Haneybunny - ୨♡୧

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.

Slide - MYG (18+)

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader 

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?

Word count: 2k+

Summary: 

"I can see the pain in your eyes I don't wanna say that I'm God, but I'll take you to heaven if you die"  

Alternatively, 

You would go back in time and fall in love with Yoongi over and over and over again even after knowing that he would never once be yours in any of the timeline.

Warnings: implied smut, explicit smut, emotional sex, very sad (don't underestimate the angst huhu), depressed yoongi, reader is pining so hard lord!, creampie, unplanned pregnancy, NSFW!!

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon

A/N: Lemme know if you want a part 2? (even though I already know the answer hehe).

Arrangement.

You would rather call it an arrangement - the thing that is going on between you and Yoongi. Anything you have been feeling for him, outside your usual practice, is your, solely your decision or more likely… fault. 

Hence, it’s a given. A given that you shouldn’t feel your heart dropping to your stomach, crashing on whatever is available inside your body and shattering into a thousand pieces, when you find Gyuri walking inside the room. 

Beside you, Yoongi tenses. His body goes rigid as the air inside the room thickens beyond repair. And all of a sudden you can’t breathe. 

Now you understand why Namjoon has been avoiding to reveal the name of the artist all along.

Lee Gyuri - One of the most successful solo artist as well as Min Yoongi’s one true love, who had left him broken so bad that you once found him on the street, unconscious, vomit all over his clothes - is now back in his life… in your life, which has been revolving around him. 

Where she left - You started. 

You picked Yoongi up, put him into pieces, not that you were able to heal the cracks but you at least conjoined it all together. 

And just like that - one night after a long heart to heart talk and a few beers, you found him seethed deep inside you. Yoongi chanted your name again and again as if it’s a mantra that will heal the cracks of his heart all while he rutted in you like a mad man. 

It started from there - the arrangement. 

At the end of long days and even longer nights, whenever both of you were too exhausted to go home, you spent the nights crammed together on Yoongi’s studio couch. 

Quiet whispers, curse words, wandering hands, secret body parts slick with arousal - everything had made your existence dwindle dangerously through his fingers. 

Yoongi always fell asleep right after but you stayed awake, tracing the slope of his nose, bow of his lips, map of his pale skin glinting in the dark. 

You had made a mistake. 

You fell in love.

Now as Gyuri slides inside the room with natural elegance, you hear Yoongi’s breathing getting quicker in pace. 

He is anxious. 

You place a hand on his knees, under the table. It’s a practiced habit that you adopted over time. Your fingertips help to calm him down. 

Everything is the same. 

Except this time, Yoongi doesn’t relax under your touch. 

“Yoongi, can we talk for a moment?” Gyuri requests with a timid voice at the end of the meeting. Her eyes quickly lock with yours for a fraction of a second. 

You half expect for Yoongi to say no. You pray to the universe for his answer to come as negative even when you know –

“Yes. Sure.” 

That Yoongi never stopped loving her for a moment. Yoongi loved, loves and will love only one woman - and that’s not you. 

Even though you don’t feel your legs anymore, you stand up. You choose to take the stairs to exhaust your body so that your sadness can be masked. 

But even as you climb down floors after floors - your heart stays confined in that room locked with two lovers. 

“She said she wants to work it out this time. She has been missing me terribly... she said.” Yoongi doesn’t look away from the blaring computer screen. 

He probably doesn’t have the heart of looking into your eyes. 

Somewhere he, too, knows of the deepest secrets you have been hiding from him. 

“And? What did you say?” You chew on the inside of your mouth, again praying for him to answer something of your liking. 

“That I will think about it.” you knew he would say that. 

“What is there to think about, Yoongi? You still love her.” you force the words out of your mouth even when your throat closes up. 

Tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes but you blink those away.

Yoongi finally looks at you, his own eyes glinting with moisture. 

“But what about you?” The question is rhetorical - metaphorical. 

“Me? I will go back to where I started from.” you lie, heart threatening to leap out of your chest. 

You would go back, but not where you started from, you would go back to the night when you picked Yoongi up from the street.

