickered up from the table, the name ‘Leo’ momentarily pulling you from your daze. “Where is he?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper as you attempted to sit up, only to be gently restrained by James.

“Leo is asleep,” Anita said softly, her tone soothing. She moved closer, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder as if to offer reassurance. James continued, his voice gentle but insistent, “Rafe has been informed of your condition and has decided to come home early. He’ll be arriving tomorrow morning.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, the confusion evident on your face. “Rafe isn’t supposed to be here until Friday,” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief as you tried to process the unexpected news. “Rafe is aware of how unwell you are right now. He deemed it necessary to return home early,” James explained, his tone gentle but firm.

Your mouth parted in a silent response, the weight of the news settling heavily on your shoulders. James continued gently, “But for now, you should rest. Take these, they’ll help you sleep.” He extended a small container of medicine towards you. With a grateful nod, you accepted the tablets, feeling their cool, smooth surface against your fingertips.

You placed them in your mouth and swallowed, the slight bitterness leaving a fleeting aftertaste. As the medicine began to take effect, James and Anita exchanged a look of quiet concern. The room felt heavy with the unspoken tension of your fragile state, and the soft rustling of the blanket seemed to amplify the stillness. You leaned back, letting the exhaustion overtake you, the weight of the day’s events and Rafe’s imminent arrival already beginning to blur into the dim haze of impending sleep.

~

"Mr. Cameron, there’s news from Mr. Berkeley concerning your wife," Kate’s voice broke the quiet atmosphere of the plane as she approached Rafe, her iPad in hand. She hesitated for a moment, gauging his mood, knowing that any news related to you could quickly shift his temper. Rafe looked up from his laptop, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, already bracing for the worst.

"What’s happened now?" His tone was clipped, the edge in his voice betraying the unease that simmered beneath his composed exterior. Kate took a breath, her fingers gripping the iPad a little tighter. "Mrs. Cameron fainted for the third time this week while walking down the stairs—" Before she could finish, Rafe’s expression darkened, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"Is she injured? Is Leo okay?" His words, though direct, held an unmistakable undertone of worry that he barely managed to suppress. Kate glanced up from her iPad, her eyes meeting his with cautious reassurance. "No, sir. Y/n isn’t injured, and Leo wasn’t with her at the time." A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Rafe as he leaned back in his seat, his hand moving to rub his temples.

The initial wave of panic subsided, but the underlying concern remained, gnawing at him. He closed his laptop with a resounding thud, the noise loud in the otherwise still cabin. "And this is because she isn’t eating well?" he asked, his voice flat but laced with frustration. "Yes, sir. Mr. Berkeley mentioned that Y/n has been struggling to finish her meals," Kate explained, her tone professional yet careful, aware of how delicate the situation had become.

Rafe scoffed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Of course she is," he muttered under his breath, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He stood abruptly, the tension in his body clear as his jaw tightened, hands flexing at his sides. The weight of responsibility, of having to constantly manage his wife’s well-being, pressed down on him. The sound of the plane’s engine hummed softly in the background, creating a quiet that felt too heavy, too filled with thoughts he didn’t want to dwell on.

His thoughts raced, caught between his commitments and the deepening worry that had taken root. Rafe’s decision was swift. "Tell Anthony to turn this plane around. We’re going back to Kildare." Kate blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sharpness of his command. "But, sir—" she began, her voice hesitant. "Did you not hear what I said?" Rafe snapped, his tone cold and commanding now. His patience, already thin, was gone. "Tell him to turn this plane around. Now." His blue eyes, usually so controlled, flashed with intensity as he stared her down.

Kate swallowed hard, nodding quickly before turning on her heel and making her way to the cockpit without another word. The weight of his anger, his concern for you, and the complicated web of their marriage hung in the air even after she left. Rafe stood there for a moment, alone in the silence. His fists clenched as he stared out the window at the endless expanse of sky, his mind already filled with thoughts of what awaited him back home.

~

"Where is she?" Rafe's voice echoed sharply through the grand foyer as he shrugged off his blazer, his tone tense but controlled. Anita, always efficient and poised, was quick to take his suitcase from his hand. "She’s currently asleep on the sofa. Mr. Berkeley just left a couple of minutes ago," Anita informed him, her voice soft, trying to keep the atmosphere calm.

Rafe nodded, his expression tight as they walked deeper into the house, the weight of the past week’s events evident in his stride. "How is she?" he asked, his voice dropping to a quieter, almost hesitant tone. His usual composure was cracking, revealing the concern he so rarely let show. Anita glanced up at him, catching the rare flicker of vulnerability in his face.