In simpler terms, you would go back in time and fall in love with Yoongi over and over and over again even after knowing that he would never once be yours in any of the timelines. 

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, pretending not to hear anything at all. 

Even though you have to summon all of your willpower to do so - you stay still in your bed. 

Your tears though - keep falling, rolling down the apple of your cheeks and making a small puddle inside the curve of your ear. 

He keeps rambling on the door. 

Sometimes the knocks are steady, sometimes infused with anger but his voice stays low. You wouldn’t hear him calling your name if you weren’t attentive enough.

“Y/N! Please open the door.” Yoongi requests again. Through the wood of your door it sounds like a whisper, “Please. I- I want to see you once.” 

Every pore of your body woozes out the desire of letting him in, taking him inside your arms and never ever letting him go. 

But you are afraid. 

He has never once visited you by his own will. 

He only tagged along when you asked him to. 

So you are afraid. 

Afraid of what he might say. Afraid that he might say what you don’t want to hear. You already know everything - know enough - if he points it out now that he is going to leave you behind as the love of his life is back then you might as well break down, which you definitely don’t want to do. 

You have always appeared to be nonchalant before Yoongi about this arrangement, about his kisses, his marks, his simple ignorance - and you want it to stay that way. 

However, your resolve breaks when you hear a sob, muffled by the door. 

Is he crying? Why? Why is he crying at your door? 

So you get up, pad towards the door and swing it open. 

Yoongi’s head shoots up and you look at his face. 

He is a mess - a mess that you love. 

With dark hair all disheveled, face smeared with tears, lips chapped, Yoongi says, “I am here to end things.” 

This. You were afraid of this. 

Your insides churn and mold into a ball of nothingness. There are words sitting on the tip of your tongue but you choose to stay silent as always.

“Okay.” you reply, holding the door knob again ready to shut it on his beautiful face for once and for all. 

Yoongi forces his hand at the edge of the door, preventing you from closing it. 

He steps inside your apartment and within a few moments, you are being pushed to the door, closing it with the force of your back. 

Yoongi kisses you with everything he has left inside. You kiss him back. 

You don’t know what is happening but if this is for one last time, then you will accept it. 

Your hands wrap around his neck on their own accord. His chapped lips mold perfectly with your moisturized pair. 

They move in perfect sync, perfect rhythm - the rhythm of destruction. 

“Y/N” Yoongi whispers in between the kiss, “I am sorry.” 

You don’t pay his words any mind, rather you let your fingers get lost in his long dark hair. 

The kiss grows hungrier by every second you spend in each other’s hold. 

Yoongi starts directing you towards your bedroom and your small apartment space takes no time to be crossed. 

You soon feel the edge of your bed behind your knees. 

When you fall back - Yoongi falls with you. 

He looks into your eyes, his own eyes telling a thousand different stories all together. But tonight, you don’t try to read those. 

What’s the point when your own chapter is ending? When memories of you will be left to collect dust on the surface? 

What’s the point when he knows he is going back to the one he has always loved? 

His rough calloused hand comes in contact with your cheek. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispers again as he reaches down to place a kiss on your forehead. 

“I’m sorry.” he kisses your right eye.

“I’m sorry.” he kisses your left eye.

“I’m sorry.” this time it’s the tip of your nose. 

“I’m sorry” and lastly it’s your lips. 

You have never seen Min Yoongi this emotional. 

After Gyuri left him, he became numb. You were never able to thaw the frozen parts of him. 

But tonight you see a completely different Yoongi. Is this Gyuri’s magic? Has her return made him a human again? 

Yoongi - who never touched you or kissed you more than it’s needed, is now apologizing while kissing every small part of your face? 

You take a sharp breath and reply, “it’s okay.” even though you don’t know what he is apologizing for. For not being able to reciprocate your feelings? For using you when you let him? For leaving you behind after tonight? 

He has already started placing kisses around your jaw, throat, collarbones. His hands fist the hem of your pajama top and he pulls it up revealing your naked chest. 

He doesn’t waste time diving down and taking one of your perked nipples inside his mouth. 

He sucks on it softly, sweetly - like a lover. Your tears start spilling from your eyes finally. But you completely lose it when you feel his own tears on the mound of your breast. You let him sob, as you sob quietly. 

It doesn’t take much time for your clothes and his clothes to join as a hip on the floor of your bedroom. 

Yoongi pumps himself, preparing for one last time to enter you. When he lines his cock on your entrance, he takes a quick glance at your face, as if asking for permission. 

Your tear stained face lights up in a small smile - it’s not fake. 

He enters you, takes up every corner of your walls, fills you with himself - both of your body and heart. 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything anymore. He pushes himself inside you, pounds into you with an unusual pace. 

His face comes to rest on the crook of your neck. You embrace him to stay there, stay with you as long as it lasts. 

For the first time ever, Yoongi doesn’t fucks you - he makes love to you. 

The realization makes you shudder. 

Why now? Why now out of all the time? Why now when everything is ending? 

His breath starts getting labored, you feel yourself hanging close to the edge as well. 

And after a few more thrusts, you let go. He fills you up following your invitation. 

Both of you stay like that even after the deed is done - for a moment, an hour? You don’t know.  

You feel his disposal running down your inner thigh, when he finally slips out of you. 

You sneak a glance in his dark orbs for one last time. With a sore throat and an equally sore heart you whisper, “Be happy, Yoongi.” 

You see one last drop of tear slipping down his eyes when he dips down to cage your lips in his for one last time. 

It’s been a month since that night. 

It’s been a month since you last talked to Yoongi beside work. 

It’s been a month since you last saw Yoongi outside work. 

It’s been a month since you withdrew from Gyuri’s project.

It’s been more than a month since you had your last period. 

As you stand in your bathroom, with the tiny testing kit, those two red lines mock you. 

You thought that night was the last time? But this after effect - where will you go with this? Who will you confide in? 

It can’t be Min Yoongi - can it? 

You have let him slide through your fingers after all. 

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Stellar Behavior 💜 Part 1

“What is worth an innocent’s life? You decide.”

PAIRING: Officer!Yoongi x Mafia (f)reader

SUMMARY: Yoongi has been in the police force for long enough to know that the system isn’t perfect, so when an injustice is about to put his protégé in jail, he has no other choice but to go to you. You’re the devil, but you’re hard to resist, and he needs to decide between falling into temptation or showing you that two can play the game.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

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

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: corruption, power dynamics, blackmail, threats w/ a knife, slight degradation, sexual favors, oral (f rec)

A.N. I'm soooo excited, this fic is 🔥 Infinite thank yous to @moonleeai and @downbad4yoongi for working through my crazy and being incredible! Enjoy 🔥🔥

Masterlist | Masterpost | AO3 | Wattpad | Next Chapter >

Yoongi huffed and threw his eyeglasses onto the keyboard, rubbing his eyes so roughly he saw lights. It was no use; no matter how much he went over the evidence, again and again, he couldn’t change it.

“Hyung.”

He uncovered his eyes, only to be met with Taehyung’s sadness. His shoulders sagged from the sleepless nights ever since Jimin had gotten arrested, with dark circles bringing even more desolation to his otherwise heavenly features. He knew it wasn’t Taehyung’s intention, but the sight only unnerved Yoongi even more.

“Go home, get some sleep.”

Taehyung flinched, “But—”

“That’s an order, Officer.”

Taehyung stiffened and instantly bowed and showed his respects to his Superintendent before turning and leaving. Only then did Yoongi heave a deep breath and observe around him. It was weird seeing his department at the police station empty, without the officers at their desks taking calls or doing paperwork while on one of their 24-hour shifts. But they had all been shaken up, and so he had sent them home.

He was proud of his Division, and as their Chief, he couldn’t be more certain of everyone’s conduct and character. This included Jimin’s, and it was the reason why he was losing his mind over this case.

No matter how much he reviewed the footage and evidence, there was no mistake — Officer Jimin had seemingly shot his partner dead during an arrest gone wrong. This was a natural conclusion, judging by the body camera of the now deceased cop, Officer Junghee, that had captured Jimin nearing him with a fuming pistol in his hand. One that matched the ballistics report on Yoongi’s desk.