A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips, sensing the subtle change in his demeanor. "She’s doing better. She ate a full meal last night and this morning," she replied, her words laced with reassurance. Rafe’s shoulders visibly relaxed at the news, though only slightly. "Good," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

As they reached the living room, the soft flicker of the TV caught his attention. The sound of cartoon characters filled the room, a stark contrast to the heavy emotions swirling inside him. Rounding the corner of the sofa, his eyes landed on you—fast asleep, curled up with the blanket tucked around you. Your exhaustion was evident, your face peaceful but pale.

However, Leo was wide awake, his small hands reaching out as he lay nestled beside you. Rafe's heart softened at the sight of his son, so innocent and oblivious to the storm brewing around him. Gently, Rafe scooped Leo up into his arms, cradling him with a tenderness that few ever saw. He pressed a kiss to Leo’s cheek, the gesture instinctive, as if grounding himself in the quiet moment.

Without a word, he turned off the TV, silencing the cartoons as the room fell into a soft hush. For a moment, Rafe stood there, holding Leo, his eyes drifting back to you, wondering how things had reached this point—his life so far from what he’d imagined, and yet, here he was, tethered to this quiet moment with you and Leo, torn between frustration, duty, and something he wasn’t ready to admit.

Rafe gently pulled the blanket further up your body, his fingers brushing the soft fabric as he ensured you were as comfortable as possible. For a moment, he lingered, his gaze softening as he watched you sleep, the rise and fall of your chest steady and peaceful. There was a quiet vulnerability about you now that tugged at something deep inside him—a feeling he didn’t often allow himself to dwell on.

With a quiet sigh, he turned away, careful not to wake you. As he walked toward the door, he called out, “Anita?” Anita appeared almost instantly, her usual calm and attentive presence filling the room. “Yes, Mr. Cameron?” she asked, her voice respectful but warm. “Have the chef prepare Y/n’s favourite meals,” he instructed, his tone firm yet carrying an unspoken urgency. “I want her to be eating properly, no excuses.”

His gaze flicked back to you for a second, as though making sure you were still resting soundly. Anita nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. “Of course, sir. I’ll take care of it immediately.” Satisfied, Rafe adjusted Leo in his arms, holding him close as he glanced back at you one last time before stepping out of the room. “Leo and I will be outside by the pool,” he added, his voice a little quieter now, as if the tension from earlier had begun to ebb slightly.

Anita nodded again, watching as Rafe walked away, his steps quiet and measured, the sound of Leo’s soft babbling accompanying him as they made their way toward the open terrace. There, Rafe hoped the fresh air and the familiar comfort of home might bring him some clarity as he processed everything—his thoughts still tethered to you even as he tried to focus on his son.

~

Feeling a gentle hand on his shoulder, Rafe looked up, surprised to see you standing beside him. The colour had returned to your cheeks, and there was a small but genuine smile on your face. For a brief moment, relief softened his usually guarded expression. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly, careful not to disturb Leo, who was napping peacefully on his chest.

You offered him another soft smile, walking around to sit on the lounge chair beside him. Your eyes lingered on the still waters of the pool, the calm reflection contrasting with the heaviness in the air. “I’m fine,” you replied, though your gaze remained fixed ahead. Rafe’s eyes stayed on you, his expression stern, not easily convinced by your words. “Did you eat?”

His tone was sharp, but there was an undercurrent of concern that you couldn’t ignore. You nodded slowly, though the hesitation in your movement gave away the effort it took. “I’m sorry you had to cut your trip short—” you began, wanting to apologise for the disruption, but Rafe quickly cut you off. “Don’t.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for further apologies.

He pressed a light kiss to the top of Leo’s head, his eyes briefly softening as he did so. “There’s no excuse for you to not eat,” he continued, his voice hardening again, as though the frustration he’d been holding back was finally spilling out. You looked at him, studying his side profile as he avoided your gaze.

His jaw was clenched, tension radiating from him, but it wasn’t the anger that struck you—it was the concern buried beneath it. You knew this dynamic between you, this mixture of obligation and care, was a complicated dance neither of you had perfected. Your fingers absentmindedly twisted the ring on your finger, a physical reminder of the ties that bound you both. “At least Leo is doing okay,” Rafe muttered, his voice softening as he made eye contact with you.

“That’s all that matters.” But the moment the words left his lips, he saw the shift in your expression. There was something in your eyes—an unspoken sadness, a flicker of something deeper that you kept buried. You swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. “Of course,” you replied, your voice steady despite the weight in your chest. You stood up slowly, your body feeling heavier than it had a moment ago.

“I’ll head back inside,” you murmured, already turning to leave. Rafe watched you move, the silence between you thick and uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. Instead, he refocused on Leo’s sleeping form, his hand gently cradling his son’s small body as the feeling of missed opportunity settled heavily around him.