This was why the prosecution wanted to charge him with manslaughter at the very least, but Yoongi could not be convinced. The body camera also captured the panic in Officer Jimin’s voice and expression as he tried to save his downed partner. Yoongi didn’t care if that was Jimin’s gun or if it was fuming in his hand — he didn’t believe it.

“It wasn’t me!” The words Jimin shouted as he was arrested conveyed an absolute world of hurt and combined with the shock in Jimin’s eyes was seared into Yoongi’s retinas, causing him to dig the heel of his hands into his eyes again. But no matter how much he attempted to change the image, it wouldn’t. Jimin, his protégé, was still being handcuffed and taken away while begging, “I didn’t, you have to believe me! He put it in my hands! Hyung!”

Yoongi nudged his eyeglasses off the keyboard, locked his computer, and grabbed his coat. On long nights like these, he didn’t bother staying in uniform, only wearing black pants with a white shirt and his badge and holster belt. He made his way outside and got into his car, acknowledging whoever he met along the way. Temperatures were freezing, and his car didn’t start immediately. He reached for his nicotine gum while he waited for the car to warm up. When it finally started, so did the 3 AM news on the radio right as he left the parking lot.

“In a shocking revelation, an officer from the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency shot his partner dead after pulling up to a suspicious vehicle in Dongjak District. The mounting evidence is undeniable, and the prosecution is discussing the potential penalty in such a case, with the spokesperson revealing in a press conference that while mistakes happen, justice needs to be served.”

Yoongi kept chewing and driving as the prosecutor’s voice echoed through the speakers. On the outside, Yoongi was the picture of calm, cool, and collected, but inside, he was fuming. He had spoken with the prosecutor many times, who preferred a clean-cut arrest to build his case to run for whatever political role he was after rather than fight for justice, as he claimed. Yoongi had always known that multiple interests abound in the justice system, but now he was starting to get pissed.

When he parked the car, he looked outside through the windshield, observing quietly as the people moved in and out of the Aether. The bouncers kept drunks at bay, and despite the booming music and the flashy lights, everything looked normal for a nightclub.

He removed his belt and badge, shoving them in the glove compartment so hard that something fell out. He reached to grab it from the floor, his frown instantly turning into a scowl. It was a photo of him hugging a woman, laughing, taken many years ago when they were still happy. When they were not even married yet, let alone divorced.

He got out of the car and ripped the photo into as many tiny pieces as possible, dropping the scraps in a trashcan along with his gum. Then he stopped in front of the bouncers with his hands in his pockets, saying six little special words.

“I want to see the boss.”

The first bouncer just scoffed a laugh and shook his head, but the second one eyed him from head to toe, “If you’re here to inspect, then you have to identify yourself first.”

“Not an inspection,” Yoongi said nonchalantly, glancing around. “It’s not an official visit.”

The smirking bouncer kept the flow of the people going in and out while the serious one, resembling the first almost to a T, pressed his earpiece further into his ear, waiting for orders. Yoongi had noticed the cameras already while he was walking up, and he wondered how long it would take for them to know exactly who he was and why he was there.

The serious bouncer moved closer to him, “Are you armed?”

“No.”

“I have to make sure.”

Yoongi glanced at him, then nodded, raising his hands as he let the man make sure he was unarmed. When the tall man rose from his knees after checking Yoongi’s ankles, he lowered his arms and waited for the goon to catch his breath.

“Alright, you can go in.”

He moved past the bouncers and into the entryway, but he hadn’t even made it to the coat check when someone approached him. Just by the light clothing, styled hair, and badge hanging on his belt, Yoongi could immediately tell that the man worked there.

“Follow me.”

Yoongi wasn’t there to sightsee, but he could appreciate the columns and marble structures and statues. Along with the paintings, velvet curtains, and carpets, it made the Aether look like a temple or divine abode of the Gods. The aesthetic intensified as they went up the stairs, but he didn’t have time to register much. In a second, he was walking into what appeared like an ordinary office — a pleasant space with a large desk at the center in front of huge dark windows that showed the lights flashing from the dance floor. He ignored the liquor table, the cabinets with files, and the black velvet sofas to the side. What his eyes were immediately drawn to was you — you who had pushed the large computer screen to the side so you could watch him come in. Your chin rested graciously on your intertwined fingers, with your elbows on the desk, eyes flickering with amusement, watching him through dark curled lashes. He hadn’t even noticed he had walked to your desk or that the door had closed behind him, but then you stood up, letting your delicate arms fall alongside your tight black dress. Your black, straight hair slid over your shoulders, framing the plunging cleavage of your dress, and when you smiled, he felt hot—molten hot.

“Welcome, Superintendent,” you smiled with a glint of amusement, your perfect teeth shining in the overhead light, and he clenched his fists behind his back. “Or should I say Yoongi? I was told you weren’t here in an official capacity, but…” You eyed him from head to toe, and he did his best to stay poised and calm. “You don’t look like you’re here to club.”

Yoongi was already sweating, not out of nervousness but because of you. Because you always eyed him like you owned him, always had a hint of mischief to every smile, and were always as elusive as a ghost. One he couldn’t catch and had grown tired of running after.

Still, hearing his name in your mouth for the first time… made him pull on the collar of his shirt, “Not here to party; I’m here on business.”

Your eyebrow twitched, and he looked at you seriously; you were a cunning fox of the worst kind. Worse than a weed, than a pest, than the bloody smoke still hanging in the air and making his fingers twitch. He had a simple goal, and he had to stay focused.

“Not an official visit, but you’re here on business…” you mused out loud then shrugged. “Soon, it will be four in the morning,” you revealed with a hint of disdain as you neared the table that held liquor in crystal decanters. “Surely, if you wanted to do something official, you’d wait at least three more hours?” You chuckled as you poured a finger of whiskey into a glass. “Want some?” He shook his head, and you shrugged again. You made your way back to your desk, but instead of going around it, you perched on the side of it, close enough for him to see your dress parting, giving hints of your upper thighs, “What can I do for you, Chief?”

Yoongi had nerves of steel; he ignored the lush skin of your thighs, the cleavage, the numbing sound reverberating through the walls, the dimmed lights, and the way your eyes seemed to challenge him with every blink.

He focused, “I want your help.”

Your eyes widened comically, the image of innocence and confusion, “Mine? What could such a powerful person need from me?”

Thankfully, your coy attitude irritated him and helped him concentrate. “I know the suspicious car they were chasing was one of yours.”

Your eyes widened even more, but this time, you brought your glass to your lips to hide a smile, “My, my, Officer. I know I have many cars, but to say I was a fugitive—”

“You know what I mean,” his jaw clenched, and you licked your lips.

“I don’t,” you could only smile, and he clenched his fists again. There it was. It pissed the fuck out of him. “Are you going to arrest me, Chief? Make good use of those deduction skills of yours and put pretty handcuffs around my wrists?”

He hated that his heart jumped in his chest as you whispered salaciously and leaned into him, shortening the distance between you. He hated how tempting you looked, and he hated the way your eyes fixed on his, as if you were ready to follow suit with your provocation. You were probably a tease like that with everyone all the time. It pissed him off even more.

He only blinked, ever the master of showing a relaxed demeanor, “I have no evidence to arrest you, nor am I here in that capacity.” 

It instantly hit him, as you straightened your back and finished the drink in your hand, that he was going to have to ask for your help. Not outsmart you, not convince you, not squabble with half facts and hunches — he needed your help and that meant he had to come down off his pedestal.

“My— An officer from my team will be sentenced for something he didn’t do. I’m out of options; I’ve hit a dead-end.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you put down the empty glass, “Don’t tell me — the system he holds and protects with his life won’t even try to prove his innocence.”

His jaw clenched; he hated that you weren’t completely wrong. “I’m trying to prove his innocence.”

The corners of your mouth twitched in a smile. “What makes you think I can help?”

He kept his mouth closed for a thoughtful moment. There was no use in accusing you again. Your smile wasn’t sly, so he decided to go for it. “You’re one of the biggest players.”

“Me?” You acted surprised, “I just own a few businesses here and there…”

“They say you’re the one to contact for information.” You tilted your head, and he insisted, “Even if that wasn’t your car, you’d know about it because it was on your turf. You’re you. I just know you know something that can help us solve this.”

That answer seemed to satisfy you because your lips and eyes revealed a small yet genuine smile that caught his breath. It made him realize he was leaning towards you now, exposing himself like that, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. Not when you looked at him like that, feeding into his hope.

“Say I do,” you started, eyes fixed on his. “Say I have evidence that could exonerate Officer Park.” He snapped straight; he had never told you the name of the Officer, and the media didn’t know it either. Yet what got him were your words, “Why would I help you?”

He clenched his jaw so hard that his teeth clicked. He just about growled with the way irritation mixed with his desperation, making him reel.

“Come on, Chief. Talk to me,” you pressed, wanting him to push through both the shock and the stick up his ass. “You must be desperate enough if you’re asking for my help, and I’m not denying it. I’m saying I might have what you need. What would you do to save an innocent from prison for life or worse?”

He didn’t think, “You have it? Something that could undeniably prove his innocence?”

He knew before he was done asking that it was impossible and that he was acting crazy. Yet, you leaned into him, meeting him halfway, your breath hitting his chin, “In those exact words? I do.” You sat back and let your words sink in, not knowing they gave him a full-body shudder. He always knew you were powerful and had your ways, but holy shit— “What do you have that I want?”

He opened his mouth but instantly closed it. Objectively, he had nothing. But maybe there was something he could do. First, though, he needed to know it was real. “What evidence do you have? Show it to me—”

“Hmmm, no,” you pressed your lips and twisted your nose, displeased. “That’s not how this works. This is based on trust. Besides, you don’t seem to have anything to offer.”

For a split second, he wondered if you were bullshitting him, but he honestly didn’t care. He had to do something. “You want something concrete for a maybe?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” your tone hardened as your expression lost humor.

“Alright, name it. Tell me what is worth your help.”

His tone was soft, and it worked to soothe you. His dark eyes helped; there was so much willingness in them, and you liked that. The man there asking for your help to correct an injustice was the kind of man you were looking for.

“Since you asked,” you cheekily started, pulling your hair behind your shoulders. “I want three things.” He didn’t even blink, so you continued, “The first is a favor. Of my choice and at my discretion whenever I shall need it. The second is for you to get on your knees. And the third is for you to eat.”

He blinked, “What?” He looked down to follow your hands over your thighs, and you spread your legs for him, though the black dress covered between them. He shook his head in bewilderment, “You’re crazy!”

“Crazy?” You chuckled, “I think I’m being quite reasonable.”

“You— Do you hear what you’re asking?”

He sounded breathless and could feel the heat on his cheeks, which was not ideal. He almost managed to step back, but a quirk of your eyebrow kept him still — he needed that evidence.

“Oh my, Chief Min. Are you getting heated at the thought of a couple of favors?” He scoffed, and you continued your tease, “Or is it the knees? Too proud to beg?”

“No, not too proud,” he mumbled between teeth. He was ready to kneel on the floor and beg, and the heat rising in his neck told him the rest wasn’t a problem either. And that was the problem. “The favor—” He cleared his throat, scratching it, “What is the favor?”

“I don’t know yet,” you shrugged, and it seemed to him like it didn’t matter. He knew that couldn’t be true, that had to be what you were really after — something specific from the Superintendent of the Seoul Metropolitan Police. And yet your eyes were shining in such a way that he almost forgot who you were. Almost.

“Something illegal, no doubt.”

You sighed and he took the moment to let the anger cool him — you were a criminal about to use his good intentions to surely accomplish something even worse. Instead of cooling him, irritation made him snap his knuckles and shift on his feet.

“I don’t know what it is, but it shouldn’t matter,” you said more coldly, squinting your eyes. “What is worth an innocent’s life? You decide.”

There was a hint of impatience in your tone that only riled him up more. He turned to you, “What’s stopping me from just—”

“You’re not that stupid,” you interrupted, raising your chin. His eyes noticed the surveillance cameras and you smirked, “They’re not who you should be concerned about.”

Your smile was predatory but he scoffed. You didn’t need to threaten him, and he didn’t like the coercion. He refused to look at you for a moment, giving you the impression that he was weighing his options. In reality, he was figuring out what angered him more — the fact that he was about to make a deal with a devil like you, or that he was that turned on from it.

You huffed and got off the desk, your heels clicking on the floor like a timer had just gone off. “Never mind—”

He grabbed your arm to keep you from walking away, and in a second, something sharp was poking his lower stomach. You both froze in place, your gaze angry and fixed on his, while his heart raced inside his chest. He didn’t let go of your arm, and you didn’t lower your knife.

“I never heard a yes from those pretty lips, so…” you spoke quietly, then pressed the blade harder. “Hands off.”

He knew you could put your money where your mouth was, and that if you wanted to kill him and get rid of him, you would. Yet, his grip didn’t lessen as he observed you. He was still trying to figure things out — not what to do, but you. He hated you objectively; you represented everything wrong with the world. Jimin was innocent; you shouldn’t be bargaining for his life, you should do the right thing. But you weren’t, you wanted to play with fire. Maybe even to get burned.

“What is it…” he started quietly, still eying your angry eyes. “Is it the risk? The humiliation? The footage for blackmailing me later? The power over a figure of authority?”

You scoffed, leaning in to answer just as quietly, “No risk, Chief. The footage might be insurance, but you’re a man of your word. No power over you because you’ll be doing it willingly. And no humiliation,” you chuckled. “It’s a privilege to eat at this table. Although…” You looked down, then smirked. “I can play if that’s what you like.”

He looked away from your eyes for the first time and almost flinched; his pants had a tent. He couldn’t even think; why was his body betraying him like this? He tried pulling away and letting you go, but you pressed the tip of your knife harder.

“Nuh-uh,” you whispered, taking a deep breath a little closer to his neck. “I heard the missus left cause you couldn’t get it up, but won’t you look at that—” Your tone was sly, and he gripped your arm harder in retaliation. You laughed, “I guess she just didn’t know how to play. Or maybe you like this,” your voice lowered wantonly, and a shiver ran up his spine as though he was starting to attune to it. “Like not having a choice, to be in danger, to be forced to do something reprehensible.”

He had to lick his lips because for a second he thought he was drooling, “I have a choice.”

You smiled and his cock twitched, “Then choose.”

He eyed your smile and leaned into you, but you chuckled and playfully pressed the tip of the knife to impose distance, ignoring the red droplets tainting the fabric.

“On your knees, Chief.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and he pulled you by the arm, disregarding the blade, so you’d walk back until the back of your thighs hit the desk. Then, he gripped your hips and helped you on the desk, fisting your dress in the same movement to get it out of the way as he kneeled between your legs. Your knife had slipped from your hand as you rested them on the desk for support, and you didn’t think to pick it back up. You wanted him to eat you and mean it, but he was going above and beyond — nuzzling your thighs and inhaling your scent, frantically fighting with your dress, and trying to pry your legs further apart so he could have access.

When his nose poked your clit, you jumped in place, and his fingers dug into your hips, even through the fabric of the dress. Just looking at the way he was fighting to get his mouth on you was positively melting you, but you wanted it to actually happen.

“Slide them down,” you breathed after he nuzzled and licked your core through your panties enough times to cover you with goosebumps.

He immediately obliged, and you shimmied to help him get rid of them. He threw them on the floor, then gripped your legs apart before giving you a look that seared you in place. You didn’t know what it was, but you were living for it, and the excitement burned your gut. The Superintendent looked like a piece of forbidden heaven between your thighs; who knew he’d have you melting like this just at the hint of doing what you asked?

A smirk spread on your lips as he kept struggling with your dress, until suddenly — rip. He bunched the fabric and pulled it, causing the slit that revealed your thigh to rip, and you chuckled. You liked that energy, that hunger; the way he was willing to destroy to have his way. Instantly, he had free leeway to uncover your core and press his mouth, rolling his tongue all over your slick folds.

You jolted with a sigh, gripping his hair at the back of his head. The more he laved his tongue over your slit to taste you, the more you had the urge to move, but you stayed still. With your eyes closed, you enjoyed every second of his discovery, from his licks to his tasting and humming. You heaved the breath you were holding when he nibbled your heat right before finding your clit to suckle, and your voice finally came out. You could almost laugh at how easily he had found his way, but your mind wasn’t there. While he found his rhythm, you guided him with expressive sighs, grazing your acrylic nails over his scalp without ever forcing him. You wouldn’t; his hunger was part of the power trip. Chief Min would eat you, give you what you wanted, and service you because you had that much power. You could bring someone like him to his knees. He liked it.

You suddenly pulled on his hair so he’d look up at you, and he did, not even bothering with a quizzical look. You bit your lip to stop a smile and relented your grip, and he looked down for a second. It was all it took for him to get back to it, and you let your head fall back with a sigh — case in point.

“The things you do for duty, Chief…”

His tongue kept laving over you as if you were desert, focused, regardless of your taunt. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten where he was or why because his hands started gently exploring your spread thighs. His fingers pressed to your curves and didn’t stop even when he felt the garter that held the knife you had used on him. Instead, he pulled on it, making it snap against your thigh, ripping a stronger moan from you. 

It was then he realized you needed something stronger, so he pressed his face harder against your cunt, latched onto your clit, and started rutting into you. You were surprised but instantly melted, and your fingers curved around his hair. The grind of his lips pressing into you while his mouth held the suction was already maddening, but the thrumming of his tongue on your clit was the cherry on top. You didn’t have time to make it a challenge, or maybe you didn’t want to; his rhythm was perfect against your heat, and you moaned when it intensified. The strumming was precise and maddening, each tap firm and steady, giving you enough time to despair for the next one and moan when it came, leaving you to anticipate what would come next. 

Your hips started moving on their own, and that was when you knew you had let go. There was no point in pretending he wasn’t doing it just like you wanted, or that you weren’t rolling into his face to feel him harder, forcing him to dig his long fingers into the flesh of your hips as he drank the slick melting out of you. The very sounds of his humming and licking drove the blood to your cheeks and emboldened your hips, messily humping against his mouth. You could feel the edge right before you, and every time you ground on his mouth, you thought that would be it.

“Fuck,” you groaned between teeth, looking down to find burning brown eyes drinking you more greedily than his hot mouth. He wasn’t stopping you or holding you back, he was letting you fuck his mouth however you wanted, and it popped you. 

You let your head fall back and pressed his face to your cunt, your moans pitching higher when he sucked harder, as if to pull all the pleasure out of you like it was venom. He rode your climax with you, gripping your trembling legs around him as though he wished you’d smother him, and finally, you looked down. Your walls were still throbbing in the aftershocks when he dragged his tongue across you slowly, and you groaned through a smirk, then pulled him away by the hair.

“Easy there,” you smiled and let your legs down.

You quickly pulled your dress down to cover you again while your other hand raked through your long hair, putting it in place. He rose slowly to his feet with his eyes on you, and you didn’t even try hiding your heaving chest; he could see it well with such an observant gaze. His eyes were so intense that you shuddered and bit your lip, but avoiding them only landed your own on his evident arousal, and you smirked.

Looking up, for a moment, your taunt got caught in your throat. Min Yoongi looked the absolute best covered in your cum from nose to chin — deliciously ravenous.

You licked your lips, raising your hand to his face but stopping before you touched him. He mimicked you, his pink tongue collecting your slick over his lips while he focused on yours. Still, when your hand moved down, so did his eyes. You smirked, dodging his erection at the last second to hide your hand under your dress.

You hummed, closing your eyes as your fingers collected your wetness mixed with his saliva, and then brought them straight to your mouth. You licked them first, tasting what he did before putting them in your mouth and sucking. 

You clenched, knitting your eyebrows as you realized how turned on you were. You were throbbing and craving something to push into you and fuck you senseless, and opening your eyes, you saw the same urge staring right back at you.

Your fingers left your mouth with a pop, and then you smiled, shaking your head, “Should have asked for a good fuck too.”

His dark eyes stayed on yours for a moment, and even when he wiped his chin with the back of his hand, they remained on yours. It was almost a taunt, and you grinned; you loved a good challenge, and even more the kind of fucking that lustful gaze promised. But you knew the worth of asking, and you were not going to come out losing.

“Maybe next time.”

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.

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.”